SAM TAKES FRENCH LEAVE.
If Sam had been brought up to entertain strict ideas on the subject of
taking the property of others, and appropriating it to his own use,
the temporary possession of the deacon's money would not have exposed
him to temptation. But his conscience had never been awakened to the
iniquity of theft. So when it occurred to him that he had in his
possession money enough to gratify his secret desire, and carry him to
New York, there to enter upon a brilliant career, it did not occur to
him that it would be morally wrong to do so. He did realize the danger
of detection, however, and balanced in his mind whether the risk was
worth incurring. He decided that it was.
"The deacon don't know I've got the money," he reflected. "He won't
find out for a good while; when he does I shall be in New York, where
he won't think of going to find me."
This was the way Sam reasoned, and from his point of view the scheme
looked very plausible. Sam had a shrewd idea that his services were
not sufficiently valuable to the deacon to induce him to make any
extraordinary efforts for his capture. So, on the whole, he made up
his mind to run away.
"Shall I go now, or wait till mornin'?" thought Sam.
He looked out of his window. There was no moon, and the night was
therefore dark. It would not be very agreeable to roam about in the
darkness. Besides, he was liable to lose his way. Again, he felt
sleepy, and the bed looked very inviting.
"I'll wait till mornin'," thought Sam. "I'll start about four, and go
over to Wendell, and take the train for New York. I'll be awful hungry
when I get there. I wish I could wait till after breakfast; but it
won't do."
Sam was not usually awake at four. Indeed he generally depended on
being waked up by the deacon knocking on his door. But when boys or
men have some pleasure in view it is apt to act upon the mind even
when wrapped in slumber, and produce wakefulness. So Sam woke up about
quarter of four. His plan flashed upon him, and he jumped out of bed.
He dressed quickly, and, taking his shoes in his hand so that he might
make no noise, he crept downstairs, and unlocked the front door, and
then, after shutting it behind him, sat down on the front door-stone
and put on his shoes.
"I guess they didn't hear me," he said to himself. "Now I'll be
going."
The sun had not risen, but it was light with the gray light which
precedes dawn. There was every promise of a fine day, and this helped
to raise Sam's spirits.
"What'll the deacon say when he comes to wake me up?" thought our
hero, though I am almost ashamed to give Sam such a name, for I am
afraid he is acting in a manner very unlike the well-behaved heroes of
most juvenile stories, my own among the number. However, since I have
chosen to write about a "young outlaw," I must describe him as he is,
and warn my boy readers that I by no means recommend them to pattern
after him.
Before accompanying Sam on his travels, let us see how the deacon was
affected by his flight.
At five o'clock he went up to Sam's door and knocked.
There was no answer.
The deacon knocked louder.
Still there was no answer.
"How sound the boy sleeps!" muttered the old man, and he applied his
knuckles vigorously to the door. Still without effect. Thereupon he
tried the door, and found that it was unlocked. He opened it, and
walked to the bed, not doubting that he would see Sam fast asleep. But
a surprise awaited him. The bed was empty, though it had evidently
been occupied during the night.
"Bless my soul! the boy's up," ejaculated the deacon.
A wild idea came to him that Sam had voluntarily got up at this early
hour, and gone to work, but he dismissed it at once as absurd. He knew
Sam far too well for that.
Why, then, had he got up? Perhaps he was unwell, and could not sleep.
Not dreaming of his running away, this seemed to the deacon the most
plausible way of accounting for Sam's disappearance, but he decided to
go down and communicate the news to his wife.
"Why were you gone so long, deacon?" asked Mrs. Hopkins. "Couldn't you
wake him up?"
"He wasn't there."
"Wasn't where?"
"In bed."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Sam's got up already. I couldn't find him."
"Couldn't find him?"
"No, Martha."
"Had the bed been slept in?"
"Of course. I s'pose he was sick, and couldn't sleep, so he went
downstairs."
"Perhaps he's gone down to the pantry," said Mrs. Hopkins,
suspiciously. "I'll go down and see."
She went downstairs, followed by the deacon. She instituted an
examination, but found Sam guiltless of a fresh attempt upon the
provision department. She went to the front door, and found it
unlocked.
"He's gone out," she said.
"So he has, but I guess he'll be back to breakfast," said the deacon.
"I don't," said the lady.
"Why not?"
"Because I think he's run away."
"Run away!" exclaimed the deacon. "Why, I never had a boy run away
from me."
"Well, you have now."
"Where would he go? He aint no home. He wouldn't go to the
poorhouse."
"Of course not. I never heard of anybody that had a comfortable home
running away to the poorhouse."
"But why should he run away?" argued the deacon.
"Boys often run away," said his wife, sententiously.
"He had no cause."
"Yes, he had. You made him work, and he's lazy, and don't like work.
I'm not surprised at all."
"I s'pose I'd better go after him," said the deacon.
"Don't you stir a step to go, deacon. He aint worth going after. I'm
glad we've got rid of him."
"Well, he didn't do much work," admitted the deacon.
"While he ate enough for two boys. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I
say."
"I don't know how he's goin' to get along. He didn't have no money."
"I don't care how he gets along, as long as he don't come back.
There's plenty of better boys you can get."
Sam would not have felt flattered, if he had heard this final verdict
upon his merits. It must be confessed, however, that it was well
deserved.
A few days afterwards, the deacon obtained the services of another
boy, whom he found more satisfactory than the runaway, and Sam was no
longer missed. It was not till the tenth day that he learned of the
theft. While riding on that day, he met Mr. Comstock, who had confided
to Sam the money-letter.
"Good-morning, Deacon Hopkins," said he, stopping his horse.
"Good-morning," said the deacon.
"I suppose your boy handed you a letter from me."
"I haven't received any letter," said the deacon, surprised.
"It was early last week that I met a boy who said he lived with you.
As I was in a hurry, I gave him a letter containing ten dollars, which
I asked him to give to you."
"What day was it?" asked the deacon, eagerly.
"Monday. Do you mean to say he didn't give it to you?"
"No; he ran away the next morning, and I haven't seen him since."
"Then he ran away with the money--the young thief! I told him there
was money in it."
"Bless my soul! I didn't think Sam was so bad," ejaculated the
deacon.
"Didn't you go after him?"
"No; he wasn't very good to work, and I thought I'd let him run. Ef
I'd knowed about the money, I'd have gone after him."
"It isn't too late, now."
"I'll ask my wife what I'd better do."
The deacon conferred with his wife, who was greatly incensed against
Sam, and would have advised pursuit, but they had no clue to his
present whereabouts.
"He'll come back some time, deacon," said she. "When he does, have him
took up."
But years passed, and Sam did not come back, nor did the deacon set
eyes on him for four years, and then under the circumstances recorded
in the first chapter.