“Sum tam rascal's after der sausages in der smoke haus!” was the butcher's first exclamation; the rosy daughter smiled assent, and “arm and out,” was the work of an instant. They found their trusty sentry baulking all Seth's efforts to retreat over the fence, and keeping him “_a-wailin'_” when he would have given worlds to leave. The reinforcement made at him with whip and broomstick, and this terrible odds aroused him to superhuman exertions;--with a “mazzle” he floored the Dutchman and his pipe, charged on the flinty-hearted daughter, captured her broomstick, beat a parley with it on the dog's head, and retreated over the fence with “flying colors”--_stickinng through a rent of his inexpressibles_. THE DEATH STRUGGLE; OR, THE WAY SMITH DID UP JONES. |You all knew Smith--every body knew Smith, and Smith was known by every body--consequently, Smith was considered somebody. A body is supposed to contain a soul; Smith's body not only contained a soul, but certain parts of Smith's body made and mended other men's _soles_. Smith was enterprising, industrious, and won thereby the sole control of the boot and shoe business of the flourishing town of Kipp. Smith was a thriving man, a persevering man; Smith was, in fact, a strip of upper-leather. Just about the time of his greatest success, when the tide of fortune appeared to bear upon its surface a perfect skin of Smith's manufactured high-lows, and earth shook beneath the tread of his patent cork soles, along came _Jones_. Strange freak of fate! Jones was an adventurer,--a desperate adventurer,--a fellow who had made _soles_ his study and upper leather his dream; he was a Napoleon in his business, and could slash calf-skin into a killing shape for pedal extremities;--in short, he was boot No. 1, both in the manufacture and sale of the article. In Jones' wanderings along the streets of Kipp, his eye fell upon the broad sign of “_Smith, Fashionable Boot and Shoe Maker_.” There was something prosperous and aristocratic about it, but, at the “Fashionable,” Jones turned up his nose. “Ox-hide fashion,” says Jones, “Good common article, but won't sell alongside of a prime one. I'll drive that fellow, Smith, out of Kipp town--have it all to myself--do a smashing business--re-sole the town--become upper-leather in the community--president of town council--die mayor of the borough, and have all my own manufactured shoes walking at my funeral.--Lofty thought,” added Jones.