I don't know, what the almanac man said about it, but Dan said it was
the longest; and Dan was certainly the one who understood the matter
best.
It began pretty much like other days, only that there was a heavy fog,
and Dan knew that it was bad weather for haying, and tip-top for
fishing. He made up his mind to go fishing. Perhaps if his mind had not
been already made up, he would not have minded it so much when his
father said at the breakfast table:
"We must get the scythes in good order, so's to take a fair start at the
lower meadow to-morrow. Don't let me have to waste time hunting after
you, Daniel, when I'm ready to go at it."
Daniel's appetite was gone at once. How he hated to turn that heavy
creaking old grindstone! and how sure his father was to find a dozen
things to do first, and keep him waiting all the morning! He went around
by the sink drain, and dug his bait; he examined his fishing-pole; he
put up his lunch; he even tried a worm on the hook; and then he wandered
disconsolately around, wishing grindstones had never been invented.
He went to the end of the garden, and leaned sulkily over the low stone
wall, eating the half-ripe harvest apples, and throwing the cores
spitefully away. Down the road a few rods lay the mill-pond, and in the
middle of the road nearby stood Deacon Skinner's horse and chaise.
Old Whitey had his nose down, and one leg crooked in a meditative
fashion. The Deacon was over in the field, making a bargain with Solomon
Murray for some young cattle. What fun it would be to start the old
horse up, and set him trotting home! Dan could almost hit him with an
apple core. He tried two or three, just to see, and then he picked a
smooth round stone from the wall, and sent it singing through the air.
Old Whitey brought up his nose with a jerk, straightened his fore-leg,
and started off at a brisk trot, the chaise top tilting and pitching
back and forth.
Dan laughed--at least the laugh began to grow, when he caught one
glimpse of a frightened little face at the chaise window, and knew that
Nanny Dane, the Deacon's little lame grandchild, was in the chaise.
It was only a glimpse, and then the bank of gray fog swallowed Whitey
and the chaise, and it seemed to Dan that they had gone straight into
the mill-pond.
"Daniel! Daniel! Come on now, and be spry about it!" called his father,
as he moved toward the grindstone; and Dan obeyed, though he felt as if
his feet had all at once turned to lead.
Round and round and round; his tough little hands were blistered on the
handle, but he did not know it; his mouth and throat were as dry as the
stone, but he did not think of it. "_Crrr-crrr-crrr_," rang the rough,
wearisome noise, until his ears were so deafened he did not even hear
it. For he was perfectly sure he had killed little Nanny Dane. What
would people say? What would they do to him? Hang him, of course; and
Dan felt in his heart that he deserved it, and that it would be almost a
satisfaction.
"There," said his father at last, "I reckon that'll do, Daniel. You've
been faithful and stiddy at your work, and now you may go fishing."
Dan never knew how he got to Long Pond, or how he passed the slow hours
of that dismal day. The misery seemed intolerable, and before evening he
had made up his mind that he could bear it no longer. He would go home
and tell his father, he would tell everybody. They might hang him, they
might do anything they pleased.
Tramping desperately home with his empty basket in his hand, he heard
the sound of wheels behind him, dragging slowly through the deep sand.
Perhaps that was the Sheriff coming to arrest him. Dan's heart beat
harder, but he did not look around. The wheels came nearer; they
stopped, and some one said:
"Hullo, Daniel! been fishin'? Fisherman's luck, hey? Well, jump in here,
and I'll give ye a lift."
Before Dan knew it he was over the wheel and sitting beside Deacon
Skinner in the old chaise, with Whitey switching his tail right and left
as he plodded along.
"Git up, Whitey," urged the Deacon; "it's getting along toward
chore-time. Whitey ain't so spry as he used to be, but he's amazin'
smart. This mornin' I left little Nanny in the shay while I was making a
dicker with Solomon Murray, and a keerless thing it was to do, but I'd
as soon expected the meetin'-house to run away as Whitey. I reckon
something must have scart him; but he just trotted off home as stiddy as
if I'd been driving, and waited at the door for mother to come and get
Nanny before he went to the barn."
"Oh, Deacon Skinner," burst out Dan, "it was me; I scart Whitey."
"Did ye now, sonny? Well, there wuzn't any harm done, and I know ye
didn't mean to."
"I did, I did," said Dan, sobbing violently from the long strain of
excitement. "I didn't know Nanny was in the chaise, and I threw a stone
at him."
"Well, well," said the Deacon, rubbing his stubbly chin, and looking
curiously at Dan. "Beats all what freaks boys will take, but I know ye
won't do it agin."
"I never will," said Dan, solemnly. "This has been the awfulest longest
day that ever was in the world."