THE EVANGELIST INVESTS IN A HORSE.
A rather unprofitable journey by daylight was attempted, with but
little success. The trains were so closely watched that they found it
next to impossible to ride on them. Some tramps, whom they met on foot,
informed them that this was on account of a fracas that had occurred
on the western end of the line. The train men were expelling some
free-riders, and handling one of them very roughly the tramp drew a
knife and plunged it into the side of a brakeman. The wounded man was
not expected to recover, and very strict orders had been issued by the
management of the road to prevent all tramps from boarding trains or
riding upon them.
This being the case the Evangelist suggested that they strike across
the country, and get on another railroad, running nearly parallel,
fifty miles to the south of them.
They walked quite a distance that evening, and camped in a straw pile.
On the following day they resumed their line of march through a lovely
rolling country of openings, woodlands and meadows, interspersed by
many streams.
It was the middle of September--the golden time of all the year. The
atmosphere was filled with a soft, hazy lustre; the reflex heat of
the summer months after it had journeyed so far as the ice fields
of the far north, and been turned back in a soft and gracious air.
Gentle winds told forest tales among the tall trees, and nodded the
heads of the grey mullens in requiem over the great, broad, plush-like
leaves that lay dying at the foot of the stalks. Sentinel sheaves of
wheat stood grouped about the yellow fields, and from out the stubble
came the piping of the quail mingling with the rustling of the long,
drooping, corn leaves; a mellow, autumnal refrain. Near at hand the
chattering brook ran a messenger of harvest-time to the far off river,
and the river carried the news to the gulf, and the gulf swept it to
the four corners of the earth.
"As printed staves of thankful Nature's hymn,
The fence of rails a soothing grace devotes,
With clinging vines for bass and treble cleffs,
And wrens and robins here and there for notes;
Spread out in bars, at equal distance met,
As though the whole bright autumn scene were set
To the unuttered melody of Rest!"
"The mill-wheel motionless o'ershades the pool,
In whose frail crystal cups its circle dips;
The stream, slow-curling, wanders in the sun,
And drains his kisses with its silver lips;
The birch canoe upon its shadow lies,
The pike's last bubble on the water dies,
The water lily sleeps upon her glass."
The lovely quiet of the country gave our travellers a feeling of peace
and rest, that the sharp voice of the iron horse and the rattle of his
steel-shod hoofs had forbidden them.
"This it is that makes tramping glorious!" exclaimed the Evangelist,
imbued with the beauty and placidity of Nature's feast.
"'Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife' I could tramp forever
and forever, with Nature for a companion, and feed my hungry eyes on
her loveliness!"
Toward the close of the afternoon, as Ben and his friend were seated,
resting on the top rail of an old, moss-covered, stake-and-rider fence,
a young man came up to them mounted on a horse. The animal was without
a saddle and looked as though he had been severely ridden. His rider
appeared to be an ordinary young country fellow, without any particular
points of interest about him. He drew rein opposite our friends and
entered into conversation with them, stating that he was a resident of
Bonfield in the adjoining county, thirty miles distant, and having had
a falling out with the old folks at home, had left the parental roof
with this horse--his only property--determined to seek his fortunes
abroad; ef it tuk him through six 'jining counties! But he found the
horse to be a plaguy botheration. He'd no saddle, an' he was too poor
to buy one, and too poor to afford the luxury of a ridin'. He could
better afford to walk. He said he was a simple feller and didn't
know much 'bout the world, no how, which they might a seed. He was
detarmined to sell or dicker his hoss, and mebbe they'd like to buy
the anamyle. How much w'uld they give fur him? But our friends had no
money to purchase him with even had they been so inclined. In that case
moughtn't they hev sumthin' they'd trade? For the rider was so durned
tired of the bruit, durned if he didn't nigh feel like givin' him away,
or a tradin' him fur sum durned jack knife! Our friends had nothing to
trade him, however.
No pistols, nor watches, nor jewelry, nor nothing?
Ben shook his head, but the Evangelist studied a moment.
"Ben," he whispered, "I hate to part with my watch. It is the last
earthly tie I have binding me to memories of the past. But--if--if I
had that horse I could sell him--sell him may be for fifty or sixty
dollars! And that would be money enough to take us both decently
to St. Louis, and pay our expenses there until we could secure
employment--_good_ employment. I'd give up rambling, and--it might be
the making of us both!"
Cleveland tried to persuade him not to part with the watch, but the
sanguine temperament of the Evangelist--peculiar to him--was already
picturing a life of respectability in St. Louis. A great reformation
with Ben for a constant moral support to lean upon. Indeed it was Ben's
own reasoning heretofore that caused the other to think at all of
changing his condition.
"Yes I will, yes I will, Ben. It's a great chance--who knows what may
come of it!"
And Ben who had formed a strong liking for his companion thought
perhaps it might be for the best after all. That it might, possibly, be
a turning point in Horton's life, that would redeem him.
The watch was scarce worth twenty dollars. It had heavy, old-fashioned
silver cases, but the works--though in good order--were antique. Horton
offered it to the rider for his horse, and the latter, after dickering
for something "to boot," and finding he could get nothing more,
accepted it. Then he transferred the horse to the Evangelist, calling
upon Ben to be a witness to the trade, and bidding our friends good
day, stated that he wished to pass the night with a cousin six miles
distant, and struck out over the fields.
The two travellers took a look at their new acquisition. He was a
trifle old, and had a bone spavin, but otherwise was a good, solid
chunk of a farm horse. The question now arose what to do with him.
"I'll tell you," said Horton, "it is about twelve miles to Lickskillet,
where we strike the railroad. That is too far for you to walk to-night,
but I can ride, and get into the town an hour or so before sundown,
by pushing my horse. I'll sell him there for all I can get, and wait
for you. You walk so far as you feel able to-night and get up early
to-morrow morning and come on," and then after a pause: "Don't delay
Ben, for it aint just safe for me to have money about me yet--my good
resolutions are too new," and he laughed, but his voice was serious and
entreating.
This arrangement being perfected the Evangelist mounted his purchase
and rode off at a sharp canter, Ben following more slowly on foot.
Now that Horton was gone our hero discovered what a companion he
had been. Always ready with some quaint suggestion or far-fetched
argument--original in his metaphors and epigrammatic in his
criticisms--he had caused the time to pass away agreeably, and Ben
missed him.
With pleasant reveries he beguiled the way until sundown came upon him
unnoticed. He could have made Lickskillet that night by an increase of
exertion, but his feet were tired and as there was no necessity for
getting into the town until morning, he began looking about him for
a camping place. While prospecting for a straw pile, or hay stack,
suitably situated for his night's rest, he passed a comfortable farm
house, consisting of a frame building with a log kitchen in its rear.
In the barn yard, near the house, a man was attempting to raise a corn
crib by means of two timbers used as levers. The method did not appear
to work well, and Ben watched him through several failures. He would
first bear down one of his levers, and piling stones upon it attempt to
hold it in this manner, while he lifted on the other. But the levers
slipped, and he was unsuccessful. He had worked fruitlessly long enough
to make help appreciated, and when Ben offered his assistance, it was
gladly accepted. It took nearly an hour's labor to get the corn crib
into the desired position and properly propped up.
When the work was done, the farmer thanked him and asked if he was
travelling.
"Yes, sir; I'm on my way to St. Louis."
"Wall, I declar! Reckon you'll git thar twixt now and Chris'mas?"
Ben reckoned he would.
"I declar! No money?"
"No money."
"Turrible bad condition, I declar! Come in and take a bite; ye've arned
yer supper. I ain't got no great show of 'commodations, but these
nights air not cold, an' thar's a plenty of fresh straw out in the cow
shed. Reckon ye kin make out? Hey, not?"
Ben assured him that the accommodations offered were highly acceptable.
"And whar mought ye come frum?" asked the farmer.
"New York," replied Ben.
"I declar! State or city?"
"City."
"I declar!" And he looked at Ben and Ben looked at him. "That's a right
smart piece frum hyar, I reckon?"
Ben told him it was nearly eight hundred miles, at which he "declar'd!"
again.
On entering the farm house he was introduced to the farmer's wife, and
four small tow-headed children, with the remark:
"Fly round, 'Riah; hyar's a man all the way frum New Yurk City agoin'
to St. Lowis; an' I'm turrible peckish, which I reckon he is too," at
which 'Riah also said "I declar!" and the four tow-headed children
stood with open mouths and looked it, though they did not say so.
At the table the farmer turned to Ben, somewhat to the latter's
consternation, and asked:
"Strangier, will you say a blessin'?"
Ben might have recited some Homeric ode, but a simple blessing left him
high and dry on the shoals of ignorance, and he had to decline.
The good man came near saying "I declar!" but corrected himself, and
proceeded to ask divine protection for himself and family and the
stranger within his gates, interpolating a few reflections upon his
oldest son and heir's reprehensible act of sticking his fingers in the
"meat gravy," and introducing in the invocation a promise to give the
two youngest tow heads "a good larrupin' fur their obstreporosity of
behaviour." Grace having been duly wound up by the head of the family
smartly rapping the tow head nearest to him with his knuckles, for an
infraction of proprieties, Ben was solicited not to stand on ceremony,
but to "pitch in."
After supper a pipe and a chat by a log fire--more for light and
cheerfulness than heat--followed. But our hero soon grew sleepy, tired
out with the day's long walk, and retired to the cow shed determined to
be up and away at early cock crow in the morning.
Sometime during the night he was partially awakened from his slumbers
by voices on the kitchen porch. Half asleep and half awake he heard the
following disjointed expressions:
"He's caught--Lickskillet jail--they're all a coming--'greed to it
after meetin'--make an example of him--we'll show 'em--come on--be
quick!" After which he was dimly conscious that some one entered the
barn and saddled a horse. There was a clatter of hoofs out on the road,
and then all was again quiet, and Ben slept peacefully.
It was the dark hour before dawn when the restless chanticleer from
his perch in a neighboring apple tree called our hero up. He limbered
himself with a good round of shakes and stamping life into his sleepy
feet, started out in the dark for Lickskillet, five miles distant.