CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH PHILIP IS VERY MUCH AMAZED.
When Philip came down-stairs the next morning he found the breakfast ready, and Susan Corson, the housekeeper, standing in the middle of the dining-room, with a letter in her hand. Her countenance looked troubled, and as soon as the boy entered the room she said,—
“Mr. Berkeley isn’t about anywhere, and here is a letter for you which I found on the hall-table. I missed him a good while ago, because he is generally up so early, and I have been up to his room and looked through the whole house; and I blew the horn and sent the boy all over the place, but he isn’t to be found at all, and I believe he has gone off somewhere, and perhaps that letter tells you all about it.”
Before this speech was half over Philip had opened the letter and was reading it. It ran thus:
“When you read this letter, my dear Phil, I shall have run away—yes, actually cleared out and run away—from my good, kind nephew. It seems like turning things upside down for the man to run away and the boy to stay at home; but running away comes much more naturally to me than I hope it ever will to you, my very dear Philip. When about your age I began life by running away from home, and I have been doing the same thing at intervals ever since. The fact is, Phil, I have been so much of a rover, and a rambling life comes so natural to me, that I cannot any longer endure the monotonous days at Hyson Hall. It is true that I have enjoyed myself very much in the old house, and it is also true that I love you, Phil, and am delighted to be with you, and have you near me. But apart from the fact that I am tired of staying so long in one place, there are other reasons why I should go away for a time.
“And now, Phil, I want you, while I am gone, to take care of Hyson Hall and everything belonging to it. You know just how its affairs are going on, and, as you have kept my accounts for me almost from the first day you came to live with me, you know quite as much as I do about the house expenses and all that sort of thing. The next time you go to town you must take the enclosed note to Mr. Welford, my banker, and he will pay to you, from time to time, the amount I have been in the habit of drawing for regular house expenses. You see, Phil, I put a great deal of trust in you, but I don’t believe I could have a steward who would suit me better. Don’t spend any more money than you can help. Take good care of Jouncer, and keep everything as straight as you can. Of course, I don’t expect you to stay at home all the time and have no fun, but you can see now why I did not want you to take Old Bruden and go off on a camping expedition on the very first day of your stewardship.
“And now, good-by, my boy. I expect to write to you again before very long, and I am quite sure that until I come back you will manage the old place just as well as you can; and if you do that, you will fully satisfy
“Your affectionate uncle,
“Godfrey Berkeley.”
As Philip stood on one side of the breakfast-table reading this letter, Susan Corson stood on the other, gazing steadfastly at him.
“Well,” said she, “where has he gone? and when is he coming back?”
“Those are two things he doesn’t mention,” said Philip. “And I haven’t any idea what it all means.”
“Well, what does he say?” asked Susan, a little sharply. “He surely must have told you something.”
Susan Corson was a middle-aged little woman, who thought a good deal of Mr. Godfrey Berkeley and a good deal of herself, and who had had, so far, no great objections to Philip, although, as a rule, she did not take any particular interest in boys.
“I will read you the letter,” said Philip.
And he read it to her from beginning to end, omitting here and there a passage relating to himself and his uncle’s trust in him.
For a few minutes Susan did not say a word, and Philip also stood silent, looking down at the letter he held and thinking very hard.
“And while he is gone you are to be master here?” said the housekeeper.
“Yes,” said Philip; “that’s about the way to look at it.”
“Well, then,” said Susan, “there’s your breakfast.”
And she marched out of the room.
Philip sat down to the table, but he was still thinking so hard that he scarcely knew what he ate or drank. When he had about half finished his meal he heard a shout outside. He jumped up from the table and ran to the window. Standing in the roadway, in front of the house, he saw Chap Webster, who had just sent forth another shout. Phil ran out on the great stone porch.
“Hello, Chap!” he cried. “Come up here and wait till I have finished my breakfast.”
“Finished your breakfast!” exclaimed his companion. “Why, I thought we were going to make an early start! I didn’t half finish mine.”
“I’m sorry for that,” said Phil; “but just sit down here, and I’ll be out directly.”
If Philip had been the grown-up gentleman which he was sure to be if he lived long enough, he would have asked his friend in to finish his breakfast with him; but he was a boy, and did not think of it.
There was nothing mean about him, however; he stopped eating before he was half done, so as not to keep Chap waiting.
Chap Webster was a long-legged boy, a little older than Philip. He had light hair, and what some of his friends called a buckwheat-cake face,—that is, it was very brown and a good deal freckled. He did not sit down at all, but stalked up and down the porch until Phil came out.
“Are you ready now?” he cried, as soon as the latter appeared at the hall door.
“No, I’m not ready,” said Phil; “and what is more, I am not going at all.”
Chap opened his mouth and eyes, and jammed his hands down into his trousers pockets.
“This is a pretty piece of business!” he exclaimed. “Here I’ve been up ever since sunrise getting my traps ready, and mother has put up a basket of provender, and everything is all ready for us to take up as we pass our house. I didn’t think you were that kind of fellow, Phil.”
“I didn’t think so myself,” said his companion; “but there’s no use of our shooting wild this way. Just you sit down and read that letter.”
Chap took a seat on a bench, and, leaning over, with his elbows on his outspread knees, he carefully read Mr. Berkeley’s letter.
When he had finished it, and had turned over the sheet to see if there was anything more on the last page, he looked steadfastly at Phil, then whistled, and then lay back and laughed as if he would crack his sides.
Phil could see no cause for merriment, but the example was contagious, and he began to laugh, too.
“I always knew your uncle was a rare customer,” said Chap, at last; “but I never thought he’d be up to a thing like this. Why, Phil,” he cried, starting to his feet, “I’d rather be in your place than own a tug-boat!”
This was putting the matter very strongly, for to own a tug-boat, with which he could make a fortune by towing vessels up and down the river, was one of Chap Webster’s most earnest aspirations.
“Well, what would you do?” asked Philip.
“Do!” cried Chap, with sparkling eyes. “I’d do everything! I’d have all the fellows here. I’d give the biggest kind of picnics. I’d camp out, right here in front of the house. I’d put a mast in your uncle’s scow, and buy a sail for her. I’d dig up the old wreck, and I’d have fireworks every night. Do!” he added. “You’d soon see what I’d do!”
“Yes,” said Philip, laughing, “and I’d soon see you stop doing, too. A pretty steward you’d make!”
“Phil,” said Chap, suddenly changing his manner, “how long do you think he’s going to stay away?”
“I don’t know any more about it than you do,” said Phil. “There’s his letter, and that’s all there is to go by.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what it is, Phil,” said Chap, very earnestly, “if your uncle stays away long enough, there are big things ahead. You know he said you were to have fun.”