THE INCENDIARY.
“THERE! I can’t do anything with only one hand!” exclaimed Whistler,
somewhat impatiently, as he was at work in the shop one morning with
Clinton. He was nailing two pieces of wood together, for some purpose or
other; but the nail split them both, and rendered them useless.
“You didn’t drive the nail in right, that’s the trouble,” said Clinton,
after glancing at the pieces. “If you had turned it round the other way
it wouldn’t have split. You have set the wide part of the nail across
the grain of the wood, and it acts just like a wedge. Don’t you see how
the nail widens towards the head? Well, that wide part ought to go the
same way as the grain, and not across it.”
“I’ve heard something of that before, but I didn’t think anything about
it,” said Whistler, who, it should be remarked, had far less mechanical
skill than Clinton, who had enjoyed unusual facilities for cultivating
this talent, and, besides, had a natural aptitude for it.
“Even if you were driving a nail into solid timber, where there was no
danger of splitting,” continued Clinton, “the wide part ought not to go
against the grain; for, if it does, there will be a little opening
around the head of the nail, and that will let in air and moisture, and
make the wood decay.”
“Well, I’ll try it again,” said Whistler; and he began to look around
for some more pieces of wood.
“There is another thing about driving nails,” continued Clinton; “did
you know that you can drive one into hard wood a great deal easier if
you wet it?”
“No, I never heard of that,” replied his cousin.
“It is so,” added Clinton. “Oil is the best thing to wet it with; but
water is good, or you can put it into your mouth, as the carpenters
often do.”
“There’s some knack even in driving a nail, isn’t there?” said Whistler.
“Ah, there comes Mr. Walker,” said Clinton, as a man appeared in the
yard, and he went out to speak to him.
“Where’s your father, Clinton?” inquired the man.
“I don’t know,—he is somewhere about here,” replied Clinton. “Shall I go
and find him?”
“No matter about it,—I’m in a hurry,” replied Mr. Walker. “I was going
by, and I thought I’d stop and let your folks know that father has heard
from his horse, and got track of the rascal that set fire to the barn.”
“Has he?—who is it?” inquired Clinton.
“We’ve traced the fellow to Bangor, and there we’ve lost him,” continued
Mr. Walker; “but I’m in hopes we shall get some clew to him again. He
sold the horse about twenty miles this side of Bangor.”
“But who is the fellow?” inquired Clinton, with a feeling of suspense
somewhat similar to what he experienced when his father had the rejected
dialogue under consideration.
“We don’t know for a certainty,—he went by two or three different names,
and probably all of them were assumed for the occasion,” replied Mr.
Walker; “but, from the description of him, we think it must be a fellow
that father complained of for selling rum, over at the Cross Roads. His
name was Dick Sneider.”
“There! that explains it all, then!” said Clinton, and the color
suddenly went from his face.
“Explains what? Do you know anything about it?” inquired Mr. Walker,
with surprise.
Clinton then told Mr. Walker of his interview with Sneider in the woods
the night before the fire. Willie also came out, on hearing the subject
of conversation, and supplied some omissions which Clinton, in his alarm
and nervousness, had overlooked. Mr. Walker was a quick-tempered and
impulsive young man, somewhat overbearing in his manner, and, when in a
passion, not a very agreeable person, by any means. He could scarcely
restrain his anger, as the boys related their adventure, and repeatedly
interrupted them with the inquiry, in a quick, snappish tone:
“Why didn’t you tell of this before? What does all this mean, I should
like to know?”
His passion rose as the boys proceeded, and he soon lost all
self-control, and broke forth in a most profane and outrageous manner,
applying all kinds of abusive epithets to Clinton in particular, for not
telling of his interview with Sneider before; pronouncing him a fool and
simpleton for being so easily deceived by him; and, with the usual
inconsistency of men in a passion, threatening to have him arrested as
an accomplice or partner in the crime. The boys hung their heads like
criminals, under the stinging reproof; but, fortunately for them, Mrs.
Davenport, who, unobserved, had heard the whole conversation, thought it
her duty to interfere, now that Mr. Walker’s temper had reached such a
pitch, and she accordingly stepped from the house. The young man
softened his words and tones a little when he saw her, but still
condemned Clinton’s error in severe terms. She admitted that he had
acted unwisely, but mildly rebuked Mr. Walker for the severity of his
reprimand, reminding him that Clinton was but a boy, and had probably
done what he thought was right. She also spoke of the accident which
Whistler met with, and of the busy preparations they had been making for
the picnic, which had caused them almost to forget the fire.
Mr. Walker now started for home; but he had not proceeded far when he
met Mr. Davenport, and he stopped to inform him of the discovery he had
just made.
“Is that man drunk, or crazy, or what is the matter with him?” inquired
Whistler, indignantly, as soon as Mr. Walker was out of hearing.
“No, Willie; he’s a fiery-tempered man,—that’s all that ails him,”
replied his aunt.
“Well, if I hadn’t thought he was crazy, or drunk, or something of that
kind, I wouldn’t have stood so much of his impudence,” added Whistler,
whose courage rose as the choleric young man rode off.
“I know one thing,” said Clinton, “if Bill Walker ever talks to me in
that way again, I’ll give him as good as he sends.”
“O, no; you don’t mean that,” replied his mother. “That would be putting
yourself on a level with him; and I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to do that.
His bad temper is a great injury to him. It is notorious all over town,
and nobody respects him so much as they otherwise would, on account of
it. He makes a great many enemies, too, and, I have no doubt, he feels
heartily ashamed of himself when he gets over his fits of passion. I
hope you will never try to meet such a man with his own weapons. The
best way is to keep silence, or speak mildly. ‘He that ruleth his spirit
is better than he that taketh a city,’ as the Bible says. If you had
been impudent to Mr. Walker, it would have made him more furious, and he
would not get over his resentment half so easily; but now, he will soon
get calmed down, and then he will see that he has treated you badly, and
the next time you meet him he will be as kind to you as ever,—you see if
he isn’t.”
“Yes,—but before he gets cooled off, he’ll go all over town and tell
what a fool I am,” said Clinton, bursting into tears.
“O, no, I think not,” replied his mother; “but, even if he should, every
body knows what he is, and his reports will not injure you any, in the
end.”
Mr. Davenport soon came in, to make inquiries concerning the affair of
which he had just heard. He could hardly credit Mr. Walker’s story, who,
to tell the truth, had not troubled himself much to explain the
mitigating circumstances in the case. He listened patiently to the boys’
statement, and was very glad to find that the affair was not so bad as
had been represented.
“I am very sorry this has happened,” said Mr. Davenport, after they had
made their explanations. “If you had told me of this as soon as we heard
of the fire, it is probable that Dick might have been arrested; for the
officers would have known who they were in pursuit of. Your silence has
probably defeated the ends of justice this time.”
“But he seemed to be so lame, that we thought he couldn’t be the
fellow,” suggested Whistler.
“Ah, he was too shrewd for you there,” said Mr. Davenport. “You
shouldn’t believe all that such a fellow tells you.”
“Well, to tell the truth, uncle,” said Whistler, “I don’t think Clinton
is so much to blame as I am. I remember, now, his saying that he was
suspicious of Dick, and that a bad promise is better broken than kept;
but I rather talked him out of it.”
Whistler had a nice sense of honor, hence this magnanimous confession,
which, indeed, was not a mere compliment, but was the truth. Clinton
would probably have made the revelation immediately after the fire, had
he not been influenced otherwise—slightly it is true—by his cousin.
This, however, did not wholly excuse his mistake. He knew more of Dick’s
bad character than Whistler did; and, besides, he ought not to have been
so easily influenced against his own convictions. This, indeed, had
always been one of Clinton’s chief failings,—a disposition to yield too
readily to the wishes and arguments of others, when his own better
judgment ought to have dictated a different course.
Clinton did not allow his cousin to assume all the blame in the matter,
but insisted on bearing his full share. He strongly protested, however,
that he thought he was doing right.
“I am a little inclined to doubt that,” replied his father. “It seems to
me you could not have given the subject much thought. I suppose you had
a sort of general impression that you were doing nothing wrong; but I
suspect that you did not turn the matter over in your mind as you ought.
But, even if you did, after due consideration, conclude that you had
done right, that would not make the action right.”
“But, in that case, I shouldn’t be to blame for doing as I did, should
I?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, you would be to blame, unless you could give a good excuse for not
knowing better,” replied his father. “But, are you sure that you gave
the subject proper reflection, and acted according to the best of your
knowledge?”
“Yes, sir; I thought I did,” replied Clinton.
“Your promise to Dick was the only reason for your silence, was it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you make such a promise? Supposing his story was true about the
debt, was it right for you to shield him from justice?”
“But he said he couldn’t pay.”
“Then you regarded him as an honest but unfortunate debtor, and thought
it would be an act of mercy to stand between him and his cruel creditor,
did you?”
Clinton could not answer that question, but looked perplexed. He finally
evaded it by saying:
“But he looked so ugly, that I didn’t dare to refuse him.”
“Did he threaten you, or use any compulsion?” inquired his father.
“Yes, sir; he threatened us after we had promised not to say anything
about it.”
“Well, that will hardly excuse you for making such a promise. I think
you yielded too willingly. You can hardly say that he _compelled_ you to
promise secrecy. But, suppose he did compel you, what then?”
“I suppose it would not have been binding on us.”
“Why not?”
“Because he forced us into it.”
“Then, when the barons of England compelled King John to sign the Magna
Charta, which secured to Englishmen their liberties, the act was not
binding upon him, because he was forced into it; was it so?”
Clinton made no reply.
“If I should catch a boy stealing apples from my trees,” continued his
father, “and should refuse to let him go until he had promised not to
steal any more, he would be under no obligations to keep his promise,
would he?”
“Yes, sir, he would.”
“Are there any circumstances, then, under which it is proper to violate
a promise?”
“Yes, sir,—when the promise is wrong.”
“Yes, that is a settled principle in morals, and one that commends
itself to every honest mind. If I promise to do what is wrong, I am
bound to break that promise. Now, apply this principle to your promise
to Dick. Do you think that was a promise that ought to have been kept?”
“I know it wasn’t, now, but I didn’t know then.”
“But I want you to banish from your mind all thoughts of the fire, and
what you have since learned about it. We will suppose that Dick’s story
was true. You meet him unexpectedly in the woods. You know that he is a
worthless fellow, a vagabond and a rascal. He pleads that he is in debt,
and unable to pay, and wants you to promise to tell no one that you saw
him. You know that if he is too poor to pay what he owes, it is because
he is too lazy to work. You know, moreover, that he is a man who would
be just as likely to tell you a lie as the truth. Now, was it right for
you to make such a promise to such a man?”
“No, sir.”
“And, after it was made, was it right to keep it, and shield such a
worthless fellow from the consequences of the life he is leading?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, why didn’t you find that out sooner?”
“I didn’t look at it in that light.”
“That confirms what I said at the beginning. You did not give the matter
much thought; if you had, you would have seen it in just this light,
even if the fire had never happened. But, what surprises me most of all
is, that, after you knew some villain had set Mr. Walker’s barn on fire,
and run off with his horse, you did not take the trouble to think over
this affair earnestly, and decide what it was your duty to do. You seem
to have let it slip from your mind, as soon as you could, without
knowing whether you were doing right or wrong. If you had done this
under somewhat different circumstances, it might have blasted your
character for life. Many an innocent man has found himself entangled in
the meshes of the law, by merely keeping a rogue’s secret.”
Clinton was much affected by his father’s plain dealing with him, and
attempted no further excuse. Whistler also felt badly about the affair,
and he could not help taking to himself a good share of the censure
bestowed upon his cousin. Mrs. Davenport, however, who had been a silent
listener to the conversation, was not wholly satisfied with the course
her husband had taken. She thought he had judged the boys with too much
severity, and she accordingly put in a plea in their behalf. Her
argument included pretty much all that could be said in mitigation of
their error; and if they had been on trial, and she had been their
lawyer, we may suppose that the heads of her “brief” would have been
something after this fashion:
(1.) Their youth and inexperience—not strange that a wicked and artful
man should mislead them—the young, by a beautiful law of our natures,
are more inclined to believe than to doubt what is told them; not
strange that so young persons should not go through a long process of
reasoning, as to the right and wrong of the matter.
(2.) Dick’s feigned lameness was well calculated to deceive them, and
allay all suspicion.
(3.) Their motive in keeping the secret was honorable—a regard for their
promises.
(4.) The hints thrown out by several people, that Mr. Walker’s
intemperate son, Tom, was suspected, may have had some influence on
their minds.
(5.) The excitement about Willie’s accident, the dialogues, etc., had
probably caused them to think less about the matter than they otherwise
would.
“Well,” said Mr. Davenport, after she had concluded her defence, “you
have made out something of a case; but, if my judgment was too severe, I
am inclined to think yours is too lenient. After all, perhaps the truth
lies about half way between us; so, Clinton, you can consider my
judgment as softened down a little; but,” he added, with a smile, “you
mustn’t think you are altogether so blameless as your mother makes you
out.”
“Mr. Walker will get his horse back again, won’t he?” inquired Willie.
“Yes; a man has a right to his own property, wherever he can find it,”
replied Mr. Davenport.
“I hope they will catch Dick, too,” said Clinton, “and then they won’t
have anything to blame me for. I should be willing to go to court, as a
witness against him, if they could only nab him.”
“I hope he will get his deserts,” said his father; “but, whether he does
or does not, you must let this unfortunate affair be a lesson to you in
the future; and beware how you listen to bad men, or make rash promises,
or keep a secret which you have reason to think ought to be revealed.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------