A puzzling Position.—How to meet the Emergency.—A strange
Suggestion.—Diamond cut Diamond, or a Donkey in a Garret.—Surprise
of Jiggins on seeing the Stranger.—The fated Moment comes.—The
Donkey confronts the Garret Noises.—The Power of a Bray.
THE
boys remained in the cupola for some time longer. Once Bruce had the
satisfaction of feeling the string become suddenly tight in his hands. He
held it thus for a moment, as though to assure himself of the fact and
then gave it a sudden pull.
It yielded!
The whole string was in his hands.
Bruce fell down on the floor, and his whole frame shook with smothered laughter.
“What in the world’s the matter with you, Bruce?” cried Bart.
“The string! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! The string!—ha, ha!—The string!”
“The string? Well, what about the string?”
“Why, I’ve got it. I felt it grow tight,—ha, ha, ha!—and I gave it a jerk,—ha, ha, ha!—and it came,—ha, ha, ha, ha!—and now Pat’s wondering what’s become of it,—ha, ha, ha, ha!—and he’s thinking that the ghost he was shamming must be a real one, after all!”
Either Bruce’s laughter was contagious, or else the boys saw something irresistibly funny in Pat’s supposed consternation at losing the string; but whatever was the cause, the boys burst forth also into fits of laughter, which, however, they tried to smother as well as they could.
And now the question was—what to do.
At first they were going to take the string away, but they finally decided to leave it just as it was, so as to see what Pat would do under the circumstances.
After coming to this conclusion, they decided to go to bed for the night, and defer any further consideration of the subject till the following day, when they would feel fresher and less fatigued. So they descended once more, and separated for the night.
The next morning they found the excitement greater than ever. All who were in the main building had heard the noises of the night, and some in the boarding-house had heard the toll of the bell. Jiggins was sad and exceedingly solemn. Bogud went about saying that none of them could tell what might happen; which language might be taken to signify an undeniable truism; or, on the other hand, it might be considered as a suggestion of the existence of some profound, gloomy, and inscrutable mystery. Bogud rather preferred that it should be taken in that light. Muckle, Johnny, Sammy, and Billymack, all announced that they thought there was something in it, and shook their heads with dark meaning and impressive emphasis over the whole business. Pat was as usual, only a little more so. He was active in all kinds of hints. He refused to tell his own experience of the night, but suggested something grand, gloomy, and peculiar. He looked like one who wished none to question him about the secrets of his prison house. He expressed a mournful resignation to that hard fate which made him the neighbor of the fearful denizens of the garret, and meekly, but firmly, refused the offers of several boys to give him accommodation till the trouble should cease. Also, Pat had an excellent appetite, and his ruddy face and bright eyes belied the cultivated mournfulness of his expression. Bart had gone up into the cupola before breakfast, and had found that the string was taken away. He at once concluded that Pat had been up, and had quietly removed it for the day. If he had felt any consternation at having the string jerked from his hands, he had, no doubt, got completely over it, and probably attributed it to some ordinary cause, very different from the real one.
Pat’s demeanor was such that the boys saw his evident determination to keep up the excitement. He went about as before among the small boys, heightening their fears, and giving any number of dark suggestions to their excited imaginations. Bogud, and Jiggins, and Sammy, and Johnny, and Billymack, and Muckle also sought Pat’s society, and left it more confirmed than ever in their opinions. Jiggins was more than ever convinced that it was a deeply solemn season. In fact, he kept saying so to everybody all day long.
The teachers could not be ignorant of the excitement, but they took no notice of it. They thought it was some, harmless trick of some of the more mischievous boys, which did not call for their intervention as yet, but would probably be revealed in the natural course of things. So the boys were all left to themselves.
At nine o’clock the school was once more opened, after so many delays, and the duties of the new term commenced.
Alas, the first day of a new term! What a horror it brings to the heart of a boy! Fresh from the green fields, from the blue sky, from the fragrant woods, the babbling brook, the sounding shore, the lofty precipice, the bounding wave,—from all these he enters into the gloom, and darkness, and confinement of the school-room. Can there be any wonder that the fresh, young, boyish heart should quail, and his bounding young life droop, and his uproarious spirits flag on that dreary first day? Where is his life, in which of late he so exulted? Where is that grand face of Mother Nature, so dear to every boy? Where are the odor of the fields, the balsamic air of the forest, the invigorating smell of the salt sea? These are the loved memories that afflict him at his dingy desk. The first day at school for a boy is homesickness in its broadest sense. I don’t think anybody can be so homesick as a boy may be; nor can a boy at any other time be so homesick as at such a time as this. Homesickness, moreover, is not merely a pining for one’s actual home, but it is also a yearning for pleasures that have fled,—some lost grace of life,—some sweet charm which has passed away.
Now, none of our boys were at all inclined to what they called “spooniness” but still they could not help feeling the common evil of boy humanity. The school hours passed slowly and heavily, and they tried to cheer themselves with the thought that it would not be so unpleasant in a few days, after they had become used to it.
After school was over, the “B. O. W. C.” engaged in an earnest discussion over the situation. One common resolution was in all their minds, and that was, to put an end to the ghost in the garret. But how was it to be done?
“We might quietly go and tell the fellows all about it,” said Tom.
“Yes,” said Bart, “but that would be too clumsy. What I want is something more artistic; I want a dramatic close, in which there shall be a scene full of effect. If we could only work it so as to let the thing bring itself to a conclusion in some effective way, it would be a great deal more satisfactory to all concerned.”
“I should like some way,” said Bruce, “in which Pat would be conscious that he was completely used up; and I think that among us five we might arrange a counterplot against his plot.”
“Pat certainly deserves some sort of punishment for the way he has been frightening the small boys. He has been at it all day; I dare say he’s at it now. Of course before dark he’ll sneak up and fasten his string to the tongue of the bell again, so as to get all ready for the night’s operations.”
“We can easily find some way, I should think,” said Arthur, “of paying off Pat, without being cruel in any way to him. A smart shock, administered delicately and neatly, would about suit my idea of the case.”
“Yes, but how can we get something which will be mild, yet smart,—delicate, yet effective? That’s the point which we don’t seem able to decide.”
As they talked in this way they were walk? ing up the hill towards the old French orchard? As they neared the place Bart’s eyes wandered over the adjoining pasture field, and rested on the form of that donkey which had borne so large a share in the experiences of the past few days.
“I have it!” he cried, suddenly.
“What?” asked they.
“The donkey!”
“What about it?”
“He shall help us.”
“How?”
“The donkey’s our plan. We’ll play him off against the ghost, and Pat! The donkey was once a ghost himself. He’ll be the very one to do the thing up properly; he’s had experience. After performing so successfully at the hole, at our expense, you can’t place any limit to his capacity. Yes, boys, the donkey’s the very man.”
“I don’t see what good the donkey’s going to be,” said Phil.
“What good?—the very thing we want.”
“How?” asked Bruce.
“Pat won’t come up here to get frightened,” said Arthur.
“And his room is too far up for us to make the donkey bray under it,” said Tom.
“.All very true,” said Bart; “but then what’s to prevent our marching the donkey up into the garret?”
“What?”
“Marching him up into the garret.”
The boys looked puzzled.
“Can you get him up?”
“Of course we can.”
“But think of the horrible racket he’d make going up. We couldn’t keep it secret.”
“O, yes, we could. We could fix him so that he could go up without any noise in particular.”
“How?”
“Why, by putting bits of carpet around each of his feet. We could then get him up stairs somehow. A basket of oats, for instance.”
The boys thought for a time, and then burst into fits of laughter at the idea.
“You see,” said Bart, “it would be the most magnificent thing ever undertaken on this hill. Besides, how splendid it would be to bring our ghost face to face with Pat’s own private ghost, and let them confront each other. What a tremendous, stupendous, overwhelming, and altogether unparalleled uproar there would be! Pat would then be confronted with something different from anything that he had been calculating on. We’d break down the panic of the boys, and it would all end in a roar of laughter.”
“But what a row there’ll be!” exclaimed Phil.
“I wonder which party’ll begin,” said Arthur.
“Pat’s side, of course,” said Bruce.
“I hope,” said Tom, “that our side’ll do his duty.”
“O, we’ll have to keep him up to it. Donkey’s that can bray, and won’t bray, must be made to bray.”
“He’s such an obstinate brute,” said Arthur, “that I don’t believe we’ll be able to do anything.”
“O, we’ll manage that,” said Bruce. “The five of us are strong enough to pull him along if he won’t go himself.”
“We can get a whip, or a stout stick somewhere,” said Phil.
“No,” said Bart; “no beating if we can help it. I’m averse, on principle,
to all corporal punishment. I formed a deep prejudice against it in my
early school days. No, boys: remember what Pope says:
’If I had a donkey,
And he
wouldn’t go,
D’ye think I’d wallop him?
No, no, no.’
On the contrary, I would endeavor, if possible, to secure his cooperation with our plans by the gentler method of moral suasion—oats, for instance.” “Or a good fat thistle.”
“Or a handful of sorrel.”
“Or a cold boiled turnip.”
“Or some delicate chickweed.”
After some further consideration they came to the conclusion to make an attempt to carry out the donkey proposal that very night.
In the course of the evening various things were prepared. A number of bits of old carpet with some cord were most conspicuous among these preparations.
Their plan was based on the supposition that Pat had not heard this donkey bray, and was, perhaps, unaware of its existence here. They were quite sure that he had not been up near the pasture field since the donkey came, and so he was probably unaware of its presence. Consequently when Pat began his little tricks to-night, he would find a startling cooperator.
The boys waited till all were in bed, and then brought down the donkey. They had but little trouble in leading him along. They took him into a grove in front of the Academy, and there tied bits of carpet around each foot.
Then began their efforts to get him up stairs. Here was where they anticipated failure. But to their surprise this was accomplished without any very great difficulty. The little animal, tempted by turnips held in front of his nose, encouraged by strokings, and pulled and pushed along, made a rush up the first flight. He went up as nimbly as a goat, and didn’t make more noise than six men pounding up with all their might. The noise certainly exceeded all that they had calculated upon.
Then came the second flight. The donkey went up triumphantly; but by the time he reached the top he had lost three of the four bandages in which his feet were tied. Here they heard a door open at the foot of the stairs, and Bogud’s voice calling,—
“What’s all that? Who’s there?”
“O, nothing. It’s only a new student,” said Bart, quietly.
Bogud’s door closed again.
They then led the donkey on. But just as they reached Jiggins’s door, it opened, and Jiggins put forth his head, holding a candle out, and blinking at them. To his horror he saw immediately in front of him the shaggy companion of the “B. O. W. C.” But at the same moment he recognized the boys, and this reassured him.
“What—what’s all this?” he gasped. “It’s a nightmare,” said Bart; “we’re taking him up to fight the ghost.”
At this the donkey looked amiably at the figure in the doorway, and making a step forward, put his head through, and was about entering when the occupant of the room banged the door in his face.
The boys then resumed their journey. But the last flight was not passed without a fearful racket, and the donkey lost the remaining bandage. At length, however, they reached the top, and walking softly themselves, they led the donkey over to a point near where Pat’s room was.
Leaving him here, they then retired.
The donkey was thus left alone to himself, and to a cold boiled turnip, which Bart had put under his nose. After a short season of bewilderment, he proceeded to regale himself on this.
The “B. O. W. C.” all separated, and went to bed.
The characters in this drama were left to take care of themselves.
Now Pat, in his room at the end of the long garret, had heard the racket made by the donkey in coming up, and at first did not know what to make of it. At length, however, the noise ceased, and for about half an hour all was still.
Suddenly there came a loud, wild shriek from afar through the long garret, followed by others in succession.
But Pat did not quake, or shiver—not he.
He waited for a few minutes with a pleasant smile of keen enjoyment on his face. Then he went to the window of his room, and pulled a string, which came in from the outside.
And there followed a deep, solemn toll, that broke upon the stillness of the night with a gloomy and awful intonation, carrying terror to many poor little boys, who heard it and quaked with superstitious fear.
The donkey had finished his turnip!
He had begun to reflect on the peculiarity of his situation!
All dark around. No pleasant pasture, no starlit sky—nothing but utter darkness. He felt uncomfortable. He stood fixed in one spot, and the very unusual situation told heavily upon his spirits.
Had he been in some comfortable stall, or some sequestered pasture, he might have lain down and slept the sleep of the donkey. But he had been badgered and deceived, and such a getting up stairs he never had seen.
And now, in the midst of these reflections, there came this uproar of shrieks and tolling bells. It was too much. It was not at all what he was accustomed to.
So he proceeded to enter a protest against the whole business.
The donkey raised his head!
He elevated his tail!
He spread his legs apart so as to gain a firmer attitude!
Then he burst forth:
He! haw! He! Haw!
Heeeeee! Haaaaaaw!
He!
haw! He! haw!
He haaaaaaaaaw!
Heeeeeeeeeee!
Haaaaaaaaaaaaw!
Heeee! Haaaww!
The noise of that terrific bray, as it sounded out, burst forth close by Pat. He was on one side of the partition. The donkey was on the other. He was just about seizing the cord so as to give another pull to the tongue of the bell, when there arose this unexpected, this tremendous interruption. Whether Pat had ever heard the bray of a donkey before mattered not at that moment. He certainly had never before heard a donkey, and an injured donkey too, at midnight, in a garret, close beside him, pour forth, so suddenly, and so terribly, and so deafeningly, such accumulated woes.
Had a cannon suddenly exploded close by Pat’s elbow, he could not have been more utterly overwhelmed.
He sprang back. For a moment he stood paralyzed. Then he jumped at the door. He tore it open. He leaped down the stairs. Bart’s room was at the bottom. He opened the door, burst in, and banged it, and locked it behind him.
Then he stood against the door, making the pressure of his back an additional barrier against the entrance of any pursuer.
Full, complete, and final Revelation of the Great Garret Mystery.—Confession of Pat—Indignation of Solomon.—His Speech on the Occasion.—The Authorities of the School roused.—Pat and the “B. O. W. C.” are hauled up to give an Account.
“H ALLO!” cried Bart, who was roused by
the noise. “Who’s that out there? What’s the row?”
“It’s ony me,” said Pat, in a faint voice.
“You, Pat! Is it you? Well, I’d say I’m very glad to see you, only it happens to be too dark to see anything. Well, Pat, what’s up?”
By this time Bart had got out of bed, and had reached the sitting-room, where Pat was still standing against the door.
“Didn’t ye hair it?” he said.
“Hear it? Hear what?”
“It!” cried Pat. “There’s no mistake this time.”
“O, come, Pat, none of that nonsense. That does very well for the little boys; but I understand it all.”
“Didn’t ye hair it?” cried Pat. “It nairly blew me head off, so it did. An doun hair I coom wid wan lape, so I did—an it afther me.”
“It? What It?”
“Shure you know what.”
“You don’t mean that rubbish about a ghost. I know all about that. You needn’t talk to me that way.”
At this moment the distant bray of the donkey sounded once more. Pat clutched Bart’s arm, and cried,—
“There it is agin. It’s a coomin. O, I knowed it.”
“That!” said Bart, opening the door and listening. “Why, that’s only the bray of a donkey. You’ve heard it often enough—-haven’t you?”
“The bray of a donkey!” faltered Pat. “Sure it’s me that’s heard it.”
“Well, this must be one.”
“But who ivir heard of a donkey in a garret?”
“O, I dare say he’s strolled up there to visit your friend in the cupola.”
And now, Bart, not caring to prolong Pat’s terror, explained the cause of the noise that had terrified him, letting him know at the same time why it was done. He told Pat that they found out about the screech, and the bell, and sent up the donkey so as to give him a little taste of that fear which he was so anxious to give to others. As they had given him a shock, he was satisfied. Had Pat been at all an ill-tempered fellow; he might have resented all this; but as he was one of the best-natured fellows in the world, he showed not the smallest particle of resentment. On the contrary, the moment the load of horror was lifted off by Bart’s disclosure, his buoyant spirits rose at once, and all burst forth to the full swing of his jovial, mirthful, ridiculous, reckless Irish temperament.
“Faith, an it’s me that’s caught—’deed an it is so, thin,” he cried, with a burst of laughter. “An ye got the donkey up to the garret! Sure it bates the wurruld, so it does. An didn’t I hair the noise? but how cud I ivir dhrame it wor that. An ye got him jist close fornist me, so ye did! It wor just in me own air that he hooted, so it wor.”
Pat now grew quite communicative, and told Bart all about it. His motive for creating an excitement was simply to get a chance of laughing at the other boys, who had so often laughed at him. There was no malice whatever in his intention; nothing at all of the nature of vengefulness; but simply a mischievous and thoughtless idea of throwing some ridicule on the boys generally. Bart’s discovery of the truth was known to him, but he did not care for that; he was determined to keep up his little joke as long as it could be kept up. He had been startled that night when the string had been jerked from his hand, but afterwards concluded that it was the wind. The knock at the doors he explained very simply. He had stolen up barefoot, and as the screech sounded, he had struck each door with a stick, and then ran. He was down below before they could see him. All this Pat explained with perfect ease and much merriment, regarding it all as a good joke, not even excepting the last affair with the donkey.
But what, it may be asked, was that screech which had been the beginning of it all?
It was all explained on the following morning.
Early on that morning the donkey had been brought down stairs with little difficulty, but with an immense amount of noise. As the boys brought him out, Pat marched quietly after them, carrying an enormous Owl!
One by one the boys heard the news. The whole school came flocking out to look upon the objects of their late terror. Gradually the whole story came out, and the boys, in their sudden recoil from a general panic, now gave way to the wildest uproar and merriment. A laughing procession followed the donkey to his rural home, while Pat took the owl down into the kitchen to get some meat for it from Solomon.
Meanwhile Solomon had heard of the revelation of the dark mystery, and was running out to satisfy himself, when he met Pat half way.
“O, de sakes, now!” cried old Solomon. “What dis heah scubbry dat hab turn up on dis smilin an ’spicious morn. Whar’s dat ar an’mal what hab ben kickin up sech a ’menjous bobberation, an ob whose ’sploits I hab heard so much? Am dis heah de ’sterious an stror’ny phiantium dat hab frikened dis ’stracted ole nigga man mos to deff?”
“Sure an here he is,” said Pat, holding forward the bird, “an as fine a owl as ye’d wish fur till clap yer eyes on, so he is.”
Solomon stood looking at the owl for a few moments. Then he made a low bow, with absurd extravagance of gesture. Then he burst forth in a strange tone, which seemed like a desperate attempt at sarcasm.
“Mas’r Owl, sah,” said he, rolling up his eyes and spreading out his hands,—“Mas’r Owl, sah, good morn, sah. I’se so drefful glad to see you, sah!—such a ’mendious honna, sah!”
He then made another low bow, after which he went on with an attempt at more scathing sarcasm than ever, in which there was also visible a tinge of something like indignation.
“Mas’r Owl, sah, ar you awah, sah, dat you hab ben ’ferin berry much wid de ’pose ob an aged but spectb’l gem’n ob colla, sah? a pus’n, sah, dat’s bettan a dozen ob you, sah—bein as he is a Granpanderdrum, an ’sides bein fessa ob de cool and airy ’partment in dis yah ’Cad’my—fessa, sah, ob ebba so many yeahs’ stan’in, sah—fren ob de docta, sah, an not a pus’n to be ’posed on, sah? Do you know what you are, sah? You’re a mis’ble darky, sah—no better’n a crow, sah! Do you know what I’m gwino to do, sah, dis bressed moment, sah? I’ve biled turkeys, an chickens, an geese, an ducks, an pattidges, an quails, an snipes, but I hab nebba biled a owl. Wal, dat ar’s jest what I’m a gwine to do now, sah. Yes, sah, I’m ’termined ’pon dat ar. In you go to de pot, body, bones, an beak—horns, tail, an all, sah.”
“An what’s the use?” said Pat: “shure he isn’t a poll parrot, that can talk back at ye an give ye as gud as he gets. He’s ony an owl, an he can’t spake a wurrud, so he can’t.
“Any how, I’se gwine to bile him dis bressed minit.”
“Ah, now, be aff wid ye; go long, an don’t be foolin,” cried Pat, as Solomon made an effort to take the owl; “shure he niver did ye any harrum at all at all. Shure he’s Misther Slocum’s tame owl, so he is, that’s run away, an ben livin in our garret—an I’m takin him back to his owner.”
“Mis’r Sloc’m,” said Solomon. “Well, Mis’r Sloc’m doesn’t lib down heah—he doesn’t. What you a bringin him heah for?”
“Sure he ony wants his mate.”
“His mate,” cried Solomon. “Hab his mate flowed off sides him. Ef I fin dat ar mate ’bout dese yah primises, I’ll bile her to pieces.”
“Ah, be aff wid ye! Shure it’s ony a paice av mate that I want fur the owl.”
“A piece ob meat!” cried Solomon. “Nebba, sah. Dat ar bird hab ’sulted me.”
And he drew up his aged form with severe dignity.
But Pat coaxed and pleaded, and the end of it was, that Solomon was prevailed on to give him a piece of meat. The owl devoured it greedily, and then Pat took him away to his owner.
The bird, as Pat said, belonged to Mr. Slocum, who lived about two miles away. He had received him as a very fine specimen of a screech owl, from a sea captain, who had brought him from abroad, and had got tired of him. Mr. Slocum happened to be in Halifax at the time, and brought the bird home in triumph a few weeks before. During the previous week he had escaped, and had found his way through an open window of the cupola into the garret. Pat had discovered him first, and as his terrific hoot sounded out, frightening the boys, he took advantage of the circumstance to perform a few additional tricks of his own, with the consequences that have been narrated. It was only on the previous day that Pat had found out who was the owner of the wandering bird. He happened to hear people speaking of it in the village store as he was making some purchases. So, now that the whole affair had come to an end, he thought he might as well restore the lively bird to its rightful owner.
Meanwhile the donkey had been taken to his pasture, and the boys returned, and school began, and the business of the day soon engrossed their whole attention.
After school Pat and the boys of the “B. O. W. C.” received a message from Mr. Long, requesting them to come to his study.
For the affair had spread, and the teachers had learned all about it. Of course it was a thing that could not be passed over. After some discussion, however, it was considered that it was not of sufficient importance to be brought before Dr. Porter; and so Mr. Long was requested to see all the boys concerned in the affair, and afterwards report.
Mr. Long’s study was a room situated immediately under Bart’s. He generally left at nine in the evening, and slept elsewhere. Consequently he had not been in the way of hearing those “voices of the night.” It was to this room, then, that the “B. O. W. C.,” together with Pat, bent their steps, trying to conjecture what Mr. Long proposed to do about it.
Called to Account.—Mr. Long and the B. O. W. C.—They get a
tremendous “Wigging.”—Pat to the Rescue.—Mr. Long relaxes.—The
unhidden Guest.—Captain Corhet and the irrepressible Bobby.—Coming
in Joy to depart in Tears.—The Relics again.—A Solemn
Ceremony.—A Speech, a Poem, a Procession, all ending in a
Consignment of the exhumed Treasure to its Resting-place.
AS
they entered the study they found Mr. Long seated in an arm-chair by his
study table. He looked at them with a grave and severe countenance, and
motioned them to seats.
They sat down.
“Boys,” said Mr. Long, in a cold and constrained voice, “None of you will accuse me of ever interfering with legitimate sport, or will think that I am destitute of sympathy with boyish ways and manners. I think you know me well enough to believe that I take a deep interest in everything that can make you enjoy yourselves here; that I want you to love this place with all your hearts, and through all your after lives to look back upon Grand Pré Academy with the most affectionate recollection. That very feeling I have now, and it is this that animates me while I call upon you to give an account of those disturbances in which you have been engaged.
“You see a line must be drawn somewhere,” he continued. “Your affair at the French cellar was not altogether what it ought to have been, and I do not approve of it at all. Apart from the lateness of the hour, there was about the whole transaction an air of wildness—a certain headlong recklessness of sport, which I should rather check than indulge. Still, I have nothing to say about that now. You seem to have gone into that affair with an impetuosity of pure fun, that blinded you to anything objectionable which might have been in it. Besides, you have already told all about that, and in a whimsical way that disarmed all reproof.
“But, boys,” resumed Mr. Long, in a severer tone, “this last affair has been really a serious offence against discipline. The school has been disturbed, it seems, for many nights. There have been all kinds of noises; howlings, yellings, and screechings, of all sorts; rappings and knockings. Now, all these things may be very funny to the contrivers of them, but you are surely old enough to know that they may be excessively dangerous to sensitive minds. Did you not think of the poor little fellows here who might receive a serious mental shock from such disturbances? Is it possible that you could have been blind to all things except your own selfish amusement? Is this the sort of thing that is becoming to you—you,” he repeated, “from whom I hoped nothing but examples of manliness, and generosity, and frankness, and chivalry? I will not believe that it is possible for you to fail in these qualities. I trust rather to what I know of you, and I will attribute all this to nothing except utter thoughtlessness on your part. And it is that very thoughtlessness, if nothing worse, that I blame. It was not worthy of you; it was utterly beneath you. It was a very serious offence.”
The boys fairly writhed under all this, and Bart, with his face flushing scarlet, and his eyes gleaming with excited feeling, was about to speak; but Mr. Long commanded silence with his uplifted hand.
“But what shall I say,” he continued, “to this last business? Here everything reaches a climax. Not satisfied with having thrown the whole school into a panic, and with making the garret seem a haunted place to most of the boys,—a place, in fact, into which none dared to go but yourselves,—not satisfied with all this, you determined upon an act which is sufficient to demand serious punishment. Having already raised an almost intolerable terror in the school, you deliberately proceed to intensify even this, and raise that terror into a perfect anguish. Was not the panic sufficient already? Did you wish it to terminate in some tragedy? Would it have been satisfactory to you if the feeble brain of some of the younger boys had given way under this new terror? if some one of them had suddenly gone mad, as that abhorrent roar, that mixture of howls, and yells, and screeches, and hoots, rising up into an unearthly din, and intermingled with the awful toll of the bell, had burst upon his ear? Such things have happened. There have been, not boys, but men, who have gone mad from things even less terrible than these. Why, when I think of what might have happened, I shudder, and I stand amazed at what I charitably consider your thoughtlessness; though for such thoughtlessness as this, what punishment can be adequate?
“And now,” he concluded, “what have you to say for yourselves?”
All this time the faces of the boys were like fire, and writhing in indignation, they looked back at Mr. Long as he hurled against them what they felt to be unmerited accusations. They had only been concerned in the last affair for the purpose of putting an effectual end to the other. But as they sat there in the consciousness of innocence, they saw that it was impossible for them to explain it. They could not tell what they knew, for that would be to accuse Pat.
“Mr. Long,” burst forth Bart, starting up, with his face in a flame, and his voice trembling with indignation, “every word that you have uttered is utterly and totally undeserved by us. I assure you most solemnly that we have never violated any principles of honor or of chivalry. You do not know the facts, sir, or you would never have uttered those bitter words. You have done us great wrong, sir; we are not deserving of such charges as these. We are innocent; but we are not in a position to explain.”
Bart paused for a moment, and in that momentary pause another voice burst in as eagerly and as impetuously as his own.
It was Pat.
He had started to his feet just as Bart did, but Bart had spoken before him. As soon as he could get a chance he burst in.
“Mr. Long,” he cries, “it’s all a mishtake what yer sayin. As thrue as I’m standin here,—and I’m tellin no lie, so I ain’t,—it was me that did it, so it was. And they knowed it was me, so they did. And it was only to play a little harrumless joke that I did it. I didn’t bring the owl there at all, at all. He coom there himself. He howled, an the ony blame to me wor, that I didn’t tell what I knowed. Besides, I thried till alarrum the boys a bit. Nivir fear that wan av thim same goes mad. They indured the excitemint, so they did. Afther a day or two, I tied a sthring till the bell-knocker, an give it a bit av a pull, an I knocked at the Raw-dons’ dure and at Jiggins’. An I’m the ony wan to blame; an if there’s till be any punishin a goin; I’m the wan that’s going till take it, so I am.”
All these words Pat poured forth with feverish impetuosity, as though anxious to tell everything before he could be interrupted. Not a word did he say about the other boys and the donkey. He left it to be inferred that he was to be blamed for the donkey also. He intended—the warm-hearted Irish lad—that he should be punished for that too.
“Mr. Long,” cried Bart, bursting in, “since Pat has told about the owl himself, we can confess our share. We brought up the donkey.”
“An it worn’t a thrick,” said Pat. “It wor till frighten me, so it wor, an make me stop me bell-pullins an knockins. That’s what it wor. An didn’t I get it! I wor jest pullin the sthring that wor fastened till the bell, whin the donkey let aff a bray that knocked me clain from me oun room all the way down stairs, head over heels, an fut first. That’s what it did. An that’s as thrue as I’m standin here a tellin av it.”
Mr. Long now began to question them, and soon all the facts were elicited. As the truth became known, the severity of his manner relaxed, and his tone became pleasant and kindly.
“Well, boys,” said he, “all this puts the matter in a very different light. The owl came and screeched himself. Pat was only to blame for assisting the excitement. You were only to blame for taking so very violent a way to stop the affair. It might have been stopped without that, if you had simply told all about it. But I see the odd kind of motive you had. You merely wished to surround the denouement, as you say, with such absurd accompaniments, that no boy on the hill would ever dare to hint at a ghost again. Well, I may not like your way of going to work, but I at least understand your motives. I need not say how glad I am at this explanation. I came here under a false impression, and regret that I spoke with such severity. The only thing that I blame about this is, that it was what is called a practical joke, both on Pat’s part and on yours; and that is a thing which I have always endeavored to put down. So now, boys,” he concluded, “let me say—”
At this moment there came a faint rap at the door.
Mr. Long looked at the door, but took no further notice of the sound. Thinking it was a mistake, he continued, in a pleasant tone,—
“Let me say, boys, that I have such confidence in all of you, that I feel sure—”
At this there came another rap, somewhat louder. “Come in,” said Mr. Long.
The door opened slowly. Those in the room were behind it as it opened, and they could not see who was coming. Gradually it opened, and then there stepped forth the venerable form of Captain Corbet. He carried in his arms a little bundle, which he held with the tenderest care; and there was on his face an expression made up of pride, of triumph, and of a certain joyous consciousness which he possessed that he was the bearer of that which would not fail to excite similar emotions in others.
The moment Mr. Long saw him and his burden, he started to his feet, looking very pale.
Captain Corbet stood in the doorway, swaying his shoulders backward and forward, so as to afford an agreeable motion to his tender charge; his head hung on one side, and he looked upon the company with that peculiar expression of benignity which may be seen on the face of some indulgent father who has prepared some rich treat for his children.
“What!” exclaimed the venerable Corbet; “all here—all jined together on this momentuous occasion! An me afeared that some on yew’d miss it! Wal, it air lucky—ain’t it? You see, the ole woman, she went off to see a cousin of hern, that’s got her youngest darter down with the spotted fever,—ony I dare say, arter all, it’s ony the measles. So I see this here young an tender infant, a kerowin in his keradle like all possessed; an I says, Now’s the perpitious momunt; an I says to the offsperin, ‘Doozy wanter see Missr Long, den? Doozy wanter see zee boys? An so he sall!’ Fur, my Christian friens, I promised you, solemn, on that thar vyge; that some day I’d bring the babby. An you, sir, Mr. Long, my benefactor, I vowed to you that sence you’d saved this tender babe from rewination arter his feyther’s laid low, he should come an show you his own self, and look up in your keountenance, through his blue orbs, and smile upon you with his be-yeau-teefulest smile! An thar he air.”
Saying this, Captain Corbet proceeded to remove the coverings from the face of his beloved burden.
Mr. Long stood motionless and mute. His eyes wandered to the window. Captain Corbet was standing in the doorway, barring the passage, and slowly and tenderly drawing aside the veil that hid from view the face that he loved.
Suddenly Mr. Long started.
His resolution was taken.
He walked towards the door.
Captain Corbet saw him not. His eyes, his thoughts, and his heart were all engaged in his delightful employment.
“Ah, captain,” said Mr. Long, hurriedly, “I hope you’re very well. Is there anything I can do for you? If so, I can see you some other time. I’m in a great hurry. I’ve just finished some business which I had with these boys. You will have to be kind enough to excuse me.”
He touched Captain Corbet’s shoulder, and tried to push him gently aside, so as to pass.
Captain Corbet’s hand, which had been removing the coverings, fell slowly to his side. His face turned up and confronted Mr. Long’s with an expression of utter bewilderment, as though the language which he had heard was perfectly incomprehensible. His lips moved, but no sound escaped.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Mr. Long, kindly. “I’m in a great hurry. Will you allow me to pass?”
Mechanically Captain Corbet moved to one side. Mr. Long hurried out. He descended the stairs; he walked rapidly out of the Academy, and down into the village, and far, far away.
Captain Corbet stood at the doorway looking at vacancy. At length he turned. There was a certain blank amazement in his face, as though he could not yet understand what had happened.
“He said he was in a hurry!” he murmured. “He’s gone! actilly—an raelly—and terewly—gone—an sech a chance! Why, it’ll-never come agin, may be. An he’s ben an missed it—lost it—? actilly therrown it away! Boys,” he continued, after a pause, in a hollow voice, “am I a dereamin?”
“O, no, captain,” said Bart, cheerily. “You’re wide awake. Come in and sit down.”
The captain shook his head.
“Pinch me!” said he, in the same tragic tone.
No one obeyed.
Captain Corbet heaved a heavy sigh.
“No,” said he. “I feel that I’m awake. Here’s the babby—here’s its parient. But I must rest, an meditate over this harrowin occurrience.”
Saying this, he walked forward, and seated himself in Mr. Long’s vacated chair.
“Thar,” he exclaimed, after a long silence, raising his meek face, and solemnly regarding the boys. “Thar, it air over! That dream hath past and fled, an the feeble idee I ben a hevin of Mr. Long’s better natoor air totially overtherrown by that muve! For it was a perroud hope of the aged and tew sangu-wine Corbet to give thanks to the man that delivered him from rewination in the most ef-fectooil way, by a bringin of the babby face tew face with his benefacture, an a teachin of the tender infant to summile on the author of his footur fortin. We met,” he continued, as a darker shade came over his venerable countenance. “We met, an I thot we’d feel a mootooil jy. I stood a lingerin long by yonder open portial, a holdin of him in suspense, an a pictoorin tew myself his silent raptoor. Why, do you know, boys, I’d even made up my mind to let him hold the babby,—jest for a leetle,—if he begged hard, an if the infant didn’t cry. That’s what I was a keepin in store for him. What do ye think of that now?”
And after this announcement of his late plan, he looked earnestly at the boys to witness the full effect of that disclosure.
“An what was the result? Did he spering tew meet me? Did he clasp the babe? Did he evince a mite of yearnin or kimpassion? Did he even try to get a sight of the pootiest little face zat ever was—bress him.” Here Captain Corbet began to show signs of growing maudlin, but he checked himself and went on. “He! not he. What did he do, young sirs? You saw him. Bar witness tew what I say. He took his departoor. He felled, like an evil sperrit, at the approach of that cherub. An I—I felt it sore—I felt it—an I feel it still,—yes, I do,—yea, even down to the toes of my butes!”