that depends upon what sort of a bargain you 've made. If you 've got a good bargain out of the colonel, I do n't see why his money is n't worth as much as any body's, or why another farm as good as your 'n is n't worth as much.' Yes,' said the deacon, so it seems to me. I've got a good bargain, I know; it's more than the farm is worth. I never considered it worth more than two thousand dollars, stock, and hay, and all; and he takes the whole, jest as 't is, and gives me three thousand dollars.' 'Is it pay down?' says I. Yes,' says he, 'it's all pay down. He gives me three hundred dollars in cash; I've got it in my pocket; and then he gives me an order on Saunders' store for two hundred dollars; that 's as good as money, you know; for we are always wanting one thing or another out of his store. Then he gives me a deed of five hundred acres of land, in the upper part of Vermont, at five dollars an acre. That makes up three thousand dollars. But that is n't all; he says this land is richly worth seven dollars an acre; well timbered, and a good chance to get the timber down; and he showed me certificates of several respectable men, that had been all over it, and they said it was well worth seven dollars. That gives me two dollars clear profit on an acre, which on five hundred acres, makes a thousand dollars. So that instead of three thousand dollars, I s'pose I 've really got four thousand for the farm. But then it seems to work up the feelings of the women folks so, to think of leaving it, after we 've got it so well under way, that I do n't know but I've done wrong.' And his feelings come over him so, that he begun to smoke away again, as hard as he could draw. I did n't know what to say to him, for I did n't believe he would ever get five hundred dollars for his whole five hundred acres of land, so I got up and went home.'

As my little goad-stick teamster made a pause here, the elderly man in the opposite corner, who had sat all this time knocking his pipe-bowl on the thumb-nail of his left hand, took up the thread of the discourse.

'I'm afraid,' says he, looking up at the landlord, 'I'm afraid Deacon Stone has got tricked out of his farm for a mere song. That Colonel Kingston, in my opinion, is a dangerous man, and ought to be looked after.'

'Well, I declare!' said the landlord, 'I 'd no idee he would get hold of Deacon Stone's farm. That's one of the best farms in town.' 'Yes,' replied the man with the pipe, and that makes seven of the best farms in town' that he's got hold of already; and what 'll be the end of it, I do n't know; but I think something ought to be done about it.'

'Well, there,' said the landlady, 'I do pity Mrs. Stone, from the bottom of my heart; she 'll never get over it, the longest day she lives.'

Here the little man with the goad-stick, looking at the window, saw his team starting off up the road, and he flew out of the door, screaming Hush! whoa! hush!' and that was the last I saw of him. But my curiosity was now too much excited, with regard to Colonel Kingston's mysterious operations, and my sympathies for good Deacon Stone, and his fellow-sufferers, were too thoroughly awakened, to allow me to rest without farther inquiries.

During the few days that I remained in the neighborhood, I learned that he came from Vermont; that he had visited Monson several times, within a year or two, and had made it his home there for the last few months. During that time, he had exercised an influence over some of the honest and sober-minded farmers of Monson, that was perfectly unaccountable. He was supposed to be a man of wealth, for he never seemed to lack money for any operation he chose to undertake. He had a bold, dashing air, and rather fascinating manners, and his power over those with whom he conversed, had become so conspicuous, that it was regarded as an inevitable consequence in Monson, if a farmer chanced to get shut up in a room with Colonel Kingston, he was a gone goose,' and sure to come out well stripped of his feathers. He had actually got possession of seven or eight of the best farms in the town, for about one quarter part of their real value.

It may be thought unaccountable, that thriving, sensible farmers could in so many instances be duped; but there were some extraneous circumstances, that helped to produce the result. The wild spirit of speculation, which had raged throughout the country for two or three years, had pervaded almost every mind, and rendered it restless, and desirous of change. And then the seasons, for a few years past, had been cold and unfavorable. The farmer had sowed and had not reaped, and he was discouraged. If he could sell, he would go to a warmer climate. These influences, added to his own powers of adroitness and skill in making 'the worse appear the better reason,' had enabled Colonel Kingston to inveigle the farmers of Monson out of their hard-earned property, and turn them, houseless and poor, upon the world.

The public mind had bcome much excited on the subject, and the case of Deacon Stone added fresh fuel to the fire. It was in this state of affairs, that I left Monson, and heard no more of Colonel Kingston, until the following summer, when another journey called me into that neighborhood, and I learned the sequel to his fortunes. The colonel made but few more conquests, after his victory over Deacon Stone; and the experience of a cold and cheerless winter, which soon overtook them, brought the deluded farmers to their senses. The trifling sums of money which they had received in hand, were soon exhausted in providing necessary supplies for their families; and the property which they had obtained, as principal payment for their farms, turned out to be of little value, or was so situated, that they could turn it to no profitable account. Day after day, through the winter, the excitement increased, and spread, and waxed more intense, as the unfortunate condition of the sufferers became more generally known. 'Colonel Kingston' was the great and absorbing topic of discussion, at the stores, at the tavern, at evening parties, and sleigh-rides, and even during intermission at church, on the Sabbath.

The indignation of the people had reached that pitch which usually leads to acts of violence. Colonel Kingston was now regarded as a monster, preying upon the peace and happiness of society, and various were the expedients proposed, to rid the town of him. The schoolboys, in the several districts, discussed the matter, and

resolved to

form a grand company, to snow-ball him out of town, and only waited a nod of approbation from some of their parents or teachers, to carry their resolutions into effect. Some reckless young men were for seizing him, and giving him a public horse-whipping, in front of the tavern, at mid-day, and in presence of the whole village. Others, equally violent, but less daring, proposed catching him out, some dark evening, giving him a good coat of tar-and-feathers, and riding him out of town on a rail. But the older, more experienced, and sober-minded men, shook their heads at these rash projects, and said: 'It is a bad plan for people to take the law into their own hands; as long as we live under good laws, it is best to be governed by them. Such kind of squabbles as you young folks want to get into, most always turn out bad, in the end.'

At

So reasoned the old folks; but they were nevertheless as eager and as determined to get rid of Colonel Kingston, as were the young ones, though more cautious and circumspect as to the means. last, after many consultations, and much perplexity, Deacon Stone declared one day, with much earnestness, to his neighbors and townsmen, who were assembled at the village, that for his part, he believed it was best to appeal at once to the laws of the land; and if they would n't give protection to the citizen, he did n't know what would. For himself, he verily believed Colonel Kingston might be charged with swindling, and if a complaint was to be made to the grand jury, he did n't believe but they would have him indicted and tried in court, and give back the people their farms again.' The deacon spoke feelingly on the subject, and his words found a ready response in the hearts of all present. It was at once agreed to present Colonel Kingston to the grand jury, when the court should next be in session at Norridgewock. Accordingly, when the next court was held, Monson was duly represented before the grand inquest for the county of Somerset, and such an array of facts and evidence was exhibited, that the jury, without hesitation, found a bill against the colonel for swindling, and a warrant was immediately issued for his apprehension.

This crisis had been some months maturing, and the warm summer had now commenced. The forest trees were in leaf; and though the ground was yet wet and muddy, the days began to be hot and uncomfortable. It was a warm moonlight evening, when the officer arrived at Monson, with the warrant. He had taken two assistants with him, mounted on fleet horses, and about a dozen stout young men of the village were in his train as volunteers. They approached the tavern where Colonel Kingston boarded, and just as they were turning from the road up to the house, the form of a tall, slim person was seen, in the bright moonlight, gliding from the back-door, and crossing the garden.

There he goes!' exclaimed a dozen Monson voices at once; 'that's he! there he goes!'

And sure enough, it was he! Whether he had been notified of his danger, by some traitor, or had seen from the window the approach of the party, and suspected mischief was at hand, was never known. But the moment he heard these exclamations, he sprang from the ground, as if a bullet had pierced his heart. He darted

across the garden, leaped the fence at a bound, and flew over the adjacent pasture with the speed of a race-horse. In a moment the whole party were in full pursuit; and in five minutes more, a hundred men and boys, of all ages, roused by the cry that now rang through the village, were out, and joining in the race. The fields were rough, and in some places quite wet, so that running across them was rather a difficult and hazardous business. The direction which Kingston at first seemed inclined to take, would lead him into the main road, beyond the corner, nearly half a mile off. But those who were mounted, put spurs to their horses, and reaching the spot before him, headed him off in another direction. He now flew from field to field, leaping fence after fence, and apparently aiming for the deep forest, on the eastern part of the town. Many of his pursuers were active and athletic young men, and they gave him a hot chase. Even Deacon Stone, who had come to the village that evening to await the arrival of the officer, even the deacon, now in the sixty-first year of his age, ran like a boy. He kept among the foremost of the pursuers, and once getting within about a dozen rods of the fugitive, his zeal burst forth into language, and he cried out, in a tremulous voice: Stop! you infernal villain! stop!' This was the nearest approach he had made to profanity for forty years; and when the sound of the words he had uttered, fell full on his ear, his nerves received such a shock, that his legs trembled, and he was no longer able to sustain his former speed.

The colonel, however, so far from obeying the emphatic injunction of the deacon, rather seemed to be inspired by it to new efforts for flight. Over log, bog, and brook, stumps, stones, and fences, he flew like a wild deer; and after a race of some two miles, during which he was at no time more than twenty rods from some of his pursuers, he plunged into a thick, dark forest. Hearing his adversaries close upon him, after he had entered the wood, and being almost entirely exhausted, he threw himself under the side of a large fallen tree, where he was darkly sheltered by a thick clump of alders. His pursuers rushed furiously on, many of them within his hearing, and some of them passing over the very tree under which he lay. After scouring the forest for a mile round, without finding any traces of the fugitive, they began to retreat to the opening, and Kingston heard enough of their remarks, on their return, to learn that his retreat from the woods that night would be well guarded against, and that the next day, Monson would pour out all its force, to hunt him to the ends of the 'arth, but what they would have him!'

Under this comfortable assurance, he was little disposed to take much of a night's rest, where he would be sure to be discovered and overtaken in the morning. But what course to take, and what measures to adopt, was a difficult question for him to answer. To return to the Monson opening, he well knew would be to throw himself into the hands of his enemies; and if he remained in the woods till next day, he foresaw there would be but a small chance to escape from the hundreds on every side, who would be on the alert to take him. North of him, was the new town of Elliotville, containing some fifteen or twenty families, and to the south, lay Guilford, a well-settled farming town; but he knew he would be no more safe in either of

those settlements, than he would in Monson. East of him, lay an unsettled and unincorporated wild township, near the centre of which, and some three or four miles to the eastward of where he now lay, dwelt a solitary individual, by the name of Johnson, a singular being, who, from some unknown cause, had forsaken social life, and had lived a hermit in that secluded spot for seven or eight years. He had a little opening in a fine intervale, on the banks of Wilson river, where he raised his corn and potatoes, and had constructed a rude hovel for a dwelling. Johnson had made his appearance occasionally at the village, with a string of fine trout, a bear-skin, or some other trophy of his Nimrod propensities, which he would exchange at the stores for a little rum, and a little tobacco, and a little tea, and a jack-knife, and a little more rum,' when he would plunge into the forest again, return to his hermitage, and be seen no more for months.

6

After casting his thoughts about in vain for any other refuge, Kingston resolved to throw himself upon the protection of Johnson. Accordingly, as soon as he was a little rested, and his pursuers were well out of hearing, he crept from his hiding place, and taking his direction by the moon, made the best of his way eastward, through the rough and thick wood. It is no easy matter to penetrate such a forest in the day time; and in the night, nothing but extreme desperation could drive a man through it. Here pressing his way through a dark and thick underbrush, that constantly required both hands to guard his eyes; there climbing over huge wind-falls, wading a bog, or leaping a brook; and anon working his way, for a quarter of a mile, through a dismal, tangled cedar-swamp, where a thousand dry and pointed limbs, shooting out on every side, clear to the very ground, tear his clothes from his back, and wound him at every stepunder these impediments, and in this condition, Kingston spent the night in pressing on toward Johnson's camp; and after a period of extreme toil and suffering, just at daylight, he came out to the opening. But here another barrier was before him. The Wilson river, a wild and rapid stream, and now swollen by a recent freshet, was between him and Johnson's dwelling, and he had no means of crossing. But cross he must, and he was reluctant to lose time in deliberation. He selected the spot that looked most likely to admit of fording, and waded into the river. He staggered along from rock to rock, and fought against the current, until he reached nearly the middle of the stream, when the water deepened, and took him from his feet! He was but an indifferent swimmer, and the force of the current carried him rapidly down stream. At last, however, after severe struggles, and not without imminent peril of his life, he made out to reach the bank, so much exhausted, that it was with difficulty he could walk to Johnson's camp. When he reached it, he found its lonely inmate yet asleep. He roused him, made his case known to him, and begged his protection.

Johnson was naturally benevolent, and the forlorn, exhausted, ragged, and altogether wretched appearance of the fugitive, at once touched his heart. There was now

'no speculation in those eyes, Which he did glare withal,'