JACK IN TROUBLE.
Over a year had passed away since Jack's parents had left Longview for
the mountains, and the boy was just nine and a half; but he was no
longer the same happy little fellow as when we first knew him. Great
changes for the worse had taken place, and misfortunes had come thick
and fast upon him.
He lost his good Aunt Sue, for she died of heart disease ten months
after his parents' departure. How poor Jack missed her! His uncle
very soon afterward married again, and his new wife was a loud-voiced,
harsh woman, who treated Jack most unkindly.
Steve, too, his great friend, had gone away, as he had long threatened,
to be a cowboy, for he found the life at home unbearable without his
mother. Hal and Larry, who had not improved as they grew older, took
good care to keep away from the house, except for meals; and thus Jack,
as the youngest, had to bear the brunt of everything. He no longer
went to school, for his uncle's wife wanted him to wash floors, carry
water, and go endless errands for her. Every morning and evening he
had to look for Roanie, the cow, who was given to wandering off on the
prairie for long distances, searching for better pasture. When he had
driven her home he had to milk her, and if he chanced to be late
getting her in he was severely scolded, and oftentimes deprived of his
supper.
It was a hard life for the little lad, and many a night he sobbed
himself to sleep as he thought sadly of the happy days before his
parents left him.
There was another thought troubling him, and that was, _Why hadn't his
people sent for him, as they promised_? Was it possible that they had
forgotten him, or meant to leave him for years with Uncle Mat?
It was dreadful to think about, but there was no getting over the facts
of the case, and Jack knew right well that it was long past the time
they had said he should be away from them. Only one year! He
remembered it as if it were but yesterday, but not even a message had
come for him. He could not understand it, and his heart felt sad and
sore as he often crept away to escape his uncle's drunken wrath or the
wife's cruel blows.
One evening he could not find Roanie for nearly two hours, and when he
got home, tired and hungry, he found Mrs. Byrne in a bad temper. She
gave him a little dry bread for supper, and, anxious to get away from
her tongue, Jack stole off across the prairie for some way, where,
lying on the short, burnt-up grass, he gave vent to his misery, and
burying his head in his hands, had a good cry.
Suddenly he heard the sound of horse's hoofs approaching him, and a
great jingling of spurs, as someone dashed up close to him and stopped
abruptly. Jack looked up, and was surprised to see his cousin Steve,
looking very smart and happy.
'Hello, young un!' he cried, jumping off his horse. 'I thought it was
you, so I turned off the prairie road to see. What's the trouble?
You'll drown everyone in Longview if you cry so hard.'
Jack sat up and wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve. 'Oh, Steve!'
he exclaimed, 'I'm so unhappy. I'm glad you've come, for they're so
unkind to me, and I'm beginning to doubt as Father and Mother have
forgot me. They've never sent for me.'
'Don't fret, Jack,' said Steve; 'they haven't forgot you, never fear.
D'you know,' he went on slowly, 'I've found out as they sent for you
long ago, an' he'll not let you go.' Steve nodded towards his home.
'_He!_' repeated Jack in astonishment. 'Uncle Mat! Why, he hates me,
Steve, an' I guess he'd be only too glad to get rid o' me.'
'Not he!' returned Steve. 'You're better than a servant to that woman,
for she'd never get anyone to work as hard as you, an' she ain't
a-goin' to let you leave. I heard a tale from Long Jim Taylor, as
worked in the mine with Father, an' it's that as brought me home now.
Father was drunk one day, an' let out about a mean trick as he'd played
on your folks, an' you, too, for the matter o' that; an' though he
denied it afterwards, I'm sure it's true, an' I'll talk my mind to him
afore I'm done.'
Steve looked so furious, Jack felt almost frightened as he asked
timidly, 'What was it, Steve? Tell me what he has done.'
'Well, then, kid, listen!' said the cowboy. 'He never wrote to say
Mother was dead, but gave your folks to understand as it was _you_ as
was buried; said as how you'd had a bad fall an' died terrible sudden,
an' there was no time to get 'em over.'
Jack's eyes had grown rounder and larger with horrified surprise as he
listened to Steve's story.
'How wicked of him!' he cried. 'But, Steve, I wonder he wasn't afraid
o' their hearin' about it.'
'Aye, and so do I,' answered his cousin. 'I believe, however, he has
been meanin' to move to some other part o' the country an' take you.
Your folks are settled a long way off, an', thinkin' as you're dead,
they'll probably never come back here again, so he'd be pretty safe.'
'What shall I do, Steve?' asked Jack piteously. 'I'll ask Uncle Mat
about it this very night.'
'Don't make him angry,' returned the cowboy kindly; 'but tell him you
have heard what he's done, an' you are bound to go to your folks
somehow. I'll tell him what I think when I meet him in the street. I
ain't a-goin' near that house with that woman there, so if you want to
see me, come here to-morrow evening.'
'I will, Steve. Good-night.' And Jack darted away.
Jack felt very brave and determined when he left his cousin, but his
courage failed a little as he approached the house. The door was open,
and as he drew near he heard his uncle and his wife talking loudly, and
caught his own name.
'I'm not such a fool as to let Jack go back to them,' he heard his
uncle say, 'in spite o' what Jim Taylor wrote sayin' he'd told Steve,
an' the lad was so angry he was comin' over to make things right for
Jack. The boy's worth fifty cents a day to us, an'll make more afore
long; so the sooner we clear out o' here, an' make for a part o' the
country where we ain't known the better. I guess we needn't let Steve
into the secret o' our whereabouts, if we can get off afore he comes.'
Jack's pulses were beating fast as he listened to this speech. He
shook with indignation, and at last, unable to stand it any longer, he
rushed into the kitchen, exclaiming: 'Uncle Mat, I heard what you were
sayin', an' I must go to my folks. I thought as they'd forgot me, an'
now I know they haven't, but you've told 'em a lie.'
A look almost of fear crossed the man's face at first when Jack burst
in, but it was quickly replaced by a hard and cruel smile.
'Listenin', were you?' he said angrily, 'Well, listeners hear no good
o' themsel's, an' it's a mighty bad habit to give way to. Perhaps a
touch o' the whip will make you forget what wasn't meant for you to
hear.'
'Oh! don't beat me, please, Uncle Mat,' cried poor Jack.
But there was no mercy to be had this time, and when his punishment was
over, Jack, quite exhausted, made his way to his miserable bed, which
was in a shed adjoining the house. Through the thin wooden walls he
could hear the two Byrnes talking and planning to leave Longview as
soon as possible, and he felt sick with fright as he heard them arrange
to take him too.
'Oh dear! oh dear!' murmured the boy sadly. 'What will become o' me?
If Steve don't save me I don't know what they'll do to me. But I'm
glad I didn't say I'd seen him.'
In spite of his aching bones, Steve's assurance that his parents had
_not_ forgotten him, as he feared, was a great comfort to the lonely
little lad, and, thinking hopefully of his interview with Steve the
next day, he fell asleep and forgot his troubles.