.dt A Chance for Himself, by J. T. Trowbridge-A Project Gutenberg eBook
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placed in the public domain.
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The Adventure with the Basket of Coin.
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[Illustration: The Adventure with the Basket of Coin.]
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A||CHANCE FOR HIMSELF;
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OR,
JACK HAZARD AND HIS TREASURE.
BY
J. T. TROWBRIDGE,
AUTHOR OF “JACK HAZARD AND HIS FORTUNES,” “LAWRENCE’S ADVENTURES,”
“COUPON BONDS,” ETC.
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[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
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BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.
1872.
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872,
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
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University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., Cambridge.
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CONTENTS.
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Chapter | | Page
I. | The Thunder-Squall | #7:ch01#
II. | What Jack found in the Log | #13:ch02#
III. | “Treasure-Trove” | #19:ch03#
IV. | In which Jack counts his Chickens | #28:ch04#
V. | Waiting for the Deacon | #32:ch05#
VI. | “About that Half-Dollar” | #36:ch06#
VII. | How Jack went for his Treasure | #41:ch07#
VIII. | Jack and the Squire | #49:ch08#
IX. | The Squire’s Perplexity and Jack’s Stratagem | #58:ch09#
X. | “The Huswick Tribe” | #65:ch10#
XI. | The “Court” and the “Verdict” | #70:ch11#
XII. | How Hod’s Trousers went to the Squire’s House | #78:ch12#
XIII. | How Jack rescued Lion, but missed the Treasure | #82:ch13#
XIV. | Squire Peternot at Home | #89:ch14#
XV. | Jack and the Huswick Boys | #96:ch15#
XVI. | How Jack called at the Squire’s | #104:ch16#
XVII. | How Jack took to his Heels | #111:ch17#
XVIII. | How the Heels went Home without Shoes and Stockings | #116:ch18#
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XIX. | How Jack was invited to ride | #122:ch19#
XX. | How the Shoes and Stockings came Home | #128:ch20#
XXI. | Jack in Disgrace | #135:ch21#
XXII. | Jack and the Jolly Constable | #143:ch22#
XXIII. | Before Judge Garty | #150:ch23#
XXIV. | The Prisoner’s Cup of Milk | #157:ch24#
XXV. | Jack’s Prisoners | #160:ch25#
XXVI. | The Owner of the Potato Patch, and his Dog | #167:ch26#
XXVII. | The Race, and how it ended | #174:ch27#
XXVIII. | The Search, and how it ended | #179:ch28#
XXIX. | The Culvert and the Cornfield | #187:ch29#
XXX. | Jack breakfasts and receives a Visitor | #194:ch30#
XXXI. | Tea with Aunt Patsy | #201:ch31#
XXXII. | A Starlight Walk with Annie Felton | #208:ch32#
XXXIII. | A Strange Call at a Strange Hour of the Night | #216:ch33#
XXXIV. | How Jack won a Bet, and returned a Favor | #221:ch34#
XXXV. | At Mr. Chatford’s Gate | #227:ch35#
XXXVI. | The “Ride” continued | #234:ch36#
XXXVII. | One of the Deacon’s Blunders | #239:ch37#
XXXVIII. | The Deacon’s Diplomacy | #246:ch38#
XXXIX. | A Turn of Fortune | #251:ch39#
XL. | The Squire’s Triumph | #257:ch40#
XLI. | How it all ended | #264:ch41#
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A CHANCE FOR HIMSELF.
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CHAPTER I||THE THUNDER-SQUALL.
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[Illustration]
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On a high, hilly pasture, occupying
the northeast corner
of Peach Hill Farm, a
man and two boys were
one afternoon clearing the
ground of stones.
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The man—noticeable for
his round shoulders, round
puckered mouth, and two
large, shining front teeth—wielded
a stout iron bar
called a “crow,” with which
he pried up the turf-bound
rocks, and helped to tumble
them over upon a drag,
called in that region a
“stun-boat.” The larger of
the boys—a bright, active
lad of about fourteen years—lent
a hand at the heavy
rocks, and also gathered up and cast upon the drag the
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smaller stones, on his own account. The second lad—nearly
as tall, and perhaps quite as old as the other—helped
a little about the stones, but divided his
attention chiefly between the horse that drew the drag,
and a shaggy black dog that accompanied the party.
“Come, boy!” said the man,—enunciating the m
and b by closing the said front teeth upon his nether
lip,—“ye better quit fool’n’, an’ ketch holt and help.
’S go’n’ to rain.”
“Ain’t I helping?” retorted the smaller boy.
“Don’t I drive the horse?”
“A great sight,—long’s the reins are on his back,
an’ I haf to holler to him half the time to git up an’
whoa. Git up, Maje! there! whoa!—Jack’s wuth
jest about six of ye.”
“O, Jack’s dreadful smart! Beats everything!
And so are you, Phi Pipkin!” said the boy, sneeringly.
“You feel mighty big since you got married,
don’t ye?—I bet ye Lion’s got a squirrel under that
big rock! I’m going to see!” And away he ran.
“That ’ere Phin Chatford ain’t wuth the salt in his
porridge,—if I do say it!” remarked Mr. Pipkin. “I
never did see sich a shirk; though when he comes
to tell what’s been done, you’d think he was boss of
all creation. Feel as if I’d like to take the gad to
him sometimes, by hokey!”
“O Jack!” cried Phin, who had mounted a boulder
much too large for Mr. Pipkin’s crow-bar, “you can
see Lake Ontario from here,—’way over the trees
there! Come and get up here; it’s grand!”
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“I’ve been up there before,” replied Jack. “Haven’t
time now. We shall have that shower here
before we get half across the lot.”
“Come, Phin!” called out Mr. Pipkin, “there’s
reason in all things! We’ll onhitch soon’s we git
this load, an’ dodge a wettin’.”
“Seems to me you’re all-fired ’fraid of a wetting,
both of ye,” cried Phin. “’T won’t hurt me! Let it
come, and be darned to it, I say!”
This last exclamation sounded so much like blasphemy
to the boy’s own ears, and it was followed
immediately by so vivid a flash of lightning and so
terrific a peal of thunder, from a black cloud rolling
up overhead, that he jumped down from the rock
and crouched beside it, looking ludicrously pale and
scared; while the dog, dropping ears and tail, and
whining and trembling with fear, ran first for Jack’s
legs, then for Mr. Pipkin’s, and finally crouched by
the boulder with Phin.
“You’re a perty pictur’ there!” cried Mr. Pipkin,
with a loud, hoarse laugh. “Who’s afraid now?”
“Lion, I guess,—I ain’t,” said Phin, with an
unnatural grin. “Only thought I’d sit down a
spell.”
“It’s as cheap settin’ as standin’,—as the old hen
remarked, arter she’d sot a month on rotten eggs, an’
nary chicken,” said Mr. Pipkin, whose spirits rose
with the excitement of the occasion.
“There’s a good reason for the dog’s skulking,”
said Jack. “He’s afraid of thunder, ever since
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Squire Peternot fired the old musket in his face and
eyes. Hello! another crack!”
“I never see sich thunder!” exclaimed Mr. Pipkin.
“Look a’ them rain-drops! big as bullets!”
“It’s coming!” cried Jack; and instantly the heavy
thunder-gust swept over them.
“Onhitch!” roared out Mr. Pipkin, in the sudden
tumult of rain and wind and thunder. “I must look
out for my rheumatiz! Put for the house!”
“We shall get drenched before we are half-way to
the house,” replied Jack, dropping the trace-chains.
“I go for the woods!”
“I’ll take Old Maje, then,” said Mr. Pipkin.
But before he could mount, Phin, darting from the
imperfect shelter of the rock, ran and leaped across
the horse’s back. As he was scrambling to a seat,
holding on by mane and harness, kicking, and calling
out, “Give me a boost, Phi!” Mr. Pipkin gave him
a boost, and lost his hat by the operation. That
was quickly recovered; but before the owner, clapping
it on his head, could get back to the horse’s side,
the youthful rider, using the gathered-up reins for a
whip, had started for the barn.
“Whoa! hold on! take me!” bellowed Mr. Pipkin.
“He won’t carry double—ask Jack!”
Flinging these parting words over his shoulder, the
treacherous Phin went off at a gallop, leaving Mr.
Pipkin to follow, at a heavy “dog-trot,” over the darkened
hill, through the rushing, blinding storm.
Jack was already leaping a wall which separated
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the pasture from a neighboring wood-lot. Plunging
in among the reeling and clashing trees, he first
sought shelter by placing himself close under the lee
of a large basswood; but the rain dashed through the
surging mass of foliage above, and trickled down
upon him from trunk and limbs.
Looking hastily about to see if he could better his
situation, he cast his eye upon a prostrate tree, which
some former gale had broken and overthrown, and
from which the branches had mostly rotted and fallen
away. It appeared to be hollow at the butt, and
Jack ran to it, laughing at the thought of crawling in
out of the rain. He put in his head, but took it out
again immediately. The cavity was dark, and a disagreeable
odor of rotten wood, suggestive of bugs and
“thousand-legged worms,” repelled him.
“Never mind!” thought he. “I can clap my
clothes in the hole, and have ’em dry to put on after
the shower is over.”
He stripped himself in a moment, rolled up his
garments in a neat bundle, and placed them, with his
hat and shoes, within the hollow log.
“Now for a jolly shower-bath!” And, seeing an
opening in the woods a little farther on, he capered
towards it, laughing at the oddness of his situation,
and at the feeling of the rain trickling down his bare
back. A few more lightning flashes and tremendous
claps of thunder, then a steady, pouring rain for
about five minutes, in which Jack danced and
screamed in great glee,—and the storm was over.
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“What a soaking Phi and Phin must have got!”
thought he. “And now won’t they be surprised to
see me come home in dry clothes!”
The wind had gone down before; and now a flood
of silver light, like a more ethereal shower, broke
upon the still woods, brightening through its arched
vistas, glancing from the leaves, and glistening in
countless drops from the dripping boughs. A light
wind passed, and every tree seemed to shake down
laughingly from its shining locks a shower of pearls.
Jack was filled with a sense of wonder and joy as he
walked back through the beautiful, fresh, wet woods
to his hollow log. He waited only a minute or two
for his skin to dry, and for the boughs to cease dripping;
then put in his hand where he had left his
clothes. His clothes were not there!
Jack was startled: in place of the anticipated triumph
of going home in dry garments, here was a chance
of his going home in no garments at all! Yet who
could have taken them? how was it possible that they
could have been removed during his brief absence?
“Maybe this isn’t the log!” He looked around.
“Yes, it is, though!”
No other fallen trunk at all resembling it was to
be seen in the woods. Then he stooped again, and
thrust his hand as far as he could into the opening.
He touched something,—not what he sought, but a
mass of hair, and the leg of some large animal. He
recoiled instinctively, with—it must be confessed—a
start of fear.
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CHAPTER II||WHAT JACK FOUND IN THE LOG.
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Jack’s first thought was, that the creature, whatever
it might be, was in the log when he placed his
clothes there, and that it had afterwards seized them
and perhaps torn them to pieces. Then he reflected
that the hair he touched felt wet; and he said,
“The thing ran to its hole after I put the clothes
in, and it has pushed ’em along farther into the log.
Wonder what it can be!” It was evidently much
too large for a raccoon or a woodchuck: could it be a
panther? or a young bear? “He’s got my clothes,
any way! I must get him out, or go home without
’em!”
Naked and weaponless as he was, he naturally
shrank from attacking the strange beast; nor was it
pleasant to think of going home in his present condition.
It was not at all probable that Mr. Pipkin
and Phin would return to their work that afternoon;
and he was too far from the house to make his cries
for help heard. He resolved to call, however.
“Maybe I can make Lion hear. I wonder if he
went home.” He remembered that the frightened
dog was last seen crouching with Phin beside the
rock, and hoping he was there still, he began to
call.
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“Lion! here, Lion!” and, putting his fingers to his
mouth, he whistled till all the woods rang. Then
suddenly—for he watched the log all the while—he
heard a tearing and rattling in the cavity, and saw
that the beast was coming out. Stepping quickly
backwards, he tripped over a stick; and the next
moment the creature—big and shaggy and wet—was
upon him.
“You rogue! you coward! old Lion! what a fright
you gave me! what have you done with my clothes?
you foolish boy’s dog!” For the beast was no other
than Lion himself; frightened from his retreat beside
the boulder, he had followed his young master to the
woods, and crept into the hollow of the log, after
Jack had left his clothes in it.
Jack returned to the log, and with some difficulty
fished out his garments. He unfolded them one by
one, holding them up and regarding them with ludicrous
dismay. Lion had made a bed of them; and
between his drenched hide and the rotten wood, they
had suffered no slight damage.
“O, my trousers!” Jack lamented. “And just
look at that shirt! I’d better have worn them in
fifty showers! So much for having a dog that’s
afraid of thunder!” And he gave the mischief-maker
a cuff on the ear.
Jack recovered everything except one shoe, which
he could not get without going considerably farther
than he liked into the decayed trunk.
“Here, Lion! you must get that shoe! That’s no
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more than fair. Understand?” And showing the
other shoe, he pointed at the hole.
In went Lion, scratching and scrambling, and presently
came out again, bringing the shoe in his mouth.
Encouraged by his young master’s approval, and
eager to atone for his cowardice and the mischief he
had done, he went in again, although no other article
was missing, and was presently heard pawing and
pulling at something deep in the log.
“After squirrels, maybe,” said Jack, as, dressing
himself, he stepped aside to avoid the volleys of dirt
which now and then flew out of the opening.
He thought no more of the matter, until the dog
came backwards out of the hole, shook himself, and
laid a curious trophy down by the shoe. Jack looked
at it, and saw to his surprise that it was a metallic
handle, such as he had seen used on the ends of small
chests and trunks, or on bureau-drawers. He scraped
off with his knife some of the rust with which it was
covered, and found that it was made of brass. At
the ends were short rusty screws, which, upon examination,
appeared to have been recently wrenched out
of a piece of damp wood.
“It’s a trunk-handle,” said Jack. “Lion has
pulled it off. And the trunk is in the log!”
He grew quite excited over the discovery, and sent
the dog in again for further particulars, while he
hurriedly put on his shoes. Lion gnawed and dug
for a while, and at last reappeared with a small strip
of partially decayed board in his mouth.
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“It’s a piece of the box!” exclaimed Jack. “Try
again, old fellow!”
Lion plunged once more into the opening, and
immediately brought out something still more extraordinary.
It was a round piece of metal, about
the size of an American half-dollar; but so badly
tarnished that it was a long time before Jack would
believe that it was really money. He rubbed, he
scraped, he turned it over, and rubbed and scraped
again, then uttered a scream of delight.
“A silver half-dollar, sure as you live, old Lion!”
The dog was already in the log again. This time
he brought out two more pieces of money like the
first, and dropped them in Jack’s hand.
“Here, Lion!” cried the excited lad. “I’m going
in there myself!”
He pulled the dog away, and entered the cavity,
quite regardless now of rotten wood, bugs, and “thousand-legged
worms.” His heels were still sticking out
of the log, when his hand touched the broken end of
a small trunk, and slid over a heap of coin, which had
almost filled it, and run out in a little stream from the
opening the dog had made.
Out came Jack again, covered with dirt, his hair
tumbled over his eyes, and both hands full of half-dollars.
He dashed back the stray locks with his
sleeve, glanced eagerly at the coin, looked quickly
around to see if there was any person in sight, then
examined the contents of his hands.
“If there’s no owner to this money, I’m a rich
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man!” he said, with sparkling eyes. “There ain’t
less than a thousand dollars in that trunk!”
To a lad in his circumstances, five-and-twenty
years ago, such a sum might well appear prodigious.
To Jack it was an immense fortune.
“And how can there be an owner?” he reasoned.
“It must have been in that log a good many years,—long
enough for the trunk to begin to rot, any way.
Some fellow must have stolen it and hid it there;
and he’d have been back after it long ago, if he hadn’t
been dead,—or like enough he’s in prison somewhere.
Here, Lion! keep out of that!” and Jack
cuffed the dog’s ears, to enforce strict future obedience
to that command. “Nobody must know of that log,”
he muttered, looking cautiously all about him again,
“till I can take the money away.”
But now, along with the sudden tide of his joy and
hopes, a multitude of doubts rushed in upon his mind.
How was he to keep his great discovery a secret until
he should be ready to take advantage of it? The
thief who had stolen the coin might be dead; but
was it not the finder’s duty to seek out the real owner
and restore it to him? Already that question began
to disturb the boy’s conscience; but he soon forgot
it in the consideration of others more immediately
alarming.
“The thief may have been in prison, and he may
come back this very night to find his booty! Or the
owner of the land may claim it, because it was found
on his premises.” And Jack remembered with no
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little anxiety that the land belonged to Mr. Chatford’s
neighbor, the stern and grasping Squire Peternot.
“Or, after all,” he thought, “it may be counterfeit!”
That was the most unpleasant conjecture of any.
“I’ll find out about that, the first thing,” said Jack;
and he determined to keep his discovery in the meanwhile
a profound secret.
Accordingly, after due deliberation, he crept back
into the log, and replaced the piece of the trunk,
with the handle, and all the coin except one half-dollar;
then, having partially stopped the opening
with broken sticks and branches, he started for home.
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CHAPTER III||“TREASURE-TROVE.”
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Taking a circuitous route, in order that, if he was
seen emerging from the woods, it might be at a distance
from the spot where his treasure was concealed,
Jack came out upon the pasture, crossed it, took the
lane, and soon got over the bars into the barn-yard.
As he entered from one side he met Mr. Pipkin
coming in from the other.
“Hullo!” he cried, with a wonderfully natural and
careless air, “did ye get wet?”
“Yes, wet as a drownded rat, I did! So did Phin,—and
good enough for him, by hokey!” said Mr.
Pipkin. “Where’ve you been?”
“O, I went into the woods. Got wet, though, a
little; and dirty enough,—just look at my clothes!”
“I’ve changed mine,” remarked Mr. Pipkin.
“Wasn’t a rag on me but what was soakin’ wet. I
wished I had gone to the woods.”
“I’m glad ye didn’t,” thought Jack, as he
walked on. “O,” said he, turning back as if he
had just thought of something to tell, “see what I
found!”
“Half a dollar? ye don’t say! Found it? Where,
I want to know!” said Mr. Pipkin, rubbing the piece,
first on his trousers, then on his boot.
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“Over in the woods there,—picked it up on the
ground,” said Jack, who discreetly omitted to mention
the fact that it had first been laid on the ground by
Lion.
“That’s curi’s!” remarked Mr. Pipkin.
“What is it?” said Phin, making his appearance,
also in dry garments. He looked at the coin, while
Jack repeated the story he had just told Mr. Pipkin;
then said, with a sarcastic smile, “Feel mighty smart,
don’t ye, with yer old half-dollar! I don’t believe
it’s a good one.” And Master Chatford sounded it
on a grindstone under the shed. “Couldn’t ye find
any more where ye found this?”
“What should I want of any more, if this isn’t a
good one?” replied Jack. “Here! give it back to
me!”
“’Tain’t yours,” said Phin, with a laugh, pocketing
the piece, and making off with it.
“It’s mine, if I don’t find the owner. ’Tisn’t
yours, any way! Phin Chatford!”—Phin started to
run, giggling as if it was all a good joke, while Jack
started in pursuit, very much in earnest. “Give me
my money, or I’ll choke it out of ye!” he cried,
jumping upon the fugitive’s back, midway between
barn and house.
“Here, here! Boys! boys!” said a reproving
voice; and Phin’s father, coming out of the wood-shed,
approached the scene of the scuffle. “What’s
the trouble, Phineas? What is it, Jack?”
“He’s choking me!” squealed Phineas.
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“He’s got my half-dollar!” exclaimed Jack, without
loosing his hold of Phin’s neck.
“Come, come!” said Mr. Chatford. “No quarrelling.
Have you got his half-dollar?”
“Only in fun. Besides, ’tain’t his”; and Phin
squalled again.
“Let go of him, Jack!” said Mr. Chatford, sternly.
Jack obeyed reluctantly. “Now what is it all
about?”
“I’ll tell ye, deacon!” said round-shouldered Mr.
Pipkin, coming forward. “It’s an old half-dollar
Jack found in the woods; Phin snatched it and run
off with ’t. Jack was arter him to git it back; he lit
on him like a hawk on a June-bug; but he ha’n’t
begun to give him the chokin’ he desarves!”
“Give me the money!” said the deacon. “No more
fooling, Phineas!”
“Here’s the rusty old thing! ’Tain’t worth making
a fuss about, any way,” said Phin, contemptuously.
“Ho! Jack! you don’t know how to take a joke!”
“You do know how to take what don’t belong to
you,” replied Jack. “Is it a good one, Mr. Chatford?
That’s what I want to know.”
“Yes, I guess so,—I don’ know,—looks a little
suspicious. Can’t tell about that, though; any silver
money will tarnish, exposed to the damp. I’ll ring
it. Sounds a little mite peculiar. Who’s got a half-dollar?”
“I have!” cried Phin’s little sister Kate.
In a minute her piece was brought, and Jack’s was
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sounded beside it on the door-stone; Jack listening
with an anxious and excited look.
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SOUNDING THE HALF-DOLLAR.
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[Illustration: SOUNDING THE HALF-DOLLAR.]
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“No, it don’t ring like the other,” observed the
deacon. Jack’s heart sank. “Has a more leaden
sound.” His heart went down into his shoes. “It
may be good, though, after all.” It began to rise
again. “We can’t tell how much the rust has to do
with it. Shouldn’t wonder if any half-dollar would
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ring a little dull, after it had been lying out in the
woods as long as this has.” And Jack’s spirits
mounted again hopefully. “I’m going over to the
Basin to-night,” concluded the deacon. “I’ll take it
to the watch-maker, and have him test it, if you say
so.”
“I wish you would,” said Jack. “And—I’d like
to know who it belongs to.”
“That’s right; of course you don’t want it if it’s
a bad one, or if you can find the real owner to it.”
“I meant,” faltered Jack,—“of course I wouldn’t
think of passing counterfeit money, and I don’t want
another man’s money any how,—but—I found it
on somebody’s land. Now I’d like to know if—that
somebody—has any claim to it, on that account.”
“I don’t think he’d be apt to set up a claim, without
he was a pretty mean man,” said the deacon.
“Not even if ’twas Squire Peternot?” said Mr.
Pipkin. “Guess he’d put in for his share, if there
was any chance o’ gittin’ on ’t!”
“Nonsense, Pippy! If ’twas a large sum, he
might, but a trifle like this,—you’re unjust to the
squire, Pippy.”
“I haven’t said it was the squire’s land. But
suppose it was? And suppose it had been a large
sum,” queried Jack, “could he claim it? What’s
the law?” And, to explain away his extraordinary
interest in the legal point, he added, laughingly,
“Just for the fun of it, I’d like to know what he
.bn 024.png
.pn +1
could do if he should try Phin’s joke, and set out to
get my half-dollar away!”
“I really don’t know about the law,” the deacon
was saying, when Lion barked. “Hist! here comes
Peternot himself! Say nothing. I’ll ask him.
He’s bringing his nephew over to see us.”
“He’s kind of adopted his nephew, hain’t he,
sence he heard of his son’s death?” said Mr. Pipkin.
“I’ve seen him hangin’ around there.”
“No; he only wants to get him into our school
next winter.”
“Ho! a schoolmaster!” whispered Phin, jeering
at the new-comer. “Say, Jack! I bet we can lick
him!”
“Don’t look as if he had any more backbone ’n a
spring chicken,” was Mr. Pipkin’s unfavorable criticism,
as the gaunt and limping squire came to the
door with his young relative.
“Good afternoon, neighbor,” said the deacon, shaking
hands first with the uncle, then with the nephew.
“You’ve come just at the right time. We’ve a
legal question to settle. Suppose Jack, here, finds a
purse of money on my place; no owner turns up;
now whose purse is it, Jack’s or mine?”
“Your land—your hired boy—I should say, your
purse,” said the squire, emphatically.
“But suppose you find such a purse on my land?”
“H’m! that alters the case. How is it, Byron?
My nephew is studying law; he can tell you better
than I can about it.”
.bn 025.png
.pn +1
Peternot thought this a good chance to bring the
candidate for the winter’s school into favorable notice;
and the candidate for the winter’s school made the
most of his opportunity. He was a slender young
man with a sallow complexion, a greenish eye, a
pimpled forehead, and a rather awkward and studied
manner of speaking. In rendering his opinion he
was as prolix as any judge on the bench. He began
with a disquisition on the nature of law, and finally,
coming down to the case in point, said it would be
considered a case of treasure-trove.
“What’s that?” Jack eagerly interrupted him.
“Treasure-trove is treasure found.”
“Then why don’t they say treasure found?”
“’Sh, boy!” said Mr. Chatford, good-naturedly,
smiling at the youngster’s impatience of long-winded
sentences and large words. “What’s the law of—treasure-trove,
I believe you call it, Mr. Dinks?”
“I don’t think there’s any law on the subject,”
replied the student of Blackstone, picking his teeth
with a straw.
“No law! then how can such a case be decided?”
“Custom, which makes a sort of unwritten law,
would here come in.”
“Well, what’s the custom?”
Thereupon Mr. Byron Dinks became prolix again,
speaking of English custom, which, like English law,
creates precedents for our own country. The meaning
of his discourse, stripped of its technical phrases
and tedious repetitions, seemed to be, that formerly,
.bn 026.png
.pn +1
treasure-trove went to the crown; that in more
modern times it was divided—in a case like this—between
the finder and the man on whose premises
it was found; but that he didn’t think any precedent
had been established in America.
“We’re about as wise now as we were before,”
remarked Phin’s elder brother Moses, standing in the
kitchen door.
Mr. Chatford gave him a wink to remain silent,
and said, “How are we to understand you, Mr.
Dinks? To use your own expression, A finds money
on B’s premises; now what would be your advice
to B?”
“Supposing B is my client? I should advise him
to get possession of the money, if he could. Possession
is nine points of the law.”
“Well, but if he couldn’t get possession?”
“Then try to compromise for one half. Then for
a quarter. Then for what he could get.”
“Very good. Now what would be your advice
to A?”
“A is my client?”
“Yes, we’ll suppose so.”
Spitting and throwing away his straw, Mr. Byron
Dinks said with a laugh, “My advice to A would be
to pocket the money and say nothing about it; keep
possession, any way; fight for it.”
“Thank you,” said the deacon, with quiet irony in
his tones. “Now we know what the law is on this
subject, boys.”
.bn 027.png
.pn +1
“I don’t see, for my part, that it differs very much
from common sense,” remarked the simple-minded
Mr. Pipkin, “only it takes more words to git at it.”
“I’m sure,” said the squire, “my nephew has
given you all the law there is to govern such cases,
and good advice to his clients. ’T ain’t his fault if
people can’t understand him.”
“I guess we all understand the main point, now
we’ve got at it,” said Deacon Chatford. “Hang on
to your money, Jack.”
“You’ve got it,” said Jack, more deeply glad and
agitated than any one suspected.
“So I have. Well, I’ll tell ye when I get home
from the Basin to-night whether it’s good or not.
Walk in, gentlemen.”
And the deacon entered the house with his guests.
.bn 028.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
CHAPTER IV||IN WHICH JACK COUNTS HIS CHICKENS.
.sp 2
Peternot and his nephew took their departure,
after making a short call. Then the family sat down
to the supper-table, and the merits and prospects of
the candidate for the winter’s school were discussed
in a manner that ought to have made his ears tingle.
Then, while the boys harnessed the mare and brought
her to the door, the deacon changed his clothes, and
at last started for the Basin.
“Don’t forget to ask about that half-dollar!” said
Jack, as he held the gate open for the buggy to pass
through.
“Glad you reminded me of it,—I should have
forgotten it,” replied the notoriously absent-minded
deacon.
Jack wished he could have found some excuse for
going with him, but he could not think of any.
“How can I wait till he gets back, to know about
it?” thought he, as he stood at the gate and watched
the buggy and Mr. Chatford’s black hat disappear
over the brow of the hill.
His revery was interrupted by Moses, who, noticing
the boy’s unusual conduct,—for Jack was ordinarily
no dreamer when there was work to be done,—called
out to him from the stable-door, “Say,
.bn 029.png
.pn +1
Jack! you’ve got to go and fetch the cows to-night;
Phin says he won’t.”
“It’s Phin’s turn,—but I don’t care, I’ll go.”
And Jack set off for the pasture, glad of this opportunity
to be alone, and to muse upon his wonderful
discovery.
It was a beautiful evening. The air was fresh and
cool, and perfectly delicious after the shower. The
sky overhead was silver-clear, but all down the gorgeous
west, banks and cliffs and floating bars of cloud
burned with the hues of sunset. Jack’s heart expanded,
as he walked up the lane; and there, in that
lovely atmosphere, he built his airy castles.
“If I am a rich man,” thought he, “what shall I
do with my money? I’ll put it out at interest for a
year or two,—I wonder how much there is! That’ll
help me get an education. Then I’ll go into business,
or buy a little place somewhere, and I’ll have
my horses and wagons and hired men, and—” O,
what a vision of happiness floated before his eyes!
riches, honors, friendships, and in the midst of all the
sweetest face in the world,—the face of his dearest
friend, Mrs. Chatford’s niece, Annie Felton.
Then he looked back wonderingly upon his past
life. “I can hardly believe that I was nothing but a
mean, ragged, swearing little canal-driver only a few
months ago. Over yonder are the woods where the
charcoal-burners were, that I wanted to hire out to,
after I had run away from the scow,—the idea of
my hiring out to them! Now here I am, treated like
.bn 030.png
.pn +1
one of Mr. Chatford’s own boys, and—with all that
money, if it is money,” he added, his heart swelling
again with misgivings. “Go, Lion! go for the cows,”
he said; and he himself began to run, calling by the
way, “Co’, boss! co’, boss!” as if bringing the cows
would also bring Mr. Chatford home, with his report
concerning the half-dollar.
“He won’t be there, though, for an hour or two
yet,” he reflected. “What’s the use of hurrying? I
shall only have the longer to wait. I wonder if that
log is just as I left it!” For Jack had still a secret
dread lest the unknown person who had hidden the
treasure so many years ago should now suddenly
return and carry it away. “I’ll cut over there and
take just one peep,” he said.
So, having started the cattle upon their homeward
track, with Lion barking after the laggards, Jack
leaped a fence, ran across the lot where he had been
at work that afternoon with Mr. Pipkin and Phin
when the shower surprised them, and was soon standing
alone by the log in the darkening woods. The
sticks which he had stuffed into the end of the hollow
trunk were all in their place. And yet it seemed
a dream to Jack, that he had actually found a box of
money in that old tree,—that it was there now! He
wanted to pull out the sticks and go in and make
sure of his prize, but forbore to do so foolish a thing.
“Of course it’s there,” thought he. “And I’m
going to take care that nobody knows where it is, till
I’ve got it safe in my own possession; then who can
.bn 031.png
.pn +1
say whether I found it on Mr. Chatford’s, or Squire
Peternot’s, or Aunt Patsy’s land, if I don’t tell? Let
Squire Peternot claim it if he can!”
Yet Jack longed to tell somebody of his discovery.
“O, if I could only tell Annie Felton, and get her
advice about it!” But Annie, who taught the
summer school, and “boarded around,” was just then
boarding in a distant part of the district. The next
day, however, was Saturday; then she would come
home to her aunt’s to spend the Sunday, and he could
impart to her his burning secret.
Jack stayed but a minute in the woods, then,
hurrying back, rejoined Lion, who was driving the
cows into the lane. Arrived at the barn-yard, he
took one of three or four pails which Mr. Pipkin had
brought out from the pantry, and a stool from the
shed, and sat down to do his share of the milking.
He had always liked that part of the day’s work well
enough before; but now with a secret feeling of pride
and hope he said to himself, “Maybe I sha’n’t always
be obliged to do this for a living!” And he wondered
how it would seem to be a gentleman and live without
work.
.bn 032.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch05
CHAPTER V||WAITING FOR THE DEACON.
.sp 2
The milk was carried to the pantry and strained;
the candles were lighted, and the family sat in a
pleasant circle about the kitchen table, while, without,
the twilight darkened into night, and the crickets
sang. There was Mr. Pipkin showing Phin how to
braid a belly into his woodchuck-skin whiplash;
Mrs. Pipkin (late Miss Wansey) paring a pan of
apples, which she held in her lap; Moses reading the
“Saturday Courier,” a popular story-paper in those
days; little Kate, sitting on a stool, piecing a bed-quilt
under her mother’s eye,—sewing together squares of
different colored prints cut out from old dresses, and
occasionally looking up to ask the maternal advice,—while
Mrs. Chatford was doing some patch-work of a
different sort, which certain rents in Phin’s trousers
rendered necessary. Jack sat in the corner, silent,
and listening for buggy-wheels.
“I hope you won’t go climbing over the buckles
and hames, on to a horse’s back, in that harum-scarum
way, another time,” said the good woman, in
tones of mild reproof, to her younger son.
“’T was beginning to rain, and I couldn’t stop to
think,” said Phin, laughing. “Could I, Phi?”
“I should think not, by the hurry you was in to
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
hook my ride,” replied Mr. Pipkin, with reviving
resentment. “That was a mean trick; and now jes’
see how I’m payin’ ye for it! Ye never could ’a’ got
a decent-lookin’ belly into this lash, in the world, if
’twa’n’t for me.”
“That’s ’cause you’re such a good feller, and
know so much!” said Phin, who could resort to flattery
when anything was to be gained by it. “O, look,
Mose! ain’t Phi doing it splendid? It’s going to be
the best whiplash ever you set eyes on.”
Mr. Pipkin’s lips tightened in a grin around his
big front teeth, and he worked harder than ever
drawing the strands over the taper belly, while Phin,
leaning over the back of his chair, whispered to Jack,
“See what a fool I can make of him!”
At that Mrs. Pipkin, who had a keen ear and a
sharp temper, flared up.
“Mr. Pipkin!”
“What, Mis’ Pipkin?”—meekly.
“You’ve worked long enough on that whiplash.
He’s making fun of ye; and that’s all the thanks
you’ll ever get for helping him. Take hold here and
pare these apples while I slice ’em up.”
“In a minute. I can’t le’ go here jes’ now,” said
Mr. Pipkin.
Whereupon Mrs. Pipkin laid down her knife and
the apple she was paring, and looked at her husband
over the rim of the pan in perfect astonishment.
“Mr. Pipkin! did you hear my request?”
“Yes, I heerd ye, but—”
.bn 034.png
.pn +1
“Mr. Pipkin,” interrupted Mrs. Pipkin, severely,
“will you have the kindness to pare these apples?
I don’t wish to be obliged to speak again!”
“What’s the apples fer,—sass?” said Mr. Pipkin,
mildly.
“Pies; and you know you’re as fond of pies as
anybody, Mr. Pipkin.”
“Wal, so I be, your pies. I declare, you do beat
the Dutch with your apple-pies, if I do say it.
There, Phin, I guess you can go along with the belly
now. If it’s for pies, I’ll pare till the cows come
hum!”
Thus disguising his obedience to his wife’s request,
Mr. Pipkin took the pan and the knife, and Mrs.
Pipkin recovered from her astonishment.
“Jack might pare the apples and let Phi braid!”
Phin complained, getting into difficulties with his
whiplash. “Darn this old belly!” And he flung it
across the room.
“Phineas! you shall go to bed if I hear any more
such talk,” said Mrs. Chatford, as sternly as it was in
her kind motherly nature to speak. Then looking at
Jack in the corner, “How happens it you are not
reading your book to-night? It’s something new for
you to be idle.”
“O, I don’t feel much like reading to-night,” said
Jack, whose heart was where his treasure was.
“He’s thinking about his half-dollar, waiting to
know if it’s a good one,” sneered Phin.
“Shouldn’t wonder if that half-dollar had dropped
.bn 035.png
.pn +1
out of old Daddy Cobb’s money-box,” remarked Mr.
Pipkin, taking a slice of apple.
“Mr. Pipkin! these apples are for pies!” said Mrs.
Pipkin, in a warning voice.
“Daddy Cobb’s money-box! what’s that?” faltered
Jack, fearing he had found an owner to the coin.
“What! didn’t ye never hear tell about Daddy
Cobb’s diggin’ for a chist o’ treasure? Thought everybody’d
heerd o’ that. There’s some kind o’ magic
about it, hanged if I can explain jest what. The
chist has a habit o’ shiftin’ its hidin’-place in the
ground, so that though Daddy’s a’most got holt on ’t
five or six times, it has allers slipped away from him
in the most onaccountable and aggravatin’ manner.
He has a way o’ findin’ where it is, by some hocus-pocus,
hazel-wands for one thing; then he goes with
his party of diggers at night,—for there’s two or
three more fools big as him,—and they make a circle
round the place, and one reads the Bible and holds
the lantern while the rest dig, and if nobody speaks
or does anything to break the charm, there’s a chance
’at they may git the treasure. Once Daddy says
they had actooally got a holt on’t,—a big, square
iron chist,—but jest’s they was liftin’ on’t out he
jammed his finger, and said ‘Oh!’ and by hokey! if
it didn’t disappear right afore their face an’ eyes
quicker ’n a flash o’ lightnin’!”
Jack listened intently to this story. He did not
believe that his treasure was the one Daddy Cobb
had been digging for so long, but might it not elude
his grasp in the same way?
.bn 036.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch06
CHAPTER VI||“ABOUT THAT HALF-DOLLAR.”
.sp 2
At every sound of wheels Jack started; and more
than once he imagined he heard a wagon stop at the
gate. Still no deacon; would he never return? Jack
watched the clock, and thought he had never seen
the pointers move so slowly.
Three or four times he went to the door to listen;
and at last he walked down to the gate. It was
bright, still moonlight, only the crickets and katydids
were singing, and now and then an owl hooted in the
woods or a raccoon cried.
“There’s a buggy coming!” exclaimed Jack. He
could hear it in the distance; he could see it dimly
coming down the moonlit road. “It’s Mr. Chatford!”
He knew the deacon’s peculiar “Ca dep!” (get up)
to the horse.
“That you, Jack?” said the deacon, driving in.
“Yes; thought I’d come down and shut the gate
after you,” replied Jack.
Mr. Chatford stopped at the house, and Jack ran
to help him take out some bundles. Then the deacon
drove on to the barn, and Jack hurried after him.
Still not a word about the half-dollar.
“You can go into the house; I’ll take care of
Dolly,” said Jack.
.bn 037.png
.pn +1
“I’ll help; ’t won’t take but a minute,” said Mr.
Chatford. “I’ve got bad news for you.”
“Have you?” said Jack, with sudden faintness of
heart. “What?”
“For you and Lion,” added the deacon. “Duffer’s
got another dog. He made his brags of him to-night.
Said he could whip any dog in seven counties.”
“He’d better not let him tackle Lion!” said Jack.
“I told him I hoped he wouldn’t kill sheep, as his
other dog did. Take her out of the shafts; we’ll run
the buggy in by hand.”
The broad door of the horse-barn stood open. Jack
led the mare up into the bright square of moonshine
which lay on the dusty floor. There the harness was
quickly taken off. Not a word yet concerning the
half-dollar, which Jack was ashamed to appear anxious
about, and which he began to think Mr. Chatford, with
characteristic absent-mindedness, had forgotten.
“By the way, I’ve good news for you!” suddenly
exclaimed the deacon.
Jack’s heart bounded. “Have you?”
“I saw Annie over at the Basin. She wants to
go home to her folks to-morrow. Would you like to
drive her over? She spoke of it.”
“And stay till Monday?” said Jack, to whom this
would indeed have been good news at another time.
“Yes; start early, and get back Monday morning
in time for her to begin school. Then she won’t go
home again till her summer term is out.”
“Maybe—I’d better—wait and go then.” Jack
.bn 038.png
.pn +1
felt the importance of early securing his treasure, and,
having set apart Sunday afternoon for that task (“a
deed of necessity,” he called it to his conscience), he
saw no way but to postpone the long-anticipated
happiness of a ride and visit with his dear friend.
Yet what if the treasure were no treasure?
“As you please,” said the deacon, a little surprised
at Jack’s choice. “Moses will be glad enough to go.
See that she has plenty of hay in the rack, and don’t
tie the halter so short as you do sometimes. Now
give me a push here,”—taking up the buggy-shafts.
“Oh!” said Jack, as if he had just thought of
something,—“I was going to ask you—about that
half-dollar?”
“I didn’t think on ’t,” said Mr. Chatford, standing
and holding the shafts while Jack went behind,—“not
till I’d got started for home. Then I put my
hand in my pocket for something, and found your
half-dollar. Help me in with the buggy, and then
I’ll tell you.”
The deacon drew in the shafts, Jack pushed behind,
and the buggy went rattling and bounding up into its
place.
“Did you go back?” asked Jack, out of breath,—not
altogether from the effort he had just made.
The deacon deliberately walked out of the barn,
and carefully shut and fastened the door; then, while
on the way to the house, he explained.
“I had paid for my purchases out of my pocket-book,
or I should have found that half-dollar before.
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
However, as I had promised you, I whipped about
and drove back to the goldsmith’s. He was just
shutting up shop. I told him what I wanted. He
went behind his counter, lit a lamp, looked at your
half-dollar, cut into it, and then flung it into his
drawer.”
“Kept it!” gasped out Jack.
“Yes; ’t was as good a half-dollar as ever came
from the mint, he said. He gave me another in its
place.”
Jack could not utter a word in reply to this
announcement, which, notwithstanding his utmost
hopes, astonished and overjoyed him beyond measure.
As soon as he had recovered a little of his breath and
self-possession, he grasped the deacon’s arm, and was
on the point of exclaiming, “O Mr. Chatford! I have
found a trunk full of just such half-dollars as that!”—for
he felt that he must tell his joy to some one,
and to whom else should he go? But already the
deacon’s other hand was on the latch of the kitchen door,
which he opened; and there sat the family
round the table within.
“What is it, my boy?” said Mr. Chatford, as Jack
shrank back and remained silent. “Oh! you want
your half-dollar. Of course!” putting his hand into
his pocket.
“I don’t care anything about that,” said Jack. He
took it, nevertheless,—a bright, clean half-dollar in
place of the scratched and tarnished coin he had given
Mr. Chatford that afternoon.
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
Mr. Chatford stood holding the door open.
“Ain’t you coming in?”
“No, sir,—not just yet.”
Jack felt that he must be alone with his great, joyful,
throbbing thoughts for a little while; and he wandered
away in the moonlit night.
.bn 041.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch07
CHAPTER VII||HOW JACK WENT FOR HIS TREASURE.
.sp 2
In the forenoon of the following day Annie Felton
dismissed her little school half an hour earlier than
she was accustomed to do, and went to her Aunt
Chatford’s house, to dine with her relatives and prepare
for the long afternoon’s ride. She was greatly
surprised when told that Jack was not to accompany
her.
“Did Uncle Chatford speak to him about it?” she
inquired of her aunt.
“Yes, but for some reason he didn’t seem inclined
to go. That just suited Moses; he was glad enough
of the chance.”
“Jack has found a half-dollar, and it has just
about turned his head,” remarked Mrs. Pipkin.
“A half-dollar?” repeated Annie, wondering if
such a trifle could indeed have so affected her young
friend. No, she could not believe it. Then why
had he willingly let slip an opportunity which she
had thought he would be eager to seize?
Soon the men and boys came in to dinner,—Moses
in high spirits, and with his Sunday clothes on;
Jack jealous and unhappy.
“Why didn’t I leave that till another Sunday? or
get it one of these moonlight nights?” he said to
.bn 042.png
.pn +1
smile, and moved her lips with some sweet, inaudible
meaning as she passed him; but Moses, good fellow
though he was, cast upon him a look of contempt, and
flourished his whip, driving proudly away beside his
beautiful cousin.
.if h
.il fn=i043.jpg w=600px
.ca
“IT’S A GREAT SECRET.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: “IT’S A GREAT SECRET.”]
.sp 2
.if-
Jack, much as he thought of his hidden treasure,
now for the first time in his life felt the utter worthlessness
of money compared with the good-will and
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
companionship of those we love,—a truth which it
takes some of us all our lives to discover.
The sight of Annie Felton always stirred the nobler
part of his nature; and now, going back to the house,
he began to blame himself for having taken hitherto
a purely selfish view of his treasure.
“All I’ve thought of has been just the good it was
going to do me!” And he said to himself that he
didn’t deserve the good fortune that had befallen
him. Now to bestow it all upon her he felt would
be his greatest happiness.
“And give some to you, precious little Kate!” was
his second thought, as the gay little creature came
running with Lion to meet him. In like manner his
benevolence overflowed to all,—even to sharp-tongued
Mrs. Pipkin,—after Annie Felton had stirred the
fountain.
Twenty-four hours seemed long to wait. But the
time for securing his treasure at last came round.
He walked to church in the morning with Phin and
Mr. Pipkin, but, without saying a word to anybody
of his intentions, he at noon came home alone across
the fields. He found, as he expected, Mrs. Chatford
keeping house.
“Why, Jack!” said she, “why didn’t you stay to
Sunday school and the afternoon services?”
“Don’t you want to go this afternoon?” replied
Jack, evasively. “There will be some of the neighbors
riding by, who will carry you. I’ll take care of
the house.”
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
“You are very kind to think of me,” she said.
“But I don’t think of going. You’d better eat your
luncheon, and go right back.”
Jack longed to tell her everything on the spot, but
feared she might disapprove of his going to bring
home the treasure on the Sabbath. “After all’s over,
then she’ll say I did right,” thought he. So he
remarked, carelessly, “There’s a new minister to-day;
I don’t like him very well. I guess I’ll go over and
see Aunt Patsy a little while this afternoon.”
“If you do, I’ll send a loaf of bread and one of the
pies we baked yesterday,” said Mrs. Chatford.
This was what Jack expected; and it gave him an
excuse for carrying a basket. He took off his Sunday
clothes, putting on an every-day suit in their place,
lunched, and soon after started with Lion. He made
a brief visit to the poor woman, and then set out for
home by way of the woods.
On the edge of Aunt Patsy’s wood-lot he paused
and looked carefully all about him. Not a human
being was in sight. A Sabbath stillness reigned over
all the sunlit fields and shadowy woods. There were
Squire Peternot’s cattle feeding quietly in the pasture.
A hawk was sailing silently high overhead. As he
turned and walked on, two or three squirrels, gray
and black, ran along the ground, disappearing around
the trunks of trees to reappear in the rustling tops,
and it was all he could do to keep Lion still.
“Look here, old fellow!” said he, “remember, you
are not to bark to-day!”
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
From Aunt Patsy’s wood-lot he entered the squire’s,
stepping over a dilapidated fence of poles and brush.
The snapping of the decayed branches broke the
silence; then, as he listened, he heard, far off, the
bells for the afternoon service begin to ring. It was
a strange sound, in that wildwood solitude, so shadowy
and cool, and full of the fresh odors of moss and
fern.
The bells were still ringing, and their faint, slow,
solemn toll filled Jack’s heart with an indefinable
feeling of guilt as he reached the log where his treasure
was, and reflected upon the very worldly business
that brought him there.
He did not reflect long,—he was too eager for the
exciting work before him. Having walked on to the
farther edge of the woods, to see that nobody was
approaching from that direction, he returned, and
began to pull out the sticks which he had stuffed
into the end of the log.
“Everything’s just as I left it, so far,” thought he.
“Wonder if my money-chest will dodge a fellow, like
old Daddy Cobb’s!”
The opening clear, he put on an old brown frock
which he had brought in the basket, laid his hat and
coat on the ground, told Lion to watch them, and
entered the log headforemost. The treasure, too, was
where he had left it. His body stopped the cavity
so that he could see nothing in its depths, but his
groping hand felt the little trunk and the coin that
had fallen out of its broken end.
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
“I’ll take this loose money out of the way first,”
thought he; “then maybe I can move the trunk.”
He had nothing but his pockets to put the coin
into, and those his frock covered. “I’ll find something
better,” thought he. Backing out of the log,
he pulled off his shoes, and re-entered with one of
them in his hand. This he filled with all the half-dollars
he could find about the end of the trunk,
which he then tried to move.
“It’s stuck in a heap of rotten stuff here,” he
muttered, “and I shall break it more if I pull hard
on it.” So he resolved to empty it where it was.
He was half-way out of the log, bringing after him
his shoe freighted with coin, when he was startled by
a sudden bark from Lion. Leaving his shoe, he tumbled
himself out upon the ground in fearful haste, to
find a stray calf in the bushes the innocent cause of
alarm. For keeping guard too faithfully poor Lion
got a box on the ear.
After waiting awhile, to see if anything more dangerous
than the calf was nigh, Jack brought out his
shoe, poured its rattling contents into the basket,
which he covered with his coat, and then went back
into the log. This time he took both shoes in with
him, which he filled, and emptied one after the other
into the basket. Another journey, another, and still
another, and he began to think there was more coin
than he could carry home.
“I can get it away from here, though, so nobody can
tell on whose land I found it,”—which he seemed
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
to think a very important point to gain. “I’ll leave
the little trunk where it is,—only take out the
money.”
He had gone into the log for the last time, and got
the last of the money, filling both shoes quite full,
and was bringing them out with him,—he had actually
got them out, leaving one at the entrance to the
opening, and holding the other in his hands,—when
Lion, notwithstanding his previous punishment, uttered
a very low, suppressed growl.
Jack looked up from under his tumbled hair, and
there, not three yards distant, with his horn-headed
cane, regarding with grim amazement the boy and
his shoes full of coin, stood Squire Peternot!
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch08
CHAPTER VIII||JACK AND THE SQUIRE.
.sp 2
Fearing a raid upon his melon-patch, which bad
boys in the neighborhood were beginning to molest,
the squire had stayed at home to watch it that Sunday
afternoon. He had seen Jack with his dog and
basket cross the fields, go to Aunt Patsy’s house, and
afterwards enter the woods; and, feeling the interest
of a stern moral censor in the conduct of all Sabbath-breaking
boys, he had followed him to the hollow log.
Lion’s indiscreet barking had at first served to guide
him to the spot; and afterwards his equally unfortunate
silence, in consequence of the punishment he
had suffered for that offence, favored the old man’s
stealthy approach.
To have the faintest idea of the emotions that agitated
the squire at sight of Jack and the shoes full
of coin,—the wrath, the surprise, the avarice,—one
must have seen him as he stood there, or have heard
Jack (as I have heard him many times) describe the
grim and frowning figure that met his eyes.
“What’s this, what’s this, eh?” cried Peternot,
taking a stride forwards. “Money! on my land!”
and the gray eyes glittered. “Ha! ha! This, then,
is the meaning of all that talk about treasure-trove
the other day!”
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i050.jpg w=600px
.ca
“BOY! ARE YOU A ROBBER?”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: “BOY! ARE YOU A ROBBER?”]
.sp 2
.if-
Jack felt so stunned for the moment that he did
not attempt to speak, or even to rise. He sat on the
ground, guarding his shoes, keeping one hand on the
rim of the basket and looking up steadily at the
squire with eyes full of mingled fear and defiance.
“So, so! What have you got in your basket?”
And the stiff-jointed old man stooped to remove the
coat which Jack had taken the precaution to spread
over it each time when he entered the log.
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
“Here! you just leave that alone!” exclaimed
Jack, while Lion gave a fierce growl. The squire
dropped the garment instantly, but he had pulled it
far enough from the basket to expose its surprising
contents.
“Boy!” said he, in still greater amazement, “are
you a robber?”
“Like enough I am,” muttered Jack, quite willing
that he should take that view of the case.
“Boy!” repeated Peternot, with awful severity,
“you’ve stolen this money, and it’s my duty to have
you arrested. I am a justice of the peace.” Jack
changed countenance at that.
“I’ve stolen it about as much as I stole Mr. Chatford’s
horse and buggy once, which you were so sure
of, when they were all the while standing under the
shed at the Basin, just where Mr. Chatford left them.”
“Then how did you come by so much money?”
“If you must know, I found it in this log,” said
Jack, with a sudden determination to tell the plain
truth, and stand or fall by it.
“How do I know but what you stole it and hid it
here, so you could pretend you’d found it?”
Jack was glad now that he had not removed the
trunk.
“If you can’t see by the look of this silver that
it’s been hid away here longer than I’ve been in the
town,” he replied, “you can just go into the log and
find the trunk, that you’ll say has been there about
as many years as I am old, that’s all!”
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
“Is there any more money in there?”
Jack was willing the squire should think there
might be, nor was he sure there were not a few pieces
in the rubbish about the trunk; so he said, “It
belongs to me, if there is.”
“Belongs to you? You little scapegrace! By
what right?”
“It belongs to me,—that is,” added Jack, “if the
real owner doesn’t turn up,—because I found it.”
“Found it, on my land! You haven’t got it off
from my land yet, and I forbid your taking it off.
What’s left in the log you haven’t even had in your
possession. I want nothing but what’s my own by
a plain interpretation of law; but the law’s with me
in this. If you had once fairly got the coin away
without my knowledge, there might have been some
question about it; but that you’ve been caught trespassing,
and that you’ve no right to take anything
from my premises in my presence and against my
express orders, is common sense as well as common
law.”
Fire and tears rushed into poor Jack’s eyes.
“And do you mean to say you’ll take all this
money away from me?”
“Sartin, I do, since it don’t belong to you, not a
dollar on ’t. I’ll make ye a reasonable reward,
however, if you give it up without making me any
unnecessary trouble.”
“What do you call a reasonable reward? Half?”
“Half! of all that money!” exclaimed the squire,
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
in huge astonishment. “Preposterous! I’ll give ye
more than liberal pay for your trouble. I’ll give ye
five dollars.”
Thereupon grief and fury and fierce contempt burst
from the soul of Jack. All the softening influences
which had been at work upon him for the past few
months were forgotten in a moment; he was the
vicious, desperate, profane little canal-driver once
more. Looking up through tears of rage at the
startled squire, he shouted, “Go to thunder, you
hoary old villain!” and followed up this charge with
a volley of blasphemy and abuse, which lasted for at
least a minute. By that time the squire had recovered
his self-possession; so, in a measure, had Jack;
and the hurricane of passion that had swept everything
before it was followed by a lull of sullen hate
and despair.
“That’s the kind of boy you are, is it? after all
your living among Christian people!” said the old
man, with a sort of grim satisfaction.
“It’s the kind of boy I was, and it’s the kind of
boy such Christians as you are will make me again,
if I let you!” said Jack, kindling once more. “I
didn’t mean to swear, but I forgot myself. I haven’t
before, since the first Sunday after I came off
from the canal. That’s because I have been living
among Christians,—people who try to encourage a
fellow and help him, by bringing out the good that’s
in him, instead of grinding him down, and keeping
him down, by telling him how bad he’s always been
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
and always will be,—like the kind of Christian you
are!”
“Talk to me about being a Christian, you profane
Sabbath-breaker!” said Peternot, choking with indignation.
“A Sabbath-breaker, am I? And what are you?
I own up to what brought me here to-day, but what
brought you here? What keeps you here? Why
ain’t you at church? Guess you consider your
worldly interests worth looking after a little, if ’tis
Sunday,—don’t you?”
“Come, come, boy! that kind of talk won’t help
matters.”
“Then le’s stop it,” said Jack. “But if you come
here on Sunday and try to get my money away from
me, and accuse me of Sabbath-breaking because I
mean to keep it, I shall have just a word to say back,
you better believe!” And, still sitting on the ground,
Jack held his shoes between his legs, and guarded
one side of the basket, while Lion guarded the other.
“What do you want of so much money,—a boy
like you?” said the squire, adopting a more conciliatory
tone.
“What do you want of it,—a man like you?
without a child in the world, since you drove your
only son away from home by your hard treatment,
and he died a drunkard and a gambler!”
The old man fairly staggered backward at this
cruel blow, and uttered a suppressed groan.
“It was mean in me to say that,” added Jack,
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
relenting; “I didn’t mean to; but you drove me to
it. What do you want of more money than you’ve
got already?—that’s what I meant to ask. You’re
a rich man now. You’ve ten times as much as you
need; what do you want of more? To carry into
the next world with ye? one would think so,—an
old man like you!”
“Boy!” said the trembling Peternot, “you don’t
know what you’re talking about!”
“Yes, I do; I’m talking just what a good many
other folks talk, only not to your face. They say,
‘There’s old Squire Peternot, seventy years old, with
one foot almost in the grave,—rich enough in all
conscience,—don’t use even the interest on what
money he has, but lays it up, lays it up,—lives
meanly as the poorest farmer in town,—never gives
a dollar, except when he can’t help it, and then you’d
think it hurt him like pulling his teeth,—and yet
there he is, trying to get Aunt Patsy’s little house
and lot away from her,—making tight bargains,
screwing his workmen’s wages down to the lowest
notch’; that’s what I’ve heard, every word of it, and
you know that every word of it is true!”
“I have my own ideas about property,” said the
squire; “and no man—no prudent man—likes to
squander what’s his own.”
“And so you, with all your wealth, come and grab
this money, which is all I have in the world, and
offer me five dollars to give it up to you! You are
a prudent man! I say squander!”
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
“I’ll give you twenty dollars of it,—and that’s
liberal, I’m sure,” said Peternot, a good deal shaken
by what Jack had said, but unable, from long habit,
to take his hand from any worldly goods that it
chanced to cover.
“Twenty dollars!” laughed Jack, with scornful
defiance. “I don’t make bargains on Sunday.”
This cool sarcasm caused the worthy Peternot to
wince as at the taste of some bitter medicine. “I
don’t bargain on the Lord’s day, neither. But I see
the necessity of coming to some sort of terms with
you.”
“Very well; then you just walk off and leave me
and my dog to take care of this money; those are
the only terms you can come to with me.”
“But what do you propose to do, if I don’t walk
off?”
“Stay here,—Lion and I,—and hang on to our
treasure-trove. Your nephew, who knows so much
about law, advised me to keep possession,—to fight
for it,—and I will.”
“And do you think I’m going to give up to you,
you renegade?” cried the squire. He moved to lay
his hand on the basket; but there was something in
Lion’s growl he didn’t like. “I’ll beat that beast’s
brains out, if he offers to touch me!” he exclaimed,
grasping his cane menacingly.
“I advise you not to try that little thing,” said
Jack. “If you should miss your stroke, where would
you be the next minute?”
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
The squire thought of that. His tone changed
slightly.
“I don’t leave this spot till I git possession of that
money!”
“All right, Squire. Sit down,—you’d better.
You’ll have some time to stop, I guess. Have a
peach?” And the audacious little wretch took one
out of his coat-pocket. “We shall need refreshments
before we get through!” As Peternot indignantly
declined the proffered fruit, Jack quietly broke it
open, and ate, with a relish, the rich yellow pulp.
The old man accepted the invitation to sit down,
however, and reposed his stiff old limbs on the end of
the hollow log, not clearly foreseeing how this little
adventure was to end.
.bn 057.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch09
CHAPTER IX||THE SQUIRE’S PERPLEXITY AND JACK’S STRATAGEM.
.sp 2
A little calm reflection opened the squire’s mind
to a ray of light which would certainly have dawned
upon it before, had not his wits been clouded by
passion. “Boy!” he suddenly exclaimed, “I believe
every dollar of that money is bogus.”
“Then what’s the use of making a row over it?”
was the boy’s cool retort.
“It’s the business of a magistrate to look after
counterfeiters and counterfeit money,” said Peternot.
But at the same time he thought, “He has satisfied
himself that it ain’t counterfeit; his whole conduct
shows it.” And the avaricious old man still laid
siege to the basket.
Half an hour passed, during which time very little
was said. Jack took out his knife and began to whittle
a stick; perhaps he was not unwilling to show
the squire that he was armed. He also put on his
coat, and then his shoes, after emptying their contents
into the basket.
Peternot grew more and more impatient, as he saw
the afternoon gliding away. Another half-hour, and
the situation still remained unchanged. “I may set
here till night,” thought he, “and all night, and all
day to-morrow, fur’s I know,—but what’s the use?
.bn 058.png
.pn +1
He’ll stick as long as I do. He’s tough; he can
stand anything; ye can’t starve a canal-driver.
Sakes!” he exclaimed, half aloud, suddenly putting
his hand into his pocket, remembering that the key
of his kitchen door was there.
On leaving home he had carefully made fast all
the doors and windows of his house,—his wife and
nephew having gone to meeting that afternoon; and
now, should they return before he did, they would
find themselves locked out!
Still the old man’s cupidity would not suffer him
to raise the siege.
He was taken by a fit of coughing; and, fearing
to catch cold by sitting on the damp log, he got up
and walked about,—frowning and striking his cane
upon the ground in huge dissatisfaction and disgust.
“You’re the most obstinate, unreasonable boy I ever
see!” he exclaimed angrily.
“Am I?” laughed Jack. “You haven’t begun to
see how obstinate I am. Wonder what you’ll think
to-morrow at this time? or the next day?” And
what, he might have added, would the wife and
nephew think?
“Hush!” whispered the old man. “What boys
are those?”
There was a crackling of sticks in a not very distant
part of the woods, occasioned by a gang of four
or five boys climbing Peternot’s brush fence. Jack
jumped upon the log and looked.
“It’s the Huswick tribe,” said he. “There’s
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
Dock, there’s Hank, there’s Cub,—there they all
are, going over your fence like a flock of sheep!”
“The Huswicks, Cub and Dock,—Hank with
’em!” ejaculated the squire, in great excitement.
“They’re the wust set of boys in town!”
“Yes, and they’re putting straight towards your
house,” observed Jack.
“They’re after my melons!” said Peternot, brandishing
his cane. “The rogues! I’ll larn ’em!”
With a limping stride he started in pursuit, but
turned back immediately. “Promise me you’ll stay
here!”
Jack couldn’t help laughing at the old man’s simplicity.
“Do you think I’m such a fool as to make
that promise? Or even if I should, would you trust
me to keep it? Come!” cried Jack, “you must have
a better opinion of me than you pretend.”
“I know you have some good traits—the rogues
will destroy all my melons—if I could borrow your
dog—leave your basket and go with me—we’ll
settle our diffikilty when we come back,” said the
agitated squire.
“I’ll take care of my basket; you can look after
your melons,” retorted Jack.
“I’d as lives have a passel o’ pigs in my melon-patch!”
cried Peternot, striding to and fro. “Boy!
I’m sure this money is bogus!—I wish I had called
to ’em ’fore they got out o’ hearin’!”
“Why didn’t ye?” asked Jack.
“That might ’a’ led ’em to come here, and we don’t
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
want anybody by the name o’ Huswick to have a
hand in this business. But my melons!—Boy, be
reasonable!”
“Be reasonable yourself, Squire Peternot! You’re
sure this money is bogus; then why don’t you leave
it and go for your melons?”
“I ain’t sure,” replied the squire. “But you’re
sure it’s good money; I see that, and you’re no fool.”
“Thank ye, sir,” said Jack, politely. And, seeing
that the old man’s cupidity made him ready to
believe almost anything, he added, “Now look here!
If I’ll give you what money there is in the basket,
will you be satisfied?”
Peternot started. “Satisfied? Sartin—I can’t
tell—explain!”
“Will you take this, and leave me what there is
still in the log? That’s what I mean,” said Jack,
with an air of candor.
Peternot, astonished by this strange proposition,
but afraid of being cheated out of a few dollars,
asked, “How much is there in the log?” at the same
time stooping with difficulty and peeping into the
cavity.
“That’s my risk. Come, is it a bargain?”
“I thought you didn’t make bargains on the
Sabbath day!”
“Well, I don’t,” laughed Jack, “unless some good
man sets me the example. I’m only a boy,—it’s
easy to corrupt me.”
“Corrupt you! you sassy, profane—”
.bn 061.png
.pn +1
“Sabbath-breaker,” suggested Jack, as Peternot
hesitated for a word bad enough. “What do you say
to my offer?”
“I say, if there’s money in the log, it belongs to
me, the same as this belongs to me.” And the squire,
impressed by the importance of having some accurate
knowledge on that point, vigorously thrust in his cane.
“Your stick can’t give ye much information,” said
Jack. “You’ll have to go in yourself.”
“I’m going in myself!” exclaimed the squire,
sharply. “Move out of my way here.”
Jack readily made room for him, tickled to the
heart’s core at the thought of the stiff-jointed old
man’s going into the log.
“Grin, will ye?” said Peternot. “I s’pose you
think the minute I’m in there you’ll start to run
with your basket. But you can’t run fur with that
weight to carry; I shall ketch ye!”
He leaned his cane by the log, laid his hat beside
it, and put his head and one arm into the cavity.
Then he put in his shoulders and both arms. “I can
hear ye, if ye stir to move!” he cried from the hollow
depths, which muffled his voice; and in his body
went, leaving only the long Peternot legs sticking out.
Jack was convulsed with laughter. But all at once
the idea occurred to him that practical advantage
might be taken of the squire’s ludicrous situation.
Up he jumped, and seizing the largest of the sticks
with which he had previously stopped the mouth of
the log, began to thrust them in after the squire.
.bn 062.png
.pn +1
“Here! oh! oh! murder!” cried the voice, now
more muffled than ever, while the old man struggled
violently to get out. “Oh! oh!”
“Good by!” screamed Jack, holding him, and
thrusting in more sticks. “You may have what’s
in the log, and I’ll take the basket.”
.if h
.il fn=i063.jpg w=600px
.ca
PETERNOT IN THE HOLLOW LOG.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: PETERNOT IN THE HOLLOW LOG.]
.sp 2
.if-
“Help! ho! I’m killed!” said the voice, growing
fainter and fainter.
.bn 063.png
.pn +1
“And buried!” Jack yelled back, laughing with
wild excitement. “But you kick well, for all that!”
And in went more rubbish about the old man’s heels.
“How do ye like your bargain? You’ll have plenty
of time to count your dollars before I send Pipkin
over to help you out.”
And, having got the old man wedged so tightly
into the log that he could not even kick, Jack,
inspired with extraordinary strength for the occasion,
caught up his basket of coin and started to run,
followed by Lion.
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch10
CHAPTER X||“THE HUSWICK TRIBE.”
.sp 2
Running quickly behind walls and fences, the
Huswick boys made a rapid raid upon Peternot’s
melon-patch, and left it loaded with spoils.
“Say, Dock!” said Hank (nickname for Henry),
skulking behind some bushes, “le’s put for Chatford’s
orchard, and scatter rines by the way, so if we’re
tracked the old man’ll think ’t was the deacon’s boys
hooked his melons.”
“Go ahead!” said Dock (nickname for Jehoshaphat),
carrying two fine ripe melons on his left arm
while he dug into one of them with a jack-knife in
his right hand. “Stoop, and keep clus to the fence!”
“No danger, old man’s gone to meetin’,” said Cub,
whose real name was Richard,—his odd shape (he
was ludicrously short and fat) having probably suggested
the nickname.
“Me an’ Cub can go without stoopin’,” giggled
Hod, the youngest (christened Horace). “See Hank!
he looks like a well-sweep!”
And indeed the second of the boys, who was as
wonderfully tall and lank as Cub was short and
thick, bore no slight resemblance to that ornament of
country door-yards.
“Hanged if one o’ mine ain’t a green one!” exclaimed
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
Tug (short for Dwight), dashing to the
ground a large watermelon, the sight of which in
ruins would have made old Peternot’s heart ache.
“Guess we made a clean sweep of all the ripe
ones,” said Cub. “No, you don’t!” as Tug offered
to relieve him of one of his three. “I never had my
fill o’ melons yit, though I’ve”—cramming his
mouth while he continued to talk—“been in the
squire’s patch much as once afore now.”
“You never had your fill of anything, I believe,
Cub!” said Hod, with his usual giggle. “Remember
when we went there in the night last year?”
“Night’s no time to go for melons,” said Cub.
“Ye can’t tell a ripe one ’thout cuttin’ into ’t.”
“Yes, ye can,” said Tug; “smell on ’t. That’s the
best way to tell a mushmelon.”
“Cub’s terrible petic’lar about slashin’ the ol’ man’s
whoppers, all to once,” said Horace.
“Of course, for if we cut a green one we sha’n’t
find it ripe next time we go,” Cub explained. “Jest
look! we’re makin’ a string o’ rines all the way from
Peternot’s to the deacon’s orchard!”
“There now, boys,” said Hank, “throw what rines
ye got down here by the brook, an’ stop eatin’ till we
git to the woods.”
Their course had been westward, until they reached
the orchard. They now took the line of stone-wall
which divided the squire’s land from the deacon’s,
and which led northward to the corner of Peternot’s
wood-lot,—Hank following Dock, Cub following
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
Hank, Tug after Cub, and Hod bringing up the rear.
In this order they entered the woods, and were
hastening to find a secluded spot where they could
sit and enjoy their melons, when suddenly Dock
stopped.
“Thought I heard somebody,” he said to Hank,
coming up.
“So did I. Lay low, boys! Git behind this log!”
Down went boys and melons in a heap, each of
the brothers, as he arrived, tumbling himself and his
load with the rest. There they lay, only Hank’s
long, crane-like neck being stretched up over the log
to reconnoitre; but presently even he thought it time
to duck, and threw himself flat upon the ground with
the rest.
“Keep dark!” he whispered; “it’s that Jack
Hazard, that lives to the deacon’s! him an’ his big
dog!”
Jack indeed it was, who had been too intently occupied
in fastening Peternot into the log to notice the
approach of the Huswick boys. He had thought of
them, to be sure, but had supposed they would return
through the woods as they went.
He was now running as fast as he could with his
basket of treasure, directing his course towards the
orchard, but keeping a little to the right in order to
reach a low length of fence, over which he intended
to climb, and then betake himself to the smoother
ground of the pasture. A log lay in his way. Lion,
growling, drew back from it—too late. Jack, in his
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
headlong haste, sprang upon it, and leaped down on
the other side, alighting on a frightful heap of legs
and heads and watermelons. He jumped on Hank,
tripped against Cub, and, falling, spilt his basket of
rattling coin all over Tug and Dock and Hod. Thereupon
the heap rose up as one man, astonishing poor
Jack much as if he had stumbled upon a band of
Indians lying in ambush.
“What in thunder!—Jerushy mighty!—half-dollars!”
ejaculated Cub and Dock and Tug; while
Hank stretched himself up to his full height, and
Hod fell vindictively upon Jack.
“Le’ me go!” screamed Jack, taking his knee out
of a muskmelon, and shaking off his assailant.
“That’s my melon,” said Hod, diving at him again
furiously, “an’ you’ve smashed it!”
He was butting and striking with blind rage, when
Lion bounced upon him, and actually had him by
the collar of his coat, dragging and shaking him with
terrible growls, when Tug and Cub and Dock—one
catching Hod by the heels, one Jack, and the other
Lion—disentangled the combatants.
“Where j’e git all this money?” demanded Cub.
“Found it, and I’m carrying it home,” said Jack,
scrambling to pick up his scattered half-dollars.
“He’s murdered somebody for it!” cried Hank,
peering in the direction of the hollow log. “I heerd
him! Hold on to him, boys!” and he ran to make
discoveries.
“Don’t ye do that!” said Jack, as Hod rushed to
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
help him pick up the coin. “My dog will have hold
of ye again! Watch, Lion!”
“Take that out o’ yer pocket, Hod!” said Cub,
seizing his youngest brother by the neck. “Melons
is fair game, but now ye’re stealin’. None o’ that
while I’m around!”
Hank, meanwhile, had reached the hollow log,
beside which the hat and cane were; when, hearing
groans from within and seeing a pair of legs sticking
out, he began at once to remove the rubbish from the
opening. Dock and Tug went to his assistance; and,
each laying hold of a leg while Hank pulled energetically
at the coat-tail, poor old Peternot, half smothered,
fearfully rumpled, and frightfully cross, was
hauled out by the heels horizontally.
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch11
CHAPTER XI||THE “COURT” AND THE “VERDICT.”
.sp 2
When at length the squire stood upon the legs he
had been drawn out by, and found himself in the
presence of the Huswick boys, the recognition and
pleasure were mutual.
“You scoundrels!” he began, brushing the dirt
from his clothes and hair.
“What are we scoundrels fer?” said Hank, the
tall one, with a comical grin on his thin, sinewy
features. “Fer snakin’ ye out of the log?”
“If ye ain’t satisfied, we can pack ye in agin,”
suggested Dock. But Peternot did not seem to take
that view of the matter.
“How come ye in there, anyhow?” said Tug.
“Was he murderin’ on ye?”
“Yes! Where is the villain? He’s got my
money!” And away limped the old man in pursuit
of the youthful robber and assassin.
“Them melons!” whispered Tug.
“Can’t help it now,” muttered Dock. “Hank, I
wish you’d left the old fox in his hole!”
Guided by the sound of voices, and the sight of a
head or two between the standing trunks, Peternot
marched straight to the log behind which Jack was
busy picking up his half-dollars. There were Cub
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
and Hod watching him, while Lion watched them;
there also were the stolen melons,—an interesting
sight to the angry squire.
“Hullo, boys!” said Hank, leaning over the log,
with one foot upon it, “where did them melons come
from?”
“Do’no’,” replied Cub. “They was here when we
come,—wa’n’t they, Hod?”
“Them melons come from my garden, and they
come by your hands!” exclaimed Peternot. “I know
it! and I’ll have ye up for trespassin’, the hull
coboodle of ye!”
“Look here, squire!” said Hank, “seems to me
you’re a little mite hasty. You ought to know your
friends better ’n all that. Where’d you be now, if
’twa’n’t for us? In that ’ere hole. And where’ll ye
be agin in less’n no time, if ye ain’t plaguy careful?
In that ’ere hole!”
“He says you was murderin’ on him, Jack,” observed
Tug.
“That’s a likely story!” cried the excited Jack,
who by this time had got his half-dollars all back
into the basket again. “Could I put him into the
log? He was in the log,—he was robbing me,—so
I fastened him in and got away,—or I should have
got away, if I hadn’t stumbled over you fellows.
Now just help me home with this money, and I’ll
pay you well.”
“Help him at your peril!” said Peternot. Then,
seeing the importance of securing such powerful
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
allies, he added, “Maybe I was hasty, boys. Help
me home with my money, and I’ll say nothin’ about
the melons.”
“That’s fair, if it’s your money,” said Hank.
“Seems to be a dispute about it. Guess we’ll try
the case. Come, now,—you fust, squire,—give in
yer evidence whilst the court refreshes himself with
a melon or two.”
So saying, Hank coolly reached over and stuck his
knife into a watermelon, which he proceeded to eat,
sitting on the log. “Take holt, boys,” he said, “this
is lickin’ good,—wonder whose patch it come from!
Yours, did ye say, squire? Guess I shall have to
pay ye a visit some time. No, no, Jack! set down
that basket! ye can’t leave the court with the damages
’fore the case is decided. Wal, seein’ the old
man hain’t found his tongue yit, we’ll hear your
testimony.”
Peternot was, in fact, so choked with wrath at the
sight of the five Huswick boys—for all the others
had duly followed Hank’s example—sitting comfortably
on the log, regaling themselves with his melons,
that he could not have spoken without doing his
cause great injury; and thus it happened that Jack
was first heard.
.if h
.il fn=i073.jpg w=600px
.ca
The “Court” in the Woods.—Page 73.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: The “Court” in the Woods.—Page 73.]
.sp 2
.if-
“Now put your hand on this watermelon an’
swear’t you’ll tell the truth, the hull truth, and
nothin’ but the truth,” said Hank, who had more
than once seen the inside of a court-room,—perhaps
unwillingly; and he handed Jack a slice of melon,
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
which the poor fellow took with a grin and ate.
“Now answer me; an’ don’t ye try to tell too much;
for though they alluz make a chap swear to tell the
hull truth, they never let him, but shet his mouth
dumb quick if he goes to let out more ’n they ask
fer. Now.” (Hank took a bite of melon.) “What’s
yer name?”
“Jack Hazard.”
“Ockepation?”
“I work for Mr. Chatford.”
“What did ye do ’fore that?” (Another bite.)
“I drove on the canal, for Captain Berrick.”
“How did ye happen to leave him?”
“He flung me into the canal twice in one day,
which I thought was once too often, and I run away
from him.”
“Poor boy?” (Hank dug into his melon again.)
“Yes; I never had anything,—I never had even
a chance for myself till now.”
“Take another slice,” said Hank. “Now you’ve
got a chance for yourself?”
“I thought I had; but this old man here comes
down on me, and claims the money which I found in
that hollow log.” And Jack, with the indulgence
of the august court,—holding his second slice of
melon in his hand,—poured forth his story.
“Now what have you got to say to all that?”
said Hank, turning to the squire. “Have a bite? ye
better,” holding out a piece of melon on the blade of
his jack-knife.
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
Peternot declined to regale himself, and made
answer: “I say what I’ve said to him,—the money
(if ’t is money, though in all probability it’s bogus)
was found on my premises, it has not been taken
from my premises, and I forbid his takin’ it. But
I’ve offered him a liberal reward for findin’ on ’t, and
I offer it again.”
“Squire,” said Hank, “you’re a fair man, an’ I
must say your melons are excellent. What do ye
think, boys?”
Now the boys were unanimously of the opinion
(with the exception of Hod) that the coin was
spurious, and consequently good for nothing but to
help them make their peace with Peternot. Jack
saw them winking at each other, and knew their
thoughts.
“You sha’n’t take it away from me!” he cried,
throwing himself upon the basket. “I’ll die first!
and you’ll have to kill my dog! O, I wish Mr.
Chatford was here!”
“That’s the most sensible idee yit,” said Dock.
“Boys, we don’t want to mix up with this business,
only to see fair play. Better let the deacon settle it.
He’s hum from meetin’ by this time. Go fer him,
Bub; I’ll take care of your basket.”
“Will you! Won’t you let him have it? nor take
it yourselves?”
“What should we take it fer? We’ve no claim
on ’t, anyhow,” said Hank, who might, however, have
thought and acted differently if he had believed the
.bn 076.png
.pn +1
coin genuine. “Put, now! If I’m alive, the basket
shall stay till you come back.”
“Besides, you can leave your dog,” said Cub.
“He’ll watch your interest, while the squire’ll watch
hisn. Be quick, for we can’t stay much longer ’n
it’ll take to finish our melons.”
Notwithstanding his anxious doubts, Jack was
persuaded that the best thing he could do was to run
in all haste for the deacon, leaving Lion, Peternot,
and the Huswick boys to watch each other and take
care of the treasure in his absence.
“We’ll keep our word about the basket,” said
Hank, with a droll look, as Jack disappeared over
the fence; “but about the stuff that’s in ’t, this
is the judgment of the court,—we allow ’t the
squire’s claim is just, an’ give him the money,
pervided he’ll say nothin’ ’bout the melons, but
pay us a dollar apiece for helpin’ him carry it
hum.”
“But we’ve engaged ’t the basket shall stay till he
comes back,” Cub objected.
“An’ whatever else we do, we’re fellers that keeps
our word,” added Dock, over his melon.
“Then how’s the coin to go?” demanded the
exasperated squire, thinking the boys meant to dally
with him until Mr. Chatford’s arrival.
“You don’ know nothin’ ’bout war,—you never
see a one-hoss wagon!” said Dock, contemptuously.
“Hod, off with yer breeches!”
Hod naturally objected, on strong personal grounds,
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
to this part of the arrangement. He started to run,
but Tug headed him off, and Cub seized him; when,
finding that, with or without his consent, he was
destined to part with the required garment for a
season, the lamb of the flock yielded, and kicked off
that portion of his fleece.
Cub took the trousers, and quickly turned the legs
into a pair of bags by tying cords about the ankles.
“Now bring on yer grist,” said he; “I’ll hold the
sack open!”
“Plague on the dog!” said Tug. “He won’t le’
me tech it.”
“I can coax him. Here, poor fellow!” said Cub,
patting him.
Lion did not greatly resent the patting, but the
moment Cub’s hand reached for the basket, a deep
growl warned him off.
“Kill the brute!” cried Peternot. “We can’t be
bothered this way.”
“That’s easy enough, if you’ll pay damages,” said
Dock.
“That I’ll do,—a miser’ble cur that stan’s in
the way o’ my takin’ my own, on my own premises!”
“Kill him it is, then,” said Dock, looking for a
club, and finding two. “Hank, you take this. Cub,
you take your dirk-knife. Squire, lend Tug your
cane, or use it yourself.”
“Now see here!” objected Hank. “This looks to
me kind o’ mean,—half a dozen on us agin one dog!
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
Hanged if I don’t like the looks o’ the pup, an’ I
won’t have him killed.”
“What’ll ye do, then?”
“I’ll show ye.”
Lion was standing near the log, on the other side
of which Hank placed himself.
“Now pretend you’re goin’ to grab the basket!”
.bn 079.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch12
CHAPTER XII||HOW HOD’S TROUSERS WENT TO THE SQUIRE’S HOUSE.
.sp 2
Hank leaned over the log,—his lank frame and
astonishing length of limb favoring the execution of
his stratagem,—and seized Lion by one of his hind
legs while his attention was diverted by a feigned
attack upon the treasure. Finding himself caught,
the dog wheeled furiously; but on the instant Hank,
swinging his hind-quarters upon the log, drew them
between two prongs of an upright limb, forked near
the trunk, where it was easy to hold him, with his
head hanging.
“Now who’s got a good stout string?”
“Here’s a whiplash in Hod’s breeches pocket!”
Tug leaped the log with it, and assisted in lashing
Lion’s hind legs to the limb, below the fork in which
he was suspended by his thighs. The poor fellow’s
struggling and yelping were of no avail: there he
was, hung.
Meanwhile Cub held his pair of bags open, and the
coin was emptied into them. The squire stooped
with many a groan to pick up the scattered pieces
that rolled on the ground. Then the well-freighted
trousers were set astride Hank’s lofty neck; at which
he began to prance and kick up, in playful imitation
.bn 080.png
.pn +1
of a colt—or should we say a giraffe?—with a
strange rider.
“Now ye needn’t but one of ye go with me,” said
Peternot; “or at the most two.”
“Two can’t carry all that silver,” said Cub. “We
must all help. And edge along towards Aunt Patsy’s
wood-lot, if ye don’t want to meet Jack and the
deacon. Comin’, Hod?”
“I can’t without my breeches!” replied the discontented
youth.
In no very pleasant mood he saw his trousers ride
off on Hank’s shoulders,—still visible above the
undergrowth after the squire and the rest of his odd
escort had disappeared from view. So great indeed
was Hod’s chagrin at being left behind in this way,
that he found it necessary at once to set himself
about some sort of mischief. First he broke open
the best of the remaining melons, and ate as much as
he could of them. Then he gathered up all the rinds
and fragments and placed them in the basket, together
with bits of rotten wood, covering the whole
with the frock which Jack had left spread over the
coin.
“Now when he comes he’ll think his money is
there, till he looks, then won’t he be mad!” With
which happy thought Hod ran and hid in some
bushes, where he could watch the fun.
Meanwhile Hod’s trousers, with their legs full of
coin, were shifted from shoulder to shoulder of his
big brothers, as the strange procession emerged from
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
the woods and moved across Peternot’s pasture, the
squire lamely bringing up the rear. Arrived at his
house, he brought out a meal-sack, and the coin was
emptied into it. He then took two of the half-dollars
and offered them to Hank.
“What’s that fer?” said the tall youth, stooping
to look at the money as if it had been some curious
insect.
“I owe ye a dollar,” said Peternot.
“So ye du,” replied Hank, “but I prefer to take
my pay in money as is money, if it’s the same thing
to you.”
“You yourself said you believed this was bogus,”
added Dock; “an’ I don’t s’pose you want to be
hauled up for passin’ it.”
Peternot felt the force of the remark, and with a
long face took from his pocket-book a bank-note,
which he handed to Hank.
“The same to me, if you please,” said Dock. “I
said a dollar apiece.”
The squire protested against such extortion, but
finally, reminded that he had said two of the boys
might come with him, he paid Dock also. Then
Cub and Tug held out expectant hands; whereat he
flew into a passion.
“I don’t even know ’t the coin is good; and d’ ye
think I’m goin’ to submit to any such swindle?
Clear out, you melon-thieves!”
“All right!” said Cub, coolly, with his hand on
the meal-sack; “but if I don’t take my dollar with
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
me, I take this right back where we found it, and
give it to the boy.”
The firm position thus taken by Cub being approved
by his brothers, especially by Tug, the poor
old squire saw no way but to yield, and Cub and
Tug were paid.
“Now a dollar for Hod,” said Hank.
“For Hod!” roared out the squire, like a man
tortured beyond endurance. “Hod didn’t come!”
“But his breeches did. A dollar for his breeches,—if
that will suit you any better. And quick!”
said Hank, “or the coin goes into ’em agin, an’ back
to the basket.”
“I hain’t got another dollar!” said Peternot, trembling
with wrath and vexation.
“You’ve a V there; we can change it,” suggested
Cub.
“Take it, and may the rum ye buy with it pizen
ye, you pack o’ thieves and robbers!”
“That sounds well from you, that have jest robbed
a poor boy of what you more ’n half believe is good
money, but which we’re dumb sure is bogus, or else
we never ’d have helped ye off with it. Thieves and
robbers, hey? Hear him, boys!”
Hank laughed derisively, and all went off chuckling
gleefully over their Sunday afternoon’s job,
while the squire, entering his house, slammed and
bolted the door behind them.
.bn 083.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch13
CHAPTER XIII||HOW JACK RESCUED LION, BUT MISSED THE TREASURE.
.sp 2
The deacon’s folks had not got home from meeting
when Jack reached the house; but he saw them
coming,—Mr. Chatford, Mr. and Mrs. Pipkin, and
Phin, in the old one-horse wagon. He met them at
the gate, and hurriedly told his story as they were
driving on to the house.
“Boy, you’re crazy!” said the incredulous deacon.
“No, I ain’t! Do come quick! They won’t wait
long, and then Peternot will take the money!”
“Well, well,—I suppose I’ll go,—pretty work
for Sunday, I should say!”
“It was wrong,—I ought to have told you all
about it before,” said Jack, “but I thought I was
doing the best thing; I didn’t want anybody to
know whose land I found the money on, so he couldn’t
claim it.”
“Hurrah! I’ll go too!” cried Phin. “You take
care of the old mare, Phi!”
“If it’s the Huswick boys, I guess I better go
and see fair play,” remarked Mr. Pipkin; and he followed
with the deacon, while Phin ran ahead with
Jack.
The two boys reached the pasture; and now Jack,
outstripping his companion, darted forward to a certain
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
low length of fence, leaped upon it, and peered
with a wild and anxious gaze into the woods.
“They’re gone! they’re gone!” he shrieked despairingly;
and, tumbling over the rails, he ran
through the bushes to the log.
They were gone indeed; but there was his basket,
just where he had left it, covered with his frock.
He flew to it, and stripped off the covering; and
there Phin, as he came up, found him staring in
utter consternation and dismay at a peck of melon
rinds and rotten wood.
“Is that yer money?” said Phin. “I don’t believe
there was any: you’ve been fooling us!”
Jack threw out the rubbish, with the frantic
thought that the coin must still be there.
“They’ve robbed me!” he sobbed out, when the
bottom of the basket was reached and showed nothing
but rinds and fragments of rotten wood.
A whining sound came to his ear; and just then
Phin said, “O, just look! what’s the matter with
your dog?” Jack looked, and there, half hidden by
the bushes, was Lion hanging by the hips from the
forked limb of the log. He sprang to rescue him.
The whiplash was tied in a tight knot, and out came
the boy’s knife to cut it.
This part of the fun Hod Huswick, in his ambush,
had not anticipated, and did not relish.
“Here! that’s my whiplash! don’t ye cut it!” he
cried; and from the bushes leaped the bare legs with
their flapping linen, to the no little astonishment of
Phineas Chatford.
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
.if h
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.ca
JACK RESCUES LION.
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.sp 2
[Illustration: JACK RESCUES LION.]
.sp 2
.if-
“I’ll cut it, and you too!” The whiplash was
severed, and Jack, knife in hand, turned upon Hod.
“What have you done with my money?”
“Hain’t done nothin’ with ’t,—I hain’t teched it.”
“Who has?”
“They took it, and stole my breeches to carry it
off in, ’cause they said they’d promised you not to
take the basket. They stole my whiplash, too, fer to
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
tie the dog with; I couldn’t help myself; an’ now
you’ve cut it!”
“Where’ve they gone?”
“To Peternot’s; he hired ’em to help him carry
the money home.”
Then Jack saw how completely he had been outwitted
and betrayed. He did not rave at his ill-luck;
but to Mr. Chatford, who now approached with
Mr. Pipkin, he told what had happened, and in a
tone of unnatural calmness appealed to him for
redress. “For if you can’t do anything for me,” he
said, turning his pale face and tearless eyes at the
empty basket, “I shall get my pay out of the old
squire some way, if I live! Tell him he’d better
look out!”
“There, there!” said the deacon, soothingly.
“Don’t make any foolish threats. I think it’s most
unwarrantable conduct on Peternot’s part, and I’ll
see him about it.”
“Go over there right now! why can’t ye?”
“My boy, remember it’s Sunday.”
“He didn’t remember it was Sunday when he got
my money away!” said Jack.
“Very true,” said the deacon. “But nothing will
be gained by going to him now. To-morrow I’ll see
about it.”
“To-morrow!” echoed Jack, with a fierce laugh.
“Burn his house down, I would!” whispered Phin,
who, notwithstanding his profession of sympathy, felt,
I regret to say, a secret gratification at Jack’s loss.
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
“Where was ’t ye found the money, Jack?” Mr.
Pipkin inquired.
Jack led the way, and all went to look at the hollow
log. While they were standing about it Hod’s
brothers returned. Hod ran for his trousers, but
Cub, who was about to fling them at him, changed
his mind and tossed them into a tree, where they
lodged.
“That’s for spilin’ the melons,” said he, regarding
the heap on the ground.
Hod caught up a club to throw at his amiable brother,
but wisely changed his mind, and sent the missile
up into the tree, in the hope of bringing down his
breeches. As they did not come at the first fire, he
sent club after club up after them, sputtering all the
while with indignation; while his brothers walked
loungingly on to the hollow log.
Jack glared at them with deep and sullen hate,
without deigning to speak; but the good deacon
said, “Seems to me, fellows, you’ve played off a despicable
trick on this poor boy here! You ought to
have protected him in his rights; but instead of that
you’ve helped rob him.”
“Not much of a robbery, I guess, deacon,” replied
Dock, good-naturedly. “’Twas nothin’ but a lot o’
bogus coin, no use to him nor to anybody.”
“You’re mistaken,” replied the ingenuous Chatford,
letting out a secret which Jack had thought it wise
to keep. “The coin was genuine; at least I’ve good
reason to think so.” And he told why.
.bn 088.png
.pn +1
The Huswick boys looked at each other. “If
that’s the case, we didn’t git so much the start of
the squire as we thought we did!” muttered Dock.
“On the contrary, he’s got the start of us! What
do ye say, Hank?”
“It’s too late now to say anything about it; but
hanged if I wouldn’t ’a’ swore the silver was no
silver! I thought ’twas nothin’ but the old man’s
avariciousness made him think it might be good.
We let him off too easy!” And Hank appeared more
than half minded to go back and make better terms
with the squire.
“They hung Lion up by the heels!” said Phin,
getting behind his father, for he had a chronic dread
of the Huswick tribe.
“I’d tie you up by the heels too,” said Cub, with
a peculiar smile, “if ’t wa’n’t Sunday!”
Whereupon Mr. Pipkin, who had been on the
point of expressing an opinion, concluded to remain
silent; the ruffians might forget what day it
was!
“Well, come, boys; I don’t see that we can do
anything,” said the deacon. “We may as well go
home.”
They walked back past the tree which Hod, in his
imperfect attire, was still clubbing for the obstinate
trousers, getting mad at them finally, and pelting
them as if they were to blame for sitting there so
quietly on the limb, in spite of him. Mr. Pipkin, out
of respect to Jack’s grief, took up the basket and
.bn 089.png
.pn +1
frock and carried them; while Jack lingered behind
with Lion, pondering dark thoughts.
“Come, boy! you’d better go home,” said Mr.
Chatford, coaxingly. “Don’t be down-hearted. It’ll
turn out right or be made up to you somehow, if
you meet it in the right spirit, I’m confident.”
“I’ll be there pretty soon,—I can’t go just yet,”
replied Jack, dissatisfied with everybody and everything;
and he wandered off by himself in the woods,
brooding upon his wrongs.
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch14
CHAPTER XIV||SQUIRE PETERNOT AT HOME.
.sp 2
After dismissing the Huswick boys, Squire Peternot
carried his bag of coin into the room which served
him as an office, where he had scarcely time to place
it in a corner beside a bureau, when there came a
dull thump at the kitchen door. He knew Mrs.
Peternot’s signal, knocking with the soft under-part
of her feeble fist, and went to let her in.
She was a thin, wrinkled woman, dressed in black,
with an expression of countenance almost as stern
and sour as that of the grim old squire himself.
“Huh!” said she, scowling as she entered, “how
happens it ye hain’t got the fire agoin’ an’ the taters
bilin’?”
“I’ve had somethin’ else to think on. Where’s
Byron?” replied her husband, shortly.
“Gone to the barn with the hoss, I s’pose. But he
won’t unharness,—ketch him!”
“I didn’t expect he would, with his Sunday clo’es
on.”
“Sunday clo’es or any clo’es on, he don’t tech his
fingers to anything that’ll sile ’em, or that looks like
work, if he can help it,” muttered good Mrs. Peternot,
laying off her black bonnet. “You never would allow
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
sich laziness in your own son, an’ why ye should in a
nephew any more, I can’t consait.”
“Byron is a sort of visitor,” said the squire. “And
if I choose to favor him,—now that we’ve nobody
else to show favors to,—why shouldn’t I?”
“If you’d felt so indulgent towards him when he
was alive, he might be with us now,” replied the discontented
wife, carefully doing up her shawl before
putting it away in its appropriate drawer.
By him she meant their only son, whose bad habits
had received so little encouragement beneath the parental
roof, that he had taken them abroad with him
and become their victim.
“Why must ye forever be gallin’ me with that subject?”
said Peternot, with a look of anguish. “You
know I did what I thought was for the best. Come,
I’ll start the fire for ye, and put the pot on, if that’ll
make ye any better-natered.”
“I’m good-natered enough, but I should think
somethin’ had riled you up,” returned the lady.
“What is it?”
“Boys have been in the melon-patch, for one
thing.”
“Been in the melon-patch! when ye stayed to
hum a’most a puppus to keep watch on ’t!” And
the good woman, having removed her Sunday cap,
false hair and all, turned her thin face and scowling
brows, crowned by a few thin gray locks, in amazement
on her husband. “That’s a likely story! was
ye asleep, I wonder?”
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
Peternot made no reply, but went on kindling the
fire in the open fireplace, until his nephew came in.
“I took the horse to the barn; did you want the
harness off?” said that young gentleman, standing
with his gloves and hat on, watching his uncle.
There was a slight affectation of foppery about
Byron,—something which the plain people of the
neighborhood called “soft”; and as Peternot, on his
rheumatic knees before the fire, looked up through
the smoke and ashes he was blowing into his face,
and saw his dainty nephew stand there gloved and
grinning, something of his wife’s feeling towards that
nice young man came over him,—or was it only his
impatience at the smoke and ashes?
“Nat’rally, I want the harness off, arter the hoss
has been standin’ in ’t a good part o’ the day!” he
answered, crossly.
“Oh!” said Byron; “I rather thought so, but I
didn’t know.”
“I should think any fool would know that!”
“Very likely a fool would, but I didn’t happen to.”
And, with the grin still on his features, the youth
looked at the kneeling old man, very much as if he
would have liked to give him a vigorous kick with
his polished boot.
“No matter! I’ll ’tend to it,” said the squire, and
went on with his blowing.
Byron smilingly withdrew.
“You never would have stood sich impudence from
him,” said Mrs. Peternot, through the open door of a
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
bedroom into which she had retired; “an’ why
should ye from a nephew?”
The squire made no reply to this reasonable question,
but, having kindled a fire and put on the pot,
went out to take care of the horse. Byron meanwhile
walked about the place with his fine clothes on,
until supper was ready.
“Come, Byron,” then said the squire; and both
went in and took seats at the little oilcloth-covered
table. The supper consisted of boiled potatoes served
with their skins on, thin slices of fried pork swimming
in their own melted fat, and a heavy and sour kind of
bread, which, by its quality and complexion, always
reminded Byron of his Aunt Peternot, who seemed to
have mixed up something of herself in the dough.
He was blessed with a good appetite, however, and
he ate heartily, notwithstanding his unpleasant consciousness
of the fact—or was it only his imagination?—that
the good woman watched with a begrudging
scowl every morsel that went to his plate;
seeming to say, “What! another tater! More bread!
A second cup of tea, and sich big cups too! Seems
to me I wouldn’t make a hog of myself, if I was visitin’
my uncle!”
It was never a cheerful household; on Sundays it
was even less sociable than on other days, and on
this particular Sunday afternoon, Byron thought the
cloud which hung over it unusually heavy. Something
seemed to trouble his uncle, who sat grim and
silent, sipping his tea scalding hot, and working his
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
massy jaws as if the pork and potatoes had done him
an injury, and he was wreaking a gloomy vengeance
upon them.
“Where are you going, Byron?” the squire asked,
as his nephew was about leaving the house after
supper.
“Thought I’d walk out,—didn’t know but I
might call at Deacon Chatford’s by and by,—I hear
they have a little singing there, Sunday evenings.”
Mrs. Peternot scowled at the young gentleman,
then turned and scowled at her husband, and said in
an undertone: “It’s that ’ere Annie Felton, the
schoolmarm! He’s arter her,—jest like all the rest
on ’em!”
“Byron,” said the squire, solemnly, “I’d like to
speak with you before you go out.” And he led the
way to his office-room.
“Now what?” thought Byron, anxiously. “Is he
going to tell me I’ve been here about long enough,
and had better pack up my trunk and clear?”
“Byron,” said the squire, closing the door behind
them, “it’s a subject I ought not to bring up on the
Sabbath day, but it weighs upon my mind, and I’ve
concluded I’d better speak to you about it. See
what you think of this.” And he took from the corner
behind the bureau the meal-bag with its compact
but weighty contents, which he set down with a
heavy chink before his nephew.
Byron, feeling greatly relieved, peeped curiously
into the sack as Peternot opened it. “By mighty!”
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
said he, surprised at what he saw, and thrusting in
his hand. “Where did ye get this?”
In a few words the squire told the story. Byron
in the mean time carefully tested one of the coins,
cutting it with his knife and ringing it on the hearth.
“All right,” said he; “you’ve got possession. But
what’s the use? ’Tain’t good for anything.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it. Very well done, for counterfeiting,—but,
of course!” And Byron tossed the piece
back into the bag with a smile of contempt.
“Wal, that’s jest the conclusion I’ve come to,”
said the squire. “I thought all along it might be
bogus; and as soon as I got it fairly into my hands,
I was sartin on ’t. What provokes me is the trouble
it cost,—and more ’n all, the money them pesky
Huswick boys gouged out of me!” And the old man
groaned.
By this time Mrs. Peternot, her curiosity excited
regarding the conference of uncle and nephew, came
into the room, for an excuse exclaiming, “Why,
squire! what have you got the house shet up so tight
for?” and proceeded to open the window. “Massy
on us! what ye got in the bag?”
“I told ye I had somethin’ to think on, this arternoon,”
said Peternot; “and this is it.”
“It has cost him five dollars,” remarked Byron,
pleasantly, “and it’s worth, as old metal, about fifty
cents!”
“Wal, you have been fooled, complete!” exclaimed
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
the old lady. “I don’t wonder ye kep’ it to yerself!
Five dollars! have ye lost yer wits?”
“Come, come! I’m feelin’ uncomf’table enough
about it, a’ready!” said the squire. “But there’s a
possibility, yet, that it may be good money. Can’t
tell. I should do jest so agin, under the sarcumstances,
most likely. Any way it’s better to have it
in my possession, than to leave bad boys to carry it
off and pass it, as they undoubtedly would. I don’t
want it to make trouble ’twixt me and my neighbors,
though; and, Byron, if you are going over to the deacon’s,
you might see what he has to say about it;
tell him it’s counterfeit, and that I thought so—kind
o’ thought so—all along, but considered it my duty—you
understand?”
Byron understood, and smilingly replied that he
would “make it all right” for his uncle.
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch15
CHAPTER XV||JACK AND THE HUSWICK BOYS.
.sp 2
Jack—no longer the bright and cheerful lad
whom we so lately saw picking up stones in the hilly
pasture—went home, brooding darkly over his
wrongs, and refused to be comforted by anything the
good deacon and his wife could say to him.
“He robbed me, and hung up my dog by the heels,—got
the Huswick tribe to help him; and here I
am, alone against all of ’em, and nobody lifts a hand
or says a word to help me!” was his bitter complaint,
as he took the milk-pails after supper, and went out
of the kitchen, shutting the door after him (I am
sorry to say) with something like a bang.
“I’m a little disappointed in Jack,” observed the
deacon, sadly.
“O, well, I don’t know,” replied his wife,—“you
needn’t be; almost any boy of as much will and
spirit as he has would feel so. He has been shamefully
wronged,—you’ll allow that.”
“But he blames me!” said the deacon.
“Blames everybody!” struck in Mr. Pipkin, on
the point of going out, but standing and holding the
door open. “I don’t s’pose anything under heavens
would satisfy him, Mis’ Chatford, but for me and the
deacon to march over to Peternot’s, give the old reprobate
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
a good cudgellin’, which I don’t deny but
what he desarves fast enough, and lug hum the
money.”
“I wish the money had been at the bottom of the
sea before ever Jack stumbled upon it!” said Mr.
Chatford. “I shall certainly go over and see the
squire in the morning, and be plain with him,—for
I do think he has acted a most dishonorable part in
the matter.”
“I back ye up on that,” said Mr. Pipkin.
“A sight of good your backing up will do!” remarked
Mrs. Pipkin, sarcastically. “It won’t restore
Jack’s money. I don’t wonder he’s sulky,—we all
set down, so quiet, talking over his loss, instead of
walking straight over to the squire’s, and doing something,
as I believe I should if I was a man.”
“Wish ye was one, for a little spell,” said Mr. Pipkin,
showing all his front teeth. “Guess you’d make
old Peternot’s fur fly! Guess he’d wish—”
“Mr. Pipkin!” interrupted Mrs. Pipkin, in a
warning voice, “you’ll oblige me very much by
shutting that door, with yourself on the outside!”
Mr. Pipkin still showed a considerable amount of
ivory, as he turned, and said aside to the deacon, with
a wink: “These ’ere women!—have to indulge ’em.
No use of answerin’ back, as old Dr. Larkin, minister
o’ the gospil,—six foot high, eighty year old, wore a
wig, best man in the world,—said once, as he was
goin’ into a house where there was a parrot, and the
parrot sung out, ‘That’s an old fool!’—‘No use of
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
answerin’ back!’ says the good old doctor,—‘hi, hi!—I
often think on ’t.’”
“Mr. Pipkin,” said Mrs. Pipkin, with biting severity,
pointing at the door, “will you oblige me?”
And Mr. Pipkin obliged her, chuckling as he went.
Jack sat milking a cow, with his head pressed
against her flank, looking down into the pail, in
which the bright streams were dancing, when Phin
came into the yard.
“Say, Jack!” cried that perfidious youngster,
“wasn’t it too bad, though, for you to be robbed of
all that money?” although Phin’s private sentiment
was that it was a capital joke. “And what do you
think I overheard just now? Mrs. Pip said if she
was you she would get hold of it again somehow;
and father said you would have a right to take it
anywhere, if you could lay hands on it; he didn’t
know but ’t would be justifiable,—that was his
word.”
“That’s all the good words do; for how can I get
it?” said Jack, who, having, in his imagination,
again and again, by some desperate act, overthrown
his enemy and regained his lost treasure, would have
been glad enough to know how his wild thoughts
could be successfully reduced to practice.
He was still nourishing in his excited mind these
fiery fancies, when, the milking over, he went to walk
in the orchard; having all sorts of fearful adventures
with the gaunt old Peternot, and always coming off
triumphant with his treasure. Now he hurled him
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
down his own cellar-way, and buttoned the door.
Now he caught him, and, single-handed, tied him
with a clothes-line, drawing it dreadfully tight, in the
hardest kind of hard knots, and left him bound to a
bed-post. Then the squire fell dead in a fit,—a judgment
upon him for his wickedness,—just as he was
lifting the money into his wagon in order to carry it
away and sell it. Or Lion took the old man down
and held him while his young master bore off the
coin. Jack got the treasure in every instance,—only
to wake up at last, and find that all his dreams
of what he might do left him still hopelessly wronged
and baffled.
He passed on through the orchard, and unconsciously
drew near the scene of the afternoon’s conflict.
That had still a strange attraction for him; he
must once more view the spot where his hopes of
fortune had been raised so high, to be followed so
soon by impotent rage and despair.
As he advanced through the darkening woods,—for
it was now dusk,—he heard noises in the direction
of the hollow log, and thought, with a sudden
wild leap of the heart, that one of his dreams of vengeance
might be coming true. “It’s old Peternot!
he has come back to get the rest of the money in the
log! Here! keep behind me, Lion!”
Then he heard voices, and, gliding near, among the
shadowy trees, perceived that it was not the squire,
but some of the “Huswick tribe,” whom the hope of
finding more coin had brought again to the hollow
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
log. There were Cub and Tug and Hank; they had
broken the rotten shell to pieces, laying the cavity
completely open; and they now stood around it, poking
in the rubbish with sticks or fingers or feet, hunting—in
vain it seemed—for stray half-dollars.
“Hullo, Bub!” said Hank, “ye made a perty
clean sweep on ’t, didn’t ye! Here’s the old box,
but not a dollar to pay us for our trouble! That
seems kind o’ mean.”
Jack did not answer, but, keeping Lion at his side,
walked slowly past the group, glaring sullenly at
them from under his angry brows.
“He’s afraid to speak,” said Cub.
“Afraid?” said Jack, turning and facing him. “I
despise you too much to speak to you! Great lubberly
fellows like you, to take the part of an old
miser against one boy,—I look upon you as cowards
and thieves!”
“Remember how we served your dog!” said Cub,
with a malignant grin.
“Yes, I do remember it! You had to wait till I
was gone before you had the courage to do even that!
If you hadn’t lied to me, and got me out of the way
first, you never would have taken that money,—somebody
would have been hurt first!”
“Look out!” said Cub, seizing a broken branch,
and advancing towards the audacious youngster.
“Come on!” cried Jack, jeeringly. “You’re big
enough to cut up into six decent fellows,—if anything
decent could be made out of such rubbish, but—you’d
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
better bring fifteen or twenty of your big
brothers to help you! See here!” said Jack, as the
broken branch came whizzing past his head, “two
can play at that game!” And he sent back a club
with so sure an aim that it took the burly Cub full
in the stomach. “No credit to me!” yelled Jack,
alert on his legs. “Couldn’t help hitting such a big
mark!”
“O, git out, Cub!” Hank called after his brother;
“what’s the use? I don’t blame the boy. We’ve
been hard enough on him, and now I’m goin’ to take
his part. Come back here, Bub! I want to talk.
You sha’n’t be hurt.”
“Hurt? as if I was afraid of him! It’s all I can
do to keep my dog from his throat,—he has a grudge
to wipe out! Here, Lion! Put the souls of the whole
tribe of you in a balance, and my dog’s would out-weigh
’em! You could shake ’em all in a pepperbox,
and not hear ’em rattle; they would have as
much room in a teapot as so many crabs in Lake
Erie!”
“I like your spunk, Bub!” said Hank, laughing.
“And, see here! we never would have gi’n the old
man the money, if we’d thought ’twas good for
shucks. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know it! I believe you’re mean
enough for anything.”
“That’s the talk! You’ve a right to think so.
But what if we should help you now to git the money
back?”
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
“You can’t!” exclaimed Jack.
“Can’t! you don’t know what we can do!”
“Then why don’t you go and git it?”
“’Cause we’ve no right to,—’tain’t ourn,—’t
would be stealin’. But you’ve the fust claim on ’t,—you
could take it, and we could help ye, and then
Peternot might git it back if he could.”
“I guess nobody’d get it again, if it was once in
your hands!”
“There ye do us wrong,” said Tug. “We ain’t
over-pe’tic’lar ’bout helpin’ ourselves to melons and
sich trash where we can find it, but money is another
thing.”
“And didn’t I make Hod throw down a handful
of the half-dollars he was pickin’ up for ye?” added
Cub.
“Which you thought was bogus,” retorted Jack,—who
was, however, beginning to be impressed by
these friendly suggestions.
“Of course, we should expect a little suthin for our
trouble,” said Hank; “but that can all be agreed on
aforehand. If you can git back the money, you won’t
mind payin’ us—say—here’s me an’ Tug an’ Cub—ten
dollars apiece,—that’s thirty dollars, for the
resk we run?”
“But we can’t get it!”
“Mebby not, but we can try. No harm in that.
It’s gittin’ dark now,—we can edge along towards
the squire’s, and see what we can do. Send your dog
hum; he’ll only be in the way.”
.bn 104.png
.pn +1
Jack was far from putting implicit trust in the
honor of a Huswick, even where the serious subject
of money was involved; but was not this his only
chance—though a slender one—of getting back
any portion of his treasure? And would he not prefer
sharing it with these scamps, to leaving it peaceably
in the possession of his enemy, the squire?
“If we can only find out where it is,” said Hank,
“then we can be arguin’ with the old man,—for I
guess he’ll let us into the house, one at a time,—an’
finally carry it off ’fore his face an’ eyes, without we
can hit on some luckier way.”
Jack remembered Mr. Chatford’s word, reported
to him by Phin,—that such an act on his part would
be justifiable,—and so, regardless of the whisperings
of conscience and of prudence, which nevertheless he
could not quite reconcile to the course he was about
to take, yielded to temptation, sent Lion home, and
entered into an agreement with the Huswick boys.
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch16
CHAPTER XVI||HOW JACK CALLED AT THE SQUIRE’S.
.sp 2
About an hour later several dark figures might
have been seen creeping stealthily along, behind
Squire Peternot’s garden wall, in the direction of the
house. A dim light shone at a window, and towards
this they cautiously advanced. Jack remembered
how, on a former occasion, he had gone with two of
these same companions,—Cub and Tug, though he
did not know them then,—in a mob that was to
have attacked Aunt Patsy’s house, how they had
approached her window, and how he had abhorred
their base designs; and he could not help wondering
a little at the strange chance which now made him
the accomplice of such wrong-doers. He seemed to
himself in the mean time much more the reckless
little canal-driver of old times, than the better self
which had been developed under the wholesome influences
of his new home and friends.
“Now keep dark, boys,” said Hank, stopping behind
some quince-bushes, “till I see how the land
lays.” He stole round the edge of the bushes, to a
spot that commanded a good view of the window, not
more than two rods off. Being tall, he could look
into it and see by the light of a dim tallow candle
what was going on in the Peternot sitting-room.
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
“All right. Only the old man and woman. She’s
jest goin’ into t’ other room,—to bed, I guess. He
sets by the table, chin in his hands; book open beside
him,—Bible, looks like,—but he ain’t readin’.
No, she ain’t goin’ to bed,—there she comes back
agin.”
“Keep still!” whispered Jack. “There’s somebody!”
Somebody approaching from the street, entering
the yard, walking straight towards the house, and
passing out of sight by the front corner.
“Old man’s nephew! the Dinks feller!” whispered
Hank. “Comes in at the door,—says something,—old
man looks up,—lights another candle;
they are going to another room.”
A light now appeared at another window, which
Jack, greatly excited, discovered to be partly open.
Close by it grew a lilac-bush, under cover of which
he drew near, and peeped. He saw the tall form of
Peternot cross the room, and then heard a clatter of
chairs. Growing bolder, he advanced his head still
farther, and saw uncle and nephew seated between a
bureau in one corner, and a table on which the light
was, at one side of the room.
“Did ye see ’em? have a talk with ’em?” Peternot
was saying.
“Yes,” replied Byron Dinks; “they didn’t have
much of a sing,—schoolma’am wasn’t there,—not
much company; but, having an eye to the winter
school, thought I’d stay and make myself agreeable.”
.bn 107.png
.pn +1
“That’s right, that’s right, nephew. And did ye
make it all smooth with Mr. Chatford?”
“I guess so; said you thought only of doing your
duty in the matter; you didn’t want the money, but,
knowing it was counterfeit—”
“There you went a little too fur, nephew; I didn’t
know; but go on.”
“It was well I made the statement, however, for
that brought out a surprising fact. You’ll be astonished,
uncle!”
“Hey? what is it?”
“The deacon said he was gratified to know you
had acted on the supposition that the coin was spurious;
and he felt sure that you would be ready to do
the boy justice when you found out your mistake.”
“Mistake? What mistake?”
“Coin is genuine!”
“No!”
“He says so; says he took half a dollar of it to the
goldsmith, over at the Basin, and he pronounced it
good; at any rate, he gave a good piece for it.”
“Nephew, you amaze me!—I—this is news—news
indeed!”
The squire got up, and, turning to the corner of
the room, drew forth from behind the bureau an object,
the sight of which made Jack’s heart beat wildly.
“That’s it!” whispered Hank in his ear, leaning
forwards, behind a branch of the lilac-bush.
Peternot opened the loosely tied sack, and uncle
and nephew eagerly examined its contents.
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i107.jpg w=600px
.ca
JACK AT THE WINDOW.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: JACK AT THE WINDOW.]
.sp 2
.if-
“It’s the tarnish that makes the silver look so
bad,” said the squire. “That deceived both on us.
I had all the while a strange feelin’ that the coin was
good, though my reason said the contrary. It was
only arter I’d got it, and had paid the Huswicks,
that my reason got the upper hand, and I felt so sure
’twas bogus. I’m glad you talked with the deacon.
It’s astonishing! I didn’t make so bad a bargain
with the rogues, arter all! I guess we’d better keep
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
it all together,” added the squire, as Byron seemed inclined
to retain the specimens he had been handling.
“Be ye comin’, any time to-night?” called the
voice of Mrs. Peternot from the adjoining room.
“She’s waitin’,” said the squire. “We was just
goin’ to ’tend prayers, when you come in,—had been
delayin’ a little on your account. I’ll put it back
here for the present; then, arter prayers, I’ll see
what had better be done with ’t for the night.”
Peternot, having returned the bag to its niche, sent
his nephew out of the room before him, and followed,
bearing the candle, which he blew out, to save it, as
he crossed the threshold. The door was left open,
however, and a dim light stole into the room from
the kitchen beyond.
“Now’s your time!” whispered Hank. “I’ll put
ye in there! Pass out the bag,—be still about it,—it’s
all right.”
“I can’t, without making a noise!” replied Jack, trembling
with excitement. “They’ll hear.”
“No, they won’t! Don’t hurry. I’ll help you.
Take off your shoes.”
Jack took off his shoes and hat, giving them to
Tug to hold. Still he hesitated.
“I wish they had shut the door! Wait a minute!
Hark!”
“The old man is readin’ the Scriptur’s!” said
Hank. “Then he’ll pray. It couldn’t have happened
better. Ye could grind a scythe, when he’s
prayin’, an’ he wouldn’t hear.”
.bn 110.png
.pn +1
Jack listened a moment, and heard the squire read
in a loud, nasal tone:—
“But know this, that if the good man of the house
had known in what hour the thief would come he would
have watched.”
“I can’t go!” Jack whispered, turning away.
“You can!” Hank insisted. “Now or never!
Your only chance. I’ll lift you up.”
“Well! lift! careful!”
Hank lifted him, and Jack went in at the window
feet foremost. In a moment he found himself standing
on the floor,—frightened, but alert and resolute.
He did not think he had made much noise.
The squire continued reading:—
“The lord of that servant shall come in a day when
he looketh not for him, and in an hour that he is not
aware of, and shall cut him asunder, and appoint him
his portion with the hypocrites.”
A thrill of terror crept over poor Jack, who could
not help thinking that all this applied, somehow,
particularly to himself. But it was too late now to
draw back, he thought.
He glided across the carpetless floor, making
scarcely any noise with his bare feet, except that his
ankle-bones cracked alarmingly. He did not stop
until he reached the corner by the bureau; when he
perceived, by the changed tones of voice, that Peternot
was no longer reading, but talking,—making a
few solemn comments on “the words,” as he phrased
it, which they were “called to consider.” It was
.bn 111.png
.pn +1
well for Jack that he had seen good Mr. and Mrs.
Chatford at their devotions, and also known them in
their daily lives, for otherwise I know not what contemptuous
ideas of religion he might have received,
from witnessing the family worship of the hard-hearted
and worldly-minded squire.
As Peternot’s discourse was broken by intervals of
silence, Jack thought, “I’ll wait till he begins to
pray.” Then came a clatter of chairs: “They’re going
to kneel down!” thought he, and grasped tightly
the loose top of the bag. But just then, to his consternation,
he heard heavy footsteps approaching;
somebody was entering the room!
It was Peternot, who, feeling now a more anxious
care for the coin than when he believed it to be
spurious, had remembered, during his devotions (his
heart being where his treasure was), that the window
of the room was open, and who deemed it prudent to
step in and shut it before he began his prayer.
The terrified Jack crowded himself into the corner
by the bureau, and waited, breathless with apprehension,
while Peternot closed the window, and turned
to go out. The old man took two or three steps towards
the bureau, and gave a glance in the direction
of the bag; but having no light, he did not see the
youthful house-breaker stuck up there in the dark
niche, like a shivering ghost.
Then he went back into the kitchen, leaving the
door wide open, the window closed and fastened, and
Jack shut in.
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch17
CHAPTER XVII||HOW JACK TOOK TO HIS HEELS.
.sp 2
In a moment all was still in the kitchen; then,
after a brief silence, Peternot began to pray, in a low,
solemn tone of voice. Jack, waiting and listening in
his corner, was dismayed at this, remembering what
Hank had just said of the old man’s prayers.
“That’s no praying!” thought he. “I shall never
dare stir, unless he puts in, and makes more noise.
Is that the best he can do, I wonder?”
Peternot soon showed that he could do better, his
voice rising as he proceeded in a manner that greatly
encouraged Jack, who now slipped from his corner,
in order to make an observation.
Venturing to peep in at the open door, he saw the
squire and his wife and nephew all kneeling before
their chairs in the kitchen, with their backs toward
him. That he considered a fortunate circumstance:
they would not see him if he closed the door.
“But if I shut it,” he reflected, “I shall be in the
dark, and I may stumble over a chair! I’ll take the
money to the window, and get everything ready first,—see
just what I must do, and how to do it; then
I’ll shut it.”
He drew the bag from the corner, lifted it by its
long, loose end, and carried it across the room, casting
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
one more glance at the kneeling group as he
passed the door. Then, having set the bag down under
the window, he carefully felt for the fastenings,
and found the usual spring in one side of the sash.
This he pressed with his thumb, and ascertained that
the window would easily come open. All being ready,
he stepped back, closed the door softly, without daring
to latch it, however, and returned to put his plan
into execution.
Pressing the window-spring, he raised the sash, and
found himself at once in communication with Hank
and Cub on the outside.
“Now, hand it out!” said Hank.
“Wait! a little higher,” replied Jack, still pushing
up the sash. Unfortunately, it stuck in the frame,
and as he still kept his thumb on the spring to prevent
its snapping with a noise when it reached a
notch, he could not tell when it was fast. “Now,
hold it,” he said, and stooped to take up the bag.
Both Cub and Hank had hold of the sash; but as
it appeared to be firm in its place, both let go of it
in order to seize the treasure; and so it chanced that,
between them and Jack, down came the window with
a loud clatter and a rattling of glass, broken by Cub’s
unlucky fingers in a fruitless attempt to prevent the
accident.
Frightened by the noise, which he knew would
alarm the household, Jack instantly threw up the
sash again, tumbled out the bag, and was tumbling
himself out, when the squire rushed into the room.
.bn 114.png
.pn +1
The fugitive scrambled head foremost through the
narrow opening, and had nearly escaped, when Peternot
with a firm grip seized him by the legs.
“Byron! Wife!” roared the squire within the
room. “Light!”
“Boys! help!” screamed Jack, hanging head
downwards on the outside, and kicking violently with
the captured members.
.if h
.il fn=i113.jpg w=600px
.ca
AN ABRUPT LEAVE-TAKING.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: AN ABRUPT LEAVE-TAKING.]
.sp 2
.if-
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
With one hand he laid hold of the lilac-bush.
Hank, returning to his assistance, caught him by the
shoulder; while at the same time Byron Dinks relieved
his uncle by grasping one of the unlucky legs.
Hank pulled on the outside; uncle and nephew pulled
on the inside; and for a moment it seemed to Jack
that he must certainly break in two, if the struggle
continued. It lasted but three or four seconds, and was
over by the time Mrs. Peternot came with the candle.
Jack succeeded first in freeing the foot held by the
nephew, and then made such vigorous use of it that he
quickly brought off the other. He fell to the ground,
and scrambled away behind the bushes; while Peternot,
shouting, “Thieves! robbers!” turned to the
door, and rushed out of the house in pursuit.
Jack heard the shout, and the opening of the door,
and presently the ominous sound of heavy feet coming
after him! He had lost sight of Hank when he
fell; and now he had not the faintest idea which way
his companions had fled. Had he paused to observe
and listen, he might perhaps have heard their retreating
footsteps, or caught sight of their gliding
forms in the darkness; but the tall form treading
close at his heels left him no time for consideration.
He went plunging blindly over the wall, and heard
the stones rattle again as his pursuer came plunging
after him.
The moon had not yet risen, and objects below the
horizon were scarcely visible,—an unfortunate circumstance
for Jack, whose bare feet suffered in this
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
mad race over the rough ground. Heedless of his
hurts, however, he sped on, not in the direction of
his own home, but of Aunt Patsy’s house; while
thud, thud! came the footsteps behind him, nearer
and nearer, he fancied. Two or three times he turned
his head, and there was the dim shape striding upon
his heels, with a hand outstretched to grasp him,
he more than once imagined. Never before would
he have believed that the old man could run so!
This strange race was brought to a ludicrous close
by a rock which lay in Jack’s way, as he was making
for Aunt Patsy’s woods. He tripped over it, and fell
headlong; and over him fell his pursuer,—a sprawling
heap.
“Hang it!” said the latter, “you come pooty nigh
breakin’ my neck!” And he lay on the ground
laughing, while Jack sprang to his feet.
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch18
CHAPTER XVIII||HOW THE HEELS WENT HOME WITHOUT SHOES AND STOCKINGS.
.sp 2
“That you, Hank?”
“Yes! Didn’t you know me? What in time
made you leg it so? I couldn’t hardly keep up with
you!”
“I took you for old Peternot!” said the excited
Jack. “I thought you got off ahead of me.”
Upon that Hank laughed again. “I knew the
squire would come out; I hid by the quince-bushes
till he showed himself, and then rushed out before
him.”
“What was that for?”
“To lead him a wild-goose chase, while Cub and
Tug got away with the money.”
“Where are they?” demanded the anxious Jack.
“Out of his reach,—that’s all I know. He didn’t
foller us but a few rods; the old chap’s so
lame he can’t run wuth a cent. The idee of your
takin’ me for him!”
“Which way did they go? You know!” exclaimed
Jack, who was in no mood for laughing at
this odd mistake.
“Mebby we shall fall in with ’em, crossin’ the pastur’,”
said Hank. “Ye needn’t be alarmed about your
.bn 118.png
.pn +1
money, if we don’t. That’ll be safe. Better keep
that hid somewheres, till you’re ready to dispose on ’t;
for there’s no knowin’ what the old man may do.
Leave that to me an’ Cub; I’ll look out for your
interest.”
“Tug has got my hat and shoes!” said Jack, in
sore perplexity.
“He’ll keep ’em safe,” replied Hank. “Needn’t
worry.”
“My stockings!” exclaimed Jack.
“Has he got them too?”
“No; I wish he had!” For now it occurred to
him that the stockings, which he certainly had on his
feet before he jumped from the window, must have
come off in his captors’ hands when he escaped!
“No matter; money is all right; we can afford to
lose a pair of stockin’s or two,” was Hank’s consolatory
remark.
He failed, however, to impress this cheerful view
of the matter upon Jack, who, bareheaded, barefoot,
uncertain that he should ever see his money again,
felt anything but happy over the success of his rash
attempt.
Hearing a low whistle not far off, Hank said,
“That’s them!” and whistled in response. “One on
’em, anyhow,” as a single figure was seen approaching.
“Tug?”
“Hullo!” said Tug. “Where’s Cub?”
“Ain’t he with you?” said Hank. “I told ye to
keep together!”
.bn 119.png
.pn +1
“I thought we’d better scatter, when the old man
and the Dinks feller come after us; one on ’em—I
don’t know which ’twas—chased me ’bout a quarter
of a mile.”
“Where are my shoes?” said Jack.
“Your shoes?” echoed Tug.
“Yes! and my hat?”
“Your hat?”
“Yes! what have you done with ’em?” cried
Jack, choking with impatience and anger.
“O, to be sure! I believe I put ’em on the
ground under the lilac-bush; you was so long in the
room, I got tired of holdin’ on ’em; and darned if I
didn’t forgit all about ’em!”
Jack was incensed at this negligence. “That’s
the way you help a fellow, is it?”
“Didn’t we help you?” said Hank. “You wouldn’t
have got away at all if it hadn’t been for me.”
“You!” retorted Jack; “if you had only caught
me at first, when I was getting out of the window, I
shouldn’t have had any trouble! But you waited
till the old man got hold of me; and now I’ve lost
hat and shoes and stockings and money!”
Hank answered indignantly, “Won’t you believe
me when I tell you your money is all right? You
sha’n’t be robbed of a dollar. I’m sorry about the
stockin’s; but your hat and shoes you can find, I
suppose, jest where Tug left ’em.”
“If Tug will go with me!”
“What’s the use of two goin’?” said Tug. “We’ll
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
be lookin’ for Cub, and meet you at the corner of the
woods.” To this Hank agreed.
Seeing there was nothing else to be done, Jack ran
back across the pasture to Peternot’s garden, and
was creeping up behind the quince-trees, when he
heard a voice, and saw a glimmer of light approaching
around the corner of the house. Then appeared
Squire Peternot, carrying a lantern, followed by his
nephew Byron, armed with a heavy club. They were
looking along the ground and beating the shrubbery.
Jack didn’t know whether to run away, or lie flat
on the grass. While he was hesitating, he heard the
old man say, “’Twas robbery, downright robbery!
House-breakin’,—a clear case! The rogues have
got off with their booty, but this ain’t the last on’t,
they’ll find!”
“State-prison job,” replied the nephew, “if I know
anything about law. The fact that a piece of property
is in litigation don’t justify one claimant in entering
burglariously the premises of another claimant and
stealing said piece of property.”
“I’ll have out a s’arch-warrant,” Peternot declared,
“and seize that coin wherever it can be
found. If the deacon’s boys are mixed up in’t,
they’ll find it’s a sorry business!”
Jack grew faint at heart, as he watched and listened.
The men with the lantern and club passed the window
through which he had escaped, and paused for
a minute or more to examine the ground all about
the lilac-bush. They found footprints, but he heard
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
nothing about either hat or shoes. They then passed
on, and the door closed behind them as they entered
the house.
Troubled with heavy misgivings, feeling that he
would give almost anything to be well out of this
scrape, Jack rose and slunk away, without attempting
to solve the mystery of the hat and shoes. He
was no longer so anxious as he had been to get the
money once more into his possession; and finding
Hank and Tug faithful to their appointment, he said
to them, “When you find Cub, hide the money,
and keep it till you hear from me.” And he told
them of the threatened search-warrant.
Hank swore fidelity to Jack’s interest; and the
wretched boy,—never more wretched in mind, in
all his checkered life, than at that hour,—parting
from the brothers on the border of the woods, hurried
home, and reached Deacon Chatford’s house just as
the moon was appearing above the eastern clouds.
The windows were dark; the folks had all gone to
bed, leaving the kitchen door unfastened for him.
He entered softly; but as he was going up to his
room, the voice of Mrs. Chatford called to him, “That
you, Jack?”
“Yes ’m.”
“What made you so late?”
“I didn’t think it was so late,” replied Jack; “I’m
sorry if I’ve kept you awake.”
“Never mind, if you have come home all right.
It was thoughtful in you to take off your shoes. I
.bn 122.png
.pn +1
wasn’t asleep; I couldn’t help feeling anxious about
you.”
How kind, how good she was! Jack, filled with a
sense of guilt and dread, longed to go to her bedside
and relieve his burdened heart by confessing what he
had done. But just then the deacon spoke, in the
impatient tone of one whose sleep had been disturbed:
“Did you bolt the door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, get quiet as soon as you can. I want to
sleep.”
And Jack went on up the dark stairway to his
lonely bed.
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch19
CHAPTER XIX||HOW JACK WAS INVITED TO RIDE.
.sp 2
Jack was up very early the next morning; and
having put fresh stockings and a pair of old shoes on
his scratched and bruised feet, he went out, determined
at the first opportunity to tell Mr. Chatford all
that had occurred, and ask his advice.
It was a little after daybreak. Mrs. Pipkin was
making a fire as he went through the kitchen; she
guessed the deacon wasn’t stirring yet. Jack took the
milkpails and went into the barn-yard. The cows
got up, one after another, stretched themselves, flirted
their tails, and waited to be milked. He placed his
stool beside one of them; and there he sat milking
in the cool of the morning,—keeping all the while
an anxious lookout for the deacon,—when the large
front gate rattled, and he saw a man trying to unfasten
it.
“Lift it up a little,” said Jack.
“O, I see!” The man came into the yard; and
Jack recognized one of the farmers of the neighborhood,
named Sellick, rather popular among the boys
as a joker and story-teller. “Didn’t know you had
a new way of fastening your gates over here!”
And he laughed, as he did at almost everything he
said, drawing his upper lip up to his nose, and surrounding
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
his little gray eyes with merry wrinkles.
“Where’s the deacon, sonny?”
“My name ain’t Sonny,” replied Jack.
Sellick laughed at that too. “You remind me of
Mose Chatford. Mose has got a little dry wit about
him, sometimes. When I fust moved into the place,
he was about twelve year old; and one day he had his
cousin, Syd Chatford, making him a visit,—older’n
he was, but a little bit of a chap; you know little
Syd. I had seen Mose, but I hadn’t seen Syd before;
and noticing a kind of family resemblance between
’em, I said, ‘Mose, is that one of your boys?’
meaning his folks’s, of course. But the little rascal
stretches himself up,—pompous as could be, grave
as a judge,—‘No, I ain’t a man of a family!’ says
he, and walks on. Sassy, his daddy said, when I told
him on ’t; but I joke the boys, and I’m willing they
should joke me. Where’s the deacon? I’ll ask
you agin, and leave off the sonny.”
Jack thought the deacon hadn’t got out yet.
“That never’ll do, never’ll do! Bad example,
deacon! Airly bird ketches the worm. I shall have
to give him a talking to. Fie, fie, deacon! Where’s
Pip, Mr. Pip, Mr. Pipkin, Mr. Philander P. Pipkin,
Esquire?” the merry man rattled away. “I’m particular
to give all the names I’ve heard him called by,
so as to get an answer out of you the fust time.”
“I rather think you’ll find him in the barn,” said
Jack.
“You think wrong this time. I know I sha’n’t
.bn 125.png
.pn +1
find him in the barn. Do you know why?” said the
merry man, with his upper lip at his nose. “Because
I sha’n’t go to the barn and look. Is that a good
reason? How long before you’ll be through milking?”
“I don’t know; not very soon, unless somebody
comes and helps me.”
“S’pose I help you. I can milk. I’m an old hand
at it. Never shall forgit my fust trial, though!
Visiting my uncle—Sunday-go-to-meeting clo’es on—he
told me to look out; but I was a little smarter
’n anybody else in the world, them days: I could
milk! So I took holt—both hands—milked one
stream into my vest-pocket and t’ other into my
eye, and quit. Thought that would do for a fust
lesson.”
“I don’t know why you should help me milk,”
said Jack, as Sellick was getting a pail and stool.
“’T will keep me out of mischief, while I’m
waiting. Satan finds some mischief still for idle
hands to do. Which cow kicks? I don’t want anything
to do with a kicking cow. I used to have one,
a fust-class kicker. Hit me once; thought the
lightning had struck the haystack! I tried tying her
leg. Tied it to an old sleigh under the shed; she
kicked that to pieces. Tied it to the sill of the barn;
and by George! she started to kick the barn down.
Tied it then to an old grin’stone lying in the yard;
and at the fust kick she sent it like a pebble from a
sling right over the kitchen chimbly, quarter of a
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
mile at least; fell into Welby’s bog; sunk so deep I’ve
never thought ’t would pay to fish it out.”
“What did you do with her then?” Jack asked,
trying to forget his troubles in listening to this nonsense.
“What could I do but kill her? One pail she
kicked over full of milk, we never saw or heard of
agin; but Dyer’s folks, live over on the North Road,
about a mile off, said they had quite a little
shower of milk at their house that morning,—wondered
where it come from. I had a pair of boots
made out of her hide; but I never could wear ’em.
I was always kicking somebody, and gitting hauled
up for ’sault ’n’ battery.”
Mr. Chatford now came into the yard, and saw
with surprise his neighbor Sellick milking one of his
cows.
“Haven’t you any milking to do at home, Sellick?”
“Yes, but the boys can do that. I’ve invited Jack
here to go and ride with me; and I thought I would
help him a little about his chores fust.”
“Go and ride? I haven’t heard anything about
it!” said Jack.
“Didn’t I mention it? Wal, that was an oversight!”
“I thought you had come to see Mr. Chatford.
You asked for him.”
“Did I? Mebby I wanted to ask him if he was
willing you should go,—we must keep the right
side o’ the deacon! I left my wagon at the fence
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
below here; didn’t take it along to the gate, thinking
Squire Peternot might want to hitch there.”
Jack turned pale. But the deacon said, “What
nonsense are you up to now, Sellick?”
“What! do you call it nonsense for a neighbor to
come and take your boy to ride? Here, Phin, come
and finish this cow; she’s done, all but stripping. I
wouldn’t begin another, Jack. We must be starting.”
“Squire Peternot’s at the house, wants to see ye,”
said Phin to his father.
“Come, has he?” laughed Sellick. “I felt sure
he would want to hitch to that post! Wal, Jack!
me an’ you’s got to go over to the Basin with the
squire, on business. I’m a constable, you know.
Didn’t think of that, did ye? Strip her clean, Phin;
it dries up a cow like Sancho, to leave a little milk in
her bag.”
“Sellick!” cried the deacon, while Jack stood
white and dumb with consternation, “what’s the
meaning of this?”
“I’ve a writ for the boy’s arrest,” replied Sellick.
“Sorry for it. A little diffikilty between him and the
squire. Nice man, the squire! As it’s on his own
complaint, he thought it more properer that the boy
should be taken before some other justice;—a very
nice man, Peternot! Him and his nephew is going
over to the Basin with us,—witnesses in the case,—before
Judge Garty. You shouldn’t have picked a
quarrel with the old man, my son,—nice man!”
.bn 128.png
.pn +1
“Come, Sellick!” cried the deacon, impatiently.
“No more joking. I can’t believe Peternot has taken
any such step; there’s no ground for it! Why, he’s
the party at fault, if anybody! What’s the charge?”
“Breaking a winder, I believe,” replied Sellick,
winking at Jack. “Mis’ Peternot thought a good
deal of that winder. Nice old lady, Mis’ Peternot!”
“Jack! have you been smashing their windows?”
“No!” faltered Jack.
And before he could catch his breath, to enter into
explanations, the deacon exclaimed, indignantly,
“Where is the squire? I’ll see what he means
by following up the boy in this way!” And he
strode towards the house, more angry than Jack had
ever seen him before.
Sellick followed with Jack; and Phin went last,
looking strangely excited, if not delighted, and calling
to Mr. Pipkin at the barn, “Hurrah, Pip! come
and see the fun!”
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch20
CHAPTER XX||HOW THE SHOES AND STOCKINGS CAME HOME.
.sp 2
Mrs. Chatford met her husband at the door, her
kind face full of motherly solicitude. “Do tell me,
what is the matter! He is in the sitting-room. O
Jack! I hope you haven’t been getting into any
serious trouble.”
They found the squire sitting stiffly in a straight-backed
chair, with his horn-headed cane between his
knees, and his hat and an odd-looking bundle on the
floor beside him.
“What is all this about, squire?” the deacon demanded,
as poor Jack was brought in, face to face
with his grim accuser. “Haven’t you got through
persecuting this boy? I felt that your treatment of
him yesterday was wholly unwarrantable,—tyrannical
and unjust; and though I thought a little differently
of it, after my talk with your nephew last
night, still I am not satisfied, and I sha’n’t be, till
you have done the right thing. That he said you
would do; but this don’t look like it. What great
crime has Jack committed, that you should send an
officer of the law after him?”
“You know nothing of what you are sayin’!” replied
Peternot. “If you stan’ up for the boy arter
I’ve made my statements, you’re not the man I take
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
you for. I believe you to be a respecter of the laws,
and no friend of rascality. If you don’t believe
what I say, there’s my nephew out there in the
wagon, ready to corroborate; and if you won’t credit
our words, peradventur’ you’ll be convinced by
this.”
.if h
.il fn=i129.jpg w=600px
.ca
A CONVINCING ARGUMENT.
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.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: A CONVINCING ARGUMENT.]
.sp 2
.if-
He took up the odd-looking bundle from the floor,
untied the corners of the coarse plaid handkerchief
that enclosed it, and pulled out a pair of stockings,
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
which he held up and shook before the eyes of the
wondering group.
“Do ye know them stockin’s, Mis’ Chatford?”
“Why—sure—they—they are Jack’s stockings!”
said the good woman, sadly puzzled to know
how they had come into Peternot’s possession.
“And them shoes,—does anybody recognize ’em?”
“They’re Jack’s shoes!” exclaimed Phin, having
taken a near view,—“his Sunday pair!”
“Now for this hat,” said the squire, holding it up
on the end of his cane, “whose hat is it? Anybody
know the hat?”
“I believe that and the other things all belong to
Jack,” said the deacon. “What is the mystery?
Come to the point at once! Jack, what is it? Why
don’t you speak? Have you lost your tongue?”
The evidence against him appeared so overwhelming,
and he really seemed to himself so guilty,—not
because he had taken the money, but because he had
made use of such means and such companions in accomplishing
his object,—that poor Jack could not
yet utter an intelligible word in self-defence. He
was faltering out some weak denial or excuse, when
Peternot interrupted him:—
“If this ain’t enough, pull off the shoes he has on
and look at his feet. If you don’t find some marks
of rough treatment about the ankles, I miss my calkelation.”
Sellick placed the culprit in a chair, and
began to take off his shoes.
“The mystery is no mystery, Neighbor Chatford,”
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
the squire went on. “My house was broke into and
robbed last night. I ketched one of the thieves by
the heels as he was jumpin’ from the winder, and
these stockin’s come off in my hands, as he got away;
which he did by the help of his accomplices, though
not till his feet and shins got some hard rubs on the
winder-sill, as ye can see there now!”—Sellick at that
moment holding up one of Jack’s legs, variegated
with black-and-blue marks and bloody scratches, to
the view of his horrified friends.
“I found the hat and shoes under the winder,
when I run out arter the burglars. I looked agin
with a lantern, and found tracks too big for the shoes,
showing he had older confederates. He had two or
three with him, at least. I’m glad to learn that
Moses is away, so he couldn’t ’a’ been one on ’em;
and Phineas, his mother tells me, was in bed by eight
o’clock.”
“Jack!” said the deacon, fixing a terrible look on
the boy.
“I haven’t robbed his house!” Jack broke forth,
vehemently. “I only took what was my own. I
took the money, which he had robbed me of before!”
“Broke into his house for it!”
“I got in.”
“Who helped you?”
“I can’t tell. It wouldn’t be fair for me to tell.”
“Where is the money?” demanded the squire.
“I can’t tell that, either. It was my money, and I
took it. And I did only what your nephew, who
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
knows so much about the law, advised me to do, and
what Mr. Chatford himself said I would have a right
to do.”
The deacon, who was inclined to condemn the boy’s
fault all the more severely because he had taken his
part before, regarded him with stern astonishment
and displeasure.
“Did I ever say you would have a right to go to
housebreaking, to get possession of what you claimed?—Don’t
think, Squire, that I for a moment encouraged
the boy to any such course. I didn’t approve your
course, I tell you frankly. I thought you ought to
have used different means for carrying your point.
But I don’t uphold him. I told him expressly and
repeatedly to let the matter drop until this morning,
when I would see you about it.”
“You said I would be justified in taking the money
wherever I could lay hands on it!” cried Jack, now
fully roused to speak in his own behalf.
“Boy! Jack!” replied the deacon, regarding him
with a look of mingled amazement, grief, and stern
reprobation. “Take care what you say! Don’t
make the matter worse by lying about it.”
“You said so—to—to Mrs. Pipkin!” said Jack,
trying to remember what he seemed to be trying to
invent.
“Did I say anything of the kind to you? Give
the boy the benefit of it, if I did,” said the deacon,
turning to Mrs. Pipkin.
“I didn’t hear you,” replied that lady, precisely.
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
“You didn’t say as much as I hoped you would say;
for you knew I hadn’t words to express my opinion
of Squire Peternot’s conduct.”
“Good!” said Mr. Pipkin, in a low but earnest
voice, from the kitchen door. “I’m glad you said
that!”
“And I shall say more, before the matter is settled!”
said Mrs. Pipkin, compressing her thin lips. “For a
man like Squire Peternot to come over here, and have
Jack taken up for carrying off the money, no matter
how he got it, is a sin and a shame! One of the
richest farmers in town, and a member of the church!
I believe you’d follow a penny rolling down hill to
the very edge of Tophet, and burn your fingers getting
it out!”
“Good agin, by hokey!” said Mr. Pipkin, at the
door.
“Silence!” said the deacon, authoritatively.
“Abuse is no argument. I’m trying to find out
what I really said to give Jack encouragement in his
iniquity, or to expose his lying.”
“Perhaps it was what Mrs. Pipkin said; he may
have got it turned about a little,” said Mrs. Chatford,
anxiously trying to shield the miserable culprit.
“No, it wasn’t!” Jack maintained stoutly. “He
said it. I didn’t hear him, but Phin did; Phin came
out when I was milking and told me.”
All eyes were now turned upon Phin; and—either
because he had intentionally deceived Jack, or because,
which is more probable, having confounded
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
what Mrs. Pipkin said with what his father said, he
was afraid to confess the blunder and assume his
share of the responsibility—that treacherous-hearted
youngster put on an air of outraged innocence, and
exclaimed loudly, “O, I never said such a thing! I
never said a word to him about it! Hope to die this
minute if I did!”
“You did! you know you did!” And Jack,
driven to desperation, advanced, shaking his fist at
Phin, and passionately accusing him of falsehood.
“That will do,” said Deacon Chatford. “I’ve
nothing more to say. His trying to get out of the
scrape by lying, and shifting the blame first on to me
and then on to somebody else, seems to me worse
than the thing itself. He must take the consequences!”
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch21
CHAPTER XXI||JACK IN DISGRACE.
.sp 2
“I s’pose my nag is gitting a little mite impatient,”
remarked the constable. “Shall we be driving along?
Put on your shoes, sonny; not your Sunday-go-to-meeting
pair; these and the other things will have
to go to court with you, to be put into the evidence.”
“Hearken to me one moment!” said Mrs. Chatford,
laying one hand protectingly on Jack’s shoulder, and
holding her husband’s arm with the other. “Both
of you! Don’t be too hard on this unfortunate boy!
You know, husband, how he came to us; he was the
victim of a false accusation then. Appearances are
often deceitful. Remember, Squire Peternot, how
you were once on the point of having his dog shot
for a fault which another dog had committed. We
are all liable, under the most favorable circumstances,—sometimes—to
make mistakes.”
“If you think there is any mistake here, Mis’
Chatford,” answered the squire, “I must say you show
a failin’ judgment.”
“I don’t doubt his taking the money. And I
don’t approve of the course he took to get it, either.
But forgive me if I say I think you drove him to it.
It’s the old story over again,—the rich man with
large flocks and herds taking the poor man’s one little
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
lamb. Much as I condemn him for breaking into
your house, I’d rather at this moment be in his place
than in yours, Squire Peternot!”
“Wife! wife!” expostulated the deacon, mildly;
while Peternot stood silently champing the bit of
mortified pride and resentment.
“I hope to be pardoned here and hereafter, if I
speak anything unjustly or in anger,” Mrs. Chatford
went on; “but I must say what is in my heart. The
boy has done wrong; but consider, he is but a boy.
Think what he was when he was brought here,
what bad influences had been about him all his life,
and then acknowledge that he has turned out better
than could ever have been expected of him. He has
been steady, industrious, truthful, well behaved,—as
good as most boys who have had the best of training.
And now to cast him off for one offence,” appealing
to her husband; “you will regret it as long as
you live, if you do! And for you,” turning again to
the squire, “at your years, with your wealth, and your
knowledge of our blessed Saviour’s teachings, to drive
this poor, ignorant child to transgress the law in the
maintenance of his rights, in the first place, and then
to execute the vengeance of the law upon him without
mercy,—as I said before, I’d rather be in his
place, in the eyes of Heaven, than in yours!”
Jack, who had stood sullen, despairing, full of
hatred and a sense of wrong, a minute before, burst
into a wild fit of sobbing and weeping at the sound
of these gracious words. The deacon was touched;
.bn 138.png
.pn +1
and even Phin looked conscience-smitten,—white
about the mouth, and scared and excited about the
eyes,—as he thought of his share in Jack’s disgrace.
“Mrs. Chatford,” said Mrs. Pipkin, wiping her tears
with her apron, “you’ve spoken my sentiment, and
you’ve spoken it better than I could, because you’re
a better woman!”
“So she has, by hokey!” added the sincere Mr.
Pipkin.
“I wish you could be prevailed upon to let the
matter rest at present, squire,” said the deacon. “The
boy has certainly done well, since he has been with
us, till this unfortunate affair came up.”
“You haven’t known him!” said Peternot, striking
his heavy cane upon the floor. “What’s bred in
the bone will stay long in the flesh. You can’t wash
a black sheep white in a day. He can put on a
smooth outside, but he’s corrupt at heart as he ever
was. If you could have been present with him in
the woods yesterday! I never heard such profanity
from the lips of mortal man!”
“Jack!” said the deacon, “do you swear?”
“I swore at him; he was robbing me; I couldn’t
help it, he made me so mad!” Jack acknowledged.
“Then his leaguing himself with midnight marauders,
whose names he is ashamed to confess, shows
what he is!” continued Peternot. “A boy is known
by the company he keeps.”
“Isn’t a man as much?” retorted Jack, blazing up
again. “What company did you keep yesterday?
.bn 138a.png
.pn +1
What day marauders did you league yourself with, to
get the money away from me? Wonder if you are
ashamed!”
“Jack! Jack! don’t be saucy!” said Mrs. Chatford.
“Let him speak out; then mebby you’ll see what
the boy is,” said Peternot, chafing with anger. “He
has no respect for age. He sassed me to my face yisterday
as you never heard the lowest blackguard on
the canal sass another. I am amazed that anybody in
this house should be found to excuse or stand up for
such a profane, house-breakin’, hardened little villain!”
“I don’t stand up for anything he has said or done
that is wrong. But there is good in the boy, for all
that,” cried Mrs. Chatford, in tones and with looks
full of deep emotion, “and that I stand up for, as I
would wish another to stand up for a son of mine in
his place. This may be a turning-point in the boy’s
life. He may be saved, he can and will be saved,
if we are just and charitable towards him; but I
shudder to think what may become of him if we cast
him off. I fear he will go back to his old ways, and
that his last state will be worse than his first. Then
who will be answerable for his soul?”
“I have no ill-feelin’ towards the boy,” said the
squire, coming now to a subject which he had been
waiting for a favorable moment to introduce. “And
if he will show that he repents of his inikity by askin’
pardon for his wholesale blasphemy, and abuse
.bn 138b.png
.pn +1
of me in the woods yisterday, and—and—give up
the plunder he took from my house last night,—I
don’t know,—peradventur’ I may be prevailed upon
to let him off.”
“What do you say to that, Jack?” asked the
deacon, anxious to see the matter settled. “Come!
show yourself a brave, honest boy now, and the squire
won’t be too hard on you. Give up the money, and
he’ll return a fair share of it to you, I’m confident,—all
you could reasonably expect, after the course you
have taken to get the whole; won’t you, squire?”
“Sartin, I’ll be liberal with him; though I can’t
make any bargain with a malefactor till he names his
accomplices and gives up his booty.”
“And recant your falsehood about Phineas; that
has hurt me more than anything else,” added Mr.
Chatford, as Jack was hesitating.
“How can I recant what wasn’t a falsehood?”
replied Jack.
“Take care, take care, boy!” said the deacon,
warningly. “Stand here face to face with Phineas.
Now, did Phineas tell you I said you would be justified
in taking that money wherever you could find it?—Did
you say anything of the sort, Phineas?”
“No, I never opened my lips to him about it!”
said Phin, with all the vehemence of earnest innocence.
“But mabby he imagined I did.”
“I didn’t imagine it!” cried Jack. “Phin Chatford,
you know you said it! You are lying at this
minute, if you say you didn’t.”
.bn 138c.png
.pn +1
“Jack, what motive could Phineas have to say
such a thing to you in the first place, or to lie about
it now? Your story is untrustworthy, on the face of
it. And I beg of you to consider again; for I can do
nothing for you, if you persist with a lie on your lips.”
“It isn’t a lie. If I say I lied then, I shall be
lying now.”
“I have nothing more to say. Squire, I leave
him to you.” And the deacon walked mournfully
away.
“If saying I am sorry I swore yesterday in the
woods will do any good,” Jack continued, “I’ll say
it, for I am sorry. I had made up my mind never
to swear again; and I never should, but you drove
me to it.”
“Stubborn and hardened to the last!” said Peternot.
“He is bound to find some excuse for his
conduct, somebody to shift the blame on to. Still I
accept his apology, such as it is. And now, if he will
give up his ill-got plunder—”
“Plunder!” echoed Jack. “Was it your ill-got
plunder when you took it away from me? It is my
money; but I wish now I had never seen it, for a
thousand times as much couldn’t pay me for what I
have lost! She has lost faith in me,”—looking
through his streaming tears at the retreating form of
Mrs. Chatford, following her husband from the room,—“and
I can never again be in this house what I
have been. But I can’t give up the money; I haven’t
got it, and I don’t know where it is.”
.bn 138d.png
.pn +1
“But you know who has it?” Jack would not
reply to this or to any other question tending to
bring out the names of his accomplices; and the
squire, losing patience at last, exclaimed, “Well, Sellick!
I see no use of dallyin’ any longer here.”
“He hasn’t had his breakfast yet,” said Mrs. Pipkin.
“You’ll give him a chance to eat something, I
guess!” her eyes sparkling as she glanced from Sellick
to the squire.
“O, sartin!” said Sellick. “I never thought of
that, having had a bite myself ’fore I started. I believe
in a full stumick. Come, sonny! snatch a bite;
you’ll feel better.”
But Jack was too full of grief to think of food.
“I shall never eat anything in this house again!”
he exclaimed, with short, convulsive sobs.
Upon this, little Kate, who had been looking on
with wonder and sympathy, not understanding what
the dreadful trouble was, ran up to him, and threw
her arms about him, exclaiming passionately, “O
Jack! you will! you must! I love you, if nobody
else does! But we all do! You mustn’t go away!
You have been better to me than my own brothers;
they plague me, but you never do!—O Mr. Peternot!
he ain’t a bad boy; Jack ain’t bad! Don’t take him
off to jail!”
But there was no help for the poor lad then. Peternot
was inexorable. Jack made no resistance. Mrs.
Chatford, returning from a last fruitless appeal to her
husband, kissed him tenderly, and said what comforting
.bn 139.png
.pn +1
words she could. Mrs. Pipkin put something
into his pocket, as she bent over him; and Mr. Pipkin
told him to keep a stiff upper lip. Kate clung to
him with affection and wild grief. But Mr. Chatford
did not come to bid him good by; and he did not
say good by to Phineas.
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch22
CHAPTER XXII||JACK AND THE JOLLY CONSTABLE.
.sp 2
So Jack left the home and friends that for a brief
season had been so pleasant and dear to him, and
went out to take leave of another and older friend.
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
This was Lion. He hugged and kissed the poor,
faithful, affectionate creature; then, sending him to
his kennel, he said to Kate, “See that he is taken
good care of, won’t you? I—if I never—” But
here he choked and could say no more.
.if h
.il fn=i143.jpg w=600px
.ca
GOOD BY, OLD FRIEND!
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: GOOD BY, OLD FRIEND!]
.sp 2
.if-
“Come along, sonny,” said Sellick.
They walked on to the length of fence where the
constable’s horse was hitched, mounted the wagon,
and rode away, watched by more than one troubled
and tearful face in the farm-house door.
Mrs. Pipkin set about her work with more than
the usual fury which distinguished her on Monday
mornings; while Mr. Pipkin went out to finish the
milking Jack had begun.
Phin chained Lion to his kennel, saying guiltily to
himself, “I ain’t to blame for his going to jail; I
didn’t mean to lie; but I don’t care! folks were getting
to think more of him than they do of me; and
now I’ve got his dog!” Still his sense of triumph
was no more like happiness than roiled and troubled
waters are like some pure crystal fountain.
Mr. Chatford walked from the house to the barn
and back again, and about the yard and stables, in an
absent-minded way, frowning, and looking strangely
uneasy in his mind. His wife, in the mean while,
tried to forget her grief and anxiety in doing something
for poor Jack,—packing a portmanteau of
such clothes as she thought he would need if he went
to jail, putting in a few books, a pin-cushion, a box
of Mrs. Pipkin’s cookies, which he was fond of, and
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
some cakes of maple-sugar, besides many little things
for his comfort, or to remind him that he still had a
friend.
“Now, husband!” she said, calling the deacon in to
breakfast, “this must go to the Basin at once, or it
may be too late. Shall Mr. Pipkin take it, or will
you?”
“O, well, I suppose I will! Peternot said he
would like to have me go over and identify the shoes
and things; but I hate to! Strange the boy should
have stuck to his lies so!” exclaimed the dissatisfied
deacon. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for
him, if he’d shown a proper spirit.” And he sat
down to eat a hurried breakfast before starting for the
Basin. “I don’t see how the boy is going to get out
of this scrape!”
“The best way I know o’ gittin out of a bad
scrape,” remarked Mr. Pipkin, entering just then,
“an’ it’s a way I’ve tried many a time—”
“How’s that?” asked the deacon.
“It’s to wake up, an’ find it’s all a dream,” replied
Mr. Pipkin.
“Ah! I guess Jack would be glad enough to wake
up and find this a dream, money and all!” said the
deacon.
Sellick meanwhile, as he drove away with his prisoner,
beguiled the time with pleasant talk.
“Don’t you think you’ve been a little too hard on
our good neighbor Peternot? You shouldn’t try to
git money away from a poor man like him, even if
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
’tis yours. A very poor man, the squire! I don’t
suppose he’s wuth more ’n fifteen or twenty thousand
dollars; and what’s that? If he had a hundred
thousand, he’d still be the poorest man in town; for
he hain’t got anything else but money and property
to speak of. That’s what makes a man poor. Now,
there’s Mr. and Mis’ Chatford, they would be rich
with barely enough to live on. You might have
robbed them, and no harm. But a poor old couple
like the Peternots, for shame! Then you must consider,
the squire hasn’t had the advantages of society,
and a good bringing-up, and the light of the Gospil,
and edication, that you’ve had. You ought to pity
him, and forgive him. Good old man, the squire!”
In the midst of his wrongs and grief, Jack’s keen
sense of humor was tickled by these facetious remarks,
while their undertone of truth and friendliness
warmed his heart.
“You’ve heard a good deal about his son Paul,”
Sellick went on,—“a hard case, Paul. His great mistake
was, he thought it his duty to be spending some
of the money the old man was laying up. He couldn’t
see the use of a great heap of gold stored away,
and no good times at home; solid sunshine in the
bank vaults, and gloom in the kitchen. So he went
wild. The squire whipped him once, for calling him
a fool, after he got to be twenty years old; tied him
up to an apple-tree; I was going by, and heard the
rumpus. ‘Call yer father a fool, will ye? when ye
ought to say venerable father!’ says the old man, and
.bn 144.png
.pn +1
lays on the lash. Every five or six strokes he’d stop
and bawl out agin, ‘Call yer father a fool, will ye?
when ye ought to say venerable father!’ Then,
whack! whack! whack! ‘Call yer father a fool, will
ye?’ over and over, till I got out of hearing. Not
long after that the spendthrift son and the venerable
father parted. Paul took to gambling for a living,
and drinking for amusement,—business and pleasure
combined. You brought the last news of him to
town,—how he went to bed drunk one night at
Wiley’s Basin, and set his room on fire, and was burnt
to death, and you afterwards got his dog, that was
singed trying to save his master. One would have
thought the old man would feel a kindness towards
you and the dog now, but—he’s a poor man, as I
said. Paul’s bad end seemed to cut him up a good
deal for a while, but now he’s taken home his nephew
in his place. A plucky chap, the nephew! There’s
courage for you! Me and you now wouldn’t want
to go and live with—with such poor folks, ye know,
and feed our souls on the old man’s hard corned beef
and the old lady’s vinegar, not for any length of
time, just in the hope of coming into their money
when they die,—would we? Not that I wish to
breathe a word agin the Peternots; dear me, no!
Best kind of folks in their way, though mebby
their way is a leetle mite peculiar. Hullo! there’s
some of your folks!”
“It’s Mose!” said Jack, his heart swelling with a
tumult of emotions as he thought of all that had happened
.bn 145.png
.pn +1
since he watched Annie and her cousin disappear
in the direction from which they were now
returning.
“The schoolmarm with him, ain’t it? A re’l
perty face! See! they know you. Shall we stop
and talk?”
“No,—yes. O, I wish we hadn’t met them!”
said Jack, wondering how he could bear to tell his
dearest friend of the trouble and danger he was in,
and take leave of her, in such a situation.
“Say nothing; I’ll make it all right,” said Sellick.—“Good
morning, good morning, Mose! Good morning,
Miss Felton. You’re having an early ride this
morning; good for the appetite; makes rosy cheeks.
Me and Jack’s riding out a little for our health
too.”
“It makes his eyes red, if not his cheeks,” said
Moses. “Where ye bound, Jack?”
“I’m going over to the Basin; Mr. Sellick asked
me to ride,” replied Jack, with a smile. “They’ll
tell you all about it at the house.”
“Can’t talk now; there’s Squire Peternot in the
buggy close behind us,” observed Sellick. “He’ll
complain of us for blocking the highway, if we keep
two wagons standing abreast here when he wants to
pass. Fresh for your school agin, hey, Miss Felton,
this bright Monday morning? I wish we could keep
you the year round. My little shavers never learned
so fast or liked to go to school so well as they have
this summer.”
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
“I couldn’t walk through the snow-drifts, to say
nothing of governing the big boys,” replied Annie.
“I’ll resk the big boys!” cried Sellick. “You’d
bring them to your feet, like so many whipped spaniels.
Then you’ll have some smart boys on your
side, to start with,—Moses, and Jack here.—You’ll
go to school, I suppose, next winter?”
“If I am here; I had meant to,” faltered Jack.
While Annie’s searching eyes seemed to look into his
troubled heart.
“Jack! what is the matter?” she exclaimed.
“He may have engagements elsewhere,” said Sellick.
“In fact, a little matter of business which he
is too modest to mention,—that’s what takes us to
the Basin, and it may lead to his accepting a situation.
I haven’t time to explain. Good morning!”
And the constable whipped up his horse just as the
squire’s came close behind.
“Good by!” said Jack, as bravely as he could.
Then, his grief mastering him again, as he thought
how different life would be to him this pleasant morning
if he had gone home with Annie in Moses’s place,
as he might have done, he set his lips and teeth hard,
pulled his hat fiercely over his eyes, and rode on, in
his bodily form, to the Basin; while his mind travelled
back, and witnessed in imagination the scene at
the house, when Miss Felton and Moses should arrive
and learn of his crime and his disgrace.
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch23
CHAPTER XXIII||BEFORE JUDGE GARTY.
.sp 2
Sellick drove down the main street of the village,
past the blacksmith-shop, the meeting-house, and the
tavern, and turned up to a hitching-post near the
canal. Just beyond was the high bridge, beneath
which a line-boat was passing. A wild impulse
seized Jack,—to run for his freedom, and return to
his old life among the rude boatmen; for anything
seemed to him better than going to jail. But Sellick
said quietly, “I set a good deal by you, sonny. I
want to keep you close by my side, for a few hours
anyway. Don’t think of parting company with me;
I couldn’t possibly bear you out of my sight.”
“If you were in my place, wouldn’t you want to
part company?” said Jack.
“Naterally. And if you was in mine, you’d feel
as I do. Now I take it you’re a sensible boy; and
you know you are only a boy; while I have twice
the strength, and can run twice as fast as you can.
I don’t want to be obliged to tie ye; so I hope you’ll
be quiet, while we are about town together. Set in
the wagon now, while I hitch the hoss.”
So Jack remained in the wagon, and carefully
watched the situation, determined to miss no opportunity
of escape that might possibly occur. The
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
wagon was standing before a grocery, on the corner of
the street and the canal. On the other side of the
canal was another grocery, of the lowest description,
where he had more than once seen his former master,
Jack Berrick, fill his whiskey jug or stand and
drink at the bar. Near by were some old canal stables,
about the doors of which three or four drivers
were currying their horses, swearing and joking. He
could hear their rough language to their horses and
each other, and he thought, “O, I can’t go back and
be one of them! But I’ll get away if I can.”
Judge Garty’s office was in the second story of the
building before which Sellick hitched his horse.
“Good arrangement,” remarked the jovial constable.
“Boat hands and town loafers git drunk and break
the peace in the grocery down stairs; take ’em to be
fined or committed, before the judge up stairs. A
very good business plan.”
“I should think,” said Jack, “’t would be hard to
get a drunken man up that narrow flight; ’t would
be more convenient if the judge had his office in one
corner of the grocery.”
“A very good notion; I’ll suggest it to him,” said
Sellick. “Come now, sonny! Re’ly, you must
excuse me for calling you sonny; it comes so
handy.”
The “narrow flight” to which Jack alluded was
a staircase built up to the second story on the outside
of the building. Up this the lame Peternot and
his nephew went first; then came Jack and the
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
constable, who stood on the upper landing, while
the squire, in a narrow entry beyond, shook and
pounded a door which appeared to be either locked or
bolted.
“He ain’t here!” exclaimed the old man, impatiently.
But just as Jack, keenly watching everything, began
to hope that some advantage to him might grow
out of the absence of the magistrate, Sellick exclaimed,
“There he is, over the way! He sees us.”
On the opposite corner was a country store and
forwarding-house, with one side on the street and the
other on the canal; from the door of which Jack saw
a short-legged man hurrying towards them across the
way. He mounted the stairs, passed Jack and the
constable, and unlocked with a key from his pocket
the door which Peternot had been shaking. As he
led the way into the office, Jack, who noticed everything,
noticed that the key was left sticking in the
lock on the outside.
“Good morning. Walk in, gentlemen,” said the
judge. And, seating himself before a sloping desk
placed on a common pine table, he laid off his hat,
exposing a big, bald head, adorned by a couple of
light tufts of gray hair over the ears, and put on a
pair of steel-bowed glasses, covering a pair of very
light-colored and very weak eyes, which had a habit
of winking constantly.
“A case of breaking and entering,” said Peternot,
introducing the business. “As ’twas my house that
.bn 150.png
.pn +1
was robbed, and as I am the complainant, I thought
it best to have the prisoner brought before you.”
The judge winked many times at Jack through his
glimmering glasses, examined Sellick’s warrant, winking
hard over that too, and prepared to write. By this
time several village loungers, with their usual keen
scent for a criminal case, began to throng the room.
Peternot, being sworn, stated circumstantially how,
on the previous evening, he had been interrupted
during prayer-time by burglars breaking into his
house, and had caught one by the heels as he was
leaping from a window, and so forth. The bundle of
clothes left behind was displayed; and Jack’s legs
were about to undergo examination, when he saved
the court that trouble by frankly confessing himself
the person who had been caught.
“The clothes have been identified by the Chatfords,”
said the squire. “They will also, if necessary,
be sworn to by them, when the case comes up for trial.
So any further evidence with regard to them might
be dispensed with, since he has confessed his crime;
though I told the deacon he might be wanted here as
a witness, and I’m expectin’ him every minute. My
nephew will corroborate my testimony.”
“Very well, as a mere formality; though your
testimony is sufficient.”
Byron Dinks having given his evidence, in the
presence of an ever-increasing crowd of spectators,
the judge turned to Jack, winking extraordinarily
hard at him, and said, “The complaint against you,
.bn 151.png
.pn +1
I suppose you are aware, is of a very grave character.
Is there any statement you wish to make?”
Winked at by the weak-eyed judge, stared at by
the group of idle spectators, and frowned upon by
the relentless Peternot, Jack, standing at Sellick’s right
hand beside the desk, clutched the table with his nervous
fingers, caught his breath quickly, and answered
in a frank, firm voice, “All I have to say is, that the
money I took belongs to me more than it does to
him; and I believed I had a right to it. I found it
in an old rotten log; and he had robbed me of it before
I took it from him. I didn’t think it was housebreaking
when I got into his window; the window
was open; it was broken accidentally when I was
getting the money out.”
“I’ll say here,” interposed Peternot, “what I’ve
said to the boy before, that if he will give up his
booty and name his accomplices,—though I know
perty well who they be,—I’ll accept his apology, and
withdraw my complaint.”
“That’s a fair proposition,” said Judge Garty, “and
both as a friend and a magistrate I advise you to take
up with it. You are young; there appear to be really
some extenuating circumstances in the case, and it
seems hard that you should be punished.”
“It is hard!” said Jack, his voice heaving, but
not breaking. “I never had a chance for myself till
just a few weeks ago; and I meant to make the most
of it,—I meant to do right, and be honest and true;
and now this is what it comes to! But I can’t give
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
up what he calls my booty.” His eyes flashed out
proudly and defiantly: there was something in his
look that said, “I can be wronged, I can be trampled
on, but I won’t give in to the tyrant!” “If the
money is what he wants of me, he won’t get it. I’ll
go to jail, if I must.”
The magistrate winked, the spectators stared, and
Peternot frowned, harder than ever. After writing
a few words, Judge Garty looked up again and said,
“I don’t see but what I shall have to bind you over.”
Jack, who had never heard the legal term before,
turned to Sellick with a bewildered look. “Bind me
over? I haven’t been bound at all yet!”
There was a general titter at his expense; and
Sellick laughingly replied: “He means, you must
give bonds; that is, get somebody to pledge a certain
sum of money that you won’t run away, but that
you’ll appear for trial when your case comes up before
the county court.”
“I know!” said Jack, blushing. “That’s what
you call bailing a fellow.”
“Exac’ly! Now if you can git bail, you’ll be let
off till you’re wanted for trial. But if you can’t, you
must stand committed,—that is, go to jail and wait
there till you’re wanted.”
Judge Garty conferred in low tones with Squire
Peternot,—whom Jack overheard to mutter, “Hardened
little wretch! desperate character!” and then
announced that he had fixed the amount of the required
bonds at five hundred dollars.
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
“Do you know anybody who will be security for
you?” he asked, winking at the prisoner.
Jack thought of Mr. Chatford,—but Mr. Chatford
had lost faith in him, and could not be expected now
to show him any favors. So he answered, faintly,
“No, sir.” And the judge resumed his writing.
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch24
CHAPTER XXIV||THE PRISONER’S CUP OF MILK.
.sp 2
The prisoner looked anxiously at the door, and
about the room, and after a little reflection said to
the constable, “I’m kind of hungry. Can’t I have
some breakfast?”
“Where’s the lunch Mis’ Pipkin tucked into your
pocket?” said Sellick. “Here it is, all right. She
knew you would come to your appetite.”
Jack had hoped to be taken down into the grocery,
and at the moment he did not thank Mrs. Pipkin for
her kindness.
“Can’t I have something to drink with it?” he
asked. “They have milk in the grocery; I can pay
for a cupful.” And he took from his pocket the solitary
half-dollar, which was all the riches he could
command, out of the hoard of treasure he had found
so lately, and lost, and regained, and perhaps lost
again forever.
“Here, sonny!” said Sellick to a boy in the crowd
(every boy was “sonny” to him), “take this money
and go down into the grocery and buy a cup of milk,
and bring back the change, and you shall have a
penny for your trouble. And be spry, for we must
eat our breakfast while the judge is making out his
papers.”
.bn 155.png
.pn +1
The lad took the money and, pushing through the
crowd of loungers, passed the door, and went down
the outside stairs at a rattling pace, the sound of
which filled the heart of the waiting prisoner with
envy.
Jack looked about him, nibbling his dry biscuit
and butter, and saw that there was only one other
door in the room, and that it was nailed, with a bar
across it. There were three windows, one on the side
of the street near the entry door, the other two overlooking
the canal. He was still nibbling and studying
the premises, when the lad returned.
“I hope this ain’t canal milk,” said Jack with a
laugh, as he pocketed the change and took the cup,
after giving the lad his penny. “They sell horrid
stuff to the boats sometimes,—mostly chalk and
canal-water, I believe.” He poised the cup, still
munching the dry biscuit, and glanced furtively at
the door. The loungers had not yet begun to leave,
and there was a crowd in the way.
Sellick was saying to a village acquaintance, “I
never yit lost a prisoner, and I never expect to lose
one; and I never yit was afraid to take a man. Not
one in fifty can run as fast as I can, and once I git
holt of a chap, I jest freeze to him; ’t would take a
perty good set of muscles to shake me off, and a
mighty long head to outwit me.—Come, sonny, drink
yer milk; judge is shaking the sand on his paper.”
Jack lifted the cup to his lips, and began to drink,
but stopped suddenly, and, with his mouth full and
.bn 156.png
.pn +1
his cheeks distended, made sounds and motions of
distress, as if about to eject the liquid.
“Sour?” cried Sellick.
“’M! ’m!” said Jack, through his nose; and with
milk spilling from the cup and spirting from his lips,
he started for a window; while the crowd, laughing
at his ludicrous plight, and anxious to avoid a sprinkling,
made way before him.
It was the window on the side of the street, and it
was closed. While Sellick, laughing with the rest,
was stepping quickly to help him open it, Jack, beginning
to choke, and appearing quite unable to control
himself longer, started for the door. The mirthful
constable—who had never yet lost a prisoner
and never expected to lose one—turned to follow
him, rather leisurely, pausing to laugh at Mr. Byron
Dinks, who had received some conspicuous splashes
of milk on his black broadcloth.
Jack took hold of the door, as if to steady himself,
then, in an instant, darting through, pulled it after
him (just missing Sellick’s fingers), turned the key on
the outside, went down the stairway with flying
leaps, and ran as for his life; leaving court, constable,
witnesses, and spectators locked up in the room together,
prisoners in his place, with abundant leisure
to find something to laugh at besides him and his
spilled milk!
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch25
CHAPTER XXV||JACK’S PRISONERS.
.sp 2
Weak-eyed Judge Garty, having sanded the warrant
by which Jack was to have been conveyed to
jail, and winked hard over it for about fifteen seconds
(giving at least six winks to the second) to see that
it was all right, shook it in the air at the empty
space occupied a moment before by the jolly constable.
“Here! Sellick! where are you? Here’s our
mittimus,” he was saying, when occurred the pleasant
little catastrophe related in our last chapter.
The room was filled with confusion in an instant,
sounds of men laughing, crying out, rushing to and
fro, and clamoring at door and window.
“What’s the matter?” called Squire Peternot,
in a loud, stern voice. “Where’s the constable?
where’s the prisoner?”
“Gone!” answered somebody in the crowd.
“Gone?” cried Judge Garty, rising to his feet,
still shaking his paper and winking blindly. “He
can’t go without our warrant! Sellick knows better ’n
that!”
“But the boy don’t!” cried Sellick, running to the
table.
“The boy!” echoed Peternot; “where is he?”
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
“Gone—got away—took leg-bail,” answered
several voices at once, in the general tumult. “He’s
left his hat, though!”
“Why ain’t you—why don’t somebody—ketch
him!” gasped out Peternot, striding towards the
door.
“Screw-driver! pair of shears! anything!” said
Sellick, searching the table, “to force the lock!”
“The lock? the lock?” said the judge, like one
just waking from sleep in a strong light.
“Yes, man!” said Sellick, unable to take an altogether
serious view of even so serious a matter;
“boy has gone for more milk; ’fraid he wouldn’t
find us here when he got back, so he turned the
key! Tongs!” And he sprang to the empty fireplace.
Peternot reached the door, and found his nephew,
Mr. Byron Dinks, standing beside it in a comical
attitude.
“Why don’t you open?” cried the squire, putting
on his hat.
“Can’t open!” answered Byron.
“Stand away then!”
“Can’t stand away!”
“What’s the reason you can’t?” roared the impatient
old man, seizing Byron by the shoulder.
“Door is locked—I’m caught—coat-tail shut
in! Look out! you’ll tear!” said Byron, anxiously
holding the hinder part of his garment with one
hand, and his uncle’s arm with the other.
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
“I should think ye was all a pack of fools!” exclaimed
the squire, pushing on to the now open window,
where he found several heads in advance of his
own. “Le’ me come! make way here! Why don’t
somebody in the street ketch him?”
“The’ ain’t nobody in the street!” giggled a
youngster, taking in his head to make room for Peternot.
“All the loafers are in here!”
Pressing forward, cane in hand, shouting, and
thrusting several of the said loafers aside, Peternot
reached the window, and, in attempting to put his
head out, smashed his hat very neatly and thoroughly
over his eyes. Having then with much ado got his
head first out of the hat and then out of the window,
he began to bellow forth, “Help! ho! fire!” And
he whacked the clapboards outside with his stout
cane. “Where is everybody?”
The testimony of the youngster as to all the village
loafers being locked up in the room, was so
near a literal fact, that not until this moment did
anybody appear in answer to the cries from the window.
But now three or four persons came running
over the canal bridge, two or three out of the store
opposite, and as many from the tavern up the street;
while a fat little man rushed out of the grocery below,
and turning up a face, round and red as a newly
risen full moon, at the judge’s office window, screamed
in a hoarse voice, “What’s the row up there?”
“Which way did that boy go?” demanded Peternot.
.bn 160.png
.pn +1
“What boy?” was answered back from the crowd
that began to assemble below.
“Sellick’s prisoner! Run for him, some of you!
He has locked us all in here! Hurry, and let us
out! Help! ho!” And again the old man smote
the resounding clapboards.
He had put on his hat once more; and now, accidentally
knocked off by striking the window-sash, it
fell, and meeting the arm and cane as they were
rising vigorously to give the clapboards another
blow, it flew in the air, sailed down by the corner
of the grocery, and alighted softly and gently in the
canal.
“Hurry!” repeated the squire, falling into some
slight incongruities of speech in consequence of his
very great excitement. “Ketch the door! Open
the boy! Pick up—heavens and airth!—pick up
my hat!”
Some hastened up stairs to the office door, to find
that the escaping prisoner had seriously complicated
the difficulties of the situation by carrying off the
key. Others, dashing around corners, stared up and
down the streets, and under the bridge, and up and
down the canal, and into various dark places, including
a pig-sty, Sellick’s wagon-seat, and an old
molasses-hogshead half filled with rain water, standing
under the eaves, without making any noteworthy
discoveries. In the mean while a boatman on a
passing scow drew Peternot’s hat out of the water
with a pike-pole, and reached it to somebody, who
.bn 161.png
.pn +1
placed it on the wooden head of a short post, well
grooved by the friction of cables, where it was left to
drip and dry.
“Bring a ladder! a ladder!” vociferated Peternot.
The crowd below repeated, “Ladder! ladder!” and
ran off in various directions to find one.
And now a man in a buggy was observed whipping
his horse rather fast down the main street of the
village.
“It’s the deacon!” cried Peternot. “May be he
has seen him!”
It was Mr. Chatford indeed, who, perceiving signs
of commotion at the bridge, urged on old Maje’s paces
at as high a speed as that tired and faithful animal
could well make after his unusual morning’s exercise
with Mose and Annie Felton, and arrived on the
spot just in time to be in the way of four or five
ladders that came together from as many different
directions. Maje turned to avoid one, and, being hit
in the nose by another, backed the buggy upon some
boys who were bringing a third. Men at the same
time came running with fire-buckets and cries of
“Fire!”
At last, after one ladder had been set up and found
too short, another was erected in such haste over it
that it broke the window, and also came near breaking
Peternot’s head. And now, just as this mode of
egress from the room was established, Sellick succeeded
in forcing the obstinate lock. This was
hardly done when a ragged little shaver in the street,
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
who had been trying for a long while to tell his little
story, managed to make himself heard.
“I feen him wun and fow fumfin in here!” placing
his little hand on one of the lower hoops of the
aforesaid molasses-hogshead, to enforce his meaning,—that
he had seen Jack run and throw something
in there.
This speech being at last understood and partly
credited, the hogshead was tipped and the water
emptied out; and there, sure enough, was Judge
Garty’s office-door key, found just after the lock was
forced and the useless ladder was sent crashing against
the unlucky window.
But the child could give no information as to the
way the fugitive had gone. Neither could Deacon
Chatford, who now heard with astonishment how
Jack had outwitted the witty constable, and turned
the key on the court.
“The rogue!” said the deacon. “He ought not
to have taken such a desperate course as that!” Yet
somehow he wasn’t sorry. Riding over to the Basin,
he had been greatly disturbed in his mind at the
thought of Jack’s going to jail, and had seriously
questioned whether it was not his duty to offer bail
for him. He was a kind-hearted man, as we know;
but he had lost faith in the boy’s integrity; and
it was a relief to him to learn that the question of
bail was settled. “Why, Sellick!” he cried, “what
have you been about?”
The lately imprisoned crowd came laughing down
.bn 163.png
.pn +1
the stairway to the street, Sellick laughing with the
rest, though rather foolishly. He carefully folded
Judge Garty’s warrant, and stuck it into the lining
of his hat, remarking, “‘It may come in play some
time,’ as the stingy man said when he laid away the
bad egg in his cupboard.” Then stooping to pick up
a bruised tin cup which lay at the foot of the stairs,
“That’s an honest boy, deacon! He paid for the
milk, and he left the cup.—This belongs to you, I
believe,” handing it to the little fat grocer. “It looks
like a good cup, and the milk may have been good
milk, but the boy, I’m free to say, didn’t seem to be
satisfied with it.—Now what’s to be done, squire?
There’s no use crying for the article arter it’s spilt,
ye know.”
The bareheaded old man strode past him, frowning
prodigiously, and, taking his hat from the post, all
wet as it was, put it on.
“Get track of your prisoner and take him!” he
said impatiently. “What do ye stand dawdling here
for? Somebody must have seen him!”
That was true enough. Reports were even then
coming in of a youth whom women washing at their
back doors had observed leaping fences and running
fast across gardens and fields, away from the village.
And now came shouts from down the canal, which
drew the whole crowd in that direction.
.bn 164.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch26
CHAPTER XXVI||THE OWNER OF THE POTATO PATCH, AND HIS DOG.
.sp 2
Passing the corner of the block, where he dropped
Judge Garty’s key into the hogshead of water, Jack
slipped into a short, narrow alley, and turned down a
back street which brought him quickly to the shore
of a broad mill-pond, where it stopped. He then
took to the fields.
He got on very well until, as he was crossing a
potato patch, he saw, only a few rods ahead of him, a
man going up from the shore of the pond, followed by
a savage-looking dog. It was our old acquaintance
and Jack’s enemy, Duffer,[#] a thick-set, red-faced,
black-whiskered teamster, almost the last man Jack
would have wished at that moment to encounter.
.pm fn-start
See Jack Hazard and his Fortunes, Chapters XXIII. and
XXIV.
.pm fn-end
He stopped running, but kept on at a fast walk,
still hoping to pass the man and his dog without
trouble. He was bareheaded, having left his hat
behind in the court-room. That circumstance was
alone sufficient to excite attention; and Duffer looked
sharply at him.
“Go back there!”
“I’m in a hurry, I can’t go back,” said Jack, continuing
to walk on.
.bn 165.png
.pn +1
“You’re on my land! you can’t cross here!”
“I can cross farther up, then.”
“No, ye can’t!” said Duffer, brandishing a long
black whip which he had been trailing behind him.
“I owns this ’ere land, from the pond to the street.
Go back the way you come, or I lets my dorg on to
ye!”
“I want to pass, and it’s as far going back to
get off your land as it is going on,” said Jack, anxiously;
for he could hear the shouts in the village,
and he feared that pursuers were already on his
track.
“You don’t cross this ’ere tater patch!” said Duffer,
furiously. “I know ye! Ye had a hand in killing
my t’ other dorg!”
“No, I didn’t,” said Jack. “He was killed in a
fair fight with my dog,—ask Grodson! Let me go
on, and I never ’ll set foot on your land again.”
And he was going on. Then the ruffian said,
“The dorg ’ll take ye! Look alive, Bull!”
Jack, growing desperate, screamed back, “Let your
whelp come!” and turned to face the brute.
“Sick!” said Duffer, cracking his whip, and the
dog started.
Jack had in his hand a slender stick which he had
picked up crossing the fields. Duffer laughed at it.
“My dorg won’t mind a switch like that! Go in,
Bull!”
But Jack had no thought of defending himself by
striking blows with so slight a weapon. His long
.bn 166.png
.pn +1
experience on the canal had taught him, as he afterwards
said, “a trick worth two of that.”
.if h
.il fn=i169.jpg w=600px
.ca
“A TRICK WORTH TWO OF THAT.”
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: “A TRICK WORTH TWO OF THAT.”]
.sp 2
.if-
Boldly facing the cur as he came bounding towards
him, he grasped the stick firmly near the ends with
both hands, and, lifting it horizontally, held it before
him, about as high as his breast. Bull, as Jack had
expected, leaped up and seized it with his teeth; in
which exposed position he received full in his stomach
so sudden and well-directed a kick from Jack’s
.bn 167.png
.pn +1
heavy farm-shoe, that he loosed his hold and rolled
over, yelping, on the ground.
“Sick him! go in! tear him!” roared Duffer, running
to the rescue.
The “dorg,” however, had had his courage quite
kicked out of him with his breath, and nothing could
induce him to renew the attack. Whining and limping,
or rather crawling, he slunk back to his master,
who gave him another fierce command to “go in” and
“sick,” and lastly a sharp cut with the snake-like
lash, which merely sent him yelping in the opposite
direction. Then Duffer, infuriated, advanced upon
Jack, flourishing his whip, exactly in the way the
boy had persisted in going.
Jack thereupon turned back. Duffer followed him.
Jack began to run, and then Duffer began to run.
Jack went tumbling over the fences, and Duffer
went tumbling over the fences after him. Jack ran
for liberty at first, but soon he began to run from the
whip; while at each moment, as he gave signs of
failing courage, Duffer’s rage and thirst for vengeance
increased; for nothing so excites the valorous fury of
your genuine bully, as the appearance of faint-heartedness
in a foe.
Beyond the street, Jack kept the shore of the pond
where it swept around towards the canal. He now
regretted not having taken that course in the first
place, yet he had avoided it for a good reason; there
was the waste-wear in his way.
The “heel-path” side of the canal was narrowed
.bn 168.png
.pn +1
here to a high and steep embankment; into this
was set a waste-gate in a frame of strong timbers;
and over the gate and the timbers the canal poured
its surplus waters in a shining cascade that fell into
the pond below. This was the waste-wear, crossed
by a single foot-plank, in full view of the village and
of the canal, for half a mile up and down. Quite
near the gate, its arched top visible at the base of
the embankment, was a culvert for the pond water,
which there flowed under the canal into a mill-race
on the other side.
Towards this conspicuous if not very dangerous
place, the hatless Jack, driven back by Duffer, now
ran with all his might. Once across the waste-wear,
he could still hope to baffle pursuit in the orchards
and woods beyond. But Duffer was too swift for
him; and, feeling his own strength giving out, and
the avenger of the “dorg” fast gaining on him, Jack
stooped and caught up from the flat, goose-nibbled
and goose-trampled pond-shore the only available
missile in sight. Then, like David defying the
giant of Gath, he turned, with upraised, menacing
arm.
“Come on,” he cried, “and I send this at your
head!”
It could not have proved a very formidable projectile,
being nothing but a dirty goose-egg, but it served
his purpose for the moment; Goliath, mistaking it
for a stone, stopped and prepared to dodge or retreat.
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
“Don’t ye chuck that rock at me! I’ll drownd
ye in that water if ye do!”
“Keep your distance, then,” commanded Jack,
backing off.
He used often to laugh, in later years, at the ludicrous
spectacle of the big-whiskered ruffian brought
to a stand and put in fear by a goose-egg; but he
had no leisure for laughing at the time. For now
the uproar in the village, which had seemed to
be subsiding, burst forth afresh in sudden cries of
“Ketch him! ketch that boy!” and, looking quickly
around, he saw a scattered crowd of men and youngsters
running out of the village directly towards
him.
Then Jack felt that his chance of escape was
small; his breath was spent, and here were fresh pursuers
on his track! In his rage, remembering that
he might now have been a mile away had it not been
for Duffer, he paused, before once more taking to
flight, and discharged the goose-egg at his enemy.
Long practice with pebbles and stones on the tow-path,
in the days when he was a driver, had made
him a good shot; wrath nerved his arm; the mark
was near, and by no means small; and the result was
satisfactory. He whirled and ran, leaving Duffer
half stunned, staggering and spluttering and spitting,
mouth, beard, and bosom variegated and dripping
with the mixed yellow and white of the egg, which
had struck and burst, like a bombshell, full in his
face.
.bn 170.png
.pn +1
Jack felt that the egg was suspiciously light, and
anybody within half a dozen rods might have heard
it pop; but it was Duffer who had the strongest evidence
of the vile and gassy character of its contents.
Blowing and snorting, he rushed down to the pond in
order to purify himself, while Jack fled.
.bn 171.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch27
CHAPTER XXVII||THE RACE, AND HOW IT ENDED.
.sp 2
The crowd came streaming out of the back streets
of the village, not less than twenty or thirty men and
boys, some intent on joining in the chase, while the
rest were actuated only by an eager desire to witness
the sport. It was not often that the lees of life in
the quiet Basin were stirred by so exciting an incident
as the locking up of a court-room full of town
officials and idle spectators, and the escape of a prisoner;
and it was natural that a lively interest should
be felt in the end of the little romance.
About half the crowd, thinking Duffer had received
a terrible wound in the head (mistaking the yolk of
the egg for blood), ran down to the pond-side, where
they found a large flock of geese already gathered
about him, hissing and cackling at him, with outstretched
necks, in a noisy and vivacious fashion,
while he scraped and washed himself, and with occasional
angry dashes tried to drive them away. The
rest of the crowd followed Jack; and soon those who
had drawn near the disabled combatant, perceiving
the comical character of his injuries, turned laughing
away, with the geese, and hurried to enjoy the more
exciting scene at the waste-gate.
Among Jack’s pursuers was one who, although a
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
little later at the start than many, soon by diligent
use of his legs and arms worked his way into the
foremost rank, and at last took the lead. This was
Sellick. If not absolutely the best runner of the
crowd, he had certainly the best reasons for running.
He had not only lost a prisoner, but lost him under
peculiar and ludicrous circumstances. And although
the jolly constable was a great joker himself, he did
not surpassingly relish a joke of which he was the
victim. He was well aware that the fact of his having
been outgeneralled by a boy would be cherished
as a standing jest against him as long as he lived;
but if he could retort, that he secured the runaway,
and after all took him to jail, that would be some
comfort. So he put forth his strength, and tried the
speed of his limbs; doing then and there such extraordinary
running, in the sight of the huzzaing and
laughing villagers, that it passed into a proverb, and
I remember hearing many years after an old farmer
say of a cow that once got away from him as he was
leading her home, “She run like Sellick arter Jack
Hazard!”
Much of the huzzaing, I am happy to record, was
for Jack. Men naturally sympathize with the weaker
party in a struggle, provided they have no personal
interest in it. Peternot was by no means popular;
few cared for Sellick, except as a wag, whom it was
fun to see circumvented; while, on the other hand,
there was a general feeling that Jack, by his shrewdness
and spirit, well deserved his freedom. So those
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
who were first in the chase finally gave it up, and
fell back as spectators, leaving to the constable alone
the glory of recapturing his prisoner.
“Go it, little one! Put in, limber legs!” came to
Jack’s ears across the corner of the pond, with many
an encouraging shout and loud laugh. “Streak it!
leg it! You’ll win!”
But there were many remarks of a less cheering
nature, which he did not hear.
“It’s no use! Sellick ’ll have him ’fore he gets to
the waste-wear!” said a shoemaker who had just left
his bench and run out with his leather apron on.
“If he could only cross the waste-wear and pull
up the plank behind him!” observed the tavern-keeper.
“He can’t do that; plank is spiked down,” replied
a young journeyman carpenter. “But he might
pitch Sellick off as he goes to cross after him,—if
he only had a long pole!”
“He’s about beat out; see how Sellick gains on
him!” cried Byron Dinks, clapping his hands.
“He’ll have him! he’ll have him!”
“I declare, it seems too bad!” said Deacon Chatford,
coming down to the shore. “Poor Jack! he has
said so much about having a chance for himself, and
now!”
“He has no chance with Sellick!” exclaimed Byron
Dinks, gleefully. “He’s got him! He’s headed
him off! He’s—Oh!”
The deacon echoed, “Oh!” and the throng of spectators
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
broke forth in a chorus of excited oh’s and ah’s,
and other exclamations of astonishment.
What had happened was this.
Jack, finding himself no match for the constable,
believed that his only hope lay in reaching the canal
and crossing to the tow-path. Being a good swimmer,
he might gain some slight advantage by that
manœuvre; while it seemed quite impossible for
him to escape over the waste-wear. He reached the
embankment, and went panting and staggering up
the steep side; while Sellick mounted easily a rod or
two nearer the village, and was at the top before him.
This movement drove Jack on towards the waste-wear;
but Sellick, it was plain to see, would be there
first also.
“You run well, sonny!” laughed the constable;
“but you’re beat!”
“Not yet!” Jack cried. And, attempting to run
back down the embankment, he found himself on a
steep and dangerous place over the culvert.
“Give up, give up, sonny!” said Sellick, working
carefully down towards him from the top of the embankment.
“Come! then we’ll go to the grocery
and have another drink of milk, ’fore we take that
little ride together. I guess we can find some better
milk this time! Look out! you’ll fall!”
“I don’t care if I do!” exclaimed Jack, groping
farther and farther down, as the constable ventured
nearer. “Before I’ll let you take me—”
At that moment his foot appeared to slip; he
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
seemed to make a feeble attempt to regain his hold,
then, to avoid a dangerous fall, he threw himself clear
of the masonry, and tumbled headlong into the water.
It was the fall and the splash that drew forth the
aforesaid exclamations from the spectators.
Sellick ran back to a safe place, and descended
quickly to the edge of the pond, just in time to see
Jack come up once, gasp, turn heavily in the water,
and sink again. The jolly man was serious for
once.
“Help!” he called. “I vum, the boy is drownding!”
There was a great rush to the spot; but, as is
usually the case at such times, nobody seemed to
know what to do. Some cried, “Bring a rope!”
others, “Get a pole!” but neither pole nor rope was
brought; nor would either have been of the least use,
as the event proved.
Jack had fallen in deep water at a distance of
several yards from any standing-place near the culvert.
It was the intention to reach out something
for him to lay hold of when he should rise in sight
again. But, strange to say, good swimmer as he was,
he did not reappear.
What had become of him we shall perhaps learn
in the course of a chapter or two.
.bn 176.png
.pn +1
.if h
.il fn=i178.jpg w=600px
.ca
The End of the Race.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: The End of the Race.]
.sp 2
.if-
.bn 177.png
.pn +1
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch28
CHAPTER XXVIII||THE SEARCH, AND HOW IT ENDED.
.sp 2
Constable Sellick was not a man devoid of feeling,
for all his merry disposition. He stood gazing
anxiously at the water, shading his eyes from the sun
reflected in it; then, as Jack did not come up a second
time, the worthy man was filled with consternation.
“Who are the good swimmers here?” he cried.
“Go in after him, some one! You can dive, Len
Edwards!”
“But I can’t dive like Jack Hazard,” answered
Len. “I’ve seen him in the water with the Chatford
boys. There’s nothing he can’t do in the water.”
“His breath was most likely beat out of his body,
striking the surface,” observed Mr. Byron Dinks. “A
man may strike the water in such a way, it will be
like falling flat on a rock.” And Byron picked his
teeth with a stem of dry grass from the bank.
“I’ll go in if Harry Pray will,” said Len.
“Well! I’ll go if you will,” replied Harry. And
in the midst of the general excitement and confusion,
these two enterprising young men began to undress.
Before either was prepared for a plunge, however, a
third young man, who had just arrived on the spot
and learned that a boy was drowned, leaped out of
his clothes as if by magic; while the word ran through
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
the crowd, “Percy Lanman! It’s Percy Lanman!
He can get him!”
“Take away that rail!” shouted a clear, ringing
voice.
The rail, which somebody had brought, and which
Sellick was poking ineffectually about in the deep
place where he had seen Jack go down, was quickly
withdrawn; and the owner of the voice, white and
gleaming as a living statue, sprang from the bank;
a plash and a flash, and he had disappeared in the
sparkling water.
He was gone about fifteen seconds, which appeared
almost as many minutes to some of those who watched
with intense interest for his reappearance. At length
he came up again, shook the water from his dripping
head and winked it from his eyes, and looked about
him while he took breath.
“If he can’t find him we can’t,” observed Len,
starting to put on his clothes again.
“I’m going in, anyhow,” replied Harry, moving
towards the water.
“If you do I will,” said Len.
“No discoveries?” cried Sellick, anxiously.
Percy did not reply, but thrusting his head once
more beneath the surface, swam slowly about with
his eyes open, gazing into the sunlit depths.
Deacon Chatford groaned. “This is a sad business,
Squire Peternot!”
“He shouldn’t have tried to escape an officer of
the law!” was Peternot’s stern reply.
.bn 180.png
.pn +1
“There’s no boy here!” Percy Lanman now announced,
just as Len and Harry were going in.
“’T ain’t possible!” exclaimed Sellick.
“I’m sure of it!” said Percy. “Wait a minute,
and I’ll tell you where he went.”
Down he plunged again; fifteen seconds passed—thirty
seconds—a minute; still he did not reappear.
Suddenly Harry Pray, as he was swimming about,
heard a hollow splashing sound, and shouted, “He’s
in the culvert! Percy’s in the culvert!”
“That’s where the boy has gone!” exclaimed
Squire Peternot.
“I thought of that!” said Sellick. “But there’s
no current, the mill ain’t going, and he fell at least
a dozen feet from the opening.”
Percy now came swimming leisurely out of the culvert;
making for the bank, he there proceeded to put
on his clothes.
“No,” said he, laughing, as Sellick questioned him,
“the boy couldn’t have floated into the culvert.
But he went in just as I did,—swimming under
water. And it’s my opinion, if you want to find
him, you’d better look for him on the other side of
the canal.”
“Fooled again, Sellick!” said the journeyman carpenter.
And the cry went through the crowd,
“Jack’s got away! he has gone through the culvert
under the canal!”
Sellick ran to the top of the bank and looked
eagerly across,—a great crowd following him. Only
.bn 181.png
.pn +1
the level tow-path met his eye, and a horizon of far-off
forest-tops beyond: not even the saw-mill was visible,
to say nothing of the race into which the culvert
conducted the pond water. The whole country fell
away in that direction towards Lake Ontario, which
lay behind the billowy line of forest-tops.
To make any discoveries on the other side of the
high embankments, which carried the canal over
what had once been a narrow valley opening out into
the broad, low country, it would of course be necessary
to cross to the tow-path. But there was no
bridge nearer than the village, and Sellick did not
like to get wet. So he called out to the two swimmers,
now diligently looking for Jack in the pond
after it had been shown that he wasn’t there, “Hello!
Len and Harry! go through the culvert and see
what you can see!”
“Will you, Harry?” said Len.
“No, I won’t go through the culvert, for any constable!”
replied Harry.
“Nor I neither, if you won’t,” said Len; the culvert
being generally regarded with superstition by
village bathers. “There’s water-snakes in it!”
“If the mill should start, we couldn’t swim back
against the current,” Harry answered Sellick.
“Then hurry up here, and cross the canal; come,
you’ve got your clothes off!” cried Sellick.
“What do you say, Harry?” asked Len.
“I d’n’ know, I do’ wanter!” replied Harry.
“Nor I neither!” said Len.
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
“Come, Sellick! don’t be l’iterin’ here!” exclaimed
the impatient Peternot. “Either cross over, or go
round by the bridge.”
“Here comes an old wheat-boat; maybe the steersman
’ll put us across,” said Sellick. “Hello!” he
shouted, “lay over here!” And he called to the
driver: “Do you see any boy about the race-way,
or running off anywhere, down on that side of the
canal?”
“I see a man going into the saw-mill,—nobody
else,” answered the driver.
“Call him! tell him to come up to the tow-path.”
“Call him yourself!” And the driver cracked his
whip at the towing horses.
“I shall git aground, if I go over there,” said the
steersman.
“No, you won’t! Good shore! plenty of water!
you’re light!”
“What’s the row, anyhow?”
Before Sellick could answer, somebody in the crowd
cried, “Prisoner got away—boy—went through the
culvert under the canal—constable wants to go over
and git him.”
“Give ye a quarter,” added Sellick.
Slowly the bow swung over towards the “heel-path”;
then the steersman, bracing himself against
the tiller, carried over the stern. The boat grated
hard against the shore, and immediately, not only
Sellick, but at least a dozen men and boys with him,
jumped and scrambled aboard.
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
“Ruther more passengers ’n I bargained fer,” remarked
the steersman, as the boat floated off again.
“Guess I shall haf to charge ye all about ten cents
apiece.”
“Charge ’em what you’re a mind to, and set me
across in a hurry,” replied Sellick.
“What boy is it,” asked the steersman, “and
what mischief has he been up to?”
“His name is Hazard,—Jack Hazard.”
“You don’t say! I know Jack! I used to go
with a scow his step-father was captain of when he
was a driver; Cap’n Berrick’s scow. But I thought
Jack was doin’ well, back in the country here somewhere.”
“He was, till he got into another man’s house by
mistake,” said Sellick. “He ain’t a bad boy, Jack
ain’t; a good feller; smart too,—smartest boy I
ever see! But slippery as an eel! He’s slipped
through my fingers twice to-day. But you ain’t putting
us ashore!”
“Passengers hain’t paid their fare yet,” replied the
steersman, coolly keeping the boat in the middle of
the canal. “Tell me about Jack.”
“Lay up and I will! Here’s my quarter.”
“Ten cents,—ten cents all round; no partiality,”
said the steersman, declining the proffered coin.
“About Jack—I’ve knowed him off and on for a
couple o’ year an’ more, and I never believed he would
steal.”
“It wasn’t exactly stealing.—Hurry up with your
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
money!—Some disputed property.—Ten cents, boys!—He
believed it was his, and took it.—Why don’t
you pay up, you fellows?”
Nobody but Sellick, however, seemed to think it
desirable to pay money for being landed on the tow-path;
and Sellick was unwilling to pay for the crowd.
“On the whole,” remarked the steersman, “I guess
I won’t take your money. You may all ride up to
the Basin for nothing. But you’ll have to git off on
the bridge, for we don’t stop.—No, sir!” as Sellick
offered to lay his hand on the tiller. “You’re a
perty good-lookin’ chap, but ye can’t come that nonsense
here. I’m steersman of this craft, jest about
now. You’re welcome to yer ride, gentlemen, bein’
friends of Jack’s. Remember me to him, will ye,
when ye fall in with him?—which I hope you won’t
in a hurry. Jest give him a hand-shake and a good
word from his old chum Pete. Lay down that pike-pole,
mister, or I’ll lay you down!”
“I’m going ashore!” cried Sellick.
“You’ll go ashore in a way you won’t like!” said
Pete; and there stood two rough, reckless-looking
deck hands ready to back him.
Sellick dropped the pole with a laugh, which did
not seem so spontaneous and hearty as some of the
outbursts of merriment in which that mirthful gentleman
had been known to indulge.
The spectators on the shore understood the movement,
and, at sight of the jolly constable and his
companions carried off against their will by the slow-moving
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
wheat-boat, sent after them a chorus of jeers
and laughter, in which mingled the tone of one stern
and angry voice, that of Squire Peternot, who struck
the “heel-path” with his heavy horn-headed cane,
exclaiming, “Hang the wretches! hang the miserable
villains!”
.bn 186.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch29
CHAPTER XXIX||THE CULVERT AND THE CORNFIELD.
.sp 2
All these delays gave Jack time, and time was
what he needed just now.
It was not until the moment when, pretending to
fall, he threw himself from the masonry of the culvert,
that the idea occurred to him of resorting to a
little trick which he had often practised in the water
with Lion, for the amusement of his companions, and
of playing the part of a drowning boy. The dog that
usually rescued him could be dispensed with on this
occasion; but the skill of the experienced swimmer
might serve him.
He had seen the culvert whilst running towards
the canal; and even then the thought had flashed
through his mind that, if he could once get into it,
pursuit might be baffled, and his capture delayed, for
at least a little while. He did not, however, suppose
that it would be possible to pass through and escape,
against the chances of being met and taken on the
other side.
But now he thought if he could make it appear
that he was drowned in the pond, then time might
be gained. So, after his first plunge, he came up
once, in order to catch breath and give one glance at
the situation, then turned in the water and sank.
.bn 187.png
.pn +1
Fortunately the sun on the surface dazzled Sellick’s
eyes, or he might have seen a suspicious movement
of the boy’s hands, and the quiet gliding away of the
boy’s body through the clear depths, towards the
arched opening in the masonry.
When next Jack came to the surface, he found
himself in what seemed a long, narrow gallery, nearly
filled with water; a low, vaulted roof just above him,
and an opening at each end through which shone the
light of the sky. Drops from the clammy and dripping
stones fell with slow, echoing plashes in the
cavernous gloom, reminding him that he was under
the canal; that the great, winding, watery thoroughfare,
which he had travelled many a summer, and
through which the lazy boats moved, was now over
his head.
Accustomed to diving as he was, a plunge at the
end of an exhausting race was not a good thing for
the lungs; and Jack declares that he was never so
nearly dead for want of breath, as when he rose to
the surface in the culvert. For a minute or more it
seemed quite impossible for him to make any exertion,
beyond what was necessary to keep his nose
above water. But there he stayed, just moving his
feet and hands, while he filled his aching lungs with
drafts of air, which made him rise and sink, and sent
gentle undulations and ripples along the dark culvert
walls.
The cries for help came to his ears, and inspired
him with fresh courage: he knew that his stratagem
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
had succeeded. He knew, too, that it would not be
long before search would be made for him in the culvert,
or at the other opening. “I must be moving!”
he thought.
Swimming swiftly and silently under the low
vault, he passed completely beneath the canal, and
cautiously put his head out on the other side. Before
him was the tranquil mill-race half filled with
floating saw-logs, the saw-mill at the end of it, and a
low, wild country of stumpy farms and wooded
swamps beyond. Nobody in sight; but he could
still hear excited voices on the other side of the canal
embankments.
Gliding out of the culvert, he swam to the right
bank of the race, which was there built up five or six
feet from the ground, crawled over it, dropped down
under it, and ran along beside it till he reached the
mill. He heard the shrill shriek of filing saws as he
passed, and knew that the sawyer was busy. Dodging
between great piles of slabs and lumber, he kept
on, and soon gained the shelter of a fringe of alders
that bordered the onward-flowing mill-stream. That
led him into a swampy piece of woods. And so it
happened that, by the time Sellick and his companions
scrambled from the deck of the wheat-boat upon
the bridge at the Basin, and turned back to the culvert,
the fugitive was nearly a mile away.
Traversing the swamp, Jack crossed several fields
and a wood-lot, and at length came out upon a recent
clearing, in which a number of half-burnt stumps
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
and log-heaps were smoking. Beyond that was a
road; and on the farther side of the road was a cornfield.
“That’s the place to hide!” thought Jack; and
having stopped to drink at a little spring, he crossed
the road, and was soon gliding between rows of tasselled
stalks and long green rustling leaves.
The piece was wet, and a part of the crop was late,
and Jack observed with interest a number of good
roasting ears. Being a prudent youth, he had already
begun to question where his next meal was to be
obtained; for although he had a little money, he had
no hat, and feared to present himself anywhere bareheaded.
“I’ll help myself, as the coons and squirrels do,”
said he, as he noticed the ravages of those destructive
little beasts all about the field. “Hello! here’s something
interesting!”
It was a scarecrow of stuffed clothes, from which a
flock of noisy blackbirds flew up at his approach.
“That’s a pretty good felt hat,” said he; “wonder
how it would fit me. Excuse me, old fellow; I need
it more than you do; I’ll bring it back when I get
through with it. In the mean while the blackbirds
can’t respect you any less than they do now, I
know!”
He pulled off the hat, gave it a good beating on
the scarecrow’s outstretched wooden hand, and found
that, by stuffing a few corn-husks under the lining,
he could make it do very well.
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
“Thank you,” said he. “Now I feel as if I had
traded myself off for another boy. If you’ve no objections,
I think I’ll keep you company a little while.
Poor company’s better than none, as they say.
Oblige me by holding my coat till it dries a little.”
He hung his wet garment on the scarecrow, and
walked leisurely about, selecting a few of the best
roasting ears he could find. His breakfast had really
amounted to nothing,—good Mrs. Pipkin’s biscuit
and butter having been sacrificed with the milk he
bought of the grocer,—and he was growing faint.
The excitement of his escape had left him in good
spirits. For a while he was buoyed up by a wild
feeling of freedom; and his old love of adventure
came back upon him. The wrongs he had suffered
made him reckless and defiant of the whole world.
“I’ve tried to be honest; but what’s the use?”
said he. “I thought I’d got a chance for myself,
and this is what it comes to! Even the deacon has
turned against me! Now let ’em look out! I’ll have
my pay, somehow!”
If Jack had kept near the canal, and in this mood
had seen his old friend Pete comfortably riding the
tiller of the wheat-boat, his whole future might have
been changed by so slight a circumstance. But his
good genius had not yet given him over to his own
vindictive thoughts and rash resolves.
With weariness and hunger came memory and reflection.
The burning sense of injury with which he
thought of Peternot and Phineas Chatford, and all
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
who had been instrumental in his disgrace, gave way
to different emotions as he remembered good Mrs.
Chatford, and lovely Annie Felton, and affectionate
little Kate.
“O, shall I never see them again?” he murmured;
and a big sob rose in his throat. And the home
where he had been so happy for a few short months!
And Lion! “I won’t go without Lion, anyway!”
he exclaimed. “I’ll see the Huswick boys about the
money, and get that if I can, and Lion anyhow!”
It was a beautiful day, mild and tranquil and
hazy, with just that tinge of melancholy in it which
marks the gradual change of summer into autumn.
To Jack, lurking there in the silent cornfield, it
seemed like Sunday. He sat down in the warm sunlight
by the scarecrow, and waited for his clothes to
dry.
The shrill song of the locust rose now and then on
the still air, increasing for a few seconds in vehemence,
then sank and ceased; and occasionally the
gossip of the multitudinous blackbirds came quite
near to him, as the chattering flocks settled on the
corn; but he heard scarcely any other sound, until
suddenly he became aware of footsteps and a rustling
of leaves not far off. He sat still, and listened. Then
all was quiet again for a minute or two. Then came
the loud report of a fowling-piece, accompanied by a
curious rattling sound close above his head. A scattering
volley of small shot had cut the corn-tops all
about the spot where he sat.
.bn 192.png
.pn +1
His first thought was that he had been shot at.
But just then a cloud of blackbirds rose from the
corn, and the feet he had heard approaching rushed
towards them. He kept perfectly still, and saw a
boy about his own size run past him, between two
rows of corn, not a rod off. The young hunter might
easily have discovered Jack sitting there beside the
scarecrow, if he had not been so intent on picking up
his blackbirds.
.bn 193.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch30
CHAPTER XXX||JACK BREAKFASTS AND RECEIVES A VISITOR.
.sp 2
Soon Jack heard the gun in another part of the
field; then a quarter of a mile off; then faintly in
the far distance. Then the blackbirds came back
again.
“Now,” said Jack, “I’ll see what I can do for
breakfast.”
He put on his coat, filled his pockets with roasting
ears, and returned towards the stump-lot where he
had seen the smoking log-heaps. He had not gone
far when he saw something black hop along the
ground before him. It was a wounded blackbird.
He gave chase, picked up a dead bird by the way,
caught and killed the first, and dressed both with his
jack-knife. They were plump and fat.
“Some folks think blackbirds ain’t good to eat,”
said he, “but I am going to try ’em.”
Cautiously emerging from the cornfield, he crossed
the road, and got over into the clearing. There he
found the spring at which he had drank before, and,
having drank again, he washed his hands and face
and prepared his birds for roasting. He now sought
out one of the half-burnt log-heaps, and, crouching
beside it, opened a bed of glowing coals with a green
branch which he used as a poker. A part of the
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
branch he whittled into a spit for his birds, and then
proceeded to cook his breakfast.
He burnt the corn, and likewise his fingers a little,
and more than once a bird dropped from the spit into
the fire; but he didn’t mind these slight mishaps.
His appetite was good, and, everything being ready
at last, he made a delicious meal without salt. How
sweet the roasted corn was! And he laughed at the
foolish prejudice of some ignorant people against the
flesh of blackbirds, as he sucked the tender bones and
tossed them into the fire.
All this time he kept a wary watch for intruders;
and now he was not pleased to see over his shoulder
a man crossing the stump-lot. He moved at a sauntering
pace, and stooped now and then to examine
objects on the ground; and Jack noticed that once
or twice he appeared to put something into a little
bag he carried in his hand.
“Maybe he won’t see me,” thought Jack. “Yes,
he will, though! He’s coming straight towards me!”
He thought it best, however, to keep quiet and go
on with his breakfast. He had already thrown the
well-gnawed corn-cobs into the fire, and was picking
the last ribs of his second blackbird, when the stranger
drew near.
“You seem to be having a jolly time here, all by
yourself.”
Jack looked up, and saw beside him a rather short,
square-built young man, with a face strongly marked
by the small-pox,—a face which, however, in spite
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
of its blemishes, was rendered interesting and attractive
by a certain lively and good-humored expression.
The little bag in his hand turned out to be a handkerchief
tied up by the corners, from between which
peeped the green tufts and delicate plumes of some
fresh mosses and ferns.
.if h
.il fn=i196.jpg w=600px
.ca
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.]
.sp 2
.if-
“Not so very jolly,” replied Jack, perceiving at
once that he had nothing to fear from a person who
.bn 196.png
.pn +1
looked down upon him out of such pleasant and
kindly eyes.
“You’d better stir your fire and burn up those
cobs before old Mr. Canning comes this way,” said the
stranger. “He’s a man who would have prosecuted
the Master and his disciples for plucking corn in his
field on the Sabbath day.”
“He can prosecute me, if he likes,” replied Jack,
with a reckless laugh. “I’ve one crabbed old man
after me already.”
“I thought so. Your clothes haven’t got quite dry
yet, I see. Do you know, I have you to thank for a
fine bath this morning?”
Jack stared. “How so?”
“I went into the pond after you.” And Percy
Lanman—for it was he—proceeded to relate what
had occurred at the culvert after Jack’s escape.
Jack was greatly entertained, especially by the
story of Sellick and his companions carried up to the
Basin by his old friend Pete, on the wheat-boat.
Percy’s good-humor and sympathy had by this time
quite won his confidence, and the fugitive told him
in return the whole story of his misfortunes.
“I think you have been treated outrageously!”
said the young man. “But yours is not so extraordinary
a case of injustice as you suppose. I advise
you to read history a little: you will find it for the
most part only a record of wrong and oppression.
Human nature is about the same to-day it always has
been. Most people—I am sorry to say it—are
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
capable of seeing only their own selfish interest in
anything that concerns them. As you go through
life you must expect to see friends and neighbors
start out into enemies and oppressors, when their
personal interest is touched. The worst of it will be,
that people of whom you expect better things—who
are supposed to know something of the Golden Rule,
and to be actuated by feelings of justice and benevolence—will
for the sake of a few dollars grasp and
scramble, and show no more regard for reason and
right than so many hungry wolves.”
This picture of the worst side of human society
was well calculated to show Jack that his was not
the only or the worst case of wrong in the world.
“But what is a fellow to do?” he asked.
Percy sat down on the ground, and, opening his
handkerchief, talked on, while he assorted his mosses
and ferns.
“You must make up your mind, in the first place,
that you have got to bear a good deal of this sort of
thing in going through life. Beware of briers and
thistles, but remember that they exist, and be patient
when you get pricked. In reading stories of persecution
and martyrdom, I always feel that I had rather
be the just man who suffered for the right, than the
tyrants and bigots who tried to destroy him. Be true
to yourself, and nobody can do you any real, permanent
harm. Let ’em rage! what do you and I care?
There is something in our minds superior to all their
spites. You have done what almost any boy would
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
do, that was smart enough; and I can’t help laughing
to think how you locked up the court, and afterwards
went through the culvert whilst we were trying
to fish you out of the pond.”
Jack laughed too, as he mechanically looked over
Percy’s plants.
“But you might have done better,—you might do
better now,” said the young man. And his scarred
and pitted features looked somehow radiant and beautiful
to Jack.
“What could I do?”
“Why, let ’em take you to jail, if they want to.
What hurt will it do you? Stand up and say, ‘I
thought I was right; I meant to do right; and
now if you want to send me to jail, go ahead! I can
stand it! I’m willing!’ Throw yourself boldly on
your honesty, rest on that rock, and let ’em do their
worst!”
Jack, feeling how little honesty there had been in
his heart a little while before, hung his head over a
sprig of fern he was twirling between thumb and
finger.
“Mind, I don’t advise you to do just that, for I’m
not sure you’re up to it. But if you could do it,
’t would be grand in you! People talk of good and
bad fortunes; but fortunes are good or bad according
to the use we make of ’em. This disgrace you are
suffering now you may turn into one of the blessings
of your life; or it may make a thief or a vagabond
of you. Understand?”
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
Percy’s eyes twinkled like a clear, running brook,
as they looked into Jack’s, which fell before them,—the
lad remembering how really he had been a thief
and vagabond in his heart, an hour ago. Yes, he understood.
“Think it over,” said Percy. “Meanwhile you will
want a little money.”
“No, I sha’n’t!” cried Jack.
“But you will, though. Here’s a trifle, which
you can repay when it is perfectly convenient,” added
Percy, seeing that the proud boy would not accept a
gift.
“Well, if you lend it to me,” said Jack, receiving
the jingling coin in his palm. “I’ll pay you some
time. If I can only get that money of Hank Huswick!
I’ll go for it this very afternoon!”
“Well, good by,” said Percy, tying up his plants.
“Keep your head and heart right, and you’ll do well,
whatever happens. Come to me if you want help.
You know where I live.”
And he sauntered off across the field, looking curiously
at every bird and plant and stone.
“How happy he is!” thought Jack, following him
with yearning eyes. “And I was just so happy once!
Shall I ever, shall I ever be again?”
He revisited the spring, and afterwards made a
dessert of berries in a wild field hedged by raspberry
and blackberry bushes; then set out to find the Huswick
boys.
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch31
CHAPTER XXXI||TEA WITH AUNT PATSY.
.sp 2
Alone in her lonely little house, in the closing
twilight, Aunt Patsy had put up the leaf of her rickety
pine table, and, having placed upon it a pewter plate
and a cracked teacup, was busy preparing her humble
supper,—bending over the hearth, toasting a crust
of bread on a fork, beside a simmering teapot,—when
the door was softly pushed open and somebody
looked in.
“Who’s there?” shrieked the old woman, dropping
her toast and starting up in affright.
“Nobody but me; don’t be scared, Aunt Patsy.”
And the visitor glided into the room and softly
closed the door again.
“You! Jack Hazard!” she exclaimed, recovering
her self-possession. “Bless ye, lad, I’m always glad
to see ye. But vicious boys have played so many
mean tricks on me, I’m awful skittish! It’s gittin’
so dark I didn’t know ye at fust. Or is it that
odd-lookin’ hat you’ve got on?”
Jack laughed, and said he thought it must be the
hat that disguised him. “It’s a borrowed one; I’m
great on borrowing hats! Did I ever tell you how I
made free with Syd Chatford’s once? A very quiet
and accommodating gentleman was kind enough to let
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
me take this right off from his head; he’s standing
out in the open field bareheaded now, waiting for me
to return it.”
“What are ye talkin’? Set down, won’t ye,
and keep a poor body company for a little while?
You’re jest in time to take a cup o’ tea with me,
and eat a piece of Mis’ Chatford’s pie ye brought
me. I wish I had a candle; but I’m too poor to
indulge in luxuries. I can start up a flash of fire,
though.”
“Don’t start it up for me,” replied Jack. “I prefer
to sit in the dark.”
“But we must have a trifle of a blaze, to see to eat
by; besides, I want a glimpse o’ your face. Friends’
faces ain’t so common a sight with me that I can
afford to miss seein’ ’em when they do look in.
How’s Mis’ Chatford, and dear Miss Felton?”
“They seemed to be in their usual state of health
when I last saw them. I have left Mr. Chatford’s;
did you know it?”
“Left—Deacon Chatford’s! Why, lad, you
astonish me!” And Aunt Patsy, who was putting
some chips on the fire, turned and stared at her
guest. “I thought you was kind of adopted by
them.”
At this the cheery tone of voice in which Jack
had spoken began to fail him. “I—I thought—I
hoped so—too,” he murmured, standing beside the
mantel-piece. “But I have left. I can never go
back there again. I’m in a bad scrape, and even if
.bn 202.png
.pn +1
I get out of it I can’t go back; for there’s a lie
between Phin and me, and of course they believe
Phin and blame me,” he went on with swelling passion
in his tones. “I’ve just come in to say good by
to you.”
“Good by, Jack? You can’t mean it! Where
ye goin’?” And the amazed old woman and the
agitated boy stood facing each other in the flickering
firelight.
“I don’t know! I just want to see her first,—I
mean Miss Felton,—and get my dog; then I’m off;
no matter where. I mustn’t be seen here. You
couldn’t hide me, could you, if anybody should
come in? There’s a constable after me.”
“A constable! Why, what is the trouble? I’ll
bar the door, the fust thing!” The door was barred,
and then Aunt Patsy carefully arranged her dingy
window-curtains so that no spying eye could look in.
“Now, here is the wood-shed; you know that well
enough, often as you have been in it to split my
wood for me. The door is hooked on the inside.
You might slip in here, if anybody comes; and
then, if I give ye a signal, spring out of that door
or out of the back winder, either. But I don’t see
why anybody should be s’archin’ for ye in my
house!”
“Peternot knows I come here sometimes,” said
Jack. “But never mind. I’ve slipped through the
officer’s hands twice to-day. I’ll risk him!”
“Is it Peternot!” exclaimed the old woman,
.bn 203.png
.pn +1
angrily. “Tell me about it! Meanwhile ye must
drink a cup o’ tea with me.”
In vain Jack protested that he did not drink tea,
that he wasn’t hungry, and begged her not to
trouble herself for him. She removed the pewter
plate and cracked cup, and, reaching the top shelf
of her closet, brought down the last remnants of
an old-fashioned china tea-set, a couple of plates
and cups and saucers, once fair and delicate but now
much defaced by wear, the edges being nicked and
the original colored figures and gilding mostly gone.
While more bread was toasting, Jack began his
story.
“A trunk of money!” exclaimed Aunt Patsy,
interrupting him. “In Peternot’s woods! I wonder!
But go on, then I’ll tell you something!”
When he came to his adventure with the squire,
she broke forth again, “Jest like the mean old
miserly curmudgeon! He’s tried for fifteen year
to git my little morsel of a place away from me; but
he hain’t done it yit, and he never will, long as I’m
above the sod. But go on, go on, Jack; then I’ll
tell you a story!”
So Jack related all that had happened, down to
his encounter with Percy Lanman; by which time
the toast and tea were on the table, and the old lady,
though excited by the narrative, bade him sit up and
share her supper. “It’s a poor show, I know,” said
she, “but it’s the best I have; and I shouldn’t have
all this if ’t wa’n’t for you and Mis’ Chatford.”
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
“This toast is all I want,” said Jack. “I went to a
house about two hours ago and got a bowl of bread
and milk for ten cents. The woman didn’t want to
take anything, but I thought I’d let her know I
wasn’t a beggar, though I felt like one; for I’d
just had a wild-goose-chase after the Huswick boys
and my bag of money.”
“The Huswick boys! they’re as bad as Peternot
himself, though in a different way,” said Aunt Patsy,
sipping her tea in the dancing light of the fire, while
Jack, sitting at the table to please her, nibbled his
toast.
“I’ve done three silly things, one every time I put
any trust in those rascals!” said Jack. “First, when
I left ’em to guard the money while I ran for Mr.
Chatford; next, when I went with ’em to get it back
from the old squire; and again, when I went home
last night, instead of sticking tight to Hank and Tug
till we found Cub and the money.”
“That seems the weakest thing you have done,”
said the old woman. “Though if they meant to rob
you, your follerin’ on ’em up would have done no
good.”
“I thought of that; and I imagined it would have
a good effect if I took Hank’s word, and made him
believe I thought there was a little honor in him.
He may mean well by me still; but I’m pretty sure
he is dodging me on purpose. I found Dock and
Hod and Tug this afternoon; and they said Hank
and Cub had cleared out for a day or two for fear
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
they would be arrested for helping me break into
Peternot’s house. Tug vowed he didn’t know where
they were or what they had done with the money.”
“They’re playin’ you false,” said Aunt Patsy.
“But don’t mind. Now I’ll tell you my story, and
you’ll see you hain’t lost so much, and they hain’t
gained so much, as you and they think.”
“What do you mean?” cried Jack.
The old woman took a sip of tea and went on. “I
know about that money; at least, I know somethin’
about it. You’ve heard complaints agin my
fust husband,—how bad characters used to come
to our house, for one thing. I don’t deny but
what there was somethin’ in that, though he was a
good man to me; whatever else he was, he was good
to me!” And the old woman wiped away a tear.
“There was one Sam Williams,—I always telled
my husband he’d better have nothin’ to do with
him, for I was sure he’d come to some bad end;
and sure enough he did; he escaped from a constable
and was shot; died of his wound in jail. This was
a year or two ’fore my fust husband died; and ’twas
when the officers was arter him that he come to our
house one night with a little trunk of money.”
“Half-dollars?” said Jack, eagerly interrupting
her.
“I believe so, though I don’t remember for sartin
about that. He wanted my husband to keep it for
him; but I said, ‘Don’t ye have nothin’ to do with
it, if you want to keep out o’ trouble.’ Well, he
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
stayed with us from jest arter dark one evenin’ till
jest afore day next mornin’; and that was the last
we ever see of him. That must ’a’ been the trunk,
and he hid it in the woods. If it was,” added Aunt
Patsy, looking keenly at Jack across the corner of
the table, “then either Mr. Chatford or the goldsmith
has made a grand mistake.”
Again Jack anxiously demanded what she meant;
but just as she was about to explain herself, there
came a light rap at the door. He sprang to his feet
in an instant.
“Hish!” she whispered, shaking her finger at him.
She hurriedly replaced the extra plate and cup and
saucer in the closet, while Jack, stepping on tiptoes,
took refuge in the wood-shed. The rap was repeated
just as she reached the door.
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch32
CHAPTER XXXII||A STARLIGHT WALK WITH ANNIE FELTON.
.sp 2
Without removing the bar, Aunt Patsy called out,
“Who’s there? What do you want?”
“I want to see you, Aunt Patsy,” answered a sweet
feminine voice.
“Is it you, Miss Felton? Bless me!” And the
old woman hastily unbarred the door. “To think of
my keepin’ you standin’ outside! Come in, come in,
you darlin’!”
In walked Annie, fresh and smiling, but casting
nevertheless an anxious and wistful glance about the
room.
“I have just run over from my aunt’s,” she said;
“really, I can’t sit down. I thought you might have
some news of our friend Jack.”
“Jack?” said the old lady, in a voice loud enough
to be heard in the wood-shed. “What about Jack?”
“Has no one told you? I didn’t know but he himself—O
Jack!” exclaimed Annie, joyfully, taking a
quick step towards the door through which the youngster
at that moment advanced into the room, “I am
so glad to see you! I heard how you had got away,
and I was afraid we might never see you again!”
“I couldn’t go without seeing you once more!”
said Jack, trembling with emotion at this unexpected
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
meeting. “Though I wasn’t sure you would care to
see me.”
“O Jack! why not? Whatever you may have
done, I shall always feel an interest in you.”
“An interest in me!” said Jack, chokingly. “Bad
as I am, that’s kind!” He spoke bitterly, and drew
back from her with a look of disappointment.
“My dear Jack! you are not angry with me?”
“No! you might say what you like, I could never
be angry with you. But I didn’t think you would
believe anything so very bad of me, just from what
other people say. I hoped at least you would wait
and hear my story first.” And Jack, still turning
from her, wiped his quivering eyes with his sleeve.
“Have I said I believed anything very bad of
you?” asked Annie, softly.
“No, but whatever I might have done, you said.
That is, you don’t quite give me up, in spite of my
awful conduct!”
“Don’t you see, Miss Felton,” cried Aunt Patsy,
“he’s been so put upon and misused, he can’t be
satisfied without his friends take his part in downright
’arnest? That’s nat’ral. Half-way words won’t
suit him.”
“I know!” added Jack, with a passionate outburst;
“Phin’s her cousin; he’s a saint, and I am a
liar and a villain, of course, if he says so!”
“You know very well I don’t think Phin a saint,”
replied Annie, with gentle dignity, “any more than I
think you a villain. You are both boys, with the
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
faults of boys. From all I hear, you have not done
perfectly right in every respect; and I don’t think
you will claim that you have. If you expected me
just to pat you on the back, and say, ‘Poor Jack!
good Jack! how they have abused you!’ why, then,
you haven’t known what a real friend I am to you.
I came here this evening, hoping to find you, and to
do something for you. But if this is the way you
meet me, I suppose I might as well have stayed at
home.” And now she turned away.
“Don’t go!” Jack entreated. “O Miss Felton!
forgive me if I am unreasonable! But it seems so
hard to know that you think my enemies are in the
right! Do you believe I would break into a house
and steal; that I would make up a lie, to shift the
blame to Phin or his father or any one else? I can
bear to have others think so meanly of me, but not
you!” And the boy’s passion broke forth in uncontrollable
sobs.
She took his hand with one of hers, and laid the
other kindly and soothingly upon his shoulder.
“There, there, Jack!” she said, her own voice full
of emotion; “I don’t believe you would deliberately
steal or make up such a lie. I know you wouldn’t!”
“And as for the money,” sobbed Jack, “I did just
what Peternot’s own nephew, who is studying law,
said he should advise any one to do who found treasure
on another man’s land; he said, ‘Pocket it and
say nothing about it; keep possession, any way;
fight for it.’ That’s what I tried to do. Then after
.bn 210.png
.pn +1
I had been robbed of it, I went to take it again, and
that’s the cause of all my trouble.”
.if h
.il fn=i211.jpg w=600px
.ca
A TRUE FRIEND.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: A TRUE FRIEND.]
.sp 2
.if-
“I regard Squire Peternot’s course very much as
you do,” said Annie, still soothing the lad, with one
hand pressing his own and the other on his shoulder,
“though I’m not so angry at him. He has acted according
to his nature; not according to the Golden
Rule, very sure. But how few people act according
.bn 211.png
.pn +1
to the Golden Rule, Jack! If we were to quarrel
with all who fail in that respect, I am afraid we
should find ourselves in difficulty with nearly the
whole world. No, Jack; it’s useless to fly into a
passion with everybody we see acting selfishly and
meanly. It is much better to look carefully after our
own conduct, and see what we may be doing that is
wrong. Now I want you to walk home with me, and
tell me your story by the way; then we will see what
had better be done. Aunt Patsy will leave her door
unbarred, so that you can come back and see her
again.”
They went out together, and talked long in low
tones as they walked under the starlit sky across
the fields.
“Now, Jack,” said Annie, when they had reached
Mr. Chatford’s orchard, and stopped beside the little
brook that kept up its low liquid babble in the dark
shadows that half concealed it, “I have heard your
own story, and I can’t say that I blame you very
much for anything you have done. You have acted
naturally, but not always wisely. No doubt so much
money appeared a great fortune to you, and of course
something very desirable. But I am by no means
sure it would have been a good thing for you to have.
I’m afraid your head would have been turned by it.
You were doing well enough before. You were sure
of a good living, a good home, and a chance for yourself,
as I have heard you say with honest pride so
many times.”
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
“This is what my chance has finally come to!”
said Jack,—“no home, no future, but a constable at
my heels!”
“I can think of something that might be worse for
you than all that,—getting rich too fast. That’s what
ruins many. You were happy in slowly working
your way up the ladder, happier than you could ever
be again if you should suddenly find yourself at the
top. The money might not have harmed you, but I
am sure you could have done very well without it.
Don’t regret it if it is lost. And, of all things, don’t
associate yourself with bad companions or adopt unjustifiable
means to gain even justifiable ends. Better
submit to a little wrong. If your enemies succeed
in overreaching you, so much the worse for them.
Wouldn’t you rather be robbed than feel that you
have robbed another? I know you would, Jack!”
“You talk just like Percy Lanman!” said the boy,
his heart beginning to feel warmed and comforted.
“The young man who dove for you in the pond?
I heard Mr. Chatford tell about him.”
“I saw him in the fields afterwards, and he lent
me some money. He talked just as you do!” Jack
declared.
“Now, Jack,” said Annie, leaning tenderly on his
shoulder and looking into his face by the pale starlight,
while her touch and the tones of her voice set
a little stream of joy dancing and singing in his heart,
like the shadowy brook at their feet, “I’m going to
be frank with you; hear what I say. Don’t run
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
away. Don’t hide. Don’t try to shirk the consequences
of what you have done, but go home with
me now.”
“To Mr. Chatford’s?” said Jack with a start.
“Yes, just as if nothing had happened. Aunt’s
folks will receive you kindly, I know, from what they
have said.”
“Never!” said Jack. “I never can enter that
house again as long as there’s a lie between me and
Phin. It may be natural for his father to believe
him instead of me; but it’s something I never can
get over. No!” he added, as she would have urged
him; “I can go anywhere else, and suffer anything,
before I can go back there. Besides, how long before
Sellick would be after me again, and carry me off to
jail?”
“Worse things than that might happen to you,”
Annie replied.
“What?” said Jack.
“To go back to your former life and associates, to
fall again under bad influences, and lose all the good
you have gained since you have been with Uncle
Chatford’s folks; that would be worse. I don’t want
you to go to jail, but I’d rather see you go there innocent,
than run away as if you were guilty. How
proud I should be of you, if you could stand up and
say, ‘I may have done wrong, but I didn’t mean to;
now here I am, put me in jail if you want to!’ You
would be proud of yourself too! Your face would
shine as it never did before.”
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
“O Miss Felton!” said Jack, “that’s just the way
Percy Lanman talked!”
“Get rid of all rash thoughts of revenge and wild
living, and put your trust in Providence, and in your
own integrity,” she went on. “Be yourself, your
better self, always, and you’ll come off victorious
over everything. That’s my advice, dear Jack; and
if Percy Lanman gave you the same, I honor him for
it. Now will you come in with me?”
“I’ll go as far as the door with you,” said Jack,
“but I can’t go in; I can’t!”
As they emerged from the orchard and approached
the house, they could see through a lighted window
the family sitting round the evening lamp; Mrs.
Chatford sewing, the deacon reading, Mr. Pipkin
holding a skein of thread for Mrs. Pipkin to wind,
and Phin and Moses playing “fox-and-geese,” while
little Kate stood by looking over the board,—a picture
of quiet domestic enjoyment that reminded poor
Jack of what he had lost, and wrung his heart with
grief.
“Everything is just as it was before; nobody thinks
of me, nobody cares for me!” he exclaimed. “Good
night!” And, moved by a wild and passionate sorrow,
he broke from her gentle, restraining touch, and
disappeared in the orchard.
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch33
CHAPTER XXXIII||A STRANGE CALL AT A STRANGE HOUR OF THE NIGHT.
.sp 2
Wandering to and fro among the dark and silent
trees, Jack mastered his grief at length; then, remembering
that he had still one faithful friend, he went
to find Lion.
No affectionate whine welcomed his approach. He
spoke; he stooped and looked into the gloomy and
deserted kennel: no dog was there. Phin, foreseeing
the possibility of Jack’s return on some such errand,
had that night chained Lion in the barn, and the
door was locked.
Passing again near the house, Jack cast a vindictive
look through the window at Phin,—a look full of
wrath and misery, which was, however, softened a
little when he saw Annie, standing, bonnet in hand,
and O how beautiful! talking to the family. Mr.
Chatford had put aside his paper, and the women
their work, and the boys their play, to listen to her.
Jack knew she was talking of him; and it seemed
that he could almost hear the gracious words that
fell from those sweet, sad lips.
He watched until he saw all eyes turned upon
Phineas, and Phineas began to cry. She went on
into another room, and Mr. Chatford commenced
talking to Phin. Then Phin looked up through his
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
tears and made some violent protestation. The deacon
turned with a dissatisfied countenance to his
newspaper, while Phin slunk away and sat moping
in a corner.
“I’d rather be in my place than in his, anyway!”
murmured Jack. “I’d rather have anything done to
me than be mean and cowardly!”
The memory of all Annie Felton had said to him
came back upon his heart, which softened more and
more under the influence of that pure and gentle
soul, as he walked back through the fields to Aunt
Patsy’s house.
“I was dreadful ’fraid you wouldn’t come back,”
said the old woman, welcoming him. “See! I’ve
made up a sort of bed for you on the floor. You can
sleep here every night as long as you have to dodge
the constable.”
Jack, deeply affected by her kindness, regarded her
with struggling emotions for some moments before
he ventured to speak. Here was one of the outcasts
of society, of whom it was impossible for many people
to believe any good thing, who appeared to the
world a hardened, embittered, hateful old hag, and
nothing more; and yet how kind, how motherly even,
she was to him in his trouble! Thus there are people
all about us whom the world judges from having
seen only one side of them, and that their worst side,
while deep springs of human feeling lie hidden in
their lives.
Jack murmured his thanks, and said, “I wanted
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
to ask you more about that money. You said either
Mr. Chatford or the goldsmith had made a mistake
about it.”
“I’m sure on ’t,” replied Aunt Patsy. “So don’t
worry over your loss. There’s no doubt but what
that was Sam Williams’s trunk; and me and my husband
knowed as well as we wanted to that Sam was
a practised counterfeiter. Of course, the coin was
bogus.”
Jack took a quick step across the room, and, returning,
looked steadily at the fire.
“If I had only come and told you about it in the
first place!” he said. Then after a moment’s thought,
“Maybe I’ll come back and sleep on the bed you
have made for me; I’ll be here again in half an
hour, if I conclude to. Don’t wait for me longer
than that. Good night, if I don’t come back.”
“Any time to-night, I’ll let you in!” were her
last words as he left her door and disappeared in the
darkness.
He walked fast down the road, passed Peternot’s
house, turned the opposite corner, and kept on until
he came to a farm-house standing on a gentle rise of
ground near the street. He walked boldly up to the
door and knocked. A large-eyed, round-faced, cheerful-looking
woman appeared.
“Is the man of the house at home?” Jack inquired.
“He’s somewhere about the barn, with a lantern,”
replied the woman, regarding him with some curiosity.
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
“I’ll find him then,” said Jack.
As he approached the barn, he saw a man with a
lantern come out, leading a horse. Near the door,
which he left open, he set down the lantern in the
yard, and disappeared with the horse around a corner
of the barn.
“He’s just going to the pasture bars,” thought
Jack. “He’ll be back in about two minutes.” His
resolution began to waver. “I wish I had waited
till morning! Maybe ’t isn’t too late now. I’ll just
slip into the barn, anyway.”
He slipped into the barn accordingly, and seeing,
by the light of the lantern that shone in, a pile of
clean straw in one corner, the idea occurred to him
that it would make a very good bed. He couldn’t
help laughing as he lay down and covered himself
with it, thinking, “This is a joke I guess the joker
himself would relish!”
The man presently returned, took up the lantern,
looked into the barn as if to see that everything was
secure, closed a door leading to an adjacent stable,
and then retired, shutting the barn door after him
and fastening it with a padlock.
“There’s been a boy here for you; have you seen
him?” said the cheerful-faced woman when he reached
the house.
“I’ve seen no boy, and I don’t want to see
another for a fortnight,” replied the man, humorously;
“I’ve had enough of boys! What sort of a
boy?”
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
“He had his hat over his eyes, but he looked to
me just like that Hazard boy.”
“Jack? That’s too rich! Ha, ha, ha! The idee
of Jack’s giving his friend Sellick a call! Ha, ha,
ha!” laughed the merry constable.
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch34
CHAPTER XXXIV||HOW JACK WON A BET, AND RETURNED A FAVOR.
.sp 2
The next morning Sellick sat milking a cow in
the yard, when a clear, pleasant voice close beside
him said, “Good morning, Mr. Constable!”
He had heard footsteps and the rattling of a milk-pail
behind him, but had not looked around, thinking
it was Billy the farm-boy coming to help him. Now
he looked, however, and there stood his escaped prisoner
of yesterday, smiling, with a milk-pail in one
hand and a stool in the other.
“Ha! good morning, sonny!” cried Sellick, excitedly.
His first impulse was to spring and seize
the fugitive; his next, to sit still.
“You helped me milk yesterday morning, now I’ve
come to help you,” said Jack. “I like to pay my
debts.”
“That’s right! that’s fair!” said the astonished
constable.
“Which is the kicking cow? I don’t want to tackle
her!” quietly remarked Jack, surveying the little
herd.
“Try that heifer with the white forefeet,” replied
Sellick. “You’re an honest boy, as I said yesterday!
I’ve changed works many a time with a neighbor,
but I never had one return my little favors quite so
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
prompt! You kind o’ took my breath away! Where
have you been since we parted in that rather abrupt
fashion yisterday?”
“O, travelling about the country a little!” said
Jack, seating himself beside the heifer. “I thought
I would make the most of my opportunities; I may
not have another chance soon.”
“What trick is the fellow up to now?” thought
the constable. “He must have settled the affair with
Peternot!” So he said aloud, “Have you seen the
squire?”
“Not since I left him with you in the court-room.
The squire and I are not the best friends in the
world, I’m sorry to say. ‘Nice old man, the squire!’
But I’ve called on him once too often.”
“Where was you last night?”
“You kept me last night.”
“I kept you, sonny?” said Sellick, more and more
puzzled.
“Yes; I thought it was no more than fair that you
should give me a night’s lodging. I won’t ask you to
board me; I pay for my own milk, you know.”
“Yes, I know!” Sellick grimaced at the recollection.
“But where did you sleep last night? Not
under my roof!”
“Yes, I did, under your roof!” laughed Jack.
“Look here, sonny!” cried the incredulous Sellick,
“I’ll bet ye a trifle on that! I believe you’re an
honest boy, as I’ve said; but you couldn’t have slept
under my roof without my knowing it, unless Billy
.bn 222.png
.pn +1
smuggled you in, and he wouldn’t have dared to do
it!—Here, Billy!” An old-looking, broad-shouldered,
hollow-cheeked youth came into the yard. “Did
you take this fellow into my house last night?”
“I never saw him on the place before,” replied
Billy, “though I rather guess he’s the one Mis’ Sellick
says come to the door last evening and asked for you.”
“I came to your door, and afterwards slept under
your roof,” Jack insisted. “Since you offer to bet,
I’ll bet ye,—well, I’m no gambler, but I’ll say my
hat against a bowl of bread and milk.”
“No more milk! no more milk!” said Sellick,
good-humoredly. “That cupful of yisterday soured
on my stomach, if it didn’t on yours. Call it a
breakfast; I’m willing.”
“All the better,” said Jack. “Now just step into
your barn, and in the left-hand farther corner you’ll
find a heap of straw, which you’ll agree has been
slept on. There’s a pitchfork standing behind it;
and there’s a bound bundle, which I used as a pillow.
I walked in last evening and made myself at
home, while you were leading your horse to the pasture.”
“I can believe all that,” said Sellick readily. “But
my barn ain’t my house.”
“I said nothing about your house; I bet that I
slept under your roof.”
“Sonny, I give it up! Keep on in the way you
have begun, and you’ll make a joker, by the time
you’re a hundred year old. But what in sixty have
.bn 223.png
.pn +1
you come here for this morning? If that’s a joke too,
I can’t see it.”
“I thought you might like to finish that little ride
we began yesterday. Not that I’m at all anxious
about it,” Jack explained, “but your heart seemed
set on it; and, thinking it over, I concluded ’t was too
bad to disappoint you.”
“And you mean—” Sellick, sitting by his cow,
paused to grin at the young milker in puzzled astonishment.
“Yes, I do!” said Jack laughing; “I don’t mean
to spill any more milk, nor lock up any more court-rooms,
nor go through any more culverts, very soon.”
Then, as Sellick still looked incredulous, he added,
more seriously, “I’ve thought it all over, and made
up my mind to just this, if I’ve done anything to be
taken to jail for, why, then, take me to jail, if you
want to.”
“You’re deep!” said Sellick, still suspicious of
some cunning design hidden beneath Jack’s candid
avowal; “or else you’re a bigger fool than I took ye
for.”
“Have it which way you like,” Jack replied. And
having fairly committed himself to this open and
manly course, he felt his bosom swell with honest
pride and satisfaction. “Now, whatever happens,”
thought he, “I’ve done what is right; I’ll be true,
I’ll be my better self, I won’t lie or skulk, for anybody
or anything!” Or if he did not think this, he
felt it, and it made him brave and strong.
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
“You’re a smart boy to milk,” said Sellick, looking
at the contents of Jack’s pail when it was brought
to him. “If you git out of this scrape, I shouldn’t
wonder if I would hire you. What do you say?”
It did not seem to Jack that he could bear to live
so near Deacon Chatford’s house, and feel that he
might never enter it again as he used to do. Yet
such an offer was encouraging; and the confidence in
him which it implied, on the part of the constable,
touched his heart.
“There will be time enough to talk about that
after I get out of the scrape,” he said. “I can’t make
any bargain till then.”
“That’s right; that’s fair and honest. You’ll find
it a fust-rate place,” Sellick went on; “good living,
plenty to do, and a jolly man to work for. Do chores
this winter to pay for your board, and go to school
if you like; and next summer I’ll pay you wages.
Think on ’t, you’d better. Now for breakfast.
You’ve earnt yours, say nothing about the bet. You
can milk a cow twice as quick as Billy. Good boy,
but slow, is Billy; drea’ful modrit; stiddy as a yoke
of oxen. Fust summer he worked for me—Talking
about you, Billy,” said Sellick, as the old-looking
youth overtook them on their way to the house.
Billy, looking as if he was used to being made fun
of, said, “Sho!” and grinned, and hung his head.
“Telling how stiddy you be. Fust season he
worked for me, I had a good deal of chopping to do
over in the South Swamp. So fur off, men used to
.bn 225.png
.pn +1
carry their dinners. Billy went over every day ’cept
Sundays, all spring, till along into May, when I noticed
something mighty curi’s about his face. From
a straight line down his forehead and nose, all one
side was tanned like an Injin’s, while t’ other was
white as a lady’s.”
“Sho! ’t wa’n’t so!” said Billy.
“Fact. And this is how it happened. He went
over in the morning with the left side of his face
turned towards the sun as ’twas rising, and come
home at night with the same side turned towards the
sun as ’twas setting; worked in the shade of the
woods all day, and never turned his head going and
coming, ’cause he’s sich a stiddy boy.” And Sellick
set the example of laughing merrily at his own wit.
“Folks that work for you don’t git a chance to
come home with the sunlight on their faces,” grumbled
Billy. “You keep us to work till dark, and
sometimes by moonlight. You’ll find it so, if you
come to work for him,” he added, turning to Jack.
“’T ain’t like working for Deacon Chatford.”
As Sellick had the reputation of driving his hired
men early and late, this hit told; and he made haste
to change the conversation.
“Billy’s bilious. Billy’ll feel better arter breakfast.
Billy’s smart at one thing, if nothing else,—knife-and-fork
practice. If he worked as well as he
eats, there’d be no need of his sometimes staying in
the field till dark. But come in, come in; breakfast,
boys, breakfast.” And he led the way into the house.
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch35
CHAPTER XXXV||AT MR. CHATFORD’S GATE.
.sp 2
“How strange it seems,” said Mrs. Pipkin that
morning, “not to have Jack around! I don’t believe
I should have missed any one of you so much.
Somehow I can’t get used to his being away; can you,
Mrs. Chatford?”
A tear quivered in Mrs. Chatford’s eye as she
replied, “I can’t be reconciled to his going in the
way he did. I feel that we are responsible for the
boy’s future; and if he had died I could hardly have
mourned for him more than I do!”
This conversation took place at the breakfast-table,
and it did not seem to help the appetites of those
who heard it. The deacon shoved back his chair
with a dissatisfied look; for it was an uncomfortable
subject to him, firmly as he believed himself justified
in withdrawing from Jack his sympathy and support.
“I’m so glad he got away!” said little Kate; “but
I’m afraid they’ll catch him again!”
“Not much danger of that,” remarked Mr. Pipkin,
rising slowly from the table. “A boy smart enough
to do what he done yisterday, can keep clear of the
clutches of the constables if he’s a mind to. I’ll
resk Jack! I’d be willin’ to bet—By hokey!” he
exclaimed in astonishment, looking from the window.
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
“What is it, Pip?” cried Moses.
“I’ve lost my bet ’fore I made it! Jack!”
“Jack!” repeated several voices at once; and
there was a general rush to the windows. Annie
Felton’s face flushed, while Phin’s turned suddenly
pale. “Jack, and Sellick with him!” said the deacon,
unpleasantly surprised. “I hoped—Couldn’t
the boy keep out of the way! See what they want.”
Meanwhile Sellick, with Jack by his side in the
buggy in which they began their ride the day before,
had driven up to the gate and turned about.
“Hullo!” cried Moses, going out to them.
“Hullo back agin,” replied Sellick. “Fine morning.
How’s the folks? Good morning, Mis’ Chatford.”
“I can’t say I’m glad to see you!” exclaimed the
good woman from the door. “Poor boy! how does
it happen?”
“Jack took such a shine to me yisterday,” laughed
Sellick, “he couldn’t bear the separation; so he come
of his own accord to renew the acquaintance this
morning,—or last evening,—which was it, Jack?”
“O Jack! did you give yourself up?” cried Annie
Felton, alarmed to think he might have been led by
her advice to take an unwise step, until the sight of
his beaming countenance reassured her.
“He’s too modest to say so, but that’s jest it,”
Sellick answered for him. “I took him yisterday,
and he took me this morning—by surprise. I’ve
hardly got my breath yit. Bright boy, Jack! honest
boy! Says he has done nothing he ought to go to
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
jail for, but if we want to put him in jail, we can;
and I vow I don’t know but what that’s the right
view to take on ’t!”
“O Jack! is this so?” said Mrs. Chatford, hurrying
to the side of the buggy, and seizing both the boy’s
hands, while she looked up earnestly in his face.
“Yes,” replied Jack, smiling frankly, yet with
quivering lips and misty eyes. “After talking with
Annie last night,”—casting a glance of affectionate
gratitude at the schoolmistress,—“I concluded I
had been foolish. I didn’t know what I wanted to
run away for. If I have done wrong, why, I’m
willing to suffer for it. I know I’ve been wrong in
some things. The idea of finding so much money,
and then of having it taken from me, made me wild;
I wasn’t myself; but I guess I’m all right now, and
I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said, winking away a
tear or two.
“Bless you, dear boy! what have I to forgive?”
said Mrs. Chatford, while tears ran down her own
upturned face.
“After all you had done for me, to think that
I could be so cross and sullen to you and to
everybody, because Squire Peternot had wronged me;
and then to have such thoughts,—I can’t tell you
what bad thoughts I have had!” Jack exclaimed,
beginning to choke a little. “But they are gone
now, I hope. I’m just going to take what comes,
and make the best of it.”
“That is right! O Jack, I am so glad to hear you
.bn 229.png
.pn +1
talk so! If you can go to jail in this spirit, it will
do you no harm. I shall think more of you and hope
more for you than ever! So will all your friends.—Phineas,
come here, and tell your father to come!”
“Well, Jack! caught, after all, are you?” said Mr.
Chatford, walking slowly towards the gate.
“No, sir, not caught; Mr. Sellick won’t say I’ve
been caught,” replied Jack.
“No, I don’t take no credit to myself,” said Sellick;
“Jack’s here of his own free will, or he wouldn’t be
here.” And he told the story of Jack’s stay in the
barn the night before, and his sudden appearance in
the cow-yard that morning.
“I think you’ll be satisfied with him now,” added
Mrs. Chatford; “for he has come of his own accord to
make acknowledgments, and to ask our forgiveness.”
“I’m heartily glad to hear it!” said the deacon,
astonished and gratified. “As I said before, his falsehood
about Phineas, and his standing out so about it,
seemed to me worse than anything else. I rejoice if
he has owned up.”
“I’m ready to own everything that I’ve done wrong;
but that is different. I wasn’t going to say anything
about it; but if Mrs. Chatford meant that, when she
said I had come to make acknowledgments, why,
she is mistaken. I spoke nothing but the truth
about Phineas, and you’ll know it some day, and
then, maybe, you’ll be sorry for having accused me
of lying!” Jack struggled hard to control his feelings,
but now, having said this, he began to cry.
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
“Phineas! I told Phineas to come here,” said Mrs.
Chatford, “and now where has he gone?”
“I saw him sneaking off to the barn,” said Mr.
Pipkin. “He don’t seem to hanker arter a meetin’
with Jack, dono why!”
Mrs. Chatford was agitated; and the deacon appeared
strangely disturbed.
“It hurt me worse than anything,” Jack resumed,
wiping his eyes with his sleeve, “to have you think
I would try to get out of a scrape by flinging the
blame on to anybody else, and then lying about it.
And that’s the hardest part for me to get over. But
it’s natural you should think so. I don’t blame you.
I can wait for you to find out the truth; you will
some time. I’ve no ill-will against Phin, either; but
I don’t want to see him or have anything to do with
him. So don’t call him. I know just what he would
say.”
“Well, well!” said the deacon, walking up and
down the path in great trouble of mind. “No doubt,
no doubt! You may be honest. It’s a strange
misunderstanding! I hope it will be explained some
day.” But it was plain to see that the good man’s
prejudice against the boy was far from being overcome.
Meanwhile Moses went to the barn to find Phineas.
“What are ye sneaking off here for?” he cried.
“Why don’t you go and see Jack, and own up to
your lie about him? It’s your best way now.”
“Hain’t told any lie!” muttered Phineas. “Come
out here to watch Lion, fear he’d get away.”
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
“You sha’n’t have that excuse any longer!” exclaimed
the indignant Moses. “It’s too bad to keep
the poor brute chained in this way!” And, pushing
his brother scornfully aside, he loosed the dog. “Bellow,
will you? great baby!—Clear, Lion!”
Lion “cleared”; and in ten seconds, darting past
Mr. Chatford, and almost knocking Mr. Pipkin over
as he encountered that gentleman standing by the
gate, he leaped up on the buggy-wheel, whining, and
wagging his tail, and struggling to reach his young
master.
Jack reached down, and patted the large, noble head,
received the caresses of the eager, affectionate tongue,
and dropped a tear upon the canine nose.
“Tell Phin he needn’t keep him chained; I sha’n’t
steal him,” he said.
“Fine fellow!” said Sellick; “good dog! If you
come and work for me,”—in a low tone to Jack,—“bring
your dog with you; I’ll keep him.”
“Peternot ought to hear to reason!” exclaimed the
deacon. “Jack, why don’t you give up the money?”
“I don’t care for the money; I’d as soon give it up
as not,” Jack replied, very truly. “But I don’t know
where it is.” He checked a natural impulse to go on
and repeat Aunt Patsy’s story. Jack was shrewd, and
he did not believe that a revelation of what he knew
of the spurious character of the coin would have the
least effect in softening the squire’s mind towards
him. On the contrary, some advantage might yet be
gained by keeping the secret.
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
“I suppose the Huswick boys have got it,” said
Mr. Chatford. “The squire had a warrant out
yesterday for Cub and Hank; that’s a fact, ain’t it,
Sellick?”
“I’ll say this much,” replied the constable,—“arter
Jack give us the slip, we did make a call on our
neighbor Huswick, and found Cub and Hank had cut
stick. I never told anybody I had a warrant. You
may infer what you please.”
“Does Peternot know Jack has given himself up?”
“I see the hired man as we drove by; he said the
squire was tending prayers. Good old man, the
squire; has prayers in his family morning and evening.
I told the man to tell him; so he knows by this
time. He’ll be waiting to see his young friend.
And now, if you’ll hand out that little trunk you
told me you had ready for him yesterday, we’ll be
moving on.”
Mrs. Chatford talked earnestly with her husband
aside.
“I don’t know what to do or think!” said the
deacon. “I’ll see the squire again. He must hear to
reason!” And he walked hurriedly away towards
Peternot’s house.
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch36
CHAPTER XXXVI||THE “RIDE” CONTINUED.
.sp 2
Mrs. Pipkin brought out the valise which had been
packed the day before. Annie followed with an armful
of books.
“These will be good companions to you, if the
squire doesn’t relent,” she said, as she handed them
up to Jack with an encouraging smile.
“I’ve no hope of his relenting. But I don’t feel
as I did yesterday,” said Jack. He glanced at the
backs of the books. “I think I shall have a pretty
good time to read and study, there in jail! Don’t cry,
dear little Kate! I’m all right. Take good care of
Lion. Good by, all! O Mrs. Chatford! Miss Felton!
I shall never forget how good you have been to me!”
“Remember and read your Testament! I put it
in the valise,” said Mrs. Chatford.
“And keep a good heart! I’m sure it will all
turn out well. Good by, Jack!” cried Annie, as Sellick
drove away.
“Go back, Lion! back!” said the boy, hastily
wiping his tears. “Say good by to Moses!”
Phineas, peeping from the barn, and witnessing
these farewells, almost envied Jack, as he saw him
ride off with the constable; for already that wretched
youngster was beginning to feel there was a worse
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
prison for the mind than a jail,—that of its own
guilty thoughts.
.if h
.il fn=i235.jpg w=600px
.ca
STARTING FOR THE JAIL.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: STARTING FOR THE JAIL.]
.sp 2
.if-
Deacon Chatford and the squire stood talking together
on the roadside before Peternot’s house, when
Sellick drove up. The sight of their two faces was
enough for Jack. The deacon’s wore a disappointed
and gloomy expression; the squire’s was grimly triumphant.
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
“Hold on to him this time, Sellick!” cried the
old man as he limped towards the wagon, grasping
with trembling hand his horn-headed cane. “If he
thinks to work upon my feelin’s by this move, he’ll
find he’s mistaken. I know his cunning tricks!”
“Squire Peternot,” said Jack, calmly, “I never expected
to work upon your feelings. You can send
me to jail, I’m willing. You can have me brought
to trial, and convicted of breaking into your house, I
suppose; for I don’t deny what I’ve done.”
“You see how shameless he is!” said Peternot,
turning upon the deacon. “He’d as lives go to jail
as not! Little he cares for public opinion, the hardened
wretch!” And he struck the ground with his
cane.
“If I’m sent to jail for such a thing, the shame
will be on you, not on me,” Jack answered. “I
should think you cared little for public opinion, to
push a poor boy to the wall in this way!” his voice
beginning to quiver with a rising sense of his wrongs.
“Ho! that’s your game, is it?” said the squire;
“to make a martyr of yourself, and excite public
feelin’ agin me!”
“I never thought of such a thing!” Jack declared;
and he whispered to Sellick, “Do drive along!”
Mr. Chatford was at the same time saying something
in a low tone to Sellick on the other side of
the buggy. Then Sellick said, “Any last word,
squire?”
“My fust and last word to you is, look out for that
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
boy!” said Peternot, sternly. “That’s all!” And
he limped away towards the house.
“Jack!” then said Mr. Chatford, in an earnest
tone of voice, “haven’t you a last word for me?”
“Only to say good by, and to thank you for your
kindness to me—before this thing happened,” faltered
the prisoner.
“Not that!” said the deacon. “But I hoped—I
have declared I couldn’t do anything for you
till you had retracted that falsehood about Phineas.
You know, I can give bail for you, and keep you
out of jail till your trial; and I will!”
“On condition that I confess to a lie?” said Jack.
“Then I shall have to go to jail.”
“I can’t bear the idea of that!” said Mr. Chatford,
greatly shaken.
“It don’t trouble me much now,” replied Jack.
“It won’t be long before the court sits. I shall have
to go and have my trial then, anyway. And if you
should bail me, you’d be anxious about me all the
while,—afraid I might run away, and your bonds
would be forfeit.”
“No, no! not now, since you’ve taken this honorable
course, Jack! I’ll trust you; only—”
“Please don’t say anything more about that, Mr.
Chatford! And don’t worry about me. I’ve been
inside the jail; I know how it is there. I shall be
well off, with these books. Good by!”
“Better let him try it a spell, deacon!” laughed
Sellick, as he touched up his horse.
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
“The boy—somehow he makes me love him!”
muttered the deacon, gazing after the buggy with
troubled, yearning eyes. “I love him, and I believe
him!” And he hurried home.
“Tell you what, sonny!” said Sellick, who had his
own selfish reasons for cutting short this interview
before it should lead to a better understanding, “I’ve
thought what I’ll do. Promise to come and work for
me, and I’ll go bail for you. You shall kind o’ work
for your board till arter your trial; then, if you git
clear, we’ll strike a bargain for a year. What do you
say?”
Jack thought of his books, and of Sellick’s bad reputation
as an employer, and said to himself, “If he
bails me, he’ll expect me to hire out to him anyway,
for whatever he chooses to pay. In a year I should
be as hollow-cheeked and round-shouldered as poor
Billy! Working for my board till my trial comes
off, means working like a slave for nothing. I’d
rather have a little time to read and study.” Then
he said aloud, “I guess, Mr. Sellick, if it’s the same
thing to you, I’d a little rather go to jail.”
“To jail it is, then!” said Sellick, snappishly, for
he felt keenly the force of this reply; and he gave
his horse a cut.
.bn 238.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch37
CHAPTER XXXVII||ONE OF THE DEACON’S BLUNDERS.
.sp 2
Farmer Chatford hurried home, and, entering
the house, found the three women seated in a circle,
holding a solemn consultation.
Mrs. Chatford had just been saying, “I’m glad you
didn’t urge him, Annie. He don’t often make up
his mind in this way, but when he does it’s no use
arguing with him. I had said everything I could,
before, to induce him to be Jack’s bail; and when I
mentioned the subject again—”
The deacon inferred, with reason, from the sudden
manner in which this conversation ceased as he came
in, and the scowl Mrs. Pipkin gave him, that his own
conduct had been the topic of remark.
“Peternot is hard as a rock!” he said; then added
quickly, addressing Mrs. Pipkin, “Call the boys, or
your husband; tell ’em to harness up old Maje and
put him in the buggy, while I change my clothes.
I’ve thought of a little business in the city to-day.”
Mrs. Chatford and Annie exchanged glances; and
the former whispered, “I knew he couldn’t be satisfied
to let Jack go off so!” Then, following him to
the bedroom, “I’m glad you are going! I want
you to see the doctor, and tell him about Jack. He
will do what he can for him, I’m sure!”
.bn 239.png
.pn +1
“I guess there’s no danger but what Jack will
have everything done for him he deserves,” was the
ambiguous reply.
“Couldn’t you have any influence at all with the
squire?” said Mrs. Chatford, handing him his second-best
suit of clothes.
“No more than the wind that blows! Strange,”
added the good deacon, “how a man can be so set in
his way, and refuse to let any considerations of reason
or humanity have weight with him!”
“Yes, it is, very strange,” remarked Mrs. Chatford,
quietly.
“O papa!” cried Kate, running into the room,
“what is it about bailing Jack? Would that keep
him out of jail? and could you do it?”
“Hush, child!” said her father. “Bailing him might
keep him out of jail a little while; but what will that
amount to? He will have his trial all the same,
when the court sits. The evidence is clear against
him. He did break into Peternot’s house; and if he
didn’t steal the money, he stole the bag it was in;
that’s the way the squire argues. I’d bail him if
that would get him clear of the scrape, but it won’t.”
Just then Mose came in haste into the house, with
the astonishing announcement that two of the “Huswick
tribe” wanted to see his father.
“Cub and Hank?” cried Mr. Chatford from the
bedroom.
.if h
.il fn=i241.jpg w=600px
.ca
Bringing in the Treasure.—Page 241.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: Bringing in the Treasure.—Page 241.]
.sp 2
.if-
“No; Hod and Hick.” Hick (short for Hezekiah),
aged twelve, was the sixth of this interesting family
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
.bn 241.png
.pn +1
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
of boys. “They’ve got something; I shouldn’t wonder—”
“Bring ’em in!” said the deacon, “and be quick!
What can the scamps be after!”
He came out, buttoning his suspenders, just as Hod
and Hick marched in through the kitchen, one behind
the other, bearing a short pole on their shoulders,
with a curious burden hanging from it, about midway
between them. It was a common meal-bag, having
a compact but evidently heavy freight at the bottom,
while the loose top was twisted over the pole and
made fast by a cord.
“What’s that?” demanded the deacon. “The
money that’s made all this trouble!”
“Ya-a-s!” said Hod, grinning and snuffing, and
rolling his head from side to side, producing no small
amount of friction between his left ear and the pole.
“Boys say they don’t want it. Belongs to Jack.”
The deacon, far from suspecting that the rogues
had the day before tried to dispose of some of the
coin, and found it after all to be worthless, marvelled
at this show of honesty in a quarter where it was so
little to be looked for, and exclaimed, “I declare! I
can’t understand! What did they take this trouble
for?”
“’C-o-o-z!” said Hod, rolling his head again,
snuffing, and drawing his smeared sleeve across his
nose,—actions which Hick, at his end of the pole, did
not fail to imitate; for it was characteristic of these
young specimens of the Huswick species, that, reckless
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
as they appeared in their native wilds, they were
pretty sure to be overcome by a grotesque bashfulness
when brought within the doors of civilized beings.
“’Cause what?” demanded the deacon.
“C-o-o-z!” Hod rolled his eyes from him to
Annie and Mrs. Chatford, and used his other sleeve.
“Squire’s got out warrants for ’em. Take ’em to jail.
They don’t want noth’n’ to do with the money;
want you to make him promise he won’t have ’em
took up; then he may have the money, for all
them. They found it in the woods, where Jack hid
it.”
“I believe that’s a lie!” said the deacon. “But
no matter. I’ll make as good terms for ’em as I can.
Is it all here?”
“Ya-a-s; every dollar on ’t, so they say. Slip
her off, Hick!” and the two treasure-bearers lowered
their burden to the floor.
The deacon hastily untied the bag, looked into it,
and then as hastily tied it up again.
“Good aft’noon!” said Hod. “Aft’noon!” said
Hick. And they sidled towards the door, hesitating,
grinning, and smearing their sleeves.
“You can get some peaches as you go through the
orchard,” the deacon called after them, as they disappeared.
“Open the big chest there, mother! We’ll
lock up this stuff, till Peternot can be made to hear
to reason. Is the horse ready?”
Kate caught her father as he was going out. “I
want to send Jack something!” she cried. “I couldn’t
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
think of anything when he was here. But there’s
that half-dollar!”
“What half-dollar?”
“My half-dollar. Don’t you know? you borrowed
it of me the other day, when you wanted one to ring
with Jack’s on the doorstep.”
“But I gave it back to you.”
“No, you didn’t. You put it in your pocket. You
had on your old gray pants, and you haven’t worn
’em since.”
The deacon went back to the bedroom, took down
the said garments from a hook, and explored the
pockets.
“You’re right, my girl. Here it is now. Send it
to Jack if you like. What!” looking with astonishment
at the coin as he was about to give it to her.
“That ain’t my half-dollar!” the child exclaimed.
“That—that’s Jack’s!”
“Massy on me! Mother, see here! How under
the sun—” stammered the bewildered deacon.
“If that don’t beat all!” said Mrs. Chatford. “Feel
in your other pockets.”
The deacon felt, but no other half-dollar could be
found.
“Must be—I do declare!” he said, fumbling and
staring. “This piece has the very scratches on it!
I see! I see!”
“How is it? You said you gave this half-dollar
to the goldsmith!” exclaimed Mrs. Chatford. “I don’t
understand!”
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
“My plaguy absence of mind!” said the deacon,
scratching his head with one hand while he held the
coin in the palm of the other. “I must have put both
half-dollars in my pocket, not thinking what I was
about. Then—it was dark, you know—I gave the
wrong one to the goldsmith! gave him Kate’s instead
of Jack’s!”
“Then you came home and told Jack his half-dollar
was a good one! O deacon! it’s you that have
caused him all this trouble! He never would have
quarrelled with the squire, he never would have
broken into his house as he did, but for your strange
mistake!”
“’Twas a plaguy blunder! Counterfeit, counterfeit,
I’ll stake my life!” said the deacon, examining
the coin in the bag. “Say nothing to anybody; but—See
here, Moses! put it under the buggy-seat, and
fling a blanket over it.”
“Now, deacon!” pleaded his wife, “do use a little
more, I won’t say deception, but wisdom, more
than you do sometimes! Don’t tell the squire at
once all you know, for that will be just like you.”
“Think I haven’t any gumption?” cried the deacon.
“No, but you’re so honest, you never can use any
sort of art or concealment, you know that! That’s very
well in all ordinary business transactions; I wouldn’t
have you cheat a body, for any consideration. But
your blunder has got Jack into this scrape; and now
don’t explain to the squire till you’ve got Jack out
of it again.”
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
“As if I required to be told by a woman that a
little shrewdness may be necessary sometimes in
dealing with the world!” said the deacon. And,
climbing into the buggy with unusual alacrity, he
whipped away at an extraordinary rate of speed.
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch38
CHAPTER XXXVIII||THE DEACON’S DIPLOMACY.
.sp 2
Fiercely the squire was limping to and fro, between
his office-room and Mrs. Peternot’s kitchen,
compressing his lips, and striking the floor every now
and then with his cane, as he exclaimed, “He shall
lay in jail! I’ll prosecute him! State’s prison’s too
good for him!” when his wife called from the window,
“Squire! squire! Here’s Deacon Chatford,
jest drove up; beckonin’ and hollerin’!”
“What now, I wonder?” said Peternot, as he put
on his hat and went out, frowning, to meet his neighbor.
“Wal! what is it, deacon?”
“I’ve thought of a plan,” said Mr. Chatford, hurriedly.
“Get in here; we’ll talk as we ride. There’s
not a minute to lose!”
“What plan?” demanded the stern old squire.
“For settling the difficulty.”
“The diffikilty can’t be settled, unless peradventur’
the boy gives up the money.”
“That’s just it!” cried the deacon. “He said he
was willing to give it up; and now it’s fallen into
my hands.”
“The treasure? in your hands?” exclaimed Peternot,
limping quickly towards the buggy.
“That is,” said the deacon, remembering his wife’s
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
injunction, to use a little worldly wisdom on the occasion,—“yes,
I may say, in my hands, for I know
where it is; I’ve secure possession on ’t; and I’ve
resolved—But jump in! jump in! for we must
overhaul Sellick before he delivers the boy up at
the jail.”
“Wal, wal! This sounds like!—Wife! wife!”
called Peternot, “hand out my gre’t-cut! May be
cool ridin’.—In your hands? The best news yit!
It’s comin’ out right, arter all! But, as you say, we
must ketch Sellick ’fore he gits to the jail; the case ’ll
haf to go before the gran’ jury, if we don’t.—Wife!
wife! can’t ye step quick for once?”
Mrs. Peternot did “step quick for once”; out came
the overcoat, and into it went the stiff-jointed old
man. Then away rattled the buggy with the two
neighbors seated side by side.
“Ketch ’em ’fore they git to the jail, and I can
manage Judge Garty,” said Peternot. “But I must
have some guarantee that the coin will be actooally
restored to me, if I git the boy off.”
“If you require any other guarantee than my word
of honor,” began the deacon—“Get up, Maje, go
long.”
“That ought to be enough; sartin, sartin! pervided
you’re sure you can put me into clear possession of
the money, without any peradventur’ about it. Where
is it? at your house?”
“It was brought to my house half an hour ago by
two of the Huswick boys. And that reminds me,”
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
said the deacon, “one of the conditions is, that you
shall withdraw your complaint against Hank and
Cub. I forgot to mention that.”
“If they’ve re’ly gi’n up the booty—but I can’t
quite see into ’t!” said Peternot. “It don’t seem like
the Huswick tribe to part with plunder once fairly in
their hands, for fear of a writ out arter ’em. Must be
they don’t know the vally of the coin.”
“Very likely!” said the deacon, dryly. “At any
rate, they have sent it to me, and commissioned me
to make their peace with you.” And he whipped up
old Maje again.
“That seems fair. Though I own I’ve had my
mind set on punishin’ on ’em, the rogues! They
swindled me out of five dollars, when they carried the
coin home for me; but I s’pose I can afford to forgive
’em that. So I say, if I don’t find they’ve kep’ back
a part of the treasure, I’ll agree to drop the complaint.”
“And another thing, squire!” said the artful deacon.
“You must do the right thing by the boy; you
must do something handsome for Jack.”
“Yes, yes! sartin!” said Peternot. “I’ll make
him a present; can’t say jest what, but somethin’ liberal,
somethin’ fair and liberal, deacon, I promise!”
The deacon had to turn away to hide the smile
upon his features. He did not press Peternot, to know
what that “something fair and liberal” should be.
He now gave his attention to urging on old Maje’s
paces, fearing to mar a good matter by speaking a
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
word too much. Would not Mrs. Chatford give him
a little credit for “gumption” after this? Had he
not managed the affair with the sagacity of an accomplished
politician? He began to wonder a little at
the stupidity he had shown on some previous occasions,
a man of his diplomatic ability; thinking particularly
of the manner in which he had given Kate’s
half-dollar to the jeweller, instead of Jack’s.
“Strange how I could have made such a blunder!”
he remarked, inadvertently, to the squire.
“What blunder?” cried the squire, quickly.
Poor Mr. Chatford saw that he was on the point of
letting out the very secret he had prided himself on
keeping; and he lost faith in his “gumption” on the
spot.
“O, I’m such a terrible absent-minded man!” he
exclaimed. “I’m forever forgetting something. Remember
how I drove over to the Basin that Saturday
night, and walked home, never thinking of the horse
and buggy, till next morning, when we thought they
had been stolen, and had that famous hunt for the
thieves? That’s the way Jack came to live with us.
Pippy arrested him, and brought him home, and he
has been with us ever since,” Mr. Chatford went on,
congratulating himself on having steered clear of the
dangerous rock. “Get up, Maje! don’t be so blamed
lazy! There’s my nephew, Syd Chatford, crossing
the road; I’ll ask him if he has seen ’em pass.”
“I heard he had applied for the winter’s school in
our deestrict,” said the squire. “I hope you won’t
.bn 251.png
.pn +1
forgit my nephew’s claims. It’ll help clear up all
these diffikilties, and make us better neighbors than
ever, if you’ll bear in mind that Byron was one of
the fust to apply, and give him a trial.”
“I’ll do what I can,” replied the deacon; “for,
really, I don’t consider Syd just the man for the
place, though he is my nephew.—Here! hello!
Syd!” Syd, who had crossed the street, and was
walking towards the house, turned back at his uncle’s
call, and approached the buggy, in a smart, stiff way.
“I haven’t a minute to talk,” cried the deacon.
“Have you seen our Jack ride by with Neighbor Sellick?”
“Yes, about twenty minutes ago,” replied Syd.
“So long!” exclaimed the deacon. “Driving
fast?”
“Pretty good jog,” replied Syd. “What’s to
pay?”
“I declare, we must do better than this, squire, or
they’ll be there first, in spite of us!” And Mr.
Chatford chirped, and shouted, “Get up! go ’long!”
and lashed old Maje again, to the no small astonishment
of his nephew, who, gazing after the cantering
horse and rattling buggy, wondered if the usually slow
and quiet deacon had not been taking a glass of something
strong.
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch39
CHAPTER XXXIX||A TURN OF FORTUNE.
.sp 2
Sellick had a better horse than his neighbors, and
he too had been using the whip a little since Jack
respectfully declined working for him, preferring to
go to jail. The merry man could not help thinking
what a capital anecdote this would be to relate of
anybody else; but, as I have said, he did not greatly
relish a joke at his own expense.
His spirits rallied a little as they entered the city,
and he said laughingly, “You remind me of the man
on his way to the gallows, who was offered a free
pardon if he would marry a sartin woman in the
crowd, not over ’n’ above handsome. He looked at
her, shook his head: ‘Sharp nose, thin lips,’ says
he; ‘drive on, cartman!’ So, ruther ’n work for me,
you’ll go to jail! ha, ha, ha!” And Sellick began
to think he would have to tell the story, much as it
reflected on his reputation as an employer.
“I didn’t say just that,” replied Jack. “If going
to work for you would get me out of this scrape, I’d
do it. But I shall have to appear at my trial, and
then, if convicted of housebreaking, have to serve out
a sentence, anyway; so the little time I’ve to wait I
may as well spend in jail over my books.”
“I don’t know but you take about the right view
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
on ’t,” said Sellick, soothed by the explanation; and
the horse was allowed to slacken his speed. “I
thought fust you’d been talking with Billy. Billy
thinks he has a hard time; but he’s slow. Me and
you’d git along finely together!”
“There’s the jail!” said Jack, with a sudden sinking
of the heart.
“That’s the mansion,” remarked Sellick. “The
mouse-trap, I call it; easy to git in, hard to git out.
You’ll have to trade hats agin now.”
The constable, who had charge of the articles which
the prisoner had left at the squire’s at the time of his
escape, had let him put on the hat when they started
to ride over to the deacon’s; but it was necessary for
him to retain it in his custody.
“Never mind,” said Jack, “I sha’n’t have much use
for a hat here, I suppose. Old Scarecrow’s will do.”
“And arter your sentence, you’ll be furnished with
a cap at the public expense,” added the constable, as
he drove up to the door of the jail.
Jack looked with gloomy misgivings at the barred
windows and massy front of the great stone building;
and for a moment his spirit failed him. Had he not
acted foolishly in givinz-father,
Captain Berrick, there, with the other prisoners; all
his endeavors to do right, and his boasted chance for
himself, since that day; his friends left behind, whom
.bn 254.png
.pn +1
he might never see again; the strange calamity that
had overtaken him, the long confinement, the dubious
future. And the poor lad burst into tears.
“Come!” said Sellick. “Here we be at the end
of our journey, as the runaway pigs said, when they
went on the table, roasted, for dinner. Never mind
your things; I’ll hand ’em out, arterwards. Here
comes the kind-hearted keeper of this tavern to welcome
his guest. What! crying, sonny? Changed
your mind yit?”
“No!” and Jack was himself again. “I’m
ready!”—his resolution to pursue an open, upright
course, and take with a brave heart whatever happened,
returning like a strong tide to buoy him up.
“What’s that shouting?” said Sellick, glancing
up the street. “Hello! if there ain’t the deacon and
the squire coming arter us, lickety-split! Wait a
minute! Le’s see what they want.”
What they wanted was soon made manifest.
“Judge Garty recalls his jail warrant, or he will
do it; new developments in the case!” cried the
deacon, breathlessly, driving up.
“Pervided the boy consents to the arrangement,”
added Peternot. “The money is in our hands: he
agrees to abandon all claim on ’t.—What do you say,
before these witnesses?”
“I’ve already said I was willing to do that,” said
the astonished Jack. “But how—where did you
find it—the coin, I mean?”
“The Huswick boys sent it over to my house.
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
You abandon your claim to it, as the squire says, and
throw yourself on his liberality, on his well-known
generosity,” added the deacon, with a sly twinkle.
“He has promised to do the handsome thing by you,
the fair and liberal thing; and I’ve no doubt it will
be all you can ask, under the circumstances.”
“If he’ll get me out of this fix, I shall be satisfied,”
said Jack; “I’ll trust the rest to his—liberality, as
you say.” And his heart gave such a leap of joy at
the thought of getting off so easily, that he came near
betraying his knowledge of the spurious character of
the coin, by some mirthful demonstration.
“Now you’re reasonable; now you talk as a boy
should!” cried Peternot, approvingly. “Turn about;
le’s hurry back to the judge’s office, and have the
matter arranged.” For the old man was as anxious
to secure the treasure, as Jack was eager to regain his
freedom.
“You spoke jest in time,” said Sellick. “A minute
more, and the prisoner and the paper would have
gone out of my hands.—No, thank you!” to the
jailer; “you’re very kind, but I don’t think I shall
need to trouble you this morning,—unless the boy
insists on ’t?” turning to Jack.
As Jack did not insist, the two buggies were turned
about and started for home; Sellick, with his fresher
horse, taking the lead.
“Old Maje is perty well used up; guess the deacon
never drove him quite so hard before. One
thing,” added the constable, “surprises me, that both
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
him and you should have been so willing to give up
all the money, to buy off the squire. Between ourselves,
he’d ’ave been glad to take one half.”
“Think so?” replied Jack, coolly. “Well, it’s too
late now. Let him have it. I’ll trust to his liberality.”
“He’s got about as much liberality as an old sow
with a litter of fourteen squealing pigs and a scarcity
of swill,” was Sellick’s rather coarse but expressive
comparison. “Not that I’ve the least thing agin
him; nice old man, the squire! Come! what do you
say now to hiring to me?”
This question recalled to Jack’s mind the obstacle
which lay in the way of his return to Mr. Chatford’s
house, and his joy became clouded by a serious
trouble.
“Come and bring your dog, you know,” said Sellick.
“I’m a famous story-teller; boys all like me;
we’ll have grand times together. What do you think
you can earn? Four dollars a month?”
“I should hope so, twice that!” replied Jack,
thinking this was perhaps the best he could do.
“Say six dollars, when you ain’t going to school.”
And Sellick went on to flatter and coax the homeless
lad. “Anything I can do for ye? Come, ain’t there
something?”
“Yes,” said Jack, “one thing. I haven’t felt just
right about this old hat I took from Mr. Canning’s
scarecrow. We’ve plenty of time, they are so far
behind us,” casting a backward glance for the squire
.bn 257.png
.pn +1
and the deacon. “Drive round that way, and I’ll
leave it where I found it.”
Sellick consented. Taking a by-road, he crossed a
bridge, and drove on the north side of the canal
towards the Basin, soon striking the road which
passed the Canning cornfield.
Jack jumped out at the well-remembered length of
fence, which he climbed again, and, running betwixt
the rustling rows, discovered the patient man-of-straw
waiting, bareheaded, and surrounded by blackbirds,
just as he had left him the day before.
“I wish I could return the ears of corn I took, in
the same way,” he said to the constable, as he went
back to the wagon; “but there are slight difficulties;
so never mind!”
.bn 258.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch40
CHAPTER XL||THE SQUIRE’S TRIUMPH.
.sp 2
They found Judge Garty in his office; and soon
after the deacon and Squire Peternot arrived. Once
more Jack, but now with a lighter heart than before,
stood before the weak-eyed, hard-winking magistrate,
who supposed that the prisoner, having been retaken,
was now to be admitted to bail.
“Not exac’ly that,” said Peternot, while Jack listened
with a trembling interest. “New sarcumstances
have come to light, havin’ a bearin’ on the case. I’ve
an understandin’ with the boy; I’m satisfied he didn’t
intend burglary; it turns out to be re’ly a trivial
offence; so I’ve ventur’d to bring the officer back
with him, and I want you to recall your mittimus,
assume jurisdiction in the case, and discharge the
prisoner.”
“That’ll suit him, I’ve no doubt,” said Judge
Garty, winking placidly at Jack about forty times.
“It’ll suit me to be discharged,” replied Jack, with
a smile, “though I can’t say I understand his talk
about it.”
“A justice of the peace can’t decide in anything
so serious as a burglary case,” said the deacon. “But
since the complainant is convinced that it wasn’t
intentional housebreaking, it is different. The justice
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
can assume jurisdiction, that is, take the case in
hand, and decide it.”
“’T will be a little irregular,” remarked Judge Garty,
rubbing the top of his bald head with the feather
end of his quill pen, and winking wonderfully fast.
“Moreover, there’s the costs. I suppose the complainant
will in this case pay the costs?”
“Sartin, sartin,” said the squire, thinking he would
thus discharge all obligations to the boy he had persecuted.
Judge Garty accordingly went through the formality
of putting Peternot under oath again, hearing the
case, and pronouncing the prisoner discharged, all in
about three minutes’ time. Then Peternot, with a
grimace and a twinge, pulled out his pocket-book,
and paid the following bill:—
.sp 2
.ta h:60 r:8
Costs of court | $2.35
Mittimus, and binding over witnesses | .50
Witnesses’ fees and travel (2 miles each, 5 cts. a mile) | 1.20
Sheriff’s fee | 2.50
Lock broken by sheriff after prisoner had\
locked up the court, and it became necessary\
for the court to get out | .25
Window broken by ladder | .37
| _____
Total | $7.17
.ta-
.sp 2
As Peternot and his nephew were the witnesses,
the squire’s actual expenditures in the case amounted
to five dollars and ninety-seven cents.
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
“Now!” said he, eager to be consoled for what had
caused him such a pang, “for your part of the agreement,
deacon!”
“Well, come with me,” said Mr. Chatford, with a
peculiar smile. “The treasure ain’t far off.”
And, leading the way down the office stairs, to his
buggy standing at the foot of them, he pulled up the
seat, lifted a horse-blanket, and pulled from beneath
it the squire’s meal-bag and its heavy freight of coin.
Peternot grasped it eagerly.
“I must say, deacon, you’ve played this perty
well! I’d no idee you had it with ye! I ’most wish
you hadn’t made it quite so public, though,” for the
usual village crowd had assembled. “I’m afraid—I—I
ruther think I’ll take it over to the store and
have it locked up in the safe.”
“You haven’t settled with the boy; what ye going
to give the boy?” cried Sellick, comfortably patting
his fee in his trousers-pocket.
“The boy!” echoed Peternot, a frown of displeasure
clouding the sunshine which played for a moment
over the barren and rocky waste of his features.
“Arter all the trouble and expense he’s put me to?
I said I’d be liberal, and I have been liberal. I’ve
paid the costs of court, and got him off; for which he
may thank his stars, and think himself lucky. I
won’t be hard, though.” The squire put his hand
into the bag, as if about to present Jack one of the
rusty half-dollars; but changed his mind, and
thrusting his hand into his pocket, took out a silver
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
quarter. “Here! take that! I’ve nothin’ else to
give ye.”
Jack laughed, took the coin, and immediately presented
it to a shabby little old man in the crowd, who
received it with quaint surprise.
“You are Mr. Canning, I believe,” said Jack.
“That’s my name, that’s my name. But what’s
this for? What’s this?”
“I had to borrow a hat from your scarecrow, and
take a few ears of your corn to roast, yesterday,” said
Jack. “I’ve returned the hat, and this is to settle
for the corn. I’m going to begin life new, and I
want to begin right with everybody.”
“That’s right, that’s right! You’re welcome to the
corn, though; welcome to a few ears of corn, to be
sure! to be sure!” cried the shabby old man, pocketing
the money, however, and walking off with it,
looking, in his old-fashioned, long-tailed, tattered coat,
like one of his own scarecrows out taking a little exercise.
“Come, Jack, where are you going?” cried the
deacon.
“Back into the office, to find the hat I left there
when I ran away.”
“I carried that home. Now let’s be going.
There’ll be an outburst in a minute,” said the deacon,
casting an anxious glance after Peternot, who
was carrying his bag of coin into the jeweller’s shop.
“Jack is going home with me; me and him’s
struck a bargain,” said Sellick.
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
“Fie, fie! nonsense!” said the deacon. “We can’t
spare Jack; he’s going with me.”
“I’ll ride with you. I’d like to talk with you a
little, and go home and say good by—and—and
get my dog,” faltered Jack; “but you know—”
“Yes, yes! that misunderstanding between you
and Phineas. O, never mind about that!”
“I must!” said Jack. “He is your son, and of
course you don’t want—”
“I want what’s right, son or no son. Come
along!” And the good deacon half lifted Jack into
the buggy. “There’s Peternot now!”
It was Peternot, indeed, rushing out of the jeweller’s
shop with wrath in his countenance and several
spurious half-dollars in his hand.
“Wait! wait!” he shouted, advancing towards the
buggy as fast as his limp would allow. “Deacon!
how’s this? You’ve desaived, you’ve ruined me!”
“Deceived! ruined you! how so?” asked the
deacon, calmly.
“He says you brought him a half-dollar to test,
but not one of these!” cried the excited squire.
“Yes, yes; a blunder of mine; I was telling you
how dreadful absent-minded I am, you remember.”
“These are counterfeit!”
“Are they, indeed? Well, I’m not surprised.”
“But you never told me!”
“No, squire; I’d done so much mischief by telling
that the coin was genuine, I thought I’d hold my
tongue, after I found out what a mistake I’d made.
.bn 263.png
.pn +1
But I don’t see that you are ruined. You’ve given
yourself some trouble and expense, in order to get the
treasure into your hands, that’s all. You’ve done
one good thing, though, in getting this boy off, and
we appreciate it.”
.if h
.il fn=i262.jpg w=600px
.ca
THE SQUIRE’S TRIUMPH.
.ca-
.if-
.if t
.sp 2
[Illustration: THE SQUIRE’S TRIUMPH.]
.sp 2
.if-
“I’ll have him up agin!” said the squire, furiously.
“O no, neighbor! I hardly think you will. No
‘new circumstances’ have come to light in his case
.bn 264.png
.pn +1
since you swore to your last statement; and for you
to complain of him again would plainly be a case of
malicious prosecution. He ain’t to blame for my
blunder. I deceived him with regard to the coin; he
hasn’t deceived anybody. Didn’t know but what it
was good till this minute; did you, Jack?”
“Yes,” said Jack, with a grin. “Aunt Patsy told
me last night it was some of Sam Williams’s bogus.
But I thought it just as well not to say anything
about it. I wanted to see how liberal he was!”
The deacon smiled, the spectators laughed, and
Peternot, turning angrily on his heel, stalked back to
the jeweller’s shop, where he had left his bag of
“treasure.”
“Well, now we’ll go home,” said the deacon,
touching up old Maje.
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch41
CHAPTER XLI||HOW IT ALL ENDED.
.sp 2
Great was the joy at the farm-house over Jack’s
return. Mrs. Chatford shed motherly tears on his
neck; little Kate hugged him as high up as she
could reach; while Mrs. Pipkin, and Mr. Pipkin and
Mose, who had just come in to dinner, looked on with
faces shining with delight and sympathy. Only Phin
appeared not altogether enchanted with the turn
affairs had taken; and the envious, hypocritical expression
of his grinning face changed to genuine
alarm as Mr. Chatford said, “Jack has come just to
say good by, and to get his dog.”
“His dog?” cried Phin. “Our dog! He can’t
have our dog!”
“It is his dog, and nobody else’s,” said the deacon,
sadly. “And though I don’t want to part with either
of ’em, especially since Jack has shown himself such
a man, we can’t detain him; and of course he can take
his dog, if he chooses. Sellick has made him an offer.”
“But you haven’t accepted it, have you, Jack?”
said Mrs. Chatford.
“Not yet, but—”
“What does he go for?” demanded Phineas, disturbed
at the prospect of losing Lion.
“Because you’ve lied about him, and he can’t live
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
in the house with you!” said the deacon, with extraordinary
sternness.
“I didn’t lie,” whimpered Phin. “I remember
now I did say something to him like what he said.”
“Then own up that it was a lie!”
“I didn’t mean it; I wanted him to get back his
money, and I thought you said something of the kind.”
“You thought no such thing! O Phineas! Phineas!”
And the deacon almost wept with sorrow over
his son’s meanness and untruth.
“I hope you’ll forgive me; I hope he will,” whined
Phin.
“I do,” said Jack, frankly, “now that you have
owned up.”
“And you’ll let Lion stay?”
“Lion is all he cares for!” said Moses, with angry
contempt, as Phin slunk away out of sight.
“O, here comes cousin Annie!” cried little Kate.
Jack ran eagerly to meet his dear friend, but
started back on seeing at her side his new acquaintance,
Percy Lanman.
The beautiful schoolmistress kissed him openly, in
right sisterly fashion, and rejoiced over the good
news. Percy pressed his hand warmly, and said,
with that bright, good-humored look of his, “I was
out botanizing, and stopped at the school-house to
get news of you; and as Miss Felton was just starting
to walk home, I walked with her.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Jack. “Here is the
money I owe you.” Percy took it with a smile.
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
“There! now I’ve paid all my debts, I’m even with
the world, and ready to begin again!—Yes, Kate,
dear Kate! I’ll stay; I’ve nothing to go for now.—Old
Lion! get down, you good fellow! you silly boy’s
dog!” And Jack dashed away a tear. “You are all
so good to me! I never was so happy in my life!”
And yet it gave him a curious feeling, something
that was not quite unclouded joy, to see his two
friends, Percy Lanman and Annie Felton, standing
there, smiling, side by side. Though what there was
in that to trouble him I cannot precisely say; can
any one guess?
Still a happy boy indeed was Jack. His great
trouble had passed by; and he had no more dread of
the jail, of trial and sentence. His brief experience
of the cares and snares of riches had taught him
wisdom, and the upright course he resolved upon
at last had developed a conscious strength and manliness
in his heart, richer than any fortune. He
was once more in his dear home, with his dearest
friends around him, their confidence in him restored,
and their love for him increased. And now, not selfishly
as before, but very gratefully, very lovingly, he
felt that he had for the first time in his life, rightly
and truly,
.sp 2
.nf c
A Chance for Himself.
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.hr 60%
.nf c
Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
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.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a \
predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
.if-
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