“When I got there, I took ’em out and laid ’em on the harth, and when they got warm they began to squirm. Well—my wife—Hepsey—(you remember Hepsey?—by the way—she sent her love to you, Bob—though I’d forgot that)—she made a dreadful screechin about it, and little Bob, he set up his pipes, and the cat stuck up her back, and Jehu barked as if there’d been an attack of the Indians!
“Well, pretty soon the two critters began to stick out their tongues and their eyes grew as bright as a couple of lightnin-bugs in a foggy night. They then put their tails this way and that, and finally rolled themselves into a heap, and set up such a rattlein as I never heard afore. It was as much as to say—let every man look out for his own shins! Everybody cleared—wife, baby, cat and dog—except myself. Takin’ the varmin in the tongs, one by one, I threw ’em out the winder, into a snow-bank, just to keep ’em cool and civil. I then made a box, and put ’em in, and fitted a pane of glass in the top, so you could look in and see ’em. Well, I brought the box and the two sarpints along with me, thinkin that when you got out of prison, they might be of sarvice.”
“What do you mean?” said I, in the greatest wonder.
“Mean? why, that you should take this box under your arm, and travel over the world, as independent as a lord. The sarpints will be meat and drink and clothin and lodgin, and a welcome to boot. I thought it likely, when I set out, from what I heerd, that you’d got into some scrape, and that it might be necessary for you to be scarce in these parts; so I thought the snakes would suit your case exactly. You needn’t look so sour, fir I don’t expect you to eat ’em. But hear my story. I was three days in going from Salem to York, and when I got there, I had tew dollars more in my pocket than when I set out, and I lived like a prince all the time! And how do you think ’twas done? Why, by the sarpints, to be sure! When I put up at the tavern at night, I set the box down by my side in the bar-room, and took my fife, and began to play Yankee Doodle.
“Pretty soon everybody got round me, and then I teld ’em about the sarpints, and how they might see ’em fer sixpence apiece. Well, I got sixpences as thick as nuts in November. Now, Bob, you’ve had a good eddication, and can tell all about sarpints, and make up a good story, and you can travel all over the world, and come home as rich as a Jew. So you may have ’em, and I shall be happy to think that you’re travelling like a gentleman, while I go home to pound my lapstone and take care of my family.”
“I thank you a thousand times, my dear Bill,” said I; “but I fear this will not do for me. You can turn your hand to anything, but I am a helpless creature, compared with yourself!”
“No, no,” said my friend earnestly. “You’ll do well enough when you get your hand in. You must try, at least. Here, take my penknife, if you haint got one. A penknife’s a mighty good thing—no man need to feel low-sperited with a penknife in his pocket. When I’m away and feel kind o’ humsick, I take out my penknife, and get a stick and go to cuttin on’t, and it turns out a whistle, or a walkin-stick, or somethin else, and all the time I am as contented as a cow a stealin corn-stalks. A penknife’s a friend in need, and no man should ever be without one. You must take my fife, too, Bob, for you can play it well. It will make you welcome everywhere—as we catch flies with molasses, you can catch customers with music.”
To all this, I still replied that I doubted my success, and feared to undertake the scheme. “Faint heart never won fair lady,” said Bill. “Nothing venture, nothing have. You won’t succeed if you don’t try: a man never fails, when success is matter o’ life and death. If you set out, you won’t starve. You’ll be like Seth Follet’s eel—you must go ahead.”
“Well, tell me the story of the eel.”
“Why, didn’t you never bear of Seth Follet’s eel? Seth had a long aqueduct, made of logs, with an auger-hole bored thro’ ’em, to carry the water from a spring on a hill, to his house. After a while the water wouldn’t run, because the hole in the logs had got filled up with mud. Well, Seth was a queer genius; so he got an eel and put into the hole in the logs at one end. The critter went along pretty well for a time, but by-and-by he came to the mud. He then thought he’d turn about, but he couldn’t do that, for he just fitted the hole, you know! Then he thought he’d back out, but he couldn’t do that nother, for an eel’s a thing that can’t work both ways. Well now, what should he do? Why, there was only one thing to be done—to go ahead; and ahead he went—and cleared out the aqueduct!”