It was at that time that I ran across Clayton Randolph, whom I had not
seen since we left Cambridge together. I came near not recognizing him
in the circumstances in which I found him. A battery of artillery had
got stuck in the mud, but as I came up to it the last gun was being
dragged out. An officer seemed to be doing most of the work, shoving on
the wheels and encouraging his tired men. Shortly afterwards we were
again halted next to the same battery, and there was the same officer
sitting on a stump. His old uniform was covered with mud and
axle-grease; his beard was four days' old; but he was Clayton Randolph,
Randolph the dandy, Randolph, the model of neatness, whose perfect
clothes had always been an object of chaff among us; Randolph, whose
heaviest labor had been to polish his hat, and deepest thought to plan a
dinner. He was sharing his piece of stale cornbread with a hungry little
darky. You may imagine that we were rather glad to see each other.
Clayton, however, had no more Cambridge news to give me than I had to
give him, which was rather a disappointment. His battery was stationed
near my regiment that winter, so we managed to see a good deal of each
other in camp.
"One day, as I was sitting in front of my tent, I saw Clayton come
galloping into the company street as though carrying urgent despatches.
On seeing me he began shouting and waving his cap, as if there was
danger that I might not see him and hear what he had to say. He was
evidently beside himself about something,--and so was I, when he pulled
up and yelled: 'What do you think? Jim Standish is in Libby prison!'
"I forget how he had learned this, but I remember he was very sure of
it. By great luck and much energy we both managed to get leave that same
day, and go to Richmond together; but we were disappointed in our hopes
of seeing Jim. We turned every stone we could, and tried our best with
the authorities, but it was no use; we could not get into the prison.
There had been several escapes at that time, and no visitor of any sort
was allowed to enter. The provost in charge, however, who knew Clayton,
told us we might send Jim a letter, subject, of course, to its
examination by the authorities. So we wrote him that we were there, and
asked if there was anything he wanted us to send him. We explained that
we could not get in to see him, but that he must write us all the news
he could.
"In a short time the guard who had taken our note came back and asked
what relation to us 'that young feller' was. We told him no relation by
blood, but something a little closer, perhaps. 'Well,' said he, 'I never
saw a feller take on so when I give him your note. He begged me to let
him talk to you, and he most cried. Then he begged worse kind just to
let him look out of a window where he could see you. He asked which side
of the house you was on, and I reckon if I'd ha' told him he'd ha' made
a break for the window and risked my shootin' him. I was right sorry,
but I couldn't do nothin' for him but get him some paper. He's writin'
you a letter now, and says for you to be sure and wait for it.'
"There was no danger of our not waiting for it. Neither of us had heard
a word from the old place or from any of our friends for three years. I
suppose none of you boys has ever been separated from his college
friends for a longer time than the long vacation?"
"I was away for a year after graduating," answered Dane Austin. "I was
abroad with a classmate, and I remember the first long letter from one
of our chums; all about the Springfield game, and what all 'the gang'
were doing. We read that letter over every day for a month."
"Then you can imagine what it was to get news after three years, and
three such years. We waited and waited for that letter, and at last it
came out to us--a regular volume. I have it now. I don't believe Jim
ever wrote so much in all his college work put together. We sat with our
backs against a wall while I read it aloud.
"First it gave us all the news from Cambridge;--among other things, that
we had won the boat-race on Lake Quinsigamond. Randolph said that almost
made up for Gettysburg, and we had a little cheer all to ourselves. I
remember a man came running up to hear what the news was and whether the
Yankees had been licked anywhere. We told him not that we knew of, but
Harvard had beaten Yale, and he went off damning us for making such a
row about nothing. The letter went on to say that there would probably
be no race that year, as most of the rowing men had gone off to the war.
Almost all of our old set had gone into the army, it said. That jolly,
good-for-nothing rattle, bad Bob Bowling, who was always on the ragged
edge of expulsion, always in hot water with the Faculty, and who had
been booked by every one for a very bad end, had disappointed them all
and found a distinguished career in a cavalry regiment. But the hero of
the class was little Digges, 'Nancy' Digges, the quiet, shy, little
pale-faced student who looked as if he would blow away in a strong wind,
and whom no one had thought was good for anything but grubbing for Greek
roots. This man had been promoted several times for gallantry. At
Gettysburg, when Longstreet's corps was right on top of his battery,
when his supports had been driven in, his horses shot, and his gunners
were falling around him, he had dragged his guns back by hand, one by
one, and stopped to spike the last while one of our men was reaching for
him with a bayonet. When I read this we both exclaimed: 'Well, I'll be
hanged, Little Nancy!'"
"It was at Gettysburg also that Jim had seen Harry Rodes. The last time
that Jim had seen him before that was just before leaving college, when
Rodes had been elected president of the Hasty Pudding; this time he was
lying in the grass, where it was red. There was like news of several
other old chums.
"'As for your humble servant,' Jim wrote, 'he has only succeeded in
getting himself ignominiously jugged by your Johnnies.' I heard, long
afterwards, how he had been captured, pinned under his dead horse, with
a broken sabre, and three of our men to his score. 'This is not so much
fun,' he went on, 'as that night in the Newton jail, which perhaps you
may remember, Tom. You got me into that, you riotous companion and
perverter of my youth.' I remembered that scrape of our Sophomore year
very well, but I had a strong impression that it was Jim who upset the
officer of the law. He told us he could stand Libby, however, well
enough, if he only had a little smoke, and asked if we could not give
aid and comfort to the invader in the shape of tobacco. At this Randolph
exclaimed: 'Jim Standish without his pipe! That is a real case of
suffering among the prisoners!' The letter wound up with an injunction
to answer it at once and tell all about ourselves and the other boys on
our side, and with the hope that we should all be at the next triennial
dinner.
"As soon as we had read the letter we went off and spent all our savings
in tobacco. That was the only cheap thing in Richmond in those days, and
we got enough to last Jim for months, though I have no doubt that he at
once gave most of it away. Then we got some paper, and wrote him all we
knew of the Harvard men on our side of the fence. We could give an
equally good account of them, too; for though, as disobedient children,
Alma Mater has frowned on us, she never had cause to blush. We finished
the letter before it was time for us to go back to camp, and sent it
with the tobacco to Jim. We promised to try again to see him, but
neither of us could get leave for a long time. If we had there would
have been little chance of our getting into Libby; and if we had gotten
into Libby, we should not have found Jim there."
As the speaker paused Stoughton asked, "Why? did he es----" and then
stopped, inwardly cursing himself, as he noticed a look that was coming
into the face of the narrator. But the latter at once relieved him
immensely by continuing.
"Yes, he escaped--very soon after our visit. A lot of prisoners got out
together, Jim among them. The news was sent to all the troops near
Richmond and instructions to keep a sharp lookout for them. Jim managed
to get to our very outer lines, and one pitch-dark night tried to run
the picket. The officer in command saw him in the brush and challenged
him. Jim, trusting to the darkness and his old hundred-yard records,
tried to make a dash for it. The officer fired and shot--shot him down
like a dog."
The speaker's cigar had apparently gone out, and no one looked at him
while he relit it. They looked at the walls where the firelight danced
over the rollicking play-bills of thirty years ago. In a moment the
graduate spoke again:
"As I leaned over the dearest friend I ever had, we recognized each
other and he smiled. I took his head in my lap and he died holding my
hand."
"Then you saw him before he died? Were you with the picket?" asked Gray.
"Yes.--I commanded the picket."
LITTLE HELPING HANDS.
It was all the result of a violent discussion in Stoughton's room.
Hudson held that four miles an hour was an easy walking gait; Stoughton
and Gray said it wasn't.
"I tell you," said the latter, "when you are doing better than three and
a half, you are hitting it up pretty well, and you couldn't keep it up
for any length of time. Don't you remember, Dick, we timed ourselves
when we walked out from Boston the other night? It took us fifty minutes
from the corner of Charles and Cambridge Streets, and that is just about
three miles."
"Yes, and we went at a pretty good pace too," added Stoughton.
"That was probably after a supper at Billy Parks'," Hudson explained;
"under those circumstances you undoubtedly covered a great many more
miles than the crow flies between here and Boston."
"No, witty youth, it wasn't anything of the kind. We don't follow in
your footsteps," retorted Dick to this innuendo. "No, sir, you couldn't
walk four miles an hour all day to save your neck."
"I'm betting I could," Hudson replied, "I have done it often out
shooting."
"I dare say you thought so; have you ever tried it over a measured
stretch?"
"No, but I can guess at about what rate I am walking, and four miles an
hour is a good easy swing. I'll bet you a V that I can do twenty-four
miles in six hours."
"I'll take that," answered Stoughton, promptly.
"So will I, if you offer the same," said Gray.
"Yes, I'll bet with you, too," said Hudson.
Just at that moment Ned Burleigh came in, going through the form of
giving the door a thump as he opened it, and telling himself to come in.
"What are you abandoned sports betting about now?" he asked, as he
covered the whole front of the fireplace as usual.
"Steve thinks he can walk twenty-four miles in six hours," answered
Stoughton, "and we each have five dollars worth of opinion that he
can't. What do you think about it?"
"I don't know; he is a pretty fast young man. Is it to be on a cinder
track, or over an ordinary road? That would make a great difference."
"Have you any fond hope," asked Hudson, "that I am going to make a Roman
holiday of myself on Holmes' Field for the edification of you children
and the whole University? I am quite aware that that is just what you
would like; you would be out there with a brass band. No, my friend, I
ask for no advantages. I am quite willing to take my chances over any
ordinary country road, and in ordinary clothes."
"Extraordinary English knickerbockers, you mean," corrected Ned.
"You can take the road from here to Framingham," suggested Stoughton.
"That is a perfectly straight one and you can't miss it. It is a little
short of twenty-four miles, but we will allow you the slight
difference."
"Yes, I know that road," said Hudson. "I drove over it when I was at
school at Southborough. Strike the Worcester turnpike, don't you, after
crossing the river at Watertown, and then keep on through Newton,
Wellesley, Natick, and all those places? All right, I'll take that road."
Ned Burleigh reflected a moment. "I think," he admitted, with a shake of
his head, "that it can certainly be done by any man with strength and
sand; but Steve Hudson can't do it."
"I'll tell you what, old fatty-cakes," declared Hudson, indignantly,
"I'll bet _you ten_ dollars on the event."
"No, I won't go you ten, because I don't believe in betting so much on a
certainty. Besides, you are hard up now, and you would undoubtedly
borrow from me the money with which to pay me your bet. I can't afford
to have you do that, sweet me child, but I will contribute a five like
the others, towards this purse."
It was arranged that Hudson should choose his day, and give notice of it
to the others in the morning. Then the tones of the ancient bell, tolled
by the ancient Jones, came from the ancient belfry of Harvard Hall, and
Hudson and Gray went over to a recitation in University Hall.
When they had gone Burleigh delivered himself of a great whoop of
ecstasy. "He can do it easily, I know," he said. "We shall lose our
money, but, Great Caesar, it will be worth the admission. We must get all
the others to bet with him, too, so that he won't back out. Let's go and
get ready for it at once."
"What do you mean?" queried Stoughton, "what are you going to do?"
"Can't you guess, Mack, you Eyetalian? Come on, I'll tell you," and they
went out over the Square towards a printer's.
Three or four days after this Hudson appeared at breakfast in his
walking breeches and big Scotch stockings and announced he was going to
start. He would leave Harvard Square at half-past ten o'clock and arrive
at the town hall in Framingham at half-past four on that afternoon.
Stoughton and Gray said that they might be at the finish to receive him,
if they found nothing better to do, otherwise he could time himself at
the finish. Both of these men had ten o'clock lectures, so they could
not see him start. Holworthy and Randolph had promised to make up a four
for a morning pull on the river. Rattleton, of course, had not yet come
to breakfast. Burleigh also had a ten o'clock that he felt he really
ought not to cut (it did not strike Steve at the time that this was no
reason to Ned for not cutting); so he regretted exceedingly that he
would have to let Steve start off uncheered and time himself. He would
endeavor to be at the finish, however, to carry Hudson home.
Promptly at half-past ten Steve left Harvard Square, with a swinging
stride, and struck up Garden Street by the Washington elm and thence to
Brattle Street. He was in fine form and spirits and had chosen his day
well. It was one of our glorious, manful November days that have had
much to do, I firmly believe, with the progress of this nation; days
when a man can do anything; when the sparkling, drinkable Northwester
floods your lungs, and swells your chest into a balloon that seems to
lift you clear of the ground. On such a day the twenty-four miles ahead
of him seemed nothing to Hudson, and he sprang along overflowing with
spirits.
The historic University town, with all its associations, seemed to him
more beautiful and interesting than ever. Washington, he thought, might
have taken command of an army under the old tree four or five times a
day in such weather. No wonder Longfellow could keep the Muse at his
fireside in that fascinating Craigie house. As he neared the end of
Brattle Street, he went by peaceful Elmwood, where a poet, ambassador,
scholar, and patriot was then ending his days; and buoyant, youthful
Steve was struck by that perfect waiting-place for the great gentleman
whose work was done. He wondered whether any of _his_ friends would ever
stir and honor the nation, and whether the great man had been anything
like them when he was a fool undergrad. The traditions of the Hasty
Pudding said that he had been a good deal like other boys.
Hudson reached Watertown well ahead of time. To his annoyance he saw
that the street through which he had to pass was crowded, principally
with small boys. "Something or other must have happened," he thought. "A
dog-fight, or a runaway, or a man carried into a drug store. If the
attraction is still on, I am all right; if not, I shall have to run the
gauntlet."
He soon discovered that the latter apprehension was the true one, and
that he was in for just that species of entertainment. A great cheer
went up as he approached, and a body of embryo leading citizens ran
forward to meet him. They closed in all around and escorted him along
the main street between two lines of shouting people.
"Hey, mister, give us some!" "Go on, you'll do it; good boy, Wingsey."
"When're yer goin' to fork 'em out?" "Rats, dat ain't him, dat fancy guy
is one o' de Ha'vards, sure." "Will yer look at de jay?" "Get on to de
legs!" "What's he got 'em wrapped up in, shawls?" "Naw, carpets." "Say,
mister, yer pants is got caught inside yer socks." "I guess them is
English, yer know." "Ain't yer going to give us no gum?" "A--ah, let 'm
alone, he ain't nothin' but one o' them stoodent jays. He ain't no
winged wonder, a--ah!"
The above was what Steve enjoyed in his progress through Watertown. He
finally shook off his pursuers on the edge of the village, and breathed
freely again, as he "crossed the river and mounted the steep." The
beauty of the Charles begins at this point, and he sat down for a minute
to look at it and rest. On his left was the first dam, the end of
navigation for the college craft; on his right the river wound away from
its high banks to the brown meadows beyond. While he sat there a
four-oared crew shot under the bridge and rested on their oars in the
quiet pool at his feet, just in front of the falls. He knew the man who
was steering and called to him. "Hullo, Hudson," came the recognition,
"what are you doing up here?"
"Off on a tramp. Glorious day for exercise, isn't it?"
"Yes, you have no idea how I enjoy this rowing," answered the coxswain.
"Have you seen Holworthy and Randolph up around this part of the river?"
"No, they were coming in this boat, but backed out because they had
something else on hand, I believe."
"Oh, did they? Well, good-by, I have got to hurry along. I am walking
against time."
Steve strode on through Newton, and Newton Centre, and Newton Lower
Falls, and all the other Newtons, and to his horror he found in each
town the same gathering, and went through the same ovation that he had
received in Watertown. Had he gone to work and picked out a public
holiday? No, he was sure it was not that, and the fact that it was
Saturday, and the schools had therefore turned their swarms loose on the
suffering country, would not account for all of the crowd in every
village. Perhaps there was an extra election going on in that county.
What puzzled him most, however, was that all the urchins seemed to
expect something of him besides mere amusement, and a pitiable example
of dress.
He passed close by Joe Lee's at Auburndale; several children ran across
the lawn of the famous hostel, and after "sizing him up," went back with
expressions of disappointment. The worst trial of all, however, was the
battery at Wellesley. He had to go by the Female College, or Ladies'
Seminary, and there was a large group of the students of that
institution, by the roadside. Steve had never before been afflicted with
bashfulness, and did not acknowledge that he was troubled in that way
now, but he felt peculiarly alone, and would have given much for another
man or just a few less girls. By the terms of his bet he could not run
any of the distance; but a giggle almost made him throw up the stakes
and break the pace. By a great effort, however, he brazened it out, and
even smiled cheerfully. He made a penitent inward resolution never to
lean out of the window again when a girl went through the Yard.
When more than half way, he stopped to speak with a farmer leaning over
the fence by the road. The uncrossed Yankee of the rural districts still
clings to a prejudice of his fathers, a prejudice, long since dropped in
our more progressive communities, that a man has a right to wear what he
chooses and do what he chooses provided he neither shocks nor interferes
with any one else. This old farmer looked at Steve with wonder and
interest, but did not think it necessary, as had the good citizens of
the factory towns, to heap scorn and derision on "de dood." He bowed to
the wayfarer, as he would to any well-behaved stranger.
"Good afternoon," said Hudson, grateful for this drop of human kindness.
"Can you tell me, sir, how far it is to Framingham?"
"Wa-al, abaout nigh on to ten mile or more, they call it. There's a
train goes pretty soon; ye won't find it so fur in the cars."
"Oh, I'm going to walk it," explained Steve, with a smile.
"Thet's a powerful long walk, young man. How fur ye come already?"
"From Cambridge."
"Gosh! Well your legs is young and pretty long, but ye must want suthin
to do' pretty bad. Be ye broke or anythin'? Want any victuals?"
"No, thanks, I am walking for fun, trying to do it on time, you see."
"Mebbe you're advertisin' suthin'? Oh, I want to know! Be you the winged
wonder o' Westchester, or some sech place I hear tell on jest now?"
A light began to glimmer in Hudson's mind. He had been asked several
times if he was the "winged wonder," but had paid no attention to the
question, supposing that it was merely a form of the great public wit.
Now it was asked him in perfect good faith, and the name of his own home
was added to the alliteration. He began to connect his persecution with
Holworthy and Randolph's failure to row.
"No," he answered his friendly interrogator, "not intentionally, but I
am beginning now to suspect that I _am_ occupying some such position. I
am much obliged to you for your information. I must move along now."
"Good day, sir; guess ye'll want a heap o' corn-plasters when ye git to
Framin'am."
"Not with these stockings," laughed Hudson, glad of an opportunity to
justify his clothes, "they're thick and soft, great things to walk in."
"They be, eh? Well, I kinder thought they wasn't just for looks. I don't
want none to-day, though, good day."
"Good-by," and Steve went on, feeling sure that the old man still
suspected him at least of peddling footgear.
Just before the end of his tramp he sat down for a rest on an inviting
fence rail. He had plenty of time to spare, but the grassy bank might
have kept him too long and made him stiff. Oh, how pleasant that
three-cornered rail did feel! A piece of paper blew across the road and
whirled up in his face. It was a hand-bill of some sort; he remembered
now having seen several of them along the way, but had picked up none.
He caught this one and turned it over. This was what he read:
HE IS COMING!
WAIT FOR HIM! WATCH FOR HIM!
THE WINGED WONDER OF WESTCHESTER!
PEERLESS PEDESTRIAN PRODIGY!
He is matched to walk twenty-four miles to-day for an enormous
purse. He holds world records for pedestrianism. He will wear
one of our custom-made London suitings, unexcelled for natty
outdoor wear and stylish appearance. They are all the rage in
England, and therefore sure to be popular here.
He will also distribute, gratis, tops and marbles to the boys
and chewing-gum to the ladies. Watch for him, everybody; he
will be here soon, and will follow this road.
COME OUT, GIRLS! COME OUT, BOYS!
NOW IS YOUR CHANCE.
WAIT, WATCH FOR THE WINGED WONDER OF WESTCHESTER!
The glimmer dawned to a great light. He jumped down and hurried along
the remaining mile or two as fast as his weary legs would go. There was
no crowd awaiting him on the out-skirts of Framingham, and for a few
minutes he hoped that he was going to at least finish in peace. Vain
hope! As he approached the public square he saw it crowded with people
and heard the strains of a brass band. On turning the corner he was
received with a great shout. Then he saw a sight that explained it all,
and caused him to exclaim, "The three-year-old idiots!"
In front of the town-hall was drawn up a barge with four plumed horses.
In it were a band of music and a full delegation of Steve's devoted
friends. Ned Burleigh was up on the box haranguing the populace.
"What sort of a fool circus are you children trying to make of
yourselves," asked Hudson, as he came up.
"A grand one, old man, and you have been the elephant, the shining star
of the whole show," replied Burleigh. "You will find beer in the
ambulance."
"You have won the money handsomely, Steve," acknowledged Stoughton, "and
we all accept with pleasure your kind invitation to dinner."
A RAMBLING DISCUSSION AND AN ADVENTURE, PERHAPS UNCONNECTED.