HOW JACK WAS INVITED TO RIDE.
JACK was up very early the next morning; and having put fresh stockings
and a pair of old shoes on his scratched and bruised feet, he went out,
determined at the first opportunity to tell Mr. Chatford all that had
occurred, and ask his advice.
It was a little after daybreak. Mrs. Pipkin was making a fire as he went
through the kitchen; she guessed the deacon wasn’t stirring yet. Jack
took the milkpails and went into the barn-yard. The cows got up, one
after another, stretched themselves, flirted their tails, and waited to
be milked. He placed his stool beside one of them; and there he sat
milking in the cool of the morning,—keeping all the while an anxious
lookout for the deacon,—when the large front gate rattled, and he saw a
man trying to unfasten it.
“Lift it up a little,” said Jack.
“O, I see!” The man came into the yard; and Jack recognized one of the
farmers of the neighborhood, named Sellick, rather popular among the
boys as a joker and story-teller. “Didn’t know you had a new way of
fastening your gates over here!” And he laughed, as he did at almost
everything he said, drawing his upper lip up to his nose, and
surrounding his little gray eyes with merry wrinkles. “Where’s the
deacon, sonny?”
“My name ain’t Sonny,” replied Jack.
Sellick laughed at that too. “You remind me of Mose Chatford. Mose has
got a little dry wit about him, sometimes. When I fust moved into the
place, he was about twelve year old; and one day he had his cousin, Syd
Chatford, making him a visit,—older’n he was, but a little bit of a
chap; you know little Syd. I had seen Mose, but I hadn’t seen Syd
before; and noticing a kind of family resemblance between ’em, I said,
‘Mose, is that one of your boys?’ meaning his folks’s, of course. But
the little rascal stretches himself up,—pompous as could be, grave as a
judge,—‘No, I ain’t a man of a family!’ says he, and walks on. Sassy,
his daddy said, when I told him on ’t; but I joke the boys, and I’m
willing they should joke me. Where’s the deacon? I’ll ask you agin, and
leave off the sonny.”
Jack thought the deacon hadn’t got out yet.
“That never’ll do, never’ll do! Bad example, deacon! Airly bird ketches
the worm. I shall have to give him a talking to. Fie, fie, deacon!
Where’s Pip, Mr. Pip, Mr. Pipkin, Mr. Philander P. Pipkin, Esquire?” the
merry man rattled away. “I’m particular to give all the names I’ve heard
him called by, so as to get an answer out of you the fust time.”
“I rather think you’ll find him in the barn,” said Jack.
“You think wrong this time. I know I sha’n’t find him in the barn. Do
you know why?” said the merry man, with his upper lip at his nose.
“Because I sha’n’t go to the barn and look. Is that a good reason? How
long before you’ll be through milking?”
“I don’t know; not very soon, unless somebody comes and helps me.”
“S’pose I help you. I can milk. I’m an old hand at it. Never shall
forgit my fust trial, though! Visiting my uncle—Sunday-go-to-meeting
clo’es on—he told me to look out; but I was a little smarter ’n anybody
else in the world, them days: I could milk! So I took holt—both
hands—milked one stream into my vest-pocket and t’ other into my eye,
and quit. Thought that would do for a fust lesson.”
“I don’t know why you should help me milk,” said Jack, as Sellick was
getting a pail and stool.
“’T will keep me out of mischief, while I’m waiting. Satan finds some
mischief still for idle hands to do. Which cow kicks? I don’t want
anything to do with a kicking cow. I used to have one, a fust-class
kicker. Hit me once; thought the lightning had struck the haystack! I
tried tying her leg. Tied it to an old sleigh under the shed; she kicked
that to pieces. Tied it to the sill of the barn; and by George! she
started to kick the barn down. Tied it then to an old grin’stone lying
in the yard; and at the fust kick she sent it like a pebble from a sling
right over the kitchen chimbly, quarter of a mile at least; fell into
Welby’s bog; sunk so deep I’ve never thought ’t would pay to fish it
out.”
“What did you do with her then?” Jack asked, trying to forget his
troubles in listening to this nonsense.
“What could I do but kill her? One pail she kicked over full of milk, we
never saw or heard of agin; but Dyer’s folks, live over on the North
Road, about a mile off, said they had quite a little shower of milk at
their house that morning,—wondered where it come from. I had a pair of
boots made out of her hide; but I never could wear ’em. I was always
kicking somebody, and gitting hauled up for ’sault ’n’ battery.”
Mr. Chatford now came into the yard, and saw with surprise his neighbor
Sellick milking one of his cows.
“Haven’t you any milking to do at home, Sellick?”
“Yes, but the boys can do that. I’ve invited Jack here to go and ride
with me; and I thought I would help him a little about his chores fust.”
“Go and ride? I haven’t heard anything about it!” said Jack.
“Didn’t I mention it? Wal, that was an oversight!”
“I thought you had come to see Mr. Chatford. You asked for him.”
“Did I? Mebby I wanted to ask him if he was willing you should go,—we
must keep the right side o’ the deacon! I left my wagon at the fence
below here; didn’t take it along to the gate, thinking Squire Peternot
might want to hitch there.”
Jack turned pale. But the deacon said, “What nonsense are you up to now,
Sellick?”
“What! do you call it nonsense for a neighbor to come and take your boy
to ride? Here, Phin, come and finish this cow; she’s done, all but
stripping. I wouldn’t begin another, Jack. We must be starting.”
“Squire Peternot’s at the house, wants to see ye,” said Phin to his
father.
“Come, has he?” laughed Sellick. “I felt sure he would want to hitch to
that post! Wal, Jack! me an’ you’s got to go over to the Basin with the
squire, on business. I’m a constable, you know. Didn’t think of that,
did ye? Strip her clean, Phin; it dries up a cow like Sancho, to leave a
little milk in her bag.”
“Sellick!” cried the deacon, while Jack stood white and dumb with
consternation, “what’s the meaning of this?”
“I’ve a writ for the boy’s arrest,” replied Sellick. “Sorry for it. A
little diffikilty between him and the squire. Nice man, the squire! As
it’s on his own complaint, he thought it more properer that the boy
should be taken before some other justice;—a very nice man, Peternot!
Him and his nephew is going over to the Basin with us,—witnesses in the
case,—before Judge Garty. You shouldn’t have picked a quarrel with the
old man, my son,—nice man!”
“Come, Sellick!” cried the deacon, impatiently. “No more joking. I can’t
believe Peternot has taken any such step; there’s no ground for it! Why,
he’s the party at fault, if anybody! What’s the charge?”
“Breaking a winder, I believe,” replied Sellick, winking at Jack. “Mis’
Peternot thought a good deal of that winder. Nice old lady, Mis’
Peternot!”
“Jack! have you been smashing their windows?”
“No!” faltered Jack.
And before he could catch his breath, to enter into explanations, the
deacon exclaimed, indignantly, “Where is the squire? I’ll see what he
means by following up the boy in this way!” And he strode towards the
house, more angry than Jack had ever seen him before.
Sellick followed with Jack; and Phin went last, looking strangely
excited, if not delighted, and calling to Mr. Pipkin at the barn,
“Hurrah, Pip! come and see the fun!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------