A TERRIBLE FEAR.
It was towards morning when Herbert Randolph fell asleep on the night of
his imprisonment. He had fought manfully to keep awake, dreading the
consequences of slumber, but tired nature gave way at last, and our
young hero slept, unconscious now of danger.
The rats that he so much feared still frolicked, and prowled, and
gnawed, as they had done for hours. They climbed upon boxes and barrels,
and made their way into every corner and crevice. Everything was
inspected by them.
More inquisitive rats than these never infested the metropolis. Now
they went in droves, and scampered from place to place like a flock of
frightened sheep. Then they strayed apart and prowled for a time alone.
An occasional fight came off by way of variety, and in these battles the
vanquished, and perhaps their supporters, often squealed like so many
young pigs.
Thus the carousal continued hour after hour, and that old Gunwagner
cellar was for the time a diminutive bedlam. Our young hero,
nevertheless, slept on and on, unconscious of this racket.
After a while the rats grew bolder. Their curiosity became greater,
and then they began to investigate more carefully the state of things
within the prison cell, and at length their attention was turned to the
quiet sleeper.
Well bred rats are always cautious, and therefore are somewhat
respectful, but the drove at old Gunwagner's did not show this desirable
trait. In fact they were not unlike the old fence himself--daring,
avaricious and discourteous. No better proof of this could be instanced
than their disreputable treatment of our young hero.
Rats, as a rule, show a special fondness for leather. Undoubtedly it is
palatable to them. But this fact would not justify them in the attempt
they made to appropriate to themselves Herbert's boots. The propriety of
such an act was most questionable, and no well mannered rats would have
allowed themselves to become a party to such a raid. But as a matter of
fact, and as Herbert learned to his sorrow, there were no well mannered
rats at old Gunwagner's--none but a thieving, quarrelsome lot.
After a council of war had been held, and a great amount of
reconnoitering had been done, it was decided that these rural boots
could not be removed from their rightful owner in their present shape;
therefore they fell vigorously to work to reduce them to a more movable
condition.
When Herbert fell asleep, he was sitting on a bench with his feet upon
the floor. He was still in this position, with his head resting in his
hand, and his elbow supported by the side of his prison cell, when the
rats made war on his boots. They gnawed and chipped away at them at a
lively rate, and in a little time the uppers were entirely destroyed.
The cotton linings, to be sure, were still intact, as these they did not
trouble. Evidently cotton cloth was not a tempting diet for them.
Up to this time Herbert had not moved a muscle since he fell asleep,
but now a troubled dream or something else, I know not what, disturbed
him. Possibly it was the continued gnawing on his already shattered
boots. It might, however, have been the fear of these dreadful rats, or
the repulsive image of old Gunwagner, that haunted him and broke the
soundness of his slumbers.
Presently he opened his eyes, drowsily, and his first half waking
impression was the peculiar sensation at his feet. In another instant a
full realization of the cause of this feeling darted into his mind, and
with a pitiful cry of terror he bounded into the air like a frightened
deer. And to add to the horror of his situation, in descending his right
foot came down squarely upon one of the rats, which emitted a strange
cry, a sort of squeal, that sent a thrill throughout every nerve of our
hero's body.
A second leap brought him standing upon the bench upon which he had been
sitting.
If ever a boy had good reason to be frightened, it was Herbert Randolph.
His situation was one to drive men mad--in that dark, damp cellar,
thus surrounded and beset by this countless horde of rats. The cold
perspiration stood out upon him, and he trembled with an uncontrollable
fear.
Something was wrong with his feet. He knew that, for his shoes now
barely hung upon them. To what extent the rats had gone he dreaded
to know. Already he could feel his feet smart and burn in a peculiar
manner. Had they received poisonous bites, he asked himself? The mere
suggestion of such a condition to one in his frightened state of mind
was quite as bad, for the time, as actual wounds would have been.
A rat isn't very good company at any time. Under the most favorable
conditions his presence has a tendency to send people upon chairs or
the nearest table, and not infrequently they do this little act with
a whoop that would do credit to a genuine frontier Indian. When,
therefore, we consider this fact, it is not difficult to realize the
alarming situation in which our young hero was, and but for the timely
sound of footsteps overhead it is impossible to predict what might have
been the result of this terrible mental strain on him.
[Illustration: SUDDENLY REALIZING HIS HORRIBLE SITUATION, HERBERT SPRANG
UPON THE BENCH WITH A PITIFUL CRY OF TERROR.]
The night had worn away, the old fence was again on the move, and
Herbert's piercing cry brought him to the room over the cell. No sooner
had our young friend heard this sound above his head than he appealed
for help. So alarming were his cries that even old Gunwagner was at
length moved to go to his assistance. He retraced his steps to the front
of the house, and, taking a lighted lamp with him, passed down through
the trap door, and then made his way into the rear cellar to Herbert's
cell.
Never before in his life had the presence of a human being been so
welcome as was that of Gunwagner to our frightened hero. What a relief
to this oppressive darkness was that small lamp light, and how quickly
it drove all the rats into their hiding places.
"What's all this row about?" growled the old fence.
"These rats," gasped Herbert, with a strange, wild look; "see, they have
bitten me," pointing to his boots, or what remained of them.
Gunwagner's heart softened a trifle as he beheld the boy's sufferings,
and saw how he had been assailed.
"Are you sure they have bit you?" said he, uneasily.
"Look! see!" replied Herbert, holding out the worst mutilated boot. He
fully believed he had been bitten, though, as a matter of fact, he had
not.
The old fence became alarmed, fearing the annoyance and possible danger
that might follow; but when he had satisfied himself by a careful
examination that young Randolph had sustained no injuries, he speedily
changed back to his old hard manner again--a cold, cruel manner that
showed no mercy.
Herbert begged to be released from his prison pen, but his pleadings
were of no avail.
"Why are you treating me in this inhuman way?" asked he. "What have I
done that I should be shut up here by you?"
Old Gunwagner looked hard at him, but made no reply.
"I know why it is," continued our hero, growing bold and defiant when he
saw it was useless to plead for kindness; "I can see through the whole
scheme now; but you mark my words, old man, you will suffer for this
cruelty, and so will your friend Felix Mortimer."
These words came from the lips of the young prisoner with such terrible
emphasis that old Gunwagner, hardened as he was in sin, grew pale, and
trembled visibly for his own safety.