ONE AFTERNOON IN AUTUMN
The lumbering old stage-coach that left Belmar one morning in autumn
was bowling along at a merry rate, for the road was good, the grade
slightly down-hill, and the September afternoon that was drawing to a
close cool and bracing.
The day dawned bright and sunshiny, but the sky had become overcast,
and Bill Lenman, who had driven the stage for twenty-odd years,
declared that a storm was brewing, and was sure to overtake him before
he could reach the little country town of Piketon, which was the
terminus of his journey.
A railway line had been opened from this bright, wide-awake place,
and, though the only public means of conveyance between Piketon and
Belmar was the stage, its days were almost numbered, for the line was
branching and spreading in nearly every direction.
Bill had picked up and set down passengers, on the long run, until
now, as the day was closing, he had but a single companion, who sat on
the seat directly behind him, and kept up a continuous run of
questions and answers.
This gentleman’s appearance suggested one of the most verdant of
countrymen that ever passed beyond sight of his parent’s home. He was
fully six feet tall, with bright, twinkling-gray eyes, a long peaked
nose, home-made clothing, and an honest, out-spoken manner which could
not fail to command confidence anywhere.
He had made known his name to every person that had ridden five
minutes in the coach, as Ethan Durrell, born in New England, and on a
tour of pleasure. He had never before been far from the old homestead,
but had worked hard all his life, and had some money saved up, and his
parents consented to let him enjoy his vacation in his own way.
“You see, I could have got to Piketon by the railroad,” he said,
leaning forward over the back of Lenman’s seat and peering
good-naturedly into his face, “but consarn the railroads! I don’t
think they ever oughter been allowed. I read in the _Weekly
Bugle_, just afore I left home, that somewhere out West a cow got
on the track and wouldn’t get off! No, sir, _wouldn’t get off_,
till the engine run into her and throwed her off the track, and
likewise throwed itself off, and some of the folks on board come
mighty nigh getting hurt.”
The driver was naturally prejudiced against railways, and was glad to
agree with Ethan’s sentiments.
“Yas,” he said, as he nipped a fly off the ear of the near horse, by a
swing of his long lash, “there ought to be a law agin them railroads;
what’s the use of folks being in such a hurry, that they want to ride
a mile a minute! What good does it do ’em? Why aint they content to
set in a coach like this and admire the country as they ride through
it?”
“Them’s been my sentiments ever since I knowed anything,” replied the
New Englander, with enthusiasm, “but it looks as everbody is fools
except us, Bill, eh?” laughed Ethan, reaching over and chucking the
driver in the side; “leastways, as we can’t bender ’em from doing as
they please, why, we won’t try.”
“I guess you’re ’bout right,” growled Bill, who could not see the
stage-coach approaching its last run without a feeling of
dissatisfaction, if not sadness.
“Helloa!” exclaimed Ethan, in a low voice, “I guess you’re going to
have a couple more passengers.”
“It looks that way; yes, they want to ride.”
The coach had reached the bottom of the hill, and was rumbling toward
the small, wooden bridge, beyond which the woods stretched on both
sides of the highway, when two large boys climbed over the fence and,
walking to the side of the road, indicated that they wished to take
passage in the coach.
These young men were our old friends, Tom Wagstaff and Jim McGovern,
and they were dressed in sporting costume, each carrying a fine rifle,
revolver, and hunting-knife. Although they had not yet executed their
plan of a campaign against the aborigines of the West, they were on a
hunting jaunt, and were returning, without having met with much
success.
The young men had hardly taken their seats in the stage when Wagstaff
produced a flask and invited the driver and Ethan Durrell to join him
and his friend. The invitation being declined, McGovern drew forth a
package of cigarettes, and he and Tom soon filled the interior of the
coach with the nauseating odor. But for the thorough ventilation,
Ethan declared he would have been made ill.
Tom and Jim were not long in finding a subject for amusement in the
person of the New Englander. He was as eager as they to talk, and
Bill, sitting in front with the lines in hand, turned sideway and
grinned as he strove not to lose a word of the conversation.
“Are you going to Piketon?” asked Ethan, when the young men were
fairly seated in the stage.
“That’s the town we started for,” replied Wagstaff.
“Ever been there before?”
“No; we’re on our way to visit our friend, Bob Budd; we live in New
York, and Bob spent several weeks down there last spring, when we made
his acquaintance. Bob is a mighty good fellow, and we promised to come
out and spend our vacation with him, though it’s rather late in the
season for a vacation. I say, driver, do you know Bob?”
“Oh! yes,” replied Lenman, looking back in the faces of the young men;
“I’ve knowed him ever since he was a little chit; he lives with his
Uncle Jim now—rich old chap—and lets Bob do just as he pleases ’bout
everything.”
“That’s the right kind of uncle to have,” remarked Jim; “I wouldn’t
mind owning one of them myself. Bob wrote us that he was going to camp
out near a big mill-pond and some mountains; of course, driver, you
know the place.”
“I was born and reared in this part of the country; I don’t know the
exact spot where Bob means to make his camp, but I’ve no doubt you’ll
enjoy yourselves.”
“It won’t be our fault if we don’t,” said Tom, with a laugh; “that’s
how we came to leave the governor, without asking permission or saying
good-bye.”
“I hope you didn’t run away from home, boys,” said Ethan, in a grieved
manner.
“No, we didn’t run away,” said Jim, “we _walked_.”
Ethan Durrell checked the reproof he was about to utter, and the young
men laughed.
“You’ll be sorry for it some day,” remarked the New Englander, “you
may depend on that.”
“Did you ever try it?” asked Wagstaff.
“I did once, but I didn’t get fur; the old gentleman overtook me a
half-mile down the road; he had a big hickory in one hand and with the
other he grabbed me by the nape of the neck; well,” added the
gentleman, with a sigh, “I guess there’s no need of saying anything
more.”
“He must have had a father like Billy Waylett,” remarked Jim, aside to
his companion, both of whom laughed at the story of their new friend,
“he wasn’t as lucky as we.”
The reader has already learned considerable about these two young men.
They were wayward, disobedient, and fond of forbidden pleasures. It
was the intention of their parents to place them in school that
autumn, but while arrangements were under way the couple stealthily
left home, first providing themselves with fine hunting outfits, and
started for Piketon, with the intention of spending a couple of weeks
in the woods.
They did not not make their plans known to Billy Waylett, who was such
a willing companion several years before. Billy still lived in Ashton
and could have been easily reached, but they knew that he would not
only reject their proposal, but, as likely as not, acquaint their
parents with it.
The unwise indulgence of Mr. Wagstaff and Mr. McGovern was producing
its inevitable fruit. They had had much trouble with their boys, but
hoped as they grew older, and finished sowing their wild oats, they
would settle down into sedate, studious men, and that the end of all
their parents’ worriment would soon come.
Among the undesirable acquaintances made by Jim and Tom was Bob Budd,
who, as they intimated, spent several weeks in the city of New York.
He was a native of Piketon, which was becoming altogether too slow for
him. He chafed under the restraints of so small a country town, and
wrote them glowing accounts of the good times they would have together
in the camp in the woods. He urged them to come at once, now that the
hunting season was at hand.
Tom and Jim were captivated by his radiant pictures, and determined to
accept his invitation, whether their parents consented or not. The
near approach of the time set for their entrance at the high school
made the prospect in that direction too distasteful to be faced.
While they were still hesitating, with vivid recollections of the
dismal failure of their earlier years, another letter came from Bob
Budd. He told them he had not only selected the spot for their camp,
but that the tent was up, and it was well stocked with refreshments of
both a solid and liquid nature. He had painted a big sign, which was
suspended to the ridge-pole and bore the legend,
“CAMP OF THE PIKETON RANGERS.”
This was not only ornamental, but served as a warning to all
trespassers.
“Everything is ready,” wrote Bob, “and every day’s delay is just so
much taken from the sport and enjoyment that await you. Come at once,
boys, and you’ll never regret it.”