appear as old as possible.
“I didn’t ask how old you would be in the future, nor how young you were
in the past,” snapped the furrow-faced chuff.
Will always kept a careful account of his age, and consequently was able
to answer promptly: “My age, then, is fourteen years, ten months, and
seven days.”
“Very good,” said the farmer. “Well, I am only calculating,” he added
slowly and coolly, “whether you are old enough to be sent to jail.”
Doubtless, the hard-hearted wretch expected to see Will blanch at this
implied threat. But, if so, he was wofully disappointed, Will having his
own motives for maintaining his equanimity.
“You shall be punished, that is certain,” continued the farmer. “Come
along, now; don’t stand there like a stationary scarecrow; come along.”
Even as the violent old fellow spoke, he made a movement to seize Will
by the coat-collar. But this was more than human nature could bear; and
with a nimbleness that defied capture, Will sprang back, stood his ground
within nine feet of his persecutor, and began boldly:
“If you mean for me to leave this field, sir, I am quite willing to do
it; but it is not necessary for you to be so rough with me. Because my
horse jumped over the fence and trampled the grain a little, you needn’t
treat me like a convict. You yourself have trampled nearly as much as my
horse; and the whole put together doesn’t amount to much.”
“Stop there!” cried the farmer. “I was obliged to tramp the grain to
catch your horse. I didn’t wait for _you_ to do it,” insultingly.
“Yes, sir,” Will said humbly, “my head was bumped pretty hard. My father
will settle your account, but if you would like to put me into prison,
don’t let my youth interfere with that.”
Meanwhile, Will was leading his pony towards a gate in the fence, which
he reached as he finished speaking.
The farmer, who followed close behind, said sharply, “You are a pretty
fellow to use such language as all this to me; and it is only a waste of
breath for you to speak at all. According to you, it was great bravery
to jump my fences and rush through my oats; but the law will think
otherwise, and as certainly as I live, you shall be clapped into prison,
or else pay whatever sum I may choose to fine you. I swear it.”
“That is only what I can expect,” Will said resignedly.
“Oh, you think I am not in earnest, perhaps, but you will soon find that
I mean exactly what I say. What’s your name?” he asked, abruptly and
uneasily, as if struck with a sudden suspicion.
“William Lawrence.”
The questioner was literally stupified. A look of dismay overspread his
grim visage, and he stared helplessly at Will, as if the boy had been
metamorphosed into a devouring monster.
For a full minute the jurist was mute, and when he did speak, meekness
had entirely taken the place of bravado. “You’ll excuse my little jest,
won’t you, Mr. Lawrence? It is a shabby trick to joke so seriously, I
know; but it was only an idle joke, and doesn’t signify anything. I
_was_ some vexed to see the horse racing through the grain, but only
for an instant. How thankful we ought to be that you escaped unhurt!
To be sure, it was rather venturesome for me to rush forward and stop
the furious horse,” he said, guilefully, “but that is nothing compared
with your gallantry in keeping your seat so heroically. In fact, Mr.
Lawrence, I may say, without flattery, that you are a real hero, and that
this agile little pony of yours is the most spirited that I ever saw.
Indeed, he’s worth his weight in gold! Why, he vaulted over this fence
like--like--like a bird!”
In spite of himself, Will, nearly laughed at this labored simile. But he
was a strange boy, and enjoyed the faculty of suppressing his laughter
till he pleased to discharge it. Then he would laugh so uproariously that
whoever chanced to overhear him took him for a merry lunatic.
But there were other considerations why Will did not laugh at the
suppliant joker. In his turn he was astonished, astonished at the
reckless indifference with which the man could lie. But he was not to be
cajoled so easily; boy though he was, such oratory made no impression on
him, and he continued unmoved, even when deferentially addressed as “Mr.
Lawrence.”
Seeing that Will made no reply, the depraved wretch pursued in the
following strain: “I should like you not to mention this joke of mine,
for already I have the name of being an incorrigible practical joker.
Besides,” subtilely, “you would not like the boys to taunt you about this
runaway.”
“Oh, I think I saw several boys looking at me as I flew along,” Will,
replied carelessly, “and before this they must know all about the
runaway. Very likely the little boys that moved up towards the village
have spread the news, and perhaps they have told the beginning of your
joke,” artlessly. “At any rate, I must tell my father of this capital
joke, Mr. Jackson, for he likes nothing better than a good joke.”
The farmer now began to suspect that Will was nearly as shrewd as he
himself; and seeing how useless it was to palm off his threats as a
little joke, he abruptly took a different course, and said, with marked
and significant emphasis, “See here, Mr. Lawrence, I do not wish to
frighten you; but promise not to mention this, and I will let the matter
drop.”
Will believed that he, also, could use emphasis, and said, with what he
meant to be great significance: “You have not frightened me, Mr. Jackson,
because I knew you as soon as you came up to me. It isn’t worth while for
me to promise anything, for there is my father climbing the fence up near
the little boys, and they’re speaking to him. This way, pa,” the poor boy
shouted, with exultant and heartfelt thankfulness.
Mr. Jackson looked hopelessly in the direction pointed out by Will, and
muttered doggedly, “Baffled by a boy! He didn’t believe in that kind of a
joke, eh! Yes, that’s where I overshot the mark.”
How it was that Mr. Lawrence so seasonably hove in sight will be
explained further on. The writer, in common with all staunch romancers,
bears a rooted and virulent hatred to villains, and wishes to dismiss
this one as soon as possible, though he (this villain) is to appear again
in the next chapter.
Mr. Jackson blanched when Will gave his name, but now he grew black, and
seemed to be overwhelmed with consternation. He felt too cowardly even to
run away.
Mr. Lawrence soon joined them, and his first question was, “Will, are you
hurt?”
“Only a very little, pa,” said Will.
“How thankful I am for that!” Mr. Lawrence exclaimed fervently. “You must
have had a narrow escape, however.”
“A very narrow escape,” Mr. Jackson echoed tremulously.
Mr. Lawrence, assured of his son’s safety, now directed his attention to
the farmer. “Well, Mr. Jackson,” he said suddenly, “what seems to be the
matter?”
This blunt question so unsettled the practical joker’s mind that
he faltered, and at last said, with much emotion: “Matter, Mr.
Lawrence?--Why, it, it was--you see--I mean, he came,--that is, the
horse--the horse--the horse, the horse, the horse, the horse----”
Seeing that the embarrassed man was likely to continue repeating these
two words till delirium set in, or till his tongue whizzed equal to the
fly-wheel of a powerful steam-engine, Will cut him short by saying, with
pardonable spite: “Pa, he’s trying to tell you that he wants pay for the
damage that _Go It_ did.”
To many persons this might have been unintelligible, but not so to Mr.
Lawrence. Gathering a hint from the little boys’ gibberish, at a single
glance he had taken in all that had happened, and knowing the violence of
Jackson’s temper, he could guess at what had passed between him and Will.
“Let us have a settlement, Mr. Jackson,” he said.
The farmer seemed to have lost his wits; he could not carry it high, as
he had done with Will. Mistaking the tone in which Mr. Lawrence spoke,
and impelled by a guilty conscience, he dropped on his knees and said
pleadingly, “Oh, don’t turn us all out; don’t turn us all out! Don’t sue
me; I’ll--I’ll pay all the rent!”
Further comment is needless; the reader will now readily understand why
Mr. Jackson’s roughness gave place to humbleness and wheedling when he
heard Will’s name, and why he so dreaded an interview with Mr. Lawrence.
The latter gentleman spoke kindly to the supplicant. “Come, come,
Jackson,” he said, “don’t behave like that. In this free country you
shouldn’t play the spaniel to any man. I promise that I will not bring
an action yet; I will grant you one more chance. But come to the house
to-morrow, and we can talk over the matter at leisure. Don’t explain; I
see just what has happened to my headlong boy: but so long as he is not
hurt, I am satisfied. As you hardly know him, I can, from your looks and
his, figure the scene you have had. Now, I don’t like him to be abused
by--but no; never mind that; it can be pocketed. As for the actual damage
done, I think you will admit that ten dollars will settle your claims,
and I am going to pay it to you.”
Mr. Jackson gathered himself up, looking crestfallen and foolish, and
was so penetrated with gratitude that he refused the money, till forced
to receive it. According to Mr. Lawrence’s notions the man would now be
induced to make strenuous exertions to pay all that he owed.
Father, son, and pony, now started for home. Having made their way out of
the gate into the road, Will found the forlorn little gamins, hungering
for even a glimpse of the frolicsome leaper, still lingering in their
second position. Poor little fellows, they had not ventured even to climb
the fence. They knew Mr. Jackson--and Mr. Jackson knew them. They cast
reverent glances at Go It, but they beheld Will as one might behold a
traveller returned in safety from a voyage to the planets.
“I’ll bet he ketched it!” muttered a light-legged member of the group,
with a chuckle that disclosed he spoke from bitter experience. “Won’t the
rest of ’em wish they’d seen this show!”
The horse Mr. Lawrence had ridden was tied near these urchins. Both
mounted him, and then, leading the runaway and headstrong horse, the
picturesque cavalcade set off.
“Pa,” said Will, “I’m sorry this happened, and that you had to pay out
that money.”
“No, Will: say nothing about that. I blame myself for letting you mount
the half-broken nag; I should have had more prudence. But tell me how it
all was, and just what Jackson said to you.”
Will did so; and in the recital he waxed so eloquent that the rogue was
set forth in his true colors, and appeared so frightful a monster that
Will himself shivered with horror.
Mr. Lawrence groaned, but, with great presence of mind, said instantly:
“Don’t shake so, Will, or you will lose your balance. Oh, if I had known
this sooner, I should have done differently! But it is too late now to
punish the unprincipled wretch.”
The reader, perhaps, is curious to know how it was that Mr. Lawrence
arrived so opportunely. When too late to call him back, he saw that
Will was utterly unable to manage the pony. Not stopping to answer any
questions, he hastened to the stable, threw himself on the fastest horse,
and gave chase. Will, of course, was far in advance, but Mr. Lawrence
easily ran him down, and found him in Jackson’s field, as related.
Mr. Jackson made his appearance at the time appointed; and although he
brought only a part of the rent due, his deportment was so humble and
respectful; his promises were so fair and encouraging; and his apologies
were so ingenious, yet in reality so hollow and ridiculous, that Mr.
Lawrence’s indignation was softened; and the wretch was heard and
dismissed with a mock and stiff politeness that galled him.
Mr. Lawrence was very forbearing with such of his tenants as were hard
pressed; but this man’s threats to Will had provoked him extremely, and
now, as he brooded over his wrongs, he determined, as soon as the change
could be effected, to lease the farm to a more honorable man.
When a romancer reaches the colophon of his book, he is the most virtuous
of men, the most impartial of judges, parcelling out reward and judgment
with superhuman justice. Now, according to the laws of romance, Mr.
Jackson, in cutting that field of oats, ought to be thrown from his
reaping machine, and so cruelly mangled that his most implacable foe
would melt into tears of anguish.
But, alas! it cannot be, as unkind fate compels us to bring him once more
before the reader.
_Chapter VI._
STEVE’S RETALIATION.
The news of this, Will’s latest exploit, spread among the village boys,
and reached Steve’s ears. This worthy felt sorry for Will--so sorry that
a bright idea struck him.
“Here’s a fine chance to show Will how much I think of him!” he mused
radiantly. “Yes, I’ll get a whole gang of us boys together, and we’ll
swoop down on the old villain, and we’ll do it! Oh! what roaring fun it
will be! I guess it’ll teach the old loon to leave honest boys alone!”
Steve began to work with a will, and soon mustered a squad of idle and
saucy little wretches, who sported Guy Fawkes’ head-pieces, and were not
overstocked with either virtue or clothing. Nevertheless, their apparel
had at least one merit--it could be slipped on or stripped off in a trice.
Moonlight would be too bright for his dark schemes, and he waited
impatiently for a starlight night. Three days passed with unheard of
slowness. Then Steve convoked a council of his satellites; and after
having enjoined a promise of secrecy, he laid bare his plot in all its
details, and asked if they would stand by him.
“Guess we will!” they chorused, mad with delight; and Steve needed no
further assurance of their co-operation and fidelity.
About seven o’clock this worthy young avenger set out, his “gang” at
his heels, and one of the heroes who had seen Will taken over Jackson’s
fence bringing up the rear. This warlike company had no drums, but
their fast-beating hearts served instead; and they marched intrepidly
onward, measuring three miles an hour. Some were burdened with sundry
stout cords, ropes and straps; others were sweating under armfuls of
pine and cedar boughs, which Steve had gathered that afternoon; one
lank stripling was poising a couple of wooden levers on his grimy palms;
Stephen himself was freighted with a clumsy engine, which he fondly
imagined was a piece of wondrous mechanism--in fact, one of the six
mechanical powers.
Having left the village, they struck out for a pasturage about a mile
and a half to the right. Captain Stephen directed his forces to march in
single file. In vain: they were but raw levies, and in spite of all his
discipline, would persist in straggling or in huddling together. But in
good time they drew up at the seat of war, with every regiment intact,
and eager to engage the enemy.
As the atrocities they practiced there are unworthy of the most
abandoned renegate, it would be more seemly to lay aside martial
idioms,--particularly, as we do not wish to commit ourself,--and speak of
them as Steve’s minions.
They peered warily--perhaps, _quakingly_--to the right and left, but not
seeing any bugbears, human or otherwise, they boldly and jauntily flung
themselves over the fence of the pasture field.
Steve advanced a few steps, then halted, laid his burden gently on the
ground, and whistled a sigh of relief. His followers threw down their
burdens; and, after having ejected a great deal of spittle--purposely
on their hands, accidently on the ground,--they raised a grating
“ye-oh-heave ’er,” that reminded the “mournful whip-poor-will” of a
rooster’s first crow. Now they were ready to go to work.
In front of them was an old well; disused, perfectly dry, and partly
filled with rubbish. The top was covered with two layers of bulky and
heavy planks, so that the well was safe. Notwithstanding the number of
workers, it was no easy task to remove these planks; but the avenger and
his “gang” griped their handspikes, and toiled, groaned, and puffed with
a will.
What is toil to a boy when mischief is on foot? In play there are no
difficulties that a boy cannot surmount. Ah! if he would only do his duty
as willingly and efficiently as he builds a dam, how much happier he and
others would be!
As soon as the planks were removed, the boughs were dropped one by one,
so evenly that they formed a soft couch, only twenty feet from the mouth
of the well.
Then Steve took up the engine he had constructed, and set it up over the
well. This engine was neither more nor less than a thick and roundish
bar of tough wood, with each end playing in the apex of a rude and frail
scalene triangle. To impart strength and dignity to this contrivance, the
triangles were connected at their base by a long and stout fork-handle;
but whether this fork-handle served to keep the triangles apart or to
hold them together, Steve did not know. A triangle was placed on each
side of the wells mouth, over which the bar and fork-handle directly
passed. Steve pinned his triangles fast to the ground, but finding them
still unsteady, he had them propped with the planks. Then he announced
that it was ready for use. The bar revolved, it is true; but somewhat
reluctantly, and, alas! it wobbled!
We have said that Steve considered his contrivance one of the six
mechanical powers. Let us examine it further and see if he was right. It
might have been intended for the wheel and axle; but, if so, it lacked
the wheel. Or perhaps it was the pulley, with an extremely elongated
wheelless axle, the triangles taking the place of the block.
“Now, boys,” said the deviser of this novel engine, “see what comes
from knowing science! I learnt how to make this from George’s
Philosophy. It tells you all about powerful mechanics--no, mechanics
powerful--no,--well, I guess it’s all one in meaning. Now let us go to
work.”
With a Zulu holloa they rushed towards a couple of donkeys that were
grazing peaceably in the inclosure.
It will not require a particularly long-headed reader to guess that these
boys were trespassing on Mr. Jackson’s domains, or that the avenger
sought to retaliate on him by means of the innocent donkeys.
Steve endeavored to ward off the stings of conscience by telling himself
that he was avenging Will; while in reality he was indulging his love of
fun and mischief. His warty and freckle-faced followers were actuated by
the same motive.
They surrounded the donkey nearest them, resolved to take it prisoner.
After a violent conflict and four or five barked and bruised shins,--for
the beast was agile, as well as headstrong, and resented this nocturnal
abduction,--the seizure was effected, and Stephen adroitly slipped on
a halter. While some tugged at this halter, others pushed warily and
perhaps bootlessly; still others noisily threatened; one entreated;
but, in compliance with their leaders instructions, none belabored. The
school-boy avenger did not wish the poor animal to suffer “more than was
necessary!”
In a short time the donkey was brought close to the abandoned well. Then
the cords, straps, and ropes were picked up, and so securely bound on the
poor animal that it was utterly helpless, and at the mercy of Steve’s
youthful desperadoes. This was a hazardous attempt, considering all
things; but again, what does a properly organized boy care for danger,
when bent on mischief?
Stephen, weltering in sweat and already smarting from blisters and
bruises, then called a halt and addressed his “accomplices” in the
following approved strain: “Well, boys, we’ve nearly done it! Oh! won’t
Mr. Jackson be mad when he finds his donkey in the well! Won’t he dance
and holler! I know it’s a scurvy trick; but then he is so scurvy a man,
it serves him just right. I guess he won’t know what to say to himself
when he sees the ass here! At any rate, it will take him all the forenoon
to get him out!”
Gentle reader, please to observe how rich that harangue is in notes of
exclamation, and ask yourself if they were not invented as a safety-valve
for the emotions of overjoyed schoolboys and bloody-minded or weak-headed
romancers.
While speaking, Steve had run his hands into the pockets of his most
serviceable garment. He now drew his hands out of those pockets and took
up a strong rope, one end of which he made fast to the donkey, and the
other end he passed over the bar of his engine. Then, the rest helping
him, the donkey was slowly and carefully lowered into the well. Poor
beast, how foully it was degraded!
Then those wicked boys laughed--laughed till the tears came.
All but Steve. He could not laugh. The core of an apple that he had eaten
seven years before rose in his throat and choked him--him! the most
uproarious and unconscionable laugher in the village!
But the truth is, Stephen was beginning to relent. Now that the deed was
actually done, he saw his trick in a different light and conjured up all
sorts of horrors. What if a frightful thunderstorm should come on during
the night, and the donkey should be struck by lightning? What if the
sides of the well should cave in and fossilize it? Or, what if Jackson
should discover the guilty ones and transport him, as “ringleader,” to
Botany Bay?
These and many other disquieting thoughts rose in the boys mind. He
bitterly repented of his folly, and no longer considered himself a hero.
He pitied the donkey with all his heart; and if he had not shrunk from
provoking the derision of his uncivil and hard-hearted minions, he would
have drawn it out of the well and turned it loose.
Thus we get an insight into Stephen’s nature. His love of fun often ran
away with his better judgment; but as soon as the mischief was done, he
suffered, more than any one believed, from the agony of remorse.
But he roused himself and said, “Now, who will slide down on the rope
and set the donkey free? Of course we mus’n’t go away and leave the poor
beast tied fast; for it might get sick and die if it couldn’t move. You
agreed to do it, Pat Murphy.”
“I reckon we want our ropes and things back again, anyway,” growled a
practical strap owner.
“Certainly,” Stephen assented, with a faint smile. “Well, Pat?”
“Shure an’ I’m willin’ to stick to my bargain; only make haste, for mebby
the old feller ’ll be after prowlin’ around to look to his beasts.”
This was enough to disquiet every member of the “gang.” One excitable
boy, a famous seer of ghosts, instantly beheld a myriad of Jacksons,
hobgoblins, and banshees, hovering dangerously near. In his terror he
uttered a cry of deprecation--which so dismayed little Pat, who was then
in the act of descending, that he lost his hold on the rope and had a
fall of several feet. But the soft boughs and the ass so broke his fall
that he received no hurt.
Honest Pat’s mind must have been disturbed by a presentiment; for,
just at this conjuncture, Mr. Jackson, who was taking a by-path to the
village, entered the field from another direction. Being still at a
distance, he could not make out the boys clearly, but he could hear their
voices. Now, this Mr. Jackson was not famed for his discretion; and
instead of creeping upon them slyly, he hallooed at them from the place
where he stood.
Then, for the first time, the boys caught sight of him, and a panic,
which soon became a stampede, ensued. Setting up a dismal shriek of
consternation, the whole “gang” dashed to the fence, squeezed through it,
and ingloriously fled.
Little Pat heard the hurly-burly, and, clutching the rope, attempted to
scramble out of his narrow quarters. But, alas! no one was holding the
upper end of this rope, and it had not been made fast; consequently, it
rattled down into the well, leaving Pat a prisoner. Poor little Pat!
Believing he was deserted, he gave way to despair, yelled like a fish
peddler, and frisked about like an untutored dancer, now on the boughs,
now on the donkey, beating time to his piteous yet horrible screams
for mercy. This loosened the strap round the donkey’s snout; and an
horrisonous bray of righteous indignation smote upon the night air,
lending variety to a scene already sufficiently ludicrous. But one bray
was not enough to relieve the donkey’s pent-up emotion, and between its
bellowing groans Pat might be heard vociferating shrilly, “Tain’t me! I
ain’t done nothin’! I never did! It’s him! It’s Steve! It’s Ste-e-e-ve!”