THEY ENCOUNTER THE WITCH.
"You ain't anInjun, be you!" gasped Benny, with a look and tone which expressed volumes of consternation and disappointment at her utter failure to come up to his ideal Indian. Why, she wasn't the least bit like the pictures! She wasn't like the magnificent figures he had seen in front of the cigar stores in New Haven. Where were all her feathers and things—her red and yellow tunic, her gorgeous moccasons, her earrings and noserings and bracelets and armlets and beads? Why, she was ju-u-u-ust as ragged and dirty!
All this and more Benny's tone expressed when he said: "Why, you ain't anInjun, be you?"
"Well, Iwas. I ain't nothing at all now. I ain't even a squaw, and theysaidthey was going to make a Christian on me. Iwasa Chetonquin."
"Oh, yes," said Benny, looking at her now with the interest attaching to one whohadworn the feathers, and beads, and moccasons, and rings. "Well, what did you do when the colonel told you to go West?"
"We had a fight."
That was satisfactory to Benny. "Which whipped?" he asked, with his own native briskness, as if this, now, was common ground, and he was ready to talk at his ease.
"Which a'most always whips? It was a hard fight. I hid behind a big tree and watched it. When I saw my father shot I started to go to him and a shot struck me. See there!" said she, pushing up her coarse gray locks and showing a deeper, wider seam than the creases and wrinkles on her face. "A bullet grazed me hard and I was stunned and blinded with the blood, and couldn't run, but my people had to. They didn't any on 'em see or know about me, I s'pose, and I laid there and sorter went to sleep. Colonel Hammerton took a notion to pick me up when he rode over the ground he had soaked with the blood of my people—ground thatbelonged to my people," shrieked the woman, straightening herself up and shaking her fists in the air.
Benny liked that. Even Fanny gazed at the strange creature with fascination. And when the Indian's excitement abated and she ceased to mutter and chatter to herself and sunk her face into her palms again, gazing absently on the ground, Fanny pulled Benny'ssleeve and whispered, "Ask her what he did then, after he picked her up."
"What did he do with you then?" ventured Benny.
The old woman started, and gazed at them curiously, as if she had forgotten all about them, and had to recall them out of the distant past. "What did who do?" said she.
"What did Colonel Hammerton do with you when he picked you up?"
"Oh, I didn't know who picked me up—thought 'twas some of my people, I s'pose. Colonel Hammerton carried me off to the fort, and then took me to Washington: said he was going to make a Christian on me. I had to stay in houses—sleepin houses!—like being nailed up in a box. Ugh! what a misery 'tis to be made a Christian on! Hoo-oo-oo-oo-oo! You wouldn't want to know all the racks and miseries and fights and grinds on it. I guess they got sick on it themselves, for after I'd tried a many times to get away from houses, and been brought back, I tried again and they let me go, and I've been a-going ever since. I asked for my people, and they told me they wasexterminated, every one on 'em. Yes, I've beena-going ever since, but I can't go any more. I hope they'll let me stay in these forests 'till the Great Spirit takes me away to my people. He can't find me in the houses, but if I keep out in the forest, I hope he'll find me soon. It's been a weary, long time."
"Areyou two hundred years old?" asked Benny softly. "That's what folks say."
"Two hunderd? Hoo-oo-oo-oo!twohunderd? I'mtenhundered, if I'm a day," said the poor old creature. "But don't be afeard on me—I hope there won't be anybody afeard on mehere, for then they'd be driving on me off, or shutting me up again somewhere where the Great Spirit can't find me. Tell your people not to be skeered on me—ask 'em to let me stay here."
The sad old eyes looked wistfully at Benny, whose generous heart took up the poor Indian's cause at once.
"You can stay here fast enough," said he. "I know who these woods belong to—some o' my relations. There won't anybody be afraid of you. Me 'n 'Bijah'll take care of you."
"O,blessyou!" said she. "IthoughtI'd got to the right place when I got here—it looked like it—it felt like it. It seemed a'most as if I most expected to see wigwams. A-h-h-h-h, if I could sleep in a wigwam!"
Benny felt that he could sympathize with her in that. He and the boys had played Indians and 'Bijah had built wigwams for them in the wood, and he had greatly wished and entreated to be allowed to sleep all night in one. But he could not guess at the longing of the aged to go back to the things dear and familiar to them in childhood; he did not know that all the old Indian's days were spent in dreaming of those things, and that she often wandered all night in the woods, fancying herself surrounded by the wigwams of her people—searching anxiously for that of her father. Though Benny could understand nothing of the pathetic sadness, he felt a strong desire to offer consolation and cheer, and he said, "Ican build wigwams. Me 'n 'Bijah'll make you a wigwam!"
But the aged Chetonquin muttered to herself in a tuneless quaver, and shook her head doubtingly.
"What!She don'tbelieveit!" Benny exclaimed to himself. "Don't believe that'Bijahcan makewigwams! We'll show her!"
And he was so eager to be about it that he took leave directly of his strange acquaintance, who seemed lost in reverie, and to have forgotten him entirely.
When Mr. and Mrs. Briggs heard Benny's story of the poor Indian woman, their excellent hearts were at once filled with compassion for so forlorn a creature. Mr. Briggs had very radical theories about equal mercy and justice for each member of the human race.
"It isn't likely," he often said, "that some have a right to be in this world and others haven't;" and he immediately set himself to illustrate his theories in the case of the Chetonquin.
Mrs. Briggs said there could be not doubt that she needed other things besides wigwams, which conjecture was found to be sadly true upon investigation. An attempt was made to put this last of the Chetonquins into more comfortable quarters, but she received the suggestion with dismay, and prayed so earnestly to be left on the spot she seemed to think was likeher own native forest, that it was decided to make her as comfortable as possible there, since it was early summer and no harm could come from exposure. When the weather was cold again, she would be glad to be sheltered elsewhere. So Mr. and Mrs. Briggs, Grandma Potter and 'Bijah, took care that she needed nothing, and left her to be happy in her own way.
Her shattered mind, little by little, let go of everything save the memories of her childhood. All the people of the neighboring region, old and young, came to understand and respect the sorrows of the poor creature they had talked of as a witch. But the most friendly people seemed to disturb her—to break in upon her dreams—and children, especially, were not allowed to visit her.
Benny could not forego, however, the pleasure he had promised himself, of getting 'Bijah to help him make a fine wigwam in the woods, and saying to old Winneenis—as she called herself—"There! what d'ye callthat?There'sa wigwam for ye, 'n me 'n 'Bijahmadeit, too!"
Benny might make as many wigwams as he pleased,Mr. Briggs said, "but he was not to go near or disturb old Winneenis."
One extremity of the island was in the vicinity of Grandma Potter's, and Benny passed a good many days of his vacation at Grandma's. One day Benny said to 'Bijah, "Now you can make that wigwam, can't you, 'Bijah? You said you would when the hay was all in, and itisall in, ain't it? Le's make it to-day over there in the woods, on the island. The boys are coming over to-morrow, and I want to have it done before they get here. Say, will you, 'Bijah?"
"Wal, I'd know but I can," said 'Bijah.
"I want arealone," said Benny, "life-size, just like them you saw when you was out there to Dakota—none o' your baby-houses."
'Bijah went up-stairs into the barn chamber, hummingThe Sweet By and By, and Benny accompanied him in doing both. 'Bijah opened an enormous chest and pulled out a lot of old buffalo and other robes, the worn-out and moth-eaten accumulation of years, not to say generations, and sitting down, took out his jack-knife and ripped the ragged linings out of several that were pretty well divested of their fur,and making a pile of skins, old horse blankets and lap rugs, he said, "Now, then, sir, we'll have a wigwam fit for old Black Hawk himself."
And you may be sure 'Bijah was as good as his word. He got out old Tom and the wagon, and he and Benny and the skins and blankets all got in and drove over to the woods on the island, and there 'Bijah cut poles and made the finest wigwam ever seen this side of the Rocky Mountains—or the other side either, for that matter. They spread blankets on the ground inside, and Benny declared it wanted nothing but a few Indians and tomahawks and bows and arrows lying round to make it look just like the picture in his g'ography.
Benny's last thought was of his wigwam that night as he slid off into the delicious sleep that only rosy-cheeked, tired boys know. He dreamed he was the chief of a powerful tribe, and that he found old Winneenis, not old any longer, but a little girl like Fanny, crying in the forest because she couldn't find her way to her people, and that he took her by the hand and led her home. Her shout of rapture when she found herself once more with her people, wakenedBenny, and he saw it was morning, and the shout he had heard instead of being that of little Winneenis, was grandma's voice calling him to get up. He was rather disappointed to find he wasn't a powerful chief, but he consoled himself with the thought of his uncommonly fine wigwam, and hurried down stairs to see what time it was, for the boys were to come on the early train, and he meant to go right over to the woods with them.
He had scarcely finished his breakfast when the boys arrived, and they all started for the woods in great glee.
On the way, Benny told them the story of old Winneenis, and the boys were full of wonder, interest, and curiosity to see her.
Upon reaching the wigwam, they admired its outside, agreed that nothing in that style of architecturecouldsurpass it.
"And now," said Benny, "see how nice 'tis inside," and he took a peep in himself. "Why," whispered he, drawing back, "she'shere—she's here in the wigwam, sound asleep, and she looks awful glad. Sh-sh"—with a warning shake of his finger—"wemustn't disturb her; father said I mustn't. Le's go away and wait till she wakes up."
They each took a peep at the old Indian woman and went away softly.
They remained in sight of the wigwam, exhausting every device for wearing away the time, and Joe's watch was frequently consulted. Time and patience wore away together.
"There," said Charlie, at last, "we've waited long enough; we ought to wake her up now."
"It might make her crazy again to see such a lot of us, and I—I don't like to," said Benny. "I'll go 'n ask 'Bijah what to do."
They went and brought 'Bijah, who said he should think likely shewouldwant to sleep a spell, she must be pretty well beat out, pokin' around all night. He'd heard her making them queer noises o' hern—something like a hoarse kind o' Phœbe bird, it sounded, in the distance.
"I shouldn't be surprised," he began, in a low tone, stooping and peering in at the wigwam; but, contrary to his words, he did look very much surprised indeed.
He stepped into the wigwam and touched thesleeper gently. Then he shook his head at the boys and motioned them away, and when he came out, they understood from his look, that old Winneenis was dead.
Wandering, as was her wont at night, she had come upon Benny's wigwam, standing in the clear moonlight, and to her longing, bewildered mind it had probably seemed the wigwam of her father. Who can ever know the joy, the feeling of peace, and rest, and relief, with which she laid her tired bones down in it, and fell asleep, a care-free child once more, and thus passed from its door into the happy hunting-grounds? And Benny always felt glad the wigwam had been built.
Every year a few of the blest among the boys of Still Harbor were taken to New Haven or New London to see the Greatest Show on Earth, while the unlucky remainder were obliged to content themselves with what imagination could do for them. But one memorable year Mr. P. T. Barnum landed and magnified himself on our own fences. His magnanimity ran over and flamed into Still Harbor, bringing all his miracles and monsters to our very doors, as it were, and we had no more miserable boys. But we had plenty of boys who aspired to be miracles and monsters, or boys who essayed the trapeze, the tight rope, the flying leap and all sorts of possible and impossible acrobatic contortions and distortions.
Eminent among these was Benny Briggs, for if you looked high enough, you could see him any day witha balancing pole in his hand, walking on the ridge-poles and fences, or making of himself all sorts of peduncles and pendulums; bringing about in his own individual person the most astonishing inversions, subversions and retroversions, and the most remarkable twists and lurches and topsey-turveys and topplings-over.
But there was one opportunity that Benny's soaring ambition had not embraced. His active mind had never yet discovered the possibility of a real tight rope. For a real tight rope he languished, on a tight rope he yearned to walk. The clothes line was a little too slender; his sister Fanny's skipping rope was not only too slender, but too short; and these were the only ropes of his acquaintance. The ridge-poles and fences only mocked at his ideal. He wanted something that hung unsupported; something airy; something worthy of the acrobatic art, upon which he could walk with credit and grace, and, reaching the end, bow and kiss his hand to the spectators, before returning. For this he searched by day, and of this he dreamed by night. And one day he found it.
"Benny," said his mother on the morning of that day, "your grandmother Potter has sent for you to come over. She's going to have uncle John's and uncle Calvin's boys there. You'll like that, won't you?"
"Hi!" shouted Benny, throwing up his new straw hat, the sign and seal of pleasant summer weather, "I'd like to see the fellow that wouldn't!"
At nine o'clock that morning—at exactly nine o'clock—Benny started. His mother remembered it well, for she looked up at the clock and said:
"Now, don't hurry, Benny; go along easily and you'll get there before ten," for grandmother Potter's was scarcely two miles back in the country, and Benny thought nothing of stepping over there, especially when inducements were offered.
He called his dog Sandy, and marched off with a light step and a light heart; but his hands remained at home, that is to say, his hands were nowhere so much at home as in his trousers pockets, and there they reposed, while Benny paced along, whistling "Not for Joseph, not if I knows it," and Sandy nosing it all the way. His mother watched him withpride as usual; the neighbors saw him go by and said, "There goes Benny Briggs; he hain't broken his neck yet, but I presume to say that'll be the next thing he does."
Uncle John's and uncle Calvin's boys from New Haven, arrived early at grandmother Potter's, a place which seemed to them to contain all the pleasures of all the spheres, for grandmother's weakness was for boys, and nothing suited her better than getting all her grandsons together and giving them "full swing," as Abijah called it, and Abijah was made by nature to help grandmother out in her benevolent plans. He instituted jolly measures, and contrived possibilities of riot and revel that no mortal ever thought of before. As circuses were the fashion in urchin society, on that particular day, Abijah, like a wizard, had called up out of the farm resources, and out of certain mysterious resources of his own, that were so plainly of unearthly origin that it was of no use in the world to try to look into or understand them, such a circus as would have made not only P. T. Barnum, but the ancient Romans themselves perfectly miserable with envy. There was the trapeze, the tightrope, the—well, alas, I don't know the names of them all, having had a limited education in such matters, but there they all were, whatever they are called—those things that make a perfect, finished, spal-en-did, be-yeu-ti-ful circus. There were hoops with tissue paper pasted over them, to be jumped through by the most wonderful bareback riders on earth, and old Tom, grandmother's own horse, was perfectly safe as a trained Arabian steed, when 'Bijah was there to see how the thing was managed. Everything was safe and sure and delightful when 'Bijah had charge of it. Nothing ever went wrong, or upset, or came to a sorry end with him or his plans. He knew what he was about, and ends with him were even more brilliant and satisfactory than beginnings and means. I shouldn't dare to fully tell you what good times the boys had at grandmother Potter's, especially on Fourth of Julys, Thanksgivings, Christmases and birthdays, for fear of making all the boys who couldn't go there, discontented and low spirited for the rest of their lives. I'm sorry for those boys, but at the same time I may as well go on and tell them about Benny Briggs.Hewas preparing to be verydiscontented and low spirited just at the moment when Joe and Will and Harry and Rob and Charlie and Morris and Cad were shouting their exultation at the only wonderful circus on earth. They all decided that the performances were not to begin, however, until Benny Briggs arrived. There could be no circus without Ben. No, indeed! There were stars of the arena among them, of various magnitudes, but Benny was the comet that outshone and outstripped them all.
"Why don't he come along?" said Charlie, dancing a double-shuffle on the barn floor to let off his impatience.
"Let's go and look for him," said Joe, and they all shuffled off down to the gate, thinking to see Benny with his nose pointed straight for that gate, or as straight as could be expected, considering its faithfulness in another direction. But no Benny was to be seen.
"He can't be far off," said Joe, seizing an opportunity to look at his new silver watch, "for it's half-past ten now, and Ben is always here before ten—alwayswas, I mean."
"Let's go up to the top of the hill and meet him," proposed Will; "we can see him from there anyhow."
So Charlie and Joe and Morris and Will and Cad started for the top of the hill, while Harry and Rob, who were a good deal inclined to wait for things to come to them, remained to swing on the gate.
The five spies soon returned and reported that Benny was nowhere to be seen. Impatience now seized them all, and they flocked into the house to put it to grandma whether it wasn't mighty queer that Ben Briggs hadn't come.
"Hehasn't come?" exclaimed grandma, looking up over her glasses at the clock. "Why, what can be the matter? It's almost eleven o'clock!"
"It's one minute and a quarter past," said Joe, appealing to his watch. "Your clock's 'leven minutes slow."
"O, get out!" said Charlie, with a contemptuous sniff. "All the clocks are either fast or slow, according to that turnip."
Here would have ensued a good deal of pro and con about watches, but grandma held them to thesubject of Benny Briggs. She drew from them that they had been to the very top of the hill and couldn't see him coming.
Grandma was surprised and disappointed. "It's incomprehensible," said she.
"O, I say, grandma," groaned Charlie, flopping into a chair and fanning himself, with his hat, "whata big word! In-com-pre-hen-si-ble! And the other day you said Prist-by-te-ri-an-ism! O my!"
"P-p-p-p-pooh!" stuttered Morris, who was always a little ahead of everybody, except in conversation; "I know a l-l-l-l-longer word."
"Let's hear you say it, then," shouted the rest of the boys.
"Takes you to make long words," said Charlie.
"I-i-i-i-i-i-i"—began Morris, embarrassed by the evident want of confidence in his ability.
"Go it!" said Charlie.
"Fire away!" said Joe.
"In-co-co-co-co-co" proceeded Morris.
"Spell it!" suggested Harry.
"I-n, in, c-o-m-e, come," spelled Morris with great fluency, and then stopped short.
"Income!" exclaimed two or three voices disdainfully. "Callthata long word? Ho-ho!"
"N-n-no; wa-wa-wa-wait a minute," implored Morris, tugging at a button on his jacket, and fixing a studious, inquiring gaze on the kitchen floor.
"Write it," said Will.
"I c-c-c-c-can't," said poor Morris gloomily.
"Give it up, then," recommended Joe.
"Nosir," said Charlie, putting his feet up in a second chair and making himself comfortable, "I don't give it up, sir; I'm going to know what this bumper of a word is."
"Well, how are we ever going to know if Morris can't say it nor spell it nor write it?" demanded Joe.
"Mebby he can thing it," said little Cad.
"Good for you, Caddy!" said Charlie. "You've hit it; Morris can sing fast enough. Now, Morris, we'll sing, 'I love to go to Sunday-school,' and you sing your word instead of those. Begin, boys! Sing loud, Morris."
So the boys all sang softly—
I love, I love, I love, I love,I love to go to Sunday-school—
except Morris, who sang with a triumphant shout
I love, I love, I love, I love,In-com-pre-hen-si-bil-i-ty!
and the boys gave him three cheers.
At that moment grandma purposely left the pantry door open, and there, disclosed to view, was a land of promise; a row of delicious little cakes, with chocolate frosting, smiling on the pantry shelf. The boys instantly crossed over to this inviting land and took possession, while grandma, who was sometimes rather unwise in her loving kindness, looked greatly pleased.
"I do wish Benny was here," said she. "Boys," she added, as if a new thought had come to her, "go and tell 'Bijah I want to speak to him."
The boys clattered out—a stampede of young colts, it seemed—and soon returned, each doing his part in bringing 'Bijah, for every separate boy had hold of him somewhere, as if at the least laxity on their part there was danger of his escape. 'Bijah grinned broadly and bore it bravely.
"'Bijah," said grandma Potter, "I must have Benny here to dinner; I can't have his place vacant.What can have kept him away?" she added, as if to herself. "I hope he hasn't been doing anything he ought not to—he's such a little rogue."
"Wal, I d' know's I should be for goin' so fur's to saythat, Mis' Potter, but Bennyiscuris, and mebby hehasslipped over to Spain or France before comin' round here," said 'Bijah.
"O dear!" groaned grandmother, the names of these far-away regions giving her a sense of exposure and danger, "I hope nothing has happened to my Benny. 'Bijah, you must harness up and go over and see what's the matter."
"Yes'm," said 'Bijah, turning to obey, and every boy set up a petition that he should go in the long wagon and let them go too. So in the long wagon they went, shouting and whistling and singing along, with their eyes wide open to catch a sight of Benny, if by chance he should be coming, loitering on his way. But not one of them looked in the right direction.
In spite of Benny's frequent little derelictions from the path he might have been expected to walk in, his mother was greatly surprised and troubled to hear that he had not arrived at his grandmother's, and,furthermore, that he had not been seen on the road.
"Why, nothing could have tempted him to stay away from grandma's," said she. "Still," she added after a moment's reflection, "hemayhave gone by the Brook road and met Johnny Barstow. If he has, and then stopped to do a little fishing, he would never think how the time was flying. I never saw a boy who had so little idea of time as Benny."
"Wal," said 'Bijah, "we'll go down the brook road way 'n see 'f we c'n ketch this young trout."
So they returned by the Brook, but found no Benny, and Johnny Barstow hadn't seen him.
Every ray of the calm smile which usually shone in grandma Potter's face faded when she saw 'Bijah and the boys come back without Benny and heard of their fruitless search. She sat silently down in her rocking-chair, and her dear, sweet old face was pale.
"'Bijah," said she at length, "you must take the colt and the light buggy and go—go somewhere—anywhere—everywhere, until you find him. No, boys, you can't go. 'Bijah mustn't be hindered."
'Bijah was at a loss where to go, but he obeyed directions, and went somewhere, anywhere, and itseemed as if he had been everywhere, and inquired at every house in and about Still Harbor, along the shore, in the woods and through the fields, but nobody had seen Benny since about nine o'clock that morning.
At last he went again to see if Benny, perhaps, had got home.
"What!" cried Mrs. Briggs, when she saw 'Bijah come the second time, "he hasn't come? You haven't found him? O, my boy, my boy!"
"O, now, Mis' Briggs, don't you go to worry about Benny," said 'Bijah. "I never see a boy 't knew how to take care of himself better'n Benny. He'll turn up all right, you'll see."
But in spite of his apparent cheerfulness, 'Bijah was a good deal troubled himself. WherecouldBenny be, unless at the bottom of the Sound?
'Bijah in his search had already been to Mr. Briggs' store to inquire for Benny, and in starting to go there again, he met Mr. Briggs coming home. He and 'Bijah discussed the possibilities and probabilities of Benny's case, and Mr. Briggs agreed to send word over to grandma Potter if Benny came home, and'Bijah agreed to come directly over and tell his father and mother if Benny should reach his grandmother's at the eleventh hour.
The eleventh hour arrived, however, and still no Benny. The boys sat in the barn door and wondered in voices hushed almost to whispers, where Benny could be.
"Where is Benny?" asked little Fanny again and again. "O, where is Benny?" moaned his poor mother; and the question sank like lead into his father's heart. Grandma raised her gentle eyes and asked it of Heaven itself, and you, my children, by this time are asking it of me.I feel bound to tell you this much: Benny was—I shudder to say it—Benny was enduring the fate once proposed for Mr. Jefferson Davis.
The sun was getting low, the shadows were long on the grass, and Benny's pitiful shadow as it lengthened, stretched nearer and nearer home. Ah, would he ever get there himself again?
It was milking time. 'Bijah sat milking the cows in the barnyard, when in bounced Sandy. He hadn't come on Benny's account, that was plain. He wasthirsty, and begged for milk, which he had frequently had from the hand of 'Bijah. He was no story-book dog—only quite a commonplace fellow, who hadn't the faintest idea that he ought to have arrived here hours ago, and won fame for himself by showing the way to Benny. However, you'll see presently that he wasn't to blame for that.
THEY START IN SEARCH OF BENNY.
'Bijah stopped milking and sprang to his feet.
"Hello!" said he, "Sandy, I vum! That means 't Benny ain't fur off. You don't ketch that feller to stir a peg from Benny 'f he c'n help himself."
'Bijah gave Sandy some milk, feeling sure that if Benny was on earth, Sandy would go straight back again to where he had left him. Benny was not on earth, but Sandy, having finished his refreshment, without even waiting to return thanks, trotted off across lots at a great pace, 'Bijah following in hot pursuit. Away they splashed through the marshy meadows; jump, they went over the stone walls. "Land!" said 'Bijah. "Wherebeyou a-goin'?" as Sandy leaped across a ditch into the great Kingsbury orchard. Mr. Kingsbury had died a year before. His wife had closed the old homestead and gone tolive with her daughter, and the farm had been for sale ever since. 'Bijah sprang over the ditch and came sprawling into the orchard.
When he had picked himself up, Sandy was nowhere to be seen. The loneliness of the deserted farm and the soberness of approaching evening were all about him.
"Hello!" he shouted, and he thought he heard a response. "Hello!" he repeated, and he was sure of a faint, faint cry, towards which he bounded, shouting, "Benny, Benny!" and presently directly over his head he heard a voice which seemed to come from Heaven, saying:
"'Bijah, O 'Bijah, here, up here!"
'Bijah looked toward the sky, and behold, dangling from one of the topmost branches of a famous big sour apple-tree, a pair of sturdy boy's legs! And there was Sandy, lying on the ground beneath them.
"Jericho!" said 'Bijah; and he hadn't much more than said it before he was scrambling up the tree like a great ourang-outang. With some difficulty he unhooked Benny and brought him to earth, and his great warm heart swelled with tender pity as hereturned home with the poor boy in his arms; and his shoulder was as wet with Benny's tears when he reached there, as if he had been out in a thunder storm.
I dare say you will partly guess the story of Benny's misfortune, but for the sake of those who are not good guessers, I shall tell you that he had taken a fancy to cut across a corner of the Kingsbury farm that morning, to make the distance to his grandmother's shorter, in his unwise fashion, never considering that climbing walls and fences, paddling through the marshy meadows and contriving to get over the ditch would more than overbalance the few steps he saved.
When he reached the Kingsbury orchard, where all the apple boughs were trained in horizontal lines, with a view to making them bear well, his head seemed to swim with suggestions of tight ropes. Around and above the air was filled with golden opportunities as near to tight ropes as Paradise is near to Heaven itself. These precious opportunities whispered to Benny, the charming visions beckoned, and Benny felt that if it cost him two and sixpence,hemusthave a walk on some of those enchanting boughs.
Everything was just as it had been left when Mr. Kingsbury died. Against one of the trees stood a ladder, and scattered all about under the trees were the limbs that had been lopped off, under his direction, the very day when he fell with apoplexy. Here and there they had been gathered up in bristling piles.
Benny ascended into one after another of these blissful trees. At first he walked on the lowest boughs, but gradually went higher and higher, until he promenaded fearlessly on the very topmost. He bowed, he kissed his hand, he turned and returned, he was happy and time sped swiftly by. He was so absorbed in his delight, that he heard, as one who hears not, a wagon go rattling along the road, and the shouting, whistling and singing of boys. It was past noon before he recalled the object with which he had left home that morning. He sat upon the very pinnacle of achievement—that is to say, he sat upon the very highest point in the orchard, his head up, his spirits up, with such a decidedly upwardtendency that it was hard for him to make up his mind to descend to the plane of common life. However, he thought it must be something past ten o'clock, so he slipped himself off his pinnacle, or was in the act of doing so, when he missed his hold and went off with a sudden jerk. Something scraped the whole length of his back, and seemed to hold him in a relentless grip. It was the stump of a small branch, which had caught him by the bottom of his loose jacket, and slipped up under it quicker than a wink, as Benny slid down. It was one of those things of which we say, "You couldn't do it again to save your life."
And there Benny, exalted, hung. The tips of his toes just touched a bough below; with the tips of his fingers and thumb he could reach and pick at the end of a branch above. He tried to throw his legs up and catch on some salient point. He struggled to reach his elbows up and pull himself back. He would have unbuttoned his jacket, and, slipping his arms out, dropped to the ground, but it looked a long way, and directly below him was a pile of the lopped-off branches, with their sharp ends sticking up towardshim like the spikes of cruelchevaux-de-frise, and he didn't fancy dropping on those. He shouted for help, but there was no one to hear him on the deserted farm, and the few farmers who rattled by in their wagons paid no heed to a boy's shout. Boys are always shouting, and the more hideous the noises they make the more it is like them. Sandy, who had remained asleep in the grass while Benny performed his manœuvres, thought no more of this one than he had thought of the others. He supposed it was a part of the fun—the very best part of it—as he opened one eye and saw those legs dancing in air; and Benny's yells were the things to be expected of Benny. But when Benny shouted, "Go, Sandy, go home!" and various other commands to Sandy, hoping the dog might go and bring some one to his rescue, as dogs always do in stories, Sandy sat upon his hind legs and looked at Benny in amazement. These were remarks that had never been made to him before, and he couldn't guess for his life what they meant.Neverhad he been sent home. He had stuck to Benny through thick and thin, during all his eventful life, and he meant to do it now. So there hedid stick, until he saw by the shadows that it was about milking time, and being thirsty, to say nothing of hungry, and observing that Benny was still engaged in dancing and tilting on the tips of his toes, Sandy excused himself, went after his milk, and brought back deliverance to Benny, as we have seen.
Poor, poor Benny! The joy of his return called out more tears than smiles. Worn and faint and nervous, he was put to bed at grandma Potter's, and it was many days before he was the same old Benny Briggs again. In one respect he was never quite the same. His views in respect to tight ropes had met with a radical change.
P. S. If any of you boys should say as Charlie Potter did, "Pooh! ifI'dbeen Benny BriggsIcould have got down out of that tree," I'll say to you as Benny said to him:
"Humph! I'd like to see you try it!"
It was an unpleasant day. The gray clouds looked cold and dark, and the wind was blowing a gale as the stage left the little village of Lowton on its daily trip to the Summit. The weather prophets said it was the equinoctial, although it was ten days too early if the almanac was right; and every one predicted a storm, a northeaster that would set all the streams boiling, and probably carry away all the bridges between Lowton and the Summit.
But little for northeasters cared Leon and Sam Bearer, as they settled themselves cosily inside. They each carried a shot-gun, and under the care of their elder brother, Herbert, they were going on a two weeks' hunt among the well stocked forests on the mountains back of the Summit.
At noon they stopped at the Half-Way House, a little hotel built just at the rise of the mountain, where they were served with fresh venison in a dining-room hung with great antlers from the deer killed by the landlord, and his son, who was only fourteen years old—no older than Sam. The boys became very much excited listening to their hunting stories; and after dinner nothing but Herbert's decided command prevented their loading the guns to be ready for any game they might see on the road. The landlord and the driver said that they never saw any deer driving along the road; but the boys thought it might be that they would, and after they started a strict watch was kept, which resulted in seeing forty-one squirrels but nothing larger.
They had not driven many miles up the mountain before it cleared off, and the sun came out. The forest road, lined with ferns and banks of moss, was very picturesque, and Leon and Sam enjoyed the ride as only happy schoolboys can, in the pleasantest spot that boys can be—a forest peopled with deer and squirrels. And when theyreached the Summit House they were in as good spirits as jolly boys could be who expected a glorious chase the next day.
The hotel was a large, pleasant one, and on every side were the trophies of game that so delight a boy's heart. The office and dining-room were hung with antlers, and the hat rack in the hall was made from them. Then there was a couch and some seats covered with bear skins and supported by great branching antlers with so many prongs that Leon tired of counting them, although he knew each one represented a year, and that he could compute the deer's age by them. In the sitting-room there were a stuffed deer, a fox, a number of similar animals, a partridge, some pigeons and many small birds; and in the office were two large panthers that looked very fierce and natural, their glass eyes glaring as if watching a victim, their feet placed as if ready for a leap. But the boys enjoyed most the deer in the large park back of the hotel. There were four old deer and two pretty young fawns with glossy, spotted coats, that Sam and Leon thought were the most beautifulanimals they had ever seen, as they ran and played together like lambs, jumping and capering with a perfect grace that only deer possess.
After a nice venison supper the boys went to bed, and in a few minutes both were dreaming of deer, and bears, panthers and hounds, and all the excitements of the chase among the game-covered mountains.
Early in the morning, and long before Herbert was up, Sam and Leon were out again watching the deer in the park, and examining again the terrible panthers whose changeless eyes looked just as fierce as the night before. Their guns were loaded, and when they had eaten breakfast and the men were ready to start, the boys were off ahead ready for the expected game. All the way up the mountain path to the runways they kept the lead, occasionally stopping to rest in the shade of some great pine where chattering squirrels were quarrelling over their breakfast. Often, too, they would leave the path and plunge off in search of "track," which they failed to find, so that by the time the runways were reached they were well tired.
The landlord stationed Sam and Leon on the lower runway, while he and Herbert went to those higher up the mountain. There was a long time to wait before any game could be expected, as the man who was to start the hounds had a good distance to make before sending them off, and he was only a half-hour ahead of the watchers.
Leon laid down to rest after making sure that his gun was in good order; but Sam wandered around, looking for squirrels and "signs of game," until suddenly he heard, away back on the mountain, the bay of a hound. This was a signal that the chase had begun, and he hurried back to the watching-place to be ready for the deer, should the deer come. For nearly an hour the boys stood with guns ready, every minute hoping to see a deer. A squirrel running through the brush would bring their guns to their faces, and at the slightest rustle of the bushes they would start and listen. Meanwhile the hounds were surely coming nearer and nearer, their excited barking proclaiming that they were close upon the game; and at last Sam was sure they were down on the lower runway and,turning to Leon in great excitement, he said, "Let's keep cool and we can kill this deer! Then won't Herb be sorry he went further up?" Both boys felt sure there must be a deer coming, although they had been told that the hounds often came in without anything.
At last they could hear the brush crackling—yes, the hounds were surely down on their runway; and in a minute the dogs and game did come in sight together. But what a surprised pair of huntsmen they were when they saw what the game was! Leon was frightened, while even Sam felt a little uneasy. The hounds had not started a deer at all. Instead they were pursuing an old bear, and two young cubs about the size of a large dog. The old bear was very large and fierce, and whenever the hounds came up with the cubs, that could not run very fast, she would turn around and fight until the cubs ran on a few rods and then she would run again.
Just as the bear and cubs reached the watching place there was a fight, and the great creature caught one of the hounds and hugged him in herarms till he was breathless, all the time sitting up on her hind legs and looking as tall as a man. While she was in this position Sam took aim at her head and fired, and a moment later Leon fired too. Then the bear started to run, and they both fired the other barrel of their shot-guns, though without taking much aim, but a moment after they saw her lying on the ground, surrounded by the pack.
By this time Herbert and the landlord had come down in hot haste to see what the shooting was for, and in great surprise they gathered around the huge creature which the boys had secured. Leon and Sam had really killed a bear, a genuine black bear, a large one too—the landlord said the largest he had seen that year; and there were never two prouder fellows than these two schoolboys, as they surveyed their noble game.
But this was not all. The hounds were sent after the cubs, and in a few minutes they were caught alive. They were taken to the hotel and caged. Very quiet animals they were; in a few days they would eat from the boys' hands, as tame as the fawns in the park, never trying to bite orshowing any crossness. With these pets and with their fine bear skin to show, it is no wonder that the boys thought there was never a pleasanter place than the hotel in the mountains; and it is not at all strange that they hated to leave it when their two weeks were up. But they had a new, strong cage made for the baby bears, and took them home to keep in the little yard near the barn, where every boy, and nearly every man in town came to see them, and to hear the story of their capture, and take the dimensions of the handsome black bear skin. At school certainly nothing else was talked of that term, and I fear the boys really believed they were the best hunters in the State. How long their mamma will allow them to keep their pets they do not know, but they hope it will be as long as the two bears live and behave.
"What do you want for Christmas?" asked Mrs. Downs, in a kindly manner.
"I don't know, mother," replied Pete slowly. "Last year it was a paint-box, bicycle, foils, and you said I could use Dick's foils—and that you couldn't afford bicycles after the new carpet, so it got down to a paint-box and that wasn't much of a Christmas."
"That's the comfort in regularly having Christmases; in time you get what you want," answered his mother.
"That isn't always so. I think it depends on what a fellow wants; and I've made a strike this year. I'm not going to say thank you for what I don't want; only I don't exactly know what I do want. It must be either—either—a—bicycle—or a printing press—or Indian clubs; and if it is a bicycle, it must be the real kind—wooden onesare not allowed in processions; and if it is clubs, I shall knock my head off; so it better be a printing press. It doesn't make any difference to you this year, does it, as we have not got to buy a new carpet? I have decided; it shall be a printing press, and I shall get orders enough to pay for new curtains."
"Not quite so fast, I don't know about the orders, and I do know printing presses cost, and that Indian clubs are cheap."
"Oh! you can't put me off till another Christmas; it is like Alice in Wonderland having jam to-morrow. And when to-morrow comes, it isn't to-morrow. I am going to have it, and you can all club together and buy it instead of giving me separately, sleeve buttons and scarf pins and cologne and paper and pocket scissors. A fellow wants real things that he can do something with. Printing press, now, you remember." And off rushed Pete as Dick gave a low war-whoop, the signal for an incursion of boys into the shed.
This shed was filled with relics of former joys, with the débris of unsuccessful inventions, with tool-boxes whose tools were missing, with oil canswithout oil, with boards full of nails, with the wheels of broken carts, and with strings, ropes and clothes lines of various lengths; yet to a new-comer it was always an El Dorado of enjoyment. Into this now sprang, tumbled, the cronies, Dick, Jack, Phil and Shel, which latter name was a contraction for General Sheridan.
"I say," exclaimed Phil, "I am getting tired of your shed; haven't had an idea in it for months—same old contrivances—get up something new."
"You just wait," said Pete, the proprietor.
"O come along, boys, if it is 'wait,' don't let us wait here," said Shel, and off they started on a raid for fun. Pete returned from the excursion to dream all night of what might and of what might not be. His wishes became so thoroughly mixed that he fancied he had told his mother he wanted nothing, not even Christmas itself; but the horror of such a mistake effectually roused him.
The next morning there was no indication of forthcoming glories, except that they had less than usual for breakfast; a kind of atonement to which Mrs. Downs sometimes treated her family. Petesighed. The greetings for a merry Christmas were of doubtful value to him. He was of a foreboding nature and experience had taught him to be prepared for disappointment in the matter of presents. He went to church and noticed carefully the style of type in the hymn books; he came home and took down all his books from their shelves for the same purpose of investigation. Even dinner itself failed to bring forgetfulness; for he thought, if he could print bills-of-fare for such lengthy repasts he might make money; though he felt he could never spell the queer French names of dishes. At last the meal was ended, and the big parlor doors were thrown open, displaying horizontal rows of evergreen, with various knick-knacks fastened to these mysterious lines, which on inspection proved to be the bars of an old-fashioned clotheshorse. It made one think of sums in addition put down in agreeable shapes; one green line of gifts and then another and another, which suddenly changed into a sum in long division. Brown-looking packages lay about the feet of the clotheshorse, and on them Pete fastened his eyes, for printing presses cannot hang.
His name was called several times and he received the very things he did not want; sleeve buttons, scarfpins, cologne, and paper. He says, "thank you," each time more faintly, whilst his mother's eyes twinkle. At last Santa Claus tried to lift a big bundle; he puffed and panted and called Pete to help him. Pete comes slowly forward, bends down to help, felt something cold and hard beneath the wrapper, fumbled over it, clasped it round, excitedly tried to lift it, whispered awestruck, "It is, itisa self-inker;" bends further down, lifted it up awkwardly, and dropped it on his little slippered foot, with a big bang and a painful, "oh!" The scene was too funny for sympathy and the general laugh increased the ache in the right-hand corner of the big toe on the left foot. Pete limped out of the room and was soon forgotten in the universal excitement; but when all were busy with their ice cream, he crept back to his beloved bundle, unwrapped it, and lying flat down on his stomach hugged himself to it, and gazed at it again. It was growing late. He knew that as soon as the guests were gone he must do his share in putting thingsto rights, restoring furniture to its place, and worse than all, in smoothing out the wrapping paper and tying it up in little bundles, and in unravelling all the knotted strings; for his mother was accustomed to take off the edge of too great Christmas enjoyment, by enforcement of this economical rule. That night he dreamed of Franklin, of editors, of type setting, and of sensible mothers, who knew what fellows want.
The next morning he woke with a sense of much to do, and soon began his future career by sorting the type. This was a long job, for he had several kinds; capitals and small letters, heavy face and light face type, besides commas, hyphens and periods, and somehow everything was mixed up. Now and then he stopped to admire his new gift and his own energy, or to call some one to help him.
At last his task was done. Pete was a methodical boy and always finished one job before he began another. "Now," said he, "what shall I do first? set the type or ink the tablet? I'll ink the tablet and then print my name, it is so short."
He began the inking process just as Dick announced himself by his war-whoop, and called out,
"At it, are you! Got any orders! Shel has a big job—whole lots of placards from his father, flaming ones to print, takes all kinds of type; makes money on it; so busy he can't speak to a fellow, so I came along here, for I'm one of the kind don't believe in orders for boys. Learn by looking on, is my way—have all of the fun and—none of the ink guess I'll say, seeing how your hands are. That isn't the way—your mother will have something to say to that."
"You keep still and let me alone," answered Pete. "I'll come out all right. I am going to set the type for Pete Downs, Centreville, Illinois, U. S.," and he carefully began to insert the letters on the left hand of the chase. He placed the chase in the body of the press, put some paper on the pressure and began to work the handle up and down till the type was well inked; he next marked out the size of his card on the pressure, inserted his gauge pins, placed his card upon them, took hold of the handle and pushed it up and down, thus bringing the card on the pressure against the inkedtype; he pushed with all his might and lifted up his work with a conqueror's air. Dick, who had been maliciously watching, burst into peals of laughter. The name read thus:
Petedown, ne . S
"You've forgotten the quads," said Dick, "and you haven't enough ink. You must put on spectacles to read it."
"That's nothing" replied Pete, growing red as he began to separate the words and rub more ink on the tablet. Again he pressed down the handle, lifted it up and gazed again. This time the name ran:
Petedow(ce rville, Ill )
The rest was so smutchy that not a letter was legible.
"Better go into partnership," said Dick; "you are not smart enough for an apprentice, but on account of your capital you might be worth something as a partner."
Pete cleaned the tablet with half the turpentine and benzine in the bottle and began afresh. This time came out in watery lines:
Pete Downscentreville,IllinoisU. S.
"Why, what's the matter now?"
"Forgotten enough leads and a capital," replied Dick. "What is the use in trying alone; go in with some boy who knows, and you'll get on."
"Perhaps. But I'll clear up first."
His mother had provided him with overalls for just such occasions; but Pete was confident that printing was neater work than carpentering and had avoided thinking of them. The ink was so imbedded in one corner of the tablet and so scanty in another, that he tried to even the amount, and then wash off the whole. Soon his finger-tips were coal black and sticky; to remove this difficulty, he put finger by finger into the turpentine, rendering that muddy and spreading five distinct streaks on the back of his right hand. Then he poured benzineinto the left hand to rub on the back of the right hand. This operation sent ink and benzine up his coat-sleeve, and all ten fingers became so useless that in order to use them more freely he rubbed off their contents on his—jacket. Seeing what he had done, his increasing fears brought tears; to check which, he stuck his fingers into his eyes; which hurting, sent more tears mingling with ink down his cheeks, just at the moment that his mother appeared and that Dick's instinct led him to disappear out of the window or door, he never knew which.
"My son, for shame!" said she; "how could you forget the overalls?"
"Oh! I don't know—wish I hadn't. I am going to take a partner and then it won't happen again."
He cried, and was so funny-looking that there was nothing for his mother to do but to laugh and advise speedy partnership.
"What boy would you have," asked he. "Dick has been here tormenting me, I don't want him. I might try Shel; it need not be for life, you know. He had a press last year and has got used to it."
"Very well," answered his mother. "I expected as much. Change your suit, go ask him, and tell him I approve because his mother makes him wear overalls."
Pete had not anticipated such a speedy ending of his troubles, and hastened away to do his mother's bidding. But whilst dressing, he reflected that Shel knew too much and would snub him, and that Clarence was the kind of boy who could get jobs easily. So he went to Clarence's and proposed partnership.
"What terms?" demanded Clarence in a business-like manner, hands in his pockets. "I'm pretty particular about the contract. Are you a greenhorn? That's got to be taken into account."
"Well, yes, suppose I am now; but I need not be long if you keep your bargain, besides my press is new and that counts for me."
"Well, yes, it does. Self-inker? lots of type?"
"Well, not so very much; self-inker though. Or come, you just go in and try it for a month and we'll make terms afterwards."
"Pretty dangerous plan; but I'll try it, seeing itis a new press. I'll come to your house right after dinner; and we have dinner right after breakfast, so the kitchen work can be all done up. One gets hungry between dinner and supper; and it's always a cold supper, so it needn't be any work."
"Agreed," said Pete. "I know those tricks on meals, too."
The boys parted till half-past twelve, when Clarence appeared and set to work in a vigorous manner to properly clean and ink the tablet. Pete, with overalls on, watched every motion. His name was printed and came out clear, beautiful:
Pete DownsCentreville, IllinoisU. S.
Quads, leads, capitals, spelling all right. Pete felt as if he had done it himself.
"Now you try," said Clarence; and success again came in a dozen cards. Then his name became an old story.
"I'll go and ask the cook," declared Pete, "if she don't want her name printed," and off he ran.
"Certainly" was her obliging answer; she added slowly, "Only I haven't a name good enough to print; you call me 'Hannah!' but if you put that on a card it looks common; and if you say 'Ora,' no one will know it is me; and if you only put my last name, they'll think the whole family has called. You better take the nurse's name, 'Mehitable Jones,' you can't get round that."
Hardly waiting till she had finished, Pete went to Mehitable, who kindly consented to believe that she needed a dozen cards, and to write down her name that it might be printed correctly. This looked like business. The cards were quickly printed, and delivered, and the package was marked on the wrapper "C. O. D."
"That is not my name," exclaimed Mehitable.
"Of course, that isn't your name," explained the boys; "cards are inside. That means you must pay us right off, just what you please; we didn't say anything about it first, because we trusted you—but we can't afford to work for nothing."
"Well," said Mehitable, "here is five cents."
Pete's first money earned by honest hard labor;two and a half cents apiece. "That's an unfortunate price for us," said Clarence, "though it be convenient for the buyer. Let's keep all uneven sums as capital towards other type, and all even sums we'll divide."
This was rather a shock at first to Pete; but with a partner who was such a superior business man he would not dispute.
"The first great trouble," stated Clarence, "is to get orders; the second, to execute them. You be the travelling agent and I'll be the office man."
"Now," said Pete, "I won't. I want to print as well as you. I'll be travelling agent in your family, and you in mine, and then we'll get more out of each."
"That's an idea," replied Clarence; and the partnership, which to judge by the angry looks of the past second seemed on the point of dissolution, still remained unbroken.
That afternoon's success was marked, and afterwards when business called Clarence away (for if the truth must be told), he was partner in two other firms on strict terms of secrecy, Pete did not prosper. It was always too much or too little ink; quads were not even and a sufficient number of leads were seldom inserted. He often set the type the wrong way so that it printed backwards, and worse than all he did not know how to spell; and as he before had had occasion to accuse his mother of moral reasons for her gifts, he now declared that she had only given him the press, to teach him how to spell. One day she particularly distressed both his memory and conscience by wishing him to print for the nursery the motto, "Fidelity is a virtue;" and it came out,
Notwithstanding this, the firm had made one dollar; and in the course of the next two months Pete had acquired enough skill to feel himself an expert.
A change had also come over Clarence; his spirit was too aspiring to be bound by rules of constant neatness, and he grew jealous of Pete's increasing ability. So he proposed a partnership on new terms; namely, that the cash on hand should be devoted to the purchase of some new fonts, andthat afterwards the earnings should be divided; but that as he would always ink the tablet, and as the workshop of the firm had been transferred to his shed, he should have two thirds of the profits. Pete objected, and insisted that until the business was on a better foundation, all the profits should be turned in for the improvement of their stock in trade.
"No," said Clarence, "I can't print all day and every day and not feel any cents in my pocket. I want peanuts and candy and I want to give the boys a treat, too, now and then. That's what I am going to print for, after we have got these new fonts."
"Well, you can do as you please, I sha'n't try such things. I shall keep my money for type and cards. We needn't quarrel yet till we have more money."
Clarence did not feel easy. Pete had shown more energy, patience and neatness than he thought was right under the circumstances, though what the circumstances were, he confessed to himself he did not know; and he summed up the whole offence,when he was speaking of the affairs of the concern to other boys, by saying, "O, Pete's getting too proud."
After the new type was bought, the following order was received for twenty-five postal card notices:
will hold its tenth peripatetic occasion at 42 degrees 25 seconds North Latitude 65 degrees 15 minutes 20 seconds West Longitude on the 10th instant.
This was a very important order, requiring great care, received from an older boy, a member of a secret society. Most obscure it seemed to the firm. Clarence insisted on printing it in plain English and on setting up in type: "A Walking match will take place, etc. etc." Pete thought they had no right to argue about the matter, simply to do what was ordered.
"I should not mind it so much if they would not have such long words; and we shall have to buy special marks for degrees, minutes, and seconds—charge extra on that. But peripatetic—I didn't agree to print such nonsense," said Clarence. "If we are going to do it I am going to be quick about it and set it all up except the marks and see how it looks."
He was in such a hurry that he set the type wrong three times. At last "peripatetic" was right, but no space was left for the right number of leads. Rejecting Pete's help, he lifted a row of type to make room, did not hold it tight enough, the middle sank down, fell out and the line went to pieces.
"I say now," he exclaimed, "I didn't do that—you did it—it did itself. I never made 'a pie' in all my life, and see here, I won't have it said that I made one now."
"I have made them lots of times," calmly said Pete.
"You! O yes! I dare say you have. But I never did, and that's why the other boys want me in their business."
"What business? I would not get so excited just because of this pie."
"You would if your reputation depended on it."
"Why, I won't tell."
"But the other firms will have to know it; our honor is pledged to tell whenever such a thing happens to any one of us."
"Are you in other business? Shel said you were, when he wanted us to take him in, and I said you werenot. That's the end of it. If you are any one's else partner, you can't be mine, pie or no pie."
"Very well. Just as you please, you can take Shel. You always put on too much ink and that wastes capital."
"Well, then, you put on too little ink, and blurred work don't bring orders. I am done with you."
"And I with you."
"I shall bring up my cart to-morrow and take my things away."
"What are you going to do about those new fonts?"
"I would rather you would have them all than be partner with a boy who invests in bogus firms."
"Bogus or not, I never mix accounts. You can have the first half and I the second; only as 'x' and 'z' don't count I ought to have two more letters in my half than you in yours."
"I should call that mixing halves, if you don't call it mixing accounts," said Pete, who was so hurt by this unexpected closeness that he instantly went off to get his cart. Meeting Shel on the way, he retailed his wrongs and met with such hearty sympathy that he formed a copartnership with him on the spot. Shel advised him to wait till to-morrow before taking action and give Clarence time to think over the matter and see if it would not be better for his pecuniary interests to remain a silent partner.
"You know," urged he, "that he has got a good deal of type, and though he works too quickly to admit him as active partner, he might do very well as a retired one, and thus keep the peace. Then it is always a good plan to have three partners; one of them, or all together—they somehow act as judge. I must be off now." And the boys separated.
That afternoon it rained, and Pete had to stay at home. Early the next day he drew his cart up the hill to Clarence's house with very forgiving feelings, but found he had left word with the hired man that he had gone off and wasn't going to have any moreto do with him. Of course, honor and justice then compelled him to take what belonged to him, especially as the man told him that Clarence had expected him with his cart.