The Story of a Bad Boy

  Chapter Six--Lights and Shadows

  The first shadow that fell upon me in my new home was caused by thereturn of my parents to New Orleans. Their visit was cut short bybusiness which required my father's presence in Natchez, where he wasestablishing a branch of the bankinghouse. When they had gone, a senseof loneliness such as I had never dreamed of filled my young breast.I crept away to the stable, and, throwing my arms about Gypsy's neck,sobbed aloud. She too had come from the sunny South, and was now astranger in a strange land.

  The little mare seemed to realize our situation, and gave me all thesympathy I could ask, repeatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face andlapping up my salt tears with evident relish.

  When night came, I felt still more lonesome. My grandfather sat inhis arm-chair the greater part of the evening, reading the RivermouthBamacle, the local newspaper. There was no gas in those days, and theCaptain read by the aid of a small block-tin lamp, which he held in onehand. I observed that he had a habit of dropping off into a doze everythree or four minutes, and I forgot my homesickness at intervals inwatching him. Two or three times, to my vast amusement, he scorched theedges of the newspaper with the wick of the lamp; and at about halfpast eight o'clock I had the satisfactions--I am sorry to confess it was asatisfaction--of seeing the Rivermouth Barnacle in flames.

  My grandfather leisurely extinguished the fire with his hands, and MissAbigail, who sat near a low table, knitting by the light of an astrallamp, did not even look up. She was quite used to this catastrophe.

  There was little or no conversation during the evening. In fact, I donot remember that anyone spoke at all, excepting once, when the Captainremarked, in a meditative manner, that my parents "must have reached NewYork by this time"; at which supposition I nearly strangled myself inattempting to intercept a sob.

  The monotonous "click click" of Miss Abigail's needles made me nervousafter a while, and finally drove me out of the sitting-room into thekitchen, where Kitty caused me to laugh by saying Miss Abigail thoughtthat what I needed was "a good dose of hot-drops," a remedy she wasforever ready to administer in all emergencies. If a boy broke hisleg, or lost his mother, I believe Miss Abigail would have given himhot-drops.

  Kitty laid herself out to be entertaining. She told me several funnyIrish stories, and described some of the odd people living in the town;but, in the midst of her comicalities, the tears would involuntarilyooze out of my eyes, though I was not a lad much addicted to weeping.Then Kitty would put her arms around me, and tell me not to mind it--thatit wasn't as if I had been left alone in a foreign land with no one tocare for me, like a poor girl whom she had once known. I brightened upbefore long, and told Kitty all about the Typhoon and the old seaman,whose name I tried in vain to recall, and was obliged to fall back onplain Sailor Ben.

  I was glad when ten o'clock came, the bedtime for young folks, and oldfolks too, at the Nutter House. Alone in the hallchamber I had my cryout, once for all, moistening the pillow to such an extent that I wasobliged to turn it over to find a dry spot to go to sleep on.

  My grandfather wisely concluded to put me to school at once. If I hadbeen permitted to go mooning about the house and stables, I should havekept my discontent alive for months. The next morning, accordingly, hetook me by the hand, and we set forth for the academy, which was locatedat the farther end of the town.

  The Temple School was a two-story brick building, standing in the centreof a great square piece of land, surrounded by a high picket fence.There were three or four sickly trees, but no grass, in this enclosure,which had been worn smooth and hard by the tread of multitudinous feet.I noticed here and there small holes scooped in the ground, indicatingthat it was the season for marbles. A better playground for baseballcouldn't have been devised.

  On reaching the schoolhouse door, the Captain inquired for Mr. Grimshaw.The boy who answered our knock ushered us into a side-room, and in afew minutes--during which my eye took in forty-two caps hung on forty-twowooden pegs--Mr. Grimshaw made his appearance. He was a slender man, withwhite, fragile hands, and eyes that glanced half a dozen different waysat once--a habit probably acquired from watching the boys.

  After a brief consultation, my grandfather patted me on the head andleft me in charge of this gentleman, who seated himself in front ofme and proceeded to sound the depth, or, more properly speaking, theshallowness, of my attainments. I suspect my historical informationrather startled him. I recollect I gave him to understand that RichardIII was the last king of England.

  This ordeal over, Mr. Grimshaw rose and bade me follow him. A dooropened, and I stood in the blaze of forty-two pairs of upturned eyes.I was a cool hand for my age, but I lacked the boldness to face thisbattery without wincing. In a sort of dazed way I stumbled after Mr.Grimshaw down a narrow aisle between two rows of desks, and shyly tookthe seat pointed out to me.

  The faint buzz that had floated over the school-room at our entrancedied away, and the interrupted lessons were resumed. By degrees Irecovered my coolness, and ventured to look around me.

  The owners of the forty-two caps were seated at small green desks likethe one assigned to me. The desks were arranged in six rows, with spacesbetween just wide enough to prevent the boys' whispering. A blackboardset into the wall extended clear across the end of the room; on a raisedplatform near the door stood the master's table; and directly in frontof this was a recitation-bench capable of seating fifteen or twentypupils. A pair of globes, tattooed with dragons and winged horses,occupied a shelf between two windows, which were so high from the floorthat nothing but a giraffe could have looked out of them.

  Having possessed myself of these details, I scrutinized my newacquaintances with unconcealed curiosity, instinctively selecting myfriends and picking out my enemies--and in only two cases did I mistakemy man.

  A sallow boy with bright red hair, sitting in the fourth row, shookhis fist at me furtively several times during the morning. I had apresentiment I should have trouble with that boy some day--a presentimentsubsequently realized.

  On my left was a chubby little fellow with a great many freckles (thiswas Pepper Whitcomb), who made some mysterious motions to me. I didn'tunderstand them, but, as they were clearly of a pacific nature, I winkedmy eye at him. This appeared to be satisfactory, for he then went onwith his studies. At recess he gave me the core of his apple, thoughthere were several applicants for it.

  Presently a boy in a loose olive-green jacket with two rows of brassbuttons held up a folded paper behind his slate, intimating that it wasintended for me. The paper was passed skillfully from desk to desk untilit reached my hands. On opening the scrap, I found that it containeda small piece of molasses candy in an extremely humid state. This wascertainly kind. I nodded my acknowledgments and hastily slipped thedelicacy into my mouth. In a second I felt my tongue grow red-hot withcayenne pepper.

  My face must have assumed a comical expression, for the boy in theolive-green jacket gave an hysterical laugh, for which he was instantlypunished by Mr. Grimshaw. I swallowed the fiery candy, though it broughtthe water to my eyes, and managed to look so unconcerned that I wasthe only pupil in the form who escaped questioning as to the cause ofMarden's misdemeanor. C. Marden was his name.

  Nothing else occurred that morning to interrupt the exercises, exceptingthat a boy in the reading class threw us all into convulsions by callingAbsalom A-bol'-som "Abolsom, O my son Abolsom!" I laughed as loud asanyone, but I am not so sure that I shouldn't have pronounced it Abolsommyself.

  At recess several of the scholars came to my desk and shook hands withme, Mr. Grimshaw having previously introduced me to Phil Adams, charginghim to see that I got into no trouble. My new acquaintances suggestedthat we should go to the playground. We were no sooner out-of-doors thanthe boy with the red hair thrust his way through the crowd and placedhimself at my side.

  "I say, youngster, if you're comin' to this school you've got to toe themark."

  I didn't see any mark to toe, and didn't understand what he meant; but Ireplied poli
tely, that, if it was the custom of the school, I should behappy to toe the mark, if he would point it out to me.

  "I don't want any of your sarse," said the boy, scowling.

  "Look here, Conway!" cried a clear voice from the other side of theplayground. "You let young Bailey alone. He's a stranger here, and mightbe afraid of you, and thrash you. Why do you always throw yourself inthe way of getting thrashed?"

  I turned to the speaker, who by this time had reached the spot where westood. Conway slunk off, favoring me with a parting scowl of defiance.I gave my hand to the boy who had befriended me--his name was JackHarris--and thanked him for his good-will.

  "I tell you what it is, Bailey," he said, returning my pressuregood-naturedly, "you'll have to fight Conway before the quarter ends,or you'll have no rest. That fellow is always hankering after a licking,and of course you'll give him one by and by; but what's the use ofhurrying up an unpleasant job? Let's have some baseball. By the way,Bailey, you were a good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about the candy.Charley Marden would have caught it twice as heavy. He's sorry he playedthe joke on you, and told me to tell you so. Hallo, Blake! Where are thebats?"

  This was addressed to a handsome, frank-looking lad of about my own age,who was engaged just then in cutting his initials on the bark of a treenear the schoolhouse. Blake shut up his penknife and went off to get thebats.

  During the game which ensued I made the acquaintance of Charley Marden,Binny Wallace, Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and Fred Langdon. Theseboys, none of them more than a year or two older than I (Binny Wallacewas younger), were ever after my chosen comrades. Phil Adams and JackHarris were considerably our seniors, and, though they always treatedus "kids" very kindly, they generally went with another set. Of course,before long I knew all the Temple boys more or less intimately, but thefive I have named were my constant companions.

  My first day at the Temple Grammar School was on the whole satisfactory.I had made several warm friends and only two permanent enemies--Conwayand his echo, Seth Rodgers; for these two always went together like aderanged stomach and a headache.

  Before the end of the week I had my studies well in hand. I was alittle ashamed at finding myself at the foot of the various classes, andsecretly determined to deserve promotion. The school was an admirableone. I might make this part of my story more entertaining by picturingMr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a red nose and a large stick; butunfortunately for the purposes of sensational narrative, Mr. Grimshawwas a quiet, kindhearted gentleman. Though a rigid disciplinarian, hehad a keen sense of justice, was a good reader of character, and theboys respected him. There were two other teachers--a French tutor and awriting-master, who visited the school twice a week. On Wednesdays andSaturdays we were dismissed at noon, and these half-holidays were thebrightest epochs of my existence.

  Daily contact with boys who had not been brought up as gently as Iworked an immediate, and, in some respects, a beneficial change in mycharacter. I had the nonsense taken out of me, as the saying is--someof the nonsense, at least. I became more manly and self-reliant. Idiscovered that the world was not created exclusively on my account.In New Orleans I labored under the delusion that it was. Having neitherbrother nor sister to give up to at home, and being, moreover, thelargest pupil at school there, my will had seldom been opposed. AtRivermouth matters were different, and I was not long in adapting myselfto the altered circumstances. Of course I got many severe rubs, oftenunconsciously given; but I had the sense to see that I was all thebetter for them.

  My social relations with my new schoolfellows were the pleasantestpossible. There was always some exciting excursion on foot--a ramblethrough the pine woods, a visit to the Devil's Pulpit, a high cliffin the neighborhood--or a surreptitious low on the river, involvingan exploration of a group of diminutive islands, upon one of which wepitched a tent and played we were the Spanish sailors who got wreckedthere years ago. But the endless pine forest that skirted the town wasour favorite haunt. There was a great green pond hidden somewhere in itsdepths, inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake, whohad an eccentric passion for carving his name on everything, never leta captured turtle slip through his fingers without leaving his markengraved on its shell. He must have lettered about two thousand fromfirst to last. We used to call them Harry Blake's sheep.

  These turtles were of a discontented and migratory turn of mind, and wefrequently encountered two or three of them on the cross-roads severalmiles from their ancestral mud. Unspeakable was our delight whenever wediscovered one soberly walking off with Harry Blake's initials! I'veno doubt there are, at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering aboutthat gummy woodland with H.B. neatly cut on their venerable backs.

  It soon became a custom among my playmates to make our barn theirrendezvous. Gypsy proved a strong attraction. Captain Nutter bought me alittle two-wheeled cart, which she drew quite nicely, after kicking outthe dasher and breaking the shafts once or twice. With our lunch-basketsand fishing-tackle stowed away under the seat, we used to start offearly in the afternoon for the sea-shore, where there were countlessmarvels in the shape of shells, mosses, and kelp. Gypsy enjoyed thesport as keenly as any of us, even going so far, one day, as to trotdown the beach into the sea where we were bathing. As she took the cartwith her, our provisions were not much improved. I shall never forgethow squash-pie tastes after being soused in the Atlantic Ocean.Soda-crackers dipped in salt water are palatable, but not squash-pie.

  There was a good deal of wet weather during those first six weeks atRivermouth, and we set ourselves at work to find some indoor amusementfor our half-holidays. It was all very well for Amadis de Gaul and DonQuixote not to mind the rain; they had iron overcoats, and were not,from all we can learn, subject to croup and the guidance of theirgrandfathers. Our case was different.

  "Now, boys, what shall we do?" I asked, addressing a thoughtful conclaveof seven, assembled in our barn one dismal rainy afternoon.

  "Let's have a theatre," suggested Binny Wallace.

  The very thing! But where? The loft of the stable was ready to burstwith hay provided for Gypsy, but the long room over the carriage-housewas unoccupied. The place of all places! My managerial eye saw at aglance its capabilities for a theatre. I had been to the play a greatmany times in New Orleans, and was wise in matters pertaining to thedrama. So here, in due time, was set up some extraordinary scenery of myown painting. The curtain, I recollect, though it worked smoothly enoughon other occasions, invariably hitched during the performances; and itoften required the united energies of the Prince of Denmark, the King,and the Grave-digger, with an occasional band from "the fair Ophelia"(Pepper Whitcomb in a low-necked dress), to hoist that bit of greencambric.

  The theatre, however, was a success, as far as it went. I retired fromthe business with no fewer than fifteen hundred pins, after deductingthe headless, the pointless, and the crooked pins with which ourdoorkeeper frequently got "stuck." From first to last we took in agreat deal of this counterfeit money. The price of admission to the"Rivermouth Theatre" was twenty pins. I played all the principal partsmyself--not that I was a finer actor than the other boys, but because Iowned the establishment.

  At the tenth representation, my dramatic career was brought to a closeby an unfortunate circumstance. We were playing the drama of "WilliamTell, the Hero of Switzerland." Of course I was William Tell, in spiteof Fred Langdon, who wanted to act that character himself. I wouldn'tlet him, so he withdrew from the company, taking the only bow and arrowwe had. I made a cross-bow out of a piece of whalebone, and did verywell without him. We had reached that exciting scene where Gessler, theAustrian tyrant, commands Tell to shoot the apple from his son's head.Pepper Whitcomb, who played all the juvenile and women parts, was myson. To guard against mischance, a piece of pasteboard was fastened by ahandkerchief over the upper portion of Whitcomb's face, while the arrowto be used was sewed up in a strip of flannel. I was a capital marksman,and the big apple, only two yards distant, turned its russet cheekfairly towards me.
br />   I can see poor little Pepper now, as he stood without flinching,waiting for me to perform my great feat. I raised the crossbow amid thebreathless silence of the crowded audience consisting of seven boys andthree girls, exclusive of Kitty Collins, who insisted on paying her wayin with a clothes-pin. I raised the cross-bow, I repeat. Twang! went thewhipcord; but, alas! instead of hitting the apple, the arrow flew rightinto Pepper Whitcomb's mouth, which happened to be open at the time, anddestroyed my aim.

  I shall never be able to banish that awful moment from my memory.Pepper's roar, expressive of astonishment, indignation, and pain, isstill ringing in my cars. I looked upon him as a corpse, and, glancingnot far into the dreary future, pictured myself led forth to executionin the presence of the very same spectators then assembled.

  Luckily poor Pepper was not seriously hurt; but Grandfather Nutter,appearing in the midst of the confusion (attracted by the howls of youngTell), issued an injunction against all theatricals thereafter, and theplace was closed; not, however, without a farewell speech from me, inwhich I said that this would have been the proudest moment of my lifeif I hadn't hit Pepper Whitcomb in the mouth. Whereupon the audience(assisted, I am glad to state, by Pepper) cried "Hear! Hear!" I thenattributed the accident to Pepper himself, whose mouth, being open atthe instant I fired, acted upon the arrow much after the fashion of awhirlpool, and drew in the fatal shaft. I was about to explain how acomparatively small maelstrom could suck in the largest ship, when thecurtain fell of its own accord, amid the shouts of the audience.

  This was my last appearance on any stage. It was some time, though,before I heard the end of the William Tell business. Malicious littleboys who had not been allowed to buy tickets to my theatre used to cryout after me in the street,

  "'Who killed Cock Robin?' 'I,' said the sparrer, 'With my bow and arrer, I killed Cock Robin!'"

  The sarcasm of this verse was more than I could stand. And it madePepper Whitcomb pretty mad to be called Cock Robin, I can tell you!

  So the days glided on, with fewer clouds and more sunshine than fall tothe lot of most boys. Conway was certainly a cloud. Within school-boundshe seldom ventured to be aggressive; but whenever we met about town henever failed to brush against me, or pull my cap over my eyes, ordrive me distracted by inquiring after my family in New Orleans, alwaysalluding to them as highly respectable colored people.

  Jack Harris was right when he said Conway would give me no rest until Ifought him. I felt it was ordained ages before our birth that we shouldmeet on this planet and fight. With the view of not running counter todestiny, I quietly prepared myself for the impending conflict. The sceneof my dramatic triumphs was turned into a gymnasium for this purpose,though I did not openly avow the fact to the boys. By persistentlystanding on my head, raising heavy weights, and going hand over hand upa ladder, I developed my muscle until my little body was as tough as ahickory knot and as supple as tripe. I also took occasional lessons inthe noble art of self-defence, under the tuition of Phil Adams.

  I brooded over the matter until the idea of fighting Conway became apart of me. I fought him in imagination during school-hours; I dreamedof fighting with him at night, when he would suddenly expand into agiant twelve feet high, and then as suddenly shrink into a pygmy sosmall that I couldn't hit him. In this latter shape he would get intomy hair, or pop into my waistcoat-pocket, treating me with as littleceremony as the Liliputians showed Captain Lemuel Gulliver--all of whichwas not pleasant, to be sure. On the whole, Conway was a cloud.

  And then I had a cloud at home. It was not Grandfather Nutter, nor MissAbigail, nor Kitty Collins, though they all helped to compose it. Itwas a vague, funereal, impalpable something which no amount of gymnastictraining would enable me to knock over. It was Sunday. If ever I havea boy to bring up in the way he should go, I intend to make Sunday acheerful day to him. Sunday was not a cheerful day at the Nutter House.You shall judge for yourself.

  It is Sunday morning. I should premise by saying that the deep gloomwhich has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early onSaturday evening.

  At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly downstairs. He isdressed in black, and looks as if he had lost all his friends duringthe night. Miss Abigail, also in black, looks as if she were prepared tobury them, and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony. Even Kitty Collinshas caught the contagious gloom, as I perceive when she brings in thecoffee-urn--a solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time, but monumentalnow--and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail. Miss Abigail gazes atthe urn as if it held the ashes of her ancestors, instead of a generousquantity of fine old Java coffee. The meal progresses in silence.

  Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day. It is open this Junemorning, and is pervaded by a strong smell of centretable. The furnitureof the room, and the little China ornaments on the mantel-piece, have aconstrained, unfamiliar look. My grandfather sits in a mahogany chair,reading a large Bible covered with green baize. Miss Abigail occupiesone end of the sofa, and has her hands crossed stiffly in her lap. Isit in the corner, crushed. Robinson Crusoe and Gil Blas are in closeconfinement. Baron Trenck, who managed to escape from the fortress ofClatz, can't for the life of him get out of our sitting-room closet. Eventhe Rivermouth Barnacle is suppressed until Monday. Genial converse,harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are banished. If I want toread anything, I can read Baxter's Saints' Rest. I would die first. SoI sit there kicking my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watchinga morbid blue-bottle fly that attempts to commit suicide by butting hishead against the window-pane. Listen!--no, yes--it is--it is the robinssinging in the garden--the grateful, joyous robins singing away like mad,just as if it wasn't Sunday. Their audacity tickles me.

  My grandfather looks up, and inquires in a sepulchral voice if I amready for Sabbath school. It is time to go. I like the Sabbath school;there are bright young faces there, at all events. When I get out intothe sunshine alone, I draw a long breath; I would turn a somersault upagainst Neighbor Penhallow's newly painted fence if I hadn't my besttrousers on, so glad am I to escape from the oppressive atmosphere ofthe Nutter House.

  Sabbath school over, I go to meeting, joining my grandfather, whodoesn't appear to be any relation to me this day, and Miss Abigail, inthe porch. Our minister holds out very little hope to any of us of beingsaved. Convinced that I am a lost creature, in common with the humanfamily, I return home behind my guardians at a snail's pace. We have adead cold dinner. I saw it laid out yesterday.

  There is a long interval between this repast and the second service,and a still longer interval between the beginning and the end of thatservice; for the Rev. Wibird Hawkins's sermons are none of the shortest,whatever else they may be.

  After meeting, my grandfather and I take a walk. We visit appropriatelyenough--a neighboring graveyard. I am by this time in a condition ofmind to become a willing inmate of the place. The usual eveningprayer-meeting is postponed for some reason. At half past eight I go tobed.

  This is the way Sunday was observed in the Nutter House, and prettygenerally throughout the town, twenty years ago.(1) People who wereprosperous and natural and happy on Saturday became the most rueful ofhuman beings in the brief space of twelve hours. I don't think there wasany hypocrisy in this. It was merely the old Puritan austerity croppingout once a week. Many of these people were pure Christians every day inthe seven--excepting the seventh. Then they were decorous and solemn tothe verge of moroseness. I should not like to be misunderstood on thispoint. Sunday is a blessed day, and therefore it should not be made agloomy one. It is the Lord's day, and I do believe that cheerful heartsand faces are not unpleasant in His sight.

  "O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair, How welcome to the weary and the old! Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly cares! Day of the Lord, as all our days should be! Ah, why will man by his austerities Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light, And make of thee a dungeon of despair!"

  (1) About 1850.

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