"No," said Job, at fifty, "I'll not marry, not trade off my single blessedness yet; at least, there's time enough, there's women enough; I'm young, hale, hearty, in the prime of life; no, I'll not give up the ship to woman yet."
Another ten years rolled along, and the thing turned up in the retired merchant's mind again—he was now sixty, and one, at least, of the objections to his entering the wedded state, removed—for a man at sixty is scarcely too young to marry, surely.
"Ah, it's all up," quoth Job Carson. "I'm spoiled now. I've had my own way so long, I could not think of surrendering to petticoats, turning my house into a nursery, and turning my back on the joys, quiet and comforts of bachelorhood. No, no, Job Carson—matrimony be hanged. You'll none of it." And so ten years more passed—now age and luxury do their work.
"O, that infernal twinge in my toe. O, there it is again—hang the goat, it can't be gout. Dr. Bleedem swears I'm getting the gout. Blockhead—none of my kith or kin ever had such an infernal complaint. O, ah-h-h, that infernal window must be sand-bagged, given me this pain in the back, and—Banquo! Where the deuce is that nigger—Banquo-o-o!"
"Yis, massa, here I is," said a good-natured, fat, black and sleek-looking old darkey, poking his shining, grinning face into the old gentleman's study, sitting, playing or smoking room.
"Here you are? Where? You black sarpint, come here; go to Jackplane, the carpenter, and tell him to come here and make my sashes tight, d'ye hear?"
"Yis, massa, dem's 'em; I'se off."
"No, you ain't—come here, Banquo, you woolly son of Congo, you; go open my liquor case, bring the brandy and some cool water. There, now clear yourself."
"Yis, massa, I'se gone, dis time—"
"No, you ain't, come back; go to old Joe Winepipes, and tell him I send my compliments to him, and if he wants to continue that game of chess, let him come over this afternoon, d'ye hear?"