When Herbert realized that he was to be left behind he ran after
Willis Ford, and pleaded for the privilege of accompanying him.
“Don't leave me here, Mr. Ford!” he said. “I should die of
homesickness!”
“So you would rather go with me?” Ford said, with an amused smile.
“Oh, yes, much rather!”
“I had not supposed you valued my company so highly. I ought to feel
complimented. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I shall have to
leave you here for a few weeks. This good lady will take good care
of you.”
Herbert stole a glance at Mrs. Barton, who was watching him with
mingled contempt and impatience, but he did not become any more
reconciled to the prospect. He reiterated his request.
“I have had enough of this,” said Ford, sternly. “You will stop
making a fuss if you know what is best for yourself. Good-by! You
will hear from me soon.”
Herbert realized the uselessness of his resistance, and sank
despondently upon the grass.
“Is he goin' to stay here, marm?” asked Abner, curiously.
“Yes; he's goin' to board with us.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Abner; “he'll have a nice boardin' place!”
“Abner, you jest shut up, or I'll take a stick to you! You needn't
make him any more homesick than he is. Just try ef you can't amuse
him.”
“Say, Sam, I guess we'll have a stavin' time together,” said Abner,
really pleased to have a companion. “What'll we do? Want to play
leapfrog?”
“I don't feel like playing,” answered Herbert, despondently.
“We might go fishin',” suggested Abner. “There's a pond only a
quarter of a mile from here.”
“I don't know how to fish,” said Herbert.
“Don't know how to fish? What do you know how to do?”
“We don't have any chance in New York.”
“Say,” exclaimed Abner, with sudden interest, “is New York a nice
place?”
“I wish I was back there. I never shall be happy anywhere's else.”
“Tell me what you fellows do there. I dunno but I'd like to go
myself.”
Before Herbert had a chance to answer Mrs. Barton broke in:
“Abner, you take care of Sam while I go to the village.”
“What are you goin' there for, marm?”
“I'm going to buy some sausages for dinner. We haven't got anything
in the house.”
“Me and Sam will go, if you'll give us the money.”
“I know you too well, Abner Barton. I won't trust you with the
money. Ef I gave you a five-dollar bill, I'd never see any on't back
again.”
“Say, mam, you haven't got a five-dollar bill, have you?” asked
Abner, with distended eyes.
“Never you mind!”
“I'll tell dad ef you don't give me some.”
“You jest dare to do it!” returned Mrs. Barton, in a menacing tone.
“Your father ain't got nothin' to do with it. It's money for Sam's
board.”
“My name isn't Sam,” expostulated Herbert, who had a natural
preference for his own appellation.
“That's what I'm goin' to call you. You can call yourself George
Washington, or General Jackson, ef you want to. Mebbe you're
Christopher Columbus.”
“My name is Herbert Reynolds,” said Herbert, annoyed.
“That's what you call yourself to-day. There's no knowin' who you'll
be to-morrow.”
“Don't you believe me, Mrs. Barton?” asked Herbert, distressed.
“No, I don't. The man who brung you--I dis-remember his name--”
“Willis Ford.”
“Well, Willis Ford, then! It seems you know his name. Well, he told
me you was loony, and thought you was somebody else than your own
self.”
“He told you that I was crazy?” ejaculated Herbert.
“Yes; and I have no doubt it's so.”
“It's a wicked lie!” exclaimed Herbert, indignantly; “and I'd like
to tell him so to his face.”
“Well, you won't have a chance for some time. But I can't stand here
talkin'. I must be goin' to the store. You two behave yourselves
while I'm gone!”
Herbert felt so dull and dispirited that he did not care to speak,
but Abner's curiosity had been excited about New York, and he plied
his young companion with questions, which Herbert answered wearily.
Though he responded listlessly, and did not say any more than he
felt obliged to, he excited Abner's interest.
“I mean to go to New York some time,” he said. “Is it far?”
“It's as much as a thousand miles. It may be more.”
“Phew! That's a big distance. How did you come?”
“We came in the cars.”
“Did it cost much?”
“I don't know. Mr. Ford paid for the tickets.”
“Has he got plenty of money?”
“I don't think he has. He used to be pa's clerk.”
“I wish we had enough money. You and me would start some fine
mornin', and mebbe your father would give me something to do when we
got there.”
For the first time Herbert began to feel an interest in the
conversation.
“Oh, I wish we could,” he said, fervently. “I know pa would give you
a lot of money for bringing me back.”
“Do you really think he would?” asked Abner, briskly.
“I know he would. But your mother wouldn't let us go.”
“She wouldn't know it,” said Abner, winking.
“You wouldn't run away from home?” questioned Herbert.
“Why wouldn't I? What's to keep me here? Marm's always scoldin', and
dad gets drunk whenever he has any money to spend for drink. I
reckon they wouldn't care much if I made myself scarce.”
Herbert was not sure whether he ought not to feel shocked. He
admitted to himself, however, that if he had a father and mother
answering the description of Abner's, that he would not so much
regret leaving them. At any rate, Abner's words awoke a hope of
sometime getting away from the place he already hated, and returning
to his city home, now more valued than ever.
“We can't go without money,” he said, in a troubled voice.
“Couldn't we walk?”
“It's too far, and I'm not strong.”
“I could walk it, ef I took time enough,” asserted Abner,
positively. “Hello! there's dad!”
Herbert looked up, and, following Abner's glance, saw a man
approaching the farmhouse. Mr. Barton--for it was he--was a tall
man, shabbily attired, his head crowned with a battered hat, whose
gait indicated a little uncertainty, and betrayed some difficulty
about the maintenance of his equilibrium.
“Is that your father?” asked Herbert.
“It's the old man, sure enough. He's about half full.”
“What's that?”
“He's been drinkin', as usual; but he didn't drink enough to make
him tight. Guess his funds give out.”
Herbert was rather shocked at Abner's want of respect in speaking of
his father, but even to him Mr. Barton hardly seemed like a man who
could command a son's respect.
“Wonder whether dad met marm on the way?” said Abner, musing.
By this time, Mr. Barton had entered the yard, and caught sight of
his son and Herbert.
“Abner,” said he, in a thick voice, “who's that boy?”
“Then he didn't meet marm,” thought Abner. “He's a boy that's goin'
to board with us, dad,” he answered.
“You don't say! Glad to make your acquaintance, boy,” he said,
straightening up.
“Thank you, sir,” answered Herbert, faintly.