LEAVING HIS HOME.
At that moment Mrs. Maslin appeared in the doorway and, perceiving her
husband stretched motionless on the floor with the blood streaming down
his face and Dick Armstrong standing over him in an attitude of defence
with his fists half clenched--for the mishap which had overtaken
Silas Maslin had been so sudden that he stood quite stupefied with
surprise--she conceived the idea that the boy had struck down her lord
and master, perhaps killed him.
“Help! Help! Murder!” she screamed loudly, dashing open the window and
making the air ring with her shill cry.
Huskins, the hired man, was coming into the yard from the fields.
He heard Mrs. Maslin’s frenzied cries, saw her violent gesticulations
as she leaned out of the window, and thinking the house was on fire, he
dropped the implements he was carrying and ran forward.
In the meantime Dick had raised Silas Maslin to a sitting posture and
was trying to stanch the blood with a corner of the coverlet which
belonged to his bed, when Mrs. Maslin turned around and saw what he was
doing.
“Don’t you dare touch him again, you young villain!” she screamed,
suddenly attacking the boy with her bony fists.
“What’s the matter with you?” objected Dick, trying to ward off her
blows. “Why don’t you get some water and try to bring him to? What do
you mean by pounding me in that way?”
“You ruffian! You murderer! I knowed you was born to be hanged!” yelled
the excited woman, thumping the boy about the head and arms till he
had to retreat out of her reach to save himself, for he had no idea of
striking back at her.
Then she grabbed her husband in her sinewy arms and started to drag
him from the room just as Huskins appeared on the scene and stared in
astonishment at what he saw.
“Don’t let that boy escape, John!” cried Mrs. Maslin. “He’s made a
murderous attack on Silas, and ef he hasn’t killed him it’ll be a great
wonder.”
“You don’t mean Dick, ma’am?” exclaimed Huskins, in evident wonder.
“I don’t mean nobuddy else,” snapped his mistress, sharply. “Tie him up
so he can’t get away, and then run for the constable. Lands sake! It’s
a wonder we haven’t all been killed in our beds afore this! I never
knowed he was such a desprit boy.”
Mrs. Maslin then bore Silas into her own chamber in the front of the
house, and set about bringing him to his senses.
“What’s up?” asked Huskins of Dick.
He had always liked the boy and didn’t know what to make of the
situation.
“Mr. Maslin came up here and accused me of taking money out of his
till in the store, and when I denied it he started to seize me, when
his foot caught in that hole in the carpet and he pitched forward,
striking his head against the corner of my box and cutting his forehead
open. The shock must have stunned him. Then Mrs. Maslin appeared, threw
up the window and began yelling like a crazy person. I tried to do
something for Mr. Maslin, but she attacked me furiously, calling me a
ruffian and a murderer, and I don’t remember what else. I tell you,
John, things are getting altogether too hot for me here. Between Luke
and the rest of them I am having a dog’s life of it. I might as well
get out now as at any other time.”
“I shouldn’t blame you if you did. I should, if it was me,” replied
Huskins, who knew what a hard time the boy had of it and really pitied
him.
“I don’t believe Mr. Maslin has lost any money,” said Dick,
indignantly. “I know I didn’t take any. I’m not a thief.”
“Maybe Luke took it,” suggested the hired man, with a peculiar wink.
“Luke!” exclaimed Dick in surprise. “What makes you think he did?”
“Well, he wanted five dollars mighty bad this morning, for he tried to
borrow it of me. I asked him what he wanted it for; but he wouldn’t
tell me. I guess he wants to send for something he’s seen advertised in
the paper.”
“How do you know he does?”
“From something he said to me the other day,” said Huskins, sagely.
“If Luke took the money, he’ll deny it, all right. His father will take
his word before mine, and his mother will back him up as she’s done
fifty times before. I’ve got a few dollars saved up, and as Mr. Maslin
has discovered that fact he won’t rest till he’s got it away from me. I
need that to help me out after I leave here. So I guess I’d better go
before Mr. Maslin gets his hands on it.”
“You’re right there, Dick. The old man’s fingers are like
pot-hooks--they hold on to everything they fasten to. Once he gets
possession of your money, you’ll never see it again.”
“You’d better go down and look out for the store, John, till Mr. Maslin
turns up. I’m going to make a bundle of my things and start off.”
“Then you’re really determined to go, Dick?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, resolutely, “I am. Mr. Maslin has called me a
thief, and that’s the limit with me.”
“Well, I wish you luck. Let me hear from you some time. I’d like to
know how ye get on,” and the hired man held out his hand.
“Thank you, John. I sha’n’t forget you.”
They shook hands, and Huskins went down stairs.
Dick closed his room-door and pushed the chest of drawers against it,
as he did not want to be interrupted or taken at a disadvantage.
Then he put on his best suit, made a compact bundle of such articles
as he deemed indispensable, put Mr. Maslin’s old diary into an inside
pocket of his jacket, and was ready to leave the house.
He was about to remove the chest of drawers when he heard the
unmistakable voice of Silas Maslin mingled with the shriller tones of
Mrs. Maslin, on the landing approaching his door.
His retreat by the stairway was evidently cut off.
What was he to do?
The door of his room was pushed in an inch or two, as far as the
obstruction would permit.
“Open the door, you young villain!” exclaimed the voice of Silas
Maslin, whose temper had by no means been improved by the injury he had
received.
“Push the door in, Silas,” said his wife. “There ain’t no lock to it.”
“He’s got somethin’ against it,” replied her husband, impatiently.
“Mebbe it’s the chest of drawers or the bed.”
“It ain’t the bed,” said the storekeeper, and he flung himself suddenly
against the panel with a force sufficient to push the obstruction back
a foot at least.
Through this opening he thrust his head and saw Dick Armstrong beating
a hasty retreat by way of the window.
“He’s gettin’ out of the winder. You stay here, Maria, and I’ll try to
catch him below.”
Mr. Maslin, whose head was bound up with a towel, was a pretty lively
man for his sixty odd years, and the way he got down the stairway and
out into the yard would have put many a younger man to shame.
But the boy was as active as a young monkey, and guessed pretty closely
what his persecutor’s tactics would be.
He dropped his bundle into the yard, swung himself out and alighted
nimbly on his feet, and when Mr. Maslin dashed out to cut him off Dick
was passing through the gate into the road.
“Come back here, you young rascal, or I’ll skin you alive!” he shouted
angrily.
But the boy had no intention of returning now that he had crossed the
Rubicon at last.
“I’ll have you took up and put in the calaboose; do you hear?”
Dick heard, but the threat had no effect on him.
He bounded around the corner of the fence and ran full tilt into
another boy, knocking him head over heels.
The floored youth proved to be Luke Maslin, who was returning from the
village.
The storekeeper’s son uttered a yell of pain and terror as he
floundered about on the grass.
Dick had gone down also, his bundle flying out of his hand a yard away.
As he picked himself up, a familiar voice exclaimed:
“Hello! What’s the trouble? Is that you, Dick?”
“That you, Joe?”
“Sure it’s me! I was hanging about for a chance to see you again if I
could. What muss have you got in now?”
“Come along with me and I’ll tell you about it,” Dick said as he picked
up his bundle.
Mr. Maslin now hove in sight a few feet away.
“Now I’ve got you, you pesky little villain!” and he made a dash at the
boy.
“Run, Joe!”
Fletcher took the hint and scampered after his chum, who was flying
along the “heel” path of the canal as fast as he could go.
In the gathering dusk the storekeeper failed to recognize his son and
heir as the latter lay sprawling in the path, and as a consequence he
stumbled over Luke’s extended legs and pitched forward, head first,
like a stone from a catapult.
The momentum he had acquired in his eagerness to lay hold of Dick now
worked greatly to his disadvantage.
Striking the path, he rolled over and over, clutching vainly at the
grass to stay his progress.
As the space between the fence and the canal was narrow at this point,
before he realized his predicament he was carried over the embankment
and fell with a splash into the water.
“Help!” he yelled, and then his head went under.
Huskins had been attracted to the spot by the rumpus and was in time to
fish his employer out of the canal; but by that time Dick Armstrong and
his friend Fletcher were safe from any immediate pursuit.