During these months I had tried in every way imaginable to get back the property so unlawfully taken from me, but being handicapped by lapse of time and by the prejudices of influential people, I signally failed. It did me no good to make clear to the authorities that my property had been taken from me by means palpably unlawful,—to show that the suit in tort brought in Middlesex County, Massachusetts, by Herbert Bellows, was never tried; for when I sued Sheriff White, who attached my property, he had nothing to satisfy the judgment. All I accomplished was to make plain the illegality of Herbert Bellows’s procedure, and show belated, though ample, proof of the diabolical conspiracy against me.
Two years after my experience with Sheriff Stebbins I accidentally met “Spress” Babbitt on board a New London steamboat on the way to New York. We met in the saloon cabin. He turned pale and was visibly agitated as I strode up to him.
“Here, Babbitt,” I said, trying to repress my anger, “that was a nice show you made of me at Charlestown.”
He sputtered considerably, mumbled more, and altogether I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. I went on, “I’ve a great mind to throw you over the rail and make you swim ashore,” and I lunged forward as though to grasp him. He shrank back and trembled violently.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said; “you’re not worth it.”
He found his voice then and whimpered that he didn’t want to cause my arrest, but that others had urged him to do it. The mean little imp wasn’t man enough to admit his blame, but must shift it, if possible, to other and innocent shoulders.
“Stuff,” I growled; “you see the error you committed—there was nothing against me. Good night, Babbitt, and I hope for your sake we don’t meet again on this boat.”
He disappeared into his state-room and didn’t come out until after we touched the New York shore the following morning.