"Let's hear."
"Just invent some kind of magnet that'll stick to gold, as a common magnet sticks to iron, and put a good strong one in the butt end of your fish-pole; then, when the Venetians were looking, you could be fishing; and when they were not looking, you could drop the big end of the pole into the water, poke around a little on the bottom, and haul up a ring. Maybe sometimes you'd haul up a dozen at once, all sticking together like a cluster of grapes."
Whether Holman was in earnest, or was only testing the credulity of us younger boys, I never knew; but we took it all in good faith, and went home that night to dream of loading our fingers with rings, and spending sixty thousand dollars divided into five shares. However Holman may have been jesting in this scheme for acquiring a fortune for himself, it was not many days after this when he actually entered upon a rather ludicrous performance to get a little money for somebody else.
There were two Red Rovers in our town—in fact, there were three. The reader has already made the acquaintance of the fire-company and engine known as Red Rover Three. A man who had once belonged to that company, but was now past the prime of life, and honorably retired from the service, made his living by grinding knives and scissors.
But he was too much of a Yankee to go about with a wheel in a little frame strapped upon his back, and a bell in his hand, to be rung monotonously, from street to street. He built a peculiar carriage,—a square framework, about four feet high and six feet long,—running on four large wheels, wherein was a bewildering mass of machinery. Standing behind it, and laying his hands upon two great brass knobs, he walked slowly through the streets, pushing it before him in a dignified manner, to the awe of the boys and the wonderment of the whole town. It went with an easy motion, the wheels making only a subdued and gentle noise. Surmounting it in front was a large bell, which was struck at solemn and impressive intervals. This apparatus both increased his patronage and elevated the dignity of the profession. He had no vulgar and noisy cry, soliciting custom in a half-intelligible jargon. People who wanted their scissors ground came to the doors with them when they heard his bell. Then the wheels of the chariot stopped, the charioteer lifted his hat in salutation, and the negotiation seemed like a matter of friendly favor, rather than bargain and pay.
In order to grind, he opened a little gate in the rear of the machine, stepped inside, closed the gate behind him, and seated himself upon a small shelf which was fastened to the gate. His feet were then placed upon two pedals, and the machinery began to move.
Five small grindstones, of different sizes and fineness, revolved before him. At his right hand was a little anvil; at his left was a vise; and under this was a box of small tools.
About the middle of the machine, on the top, was a small figure of a Scottish Highlander, with bag-pipes under his arm. The bag—which was of painted tin—was filled with water; and a plug, withdrawn from the longest of the pipes, allowed the water to trickle down upon the knife-wheel. Scissors were generally ground on a dry wheel. When the machinery was in motion, the pipes played something, intended for music, between a squeak and a whistle; so that when he was travelling, the bell rang, and when he was grinding, the pipes played.
On one of the front corners was a little bronze bust of Washington, and on the other was one of Franklin; between them was a clock, with a marine movement.
The whole frame and running gear were painted a bright red, and garnished with shining brass ornaments. The man called his machine Red Rover, after the beloved engine with which he used to run, and the name appeared on the side in brass letters. It seemed as if he must spend the greater part of his earnings on its improvement and embellishment. The man himself, whose hair was broadly streaked with gray, was called "The Old Red Rover," and we never knew him by any other name.