THE RUNAWAY
It had now rained steadily for a week, and the mud and drip everywhere made
all outdoors unpleasant. But in the Hill home the indoors was even more
disagreeable. The new home was near the engines. Mr. Hill was in the house
much of the time, and he was never pleasant among his children. Austin
could not work in the woods because of the rain, and his presence irritated
his father all the time. They were never in the house together but what
something unpleasant was said between them, and Austin’s spirit was
becoming worn with the constant rasping. He thought he could not endure it
much longer, and since his presence made the home so filled with contention
he doubted whether he was doing right to stay.
“Austin, how much longer are you going to lie around this house? You have
not done a day’s work in weeks. I can’t stand your idleness much longer.
Why can you not be like your brothers?” growled Mr. Hill one morning a day
or two after Thanksgiving.
Austin said nothing, for he had exhausted all his arguments; but at that
instant a determination formed itself in his mind to put a stop to the
whole affair. When his father had gone to the engine-room he went to the
attic and brought down his best suit of clothes and, coming into the
kitchen, prepared to brush and press them. When he put the irons on the
stove, Amy noticed what he was about to do.
“You can’t press those clothes this morning, for I am going to use the
irons,” she said in a fretful voice.
“I shall have to use them, Amy, but it will not take long.”
“You can’t have them, so there! You always want to do just your way, no
matter what we want to do.”
“Did you hear what Father said this morning?” asked Austin.
“He didn’t say any more than he is always saying,” she said a little less
fretfully.
“He will not have to say anything of the kind again, for I am going to find
work and not coming back till I have it,” said Austin.
“Austin, you can’t go away. What shall we children do!” exclaimed Amy, all
her vexation leaving at the thought.
“I do not know; but it can not be much worse than having Father so angry
all the time. I will get work on the river if I can, and will see you all
as often as possible,” answered Austin soothingly.
Amy said no more about the irons, but turned to her dish-washing with
tearful eyes, her heart almost standing still at the thought of home
without Austin. The other children who had heard the conversation stood
about with consternation written on their little faces. Harry, who was a
child to act when he thought he might help, hurried out to the engine-room
and told his father what had occurred. Henry Hill was vexed because
Austin’s wages no longer came in; but he had no thought of sending the boy
away. He knew too well that Austin’s presence was needed in the home. But
the seed of animosity that had been sown in his heart against Austin during
the past summer was now bearing fruit, and he took a sort of pleasure in
annoying the boy. He saw that Austin was sensitive about being dependent
and he enjoyed seeing him wince. At Harry’s alarm he only grunted a word of
disapproval and went on with his work. He believed Austin was only trying
to bluff him. He did not think the boy could be driven away from the
children.
An hour later Harry was back again at his father’s side, his face bathed in
tears and his breast heaving with sobs. “Papa, Austin _is_ going. He has
his suitcase all packed and is ready to start.”
Henry Hill jumped to his feet, his face red with anger. Could it be
possible that Austin had such an idea in his head? If so, he would soon
frighten it out of him. This looked too much like defiance in the boy!
“I will show him how to run away, the rascal. Harry, go to the barn and
bring the buggy whip,” and saying this the father rushed across the little
opening between the two buildings and stamped into the kitchen. Austin was
on his knees fastening his suitcase, which was all packed and ready for his
start. He had not meant to bid his father good-by, nor to tell him any of
his plans. He was too angry and his heart too defiant to want even to look
at him again. When his father came in, Austin rose from his knees and faced
him.
“What is up here, young man? I will let you know right here that there is
going to be no running away from this ranch! You get that grip where it
belongs, in a hurry,” thundered the irate father.
“I am going away to find work. I shall take care of myself from this time
on,” said the boy resolutely facing the angry man.
“Take care of yourself,” sneered his father, “you could not exist a month
on your own resources. You take those clothes out of that grip and stop
this nonsense!”
“I am going away, and you need not try to hinder me,” said Austin in firm,
even tones.
A fearful oath escaped the father’s lips and he grabbed the whip which the
sobbing Harry had brought; for as much as Harry loved Austin he dare not
disobey his father’s command. Turning again to Austin, the man thundered,
“I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life. Don’t you dare to tell me you
are going away when I forbid it. For once you will obey me.”
Just then the engine gave a warning sound, which meant that without
immediate attention it would stop running, so the enraged man turned about
without another word and went out, leaving the frightened children looking
after him. But the pause was only for a moment. Austin seized his
opportunity and, picking up the suitcase and bidding the children a hasty
farewell, he bolted out of the door and across the lot to freedom. He had
been running as hard as he could go when still he heard the wails of the
children and heard them calling to him. He took a course across the
unbroken lands where there was not so much as a foot-path. In his
timber-cutting he had become familiar with the lay of the land and took
this rough way on purpose that his father might have difficulty in
following him. He ran for almost a mile before he slackened his pace, and
at every step he seemed to feel his father right behind him. He knew that
now his father would be so angry as to have no sense at all, but would beat
him nearly to death.
When at the edge of the river-bottom he stopped to take a breath he found
that he was wet to the skin and that he had stepped into low places where
the water had come up over his shoe-tops. And he remembered too that he had
not a penny in his pockets, nor a bite to eat. A more forlorn boy could not
be found than Austin as he stood there and looked across to the farmhouses
along the river. But he smiled a little to himself as he thought, “I am one
fellow who actually _ran_ away from home. It was no walk away.”
As he approached the river he found the lowlands much more wet and marshy
than it had been in the hills, and he had to wade above his shoes a good
deal of the time, and still the heavy drizzle kept up. He made for a
farmhouse where he hoped to get work. As he came up he wished in his heart
that the man would ask him no questions about his condition; for he saw
that besides the wet and mud, he had torn his clothes in several places.
But he was determined that if any questions were asked he would tell the
truth, just as it was. He would not shield either his father or himself.
His cause should stand upon its own foundation. He believed that almost any
one would approve of his leaving home under the circumstances.
He knocked at the farmhouse door, and the man of the house answered his rap
and hospitably invited the boy in. It was a temptation; but Austin
remembered his soppy condition and did not like to soil the housewife’s
floors, so refused to enter.
“I am looking for work. Have you anything I can do?” he said.
“Are you not that Hill boy who wanted work a few weeks back?” asked the man
kindly.
“Yes, and you thought you might have something for me later,” replied
Austin hopefully.
“If you had come yesterday I should have hired you; I found a man over at
town last night, and he will be here today to begin. I am sorry I did not
know you were still wanting the place.”
With a heavy heart Austin turned from the door and journeyed on in the rain
and mud. He had little hope of getting work at any of the other farms, and
he did not know where to go. But he determined to do his best in seeking
employment, and so stopped at every house he passed, asking the same
question.
At last he reached the river at a place where a foot-bridge crossed it. To
cross this bridge seemed to him to be cutting off the last retreat home.
Here he must make his final decision. He stood with one foot on the bridge
and one hand on the railing and pondered. Should he go on, or should he go
back and face his father? He knew the taunts he would receive even if he
were not beaten; but he would bear all that if it was his duty. Then there
came to his mind the picture of his father that day he had come home after
his drunken spree and found the boys trying to start the engine. At the
thought his loathing of his father overcame him, and he turned and walked
across the bridge. Never would he go back to live in the same house with
that drunken fellow. If Henry Hill had realized the effect his life was
having on his children even he would have considered.