CLOSE QUARTERS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 764, 22 October 1886, Page 7

CLOSE QUARTERS.

A HIGHWAY SKETCH. Few, I ween who were residents of New Hampshire during the generation now passing from the stage, will have forgotten ‘ Uncle ’ Joshua Thorn, the peddler of Yankee Notions, whose flaming cart was as familiar on the highways and byways of the Granite State as were the old yellow stage coaches of the day. The last time I saw him was at the Conway House, in the time of Horace Fabyan; and who that saw the White Mountains in those days can have forgotten him ? Dear * Old Fabe !’ I believe he haa been gathered to his fathers; but hi* -

memory will endure, at least, while there is a house at the Mountains bearing his name.

We sat around the great box-stove in Fabyan’s bar room, and Uncle Josh was of our number. He was on his way to Concord, and his cart was looked up in one of the carriage-houses connected with the hotel. His tirade was emphatically in ‘ Yankee Notions.’ He carried cloth of all kinds, from good, substantial cassimere, and stout blue jean, for men and boys, to very fair silks and calicoes, for the women. Cutlery of every description; pins, needles, thread, twine, stationery ; and table-ware - crockery, tin, and the real bright Britannia. Also, he was seldom to be found without a few good watches and a fair assortment of jewellery ; and he carried jewellery that was Simon-pure. If Uncle Josh warranted an article to be gold, you were safe to believe him ; and if he warranted a watch to be a good time-keeper, you might depend upon it if you bought it. Should it prove not up to the mark, be sure he would on his next visit exchange it or refund the money. The old peddler had promised to tell us a story after supper ; and after supper we were gathered round the stove to listen. He told us as follows : / * What I’m going to tell you about happened fifteen years ago this very month, and on this very road. I used then to start out from Concord with a full load. I would follow the river road —the Merrimac—as far as Bristol, and from there keep on to Littleton, near to the Vermont line. From. Littleton I went on up as far as Lancaster, in Coos county, and that was my furthest stretch north’rd. From there I came down to the mountains, stopping always a night with old Fabe, at his White Mountain House, beyond the Notch. Then I’d come down through Bartlett to here ; but there weren't no Conway House here in those days ; and .Horace Fabyan had never dreamed of keeping one here. My stopping place was at Colonel Hill’s old Pequaket House, and a regular old rat-trap it was. But there wus room enough in it, such as it was. ‘lt was along towards the middle of October that I put up at Fabyan’s, at the mountains ; and while I was there a man came in from below who told us two men had been stopped and robbed on the mountain road, between the Notch and the Willey House. It made me feel kind of skittish, as you may imagine ; for I had valuable property aboard still; and I had nigh on to a thousand dollars in money in my pocket. 1 carried a pair of pistols—percussion locks—and good ones ; but that might not save me. Still, they were kind of helpful in their way. I felt them to be sort of companionable. ‘ However, I went through the Notch all right, and got past Willey’s without, being troubled ; but at Tom Crawford's, a smart bit this side of Willey’s, I heard of the highwayman again. It appeared there was but one; but he was a terror—a bold fellow who had your horse by the bridle and the muzzle of a pistol in your face before you knew it. Tom had seen a man he had robbed; and that man had described the rascal to be a comparatively young man, not thirty ; a stout, powerful fellow, with an eye like a hawk, and a voice like young thunder. ‘ Well, I looked to see that my pistols were surely loaded—that the nipples were clear for the priming; and then pushed on. I had a good horse, and my load had got whittled down pretty light; so, if it should come to a run I might get away. I passed on through Upper and Lower Bartlett, and made a few grand, good trades. At Eastman’s tavern I sold two good watches, for five-and-twenty dollare apiece; and two gold rings for five dollars for the pair. And from there I struck this place, and put up at Colonel Hill's. It was about four o’clock jn the afternoon when I pulled up at the colonel’s and there I was to spend the mght. ‘That evening, just before dusk, I saw a man looking over my cart. It hadn't been put under cover yet, hut every part of it was safely locked up. I saw the man before he saw me, and saw that he was examining the cart very closely. It was different from tbe one I’ve got now.. The main part of the' inside, when I’d sold off my heavy stuff, was a clear space. As the shelves were emptied I took them down, and laid them on the bottom, and there fastened them so that "they wouldn’t rattle. When the shelves were all down there was a space just five feet long, hy three feet and three inches wide, and almost three feet high ; and I could get at it from behind—there were double doors there—and by a trap-door on top ; so that when I was filled chock-ablock, I could get at many of my traps without getting down from my seat. ‘ I watched the man, I should say, about a minute, when it struck me that he had a mighty queer look. He was about the ruggedest, powerfullest, and ugliest-looking chap I ever seed. You can imagine what I thought. Gracious ! it struck me in an instant that ’twas the highwayman. And why not ? If he knew anything about New Hampshire, of course he knew something of me ; and he would know that I was near the end of my trip, with my pockets well lined. Aye, for him to know about me was the •simplest thing in the world. It wasn’t at all unlikely that he’d had his eye on me long enough to have seen the inside of my big pocket book more’n once. ‘ Well, I d just fairly made up my mind that he was the man—in fact, I knew he must be ; and I’d said to myself, also, that he’d had his eye on my team and property for a considerable time, when he looked up and saw me. He was as eiol and perlite as a basket of chips. A cucumber wouldn’t have been a touch to him for coolness. We was just passing the time of day, and I think he was praising my cart, when up comes Jim Sinclair, wanting a pair of scissors. I had to open my cart-box behind to get ’em, and I noticed that the stranger slipped around so'as to look in when I opened the door ; and be looked on, too, while Jim paid me, and I was giving him change for half a dollar. The scissors was two-and-sixpence. But when I had shut up the doors, and put on the heavy padlock, he was gone. Jim said he had gone into the house ; and there I found him, in the bar-room, when I went in. * I wanted to get away the next morniDg as earlv as I could, as I meant to reach Wolfbo'ro’ before night, if possible ; so I left word with the stableman to have my horse fed an all ready. Before I went to bed, as I

hadn’t seen anything of my suspicious stranger since dark, I asked George, the colonel’s son, what had become of him.

* “ O,” said the boy, “ that man’s gone on. He's gone over Butter-Milk Holler way.’’ I if he was sure. Because, d’ye see, that would take him directly away from my route. “ Sartin,” said George ; ‘he asked me about the place ; and who there was over there ,that would sell him a drop of spirit. I told him of old Hammond, and he trudged off, happy enough.” “ And ye seed him start that way?’ said I. “Yes,” said George ; “ and I watched him till he was out of sight beyond the judge’s barn.’' That was all I wanted ; and I went to bed considerably relieved.

‘ The next morning I was up, bright and early, and off, I found my horse all ready for me when • I’d done breakfast, at six o’clock ; so all I had to do was to pay my bill and start. When I came to the hill beyond the three bridges, I fancied my old horse was kind of lazy. For so light a load I thought he made hard work of it. And again, when I struck the sandy stretch south of the Kibble Ridge, the beast pulled hard. Plague take him ! I began to be afraid he was sick. If I’d had a full load he couldn t have made more fuss getting through that sand. To be sure, it was a pesky hard pull ; but there was no sense in buckling to it the way he did. ‘ Howsumever, we got through it, and came to the little hill just this side of old Pigwaket; and as we started up that my off hind wheel run onto a small sharp stone ; and it came down, it gave the cart a bounce ; and at the same time I heard something inside strike heavy against the for’rd partition, right under where I sat. What in the world could it be ? I could think of nothing save a big roll of cass’mere ; but I hadn't a thing of the kind in there ! Had something broken ? I was thinking that at the top of the rise I would get down and look in, when I happened to remember a hole in the side of the trap door on the top, and down through that hole I squinted. I knew I could see the bottom of the cart that way, and tell whether anything had fallen. There was light enough come through the cracks behind to give me a good clear sight of parts as came within the scope of my vision. * I just leaned over back, and put my eye to that hole ; and I saw—for a second I thought of a big bundle of cloth—cassimere, or doeskin—torn open, and half undone ; but in a second more I saw just what it was—saw—just what it was ! Everlastin’ Jerico ! It was that highwayman ! You can bet your lives that for a few seconds a goodsized turkey’s feather could have knocked me over! Yes! The highwayman was in my cart! Snugly stowed away in the roomy space from which the goods had been sold off.

‘ As soon as I could collect my thoughts, I began to think what I should do ! To be sure, I had a pair of pistols, well loaded ; but think of the advantage he had over me ! The moment I should appear to him he would cover me with his own weapon ; and, very likely, shoot me off-hand. Probably he had slept in there all night. His talk with George about Butter-Milk Holler had been a blind.

‘ Most of you can see the situation. At the foot of that hill, on the south side, I should strike the pond road—the most dismal and lonesome road I know anywhere ; and it is a long stretch—two or three miles of it—low and pokerish the whole distance. My heart was beginning to beat kind o’ nateral, but there was a good deal of ache in it, I must confess, when I reached the top of the hill and looked away upon the wild wood track. It was my opinion that there —somewhere on that stretch —the robber intended to despoil me—perhaps murder me. Through the cracks between the rear doors he would readily catch a look at the water of the pond, and tiius knew when his time had come.

*Ho ! Glory ! I came very near to shouting aloud in my joy as I saw two men coming towards me. They had just come in sight around a point of the thick woods ; and I felt better still when I saw who they were —Sampson Head and Barzilla Knox. Two better-hearted or gamier men never trod. At that moment I had just turned the brow of the hill, and they were, say, fifty to sixty yards from its foot. In a jiffy my plan was laid. I put the whip to my horse, holding a tight rein, and down the hill I went with a rush.

* Very naturally, Samp and Barzil, when they saw me coming at such a pace, stopped : so they were standing when I came up with them. To rein up my horse and leap to the ground by their side, was the work of a very few seconds.

‘ And then I told them what was to pay. They had both heard of the highway robberies ; and one of the men who had been robbed had been a particular friend of Sampson’s. He heard me through, and when I d done E saw a grim sorb of a smile on his t old, battered face ; for I suppose few men had been knocked all the world as he’d been. He took the lead at once. He asked for one of my pistols, and when he’d got it, he told us what to do next. He and Barzilla had come from his brother Kingman’s house that morning, to work in the woods for Judge Chace ; and they both had their axes with them.

* Samp gave me his axe, and then told me that as soop as I’d unlocked the door, Barzil and I were to stand by with the choppingirons— one on each side—and leave him to deal with the highwayman. ‘ I aint ashamed to say, my friends, that I slipped the padlock off them doors, and dodged back pooty quick ; and as they cams open Samp covered the space with tbe muzzle of his pistol. I’d always known that Sampson Head was clear grit, but I had never dreamed how much there was in him of the regular, right up-an'-down old Trojan ! Sakes alive ! he made that man drop his pistol in no time. The robber seemed to read in Samp’s eye, and in his tough old face, just what he’d got to deal with., He knew that the old Trojan would shoot, dead sure, if he had occasion.

‘ The end of it wa3, the man came out from the cart without being helped ; and while Samp stood by with his pistol, Barzilla and 1 bound him hand and foot. Then we put him back into the box, and Samp got in with him, leaving the door open, while Barzilla and I took our places on the seat, and then away we went.

‘ In Eaton —what we now call Madison—we gave the fellow into old Tom Crocker’s care. He carried him down to Dover, and there locked him up ; and in due time he was tried and convicted, and sentenced to fifteen years in State prison. His name, or the name he gave, was Allan Ramsay. Mqst likely it wasn’t his. He died in the prison four or five years after he, had been put in, from injuries. I believe, received during a free fight with, other convicts on Thanksgiving Day. ‘ That’s, the nearest, gentlemen, that.l qver came to being robbed ; and it was what I called pretty close quarters. Thank fortune, it proved close quarters for the robber as well as for me.’