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A BLUNDERING BOY.
A Humorous Story.
by
BRUCE W. MUNRO.
Published by
Bruce W. Munro,
Toronto.
Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven, by Bruce W. Munro,
in the office of the Minister of Agriculture.
TO THAT SUPREME AUTOCRAT,
THE SMALL BOY OF NORTH AMERICA,
THIS BOOK IS, WITHOUT PERMISSION, MOST
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
Preface XI.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. The Story Opened 17
II. Will’s Lucky Blunder 23
III. Will’s Native Village 33
IV. The Heroes of this History 39
V. An Unpleasant Ride for Will 44
VI. Steve’s Retaliation 54
VII. The Young Moralist.--A Clever Scheme 66
VIII. George Comes Out Ahead 75
IX. “Three Wise Men Went to Sea in a Bowl.” 88
X. The “Bowl” Comes to Grief 96
XI. A Talented Lecturer 106
XII. An Extraordinary Mad Dog 112
XIII. The Six go to a Picnic 126
XIV. Disaster Rather Than Fun 137
XV. A Lesson in Ballooning 149
XVI. Unheard-of Adventures with Balloons 156
XVII. They Prepare to “Giantize” 163
XVIII. The Cousins See More Than They Bargained for 169
XIX. Within and Without the Demon’s Cave 178
XX. A Glorious Triumph 186
XXI. Uncle Dick Himself Again 197
XXII. Uncle Dick Evolves His Story 204
XXIII. The Sage’s Experiment 212
XXIV. The Sage Unearths a Treasure 220
XXV. The Bitten Boy Takes Revenge 229
XXVI. Bob’s Downfall 240
XXVII. They Propose to Turn the Tables 245
XXVIII. The Tables Turned with a Vengeance 251
XXIX. A Horrible Plot.--The Haunted House 260
XXX. The Blunderer at Work Again 271
XXXI. Will Mends His Ways 276
XXXII. The Arch-Plotter Arrives 282
XXXIII. “A Lesson in French” 287
XXXIV. Henry Takes His Bearings.--A Stampede 298
XXXV. Marmaduke Grasps the Situation 307
XXXVI. To the Rescue! 319
XXXVII. Marmaduke Struggles with Romance 325
XXXVIII. The Startlers Themselves are Startled 335
XXXIX. Repentant Plotters.--The Heroes Re-united 342
XL. The Heroes Figure as Hunters 348
XLI. How Will Lost His Deer 355
XLII. What Curiosity Cost the Hunters 362
XLIII. Things Begin to Get Interesting 370
XLIV. Is the Mystery Solved? 377
XLV. The Last Blunder.--A Last Conversation 382
XLVI. The Story Closed 390
PREFACE.
Silly as this story may seem, there is a fixed purpose in writing it;
and, like water in a goose-pond, it is deeper than it at first appears.
The intention chiefly is to be absurd; to cast ridicule on certain
pedants and romancers; and to jeer at the ridiculous solemnity, mystery,
and villainy, that hedge in works of fiction. Disgusted with tales which
cause exceedingly good heroes and heroines to live a life of torture,
only to find a haven of peace and security in the last line of the last
chapter, the writer determined to go over the old ground in a different
way. Now that the story is written, however, he has a horrible suspicion
that in some measure he has totally failed in his design, and that more
often than he cares to own, he has overshot the mark.
Having endeavored to make the intention tolerably clear, the reader may
now be able to get more enjoyment from this tale.
The tale aims to attack so-called “vagaries,” as well as great and
contemptible follies. It attacks the frailties of the school-boy with
as much gusto as it attacks the foibles of the romancer. In fact, from
first to last, in almost every chapter, the writer rushes gallantly
to attack something. Not satisfied with attempting to ridicule other
people’s tales, he often indirectly, but not the less insultingly,
attacks this one, as the careful reader will doubtless observe. This was
begun in jest, perhaps; but it soon became a fixed purpose, carried out
in earnest. Even a boy can generally see the drift of our narrative; but
it is often hard for the writer himself to see its true meaning--harder
still to appreciate it. Nevertheless, there is a good deal to be seen in
the story; and doubtless there are some who will see more in it than was
designed to be put there.
Again, the story is not written to instruct studious and solemn boys, who
mope about the house with grave biographies and heavy ancient histories
in their hands, while without, the sun is shining bright, birds are
warbling their extempore melodies in the fruit-trees, squirrels are
frisking across the garden-walks, and all Nature is smiling. Such people
are not _boys_; they are but figure-heads in creation, who, though they
may, perhaps, find a place in so-called “literature,” will never find one
in the history of nations. This story does not inform those who crave for
knowledge, and yet more knowledge, that the elephant is a pachydermatous
native of Asia and Africa, nor that the monkey is a quadrumanous animal,
with prehensile tail, whose habitat is in tropical regions. Still, the
attentive reader will, in all probability, gather from it that an ass
brays, that a punt leaks, that a school-boy’s pets are mortal, and that
gunpowder is liable to explode when fire is applied to it. It is not
written as a guide and instructor to youth. Its heroes are deplorably
depraved; they love to plot mischief. Yet a boy may possibly learn
something from our work. He may learn that the boy who plays practical
jokes on his school-fellows generally “gets the worst of it,” that he
often suffers more than the intended victim. He may learn, also, that a
boy’s wickedness brings its own punishment. (The writer takes great pains
to correct the culprits--in fact, he never fails to do so after each
offence.) Of course every boy has learned all this before; probably, in
every book he ever read; but as it is a fundamental principle in romance
to enforce this doctrine, it is here enforced.
Many a writer wishes to make assertions for which he does not always
choose to be responsible. In such cases, he puts the assertion into the
mouth of one of his characters, an “honorable gentleman” fathering it
sometimes, a “consummate villain” at other times. In some instances we
have followed this example.
The writer here modestly lays claim to a rare, an almost antiquated
virtue: though he excels in Wegotism, he never calls himself an author!
Yet if he were writing an elementary grammar, he might indulge in such
expressions as “The author here begs to differ from Mr. Murray;” or,
“The author’s list of adjectives may be increased by the teacher, _ad
libitum_.” But this story is intended for youths of a reasoning age. In
writing for juveniles of tender years, it is well to weigh carefully
one’s expressions, and to use only choice and elegant expletives.
Understand, gentle reader, that man only is attacked in this story.
Though the fair sex are occasionally and incidentally introduced, the
writer has too much respect for them to go beyond the introduction, in
this book. Even when Henry personates “Sauterelle” the motive is good.
Understand all this, and read accordingly.
The moral of this story is intended to be good; but in a story of its
light and fickle nature, the less said about a moral the better.
The writer has great affection for boys; he respects them, and loves to
see them enjoy themselves, but he is not prepared to say that he fully
understands them. A BOY is a credit to a neighborhood--till he hangs
a battle-scarred cat to the chief citizen’s flag-staff, or destroys
a mill-dam by tunnelling a hole through it, when, of course, he is a
disgrace to the race. Though it is uncertain who is the hero of this
story, Steve and Henry are the favorites. Steve is more or less a _boy_;
but as the story advances the reader will perceive that he improves in
both wit and wisdom. George is one of the boys who “love books;” but he
tempered common sense with study, and never refused to join with his
companions in their frolics or “expeditions.” With little or no benefit
to himself, or, for that matter, to anybody else, George, like most
studious youths of his age, read books entirely beyond his comprehension.
In one hundred pages of scientific reading, he probably understood
and retained one fact; the other facts were either misunderstood or
forgotten, or might better have been. Years ago, when the writer used
to wear out his pockets with bulky jack-knives, and quarrel with other
youngsters about the sagacity of his own dog, he knew a boy who, like
Jim, was subject to “the chills.” But the writer was probably too young
at that time to have an insight into another’s character, and the only
affinity between that boy and Jim is that both were a prey to “the
chills.” It may be objected that it is strange that Charles should be
able to work on the other boys’ feelings so well. Very true; so it is.
Still, he could not have slain a robber-knight, nor outwitted an Indian
scout. Henry is not one of the original heroes, but as he is necessary to
the story he is introduced.
The writer, disgusted with books in which the heroes are treated with
much respect, endeavours to heap every indignity upon these foolish boys.
In a word, he has no apparent respect for any one, big or little, old or
young, in this volume. To go still further, he has no respect for himself.
In the case of the blue-eyed heroine and each boy’s mother, however,
there is an exception, and exceptions prove the rule.
As for Mr. Lawrence’s “mystery,” it does not amount to much, though it
is intended, like everything else, to serve a purpose. Look at it as it
appears, and in ten minutes a bill-sticker could hatch a better plot.
Look at it as it appears, and it is idiotic, yet perfectly harmless; look
at it in its figurative meaning, and, though it is not so good as was
intended, it yet--but we are too discreet to say more on this head.
The writer respectfully observes that his maniac is not drawn from
nature, but from romance. He never informed himself of the habits of
those unfortunate people--never had the pleasure of even a slight
acquaintance with them--but drew Uncle Dick’s history blindly from
romance.
As for the villain’s confession, it is thrown in gratuitously, as ballast
to the story, and to pacify the readers of heavy romance.
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive,”
as many a writer’s confused plot bears witness. Having many objects in
view in writing this story, the reader must make the best of it, if it
sometimes seems disjointed. Still, if the astute reader thinks he detects
a place where this history does not hang together, let him not be too
much elated, for the writer believes he could point out several such
places himself.
Of course, no boy will read this preface; it would, therefore, be a
waste of time to address a discourse to boys in it. Reader, did you
ever observe the manner in which a boy ignores the preface in his
school-books? If not, you do not know how much scorn a boy’s face is
capable of displaying.
Nevertheless, this preface may be of use to a boy. Suppose that an
indulgent uncle should be jockeyed into buying a copy of this book
for his little nephew. In such a case, would not this preface make an
admirable “flier” for the little nephew’s dart? Certainly it would; and
the next morning the little nephew’s mamma would find a picturesque dart,
with this elaborate preface fluttering at the end, adorning a panel of
the parlour door.
“Perhaps,” sneers the reader of mature years, “you think to have a fling
at the almost antiquated custom of writing prefaces?”
Perhaps so, kind reader, and why not?
It seems natural for some writers to wish to display their wisdom: some
make a show of hammering out tropes that no one can appreciate; others,
in coining new compound words that won’t find a place in the dictionaries
of the future; still others, in inserting such foreign words and phrases
as may be found in the back of a school-boy’s pocket dictionary. (To do
them justice, however, the latter geniuses, careful not to offend our
noble English, considerately write such words and phrases in italics.)
This writer, on the contrary, displays his _foolishness_ by tackling
things that he afterwards learns are out of his reach.
The writer seems most at home when attempting to poke fun at romance;
yet he is tormented night and day, so much so that he has no peace, with
romance. In fact, gentle reader, if any human being suffers more in that
way than he, pity him with all your heart, for he must be a wretch indeed.
Cannot this be explained logically? Perhaps so; but it isn’t worth
anybody’s while to do it.
Notwithstanding that our preface is so grandiloquent, the story opens,
the reader will observe, very modestly. But if he should persevere a
little way, he will find that the writer soon strikes out boldly.
Of course this preface was written after the story; but, let the reader
be entreated, if he will excuse the Hibernicism, to read it first. If he
does not, we are only too confident he will never read it. This is not
prophecy, but intuition.
BRUCE W. MUNRO.
A BLUNDERING BOY.
_Chapter I._
THE STORY OPENED.
William, baptized William, but always called Will, was a boy who
had a habit of committing blunders--a habit which, as will be seen,
occasionally led him into deep disgrace. When a mere boy, his blunders
were of little consequence; but when older they assumed a more serious
form. Most of them arose from want of care, as he did everything without
considering what the end might be. Doubtless, he ought to have been
reproved for this; but as he was only a boy, and as many of his blunders
partook of the ludicrous, his parents laughed at him, but seldom took
pains to correct him.
Will’s father owned a highly cultivated farm, near one of the great
lakes, and was a man of means. He indulged freely in dignified language,
in illustrated magazines and weeklies, in frequent pleasure trips by land
and water, and in gilded agricultural machines, fragile and complicated,
but quite as useful as ornamental.
Will’s mother was an amiable lady, who accompanied her husband on every
alternate pleasure trip, and who, by the help of an able housekeeper and
a fire-proof cook, spread a table that excited the admiration or envy of
all who knew her, the housekeeper, or the cook.
Such were Will’s father and mother, who generally, as he was their only
child, suffered him to have his own way, took notice of all his sayings
and doings, and occasionally jotted them down in a disused diary. But he
was not the kind of boy to be spoiled by such usage; on the contrary he
was a very good boy.
He was an athletic little fellow, able to undergo great fatigue, and
endowed with so much perseverance and hope that he would fish all day
for trout, and return at dusk with nothing but a few expiring mud-pouts
and two or three forlorn fish worms. He was known to all the villagers,
respected by all his school fellows, and was involved in all their
troubles. But his school fellows did not regard him as a hero; in their
expeditions he was seldom chosen leader; in their “trials by jury” he
was frequently a juryman--in time of need the entire jury--but only
occasionally the judge.
Will attended school regularly and learned his lessons carefully, whether
he understood them or not. His appetite for learning was keen, but his
appetite for sport was insatiable; no boy, on being set loose from
school, was more demonstrative than he.
When old enough to be out with his father, he followed him constantly.
About the whole farm there was not a hole into which he had not fallen,
not a stone of any size over which he had not stumbled, and no danger
of any kind, from animals or machines, from which he had not narrowly
escaped. He was often carried bruised, wet and tearful into the presence
of his terrified mother, who vowed that he should never again leave her
sight. But as soon as his wounds were dressed and his wet, muddy, and
sometimes blood-stained garments were changed, he would slip away, to
invite new dangers and contend with old ones. Even when sitting quiet
in the house, learning his lessons, his ink-bottle would unaccountably
pour its contents over his books, his papers, or on the carpet. Yet
Will’s father declared that the boy was neither awkward nor stupid, but
only “inconsiderate” and “headlong.” In proportion as he grew older, Mr.
Lawrence hoped that he would grow wiser, and less “headlong.”
Having thus touched upon Will’s characteristics, it is now in order to
begin at the beginning, when he was a small boy.
One day, when the boy had arrived at the age of seven years, a strolling
and struggling newspaper genius was invited to spend the afternoon and
evening at the farm-house. At the supper table this gentleman interested
himself particularly in the boy, and the mother, pleased with this
attention, began to enlarge upon her darling’s talents and cleverness,
till, warming with maternal pride, she became quite eloquent.
“What do you suppose he did the other day?” she asked.
Will’s face suddenly became red. His mother did not notice this, but the
newspaper genius did; and while he answered politely, he muttered to
himself, “Hanged somebody’s cat, I should infer from his looks.”
“Why, he--” began the mother, when she was suddenly interrupted by Will’s
saying, “Please don’t tell, mother!”
This remark, of course, drew the attention of all three to the boy, and
they saw that he appeared ill at ease, and that his face was painfully
flushed.
Mrs. Lawrence looked surprised. “Why, Will,” she said, “I’m sure its
greatly to your credit.” Then turning to the guest: “Mr. Sargent, the
other day he gave his papa the boundaries of every country and continent
on the globe; and he did it all from memory, not looking once at a map!”
Mr. Sargent was a polite man; he now expressed the liveliest astonishment.
“Oh!” burst from Will’s lips, followed by a sigh of relief, “Is _that_
what you wanted to tell?”
“What did you suppose your mamma intended to tell me?” basely inquired
the newspaper man, quickly recovering from his astonishment.
Will hesitated, but finally answered, “I thought it was about the
fire-crackers.”
The guest’s curiosity was awakened. “What about the fire-crackers?” he
inquired, so courteously that no one could take offence.
“Oh, he had a bad time with them; that’s all;” said Mrs. Lawrence, coming
to the rescue.
But Will, who was plainly dissatisfied with his mother’s version of the
affair, explained, with an effort that proved him to be a hero, “I had
some fire-crackers, and they set the chip yard on fire, and nearly burnt
up a cow in the cow-house!”
Having thus eased his conscience, he relapsed into silence. But it was
evident that his nerves were quite unstrung; the visitor was therefore
not taken wholly unawares when Will, in passing him the “preserves,”
spilt them on his pants.
With a sigh of resignation the unfortunate took the mishap as a joke, and
asked, as they rose from the table, if Will would bring out some of his
toys.
“Get out the gun you made yourself,” Mr. Lawrence suggested.
The boy left the room but soon came in with a rude weapon--which boys
would call a squirt-gun, but which Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, from ignorance
or flattery, called a gun. But time is precious to some people; perhaps
they called it a gun to save breath.
The errant newspaper man took up the squirt-gun, to examine it at his
convenience, but lo! another mishap! The infernal machine, or whatever
one may call it, had discharged a black and muddy fluid over his spotless
shirt front.
Another involuntary “Oh!” broke from poor Will’s lips. “It must be the
poison we had for the red currant bugs!” he groaned. “I thought I had
squirted every drop out of the gun, but--”
“This is an extraordinary little gun, I’ve no doubt,” said the unhappy
man, in a pet, “but I don’t wish to experiment with it at present.
I should prefer to see some harmless toy, such as a wooden top or a
horse-hair watch-chain. It is always dangerous for me to meddle with
guns, anyway.”
For once, the newspaper man’s suavity had failed him.
But Mrs. Lawrence, in her heart, thought that a judgment had overtaken
him for ferreting out Will’s secret.
The owner of the gun took it and gladly left the room. He did not return
with his wooden tops, but climbed up on the roof of the stable, where he
whiled away the rest of the evening with his new jack-knife and a piece
of cedar. He did not cut his fingers very badly, however.
The distressed parents were placed in a very embarrassing situation,
but the sufferer’s equanimity soon returned, and the conversation again
flowed on smoothly.
When the visitor took leave, it is to be hoped that he took with him a
due appreciation of Will’s talents and cleverness.
Next morning Mr. Lawrence called his son and addressed him thus: “My
son, you are a very heedless boy. Reflect on the sad results of your
heedlessness, and endeavor to use the faculty of reason before you act
in any matter. Think of the annoyance you gave us last night! You ought
never to interrupt your mother, for you may be sure that she would never
tell a stranger anything to your discredit. Will you bear this in mind?”
“Yes, sir,” muttered the boy, trying to understand the meaning of the big
words. “But,” anxiously, “will he be scolded and whipped, as Jim was when
he got his clothes spoiled?”
“Are you speaking of the gentleman who passed the evening with us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then don’t grieve about that, for his parents will not harm him,” Mr.
Lawrence replied with a smile.
A short time after this occurrence, Will informed his father that a
muskrat had built itself a home by a stream which ran through their farm.
“Should you like to catch it in a trap?” Mr. Lawrence asked.
The boy, of course, said yes. Immediately the fond father bought a strong
little trap and presented it to the would-be trapper. The trap cost
ninety cents; a wandering tin-peddler might perhaps be generous enough
to give Will fifteen cents for the pelt of the muskrat. In that event
everybody would be satisfied. But the home of the muskrat would be made
desolate.
Mrs. Lawrence beheld this trap with horror, and not without reason, for,
within the next two hours, Will contrived to imprison in it several of
his fingers.
After repeated warnings from his parents, the young hero set out for the
stream, trap in hand. Having successfully achieved the feat of setting
it, he returned and gave his father the particulars.
“I fear that some more historical animal than a muskrat will come to an
untimely end in that trap,” Mr. Lawrence said dolorously.
His words were prophetic.
In the morning, full of hope, Will hurried to the home of the muskrat.
Beyond a doubt, the trap held an animal. But it was neither a musk nor
any other kind of rat; it was a beautiful little greyhound, fast in the
jaws of the trap, and stone dead.
Will’s tears flowed freely at this pitiable sight, and fear was added to
his grief, when, in the greyhound, he recognized the constant companion
of Senator Murdock.
“Poor little Pet! How often you have played with me!” the trapper said,
in the interval of his sobs. “Oh, what shall I do, and what will Mr.
Murdock say to me!”
Just as the boy spoke, the Senator was approaching in his search of the
dog.
“Ah, my little man,” he said, as he drew near the sorrowing trapper, “can
you tell me where to look for Pet? I’ve lost him this morning, and I
thought you could help me to find him, if any one could. We live so near
that you and Pet are always together. Why, what is the matter?” he asked,
seeing that the boy was crying bitterly.
“Oh, sir!” was all Will could say.
But the Senator was now beside him, and, taking in the matter at a
glance, he exclaimed angrily, “What is this I see? Have you, whom I
always considered a moral little boy, have _you_ entrapped my dog! I am
amazed! Poor Pet! Poor little dog!”
“I didn’t mean to catch _him_,” Will pleaded, “and I am very sorry.”
“Well, I shall not blame you,” the Senator said slowly. “Your father
ought not to let you set traps so recklessly, and I lay the blame upon
him.”
“Don’t blame my father, for it is my own fault,” Will replied, ready, at
all times, to defend his father. “I will never do it again, Mr. Murdock;
indeed I won’t.”
“Hardly, seeing that the poor beast is dead. But help me to get it out of
trap, and I shall take it home and bury it.”
Then the two, man and boy, legislator and trapper, fell to work, and soon
liberated the dog from his prison.
If the Senator could have known what danger his white and dainty fingers
were incurring, that is, how narrowly they escaped being pinched, he
would have kept them away from that trap. In fact, considering the state
of excitement into which any mishap threw Will, it is strange that they
were not cruelly mangled. But they escaped without a scratch.
Mr. Lawrence was deeply grieved when he heard the ignominious fate of the
Senator’s dog. Probably he felt that he himself was blamable.
But the affair was soon all but forgotten by Will, because, at his age,
such misdemeanors are generally forgotten as soon as the offender repents
of them and is pardoned by the sufferers.
This chapter, like all the others, is intended to serve a purpose; yet,
lest the reader should fancy that we are writing for the entertainment of
juveniles, we shall relate but two more incidents of Will’s childhood.
_Chapter II._
WILL’S LUCKY BLUNDER.
Some two years after this incident, when Will’s parents announced one
fair morning that he was to accompany them on a trip to the city, many
miles distant, far from being in the mood to remember his father’s
injunctions, he was in the humor to commit the most atrocious blunders.
He was full of eagerness to be off, and his beaming face bespoke his
joy. At his tender age, all the help he could give was of little moment;
but yet, in his eagerness to get ready for the journey, he threw the
household into such confusion that he and his harassed parents barely
reached the platform in time for the train.
The day was fair, and the prospect from the car window delightful. The
scent of new mown hay (it was the month of June) rendered the trip as
pleasant as an eastern ruler’s dream. (The deeds of eastern rulers,
however, should not always be provocative of pleasant dreams.)
It was morally impossible for Will to sit still in his seat. For once
the good little boy was regardless of his parents’ wishes; and in spite
of mamma’s entreaties and papa’s commands, he persisted in thrusting his
head out of the window.
How fortunate it is that wrong doing inevitably leads to punishment! On
this occasion, however, the boy’s punishment was so long delayed that the
sanguinary sword of justice seemed to be rusted fast in its sheath. But
that sword was drawn at last.
After riding for ten minutes with his head far out of the car, with an
involuntary “oh” he abruptly drew it in, but--hatless.
The boy’s gestures of excitement and his parents’ evident vexation
attracted every one’s attention. Truly, the parents suffered equally with
the child. It is always thus.
“I’d put my present for Henry in it, and now it’s gone!” groaned Will,
unmindful of the fact that every one in the car could hear him.
“It serves you right, little boy,” observed a pious but melancholy
looking old lady, who occupied an adjacent seat. “Now you’ll have to
ride bareheaded,” she muttered. “That’s what comes from disobeying your
parents!”
“For shame!” whispered a humane, but characteristically lank,
Down-easterner to this meddlesome dame. “Just you let the poor little
fellow alone.”
Then, noticing Will’s sad condition, he began to search his pockets. Will
saw this and guessed what was coming, for he had often remarked that that
movement on the part of those interested in him was usually followed by
the bestowal of sweetmeats or other good gifts.
It may here be boldly stated that our hero was not above eating candy,
which he divined was what was coming.
Will was not mistaken in this instance, for his humane friend soon
approached him and put something round and hard into his hand, saying,
“Don’t fret, little man; here’s a bull’s-eye for you.”
Quietly as this kind action was done, it did not escape the old lady’s
sharp eyes, and she thus gave vent to her indignation: “O dear, what are
we coming to! Here’s a man rewarding, actually _rewarding_, a boy for
being wicked!”
However, neither Will nor his parents overheard her virtuous comments.
Will was wholly engrossed with his bull’s-eye, which was about the size
of a ten-year-old boy’s marble. Though originally white and striped with
red bands, it was now more or less discoloured and very sticky.
Will slipped the bull’s-eye into his mouth, but immediately spat it out.
“All covered with dirt and sweat, and as hard as an iron button,” he
muttered. “It was kind of the man to give it to me, but I can’t eat it.”
But what should he do with it? Clearly, the floor would be the best place
for it; and so, while his father’s attention was engaged with a cartoon,
and his mother’s with a wayside chapel, he stooped and laid it softly on
the floor, unseen and unheard.
Then he chuckled, admiring his great sagacity, not knowing that an
ordinary bull’s-eye may be dropped in almost any part of a railway
carriage in motion without arresting attention.
Would that a novelist who regularly “anticipates” were here! How he might
expatiate! Beginning thus, he might go on exhausting ink-bottles and
filling pages at pleasure:--
“Ah! little could Will dream, little could any one present dream, what
destiny had in store for that bull’s-eye! How different was its fate from
that which the benevolent gentleman supposed it would be!”
But it is cowardly and wicked in a writer to anticipate.
The kind hearted Yankee left the car soon after giving Will the
bull’s-eye, so that he was not a witness of what was to happen.
The rejected bull’s-eye, set in motion by the car, gradually made its
way into the middle of the passage between the two rows of seats, here it
stopped. If noticed by any person, it was not coveted, but was suffered
to lie there in peace.
Yes, there it lay; its locomotion arrested; its wanderings brought to a
close.
But hist! who enters?
It is the “Student of Human Nature.”
A gaunt yet spiritual-looking man opens the door, and slowly and
pompously, he marches towards the other end of the car.
His air, his gait, his costume, even to his boots, his cane--all were
peculiar.
His object in life was to rove hither and thither, studying that grand
theme, Human Nature. Although above conversing with his fellow creatures,
excepting when obliged to do so, his delight was to find some quiet
spot from which he might form opinions of them without being disturbed.
Whether he makes this employment “pay” by writing treatises on the
subject, is a question which only he himself can answer. What he pretends
to comprehend may be, and doubtless is, a noble science; but in his hands
it is only a mockery.
Only two or three persons in the railway carriage knew the man or his
employment, but his demeanor could not fail strongly to impress the
looker-on.
His intention, on this occasion, was to take a seat in some dark corner,
from which he might observe the occupants of the car. With stately tread
he approached that bull’s-eye, placed his foot on it in such a way that
it rolled, and with a crash the student fell headlong, with anything but
“studied grace.”
He was on his feet again before assistance could be offered--this,
however, was not remarkable, as nearly every one present was convulsed
by laughter--and, after glancing malignantly at the cause of his fall,
he scowled horribly on two or three of the loudest laughers, and then
tore his handkerchief out of his pocket. Too late! A flow of blood was
streaming fast from his nose, which organ had apparently been bruised in
his fall.
A boy with the “nosebleed” is an object alike of laughter and pity; but a
man with a bleeding nostril! Certainly his situation is ignominious. And
the situation of the student on this occasion was more than ordinarily
ludicrous.
How blind and wilful, how paradoxical men are! What a favorable
opportunity now offered for observing the various emotions depicted
on the faces of those people! Some were expressing their feelings by
their rapidly-working features; others by their waggish gesticulations;
still others by half suppressed interjections. While some looked merely
amused, others looked awe-struck: only two persons seemed sympathetic.
The more solemn passengers looked on with dignified serenity; but a
smile of savage delight, indicative of innate depravity or blasted hopes
and bitterness of heart, played over the wan faces of certain jaded and
woebegone book agents. A few paid no attention whatever, while a great
many made praiseworthy endeavors to keep their facial muscles from
twitching.
But the Student of Human Nature left this vast mine unexplored, and
hurried out of the car, hiding his bleeding nose in his handkerchief.
The now notable bull’s-eye was still in sight, and it was plain to all
that it had caused the mishap. The old lady looked at it intently, and
was heard to mutter that she knew no good would come from rewarding the
boy for his wickedness.
A tender-hearted person is severely punished when his own wrong-doing
subjects another to pain or annoyance. Now Will was tender-hearted: he
lay nestled in a corner of his seat, almost hidden from the occupants
of the car, doing penance by heaving dolorous sighs and shedding a few
remorseful tears.
His father and mother seemed ill at ease. Presently the former stooped
over him with awful solemnity, and whispered, “Oh, Will! why did you drop
that on the floor, when you could just as well have thrown it out of the
window! Your blunders are sufficiently bad when they affect yourself
alone; but they are lamentable when their results are disastrous to
others. You are old enough now to behave like a little gentleman; promise
me that you will be a good boy.”
On the instant Will ceased both to heave sighs and to shed tears, and he
earnestly promised to do better for the future.
In his way, Mr. Lawrence was a philosopher. He knew that any boy on being
addressed in such terms and forgiven, instantly dries his tears, breaks
into smiles, and promises to do great things. He reflected on this, and
spoke as he did because he did not wish his son’s eyes to be red and
swollen with crying when he should reach his destination.
Soon after the train slowed into the station at which they were to
alight. The good old lady softened so far as to bid the bareheaded boy
good-bye as he stumbled out of the car. The first thing to be done was
to buy him a hat, since his parents had not been so provident as to take
along an extra one. This was managed by leaving him and his father at the
depot, while Mrs. Lawrence went to the nearest hat store. The good soul
also bought some sugar-plums to replace the present which Will had lost.
As soon as the novelty of Will’s new hat had worn off, so far, at least,
as to allow it to remain quietly on his head, he and his mother went to
spend the rest of the day at the house of a relative, while Mr. Lawrence
made his way to a law office.
About nightfall the three returned to the depot, took passage by the
cars, and were soon on their way homeward.
It was still early in the evening, but the family party did not expect to
reach home till past midnight.
Will was thinking--not of his latest blunders, but of some second-hand
presents that he had received from his cousin, Henry. Mr. Lawrence, who
was accustomed to travel, seemed inclined to fall asleep--in fact, they
had not proceeded far on their way when a gentle snoring evinced that he
was indeed asleep. Will fancied that his mother also seemed tired and
drowsy, and he hastily concluded that his parents would have to depend
upon him to be awakened when the train reached their station.
This thought kept the boy on the alert, and he took pride in the
confidence thus placed in him. To him, however, the time passed much more
slowly than when going to the city in the morning. This was only to be
expected. Then, the sun was shining bright, the car was full of people,
and his parents were wide-awake and in a humor to talk to him; now, it
was night,--calm and starlit, but night,--the three were almost entirely
alone in the car, and his parents were tired, sleepy, and silent.
Nevertheless, much as he wished to keep awake, he at last fell into a
doze, from which he was aroused by the train’s coming to a stop and the
brakesman’s shouting out the name of a station. The name seemed familiar,
and Will, rubbing his eyes and yawning, at once began to reason, aloud:
“Our station! I must wake pa and ma, or the train will go on.”
Both were awakened without delay.
“What! is this our station already?” Mr. Lawrence asked, with some
surprise. “You must be mistaken, Will--or have I really been asleep?”
“Yes, sir, you have been asleep: and this is our station.”
“Then there’s no time to be lost, I suppose;” and Mr. Lawrence snatched
up his valise and started towards the door, followed by his wife and son.
“I almost wish we had stayed at Aunt Eleanor’s,” he muttered, as he
helped them off the train. “But I _must_ attend to that business in the
morning; and, fortunately, our house is not far from the depot.”
They stepped out on the platform and the train was off on the instant.
Mr. Lawrence went into the ticket-office, to speak to the night operator,
and, to his consternation, found that instead of being his own village,
he was at another, full twenty miles away.
His first act was to rush outside and make a vain attempt to signal the
engineer to stop the train. Too late! It had already left the station,
and was moving faster and faster.
That hope blasted, the unhappy man did not know what course to take, and
he strode up and down the platform like a mad man; while his wife and son
stood meekly by, the one filled with deep displeasure, the other with
agonizing grief and despair.
Presently Mr. Lawrence halted before the boy, with these words: “Oh,
Will! How could you have made such a blunder? I fail to trace a striking
resemblance between the name of this place and that of our own. You, who
know so much about geography, _you_ to be so grossly ignorant respecting
your own county! In an hour from this time we should have been at
home.--Never mind, Will,” he added in softer tones. “Come, don’t cry; I
suppose you, too, were asleep.”
“Yes, I must have been asleep,” Will acknowledged.
The writer does not entertain much respect for Mr. Lawrence, because
he was a man who alternately checked and indulged his son. But, on the
whole, he was a discreet and affectionate parent--at all events, Will
loved and honored him.
“I say,” Mr. Lawrence cried to a man with a lantern, “I say, when will
the next train going west be due?”
“Next train for you, sir? In just three hours,” was the cheering answer.
“Then my business is ruined!” groaned the unhappy man.
However, this fretfulness at length wore away, and the three resigned
themselves to wait, as patiently as might be, for the arrival of the next
train. Mrs. Lawrence went into the waiting room, while Mr. Lawrence and
Will spent most of the time out on the platform, gazing at the stars and
the signals along the railway-track.
After Mr. Lawrence had talked himself hoarse about the signs of the
zodiac, the perfection of signals used on the railways, and the
stupendous power of steam, he determined to improve the remaining time
by reasoning with his son on the sin of carelessness. Will--whose ears
were ringing with such terms as _spherical bodies_, _solar immensity_,
_eternal revolutions_, _average momentum_, _preternatural velocity_,
_lunar cycles_, _semaphorical warnings_, and _planetary systems_--sighed
on this change in the conversation, for he loved sonorous phraseology,
but listened humbly. After a long lecture, in which he touched upon
various matters not pertinent to his subject, Mr. Lawrence made a dark
allusion to his “ruined business,” and then wound up with these words:
“Will, if you continue in your present course, I am afraid your end will
be as terrible as your uncle Dick’s.”
“What became of Uncle Dick, pa?” eagerly inquired the boy, thinking that
the subject would again be changed.
Poor boy! he felt his guilt, but he winced under his father’s
polysyllabic reprimands.
“Listen, Will,” said Mr. Lawrence, “and I will give you a short
account of your uncle. Uncle Dick, my brother, was an eccentric man;
good-natured, but credulous, and always making blunders. In that
particular, he was not unlike you; but his blunders were far more serious
in their results than yours. Early in life he made a large fortune by
lucky speculations. One day he drew all his money from the banks and
collected all that he could from his debtors--for what purpose I never
knew; for, no sooner did he get his wealth into his own hands, than both
he and it vanished, and nothing has since been seen or heard of either.
Some suppose that he was robbed and murdered in the approved way; others,
that he left the country, to return unawares at some future time; while
a few unprincipled barbarians maintain that he has lost his mind. I,
myself, think that by some great blunder, or unlucky speculation, he lost
all his wealth, and prefers to stay away till he can return worth as much
as, or more than, he was before. Poor Dick! his fate is wrapped in awful
mystery.”
Mr. Lawrence considered himself an apt story-teller, and delighted in
his own narratives. But Will, to whom this story was new and almost
unintelligible, strove to discern even the faintest resemblance between
Uncle Dick’s doings and his own.
“I do not often speak of my poor brother,” Mr. Lawrence said sadly, “but
I think of him and dream of him, always. But, Will, I know you are good
and sincere in your heart of heart; this misfortune was only a blunder;
and so let us think no more of the matter.”
Gentle reader, observe that the mournful story of Will’s uncle is told on
the thirty-first page. Observe this carefully, as in the future you may
wish to read it again.
At that instant, news that nearly made Will a hero was flashed along the
wires.
Voices, loud and eager, were heard in the office. Mr. Lawrence went in to
make inquiries, and learned that an accident had happened to the train
from which he had been so abruptly hurried by his son.
The car in which they had been riding had broken loose, been hurled down
an embankment, and wrecked. Only two or three men were in the car at the
time, and they, being awake, had sprung nimbly and saved themselves,
though almost by a miracle. A few persons in another car were jolted and
disconcerted, but no one was hurt. The train was thrown into disorder,
and part of the track torn up; so that the railway would not be passable
for a few hours.
It was evident to Mr. Lawrence that, had he been in the car with his wife
and child at the time of the accident, they must have suffered a cruel
death, or else have escaped horribly mangled. Suppose that they had not
been asleep, he would still have met with great difficulty in saving them
before the doomed car went to destruction.
They owed their preservation then, first, to Divine Providence; secondly,
to Will’s blunder.
Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence were not slow to acknowledge this, and the boy
perceived that, at last, his worth was appreciated.
In process of time the night wore away; the road was repaired; and
father, mother, and son, pursuing their journey, reached home early in
the morning.
Mr. Lawrence’s business was not “ruined,” after all; for the man whom he
wished to see was also detained by the accident, but finally made his
appearance; and the business, which was really of importance, was soon
concluded.
The three slept peacefully and soundly afterwards, for the occurrences of
the last twenty-four hours had exhausted them.
From that time forward Mr. Lawrence generally passed by Will’s blunders
without rebuke; for he had determined not to reprove the boy again,
unless it should be a vital necessity.
In this way it chanced that Will’s childish blunder happened for the
best, after all.
Whereas these two chapters are merely expletive,--that is, are as useful
as the word _it_ in the following verse:
“For the deck it was their field of fame,”--
it would be better to say no more about this blunder of Will’s, but
commence the story proper.
_Chapter III._
WILL’S NATIVE VILLAGE.
Another period in Will’s life has come. He is no longer a little boy,
but an agile, robust, crop-headed youngster of fourteen. He has by no
means outgrown the errors of his childhood: on the contrary, they stick
to him more closely than ever; and to speak of Will without referring to
them is--well, is merely a matter of courtesy. His parents have given up
all hope of his ever ceasing to make blunders--in fact, they have come
to expect nothing but blunders from him. They are no longer surprised
at whatever he does, or at whatever happens to him; they would be more
surprised to see him live without making blunders than at whatever might
befall; and remembering how fortunate was his blunder on the train a few
years before, they no longer find fault with him.
It would be foolish, however, to detail all the minor adventures through
which he passed--foolish and tiresome to the reader. Still, it must not
be taken for granted that all Will’s troubles rose from blunders, as
many of them rose from such mishaps as might happen to any boy.
In order to make the incidents related in this story perfectly
intelligible, it will be necessary to give a rambling description of the
neighborhood in which they took place.
Mr. Lawrence’s farm was a short distance out of a busy and flourishing
village, built on one of the great lakes of America. His home, as well as
a few cottages belonging to him, was within the limits of this village.
His farm was highly cultivated and full stocked, and a railway ran
through it and then on through the village. To these natural advantages
add that Mr. Lawrence was an intelligent man and practical farmer,
knowing how to improve his opportunities, and it will be seen that he was
well situated.
As for the village itself, it contained the ordinary number of
inhabitants and hotels. Here lived “the most skilful dentist in the
state;” but so modest was he that what was formerly a barrister’s office
(this will define the size of the apartment) served him admirably for
a “dentistry;” while an upper room in the same building, “artistically
fitted up,” served him for a “photographic gallery.” Here lived “the
most expert ball-player out of New York.” But his business was not to
play ball;--rather, he did not follow it as a profession;--he kept a
“Yankee notions store,” with a hanging aquarium in the window, and brewed
soda-water and ice-cream. In this gentleman’s “salon” many a rustic
indulged with his first dish of ice cream, eating it at the rate of two
exceedingly small spoonfuls a minute. His actions and the expression
of his countenance declared that it was monotonous, cold, and doubtful
enjoyment; but the village papers, the expert ball-player, and public
opinion, told him that it is an extraordinary delicacy, and he tried hard
to believe so. The rustic would sometimes bring along his sweetheart.
Then he ate his ice cream still more slowly; but probably it tasted
better. Two newspapers (so-called) were printed here, and the villagers
could tell you that each one had been the pecuniary ruin of six or seven
editors. These ex-editors still lived in the neighborhood,--some as
bookkeepers, others as insurance agents,--a warning to all right-minded
men to soar higher (or lower) than the editorship of a village newspaper.
But no one heeded the warning, and no sooner did an editor become
insolvent or entangled in a libel suit than somebody else was ready to
“assume the arduous duty of conducting the publication.” So long as the
new editor had means, excelled in bombast and calumny, was sound in his
political creed and could make vigorous attacks on his “contemporary,”
who supported the doctrines of the other party, all went well for a time;
but sooner or later the end came and then one more ex-editor was thrown
upon the people of the village.
The principal buildings were the bank, the churches, the town-hall, the
livery stable, the fulling-mill, the chair-factory, the fork-factory, the
Columbia foundry, the hotels, and several private residences. The village
had also its harbor, where vessels plying their trade on the lakes might
worry through the roughest gale that the most talented writer of nautical
romances ever conjured up.