Puddnhead Wilson | Page 6

the town.
Between it and Judge Driscoll's house there was only a grassy yard,
with a paling fence dividing the properties in the middle. He hired a
small office down in the town and hung out a tin sign with these words
on it:
D A V I D W I L S O N
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELOR-AT-LAW
SURVEYING, CONVEYANCING, ETC.
But his deadly remark had ruined his chance--at least in the law. No
clients came. He took down his sign, after a while, and put it up on his
own house with the law features knocked out of it. It offered his
services now in the humble capacities of land surveyor and expert
accountant. Now and then he got a job of surveying to do, and now and
then a merchant got him to straighten out his books. With Scotch
patience and pluck he resolved to live down his reputation and work his
way into the legal field yet. Poor fellow, he could foresee that it was
going to take him such a weary long time to do it.
He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his

hands, for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into
the universe of ideas, and studied it, and experimented upon it at his
house. One of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one he gave no
name, neither would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but
merely said it was an amusement. In fact, he had found that his fads
added to his reputation as a pudd'nhead; there, he was growing chary of
being too communicative about them. The fad without a name was one
which dealt with people's finger marks. He carried in his coat pocket a
shallow box with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five
inches long and three inches wide. Along the lower edge of each strip
was pasted a slip of white paper. He asked people to pass their hands
through their hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the
natural oil) and then making a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it
with the mark of the ball of each finger in succession. Under this row of
faint grease prints he would write a record on the strip of white
paper--thus:
JOHN SMITH, right hand--
and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith's left hand
on another glass strip, and add name and date and the words "left
hand." The strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their
place among what Wilson called his "records."
He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with
absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there-- if
he found anything--he revealed to no one. Sometimes he copied on
paper the involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of the finger, and
then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine its
web of curving lines with ease and convenience.
One sweltering afternoon--it was the first day of July, 1830-- he was at
work over a set of tangled account books in his workroom, which
looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation
outside disturbed him. It was carried on it yells, which showed that the
people engaged in it were not close together.
"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?" This from the distant voice.

"Fust-rate. How does you come on, Jasper?" This yell was from close
by.
"Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of, I's gwine to come
a-court'n you bimeby, Roxy."
"You is, you black mud cat! Yah--yah--yah! I got somep'n' better to do
den 'sociat'n' wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper's Nancy
done give you de mitten?" Roxy followed this sally with another
discharge of carefree laughter.
"You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you
hussy--yah--yah--yah! Dat's de time I got you!"
"Oh, yes, you got me, hain't you. 'Clah to goodness if dat conceit o' yo'n
strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho'. If you b'longed to me, I'd sell
you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone. Fust time I runs acrost yo'
marster, I's gwine to tell him so."
This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of the wit
exchanged--for wit they considered it.
Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not
work while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,
young, coal black, and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow
in the pelting sun--at work, supposably, whereas