THE CULVERT AND THE CORNFIELD.
ALL these delays gave Jack time, and time was what he needed just now.
It was not until the moment when, pretending to fall, he threw himself
from the masonry of the culvert, that the idea occurred to him of
resorting to a little trick which he had often practised in the water
with Lion, for the amusement of his companions, and of playing the part
of a drowning boy. The dog that usually rescued him could be dispensed
with on this occasion; but the skill of the experienced swimmer might
serve him.
He had seen the culvert whilst running towards the canal; and even then
the thought had flashed through his mind that, if he could once get into
it, pursuit might be baffled, and his capture delayed, for at least a
little while. He did not, however, suppose that it would be possible to
pass through and escape, against the chances of being met and taken on
the other side.
But now he thought if he could make it appear that he was drowned in the
pond, then time might be gained. So, after his first plunge, he came up
once, in order to catch breath and give one glance at the situation,
then turned in the water and sank. Fortunately the sun on the surface
dazzled Sellick’s eyes, or he might have seen a suspicious movement of
the boy’s hands, and the quiet gliding away of the boy’s body through
the clear depths, towards the arched opening in the masonry.
When next Jack came to the surface, he found himself in what seemed a
long, narrow gallery, nearly filled with water; a low, vaulted roof just
above him, and an opening at each end through which shone the light of
the sky. Drops from the clammy and dripping stones fell with slow,
echoing plashes in the cavernous gloom, reminding him that he was under
the canal; that the great, winding, watery thoroughfare, which he had
travelled many a summer, and through which the lazy boats moved, was now
over his head.
Accustomed to diving as he was, a plunge at the end of an exhausting
race was not a good thing for the lungs; and Jack declares that he was
never so nearly dead for want of breath, as when he rose to the surface
in the culvert. For a minute or more it seemed quite impossible for him
to make any exertion, beyond what was necessary to keep his nose above
water. But there he stayed, just moving his feet and hands, while he
filled his aching lungs with drafts of air, which made him rise and
sink, and sent gentle undulations and ripples along the dark culvert
walls.
The cries for help came to his ears, and inspired him with fresh
courage: he knew that his stratagem had succeeded. He knew, too, that it
would not be long before search would be made for him in the culvert, or
at the other opening. “I must be moving!” he thought.
Swimming swiftly and silently under the low vault, he passed completely
beneath the canal, and cautiously put his head out on the other side.
Before him was the tranquil mill-race half filled with floating
saw-logs, the saw-mill at the end of it, and a low, wild country of
stumpy farms and wooded swamps beyond. Nobody in sight; but he could
still hear excited voices on the other side of the canal embankments.
Gliding out of the culvert, he swam to the right bank of the race, which
was there built up five or six feet from the ground, crawled over it,
dropped down under it, and ran along beside it till he reached the mill.
He heard the shrill shriek of filing saws as he passed, and knew that
the sawyer was busy. Dodging between great piles of slabs and lumber, he
kept on, and soon gained the shelter of a fringe of alders that bordered
the onward-flowing mill-stream. That led him into a swampy piece of
woods. And so it happened that, by the time Sellick and his companions
scrambled from the deck of the wheat-boat upon the bridge at the Basin,
and turned back to the culvert, the fugitive was nearly a mile away.
Traversing the swamp, Jack crossed several fields and a wood-lot, and at
length came out upon a recent clearing, in which a number of half-burnt
stumps and log-heaps were smoking. Beyond that was a road; and on the
farther side of the road was a cornfield.
“That’s the place to hide!” thought Jack; and having stopped to drink at
a little spring, he crossed the road, and was soon gliding between rows
of tasselled stalks and long green rustling leaves.
The piece was wet, and a part of the crop was late, and Jack observed
with interest a number of good roasting ears. Being a prudent youth, he
had already begun to question where his next meal was to be obtained;
for although he had a little money, he had no hat, and feared to present
himself anywhere bareheaded.
“I’ll help myself, as the coons and squirrels do,” said he, as he
noticed the ravages of those destructive little beasts all about the
field. “Hello! here’s something interesting!”
It was a scarecrow of stuffed clothes, from which a flock of noisy
blackbirds flew up at his approach.
“That’s a pretty good felt hat,” said he; “wonder how it would fit _me_.
Excuse me, old fellow; I need it more than you do; I’ll bring it back
when I get through with it. In the mean while the blackbirds can’t
respect you any less than they do now, I know!”
He pulled off the hat, gave it a good beating on the scarecrow’s
outstretched wooden hand, and found that, by stuffing a few corn-husks
under the lining, he could make it do very well.
“Thank you,” said he. “Now I feel as if I had traded myself off for
another boy. If you’ve no objections, I think I’ll keep you company a
little while. Poor company’s better than none, as they say. Oblige me by
holding my coat till it dries a little.”
He hung his wet garment on the scarecrow, and walked leisurely about,
selecting a few of the best roasting ears he could find. His breakfast
had really amounted to nothing,—good Mrs. Pipkin’s biscuit and butter
having been sacrificed with the milk he bought of the grocer,—and he was
growing faint.
The excitement of his escape had left him in good spirits. For a while
he was buoyed up by a wild feeling of freedom; and his old love of
adventure came back upon him. The wrongs he had suffered made him
reckless and defiant of the whole world.
“I’ve tried to be honest; but what’s the use?” said he. “I thought I’d
got a chance for myself, and this is what it comes to! Even the deacon
has turned against me! Now let ’em look out! I’ll have my pay, somehow!”
If Jack had kept near the canal, and in this mood had seen his old
friend Pete comfortably riding the tiller of the wheat-boat, his whole
future might have been changed by so slight a circumstance. But his good
genius had not yet given him over to his own vindictive thoughts and
rash resolves.
With weariness and hunger came memory and reflection. The burning sense
of injury with which he thought of Peternot and Phineas Chatford, and
all who had been instrumental in his disgrace, gave way to different
emotions as he remembered good Mrs. Chatford, and lovely Annie Felton,
and affectionate little Kate.
“O, shall I never see them again?” he murmured; and a big sob rose in
his throat. And the home where he had been so happy for a few short
months! And Lion! “I won’t go without Lion, anyway!” he exclaimed. “I’ll
see the Huswick boys about the money, and get that if I can, and Lion
anyhow!”
It was a beautiful day, mild and tranquil and hazy, with just that tinge
of melancholy in it which marks the gradual change of summer into
autumn. To Jack, lurking there in the silent cornfield, it seemed like
Sunday. He sat down in the warm sunlight by the scarecrow, and waited
for his clothes to dry.
The shrill song of the locust rose now and then on the still air,
increasing for a few seconds in vehemence, then sank and ceased; and
occasionally the gossip of the multitudinous blackbirds came quite near
to him, as the chattering flocks settled on the corn; but he heard
scarcely any other sound, until suddenly he became aware of footsteps
and a rustling of leaves not far off. He sat still, and listened. Then
all was quiet again for a minute or two. Then came the loud report of a
fowling-piece, accompanied by a curious rattling sound close above his
head. A scattering volley of small shot had cut the corn-tops all about
the spot where he sat.
His first thought was that he had been shot at. But just then a cloud of
blackbirds rose from the corn, and the feet he had heard approaching
rushed towards them. He kept perfectly still, and saw a boy about his
own size run past him, between two rows of corn, not a rod off. The
young hunter might easily have discovered Jack sitting there beside the
scarecrow, if he had not been so intent on picking up his blackbirds.
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