To Stephen’s intense relief, he now saw Charley and George coming towards him from the village. He welcomed them with feverish delight.
“Hollo, Steve!” Charlie shouted. “What performance is that on the other side of the river? Who has set our raft afloat, and what is that thing on it?”
A hoot of defiance came booming across the river from Bob. He still felt himself secure; and instead of one witness of his triumph, there would now be three.
Stephen ran to meet the new-comers, and told them all that he knew about the matter, not sparing the arch-villain.
Their expressions of hopelessness and anger exceeded even Stephen’s.
“Isn’t there anything we can float over on?” Charles asked.
“Not a thing. Do you suppose I’d be here if I could cross?” Steve retorted, angrily.
“Take it coolly, boys,” the Sage advised. “We are not going to let that Herriman have it all his own way; surely we can work some plan to outwit him.”
Bob looked on in ecstasy, and hallooed as barbarously as a wild Indian on the war-trail. His plans had succeeded in every particular—almost beyond his expectations. Why should he not rejoice and be merry?
This shifting of the scene from one bank of the river to the other is not conducive to the reader’s happiness or the writer’s reputation. It would be better to single out one party and let the other go.
After a critical examination of how matters stood, the Sage said abruptly, “Look here, boys; there is room for hope. In the first place, Bob and the raft are moving at the same rate; second place, he has a cord fastened to the raft, with the other end in his left hand—but it’s an enormously long cord; third place, Will crossed the river in the village, and he will soon be coming up on the other side. Now, look at Bob and the raft, and see for yourselves.”
But before he had finished speaking, Steve and Charley had descried the rope in Bob’s hand.
“Oh, George!” cried Stephen, “you are a philosopher!”
George was right about Will. A few minutes later, he was seen coming up on the other side of the river, and accompanied by Marmaduke and Jim.
Thus the whole band of heroes was assembling! Gentle reader, when that event takes place, you know that the villain’s downfall is at hand.
Stephen and Charles, beside themselves with delight, screamed to the three heroes to pounce on Bob and save Carlo.
The Sage—puffed up with pride at hearing himself called a philosopher by Stephen, who never flattered anybody—took another survey of affairs, and remarked: “Look here Steve, that raft is only drifting slowly, and by swimming out I could easily reach it, and then let Carlo free. The only objection to this plan is, that I should have to stay on the raft without my clothes on until I could get to them again. But there is no one to see me, and I don’t mind when Carlo’s fate hangs by a—a—tow-line. And by doing so, Will and the rest can chase Bob; for Bob will move nimbly somewhere in a minute or two.”
This striking idea took well with Charles and Stephen.
“Oh,” groaned the latter, “why didn’t I think of doing that before you came up!”
Will, Marmaduke, and Jim, hastened on, taking in the whole plot at a glance.
“Look out for Bob!” they heard from the three on the opposite bank. “See to Bob; we’ll take care of Carlo.”
Bob, however, had awakened to a sense of his danger. He saw Will, Marmaduke, and Jim, approaching; but not so soon as the boys across the river, as the intervening shrubs and inequalities in the ground obscured his view.
In all his nice little calculations he had not thought of, nor provided for, such a casualty as this. In the midst of his triumph why should three boys all at once come upon him? Why should they be coming up on his side of the river, when he had never known them to do so before?
But there was no time to be lost in idle speculation.
Should he fly? Then in which direction? To fly towards home seemed madness, for the three would have to be passed, and he knew well that at least one, Will, could outrun him. Or he might go up the river, as he would have a start in his favor. But he was already a long way from the village and his home; of course he would be pursued; and where would the pursuit end?
His wild behaviour now gave place to gravity, and his last exultant shout died away on his lips.
He considered a moment, and then rejected both these possible means of escape, and determined to take what seemed the only course left open to him. The raft was under his control—he would haul it up and sail away on it!
If Bob had been a boy of George’s sententious terseness, he would have said, “I can defy my enemies when I am on the raft.” If he had been a hero of romance: “So shall I balk my persecutors, and frustrate their evil designs.” But being neither, he simply said to himself, “I’ll mount the raft; and then let ’em sing and holler as much as they want to! And the dog will be under my thumb, too!”
If Bob had reflected a little longer, perhaps he would not have resorted to this extreme measure; for, although he would be at liberty to float whither he pleased, in reality he would be as much a prisoner as the dog. Five resolute boys and one willing-hearted candle-holder, Jim, would sooner or later contrive some plan to entrap him.
Not a little to the boys’ astonishment, he now began to draw the raft hastily towards him. He worked as though his life depended on his agility; and as the rope came in hand over hand, it fell in a loose coil at his feet. If the raft had caught on a snag or run into the bank, he would have been left in a sad predicament; for the faster he drew in the rope, the faster Will bounded towards him. It was a strange, exciting race—not a race for life, but a race between meanness and its inevitable punishment.
The three on the opposite bank could not at first guess Bob’s intention. George was undressing himself preparatory to swimming out to the raft; but this manœuvre caused him to desist, and with the other two he stood stupidly gazing at the plotter, eagerly awaiting further developments.
But when the truth dawned upon him, he cheered Will so heartily that all the boys, together with the squirrels and birds, took up the cry, and made the place ring again. In fact, there was danger that all this hubbub might draw on them the wrath of some peace-loving paterfamilias.
Bob had reason to fear that the boys would take dire vengeance if they should overhaul him, and he toiled worthy of a better cause. Yard after yard of the rope passed through his hands, but notwithstanding all his efforts, he saw that Will was gaining on him. Although at his wit send, he yet had the sagacity to pull steadily and not too fast—that might break the rope.
At last the raft was alongside; and having gathered up the folds of the rope,—which he durst not leave behind, because that would put it in the power of Will easily to secure boy, dog, and raft,—he made a desperate and final effort, and sprang almost at random.
At the time of the leap Will was almost upon him.
Bob sprang courageously, but wildly. Alas! “the best-laid schemes of mice and men—” the rest is not English.
The tangled rope in his hands proved his downfall; it coiled round his feet with a merciless grip, and he alighted on the raft in a sorry plight. There he lay, sprawling and struggling, a most ludicrous sight. The more he struggled to free himself, the more tightly he was encircled by the terrible coils. Boys, the youth who becomes entangled in one thousand feet of rope is to be pitied.
To add to his misery, shout after shout of laughter burst from the entire six. Their hour of triumph had, in its turn, come.
The impetus given to the raft carried it on a little farther, but Will soon reached it, sprang, and almost fell over struggling Robert. No need to make him a prisoner; both hands and feet were bound fast by the long rope.
Will’s first act was to liberate poor Carlo, and take off his muzzle.
Bob groaned and shivered, but the noble dog stretched himself and frisked about the raft, scarcely noticing him.
“Carlo, Carlo, come, Carlo,” Stephen called joyously.
Carlo plunged into the river and swam towards his master, who, half beside himself with exultation, cried: “Steer for this port, Will; and bring the prisoner.”
“All right!” Will shouted back, and put the raft to the bank to take on Marmaduke and Jim, who soon came up.
The raft sank low under the weight of the four, but still it floated them; and Will and Marmaduke took up the oars and began to work their way slowly across the stream. Jim sat on the cage and pretended to steer; but his eyes roved from the prisoner to the boys on the opposite bank, and then, by way of the oarsmen, back to the prisoner.
The hearts of the six beat loud with triumph; but poor Bob’s heart sank, and beat very faint. “Oh,” he gasped piteously from among the serpent-like coils of the rope, “Oh, let me go! For mercy’s sake, let me go! Don’t take me over to Stephen and his dog; and I’ll promise never to meddle with you boys any more.”
Will looked pityingly at the abject creature, but answered with firmness: “No, Bob, I must take you to Stephen. You have played a mean trick on him, and he must settle with you. But,” whispering in his ear, “I guess you’ll survive.”
Bob saw that it would be useless to crave further for mercy, and he remained sulky and silent; but Jim looked in vain to see him blubber. No; in everything except age Bob was an orthodox villain; and an orthodox villain never whimpers when his schemes topple about his ears. On account of his youth and inexperience, he had not provided himself with poison in the event of failure—nay, he did not even attempt to roll off the raft into the river.
“This is rather a home-made rabbit-house, eh, Will?” Marmaduke observed, inclining his head towards the cage.
“It’s kindy weak,” Jim chimed in. “It looks strong enough to hold me, but it keeps cracking every minute.”
“Hush!” breathed Will.
He had many fine qualities. Even at his early age, he could respect the feelings of a fallen foe.
“Hello there, Steve,” he said, as they drew near the group of three. “I killed Tip, but I’ve saved Carlo, so my mind is easy.”
The three returned Will’s grin of pleasure with a shout of applause. So eager were they to welcome the victors that they tore off their boots and stockings, rolled their pants nearly up to their knees, and waded out till the water was two or three inches above their knees. Youth manifests its enthusiasm very recklessly at times.
At this moment Will experienced some of the triumph of a conquering hero.
“Now, Bob,” Charles began, as they floated the raft into its harbor; “now, Bob, you will be tried by us for your misdoings.”
“He has surely had punishment enough; let him go;” said tender-hearted George, sitting down on the bank and looking pityingly at the wild-eyed captive.
“Yes, Steve; let him go; for how on earth can we punish him?” Will supplemented.
“No!” Charles said resolutely. “The boy who can float another boy’s dog over these falls is a scoundrel, and—”
“I never did!” Bob here put in.
“And,” continued Charles, “he ought to be court-martialed!”
Bob did not know what this meant; neither did Charles; the former looked awe-struck, the latter, wise and august.
Steve, however, added promptly: “Of course. His father must have court-plastered him the other night for his bruises; and now we must court-martial him for his wickedness.”
“Well,” said Marmaduke, seating himself with great composure, “I am going to be neutral.”
Poor boy, he thought “neutral” had an imposing look in his history, and he would seize this opportunity to illustrate its beauties.
With that, the entire six sat down in a circle around the raft. Charles and Stephen were resolved on punishment. Jim also. For some reason, George and Will were in favor of pardon.
“Well, boys,” said Will, “of course you can do what you like, but I believe I should let him go—box, and rope, and straps, and all. I perished poor Tip, but I’ve rescued Carlo, and I’m satisfied.”
No doubt Will thought this a very genteel expression. Not so Marmaduke: he sprang to his feet with a gesture of surprise, and said earnestly, “Oh, Will! perish is a neuter verb!”
Will flushed, and moved uneasily from right to left.
“What is all this nonsense about neuters and neutrals?” Steve asked, angrily. “What do we care about your neuters? Botheration, you boys have put off this trial long enough. But,” with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “tell us what a neuter verb is; and then, I hope, we may go on.”
Marmaduke was ill prepared for such a question, and he was never prompt in giving explanations. His face blanched, he sank dejectedly to the ground, took off his hat and toyed with it nervously; took out his handkerchief and feebly tried to blow his nose; looked appealingly at the Sage; and at last began, hesitatingly: “Well, hem, Steve, Stephen, I’m afraid I can hardly make it clear to you, because—because—well, you know, Stephen, you don’t understand grammar very well. Well, perish—but,” brightening and rising, “I’ll just illustrate it for you. Now, you see, I’m standing up. Well,” suiting the action to the word, “I sit down when I go to the ground; but,” suiting the action to the word, “I set down my hat—or you, or any other boy, or a thing, or a word in a book.”
Marmaduke put on his hat and picked up and pocketed his handkerchief with the air of a man who has triumphed.
“Yes,” Steve admitted, “you make it pretty plain, Marmaduke; but these neuter verbs, and conjunctions, and things, were always a muddle to me. But,” guilelessly, “tell me this, and then we must attend to Bob: Is it right to say, I sit myself down, or I set myself down?”
Poor Marmaduke! He was struck dumb; he had a new view of neuter verbs. A look of woe that would have melted a heart of stone passed over his face. He arose and took a seat where Steve could not see him, muttering confusedly: “A neuter verb can’t do anything, but active verbs do.”
Stephen chuckled: “I always knew those rules in the grammar wouldn’t work both ways.”
Charles and Will did not seem inclined to help Marmaduke out of his difficulty—probably they were as much puzzled as he. As for George, he was not at all disconcerted: when he understood a thing, he knew that he understood it. He looked on with supreme indifference, not thinking it worth while to give his views.
“See how Bob behaved himself the night of the experiment,” Charles observed, coming back to the matter in hand. “He will always be trying to do us some harm if we let him off this time.”
“Yes,” chimed in Steve, glancing at the helpless captive, who was still on the raft, “we let him go that night and see how he has rewarded us for our mercy!”
“You wouldn’t have let him escape if it hadn’t been for me;” Will corrected.
“We didn’t hunt him down the next day, as we might have done!” Steve rejoined, as though that settled the question.
“I hope we are hardly such a set of cold-blooded fellows as that!” George said. “And besides what great harm did he do that night?”
“Oh, you, George Andrews!” Stephen retorted wrathfully. “I suppose you think we’re harping on your performances that night, but we’re not.”
“You had better not, Stephen Goodfellow!” said George also becoming wrathful. “You promised that you wouldn’t speak of that to me again.”
It is a lamentable fact, hinted at in the outset of this history, that these heroes quarreled occasionally. When one of these differences took place, each one had the strange, boyish habit of calling the other by his christian name and surname. If you doubt this, fair reader, [she for whom this is written will understand,] be so good as to play the eavesdropper on two small and quarrelsome juveniles disputing about the color of an absent playmate’s marble.
“I’m not; I’m keeping my word;” Steve replied seriously. “But perhaps your mind is running on clemency, that bothered you so much the other day.”
“Perhaps yours is running on the term ‘Lynch law!’”
At this juncture neutral Marmaduke, who was beginning to recover his equanimity, and who doubtless felt spiteful towards Stephen, hopped up and declared, in the tone of a dictator rather than of a peacemaker: “Gentlemen, the jury have disagreed; the case is dismissed.”
“Marmaduke Fitzwilliams,” cried Charles, rising in his turn, “four or five boys don’t make a jury; you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lawyers would say, constitute a jury,” Marmaduke corrected.
“Well, let ’em say it; we are not lawyers;” Charles roared.
“It would not be acting politically to punish him ourselves,” the neutral one contended. “There is a whole court-house full of men in the village, that make it a business to punish people.”
Poor Marmaduke! He seemed to have a preternatural longing to figure in the courts of justice.
“Marmaduke,” George said musingly, “don’t you suppose you are out of your reckoning when you say ‘acting politically’?”
“Yes, what does ‘politically’ mean, any way?” Stephen inquired, thinking to ensnare the boy once more.
This time, however, Marmaduke answered without hesitation. “Why,” said he, “it’s an adverb, and adverbs always mean, in a manner—politically, in a political manner.”
Steve did not seem much enlightened, and Charles with a merry twinkle, asked, “Always?”
“Always!” firmly.
“Oh, then, politically ought to mean, in the manner of a policeman; abed, in the manner of a bedstead; and so on.”
Marmaduke looked aghast, and Charles the persecutor continued mercilessly: “Alongside, in the manner of a man who wears a long side.”
The neutral one was now quite discomfited, and he arose and stole back to his seat, trying to collect himself and make out what “in a manner” really signifies.
But Steve yelled after him: “And to go means in the manner of a goner.”
At this dreadful outrage it is a wonder that Words did not take to themselves a voice to howl in the offender’s ear: “We cannot all be adverbs!”
As for Marmaduke he was utterly demoralized.
“Whatever you do, boys, don’t leave Bob to stiffen in his coils on that raft,” Will meekly suggested.
Charles and Stephen were so eager to have some one side with them that they took it for granted that Will, for very weariness, was now in favor of punishment; and Stephen, on the spur of the moment, made this startling observation:
“Why not do with Bob as he did with my dog? He has got himself all in a jumble on the raft—let us give him a ride up and down the river. It will be good for his constitution.”
Strangely enough, this idea was favorably received by the boys. They laughed, and applauded Stephen.
“It would be a very light punishment,” he continued, pressing home his advantage. “Don’t you all agree to it? Come, Will, what is your opinion?”
“It was you Bob was molesting, Steve, and you must stir up your conscience to see what it says, and then go ahead,” Will answered. “You put it very mildly, but I suppose your meaning is, to cram Bob into Carlo’s prison, untangle the rope, and then float him around as he floated Carlo around.”
“Y-e-s,” Steve assented, somewhat discomposed at this plain statement of his views.
“I’m tired of all this,” George exclaimed, with a sigh. “Fire ahead, Steve, and do whatever you like.”
“Hurrah, then,” Charlie cried gladly, “let us give Bob an airing.”
At this instant Marmaduke again appeared before the boys, and opened his mouth to make some sage remark; but Stephen,—now all animation,—in tones whose cheerfulness took away the harshness of the words, silenced him, saying: “Stop your noise, Marmaduke. You’re a neuter verb, you know; and they mustn’t do anything.”
“Perhaps you ought to consult Bob himself,” Will suggested. “He might observe some valuable observations about his punishment.”
“Let the prisoner speak,” chimed in the irrepressible neutral one.
“Well, Bob,” said Charles languidly, “moisten your lips and tongue, and let us have your views. In the first place, what was your plot? What did you intend to do with Carlo?”
Bob scowled at the speaker and was silent. But finally, having thought bettor of it, he did as directed, and said, “I was only going to fool you fellers; I never meant to do more’n scare him,” looking at Stephen, “and then I was going to let his dog go. But,” sorrowfully, “you came along and spoilt it all.”
“Suppose Carlo had gone at your heels when you let him out of the box?” Charles asked.
Bob turned pale and muttered something in confusion.
“Well, what do you say about our turning the tables on you?” George asked.
“Nothin’,” the prisoner answered stoically, still playing the part of an orthodox villain. No; he, a boy of nearly seventeen years, would not again beg for mercy at the hands of his inferiors—in age; and he awaited his punishment with well-feigned indifference.
If the boys had been better versed in human nature, they would have known that this passive submission on his part boded evil to their future welfare.
Although Bob was acting like an orthodox villain, the six, in taking upon themselves to judge and punish him, were not acting like orthodox heroes. By no means. They were not the irreproachable youngsters who figure in octodecimo volumes. They all had an idea of the fitness of things; and all—even George and Will—thought it just and right that Bob should know, by actual experience, what Carlo’s feelings had been during his imprisonment.
The six judges arose, and stood before the culprit.
The cage was critically examined, and Steve seemed to find it very amusing to point out its defects. Bob was pestered with questions about it, but he maintained a sullen silence, submitting doggedly to the inevitable.
“We must put you into narrow quarters for a little while, Bob,” Stephen said good-humoredly, “and try to disentangle a few leagues of this good cord.”
Two of the heroes supported Bob while Steve freed him from the rope. The discomfited plotter was too stiff to make much resistance, yet when he found himself free he struggled nervously, but feebly, to break away from his tormentors. Then Jim, who was trying to make himself useful, threw open the door of the cage, and Charles and Stephen dumped him gently in.
Now, Bob had not built the cage for such a purpose; consequently, he did not sit comfortable in it—worse still, it threatened to burst asunder. But it did not.
His feet and legs were got inside somehow, but his head was mercifully left out, exposed to the sun and air. His hat had fallen off when he sprang upon the raft, and been taken over the falls; but George, more humane than the others, took off his own hat, and placed it firmly, but gently, on the exposed head.
Unknown to the soi-disant judges, the boy was wedged so fast in his cage that he was powerless to help himself. Thus he was virtually a prisoner in the very prison that he had prepared for another! This was turning the tables with a vengeance! This was poetical justice!
Poor little villain! He must have been in an exceedingly cramped and uneasy position; but his pride and his orthodoxy came to his relief, and he would not complain to the pitiless arbitrators of his fate.
“Look here, boys,” George cried, “if you are bound to punish him, you ought to kick out the end of that box, so that he could sit up straight, like a man, and be comfortable.”
“Yes, it is too bad,” Steve said pityingly. “But it will soon be over; and if we should go to tampering with the box, we might kick Bob in the stomach. Besides, Bob looks more forlorn than he is; and we have no business to destroy his boxes and things.—Now, where’s the rope, and then we will hurry through with it and let Bob out.”
About three hundred feet of the cord were disentangled, and once more the raft was set afloat with a prisoner on it.
In order to humble Bob still further, Steve intended to let Carlo carry the end of the rope in his mouth for a little way. But now he had not the heart to do it. As the raft floated along lazily, Steve essayed to give a shout of triumph, but it died away in his throat.
The dog, however, began to gambol, sneeze, and bark, in an extraordinary manner. During the trial he had been the only really neutral one, and now he seemed to enjoy himself more than any of the self-styled judges. Bob looked on in some uneasiness, but he need not have been alarmed, for the dog made no motion to swim out and attack him.
The boys did not exactly understand it, yet somehow they seemed to take no pleasure in floating Herriman down the stream; and instead of an exultant procession along the bank, they marched solemnly onward, hardly speaking, and each one becoming more and more ashamed of himself. George had a theory of his own about this, but he did not make it known.
Seeing that matters had gone so far, Steve and Charles did not wish to stop till Bob had had his ride; but they felt ill at ease, and their conscience almost persuaded them that they were in the wrong.
So with the entire five (Jim being, as the reader has doubtless divined, a mere supernumerary in this history, although he figures conspicuously once or twice.) From the moment they placed the boy in his cage they began to relent.
To any person coming upon them, this risible spectacle would have been presented: six boys marching gravely down the stream; some three hundred feet in advance a raft drifting lazily along; on said raft a box, from which protruded an enormous head,—large enough for a genius,—neatly covered with a now battered but once respectable—nay, fashionable—straw hat.
Thus the raft drifted till within a quarter of a mile of the falls. Then Stephen said, “Ever since I went over the falls I’ve felt too nervous to prowl around very near them; so let us pull her up stream now, and let Bob go when we get into port.”
All agreed to this, and the rope, which had hitherto been slack, was pulled taut. The raft stopped its downward course, and was drawn towards them—perhaps, half a foot.
Then something that might have been expected from the beginning happened.
The rope broke!
Unknown to them, the jagged edge of the raft had worn the rope all but in two while Bob was hauling the raft towards him. In this place it now parted.
There was consternation among the self-constituted punishers. In truth, it is impossible to describe their terror, anguish, and remorse. All through their own foolishness a fellow-creature was in imminent danger. To be swept over the falls in his helpless condition meant Death. And whatever was done must be done quickly.
The boys felt as guilty as criminals ought to feel.
“Bob,” Charles screamed, “climb out, and jump into the river, and swim!”
“Oh, he can’t! he can’t!” Will cried, seeing that Bob was struggling desperately and vainly to get out of the box.
“George,” Steve cried wildly, “you spoke about swimming to the raft while Carlo was on it—swim now! Quick!”
“Of course,” the Sage replied, still a philosopher, but a perturbed one. “Yes, of course, I’ll go.”
To add to the confusion, stunning screams now came from Bob. He forgot that he was a villain; all his orthodoxy and stoicism forsook him; and he again brought his stentorian lungs into play. Far from having impaired his lungs on the night of George’s “experiment,” he seemed only to have strengthened them; and now he howled and bellowed like a wounded giant.
Cannot this be explained logically? The age of the romancer’s younger villains ranges between twenty-seven and thirty-nine; while the age of older villains varies greatly among different authors, and, much to the reader’s sorrow, is not always given. From this it would seem that Bob was too young to set up for a knave.
In view of this, the reader, having more discernment than the writer, suggests the following: The only reason why Bob had taken it so coolly was because he knew the boys too well to fear any harm from them. Besides, he had heard all that was said during the “trial,” and he saw that the boys’ anger towards him had abated. But when he found that the raft was no longer under their control, he naturally became alarmed.
Yes, Bob again began to discharge atrocious and high-sounding interjections.
All the boys saw that George was more composed than they; and by mutual consent, he was left to plan a rescue. His coat had been off ever since he prepared to swim to Carlos relief; and now he stripped off the rest of his clothes, plunged into the river, and swam boldly for the imperilled boy.
He had, however, more self-confidence than self-possession; or he would have run down the bank till opposite to the raft, and so have gained time. He now swam as fast as possible; but the raft was some distance in advance, and steadily drawing nearer the falls.
The boys watched George anxiously, but were too demoralized to aid him in any way.
“Hello, you vagabonds!” was thundered behind them. “What does all this noise mean?”
The heroes were startled; and on turning, were appalled to see a burly rustic coming towards them at a round pace.
“Oh, dear,” groaned Will; “why does this fellow want to come here just at this time?”
“Oh, dear,” echoed Charles, Stephen, Marmaduke, and Jim.
“What does all this mean, you young villains?” roared the new-comer.
“A boy is floating over,” Marmaduke gasped.
“Well, do you mean to let him float? Why don’t you get up and save him? Oh, you awful boys! This is murder—parricide—manslaughter—abduction—gravitation—parsimony! What do you suppose the law’s going to say about this? It—it is un-con-sti-tu-tion-al!”
The five trembled—Jim exceedingly. In fact, he seemed on the point of betaking himself to flight.
“I say, I’ll persecute you all for litigation!” the new-comer next observed.
He was an ignorant, brutal man, an inhabitant of the village. In his boyhood he had been snubbed by old and young; and now, in his manhood, he took delight in bullying all the boys he met.
“George Andrews, there, is trying to save him,” Will said, pointing at the swimmer.
“Humph! much he’ll do!” growled the rustic. “Well, I’m going to set here (at this Marmaduke shuddered) till that boy is lost or saved. Its my duty to the Government, and I’ll do it if it takes all day.”
His duty to the Government, however, did not prompt him to take an active part in rescuing Bob, and he stretched himself along the bank and looked on with dogged composure.
George did not know of this man’s arrival. He swam bravely, but gained on the raft very slowly. His heart sank when he saw this, but he kept on hopefully, and just at the critical moment the raft grounded on a snag, and was held fast. Bob was saved! Not through human agency, however.
Bob ceased from howling, and George called out cheerily: “You are all right, Bob; and I’m—”
At that instant a little wave washed down his throat and effectually cut him short.
He had never swum so close to the falls, but he proceeded warily, and managed it so that the shock of striking the raft eased it off the snag. Then he scrambled on board, took up an oar, and for a full minute feared that the current would carry them both over. But the raft was brought under control, and slowly, very slowly, rescuer and rescued left their dangerous position.
“Bob, when we get a little farther up, I’ll try and get you out of that, and then we can go faster, if you will help.”
The joyful cries of the boys now attracted his attention, and, to his horror, he perceived that some person was with them.
“Oh, Bob,” he groaned, “who is that man on the bank?”
Bob peered in the direction indicated, and said, hesitatingly, “I—I guess it’s somebody else.”
“Now how mean!” George growled. “I can’t land till that fellow goes away; and here I am in a great hurry to get my clothes on, for fear a crowd should gather round us! Bob, did you ever moralize how it is crowds gather? Let anything happen, and a crowd is sure to come along to see how it will end.”
“No, I never morry-lice,” Bob replied, good-humoredly.
“Well,” said the Sage, fetching a great sigh, “I don’t know but that you are just as well off.”
One by one the five were now coming along the bank, each one looking pleased, yet crest-fallen.
“C-can we help you in any way, George?” Marmaduke asked.
George looked his indignation. However, he soon recovered his equilibrium, and said, frigidly, “If one or two of you would bring my clothes down here, and if the rest of you would stay up there with that man, to keep him from coming here, I should be very much obliged to you all.”
This was done, and George brought the raft to the bank and dressed, screened by three of his doughty school-fellows.
“I’ll see you all again,” shouted the law-abiding rustic. And he walked away, muttering learnedly about “burglarious incendiarism.”
George was soon dressed, and then he set about liberating Bob, who was still cooped up in his cage.
“I’m afraid this will have to be broken open,” George said.
“Break it, then!” said Bob, glaring fiendishly at his sometime darling contrivance.
The Sage, with the help of the other boys, then forced the top, or roof, off the cage; and Bob was again at large. Poor boy! he did not linger, nor make any threats, but after mumbling in George’s ear, “you’re the best of them all,” set forward at a business-like pace.
Then, at last, the boys got over their fright.
George was quite satisfied with himself, and he looked about him with a peaceful expression on his face that the others tried in vain to assume. But now and then he would glance furtively up and down the river, to the right and to the left.
“What are you looking for, George?” Steve finally asked, breaking the silence.
“I—I—well, its rather strange that a crowd doesn’t come. Now in all that you read, in newspapers or stories, a crowd always gathers.”
“Not generally in murders—in the stories,” Marmaduke corrected.
“Well, this is a pretty nice business!” Will said, ruefully. “I—I’m ashamed of myself!”
“So am I,” said Charles and Stephen.
“George, I couldn’t possibly have swum out and saved that boy,” Charles admitted, frankly. “My heart was beating like a——”
“Yes you could,” George interrupted, not wishing to receive more praise than he deserved.
“How is it that it turned out so badly?” Steve asked. “Bob used us very badly; and we got the worst of it when we punished him!”
“We ought to have been merciful, and let him go as soon as Will gave him up to us,” George commented. “That’s a good way to cure some people of meanness,” he added, in a “moralizing” mood.
“Well, now!” Steve ejaculated. “Jim has made off too! I guess he skedaddled while Mr. Reiter was around.”
“Yes; and Bob has left the spoils in our hands!” Will observed. “What shall we do with them?”
“They are not ours, but Bob won’t hanker for them,” Charley replied, jocosely. “Suppose we let the prison float over the falls, with the long rope dragging behind. Perhaps we should not be so melancholy doing that as we were when we made a floating battery of Bob.”
“Hurrah! Hurrah! Bravo! Well done! That’s just what we want! Now, we can sail up to our harbor on our raft, and tow this oriental bird-cage behind, and let it drift away whenever we choose.”
This felicitous expression was made by Stephen, of course.
This programme was carried out, and then the boys went home, feeling that they had had a little satisfaction from Herriman, after all.
Although a crowd refused to gather on the banks of the stream, yet the news of this exploit travelled throughout the village,—which established moralizing George’s theory,—and as each hero passed through his doors, a storm of righteous indignation burst over his devoted head; for very properly, honest parents were scandalized to find that their children could commit such atrocities.
Whether Bob still meditated vengeance is not known, as shortly after this occurrence, Mr. Herriman borrowed some of Mr. Horner’s romances, which so unhinged his mind that he turned gold-hunter,—or silver-hunter, he was not morally certain which,—and removed, with his family, to a far-off Territory, and the six heard of Bob no more.
Poor Bob! The horror of being swept over the falls made a deep, but not lasting, impression on his mind.
As for the six boys, they profited little by that lesson.
It would be wise to close this chapter here; but doubtless the reader is aware that the writer of this tale is not wise.
That night Marmaduke waded through the verb and adverb in five different grammars:—one, a dog’s-eared, battered, and soiled volume, which his father was supposed to have studied in his youth; another, a venerable ruin, which, tradition said, had been his grandfather’s; still another, his mother’s, whose bescribbled fly-leaves held the key to a long-buried and almost forgotten romance; his little brother’s “Elementary;” and his own “Logical and Comprehensive.”
What wonder is it that the poor boy went to bed with an aching head, feeling, like Stephen, that it is “all a muddle,” and that he did not understand it at all?
The object is not to ridicule the noble science of grammar, but to point the finger of scorn at those grammarians who suppose that children can understand that science; and also to check those juveniles who flatter themselves that they are perfect in it.
The summer holidays were again at hand. Before school closed, however, the head master, Mr. Meadows, intended to give a prize to the “student” who should write the best composition. Each one was at liberty to choose his or her own subject; and the whole six—except, perhaps, Steve and Jim—were resolved to do their best to win.
Of course this prize was to be given with due ceremony and parade. Still, it was not thought that any thing specially noteworthy would take place, and the affair would not be brought up except to show the mournful blunder made by Will.
A few days before this, the four most distinguished heroes—Will, Charles, Stephen, and George—assembled at their favorite resort, a mossy bank bordering the river. Here they hatched a horrible plot—a plot far exceeding in enormity and inhumanity the pitiful one contrived and executed by Bob on this same river a week or so before.
In order to show that these boys had no notion to what lengths their unchecked fancy might lead them, their whole conversation on this memorable occasion is given.
“Boys,” Charles began, “I wish we could plan some amusement for the holidays—something that would make it lively.”
“I think we have had enough of playing tricks,” Will said with disgust.
“We are older and wiser now than we used to be,” Charles replied, “and we should have more sense than to get ourselves into trouble any more.”
“What about Bob’s punishment?” asked George. “Didn’t we get into trouble enough then, and is that so very long ago?”
“Exceptions prove the rule!” Charles triumphantly retorted.
“Well, what is it that you mean to do?” Steve inquired lazily.
“Oh, I don’t know; nothing in particular;” Charles answered. “But let us lay our heads together, and plan something startling.”
“Very good; but who is the one to be startled?” the Sage asked. “According to all accounts, we boys have startled the inhabitants of this village quite enough. Only the other day I heard a good old lady say, in speaking of us, ‘Those awful boys! They carry consternation with them!’”
“Of course;” put in Steve. “And now that we’ve got our reputation up, we must keep it up. It would be very wrong for us to let our talents dwindle and rust away; so, Charley, if any new idea has come to you, let us know it.”
“You all know the old house away up this river?” Charles asked.
“Well, I guess we are acquainted with it,” Will replied. “But what about it? What could we do there?”
“It seems to me that it would be a good thing to go there and inspect it. I never went through it, but I should like to do that now. And when we get there, we should feel so romantic that we might hit on something—we might even lay a plot!”
“What would the owner say to us for inspecting his house?” George asked.
“Don’t you know that it has no owner?” Charley asked, in some surprise. “I’ve heard my father say that there has been a sign with ‘For Sale’ on it swinging there for twenty years. It’s such a crazy wreck that no person will rent it; and I guess by this time it is a heap of ruins, and not worth tearing down and carting away. There is only half an acre of ground belonging to it, and likely that is full of great weeds. The man who owns the place has more property, and he lets this go to ruin without remorse; but every year he comes along and picks the ten or twelve apples and pears off the old trees in the yard. He doesn’t care any more for it, and the house has been empty so long that it’s called ‘Nobody’s House.’ No one cares to live in such a place, so lonesome and gloomy, and with those ghostly fruit-trees and the neglected fence, all looking like spectres. In fact, there is a story that the place is haunted!”
“You seem to know all about it, Charley,” said Steve. “I’ve seen it a long way off, and I’ve heard that it is haunted, but that is all.”
“Yes, I asked pa to tell me about it, for I want to go and explore the place some day,” Charles replied. “And it seems to me that it would be fun for us all to go some day. What a hubbub there would be if we all got there together! And I’m certain the ‘owner’ wouldn’t care, if we tear the old ruin all to pieces.”
“That’s a good idea!” said Steve, with sparkling eyes.
“Don’t you see, we might even take up our quarters there, it’s so far out of the way,” Charles continued. “No one would come to molest us; for more people than you suppose, believe the house is haunted, and never go near it.”
“I see what you’re thinking of,” said Steve. “You mean to bring that old ghost back to life!”
“Well, that might be done for a little by-play, but that isn’t what I meant,” Charley returned. “I know that boys in stories try to raise a ghost or two sometimes, when everything else fails them, but it wouldn’t be a profitable business for us. We don’t want to copy after such vagabond heroes; let us strike out in another line.”
“Well, if you have laid any plot, tell us what it is,” Stephen said impatiently.
“Boys, I want to hatch a plot, with that shell of a house for our head-quarters; but I want your help, for I don’t know how to go to work. As I said before, I haven’t thought of any thing yet.”
“Don’t tell us what you ‘said before,’ Charley;” said Will. “It sounds too much like a lecturer reminding the people of what he has said, just as if he thought they didn’t pay attention enough to him to remember a word of his speech.”
“Well, boys, I have an idea at last,” Charles said slowly, after a long pause. “Let us persuade some one to go there, thinking a great villain has a prisoner there.”
“Pshaw! Who would believe that!” said George, contemptuously.
“Wait till we get everything arranged,” Charles rejoined grimly. “This is a good idea, George, and I can prove it to you. And now that I have thought of it, I am going to work it out. We might even compose a letter, begging for help, and seeming to come from some lonely prisoner in that house, guarded by jailers and villains, and afraid of being put to death.”
“I don’t know who would be foolish enough to be caught by such a letter,” George replied laughingly.
“Well, let us try it, anyway; and if we succeed it will be capital sport,” said Stephen, interested already in the scheme. “But who will be the victim, the fellow to be imposed on?” he asked suddenly. “Surely none of us, after what we have said, will be foolish enough to be trapped.”
“Hardly,” said Charles, with a smile. “But Marmaduke isn’t with us; let us make him the dupe.”
“Why single out Marmaduke?” asked Will.
“Well, the victim must be one of ourselves, and Marmaduke knows nothing about our plot, of course. And besides, he is so full of mysteries and romance that if he should get such a letter, he would believe every word in it, and be mad to plan a rescue. His notions about such things are so queer that it will do him good to be wakened up.”
“If Marmaduke is the one to be awakened,” George said, “I think your plan may succeed very well; because, poor fellow, he is always expecting to light on some prodigious mystery. I must give in, Charley, that it would be fun to drop such a letter some place where Marmaduke would be sure to find it, and then we could hide ourselves and see the result. How he would rave at the thought of rescuing a captive!”
“Doesn’t it seem to you, boys, that it would be rather a mean trick to play on anyone, especially on a schoolfellow?” Will asked.
“Certainly it seems mean,” Charles replied, “but it is only for fun, and Marmaduke would enjoy it at the time, and soon get over his anger when we explained everything. Of course, we will be and careful not to do anything too wicked.”
“Well, it is bad to stir up such a boys anger,” Will persisted.
“Let me improve on your plot,” Steve ventured to say. “Let us suppose that a beautiful French young lady was stolen by an enemy of her father’s and brought over to America, and imprisoned in ‘Nobody’s House.’ Let her write a wild appeal for help, which we will drop in Marmaduke’s path.”
“That’s going a little too far,” Charley said decidedly. “I shouldn’t like to meddle in such a desperate game as that.”
“Wouldn’t a French captive be apt to write a letter in her own language?” Will asked, as though he were overseeing that scheme.
“That would be the fun of it,” Stephen answered. “A letter in genuine French would draw a less romantic boy than Marmaduke.”
“Very true,” said George. “But could you write such a letter?”
“Of course not—Mr. Meadows himself couldn’t, perhaps. Ten to one, Marmaduke would think he could do it perfectly.”
“Marmaduke may be rather foolish,” said Charles, “but I doubt whether he would write such a letter, and then be imposed on by it!”
“Do you take me for a fool?” cried Stephen, with theatrical indignation. “Now, Will’s cousin Henry can scribble French like a supercargo, Will says—let us get him to do it.”
“The very thing!” cried Charles and George in a breath. “Come, Will, we are going to do this, and you must help us,” the former requested.
“I don’t like your ideas at all, boys,” Will replied, “but if you are bound to do it, why, I don’t want to be left out, and so I’ll write to Henry, and get him to come here. He spoke of coming soon when he wrote to me last; and now I’ll ask him to hurry along as soon as the holidays begin.”
“You’re a jewel, Will!” all three exclaimed in excitement.
“Oh, we’ll hatch a famous plot, won’t we, boys?” and Steve, the speaker, clawed the ground as though he were a demon or a hag.
“It’s my turn to suggest something now,” the Sage observed. “When Marmaduke sets out for the prison-house, we, of course must go with him. Let Henry and Stephen, or whoever we may think best, slip on in advance, and represent the prisoner and the fiendish villain when we arrive.”
A shout of acclamation greeted this new proposal.
“The plot is getting pretty thick,” said Steve. “And now, what about the ghost in the back-ground?”
“Oh, we might manage to have a ghost appear to Marmaduke, but we can attend to that afterwards,” Charles returned. “Now, Will,” he added, “its your turn to improve on our plot—what do you suggest?”
“I shall leave that for my cousin to do,” Will answered. “Unless I’m out of my reckoning, he will make improvements on the original plan that will astonish us all; for it is as natural for Henry to lay plots as it is for Steve to play tricks.”
“Yes, Henry will make great improvements,” Charles commented. “Well, now that it is settled that the thing is really to be, we must all vow to keep it to ourselves, because if any more boys get hold of it they will spoil everything.”
“Very true,” George observed. “Now, if we want our plot to work well, we must go to this old building and explore it thoroughly, from the cellar floor to the rafters. But our plot can’t come off till holidays begin, nor till Henry gets here and understands it, so there will be plenty of time.”
“If it is such a crazy old hulk,” Will said gravely, “ten to one something will give way, and bury us all under the ruins.”
“We must take our chances,” Steve said heroically.
“There is one great objection to all this,” Will continued. “This building is so far from our homes in the village.”
“Yes, that is too bad,” Steve sighed. “But we won’t mind that when we consider all the fun in store for us. Why not go to the place now? Eh? There’s lots of time, and we are so far on the way.”
“Hurrah!” cried the conspiring four. “Let us be off, as Steve says.”
They arose, and turned their faces up the river. The untenanted house which was to be the field of operations was two miles farther up the river, which flowed past it, but which, at that place, was so narrow that it would require a very wide stretch of imagination to call it anything else than a brook, or creek.
Stephen’s first proposal had been received, when fully explained, as so decided an improvement that he now suggested another addition to the plot. “Boys,” he said, “let us make a man of straw, or something, to look like a scarecrow, and then stow it away in the house a day or two before we do the rescuing. Then when Marmaduke and the rest of us arrive, we can seize on it as the villain, and hang it to a fruit tree. Marmaduke can be rescuing the prisoner at the time, and he’ll certainly think we are hanging the persecutor.”
“We will see about that afterwards,” said George.
“Marmaduke has been more or less a Frenchman in his ideas ever since the day he proudly wrote, ‘Nous a deux chiens,’ or in English, ‘We has two dogs,’” Charles observed, intending to be very sarcastic.
But he could not speak French well—in fact, he could not speak it at all. However, the others thought this must be a very weighty remark, and so they laughed approvingly.
Then Charles continued, as though he took a fatherly interest in the lad: “Perhaps this great conspiracy of ours may induce him to become a good American again.”
Will’s conscience was now at work, and he said as severely as he knew how: “It’s a shame to serve a boy of his notions such a boorish trick, and you boys needn’t flatter yourselves that such a performance will do him a bit of good. Let us explore the house as much as we please; but let us give up the intention of preying on him.”
“No!” cried the others, with fixed determination, “We have hit on this, and we’ll go through with it, if it makes our hair turn gray! Will, if you want to leave us, after all, why, go ahead; but you would be a very foolish fellow to do it. Come, now, give your reasons—what is there so very wicked and horrible in our plot?”
“I am not a moralist, boys, and so I can’t explain it. All that I know is, that it seems a mean thing to do. And, yes, I have a presentiment that something terrible will happen.”
“So have I, boys,” Steve chimed in. “I have the worst kind of a presentiment. But just to prove that presentiments are superstitions and nonsense, I’m bound to help Charley work out his plot.”
“Well, then,” said Will resignedly, “if you will do it, I promise to stick by you through thick and thin.”
“Then it’s settled, boys,” said Charles eagerly. “And whatever happens, we four will stick by each other, and hold on to our plot.”
“Yes,” commented the sage, bringing his learning into requisition, “we four are a cabal, a faction, a junto, a party of intriguers, a band of—”
“—Of good-for-nothing school-boys,” Charles said quickly, not wishing to be ranked as a greater personage than he was.
In due time the house was reached. It was a forlorn-looking building, truly, and in a solitary place; but it was hardly so dilapidated as Charles supposed. It was now old, uncared for, and weather beaten; but when new, had been a handsome and pleasant house, suitable for a small family. It was a story and a half in height, with four or five rooms on the first floor and as many on the second. If built in a less dreary, locality, it probably would never have been without a tenant. But the man who built this wayside dwelling must have had more means than brains.
Even the rough boys of the village shunned this place; consequently, after all these years, there was still here and there a whole pane of glass in almost every window-sash. As for the doors, the best of them had been taken away, and the two or three that remained, were, as may be supposed, worthless and useless.
The floor of the first story was still sound. Up the creaking stairs the plotters went recklessly, and found a state of even greater desolation than below. The rooms here had never been particularly elegant, and now they were filthy and horrible with accumulated dust, mould, and rubbish. The roof was full of holes, through which the water evidently streamed whenever it stormed. The roof was originally set off with two picturesque chimneys; but inexorable Time had already demolished one, and was playing havoc with the other.
Next they went to explore the cellar; but the earth had caved in and partially filled it up, and it was so dark and loathsome that even the hero Stephen hesitated to descend. Then, as the front door had been taken away and the entrance secured with boards, they crawled through a window, and once more gained the pure air.
All things considered, even a pirate would have shrunk from passing a night in this house. But a peaceable, home-keeping ghost, in search of a summer residence, could not have found a more suitable one than this. The parlor would have served him admirably for a bed-room, while the dining room could have been fitted up for a laboratory; and in case any chance comers should intrude on him, he could have buried himself in the cellar, where he would have been perfectly safe.
In fact, this was an excellent building for a ghost’s headquarters; but it would require unlimited faith in romance to believe it a likely place for a prison-house.
Evidently the plotters were dissatisfied with it, and Steve said disconsolately, “Well, such a rum old bomb-shell of a hole I never saw! I guess our plot will have to find other quarters, or else be given up.”
“Oh, we can come here and tinker it up,” Charles said hopefully.
“Yes, it’s bad enough; but it’s a good deal better than Charley seemed to think,” Will observed. “As Steve says, or means, it isn’t exactly the place that a French villain would choose for a prison, when the whole world is before him.”
“Did we decide how the Frenchman was to bring his prisoner from France to our sea-coast, and then on to this place?” George asked, beginning to have a just appreciation of the difficulties that lay before them.
“It will be safe to leave all that for my cousin to arrange,” Will said proudly. “He will make everything clear in the letter, I’m sure.”
“Of course he will,” Steve said promptly. “Now, I say, boys, there is one thing that puzzles me: this place is worth exploring and I should like nothing better than to ransack it again; but why have we never been here before?”
“Exactly;” chimed in the Sage, as another doubt arose in his mind. “Charley, if this place is really so worthless, and if it is free to all, why haven’t we been in the habit of coming here often, to fool away our time?”
Charley reflected a moment, and then said, boldly, “Well, if we look at it as a play-house, it’s too far gone for that; and if we look at it as a heap of romantic and interesting ruins, it isn’t gone far enough,—not destroyed or broken down enough, for that;—so why should we want to come here, except on account of our plot? There’s nothing else to draw us; and ten to one we should never have thought of coming here at all, if it hadn’t been for the plot. And as for being a place worth keeping up, I don’t know about that; but the man it belongs to doesn’t seem to think it is. Why, boys, we can have it all to ourselves; it will be just the place for our prison.”
“Well,” said Steve, “by the time we get it cleaned, and scoured, and, tinkered, and made respectable and ship-shape, we shall all be good housekeepers, and housemaids, and masons, and carpenters, and tinkers, and—and—. Boys,” suddenly, “we needn’t stand here staring in at this window, when we haven’t been through the garden yet.”
The yard, or garden, was then viewed, as suggested; and certainly it did not seem as though care or labor had been bestowed on it for many years. It was overrun with a growth of luxuriant weeds and thistles; and Charles,—the head plotter till Henry should arrive,—after escaping, by a hair’s breadth, from being swallowed up in an out-of-the-way and only partially covered old well, concluded that they had had glory enough for one day, and proposed that they should go home.
So the heroic four turned their faces homewards, and jogged on, plotting and exultant.
That night one of them was troubled with fitful and uneasy dreams, in which he saw Marmaduke struggle manfully with frightful monsters, fashioned of old clothes and villains; whilst hideous French whales soared overhead, winked their wicked eyes, and swore they would catch every boy and dismember him in the deserted and spectre-peopled house.
When the dreamer of this dream awoke, he muttered: “Well, this is a presentiment; but, to prove that presentiments are humbugs, I’ll go through with this plot of ours, if—”
Further comment is needless.
It is cruel in a romancer to anticipate, but sometimes it is necessary in order to make both ends meet. In this case, it is justifiable; therefore it may be said that as soon as the holidays began, frequent journeys were made to ‘Nobody’s House,’ and the sound of the hammer and the saw, together with strains of popular airs, rang out in its deserted chambers. The plotters worked with a will, and with the utmost disregard for the noxious vermin which abounded in their midst, and which they did not attempt to exterminate. Their efforts were rewarded; for the house was so transformed that the ghosts, who, in their heart of heart, they fancied inhabited it, would have failed to recognize it.
In the upper story a dangerous place was found, where a person might fall through the floor. This was marked out and avoided.
In this world everything proves useful one day or another; and this house, after lying idle all these years, after being a nuisance to its owner, a by-word in the community and a reproach to it, was at last to prove of the greatest usefulness to these boys and to the writer of this history.
It is now in order to return and chronicle the events that took place before the holidays opened.