THE JOURNEY.
Jerry had planned his flight with considerable care and skill, for a
boy of his age; and before the time came for him to take the first
step, he had laid out the course he intended to pursue. Dressed in his
best suit, with his bundle of clean clothes under his arm, and with
the ill-gotten thirty dollars stowed away in the lower corner of his
vest pocket, he started on his journey into the great unknown world.
He walked for many a weary mile, over a road covered with snow that
had recently fallen; but the sun shone pleasantly, and the weather was
not so cold but that he sweat very freely from his exercise. It was
not until after sunset that he reached the tavern where he proposed
to spend the night. This tavern was a large wooden building, somewhat
dingy with age, and bore upon its front a faded, weather-beaten sign,
on which was inscribed the name of its proprietor. Some time before
Jerry reached the building, he could see the bright, cheerful light of
the fire shining through the windows, and flickering and flashing over
the wide, level field of snow which separated him from its comfortable
shelter. Quickening his steps, he was soon at the door, and without
stopping to knock, he entered the room from which he had seen the light.
It was a large room, with sanded floor, and the walls were covered
with dingy maps, pictures, stage and railroad bills, advertisements
of public houses in other places, and various other things. There was
a large, open fire-place on one side, and a heap of glowing coals and
blazing logs gave the room a very comfortable and attractive aspect.
Several men were seated around the fire, in chairs, which supported
themselves on their back legs, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Two
or three of the company were smoking cigars, the fumes of which filled
the room almost to suffocation. As Jerry entered, the men all seemed to
look at him pretty sharply, and as he laid down his bundle, and drew a
chair up to the fire, one of them said,
“Well, young man, what can we do for you?”
“I want to stay here to-night,” replied Jerry, “and I should like some
supper too, if it isn’t too late.”
“How far have you come to-day?” inquired the man.
“I don’t know,” answered Jerry; “I should think it was about eighteen
miles.”
“Running away from home, eh?” continued the inquirer.
“No, I’m not running away, but my mother has sent me to Boston, to get
work.” And Jerry could utter this falsehood with so honest a look and
so smooth a tongue, as to deceive all who heard him!
“What is your name?” continued his inquisitive host—for it was the
keeper of the tavern that put these questions.
“Jeremiah Preston.”
“And where did you say you belong?”
“In Brookdale.”
“And are you going to take the stage to-morrow morning for Boston?”
“Yes, sir.”
The tavern-keeper made several other inquiries, which were answered to
his satisfaction. He then left the room, and presently returned and
told Jerry that his supper was ready. Following his host, Jerry entered
a long room, in the middle of which stood a table, running nearly the
whole length. At one end of this table were spread the dishes and
victuals for Jerry’s supper, the rest of the household having been to
tea. There were warm biscuits and butter, rich milk, and smoking tea,
nice-looking cheese, and red, juicy applesauce,—besides a plate of
tempting cakes, and pies of two kinds. A lady poured out a cup of tea,
and then left him to help himself to the eatables. His long walk had
given him a sharp appetite, and he availed himself of this privilege
very freely. It seemed to him that he never sat down to so good a
supper before. He ate until he began to feel ashamed of himself, and
then left off, not because he had had enough, but because he was afraid
to eat more.
The demands of hunger satisfied, Jerry began to realize how tired he
was. He accordingly asked the landlord to show him the way to his
bed-room, which the latter did. Before leaving him for the night, the
landlord told Jerry that the stage started at five o’clock in the
morning, and that he would call him in season for it. Jerry then went
to bed, and was soon lost in sound sleep, from which he did not awake
till a loud and long-continued rapping on his door, and the repeated
cry of “stage ready!” at length elicited from him the response, “I
hear.” Scarcely knowing where he was, or what all the disturbance
was about, he leaped out of bed, and was soon dressed, and ready to
resume his journey. His tavern bill was fifty cents, which he paid,
and without stopping for breakfast, he took his seat in the stage
that stood waiting at the door. It was quite dark, and the snow was
falling fast, a driving wind piling it up in drifts. The stage, as it
was called, was a large covered sleigh, with three long seats inside.
Having fastened down the woollen curtains to keep out the snow, the
driver mounted his seat, gave the word to the horses, and away they
started.
For a large portion of the way, Jerry was the only passenger. Now and
then he could hear the crack of the whip above the noise of the storm,
and the sound of the horses’ bells, deadened by the snow and wet, was
just audible. He could see nothing, for it was not yet daylight, and
besides, he was a close prisoner. He could not even tell which way the
vehicle was going. Sometimes he thought it went sideways, and then
again it would seem to be going backwards. Sometimes, with a jerk and a
bounce he would be almost thrown from his seat,—and at other times, it
would seem as if it were impossible to escape upsetting. For a while,
he was much amused with his situation, but at length he began to grow
tired of the continual thumping and jolting, and longed to see the end
of the journey. Several more passengers were picked up, as they passed
through other villages, which, with the appearance of daylight, served
to enliven somewhat the remainder of the way. But Jerry was not sorry
when the driver reined up the horses in front of one of the hotels in
Waterville. Hungry and benumbed with cold, he entered the public house,
and spoke for breakfast, which was furnished very soon, as passengers
were expected by the stage. For this he paid twenty-five cents. It was
a very good breakfast, and well worth the money; but he could not help
thinking how many meals, quite as good as this, he had eaten at home,
without paying anything for them. He began to feel the difference
between living at home and living abroad.
After breakfast, Jerry ascertained that he had about two hours to
spare, before the cars started, which he thought he would spend in
looking about. Waterville seemed to him to be quite a large and
bustling place. The houses were numerous, and many of them were very
elegant. There were also plenty of stores and work-shops, and quite a
number of churches. The Kennebec river, on one bank of which the town
is built, was frozen over, and the saw-mills were not in operation.
He went on to the covered bridge, which crosses the Kennebec, where
he obtained a good view of the river, the mills, and a portion of the
town. On a hill, a short distance from the centre of the town, he saw
three large brick buildings, one of which had a cupola. On inquiring of
a boy what they were, he was told they were “the colleges.”
Jerry now directed his steps to the railroad depot, where he found
preparations making for the train of which he was to be a passenger.
After examining the locomotive, cars, depot, switches, turn-tables,
signals, etc., all of which possessed the charm of novelty to him, he
seated himself in the train. Soon the signal was given for starting;
the engine commenced its at first slow but gradually quickening puffs;
the bell rang to warn people of the approach of the train, and in a few
minutes they were under full headway. Jerry had travelled by railroad
once or twice before, but the novelty of the thing had not worn off,
and he watched the movements of the train, and the snow-covered country
through which they passed, with a good-deal of interest. On they flew,
over hills and valleys, through forests and villages, over rivers and
under roads. The storm had ceased, and the snow on the track was not
sufficient to impede their progress. Occasionally they stopped to take
up or drop a passenger, or to replenish the engine with water and fuel.
The ride, however was a long one,—eighty-two miles,—and it was three
hours and a half before they reached Portland. After a while Jerry grew
tired of looking at strange scenes, and then his thoughts wandered back
to the home he had left. How he wished he could look in unperceived,
for a moment, and see what his mother was doing! Was she sorry or
angry, that he had run away? Would she try to get him back again? What
would the neighbors say about his disappearance? And then he wondered
how his sisters felt about losing their brother. Little Mary, the
youngest, he thought would be sad, for she seemed to love him better
than the others did,—perhaps, because her affectionate disposition and
tender age did not allow him to treat her so rudely as he did Emily and
Harriet. He wished that he had bidden her good-by, for really, he was
just learning that he felt something like affection towards her. Such
were the thoughts that were passing through his mind, when the train
stopped at the depot in Portland.
Jerry had bought a through-ticket for Boston, and was obliged to
continue his journey without stopping in Portland. He did not have
time even to eat dinner, but bought some cakes and a glass of milk at
a refreshment room in the depot, and then seated himself in another
train bound for Boston. Nothing occurred, worthy of notice, during
the trip. It grew dark before the train had proceeded a third of its
distance, and the lamps in the cars were lighted. Of course nothing
could be seen, outside, save the lights in the villages through which
they passed. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening when the train
entered a large building, lighted by gas lanterns, and the passengers
made a general movement towards the car-doors. Jerry followed the
others, and soon found, as he had already suspected, that he was in
Boston. The locomotive was not to be seen, having been switched off
upon another track before the cars entered the depot; and the baggage
car, which followed immediately after the engine and tender, was now
unhitched from the cars, and some men were pushing it forward to the
farther end of the depot. Here there was a raised platform, where the
baggage could be delivered, and which was fenced round, so that no
person could get at the car to help themselves. The passengers soon
began to crowd around in search of their baggage, which was passed out
as fast as possible by men in the car. Each trunk, valise, box, etc.,
had a number affixed to it, on a little brass tag, or check; and as
each passenger had received a check with a number corresponding to
that on his trunk, the baggage-master had no difficulty in telling to
whom each article belonged. These checks were given to the passengers
when their baggage was received at the depot in Portland, and on
surrendering them in the Boston depot, they were sure of receiving
back their own baggage. As Jerry’s bundle was small, he did not have it
put among the baggage, but took it with him into the cars.
A large number of men, with silver numbers on their hats, were moving
about among the passengers, accosting almost everybody that they met
with the words, “Cab, sir?” “Hack, madam?” “Ride up, sir?” etc. On
going to the door, Jerry saw that there were a great many coaches and
cabs arranged along the side-walk, waiting for the passengers. He was
surprised to find that all these vehicles were on wheels, and that
the streets were quite destitute of snow. He had not seen bare ground
before for several months; for in Brookdale the snow often falls in the
latter part of November, and does not disappear till late in March.
Boston being farther south and nearer the sea-coast, the snow does not
accumulate in such quantities, nor remain so long upon the ground, as
it does in that part of Maine where Jerry belonged.
[Illustration: Haymarket Square]
Jerry now thought it was time to hunt up quarters for the night. He
was wholly unacquainted with the streets, but he knew there were a
great many public houses in the city; and he supposed he should not
have to go far, in any direction, to find one. On leaving the depot,
he found himself in a large, open square, surrounded on all sides by
tall buildings. In the centre of the square, was a circular enclosure,
surrounded by an iron fence and a brick side-walk; and in the centre of
that was a tall, iron post supporting a gas-lamp. This was Haymarket
Square. Eight different streets lead out of it, in various directions,
and it was some time before Jerry could decide which to take. He, at
length, chose one and started on his way, not knowing whither it
would lead him. He had not gone far before he saw a building, which he
thought might be a hotel, and on inquiring of the driver of a carriage
which was standing before the door, he was told that it was a public
house. He accordingly ascended the steps, and entered the room which
had the word, “Office,” painted over the door. Several men were seated
around a very large stove, reading; and another was sitting at a desk,
behind a counter that extended across one end of the room. Going up to
the latter, Jerry said:—
“Can I stay here to-night, sir?”
The man addressed,—who was the clerk of the hotel,—eyed the stranger
somewhat sharply for a moment, and then inquired:—
“Where are you from?”
“Brookdale,” replied Jerry.
“Brookdale,—I never heard of that place; where is it?”
“It is in Maine,” answered Jerry, who was rather surprised that the man
should ask such a question.
“Come from there to-day?” continued the clerk.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what are you going to do in Boston?”
“I’m going to sea.”
“Have you got any baggage?”
“Nothing but this,” replied Jerry, holding up his bundle.
“We don’t like to take strangers, who haven’t any baggage,” continued
the man; “they sometimes step out very suddenly, without settling their
bills.”
“If you are afraid to trust me, I can pay you in advance,” replied
Jerry, who began to fear he should have to seek further for lodgings.
“O, never mind that,” said the clerk; “you look honest enough; and as
you’re fresh from the country, I aint afraid to trust you. Put your
name in that book,” he continued, handing Jerry a pen, and placing a
large book on the counter.
This book was the register of the house, and each guest who stopped
there recorded in it his name and place of residence. Jerry wrote his
name as well as he could,—which is not saying a great deal,—and then
inquired if he could not have something to eat. The clerk replied
in the affirmative; and, in a little while, Jerry was summoned into
another room, where he found a good supper provided, of which he ate
with a keen relish after his long fast. Having finished his meal, he
told the clerk he was tired, and should like to go to bed. The latter
gave a pull at a cord and tassel, which rang a bell in another part of
the house. A servant quickly answered the summons, and was directed
to show Jerry to No. 69. Following the servant, Jerry passed through
several narrow entries, and ascended four long flights of stairs, and
turned more corners than he could remember, before he reached his
sleeping-room. It was a small room, and had but a few plain articles
of furniture. Jerry was too tired, however, to give much attention to
these things. He was soon in bed, and sleeping as soundly as though
under his father’s roof.