open to reason, and said no more about interjections.
From time to time every boy except Marmaduke was irresistibly tempted
to shoot a cheering glance toward Henry; but whenever this worthy could
catch an offender’s eye through the leafy branches, he scowled so
horribly that the offender instantly beheld something very attractive
down the river.
“Now then, let us draw our conclusions,” said Marmaduke; “first, where
can this prison be?”
“The letter says up this stream,” the Sage returned. “I--I guess perhaps
it must be ‘Nobody’s House.’”
“That place! George, you are getting very crazy to say that! Well, we
shall see as we go up the river; for, of course, as soon as we see the
prison we shall know it’s the prison. Now, boys, see what an interesting
fact is given us. The letter is dated July 10th, yesterday; therefore it
has been floating only one day! How fast the current has swept it along!”
The boys had paid no attention to the date that Henry affixed to the
letter, but they did not think the velocity very great.
“But, boys, there are some things strange in this;” Marmaduke observed.
“In fact, there is one thing very strange--yes, _very_ strange.”
The plotters, Henry included, quaked with fear. Was their ingenious
scheme, the much-loved plot, which had cost so much “blood and treasure,”
to come to nought? Had Marmaduke detected some flaw in the letter which
had escaped their notice? Were they about to be unmasked in all their
wickedness?
O plotters, your scheme, which was based and reared on fraud, was to
proceed successful to the end.
“Wh-what is wrong?” Charley asked, with a quavering voice, his lips of
that “ashy hue” which good romancers delight in introducing.
“Why,” Marmaduke began, “don’t you observe, sometimes the writer
addresses the finder distantly in the third person, and then again
familiarly and imploringly in the second person! Now, that is ridiculous.
Grammar says not to mix the second and third persons together in writing;
use either the one or the other.”
At this, Henry crammed the strings of his headgear, together with his
fingers, far into his capacious mouth, and forgot that the limb on which
he roosted was no longer comfortable; whilst the others heaved an audible
sigh of relief, perceiving that Marmaduke, instead of wishing to find
fault with the letter, wished only to display his great knowledge of
things and people in general, grammar in particular.
But the plotters, one and all, had been in ignorance of this gross insult
to grammar. Whether Henry had not been aware of the rule as quoted by
Marmaduke, or whether he had been too sleepy to observe it, is an open
question. It is stated (he stated it himself, of course, for no one heard
him), however, that he muttered in his throat: “Certainly, this Marmaduke
is no boy at all! His language is too far-fetched for a Yankee boy. Yes;
he is some stunted old crack-brained dwarf of sixty!”
As soon as Charley could collect himself sufficiently he replied in
these words: “I presume that the captive was in too disturbed a state of
mind to pay particular attention to such minor matters as grammar. And
besides, her grammars were probably at home in France, for likely she
didn’t go aboard with a satchel of school-books in her hand. Now, the
_person_ considered most was evidently the _person_ who should fly to the
rescue.”
“Don’t treat her woes so lightly,” Marmaduke said angrily, beginning to
suspect that the boys were making fun of him.
“That ghost story is queer; what do you think of it?” asked Will, anxious
to have the grammarian’s opinion of that.
“Well, you know the French are a more excitable and romantic race than
we are,” was the answer. “In her solitude and misery perhaps she fancies
that ghosts are hovering near, for all French people have a powerful
imagination.”
Ah! the boy overhead was gifted with a more powerful imagination than any
one believed.
“Or,” continued Marmaduke, recollecting what he had read in a book at
home, “or, who knows but that it is some trick of Scélérat’s to terrify
her? Perhaps the monster thinks to drive her distracted!”
“Perhaps he does,” sighed Steve.
“Marmaduke, how do you suppose Bélître Scélérat managed to transport the
prisoners from his yacht to this prison?” George had the curiosity to ask.
The deceived one ruminated a moment and then said sagely: “Well, as
modern Frenchmen are so perfectly at home in balloons, for all we know
they came that way. It would not take long, and the authorities could not
overhaul them.”
“The very thing!” cried delighted Stephen. “And when we go to the rescue
we can capture the balloon, if it is still there! Yes, I’ve heard before
that Frenchmen love balloons.”
“Stephen,” shouted Marmaduke, “you have no finer feelings.”
“Well, let us hurry to the rescue!” Charles said impatiently. “Come, when
shall we go?”
“I am to be your leader in this, because I take more real interest in
the prisoner than any of you,” Marmaduke returned. “Yes, _I_ must be the
favored one to restore her to freedom. As to when the rescue can be made,
I can’t possibly complete my arrangements till next week.”
The boys stared blankly, knowing that it would never do to defer the
“rescue” till the next week. Marmaduke would certainly detect the
imposture before that time.
Charles, however, soon recovered his equanimity, and said calmly: “That
would be very wrong, for don’t you know the writer says she shall go mad
if not rescued immediately? And she urges the finders to come this week,
as Bélître Scélérat will be away. We are only boys, of course; but we are
pretty lively boys, and more than a match for all his jailers.”
“Yes; but I want to meet this very man, this Scélérat.”
“O dear!” groaned Will, “if he is so anxious to meet the Atrocious, I’m
afraid he’ll pounce on the ‘impostor’ as we go to hang it!”
Poor Will! The plot had quite turned his brain!
“Try chivalry again,” Stephen whispered to Charles.
“Well, we are too chivalrous to put off the rescue, only because one of
us wishes to encounter this Bélître Scélérat,” cunning Charley observed.
“At least,” he added, “I hope we are too chivalrous--in France they would
be.”
In his hands chivalry was a mighty lever, one by which foolish Marmaduke
could be turned, and made to act as they saw fit.
“Well, then, let us go this evening,” Marmaduke answered.
The plotters were delighted. By skilful management their would-be leader
proved very tractable.
Will, who had hitherto held his peace, now exclaimed with unfeigned
enthusiasm, “How eagerly Sauterelle will welcome us!”
A grievous frown darkened the champion’s brow. Confronting Will, he
thundered: “How dare you boys speak of her in that way?--her, the
daughter of one of France’s proudest nobles! When it is necessary to
mention her name, speak of her as the Lady de la Chaloupe.”
Henry did not know whether to feel complimented or not. He was slowly
forming a very unfavorable opinion of Marmaduke, not knowing that the
boy was now in his element, and hardly responsible for his actions. When
nothing mysterious occurred to arouse him, Marmaduke was very much like
any other boy; but let him stumble upon a mystery, and he was entirely
changed.
But Stephen, fearing that Marmaduke did not yet sufficiently realize the
magnificence of the duke’s genealogy and title, said excitedly, “That
Duke Chalopsky is the descendant of a whole gang of peers, and lords, and
such people, just like any other duke; isn’t he Marmaduke?”
Will trembled and whispered, “Hush!”
The deceived knight-errant felt insulted, and asked, haughtily, “What do
_you_ know about it, Stephen Goodfellow?”
Stephen quaked, but finally answered meekly, very meekly, “Oh, I’ve
studied about dukes that ran back to the Conquest of something or other,
and so I thought likely he did.”
The Conquest! Marmaduke’s face brightened; he smiled; he spoke. “O-o-h,
Stephen!” he said, “your notions of history are as much a muddle as all
your other notions! But I haven’t time to enlighten you now. Now, boys,”
he continued, affably, “let us take a lesson from Will and his cousin
when they set out to hunt the demon. We must not carry firearms, but we
must go armed with pikes and sabres.”
“Where shall we procure ‘pikes and sabres?’” Steve, no longer confused,
but smarting and angry, sarcastically asked. “_I_ can’t imagine,
unless we carve ’em out of broomsticks and staves, and such ‘pikes and
sabres’ don’t amount to much. So, let us go to the rescue armed like
the dusty warriors of the forest--with hatchets, and bows, and George’s
grandfather’s great knife, and slings, and levers, and catapults, and
arrows.”
Steve probably meant _dusky_ warriors. However, either expression is
correct.
Marmaduke very properly paid no attention to Steve’s insulting
suggestions, but condescended to ask, “How many jailers do you suppose
there will be?”
“There were to be three, weren’t there, boys?” Will blunderingly replied
to him, and asked of the others.
“Why, how do _you_ know?” Marmaduke asked in surprise. “The letter says
nothing about the number of jailers; so, how can _you_ tell? What do you
mean, anyway, Will?”
Will looked so disconcerted that Marmaduke, although his faith in
Sauterelle was still unshaken, began to suspect that the boys were trying
to impose on him in some way.
At this crisis the traitor Jim grinned, and said, “Well, you fellows
needn’t make faces at me after this! Will has said worse than I did.”
Let it not be supposed that Jim’s treachery lay in seeking to overthrow
the plot. By no means; he rejoiced in it, and spoke as he did only to
revenge himself on the others for scowling at him so wickedly, as related
in the beginning of this chapter. Such was Jim, who could bear malice
for a long time; while the others, although they might be very angry for
a few minutes, soon subdued their passions, and _never_ “nursed their
wrath.”
And yet these unguarded words nearly made an end of the entire plot. It
was now in real danger; again it tottered on its foundation. Only the
greatest tact and presence of mind could save it from utter destruction.
Charles was the one to avert such a disaster, and he said jokingly,
as though the salvation of the plot did not depend on him: “Here are
two extraordinary juveniles; one thinks because a white man in his
school-book was captured by Indians and guarded by three jailers, _every_
captive is bound to have just three! The other thinks because a boy makes
a face at him he is brewing some great wickedness!”
It was not so much the words he said as the nonchalant way in which
he said them. The happy boldness of acknowledging that somebody had
“made faces” at Jim disarmed Marmaduke, and for the time, at least, his
suspicions were allayed.
Will had too much sense to be offended at being thus ridiculed. If he had
answered back sharply, a quarrel would certainly have ensued, and then
the plot would as certainly have been blown up. As for Jim, though sulky
and wrathful, he also held his peace.
_Chapter XXXVI._
TO THE RESCUE!
The plot was saved; but the plotters saw that a great deal of immoral
scheming was required to keep it up, and that, after all, it was
a volcano which might at any moment--not exactly “hurl them to
destruction,” but tear itself to pieces.
The time and place of meeting were then appointed, and all the boys
departed for their respective homes; all excepting Will and Stephen, who
lingered to escort Henry.
As soon as the homeward-bound party was out of sight, the latter
slid down from his perch, stretched himself with many a groan, and
readjusted the knight-errant’s sun-bonnet, as, the plot being now so near
completion, he was very anxious to take every precaution.
“Well,” he growled, “it took you a mighty long time to arrange matters;
and that tree is the most abominably uncomfortable and hard-hearted tree
that I ever saw. Boys,” dolefully, “I don’t like this hiding around in
strayed forest trees, and it is a good thing you persuaded him not to
wait till next week, for I couldn’t have kept out of his sight so long.”
“Well, what do you think of him!” Will asked eagerly.
“Oh, he is as much like a musket as a boy,” Henry replied indifferently.
“But,” with some show of interest, “what did he mean by wanting to sail
out on the raft, just to get the bottle?”
“Oh,” said Will, “Marmaduke thinks if it is worth while to do anything,
it is worth while to do it with great ceremony. If the raft had been
where he supposed it was, and if we had let him alone, he would have
spent half an hour floating around after the bottle, and very likely have
got as wet as if he had gone in swimming for it with his clothes on!”
After digesting this explanation, Henry proposed that they also should go
home. Will and Stephen were agreed, and the trio slunk off towards the
village as fearfully as if a minion of the law were in hot pursuit. Now
that their plot was an accomplished fact, it would be very unfortunate if
they should be caught napping.
After supper Henry was joined by Stephen, and the two archplotters set
out for “Nobody’s House” in the most exuberant spirits. Already Henry
felt a little tired, (let it be remembered that he had not yet recovered
from the effects of the preceding day’s journey,) and he was obliged to
get Stephen to carry a mysterious-looking bundle which he had brought
away from his aunt’s. This bundle contained the fantastic “disguise” in
which Henry was to figure as Sauterelle.
From the tender age of two years, Stephen had been a regular attendant
of picnics, where he had imbibed many extravagant notions, and arrived
at a very boyish and extremely absurd conclusion respecting lovers.
According to his views, a lover is a young man, who, after perfuming his
handkerchief and smearing his head with hair-oil, escorts a young lady
to a picnic, breaks her parasol, fails to provide ice-cream enough, and
finally sees her escorted home under the protection of his hated rival.
“Henry,” he said, as they hurried on, “I saw Marmaduke tricked out for
the rescue, and, he didn’t mean me to find it out, but I did; he had put
hair-oil on his head, and, as he had no scent, _on his handkerchief,
too_! Henry, I was so--so--”
“Demoralized?”
“That’s the word, Henry. I was so demoralized that I said, without
thinking: ‘why, Marmaduke,’ said I, ‘you look more like a genuine lover
than any boy I ever saw!’”
“And what did he say to that?”
“Nothing; but he looked so insulted and heart-broken that I apologized,
and told him he was a bully boy, and I always was a fool, anyway. Well,
Henry, when he comes to the rescue, things will be lively, according to
that, eh?”
“Well, Steve, I once cured a brave boy of his bravery, and if I don’t
cure this fellow of his romance and credulousness, I shall at least make
awful fools of us both.”
“How did you cure a boy of being brave?” Stephen asked eagerly, regarding
Henry with respect and admiration.
But here the writer remorselessly shifts the scene to the others.
As soon after the departure of Henry and Stephen as was prudent, the
“brave men” who were to be the rescuers--Will, Charles, George, Jim,
and the heroic “leader,” Marmaduke--assembled and set out for the
rendezvous, armed very much as Stephen had suggested.
Visions of figuring on future battle-fields of Europe as Marshal
Marmaduke Fitz-Williams flitted through the hero’s brain, and he strove
to deport himself with as martial an air as possible. But such an air
hardly ever sits easy on a school-boy’s shoulders.
“Comrades,” he began, using, as far as he knew how, the identical
phraseology of a French soldier when addressing his companions in arms,
“comrades, we are embarking in a hazardous undertaking, but the nobleness
of our work will spur us on to deeds of victory. It is a noble deed that
we are called on to perform--the release of a daughter of one of the
potentates of earth! Let this thought inspire us with enthusiasm! Let
us fly to the rescue, fixed in the resolution to win or die! We shall
warrior like the doughty knights of old!”
Poor hero! he had yet to learn that _warrior_ is not used in that way.
His eloquence, however, was entirely lost on his hearers, it being too
grandiloquent for even the Sage to appreciate; and like many another
orator, he but “wasted his sweetness on the desert air.”
“Fellow-soldiers,” he continued, “I will use my influence to procure your
promotion, and you will all one day be renowned generals of the empire.”
Alas! about the time the speaker took to singing love-songs and reading
love-stories that empire was disrupted!
“That about the emperor’s wanting one more general was a good stroke, eh,
Will?” Charles whispered.
It would be foreign from the purpose to record all Marmaduke’s bombastic
speeches as he and his fellows marched to the field of battle. Let it be
taken for granted that in due time they drew up before the fortress.
Marmaduke reconnoitred the grim old building with its grated windows
and formidable door, and soon decided that here was the prison, though
it was patent to all that he was disappointed, having expected greater
things--having, in short, expected to see a structure bearing more or
less resemblance to the Bastile itself.
Marmaduke screened himself behind the dilapidated fence, and called out,
in commanding tones: “Hist! I call a halt!”
As his troops had already halted, they sat down, thinking that if Henry
and Stephen were not yet prepared to receive them this delay would be in
their favour.
“Corporal James Horner, do you perceive a sentinel on guard before the
prison?” the would-be commander asked.
“Corporal Horner,” who could not see that part of the prison so well as
the questioner himself, was struck with awe, and answered timidly, “No,
sir, I don’t see nobody.”
“_Sir_ to me! You would do better to call me _General_.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim returned, feeling his terrible chills creeping on.
“Lieutenant Lawrence,” said the young general, “keep order among your
forces! Positively, no straggling!”
The newly-made lieutenant executed his superior’s orders promptly and
effectually. “If he keeps on at this rate,” he whispered to George,
“there will be fun enough to last for a year! Oh, if Henry and Steve were
only here to enjoy it!”
“Silence in the ranks!” roared the general. “Commodore Charles Growler, I
call a council of war.”
This was too much for the more deeply read George, and he cut short the
general’s programme, saying: “A _commodore_ commands a squadron of ships.
There are no ships here that I know of--only a _squad_ of boys.”
The general was nonplussed. He even felt inclined to dismiss this
arrogant fellow from the service; but fears of encountering a swarm of
armed jailers induced him not to dismiss so good a warrior as the Sage
was known to be. So, after deliberating a moment, he said, meekly enough,
“Boys, we are only losing time here. Let us make a charge, and burst the
door open, and then we can fight our way right on.”
Burst open the door! Then indeed the timbers of their raft would be
destroyed! But this was no time to reason with Marmaduke, and they
consented to the sacrifice cheerfully.
Charles very readily came upon what had once been a pump; and after great
and violent efforts the corporals, lieutenants, commodores, generals,
etc., succeeded in raising it to their shoulders; and then, with
soldier-like disregard for the hideous grubs which nestled on it, they
marched, with martial tread, to force an entrance into the prison.
“This will do instead of a genuine ram,” the general observed
deprecatingly. “Such people as we are often have to resort to various
shifts to do what they wish to do.”
“So do _boys_,” Charles commented sarcastically, but without a smile.
“Charge!” cried the general valiantly, when about thirty feet from the
door.
A blind rush was made; but barely five steps had been taken when the
general, who of course led, tripped over a stone, and the entire “squad”
fell headlong, the “ram” and its grisly inhabitants descending on their
backs with a cruel thud.
Of course no bones were broken, gentle reader, for it is impossible to
kill a hero, and, as a general rule, impossible to hurt one. And all
these were heroes.
Yet much of their enthusiasm escaped with the “ohs!” that started from
each pair of lips.
“Such little accidents are disheartening,” the general gasped, as he
struggled to his feet; “but we are above letting them deter us from our
duty. Charge again! Only, be more careful.”
As he alone was blamable for the mishap, this advice was superfluous.
The ram was shouldered again, somewhat reluctantly; a furious charge
was made; and the ram was brought against the “blood-bought” door with
considerable force. A peal of thunder ensued, and the nowise strong door
was shattered, fatally. Truly, this was effecting an entrance in warlike
style.
But a catastrophe might have been the result. Henry was seated in the
hall, not aware that the besiegers were at hand, and little dreaming that
they intended to force an entrance. When the door was suddenly burst
open, he was started into action in an unlooked for manner--the flying
timbers striking his crazy chair so forcibly that it gave way, flinging
him headlong to the floor.
More startled than hurt, Henry sprang to his feet, and recognizing Will
and some of the others, shrieked, in accents unmistakably English:
“Saved! Saved!”
The appearance presented by the rescued one was superlatively ridiculous.
None of the boys had seen him attired in this disguise, and they were
thunder-struck at the metamorphosis. Even Marmaduke stared aghast at the
sight he beheld.
In a spirit of mischief Stephen had clothed Henry thus, saying, “Poor
Marmaduke; he’ll never know; he’ll think you’re dressed up in the height
of fashion. But he _will_ think that Paris fashions, in crossing the
seas, lose much of their beauty; and while _your_ costume is all right,
_other_ people’s must be all wrong!”
As a hoodlum boy would have put it: _He looked like all possessed!_
_Chapter XXXVII._
MARMADUKE STRUGGLES WITH ROMANCE.
Kings, ghosts, sea-nymphs, heroes, heroines, all beings, are made to act
and speak in romance just as the exigencies of the plot demand; and yet
it is intimated, in the same breath, that “it is all quite natural, just
as it would be in real life!” In this story every one certainly acts as
the writer pleases, but, so far as he knows, these boys behave as like
boys under similar circumstances would behave. In this chapter, however,
there is an exception, where a change from nature is necessary; and
without a moment’s hesitation, they are made to throw off all restraint,
and talk and act as befits the occasion. In a word, the boys are here no
longer boys, but the noble beings of romance.
We do not pretend that any boys would carry on a conversation in their
high-swelling strains, the narrative being couched under such strains
for a particular and well-meant purpose. The object being, throughout the
story, to cast ridicule on all sorts of things, this freedom to write in
whatever style is most pertinent to the matter under discussion is our
prerogative, and we use it. In short, we act here on the principle, that
a writer should be hampered by no conventionalities or restrictions that
interfere with the plan of his story.
It seems to be a well-established principle, that love cannot be
expressed in romance except in a poetic form. We do not believe this
holds good in real life, yet, wishing this story to be accounted a
romance, we have thought it well to abide by the rule in this instance.
After a short deliberation, we have decided to write their passionate
colloquy as though it were only prose; but the intelligent reader can
easily read it as verse--in fact, if he chooses, he can set it all to
music.
After digesting this preamble in connection with what goes before, the
reader of mature years, if not entirely witless, will be able to grasp
our meaning and discern our motive--or motives, for in this chapter the
aim is to kill several birds with one stone. But the boys--for whom,
after all, the story is written principally--had better skip this turgid
preamble, because a boy always likes to believe a story is more or less
true, and we should be grossly insulted if any one should insinuate that
_this_ story is true.