A FRIEND IN NEED.
Our fellows all ate supper at our house that night, and a happier party
than that which sat at our table was never seen anywhere.
Mark was the hero of the evening, and after he had entertained us with a
glowing description of his adventure with the Indians, we related to him
the exciting and amusing incidents that had happened during our deer
hunt.
Duke, Herbert and Sandy started for home shortly after dark, and Mark
and I went up to headquarters and prepared to pass the evening with our
books. We intended to go back to school in the spring, and as we were
too ambitious to fall behind our classes, we made it a point to devote a
portion of each day to good hard study. I picked up my philosophy; while
Mark settled into a comfortable position in his easy-chair, thrust his
slippered feet out toward the fire, and soon became deeply interested in
a problem in quadratic equations.
The hours flew rapidly by, and it was nine o’clock almost before we knew
it. By that time Mark had found a problem that brought him to a
standstill, and resorting to his usual method of stimulating his ideas,
he picked up his guitar and cleared his throat preparatory to treating
me to his favorite song, “The Hunter’s Chorus,” which I had heard so
often that I was heartily tired of it.
Just then the hounds in the yard set up a loud baying. We heard the bars
rattle, and then came the clatter of horses’ hoofs and loud voices at
the door. Heavy steps sounded in the hall and ascended the stairs. A
moment afterward the door opened and Sandy Todd came in, his clothes all
splashed with mud, and his usually red face pale with excitement or
anger, we could not tell which.
“What’s up?” we asked, in concert.
“I reckon I might as well tell you to onct,” answered Sandy, “’cause you
never could guess it. Jerry Lamar is in jail.”
“In jail!” we echoed. “What for?”
“He is charged with stealin’ eight thousand dollars from General Mason,”
was the reply.
I must stop here long enough to tell you something about Jerry Lamar,
because he had considerable to do with the adventures that befell us
during the winter. He lived about six miles from our house, on the banks
of Black Bayou. His parents were poor, and Jerry and his father were
lumbermen. They cut logs in the swamp, made them into rafts, and when
the freshets came, floated them out to the river and down to New
Orleans, where they sold them.
The timber they cut was all on our plantation, and father had so much
confidence in their honesty that he never measured the rafts when they
came out, but accepted the money Mr. Lamar offered him without asking
any questions.
Jerry was one of the best boys I ever knew. Honest, good-natured and
accommodating, he was beloved by every body (except old General Mason,
who cared for no one but himself and his graceless nephew), and he would
have been one of our fellows if he could have found time to accompany us
on our expeditions; but he was too poor to own a horse or gun, and was
obliged to work steadily from one year’s end to another. He was
ambitious and tried hard to better his condition, but somehow he always
had bad luck.
General Mason (I do not know why people called him “General,” unless it
was because he had plenty of money, for he never held a military
commission in his life) was continually getting himself or somebody else
into trouble.
He had long shown a disposition to persecute Mr. Lamar, because the
latter refused to buy his timber in the swamps at double its value, and
Mark and I had no hesitation in affirming that he had brought this
charge against Jerry to be revenged on his father.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said I.
“Any one who knows Jerry Lamar would never suspect him of such a thing,”
chimed in Mark.
“I am sorry to say, fellers, that thar’s no mistake about it—that is, as
fur as his bein’ in jail is consarned, ’cause my father seed him when he
was goin’ in. He’s down stairs now, pap is, talkin’ to your folks about
goin’ Jerry’s bail.”
“Is there nothing we can do for him?” I asked.
“We can at least go down and see him, and assure him of our sympathy,”
said Mark.
“That’s jest what I thought,” replied Sandy. “I will ride over arter
Duke and Herbert, and by the time I get back you can be ready.”
Sandy lumbered off down stairs, and Mark and I pulled on our boots and
hurried after him. We stopped in the sitting-room for a few minutes to
hear what Mr. Todd had to say about it, and when we saw father preparing
to accompany him to town, we ran out to the barn to saddle our horses.
In about a quarter of an hour Sandy came back with Duke and Herbert, and
we all set out for Burton (that was the name of the village in which the
jail was situated), galloping along the road at break-neck speed, and
spattering the mud in every direction.
When he had gone about a mile and a half, we suddenly discovered a
horseman in the road in advance of us, whose actions we thought
indicated a desire to avoid us, for he turned off the road into the
bushes.
“That fellow, whoever he is, has been doing something mean,” said Duke,
jumping his horse across the ditch beside the road and riding toward the
place where the stranger was concealed. “An honest man wouldn’t sneak
off into the woods and hide that way. Hallo, there! Come out and show
yourself!”
“Is that you, boys?” asked a trembling voice in the bushes.
“Oh, it’s that Tom Mason!” said Mark, contemptuously. “What trick are
you up to now? You have been about some under-handed business, or you
wouldn’t be afraid of us.”
“I haven’t been up to any trick; I haven’t, honor bright,” declared Tom,
with more earnestness than we thought the occasion demanded. “I didn’t
know who it was coming down the road at that reckless pace. Where are
you going in such a hurry?”
“To town, to see Jerry,” replied Duke.
“You are! I wouldn’t go near him if I were you. He’s a thief!”
As Tom said this he came out into the road, and we saw that his face was
deathly pale, and that he was trembling all over, as if he had been
seized with an attack of the ague.
If we had known what Tom had passed through during the last few hours,
perhaps we should not have been so surprised at the sight. Had we been
in his situation, it is probable that we would have been frightened,
too.
Tom Mason was the nephew and ward of the richest man in that part of
Mississippi, and the most unpopular boy in the settlement. He was so
overbearing, and so dishonest and untruthful, that no one who had the
least respect for himself could associate with him.
He cordially hated our fellows, because we would not invite him to
accompany us on our hunting and fishing excursions, and never allowed an
opportunity to do us an injury to pass unimproved. I shall have more to
say about him presently.
“You fellows act as though you thought yourselves something grand,”
continued Tom, “and I supposed you were above associating with a thief.”
“Now, I’ll tell you what’s the truth,” said Sandy, shutting one eye and
wrinkling up his nose, as he always did when he was very much in
earnest, “Jerry ain’t no more of a thief than I be.”
“He is in jail, isn’t he?” demanded Tom. “That is enough to disgrace him
forever. Those who visit him and sympathize with him are no better than
he is.”
“Thar ain’t no disgrace whar thar ain’t no guilt,” replied Sandy, half
inclined to get angry. “An’ another thing, what’s the use of a fellow’s
havin’ friends if they go back on him the minute he gets into trouble?
Jerry will find that we’ll stick to him now same as we did afore. Now
I’ll tell you what’s the truth, Tom Mason: He don’t know no more about
them thar eight thousand dollars than you do.”
“Nor half as much,” said Mark, decidedly. “Fellows,” he added, as we
left Tom and went clattering down the road again, “if the general has
really lost any money, that boy knows where it is.”
We reached the village in a few minutes, and without any delay were
conducted to the cell in which Jerry was confined.
I shall never forget the thrill of horror that ran through me as the
heavy iron door clanged behind us, or the despairing, woe-begone
expression on the face of the prisoner. A few hours had made a great
change in that jolly, wide-awake boy. He sat on his narrow bed with his
face hidden in his hands, and when he looked up, I saw that his eyes
were red and swollen with weeping.
“I little thought I should ever come to this,” said Jerry, in a husky
voice; “and I never expected to see you here, either.”
“When a fellow is in trouble he wants friends, doesn’t he?” asked Duke.
“Have you had any examination yet?”
“I have been before the squire, if that is what you mean, and have been
sent here in default of bail—sixteen thousand dollars. The squire might
as well have said a million.”
“No, I reckon not,” said Sandy. “Mr. Coleman an’ Mr. Dickson an’ my
father can raise sixteen thousand dollars, I think, but it might bother
’em some to find a million. Now, I’ll tell you what’s the truth,
Jeremiah Lamar, did you steal them thar eight thousand from General
Mason?”
“No, I never saw the money.”
“How in the world did you manage to get into this miserable scrape?”
asked Duke.
Jerry wiped his eyes and settled back on his elbow, while we disposed of
ourselves in various attitudes about the cell and waited for him to
begin the story.