THE VICTIM OF TYRANNY
Andrew Jackson made his appearance with a piece of brown paper over an
imaginary bruise on his head and eye and the carefully assumed
expression of a suffering victim.
“What is this I hear?” asked his father. “Have you had a difficulty with
Bill?”
“Yes,” answered Andrew in the tone of a martyr. “He knocked me down with
a hoe, and if mother had not come out just as she did I think he would
have killed me.”
“What made him attack you?” asked Mr. Badger, exceedingly surprised.
“I asked him if he would dig some fish-worms for me.”
“Couldn’t you dig some yourself?”
“I s’pose I could, but he knew better than I where to find them.”
“What next?”
“He said he wouldn’t. I told him that I would tell you about his
impertinence. Then he hit me with the hoe as hard as he could.”
“Was that all that passed?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t quite understand it. You are surely stronger than Bill. How did
it happen that you allowed him to strike you?”
“He had a hoe and I hadn’t anything,” answered Andrew meekly. “He was so
furious that he wouldn’t have made anything of killing me.”
“I always thought he was rather mild and milk-and-watery,” said Nathan
Badger thoughtfully.
“You wouldn’t have thought so if you’d seen him, Mr. Badger,” said his
wife, drawing upon her imagination. “He looked like a young fiend. Dear
Andrew is right. The boy is positively dangerous! I don’t know but we
shall be murdered in our beds some night if we let him go on this way.”
Mr. Badger shrugged his shoulders, for he was not quite a fool, and
answered dryly:
“That thought won’t keep me awake. He isn’t that kind of a boy.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Badger, if you are going to take his part against your
own flesh and blood, I’ve got no more to say.”
“Who’s taking his part?” retorted Mr. Badger sharply. “I’m not going to
uphold him in attacking Andrew, but I’m rather surprised at his
mustering spunk enough to do it. As for his doing us any harm, that’s
all nonsense.”
“You may change your mind when it’s too late, Mr. Badger.”
“Are you afraid of him?” asked her husband contemptuously as he regarded
the tall, muscular figure of his wife, who probably would have been a
match for himself in physical strength.
“I can defend myself if I am awake,” said Mrs. Badger. “But what’s to
hinder his attacking me when I’m asleep?”
“You can fasten your door if you are afraid. But that isn’t my trouble
with him. There’s something more serious, Mrs. B.”
“What is it? What’s he been doin’?”
“It isn’t he. It’s Charles Waldo. I’m free to say that Mr. Waldo is the
meanest man I ever had dealings with. You know I wrote to him to see if
he wouldn’t allow me something extra toward the boy’s keep.”
“Yes.”
“Well, read that letter. Or, stay, I’ll read it to you.”
Mr. Badger took the letter from his pocket and read it aloud to his wife
and son. Mrs. Badger was as much disappointed as her husband, for she
was quite as fond of money as he.
“What are you goin’ to do?” she asked.
“I can’t do anything,” answered Mr. Badger in deep disgust.
“Will you keep the boy?”
“Of course I will. Between ourselves, he more than earns his victuals;
but, all the same, Mr. Waldo is perfectly able to allow us a little
profit.”
“You must make him work harder,” suggested Mrs. Badger.
“I mean to. Now, we will settle about this little affair. Where is
Bill?”
“Out in the field, digging potatoes,” said Andrew glibly.
“Go and call him.”
“All right, sir.”
And the boy prepared to obey the command with uncommon alacrity.
Poor Bill, nervous and unhappy, had been hard at work in the potato
field through the long forenoon, meditating bitterly on his sad
position. So far as he knew, there was no one that loved him, no one
that cared for him. He was a friendless boy. From Mr. and Mrs. Badger
and Andrew he never received a kind nor encouraging word, but, instead,
taunts and reproaches, and the heart of the poor boy, hungering for
kindness, found none.
“Will it always be so?” he asked himself. “If Andrew would only be kind
to me I would do anything for him, but he seems to hate me, and so does
Mrs. Badger. Mr. Badger isn’t quite so bad, but he only cares for the
work I do.”
The poor boy sighed heavily as he leaned for a moment upon his hoe. “He
was roused by a sharp voice.
“Shirking your work, are you?” said Andrew. “I’ve caught you this time.
What’ll my father say to that?”
“I have been working hard, Andrew,” said Bill. “I can show you what I
have done this forenoon.”
“That’s too thin. You’re lazy, and that’s all about it. Well, my
father’s got home, and now you’re going to catch it. Maybe you’ll knock
him down with a hoe,” said Andrew tauntingly.
“I’m sorry I hit you, Andrew, as I told you; but you shouldn’t have
struck me with a whip.”
“I had a perfect right to do it. I’m your master.”
“No, you’re not!” returned Bill with spirit.
“We’ll see whether I am or not. Come right up to the house.”
“Who says so?”
“My father told me to call you.”
“Very well, I will come,” and the bound boy shouldered his hoe and
followed Andrew wearily to the farmhouse yard, where Mr. and Mrs. Badger
were standing.
One look at the stern faces of the pair satisfied Bill that trouble
awaited him. He knew very well that he could not hope for justice and
that one word from Andrew in the mind of his parents would outweigh all
he could say.
“Here comes the young ruffian!” said Mrs. Badger as soon as he came
within hearing distance. “Here comes the wicked boy who tried to kill my
poor Andrew.”
“That is not true, Mrs. Badger,” said Bill earnestly. “I was only
defending myself.”
“You hear, Mr. Badger. He as much as tells me I lie! Do you hear that?”
demanded the incensed woman.
“Bill Benton,” said Mr. Badger sternly, “I hear you have made a savage
and brutal attack on Andrew Jackson. Now, what have you to say for
yourself, sir?”
“He struck me twice with a whip, Mr. Badger, and I got mad. I didn’t
mean to hurt him.”
“You might have killed him!” broke in Mrs. Badger.
“No, I wouldn’t, ma’am.”
“Contradicting me again! If there was ever a boy looked like a young
fiend, you did when I came out to save my boy from your brutal temper.
Oh, you’ll swing on the gallows some day, sir! I’m sure of that.”
To an unprejudiced observer all this would have been very ridiculous.
The delicate, refined-looking boy, whose face showed unmistakable
gentleness and mildness, almost carried to an extreme, was about the
last boy to whom such words could suitably have been addressed.
“Andrew Jackson, did you strike Bill with a whip?” asked Mr. Badger,
turning to his son.
“No, I didn’t,” answered Andrew without a blush.
“How can you tell such a lie?” said Bill indignantly.
“Mr. Badger, will you allow this young ruffian to accuse your own son of
falsehood?” cried the mother.
“Did you have a whip in your hand, Andrew?” asked his father.
Andrew hesitated a moment, but finally thought it best to say he did.
“Did you strike Bill with it?”
“No.”
“You see how candid the poor boy is,” said his mother. “He tells you
that he had a whip in his hand, though many boys would have denied it.
But my Andrew was always truthful.”
Even Andrew felt a little embarrassed at this undeserved tribute to a
virtue in which he knew that he was very deficient.
“Bill Benton,” said Mr. Badger sternly, “it appears that you have not
only made an atrocious assault on my son, but lied deliberately about
it. You shall have neither dinner nor supper, and to-night I will give
you a flogging. Now, go back to your work!”
“Ho, ho! You’ll hit me again, will you?” said Andrew triumphantly as the
poor boy slowly retraced his way to the field.
As the bound boy walked wearily back to the field he felt that he had
little to live for. Hard work--too hard for his slender strength--
accompanied by poor fare and cruel treatment, constituted his only
prospect. But there seemed no alternative. He must keep on working and
suffering--so far he could foresee.
He worked an hour and then he began to feel faint. He had eaten but
little breakfast and he needed a fresh supply of food to restore his
strength. How he could hold out till evening he could not tell. Already
his head began to ache and he felt weary and listless.
He was left to work alone, for Mr. Badger usually indulged himself in
the luxury of an after-dinner nap, lasting till at least three o’clock.
As he was plodding along suddenly he heard his name called in a cheery
voice:
“Hello, Bill!”
Looking up, he saw Dick Schmidt, the son of a neighbor, a good-natured
boy, whom he looked upon as almost his only friend.
“Hello, Dick!” he responded.
“You’re looking pale. Bill,” said his friend. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t feel very well, Dick.”
“You ought not to be at work. Have you had dinner?”
“I am not to have any.”
“Why not?” asked Dick, opening his eyes. “I knew old Badger was mean,
but I didn’t think he was mean enough for that!”
“It’s a punishment,” Bill explained.
“What for?”
“For hitting Andrew Jackson with a hoe and knocking him down.”
“Did you do that, Bill?” exclaimed Dick in great delight, for he
disliked Mr. Badger’s petted heir. “I didn’t think it was in you! Shake
hands, old fellow, and tell me all about it.”
“I am afraid it was wicked, Dick, but I couldn’t help it. I must have
hurt him, for he screamed very loud.”
“Better and better! I know how he treats you, Bill, and I tell you it’ll
do him good--the young tyrant! But you haven’t told me about it.”
Bill told the story, to which Dick listened with earnest attention. He
expressed hearty approval of Bill’s course and declared that he would
have done the same.
“So you are in disgrace,” he said. “Never mind. Bill. It’ll all come out
right. It is worth something to have punished that young bully. But
what’s the matter, Bill? What makes you so pale?”
“I think it’s going without my dinner. The hard work makes me hungry.”
“Just wait a minute. I’ll be back in a jiffy!”
Dick was off like a shot. When he returned he brought with him two
slices of bread and butter, a slice of cold meat and two apples.
“Eat ’em, Bill,” he said. “They’ll make you feel better.”
“Oh, Dick! I didn’t want to trouble you so much.”
“It was no trouble, old fellow.”
“What will your mother say to your taking all this?”
“She’ll be glad of it. She isn’t so mean as Mrs. Badger. I say, Bill,
you must come over and take supper with us some time. There’s plenty to
eat at our house.”
“I should like to, Dick, if Mr. Badger would let me.”
“Don’t talk any more till you have eaten what I brought you.”
Bill obeyed his friend’s directions, and, to Dick’s great satisfaction,
ate all that had been brought him with evident appetite.
“I feel a good deal better,” he said as he took the hoe once more and
set to work. “I feel strong now.”
“It’s lucky I came along. I say. Bill, is that your only punishment?”
A shadow came over Bill’s face.
“I am to be flogged this evening,” he said. “Mr. Badger told me so, and
he always keeps his word.”
Dick set his teeth and clinched his fists.
“I’d like to flog old Badger,” he said energetically. “Are you going to
stand it?”
“I can’t help it, Dick.”
“I’d help it!” said his friend, nodding emphatically.
Bill shook his head despondently.
The whipping seemed to him inevitable, and there seemed to be no way of
avoiding it.
“What time do you expect he will whip you--the old brute?” asked Dick.
“He waits till nine o’clock, just after I have gone to bed.”
“Then will you follow my advice?”
“What is it?”
Dick whispered in Bill’s ear the plan he had in view. There was no need
to whisper, but he did it to show that the communication was
confidential.
This was the plan:
Bill was to go to bed as usual, but in about fifteen minutes he was to
get out of the window, slide along the roof of the L and descend to the
ground, when Dick was to meet him, escort him to his house and allow him
to share his room for the night.
“Then,” said he, “when the old man comes up to tackle you he’ll have to
pound the bed and get his satisfaction out of that. Won’t that be a
splendid joke?”
Bill smiled faintly. It seemed to him a daring defiance of Mr. Badger,
but, after all, he wouldn’t fare any worse than he was sure of doing,
and he finally acquiesced, though with serious doubts as to the
propriety of the plan.
“Don’t say a word to let ’em know what you’re going to do. Bill--mind
that!”
“No, I won’t.”
“You’ll be sure to find me waiting for you outside the house, just at
the back of the barn. I’ll give you some supper when you reach the
house.”
When the bound boy came from work in the evening he met stern, cold
looks from Mr. and Mrs. Badger, but Andrew Jackson wore a look of
triumphant malice. He was gloating over the punishment in reserve for
the boy whom he so groundlessly hated.
“Ain’t you hungry?” he said tauntingly.
Bill looked at him, but did not answer.
“Oh, you needn’t answer. I know you are,” said the young tyrant. “You
didn’t like it very much, going without your dinner. You ain’t going to
have any supper, either. If you’re very hungry, though, and will go down
on your knees and beg my pardon, I’ll get you something to eat. What do
you say?”
“I won’t do what you say,” said Bill slowly. “I don’t care enough for
supper to do that.”
“You don’t?” exclaimed Andrew angrily. “So you’re stubborn, are you?
Anyhow, you can’t say I haven’t given you a chance.”
“You’re very kind!” said the bound boy sarcastically, in spite of his
gentleness.
“Of course I am,” blustered Andrew Jackson. “Most boys wouldn’t be,
after the way you treated me.”
“You want the satisfaction of having me beg your pardon,” said Bill,
looking full in the face of the petty despot.
“Yes, I do; and I mean to have it.”
“You can, upon one condition.”
“What’s that?” asked Andrew Jackson, his curiosity overcoming his
indignation.
“If you’ll beg my pardon for striking me with your whip, I’ll beg yours
for hitting you with the hoe.”
Andrew fairly gasped for breath at this daring proposal, and he looked
for a moment as if he were in danger of having a stroke of apoplexy.
“You saucy beggar!” he ejaculated. “How dare you talk to me in that
impertinent way? I’ll tell father to give you the worst flogging ever
you had to-night--see if I don’t!”
And the boy left to report Bill’s new insolence to his mother.
Bill crept up to bed a little earlier than usual. He knew that Mr.
Badger would not ascend to his humble room to administer the threatened
punishment till nine o’clock or later.
Through a refinement of cruelty that humane gentleman chose to let his
intended victim lie in an anxious anticipation of the flogging, thus
making it assume greater terror.
In fact, he probably would not return from the village till nine o’clock
or later, and this was an additional reason why he put it off.
His absence made it easier for Bill to carry out the plan which had been
formed for him by his trusty friend, Dick Schmidt, and escape from the
house.
He accomplished his escape unnoticed about half-past eight o’clock.
Dick was waiting for him behind the barn. He had been a little afraid
that Bill would repent the promise he had made and back out. When he saw
him he welcomed him gladly.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t dare to come, Bill,” he said.
“I shan’t be any worse off,” said the bound boy. “Mr. Badger was going
to give me a flogging, anyway, and he can’t do any more than that as it
is.”
“What an old brute he is!” exclaimed Dick.
“He isn’t as bad as his wife or Andrew Jackson.”
“That’s so! Andrew is a mean boy. I’m glad you hit him.”
“I am sorry, Dick.”
“Don’t you think he deserved it?”
“Yes, but I don’t like to be the one to do it.”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” said Dick, “but he’s precious careful not to get
into any muss with me.”
“You’re not bound to Mr. Badger.”
“If I were, he wouldn’t dare to order me round. Catch him bulldozing
me!”
“You’re more plucky than I am, Dick.”
“You’re too good-natured, Bill--that’s what’s the matter with you.”
“I hate fighting, Dick.”
“What did Andrew say to you when you came home from work?”
“He wanted me to go down on my knees and beg his pardon for hitting
him.”
“Why didn’t you knock him down?” said Dick quickly.
“I told him I’d do it----”
_“What!”_ exclaimed Dick Schmidt in the deepest disgust.
“If he’d beg my pardon first for striking me with a whip.”
“That’s better. I thought you wouldn’t be so much of a coward as to beg
his pardon.”
“He didn’t accept the offer,” said Bill, smiling.
“No, I suppose not. Was he mad?”
“He looked as if he was. He called me a saucy beggar and threatened to
tell his father.”
“I’ve no doubt he will. He’s just mean enough to do that. I say. Bill,
it’s a pity you don’t work for my father.”
“I wish I did, Dick, but perhaps you’d boss me, too.”
“Not much danger. We’d be like brothers.”
While this conversation was going on the two boys were walking across
the fields to Mr. Schmidt’s farm. The distance was not great, and by
this time they were at the back door.
As they went in Bill’s eyes glistened as he saw a nice supper laid on
the kitchen table, waiting for him, for Dick had told his mother of the
guest he expected. He decided to say nothing of the circumstances that
led to the invitation. He might safely have done so, however, for Mrs.
Schmidt was a good, motherly woman, who pitied the boy and understood
very well that his position in Mr. Badger’s family must be a very
disagreeable one.
“I am glad to see you, William,” she said. “Sit right down and eat
supper. I’ve got a hot cup of tea for you.”
“I’ll sit down, too, mother. I only ate a little supper, for I wanted to
keep Bill company.”
Presently the boys went to bed and had a social chat before going to
sleep.
“I wish,” said Dick, “I could be where I could look on when old Badger
goes up to your room and finds the bird flown.”
If Dick could have been there, he would have witnessed an extraordinary
scene.