IN WHICH HARRY LEAVES THE POORHOUSE, AND TAKES TO THE RIVER
When Harry reached the poorhouse, Mr. Nason was absent, and one of the
paupers told him that he had taken the horse and wagon. He conjectured
that the keeper had gone to see the other overseers, to intercede with
them in his behalf. He did not feel as much interest in the mission as
he had felt two hours before, for Ben Stuart had provided a remedy for
his grievances, which he had fully decided to adopt.
It was nearly sunset before Mr. Nason returned; and when he came his
looks did not seem to indicate a favorable issue. Harry helped him
unharness the horse, and as he led him into the barn the keeper opened
the subject.
"I have been to see the other overseers, Harry," he began, in tones
which seemed to promise nothing hopeful.
"I thought likely you had gone."
"As I supposed, they are all afraid of Squire Walker. They daresn't
say their souls are their own."
"Then I must go to Jacob Wire's."
"The other overseers declare, if the squire says so, you must."
"It is a hard case, Mr. Nason," replied Harry, not much disappointed
at the result.
"I know it is, Harry. Perhaps you might try the place, and then, if
you found you couldn't stand it we might make another trial to get you
off."
"I don't want to go there, anyhow. I should like to help duck the
squire in the horse pond."
"Well, Harry, I have done all I can for you," continued Mr. Nason,
seating himself on a keg on the barn floor. "I wish I could help you."
"You have been very good to me, Mr. Nason. I shall always remember you
as the best friend I ever had," replied Harry, the tears streaming
down his sun-browned cheeks.
"Never mind that, Harry; don't cry."
"I can't help it; you have been so good to me, that I hate to leave
you," blubbered Harry.
"I am sorry you must leave us; we shall miss you about the place, and
I wish it was so that you could stay. But what makes it ten times
worse is the idea of your going to Jacob Wire's."
"Mr. Nason," said Harry, dashing down his tears, and looking earnestly
at the keeper, "I have made up my mind that I won't go to Wire's
anyhow."
"I don't blame you; but I don't see how you can fight the squire. He
carries too many guns for you, or for me, either, for that matter. I
have been thinking of something, Harry, though I suppose, if I should
speak it out loud, it would be as much as my place here is worth."
"I have been thinking of something, too," continued Harry, with a good
deal of emphasis.
"What?"
"I can't tell even you."
Mr. Nason, sympathizing deeply with his young friend, did not attempt
to obtain any knowledge whose possession might be inconvenient to him.
He was disposed to help the boy escape the fate in store for him; but
at the same time, having a family to support, he did not wish to lose
his situation, though, if the emergency had demanded it, he would
probably have been willing to make even this sacrifice.
"I was thinking, Harry, how astonished the squire would be, when he
comes over in the morning to take you to Jacob Wire's, if he should
not happen to find you here."
"I dare say he would," answered Harry, with a meaning smile.
"By the way, have you heard from Charles Smith lately? You know he
went to Boston last spring, and they say he has got a place, and is
doing first rate there."
The keeper smiled as he spoke, and Harry understood him as well as
though he had spoken out the real thought that was in his mind.
"I suppose others might do as he has done."
"No doubt of it."
Mr. Nason took from his pocket the large shot bag purse, in which he
kept his change, and picked out four quarters.
"Here, Harry, take these; when you get over to Wire's, money will keep
you from starving. It will almost anywhere, for that matter."
"How good you are!" exclaimed Harry, as he took the four quarters.
"You have been a father to me, and one of these days I shall be able
to pay you this money back again."
"Don't trouble yourself about that. Keep it; and I wish I had a
hundred times as much to give you."
"I shall never forget you, Mr. Nason. I shall be a man one of these
days, and we shall meet again."
The supper bell rang, and they separated. Harry felt the spirit of a
man stirring within him. He felt that the world had cast him off, and
refused him a home, even in the poorhouse. He was determined to push
his way through life like a hero, and he nerved himself to meet
whatever hardships and trials might be apportioned to him.
After supper he went to his room, gathered up the few articles of
clothing which constituted his wardrobe, and tying them up in a
bundle, concealed them in a hollow stump back of the barn.
At eight o'clock he went to bed as usual. He felt no desire to sleep,
and would not have dared to do so if he had. He heard the old kitchen
clock strike ten. The house was still, for all had long ago retired to
their rest, and he could hear the sonorous snores of the paupers in
the adjoining rooms. His heart beat quick with anxiety. It was a
novel position in which he found himself. He had been accustomed to do
everything fairly and "above board," and the thought of rising from
his bed and sneaking out of the house like a thief was repulsive to
him. But it was a good cause, in his estimation, and he did not waste
much sentiment upon the matter. A conspiracy had been formed to cheat
him of his hopes and of his future happiness, and it seemed right to
him that he should flee from those with whom he could not successfully
contend.
Carefully and stealthily he crept out of bed, and put on his best
clothes, which were nothing to boast of at that, for there was many a
darn and many a patch upon the jacket and trousers. Stockings and
shoes were luxuries in which Harry was not indulged in the warm
season; but he had a pair of each, which he took under his arm.
Like a mouse he crept down stairs, and reached the back door of the
house without having disturbed any of its inmates. There were no locks
on the poorhouse doors, for burglars and thieves never invaded the
home of the stricken, forsaken paupers.
The door opened with a sharp creak, and Harry was sure he was
detected. For several minutes he waited, but no sound was heard, and
more carefully he opened the door wide enough to permit his passage
out.
He was now in the open air, and a sensation of relief pervaded his
mind. He was free. No man was his master in this world, and he had not
learned to think much of the other world. As he passed through the cow
yard he heard the old gray mare whinny, and he could not resist the
temptation to pay her a parting visit. They had been firm friends for
years, and as he entered the barn she seemed to recognize him in the
darkness.
"Good-by, old Prue. I am going away to leave you," said Harry, in low
tones, as he patted the mare upon her neck. "I hope they will use you
well. Next to Mr. Nason, you have been my best friend. Good-by, old
Prue."
The mare whinnied again, as though she perfectly comprehended this
affectionate speech, and wished to express her sympathy with her young
friend in her own most eloquent language. Perhaps Harry could not
render the speech into the vernacular, but he had a high appreciation
of her good feeling, and repeated his caresses.
"Good-by, old Prue; but, before I go, I shall give you one more feed
of oats--the very last."
The localities of the barn were as familiar to him as those of his own
chamber; and taking the half peck measure, he filled it heaping full
of oats at the grain chest as readily as though it had been clear
daylight.
"Here, Prue, is the last feed I shall give you"; and he emptied the
contents of the measure into the trough. "Good-by, old Prue; I shall
never see you again."
The mare plunged her nose deep down into the savory mess, and seemed
for a moment to forget her friend in the selfish gratification of her
appetite. If she had fully realized the unpleasant fact that Harry was
going, perhaps she might have been less selfish, for this was not the
first time she had been indebted to him for extra rations.
Passing through the barn, the runaway was again in the open air.
Everything looked gloomy and sad to him, and the scene was as solemn
as a funeral. There were no sounds to be heard but the monotonous
chirp of the cricket, and the dismal piping of the frogs in the
meadow. Even the owl and the whip-poor-will had ceased their nocturnal
notes, and the stars looked more gloomy than he had ever seen them
before.
There was no time to moralize over these things, though, as he walked
along, he could not help thinking how strange and solemn everything
seemed on that eventful night. It was an epoch in his history; one of
those turning points in human life, when all the works of nature and
art, borrowing the spirit which pervades the soul, assume odd and
unfamiliar forms. Harry was not old enough or wise enough to
comprehend the importance of the step he was taking; still he was
deeply impressed by the strangeness within and without.
Taking his bundle from the hollow stump, he directed his steps toward
Pine Pleasant. He walked very slowly, for his feelings swelled within
him and retarded his steps. His imagination was busy with the past, or
wandering vaguely to the unexplored future, which with bright promises
tempted him to press on to the goal of prosperity. He yearned to be a
man; to leap in an instant over the years of discipline, that yawned
like a great gulf between his youth and his manhood. He wanted to be a
man, that his strong arm might strike great blows; that he might win
his way up to wealth and honor.
Why couldn't he be a great man like Squire Walker. Squire West
wouldn't sound bad.
"One has only to be rich in order to be great," thought he. "Why can't
I be rich, as well as anybody else? Who was that old fellow that saved
up his fourpences till he was worth a hundred thousand dollars? I can
do it as well as he, though I won't be as mean as they say he was,
anyhow. There are chances enough to get rich, and if I fail in one
thing, why--I can try again."
Thus Harry mused as he walked along, and fixed a definite purpose
before him to be accomplished in life. It is true it was not a very
lofty or a very noble purpose, merely to be rich; but he had been
obliged to do his own philosophizing. He had not yet discovered the
true philosopher's stone. He had concluded, like the alchemists of
old, that it was the art of turning anything into gold. The paupers,
in their poverty, had talked most and prayed most for that which they
had not. Wealth was to them the loftiest ideal of happiness, and Harry
had adopted their conclusions. It is not strange, therefore, that
Harry's first resolve was to be a rich man.
"Seek ye _first_ the kingdom of heaven, and all these things shall be
added unto you," was a text which he had often heard repeated; but he
did not comprehend its meaning, and he had reversed the proposition,
determined to look out for "all these things" first.
The village clock struck eleven, and the peal of the clear notes on
the silent air cut short his meditations, and admonished him to
quicken his pace, or Ben would reach the place of rendezvous before
him. He entered the still shades of Pine Pleasant, but saw nothing of
his confederate. Seating himself on the familiar rock in the river, he
returned to his meditations.
He had hardly laid down his first proposition in solving the problem
of his future success, before he was startled by the discovery of a
bright light in the direction of the village. It was plainly a
building on fire, and his first impulse was to rush to the meeting
house and give the alarm; but prudence forbade. His business was with
the great world and the future, not with Redfield and the present.
A few moments later the church bell pealed its startling notes, and he
heard the cry of fire in the village. The building, whatever it was,
had become a mass of fierce flames, which no human arm could stay.
While he was watching the exciting spectacle, he heard footsteps in
the grove, and Ben Smart, out of breath and nearly exhausted, leaped
upon the rock.
"So you are here, Harry," gasped he.
"I am, Ben," replied Harry. "Where is the fire?"
"We have no time to waste now," panted Ben, rousing himself anew. "We
must be off at once."
Ben descended to the lower side of the rock, and hauled a small
flat-bottomed boat out of the bushes that grew on the river's brink.
"Where is the fire, Ben?" persisted Harry.
"Never mind the fire now; jump into the boat, and let us be off."
Harry obeyed, and Ben pushed off from the rock.
"Where are you going?" asked Harry, not much pleased either with the
imperative tone or the haughty reserve of his companion.
"Down the river. Take the paddle and steer her; the current will take
her along fast enough. I am so tired I can't do a thing more."
Harry took the paddle and seated himself in the stern of the boat,
while Ben, puffing and blowing like a locomotive, placed himself at
the bow.
"Tell me now where the fire is," said Harry, whose curiosity would not
be longer resisted.
"_Squire Walker's barn._"