mistake he had made, and he listened, with the anguish of despair, while
Teacher Meadows read on remorselessly to the end. He could neither creep
under his seat nor steal out of the apartment. He knew that every eye was
fixed upon him--oh, what would people think! Once, when the letter was
nearly finished, he ventured to glance towards some of his school-mates;
but their faces were so full of anger, astonishment, and horror, that he
hastily looked in another direction.
But in the midst of all this suffering, there was one consolation--his
parents were unable to be present. He knew how grieved they would feel,
and so he rejoiced at their absence, and bore his misery as patiently as
he could.
And yet he was tortured almost beyond endurance. Oh, why had he written
so freely about his school-fellows in this letter? Why had he written so
disrespectfully about Mr. Meadows, who was always so kind to him?
Teacher Meadows, who scarcely ever spoke unkindly to his pupils, now said
to the hero, in a constrained and harsh voice: “I cannot understand how
any boy could think such a subject--say, rather, _want_ of subject--and
so free an expression of his views, could possibly win him the prize.”
In a low and faltering voice, Will said something about “a great mistake.”
“Oh, a _mistake_,” said Mr. Meadows. Then he added sarcastically: “That
is too bad; for if your friend Henry had received this letter, he would
have had a _very_ vivid idea of your comrades’ characteristics and of
your teacher’s incapacity.”
Then, remembering that others were present, he checked himself, and said
more mildly, “Will, I am disappointed in you; I had formed a much better
opinion of you. There, let it pass; I shall say no more about it.”
Poor boy, he was certainly to be pitied! Censure was to him intolerable;
and censure before all these people! Truly, he was being punished for his
carelessness.
After all, he had not said anything so very wicked about either teacher
or school-fellows; and perhaps an impartial judge would have decided
that, all things considered, the writer of such a letter deserved the
prize. But Mr. Meadows’ judgment was biassed; he felt insulted; and he
thought otherwise.
“But,” chuckles the astute reader, “surely Marmaduke could not be duped
after that!” We beg your pardon, gentle reader; but if you think that,
you are not skilled in the art of writing stories.
Marmaduke, also, was unable to attend school that day; and if you read
the letter carefully once more, you will perceive that it is so vague and
incoherent that no one except the four in the plot could make anything
out of it. Those who heard it would not perceive that any great danger
menaced Marmaduke; and even if they should warn him to be on his guard,
he would hardly connect this letter with the one he was to receive in due
time. No; Marmaduke would be as unsuspicious as ever, no matter how much
he might be warned.
And thus it happened that Will’s muddled wits preserved the plot.
But the other boys! Ah, they had reason to feel aggrieved and insulted!
All except George were indignant at poor foolish Will. Mr. Meadows had
decided that the odds were in favor of George, and, much to the chagrin
of four ink-loving youths who _knew_ they would win, he bore away the
prize. He was a philosopher, but not a stoic, and now supreme content
played over his visage. In fact, he felt so joyous and exultant that he
could laugh at Will’s blunder.
Not so, the others. Out of sight and hearing of the people, they pounced
on Will, (figuratively speaking,) and glared at him with the most
ferocious and horrible expression of countenance that they could put on.
Even good-natured Charles was vexed to be thus openly criticized, and he
said sullenly, “Well, Will, I guess you needn’t call our plot mean after
this.”
Will heaved a sigh, but said nothing.
“Look here, boys,” the winner of the prize interposed; “suppose that one
of us had been asked by a cousin a long way off to give an opinion of his
school-fellows, would it have been as mild and as sincere as the one Will
gave? I know that a great many boys would have said far meaner things
than Will did; for, when a boy comes to speak of his school-fellows, he
will hardly ever say a word in their praise. I’ve often wondered why it
is,” musingly, “and I think sometimes a boy is a blockhead, anyway. Well,
perhaps it isn’t so; perhaps I’m mistaken. Come, Charley; be just to poor
Will.”
“Listen to the orator!” mockingly observed a defeated competitor [not
one of the six]. “He talks as though he made it a business to study a
‘school-fellow’s’ habits!”
“The prize has made an oracle and a hero of him,” chimed in another, who
probably felt that there was more or less truth in the Sage’s remarks.
“What’s the name of his prize, anyway?” queried still another defeated
one, with considerable interest in his tones, but not deigning to glance
towards the victor.
“Oh, it’s some mighty _good_ book, I suppose;” answered the first
speaker. “In fact, so _good_, that it’s _bad_!”
The four inky-fingered youths who _knew_ they would win, thought this so
comical that they laughed derisively.
George’s eyes flashed fire and his blood boiled, but he said, as calmly
as he could, “I’ve often noticed that boys that guess at things hardly
ever hit the mark. Now, your ideas about this prize are very wild; for
it’s about a midshipman’s cruise round the world.”
The four defeated ones scowled at him, and one of them said, as he turned
to go, “Well, boys, we might as well be off, for these fellows don’t care
for us, they say.”
And they strode away, leaving the four plotters together.
It may not be pertinent to the subject to picture here so dark a side of
life, but now the reader will understand why the six avoided the society
of the other boys of the village, and clung to each other. Poor fellows,
with all their faults, they were free from such jealous passions.
As soon as they found themselves alone, George said eagerly, “Come,
Charles, don’t be too hard on Will.”
“Well, George, I don’t know but that you’re right in what you said,”
Charles admitted; “but it was very unpleasant for us, and what will
people think?”
“Pshaw! what do we care about that!” the Sage exclaimed contemptuously,
hugging the prize to his bosom. “After all, I don’t know but that Will
said more in favor of us than against us; and wasn’t it worse for him
than for us? If he can bear it, _we_ can.”
“George is quite right,” Stephen declared. “Will is more to be pitied
than all of us put together.”
“I don’t want anybody’s pity,” Will said sourly.
“Marmaduke and Jim got it the worst,” said Steve. “The only thing that
troubles me at all, is that our plot is spoiled;” in a doleful tone.
“Spoiled! How is it spoiled?” the Sage inquired. “Marmaduke wasn’t there
to hear the letter, and no one else could make any sense out of it.--I--I
mean,” he added quickly, “no one would know what it meant.”
“Well, how are we to patch it up again?” Charles asked uneasily.
“I think we had all better make up friends with Will this minute, and
get him to write to his cousin again,” George said, smiling brightly.
Charles and Stephen were of the same opinion, but poor Will was in a bad
humour, and he said sullenly, “I won’t write to him any more; so that you
needn’t make up with me on that account.”
The boys were appalled. George’s words had revived hope in their breast,
but now it seemed that their darling scheme must fail; for, without
Henry to write the letter and help them forward, it would be only a
humdrum affair; and unless Will would send for him, he perhaps would not
come--or, if he should come, he would spend all his time with Will, and
have nothing to do with them. Consequently, the three crowded round Will,
made him so sensible of his own importance, and played their parts so
well, that he finally smiled, relented, and promised to do any thing they
wished.
“And you will write soon, won’t you?” Charles asked eagerly.
“Yes; I’ll write as soon as I can;” Will returned. “Say, boys,”
anxiously, “do any of you know what Mr. Meadows did with my--my letter?”
“Yes; he kept it for a witness against you;” wickedly and promptly
answered quick-witted Stephen.
“Jim is the next one for us to deal with,” said George; “and,” sighing
profoundly, “there’s the rub!”
Then Charles, who had been reading a novel of the “intensely interesting”
sort, said jocosely, “Perhaps we can buy his silence.”
“As the nervous old gentleman said when he gave a nickel to a little boy
to stop his noise,” Steve subjoined.
“He will have to be soothed and let into our councils,” the Sage
observed, “and perhaps it will be just as well, because we shall need
more than five to manage our plot, and ‘the more, the merrier,’ you know.”
“I know something, too; I know that ‘too many cooks spoil the pudding,’”
said Steve, in a tone of melancholy foreboding.
“Stephen Goodfellow, we are not cooks!” Charles retorted.
Soon afterward the plotters separated; Will, to go sorrowfully homeward;
George, to hasten gladly to his parents and be congratulated on his
success; Charles and Stephen to find, “soothe,” and let into their
councils, the boy called Jim.
It is sufficient to say that Jim was overjoyed to take part in their
plot, though vexed at them for having kept him in the dark so long, and
at Will for having spoken of him as a “first-rate coward.”
Thus the bad effects of the exchanged composition were remedied, though
mischief enough had been done by causing Teacher Meadows to have a bad
opinion of Will. And Will, foolish boy, fancied that by this means he had
been cheated out of the prize.
Perhaps it was the best thing that could possibly have happened to him,
for, from that day forward, he cultivated order so assiduously and
determinedly that in course of time he became more orderly than even
George. He vowed to wreak dire vengeance on himself if such a mishap
should ever again befall him, and it was noticed by his mother and
schoolfellows that his ridiculous blunders were on the decrease. With
all his belongings in perfect order, it was much easier to keep out of
trouble; especially, as he was also more circumspect in all his movements
than heretofore.
An additional advantage. Two bumps, one over each eye, took root, and
grew, and grew, and continued to grow, till they bulged out exceedingly.
Not knowing the cause of this, Will continued to cultivate order, and
his bumps continued to grow and bulge out, till he became the most
distinguished looking youth in the village.
Boys, never mind the bumps, but take the moral to heart, and if any of
you are untidy, reform before your want of order exposes you to disgrace
and pain, as Will’s did him.
_Chapter XXXII._
THE ARCH-PLOTTER ARRIVES.
On the next day Will wrote another letter to his cousin, in which he
invited him to come and pay them a visit. He gave a rambling explanation
of the “essay,”--which, he thought, would not only puzzle, but also
astound, poor Henry--and avoided mentioning his school-fellows at all.
In fact, he had resolved in his mind that hereafter, in writing letters,
he would confine himself to the matter in hand, and not discourse on the
virtues and vices, the wisdom and folly, of his school-fellows. As for
the plot, he said simply that they had “a game on foot,” filling up his
letter by giving an interesting record of the weather for the past month,
and a touching account of a lump on his horse’s hind leg.
Will posted his letter with a light heart, feeling that his presentiments
must have related to the exchanged composition, and that now all would be
well.
In the eloquent words of sundry novelists: “It was well for him that he
could not look into the future.”
The holidays had now begun, and, as was said above, the plotters spent a
great part of their time in fitting up the deserted house, which was to
be the scene of their comedy--or tragedy, as the event should prove.
Having done this, the plotters, Jim included, again assembled in solemn
council, to deliberate on certain features of their plot. They wished
to make themselves thoroughly acquainted with all the details, so that
everything should work smoothly.
“Now, when Henry comes,” said Will, “we must meet him at the station, and
keep him out of Marmaduke’s sight till he sees him in the ‘Wigwam’ as
the captive. Marmaduke will be all unprepared, and will take him for the
captive without a doubt.”
“Yes,” Charles assented; “but will Henry consent to be rigged out as a
French captive?”
“Oh, he will have to do that,” said Will; “he will have to do whatever we
tell him; and _we_ shall have to do whatever he tells us. Oh, we shall
work together just like a--a--like a--”
“Like the works of a clock,” suggested Steve, never at a loss for a
simile, however inapt it might be.
“Well,” Charles observed, “let us make a being of straw, or old clothes,
to look like a discomfited tramp in effigy, and then hang him out of a
window up-stairs. Marmaduke will take it for the persecuting captor,
of course. And besides, we shall want something to do while Henry and
Marmaduke are rescuing each other. This is your idea, Steve,” he added,
“and I give you all the credit for it.”
All the plotters were in favor of doing this, and so _that_ question was
settled.
Jim--who bore the plotters a grudge for not having acquainted him with
their designs till forced to do so--was suddenly struck with a peculiarly
“bright” idea. He said nothing to them, but chuckling grimly to himself,
he muttered fiendishly: “It would serve ’em right, I guess, anyway!”
Stephen was suddenly struck with a horrible fear; he gasped faintly:
“Boys!--say, boys! Oh, dear! Boys, won’t the French young lady be
supposed to speak in her own language? And how could Marmaduke understand
that?--that is, if Henry could speak it right along?”
The plotters were appalled. With consternation in every face, they stared
at each other in utter hopelessness, whilst their beloved plot tottered
on its foundations.
But presently the Sage, with his customary philosophy, came to the
rescue. Said he: “Look here, boys, all that is necessary is to have
the captor and the wicked jailers teach the beautiful captive to speak
English, broken English, a little. Alas, it seems to me that this captive
will be an endless trouble to us, and I think Henry will wish himself
himself again. Yes, I shall be glad when its all over.”
“Never mind;” said Stephen. “Now, this broken English will settle _that_
question; but, Will, can Henry speak broken--I mean _cracked_--English?”
“Of course he can,” said Will confidently; “he can do anything.”
The self-styled conspirators breathed freely, for their plot was now
established on a firm foundation.
The work of fashioning a “being” progressed rapidly; and the day
before Henry arrived they put the finishing touches to an object that
was a monstrosity indeed. If the curious reader wishes to know what
this object, or “being,” or monstrosity, looked like, let him turn
to the picture of the fourth giant in his baby brother’s “handsomely
illustrated” “Jack the Giant-Killer.” The resemblance between that giant
and this “being” is striking.
Yes; they had hit upon their vocation at last; and if they should remove
to the haunts of savages in the Polynesian islands, or in the unexplored
regions of Africa, and set up in business as idol-makers, their fame and
fortune would soon be an accomplished fact.
But this story drags already; so let it be sufficient to add that the
“impostor,” as they fondly called it, was lovingly and secretly conveyed
to the lone house, and hidden away till it should be needed.
Thus time passed with the plotters. They often had great difficulty in
keeping all their movements and plans a secret from Marmaduke; more than
once he came upon them in their journeys to and fro, and it was only by
using the greatest tact that they prevented him from following them to
the old building.
Poor Marmaduke! he was at a loss to know why the boys should act in so
strange a manner. He would come upon them sometimes, seated, and talking
earnestly; but the moment they caught sight of him, all were silent. At
last he began to think that he had offended them in some way--how, he
could not guess. However, the time when he should be rudely awakened was
at hand.
Henry Mortimer, the boy-lover of the sweet little blue-eyed heroine,
was somewhat surprised to receive through the post a very learned
dissertation on “Philosophical Ingenuity;” but two days afterwards
Will’s letter of explanation and invitation followed it, and then he was
all eagerness to be off, as he anticipated having a delightful visit
with his cousin and his aunt. But there were other reasons why he was
glad to go away from home for a few days, or even weeks. _His_ school,
also, had closed for the holidays; and consequently, he saw but little
of--(It must be tiresome to the reader to see the writer of this history
continually using circumlocution in speaking of this little girl, but
as there are private reasons why her name should not be made known,
he [the helpless reader] will have to make the best of it.) Moreover,
a handsome and clever youth, a first cousin of the little blue-eyed
heroine’s, was spending the holidays at her parents’, with her elder
brother; and Henry’s feverish imagination (poor boy, he was jealous as
ever) immediately conjectured that he and she would fall in love with
each other! To be sure they were first cousins; but Henry had latterly
taken to the bad habit of reading English novels, and so he let his
fears get the better of his judgment, and thought it only logical that
she should eventually shake him off, and marry the cousin. As if to
confirm his fears, he had seen her, the heroine who had given him the
glass ink-bottle, walking down the side-walk, accompanied by the stalwart
cousin. This had worked his jealous passions up to boiling heat, but
feeling his utter helplessness, he had affected to be unconcerned; and
now, to prove how little he cared, he would go away on a visit, and
stay--well, _perhaps_ he might stay two weeks.
Preparations were immediately begun, but it was hard for Mr. and Mrs.
Mortimer to part with their son, if for only a short time. The “game on
foot” hinted at in the letter troubled the latter--the more so, as she
was aware of her son’s recklessness, and was firmly persuaded that her
young nephew was totally devoid of common sense. But, at last, when the
holidays were a week old, the redoubtable hero departed, with repeated
warnings to keep out of danger, and to be very, _very_ careful of
himself, ringing in his ears.
The same day Will was delighted in two different ways. He received a
telegram, directed to _himself_. Delight number one.
The telegram ran as follows:--
“Your cousin Henry will be there to-morrow morning; meet him.
“M. MORTIMER.”
Delight number two.
Will hastened to inform his fellow-plotters of this good news, and joy
reigned among them all.
The next morning came, and with it came Cousin Henry. Each one of the
heroes, except Marmaduke, was at the depot to welcome him; each one was
struck with his commanding appearance; each one thought what a beautiful
heroine he would make. Proudly, but very awkwardly, Will introduced them
to each other, and then proposed to his cousin that he should bind a
handkerchief loosely over his head, so that it should partially conceal
his features.
“What for?” asked Henry, with surprise. “I haven’t the tooth-ache, nor
I’m not ashamed to be seen.”
“Yes, but there’s a boy here not in our plot; and if he should happen to
see you, all would be spoiled,” Will pleaded.
“We might meet him, any minute, Henry, for he’s always prowling round at
this time of day,” Stephen chimed in.
Stephen and Henry looked each other full in the face: congenial spirits
met.
“Well,” said Henry resignedly, “go ahead, and trick me out as you
please.” Then, a woe-begone look overspreading his face, he added: “There
is no one here to know me, so that it makes no difference how I am
trussed up.”
Ah! his heart was with the loved ones at home, and he cared little what
these boys did with him.
But “tricked out” and “trussed up!” Those words took well with the simple
village boys; they held their breath for admiration.
Then the cleanest handkerchief (which was Henry’s own) that could
be found, was bound about his head, so as to flap over his mouth
unpleasantly, and wanton in the sultry July breeze.
Needless precaution, for nothing was seen of Marmaduke.
Weary as Henry must have been after his long journey, he was hurried away
to one of the boys’ retreats, in a retired quarter of Mr Lawrence’s
garden. At first the boys were quite reserved, for Henry had been
represented to them as a very extraordinary personage; but in the course
of half an hour they became as well acquainted with him as if they had
known him from the days of the plesiosaurus dolichodeirus.
For a full hour they talked almost at random; narrating their late
adventures with Bob, touching gingerly upon Will’s last lamentable
blunder, and giving a minute, but bewildering and disjointed, account of
their darling scheme.
Then, after Henry had received confused notions of various matters, the
party dispersed; and the poor boy was allowed to see his aunt and uncle,
wash, partake of some food, and snatch a wink of sleep.
They had appointed to meet early in the afternoon, to discuss their plot
in all its bearings, and to have Henry compose the vexatious letter; but
he and Will spent a short but very pleasant time in each other’s company,
and when the hour came for them to repair to the rendezvous, the former
had grasped the boys’ idea, and mapped out his own course.
To say that Henry was delighted with this plot, would be to do him gross
injustice--in fact, to speak out boldly, since yesterday the writer has
racked his brains in a vain endeavor to hit upon some single adjective
that would adequately describe the boy’s ecstasy.
_Chapter XXXIII._
“A LESSON IN FRENCH.”
“Here we are!” Steve joyously exclaimed, as the last one of the plotters
arrived at the rendezvous in Mr. Lawrence’s garden. “And now, then, let
us go to work.”
“Are you perfectly sure this Marmaduke will believe the letter is
genuine, and fly to the rescue?” Henry asked dubiously.
“He would believe anything, Henry,” Charles rejoined “And the more
romantic the letter is, the more he will believe it.”
“Why,” said Steve, “I shouldn’t be surprised if he falls in love when he
meets you all tricked up--tricked _out_--as a heroine!”
Henry smiled grimly, but said nothing.
“Oh, no,” said George dogmatically. “Henry’s eyes are blue, and so are
Marmaduke’s; and you know--at least, I’ve often read--that people alike
in that respect seldom fall in love with each other.”
Oh, how indignant Henry was! Who was this impertinent little boy, who had
opinions (and such opinions!) on all topics?
“Are you in the habit of reading love-stories?” he asked curiously.
“No,” said the Sage slowly, “I’ve never read many genuine love-stories; I
don’t care much for them; they’re not solid enough.”
“You’ll see the day when you’ll care to read nothing else,” said Henry,
melodramatically.
Perceiving that the plotters were looking at him intently, he said
hurriedly, for he did not wish these boys to guess his secret, “You
haven’t told me yet when the plot is to come off.”
“We never settled that ourselves; but if to-morrow evening is pleasant,
let us go then,” said Will.
“We have had so many unfortunate expeditions in the night that I think we
had better set some other time,” the Sage observed.
“The evening is the time, of course;” said Henry decisively. “We can take
care of ourselves, I think, if we try. To-morrow forenoon I must disguise
myself and go and see this old house with some of you; and then, as we
are coming back, if the rest of you could come up with Marmaduke, I could
hide, and look on while he ‘finds’ the letter. Have you settled that
point yet?”
“Yes,” said Charles, “we planned to fix the letter in a bottle, and fling
it into the river a few rods above him. The river, you know, flows past
the house; so that when he reads the letter he’ll think the prisoner
threw the concern into the river, and that it floated down. Marmaduke
will think that is romance itself.”
“I understand,” Henry commented; “and when we write the letter we can say
something to that effect. Now, what do you say to mixing up a priest in
the plot?”
“A priest?” they asked, at a loss to guess his intent.