Hester, we can give Paul the little bedroom where--where John used to
sleep.”
His voice faltered a little, for John was the name of his boy, who had
been drowned.
XVI.
YOUNG STUPID.
Paul found the sexton's dwelling very different from his last home, if
the Poorhouse under the charge of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge deserved such a
name. His present home was an humble one, but he was provided with every
needful comfort, and the atmosphere of kindness which surrounded him,
gave him a feeling of peace and happiness which he had not enjoyed for a
long time.
Paul supposed that he would be at once set to work, and even then would
have accounted himself fortunate in possessing such a home.
But Mr. Cameron had other views for him.
“Are you fond of studying?” asked the sexton, as they were all three
gathered in the little sitting room, an evening or two after Paul first
came.
“Very much!” replied our hero.
“And would you like to go to school?”
“What, here in New York?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, very much indeed.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, my lad. There is nothing like a good
education. If I had a son of my own, I would rather leave him that
than money, for while the last may be lost, the first never can be. And
though you are not my son, Paul, Providence has in a manner conducted
you to me, and I feel responsible for your future. So you shall go to
school next Monday morning, and I hope you will do yourself much credit
there.”
“Thank you very much,” said Paul. “I feel very grateful, but----”
“You surely are not going to object?” said the sexton.
“No, but----”
“Well, Paul, go on,” seeing that the boy hesitated.
“Why,” said our hero, with a sense of delicacy which did him credit,
“If I go to school, I shall not be able to earn my board, and shall be
living at your expense, though I have no claim upon you.”
“Oh, is that all?” said the sexton cheerfully, “I was afraid that it was
something more serious. As to that, I am not rich, and never expect to
be. But what little expense you will be will not ruin me. Besides, when
you are grown up and doing well, you can repay me, if I ever need it.”
“That I will,” said Paul.
“Mind, if I ever need it,--not otherwise. There, now, it's a bargain on
that condition. You haven't any other objection,” seeing that Paul still
hesitated.
“No, or at least I should like to ask your advice,” said Paul. “Just
before my father died, he told me of a debt of five hundred dollars
which he had not been able to pay. I saw that it troubled him, and I
promised to pay it whenever I was able. I don't know but I ought to go
to work so as to keep my promise.”
“No,” said the sexton after a moment's reflection, “the best course will
be to go to school, at present. Knowledge is power, and a good education
will help you to make money by and by. I approve your resolution, my
lad, and if you keep it resolutely in mind I have no doubt you will
accomplish your object. But the quickest road to success is through the
schoolroom. At present you are not able to earn much. Two or three years
hence will be time enough.”
Paul's face brightened as the sexton said this. He instinctively felt
that Mr. Cameron was right. He had never forgotten his father's dying
injunction, and this was one reason that impelled him to run away from
the Almshouse, because he felt that while he remained he never would
be in a situation to carry out his father's wishes. Now his duty was
reconciled with his pleasure, and he gratefully accepted the sexton's
suggestions.
The next Monday morning, in accordance with the arrangement which had
just been agreed upon, Paul repaired to school. He was at once placed in
a class, and lessons were assigned him.
At first his progress was not rapid. While living in Wrenville he had
an opportunity only of attending a country school, kept less than six
months in the year, and then not affording advantages to be compared
with those of a city school. During his father's sickness, besides, he
had been kept from school altogether. Of course all this lost time could
not be made up in a moment. Therefore it was that Paul lagged behind his
class.
There are generally some in every school, who are disposed to take
unfair advantage of their schoolmates, or to ridicule those whom they
consider inferior to themselves.
There was one such in Paul's class. His name was George Dawkins.
He was rather a showy boy, and learned easily. He might have stood a
class above where he was, if he had not been lazy, and depended too much
on his natural talent. As it was, he maintained the foremost rank in his
class.
“Better be the first man in a village than the second man in Rome,”
he used to say; and as his present position not only gave him the
pre-eminence which he desired, but cost him very little exertion to
maintain, he was quite well satisfied with it.
This boy stood first in his class, while Paul entered at the foot.
He laughed unmercifully at the frequent mistakes of our hero, and
jeeringly dubbed him, “Young Stupid.”
“Do you know what Dawkins calls you?” asked one of the boys.
“No. What does he call me?” asked Paul, seriously.
“He calls you 'Young Stupid.'”
Paul's face flushed painfully. Ridicule was as painful to him as it is
to most boys, and he felt the insult deeply.
“I'd fight him if I were you,” was the volunteered advice of his
informant.
“No,” said Paul. “That wouldn't mend the matter. Besides, I don't know
but he has some reason for thinking so.”
“Don't call yourself stupid, do you?”
“No, but I am not as far advanced as most boys of my age. That isn't my
fault, though. I never had a chance to go to school much. If I had been
to school all my life, as Dawkins has, it would be time to find out
whether I am stupid or not.”
“Then you ain't going to do anything about it?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You said you wasn't going to fight him.”
“That wouldn't do any good. But I'm going to study up and see if I can't
get ahead of him. Don't you think that will be the best way of showing
him that he is mistaken?”
“Yes, capital, but----”
“But you think I can't do it, I suppose,” said Paul.
“You know he is at the head of the class, and you are at the foot.”
“I know that,” said Paul, resolutely. “But wait awhile and see.”
In some way George Dawkins learned that Paul had expressed the
determination to dispute his place. It occasioned him considerable
amusement.
“Halloa, Young Stupid,” he called out, at recess.
Paul did not answer.
“Why don't you answer when you are spoken to?” he asked angrily.
“When you call me by my right name,” said Paul, quietly, “I will answer,
and not before.”
“You're mighty independent,” sneered Dawkins. “I don't know but I may
have to teach you manners.”
“You had better wait till you are qualified,” said Paul, coolly.
Dawkins approached our hero menacingly, but Paul did not look in the
least alarmed, and he concluded to attack him with words only.
“I understand you have set yourself up as my rival!” he said, mockingly.
“Not just yet,” said Paul, “but in time I expect to be.”
“So you expect my place,” said Dawkins, glancing about him.
“We'll talk about that three months hence,” said Paul.
“Don't hurt yourself studying,” sneered Dawkins, scornfully.
To this Paul did not deign a reply, but the same day he rose one in his
class.
Our hero had a large stock of energy and determination. When he had once
set his mind upon a thing, he kept steadily at work till he accomplished
it. This is the great secret of success. It sometimes happens that a man
who has done nothing will at once accomplish a brilliant success by one
spasmodic effort, but such cases are extremely rare.
“Slow and sure wins the race,” is an old proverb that has a great deal
of truth in it.
Paul worked industriously.
The kind sexton and his wife, who noticed his assiduity, strove to
dissuade him from working so steadily.
“You are working too hard, Paul,” they said.
“Do I look pale?” asked Paul, pointing with a smile to his red cheeks.
“No, but you will before long.”
“When I am, I will study less. But you know, Uncle Hugh,” so the sexton
instructed him to call him, “I want to make the most of my present
advantages. Besides, there's a particular boy who thinks I am stupid. I
want to convince him that he is mistaken.”
“You are a little ambitious, then, Paul?”
“Yes, but it isn't that alone. I know the value of knowledge, and I want
to secure as much as I can.”
“That is an excellent motive, Paul.”
“Then you won't make me study less?”
“Not unless I see you are getting sick.”
Paul took good care of this. He knew how to play as well as to study,
and his laugh on the playground was as merry as any. His cheerful,
obliging disposition made him a favorite with his companions. Only
George Dawkins held out; he had, for some reason, imbibed a dislike for
Paul.
Paul's industry was not without effect. He gradually gained position in
his class.
“Take care, Dawkins,” said one of his companions--the same one who had
before spoken to Paul--“Paul Prescott will be disputing your place with
you. He has come up seventeen places in a month.”
“Much good it'll do him,” said Dawkins, contemptuously.
“For all that, you will have to be careful; I can tell you that.”
“I'm not in the least afraid. I'm a little too firm in my position to be
ousted by Young Stupid.”
“Just wait and see.”
Dawkins really entertained no apprehension. He had unbounded confidence
in himself, and felt a sense of power in the rapidity with which he
could master a lesson. He therefore did not study much, and though he
could not but see that Paul was rapidly advancing, he rejected with
scorn the idea that Young Stupid could displace him.
This, however, was the object at which Paul was aiming. He had not
forgotten the nickname which Dawkins had given him, and this was the
revenge which he sought,--a strictly honorable one.
At length the day of his triumph came. At the end of the month the
master read off the class-list, and, much to his disgust, George Dawkins
found himself playing second fiddle to Young Stupid.
XVII.
BEN'S PRACTICAL JOKE.
Mrs. Mudge was in the back room, bending over a tub. It was washing-day,
and she was particularly busy. She was a driving, bustling woman, and,
whatever might be her faults of temper, she was at least industrious and
energetic. Had Mr. Mudge been equally so, they would have been better
off in a worldly point of view. But her husband was constitutionally
lazy, and was never disposed to do more than was needful.
Mrs. Mudge was in a bad humor that morning. One of the cows had got
into the garden through a gap in the fence, and made sad havoc among the
cabbages. Now if Mrs. Mudge had a weakness, it was for cabbages. She
was excessively fond of them, and had persuaded her husband to set out
a large number of plants from which she expected a large crop. They were
planted in one corner of the garden, adjoining a piece of land, which,
since mowing, had been used for pasturing the cows. There was a weak
place in the fence separating the two inclosures, and this Mrs. Mudge
had requested her husband to attend to. He readily promised this, and
Mrs. Mudge supposed it done, until that same morning, her sharp eyes had
detected old Brindle munching the treasured cabbages with a provoking
air of enjoyment. The angry lady seized a broom, and repaired quickly to
the scene of devastation. Brindle scented the danger from afar, and beat
a disorderly retreat, trampling down the cabbages which she had hitherto
spared. Leaping over the broken fence, she had just cleared the gap as
the broom-handle, missing her, came forcibly down upon the rail, and was
snapped in sunder by the blow.
Here was a new vexation. Brindle had not only escaped scot-free, but the
broom, a new one, bought only the week before, was broken.
“It's a plaguy shame,” said Mrs. Mudge, angrily. “There's my best broom
broken; cost forty-two cents only last week.”
She turned and contemplated the scene of devastation. This yielded her
little consolation.
“At least thirty cabbages destroyed by that scamp of a cow,” she
exclaimed in a tone bordering on despair. “I wish I'd a hit her. If I'd
broken my broom over her back I wouldn't a cared so much. And it's all
Mudge's fault. He's the most shiftless man I ever see. I'll give him a
dressing down, see if I don't.”
Mrs. Mudge's eyes snapped viciously, and she clutched the relics of the
broom with a degree of energy which rendered it uncertain what sort of a
dressing down she intended for her husband.
Ten minutes after she had re-entered the kitchen, the luckless man made
his appearance. He wore his usual look, little dreaming of the storm
that awaited him.
“I'm glad you've come,” said Mrs. Mudge, grimly.
“What's amiss, now?” inquired Mudge, for he understood her look.
“What's amiss?” blazed Mrs. Mudge. “I'll let you know. Do you see this?”
She seized the broken broom and flourished it in his face.
“Broken your broom, have you? You must have been careless.”
“Careless, was I?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically. “Yes, of course,
it's always I that am in fault.”
“You haven't broken it over the back of any of the paupers, have you?”
asked her husband, who, knowing his helpmeet's infirmity of temper,
thought it possible she might have indulged in such an amusement.
“If I had broken it over anybody's back it would have been yours,” said
the lady.
“Mine! what have I been doing?”
“It's what you haven't done,” said Mrs. Mudge. “You're about the laziest
and most shiftless man I ever came across.”
“Come, what does all this mean?” demanded Mr. Mudge, who was getting a
little angry in his turn.
“I'll let you know. Just look out of that window, will you?”
“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, innocently, “I don't see anything in
particular.”
“You don't!” said Mrs. Mudge with withering sarcasm. “Then you'd better
put on your glasses. If you'd been here quarter of an hour ago, you'd
have seen Brindle among the cabbages.”
“Did she do any harm?” asked Mr. Mudge, hastily.
“There's scarcely a cabbage left,” returned Mrs. Mudge, purposely
exaggerating the mischief done.
“If you had mended that fence, as I told you to do, time and again, it
wouldn't have happened.”
“You didn't tell me but once,” said Mr. Mudge, trying to get up a feeble
defence.
“Once should have been enough, and more than enough. You expect me to
slave myself to death in the house, and see to all your work besides.
If I'd known what a lazy, shiftless man you were, at the time I married
you, I'd have cut off my right hand first.”
By this time Mr. Mudge had become angry.
“If you hadn't married me, you'd a died an old maid,” he retorted.
This was too much for Mrs. Mudge to bear. She snatched the larger half
of the broom, and fetched it down with considerable emphasis upon
the back of her liege lord, who, perceiving that her temper was up,
retreated hastily from the kitchen; as he got into the yard he
descried Brindle, whose appetite had been whetted by her previous raid,
re-entering the garden through the gap.
It was an unfortunate attempt on the part of Brindle. Mr. Mudge,
angry with his wife, and smarting with the blow from the broomstick,
determined to avenge himself upon the original cause of all the trouble.
Revenge suggested craft. He seized a hoe, and crept stealthily to the
cabbage-plot. Brindle, whose back was turned, did not perceive his
approach, until she felt a shower of blows upon her back. Confused at
the unexpected attack she darted wildly away, forgetting the gap in the
fence, and raced at random over beds of vegetables, uprooting beets,
parsnips, and turnips, while Mr. Mudge, mad with rage, followed close in
her tracks, hitting her with the hoe whenever he got a chance.
Brindle galloped through the yard, and out at the open gate. Thence she
ran up the road at the top of her speed, with Mr. Mudge still pursuing
her.
It may be mentioned here that Mr. Mudge was compelled to chase the
terrified cow over two miles before he succeeded with the help of a
neighbor in capturing her. All this took time. Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge at
home was subjected to yet another trial of her temper.
It has already been mentioned that Squire Newcome was Chairman of the
Overseers of the Poor. In virtue of his office, he was expected to
exercise a general supervision over the Almshouse and its management.
It was his custom to call about once a month to look after matters, and
ascertain whether any official action or interference was needed.
Ben saw his father take his gold-headed cane from behind the door, and
start down the road. He understood his destination, and instantly the
plan of a stupendous practical joke dawned upon him.
“It'll be jolly fun,” he said to himself, his eyes dancing with fun.
“I'll try it, anyway.”
He took his way across the fields, so as to reach the Almshouse before
his father. He then commenced his plan of operations.
Mrs. Mudge had returned to her tub, and was washing away with bitter
energy, thinking over her grievances in the matter of Mr. Mudge, when a
knock was heard at the front door.
Taking her hands from the tub, she wiped them on her apron.
“I wish folks wouldn't come on washing day!” she said in a tone of
vexation.
She went to the door and opened it.
There was nobody there.
“I thought somebody knocked,” thought she, a little mystified. “Perhaps
I was mistaken.”
She went back to her tub, and had no sooner got her hands in the suds
than another knock was heard, this time on the back door.
“I declare!” said she, in increased vexation, “There's another knock. I
shan't get through my washing to-day.”
Again Mrs. Mudge wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the door.
There was nobody there.
I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had knocked both times, and
instantly dodged round the corner of the house.
“It's some plaguy boy,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing with anger.
“Oh, if I could only get hold of him!”
“Don't you wish you could?” chuckled Ben to himself, as he caught a sly
glimpse of the indignant woman.
Meanwhile, Squire Newcome had walked along in his usual slow and
dignified manner, until he had reached the front door of the Poorhouse,
and knocked.
“It's that plaguy boy again,” said Mrs. Mudge, furiously. “I won't go
this time, but if he knocks again, I'll fix him.”
She took a dipper of hot suds from the tub in which she had been
washing, and crept carefully into the entry, taking up a station close
to the front door.
“I wonder if Mrs. Mudge heard me knock,” thought Squire Newcome. “I
should think she might. I believe I will knock again.”
This time he knocked with his cane.
Rat-tat-tat sounded on the door.
The echo had not died away, when the door was pulled suddenly open, and
a dipper full of hot suds was dashed into the face of the astonished
Squire, accompanied with, “Take that, you young scamp!”
“Wh--what does all this mean?” gasped Squire Newcome, nearly strangled
with the suds, a part of which had found its way into his mouth.
“I beg your pardon, Squire Newcome,” said the horrified Mrs. Mudge. “I
didn't mean it.”
“What did you mean, then?” demanded Squire Newcome, sternly. “I think
you addressed me,--ahem!--as a scamp.”
“Oh, I didn't mean you,” said Mrs. Mudge, almost out of her wits with
perplexity.
“Come in, sir, and let me give you a towel. You've no idea how I've been
tried this morning.”
“I trust,” said the Squire, in his stateliest tone, “you will be able
to give a satisfactory explanation of this, ahem--extraordinary
proceeding.”
While Mrs. Mudge was endeavoring to sooth the ruffled dignity of the
aggrieved Squire, the “young scamp,” who had caused all the mischief,
made his escape through the fields.
“Oh, wasn't it bully!” he exclaimed. “I believe I shall die of laughing.
I wish Paul had been here to see it. Mrs. Mudge has got herself into a
scrape, now, I'm thinking.”
Having attained a safe distance from the Poorhouse, Ben doubled himself
up and rolled over and over upon the grass, convulsed with laughter.
“I'd give five dollars to see it all over again,” he said to himself. “I
never had such splendid fun in my life.”
Presently the Squire emerged, his tall dicky looking decidedly limp and
drooping, his face expressing annoyance and outraged dignity. Mrs. Mudge
attended him to the door with an expression of anxious concern.
“I guess I'd better make tracks,” said Ben to himself, “it won't do for
the old gentleman to see me here, or he may smell a rat.”
He accordingly scrambled over a stone wall and lay quietly hidden behind
it till he judged it would be safe to make his appearance.
XVIII.
MORE ABOUT BEN.
“Benjamin,” said Squire Newcome, two days after the occurrence mentioned
in the last chapter, “what made the dog howl so this morning? Was you a
doing anything to him?”
“I gave him his breakfast,” said Ben, innocently. “Perhaps he was
hungry, and howling for that.”
“I do not refer to that,” said the Squire. “He howled as if in pain or
terror. I repeat; was you a doing anything to him?”
Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and looked out of the window.
“I desire a categorical answer,” said Squire Newcome.
“Don't know what categorical means,” said Ben, assuming a perplexed
look.
“I desire you to answer me IMMEGIATELY,” explained the Squire. “What was
you a doing to Watch?”
“I was tying a tin-kettle to his tail,” said Ben, a little reluctantly.
“And what was you a doing that for?” pursued the Squire.
“I wanted to see how he would look,” said Ben, glancing demurely at his
father, out of the corner of his eye.
“Did it ever occur to you that it must be disagreeable to Watch to have
such an appendage to his tail?” queried the Squire.
“I don't know,” said Ben.
“How should you like to have a tin pail suspended to your--ahem! your
coat tail?”
“I haven't got any coat tail,” said Ben, “I wear jackets. But I think I
am old enough to wear coats. Can't I have one made, father?”
“Ahem!” said the Squire, blowing his nose, “we will speak of that at
some future period.”
“Fred Newell wears a coat, and he isn't any older than I am,” persisted
Ben, who was desirous of interrupting his father's inquiries.
“I apprehend that we are wandering from the question,” said the Squire.
“Would you like to be treated as you treated Watch?”
“No,” said Ben, slowly, “I don't know as I should.”
“Then take care not to repeat your conduct of this morning,” said his
father. “Stay a moment,” as Ben was about to leave the room hastily. “I
desire that you should go to the post-office and inquire for letters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben left the room and sauntered out in the direction of the post-office.
A chaise, driven by a stranger, stopped as it came up with him.
The driver looked towards Ben, and inquired, “Boy, is this the way to
Sparta?”
Ben, who was walking leisurely along the path, whistling as he went,
never turned his head.
“Are you deaf, boy?” said the driver, impatiently. “I want to know if
this is the road to Sparta?”
Ben turned round.
“Fine morning, sir,” he said politely.
“I know that well enough without your telling me. Will you tell me
whether this is the road to Sparta?”
Ben put his hand to his ear, and seemed to listen attentively. Then he
slowly shook his head, and said, “Would you be kind enough to speak a
little louder, sir?”
“The boy is deaf, after all,” said the driver to himself. “IS THIS THE
ROAD TO SPARTA?”
“Yes, sir, this is Wrenville,” said Ben, politely.
“Plague take it! he don't hear me yet. IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?”
“Just a little louder, if you please,” said Ben, keeping his hand to his
ear, and appearing anxious to hear.
“Deaf as a post!” muttered the driver. “I couldn't scream any louder, if
I should try. Go along.”
“Poor man! I hope he hasn't injured his voice,” thought Ben, his eyes
dancing with fun. “By gracious!” he continued a moment later, bursting
into a laugh, “if he isn't going to ask the way of old Tom Haven. He's
as deaf as I pretended to be.”
The driver had reined up again, and inquired the way to Sparta.
“What did you say?” said the old man, putting his hand to his ear. “I'm
rather hard of hearing.”
The traveller repeated his question in a louder voice.
The old man shook his head.
“I guess you'd better ask that boy,” he said, pointing to Ben, who by
this time had nearly come up with the chaise.
“I have had enough of him,” said the traveller, disgusted. “I believe
you're all deaf in this town. I'll get out of it as soon as possible.”
He whipped up his horse, somewhat to the old man's surprise, and drove
rapidly away.