The Trouble Grows
When I woke in the morning, I tried to persuade myself that I had made
a great deal too much of the whole business; that if not a dignified
thing to do, it was at worst but a boy’s trick; only I would have no
more to say to Peter Mason, who had betrayed me at the last moment
without even the temptation of any benefit to himself. I went to
school as usual. It was the day for the Shorter Catechism. None failed
but Peter and me; and we two were kept in alone, and left in the
schoolroom together. I seated myself as far from him as I could. In
half an hour he had learned his task, while I had not mastered the
half of mine. Thereupon he proceeded, regardless of my entreaties, to
prevent me learning it. I begged, and prayed, and appealed to his
pity, but he would pull the book away from me, gabble bits of ballads
in my ear as I was struggling with _Effectual Calling_, tip up the
form on which I was seated, and, in short, annoy me in twenty
different ways. At last I began to cry, for Mason was a bigger and
stronger boy than I, and I could not help myself against him. Lifting
my head after the first vexation was over, I thought I saw a shadow
pass from the window. Although I could not positively say I saw it, I
had a conviction it was Turkey, and my heart began to turn again
towards him. Emboldened by the fancied proximity, I attempted my
lesson once more, but that moment Peter was down upon me like a
spider. At last, however, growing suddenly weary of the sport, he
desisted, and said:
“Ran, you can stay if you like. I’ve learned my catechism, and I don’t
see why I should wait _his_ time.”
As he spoke he drew a picklock from his pocket--his father was an
ironmonger--deliberately opened the schoolroom door, slipped out, and
locked it behind him. Then he came to one of the windows, and began
making faces at me. But vengeance was nigher than he knew. A deeper
shadow darkened my page, and when I looked up, there was Turkey
towering over Mason, with his hand on his collar, and his whip lifted.
The whip did not look formidable. Mason received the threat as a joke,
and laughed in Turkey’s face. Perceiving, however, that Turkey looked
dangerous, with a sudden wriggle, at which he was an adept, he broke
free, and, trusting to his tried speed of foot, turned his head and
made a grimace as he took to his heels. Before, however, he could
widen the space between them sufficiently, Turkey’s whip came down
upon him. With a howl of pain Peter doubled himself up, and Turkey
fell upon him, and, heedless of his yells and cries, pommelled him
severely. Although they were now at some distance, too great for the
distinguishing of words, I could hear that Turkey mingled admonition
with punishment. A little longer, and Peter crept past the window, a
miserable mass of collapsed and unstrung impudence, his face bleared
with crying, and his knuckles dug into his eyes. And this was the boy
I had chosen for my leader! He had been false to me, I said to myself;
and the noble Turkey, seeing his behaviour through the window, had
watched to give him his deserts. My heart was full of gratitude.
Once more Turkey drew near the window. What was my dismay and
indignation to hear him utter the following words:
“If you weren’t your father’s son, Ranald, and my own old friend, I
would serve you just the same.”
Wrath and pride arose in me at the idea of Turkey, who used to call
himself my horse, behaving to me after this fashion; and, my evil ways
having half made a sneak of me, I cried out:
“I’ll tell my father, Turkey.”
“I only wish you would, and then I should be no tell-tale if he asked
me why, and I told him all about it. You young blackguard! You’re no
gentleman! To sneak about the streets and hit girls with snowballs! I
scorn you!”
“You must have been watching, then, Turkey, and you had no business to
do that,” I said, plunging at any defence.
“I was not watching you. But if I had been, it would have been just as
right as watching Hawkie. You ill-behaved creature! You’re a true
minister’s son.”
“It’s a mean thing to do, Turkey,” I persisted, seeking to stir up my
own anger and blow up my self-approval.
“I tell you I did not do it. I met Elsie Duff crying in the street
because you had hit her with a dirty snowball. And then to go and
smoke her and her poor grannie, till the old woman fell down in a
faint or a fit, I don’t know which! You deserve a good pommelling
yourself, I can tell you, Ranald. I’m ashamed of you.”
He turned to go away.
“Turkey, Turkey,” I cried, “isn’t the old woman better?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to see,” he answered.
“Come back and tell me, Turkey,” I shouted, as he disappeared from the
field of my vision.
“Indeed I won’t. I don’t choose to keep company with such as you. But
if ever I hear of you touching them again, you shall have more of me
than you’ll like, and you may tell your father so when you please.”
I had indeed sunk low when Turkey, who had been such a friend, would
have nothing to say to me more. In a few minutes the master returned,
and finding me crying, was touched with compassion. He sent me home at
once, which was well for me, as I could not have repeated a single
question. He thought Peter had crept through one of the panes that
opened for ventilation, and did not interrogate me about his
disappearance.
The whole of the rest of that day was miserable enough. I even
hazarded one attempt at making friends with Mrs. Mitchell, but she
repelled me so rudely that I did not try again. I could not bear the
company of either Allister or Davie. I would have gone and told
Kirsty, but I said to myself that Turkey must have already prejudiced
her against me. I went to bed the moment prayers were over, and slept
a troubled sleep. I dreamed that Turkey had gone and told my father,
and that he had turned me out of the house.