CHAPTER VI.

A few evenings after the events recorded in the last chapter, Sam

started from home on his way to meet Jim and Ned. When but a short

distance from his house, to his surprise he met William Andrews; he was

on his way to visit the Montjoys, and designed calling upon Sam that he

might accompany him to their house.

'I am going to see them,' said Sam; 'but they will not be at the house.

Such fine evenings as this we meet at a large rock near by--they will be

as glad to see you as I am.'

The rock was large enough to accommodate the whole of them; but Ned

preferred the grass for his seat; he and Jowler had always some business

of their own to attend to, and very frequently they would both be

rolling together on the ground. The moon was rising beautifully, and a

long streak of light played across the expanse of water at a distance,

dancing on the waves that were formed by the fresh sea-breeze, and,

nearer the shore, where the water lay smooth and unruffled, marking a

line of clear silver light, as from the surface of a mirror.

There is always something peculiarly fascinating in the formation of

youthful friendships--everything seems so fair; the interchange of

confidence is so mutual, so whole-hearted--there is no secret standing

on our guard--no cautious feeling of our way, to see whether we can

safely trust. The heart has not yet been deceived, and therefore yields

implicit confidence. One short hour, in our boyhood's days, will do more

to knit our hearts in bonds strong and true, than months can accomplish,

after the coldness and selfishness of the world have set us on our

guard.

William Andrews had yielded to the impulses of a kind and social

disposition, and thereby had been led sadly astray; but the charm was

now broken, and he turned away with disgust and loathing from his past

habits and companions. He had formed no friendships with those who were

his partners in the idle hour, and the place of temptation. His heart

was yet in its freshness, with a love of the pure and good, more intense

for what he had seen of impiety and evil. His spirit panted for

communion with those on whom it could confide, and longed to pour out

its breathings into the ear of virtue and truth.

And now, under the great oak-tree, seated on the large flat rock, he

confessed all his delinquencies, related the narrative of what he

believed to be a change for life, and its happy influence upon his daily

routine of duties.

'I can work, now, without being wearied; I can go home and meet my

mother without the fear of rebuke; and I can lie down to rest at night

without my head throbbing, or my body burning as in a fever; and when I

awake in the morning, the stupor of deadness I used to feel is gone; I

am happy, and ready for my business.'

Jim and Sam had no such personal experience of their own to tell. Sam

might, indeed, have unfolded scenes of misery in his own past history;

but in his own bosom must now for ever rest all that had been bitter in

his own experience.

But there was no lack of subjects, and the evening was gone before they

had said the one half they had to say; and long before the evening was

spent, they were as intimate, and as much one in their feelings, as

though they, had associated for years.

Sam's heart was full of happiness that night as he walked along the

shore, and saw the water glistening in the moonlight, and heard the soft

sound of the distant waves; and as he beheld the little light that

twinkled in his lowly home, it seemed as bright to him--yea, brighter

than does many an illuminated palace to its princely owner. Dark is the

heart, Sam, that would bring a cloud over your pleasant sky; but such

there are, sitting in council beneath the same pleasant moonlight which

you are enjoying;--well for you that you see them, hear them not.

Had we the power of knowing what is going on at the same time in

different places--could we look into the hearts of the actors in these

various scenes--could we know how very near, sometimes, are the plotters

of mischief and spite to the unconscious, inoffensive objects of their

malice, it would be a cause of misery to us, unless our power was equal

to our knowledge. Happy is it for us, that but one place, and one set of

circumstances, can engross our minds.

Not far from where these happy youths held sweet counsel together,

encouraging each other in the path of manliness and virtue, beneath the

same clear sky and bright shining moon, sat two specimens of humanity,

beneath the shed that ran along the front of Mr. Grizzle's store:--one

of these the owner thereof, and the other a miserable-looking bloated

youth, of about eighteen years of age.

'Do you say, Bill Tice, that they've been round buying up all the

potatoes, and giving twenty-five cents a bushel?'

'Yes, it's fact. Old Sam Cutter told his boys on it, and they told me;

and they said the old man wanted them to go to work and hoe 'em out,

because they were goin' to bring sich a price, and he didn't mean to let

old Grizzle have none on 'em.'

'He did, ha? Ay, ay, well, well.'

'And they'd bought all Billy Bloodgood's, and Bill Andrews', and ever so

many more.'

'They have, eh? and gin' twenty-five cents a bushel, you say? that's a

putty business, Bill.' And Grizzle turned his bleared and spectacled

eyes full upon his companion. 'A putty business, Bill, ain't it? And who

is to have potatoes and sich things to sell in the dead o'winter to poor

folks, who may be ain't raised none? What would your folks have done

last winter in sich a case?'

'Sure enough, we might starve; they wouldn't care.'

'And then if you was jist to help yourself a little,' (giving him a

slight hunch,) 'why they'd be the first to complain on you; and away you

must go another three months in the old cage.

'I hate them Montjoy boys, they always look as if no one was good enough

for 'em; goin' round with their shirt collars on their necks, and shoes

on their feet.'

'And you say Oakum is with 'em, ha?'

'Why yes, Oakum's boy is with 'em, and you know it must be the old man

that does it; the boy aint got nothin'.'

'No, nor the old one neither, when his debts is paid; but I'll see, I'll

see. Folks musn't git in debt to me, and then come out agin' me; that

won't do, Bill Tice.'

'I shouldn't think it would.'

'And you say Oakum is goin' to build a boat for his boy?'

'That's what Dick Cutter tell'd me.'

'To carry away everything we've got here, and make things so high, poor

folks must starve or else work hard, one or the two.'

'They don't care.'

'I tell you what, Bill, you and I know one another; you've done some

little jobs for me, and may be I've done some little things for you.'

'Yes, I know that.'

'Well now, Bill, this business must be stopped by fair means as foul.'

'That boat shan't never be built.'

'Whist, Bill, whist, don't be too fast; time enough yet.'

'What will you do, then?'

'What will I do--jist take the law on Oakum. Don't you see if I tie his

hands the boat can't be built; and the old one they've got now, will

only sink 'em to the bottom of the bay, if they try to take a load in

her. I can make out a bill, I guess, that will keep him tight for three

months at any rate.'

'That's a good idee.'

'Well, what I want of you is, to go some time to-morrow or next day, and

jist ask Dick Tucker to come and see me, and may be I'll give him a job.

You ain't afraid of Dick, now, are you?'

'No, I don't _care_ nothin' for him; I should like just once to turn the

key upon him, and see how he'd like it.'

'He'd rather turn it upon you and me, Bill; but you jist go there and

tell him what I say. But keep mum, Bill.'

'No fear o' me.'

With that the old man patted Bill on the back.

'Come, come in and take something afore you go.' And in they went, and

down went the fiery draught, and away went Bill Tice, a wretched victim

to the hateful cup--a youth in age, but already old in ways of

wickedness. Along the highway he plodded, his hat pulled down over his

eyes, his head bent over, and his look fixed upon the path he was

treading. He heeded not the beautiful moon that was lighting him on his

way--brightly it shone upon him and his home, but only to expose

wretchedness and vice waiting upon each other.

The path of duty is said to be the path of safety. When considered in

reference to all final results, this is doubtless true; but to go

steadily forward in our daily or weekly routine, we must expect to

encounter more or less exposure to danger and disaster.

The little 'craft,' as Peter called the boat in which Jim and Sam made

their voyages, was by no means suitable for the work; and again and

again did the old sailor warn them, that 'they must look out for the

southeasters, and never venture in no sich thing as that.'

It was the only one at present that they could procure, and they must

either run the risk or give up their trade--a thing not to be

contemplated for a moment.

It was early in July; the weather for some days had been oppressively

warm. A dense fog covered the land and the water; and as our boys

started upon their usual trip, they were obliged to lay their course as

they best could, as there was nothing visible beyond a few lengths of

their boat. The water was smooth without a ripple; not a breath of air

could be felt from any direction. Sam's father had endeavored to

dissuade him from venturing on the water at such a time.

'There's no telling what kind of weather we may have when this goes off,

and I'm most sure I heerd it thunder a while ago.'

'I guess it wasn't thunder, father; and you know I can hardly miss my

way in crossing the river; and when we get on the other shore, it will

be easy to make the point; and by the time we get there, the wind will

rise and the fog will go off.'

Sam's reasoning was well enough, but his father was not quite satisfied

that it was best for them to go; however, as he saw their minds were set

upon it, and all their things on board, he made no further objections.

As Sam had said, he was able to make the other shore without much

difficulty; and that once reached, by keeping close to it, the point

was also gained; but when about to turn into the open bay, Sam had some

misgivings as to what was best to be done. The fog still surrounded

them, as dense as ever, the shore could be seen only a few oars' length

from it; and if they could keep within sight, they might proceed with

their voyage, although by following the windings of the shore the

distance would be greatly increased. This, however, would not have

discouraged Sam, if he had not known that there were spots where close

hugging the shore was impossible, as ledges of rocks ran off from it,

which must be avoided. Thinking that he could keep the shore in sight

until these were reached, and then venture out a little to avoid them,

and not willing to turn back, he concluded to try the experiment. Jim

knew nothing of the dangers to which they were exposed in being once out

of sight of land, with no possible guide, in a small open boat, on the

bosom of a bay that opened fair to the ocean. He therefore made no

objections to any of Sam's movements. There was no wind, of course the

sail was not up, and Sam handled the oars. Jim had his usual place at

the helm, at which he had become quite expert.

'Keep her along shore, Jim, and don't lose sight of the land for any

thing. Tell me when you see the large white rock, or the big tree; but I

don't much think you will be able to see _that_ to-day, but keep a sharp

look-out for the rock.' The tree, as Sam expected, was not visible; but

after half an hour's rowing, Jim pointed out the rock to which Sam had

alluded.

'You remember, Jim, that near to this is the first ledge of rocks--turn

her off shore a little--there, that will do; look sharp for the rocks,

for if we lose sight of them and the shore too, we are gone.'

Jim did look sharp; for he perceived, from the anxious countenance of

his companion, that there was some peculiar difficulty to be

apprehended: in a few moments, however, they lost sight of the shore.

This Sam expected; but instead thereof, anticipated making use of the

large rocks, which usually protruded above the ledge or sunken reef, as

his beacon. He exerted his utmost strength in the direction, as he

supposed, they would be found, and the little boat skimmed rapidly

through the water. Not a sign, however, of rock or shore could they

discover; and, to add to their confusion, Sam, by accident, slipped an

oar. Jim sprang to assist him in securing it, his tiller shifted, and

the points of the compass were lost to them; the fog, too, evidently

thickened around them--

'Don't you feel a breeze, Sam? I did just then.'

'Yes, and I think I know where it comes from; you see the fog grows

thicker; it is driving in from the sea, and this wind must be from the

east. Father said this morning he thought we should have the wind from

that quarter--here it comes again, Jim.'

In a few moments a fresh and steady breeze came on; Sam, too, confident

in the direction from which it came, hastened to spread his sail, and

taking the helm into his own hands, put her head, as he supposed, in a

direction that would carry them towards the fort, and at the same time

bring them near the shore. For a while after the breeze sprung up, the

fog was by no means diminished; but at length it began to recede, and as

the circle of their horizon enlarged, anxiously they watched on the

quarter where they were confident the land lay.

'We must be wrong, Sam, or we certainly could see the land by this

time.'

Sam answered not, for other signs than the non-appearance of the land

convinced him that he had mistaken his bearings. The wind had not

increased much since it had at first sprung up, and, in fact, was giving

tokens of ceasing or changing, by its frequent lulls; yet the water was

becoming very rough; in fact, the waves were different from any they had

ever encountered yet, threatening at times to fill their boat;--he

began, indeed, to fear that he had been running out instead of nearing

shore. At length the covering which had so long enveloped them rolled

off, the distant points of land appeared, and their truly critical

position was clearly exposed. Far off, in nearly an opposite direction

to the one they were steering for, loomed up the fort; and the shore,

which they had trusted was near at hand, could just be seen through the

creeping vapors which yet clung to the land rising in patches slowly

into the atmosphere. Before them was the open ocean, and the

southeastern shores of the bay in a proximity to them, which in their

present circumstances was any thing but agreeable.

Sam's first impulse, of course, was to steer directly for the haven they

had started for; this, a moment's reflection upon the state of things

convinced him would be madness.

Several times, while still enveloped in the fog, they had distinctly

heard peals of thunder, which had by no means been a source of

quietude; and now, far over the western sky, had gathered a dark and

threatening mass of vapours, heaps on heaps rolling together, and

spreading to the north, where the blackness of darkness seemed to have

settled. Beneath that heavy mass, at the edge of the horizon, was a long

light streak, showing where in the far distance the storm had already

begun, and the winds lifting it up and bearing it towards them. In the

direction of the storm was the shore they had left; to reach that or the

fort, before it should burst upon them, was utterly impossible, and to

be caught in their frail boat by such a tempest would be certain

destruction. On the south and south-east lay a long line of shore, not

much nearer than that on the west; yet from it, there ran out for a mile

from the land, in a circular direction, a bar of sand; at high tide this

bar was nearly covered, but when the tide was out, some acres of hard

white sand were exposed, and afforded a firm landing-place. Sam knew of

this; and, in fact, he could plainly discern its white surface in the

distance, for the tide had been for some time running out, and was the

main cause why he had, in so short a time, made so long a stretch.

'What shall we do, Sam? It looks black there, don't it?'

'Black enough--we must run away from it.'

At once, Sam tied up the sail as carefully as he could, and stowed it as

near the bottom of the skiff as possible.

'Where will you run, Sam? we are most out to sea now.'

'We must go a little nearer yet, for all that _I_ see;--_quick_, Jim,

take the helm; you see that white streak, don't you, running out from

the shore yonder?'

'Yes.'

'It is a mile nearer to us than any place we can get to; make for

that--it is our only chance.'

Jim did as directed; for, on the water, he yielded implicitly to Sam.

The oars were out, and Sam's utmost strength was tasked; their lives

depended on the fact of his ability to reach that bar before the storm

should overtake them. As they progressed, the waves sensibly increased;

and occasionally, through Jim's inexperience in steering, water enough

would be shipped, not only to wet them thoroughly, but to endanger the

feeble craft.

Sam's eye was steadily fixed upon the rising gust; he heeded not the

waves--death was behind them--if they reached not that landing-place in

time, they must be his prey. Vivid streaks of lightning ran along the

curling edges of the clouds, and heavy-rolling thunder, increasing in

loudness at every clap; far off upon the distant land could be seen

volumes of dust rolling high up in the air; and when the thunder ceased,

the sullen roar of the tempest was distinctly heard.

'How fast it comes, Sam!'

'Keep her straight for that bar, Jim.'

'Do you hear the roaring, Sam?'

'Are we near the bar? Keep her as straight as you can--it's coming

fast.'

Already had the storm reached the water. Sam knew now what they had to

expect; for before it arose a mass of spray like a thick low mist.

Rising on his feet, and throwing himself back with all his force, the

little fellow did all that in him lay to reach the shore.

'Don't let go the helm, Jim.'

And Jim immediately braced himself upon the bottom of the boat, holding

with main strength to the tiller. As the wind struck them, Sam was

obliged to throw himself down in the boat; he could not face its fury.

In an instant, all sights and sounds but that of the storm were lost;

they were at its mercy, or more properly, at the mercy of Him who

directed it. A few moments, their little boat tossed and floated amid

the tumult, and then struck heavily upon the beach.

'Out, Jim! out, and hold on!'

* * * * *

The days when the little skiff was expected at the fort began to be

looked forward to with much pleasure by old Peter and his little charge.

Seated on the parapet which surrounded the fort, with a spyglass in his

hand, he would watch a bend of the shore, around which the little boat

could first be seen. Susie would be near him, looking at the play of the

waters among the broken rocks which formed the foundation of the fort,

or listening to marvellous stories of sea life, of which Peter had the

usual supply.

This day they had watched until the storm came, and after it had cleared

away; until giving up all expectation of seeing the boat, Peter had

hobbled into the fort to attend to some little matters, and Susie sought

for amusement in her usual play-ground--the narrow strip of land, about

twenty feet in width, encircling them. It has been mentioned that a

ledge of rocks connected with the main-land, being formed partly by

nature and partly by a deposit of large broken stones--the design

apparently was to have formed a passage to the shore without the aid of

a boat, but for some cause or other it was not carried out. At low

water, one acquainted with the locality might have made his way across

it, from rock to rock, without much difficulty; but when the tide was

in, all communication was cut off. At the rising and falling of the

tide, the water flowed through the narrow passages with great rapidity;

and a very expert swimmer would have needed much muscular strength not

to have been swept away with it. Peter never ventured upon this rough

causeway himself, for two very good reasons: first, because it was no

place for crutches to travel over; and, secondly, considering it unsafe,

he did not wish to set the little girl an example which might lead her

into danger.

Tired, however, with her narrow promenade, when she reached the ledge

spoken of, without any misgivings, she rambled across the rough pavement

of broken stones, until she came to a large rock forming the terminus.

On one side this rock was shelving. Fearless she walked down to the

water's edge: the tide was running swiftly past, and this peculiar

motion of the water being new to her, she laid herself down, and watched

the coursing of the dark current with delight.

When Peter returned, he saw nothing of Susie; and thinking she had gone

to the other side of the fort, was hobbling round to look after her;

when to his surprise, on turning the first angle, he saw the little boat

close at hand, and apparently coming from a very different quarter than

usual.

'Hulloa, my hearties: where do you hail from now?'

'The Horse Shoe,' said Sam, putting his hand to his mouth, and making as

grum a noise as old Peter did.

'The Horse Shoe! What! druv down there in the gale?'

'Got lost in the fog, and made for the sand-bar; when the storm came up,

we had a hard time of it.'

Peter began to chew hard on his cud, and shake his head very violently;

at the same time resting on his crutches, he doubled up his fist, and

held it in a very threatening manner towards Sam.

'The fog--lost in the fog--and didn't you know better than to venture

off shore, with no _pints of compass_, and _no reckoning_ and _no

nothing_ to steer by, in _sich a craft_ as _that_? That ain't fit to

trust a man's life in on a mill pond.'

Sam smiled.

'It aint no laughing matter, my young man, to foller the water; I've

tell'd you _that_, many a time; it ain't like the land, where you can

lay to, and hold on jist as you likes. No, no; them that deals with the

winds and the waves must keep a sharp look-out, and watch their chances;

its nothin' more nor less but a temptin' o' Providence with your

dumb-founded perverseness. But howsomever, I'm glad to see you; so jist

haul up, and I'll call the Major.'

Peter hobbled towards the landing-place, to which Sam urged his boat.

Just as she struck the stairs, a loud scream was heard. Sam sprang from

the boat, and ran with lightning speed across the ledge of broken rocks.

He had seen what those on the dock could not see. The little girl had

caught a view of the boat, and rising to return, had ventured to tread

upon a part of the rock which was covered with sea-weed; her foot had

slipped, and when Sam beheld her, she was hanging just above the water,

clinging to the rock, and screaming in her agony. Almost distracted,

Peter called aloud for help; although he could see nothing, as yet, of

the child. Sam felt that life or death depended upon his exertions; and

none but one accustomed, as he had been, from infancy, to tread with

bare feet the flinty shore, could have made such fearful haste over that

rough pavement. One false step would, in all probability, have cost his

life. He reached the rock--she was still clinging; he grasped at her--it

was too late--and down she plunged into the deep water, and was borne

swiftly along by the current. But Sam was with her; he waited not to

calculate the chances against his own life--in an instant he plunged,

and then arose a cry from the fort, that brought help and dear friends

to witness the heart-rending spectacle; for there could be little doubt

in the minds of all that both must perish. Major Morris, at the first

alarm, rushed to the spot. His distress at seeing the idol of his heart

sinking in the deep water, cannot be described. He flew with one or two

attendants to his own boat, which lay near at hand; and made all the

haste the most intense anxiety could urge, to reach the struggling

children. But Peter was before him, in the little skiff with Jim; the

moment he understood the case, he threw down his crutches, sprang into

the boat, and like a master workman, made her fly through the water.

'Hold on, my darlings, don't be frightened; I'll soon be with you.'

But no answer was returned; Sam had not calculated his own strength, and

had no idea of the desperate energy it would require to sustain himself

with another clinging to him. His arms could afford him no assistance;

the little girl had grasped them with such energy, that the most he

could do, was just to keep her head from beneath the water. Every thing

was done with the greatest speed from the moment their situation was

observed; but it took some little time to reach them. Sam felt his

strength failing, he could not even call for help--intent upon one only

object, he struggled on; and when he could raise his head above water to

speak, he tried to encourage her. But the powers of nature could do no

more, and he felt the water rushing above his head, and was conscious

that all was over with him; when a hand, strong and steady, grasped his

arms, still extended, and bearing up their precious burden.

'She's saved! she's saved!' hallooed Peter, with his loudest voice.

'She's saved! God be praised!--she ain't hurt a bit.' With one hand he

took Susie from her hold on Sam, and raised her into the boat; and with

the other supported him, so that his head was above the water.

'Thank God!' exclaimed Major Morris--'But the _boy_--is he alive?'

'Oh yes,' said Peter; at the same time raising Sam, and laying him down

in the boat.

'No, no, he ain't,' said Jim, throwing himself on the body of Sam. 'He's

dead!--oh dear--he's dead! he's dead!'

'I tell you he ain't--he ain't; he's only swooned like--he ain't dead:

no, no.'

But when Major Morris saw his pale and deathlike countenance, he was in

great alarm.

'To shore, instantly; he has saved my child, but I fear with the loss of

his own life.' And while he hugged the darling of his heart to his

bosom, and thanked God for his mercy, he could not restrain the big

tears as he looked at the pallid features, and felt the cold and clammy

temples of the brave heart that had saved her. Frantic with grief and

joy alternate, Mrs. Morris watched every motion, from the stairs to

which she had flown, at the first summons of the danger of her child.

Receiving her from the arms of the father, crying and kissing her in the

wildness of her joy, surrounded by attendants, she hurried into the

fort; while Major Morris took the lifeless body of Sam in his arms,

followed by Peter and Jim, who was almost beside himself with grief and

terror.

It seemed a long, long time to those who, under the direction of the

surgeon of the garrison, were using means to resuscitate him; and

scarcely less rejoiced was Major Morris when he received his own child

alive in his arms, than when he perceived the signs of returning

consciousness in Sam. At length he awoke as from a troubled dream. With

an expression of deep anxiety he looked upon the circle which surrounded

him. Mrs. Morris was bending over him, parting the wet and tangled locks

from off his pale forehead; beside her stood the Major, holding his

hands, and rejoicing in the warmth which he felt was returning to his

system. Peter stood at the foot of the bed, chewing incessantly a

tremendous quid of tobacco, which he had found leisure to slip into his

mouth even in the midst of all the confusion. He had done great

execution in the way of rubbing; his hands, very unlike his heart, were

rough, and well calculated for such a purpose. He had, however, now

ceased rubbing, and was looking alternately at Sam and at a short,

red-faced personage, the Irish servant woman, who stood at his elbow.

Endowed with all the feelings of her sex and her nation, she continued

to be in great agitation. Her arms were crossed upon her breast, her

eyes turned up to the ceiling, and with her body swinging to and fro,

she was uttering certain groans and exclamations.

'Is the little girl safe?' said Sam, looking full into the face of Major

Morris.

'Yes, my fine fellow, she is safe and well; thanks to you, under a kind

Providence, for it.'

Sam shut his eyes again; he said nothing further; but there was a

tremulous motion on his lips, and about the muscles of his face. Some

cordial was administered, and he was allowed to fall asleep. As he

slept, the powers of nature began to assume their natural energy, a

gentle warmth spread over his frame, the color again glowed on his

cheek, and his whole countenance told the story to those anxious

watchers, that he was doing well. All breathed more freely; the scene so

late full of terror and dismay, was changing, like the black clouds

which bring the thunder storm, into beautiful visions for the eye to

rest upon and enjoy.

When Sam again awoke, Jim alone was with him. He was much refreshed,

and asked whether they had not better return home.

'Whenever you are well enough, we will do so. Every thing is settled

for--I have got your money and mine too.'

'Oh, have you? Well, I have not thought much about money, or any thing

else; I have been in a kind of dream, I believe.'

'Don't you remember any thing that has happened, Sam?'

'Why, I remember seeing that little girl hanging on the rock:--oh Jim,

how I _did_ feel; and I remember running as fast as I could, and just as

I put my hand on her to catch her, off she slipped. I remember _that_,

Jim; and I don't believe I shall ever forget it: and I remember holding

her up out of the water, and trying to call for help; and then, just as

I was giving up and going down, I felt something take hold of me; and

after that, all seems to be confused. I thought they told me she was

saved; and I thought I saw her once looking at me; but I don't know--may

be I only dreamt it.' And Sam looked very anxiously at Jim.

'No, it's no dream, Sam; for she has been here a good while by you, and

when she saw how pale you looked, she cried.'

'Did she?'

'Yes, and they all cried. And you don't know what Mr. Morris says--he

says if it hadn't been for you, she would have been drowned before any

of them could possibly have reached her: and that you have saved her

life.'

Sam could make no reply. The thought that he had saved a life, and the

life of one so beautiful and so much beloved, was too full of happiness,

and it overpowered him. The door now opened slowly, and Peter's shaggy

head made its appearance. He had a bundle under his arm--Sam's clothes,

which had been dried and ironed for him. Seeing Sam sitting up, he

hobbled to the bedside, took both his crutches under one arm, and

throwing the other around Sam, gave him a hug--well meant, no doubt, and

expressive of his kind feelings; but which would have been much more in

keeping had Peter been holding on to a main-top-gallant-mast in a gale

of wind.

Sam was soon arrayed in his old but clean garments. While he was

dressing, Peter stood with his crutches properly adjusted for moving,

his jaws working very rapidly, and his head nodding approvingly at Sam.

'And now, come, my hearty, you're all rigged. The ladies want to see you

in t'other room; come.'

'Oh, no, no, no; I can't do that; I can't go, no how.'

'I tell you what it is, you're a good fellow of your age as ever handled

an oar; but you are too dumbfounded perverse in your own ways. Here is

you been a saving this child, riskin' your own life; and when they want

jist to say to you, "God bless you," and kind o' relieve their own

minds, you up and won't go.'

But Sam persisted; he would jump into the water again if that was

necessary; but as to going into a fine parlor, and being looked at by

fine ladies, it was not to be thought of. Peter was about to make some

violent pleas against Sam's 'perverseness,' as he called it; when seeing

the Major, he suddenly adjusted his crutches, stroked down his queue,

and backed off to another part of the room.

We must now leave Sam to the care of these friends, and see what is

going on beneath the humble roof of his parents; an eventful day it

proved for him and for them.

Bill Tice had done the errand which Mr. Grizzle intrusted to him. A few

days after, the old yellow gig of Mr. Richard Tucker was seen standing

at Mr. Grizzle's door, while the two worthies were sitting together in a

little back room, adjoining the store, with an old greasy account-book

lying on the table beside them, and sundry papers in Mr. Tucker's

handwriting open, and almost ready to be folded up and put into a dirty

pocket-book belonging to said Mr. Tucker; which was also lying there,

and waiting to inclose within its clasp an instrument fully charged with

a power to torture, only surpassed by the wheel, which, in former days,

twisted the joints of the wretched victims from their strong fastenings.

'A larger bill, Mr. Dick, than I thought I could muster up; and now you

make the most of it.'

'Trust me for that; all I want to know is what my principal

requires--that's all.'

And Mr. Tucker knit his bushy brows, and went on tying up, with a dirty

blue string, the papers which had been lying on the table.

After securing them in this manner, he opened his pocket-book, and

deposited them in it; and then, in the same careful manner, thrust the

whole into an inside pocket of his threadbare coat. Mr. Tucker was

about to do a very dirty job, and he was a man well fitted for the duty.

He had a heart, doubtless, that beat and threw the vital current about

his frame, just as other men have; and he had bones, and sinews, and

flesh, and these could suffer pain as other flesh and blood; but to say

that Mr. Tucker had a heart as others have, that would beat in sympathy

with his fellow in distress, or that he could be made to feel shame, or

pain, or sorrow, or regard, in that secret fountain where springs so

much that sweetens or embitters life, would be wrong--wrong to him,

because it would be saying that of him which was not true--wrong to the

mass of mankind, who _have_ feelings that can be touched. Mr. Tucker's

appearance was in keeping with his character--little leaden-colored

eyes, sunk deep in his head, over which scowled dark shaggy brows; a

pale, cadaverous countenance, with no expression that one could lay hold

of in an hour of distress, on which to found a hope that any compassion

might be felt, or any mercy shown. A fit minister was he of that stern

and barbarous code which legalised the torturing of the _poor_

man--which allowed the tearing him away from the charities of home, and

entombing him in the charnel-house of vice, debauchery, and filth.

Some feelings of compunction seemed yet to be lingering in the breast of

Mr. Grizzle; for as Mr. Richard put his hat on his head, and buttoned up

his coat, and fumbled about in the act of departing, he stammered out--

'It's right, you know; I ought to have my own. Folks cannot expect me to

wait always for 'em--pay-day must come.'

'_Right!_ to be sure it's right; and as you say he's running against

you, and setting up his boy and others to hurt your trade--why, muzzle

him, I say--who wouldn't?'

'I suppose it wouldn't be much use taking the timber and stuff that he

is building that boat with?--there is nothing else to take.'

'No use in that; he hasn't done much to it but put the ribs

together--it's of no value as it is. No--shut him up; that's the

way--that will stop boat and all.'

'Well, well; you know the law, Dick, let it work. I shall have to find

him in bread and water--that won't cost much.'

The day was drawing to a close, and the shades of evening were deepened

by a heavy cloud which was rising in the west, and into which the sun

was sinking. A muttering of distant thunder hastened the departure of

Mr. Tucker. He sprang into his crazy old gig, and drove off at a quick

pace to his deed of mischief.

Oakum had worked diligently on his boat all day, and continued his labor

till a later hour than usual, in expectation that the little skiff would

be along, and Sam would accompany him home. He had felt much uneasiness

for the safety of the boys, and was very desirous of witnessing their

return. Darkness was coming on, and a storm threatening; so taking a

long look across the water, and meeting no signs of the boat, with

rather a sad heart he walked towards his home. Their evening meal was

eaten in silence, while, as long as the light permitted any view of

distant objects, the eyes of the parents were directed across the water.

They felt, as they had never before, how dependent they were upon their

boy for his smile and his voice to cheer their hearts.

Scarcely had they finished their supper, when the yellow gig of Mr.

Tucker drove up. Oakum and his wife cast their eyes at the gig, and then

at each other. Instantly she perceived that trouble was at hand; for her

husband grew very pale, and even faltered in his step as he walked to

the door to admit their visitor. Mr. Tucker did not use much formality

in his official visits, and entered without knocking.

'Mr. Oakum, I believe.'

'At your service, sir.'

'Here is an account, sir, I believe against you, lately put into my

hands'--at the same time opening his pocket-book, and taking out one of

the papers which he had so carefully put there but a short time since,

in the little back room of Mr. Grizzle's store. Mr. Oakum took the

paper, and asking Mr. Tucker to be seated, availed himself of the same

privilege--for, to tell the truth, he was completely unnerved. He knew

well what office Mr. Tucker held: he also knew something of the man; and

a strange weakness came over him, so that when he unfolded the paper,

and held it up to the light of the window, his hands trembled so

violently, it was impossible for him to make out the sum that was

charged against him.

'This is from Mr. Grizzle, I suppose, Mr. Tucker?'

'It is, sir.'

'I don't know that I can make out exactly what the amount is; but I

suppose it is right. I owe Mr. Grizzle something, but I thought it

wasn't much.'

'Much or little, sir, you've got it there; it is something over thirty

dollars.'

'Thirty dollars! Ain't there some mistake, Mr. Tucker?' and Mr. Oakum

looked at his wife in amazement. She, poor thing, stood like a statue,

not comprehending the matter, but fearing it was something dreadful.

'I guess there is no mistake, sir. Mr. Grizzle took it from his book,

and he ain't apt to make mistakes; but that is between you and him--it

is no concern of mine.'

'Oh, no, sir; you are not to blame. I know I owe Mr. Grizzle, and I have

thought of it a great deal, and am trying to get a little something

ahead to give him; he shall have all I honestly owe him just as soon as

my hands can earn it. I will call and see Mr. Grizzle to-morrow, and

take him a little.'

Mr. Tucker now arose from his seat, put his hat on his head, and

stepping up to Mr. Oakum--

'All _that_ is well enough, sir; but it don't pay the bill. If you

cannot settle it at once, you will please go along with me'--at the same

time putting his hand on his shoulder.

'I have a warrant to take you, unless you can give me the money, or

goods in the place of it. Shall I read the warrant?'

'There is no occasion for that, sir. I have not got the money, if it was

to save my life; and goods I have none, only what you see here.'

'Well, sir, if you go peaceably, it is well enough; if not, I must read

the warrant, for I have no time to lose--it is getting dark.'

Mr. Oakum arose, but his limbs could scarcely sustain him; big drops of

sweat stood on his pale forehead, and a deadly sickness was at his

heart.

'Oakum, Oakum! tell me what it is. What does this man want?'

'I don't see, Mr. Tucker, what good it is going to do Mr. Grizzle to

shut me up in jail. I can't do no work there. And what are my wife and

children to do? must they starve?'

'_Jail! jail!_ Ah, sir; you ain't going to put my husband in _jail_!

What hurt has he done you, or any body else?'

And she flew to her husband, and putting her arms around his neck, wept

as though her heart had broken. But Mr. Tucker was not to be balked in

the discharge of his official duties by the tears of either man or

woman--some harsh things he said, which aroused the humbled spirits of

this suffering husband and wife. Mrs. Oakum hushed her grief for the

time, in order to quiet the distressed children, who were clinging to

their father, and screaming in their agony when they learned whither he

was going. Mr. Oakum, however, made no resistance to the imperious

demands of the officer; but quieting the feelings of his family as far

as he could, entered the gig with Mr. Tucker, and was driven rapidly

away amid the darkness of the gathering storm.

As soon as Mrs. Oakum was enabled to collect her thoughts, apprehensions

on Sam's account again oppressed her. She took her seat by the window,

and looked in every direction; but the darkness had increased so

rapidly, that objects could be discerned at only a short distance from

the house. Occasionally the vivid lightning would, for an instant, throw

its bright glare across the water, making the prospect distinctly

visible. On one occasion, she thought she saw a small white sail; and

every succeeding flash she watched, until her eyes were nearly blinded

by the dazzling light, but nothing more of it could she discern. A

startling peal of thunder proclaimed that the storm was at hand, and the

rain began to patter in large drops, and then to pour its floods upon

them. Just at that moment the door opened; and Sam, with his cheerful

smile and pleasant words, was in the midst of them. They all flew to

caress him; but missing his father, and seeing the marks of distress in

his mother's countenance--

'Where is father?' he cried, 'is anything wrong--do tell me quick,

mother.'

'Ah, Sam! what shall we do?'

All Sam's bright hopes were dashed at once; he durst ask no further. The

day had been one of severe toil and imminent danger; but he had been

richly rewarded in the approbation of those he esteemed so highly; he

had been caressed by those whose rank in life was among the first in the

land; and he had then about him a jewel of no inconsiderable value,

given to him by Mrs. Morris as a token of her high approbation of his

manly conduct, and of the obligation she should ever feel for the rescue

of her child. All this had raised his spirits; and full of the fond

anticipation of making his parents glad with the tidings of the day, he

had landed with a happy heart, and hurried to his home. But now, alas!

his father has yielded to the tempter, never, perhaps, to be restored,

and all his proud dreams are gone.

'You need not tell me about it, mother. But I must go and try to find

him; he may be somewhere on the road, unable to help himself, and

exposed to this storm.'

His mother looked earnestly at him, as though not clearly comprehending

what he meant; but it soon became evident to her.

'Oh! it is not that, Sam. Your father has been hard at work all day, and

we were only worrying a little about you, as he felt so anxious ever

since the storm we had in the morning--if it hadn't been for that, we

should have been as happy as could be--when, all at once, that

good-for-nothing creature Richard Tucker came in, and said he was sent

by Grizzle; and in spite of all we could say or do, he has took him off

to the jail.'

And she broke out again in a passionate flood of tears. Poor Sam was in

a sad strait; but his heart was not so heavy as when under the

impression that his father had fallen again into his evil habits. He

resolved, however, immediately what course to pursue.

'I am going out, mother. Perhaps I can get him clear; if not, I shall

stay with him till morning. I cannot leave my father alone in that

dreadful place to-night.'

'Oh, Sam! what are you talking about? You cannot go out in such a storm,

and then to stay all night in that awful jail.'

'I don't care for the storm, mother; and the jail won't be worse for me

than it will be for him.'

'Well, Sam, I don't know what to say, my poor head is so bewildered. If

it wasn't for these little ones, I would go with you.'

Sam immediately went to his chest, and taking out all his little store

of money, put it with that which he had brought home that day--in all it

amounted to three dollars. He then took the jewel which had been

presented to him--a handsome broach, in the form of a harp, and set with

stones, worth no small sum in money; but to Sam more valuable than

hoards of gold, and which no money would have purchased from him--and

placed it in the bag with his little treasure, then threw on an old

garment, to protect himself in some measure from the rain, and telling

his mother 'to keep up a good heart,' left the house. He took the road

leading to Mr. Grizzle's store, and forgetting the fatigue of the day,

hurried along as fast as the storm would permit. Mr. Grizzle was sitting

at his counter, resting his feet on an old rickety bench, and humming a

tune by way of company, for the usual visitors of the evening were not

in.

Sam took off his hat as he entered, and walking up to Mr. Grizzle looked

him full in the face, but was too much out of breath to speak.

The old man stopped his tune, and looked quite smilingly at Sam.

'Well, my lad, how do you do this evening? All well at home?'

'Here, Mr. Grizzle, is all the money we have; it is not much--but I

thought may be you would take it; and here is something that is worth a

good deal--you may keep it until we bring you the rest of the money. We

can only get a little at a time, but you shall have it all as fast as we

can raise it.'

'_Money_, boy! Who has said any thing to you about money? I

haven't--have I?'

'Why, sir, I suppose you sent Mr. Tucker to our house?'

'Mr. Tucker! He has been to see you, has he? Well, he is a pretty hard

customer. Why not give him the money?'

'But he has taken my father to jail, sir; and says he must have the

whole of the money--and this is all we have got,' holding up to Mr.

Grizzle his little handful of change. 'Here is three dollars, sir, and I

will soon get you some more, and you may keep _this_ until I bring it,'

taking up also his brooch.

'What, gold, ha! You must be pretty well off at your house--pretty well

off.'

'_Do_, Mr. Grizzle, take this, and let my father go. We will pay you

every cent he owes, just as fast as we can; I promise you, sir, upon my

honor.'

'Oh, you had better go to Mr. Tucker's, he will take the money, I

guess--and that thing too; may be he can find an owner for it. It don't

look as if it had been living among poor folks.'

Sam's heart was beginning to sink; he perceived that Mr. Grizzle was

only mocking him. But he did not quite understand what he meant by

'finding an owner for it.'

'I am the owner of this, Mr. Grizzle.'

'Are you? you look a good deal like it.' And he cast his eye down at

Sam, surveying him from head to foot. This was more than he could bear;

his heart beat quick, his face reddened; he could not then have asked a

favour of that old withered wretch, had it been to save himself or his

family from certain ruin. He put his money and jewel back again into his

pocket, picked up his hat from the bench on which he had laid it, and

turning his back on the store and its owner, hurried away, wishing that

he might never see either again.

The building used for the graceless evil-doers and penniless paupers of

this vicinity was not a very sightly object, and its appearance was in

keeping with its hideous character. It was a square, two-storied

building, without any paint; the clapboards and roof were gray and

mossy; storms and sunshine had played upon it for fifty years; and it

was none the better for its age. In the upper story could be seen one

room, with a small window at the end, with iron bars crossing

sufficiently near together to keep a prisoner from getting through, if

he was somewhat corpulent; but most rogues and poor men, that were not

very stout, could, if so disposed, have found a way out with a little

hard squeezing. But whether any did ever get out in that way I never

learned--perhaps the sight of the iron was enough. The other apartments

of the house had windows open as one could desire; glass may once have

formed some obstruction, to the birds at least; but it had disappeared

'long time ago,' and in that place thereof, shingles, old hats, old

clothes--any thing that would keep out the rain and the cold for the

time being, was substituted. It was inhabited by a family, which, for

want of all those qualities and qualifications that would have fitted

them for any other situation, were content to abide here. Old Adam Tice

had never been able to comprehend the difference between mine and thine.

He was not particularly bad in any other way; but it was generally

thought that his boys would, in time, carry out his principles a little

beyond their parent; and his son Bill, whom we have been introduced to

at Mr. Grizzle's, had, on more than one occasion, enjoyed the occupancy

of the room with the grated window.

As there was but one apartment in this building suited for close

confinement, it sometimes occurred that an unfortunate debtor, who had

no friend to bail him out, so as to allow him the privilege, if such he

should esteem it, of ranging the lot on which the house was built, and

taking up his abode with Mr. Tice, must share the grated room with some

vile character whose deeds against humanity had brought him there; and

such was the case now. Two notorious vagabonds, guilty of flagrant

crimes, the very offscouring of the earth, were there; and nightly they

filled the old jail with noise and riot, as though fiends were holding

their orgies. It made even old Tice shudder, as their horrid oaths rang

through the building in the darkness of the night; and he almost

regretted that he had procured the liquor which had thus given them the

inspiration of demons.

I shall not attempt to describe the feelings of poor Mr. Oakum when he

heard the key turned upon him, and found himself in such company. Some

straw was placed for him at one end of the room, out of the reach of his

fellow-prisoners, who were chained. He tottered towards it, and was glad

to cast himself down upon it. Sorrow will sometimes lull her suffering

children to sleep: oblivion, like a handmaid of charity, steals upon

them and shuts up the senses. Helpless, and almost hopeless, his mind

could no longer bear the thoughts that haunted it, but settled down into

unconsciousness. Occasionally some dreadful oath would rouse him, or the

deep rolling thunder, but only for a moment; when thoughts of home, and

wife, and children, would with lightning speed flash upon his mind, and

then, overpowered with his sad condition, he would again sink into

unconsciousness.

At length he started from his bed of straw, awakened by the spring of

the heavy bolt that was suddenly drawn back. He cast his eager glance

upon the door; a light glimmered through a small square aperture at the

top--the latch was raised--his senses he feared were leaving him; for

there stood Sam, his dear, good child. Mr. Tice threw the light of his

lamp upon that corner of the room, and Sam walked directly to his

father.

'Oh, my dear boy, is that you? is it you, Sam?'

'I thought I would come and stay with you to-night, father.'

'Oh, Sam, I do not mind this for my own sake; I deserve it: my own

foolishness has brought this on to me.'

'Don't talk so, father; you haven't done wrong. I will get you out, yet,

and it will all be better than ever.'

His father could make no reply; his heart was melted, and thoughts

different from any he had ever indulged before began to agitate him. God

had not forsaken him; this child was an angel of mercy, sent to cheer

his gloom and give hope to his heart. New and strange feelings towards

his God arose from within--how good, how forbearing, how full of

compassion. New feelings in regard to himself oppressed him. A great

sinner, both towards God and the dear ones God had given him, could he

be pardoned? He remembered the thief upon the cross; and his whole heart

arose in one strong impulse--'Lord, help me! save me!' It was a simple

prayer--it was only breathed--but it was heard in heaven. And swift as

angels fly, sweet peace came down and stole into his bosom, and there,

amid that gloom and in that dire abode, whispered of pardon, and hope,

and a Friend above.

But where did Sam obtain that strong assurance that all would yet be

well--_better_ than ever? It was no fiction invented to soothe his

father's troubled mind. Sam really felt and truly believed it would be

so. Ever since that dark hour upon the rock by the water-side, when his

companions came to him with their plan of enterprise, had _resolution_,

strong as his love of life, nerved his heart. He had since then tasted

the rich fruits of honest labor; and his eyes were enlightened, and his

hope and courage made strong. His parents and sisters had already been

made happy by his exertions, and his way was enlarging before him. The

present hour was one of severe trial, but his courage was not shaken by

it, and he believed most firmly that it would be with them 'better than

it had ever been.'

It was a beautiful morning when Sam left the jail, and hurried on his

way to carry what comfort he could to his home. He would have avoided

every human being if he could, but just as he was about to pass the road

which ran down to the blacksmith's shop, Mr. Cutter's two boys saw him,

and being social fellows, ran up, and began, in their free-and-easy

boy's style, to question him about what he was doing there that time of

day, and where he had been, and so on. Sam's heart was about as full as

it could hold. They were wild boys, but of a kind nature, and felt a

right good-will towards Sam. They perceived that he was in trouble, for

the tears stood in his eyes when they spoke to him.

'Now, Sam, what's the matter? tell me who's been hurting you. I'll give

it to him--who is it? See if I don't.' And Bill Cutter doubled up his

fists, and put himself in a posture to go right at it. Sam Cutter was a

little softer in his composition than his brother; and while Bill was

putting himself into a great rage with somebody or other, he did not

care who, Sam put his hand on the shoulder of his companion:

'Tell me, Sam, what's the matter.' The storm, which had been so long

pent up, broke forth; this made both boys more solicitous to find out

the cause of his trouble, until Sam was compelled to tell the whole.

No sooner had they heard the story, than, seizing Sam, each by an arm,

they fairly forced him along.

'Come along, right in, Sam Oakum, and tell father all about it.'

And on he had to go, straight through the old shop, into a little back

yard, and then into a little old house. The table was in the middle of

the floor, on which lay the remains of the breakfast which had just been

eaten.

Mrs. Cutter was stooping over the fire, and doing something with a

kettle which hung there; and as they entered, she turned her very large

eyes upon the boys. I say large, because they were naturally very

expansive, and because she wore on the bridge of her nose, right before

them, a pair of nose spectacles; they were large, too, in contrast with

the other features of her countenance, for while these were very round

and full, everything else in sight was very long and sharp; her nose was

long, and her chin was long, and her hands and arms were long; and other

limbs long too, for when she let go the kettle and raised herself up,

she appeared all length--of breadth there was nothing to mention, except

the eyes.

'What upon airth is the matter? what are you doin' with that boy? See,

Cutter, they've been a hurtin' on him--he's a cryin' now--oh the massys!

Let him go, you good-for-_nothins you_, let him _go_.'

'No, we ain't been hurting him, neither--what do you think, father?

they've been putting Sam Oakum's father in the old cage, they have.'

Mr. Cutter was sitting yet at the table; _he_ and his good woman were

the reverse of each other, in more ways than one. He was, as we have

seen, very large and full-bodied. Standing and walking and going about,

seemed to be, each of them, her natural situation; while with him,

standing was not to be thought of if there was any chance for a seat;

and when once at the table he seemed willing there to stay, until Mrs.

Cutter had cleared plates, dishes, and the table itself from before him.

As the boys entered he pushed himself round, and looked in quiet

amazement at them.

'Who is _they_? who's put him in jail?'

'Old Grizzle, father; only think. If I ain't a mind to kill the old

varmint; I'll burn his house down.'

'_Whist, hush, hold your tongue_, you scoundrel; how dare you talk so?'

And the old man, in his energy to do something to show his displeasure

at such threats, caught hold of the pitcher, which yet stood on the

table before him, and thinking not of its contents, elevated it above

his head in a threatening manner at his lawless son. Cider he liked well

enough in its proper place; but a shower of it on his bald head, and in

his eyes, and so on, was another thing. It took him by surprise--he let

the pitcher go, and put his hands to the afflicted parts.

Crockery is brittle stuff; it could not stand every thing, any more than

Mrs. Cutter's temper could. To see the look of horror she cast upon the

dripping head of her husband, and then at the broken pieces of her

pitcher, the very last thing in the house 'her mother gin' her,' as she

often said; with her long arms and bony fingers stretched out in the

air, was rather frightful: The moment the old man could recover himself

sufficiently to realize what he had done, and what he had to expect, he

exclaimed, very significantly,

'Oh dear!' and rose up as hastily as he could, designing to retreat to

his shop, his usual refuge from a storm.

'_Oh dear!_ you may well say so--of _all things_. Well, Cutter, now you

see what you've done. I've told you it would be so; the very last thing

my mother gin' me--slam it right down on the harth--isn't that purty?

you've been breakin' and breakin' all your life; and now you've broke

the pitcher.'

He said not a word in reply, but taking hold of Sam Oakum pulled him

along towards the shop. Finding that her husband was fast retreating

from the sound of her voice, she turned the battery upon her two boys,

who were eyeing the broken crockery with no very equivocal looks,

'And _you_, you villains! comin' and settin' your father crazy with your

lies--_out_ of the house with you, this instant.' And she made a push

for the broomstick. They understood her kind intentions right well,

having had large experience in that way, and did not wait for any

further instructions; but made after their father with all speed.

Once in the shop, the old man felt safe. He had kept fast hold of Sam,

and sitting down on his usual block, held him off at arms-length with

one hand, while with the other, and the aid of an old handkerchief, he

wiped down his bald head, and round, good-natured countenance.

'Oh dear! it was unlucky about that pitcher, I shall never hear the last

on it. Tell me now, Sam, what is all this? It ain't true--is it? that

old varmint ain't put your father in jail, has he? Don't cry now, but

just tell me the whole on it.'

Sam told his story as well as he could, but it was hard work. He could

command his feelings very well, when only thinking about it; but when

compelled to speak his father's name, his lip trembled, and the words

came out with great difficulty. Mr. Cutter had a very tender heart of

his own, and Sam's story and appearance worked upon him more and more;

so that he kept the old handkerchief wiping away long after the cider

shower had dried off.

'And why didn't you come to me, and tell me about it? Ain't I known your

father from a boy, and your mother too--bless her good soul; and do you

think I would have let such doings as these gone on? That old

varmint--is that the way he is goin' to serve folks? Send 'em to jail,

to lay there with them dreadful rapscallions? Oh dear!--jist to think on

it! And you was comin' here to tell me about it this morning; wasn't

you, Sam?'

'No, sir, I was going home.'

'Going _home_? Why, where have you been?'

'I've been with father all night.'

'_You?_ He didn't put you there _too_, did he? the old sinner!'

'Oh no, sir, but I went there to stay with him. I thought father would

feel so bad.'

'You blessed child! Oh dear, what are we comin' to? And you ain't had no

breakfast. Here, boys, go in and ask your mother to give this poor child

a little something.'

'Oh no, sir, I thank you; I can't stay; for mother will feel bad if I

don't go home; and I ain't hungry a bit.'

'Yes, you are hungry--you know you are--only you feel so bad, you can't

eat. But I tell you, don't feel bad; you mustn't. Your father _shan't_

stay there in that hole; I tell you he _shan't_! He shall see that he's

got some friends. We ain't all dead and buried yet, I hope.'

'Oh, Mr. Cutter!' and Sam, as he said this, caught hold of him with both

his hands; 'if you can do any thing to help to get my father out of that

dreadful place, I will thank you all my life for it, and I will pay you

every cent of the money, just as fast as I can earn it.' And he looked

so earnestly into Mr. Cutter's face, and his bright black eyes sparkled

with such an intensity of feeling, that the old man's heart must have

been made of much _sterner_ stuff than it was, not to have felt the

appeal.

'There, go home--go home, Sam; don't say no more.' And he fairly pushed

Sam away from him; and then he kept the old handkerchief going for some

time, not saying a word to either of his boys, who stood looking after

Sam, as he went away, and pitying him from their hearts.

'Now, boys, go and catch the old mare, and hitch her to the cart; and

one of you must drive me to Billy Bloodgood's. Billy must help about

this business, if I can only make him hear any thing; but it's like

raising the dead.'

The boys went off with a good will, and soon had the old nag tackled to

the cart, her harness being of a very simple kind, and easily adjusted.

Mr. Cutter had a way of his own about almost every thing, and it

extended even to his manner of riding. Too bulky to climb very high

places, he chose, generally, the lowest seat he could find; and the tail

of the cart being more easily attained than any other part, and

moreover, being easily resigned in case of accident, whenever Mr. Cutter

rode, _that_ was his place. He would sit pretty well in on the body,

with his legs dangling behind, and one hand on each of the side-boards.

To an observer, it appeared to be a very uneasy situation; for the mare

had a peculiar gait, something between a rack and a pace, which not only

imparted a quick up-and-down motion to the stern of the vehicle, but a

lateral one likewise; so that from the time she started until she

stopped, Mr. Cutter was not only carried onward, but every which way:

there was no quiet for his body. He never complained of it, however, nor

seemed to realize any thing out of the way.

Billy Bloodgood was just going out of his gate when Mr. Cutter drove up.

Knowing that it would be useless trying to hold a parley with him out

there, he told his son to drive close to the door; and taking Mr.

Bloodgood by the arm, pulled him along, determined not to let him go, as

he was well acquainted with his peculiarities. So, holding on with one

hand to the side of the doorway, and with the other to his friend, he

entered into Mrs. Bloodgood's sanctum--her kitchen, parlor, and bedroom.

Puffing and blowing, he seized the first chair he could find, and

bestowed himself upon it.

'Now, woman, do you make this husband of your's sit down, for I want to

talk to him; and he'll be running off if you don't see to him.'

'Why, what's the matter, Uncle Sam? you're all in a heat, and out o'

breath. Ain't nothing happened to home, has there?'

'Happened? Yes, there has something happened--there's always something

or other happening in this world; but that ain't neither here nor there.

I can get along with that. The wind will have its blow out, and then it

will stop, and so must a woman's tongue. But I tell you, make that man

of your's sit down, and do you come and listen to me, and then try to

git it into his head, for it's beyond me to do it.'

Mrs. Bloodgood did as she was bidden; for she had great respect for

Uncle Sam Cutter. She placed a seat close beside him for her husband,

and another for herself, immediately before him.

'Do you know that our neighbor Oakum is in jail?'

'In jail! Oh dear, how you _do_ talk!'

'It is true--I tell you so.'

'Then it's Grizzle--I know it is. First, he's 'ticed him to drink, and

then he's come upon him. Ain't it so, Uncle Sam?'

'Yes; but hear me. Oakum ain't the man he was--don't you know that? He's

a clean changed man. He's to work now every day, and brings home all his

earnings every night to his family, and stays to home, and acts like a

man; and his wife looks like a new critter, and things all round his

house look so you wouldn't hardly know it. And now, jist as they are

beginning to be a little like folks, and have things right end up, that

old varmint takes the law on him, and puts him in the old cage, among

them rapscallions there, jist as if he was a thief or a murderer.'

'Oh dear! jist to think on it.'

'And there's that blessed child of his been through all the rain and

thunder and lightning, and went and stayed there all night, because he

couldn't bear to leave his father alone--jist think of that; and that

poor woman, all stark alone with them little children--jist think of

that. Don't it make your heart ache?'

'Oh dear, dear! what are we comin' to?--jist think of it.'

Mrs. Bloodgood had her own peculiar ways, and was not always very

particular what she said or did, when overcome by the little vexations

of life; but she had a feeling heart, and would cry as hard as she would

scold, if there was any thing calculated in an especial manner to bring

tears; and now they were chasing each other down her cheeks faster than

she could wipe them away.

'I don't wonder you cry about it. I tell you what: when that little

fellow took hold on me this morning, and begged me to help his father,

and looked up at me so pitiful, and said that he would thank me all his

life, and pay every cent of the debt as fast as he could earn it--why I

tell you, Sally, I cried like a child. And now, I tell you what it is;

we mustn't leave that man lying there like a thief. I can't eat, nor

sleep--I can't do it, Sally. I haven't got but little; but Billy must

help--it's thirty dollars. I know it's a great deal for poor folks to

raise, but it must be done, somehow--mustn't it, Sally?'

Mr. Bloodgood had been a silent spectator of the scene--he could not be

said to be a listener. He saw that Mr. Cutter was very much engaged, and

that his wife was quite to the other extremity of her feelings; but what

was to pay he did not know. He kept looking first at one, and then at

the other, for some explanation, taking large pinches of snuff all the

time from a horn box which he held in his hand.

'Any body _dead_?'

Mrs. Bloodgood put her nose close to his ear, and hallooed--'No!'

Mr. Cutter pushed his chair back a little--the unearthly noise startled

him.

'Why! do you have to holler at that rate? I should think you'd split

your throat, or your nose, or something or other. I never heard such a

noise.'

'Oh dear! I tell you, Uncle Sam, he gits wus and wus. I do candidly

believe it's the snuff; he stops every thing up with it. His head ain't

got no more sound to it than the harth stone.'

'Well, I don't know but it's the best thing he can do, if he's got to

have sich noises as them made in it. I should want to stop every thing

up too; and how upon airth you are ever going to tell him what I want, I

don't see. Let me get a little ways off afore you begin; my head sings

now like a dozen teakettles.'

With that the old man pushed his chair off against the opposite wall,

while Mrs. Bloodgood undertook the task of explaining matters to her

husband, and she accomplished it in much less time than could have been

expected. Being nowise friendly to Mr. Grizzle, she handled his name in

a very free way; and as her husband confided in her management, when she

was through with the story, he looked at her very significantly--

'Shall I do it, Sally?'

'Yes, yes; do it--quick.'

So he looked at Mr. Cutter, smiled, and nodded, and then left the room.

'Well, well; all things was made for some use. I often wondered what

your nose was made for, but I see now. But it will be the death of you,

yet; you'll split something or other one of these days.'

'Why, no, Uncle Sam, you see I'm used to it; but it does make me weak at

the stomach like, it takes sich a power of wind to keep it up any time

so; a body can holler pretty loud two or three words, and not mind it.

But I s'pose it's my lot, and I must be content with it.'

Mr. Bloodgood soon returned, making signs to Uncle Sam to draw up to the

table. We must leave them to arrange matters, and carry out their kind

designs as best they may be able.

How beautifully the water sparkled with the bright rays of the morning

sun, and how clean the shore looked, and how fresh every thing appeared,

as Sam drew near to his home; but how very sad his heart was, none but

such as have suffered like him can well imagine. But sad as were his

feelings, it did not hinder his attending to all the duties which

devolved upon him. The net was examined, and the fish for the morning's

meal brought up. The pigs were fed, and the boat looked after, and all

things done as usual. It was a solitary meal, _that breakfast_, and soon

ended. But the best fish were frying by the fire, and on the griddle was

a fine thick bread-cake cooking, and a little basket was brought and

placed on the table, and a clean cloth lay beside the basket; and Sam

had his hat in his hand, and was leaning against the fireplace, watching

his mother, as she went about the little room getting things together.

'May be he'd like a little pickle, mother. You know he eats it sometimes

with his breakfast.' And the mother made no reply; but wiping away the

tears that started as reference was made to him, she went directly to

the cupboard and brought the pot of pickles; and then the fish was taken

from the fire, and placed on a plate and put into the basket; and the

cake was taken from the griddle, and broken in two and laid on the fish;

and the pickle, and a little salt and pepper, and a knife and fork; and

then the clean cloth was put over the whole, and Sam, taking the basket,

walked straight out of the house, and his mother threw herself into the

chair, and wept aloud.

As Sam ascended the little rise of ground behind their dwelling, he

looked across to the house of his friends, Jim and Ned, to see if they

were out--as he then felt a sight of them would be good. There they

were, working away in their garden. Presently one of them stops and

looks round, walks to the fence, jumps over, and is running toward Sam,

with Jowler after him.

'There comes Ned. What shall I say to him?'

'Sam, how are you? ain't this a beautiful morning? What have you got in

your basket? where are you going?'

'Oh, I am going a short distance.'

'If you are not going too far, I'll go with you. I'm tired of hoeing.

Jim has had me up ever since daybreak, and I mean to rest a few minutes.

But what is the matter, Sam? What makes you look so? You ain't well, are

you?'

Sam did look pale, for he was alarmed at Ned's offer to accompany him.

'Oh, I think you had better not go with me: it is something of a walk,

and as you have been at work so long, you will be tired.'

'No; I shan't be tired. But now, Sam Oakum, tell me what's the matter,'

at the same time taking hold of him. 'There is something the matter, I

know--you always tell me every thing.'

'I know I do, Ned; but somehow I do not like to tell you this. Haven't

you heard any thing.'

'_Heard_ any thing? No. Do you think we should not have been down to see

you, if we had known that any thing was the matter? But _do_ tell me,

Sam.'

'Father is in jail.'

'That's Grizzle.'

'Yes.'

Ned stooped and caught up a good-sized stone, and aiming it at another

still larger, sent it with such force that it was shivered into small

fragments. He then looked at Sam a moment, with his hands in his

pockets. He dared not speak, for his heart was aching so hard. It would

have been a great relief to have cried; but Ned never cried--he could do

any thing but that. He felt so much like it now though, as he kept his

eyes on Sam, who looked so sad and pale, that all at once he turned

short round, and walked away towards home; and Sam went on his way

toward the jail.

The two miserable beings who had filled the old jail with their ravings

through most of the night, were now asleep; and as Sam was admitted

again into the miserable room, he cast his eye upon them as they lay in

all their loathsomeness. Never before had he seen human nature in such

an appalling form--their garments filthy, and torn into shreds; their

hair, long and matted, lay over their faces and among the straw which

formed their bed; their faces bloated, bruised, and bloody. He shrunk

back involuntarily. He cast his eye to the further end of the room, and

it met the smile of his father. He hurried past these dreadful objects,

and placed his basket beside his pale and sorrow-stricken parent. Sam

started, when he saw how _very_ pale he looked, and how great a change

his countenance had undergone since he last saw the daylight shine upon

it. He took off the cloth which covered the basket, and upon that he

placed the good breakfast his mother had prepared; and then he saw his

father put his hands together, and that his eyes were closed, and his

lips moved. He had never known him to do so before. Could it be that he

was praying for a blessing, ere he tasted this token of love from

earthly dear ones and heaven's bounteous King? Oh, Sam! how little can

you realize the ordeal that parent has passed since the last setting

sun. But the agony that racked his spirit has purified it also; and it

has turned, 'trembling, hoping,' to its God. When years have passed, and

you shall stand by his dying bed, and walk in the church-yard where

rises the little mound of earth over the resting-place of his body, you

will think of this night, and you will bless God for his goodness to you

and your's.

'It is very good, Sam; and it is very kind in you all to think of me

so.'

'Oh, father, don't say so; it makes me feel so bad.'

'To think how much trouble I have been to my family.'

Sam could stand it no longer, but wept aloud.

'I don't wish to make you feel bad, Sam; but all your kind feelings,

and all your mother's kind feelings, make me think how wrong I have

acted, and wonder how anybody can care for me.'

'But they do care for you--everybody cares for you. Uncle Sam Cutter

says you shan't stay here--_that_ you shan't.'

'Did he say so? Well, I thank him for his kind feelings; and I hope, if

the Lord please, I may get my liberty soon, that I may be able to work

and earn an honest living, and pay my debts. But, Sam, this place ain't

so bad, gloomy as it looks. A bad life and a guilty conscience are

harder things to get along with than this jail. I have spent worse

hours, looking at you and your mother, and the little ones, with a fire

burning in my bosom, than I spent here last night. I never knew before

that there could be such things.'

'What things, father?'

'Why, Sam, that there could be such peace within, when all about me was

so horrible. But I believe God has done it--and all for my good. He does

everything for good.'

Sam was utterly confounded at hearing such words from his father; but he

rejoiced to hear them. He sat as long as he thought consistent with

duties at home, and was preparing to return, when their attention was

arrested by a bustle below stairs, and a loud puffing and blowing of

some one ascending to the room.

'What steps you've got here, Mr. Tice!--so high, I can hardly get my old

carcass up. Oh, dear, dear, dear; what a world this is!'

The heavy bolt was drawn; and as the door, creaking on its hinges,

slowly opened, the portly form of Mr. Samuel Cutter appeared, filling

the open space, and looking with a wild stare into and around the room.

'You can go clean in, Mr. Cutter, an you like to; and I'll shut the

door, and you may stay as long as you like.'

'You will, hey? No, no, Mr. Tice, thank you, I'll do well enough here;'

at the same time putting his hand out, and holding fast to the door.

'None of your shutting up; it's bad enough to look at, without your

turning the old lock on a body. _Of all sights!_--are these men dead?'

'Oh it ain't nothin', Mr. Cutter; only they've been a little lively last

night, and they're a sleepin' it out, I guess, this mornin'.'

'You don't call them human critters, laying there in that shape, Mr.

Tice, do you?'

'Yes, they _be_, only their hair is got tangled a little. I should

a'most think they'd been a fightin', by their looks--they _do_ look bad,

that's a fact.'

More noises were now heard below, and there was the trampling of horses

at the door, and soon a lively treading up the stairs.

'What does this mean, Mr. Tice? the jail door open, and people going in

and out. Are the prisoners gone?' And Mr. Richard Tucker bustled up into

the room. He was followed by Billy Bloodgood, and Uncle Sam Cutter's two

boys. Mr. Richard seeing the doorway barricaded by a pretty large body,

made no apology for hastily pushing through, and fairly taking the old

gentleman quite into the room. He was about to shut the door when his

arm was seized, and held by a grip as effectual as though an iron vice

had embraced it.

'Stop, stop, man; none of your shutting up, with my carcass in such a

den as this. And besides, you came here now to let folks out; so the

sooner you set about it, the better.'

Mr. Richard was full of wrath, but he knew whom he had to deal with; and

seeing likewise that Billy Bloodgood was looking at him very earnestly,

and pointing towards Mr. Oakum at the other end of the room, he had no

alternative; so called aloud in a very quick manner,

'Mr. Oakum, you are at liberty, you are released; you can go.'

Sam jumped up, and caught hold of his father:

'Oh, father! come, come, father, quick!' And he fairly pulled his father

along; who, amazed at the suddenness of his delivery, and weak with the

agitation his mind had endured, almost staggered as he followed Sam to

the door.

'Come along, man, come along; don't stay a minute longer.' And old Mr.

Cutter hobbled out, partly leaning on Mr. Oakum, and partly pulling him

down the stairs, and out of doors.

To describe all Mr. Oakum's feelings, when he found himself at liberty,

and learned that a full settlement of his account had been made, and

that it had dwindled down, under the scrutinizing eye of Billy

Bloodgood, to the sum of twenty dollars, and that he could pay this

amount back at his own convenience; or to describe the joy which danced

in the heart of Sam when he saw his father once out of that place, and

Uncle Sam Cutter shaking him with both hands; and Mr. Bloodgood nodding

his head, and smiling, and running round--it would be vain to attempt.

It was a bright spot in Sam's life, and it was a good day for more

hearts than one; for it was the means of winning into the little circle

of working boys the two sons of old Mr. Cutter: they became diligent

from that day forward, and were constant in aiding their father, either

in the garden, the shop, or the field.