I tried to frame some sort of a reproach when he went to the oat-bin and
pulled out his bottle. But he grinned over his shoulder at me! If he had
had any short and sharp words for me that day I would have burst out,
I’m sure of it.
But he was wonderfully kind to me that last day I ever spent in his
home, under his thumb.
“You’d better stay close around the house till your face looks less like
the battle-flag of freedom, son,” he advised me. “Cats will be cats,
and girls will show claws!” He went away about his business and I hung
around the stable, taking a look every now and then at the preposterous
horse.
I was made party to a most horrible deceit on Celene Kingsley. To be
sure, the fraud most nearly concerned her father and his money. But
the horse was destined for her. I could not get that idea out of my
thoughts. Probably, after the trade had been made, my uncle would brag
that I had helped him. How would she view me? It must seem to her that
some of my promises had already been broken, for I was certain that the
matter of old Bennie was being canvassed that day in the village. There
was such a thing as family loyalty, I admitted, as I pondered on the
situation. But to allow my tough uncle to tramp through the little
sanctuary where I enshrined my love, to pull me into a vulgar scheme
which must ruin forever all my hopes, poor and futile though they were,
these were sacrifices I did not feel called on to undergo. I had my
own pride to consider. I no longer dreamed of ever possessing Celene
Kingsley. What was in me was a romantic hope that she would think on
me once in a while when I was far, far away--remembering that I was her
slave in what she asked and that I had asked nothing of her.
However, to have her memories of me mixed in with thoughts of the
horse-trading cheat which I had connived at was reflection unendurable.
I went to the wood-shed and secured an ax. It occurred to me that when
a horse had so many bumps on him, one more and a deadly bump on his
forehead would not attract much attention; furthermore, my uncle seemed
to think that the animal’s course was nearly run.
I faced the brute. His ears were hanging in despondency. His eyes were
dropping tears; those blisters must have been stinging like the
martyr’s skin under the shirt of fire. When I looked on that woe all my
resolution left me. I dropped the ax. There were tears in my own eyes. I
felt as if he were my brother in common sorrow. So I went to the
cellar and fetched apples and carrots and fed them into his gratefully
slobbering mouth until he sighed and spraddled his legs and went to
sleep.
Constable Nute came for me during the day.
“There ain’t any subpeny to this, young Sidney,” he informed me. “If
you feel too guilty to face Judge Kingsley, who is making an informal
investigation, you needn’t come.”
“I am not guilty. I’m not afraid to face the judge.” And I went along.
There was no one else in his office. He had been calling in persons and
examining them one by one. I was alone with him after Nute left.
I gave in my version of what had happened the night before and declared
that I had had nothing whatever to do with putting notions into the
noddle of the village fool.
“But as to this society of young vandals which has been disgracing the
village? Certain members of the gang have confessed to me that you are
the organizer and the ringleader.”
“And I confess that I _was_ leader at first,” I owned up to him, just
as manfully as I could. Then I told him about Mr. Bird. “When I realized
that I was making a mistake I stopped being leader. I have had nothing
to do with the society since.”
He had a way of shooting speech out through his pinched nostrils with
a sort of a jew’s-harp twang. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a
good looking over.
“Becoming an angel overnight by the natural piety of the Sidney
disposition, eh? Young man, you are lying to me! Now tell me the real
reason why you quit your devilishness.”