THE PLOT EXPOSED.
The next week the master set James copies in fine hand, and also copies
of capital letters; and he began to learn at home, and recite to Bertie,
the multiplication table, that was, in those days, printed on the covers
of the writing-books. The next week the master gave him short sentences
to copy, and wound up the week’s work on Saturday, with setting him for
a copy of his own name and that of his mother before her marriage. James
was so much delighted with this as to overcome his usual diffidence, and
show it to Mr. Whitman.
When school was half done, Mr. Conly put James into the class with
Bertie, who no longer instructed James in reading, spelling, or writing
at home, as the latter could read nearly as well as his former teacher;
and write much better than any boy in the school, or even the master.
The afternoon of Saturday was a half-holiday and stormy; the old
gentleman had a fire and was at work in the shop. Mr. Whitman having
broken a whiffletree in the course of the week, laid the broken article
on the bench, intending to mend it. James saw it, made a new one by it,
and put the irons of the old one on the ends. About the middle of the
afternoon, Mr. Whitman bethought himself of the whiffletree, and going
to the shop, found the remains of it on the bench, and a new one lying
beside it.
“Father, did you make this whiffletree?”
“No, Jonathan; your redemptioner made it.”
Mr. Whitman made no remark, but his father noticed that afterwards, on
stormy days, he but seldom gave James any indoor work, but seemed well
content to have him work in the shop with his father, who in the course
of the winter and spring taught him to dovetail, hew with a broad axe,
and saw with a whipsaw.
Although Peter, Bertie, and their friends, had taken such unwearied
pains, and exhausted their ingenuity, to render the position of James at
school both pleasant and profitable, circumstances conspired to render
their efforts, to a great extent, and for some time, abortive.
Children hear all that is said in the family, and often much more than
it is meant, or desirable, they should.
Many of the boys at the other extremity of the district, had seen James
while Wilson had him at the tavern. They had many of them heard
disparaging remarks made by their parents and brothers at home. Some of
them had listened to the talk in the public-house by their elders
respecting him, and imbibed the tone of feeling in the neighborhood that
was in general hostile to redemptioners, and were thus prejudiced
against him, even before he came to school. The parents of some of the
largest scholars were, in politics, the opposite of the Whitmans, and
they had heard their parents say that no doubt Jonathan Whitman took
that ragamuffin to train him up to vote as he wanted him to, and then
would get him naturalized. This feeling of prejudice would have probably
worn off, if James had been less reserved, and had joined with the rest
in the horse-plays that were ever going on at recess and between
schools.
James, however, did not know how to play; sport and amusement were to
him terms without signification. The only things he could do that boys
generally practise were to shoot, swim, and throw stones. He could shoot
indifferently well, swim like a fish, and could kill a bird or a
squirrel with a stone.
His sensitiveness made him believe the boys would not care to associate
with him, and his whole mind was given to his books, for he had begun to
appreciate the value of knowledge, and desired to make the most of the
present opportunity, for he did not expect to have another.
When the other boys were at play during noon and recess, he was in his
seat getting his lessons, and never spoke unless he was spoken to.
This gave occasion to those who had come prepared to dislike him to say
that he was stuck up; that the Whitmans and Edibeans, Nevins and Conlys,
had made too much of him; that he was getting too large for his
trousers, and should be taken down, and they were the boys to take him
down; that he put on great airs for a redemptioner, just out of the
workhouse.
Some were nettled because he, in so short a time, distanced them in
study, and in spelling went above them, and kept above.
The master one day gave mortal offence to William Morse, because, being
busy setting copies, he told him to go to James to mend his pen.
Some who disliked the Whitmans and Edibeans, because they were better
scholars than themselves, and their parents were better off, were
willing to see James annoyed, because they knew it would annoy them.
Chuck Witham felt aggrieved because he had sold his seat so cheap, and
wanted Bertie and Arthur Nevins to give him two more quills; but they
told him a bargain was a bargain, that they gave him all he asked; and
being possessed of a sullen, vindictive temper, he likewise was on the
watch to annoy them through James.
This hostile spirit had been long fermenting in the breasts of a portion
of the scholars, and was only prevented from breaking out in offensive
acts from wholesome fear of the strength of James, and uncertainty in
regard to the temper of one so reserved.
The boys were constantly pitting themselves against each other, and
testing their strength and activity by wrestling, jumping and lifting
rocks and logs.
James never manifested the least interest in their sport, not even
enough to look on. Thus they could find no opportunity to form any
estimate of his strength, or disposition. His whole bearing, however,
was indicative both of strength and activity, for he had lost the low,
creeping gait he once had, and the despondent look. In addition to this,
two of their number, Ike Whitcomb and John Dennet, were fishing for eels
in the mill-pond the day Wilson brought James to Mr. Whitman, and told
the others that they saw him pitch the barrels of flour into the wagon
as though they had been full only of apples. This information tended
also to inspire caution.
There was still another sedative, and by no means the least influential.
There was a circle of friends around James, not merely those we have
named, but several others from both districts, of like sympathies and
principles; and though far inferior in numbers, they comprised the best
minds and the most energetic persons of the whole school, and were
actuated by a sentiment of chivalry, taking the part of the oppressed,
that made them doubly formidable.
Arthur Nevins was in his twentieth year; the most, athletic boy in the
school, the leader in all exercises that tested strength and endurance,
and resolute as a lion. There was no doubt which side he would take, in
any affair that Peter or Bertie Whitman were concerned in.
As, however, this feeling of enmity increased, and grew all the faster
from being causeless, and open rupture being considered imprudent,—it
found vent at first in ill-natured remarks, slurs and gibes, as, for
instance: “There goes the redemptioner.” “Here comes ‘work’us;’ got any
cold vittles?” “Any old clo’es?”
At noon, when James was in the schoolhouse, and his enemies outside, one
boy would shout to another so as to be heard all over the
schoolhouse,—“I say, John Edmands, do you know how to pick oakum?”
“No.”
“Well, then ask Redemptioner. He learned the trade in the work’us, and
he’s a superior workman.”
Did James leave the schoolroom at recess, half a dozen snowballs flung
by nobody would hit him. When at night he had his books under his arm
going home a volley of balls would cover his books with snow.
James endured all this in silence, and without manifesting the least
resentment, which only served to encourage imposition. Not so, however
the Whitmans, and the Nevins boys, and the Valentines; when either of
those caught a boy flinging a snowball at James, they returned it with
interest, and Arthur Nevins generally had an icy one at hand.
This brought on a general snowball fight, under cover of which James, as
his enemies said, “meeched” off.
It was now the turn of James to build the fire. Orcutt, who built it the
morning previous, had put on a very large rock-maple log, which, being
but half burnt out, gave promise of a noble bed of coals for James to
kindle his fire with in the morning.
After school at night, the three boys cut up and carried into the
schoolhouse a large quantity of wood to build the morning fire, but when
James reached the schoolhouse in the morning, there was not a coal on
the hearth, the fireplace was full of half-melted snow, and not a single
stick of all the wood carried in the night before was to be found
anywhere.
James had his axe on his shoulder, and was equal to the occasion; he cut
a log, back-stick, fore-stick, and small wood, went into the woods and
split kindling from a pine stump, then went to Mr. Nevins’ for fire.
Arthur and Elmer instantly came with him; Elmer with a firebrand, and
Arthur hauling a load of dry wood on a hand-sled, which, in addition to
what James had already prepared, made one of the hottest fires of the
season, and soon dried up the snow-water that flooded the hearth, and
the floor around it that was smeared with ashes. They cut some
hemlock-brush, made a broom, and soon restored things to their pristine
order.
“Now,” said Arthur, “whoever did this thing thought that James, not
being used to wood fires, would not be able to make one; the master and
scholars would get here, find no fire, and he would appear like a fool,
and be blamed. James, don’t you lisp a word of it, and we won’t; if it
comes out, the one who did it will have to tell of it himself, and then
we shall find out who did it.”
The perpetrators of the trick did not know that James had built the fire
every morning at Mr. Whitman’s for two months.
Just as the school was called to order, Arthur and Elmer came in, and
stood so long with their backs to the fire, that the master at last
said,—
“Boys, are you not sufficiently warm?”
They were by no means suffering from cold, but as they stood thus,
facing the whole school, they took careful note of the surprise depicted
on several faces at finding a good fire, and everything as usual,
likewise of sundry nods, winks, and whispers; sometimes saw something
written on a slate, and the slate held up for some one in another seat
to read the message. When the two brothers came to compare notes that
night, after returning home, they were not in much doubt as to the
perpetrators of this low trick.
The Nevins boys held themselves in readiness to assist James, if
needful, the next morning, who came early but found everything as usual.
“Their gun has missed fire,” said Arthur to James.
“Elmer, you and I must be all eyes and ears, for we shall certainly hear
about it to-day. They’ll get no fun out of it, unless it comes out.”
It was not long after school began, before there took place an unusual
movement all over the room. Every one seemed to be excited in regard to
something, but in a very different way; some very much pleased, but by
far the larger number indignant. Presently a slate was passed to Arthur,
on which was written, “There is a story going, that night before last
the fireplace was filled with snow, and all the wood we cut was carried
off; but it is a lie, for if it had been so, James would have told us of
it,” signed “Albert.”
The slate was passed back with the question, “Who told?”
Soon the answer was returned,—
“Chuck Witham started it.”
At recess the affair became a matter of discussion, but it was almost
universally condemned. Even most of those who were prejudiced against
James and the Whitmans revolted at the low character of this act.
The girls came out _en masse_ in favor of James, avowing it was the
meanest and most dastardly thing they ever had heard of; that there was
not a more obliging or better behaved boy in the school than James, and
if they knew who the fellows that did it were they would never speak to
them again.
The girls had ascertained the willingness of James to oblige; for,
noticing that he always made and mended pens for Bertie Whitman, they
got Maria to carry their pens and quills to him, and as they became
better acquainted, went to him themselves.
Arthur Nevins said very little, but taking Chuck aside said,—
“Who told you all that news?”
“Sam Topliff.”
He went to Sam, and found that Will Orcutt told him. Going to Orcutt he
inquired,—
“Who told you about what was done in the schoolhouse, night before
last?”
“None of your business.”
“Say that again, I’ll shake your teeth out of your head; you were one of
them.”
“No, I wasn’t one of them, neither.”
“Ay, my fine fellow, you may think it a good joke, but I can tell you it
may prove a sore joke to you. Every decent boy, and all the girls in
school, are down on you; and if it gets to the ears of the master and
the school-committee, you’ll see trouble, for it was not merely a trick
upon a boy, but it was trespass, breaking into the schoolhouse in the
night. You broke a lock, you villain. Mr. Jonathan Whitman is one of the
school-committee, and is not a man to be trifled with; you had better
think about it.”
He then left him, but when Arthur started for home at night, Will Orcutt
followed him and said,—
“I wasn’t one of them, and you needn’t think, nor say, I was.”
“Then why won’t you tell who told you?”
Orcutt made no reply.
“If you’ll tell me the names of all who were in it, I’ll give you a
pistareen, and if you won’t, I’ll tell Mr. Whitman you was one of them.”
“I’m afraid to; they’ll lick me to death.”
“I never will tell who told me.”
“But they’ll know, because they know I am the only one, except
themselves, who knows who did it.”
“If I guess whom they were, will you tell me if I guess right?”
“If, instead of the pistareen, you’ll give me a quarter, and keep it to
yourself till day after to-morrow noon, I’ll tell you.”
“Why don’t you want me to keep it to myself any longer than till day
after to-morrow noon?”
“Because to-morrow is my last day of school, and I am going off the next
morning to Reading, to learn a trade, and I know you won’t tell a lie.”
“I’ll give you the quarter, and promise to keep it till then.”
“Then go into the schoolhouse with me. I’ll show you on the fire-list.”
The fire-list was a paper fastened to the master’s desk, on which were
the names of all the boys who were expected to take their turns in
making the fires, and Orcutt pricked with a pin the names of William
Morse, David Riggs, George Orcutt.
“Two of them are the very fellows I had picked out, the other was Sam
Dinsmore. I never should have thought your brother George would have
been in it.”
After this matter came out, the boys told James that he was able to take
his own part, and ought not to tamely submit to anymore abuse; for still
the petty insults from small boys, set on by the larger ones, continued.
Peter Whitman told the others, that there were only four or five large
boys who set the rest on, and they ought to pitch into them, give them a
good beating, and protect James.
“I don’t feel like going into a fight,” said Arthur, “to protect a
fellow who is better able to protect us than we are him, and could
thrash the whole of ‘em with one hand tied behind him; they are a set of
cowards, and would be quiet enough if they once saw in him any
inclination to resist.”
“I think as Arthur does,” said Elmer.
The Edibean boys were of the same mind.
“But he won’t resist. He’ll only say, ‘It is not for such as me to be
making a disturbance,’” said Bertie, sorely puzzled.
“Do you think he’s afraid of ‘em, Bertie? Don’t he know we’ll back him
up?”
“I don’t believe he cares a straw for them, or cares whether anybody
backs him up, or not; but it seems as if he thinks, because he came out
of a workhouse, that he was made for other people to wipe their feet
on.”
“Let’s go at him,” said Stillman Russell; “and tell him that he must
stick up to them, and thrash the next one who insults him, and we’ll
back him up. But if he don’t, we shan’t care anything about him and
shall be ashamed of him.”
“That’s it; only leave the last part out, for that would break his
heart, and it would be a falsehood for me to say I would not care
anything about him,” said Bertie; “and let us also do another thing.
James thinks everything of my grandfather; they talk together a great
deal, when they are at work in the shop, and grandfather never will tell
anything if you ask him not to. We’ll tell grandfather the whole story,
and get him to stir James up. If grandfather tells James to defend
himself, he’ll think it’s right, and he will, but as for us, we are but
boys like himself.”
“It is not for such as me to make any disturbance. I didn’t go to school
to make a disturbance. I went to learn,” was the reply of James to his
aged adviser.
“_Such as me_,” replied the irate grandfather; “don’t ever use that
phrase again. Haven’t I told you, time and again, that in this country,
one man’s as good as another, provided he behaves as well; and if he
don’t he is not. It’s the character, and not the nation, the blood, nor
money, that makes a man here.”
“The boys in the school don’t seem to think so.”
“The most of ‘em do, and their parents do, and the most of their parents
wouldn’t uphold ‘em in anything else. It is only a few rapscallions who
are at the bottom of the whole thing. They are keeping the whole school
in confusion, and taking the attention of the scholars off their
lessons; and you are helping to keep it along by putting up with it. If
they insult you without provocation, knock ‘em over, and they will be
quiet as frogs, when a stone is flung into the pond.”
“It is not my place to strike and hurt boys whose fathers own land, when
my father hadn’t any land; my mother went out to service and died in the
workhouse, and was buried by the parish. If I was in England they would
all call me a workhouse brat. Old Janet, my nurse, when she got mad used
to say to me,—
“‘My grandfather was a hieland lord and my father was a hieland
gentleman; but your mither was a servant girl, and your father was a
hedger and ditcher, and out of nothing comes nothing, ye feckless
bairn.’”
“Pshaw, it’s no fault of yours that your parents were poor and that you
was born in a workhouse, nor disgrace neither; and it’s no merit of
theirs that their fathers own land. It came about in the providence of
God, who is no respecter of persons.”
“Is not a man who owns land, better than one who don’t?”
“No; he may be a great deal worse; owning land don’t make a man any
better in the sight of God, and it ought not to in the sight of men.”
“I always thought that anybody who owned land was next to the quality;
ain’t the quality better?”
“No.”
“I always thought they were kind of little kings.”
“Kings are no better.”
“O, yes, grandfather, kings must be better, because the Bible tells
about ‘em; and Mr. Holmes always used to say, his most sacred majesty.”
“All moonshine; half of ‘em are great rascals. Being a king don’t make a
man better or worse any more than owning land does. It only gives them a
better chance to act out their true characters.”
“If a king was no more and no better than a man, how could he cure the
king’s evil?”
“No king ever did cure it, and it’s my opinion it never was cured.”
“O, yes, there was Farmer Vinal’s son, whose father I worked for, had a
great swelling on his neck, and his father carried him into the
procession when the king went to the tower, and the king touched it and
it went away.”
“I’ve no doubt it went away,” replied the sturdy republican; “but if the
king had never been born, it would have gone away all the same. It’s a
disorder that once in the blood is always there, and goes and comes.
Medicine will appear to cure it, and drive it from one part of the body
to another, and just as like as not, it went away on account of some
medicine the child had been taking. You’d better put all such nonsense
out of your head; it is not worth bringing over the water. If those boys
impose upon you, defend yourself; you are big enough. Give no offence
and take none; the whole district will uphold you in it.”