THE SCRAP AT COBHAM’S CORNER.
“See here, Dick Armstrong; when you’ve taken that water into the house,
I want you to clean these. Do you understand?”
The speaker, a sallow-complexioned, overgrown boy of seventeen,
threw a pair of mud-bespattered boots at the feet of a sun-burned,
healthy-looking lad about a year his junior, while a grin of satisfied
malice wrinkled his not over-pleasant features as he thrust his hands
into his pockets and started to walk away.
“Who are you talking to, Luke Maslin?” answered Dick, hotly, not
relishing the contemptuous manner in which he had been addressed.
“Why, you, of course,” replied Luke, with a sneer, pausing about a yard
away. “You’re dad’s boy-of-all-work, aren’t you?”
Unfortunately for Dick this remark expressed the exact truth.
He was Silas Maslin’s boy-of-all-work, and his lot was not an enviable
one.
His clothes were bad, his food scarce, his education neglected, and
having arrived at the age of sixteen years he eagerly longed to cut
loose from his uncongenial surroundings and make his own way in the
world.
If Dick felt obliged to submit to Mr. Maslin’s tyrannical treatment,
that was no reason, he contended, why he should allow his son Luke to
bully him also.
Although he had never done anything to deserve Luke Maslin’s ill will
and often went out of his way to do him a good turn, Luke never lost a
chance to make life miserable for Dick.
In fact, all friendly advances on Armstrong’s part, instead of winning
his favor, seemed rather to impress him with the idea that Dick was
afraid of him, which was far from the truth.
On this particular occasion Dick was not in the best of humor, for
Mr. Maslin had just been savagely abusing him because he had taken a
longer time than the old man had considered necessary to fetch certain
supplies for the store from Slocum, a large town about ten miles
distant. So when Luke flung the last remark at him he angrily retorted:
“Well, I’m not yours, at any rate.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Luke, in a disagreeable tone.
“Just what I said!” answered Dick, defiantly.
“Do you mean to say that you don’t intend to do anything I ask you to
do?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
Luke advanced a step nearer the other, looking decidedly ugly.
“How you ask me,” replied Dick, setting down the pail to relieve his
arm.
“I s’pose you’d like me to take my hat off to you, Dick Armstrong, and
say please, and all that,” Luke returned, scowling darkly. “It strikes
me you’re putting on too many frills for a charity boy.”
Charity boy!
This slur, which Dick felt to be utterly undeserved, stung him more
than anything Luke could have said.
He turned pale with sudden rage, and his temper burst forth with a
violence all the more terrible because held so long in check.
Snatching up the pail of water as though it were a feather, he dashed
its contents over his tormentor, drenching him from head to foot.
If the heavens had fallen, Luke Maslin couldn’t have been more
astonished.
That Dick Armstrong, the despised factotum of the establishment, would
dare to resent any aggression on his part was something Luke had not
dreamed of.
Heretofore when he chose to bully his father’s drudge the boy had
submitted with the best grace he could.
Now Dick actually had the temerity not only to resist, but to assume
the offensive.
After the first sputtering gasp of surprise, Luke recovered himself and
sprang at Dick with a howl of the fury that fairly blazed from his eyes.
Realizing that he was in for trouble, Armstrong prepared to defend
himself to the best of his ability.
Although his opponent had the advantage of him in height and was
furious enough to be dangerous, Dick was not troubled with any
misgivings as to the result of a clash between them.
He had every confidence in his own powers, for he was compactly built,
was unusually strong for his years, and moreover, being very angry, was
reckless of the consequences.
Whether it was that Maslin was naturally clever with his fists or Dick
was awkward or slow in putting himself into a posture of defence,
certain it is Luke’s right arm went through his opponent’s guard and
Dick received a stinging blow on the side of his head that staggered
him for a moment.
A second whack, this time on the chest, thoroughly aroused Dick and,
seeing his chance, he struck out with all the force he was capable of
and caught Luke full on the nose.
His head went back with a jerk, he slipped on the grass, and was down
in a moment, the blood flowing freely from his injured organ.
Contrary to Dick’s expectations, Luke made no effort to get up and
resume the battle.
It began to look as though that one blow had knocked all the fight out
of him.
Whatever satisfaction his opponent felt at such a decisive result was
dissipated in a moment by an unexpected whack on the ear from behind,
and turning to confront this new danger he found himself face to face
with Silas Maslin, who was in a towering rage.
“You young rascal, how dare you strike my son!” he exclaimed, furiously.
“He struck me first,” Dick answered doggedly, rubbing his ear, for the
slap had been no gentle one.
“What’s that? Didn’t I see you fling that bucket of water over him, you
little villain?”
“I did that because he insulted me,” replied the boy, with spirit.
“Don’t you dare talk back to me in that fashion, or I’ll flay you
within an inch of your life! Go into the store at once!”
Silas Maslin raised his foot as though it was his intention to boot the
boy.
He did not do so, however, and it was well for him that he did not.
That was an indignity Dick would not have submitted to from any person,
not even from Silas Maslin, much as he held him in awe.
The boy was glad to avail himself of the chance of getting beyond his
tyrant’s reach, and was presently drawing a quart of molasses for one
of the customers of the establishment.
Mr. Maslin kept a small general store at Cobham’s Corner, on the
outskirts of the village of Walkhill, in the State of New York.
The building stood within a few yards of the Erie Canal, facing the
country road, which at this point crossed the narrow waterway by means
of a stout wooden bridge.
The houses that constituted the village were much scattered, and owing
to the heavy growth of trees not one of them could be seen from the
store; but by standing on the centre of the bridge the short, stumpy
steeple of the small, wooden church could just be made out looming up
through the topmost branches in the near distance.
The post-office was located at the store, and the farmers for miles
around came here for their mail and to replenish their supplies from
Mr. Maslin’s stock of goods, which consisted of about everything needed
by the little community, from a needle to a cultivator.
Mr. Maslin’s household consisted of his wife, a sour-faced woman on
the shady side of forty; his son Luke; John Huskins, a hired man, who
attended to the main part of the work in the fields--for Silas Maslin
had some forty acres under cultivation--and Dick Armstrong, who helped
in the store when necessary, did the chores, and assisted Huskins.
Between the two boys, Luke had all the advantages of the situation.
He went to school as long as school kept, took part in all the village
sports, visited his schoolmates, attended all the social gatherings he
felt disposed to join, and carried his head pretty high generally.
But for all that he wasn’t at all popular.
Dick, on the other hand, came in for the short end of everything.
He attended school when Silas Maslin chose to let him do so, under
which circumstances his attendance was decidedly irregular.
For the larger part of his time from daylight to dark he was kept on
the hustle, as Mr. Maslin was never at a loss to find something for him
to do.
Everybody knew Dick Armstrong, of course.
He was a good-looking boy, naturally bright, was obliging and polite
to everybody with whom he came in contact, and consequently was well
liked by everybody in the district, and was an especial favorite with
the girls, who when they came to the store for mail or to purchase
something preferred to have him wait upon them.
As Luke was ambitious to shine with the fair sex himself, he resented
their partiality for Dick, and as he couldn’t very well get square with
the young ladies, he vented his ill humor and spite on the object of
their attention.