HOW ONE TELEGRAM WAS RECEIVED.
Bob Howard and his companion had other reasons besides those of which we
have spoken, for feeling at peace with themselves and all the world.
By hard work and strict attention to their books, they had succeeded in
winning an enviable position in their class, and this night was to wind
up their connection with the academy in a blaze of glory.
George had written an essay on “Unconscious Influence,” which was a very
creditable effort for a boy of his years, and Bob had been chosen,
without one dissenting voice, to deliver the valedictory.
Their trunks were packed, their tickets had been purchased, and their
landlady had promised to give them an early breakfast, so that they
could reach the depot in time to catch the western-bound train that
passed through the village at six o’clock.
“The time draws near,” said Bob, with a tragic air, as he glanced at the
little clock on the mantelpiece. “In five hours we shall have made our
last bow to a Montford audience. The only thing I regret is the absence
of my father; but he was not at all well when I last heard from him, and
he didn’t feel as though he could stand the journey. By this time
to-morrow, if nothing happens to delay us, we shall be hurrying to meet
him as fast as steam can carry us. I tell you, George, you may make up
your mind to see some fun when we get out there in that wilderness, and
for once in your life you will have hunting, fishing, and horseback
riding until you are heartily tired of them all. Father has a pack of
splendid hounds, and it will make you laugh to see them in pursuit of an
antelope or prairie wolf. When you grow weary of that sport, you can go
out with a double-barrel and shoot grouse and sage-hens over as fine a
brace of setters as ever drew to a scent. Trout streams are plenty, and
any one who can throw the fly can snatch out such beauties as you don’t
see here in the Eastern States this side of the Rangeley Lakes. There is
one thing we must do, George, as soon as we can gain father’s consent—we
must clear up a certain mystery that hangs over those mountains.”
“I have often heard you speak of it,” replied George, with a smile; “but
you have never told me what it is.”
“If I could tell you, it wouldn’t be a mystery, would it? You needn’t
laugh about it, for there _is_ a mystery there, and in all that country
there is no one who has ever been able to solve it. The Indians or some
of the trappers might do it, but they won’t try, for their superstition
makes them timid. Several parties, composed of settlers and soldiers,
and one or two scientific expeditions from Eastern colleges, have
started out from our valley, declaring that they wouldn’t come back
until the thing was cleared up; but they have always returned, after a
few weeks’ absence, in a most dilapidated condition.”
“There must be a good many obstacles to be overcome,” said George, “but
you may count on me every time.”
“All right. I shall some day put your courage to the test. Now I will
tell you what I have decided to do. If my father is no worse when I
reach home, I shall go to college. He wants me to do it, and I should
like to carry out his wishes, although I expect to be a ranchman all my
life. If he requires my presence at home, I shall remain there, and you
must stay with me. I will give you a position as herdsman at good wages,
and will pay you in money or sheep, or both, just as you prefer. You can
make enough in a few years, by steady work and economy, to start a ranch
of your own on a small scale.”
“You are very kind, Bob,” said George.
“No, I am not. I am only selfish. I am thinking quite as much of my own
comfort and pleasure as I am of yours. I don’t want to stay out there
with no congenial companion to help me while away the time. It is
lonely, especially in winter, when we are snowed up or confined to the
house for days at a time by those furious storms that we call
‘blizzards.’ And since you have no home of your own, and no father or
mother, why shouldn’t you go with me?”
“Wouldn’t it be more agreeable for you to take your Cousin Arthur out
there with you?” asked George. “I have often heard you speak of him.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” answered Bob, quickly. “His father—Uncle Bob, after
whom I was named—treated my father most shamefully, and they have not
seen each other for years. Father has forgiven him, and Uncle Bob now
and then writes him very friendly letters; but I am afraid of Uncle Bob,
for I know that he is cunning and vindictive, and always on the lookout
for a chance to work some injury to those he does not like, because my
mother often told me so. I have seen him and Arthur several times, but I
did not like either of them. There is too much ‘Oily Gammon’ about Uncle
Bob, while Arthur is—Well, the less said about him the better. I
wouldn’t take him into my father’s house under any consideration, for
his presence there would be enough to rob life of all its pleasure. I
say, George!” exclaimed Bob, suddenly, “What is that on the table there
by your elbow?”
George raised his arm, and, discovering the brown envelope, he picked it
up and looked at it.
“Why, it is a telegram, addressed to you!” said he, handing it over to
his friend, whose face had suddenly grown as pale as death.
“A telegram!” gasped Bob. “It can mean but one of two things. My father
is worse, or else he is—”
Bob could say no more. With trembling hands, he tore open the dispatch,
and, with one swift glance, made himself master of its contents. Then he
pressed his hand to his forehead in a bewildered sort of way, reeled a
moment, as if some one had dealt him a stunning blow, and, falling
heavily back upon the sofa, he covered his face with his hands and burst
into tears. The telegram fluttered out of his nerveless fingers.
George picked it up, and read the following fateful words:
“Your father died very suddenly this morning. Come home immediately,
and telegraph me from Leavenworth when to meet you at the station.
G. H. EVANS.”
We will not speak of the scene that followed. Such sorrow as this, which
had come upon Bob Howard like a clap of thunder from a clear sky, is too
sacred to be intruded upon, even by a sympathizing pen.
It will be enough to say that after the first overwhelming burst of
grief had passed away, Bob acted more like a caged tiger than a human
being. He longed to fly on the wings of the wind to his far-off home, in
order that he might gaze once more upon that loved face before the
darkness of the grave shut it out forever from his view.
But steam was the only power that could take him there. The next train
left the village at six in the morning, and that was the one Bob had
intended to take.
He ate no supper, and when the time came he began preparing himself for
the evening’s festivities. What a mockery they seemed to him now!
“Don’t go,” said George, who had tried his best to say something
comforting to his almost heart-broken friend. “The professor will not
expect anything of you to-night.”
“I shall go and deliver my speech—that is, if I have brains enough to
remember it,” said Bob, quietly but firmly. “This sorrow is my own. No
one in the wide world has a share in it, and you will see that I have
self-control enough to take me through the exercises without detracting
in the least from anybody’s enjoyment.”
And he kept his word.
The news of his bereavement had spread all through the village by this
time, and not one of the vast audience that crowded the Academy Chapel
expected to see him on the stage.
When the valedictory was announced, and the young orator appeared before
the footlights, a silence that was almost oppressive fell upon the
assembly. They all sympathized with the boy, and their sympathy was so
intense that, like the darkness that covered the land of Egypt, it could
be _felt_.
Bob’s voice was husky, and trembled a little at first, but he gradually
regained the mastery of himself as he proceeded, and, when he ended his
peroration, the applause that followed fairly shook the building.
It was a spontaneous outburst of admiration, not for the oratorical
effort of the student—which was something better than common—but for the
wonderful nerve he exhibited. Few boys could have passed through such an
ordeal.
Bob set out for his boarding-house as soon as he left the stage, and
when George entered the room, an hour later, he was pacing the floor,
with his hands buried deep in his pockets, and his chin resting on his
breast. He was calmer now, and he even smiled as he gave his chum an
approving slap on the back.
“You did yourself credit to-night, George,” said he. “If I could write
an essay like that, I should feel proud of myself. Now, go to bed, and I
will have you up at five o’clock in the morning. I will lie down on the
sofa when I get tired. I know how to sympathize with you now, for I am
alone in the world as you are.”
“There are your uncle and your cousin,” George ventured to remark.
“They are no more to me than they are to you,” replied Bob. “I shall
drop them a line, telling them of father’s death, but beyond that, I
shall have nothing to do with them. They can stay at their home in
Indiana, and you and I will live on the ranch. You are all I have, and
you must stick to me.”
Neither of the two boys slept a wink that night. Bob walked the floor,
and George lay in bed, watching him through his half-closed eyes.
At half-past five they disposed of a hasty breakfast, said “good-by” to
their landlady, and to a few friends among the students who had come to
the depot to see them off, and then the fast express whirled them away
toward St. Louis.
Up to this time, Bob Howard’s career had been rather an uneventful one;
but now, capricious fate had taken him in hand, and ordered that during
the next few months his life was to be crowded full of such excitement
and adventure, such perils and startling surprises, as never before fell
to the lot of any boy.
He was to be given ample opportunity for the exercise of the
extraordinary nerve and pluck which he had exhibited while delivering
his valedictory, but with this difference:
Then, he was in the presence of friends, who would willingly have made
every allowance for him, had any forbearance or consideration on their
part been necessary; but hereafter he was to be surrounded by enemies,
who were already plotting his ruin, and who stood ready to take every
possible advantage of him.
Let us follow that other telegram to its destination, and see who some
of these enemies were.