"WE'RE GOING TO JOIN THE NAVY."
Old Zack Strong was not one of those men who can distinguish between
boyish high spirits and what he would have termed "downright pesky
cussedness." In this latter quality, indeed, he believed both his
grandsons--Ned, and his dead second son's offspring, Herc,--to be
plentifully endowed. Not naturally bad-hearted, however, the old man
had assumed the care of the cousins on the death of their parents, but
even with his act of adoption there came the thought to his frugal
mind: "They'll be a great help 'round the farm."
In his hopes in this direction the old man had not been disappointed.
Both boys had entered into the work with painstaking thoroughness; but
it must be admitted that to adventurous lads, the monotonous grind of a
remote farm in the hills is somewhat dampening. Ever since Ned and Herc
had left the district school and become, in a more thorough sense than
ever, "helps" to their grandfather, the old man had chafed at their
hunting expeditions and proclivities toward baseball and other games.
He could not see that pitching hay, milking, and doing chores, was not
the full-rounded end of existence for any lads.
So, when, on this bitter December afternoon, he entered the store
unexpectedly on his way back from delivering a wagon-load of grist at
the water-driven mill at Westerlo, a nearby village, his chagrin may be
imagined when he discovered his two young charges occupying the centre
of the scene depicted in the last chapter.
In Zack Strong's hard creed there was only one sin worse than
playing--or "fooling," as he called it--and that was fighting.
And it was only too evident that in the latter of these heinous
offences one at least of the boys had been indulging.
Worse still, in the wrecked stove the old farmer foresaw a demand for
damages on the storekeeper's part, and there was only one thing harder
to wring from Zack than a smile, and that article was money. If the
average farmer is what may be described as "close-fisted," old Zack was
"cement-fisted."
With this side-light on their grandfather's character in view, the
consternation of the boys may be understood when they met his amazed
and indignant gaze resting accusingly on them.
"Mean?" stammered Hank, wiping as best he could some of the soot off
his mottled countenance and echoing the old man's last words. "It means
that your two boys here have made a brutal and unprovoked attack on me
and that----"
"And that my stove is busted to Kingdom Come!" disgustedly sputtered
Paul Stevens, whose cadaverous features had been busily scanning the
wreckage in the brief interval of time that had elapsed between the
entrance of himself and Zack Strong and the seemingly righteously
indignant outburst of the bully.
"Never mind your stove now," grated out the hard-featured old farmer,
wishing devoutly that the stove could be "never-minded" altogether,
"what I want to find out is what these boys here have been up to. What
kind of deviltry they have been at."
"We haven't been at any deviltry, as you please to call it, grandpa,"
burst out Ned, striving to keep cool, though he was burning inwardly
with indignation and humiliation.
"Eh-eh-eh?" grunted the old man incredulously, "that's fine talking,
but what's all this I see? How did that young man come to be all mixed
up in the stove?"
"Through no wish of his own you may be sure," chuckled the
irrepressible Herc. "Say, Hank, you look like a skunk--all black and
white, you know----"
"Silence, sir," roared his grandfather, with as near an approach to a
stern bass as his wheezy voice would allow. "Who started this?"
Ned remained silent. It was not his wish to tell tales, and he had no
desire to act as an informer.
"Why, Hank Harkins here started it," spoke up Si Ingalls, a young
farmer who had formed one of the group about the demolished stove, "he
slapped Ned in the jaw and Ned--rightly, too--came back at him. Am I
correct?" he asked, turning to the others.
"Hank's face looks it," grinned Luke Bates, the village wit, regarding
Hank, who was quivering with fury, in an amused way, "never mix it up
with a stove, Hank," he went on, "it'll get the best of you every time."
"Is this right?" demanded old Zack, turning to his grandson as soon as
the laugh at Hank's expense subsided.
"Oh, yes, that's about the way it happened, I guess," said Ned in a low
voice.
"What I want to know is who's going to settle for my stove," wailed
Paul Stevens. "Here's a cracked draught-piece, a busted door, two
lengths of stove-pipe flattened out like pancakes and soot all over a
fine piece of dress goods."
"Name your price," groaned old Zack, wincing as if a twinge of
rheumatism had passed through him, "but don't make it too steep," he
added, cautiously, "or I won't pay it. How much, now?"
The storekeeper made a rapid mental calculation, in which his fingers
and various grimaces played an important part.
"There's the stove door, say seventy-five cents; and the pipe, two
lengths, a dollar; and the draught-piece--I'll have to send to New York
for another, sixty cents; and the spoiled dress goods----"
"You'll only have to cut the outside edge off them," objected old Zack,
his lips twitching nervously as the rising tide of expenses swamped his
cautious senses.
"Wall, that'll be a yard, anyhow," announced the storekeeper, "that
is twenty-five cents, we'll say. Two dollars thirty-five for the whole
shebang."
"Two dollars thirty-five. It's rank robbery," objected the old farmer,
almost giving utterance to a groan.
"Of course I may be able to straighten out the stove pipe," admitted
Paul Stevens, reluctantly, "and you are an old customer. I'll make it
two dollars and ten cents to you."
Reluctantly old Zack drew out a battered wallet and drew from it
two one-dollar bills, being careful not to display the rest of its
contents. Then, after much fumbling in the recesses of his clothing,
he produced a small leather purse from which he drew a ten cent piece.
These he tendered with an agonized expression to the storekeeper.
"Canadian," sniffed the storekeeper, regarding the bit of silver.
"It's good," objected old Zack.
"Not to me. Come, I let you off light on the stove and the other damage
them boys have done; give me a good dime."
Reluctantly old Zack took back the rejected coin and substituted for
it a piece of United States silver.
"There you are," he grumbled, "those pesky boys will bankrupt me yet."
All this time the boys, standing aloof from the crowd of loungers,
had regarded the scene with very different expressions. Herc's lips
trembled with suppressed laughter as he witnessed the painful operation
of separating old Zack from his beloved money, while Ned's face bore a
thoughtful look, as if he were revolving some serious project in his
mind. Hank Harkins had taken advantage of the temporary diversion from
himself as a centre of interest to shuffle off, and was by this time
well on his way home, considering, as he went, the best way in which he
could explain his soot-smeared face and rapidly swelling eye.
A short time afterwards the boys accompanied their elder to his
spring-wagon and, as they had walked down to the store, prepared to
accompany him home.
"Look out for squalls," Herc whispered to Ned, as the two lads
unhitched the team. His warning was not ill-judged. The vials of old
Zack's wrath burst with the fury of a midsummer storm above the boys'
heads as soon as the wagon had clattered out of the village and was
climbing the steep ascent to Zack Strong's farm.
"Of all the useless, idle scamps that I ever had on the farm, you are
the worst," began the querulous old man, "and then, to cap it all,
you go to fighting and brawling in public and cost me two dollars and
an American dime to settle it. I don't see why Paul Stevens couldn't
have taken that Canadian one. They're as good as any others, in some
places," he went on, his mind reverting to his other grievance, "but
that's the way in this world, nothing but ingratitude everywhere you
turn. I've nourished a pair of sar-pints, that's what I've done. You're
rattle-brains, both on yer."
He turned a sour enough countenance on the two lads as he spoke.
"Sort of rattlesnakes, eh?" cheerfully remarked the irrepressible
Herc. "It's no use being angry, gran'pa," he went on, "we'd finished
splitting the last of that tough hickory before we came down to the
village and, as there was nothing else to do till chore-time----"
"You spent it in disgracing yourselves, eh?" grimly rejoined old Zack.
"I'm tired of it, I tell you," he railed on, "and----"
"And so are we," quietly broke in Ned, whose face still wore the same
thoughtful look that had come over it just before they left the store.
"What?" quavered the old man, as if he thought he had not heard aright.
"I mean 'so are we tired of it,'" repeated Ned, slowly, but in a firm
voice, "we work for you early and late, grandpa, and nothing ever comes
of it but scolding and fault-finding."
"Didn't I pay two dollars ten cents for that busted stove, Ned?"
complained old Zack, "and I'll swear the damage wasn't more'n one
ninety-eight, and----"
"That's not the question, now," went on Ned, in the same quiet,
determined voice, "as it was partly my fault that the stove was
overturned I'll pay you back that out of my own pocket."
"What,--you ain't got no money!" exclaimed old Zack incredulously and
in somewhat alarmed tones. There was a note in Ned's voice he had never
heard there before and he saw his authority melting away like snow in
the spring, "and besides, maybe I was a bit hasty, Ned. Come, we'll
call it square and you do your work right in future and we'll say no
more about it."
"I shall do only a little more work for you, gran'pa," was Ned's
amazing reply, which almost caused the old man to drop his lines and
fall backward off his seat.
"What's that?" he cried, and his voice fairly squeaked under the stress
of his great astonishment.
"I said," calmly repeated Ned, "that I shall not do much more work for
you, grandpa, and neither will Herc here, I guess. We are going away."
It was Herc's turn to look astonished. Accustomed as he was to accept
Ned's opinion in most things, this latest resolve seemed somewhat
drastic even to the impetuous red-headed youth.
"Why, you ain't got no money?" stammered old Zack, not being able to
think of anything else to say in his great amazement.
"Oh, yes, I have," quietly rejoined Ned. "I have fifty dollars saved up
that I got for skins last winter and Herc has about the same sum. That
will carry us a little way, I guess."
"Why, Ned, boy! Land o' Goshen, what have yer set yer mind on doin'?"
gasped the farmer.
"We're going to enter the navy," announced Ned, in these same quiet,
determined tones; which unmistakably meant to anyone who knew him that
his mind was made up beyond the possibility of change.
"What, out on the water?" gasped old Zack, his mind in a whirl at this
sudden kicking over the traces of authority.
"I believe they usually sail the vessels of Uncle Sam's navy on the
water," chirped the irrepressible Herc, who, his first astonishment
over, had quite resolved to follow his cousin's footsteps wherever they
might lead.
The sarcasm was lost on old Zack, however. He even forgot to emit his
customary minute interval cry of "Geddap!" to his old team which, in
consequence, came to a dead standstill in the middle of the road.
"Of course we shall stay and help you till you get a hired man to suit
you," went on Ned, with quiet sarcasm.
"Yes--yes," quavered the old man, chirruping to his stationary team,
and seemingly dazed by the sudden announcement of the boys' intentions.
"In the navy--out on the water," he muttered as they drove on, "Land o'
Goshen!--two dollars!--fights!--busted stoves!--the navy!"