It reminded him of a biography he had read of the famous DoctorGoldsmith, author of the "Vicar of Wakefield," who made a tour on thecontinent of Europe, paying his way with music evoked from a similarinstrument.
Three days later, he found himself on the outskirts of a village, whichI will call Cranston. It was afternoon, and he had walked far enough tobe tired.
He was looking about for a pleasant place to lounge, when his attentionwas drawn to a boy of about his own age, who was sitting on the stonewall under a large tree.
He was rather a slender boy, and had originally been well dressed, buthis suit was travel-stained, and covered with dust.
Now, boys have a natural attraction for each other, and Philipdetermined to introduce himself to the stranger. This he did inboy-fashion, by saying:
"Hello!"
"Hello!" said the stranger, looking up.
But he spoke slowly and wearily, and to Philip he seemed out of spirits.
"Do you live in Cranston?" asked Philip, taking a seat beside the otherboy, upon the top of the stone wall.
"No; do you?"
"No."
"Where do you live?"
"I don't live anywhere just at present," answered Philip, with a smile."I am traveling."
"So am I," said the other boy.
"I am traveling to New York," Philip continued.
"And I am traveling from there," said his new acquaintance.
Then both boys surveyed each other curiously.
"What's your name?" asked the stranger.
"Philip Gray. What's your's?"
"Mine is Henry Taylor. What have you got there?"
"A violin."
"Do you play on it?"
"Yes; a little."
"I should think you'd be tired lugging it round."
Philip smiled.
"It is about all the property I have," he said; "so it won't do for meto get tired of it."
"You're richer than I am, then," said Henry.
"Are you poor, then?" asked Philip, in a tone of sympathy.
"I haven't got a cent in my pocket, and I haven't had anything to eatsince breakfast."
"Then I'm glad I met you," said Philip warmly. "I will see that you havea good supper. How long is it since you left New York?"
"About a week."
"What made you leave it?"
Henry Taylor hesitated, and finally answered, in a confused tone:
"I've run away from home. I wanted to go out West to kill Indians."
Philip stared at his new acquaintance in astonishment.
CHAPTER XL. THE INDIAN HUNTER.
Philip had lived so long in a country village that he had never chancedto read any of those absorbing romances in which one boy, of tenderyears, proves himself a match for a dozen Indians, more or less, and,therefore, he was very much amazed at Henry Taylor's avowal that he wasgoing out West to kill Indians.
"What do you want to kill Indians for?" he asked, after an astonishedpause.
Now it was Henry's turn to be astonished.
"Every boy wants to kill Indians," he answered, looking pityingly at ourhero.
"What for? What good will it do?" asked Philip.
"It shows he's brave," answered his new friend. "Didn't you ever readthe story of 'Bully Bill'; or, The Hero of the Plains'?"
"I never heard of it," said Philip.
"You must have lived in the woods, then," said Henry Taylor, rathercontemptuously. "It's a tip-top story. Bully Bill was only fourteen, andkilled ever so many Indians--twenty or thirty, I guess--as well as a lotof lions and bears. Oh, he must have had lots of fun!"
"Why didn't the Indians kill him?" asked Philip, desirous of beingenlightened. "They didn't stand still and let him kill them, did they?"
"No; of course not. They fought awful hard."
"How did one young boy manage to overcome so many Indians?"
"Oh, you'll have to read the story to find out! Bully Bill was a greathero, and everybody admired him."
"So you wanted to imitate his example?" asked Philip.
"To be sure I did."
"How did you happen to get out of money?"
"Well," said Henry, "you see me and another boy got awful excited afterreading the story, and both concluded nothing could make us so happy asto go out West together, and do as Bill did. Of course, it was no use toask the old man--"
"The old man?" queried Philip.
"The gov'nor--father, of course! So we got hold of some money--"
"You got hold of some money?" queried Philip.
"That's what I said, didn't I?" rejoined Henry irritably.
"Yes."
"Then what's the use of repeating it?"
Philip intended to ask where or how Henry got hold of the money, buthe saw pretty clearly that this would not be agreeable to his newacquaintance. Though without much experience in the world, he suspectedthat the money was not obtained honestly, and did not press thequestion.
"Well, me and Tom started about a week ago. First of all, we bought somerevolvers, as, of course, we should need them to shoot Indians. Theycost more than we expected, and then we found it cost more to travelthan we thought."
"How much money did you have?"
"After paying for our revolvers, Tom and me had about thirty dollars,"said Henry.
"Only thirty dollars to go west with!" exclaimed Philip, in amazement.
"Why, you see, the revolvers cost more than we expected. Then we stoppedat a hotel in Albany, where they charged us frightfully. That is whereTom left me."
"Tom left you at Albany?"
"Yes, he got homesick!" said Henry contemptuously. "He thought we hadn'tmoney enough, and he said he didn't know as he cared so much aboutkilling Indians."
"I agree with Tom," said Philip. "I don't think I should care very muchabout killing Indians myself, and I should decidedly object to beingkilled by an Indian. I shouldn't like to be scalped. Would you?"
"Oh, I'd take care of that," said Henry. "I wouldn't let them have thechance."
"It seems to me the best way would be to stay at home," said Philip,smiling.
"If I stayed at home I'd have to go to school and study. I don't caremuch about studying."
"I like it," said Philip. "So Tom left you, did he?"
"Yes; but I wasn't going to give up so easy. He took half the money thatwas left, though I thought he ought to have given it to me, as I neededit more. I wasn't going home just as I'd started."
"Then you've spent all your money now?"
"Yes," answered Henry gloomily. "Have you got much money?" he asked,after a pause.
"Yes, I have about a hundred dollars-say, ninety-five."
"You don't mean it!" ejaculated Henry, hie eyes sparkling.
"Yes, I do."
"How did you get it?"
"I earned most of it by playing on the violin."
"I say," exclaimed Henry, in excitement, "suppose you and me go intopartnership together, and go out West--"
"To kill Indians?" asked Philip, smiling.
"Yes! With all that money we'll get along. Besides, if we get short, youcan earn some more."
"But what advantage am I to get out of it? I am to furnish all thecapital and pay all expenses, as far as I can understand. Generally,both partners put in something."
"I put in my revolver," said Henry.
"One revolver won't do for us both."
"Oh, well, you can buy one. Come, what do you say?" asked Henry eagerly.
"Let me ask you a few questions first. Where does your father live?"
"In New York."
"What is his business?"
"He is a broker in Wall Street."
"I suppose he is rich?"
"Oh, he's got plenty of money, I expect! We live in a nice house onMadison Avenue. That's one of the best streets, I suppose you know!"
"I never was in New York. Is your mother living?"
"No," answered Henry. "She died three years ago."
If his mother had
been living, probably the boy would never have madesuch an escapade, but his father, being engrossed by business cares, wasable to give very little attention to his son, and this accounts in partfor the folly of which he had been guilty.
"Have you got any brothers or sisters?" he asked.
"I have one sister, about three years younger than I. Her name isJennie."
"I wish I were as well off as you," said Philip.
"How do you mean?"
"I mean I wish I had a father and sister."
"Haven't you?"
"My father is dead," said Philip gravely, "and I never had a sister."
"Oh, well, I don't know as I'm so lucky," said Henry. "Sisters are abother. They want you to go round with them, and the old man is alwaysfinding fault."
Philip's relations with his father had always been so affectionate thathe could not understand how Henry could talk in such a way of his.
"I don't know what makes you ask me such a lot of questions," saidHenry, showing impatience. "Come, what do you say to my offer?"
"About forming a partnership?"
"Yes."
"I'd rather not--in that way."
"In what way?"
"I mean for the purpose of going out West to kill Indians."
"You've no idea what fun it would be," said Henry, disappointed.
"No, I suppose not," said Philip, smiling.
"Then I suppose I shall have to give it up," said Henry.
"Now I have a proposal to make to you," said Philip.
"What is it?"
"If you agree to go home, I'll pay your expenses and go along with you.I've never been to New York, and I'd like to have some one with me thatcould show me round the city."
"I can do that," said Henry. "I know the way all about."
"Then will you agree?"
"Yes."
"Then come along, and we'll stop at the first convenient place and getsome supper."
CHAPTER XLI. AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOODS.
"I shall do a good thing if I induce Henry to go home," thought Philip."That is rather a queer idea of his about wanting to kill Indians. Itseems to me as much murder to kill an Indian as any one else."
He only thought this, but did not express it, as he did not care toget into a discussion with his new acquaintance, lest the latter shouldrecall his consent to go home.
"I say, Philip," said Henry, who had now learned our hero's name, "weain't in any hurry to go to New York, are we?"
"I thought we might take a train to-morrow morning, and go straightthrough."
"But I'd rather take it easy, and travel through the country, and haveadventures."
"But you forget that your father will be anxious about you."
"Yes, I suppose he will."
"I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll write a letter to your father,and let him know that you are safe with me, I'll do as you say."
"All right," said Henry, in a tone of satisfaction; "I'll do it."
"Father'll pay you all you have to spend for me," Henry added, after amoment's pause.
"Very well; then I will be your banker."
Philip was not foolish enough to protest that he did not care tobe repaid. All he had in the world was a little less than a hundreddollars, and when that was gone he was not absolutely sure of making anymore at once, though he felt tolerably confident that he could.
"Suppose you let me have ten dollars now," suggested Henry.
"I think I would rather keep the money and pay the bills," said Philipquietly.
He was not sure but that Henry, if he had a supply of money in hispockets, would reconsider his promise to go home and take French leave.
Of course, it would be extremely foolish, but his present expedition didnot indicate the possession of much wisdom.
"I don't see what difference it makes," said Henry, lookingdissatisfied.
"I won't argue the point," answered Philip good-naturedly.
"I wish I was in New York, near a good restaurant," said Henry, after apause.
"Oh. I forgot! You are hungry."
"Awfully. I don't believe there's a hotel within two or three miles. Idon't think I can hold out to walk much farther."
A few rods farther on was a farmhouse standing back from the road,old-fashioned-looking, but of comfortable aspect.
A young girl appeared at the side door and rang a noisy bell with greatvigor.
"They're going to have supper," said Henry wistfully. "I wish it was ahotel!"
Philip had lived in the country, and understood the hospitable ways ofcountry people.
"Come along, Henry," he said. "I'll ask them to sell us some supper. Iam sure they will be willing."
Followed by his new acquaintance, he walked up to the side door andknocked--for there was no bell.
The young girl--probably about Philip's age--opened the door andregarded them with some surprise.
Philip bowed.
"Will you be kind enough to tell us if there is any hotel near-by?" heasked.
"There's one about three miles and a half farther on."
Henry groaned inwardly.
"I am going to ask you a favor," said Philip. "My friend and I havetraveled a considerable distance, and stand in need of supper. We arewilling to pay as much as we should have to at a hotel, if you will letus take supper here."
"I'll ask mother," said the young girl.
And forthwith she disappeared. She came back in company with a stout,motherly-looking woman. Philip repeated his request.
"Why, to be sure," she said heartily. "We always have enough, and tospare. Come right in, and we'll have supper as soon as the men-folkscome in."
They entered a neat kitchen, in the middle of which was set out a table,with a savory supper upon it. Henry's eyes sparkled, and his mouthwatered, for the poor boy was almost famished.
"If you want to wash come right in here," said the farmer's wife,leading the way into a small room adjoining.
The two boys gladly availed themselves of the permission, though Henrywould not have minded sitting right down, dusty as he was. However, hefelt better after he had washed his face and bands and wiped them on thelong roll towel that hung beside the sink.
They were scarcely through, when their places were taken by the farmerand his son, the latter a tall, sun-burned young man, of about twenty,who had just come in from a distant field. The farmer's wife soonexplained the presence of the two young strangers.
"Sho!" said the farmer. "You're pretty young to be travelin'. You ain'tin any business, be you?"
Henry was rather ashamed to mention that his business was killingIndians, though, as yet, he had not done anything in that line. He hadan idea that he might be laughed at.
"I am a little of a musician," said Philip modestly.
"Sho! do you make it pay?"
"Pretty well, so far; but I think when I get to New York I shall trysomething else."
"Are you a musician as well as he?" asked the farmer of Henry.
"No, sir."
"Come, father, you'd better sit down to supper, and do your talkingafterward," said the farmer's wife.
So they sat down to the table, and all did full justice to the wholesomefare, particularly Henry, who felt absolutely ravenous.
Never at the luxurious home of his father, in Madison Avenue, had thewandering city boy enjoyed his supper as much as at the plain table ofthis country farmer.
The good mistress of the household was delighted at the justice done toher viands, considering it a tribute to her qualities as a cook.
When Philip produced his purse to pay for their supper, the farmerabsolutely refused to receive anything. "But I would rather pay,"persisted our hero.
"Then I'll tell you how you may pay. Give us one or two tunes on yourviolin."
This Philip was quite willing to do, and it is needless to say that hissmall audience was very much pleased.
"I say," said Henry, "you play well enough to give concerts."
"I have done
it before now," answered Philip, smiling.
They were invited to spend the night, but desired to push on to thehotel, being refreshed by their supper and feeling able to walk three orfour miles farther.
About half-way their attention was drawn to what appeared a desertedcabin in the edge of the woods, some twenty rods back from the road.
"I say, Philip," said Henry, "there's an old hut that looks as if nobodylived in it. Wouldn't it be a lark for us to sleep there to-night?It would save the expense of lodging at the hotel, and would be anadventure. I haven't had any adventures yet."
"I have no objection," said Philip. "We'll go, at any rate, and look atit."
They crossed the field, which seemed to have been only partiallycleared, and soon reached the hut.
It was very bare within, but on the floor, in one corner, was a blanketspread out. There was a place for a window, but the sash had beenremoved, and it was easy to step in.
"I wonder how this blanket came here?" said Philip.
"Oh, I guess the last people that lived here left it!" returned Henry."I say, Phil, I begin to feel tired. Suppose we lie down? I'm glad Ihaven't got to walk any farther."
Philip sympathized with his new friend; and so, without much parley,the two boys threw themselves down on the blanket, and were soon fastasleep.