Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Chapter One--In Which I Introduce Myself
This is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a prettybad boy; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boymyself.
Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him herethat I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story ofa bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless younggentlemen who generally figure in narratives of this kind, and partlybecause I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was anamiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and nohypocrite. I didn't want to be an angel and with the angels stand; Ididn't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. WibirdHawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn't send mylittle pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, but spentit royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a realhuman boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no morelike the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is like onethat has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.
Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him atrecess with the following words: "My name's Tom Bailey; what's yourname?" If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the newpupil cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn on my heel, for I wasparticular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Sprigginswere deadly affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and thelike, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.
Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by thistime--lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not? PhilAdams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where Ipicture him to myself with his head closely shaved--he never had too muchhair--and a long pigtail banging down behind. He is married, I hear;and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together,sitting cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skybluetower hung with bells. It is so I think of him; to me he is hencefortha jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is ajudge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of thatremarkable nose which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkled withfreckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to thinkof little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge! What would he do to me now, Iwonder, if I were to sing out "Pepper!" some day in court? Fred Langdonis in California, in the native-wine business--he used to make the bestlicorice-water I ever tasted! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old SouthBurying-Ground; and Jack Harris, too, is dead--Harris, who commanded usboys, of old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill. Was ityesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join theshattered Army of the Potomac? Not yesterday, but six years ago. It wasat the battle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drewrein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery! So they found him--lyingacross the enemy's guns.
How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died! I wonder whathas become of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School atRivermouth when I was a youngster? "All, all are gone, the old familiarfaces!"
It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, for a moment, from thatPast which has closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they liveagain in my memory! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere evenConway, mine ancient foe, stands forth transfigured, with a sort ofdreamy glory encircling his bright red hair!
With the old school formula I commence these sketches of my boyhood. Myname is Tom Bailey; what is yours, gentle reader? I take for grantedit is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get on famouslytogether, and be capital friends forever.