The Dicksons were spending the winter in Paris, and Art, who was
fourteen, resolved to make the most of the grand opportunity thus
afforded him of thoroughly exploring the handsomest city in the world.
He had "done" the galleries, the churches, the prisons, and the palaces
with the rest of the family; but now that all the principal points of
interest had been visited, his mother and sister became absorbed in
"dressmaking and millinery" while his father spent hours at the _Herald_
office reading the American papers. As neither of these occupations was
lively enough to suit the taste of an eager, restless boy like Art, he
took to going off on long exploring trips by himself, up, down, across,
and around the city!
"Now, Arthur, do, I beg of you, be careful," his mother would say to
him. "If you could speak French, I wouldn't worry, but as it is, what if
you should get lost?"
"Why, I'd just call a cab, sing out through my nose as loud as I could
the name of our hotel, and I'd be back here"--Art was going to add "in
no time," but recollecting that he was not supposed to be riding behind
his father's fast team in New York, changed it to "some time."
One morning he had planned to spend on top of an omnibus running on a
route he had not yet been over, but on awaking he found quite a
snow-storm raging in the air, although the flakes melted as soon as they
touched the heated pavements.
Now Art had not seen snow before all that winter, so when it had cleared
off he determined, instead of taking his omnibus ride, to walk out to
the Bois de Boulogne and feast his eyes on the "genuine article."
He set out about eleven, walking at a brisk pace in order to be back in
good season for lunch at one. There was plenty to see on the way, so
although the distance from the hotel to the Bois was a long one, it did
not seem a great while to Art before he came within sight of a pure
white covering of snow on tree, shrub, and grass. His boyish heart
thrilled at once with delight, although he could not but acknowledge to
himself that a hill and a sled would not have come amiss. As a
substitute for these he fell to making quantities of soft snow-balls to
shy harmlessly at nowhere in particular.
"I suppose, though," he presently reflected, "if one of those
gens-d'armes should happen to see me, he'd march me off to the Bastile
(if it hadn't been pulled down), for fear of my snow-balls suggesting
bullets to this revolutionary people."
As this thought struck him he fired what he resolved should be his last
shot, which, as it happened, just grazed the money cup on top of a
hand-organ in the next path.
The organ was resting on a portable stool, and behind it Art could see
its owner sitting on the low iron railing. He was drinking coffee or
soup out of a cup filled from a bottle in the hands of a little girl
seated on a basket in front of him. The group made quite a pretty
picture, which the lad stopped a moment to gaze at, thankful that his
snow-ball had not disturbed it.
Then a squirrel nearer at hand caught his eye, and he stood watching the
cute little fellow frisk about, with his bright eyes and gracefully
waving tail, for fully five minutes.
Presently, however, the confused sound of many voices coming from the
other path again turned Art's attention in the direction of the
hand-organ. He soon saw that it had been left by the man in charge of
the little girl, who was being teased by a company of school-boys.
One of the latter had possessed himself of the bulging cotton umbrella
which had stood leaning against the post, and was making as if he were
going to run off with it, while the little girl chased him about,
scolding at a terrible rate in her fast French.
At first Art was inclined to think that the boys were only in fun. But
when he saw two of them catch hold of the organ and hurry away with it
into the woods while the girl was running around the corner after her
umbrella, all his American blood was up, and he started after "the young
highwaymen."
"I may not be a match for both of them in a fight," he reflected, as he
sped along, "but perhaps I can frighten them a little;" and making his
voice as deep as possible, Art shouted out after the runaways, who,
thinking a gen-darme was on their track, dropped the organ in the snow,
and dashed on at double-quick.
Our hero slackened up a bit until they were out of sight, and then
hurried forward to see if anything had been broken. Luckily the organ
had escaped all damage, and picking it up, Art started to carry it back
to the little girl. But somehow he could not recollect the exact
direction from which he had entered the woods, and after tramping about
through the snow for some time, he was compelled to put his burden down
and rest awhile.
"Well, well," he mused, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead,
"this is a pretty fix for me to get myself into. I wonder what the
fellows at home would say at seeing me lug this hand-organ about through
the woods as if I were an Italian looking for a monkey. And, after all,
I don't believe those fellows really meant to steal it. Very likely they
only wanted to hide it from the little girl. Still, it was a mean thing
to do, and I'm--" But at this instant he became aware of a man running
toward him, shouting and shaking his fist, and before Art could make up
his mind what to do, he saw that it was the organ-grinder.
Forgetting for the time that ten chances to one the man would not
understand a word he said, Art at once began explaining to him how he
had recovered his property, when, to his amazement, he was suddenly
interrupted by a rough grasp on the collar of his coat, and a torrent of
French fury, which ought to have caused him to tremble in his shoes, if
he had only deserved and comprehended it.
He _did_ comprehend the tight clutch by which he was held, however, and
quite naturally began to grow highly indignant at the injustice done
him.
"But don't I tell you I half raced my legs off to get your organ back
for you?" he cried. "Why, I actually believe you think I was one of the
fellows that stole it!"
Then, as the man took a still firmer grasp of his coat, and began a
louder series of exclamations, the boy became finally convinced that
this was really the state of the case.
Explanations were of no avail; indeed, they only seemed to make matters
worse, for whenever Art attempted to make himself understood either by
loud talk or dumb-show, the organ-grinder only gripped deeper and
rattled on faster.
"Well, this is a go!" muttered our hero to himself as he finally gave up
all resistance, and tried in vain to call up a word or two of French
that would be likely to help him out of the scrape. "He must certainly
know that I'm not French, but I don't see that that makes any difference
to him. I wonder, though, what he's going to do with me?"
This query was soon answered, for now the man made signs to Art to pick
up the organ.
"What! he wants me to carry the thing for him!" and the lad's hatred of
injustice again rose up strong within him, causing him to shake his head
in a most decided fashion.
For reply the Frenchman simply shrugged his shoulders, and muttered the
word "Gens-d'armes."
This was enough for Art. As has been already stated, he had a decided
prejudice to becoming intimate with the Paris police, and as the
spectacle of his being marched off to jail by one of them, before he
could hope to make himself understood, passed before his mental vision,
he stooped down, picked up the organ, and walked on by the side of its
owner, who all the while kept a hand on his shoulder.
It was certainly a most humiliating situation, but Art managed to
extract some degree of consolation from the reflection that he was being
wronged. Then he suddenly recollected the snow-ball he had thrown which
had nearly overturned the money cup.
"He must have noticed it, after all. What an awful combination of
circumstances against me! I wonder if I can't buy him off?" and as he
stumbled along beneath his burden, Art began to calculate how much money
he had in his various pockets.
"But no," he suddenly resolved, "I will not act as if I were guilty. I
did what I thought was right, and now I'll stand by the consequences. I
know that I'm innocent, which is lots of comfort, and surely the
Frenchman will soon let me go when he sees how meekly I take my
punishment."
By this time they had reached the edge of the woods, and the man was
leading the way along one of the paths in the direction of the city.
"Where on earth is the fellow going to take me, I wonder?" mused Art,
"and what can have become of the little girl and the big umbrella?"
Presently they left the park behind them, and now our hero was given to
understand that his punishment was but just begun; for suddenly the man
stopped, opened the camp-stool arrangement, motioned to Art to set the
organ on top of it, and then intimated that he expected him to turn the
crank.
"Never!" cried the boy, excitedly, and he attempted to shake himself
free of the Frenchman's grasp. But the struggle that ensued only served
to draw a gaping crowd around them, and Art speedily saw that the
easiest thing for him to do was to submit.
So, with the man's hand still on his shoulder, he caught up the crank,
and began to grind out the waltz from the _Chimes of Normandy_, all the
while busily wondering how he could get back to the hotel in time for
lunch, and thus save his mother a deal of anxiety.
Once he had thought of mentioning the name of the hotel to the
organ-grinder, but as often gave up the idea when he recollected in what
capacity he would be obliged to traverse the principal boulevards in
order to reach it.
By this time faces began to appear at the windows of the houses, and
pieces of money were now and then thrown out. Some of these fell quite a
distance from the organ, and having noted this fact, Art set to work to
contrive a plan of escape.
The Frenchman, however, was not to be easily fooled, for whenever he was
compelled to leave Art's side in order to pick up a coin, he pointed to
the crank and made a circular motion with his arm, to intimate that his
ears were open if his eyes were turned away, and that the instant the
music ceased he would know the reason why.
Still our hero hoped for success in his scheme, in spite of the
Frenchman's wariness, so he played steadily on and waited his
opportunity, meanwhile taking from one of his pockets with his left hand
a five-centime piece, which is equal to one cent in American money.
Presently that for which he had been watching happened. The second story
window of a house three or four doors off was opened and some money
thrown out. The man started to pick it up. As soon as his back was
turned, Art quickly transferred his sou from his left hand to his right,
continuing, meanwhile, to grind out the tune with the former. Then with
all the dexterity acquired as pitcher on the nine at home he threw the
money on ahead of the organ-grinder, started on a run up the street and
around the corner.
He knew that the neighborhood--that of the American quarter--was a quiet
one, so he dashed on fearlessly until he came out on the Place of the
Star, in the centre of which stands the magnificent Arch of Triumph.
From this point twelve different avenues diverge. Quickly selecting the
one leading furthest away from the spot where he had left the organ, Art
walked rapidly down it until satisfied that he was safe from pursuit. He
then crossed over to the Boulevard Haussmann, and in twenty minutes was
safe back at the hotel.
When he related his adventures to the family, his father said he ought
to have appealed to the police, and his sister called him a goose for
having stood it as long as he did.
But not so with the mother. Mrs. Dickson drew him to her side and
whispered that he was her gallant American knight, and after that Art
could not regret his attempt to right a wrong, although he often says
that the man did not deserve the sou he had thrown him so successfully.