CHAPTER XVI.
THE EVANGELIST INVESTS IN A HORSE.
A rather unprofitable journey by daylight was attempted, with but little success. The trains were so closely watched that they found it next to impossible to ride on them. Some tramps, whom they met on foot, informed them that this was on account of a fracas that had occurred on the western end of the line. The train men were expelling some free-riders, and handling one of them very roughly the tramp drew a knife and plunged it into the side of a brakeman. The wounded man was not expected to recover, and very strict orders had been issued by the management of the road to prevent all tramps from boarding trains or riding upon them.
This being the case the Evangelist suggested that they strike across the country, and get on another railroad, running nearly parallel, fifty miles to the south of them.
They walked quite a distance that evening, and camped in a straw pile. On the following day they resumed their line of march through a lovely rolling country of openings, woodlands and meadows, interspersed by many streams.
It was the middle of September—the golden time of all the year. The atmosphere was filled with a soft, hazy lustre; the reflex heat of the summer months after it had journeyed so far as the ice fields of the far north, and been turned back in a soft and gracious air. Gentle winds told forest tales among the tall trees, and nodded the heads of the grey mullens in requiem over the great, broad, plush-like leaves that lay dying at the foot of the stalks. Sentinel sheaves of wheat stood grouped about the yellow fields, and from out the stubble came the piping of the quail mingling with the rustling of the long, drooping, corn leaves; a mellow, autumnal refrain. Near at hand the chattering brook ran a messenger of harvest-time to the far off river, and the river carried the news to the gulf, and the gulf swept it to the four corners of the earth.
"As printed staves of thankful Nature's hymn,The fence of rails a soothing grace devotes,With clinging vines for bass and treble cleffs,And wrens and robins here and there for notes;Spread out in bars, at equal distance met,As though the whole bright autumn scene were setTo the unuttered melody of Rest!""The mill-wheel motionless o'ershades the pool,In whose frail crystal cups its circle dips;The stream, slow-curling, wanders in the sun,And drains his kisses with its silver lips;The birch canoe upon its shadow lies,The pike's last bubble on the water dies,The water lily sleeps upon her glass."
"As printed staves of thankful Nature's hymn,The fence of rails a soothing grace devotes,With clinging vines for bass and treble cleffs,And wrens and robins here and there for notes;Spread out in bars, at equal distance met,As though the whole bright autumn scene were setTo the unuttered melody of Rest!""The mill-wheel motionless o'ershades the pool,In whose frail crystal cups its circle dips;The stream, slow-curling, wanders in the sun,And drains his kisses with its silver lips;The birch canoe upon its shadow lies,The pike's last bubble on the water dies,The water lily sleeps upon her glass."
"As printed staves of thankful Nature's hymn,The fence of rails a soothing grace devotes,With clinging vines for bass and treble cleffs,And wrens and robins here and there for notes;Spread out in bars, at equal distance met,As though the whole bright autumn scene were setTo the unuttered melody of Rest!"
"As printed staves of thankful Nature's hymn,
The fence of rails a soothing grace devotes,
With clinging vines for bass and treble cleffs,
And wrens and robins here and there for notes;
Spread out in bars, at equal distance met,
As though the whole bright autumn scene were set
To the unuttered melody of Rest!"
"The mill-wheel motionless o'ershades the pool,In whose frail crystal cups its circle dips;The stream, slow-curling, wanders in the sun,And drains his kisses with its silver lips;The birch canoe upon its shadow lies,The pike's last bubble on the water dies,The water lily sleeps upon her glass."
"The mill-wheel motionless o'ershades the pool,
In whose frail crystal cups its circle dips;
The stream, slow-curling, wanders in the sun,
And drains his kisses with its silver lips;
The birch canoe upon its shadow lies,
The pike's last bubble on the water dies,
The water lily sleeps upon her glass."
The lovely quiet of the country gave our travellers a feeling of peace and rest, that the sharp voice of the iron horse and the rattle of his steel-shod hoofs had forbidden them.
"This it is that makes tramping glorious!" exclaimed the Evangelist, imbued with the beauty and placidity of Nature's feast.
"'Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife' I could tramp forever and forever, with Nature for a companion, and feed my hungry eyes on her loveliness!"
Toward the close of the afternoon, as Ben and his friend were seated, resting on the top rail of an old, moss-covered, stake-and-rider fence, a young man came up to them mounted on a horse. The animal was without a saddle and looked as though he had been severely ridden. His rider appeared to be an ordinary young country fellow, without any particular points of interest about him. He drew rein opposite our friends and entered into conversation with them, stating that he was a resident of Bonfield in the adjoining county, thirty miles distant, and having had a falling out with the old folks at home, had left the parental roof with this horse—his only property—determined to seek his fortunes abroad; ef it tuk him through six 'jining counties! But he found the horse to be a plaguy botheration. He'd no saddle, an' he was too poor to buy one, and too poor to afford the luxury of a ridin'. He could better afford to walk. He said he was a simple feller and didn't know much 'bout the world, no how, which they might a seed. He was detarmined to sell or dicker his hoss, and mebbe they'd like to buy the anamyle. How much w'uld they give fur him? But our friends had no money to purchase him with even had they been so inclined. In that case moughtn't they hev sumthin' they'd trade? For the rider was so durned tired of the bruit, durned if he didn't nigh feel like givin' him away, or a tradin' him fur sum durned jack knife! Our friends had nothing to trade him, however.
No pistols, nor watches, nor jewelry, nor nothing?
Ben shook his head, but the Evangelist studied a moment.
"Ben," he whispered, "I hate to part with my watch. It is the last earthly tie I have binding me to memories of the past. But—if—if I had that horse I could sell him—sell him may be for fifty or sixty dollars! And that would be money enough to take us both decently to St. Louis, and pay our expenses there until we could secure employment—goodemployment. I'd give up rambling, and—it might be the making of us both!"
Cleveland tried to persuade him not to part with the watch, but the sanguine temperament of the Evangelist—peculiar to him—was already picturing a life of respectability in St. Louis. A great reformation with Ben for a constant moral support to lean upon. Indeed it was Ben's own reasoning heretofore that caused the other to think at all of changing his condition.
"Yes I will, yes I will, Ben. It's a great chance—who knows what may come of it!"
And Ben who had formed a strong liking for his companion thought perhaps it might be for the best after all. That it might, possibly, be a turning point in Horton's life, that would redeem him.
The watch was scarce worth twenty dollars. It had heavy, old-fashioned silver cases, but the works—though in good order—were antique. Horton offered it to the rider for his horse, and the latter, after dickering for something "to boot," and finding he could get nothing more, accepted it. Then he transferred the horse to the Evangelist, calling upon Ben to be a witness to the trade, and bidding our friends good day, stated that he wished to pass the night with a cousin six miles distant, and struck out over the fields.
The two travellers took a look at their new acquisition. He was a trifle old, and had a bone spavin, but otherwise was a good, solid chunk of a farm horse. The question now arose what to do with him.
"I'll tell you," said Horton, "it is about twelve miles to Lickskillet, where we strike the railroad. That is too far for you to walk to-night, but I can ride, and get into the town an hour or so before sundown, by pushing my horse. I'll sell him there for all I can get, and wait for you. You walk so far as you feel able to-night and get up early to-morrow morning and come on," and then after a pause: "Don't delay Ben, for it aint just safe for me to have money about me yet—my good resolutions are too new," and he laughed, but his voice was serious and entreating.
This arrangement being perfected the Evangelist mounted his purchase and rode off at a sharp canter, Ben following more slowly on foot.
Now that Horton was gone our hero discovered what a companion he had been. Always ready with some quaint suggestion or far-fetched argument—original in his metaphors and epigrammatic in his criticisms—he had caused the time to pass away agreeably, and Ben missed him.
With pleasant reveries he beguiled the way until sundown came upon him unnoticed. He could have made Lickskillet that night by an increase of exertion, but his feet were tired and as there was no necessity for getting into the town until morning, he began looking about him for a camping place. While prospecting for a straw pile, or hay stack, suitably situated for his night's rest, he passed a comfortable farm house, consisting of a frame building with a log kitchen in its rear. In the barn yard, near the house, a man was attempting to raise a corn crib by means of two timbers used as levers. The method did not appear to work well, and Ben watched him through several failures. He would first bear down one of his levers, and piling stones upon it attempt to hold it in this manner, while he lifted on the other. But the levers slipped, and he was unsuccessful. He had worked fruitlessly long enough to make help appreciated, and when Ben offered his assistance, it was gladly accepted. It took nearly an hour's labor to get the corn crib into the desired position and properly propped up.
When the work was done, the farmer thanked him and asked if he was travelling.
"Yes, sir; I'm on my way to St. Louis."
"Wall, I declar! Reckon you'll git thar twixt now and Chris'mas?"
Ben reckoned he would.
"I declar! No money?"
"No money."
"Turrible bad condition, I declar! Come in and take a bite; ye've arned yer supper. I ain't got no great show of 'commodations, but these nights air not cold, an' thar's a plenty of fresh straw out in the cow shed. Reckon ye kin make out? Hey, not?"
Ben assured him that the accommodations offered were highly acceptable.
"And whar mought ye come frum?" asked the farmer.
"New York," replied Ben.
"I declar! State or city?"
"City."
"I declar!" And he looked at Ben and Ben looked at him. "That's a right smart piece frum hyar, I reckon?"
Ben told him it was nearly eight hundred miles, at which he "declar'd!" again.
On entering the farm house he was introduced to the farmer's wife, and four small tow-headed children, with the remark:
"Fly round, 'Riah; hyar's a man all the way frum New Yurk City agoin' to St. Lowis; an' I'm turrible peckish, which I reckon he is too," at which 'Riah also said "I declar!" and the four tow-headed children stood with open mouths and looked it, though they did not say so.
At the table the farmer turned to Ben, somewhat to the latter's consternation, and asked:
"Strangier, will you say a blessin'?"
Ben might have recited some Homeric ode, but a simple blessing left him high and dry on the shoals of ignorance, and he had to decline.
The good man came near saying "I declar!" but corrected himself, and proceeded to ask divine protection for himself and family and the stranger within his gates, interpolating a few reflections upon his oldest son and heir's reprehensible act of sticking his fingers in the "meat gravy," and introducing in the invocation a promise to give the two youngest tow heads "a good larrupin' fur their obstreporosity of behaviour." Grace having been duly wound up by the head of the family smartly rapping the tow head nearest to him with his knuckles, for an infraction of proprieties, Ben was solicited not to stand on ceremony, but to "pitch in."
After supper a pipe and a chat by a log fire—more for light and cheerfulness than heat—followed. But our hero soon grew sleepy, tired out with the day's long walk, and retired to the cow shed determined to be up and away at early cock crow in the morning.
Sometime during the night he was partially awakened from his slumbers by voices on the kitchen porch. Half asleep and half awake he heard the following disjointed expressions:
"He's caught—Lickskillet jail—they're all a coming—'greed to it after meetin'—make an example of him—we'll show 'em—come on—be quick!" After which he was dimly conscious that some one entered the barn and saddled a horse. There was a clatter of hoofs out on the road, and then all was again quiet, and Ben slept peacefully.
It was the dark hour before dawn when the restless chanticleer from his perch in a neighboring apple tree called our hero up. He limbered himself with a good round of shakes and stamping life into his sleepy feet, started out in the dark for Lickskillet, five miles distant.