size, the regularity or magnificence of its buildings, its commercial
importance, or its antiquity. Further, it was not known to history.
A very large stream, or small river, flowed through the village, emptying
into the lake. (To be still more accurate: the people of this particular
village customarily called it “_the_ river;” while the base and envious
inhabitants of the neighboring villages--through which flowed no such
stream--took special pains to call it “_a_ creek.”) Several mills of
different kinds bordered this river, adding to the credit and vigor
of the place. About three miles up from its mouth there was a large
and natural waterfall, a favorite resort of the villagers and country
people. The current above these falls was not very swift, but it would be
perilous indeed to be swept over them. Shrubs, and at intervals, trees;
gay little boat-houses, where the ground sloped gradually to the water’s
edge; in the background commodious, ornamental, and pretentious dwelling
houses, habitations, or villas;--such dotted the right bank of the river
above the falls, presenting a fine appearance from the left bank.
This stream affording good fishing, sportsmen often came to it from
a distance. But they generally lost more in cuticle, clothing, and
valuables, than they gained in fish, sport, or glory; and it was remarked
that they never returned after the third time.
There were many considerations why the water below the falls was not
the principal play-ground of the juveniles. Being within the village,
swimming was out of the question; on account of sundry sunken logs and
other obstructions, they could not paddle about secure and tranquil on
the crazy old rafts and scows; and lastly, almost the whole stretch of
water below the falls lay open to the mothers’ watchful eyes, and the
boys did not feel inclined to jeopard their lives within sight of those
mothers. To some fastidious youths the water, perhaps, was too dirty, or
“roily.”
Above the falls, however, all was different. On the upper part of the
river no one ever molested the youngsters, unless they did something
atrocious; here they might swim and paddle up and down the river as much
as they pleased; for, in general, the banks were high, and bushes, rank
grass and reeds and other screens intervened, shutting them off from
outsiders.
The river was wide and deep at the falls, but above them it grew narrow
and shallow little by little. Five miles up it was a mere brook.
Throughout this long stretch the water was so clear that the most
fastidious did not hesitate even to drink it; and there were secluded
places that as swimming-places could not be equalled. At the falls the
water was so deep as easily to float over any log or brush-wood that
might come into the river from its banks, its source, or other streams.
One particular spot--a clump of evergreens, where forget-me-nots sprang
up in all their beauty, and where Nature was seen at her best--was held
sacred to lovers. But there were many parts of the river to which
the boys stoutly maintained their claim and of which no one was so
hard-hearted as to dispossess them. And oh! crowning joy! there was an
island in the river!
At this the reader may think that we are trifling with his feelings;
imposing on his credulity;--he may even refuse to believe in the
existence of so extraordinary a river. Never mind. But if the reader
wishes to enjoy these pages he will refuse to listen to the dictates of
reason, and look on this story as an orthodox romance.
In winter there was another attraction, that of skating, the danger
of which was a continual source of uneasiness to parents whose youth,
agility, and frolicsomeness had long before given place to gray hairs,
clumsiness, and sober-mindedness.
As the proprietors of the land along the river were generous-hearted men,
the river was free to all people, and was an actual paradise for boys and
picnickers.
Although further remarks might be made about this river, it is not
necessary to make them here. It is sufficient to add that as the reader
proceeds, he will observe how admirably this river is adapted to the
exigencies of the story.
This was the state of affairs in Will’s boyhood. But, alas! all has
changed since that time. A foreign aristocrat has bought up all the
land along the river, which he has fenced in, stocked with fish and
beautified--perhaps, _disfigured_--with sundry little wharfs, capes,
bays, stretches of “pebbly beach,” and floating islands. In conspicuous
places notices may be seen, beginning with “No Trespassing” and winding
up with the amount of the fine imposed on all persons “caught lurking
within the limits.” Consequently, the urchins of to-day, despoiled of
this haunt, have to content themselves with damaging the notices and
slinging stones at the swans that sail gracefully up and down the river.
There were also smaller streams in the neighborhood, one being in Mr.
Lawrence’s farm.
To the left of the village stood an extensive grove, swarming with
squirrels, birds, insects, and, of course, mosquitoes. In this grove the
heroes of this story whiled away many a happy hour; and when not on the
river they might generally be found here.
The lake also was a favorite resort, and on its broad surface they
sailed or rowed hither and thither; always getting wet, often narrowly
escaping death. Sometimes their joyous hearts were elated with a ride on
a tug; but when hard pressed they made almost anything serve them for
a boat. As naturally as a duck takes to water, Will and his associates
took to making little ships, which excited the admiration of all
beholders--sometimes on account of their beauty, but generally on account
of their liability to float stern foremost, with the masts at an angle of
twenty degrees.
Then there was the school-house,--a fanciful, yet imposing edifice, the
grained and polished jambs of whose mullioned windows had suffered from
the ravages rather of jack-knives than of time,--built in a retired
quarter of the village, and to the boys’ entire satisfaction, quite close
to the river.
If Will wished to go to the wharf he could walk thither in less than
half-an-hour; to the depot in ten minutes; to the school,--well, in from
twenty to forty minutes. To Mrs. Lawrence’s delight, it was nearly two
miles from their house to the falls. She had not the heart to forbid
Will’s going thither, but she fondly hoped that the distance would not
permit him to go very often; for, according to her view of the matter,
water and danger are synonymous.
But what are two miles to a boy, when a waterfall, a limpid and
gleaming river, boats, crazy rafts, plenty of fish, and other boys, are
the attractions? In fact, the time was never known, not even to that
venerable personage, “the oldest inhabitant,” in which a boy might not be
seen about those falls.
It is not strange that the youth of this village were happy, when Nature
had done so much for them.
_Chapter IV._
THE HEROES OF THIS HISTORY
Having given this slight and imperfect description of Will’s native
place, his school-fellows must now be introduced.
The boy whom he liked best was Charles Growler; a youth of his own age,
but possessed with greater abilities, and a universal favorite in the
village. Charles was nimble, strong, and good-natured; ready for any
adventure or exploit, and the very soul of drollery. No matter what might
happen he never lost his temper, his presence of mind, or his keen humor.
He was a very brave boy, rushing headlong into every kind of danger. In
fact, the boys admitted that they had never known him to be afraid.
He and Will entered school at the same time and had kept together in all
their studies. There was no jealousy or rivalry between them, nothing but
a quiet and laudable competition, which stimulated each one to do his
best. When one could assist the other he did so willingly and gladly. No
boy ever had a more sincere friend than Will in Charles or Charles in
Will. And yet this boy Charles was nicknamed “Buffoon.” Not, however, on
account of clownishness or monkey tricks, but simply on account of his
love of fun.
George Andrews was another boy of the village, associated with Will and
Charles. He was a good boy, smart and shrewd, but too much disposed to
display his abilities and his knowledge. In his tender childhood he had
overheard a weak-headed fellow drawl out, “Yes, George will make an
excellent scholard; I guess he’s a good scholard a’ready.” This so filled
the young hero with self-conceit that he really believed that he, a mere
boy, was indeed a scholar! Firm in this belief, he never let slip an
opportunity in which he might avail himself of his superior knowledge;
and having read a great deal in all sorts of books,--particularly in
certain musty and ponderous volumes that treated of everything under the
sun--he was able to have his say, it made no difference what subject
was being discussed. But, alas! he was just as apt to be wrong as to
be right; and worse still, his information, like the Dutchman’s wit,
generally came too late to be duly appreciated. He was a few months older
than Will and Charles, and outstripped them both in his studies. The boys
always rejoiced to have him accompany them--partly because of his actual
cleverness, partly because of his immoderate self-conceit, as it was
very amusing to hear him hold forth on a subject of which he really was
totally ignorant. Not at all to his disinclination this boy was dubbed
“the Sage.”
Marmaduke Baldwin Alphonso Fitz-Williams was a youth, the grandeur of
whose name drove abashed Johns and Thomases almost to phrensy. But the
name befitted the boy, for even at his tender age his mind was occupied
with strange thoughts. He delighted in the romantic; indeed, he had lived
in an atmosphere of romance from his baptism. This heavy cloud of romance
obscured the boy’s ideas, and sometimes caused him to speak and act more
like a hero of fiction than was seemly. When alone he would slide his
hand into his bosom over his heart, whenever the weight of romance and
mystery was more than ordinarily oppressive, and if his heart beat fast
he was satisfied with himself.
The boy who detects the conception of a nocturnal robbery or murder
in a stranger’s eye, simply because he [the cautious stranger] slips
his hand stealthily into his “pistol pocket,”--in this case the breast
pocket--to assure himself that his watch is still there, is a remarkably
shrewd member of the human race, whose genius and acuteness should be
diligently fostered. And such a boy was Marmaduke. But it was neither
fear nor idiocy that caused him to think thus; it was only an extravagant
imagination.
Marmaduke and George resembled each other in many particulars: each
one was prompt to arrive at startling conclusions; each one believed
himself equal to any emergency; but George was far more practical than
Marmaduke. Each of these boys took pleasure in learning, and each one
manifested a puerile eagerness to let people see how well informed he
was. For instance, they flattered themselves that they were accomplished
grammarians, and when any reference was made to grammar both looked very
knowing, as much as to say that _they_ apprehended what was meant.
Marmaduke had a strong will of his own, but, by manœuvring artfully,
Charles could generally make him look at things from his point of view.
The boys took advantage of his love for the marvellous to play mean
tricks on him; but when he found that they were making game of him, he
flew into a passion, and made himself ridiculous.
Poor boy! Though he is called Marmaduke in this book, his poetic names
were too long for everybody except his parents; and while his teachers
called him Mark, the school-boys called him “Marmalade,” or “Dreamer,” or
something else quite as appropriate and scurrilous. Some envious little
Smiths and Greens did not scruple to call him “Fitty.”
Next on the list is Stephen Goodfellow, one of the most important
characters in the tale. He was a fun-loving fellow, fertile in devices,
an adept at repartee, and too light-hearted to be serious for more than
five consecutive minutes. In a word, he was the most nimble, sprightly,
ingenious and good-natured boy in the village. At the same time he was
the most reckless of all boys, taking pride in rushing blindly into
danger. Indeed, he affected a stoical contempt for every kind of danger;
jumped backwards off empty schooners with his eyes shut; made friends
with the most unamiable and untractable bull-dogs in the place; lowered
himself into deep, dismal, and unsafe old wells to wake the echoes with
his bellowing voice, and busied himself about the punching and shearing
machine, the steam engine, and the circular saws in the Columbia foundry.
He knew every sailor of all the vessels that put into the harbor; knew
every engineer and brakeman on all the trains that passed through the
village; knew the name and disposition of every respectable dog within
the corporation; knew just where to look for the best raspberries and
the most desirable fish-worms; but he _didn’t_ know an adversative
conjunction from an iambic pentameter.
To be acquainted with this boy was to like him. By Will and Charles
he was actually beloved, and there was a mutual and lasting affection
between him and all our heroes. He was always ready to lend them his
counsel and assistance when agitating their dark schemes, and when any
waggish trick was in view, or when anything ludicrous was going on, his
approval and support were the first consideration. Some of the urchins
tried to equal Stephen’s feats of dexterity and to ape his sallies and
whimsicalness; but it could not be done, and they only exposed themselves
to his derision and made themselves more envious and unhappy than before.
Stephen was familiarly known as “Stunner;” which, being offensively
vulgar, we, out of respect for the reader’s feelings, have transposed
into Steve.
If this were the history of a sailor-boy, Steve would assuredly be the
hero; and we should eulogize him so unweariedly and enthusiastically that
the heroes of romance, goaded to frenzy by the praise thus lavished on
him, would commission their ghosts to haunt us. But Steve has nothing to
do with sailor-boys; and as we do not wish to incur the displeasure of
such heroes,--much less the displeasure of their ghosts,--or to compel
anybody to fall in love with him, it will be the wisest course to leave
it for impartial readers to praise him or to condemn him, to love him or
to detest him, as their judgment may determine.
George and Marmaduke, to the best of their ability, cultivated the
_science of grammar_; Stephen cultivated the _art of dismembering
grammars_, and of blazoning their fly-leaves with hideous designs of
frolicsome sea-serpents; wrecked schooners; what seemed to be superb
pagan temples suffering from the effects of an earthquake; crazy old
jades painfully drawing along glittering circus vans, with coatless
little boys--some took them for monkeys, but probably they were
circus prodigies--sitting _in_ the roof and driving; and all sorts of
monstrosities. We say _grammars_: Stephen’s designs were to be found
chiefly in them. But he was no niggard of his illustrations; for, to his
noble nature, it mattered little whether the book which he illuminated
belonged--so long as it was old and dilapidated--to himself or to
somebody else.
Last and least was James Horner. He was an infamous coward--in fact, so
infamous that although fifteen years old, even a sudden and loud sound
would unstring his nerves and twitch his facial muscles. As a natural
consequence, he very often heard sudden and loud sounds--in fact, he
heard all sorts of hideous and unaccountable sounds. But the boy was by
no means an entire fool; and he made greater progress at school than
might be expected. It is a lamentable fact--which, however, must be
chronicled--that his playfellows studied to excite his fears, and played
off some of their most farcical, sly, and atrocious tricks on him. Will
and Charles had too much self-respect and sound moral principle to snub
the boy; but Steve seemed to take a savage delight in snubbing him and in
turning him into ridicule. But, though many a sportive trick was played
on him, his confidence in mankind was still so great that he was very
easily deceived, it made no difference how often he was mocked. In this
confidence the others might well have copied after him. On the other
hand, his disposition was unamiable, and under undue provocation he was
a dangerous boy, who could harbour revenge. Nevertheless, he hardly ever
ventured to interfere with the boys’ schemes, but blindly and humbly
followed wherever they might lead. Why our heroes tolerated his company
can be explained on only two grounds: first, because they liked to play
tricks on him; secondly, because this history requires such a character.
When not called Jim, this abused lad was branded “Timor,” which shows how
notorious he was for cowardice. But in process of time this classical gem
became corrupted by the ignorant into “Tim.”
These five were the school-fellows and associates of Will, and generally
the six might be found together. It was only natural that they should
quarrel sometimes; but, for the most part, they were at peace with
themselves and all other boys. They were all full of mischievousness, but
taking everything into consideration, were as free from sin as boys can
be.
There is another youth that figures in this tale--Will’s cousin Henry.
He is perhaps the most distinguished hero. However, it is not yet time
for him; and as it is dogmatically and impolitically observed a few pages
back that it is cowardly and wicked in a writer to anticipate, he must
not yet be introduced.
_Chapter V._
AN UNPLEASANT RIDE FOR WILL.
One bright morning Will mounted a frisky little pony which had been
reared on the farm, and had always been considered Will’s own--not till
Mr. Lawrence might see fit to sell it, but for all time. The pony was
young and unaccustomed to a rider; but Will and his father thought it
would be prudent to ride it on the road.
In this belief, however, they were mistaken, for the horse no sooner
found himself on the open road than he set forward on a wild gallop. At
first this was very pleasant, and Will enjoyed it heartily; but when he
attempted to check the animal’s speed a little, he became aware that it
was past his control.
“Whoa, Go It! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Will screamed beseechingly.
This only incited Go It to greater efforts, and he redoubled his speed;
while Will collected his wits, stopped shouting at the refractory animal,
and exerted all his strength and dexterity to maintain his equilibrium in
the saddle. The mettlesome horse was soon galloping at a furious rate;
and the luckless rider seeing no one to whom he could appeal for help,
gave himself up as lost, and endeavored to prepare for the worst.
Very soon he drew near a company of little ragged orphan boys, squatting
in the imperfect shade of a rail fence that boarded the road, gingerly
sticking pins into their ears and assiduously polishing their war-worn
jack-knives in the soil. These heroic little ones involuntarily dropped
their instruments of torture and diversion, and beheld horseman and horse
with ecstatic admiration and delight. Then they collected themselves and
cheered--cheered so lustily that the horse snorted with fright, wheeled
to the left, and vaulted over the fence at a single bound--a feat which
called forth a roar of acclamation from the delighted juveniles.
“Can’t he jump!” chuckled the sharpest one.
“Jump?” echoed another. “Guess he can; beats a circus horse all hollow!”
“I wish he’d jump again,” sighed the smallest one.
“Ah,” exclaims the punctilious penman of romances which have lofty and
sonorous titles, becoming solemnity, inflated and funereal style, and
blood-freezing adventures--which, alas! too often end in smoke, or at
most, in a marriage that any fool could have foreseen--“Ah, how can this
paltry scribbler, this ‘we,’ discourse with this shameless levity, when
his hero is face to face with death!”
Instead of evading the penman’s intended question, the following
significant and sapient comments are offered for his leisurely
consideration:
It is sheer nonsense for a writer to work himself up into a state of
mad excitement about the “imminent dangers” that continually dog the
foot-steps of his persecuted heroes. So long as the hero is of the
surviving kind, he will survive every “imminent danger,” no matter how
thick and fast such dangers may crowd upon him. No assassin was ever
hired that could kill him for any great length of time; no vessel ever
foundered that could effectively swallow him up; no bullet was ever run
that could be prevailed on to extinguish the spark of his life.
After making such comments, for the reader’s peace of mind we
deliberately affirm that every man, woman, and child figuring in this
tale, is equally imperishable. Having made this candid remark, the
reader cannot impute it to us if he spend a sleepless night while
perusing this tale.
But it would be wiser to drop idle declamation for the present, and
return to Will and his frisky pony.
When the horse so nimbly cleared the fence, Will’s feet were torn out of
the stirrup, and he was thrown violently off the animal’s back. As he
lay sprawling on the ground, he looked as little like a hero as can be
imagined. As may be supposed, however, when he struggled to his feet he
was as sound as ever. On casting a glance around him, he found himself in
a field of ripe grain, through which the riderless pony was rushing madly.
Perhaps a good romancer, regardless of reason and effect, would have made
the boy “heroically” stick to his horse through thick and thin. But a
more careful romancer, like a good physician, would have an eye to the
boy’s system and feelings, and not suffer him to be tortured any longer.
Will carefully rubbed the dirt off his clothes with the palm of his
trembling right hand, while his eyes darted fierce glances at the gaping
and grinning juveniles outside of the fence, and despairing glances at
his horse within the field. This nice operation consumed three minutes,
and might have consumed many more; but a man who was at hand flew to the
rescue.
A blustering old harvester, the man who worked the field, saw the forlorn
young cavalier standing dejectedly by the fence, and the frolicsome
pony plunging through the ripe grain, and straightway fumed with awful
indignation. His first proceeding was to catch and stop the pony, after
which he turned his attention to Will. Will advanced a step or so to meet
the puffing farmer and the quaking horse, and was about to mumble his
thanks, when the farmer snappishly cut him short, crying hoarsely:
“You miserable scamp! How dare you jump into my fields like this? See,
will you, what damage your beast has done!”
“But, sir,” said Will, “it is not my fault at all; it is an accident.
The pony ran away with me, as you yourself can see.”
“Accident? What have I to do with your accidents? Don’t you know better
than to ride runaway horses? Don’t you----”
“Course he don’t; don’t know beans;” yelled one of the little gamins,
encouraged by the farmer’s bullying words to speak his mind. Or perhaps
he thought to win favor with the farmer by reviling the hapless horseman.
“Course,” chimed in the one who lost and found the most jack-knives.
“Course, what business did he want to git on to a runaway horse for
anyway?”
“I wish I had a horse, too,” whined the most “ingenuous” one.
“Guess he ain’t--”
“Stop that!” thundered the farmer. “Stop that, and get away from this!”
The little coves snatched up their jack-knives, but did not stop to look
for their pins, and darted off without a word. They ran a few yards and
then squatted in the shade of another fence corner.
The incensed farmer, also, meekly followed by Will leading the horse,
moved farther up the border of the field.
When they halted, Will a second time said it was all an accident.
“Accident or not, I’ll put the law on your track, I will you awful sneak!
See here, how old are you!”