I tried every expedient to accomplish my design, sought supporters
to keep the spits in the same position, a knife to divide the apple,
and a lath to hold it with; at length, I so far succeeded as to effect
the division, and made no doubt of drawing the pieces through; but
it was scarcely separated (compassionate reader, sympathize with my
affliction) when both pieces fell into the pantry.
Though I lost time by this experiment, I did not lose courage,
but, dreading a surprise, I put off the attempt till next day, when
I hoped to be more successful, and returned to my work as if nothing
had happened, without once thinking of what the two obvious
witnesses I had left in the pantry deposed against me.
The next day (a fine opportunity offering) I renew the trial. I
fasten the spits together: get on the stool; take aim; am just going
to dart at my prey- unfortunately the dragon did not sleep; the pantry
door opens, my master makes his appearance, and, looking up, exclaims,
"Bravo!"- The horror of that moment returns- the pen drops from my
hand.
A continual repetition of ill treatment rendered me callous; it
seemed a kind of composition for my crimes, which authorized me to
continue them, and, instead of looking back at the punishment, I
looked forward to revenge. Being beat like a slave, I judged I had a
right to all the vices of one. I was convinced that to rob and be
punished were inseparable, and constituted, if I may so express
myself, a kind of traffic, in which, if I perform my part of the
bargain, my master would take care not to be deficient in his; that
preliminary settled, I applied myself to thieving with great
tranquility, and whenever this interrogatory occurred to my mind,
"What will be the consequence?" the reply was ready, "I know the
worst, I shall be beat; no matter, I was made for it.
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