DON’S EXPERIMENT.
When Clarence reached home after his interview with Godfrey Evans, he
found the house deserted by all the family save his aunt Mary. His
brother, his uncle and all his cousins had gone off in the carriage to
spend the day in riding about the country, and Clarence was left to
amuse himself in any way he thought proper. He knew the time would not
hang heavily on his hands, for he had much to think about. He wanted
to make up his mind just what he would do when he came into possession
of his share of the eighty thousand dollars. The thought that possibly
he might never get a cent of it--that perhaps there was no barrel
hidden in the potato-patch--did not once enter his head. The hope that
it might be there, and that he might be fortunate enough to find it,
was so strong that it became belief, and Clarence already considered
himself as good as rich.
Under pretence of writing a letter to his mother to tell her of his
safe arrival at the plantation, he went up stairs, where he passed the
rest of the afternoon. He made a very hasty toilet, spent about five
minutes in writing the letter--he did not ask his mother for money--as
he had expected to do--and then gave himself up to his meditations. He
was sorry when his brother and the rest came back from their ride, for
after that he could no longer make a hermit of himself. He was obliged
to go down and mingle with the family, which he did with a very bad
grace.
While they were at the supper-table something was said about the
letter he had written, and Don volunteered to take it to the office
that very night, so that it might go out with the first mail that left
the landing, and requested Clarence to accompany him on horseback--an
invitation which the latter, owing to his agreement with Godfrey Evans,
was obliged to decline. So Don said he would go alone, and promised to
be back shortly after dark, and in time to practise some duets with
Clarence on the flute.
“Duets!” thought Clarence, in great disgust. “Some people have queer
ideas of enjoyment. Music is getting to be the biggest bore in the
world to me since I came here, and I wish I had never learned it. If
anybody will give me two cents, I’ll take that flute of mine and smash
it over a chair. It cost me thirty-five dollars, too. I can spend my
time to-night much more profitably than in practising duets. What if we
should happen to alight on the barrel the very first time trying? Whew!
It is too exciting to think about!”
Don rode down to the landing and back alone, reaching the barn about
half an hour after dark. Finding that the hostler was not there to take
care of his pony, he attended to the animal himself, working in the
dark, as there was no lantern nearer than the house, and he did not
want to take time to go after it. He hung up his saddle and bridle, and
was about to close the barn-doors, when he happened to look toward the
house and saw a figure darting along the carriage-way, making use of
every tree and clump of bushes to conceal his movements, and stopping
now and then to look about, as if he were afraid of being seen by
somebody. Don took just one glance at him, and then drawing back behind
the door, laid hold of a pitchfork that was always kept standing in the
corner. Thieves visited the plantation now and then after dark, and
Don thought he had discovered one of them.
“That fellow is up to something,” said he, as he tightened his grasp
on the pitchfork, “and if I keep an eye on him, perhaps I shall find
out where our chickens and hams go so mysteriously. It must be some
one who is acquainted with the dogs, or they would have raised a fuss
before this time. Let him pick up something, if he dares, and we’ll see
how quickly he will drop it, when he finds the tines of this pitchfork
within an inch of his nose.”
Fairly trembling with excitement Don took off his hat, peeped
cautiously around the edge of the door, and watched the motions of the
supposed thief. The latter did not pick up anything, however, as Don
hoped he would, but took his stand at the corner of the barn, almost
within reach of the boy’s hand, and leaning against the building,
looked down the road as if he were waiting for somebody. Then Don saw,
to his great surprise, that it was his cousin Clarence. He was about to
step out and speak to him, when he noticed that Clarence held a lighted
cigar in his hand.
“Perhaps I had better stay where I am,” thought Don. “If I go out
there, he’ll think I have been watching him and playing the part of a
spy; and then if father or mother should happen to say anything to him
about his smoking, he would accuse me of telling it. I wish he would go
somewhere else and enjoy his cigar, and let me go into the house!”
While Don was soliloquising in this way, Clarence suddenly darted off
as if he had just thought of something, and making his way to one
of the evergreens in the yard, drew from beneath its low, spreading
branches a couple of shovels, with which he again approached the barn.
Don looked on in great wonder, and, forgetting the resolution he had
just formed, was about to reveal himself to his cousin, when the
creaking of the gate announced a new arrival. It proved to be Godfrey
Evans, who was at once taken to task by Clarence for his long delay.
To Don’s amazement the two seemed as familiar as though they had long
been acquainted. The question, Where had Clarence met Godfrey before,
and what in the world could he have to do with that worthless man?
was hardly formed in Don’s mind before it was answered, not fully, of
course, but still in a way to increase his surprise a thousandfold, and
to give him, besides, a pretty good idea of the situation. He overheard
every word of the conversation that took place between them and found
that they had met there by appointment; that it was their purpose to
dig up a barrel of gold and silver that was supposed to be buried in
the potato-patch; and that Godfrey was very much afraid to undertake
the task, for fear that old Jordan’s ghost might appear and frighten
him away. Don also inferred, from something Godfrey said, that he had
already seen the ghost once, and that a second view would be altogether
too much for him. After spending five minutes in discussing the matter,
Clarence succeeded in infusing a little courage into Godfrey, who
accepted one of the shovels and led the way towards the potato-patch.
When the two had disappeared in the darkness, Don set the pitchfork
back in its place, and drew a long breath--the first full inspiration
he had taken for the last ten minutes. He had been so close to the
conspirators all the time that he hardly dared to move a finger, for
fear that he should attract their attention.
“Well, I wonder if anybody ever heard of such a thing as this before!”
said he, drawing his handkerchief across his forehead. “If I didn’t
have the evidence of my own eyes and ears, I shouldn’t believe it.
Who told them about the barrel, I wonder! I’ve heard mother say that
old Jordan buried a lot of silver-ware, such as knives, forks and
spoons, for her during the war, but I thought she had got the most of
it back again. I never heard her say she lost a whole barrelful, and
I don’t believe she did. The only money that was ever buried on this
plantation, was fifteen hundred dollars in gold, and that was hidden
under the front steps of the old house. I’ve seen the place a hundred
times. But eighty thousand dollars! My stars! I don’t believe father
ever had so much money at one time in his life. But suppose it was
there, and Clarence should find it; it isn’t possible that he would
be dishonest enough to keep it. I shouldn’t like to think that my own
cousin was so great a rascal. Hold on! I’ve just thought of a trick
that will beat the hollow pumpkin all to pieces.”
Talking thus to himself, Don carefully closed and locked the
stable-door, and with noiseless footsteps stole along the fence until
he arrived opposite the place where Clarence and Godfrey were at work
in the field. He could see them plainly, for they were but a few yards
from the fence, and as he watched them it was all he could do to keep
from giving a few dismal groans, just to see what effect the sound
would have upon them. The only thing that restrained him was the fear
that by so doing he would interfere with the plans he had suddenly
formed, and which he intended to put into operation the very next day.
He did not want to frighten Godfrey away from the potato-patch just
then. He wanted him to come again the next night, and by that time he
would be ready to show him something. He stayed in the fence-corner for
half an hour; and then knowing that if he remained there any longer,
his absence would be certain to attract the attention of the family,
and perhaps lead to more questions from his father and mother than he
would care to answer, he arose and stole away toward the house.
“Have you seen anything of Clarence?” was the first question his cousin
Marshall asked him, after he had distributed the mail he brought from
the post-office.
“Yes, I saw him. He’s out there,” was the reply.
“Out there!” replied the general. “Out where?”
“Out near the barn when I first saw him,” said Don; and to himself he
added: “I suppose I ought to tell now where he was the last time I
saw him, but that would never do. I don’t want to get my cousin into
trouble, and neither do I want to spoil all my fun. Won’t I have things
fixed for Godfrey to-morrow night, though? I’ll scare him so that he
will never put his foot on the plantation again!”
“I don’t wonder that the time hangs heavily on his hands,” continued
the general. “Our quiet country life probably has no charms for him,
and he is lonely and homesick.”
This seemed to be the verdict of all the members of the family, who,
being willing to make due allowances and give their city relative
all the privileges he demanded, said no more about his absence. They
welcomed him very cordially when he came in, two hours later, but asked
him no questions. Indeed, Clarence did not wait to be questioned. He
went to bed almost immediately, and Don soon followed him.
The next day the general went off somewhere on business, and the
boys were left to amuse themselves in any way they pleased. Bert
and Marshall got into one of the canoes and set off to visit the
shooting-box. They asked Don and Clarence to go with them; but the
latter could not see that there was any fun in riding a mile or two in
a leaky dug-out for the purpose of looking at an old shantee in the
woods, and Don had other business on hand, so neither of them accepted
the invitation. Clarence found the most pleasure in getting away by
himself and thinking about the fortune of which he expected very soon
to be the master, while Don wanted to spend at least a portion of the
forenoon in getting ready to receive Godfrey Evans when he came to the
potato-patch that night; and as they both desired to be alone, they did
not in any way interfere with each other.
As soon as Clarence could find an excuse for so doing, he went up
stairs to his room; and Don, being left to himself, managed to secure
a rusty key which hung on a nail in the kitchen, and to effect an
entrance into a long-unused room in the rear of the barn; and he
performed both these necessary operations without attracting the
attention of any one.
As soon as he had locked the door behind him Don breathed easier, and
stopped to look about him. The room had once belonged to old Jordan,
the runaway negro, who had served as the general’s hostler in the days
gone by. Being a very faithful and a favorite servant, he had received
many favors, and was also allowed the privilege of a room to himself.
The apartment looked just as it did on the day the sable occupant
deserted it. Not a thing had been disturbed, and Don was the only one
who had entered the room since the morning following the day on which
the levee was cut. When Mrs. Gordon became satisfied that old Jordan
had run away, she gave instructions that the room should be closed
and locked and the window nailed down, so that nobody could enter it.
Jordan would be sure to come back some day, she said, and when he did,
he would find his property secure, and his room waiting for him. But
the years had gone by, the old fellow had never been heard from, and
everybody began to think he was dead.
The first thing Don did, after locking the door behind him, was to
take from his pocket a small bundle, which being undone proved to
contain a brush and a box of blacking. His next move was to open a huge
chest that stood at the head of the bed. In it he found four articles
he needed--a suit of clothes neatly folded up; a gaudily-colored
handkerchief; a shining plug hat, that had once been the property of
the general; and a pair of heavy plantation shoes, like those which
used to be so extensively manufactured in New England under the name
of “russets.” The fifth article Don needed to complete the disguise he
was about to assume was a walking-stick, and that stood in the corner
behind the chest.
Having selected everything he wanted, Don quickly divested himself of
his outer clothing, and in two minutes more had put on old Jordan’s
Sunday suit, which fitted him well enough for all practical purposes.
The shoes were much too large, but by putting a roll of paper in the
toe of each, he found that he could walk in them very well. He wrapped
the handkerchief about his head, leaving the ends hanging down behind,
and taking care to cover up all his hair so that no one could see it,
and placed the plug hat on the top of it. Then the blacking brush, and
the three-cornered piece of looking glass that was nailed against the
wall, came into use, and in a few minutes more Don had made such a
change in his appearance that his own father would not have recognised
him.
“I wish I had some of that burnt cork, or whatever it is, that the
minstrels use to blacken their faces,” said the boy, glancing into the
little mirror after he had finished his work. “My white skin shows
through almost too much. But, after all, who cares for that? It will
be dark when I present myself to Godfrey, and I shall have no need to
be so very particular about my hands and face. I say! this is going
to a good deal of trouble for a little fun, isn’t it? No matter; if I
can see Godfrey run as he did on the night he saw the pumpkin with the
lighted candle in it, I shall be well repaid.”
Don could remember old Jordan very well, for, although he was young
when the latter went away, his peculiar actions and odd style of
dress had made a lasting impression on him. Besides, he had heard him
described time and again; and his sayings had been so often repeated,
and his style of locomotion so frequently imitated by those who
knew him, that Don thought he should have no difficulty in passing
himself off for old Jordan. Now that he was dressed and ready for the
performance, he thought it would be a great pity to assume his own
character again before he had tested his disguise.
This thought had no sooner suggested itself to him than he prepared
to act upon it. Everything favored him. The door of the room, opening
as it did into a narrow passage-way that led from the barn into the
corn-crib, was out of sight of anybody who might happen to be on the
barn floor. The only difficult thing for him to do, was to get out of
the passage-way without being seen. That being accomplished he did not
care who saw him--provided, of course, that the members of the family
kept out of the way--for no one could tell where he came from.
“But I must first make sure of a way of retreat,” thought Don, as he
looked about the room for something with which to draw the nails that
held the window. “I must get back into this room, somehow, and it may
not be quite safe to get back the same way I go out.”
But Don could not find a hammer or anything else to draw the nails
with, so he broke them off by prying them up and down with the end of
his walking-stick. Then he raised the window, placing a stick under
it to keep it open, and unhooked the shutter which fitted tightly
enough to remain closed, even when it was not fastened. After that he
looked into the mirror again, touched up one or two white spots on his
hands and face, grasped his walking-stick, and slipped out into the
passage-way. Locking the door he put the key into his pocket, and moved
cautiously down the passage-way until he could look into the barn.
There was no one there except the hostler, and he was busy and his
back was turned toward Don. Moving with noiseless footsteps, the boy
succeeded in walking out into the middle of the floor before he was
discovered. He did not expect to be recognised by the hostler, for the
latter was a new hand who had never been acquainted with Jordan; but
there were some negroes at work in the field close by who knew the old
fellow he was now personating, and toward them Don directed his course.
The hostler looked up from his work when he heard the sound of
footsteps behind him, and seeing a strange negro approaching, spoke
to him very civilly; but Don took no notice of him. He was playing
ghost now, and ghosts did not speak to anybody--at least he had never
heard that they did. Walking straight out of the door he turned toward
the place where the negroes were at work, and had not made many steps
before one of them discovered him. He straightened up quickly, shaded
his eyes with his hand, and said a few words in a low tone to his
companions, who also turned and looked at Don. They gazed fixedly at
him for a moment, and then broke out into a chorus of greeting.
“Bress my soul an’ body, if dar ain’t ole uncle Jordan!” they exclaimed
in concert.
“It’s all right,” thought Don. “If they can’t recognise me in the
daytime, I am sure Godfrey Evans will not know me in the dark. I
believe if I should go into the house I could fool everybody there.”
Scarcely able to control himself, so great was his desire to laugh,
Don kept straight on toward the negroes, who had dropped their hoes
and were hurrying up to shake hands with him. His silence seemed to
surprise them greatly. They stopped short, looked curiously at him
first, then suspiciously, and after exchanging a few words that Don
could not hear, began backing out of his way.
“’Tain’t ole Jordan, nudder,” suddenly exclaimed one of the negroes.
“O, hush yer noise, boy,” said another. “Don’t I know dot ole white
coat, an’ dot plug hat dot ole marse guv him on dot Christmas day, jest
’fore he went away to de wah? Yes, I does.”
“No odds,” replied the one who had first spoken. “’Tain’t ole Jordan.
He’s dead, an’ dis is his haunt.” These words were all that were needed
to frighten the superstitious field-hands almost out of their senses.
They did not go into a panic and run, as Don hoped they would, but
retreated out of his way and watched him from a distance, looking at
one another now and then, and shaking their heads and acting altogether
as if they were at their wits’ end. Don took a short turn about the
field--he did not dare to stay out there very long for fear of being
seen by somebody in the house--and then turned toward the barn again.
As soon as the corn-crib hid him from the gaze of the negroes, he
straightened up and ran swiftly to the window that opened into old
Jordan’s room. Throwing back the shutter he scrambled through as
quickly as he could, and shutting himself in, laid down on old Jordan’s
bed and shook all over with suppressed laughter. He heard the footsteps
and the voices of the negroes as they passed around the barn, looking
for him; and the few words of their conversation which he overheard
satisfied him that his experiment had been a decided success. He
must have imitated old Jordan perfectly to be taken for him in broad
daylight.