A SCENE NOT ON THE BILLS.
Phil was in Chicago, but that was only the first step toward finding
those of whom he was in search. Had he been sure that they were in the
city, it would have simplified matters, but the fact that Mrs. Brent
directed her letters to be sent to that city proved nothing. It did not
make it certain that she lived in the town.
“We are only at the beginning of our perplexities, Philip,” said Mr.
Carter. “Your friends may be near us, or they may be a hundred miles
away.”
“That is true, sir.”
“One method of finding them is barred, that of advertising, since they
undoubtedly do not care to be found, and an advertisement would only
place them on their guard.”
“What would you advise, sir?”
“We might employ a detective to watch the post-office, but here again
there might be disappointment. Mrs. Brent might employ a third person
to call for her letters. However, I have faith to believe that sooner or
later we shall find her. Time and patience accomplishes much.”
“Were you ever a detective, sir?” asked Phil, smiling.
“No, Philip, but I have had occasion to employ them. Now how would you
like to go to the theater this evening?”
“Very much, sir.”
“There is a good play running at McVicker's Theatre. We will go there.”
“Anywhere will suit me, Mr. Carter.”
“Young people are easily satisfied,” he said. “When they get older they
get more fastidious. However, there is generally something attractive at
McVicker's.”
It so happened that Philip and his employer took a late dinner, and did
not reach the theater till ten minutes after the hour. They had seats
in the seventh row of orchestra chairs, a very eligible portion of the
house.
The curtain had risen, and Philip's attention was given to the stage
till the end of the first act. Then he began to look around him.
Suddenly he started and half rose from his seat.
“What is the matter, Philip?” asked Mr. Carter.
“There, sir! look there!” said the boy, in excitement, pointing to two
persons in the fourth row in front.
“Do you recognize acquaintances, Philip?”
“It is my step-mother and Jonas,” answered Philip eagerly.
“It is, indeed, wonderful!” said Mr. Carter, sharing the boy's
excitement. “You are confident, are you?”
“Oh, sir, I couldn't be mistaken about that.”
Just then Mrs. Brent turned to a gentleman at her side and spoke. It was
Mr. Granville.
“Who is that gentleman?” said Mr. Carter reflectively. “Do you think
Mrs. Brent is married again?”
“I don't know what to think!” said Philip, bewildered.
“I will tell you what to do. You cannot allow these people to elude you.
Go to the hotel, ask a direction to the nearest detective office, have
a man detailed to come here directly, and let him find, if necessary,
where your step-mother and her son are living.”
Philip did so, and it was the close of the second act before he
returned. With him was a small, quiet gentleman, of unpretending
appearance, but skilled as a detective.
“Now,” continued Mr. Carter, “you may venture at any time to go forward
and speak to your friends--if they can be called such.”
“I don't think they can, sir. I won't go till the last intermission.”
Phil was forestalled, however. At the close of the fourth act Jonas
happened to look back, and his glance fell upon Philip.
A scared, dismayed look was on his face as he clutched his mother's arm
and whispered:
“Ma, Philip is sitting just back of us.”
Mrs. Brent's heart almost ceased to beat. She saw that the moment of
exposure was probably at hand.
With pale face she whispered:
“Has he seen us?”
“He is looking right at us.”
She had time to say no more. Philip left his seat, and coming forward,
approached the seat of his step-mother.
“How do you do, Mrs. Brent?” he said.
She stared at him, but did not speak.
“How are you, Jonas?” continued our hero.
“My name isn't Jonas,” muttered the boy addressed.
Mr. Granville meanwhile had been eagerly looking at Philip. There
appeared to be something in his appearance which riveted the attention
of the beholder. Was it the voice of nature which spoke from the
striking face of the boy?
“You have made a mistake, boy,” said Mrs. Brent, summoning all her
nerve. “I am not the lady you mention, and this boy does not bear the
name of Jonas.”
“What is his name, then?” demanded Philip.
“My name is Philip Granville,” answered Jonas quickly.
“Is it? Then it has changed suddenly,” answered Phil, in a sarcastic
voice. “Six months ago, when we were all living at Planktown, your name
was Jonas Webb.”
“You must be a lunatic!” said Mrs. Brent, with audacious falsehood.
“My own name is Philip, as you very well know.”
“Your name Philip?” exclaimed Mr. Granville, with an excitement which he
found it hard to control.
“Yes, sir; the lady is my step-mother, and this boy is her son Jonas.”
“And you--whose son are you?” gasped Mr. Granville.
“I don't know, sir. I was left at an early age at a hotel kept by this
lady's husband, by my father, who never returned.”
“Then YOU must be my son!” said Mr. Granville. “You and not this boy!”
“You, sir? Did you leave me?”
“I left my son with Mr. Brent. This lady led me to believe that the boy
at my side was my son.”
Here, then, was a sudden and startling occurrence. Mrs. Brent fainted.
The strain had been too much for her nerves, strong as they were. Of
course she must be attended to.
“Come with me; I cannot lose sight of you now, MY SON!” said Mr.
Granville. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Palmer House.”
“So am I. Will you be kind enough to order a carriage.”
Mrs. Brent was conveyed to the hotel, and Jonas followed sullenly.
Of course Philip, Mr. Granville and Mr. Carter left the theater.
Later the last three held a conference in the parlor.
It took little to convince Mr. Granville that Philip was his son.
“I am overjoyed!” he said. “I have never been able to feel toward the
boy whom you call Jonas as a father should. He was very distasteful to
me.”
“It was an extraordinary deception on the part of Mrs. Brent,” said Mr.
Carter thoughtfully.
“She is a very unprincipled woman,” said Mr. Granville. “Even now that
matters have come right, I find it hard to forgive her.”
“You do not know all the harm she has sought to do your son. The sum of
five thousand dollars was left him by Mr. Brent, and she suppressed the
will.”
“Good heavens! is this true?”
“We have the evidence of it.”
*****
The next day an important interview was held at the Palmer House. Mrs.
Brent was forced to acknowledge the imposition she had practiced upon
Mr. Granville.
“What could induce you to enter into such a wicked conspiracy?” asked
Mr. Granville, shocked.
“The temptation was strong--I wished to make my son rich. Besides, I
hated Philip.”
“It is well your wicked plan has been defeated; it might have marred my
happiness forever.”
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked coolly, but not without
anxiety.
It was finally settled that the matter should be hushed up. Philip
wished to give up the sum bequeathed him by Mr. Brent; but to this Mr.
Granville objected, feeling that it would constitute a premium on fraud.
Besides, Mrs. Brent would have the residue of the estate, amounting to
nearly ten thousand dollars. Being allowed to do what he chose with this
money, he gave it in equal portions to Tommy Kavanagh and Mr. Raynor,
who had informed him of the existence of Mr. Brent's will.
Mrs. Brent decided not to go back to Planktown. She judged that
the story of her wickedness would reach that village and make it
disagreeable for her. She opened a small millinery store in Chicago, and
is doing fairly well. But Jonas is her chief trouble, as he is lazy and
addicted to intemperate habits. His chances of success and an honorable
career are small.
“How can I spare you, Philip?” said Mr. Carter regretfully. “I know your
father has the best right to you, but I don't like to give you up.”
“You need not,” said Mr. Granville. “I propose to remove to New York;
but in the summer I shall come to my estate near Chicago, and hope,
since the house is large enough, that I may persuade you and your niece,
Mrs. Forbush, to be my guests.”
This arrangement was carried out. Mrs. Forbush and her daughter are
the recognized heirs of Mr. Carter, who is wholly estranged from the
Pitkins. He ascertained, through a detective, that the attack upon
Philip by the man who stole from him the roll of bills was privately
instigated by Mr. Pitkin himself, in the hope of getting Philip into
trouble. Mr. Carter, thereupon, withdrew his capital from the firm, and
Mr. Pitkin is generally supposed to be on the verge of bankruptcy.
At any rate, his credit is very poor, and there is a chance that the
Pitkins may be reduced to comparative poverty.
“I won't let Lavinia suffer,” said Uncle Oliver; “if the worst comes to
the worst, I will settle a small income, say twelve hundred dollars, on
her, but we can never be friends.”
As Phil grew older--he is now twenty-one--it seems probable that he
and Mr. Carter may be more closely connected, judging from his gallant
attentions to Julia Forbush, who has developed into a charming young
lady. Nothing would suit Mr. Carter better, for there is no one who
stands higher in his regard than Philip Granville, the Errand Boy.
FRED SARGENT'S REVENGE.
Fred Sargent, upon this day from which my story dates, went to the head
of his Latin class, in the high school of Andrewsville. The school was
a fine one, the teachers strict, the classes large, the boys generally
gentlemanly, and the moral tone pervading the whole, of the very best
character.
To lead a class in a school like this was an honor of which any boy
might have been proud; and Fred, when he heard his name read off at
the head of the roll, could have thrown up his well-worn Latin grammar,
which he happened to have in his hand just at that moment, and hurrahed.
It was quite a wonder to him afterward that he did not.
As a class, boys are supposed to be generous. I really don't know
whether they deserve to be considered so or not, but some four or five
only in this large school envied Fred. The rest would probably have
hurrahed with him; for Fred was a “capital good fellow,” and quite a
favorite.
“Bully for you!” whispered Ned Brown, his right-hand neighbor; but Ned
was instantly disgraced, the eye of the teacher catching the words as
they dropped from his lips.
When school was over several of the boys rushed to the spot where
Fred--his cap in his hand, and his dark hair blowing about every
way--was standing.
“I say,” said James Duncan, “I thought you would get it. You've worked
like a Trojan and you deserve it.”
“It's as good as getting the valedictory,” said Joe Stone.
“And that is entering into any college in the land without an
examination,” said Peter Crane.
Now Peter had run shoulder to shoulder with Fred and it does him great
credit that, being beaten, he was thoroughly good-natured about it.
“I say, Fred, you ought to treat for this;” and Noah Holmes, standing on
tiptoe, looked over the heads of the other boys significantly at Fred.
“I wish I could; but here's all the money I've got,” said Fred, taking
about twenty-five cents from his pocket--all that was left of his
monthly allowance.
“That's better than nothing. It will buy an apple apiece. Come on! Let's
go down to old Granger's. I saw some apples there big as your head; and
bigger, too,” said Noah, with a droll wink.
“Well, come on, then;” and away went the boys at Fred's heels, pushing
and shouting, laughing and frolicking, until they came to Abel Granger's
little grocery.
“Now hush up, you fellows,” said Noah, turning round upon them. “Let
Fred go in by himself. Old Grange can't abide a crowd and noise. It will
make him cross, and all we shall get will be the specked and worm-eaten
ones. Come, fall back, there!”
Very quietly and obediently the boys, who always knew their leader, fell
back, and Fred went into the little dark grocery alone.
He was so pleasant and gentlemanly that, let him go where he would and
do what he would, in some mysterious way he always found the right side
of people and got what he wanted, in the most satisfactory manner.
Now Abel Granger was “as cross as a meat axe.” Noah said, and all the
boys were afraid of him. If the apples had been anywhere else they would
have been much surer of their treat; but in spite of their fears,
back came Fred in a few moments, with a heaping measure of nice red
apples--apples that made the boys' mouths water.
Fred said that old Abel had given him as near a smile as could come to
his yellow, wrinkled face.
“Treat 'em,” he said, “treat 'em, eh? Wal, now, 'pears likely they'd
eat you out of house and home. I never see a boy yet that couldn't go
through a tenpenny nail, easy as not.”
“We ARE always hungry, I believe,” said Fred.
“Allers, allers--that's a fact,” picking out the best apples as he spoke
and heaping up the measure. “There, now if you'll find a better lot than
that, for the money, you are welcome to it, that's all.”
“Couldn't do it. Thank you very much,” said Fred.
As the boys took the apples eagerly and began to bite them, they saw the
old face looking out of the dirty panes of window glass upon them.
Fred loved to make everybody happy around him, and this treating was
only second best to leading his class; so when, at the corner of
the street turning to his father's house, he parted from his young
companions, I doubt whether there was a happier boy in all Andrewsville.
I do not think we shall blame him very much if he unconsciously carried
his head pretty high and looked proudly happy.
Out from under the low archway leading to Bill Crandon's house a boy
about as tall as Fred, but stout and coarse, in ragged clothes, stood
staring up and down the street as Fred came toward him.
Something in Fred's looks and manner seemed especially to displease him.
He moved directly into the middle of the sidewalk, and squared himself
as if for a fight.
There was no other boy in town whom Fred disliked so much, and of whom
he felt so afraid.
Sam Crandon, everybody knew, was a bully. He treated boys who were
larger and stronger than himself civilly, but was cruel and domineering
over the poor and weak.
So far in his life, though they met often, Fred had avoided coming into
contact with Sam, and Sam had seemed to feel just a little awe of him;
for Mr. Sargent was one of the wealthiest leading men in town, and Sam,
in spite of himself, found something in the handsome, gentlemanly boy
that held him in check; but to-day Sam's father had just beaten him, and
the boy was smarting from the blows.
I dare say he was hungry, and uncomfortable from many other causes; but
however this may have been, he felt in the mood for making trouble;
for seeing somebody else unhappy beside himself. This prosperous,
well-dressed boy, with his books under his arm, and his happy face, was
the first person he had come across--and here then was his opportunity.
Fred saw him assume the attitude of a prize fighter and knew what it
meant. Sam had a cut, red and swollen, across one cheek, and this helped
to make his unpleasant face more ugly and lowering than usual.
What was to be done? To turn and run never occurred to Fred. To meet him
and fight it out was equally impossible; so Fred stopped and looked at
him irresolutely.
“You're afraid of a licking?” asked Sam, grinning ominously.
“I don't want to fight,” said Fred, quietly.
“No more you don't, but you've got to.”
Fred's blood began to rise. The words and looks of the rough boy were a
little too much for his temper.
“Move out of the way,” he said, walking directly up to him.
Sam hesitated for a moment. The steady, honest, bold look in Fred's eyes
was far more effective than a blow would have been; but as soon as Fred
had passed him he turned and struck him a quick, stinging blow between
his shoulders.
“That's mean,” said Fred, wheeling round. “Strike fair and in front if
you want to, but don't hit in the back--that's a coward's trick.”
“Take it there, then,” said Sam, aiming a heavy blow at Fred's breast.
But the latter skillfully raised his books, and Sam's knuckles were the
worse for the encounter.
“Hurt, did it?” said Fred, laughing.
“What if it did?”
“Say quits, then.”
“Not by a good deal;” and in spite of himself Fred was dragged into an
ignominious street fight.
Oh, how grieved and mortified he was when his father, coming down the
street, saw and called to him. Hearing his voice Sam ran away and Fred,
bruised and smarting, with his books torn and his clothes, too, went
over to his father.
Not a word did Mr. Sargent say. He took Fred's hand in his, and the two
walked silently to their home.
I doubt whether Mr. Sargent was acting wisely. Fred never had told
him an untruth in his life, and a few words now might have set matters
right. But to this roughness in boys Mr. Sargent had a special aversion.
He had so often taken pains to instill its impropriety and vulgarity
into Fred's mind that he could not now imagine an excuse.
“He should not have done so under any circumstances,” said his
father sternly, to himself. “I am both surprised and shocked, and the
punishment must be severe.”
Unfortunately for Fred, his mother was out of town for a few days--a
mother so much sooner than a father reaches the heart of her son--so now
his father said:
“You will keep your room for the next week. I shall send your excuse
to your teacher. Ellen will bring your meals to you. At the end of that
time I will see and talk with you.”
Without a word Fred hung his cap upon its nail, and went to his room.
Such a sudden change from success and elation to shame and condign
punishment was too much for him.
He felt confused and bewildered. Things looked dark around him, and the
great boughs of the Norway spruce, close up by his window, nodded and
winked at him in a very odd way.
He had been often reproved, and sometimes had received a slight
punishment, but never anything like this. And now he felt innocent, or
rather at first he did not feel at all, everything was so strange and
unreal.
He heard Ellen come into his room after a few minutes with his dinner,
but he did not turn.
A cold numbing sense of disgrace crept over him. He felt as if, even
before this Irish girl, he could never hold up his head again.
He did not wish to eat or do anything. What could it all mean?
Slowly the whole position in which he was placed came to him. The boys
gathering at school; the surprise with which his absence would be
noted; the lost honor, so lately won; his father's sad, grave face; his
sisters' unhappiness; his mother's sorrow; and even Sam's face, so ugly
in its triumph, all were there.
What an afternoon that was! How slowly the long hours dragged themselves
away! And yet until dusk Fred bore up bravely. Then he leaned his head
on his hands. Tired, hungry, worn out with sorrow, he burst into tears
and cried like a baby.
Don't blame him. I think any one of us would have done the same.
“Oh, mother! mother!” said Fred aloud, to himself, “do come home! do
come home!”
Ellen looked very sympathizing when she came in with his tea, and found
his dinner untouched.
“Eat your tea, Master Fred,” she said, gently. “The like of ye can't
go without your victuals, no way. I don't know what you've done, but I
ain't afeared there is any great harm in it, though your collar is on
crooked and there's a tear in your jacket, to say nothing of a black and
blue place under your left eye. But eat your tea. Here's some fruit cake
Biddy sent o' purpose.”
Somebody did think of and feel sorry for him! Fred felt comforted on the
instant by Ellen's kind words and Biddy's plum cake; and I must say, ate
a hearty, hungry boy's supper; then went to bed and slept soundly until
late the next morning.
We have not space to follow Fred through the tediousness of the
following week. His father strictly carried out the punishment to the
letter No one came near him but Ellen, though he heard the voices of his
sisters and the usual happy home sounds constantly about him.
Had Fred really been guilty, even in the matter of a street fight, he
would have been the unhappiest boy living during this time; but we know
he was not, so we shall be glad to hear that with his books and
the usual medley of playthings with which a boy's room is piled, he
contrived to make the time pass without being very wretched. It was the
disgrace of being punished, the lost position in school, and above all,
the triumph which it would be to Sam, which made him the most miserable.
The very injustice of the thing was its balm in this case. May it be so,
my young readers, with any punishment which may ever happen to you!
All these things, however, were opening the way to make Fred's revenge,
when it came, the more complete.
*****
Fred Sargent, of course, had lost his place, and was subjected to a
great many curious inquiries when he returned to school.
He had done his best, in his room, to keep up with his class, but his
books, studied “in prison,” as he had learned to call it, and in the
sitting-room, with his sister Nellie and his mother to help him, were
very different things. Still, “doing your best” always brings its
reward; and let me say in passing, before the close of the month Fred
had won his place again.
This was more easily done than satisfying the kind inquiries of the
boys. So after trying the first day to evade them, Fred made a clean
breast of it and told the whole story.
I think, perhaps, Mr. Sargent's severe and unjust discipline had a far
better effect upon the boys generally than upon Fred particularly. They
did not know how entirely Fred had acted on the defensive, and so they
received a lesson which most of them never forgot on the importance
which a kind, genial man, with a smile and a cheery word for every child
in town, attached to brawling.
After all, the worst effect of this punishment came upon Sam Crandon
himself. Very much disliked as his wicked ways had made him before, he
was now considered as a town nuisance. Everybody avoided him, and when
forced to speak to him did so in the coldest, and often in the most
unkind manner.
Sam, not three weeks after his wanton assault upon Fred, was guilty of
his first theft and of drinking his first glass of liquor. In short, he
was going headlong to destruction and no one seemed to think him worth
the saving. Skulking by day, prowling by night--hungry, dirty,
beaten and sworn at--no wonder that he seemed God-forsaken as well as
man-forsaken.
Mr. Sargent had a large store in Rutgers street. He was a wholesale
dealer in iron ware, and Andrewsville was such an honest, quiet town
ordinary means were not taken to keep the goods from the hands of
thieves.
Back doors, side doors and front doors stood open all the day, and no
one went in or out but those who had dealings with the firm.
Suddenly, however, articles began to be missed--a package of knives, a
bolt, a hatchet, an axe, a pair of skates, flat-irons, knives and forks,
indeed hardly a day passed without a new thing being taken, and though
every clerk in the store was on the alert and very watchful, still the
thief, or thieves remained undetected.
At last matters grew very serious. It was not so much the pecuniary
value of the losses--that was never large--but the uncertainty into
which it threw Mr. Sargent. The dishonest person might be one of his own
trusted clerks; such things had happened, and sad to say, probably would
again.
“Fred,” said his father, one Saturday afternoon, “I should like to have
you come down to the store and watch in one of the rooms. There is a
great run of business to-day, and the clerks have their hands more than
full. I must find out, if possible who it is that is stealing so freely.
Yesterday I lost six pearl-handled knives worth two dollars apiece. Can
you come?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fred, promptly, “I will be there at one, to a minute;
and if I catch him, let him look out sharp, that is all.”
This acting as police officer was new business to Fred and made him
feel very important, so when the town clock was on the stroke of one he
entered the store and began his patrol.
It was fun for the first hour, and he was so much on the alert that old
Mr. Stone, from his high stool before the desk, had frequently to put
his pen behind his ear and watch him. It was quite a scene in a play to
see how Fred would start at the least sound. A mouse nibbling behind
a box of iron chains made him beside himself until he had scared the
little gray thing from its hole, and saw it scamper away out of the
shop. But after the first hour the watching FOR NOTHING became a little
tedious. There was a “splendid” game of base ball to come off on the
public green that afternoon; and after that the boys were going to the
“Shaw-seen” for a swim; then there was to be a picnic on the “Indian
Ridge,” and--well, Fred had thought of all these losses when he so
pleasantly assented to his father's request, and he was not going to
complain now. He sat down on a box, and commenced drumming tunes with
his heels on its sides. This disturbed Mr. Stone. He looked at him
sharply, so he stopped and sauntered out into a corner of the back
store, where there was a trap-door leading down into the water. A small
river ran by under the end of the store, also by the depot, which was
near at hand, and his father used to have some of his goods brought down
in boats and hoisted up through this door.
It was always one of the most interesting places in the store to Fred;
he liked to sit with his feet hanging down over the water, watching it
as it came in and dashed against the cellar walls.
To-day it was high, and a smart breeze drove it in with unusual force.
Bending down as far as he could safely to look under the store, Fred
saw the end of a hatchet sticking out from the corner of one of the
abutments that projected from the cellar, to support the end of the
store in which the trap-door was.
“What a curious place this is for a hatchet!” thought Fred, as he
stooped a little further, holding on very tight to the floor above.
What he saw made him almost lose his hold and drop into the water below.
There, stretched along on a beam was Sam Crandon, with some stolen
packages near him.
For a moment Fred's astonishment was too great to allow him to speak;
and Sam glared at him like a wild beast brought suddenly to bay.
“Oh, Sam! Sam!” said Fred, at length, “how could you?”
Sam caught up a hatchet and looked as if he was going to aim it at him,
then suddenly dropped it into the water.
Fred's heart beat fast, and the blood came and went from his cheeks; he
caught his breath heavily, and the water, the abutment and even Sam
with his wicked ugly face were for a moment darkened. Then, recovering
himself, he said:
“Was it you, Sam? I'm sorry for you!”
“Don't lie!” said Sam, glowering back, “you know you're glad!”
“Glad? Why should I be glad to have you steal?”
“Cause I licked you, and you caught it.”
“So I did; but I am sorry, for all that.”
“You lie!”
Fred had thought very fast while this conversation was going on. He
had only to lift his head and call his father, then the boat would be
immediately pushed in under the store, Sam secured and his punishment
certain. There were stolen goods enough to convict him, and his mode of
ingress into the store was now certain. This trap-door was never
locked; very often it was left open--the water being considered the most
effectual bolt and bar that could be used; but Sam, a good swimmer and
climber, had come in without difficulty and had quite a store of his own
hidden away there for future use. This course was very plain; but for
some reason, which Fred could not explain even to himself, he did not
feel inclined to take it; so he sat looking steadily in Sam's face until
he said:
“Look here, Sam, I want to show you I mean what I say. I'm sorry you
have turned thief and if I can help you to be a better boy, I should be
glad to.”
Again Fred's honest kindly face had the same effect upon Sam that it had
at the commencement of their street fight; he respected and trusted it
unconsciously.
“Here!” said he, crawling along on the beam and handing back the package
of knives, the last theft of which his father had complained.
“Yes, that is right,” said Fred, leaning down and taking it, “give them
all back, if you can; that is what my father calls 'making restitution,'
and then you won't be a thief any longer.”
Something in the boy's tone touched Sam's heart still more; so he
handed back one thing after another as rapidly as he could until nearly
everything was restored.
“Bravo for you, Sam! I won't tell who took them, and there is a chance
for you. Here, give me your hand now, honor bright you'll never come
here again to steal, if I don't tell my father.”
Sam looked at him a moment, as if he would read his very soul; then he
said sulkily:
“You'll tell; I know you will, 'cause I licked you when you didn't want
me to; but you've got 'em all back, and I s'pose it won't go very hard.”
“What won't go very hard?”
“The prison.”
“You sha'n't go to prison at all. Here, give me your hand; I promise not
to tell if you will promise not to steal any more. Ain't that fair?”
“Yes,” said Sam, a sudden change coming over his face, “but you will!”
“Try me and see.”
Sam slowly and really at a great deal of peril, considering his
situation, put his rough, grimed hand into Fred's--a dishonest hand it
was, and that more than the other thing made Fred recoil a little as he
touched it; but that clasp sealed the compact between these two boys. It
began Fred Sargent's revenge.
“Now be off, will you, before the clerks come? They will see the things
and catch you here. I'll be round to your house soon and we will see.”
Even in this short time Fred had formed a general plan for saving Sam.
The boy, stretching himself out flat, slipped down the transverse beam
into the water, dived at once and came up under the bridge a few rods
distant, then coolly passed down the river and swam to shore under a
bunch of alder-bushes, by which he was concealed from the sight of the
passers-by.
Fred sought his father, told him the story, then brought him to the
spot, showed the goods which the boy had returned, and begged as a
reward for the discovery to be allowed to conceal his name.
His father of course hesitated at so unusual a proposition; but there
was something so very much in earnest in all Fred did and said that he
became convinced it was best, for the present at least, to allow him to
have his own way; and this he was very glad he had done when a few days
after Fred asked him to do something for Sam Crandon.
“Sam Crandon?” he asked in surprise. “Is not that the very boy I found
you fighting in the street with?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fred, hanging his head, “but he promises to do well,
if he can only find work--HONEST work; you see, sir, he is so bad nobody
helps him.”
Mr. Sargent smiled. “A strange recommendation, Fred,” he said, “but
I will try what can be done. A boy who wants to reform should have a
helping hand.”
“He does want to--he wants to heartily; he says he does. Father, if you
only will!”
Fred, as he stood there, his whole face lit up with the glow of this
generous, noble emotion, never was dearer to his father's heart; indeed
his father's eyes were dim, and his voice a little husky, as he said
again:
“I will look after him, Fred, for your sake.”
And so he did; but where and how I have not space now to tell my
readers. Perhaps, at some future time, I may finish this story; for
the present let me say there is a new boy in Mr. Sargent's store, with
rough, coarse face, voice and manners; everybody wonders at seeing him
there; everybody prophesies future trouble; but nobody knows that this
step up in Sam Crandon's life is Fred Sargent's revenge.
THE SMUGGLER'S TRAP.
Hubert had accompanied his father on a visit to his uncle, who lived in
a fine old country mansion, on the shore of Caermarthen Bay.
In front of the house spread a long beach, which terminated in
precipitous cliffs and rocky ledges. On the afternoon of the day
following his arrival, he declared his intention of exploring the beach.
“Don't get caught in 'The Smuggler's Trap,'” said his uncle, as he
mentioned his plan.
“'The Smuggler's Trap?'”
“Yes. It's at the end of the beach where you see the cliffs. It's a
hollow cave, which you can only walk at very low tide. You'd better not
go in there.”
“Oh, never fear,” said Hubert carelessly, and in a few minutes he was
wandering over the beach, and after walking about two miles reached the
end of the beach at the base of the great cliffs.
The precipice towered frowningly overhead, its base all worn and
furrowed by the furious surges that for ages had dashed against it. All
around lay a chaos of huge boulders covered with seaweed. The tide was
now at the lowest ebb. The surf here was moderate, for the seaweed on
the rocks interfered with the swell of the waters, and the waves broke
outside at some distance.
Between the base of the precipice and the edge of the water there was
a space left dry by the ebb tide about two yards in width; and Hubert
walked forward over the space thus uncovered to see what lay before him.
He soon found himself in a place which seemed like a fissure rent in a
mountain side, by some extraordinary convulsion of nature. All around
rose black, precipitous cliffs. On the side nearest was the precipice
by whose base he had passed; while over opposite was a gigantic wall of
dark rock, Which extended far out into the sea. Huge waves thundered at
its feet and dashed their spray far upward into the air. The space was
about fifty yards across.
The fissure extended back for about two hundred yards, and there
terminated in a sharp angle formed by the abrupt walls of the cliffs
which enclosed it. All around there were caverns worn into the base of
the precipices by the action of the sea.
The floor of this place was gravelly, but near the water it was strewn
with large boulders. Further in there were no boulders and it was easy
to walk about.
At the furthest extremity there was a flat rock that seemed to have
fallen from the cliff above in some former age. The cliffs around
were about two hundred feet in height. They were perfectly bare, and
intensely black. On their storm-riven summits not a sign of verdure
appeared. Everything had the aspect of gloom, which was heightened by
the mournful monotone of the sea waves as they dashed against the rock.
After the first feeling of awe had passed, Hubert ran forward, leaping
from rock to rock, till he came to where the beach or floor of the
fissure was gravelly. Over this he walked and hastened to the caverns,
looking into them one after another.
Then he busied himself by searching among the pebbles for curious stones
and shells. He found here numerous specimens of the rarest and finest
treasures of the sea--shells of a delicacy of tint and perfection of
outline; seaweeds of new and exquisite forms with rich hues which he had
hitherto believed impossible.
In the hollows of the rocks, where the water yet lay in pools, he found
little minnows; and delicate jelly fish, with their long slender fibers;
and sea anemones; and sea urchins with their spires extended; and
star-fish moving about with their innumerable creepers. It was a new
world, a world which had thus far been only visible to him in the
aquarium, and now as it stood before him he forgot all else.
He did not feel the wind as it blew in fresh from the sea--the dread
“sou'wester,” the terror of fishermen. He did not notice the waves that
rolled in more furiously from without, and were now beginning to break
in wrath upon the rocky ledges and boulders. He did not see that the
water had crept on nearer to the cliff, and that a white line of foam
now lay on that narrow belt of beach which he had traversed at the foot
of the cliff.
Suddenly a sound burst upon his ears that roused him, and sent all the
blood back to his heart. It was his own name, called out in a voice of
anguish and almost of despair by his father.
He sprang to his feet, started forward and rushed with the speed of the
wind to the place by which he had entered the enclosure. But a barrier
lay before him. The rolling waves were there, rushing in over the rocks,
dashing against the cliff, tossing their white and quivering spray
exulting in the air.
At once Hubert knew his danger.
He was caught in the “Smuggler's Trap,” and the full meaning of his
uncle's warning flashed upon his mind as in his terror he shrieked back
to his father.
Then there was silence for a time
While Hubert had been in the “Trap,” his father and uncle had been
walking along the beach, and the former heard for the first time the
nature and danger of the “Smuggler's Trap.” He was at once filled with
anxiety about his son, and had hurried to the place to call him back,
when to his horror he found that the tide had already covered the only
way by which the dangerous place might be approached.
No sooner had he heard Hubert's answering cry than he rushed forward to
try and save him. But the next moment a great wave came rolling in and
dashed him upon the cliff. Terribly bruised, he clung to the cliff till
the surf fell back, and then ran on again.
He slipped over a rock and fell, but instantly regaining his feet he
advanced further, and in his haste fell into a hollow which was filled
with water.
Before he could emerge another wave was upon him. This one beat him
down, and it was only by clinging to the seaweed that he escaped being
sucked back by the retreating surge. Bold and frenzied though he was,
he had to start back from the fury of such an assault as this. He rushed
backward and waited.
His eyes searched wildly around. He noticed that the surf grew more
violent every moment, and every moment took away hope. But he would not
yield.
Once more he rushed forward. The waves rolled in, but he grasped the
rocks and withstood the surf, and still advanced. Another followed.
He bowed before it, and clinging to the rocks as before came forth
triumphant.
Already he was nearly halfway. He sprang upon a rock that rose above the
level of the seething flood, and stood for a moment panting and gasping.
But now a great wave came rolling in upon him. He fell on his knees and
clung to the seaweed.
The wave struck. It hurled him from the rock. He rolled over and over.
Blinded, bruised and half drowned, he felt himself dashed against the
cliff. He threw his arms wildly about, but found nothing which he could
seize. The retreating wave sucked him back. But a rock stayed him. This
he grasped and was saved.
Then, hastily scrambling to his feet, he staggered back to the place
from which he had started. Before he could get back another wave threw
him down, and this time he might have been drowned had not his brother
plunged in and dragged him out.
Of all this Hubert had seen nothing, and known nothing. He waited for
some time in silence, and then called. There was no answer. He called
again and again. But at that time his father was struggling with the
waves and did not hear him. At last, after what seemed an interminable
time, he heard once more his father's voice. He shouted back.
“Don't be afraid!” cried the voice. “I'll get you out. Wait.”
And then there were no more voices.
It was about two o'clock when Hubert had entered the gorge. It was after
three when his father had roused him, and made his vain effort to save
him. Hubert was now left alone with the rising tide, whose waters rolled
forward with fearful rapidity. The beach inside was nearly level and he
saw that in an hour or so it would be covered with the waters. He tried
to trust to his father's promise, but the precious moments passed and
he began to look with terror upon the increasing storm; for every moment
the wind grew fiercer, and the surf rolled in with ever increasing
impetuosity.
He looked all around for a place of refuge, and saw nothing except
the rock which arose at the extremity of the place, at the foot of the
overhanging cliffs. It was about five feet high, and was the only place
that afforded anything like safety.
Up this he clambered, and from this he could survey the scene, but only
to perceive the full extent of his danger. For the tide rushed in more
and more swiftly, the surf grew higher and higher and he saw plainly
that before long the water would reach the summit of the rock, and that
even before then the surf in its violence would sweep him away.
The moments passed slowly. Minutes seemed in his suspense to be
transformed to hours. The sky was overspread now with black clouds; and
the gloom increased. At length the waves rolled in until they covered
all the beach in front, and began to dash against the rock on which he
had taken refuge.
The precious moments passed. Higher and higher grew the waters. They
came rolling into the cave, urged on by the fury of the billows outside,
and heaping themselves up as they were compressed into this narrow
gorge. They dashed up around the rock. The spray was tossed in his face.
Already he felt their inexorable grasp. Death seemed so near that hope
left him. He fell upon his knees with his hands clasped, and his white
face upturned. Just then a great wave rolled up and flung itself over
the rock, and over his knees as he knelt, and over his hands as he
clasped them in prayer. A few more moments and all would be over.
As hope left a calmness came--the calmness that is born of despair. Face
to face with death, he had tasted the bitterness of death, but now he
flung aside the agony of his fear and rose to his feet, and his soul
prepared itself for the end. Just then, in the midst of the uproar
of wind and wave, there came a sudden sound, which roused to quick,
feverish throbs the young lad's heart. It was a voice--and sounded just
above him:
“HUBERT!”
He looked up.
There far above him, in the gloom, he saw faces projecting over the edge
of the cliff. The cry came again; he recognized the voice of his father.
For a moment Hubert could not speak. Hope returned. He threw up his arms
wildly, and cried:
“Make haste! Oh, make haste!”
A rope was made fast about Hubert's father, and he was let down over
the edge of the cliff. He would allow no other than himself to undertake
this journey.
He had hurried away and gathered a number of fishermen, whose stout arms
and sinewy hands now held the rope by which he descended to save his
son.
It was a perilous journey. The wind blew and the rope swayed more and
more as it was let down, and sometimes he was dashed against the rocky
sides of the precipice; but still he descended, and at last stood on the
rock and clasped his son in his arms.
But there was no time to lose. Hubert mounted on his father's shoulders,
holding the rope while his father bound his boy close to him. Then the
word was given, and they were slowly pulled up.
They reached the summit in safety, and as they reached it those who
looked down through the gloom saw the white foam of the surf as it
boiled in fury over the rock where Hubert had been standing.