CHAPTER XXI

THE LITTLE STUMPY MAN

  There was a little man—­
  I’ll sketch him if I can,
  For he clung to mine and me
  Like the old man of the sea;
  And in spite of taunt and scoff
  We could not pitch him off,
  For the cross-grained, waspish elf
  Cared for no one but himself.

Before I dismiss for ever the troubles and sorrows of 1836, I would fain introduce to the notice of my readers some of the odd characters with whom we became acquainted during that period.  The first that starts vividly to my recollection is the picture of a short, stumpy, thickset man—­a British sailor, too—­who came to stay one night under our roof, and took quiet possession of his quarters for nine months, and whom we are obliged to tolerate from the simple fact that we could not get rid of him.

During the fall, Moodie had met this individual (whom I will call Mr. Malcolm) in the mail-coach, going up to Toronto.  Amused with his eccentric and blunt manners, and finding him a shrewd, clever fellow in conversation, Moodie told him that if ever he came into his part of the world he should be glad to renew their acquaintance.  And so they parted, with mutual good-will, as men often part who have travelled a long journey in good fellowship together, without thinking it probable they should ever meet again.

The sugar season had just commenced with the spring thaw; Jacob had tapped a few trees in order to obtain sap to make molasses for the children, when his plans were frustrated by the illness of my husband, who was again attacked with the ague.  Towards the close of a wet, sloppy day, while Jacob was in the wood, chopping, and our servant gone to my sister, who was ill, to help to wash, as I was busy baking bread for tea, my attention was aroused by a violent knocking at the door, and the furious barking of our dog, Hector.  I ran to open it, when I found Hector’s teeth clenched in the trousers of a little, dark, thickset man, who said in a gruff voice—­

“Call off your dog.  What the devil do you keep such an infernal brute about the house for?  Is it to bite people who come to see you?”

Hector was the best-behaved, best-tempered animal in the world; he might have been called a gentlemanly dog.  So little was there of the unmannerly puppy in his behaviour, that I was perfectly astonished at his ungracious conduct.  I caught him by the collar, and not without some difficulty, succeeded in dragging him off.

“Is Captain Moodie within?” said the stranger.

“He is, sir.  But he is ill in bed—­too ill to be seen.”

“Tell him a friend” (he laid a strong stress upon the last word), “a particular friend must speak to him.”

I now turned my eyes to the face of the speaker with some curiosity.  I had taken him for a mechanic, from his dirty, slovenly appearance; and his physiognomy was so unpleasant that I did not credit his assertion that he was a friend of my husband, for I was certain that no man who possessed such a forbidding aspect could be regarded by Moodie as a friend.  I was about to deliver his message, but the moment I let go Hector’s collar, the dog was at him again.