THE NEW YORK BOOT-BLACK.
“Take your hands off those boys,” said Don, who was in just the right
humor to make a scattering among Fisher’s crowd of friends. “Release
them both and do it at once, or I will pitch the last one of you into
that hole before you can say ‘General Jackson’ with your mouths open.
Come over here, Bert.”
He stepped up and took the prisoner by the arm, and his four guards
surrendered him without a word of protest. The magical manner in which
Don had floored the biggest bully in school, before whom no boy in
Bridgeport had ever been able to stand for a minute, either with
boxing-gloves or bare fists, and the ease with which he had done it,
astounded them. They had never seen anything like it before, and there
was something very mysterious in it. Did not this backwoodsman have
other equally bewildering tactics at his command which he could bring
into play if he were crowded upon? Probably he had, and so the best
thing they could do was to let him alone.
“Your name is Sam Arkwright, is it not?” said Don, taking one of the
boy’s blue-cold hands in both his own warm ones. “I thought I had heard
you answer to that name at roll-call. I am a plebe too, and so we’ll
stand together. Put on these gloves and come with me. You will freeze if
you stay here any longer. As for you,” he added, waving his hand toward
the students to show that he included them all in the remarks he was
about to make, “you are a pack of cowards, and I can whip the best man
among you right here and _now_. Pick him out and let me take a look at
him.”
“I am good for the best of them if they will come one at a time,” said
Sam. “But I give in to a dozen when they all jump on me at once.”
“I will leave that challenge open,” said Don, as he led Sam away. “You
know where my room is, and any little notes you may choose to shove
under my door will receive prompt attention.”
Tom and his crowd did not speak; they had not yet recovered from their
amazement. They stood gazing after the rescued boy and his champion
until they disappeared in the darkness, and then they turned and looked
at one another.
“I declare, Duncan,” exclaimed Tom Fisher, who was the first to speak.
“You’ve met your master at last, have you not?”
The defeated bully growled out something in reply, but his friends could
not understand what it was. Like every boy who prides himself upon his
strength and skill, he did not like to acknowledge that he had been
beaten.
“Did he hurt you?” asked one of the students. “I noticed that you didn’t
get up right away.”
“How in the name of all that’s wonderful did he do it?” inquired
another. “I didn’t see him clinch or strike you.”
“He did neither,” replied Duncan, “and that’s just what bangs me. I am
willing to swear that he did not touch me anywhere except on the hand,
and he took hold of that just as though he wanted to give it a friendly
shake. It’s a trick of some kind—a boss one, too—and I will give him my
next quarter’s spending money if he will teach it to me.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Tom Fisher. “You needn’t expect to him to do that. He
doesn’t look to me to be such a fool. You and he may come together in
earnest some day—if you don’t, he will be about the only boy you haven’t
had a fight with since you have been a student at this academy—and then
you will probably find out what his tricks are.”
“He didn’t hurt me at all,” continued Clarence; “but he could if he had
been so disposed. If he had used a little more exertion he could have
thrown me into that air-hole; and if I had happened to come up under the
ice—ugh!” exclaimed Clarence, shivering all over as he looked down into
the dark water.
“Is there no way in which we can get even with him?” asked Fisher.
“_Is_ there!” replied Clarence, angrily. “Do you suppose that I am going
to submit tamely to an insult like that? We’ll make a way to get even
with him. Things have come to a pretty pass if a plebe is going to be
allowed to come here and run this school to suit himself.”
The mere reference to such an unheard-of thing was enough to raise the
ire of Tom Fisher and all his companions, who with one voice declared
that the Planter, having presumed to lay violent hands on an upper-class
boy, and to set at defiance one of the old-established customs of the
academy, must be made to suffer the consequences. They held a long and
earnest consultation there on the ice, and Fisher and Duncan, who were
fruitful in expedients, soon hit upon a plan which promised, if
skillfully managed, to bring Sam Arkwright’s champion into serious
trouble. It was a most dangerous plan, because it was to be carried out
under the guise of friendship.
“That’s the only way to do it, fellows, you may depend upon it,” said
Duncan, after their scheme had been thoroughly discussed. “We must bring
him into trouble with the faculty, and let them do the hazing, for we
couldn’t do it if we wanted to. I was nothing but a child in his grasp,
and, to tell the honest truth, I have no desire to face him again.”
“I hope we shall succeed,” said Fisher. “But if the Planter turns out to
be one of those good little boys who never do anything wrong, then
what?”
If Tom had only known it, he need not have bothered his head on this
point. Unfortunately for Don, something happened that very night which
made it comparatively easy for the conspirators to carry out the plans
they had formed regarding him.
Meanwhile Don and Bert were walking briskly toward the academy in
company with the rescued boy, who was somewhat protected from the keen
wind by Bert’s muffler, which the latter had wrapped about his neck, and
by Don’s gloves which he wore upon his hands. He was lost in admiration
of his new friend’s prowess, and complimented him in the best language
he could command.
“Are you an Irishman, sir?” Sam asked, at length.
“Look here,” answered Don, “my name is Gordon—there’s no ‘sir’ about it.
No, I am not an Irishman. I am an American, I am proud to say; but I
understand the Irish ‘hand and foot’ well enough to give it to such
fellows as that Clarence Duncan. I can throw a man weighing two hundred
pounds in that way if he will let me take hold of his hand.”
“It was well done,” said Sam. “I never saw it done better.”
“I learned it of one of my father’s hired men—a discharged Union soldier
who came to our plantation penniless and hungry, and asked for work,”
said Don. “I always make it a point to pick up any little thing of that
kind that happens to fall in my way. It may come handy some day, you
know.”
Perhaps you will now understand how Don had managed to throw the bully
of the school so easily; but if you do not, we can only say that it
cannot be described on paper so that you can gain even a faint idea of
it. If you want to know just how it was done, the easiest way to learn
is to ask some Irishman—the fresher he is from the old sod the better—to
give you a practical illustration of the “hand and foot.” Simply give
him your hand, and if his feelings toward you are friendly, he will send
you flying through the air without hurting you in the least; but if he
is not friendly, we would not advise you to go to him for information,
for he can turn you heels up in an instant, and land you on your head
with force enough to knock all your brains into your boots. Don had
become so expert in this novel way of wrestling, and so prone to put it
into practice at every opportunity, that none of the boys about Rochdale
could be induced to shake hands with him.
“How did you ever happen to find your way to this school!” inquired Don,
after Sam had exhausted his vocabulary in praising his new friend’s
skill as a wrestler. “Were you really a New York boot-black?”
“Yes, I was,” answered Sam, hesitatingly.
“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” said Bert, who thought from the way
Sam spoke that he did not like to confess that he had once occupied so
lowly a position in the world.
“Of course not,” Don hastened to add. “Any honest work is honorable.
Your presence here proves that you didn’t want to remain a boot-black
all your days.”
“No, I didn’t. I was ambitious to be something better,” said Sam, who
then went on to give Don and his brother a short history of his life. He
said that his father, who followed the sea for a livelihood, had gone
down with his vessel during a terrific storm off Cape Hatteras; that his
mother had survived him but a few months; and that after her death a
grasping landlord had seized all the household furniture as security for
the rent that was due and unpaid, turning him (Sam) into the streets to
shift for himself. He spent the days in roaming about the city, looking
in vain for work, and his nights in a lumber-yard to which he had been
invited by a friendly boot-black, who found free lodgings there every
night, and who, seeing Sam’s forlorn condition, gave him a plate of soup
to eat and furnished him with a plank to sleep on. Finding that work was
not to be had, Sam at last ran in debt for a boot-black’s “kit,” which
he procured from one of the fraternity who had saved money enough to
open a corner peanut stand, and after a score or more of battles with
boys whose “claims” he unwittingly “jumped,” he succeeded in
establishing himself in front of a popular hotel in the city, where he
was to be found early and late. It was there he met the Superintendent
of the Bridgeport Military Academy, who patronized him twice every day,
never failing to give him a quarter for each “shine,” or to spend a few
minutes in conversation, with him after the boy’s work was completed.
From the day he was six years old up to the time his father was lost at
sea, Sam attended the district school regularly; and as he was a very
faithful student, and tried hard to learn, he knew more about books than
boys of his age generally do. He felt that he was out of place among the
ragged, ignorant little gamins with whom he was daily and hourly thrown
in contact, and they, realizing that he was not one of them, and that he
believed himself to be fitted for something better than the life of a
boot-black, tormented him in every conceivable way. He was so often
called upon to protect his brush and his box of blacking from the young
rowdies who would have despoiled him of them, that he became an adept at
fighting, and it is probable that he would have opened the eyes of Tom
Fisher and his crowd, had they not pounced upon him while he was asleep,
and overpowered him before he could raise a hand to defend himself.
“I am sure I don’t know what it was that made the Professor take a
liking to me,” said Sam in conclusion, “but it was something; and when
he asked me if I wouldn’t like to quit that miserable business and go to
school and learn to be a civil or a mining engineer, I tell you it
almost took my breath away. I jumped at the chance. I gave my kit to a
boy who was too poor to buy one, and came out here; and I am very sorry
for it. The fellows don’t want me here, and they didn’t want me in New
York, either. I hope I shall some day find a place where I shall not be
in everybody’s way.”
“Don’t get down-hearted,” said Don, taking one of his hands out of his
pocket long enough to give Sam an encouraging slap on the back. “Of
course your tuition is free?”
“Yes, everything is furnished me. If it wasn’t I couldn’t stay here, for
I have no money to speak of. The boys in New York badgered me so, and
ran such heavy opposition to me that I couldn’t earn enough to buy a
warm suit of clothes.”
“You will have an abundance of them in a day or two,” said Don, “for our
uniforms will be along by that time. You couldn’t get an education on
better terms than the Professor offers it to you, could you? And so long
as he is willing that you should stay here, you can well afford to let
the fellows grumble to their hearts’ content. Show the Professor that
you appreciate his kindness by doing your duty like a man, and look to
me for help whenever you get into trouble. Now the next thing is
something else,” added Don, as he and his companions came to a halt in
front of the high picket-fence which inclosed the academy grounds.
“Where’s your room, Sam?”
“I haven’t any yet. I sleep in the attic. The rooms on the floor
occupied by our class are all taken except one. That has been used as a
store-room, and as soon as it is cleared out I am to have it for my
own.”
“Well, do you want the teachers to know anything about this night’s
work?”
“Of course not,” returned Sam, who had all a decent boy’s horror of
tale-bearing.
“Because, if you do,” continued Don, “you can walk up to one of the
guards, let him report you for being outside the grounds without a pass,
and when you are hauled over the coals for it, you can say that you were
taken out against your will.”
“But I don’t want to say that,” answered Sam, quickly. “It would bring
Tom and the rest into trouble. I have nothing against them, and I should
be glad to be friends with them if they would only let me.”
“You’ll do to tie to,” said Don, approvingly. “Bert and I have a pass
that will see us through all right; but what are you going to do? Do you
think you can make your way to the attic without being seen by any of
the sentries or floor guards?”
“Tom and his crowd brought me out without attracting the attention of
any of them, and I don’t see why I can’t get back without being caught.
At any rate I shall try my best. Good-night. I hope that neither of you
will ever stand in need of such aid as you have rendered me to-night;
but if you do, you may count on me every time.”
So saying Sam moved away in one direction, closely examining all the
pickets on the fence as he went, and Don and Bert walked off in the
other. When the latter arrived within sight of the main gate they were
somewhat surprised to see that it was closed. The sound of their
footsteps on the frosty snow quickly attracted the attention of the
alert sentry, who came out of his box and demanded to know who they were
and what they were doing there at that time of night.
“We belong to this academy,” replied Don, “and have a pass from the
superintendent.”
“Corporal of the guard No. 4,” yelled the sentry; and the call was
caught up and repeated by another sentinel who stood at the farther end
of the academy, and finally reached the ears of the corporal, who was
toasting his shins in front of a warm fire in the guard-room.
“What do you want the corporal for? Here’s our pass,” said Don; and
taking the paper in question from his pocket he thrust it between the
bars of the gate.
Still the sentry made no reply, nor did he seem to know that Don had
spoken to him. He brought his musket to a “support,” and paced back and
forth on the other side of the gate with slow and dignified steps. Don
muttered something under his breath, and Bert believing that he was
grumbling at the sentry for being so uncivil, laid his hand on his
brother’s arm and said, in a low tone—
“Don’t be angry with him. Perhaps he is not allowed to talk while he is
on duty.”
Don said nothing. He began to believe that he and Bert had unwittingly
got themselves into trouble again, and when the corporal came up, he
found that he had not been mistaken.
“What’s the matter here?” demanded the officer.
“There are a couple of plebes out there who want to come in,” was the
sentry’s reply.
“Who are you?” said the corporal, peering through the pickets at the two
brothers.
Don gave him their names; whereupon the corporal took a key down from a
nail in the sentry’s box, and after unlocking the gate told the boys to
come in. They obeyed, and the officer having returned the key to its
place drew a note-book from his pocket and wrote something in it.
“That’s all right,” said he, as he closed the book and put it back in
his pocket.
“Have we done anything wrong?” inquired Bert, in anxious tones.
“You will find that out to-morrow,” was the corporal’s very
unsatisfactory answer.
“Why can’t you give a civil reply to a civil question?” demanded Don,
impatiently. “We had liberty to go outside the grounds for the evening,
and here’s the pass that says so.”
“I don’t want to see it,” said the corporal, as he buttoned his overcoat
and drew the cape over his head. “I know just how it reads. Come on.”
“Where are you going to take us?” asked Bert, while visions of the
gloomy guard-house danced before his eyes.
“To the officer of the day, of course.”
“And what will he do with us?”
“That’s for him to tell. Come on. It’s too cold to stand here any
longer.”
Don and Bert fell in behind the corporal, who led the way to the
guard-room, and ushered them into a little office where the officer of
the day—a stern old Prussian soldier who wore a medal he had won by his
gallantry on the field of battle while serving under Prince Frederick
Charles—sat reading a newspaper. When the non-commissioned officer
entered with his prisoners he laid the paper down and took off his
spectacles.
“Vel, gorporal,” said he, in a pompous tone, “vat ish the drouble mit
dem gadets?”
“They have overstayed their time, sir,” said the corporal.
“Vot for you do dot?” demanded the officer of the day, turning fiercely
upon the culprits. “Vot for you not come in, ha?”
“We were not aware that we had overstayed our time, sir,” answered Don.
“If we had known that we were expected to return at a certain hour, we
should have been here. We had a pass for the evening, and there it is.”
“Dot’s no good after daps,” said the officer of the day, turning away
his head and waving his hand in the air to indicate that he did not care
to look at the paper which Don presented for his inspection.
“I assure you, sir, that it was a mistake on our part,” said Bert.
But the officer of the day declared, in his broken English and with many
gesticulations, that such things as mistakes were not recognized in that
academy—that Don and his brother had violated the regulations and might
make up their minds to be punished accordingly. Then he ordered them to
their quarters, while the corporal went back to his seat by the stove.
“He didn’t say that we were in arrest, did he?” said Don, as he and Bert
ascended the stairs, at the top of which they met the sentry who had
charge of that floor, standing with his note-book in his hand.
“Your names, please,” said he, pleasantly.
“The corporal of the guard has them, and so has the officer of the day,”
answered Don.
“And I must have them, too,” returned the sentry, holding his pencil
poised, in the air.
Don gave the required information in rather a sullen tone, and closed
the door of his dormitory behind him with no gentle hand. As soon as
Bert had struck a light he drew the pass from his pocket and read as
follows:
“Guards and patrols will pass privates Donald and Hubert Gordon until
half-past nine o’clock this evening.”
Then he looked at his watch and saw that it lacked only a quarter of
eleven. Allowing fifteen minutes for their interviews with the corporal
and the officer of the day, they had overstayed their time just an hour.
Bert was very penitent, but Don was inclined to be rebellious.