PAYING FOR A SPREE.
When next Jack became conscious of his own existence, it was with a
conviction that the giant who looked like Shantz the butcher had set
his feet against a mountain or something, and was bracing himself with
all his force against the top of Jack's head. Then he felt assured
that the giant had taken out Jack's eyes, filling the cavities with
two enormous leaden balls, and that the giant had filled his mouth
with wool, and put ice under his back, having first run an unyielding
iron rod all the way through his spinal column, and that the giant had
bound his knees and elbows in splints so that neither could be bent,
and then had fiendishly set a great fire blazing in front of his face.
After what seemed hours of dumb terror, Jack succeeded in parting his
eyelids, and the leaden balls within them answered the natural purpose
of eyes pretty well, for he saw that he was lying on the ground, with
the sun, already several hours high, shining right in his face, and
that he was quite close to a fence, and out of the way of any of the
beaten paths of the town.
Then he found he could move one of his arms from the shoulder, and
then, after considerable effort, he could bend his elbow, and he felt
the other elbow and assured himself that it was not bound after all.
Then he managed to raise himself by one arm, though the iron rod in
his spine was not as elastic as he could have wished, and a cautious
look upward and a painful twisting of his neck showed that the giant
was no longer pressing on the top of his head, though the sense of
compression still remained. This soon gave way to a sensation of
lightness, and Jack fell backward; though he managed to turn upon his
side a moment or two after.
Some misty moments were consumed in attempts to determine who he was
and how he had come to be in that particular place, the final result
being that Jack became convinced that he had been drunk. The mere
recalling of his last experiences of the previous night made him so
lightheaded that he clutched frantically at a tuft of grass to keep
himself from tumbling upward. Then he realized that he had never
before in his life been so terribly thirsty, so he entered the side
gate of the garden near which he had been lying, and drank freely from
the well-pail. Even this exertion left him so shaky that he had barely
strength enough to get outside the garden before he dropped. Then he
curled up outside the fence, shaded his eyes with one hand, and
determined that the sun had never before been so bright.
Then he set himself to thinking. His father and nice little Mattie
Barker came into his mind, arm in arm as it were, but the latter soon
drove out the former, with the result of making the young man more
miserable than he had ever been under the oppressive terrors of
parental wrath. He had barely escaped losing her by being suspected of
incendiarism and being a confessed gambler, but what were these to a
genuine, positive case of drunkenness? No one had seen him in his
present condition—at least, it was safe to assume that no one had, for
to see a drunken person in Doveton was to talk about him, with the
result of soon having a crowd of lookers-on. He had not meant to get
drunk, but, honestly, had he ever deliberately intended to do any of
the dreadful deeds of which he had been guilty! Once, while lounging
in a courtroom, and in the cessation of putty-blowing which he had
thought wise while the sheriff's eye seemed upon him, he heard a
lawyer inform a jury that the law always considered the intention of
the wrong-doer, and now Jack wished that his adored might have heard
that address. He wondered if Matt could be trusted to carry her a
message about something else, and then lead conversation deftly toward
the unintentional wrong-doers of the world, and impress upon little
Mattie the fact of which he had been informed in court. But, no, Matt
was such a literal fellow.
Meanwhile, there had been an unusual commotion in the Wittingham
household. Jack not having responded to the breakfast bell, the
servant was sent to awaken him, but she returned with the information
that he was not in his bed, nor had he been there during the night,
for the coverlid and pillows were as smooth as if untouched. Then the
doctor growled and Mrs. Wittingham fretted; and the doctor said he
supposed the young scamp had gone home with Matt, and Mrs. Wittingham
hoped the boy had not gone to the river and got drowned in the dark;
and the doctor said he did not see why women always imagined
improbable things as soon as anything happened that was out of the
usual order, and Mrs. Wittingham said she could not understand why men
always would be unsympathetic just when there were aching hearts that
longed for tenderness; and the doctor called himself a brute, upon
which Mrs. Wittingham disposed of a tear or two which had come
unbidden, and the doctor declared that the skin of the young reprobate
should pay for those tears. But the cuticle alluded to did not appear,
either with or without its natural occupant, nor could a search of the
stable throw any light upon the mystery.
Then the doctor drove to Matt's, and discovered that the boy was not
there, and he stopped at the jail, ostensibly to ask about the
keeper's baby, but really to give the official a chance to say
something, if Jack had got into trouble and his old quarters again.
But still he remained uninformed, so he began to interview such boys
as were visible; these knew nothing, as boys always do when questioned
about one of their own number who seems to be wanted by his right
guardians. No one had seen him since the balloon caught fire, though
they quieted one very unscientific fear of the doctor's by declaring
positively that he had not gone heavenward with the balloon itself.
Suddenly the doctor was accosted by Shantz the butcher, who was
driving by, and who said:
"Doctor, you know dot bad boy dot you got?"
The doctor admitted that he did.
"Vell, den," said Shantz; "yust you hear vat I say—better it is dot
you do it. You not keep dot boy some oder blace, den I kick him some
oder blace, py shimminy cracious! Dat's yust vat it is, I dell you."
"What had he done to you?" asked the doctor.
"Vat he has done?" echoed Shantz. "Vell, vat he didn't mebbe come
pooty nigh a dooin', dot ding is mighty bad, now I dell you. He drew a
pig sponge full of fire at my hogs. You dink I vant to sell roast
hogs? No, sir! an' ven I do, I puts 'em over de fire—I not put de fire
right ofer de hogs, an' den git yust lots of boys to come an' laugh
vile de pigs is squeaking, cause I reckon dey don't like to be roasted
midout being killed before dot."
"Why didn't you thrash him, if you caught him at such a trick?" asked
the doctor.
"Vy didn't I?" asked Shantz. "Vell, I yust did, but 'twasn't no goot;
he vouldn't holler, but yust tumbled on de ground an' vas vorse as a
whole dressed pig to pick up again."
A few questions as to time and place followed, and the doctor drove
hurriedly off, vowing to himself that if Shantz had really injured the
boy, the burly German should have a large account to settle. To tell a
man to punish Jack was one thing—to find that the man had taken the
doctor at his word, and in advance, too, was quite another. The doctor
drove toward Shantz's house, looking carefully about him and asking
questions of every one he met, so it came to pass that just as Jack
was wondering how to get home and explain his absence without telling
the whole truth, he heard his father's voice, startingly near at hand,
shouting:
"Jack, did he hurt you much?"
"Sir?" answered the miserable boy. Then Jack recalled the likeness of
the giant of the previous night, so he feebly said, questioningly,
"Shantz?"
"Yes—the villain!" exclaimed the doctor. "My poor boy, come here, and
let me see what he did to you. It was bad enough for you to throw a
burning sponge into his pig-pen, but——"
"I didn't, father," said Jack. "The sponge fell from the balloon." And
Jack told in detail the story of the ascension and untimely end of the
balloon, though his recital was so fragmentary and delivered with so
much shading of the eyes and rubbing of the head that the doctor grew
seriously alarmed for the boy's reason. It took him but a second or
two to dismount from his carriage and lay his hand on Jack's head, yet
even in this short time his conscience pricked him sorely for his many
sins of omission concerning his only son, and he formed enough of good
resolutions to pave at least a mile of the infernal pathway.
"Let me see your eyes," said the doctor.
Jack lifted them, heavy and bloodshot.
"No concussion of the brain, thank the Lord," said the doctor. "Now
show me your tongue."
Jack opened his mouth, and that very instant the doctor sniffed the
air suspiciously; then with both hands he held the boy at arms' length
and exclaimed:
"You've been drinking, young man."
Jack looked up guiltily for just a second, and then dropped his eyes.
"Go home this instant!" said the doctor; "take off your clothes and go
to bed, and stay there until I come. I never gave you a bit of
sympathy without finding that I'd wasted it. Go along—quick!"
As the doctor spoke, he reached for his carriage-whip, so Jack moved
off much faster than a moment or two before he would have thought
possible under the existing physical circumstances. When the doctor
had turned his carriage and moved off to visit some patients whom he
had been neglecting all the morning, Jack's fears were sufficiently
allayed to justify his thinking about the weather, for it seemed to
him that the sun had never shone so hotly even in midsummer. Then he
wondered what his father would do to him. He had been punished with
great severity many a time, though his faults had never before been so
grievous as this present one; the mere thought of being punished at
all was more than in his present physical and mental condition he
could bear.
Suddenly an old thought occurred to him: he would run away. He had
many a time determined to do so, but on such occasions the weather was
too cold, or too hot, or he had an uncompleted trade on hand, or he
was penniless, or something. Now, however, the expected punishment
overbalanced every lesser fear. Perhaps he would starve, but he would
not be so dreadfully sorry if he did; he would escape the scoldings
and punishments that he knew of, while that which might come after
death would at least have the alleviating quality of novelty. But
there was little likelihood of his starving; runaway boys in books and
story papers never did anything of the kind—they always fell upon
streaks of luck, and finally married heiresses. Jack did not care to
marry an heiress; nice little Mattie Barker was rich enough for him,
but alas! she would have to remain a sweetly mournful memory. He would
at least strive to obtain her sympathy; he would write her a touching,
a tenderly-worded farewell, and then, as he came into his fortune in
other lands, he would write her respectful anonymous letters—perhaps,
even, he might write her in verse, though about that he could not
speak with certainty at present. One thing he knew—he did wish his
head would stop aching so dreadfully.
Arrived at home, he went softly to his own room, bolted the door, and
sat down to write. He wrote and tore at least a dozen letters before
he could pen one which seemed to suit him; this, when completed, read
as follows:
"Miss Mattie Barker:
Dear Madam,
Farewell forever.
JACK WITTINGHAM."
It then seemed to him that his father deserved a parting word, so he
wrote:
"Dear Father:
You want me to be good, and so do I, but circumstances
over which I seem to have no control, prevent the consummation of
my earnest desire and intention.[2] When I come back, I shall be a
man, and rich enough to comfort you in your declining years, and
mother too.
Your affectionate son,
JACK."
Footnote 2:
Jack had found this sentence in a note from one of his father's
unfortunate debtors, and he had been carefully saving it for years
until a proper opportunity for using it should occur.
This letter had been begun at the top of the page, with the intention
that it should cover the entire front, but as it was, there was a
considerable blank space at the bottom. So Jack labored hard to devise
a postscript, but his head was not equal to much composition. Suddenly
his fond resolution came to mind; it was to have been a dead secret,
but now it seemed only just that his father should have something to
break the shock of his son's departure—something particularly
comforting and uplifting. So he wrote:
"P. S. The first thousand dollars I earn, I'm going to send to you, to
pay for the stable that burned down on account of the matches in my
jacket pocket getting scrunched under Bob Pinkshaw's foot."
This postscript gave Jack a great deal of comfort as he looked at it,
but he doubted whether it was the part of prudence to linger over it.
So he sealed and addressed both letters, and put his father's on the
mantle in the doctor's room, just under the hook where the doctor's
watch was always hung at night; the other letter he determined to mail
at the first post-town he reached in his wanderings.
Then he got a little hand-valise of his father's, having failed to
find a pocket-handkerchief large enough to hold the traveling outfit
which he considered necessary. He packed all his fishing tackle, a red
shirt, a pair of swimming tights, the box containing the remains of
nice little Mattie Barker's bouquet, some underclothing, his Sunday
suit, and his whole assortment of old felt hats. He looked around the
room lest he might have forgotten something, and beheld the little
Bible which his mother had given him on his tenth birthday. He had not
read a word from it for a month, but then runaway boys always carried
their mother's Bibles, or Testaments, he was not sure which—and they
beat everything for turning off murderous bullets or the daggers of
assassins. Then he remembered how his mother had looked at him and
kissed him when she gave him that Bible, and he wished that she had
always looked so, and he nearly cried without knowing why, and he
longed to go find his mother and give her a great hug and kiss, but it
would be just like her to ask awkward questions if he did. He would
have a last look at her, anyhow, come what might, so he tiptoed to the
sitting-room, and there she sat darning one of Jack's stockings, with
a lot of others before her, and she was looking very tired and seemed
to have been crying.
"She won't have to darn stockings any more," said Jack to himself,
"and that'll be a comfort." Then he slipped out of the back door,
through the garden, behind the blackberry rows, into the meadow, and
so down to a wild little gully which would lead him out of town unseen
by any one.
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