It was a melancholy truth. His friend’s debts came upon him with such suddenness that he was overwhelmed. He gave himself up for lost, refused every offer of assistance from Tom and myself, and every one else, and determined to let the law take its course. He confessed that all he wanted was time, but he declared he would not suffer any of his friends to endanger themselves for him.
Tom and I sat up nearly the whole night laying our plans; and it was determined that I should bid off every article, and that he would be prepared to pay for them.
On the day of sale one might have thought that there was to have been a funeral instead of a vendue. The bell seemed to toll in melancholy notes, and the red flag that the old negro was hobbling about the village with, one would have thought, by the countenances of those who looked upon it, was rather the forerunner of a pirate’s visit, than of a sheriff’s sale.
The northern stage had just driven up to the tavern door, and a handsome man was stepping from it as the flag was passing. He caught it from the negro’s hand, and exclaimed, “Good God! driver, what Elliot is this who is to be sold out to-day? Not Mr. James Elliot the rich planter!”
“Well, I reckon it is,” was the cool reply, as he handed down hat-box and dressing-case, and a couple of large trunks.
The handsome stranger walked with a very unsteady step into the bar, and took up an old paper, which one might have supposed that he was reading, if he did not notice that he was holding it upside down. He appeared to be dreadfully agitated, but at length he started up and asked if the stage had gone.
The barkeeper told him that it had driven round to the stable to change horses, and would be back in an instant.
The stage soon came with a new driver and fresh horses, and into it the handsome man tumbled with bag and baggage as before. As he wheeled off, the old driver said to the barkeeper,
“That ’ere is a quare chap. He rode on the top with me a while to-day, and told me he was gwine to spend the winter here, and p’raps to live. Did he let you into his name and business?”
“No, but that infernal big trunk of his’n was marked in white paint, ‘E. Neville.’ ”