The young master of Hyson Hall

When Chap entered Hyson Hall that afternoon, with his big valise, he met the housekeeper at the door.

“How do you do, Susan?” he said, with his most radiant expression of countenance.

Susan nodded as she looked, in surprise, at the valise.

“What have you got in that?” she asked.

“My dress suit,” said Chap, blandly; “or, at least, it mostly holds the suit I dress in at night. I’ve come to stay with you for a while, Susan,” he added, with as sweet a smile as he could call up.

“Stay awhile!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Chap. “Poor Phil is so lonely! My folks were glad enough to let me come.”

“I should think so,” cried Susan, getting very dark in the face; “and do they suppose I’m going to cook and slave for two boys?”

“Oh, you needn’t slave at all, Susan!” said Chap, almost tenderly. “All you have to do is to cook a little more than twice as much as you do for Phil, and I’m content.”

“Did he ask you to come? That Philip?” said Susan.

“Oh, yes, indeed!” said Chap. “You don’t suppose that I’d go about visiting houses, for a week at a time, without being asked? And now, which is to be my room? I can carry my baggage up there myself.”

“You can sleep where you choose,” said Susan, “in the cellar, the parlor, or the top of the house. This goes ahead of anything yet!”

And off she marched.

Phil was not in the house when Chap arrived; but when he came in, and his visitor told him of his interview with the housekeeper, he laughed heartily.

“Why, Chap,” he said, “you did begin mild, sure enough. I didn’t think you could be as dulcet as that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Chap, “that is the way to do it. I pulled on my heaviest woollen sock over my iron heel. But the heel is there, my boy,—it’s there.”

“Not a very original simile,” remarked Phil.

“It’ll do for the country,” said Chap, “and a velvet glove is very different from a woollen sock, if you happen to have cold feet.”

Chap easily gave up the expedition to the cedar swamp that day, as it was agreed that the blacksnakes and the lonely sumach would probably wait until proper possession of Old Bruden could be regained, and the rest of the day was chiefly spent in laying out plans for future operations.

Susan took no steps to prepare a sleeping apartment for the visitor, but she gave the boys a very good supper, for, despite her anger, she did not want Chap Webster to go home and tell his family that she did not know how to keep house.

By Phil’s directions, however, Jenny prepared a room for Chap, and the next morning operations were begun to put down all rebellion, actual or expected.

Phil did not forget, however, that he had the business of the house and farm to attend to, and to this he resolved each day to give the first place. After breakfast, therefore, he informed Chap that he intended to ride over to a neighbor’s farm to see about some oats which had been bought before his uncle’s departure, but which had not yet been delivered.

“You can come along, if you like,” said Phil. “Kit has been turned out to grass, but I can have him caught.”

“That means you are going to ride Jouncer?” said Chap.

“Yes, I intend to ride him,” Phil replied.

“Good boy!” cried Chap. “You’ll kill two birds with one stone. You’ll see about the oats, and you’ll have a chance to open fire on Joel, if he shows symptoms of revolt. As for me, I don’t think I’ll go with you. I’d rather stay home and see if I can’t get Old Bruden. I have your lordship’s permission to do that, haven’t I? I couldn’t go ahead, you know, without authority.”

“All right,” said Phil, “provided Susan delivers it up in a proper manner. That is the point, you know,—she is to give it up. I don’t want to get the gun in any underhanded way.”

“Exactly,” said Chap. “The laying down of the sword, or rather the hanging up of the gun, is what we are aiming at. You need not be afraid of me. I go in for high-handed—high-minded, I mean—warfare.”

Phil laughed, and, telling Chap to keep a sharp lookout on his own defences, left him alone with his warlike ideas.

Joel had been pretty grum and cross when Philip returned from his ride to town the day before, saying repeatedly that the horse had never been used in that way since Mr. Berkeley bought him. Phil explained how the thing had happened, but this did not make it appear in any better light in Joel’s eyes. Phil left him currying the horse and growling steadily.

Our young friend, therefore, was not surprised this morning when he told Joel that he wanted to ride Jouncer over to the Trumbull Farm, to see a dark cloud spread over that individual’s countenance.

“You don’t want to take that horse out again, do you?” he asked, sharply.

“Yes,” said Philip, “I intend to take him out again. He ought to be used, and I don’t propose to let him run away with me this time.”

“He’ll do it, if he’s a mind to,” said Joel.

“No, he won’t,” replied Phil. “I know him better now, and I won’t let him get a start on me, as he did yesterday. Uncle left especial directions that I was to take good care of Jouncer, and one way to take care of him is to ride him and not let him get fat and lazy.”

“No danger of his gettin’ fat,” said Joel, “with your style of ridin’.”

“Joel,” said Phil, his face flushing a little, “I don’t want to talk any more about this. I am going to ride Jouncer this morning, and if you don’t choose to saddle him I’ll do it myself.”

“Oh, you’re master,” said Joel, “and if you say so the thing has got to be done, I s’pose; and if the horse is rode to death, that’s your lookout; but I guess I’m responsible for the saddlin’ and bridlin’ and feedin’, ain’t I?”

“Certainly,” said Phil.

“Then I’ll attend to them things myself,” remarked Joel, as he went into the stable.

As Philip rode away on Jouncer, he could not make up his mind about Joel. It was true, he had done what he was told to do this time, but whether or not he would continue to obey was a matter of doubt.

But, having been successful in his first skirmish, Philip concluded to be satisfied for the present. Joel was not much of a person, after all.

“Susan,” said Chap, about fifteen minutes after Philip had ridden away, “Phil said I might have Old Bruden while he was gone. I’ve been up to the gun-room, but it isn’t there. Do you know where it is?”

“Didn’t he tell you where it was?” asked Susan, turning around and facing him squarely.

“I know that he hoped it was on its pegs,” said Chap.

“Hoped!” exclaimed Susan, derisively. “He may as well give up hoping, as far as that gun is concerned. He knows, and you know, too, that I’ve got it, and I intend to keep it.”

“Susan,” said Chap, a gentle smile spreading over his face like honey over a buckwheat cake, “don’t you think you have kept up this little joke about long enough?”

“Little joke!” repeated Susan, her eyes flashing as she spoke. “That boy will find out before I am done that there is no joke about it; and I’ll have his elders know, too, that I haven’t been in this family for fourteen years to be ruled over now by a boy.”

“Phil has been in the family longer than that,” said Chap; “he is fifteen.”

“Stuff!” said Susan, not seeing any point in this remark. “If Mr. Berkeley had had time to think about things before he went away, he’d ’a’ left me in charge of the house. I know he intended me to have charge of it, and he ought to have said so.”

“But, Susan,” said Chap, “all that hasn’t anything to do with the gun. You surely haven’t any use for that.”

“I’ve a particular use for it,” said Susan.

And off she walked, as she was in the habit of doing when she had said what she had to say, no matter whether the person she was talking to had finished or not.

“I must pull off the woollen sock,” said Chap to himself. “Soft stepping won’t do with her.”

A short time after this he went down into the back-yard, where Susan was sitting under a tree, stringing beans.

“Susan,” said he, sitting down on the grass not far from her, “do you know Mary Gurley? She’s a good cook, isn’t she?”

“She can cook,” said Susan. “All decent women can cook.”

“I mean,” said Chap, “can she make good pies and ginger-snaps and roly-poly puddings, and all that sort of thing?”

“You mean, can she cook for a boy,” said Susan. “Do you want her? I expect she can cook well enough for you.”

“Then she is a mighty good cook,” said Chap. “And do you think she could run a small girl like Jenny?”

“What do you mean?” asked Susan, putting down her beans and looking steadfastly at Chap.

“I mean,” said Chap, in his blandest tones, “that in a day or two Phil is likely to need a new cook and housekeeper, and I think he’ll want one rather given to pies. I’ve heard a good deal about Mary Gurley, and I thought I’d like your opinion of her before I recommend her to Phil.”

“You impudent, outrageous boy!” cried Susan, starting to her feet and letting her pan and beans fall together to the ground. “Do you mean that Philip Berkeley is thinking of discharging me and getting some one in my place?”

“Oh, yes, Susan,” said Chap, cheerfully. “Phil has been made master of this house, and if you don’t obey him he’ll have to bounce you. You can see that for yourself.”

“Well, just tell him this,” said the angry housekeeper, “if you’re to be his messenger, that when he pays me the two years’ wages that’s due me he can talk about discharging me, and not before.”

“Oh, of course,” said Chap, as he sauntered away, “he’ll square up before he tells you to march.”

“I got a good point on her,” said Chap, while giving an account of his morning’s work to Phil, “when she admitted that in one way she could be discharged. But she threw up pretty heavy earthworks when she told about that two years’ wages. It must amount to a lot of cash. I wonder how it came to run on so long?”

Phil was furious when he heard what Susan had said. He paid no attention to Chap’s remarks, but marched into the dining-room, where the housekeeper was getting the table ready for dinner.

“Susan,” he said, “if you don’t put that gun back into its place, and obey me in other things, just as you would my uncle, I’ll make you leave this house, and I’ll go in town and get the money from Mr. Welford to pay you everything that is owing to you.”

Susan was too enraged to answer. She merely sniffed, stiffened her back, and went on with her work.

“Do you feel refreshed?” said Chap, when Phil returned to the porch. “I heard what you said, but don’t you think it was something like a breach of contract?”

“Can’t help it,” said Phil. “She’s got to knock under or go.”

“Now, look here,” said his friend. “You’ve bared your blade, and that’s all right; but just hold your heavy hand for a while, and let me hurl another javelin. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“All right,” said Phil. “I’ll wait a couple of days.”

“Phil,” said Chap, that evening, after supper, “will you lend me one of these canes in the rack?”

“They are all uncle’s canes,” said Phil, who was reading by the lamp which stood on the hall-table; “but he’d lend you one, of course. What are you going to do with it?”

“Oh, I’m just going to take a little walk,” said Chap, selecting the heaviest and knottiest stick in the rack. “I’m tired of the kind of strategic warfare I’ve been carrying on to-day, and I’d like to change to something straight out and simple. Perhaps the man with the black straw hat may be coming to-night on one of his nocturnal prowls; and if he does, I’d like to meet him by moonlight alone.”

“You needn’t expect him,” said Phil, laughing. “Everybody knows now that uncle isn’t at home.”

It so happened that the man with the black straw hat was walking that evening towards Hyson Hall.

He had seen the notice at the post-office, had gone to Mr. McNeal’s store, and had recovered his hat. He had asked who brought it there, and when told it was Phil he made up his mind that perhaps that boy was old enough to talk to; and, as no one knew when Mr. Berkeley would be at home, he might as well go and have a little conversation with his nephew.