file through an aperture made by letting down the bars. Behind them
walked a boy of about his own size, flourishing a stout hickory stick.
The cows went directly to the spring from which Paul had already drunk.
The young driver looked at our hero with some curiosity, wondering,
doubtless, what brought him there so early in the morning. After a
little hesitation he said, remarking Paul's bundle, “Where are you
traveling?”
“I don't know exactly,” said Paul, who was not quite sure whether it
would be politic to avow his destination.
“Don't know?” returned the other, evidently surprised.
“Not exactly; I may go to New York.”
“New York! That's a great ways off. Do you know the way there?”
“No, but I can find it.”
“Are you going all alone?” asked his new acquaintance, who evidently
thought Paul had undertaken a very formidable journey.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to walk all the way?”
“Yes, unless somebody offers me a ride now and then.”
“But why don't you ride in the stage, or in the cars? You would get
there a good deal quicker.”
“One reason,” said Paul, hesitating a little, “is because I have no
money to pay for riding.”
“Then how do you expect to live? Have you had any breakfast, this
morning?”
“I brought some with me, and just got through eating it when you came
along.”
“And where do you expect to get any dinner?” pursued his questioner, who
was evidently not a little puzzled by the answers he received.
“I don't know,” returned Paul.
His companion looked not a little confounded at this view of the matter,
but presently a bright thought struck him.
“I shouldn't wonder,” he said, shrewdly, “if you were running away.”
Paul hesitated a moment. He knew that his case must look a little
suspicious, thus unexplained, and after a brief pause for reflection
determined to take the questioner into his confidence. He did this the
more readily because his new acquaintance looked very pleasant.
“You've guessed right,” he said; “if you'll promise not to tell anybody,
I'll tell you all about it.”
This was readily promised, and the boy who gave his name as John
Burgess, sat down beside Paul, while he, with the frankness of
boyhood, gave a circumstantial account of his father's death, and the
ill-treatment he had met with subsequently.
“Do you come from Wrenville?” asked John, interested. “Why, I've got
relations there. Perhaps you know my cousin, Ben Newcome.”
“Is Ben Newcome your cousin? O yes, I know him very well; he's a
first-rate fellow.”
“He isn't much like his father.”
“Not at all. If he was”--
“You wouldn't like him so well. Uncle talks a little too much out of
the dictionary, and walks so straight that he bends backward. But I say,
Paul, old Mudge deserves to be choked, and Mrs. Mudge should be obliged
to swallow a gallon of her own soup. I don't know but that would be
worse than choking. I wouldn't have stayed so long if I had been in your
place.”
“I shouldn't,” said Paul, “if it hadn't been for Aunt Lucy.”
“Was she an aunt of yours?”
“No, but we used to call her so, She's the best friend I've got, and I
don't know but the only one,” said Paul, a little sadly.
“No, she isn't,” said John, quickly; “I'll be your friend, Paul.
Sometime, perhaps, I shall go to New York, myself, and then I will come
and see you. Where do you expect to be?”
“I don't know anything about the city,” said Paul, “but if you come, I
shall be sure to see you somewhere. I wish you were going now.”
Neither Paul nor his companion had much idea of the extent of the great
metropolis, or they would not have taken it so much as a matter of
course that, being in the same place, they should meet each other.
Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of a bell from a
farmhouse within sight.
“That's our breakfast-bell,” said John rising from the grass. “It is
meant for me. I suppose they wonder what keeps me so long. Won't you
come and take breakfast with me, Paul?”
“I guess not,” said Paul, who would have been glad to do so had he
followed the promptings of his appetite. “I'm afraid your folks would
ask me questions, and then it would be found out that I am running
away.”
“I didn't think of that,” returned John, after a pause. “You haven't got
any dinner with you?” he said a moment after.
“No.”
“Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. Come with me as far as the fence, and
lie down there till I've finished breakfast. Then I'll bring something
out for you, and maybe I'll walk along a little way with you.”
“You are very kind,” said Paul, gratefully.
“Oh, nonsense,” said John, “that's nothing. Besides, you know we are
going to be friends.”
“John! breakfast's ready.”
“There's Nelson calling me,” said John, hurriedly. “I must leave you;
there's the fence; lie down there, and I'll be back in a jiffy.”
“John, I say, why don't you come?”
“I'm coming. You mustn't think everybody's got such a thundering great
appetite as you, Nelson.”
“I guess you've got enough to keep you from pining away,” said Nelson,
good-naturedly, “you're twice as fat as I am.”
“That's because I work harder,” said John, rather illogically.
The brothers went in to breakfast.
But a few minutes elapsed before John reappeared, bearing under his arm
a parcel wrapped up in an old newspaper. He came up panting with the
haste he had made.
“It didn't take you long to eat breakfast,” said Paul.
“No, I hurried through it; I thought you would get tired of waiting. And
now I'll walk along with you a little ways. But wait here's something
for you.”
So saying he unrolled the newspaper and displayed a loaf of bread,
fresh and warm, which looked particularly inviting to Paul, whose scanty
breakfast had by no means satisfied his appetite. Besides this, there
was a loaf of molasses ginger-bread, with which all who were born in the
country, or know anything of New England housekeeping, are familiar.
“There,” said John, “I guess that'll be enough for your dinner.”
“But how did you get it without having any questions asked?” inquired
our hero.
“Oh,” said John, “I asked mother for them, and when she asked what I
wanted of them, I told her that I'd answer that question to-morrow.
You see I wanted to give you a chance to get off out of the way, though
mother wouldn't tell, even if she knew.”
“All right,” said Paul, with satisfaction.
He could not help looking wistfully at the bread, which looked very
inviting to one accustomed to poorhouse fare.
“If you wouldn't mind,” he said hesitating, “I would like to eat a
little of the bread now.”
“Mind, of course not,” said John, breaking off a liberal slice. “Why
didn't I think of that before? Walking must have given you a famous
appetite.”
John looked on with evident approbation, while Paul ate with great
apparent appetite.
“There,” said he with a sigh of gratification, as he swallowed the last
morsel, “I haven't tasted anything so good for a long time.”
“Is it as good as Mrs. Mudge's soup?” asked John, mischievously.
“Almost,” returned Paul, smiling.
We must now leave the boys to pursue their way, and return to the
dwelling from which our hero had so unceremoniously taken his departure,
and from which danger now threatened him.
IX.
A CLOUD IN THE MUDGE HORIZON.
Mr. Mudge was accustomed to call Paul at five o'clock, to milk the cows
and perform other chores. He himself did not rise till an hour later.
During Paul's sickness, he was obliged to take his place,--a thing he
did not relish overmuch. Now that our hero had recovered, he gladly
prepared to indulge himself in an extra nap.
“Paul!” called Mr. Mudge from the bottom of the staircase leading up
into the attic, “it's five o'clock; time you were downstairs.”
Mr. Mudge waited for an answer, but none came.
“Paul!” repeated Mr. Mudge in a louder tone, “it's time to get up;
tumble out there.”
Again there was no answer.
At first, Mr. Mudge thought it might be in consequence of Paul's
sleeping so soundly, but on listening attentively, he could not
distinguish the deep and regular breathing which usually accompanies
such slumber.
“He must be sullen,” he concluded, with a feeling of irritation. “If he
is, I'll teach him----”
Without taking time to finish the sentence, he bounded up the rickety
staircase, and turned towards the bed with the intention of giving our
hero a smart shaking.
He looked with astonishment at the empty bed. “Is it possible,” he
thought, “that Paul has already got up? He isn't apt to do so before he
is called.”
At this juncture, Mrs. Mudge, surprised at her husband's prolonged
absence, called from below, “Mr. Mudge!”
“Well, wife?”
“What in the name of wonder keeps you up there so long?”
“Just come up and see.”
Mrs. Mudge did come up. Her husband pointed to the empty bed.
“What do you think of that?” he asked.
“What about it?” she inquired, not quite comprehending.
“About that boy, Paul. When I called him I got no answer, so I came up,
and behold he is among the missing.”
“You don't think he's run away, do you?” asked Mrs. Mudge startled.
“That is more than I know.”
“I'll see if his clothes are here,” said his wife, now fully aroused.
Her search was unavailing. Paul's clothes had disappeared as
mysteriously as their owner.
“It's a clear case,” said Mr. Mudge, shaking his head; “he's gone.
I wouldn't have lost him for considerable. He was only a boy, but I
managed to get as much work out of him as a man. The question is now,
what shall we do about it?”
“He must be pursued,” said Mrs. Mudge, with vehemence, “I'll have him
back if it costs me twenty dollars. I'll tell you what, husband,” she
exclaimed, with a sudden light breaking in upon her, “if there's anybody
in this house knows where he's gone, it is Aunt Lucy Lee. Only last week
I caught her knitting him a pair of stockings. I might have known what
it meant if I hadn't been a fool.”
“Ha, ha! So you might, if you hadn't been a fool!” echoed a mocking
voice.
Turning with sudden anger, Mrs. Mudge beheld the face of the crazy girl
peering up at her from below.
This turned her thoughts into a different channel.
“I'll teach you what I am,” she exclaimed, wrathfully descending the
stairs more rapidly than she had mounted them, “and if you know anything
about the little scamp, I'll have it out of you.”
The girl narrowly succeeded in eluding the grasp of her pursuer. But,
alas! for Mrs. Mudge. In her impetuosity she lost her footing, and fell
backward into a pail of water which had been brought up the night before
and set in the entry for purposes of ablution. More wrathful than ever,
Mrs. Mudge bounced into her room and sat down in her dripping garments
in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. As for Paul, she felt a personal
dislike for him, and was not sorry on some accounts to have him out of
the house. The knowledge, however, that he had in a manner defied her
authority by running away, filled her with an earnest desire to get him
back, if only to prove that it was not to be defied with impunity.
Hoping to elicit some information from Aunt Lucy, who, she felt sure,
was in Paul's confidence, she paid her a visit.
“Well, here's a pretty goings on,” she commenced, abruptly. Finding that
Aunt Lucy manifested no curiosity on the subject, she continued, in a
significant tone, “Of course, YOU don't know anything about it.”
“I can tell better when I know what you refer to,” said the old lady
calmly.
“Oh, you are very ignorant all at once. I suppose you didn't know Paul
Prescott had run away?”
“I am not surprised,” said the old lady, in the same quiet manner.
Mrs. Mudge had expected a show of astonishment, and this calmness
disconcerted her.
“You are not surprised!” she retorted. “I presume not, since you
knew all about it beforehand. That's why you were knitting him some
stockings. Deny it, if you dare.”
“I have no disposition to deny it.”
“You haven't!” exclaimed the questioner, almost struck dumb with this
audacity.
“No,” said Aunt Lucy. “Why should I? There was no particular inducement
for him to stay here. Wherever he goes, I hope he will meet with good
friends and good treatment.”
“As much as to say he didn't find them here. Is that what you mean?”
“I have no charges to bring.”
“But I have,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes lighting with malicious
satisfaction. “Last night you missed a ten-dollar gold piece, which you
saw was stolen from you. This morning it appears that Paul Prescott has
run away. I charge him with the theft.”
“You do not, can not believe this,” said the old lady, uneasily.
“Of course I do,” returned Mrs. Mudge, triumphantly, perceiving her
advantage. “I have no doubt of it, and when we get the boy back, he
shall be made to confess it.”
Aunt Lucy looked troubled, much to the gratification of Mrs. Mudge.
It was but for a short time, however. Rising from her seat, she stood
confronting Mrs. Mudge, and said quietly, but firmly, “I have no doubt,
Mrs. Mudge, you are capable of doing what you say. I would advise you,
however, to pause. You know, as well as I do, that Paul is incapable
of this theft. Even if he were wicked enough to form the idea, he would
have no need, since it was my intention to GIVE him this money. Who did
actually steal the gold, you PERHAPS know better than I. Should it be
necessary, I shall not hesitate to say so. I advise you not to render it
necessary.”
The threat which lay in these words was understood. It came with the
force of a sudden blow to Mrs. Mudge, who had supposed it would be no
difficult task to frighten and silence Aunt Lucy. The latter had always
been so yielding in all matters relating to herself, that this intrepid
championship of Paul's interests was unlooked for. The tables were
completely turned. Pale with rage, and a mortified sense of having been
foiled with her own weapons, Mrs. Mudge left the room.
Meanwhile her husband milked the cows, and was now occupied in
performing certain other duties that could not be postponed, being
resolved, immediately after breakfast was over, to harness up and pursue
the runaway.
“Well, did you get anything out of the old lady?” he inquired, as he
came from the barn with the full milk-pails.
“She said she knew beforehand that he was going.”
“Eh!” said Mr. Mudge, pricking up his ears, “did she say where?”
“No, and she won't. She knit him a pair of stockings to help him off,
and doesn't pretend to deny it. She's taken a wonderful fancy to the
young scamp, and has been as obstinate as could be ever since he has
been here.”
“If I get him back,” said Mr. Mudge, “he shall have a good flogging, if
I am able to give him one, and she shall be present to see it.”
“That's right,” said Mrs. Mudge, approvingly, “when are you going to set
out after him?”
“Right after breakfast. So be spry, and get it ready as soon as you
can.”
Under the stimulus of this inspiring motive, Mrs. Mudge bustled about
with new energy, and before many minutes the meal was in readiness.
It did not take long to dispatch it. Immediately afterwards, Mr. Mudge
harnessed up, as he had determined, and started off in pursuit of our
hero.
In the meantime the two boys had walked leisurely along, conversing on
various subjects.
“When you get to the city, Paul,” said John, “I shall want to hear from
you. Will you write to me?”
Paul promised readily.
“You can direct to John Burges, Burrville. The postmaster knows me, and
I shall be sure to get it.”
“I wish you were going with me,” said Paul.
“Sometimes when I think that I am all alone it discourages me. It would
be so much pleasanter to have some one with me.”
“I shall come sometime,” said John, “when I am a little older. I heard
father say something the other day about my going into a store in the
city. So we may meet again.”
“I hope we shall.”
They were just turning a bend of the road, when Paul chanced to look
backward. About a quarter of a mile back he descried a horse and wagon
wearing a familiar look. Fixing his eyes anxiously upon them, he was
soon made aware that his suspicions were only too well founded. It was
Mr. Mudge, doubtless in quest of him.
“What shall I do?” he asked, hurriedly of his companion.
“What's the matter?”
This was quickly explained.
John was quickwitted, and he instantly decided upon the course proper
to be pursued. On either side of the road was a growth of underbrush so
thick as to be almost impenetrable.
“Creep in behind there, and be quick about it,” directed John, “there is
no time to lose.”
“There,” said he, after Paul had followed his advice, “if he can see you
now he must have sharp eyes.”
“Won't you come in too?”
“Not I,” said John, “I am anxious to see this Mr. Mudge, since you have
told me so much about him. I hope he will ask me some questions.”
“What will you tell him?”
“Trust me for that. Don't say any more. He's close by.”
X.
MR. MUDGE MEETS HIS MATCH.
John lounged along, appearing to be very busily engaged in making a
whistle from a slip of willow which he had a short time before cut from
the tree. He purposely kept in the middle of the road, apparently quite
unaware of the approach of the vehicle, until he was aroused by the
sound of a voice behind him.
“Be a little more careful, if you don't want to get run over.”
John assumed a look of surprise, and with comic terror ran to the side
of the road.
Mr. Mudge checked his horse, and came to a sudden halt.
“I say, youngster, haven't you seen a boy of about your own size walking
along, with a bundle in his hand?”
“Tied up in a red cotton handkerchief?” inquired John.
“Yes, I believe so,” said Mr. Mudge, eagerly, “where did you----”
“With a blue cloth cap?”
“Yes, where----”
“Gray jacket and pants?”
“Yes, yes. Where?”
“With a patch on one knee?”
“Yes, the very one. When did you see him?” said Mr. Mudge, getting ready
to start his horse.
“Perhaps it isn't the one you mean,” continued John, who took a
mischievous delight in playing with the evident impatience of Mr. Mudge;
“the boy that I saw looked thin, as if he hadn't had enough to eat.”
Mr. Mudge winced slightly, and looked at John with some suspicion.
But John put on so innocent and artless a look that Mr. Mudge at once
dismissed the idea that there was any covert meaning in what he said.
Meanwhile Paul, from his hiding-place in the bushes, had listened with
anxiety to the foregoing colloquy. When John described his appearance so
minutely, he was seized with a sudden apprehension that the boy meant
to betray him. But he dismissed it instantly. In his own singleness of
heart he could not believe such duplicity possible. Still, it was not
without anxiety that he waited to hear what would be said next.
“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, slowly, “I don't know but he is a little PEAKED.
He's been sick lately, and that's took off his flesh.”
“Was he your son?” asked John, in a sympathizing tone; “you must feel
quite troubled about him.”
He looked askance at Mr. Mudge, enjoying that gentleman's growing
irritation.
“My son? No. Where----”
“Nephews perhaps?” suggested the imperturbable John, leisurely
continuing the manufacture of a whistle.
“No, I tell you, nothing of the kind. But I can't sit waiting here.”
“Oh, I hope you'll excuse me,” said John, apologetically. “I hope you
won't stop on my account. I didn't know you were in a hurry.”
“Well, you know it now,” said Mr. Mudge, crossly. “When and where did
you see the boy you have described? I am in pursuit of him.”
“Has he run away?” inquired John in assumed surprise.
“Are you going to answer my question or not?” demanded Mr. Mudge,
angrily.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have asked so many questions, only I
thought he was a nice-looking boy, and I felt interested in him.”
“He's a young scamp,” said Mr. Mudge, impetuously, “and it's my belief
that you're another. Now answer my question. When and where did you see
this boy?”
This time Mr. Mudge's menacing look warned John that he had gone far
enough. Accordingly he answered promptly, “He passed by our farm this
morning.”
“How far back is that?”
“About three miles.”
“Did he stop there?”
“Yes, he stopped a while to rest.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Yes, I saw him about half a mile back.”
“On this road?”
“Yes, but he turned up the road that branches off there.”
“Just what I wanted to find out,” said Mr. Mudge, in a tone of
satisfaction, “I'm sure to catch him.”
So saying, he turned about and put his horse to its utmost speed,
determined to make up for lost time. When he was fairly out of sight,
Paul came forth from his hiding-place.
“How could you do so!” he asked in a reproachful tone.
“Could I do what?” asked John, turning a laughing face towards Paul.
“Didn't I tell old Mudge the exact truth? You know you did turn up that
road. To be sure you didn't go two rods before turning back. But he
didn't stop to ask about that. If he hadn't been in such a hurry,
perhaps I should have told him. Success to him!”
“You can't think how I trembled when you described me so particularly.”
“You didn't think I would betray you?” said John, quickly.
“No, but I was afraid you would venture too far, and get us both into
trouble.”
“Trust me for that, Paul; I've got my eyes wide open, and ain't easily
caught. But wasn't it fun to see old Mudge fuming while I kept him
waiting. What would he have said if he had known the bird was so near at
hand? He looked foolish enough when I asked him if you were his son.”
John sat down and gave vent to his pent-up laughter which he had felt
obliged to restrain in the presence of Mr. Mudge. He laughed so heartily
that Paul, notwithstanding his recent fright and anxiety, could not
resist the infection. Together they laughed, till the very air seemed
vocal with merriment.
John was the first to recover his gravity.
“I am sorry, Paul,” he said, “but I must bid you good-by. They will miss
me from the house. I am glad I have got acquainted with you, and I hope
I shall see you again some time before very long. Good-by, Paul.”
“Good-by, John.”
The two boys shook hands and parted. One went in one direction, the
other in the opposite. Each looked back repeatedly till the other was
out of sight. Then came over Paul once more a feeling of sadness and
desolation, which the high spirits of his companion had for the time
kept off. Occasionally he cast a glance backwards, to make sure that
Mr. Mudge was not following him. But Paul had no cause to fear on that
score. The object of his dread was already some miles distant in a
different direction.
For an hour longer, Paul trudged on. He met few persons, the road not
being very much frequented. He was now at least twelve miles from his
starting-place, and began to feel very sensibly the effects of heat
and fatigue combined. He threw himself down upon the grass under the
overhanging branches of an appletree to rest. After his long walk repose
seemed delicious, and with a feeling of exquisite enjoyment he stretched
himself out at full length upon the soft turf, and closed his eyes.
Insensibly he fell asleep. How long he slept he could not tell. He was
finally roused from his slumber by something cold touching his cheek.
Starting up he rubbed his eyes in bewilderment, and gradually became
aware that this something was the nose of a Newfoundland dog, whose keen
scent had enabled him to discover the whereabouts of the small stock
of provisions with which Paul had been supplied by his late companion.
Fortunately he awoke in time to save its becoming the prey of its canine
visitor.
“I reckon you came nigh losing your dinner,” fell upon his ears in a
rough but hearty tone.
At the same time he heard the noise of wheels, and looking up, beheld a
specimen of a class well known throughout New England--a tin pedler. He
was seated on a cart liberally stocked with articles of tin ware. From
the rear depended two immense bags, one of which served as a receptacle
for white rags, the other for bits of calico and whatever else may fall
under the designation of “colored.” His shop, for such it was, was
drawn at a brisk pace by a stout horse, who in this respect presented a
contrast to his master, who was long and lank. The pedler himself was
a man of perhaps forty, with a face in which shrewdness and good humor
seemed alike indicated. Take him for all in all, you might travel some
distance without falling in with a more complete specimen of the Yankee.
“So you came nigh losing your dinner,” he repeated, in a pleasant tone.
“Yes,” said Paul, “I got tired and fell asleep, and I don't know when I
should have waked up but for your dog.”
“Yes, Boney's got a keen scent for provisions,” laughed the pedler.
“He's a little graspin', like his namesake. You see his real name is
Bonaparte; we only call him Boney, for short.”
Meanwhile he had stopped his horse. He was about to start afresh, when a
thought struck him.