"Ah, it's all up," quoth Job Carson. "I'm spoiled now. I've had my own way so long, I could not think of surrendering to petticoats, turning my house into a nursery, and turning my back on the joys, quiet and comforts of bachelorhood. No, no, Job Carson--matrimony be hanged. You'll none of it." And so ten years more passed--now age and luxury do their work. "O, that infernal twinge in my toe. _O_, there it is again--hang the goat, it can't be gout. Dr. Bleedem swears I'm getting the gout. Blockhead--none of my kith or kin ever had such an infernal complaint. O, ah-h-h, that infernal window must be sand-bagged, given me this pain in the back, and--Banquo! Where the deuce is that nigger--Banquo-o-o!" "Yis, massa, here I is," said a good-natured, fat, black and sleek-looking old darkey, poking his shining, grinning face into the old gentleman's study, sitting, playing or smoking room. "Here you are? Where? You black sarpint, come here; go to Jackplane, the carpenter, and tell him to come here and make my sashes tight, d'ye hear?" "Yis, massa, dem's 'em; I'se off." "No, you ain't--come here, Banquo, you woolly son of Congo, you; go open my liquor case, bring the brandy and some cool water. There, now clear yourself." "Yis, massa, I'se gone, dis time--" "No, you ain't, come back; go to old Joe Winepipes, and tell him I send my compliments to him, and if he wants to continue that game of chess, let him come over this afternoon, d'ye hear?" "Yis, massa, dem's 'em, I'se gone dis time--_shuah!_" "Well, away with you." Old Job Carson was yet a rugged looking old gentleman. He had survived nearly all his "blood, kith and kin;" his sister had paid the last debt of nature some months before, and in hopes of finding some one to fill her station, in his domestic concerns, his advertisement had appeared in the _Weekly Bulletin_. "Ah, me, it's no use crying about spilt milk," sighed the old gent over his glass. "I suppose I've been a fool; out-lived everybody, everything useful to me. Made a fortune _first_, nobody to spend it _last_. Yes, yes," continued the old man, in a thoughtful strain, "old Job Carson will soon slip off the handle; 'poor old devil,' some bloodsucker may say, as he grabs Job's worldly effects, 'he's gone, had a hard scrabble to get together these things, and now, we'll pick his bones.' Well, let 'em, let 'em; serves me right; ought to have known it before, but blast and rot 'em, if they only enjoy the pillage as much as I did the struggles to keep it together, why, a--it will be about an even thing with us, after all." "Yis, massa, here I is," chuckled Banquo, again putting his black bullet pate in at the door.