"Vice is a monster of so frightful mienAs to be hated, needs but to be seen;But seen too oft, familiar with her face,We first endure, then pity, then embrace."
"Vice is a monster of so frightful mienAs to be hated, needs but to be seen;But seen too oft, familiar with her face,We first endure, then pity, then embrace."
Now, I have not represented my hero, at this stage of the story, as a very good boy, and it did not require much time to familiarize him with the wickedness which was in Ben's heart, and which he did not take any pains to conceal. The transition from enduring to pitying and from that to embracing was sudden and easy, if, indeed, there was any middle passage between the first and last stage.
I am sorry to say that an hour's fellowship with Ben, under the exciting circumstances in which we find them, had led him to think Ben a very good fellow, notwithstanding the crime he had committed. I shall do my young reader the justice to believe he hopes Harry will be a better boy, and obtain higher and nobler views of duty. It must be remembered that Harry had never learned to"love God and man" on the knee of an affectionate mother. He had long ago forgotten the little prayers she had taught him, and none were said at the poorhouse. We are sorry he was no better; but when we consider under what influences he had been brought up, it is not strange that he was not a good boy. Above every earthly good, we may be thankful for the blessing of a good home, where we have been taught our duty to God, to our fellow-beings, and to ourselves.
The young navigators talked lightly of the present and the future, as the boat floated gently along through the gloomy forest. They heard the Redfield clock strike twelve, and then one. The excitement had begun to die out. Harry yawned, for he missed his accustomed sleep, and felt that a few hours' rest in his bed at the poorhouse was even preferable to navigating the river at midnight. Ben gaped several times, and the fun was really getting very stale.
Those "who go down to the sea in ships," or navigate the river in boats, must keep their eyes open. It will never do to slumber at the helm; and Harry soon had a practical demonstration of the truth of the proposition. He was so sleepy that he could not possibly keep his eyes open; and Ben, not having the care of the helm, had actually dropped off, and was bowing as politely as a French dancing master to his companion in the stern. They were a couple of smart sailors, and needed a little wholesome discipline to teach them the duty of those who are on the watch.
The needed lesson was soon administered; for just as Ben was making one of his lowest bows in his semi-conscious condition, the bow of the boat ran upon a concealed rock, which caused her to keel over to one side, and very gently pitch the sleeper into the river.
Of course, this catastrophe brought the commander of the expedition to his senses, and roused the helmsman to a sense of his own delinquency, though it is clear that, as there were no lighthouses on the banks of the river, andthe intricacies of the channel had never been defined and charted for the benefit of the adventurous navigator, no human forethought could have provided against the accident.
Harry put the boat about, and assisted his dripping shipmate on board again. The ducking he had received did not operate very favorably upon Ben's temper, and he roundly reproached his companion for his carelessness. The steersman replied with becoming spirit to this groundless charge, telling him he had better keep his eyes open the rest of the night. Wet and chilly as he was, Ben couldn't help growling; and both evidently realized that the affair was not half as romantic as they had adjudged it to be an hour or two before.
"Never mind it, Ben. If we fail once let us try again—that's all."
"Try again? You want to drown me, don't you?" snarled Ben.
Harry assured him he did not, and called his attention to the sound of dashing waters, which could now be plainly heard. They were approaching the rocks, and it was certain from the noise that difficult navigation was before them. Harry proposed to haul up by the river's side, and wait for daylight; to which proposition Ben, whose ardor was effectually cooled by the bath he had received, readily assented.
Accordingly they made fast the painter to a tree on the shore, and both of them disembarked. While Harry was gathering up a pile of dead leaves for a bed, Ben amused himself by wringing out his wet clothes.
"Suppose we make a fire, Harry?" suggested Ben; and it would certainly have been a great luxury to one in his damp condition.
"No; it will betray us," replied Harry, with alarm.
"Humph! It is easy enough for you to talk, who are warm and dry," growled Ben. "I am going to have a fire, anyhow."
In vain Harry protested. Ben had some matches in theboat, and in a few minutes a cheerful fire blazed in the forest. As the leader of the enterprise felt its glowing warmth his temper was sensibly impressed, and he even had the hardihood to laugh at his late misfortune. But Harry did not care just then whether his companion was pleasant or sour, for he had stretched himself on his bed of leaves, and was in a fair way to forget the trials and hardships of the voyage in the deep sleep which makes it "all night" with a tired boy.
After Ben was thoroughly dried and warmed, he placed himself by the side of his fellow-voyager, and both journeyed together through the quiet shades of dreamland, leaving no wakeful eye to watch over the interests of the expedition while they slumbered.
The sun was high in the heavens when the tired boatmen awoke. Unaccustomed as they were to fatigue and late hours, they had been completely overcome by the exertion and exposure of the previous night. Harry was the first to recover his lost senses; and when he opened his eyes, everything looked odd and strange to him. It was not the rough, but neat and comfortable little room in the poorhouse which greeted his dawning consciousness; it was the old forest and the dashing river. He did not feel quite at home; the affair had been divested of its air of romance, and he felt more like a runaway boy than the hero of a fairy tale.
"Hallo, Ben!" shouted he, to his sleeping companion.
Ben growled once, and then rolled over, as if angry at being disturbed.
"Ben! We shall be caught if you don't wake up. There, the clock is striking eight!" and to give Ben a better idea of where he was, he administered a smart kick in the region of the ribs.
"What are you about?" snarled Ben, springing to his feet with clinched fists.
"Time we were moving. Don't you see how high the sun is? The clock has just struck eight."
"No matter for that. We are just as safe here as anywhere else. You kick me again, and see where you will be!"
"Come, come, Ben; don't get mad."
"Don't kick me, then."
"What are you going to do now?"
"That's my business. You do what I tell you, that's all you have to do with it," replied Ben, imperiously, as he walked to the bank of the river to survey the difficulties of the navigation.
"Isit?" asked Harry, not particularly pleased with this interpretation of their relations.
"You better believe it is."
"I don't believe anything of the kind. I ain't your nigger, anyhow!" added Harry, with spirit.
"I'll bet you are."
"I'll bet I ain't."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I'll let you know what I am going to do."
"If you don't mind what I tell you, I'll wallop you on the spot."
"No, you won't"; and Harry turned on his heel, and leisurely walked off towards the thickest of the forest.
"Where are you going?"
"Off."
"Off where?"
"Do you think I'm going to stay with you, to be treated like a dog!" replied Harry, as he continued his retreat.
Ben started after him, but Harry picked up a stick of wood and stood on the defensive.
"Now, if you don't come back, I'll break your head!" said Ben.
"Look out that your own don't get broke"; and Harry brandished his cudgel in the air.
Ben glanced at the club, and saw from the flash ofHarry's bright eye that he was thoroughly aroused. His companion was not to be trifled with, and he was ready to abandon the point.
"Come, Harry, it's no use for us to quarrel," he added, with a forced smile.
"I know that; but I won't be trod upon by you or anybody else."
"I don't want to tread on you."
"Yes, you do; you needn't think you are going to lord it over me in that way. I will go back to the poorhouse first."
"Let's be friends again, Harry. Throw down your club."
"Yes, and let you lick me, then! No, you don't!"
"I won't touch you, Harry; upon my word and honor, I won't."
"Humph! Your word and honor ain't worth much. I'll go back, if you'll behave yourself; but I shall keep the club handy."
"Anyway you like; but let us be off."
Ben changed his tone, and condescended to tell Harry what he meant to do, even at the sacrifice of his dignity as commander of the expedition. An appearance at least of good feeling was restored, and after breakfasting on their bread and cheese, they embarked again, on what promised to be a perilous voyage.
For a quarter of a mile below, the bed of the narrow river was spotted with rocks, among which the water dashed with a fury that threatened the destruction of their frail bark. For a time they seriously debated the question of abandoning the project, Harry proposing to penetrate the woods in a northeasterly direction. Ben, however, could not abandon the prospect of sailing leisurely down the river when they had passed the rapids, making the passage without any exertion. He was not pleased with the idea of trudging along on foot for thirty miles, when the river would bear them to the city with only a little difficulty occasionally at the rapids and shoal places. Perhapshis plan would have been practicable at the highest stage of water, but the river was now below its ordinary level.
Ben's love of an easy and romantic time carried the day, and Harry's practical common-sense reasoning was of no avail, and a taunt at his cowardice induced him to yield the point.
"Now, Harry, you take one of the paddles, and place yourself in the bow, while I steer," said Ben, as he assumed his position.
"Very well; you shall be captain of the boat, and I will do just as you say; but I won't be bullied on shore," replied Harry, taking the station assigned him.
"All right; now cast off the painter, and let her slide. Keep both eyes open."
"Never fear me; I will do my share."
The boat floated out into the current, and was borne rapidly down the swift-flowing stream. They were not very skillful boatmen, and it was more a matter of tact than of strength to keep the boat from dashing on the sharp rocks. For a little way they did very well, though the passage was sufficiently exciting to call their powers into action, and to suggest a doubt as to the ultimate result of the venture.
They soon reached a place, however, where the river turned a sharp angle, and the waters were furiously precipitated down upon a bed of rocks, which threatened them with instant destruction.
"We shall be smashed to pieces!" exclaimed the foolhardy pilot, as his eye measured the descent of the waters. "Let's try to get ashore."
"Too late now," replied Harry, coolly. "Put her through, hit or miss."
But Ben's courage all oozed out, in the face of this imminent peril, and he made a vain attempt to push the boat toward the shore.
"Paddle your end round, Harry," gasped Ben, in the extremity of fear. "We shall be smashed to pieces."
"Too late, Ben; stand stiff, and make the best of it," answered Harry, as he braced himself to meet the shock.
The rushing waters bore the boat down the stream in spite of the feeble efforts of the pilot to check her progress. Ben seemed to have lost all his self-possession, and stooped down, holding on with both hands at the gunwale.
Down she went into the boiling caldron of waters, roaring and foaming like a little Niagara. One hard bump on the sharp rocks, and Harry heard the boards snap under him. He waited for no more, but grasping the over-hanging branches of a willow, which grew on the bank, and upon which he had before fixed his eyes as the means of rescuing himself, he sprang up into the tree, and saw Ben tumbled from the boat into the seething caldron.
"Save me, Harry!" shouted Ben.
But Harry had to save himself first, which, however, was not a difficult matter. Swinging himself from branch to branch till he reached the trunk of the willow, he descended to the ground, without having even wet the soles of his shoes.
"Save me! save me!" cried Ben, in piteous accents, as the current bore him down the stream.
"Hold on to the boat," replied Harry, "and I will be there in a minute."
Seizing a long pole which had some time formed a part of a fence there, he hastened down the bank to the water's edge. The water was not very deep, but it ran so rapidly that Ben could neither swim nor stand upon the bottom; and but for his companion's promptness he would undoubtedly have been drowned. Grasping the long pole which Harry extended to him, he was drawn to the shore, having received no other injury than a terrible fright and a good ducking.
"Here we are," said Harry, when his companion was safely landed.
"Yes, here we are," growled Ben; "and it is all your fault that we are here."
"It is my fault thatyouare here; for if I had not pulled you out of the river, you would have been drowned," replied Harry, indignantly; and perhaps he felt a little sorry just then that he had rescued his ungrateful commander.
"Yes, and if you had only done as I told you, and pushed for the shore above the fall, all this would not have happened."
"And if you hadn't been a fool, we should not have tried to go through such a hole. There goes your old boat"; and Harry pointed to the wreck, filled with water, floating down the stream.
"Here they are!" shouted a voice, not far from them.
Harry started, and so did Ben.
"We are caught!" exclaimed Ben.
"Not yet," replied Harry, with some trepidation, as he broke off a piece of the pole that lay at his feet, and retreated from the river. "Take a club, for I am not going to be carried back without fighting for it."
A survey of the ground and of the pursuers enabled him to prepare for the future. He discovered at a glance the weakness of the assailants.
"Take a club, Ben. Don't you see there is only one man on this side of the river? and we can easily beat him off."
Ben took the club; but he seemed not to have the energy to use it. In fact, Harry showed himself better qualified to manage the present interests of the expedition than his companion. All at once he developed the attributes of a skillful commander, while his confederate seemed to have lost all his cunning and all his determination.
"Now, let us run; and if we are caught we will fight for it," said Harry.
The boys took to their heels, and having a fair start of their pursuer, they kept clear of him for a considerable distance; but Ben's wet clothes impeded his progress, and Harry had too much magnanimity to save himself at the sacrifice of his companion.
It was evident, after the chase had continued a shorttime, that their pursuer was gaining upon them. In vain Harry urged Ben to increase his speed; his progress was very slow, and it was soon apparent to Harry that they were wasting their breath in running when they would need it for the fight.
"Now, Ben, we can easily whip this man, and save ourselves. Be a man, and let us stand by each other to the last."
Ben made no reply; but when Harry stopped, he did the same.
"Keep off! or we will knock your brains out," cried Harry, placing himself in the attitude of defense.
But the man took no notice of this piece of bravado; and as he approached Harry leveled a blow at his head. The man warded it off, and sprang forward to grasp the little rebel.
"Hit him, Ben!" shouted Harry, as he dodged the swoop of his assailant.
To his intense indignation and disgust, Ben, instead of seconding his assault, dropped his club and fled. He seemed to run a good deal faster than he had run before that day; but Harry did not give up the point. The man pressed him closely, and he defended himself with a skill and vigor worthy a better cause. But it was of no use; or, if it was, it only gave Ben more time to effect his escape.
The unequal contest, however, soon terminated in the capture of our resolute hero, and the man tied his hands behind his back; but he did not dare to leave the young lion to go in pursuit of his less unfortunate, but more guilty, confederate.
"There, Master Harry West, I think you have got into a tight place now," said his captor, whose name was Nathan Leman, brother of the person to whom the boat belonged. "We will soon put you in a place where you won't burn any more barns."
Harry was confounded at this charge, and promptly and indignantly denied it. He had not considered the possibilityof being accused of such a crime, and it seemed to put a new aspect upon his case.
"You did not set fire to Squire Walker's barn last night?" replied Leman, incredulously.
"No, I did not."
"Perhaps you can make the squire believe it," sneered his captor.
"I didn't do it."
"Didn't steal my brother's boat, either, did you?"
"Ididn't."
"Who did?"
Harry thought a moment. After the mean trick which Ben Smart had served him, he did not feel very kindly towards him, but he was not yet prepared to betray him.
"I didn't," was his reply.
Nathan Leman then conducted his prisoner to the river's side. By this time the other pursuer, who had been obliged to ascend the river for a quarter of a mile before he could cross, joined him.
"Where is the other fellow?" he asked.
"Couldn't catch him. This one fought like a young tiger, and I couldn't leave him," replied Nathan. "If you will take Harry up to the village I will soon have him."
The other assented, and while Nathan went in search of Ben, Harry was conducted back to the village.
The prisoner was sad and depressed in spirits; but he did not lose all hope. He was appalled at the idea of being accused of burning the barn; but he was innocent, and had a vague assurance that no harm could befall him on that account.
When they entered the village, a crowd gathered around them, eager to learn the particulars of the capture; but without pausing to gratify this curiosity, Harry's conductor led him to the poorhouse, and placed him in charge of Mr. Nason.
The keeper of the poorhouse received Harry in sullen silence, and conducted him to the chamber in which he had been ordered to keep him a close prisoner. He apparently had lost all confidence in him, and regretted that he had connived at his escape.
Harry did not like the cold and repulsive deportment of his late friend. Mr. Nason had always been kind to him; now he seemed to have fallen in with Squire Walker's plans, and was willing to be the instrument of the overseer's narrow and cruel policy. Before, he had taken his part against the mighty, so far as it was prudent for him to do so; now, he was willing to go over to the enemy.
The reverse made him sadder than any other circumstance of his return—sadder than the fear of punishment, or even of being sent to live with Jacob Wire.
"I've got back again," said Harry, when they reached the chamber in which he was to be confined.
"I see you have," replied Mr. Nason, in freezing tones.
The keeper had never spoken to him in such tones, and Harry burst into tears. His only friend had deserted him, and he felt more desolate than ever before in his life.
"You needn't cry, now," said Mr. Nason, sternly.
"I can't help it," sobbed the little prisoner.
"Can't you?"
Mr. Nason sneered as he spoke, and his sneer pierced the heart of Harry.
"O, Mr. Nason!"
"There—that will do. You needn't blubber any more. You have made your bed, and now you can lie in it;" and the keeper turned on his heel to leave the room.
"Don't leave me yet," pleaded Harry.
"Leave you? What do you want of me? I suppose you want to tell me I advised you to burn the barn."
"I didn't set the barn afire!" exclaimed Harry, now for the first time realizing the cause of his friend's displeasure.
"Don't lie."
"I speak the truth. I did not set it afire, or even know that it was going to be set on fire."
Mr. Nason closed the door which he had opened to depart. The firm denial, as well as the tone and manner of the boy, arrested his judgment against him. He had learned to place implicit confidence in Harry's word; for, though he might have told lies to others, he never told them to him.
"Who did burn the barn?" asked the keeper, looking sternly into the eye of the culprit.
Harry hesitated. A sense of honor and magnanimity pervaded his soul. He had obtained some false notions; and he did not understand that he could hardly be false to one who had been false to himself—that to help a criminal conceal his crime was to conspire against the peace and happiness of his fellow-beings. Shabbily as Ben Smart had used him, he could not make up his mind to betray him.
"You don't answer," added Mr. Nason.
"I didn't do it."
"But who did?"
"I don't like to tell."
"Very well; you can do as you like. After what I had done for you, it was a little strange that you should do as you have."
"I will tell you all about it, Mr. Nason, if you will promise not to tell."
"I know all about it. You and Ben Smart put your heads together to be revenged on the squire; you set his barn afire, and then stole Leman's boat."
"No, sir; I didn't set the barn afire, nor steal the boat, nor help to do either."
"You and he were together."
"We were; and if it wasn't for being mean to Ben, I would tell you all about it."
"Mean to Ben! As soon as it was known that you and Ben were missing, everybody in the village knew who set the barn afire. All you have got to do is to clear yourself, if you can; Ben is condemned already."
"If you will hear my story I will tell you all about it."
Harry proceeded to narrate everything that had occurred since he left the house on the preceding night. It was a very clear and plausible statement. He answered all the questions which Mr. Nason proposed with promptness, and his replies were consistent.
"I believe you, Harry," said the keeper, when he had finished his examination. "Somehow I couldn't believe you would do such a thing as set the squire's barn afire."
"I wouldn't," replied Harry, warmly, and much pleased to find he had re-established the confidence of his friend.
"But it is a bad case. The fact of your being with Ben Smart is almost enough to convict you."
"I shouldn't have been with him, if I had known he set the barn afire."
"I don't know as I can do anything for you, Harry; but I will try."
"Thank you."
Mr. Nason left him, and Harry had an opportunity to consider the desperate circumstances of his position. It looked just as though he should be sent to the house of correction. But he was innocent. He felt his innocence; as he expressed it to the keeper afterwards, he "felt it in his bones." It did not, on further consideration, seem probable that he would be punished for doing what he had not done, either as principal or accessory. A vague idea of an all-pervading justice consoled him; and he soon reasoned himself into a firm assurance that he should escape unharmed.
He was in the mood for reasoning just then—perhaps because he had nothing better to do, or perhaps becausethe added experience of the last twenty-four hours enabled him to reason better than before. His fine scheme of getting to Boston, and there making a rich and great man of himself, had signally failed. He did not give it up, however.
"I have failed once, but I will try again," said he to himself, as the conclusion of the whole matter; and he picked up an old school book which lay on the table.
The book contained a story, which he had often read, about a man who had met with a long list of misfortunes, as he deemed them when they occurred, but which proved to be blessings in disguise.
"Oft from apparent ills our blessings rise,Act well your part; there all the honor lies."
"Oft from apparent ills our blessings rise,Act well your part; there all the honor lies."
This couplet from the school books came to his aid, also; and he proceeded to make an application of this wisdom to his own mishaps.
"Suppose I had gone on with Ben. He is a miserable fellow," thought Harry; "he would have led me into all manner of wickedness. I ought not to have gone with him, or had anything to do with him. He might have made a thief and a robber of me. I know I ain't any better than I should be; but I don't believe I'm as bad as he is. At any rate, I wouldn't set a barn afire. It is all for the best, just as the parson says when anybody dies. By this scrape I have got clear of Ben, and learned a lesson that I won't forget in a hurry."
Harry was satisfied with this logic, and really believed that something which an older and more devout person would have regarded as a special providence had interposed to save him from a life of infamy and wickedness. It was a blessed experience, and his thoughts were very serious and earnest.
In the afternoon Squire Walker came down to the poorhouse to subject Harry to a preliminary examination. BenSmart had not been taken, and the pursuers had abandoned the chase.
"Boy," said the squire, when Harry was brought before him; "look at me."
Harry looked at the overseer with all his might. He had got far enough to despise the haughty little great man. A taste of freedom had enlarged his ideas and developed his native independence, so that he did not quail, as the squire intended he should; on the contrary, his eyes snapped with the earnestness of his gaze. With an honest and just man, his unflinching eye would have been good evidence in his favor; but the pompous overseer wished to awe him, rather than get at the simple truth.
"You set my barn on fire," continued the squire.
"I did not," replied Harry, firmly.
"Yes, you did. How dare you deny it?"
"I did not."
He had often read, and heard read, that passage of Scripture which says, "Let your communication be Yea, yea, Nay, nay; for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil." Just then he felt the truth of the inspired axiom. It seemed just as though any amount of violent protestations would not help him; and though the squire repeated the charge half a dozen times, he only replied with his firm and simple denial.
Then Squire Walker called his hired man, upon whose evidence he depended for the conviction of the little incendiary.
"Is that the boy, John?" asked the squire, pointing to Harry.
"No, sir; it was a bigger boy than that," replied John, without hesitation.
"Are you sure?"
"O, very sure."
"It must be that this is the boy," persisted the squire, evidently much disappointed by the testimony of the man.
"I am certain it was a bigger boy than this."
"I feel pretty clear about it, Mr. Nason," added thesquire. "You see, this boy was mad, yesterday, because I wanted to send him to Jacob Wire's. My barn is burned, and it stands to reason he burned it."
"But I saw the boy round the barn night afore last," interposed John, who was certainly better qualified to be a justice of the peace than his employer.
"I know that; but the barn wasn't burned till last night."
"But Harry couldn't have had any grudge against you night before last," said Mr. Nason.
"I don't know about that," mused the squire, who was apparently trying to reconcile the facts to his theory, rather than the theory to the facts.
John, the hired man, lived about three miles from the squire's house. His father was very sick; and he had been home every evening for a week, returning between ten and eleven. On the night preceding the fire, he had seen a boy prowling round the barn, who ran away at his approach. The next day, he found a pile of withered grass, dry sticks, and other combustibles heaped against a loose board in the side of the barn. He had informed the squire of the facts, but the worthy justice did not consider them of much moment.
Probably Ben had intended to burn the barn then, but had been prevented from executing his purpose by the approach of the hired man.
"This must be the boy," added the squire.
"He had on a sack coat, and was bigger than this boy," replied John.
"Harry has no sack coat," put in Mr. Nason, eagerly catching at his evidence.
"It is easy to be mistaken in the night. Search him, and see if there are any matches about him."
Undoubtedly this was a very brilliant suggestion of the squire's muddy intellect—as though every man who carried matches was necessarily an incendiary. But no matches were found upon Harry; and, according to theintelligent justice's perception of the nature of evidence, the suspected party should have been acquitted.
No matches were found on Harry; but in his jacket pocket, carefully enclosed in a piece of brown paper, were found the four quarters of a dollar given to him by Mr. Nason.
"Where did you get those?" asked the squire, sternly.
"They were given to me," replied Harry.
Mr. Nason averted his eyes, and was very uneasy. The fact of having given this money to Harry went to show that he had been privy to his escape; and his kind act seemed to threaten him with ruin.
"Who gave them to you?"
Harry made no reply.
"Answer me," thundered the squire.
"I shall not tell," replied Harry.
"You shall not?"
"No, sir."
The squire was nonplussed. The boy was as firm as a hero; and no threats could induce him to betray his kind friend, whose position he fully comprehended.
"We will see," roared the squire.
Several persons who had been present during the examination, and who were satisfied that Harry was innocent of the crime charged upon him, interfered to save him from the consequences of the squire's wrath.
Mr. Nason, finding that his young friend was likely to suffer for his magnanimity, explained the matter—thus turning the squire's anger from the boy to himself.
"So you helped the boy run away—did you?" said the overseer.
"He did not; he told me that money would keep me from starving."
"Did he?"
Those present understood the allusion, and the squire did not press the matter any further. In the course of the examination, Ben Smart had often been alluded to, and the crime was fastened upon him. Harry told his story, which,confirmed by the evidence of the hired man, was fully credited by all except the squire, who had conceived a violent antipathy to the boy.
The examination was informal; the squire did not hold it as a justice of the peace, but only as a citizen, or, at most, as an overseer of the poor. However, it proved that, as the burning of the barn had been planned before any difficulty had occurred between the squire and Harry, he had no motive for doing the deed.
The squire was not satisfied; but the worst he could do was to commit Harry to the care of Jacob Wire, which was immediately done.
"I am sorry for you, Harry," whispered Mr. Nason.
"Never mind; I shalltry again," he replied, as he jumped into the wagon with his persecutor.
"Jacob, here is the boy," said Squire Walker, as he stopped his horse in front of an old, decayed house.
Jacob Wire was at work in his garden, by the side of the house; and when the squire spoke, he straightened his back, regarding Harry with a look of mingled curiosity and distrust. He evidently did not like his appearance. He looked as though he would eat too much; and to a man as mean as Jacob, this was the sum total of all enormities. Besides, the little pauper had earned a bad reputation within the preceding twenty-four hours, and his new master glanced uneasily at his barn, and then at the boy, as though he deemed it unsafe to have such a desperate character about his premises.
"He is a hard boy, Jacob, and will need a little taming. They fed him too high at the poorhouse," continued the squire.
"That spoils boys," replied Jacob, solemnly.
"So it does."
"So, this is the boy that burnt your barn?"
"Well, I don't know. I rather think it was the Smart boy. Perhaps he knew about it, though;" and the squire proceeded to give his brother-in-law the particulars of the informal examination; for Jacob Wire, who could hardly afford to lie still on Sundays, much less other days, had not been up to the village to hear the news.
"You must be pretty sharp with him," said the overseer, in conclusion. "Keep your eye on him all the time, for we may want him again, as soon as they can catch the other boy."
Jacob promised to do the best he could with Harry, who, during the interview, had maintained a sullen silence; and the squire departed, assured that he had done his whole duty to the public and to the little pauper.
"Well, boy, it is about sundown now, and I guess we will go in and get some supper before we do any more. But let me tell you beforehand, you must walk pretty straight here, or you will fare hard."
Harry vouchsafed no reply to this speech, and followed Jacob into the house. His first meal at his new place confirmed all he had heard about the penuriousness of his master. There was very little to eat on the table, but Mrs. Wire gave him the poorest there was—a hard crust of brown bread, a cold potato, and a dish of warm water with a very little molasses and milk in it, which he was expected to imagine was tea.
Harry felt no disposition to eat. He was too sad and depressed, and probably if the very best had been set before him he would have been equally indifferent.
He ate very little, and Jacob felt more kindly towards him than before this proof of the smallness of his appetite. He had been compelled to get rid of his last boy, because he was a little ogre, and it seemed as though he would eat him out of house and home.
After supper Harry assisted Jacob about the barn, and it was nearly eight o'clock before they finished.
"Now, boy, it is about bed time, and I will show you your rooms, if you like," said Jacob. "Before you go, let me tell you it won't do any good to try to run away from here, for I am going to borrow Leman's bull-dog."
Harry made no reply to this remark, and followed his master to the low attic of the house, where he was pointed to a rickety bedstead, which he was to occupy.
"There, jump into bed afore I carry the candle off," continued Jacob.
"I don't care about any light. You needn't wait," replied Harry, as he slipped off his shoes and stockings.
"That is right; boys always ought to be learnt to go to bed in the dark," added Jacob, as he departed.
But Harry was determined not to go to bed in the dark; so, as soon as he heard Jacob's step on the floor below, he crept to the stairway, and silently descended. He had made up his mind not to wait for the bull-dog. Pausing in the entry, he heard Jacob tell his wife that he was going over to Leman's to borrow his dog; he was afraid the boy would get up in the night and set his barn on fire, or run away. Jacob then left the house, satisfied, no doubt, that the bull-dog would be an efficient sentinel while the family were asleep.
After allowing time enough to elapse for Jacob to reach Leman's house, he softly opened the front door and went out. It was fortunate for him that Mrs. Wire was as "deaf as a post," or his suddenly matured plan to "try again" might have been a failure. As it was, his departure was not observed. It was quite dark, and after he had got a short distance from the house, he felt a reasonable degree of security.
His first purpose was to get as far away from Redfield as possible before daylight should come to betray him; and, taking the road, he walked as fast as his legs would carry him towards Boston. Jacob's house was on the turnpike, which was the direct road to the city, and the distance which the squire had carried him in his wagon was so much clear gain.
He did not feel very sentimental now. The sky was overshadowed with clouds, so that he could not see any stars, and the future did not look half so bright as his fancy had pictured it on the preceding night. But he was free again; and free under more favorable circumstances than before. This time he was himself commander of the expedition, and was to suffer for no one's bad generalship but his own. Besides, the experience he had obtained was almost a guarantee of success. It had taught him the necessity of care and prudence.
The moral lesson he had learned was of infinitely more value than even the lesson of policy. For the first time in his life he was conscious of a deep and earnest desire to be a good boy, and to become a true man. As he walked along, he thought more of being a good man than of being a rich man. It was very natural for him to do so, under the circumstances, for he had come very near being punished as an incendiary. The consequences of doing wrong were just then strongly impressed upon his mind, and he almost shuddered to think he had consented to remain with Ben Smart after he knew that he burned the barn. Ah, it was an exceedingly fortunate thing for him that he had got rid of Ben as he did.
For two hours he walked as fast as he could, pausing now and then to listen for the sound of any approaching vehicle. Possibly Jacob might have gone to his room, or attic, to see if he was safe, and his escape had been discovered. He could not be too wary, and every sound that reached his waiting ear caused his heart to jump with anxiety.
He heard a clock strike eleven. It was not the Redfield clock, and it was evident that he was approaching Rockville, a factory village eight miles from his native place. But his legs were failing him. He was exhausted by the labors and the excitement of the day and night, and his strength would hardly hold out till he should get beyond the village.
Seating himself on a rock by the side of the road, he decided to hold a council of war, to determine what should be done. If he went forward, his strength might fail him at the time when a vigorous effort should be required of him. Somebody's dog might bark, and bring the "Philistines upon him." He might meet some late walker, who would detain him. It was hardly safe for him to go through the village by night or day, after the search which had been made for Ben Smart. People would be on the lookout, and it would be no hard matter to mistake him for the other fugitive.
On the other hand, he did not like to pause so near Redfield. He had scarcely entered upon the consideration of this side of the question before his quick ear detected the sound of rattling wheels in the direction from which he had come. His heart beat violently. It was Squire Walker and Jacob Wire, he was sure, in pursuit of him; but his courage did not fail him.
Leaping over the stone wall by the side of the road, he secured the only retreat which the vicinity afforded, and waited, with his heart in his throat, for the coming of his pursuers, as he had assured himself they were. The present seemed to be his only chance of escape, and if he failed now, he might not soon have another opportunity to "try again."
The vehicle was approaching at a furious pace, and as the noise grew more distinct, his heart leaped the more violently. He thought he recognized the sound of Squire Walker's wagon. There was not much time for his fancy to conjure up strange things, for the carriage soon reached the place where he was concealed.
"Ur-r—woo!" said a big bull-dog, placing his ugly nose against the wall, behind which Harry was lying.
"Whoa!" added a voice, which the trembling fugitive recognized as that of George Leman.
"The dog has scented him," said another—that of Jacob Wire.
Harry's heart sank within him, and he felt as faint as though every drop of blood had been drawn from his veins.
"I knew the dog would fetch him," said George Leman, as he leaped from the wagon, followed by Jacob Wire. "At him, Tiger!"
In obedience to this command, Tiger drew back a few steps, and then leaped upon the top of the wall. The prospect of being torn to pieces by the bull-dog was not pleasant to Harry, and with a powerful effort he summoned his sinking energies for the struggle before him. Grasping two large stones, he stood erect as the dog leaped on the wall. Inspired by the imminence of his peril, he hurled one of the stones at Tiger the instant he showed his ugly visage above the fence. The missile took effect upon the animal, and he was evidently much astonished at this unusual mode of warfare. Tiger was vanquished, and fell back from the wall, howling with rage and pain.
"Thunder! He has killed my dog!" exclaimed Leman, as he jumped over the wall.
Harry did not wait any longer, but took to his heels, followed by both pursuers, though not by the dog, which washors de combat. Our hero was in a "tight place," but with a heroism worthy the days of chivalry, he resolved not to be captured.
He had not run far, however, before he realized that George Leman was more than a match for him, especially in his present worn-out condition. He was almost upon him, when Harry executed a counter movement, which was intended to "outflank" his adversary. Dodging round a large rock in the field, he redoubled his efforts, running now towards the road where the horse was standing. Leman was a little confused by this sudden action, and for an instant lost ground.
Harry reached the road and leaped the wall at a single bound; it was a miracle that, in the darkness, he had not dashed his brains out upon the rocks, in the reckless leap.The horse was startled by the noise, and his snort suggested a brilliant idea to Harry.
"Go 'long!" he shouted; and the horse started towards Rockville at a round pace.
Harry jumped into the wagon over the hind board, and grasping the reins, put the high-mettled animal to the top of his speed.
"Go 'long!" hallooed Harry, mad with excitement.
The horse manifested no feeling of partiality toward either of the parties, and seemed as willing to do his best for Harry as for his master.
"Stop! Stop!" shouted George Leman, astounded at the new phase which the chase had assumed. "Stop! and I will let you go."
That was quite reasonable. It was natural that he should prefer to let the fugitive escape, to the alternative of losing his horse. George Leman was noted for three things in Redfield—his boat, his ugly dog, and his fast horse; and Harry, after stealing the boat and killing the dog, was in a fair way to deprive him of his horse, upon which he set a high value. The boy seemed like his evil genius, and no doubt he was angry with himself for letting so mean a man as Jacob Wire persuade him to hunt down such small game.
Harry did not deem it prudent to stop, and in a few moments had left his pursuers out of sight. Then he began to breathe freer. He had played a desperate game, and won the victory; yet he did not feel like indulging in a triumph. The battle had been a bitter necessity, and he even regretted the fate of poor Tiger, whose ribs he had stove in with a rock.
He passed through Rockville. All was still, save the roaring of the waters at the dam, and no one challenged him.
"I am safe, at any rate," said he to himself, when he had passed the village. "What will be the next scrape, I wonder? Confound it! They will have me up for stealing a horse next. But I didn't steal him. George Leman is agood fellow, and only for the fun of the thing, he wouldn't have come out on such a chase. I wouldn't steal anybody's horse. Whoa!"
Harry hauled up by the roadside, and fastened the horse to the fence.
"There, George, you can have your horse again; but I will just put the blanket over him, for he is all of a reeking sweat. It will just show George, when he comes up, that I don't mean him any harm. I hope his dog wasn't killed."
Taking the blanket which lay in the bottom of the wagon (for George Leman was very careful of his horse, and though it was October, always covered him when he let him stand out at night), he spread it over him.
"Now, for Number One again," muttered Harry. "I must take to the woods, though I doubt if George will follow me any farther."
So saying, he got over the fence, and made his way across the fields to the woods, which were but a short distance from the road.
Harry was not entirely satisfied with what he had done. He regretted the necessity which had compelled him to take George Leman's horse. It looked too much like stealing; and his awakened moral sense repelled the idea of such a crime. But they could not accuse him of stealing the horse; for his last act would repudiate the idea.
His great resolution to become a good and true man was by no means forgotten. It is true, at the very outset of the new life he had marked out for himself, he had been obliged to behave like a young ruffian, or be restored to his exacting guardians. It was rather a bad beginning; but he had taken what had appeared to him the only course.
Was it right for him to run away? On the solution of this problem depended the moral character of the subsequent acts. If it was right for him to run away, why, of course it was right for him to resist those who attempted to restore him to Jacob Wire.
Harry made up his mind that it was right for him to run away, under the circumstances. His new master had been charged to break him down—even to starve him down. Jacob's reputation as a mean and hard man was well merited; and it was his duty to leave without stopping to say good by.
I do not think that Harry was wholly in the right, though I dare say all my young readers will sympathize with the stout-hearted little hero. So far, Jacob Wire had done him no harm. He had suffered no hardship at his hands. All his misery was in the future; and if he had stayed, perhaps his master might have done well by him, though it is not probable. Still, I think Harry was in some sense justifiable. To remain in such a place was to cramp his soul, as well as pinch his body—to be unhappy, if not positively miserable. He might have tried the place, and when he found it could not be endured, fled from it.
It must be remembered that Harry was a pauper and an orphan. He had not had the benefit of parental instruction. It was not from the home of those whom God had appointed to be his guardians and protectors that he had fled; it was from one who regarded him, not as a rational being, possessed of an immortal soul—one for whose moral, mental, and spiritual welfare he was accountable before God—that he had run away, but from one who considered him as a mere machine, from which it was his only interest to get as much work at as little cost as possible. He fled from a taskmaster, not from one who was in any just sense a guardian.
Harry did not reason out all this; he only felt it. What was Jacob Wire to him? What was even Squire Walker to him? What did they care about his true welfare? Nothing. Harry so understood it, and acted accordingly.
The future was full of trials and difficulties. But his heart was stout; and the events of the last chapter inspired him with confidence in his own abilities. He entered the dark woods, and paused to rest himself. What should he do next?
While he was discussing this question in his own mind he heard the sound of voices on the road, which was not more than fifty rods distant. It was George Leman and Jacob Wire. In a few minutes he heard the sound of wagon wheels; and soon had the satisfaction of knowing that his pursuers had abandoned the chase and were returning home.
The little fugitive was very tired and very sleepy. It was not possible for him to continue his journey, and he looked about him for a place in which to lodge. The night was chilly and damp; and as he sat upon the rock, he shivered with cold. It would be impossible to sleep on the wet ground; and if he could, it might cost him his life. It was a pine forest; and there were no leaves on the ground, so that he could not make such a bed as that in which he had slept the previous night.
He was so cold that he was obliged to move about to get warm. It occurred to him that he might get into some barn in the vicinity, and nestle comfortably in the hay; but the risk of being discovered was too great, and he directed his steps towards the depths of the forest.
After walking some distance, he came to an open place in the woods. The character of the growth had changed, and the ground was covered with young maples, walnuts and oaks. The wood had been recently cut off over a large area, but there were no leaves of which he could make a bed.
Fortune favored him, however; for, after advancing half way across the open space he reached one of those cabins erected for the use of men employed to watch coal pits. It was made of board slabs, and covered with sods. Near it was the circular place on which the coal pit had burned.
At the time of which I write, charcoal was carried to Boston from many towns within thirty miles of the city. Perhaps my young readers may never have seen a coal pit. The wood is set up on the ends of the sticks, till a circular pile from ten to twenty feet in diameter is formed and two tiers in height. Its shape is that of a cone, or a sugar loaf. It is then covered with turf and soil. Fire is communicated to the wood, so that it shall smoulder, or burn slowly, without blazing. Just enough air is admitted to the pit to keep the fire alive. If the air were freely admitted the pile would burn to ashes. Sometimes the outer covering of dirt and sods falls in, as the wood shrinks permitting the air to rush in and fan the fire to a blaze. When this occurs, the aperture must be closed, or the wood would be consumed; and it is necessary to watch it day and night. The cabin had been built for the comfort of the men who did this duty.
Harry's heart was filled with gratitude when he discovered the rude hut. If it had been a palace, it could not have been a more welcome retreat. It is true the stormy wind had broken down the door, and the place was no better than a squirrel hole; yet it suggested a thousand brilliant ideas of comfort, and luxury even, to our worn-out and hunted fugitive.
He entered the cabin. The floor was covered with straw, which completed his ideal of a luxurious abode. Raising up the door, which had fallen to the ground, he placed it before the aperture—thus excluding the cold air from his chamber.
"I'm a lucky fellow," exclaimed Harry, as he threw himself on the straw. "This place will be a palace beside Jacob Wire's house. And I can stay here a month, if I like."
Nestling closely under the side of the hut, he pulled the straw over him, and soon began to feel perfectly at home. Only one consideration troubled him. The commissary department of the establishment could not be relied on. There were no pork and potatoes in the house,no well-filled grain chest, no groceries, not even a rill of pure water at hand. This was an unpromising state of things; and he began to see that there would be no fun in living in the woods, where the butcher and the baker would not be likely to visit him.
Various means of supplying the deficiency suggested themselves. There were rabbits, partridges, and quails in the woods; he might set a snare, and catch some of them. But he had no fire to cook them; and Dr. Kane had not then demonstrated the healthy and appetizing qualities of raw meat. The orchards in the neighborhood were accessible; but prudence seemed to raise an impassable barrier between him and them.
While he was thus considering these matters, he dropped asleep, and forgot all about his stomach. He was completely exhausted; and no doubt the owls and bats were astonished as they listened to the sonorous sounds that came from the deserted cabin.
Long and deep was his sleep. The birds sang their mating songs on the tree tops; but he heard them not. The sun rose, and penetrated the chinks of the hut; but the little wanderer still slumbered. The Rockville clock struck nine; and he heard it not.
I think it was Harry's grumbling stomach that finally waked him; and it was no wonder that neglected organ grew impatient under the injury put upon it, for Harry had eaten little or nothing since his dinner at the poorhouse on the preceding day.
Jumping out of the heap of straw in which he had "cuddled" all night scarcely without moving, he left the hut to reconnoitre his position. So far as security was concerned, it seemed to be a perfectly safe place. He could see nothing of the village of Rockville, though, beyond the open space, he saw the top of a chimney; but it was at least half a mile distant.
Just then he did not feel much interested in the scenery and natural advantages of the position. His stomach was imperative, and he was faint from the want of food.There was nothing in the woods to eat. Berry time was past; and the prospect of supplying his wants was very discouraging. Leaving the cabin, he walked towards the distant chimney that peered above the tree tops. It belonged to a house that "was set on a hill, and could not be hid."
After going a little way, he came to a cart path, which led towards the house. This he followed, descending a hill into a swamp, which was covered over with alders and birches. At the foot of the declivity he heard the rippling of waters; but the bushes concealed the stream from his view.
He had descended nearly to the foot of the hill when the sound of footsteps reached his ears. His heart beat quick with apprehension, and he paused to listen. The step was soft and light; it was not a man's, and his courage rose. Pat, pat, pat, went the steps on the leafy ground, so gently that his fears were conquered; for the person could be only a child.
Suddenly a piercing shriek saluted his ears. Something had occurred to alarm the owner of the fairy feet which made the soft pat, pat, on the ground. Another shriek, and Harry bounded down the road like an antelope, heedless of the remonstrances of his grumbling stomach.
"Mercy! help!" shouted a voice, which Harry perceived was that of a little girl.
In a moment more he discovered the young lady running with all her might towards him.
"Save me!" gasped the girl.
"What is the matter?"
But Harry had scarcely asked the question before he saw what had alarmed her. Under other circumstances he would have quailed himself; for, as he spoke, a great black snake raised his head two or three feet from the ground directly in front of him. He was an ugly-looking monster, and evidently intended to attack him. All the chivalry of Harry's nature was called up to meet the emergency of the occasion. Seizing a little stick that lay inthe path, he struck sundry vigorous blows at the reptile, which, however, seemed only to madden, without disabling him. Several times he elevated his head from the ground to strike at his assailant; but the little knight was an old hand with snakes, and vigorously repelled his assaults. At last, he struck a blow which laid out his snakeship; and the field was won, when Harry had smashed his head with a large rock. The reptile was about four feet and a half long, and as big round as a small boy's wrist.
"There, miss, he won't hurt you now," said Harry, panting with his exertions.
"Won't he? Are you sure he is dead?"
"Very sure."
The little girl ventured to approach the dead body of the snake, and satisfied herself that he could not harm her.
"What an ugly snake! I was crossing the brook at the foot of the hill, when he sprang out from beneath my feet and chased me. I never was so frightened in all my life," said the little miss.
"I don't wonder," replied Harry.
"I am very much obliged to you. What is your name?" asked she, with childish simplicity.
Harry did not like to answer that question, and made no reply.
"Do you live in Rockville?" she continued.
"No; I used to live in Redfield."
"Where do you live now?"
"I don't live anywhere."
The little girl wanted to laugh then, it seemed such a funny answer.
"Don't you? Who is your father?"
"I have no father."
"Who is your mother, then?"
"I have no mother."
"Poor boy! Then you are an orphan."
"I suppose so. But, little girl, I don't want you to tell any one that you have seen me. You won't—will you?"
"Not father and mother?" asked the maiden, with a stare of astonishment.
"If you please, don't. I am a poor boy, and have run away from a hard master."
"I won't tell anybody."
"And I am very hungry."
"Poor boy! How lucky that I have lots of goodies in my basket!" exclaimed she. "You shall eat all you can."
"I haven't eat anything since yesterday noon," replied Harry, as he took a handful of doughnuts she handed him.
"Sit down on this rock, and do eat all you want. I never knew what it was to be very hungry."
Harry seated himself, and proceeded to devour the food the sympathizing little maiden had given him, while she looked on with astonishment and delight as he voraciously consumed cake after cake, without seeming to produce any effect upon the "abhorred vacuum."