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STORY FOURTH.  THE CIDER PLOT.

When I was an apprentice, some years ago, I lived—­no matter where, and served—­no matter whom.  There were three apprentices besides myself; and it seems necessary to say, that, at the time when the incident happened which I am about to relate, we had neither of us completed that branch of husbandry called the sowing of wild oats; and as the soil was very favorable for the development of that species of grain, we were perhaps a little too industriously engaged in its cultivation.  We were in great haste to have the oats all sowed in good season.

One day our employer bought a cast of cider—­Newark cider, I believe they called it—­and the greater portion of it was nicely bottled, and placed in a dark corner of the cellar, to be used, not for making vinegar, or mince pies, but for a very different purpose—­which may be surmised by such as remember that in those days the juice of the apple had a much better reputation than it has now.  We were allowed our share of the beverage.  But we were not satisfied.  We resolved ourselves into a sort of committee of the whole, one afternoon; and after a long and somewhat spirited debate, came to the unanimous conclusion that, in the course of human events, it became necessary to employ the most effective measures to procure additional supplies from the cellar.  Now it so happened, that these measures were not of the most peaceable and honorable kind.  Such was their nature, in fact, that if we had been discovered in the act of resorting to them, it would no doubt have been deemed necessary, in the general course of human events, that we should be soundly whipped.

The plan was to seize a bottle once in a while, something after the manner of privateers; though I believe the trade of privateering is regarded as piracy, now-a-days.  How times are changed!  We were to go on this expedition in rotation, from the oldest downward.  We commenced, and two of us had performed the feat.  It came George Reese’s turn next.  You didn’t know George, I suppose.  But I wish you had known him.  I think you could appreciate the story better, if you knew him as well as I did.  Well, George went down cellar, with his pitcher in his hand, thirsting for cider and glory.  You must know that there was a flight of stairs that led directly to the cellar from the room we occupied.  You should know, too, that we went down without a light, and felt our way in the dark.  George had not been below two minutes, when we heard a report from the cellar very like the discharge of a pistol.  It was loud enough to alarm the whole house.  We were frightened.  We had reason to be.  Who knows, thought we, but they have set a spring-gun for us, and poor George is badly wounded?  We waited in silence, and with not a little anxiety, for our hero to come up.