A TURN OF FORTUNE.
SELLICK had a better horse than his neighbors, and he too had been using
the whip a little since Jack respectfully declined working for him,
preferring to go to jail. The merry man could not help thinking what a
capital anecdote this would be to relate of anybody else; but, as I have
said, he did not greatly relish a joke at his own expense.
His spirits rallied a little as they entered the city, and he said
laughingly, “You remind me of the man on his way to the gallows, who was
offered a free pardon if he would marry a sartin woman in the crowd, not
over ’n’ above handsome. He looked at her, shook his head: ‘Sharp nose,
thin lips,’ says he; ‘drive on, cartman!’ So, ruther ’n work for me,
you’ll go to jail! ha, ha, ha!” And Sellick began to think he would have
to tell the story, much as it reflected on his reputation as an
employer.
“I didn’t say just that,” replied Jack. “If going to work for you would
get me out of this scrape, I’d do it. But I shall have to appear at my
trial, and then, if convicted of housebreaking, have to serve out a
sentence, anyway; so the little time I’ve to wait I may as well spend in
jail over my books.”
“I don’t know but you take about the right view on ’t,” said Sellick,
soothed by the explanation; and the horse was allowed to slacken his
speed. “I thought fust you’d been talking with Billy. Billy thinks he
has a hard time; but he’s slow. Me and you’d git along finely together!”
“There’s the jail!” said Jack, with a sudden sinking of the heart.
“That’s the mansion,” remarked Sellick. “The mouse-trap, I call it; easy
to git in, hard to git out. You’ll have to trade hats agin now.”
The constable, who had charge of the articles which the prisoner had
left at the squire’s at the time of his escape, had let him put on the
hat when they started to ride over to the deacon’s; but it was necessary
for him to retain it in his custody.
“Never mind,” said Jack, “I sha’n’t have much use for a hat here, I
suppose. Old Scarecrow’s will do.”
“And arter your sentence, you’ll be furnished with a cap at the public
expense,” added the constable, as he drove up to the door of the jail.
Jack looked with gloomy misgivings at the barred windows and massy front
of the great stone building; and for a moment his spirit failed him. Had
he not acted foolishly in givinz-father, Captain Berrick, there, with
the other prisoners; all his endeavors to do right, and his boasted
_chance for himself_, since that day; his friends left behind, whom he
might never see again; the strange calamity that had overtaken him, the
long confinement, the dubious future. And the poor lad burst into tears.
“Come!” said Sellick. “Here we be at the end of our journey, as the
runaway pigs said, when they went on the table, roasted, for dinner.
Never mind your things; I’ll hand ’em out, arterwards. Here comes the
kind-hearted keeper of this tavern to welcome his guest. What! crying,
sonny? Changed your mind yit?”
“No!” and Jack was himself again. “I’m ready!”—his resolution to pursue
an open, upright course, and take with a brave heart whatever happened,
returning like a strong tide to buoy him up.
“What’s that shouting?” said Sellick, glancing up the street. “Hello! if
there ain’t the deacon and the squire coming arter us, lickety-split!
Wait a minute! Le’s see what they want.”
What they wanted was soon made manifest. “Judge Garty recalls his jail
warrant, or he will do it; new developments in the case!” cried the
deacon, breathlessly, driving up.
“Pervided the boy consents to the arrangement,” added Peternot. “The
money is in our hands: he agrees to abandon all claim on ’t.—What do you
say, before these witnesses?”
“I’ve already said I was willing to do that,” said the astonished Jack.
“But how—where did you find it—the coin, I mean?”
“The Huswick boys sent it over to my house. You abandon your claim to
it, as the squire says, and throw yourself on his liberality, on his
well-known generosity,” added the deacon, with a sly twinkle. “He has
promised to do the handsome thing by you, the fair and liberal thing;
and I’ve no doubt it will be all you can ask, under the circumstances.”
“If he’ll get me out of this fix, I shall be satisfied,” said Jack;
“I’ll trust the rest to his—liberality, as you say.” And his heart gave
such a leap of joy at the thought of getting off so easily, that he came
near betraying his knowledge of the spurious character of the coin, by
some mirthful demonstration.
“Now you’re reasonable; now you talk as a boy should!” cried Peternot,
approvingly. “Turn about; le’s hurry back to the judge’s office, and
have the matter arranged.” For the old man was as anxious to secure the
treasure, as Jack was eager to regain his freedom.
“You spoke jest in time,” said Sellick. “A minute more, and the prisoner
and the paper would have gone out of my hands.—No, thank you!” to the
jailer; “you’re very kind, but I don’t think I shall need to trouble you
this morning,—unless the boy insists on ’t?” turning to Jack.
As Jack did not insist, the two buggies were turned about and started
for home; Sellick, with his fresher horse, taking the lead.
“Old Maje is perty well used up; guess the deacon never drove him quite
so hard before. One thing,” added the constable, “surprises me, that
both him and you should have been so willing to give up all the money,
to buy off the squire. Between ourselves, he’d ’ave been glad to take
one half.”
“Think so?” replied Jack, coolly. “Well, it’s too late now. Let him have
it. I’ll trust to his _liberality_.”
“He’s got about as much liberality as an old sow with a litter of
fourteen squealing pigs and a scarcity of swill,” was Sellick’s rather
coarse but expressive comparison. “Not that I’ve the least thing agin
him; nice old man, the squire! Come! what do you say _now_ to hiring to
me?”
This question recalled to Jack’s mind the obstacle which lay in the way
of his return to Mr. Chatford’s house, and his joy became clouded by a
serious trouble.
“Come and bring your dog, you know,” said Sellick. “I’m a famous
story-teller; boys all like me; we’ll have grand times together. What do
you think you can earn? Four dollars a month?”
“I should hope so, twice that!” replied Jack, thinking this was perhaps
the best he could do.
“Say six dollars, when you ain’t going to school.” And Sellick went on
to flatter and coax the homeless lad. “Anything I can do for ye? Come,
ain’t there something?”
“Yes,” said Jack, “one thing. I haven’t felt just right about this old
hat I took from Mr. Canning’s scarecrow. We’ve plenty of time, _they_
are so far behind us,” casting a backward glance for the squire and the
deacon. “Drive round that way, and I’ll leave it where I found it.”
Sellick consented. Taking a by-road, he crossed a bridge, and drove on
the north side of the canal towards the Basin, soon striking the road
which passed the Canning cornfield.
Jack jumped out at the well-remembered length of fence, which he climbed
again, and, running betwixt the rustling rows, discovered the patient
man-of-straw waiting, bareheaded, and surrounded by blackbirds, just as
he had left him the day before.
“I wish I could return the ears of corn I took, in the same way,” he
said to the constable, as he went back to the wagon; “but there are
slight difficulties; so never mind!”
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