JACK; AND WHAT HE HAD TO SAY
At one of the little stations at which we stopped, a man boarded the
train, and taking a seat opposite at once fell into conversation with
us. He appeared to be familiar with the country round about, and, on
our mentioning our intention of walking to Golconda, where Percy’s
uncle and cousin lived, he told us all about the place and how to get
to it; informing us that by continuing our journey as far as Ogden we
should only be going out of our way, for if we should alight instead
at the next station we might save some fifteen miles of unnecessary
walking. As Percy and I had no object in visiting Ogden but to leave it
again as soon as possible, we decided to follow our adviser’s counsel,
and stepping from the train accordingly, we set off on foot along a
waggon-trail which led away in the direction of the hills.
Our waggon-trail led us presently into a well-defined road, and along
this we pursued our way for many miles, most of the distance being
up-hill; and hard work we found it to walk quickly and steadily at that
unfamiliar altitude. At length, having ascended a long and very steep
hill, we sat down upon some stones by the wayside to rest. As we sat
there we observed, coming up the road at an easy canter, two horsemen,
one of whom, as soon as he arrived at the bottom of the hill, alighted
from his horse and proceeded to walk up on foot; the other continuing
to ride.
“That is a considerate fellow,” said Percy. “It isn’t everybody who
would walk up this hill just to please his horse.”
“No,” I responded, “and the horse seems to know it; see how closely he
walks behind; the man is not holding the bridle either.”
As the travellers came up the hill we observed that the one on foot was
a tall young fellow of about twenty, brown-faced and grey-eyed, with a
firmness about the mouth and a thoughtfulness of expression not usual
in one of his age. But the other! To my great astonishment the other
was the small, sharp-faced man of whom I have made mention on two or
three previous occasions. How came he here? Had his presence anything
to do with us? Before I could come to any conclusion or say anything
to Percy on the subject the pair came opposite to where we sat, and
stopped.
“Good-morning,” exclaimed the young fellow, mopping his face with his
handkerchief. “Pretty hot, isn’t it? Which way are you going; up or
down?”
“Up,” replied Percy. “We are on our way to Golconda. Do you happen to
know the place?”
“Oh, yes. Very well. I live there.”
“Do you? Then do you know a gentleman there named Harding, or his son,
Jack Harding?”
“Yes,” replied the stranger.
“They are living there still, I suppose?” said Percy, with some
anxiety; for, though he had said nothing to me on the subject, he had
been worrying himself a good deal over the idea that his uncle might
have left the place--and what would become of us then?
Instead of replying the stranger looked hard at Percy for a moment,
and then, breaking into a smile which displayed a row of strong, white
teeth, he stretched out his hand and said:
“How are you, Percy?”
For an instant we stared at him in astonishment, when, all at once, it
flashed upon us who it was.
“Why, it’s Jack!” cried Percy. “It is you, isn’t it, Jack?”
“Yes; it’s me, all right,” replied Jack, forgetting his grammar for the
moment. “And this is your English friend, Tom Swayne, of course.”
“Yes,” said I, shaking hands with him with great satisfaction; “and
uncommonly glad I am to see you.”
“But, Jack,” Percy exclaimed, as the thought suddenly came into his
head, “how did you know I had an English friend named Tom Swayne?”
At this question Jack, by way of reply, burst into a merry laugh, in
which, to our surprise, the small man on the horse joined.
“Well, Mr. Harding,” said the latter, “I may as well turn round now
and go back to Ogden. My part of the business is completed with the
delivery of the goods. You might just give me a receipt for them, if
you will.”
“All right, Jenkins,” replied Jack. And taking a pencil and a piece of
paper from his pocket he wrote rapidly, and then went on: “Will this
do? ‘Received of Hiram Jenkins one Percy Goodall and one Tom Swayne, in
good condition. John Harding.’”
“That will do, sir, thank you,” the small man answered, laughing and
pocketing the paper. “Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, young gentlemen. I’m
glad you’ve got here at last. You’ve been a longish time about it,
though, haven’t you? Good-bye.”
With that he turned his horse and rode off down the hill, while Percy
and I, in a state of the blankest bewilderment, looked alternately at
each other and at Jack, who, standing with his arm across his horse’s
neck, was regarding us with a broad and cheerful grin.
“Jack!” exclaimed Percy, at last. “What’s the meaning of all this? What
has that man to do with us? How--why--what--_what_ is the meaning of
it?”
At this Jack once more broke into a laugh, and stepping forward,
clapped one hand upon Percy’s shoulder and the other on mine, and said:
“Percy, old fellow, and you, Tom,--I suppose I may call you
‘Tom’?--forgive me for laughing; but there is such a joke against you
two. I’ve been expecting you any day for the past month. That man has
been attending upon your footsteps ever since the morning you landed
in New Orleans. I have letters from home for both of you up at the
house where I am staying. I know all about your poaching scrape, and
your trip across the ocean and up the Mississippi, and your walk across
Nebraska, and the train-wreckers’ episode, and how the station-agents
along the line used to joke you as you went by, and----”
“But how, Jack? How?” we both cried, rendered desperate by this
enumeration, which only increased the bewilderment of our already
sufficiently puzzled brains.
“Come over here by the stream,” replied Jack. “There is a nice bunch of
trees. We can sit down in the shade, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
But to make matters intelligible I must deprive Jack of the honor of
telling the story himself, and must add to it a few details with which
he was unacquainted. To do so I must go back to the night when Percy
and I escaped--as we thought--the terrors of the law by running away
from Moseley’s.
It was not until the morning following our “escape” that our absence
was discovered,--Percy’s sheet waving in the wind was the first
intimation that something was amiss,--but as soon as the discovery was
made there ensued some pretty lively bustle in the little community.
Bates and the keepers were rescued from the “den,” Mr. Goodall was
notified, and as soon as he arrived and my parents returned home a
meeting of the elders was held at the vicarage; Sir Anthony being of
the number. The old Baronet was half amused and half indignant that
we should have supposed him to be so harsh and undiscriminating as to
prosecute two thoughtless boys for an offence which they did not know
was an offence. But, “It is just like boys, though,” said he. “They
never do stop to think.”
The witnesses were examined, and with the help of Percy’s and my
letters a pretty true understanding of the incident was arrived at.
To dispose of one part of my story at a time, I may say that Bates’s
share in the transaction showed up so unpleasantly that, as a
consequence, he drove away late that evening to the railway-station.
His school-days were over.
Going up to London, he there had an interview with the old lawyer, his
guardian, to whom he expressed his determination to return to school
no more. He had had schooling enough; he was nineteen years old; he
would like to see something of the world.
Very well. What part of the world would he like to visit? France?
Italy? Germany?
No. What was the use of going to countries where he could not speak the
language? He would like to visit the United States.
To this desire his unsympathetic old guardian, glad to be rid of
him, gave his consent; and so it came about that, while Percy and I
were working our passage to New Orleans, Bates was suffering all the
miseries of sea-sickness somewhere between Liverpool and New York,
we being, of course, as ignorant of his movements as he was of ours.
Little could Bates have imagined, when he laid his plot to oust us from
Moseley’s, that the result of its success would be to lead us, all
three, such a wild dance as it did.
But to return to the conclave assembled in the vicarage parlour: my
father and mother, Mr. Goodall, the Head-master, and Sir Anthony.
A liberal use of the telegraph soon settled the question as to what
had become of us. In reply to a message to the Chief-Constable of
Southampton, information was received that a policeman had that
morning noticed two boys, calling each other Tom and Percy, looking
very tired, dusty, and unwashed, go on board the _Louisiana_, Captain
Murchison, bound for New Orleans, and that they had not come ashore
again. Further inquiry having made it quite certain that we were
the unwashed boys referred to, our seniors fell to discussing the
course of action that should be adopted. Sir Anthony and my mother
represented the two extremes of opinion. The former advised that as we
had brought ourselves into this scrape we might very well be allowed to
get ourselves out again, we having--he was kind enough to say--plenty
of sense and plenty of courage. My mother, on the other hand, was
for telegraphing the passage-money to New Orleans to bring us back
instantly.
But as Mr. Goodall, being an American, was much more likely than anyone
else to be able to suggest a feasible course of action, the others
turned to him for his opinion.
“I think,” said Mr. Goodall, “that we can make a compromise between
Mrs. Swayne’s idea and Sir Anthony’s. It would be interesting to see
how the boys would get out of their scrape by themselves, and this, I
believe, may be done without running any risk of permitting them to get
into trouble. I will tell you my idea, and if you agree I will see that
it is carried out.
“The boys, presumably, have not much money. It is possible that they
may, on landing, telegraph home for funds. If they do not, there
is no doubt, I think, but that they will try to make their way to
Philadelphia--my home, you know--by some means or other. Now, this is
what I propose to do: There is in Philadelphia a man, by name Hiram
Jenkins, whom I have frequently employed on private and particular
business, a thoroughly trustworthy and most astute fellow. I will send
full instructions to Jenkins to go at once to New Orleans, and there
to await the arrival of the _Louisiana_. He shall keep a close watch
upon the boys, follow their footsteps wherever they go, and, should
the occasion arise, shall make himself known to them. Otherwise--if no
such occasion should arise, I mean--he shall not interfere with them,
but shall allow them to get out of their difficulties by their own wit.
He shall communicate with us at frequent intervals, so that we may
know all the time what the boys are doing and where they are. Thus,
Mrs. Swayne, your mind will be relieved, and the boys will have an
opportunity to show how much of resourcefulness there is in them. Now,
what do you think of that?”
The three gentlemen at once declared their approval of the plan,
and after a thorough discussion my mother, too, albeit with some
reluctance, gave in to their opinion. Mr. Goodall immediately set about
making the necessary arrangements, with the result that when we arrived
in New Orleans, there, all unsuspected by us, was Hiram Jenkins,
waiting to act the part of watch-dog to us in our course across the
continent.
While we, in the unenviable position of roustabouts, worked our
toilsome way up the Mississippi, Jenkins, on the same boat, was
travelling comfortably among the passengers. When we, at St. Louis,
unexpectedly turned westward, Jenkins rode on the same train with us.
When we set out to walk across the plains, Jenkins, procuring a horse
and light cart, trotted along the country roads which followed the
railroad track, stopping at the different stations until we made our
appearance, and then driving on to the next one.
It seemed to him such an exquisite joke that two boys should thus
painfully tramp across the country,--perseveringly running away from
nothing,--that, feeling sure the station-agents would appreciate the
joke too well to spoil it, he would let them into the secret; and while
the agent, standing on the platform, would jocularly cheer us on our
way, Jenkins would be sitting in the waiting-room, taking his ease,
until such time as it should become necessary for him to drive on again.
After the episode of the train-wreckers Jenkins might perhaps have lost
us for a time had it not been for the fact that he was staying for the
night at the station to which the conductor had gone for assistance,
and walking back with him to the train had heard our request to be
carried on. Promptly abandoning his horse and cart, he once more rode
on the train with us, occupying a different car. By our action in
getting off short of Ogden he did lose us for the moment, but having
found out from our talkative acquaintance that we were going to walk
to Golconda, he went on to Ogden, where he met Jack, who had ridden
down to meet us, Jenkins having kept him, as well as the folks at home,
informed of our whereabouts.
Setting out at once on horseback, the pair overtook us when we were yet
two or three miles from our destination, and there Jenkins, his mission
accomplished, turned back to town, whence he sent to Percy’s father the
prearranged telegraphic message, “Goods delivered.”
When Jack had reached this point in his story he stopped. He was
too kind-hearted to laugh at us again, knowing pretty well what was
passing in our minds, and for a time all three sat silent, Percy and I
furtively eying each other meanwhile.
How exceedingly small we did feel! To think that we had taken all
this trouble, suffered all these discomforts, travelled all this
distance,--for nothing!
As I watched Percy, however, I presently saw a change come over his
face. He raised his head and sat up straight; then, to the great
astonishment of Toby, Jack’s horse, he suddenly sprang to his feet,
dashed his hat upon the ground, and, snapping his fingers and thumbs,
shouted “Hurrah!” at the very top of his voice; at the same time waving
his arms above his head, and spinning round first on one foot and then
on the other.
_I_ knew what he was thinking about, because I was thinking the very
same thing myself. I jumped up, too, kicked Percy’s hat far away into
the bushes, hurled my own after it, and joined him in his shouting and
capering and generally absurd behaviour; while Jack leaned back against
a tree and laughed until the tears ran out of his eyes.
“Hold up, hold up, you two lunatics!” he cried, at last. “Don’t you
think you’ve made yourselves ridiculous enough already without winding
up in this way?”
At this we rushed upon Jack, each seized one of his hands and shook it
as though he were a long-lost friend whom we had expected never to see
again, and at last, entirely out of breath, we flopped down on either
side of him and sat there panting.
“May I inquire,” said Jack, with extreme politeness, “whether this is
your usual style of behaviour, or whether the altitude has affected
your brains? Or were you, perhaps, merely born foolish?”
It was our turn to laugh. In fact, we felt so light-hearted we were
ready to laugh at anything--ourselves included. What did we care about
having made ourselves ridiculous! When we thought of how our parents
had never been worried about us all this time; how they had kept watch
over us without our knowing it; how, too, Sir Anthony had never thought
of putting us into jail at all,--the relief to our minds was such that
it was no wonder we “carried on” in this flighty manner. For the first
time in six or seven weeks we felt free from anxiety. All the policemen
in England and America could not make us tremble. We were fugitives no
longer!
“But, Jack,” said Percy, after we had sat for some time asking
innumerable questions of our new friend, “what is going to become of us
now?”
“That is for you to say,” replied Jack. “I have a letter of
instructions up at the house. You are to have your choice: you may go
straight home again if you like, or--” Jack paused, and sat eying us in
a critical manner, as if he were taking our measure; “sizing us up,” as
he would have expressed it.
“Or what?” exclaimed Percy and I, together.
“Or this. What do you say to cutting loose from civilization
altogether; riding away into the mountains; camping out all summer;
living on what we can shoot; and prospecting for gold as we go?”
So magnificent an idea fairly took away our breath for a moment, but
then, with one voice, we cried enthusiastically: “I say ‘Yes.’”
“All right,” said Jack. “Then that is what we will do; and uncommonly
glad I shall be of your company. You can be of great help to me; for,
as soon as you have learned to shoot straight, I shall leave to you
the task of providing the camp with game, and that will set me free to
go prospecting. You see,” he went on, “I am very anxious to find gold,
if possible; for this reason: My father owns a silver mine here in
Golconda. He has done an immense amount of work upon it, and has spent
a great deal of money in developing it, but just as we were going to
begin stoping,--that is, taking out the ore,--a blast in the bottom of
the shaft broke into an underground reservoir, apparently. At any rate,
the water rushed in and drove out the miners; we rigged a bucket and
tried what that would do, but it was quite useless; nothing short of a
good pumping-engine will keep the water down.
“Unfortunately my father cannot afford to buy one, for he had just
expended the last of his available money in building a comfortable
house for my mother and sister, who were coming out to live with
us--and now they can’t come! My father has gone East to try to borrow
the necessary money, but if he should fail,--why, then I don’t know
what we shall do. So you see why it is that I am so particularly
anxious to find a gold-placer--though, of course, it is most unlikely
that I shall be able to do so; especially as I don’t know anything of
gold-washing.”
“I see,” said Percy. “How much money will it require to buy a
pumping-engine, and to start up the mine again?”
“Five thousand dollars, perhaps,” replied Jack. “Besides the cost of
the pump, there is likely to be a great deal of work to be done in the
mine after the water is taken out,--replacing timbers, and cleaning out
the drifts, which are very apt to cave in after a prolonged soaking.”
“Well,” continued Percy, “if we should find a placer, is it likely to
be worth that much?”
“There’s no telling,” replied Jack. “But if we find one at all, we want
to find one worth more than that, because, you see, there’s your share
to come out.”
“Our share!” exclaimed Percy. “Oh, we don’t want a share.”
“No,” I chimed in. “Ours is a pleasure-trip. We don’t want a share.”
“That wouldn’t be fair,” said Jack. “If you do part of the work you
must have part of the pay--if there is any.”
“Well, I don’t see that,” Percy objected. “We neither of us know
anything about prospecting. As for myself, I couldn’t tell the
difference between native gold and native brass--if there is such a
thing.”
“Which there isn’t,” said Jack, laughing.
“Look here,” I interrupted. “I think I see a way out of this. If we
should find a placer,--whatever that is,--the first five thousand
dollars that come out of it, if so much ever does come out of it, shall
go to Jack, or, rather, to Mr. Harding, and anything over shall be
divided equally between the three of us. If our share shall be enough
to pay our way home, so much the better.”
“That is a first-rate idea,” said Percy, emphatically; and in spite of
Jack’s protests we stuck to our point until, at last, he gave in.
“Well, you fellows,” said he, “that is mighty good of you. Whether we
find anything or not, I’m much obliged to you beforehand. But, come.
We must be moving. It is past supper-time already, and we have nearly
three miles to go yet.”
In course of time we came in sight of a ranch, and Jack, pointing to
it, said: “There’s our destination. You see, as my father expected to
be absent from Golconda for several months he has rented our house in
the town, and in consequence I have taken up my abode with a friend, a
ranchman named George Catlin.”
The jolly ranchman welcomed us to his house, and we felt ourselves at
home directly. It is true he poked fun at us in a good-natured way
on the subject of our late escapade, but it was little we cared for
that when Jack handed over to us letters from our parents, and one,
addressed to both, from Sir Anthony.
To think that we had ever run away from such friends! How kind the
letters were! Not a word of blame in them; merely an intimation that
we had acted too hastily and rather foolishly, and an assurance that
had we been twice as hasty and twice as foolish it would have made no
difference in the welcome that was always awaiting us at home.
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