The baby began squalling, and the horse grew restive, the dog scampered into the very teeth of danger; and the three little Timpkinses, who could locomote, went scrabbling, in different directions, into all sorts of mischief, until finally one of them pitched head foremost into a cellar.
Salix grew furious.
“Whoa, pony!—hush, you infernal brat!—here, Carlo!—Thunder and crockery!—there’s a young Timpkins smashed and spoilt!—knocked into a cocked hat!”
“Mr. Salix!” shouted a boy, from the other side of the way, “when you’re done that ’ere, mammy says if you won’t go a little narrand for her, you’re so good-nater’d.”
There are moments when calamity nerves us; when wild frenzy congeals into calm resolve; as one may see by penning a cat in a corner. It is then that the coward fights; that the oppressed strikes at the life of the oppressor. That moment had come to Salix. He stood bolt upright, as cold and as straight as an icicle. His good-nature might be seen to drop from him in two pieces, like Cinderella’s kitchen garments in the opera. He laid Biddy Timpkins on the top of the barrel, released the horse, giving him a vigorous kick, which sent him flying down the street, and strode indignantly away, leaving Carlo, Miss Gadabout’s house, and all other matters in his charge, to the guardianship of chance.
The last time Salix was seen in the busy haunts of men, he looked the very incarnation of gloom and despair. His very coat had gone to relieve his necessities, and he wandered slowly and dejectedly about, relieving the workings of his perturbed spirit by kicking whatever fell in his way.
“I’m done,” soliloquized he; “pardenership between me and good-nature is this day dissolved, and all persons indebted will please to settle with the undersigned, who alone is authorized. Yes, there’s a good many indebted, and it’s high time to dissolve, when your pardener has sold all the goods and spent all the money. Once I had a little shop—ah! wasn’t it nice?—plenty of goods and plenty of business. But then comes one troop of fellows, and they wanted tick—I’m so good-natured; then comes another set of chaps, who didn’t let bashfulness stand in their way a minute; they sailed a good deal nearer the wind, and wanted to borry money—I’m so good-natured; and more asked me to go security. These fellows were always very particular friends of mine, and got what they asked for; but I was a very particular friend of theirs, and couldn’t get it back. It was one of the good rules that won’t work both ways; and I, somehow or other, was at the wrong end of it, for it wouldn’t work my way at all. There’s few rules that will, barring substraction, and division, and alligation, when our folks allegated against me that I wouldn’t come to no good. All the cypherin’ I could ever do made more come to little, and little come to less; and yet, as I said afore, I had a good many assistants too.
“Business kept pretty fair; but I wasn’t cured. Because I was good-natured, I had to go with ’em frolicking, tea-partying, excursioning, and busting; and for the same reason, I was always appinted treasurer to make the distribution when there wasn’t a cent of surplus revenue in the treasury, but my own. It was my job to pay all the bills. Yes, it was always ‘Salix, you know me’—‘Salix, pony up at the bar, and lend us a levy’—‘Salix always shells out like a gentleman.’ Oh, to be sure! and why not?—now I’m shelled out myself—first out of my shop by old venditioni exponas, at the State House—old fiery fash’us to me directed. But they didn’t direct him soon enough, for he only got the fixtures. The goods had gone out on a bust long before I busted. Next, I was shelled out of my boarding house; and now,” (with a lugubrious glance at his shirt and pantaloons,) “I’m nearly shelled out of my clothes. It’s a good thing they can’t easy shell me out of my skin, or they would, and let me catch my death of cold. I’m a mere shell-fish—an oyster with the kivers off.
“But, it was always so—when I was a little boy, they coaxed all my pennies out of me; coaxed me to take all the jawings, and all the hidings, and to go first into all sorts of scrapes, and precious scrapings they used to be. I wonder if there isn’t two kinds of people—one kind that’s made to chaw up t’other kind, and t’other kind that’s made to be chawed up by one kind?—cat-kind of people, and mouse-kind of people? I guess there is. I’m very much of a mouse myself.