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_ "Gone?" cried Euphemia, who, with myself, had been listening most
intently to Pomona's story.
"Yes," continued Pomona, "she was gone. I give one jump out of bed
and felt the gases, but they was all right. But she was gone, an'
her clothes was gone. I dressed, as pale as death, I do expect,
an' hurried to Jone's room, an' he an' me an' the big man was all
ready in no time to go an' look for her. General Tom Thumb didn't
seem very anxious, but we made him hurry up an' come along with us.
We couldn't afford to leave him nowheres. The clerk down-stairs--a
different one from the chap who was there the night before--said
that a middle-aged, elderly lady came down about an hour before an'
asked him to tell her the way to the United States Bank, an' when
he told her he didn't know of any such bank, she jus' stared at
him, an' wanted to know what he was put there for. So he didn't
have no more to say to her, an' she went out, an' he didn't take no
notice which way she went. We had the same opinion about him that
Mrs. Jackson had, but we didn't stop to tell him so. We hunted up
an' down the streets for an hour or more; we asked every policeman
we met if he'd seen her; we went to a police station; we did
everything we could think of, but no Mrs. Jackson turned up. Then
we was so tired an' hungry that we went into some place or other
an' got our breakfast. When we started out ag'in, we kep' on up
one street an' down another, an' askin' everybody who looked as if
they had two grains of sense,--which most of 'em didn't look as if
they had mor'n one, an' that was in use to get 'em to where they
was goin.' At last, a little ways down a small street, we seed a
crowd, an' the minute we see it Jone an' me both said in our inside
hearts: 'There she is!' An' sure enough, when we got there, who
should we see, with a ring of street-loafers an' boys around her,
but Mrs. Andrew Jackson, with her little straw hat an' her green
carpet-slippers, a-dancin' some kind of a skippin' fandango, an' a-
holdin' out her skirts with the tips of her fingers. I was jus'
agoin' to rush in an' grab her when a man walks quick into the ring
and touches her on the shoulder. The minute I seed him I knowed
him. It was our old boarder!"
"It was?" exclaimed Euphemia.
"Yes it was truly him, an' I didn't want him to see me there in
such company, an' he most likely knowin' I was on my bridal-trip,
an' so I made a dive at my bonnet to see if I had a vail on; an'
findin' one, I hauled it down.
"'Madam,' says the boarder, very respectful, to Mrs. Jackson,
'where do you live? Can't I take you home?' 'No, sir,' says she,
'at least not now. If you have a carriage, you may come for me
after a while. I am waiting for the Bank of the United States to
open, an' until which time I must support myself on the light
fantastic toe,' an' then she tuk up her skirts, an' begun to dance
ag'in. But she didn't make mor'n two skips before I rushed in, an'
takin' her by the arm hauled her out o' the ring. An' then up
comes the big man with his face as red as fire. 'Look' here!' says
he to her, as if he was ready to eat her up. 'Did you draw every
cent of that money?' 'Not yet, not yet,' says she. 'You did, you
purse-proud cantalope,' says he. 'You know very well you did, an'
now I'd like to know where my ox-money is to come from.' But Jone
an' me didn't intend to wait for no sich talk as this, an' he tuk
the man by the arm, and I tuk the old woman, an' we jus' walked 'em
off. The boarder he told the loafers to get out an' go home, an'
none of 'em follered us, for they know'd if they did he'd a batted
'em over the head. But he comes up alongside o' me, as I was a'
walkin' behind with Mrs. Jackson, an' says he: 'How d'ye do,
Pomona?' I must say I felt as if I could slip in between two
flagstones, but as I couldn't get away, I said I was pretty well.
'I heared you was on your bridal trip,' says he ag'in; 'is this
it?' It was jus' like him to know that, an' as there was no help
for it, I said it was. 'Is that your husband?' says he, pointin'
to Jone. 'Yes,' says I. 'It was very good in him to come along,'
says he. 'Is these two your groomsman and bridesmaid?' 'No sir,'
says I. 'They're crazy.' 'No wonder,' says he. 'It's enough to
drive 'em so, to see you two,' an' then he went ahead an' shook
hands with Jone, an' told him he'd know'd me a long time; but he
didn't say nuthin' about havin' histed me out of a winder, for
which I was obliged to him. An' then he come back to me an' says
he, 'Good-mornin', I must go to the office. I hope you'll have a
good time for the rest of your trip. If you happen to run short o'
lunertics, jus' let me know, and I'll furnish you with another
pair.' 'All right,' says I; 'but you mustn't bring your little
girl along.'
"He kinder laughed at this, as we walked away, an' then he turned
around an' come back, and says he, 'Have you been to any the-ay-
ters, or anything, since you've been in town?' 'No,' says I, 'not
one.' 'Well,' says he, 'you ought to go. Which do you like best,
the the-ay-ter, the cir-cus, or wild-beasts?' I did really like
the the-ay-ter best, havin' thought of bein' a play-actor, as you
know, but I considered I'd better let that kind o' thing slide jus'
now, as bein' a little too romantic, right after the 'sylum, an' so
I says, 'I've been once to a circus, an' once to a wild-beast
garden, an' I like 'em both. I hardly know which I like best--the
roarin' beasts, a-prancin' about in their cages, with the smell of
blood an' hay, an' the towerin' elephants; or the horses, an' the
music, an' the gauzy figgers at the circus, an' the splendid
knights in armor an' flashin' pennants, all on fiery steeds, a-
plungin' ag'in the sides of the ring, with their flags a-flyin' in
the grand entry,' says I, real excited with what I remembered about
these shows.
"'Well,' says he, 'I don't wonder at your feelin's. An' now,
here's two tickets for to-night, which you an' your husband can
have, if you like, for I can't go. They're to a meetin' of the
Hudson County Enter-mo-logical Society, over to Hoboken, at eight
o'clock.'
"'Over to Hoboken!' says I; 'that's a long way.'
"'Oh no, it isn't,' says he. 'An' it wont cost you a cent, but the
ferry. They couldn't have them shows in the city, for, if the
creatures was to get loose, there's no knowin' what might happen.
So take 'em, an' have as much fun as you can for the rest of your
trip. Good-bye!' An' off he went.
"Well, we kep' straight on to the doctor's, an' glad we was when we
got there, an' mad he was when we lef' Mrs. Jackson an' the General
on his hands, for we wouldn't have no more to do with 'em, an' he
couldn't help undertaking' to see that they got back to the asylum.
I thought at first he wouldn't lift a finger to get us our trunk;
but he cooled down after a bit, an' said he hoped we'd try some
different kind of institution for the rest of our trip, which we
said we thought we would.
"That afternoon we gawked around, a-lookin' at all the outside
shows, for Jone said he'd have to be pretty careful of his money
now, an' he was glad when I told him I had two free tickets in my
pocket for a show in the evenin.'
"As we was a-walkin' down to the ferry, after supper, says he:
"'Suppose you let me have a look at them tickets.'
"So I hands 'em to him. He reads one of 'em, and then he reads the
other, which he needn't 'a' done, for they was both alike, an' then
he turns to me, an' says he:
"'What kind of a man is your boarder-as-was?'
"It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to say jus' what he was,
but I give Jone the idea, in a general sort of way, that he was
pretty lively.
"'So I should think,' says he. 'He's been tryin' a trick on us,
and sendin' us to the wrong place. It's rather late in the season
for a show of the kind, but the place we ought to go to is a
potato-field.'
"'What on earth are you talkin' about?' says I, dumbfoundered.
"'Well,' says he, 'it's a trick he's been playin'. He thought a
bridal trip like ours ought to have some sort of a outlandish wind-
up, an' so he sent us to this place, which is a meetin' of chaps
who are agoin' to talk about insec's,--principally potato-bugs, I
expec'--an' anything stupider than that, I s'pose your boarder-as-
was couldn't think of, without havin' a good deal o' time to
consider.'
"'It's jus' like him,' says I. 'Let's turn round and go back,'
which we did, prompt.
"We gave the tickets to a little boy who was sellin' papers, but I
don't believe he went.
"'Now then,' says Jone, after he'd been thinkin' awhile, 'there'll
be no more foolin' on this trip. I've blocked out the whole of the
rest of it, an' we'll wind up a sight better than that boarder-as-
was has any idea of. To-morrow we'll go to father's an' if the old
gentleman has got any money on the crops, which I expec' he has, by
this time, I'll take up a part o' my share, an' we'll have a trip
to Washington, an' see the President, an' Congress, an' the White
House, an' the lamp always a-burnin' before the Supreme Court, an'--'
"'Don't say no more, says I, 'it's splendid!'
"So, early the nex' day, we goes off jus' as fast as trains would
take us to his father's, an' we hadn't been there mor'n ten
minutes, before Jone found out he had been summoned on a jury.
"'When must you go?' says I, when he come, lookin' a kind o' pale,
to tell me this.
"'Right off,' says he. 'The court meets this mornin'. If I don't
hurry up, I'll have some of 'em after me. But I wouldn't cry about
it. I don't believe the case'll last more'n a day.'
"The old man harnessed up an' took Jone to the court-house, an' I
went too, for I might as well keep up the idea of a bridal-trip as
not. I went up into the gallery, and Jone, he was set among the
other men in the jury-box.
"The case was about a man named Brown, who married the half-sister
of a man named Adams, who afterward married Brown's mother, and
sold Brown a house he had got from Brown's grandfather, in trade
for half a grist-mill, which the other half of was owned by Adams's
half-sister's first husband, who left all his property to a soup
society, in trust, till his son should come of age, which he never
did, but left a will which give his half of the mill to Brown, and
the suit was between Brown and Adams and Brown again, and Adams's
half-sister, who was divorced from Brown, and a man named Ramsey,
who had put up a new over-shot wheel to the grist-mill."
"Oh my!" exclaimed Euphemia. "How could you remember all that?"
"I heard it so often, I couldn't help remembering it," replied
Pomona. And she went on with her narrative.
"That case wasn't a easy one to understand, as you may see for
yourselves, and it didn't get finished that day. They argyed over
it a full week. When there wasn't no more witnesses to carve up,
one lawyer made a speech, an' he set that crooked case so straight,
that you could see through it from the over-shot wheel clean back
to Brown's grandfather. Then another feller made a speech, and he
set the whole thing up another way. It was jus' as clear, to look
through, but it was another case altogether, no more like the other
one than a apple-pie is like a mug o' cider. An' then they both
took it up, an' they swung it around between them, till it was all
twisted an' knotted an' wound up, an' tangled, worse than a skein
o' yarn in a nest o' kittens, an' then they give it to the jury.
"Well, when them jurymen went out, there wasn't none of 'em, as
Jone tole me afterward, as knew whether is was Brown or Adams as
was dead, or whether the mill was to grind soup, or to be run by
soup-power. Of course they couldn't agree; three of 'em wanted to
give a verdict for the boy that died, two of 'em was for Brown's
grandfather, an' the rest was scattered, some goin' in for damages
to the witnesses, who ought to get somethin' for havin' their char-
ac-ters ruined. Jone he jus' held back, ready to jine the other
eleven as soon as they'd agree. But they couldn't do it, an' they
was locked up three days and four nights. You'd better believe I
got pretty wild about it, but I come to court every day an' waited
an' waited, bringin' somethin' to eat in a baskit.
"One day, at dinner-time, I seed the judge astandin' at the court-
room door, a-wipin' his forrid with a handkerchief, an' I went up
to him an' said, 'Do you think, sir, they'll get through this thing
soon?'
"'I can't say, indeed,' said he. 'Are you interested in the case?'
"'I should think I was,' said I, an' then I told him about Jone's
bein' a juryman, an' how we was on our bridal-trip.
"'You've got my sympathy, madam,' says he, 'but it's a difficult
case to decide, an' I don't wonder it takes a good while.'
"'Nor I nuther,' says I, 'an' my opinion about these things is,
that if you'd jus' have them lawyers shut up in another room, an'
make 'em do their talkin' to theirselves, the jury could keep their
minds clear, and settle the cases in no time.'
"'There's some sense in that, madam,' says he, an' then he went
into court ag'in.
"Jone never had no chance to jine in with the other fellers, for
they couldn't agree, an' they were all discharged, at last. So the
whole thing went for nuthin.
"When Jone come out, he looked like he'd been drawn through a pump-
log, an' he says to me, tired-like,
"'Has there been a frost?'
"'Yes,' says I, 'two of 'em.'
"'All right, then,' says he. 'I've had enough of bridal-trips,
with their dry falls, their lunatic asylums, and their jury-boxes.
Let's go home and settle down. We needn't be afraid, now that
there's been a frost.'"
"Oh, why will you live in such a dreadful place?" cried Euphemia.
"You ought to go somewhere where you needn't be afraid of chills."
"That's jus' what I thought, ma'am," returned Pomona. "But Jone
an' me got a disease-map of this country an' we looked all over it
careful, an' wherever there wasn't chills there was somethin' that
seemed a good deal wuss to us. An' says Jone, 'If I'm to have
anything the matter with me, give me somethin' I'm used to. It
don't do for a man o' my time o' life to go changin' his
diseases.'"
"So home we went. An' there we is now. An' as this is the end of
the bridal-trip story, I'll go an' take a look at the cow an' the
chickens an' the horse, if you don't mind."
Which we didn't,--and we gladly went with her over the estate. _
Read next: Chapter XVII - In which we take a Vacation and look for David Dutton
Read previous: Chapter XV - In which two New Friends disport themselves
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