Then there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, another F.F.V.
of formidable caliber–however, with him we have no concern.
Percy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to the judge, and younger than
he by five years, was a married man, and had had children around
his hearthstone; but they were attacked in detail by measles, croup,
and scarlet fever, and this had given the doctor a chance with his
effective antediluvian methods; so the cradles were empty. He was a
prosperous man, with a good head for speculations, and his fortune
was growing. On the first of February, 1830, two boy babes were born
in his house; one to him, one to one of his slave girls, Roxana by name.
Roxana was twenty years old. She was up and around the same day,
with her hands full, for she was tending both babes.
Mrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained in charge of
the children. She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll soon absorbed himself
in his speculations and left her to her own devices.
In that same month of February, Dawson’s Landing gained a new citizen.
This was Mr. David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage.
He had wandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior
of the State of New York, to seek his fortune. He was twenty-five years old,
college bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern
law school a couple of years before.
He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with an intelligent
blue eye that had frankness and comradeship in it and a covert twinkle
of a pleasant sort. But for an unfortunate remark of his, he would no
doubt have entered at once upon a successful career at Dawson’s Landing.
But he made his fatal remark the first day he spent in the village,
and it “gaged” him. He had just made the acquaintance of a group of
citizens when an invisible dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and make
himself very comprehensively disagreeable, whereupon young Wilson said,
much as one who is thinking aloud:
“I wish I owned half of that dog.”
“Why?” somebody asked.
“Because I would kill my half.”
The group searched his face with curiosity, with anxiety even,
but found no light there, no expression that they could read.
They fell away from him as from something uncanny, and went into privacy
to discuss him. One said:
“‘Pears to be a fool.”
“‘Pears?” said another. “_Is,_ I reckon you better say.”
“Said he wished he owned _half_ of the dog, the idiot,” said a third.
“What did he reckon would become of the other half if he killed his half?
Do you reckon he thought it would live?”
“Why, he must have thought it, unless he IS the downrightest fool
in the world; because if he hadn’t thought it, he would have wanted to own
the whole dog, knowing that if he killed his half and the other half died,
he would be responsible for that half just the same as if he had killed
that half instead of his own. Don’t it look that way to you, gents?”
“Yes, it does. If he owned one half of the general dog, it would be so;
if he owned one end of the dog and another person owned the other end,
it would be so, just the same; particularly in the first case,
because if you kill one half of a general dog, there ain’t any man
that can tell whose half it was; but if he owned one end of the dog,
maybe he could kill his end of it and–”
“No, he couldn’t either; he couldn’t and not be responsible if the other
end died, which it would. In my opinion that man ain’t in his right mind.”
“In my opinion he hain’t _got_ any mind.”
No. 3 said: “Well, he’s a lummox, anyway.”
That’s what he is;” said No. 4. “He’s a labrick–just a Simon-pure labrick,
if there was one.”
“Yes, sir, he’s a dam fool. That’s the way I put him up,” said No. 5.
“Anybody can think different that wants to, but those are my sentiments.”
“I’m with you, gentlemen,” said No. 6. “Perfect jackass–yes,