WHEN Mr. Howland threatened his son with exclusion from the house,
if he were away at ten o'clock, Andrew's feelings were in a state of
reaction against his father, and he said to himself, in a rebellious
spirit--
"We'll see if you will."
But after growing cooler, he came into a better state of mind; and,
in view of consequences such as he knew would be visited on him,
decided not to come in contact with his father in this
particular--at least not for the present. If turned from his own
door at midnight, where was he to find shelter? This question he
could not answer to his own satisfaction.
After supper, on the evening succeeding that in which he had visited
the theatre, Andrew left home and went to an engine-house in the
neighborhood, where he joined about a dozen lads and young men as
idle and aimless as himself. With these he spent an hour or two,
entering into their vicious and debasing conversation, when a person
with whom he had gone to see the play on the previous evening,
proposed to him to go around to the theatre again. Andrew objected
that he had no money, but the other said that he could easily
procure checks, and volunteered to ask for them. Still Andrew, whose
thoughts were on the passing time, refused to go. He meant to be
home before the clock struck ten.
"Come round with me, then," urged the lad.
"What time is it?" asked Andrew.
"Only a little after nine o'clock," was replied.
"Are you certain?"
"Oh, yes. I heard the clock strike a short time ago. It isn't more
than a quarter past nine."
"I thought it was later than that."
"No. It's early yet; so, come along. I want to talk to you."
Thus urged, Andrew went with the boy. The theatre was some distance
away. Just as they reached it, a clock was heard to strike.
"Bless me!" exclaimed Andrew.
"Three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--TEN!" And, as he uttered
the last word, he started back the way he had come, running at full
speed. It was ten o'clock--the hour he was required to be at home,
under penalty of having the door closed against him. How troubled he
felt! How strongly his heart beat! He had not intended to disregard
his father's command in this instance. In fact, during the day, he
had reflected more than usual, and many good resolutions had formed
themselves in his mind.
"I wish I could be better," he said to himself involuntarily, a
great many times. And then he would sigh as he thought of the
difficulties that were in his way. At dinner time he came to the
table with his feelings a good deal subdued. But it so happened,
that, during the morning, Mr. Howland had heard of some impropriety
of which he had been guilty a month previous, and felt called upon
to reprimand him, therefore, with considerable harshness. The
consequence was, that the boy left the table without finishing his
dinner, at which his father became very much incensed. The angry
feelings of the latter had not subsided when tea-time came, and he
met the family at their evening meal with the clouded face he too
often wore. The supper hour passed in silence. After leaving the
table, Andrew, to whom the sphere of the house was really
oppressive, from its entire want of cheerfulness and mutual good
feeling, went out to seek the companionship of those who were more
congenial.
"There's nothing pleasant here," he said, as he stood in the door,
half disposed to leave the house. "If there only was! But I won't
think of it!" he added with impulsive quickness; and, as he murmured
these words, he descended the steps to the street, and walked slowly
away.
Thus, it will be seen, the wayward boy was virtually driven out by
the harshness and want of sympathy which prevailed at home, to seek
the society of those who presented a more attractive exterior, but
who were walking in the paths of evil, and whose steps tended to
destruction.
But, though thus thrust out, as it were, from the circle of safety,
Andrew still preserved his intention of being at home at the hour
beyond which his father had warned him not to be away. It has been
seen how, through an error as to time, he was betrayed into
unintentional transgression. Not an instant did he pause on his
return from the theatre, but ran all the way homeward at a rapid
speed. Arriving at the door, he pulled the bell, and then stood
panting from excitement. For a short time he waited, in trembling
anxiety, but no one answered his summons. Then he rung the bell more
violently than before. Still none came to let him in, and his heart
began to fail him.
"Surely father don't mean to keep me out!" said he to himself. "He
wouldn't do that. Where am I to go for shelter at this hour?"
And again he pulled the bell, causing it to ring longer and louder
than before. Then he leaned close to the door and listened, but no
sound reached his ears. Growing impatient, he next tried knocking.
All his efforts to gain admission, however, proved unavailing; and
ceasing at last to ring or knock, he sat down upon the stone steps,
and covering his face with his hands, wept bitterly. For over a
quarter of an hour he remained seated at the threshold of his
father's house, from which he had been excluded. During that period,
much of his previous life passed in review before him, and the
conclusions of the boy's mind were at last expressed in these
words--
"I believe father hates the very sight of me! He says I'm going to
ruin, and so I am; but he is driving me there. What does he think
I'm going to do, to-night? If he cared for me, would he let me sleep
in the streets? I have tried to do right, but it was of no use. When
I tried the hardest, he was the crossest, and made me do wrong
whether I would or not. I don't care what becomes of me now!"
As Andrew uttered these last words, a reckless spirit seized him,
and starting up, he walked away with a firm step. But he had gone
only a block or two, before his mind again became oppressed with a
sense of his houseless condition, and pausing, he murmured, in a sad
under tone--
"Where shall I go?"
For a little while he stood irresolute, and then moved on again. For
several squares farther he walked, with no definite purpose in his
mind, when he came to a row of three or four unfinished houses, the
door of one of which was partially opened; at least so much so, that
it was only necessary to pull off a narrow strip of board in order
to effect an entrance. With the sight of these houses came the
suggestion to the mind of Andrew that he might find a place to sleep
therein for the night, and acting upon this, he passed up the plank
leading to the door least securely fastened, and soon succeeded in
getting it open. But, just as he stepped within, a heavy hand was
laid upon him from behind, and a rough voice said--
"What are you doing here, sir?"
Turning, Andrew found himself in the custody of a policeman.
For a few moments every power of mind and body forsook the unhappy
boy, and he stood shrinking and stammering before the officer--thus
confirming a suspicion of intended incendiarism in the mind of that
functionary.
"Come! you must go with me." And the officer commenced moving down
the plank that connected the door with the ground, drawing Andrew
after him.
"I was only going to sleep there," said the frightened boy, as soon
as the power of speech had returned.
"Of course," returned the policeman, "I understand all that. But
I'll find a better place in which you can spend the night. So come
along with me."
Remonstrance on the part of Andrew was all in vain, and so, watching
an opportunity, he made an effort to escape. But he ran only a few
yards before he was tripped up by the officer, when falling, he
struck his forehead on the curb-stone, wounding it severely.
"Look here!" said the officer, in a resolute voice, passing his
heavy mace before the eyes of Andrew; "if you try this again I'll
knock you senseless!"
Then grasping his arm more firmly, he added--
"Move along quickly!"
With his head aching severely from the fall, and the blood trickling
down his face from the wound on his forehead, Andrew walked along by
the side of the officer, who continued to keep hold of him. In
passing under a gas-lamp, they met a lady and gentleman. The former
Andrew recognized at a glance, and she knew him, even with his
bloody face, and uttered a cry of surprise and alarm. It was Emily
Winters returning with her father from the house of a friend, where
they had stayed to an unusually late hour. The officer was about
pausing, but Andrew sprung forward, saying as he did so, in an under
tone--
"Don't stop!"
At the same instant Mr. Winters urged on his daughter, and the
parties were separated in a moment.
"Unhappy boy!" said the father of Emily, who had also recognized
Andrew, "his folly and evil are meeting a just but severe return.
His poor mother!--when she hears of this it will almost break her
heart. What an affliction to have such a son!"
"Did you see the blood on his face?" asked Emily, in a choking
voice, while her hand shook so violently, as it rested on the arm
of, her father, that he felt the tremor in every nerve.
"I did," he replied.
"What was the matter? He must be badly hurt. What could have done
it?"
"He's been quarreling with some one, I presume," coldly replied Mr.
Winters, who did not like the interest his daughter manifested.
Emily made no reply to this, and they walked the rest of the way
home in silence.