JERRY AND OSCAR.
After Clinton had finished his duck-house, he noticed that the water
was getting quite low in the brook. It was the month of August, and the
season had been very hot and dry, so that the springs in the hills,
which fed the brook, had almost given out. While he was thinking what
his ducks would do for water if the brook should dry entirely up, it
occurred to him that he might make a little pond, to be filled from the
brook, which would afford a good place for his ducks to swim, and might
also prolong the supply of water. Having obtained his father’s consent,
he set about the job at once. He was busily at work, digging out the
peat or mud for this pond, one warm afternoon, when he happened to look
up and saw two boys by the side of him. As their eyes met, one of them
exclaimed,—
“An’ faith, Patrick, what are ye after doin’ now? Is it for goold ye
are diggin’, sure? or are ye goin’ to make a river of the brook? Why
don’t ye spake, ye bogtrotter, hey?”
Clinton laughed at this rough salutation, but perhaps he felt that
there was a slight tinge of unkindness in the joke, as he turned his
eye from the neat dress of the speaker, to his own heavy boots loaded
with mud, and his coarse and well-worn pantaloons, the bottoms of which
were tucked into his boots.
“But you do look just like a Paddy, Clin, I’ll leave it to Jerry if you
don’t,” continued the speaker, who was a cousin of Jerry Preston’s, and
was named Oscar.
Jerry agreed that it was so. “But,” he continued, “what are you trying
to make, Clin? I should really like to know.”
“Wait a few days and you will see,” replied Clinton.
“The same old story,” said Oscar, “‘wait and you’ll see;’ you needn’t
think you can get anything more than that out of him, Jerry.”
“I guess he has taken a contract to dig a cellar for somebody,”
continued Jerry. “See him put in!” he added, as Clinton resumed his
work.
“And I guess,” said Oscar, “that he isn’t making anything in
particular, but is only digging for amusement. What capital fun it must
be to dig mud this warm day!”
Clinton made no reply to their bantering, but kept on digging. After a
minute’s pause, Jerry resumed the conversation by saying,—
“Clin, you are the queerest fellow I ever saw.”
“How so?” inquired Clinton.
“Why, I never come over here but I find you hard at work about
something or other. You must love to work better than I do.”
“Yes, and _such_ work, too,” chimed in Oscar; “you’re making a complete
clodhopper of yourself. You’ll be an old man before you are a young
one, if you don’t mind. Why doesn’t your father make his men do this
hard drudgery, instead of putting it upon you?”
“My father doesn’t make me do this work,” replied Clinton, with some
spirit; “I’m doing it for myself, and of my own accord.”
“I suppose your father doesn’t make you work at all,” said Oscar, with
a sneer in his look and voice, which Clinton could not fail to observe.
“Yes, he does require me to work,” replied Clinton, “but no more than I
ought to. I have plenty of time for play, besides having a little left
for study, too, which is more than some boys, that I know, can say.”
“Yes,” resumed Oscar, “when you aint hard at work, digging like an
Irishman, your father makes you sit down in the house, and mope over
your books. I’m glad I havn’t got such a father to stand over me; aint
you, Jerry?”
“I am so,” replied Jerry. “I don’t believe in making slaves of boys.
It is time enough to go to work when we get to be men. I mean to enjoy
myself while I am young, if I don’t any other time. But come, Oscar,
we’ve stopped here long enough,—let’s be going.”
“Well, I’m ready,” said Oscar, and they began to start. Clinton, seeing
that they were not directing their steps homeward, inquired where they
were going.
“Over to the pond,” replied Jerry, “to have a swim. Come, wont you go
too, Clinton?” he added.
“Yes, come with us, Clin,” said Oscar; “we shall have a first-rate
time; and as you say you can play as much as you please, there’s
nothing to prevent your going.”
Clinton did want to go with them, but his parents and Annie had gone
away that afternoon, leaving the house in his charge, and he thought
it would not be right to leave the premises. It was true, he was not
expressly told not to go off; but Clinton knew his father expected him
to remain about the house until their return, as he had left a message
to be delivered to Mr. Hardy, the blacksmith, who was to call at Mr.
Davenport’s that afternoon. So, after a moment’s hesitation, Clinton
answered,—
“I should like to go, but I don’t see how I can to-day.”
“Why not?” both Oscar and Jerry inquired, at the same instant.
Clinton did not like to tell them his reason, for fear they would laugh
him out of it. He could not bear to be ridiculed, and these boys knew
it; for whenever they wished to persuade him to do anything he was
not inclined to do, they generally resorted to this weapon to effect
their object. Accordingly, they began to try its virtues in the present
case. They asked him if he was afraid to go out of sight of the house
without his father’s leave, and how long he expected to be tied to his
mother’s apron-strings. They had proceeded in this strain but a few
moments, when Clinton’s’ resolution began to give out. He at first
warmly denied that he was afraid to go; and a moment after, as if to
convince them that it was not fear that kept him at home, he threw down
his shovel, and exclaimed,—
“I don’t care,—I believe I will go, too.”
So, exchanging his thick boots for a light pair of shoes, he started
for the pond with the other boys. It was not a very long walk,—taking
the shortest path through the fields,—and they were soon tumbling and
plunging about in the cool water, in high glee. Judging from their
shouts of laughter, and the merry splashing they made in the calm lake,
you would have supposed they were a happy set of boys. But Clinton, at
least, was not quite so happy as he seemed. Something in his breast
told him that he had done wrong in yielding to the solicitations of
his comrades. The louder he laughed, the more plainly did he hear
the voice within, saying, “Ah! Clinton, you have made a false step;
you have yielded to a foolish temptation; you have disobeyed your
father; you have betrayed his confidence,—and all for a few moments’
gratification.” He tried to drive these unpleasant thoughts from his
mind, but they would not leave him. He was careful, however, not to let
his companions see any traces of his uneasiness.
When they had been in the water nearly an hour, Clinton proposed
returning home; but neither Oscar nor Jerry seemed inclined to do so.
After waiting a little longer, Clinton concluded to go home alone, and
proceeded to dry and dress himself. The other boys were so absorbed in
their sport, that they scarcely noticed what he was doing.
Just as Clinton was about to start for home, Oscar took it into his
head to have a sail on the lake. There was a sail-boat anchored a
little way from the shore, near where they were bathing, which belonged
to Squire Walcott. Oscar proposed to take possession of this boat,
and Jerry readily fell in with his plan. The water where the boat lay
was so shallow they could wade out to it; so they proceeded to dress
themselves, preparatory to their excursion. Clinton knew that the
Squire was very obliging, and was always willing to lend his boat to
any one who knew how to manage it; and he was sorry that the boys were
going to take it without leave. Indeed, he even remonstrated with them
about it. But the only reply he got, was this from Oscar:—
“Who cares for old Walcott? Besides, he needn’t know anything about it,
unless you go and tell him. You may go home, if you choose, but I’m
bound to have a sail.”
Clinton got home before his parents returned; and, fortunately for him,
Mr. Hardy came along soon after, and the message was delivered, so that
this burden was removed from his conscience. He did not, however, feel
exactly right in his mind; for though no harm had resulted from his
absence, he had been guilty of something like a breach of trust, and
his conscience continued to reprove him.
[Illustration: The boat aground]
Jerry and Oscar amused themselves on the pond, for an hour longer; but
though both of them attempted to act the skipper, neither knew much
about managing a boat, and the result was, they run themselves aground,
at a place where the bottom was soft mud, and were unable to get
afloat again. It was half a mile from their starting place, and they
did not know how they should get the boat back to its anchoring ground.
They got into the water, and tried to push it off, but it refused to
go. At length, wearied with their exertions, and with their clothes wet
and dirty, they concluded to wade ashore, and leave the stolen boat to
take care of itself. In going home, they avoided the road, as much as
possible, and skulked through the woods, lest they should be seen; but
after they had reached their home, and considered themselves beyond
the danger of discovery, they began to treat the affair as a joke, and
laughed to think how mad “old Walcott” would be, when he found his
boat aground, half a mile from the place where it belonged. They did
not seem to realize that they had acted meanly and wickedly, in taking
possession without leave, of Squire Walcott’s boat, and in leaving it
aground, without informing him of its whereabouts. If they could escape
detection, it mattered little to them whether their conduct had been
right or wrong.
These two boys were unlike Clinton, in many respects. Jerry,—or,
to give, him his full name, Jeremiah Preston,—lived in the nearest
farm-house to Mr. Davenport’s.[1] There was more than half a mile’s
distance between the two families; but as there were no nearer
neighbors, they were on pretty intimate terms. Jerry was but a few
months older than Clinton, and the two boys had been playmates almost
from the cradle. Mr. Preston was engaged in the logging and lumbering
business, which required him to be away from home, in the forests,
a large portion of the year. As Jerry’s mother did not succeed very
well in governing her household, the long and frequent absences of Mr.
Preston from his family were unfortunate for the children, especially
for Jerry, who was the eldest child, and the only son. During the few
months of each year the father spent at home, he was more inclined to
humor his children, than to train them to obedience. Sometimes, it is
true, in a moment of passion, he would punish Jerry severely, for some
offence; but at another time, he would entirely overlook a much more
serious fault. Under the influence of this bad training, it is not
strange that Jerry was getting to be an ungovernable and mischievous
boy.
Oscar Preston was a cousin to Jerry, who had recently come from Boston,
to spend a few months in Brookdale. He was about a year older than
Jerry, in age, but was several years his senior in bad habits. He had
in fact become almost unmanageable at home, and it was on this account,
as well as to get him away from the evil influences of the city, that
his father sent him into the country. He had never been taught to
labor, and as he now had nothing to do, and there was no school to
attend, and no one to restrain him, he did not seem to grow much better
by his banishment from home. It is said that idleness is the mother of
mischief, and Oscar furnished daily proof of the truth of the saying.
His adventure with the boat is but a specimen of the way in which he
amused himself.
The influence of Oscar Preston upon the other boys in the village, and
especially upon Jerry, from whom he was seldom separated, soon became
very perceptible. He had seen more of the world than they, and never
wearied of telling of the wonders of the city, often exaggerating his
stories, to make them the more marvellous. In addition to this, he
was naturally bright and intelligent, and was more genteelly dressed
than the village boys; but the qualities that contributed most to
his influence over his associates, were his daring spirit, and his
imperious, commanding bearing, which seemed to mark him for a leader.
But he had been permitted to have his own way so long at home, that
he had become headstrong and unmanageable; and his evil passions were
daily growing stronger, while the voice of conscience within him was
as rapidly becoming weaker. It is sad, indeed, to see a youth growing
up in this manner, for he is like the sailor who should go to sea in
a frail boat, without anchor, rudder, or compass. He may be delivered
from early destruction, through the mercy of Providence, but he will
not escape many struggles and losses.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See the map on page 14. Clinton’s home is numbered 1, and Jerry’s
2. The building numbered 3 is the school-house.