Now its jist as like as not, some goney of a Blue Nose, that see’d us from his fields, sailin up full spirit, with a fair wind on the packet, went right off home and said to his wife, “now do for gracious sake, mother, jist look here, and see how slick them folks go along; and that Captain has nothin to do all day, but sit straddle legs across his tiller, and order about his sailors, or talk like a gentleman to his passengers; he’s got most as easy a time of it as Ami Cuttle has, since he took up the fur trade, a snarin rabbits.  I guess I’ll buy a vessel, and leave the lads to do the plowin and little chores, they’ve growd up now to be considerable lumps of boys.”  Well, away he’ll go, hot foot, (for I know the critters better nor they know themselves) and he’ll go and buy some old wrack of a vessel, to carry plaister, and mortgage his farm to pay for her.  The vessel will jam him up tight for repairs and new riggin, and the Sheriff will soon pay him a visit (and he’s a most particular troublesome visitor that; if he once only gets a slight how-d’ye-do acquaintance, he becomes so amazin intimate arterwards, a comin in without knockin, and a runnin in and out at all hours, and makin so plaguy free and easy, its about as much as a bargain if you can get clear of him afterwards.) Benipt by the tide, and benipt by the Sheriff, the vessel makes short work with him.  Well, the upshot is, the farm gets neglected, while Captain Cuddy is to sea a drogin of plaister.  The thistles run over his grain fields, his cattle run over his hay land, the interest runs over its time, the mortgage runs over all, and at last he jist runs over to the lines to Eastport, himself.  And when he finds himself there, a standin in the street, near Major Pine’s tavern, with his bands in his trowser pockets, a chasin of a stray shillin from one eend of ’em to another, afore he can catch it to swap for a dinner, wont he look like a ravin distracted fool, that’s all?  He’ll feel about as streaked as I did once, a ridin down the St. John river.  It was the fore part of March—­I’d been up to Fredericton a speculatin in a small matter of lumber, and was returnin to the city, a gallopin along on one of old Buntin’s horses, on the ice, and all at one I missed my horse, he went right slap in and slid under the ice out of sight as quick as wink, and there I was a standin all alone.  Well, says I, what the dogs has become of my horse and port mantle? they have given me a proper dodge, that’s a fact.  That is a narrer squeak, it fairly bangs all.  Well, I guess he’ll feel near about as ugly, when he finds himself brought up all standin that way; and it will come so sudden on him, he’ll say, why it aint possible I’ve lost farm and vessel both, in tu tu’s that way, but I don’t see neither on ’em.  Eastport is near about all made up of folks who have had to cut and run for it.