The landlord was astonished when Walker counted out
to him two hundred and five dollars in gold,--surprised when to that
was added a round sum for interest,--ecstatic, on being presented with
a brand-new pair of pantaloons, of the same pattern as the expensive
ones formerly so admired by him. But his features collapsed, and for
some time wore an expression of imbecility, when he learned the
details of the adventure, and found out that "some things"--landlords,
for example--"can be done as well as others."
It was with little reminiscences like the one just narrated that old
Quatreaux used to wile away the time, as we threaded the intricate
ditches of the marsh in his canoe, so hedged in by the tall reeds that
our horizon was within paddle's length of us. With that presumptive
_clairvoyance_ which appears to be an essential property of the French
_raconteur_, he did not confine himself to external fact in his
narratives, but always professed to report minutely the thoughts that
flashed through the mind of such and such a person, on the particular
occasion referred to. He was a master of dialects,--Yankee,
Pennsylvanian Dutch, and Irish.
"Where did you get your English, old man?" I asked him, as we scudded
across the lake in our canoe, with a small sail up, one red October
evening.
"In Pennsylvania," replied he. "I went there on my own hook, when I
was about twelve year old, and worked in an oil-mill for four year."
"In an oil-mill? Perhaps that accounts for the glibness with which
language slips off your tongue.
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