IX

HOW PONY DID NOT QUITE GET OFF

WITH THE CIRCUS

A crowd of the fellows had been waiting to know what the boys had been

talking about to the circus man; but Jim Leonard said: "Don't you tell,

Pony Baker!" and he started to run, and that made Pony run, too, and they

both ran till they got away from the fellows.

"You have got to keep it a secret; for if a lot of fellows find it out the

constable'll get to know it, and he'll be watching out around the corner

of your house, and when the procession comes along and he sees you're

really going he'll take you up, and keep you in jail till your father

comes and bails you out. Now, you mind!"

Pony said, "Oh, I won't tell anybody," and when Jim Leonard said that if

a circus man was to feel _him_ over, that way, and act so kind of pleasant

and friendly, he would be too proud to speak to anybody, Pony confessed

that he knew it was a great thing all the time.

"The way'll be," said Jim Leonard, "to keep in with him, and he'll keep

the others from picking on you; they'll be afraid to, on account of his

dog. You'll see, he'll be the one to come for you to-night; and if the

constable is there the dog won't let him touch you. I never thought of

that."

Perhaps on account of thinking of it now Jim Leonard felt free to tell the

other fellows how Pony was going to run off, for when a crowd of them came

along he told them. They said it was splendid, and they said that if they

could make their mothers let them, or if they could get out of the house

without their mothers knowing it, they were going to sit up with Pony and

watch out for the procession, and bid him good-bye.

At dinner-time he found out that his father was going to take him and all

his sisters to the circus, and his father and mother were so nice to him,

asking him about the procession and everything, that his heart ached at

the thought of running away from home and leaving them. But now he had to

do it; the circus man was coming for him, and he could not back out; he

did not know what would happen if he did. It seemed to him as if his

mother had done everything she could to make it harder for him. She had

stewed chicken for dinner, with plenty of gravy, and hot biscuits to sop

in, and peach preserves afterwards; and she kept helping him to more,

because she said boys that followed the circus around got dreadfully

hungry. The eating seemed to keep his heart down; it was trying to get

into his throat all the time; and he knew that she was being good to him,

but if he had not known it he would have believed his mother was just

doing it to mock him.

Pony had to go to the circus with his father and sisters, and to get on

his shoes and a clean collar. But a crowd of the fellows were there at the

tent door to watch out whether the circus man would say anything to him

when he went in; and Jim Leonard rubbed up against him, when the man

passed with his dog and did not even look at Pony, and said: "He's just

pretending. He don't want your father to know. He'll be round for you,

sure. I saw him kind of smile to one of the other circus men."

It was a splendid circus, and there were more things than Pony ever saw in

a circus before. But instead of hating to have it over, it seemed to him

that it would never come to an end. He kept thinking and thinking, and

wondering whether he would like to be a circus actor; and when the one

came out who rode four horses bareback and stood on his head on the last

horse, and drove with the reins in his teeth, Pony thought that he never

could learn to do it; and if he could not learn he did not know what the

circus men would say to him. It seemed to him that it was very strange he

had not told that circus man that he didn't know whether he could do it or

not; but he had not, and now it was too late.

A boy came around calling lemonade, and Pony's father bought some for each

of the children, but Pony could hardly taste his.

"What is the matter with you, Pony? Are you sick?" his father asked.

"No. I don't care for any; that's all. I'm well," said Pony; but he felt

very miserable.

After supper Jim Leonard came round and went up to Pony's room with him to

help him pack, and he was so gay about it and said he only wished _he_ was

going, that Pony cheered up a little. Jim had brought a large square of

checked gingham that he said he did not believe his mother would ever

want, and that he would tell her he had taken if she asked for it. He said

it would be the very thing for Pony to carry his clothes in, for it was

light and strong and would hold a lot. He helped Pony to choose his things

out of his bureau drawers: a pair of stockings and a pair of white

pantaloons and a blue roundabout, and a collar, and two handkerchiefs.

That was all he said Pony would need, because he would have his circus

clothes right away, and there was no use taking things that he would

never wear.

Jim did these up in the square of gingham, and he tied it across

cater-cornered twice, in double knots, and showed Pony how he could put

his hand through and carry it just as easy. He hid it under the bed for

him, and he told Pony that if he was in Pony's place he should go to bed

right away or pretty soon, so that nobody would think anything, and maybe

he could get some sleep before he got up and went down to wait on the

front steps for the circus to come along. He promised to be there with the

other boys and keep them from fooling or making a noise, or doing anything

to wake his father up, or make the constable come. "You see, Pony," he

said, "if you can run off this year, and come back with the circus next

year, then a whole lot of fellows can run off. Don't you see that?"

Pony said he saw that, but he said he wished some of the other fellows

were going now, because he did not know any of the circus boys and he was

afraid he might feel kind of lonesome. But Jim Leonard said he would soon

get acquainted, and, anyway, a year would go before he knew it, and then

if the other fellows could get off he would have plenty of company.

As soon as Jim Leonard was gone Pony undressed and got into bed. He was

not sleepy, but he thought maybe it would be just as well to rest a little

while before the circus procession came along for him; and, anyway, he

could not bear to go down-stairs and be with the family when he was going

to leave them so soon, and not come back for a whole year.

After a good while, or about the time he usually came in from playing, he

heard his mother saying: "Where in the world is Pony? Has he come in yet?

Have you seen him, girls? Pony! Pony!" she called.

But somehow Pony could not get his voice up out of his throat; he wanted

to answer her, but he could not speak. He heard her say, "Go out to the

front steps, girls, and see if you can see him," and then he heard her

coming up the stairs; and she came into his room, and when she saw him

lying there in bed she said: "Why, I believe in my heart the child's

asleep! Pony! Are you awake?"

Pony made out to say no, and his mother said: "My! what a fright you gave

me! Why didn't you answer me? Are you sick, Pony? Your father said you

didn't seem well at the circus; and you didn't eat any supper, hardly."

Pony said he was first-rate, but he spoke very low, and his mother came up

and sat down on the side of his bed.

"What is the matter, child?" She bent over and felt his forehead. "No, you

haven't got a bit of fever," she said, and she kissed him, and began to

tumble his short black hair in the way she had, and she got one of his

hands between her two, and kept rubbing it. "But you've had a long,

tiresome day, and that's why you've gone to bed, I suppose. But if you

feel the least sick, Pony, I'll send for the doctor."

Pony said he was not sick at all; just tired; and that was true; he felt

as if he never wanted to get up again.

His mother put her arm under his neck, and pressed her face close down to

his, and said very low: "Pony, dear, you don't feel hard towards your

mother for what she did the other night?"

He knew she meant boxing his ears, when he was not to blame, and he said:

"Oh no," and then he threw his arms round her neck and cried; and she told

him not to cry, and that she would never do such a thing again; but she

was really so frightened she did not know what she was doing.

When he quieted down she said: "Now say your prayers, Pony, 'Our Father,'"

and she said "Our Father" all through with him, and after that, "Now I lay

me," just as when he was a very little fellow. After they had finished she

stooped over and kissed him again, and when he turned his face into his

pillow she kept smoothing his hair with her hand for about a minute. Then

she went away.

Pony could hear them stirring about for a good while down-stairs. His

father came in from up-town at last and asked:

"Has Pony come in?" and his mother said:

"Yes, he's up in bed. I wouldn't disturb him, Henry. He's asleep by this

time."

His father said: "I don't know what to make of the boy. If he keeps on

acting so strangely I shall have the doctor see him in the morning."

Pony felt dreadfully to think how far away from them he should be in the

morning, and he would have given anything if he could have gone down to

his father and mother and told them what he was going to do. But it did

not seem as if he could.

By-and-by he began to be sleepy, and then he dozed off, but he thought it

was hardly a minute before he heard the circus band, and knew that the

procession was coming for him. He jumped out of bed and put on his things

as fast as he could; but his roundabout had only one sleeve to it,

somehow, and he had to button the lower buttons of his trousers to keep it

on. He got his bundle and stole down to the front door without seeming to

touch his feet to anything, and when he got out on the front steps he saw

the circus magician coming along. By that time the music had stopped and

Pony could not see any procession. The magician had on a tall, peaked hat,

like a witch. He took up the whole street, he was so wide in the black

glazed gown that hung from his arms when he stretched them out, for he

seemed to be groping along that way, with his wand in one hand, like a

blind man.

He kept saying in a kind of deep, shaking voice: "It's all glory; it's all

glory," and the sound of those words froze Pony's blood. He tried to get

back into the house again, so that the magician should not find him, but

when he felt for the door-knob there was no door there anywhere; nothing

but a smooth wall. Then he sat down on the steps and tried to shrink up so

little that the magician would miss him; but he saw his wide goggles

getting nearer and nearer; and then his father and the doctor were

standing by him looking down at him, and the doctor said:

"He has been walking in his sleep; he must be bled," and he got out his

lancet, when Pony heard his mother calling: "Pony, Pony! What's the

matter? Have you got the nightmare?" and he woke up, and found it was just

morning.

The sun was shining in at his window, and it made him so glad to think

that by this time the circus was far away and he was not with it, that he

hardly knew what to do.

He was not very well for two or three days afterwards, and his mother let

him stay out of school to see whether he was really going to be sick or

not. When he went back most of the fellows had forgotten that he had been

going to run off with the circus. Some of them that happened to think of

it plagued him a little and asked how he liked being a circus actor.

Hen Billard was the worst; he said he reckoned the circus magician got

scared when he saw what a whaler Pony was, and told the circus men that

they would have to get a new tent to hold him; and that was the reason

why they didn't take him. Archy Hawkins said: "How long did you have to

wait on the front steps, Pony, dear?" But after that he was pretty good to

him, and said he reckoned they had better not any of them pretend that

Pony had not tried to run off if they had not been up to see.

Pony himself could never be exactly sure whether he had waited on the

front steps and seen the circus magician or not. Sometimes it seemed all

of it like a dream, and sometimes only part of it. Jim Leonard tried to

help him make it out, but they could not. He said it was a pity he had

overslept himself, for if he had come to bid Pony good-bye, the way he

said, then he could have told just how much of it was a dream and how much

was not.

X

THE ADVENTURES THAT PONY'S COUSIN,

FRANK BAKER, HAD WITH A POCKETFUL

OF MONEY

Very likely Pony Baker would not have tried to run off any more if it had

not been for Jim Leonard. He was so glad he had not got off with the

circus that he did not mind any of the things at home that used to vex

him; and it really seemed as if his father and mother were trying to act

better. They were a good deal taken up with each other, and sometimes he

thought they let him do things they would not have let him do if they had

noticed what he asked. His mother was fonder of him than ever, and if she

had not kissed him so much before the fellows he would not have cared, for

when they were alone he liked to have her pet him. But one thing was, he

could never get her to like Jim Leonard, or to believe that Jim was not

leading him into mischief whenever they were off together. She was always

wanting him to go with his cousin Frank, and he would have liked to ask

Frank about running off, and whether a fellow had better do it; but he was

ashamed, and especially after he heard his father tell how splendidly

Frank had behaved with two thousand dollars he was bringing from the city

to the Boy's Town; Pony was afraid that Frank would despise him, and he

did not hardly feel fit to go with Frank, anyway.

Frank Baker was one of those fellows that every mother would feel her boy

was safe with. She would be sure that no crowd he was in was going to do

any harm or come to any, for he would have an anxious eye out for

everybody, and he would stand between the crowd and the mischief that a

crowd of boys nearly always wants to do. His own mother felt easy about

the younger children when they were with Frank; and in a place where there

were more chances for a boy to get sucked under mill-wheels, and break

through ice, and fall from bridges, or have his fingers taken off by

machinery than any other place I ever heard of, she no more expected

anything to happen to them, if he had them in charge, than if she had them

in charge herself.

[Illustration: "FRANK BAKER WAS ONE OF THOSE FELLOWS THAT EVERY MOTHER

WOULD FEEL HER BOY WAS SAFE WITH"]

As there were a good many other children in the family, and Mrs. Baker did

her own work, like nearly every mother in the Boy's Town, Frank almost

always had some of them in charge. When he went hunting, or fishing, or

walnutting, or berrying, or in swimming, he usually had one or two younger

brothers with him; if he had only one, he thought he was having the

greatest kind of a time.

He did not mind carrying his brother on his back when he got tired,

although it was not exactly the way to steal on game, and the gun was a

heavy enough load, anyway; but if he had not got many walnuts, or any at

all--as sometimes happened--it was not a great hardship to haul his

brother home in the wagon. To be sure, when he wanted to swim out with

the other big boys it was pretty trying to have to keep an eye on his

brother, and see that he did not fall into the water from the bank where

he left him.

He was a good deal more anxious about other boys than he was about

himself, and once he came near getting drowned through his carelessness.

It was in winter, and the canal basin had been frozen over; then most of

the water was let out from under the ice, and afterwards partly let in

again. This lifted the ice-sheet, but not back to its old level, and the

ice that clung to the shores shelved steeply down to the new level. Frank

stepped on this shore ice to get a shinny-ball, and slipped down to the

edge of the ice-sheet, which he would be sure to go under into the water.

He holloed with all his might, and by good luck some people came and

reached him a stick, by which he pulled himself out.

The scare of it haunted him for long after, but not so much for himself.

Whenever he was away from home in the winter he would see one of his

younger brothers slipping down the shore ice and going under the

ice-sheet, and he would break into a cold sweat at the idea. This shows

just the worrying kind of boy Frank was; and it shows how used he was to

having care put upon him, and how he would even borrow trouble when he had

none.

It generally happens with any one who makes himself useful that other

people make him useful, too, and all the neighbors put as much trust in

Frank as his mother, and got him to do a good many things that they would

not have got other boys to do. They could not look into his face, a little

more careworn than it ought to be at his age, without putting perfect

faith in him, and trying to get something out of him. That was how he came

to do so many errands for mothers who had plenty of boys of their own; and

he seemed to be called on in any sort of trouble or danger, when the

fathers were up-town, and was always chasing pigs or cows out of other

people's gardens, and breaking up their hens from setting, or going up

trees with hives to catch their bees when they swarmed.

I suppose this was how he came to be trusted with that pocketful of money,

and why he had a young brother along to double his care at the time.

The money was given him in the city, as the Boy's Town boys always called

the large place about twenty miles away, where Frank went once with his

mother when he was eleven years old. She was going to take passage there

on a steamboat and go up the Ohio River to visit his grandmother with his

sisters, while Frank was to go back the same day to the Boy's Town with

one of his young brothers.

They all drove down to the city together in the carriage which one of his

uncles had got from the livery stable, with a driver who was to take Frank

and his brother home. This uncle had been visiting Frank's father and

mother, and it was his boat that she was going on. It lay among a hundred

other boats, which had their prows tight together along the landing for

half a mile up and down the sloping shore. It was one of the largest boats

of all, and it ran every week from Cincinnati to Pittsburgh, and did not

take any longer for the round trip than an ocean steamer takes now for the

voyage from New York to Liverpool.

The children all had dinner on board, such a dinner as there never was in

any house: roast beef and roast chicken; beefsteak and ham in

chafing-dishes with lamps burning under them to keep them hot; pound-cake

with frosting on, and pies and pickles, corn-bread and hot biscuit; jelly

that kept shaking in moulds; ice-cream and Spanish pudding; coffee and

tea, and I do not know what all.

When the children had eaten all they could hold, and made their uncle

laugh till he almost cried, to see them trying to eat everything, their

mother went ashore with them, and walked up the landing towards the hotel

where the carriage was left, so as to be with Frank and his little brother

as long as she could before they started home. She was about one of the

best mothers in the Boy's Town, and Frank hated to have her go away even

on a visit.

She kept giving him charges about all the things at home, and how he must

take good care of his little brothers, and see that the garden gate was

fastened so that the cows could not get in, and feed the chickens

regularly, and put the cat out every night, and not let the dog sleep

under his bed; and they were so busy talking and feeling sorry that they

got to the hotel before they knew it.

There, whom should they see but one of the Boy's Town merchants, who was

in the city on business, and who seemed as glad to meet them as if they

were his own relations. They were glad, too, for it made them feel as if

they had got back to the Boy's Town when he came up and spoke to Mrs.

Baker. They had started from home after a very early breakfast, and she

said it seemed as if they had been gone a year already. The merchant told

her that he had been looking everywhere for somebody he knew who was going

to the Boy's Town; and then he told Mrs. Baker that he had two thousand

dollars which he wanted to send home to his partner, and he asked her if

she could take it for him when she went back.

"Well, indeed, indeed, I'm thankful I'm not going, Mr. Bushell!" Mrs.

Baker said. "And I wouldn't have supposed I could be, I'm so homesick. I'm

going up the river on a visit to mother; but if I was going straight back,

I wouldn't take your two thousand dollars for the half of it. I would be

afraid of losing it, or getting robbed and murdered. I don't know what

wouldn't happen. I would be happy to oblige you, but indeed, indeed I

couldn't!"

The merchant said he was sorry, but if she was not going home he supposed

he would have to find some one who was. It was before the days of sending

money by express, or telegraphing it, and the merchant told her he was

afraid to trust the money in the mail. He asked her who was going to take

her carriage home, and she told him the name of the driver from the livery

stable in the Boy's Town, who had come to the city with them.

Mr. Bushell seemed dreadfully disappointed, but when she went on to say

how anxious she was that the driver should get Frank and his brother home

before dark, he brightened up all of a sudden, and he asked, "Is Frank

going back?" and he looked down into Frank's face and smiled, as most

people did when they looked into Frank's face, and he asked, "What's the

reason Frank couldn't take it?"

Mrs. Baker put her arm across Frank's breast and pulled him away, and

said, "Indeed, indeed, the child just sha'n't, and that's all about it!"

But Mr. Bushell took the boy by the arm and laughed. "Let's feel how deep

your pants' pocket is," he said; and he put his hand into the pocket of

Frank's nankeen trousers and felt; and then, before Mrs. Baker could stop

him, he drew a roll of bank-notes out of his own pocket and pushed it into

Frank's. "There, it's just a fit! Do you think you'd lose it?"

"No, he wouldn't lose it," said his mother, "and that's just it! He'd

worry about it every minute, and I would worry about him!"

She tried to make the merchant take the money back, but he kept joking;

and then he turned serious, and told her that the money had to be put in

the bank to pay a note, and he did not know any way to get it to his

partner if she would not let Frank take it; that he was at his wits' end.

He said he would as lief trust it with Frank as with any man he knew; that

nobody would think the boy had any money with him; and he fairly begged

her to let Frank take it for him.

He talked to her so much that she began to give way a little. She felt

proud of his being willing to trust Frank, and at last she consented. Mr.

Bushell explained that he wished his partner to have the money that

evening, and she had to agree to let Frank carry it to him as soon as he

got home.

The Boy's Town was built on two sides of a river. Mr. Bushell's store was

across the river from where the Bakers lived, and she said she did not

want the child to have to go through the bridge after dark. Perhaps it was

her anxiety about this that began the whole trouble; for when the driver

came with the carriage, she could not help asking him if he was sure to

get home before sundown. That made him drive faster than he might have

done, perhaps; at any rate, he set off at a quick trot after Mr. Bushell

had helped put the two boys in. Mrs. Baker gathered her little girls

together and went back to the boat with her heart in her mouth, as she

afterwards said.

The driver got out of the city without trouble, but when he came to the

smooth turnpike road, it seemed to Frank that the horses kept going faster

and faster, till they were fairly flying over the ground. The driver

pulled and pulled at the reins, and people began to hollo, "Look out where

you're going!" when they met them or passed them, and all at once Frank

began to think the horses were running away. He had not much chance to

think about it, though, he was so busy keeping his little brother from

bouncing off the seat and out of the carriage, and in feeling if Mr.

Bushell's money was safe; and he was not certain that they were running

away till he saw people stopping and staring, and then starting after the

carriage.

The horses tore along for two or three miles; they thundered through the

covered bridge on Mill's Creek, and passed the Four-Mile House. By the

time they reached the little village beyond it they had the turnpike to

themselves; every team coming and going drove into the gutter.

At the village a large, fat butcher, who was sitting tilted back in a

chair at the door of his shop, saw the carriage coming in a whirlwind of

dust, and he knew what the matter was. There was a horse standing at the

hitching rail, and the butcher just had time to untie him and jump into

the saddle when the runaways flew by. He took after them as fast as his

horse could go, and overhauled them at the end of the next bridge and

brought them to a stand.

It had really been nothing but a race against time. No one was hurt; the

horses were pretty badly blown, that was all; but the carriage was so much

shaken up that it had to be left at a wagon-shop, where it could not be

mended till morning. The two boys were taken back to Four-Mile House,

where they would have to pass the night.

Frank worried about his father, who would be expecting them home that

evening; but he was glad his mother did not know what had happened. He was

thankful enough when he felt his brother all over and found him safe and

sound, and then put his hand on his pocket and found that Mr. Bushell's

money was still there. He did not eat very much supper, and he went to bed

early, after he had put his brother in bed and seen him fall asleep almost

before he got through his prayers.

Frank was very tired, and pretty sore from the jouncing in the carriage;

but he was too worried to be sleepy. He began to think, What if some one

should get Mr. Bushell's money away from him in the night, while he was

asleep? And then he was glad that he did not feel like sleeping. He got up

and put on his clothes and sat down by the window, listening to his

brother's breathing and looking out into the dark at the heat-lightning

in the west. The day had been very hot and the night was close, without a

breath of wind. By-and-by all the noises about the house died away, and he

knew everybody had gone to bed. The lantern under the tavern porch threw a

dim light out into the road; some dogs barked away off. There was no other

sound, and the stillness was awful. He kept his hand on the pocket that

had the money in it.

After a while Frank began to feel very drowsy, and he thought he would lie

down again, but he promised himself he would not sleep, and he did not

undress; for if he took his pantaloons off, he did not know how he could

make sure every minute that the money was safe, unless he put it under his

pillow. He was afraid if he did that he might forget it in the morning,

and leave it when he got up.

He stretched himself on the bed beside his brother, and it seemed to him

that it was hardly a second before he heard a loud crash that shook the

whole house; and the room looked full of fire. Another crash came, and

then another, with a loud, stony kind of rolling noise that seemed to go

round the world. Then he knew that he had been asleep, and that this

dreadful noise was the swift coming of a thunder-storm.

It was the worst storm that was ever known in Mill Creek Valley, so the

people said afterwards, but as yet it was only beginning. The thunder was

deafening, and it never stopped a moment. The lightning hardly stopped,

either; it filled the room with a quivering blaze; at times, when it died

down, the night turned black as ink, and then a flash came that lit up the

fields outside, and showed every stick and stone as bright as the

brightest day.

Frank was dazed at first by the glare and the noise; then he jumped out of

bed, and tried for two things: whether the money was still safe in his

pocket, and whether his brother was alive. He never could tell which he

found out first; as soon as he knew, he felt a little bit better, but

still his cheerfulness was not anything to brag of.

If his brother was alive, it seemed to be more than any one else in the

house was besides himself. He could not hear a soul stirring, although in

that uproar there might have been a full-dress parade of the Butler Guards

in the tavern, firing off their guns, and he could not have heard them. He

looked out in the entry, but it was all dark there except when he let the

flashes of his room into it. He thought he would light his candle, for

company, and so that the lightning would not be so awfully bright. He

found his candlestick easily enough--he could have found a pin in that

glare--but there were no matches.

So he decided to get along without the candle. Every now and then he put

his hand in his pocket, or on the bulge outside, to make sure of the

money; and whenever a very bright flash came, he would listen for his

brother's breathing, to tell whether he had been struck by lightning or

not. But it kept thundering so that sometimes he could not hear. Then

Frank would shake him till the boy gave a sort of snort, and that proved

that he was still alive; or he would put his ear to his brother's breast,

and listen whether his heart was beating.

It always was, and by-and-by the rain began to fall. It fell in perfect

sheets, and the noise it made could be heard through the thunder. But

Frank had always heard that after it began to rain, a thunder-storm was

not so dangerous, and the air got fresher. Still, it blazed and bellowed

away, he could never tell how long, and it seemed to him that he must have

felt a thousand times for Mr. Bushell's money, and tried a thousand times

to find whether his brother had been struck by lightning or not. Once or

twice he thought he would call for help; but he did not think he could

make anybody hear, and he was too much ashamed to do it, anyway.

Between the times of feeling for the money and seeing whether his brother

was alive, he thought about his mother: how frightened she would be if she

knew what had happened to him and his brother, after they left her. And he

thought of his father: how troubled he must be at their not getting home.

It seemed to him that he must be to blame, somehow, but he could not

understand how, exactly; and he could not think of any way to help it.

He wondered if the storm was as bad on the river and in the Boy's Town,

and whether the lightning would strike the boat or the house; the house

had a lightning-rod, but the boat could not have one, of course. He felt

pretty safe about his father and the older-younger brother who had been

left at home with him; but he was not sure about his mother and sisters,

and he tried to imagine what people did on a steamboat in a thunder-storm.

After a long time had passed, and he thought it must be getting near

morning, he lay down again beside his brother, and fell into such a heavy

sleep that he did not wake till it was broad day, and the sun was making

as much blaze in the curtainless tavern-room as the lightning had made.

The storm was over, and everything was as peaceful as if there had never

been any such thing as a storm in the world. The first thing he did was to

make a grab for his pocket. The money was still there, and his brother

sleeping as soundly as ever.

After breakfast, the livery-stable man came with the carriage, which he

had got mended, and Frank started home with his brother once more. But

they had sixteen miles to go before they would reach the Boy's Town, and

the carriage had been so badly shattered, or else the driver was so much

afraid of the horses, that he would not let them go at more than a walk.

Frank was anxious to get home on his father's account; still he would

rather get home safe, and he did not try to hurry the driver, for fear

they might not get home at all.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when they stopped at his father's

house. His older-younger brother, and the hired girl, whom his mother had

got to keep house while she was gone on her visit, came out and took his

little brother in; and the girl told Frank his father had just been there

to see whether he had got back. Then he knew that his father must have

been as anxious as he had been afraid he was. He did not wait to go

inside; he only kicked off the shoes he wore to the city and started off

for his father's office as fast as his bare feet could carry him.

He found his father at the door. He did not say very much, but Frank could

see by his face that he had been worrying; and afterwards he said that he

was just going round to the livery stable the next minute to get another

team, and go down towards the city to see what had become of them all.

Frank told him what had happened, and his father put his arms round him,

but still did not say much. He did not say anything at all about Mr.

Bushell's money or seem to think about it till Frank asked:

"I'd better take it right straight over to his store, hadn't I, father?"

His father said he reckoned he had, and Frank started away on the run

again. He wanted to get rid of that money so badly, for it was all he had

to worry about, after he had got rid of his brother, that he was out of

breath, almost, by the time he reached Mr. Bushell's store. But even then

he could not get rid of the money. Mr. Bushell had told him to give it to

his partner, but his partner had gone out into the country, and was not to

be back till after supper.

Frank did not know what to do. He did not dare to give it to any one else

in the store, and it seemed to him that the danger of having it got worse

every minute. He hung about a good while, and kept going in and out of the

store, but at last he thought the best thing would be to go home and ask

his father; and that was what he did.

By this time his father had gone home to supper, and he found him there

with his two younger brothers, feeling rather lonesome, with Frank's

mother and his sisters all away. But they cheered up together, and his

father said he had done right not to leave the money, and he would just

step over, after supper, and give it himself to Mr. Bushell's partner. He

took the roll of bills from Frank and put it into his own pocket, and went

on eating his supper, but when they were done he gave the bills back to

the boy.

"After all, Frank, I believe I'll let you take that money to Mr.

Bushell's partner. He trusted it to you, and you ought to have the glory;

you've had the care. Do you think you'll be afraid to come home through

the bridge after sunset?"

The bridge was one of those old-fashioned, wooden ones, roofed in and

sided up, and it stretched from shore to shore, like a tunnel, on its

piers. It was rather dim, even in the middle of the brightest day, and

none of the boys liked to be caught in it after sunset.

Frank said he did not believe he should be afraid, for it seemed to him

that if he had got through a runaway, and such a thunder-storm as that was

the night before, without harm, he could surely get through the bridge

safely. There was not likely to be anybody in it, at the worst, but Indian

Jim, or Solomon Whistler, the crazy man, and he believed he could run by

them if they offered to do anything to him. He meant to walk as slowly as

he could, until he reached the bridge, and then just streak through it.

That was what he did, and it was still quite light when he reached Mr.

Bushell's store. His partner was there, sure enough, this time, and Frank

gave him the money, and told him how he had been so long bringing it. The

merchant thanked him, and said he was rather young to be trusted with so

much money, but he reckoned Mr. Bushell knew what he was about.

"Did he count it when he gave it to you?" he asked.

"No, he didn't," said Frank.

"Did you?"

"I didn't have a chance. He put it right into my pocket, and I was afraid

to take it out."

Mr. Bushell's partner laughed, and Frank was going away, so as to get

through the bridge before it was any darker, but Mr. Bushell's partner

said, "Just hold on a minute, won't you, Frank, till I count this," and he

felt as if his heart had jumped into his throat.

What if he had lost some of the money? What if somebody had got it out of

his pocket, while he was so dead asleep, and taken part of it? What if Mr.

Bushell had made a mistake, and not given him as much as he thought he

had? He hardly breathed while Mr. Bushell's partner slowly counted the

bank-notes. It took him a long time, and he had to wet his finger a good

many times, and push the notes to keep them from sticking together. At

last he finished, and he looked at Frank over the top of his spectacles.

"Two thousand?" he asked.

"That's what Mr. Bushell said," answered the boy, and he could hardly get

the words out.

"Well, it's all here," said Mr. Bushell's partner, and he put the money in

his pocket, and Frank turned and went out of the store.

He felt light, light as cotton, and gladder than he almost ever was in his

life before. He was so glad that he forgot to be afraid in the bridge. The

fellows who were the most afraid always ran through the bridge, and those

who tried not to be afraid walked fast and whistled. Frank did not even

think to whistle.

His father was sitting out on the front porch when he reached home, and

he asked Frank if he had got rid of his money, and what Mr. Bushell's

partner had said. Frank told him all about it, and after a while his

father asked, "Well, Frank, do you like to have the care of money?"

"I don't believe I do, father."

"Which was the greater anxiety to you last night, Mr. Bushell's money, or

your brother?"

Frank had to think awhile. "Well, I suppose it was the money, father. You

see, it wasn't my own money."

"And if it had been your own money, you wouldn't have been anxious about

it? You wouldn't have cared if you had lost it, or somebody had stolen it

from you?"

Frank thought again, and then he said he did not believe he had thought

about that.

"Well, think about it now."