IN WHICH BOBBY HAS A NARROW ESCAPE, AND GOES TO SEA WITH SAM RAY
Nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept his
senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their matin
song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens.
Bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. For a moment he did
not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of the
previous evening. He felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and came out
of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at home. Rubbing
his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose foliage canopied
his bed, and his identity was soon restored to him. He was Bobby
Bright--but Bobby Bright in trouble. He was not the little merchant,
but the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to which he had been
doomed.
It did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only
advantage of his primitive style of lodging. His first object was to
examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should
continue his flight. He could not go ahead, as he had intended, for
the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. Leaving the dense
forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had
seen in the night. It was salt water, and he reasoned that it could
not extend a great way inland. His only course was to follow it till
he found means of crossing it.
Following the direction of the creek he kept near the margin of the
wood till he came to a public road. He had some doubts about trusting
himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he seated
himself upon a rock to argue the point. If any one should happen to
come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to his future
movements, if not of being immediately captured.
This was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one upon the
other side. He had eaten nothing since dinner on the preceding day,
and he began to feel faint for the want of food. On the other side of
the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though it might afford him
a few berries; and he was on the point of taking to the road, when he
heard the rumbling of a wagon in the distance.
His heart beat with apprehension. Perhaps it was some officer of the
institution in search of him. At any rate it was some one who had come
from the vicinity of the Reform School, and who had probably heard of
his escape. As it came nearer, he heard the jingling of bells; it was
the baker. How he longed for a loaf of his bread, or some of the
precious gingerbread he carried in his cart! Hunger tempted him to run
the risk of exposure. He had money; he could buy cakes and bread; and
perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and would befriend him in his
distress. The wagon was close at hand.
"Now or never," thought he; but this time it was not _now_. The
risk was too great. If he failed now, two years of captivity were
before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it for a
while.
"Now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he
permitted the baker to pass without hailing him.
He waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road till he
had crossed the creek. The danger was great, but the pangs of hunger
urged him on. He was sure there were berries in the pasture, and with
a timid step, carefully watching before and behind to insure himself
against surprise, he crossed the bridge. But then a new difficulty
presented itself. There was a house within ten rods of the bridge,
which he must pass, and to do so would expose him to the most imminent
peril. He was on the point of retreating, when a man came out of the
house, and approached him. What should he do? It was a trying
moment. If he ran, the act would expose him to suspicion. If he went
forward, the man might have already received a description of him, and
arrest him.
He chose the latter course. The instinct of his being was to do
everything in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted his
decision.
"Good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man.
"Good morning. Where are you travelling?"
This was a hard question. He did not know where he was travelling;
besides, even in his present difficult position, he could not readily
resort to a lie.
"Down here a piece," he replied.
"Travelled far to-day?"
"Not far. Good morning, sir;" and Bobby resumed his walk.
"I say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the man
came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot.
"I can hardly tell you," replied Bobby, summoning courage for the
occasion.
"Well, I suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile.
Bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was
suspected of being a runaway from the Reform School. That smile on the
man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a flood of
misery roll over his soul. But the natural elasticity of his spirits
soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up the ship, even
if he had to fight for it.
"I am in a hurry, so I shall have to leave you."
"Not just yet, young man. Perhaps, as you don't know where you are
going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man, good
naturedly.
There was a temptation to give a false name; but as it was so strongly
beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a falsehood, he
held his peace.
"Excuse me, sir, but I can't stop to talk now."
"In a hurry? Well, I dare say you are. I suppose there is no doubt but
you are Master Robert Bright."
"Not the least, sir; I haven't denied it yet, and I am not ashamed of
my name," replied Bobby, with a good deal of spirit.
"That's honest; I like that."
"'Honesty is the best policy,'" added Bobby.
"That's cool for a rogue, anyhow. You ought to thought of that afore."
"I did."
"And stole the money?"
"I didn't. I never stole a penny in my life."
"Come, I like that."
"It is the truth."
"But they won't believe it over to the Reform School," laughed the
man.
"They will one of these days, perhaps."
"You are a smart youngster; but I don't know as I can make five
dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come from."
"Yes, you can," replied Bobby, promptly.
"Can I?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"By letting me go."
"Eh; you talk flush. I suppose you mean to give me your note, payable
when the Kennebec dries up."
"Cash on the nail," replied Bobby. "You look like a man with a heart
in your bosom,"--Bobby stole this passage from "The Wayfarer."
"I reckon I have. The time hasn't come yet when Sam Ray could see a
fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. But to help a thief
off----"
"We will argue that matter," interposed Bobby. "I can prove to you
beyond a doubt that I am innocent of the crime charged upon me."
"You don't look like a bad boy, I must say."
"But, Mr. Ray, I'm hungry; I haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday
noon."
"Thunder! You don't say so!" exclaimed Sam Ray. "I never could bear to
see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get
something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards."
Sam Ray took Bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a
short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little
fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the
table. Our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he
felt like a new creature.
"Now, Mr. Ray, let me tell you my story," said Bobby.
"I don't know as it's any use. Now you have eat my bread and butter, I
don't feel like being mean to you. If anybody else wants to carry you
back, they may; I won't."
"But you shall hear me;" and Bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain,
unvarnished tale."
When he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of
an approaching vehicle was heard. Sam looked out of the window, as
almost everybody does in the country when a carriage passes.
"By thunder! It's the Reform School wagon!" exclaimed he. "This way,
boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding
him get under the bed.
The carriage stopped at the house; but Sam evaded a direct reply, and
the superintendent--for it was he--proceeded on his search.
"Heaven bless you, Mr. Ray!" exclaimed Bobby, when he came out of the
chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks.
"O, you will find Sam Ray all right," said he, warmly pressing Bobby's
proffered hand. "I ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around
here think so."
"You are an angel!"
"Not exactly," laughed Sam.
Our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his
account book and some other papers which he had retained. Sam Ray was
satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw Tom Spicer he would certainly
"lick" him for his sake.
"Now, sonny, I like you; I will be sworn you are a good fellow; and I
mean to help you off. So just come along with me. I make my living by
browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now
and then. You see, I have got a good boat down the creek, and I shall
just put you aboard and take you anywhere you have a mind to go."
"May Heaven reward you!" cried Bobby, almost overcome by this sudden
and unexpected kindness.
"O, I don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man--and I
am dead sure you will be a great man--just think now and then of Sam
Ray, and it's all right."
"I shall remember you with gratitude as long as I live."
Sam Ray took his gun on his shoulder, and Bobby the box of provisions
which Mrs. Ray had put up, and they left the house. At the bridge they
got into a little skiff, and Sam took the oars. After they had passed
a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, Bobby felt
secure from further molestation.
Sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a
broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner.
"Now, my hearty, nothing short of Uncle Sam's whole navy can get you
away from me," said Sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner.
"You have been very kind to me."
"All right, sonny. Now tumble aboard."
Bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and Sam followed him,
after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings.
In a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a
fresh wind and a flowing sheet." Bobby, who had never been in a sail
boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his
admiration of the working of the trim little craft.
"Now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked Sam, as they emerged from the
bay into the broad ocean.
"I don't know," replied Bobby. "I want to get back to Boston."
"Perhaps I can put you aboard of some coaster bound there."
"That will do nicely."
"I will head towards Boston, and if I don't overhaul anything, I will
take you there myself."
"Is this boat big enough to go so far?"
"She'll stand anything short of a West India hurricane. You ain't
afeard, are you?"
"O, no; I like it."
The big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather,
and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of
water. Bobby had unlimited confidence in Sam Ray, and felt as much at
home as though he had been "cradled upon the briny deep." There was an
excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils
which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all
born into the most lively joys.
They ate their dinners from the provision box; Sam lighted his pipe,
and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. Bobby felt
happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but
good-hearted friend. They were now far out at sea, and the night was
coming on.
"Now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn't rest
much last night."
"I am not sleepy; but there is one thing I will do;" and Bobby drew
from his secret receptacle his roll of bills.
"Put them up, sonny," said Sam.
"I want to make you a present of ten dollars."
"You can't do it."
"Nay, but to please me."
"No, sir!"
"Well, then, let me send it to your good wife."
"You can't do that, nuther," replied Sam, gazing earnestly at a
lumber-laden schooner ahead of him.
"You must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and I insist
upon making it up to you."
"You can't do it."
"I shall feel bad if you don't take it. You see I have twenty dollars
here, and I would like to give you the whole of it."
"Not a cent, sonny. I ain't a heathen. That schooner ahead is bound
for Boston, I reckon."
"I shall be sorry to part with you, Mr. Ray."
"Just my sentiment. I hain't seen a youngster afore for many a day
that I took a fancy to, and I hate to let you go."
"We shall meet again."
"I hope so."
"Please to take this money."
"No;" and Sam shook his head so resolutely that Bobby gave up the
point.
As Sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to Boston. Her
captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade
adieu to his kind friend.
"Good by, Mr. Ray," said Bobby, as the schooner filled away. "Take
this to remember me by."
It was his jackknife; but Sam did not discover the ten dollar bill,
which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it.
Bobby did not cease to wave his hat to Sam till his little craft
disappeared in the darkness.