Will was now at work on a very learned dissertation on “Philosophical Ingenuity.” That is the name he gave it,—but the name had nothing in common with the subject, “Socialism” would have been quite as appropriate,—and according to his views, he handled it in a graphic, original, and striking manner; and he was firmly convinced that he should make a very good thing of it.
Poor boy, it was too bad, after all the pains he took.
What was too bad?
This. The same evening on which he wrote out his composition for the last time, he sat up late and wrote to his cousin Henry, inviting him to come and pay them a visit in the holidays.
When this boy (Will) gave Stephen gunpowder instead of fire crackers, and again when he loaded Henry’s pistols with wads, his mistakes were glossed over, and he himself was laughed at, rather than blamed. But now the truth must be made known; he cannot be excused any longer. Right over his eyes, where the phrenologists locate order, there was a depression.
There, the secret is out, and the writer’s conscience is easy.
Boys, it is hard to have to deal with a hero who is not a paragon; but you must be indulgent, and we will do our best.
After finishing and directing the letter to his cousin, Will went to bed and slept peacefully, little dreaming of the thunderbolt which would soon burst over his head, and which he himself had prepared.
Next morning he found his writing materials strewn over his table in great confusion, and in a lazy, listless manner he set to work to put them to rights.
In order to keep his composition, or “essay,” perfectly clean, he intended to put it into an old envelope. Alas, poor boy, he made a blunder, as usual; and mistaking the composition for the letter, he thrust it into the envelope directed to Henry, which he sealed on the spot, and stowed away in his pocket. Then he put the letter into the old envelope and put it carefully away in his satchel.
Not one boy in fifty could possibly have made so egregious a blunder, but nothing else could be expected from Will.
On this eventful day, the “essays,” as Teacher Meadows saw fit to call them, were to be read, and the prize was to be delivered over to the “successful competitor.”
Full of his expected triumph, Will set out for school. He knew that his composition was good, and he could judge what the others’ would be. He was a little uneasy about George and Charles, but as for the rest—pshaw! the rest couldn’t write!
He imagined he saw his schoolmates watching him as he went home that evening with about the biggest book ever printed. He even heard their disappointed tones, and saw their sullen and envious looks, as he passed through the streets.
And that old lady who often cast admiring glances towards him—she would call next day and say, “Well, Mrs. Lawrence, your boy is just the smartest boy in the whole village.”
In a day or so Stephen would drop in and let him know what was said about it by the villagers in general, the schoolboys in particular.
And when his uncle and aunt heard the news, they would certainly be overjoyed, and send him (just what he wanted, of course) a monkey! As soon as it could be done, his father would buy him a little gun.
Full of these dreams, he went on, stopping at the post office to send, as he supposed, his letter to Henry.
Time wore away, and the hour for the “essays” to be read, came at last. Teacher Meadows took his seat, and they were laid on the desk before him. Good man, he himself would read them all, lest the “composers” should not do themselves justice.
Only a dozen or so had competed for the prize, but all these had done their best, and the handwriting was so plain that it was a pleasure to read it.
A few of the competitors’ parents and “well-wishers” were present, “to see justice done to all,” as they pleasantly put it. But they served only to increase the master’s pompousness and self-esteem, and the “essayists’” bashfulness and inquietude; while they themselves were surely neither very much instructed nor very much delighted.
In fact, the truth was probably forced home to the more intelligent of the audience, that schoolboys and schoolgirls who would soar to the pinnacle of fame by attempting to write beyond their capabilities, generally find themselves floundering about in the slough of ignominious failure.
Mr. Meadows certainly read the different compositions with great care and earnestness, and took as much pains with the worthless ones as with the tolerably good ones.
By some chance, Will’s was the last to be read, and dead silence was observed till it was finished.
Whenever a new idea had struck the boy, he had set it down without the slightest regard to consecutiveness; and if the same idea was afterwards seen in a different light, he had promptly expressed his views, though in the midst of a paragraph.
A mere handful of words had been sufficient for him on this occasion, and these were repeated with unwearied persistency. A schoolboy writing a letter excels in repetition, at least.
If either Mr. or Mrs. Lawrence had reviewed it for him it would not have been so incomprehensible.
The letter ran as follows:
Dear Henry,—I am going to write to you all about us boys and our doings, and tell you all about a great plot that all of us are going to have. I received your letter of last month safe and sound, and I expect you expected to hear from me right off. But, Henry, I’ve had all sorts of things to do, and just now we boys are trying for a prize. I expect it will be a beauty. I would not write till it’s all over, but we boys want me to write to you right off to come down and help us in a plot we’ve got made up to impose on one of our number. I’ve been puzzling over my essay for the prize for nearly three weeks or more (the boys here don’t know that) or I should have written before; and so, just to please them, I’m sitting up late and writing to-night instead of day after to-morrow.
They expect it will be the most tremendous fun that ever was, and of course it will. I’m rather tired of playing tricks, but they say this isn’t playing tricks at all. In your last letter you asked me if the boys were the same rum old poligars that they used to be. I don’t know what that means, Henry, but I guess the boys are just the same—only worse. Well, Henry, I guess I’ll try and give you a better idea of them than I did when I was with you. You know all their names; so first there is Charley. He is a capital good sort of a fellow, and he often helps me. But he is a very queer sort of a fellow, and he thinks it’s tremendous big fun to use big words when he talks with us—well, so do the others. It seems natural for George to use them, but I don’t know why Steve does. I expect he thinks it’s tremendous big fun too.
Stephen is a great fellow to play tricks. My father says if he lives, and keeps on at this rate, he and the law will meet with violence some of these days.
But I hope Stephen will never get into such trouble. He makes us laugh more than all the other boys put together, and I expect when you come down and we get fairly started rescuing the captive, we’ll laugh ourselves sick in bed. Marmaduke, he’s the one, is not to see you till in the haunted house.
Charley likes to have me tell him stories about the demon. Marmaduke—he’s the next one to tell about. We boys are not very well satisfied with the way we get on in French. We haven’t a genuine Frenchman for a master, as you have. We all like Mr. Meadows, but he has not the knack of making us understand French, though he is a splendid teacher in other things. But the boys all say that Marmaduke is satisfied.
Because he can write “A red-haired sailor dressed in blue says the physician’s house is burnt,” “The king’s palace is built on the river,” “The neighbor’s wicked little boy has stolen the carpenter’s hammer,” and so on, he thinks he and the French language understand each other. Mr. Meadows himself isn’t satisfied with the Method he uses. One boy here says the reason he doesn’t get a better one is because he studied it when he was a boy, and, etc., etc. But that is a very mean thing to say, eh, Henry? and I don’t believe it a bit. That’s the reason we want you to come, to write us a good letter in French. George is a nice boy. He always says, look here, boys, when he has something on his mind. He reads a great deal, but it doesn’t spoil him from being a boy a bit. Ask him what he reads, and he’ll say, Oh, anything from an almanac to an unabridged dictionary, and I expect that is so. Marmaduke is just the wildest boy in his notions that I ever saw. The boys mean to take advantage of this, and delude him. But I have explained all that. Jim always, generally, goes with us, and he is the most first-rate coward that I ever saw. We’ve shut him out this time. But he is a nice fine boy in lots of things.
In reading over what I’ve written I’m afraid I haven’t explained our plot at all, Henry; but it’s too long to explain now, because I’m tired, Henry, and I expect to see you soon, Henry, and then I can explain it better than I could in writing. Perhaps I’ve written too much about the boys, but you know just how much I think of them. They are all good fellows and we would do almost anything for each other. We don’t care much for the other boys here, only ourselves. I can tell you this much about our plot, we pretend to rescue a prisoner out of an old house. George calls it the necropolis, and Charley the scare-crow’s factory; but Stephen has a better name—at least, it sounds better. He calls it the Wigwam of the Seven Sleepers. Last time I forgot to ask you to excuse my writing, so I might as well now, this time. I’m too tired to write any more this time, and my letter is pretty long, anyway. Don’t wait to write again, but come as soon as possible next week, for our plot will come off as soon as possible.
I am, I was, and I always mean to be,
Your Sleepy Cousin Will.
Teacher Meadows read this remarkable letter as though uncertain whether he were asleep or awake. It would be difficult to describe the effect on the “audience.” They were not particularly emotional people, but this letter seemed to affect them strongly.
Poor Will! his cup of sorrow was full! The first words told him the mistake he had made, and he listened, with the anguish of despair, while Teacher Meadows read on remorselessly to the end. He could neither creep under his seat nor steal out of the apartment. He knew that every eye was fixed upon him—oh, what would people think! Once, when the letter was nearly finished, he ventured to glance towards some of his school-mates; but their faces were so full of anger, astonishment, and horror, that he hastily looked in another direction.
But in the midst of all this suffering, there was one consolation—his parents were unable to be present. He knew how grieved they would feel, and so he rejoiced at their absence, and bore his misery as patiently as he could.
And yet he was tortured almost beyond endurance. Oh, why had he written so freely about his school-fellows in this letter? Why had he written so disrespectfully about Mr. Meadows, who was always so kind to him?
Teacher Meadows, who scarcely ever spoke unkindly to his pupils, now said to the hero, in a constrained and harsh voice: “I cannot understand how any boy could think such a subject—say, rather, want of subject—and so free an expression of his views, could possibly win him the prize.”
In a low and faltering voice, Will said something about “a great mistake.”
“Oh, a mistake,” said Mr. Meadows. Then he added sarcastically: “That is too bad; for if your friend Henry had received this letter, he would have had a very vivid idea of your comrades’ characteristics and of your teacher’s incapacity.”
Then, remembering that others were present, he checked himself, and said more mildly, “Will, I am disappointed in you; I had formed a much better opinion of you. There, let it pass; I shall say no more about it.”
Poor boy, he was certainly to be pitied! Censure was to him intolerable; and censure before all these people! Truly, he was being punished for his carelessness.
After all, he had not said anything so very wicked about either teacher or school-fellows; and perhaps an impartial judge would have decided that, all things considered, the writer of such a letter deserved the prize. But Mr. Meadows’ judgment was biassed; he felt insulted; and he thought otherwise.
“But,” chuckles the astute reader, “surely Marmaduke could not be duped after that!” We beg your pardon, gentle reader; but if you think that, you are not skilled in the art of writing stories.
Marmaduke, also, was unable to attend school that day; and if you read the letter carefully once more, you will perceive that it is so vague and incoherent that no one except the four in the plot could make anything out of it. Those who heard it would not perceive that any great danger menaced Marmaduke; and even if they should warn him to be on his guard, he would hardly connect this letter with the one he was to receive in due time. No; Marmaduke would be as unsuspicious as ever, no matter how much he might be warned.
And thus it happened that Will’s muddled wits preserved the plot.
But the other boys! Ah, they had reason to feel aggrieved and insulted!
All except George were indignant at poor foolish Will. Mr. Meadows had decided that the odds were in favor of George, and, much to the chagrin of four ink-loving youths who knew they would win, he bore away the prize. He was a philosopher, but not a stoic, and now supreme content played over his visage. In fact, he felt so joyous and exultant that he could laugh at Will’s blunder.
Not so, the others. Out of sight and hearing of the people, they pounced on Will, (figuratively speaking,) and glared at him with the most ferocious and horrible expression of countenance that they could put on.
Even good-natured Charles was vexed to be thus openly criticized, and he said sullenly, “Well, Will, I guess you needn’t call our plot mean after this.”
Will heaved a sigh, but said nothing.
“Look here, boys,” the winner of the prize interposed; “suppose that one of us had been asked by a cousin a long way off to give an opinion of his school-fellows, would it have been as mild and as sincere as the one Will gave? I know that a great many boys would have said far meaner things than Will did; for, when a boy comes to speak of his school-fellows, he will hardly ever say a word in their praise. I’ve often wondered why it is,” musingly, “and I think sometimes a boy is a blockhead, anyway. Well, perhaps it isn’t so; perhaps I’m mistaken. Come, Charley; be just to poor Will.”
“Listen to the orator!” mockingly observed a defeated competitor [not one of the six]. “He talks as though he made it a business to study a ‘school-fellow’s’ habits!”
“The prize has made an oracle and a hero of him,” chimed in another, who probably felt that there was more or less truth in the Sage’s remarks.
“What’s the name of his prize, anyway?” queried still another defeated one, with considerable interest in his tones, but not deigning to glance towards the victor.
“Oh, it’s some mighty good book, I suppose;” answered the first speaker. “In fact, so good, that it’s bad!”
The four inky-fingered youths who knew they would win, thought this so comical that they laughed derisively.
George’s eyes flashed fire and his blood boiled, but he said, as calmly as he could, “I’ve often noticed that boys that guess at things hardly ever hit the mark. Now, your ideas about this prize are very wild; for it’s about a midshipman’s cruise round the world.”
The four defeated ones scowled at him, and one of them said, as he turned to go, “Well, boys, we might as well be off, for these fellows don’t care for us, they say.”
And they strode away, leaving the four plotters together.
It may not be pertinent to the subject to picture here so dark a side of life, but now the reader will understand why the six avoided the society of the other boys of the village, and clung to each other. Poor fellows, with all their faults, they were free from such jealous passions.
As soon as they found themselves alone, George said eagerly, “Come, Charles, don’t be too hard on Will.”
“Well, George, I don’t know but that you’re right in what you said,” Charles admitted; “but it was very unpleasant for us, and what will people think?”
“Pshaw! what do we care about that!” the Sage exclaimed contemptuously, hugging the prize to his bosom. “After all, I don’t know but that Will said more in favor of us than against us; and wasn’t it worse for him than for us? If he can bear it, we can.”
“George is quite right,” Stephen declared. “Will is more to be pitied than all of us put together.”
“I don’t want anybody’s pity,” Will said sourly.
“Marmaduke and Jim got it the worst,” said Steve. “The only thing that troubles me at all, is that our plot is spoiled;” in a doleful tone.
“Spoiled! How is it spoiled?” the Sage inquired. “Marmaduke wasn’t there to hear the letter, and no one else could make any sense out of it.—I—I mean,” he added quickly, “no one would know what it meant.”
“Well, how are we to patch it up again?” Charles asked uneasily.
“I think we had all better make up friends with Will this minute, and get him to write to his cousin again,” George said, smiling brightly.
Charles and Stephen were of the same opinion, but poor Will was in a bad humour, and he said sullenly, “I won’t write to him any more; so that you needn’t make up with me on that account.”
The boys were appalled. George’s words had revived hope in their breast, but now it seemed that their darling scheme must fail; for, without Henry to write the letter and help them forward, it would be only a humdrum affair; and unless Will would send for him, he perhaps would not come—or, if he should come, he would spend all his time with Will, and have nothing to do with them. Consequently, the three crowded round Will, made him so sensible of his own importance, and played their parts so well, that he finally smiled, relented, and promised to do any thing they wished.
“And you will write soon, won’t you?” Charles asked eagerly.
“Yes; I’ll write as soon as I can;” Will returned. “Say, boys,” anxiously, “do any of you know what Mr. Meadows did with my—my letter?”
“Yes; he kept it for a witness against you;” wickedly and promptly answered quick-witted Stephen.
“Jim is the next one for us to deal with,” said George; “and,” sighing profoundly, “there’s the rub!”
Then Charles, who had been reading a novel of the “intensely interesting” sort, said jocosely, “Perhaps we can buy his silence.”
“As the nervous old gentleman said when he gave a nickel to a little boy to stop his noise,” Steve subjoined.
“He will have to be soothed and let into our councils,” the Sage observed, “and perhaps it will be just as well, because we shall need more than five to manage our plot, and ‘the more, the merrier,’ you know.”
“I know something, too; I know that ‘too many cooks spoil the pudding,’” said Steve, in a tone of melancholy foreboding.
“Stephen Goodfellow, we are not cooks!” Charles retorted.
Soon afterward the plotters separated; Will, to go sorrowfully homeward; George, to hasten gladly to his parents and be congratulated on his success; Charles and Stephen to find, “soothe,” and let into their councils, the boy called Jim.
It is sufficient to say that Jim was overjoyed to take part in their plot, though vexed at them for having kept him in the dark so long, and at Will for having spoken of him as a “first-rate coward.”
Thus the bad effects of the exchanged composition were remedied, though mischief enough had been done by causing Teacher Meadows to have a bad opinion of Will. And Will, foolish boy, fancied that by this means he had been cheated out of the prize.
Perhaps it was the best thing that could possibly have happened to him, for, from that day forward, he cultivated order so assiduously and determinedly that in course of time he became more orderly than even George. He vowed to wreak dire vengeance on himself if such a mishap should ever again befall him, and it was noticed by his mother and schoolfellows that his ridiculous blunders were on the decrease. With all his belongings in perfect order, it was much easier to keep out of trouble; especially, as he was also more circumspect in all his movements than heretofore.
An additional advantage. Two bumps, one over each eye, took root, and grew, and grew, and continued to grow, till they bulged out exceedingly. Not knowing the cause of this, Will continued to cultivate order, and his bumps continued to grow and bulge out, till he became the most distinguished looking youth in the village.
Boys, never mind the bumps, but take the moral to heart, and if any of you are untidy, reform before your want of order exposes you to disgrace and pain, as Will’s did him.
On the next day Will wrote another letter to his cousin, in which he invited him to come and pay them a visit. He gave a rambling explanation of the “essay,”—which, he thought, would not only puzzle, but also astound, poor Henry—and avoided mentioning his school-fellows at all. In fact, he had resolved in his mind that hereafter, in writing letters, he would confine himself to the matter in hand, and not discourse on the virtues and vices, the wisdom and folly, of his school-fellows. As for the plot, he said simply that they had “a game on foot,” filling up his letter by giving an interesting record of the weather for the past month, and a touching account of a lump on his horse’s hind leg.
Will posted his letter with a light heart, feeling that his presentiments must have related to the exchanged composition, and that now all would be well.
In the eloquent words of sundry novelists: “It was well for him that he could not look into the future.”
The holidays had now begun, and, as was said above, the plotters spent a great part of their time in fitting up the deserted house, which was to be the scene of their comedy—or tragedy, as the event should prove.
Having done this, the plotters, Jim included, again assembled in solemn council, to deliberate on certain features of their plot. They wished to make themselves thoroughly acquainted with all the details, so that everything should work smoothly.
“Now, when Henry comes,” said Will, “we must meet him at the station, and keep him out of Marmaduke’s sight till he sees him in the ‘Wigwam’ as the captive. Marmaduke will be all unprepared, and will take him for the captive without a doubt.”
“Yes,” Charles assented; “but will Henry consent to be rigged out as a French captive?”
“Oh, he will have to do that,” said Will; “he will have to do whatever we tell him; and we shall have to do whatever he tells us. Oh, we shall work together just like a—a—like a—”
“Like the works of a clock,” suggested Steve, never at a loss for a simile, however inapt it might be.
“Well,” Charles observed, “let us make a being of straw, or old clothes, to look like a discomfited tramp in effigy, and then hang him out of a window up-stairs. Marmaduke will take it for the persecuting captor, of course. And besides, we shall want something to do while Henry and Marmaduke are rescuing each other. This is your idea, Steve,” he added, “and I give you all the credit for it.”
All the plotters were in favor of doing this, and so that question was settled.
Jim—who bore the plotters a grudge for not having acquainted him with their designs till forced to do so—was suddenly struck with a peculiarly “bright” idea. He said nothing to them, but chuckling grimly to himself, he muttered fiendishly: “It would serve ’em right, I guess, anyway!”
Stephen was suddenly struck with a horrible fear; he gasped faintly: “Boys!—say, boys! Oh, dear! Boys, won’t the French young lady be supposed to speak in her own language? And how could Marmaduke understand that?—that is, if Henry could speak it right along?”
The plotters were appalled. With consternation in every face, they stared at each other in utter hopelessness, whilst their beloved plot tottered on its foundations.
But presently the Sage, with his customary philosophy, came to the rescue. Said he: “Look here, boys, all that is necessary is to have the captor and the wicked jailers teach the beautiful captive to speak English, broken English, a little. Alas, it seems to me that this captive will be an endless trouble to us, and I think Henry will wish himself himself again. Yes, I shall be glad when its all over.”
“Never mind;” said Stephen. “Now, this broken English will settle that question; but, Will, can Henry speak broken—I mean cracked—English?”
“Of course he can,” said Will confidently; “he can do anything.”
The self-styled conspirators breathed freely, for their plot was now established on a firm foundation.
The work of fashioning a “being” progressed rapidly; and the day before Henry arrived they put the finishing touches to an object that was a monstrosity indeed. If the curious reader wishes to know what this object, or “being,” or monstrosity, looked like, let him turn to the picture of the fourth giant in his baby brother’s “handsomely illustrated” “Jack the Giant-Killer.” The resemblance between that giant and this “being” is striking.
Yes; they had hit upon their vocation at last; and if they should remove to the haunts of savages in the Polynesian islands, or in the unexplored regions of Africa, and set up in business as idol-makers, their fame and fortune would soon be an accomplished fact.
But this story drags already; so let it be sufficient to add that the “impostor,” as they fondly called it, was lovingly and secretly conveyed to the lone house, and hidden away till it should be needed.
Thus time passed with the plotters. They often had great difficulty in keeping all their movements and plans a secret from Marmaduke; more than once he came upon them in their journeys to and fro, and it was only by using the greatest tact that they prevented him from following them to the old building.
Poor Marmaduke! he was at a loss to know why the boys should act in so strange a manner. He would come upon them sometimes, seated, and talking earnestly; but the moment they caught sight of him, all were silent. At last he began to think that he had offended them in some way—how, he could not guess. However, the time when he should be rudely awakened was at hand.
Henry Mortimer, the boy-lover of the sweet little blue-eyed heroine, was somewhat surprised to receive through the post a very learned dissertation on “Philosophical Ingenuity;” but two days afterwards Will’s letter of explanation and invitation followed it, and then he was all eagerness to be off, as he anticipated having a delightful visit with his cousin and his aunt. But there were other reasons why he was glad to go away from home for a few days, or even weeks. His school, also, had closed for the holidays; and consequently, he saw but little of—(It must be tiresome to the reader to see the writer of this history continually using circumlocution in speaking of this little girl, but as there are private reasons why her name should not be made known, he [the helpless reader] will have to make the best of it.) Moreover, a handsome and clever youth, a first cousin of the little blue-eyed heroine’s, was spending the holidays at her parents’, with her elder brother; and Henry’s feverish imagination (poor boy, he was jealous as ever) immediately conjectured that he and she would fall in love with each other! To be sure they were first cousins; but Henry had latterly taken to the bad habit of reading English novels, and so he let his fears get the better of his judgment, and thought it only logical that she should eventually shake him off, and marry the cousin. As if to confirm his fears, he had seen her, the heroine who had given him the glass ink-bottle, walking down the side-walk, accompanied by the stalwart cousin. This had worked his jealous passions up to boiling heat, but feeling his utter helplessness, he had affected to be unconcerned; and now, to prove how little he cared, he would go away on a visit, and stay—well, perhaps he might stay two weeks.
Preparations were immediately begun, but it was hard for Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer to part with their son, if for only a short time. The “game on foot” hinted at in the letter troubled the latter—the more so, as she was aware of her son’s recklessness, and was firmly persuaded that her young nephew was totally devoid of common sense. But, at last, when the holidays were a week old, the redoubtable hero departed, with repeated warnings to keep out of danger, and to be very, very careful of himself, ringing in his ears.
The same day Will was delighted in two different ways. He received a telegram, directed to himself. Delight number one.
The telegram ran as follows:—
“Your cousin Henry will be there to-morrow morning; meet him.
“M. Mortimer.”
Delight number two.
Will hastened to inform his fellow-plotters of this good news, and joy reigned among them all.
The next morning came, and with it came Cousin Henry. Each one of the heroes, except Marmaduke, was at the depot to welcome him; each one was struck with his commanding appearance; each one thought what a beautiful heroine he would make. Proudly, but very awkwardly, Will introduced them to each other, and then proposed to his cousin that he should bind a handkerchief loosely over his head, so that it should partially conceal his features.
“What for?” asked Henry, with surprise. “I haven’t the tooth-ache, nor I’m not ashamed to be seen.”
“Yes, but there’s a boy here not in our plot; and if he should happen to see you, all would be spoiled,” Will pleaded.
“We might meet him, any minute, Henry, for he’s always prowling round at this time of day,” Stephen chimed in.
Stephen and Henry looked each other full in the face: congenial spirits met.
“Well,” said Henry resignedly, “go ahead, and trick me out as you please.” Then, a woe-begone look overspreading his face, he added: “There is no one here to know me, so that it makes no difference how I am trussed up.”
Ah! his heart was with the loved ones at home, and he cared little what these boys did with him.
But “tricked out” and “trussed up!” Those words took well with the simple village boys; they held their breath for admiration.
Then the cleanest handkerchief (which was Henry’s own) that could be found, was bound about his head, so as to flap over his mouth unpleasantly, and wanton in the sultry July breeze.
Needless precaution, for nothing was seen of Marmaduke.
Weary as Henry must have been after his long journey, he was hurried away to one of the boys’ retreats, in a retired quarter of Mr Lawrence’s garden. At first the boys were quite reserved, for Henry had been represented to them as a very extraordinary personage; but in the course of half an hour they became as well acquainted with him as if they had known him from the days of the plesiosaurus dolichodeirus.
For a full hour they talked almost at random; narrating their late adventures with Bob, touching gingerly upon Will’s last lamentable blunder, and giving a minute, but bewildering and disjointed, account of their darling scheme.
Then, after Henry had received confused notions of various matters, the party dispersed; and the poor boy was allowed to see his aunt and uncle, wash, partake of some food, and snatch a wink of sleep.
They had appointed to meet early in the afternoon, to discuss their plot in all its bearings, and to have Henry compose the vexatious letter; but he and Will spent a short but very pleasant time in each other’s company, and when the hour came for them to repair to the rendezvous, the former had grasped the boys’ idea, and mapped out his own course.
To say that Henry was delighted with this plot, would be to do him gross injustice—in fact, to speak out boldly, since yesterday the writer has racked his brains in a vain endeavor to hit upon some single adjective that would adequately describe the boy’s ecstasy.
“Here we are!” Steve joyously exclaimed, as the last one of the plotters arrived at the rendezvous in Mr. Lawrence’s garden. “And now, then, let us go to work.”
“Are you perfectly sure this Marmaduke will believe the letter is genuine, and fly to the rescue?” Henry asked dubiously.
“He would believe anything, Henry,” Charles rejoined “And the more romantic the letter is, the more he will believe it.”
“Why,” said Steve, “I shouldn’t be surprised if he falls in love when he meets you all tricked up—tricked out—as a heroine!”
Henry smiled grimly, but said nothing.
“Oh, no,” said George dogmatically. “Henry’s eyes are blue, and so are Marmaduke’s; and you know—at least, I’ve often read—that people alike in that respect seldom fall in love with each other.”
Oh, how indignant Henry was! Who was this impertinent little boy, who had opinions (and such opinions!) on all topics?
“Are you in the habit of reading love-stories?” he asked curiously.
“No,” said the Sage slowly, “I’ve never read many genuine love-stories; I don’t care much for them; they’re not solid enough.”
“You’ll see the day when you’ll care to read nothing else,” said Henry, melodramatically.
Perceiving that the plotters were looking at him intently, he said hurriedly, for he did not wish these boys to guess his secret, “You haven’t told me yet when the plot is to come off.”
“We never settled that ourselves; but if to-morrow evening is pleasant, let us go then,” said Will.
“We have had so many unfortunate expeditions in the night that I think we had better set some other time,” the Sage observed.
“The evening is the time, of course;” said Henry decisively. “We can take care of ourselves, I think, if we try. To-morrow forenoon I must disguise myself and go and see this old house with some of you; and then, as we are coming back, if the rest of you could come up with Marmaduke, I could hide, and look on while he ‘finds’ the letter. Have you settled that point yet?”
“Yes,” said Charles, “we planned to fix the letter in a bottle, and fling it into the river a few rods above him. The river, you know, flows past the house; so that when he reads the letter he’ll think the prisoner threw the concern into the river, and that it floated down. Marmaduke will think that is romance itself.”
“I understand,” Henry commented; “and when we write the letter we can say something to that effect. Now, what do you say to mixing up a priest in the plot?”
“A priest?” they asked, at a loss to guess his intent.
“Yes, a poor old priest, that found out the villain in his capturing schemes, and had to be seized and brought along, or else made away with.
“I—I don’t—see why,” Charles stammered.
“Will tells me that Marmaduke is to suppose I’m the captive, and that I’m to be dressed accordingly,” Henry said lazily. “Now, if you boys can’t see what I mean, keep your eyes and ears open, and when the time comes, there will be so much the more sport for you.”
The plotters did not see what Henry was driving at; but, thinking it must be an “improvement” that had suggested itself to him, they were content to wait.
“Now, we must all swear that none of us will laugh, no matter how droll things may be,” Will observed.
Henry could never be guilty of such a misdemeanor. He was a boy who could do and say the most absurdly ridiculous things without the slightest smile on his face; and the others had tolerable control over their facial muscles.
“Don’t be too hard on Marmaduke, Henry;” said Charles, still at a loss to conjecture to what use the imaginary priest was to be put, and beginning to fear that some great danger menaced hapless Marmaduke.
“I will be careful,” Henry replied.
“About the letter—let us write it,” Steve cried, impatiently.
“I have the materials to write it in the rough,” said Henry. “To-night I shall polish it, and write it off on French note paper, and to-morrow I shall hand it over to you.”
“Make the letter very strong,” Charles suggested. “The more extraordinary and whimsical it is, the more poor deluded Marmaduke will be delighted. Poor fellow, if it is hard to make it out, he will stammer over it till his face and hands get damp with sweat.”
“Doesn’t he understand French very well?” Henry asked.
“None of us do,” Charles dolefully acknowledged.
“Well, is he in the habit of wandering through the dictionary?”
“I—don’t—know,” said Charles, wondering what Henry was driving at now.
“Well, then, I will run the risk,” said the master-plotter, like the hero he was.
Not allowing the curious boys to ask any questions, he continued: “As you don’t understand French very well, I must read the letter carefully to you to-morrow, for it would be jolly fun if none of you could make it out. Well, fire ahead, and I’ll write; but after I polish it, your letter may be very different from the original draft.”
With that he produced pencil and paper, and then slowly, like a blood-thirsty author hatching his plot, a draught was made of the letter; each particular, as it occurred to the boys, being set down at random. When finished, it was, like Will’s letter, so incoherent that it would give a person a headache to read it. But in their own room that night Henry wrote and “polished,” whilst Will looked for words and phrases in his dictionary. They worked long and carefully, and about midnight the letter was transcribed for the last time; and with dizzy head and heavy, blinking eyes, poor Henry tumbled into bed, saying, drowsily, “I have portentous ap—apprehensions that by—by to-morrow night—I shall need—need some—some Cayenne pepper mixture.”
But he slept long and well, and felt himself again the next morning.
We give the letter in French, just as Henry wrote it. This is not done because of a morbid love of writing something in a foreign language—which seems to be so strong in some people, whether they understand it or not—but because of three very good reasons: First, to show the length to which the boys went in carrying out their plot; secondly, to give the good-natured reader an insight into Henry’s character—for a man is best known by his writings; thirdly, because it is a well-known fact that intelligent youths who are studying a foreign language have an eager desire to read, or attempt to read, whatever they can find in that language; and it is well to gratify such healthy desires.
After holding forth in this strain, perhaps it will be as well to observe, that the youth who expects to perfect himself in French by a careful perusal of this letter will be most bitterly deceived.
One word more: Henry, and Henry only, is responsible for this letter, therefore all the praise must be given to him. But is it reasonable to suppose that the French Academy will survive the publication of this letter?
The envelope enclosing the letter bore the following superscription:
“A celui qui trouvera: Lisez le contenu de cette lettre sans délai!”
“To the finder: Read the contents of this letter without delay!” as Henry read it to the boys.
That is good; that is orthodox.
The letter ran as follows: