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The Story of a Bad Boy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich · English · Gutenberg #1948 · 334,531 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Story of a Bad Boy

Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich


        
Release date: February 26, 2006 [eBook #1948]
                Most recently updated: May 28, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1948

Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF A BAD BOY ***




THE STORY OF A BAD BOY


by Thomas Bailey Aldrich




Chapter One--In Which I Introduce Myself


This is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a pretty
bad boy; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy
myself.

Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here
that I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story of
a bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young
gentlemen who generally figure in narratives of this kind, and partly
because I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was an
amiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and no
hypocrite. I didn't want to be an angel and with the angels stand; I
didn't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. Wibird
Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn't send my
little pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, but spent
it royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a real
human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no more
like the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is like one
that has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.

Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him at
recess with the following words: “My name's Tom Bailey; what's your
name?” If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new
pupil cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn on my heel, for I was
particular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins
were deadly affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the
like, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.

Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this
time--lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not? Phil
Adams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where I
picture him to myself with his head closely shaved--he never had too much
hair--and a long pigtail hanging down behind. He is married, I hear;
and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together,
sitting cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skyblue
tower hung with bells. It is so I think of him; to me he is henceforth
a jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is a
judge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that
remarkable nose which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkled with
freckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to think
of little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge! What would he do to me now, I
wonder, if I were to sing out “Pepper!” some day in court? Fred Langdon
is in California, in the native-wine business--he used to make the best
licorice-water I ever tasted! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South
Burying-Ground; and Jack Harris, too, is dead--Harris, who commanded us
boys, of old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill. Was it
yesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join the
shattered Army of the Potomac? Not yesterday, but six years ago. It was
at the battle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew
rein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery! So they found him--lying
across the enemy's guns.

How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died! I wonder what
has become of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School at
Rivermouth when I was a youngster? “All, all are gone, the old familiar
faces!”

It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, for a moment, from that
Past which has closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they live
again in my memory! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere even
Conway, mine ancient foe, stands forth transfigured, with a sort of
dreamy glory encircling his bright red hair!

With the old school formula I commence these sketches of my boyhood. My
name is Tom Bailey; what is yours, gentle reader? I take for granted
it is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get on famously
together, and be capital friends forever.




Chapter Two--In Which I Entertain Peculiar Views


I was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance to become very well
acquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to New
Orleans, where my father invested his money so securely in the banking
business that he was never able to get any of it out again. But of this
hereafter.

I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it didn't
make much difference to me where I was, because I was so small; but
several years later, when my father proposed to take me North to be
educated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kicked
over the little Negro boy who happened to be standing by me at the
moment, and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of the piazza,
declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees!

You see I was what is called “a Northern man with Southern principles.”
 I had no recollection of New England: my earliest memories were
connected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old Negro nurse, and
with the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house--a
whitewashed stone house it was, with wide verandas--shut out from the
street by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was born
at the North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon the
misfortune as something so shrouded by time and distance that maybe
nobody remembered it. I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee,
because they talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way it made
me feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or at
least in one of the Border States. And this impression was strengthened
by Aunt Chloe, who said, “dar wasn't no gentl'men in the Norf no way,”
 and on one occasion terrified me beyond measure by declaring that,
“if any of dem mean whites tried to git her away from marster, she was
jes'gwine to knock 'em on de head wid a gourd!”

The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air with which
she struck at an imaginary “mean white,” are among the most vivid things
in my memory of those days.

To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as that
entertained by the well-educated Englishmen of the present day
concerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into two
classes--Indians and white people; that the Indians occasionally dashed
down on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preference
to children) whom they caught lingering in the outskirts after
nightfall; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, and
that it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing style
of architecture I took to be log-cabins.

With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, the
reader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of being
transported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me for
kicking over little black Sam, and otherwise misconducting myself, when
my father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam--I
always did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me.

My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violent
outbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw written
in every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up,
my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library.

I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and questioned
me. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of my
objections to going North, and proceeded at once to knock down all my
pine log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I had
populated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.

“Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories?”
 asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”

“And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered with
beads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his enemies?”

“Well, sir, I didn't think that exactly.”

“Didn't think that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me.”

He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemed
to have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I did
not clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel so
badly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible that
Grandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior.

My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to giving
me a clear and succinct account of New England; its early struggles, its
progress, and its present condition--faint and confused glimmerings
of all which I had obtained at school, where history had never been a
favorite pursuit of mine.

I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the contrary, the proposed
journey to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promised
myself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely at
rest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go on
board the ship--the journey was to be made by sea--with a certain little
brass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with the
tribes when we landed at Boston.

I couldn't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previously
the Cherokees--or was it the Camanches?--had been removed from their
hunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the red
men were still a source of terror to the border settlers. “Trouble
with the Indians” was the staple news from Florida published in the New
Orleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attacked
and murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done in
Florida, why not in Massachusetts?

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. My
impatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for me
a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnight
previous to the date set for our own departure--for both my parents were
to accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one night
in a dream), and my father's promise that he and my mother would come to
Rivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation.
The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy; so I always
called her--she was a lady pony--Gypsy.

At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the
orange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he was
heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe,
who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and
then buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mounted
that morning in honor of our departure.

I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rolling
down Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening like
pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully then I call out “goodby” in a
muffled voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never
to see them again!




Chapter Three--On Board the Typhoon


I do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the first
few hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell.

The name of our ship was the “A No. 1, fast-sailing packet Typhoon.”
 I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaper
advertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that is
why we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the ship
he owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter--the cabin,
in which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in the
roof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in.

There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting under
way. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay any
attention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the face
that he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candle
inside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightest
regard for their feelings. They didn't mind it a bit, however, but went
on singing--

     “Heave ho!
     With the rum below,
     And hurrah for the Spanish Main O!”

I will not be positive about “the Spanish Main,” but it was hurrah for
something O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed they
were. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy--a thick-set,
jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and a
fringe of gray hair circling his head like a crown. As he took off his
tarpaulin I observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat,
as if somebody had sat down on him when he was very young.

There was something noticeably hearty in this man's bronzed face, a
heartiness that seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. But
what completely won my good-will was a picture of enviable loveliness
painted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of a
fish. Her flowing hair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb in
one hand. I never saw anything so beautiful. I determined to know that
man. I think I would have given my brass pistol to have had such a
picture painted on my arm.

While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat wheezy steamtug, with
the word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddlebox, came puffing up
alongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously small and conceited, compared
with our stately ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. In a
few minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort and
a shriek, and commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf) with the
greatest ease.

I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten times
larger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found the
chubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the Mississippi
River.

In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, and
away we flew like a great winged bird. Only it didn't seem as if we were
moving. The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging of
the ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding away
from us.

It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this.
Before long there was nothing to be seen on other side but stretches of
low swampy land, covered with stunted cypress trees, from which drooped
delicate streamers of Spanish moss--a fine place for alligators and Congo
snakes. Here and there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there a
snag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark.

“This is your last chance to see the city, To see the city, Tom,” said
my father, as we swept round a bend of the river.

I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of something
in the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon which
the sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old Aunt
Chloe's thimble.

What do I remember next? The gray sky and the fretful blue waters of the
Gulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone panting
away with a derisive scream, as much as to say, “I've done my duty, now
look out for yourself, old Typhoon!”

The ship seemed quite proud of being left to take care of itself, and,
with its huge white sails bulged out, strutted off like a vain turkey.
I had been standing by my father near the wheel-house all this while,
observing things with that nicety of perception which belongs only
to children; but now the dew began falling, and we went below to have
supper.

The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices of cold chicken, looked very
nice; yet somehow I had no appetite There was a general smell of tar
about everything. Then the ship gave sudden lurches that made it a
matter of uncertainty whether one was going to put his fork to his mouth
or into his eye. The tumblers and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over the
table, kept clinking and clinking; and the cabin lamp, suspended by four
gilt chains from the ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Now the floor
seemed to rise, and now it seemed to sink under one's feet like a
feather-bed.

There were not more than a dozen passengers on board, including
ourselves; and all of these, excepting a bald-headed old gentleman--a
retired sea-captain--disappeared into their staterooms at an early hour
of the evening.

After supper was cleared away, my father and the elderly gentleman,
whose name was Captain Truck, played at checkers; and I amused myself
for a while by watching the trouble they had in keeping the men in the
proper places. Just at the most exciting point of the game, the ship
would careen, and down would go the white checkers pell-mell among the
black. Then my father laughed, but Captain Truck would grow very angry,
and vow that he would have won the game in a move or two more, if
the confounded old chicken-coop--that's what he called the ship--hadn't
lurched.

“I--I think I will go to bed now, please,” I said, laying my hand on my
father's knee, and feeling exceedingly queer.

It was high time, for the Typhoon was plunging about in the most
alarming fashion. I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, where
I felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were placed on a narrow
shelf at my feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know that my
pistol was so handy, for I made no doubt we should fall in with
Pirates before many hours. This is the last thing I remember with any
distinctness. At midnight, as I was afterwards told, we were struck by
a gale which never left us until we came in sight of the Massachusetts
coast.

For days and days I had no sensible idea of what was going on around me.
That we were being hurled somewhere upside-down, and that I didn't like
it, was about all I knew. I have, indeed, a vague impression that my
father used to climb up to the berth and call me his “Ancient Mariner,”
 bidding me cheer up. But the Ancient Mariner was far from cheering up,
if I recollect rightly; and I don't believe that venerable navigator
would have cared much if it had been announced to him, through a
speaking-trumpet, that “a low, black, suspicious craft, with raking
masts, was rapidly bearing down upon us!”

In fact, one morning, I thought that such was the case, for bang! went
the big cannon I had noticed in the bow of the ship when we came on
board, and which had suggested to me the idea of Pirates. Bang! went
the gun again in a few seconds. I made a feeble effort to get at my
trousers-pocket! But the Typhoon was only saluting Cape Cod--the
first land sighted by vessels approaching the coast from a southerly
direction.

The vessel had ceased to roll, and my sea-sickness passed away as
rapidly as it came. I was all right now, “only a little shaky in my
timbers and a little blue about the gills,” as Captain Truck remarked to
my mother, who, like myself, had been confined to the state-room during
the passage.

At Cape Cod the wind parted company with us without saying as much
as “Excuse me”; so we were nearly two days in making the run which in
favorable weather is usually accomplished in seven hours. That's what
the pilot said.

I was able to go about the ship now, and I lost no time in cultivating
the acquaintance of the sailor with the green-haired lady on his arm.
I found him in the forecastle--a sort of cellar in the front part of the
vessel. He was an agreeable sailor, as I had expected, and we became the
best of friends in five minutes.

He had been all over the world two or three times, and knew no end of
stories. According to his own account, he must have been shipwrecked
at least twice a year ever since his birth. He had served under Decatur
when that gallant officer peppered the Algerines and made them promise
not to sell their prisoners of war into slavery; he had worked a gun
at the bombardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican War, and he had been on
Alexander Selkirk's Island more than once. There were very few things he
hadn't done in a seafaring way.

“I suppose, sir,” I remarked, “that your name isn't Typhoon?”

“Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name's Benjamin Watson, of Nantucket. But
I'm a true blue Typhooner,” he added, which increased my respect for
him; I don't know why, and I didn't know then whether Typhoon was the
name of a vegetable or a profession.

Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I disclosed to him that my name
was Tom Bailey, upon which he said he was very glad to hear it.

When we got more intimate, I discovered that Sailor Ben, as he wished
me to call him, was a perfect walking picturebook. He had two anchors, a
star, and a frigate in full sail on his right arm; a pair of lovely blue
hands clasped on his breast, and I've no doubt that other parts of his
body were illustrated in the same agreeable manner. I imagine he was
fond of drawings, and took this means of gratifying his artistic taste.
It was certainly very ingenious and convenient. A portfolio might
be misplaced, or dropped overboard; but Sailor Ben had his pictures
wherever he went, just as that eminent person in the poem,

“With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes”--was accompanied by
music on all occasions.

The two hands on his breast, he informed me, were a tribute to the
memory of a dead messmate from whom he had parted years ago--and surely a
more touching tribute was never engraved on a tombstone. This caused me
to think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I told him I should take
it as a great favor indeed if he would paint a pink hand and a black
hand on my chest. He said the colors were pricked into the skin with
needles, and that the operation was somewhat painful. I assured him, in
an off-hand manner, that I didn't mind pain, and begged him to set to
work at once.

The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of his
skill, took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complying
with my request, when my father happened to look down the gangway--a
circumstance that rather interfered with the decorative art.

I didn't have another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben,
for the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupola
of the Boston State House.




Chapter Four--Rivermouth


It was a beautiful May morning when the Typhoon hauled up at Long Wharf.
Whether the Indians were not early risers, or whether they were away
just then on a war-path, I couldn't determine; but they did not appear
in any great force--in fact, did not appear at all.

In the remarkable geography which I never hurt myself with studying
at New Orleans, was a picture representing the landing of the Pilgrim
Fathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in rather odd hats and coats,
are seen approaching the savages; the savages, in no coats or hats
to speak of, are evidently undecided whether to shake hands with the
Pilgrim Fathers or to make one grand rush and scalp the entire party.
Now this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that, in spite of
all my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting from
the aborigines. Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expectations
unfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often used
to wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers.

While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I mounted
on the roof of the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. As we came
up the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled together on an
immense hill, at the top of which was a large building, the State House,
towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen surrounded
by her brood of many-colored chickens. A closer inspection did not
impress me very favorably. The city was not nearly so imposing as New
Orleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of a
crescent, along the banks of the majestic river.

I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above one
another in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not propose
to remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the rail in this mood, a
measly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come down
on the wharf he'd lick me for two cents--not an exorbitant price. But I
didn't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, as
I was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated him that he stood on his head
on a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself.

The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. After a late breakfast
on board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, and
ourselves stowed away in a coach, which must have turned at least one
hundred corners before it set us down at the railway station.

In less time than it takes to tell it, we were shooting across the
country at a fearful rate--now clattering over a bridge, now screaming
through a tunnel; here we cut a flourishing village in two, like a
knife, and here we dived into the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimes
we glided along the edge of the ocean, and could see the sails of ships
twinkling like bits of silver against the horizon; sometimes we dashed
across rocky pasture-lands where stupid-eyed cattle were loafing. It was
fun to scare lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups under the newly
budded trees near the railroad track.

We did not pause at any of the little brown stations on the route (they
looked just like overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at every one of
them a man popped out as if he were worked by machinery, and waved a red
flag, and appeared as though he would like to have us stop. But we were
an express train, and made no stoppages, excepting once or twice to give
the engine a drink. It is strange how the memory clings to some things.
It is over twenty years since I took that first ride to Rivermouth,
and yet, oddly enough, I remember as if it were yesterday, that, as we
passed slowly through the village of Hampton, we saw two boys fighting
behind a red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog, who looked as
if he had commenced to unravel, barking himself all up into a knot with
excitement. We had only a hurried glimpse of the battle--long enough,
however, to see that the combatants were equally matched and very much
in earnest. I am ashamed to say how many times since I have speculated
as to which boy got licked. Maybe both the small rascals are dead now
(not in consequence of the set-to, let us hope), or maybe they are
married, and have pugnacious urchins of their own; yet to this day I
sometimes find myself wondering how that fight turned out.

We had been riding perhaps two hours and a half, when we shot by a tall
factory with a chimney resembling a church steeple; then the locomotive
gave a scream, the engineer rang his bell, and we plunged into the
twilight of a long wooden building, open at both ends. Here we stopped,
and the conductor, thrusting his head in at the car door, cried out,
“Passengers for Rivermouth!”

At last we had reached our journey's end. On the platform my father
shook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was very
serene and rosy. He had on a white hat and a long swallow-tailed coat,
the collar of which came clear up above his ears. He didn't look unlike
a Pilgrim Father. This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whose
house I was born. My mother kissed him a great many times; and I was
glad to see him myself, though I naturally did not feel very intimate
with a person whom I had not seen since I was eighteen months old.

While we were getting into the double-seated wagon which Grandfather
Nutter had provided, I took the opportunity of asking after the health
of the pony. The pony had arrived all right ten days before, and was in
the stable at home, quite anxious to see me.

As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Rivermouth the
prettiest place in the world; and I think so still. The streets are long
and wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches,
interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful
enough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many of the houses have small
flower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and are
substantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves.
A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and
twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea.

The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up to
the wharves and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famous
seaport. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade; and in
1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateers
were fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of the
enemy. Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously rich. A great many
of “the first families” of today do not care to trace their pedigree
back to the time when their grandsires owned shares in the Matilda Jane,
twenty-four guns. Well, well!

Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Commerce drifted into other ports. The
phantom fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again. The crazy
old warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the piles
of the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringing
out the faint spicy odor that haunts the place--the ghost of the old dead
West India trade! During our ride from the station, I was struck, of
course, only by the general neatness of the houses and the beauty of
the elm-trees lining the streets. I describe Rivermouth now as I came to
know it afterwards.

Rivermouth is a very ancient town. In my day there existed a tradition
among the boys that it was here Christopher Columbus made his first
landing on this continent. I remember having the exact spot pointed out
to me by Pepper Whitcomb! One thing is certain, Captain John Smith, who
afterwards, according to the legend, married Pocahontas--whereby he got
Powhatan for a father-in-law-explored the river in 1614, and was much
charmed by the beauty of Rivermouth, which at that time was covered with
wild strawberry-vines.

Rivermouth figures prominently in all the colonial histories. Every
other house in the place has its tradition more or less grim and
entertaining. If ghosts could flourish anywhere, there are certain
streets in Rivermouth that would be full of them. I don't know of a town
with so many old houses. Let us linger, for a moment, in front of the
one which the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point out to the
curious stranger.

It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel roof and deep-set
window-frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavy
carvings--oak-leaves and acorns, and angels' heads with wings spreading
from the ears, oddly jumbled together; but these ornaments and other
outward signs of grandeur have long since disappeared. A peculiar
interest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, for
it has not been standing quite a century; nor on account of its
architecture, which is not striking--but because of the illustrious men
who at various periods have occupied its spacious chambers.

In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the left side of the entrance
stood a high post, from which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. The
landlord was a stanch loyalist--that is to say, he believed in the king,
and when the overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the British
yoke, the adherents to the Crown held private meetings in one of the
back rooms of the tavern. This irritated the rebels, as they were
called; and one night they made an attack on the Earl of Halifax, tore
down the signboard, broke in the window-sashes, and gave the landlord
hardly time to make himself invisible over a fence in the rear.

For several months the shattered tavern remained deserted. At last the
exiled innkeeper, on promising to do better, was allowed to return; a
new sign, bearing the name of William Pitt, the friend of America, swung
proudly from the door-post, and the patriots were appeased. Here it was
that the mail-coach from Boston twice a week, for many a year, set
down its load of travelers and gossip. For some of the details in this
sketch, I am indebted to a recently published chronicle of those times.

It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the harbor of Rivermouth, and
eight of the principal officers, in white uniforms trimmed with gold
lace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of the William Pitt. Who
is this young and handsome officer now entering the door of the tavern?
It is no less a personage than the Marquis Lafayette, who has come all
the way from Providence to visit the French gentlemen boarding there.
What a gallant-looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and coal
black hair! Forty years later he visited the spot again; his locks were
gray and his step was feeble, but his heart held its young love for
Liberty.

Who is this finely dressed traveler alighting from his coach-and-four,
attended by servants in livery? Do you know that sounding name, written
in big valorous letters on the Declaration of Independence--written as
if by the hand of a giant? Can you not see it now? JOHN HANCOCK. This is
he.

Three young men, with their valet, are standing on the doorstep of the
William Pitt, bowing politely, and inquiring in the most courteous terms
in the world if they can be accommodated. It is the time of the French
Revolution, and these are three sons of the Duke of Orleans--Louis
Philippe and his two brothers. Louis Philippe never forgot his visit
to Rivermouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne of
France, he asked an American lady, who chanced to be at his court, if
the pleasant old mansion were still standing.

But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honored
this roof. Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President of
the United States, to pay his final complimentary visit to the State
dignitaries. The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and the dining-hall
where he entertained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctity
which even the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy.

During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, an ancient lady, Dame
Jocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notable
building. She was a dashing young belle at the time of Washington's
first visit to the town, and must have been exceedingly coquettish and
pretty, judging from a certain portrait on ivory still in the possession
of the family. According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted with
her just a little bit--in what a stately and highly finished manner can
be imagined.

There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame hanging over the
mantel-piece in this room. The glass was cracked and the quicksilver
rubbed off or discolored in many places. When it reflected your face
you had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It gave your
features the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine.
But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of enchantment to me was a
faded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the top
of the tarnished gilt mouldings. This feather Washington took from the
plume of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to the
worshipful Mistress Jocelyn the day he left Rivermouth forever. I wish
I could describe the mincing genteel air, and the ill-concealed
self-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident.

Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase to
that dingy room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to sit
on a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn's
stories of the olden time. How she would prattle! She was bedridden--poor
creature!--and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years.
Meanwhile the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The changes that had
taken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning old
gentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neglected to take away with
the rest of its odd traps. She had no patience with newfangled notions.
The old ways and the old times were good enough for her. She had never
seen a steam engine, though she had heard “the dratted thing” screech in
the distance. In her day, when gentlefolk traveled, they went in
their own coaches. She didn't see how respectable people could bring
themselves down to “riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail and
Lord-knows-who.” Poor old aristocrat The landlord charged her no rent
for the room, and the neighbors took turns in supplying her with meals.
Towards the close of her life--she lived to be ninety-nine--she grew very
fretful and capricious about her food. If she didn't chance to fancy
what was sent her, she had no hesitation in sending it back to the giver
with “Miss Jocelyn's respectful compliments.”

But I have been gossiping too long--and yet not too long if I have
impressed upon the reader an idea of what a rusty, delightful old town
it was to which I had come to spend the next three or four years of my
boyhood.

A drive of twenty minutes from the station brought us to the door-step
of Grandfather Nutter's house. What kind of house it was, and what sort
of people lived in it, shall be told in another chapter.




Chapter Five--The Nutter House and the Nutter Family


The Nutter House--all the more prominent dwellings in Rivermouth are
named after somebody; for instance, there is the Walford House, the
Venner House, the Trefethen House, etc., though it by no means follows
that they are inhabited by the people whose names they bear--the Nutter
House, to resume, has been in our family nearly a hundred years, and
is an honor to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I believe), supposing
durability to be a merit. If our ancestor was a carpenter, he knew his
trade. I wish I knew mine as well. Such timber and such workmanship
don't often come together in houses built nowadays.

Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide hall running through the
middle. At your right hand, as you enter, stands a tall black mahogany
clock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up on end. On each side of
the hall are doors (whose knobs, it must be confessed, do not turn very
easily), opening into large rooms wainscoted and rich in wood-carvings
about the mantel-pieces and cornices. The walls are covered with
pictured paper, representing landscapes and sea-views. In the parlor,
for example, this enlivening figure is repeated all over the room. A
group of English peasants, wearing Italian hats, are dancing on a lawn
that abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, upon which stands a
flabby fisherman (nationality unknown), quietly hauling in what appears
to be a small whale, and totally regardless of the dreadful naval combat
going on just beyond the end of his fishing-rod. On the other side of
the ships is the main-land again, with the same peasants dancing.
Our ancestors were very worthy people, but their wall-papers were
abominable.

There are neither grates nor stoves in these quaint chambers, but
splendid open chimney-places, with room enough for the corpulent
back-log to turn over comfortably on the polished andirons. A wide
staircase leads from the hall to the second story, which is arranged
much like the first. Over this is the garret. I needn't tell a
New England boy what--a museum of curiosities is the garret of a
well-regulated New England house of fifty or sixty years' standing.
Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the
broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all
the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the split
walking-sticks that have retired from business, “weary with the march of
life.” The pots, the pans, the trunks, the bottles--who may hope to
make an inventory of the numberless odds and ends collected in this
bewildering lumber-room? But what a place it is to sit of an afternoon
with the rain pattering on the roof! What a place in which to read
Gulliver's Travels, or the famous adventures of Rinaldo Rinaldini!

My grandfather's house stood a little back from the main street, in
the shadow of two handsome elms, whose overgrown boughs would dash
themselves against the gables whenever the wind blew hard. In the rear
was a pleasant garden, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre, full of
plum-trees and gooseberry bushes. These trees were old settlers, and are
all dead now, excepting one, which bears a purple plum as big as an egg.
This tree, as I remark, is still standing, and a more beautiful tree
to tumble out of never grew anywhere. In the northwestern corner of the
garden were the stables and carriage-house opening upon a narrow lane.
You may imagine that I made an early visit to that locality to inspect
Gypsy. Indeed, I paid her a visit every half-hour during the first day
of my arrival. At the twenty-fourth visit she trod on my foot rather
heavily, as a reminder, probably, that I was wearing out my welcome. She
was a knowing little pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to say of
her in the course of these pages.

Gypsy's quarters were all that could be wished, but nothing among my new
surroundings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartment
that had been prepared for myself. It was the hall room over the front
door.

I had never had a chamber all to myself before, and this one, about
twice the size of our state-room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel of
neatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window, and a
patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat covered the little
truckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired in
that line. On a gray background were small bunches of leaves, unlike
any that ever grew in this world; and on every other bunch perched a
yellow-bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered from
a severe attack of the small-pox. That no such bird ever existed did
not detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred and
sixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting those split in two where
the paper was badly joined. I counted them once when I was laid up with
a fine black eye, and falling asleep immediately dreamed that the whole
flock suddenly took wing and flew out of the window. From that time I
was never able to regard them as merely inanimate objects.

A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, a
looking-glass in a filigreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded with
brass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. Over the head of
the bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books--among which
were Theodore, or The Peruvians; Robinson Crusoe; an odd volume of
Tristram Shandy; Baxter's Saints' Rest, and a fine English edition of
the Arabian Nights, with six hundred wood-cuts by Harvey.

Shall I ever forget the hour when I first overhauled these books? I do
not allude especially to Baxter's Saints' Rest, which is far from being
a lively work for the young, but to the Arabian Nights, and particularly
Robinson Crusoe. The thrill that ran into my fingers' ends then has not
run out yet. Many a time did I steal up to this nest of a room,
and, taking the dog's-eared volume from its shelf, glide off into an
enchanted realm, where there were no lessons to get and no boys to
smash my kite. In a lidless trunk in the garret I subsequently unearthed
another motley collection of novels and romances, embracing the
adventures of Baron Trenck, Jack Sheppard, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and
Charlotte Temple--all of which I fed upon like a bookworm.

I never come across a copy of any of those works without feeling a
certain tenderness for the yellow-haired little rascal who used to lean
above the magic pages hour after hour, religiously believing every word
he read, and no more doubting the reality of Sindbad the Sailor, or the
Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, than he did the existence of his
own grandfather.

Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung a single-barrel
shot-gun--placed there by Grandfather Nutter, who knew what a boy
loved, if ever a grandfather did. As the trigger of the gun had been
accidentally twisted off, it was not, perhaps, the most dangerous weapon
that could be placed in the hands of youth. In this maimed condition
its “bump of destructiveness” was much less than that of my small brass
pocket-pistol, which I at once proceeded to suspend from one of the
nails supporting the fowling-piece, for my vagaries concerning the red
man had been entirely dispelled.

Having introduced the reader to the Nutter House, a presentation to the
Nutter family naturally follows. The family consisted of my
grandfather; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter; and Kitty Collins, the
maid-of-all-work.

Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old gentleman, as straight and as
bald as an arrow. He had been a sailor in early life; that is to say, at
the age of ten years he fled from the multiplication-table, and ran away
to sea. A single voyage satisfied him. There never was but one of our
family who didn't run away to sea, and this one died at his birth. My
grandfather had also been a soldier--a captain of militia in 1812. If I
owe the British nation anything, I owe thanks to that particular British
soldier who put a musket-ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nutter's
leg, causing that noble warrior a slight permanent limp, but offsetting
the injury by furnishing him with the material for a story which the old
gentleman was never weary of telling and I never weary of listening to.
The story, in brief, was as follows.

At the breaking out of the war, an English frigate lay for several days
off the coast near Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, and a
regiment of minute-men, scattered at various points along-shore, stood
ready to repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect a landing.
Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earthwork just outside the mouth
of the river. Late one thick night the sound of oars was heard; the
sentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and couldn't, when
Captain Nutter sprung upon the parapet in the pitch darkness, and
shouted, “Boat ahoyl” A musket-shot immediately embedded itself in the
calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the fort and the boat, which
had probably come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate.

This was my grandfather's only exploit during the war. That his prompt
and bold conduct was instrumental in teaching the enemy the hopelessness
of attempting to conquer such a people was among the firm beliefs of my
boyhood.

At the time I came to Rivermouth my grandfather had retired from active
pursuits, and was living at ease on his money, invested principally
in shipping. He had been a widower many years; a maiden sister, the
aforesaid Miss Abigail, managing his household. Miss Abigail also
managed her brother, and her brother's servant, and the visitor at her
brother's gate--not in a tyrannical spirit, but from a philanthropic
desire to be useful to everybody. In person she was tall and angular;
she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray eyebrows, and generally wore
a gray dress. Her strongest weak point was a belief in the efficacy of
“hot-drops” as a cure for all known diseases.

If there were ever two people who seemed to dislike each other, Miss
Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people. If ever two people really
loved each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people also.
They were always either skirmishing or having a cup of tea lovingly
together.

Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so was Kitty; and in the course of
their disagreements each let me into the private history of the other.

According to Kitty, it was not originally my grandfather's intention
to have Miss Abigail at the head of his domestic establishment. She had
swooped down on him (Kitty's own words), with a band-box in one hand and
a faded blue cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other. Clad
in this singular garb--I do not remember that Kitty alluded to--any
additional peculiarity of dress--Miss Abigail had made her appearance at
the door of the Nutter House on the morning of my grandmother's funeral.
The small amount of baggage which the lady brought with her would have
led the superficial observer to infer that Miss Abigail's visit was
limited to a few days. I run ahead of my story in saying she remained
seventeen years! How much longer she would have remained can never be
definitely known now, as she died at the expiration of that period.

Whether or not my grandfather was quite pleased by this unlooked-for
addition to his family is a problem. He was very kind always to Miss
Abigail, and seldom opposed her; though I think she must have tried his
patience sometimes, especially when she interfered with Kitty.

Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she preferred to be called,
was descended in a direct line from an extensive family of kings who
formerly ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various calamities,
among which the failure of the potato-crop may be mentioned, Miss
Kitty Collins, in company with several hundred of her countrymen and
countrywomen--also descended from kings--came over to America in an
emigrant ship, in the year eighteen hundred and something.

I don't know what freak of fortune caused the royal exile to turn up
at Rivermouth; but turn up she did, a few months after arriving in this
country, and was hired by my grandmother to do “general housework” for
the sum of four shillings and six-pence a week.

Kitty had been living about seven years in my grandfather's family when
she unburdened her heart of a secret which had been weighing upon it all
that time. It may be said of people, as it is said of nations, “Happy
are they that have no history.” Kitty had a history, and a pathetic one,
I think.

On board the emigrant ship that brought her to America, she became
acquainted with a sailor, who, being touched by Kitty's forlorn
condition, was very good to her. Long before the end of the voyage,
which had been tedious and perilous, she was heartbroken at the thought
of separating from her kindly protector; but they were not to part just
yet, for the sailor returned Kitty's affection, and the two were married
on their arrival at port. Kitty's husband--she would never mention his
name, but kept it locked in her bosom like some precious relic--had a
considerable sum of money when the crew were paid off; and the young
couple--for Kitty was young then--lived very happily in a lodging-house on
South Street, near the docks. This was in New York.

The days flew by like hours, and the stocking in which the little bride
kept the funds shrunk and shrunk, until at last there were only three
or four dollars left in the toe of it. Then Kitty was troubled; for
she knew her sailor would have to go to sea again unless he could
get employment on shore. This he endeavored to do, but not with much
success. One morning as usual he kissed her good day, and set out in
search of work.

“Kissed me goodby, and called me his little Irish lass,” sobbed Kitty,
telling the story, “kissed me goodby, and, Heaven help me, I niver set
oi on him nor on the likes of him again!”

He never came back. Day after day dragged on, night after night, and
then the weary weeks. What had become of him? Had he been murdered? Had
he fallen into the docks? Had he--deserted her? No! She could not believe
that; he was too brave and tender and true. She couldn't believe that.
He was dead, dead, or he'd come back to her.

Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house turned Kitty into the
streets, now that “her man” was gone, and the payment of the rent
doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The family she lived with
shortly moved to Boston, and she accompanied them; then they went
abroad, but Kitty would not leave America. Somehow she drifted to
Rivermouth, and for seven long years never gave speech to her sorrow,
until the kindness of strangers, who had become friends to her, unsealed
the heroic lips.

Kitty's story, you may be sure, made my grandparents treat her more
kindly than ever. In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant than
as a friend in the home circle, sharing its joys and sorrows--a faithful
nurse, a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hear
her singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing from time to time to
make some witty reply to Miss Abigail--for Kitty, like all her race, had
a vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest face comes to me out from
the past, the light and life of the Nutter House when I was a boy at
Rivermouth.




Chapter Six--Lights and Shadows


The first shadow that fell upon me in my new home was caused by the
return of my parents to New Orleans. Their visit was cut short by
business which required my father's presence in Natchez, where he was
establishing a branch of the bankinghouse. When they had gone, a sense
of loneliness such as I had never dreamed of filled my young breast.
I crept away to the stable, and, throwing my arms about Gypsy's neck,
sobbed aloud. She too had come from the sunny South, and was now a
stranger in a strange land.

The little mare seemed to realize our situation, and gave me all the
sympathy I could ask, repeatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face and
lapping up my salt tears with evident relish.

When night came, I felt still more lonesome. My grandfather sat in
his arm-chair the greater part of the evening, reading the Rivermouth
Barnacle, the local newspaper. There was no gas in those days, and the
Captain read by the aid of a small block-tin lamp, which he held in one
hand. I observed that he had a habit of dropping off into a doze every
three or four minutes, and I forgot my homesickness at intervals in
watching him. Two or three times, to my vast amusement, he scorched the
edges of the newspaper with the wick of the lamp; and at about half
past eight o'clock I had the satisfactions--I am sorry to confess it was a
satisfaction--of seeing the Rivermouth Barnacle in flames.

My grandfather leisurely extinguished the fire with his hands, and Miss
Abigail, who sat near a low table, knitting by the light of an astral
lamp, did not even look up. She was quite used to this catastrophe.

There was little or no conversation during the evening. In fact, I do
not remember that anyone spoke at all, excepting once, when the Captain
remarked, in a meditative manner, that my parents “must have reached New
York by this time”; at which supposition I nearly strangled myself in
attempting to intercept a sob.

The monotonous “click click” of Miss Abigail's needles made me nervous
after a while, and finally drove me out of the sitting-room into the
kitchen, where Kitty caused me to laugh by saying Miss Abigail thought
that what I needed was “a good dose of hot-drops,” a remedy she was
forever ready to administer in all emergencies. If a boy broke his
leg, or lost his mother, I believe Miss Abigail would have given him
hot-drops.

Kitty laid herself out to be entertaining. She told me several funny
Irish stories, and described some of the odd people living in the town;
but, in the midst of her comicalities, the tears would involuntarily
ooze out of my eyes, though I was not a lad much addicted to weeping.
Then Kitty would put her arms around me, and tell me not to mind it--that
it wasn't as if I had been left alone in a foreign land with no one to
care for me, like a poor girl whom she had once known. I brightened up
before long, and told Kitty all about the Typhoon and the old seaman,
whose name I tried in vain to recall, and was obliged to fall back on
plain Sailor Ben.

I was glad when ten o'clock came, the bedtime for young folks, and old
folks too, at the Nutter House. Alone in the hallchamber I had my cry
out, once for all, moistening the pillow to such an extent that I was
obliged to turn it over to find a dry spot to go to sleep on.

My grandfather wisely concluded to put me to school at once. If I had
been permitted to go mooning about the house and stables, I should have
kept my discontent alive for months. The next morning, accordingly, he
took me by the hand, and we set forth for the academy, which was located
at the farther end of the town.

The Temple School was a two-story brick building, standing in the centre
of a great square piece of land, surrounded by a high picket fence.
There were three or four sickly trees, but no grass, in this enclosure,
which had been worn smooth and hard by the tread of multitudinous feet.
I noticed here and there small holes scooped in the ground, indicating
that it was the season for marbles. A better playground for baseball
couldn't have been devised.

On reaching the schoolhouse door, the Captain inquired for Mr. Grimshaw.
The boy who answered our knock ushered us into a side-room, and in a
few minutes--during which my eye took in forty-two caps hung on forty-two
wooden pegs--Mr. Grimshaw made his appearance. He was a slender man, with
white, fragile hands, and eyes that glanced half a dozen different ways
at once--a habit probably acquired from watching the boys.

After a brief consultation, my grandfather patted me on the head and
left me in charge of this gentleman, who seated himself in front of
me and proceeded to sound the depth, or, more properly speaking, the
shallowness, of my attainments. I suspect my historical information
rather startled him. I recollect I gave him to understand that Richard
III was the last king of England.

This ordeal over, Mr. Grimshaw rose and bade me follow him. A door
opened, and I stood in the blaze of forty-two pairs of upturned eyes.
I was a cool hand for my age, but I lacked the boldness to face this
battery without wincing. In a sort of dazed way I stumbled after Mr.
Grimshaw down a narrow aisle between two rows of desks, and shyly took
the seat pointed out to me.

The faint buzz that had floated over the school-room at our entrance
died away, and the interrupted lessons were resumed. By degrees I
recovered my coolness, and ventured to look around me.

The owners of the forty-two caps were seated at small green desks like
the one assigned to me. The desks were arranged in six rows, with spaces
between just wide enough to prevent the boys' whispering. A blackboard
set into the wall extended clear across the end of the room; on a raised
platform near the door stood the master's table; and directly in front
of this was a recitation-bench capable of seating fifteen or twenty
pupils. A pair of globes, tattooed with dragons and winged horses,
occupied a shelf between two windows, which were so high from the floor
that nothing but a giraffe could have looked out of them.

Having possessed myself of these details, I scrutinized my new
acquaintances with unconcealed curiosity, instinctively selecting my
friends and picking out my enemies--and in only two cases did I mistake
my man.

A sallow boy with bright red hair, sitting in the fourth row, shook
his fist at me furtively several times during the morning. I had a
presentiment I should have trouble with that boy some day--a presentiment
subsequently realized.

On my left was a chubby little fellow with a great many freckles (this
was Pepper Whitcomb), who made some mysterious motions to me. I didn't
understand them, but, as they were clearly of a pacific nature, I winked
my eye at him. This appeared to be satisfactory, for he then went on
with his studies. At recess he gave me the core of his apple, though
there were several applicants for it.

Presently a boy in a loose olive-green jacket with two rows of brass
buttons held up a folded paper behind his slate, intimating that it was
intended for me. The paper was passed skillfully from desk to desk until
it reached my hands. On opening the scrap, I found that it contained
a small piece of molasses candy in an extremely humid state. This was
certainly kind. I nodded my acknowledgments and hastily slipped the
delicacy into my mouth. In a second I felt my tongue grow red-hot with
cayenne pepper.

My face must have assumed a comical expression, for the boy in the
olive-green jacket gave an hysterical laugh, for which he was instantly
punished by Mr. Grimshaw. I swallowed the fiery candy, though it brought
the water to my eyes, and managed to look so unconcerned that I was
the only pupil in the form who escaped questioning as to the cause of
Marden's misdemeanor. C. Marden was his name.

Nothing else occurred that morning to interrupt the exercises, excepting
that a boy in the reading class threw us all into convulsions by calling
Absalom A-bol'-som “Abolsom, O my son Abolsom!” I laughed as loud as
anyone, but I am not so sure that I shouldn't have pronounced it Abolsom
myself.

At recess several of the scholars came to my desk and shook hands with
me, Mr. Grimshaw having previously introduced me to Phil Adams, charging
him to see that I got into no trouble. My new acquaintances suggested
that we should go to the playground. We were no sooner out-of-doors than
the boy with the red hair thrust his way through the crowd and placed
himself at my side.

“I say, youngster, if you're comin' to this school you've got to toe the
mark.”

I didn't see any mark to toe, and didn't understand what he meant; but I
replied politely, that, if it was the custom of the school, I should be
happy to toe the mark, if he would point it out to me.

“I don't want any of your sarse,” said the boy, scowling.

“Look here, Conway!” cried a clear voice from the other side of the
playground. “You let young Bailey alone. He's a stranger here, and might
be afraid of you, and thrash you. Why do you always throw yourself in
the way of getting thrashed?”

I turned to the speaker, who by this time had reached the spot where we
stood. Conway slunk off, favoring me with a parting scowl of defiance.
I gave my hand to the boy who had befriended me--his name was Jack
Harris--and thanked him for his good-will.

“I tell you what it is, Bailey,” he said, returning my pressure
good-naturedly, “you'll have to fight Conway before the quarter ends,
or you'll have no rest. That fellow is always hankering after a licking,
and of course you'll give him one by and by; but what's the use of
hurrying up an unpleasant job? Let's have some baseball. By the way,
Bailey, you were a good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about the candy.
Charley Marden would have caught it twice as heavy. He's sorry he played
the joke on you, and told me to tell you so. Hallo, Blake! Where are the
bats?”

This was addressed to a handsome, frank-looking lad of about my own age,
who was engaged just then in cutting his initials on the bark of a tree
near the schoolhouse. Blake shut up his penknife and went off to get the
bats.

During the game which ensued I made the acquaintance of Charley Marden,
Binny Wallace, Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and Fred Langdon. These
boys, none of them more than a year or two older than I (Binny Wallace
was younger), were ever after my chosen comrades. Phil Adams and Jack
Harris were considerably our seniors, and, though they always treated
us “kids” very kindly, they generally went with another set. Of course,
before long I knew all the Temple boys more or less intimately, but the
five I have named were my constant companions.

My first day at the Temple Grammar School was on the whole satisfactory.
I had made several warm friends and only two permanent enemies--Conway
and his echo, Seth Rodgers; for these two always went together like a
deranged stomach and a headache.

Before the end of the week I had my studies well in hand. I was a
little ashamed at finding myself at the foot of the various classes, and
secretly determined to deserve promotion. The school was an admirable
one. I might make this part of my story more entertaining by picturing
Mr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a red nose and a large stick; but
unfortunately for the purposes of sensational narrative, Mr. Grimshaw
was a quiet, kindhearted gentleman. Though a rigid disciplinarian, he
had a keen sense of justice, was a good reader of character, and the
boys respected him. There were two other teachers--a French tutor and a
writing-master, who visited the school twice a week. On Wednesdays and
Saturdays we were dismissed at noon, and these half-holidays were the
brightest epochs of my existence.

Daily contact with boys who had not been brought up as gently as I
worked an immediate, and, in some respects, a beneficial change in my
character. I had the nonsense taken out of me, as the saying is--some
of the nonsense, at least. I became more manly and self-reliant. I
discovered that the world was not created exclusively on my account.
In New Orleans I labored under the delusion that it was. Having neither
brother nor sister to give up to at home, and being, moreover, the
largest pupil at school there, my will had seldom been opposed. At
Rivermouth matters were different, and I was not long in adapting myself
to the altered circumstances. Of course I got many severe rubs, often
unconsciously given; but I had the sense to see that I was all the
better for them.

My social relations with my new schoolfellows were the pleasantest
possible. There was always some exciting excursion on foot--a ramble
through the pine woods, a visit to the Devil's Pulpit, a high cliff
in the neighborhood--or a surreptitious low on the river, involving
an exploration of a group of diminutive islands, upon one of which we
pitched a tent and played we were the Spanish sailors who got wrecked
there years ago. But the endless pine forest that skirted the town was
our favorite haunt. There was a great green pond hidden somewhere in its
depths, inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake, who
had an eccentric passion for carving his name on everything, never let
a captured turtle slip through his fingers without leaving his mark
engraved on its shell. He must have lettered about two thousand from
first to last. We used to call them Harry Blake's sheep.

These turtles were of a discontented and migratory turn of mind, and we
frequently encountered two or three of them on the cross-roads several
miles from their ancestral mud. Unspeakable was our delight whenever we
discovered one soberly walking off with Harry Blake's initials! I've
no doubt there are, at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering about
that gummy woodland with H.B. neatly cut on their venerable backs.

It soon became a custom among my playmates to make our barn their
rendezvous. Gypsy proved a strong attraction. Captain Nutter bought me a
little two-wheeled cart, which she drew quite nicely, after kicking out
the dasher and breaking the shafts once or twice. With our lunch-baskets
and fishing-tackle stowed away under the seat, we used to start off
early in the afternoon for the sea-shore, where there were countless
marvels in the shape of shells, mosses, and kelp. Gypsy enjoyed the
sport as keenly as any of us, even going so far, one day, as to trot
down the beach into the sea where we were bathing. As she took the cart
with her, our provisions were not much improved. I shall never forget
how squash-pie tastes after being soused in the Atlantic Ocean.
Soda-crackers dipped in salt water are palatable, but not squash-pie.

There was a good deal of wet weather during those first six weeks at
Rivermouth, and we set ourselves at work to find some indoor amusement
for our half-holidays. It was all very well for Amadis de Gaul and Don
Quixote not to mind the rain; they had iron overcoats, and were not,
from all we can learn, subject to croup and the guidance of their
grandfathers. Our case was different.

“Now, boys, what shall we do?” I asked, addressing a thoughtful conclave
of seven, assembled in our barn one dismal rainy afternoon.

“Let's have a theatre,” suggested Binny Wallace.

The very thing! But where? The loft of the stable was ready to burst
with hay provided for Gypsy, but the long room over the carriage-house
was unoccupied. The place of all places! My managerial eye saw at a
glance its capabilities for a theatre. I had been to the play a great
many times in New Orleans, and was wise in matters pertaining to the
drama. So here, in due time, was set up some extraordinary scenery of my
own painting. The curtain, I recollect, though it worked smoothly enough
on other occasions, invariably hitched during the performances; and it
often required the united energies of the Prince of Denmark, the King,
and the Grave-digger, with an occasional hand from “the fair Ophelia”
(Pepper Whitcomb in a low-necked dress), to hoist that bit of green
cambric.

The theatre, however, was a success, as far as it went. I retired from
the business with no fewer than fifteen hundred pins, after deducting
the headless, the pointless, and the crooked pins with which our
doorkeeper frequently got “stuck.” From first to last we took in a
great deal of this counterfeit money. The price of admission to the
“Rivermouth Theatre” was twenty pins. I played all the principal parts
myself--not that I was a finer actor than the other boys, but because I
owned the establishment.

At the tenth representation, my dramatic career was brought to a close
by an unfortunate circumstance. We were playing the drama of “William
Tell, the Hero of Switzerland.” Of course I was William Tell, in spite
of Fred Langdon, who wanted to act that character himself. I wouldn't
let him, so he withdrew from the company, taking the only bow and arrow
we had. I made a cross-bow out of a piece of whalebone, and did very
well without him. We had reached that exciting scene where Gessler, the
Austrian tyrant, commands Tell to shoot the apple from his son's head.
Pepper Whitcomb, who played all the juvenile and women parts, was my
son. To guard against mischance, a piece of pasteboard was fastened by a
handkerchief over the upper portion of Whitcomb's face, while the arrow
to be used was sewed up in a strip of flannel. I was a capital marksman,
and the big apple, only two yards distant, turned its russet cheek
fairly towards me.

I can see poor little Pepper now, as he stood without flinching,
waiting for me to perform my great feat. I raised the crossbow amid the
breathless silence of the crowded audience consisting of seven boys and
three girls, exclusive of Kitty Collins, who insisted on paying her way
in with a clothes-pin. I raised the cross-bow, I repeat. Twang! went the
whipcord; but, alas! instead of hitting the apple, the arrow flew right
into Pepper Whitcomb's mouth, which happened to be open at the time, and
destroyed my aim.

I shall never be able to banish that awful moment from my memory.
Pepper's roar, expressive of astonishment, indignation, and pain, is
still ringing in my ears. I looked upon him as a corpse, and, glancing
not far into the dreary future, pictured myself led forth to execution
in the presence of the very same spectators then assembled.

Luckily poor Pepper was not seriously hurt; but Grandfather Nutter,
appearing in the midst of the confusion (attracted by the howls of young
Tell), issued an injunction against all theatricals thereafter, and the
place was closed; not, however, without a farewell speech from me, in
which I said that this would have been the proudest moment of my life
if I hadn't hit Pepper Whitcomb in the mouth. Whereupon the audience
(assisted, I am glad to state, by Pepper) cried “Hear! Hear!” I then
attributed the accident to Pepper himself, whose mouth, being open at
the instant I fired, acted upon the arrow much after the fashion of a
whirlpool, and drew in the fatal shaft. I was about to explain how a
comparatively small maelstrom could suck in the largest ship, when the
curtain fell of its own accord, amid the shouts of the audience.

This was my last appearance on any stage. It was some time, though,
before I heard the end of the William Tell business. Malicious little
boys who had not been allowed to buy tickets to my theatre used to cry
out after me in the street,

     “'Who killed Cock Robin?'
     'I,' said the sparrer,
     'With my bow and arrer,
     I killed Cock Robin!'”

The sarcasm of this verse was more than I could stand. And it made
Pepper Whitcomb pretty mad to be called Cock Robin, I can tell you!

So the days glided on, with fewer clouds and more sunshine than fall to
the lot of most boys. Conway was certainly a cloud. Within school-bounds
he seldom ventured to be aggressive; but whenever we met about town he
never failed to brush against me, or pull my cap over my eyes, or
drive me distracted by inquiring after my family in New Orleans, always
alluding to them as highly respectable colored people.

Jack Harris was right when he said Conway would give me no rest until I
fought him. I felt it was ordained ages before our birth that we should
meet on this planet and fight. With the view of not running counter to
destiny, I quietly prepared myself for the impending conflict. The scene
of my dramatic triumphs was turned into a gymnasium for this purpose,
though I did not openly avow the fact to the boys. By persistently
standing on my head, raising heavy weights, and going hand over hand up
a ladder, I developed my muscle until my little body was as tough as a
hickory knot and as supple as tripe. I also took occasional lessons in
the noble art of self-defence, under the tuition of Phil Adams.

I brooded over the matter until the idea of fighting Conway became a
part of me. I fought him in imagination during school-hours; I dreamed
of fighting with him at night, when he would suddenly expand into a
giant twelve feet high, and then as suddenly shrink into a pygmy so
small that I couldn't hit him. In this latter shape he would get into
my hair, or pop into my waistcoat-pocket, treating me with as little
ceremony as the Liliputians showed Captain Lemuel Gulliver--all of which
was not pleasant, to be sure. On the whole, Conway was a cloud.

And then I had a cloud at home. It was not Grandfather Nutter, nor Miss
Abigail, nor Kitty Collins, though they all helped to compose it. It
was a vague, funereal, impalpable something which no amount of gymnastic
training would enable me to knock over. It was Sunday. If ever I have
a boy to bring up in the way he should go, I intend to make Sunday a
cheerful day to him. Sunday was not a cheerful day at the Nutter House.
You shall judge for yourself.

It is Sunday morning. I should premise by saying that the deep gloom
which has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early on
Saturday evening.

At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly downstairs. He is
dressed in black, and looks as if he had lost all his friends during
the night. Miss Abigail, also in black, looks as if she were prepared to
bury them, and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony. Even Kitty Collins
has caught the contagious gloom, as I perceive when she brings in the
coffee-urn--a solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time, but monumental
now--and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail. Miss Abigail gazes at
the urn as if it held the ashes of her ancestors, instead of a generous
quantity of fine old Java coffee. The meal progresses in silence.

Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day. It is open this June
morning, and is pervaded by a strong smell of centretable. The furniture
of the room, and the little China ornaments on the mantel-piece, have a
constrained, unfamiliar look. My grandfather sits in a mahogany chair,
reading a large Bible covered with green baize. Miss Abigail occupies
one end of the sofa, and has her hands crossed stiffly in her lap. I
sit in the corner, crushed. Robinson Crusoe and Gil Blas are in close
confinement. Baron Trenck, who managed to escape from the fortress of
Clatz, can't for the life of him get out of our sitting-room closet. Even
the Rivermouth Barnacle is suppressed until Monday. Genial converse,
harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are banished. If I want to
read anything, I can read Baxter's Saints' Rest. I would die first. So
I sit there kicking my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching
a morbid blue-bottle fly that attempts to commit suicide by butting his
head against the window-pane. Listen!--no, yes--it is--it is the robins
singing in the garden--the grateful, joyous robins singing away like mad,
just as if it wasn't Sunday. Their audacity tickles me.

My grandfather looks up, and inquires in a sepulchral voice if I am
ready for Sabbath school. It is time to go. I like the Sabbath school;
there are bright young faces there, at all events. When I get out into
the sunshine alone, I draw a long breath; I would turn a somersault up
against Neighbor Penhallow's newly painted fence if I hadn't my best
trousers on, so glad am I to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of
the Nutter House.

Sabbath school over, I go to meeting, joining my grandfather, who
doesn't appear to be any relation to me this day, and Miss Abigail, in
the porch. Our minister holds out very little hope to any of us of being
saved. Convinced that I am a lost creature, in common with the human
family, I return home behind my guardians at a snail's pace. We have a
dead cold dinner. I saw it laid out yesterday.

There is a long interval between this repast and the second service,
and a still longer interval between the beginning and the end of that
service; for the Rev. Wibird Hawkins's sermons are none of the shortest,
whatever else they may be.

After meeting, my grandfather and I take a walk. We visit appropriately
enough--a neighboring graveyard. I am by this time in a condition of
mind to become a willing inmate of the place. The usual evening
prayer-meeting is postponed for some reason. At half past eight I go to
bed.

This is the way Sunday was observed in the Nutter House, and pretty
generally throughout the town, twenty years ago.(1) People who were
prosperous and natural and happy on Saturday became the most rueful of
human beings in the brief space of twelve hours. I don't think there was
any hypocrisy in this. It was merely the old Puritan austerity cropping
out once a week. Many of these people were pure Christians every day in
the seven--excepting the seventh. Then they were decorous and solemn to
the verge of moroseness. I should not like to be misunderstood on this
point. Sunday is a blessed day, and therefore it should not be made a
gloomy one. It is the Lord's day, and I do believe that cheerful hearts
and faces are not unpleasant in His sight.

     “O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair,
     How welcome to the weary and the old!
     Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly cares!
     Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
     Ah, why will man by his austerities
     Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light,
     And make of thee a dungeon of despair!”


     (1) About 1850.




Chapter Seven--One Memorable Night


Two months had elapsed since my arrival at Rivermouth, when the approach
of an important celebration produced the greatest excitement among the
juvenile population of the town.

There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School the
week preceding the Fourth of July. For my part, my heart and brain were
so full of fire-crackers, Roman candles, rockets, pin-wheels, squibs,
and gunpowder in various seductive forms, that I wonder I didn't explode
under Mr. Grimshaw's very nose. I couldn't do a sum to save me; I
couldn't tell, for love or money, whether Tallahassee was the capital
of Tennessee or of Florida; the present and the pluperfect tenses
were inextricably mixed in my memory, and I didn't know a verb from an
adjective when I met one. This was not alone my condition, but that of
every boy in the school.

Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporary
distraction, and sought to fix our interest on the lessons by connecting
them directly or indirectly with the coming Event. The class in
arithmetic, for instance, was requested to state how many boxes of
fire-crackers, each box measuring sixteen inches square, could be stored
in a room of such and such dimensions. He gave us the Declaration of
Independence for a parsing exercise, and in geography confined his
questions almost exclusively to localities rendered famous in the
Revolutionary War.

“What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the English
vessels?” asked our wily instructor.

“Threw it into the river!” shrieked the smaller boys, with an
impetuosity that made Mr. Grimshaw smile in spite of himself. One
luckless urchin said, “Chucked it,” for which happy expression he was
kept in at recess.

Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, there was not much solid work
done by anybody. The trail of the serpent (an inexpensive but dangerous
fire-toy) was over us all. We went round deformed by quantities of
Chinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers-pockets; and if a
boy whipped out his handkerchief without proper precaution, he was sure
to let off two or three torpedoes.

Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universal
demoralization. In calling the school to order, he always rapped on
the table with a heavy ruler. Under the green baize table-cloth, on the
exact spot where he usually struck, certain boy, whose name I withhold,
placed a fat torpedo. The result was a loud explosion, which caused Mr.
Grimshaw to look queer. Charley Marden was at the water-pail, at the
time, and directed general attention to himself by strangling for
several seconds and then squirting a slender thread of water over the
blackboard.

Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley, but said nothing.
The real culprit (it wasn't Charley Marden, but the boy whose name I
withhold) instantly regretted his badness, and after school confessed
the whole thing to Mr. Grimshaw, who heaped coals of fire upon the
nameless boy's head giving him five cents for the Fourth of July. If
Mr. Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth, the punishment would not have
been half so severe.

On the last day of June the Captain received a letter from my father,
enclosing five dollars “for my son Tom,” which enabled that young
gentleman to make regal preparations for the celebration of our national
independence. A portion of this money, two dollars, I hastened to invest
in fireworks; the balance I put by for contingencies. In placing the
fund in my possession, the Captain imposed one condition that dampened
my ardor considerably--I was to buy no gunpowder. I might have all the
snapping-crackers and torpedoes I wanted; but gunpowder was out of the
question.

I thought this rather hard, for all my young friends were provided with
pistols of various sizes. Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol nearly as
large as himself, and Jack Harris, though he, to be sure, was a big
boy, was going to have a real oldfashioned flintlock musket. However, I
didn't mean to let this drawback destroy my happiness. I had one charge
of powder stowed away in the little brass pistol which I brought from
New Orleans, and was bound to make a noise in the world once, if I never
did again.

It was a custom observed from time immemorial for the towns-boys to have
a bonfire on the Square on the midnight before the Fourth. I didn't ask
the Captain's leave to attend this ceremony, for I had a general idea
that he wouldn't give it. If the Captain, I reasoned, doesn't forbid me,
I break no orders by going. Now this was a specious line of argument,
and the mishaps that befell me in consequence of adopting it were richly
deserved.

On the evening of the 3d I retired to bed very early, in order to disarm
suspicion. I didn't sleep a wink, waiting for eleven o'clock to come
round; and I thought it never would come round, as I lay counting from
time to time the slow strokes of the ponderous bell in the steeple of
the Old North Church. At length the laggard hour arrived. While the
clock was striking I jumped out of bed and began dressing.

My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy sleepers, and I might have
stolen downstairs and out at the front door undetected; but such a
commonplace proceeding did not suit my adventurous disposition. I
fastened one end of a rope (it was a few yards cut from Kitty Collins's
clothes-line) to the bedpost nearest the window, and cautiously climbed
out on the wide pediment over the hall door. I had neglected to knot the
rope; the result was, that, the moment I swung clear of the pediment, I
descended like a flash of lightning, and warmed both my hands smartly.
The rope, moreover, was four or five feet too short; so I got a fall
that would have proved serious had I not tumbled into the middle of one
of the big rose-bushes growing on either side of the steps.

I scrambled out of that without delay, and was congratulating myself on
my good luck, when I saw by the light of the setting moon the form of a
man leaning over the garden gate. It was one of the town watch, who had
probably been observing my operations with curiosity. Seeing no chance
of escape, I put a bold face on the matter and walked directly up to
him.

“What on airth air you a doin'?” asked the man, grasping the collar of
my jacket.

“I live here, sir, if you please,” I replied, “and am going to the
bonfire. I didn't want to wake up the old folks, that's all.”

The man cocked his eye at me in the most amiable manner, and released
his hold.

“Boys is boys,” he muttered. He didn't attempt to stop me as I slipped
through the gate.

Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached the
Square, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in
building a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms of my hands still tingled
so that I couldn't join in the sport. I stood in the doorway of the
Nautilus Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of my
schoolmates. They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in the
twilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice. What a Babel of
voices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doing
everything wrong!

When all was prepared, someone applied a match to the sombre pile. A
fiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the whole
fabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully. This was a
signal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels,
which they did shouting like mad creatures. When the fire had burnt
down a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre. In the
excitement of the moment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself in
the thick of the carousal.

Before we were half ready, our combustible material was expended, and a
disheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us. The boys collected
together here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done.
It yet lacked four or five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in the
humor to return to bed. I approached one of the groups standing near the
town pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands the
figures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb,
their faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and, their whole
appearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs.

“Hullo! Here's Tom Bailey!” shouted Pepper Whitcomb. “He'll join in!”

Of course he would. The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripe
for anything--none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis.
After whispering together for a moment the boys motioned me to follow
them.

We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way through a
neighboring alley, at the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn,
owned by one Ezra Wingate. In former days this was the stable of the
mail-coach that ran between Rivermouth and Boston. When the railroad
superseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle was
rolled in the barn, and there it stayed. The stage-driver, after
prophesying the immediate downfall of the nation, died of grief and
apoplexy, and the old coach followed in his wake as fast as could
by quietly dropping to pieces. The barn had the reputation of being
haunted, and I think we all kept very close together when we found
ourselves standing in the black shadow cast by the tall gable. Here,
in a low voice, Jack Harris laid bare his plan, which was to burn the
ancient stage-coach.

“The old trundle-cart isn't worth twenty-five cents,” said Jack Harris,
“and Ezra Wingate ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of the
way. But if any fellow here doesn't want to have a hand in it, let him
cut and run, and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever after.”

With this he pulled out the staples that held the lock, and the big barn
door swung slowly open. The interior of the stable was pitch-dark, of
course. As we made a movement to enter, a sudden scrambling, and the
sound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start back
in terror.

“Rats!” cried Phil Adams.

“Bats!” exclaimed Harry Blake.

“Cats!” suggested Jack Harris. “Who's afraid?”

Well, the truth is, we were all afraid; and if the pole of the stage had
not been lying close to the threshold, I don't believe anything on earth
would have induced us to cross it. We seized hold of the pole-straps
and succeeded with great trouble in dragging the coach out. The two fore
wheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to revolve. It was the
merest skeleton of a coach. The cushions had long since been removed,
and the leather hangings, where they had not crumbled away, dangled in
shreds from the worm-eaten frame. A load of ghosts and a span of phantom
horses to drag them would have made the ghastly thing complete.

Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood at the top of a very steep
hill. With three boys to push behind, and two in front to steer, we
started the old coach on its last trip with little or no difficulty.
Our speed increased every moment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlocked
as we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged upon the crowd
like a regiment of cavalry, scattering the people right and left. Before
reaching the bonfire, to which someone had added several bushels of
shavings, Jack Harris and Phil Adams, who were steering, dropped on the
ground, and allowed the vehicle to pass over them, which it did without
injuring them; but the boys who were clinging for dear life to the
trunk-rack behind fell over the prostrate steersman, and there we all
lay in a heap, two or three of us quite picturesque with the nose-bleed.

The coach, with an intuitive perception of what was expected of it,
plunged into the centre of the kindling shavings, and stopped. The
flames sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, which burned like
tinder. At this moment a figure was seen leaping wildly from the inside
of the blazing coach. The figure made three bounds towards us, and
tripped over Harry Blake. It was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhat
singed, and his eyebrows completely scorched off!

Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the back seat before we started,
intending to have a neat little ride down hill, and a laugh at us
afterwards. But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or would
have been, if half a dozen watchmen had not suddenly pounced down upon
us, as we lay scrambling on the ground, weak with mirth over Pepper's
misfortune. We were collared and marched off before we well knew what
had happened.

The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to the
silent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the
work of enchantment. We stared at each other, aghast.

“Well,” remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, “this is a go!”

“No go, I should say,” whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brick
walls and the heavy ironplated door.

“Never say die,” muttered Phil Adams, dolefully.

The bridewell was a small low-studded chamber built up against the
rear end of the Meat Market, and approached from the Square by a narrow
passage-way. A portion of the rooms partitioned off into eight cells,
numbered, each capable of holding two persons. The cells were full at
the time, as we presently discovered by seeing several hideous faces
leering out at us through the gratings of the doors.

A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from the ceiling threw a
flickering light over the apartment, which contained no furniture
excepting a couple of stout wooden benches. It was a dismal place by
night, and only little less dismal by day, tall houses surrounding “the
lock-up” prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from penetrating the
ventilator over the door--long narrow window opening inward and propped
up by a piece of lath.

As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the benches, I imagine that
our aspect was anything but cheerful. Adams and Harris looked very
anxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had just stopped bleeding, was
mournfully carving his name, by sheer force of habit, on the prison
bench. I don't think I ever saw a more “wrecked” expression on any
human countenance than Pepper Whitcomb's presented. His look of natural
astonishment at finding himself incarcerated in a jail was considerably
heightened by his lack of eyebrows.

As for me, it was only by thinking how the late Baron Trenck would
have conducted himself under similar circumstances that I was able to
restrain my tears.

None of us were inclined to conversation. A deep silence, broken now
and then by a startling snore from the cells, reigned throughout the
chamber. By and by Pepper Whitcomb glanced nervously towards Phil Adams
and said, “Phil, do you think they will--hang us?”

“Hang your grandmother!” returned Adams, impatiently. “What I'm afraid
of is that they'll keep us locked up until the Fourth is over.”

“You ain't smart ef they do!” cried a voice from one of the cells. It
was a deep bass voice that sent a chill through me.

“Who are you?” said Jack Harris, addressing the cells in general; for
the echoing qualities of the room made it difficult to locate the voice.

“That don't matter,” replied the speaker, putting his face close up to
the gratings of No. 3, “but ef I was a youngster like you, free an' easy
outside there, this spot wouldn't hold me long.”

“That's so!” chimed several of the prison-birds, wagging their heads
behind the iron lattices.

“Hush!” whispered Jack Harris, rising from his seat and walking on
tip-toe to the door of cell No. 3. “What would you do?”

“Do? Why, I'd pile them 'ere benches up agin that 'ere door, an' crawl
out of that 'erc winder in no time. That's my adwice.”

“And werry good adwice it is, Jim,” said the occupant of No. 5,
approvingly.

Jack Harris seemed to be of the same opinion, for he hastily placed the
benches one on the top of another under the ventilator, and, climbing up
on the highest bench, peeped out into the passage-way.

“If any gent happens to have a ninepence about him,” said the man in
cell No. 3, “there's a sufferin' family here as could make use of it.
Smallest favors gratefully received, an' no questions axed.”

This appeal touched a new silver quarter of a dollar in my
trousers-pocket; I fished out the coin from a mass of fireworks, and
gave it to the prisoner. He appeared to be so good-natured a fellow that
I ventured to ask what he had done to get into jail.

“Intirely innocent. I was clapped in here by a rascally nevew as wishes
to enjoy my wealth afore I'm dead.'

“Your name, Sir?' I inquired, with a view of reporting the outrage to my
grandfather and having the injured person re instated in society.

“Git out, you insolent young reptyle!” shouted the man, in a passion.

I retreated precipitately, amid a roar of laughter from the other cells.

“Can't you keep still?” exclaimed Harris, withdrawing his head from the
window.

A portly watchman usually sat on a stool outside the door day and night;
but on this particular occasion, his services being required elsewhere,
the bridewell had been left to guard itself.

“All clear,” whispered Jack Harris, as he vanished through the
aperture and dropped softly on the ground outside. We all followed him
expeditiously--Pepper Whitcomb and myself getting stuck in the window for
a moment in our frantic efforts not to be last.

“Now, boys, everybody for himself!”




Chapter Eight--The Adventures of a Fourth


The sun cast a broad column of quivering gold across the river at the
foot of our street, just as I reached the doorstep of the Nutter House.
Kitty Collins, with her dress tucked about her so that she looked as if
she had on a pair of calico trousers, was washing off the sidewalk.

“Arrah you bad boy!” cried Kitty, leaning on the mop handle. “The Capen
has jist been askin' for you. He's gone up town, now. It's a nate thing
you done with my clothes-line, and, it's me you may thank for gettin' it
out of the way before the Capen come down.”

The kind creature had hauled in the rope, and my escapade had not been
discovered by the family; but I knew very well that the burning of the
stage-coach, and the arrest of the boys concerned in the mischief, were
sure to reach my grandfathers ears sooner or later.

“Well, Thomas,” said the old gentleman, an hour or so afterwards,
beaming upon me benevolently across the breakfast table, “you didn't
wait to be called this morning.”

“No, sir,” I replied, growing very warm, “I took a little run up town to
see what was going on.”

I didn't say anything about the little run I took home again! “They had
quite a time on the Square last night,” remarked Captain Nutter, looking
up from the Rivermouth Barnacle, which was always placed beside his
coffee-cup at breakfast.

I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on end.

“Quite a time,” continued my grandfather. “Some boys broke into Ezra
Wingate's barn and carried off the old stagecoach. The young rascals! I
do believe they'd burn up the whole town if they had their way.”

With this he resumed the paper. After a long silence he exclaimed,
“Hullo!” upon which I nearly fell off the chair.

“'Miscreants unknown,'” read my grandfather, following the paragraph
with his forefinger; “'escaped from the bridewell, leaving no clew to
their identity, except the letter H, cut on one of the benches.' 'Five
dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators.' Sho! I
hope Wingate will catch them.”

I don't see how I continued to live, for on hearing this the breath went
entirely out of my body. I beat a retreat from the room as soon as I
could, and flew to the stable with a misty intention of mounting Gypsy
and escaping from the place. I was pondering what steps to take, when
Jack Harris and Charley Marden entered the yard.

“I say,” said Harris, as blithe as a lark, “has old Wingate been here?”

“Been here?” I cried, “I should hope not!”

“The whole thing's out, you know,” said Harris, pulling Gypsy's forelock
over her eyes and blowing playfully into her nostrils.

“You don't mean it!” I gasped.

“Yes, I do, and we are to pay Wingate three dollars apiece. He'll make
rather a good spec out of it.”

“But how did he discover that we were the--the miscreants?” I asked,
quoting mechanically from the Rivermouth Barnacle.

“Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound him! He's been trying to sell
it any time these ten years. Now he has sold it to us. When he found
that we had slipped out of the Meat Market, he went right off and wrote
the advertisement offering five dollars reward; though he knew well
enough who had taken the coach, for he came round to my father's
house before the paper was printed to talk the matter over. Wasn't the
governor mad, though! But it's all settled, I tell you. We're to pay
Wingate fifteen dollars for the old go-cart, which he wanted to sell
the other day for seventy-five cents, and couldn't. It's a downright
swindle. But the funny part of it is to come.”

“O, there's a funny part to it, is there?” I remarked bitterly.

“Yes. The moment Bill Conway saw the advertisement, he knew it was
Harry Blake who cut that letter H on the bench; so off he rushes up to
Wingate--kind of him, wasn't it?--and claims the reward. 'Too late, young
man,' says old Wingate, 'the culprits has been discovered.' You see
Sly-boots hadn't any intention of paying that five dollars.”

Jack Harris's statement lifted a weight from my bosom. The article in
the Rivermouth Barnacle had placed the affair before me in a new light.
I had thoughtlessly committed a grave offence. Though the property in
question was valueless, we were clearly wrong in destroying it. At the
same time Mr. Wingate had tacitly sanctioned the act by not preventing
it when he might easily have done so. He had allowed his property to be
destroyed in order that he might realize a large profit.

Without waiting to hear more, I went straight to Captain Nutter, and,
laying my remaining three dollars on his knee, confessed my share in the
previous night's transaction.

The Captain heard me through in profound silence, pocketed the
bank-notes, and walked off without speaking a word. He had punished me
in his own whimsical fashion at the breakfast table, for, at the very
moment he was harrowing up my soul by reading the extracts from the
Rivermouth Barnacle, he not only knew all about the bonfire, but had
paid Ezra Wingate his three dollars. Such was the duplicity of that aged
impostor.

I think Captain Nutter was justified in retaining my pocketmoney, as
additional punishment, though the possession of it later in the day
would have got me out of a difficult position, as the reader will see
further on. I returned with a light heart and a large piece of punk to
my friends in the stable-yard, where we celebrated the termination
of our trouble by setting off two packs of fire-crackers in an empty
wine-cask. They made a prodigious racket, but failed somehow to fully
express my feelings. The little brass pistol in my bedroom suddenly
occurred to me. It had been loaded I don't know how many months, long
before I left New Orleans, and now was the time, if ever, to fire it
off. Muskets, blunderbusses, and pistols were banging away lively all
over town, and the smell of gunpowder, floating on the air, set me wild
to add something respectable to the universal din.

When the pistol was produced, Jack Harris examined the rusty cap and
prophesied that it would not explode.

“Never mind,” said I, “let's try it.”

I had fired the pistol once, secretly, in New Orleans, and, remembering
the noise it gave birth to on that occasion, I shut both eyes tight as
I pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on the cap with a dull, dead
sound. Then Harris tried it; then Charley Marden; then I took it again,
and after three or four trials was on the point of giving it up as a
bad job, when the obstinate thing went off with a tremendous explosion,
nearly jerking my arm from the socket. The smoke cleared away, and
there I stood with the stock of the pistol clutched convulsively in my
hand--the barrel, lock, trigger, and ramrod having vanished into thin
air.

“Are you hurt?” cried the boys, in one breath.

“N--no,” I replied, dubiously, for the concussion had bewildered me a
little.

When I realized the nature of the calamity, my grief was excessive. I
can't imagine what led me to do so ridiculous a thing, but I gravely
buried the remains of my beloved pistol in our back garden, and erected
over the mound a slate tablet to the effect that “Mr. Barker formerly of
new Orleans, was killed accidentally on the Fourth of July, 18-- in the
2nd year of his Age.”  Binny Wallace, arriving on the spot just after
the disaster, and Charley Marden (who enjoyed the obsequies immensely),
acted with me as chief mourners. I, for my part, was a very sincere one.

As I turned away in a disconsolate mood from the garden, Charley Marden
remarked that he shouldn't be surprised if the pistol-butt took root and
grew into a mahogany-tree or something. He said he once planted an old
musket-stock, and shortly afterwards a lot of shoots sprung up! Jack
Harris laughed; but neither I nor Binny Wallace saw Charley's wicked
joke.

We were now joined by Pepper Whitcomb, Fred Langdon, and several other
desperate characters, on their way to the Square, which was always a
busy place when public festivities were going on. Feeling that I was
still in disgrace with the Captain, I thought it politic to ask his
consent before accompanying the boys.

He gave it with some hesitation, advising me to be careful not to get
in front of the firearms. Once he put his fingers mechanically into his
vest-pocket and half drew forth some dollar bills, then slowly thrust
them back again as his sense of justice overcame his genial disposition.
I guess it cut the old gentleman to the heart to be obliged to keep
me out of my pocket-money. I know it did me. However, as I was passing
through the hall, Miss Abigail, with a very severe cast of countenance,
slipped a brand-new quarter into my hand. We had silver currency in
those days, thank Heaven!

Great were the bustle and confusion on the Square. By the way, I don't
know why they called this large open space a square, unless because it
was an oval--an oval formed by the confluence of half a dozen streets,
now thronged by crowds of smartly dressed towns-people and country
folks; for Rivermouth on the Fourth was the centre of attraction to the
inhabitants of the neighboring villages.

On one side of the Square were twenty or thirty booths arranged in
a semi-circle, gay with little flags and seductive with lemonade,
ginger-beer, and seedcakes. Here and there were tables at which could be
purchased the smaller sort of fireworks, such as pin-wheels, serpents,
double-headers, and punk warranted not to go out. Many of the adjacent
houses made a pretty display of bunting, and across each of the streets
opening on the Square was an arch of spruce and evergreen, blossoming
all over with patriotic mottoes and paper roses.

It was a noisy, merry, bewildering scene as we came upon the ground. The
incessant rattle of small arms, the booming of the twelve-pounder firing
on the Mill Dam, and the silvery clangor of the church-bells ringing
simultaneously--not to mention an ambitious brass-band that was blowing
itself to pieces on a balcony--were enough to drive one distracted. We
amused ourselves for an hour or two, darting in and out among the crowd
and setting off our crackers. At one o'clock the Hon. Hezekiah Elkins
mounted a platform in the middle of the Square and delivered an oration,
to which his “feller-citizens” didn't pay much attention, having all
they could do to dodge the squibs that were set loose upon them by
mischievous boys stationed on the surrounding housetops.

Our little party which had picked up recruits here and there, not being
swayed by eloquence, withdrew to a booth on the outskirts of the crowd,
where we regaled ourselves with root beer at two cents a glass. I
recollect being much struck by the placard surmounting this tent:

ROOT BEER

SOLD HERE

It seemed to me the perfection of pith and poetry. What could be more
terse? Not a word to spare, and yet everything fully expressed. Rhyme
and rhythm faultless. It was a delightful poet who made those verses. As
for the beer itself--that, I think, must have been made from the root
of all evil! A single glass of it insured an uninterrupted pain for
twenty-four hours.

The influence of my liberality working on Charley Marden--for it was I
who paid for the beer--he presently invited us all to take an ice-cream
with him at Pettingil's saloon. Pettingil was the Delmonico of
Rivermouth. He furnished ices and confectionery for aristocratic balls
and parties, and didn't disdain to officiate as leader of the orchestra
at the same; for Pettingil played on the violin, as Pepper Whitcomb
described it, “like Old Scratch.”

Pettingil's confectionery store was on the corner of Willow and High
Streets. The saloon, separated from the shop by a flight of three steps
leading to a door hung with faded red drapery, had about it an air of
mystery and seclusion quite delightful. Four windows, also draped, faced
the side-street, affording an unobstructed view of Marm Hatch's back
yard, where a number of inexplicable garments on a clothes-line were
always to be seen careering in the wind.

There was a lull just then in the ice-cream business, it being
dinner-time, and we found the saloon unoccupied. When we had seated
ourselves around the largest marble-topped table, Charley Marden in a
manly voice ordered twelve sixpenny icecreams, “strawberry and verneller
mixed.”

It was a magnificent sight, those twelve chilly glasses entering the
room on a waiter, the red and white custard rising from each glass like
a church-steeple, and the spoon-handle shooting up from the apex like
a spire. I doubt if a person of the nicest palate could have
distinguished, with his eyes shut, which was the vanilla and which the
strawberry; but if I could at this moment obtain a cream tasting as that
did, I would give five dollars for a very small quantity.

We fell to with a will, and so evenly balanced were our capabilities
that we finished our creams together, the spoons clinking in the glasses
like one spoon.

“Let's have some more!” cried Charley Marden, with the air of Aladdin
ordering up a fresh hogshead of pearls and rubies. “Tom Bailey, tell
Pettingil to send in another round.”

Could I credit my ears? I looked at him to see if he were in earnest.
He meant it. In a moment more I was leaning over the counter giving
directions for a second supply. Thinking it would make no difference to
such a gorgeous young sybarite as Marden, I took the liberty of ordering
ninepenny creams this time.

On returning to the saloon, what was my horror at finding it empty!

There were the twelve cloudy glasses, standing in a circle on the sticky
marble slab, and not a boy to be seen. A pair of hands letting go their
hold on the window-sill outside explained matters. I had been made a
victim.

I couldn't stay and face Pettingil, whose peppery temper was well known
among the boys. I hadn't a cent in the world to appease him. What should
I do? I heard the clink of approaching glasses--the ninepenny creams.
I rushed to the nearest window. It was only five feet to the ground. I
threw myself out as if I had been an old hat.

Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly down High Street, through
Willow, and was turning into Brierwood Place when the sound of several
voices, calling to me in distress, stopped my progress.

“Look out, you fool! The mine! The mine!” yelled the warning voices.

Several men and boys were standing at the head of the street, making
insane gestures to me to avoid something. But I saw no mine, only in the
middle of the road in front of me was a common flour-barrel, which, as
I gazed at it, suddenly rose into the air with a terrific explosion.
I felt myself thrown violently off my feet. I remember nothing else,
excepting that, as I went up, I caught a momentary glimpse of Ezra
Wingate leering through is shop window like an avenging spirit.

The mine that had wrought me woe was not properly a mine at all, but
merely a few ounces of powder placed under an empty keg or barrel and
fired with a slow-match. Boys who didn't happen to have pistols or
cannon generally burnt their powder in this fashion.

For an account of what followed I am indebted to hearsay, for I was
insensible when the people picked me up and carried me home on a shutter
borrowed from the proprietor of Pettingil's saloon. I was supposed to
be killed, but happily (happily for me at least) I was merely stunned.
I lay in a semi-unconscious state until eight o'clock that night, when
I attempted to speak. Miss Abigail, who watched by the bedside, put
her ear down to my lips and was saluted with these remarkable words:
“Strawberry and verneller mixed!”

“Mercy on us! What is the boy saying?” cried Miss Abigail.

“ROOTBEERSOLDHERE!”

     This inscription is copied from a triangular-shaped
     piece of slate, still preserved in the garret of the Nutter
     House, together with the pistol butt itself, which was
     subsequently dug up for a postmortem examination.




Chapter Nine--I Become an R. M. C.


In the course of ten days I recovered sufficiently from my injuries to
attend school, where, for a little while, I was looked upon as a hero,
on account of having been blown up. What don't we make a hero of? The
distraction which prevailed in the classes the week preceding the Fourth
had subsided, and nothing remained to indicate the recent festivities,
excepting a noticeable want of eyebrows on the part of Pepper Whitcomb
and myself.

In August we had two weeks' vacation. It was about this time that I
became a member of the Rivermouth Centipedes, a secret society composed
of twelve of the Temple Grammar School boys. This was an honor to which
I had long aspired, but, being a new boy, I was not admitted to the
fraternity until my character had fully developed itself.

It was a very select society, the object of which I never fathomed,
though I was an active member of the body during the remainder of my
residence at Rivermouth, and at one time held the onerous position of F.
C., First Centipede. Each of the elect wore a copper cent (some occult
association being established between a cent apiece and a centipedes
suspended by a string round his neck). The medals were worn next the
skin, and it was while bathing one day at Grave Point, with Jack Harris
and Fred Langdon, that I had my curiosity roused to the highest pitch
by a sight of these singular emblems. As soon as I ascertained the
existence of a boys' club, of course I was ready to die to join it. And
eventually I was allowed to join.

The initiation ceremony took place in Fred Langdon's barn, where I was
submitted to a series of trials not calculated to soothe the nerves of a
timorous boy. Before being led to the Grotto of Enchantment--such was the
modest title given to the loft over my friend's wood-house--my hands were
securely pinioned, and my eyes covered with a thick silk handkerchief.
At the head of the stairs I was told in an unrecognizable, husky voice,
that it was not yet too late to retreat if I felt myself physically too
weak to undergo the necessary tortures. I replied that I was not too
weak, in a tone which I intended to be resolute, but which, in spite of
me, seemed to come from the pit of my stomach.

“It is well!” said the husky voice.

I did not feel so sure about that; but, having made up my mind to be a
Centipede, a Centipede I was bound to be. Other boys had passed through
the ordeal and lived, why should not I?

A prolonged silence followed this preliminary examination and I was
wondering what would come next, when a pistol fired off close by my ear
deafened me for a moment. The unknown voice then directed me to take ten
steps forward and stop at the word halt. I took ten steps, and halted.

“Stricken mortal,” said a second husky voice, more husky, if possible,
than the first, “if you had advanced another inch, you would have
disappeared down an abyss three thousand feet deep!”

I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece of information. A prick
from some two-pronged instrument, evidently a pitchfork, gently
checked my retreat. I was then conducted to the brink of several other
precipices, and ordered to step over many dangerous chasms, where
the result would have been instant death if I had committed the least
mistake. I have neglected to say that my movements were accompanied by
dismal groans from different parts of the grotto.

Finally, I was led up a steep plank to what appeared to me an
incalculable height. Here I stood breathless while the bylaws were read
aloud. A more extraordinary code of laws never came from the brain of
man. The penalties attached to the abject being who should reveal any
of the secrets of the society were enough to make the blood run cold. A
second pistol-shot was heard, the something I stood on sunk with a crash
beneath my feet and I fell two miles, as nearly as I could compute it.
At the same instant the handkerchief was whisked from my eyes, and I
found myself standing in an empty hogshead surrounded by twelve masked
figures fantastically dressed. One of the conspirators was really
appalling with a tin sauce-pan on his head, and a tiger-skin sleigh-robe
thrown over his shoulders. I scarcely need say that there were no
vestiges to be seen of the fearful gulfs over which I had passed so
cautiously. My ascent had been to the top of the hogshead, and my
descent to the bottom thereof. Holding one another by the hand,
and chanting a low dirge, the Mystic Twelve revolved about me. This
concluded the ceremony. With a merry shout the boys threw off their
masks, and I was declared a regularly installed member of the R. M. C.

I afterwards had a good deal of sport out of the club, for these
initiations, as you may imagine, were sometimes very comical spectacles,
especially when the aspirant for centipedal honors happened to be of a
timid disposition. If he showed the slightest terror, he was certain
to be tricked unmercifully. One of our subsequent devices--a humble
invention of my own--was to request the blindfolded candidate to put out
his tongue, whereupon the First Centipede would say, in a low tone,
as if not intended for the ear of the victim, “Diabolus, fetch me the
red-hot iron!” The expedition with which that tongue would disappear was
simply ridiculous.

Our meetings were held in various barns, at no stated periods, but as
circumstances suggested. Any member had a right to call a meeting. Each
boy who failed to report himself was fined one cent. Whenever a member
had reasons for thinking that another member would be unable to attend,
he called a meeting. For instance, immediately on learning the death of
Harry Blake's great-grandfather, I issued a call. By these simple and
ingenious measures we kept our treasury in a flourishing condition,
sometimes having on hand as much as a dollar and a quarter.

I have said that the society had no special object. It is true, there
was a tacit understanding among us that the Centipedes were to stand by
one another on all occasions, though I don't remember that they did; but
further than this we had no purpose, unless it was to accomplish as
a body the same amount of mischief which we were sure to do as
individuals. To mystify the staid and slow-going Rivermouthians was our
frequent pleasure. Several of our pranks won us such a reputation among
the townsfolk, that we were credited with having a large finger in
whatever went amiss in the place.

One morning, about a week after my admission into the secret order, the
quiet citizens awoke to find that the signboards of all the principal
streets had changed places during the night. People who went trustfully
to sleep in Currant Square opened their eyes in Honeysuckle Terrace.
Jones's Avenue at the north end had suddenly become Walnut Street,
and Peanut Street was nowhere to be found. Confusion reigned. The town
authorities took the matter in hand without delay, and six of the Temple
Grammar School boys were summoned to appear before justice Clapham.

Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather all knowledge of
the transaction, I disappeared from the family circle, and was not
apprehended until late in the afternoon, when the Captain dragged me
ignominiously from the haymow and conducted me, more dead than alive,
to the office of justice Clapham. Here I encountered five other pallid
culprits, who had been fished out of divers coal-bins, garrets, and
chicken-coops, to answer the demands of the outraged laws. (Charley
Marden had hidden himself in a pile of gravel behind his father's house,
and looked like a recently exhumed mummy.)

There was not the least evidence against us; and, indeed, we were wholly
innocent of the offence. The trick, as was afterwards proved, had been
played by a party of soldiers stationed at the fort in the harbor. We
were indebted for our arrest to Master Conway, who had slyly dropped a
hint, within the hearing of Selectman Mudge, to the effect that “young
Bailey and his five cronies could tell something about them signs.”
 When he was called upon to make good his assertion, he was considerably
more terrified than the Centipedes, though they were ready to sink into
their shoes.

At our next meeting it was unanimously resolved that Conway's animosity
should not be quietly submitted to. He had sought to inform against
us in the stagecoach business; he had volunteered to carry Pettingil's
“little bill” for twenty-four icecreams to Charley Marden's father; and
now he had caused us to be arraigned before justice Clapham on a charge
equally groundless and painful. After much noisy discussion, a plan of
retaliation was agreed upon.

There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in the town, by the name of
Meeks. It was generally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vague desire
to get married, but, being a shy and timorous youth, lacked the moral
courage to do so. It was also well known that the Widow Conway had not
buried her heart with the late lamented. As to her shyness, that was not
so clear. Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks, whose mother she might
have been, were of a nature not to be misunderstood, and were not
misunderstood by anyone but Mr. Meeks himself.

The widow carried on a dress-making establishment at her residence on
the corner opposite Meeks's drug-store, and kept a wary eye on all the
young ladies from Miss Dorothy Gibbs's Female Institute who patronized
the shop for soda-water, acid-drops, and slate-pencils. In the afternoon
the widow was usually seen seated, smartly dressed, at her window
upstairs, casting destructive glances across the street--the artificial
roses in her cap and her whole languishing manner saying as plainly as a
label on a prescription, “To be Taken Immediately!” But Mr. Meeks didn't
take.

The lady's fondness, and the gentleman's blindness, were topics ably
handled at every sewing-circle in the town. It was through these two
luckless individuals that we proposed to strike a blow at the common
enemy. To kill less than three birds with one stone did not suit
our sanguinary purpose. We disliked the widow not so much for her
sentimentality as for being the mother of Bill Conway; we disliked Mr.
Meeks, not because he was insipid, like his own syrups, but because the
widow loved him. Bill Conway we hated for himself.

Late one dark Saturday night in September we carried our plan into
effect. On the following morning, as the orderly citizens wended their
way to church past the widow's abode, their sober faces relaxed at
beholding over her front door the well known gilt Mortar and Pestle
which usually stood on the top of a pole on the opposite corner;
while the passers on that side of the street were equally amused and
scandalized at seeing a placard bearing the following announcement
tacked to the druggist's window-shutters:

Wanted, a Sempstress!

The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I should be sorry to defend)
was recognized at once. It spread like wildfire over the town, and,
though the mortar and the placard were speedily removed, our triumph
was complete. The whole community was on the broad grin, and our
participation in the affair seemingly unsuspected.

It was those wicked soldiers at the fort!




Chapter Ten--I Fight Conway


There was one person, however, who cherished a strong suspicion that the
Centipedes had had a hand in the business; and that person was Conway.
His red hair seemed to change to a livelier red, and his sallow cheeks
to a deeper sallow, as we glanced at him stealthily over the tops of our
slates the next day in school. He knew we were watching him, and made
sundry mouths and scowled in the most threatening way over his sums.

Conway had an accomplishment peculiarly his own--that of throwing his
thumbs out of joint at will. Sometimes while absorbed in study, or on
becoming nervous at recitation, he performed the feat unconsciously.
Throughout this entire morning his thumbs were observed to be in a
chronic state of dislocation, indicating great mental agitation on the
part of the owner. We fully expected an outbreak from him at recess; but
the intermission passed off tranquilly, somewhat to our disappointment.

At the close of the afternoon session it happened that Binny Wallace
and myself, having got swamped in our Latin exercise, were detained in
school for the purpose of refreshing our memories with a page of Mr.
Andrews's perplexing irregular verbs. Binny Wallace finishing his task
first, was dismissed. I followed shortly after, and, on stepping into
the playground, saw my little friend plastered, as it were, up against
the fence, and Conway standing in front of him ready to deliver a blow
on the upturned, unprotected face, whose gentleness would have stayed
any arm but a coward's.

Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, was leaning against the
pump lazily enjoying the sport; but on seeing me sweep across the
yard, whirling my strap of books in the air like a sling, he called out
lustily, “Lay low, Conway! Here's young Bailey!”

Conway turned just in time to catch on his shoulder the blow intended
for his head. He reached forward one of his long arms--he had arms like
a windmill, that boy--and, grasping me by the hair, tore out quite a
respectable handful. The tears flew to my eyes, but they were not the
tears of defeat; they were merely the involuntary tribute which nature
paid to the departed tresses.

In a second my little jacket lay on the ground, and I stood on guard,
resting lightly on my right leg and keeping my eye fixed steadily on
Conway's--in all of which I was faithfully following the instructions of
Phil Adams, whose father subscribed to a sporting journal.

Conway also threw himself into a defensive attitude, and there we were,
glaring at each other motionless, neither of us disposed to risk an
attack, but both on the alert to resist one. There is no telling how
long we might have remained in that absurd position, had we not been
interrupted.

It was a custom with the larger pupils to return to the playground
after school, and play baseball until sundown. The town authorities
had prohibited ball-playing on the Square, and, there being no other
available place, the boys fell back perforce on the school-yard. Just at
this crisis a dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, seeing
at a glance the belligerent status of Conway and myself, dropped bat and
ball, and rushed to the spot where we stood.

“Is it a fight?” asked Phil Adams, who saw by our freshness that we had
not yet got to work.

“Yes, it's a fight,” I answered, “unless Conway will ask Wallace's
pardon, promise never to hector me in future--and put back my hair!”

This last condition was rather a staggerer.

“I sha'n't do nothing of the sort,” said Conway, sulkily.

“Then the thing must go on,” said Adams, with dignity. “Rodgers, as I
understand it, is your second, Conway? Bailey, come here. What's the row
about?”

“He was thrashing Binny Wallace.”

“No, I wasn't,” interrupted Conway; “but I was going to because he knows
who put Meeks's mortar over our door. And I know well enough who did it;
it was that sneaking little mulatter!” pointing at me.

“O, by George!” I cried, reddening at the insult.

“Cool is the word,” said Adams, as he bound a handkerchief round my
head, and carefully tucked away the long straggling locks that offered a
tempting advantage to the enemy. “Who ever heard of a fellow with such
a head of hair going into action!” muttered Phil, twitching the
handkerchief to ascertain if it were securely tied. He then loosened my
gallowses (braces), and buckled them tightly above my hips. “Now, then,
bantam, never say die!”

Conway regarded these business-like preparations with evident misgiving,
for he called Rodgers to his side, and had himself arrayed in a similar
manner, though his hair was cropped so close that you couldn't have
taken hold of it with a pair of tweezers.

“Is your man ready?” asked Phil Adams, addressing Rodgers.

“Ready!”

“Keep your back to the gate, Tom,” whispered Phil in my ear, “and you'll
have the sun in his eyes.”

Behold us once more face to face, like David and the Philistine. Look
at us as long as you may; for this is all you shall see of the combat.
According to my thinking, the hospital teaches a better lesson than the
battle-field. I will tell you about my black eye, and my swollen lip, if
you will; but not a word of the fight.

You'll get no description of it from me, simply because I think it would
prove very poor reading, and not because I consider my revolt against
Conway's tyranny unjustifiable.

I had borne Conway's persecutions for many months with lamb-like
patience. I might have shielded myself by appealing to Mr. Grimshaw; but
no boy in the Temple Grammar School could do that without losing caste.
Whether this was just or not doesn't matter a pin, since it was so--a
traditionary law of the place. The personal inconvenience I suffered
from my tormentor was nothing to the pain he inflicted on me indirectly
by his persistent cruelty to little Binny Wallace. I should have lacked
the spirit of a hen if I had not resented it finally. I am glad that I
faced Conway, and asked no favors, and got rid of him forever. I am glad
that Phil Adams taught me to box, and I say to all youngsters: Learn to
box, to ride, to pull an oar, and to swim. The occasion may come round,
when a decent proficiency in one or the rest of these accomplishments
will be of service to you.

In one of the best books (1) ever written for boys are these words:

“Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one
of you will be the worse, but very much the better, for learning to box
well. Should you never have to use it in earnest there's no exercise in
the world so good for the temper, and for the muscles of the back and
legs.

“As for fighting, keep out of it, if you can, by all means. When the
time comes, if ever it should, that you have to say 'Yes' or 'No' to a
challenge to fight, say 'No' if you can--only take care you make it plain
to yourself why you say 'No.' It's a proof of the highest courage, if
done from true Christian motives. It's quite right and justifiable, if
done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger. But don't say
'No' because you fear a licking and say or think it's because you fear
God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fight
it out; and don't give in while you can stand and see.”

And don't give in when you can't! see!  For I could stand very little,
and see not at all (having pommelled the school pump for the last twenty
seconds), when Conway retired from the field. As Phil Adams stepped up
to shake hands with me, he received a telling blow in the stomach;
for all the fight was not out of me yet, and I mistook him for a new
adversary.

Convinced of my error, I accepted his congratulations, with those of the
other boys, blandly and blindly. I remember that Binny Wallace wanted to
give me his silver pencil-case. The gentle soul had stood throughout the
contest with his face turned to the fence, suffering untold agony.

A good wash at the pump, and a cold key applied to my eye, refreshed me
amazingly. Escorted by two or three of the schoolfellows, I walked home
through the pleasant autumn twilight, battered but triumphant. As I went
along, my cap cocked on one side to keep the chilly air from my eye, I
felt that I was not only following my nose, but following it so closely,
that I was in some danger of treading on it. I seemed to have nose
enough for the whole party. My left cheek, also, was puffed out like
a dumpling. I couldn't help saying to myself, “If this is victory, how
about that other fellow?”

“Tom,” said Harry Blake, hesitating.

“Well?”

“Did you see Mr. Grimshaw looking out of the recitation-room window just
as we left the yard?”

“No was he, though?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Then he must have seen all the row.”

“Shouldn't wonder.”

“No, he didn't,” broke in Adams, “or he would have stopped it short
metre; but I guess be saw you pitching into the pump which you did
uncommonly strong--and of course be smelt mischief directly.”

“Well, it can't be helped now,” I reflected.

“--As the monkey said when he fell out of the cocoanut tree,” added
Charley Marden, trying to make me laugh.

It was early candle-light when we reached the house. Miss Abigail,
opening the front door, started back at my hilarious appearance. I
tried to smile upon her sweetly, but the smile, rippling over my
swollen cheek, and dying away like a spent wave on my nose, produced an
expression of which Miss Abigail declared she had never seen the like
excepting on the face of a Chinese idol.

She hustled me unceremoniously into the presence of my grandfather in
the sitting-room. Captain Nutter, as the recognized professional warrior
of our family, could not consistently take me to task for fighting
Conway; nor was he disposed to do so; for the Captain was well aware of
the long-continued provocation I had endured.

“Ah, you rascal!” cried the old gentleman, after hearing my story. “Just
like me when I was young--always in one kind of trouble or another. I
believe it runs in the family.”

“I think,” said Miss Abigail, without the faintest expression on her
countenance, “that a table-spoonful of hot-dro--” The Captain interrupted
Miss Abigail peremptorily, directing her to make a shade out of
cardboard and black silk to tie over my eye. Miss Abigail must have been
possessed with the idea that I had taken up pugilism as a profession,
for she turned out no fewer than six of these blinders.

“They'll be handy to have in the house,” says Miss Abigail, grimly.

Of course, so great a breach of discipline was not to be passed over by
Mr. Grimshaw. He had, as we suspected, witnessed the closing scene
of the fight from the school-room window, and the next morning, after
prayers, I was not wholly unprepared when Master Conway and myself
were called up to the desk for examination. Conway, with a piece of
court-plaster in the shape of a Maltese cross on his right cheek, and
I with the silk patch over my left eye, caused a general titter through
the room.

“Silence!” said Mr. Grimshaw, sharply.

As the reader is already familiar with the leading points in the case of
Bailey versus Conway, I shall not report the trial further than to say
that Adams, Marden, and several other pupils testified to the fact that
Conway had imposed on me ever since my first day at the Temple School.
Their evidence also went to show that Conway was a quarrelsome character
generally. Bad for Conway. Seth Rodgers, on the part of his friend,
proved that I had struck the first blow. That was bad for me.

“If you please, sir,” said Binny Wallace, holding up his hand for
permission to speak, “Bailey didn't fight on his own account; he fought
on my account, and, if you please, sir, I am the boy to be blamed, for I
was the cause of the trouble.”

This drew out the story of Conway's harsh treatment of the smaller boys.
As Binny related the wrongs of his playfellows, saying very little
of his own grievances, I noticed that Mr. Grimshaw's hand, unknown to
himself perhaps, rested lightly from time to time on Wallace's sunny
hair. The examination finished, Mr. Grimshaw leaned on the desk
thoughtfully for a moment and then said:

“Every boy in this school knows that it is against the rules to
fight. If one boy maltreats another, within school-bounds, or within
school-hours, that is a matter for me to settle. The case should be laid
before me. I disapprove of tale-bearing, I never encourage it in
the slightest degree; but when one pupil systematically persecutes a
schoolmate, it is the duty of some head-boy to inform me. No pupil has a
right to take the law into his own hands. If there is any fighting to be
done, I am the person to be consulted. I disapprove of boys' fighting;
it is unnecessary and unchristian. In the present instance, I consider
every large boy in this school at fault, but as the offence is one of
omission rather than commission, my punishment must rest only on the two
boys convicted of misdemeanor. Conway loses his recess for a month,
and Bailey has a page added to his Latin lessons for the next four
recitations. I now request Bailey and Conway to shake hands in the
presence of the school, and acknowledge their regret at what has
occurred.”

Conway and I approached each other slowly and cautiously, as if we were
bent upon another hostile collision. We clasped hands in the tamest
manner imaginable, and Conway mumbled, “I'm sorry I fought with you.”

“I think you are,” I replied, drily, “and I'm sorry I had to thrash
you.”

“You can go to your seats,” said Mr. Grimshaw, turning his face aside to
hide a smile. I am sure my apology was a very good one.

I never had any more trouble with Conway. He and his shadow, Seth
Rodgers, gave me a wide berth for many months. Nor was Binny Wallace
subjected to further molestation. Miss Abigail's sanitary stores,
including a bottle of opodeldoc, were never called into requisition. The
six black silk patches, with their elastic strings, are still dangling
from a beam in the garret of the Nutter House, waiting for me to get
into fresh difficulties.


    (1) “Tom Brown's School Days at Rugby”





Chapter Eleven--All About Gypsy


This record of my life at Rivermouth would be strangely incomplete did I
not devote an entire chapter to Gypsy. I had other pets, of course; for
what healthy boy could long exist without numerous friends in the animal
kingdom? I had two white mice that were forever gnawing their way out
of a pasteboard chateau, and crawling over my face when I lay asleep. I
used to keep the pink-eyed little beggars in my bedroom, greatly to the
annoyance of Miss Abigail, who was constantly fancying that one of the
mice had secreted itself somewhere about her person.

I also owned a dog, a terrier, who managed in some inscrutable way
to pick a quarrel with the moon, and on bright nights kept up such a
ki-yi-ing in our back garden, that we were finally forced to dispose
of him at private sale. He was purchased by Mr. Oxford, the butcher.
I protested against the arrangement and ever afterwards, when we had
sausages from Mr. Oxford's shop, I made believe I detected in them
certain evidences that Cato had been foully dealt with.

Of birds I had no end, robins, purple-martins, wrens, bulfinches,
bobolinks, ringdoves, and pigeons. At one time I took solid comfort
in the iniquitous society of a dissipated old parrot, who talked so
terribly, that the Rev. Wibird Hawkins, happening to get a sample of
Poll's vituperative powers, pronounced him “a benighted heathen,” and
advised the Captain to get rid of him. A brace of turtles supplanted
the parrot in my affections; the turtles gave way to rabbits; and the
rabbits in turn yielded to the superior charms of a small monkey, which
the Captain bought of a sailor lately from the coast of Africa.

But Gypsy was the prime favorite, in spite of many rivals. I never grew
weary of her. She was the most knowing little thing in the world. Her
proper sphere in life--and the one to which she ultimately attained--was
the saw-dust arena of a travelling circus. There was nothing short of
the three R's, reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic, that Gypsy couldn't be
taught. The gift of speech was not hers, but the faculty of thought was.

My little friend, to be sure, was not exempt from certain graceful
weaknesses, inseparable, perhaps, from the female character. She was
very pretty, and she knew it. She was also passionately fond of dress--by
which I mean her best harness. When she had this on, her curvetings
and prancings were laughable, though in ordinary tackle she went along
demurely enough. There was something in the enamelled leather and the
silver-washed mountings that chimed with her artistic sense. To have her
mane braided, and a rose or a pansy stuck into her forelock, was to make
her too conceited for anything.

She had another trait not rare among her sex. She liked the attentions
of young gentlemen, while the society of girls bored her. She would drag
them, sulkily, in the cart; but as for permitting one of them in the
saddle, the idea was preposterous. Once when Pepper Whitcomb's sister,
in spite of our remonstrances, ventured to mount her, Gypsy gave a
little indignant neigh, and tossed the gentle Emma heels over head in no
time. But with any of the boys the mare was as docile as a lamb.

Her treatment of the several members of the family was comical. For the
Captain she entertained a wholesome respect, and was always on her good
behavior when he was around. As to Miss Abigail, Gypsy simply laughed at
her--literally laughed, contracting her upper lip and displaying all her
snow-white teeth, as if something about Miss Abigail struck her, Gypsy,
as being extremely ridiculous.

Kitty Collins, for some reason or another, was afraid of the pony, or
pretended to be. The sagacious little animal knew it, of course, and
frequently, when Kitty was hanging out clothes near the stable, the mare
being loose in the yard, would make short plunges at her. Once Gypsy
seized the basket of clothespins with her teeth, and rising on her hind
legs, pawing the air with her fore feet followed Kitty clear up to the
scullery steps.

That part of the yard was shut off from the rest by a gate; but no gate
was proof against Gypsy's ingenuity. She could let down bars, lift up
latches, draw bolts, and turn all sorts of buttons. This accomplishment
rendered it hazardous for Miss Abigail or Kitty to leave any eatables on
the kitchen table near the window. On one occasion Gypsy put in her head
and lapped up six custard pies that had been placed by the casement to
cool.

An account of my young lady's various pranks would fill a thick
volume. A favorite trick of hers, on being requested to “walk like Miss
Abigail,” was to assume a little skittish gait so true to nature
that Miss Abigail herself was obliged to admit the cleverness of the
imitation.

The idea of putting Gypsy through a systematic course of instruction
was suggested to me by a visit to the circus which gave an annual
performance in Rivermouth. This show embraced among its attractions a
number of trained Shetland ponies, and I determined that Gypsy should
likewise have the benefit of a liberal education. I succeeded in
teaching her to waltz, to fire a pistol by tugging at a string tied
to the trigger, to lie down dead, to wink one eye, and to execute many
other feats of a difficult nature. She took to her studies admirably,
and enjoyed the whole thing as much as anyone.

The monkey was a perpetual marvel to Gypsy. They became bosom-friends
in an incredibly brief period, and were never easy out of each other's
sight. Prince Zany--that's what Pepper Whitcomb and I christened him one
day, much to the disgust of the monkey, who bit a piece out of Pepper's
nose--resided in the stable, and went to roost every night on the pony's
back, where I usually found him in the morning. Whenever I rode out, I
was obliged to secure his Highness the Prince with a stout cord to the
fence, he chattering all the time like a madman.

One afternoon as I was cantering through the crowded part of the town, I
noticed that the people in the street stopped, stared at me, and fell to
laughing. I turned round in the saddle, and there was Zany, with a great
burdock leaf in his paw, perched up behind me on the crupper, as solemn
as a judge.

After a few months, poor Zany sickened mysteriously, and died. The dark
thought occurred to me then, and comes back to me now with redoubled
force, that Miss Abigail must have given him some hot-drops. Zany left
a large circle of sorrowing friends, if not relatives. Gypsy, I think,
never entirely recovered from the shock occasioned by his early
demise. She became fonder of me, though; and one of her cunningest
demonstrations was to escape from the stable-yard, and trot up to the
door of the Temple Grammar School, where I would discover her at recess
patiently waiting for me, with her fore feet on the second step, and
wisps of straw standing out all over her, like quills upon the fretful
porcupine.

I should fail if I tried to tell you how dear the pony was to me. Even
hard, unloving men become attached to the horses they take care of; so
I, who was neither unloving nor hard, grew to love every glossy hair of
the pretty little creature that depended on me for her soft straw bed
and her daily modicum of oats. In my prayer at night I never forgot to
mention Gypsy with the rest of the family--generally setting forth her
claims first.

Whatever relates to Gypsy belongs properly to this narrative; therefore
I offer no apology for rescuing from oblivion, and boldly printing here
a short composition which I wrote in the early part of my first quarter
at the Temple Grammar School. It is my maiden effort in a difficult art,
and is, perhaps, lacking in those graces of thought and style which are
reached only after the severest practice.

Every Wednesday morning, on entering school, each pupil was expected
to lay his exercise on Mr. Grimshaw's desk; the subject was usually
selected by Mr. Grimshaw himself, the Monday previous. With a humor
characteristic of him, our teacher had instituted two prizes, one for
the best and the other for the worst composition of the month. The first
prize consisted of a penknife, or a pencil-case, or some such article
dear to the heart of youth; the second prize entitled the winner to wear
for an hour or two a sort of conical paper cap, on the front of which
was written, in tall letters, this modest admission: I AM A DUNCE! The
competitor who took prize No. 2. wasn't generally an object of envy.

My pulse beat high with pride and expectation that Wednesday morning, as
I laid my essay, neatly folded, on the master's table. I firmly decline
to say which prize I won; but here's the composition to speak for
itself:--

  The horse

  The horse is a useful animal He
  is nice to have. i have one.
  her name is gipsey. She bites, her
  main is very long. one Day i was
  washing her front Foot when she
  bent down her head and lifted
  me up by the trousers and then
  tumbled me into the water Pale
  that was standing near by. i hit
  her six times with a pease of
  hoop. the way of the transgresser
  is hard

  T. Bailey


It is no small-author vanity that induces me to publish this stray
leaf of natural history. I lay it before our young folks, not for
their admiration, but for their criticism. Let each reader take
his lead-pencil and remorselessly correct the orthography, the
capitalization, and the punctuation of the essay. I shall not feel hurt
at seeing my treatise cut all to pieces; though I think highly of the
production, not on account of its literary excellence, which I candidly
admit is not overpowering, but because it was written years and years
ago about Gypsy, by a little fellow who, when I strive to recall him,
appears to me like a reduced ghost of my present self.

I am confident that any reader who has ever had pets, birds or animals,
will forgive me for this brief digression.




Chapter Twelve--Winter at Rivermouth


“I guess we're going to have a regular old-fashioned snowstorm,”
 said Captain Nutter, one bleak December morning, casting a peculiarly
nautical glance skyward.

The Captain was always hazarding prophecies about the weather, which
somehow never turned out according to his prediction. The vanes on the
church-steeples seemed to take fiendish pleasure in humiliating the
dear old gentleman. If he said it was going to be a clear day, a dense
sea-fog was pretty certain to set in before noon. Once he caused a
protracted drought by assuring us every morning, for six consecutive
weeks, that it would rain in a few hours. But, sure enough, that
afternoon it began snowing.

Now I had not seen a snow-storm since I was eighteen months old, and of
course remembered nothing about it. A boy familiar from his infancy with
the rigors of our New England winters can form no idea of the impression
made on me by this natural phenomenon. My delight and surprise were as
boundless as if the heavy gray sky had let down a shower of pond
lilies and white roses, instead of snow-flakes. It happened to be a
half-holiday, so I had nothing to do but watch the feathery crystals
whirling hither and thither through the air. I stood by the sitting-room
window gazing at the wonder until twilight shut out the novel scene.

We had had several slight flurries of hail and snow before, but this was
a regular nor'easter.

Several inches of snow had already fallen. The rose-bushes at the door
drooped with the weight of their magical blossoms, and the two posts
that held the garden gate were transformed into stately Turks, with
white turbans, guarding the entrance to the Nutter House.

The storm increased at sundown, and continued with unabated violence
through the night. The next morning, when I jumped out of bed, the sun
was shining brightly, the cloudless heavens wore the tender azure of
June, and the whole earth lay muffled up to the eyes, as it were, in a
thick mantle of milk-white down.

It was a very deep snow. The Oldest Inhabitant (what would become of a
New England town or village without its oldest Inhabitant?) overhauled
his almanacs, and pronounced it the deepest snow we had had for twenty
years. It couldn't have been much deeper without smothering us all.
Our street was a sight to be seen, or, rather, it was a sight not to
be seen; for very little street was visible. One huge drift completely
banked up our front door and half covered my bedroom window.

There was no school that day, for all the thoroughfares were impassable.
By twelve o'clock, however, the great snowploughs, each drawn by four
yokes of oxen, broke a wagon-path through the principal streets; but the
foot-passengers had a hard time of it floundering in the arctic drifts.

The Captain and I cut a tunnel, three feet wide and six feet high, from
our front door to the sidewalk opposite. It was a beautiful cavern, with
its walls and roof inlaid with mother-of-pearl and diamonds. I am sure
the ice palace of the Russian Empress, in Cowper's poem, was not a more
superb piece of architecture.

The thermometer began falling shortly before sunset and we had the
bitterest cold night I ever experienced. This brought out the Oldest
Inhabitant again the next day--and what a gay old boy he was for deciding
everything! Our tunnel was turned into solid ice. A crust thick enough
to bear men and horses had formed over the snow everywhere, and the air
was alive with merry sleigh-bells. Icy stalactites, a yard long, bung
from the eaves of the house, and the Turkish sentinels at the gate
looked as if they had given up all hopes of ever being relieved from
duty.

So the winter set in cold and glittering. Everything out-of-doors was
sheathed in silver mail. To quote from Charley Marden, it was “cold
enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey,”--an observation which
seemed to me extremely happy, though I knew little or nothing concerning
the endurance of brass monkeys, having never seen one.

I had looked forward to the advent of the season with grave
apprehensions, nerving myself to meet dreary nights and monotonous
days; but summer itself was not more jolly than winter at Rivermouth.
Snow-balling at school, skating on the Mill Pond, coasting by moonlight,
long rides behind Gypsy in a brand-new little sleigh built expressly for
her, were sports no less exhilarating than those which belonged to the
sunny months. And then Thanksgiving! The nose of Memory--why shouldn't
Memory have a nose?--dilates with pleasure over the rich perfume of Miss
Abigail's forty mince-pies, each one more delightful than the other,
like the Sultan's forty wives. Christmas was another red-letter day,
though it was not so generally observed in New England as it is now.

The great wood-fire in the tiled chimney-place made our sitting-room
very cheerful of winter nights. When the north-wind howled about
the eaves, and the sharp fingers of the sleet tapped against the
window-panes, it was nice to be so warmly sheltered from the storm. A
dish of apples and a pitcher of chilly cider were always served during
the evening. The Captain had a funny way of leaning back in the chair,
and eating his apple with his eyes closed. Sometimes I played dominos
with him, and sometimes Miss Abigail read aloud to us, pronouncing “to”
 toe, and sounding all the eds.

In a former chapter I alluded to Miss Abigail's managing propensities.
She had affected many changes in the Nutter House before I came there
to live; but there was one thing against which she had long contended
without being able to overcome. This was the Captain's pipe. On
first taking command of the household, she prohibited smoking in the
sitting-room, where it had been the old gentleman's custom to take a
whiff or two of the fragrant weed after meals. The edict went forth--and
so did the pipe. An excellent move, no doubt; but then the house was
his, and if he saw fit to keep a tub of tobacco burning in the middle of
the parlor floor, he had a perfect right to do so. However, he humored
her in this as in other matters, and smoked by stealth, like a guilty
creature, in the barn, or about the gardens. That was practicable in
summer, but in winter the Captain was hard put to it. When he couldn't
stand it longer, he retreated to his bedroom and barricaded the door.
Such was the position of affairs at the time of which I write.

One morning, a few days after the great snow, as Miss Abigail was
dusting the chronometer in the hall, she beheld Captain Nutter slowly
descending the staircase, with a long clay pipe in his mouth. Miss
Abigail could hardly credit her own eyes.

“Dan'el!” she gasped, retiring heavily on the hat-rack.

The tone of reproach with which this word was uttered failed to produce
the slightest effect on the Captain, who merely removed the pipe from
his lips for an instant, and blew a cloud into the chilly air. The
thermometer stood at two degrees below zero in our hall.

“Dan'el!” cried Miss Abigail, hysterically--“Dan'el, don't come near me!”
 Whereupon she fainted away; for the smell of tobacco-smoke always made
her deadly sick.

Kitty Collins rushed from the kitchen with a basin of water, and set to
work bathing Miss Abigail's temples and chafing her hands. I thought
my grandfather rather cruel, as he stood there with a half-smile on his
countenance, complacently watching Miss Abigail's sufferings. When she
was “brought to,” the Captain sat down beside her, and, with a lovely
twinkle in his eye, said softly:

“Abigail, my dear, there wasn't any tobacco in that Pipe! It was a new
pipe. I fetched it down for Tom to blow soap-bubbles with.”

At these words Kitty Collins hurried away, her features-working
strangely. Several minutes later I came upon her in the scullery with
the greater portion of a crash towel stuffed into her mouth. “Miss
Abygil smelt the terbacca with her oi!” cried Kitty, partially removing
the cloth, and then immediately stopping herself up again.

The Captain's joke furnished us--that is, Kitty and me--with mirth for
many a day; as to Miss Abigail, I think she never wholly pardoned
him. After this, Captain Nutter gradually gave up smoking, which is an
untidy, injurious, disgraceful, and highly pleasant habit.

A boy's life in a secluded New England town in winter does not afford
many points for illustration. Of course he gets his ears or toes
frost-bitten; of course he smashes his sled against another boy's; of
course be bangs his bead on the ice; and he's a lad of no enterprise
whatever, if he doesn't manage to skate into an eel-hole, and be brought
home half drowned. All these things happened to me; but, as they lack
novelty, I pass them over, to tell you about the famous snow-fort which
we built on Slatter's Hill.




Chapter Thirteen--The Snow Fort on Slatter's Hill


The memory of man, even that of the Oldest Inhabitant, runneth not back
to the time when there did not exist a feud between the North End and
the South End boys of Rivermouth.

The origin of the feud is involved in mystery; it is impossible to say
which party was the first aggressor in the far-off anterevolutionary
ages; but the fact remains that the youngsters of those antipodal
sections entertained a mortal hatred for each other, and that this
hatred had been handed down from generation to generation, like Miles
Standish's punch-bowl.

I know not what laws, natural or unnatural, regulated the warmth of the
quarrel; but at some seasons it raged more violently than at others.
This winter both parties were unusually lively and antagonistic.
Great was the wrath of the South-Enders, when they discovered that the
North-Enders had thrown up a fort on the crown of Slatter's Hill.

Slatter's Hill, or No-man's-land, as it was generally called, was a
rise of ground covering, perhaps, an acre and a quarter, situated on
an imaginary line, marking the boundary between the two districts. An
immense stratum of granite, which here and there thrust out a wrinkled
boulder, prevented the site from being used for building purposes. The
street ran on either side of the hill, from one part of which a quantity
of rock had been removed to form the underpinning of the new jail.
This excavation made the approach from that point all but impossible,
especially when the ragged ledges were a-glitter with ice. You see what
a spot it was for a snow-fort.

One evening twenty or thirty of the North-Enders quietly took possession
of Slatter's Hill, and threw up a strong line of breastworks, something
after this shape:

(Ft Slatter graphic)

The rear of the entrenchment, being protected by the quarry, was left
open. The walls were four feet high, and twenty-two inches thick,
strengthened at the angles by stakes driven firmly into the ground.

Fancy the rage of the South-Enders the next day, when they spied our
snowy citadel, with Jack Harris's red silk pocket handkerchief floating
defiantly from the flag-staff.

In less than an hour it was known all over town, in military circles at
least, that the “Puddle-dockers” and the “River-rats” (these were the
derisive sub-titles bestowed on our South-End foes) intended to attack
the fort that Saturday afternoon.

At two o'clock all the fighting boys of the Temple Grammar School,
and as many recruits as we could muster, lay behind the walls of Fort
Slatter, with three hundred compact snowballs piled up in pyramids,
awaiting the approach of the enemy. The enemy was not slow in making his
approach--fifty strong, headed by one Mat Ames. Our forces were under the
command of General J. Harris.

Before the action commenced, a meeting was arranged between the rival
commanders, who drew up and signed certain rules and regulations
respecting the conduct of the battle. As it was impossible for the
North-Enders to occupy the fort permanently, it was stipulated that the
South-Enders should assault it only on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons
between the hours of two and six. For them to take possession of the
place at any other time was not to constitute a capture, but on the
contrary was to be considered a dishonorable and cowardly act.

The North-Enders, on the other hand, agreed to give up the fort whenever
ten of the storming party succeeded in obtaining at one time a footing
on the parapet, and were able to hold the same for the space of two
minutes. Both sides were to abstain from putting pebbles into their
snow-balls, nor was it permissible to use frozen ammunition. A snow-ball
soaked in water and left out to cool was a projectile which in previous
years had been resorted to with disastrous results.

These preliminaries settled, the commanders retired to their respective
corps. The interview had taken place on the hillside between the
opposing lines.

General Harris divided his men into two bodies; the first comprised the
most skilful marksmen, or gunners; the second, the reserve force, was
composed of the strongest boys, whose duty it was to repel the scaling
parties, and to make occasional sallies for the purpose of capturing
prisoners, who were bound by the articles of treaty to faithfully serve
under our flag until they were exchanged at the close of the day.

The repellers were called light infantry; but when they carried on
operations beyond the fort they became cavalry. It was also their duty,
when not otherwise engaged, to manufacture snow-balls. The General's
staff consisted of five Templars (I among the number, with the rank of
Major), who carried the General's orders and looked after the wounded.

General Mat Ames, a veteran commander, was no less wide-awake in the
disposition of his army. Five companies, each numbering but six men,
in order not to present too big a target to our sharpshooters, were to
charge the fort from different points, their advance being covered by a
heavy fire from the gunners posted in the rear. Each scaler was provided
with only two rounds of ammunition, which were not to be used until he
had mounted the breastwork and could deliver his shots on our heads.

The drawing below represents the interior of the fort just previous to
the assault. Nothing on earth could represent the state of things after
the first volley.

(Fort Slatter detail graphic)

The thrilling moment had now arrived. If I had been going into a real
engagement I could not have been more deeply impressed by the importance
of the occasion.

The fort opened fire first--a single ball from the dexterous hand of
General Harris taking General Ames in the very pit of his stomach. A
cheer went up from Fort Slatter. In an instant the air was thick with
flying missiles, in the midst of which we dimly descried the storming
parties sweeping up the hill, shoulder to shoulder. The shouts of the
leaders, and the snowballs bursting like shells about our ears, made it
very lively.

Not more than a dozen of the enemy succeeded in reaching the crest of
the hill; five of these clambered upon the icy walls, where they were
instantly grabbed by the legs and jerked into the fort. The rest retired
confused and blinded by our well-directed fire.

When General Harris (with his right eye bunged up) said, “Soldiers, I am
proud of you!” my heart swelled in my bosom.

The victory, however, had not been without its price. Six North-Enders,
having rushed out to harass the discomfited enemy, were gallantly
cut off by General Ames and captured. Among these were Lieutenant P.
Whitcomb (who had no business to join in the charge, being weak in the
knees), and Captain Fred Langdon, of General Harris's staff. Whitcomb
was one of the most notable shots on our side, though he was not much
to boast of in a rough-and-tumble fight, owing to the weakness before
mentioned. General Ames put him among the gunners, and we were quickly
made aware of the loss we had sustained, by receiving a frequent artful
ball which seemed to light with unerring instinct on any nose that was
the least bit exposed. I have known one of Pepper's snow-balls, fired
pointblank, to turn a corner and hit a boy who considered himself
absolutely safe.

But we had no time for vain regrets. The battle raged. Already there
were two bad cases of black eye, and one of nosebleed, in the hospital.

It was glorious excitement, those pell-mell onslaughts and hand-to-hand
struggles. Twice we were within an ace of being driven from our
stronghold, when General Harris and his staff leaped recklessly upon the
ramparts and hurled the besiegers heels over head down hill.

At sunset, the garrison of Fort Slatter was still unconquered, and the
South-Enders, in a solid phalanx, marched off whistling “Yankee Doodle,”
 while we cheered and jeered them until they were out of hearing.

General Ames remained behind to effect an exchange of prisoners. We held
thirteen of his men, and he eleven of ours. General Ames proposed to
call it an even thing, since many of his eleven prisoners were officers,
while nearly all our thirteen captives were privates. A dispute arising
on this point, the two noble generals came to fisticuffs, and in
the fracas our brave commander got his remaining well eye badly damaged.
This didn't prevent him from writing a general order the next day, on a
slate, in which he complimented the troops on their heroic behavior.

On the following Wednesday the siege was renewed. I forget whether it
was on that afternoon or the next that we lost Fort Slatter; but lose it
we did, with much valuable ammunition and several men. After a series
of desperate assaults, we forced General Ames to capitulate; and he, in
turn, made the place too hot to hold us. So from day to day the tide
of battle surged to and fro, sometimes favoring our arms, and sometimes
those of the enemy.

General Ames handled his men with great skill; his deadliest foe could
not deny that. Once he outgeneralled our commander in the following
manner: He massed his gunners on our left and opened a brisk fire, under
cover of which a single company (six men) advanced on that angle of the
fort. Our reserves on the right rushed over to defend the threatened
point. Meanwhile, four companies of the enemy's scalers made a detour
round the foot of the hill, and dashed into Fort Slatter without
opposition. At the same moment General Ames's gunners closed in on our
left, and there we were between two fires. Of course we had to vacate
the fort. A cloud rested on General Harris's military reputation until
his superior tactics enabled him to dispossess the enemy.

As the winter wore on, the war-spirit waxed fiercer and fiercer. At
length the provision against using heavy substances in the snow-balls
was disregarded. A ball stuck full of sand-bird shot came tearing into
Fort Slatter. In retaliation, General Harris ordered a broadside of
shells; i. e. snow-balls containing marbles. After this, both sides
never failed to freeze their ammunition.

It was no longer child's play to march up to the walls of Fort Slatter,
nor was the position of the besieged less perilous. At every assault
three or four boys on each side were disabled. It was not an infrequent
occurrence for the combatants to hold up a flag of truce while they
removed some insensible comrade.

Matters grew worse and worse. Seven North-Enders had been seriously
wounded, and a dozen South-Enders were reported on the sick list.
The selectmen of the town awoke to the fact of what was going on, and
detailed a posse of police to prevent further disturbance. The boys at
the foot of the hill, South-Enders as it happened, finding themselves
assailed in the rear and on the flank, turned round and attempted
to beat off the watchmen. In this they were sustained by numerous
volunteers from the fort, who looked upon the interference as
tyrannical.

The watch were determined fellows, and charged the boys valiantly,
driving them all into the fort, where we made common cause, fighting
side by side like the best of friends. In vain the four guardians of the
peace rushed up the hill, flourishing their clubs and calling upon us to
surrender. They could not get within ten yards of the fort, our fire was
so destructive. In one of the onsets a man named Mugridge, more valorous
than his peers, threw himself upon the parapet, when he was seized by
twenty pairs of hands, and dragged inside the breastwork, where fifteen
boys sat down on him to keep him quiet.

Perceiving that it was impossible with their small number to dislodge
us, the watch sent for reinforcements. Their call was responded to, not
only by the whole constabulary force (eight men), but by a numerous
body of citizens, who had become alarmed at the prospect of a riot. This
formidable array brought us to our senses: we began to think that maybe
discretion was the better part of valor. General Harris and General
Ames, with their respective staffs, held a council of war in the
hospital, and a backward movement was decided on. So, after one grand
farewell volley, we fled, sliding, jumping, rolling, tumbling down the
quarry at the rear of the fort, and escaped without losing a man.

But we lost Fort Slatter forever. Those battle-scarred ramparts were
razed to the ground, and humiliating ashes sprinkled over the historic
spot, near which a solitary lynx-eyed policeman was seen prowling from
time to time during the rest of the winter.

The event passed into a legend, and afterwards, when later instances of
pluck and endurance were spoken of, the boys would say, “By golly! You
ought to have been at the fights on Slatter's Hill!”




Chapter Fourteen--The Cruise of the Dolphin


It was spring again. The snow had faded away like a dream, and we were
awakened, so to speak, by the sudden chirping of robins in our back
garden. Marvellous transformation of snowdrifts into lilacs, wondrous
miracle of the unfolding leaf! We read in the Holy Book how our Saviour,
at the marriage-feast, changed the water into wine; we pause and wonder;
but every hour a greater miracle is wrought at our very feet, if we have
but eyes to see it.

I had now been a year at Rivermouth. If you do not know what sort of boy
I was, it is not because I haven't been frank with you. Of my progress
at school I say little; for this is a story, pure and simple, and not
a treatise on education. Behold me, however, well up in most of the
classes. I have worn my Latin grammar into tatters, and am in the first
book of Virgil. I interlard my conversation at home with easy quotations
from that poet, and impress Captain Nutter with a lofty notion of my
learning. I am likewise translating Les Aventures de Telemaque from the
French, and shall tackle Blair's Lectures the next term. I am ashamed of
my crude composition about The Horse, and can do better now. Sometimes
my head almost aches with the variety of my knowledge. I consider Mr.
Grimshaw the greatest scholar that ever lived, and I don't know which I
would rather be--a learned man like him, or a circus rider.

My thoughts revert to this particular spring more frequently than to any
other period of my boyhood, for it was marked by an event that left an
indelible impression on my memory. As I pen these pages, I feel that
I am writing of something which happened yesterday, so vividly it all
comes back to me.

Every Rivermouth boy looks upon the sea as being in some way mixed up
with his destiny. While he is yet a baby lying in his cradle, he hears
the dull, far-off boom of the breakers; when he is older, he wanders by
the sandy shore, watching the waves that come plunging up the beach
like white-maned seahorses, as Thoreau calls them; his eye follows the
lessening sail as it fades into the blue horizon, and he burns for the
time when he shall stand on the quarter-deck of his own ship, and go
sailing proudly across that mysterious waste of waters.

Then the town itself is full of hints and flavors of the sea. The gables
and roofs of the houses facing eastward are covered with red rust, like
the flukes of old anchors; a salty smell pervades the air, and dense
gray fogs, the very breath of Ocean, periodically creep up into the
quiet streets and envelop everything. The terrific storms that lash
the coast; the kelp and spars, and sometimes the bodies of drowned men,
tossed on shore by the scornful waves; the shipyards, the wharves, and
the tawny fleet of fishing-smacks yearly fitted out at Rivermouth--these
things, and a hundred other, feed the imagination and fill the brain of
every healthy boy with dreams of adventure. He learns to swim almost
as soon as he can walk; he draws in with his mother's milk the art of
handling an oar: he is born a sailor, whatever he may turn out to be
afterwards.

To own the whole or a portion of a row-boat is his earliest ambition.
No wonder that I, born to this life, and coming back to it with freshest
sympathies, should have caught the prevailing infection. No wonder I
longed to buy a part of the trim little sailboat Dolphin, which chanced
just then to be in the market. This was in the latter part of May.

Three shares, at five or six dollars each, I forget which, had already
been taken by Phil Adams, Fred Langdon, and Binny Wallace. The fourth
and remaining share hung fire. Unless a purchaser could be found for
this, the bargain was to fall through.

I am afraid I required but slight urging to join in the investment.
I had four dollars and fifty cents on hand, and the treasurer of the
Centipedes advanced me the balance, receiving my silver pencil-case as
ample security. It was a proud moment when I stood on the wharf with my
partners, inspecting the Dolphin, moored at the foot of a very slippery
flight of steps. She was painted white with a green stripe outside, and
on the stern a yellow dolphin, with its scarlet mouth wide open, stared
with a surprised expression at its own reflection in the water. The boat
was a great bargain.

I whirled my cap in the air, and ran to the stairs leading down from the
wharf, when a hand was laid gently on my shoulder. I turned and faced
Captain Nutter. I never saw such an old sharp-eye as he was in those
days.

I knew he wouldn't be angry with me for buying a rowboat; but I also
knew that the little bowsprit suggesting a jib, and the tapering mast
ready for its few square feet of canvas, were trifles not likely to
meet his approval. As far as rowing on the river, among the wharves, was
concerned, the Captain had long since withdrawn his decided objections,
having convinced himself, by going out with me several times, that I
could manage a pair of sculls as well as anybody.

I was right in my surmises. He commanded me, in the most emphatic
terms, never to go out in the Dolphin without leaving the mast in the
boat-house. This curtailed my anticipated sport, but the pleasure of
having a pull whenever I wanted it remained. I never disobeyed the
Captain's orders touching the sail, though I sometimes extended my row
beyond the points he had indicated.

The river was dangerous for sailboats. Squalls, without the slightest
warning, were of frequent occurrence; scarcely a year passed that six or
seven persons were not drowned under the very windows of the town, and
these, oddly enough, were generally sea-captains, who either did not
understand the river, or lacked the skill to handle a small craft.

A knowledge of such disasters, one of which I witnessed, consoled me
somewhat when I saw Phil Adams skimming over the water in a spanking
breeze with every stitch of canvas set. There were few better yachtsmen
than Phil Adams. He usually went sailing alone, for both Fred Langdon
and Binny Wallace were under the same restrictions I was.

Not long after the purchase of the boat, we planned an excursion to
Sandpeep Island, the last of the islands in the harbor. We proposed to
start early in the morning, and return with the tide in the moonlight.
Our only difficulty was to obtain a whole day's exemption from school,
the customary half-holiday not being long enough for our picnic.
Somehow, we couldn't work it; but fortune arranged it for us. I may
say here, that, whatever else I did, I never played truant (“hookey” we
called it) in my life.

One afternoon the four owners of the Dolphin exchanged significant
glances when Mr. Grimshaw announced from the desk that there would be
no school the following day, he having just received intelligence of the
death of his uncle in Boston I was sincerely attached to Mr. Grimshaw,
but I am afraid that the death of his uncle did not affect me as it
ought to have done.

We were up before sunrise the next morning, in order to take advantage
of the flood tide, which waits for no man. Our preparations for the
cruise were made the previous evening. In the way of eatables and
drinkables, we had stored in the stem of the Dolphin a generous bag
of hard-tack (for the chowder), a piece of pork to fry the cunners in,
three gigantic apple-pies (bought at Pettingil's), half a dozen lemons,
and a keg of spring-water--the last-named article we slung over the
side, to keep it cool, as soon as we got under way. The crockery and
the bricks for our camp-stove we placed in the bows, with the groceries,
which included sugar, pepper, salt, and a bottle of pickles. Phil Adams
contributed to the outfit a small tent of unbleached cotton cloth, under
which we intended to take our nooning.

We unshipped the mast, threw in an extra oar, and were ready to embark.
I do not believe that Christopher Columbus, when he started on his
rather successful voyage of discovery, felt half the responsibility
and importance that weighed upon me as I sat on the middle seat of the
Dolphin, with my oar resting in the row-lock. I wonder if Christopher
Columbus quietly slipped out of the house without letting his estimable
family know what he was up to?

Charley Marden, whose father had promised to cane him if he ever stepped
foot on sail or rowboat, came down to the wharf in a sour-grape humor,
to see us off. Nothing would tempt him to go out on the river in such
a crazy clam-shell of a boat. He pretended that he did not expect
to behold us alive again, and tried to throw a wet blanket over the
expedition.

“Guess you'll have a squally time of it,” said Charley, casting off
the painter. “I'll drop in at old Newbury's” (Newbury was the parish
undertaker) “and leave word, as I go along!”

“Bosh!” muttered Phil Adams, sticking the boat-hook into the
string-piece of the wharf, and sending the Dolphin half a dozen yards
towards the current.

How calm and lovely the river was! Not a ripple stirred on the glassy
surface, broken only by the sharp cutwater of our tiny craft. The sun,
as round and red as an August moon, was by this time peering above the
water-line.

The town had drifted behind us, and we were entering among the group of
islands. Sometimes we could almost touch with our boat-hook the shelving
banks on either side. As we neared the mouth of the harbor a little
breeze now and then wrinkled the blue water, shook the spangles from
the foliage, and gently lifted the spiral mist-wreaths that still clung
along shore. The measured dip of our oars and the drowsy twitterings
of the birds seemed to mingle with, rather than break, the enchanted
silence that reigned about us.

The scent of the new clover comes back to me now, as I recall that
delicious morning when we floated away in a fairy boat down a river like
a dream!

The sun was well up when the nose of the Dolphin nestled against the
snow-white bosom of Sandpeep Island. This island, as I have said before,
was the last of the cluster, one side of it being washed by the sea. We
landed on the river-side, the sloping sands and quiet water affording us
a good place to moor the boat.

It took us an hour or two to transport our stores to the spot selected
for the encampment. Having pitched our tent, using the five oars to
support the canvas, we got out our lines, and went down the rocks
seaward to fish. It was early for cunners, but we were lucky enough to
catch as nice a mess as ever you saw. A cod for the chowder was not so
easily secured. At last Binny Wallace hauled in a plump little fellow
crusted all over with flaky silver.

To skin the fish, build our fireplace, and cook the chowder kept us
busy the next two hours. The fresh air and the exercise had given us the
appetites of wolves, and we were about famished by the time the savory
mixture was ready for our clamshell saucers.

I shall not insult the rising generation on the seaboard by telling them
how delectable is a chowder compounded and eaten in this Robinson Crusoe
fashion. As for the boys who live inland, and know naught of such marine
feasts, my heart is full of pity for them. What wasted lives! Not to
know the delights of a clam-bake, not to love chowder, to be ignorant of
lob-scouse!

How happy we were, we four, sitting crosslegged in the crisp salt grass,
with the invigorating sea-breeze blowing gratefully through our hair!
What a joyous thing was life, and how far off seemed death--death, that
lurks in all pleasant places, and was so near!

The banquet finished, Phil Adams drew from his pocket a handful of
sweet-fern cigars; but as none of the party could indulge without
imminent risk of becoming sick, we all, on one pretext or another,
declined, and Phil smoked by himself.

The wind had freshened by this, and we found it comfortable to put
on the jackets which had been thrown aside in the heat of the day.
We strolled along the beach and gathered large quantities of the
fairy-woven Iceland moss, which, at certain seasons, is washed to these
shores; then we played at ducks and drakes, and then, the sun being
sufficiently low, we went in bathing.

Before our bath was ended a slight change had come over the sky and sea;
fleecy-white clouds scudded here and there, and a muffled moan from the
breakers caught our ears from time to time. While we were dressing, a
few hurried drops of rain came lisping down, and we adjourned to the
tent to await the passing of the squall.

“We're all right, anyhow,” said Phil Adams. “It won't be much of a blow,
and we'll be as snug as a bug in a rug, here in the tent, particularly
if we have that lemonade which some of you fellows were going to make.”

By an oversight, the lemons had been left in the boat. Binny Wallace
volunteered to go for them.

“Put an extra stone on the painter, Binny,” said Adams, calling after
him; “it would be awkward to have the Dolphin give us the slip and
return to port minus her passengers.”

“That it would,” answered Binny, scrambling down the rocks.

Sandpeep Island is diamond-shaped--one point running out into the sea,
and the other looking towards the town. Our tent was on the river-side.
Though the Dolphin was also on the same side, it lay out of sight by the
beach at the farther extremity of the island.

Binny Wallace had been absent five or six minutes, when we heard him
calling our several names in tones that indicated distress or surprise,
we could not tell which. Our first thought was, “The boat has broken
adrift!”

We sprung to our feet and hastened down to the beach. On turning the
bluff which hid the mooring-place from our view, we found the conjecture
correct. Not only was the Dolphin afloat, but poor little Binny Wallace
was standing in the bows with his arms stretched helplessly towards
us--drifting out to sea!

“Head the boat in shore!” shouted Phil Adams.

Wallace ran to the tiller; but the slight cockle-shell merely swung
round and drifted broadside on. O, if we had but left a single scull in
the Dolphin!

“Can you swim it?” cried Adams, desperately, using his hand as a
speaking-trumpet, for the distance between the boat and the island
widened momentarily.

Binny Wallace looked down at the sea, which was covered with white caps,
and made a despairing gesture. He knew, and we knew, that the stoutest
swimmer could not live forty seconds in those angry waters.

A wild, insane light came into Phil Adams's eyes, as he stood knee-deep
in the boiling surf, and for an instant I think he meditated plunging
into the ocean after the receding boat.

The sky darkened, and an ugly look stole rapidly over the broken surface
of the sea.

Binny Wallace half rose from his seat in the stem, and waved his hand
to us in token of farewell. In spite of the distance, increasing every
instant we could see his face plainly. The anxious expression it wore
at first had passed. It was pale and meek now, and I love to think there
was a kind of halo about it, like that which painters place around the
forehead of a saint. So he drifted away.

The sky grew darker and darker. It was only by straining our eyes
through the unnatural twilight that we could keep the Dolphin in sight.
The figure of Binny Wallace was no longer visible, for the boat itself
had dwindled to a mere white dot on the black water. Now we lost it, and
our hearts stopped throbbing; and now the speck appeared again, for an
instant, on the crest of a high wave.

Finally, it went out like a spark, and we saw it no more. Then we gazed
at each other, and dared not speak.

Absorbed in following the course of the boat, we had scarcely noticed
the huddled inky clouds that sagged down all around us. From these
threatening masses, seamed at intervals with pale lightning, there now
burst a heavy peal of thunder that shook the ground under our feet. A
sudden squall struck the sea, ploughing deep white furrows into it, and
at the same instant a single piercing shriek rose above the tempest--the
frightened cry of a gull swooping over the island. How it startled us!

It was impossible any longer to keep our footing on the beach. The wind
and the breakers would have swept us into the ocean if we had not clung
to each other with the desperation of drowning men. Taking advantage of
a momentary lull, we crawled up the sands on our hands and knees, and,
pausing in the lee of the granite ledge to gain breath, returned to the
camp, where we found that the gale had snapped all the fastenings of
the tent but one. Held by this, the puffed-out canvas swayed in the wind
like a balloon. It was a task of some difficulty to secure it, which we
did by beating down the canvas with the oars.

After several trials, we succeeded in setting up the tent on the leeward
side of the ledge. Blinded by the vivid flashes of lightning, and
drenched by the rain, which fell in torrents, we crept, half dead with
fear and anguish, under our flimsy shelter. Neither the anguish nor the
fear was on our own account, for we were comparatively safe, but for
poor little Binny Wallace, driven out to sea in the merciless gale. We
shuddered to think of him in that frail shell, drifting on and on to his
grave, the sky rent with lightning over his head, and the green abysses
yawning beneath him. We fell to crying, the three of us, and cried I
know not how long.

Meanwhile the storm raged with augmented fury. We were obliged to hold
on to the ropes of the tent to prevent it blowing away. The spray
from the river leaped several yards up the rocks and clutched at us
malignantly. The very island trembled with the concussions of the sea
beating upon it, and at times I fancied that it had broken loose from
its foundation, and was floating off with us. The breakers, streaked
with angry phosphorus, were fearful to look at.

The wind rose higher and higher, cutting long slits in the tent, through
which the rain poured incessantly. To complete the sum of our miseries,
the night was at hand. It came down suddenly, at last, like a curtain,
shutting in Sandpeep island from all the world.

It was a dirty night, as the sailors say. The darkness was something
that could be felt as well as seen--it pressed down upon one with a cold,
clammy touch. Gazing into the hollow blackness, all sorts of imaginable
shapes seemed to start forth from vacancy--brilliant colors, stars,
prisms, and dancing lights. What boy, lying awake at night, has not
amused or terrified himself by peopling the spaces around his bed with
these phenomena of his own eyes?

“I say,” whispered Fred Langdon, at length, clutching my hand, “don't
you see things--out there--in the dark?”

“Yes, yes--Binny Wallace's face!”

I added to my own nervousness by making this avowal; though for the
last ten minutes I had seen little besides that star-pale face with
its angelic hair and brows. First a slim yellow circle, like the nimbus
round the moon, took shape and grew sharp against the darkness; then
this faded gradually, and there was the Face, wearing the same sad,
sweet look it wore when he waved his hand to us across the awful water.
This optical illusion kept repeating itself.

“And I too,” said Adams. “I see it every now and then, outside there.
What wouldn't I give if it really was poor little Wallace looking in at
us! O boys, how shall we dare to go back to the town without him? I've
wished a hundred times, since we've been sitting here, that I was in his
place, alive or dead!”

We dreaded the approach of morning as much as we longed for it. The
morning would tell us all. Was it possible for the Dolphin to outride
such a storm? There was a light-house on Mackerel Reef, which lay
directly in the course the boat had taken, when it disappeared. If the
Dolphin had caught on this reef, perhaps Binny Wallace was safe. Perhaps
his cries had been heard by the keeper of the light. The man owned a
lifeboat, and had rescued several people. Who could tell?

Such were the questions we asked ourselves again and again, as we lay in
each other's arms waiting for daybreak. What an endless night it was! I
have known months that did not seem so long.

Our position was irksome rather than perilous; for the day was certain
to bring us relief from the town, where our prolonged absence, together
with the storm, had no doubt excited the liveliest alarm for our safety.
But the cold, the darkness, and the suspense were hard to bear.

Our soaked jackets had chilled us to the bone. To keep warm, we lay
huddled together so closely that we could bear our hearts beat above the
tumult of sea and sky.

After a while we grew very hungry, not having broken our fast since
early in the day. The rain had turned the hard-tack into a sort of
dough; but it was better than nothing.

We used to laugh at Fred Langdon for always carrying in his pocket a
small vial of essence of peppermint or sassafras, a few drops of which,
sprinkled on a lump of loaf-sugar, he seemed to consider a great luxury.
I don't know what would have become of us at this crisis, if it hadn't
been for that omnipresent bottle of hot stuff. We poured the stinging
liquid over our sugar, which had kept dry in a sardine-box, and warmed
ourselves with frequent doses.

After four or five hours the rain ceased, the wind died away to a moan,
and the sea--no longer raging like a maniac--sobbed and sobbed with a
piteous human voice all along the coast. And well it might, after that
night's work. Twelve sail of the Gloucester fishing fleet had gone down
with every soul on board, just outside of Whale's-back Light. Think of
the wide grief that follows in the wake of one wreck; then think of the
despairing women who wrung their hands and wept, the next morning, in
the streets of Gloucester, Marblehead, and Newcastle!

Though our strength was nearly spent, we were too cold to sleep. Once
I sunk into a troubled doze, when I seemed to bear Charley Marden's
parting words, only it was the Sea that said them. After that I threw
off the drowsiness whenever it threatened to overcome me.

Fred Langdon was the earliest to discover a filmy, luminous streak in
the sky, the first glimmering of sunrise.

“Look, it is nearly daybreak!”

While we were following the direction of his finger, a sound of distant
oars fell on our ears.

We listened breathlessly, and as the dip of the blades became more
audible, we discerned two foggy lights, like will-o'the-wisps, floating
on the river.

Running down to the water's edge, we hailed the boats with all
our might. The call was heard, for the oars rested a moment in the
row-locks, and then pulled in towards the island.

It was two boats from the town, in the foremost of which we could now
make out the figures of Captain Nutter and Binny Wallace's father. We
shrunk back on seeing him.

“Thank God!” cried Mr. Wallace, fervently, as he leaped from the wherry
without waiting for the bow to touch the beach.

But when he saw only three boys standing on the sands, his eye wandered
restlessly about in quest of the fourth; then a deadly pallor overspread
his features.

Our story was soon told. A solemn silence fell upon the crowd of rough
boatmen gathered round, interrupted only by a stifled sob from one poor
old man, who stood apart from the rest.

The sea was still running too high for any small boat to venture out; so
it was arranged that the wherry should take us back to town, leaving the
yawl, with a picked crew, to hug the island until daybreak, and then set
forth in search of the Dolphin.

Though it was barely sunrise when we reached town, there were a great
many people assembled at the landing eager for intelligence from missing
boats. Two picnic parties had started down river the day before, just
previous to the gale, and nothing had been beard of them. It turned out
that the pleasure-seekers saw their danger in time, and ran ashore on
one of the least exposed islands, where they passed the night. Shortly
after our own arrival they appeared off Rivermouth, much to the joy of
their friends, in two shattered, dismasted boats.

The excitement over, I was in a forlorn state, physically and mentally.
Captain Nutter put me to bed between hot blankets, and sent Kitty
Collins for the doctor. I was wandering in my mind, and fancied myself
still on Sandpeep Island: now we were building our brick-stove to cook
the chowder, and, in my delirium, I laughed aloud and shouted to my
comrades; now the sky darkened, and the squall struck the island: now I
gave orders to Wallace how to manage the boat, and now I cried because
the rain was pouring in on me through the holes in the tent. Towards
evening a high fever set in, and it was many days before my grandfather
deemed it prudent to tell me that the Dolphin had been found, floating
keel upwards, four miles southeast of Mackerel Reef.

Poor little Binny Wallace! How strange it seemed, when I went to
school again, to see that empty seat in the fifth row! How gloomy the
playground was, lacking the sunshine of his gentle, sensitive face! One
day a folded sheet slipped from my algebra; it was the last note he ever
wrote me. I couldn't read it for the tears.

What a pang shot across my heart the afternoon it was whispered through
the town that a body had been washed ashore at Grave Point--the place
where we bathed. We bathed there no more! How well I remember the
funeral, and what a piteous sight it was afterwards to see his familiar
name on a small headstone in the Old South Burying Ground!

Poor little Binny Wallace! Always the same to me. The rest of us have
grown up into hard, worldly men, fighting the fight of life; but you
are forever young, and gentle, and pure; a part of my own childhood
that time cannot wither; always a little boy, always poor little Binny
Wallace!




Chapter Fifteen--An Old Acquaintance Turns Up


A year had stolen by since the death of Binny Wallace--a year of which I
have nothing important to record.

The loss of our little playmate threw a shadow over our young lives for
many and many a month. The Dolphin rose and fell with the tide at the
foot of the slippery steps, unused, the rest of the summer. At the close
of November we hauled her sadly into the boat-house for the winter; but
when spring came round we launched the Dolphin again, and often went
down to the wharf and looked at her lying in the tangled eel-grass,
without much inclination to take a row. The associations connected with
the boat were too painful as yet; but time, which wears the sharp edge
from everything, softened this feeling, and one afternoon we brought out
the cobwebbed oars.

The ice once broken, brief trips along the wharves--we seldom cared to
go out into the river now--became one of our chief amusements. Meanwhile
Gypsy was not forgotten. Every clear morning I was in the saddle
before breakfast, and there are few roads or lanes within ten miles of
Rivermouth that have not borne the print of her vagrant hoof.

I studied like a good fellow this quarter, carrying off a couple of
first prizes. The Captain expressed his gratification by presenting me
with a new silver dollar. If a dollar in his eyes was smaller than a
cart-wheel, it wasn't so very much smaller. I redeemed my pencil-case
from the treasurer of the Centipedes, and felt that I was getting on in
the world.

It was at this time I was greatly cast down by a letter from my father
saying that he should be unable to visit Rivermouth until the following
year. With that letter came another to Captain Nutter, which he did not
read aloud to the family, as usual. It was on business, he said, folding
it up in his wallet. He received several of these business letters from
time to time, and I noticed that they always made him silent and moody.

The fact is, my father's banking-house was not thriving. The
unlooked-for failure of a firm largely indebted to him had crippled
“the house.” When the Captain imparted this information to me I didn't
trouble myself over the matter. I supposed--if I supposed anything--that
all grown-up people had more or less money, when they wanted it. Whether
they inherited it, or whether government supplied them, was not clear
to me. A loose idea that my father had a private gold-mine somewhere or
other relieved me of all uneasiness.

I was not far from right. Every man has within himself a gold-mine whose
riches are limited only by his own industry. It is true, it sometimes
happens that industry does not avail, if a man lacks that something
which, for want of a better name, we call Luck. My father was a person
of untiring energy and ability; but he had no luck. To use a Rivermouth
saying, he was always catching sculpins when everyone else with the same
bait was catching mackerel.

It was more than two years since I had seen my parents. I felt that I
could not bear a longer separation. Every letter from New Orleans--we
got two or three a month--gave me a fit of homesickness; and when it was
definitely settled that my father and mother were to remain in the South
another twelvemonth, I resolved to go to them.

Since Binny Wallace's death, Pepper Whitcomb had been my fidus Achates;
we occupied desks near each other at school, and were always together
in play hours. We rigged a twine telegraph from his garret window to
the scuttle of the Nutter House, and sent messages to each other in
a match-box. We shared our pocket-money and our secrets--those amazing
secrets which boys have. We met in lonely places by stealth, and parted
like conspirators; we couldn't buy a jackknife or build a kite without
throwing an air of mystery and guilt over the transaction.

I naturally hastened to lay my New Orleans project before Pepper
Whitcomb, having dragged him for that purpose to a secluded spot in the
dark pine woods outside the town. Pepper listened to me with a gravity
which he will not be able to surpass when he becomes Chief Justice, and
strongly advised me to go.

“The summer vacation,” said Pepper, “lasts six weeks; that will give you
a fortnight to spend in New Orleans, allowing two weeks each way for the
journey.”

I wrung his hand and begged him to accompany me, offering to defray
all the expenses. I wasn't anything if I wasn't princely in those days.
After considerable urging, he consented to go on terms so liberal. The
whole thing was arranged; there was nothing to do now but to advise
Captain Nutter of my plan, which I did the next day.

The possibility that he might oppose the tour never entered my head. I
was therefore totally unprepared for the vigorous negat

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