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leading down through Westchester County, soon became a channel through which drovers brought cattle to feed the thousands of hungry mouths in the city at the foot of Manhattan Island.

As a drover I had trouble first along, the same as when I went into the calf business, because the farmers didn't like to sell me their cattle on credit. . But I managed to get around them in one way or another. I would ride up to a farmer's house during this time of my life I was rarely out of the saddle except to eat or sleep, occasionally even driving cattle at night to save time, for hunger in the belly puts spurs to the heels and, instead of starting in with talk about buying, I would say:

“Hello, Brother So-and-So” (the news of how I had got religion helped me with the farmers); “how are you off for fat stock?”

Upon his answering that he had a pair or so of fit cattle, I'd say:

“Well, now, I'm taking a drove into the city next week. If you say so, I'll take yours along, too, and sell them for you, for old acquaintance's sake.

, I know two or three butchers down there in the city, and calculate I can sell those critters for you at a top price.” I had learnt good and early that if you haven't got honey in the crock, you must have it in the mouth.

The plan worked fine. That is, first along. I got several hundred head of cattle on these terms,

and they seldom failed to bring a good price in the city. So that before long I had scraped together a nice little capital. To be sure, the farmers who let me have the stock on these terms would keep pestering me for the

money.

But I
put

them off with one excuse or another. Sometimes I would soften a man's anger by paying him part of what was coming to him, and tell him he'd have to wait for the balance until after my next trip. In cases where I couldn't quiet a creditor in this way, I had still another shift, for I always was a resourceful fellow. I would change my base of operations to another part of the county, so far away that the farmers I had traded with the last time couldn't reach me. Unfortunately, word would sometimes get around ahead of me, so that when I'd ride up to a farmhouse and try to get cattle without paying cash, I would be turned down. There was Len Clift, over near Brewsters', for one. I had agreed with him on the price of a calf. Then, as I was about to lead the critter off, I told him he would have to trust me a few days, as I was a little short of ready cash just at that moment. “Trust you ?” said he. “Wouldn't trust you no

! further than you can throw a hog by the tail.” I didn't get riled up. Getting riled up

is

poor business. A man isn't fit for a business career until he has learned never to get riled up; or leastwise, never to show it on the outside, even if he is all

a

riled up inside. I sort of explained the thing to Len and coaxed; but he answered a plump “No” every time. “You'll get the calf when I get the

I money. Not a minute sooner.”

“Len,” said I, finally, when I saw that he wasn't to be moved; "you won't trust me for the price of one lousy little calf? All right. But, Len Clift, the time'll come when I'll have money enough to buy your whole farm. Remember what I'm a-telling you.”

And the time did come, too. After I had made my fortune I bought his farm and made it into my country seat. I have got my family burying lot on that farm, now. “Drewsclift” I named the place. It's that beautiful farm just on the other side of the hill over from Brewsters' Village. The burying lot is out by the willow trees across the road from the house, down in the meadows. My parents had been buried in old Gilead Burying Ground at Carmel. I got the bodies dug up and carried over to this new burying lot, so I could establish a family cemetery. When a man makes a name for himself, he wants to make a family seat to go with the name.

But though I had a turn-down once in a while, such as this one from Len Clift, I found many a farmer obliging enough to sell me calves and cows and steers and sheep on credit. A very good device, I found, was first to haggle with the farmer over the price, and beat him down to the lowest penny. For, strange as it might sound, this inclines the farmer to trust you. You see, his mind figures it out something like this:

“That there drover is anxious to get a bottom figure, because he's good pay, and means, when the time comes, to settle up promptly and penny for penny.

He

wants to get a good contract because he is the kind of a fellow to live up to it word for word. To be sure, he is a tight fellow to deal with, but at least he is a safe fellow, and so I guess I'll let him have this pair of cattle on credit.” In these ways, working now one plan and now another, I got together a nice little sum of money.

It was about this time that the field of business for drovers was widened to take in the

great Mohawk valley. The city on Manhattan Island was growing so fast that our little :section up in the Harlem valley couldn't raise cattle fast enough to supply her butchers. So a new region now was tapped, the country to the north, across the Hudson. For some time back I had been on the look-out for a new place to move to. Change of pasture makes fat steers; and it's sometimes good for a business man, too. So I got to going on trips “out West,”

I as we called it. I would ride up north and cross over into the region around Cherry Valley (that is where the massacre in the Revolutionary War by those red savages took place). There I would get

a drove of cattle and start with them back towards New York City. We had regular routes which we followed with our droves. The taking of live stock overland to the New York market had got to be an established business by this time, with regular stopping places. There were tavern-keepers here and there along the route who catered to drovers. They would have a big pasture lot alongside the tavern, divided into two or three pastures to take care of several herds at once. When, hot and sore at the end of a day's drive, I reached one of these taverns, the inn-keeper would be there with his “Hello, Dan! I thought you'd be coming along about this time. Been expecting you these two weeks or more. Put your critters out in the orchard lot. The pasture there is as fine as a fiddle just now; and come in and rest your bones. Boy, take his horse.”

, From Cherry Valley we would strike across and into the old Schoharie Valley. This we would follow until we got to Middleburgh, an old Dutch settlement. We hired sloughters here to drive the cattle (in that locality they call a low, worthless fellow a “sloughter”). There we would put up for the night at a tavern called “The Bull's Head.” I mention this tavern in particular, because of another “Bull's Head Inn” which I will tell you about later on. This “Bull's Head” at Middleburgh got its name from a big bull's head that was painted on a shed opposite the tavern, on the other

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