“Well, I declare,” said the old man; “bin to Augusty sixteen times, and didn’t know no better than to go thar agin and lose four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents!” Early on Monday morning the old man started to Augusta with another load of cotton; Bob driving as before, and his master riding his gray mare “Bets.” Mr. Wilkins had a great many little commissions to execute for his wife and the _gals_. The old lady wanted a pair of spectacles, and the gals a bonnet each—ribbons and flowers, thread, buttons, &c., had to be purchased, and the good farmer was nearly crazed by the loss he had met with, and the multiplicity of things to be attended to. Ever and anon, as he trotted along the road, he would mutter to himself something as follows: “Leghorn bonnet for Sal—12 skeins of flax thread—2 dozen pearl buttons for pants—one gross horn buttons for shirts—5 grass petticoats—100 pounds coffee—451 dollars no cents—Jonathan Barker—bin to Augusty sixteen times—1 bolt kaliker—Pete’s a fool—lost one barrel of molasses and 451 dollars no cents.” With such words as these he would while away the time, apparently unconscious of the presence of Bob, who was much diverted by his master’s soliloquy. As they approached Augusta, his wrath seemed to increase, and he vented his spleen on his old mare and Bob. “Bob,” said he, “you dad-dratted rascal, why don’t you drive up? you don’t do nothin’ but set thar and sleep. “Take _that_, and _that_, and _that_,” he would say to his mare, accompanying each word with a blow; “_git up, Miss, and go long to Augusty_.” When they had come in sight of Augusta, Bob struck a camp, and his master rode on into town. Having eaten his supper, and put up his horse, he retired for the night, and early in the morning started out to look for Jonathan Barker. He caused not a little laughter as he walked along the streets, relating his troubles, and inquiring of everybody for Jonathan Barker. “Where’s Jonathan Barker,” he would cry out, “the Gimblit Feller what cheeted Pete out’n 451 dollars no cents. Jes show me Jonathan Barker.” As a last hope, he went around to the warehouse, where his son had lost the cotton. Walking out into the yard, he bawled out the name of Jonathan Barker. A little man, with a long gimlet in his hand, answered to the name, and our farmer attacked him as follows: “Look a here, Mr. Barker, I wants that money.” “What money?” said Barker, who had no acquaintance whatever with the farmer; “what money is it, Sir?” “Oh no,” said the old man, perfectly furious at such barefaced assurance. “Oh no! you don’t know _nuthin’_ now. Blame your picter, you’re as innersent as a lam’. Don’t know what munny I _meen_? It’s that four hundred and fifty-one dollars, and _no_ cents, what you cheeted Pete out’n.” “I recollect now,” said Barker, “that was fairly done, Sir; if you’ll just step this way, I’ll show you how I got it, Sir.” A bright idea struck the old man.