The Story of a Bad Boy
Chapter Eight--The Adventures of a Fourth
The sun cast a broad column of quivering gold across the river at thefoot of our street, just as I reached the doorstep of the Nutter House.Kitty Collins, with her dress tucked about her so that she looked as ifshe had on a pair of calico trousers, was washing off the sidewalk.
"Arrah you bad boy!" cried Kitty, leaning on the mop handle. "The Capenhas jist been askin' for you. He's gone up town, now. It's a nate thingyou done with my clothes-line, and, it's me you may thank for gettin' itout of the way before the Capen come down."
The kind creature had hauled in the rope, and my escapade had not beendiscovered by the family; but I knew very well that the burning of thestage-coach, and the arrest of the boys concerned in the mischief, weresure to reach my grandfathers ears sooner or later.
"Well, Thomas," said the old gentleman, an hour or so afterwards,beaming upon me benevolently across the breakfast table, "you didn'twait to be called this morning."
"No, sir," I replied, growing very warm, "I took a little run up town tosee what was going on."
I didn't say anything about the little run I took home again! "They hadquite a time on the Square last night," remarked Captain Nutter, lookingup from the Rivermouth Barnacle, which was always placed beside hiscoffee-cup at breakfast.
I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on end.
"Quite a time," continued my grandfather. "Some boys broke into EzraWingate's barn and carried off the old stagecoach. The young rascals! Ido believe they'd burn up the whole town if they had their way."
With this he resumed the paper. After a long silence he exclaimed,"Hullo!" upon which I nearly fell off the chair.
"'Miscreants unknown,'" read my grandfather, following the paragraphwith his forefinger; "'escaped from the bridewell, leaving no clew totheir identity, except the letter H, cut on one of the benches.' 'Fivedollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators.' Sho! Ihope Wingate will catch them."
I don't see how I continued to live, for on hearing this the breath wententirely out of my body. I beat a retreat from the room as soon as Icould, and flew to the stable with a misty intention of mounting Gypsyand escaping from the place. I was pondering what steps to take, whenJack Harris and Charley Marden entered the yard.
"I say," said Harris, as blithe as a lark, "has old Wingate been here?"
"Been here?" I cried, "I should hope not!"
"The whole thing's out, you know," said Harris, pulling Gypsy's forelockover her eyes and blowing playfully into her nostrils.
"You don't mean it!" I gasped.
"Yes, I do, and we are to pay Wingate three dollars apiece. He'll makerather a good spec out of it."
"But how did he discover that we were the--the miscreants?" I asked,quoting mechanically from the Rivermouth Bamacle.
"Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound him! He's been trying to sellit any time these ten years. Now he has sold it to us. When he foundthat we had slipped out of the Meat Market, he went right off and wrotethe advertisement offering five dollars reward; though he knew wellenough who had taken the coach, for he came round to my father'shouse before the paper was printed to talk the matter over. Wasn't thegovernor mad, though! But it's all settled, I tell you. We're to payWingate fifteen dollars for the old go-cart, which he wanted to sellthe other day for seventy-five cents, and couldn't. It's a downrightswindle. But the funny part of it is to come."
"O, there's a funny part to it, is there?" I remarked bitterly.
"Yes. The moment Bill Conway saw the advertisement, he knew it wasHarry Blake who cut that letter H on the bench; so off he rushes up toWingate--kind of him, wasn't it?--and claims the reward. 'Too late, youngman,' says old Wingate, 'the culprits has been discovered.' You seeSly-boots hadn't any intention of paying that five dollars."
Jack Harris's statement lifted a weight from my bosom. The article inthe Rivermouth Barnacle had placed the affair before me in a new light.I had thoughtlessly committed a grave offence. Though the property inquestion was valueless, we were clearly wrong in destroying it. At thesame time Mr. Wingate had tacitly sanctioned the act by not preventingit when he might easily have done so. He had allowed his property to bedestroyed in order that he might realize a large profit.
Without waiting to hear more, I went straight to Captain Nutter, and,laying my remaining three dollars on his knee, confessed my share in theprevious night's transaction.
The Captain heard me through in profound silence, pocketed thebank-notes, and walked off without speaking a word. He had punished mein his own whimsical fashion at the breakfast table, for, at the verymoment he was harrowing up my soul by reading the extracts from theRivermouth Barnacle, he not only knew all about the bonfire, but hadpaid Ezra Wingate his three dollars. Such was the duplicity of that agedimpostor.
I think Captain Nutter was justified in retaining my pocketmoney, asadditional punishment, though the possession of it later in the daywould have got me out of a difficult position, as the reader will seefurther on. I returned with a light heart and a large piece of punk tomy friends in the stable-yard, where we celebrated the terminationof our trouble by setting off two packs of fire-crackers in an emptywine-cask. They made a prodigious racket, but failed somehow to fullyexpress my feelings. The little brass pistol in my bedroom suddenlyoccurred to me. It had been loaded I don't know how many months, longbefore I left New Orleans, and now was the time, if ever, to fire itoff. Muskets, blunderbusses, and pistols were banging away lively allover town, and the smell of gunpowder, floating on the air, set me wildto add something respectable to the universal din.
When the pistol was produced, Jack Harris examined the rusty cap andprophesied that it would not explode.
"Never mind," said I, "let's try it."
I had fired the pistol once, secretly, in New Orleans, and, rememberingthe noise it gave birth to on that occasion, I shut both eyes tight asI pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on the cap with a dull, deadsound. Then Harris tried it; then Charley Marden; then I took it again,and after three or four trials was on the point of giving it up as abad job, when the obstinate thing went off with a tremendous explosion,nearly jerking my arm from the socket. The smoke cleared away, andthere I stood with the stock of the pistol clutched convulsively in myhand--the barrel, lock, trigger, and ramrod having vanished into thinair.
"Are you hurt?" cried the boys, in one breath.
"N--no," I replied, dubiously, for the concussion had bewildered me alittle.
When I realized the nature of the calamity, my grief was excessive. Ican't imagine what led me to do so ridiculous a thing, but I gravelyburied the remains of my beloved pistol in our back garden, and erectedover the mound a slate tablet to the effect that "Mr. Barker formerly ofnew Orleans, was killed accidentally on the Fourth of July, 18-- in the2nd year of his Age." Binny Wallace, arriving on the spot just afterthe disaster, and Charley Marden (who enjoyed the obsequies immensely),acted with me as chief mourners. I, for my part, was a very sincere one.
As I turned away in a disconsolate mood from the garden, Charley Mardenremarked that he shouldn't be surprised if the pistol-butt took root andgrew into a mahogany-tree or something. He said he once planted an oldmusket-stock, and shortly afterwards a lot of shoots sprung up! JackHarris laughed; but neither I nor Binny Wallace saw Charley's wickedjoke.
We were now joined by Pepper Whitcomb, Fred Langdon, and several otherdesperate characters, on their way to the Square, which was always abusy place when public festivities were going on. Feeling that I wasstill in disgrace with the Captain, I thought it politic to ask hisconsent before accompanying the boys.
He gave it with some hesitation, advising me to be careful not to getin front of the firearms. Once he put his fingers mechanically into hisvest-pocket and half drew forth some dollar bills, then slowly thrustthem back again as his sense of justice overcame his genial disposition.I guess it cut the old gentleman to the heart to be obliged to keepme out of my pocket-money. I know it
did me. However, as I was passingthrough the hall, Miss Abigail, with a very severe cast of countenance,slipped a brand-new quarter into my hand. We had silver currency inthose days, thank Heaven!
Great were the bustle and confusion on the Square. By the way, I don'tknow why they called this large open space a square, unless because itwas an oval--an oval formed by the confluence of half a dozen streets,now thronged by crowds of smartly dressed towns-people and countryfolks; for Rivermouth on the Fourth was the centre of attraction to theinhabitants of the neighboring villages.
On one side of the Square were twenty or thirty booths arranged ina semi-circle, gay with little flags and seductive with lemonade,ginger-beer, and seedcakes. Here and there were tables at which could bepurchased the smaller sort of fireworks, such as pin-wheels, serpents,double-headers, and punk warranted not to go out. Many of the adjacenthouses made a pretty display of bunting, and across each of the streetsopening on the Square was an arch of spruce and evergreen, blossomingall over with patriotic mottoes and paper roses.
It was a noisy, merry, bewildering scene as we came upon the ground. Theincessant rattle of small arms, the booming of the twelve-pounder firingon the Mill Dam, and the silvery clangor of the church-bells ringingsimultaneously--not to mention an ambitious brass-band that was blowingitself to pieces on a balcony--were enough to drive one distracted. Weamused ourselves for an hour or two, darting in and out among the crowdand setting off our crackers. At one o'clock the Hon. Hezekiah Elkinsmounted a platform in the middle of the Square and delivered an oration,to which his "feller-citizens" didn't pay much attention, having allthey could do to dodge the squibs that were set loose upon them bymischievous boys stationed on the surrounding housetops.
Our little party which had picked up recruits here and there, not beingswayed by eloquence, withdrew to a booth on the outskirts of the crowd,where we regaled ourselves with root beer at two cents a glass. Irecollect being much struck by the placard surmounting this tent:
ROOT BEER
SOLD HERE
It seemed to me the perfection of pith and poetry. What could be moreterse? Not a word to spare, and yet everything fully expressed. Rhymeand rhythm faultless. It was a delightful poet who made those verses. Asfor the beer itself--that, I think, must have been made from the rootof all evil! A single glass of it insured an uninterrupted pain fortwenty-four hours.
The influence of my liberality working on Charley Marden--for it was Iwho paid for the beer--he presently invited us all to take an ice-creamwith him at Pettingil's saloon. Pettingil was the Delmonico ofRivermouth. He furnished ices and confectionery for aristocratic ballsand parties, and didn't disdain to officiate as leader of the orchestraat the same; for Pettingil played on the violin, as Pepper Whitcombdescribed it, "like Old Scratch."
Pettingil's confectionery store was on the corner of Willow and HighStreets. The saloon, separated from the shop by a flight of three stepsleading to a door hung with faded red drapery, had about it an air ofmystery and seclusion quite delightful. Four windows, also draped, facedthe side-street, affording an unobstructed view of Marm Hatch's backyard, where a number of inexplicable garments on a clothes-line werealways to be seen careering in the wind.
There was a lull just then in the ice-cream business, it beingdinner-time, and we found the saloon unoccupied. When we had seatedourselves around the largest marble-topped table, Charley Marden in amanly voice ordered twelve sixpenny icecreams, "strawberry and vernellermixed."
It was a magnificent sight, those twelve chilly glasses entering theroom on a waiter, the red and white custard rising from each glass likea church-steeple, and the spoon-handle shooting up from the apex likea spire. I doubt if a person of the nicest palate could havedistinguished, with his eyes shut, which was the vanilla and which thestrawberry; but if I could at this moment obtain a cream tasting as thatdid, I would give five dollars for a very small quantity.
We fell to with a will, and so evenly balanced were our capabilitiesthat we finished our creams together, the spoons clinking in the glasseslike one spoon.
"Let's have some more!" cried Charley Marden, with the air of Aladdinordering up a fresh hogshead of pearls and rubies. "Tom Bailey, tellPettingil to send in another round."
Could I credit my ears? I looked at him to see if he were in earnest.He meant it. In a moment more I was leaning over the counter givingdirections for a second supply. Thinking it would make no difference tosuch a gorgeous young sybarite as Marden, I took the liberty of orderingninepenny creams this time.
On returning to the saloon, what was my horror at finding it empty!
There were the twelve cloudy glasses, standing in a circle on the stickymarble slab, and not a boy to be seen. A pair of hands letting go theirhold on the window-sill outside explained matters. I had been made avictim.
I couldn't stay and face Pettingil, whose peppery temper was well knownamong the boys. I hadn't a cent in the world to appease him. What shouldI do? I heard the clink of approaching glasses--the ninepenny creams.I rushed to the nearest window. It was only five feet to the ground. Ithrew myself out as if I had been an old hat.
Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly down High Street, throughWillow, and was turning into Brierwood Place when the sound of severalvoices, calling to me in distress, stopped my progress.
"Look out, you fool! The mine! The mine!" yelled the warning voices.
Several men and boys were standing at the head of the street, makinginsane gestures to me to avoid something. But I saw no mine, only in themiddle of the road in front of me was a common flour-barrel, which, asI gazed at it, suddenly rose into the air with a terrific explosion.I felt myself thrown violently off my feet. I remember nothing else,excepting that, as I went up, I caught a momentary glimpse of EzraWingate leering through is shop window like an avenging spirit.
The mine that had wrought me woe was not properly a mine at all, butmerely a few ounces of powder placed under an empty keg or barrel andfired with a slow-match. Boys who didn't happen to have pistols orcannon generally burnt their powder in this fashion.
For an account of what followed I am indebted to hearsay, for I wasinsensible when the people picked me up and carried me home on a shutterborrowed from the proprietor of Pettingil's saloon. I was supposed tobe killed, but happily (happily for me at least) I was merely stunned.I lay in a semi-unconscious state until eight o'clock that night, whenI attempted to speak. Miss Abigail, who watched by the bedside, puther ear down to my lips and was saluted with these remarkable words:"Strawberry and verneller mixed!"
"Mercy on us! What is the boy saying?" cried Miss Abigail.
"ROOTBEERSOLDHERE!"
This inscription is copied from a triangular-shaped piece of slate, still preserved in the garret of the Nutter House, together with the pistol butt itself, which was subsequently dug up for a postmortem examination.