LAY until after midnight groping in the mine of thought which Mr. Baker had laid open. It was a new kind of exercise, and, for one thing, after digging in my conceit awhile, I found a brain. It was not a large find, but there are some, surely, who go through life without as good luck. It was the most impudent brain I ever knew.
“You're a fool and a coward,” it seemed to say to me. “What are you going to do?”
“Look for employment,” I suggested.
“That's what I'm doing, and you're the only one in the world who can give it. Try me.” And I did—thought it all over, and began to make rules for the regulation of my conduct. Thereafter I would be brave; no more skulking for me.
I was up at daybreak with a new tone in my voice. That morning I spent half of my money for a new flannel shirt and some fresh underwear. I felt very brave and careless when I started for Summerville with the village behind me. It was a walk of seven miles, and nothing happened except Sam, who had driven over in a buggy and come down the road to meet me. He was dressed up, and had a dreamy eye and a red face. “What luck?” I queried.
“Ain't seen her yet,” he said. “Get in here. I'm so scairt I'm all of a tremble. You got through all right?”
“Yes.”
“So the old man said. Thought he'd die laughin' 'bout the potato-sack.”
“He cured me of being a coward.”
“Wish he could cure me,” said Sam Whitemore. “I ain't afraid o' man or beast, or anything but a woman.”
“Women won't hurt you,” I argued.
“No, but they can make ye awful 'shamed.”
It seemed very curious—the timidity of this big, powerful man. I had seen him handle a ton of wheat in five minutes.
“They all look dangerous to me,” he added. Then he sighed and exclaimed, “Heavens to Betsey!”
“Isn't Fannie willing to marry you?” I asked.
“Looks that way, but maybe she's only foolin'.” He shook his head nervously, and added: “If she was you'd see me light out. I wouldn't stop runnin' this side o' Californey.”
“Don't be afraid,” was my ready counsel. “She wants to marry you or she wouldn't have asked you to come.”
As if inspired with new courage, he drew up the reins and touched his horse with the whip.
“I'll ask her if it kills me,” he said, his brow wrinkling with determination.
Neither spoke until we entered the little village of Summerville. He left me at the hotel, where I was to wait for him.
“Goin' up to see her,” he said, in low, half-whispered tones. “I'll ask her to take a ride with me. Oh, I forgot! A letter come for you this mornin'; here it is. An', say, one o' them men that come last night said that he was a friend o' yours.”
“A friend of mine!”
“Yes, but I didn't believe him. I guess he was tryin' to fox me.”
I opened the letter as he drove away and read as follows:
My dear Son,—I believe all you say, and am very sorry for you. It is a grief and a wonder to me that you didn't turn back and let him go his own way when you saw that he was a law-breaker. You wouldn't have missed the watch as much as you miss me and your self-respect. You remember what I said to you about taking up with people you don't know. Since you have chosen not to follow my counsel. I presume you have found your own better than mine. If that is true, I shall need your advice, and will rely upon you to guide me in every time of difficulty. You have strong hands and have learned how to use them. You have many friends and a mother who will do anything she can for you. But we must reap as we sow. You should retrace your own steps in the wrong road and find your way back. God help you! Come as soon as you can and tell the truth, and be not afraid. Truth will beat all the lawyers. If you should be sick let me know, and I will come to you. Tell me where to send clothing for your comfort. I send a little money and much love.
That letter was a godsend. I was inclined to agree with Sam that women can make one “awful 'shamed.” My young manhood really began that day. I put the money, which would have paid my fare to Heartsdale, in my stocking, and determined not to use it. I would find my own way back to her. .
An hour or so later Sam returned with a cheerful look.
“We're goin' to be married,” he whispered, as he almost broke my hand.
“When?”
“Next week, Monday, an' we're goin' to Niagara Falls. It's a big excursion, an' costs only a dollar an' sixty cents.”
Niagara Falls! The great water-hammers!
“I wish I could go with you,” I suggested.
“Come on,” said he; “we'll have a grand time. But you must go to the weddin'—you'll kind o' steady me.”
I was thrilled by what lay before me, for now I should see the Falls and the fleet horses.
“If I can earn my board, I'll stay where I am until Monday,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” said he. “I'm goin' to see the landlord. He's an old friend o' mine.”
Well, within five minutes Sam got a job for me. I was to look after the billiard-tables, and to receive my board for my labor until we went away.
That evening an elderly man of distinguished appearance sat in the billiard-room.
“Who are you, my boy?” he asked.
I told him my name and where I lived, and that I was going to the Falls, Monday, and working for my board meanwhile.
“Ah, ha!” said he, stroking his white mustache and imperial, “so you're from the land of Silas Wright?”
“Yes, sir,”
He asked about certain good people that he had known in my county, and then said: “This is no kind of work for you to be doing. Pack your grip and come home with me. You may share my room, and stay as long as you like.”
Well, the end of it was that I went home with Colonel Busby—that being his name—soldier, orator, philosopher. He and his daughter—a girl of about my age—were alone in the house with one servant.
“Jo,” said he to the girl, as we entered, “this is a high-stepper from St. Lawrence County, and a friend of mine. His name is Cricket Heron.”
The girl gave me her hand, and said, laughingly, that her name was Josephine. She was tall and slender, and I remember thinking that she had almost a woman's look in her dark eyes.
After supper the Colonel said he was going over town and would return presently.
His daughter made me feel at home, and had pretty manners, and a sweet, girlish way of talking, and that charm of youth which has no suspicion of its riches.
First of all, I think of her mouth—perfect in its curves and color. Out of it came joy and careless words set in wonderful music. What a voice! Upon my honor, sometimes it was like a scale played on the flute. We all know the music—that ringing of the golden bowl of youth when Pleasure touches it, and know, too, how soon the bowl is broken. She sang and played upon the guitar, and talked, and this, above all, I remember: she seemed unconscious of herself and of her power over my foolish heart. We compared our knowledge of poetry and romance, our aims and ideals, our tastes and pleasures.
But the Colonel came not, although the clock had struck eleven. She suggested that I might wish to retire. It was a thought of her, and not of myself, that led me to rise and say that I was ready. She lighted a candle and showed me to my room. I went to bed thinking that, after all, my Mary was not her equal.
An hour or so later the Colonel's voice awoke me. He was calling my name in a loud, imperative tone, and tramping about the house as if in search of me. I lay still, not knowing what to do. Soon the Colonel entered my room with a candle in his hand.
“Heron, you rascal, get out of this room!” said he, loudly. “Didn't I say you were to sleep with me?”
Before I could answer he had gathered up my shoes and stockings and flung them into the hall. He took my clothing under his arm while I got out of bed.
“Forward, march!” he commanded, and I followed through the dusky halls to his bedroom in silence. I observed that he walked unsteadily, and I knew the nature of his affliction and felt some fear of him.
“Heron,” said he, with great frankness, “I want company—I need you right here.”
He sang loudly, as I helped him to draw his boots:
“''Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone.'”
In a moment he rose and seized me by the shoulders and crowded me against the wall, by way of demonstrating his strength.
“You are iron, boy, but I am steel,” he said, between his teeth, as he lightly thumped my head upon the figured paper. I made no answer.
The severe look in his face turned to smiles in half a moment. He showed me his wounds—a saber slash on his head, and a number of scars cut by bullets and flying fragments of shell. He asked me to feel his biceps, and I did so, not wishing to be impolite. Before I could step aside he had my head in chancery, and was making a new demonstration. The candle was knocked to the floor, and I struggled with Colonel Busby in the darkness, feeling a dreadful uncertainty of his plans. Soon he had pushed me into a corner, where I stood clinging to his waist.
“Unhand me, villain!” he commanded, and we released each other and I relighted the candle.
The Colonel took off his tie and collar, and as he did so whispered gruffly, and with a playful wagging of his head:
“'How ill that taper burns! Ha! who comes there? Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh. My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror.'”
I saw that it was all a kind of harmless frolic, and soon he proposed that we “knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.”
We got into bed, and fortunately the Colonel soon fell asleep. I had rather a bad night of it, for he snored and muttered, and was, on the whole, an irksome creature. In the morning he said little, and sat with a look of sadness. He went into the garden after breakfast, and Jo said to me:
“I'm sorry my father disturbed you. I didn't think he would do it.”
“Oh, that's nothing,” I assured her, bravely. “I hope it doesn't worry you.”
But I could see that my words had not relieved her unhappiness.
She went to school, and I spent the day writing letters—one to my mother and one to Mr. McCarthy, in both of which I set down much that I have tried to tell you. Then I composed a verse and engrossed it with great care. For such folly—praise God—I had always a keen relish.
Again that evening the Colonel left us, and I helped the pretty girl with her lessons, and we had two more wistful hours, the like of which one remembers with thankfulness and a sad smile. Where should I look to match them? Surely not in my own life, long as it has been. She sighed when I spoke of leaving, and a little tremble in her lips said so much to me—things rich with meaning and mystery.
“I'll have to help in the kitchen next week,” said she, with an air of responsibility. “Fannie, our cook, is to be married.”
“Her name is Comstock?”
“Yes.”
“I know all about it—Sam told me.”
“Sam!” she exclaimed, with a look of contempt. “He kept her waiting three years because he hadn't the courage to propose.”
Then I told her of my adventures, and how they led to Sam, and how Sam had straightway led me to her, or, at least, so near that we could not help meeting. I told her of our life at Baker's, but said not a word of the letter—that seemed to me a sacred confidence. However, I did tell of Sam's fear when he reached Summerville. She thought it very foolish of him.
“I should think that would be the best part of it—asking her to marry him and telling about his love,” said she, turning serious and feeling her beads.
“What kind of a man would you prefer?” I bravely inquired.
“Let me see,” she said, leaning her chin upon her hands in a thoughtful and pretty pose. “Of course, he must be good, and he really must be handsome and tall and strong and brave, and I want him to be a great man; and I am studying very, very hard so that I can help him to be great.”
I sat in silence for a little time, full of sad thoughts. I was neither handsome nor tall nor brave, but sometimes I had thought myself exceedingly good. As to becoming great, that was another respect in which I felt strong and confident. .
I was undersized—yes, a little undersized. I would grow some, however—possibly to six feet; who could tell? But—my face—there was no dodging that. It was plain, very plain, I could see that myself, and my hair did not curl and was too light, and my beard was not yet born.
Jo interrupted my thoughts. She began to clap her hands in a sudden outburst of enthusiasm.
“I have a grand idea!” she said. “We'll give Fannie a little wedding here if father will let us. I think it would be great fun.”
For half an hour or so we sat, making plans for the wedding. Before going to bed, in the Colonel's room, I gave her my horruck—an act of great generosity. I promised to tell her all about it if she could solve the riddle, and she said that she would try.
I went to bed, and the Colonel returned shortly, very bad. I had drawn his boots and remarked that he looked weary, when suddenly he rose and picked up a foil and began to thrust and parry with a hand raised behind him.
“Ah, you insult me, sir!” he hissed, as he danced on tiptoes in the attitude of a fencer, and drove me across the room. He stopped suddenly, his point on the floor, in a haughty pose, and demanded, “Will you have a blade, sir, and a bout with me?”
“I do not know how to fence,” I said.
“Ah—then you are forgiven,” said he, with a loving smile and a jaunty swing of his head. “But, mind you—mind you, I cannot brook an insult.”
Before the light was extinguished he sent his voice roaring through the still house in two lines of The Last Rose of Summer.
We got into bed, and as soon as I could decently do it I feigned sleep, to avoid conversation.
I lay thinking for hours after the Colonel had gone to sleep—hours, indeed, of fearful expectation. It was awful to room with a man like Colonel Busby, but, after all, it was a good schooling in bravery, and the time had come when I must be brave. I longed for perils, and for even a wound or two. If there should be a war I would enlist, if possible, and show her how brave I could be. Perhaps, if I became very brave and good and strong and great, she would forgive my lack of size and beauty.
In the midst of these reflections my companion lay groaning with nightmare, and this further thought came to me that, hard as it was to be his friend, it would be still more terrible to be Colonel Busby himself.
To such a hopeful state of mind my last adventure had brought me.
O went the days and nights with us there in the home of Colonel Busby, and I am nearly through with them.
One morning Jo said to me: “I'm sorry that father behaved so last night. It's dreadful. Did he hurt you?”
“Not a bit,” was my answer.
“You are as brave as you can be,” she went on, with a look of shame and sorrow. “It worries me terribly. Oh, dear! I wouldn't marry a man who drinks for all the money in the world.”
“You'd need it to repair the furniture,” I suggested, full of a great joy that she thought me brave.
Her eyes filled with tears, and I remember well the tender dignity with which I took her hand and tried to comfort her. It was a pretty picture, upon my word—the boy and the maiden, and both so clean-hearted.
Well, now, as to Sam and the wedding. We invited a number of Fannie's friends, who were servants in the neighborhood, and made a monster cake and some ice-cream. Sam arrived early, red and uncomfortable, and looking very new in a fresh suit of clothes. His voice, even, was afraid to show itself, as one might say. He held it down near a whisper and had a watchful eye.
Jo and a few of her school-girl friends had decorated the parlor, and spread a table in the dining-room with refreshments. Now they stood looking at Sam.
His eyes filled with alarm as we laid our plans before him.
“I ain't broke to this kind o' thing,” he said, “an' I'm scairt clear through. Maybe it could be put off until I'm nerved up a little.”
“No, indeed,” said Jo, as she locked the door and faced about with a saucy look in her eyes. “You've simply got to be married at ten o'clock. You might as well make up your mind to it first as last. You've kept Fannie waiting for three years, and now you're going to be married.”
Poor Sam shook his head and smiled, and looked rather foolish and unhappy.
“You needn't be afraid,” Jo went on. “We're not going to hurt you. We're just going to marry you, and I should think you'd be very happy. Fannie is a good girl, and a sweet-look-, ing girl, too, and she'll be a help to you.”
It was as good as a play to hear her talk to him. Sam had an anxious look, and was, in a way, like one condemned.
“I'd like,” said he, with just a little emphasis on the like—“I'd like to go over to the village a minute.”
“I'm sorry, but there isn't time,” Jo answered. She was gentle but firm.
“I'm no coward,” he said, in a voice that trembled a little, “but—I ain't used to women.”
“Poor thing!” said Jo, with just a touch of contempt for him. “You've got to get used to them, and I'll give you the first lesson. Stand where you are.”
Fannie, a comely, red-cheeked girl of about his age, had entered the room. Jo took her arm and led her up to Sam.
“Now give him a good kiss,” the little wretch commanded.
Fannie gave him a kiss, but he stood unmoved save that his face grew redder.
“Oh, it's not fair to take a kiss without returning it. That's cheating,” Jo protested.
He kissed her, but with such a sober countenance! It suggested retaliation.
“Brave Sam!—you're learning,” Jo said to him. She put her pretty hand in his, and added, soothingly: “Be brave, Sam; be brave and cheer up; nobody will hurt you. When the minister comes you will stand here, and Fannie will stand beside you—like that. Please keep your hands down at your side—so—and remember you must pay attention to the minister.”
Poor, old, good-hearted Sam! It was like bitting a horse, and he needed it.
Well, he played his part rather poorly, but the wedding was successful in its main purpose, and Sam hurried away to bring his horse and buggy. He ran as he left the door-yard, like one escaping.
Jo beckoned to me, and I went with her into the sitting-room, where for a moment we stood alone. How short it was, and yet how long it has been—that little moment!
“May I kiss you once?” I asked, timidly.
She made no reply, but she let me kiss her. Dear girl! We were so young and innocent, and all these years were ahead of us, and—excuse me—I must change the subject.
The excursion train that was to take us to the Falls left our depot at one o'clock. We were among the first who got aboard, and the cars filled rapidly with men and women and crying babies and boys and girls. Ephraim Baker and his wife had a seat near us. Venders passed up and down the aisle with papers, lemonade, “popcorn just about salt enough,” apples, and a curious, horn-shaped fruit called bananas, the “peth” of which was declared to be “very tasty.”
We reached Syracuse in the evening, and changed to the night express bound for Buffalo. An attraction of the trip, which had been much advertised, was a chance to see one of the new sleeping-cars on the Central, and an engine burning coal instead of wood. About eight o'clock, while we were waiting on a side-track, the conductor invited us to pass, through the train and take a look at the new sleeping-car. We filed slowly through it—a car glowing with varnish and highly decorated panels, and divided into four sections by curtains of heavy cloth. Each section had a lower, middle, and upper berth.
Late at night, as I sat half asleep leaning on Sam's glazed satchel, a man entered our car, picked up the satchel, and set it in the aisle and took the seat beside me. In a moment the conductor came along calling “tickets.” The man in my seat showed a pass.
“What's the name?” the conductor queried, as he took the card and held it in the glow of his lantern.
“George M. Pullman,” said the man at my side. “I stayed in the sleeping-car as long as I could stand it, and made my escape. You might as well try to sleep in the middle of Broadway. The berths rattle, and I was bumped around until I thought a horse and wagon were running over me.”
Soon after that he began drawing a diagram on a large envelope with a lead-pencil, and as he sat beside me I saw the beginning of a new chapter in railroad history.
From every point of the compass, that night, people were on their way to the Falls. Next morning they would see wonderful things—athletic contests, a balloon ascension, and a man walking across the chasm on a rope. I had longed to see the “big water-hammers” and the fleet horses. I thought chiefly of them.
We arrived safely, and Sam led his wife by the hand through noisy crowds, and warned me to keep near. We travelled a long time trying to find shelter within our means. We found a place at last, although at a price that made us thoughtful. I was a little worried for myself, there in the cold, indifferent crowds, with so little in my pocket. I felt so very small that day, and feared there was no hope for me.
Well, when the morning had come and I stood gazing at the water-hammers and the flying horses below, and wondering how men were going to tame and control them, who should come and whack me on the shoulder but Bony Squares.
“Hello—old boy!” said he; “here's that two dollars I borrowed.”
It was almost a shock to me—his unexpected honesty and my good-fortune. After all, he could not be so bad as I had thought him.
“Broke and lookin' for a job, I suppose?” he queried, with a smile.
“I've only a little money, and don't know yet what I'm going to do.”
“How would you like to earn fifty dollars to-day?”
Fifty dollars! It was a great sum! I could go home with it and possibly pay my fine, if that were necessary. But how so much in a day if it were honest money?
“It will take nerve,” he said. “I guess you're not brave enough.”
“You're wrong there. I'm brave enough for any work—if it's honest.”
“Oh, it's as honest as my aunt Maria,” he assured me.
I knew that venerable lady, and on the score of honor it seemed rather promising.
“It's as safe as standing here on the sidewalk, but, old boy, it will take some nerve,” he went on. “It will take more nerve than I've got, and I'm no squab at that.”
“What is it?” I asked, burning with curiosity.
“Well, you've heard of the chap who's going to walk a rope across the rapids? It will be way up in the air. You can just see it now, down the river there, hanging between the cliffs. Looks like a spider's thread—but, say, it weighs a ton. I've been helping 'em hang it. The old man wants to carry some light, nervy chap on his shoulders when he makes the trip. There's only one that's used to the game, and he's on a spree, and they're stuck—can't find a fellow game enough for the job.”
It is hard to separate a boy from his folly—not all the schools in the world can help much; and for a long time it is like a sword hanging over his head.
I jumped at the offer, for had I not determined for her sake to fear no peril?
“Come on, then,” said Bony. “He'll want to try you, and there's no time to lose.”
I went to Sam and Fannie, and promised to see them at the inn at six.
“Look out for scamps, boy,” Sam whispered. “Keep your eye peeled.”
I assured him that I would do so, and hurried down the high shore with Bony.
I wonder, sometimes, that I let myself go on. Well, there is something deep in it which I do not profess to understand. The spirit of the time was in me, and I was like ten thousand others. Men loved the perils of adventure those days. No speculation was too reckless for them, no hazard too fearful, no enterprise too difficult. The risks of the desert and the plains and the battle-field had schooled us for that kind of business.
Well, I had learned one thing, at least, since the last lesson—that a good heart may be in a rough body. Remember—you children of luxury—that some rather hard-handed people have been my friends.
E made our way through crowds of people near the end of the great rope. Bony shouted like one in authority, and they let us pass. We found the rope-walker in a small tent near the edge of the precipice. He was a big, brawny Frenchman, who reminded me of the picture of Goliath confronted by David in my bedchamber at home. He surveyed me from head to foot while Bony called some one aside—it was a man I became acquainted with in due time—and addressed him confidentially. Looking out, I could see the long rope dipping low in the chasm from the cliff's edge and ascending to the farther shore; I could hear the roar of the rapids far below us, and felt a little tremor inside of me. Really, now that I had a chance to make her and all the world wonder at me, I thought of backing out. However, I was not brave enough for that.
The great man came presently, and took hold of my arms and lifted me as if I had been a sack of potatoes. It seemed revolting, I remember, to be so handled, for, clearly, he had no respect for me, and with good reason. He said that he would try me when the rope was ready, and did, and said I would do. Bony and I went outside the tent and saw the great rope being tightened with horse and capstan. It lay almost level, by-and-by, in a long, sweeping curve that could have gone to the moon, I fancy, if its circle had been completed. The Frenchman came out of his tent presently, in tights and shoulder-braces of new leather, upon which two loops or handles had been fastened, one over each shoulder. He carefully examined the capstan and the pawls beneath it. He spoke a swift word or two in French, whereupon a young man, who acted as interpreter, requested me to remove my boots, and I did so. Then the performer stepped in front of me, and, reaching backward over his body, took my hands in his. I jumped to his back and caught the loops over my wrists and clung to the leathern braces, while he carefully placed my feet on his hips.
The big Frenchman took a few paces and began to chatter.
“Loosen up a little,” said the interpreter. “Don't stand so stiff. There, that's better.”
An attendant brought the balancing-rod, and the performer took it and approached the end of the rope. I could now look down far into the abyss and felt my heart failing me. But I thought of Jo, and imagined that she was there, and said to myself that I would rather die than be a coward. Before I knew it he was on the slant of the rope and slowly descending, and so silently it seemed as if he were walking the soft air. I heard a murmur start suddenly, and go up and down the shore near us. The roar of the waters burst upon me from below. I knew that there was plenty of air beneath us, but was not brave enough to look down through that long, long drop to the foamy water-floor of the chasm. I kept my eyes on the tree-top at the edge of the farther cliff. I heard a voice call to me:
“Are you afraid?”
I shook my head and answered, “No.”
The performer stopped and began to sway a little, his rod moving up and down. I tightened my grip and breathed faster. I remember well the play of his muscles under me. I could feel a change in their action—he was going backward, but very slowly. The roar of the water was diminishing, and stopped as suddenly as it began. We were back on the earth again, and I was very glad and a little shaky.
Well, the Frenchman said that I would do, and half a dozen men shook my hand and made me proud with their compliments. The interpreter told me that we would “cross the bridge” at three, and that I should wait there and have my dinner with them. The big Frenchman put on his clothes and drove away in a carriage.
Those hours of waiting were a great trial to me. I paced up and down before the tent, and Bony tried to talk to me, but I said little and heard less. I remember his telling in a whisper that they would not take a boy so young without the consent of his parents, and that he had told them that he was my father. I assured him, with dignity, that I would not lie about it.
“Just say nothing. I'll do all the lying that's necessary,” said Bony.
“If they ask me I shall tell the truth,” I affirmed.
“You'd better not put me in a hole when I'm trying to do you a favor,” Bony pleaded.
I made no answer, but somehow his words had cheapened the enterprise, of which I had had no high opinion since the performer had lifted me as if I were a thing.
The edges of the cliffs began to turn black with people, and I could hear the sound of many voices. Suddenly those near us began cheering. The great Frenchman had returned. It was about three o'clock. He came straight to me, and shook my hand, and said in French, “Courage!” and added something which I could not understand.
“You'll be as safe as you are here,” said the interpreter. “Don't jump if he sways a little, and don't look down.”
The Frenchman hurried to his tent. It was time to “cross the bridge.”
They gave me a pair of white stockings with soles of corrugated rubber, and I drew them on.
The minutes dragged while the Frenchman was dressing. He came out in pink tights, and the crowd, pressing on the ropes around us, began to cheer. He tried his pole, and then came straight to me. That was a bad moment, and I felt like running for my life, but—no—I could not do so now. The interpreter asked me to remove my coat and put on a close-fitting cap in place of the hat I wore.
In a second we were on the rope, and he began reaching for his balance. He felt his way slowly.
The people were cheering and waving their handkerchiefs. The bands ceased playing. He quickened his pace, and went on with a steady stride. A roar of excitement followed the cheering, and then a hush fell on the crowds. For half a moment I could hear only the breathing of the performer and my own heart-beat. Then I heard the snort of the “white horses” far below me. Suddenly the shrill, hysterical cry of a woman rose out of the silence. Right after that I could hear the groans of men behind us, and wild peals of laughter that echoed through the deep chasm and had a weird note in them.
There were those for whom the sight of our peril was as a nightmare. Phrases of prayer came out to my ears—“God have mercy on them,” and the like. Little children called to us. There were two or three men who groaned at every step of the walker, as if they felt the strain of his muscles. It was an old Roman spectacle, and at no other time in the nineteenth century would it have been possible.
I had kept my eyes on the tree-top, and now I could see the lift of the rope before me; I could hear it creak as it bent beneath us. For an instant I let my glance fall. Down, down it went like a plummet sounding the depths below. I shut my eyes, but my thoughts went plunging downward. I was like a man with his hands full of eggs—one falls, and then they all begin to slip away.
When I looked again the cliffs were reeling before us. I had to stop them, single-handed, and I can tell you it was a task. With a mighty effort I shoved them back into place again and held them down—at least, that is the way I thought of it.
We were down in the hollow of the rope, about half-way across the chasm, and were swinging a little in a wind current. The Frenchman slowed his pace, and I could feel the changing tension of his muscles. He struck the rope with one foot and then the other—a sort of hammer blow. It checked the swing, and for half a second he seemed to cling with his feet. He took three quick steps, and settled into an even pace again. I thought of letting go, for the relief of it. But this notion came to me, and I laugh when I think of its oddity: if I should let go I should lose the fifty dollars, which would buy something fine for my mother. And I clung so that my hands ached. I watched a swallow, and ceased to think of myself. That little bird may have saved my life, for me and for you. He coasted through the sunlit air almost to the point of my nose, checked himself with a giggle of surprise, and wound us in loops of song. Somehow it heartened me to hear him.
The rope grew steeper. Now it seemed an impossible journey there ahead of us. But he went on with a steady stride, and the hempen hill bent inward as he put his feet upon it. With joy I could see my tree-top coming nearer, but every step I had to look up a little farther to see it. Suddenly the rope began to swing again—I do not know why. It has been said that some reckless fellow had wilfully pulled a guy-rope. The whole side of the cliff began to rock as before. The strands of muscle under me tightened quickly. The performer slowed his pace, and stopped for half a second. The ends of his pole went up and down like a teeter-board. Again his feet struck the rope.
“Courage!” he whispered.
He took two or three quick steps and stopped again. He had checked the swing of the rope, and now resumed his progress up the steep hill. He climbed slowly near the end of it, and a mighty cheer ran up and down the edge of the cliffs when he sprang ashore.
I jumped from his back, and saw, when he shook my hand, that his own trembled a bit and that he was breathing heavily.
He put on a suit of clothes and beckoned me to a carriage that stood near. I took a seat beside him, and went to his inn. The interpreter met us there, and had my bouts, coat, and hat with him.
“Monsieur wishes me to thank you, and say that we have paid your father,” he remarked.
“My father!”
“Yes; the man who came with you. Is he not your father?”
“No,” I said, “and he has taken my money and gone with it.”
So bitter was my disappointment that I sat down upon the floor, and covered my face and wept. Then there was a great chattering in French, and the performer came and gave me a pat of sympathy on my shoulder and a ten-dollar bill.
A crowd of curious people followed me on my way to my inn—mostly boys of about my own age and younger. They felt of my garments, and ran before me, staring into my face. Grievous and heavy was my sense of distinction. It covered me with shame. There was something wrong about my bravery.
At the inn I found Sam and his bride and Ephraim Baker. Somehow they had heard of my part in the rope-walking.
“Did that crowd of boys follow you?” Sam inquired.
“Yes.”
“They can't see the biggest fool in America every day,” said Mr. Baker.
Well, I suddenly got a strong desire to move on. I was a bit wiser when I started for Graham's hotel in Buffalo, where Mr. McCarthy was to meet me. Ephraim Baker had called me a fool, but I knew better than that. I had sense enough now, at least, to understand the difference between courage and folly. It is about the last lesson of boyhood.
That narrow, bending path of hemp had been for me a bridge between the cliffs of youth and young manhood, of recklessness and prudence. The crossing is ever full of peril, and there is always some one to pull the rope and increase our difficulty.
I asked Sam and his bride to say nothing of my adventure in Summerville, and bade them goodbye at the depot, and went on my way to a new school of experience.