TOM was allowed very little time for reflection, for the shrill voice of the mother speedily broke in upon his meditations.
“Now, boys,” said she, “where’s your manners? Get chairs an’ set down to onct. You, Franklin Pierce, quit shakin’ your head that ar’ way. You needn’t think that Tommy is goin’ to wrastle with you, an’ be tumbled round in the dust an’ mud, with his fine clothes on. He’s a gentleman, he is; an’ I want all you boys to watch him, an’ do just as he does. I’m so glad you have come,” she added, turning to Tom, “for maybe our boys’ll learn manners, now. They’re all good boys, but they’re so wild an’ playful like. I have a heap of trouble to make ’em behave themselves proper, like they had oughter do.”
“Dad, dad!” screamed Zachary Taylor at this moment, scrambling up the steps into the house; “that John Warren won’t let me ride Dobbin to water. Make him do it, dad.”
The farmer, however, paid no attention to his son’s complaint, but sat gazing out at the door, as if he was not aware that he had been spoken to. The boy then appealed to his mother.
“Now, mam,” he cried, “I want to ride Dobbin.”
“You, John Warren,” screamed the mother, with all the strength of her lungs, “let your little brother ride that ar’ hoss to onct. I’ll take the wagon whip to you, sure an’ sartin.”
Zachary, confident that he had gained his point, ran out of the house again; and, a few moments afterward, Tom saw him ride toward the barn, triumphantly mounted on Dobbin. The mother, seeing that her orders had been obeyed, again turned to Tom.
“Mr. Hayes tells me that you’re a high l’arnt boy,” said she; “an’ I’m glad to hear it, ’cause we won’t need to send our boys off to school now. We lose their work every winter, an’ that’s something we can’t afford to do. We want you to take ’em in hand, an’ l’arn ’em figures an’ sich. It haint never done George Washington an’ John Warren no good to go to school; ’cause last winter, they thrashed the teacher, an’ the deestrict committee turned ’em out doors. They haint never been to school none since. Somehow them boys never did get along; but they’re good boys, an’ I can manage ’em easy enough. When you’re l’arnin’ ’em I’ll allers be ’round; an’ if they don’t behave themselves proper, I’ll make ’em.”
“Besides,” chimed in Mr. Hayes, “you’re just the chap I want to do my writin’ an’ figurin’. Whenever I pay out any money, or take any in, I allers set it down in a book, so that at the eend of the year, I know jest how much I have made. I’ll have to get you to show me how to do it proper. I never did have much edication, but I’m bound that my boys shall all be smart men. They’re all got good names, an’ if they only do as well as them they are named after, I shall be satisfied.”
Tom listened to this unfolding of the farmer’s plans in utter bewilderment. His desire to create a sensation in Mr. Hayes’s family had been fully gratified; but he did not enjoy it as he had expected he would, for it was more than overbalanced by two most disagreeable features in his new home, which made him very uneasy. He did not like the boys, for they were very different from those with whom he had been in the habit of associating; and he was dismayed to learn that he was expected to act as school-master. The longer he listened, the more he became aware of the unpleasant fact, that Mr. Hayes’ object in bringing him into the country, was not so much to teach him the science of farming, as to secure a book-keeper for himself, and an instructor for his boys.
The farmer and his wife, like most country people, thought that a boy who had always lived in a village, where he had access to the best schools, ought to be well posted in all the different branches; but Tom himself knew that they were sadly mistaken in him. However, he determined not to confess his inability to perform all that was required of him; but when the time for action came, he would trust to his wits to help him out.
“Franklin Pierce,” said the farmer, at length, “did you an’ the boys get all that hay raked up this morning, like I told you?”
“Yes, dad, we did,” answered the boy, seizing the opportunity, when his mother did not happen to be looking toward him, to shake his head at Tom.
“Wal, then, Sally Ann,” continued Mr. Hayes, “if you’ll give us some dinner, we’ll go to work.”
“Franklin Pierce!” shouted the mother, (she seemed to have been so long in the habit of screaming at the top of her lungs, that it had become a kind of second nature to her,) “come here an’ ’tend to Thomas Jefferson, while I get dinner.”
While the meal was being prepared, Tom accompanied the farmer to the barn, and then to the hay-field, followed by all the boys, who did not seem to want to lose sight of the new-comer. They appeared to be intensely interested in him; and Tom carried himself very stiffly, certain that he had made a profound impression upon his new acquaintances. But he soon found that he was mistaken in this, for Franklin Pierce, who had followed them to the field, dragging his little brother after him, found opportunity to whisper in his ear:
“You think you are some, don’t you? I’ll bet I can throw you down—square hold or back hold!”
Tom, however, very prudently declined to accept the challenge. He was opposed to any unnecessary exertion, and it was not his ambition to be considered the “champion wrestler.”
After Mr. Hayes had satisfied himself that the boys had performed their work properly, and that the hay was ready to be taken into the barn, he led the way to the house, where they found dinner waiting for them. When the meal was finished, the farmer arose from his chair, saying:
“Now, Sally Ann, where’s Tommy’s carpet-bag? He wants to put on his workin’ clothes!”
“Why, these are all the working clothes I have with me,” said Tom. “Those in my valise are better than these I have on.”
“Law sakes!” exclaimed the woman, “you aint goin’ into the hay-field with them nice trowsers an’ boots on? You’ll ruin ’em, sure an’ sartin.”
“Wal, ’taint no ways likely that the boy knowed any thing ’bout the work he would have to do,” said the farmer, kindly. “I’ll be goin’ to the village ag’in day after to-morrow, an’ he can go with me, an’ bring out some clothes fit to work in.”
Tom, then, in accordance with the farmer’s suggestion, pulled off his jacket, tucked his pants into the tops of his boots, and was ready to begin operations. The two oldest boys went to the barn to harness the horses, while Tom, imitating the farmer’s example, shouldered a rake and started for the hay-field. He had always thought that raking hay was easy work, and, no doubt he would have found it so, had he been permitted to have his own way. But the farmer and his boys worked as if they were in a great hurry to get through, and, in order to keep pace with them, Tom was obliged to exert himself to the utmost. Animated by a desire to show the country boys that a village youth could do any thing, he worked hard for fully half an hour; and when, at the end of that time, he stopped to wipe the big drops of perspiration from his face, he reluctantly came to the conclusion that he had again mistaken his calling.
“I know what’s the matter,” said Tom to himself. “I made a mistake in coming out here with Mr. Hayes. I ought to have hunted up some stock raiser and gone home with him. I am never going to be this kind of a farmer; so every day I stay here I am wasting time.”
“Come, Tommy,” said Mr. Hayes, “don’t you see that shower coming up? It’s goin’ to rain afore long; an’ if this hay gets wet again, it will be dollars out of my pocket. Handle that rake jest the least bit faster.”
But the hay did not get wet. The farmer had a strong force, and, when the shower came up, the last load was safely housed in the barn.
“Wal, sir, we done it, didn’t we?” said Mr. Hayes. “Now, that hay is worth twelve dollars a ton—I’ve got ’bout thirty ton, an’ that’s worth how much, Tommy?”
The time for action had arrived much sooner than Tom had expected it would. He had not decided what he would do when called upon to make an exhibition of his powers as a “lightning calculator,” and the farmer’s question was so sudden and unexpected that, for a moment, he did not know how to act. But it was only for a moment, for happening to cast his eye toward Franklin Pierce, an idea struck him, and he seized upon it at once.
“Can you tell how much it would amount to?” he asked, turning to the “best l’arnt boy in the whole family.”
“I reckon!” replied Franklin Pierce. “But can you?”
“What a question!” answered Tom, evasively. “A two-year old boy ought to do it. But I don’t believe you can.”
“Wal, now, I’ll mighty soon show you!” said Franklin Pierce, and, picking up a chip, he marked the figures upon the ground, and commenced: “Twelve times nothing is nothing,” said he. “Set down the nothing. None to carry. Twelve times three is thirty-six. Set down the thirty-six. Dad, your hay is worth three hundred and sixty dollars.”
“Is that right, Tommy?” asked the farmer, gazing proudly upon his son.
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Tom; but, fearing that he had fallen in the farmer’s estimation by not working it out himself, he continued: “He couldn’t possibly have made a mistake in a little thing like that. But after all, I didn’t suppose he could do it.”
“Wal, I done it all right,” said Franklin Pierce. “I can reckon up a heap harder figures than them, an’ I haint been to school much, nuther.”
When the hay had been pitched off upon the scaffold, the farmer and his boys started toward the house, and, as Tom entered the door, he discovered something that filled him with astonishment and vexation. When he took off his jacket before going into the field, he had, contrary to his usual custom, hung it on a nail in the kitchen; but what was his surprise to find it in the possession of Thomas Jefferson, who, having succeeded in putting it on, was running about the house in high glee, with his fat, greasy arms buried to the elbows in the pockets. His valise, which he had placed upon a table beside the door, had been pulled off on the floor, and one of the young generals was engaged in overhauling its contents, while the other was endeavoring to pull on one of Tom’s boots. The mother evidently did not regard this as a violation of “good manners,” for she was at work in the kitchen, where she could see all that was going on, but she made no attempt to put a stop to it. She was even laughing at the comical figure Thomas Jefferson presented in Tom’s coat, the skirts of which swept the floor as he ran about. The village boy, however, did not regard it in the light of a good joke; for he walked up to the youngster, and endeavored to take the jacket from him, a proceeding which Thomas Jefferson resisted with furious yells.
“Now, dad,” shouted Franklin Pierce, who seemed ready to take his brother’s part; “just look at that ar’ Tommy.”
The farmer, however, took no notice of what was going on. He seemed determined to carry out his part of the contract which, as he had informed Tom, existed between himself and wife, and leave all difficulties that arose in the house to be settled by the “boss of the kitchen.” But the mother, as usual, heard the appeal, and shouted:
“Now, Tommy, let him have it, that’s a good little feller; he won’t hurt it.”
Thomas Jefferson, finding that his mother espoused his cause, and probably knowing, by experience, that no one would dare oppose her authority, again began marching about the house. But Tom, never having been accustomed to such treatment at home, was not satisfied.
“Now, I want that coat, and I’m going to have it,” said he, savagely.
“Tommy,” said the woman, suddenly appearing at the kitchen door—a movement which made Tom retreat a step or two, as if he expected to find the wagon whip brandished over his head. “Now, Tommy, my boys is all honest; they won’t steal your things, nor hurt ’em nuther. If I take ’em away from ’em, there’ll be a yellin’ an’ hollerin’ here that I can’t stand, when my head aches as it does to-day. They’ll soon get tired of your things, an’ then you can take care on ’em.”
Tom, although he was highly enraged, was obliged to submit to this arrangement; and, the other boys, finding that their mother was not inclined to oppose them, joined their brothers in an examination of the contents of Tom’s valise. The articles, one after the other, were taken out and thrown upon the floor, and when every thing had been closely examined and criticised, they were tumbled back again in quite as good order as Tom had packed them in the first place. This was certainly an unlooked-for incident in the life of a farmer, and it served to confirm Tom in the opinion he had long entertained, that he was the “most unlucky boy in the whole world,” and that “something was always happening to bother him.”
The shower continued with unabated fury all the remainder of the afternoon, putting a stop to work in the hay-field, and compelling the farmer and his boys to remain within doors. Mr. Hayes passed the time in nodding in his chair, unmindful of the almost deafening noise occasioned by the boisterous games that were carried on in the house. Occasionally the sports would be interrupted with quarrels; and once, a rough-and-tumble fight took place between Franklin Pierce and John Warren, which was abruptly terminated by the appearance of the farmer’s wife, when the contestants were obliged to take to their heels to escape punishment from the wagon whip. This wagon whip appeared to be the symbol of the mother’s authority. She kept it hung up behind the kitchen door, where it could be readily seized at a moment’s warning; and, from what had just transpired, Tom regarded this precaution as absolutely necessary to the peace of the family.
The exhibition Franklin Pierce had given of his strength and pluck made Tom stand in awe of him, and sincerely hope that he might never be left alone with him even for a moment; but when the boys were sent up to bed that night, what was his dismay to discover that Franklin Pierce was to be one of his bed-fellows.
“Me an’ you an’ Winfield Scott has got to sleep together,” said he. “Mind you, now, no crowdin’, or I’ll tell dad.”
Much to his surprise, however, the boy did not renew his overtures of battle; and Tom, contrary to his expectations, was allowed to sleep in peace. But after all, he got very little rest, for the bed was narrow, and Franklin Pierce, with a sharp eye to the comfort of himself and brother, had compelled Tom to sleep in the middle. The night was very warm, and when Tom endeavored to find a more comfortable position, he always succeeded in awaking Winfield Scott, who shouted:
“Now, dad, just look at that ar’ Tommy; he’s crowdin’ me out of bed.”
This would be followed by the caution from the room below:
“You, Tommy, quit crowdin’.”
The night was a long one to Tom, and he scarcely knew how he lived through it. He arose the next morning cross and fretful, and, as if to add to his discomfort, the farmer, in laying out his programme for the day’s work, assigned Tom a most disagreeable task.
“Me an’ the boys will go to the hay-field,” said he, “an’ you, Tommy, as you haint never been used to hard work, we’ll give you an easy job. You may stay in the house an’ help Sally Ann. She’s got a big day’s washin’ to do, an’ you will be of more use here than in the field.”
“O, now, I didn’t come to the country to learn to do washing,” drawled Tom, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. “I can’t do such work as that. I came here to—”
“Now, Tommy,” interrupted Mrs. Hayes, “you can stay here just as well as not. Somebody has to help me, for I can’t wash all them clothes, an’ pack all the water from the spring, an’ take care of Thomas Jefferson besides. You can’t mow or spread hay, so you can just stay here an’ help me.”
Tom raised no more objections to this arrangement, for he knew that the farmer’s wife sometimes had a very unpleasant way of enforcing her arguments; so, when Mr. Hayes and his boys started for the field, he remained at the house.
“Now, then, Tommy,” said the woman, “we haint got no time to waste. While I am washing up the breakfast dishes, you take them two buckets, an’ bring water from the spring. Run along lively, now, for we’ve got lots of work to do.”
Tom, fearing to disobey, reluctantly picked up the pails and left the house. He walked slowly down the path that led to the spring, and reaching a spot where some bushes hid him from the house, he seated himself on the ground to think over the situation, and, if possible, conjure up some plan by which he might avoid performing the work that had been laid out for him.
“I might as well hire myself out for a washer-woman at once,” said he to himself. “What would Gus Miller, and Johnny Harding, and the other fellows say if they knew I had helped wash clothes and take care of children? O, I can’t do such work. I’d rather take a whipping.”
“You, Tommy!” came the shrill voice of the farmer’s wife, breaking in upon his meditations; “have you gone to Newport after that water?”
Tom jumped up from the ground as if some one had suddenly pricked him with a pin. He had been gone from the house fully ten minutes, and the farmer’s wife had begun to grow impatient. He had not yet decided what he would do; but the sound of the woman’s voice seemed to quicken his ideas, for he suddenly made a desperate resolve. Hastily casting his eye back to the house, and then toward the hay-field, to satisfy himself that no one was observing his movements, he dropped the buckets as if they had been coals of fire, and started for the road at the top of his speed. Tom’s playmates had never looked upon him as a very swift runner, but could they have witnessed the exhibition of speed he made at that moment, no doubt they would have thought it something extraordinary. He was but a very few moments in crossing the field and reaching the fence, over which he bounded as lightly as a cat; and, finding himself in the road, he started toward Newport with redoubled speed. He did not waste time in looking back; neither did he slacken his pace, until he reached the foot of a hill about half a mile from the house, when he turned off into the woods, and after concealing himself behind some bushes, sat down on a log to recover his breath.
“Thank goodness, I’m free once more!” said he, wiping his flushed face with his handkerchief, and panting hard after his long run. “I wouldn’t go back there for a hundred dollars a month. Wash clothes and help take care of children! I don’t want to learn to be that kind of a farmer. What would the boys say, if they knew that I had got myself into such a scrape? Now, I wish I had my valise; but I wouldn’t go back after it if those were all the clothes I had in the world.”
Tom remained in his concealment but a very few moments, for, so fearful was he that the farmer, or one of his big boys, would follow him, and carry him back to the house, that he was anxious to reach home as soon as possible. It was sixteen miles to the village, and, under ordinary circumstances, Tom would have hesitated before attempting to walk such a long distance; but there was no alternative between that and returning to the house, and, of the two evils, he thought the task of making the journey to Newport, on foot, was the least. So, after looking cautiously down the road, to be sure that no one was following him, he came out of the woods and again set out. For the next two miles he continued to cast uneasy glances along the road behind him, holding himself in readiness to take to his heels again if he should discover any of the farmer’s family following him, and finally he saw a wagon approaching. A close and careful examination satisfied him that it did not belong to Mr. Hayes; so he seated himself beside the road to wait until the team came up. The driver proved to be a man whom Tom had often seen in the village, and, as soon as he came within speaking distance, he asked if he might be allowed to ride. Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he climbed up on the wagon, and was immediately assailed with innumerable questions by the farmer, who seemed very anxious to know what he had been doing, and where he intended to go. But Tom, although he had no fear that the man would take him back to Mr. Hayes’, still thought it prudent to keep his own counsel, and gave evasive answers to all his questions.
The road to Newport seemed to have lengthened considerably since Tom last traveled over it; but they reached the village about two o’clock; and Tom, after thanking the farmer for his kindness, sprang down from the wagon, and made the best of his way homeward. He kept the back streets as much as possible, for his boots and clothes were dusty, and he did not wish to meet any of his acquaintances in that condition. He reached home at last, and, as he entered the hall, he met his father, who had returned from the office earlier than usual.