A FRIEND INDEED
It was a shocking sight, and for a minute or two Dick Halliard and Jim
McGovern did not speak.
Tom Wagstaff had been cut off in the beginning of his lawless career,
and his dead body lay at the feet of his former companion in
wrong-doing, with whom he had exchanged coarse jests but a short while
before.
It was as McGovern declared, and as the reader has learned. When the
Piketon Rangers heard the rush of the flood, each broke from the tent,
thinking only of his own safety, which was just as well, since neither
could offer the slightest aid to the others.
We have shown by what an exceedingly narrow chance McGovern eluded the
torrent. But for the hand of Dick Halliard, extended a second time to
save him from drowning, he would have shared the fate of Wagstaff. The
particulars of the latter’s death were never fully established. He
probably fled in the same general direction as McGovern, without
leading or following in his footsteps, since his body was carried to
the same shore upon which McGovern emerged. His struggles most likely
were similar, but, singularly enough, he knew nothing about swimming,
which, after all, could have been of no benefit to him, and he
perished as did the thousands who went down in the Johnstown flood.
Terry Hurley overheard the exclamation of McGovern, the roar of the
torrent having greatly subsided, and he called out to know the cause.
Dick explained, and the sympathetic Irishman instantly quelled the
disposition to joke that he had felt a short time before.
The boys were not slow in observing that the water was falling. When
they first laid down the body the current almost touched their feet.
In a short while it was a considerable distance away.
“I believe he was an old friend of yours,” said Dick, addressing his
companion, who was deeply affected by the event.
“Yes,” replied McGovern; “him and me run away from home together.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because Satan got into us; we both have good homes and kind parents,
but we played truant, stole, fought, and did everything bad. Bob Budd
came down to New York some time ago, and we made his acquaintance; we
were fellows after one another’s heart, and we took to each other
right off. We showed Bob around the city, and then he made us promise
to come out and visit him. It was his idea to form the Piketon
Rangers.”
“I don’t know as there was anything wrong in that,” said Dick, who
felt for the grief of his companion and was awed by the fate that had
overtaken the others; “camping out is well enough in its way, and I
would do it myself if I had the chance.”
“It isn’t that which I mean; it’s the way we have been going on since
we have been together. I daresn’t tell you all the bad we did, Dick
Halliard.”
“Never mind; don’t think of it.”
“I am going home as soon as I can; this will break up Tom’s folks, for
they thought all the world of him.”
“It is bad,” said Dick, who saw how idle it was to try to minify the
dreadful incidents; “but sad as it is, it will not be entirely lost if
you do not forget it.”
“Forget it!” repeated McGovern, looking reproachfully in his face; “it
will haunt me as long as I live.”
“I have been told that people often feel that way when great sorrow
overtakes them; but,” added Dick, seeing his companion was grieved by
his words, “I do not believe it will be so with you.”
“I have run away from home before, but I think this was a little the
worst, for my father had everything arranged to send me to college,
and I know his heart is well-nigh broken.”
“Not so far but that you can mend it by doing what you say you mean to
do,” said Dick, thinking it wise to emphasize the truth already
spoken.
McGovern made no reply, but stood for a minute as if in deep thought.
Dick was watching him closely and saw him look down at the inanimate
form at his feet. He sighed several times, and then glancing up
quickly, said in an eager voice:
“Dick Hilliard, I wish I was like you.”
The words sounded strange from one who had been so reckless of all
that was right, but never was an utterance more sincere—it came
directly from the heart.
“Don’t take me for a model, for you can be a great deal better than I;
you tell me you have good parents; all you have to do is to obey
them.”
“You seem to doubt my keeping the pledge,” said McGovern, looking with
curious fixidity in the countenance of Dick.
“I believe you are in earnest now, but what I fear is that you have
become so accustomed to your wild life that you will forget this
lesson.”
“Well,” sighed the stricken youth, “that must remain to be tested; all
that I can now do is to ask you to suspend judgment, as they say.”
“You can give me your hand on it, Jim.”
It was a strange sight, when the two boys clasped hands on the bank of
the subsiding flood, with the lifeless body at their feet, and one of
them uttered his solemn promise that from that hour he would strive to
follow the right path and shun the wrong one.
But that pledge, uttered years ago, remains unbroken to this day.
Dick Halliard was thrilled by the scene, which will always remain
vivid in his memory. Despite the sorrowful surroundings a singular
pleasure crept through his being, for conscience whispered that he had
done a good deed in thus exhorting the wayward youth, and that it was
on record in the great book above.
It was not the impressiveness of that silent form that so wrought upon
the feelings of the youths, but the recollection of the missing one,
whose body they believed was whirling about in the fierce currents of
the torrent that was speedily exhausting itself in the deeper parts of
the valley, or perhaps was lodged somewhere in the lower limbs of a
tree, awaiting the morning for the shocked friends to claim it.
Considerable time had passed since the bursting of the dam, and the
news of the calamity spread rapidly. People began flocking hither from
the neighborhood, and before long there were arrivals from Piketon
itself. These gathered at the scene of destruction and viewed it with
bated breath. Some brought lanterns, but the broad space where the
waters had reposed for so many years was clearly shown in the
moonlight and made a striking sight.
The striking feature about the calamity, which, as we have stated, was
never satisfactorily explained, was that the dam, which looked strong
enough to resist tenfold the pressure, had not yielded in a single
spot, as would be supposed, but had been carried away almost bodily.
That is to say, three-fourths of the structure was gone, its
foundations being on a level with the bottom of the pond in the
immediate vicinity.
Perhaps the most probable explanation of the accident was that offered
by an old fisherman, to the effect that muskrats had burrowed under
and through the dam until it had been so weakened throughout most of
its extent that when a giving way began at one point it was like
knocking the keystone from an arch. Its results resembled those often
shown by the explosion of a steam boiler, when only a few fragments
remain to show what it once has been.
Before long a party reached the place where Dick and Jim were standing
by the dead body of Wagstaff. When it was proposed to remove it the
suggestion was made that it should not be disturbed until the arrival
of the coroner, who could be called by morning to view the body. This
practice, as the reader doubtless knows, prevails in nearly every
portion of the country, and was adopted in the instance named.
Meanwhile Terry Hurley and his family, perched among the branches of
the trees, were not forgotten. As soon as the waters subsided
sufficiently, parties waded out, and by means of ladders that were
quickly brought, soon placed the homeless ones safely on _terra
firma_.
The haste of the flight had prevented the couple from doing much in
the way of bringing needed garments, and the children, who were in
their night clothes, suffered considerably. But they were now in the
hands of good friends, who did everything possible. They were looked
after, and it is a pleasure to say that no serious consequences
followed.
Captain Jim Budd, the indulgent uncle of Bob, happened to be away from
Piketon on the night of the great accident, but was expected back in
the morning. Fortunately no one was so thoughtless as to hasten to
Aunt Ruth with the news of her nephew’s death, and therein she was
more favored than most people placed in her sad situation.
Dick Halliard made his employer his confidant as far as was necessary
concerning Jim McGovern. The good-hearted merchant took hold of the
matter at once.
Having obtained from McGovern the address of Wagstaff’s parents, word
was telegraphed them and their wishes asked as to the disposition of
their son’s remains. The father appeared that afternoon, and with the
permission of the coroner took charge of them.
Mr. Wagstaff proved to be a man of good sense and judgment. He told
Mr. Hunter that his life purpose had been to educate and bring up his
five children, with every advantage they could require. He and his
wife had set their hearts on preparing Jim for the ministry, but his
wayward tendencies developed at an early age. He was the only one of
the family to cause the parents anxiety, and he brought them enough
sorrow for all.
This parent was one of those rare ones who saw his children as other
people saw them. His boy had been as bad as he could be, and though
the youngest of the three, no excuse was offered for him on that
account.
“He has sown the wind and reaped the whirlwind,” remarked the father;
“he chose the wrong path instead of the right, and no one is blamable
beside himself.”
Mr. Wagstaff manifested deep interest in young McGovern, when he
learned what the young man had said to Dick Halliard. His father was a
prominent lawyer in New York, who had cherished the same hopes for his
son as he, but he would not be controlled, and he, too, had run off to
seek forbidden pleasures.
But the caller was touched by what he had heard as to the youth’s
change of feelings. He sought him out, and was pleased with his talk.
The same train which bore the remains of Wagstaff to New York carried
also Jim McGovern on his way to join his parents who had known nothing
of him for days.