play on anyone, especially on a schoolfellow?” Will asked.
“Certainly it seems mean,” Charles replied, “but it is only for fun, and
Marmaduke would enjoy it at the time, and soon get over his anger when
we explained everything. Of course, we will be and careful not to do
anything _too_ wicked.”
“Well, it is bad to stir up such a boys anger,” Will persisted.
“Let me improve on your plot,” Steve ventured to say. “Let us suppose
that a beautiful French young lady was stolen by an enemy of her father’s
and brought over to America, and imprisoned in ‘Nobody’s House.’ Let her
write a wild appeal for help, which we will drop in Marmaduke’s path.”
“That’s going a little too far,” Charley said decidedly. “I shouldn’t
like to meddle in such a desperate game as that.”
“Wouldn’t a French captive be apt to write a letter in her own language?”
Will asked, as though he were overseeing that scheme.
“That would be the fun of it,” Stephen answered. “A letter in genuine
French would draw a less romantic boy than Marmaduke.”
“Very true,” said George. “But could you write such a letter?”
“Of course not--Mr. Meadows himself couldn’t, perhaps. Ten to one,
Marmaduke would think he could do it perfectly.”
“Marmaduke may be rather foolish,” said Charles, “but I doubt whether he
would write such a letter, and then be imposed on by it!”
“Do you take me for a fool?” cried Stephen, with theatrical indignation.
“Now, Will’s cousin Henry can scribble French like a supercargo, Will
says--let us get him to do it.”
“The very thing!” cried Charles and George in a breath. “Come, Will, we
are going to do this, and you must help us,” the former requested.
“I don’t like your ideas at all, boys,” Will replied, “but if you are
bound to do it, why, I don’t want to be left out, and so I’ll write to
Henry, and get him to come here. He spoke of coming soon when he wrote
to me last; and now I’ll ask him to hurry along as soon as the holidays
begin.”
“You’re a jewel, Will!” all three exclaimed in excitement.
“Oh, we’ll hatch a famous plot, won’t we, boys?” and Steve, the speaker,
clawed the ground as though he were a demon or a hag.
“It’s my turn to suggest something now,” the Sage observed. “When
Marmaduke sets out for the prison-house, we, of course must go with him.
Let Henry and Stephen, or whoever we may think best, slip on in advance,
and represent the prisoner and the fiendish villain when we arrive.”
A shout of acclamation greeted this new proposal.
“The plot is getting pretty thick,” said Steve. “And now, what about the
ghost in the back-ground?”
“Oh, we might manage to have a ghost appear to Marmaduke, but we can
attend to that afterwards,” Charles returned. “Now, Will,” he added, “its
your turn to improve on our plot--what do you suggest?”
“I shall leave that for my cousin to do,” Will answered. “Unless I’m out
of my reckoning, he will make improvements on the original plan that will
astonish us all; for it is as natural for Henry to lay plots as it is for
Steve to play tricks.”
“Yes, Henry will make great improvements,” Charles commented. “Well, now
that it is settled that the thing is really to be, we must all vow to
keep it to ourselves, because if any more boys get hold of it they will
spoil everything.”
“Very true,” George observed. “Now, if we want our plot to work well, we
must go to this old building and explore it thoroughly, from the cellar
floor to the rafters. But our plot can’t come off till holidays begin,
nor till Henry gets here and understands it, so there will be plenty of
time.”
“If it is such a crazy old hulk,” Will said gravely, “ten to one
something will give way, and bury us all under the ruins.”
“We must take our chances,” Steve said heroically.
“There is one great objection to all this,” Will continued. “This
building is so far from our homes in the village.”
“Yes, that is too bad,” Steve sighed. “But we won’t mind that when we
consider all the fun in store for us. Why not go to the place now? Eh?
There’s lots of time, and we are so far on the way.”
“Hurrah!” cried the conspiring four. “Let us be off, as Steve says.”
They arose, and turned their faces up the river. The untenanted house
which was to be the field of operations was two miles farther up the
river, which flowed past it, but which, at that place, was so narrow that
it would require a very wide stretch of imagination to call it anything
else than a brook, or creek.
Stephen’s first proposal had been received, when fully explained, as so
decided an improvement that he now suggested another addition to the
plot. “Boys,” he said, “let us make a man of straw, or something, to look
like a scarecrow, and then stow it away in the house a day or two before
we do the rescuing. Then when Marmaduke and the rest of us arrive, we can
seize on it as the villain, and hang it to a fruit tree. Marmaduke can
be rescuing the prisoner at the time, and he’ll certainly think we are
hanging the persecutor.”
“We will see about that afterwards,” said George.
“Marmaduke has been more or less a Frenchman in his ideas ever since the
day he proudly wrote, ‘Nous a deux chiens,’ or in English, ‘We has two
dogs,’” Charles observed, intending to be very sarcastic.
But he could not speak French well--in fact, he could not speak it at
all. However, the others thought this must be a very weighty remark, and
so they laughed approvingly.
Then Charles continued, as though he took a fatherly interest in the lad:
“Perhaps this great conspiracy of ours may induce him to become a good
American again.”
Will’s conscience was now at work, and he said as severely as he knew
how: “It’s a shame to serve a boy of his notions such a boorish trick,
and you boys needn’t flatter yourselves that such a performance will do
him a bit of good. Let us explore the house as much as we please; but let
us give up the intention of preying on him.”
“No!” cried the others, with fixed determination, “We have hit on this,
and we’ll go through with it, if it makes our hair turn gray! Will, if
you want to leave us, after all, why, go ahead; but you would be a very
foolish fellow to do it. Come, now, give your reasons--what is there so
very wicked and horrible in our plot?”
“I am not a moralist, boys, and so I can’t explain it. All that I know
is, that it seems a mean thing to do. And, yes, I have a presentiment
that something terrible will happen.”
“So have I, boys,” Steve chimed in. “I have the worst kind of a
presentiment. But just to prove that presentiments are superstitions and
nonsense, I’m bound to help Charley work out his plot.”
“Well, then,” said Will resignedly, “if you _will_ do it, I promise to
stick by you through thick and thin.”
“Then it’s settled, boys,” said Charles eagerly. “And whatever happens,
we four will stick by each other, and hold on to our plot.”
“Yes,” commented the sage, bringing his learning into requisition, “we
four are a cabal, a faction, a junto, a party of intriguers, a band of--”
“--Of good-for-nothing school-boys,” Charles said quickly, not wishing to
be ranked as a greater personage than he was.
In due time the house was reached. It was a forlorn-looking building,
truly, and in a solitary place; but it was hardly so dilapidated as
Charles supposed. It was now old, uncared for, and weather beaten; but
when new, had been a handsome and pleasant house, suitable for a small
family. It was a story and a half in height, with four or five rooms on
the first floor and as many on the second. If built in a less dreary,
locality, it probably would never have been without a tenant. But the man
who built this wayside dwelling must have had more means than brains.
Even the rough boys of the village shunned this place; consequently,
after all these years, there was still here and there a whole pane of
glass in almost every window-sash. As for the doors, the best of them
had been taken away, and the two or three that remained, were, as may be
supposed, worthless and useless.
The floor of the first story was still sound. Up the creaking stairs the
plotters went recklessly, and found a state of even greater desolation
than below. The rooms here had never been particularly elegant, and now
they were filthy and horrible with accumulated dust, mould, and rubbish.
The roof was full of holes, through which the water evidently streamed
whenever it stormed. The roof was originally set off with two picturesque
chimneys; but inexorable Time had already demolished one, and was playing
havoc with the other.
Next they went to explore the cellar; but the earth had caved in and
partially filled it up, and it was so dark and loathsome that even the
hero Stephen hesitated to descend. Then, as the front door had been taken
away and the entrance secured with boards, they crawled through a window,
and once more gained the pure air.
All things considered, even a pirate would have shrunk from passing a
night in this house. But a peaceable, home-keeping ghost, in search of a
summer residence, could not have found a more suitable one than this. The
parlor would have served him admirably for a bed-room, while the dining
room could have been fitted up for a laboratory; and in case any chance
comers should intrude on him, he could have buried himself in the cellar,
where he would have been perfectly safe.
In fact, this was an excellent building for a ghost’s headquarters; but
it would require unlimited faith in romance to believe it a likely place
for a prison-house.
Evidently the plotters were dissatisfied with it, and Steve said
disconsolately, “Well, such a rum old bomb-shell of a hole I never saw! I
guess our plot will have to find other quarters, or else be given up.”
“Oh, we can come here and tinker it up,” Charles said hopefully.
“Yes, it’s bad enough; but it’s a good deal better than Charley seemed
to think,” Will observed. “As Steve says, or means, it isn’t exactly the
place that a French villain would choose for a prison, when the whole
world is before him.”
“Did we decide how the Frenchman was to bring his prisoner from France
to our sea-coast, and then on to this place?” George asked, beginning to
have a just appreciation of the difficulties that lay before them.
“It will be safe to leave all that for my cousin to arrange,” Will said
proudly. “He will make everything clear in the letter, I’m sure.”
“Of course he will,” Steve said promptly. “Now, I say, boys, there is one
thing that puzzles me: this place is worth exploring and I should like
nothing better than to ransack it again; but why have we never been here
before?”
“Exactly;” chimed in the Sage, as another doubt arose in his mind.
“Charley, if this place is really so worthless, and if it is free to all,
why haven’t we been in the habit of coming here often, to fool away our
time?”
Charley reflected a moment, and then said, boldly, “Well, if we look at
it as a play-house, it’s too far gone for that; and if we look at it as
a heap of romantic and interesting ruins, it isn’t gone far enough,--not
destroyed or broken down enough, for that;--so why should we want to come
here, except on account of our plot? There’s nothing else to draw us;
and ten to one we should never have thought of coming here at all, if it
hadn’t been for the plot. And as for being a place worth keeping up, I
don’t know about that; but the man it belongs to doesn’t seem to think it
is. Why, boys, we can have it all to ourselves; it will be just the place
for our prison.”
“Well,” said Steve, “by the time we get it cleaned, and scoured, and,
tinkered, and made respectable and ship-shape, we shall all be good
housekeepers, and housemaids, and masons, and carpenters, and tinkers,
and--and--. Boys,” suddenly, “we needn’t stand here staring in at this
window, when we haven’t been through the garden yet.”
The yard, or garden, was then viewed, as suggested; and certainly it
did not seem as though care or labor had been bestowed on it for many
years. It was overrun with a growth of luxuriant weeds and thistles; and
Charles,--the head plotter till Henry should arrive,--after escaping, by
a hair’s breadth, from being swallowed up in an out-of-the-way and only
partially covered old well, concluded that they had had glory enough for
one day, and proposed that they should go home.
So the heroic four turned their faces homewards, and jogged on, plotting
and exultant.
That night one of them was troubled with fitful and uneasy dreams,
in which he saw Marmaduke struggle manfully with frightful monsters,
fashioned of old clothes and villains; whilst hideous French whales
soared overhead, winked their wicked eyes, and swore they would catch
every boy and dismember him in the deserted and spectre-peopled house.
When the dreamer of this dream awoke, he muttered: “Well, this is a
presentiment; but, to prove that presentiments are humbugs, I’ll go
through with this plot of ours, if--”
Further comment is needless.
It is cruel in a romancer to anticipate, but sometimes it is necessary in
order to make both ends meet. In this case, it is justifiable; therefore
it may be said that as soon as the holidays began, frequent journeys
were made to ‘Nobody’s House,’ and the sound of the hammer and the saw,
together with strains of popular airs, rang out in its deserted chambers.
The plotters worked with a will, and with the utmost disregard for the
noxious vermin which abounded in their midst, and which they did not
attempt to exterminate. Their efforts were rewarded; for the house was so
transformed that the ghosts, who, in their heart of heart, they fancied
inhabited it, would have failed to recognize it.
In the upper story a dangerous place was found, where a person might fall
through the floor. This was marked out and avoided.
In this world everything proves useful one day or another; and this
house, after lying idle all these years, after being a nuisance to its
owner, a by-word in the community and a reproach to it, was at last to
prove of the greatest usefulness to these boys and to the writer of this
history.
It is now in order to return and chronicle the events that took place
before the holidays opened.
_Chapter XXX._
THE BLUNDERER AT WORK AGAIN.
Will was now at work on a very learned dissertation on “Philosophical
Ingenuity.” That is the name he gave it,--but the name had nothing
in common with the subject, “Socialism” would have been quite as
appropriate,--and according to his views, he handled it in a graphic,
original, and striking manner; and he was firmly convinced that he should
make a very good thing of it.
Poor boy, it was too bad, after all the pains he took.
What was too bad?
This. The same evening on which he wrote out his composition for the last
time, he sat up late and wrote to his cousin Henry, inviting him to come
and pay them a visit in the holidays.
When this boy (Will) gave Stephen gunpowder instead of fire crackers, and
again when he loaded Henry’s pistols with wads, his mistakes were glossed
over, and he himself was laughed at, rather than blamed. But _now_ the
truth must be made known; he cannot be excused any longer. Right over his
eyes, where the phrenologists locate order, there was a depression.
There, the secret is out, and the writer’s conscience is easy.
Boys, it is hard to have to deal with a hero who is not a paragon; but
you must be indulgent, and we will do our best.
After finishing and directing the letter to his cousin, Will went to bed
and slept peacefully, little dreaming of the thunderbolt which would soon
burst over his head, and which he himself had prepared.
Next morning he found his writing materials strewn over his table in
great confusion, and in a lazy, listless manner he set to work to put
them to rights.
In order to keep his composition, or “essay,” perfectly clean, he
intended to put it into an old envelope. Alas, poor boy, he made a
blunder, as usual; and mistaking the composition for the letter, he
thrust it into the envelope directed to Henry, which he sealed on the
spot, and stowed away in his pocket. Then he put the letter into the old
envelope and put it carefully away in his satchel.
Not one boy in fifty could possibly have made so egregious a blunder, but
nothing else could be expected from Will.
On this eventful day, the “essays,” as Teacher Meadows saw fit to call
them, were to be read, and the prize was to be delivered over to the
“successful competitor.”
Full of his expected triumph, Will set out for school. He _knew_ that
_his_ composition was good, and he could judge what the _others_’ would
be. He was a little uneasy about George and Charles, but as for the
rest--pshaw! the rest couldn’t write!
He imagined he saw his schoolmates watching him as he went home that
evening with about the biggest book ever printed. He even heard their
disappointed tones, and saw their sullen and envious looks, as he passed
through the streets.
And that old lady who often cast admiring glances towards him--she
would call next day and say, “Well, Mrs. Lawrence, your boy is just the
smartest boy in the whole village.”
In a day or so Stephen would drop in and let him know what was said about
it by the villagers in general, the schoolboys in particular.
And when his uncle and aunt heard the news, they would certainly be
overjoyed, and send him (just what he wanted, of course) a monkey! As
soon as it could be done, his father would buy him a little gun.
Full of these dreams, he went on, stopping at the post office to send, as
he supposed, his letter to Henry.
Time wore away, and the hour for the “essays” to be read, came at last.
Teacher Meadows took his seat, and they were laid on the desk before him.
Good man, he himself would read them all, lest the “composers” should
not do themselves justice.
Only a dozen or so had competed for the prize, but all these had done
their best, and the handwriting was so plain that it was a pleasure to
read it.
A few of the competitors’ parents and “well-wishers” were present, “to
see justice done to all,” as they pleasantly put it. But they served
only to increase the master’s pompousness and self-esteem, and the
“essayists’” bashfulness and inquietude; while they themselves were
surely neither very much instructed nor very much delighted.
In fact, the truth was probably forced home to the more intelligent of
the audience, that schoolboys and schoolgirls who would soar to the
pinnacle of fame by attempting to write beyond their capabilities,
generally find themselves floundering about in the slough of ignominious
failure.
Mr. Meadows certainly read the different compositions with great care and
earnestness, and took as much pains with the worthless ones as with the
tolerably good ones.
By some chance, Will’s was the last to be read, and dead silence was
observed till it was finished.
Whenever a new idea had struck the boy, he had set it down without the
slightest regard to consecutiveness; and if the same idea was afterwards
seen in a different light, he had promptly expressed his views, though in
the midst of a paragraph.
A mere handful of words had been sufficient for him on this occasion, and
these were repeated with unwearied persistency. A schoolboy writing a
letter excels in repetition, at least.
If either Mr. or Mrs. Lawrence had reviewed it for him it would not have
been so incomprehensible.
The letter ran as follows:
DEAR HENRY,--I am going to write to you all about us boys and
our doings, and tell you all about a great plot that all of us
are going to have. I received your letter of last month safe
and sound, and I expect you expected to hear from me right off.
But, Henry, I’ve had all sorts of things to do, and just now
we boys are trying for a prize. I expect it will be a beauty.
I would not write till it’s all over, but we boys want me to
write to you right off to come down and help us in a plot we’ve
got made up to impose on one of our number. I’ve been puzzling
over my essay for the prize for nearly three weeks or more (the
boys here don’t know that) or I should have written before;
and so, just to please them, I’m sitting up late and writing
to-night instead of day after to-morrow.
They expect it will be the most tremendous fun that ever was,
and of course it will. I’m rather tired of playing tricks, but
they say this isn’t playing tricks at all. In your last letter
you asked me if the boys were the same rum old poligars that
they used to be. I don’t know what that means, Henry, but I
guess the boys are just the same--only worse. Well, Henry, I
guess I’ll try and give you a better idea of them than I did
when I was with you. You know all their names; so first there
is Charley. He is a capital good sort of a fellow, and he often
helps me. But he is a very queer sort of a fellow, and he
thinks it’s tremendous big fun to use big words when he talks
with us--well, so do the others. It seems natural for George to
use them, but I don’t know why Steve does. I expect he thinks
it’s tremendous big fun too.
Stephen is a great fellow to play tricks. My father says if he
lives, and keeps on at this rate, he and the law will meet with
violence some of these days.
But I hope Stephen will never get into such trouble. He makes
us laugh more than all the other boys put together, and I
expect when you come down and we get fairly started rescuing
the captive, we’ll laugh ourselves sick in bed. Marmaduke, he’s
the one, is not to see you till in the haunted house.
Charley likes to have me tell him stories about the demon.
Marmaduke--he’s the next one to tell about. We boys are not
very well satisfied with the way we get on in French. We
haven’t a genuine Frenchman for a master, as you have. We
all like Mr. Meadows, but he has not the knack of making us
understand French, though he is a splendid teacher in other
things. But the boys all say that Marmaduke is satisfied.
Because he can write “A red-haired sailor dressed in blue
says the physician’s house is burnt,” “The king’s palace is
built on the river,” “The neighbor’s wicked little boy has
stolen the carpenter’s hammer,” and so on, he thinks he and
the French language understand each other. Mr. Meadows himself
isn’t satisfied with the Method he uses. One boy here says
the reason he doesn’t get a better one is because he studied
it when he was a boy, and, etc., etc. But that is a very mean
thing to say, eh, Henry? and I don’t believe it a bit. That’s
the reason we want you to come, to write us a good letter in
French. George is a nice boy. He always says, look here, boys,
when he has something on his mind. He reads a great deal, but
it doesn’t spoil him from being a boy a bit. Ask him what
he reads, and he’ll say, Oh, anything from an almanac to an
unabridged dictionary, and I expect that is so. Marmaduke is
just the wildest boy in his notions that I ever saw. The boys
mean to take advantage of this, and delude him. But I have
explained all that. Jim always, generally, goes with us, and he
is the most first-rate coward that I ever saw. We’ve shut him
out this time. But he is a nice fine boy in lots of things.
In reading over what I’ve written I’m afraid I haven’t
explained our plot at all, Henry; but it’s too long to explain
now, because I’m tired, Henry, and I expect to see you soon,
Henry, and then I can explain it better than I could in
writing. Perhaps I’ve written too much about the boys, but you
know just how much I think of them. They are all good fellows
and we would do almost anything for each other. We don’t care
much for the other boys here, only ourselves. I can tell you
this much about our plot, we pretend to rescue a prisoner out
of an old house. George calls it the necropolis, and Charley
the scare-crow’s factory; but Stephen has a better name--at
least, it sounds better. He calls it the Wigwam of the Seven
Sleepers. Last time I forgot to ask you to excuse my writing,
so I might as well now, this time. I’m too tired to write any
more this time, and my letter is pretty long, anyway. Don’t
wait to write again, but come as soon as possible next week,
for our plot will come off as soon as possible.
I am, I was, and I always mean to be,
YOUR SLEEPY COUSIN WILL.
_Chapter XXXI._
WILL MENDS HIS WAYS.
Teacher Meadows read this remarkable letter as though uncertain whether
he were asleep or awake. It would be difficult to describe the effect on
the “audience.” They were not particularly emotional people, but this
letter seemed to affect them strongly.