GEORGE BRAYTON’S DRIVE
George Brayton had been guilty of the most natural thing in the world
that afternoon. He had spent the whole morning among his books,
retorts, air-pumps, and other matters, over at the Academy building,
and he desired something else for a change.
That was his first visit to Ogleport, but, although well aware that
there was plenty of fine scenery in the neighborhood, he had thus far
made no further acquaintance with it than he had gained from the stage,
as he was pulled through the clouds of dust on the north road the day
of his arrival.
The young “assistant” had therefore deliberately planned a sort of tour
of investigation behind a fast horse, and he meant to have a good many
more of the sort. In fact, he had entered into a commercial treaty with
the one livery stable of Ogleport, down at Runner’s Tavern, to supply
him from time to time with all the fast horses that he might need.
So far, so good, but how can a young man enjoy fine scenery with no
companion but a horse?
Not very well, indeed, and, besides all that, there was nothing selfish
about George Brayton, and he had instantly determined to share his
first drive with merry Effie Dryer.
He forgot, truly, to ask Effie’s stepmother for her permission, and had
impudently driven up to the Doctor’s house after dinner, and proposed
to wait until Miss Euphemia should complete any necessary preliminaries.
And Euphemia?
Dear little soul! She never once thought of refusing, nor did she waste
any great amount of time over her simple toilet, but was ready with a
promptness which went to George’s very heart, as anything so rare as
that is quite likely to.
And Mrs. Dryer sat with Brayton in the parlor, during those few
minutes, and smiled on him in a way that showed to perfection the
artwork of her dentist, but which did not disclose an atom of the gall
and wormwood with which her heart had been stirred up when she saw him
hitch his horse in front of the gate.
It is barely possible that Effie knew more about it than Brayton, or
why should she have manoeuvred with such graceful swiftness and such
entire success to get into the parlor first?
By the time Mrs. Dryer came, also, Effie had accepted the invitation
to drive and “gone for her things,” although, as the former smilingly
explained to George, “the Dorcas Society was to meet that afternoon,
and Euphemia would be very much missed.”
And he had calmly replied,
“I should think likely she might. I never saw a young lady who seemed
to be more of a general favorite. She’s a kind of sunbeam.”
“How poetical you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Dryer. “I see you have one of
Mr. Runner’s horses. A bad sort of a man, they say.”
“Good judge of horses, though,” replied George. “It’s a pity so many
good men don’t seem to know what a horse is.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Dryer, “but there’s always seemed to me to be
a great deal of wickedness about horses.”
“There she comes,” was Brayton’s next remark, and it referred to the
rustle of Effie’s dress on the stairs, not to any preposterous action
on the part of Runner’s fast mare at the gate.
Now it happened that George Brayton had been a lover of horses from his
youth up, and many a pleasant hour and mile he had passed behind his
four-footed favorites, but his memory failed to bring him up the ghost
of a more enjoyable drive than he took that afternoon.
Such a guide was Effie Dryer!
She knew just where to go, and her “driver” turned into highways and
byways, most submissively, at her slightest bidding.
What surprised George most of all, however, was to find how very much
of womanly common sense and genuine intelligence lay hidden beneath
Effie’s unfailing flow of high spirits.
Her smile did not in the least degree resemble the ready “lip service”
of her stepmother, and it could give place in a moment to a very
serious and earnest sort of meaning, and George Brayton caught himself,
before long, suggesting subjects of talk and turning over one idea
after another, for no better reason than simply to watch the shadows
chase the sunshine on Euphemia Dryer’s face.
A very dangerous sort of amusement for a young man to indulge in. At
all events, when the drive had lasted longer than the sober-minded Mrs.
Dryer would have at all approved--the very thought of it had soured the
Dorcas Society for her all that afternoon--George Brayton delivered
Effie at her father’s door, took back the fast mare to Runner’s stable,
and then walked up the main street of Ogleport with an idea that it was
in every way a pleasanter sort of village than he had hitherto imagined.
He reached the green just as the boys--an unusually large crowd of
them--were winding up a tremendous game of baseball.
“Been a tough one, I should say,” remarked George to himself. “Looks
as if every fourth boy had tried to catch the ball in his mouth and got
it on his nose. I begin to wonder how Zeb Fuller would look without a
black eye. Bar and Val, though, seem to have escaped. I must put Bar
through his Greek to-night. He can’t have fished to-day quite long
enough to learn the grammar by heart. He’s a remarkable boy.”
If Brayton had been within hearing just after the Rev. Dr. Solomon
Dryer left the green that afternoon, his admiration might have been
transferred to Zebedee Fuller himself, for that cautious youth had
followed up his magnanimous surrender by saying:
“Look here, boys. We’ve had our boxing lesson, but it won’t do now
not to do up our baseball. Old Sol mustn’t be allowed a peg to hang
his hat on. Our young friends from the prize-ring will comprehend the
situation.”
“If you mean Val and me,” said Bar, laughing, “we’re ready.”
But that game of ball!
Never had Ogleport witnessed anything so curiously bewildering since
the Indian braves finished their own last “match game” and carried
their clubs away with them.
The ball was here, there, everywhere. Ins and outs found themselves
mysteriously mixed up. No fellow could tell who it was that started him
wrong.
There was really no redeeming feature to the whole matter, except Bar
Vernon’s marvelous pitching and batting.
“Hiram Allen!” exclaimed Zeb to his lieutenant, “that fellow is a
treasure to the Academy. We can play the Rodney nine now, and beat them
all to flinders. How does your poor old nose feel, my boy?”
“Beat ’em? Yes,” replied Hy; “but see where he’s sent the ball. My nose
feels like a mashed potato. Zeb, we must get him to teach us how, and
then we can whale all Rodney.”
“And all Rodney stands in moral need of chastisement,” responded Zeb.
“I must consult the deacons about it, first one I meet. Are you sure
which side you are on, Hiram?”
“Not exactly,” growled Hiram, “but Bar Vernon’s on the winning side,
whichever it is.”
“That’s it,” said Zeb. “I don’t propose to have any more personal
collisions with Mr. Vernon. He is a very excellent young man.”
But the game of ball, with all its manifold perplexities, was played
out at last, and Zebedee was expressing his satisfaction at the result
to Bar and Val, when his left eye caught a glimpse of George Brayton
coming up the street, and he remarked as much.
“Then,” said Bar, “I must go home and have my Greek lesson.”
“Greek?” exclaimed Zeb. “Is not that one of the ancient tongues?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so,” said Bar. “I looked into it for the first
time to-day.”
“Give me your hand,” said Zeb, enthusiastically. “I’m proud to meet a
man of your age who can say that. But do you really mean to study it
this time?”
“Of course. That’s what I came here for--Greek and the rest of it.”
“Then so will I,” said Zeb. “I have striven for years to stir up old
Sol and myself on the Greek question, but have failed.”
A mournful failure it had been, although Zeb had not been a bad scholar
in some other branches. He had studied, in fact, as most boys do under
teachers like Dr. Dryer, very much as it had pleased him.
As a general thing it does not please them to do much hard work in
Greek, and so they end by knowing even less about it than do their
“instructors,” to put it very strongly.
Bar and Val were off now to join Brayton, and in a few minutes more
the latter had begun to forget his pleasant “drive” in his curiosity
over the results of Bar’s first attempt at the grand old language.
It was little more than very successful “memorizing,” of course, but
Brayton saw that a good deal could be done with a memory like that, and
he was especially delighted at having so promising a pupil.
He was not yet so experienced or so enthusiastic a teacher as to have
rejoiced over the acquisition of a “dull boy.”
No teacher is a thoroughly good one till he reaches that point.
When he gets to it, however, he is safe to enjoy himself for the
remainder of his life, for the supply of dull boys is as sure as frost
in November.
“Pretty tough game of ball you boys had to-day,” said Brayton, after
the lesson was over.
“Good game,” said Val. “Bar plays like a professional.”
“Is that the way so many of them got battered?” asked Brayton.
“No, sir,” said Val; “they got that in the boxing lesson.”
“Boxing lesson?” exclaimed Brayton. “Why didn’t you use gloves?”
“They were in too much of a hurry for that,” replied Bar. “In fact, Dr.
Dryer seemed to disapprove of it. He came out and stopped us before it
was finished.”
“Hum! Yes. I think I see how it was,” said Brayton. “You’d better wear
gloves next time, Bar. You’ve knocked quite a piece of skin off your
left hand.”
“That?” said Bar. “Oh, Hy Allen ran his head against it. He has a very
hard head.”
Brayton took Bar’s injured hand and deliberately felt of his arm,
muttering to himself:
“Hard as iron. How came he ever to get into such training as that at
his age? Something very unusual,” and then he added aloud: “I think
I’ll get you to help me keep the peace this term. Hy Allen won’t want
to try that again very soon, and I think the rest will agree with him.”
If Brayton had but known it, Zeb Fuller and his friends were “agreeing”
to that very thing at that moment, as they gathered in council around
the log at the mill-dam. Their coming determination was expressed in
the words of Bill Jones.
“Tell ye what, fellers, we shan’t feel sure about them city chaps till
we’ve had ’em down here for a swim. We didn’t let ’em come last term,
you know.”
“That’s true,” replied Zeb Fuller. “It’s our duty to see they keep
themselves clean. Oh, if I could but persuade Solomon to soak in the
pond for a while at the bottom of it!”