CHAPTER 14
Barely were Claggett Chew and Osterbridge Hawsey out of sight, whenChris simultaneously became aware of two things. One was the deepthrobbing ache of the whip cut, so painful it made him feel sick andfaint, and the second was the black figure of Mr. Wicker. Mr. Wickerwas threading his way in and out of the crowds and litter of thewharves, and although to most he might have seemed leisurely, Chriswas able to detect in the step of his master a certain haste. He cameup to the little group of men, glanced at the back of Zachary Heigh,who was moving away as if to some interrupted duty, and at Chris'swhite face and the reddening handkerchief which he held to his chin.Mr. Wicker looked slowly at all the faces and then raised his eyebrowsas if in surprise.
"Well, lads," he said, "what has happened here? You all look angry andsomewhat a-frighted. What occurred, Ned?" he asked, addressing NedCilley, whose kind face was puckered with sympathy for Chris and whostood pulling at the stocking cap he held in his hands. But Chrisspoke up before Ned could reply.
"It was my fault, sir. I expect I got what I deserved, but it seemedto happen in spite of myself. I laughed at Osterbridge Hawsey's beautypatch--and at him--all of him, really. We all did. Claggett Chew gotmad, and I guess I wouldn't blame him. It was a dreadful thing todo--to laugh at someone to their face--and he lashed out with his whipand gave _me_ a beauty patch!"
In spite of the pain Chris managed a grin as he took the handkerchieffrom his chin to bare the deep, cruel cut.
"But truly sir," he ended, "I never saw anything like OsterbridgeHawsey before. He's a dilly!"
And before they knew it they had all, including even the habituallygrave Mr. Wicker, burst into another shout of laughter. Mr. Wickersoon stopped, however, and reached back into the pocket in the flap ofhis coattails. When he drew out his hand it held a small glass box.With unhurried gestures Mr. Wicker's fine fingers took off the lid.
"What a fortunate coincidence that I happened by just at this time,"he said casually, "and that I have with me such an excellentointment." Master and pupil looked at one another for a moment, andthere was the hint of a wink in Mr. Wicker's right eye, and thevestige of an answer from Chris's left.
"This will help to stop the bleeding, my boy," said Mr. Wicker, "andtake away the pain. It hastens the cure," he went on, lightly applyingthe ointment to the wound. "In an hour you will scarcely know ithappened," he concluded.
Seeing the color seep back into Chris's cheeks, the men touched theircaps to Mr. Wicker and went back to their interrupted tasks. NedCilley, with his hand on Amos's shoulder, moved off to point out somedetail of the _Mirabelle_, and Chris and Mr. Wicker were left alone.Mr. Wicker looked down kindly at the boy, but there was a sadness alsoin his face.
"Perhaps," he said as if to himself, "I have set you too great a task,my poor Christopher, for you are but a boy." He laid his hand onChris's arm. "You are a boy, but what lies before you is a man's task,and no mistake. You cannot in the future allow yourself the luxury ofsuch childish enjoyments as a laugh at Claggett Chew, or his friend!"
"I know that now sir," Chris replied solemnly. "I asked for troublethat time."
"Yes," agreed Mr. Wicker in a tired voice, "You did. Too bad," headded, and Chris saw fatigue for the first time in his master's face."The laughter you could not resist has meant that you came forciblyto Claggett Chew's notice in such a way that you will never beforgotten." Mr. Wicker looked from some distant horizon back to Chris."I saw it happening while I was in my study, but could not warn you intime," he said. "So I came down with the ointment for your poisonedwound."
"Poisoned wound, sir?" Chris whispered, suddenly feeling much worsethan he had before.
Mr. Wicker sighed. "Yes. Sometimes Mr. Chew has a way of wiping poisononto the metal tip of his whip. It is a slow poison--it does not takeeffect for days or weeks. In fact, so long after his lash that no oneattributes the whip cut to the death that finally follows. Neverfear," he said smiling his reassurance, "the ointment I have put onwill take care of that too, and your cut will be closed and healedbefore the day is over. What is unfortunately more lasting," said Mr.Wicker, "is Mr. Chew's memory. Well"--and Mr. Wicker shrugged hisshoulders--"there's no help for what is done. Use caution in thefuture, Christopher. That is all I ask."
"I shall, sir!" Chris assured him. They turned to join Amos.
"Enjoy yourself the rest of the day, my boy," Mr. Wicker urged. "Butbe constantly on the alert and look in all directions. Here," he saidputting his hand in his pocket, "take these few coins in case youshould need them. Now find Amos, and be off with you!"
Although Chris would have liked to investigate all the wharves and seeas many of the vessels as he could, he understood the warning givenhim by Mr. Wicker. So with Amos he moved away from the scenes hepreferred, taking the first road he saw leading off Water Street.
M Street was, for Chris, completely unrecognizable. It was merely abroad unpaved road in what seemed, at best, a country town. Groves ofold trees, pasture lands and orchards of large size surrounded the fewhouses. It was hard for Chris to realize that this was the core of thecapital of the vast and teeming country into which he had been born.
With difficulty, for the streets all had different names if theyexisted at all, Chris looked for his own street. Going back along whathe had known as M Street, not even the Pep Boys' or Iron Horse Grillwas to be seen. Instead of two wide stone bridges, now there was onlya rickety one crossing Rock Creek Park.
The boys walked to the bank above the park and looked down. The broadasphalt traffic lanes were gone, and so was the tidiness of the parklawns. Below him, Chris saw the tangled thick forests that had alwaysstood there. The creek itself, in the quiet of this earlier time,could be plainly heard running over its stones.
Chris turned and led Amos to where he half expected to see hismother's house. But where his house would stand in some future year,nothing was to be seen but a dense grove of trees growing along thetop of a little rise of ground. Someone had once built a fire at thecorner, where his front door would one day be. Chris kicked idly atthe ashes and picked up a metal button blackened by the fire.
"What you-all looking for?" patient Amos asked.
"Just something I hoped I'd find," Chris answered, filled with a senseof desolation.
Then he made himself remember that his house had yet to be built, andaware of the hollowness of his stomach, he said to Amos: "Must belunch time. Let's go down to the creek to eat."
They scrambled down the bank near where, in his time, there was achildren's playground, and weaving in and out of the thick wood, foundthe creek, clear and fresh. Here they ate their lunch, and then,running and leaping, followed the turns of the stream until theyneared the marshes and the river.