BERTHA AND NODDY NEWMAN
Beneath the tree in which Noddy Newman had taken refuge lay moored a
nondescript craft, in which the wild boy made his aquatic excursions.
It had once been a sugar box, and by what art or skill the little
savage had made it watertight it would have puzzled the calkers and
gravers of the region to determine. It certainly floated, and Noddy
navigated it about the river with as much pride and satisfaction as if
it had been the fairy barge of Cleopatra. It was fastened by a string
to one of the overhanging branches of the tree in which its adventurous
skipper was now lodged.
It was pretty evident, from the position of his boat, that he had not
landed in the ordinary way, but had drawn himself up into the tree and
come ashore in that manner. To Bertha and her young companions it was a
daring undertaking to embark in the sugar box by the way of the tree,
and she begged him not to attempt it.
“Come down, Noddy, and I will put you into your boat.”
“I ain’t one of your children. I don’t have anything to do with your
reading and spelling, and you needn’t borrow any trouble about me.”
“But some of the branches are rotten, and if you should fall upon the
rocks below, it would kill you.”
“I ain’t going to fall. I know better than that without any book
l’arnin’.”
“Do come down, Noddy. I will give you something if you will,” pleaded
Bertha, who, besides being alarmed for his safety, wished to converse
with him, and induce him to join the school in the Glen.
Noddy had thus far resisted all overtures in this direction, and
had never allowed himself to come near enough to Bertha to enable
her to exercise any influence upon him. He was fond of his freedom,
and evidently enjoyed the vagabond life he led. The authorities of
Whitestone had once made an effort to commit him to the almshouse; but
when an attempt was made to catch him, he disappeared for some weeks.
Bertha had sent him several presents, with messages urging him to join
her little flock; but he never came to the Glen when she was there,
unless it was to rob the basket of the provisions brought for the
scholars. Yet she did not abandon all hope of winning him over from the
savage life he led.
“Have you had dinner enough, Noddy?”
“Yes, I have. I ate all there was in the basket,” replied Noddy,
chuckling with delight at the thought of his own cleverness.
“Won’t you come down and talk with me? I will give you something.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Come down and talk with me, then.”
“I haven’t got anything to say,” laughed Noddy.
“But I want to see you.”
“I don’t want to see you. You are the proud girl from Woodville, and I
don’t want anything of you.”
“I am not proud, Noddy.”
“Well, you are rich.”
“Come down to me, and I will give you a silver ten-cent piece.”
“Don’t want it; if I should go to buy anything with it they would catch
me and put me in the workhouse.”
“Don’t you want a knife? I will give you mine, if you will go up to the
arbor with me.”
“I have got a better knife now than you have. I took it from Bob
Bleeker’s boat.”
“But it was wrong to take it without leave.”
“I don’t know but it was. If it was I can’t help it.”
As he spoke these words, Noddy began to move down to the branch from
which he could drop into his boat. As he did so, a rotten limb, which
he had grasped with his hands, suddenly snapped, his feet slipped from
the branch, and he fell, striking with such force upon the sugar-box
craft that one of its sides was split off. The unfortunate boy rolled
from the boat, and went into the deep water. A sharp cry issued from
his mouth as he struck the board, and then he disappeared beneath the
surface of the river.
“Mercy!” screamed Bertha, paralyzed with horror, as she witnessed the
sad mishap.
“Never fear, Miss Bertha; he can swim like a fish,” said Griffy von
Grunt.
“But the fall may have killed him,” gasped Bertha, as she summoned
strength enough to run to her boat, which was moored a short distance
from the spot.
At the same time, Griffy leaped into the river, and swam to the sugar
box. In a moment Noddy rose to the surface; but he did not attempt to
swim, and it was evident that the fall had deprived him of the use of
his powers. As he rose, Griffy seized him by the arm, and held him
above the water till Bertha came up with the boat. With no difficulty
they lifted him in; but the little savage appeared to be dead. On his
temple there was a deep cut, which had probably been caused by the
nails driven into the side of the box to answer for thole pins.
“What shall we do?” stammered Bertha, terribly frightened by the pale
face and motionless form of the poor boy. “I will take him down to the
house. Griffy, you may go with me, and the rest of you may go home.”
The children were appalled by the fearful accident, and could not say a
word. Only Griffy seemed to have his wits about him, and while Bertha
attempted to bind up the bleeding head of Noddy, he rowed with all his
might toward the pier at Woodville. Ben was in the boathouse when they
arrived, and, taking the insensible boy in his arms, carried him up to
the house and laid him upon the bed in Bertha’s chamber.
“Now, Ben, go over to Whitestone as fast as you can and bring the
doctor.”
“Yes, Miss Bertha; but I don’t think the boy is very badly hurt. That
knock on the head has taken away his senses; but he will be all right
in a few hours. You can’t kill a boy like that so easily.”
“Go quick, Ben. I am afraid he is dead now.”
“Oh, bless you! no, he isn’t. Don’t be frightened, Miss Bertha. Here
comes Mrs. Green.”
The housekeeper’s opinion coincided with that of the boatman, that
Noddy was not dangerously injured. She was an experienced nurse, and
proceeded to take such measures for the relief of the sufferer as the
case required. Before the doctor arrived the patient began to exhibit
some signs of consciousness. He opened his eyes, and gazed around
the room with a bewildered stare. The costly furniture was in strong
contrast with anything he had ever before seen, and it was no wonder
that he was bewildered.
As if conscious that he was not in his proper element, he suddenly
attempted to rise, but sank back upon the bed with a deep groan, and
closed his eyes again. The arrival of the doctor was gladly welcomed
by Bertha. After a patient examination, he declared that the boy was
badly hurt; that three of his ribs were fractured, and that he was
probably injured internally.
Before evening Noddy was in full possession of his senses, but was
suffering intense pain. Bertha remained by his side, ministering to all
his wants with as much zeal and interest as though the patient had been
her own brother.
When Mr. Grant came home, he found his daughter bending over the sick
bed of the friendless outcast; and then, more than ever before, he
realized what a treasure he possessed in this darling child. Richard
was proud and haughty, but Bertha was a friend to the poor; humble even
in possession of all the luxury and splendor which the world can afford.
Mr. Grant listened with pleasure to Bertha’s narrative of the events of
the day. Of the conduct of her brother in the morning she said nothing,
for she had decided to wait till necessity compelled her to do so. She
hoped Richard would reform his life, and, as he had given up the race,
she was encouraged to believe that he was taking the first steps toward
amendment.
The next day Noddy was feverish, and for a week he suffered a great
deal. Bertha took care of him most of the time during the day, while
Ben and the housekeeper attended him at night. Every day the boatman
brought the children of the school from the Glen to the house, where,
with the assistance of Mrs. Green and the chambermaids, the garments
of the boys and girls were completed, and as soon as Noddy began to
improve, Bertha gave them a picnic on Van Alstine’s Island.
But the sick boy was not willing that his little nurse should leave
him. His severe sickness seemed to have produced a wonderful effect
upon him. It softened his heart, and made him more human than he had
ever been before. He had become strongly attached to Bertha, and
listened attentively to the gentle lessons of wisdom with which she
improved the hours of his convalescence.
It was a fortnight before he was able to sit up, and a month before
he could go out of the house; but much of the spirit of his life
and character had returned to him, and he longed for the health and
strength which would enable him to roam the fields and forests, and
sail upon the river, as he had done before his fall.
“I shall be so glad to be well again!” exclaimed he, as he walked on
the lawn one day with Bertha.
“What will you do then?”
“I shall run and climb and sail as I used to do; but I will go to your
school, Miss Bertha.”
“Don’t you want to do something better than spend your time in
idleness?”
“What can I do?”
“You can learn to be a useful and respectable man.”
“I don’t think I shall ever be of any use to anyone but myself. It was
queer that I fell that day, after I had told you I knew enough not to
fall.”
“It was all for the best, Noddy.”
“I don’t believe that. How could it be best for me to stave in my ribs,
and lie here, like a fool, for a month?”
“Perhaps it will prove to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“You don’t mean so, Miss Bertha,” said the pale boy, with a smile.
“I do, Noddy. Our misfortunes are blessings to us; and we ought to
be as thankful for them as for the prosperity we enjoy. If you had
continued your wild life much longer, you would probably have been
taken up and sent to prison.”
Noddy made no reply, but kept thinking of what Bertha had said. He
could not fully comprehend such wisdom, though he could not help
believing that his coming to Woodville was a great event in his life.
His fair instructress improved the advantage she had obtained, and the
little savage was already more than half civilized.
During the month that Noddy had been confined to the house, Richard
did not once visit Whitestone, or meet any of his former dissolute
companions; but whether this was from mortification at his failure
to sail the _Greyhound_ with Tom Mullen, or because he had really
commenced upon a new life, was a matter of painful doubt to Bertha. His
father steadily refused to supply him with money, and he spent most of
the time at home. He would not permit any allusion to the half eagles,
either by his sister or the boatman.
He was gloomy and taciturn. When he used the _Greyhound_, he did not
go near the other side of the river, and carefully avoided meeting
any other boats, especially those belonging to Whitestone. One day,
as he was sailing near the island, he observed a great commotion
on board of a passing steamer, and soon ascertained that a man had
fallen overboard. Trimming his sails, he bore down upon the spot, and
succeeded in saving the stranger from a watery grave.
In the gratitude of his heart, the gentleman presented him with fifty
dollars in gold, as he landed him on the pier at Whitestone, where the
steamer had made a landing.
“Your name, young man,” said the gentleman.
“John Green,” replied Richard, after some hesitation.
“God bless you, John Green! I shall remember your name as long as I
live,” added the stranger, as he shook him warmly by the hand, and
hastened on board of the steamer.
“John Green!” muttered Richard to himself, as he turned the bow of his
boat toward Woodville, “I’m rich now, and that boat race shall come off
yet.”
If anyone had asked Richard why he had given a false name to the
gentleman whose life he had saved, his pride would not have permitted
him to acknowledge the meanness of the motive which prompted the
falsehood. It was that he might conceal the fact of possessing so large
a sum of money from the family at Woodville.
The next day, the _Greyhound_ made another visit to Whitestone, and
the terms of the contest between the two boats were arranged. Richard
excused his long absence upon the plea that he had been sick, and his
graceless companions were too glad to see him again to find much fault.
The race was to take place in three days, and the stakes were placed
in the hands of Bob Bleeker, who was to act as umpire upon the great
occasion.
On the day before the race, Richard had the bottom of the _Greyhound_
cleaned, her sails and ropes carefully adjusted, and everything done
that would add a particle to his chance of winning the regatta. This
time he kept his own counsel, and did not even tell Ben of the coming
race.
The fifty dollars in his pocket had wrought a great change in the
manner of Richard. He was no longer dull and gloomy, but full of life
and energy. None of the family or the servants knew it was he who had
saved the stranger from drowning, and, with all the neighborhood, had
wondered who John Green was. No one had ever heard of him before, and
the more they wondered, the more Richard chuckled over his own cunning
and deception.
When Richard had completed his preparations for the race, he sat in
the stern sheets of the _Greyhound_, thinking of the triumph he was so
confident of winning.
“Richard! Richard!” called Bertha from the pier.
“What do you want, Berty?”
“Father hasn’t come home.”
“Well, what of it?”
“The train has arrived, and he did not come in it. Where do you suppose
he is?” continued Bertha, as she stepped into her boat, and rowed to
the _Greyhound_.
“I don’t know. Perhaps he was talking politics, and forgot to get out
at the station,” replied Richard, indifferently.
“No; Mr. Barton said he was not in the cars.”
“He is safe enough.”
“He has looked very sad and troubled for several days. I am afraid
something has happened,” added Bertha, as she pulled back to the wharf.