RICHARD JUMPS OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN INTO THE FIRE.
Richard Grant was the son of a rich man, but he was neither any better
nor any worse for this circumstance. He had been in a great many sad
scrapes before the one in which the reader now finds him. It was not
the first time he had taken that which did not belong to him.
In his father's garden there was an abundance of watermelons, and he
had always been plentifully supplied with all the fruits in their
season. He had, therefore, no excuse for stealing melons. There could
be no excuse, under any circumstances, for stealing. He did not need
them; he did not even want them.
But Richard was fond of exciting adventures, and it was simply the love
of fun which had prompted him to visit the garden of Mr. Batterman. I
hope none of my young friends will think this even palliated his
offence. If he did not have the motive which actuates the common thief,
he was certainly more to blame than if he had needed or wanted the
product of his theft. Stealing for fun cannot be any better than
stealing from the love of gain, or to provide for one's necessities.
Richard Grant is the hero of this volume; but I shall not wink at any
of his vices or inconsistencies on this account. That he may not be
utterly despised, however, I may say of him that he had a great many
redeeming qualities. He was generous to a fault, and his impulses were
generally worthy and noble. He was ready to give to the needy, and to
fight for the oppressed. He was kind-hearted, and nothing but the love
of sport could induce him to violate the rights, or injure the
feelings, of others. He lived upon excitement, and was not always very
choice of the means which he used to procure it.
Richard's father had not been able to bestow that care upon his moral
education which his temperament required. He needed discipline, and the
want of it was seen in his daily life. Mr. Grant was conscious of the
boy's needs, and he frequently talked to him about his vicious course;
but words did not supply the want; he required a more active treatment.
Sandy Brimblecom was as little disturbed by his conscience as his more
wealthy companion. As long as he could stand upon an equality with an
heir of Woodville, he was satisfied to let all moral questions take
care of themselves. The two boys who sailed in the Greyhound on the
eventful night of their introduction to the reader, were well mated in
every respect. Either was ready to follow the lead of the other,
without asking whether he was doing right or wrong. If there was any
fun to be had out of the enterprise, both were ready to engage in it.
They had got into a bad scrape this time, for Mr. Batterman had the
reputation of being a very hard man. He had suffered a great deal from
the depredations of fruit thieves. He carried on a large business in
raising fruit and vegetables for the New York market. It was not
pastime to him, but bread and butter--the means by which he supported
his family and accumulated his property. Those who stole fruit from his
gardens robbed him of so much of his income; and he was not in the
humor to submit to these exactions.
In several instances he had taken these petty marauders before the
courts, and caused them to be fined; but as this course did not remove
the evil, he had taken the law in his own hands, and severely punished
some of the juvenile offenders. For this reason, among the boys he was
called "Old Batterbones," which was only a slight corruption of his
real name.
Of course Richard and Sandy had no idea of being caught when they
embarked in this plundering expedition. They had taken extraordinary
precautions to prevent such a catastrophe; but the farmer was
constantly on the watch, and they had fallen into the trap which he had
set not specially for them, but for any who might invade his grounds
with malicious intent.
[Illustration: RICHARD IN TROUBLE. Page 27.]
The person who held Richard by the collar, and whose finger nails had
already left their marks upon his neck, was no less a person than "Old
Batterbones" himself; and from the manner in which he shook his
prisoner, he seemed determined to make good his title to the sobriquet
the boys had given him. The person who held Sandy in his grasp was the
farmer's foreman, who fully sympathized with his employer in his views
of discipline.
Richard struggled, and Sandy struggled; but they might as well have
attempted to escape from the grip of an iron vise. The farmer and his
man held them fast; and the more their prisoners squirmed, the more
they shook them, and the more they seemed to enjoy the satisfaction of
shaking and choking them.
"We've caught you, my lads," said Mr. Batterman several times.
"Let go of me," growled Richard, his anger fully aroused by the rough
treatment he was receiving.
"I'll let go, you young villain, when I've done with you, but not
before. I'll teach you to steal my melons; and then you can go home and
tell your father how it is done," replied the farmer, as he twisted the
cravat of the poor boy till he could hardly breathe.
Sandy, finding that any violent resistance was hopeless, submitted to
his fate with the best grace he could command; but he only waited his
chance for something to turn up that would afford him an opportunity to
escape. He intended to use his wits, rather than his muscle, on this
occasion; and his prudence saved him from some portion of the hard
usage that was bestowed upon his companion in misery.
"Keep cool, Dick," said he, in a low tone, when he saw that his friend
was wasting his strength and adding to his discomfort by useless
resistance to the fiat of destiny.
Richard profited by this hint; and when he became calm and reasonable,
the farmer relaxed his grasp, and permitted him to breathe with more
freedom.
"Who are they, Bates?" asked the farmer of his foreman.
"I don't know them; it is so dark I can't make them out," replied
Bates.
"We'll take them up to the barn, and see what they look like."
"They have been here before, I think," added the foreman. "I am pretty
sure I saw them the other night."
"No, you didn't," said Richard, testily. "I never was here before."
"Perhaps you never was, my boys; but when chaps like you go far enough
to steal, you don't stand about a lie or two to cover it up. Now, boys,
you may take up that bag, and carry it to the barn."
"I won't carry it," said Richard, promptly.
"Won't you?" And the farmer again applied the twisting process to his
cravat, till the boy's strength was almost gone from the choking
sensation.
"Let go of me! You'll choke me to death!" gasped Richard, who had never
before been so roughly handled.
"Will you carry the bag up to the barn, then?" demanded Mr. Batterman,
as he eased off the pressure upon the prisoner's throat.
"No, I won't!" replied Richard.
"Now, I think you will," said the farmer, as he resumed the torture.
"Come, Dick, we may as well do it. It is no use to kick; we are in for
it, and you had better make the best of it," interposed Sandy, who was
disposed to get off as cheaply as he could.
"I won't touch the bag! I'll die first!" gasped Richard, whose rage had
now reached the boiling point, and there was no more reason in him than
in a mad dog.
"He's a hard one," suggested Bates.
"But he shall come to it, or I'll break every bone in his body,"
answered the farmer.
Richard, insane with passion, and choking with rage as well as from the
discipline of Mr. Batterman, commenced a tremendous struggle for
freedom and self-preservation. He sprang towards his captor in an
ineffectual attempt to hit him, or to scratch out his eyes with his
finger nails. Failing in his efforts in this direction, he began to use
his heels as vigorously as a three-year old colt, and succeeded in
planting two or three hard kicks upon the shins of the farmer.
Mr. Batterman was a large and powerful man, and the efforts of Richard
were as puny as those of a lamb in the fangs of the lion. He foamed and
struggled till his strength was exhausted, and his conqueror permitted
him to drop upon the ground.
"You've killed him," said Sandy, very much alarmed at the apparent fate
of his friend.
"If I have, that's his business, not mine," answered the farmer,
without betraying any remorse at what he had done.
But Richard was not killed, or even very badly injured. The choking had
deprived him of all his strength; but a few minutes' respite from
persecution restored him in a great measure, and he attempted to get
up, when he was promptly seized by the farmer again.
"Will you carry the bag up to the barn, or will you try some more of
the same sort?" asked Mr. Batterman, in a tone which fully indicated
his intention to resume his harsh treatment.
"I can't carry it," replied Richard, in an altered tone, which was, at
least, suggestive of a "caving in" of his obdurate will.
"You carried it very well before you were caught, and perhaps you can
again," sneered the farmer.
"Come, Dick, take hold of the bag," said Sandy. "It's no use."
"I wasn't brought up to do that kind of work," replied Richard, whose
pride, quite as much as his self-will, prompted him to refuse to do the
degrading office.
"Take your choice, and be quick," said Mr. Batterman, preparing to
apply his disciplinary powers again. "Take hold of the bag at once, or
I'll shake the life out of you."
Richard could not stand another dose of the farmer's exhausting
medicine, and he sullenly seized the bag, while Sandy took hold of the
other side. Bates and the farmer kept close to them, so that there was
no chance to break away. After changing hands several times, they
reached the barn, and placed the melons in the position designated by
their tormentors.
"Now, who are you?" asked the farmer, when they had disposed of the
bag.
"None of your business," answered Richard, in a low, sullen tone.
"You haven't got enough of it yet. Bates, bring the lantern, and fetch
a cowhide with you, while you are about it."
Richard did not like the sound of this last order. It was ominous of a
painful and degrading operation, a process of discipline to which he
had never before been subjected. The idea of being whipped was almost
as terrible as that of being shot through the head or heart.
"Will you tell me your name, young man?" demanded the farmer, when the
foreman had gone. "Let me inform you in the beginning, that I am in no
humor to be trifled with. You can answer me or not, just as you think
best."
"I would rather not tell my name," replied Richard, in a subdued tone.
The son of the rich broker of Woodville had conscientious scruples on
this point; for though he did not scruple to commit the theft, he was
fully alive to the disgrace of being exposed. The good name, the
worldly reputation of his family, seemed to be of more value than a
conscience void of offence before Him who readeth all hearts. To speak
of the sin of the act was but to utter trite and commonplace words,
which could be found in any cheap catechism; but to mention the
disgrace attending the exposure of that sin, was to touch him where he
was keenly sensitive.
"You must tell me your name," said Mr. Batterman, firmly. "What is your
name?" he added, turning to Sandy, whom he now held with one hand.
"Sanderson Brimblecom," answered he, for he had no family reputation to
guard.
"Now, yours?" said he to Richard.
The broker's son made no reply. He had now too much respect for Mr.
Batterman to irritate him with words, and too much respect for the name
he bore to connect it with the theft he had committed. He waited in
silence till Bates came with the lantern.