William Spencer stayed away from school that hot day, and “went
swimming”. The master wrote a note to William's father, and gave it to
William's brother Joe to carry home.
“You'll give that to your father to-night, Joseph.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill waited for Joe near the gap, and walked home with him.
“I s'pose you've got a note for father.”
“Yes,” said Joe.
“I s'pose you know what's in it?”
“Ye--yes. Oh, why did you stop away, Bill?”
“You don't mean to say that you're dirty mean enough to give it to
father? Hey?”
“I must, Will. I promised the master.”
“He needn't never know.”
“Oh, yes, he will. He's coming over to our place on Saturday, and he's
sure to ask me to-morrow.”
Pause.
“Look here, Joe!” said Bill, “I don't want to get a hiding and go
without supper to-night. I promised to go 'possuming with Johnny
Nowlett, and he's going to give me a fire out of his gun. You can come,
too. I don't want to cop out on it to-night--if I do I'll run away from
home again, so there.”
Bill walked on a bit in moody, Joe in troubled, silence.
Bill tried again: he threatened, argued, and pleaded, but Joe was firm.
“The master trusted me, Will,” he said.
“Joe,” said Bill at last, after a long pause, “I wouldn't do it to you.”
Joe was troubled.
“I wouldn't do it to you, Joe.”
Joe thought how Bill had stood up and fought for him only last week.
“I'd tear the note in bits; I'd tell a hundred lies; I'd take a dozen
hidings first, Joe--I would.”
Joe was greatly troubled. His chest heaved, and the tears came to his
eyes.
“I'd do more than that for you, Joe, and you know it.”
Joe knew it. They were crossing the old goldfield now. There was a shaft
close to the path; it had fallen in, funnel-shaped, at the top, but was
still thirty or forty feet deep; some old logs were jammed across about
five feet down. Joe suddenly snatched the note from his pocket and threw
it in. It fluttered to the other side and rested on a piece of the old
timber. Bill saw it, but said nothing, and, seeing their father coming
home from work, they hurried on.
Joe was deep in trouble now. Bill tried to comfort and cheer him, but it
was no use. Bill promised never to run away from home any more, to go
to school every day, and never to fight, or steal, or tell lies. But Joe
had betrayed his trust for the first time in his life, and wouldn't be
comforted.
Some time in the night Bill woke, and found Joe sitting up in bed
crying.
“Why, what's the matter, Joe?”
“I never done a mean thing like that before,” sobbed Joe. “I wished I'd
chucked meself down the shaft instead. The master trusted me, Will; an'
now, if he asks me to-morrow, I'll have to tell a lie.”
“Then tell the truth, Joe, an' take the hidin'; it'll soon be over--just
a couple of cuts with the cane and it'll be all over.”
“Oh, no, it won't. He won't never trust me any more. I've never been
caned in that school yet, Will, and if I am I'll never go again. Oh! why
will you run away from home, Will, and play the wag, and steal, and
get us all into such trouble? You don't know how mother takes on about
it--you don't know how it hurts father! I've deceived the master, and
mother and father to-day, just because you're so--so selfish,” and he
laid down and cried himself to sleep.
Bill lay awake and thought till daylight; then he got up quietly, put on
his clothes, and stole away from the house and across the flat, followed
by the dog, who thought it was a 'possum-hunting expedition. Bill wished
the dog would not be quite so demonstrative, at least until they got
away from the house. He went straight to the shaft, let himself down
carefully on to one of the old logs, and stooped to pick up the note,
gleaming white in the sickly summer daylight. Then the rotten timber
gave way suddenly, without a moment's warning.
. . . . .
They found him that morning at about nine o'clock. The dog attracted
the attention of an old fossicker passing to his work. The letter was
gripped in Bill's right hand when they brought him up. They took him
home, and the father went for a doctor. Bill came to himself a little
just before the last, and said: “Mother! I wasn't running away,
mother--tell father that--I--I wanted to try and catch a 'possum on the
ground.... Where's Joe? I want Joe. Go out, mother, a minute, and send
Joe.”
“Here I am, Bill,” said Joe, in a choking, terrified voice.
“Has the master been yet?”
“No.”
“Bend down, Joe. I went for the note, and the logs gave way. I meant to
be back before they was up. I dropped it down inside the bed; you watch
your chance and get it; and say you forgot it last night--say you
didn't like to give it--that won't be a lie. Tell the master I'm--I'm
sorry--tell the master never to send no notes no more--except by
girls--that's all.... Mother! Take the blankets off me--I'm dyin'.”