“I ain’t undisposed. What’s your line — mainly?”
“Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medi- cines; theater-actor — tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there’s a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes — oh, I do lots of things — most anything that comes handy, so it ain’t work. What’s your lay?”
“I’ve done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin’ on o’ hands is my best holt — for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I k’n tell a fortune pretty good when I’ve got somebody along to find out the facts for me. Preachin’s my line, too, and workin’ camp-meetin’s, and missionaryin’ around.”
Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says:
“Alas!”
“What ‘re you alassin’ about?” says the bald- head.
“To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company.” And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag.
“Dern your skin, ain’t the company good enough for you?” says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
” Yes, it IS good enough for me; it’s as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don’t blame YOU, gentlemen — far from it; I don’t blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know — there’s a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it’s always done, and take everything from me — loved ones, property, everything; but it can’t take that. Some day I’ll lie down in it and for- get it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.” He went on a-wiping.
“Drot your pore broken heart,” says the baldhead; “what are you heaving your pore broken heart at US f’r? WE hain’t done nothing.”
“No, I know you haven’t. I ain’t blaming you, gentlemen. I brought myself down — yes, I did it myself. It’s right I should suffer — perfectly right — I don’t make any moan.”
“Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?”
“Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes — let it pass — ’tis no matter. The secret of my birth –”
“The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say –”
“Gentlemen,” says the young man, very solemn, “I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confi- dence in you. By rights I am a duke!”
Jim’s eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: “No! you can’t mean it?”
“Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of free- dom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates — the infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant — I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companion- ship of felons on a raft!”
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warn’t much use, he couldn’t be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say “Your Grace,” or “My Lord,” or “Your Lordship” — and he wouldn’t mind it if we called him plain “Bridgewater,” which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says, “Will yo’ Grace have some o’ dis or some o’ dat?” and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him.