I supposed he was honest; so I told him to pay me when he could. Time ran along; and the 1st of July, while I was cleaning out my old desk at the house, I threw away a lot of papers which I supposed were worthless. When I next looked for the note, I found it was gone. I suppose I must have thrown it away with the papers."
Upon cross-examination, he said: "James Taylor never paid me a dollar except the interest on the note. I have no witness to this transaction; but," raising his hands above his head, he added, " God knows I am telling the truth."
The next witness was his daughter. She was a woman long past fifty years of age, tall and plain, with two tortoise-shell combs on either side of her head holding back three long curls. She wore a faded shawl; but the plain face with gold-bowed spectacles showed her to be a veritable type of the Down-East schoolmarm. She testified that her father had never received the money, as they had intended, as soon as it was received, to pay off the mortgage on the small house and make the repairs which the house sadly needed. She remembered very well the day her father destroyed the papers from his desk; and she told the school children about the lost note, hoping that they might be able to find it.
The next witness was the squire of the town. He was a character. His wig, of terra-cotta color, was in strong contrast with the saffron complexion of his parchment-like skin drawn over his bony face. The ears of his unlaundered collar fell over a kerchief of brilliant coloring. A waistcoat of canary-colored silk, with pearl and brass buttons down its front, was relieved by a long coat of green baize, with large pearl buttons front and back. As he took the stand, he pulled from one of his back pockets a bandanna, and mopped his brow.
"What is your name?" asked the clerk.
"Marcellus Clough," he answered.
"How do you spell your last name?"
"Wal," said he, " the real right way to spell it is C-l-o-u-g-h; but them people down in Rockport are so darned ignorant that they spell it a dozen different ways; so a year ago said I to my wife, said I, 'Mrs. Clough, we'll save up all the envelopes and bills we get for a year; then we 'll sort 'em
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DEACON SANBORN.
out, and the way that it's spelt the most in the lot, we 'll adopt that spellin'.' So at the end of that time we sorted 'em out, and C-l-u-ff had it. But still we have an agreement between us, whichever of us dies fust, the other will have it put on the gravestone, C-l-o-u-g-h."
He would have kept on talking about
