it would be better to say no more about this blunder of Will’s, but commence the story proper.
Another period in Will’s life has come. He is no longer a little boy, but an agile, robust, crop-headed youngster of fourteen. He has by no means outgrown the errors of his childhood: on the contrary, they stick to him more closely than ever; and to speak of Will without referring to them is—well, is merely a matter of courtesy. His parents have given up all hope of his ever ceasing to make blunders—in fact, they have come to expect nothing but blunders from him. They are no longer surprised at whatever he does, or at whatever happens to him; they would be more surprised to see him live without making blunders than at whatever might befall; and remembering how fortunate was his blunder on the train a few years before, they no longer find fault with him.
It would be foolish, however, to detail all the minor adventures through which he passed—foolish and tiresome to the reader. Still, it must not be taken for granted that all Will’s troubles rose from blunders, as many of them rose from such mishaps as might happen to any boy.
In order to make the incidents related in this story perfectly intelligible, it will be necessary to give a rambling description of the neighborhood in which they took place.
Mr. Lawrence’s farm was a short distance out of a busy and flourishing village, built on one of the great lakes of America. His home, as well as a few cottages belonging to him, was within the limits of this village. His farm was highly cultivated and full stocked, and a railway ran through it and then on through the village. To these natural advantages add that Mr. Lawrence was an intelligent man and practical farmer, knowing how to improve his opportunities, and it will be seen that he was well situated.
As for the village itself, it contained the ordinary number of inhabitants and hotels. Here lived “the most skilful dentist in the state;” but so modest was he that what was formerly a barrister’s office (this will define the size of the apartment) served him admirably for a “dentistry;” while an upper room in the same building, “artistically fitted up,” served him for a “photographic gallery.” Here lived “the most expert ball-player out of New York.” But his business was not to play ball;—rather, he did not follow it as a profession;—he kept a “Yankee notions store,” with a hanging aquarium in the window, and brewed soda-water and ice-cream. In this gentleman’s “salon” many a rustic indulged with his first dish of ice cream, eating it at the rate of two exceedingly small spoonfuls a minute. His actions and the expression of his countenance declared that it was monotonous, cold, and doubtful enjoyment; but the village papers, the expert ball-player, and public opinion, told him that it is an extraordinary delicacy, and he tried hard to believe so. The rustic would sometimes bring along his sweetheart. Then he ate his ice cream still more slowly; but probably it tasted better. Two newspapers (so-called) were printed here, and the villagers could tell you that each one had been the pecuniary ruin of six or seven editors. These ex-editors still lived in the neighborhood,—some as bookkeepers, others as insurance agents,—a warning to all right-minded men to soar higher (or lower) than the editorship of a village newspaper. But no one heeded the warning, and no sooner did an editor become insolvent or entangled in a libel suit than somebody else was ready to “assume the arduous duty of conducting the publication.” So long as the new editor had means, excelled in bombast and calumny, was sound in his political creed and could make vigorous attacks on his “contemporary,” who supported the doctrines of the other party, all went well for a time; but sooner or later the end came and then one more ex-editor was thrown upon the people of the village.
The principal buildings were the bank, the churches, the town-hall, the livery stable, the fulling-mill, the chair-factory, the fork-factory, the Columbia foundry, the hotels, and several private residences. The village had also its harbor, where vessels plying their trade on the lakes might worry through the roughest gale that the most talented writer of nautical romances ever conjured up.
But there was nothing remarkable respecting either its site, its size, the regularity or magnificence of its buildings, its commercial importance, or its antiquity. Further, it was not known to history.
A very large stream, or small river, flowed through the village, emptying into the lake. (To be still more accurate: the people of this particular village customarily called it “the river;” while the base and envious inhabitants of the neighboring villages—through which flowed no such stream—took special pains to call it “a creek.”) Several mills of different kinds bordered this river, adding to the credit and vigor of the place. About three miles up from its mouth there was a large and natural waterfall, a favorite resort of the villagers and country people. The current above these falls was not very swift, but it would be perilous indeed to be swept over them. Shrubs, and at intervals, trees; gay little boat-houses, where the ground sloped gradually to the water’s edge; in the background commodious, ornamental, and pretentious dwelling houses, habitations, or villas;—such dotted the right bank of the river above the falls, presenting a fine appearance from the left bank.
This stream affording good fishing, sportsmen often came to it from a distance. But they generally lost more in cuticle, clothing, and valuables, than they gained in fish, sport, or glory; and it was remarked that they never returned after the third time.
There were many considerations why the water below the falls was not the principal play-ground of the juveniles. Being within the village, swimming was out of the question; on account of sundry sunken logs and other obstructions, they could not paddle about secure and tranquil on the crazy old rafts and scows; and lastly, almost the whole stretch of water below the falls lay open to the mothers’ watchful eyes, and the boys did not feel inclined to jeopard their lives within sight of those mothers. To some fastidious youths the water, perhaps, was too dirty, or “roily.”
Above the falls, however, all was different. On the upper part of the river no one ever molested the youngsters, unless they did something atrocious; here they might swim and paddle up and down the river as much as they pleased; for, in general, the banks were high, and bushes, rank grass and reeds and other screens intervened, shutting them off from outsiders.
The river was wide and deep at the falls, but above them it grew narrow and shallow little by little. Five miles up it was a mere brook. Throughout this long stretch the water was so clear that the most fastidious did not hesitate even to drink it; and there were secluded places that as swimming-places could not be equalled. At the falls the water was so deep as easily to float over any log or brush-wood that might come into the river from its banks, its source, or other streams.
One particular spot—a clump of evergreens, where forget-me-nots sprang up in all their beauty, and where Nature was seen at her best—was held sacred to lovers. But there were many parts of the river to which the boys stoutly maintained their claim and of which no one was so hard-hearted as to dispossess them. And oh! crowning joy! there was an island in the river!
At this the reader may think that we are trifling with his feelings; imposing on his credulity;—he may even refuse to believe in the existence of so extraordinary a river. Never mind. But if the reader wishes to enjoy these pages he will refuse to listen to the dictates of reason, and look on this story as an orthodox romance.
In winter there was another attraction, that of skating, the danger of which was a continual source of uneasiness to parents whose youth, agility, and frolicsomeness had long before given place to gray hairs, clumsiness, and sober-mindedness.
As the proprietors of the land along the river were generous-hearted men, the river was free to all people, and was an actual paradise for boys and picnickers.
Although further remarks might be made about this river, it is not necessary to make them here. It is sufficient to add that as the reader proceeds, he will observe how admirably this river is adapted to the exigencies of the story.
This was the state of affairs in Will’s boyhood. But, alas! all has changed since that time. A foreign aristocrat has bought up all the land along the river, which he has fenced in, stocked with fish and beautified—perhaps, disfigured—with sundry little wharfs, capes, bays, stretches of “pebbly beach,” and floating islands. In conspicuous places notices may be seen, beginning with “No Trespassing” and winding up with the amount of the fine imposed on all persons “caught lurking within the limits.” Consequently, the urchins of to-day, despoiled of this haunt, have to content themselves with damaging the notices and slinging stones at the swans that sail gracefully up and down the river.
There were also smaller streams in the neighborhood, one being in Mr. Lawrence’s farm.
To the left of the village stood an extensive grove, swarming with squirrels, birds, insects, and, of course, mosquitoes. In this grove the heroes of this story whiled away many a happy hour; and when not on the river they might generally be found here.
The lake also was a favorite resort, and on its broad surface they sailed or rowed hither and thither; always getting wet, often narrowly escaping death. Sometimes their joyous hearts were elated with a ride on a tug; but when hard pressed they made almost anything serve them for a boat. As naturally as a duck takes to water, Will and his associates took to making little ships, which excited the admiration of all beholders—sometimes on account of their beauty, but generally on account of their liability to float stern foremost, with the masts at an angle of twenty degrees.
Then there was the school-house,—a fanciful, yet imposing edifice, the grained and polished jambs of whose mullioned windows had suffered from the ravages rather of jack-knives than of time,—built in a retired quarter of the village, and to the boys’ entire satisfaction, quite close to the river.
If Will wished to go to the wharf he could walk thither in less than half-an-hour; to the depot in ten minutes; to the school,—well, in from twenty to forty minutes. To Mrs. Lawrence’s delight, it was nearly two miles from their house to the falls. She had not the heart to forbid Will’s going thither, but she fondly hoped that the distance would not permit him to go very often; for, according to her view of the matter, water and danger are synonymous.
But what are two miles to a boy, when a waterfall, a limpid and gleaming river, boats, crazy rafts, plenty of fish, and other boys, are the attractions? In fact, the time was never known, not even to that venerable personage, “the oldest inhabitant,” in which a boy might not be seen about those falls.
It is not strange that the youth of this village were happy, when Nature had done so much for them.
Having given this slight and imperfect description of Will’s native place, his school-fellows must now be introduced.
The boy whom he liked best was Charles Growler; a youth of his own age, but possessed with greater abilities, and a universal favorite in the village. Charles was nimble, strong, and good-natured; ready for any adventure or exploit, and the very soul of drollery. No matter what might happen he never lost his temper, his presence of mind, or his keen humor. He was a very brave boy, rushing headlong into every kind of danger. In fact, the boys admitted that they had never known him to be afraid.
He and Will entered school at the same time and had kept together in all their studies. There was no jealousy or rivalry between them, nothing but a quiet and laudable competition, which stimulated each one to do his best. When one could assist the other he did so willingly and gladly. No boy ever had a more sincere friend than Will in Charles or Charles in Will. And yet this boy Charles was nicknamed “Buffoon.” Not, however, on account of clownishness or monkey tricks, but simply on account of his love of fun.
George Andrews was another boy of the village, associated with Will and Charles. He was a good boy, smart and shrewd, but too much disposed to display his abilities and his knowledge. In his tender childhood he had overheard a weak-headed fellow drawl out, “Yes, George will make an excellent scholard; I guess he’s a good scholard a’ready.” This so filled the young hero with self-conceit that he really believed that he, a mere boy, was indeed a scholar! Firm in this belief, he never let slip an opportunity in which he might avail himself of his superior knowledge; and having read a great deal in all sorts of books,—particularly in certain musty and ponderous volumes that treated of everything under the sun—he was able to have his say, it made no difference what subject was being discussed. But, alas! he was just as apt to be wrong as to be right; and worse still, his information, like the Dutchman’s wit, generally came too late to be duly appreciated. He was a few months older than Will and Charles, and outstripped them both in his studies. The boys always rejoiced to have him accompany them—partly because of his actual cleverness, partly because of his immoderate self-conceit, as it was very amusing to hear him hold forth on a subject of which he really was totally ignorant. Not at all to his disinclination this boy was dubbed “the Sage.”
Marmaduke Baldwin Alphonso Fitz-Williams was a youth, the grandeur of whose name drove abashed Johns and Thomases almost to phrensy. But the name befitted the boy, for even at his tender age his mind was occupied with strange thoughts. He delighted in the romantic; indeed, he had lived in an atmosphere of romance from his baptism. This heavy cloud of romance obscured the boy’s ideas, and sometimes caused him to speak and act more like a hero of fiction than was seemly. When alone he would slide his hand into his bosom over his heart, whenever the weight of romance and mystery was more than ordinarily oppressive, and if his heart beat fast he was satisfied with himself.
The boy who detects the conception of a nocturnal robbery or murder in a stranger’s eye, simply because he [the cautious stranger] slips his hand stealthily into his “pistol pocket,”—in this case the breast pocket—to assure himself that his watch is still there, is a remarkably shrewd member of the human race, whose genius and acuteness should be diligently fostered. And such a boy was Marmaduke. But it was neither fear nor idiocy that caused him to think thus; it was only an extravagant imagination.
Marmaduke and George resembled each other in many particulars: each one was prompt to arrive at startling conclusions; each one believed himself equal to any emergency; but George was far more practical than Marmaduke. Each of these boys took pleasure in learning, and each one manifested a puerile eagerness to let people see how well informed he was. For instance, they flattered themselves that they were accomplished grammarians, and when any reference was made to grammar both looked very knowing, as much as to say that they apprehended what was meant.
Marmaduke had a strong will of his own, but, by manœuvring artfully, Charles could generally make him look at things from his point of view. The boys took advantage of his love for the marvellous to play mean tricks on him; but when he found that they were making game of him, he flew into a passion, and made himself ridiculous.
Poor boy! Though he is called Marmaduke in this book, his poetic names were too long for everybody except his parents; and while his teachers called him Mark, the school-boys called him “Marmalade,” or “Dreamer,” or something else quite as appropriate and scurrilous. Some envious little Smiths and Greens did not scruple to call him “Fitty.”
Next on the list is Stephen Goodfellow, one of the most important characters in the tale. He was a fun-loving fellow, fertile in devices, an adept at repartee, and too light-hearted to be serious for more than five consecutive minutes. In a word, he was the most nimble, sprightly, ingenious and good-natured boy in the village. At the same time he was the most reckless of all boys, taking pride in rushing blindly into danger. Indeed, he affected a stoical contempt for every kind of danger; jumped backwards off empty schooners with his eyes shut; made friends with the most unamiable and untractable bull-dogs in the place; lowered himself into deep, dismal, and unsafe old wells to wake the echoes with his bellowing voice, and busied himself about the punching and shearing machine, the steam engine, and the circular saws in the Columbia foundry. He knew every sailor of all the vessels that put into the harbor; knew every engineer and brakeman on all the trains that passed through the village; knew the name and disposition of every respectable dog within the corporation; knew just where to look for the best raspberries and the most desirable fish-worms; but he didn’t know an adversative conjunction from an iambic pentameter.
To be acquainted with this boy was to like him. By Will and Charles he was actually beloved, and there was a mutual and lasting affection between him and all our heroes. He was always ready to lend them his counsel and assistance when agitating their dark schemes, and when any waggish trick was in view, or when anything ludicrous was going on, his approval and support were the first consideration. Some of the urchins tried to equal Stephen’s feats of dexterity and to ape his sallies and whimsicalness; but it could not be done, and they only exposed themselves to his derision and made themselves more envious and unhappy than before. Stephen was familiarly known as “Stunner;” which, being offensively vulgar, we, out of respect for the reader’s feelings, have transposed into Steve.
If this were the history of a sailor-boy, Steve would assuredly be the hero; and we should eulogize him so unweariedly and enthusiastically that the heroes of romance, goaded to frenzy by the praise thus lavished on him, would commission their ghosts to haunt us. But Steve has nothing to do with sailor-boys; and as we do not wish to incur the displeasure of such heroes,—much less the displeasure of their ghosts,—or to compel anybody to fall in love with him, it will be the wisest course to leave it for impartial readers to praise him or to condemn him, to love him or to detest him, as their judgment may determine.
George and Marmaduke, to the best of their ability, cultivated the science of grammar; Stephen cultivated the art of dismembering grammars, and of blazoning their fly-leaves with hideous designs of frolicsome sea-serpents; wrecked schooners; what seemed to be superb pagan temples suffering from the effects of an earthquake; crazy old jades painfully drawing along glittering circus vans, with coatless little boys—some took them for monkeys, but probably they were circus prodigies—sitting in the roof and driving; and all sorts of monstrosities. We say grammars: Stephen’s designs were to be found chiefly in them. But he was no niggard of his illustrations; for, to his noble nature, it mattered little whether the book which he illuminated belonged—so long as it was old and dilapidated—to himself or to somebody else.
Last and least was James Horner. He was an infamous coward—in fact, so infamous that although fifteen years old, even a sudden and loud sound would unstring his nerves and twitch his facial muscles. As a natural consequence, he very often heard sudden and loud sounds—in fact, he heard all sorts of hideous and unaccountable sounds. But the boy was by no means an entire fool; and he made greater progress at school than might be expected. It is a lamentable fact—which, however, must be chronicled—that his playfellows studied to excite his fears, and played off some of their most farcical, sly, and atrocious tricks on him. Will and Charles had too much self-respect and sound moral principle to snub the boy; but Steve seemed to take a savage delight in snubbing him and in turning him into ridicule. But, though many a sportive trick was played on him, his confidence in mankind was still so great that he was very easily deceived, it made no difference how often he was mocked. In this confidence the others might well have copied after him. On the other hand, his disposition was unamiable, and under undue provocation he was a dangerous boy, who could harbour revenge. Nevertheless, he hardly ever ventured to interfere with the boys’ schemes, but blindly and humbly followed wherever they might lead. Why our heroes tolerated his company can be explained on only two grounds: first, because they liked to play tricks on him; secondly, because this history requires such a character. When not called Jim, this abused lad was branded “Timor,” which shows how notorious he was for cowardice. But in process of time this classical gem became corrupted by the ignorant into “Tim.”
These five were the school-fellows and associates of Will, and generally the six might be found together. It was only natural that they should quarrel sometimes; but, for the most part, they were at peace with themselves and all other boys. They were all full of mischievousness, but taking everything into consideration, were as free from sin as boys can be.
There is another youth that figures in this tale—Will’s cousin Henry. He is perhaps the most distinguished hero. However, it is not yet time for him; and as it is dogmatically and impolitically observed a few pages back that it is cowardly and wicked in a writer to anticipate, he must not yet be introduced.
One bright morning Will mounted a frisky little pony which had been reared on the farm, and had always been considered Will’s own—not till Mr. Lawrence might see fit to sell it, but for all time. The pony was young and unaccustomed to a rider; but Will and his father thought it would be prudent to ride it on the road.
In this belief, however, they were mistaken, for the horse no sooner found himself on the open road than he set forward on a wild gallop. At first this was very pleasant, and Will enjoyed it heartily; but when he attempted to check the animal’s speed a little, he became aware that it was past his control.
“Whoa, Go It! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Will screamed beseechingly.
This only incited Go It to greater efforts, and he redoubled his speed; while Will collected his wits, stopped shouting at the refractory animal, and exerted all his strength and dexterity to maintain his equilibrium in the saddle. The mettlesome horse was soon galloping at a furious rate; and the luckless rider seeing no one to whom he could appeal for help, gave himself up as lost, and endeavored to prepare for the worst.
Very soon he drew near a company of little ragged orphan boys, squatting in the imperfect shade of a rail fence that boarded the road, gingerly sticking pins into their ears and assiduously polishing their war-worn jack-knives in the soil. These heroic little ones involuntarily dropped their instruments of torture and diversion, and beheld horseman and horse with ecstatic admiration and delight. Then they collected themselves and cheered—cheered so lustily that the horse snorted with fright, wheeled to the left, and vaulted over the fence at a single bound—a feat which called forth a roar of acclamation from the delighted juveniles.
“Can’t he jump!” chuckled the sharpest one.
“Jump?” echoed another. “Guess he can; beats a circus horse all hollow!”
“I wish he’d jump again,” sighed the smallest one.
“Ah,” exclaims the punctilious penman of romances which have lofty and sonorous titles, becoming solemnity, inflated and funereal style, and blood-freezing adventures—which, alas! too often end in smoke, or at most, in a marriage that any fool could have foreseen—“Ah, how can this paltry scribbler, this ‘we,’ discourse with this shameless levity, when his hero is face to face with death!”
Instead of evading the penman’s intended question, the following significant and sapient comments are offered for his leisurely consideration:
It is sheer nonsense for a writer to work himself up into a state of mad excitement about the “imminent dangers” that continually dog the foot-steps of his persecuted heroes. So long as the hero is of the surviving kind, he will survive every “imminent danger,” no matter how thick and fast such dangers may crowd upon him. No assassin was ever hired that could kill him for any great length of time; no vessel ever foundered that could effectively swallow him up; no bullet was ever run that could be prevailed on to extinguish the spark of his life.
After making such comments, for the reader’s peace of mind we deliberately affirm that every man, woman, and child figuring in this tale, is equally imperishable. Having made this candid remark, the reader cannot impute it to us if he spend a sleepless night while perusing this tale.
But it would be wiser to drop idle declamation for the present, and return to Will and his frisky pony.
When the horse so nimbly cleared the fence, Will’s feet were torn out of the stirrup, and he was thrown violently off the animal’s back. As he lay sprawling on the ground, he looked as little like a hero as can be imagined. As may be supposed, however, when he struggled to his feet he was as sound as ever. On casting a glance around him, he found himself in a field of ripe grain, through which the riderless pony was rushing madly.
Perhaps a good romancer, regardless of reason and effect, would have made the boy “heroically” stick to his horse through thick and thin. But a more careful romancer, like a good physician, would have an eye to the boy’s system and feelings, and not suffer him to be tortured any longer.
Will carefully rubbed the dirt off his clothes with the palm of his trembling right hand, while his eyes darted fierce glances at the gaping and grinning juveniles outside of the fence, and despairing glances at his horse within the field. This nice operation consumed three minutes, and might have consumed many more; but a man who was at hand flew to the rescue.
A blustering old harvester, the man who worked the field, saw the forlorn young cavalier standing dejectedly by the fence, and the frolicsome pony plunging through the ripe grain, and straightway fumed with awful indignation. His first proceeding was to catch and stop the pony, after which he turned his attention to Will. Will advanced a step or so to meet the puffing farmer and the quaking horse, and was about to mumble his thanks, when the farmer snappishly cut him short, crying hoarsely:
“You miserable scamp! How dare you jump into my fields like this? See, will you, what damage your beast has done!”
“But, sir,” said Will, “it is not my fault at all; it is an accident. The pony ran away with me, as you yourself can see.”
“Accident? What have I to do with your accidents? Don’t you know better than to ride runaway horses? Don’t you——”
“Course he don’t; don’t know beans;” yelled one of the little gamins, encouraged by the farmer’s bullying words to speak his mind. Or perhaps he thought to win favor with the farmer by reviling the hapless horseman.
“Course,” chimed in the one who lost and found the most jack-knives. “Course, what business did he want to git on to a runaway horse for anyway?”
“I wish I had a horse, too,” whined the most “ingenuous” one.
“Guess he ain’t—”
“Stop that!” thundered the farmer. “Stop that, and get away from this!”
The little coves snatched up their jack-knives, but did not stop to look for their pins, and darted off without a word. They ran a few yards and then squatted in the shade of another fence corner.
The incensed farmer, also, meekly followed by Will leading the horse, moved farther up the border of the field.
When they halted, Will a second time said it was all an accident.
“Accident or not, I’ll put the law on your track, I will you awful sneak! See here, how old are you!”
“I shall be fifteen in September,” said Will, with boyish eagerness to appear as old as possible.
“I didn’t ask how old you would be in the future, nor how young you were in the past,” snapped the furrow-faced chuff.
Will always kept a careful account of his age, and consequently was able to answer promptly: “My age, then, is fourteen years, ten months, and seven days.”
“Very good,” said the farmer. “Well, I am only calculating,” he added slowly and coolly, “whether you are old enough to be sent to jail.”
Doubtless, the hard-hearted wretch expected to see Will blanch at this implied threat. But, if so, he was wofully disappointed, Will having his own motives for maintaining his equanimity.
“You shall be punished, that is certain,” continued the farmer. “Come along, now; don’t stand there like a stationary scarecrow; come along.”
Even as the violent old fellow spoke, he made a movement to seize Will by the coat-collar. But this was more than human nature could bear; and with a nimbleness that defied capture, Will sprang back, stood his ground within nine feet of his persecutor, and began boldly:
“If you mean for me to leave this field, sir, I am quite willing to do it; but it is not necessary for you to be so rough with me. Because my horse jumped over the fence and trampled the grain a little, you needn’t treat me like a convict. You yourself have trampled nearly as much as my horse; and the whole put together doesn’t amount to much.”
“Stop there!” cried the farmer. “I was obliged to tramp the grain to catch your horse. I didn’t wait for you to do it,” insultingly.
“Yes, sir,” Will said humbly, “my head was bumped pretty hard. My father will settle your account, but if you would like to put me into prison, don’t let my youth interfere with that.”
Meanwhile, Will was leading his pony towards a gate in the fence, which he reached as he finished speaking.
The farmer, who followed close behind, said sharply, “You are a pretty fellow to use such language as all this to me; and it is only a waste of breath for you to speak at all. According to you, it was great bravery to jump my fences and rush through my oats; but the law will think otherwise, and as certainly as I live, you shall be clapped into prison, or else pay whatever sum I may choose to fine you. I swear it.”
“That is only what I can expect,” Will said resignedly.
“Oh, you think I am not in earnest, perhaps, but you will soon find that I mean exactly what I say. What’s your name?” he asked, abruptly and uneasily, as if struck with a sudden suspicion.
“William Lawrence.”
The questioner was literally stupified. A look of dismay overspread his grim visage, and he stared helplessly at Will, as if the boy had been metamorphosed into a devouring monster.
For a full minute the jurist was mute, and when he did speak, meekness had entirely taken the place of bravado. “You’ll excuse my little jest, won’t you, Mr. Lawrence? It is a shabby trick to joke so seriously, I know; but it was only an idle joke, and doesn’t signify anything. I was some vexed to see the horse racing through the grain, but only for an instant. How thankful we ought to be that you escaped unhurt! To be sure, it was rather venturesome for me to rush forward and stop the furious horse,” he said, guilefully, “but that is nothing compared with your gallantry in keeping your seat so heroically. In fact, Mr. Lawrence, I may say, without flattery, that you are a real hero, and that this agile little pony of yours is the most spirited that I ever saw. Indeed, he’s worth his weight in gold! Why, he vaulted over this fence like—like—like a bird!”
In spite of himself, Will, nearly laughed at this labored simile. But he was a strange boy, and enjoyed the faculty of suppressing his laughter till he pleased to discharge it. Then he would laugh so uproariously that whoever chanced to overhear him took him for a merry lunatic.
But there were other considerations why Will did not laugh at the suppliant joker. In his turn he was astonished, astonished at the reckless indifference with which the man could lie. But he was not to be cajoled so easily; boy though he was, such oratory made no impression on him, and he continued unmoved, even when deferentially addressed as “Mr. Lawrence.”
Seeing that Will made no reply, the depraved wretch pursued in the following strain: “I should like you not to mention this joke of mine, for already I have the name of being an incorrigible practical joker. Besides,” subtilely, “you would not like the boys to taunt you about this runaway.”
“Oh, I think I saw several boys looking at me as I flew along,” Will, replied carelessly, “and before this they must know all about the runaway. Very likely the little boys that moved up towards the village have spread the news, and perhaps they have told the beginning of your joke,” artlessly. “At any rate, I must tell my father of this capital joke, Mr. Jackson, for he likes nothing better than a good joke.”
The farmer now began to suspect that Will was nearly as shrewd as he himself; and seeing how useless it was to palm off his threats as a little joke, he abruptly took a different course, and said, with marked and significant emphasis, “See here, Mr. Lawrence, I do not wish to frighten you; but promise not to mention this, and I will let the matter drop.”
Will believed that he, also, could use emphasis, and said, with what he meant to be great significance: “You have not frightened me, Mr. Jackson, because I knew you as soon as you came up to me. It isn’t worth while for me to promise anything, for there is my father climbing the fence up near the little boys, and they’re speaking to him. This way, pa,” the poor boy shouted, with exultant and heartfelt thankfulness.
Mr. Jackson looked hopelessly in the direction pointed out by Will, and muttered doggedly, “Baffled by a boy! He didn’t believe in that kind of a joke, eh! Yes, that’s where I overshot the mark.”
How it was that Mr. Lawrence so seasonably hove in sight will be explained further on. The writer, in common with all staunch romancers, bears a rooted and virulent hatred to villains, and wishes to dismiss this one as soon as possible, though he (this villain) is to appear again in the next chapter.
Mr. Jackson blanched when Will gave his name, but now he grew black, and seemed to be overwhelmed with consternation. He felt too cowardly even to run away.
Mr. Lawrence soon joined them, and his first question was, “Will, are you hurt?”
“Only a very little, pa,” said Will.
“How thankful I am for that!” Mr. Lawrence exclaimed fervently. “You must have had a narrow escape, however.”
“A very narrow escape,” Mr. Jackson echoed tremulously.
Mr. Lawrence, assured of his son’s safety, now directed his attention to the farmer. “Well, Mr. Jackson,” he said suddenly, “what seems to be the matter?”
This blunt question so unsettled the practical joker’s mind that he faltered, and at last said, with much emotion: “Matter, Mr. Lawrence?—Why, it, it was—you see—I mean, he came,—that is, the horse—the horse—the horse, the horse, the horse, the horse——”
Seeing that the embarrassed man was likely to continue repeating these two words till delirium set in, or till his tongue whizzed equal to the fly-wheel of a powerful steam-engine, Will cut him short by saying, with pardonable spite: “Pa, he’s trying to tell you that he wants pay for the damage that Go It did.”
To many persons this might have been unintelligible, but not so to Mr. Lawrence. Gathering a hint from the little boys’ gibberish, at a single glance he had taken in all that had happened, and knowing the violence of Jackson’s temper, he could guess at what had passed between him and Will.
“Let us have a settlement, Mr. Jackson,” he said.
The farmer seemed to have lost his wits; he could not carry it high, as he had done with Will. Mistaking the tone in which Mr. Lawrence spoke, and impelled by a guilty conscience, he dropped on his knees and said pleadingly, “Oh, don’t turn us all out; don’t turn us all out! Don’t sue me; I’ll—I’ll pay all the rent!”
Further comment is needless; the reader will now readily understand why Mr. Jackson’s roughness gave place to humbleness and wheedling when he heard Will’s name, and why he so dreaded an interview with Mr. Lawrence.
The latter gentleman spoke kindly to the supplicant. “Come, come, Jackson,” he said, “don’t behave like that. In this free country you shouldn’t play the spaniel to any man. I promise that I will not bring an action yet; I will grant you one more chance. But come to the house to-morrow, and we can talk over the matter at leisure. Don’t explain; I see just what has happened to my headlong boy: but so long as he is not hurt, I am satisfied. As you hardly know him, I can, from your looks and his, figure the scene you have had. Now, I don’t like him to be abused by—but no; never mind that; it can be pocketed. As for the actual damage done, I think you will admit that ten dollars will settle your claims, and I am going to pay it to you.”
Mr. Jackson gathered himself up, looking crestfallen and foolish, and was so penetrated with gratitude that he refused the money, till forced to receive it. According to Mr. Lawrence’s notions the man would now be induced to make strenuous exertions to pay all that he owed.
Father, son, and pony, now started for home. Having made their way out of the gate into the road, Will found the forlorn little gamins, hungering for even a glimpse of the frolicsome leaper, still lingering in their second position. Poor little fellows, they had not ventured even to climb the fence. They knew Mr. Jackson—and Mr. Jackson knew them. They cast reverent glances at Go It, but they beheld Will as one might behold a traveller returned in safety from a voyage to the planets.
“I’ll bet he ketched it!” muttered a light-legged member of the group, with a chuckle that disclosed he spoke from bitter experience. “Won’t the rest of ’em wish they’d seen this show!”
The horse Mr. Lawrence had ridden was tied near these urchins. Both mounted him, and then, leading the runaway and headstrong horse, the picturesque cavalcade set off.
“Pa,” said Will, “I’m sorry this happened, and that you had to pay out that money.”
“No, Will: say nothing about that. I blame myself for letting you mount the half-broken nag; I should have had more prudence. But tell me how it all was, and just what Jackson said to you.”
Will did so; and in the recital he waxed so eloquent that the rogue was set forth in his true colors, and appeared so frightful a monster that Will himself shivered with horror.
Mr. Lawrence groaned, but, with great presence of mind, said instantly: “Don’t shake so, Will, or you will lose your balance. Oh, if I had known this sooner, I should have done differently! But it is too late now to punish the unprincipled wretch.”
The reader, perhaps, is curious to know how it was that Mr. Lawrence arrived so opportunely. When too late to call him back, he saw that Will was utterly unable to manage the pony. Not stopping to answer any questions, he hastened to the stable, threw himself on the fastest horse, and gave chase. Will, of course, was far in advance, but Mr. Lawrence easily ran him down, and found him in Jackson’s field, as related.
Mr. Jackson made his appearance at the time appointed; and although he brought only a part of the rent due, his deportment was so humble and respectful; his promises were so fair and encouraging; and his apologies were so ingenious, yet in reality so hollow and ridiculous, that Mr. Lawrence’s indignation was softened; and the wretch was heard and dismissed with a mock and stiff politeness that galled him.
Mr. Lawrence was very forbearing with such of his tenants as were hard pressed; but this man’s threats to Will had provoked him extremely, and now, as he brooded over his wrongs, he determined, as soon as the change could be effected, to lease the farm to a more honorable man.
When a romancer reaches the colophon of his book, he is the most virtuous of men, the most impartial of judges, parcelling out reward and judgment with superhuman justice. Now, according to the laws of romance, Mr. Jackson, in cutting that field of oats, ought to be thrown from his reaping machine, and so cruelly mangled that his most implacable foe would melt into tears of anguish.
But, alas! it cannot be, as unkind fate compels us to bring him once more before the reader.
The news of this, Will’s latest exploit, spread among the village boys, and reached Steve’s ears. This worthy felt sorry for Will—so sorry that a bright idea struck him.
“Here’s a fine chance to show Will how much I think of him!” he mused radiantly. “Yes, I’ll get a whole gang of us boys together, and we’ll swoop down on the old villain, and we’ll do it! Oh! what roaring fun it will be! I guess it’ll teach the old loon to leave honest boys alone!”
Steve began to work with a will, and soon mustered a squad of idle and saucy little wretches, who sported Guy Fawkes’ head-pieces, and were not overstocked with either virtue or clothing. Nevertheless, their apparel had at least one merit—it could be slipped on or stripped off in a trice.
Moonlight would be too bright for his dark schemes, and he waited impatiently for a starlight night. Three days passed with unheard of slowness. Then Steve convoked a council of his satellites; and after having enjoined a promise of secrecy, he laid bare his plot in all its details, and asked if they would stand by him.
“Guess we will!” they chorused, mad with delight; and Steve needed no further assurance of their co-operation and fidelity.
About seven o’clock this worthy young avenger set out, his “gang” at his heels, and one of the heroes who had seen Will taken over Jackson’s fence bringing up the rear. This warlike company had no drums, but their fast-beating hearts served instead; and they marched intrepidly onward, measuring three miles an hour. Some were burdened with sundry stout cords, ropes and straps; others were sweating under armfuls of pine and cedar boughs, which Steve had gathered that afternoon; one lank stripling was poising a couple of wooden levers on his grimy palms; Stephen himself was freighted with a clumsy engine, which he fondly imagined was a piece of wondrous mechanism—in fact, one of the six mechanical powers.
Having left the village, they struck out for a pasturage about a mile and a half to the right. Captain Stephen directed his forces to march in single file. In vain: they were but raw levies, and in spite of all his discipline, would persist in straggling or in huddling together. But in good time they drew up at the seat of war, with every regiment intact, and eager to engage the enemy.
As the atrocities they practiced there are unworthy of the most abandoned renegate, it would be more seemly to lay aside martial idioms,—particularly, as we do not wish to commit ourself,—and speak of them as Steve’s minions.
They peered warily—perhaps, quakingly—to the right and left, but not seeing any bugbears, human or otherwise, they boldly and jauntily flung themselves over the fence of the pasture field.
Steve advanced a few steps, then halted, laid his burden gently on the ground, and whistled a sigh of relief. His followers threw down their burdens; and, after having ejected a great deal of spittle—purposely on their hands, accidently on the ground,—they raised a grating “ye-oh-heave ’er,” that reminded the “mournful whip-poor-will” of a rooster’s first crow. Now they were ready to go to work.
In front of them was an old well; disused, perfectly dry, and partly filled with rubbish. The top was covered with two layers of bulky and heavy planks, so that the well was safe. Notwithstanding the number of workers, it was no easy task to remove these planks; but the avenger and his “gang” griped their handspikes, and toiled, groaned, and puffed with a will.
What is toil to a boy when mischief is on foot? In play there are no difficulties that a boy cannot surmount. Ah! if he would only do his duty as willingly and efficiently as he builds a dam, how much happier he and others would be!
As soon as the planks were removed, the boughs were dropped one by one, so evenly that they formed a soft couch, only twenty feet from the mouth of the well.
Then Steve took up the engine he had constructed, and set it up over the well. This engine was neither more nor less than a thick and roundish bar of tough wood, with each end playing in the apex of a rude and frail scalene triangle. To impart strength and dignity to this contrivance, the triangles were connected at their base by a long and stout fork-handle; but whether this fork-handle served to keep the triangles apart or to hold them together, Steve did not know. A triangle was placed on each side of the wells mouth, over which the bar and fork-handle directly passed. Steve pinned his triangles fast to the ground, but finding them still unsteady, he had them propped with the planks. Then he announced that it was ready for use. The bar revolved, it is true; but somewhat reluctantly, and, alas! it wobbled!
We have said that Steve considered his contrivance one of the six mechanical powers. Let us examine it further and see if he was right. It might have been intended for the wheel and axle; but, if so, it lacked the wheel. Or perhaps it was the pulley, with an extremely elongated wheelless axle, the triangles taking the place of the block.
“Now, boys,” said the deviser of this novel engine, “see what comes from knowing science! I learnt how to make this from George’s Philosophy. It tells you all about powerful mechanics—no, mechanics powerful—no,—well, I guess it’s all one in meaning. Now let us go to work.”
With a Zulu holloa they rushed towards a couple of donkeys that were grazing peaceably in the inclosure.
It will not require a particularly long-headed reader to guess that these boys were trespassing on Mr. Jackson’s domains, or that the avenger sought to retaliate on him by means of the innocent donkeys.
Steve endeavored to ward off the stings of conscience by telling himself that he was avenging Will; while in reality he was indulging his love of fun and mischief. His warty and freckle-faced followers were actuated by the same motive.
They surrounded the donkey nearest them, resolved to take it prisoner. After a violent conflict and four or five barked and bruised shins,—for the beast was agile, as well as headstrong, and resented this nocturnal abduction,—the seizure was effected, and Stephen adroitly slipped on a halter. While some tugged at this halter, others pushed warily and perhaps bootlessly; still others noisily threatened; one entreated; but, in compliance with their leaders instructions, none belabored. The school-boy avenger did not wish the poor animal to suffer “more than was necessary!”
In a short time the donkey was brought close to the abandoned well. Then the cords, straps, and ropes were picked up, and so securely bound on the poor animal that it was utterly helpless, and at the mercy of Steve’s youthful desperadoes. This was a hazardous attempt, considering all things; but again, what does a properly organized boy care for danger, when bent on mischief?
Stephen, weltering in sweat and already smarting from blisters and bruises, then called a halt and addressed his “accomplices” in the following approved strain: “Well, boys, we’ve nearly done it! Oh! won’t Mr. Jackson be mad when he finds his donkey in the well! Won’t he dance and holler! I know it’s a scurvy trick; but then he is so scurvy a man, it serves him just right. I guess he won’t know what to say to himself when he sees the ass here! At any rate, it will take him all the forenoon to get him out!”
Gentle reader, please to observe how rich that harangue is in notes of exclamation, and ask yourself if they were not invented as a safety-valve for the emotions of overjoyed schoolboys and bloody-minded or weak-headed romancers.
While speaking, Steve had run his hands into the pockets of his most serviceable garment. He now drew his hands out of those pockets and took up a strong rope, one end of which he made fast to the donkey, and the other end he passed over the bar of his engine. Then, the rest helping him, the donkey was slowly and carefully lowered into the well. Poor beast, how foully it was degraded!
Then those wicked boys laughed—laughed till the tears came.
All but Steve. He could not laugh. The core of an apple that he had eaten seven years before rose in his throat and choked him—him! the most uproarious and unconscionable laugher in the village!
But the truth is, Stephen was beginning to relent. Now that the deed was actually done, he saw his trick in a different light and conjured up all sorts of horrors. What if a frightful thunderstorm should come on during the night, and the donkey should be struck by lightning? What if the sides of the well should cave in and fossilize it? Or, what if Jackson should discover the guilty ones and transport him, as “ringleader,” to Botany Bay?
These and many other disquieting thoughts rose in the boys mind. He bitterly repented of his folly, and no longer considered himself a hero. He pitied the donkey with all his heart; and if he had not shrunk from provoking the derision of his uncivil and hard-hearted minions, he would have drawn it out of the well and turned it loose.
Thus we get an insight into Stephen’s nature. His love of fun often ran away with his better judgment; but as soon as the mischief was done, he suffered, more than any one believed, from the agony of remorse.
But he roused himself and said, “Now, who will slide down on the rope and set the donkey free? Of course we mus’n’t go away and leave the poor beast tied fast; for it might get sick and die if it couldn’t move. You agreed to do it, Pat Murphy.”
“I reckon we want our ropes and things back again, anyway,” growled a practical strap owner.
“Certainly,” Stephen assented, with a faint smile. “Well, Pat?”
“Shure an’ I’m willin’ to stick to my bargain; only make haste, for mebby the old feller ’ll be after prowlin’ around to look to his beasts.”
This was enough to disquiet every member of the “gang.” One excitable boy, a famous seer of ghosts, instantly beheld a myriad of Jacksons, hobgoblins, and banshees, hovering dangerously near. In his terror he uttered a cry of deprecation—which so dismayed little Pat, who was then in the act of descending, that he lost his hold on the rope and had a fall of several feet. But the soft boughs and the ass so broke his fall that he received no hurt.
Honest Pat’s mind must have been disturbed by a presentiment; for, just at this conjuncture, Mr. Jackson, who was taking a by-path to the village, entered the field from another direction. Being still at a distance, he could not make out the boys clearly, but he could hear their voices. Now, this Mr. Jackson was not famed for his discretion; and instead of creeping upon them slyly, he hallooed at them from the place where he stood.
Then, for the first time, the boys caught sight of him, and a panic, which soon became a stampede, ensued. Setting up a dismal shriek of consternation, the whole “gang” dashed to the fence, squeezed through it, and ingloriously fled.
Little Pat heard the hurly-burly, and, clutching the rope, attempted to scramble out of his narrow quarters. But, alas! no one was holding the upper end of this rope, and it had not been made fast; consequently, it rattled down into the well, leaving Pat a prisoner. Poor little Pat! Believing he was deserted, he gave way to despair, yelled like a fish peddler, and frisked about like an untutored dancer, now on the boughs, now on the donkey, beating time to his piteous yet horrible screams for mercy. This loosened the strap round the donkey’s snout; and an horrisonous bray of righteous indignation smote upon the night air, lending variety to a scene already sufficiently ludicrous. But one bray was not enough to relieve the donkey’s pent-up emotion, and between its bellowing groans Pat might be heard vociferating shrilly, “Tain’t me! I ain’t done nothin’! I never did! It’s him! It’s Steve! It’s Ste-e-e-ve!”
A swarm of outraged hornets could not have hastened the flight of Steve’s redoubtable desperadoes more than the united exertions of Pat and the donkey. They flew towards the village as if hounded by demons, and were speedily out of sight and earshot.
But where was Stephen! On the impulse of the moment he also took to his heels; but when he reached the fence his native courage and honor returned. He stopped, sighed profoundly, and nervously broke a splinter off a loose rail. He did not know whether this splinter would be of any service to him, but he mechanically carried it in his hand as he slunk back to the well. There he sank down in a heap, and awaited Mr. Jackson’s coming with much perturbation. However, he retained sufficient presence of mind to pluck a tawdry feather out of his hat band, and then set the hat fairly on his head. Wretched trickster! he did not consider how dusk it was, or that Mr. Jackson would probably be more concerned about the donkey than about a rattle-pated schoolboy’s headgear.
Now, if ever, he should have indulged in laughter, for the scene was risible in the extreme. Ah! if he had been an innocent bystander, he would have overnoised even Pat and the donkey. Alas! he felt his guilt, and was more inclined to cry than to laugh.
“Oh,” he groaned, “why did I mix myself with such a pack of nasty little cowards? I knew all the time that I had no business to meddle with that ass. Ass?—why, I’ve made an ass of myself! Where will it all end, and what will Mr. Jackson say to me or do with me?—Well,” with a sigh of relief, “there’s one good thing: the ass will be let loose again!”
Stephen’s gloomy surmises were cut short by Jackson himself. “What does all this mean, you scoundrel?” he roared. “What are you doing here? Where are those boys? have they all gone and left you?”
At that instant another hideous bray, followed by a moan of mortal terror, reverberated in the well, and the new-comer turned and looked in. A boisterous laugh burst from his lips when he discerned the occupants of the well. “Oh! this is rich!” he exclaimed, so jubilantly that Stephen was stupified with amazement.
Encouraged by Mr. Jackson’s merriment, timorous Pat began with redoubled energy. “It’s him! I hain’t done nothin’; so don’t tetch me, Mr. Jackson, for I ain’t had nothin’ to do with it. Lemme go, please!”
Turning to Stephen, Jackson again demanded an explanation. Stephen did not give a “succinct account of the whole proceeding;” but Jackson gathered from his faltering confession that a trick lay at the bottom of the affair.
“Yes, I understand it all,” Jackson replied; “but I don’t see your motive. Well, little boy, I might put you to considerable inconvenience; but it’s so capital a joke—so deep, so surprising, so silly—that I will let you off. The grudge I owe Lawrence is paid now; paid in full.”
This last expression was probably not intended for Steve’s ears; but he overheard it, and asked, with a start, “What about Mr. Lawrence, sir?”
“‘Lawrence,’ eh? Nothing about him; except that he must settle with you. That’s one reason why I’m letting you off. Yes, just take your bill and your story to him; for its his place to deal with you.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Steve made answer, becoming more and more perplexed.
“I see that we don’t understand each other very well. I don’t know why you put his donkey into this well; and you don’t know—well, what? You seem puzzled about something; but when I refer the matter to Mr. Lawrence, I think you’ll find that he will understand it well enough to send for a magistrate. Then come a lawsuit and all sorts of good things.”
When a youthful offender or an ignorant person was the object of his resentment, this man loved to enlarge on the terrors of the law; but when he himself was the culprit, he shrank from the bare mention of the word.
“His donkey, did you say?” Steve said, utterly confounded. “Oh! please to tell me what you mean!”
“I mean what I’m talking about. You know, of course, the donkey in that well belongs to Mr. Lawrence; you know, of course, he pastures both donkeys in this field, which is leased to me. He will show you that you can’t make a plaything of his donkeys, and to-morrow you will be wanted. If this maltreated beast belonged to me, I would have ample satisfaction!” savagely.
“I see your mates have left you,” he continued. “Well, I hope you will enjoy yourself here with the donkeys. I should like to stop and see the sport; but I can’t, I must go on. You had better haul the donkey out—if you can. Of course, I’ve no time to help you; and it’s no concern of mine, anyway; so, good night! Hurrah! your rope is out of your reach! This is an interesting case indeed! Well, you and your little friend there can amuse yourselves by endeavoring to adjust matters. You won’t be entirely alone; for the quadrupeds grazing in this field will occasionally come and gape at you. The moon will soon be up; appeal to it!”
Then, with a mocking bow, he turned on his heel and made off, leaving Stephen alone with his troubles.
And this was the retaliation which Steve had planned so craftily! How wretchedly his scheme had failed! Instead of imprisoning Jackson’s donkey, he had imprisoned that of his friend Mr. Lawrence. Truly, here was a case that called for many interjections—for more, in fact, than hapless Steve could muster.
And he had been detected in the very act. What would be the consequences? Would those dark threats of Jackson’s be put into execution? What penalties might the law inflict on him? What did the Law say about feloniously dumping another man’s donkey into a disused well, anyway? Alas! Steve did not know.
But, oh! comforting thought! Jackson plainly did not suspect anybody of playing a trick on him. And it was well for Stephen that it was so, as a suspicion of the truth would have stirred up the waspish old blusterer’s fury.
“O dear!” groaned Steve, “I wish I was at home! I wish I hadn’t done it! I wish—O dear! Well, I will never have anything more to do with those mean sneaks. Why couldn’t they have stuck by me? Now they’ll go and spread it all over, and what will people think of me? What will become of me? Well, I shall be laughed at for a month, that’s very certain.”
This doleful soliloquy manifests that Stephen was but a boy, and that he was but human. A man’s great care is (or should be) to guard his reputation: a boy’s great care is to keep from becoming a laughing-stock. This is a bug-bear which haunts him (the boy) from the day when masculine apparel is first girded on him, and which prompts him to do many things that, to his elders, are foolish and incomprehensible. It is for this reason that a well-organized boy, however learned he may be, prefers to use simple words of Anglo-Saxon origin, when he knows he could make his meaning clearer by using Latin polysyllables.
But Steve’s disquieting speculations were interrupted by Pat, who whispered warily, “Is he gone?”
Now, Steve did not know that this is a polite expression, and he answered snappishly, “Yes, he has gone.”
This was good news to little Pat. Forgetting that he had just been accusing Stephen to Mr. Jackson, he began beseechingly: “Lemme out, Steve! Lemme out, that’s a good boy. I al’ays knowed you was a good boy, Steve, didn’t I? Lemme out now, and I’ll do anythin’ fur you.”
This reminded Stephen of the labor that lay before him. How was he to get hold of the rope? The one could not climb up the sides of the well; the other could not climb down; all the cords were bound on the ass.
However, Stephen searched his pockets carefully, and lighted on a new and strong fish-line, with a fish-hook affixed. The fish-line was not long enough to reach down to Pat; but by noosing the end to one of the handspikes that difficulty was removed. There was now direct communication between the two boys. Pat was rather fidgety when he saw the fish-hook dangling under his nose, but he caught it fast to the rope, which Stephen carefully and fearfully drew up.
If that fish line had parted, those boys and the writer would have been placed in a sorry plight.
The rope was no sooner made fast than Pat scrambled up it, caught up his shabby coat, and exercised his limbs of locomotion so nimbly that he was nearly out of sight before Steve could recover from his amazement. This was a whimsical way of manifesting gratitude!
“How he scampers!” Steve muttered. “What a pack of little wretches, and what a mean man Jackson is! I wanted to slide down into the well myself; and those boys know I agreed to let Pat do it on purpose to please him. Well, I’ve done with ragamuffins!—I say,” he bellowed to the nimble runaway, “you needn’t run so fast; I don’t want you: you’re no good, anyway.”
Pat knew that Stephen longed for his help; he knew that a boy, when left in the lurch, speaks somewhat as Stephen had spoken, and yet Pat hurried on.
Poor Pat! he was not aware that his unique and valued button ring, the fruit of several hours’ toil with boiling water, a broken-bladed knife, and a spoilt file, had been fractured in the well. Unconscious of his loss, he clapped his hands over his mouth, and bleated playfully and hideously.
Stephen now racked his brains to hit upon some feasible plan of taking the donkey out of the well. Suddenly a happy thought struck him. His eyes sparkled with joy. “My stars!” he exclaimed, “I see the very way to do it! I can manage it after all.”
Then he mused on Jackson’s behavior, and another thought occurred to him. “I suppose he believed I couldn’t get either of ’em out of the well. Yes, of course he did; and he thought I should have to go to the village for help. And then I wonder if he’d have set the magistrate and folks after me! Ten to one. Well, I can beat ’em all, and keep out of trouble, too.”
Yes, that was the point. If he had been necessitated to seek help, he would have been taught a wholesome lesson; but when his own precocity suggested a way out of the difficulty, he was only hardened in his mischievousness, and he admired his great cleverness.
Without further deliberation the deserted and frustrated avenger slid down the rope, took the halter and a few straps off the donkey, coiled them around his own neck, and then clambered up.
This was a foolhardy thing for him to do; for if the fastenings of the rope had given way, he and the donkey world have been left to their own resources. But the generality of boys delight in doing such things. With a careless “I’ll risk it,” they rush headlong into danger, day after day.
Then Steve set about carrying his plans into effect. He sidled up to the other donkey and chased it over the pasturage till the moon rose. This was weary work for him, but at length he caught the donkey, slipped the halter over its head, and led—or rather coaxed—it up to the well.
“Well, old fellow,” he said, addressing his first captive, “I didn’t make any preparations to haul you out, but so much the better. Now, keep your mouth shut, and don’t be afraid, and you’ll be kicking around this field before no time. Now, heave away, boys! Ho! Heave ’er!”
He then pitched on the two lightest planks, exerted all his remaining strength, and placed them so as to form a floor or platform, extending from the transverse bars of his engine to the curb of the well. Thus half the well’s mouth was covered.
Next, the donkey last caught was hitched to the rope, and by dint of entreaty, induced to draw its yoke-fellow out of the gloomy prison.
“Saved!” cried Stephen, in tragic accents, as he turned both donkeys loose. “Saved! And I have saved you!”
And then he fell to turning summersets, chuckling, and disporting himself like a noodle. “Oh! this is fun!” he said.
A heavy fall brought the boy to his senses; and without more ado he gathered up his belongings and began to whistle “Yankee Doodle,” as only a boy whose conscience is tranquillized can whistle it.
The would-be avenger had expended so much of his strength that he was not in a condition to attempt to replace the rest of the planks, or to carry home his beloved pulley.
“Mr. Jackson may arrange those planks himself,” he muttered. “As for the pulley—well,” with a last fond backward glance, “I suppose he’ll knock it up into kindling-wood.”
It was late when Stephen reached home that night. Notwithstanding his proneness to be mischievous and to play monkey tricks, he was free from deceit and he was not deficient in moral courage. As soon as he and his mother were alone, he made a clean breast of it, then walked off to bed, with tears in his eyes, but loving his mother better than ever.
Although Mr. Jackson, while returning through the field that night, should have precipitated himself into the half-open well, there to perish miserably, yet he did not. The writer does not thirst for the blood of his villains; but—lest he should be accounted utterly devoid of common sense—the following statement is offered, by way of consolation, for the punctilious readers perusal:—
Whilst replacing the planks, which were permeated with humidity, he contracted a catarrhal cold, which did not yield to the apothecary’s patent medicines till the next spring.
When Mr. Lawrence heard the particulars of Stephen’s prank, and the “motive,” he laughed heartily.
Of course the peace-officers did not gain or lose by the affair; and Steve observed oracularly, “I knew he was only fooling. He didn’t scare me a bit!”
It is not necessary to waste time in tracing Jackson’s career further—in fact, as he never annoyed our heroes again, he may as well be formally thrown overboard now.
It was hoped that this experience would have a wholesome and lasting effect on Stephen. Alas, no! Stephen Goodfellow was one of the many irrepressible incorrigibles that flourish in this country.