Mr. Tucker’s motion was seconded.  There was no amendment proposed, and all in favour of the motion were requested by Deacon Beaumont to stand up.  The Yankees all rose to their feet, the others sat still, all but old Gorges, a Prussian, who, with his two sons, had come to vote for me.  But the old man did not understand English.  His son John pulled him down, but Deacon Beaumont had counted his vote, and the motion was carried by a majority of one.  So I was, in fact, put out of the school by my best friend, old Gorges.

I went away in a dudgeon and marked off a cellar on my real estate, 30 feet by 18 feet, on the top of the bluff, near the edge of the western prairie.  The ground was a mixture of stiff clay and limestone rock, and I dug at it all through the month of September.  Curious people came along and made various remarks; some said nothing, but went away whistling.  One day Mr. Jackson and Paul Duffendorff were passing by, and I wanted them to pass, but they stopped like the rest.  Mr. Jackson was reckoned one of the smartest men in Will county.  He had a large farm, well stocked, but he was never known to do any work except with his brains.  He was one of those men who increased the income of the State of Illinois by ability.  Duffendorf was a huge Dutchman, nearly seven feet in height.  He was a great friend of mine, great every way, but very stupid; he had no sense of refinement.  He said: 

“Ve gates, schoolmeister?  Py golly!  Here, Mr. Shackson, is our schoolmeister a vurkin mit spade and bick.  How vas you like dat kind of vurk, Mr. Shackson?”

“Never could be such a darned fool; sooner steal,” answered Jackson.

Duffendorf laughed until he nearly fell into the cellar.  Now this talk was very offensive.  I knew Mr. Jackson was defendant in a case then pending.  He had been charged with conspiring to defraud; with having stolen three horses; with illegally detaining seventy-five dollars; and on other counts which I cannot remember just now.  The thing was originally very simple, even Duffendorff could understand it.

Mr. Jackson was in want of some ready money, so he directed his hired man to steal three of his horses in the dead of night, take them to Chicago, sell them to the highest bidder, find out where the highest bidder lived, and then return with the cash to Joliet.  The hired man did his part of the business faithfully, returned and reported to his employer.  Then Mr. Jackson set out in search of his stolen horses, found them, and brought them home.  The man expected to receive half the profits of the enterprise.  The boss demurred, and only offered one-third, and said if that was not satisfactory he would bring a charge of horse-stealing.  The case went into court, and under the treatment of learned counsel grew very complicated.  It was remarkable as being the only one on record in Will county in which a man had made money by stealing his own horses.  It is, I fancy, still ‘sub judice’.