Tim and Tip

“It’s no use, boys; I can’t stand it any longer”; and Tom Gibson leaned against the fence in front of four of his most intimate friends, assuming such an attitude as he believed should be taken by a very badly abused boy.

“What is it now?” asked little Dwight Holden, in a very unsympathetic tone, much as if he did not believe Tom’s troubles to be so very severe.

“It’s the same thing every day till I’m all worn out,” and Tom wiped his dry eyes with his jacket-sleeve, more to show how heavy his heart was than from any necessity. “I have to ’tend to that ugly baby every time when there’s a good game of ball or I spy going on; an’ if it does happen that I get out for a day’s fun, I have to lug wood an’ water after I get home till my arms are just ready to drop off. But I’m through now an’ that’s all there is to it.”

“What’ll you do?” and Kirk Masters continued to eat a very small and very green apple in a way that showed how much more intent he was upon his limited feast than upon his friend’s wrongs.

“I know what I can do,” said Tom, with a shake of his head that was intended should convey the idea of great mystery, and in this attempt he was remarkably successful. His friends had heard of his troubles before and it was an old story, but the fact that he had formed some plan which he intended should be kept a secret was sufficient to arouse all their curiosity. Dwight was as eager as he had been apathetic, Kirk’s apple seemed suddenly to have lost its flavor, and the entire group of boys gathered around Tom very closely, as if fearful lest they should lose some portion of the wonderful secret they were certain he was about to tell them.

“I am not sure that I dare to tell you,” said Tom, in a mysterious whisper, and the boys knew at once that he was ready to tell them all. “You see, if my folks should know what I’m going to do, that would spoil everything.”

“But what are you going to do?” persisted Kirk, whose interest in his apple was now wholly gone.

“Promise that you won’t ever tell.”

In an instant every boy had vowed that he would keep the secret, and, after assuring himself that there was no other person near who might hear him, Tom began:

“I’m going to run away.”

The little circle of listeners gazed at the bold boy in almost breathless astonishment, and Tom, fully enjoying the sensation he had caused, continued his story after first pausing sufficiently long to note the effect which his announcement had upon his hearers.

“Yes, I’m going, and you just better believe that I’ll go so far away that nobody’ll ever find me. I’ve stood this working around home just as long as I can, and I’ll show my folks what it is to treat a boy the way they’ve treated me.”

“But where are you going, Tom?”

“That part of it I’m not going to tell,” said Tom, with a decided shake of the head, preferring to seem cruel rather than confess that he had no idea as to where he should go to escape the tyranny of his parents. “I’ll leave here some night, hide under the bridge at Rankin’s brook till morning, and then go to some place where none of the folks around here will ever find me.”

“But what makes you hide under Rankin’s bridge all night?” asked Dwight Holden, curiously.

“So’s I’ll be ready to start just as soon’s it’s daylight, of course.”

“I don’t see what you want to do that for,” persisted Dwight. “You could sleep at home all night and then start from there as early as you wanted to. Nobody would think of stopping you, for they’d believe you were just going to the pasture.”

Tom was puzzled, just for an instant, as to how he should answer the question, and then realizing that it would never do for a boy who was about to run away from home to confess that he did not fully understand his own plans he answered, with a great show of dignity:

“Don’t you bother. I think I know what I’m about. I’ve got to sleep under Rankin’s bridge the night I run away or else the thing wouldn’t work.”

The vagueness of the plan gave it a greater charm in the eyes of Tom’s friends. If it had been a simple scheme of running away, and they had understood it in all its details, it would have seemed dull and commonplace compared to what it was when it was so essential that Tom should sleep under the bridge the night previous to his leaving home forever.

Tom Gibson thoroughly enjoyed the sensation he was causing, and was by no means disposed to leave his friends before whom he was posing as a hero. He did his best to be mysterious both in speech and action, and would have continued to throw out vague hints as to his plans all the afternoon had not one of his oppressors—his mother—called him into the house to perform some one of the many tasks which he believed was wearing his young life away.

It is quite possible, if the whole truth could be known, that Tom had not fully made up his mind to run away from his comfortable home when he first broached the subject to his friends; but they had looked upon him as such a hero from the first moment he mentioned it that he decided it was necessary for him to go.

“I’ll keep on doing what she tells me to, so that folks will see how hard I have to work,” he muttered to himself as he left the boys and went toward the house, “and then when I’m off so far that nobody knows where I am mother’ll be sorry she made me work so hard.”

As a matter of course, however, Tom’s friends met him, after he had announced his determination of leaving home, they made inquiries as to the carrying out of his plan, and this was so pleasant to the dissatisfied and abused young man that he put off taking the final step as long as possible. In fact, he delayed so long that Dwight Holden plainly said one day that he did not believe Tom had ever intended to run away, but that he had said so simply for the purpose of “making himself look big.”

From that day he set about making his preparations for departure in earnest, telling his friends that on the following Tuesday he would disappear, never to be seen in Sedgwick again, unless he should decide, many years later, to come back as a wealthy gentleman, to see how much the town had suffered by his absence.

Since he would be obliged to walk a good portion of the distance to the place where his fortune was to be made, he was forced to leave out of the bundle he was making up many of his valuables because of their size and weight. A toy engine, a glass pen and holder, two rubber balls, a large collection of marbles (agates and alleys), a folding kite frame, three odd skates, a lodestone, and two mouth harmonicas made up the list of treasures that could be carried, and these were carefully packed in an old army blanket. He had saved cookies, gingerbread, and choice pieces of pie until he had as much as he believed would suffice as food for a week, and this he intended to carry in a paper parcel in his hand.

Every arrangement had been made. The day Tom had set for his departure came so quickly that it seemed as if there must have been some mistake in the almanac, and two or three days had been lost. Tom met his friends, acted the part of a hero before them until it was so late that each one had been obliged to go home, and then he, having bidden each one in turn a solemn good-by, was compelled to carry out the plan he had laid.

It is certain that at the moment his friends left him Tom was thoroughly sorry he had ever said anything about running away. He had suddenly come to understand what it was to be alone, and he by no means fancied the sensation. At that moment his troubles which were obliging him to leave home did not seem to be nearly so great as they had been a few days before; his home had never appeared so cheerful as now when he was leaving it, and he actually began to hope that some insurmountable obstacle would occur to prevent his running away.

The tears filled his eyes as he crept softly up the back stairs, wishing so much that he could kiss his mother and sister good-by, wishing that he had never thought of going, but fully believing that it would be unmanly not to do so, and that his schoolmates would laugh at him if he should abandon the scheme before he had even attempted to carry it into execution.

He hoped the stairs would creak so loudly that his mother would come to see what the matter was and discover him leaving the house with his bundles, but when he came down there was hardly a sound. He was out of the house without, apparently, having been discovered, and his heart was very heavy as he walked slowly around the yard to the gate, with a long, lonely journey before him and with no idea as to where would be the end.

He had opened the gate and was taking a farewell look at the house, when, to his great delight, the front door was opened and he saw his mother. He would surely be called back now, he thought, and his friends could not accuse him of having been afraid to carry out his plans.

“So you are really going to run away, are you, Tommy?” said his mother, who did not appear in the least surprised by his intended departure.

“Yes’m,” replied Tom, in a very low tone, feeling foolish and at the same time wondering whether his secret had been betrayed by his friends.

“Well,” continued Mrs. Gibson, speaking in a matter-of-fact way and as if the subject was an indifferent one to her, “if you feel that you must go, I see no reason why you should not have left the house in the daytime; but of course you know best. I noticed that you did not pack any of your clothes, so I put the most of them in this satchel, which I think you will find more convenient than that bundle.”

Tom didn’t want to accept the satchel his mother held out to him; but there seemed to be no other course to pursue, and he took it, feeling as he did so that if his mother had loved him very dearly she would have boxed his ears severely, ordering him at the same time to come back into the house.

“Your father said he heard that Captain Harrison was ready to sail, and knowing that you have decided to sleep under Rankin’s bridge we concluded that you were going with him, since the vessel is in the river just below there.”

Tommy’s heart was so full that he could not speak. Instead of being told to come into the house and behave himself, as he would have been only too glad to do, here was his mother actually helping him to run away, and talking as if she thought it was the best course he could pursue.

“I suppose you are in a hurry, Tommy,” said Mrs. Gibson, kindly, “so I won’t detain you. We shall be glad to see you if you should conclude to come back here. Good-by. I hope you will enjoy yourself better than you ever could at home.”

The door was closed, and the almost broken-hearted runaway could do no less than continue his flight, out of which all the romance had been taken.

II.

As Tom walked from the house he was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. He felt that his mother had been unkind in allowing him to do as he had at first wanted to do, and that if she had really loved him she would have obliged him to come back. He felt as if he had been wronged because he had not been punished severely, and he was fully convinced that he had made a mistake when he had decided that the only thing he could do was to run away.

There was no possible excuse for him to return. If his mother had not seen him, he believed he would have sneaked back into the house and have borne all the jeers of his schoolmates because he had “backed out.” But he decided that he could not even do that now, and that it was absolutely necessary for him to go on as he had begun.

“How I wish I hadn’t started!” he said to himself as he trudged along toward Rankin’s brook, his bundles growing heavier each moment. “She told me about Captain Harrison’s going away to-morrow, so that I could go with him and that she’d know where I was. But I won’t do anything like that. I’ll go ’way off where she won’t ever see me again, and then she’ll be sorry she was so willing to let me run away.”

Tommy was being severely punished for wanting to leave his home and he knew it, but he had not suffered enough to cause him to be willing to admit his fault and to ask his mother to forgive him; therefore the discouraged runaway very unwillingly continued his decidedly desolate course.

By some singular chance he met no one on his way. If he could have done so he felt that he might in some slight degree revenge himself, for he would have sent word to his mother that he did not intend to go with Captain Harrison and that she should never hear from him again.

But he did not meet any one from the time he left his home until he arrived at the bridge, and then he realized that if the scheme had not been entirely a success neither had the details been perfect. To sleep under Rankin’s bridge, when he thought of it in the daytime, and with his schoolmates around him, was nothing more than a pleasant little adventure; but when it came to carrying the plan into execution it was quite a different matter. The night was dark; the brook gurgled and sang in a most ghostly fashion; the air under the stone arches felt damp; and he could find no place where he could lie down with any prospect of comfort.

“It’s no use. I can’t fix any kind of a bed here, so I’ve got to sit up all night—that’s all there is to it.”

Tom was reckless by this time, and without any care as to a selection of the spot where he was to spend the night he sat down in about as uncomfortable a place as he could have found, confident that the time would seem very short.

He tried to make up his mind as to where he would go when the morning should come; then he felt about for a softer seat, very nearly falling into the water in the attempt. He thought of his mother’s sorrow, which was to be his revenge, and then again he changed his position. He wondered if his schoolmates were snugly tucked up in bed asleep; and then he began to doze, leaning his head against the granite sides of the arch.

Suddenly he awoke with a start that gave him a very uncomfortable twinge in his neck, while every portion of his body was stiff and lame. He thought that he had slept a long time, and he looked out from under the bridge, fully expecting to see the sun. It was as dark as when he first sought this very uncomfortable sleeping-place.

“The sun hasn’t come up,” he said as he settled back on the rock in a very awkward manner, as if it hurt him to move around much; “but I know it must be morning, because I feel as if I’d been asleep ten or twelve hours. I’ll start up the road a little.”

Just at that moment the village clock began to strike and Tom counted:

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven!”

Only eleven o’clock, and he had thought it was time for the sun to rise!

Tom tried to lie down first in one place and then in another, but the sharp-pointed rocks prevented him from assuming anything like a reclining position. Then he thought of his own nice bed; but he knew he could not enjoy it, at least not without too great a sacrifice of manly dignity.

He thought of Captain Harrison’s schooner, which was to sail on the following morning. He might go on board of her; but if he should do so, how could he revenge himself on his mother?

“I can’t stay here all night if it’s going to last as long as this hour has. I don’t want to walk up the road, because I can’t see where I’m going. Mother won’t know for certain that I’ve gone on the Swiftsure, and she’ll feel bad enough to-morrow morning when I don’t come home to breakfast, so I’ll go on board where I can get some sleep.”

Tom knew exactly where the clumsy old schooner was moored, for many a time had he and his friends been up to look at her when she was in port and laughed at the name of Swiftsure, which it seemed must have been painted on her stern in mockery.

With his bundles in his hands he stumbled down through the pasture, following the course of the brook, until he arrived at a little stone pier, at the head of which could be seen the old schooner which had been made ready for a fishing cruise down the coast.

Tom scrambled on board as softly as was possible in the darkness; but he might have saved himself the trouble of taking precautions to prevent any one from hearing him, for the old schooner was deserted and looked quite as lonesome as he felt. The cabin-doors were locked, the hatches were fastened down too securely for him to raise them unaided, and it seemed very much as if even the Swiftsure denied him the shelter he so sadly needed.

On the deck lay an upturned dory. He might crawl under that, and although it would be but poor shelter it was surely better than trying to lie on the sharp rocks under the bridge. Tom was not nearly as particular where he slept as he would have been at home, and he counted himself very fortunate in finding under the boat a quantity of old nets that made him quite a soft bed, so soft, in fact, that he was asleep in less than five minutes after he had found shelter.

Everything had contributed to make Tom very tired on the day when he ran away, and he slept on the fishing-nets quite as soundly as if he had been at home. He did not even hear Captain Harrison and his crew when they came on board at a very early hour in the morning. The bustle and confusion attendant upon getting the Swiftsure under way failed to awaken him. When, however, the Swiftsure was on the open sea, tumbling about on the waves in her own clumsy fashion, he came to understand where he was, and he gained this information in quite a sensational manner.

Shortly after the old schooner had left the dock the wind freshened until it was blowing quite half a gale, and Captain Harrison began to fear that the crazy old sails would be blown away. In order to prevent such a catastrophe, the schooner was hove to and all hands set to work reefing sail.

As a matter of course the clumsy old Swiftsure was wallowing in the trough of the sea, tossing and tumbling about in a most provoking manner. Captain Harrison was helping his crew of fishermen “shorten” the foresail, when, just as all hands were standing amidships trying to reef without pulling the very reef-points out of the decayed canvas, a queer-looking bundle rolled from under the dory, capsizing one or two of the sailors as it struck them and then rolling into the lee scuppers, where it lay uttering cries of pain.

The crew were absolutely frightened, first at seeing this queer-looking parcel and then at hearing it make a noise, while those who had been knocked down actually fled forward in alarm. Captain Harrison started aft, but on looking back he stopped short, gazed for an instant, first at the dory and then at the bundle in the scuppers, and said as he gave his hat a forcible blow, as if to prevent it from flying off his head in surprise, “I’m blowed if it ain’t a boy!”

Tom looked up as if amazed that he should have been mistaken for other than what he was, and then the rolling of the vessel threw him back again toward the dory, tossing him from one side to the other much as if he had been a rubber ball.

“Where did you come from?” roared Captain Harrison, angry now because he had shown what looked to be fear.

“He come out of the dory,” replied one of the men, for Tom was too much engaged in rolling about the deck to be able to make any reply.

It was impossible for all hands to stand staring at Tom when the foresail needed immediate attention, and the sick runaway was allowed to roll up and down the deck at his own sweet will, or, rather, at the will of the wind, until the Swiftsure was on her course again with reduced canvas. Then Captain Harrison shouted, “Somebody catch that boy before he breaks himself all to pieces and bring him aft here to me.”

In a few moments, but not without considerable difficulty, the captain’s orders were obeyed, and Tom, looking pale and thoroughly wretched, was held up in front of the Swiftsure’s commander.

“Why, you’re Tom Gibson!” exclaimed that gentleman, in surprise.

Tom nodded his head; he could not trust himself to speak.

“How came you on board? Been running away, eh?”

Again Tom nodded his head, and Captain Harrison began to understand that his passenger was in no mood for conversation.

“Take him below; I’ll dress him down after he gets a little better.”

Tom was led below into a cabin that smelled like fish, oil, stale vegetables, and, in fact, everything that is disagreeable. And there, amid this combination of terrible odors, poor, sick, runaway Tom could hear the creaking and grinding of the timbers of the crazy old hulk, while all he could do was to moan and groan in unison.

III.

If at any time during the twenty-four hours following Tom Gibson’s appearance among the startled crew of the Swiftsure that young gentleman had been asked if the old schooner was in any danger, he would have answered that she would surely sink within an hour and that all on board would perish with her.

No one asked Tom such a question; but he fully believed that it was impossible for the old craft to live much longer in the gale, and although he knew he was in even a more dangerous position than any one else, owing to the fact that he was below, he felt so sick that he paid but little attention to the supposed danger.

At the end of twenty-four hours, however, matters presented a decidedly different appearance. The wind having subsided, the clumsy old schooner no longer tumbled and tossed about; the sun was shining brightly, and, what was of more importance to Tom, he had so nearly recovered from his illness as to have eaten a very hearty breakfast in spite of the mixture of bad odors that had been so disagreeable to him.

Tom went on deck, almost enjoying the motion of the vessel which, a few hours before, had been so uncomfortable, and was beginning to think that there was some pleasure to be had by running away, when Captain Harrison said, in anything but a pleasant tone of voice:

“Well, Tom, you’ve come on board my vessel and eaten my food without so much as asking my permission, so now s’posin’ me an’ you have some kind of a settlement.”

Poor Tom! All idea of enjoyment vanished at once, and again he understood that the boy who runs away is obliged to pay a very high price for what is a continual pain, rather than a pleasure.

“Why don’t you say something?” demanded Captain Harrison. “Do you think I keep this schooner jest to accommodate boys who want to run away from home?”

“No, sir,” faltered Tom; “but I don’t know what to say, because, you see, I don’t know how we can have a settlement, unless you should take the things I brought on board to pay you.”

“I’ve seen what you brought with you,” thundered Captain Harrison, acting as if he was very angry, although if any one had been observing him closely a twinkle of mirth could have been seen in his eyes. “All the traps you’ve got wouldn’t pay for your breakfast. Now listen to me and take care that you don’t forget what I say. You’ve seen fit to come aboard this schooner, which is bound on a fishing cruise, consequently you’ve got to pay my price for your fun. You’ll have to do your share of the work without grumbling, and I tell you candidly that it’ll be more than you ever dreamed of, coddled by your mother as you have been.”

It was pretty hard for a boy who had run away from home because he had been obliged to work too hard to be told that he would have so much to do that what he had been obliged to submit to at home was hardly more than petting. But he had run away, and he was obliged to pay the price. He did not even dare to offer any objections, for he understood only too well that he was in the captain’s power.

“Why don’t you go to work?” shouted Captain Harrison, after he had given Tom plenty of time in which to think the matter over.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Go forward and you’ll soon find plenty to keep you out of mischief.”

Tom did as he was directed, and he learned that the captain had said no more than was strictly true. Every one on board appeared to think that he had a perfect right to set a task for the stowaway and there was no hesitation about doing so. If the cook wanted wood split, the pots and pans scoured, vegetables pared, or any other disagreeable work done Tom was called upon, and he soon learned that it was dangerous to refuse. If any of the crew wanted an assistant at any time or on any piece of work, Tom was that assistant, and at the slightest hesitation a blow was given to remind him that in no sense was he his own master. He was the boy-of-all-work and with no opportunity to play.

Compared with his condition on the Swiftsure, Tom had lived a life of luxurious ease at home, and there was hardly a moment, when he was awake, during which he did not regret that he had ever been so foolish as to run away.

Before the fishing-grounds were reached the Swiftsure put into a harbor for supplies, and there Tom decided upon a bold step. He asked one of the men who had treated him with more consideration than the others had done to lend him two cents with which to buy a postage stamp, and on a dirty piece of paper he wrote the following letter to his mother:

Captain Harrison, who had seen Tom writing, and who suspected at once to whom the letter was to be sent, gave the boy an envelope and allowed him to go on shore in order to mail it.

Tom felt better after this, even though his condition was in no wise improved. His mother would know that he was sorry for what he had done, and even though but a short time before he had looked upon her as a hard-hearted parent, it seemed as if her forgiveness was the one thing he wanted above all others.

If, during the voyage to the fishing-grounds, Tom thought he had worked as hard as was possible, he learned that he had been mistaken when the real labor of the cruise was commenced. All day he was obliged to fish with twenty or thirty fathoms of line, to which was attached a heavy sinker of lead that required nearly all his strength to pull up, and when the catch had been large he was compelled to remain up half the night helping the men dress the fish. His hands, which had been covered with blisters, as he wrote his mother, were cut and bleeding, while many times the pain was so great that he could not go to sleep even when he had the opportunity.

In this work Tom could not say that he was obliged to do more than any one else; all hands worked to the best of their ability, and it but serves to show that Tom was getting to be quite a sensible boy when it is said that he felt he was doing no more than was right under the circumstances. But nevertheless his heart was quite as sore and his homesickness as severe as when he wrote the letter to his mother. The only time when he was in the slightest degree contented was when he was fishing. He knew that the sooner the old schooner was loaded, the sooner would she be headed toward home, and he counted each fish he caught as another step toward his getting home to Sedgwick and to mother.

The time finally came, six weeks after Tom had started to pass the night under Rankin’s bridge, when Captain Harrison said:

“We won’t ‘dress down’ to-night, boys; but try to carry back fresh what we catch to-day.”

“What does he mean by that?” Tom asked of one of the crew.

“It means that we shall start for home after the fish are done biting to-day.”

Tom could hardly realize his good-fortune, and he worked in a dazed sort of way, but kept repeating to himself each moment: “I’m going home, I’m going home. And what’s better, I’ll stay when I get there.”

At an early hour that afternoon the bow of the old Swiftsure was turned toward Sedgwick, and as she rose and fell heavily on the waves, sending clouds of spray fore and aft, Tom could hardly refrain from giving vent to his joy by at least three hearty cheers.

The trip home was by no means as speedy as Tom could have desired. It seemed to him as if the old vessel was sailing more slowly than she had ever sailed before and as if the winds were really trying to delay him.

Then came the day when he could see the spire of the church in Sedgwick, and just at the time when he knew that his father and mother were sitting down to supper Tom leaped on shore. He waited for nothing, but ran home at full speed, and it was not until he had kissed his mother and father again and again and heard them assure him of their forgiveness that he could breathe freely.

As may be expected, Tom had not been home more than an hour before the friends to whom he had confided his purpose of running away called to see him and to learn how much of his fortune he had made.

“I tell you what it is, fellows,” he said, in reply to their questions. “I’m not as big a fool as I was before I ran away. I thought I was having a mighty hard time of it here, but I soon found out my mistake. All I can say is that I pity fellows that haven’t got any homes to go to when they get as homesick as I was.”

“Then you don’t think of running away again very soon?” suggested Dwight Holden, laughingly.

“Boys,”—and Tom spoke very solemnly now—“when I was on the Swiftsure I found out how lonesome a boy can be without his mother; I never knew before. Just as long as I can I shall stay where I can see my mother and speak to her; and if at any time any one of you thinks that his mother isn’t the best and dearest friend a boy can have, just do as I did and it won’t take you very long to find out that you are mistaken.”

THE END