The Duke of Stockbridge | Page 6

impossibility of getting work, the
gloomy and hopeless prospect for the coming winter, and in general the
wretched failure of the triumph and independence of the colonies to
bring about the public and private prosperity so confidently expected.
The air of the room is thick with smoke, for most of the men are
smoking clay or corncob pipes, but the smoke is scarcely recognizable
as that of tobacco, so largely is that expensive weed mixed with dried
sweet-fern and other herbs, for the sake of economy. Of the score or
two persons present, only two, Israel Goodrich and Ezra Phelps, are
actually drinking anything. Not certainly that they are the only ones
disposed to drink, as the thirsty looks that follow the mugs to their lips,
sufficiently testify, but because they alone have credit at the bar. Ezra
furnishes Mrs. Bingham with meal from his mill, and drinks against the
credit thus created, while Israel furnishes the landlady with potatoes on
the same understanding. There being practically almost no money in
circulation, most kinds of trade are dependent on such arrangements of
barter. Meshech Little, the carpenter, who lies dead-drunk on the floor,
his clothing covered with the sand, which it has gathered up while he
was being unceremoniously rolled out of the way, is a victim of one of
these arrangements, having just taken his pay in rum for a little job of
tinkering about the tavern.
"Meshech hain't hed a steady job sence the new meetin-haouse wuz
done las' year, an I s'pose the critter feels kinder diskerridged like," said
Abner Rathbun, regarding the prostrate figure sympathetically. Abner
has grown an inch and broadened proportionally, since Squire

Woodbridge made him file leader of the minute men by virtue of his
six feet three, and as he stands with his back to the bar, resting his
elbows on it, the room would not be high enough for his head, but that
he stands between the cross-beams.
"I s'pose Meshech's fam'ly 'll hev to go ontew the taown," observed
Israel Goodrich. "They say ez the poorhouse be twicet ez full ez't orter
be, naow."
"It'll hev more intew it fore 't hez less," said Abner grimly.
"Got no work, Abner? I hearn ye wuz up Lenox way a lookin fer suthin
to dew," inquired Peleg Bidwell, a lank, loose-jointed farmer, who was
leaning against a post in the middle of the room, just on the edge of the
circle of candlelight.
"A feller ez goes arter work goes on a fool's errant," responded Abner,
dejectedly. "There ain' no work nowhar, an a feller might jess ez well
sit down to hum an wait till the sheriff comes arter him."
"The only work as pays now-a-days is pickin the bones o' the people.
Why don't ye turn lawyer or depity sheriff, an take to that, Abner?" said
Paul Hubbard, an undersized man with a dark face, and thin, sneering
lips.
He had been a lieutenant in the Continental army, and used rather better
language than the country folk ordinarily, which, as well as a cynical
wit which agreed with the embittered popular temper, gave him
considerable influence. Since the war he had been foreman of Colonel
William's iron-works at West Stockbridge. There was great distress
among the workmen on account of the stoppage of the works by reason
of the hard times, but Hubbard, as well as most of the men, still
remained in West Stockbridge, simply because there was no
encouragement to go elsewhere.
"Wat I can't make aout is that the lawyers an sheriffs sh'd git so dern fat
a pickin our bones, seein ez ther's sech a dern leatle meat ontew us,"
said Abner.

"There's as much meat on squirrels as bears if you have enough of em,"
replied Hubbard. "They pick clean, ye see, an take all we've got, an
every little helps."
"Yas," said Abner, "they do pick darned clean, but that ain't the wust
on't, fer they sends our bones tew rot in jail arter they've got all the
meat orf."
"'Twas ony yesdy Iry Seymour sole out Zadkiel Poor, ez lives long side
o' me, an tuk Zadkiel daown tew Barrington jail fer the res' what the
sale didn't fetch," said Israel Goodrich. "Zadkiel he's been kinder ailin
like fer a spell back, an his wife, she says ez haow he can't live a month
daown tew the jail, an wen Iry tuk Zadkiel orf, she tuk on reel bad. I
declare for't, it seemed kinder tough."
"I hearn ez they be tew new fellers a studyin law intew Squire
Sedgwick's office," said Obadiah Weeks, a gawky youth of perhaps
twenty, evidently anxious to buy a standing among the adult circle of
talkers by contributing an item of information.
Abner groaned. "Great Crypus! More blood-suckers. Why,