Early in the fall of 18–, Farmer Wilkins announced to his son Peter, that as he, “his daddy,” would be too busy to make the usual trip in _propria persona_, he, Peter, must get ready to go down to Augusty, and sell the “first load.” Now Peter Wilkins, jun., a young man just grown, was one of the celebrities of which his settle_ment_ (neighbourhood) boasted. He was supposed to have cut his eye-teeth—to have shaken off that verdancy so common to young men; and while he filled up more than half his father’s capacious heart, to the discomfiture of Mahaly (his mother), and Suke and Poll (his sisters), he was the pet and darling of the whole neighbourhood. An only son, the old man doted upon him as a chip of the old block, and was confident that Peter, in any emergency of trade, traffic, or otherwise, would display that admirable tact, and that attentive consideration for “No. One,” for which Mr. P. Wilkins, sen., was noted. A horse-swap with a Yankee, in which Peter, after half an hour’s higgling, found himself the undisputed owner of both horses and ten dollars boot, was the corner-stone of his fame. Every trip to Augusta added another block; and by the time Peter arrived at the years of discretion, he stood upon a lofty structure with all the green rubbed off, the pride of his family and the universal favourite of his acquaintances. The night before his departure the family were all gathered around the roaring fire, Mrs. and the Misses Wilkins engaged in ironing and mending our hero’s Sunday apparel, the old man smoking his pipe, and occasionally preparing Peter for the ordeal in Augusta, by wholesome advice, or testing his claim to the tremendous confidence about to be reposed in him, by searching questions, as to how he would do in case so-and-so was to turn up. To this counsel, however, our hero paid less attention than to the preparations making around him for his comely appearance in the city. Nor, until he got upon the road, did he revolve in his mind the numerous directions of his father, or resolve to follow to the letter his solemn parting injunction to “bewar of them gimblit fellers down to Augusty.” “Durn it,” said he to himself, as the thought of being “sold” crossed his mind, “durn it, they’ll never make gourds out o’ me. _I’ve_ bin to Augusty _before_, and ef I don’t git as much fur that thur cotton as anybody else does for thurn, then my name ain’t Peter Wilkins, and that’s what the old ’oman’s slam book says it is.” Arrived in the city, he drove around to one of the warehouses, and stood against the brick wall, awaiting a purchaser. Presently a little man with a long gimblet in his hand came out, and bade our hero a polite “Good morning.” “Mornin’,” said Peter, with admirable coolness, as he deliberately surveyed the little man from head to foot, and withdrew his eyes as if not pleased with his appearance.