Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text
enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
No. 4
BOUND TO WIN LIBRARY
LITTLE HICKORY
or Ragged Rob’s Young Republic
BY
VICTOR ST. CLAIR
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH · PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK
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LITTLE HICKORY;
OR,
Ragged Rob’s Young Republic
BY
VICTOR ST. CLAIR
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
238 WILLIAM STREET
* * * * *
Copyright, 1901
By Norman L. Munro
Little Hickory
* * * * *
LITTLE HICKORY.
CHAPTER I. THE BOOTBLACK AND THE DEACON.
“I vum! I eenamost feel as if I was lost, though there do seem to be
plenty o’ folks round.”
“Black yer boots and make ’em shine; only cost ye half a dime!” cried
a cheery voice at the speaker’s elbow, and, looking down, the tall man
was surprised to see a specimen of boyhood quite unknown to him. The
features were regular enough, and would have been quite handsome had it
not been for big patches of shoe blacking smeared over cheek and brow.
Blue eyes peered out from the dark stains around them with a roguish
twinkle, and there was a certain fearless independence in his looks
and attitude which could not fail to show the most casual observer
the fearlessness and self-reliance of his nature. It was his clothes,
his general deportment, the air of cool contempt for everything and
everybody around him which caused the stranger fresh from the country
to stare upon the bootblack of the great city with speechless wonder.
“When yer eyes git done working and blinking, mister, p’raps ye will
give yer tongue a chance,” said the young knight of the blacking brush,
beginning to remove from his shoulder the ever-handy kit of his trade.
“Better hev yer brogans shined up, mister; they need it bad.”
The reply of the man showed that something of greater moment to him at
that time than his personal appearance was uppermost in his mind.
“Say, bub, can you tell me where there is a good tavern that a chap
could stop at till to-morrer?”
“Sold ag’in, Ragged Rob!” cried one of half a dozen companions of his
ilk, who had appeared upon the scene from all quarters. “When ye git
through wi’ th’ ol’ hayseed, ye mought as well git out o’ bizness,
for ye won’t hev blackin’ ’nough ter tip a gent’s boot. So long!” and
the crowd beat a hasty retreat, to look for work in a more favorable
direction.
“Get a move on you, old mossback, or the cops will haul you in for
obstructing the sidewalks!” muttered a beetle-browed passer-by, who
followed his words with a push which nearly threw the countryman off
his feet.
“Geewhillikins, how the folks do crowd! Beats all natur’. What’s that
you say, bub?”
“I say ye might find sich a stable as ye want by lookin’ in the
right-hand corner. Luck to ye, ennyway,” and the bootblack was speedily
lost in the crowd.
“Drat the leetle feller’s pictur! If I had my thumb and finger on him
I’d pinch his throat for answering a civil question in that oncivil
way.”
“What was that you said, friend?” asked a man, who had come hurrying
toward him. “Why, can this be possible?” continued the newcomer,
slapping him on the shoulder. “By Jove, but this is the pleasantest
surprise of my life. Have you just come to New York, Mr. Reyburnbrook?”
By this time the man from the country was able to get a good view of
the speaker, who was a tall, genteel, well-dressed person of middle
life, and he said:
“Guess ye air mistook in your man this time, mister. I ain’t no sich
name as Bumbrook at all. I’m just plain Elihu Cornhill, deacon o’ the
church at Basinburg, where I wish I was this blessed minute. Things
and folks air so tarnal thick round here one can’t draw a long breath,
and----”
“Excuse me,” interrupted the other, “I can see my mistake now, Deacon
Cornhill, and I offer a thousand apologies for troubling you. Do you
know you look as like a friend of mine as a pea in the same pod?
Good-day.”
“It’s funny queer!” exclaimed the bewildered Deacon Cornhill, “folks
air in sich a pesky hurry they can’t stop to put one on his right
track. I s’pose I must keep jogging, as if I was over in our lot
looking for the cows.”
Meanwhile, the man who had left so abruptly after accosting him, sought
another a short distance away, and who had evidently been waiting for
him. Together the couple hastily examined a condensed New England
directory, which the former produced from his pocket. After a short
consultation they separated, one going at right angles to the street,
followed by the unsuspecting countryman, while the other gave him
pursuit.
Finding that the crowd of passers-by jostled him as he hastened on his
way, Deacon Cornhill gathered his huge gripsack close under his right
arm, pulled his hat down upon his large head, and kept stubbornly on
his way, regardless of the elbowing and pushing of others, saying under
his breath:
“Puts me in mind o’ goin’ through Squire Danvers’ brush lot, but I
reckon I can stand it if they can.”
He soon reached a corner where, if the pedestrians were less numerous,
he was more than ever perplexed over the course for him to follow. On
every hand the tumult of street traffic and the noise and confusion
of city life bewildered him. As he stood there for a moment, looking
anxiously about him, the sound of loud, angry voices arrested his
attention, when he saw a small party of boys disputing and wrangling
over some question. Then one of the group broke suddenly away from the
others and fled, with two in furious pursuit.
Looking back over his shoulder as he ran, the youth did not seem to pay
any heed to the course he took, and in spite of the deacon’s warning he
struck him with such force that the startled man was hurled upon the
sidewalk.
The boy fell on top of him, and the next moment the foremost of his
pursuers cried:
“I’ve got ye, Slimmy! Say yer lied, or I’ll knock th’ teeth right out
yer jaw!”
“Not for Joe!” retorted the fugitive, regaining his feet, but pulled
down by the other.
“Won’t, won’t ye, ye sneak-eyed sinner! Oh, I’ll wallop----”
He had begun to pommel his victim unmercifully, while his companions
urged him on with words of encouragement. This was more than the
kind-hearted Deacon Cornhill, who had regained his feet, could witness
without interfering, and, dropping his gripsack on the sidewalk, in
order to have his hands free, he went to the rescue of the smaller boy,
exclaiming:
“Let him alone, you ragamuffin!” at the same time trying to catch the
aggressive youngster by the collar. But the boy easily slipped from
his grasp, and ran down the cross street, followed by his friends, the
party giving utterance to peals of laughter.
Deacon Cornhill, in his great indignation, started to give them chase,
but after going a few steps thought better of his foolishness, and
turned back.
He was just in season to see the boy he had been defending dodging
around the corner with his gripsack.
“Here, stop, you thief! Catch him, somebody, he’s makin’ off with my
satchel,” giving pursuit as he uttered his frantic cries.
The swift-footed boy quickly disappeared around a street corner, and
when the irate deacon reached the place he was nowhere to be seen. He
had now left the main street, and but a few people were in sight, no
one paying any heed to his distracted cries.
“Oh, shucks! What shall I do? All my spare clothes, my shirt and a big
hunk o’ the church money. What will the folks say? What shall I do?”
Bewildered and disheartened, the strong man stood trembling from head
to foot, while he wept like a child, as a stranger stopped in front of
him, saying in a free and easy manner, while he laid his hand on his
shoulder:
“Hello, deacon! You are the last man I should have expected to meet,
and here I find you in the heart of the big city. What can you be doing
here? I don’t see that you have aged a bit since I saw you at your
home in Basinburg four years ago. Four years, did I say? Bless me if
it hasn’t been seven, or will be the coming summer. How is your good
wife, and how are all the folks about town?”
Then, seeing the look of bland astonishment on the other’s florid
countenance, he rattled on in a different strain:
“Is it possible you do not remember me, Deacon Cornhill? It would be
perfectly natural if you didn’t, seeing I have changed considerable
since we last met. Knocking about the world, my good deacon, does put
age-lines on one’s face, let them differ who will. Let me refresh a
memory which is seldom at fault. Remember Harry Sawyer, a nephew of
your town clerk, John Sawyer, who has held the office so many years?
Recall the scapegrace? I am glad to say he has improved with age.
Recollect the race we had one afternoon running after the steers that
tore down the fence and plundered a neighbor’s cornfield? I finally
caught one of the ramping creatures, after the rest of you had cornered
him. He ripped my coat from hem to collar, and I barely escaped being
gored to death. That catches your memory? It does me good to grasp the
horny hand of an honest man. Don’t be afraid of mine suffering; if it
is soft, it is tough.”