His portrait, a hideous
effort of contemporary art, hung in the garret of David Townsend's
home. There was many a tale of wild roistering, if no worse, in
that old roadhouse, and high stakes, and quarreling in cups, and
blows, and money gotten in evil fashion, and the matter hushed up
with a high hand for inquirers by the imperious Townsends who
terrorized everybody. David Townsend terrorized nobody. He had
gotten his little competence from his store by honest methods--the
exchanging of sterling goods and true weights for country produce
and country shillings. He was sober and reliable, with intense
self-respect and a decided talent for the management of money. It
was principally for this reason that he took great delight in his
sudden wealth by legacy. He had thereby greater opportunities for
the exercise of his native shrewdness in a bargain. This he
evinced in his purchase of a house in Boston.
One day in spring the old Townsend house was shut up, the Blue
Leopard was taken carefully down from his lair over the front door,
the family chattels were loaded on the train, and the Townsends
departed. It was a sad and eventful day for Townsend Centre.
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