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Betsy Gaskins

“That every star was an eye looking down on me with pity.” (CHAPTER XXXVIII.)

BETSY GASKINS (Dimicrat), Wife of Jobe Gaskins (Republican)

Or, Uncle Tom’s Cabin Up to Date

By....

W. I. HOOD

With Illustrations

from Original Drawings

by C. B. FALLS

And an Appendix

Edited by K. L.

ARMSTRONG

CHICAGO:

THE WABASH PUBLISHING HOUSE

No. 324 Dearborn Street

Copyright, 1897,

By W. I. HOOD.

All rights reserved.

Notice.—The illustrations in this work are engraved from original drawings from life, and their reproduction, except by special permission from the publishers, is prohibited.

Betsy Gaskins.

Jobe Gaskins.

PREFACE.

THIS book is written for a purpose. It is founded upon actual occurrences. Betsy and Jobe Gaskins are characters well known to you, if you will but reflect upon events coming under your own observation within the past few years.

The author claims no inspiration or gift of genius. This is only a simple statement of facts deserving the consideration of every intelligent human being. While you read these pages, if you will permit your intelligence to assert itself over your prejudices, and if finally you will do that which the nobler instincts of man prompt you to do toward bringing about a better condition of things under the government of which you are a part, the author will be fully repaid for his labor. He asks you only to keep in mind at all times that Jobe Gaskins is your brother; that Betsy Gaskins is your sister.

W. I. Hood.

New Philadelphia, Ohio, April 24, 1897.

“GOD, by giving to man wants and making his recourse to work necessary to supply them, has made the right to work the property of every man; and this property is the first, the most sacred, the most imprescriptible of all.”—Turgot.

“THE right to work is the right to worship. The clink of the anvil and the hum of the harvest field, the music of the poet and the meditations of the inventor are chords in the anthem of creation.”—Henry D. Lloyd.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Betsy Gaskins (Dimicrat).

CHAPTER I.
JOBE SETS AND STUDIES.

MISTUR EDITURE:—My name is Betsy Gaskins. I was born a Dimicrat. My father was a Dimicrat and my mother dident dare to be anything else—out loud.

Our family, thus, was of one mind, perlitically, until Jobe Gaskins begin to come to see me.

I was a young woman of nineteen summers, as the poit would say.

Jobe he was a Republican and “didn’t keer who knowed it.”

My folks opposed Jobe on perlitical grounds.

Jobe he opposed my folks on the same grounds, but hankered arter me, though he knode I was a “Dimicrat dide in the wool.”

And I must say I hankered arter Jobe, though I knode he was a rank Republican. On that one pint we agreed: we both hankered.

Well, the time come when Jobe and me decided to lay aside our perlitical feelins and git married.

This our folks opposed, but we “slid out” one day, and the preacher united the two old parties, as far as Jobe and me was concerned, though I was still a Dimicrat, and Jobe he was still a Republican.

Like the two great perlitical parties at Washington, when they want to make a law to suit Wall Street, Jobe and me decided to pull together on the question of gittin married.

We have lived together for nigh onto thirty-five years, and durin all that time Jobe has let me be a Dimicrat, and Ive let him be a Republican. It has never caused any family disturbance nor never will, so long as I be a Dimicrat and let Jobe be a Republican.

We have no children livin. Our little Jane was taken from us just arter her seventh birthday. Since then we have been left alone together, jist as we was before little Jane was born. It is awful lonesome, and as we grow older, lonesomer it gits. Sometimes, when I git my work all done and have nothin to okepy my mind, I git that lonesome, I hardly know what to do. Of late years I read a great deal to pass away the time.

Jobe he hardly ever reads any, not because he cant,—Jobe is a good reader,—but it seems the poor man works so hard, and has so much to trouble him, that he would jist rather set and study than to read.

When he gits his day’s work done and his feedin, and waterin, and choppin of wood, he jist seems to enjoy settin and studyin.

I hardly ever disturb him when he is at it. I jist set and read or set and knit, as the case may be, and let Jobe set and study.

I did git him started to readin a couple of years back. I had signed for a paper that said a good deal about the Alliance and the Grange and sich, and Jobe he read it every week, and got so interested that he would talk on the things he read about to me and to the neighbors. He got nearly over his settin and studyin and seemed in better spirits so long as he kept a readin of that paper. But one day a feller, who was a Republican canderdate for a county office, came to our house for dinner (they allers make it here about dinner-time, them canderdate fellers do).

“We both hankered.”

Well, arter dinner, Jobe and that feller went into the front room, and the feller gin Jobe a segar (a regular five-center, Jobe said), and then they set and smoked, smoked and talked, talked about the prospect of their party carryin the county, the feller doin all the talkin, until at last Jobe told him that he “had been readin some of the principles of the People’s party and liked em purty well.”

The feller reared back, opened his eyes, looked at Jobe from head to foot, and then indignant like says, says he to Jobe:

“I am astonished!—astonished to think that Jobe Gaskins, one of the most intelligent, most prominent and influential Republicans in this township, should read sich trash, much less indorse it.”

And from that day to this Jobe Gaskins, my dear husband, has quit his readin and gone back to his settin and studyin.

His party principles was teched. The argament of that canderdate feller was unanswerable; it sunk deep into Jobe’s boozim, and from the time that that feller thanked Jobe for his dinner and hoss feed, and invited Jobe and me both to come into his office and see him, if he was elected, to this writin, I have not had the pleasure of talkin with my husband as before.

“I did git him started to readin.”

That feller robbed me of all the bliss I enjoyed of havin my pardner in life to talk with of evenins. And all I got for bein thus robbed, and for the dinner and hoss feed he et, was a invitation to see him okepy the high position of county officer—as though that would pay for vittles or satisfy an achin void, caused by him a turnin Jobe from his readin to his settin and studyin. What good would it do me to see him okepyin a county office and drawin of a big salary? Yes, drawin of a big salary that poor Jobe has to work his lites out of him to help pay. All that there canderdate feller cares for Jobe remainin to be a Republican is so that he, and sich fellers like him, will continer to vote for him and his likes, and pay the high taxes out of which they git their big salaries. What do they care for poor old Jobe Gaskins, whether he be a Republican or a Dimicrat or a Populist or one of them wild Anacrists, if it were not that he had a vote and they want to keep him in line? What keer they what papers he reads, or how quick he changes his polerticks, if they dident want to git office and draw a big salary?

“That canderdate feller.”

Say anything to Jobe about this and he will flare up and tell you he “doesent intend to lose the respect of all the leadin men in the county by changing his perlitical views.”

He dont stop to ask hisself, “Who is the leadin men?” He dont stop to ask hisself how much taxes and interest and sich he contributes to make them the leadin men. Contributes it to support them and their families in style sich as becomes leadin people.

Yes, to support their families, I said, so that their wives and their girls can wear fine silks and satins, while I must git along with a brown caliker or gray cambric dress at best.

Jobe and his likes earns the money by the sweat of their brows, and them canderdate fellers and their likes spends it in high livin and makin theirselves leadin citizens. And then they are astonished to hear of one of their regular voters a readin anything that says that sich men as Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, if you please, are jist as respectable, jist as leadin citizens, as any county officer or polertician and their wives. Yes, it astonishes them to hear of his readin a paper that says that the farmers have jist as intelligent, honest and patriotic people among them as the leadin citizens have. Now I read sich “trash,” as the canderdate feller calls it, and I dont keer who knows it, though Ime a Dimicrat. But as it is gittin late and milkin time is here, I will close, promisin you more anon, as it were.

BETSY GASKINS (Dimicrat),

Wife of

Jobe Gaskins (Republican).

CHAPTER II
AN ARGUMENT ON THE MONEY QUESTION.

THE anon is here. Last Tuesday evenin, arter I had milked and swept and washed up the supper dishes and done many other things I have to do day in and day out, year in and year out, arter Jobe had done his waterin and feedin and choppin of wood, we both found ourselves settin before the fire, me a knittin, him a settin and studyin.

Says I to him, all of a suddent, loud and quick like:

“Jobe, what yer studyin bout?”

You ort a seen him jump. He was skeert. I spoke so suddent and quick.

He hemmed and hawed a minit or so, got up and turned around, sat down, spit in the fire, crossed his legs, and says, says he:

“Well, Betsy, Ile tell you what I was a studyin about. I was jist a studyin about the mortgage and the interest and the fust of Aprile. Aprile, Betsy, is nearly here, and where is the money a comin from to pay the interest and sich?”

I saw he was troubled; but all I could say was: “Well, indeed, Jobe, I dont know.”

And I dont.

It seemed, now, as I had Jobe started, waked up as it were, he wanted to talk, and I was willin that he should, even though it wasent a very pleasant thing to talk about.

“Me a knittin, him a settin and studyin.”

Says he: “Betsy, I sometimes think we will never git our farm paid for. It seems to be a gittin harder and harder every year to make payments. It has took all we raised to meet the interest for the last four years; we haint been able to pay anything on the mortgage; and this spring I dont know where we will git the money to pay even the interest. It takes twice as much wheat, or anything else, nearly, to git the money to pay the interest with as it use to, and crops haint any better. Besides, Betsy, if I was to sell the farm to-day, it wouldent bring much above the $2,100 we owe on it. When I bought it for $3,800, fourteen years ago, I thought it cheap enough, and it was if times hadent got so hard and things we raise so cheap. Jist to think, we have paid $1,700 on the first cost, and $2,100 in interest besides, and if we had to sell it to pay the mortgage we would not have a dollar left. Congressman Richer could foreclose at any time; he could have done so for the last three years—ever since I failed to make the payments on the mortgage.”

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “it is bad enough, to say the least.”

“Yes, Betsy,” says he, “if we cant meet the interest, Banker Jones tells me, we will be sold out.”

I was silent.

Jobe continered: “I tell you, Betsy, these times, six per cent. interest is hard to pay. It seems that, no matter how cheap a farmer has to sell what he raises, interest dont get any cheaper.”

Thinks I, “Now is my time to speak.”

“Jobe,” says I, slow and deliberate, lookin him square in the eyes, “Jobe Gaskins, haint you a American citizen? Haint you jist as good a citizen as a banker? Haint you jist as honest? Haint you jist as hard-workin? Haint you got as much rights in these here United States?”

Jobe was silent, but lookin straight at me, starin.

Continerin, says I: “I was a readin in my paper, the other day, that the banker borrowed money from this here government for one per cent. The very money he loans you and your likes at six and seven and eight per cent. he gits from this here government for one per cent. You, Jobe Gaskins, ort to have jist as good right to borrow money from this here government of yourn and his as he has, if you give good security and will pay it back, and God knows you would, as honest as you are. Jist to think, Jobe, if you could have borrowed the money from the government to have paid Congressman Richer for his farm fourteen years ago, when we bought it, at only one per cent. interest, and only paid back to the government, at the post-office, or some other place appointed, the same as you have paid Congressman Richer in payments and interest, we to-day would have our farm nearly paid for and be out of debt, and you wouldent be a settin and studyin about the mortgage and interest and the fust of Aprile. Or even if you could borrow the money to-day from the government at two per cent., you could git the $2,100, pay it off, and next year only have to raise $42 interest instead of $126. Dont you see it would be easier for you to pay? And you could pay a little on the mortgage every year, as hard as times are?”

While I was a sayin all this Jobe was a lookin at me, a starin, turnin on his seat, spittin in the fire, crossin fust one leg, then another, waitin for me to stop. I seen he was teched; so, when I had done, I sot back in my cheer, and begin to knit, and waited for what was a comin. He begun slowly, but warmed up as he proceeded. Says he:

“Betsy, I have lived with you for nigh onto thirty-five years; we have allers lived in peace, though you was a Dimicrat and I was a Republican; we have had our sorrows and our hardships, and now, arter all these years of peace, am I to pass the last days of my life with a pardner who is allers talkin like them blamed Populists? You know, Betsy Gaskins, that I am a Republican and expect to die one. I believe that all the laws made by the Republicans are just laws. If they made laws to lend the banker money at one per cent. it must stand, and I will try to bear my burden, though I have to pay six per cent. interest or more, if need be, for the same money. Betsy, you must stop readin them papers. I never look into one; they jist start a feller to thinkin, and the fust thing he knows he dont believe a thing he has been a believin all his life. It ruins a feller’s perlitical principles. If a feller is a Republican, he should be one and never read anything to cause him to think. Them Populists, Betsy, is jist made up of a lot of storekeepers and farmers, and men who work in shops and mills and coal-banks and sich places. They dont know anything about makin laws, or money or bizness. Our law-makers, Betsy, should be lawyers and bankers and rich business men and sich.”

Well, I jist saw it was no use argyin with him, but I thought I would have the last word, as I allers do, and says I:

“Well, Jobe Gaskins, if you ignorant farmers haint fit to make the laws to fix the taxes you pay; if you farmers haint fit to make the laws to govern yourselves; if you farmers haint fit to transact the bizness in which you should be most interested, I think you ort to begin to prepare yourselves until you are fit, by readin what hasent been done for you that ort to have been done, and what has been done agin you that hadent ort to been done.”

“‘Talkin like them blame Populists’.”

At that, bein ready, I skipped into the bed-room and in a twinkle was in bed with the kivers drawed up over my head. If Jobe said any more I heard it not. In a few minits I was asleep, where I must soon be agin.

CHAPTER III.
JOBE SLEEPS IN THE SPARE BED. THE DREAM.

THAT nite arter I had got into bed and kivered up my head, I went to sleep and waked not until broad daylite. Imagine my surprise, when I waked, to find that durin all that long nite I had been the sole okepant of that bed. The piller on which Jobe, my dear husband, had slept for over thirty-four years had not been teched that nite, and, for the fust time in thirty-five years next corn-huskin, Betsy Gaskins had slept alone. I felt skeert. I felt as though some awful calamity had or would occur to me.

With a heavy heart I ariz and put on my skirts, all the time feelin as if I was about to choke. Everything was silent and still about the house. Could it be possible that my dear Jobe had dide or been kidnapped, or what? I hurried into the room—no Jobe there. I went into the kitchen—no Jobe there. I hastened to the spare bed-room. The door was closed. I stopped. I rubbed my hands together, studyin what to do, all a trimblin. Certainly the dead and lifeless corpse of my dear husband was in there cold in death, drivin to it of course by the cruel words of his lovin wife. There I stood stock still, not knowin what to do. I must have stood there some three or four minits until I came to myself. All at onct I says, says I, out loud: “Betsy Gaskins, what are you about? Haint you allers been looked upon as a woman of good jedgement and feerless in the face of disaster?” At that I marched up to the door and flung it open.

“I waked not until broad daylite.”

Now what do you suppose I found? Jobe was not there, but that spare bed had been okepied that very nite. Then it was that I realized that the two old parties, as it were, had been divided—divided for one nite on the money question. Yes, Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, a Dimicrat and Republican, had slept beneath the same roof and in seperate beds.

While I stood there, contemplatin what next to do and where Jobe might be, I heered him come onto the back porch. I met him with a smile as he come into the kitchen.

Says I: “Why, Jobe, where have you been?”

“Feedin—feedin, of course,” says he; “where do you suppose Ive been?” lookin at the floor and walkin apast me.

Arter reflection thinks I, “’Tis best to say nothin to him about the split in the two old parties until a future date.” So I jist went about it and prepared the mornin meal, thinkin all the time of a dream I had that nite, some time between bed-time and daylite, while I lay there all alone, while the pardner of my life okepied the spare bed.

“Feedin,—feedin, of course,” says he.

Well, while Jobe was partakin of his mornin repast, I saw all the time that he wanted to say something. I never said a word durin the whole meal, neither did Jobe. We jist set and eat—eat in silence.

“‘Do you promis?’ says I, girlish like.”

When Jobe was done he pushed back and tipped his cheer agin the wall. I knode he was a goin to speak. He cleared his throat like, and says, says he:

“Betsy, I dont want you to say any more to me about what you read in the newspapers. I am willin to listen to anything else under the sun, but dont let me hear any more about them Populist ideas. I want to talk sense to you, and you to talk sense to me. Now what I want to know, Betsy, is, how are we to raise the money to pay the interest by the fust of Aprile?”

Says I: “Land a goodness, Jobe, how do I know? Goodness knows I am willin to do all I kin to help you raise it. I had a dream last nite; if that dream was true I might tell you how to raise it.”

I stopped.

“Well,” says he, arter studyin a minit, “what was your dream?”

Lookin at him kind a girlish like, says I:

“Jobe, I wont tell you what it was unless you make me two promises.”

Jobe actually smiled. Says he:

“Go ahead; what are your promises?”

“I sot down, ... lookin him square in the face.”

“Well,” says I, smilin, “the fust promis is that you sleep in the same bed I do to-nite.”

At that I laffed out loud. Jobe he did, too. Then says I:

“The second promis is that you will listen without commentin until I tell it all.”

Jobe he studied.

“Do you promis?” says I, girlish like.

“Yes, I promis,” says he; “go ahead.”

“You promis to sleep in the same bed you have for these nigh onto thirty-five years?”

“Yes, yes,” says he, lookin half guilty.

“And you will listen?” says I.

“Yes, yes, Ile listen,” says he.

So, arter clearin away the dishes and scrapin off the crumbs for the chickens, and puttin some dish water to bile, I sot down on the other side of the table from Jobe, lookin him square in the face. Says I:

“Well, Jobe, we was talkin of the mortgage and the interest last nite when I went to bed, and I suppose that had something to do with me havin the dream, and for that reason I dont suppose there is anything in the dream.”

“Spose not,” says he, lookin oneasy like.

Bill Bowers.

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “I dreamed that Congressman Richer had demanded his money, and you had to raise the whole amount of the mortgage or lose our home. I thought you and me went down to town and went to every bank to try to borrow the money with which to pay the mortgage. I thought every place we went we was told that they was not makin any loans now, that there was a money panic and they had decided not to make any more loans for some time. I thought we could see great piles of money inside the wire fence that seperated us from the bankers, you know.” At this he nodded. “And I thought you said, jist as plain as I ever heard you say anything:

“‘Why, haint you got plenty of money?’

“‘Yes, yes, we have plenty of money, but we are not loaning any at this time,’[^[A]] says each banker, jist as though they had all agreed to say the same thing.

[A]. In July and August, 1893, during one of the severest money panics ever experienced in the United States, many of the banks not only refused to lend money on choice security or to discount commercial paper, but in many instances would not permit persons to draw out the money they had deposited with them. Business was paralyzed. Thousands of persons were ruined, losing the accumulations of a lifetime by being unable to raise money as usual to meet obligations falling due. Factories were closed for lack of funds to pay employes, and thousands of American citizens were thrown out of employment. The consequent suffering among the poorer classes throughout the nation was indescribable. And during all this time the banks of the country held the money of the people and refused to pay it out even to those to whom it belonged. Hence the question: Can not a better system of financiering be devised than our present banking system? Would it not be better to permit the people to deposit their money with our county treasurers?

“So I thought we traveled and traveled and coaxed and coaxed, and we couldent git a cent, as it were.

“Finally I thought we was agoin along the street, both feelin sad and discouraged, when jist in front of Spring Bros. & Holsworth’s big dry goods store who should we meet but Bill Bowers of Sandyville.

“‘Hello, Gaskins,’ says he.

“That was the fust we had seen of him. Our minds was so troubled.

“We stopped, and arter inquirin about the folks, and the stock, and the meetin that is goin on at Center Valley school-house, he asked:

“‘What are you doin in town?’

“And I thought you up and told him about havin to pay the mortgage; and of our havin been to every bank; and of our havin been told the same tale by each banker, and then you said, ‘I guess, Bill, we will have to lose our farm.’

“When he up and says, says he:

“‘Why, Gaskins, haint you heerd it?’

“‘Heerd what?’ says you.

“‘Why, haint you heerd of the new law?’ says he. ‘Why, Congress passed the law yisterday. I was jist over to the court-house and they showed me the telegram.’

“‘Why, what law do you mean, Bill?’ says you.

“Then you and Bill sot down on a box and I leaned agin the house, and says Bill:

“‘Why, yisterday, Jobe, they passed a law in Congress authorizing the Secretary of the Treasury to, at once, have engraved and printed full legal-tender paper money to the amount of ten dollars per capita of the population of the United States, and that money is to be set apart only to be loaned to counties on county bonds, and the counties are to git it at one per cent. interest. Then the county treasurers are to lend the money only on first mortgage real estate security to the farmers and business men and mechanics, at only two per cent. interest, and when the man that borrows it pays it back, or any part of it, the amount of his payments shall be credited on his mortgage, and as fast as it accumulates in the county treasurer’s office he shall forward it to Washington and git it credited on the county bond they hold. The one per cent. the government gits is to pay for makin the money and keepin the books at Washington. The other one per cent. that the borrowers pay is to go toward payin the county treasurer’s salary and clerk hire. This money, Jobe, is as good as gold, because the government agrees to take it for postage stamps and internal revenue and duties on imports and sich. All you have to do, Jobe, is to go over there to that grand old court-house, give your mortgage to the people of the county, and git your money; and after this you will only have to pay two per cent. interest instead of six or seven, and you kin save your farm.’

“Well, Jobe, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers all went over there, and sure enough, what Bill told us was true. The county treasurer told us that he would put our application on file, and as soon as they could git the money out and here, possibly in thirty days, we could come in and git ninety per cent. of the value of our farm if we needed that much.

“And while we was standin there a talkin to Treasurer Hochstetter, I heard George Welty explainin to Ed. Walters ‘how nice it was for a person to be able to give a mortgage to the people of the county for money to pay for a home, and then the county goin that person’s security and gittin the money from all the people of the United States,’ and explainin that there would always be jist enough money to do bizness on and no more, since the county would only borrow from the government when some citizen of the county had use for the money and was willin to give good security and pay two per cent. for it. And, Jobe, I thought you looked happier than you have for ten years.”

“Well, Bet——”

“Hold on, Jobe,” says I. “Well, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers started up street, and when we were passin Jones’s bank he called us in.

“Says he: ‘Mr. Gaskins, I guess we can accommodate you with that little matter you was speakin about this morn——”

“‘I dont want it now,’ says you.

“‘No,’ says I.

“‘Ide think not,’ says Bill Bowers.

“‘Well, but hold—hold on,’ says Jones. ‘I—I—we—we will let you have that amount at four per cent.’

“‘Oh, no,’ says you.

“‘Well, how will three strike you?’ says Jones.

“‘I dont want it at all,’ says you.

“‘Come on,’ says I, and we went on up street. When we passed the First National Bank, out comes one of the clerks a hollerin, ‘Mr. Gaskins! Mr. Gaskins!’ We stopped. He came a runnin up and says: ‘Come in now and our people will accommodate you,’ takin hold of your arm and startin back with you. I thought I jist took a hold of your other arm and says, says I: ‘Jobe Gaskins, where yer goin? We dont want any bank money in sich a panic as this. So come on and lets git out of this panic.’

“Well, every last bank we had been to that mornin was a peckin, and a hollerin, and a beckenin to us that evenin, until we like to a never got out of town and away from them. They jist seemed bound to lend you that money whether you wanted it or not. Something had created a panic among them—a panic to git to lend you money. Maybe they had heard of the new law. I dont know.”

Durin most of the tellin of my dream Jobe he was leanin his face in his hands, his elbows on the table, eyes wide open, listenin as he never did before.

When I finished, says he:

“Betsy, that will save us. What a grand country this is!” And he got up and walked across the floor. Comin back and lookin, anxious like, at me, says he: “Betsy, which party did Bill say passed that law—the Dimicrats or the Republicans? It is grand! grand! It will save us.” As he spoke he looked full of joy and happiness. Answerin, says I:

“I think I heard John Denison say it was the Popul——”

I never got to finish that word. His fist came down on the table like a thousand of bricks. He jumped back into the middle of the floor, cracked his fists together, stamped his foot, and says in a loud voice: “I wont! I wont! I wont do it. It can go fust. Bill Bowers is a dum fool. I wont! I wont!”

Says I: “Why, Jobe, what on airth is the matter? What ails you? What yer talkin about anyhow? You wont do what?”

Answerin, says he, bringin his fists together agin:

“I wont borrow any money from any scheme them tarnal Populists has made into a law. Ile—Ile pay ten per cent. interest fust. Ile not lend my approval to any law they have made.”

“Why, sakes alive, Jobe,” says I, “they haint made any law. That was jist a dream I had. What ails you, anyhow?”

At that he stepped back a step or two, lookin at me vicious like. Movin his head up and down in short jerks, says he:

“Betsy, you must stop it. Stop it at once. Its got you crazy—so crazy you are dreamin about it. You must stop that readin or Ile have you sent to a lunatic asylum.”

He went out at the door then, but just as he got out, in time for him to hear it, I hollered:

“Its you and your likes that ort to be sent to a lunatic asylum for not seein a thing that you have to turn your back on to keep from seein.”

This ended the second “discussion of the financial situation,” as they say down at Washington. The two old parties—Jobe and me—are still divided; but I have one promis he has yet to fulfill.

CHAPTER IV.
“THE COMERS.”

BILL BOWERS has got me into trouble. The Thursday arter I had my dream about the money bizness, who should ride up to our gate and hitch but Bill Bowers? I had not seen him for nigh onto two years, except in that dream, until he rid up to that gate post.

No sooner did I lay eyes on him than I thought of our meetin him that day in town, right there by Spring Brothers’ big store, and of his tellin us of the money plan, and of his goin with us to the county treasurer, and of us a learnin from the county treasurer that in a few days he would become the people’s banker and would lend money to the people on good security. While he was gittin off and hitchin, I remembered of his walkin with us up apast all the banks; I remembered of them refusin to lend us any money in the mornin; of them a peckin and a beckenin, a hollerin and a runnin arter us, wantin to lend us their money, in the evenin, arter we, and they too, had heerd of the new law Congress had made the day before—a law that turned a panic where we had to beg for money, and not git it, to a panic where they begged to lend us money and we wouldent borrow it.

Yes, sir, that there dream all come back to me as plain as day, Bill Bowers and all, jist as soon as I laid eyes on him.

So it was no more than nateral for me to tell him about it. Jobe not bein at home, I had to do the entertainin. As soon as he got in and got settled, I says:

“‘Ide vote the Dimicrat ticket at the
very next township election.’”

“Bill Bowers, I am glad to see you. I must tell you my dream. Bring your cheer up to the fire.”

Then I jist up and told him that whole dream, and he swollered every word of it without chawin, as it were.

When I had finished he says, says he:

“Betsy Gaskins, if that ere dream was only enacted into a law, what a blessin it would be to the creatures of this world! Betsy, though I am one of the stanchest Republicans in Sandyville, if this here Dimicratic Congress would make sich a law, Ide vote the Dimicrat ticket at the very next township election. Betsy, how in the world did you come to dream sich a dream?”

Now, how do I know how I come to dream any particular dream? I went to bed and went to sleep, jist as I had done for nigh onto thirty-five years, exceptin, of course, Jobe slept in the spare bed and me alone. But would I tell Bill Bowers of that split in the two old parties, as it were, and have him tell all over creation that Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy had quit sleepin together? No. Ide die fust. So I jist says:

“Well, Bill, indeed I dont know how I come to dream it.”

And I dont.

Well, my tellin of Bill Bowers that ere dream is causin me no ends of trouble. Ime jist worried and hounded about by this and that one, to have me tell em about that dream, until I hardly git time to breathe.

Bill Bowers he jist went, and from the time he left our house until now he has been a tellin of my dream to every one he meets. And it seems he is a keepin a tellin it, the way people has been flockin here and keep a flockin. Jake Cribbs, and Joe Born, and Curt Hill, and Bill Loyd, and Jim Rankin and Mag his wife, and the Minnings, and the Bateses, and the Hances, and goodness only knows who all has been here to know more about my dream! And how I come to have it; and what Ime a goin to do about it; and why I dont git it published; and why I dont send it to Congress; and why I dont do this and do that!

And some of em say they have it goin that the law is made—that Bill Bowers told Tom Osborne, and Tom Osborne told Doc Hendershot, and Doc Hendershot told Lucy Joss, and Lucy Joss told somebody else, that Betsy Gaskins said there was sich a law passed, and they come from fur and near to know what paper I read it in? or how I heerd it? or if Ime certain I had it? &c. &c., and a thousand and one other things, until Ime sick and tired of it.

Last night they even waked me up at the dead hour of midnite—Ellic Shank and Lew Zimmerman and Dan Hochstetter did—to hear me tell em more about it. And Jobe he’s nearly destracted. The poor man is jist run as hard as I be, though he had nothin to do with dreamin of that dream, onless his not a sleepin with me that nite caused it.

“They waked me up at the dead hour of midnite.”

What to do to git rid of all this questionin and answerin, this comin and a goin, I dont know. If they would go to readin, and thinkin, and a reasonin with themselves, they might have some dreams of their own—yes, have dreams with their eyes open. If these very people, men and women, who are worryin the life out of me, would go to readin of papers whose mouths haint shut by the public printin they git or hope to git; if they would go to readin papers that haint got some polertician’s hand around their throat—I say if these very people would read papers whose editures haint afraid to speak the truth when they see it; haint afraid to condem the wrong wherever they find it—I say, if they would read sich papers and sich books, they would dream dreams they never dreamed of dreamin before. I think they would begin to see that the Dimicrat pays the same rate of tax as the Republican pays, and vicey versy.

They would see that, no matter what is the polerticks of the office-holder, the voter has to pay the taxes out of which the feller draws a salary.

They would see that by reducin or increasin salaries their taxes are made high or low, as the case may be.

When they begin to see these things, I think they will begin to see that so far as they are concerned it dont make any difference to them which ticket they vote; that the feller most interested in their vote is the canderdate feller who is wantin to draw the salary.

Does a feller have to go to sleep to dream that holdin office is the best payin bizness in the country?

Does a feller have to go to sleep to dream that the salaries of all officeholders are too high, and that the foreigner dont pay the taxes out of which these salaries are paid?

Does a feller have to go to sleep to dream that all public expense ort to be cut down and kept cut down?

These are some of the dreams that the dreamless people would dream if they would go to readin of papers and books that Jobe and his likes would have me sent to the lunatic asylum for readin. (Here is another comer. I must quit.)

CHAPTER V.
JOBE MUST RAISE $2,100.

MY heart is heavy. Poor Jobe is nearly destracted. Our home is in jeopardy. Congressman Richer must have his money. He must have it by Aprile fust. Poor feller, he too is in bad straits; his gittin defeated last fall upset his calkerlations.

And jist to think, Jobe voted agin him; helped to defeat him, as it were. But Mistur Richer holds no spite agin Jobe for that. He was a Dimicrat, and he knew Jobe was a strait Republican.

Such things will happen to any feller runnin for office; somebody has to be defeated. They all cant hold office. I wish he had been elected agin, and so does Jobe. Jobe wishes it, though he is a Republican and voted agin him.

Poor Mistur Richer, he is in desperate strates. He is hard up. If he had been elected agin he wouldent a been that way.

It makes my head swim to think about what his disappointments are and may be.

Here is his letter to Jobe. It is so kind and nice. And jist to think of what a big man it is from, and the place. Jobe likes to read the headin:

House of Representatives,

Washington, D. C., Feb. 23, 1895.

J. Gaskins, Esq.:

Dear Sir and Friend—Owing to circumstances over which I now have no control, I am compelled to call on you to pay the $2,100 with interest due me on mortgage, not later than April 1st of the current year.

No doubt, Mr. Gaskins, this will take you unawares, and most probably unprepared. Were it not for the political reverses with which I met last fall, I would not be compelled to do what, I assure you, is a very unpleasant thing to me, i. e., call on you for this money at this time.

No doubt you will think that on the $5,000 a year salary I have drawn for two years, now nearly past, and the other sources of revenue that have become the perquisites belonging to a Congressman’s office, I ought to be able to get along without, in this way, inconveniencing you.

Had I been re-elected last fall I would have been in such circumstances. But when I call your attention to the fact that the nomination two years ago cost me $2,500 spot cash; that I have only been able to dispose of a very few post-offices at anything like paying prices; that, it being my first term, my services were not sought to any paying extent by those seeking “profitable” legislation, as well as the high rents and expenses in maintaining the dignity of myself and family, I am satisfied you will realize not only my great disappointment, but the loss, financially, I suffer as a consequence of my late defeat.

True, I have bought something like $20,000 worth of real estate in this city, but I still owe nearly $5,000 on it. I bought it expecting to be re-elected; so you will see the necessity of my calling in the money I now have outstanding in order to meet the deferred payments on my real estate venture.

I may be able to dispose of one and possibly two more post-offices between now and March 4th, but as they are small offices it is not likely that I will get more than $300 to $500 each for them, and as the friends of my successor are using every effort to postpone these appointments until after March 4th, you can see that I may even lose the profit on these appointments, since, as you are aware, all such revenue goes to my successor after that date.

The fact is, friend Gaskins, I have not been able to clear over $15,000 in the two years I have served as your Congressman, while some of the older members (those better known and more sought for by the liberal rich who come here to secure legislation favorable to their interests) make as high as a million a year.

With kind regards to Betsy, and hoping you will not put me to the necessity of foreclosing the mortgage I hold against you, I am

Yours truly,

D. M. J. Richer, M. C.

“That very sheet of paper.”

Now, jist to think, that letter, that very sheet of paper, come right from the great capital of these here United States; right from where all the great and leadin men of the country sit and make laws, and sell post-offices and sich—yes, this very sheet of paper has been writ on, handled and folded by a live and livin Congressman. The beautiful red tongue of a real Congressman licked that invelope, and his fingers sealed it up and put it in that great marble post-office there; then it traveled across them high mountains, over the big rivers and through the great cities to Jobe Gaskins, a common, everyday farmer, of Tuskaroras County, Ohio.

Congressman Richer.

Yes, that letter was writ by fingers that have fingered $5,000 salary money in only twelve months, and the Lord only knows how much post-office money—but lots—as it must a been, though they dident sell high enough to suit him.

Five thousand dollars from Noo Years to Noo Years! More than Jobe Gaskins has cleared since he become the lawful husband of his dear wife Betsy!

And jist to think, all them $5,000 paid by taxes. Paid by Jobe and his likes.

Poor Mr. Richer, how he must pant and sweat to airn that much money in twelve months—as much as Jobe could airn in twenty years if he could airn $250 every year. Jist to think how Jobe works and sweats, and walks stiff and plans and studies, and don’t airn $250 a year.

I expect there wasent a dry thread in all of Mr. Richer’s clothes.

I expect that even his pants was wet through every day of that whole year.

What big washins poor Mrs. Richer must a had.

Jobe he jist couldent stand sich sweatin, day in and day out.

It would take a whole barrel of soft soap to keep his clothes clean.

Five thousand dollars!

Five thousand dollars a year!!

Four hundred and sixteen dollars a month!!!

Seventeen dollars a day for every workin day in the year!

Seventeen dollars!

Enough to buy me twenty-four caliker dresses a day!

“Jobe works and sweats.”

One every hour!!

Seven thousand four hundred and eighty-eight caliker dresses in a year!!!

How in the world could I git them all made?

I spect poor Mrs. Richer has to so day and nite.

And jist to think, all of them 7,488 dresses for one man’s wife!

All paid for by taxes.

Now I wonder, if them Congressmen dident have to work so hard, and could get along on less pay—I wonder if the tax-payer’s wife wouldent have a dress or two more, even if Mrs. Richer and her likes had to get along on a dress or two less? The Lord knows she could spare them out of all them 7,488 dresses.

Well, the idea okepyin my mind most now is: “Where can Jobe git the money to pay all that $2,100, when he haint got even one post-office to sell?”

CHAPTER VI.
BETTY, THE DRIVIN ANIMAL.

EVER since we got that letter from Congressman Richer, demandin his $2,100 by the fust of Aprile, Jobe has been scourin the country fur and near tryin to borrow the money, and, poor man, he is worse destracted than ever. Things haint like they use to be. Nobody seems to have any money to lend. He finds lots of people a huntin money, but nobody a findin any. He has been to Sandyville, and Mineral Pint, and Zoar, and way up in Stark County as fur as New Berlin, and nary the man has he found with $2,100 to lend on good security.

What to do Jobe dont know, nor neither do I.

Jobe says he will write to Mr. Richer and git him to wait a little longer, until times pick up a little.