IN WHICH HARRY FINDS A FRIEND, AND A PRACTICABLE SCHEME FOR RESISTANCE
My young readers will probably desire to know something about Harry's
"antecedents"; and while the poor fellow is mourning over the hard
lot which Squire Walker has marked out for him, we will briefly review
his previous history.
Unlike the heroes of modern novels and romances, Harry did not belong
to an ancient, or even a very respectable family. We need not trace
his genealogy for any considerable period, and I am not sure that the
old records would throw much light on the subject if we should attempt
to do so. The accident of birth in our republican land is a matter of
very little consequence; therefore we shall only go back to Harry's
father, who was a carpenter by trade, but had a greater passion for
New England rum than for chisels and foreplanes.
The bane of New England was the bane of Franklin West; for he was a
kind-hearted man, a good husband and a good father, before he was
deformed by the use of liquor. He made good wages, and supported his
little family for several years; but the vile habit grew upon him to
such a degree that the people of Redfield lost all confidence in him.
As his business decreased, his besetting vice increased upon him, till
he was nothing but the wreck of the man he had once been. Poverty had
come, and want stared him in the face.
While everybody was wondering what would become of Franklin West, he
suddenly disappeared, and no one could form an idea of what had become
of him. People thought it was no great matter. He was only a nuisance
to himself and his family. Mrs. West was shocked by this sudden and
mysterious disappearance. He was her husband, and the father of her
children, and it was not strange that she wept, and even hoped that he
would come back. The neighbors comforted her, and put her in the way
of supporting herself and the children, so that she was very soon
reconciled to the event.
When West had been gone a month, his wife received a letter from him,
informing her that he had determined to stop drinking, and be a man
again. He could not keep sober in Redfield, among his old companions,
and he was at work in Providence till he could get money enough to
pay his expenses to Valparaiso, in South America, where a lucrative
place awaited him. He hoped his wife would manage to get along for a
few months, when he should be able to send her some money.
Mrs. West was easy again. Her husband was not dead, was not drowned in
the river, or lost in the woods; and her heart was cheered by the
prospects of future plenty, which the letter pointed out to her.
A year passed by, and nothing more was heard from Franklin West. The
poor, forsaken wife had a hard time to support her little family. The
most constant and severe toil enabled her to pinch her way along; but
it was a bitter trial. She had no relations to help her; and though
the neighbors were as kind as neighbors could be, life was a hard
struggle.
Then the baby sickened and died. This bereavement seemed to unnerve
and discourage her, and though there was one mouth less to feed, her
strength failed her, and she was unequal to the task. Care and sorrow
did their work upon her, and though people said she died of
consumption, Heaven knew she died of a broken heart and disappointed
hopes.
Harry was four years old when this sad event left him alone in the
world. There was none willing to assume the burden of bringing up the
lonely little pilgrim, and he was sent to the poorhouse. It was a hard
fate for the tender child to be removed from the endearments of a
mother's love, and placed in the cheerless asylum which public charity
provides for the poor and the friendless.
The child was only four years old; but he missed the fond kiss and the
loving caresses of his devoted mother. They were kind to him there,
but it was not home, and his heart could not but yearn for those
treasures of affection which glittered for him only in the heart of
his mother. There was an aching void, and though he could not
understand or appreciate his loss, it was none the less painful.
He was a favorite child, not only with the old paupers, but with the
keeper and his family; and this circumstance undoubtedly softened the
asperities of his lot. As soon as he was old enough, he was required
to work as much as the keeper thought his strength would bear. He was
very handy about the house and barn, more so than boys usually are;
and Mr. Nason declared that, for the three years before it was
proposed to send him away, he had more than earned his board and
clothes.
He had been at school four winters, and the schoolmasters were
unanimous in their praise. He was a smart scholar, but a little
disposed to be roguish.
The moral discipline of the poorhouse was not of the most salutary
character. Mr. Nason, though a generous and kind-hearted man, was not
as exemplary in his daily life as might have been desired. Besides,
one or two of the old paupers were rather corrupt in their manners and
morals, and were not fit companions for a young immortal, whose mind,
like plastic clay, was impressible to the forming power.
The poorhouse was not a good place for the boy, and the wonder is that
Harry, at twelve years of age, was not worse than we find him. He had
learned to love Mr. Nason, as he had learned to fear and to hate
Squire Walker. The latter seemed to have absolute power at the
poorhouse, and to be lord and master in Redfield. But when the
overseer proposed to place the boy in the family of a man whom even
the paupers looked down upon and despised, his soul rebelled even
against the mandate of the powerful magnate of the town.
Harry turned the matter over and over in his mind as he sat upon the
rock at Pine Pleasant. At first he tried to reconcile the idea of
living with Jacob Wire; but it was a fruitless effort. The poorhouse
seemed like a paradise to such a fate.
Then he considered the possibility and the practicability of resisting
the commands of Squire Walker. He could not obtain much satisfaction
from either view of the difficult problem, and as a happy resort under
the trials of the moment, he began to console himself with the
reflection that Mr. Nason might prevail with the overseers, and save
him from his doom.
He had not much hope from this direction, and while he was turning
again to the question of resistance, he heard footsteps in the grove.
He did not feel like seeing any person and wished he could get out of
sight; but there was no retreating without being observed, so he lay
down upon the rock to wait till the intruder had passed.
The person approaching did not purpose to let him off so easily; and
when Harry heard his step on the log he raised himself up.
"Hallo, Harry! What are you doing here? Taking a nap?"
It was Ben Smart, a boy of fourteen, who lived near the poorhouse.
Ben's reputation in Redfield was not A, No. 1; in fact, he had been
solemnly and publicly expelled from the district school only three
days before by Squire Walker, because the mistress could not manage
him. His father was the village blacksmith, and as he had nothing for
him to do--not particularly for the boy's benefit--he kept him at
school all the year round.
"O, is that you, Ben?" replied Harry, more for the sake of being civil
than because he wished to speak to the other.
"What are you doing here?" asked Ben, who evidently did not understand
how a boy could be there alone, unless he was occupied about
something.
"Nothing."
"Been in the water?"
"No."
"Fishing?"
"No."
Ben was nonplussed. He suspected that Harry had been engaged in some
mysterious occupation, which he desired to conceal from him.
"How long have you been here?" continued Ben, persistently.
"About half an hour."
Ben stopped to think. He could make nothing of it. It was worse than
the double rule of three, which he conscientiously believed had been
invented on purpose to bother school boys.
"You are up to some trick, I know. Tell me what you come down here
for."
"Didn't come for anything."
"What is the use of telling that. No feller would come clear down here
for nothing."
"I came down to think, then, if you must know," answered Harry, rather
testily.
"To think! Well, that is a good one! Ain't the poor-farm big enough to
do your thinking on?"
"I chose to come down here."
"Humph! You've got the blues, Harry. I should think old Walker had
been afoul of you, by your looks."
Harry looked up suddenly, and wondered if Ben knew what had happened.
"I should like to have the old rascal down here for half an hour. I
should like to souse him into the river, and hold his head under till
he begged my pardon," continued Ben.
"So should I," added Harry.
"Should you? You are a good feller, then! I mean to pay him off for
what he did for me the other day. I wouldn't minded being turned out
of school. I rather liked the idea; but the old muttonhead got me up
before all the school, and read me such a lecture! He thinks there
isn't anybody in the world but him."
"The lecture didn't hurt you," suggested Harry.
"No; it didn't. But that warn't the worst of it."
"What else?"
"My father give me a confounded licking when I got home. I haven't
done smarting yet. But I will pay 'em for it all."
"You mean Squire Walker."
"And the old man, too."
"If I only had a father, I wouldn't mind letting him lick me now and
then," replied Harry, to whom home seemed a paradise, though he had
never understood it; and a father and mother, though coarse and
brutal, his imagination pictured as angels.
"My father would learn you better than that in a few days," said Ben,
who did not appreciate his parents, especially when they held the rod.
Harry relapsed into musing again. He thought how happy he should have
been in Ben's place. A home, a father, a mother! We value most what we
have not; and if the pauper boy could have had the blessings which
crowned his reckless companion's lot, it seemed as though he would
have been contented and happy. His condescension in regard to the
flogging now and then was a sincere expression of feeling.
"What's old Walker been doing to you, Harry?" asked Ben, suspecting
the cause of the other's gloom.
"He is going to send me to Jacob Wire's to live."
"Whew! That is a good one! To die, you mean; Harry, I wouldn't stand
that."
"I don't mean to."
"That's right; I like your spunk. What do you mean to do?"
Harry was not prepared to answer this question. He possessed a certain
degree of prudence, and though it was easy to declare war against so
powerful an enemy as Squire Walker, it was not so easy to carry on the
war after it was declared. The overseer was a bigger man to him than
the ogre in "Puss in Boots." Probably his imagination largely
magnified the grandeur of the squire's position, and indefinitely
multiplied the resources at his command.
"What do you mean to do?" repeated Ben, who for some reason or other
took a deep interest in Harry's affairs.
"I don't know. I would rather die than go; but I don't know how I can
help myself," answered the poor boy, gloomily.
"I do."
Harry looked up with interest and surprise. Ben sympathized with him
in his trials, and his heart warmed towards him.
"What, Ben?"
"I daresn't tell you now," replied Ben after a short pause.
"Why not?"
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course I can. Did I ever blow on you?"
"No, you never did, Harry. You are a first rate feller, and I like
you. But you see, if you should blow on me now, you would spoil my
kettle of fish, and your own, too."
"But I won't, Ben."
"Promise me solemnly."
"Solemnly," repeated Harry.
"Well, then, I will get you out of the scrape as nice as a cotton
hat."
"How?"
"I guess I won't tell you now; but if you will come down here to-night
at eleven o'clock I will let you into the whole thing."
"Eleven o'clock! I can't come at that time. We all go to bed at eight
o'clock."
"Get up and come."
"I can do that; but perhaps Mr. Nason will persuade the overseers not
to send me to Jacob Wire's."
"I'm glad I didn't tell you, then. But promise me this, Harry: that,
whatever happens, you'll hold your tongue."
"I will, Ben."
"And if Nason don't get you off, be here at eleven o'clock. Put on
your best clothes, and take everything you want with you."
"Going to run away?"
"I didn't say so."
Ben made him promise again to be secret, and they separated. Harry had
an idea of what his companion intended, and the scheme solved all his
doubts. It was a practicable scheme of resistance, and he returned to
the poorhouse, no longer fearful of the impending calamity.