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. 

Chapter Two--In Which I Entertain Peculiar Views

I was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance to become very wellacquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to NewOrleans, where my father invested his money so securely in the bankingbusiness that he was never able to get any of it out again. But of thishereafter. 

I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it didn'tmake much difference to me where I was, because I was so small; butseveral years later, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kickedover the little Negro boy who happened to be standing by me at themoment, and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of the piazza, declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees!

You see I was what is called "a Northern man with Southern principles. "I had no recollection of New England: my earliest memories wereconnected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old Negro nurse, andwith the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house--awhitewashed stone house it was, with wide verandas--shut out from thestreet by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was bornat the North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon themisfortune as something so shrouded by time and distance that maybenobody remembered it. I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee, because they talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way it mademe feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or atleast in one of the Border States. And this impression was strengthenedby Aunt Chloe, who said, "dar wasn't no gentl'men in the Norf no way, "and on one occasion terrified me beyond measure by declaring that, "if any of dem mean whites tried to git her away from marster, she wasjes'gwine to knock 'em on de head wid a gourd!"

The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air with whichshe struck at an imaginary "mean white, " are among the most vivid thingsin my memory of those days. 

To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as thatentertained by the well-educated Englishmen of the present dayconcerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into twoclasses--Indians and white people; that the Indians occasionally dasheddown on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preferenceto children) whom they caught lingering in the outskirts afternightfall; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, andthat it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing styleof architecture I took to be log-cabins. 

With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, thereader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of beingtransported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me forkicking over little black Sam, and otherwise misconducting myself, whenmy father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam--Ialways did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me. 

My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violentoutbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw writtenin every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up, my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library. 

I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and questionedme. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of myobjections to going North, and proceeded at once to knock down all mypine log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I hadpopulated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States. 

"Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories?"asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes. 

"Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me. "

"And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered withbeads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his enemies?"

"Well, sir, I didn't think that exactly. "

"Didn't think that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me. "

He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemedto have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I didnot clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel sobadly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible thatGrandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior. 

My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to givingme a clear and succinct account of New England; its early struggles, itsprogress, and its present condition--faint and confused glimmeringsof all which I had obtained at school, where history had never been afavorite pursuit of mine. 

I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the contrary, the proposedjourney to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promisedmyself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely atrest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go onboard the ship--the journey was to be made by sea--with a certain littlebrass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with thetribes when we landed at Boston. 

I couldn't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previouslythe Cherokees--or was it the Camanches?--had been removed from theirhunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the redmen were still a source of terror to the border settlers. "Troublewith the Indians" was the staple news from Florida published in the NewOrleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attackedand murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done inFlorida, why not in Massachusetts?

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. Myimpatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for mea fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnightprevious to the date set for our own departure--for both my parents wereto accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one nightin a dream), and my father's promise that he and my mother would come toRivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation. The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy; so I alwayscalled her--she was a lady pony--Gypsy. 

At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among theorange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he washeartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe, who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, andthen buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mountedthat morning in honor of our departure. 

I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening likepearls; I wave my hand to him manfully then I call out "goodby" in amuffled voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am neverto see them again!

Chapter Three--On Board the Typhoon

I do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the firstfew hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell. 

The name of our ship was the "A No. 1, fast-sailing packet Typhoon. "I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaperadvertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that iswhy we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the shiphe owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter--the cabin, in which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in theroof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in. 

There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting underway. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay anyattention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the facethat he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candleinside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightestregard for their feelings. They didn't mind it a bit, however, but wenton singing--

 "Heave ho! With the rum below, And hurrah for the Spanish Main O!"

I will not be positive about "the Spanish Main, " but it was hurrah forsomething O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed theywere. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy--a thick-set, jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and afringe of gray hair circling his head like a crown. As he took off histarpaulin I observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat, as if somebody had sat down on him when he was very young. 

There was something noticeably hearty in this man's bronzed face, aheartiness that seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. Butwhat completely won my good-will was a picture of enviable lovelinesspainted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of afish. Her flowing hair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb inone hand. I never saw anything so beautiful. I determined to know thatman. I think I would have given my brass pistol to have had such apicture painted on my arm. 

While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat wheezy steamtug, withthe word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddlebox, came puffing upalongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously small and conceited, comparedwith our stately ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. In afew minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort anda shriek, and commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf) with thegreatest ease. 

I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten timeslarger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found thechubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the MississippiRiver. 

In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, andaway we flew like a great winged bird. Only it didn't seem as if we weremoving. The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging ofthe ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding awayfrom us. 

It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this. Before long there was nothing to be seen on other side but stretches oflow swampy land, covered with stunted cypress trees, from which droopeddelicate streamers of Spanish moss--a fine place for alligators and Congosnakes. Here and there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there asnag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark. 

"This is your last chance to see the city, To see the city, Tom, " saidmy father, as we swept round a bend of the river. 

I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of somethingin the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon whichthe sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old AuntChloe's thimble. 

What do I remember next? The gray sky and the fretful blue waters of theGulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone pantingaway with a derisive scream, as much as to say, "I've done my duty, nowlook out for yourself, old Typhoon!"

The ship seemed quite proud of being left to take care of itself, and, with its huge white sails bulged out, strutted off like a vain turkey. I had been standing by my father near the wheel-house all this while, observing things with that nicety of perception which belongs onlyto children; but now the dew began falling, and we went below to havesupper. 

The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices of cold chicken, looked verynice; yet somehow I had no appetite There was a general smell of tarabout everything. Then the ship gave sudden lurches that made it amatter of uncertainty whether one was going to put his fork to his mouthor into his eye. The tumblers and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over thetable, kept clinking and clinking; and the cabin lamp, suspended by fourgilt chains from the ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Now the floorseemed to rise, and now it seemed to sink under one's feet like afeather-bed. 

There were not more than a dozen passengers on board, includingourselves; and all of these, excepting a bald-headed old gentleman--aretired sea-captain--disappeared into their staterooms at an early hourof the evening. 

After supper was cleared away, my father and the elderly gentleman, whose name was Captain Truck, played at checkers; and I amused myselffor a while by watching the trouble they had in keeping the men in theproper places. Just at the most exciting point of the game, the shipwould careen, and down would go the white checkers pell-mell among theblack. Then my father laughed, but Captain Truck would grow very angry, and vow that he would have won the game in a move or two more, ifthe confounded old chicken-coop--that's what he called the ship--hadn'tlurched. 

"I--I think I will go to bed now, please, " I said, laying my band on myfather's knee, and feeling exceedingly queer. 

It was high time, for the Typhoon was plunging about in the mostalarming fashion. I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, whereI felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were placed on a narrowshelf at my feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know that mypistol was so handy, for I made no doubt we should fall in withPirates before many hours. This is the last thing I remember with anydistinctness. At midnight, as I was afterwards told, we were struck bya gale which never left us until we came in sight of the Massachusettscoast. 

For days and days I had no sensible idea of what was going on around me. That we were being hurled somewhere upside-down, and that I didn't likeit, was about all I knew. I have, indeed, a vague impression that myfather used to climb up to the berth and call me his "Ancient Mariner, "bidding me cheer up. But the Ancient Mariner was far from cheering up, if I recollect rightly; and I don't believe that venerable navigatorwould have cared much if it had been announced to him, through aspeaking-trumpet, that "a low, black, suspicious craft, with rakingmasts, was rapidly bearing down upon us!"

In fact, one morning, I thought that such was the case, for bang! wentthe big cannon I had noticed in the bow of the ship when we came onboard, and which had suggested to me the idea of Pirates. Bang! wentthe gun again in a few seconds. I made a feeble effort to get at mytrousers-pocket! But the Typhoon was only saluting Cape Cod--thefirst land sighted by vessels approaching the coast from a southerlydirection. 

The vessel had ceased to roll, and my sea-sickness passed away asrapidly as it came. I was all right now, "only a little shaky in mytimbers and a little blue about the gills, " as Captain Truck remarked tomy mother, who, like myself, had been confined to the state-room duringthe passage. 

At Cape Cod the wind parted company with us without saying as muchas "Excuse me"; so we were nearly two days in making the run which infavorable weather is usually accomplished in seven hours. That's whatthe pilot said. 

I was able to go about the ship now, and I lost no time in cultivatingthe acquaintance of the sailor with the green-haired lady on his arm. I found him in the forecastle--a sort of cellar in the front part of thevessel. He was an agreeable sailor, as I had expected, and we became thebest of friends in five minutes. 

He had been all over the world two or three times, and knew no end ofstories. According to his own account, he must have been shipwreckedat least twice a year ever since his birth. He had served under Decaturwhen that gallant officer peppered the Algerines and made them promisenot to sell their prisoners of war into slavery; he had worked a gunat the bombardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican War, and he had been onAlexander Selkirk's Island more than once. There were very few things hehadn't done in a seafaring way. 

"I suppose, sir, " I remarked, "that your name isn't Typhoon?"

"Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name's Benjamin Watson, of Nantucket. ButI'm a true blue Typhooner, " he added, which increased my respect forhim; I don't know why, and I didn't know then whether Typhoon was thename of a vegetable or a profession. 

Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I disclosed to him that my namewas Tom Bailey, upon which he said he was very glad to hear it. 

When we got more intimate, I discovered that Sailor Ben, as he wishedme to call him, was a perfect walking picturebook. He had two anchors, astar, and a frigate in full sail on his right arm; a pair of lovely bluehands clasped on his breast, and I've no doubt that other parts of hisbody were illustrated in the same agreeable manner. I imagine he wasfond of drawings, and took this means of gratifying his artistic taste. It was certainly very ingenious and convenient. A portfolio mightbe misplaced, or dropped overboard; but Sailor Ben had his pictureswherever he went, just as that eminent person in the poem, "With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes"--was accompanied bymusic on all occasions. 

The two bands on his breast, he informed me, were a tribute to thememory of a dead messmate from whom he had parted years ago--and surely amore touching tribute was never engraved on a tombstone. This caused meto think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I told him I should takeit as a great favor indeed if he would paint a pink hand and a blackhand on my chest. He said the colors were pricked into the skin withneedles, and that the operation was somewhat painful. I assured him, inan off-hand manner, that I didn't mind pain, and begged him to set towork at once. 

The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of hisskill, took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complyingwith my request, when my father happened to own the gangway--acircumstance that rather interfered with the decorative art. 

I didn't have another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben, for the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupolaof the Boston State House. 

Chapter Four--Rivermouth

It was a beautiful May morning when the Typhoon hauled up at Long Wharf. Whether the Indians were not early risers, or whether they were awayjust then on a war-path, I couldn't determine; but they did not appearin any great force--in fact, did not appear at all. 

In the remarkable geography which I never hurt myself with studyingat New Orleans, was a picture representing the landing of the PilgrimFathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in rather odd hats and coats, are seen approaching the savages; the savages, in no coats or hatsto speak of, are evidently undecided whether to shake hands with thePilgrim Fathers or to make one grand rush and scalp the entire party. Now this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that, in spite ofall my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting fromthe aborigines. Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expectationsunfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often usedto wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers. 

While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I mountedon the roof of the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. As we cameup the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled together on animmense bill, at the top of which was a large building, the State House, towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen surroundedby her brood of many-colored chickens. A closer inspection did notimpress me very favorably. The city was not nearly so imposing as NewOrleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of acrescent, along the banks of the majestic river. 

I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above oneanother in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not proposeto remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the rail in this mood, ameasly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come downon the wharf he'd lick me for two cents--not an exorbitant price. But Ididn't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, asI was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated him that he stood on his headon a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself. 

The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. After a late breakfaston board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, andourselves stowed away in a coach, which must have turned at least onehundred corners before it set us down at the railway station. 

In less time than it takes to tell it, we were shooting across thecountry at a fearful rate--now clattering over a bridge, now screamingthrough a tunnel; here we cut a flourishing village in two, like aknife, and here we dived into the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimeswe glided along the edge of the ocean, and could see the sails of shipstwinkling like bits of silver against the horizon; sometimes we dashedacross rocky pasture-lands where stupid-eyed cattle were loafing. It wasfun to scare lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups under the newlybudded trees near the railroad track. 

We did not pause at any of the little brown stations on the route (theylooked just like overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at every one ofthem a man popped out as if he were worked by machinery, and waved a redflag, and appeared as though he would like to have us stop. But we werean express train, and made no stoppages, excepting once or twice to givethe engine a drink. It is strange how the memory clings to some things. It is over twenty years since I took that first ride to Rivermouth, and yet, oddly enough, I remember as if it were yesterday, that, as wepassed slowly through the village of Hampton, we saw two boys fightingbehind a red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog, who looked asif he had commenced to unravel, barking himself all up into a knot withexcitement. We had only a hurried glimpse of the battle--long enough, however, to see that the combatants were equally matched and very muchin earnest. I am ashamed to say how many times since I have speculatedas to which boy got licked. Maybe both the small rascals are dead now(not in consequence of the set-to, let us hope), or maybe they aremarried, and have pugnacious urchins of their own; yet to this day Isometimes find myself wondering how that fight turned out. 

We had been riding perhaps two hours and a half, when we shot by a tallfactory with a chimney resembling a church steeple; then the locomotivegave a scream, the engineer rang his bell, and we plunged into thetwilight of a long wooden building, open at both ends. Here we stopped, and the conductor, thrusting his head in at the car door, cried out, "Passengers for Rivermouth!"

At last we had reached our journey's end. On the platform my fathershook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was veryserene and rosy. He had on a white hat and a long swallow-tailed coat, the collar of which came clear up above his cars. He didn't look unlikea Pilgrim Father. This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whosehouse I was born. My mother kissed him a great many times; and I wasglad to see him myself, though I naturally did not feel very intimatewith a person whom I had not seen since I was eighteen months old. 

While we were getting into the double-seated wagon which GrandfatherNutter had provided, I took the opportunity of asking after the healthof the pony. The pony had arrived all right ten days before, and was inthe stable at home, quite anxious to see me. 20

As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Rivermouth theprettiest place in the world; and I think so still. The streets are longand wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches, interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches gracefulenough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many of the houses have smallflower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and aresubstantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves. A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning andtwisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea. 20

The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up tothe wharves and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famousseaport. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade; and in1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateerswere fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of theenemy. Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously rich. A great manyof "the first families" of today do not care to trace their pedigreeback to the time when their grandsires owned shares in the Matilda Jane, twenty-four guns. Well, well!

Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Commerce drifted into other ports. Thephantom fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again. The crazyold warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the pilesof the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringingout the faint spicy odor that haunts the place--the ghost of the old deadWest India trade! During our ride from the station, I was struck, ofcourse, only by the general neatness of the houses and the beauty ofthe elm-trees lining the streets. I describe Rivermouth now as I came toknow it afterwards. 

Rivermouth is a very ancient town. In my day there existed a traditionamong the boys that it was here Christopher Columbus made his firstlanding on this continent. I remember having the exact spot pointed outto me by Pepper Whitcomb! One thing is certain, Captain John Smith, whoafterwards, according to the legend, married Pocahontas--whereby he gotPowhatan for a father-in-law-explored the river in 1614, and was muchcharmed by the beauty of Rivermouth, which at that time was covered withwild strawberry-vines. 

Rivermouth figures prominently in all the colonial histories. Everyother house in the place has its tradition more or less grim andentertaining. If ghosts could flourish anywhere, there are certainstreets in Rivermouth that would be full of them. I don't know of a townwith so many old houses. Let us linger, for a moment, in front of theone which the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point out to thecurious stranger. 

It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel roof and deep-setwindow-frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavycarvings--oak-leaves and acorns, and angels' heads with wings spreadingfrom the ears, oddly jumbled together; but these ornaments and otheroutward signs of grandeur have long since disappeared. A peculiarinterest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, forit has not been standing quite a century; nor on account of itsarchitecture, which is not striking--but because of the illustrious menwho at various periods have occupied its spacious chambers. 

In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the left side of the entrancestood a high post, from which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. Thelandlord was a stanch loyalist--that is to say, he believed in the king, and when the overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the Britishyoke, the adherents to the Crown held private meetings in one of theback rooms of the tavern. This irritated the rebels, as they werecalled; and one night they made an attack on the Earl of Halifax, toredown the signboard, broke in the window-sashes, and gave the landlordhardly time to make himself invisible over a fence in the rear. 

For several months the shattered tavern remained deserted. At last theexiled innkeeper, on promising to do better, was allowed to return; anew sign, bearing the name of William Pitt, the friend of America, swungproudly from the door-post, and the patriots were appeased. Here it wasthat the mail-coach from Boston twice a week, for many a year, setdown its load of travelers and gossip. For some of the details in thissketch, I am indebted to a recently published chronicle of those times. 

It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the harbor of Rivermouth, andeight of the principal officers, in white uniforms trimmed with goldlace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of the William Pitt. Whois this young and handsome officer now entering the door of the tavern?It is no less a personage than the Marquis Lafayette, who has come allthe way from Providence to visit the French gentlemen boarding there. What a gallant-looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and coalblack hair! Forty years later he visited the spot again; his locks weregray and his step was feeble, but his heart held its young love forLiberty. 

Who is this finely dressed traveler alighting from his coach-and-four, attended by servants in livery? Do you know that sounding name, writtenin big valorous letters on the Declaration of Independence--written asif by the hand of a giant? Can you not see it now? JOHN HANCOCK. This ishe. 

Three young men, with their valet, are standing on the doorstep of theWilliam Pitt, bowing politely, and inquiring in the most courteous termsin the world if they can be accommodated. It is the time of the FrenchRevolution, and these are three sons of the Duke of Orleans--LouisPhilippe and his two brothers. Louis Philippe never forgot his visitto Rivermouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne ofFrance, he asked an American lady, who chanced to be at his court, ifthe pleasant old mansion were still standing. 

But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honoredthis roof. Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President ofthe United States, to pay his final complimentary visit to the Statedignitaries. The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and the dining-hallwhere he entertained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctitywhich even the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy. 

During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, an ancient lady, DameJocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notablebuilding. She was a dashing young belle at the time of Washington'sfirst visit to the town, and must have been exceedingly coquettish andpretty, judging from a certain portrait on ivory still in the possessionof the family. According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted withher just a little bit--in what a stately and highly finished manner canbe imagined. 

There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame hanging over themantel-piece in this room. The glass was cracked and the quicksilverrubbed off or discolored in many places. When it reflected your faceyou had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It gave yourfeatures the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine. But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of enchantment to me was afaded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the topof the tarnished gilt mouldings. This feather Washington took from theplume of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to theworshipful Mistress Jocelyn the day he left Rivermouth forever. I wishI could describe the mincing genteel air, and the ill-concealedself-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident. 

Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase tothat dingy room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to siton a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn'sstories of the olden time. How she would prattle! She was bedridden--poorcreature!--and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years. Meanwhile the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The changes that hadtaken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning oldgentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neglected to take away withthe rest of its odd traps. She had no patience with newfangled notions. The old ways and the old times were good enough for her. She had neverseen a steam engine, though she had heard "the dratted thing" screech inthe distance. In her day, when gentlefolk traveled, they went intheir own coaches. She didn't see how respectable people could bringthemselves down to "riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail andLord-knows-who. " Poor old aristocrat The landlord charged her no rentfor the room, and the neighbors took turns in supplying her with meals. Towards the close of her life--she lived to be ninety-nine--she grew veryfretful and capricious about her food. If she didn't chance to fancywhat was sent her, she had no hesitation in sending it back to the giverwith "Miss Jocelyn's respectful compliments. "

But I have been gossiping too long--and yet not too long if I haveimpressed upon the reader an idea of what a rusty, delightful old townit was to which I had come to spend the next three or four years of myboyhood. 

A drive of twenty minutes from the station brought us to the door-stepof Grandfather Nutter's house. What kind of house it was, and what sortof people lived in it, shall be told in another chapter. 

Chapter Five--The Nutter House and the Nutter Family

The Nutter House--all the more prominent dwellings in Rivermouth arenamed after somebody; for instance, there is the Walford House, theVenner House, the Trefethen House, etc. , though it by no means followsthat they are inhabited by the people whose names they bear--the NutterHouse, to resume, has been in our family nearly a hundred years, andis an honor to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I believe), supposingdurability to be a merit. If our ancestor was a carpenter, he knew histrade. I wish I knew mine as well. Such timber and such workmanshipdon't often come together in houses built nowadays. 

Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide hall running through themiddle. At your right band, as you enter, stands a tall black mahoganyclock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up on end. On each side ofthe hall are doors (whose knobs, it must be confessed, do not turn veryeasily), opening into large rooms wainscoted and rich in wood-carvingsabout the mantel-pieces and cornices. The walls are covered withpictured paper, representing landscapes and sea-views. In the parlor, for example, this enlivening figure is repeated all over the room. Agroup of English peasants, wearing Italian hats, are dancing on a lawnthat abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, upon which stands aflabby fisherman (nationality unknown), quietly hauling in what appearsto be a small whale, and totally regardless of the dreadful naval combatgoing on just beyond the end of his fishing-rod. On the other side ofthe ships is the main-land again, with the same peasants dancing. Our ancestors were very worthy people, but their wall-papers wereabominable. 

There are neither grates nor stoves in these quaint chambers, butsplendid open chimney-places, with room enough for the corpulentback-log to turn over comfortably on the polished andirons. A widestaircase leads from the hall to the second story, which is arrangedmuch like the first. Over this is the garret. I needn't tell aNew England boy what--a museum of curiosities is the garret of awell-regulated New England house of fifty or sixty years' standing. Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all thebroken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, allthe seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the splitwalking-sticks that have retired from business, "weary with the march oflife. " The pots, the pans, the trunks, the bottles--who may hope tomake an inventory of the numberless odds and ends collected in thisbewildering lumber-room? But what a place it is to sit of an afternoonwith the rain pattering on the roof! What a place in which to readGulliver's Travels, or the famous adventures of Rinaldo Rinaldini!

My grandfather's house stood a little back from the main street, inthe shadow of two handsome elms, whose overgrown boughs would dashthemselves against the gables whenever the wind blew hard. In the rearwas a pleasant garden, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre, full ofplum-trees and gooseberry bushes. These trees were old settlers, and areall dead now, excepting one, which bears a purple plum as big as an egg. This tree, as I remark, is still standing, and a more beautiful treeto tumble out of never grew anywhere. In the northwestern corner of thegarden were the stables and carriage-house opening upon a narrow lane. You may imagine that I made an early visit to that locality to inspectGypsy. Indeed, I paid her a visit every half-hour during the first dayof my arrival. At the twenty-fourth visit she trod on my foot ratherheavily, as a reminder, probably, that I was wearing out my welcome. Shewas a knowing little pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to say ofher in the course of these pages. 

Gypsy's quarters were all that could be wished, but nothing among my newsurroundings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartmentthat had been prepared for myself. It was the hall room over the frontdoor. 

I had never had a chamber all to myself before, and this one, abouttwice the size of our state-room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel ofneatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window, and apatch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat covered the littletruckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired inthat line. On a gray background were small bunches of leaves, unlikeany that ever grew in this world; and on every other bunch perched ayellow-bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered froma severe attack of the small-pox. That no such bird ever existed didnot detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred andsixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting those split in two wherethe paper was badly joined. I counted them once when I was laid up witha fine black eye, and falling asleep immediately dreamed that the wholeflock suddenly took wing and flew out of the window. From that time Iwas never able to regard them as merely inanimate objects. 

A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, alooking-glass in a filigreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded withbrass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. Over the head ofthe bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books--among whichwere Theodore, or The Peruvians; Robinson Crusoe; an odd volume ofTristram Shandy; Baxter's Saints' Rest, and a fine English edition ofthe Arabian Nights, with six hundred wood-cuts by Harvey. 

Shall I ever forget the hour when I first overhauled these books? I donot allude especially to Baxter's Saints' Rest, which is far from beinga lively work for the young, but to the Arabian Nights, and particularlyRobinson Crusoe. The thrill that ran into my fingers' ends then has notrun out yet. Many a time did I steal up to this nest of a room, and, taking the dog's-eared volume from its shelf, glide off into anenchanted realm, where there were no lessons to get and no boys tosmash my kite. In a lidless trunk in the garret I subsequently unearthedanother motley collection of novels and romances, embracing theadventures of Baron Trenck, Jack Sheppard, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, andCharlotte Temple--all of which I fed upon like a bookworm. 

I never come across a copy of any of those works without feeling acertain tenderness for the yellow-haired little rascal who used to leanabove the magic pages hour after hour, religiously believing every wordhe read, and no more doubting the reality of Sindbad the Sailor, or theKnight of the Sorrowful Countenance, than he did the existence of hisown grandfather. 

Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung a single-barrelshot-gun--placed there by Grandfather Nutter, who knew what a boyloved, if ever a grandfather did. As the trigger of the gun had beenaccidentally twisted off, it was not, perhaps, the most dangerous weaponthat could be placed in the hands of youth. In this maimed conditionits "bump of destructiveness" was much less than that of my small brasspocket-pistol, which I at once proceeded to suspend from one of thenails supporting the fowling-piece, for my vagaries concerning the redman had been entirely dispelled. 

Having introduced the reader to the Nutter House, a presentation to theNutter family naturally follows. The family consisted of mygrandfather; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter; and Kitty Collins, themaid-of-all-work. 

Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old gentleman, as straight and asbald as an arrow. He had been a sailor in early life; that is to say, atthe age of ten years he fled from the multiplication-table, and ran awayto sea. A single voyage satisfied him. There never was but one of ourfamily who didn't run away to sea, and this one died at his birth. Mygrandfather had also been a soldier--a captain of militia in 1812. If Iowe the British nation anything, I owe thanks to that particular Britishsoldier who put a musket-ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nutter'sleg, causing that noble warrior a slight permanent limp, but offsettingthe injury by furnishing him with the material for a story which the oldgentleman was never weary of telling and I never weary of listening to. The story, in brief, was as follows. 

At the breaking out of the war, an English frigate lay for several daysoff the coast near Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, and aregiment of minute-men, scattered at various points along-shore, stoodready to repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect a landing. Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earthwork just outside the mouthof the river. Late one thick night the sound of oars was heard; thesentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and couldn't, whenCaptain Nutter sprung upon the parapet in the pitch darkness, andshouted, "Boat ahoyl" A musket-shot immediately embedded itself in thecalf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the fort and the boat, whichhad probably come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate. 

This was my grandfather's only exploit during the war. That his promptand bold conduct was instrumental in teaching the enemy the hopelessnessof attempting to conquer such a people was among the firm beliefs of myboyhood. 

At the time I came to Rivermouth my grandfather had retired from activepursuits, and was living at ease on his money, invested principallyin shipping. He had been a widower many years; a maiden sister, theaforesaid Miss Abigail, managing his household. Miss Abigail alsomanaged her brother, and her brother's servant, and the visitor at herbrother's gate--not in a tyrannical spirit, but from a philanthropicdesire to be useful to everybody. In person she was tall and angular;she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray eyebrows, and generally worea gray dress. Her strongest weak point was a belief in the efficacy of"hot-drops" as a cure for all known diseases. 

If there were ever two people who seemed to dislike each other, MissAbigail and Kitty Collins were those people. If ever two people reallyloved each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people also. They were always either skirmishing or having a cup of tea lovinglytogether. 

Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so was Kitty; and in the course oftheir disagreements each let me into the private history of the other. 

According to Kitty, it was not originally my grandfather's intentionto have Miss Abigail at the head of his domestic establishment. She hadswooped down on him (Kitty's own words), with a band-box in one hand anda faded blue cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other. Cladin this singular garb--I do not remember that Kitty alluded to--anyadditional peculiarity of dress--Miss Abigail had made her appearance atthe door of the Nutter House on the morning of my grandmother's funeral. The small amount of baggage which the lady brought with her would haveled the superficial observer to infer that Miss Abigail's visit waslimited to a few days. I run ahead of my story in saying she remainedseventeen years! How much longer she would have remained can never bedefinitely known now, as she died at the expiration of that period. 

Whether or not my grandfather was quite pleased by this unlooked-foraddition to his family is a problem. He was very kind always to MissAbigail, and seldom opposed her; though I think she must have tried hispatience sometimes, especially when she interfered with Kitty. 

Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she preferred to be called, was descended in a direct line from an extensive family of kings whoformerly ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various calamities, among which the failure of the potato-crop may be mentioned, MissKitty Collins, in company with several hundred of her countrymen andcountrywomen--also descended from kings--came over to America in anemigrant ship, in the year eighteen hundred and something. 

I don't know what freak of fortune caused the royal exile to turn upat Rivermouth; but turn up she did, a few months after arriving in thiscountry, and was hired by my grandmother to do "general housework" forthe sum of four shillings and six-pence a week. 

Kitty had been living about seven years in my grandfather's family whenshe unburdened her heart of a secret which had been weighing upon it allthat time. It may be said of people, as it is said of nations, "Happyare they that have no history. " Kitty had a history, and a pathetic one, I think. 

On board the emigrant ship that brought her to America, she becameacquainted with a sailor, who, being touched by Kitty's forlorncondition, was very good to her. Long before the end of the voyage, which had been tedious and perilous, she was heartbroken at the thoughtof separating from her kindly protector; but they were not to part justyet, for the sailor returned Kitty's affection, and the two were marriedon their arrival at port. Kitty's husband--she would never mention hisname, but kept it locked in her bosom like some precious relic--had aconsiderable sum of money when the crew were paid off; and the youngcouple--for Kitty was young then--lived very happily in a lodging-house onSouth Street, near the docks. This was in New York. 

The days flew by like hours, and the stocking in which the little bridekept the funds shrunk and shrunk, until at last there were only threeor four dollars left in the toe of it. Then Kitty was troubled; forshe knew her sailor would have to go to sea again unless he couldget employment on shore. This he endeavored to do, but not with muchsuccess. One morning as usual he kissed her good day, and set out insearch of work. 

"Kissed me goodby, and called me his little Irish lass, " sobbed Kitty, telling the story, "kissed me goodby, and, Heaven help me, I niver setoi on him nor on the likes of him again!"

He never came back. Day after day dragged on, night after night, andthen the weary weeks. What had become of him? Had he been murdered? Hadhe fallen into the docks? Had he--deserted her? No! She could not believethat; he was too brave and tender and true. She couldn't believe that. He was dead, dead, or he'd come back to her. 

Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house turned Kitty into thestreets, now that "her man" was gone, and the payment of the rentdoubtful. She got a place as a servant. The family she lived withshortly moved to Boston, and she accompanied them; then they wentabroad, but Kitty would not leave America. Somehow she drifted toRivermouth, and for seven long years never gave speech to her sorrow, until the kindness of strangers, who had become friends to her, unsealedthe heroic lips. 

Kitty's story, you may be sure, made my grandparents treat her morekindly than ever. In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant thanas a friend in the home circle, sharing its joys and sorrows--a faithfulnurse, a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hearher singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing from time to time tomake some witty reply to Miss Abigail--for Kitty, like all her race, hada vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest face comes to me out fromthe past, the light and life of the Nutter House when I was a boy atRivermouth. 

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 politely, 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. 

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 sittingroom 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. 

Chapter Seven--One Memorable Night

Two months had elapsed since my arrival at Rivermouth, when the approachof an important celebration produced the greatest excitement among thejuvenile population of the town. 

There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School theweek preceding the Fourth of July. For my part, my heart and brain wereso full of fire-crackers, Roman candles, rockets, pin-wheels, squibs, and gunpowder in various seductive forms, that I wonder I didn't explodeunder Mr. Grimshaw's very nose. I couldn't do a sum to save me; Icouldn't tell, for love or money, whether Tallahassee was the capitalof Tennessee or of Florida; the present and the pluperfect tenseswere inextricably mixed in my memory, and I didn't know a verb from anadjective when I met one. This was not alone my condition, but that ofevery boy in the school. 

Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporarydistraction, and sought to fix our interest on the lessons by connectingthem directly or indirectly with the coming Event. The class inarithmetic, for instance, was requested to state how many boxes offire-crackers, each box measuring sixteen inches square, could be storedin a room of such and such dimensions. He gave us the Declaration ofIndependence for a parsing exercise, and in geography confined hisquestions almost exclusively to localities rendered famous in theRevolutionary War. 

"What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the Englishvessels?" asked our wily instructor. 

"Threw it into the river!" shrieked the smaller boys, with animpetuosity that made Mr. Grimshaw smile in spite of himself. Oneluckless urchin said, "Chucked it, " for which happy expression he waskept in at recess. 

Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, there was not much solid workdone by anybody. The trail of the serpent (an inexpensive but dangerousfire-toy) was over us all. We went round deformed by quantities ofChinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers-pockets; and if aboy whipped out his handkerchief without proper precaution, he was sureto let off two or three torpedoes. 

Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universaldemoralization. In calling the school to order, he always rapped onthe table with a heavy ruler. Under the green baize table-cloth, on theexact spot where he usually struck, certain boy, whose name I withhold, placed a fat torpedo. The result was a loud explosion, which caused Mr. Grimshaw to look queer. Charley Marden was at the water-pail, at thetime, and directed general attention to himself by strangling forseveral seconds and then squirting a slender thread of water over theblackboard. 

Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley, but said nothing. The real culprit (it wasn't Charley Marden, but the boy whose name Iwithhold) instantly regretted his badness, and after school confessedthe whole thing to Mr. Grimshaw, who heaped coals of fire upon thenameless boy's head giving him five cents for the Fourth of July. IfMr. Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth, the punishment would not havebeen half so severe. 

On the last day of June the Captain received a letter from my father, enclosing five dollars "for my son Tom, " which enabled that younggentleman to make regal preparations for the celebration of our nationalindependence. A portion of this money, two dollars, I hastened to investin fireworks; the balance I put by for contingencies. In placing thefund in my possession, the Captain imposed one condition that dampenedmy ardor considerably--I was to buy no gunpowder. I might have all thesnapping-crackers and torpedoes I wanted; but gunpowder was out of thequestion. 

I thought this rather hard, for all my young friends were provided withpistols of various sizes. Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol nearly aslarge as himself, and Jack Harris, though he, to be sure, was a bigboy, was going to have a real oldfashioned flintlock musket. However, Ididn't mean to let this drawback destroy my happiness. I had one chargeof powder stowed away in the little brass pistol which I brought fromNew Orleans, and was bound to make a noise in the world once, if I neverdid again. 

It was a custom observed from time immemorial for the towns-boys to havea bonfire on the Square on the midnight before the Fourth. I didn't askthe Captain's leave to attend this ceremony, for I had a general ideathat he wouldn't give it. If the Captain, I reasoned, doesn't forbid me, I break no orders by going. Now this was a specious line of argument, and the mishaps that befell me in consequence of adopting it were richlydeserved. 

On the evening of the 3d I retired to bed very early, in order to disarmsuspicion. I didn't sleep a wink, waiting for eleven o'clock to comeround; and I thought it never would come round, as I lay counting fromtime to time the slow strokes of the ponderous bell in the steeple ofthe Old North Church. At length the laggard hour arrived. While theclock was striking I jumped out of bed and began dressing. 

My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy sleepers, and I might havestolen downstairs and out at the front door undetected; but such acommonplace proceeding did not suit my adventurous disposition. Ifastened one end of a rope (it was a few yards cut from Kitty Collins'sclothes-line) to the bedpost nearest the window, and cautiously climbedout on the wide pediment over the hall door. I had neglected to knot therope; the result was, that, the moment I swung clear of the pediment, Idescended like a flash of lightning, and warmed both my hands smartly. The rope, moreover, was four or five feet too short; so I got a fallthat would have proved serious had I not tumbled into the middle of oneof the big rose-bushes growing on either side of the steps. 

I scrambled out of that without delay, and was congratulating myself onmy good luck, when I saw by the light of the setting moon the form of aman leaning over the garden gate. It was one of the town watch, who hadprobably been observing my operations with curiosity. Seeing no chanceof escape, I put a bold face on the matter and walked directly up tohim. 

"What on airth air you a doin'?" asked the man, grasping the collar ofmy jacket. 

"I live here, sir, if you please, " I replied, "and am going to thebonfire. I didn't want to wake up the old folks, that's all. "

The man cocked his eye at me in the most amiable manner, and releasedhis hold. 

"Boys is boys, " he muttered. He didn't attempt to stop me as I slippedthrough the gate. 

Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached theSquare, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged inbuilding a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms of my hands still tingledso that I couldn't join in the sport. I stood in the doorway of theNautilus Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of myschoolmates. They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in thetwilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice. What a Babel ofvoices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doingeverything wrong!

When all was prepared, someone applied a match to the sombre pile. Afiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the wholefabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully. This was asignal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels, which they did shouting like mad creatures. When the fire had burntdown a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre. In theexcitement of the moment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself inthe thick of the carousal. 

Before we were half ready, our combustible material was expended, and adisheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us. The boys collectedtogether here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done. It yet lacked four or five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in thehumor to return to bed. I approached one of the groups standing near thetown pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands thefigures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb, their faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and, their wholeappearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs. 

"Hullo! Here's Tom Bailey!" shouted Pepper Whitcomb. "He'll join in!"

Of course he would. The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripefor anything--none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis. After whispering together for a moment the boys motioned me to followthem. 

We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way through aneighboring alley, at the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn, owned by one Ezra Wingate. In former days this was the stable of themail-coach that ran between Rivermouth and Boston. When the railroadsuperseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle wasrolled in the barn, and there it stayed. The stage-driver, afterprophesying the immediate downfall of the nation, died of grief andapoplexy, and the old coach followed in his wake as fast as couldby quietly dropping to pieces. The barn had the reputation of beinghaunted, and I think we all kept very close together when we foundourselves standing in the black shadow cast by the tall gable. Here, in a low voice, Jack Harris laid bare his plan, which was to burn theancient stage-coach. 

"The old trundle-cart isn't worth twenty-five cents, " said Jack Harris, "and Ezra Wingate ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of theway. But if any fellow here doesn't want to have a hand in it, let himcut and run, and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever after. "

With this he pulled out the staples that held the lock, and the big barndoor swung slowly open. The interior of the stable was pitch-dark, ofcourse. As we made a movement to enter, a sudden scrambling, and thesound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start backin terror. 

"Rats!" cried Phil Adams. 

"Bats!" exclaimed Harry Blake. 

"Cats!" suggested Jack Harris. "Who's afraid?"

Well, the truth is, we were all afraid; and if the pole of the stage hadnot been lying close to the threshold, I don't believe anything on earthwould have induced us to cross it. We seized hold of the pole-strapsand succeeded with great trouble in dragging the coach out. The two forewheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to revolve. It was themerest skeleton of a coach. The cushions had long since been removed, and the leather hangings, where they had not crumbled away, dangled inshreds from the worm-eaten frame. A load of ghosts and a span of phantomhorses to drag them would have made the ghastly thing complete. 

Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood at the top of a very steephill. With three boys to push behind, and two in front to steer, westarted the old coach on its last trip with little or no difficulty. Our speed increased every moment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlockedas we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged upon the crowdlike a regiment of cavalry, scattering the people right and left. Beforereaching the bonfire, to which someone had added several bushels ofshavings, Jack Harris and Phil Adams, who were steering, dropped on theground, and allowed the vehicle to pass over them, which it did withoutinjuring them; but the boys who were clinging for dear life to thetrunk-rack behind fell over the prostrate steersman, and there we alllay in a heap, two or three of us quite picturesque with the nose-bleed. 

The coach, with an intuitive perception of what was expected of it, plunged into the centre of the kindling shavings, and stopped. Theflames sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, which burned liketinder. At this moment a figure was seen leaping wildly from the insideof the blazing coach. The figure made three bounds towards us, andtripped over Harry Blake. It was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhatsinged, and his eyebrows completely scorched off!

Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the back seat before we started, intending to have a neat little ride down hill, and a laugh at usafterwards. But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or wouldhave been, if half a dozen watchmen had not suddenly pounced down uponus, as we lay scrambling on the ground, weak with mirth over Pepper'smisfortune. We were collared and marched off before we well knew whathad happened. 

The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to thesilent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like thework of enchantment. We stared at each other, aghast. 

"Well, " remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, "this is a go!"

"No go, I should say, " whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brickwalls and the heavy ironplated door. 

"Never say die, " muttered Phil Adams, dolefully. 

The bridewell was a small low-studded chamber built up against therear end of the Meat Market, and approached from the Square by a narrowpassage-way. A portion of the rooms partitioned off into eight cells, numbered, each capable of holding two persons. The cells were full atthe time, as we presently discovered by seeing several hideous facesleering out at us through the gratings of the doors. 

A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from the ceiling threw aflickering light over the apartment, which contained no furnitureexcepting a couple of stout wooden benches. It was a dismal place bynight, and only little less dismal by day, tall houses surrounding "thelock-up" prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from penetrating theventilator over the door--long narrow window opening inward and proppedup by a piece of lath. 

As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the benches, I imagine thatour aspect was anything but cheerful. Adams and Harris looked veryanxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had just stopped bleeding, wasmournfully carving his name, by sheer force of habit, on the prisonbench. I don't think I ever saw a more "wrecked" expression on anyhuman countenance than Pepper Whitcomb's presented. His look of naturalastonishment at finding himself incarcerated in a jail was considerablyheightened by his lack of eyebrows. 

As for me, it was only by thinking how the late Baron Trenck wouldhave conducted himself under similar circumstances that I was able torestrain my tears. 

None of us were inclined to conversation. A deep silence, broken nowand then by a startling snore from the cells, reigned throughout thechamber. By and by Pepper Whitcomb glanced nervously towards Phil Adamsand said, "Phil, do you think they will--hang us?"

"Hang your grandmother!" returned Adams, impatiently. "What I'm afraidof is that they'll keep us locked up until the Fourth is over. "

"You ain't smart ef they do!" cried a voice from one of the cells. Itwas a deep bass voice that sent a chill through me. 

"Who are you?" said Jack Harris, addressing the cells in general; forthe echoing qualities of the room made it difficult to locate the voice. 

"That don't matter, " replied the speaker, putting his face close up tothe gratings of No. 3, "but ef I was a youngster like you, free an' easyoutside there, this spot wouldn't hold me long. "

"That's so!" chimed several of the prison-birds, wagging their headsbehind the iron lattices. 

"Hush!" whispered Jack Harris, rising from his seat and walking ontip-toe to the door of cell No. 3. "What would you do?"

"Do? Why, I'd pile them 'ere benches up agin that 'ere door, an' crawlout of that 'erc winder in no time. That's my adwice. "

"And werry good adwice it is, Jim, " said the occupant of No. 5, approvingly. 

Jack Harris seemed to be of the same opinion, for he hastily placed thebenches one on the top of another under the ventilator, and, climbing upon the highest bench, peeped out into the passage-way. 

"If any gent happens to have a ninepence about him, " said the man incell No. 3, "there's a sufferin' family here as could make use of it. Smallest favors gratefully received, an' no questions axed. "

This appeal touched a new silver quarter of a dollar in mytrousers-pocket; I fished out the coin from a mass of fireworks, andgave it to the prisoner. He appeared to be so good-natured a fellow thatI ventured to ask what he had done to get into jail. 

"Intirely innocent. I was clapped in here by a rascally nevew as wishesto enjoy my wealth afore I'm dead. '

"Your name, Sir?' I inquired, with a view of reporting the outrage to mygrandfather and having the injured person re instated in society. 

"Git out, you insolent young reptyle!" shouted the man, in a passion. 

I retreated precipitately, amid a roar of laughter from the other cells. 

"Can't you keep still?" exclaimed Harris, withdrawing his head from thewindow. 

A portly watchman usually sat on a stool outside the door day and night;but on this particular occasion, his services being required elsewhere, the bridewell had been left to guard itself. 

"All clear, " whispered Jack Harris, as he vanished through theaperture and dropped softly on the ground outside. We all followed himexpeditiously--Pepper Whitcomb and myself getting stuck in the window fora moment in our frantic efforts not to be last. 

"Now, boys, everybody for himself!"

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. 

Chapter Nine--I Become an R. M. C. 

In the course of ten days I recovered sufficiently from my injuries toattend school, where, for a little while, I was looked upon as a hero, on account of having been blown up. What don't we make a hero of? Thedistraction which prevailed in the classes the week preceding the Fourthhad subsided, and nothing remained to indicate the recent festivities, excepting a noticeable want of eyebrows on the part of Pepper Whitcomband myself. 

In August we had two weeks' vacation. It was about this time that Ibecame a member of the Rivermouth Centipedes, a secret society composedof twelve of the Temple Grammar School boys. This was an honor to whichI had long aspired, but, being a new boy, I was not admitted to thefraternity until my character had fully developed itself. 

It was a very select society, the object of which I never fathomed, though I was an active member of the body during the remainder of myresidence at Rivermouth, and at one time held the onerous position of F. C. , First Centipede. Each of the elect wore a copper cent (some occultassociation being established between a cent apiece and a centipedessuspended by a string round his neck). The medals were worn next theskin, and it was while bathing one day at Grave Point, with Jack Harrisand Fred Langdon, that I had my curiosity roused to the highest pitchby a sight of these singular emblems. As soon as I ascertained theexistence of a boys' club, of course I was ready to die to join it. Andeventually I was allowed to join. 

The initiation ceremony took place in Fred Langdon's barn, where I wassubmitted to a series of trials not calculated to soothe the nerves of atimorous boy. Before being led to the Grotto of Enchantment--such was themodest title given to the loft over my friend's wood-house--my hands weresecurely pinioned, and my eyes covered with a thick silk handkerchief. At the head of the stairs I was told in an unrecognizable, husky voice, that it was not yet too late to retreat if I felt myself physically tooweak to undergo the necessary tortures. I replied that I was not tooweak, in a tone which I intended to be resolute, but which, in spite ofme, seemed to come from the pit of my stomach. 

"It is well!" said the husky voice. 

I did not feel so sure about that; but, having made up my mind to be aCentipede, a Centipede I was bound to be. Other boys had passed throughthe ordeal and lived, why should not I?

A prolonged silence followed this preliminary examination and I waswondering what would come next, when a pistol fired off close by my cardeafened me for a moment. The unknown voice then directed me to take tensteps forward and stop at the word halt. I took ten steps, and halted. 

"Stricken mortal, " said a second husky voice, more husky, if possible, than the first, "if you had advanced another inch, you would havedisappeared down an abyss three thousand feet deep!"

I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece of information. A prickfrom some two-pronged instrument, evidently a pitchfork, gentlychecked my retreat. I was then conducted to the brink of several otherprecipices, and ordered to step over many dangerous chasms, wherethe result would have been instant death if I had committed the leastmistake. I have neglected to say that my movements were accompanied bydismal groans from different parts of the grotto. 

Finally, I was led up a steep plank to what appeared to me anincalculable height. Here I stood breathless while the bylaws were readaloud. A more extraordinary code of laws never came from the brain ofman. The penalties attached to the abject being who should reveal anyof the secrets of the society were enough to make the blood run cold. Asecond pistol-shot was heard, the something I stood on sunk with a crashbeneath my feet and I fell two miles, as nearly as I could compute it. At the same instant the handkerchief was whisked from my eyes, and Ifound myself standing in an empty hogshead surrounded by twelve maskedfigures fantastically dressed. One of the conspirators was reallyappalling with a tin sauce-pan on his head, and a tiger-skin sleigh-robethrown over his shoulders. I scarcely need say that there were novestiges to be seen of the fearful gulfs over which I had passed socautiously. My ascent had been to the top of the hogshead, and mydescent to the bottom thereof. Holding one another by the hand, and chanting a low dirge, the Mystic Twelve revolved about me. Thisconcluded the ceremony. With a merry shout the boys threw off theirmasks, and I was declared a regularly installed member of the R. M. C. 

I afterwards had a good deal of sport out of the club, for theseinitiations, as you may imagine, were sometimes very comical spectacles, especially when the aspirant for centipedal honors happened to be of atimid disposition. If he showed the slightest terror, he was certainto be tricked unmercifully. One of our subsequent devices--a humbleinvention of my own--was to request the blindfolded candidate to put outhis tongue, whereupon the First Centipede would say, in a low tone, as if not intended for the ear of the victim, "Diabolus, fetch me thered-hot iron!" The expedition with which that tongue would disappear wassimply ridiculous. 

Our meetings were held in various barns, at no stated periods, but ascircumstances suggested. Any member had a right to call a meeting. Eachboy who failed to report himself was fined one cent. Whenever a memberhad reasons for thinking that another member would be unable to attend, he called a meeting. For instance, immediately on learning the death ofHarry Blake's great-grandfather, I issued a call. By these simple andingenious measures we kept our treasury in a flourishing condition, sometimes having on hand as much as a dollar and a quarter. 

I have said that the society had no special object. It is true, therewas a tacit understanding among us that the Centipedes were to stand byone another on all occasions, though I don't remember that they did; butfurther than this we had no purpose, unless it was to accomplish asa body the same amount of mischief which we were sure to do asindividuals. To mystify the staid and slow-going Rivermouthians was ourfrequent pleasure. Several of our pranks won us such a reputation amongthe townsfolk, that we were credited with having a large finger inwhatever went amiss in the place. 

One morning, about a week after my admission into the secret order, thequiet citizens awoke to find that the signboards of all the principalstreets had changed places during the night. People who went trustfullyto sleep in Currant Square opened their eyes in Honeysuckle Terrace. Jones's Avenue at the north end had suddenly become Walnut Street, and Peanut Street was nowhere to be found. Confusion reigned. The townauthorities took the matter in hand without delay, and six of the TempleGrammar School boys were summoned to appear before justice Clapbam. 

Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather all knowledge ofthe transaction, I disappeared from the family circle, and was notapprehended until late in the afternoon, when the Captain dragged meignominiously from the haymow and conducted me, more dead than alive, to the office of justice Clapham. Here I encountered five other pallidculprits, who had been fished out of divers coal-bins, garrets, andchicken-coops, to answer the demands of the outraged laws. (CharleyMarden had hidden himself in a pile of gravel behind his father's house, and looked like a recently exhumed mummy. )

There was not the least evidence against us; and, indeed, we were whollyinnocent of the offence. The trick, as was afterwards proved, had beenplayed by a party of soldiers stationed at the fort in the harbor. Wewere indebted for our arrest to Master Conway, who had slyly dropped ahint, within the hearing of Selectman Mudge, to the effect that "youngBailey and his five cronies could tell something about them signs. "When he was called upon to make good his assertion, he was considerablymore terrified than the Centipedes, though they were ready to sink intotheir shoes. 

At our next meeting it was unanimously resolved that Conway's animosityshould not be quietly submitted to. He had sought to inform againstus in the stagecoach business; he had volunteered to carry Pettingil's"little bill" for twenty-four icecreams to Charley Marden's father; andnow he had caused us to be arraigned before justice Clapham on a chargeequally groundless and painful. After much noisy discussion, a plan ofretaliation was agreed upon. 

There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in the town, by the name ofMeeks. It was generally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vague desireto get married, but, being a shy and timorous youth, lacked the moralcourage to do so. It was also well known that the Widow Conway had notburied her heart with the late lamented. As to her shyness, that was notso clear. Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks, whose mother she mighthave been, were of a nature not to be misunderstood, and were notmisunderstood by anyone but Mr. Meeks himself. 

The widow carried on a dress-making establishment at her residence onthe corner opposite Meeks's drug-store, and kept a wary eye on all theyoung ladies from Miss Dorothy Gibbs's Female Institute who patronizedthe shop for soda-water, acid-drops, and slate-pencils. In the afternoonthe widow was usually seen seated, smartly dressed, at her windowupstairs, casting destructive glances across the street--the artificialroses in her cap and her whole languishing manner saying as plainly as alabel on a prescription, "To be Taken Immediately!" But Mr. Meeks didn'ttake. 

The lady's fondness, and the gentleman's blindness, were topics ablyhandled at every sewing-circle in the town. It was through these twoluckless individuals that we proposed to strike a blow at the commonenemy. To kill less than three birds with one stone did not suitour sanguinary purpose. We disliked the widow not so much for hersentimentality as for being the mother of Bill Conway; we disliked Mr. Meeks, not because he was insipid, like his own syrups, but because thewidow loved him. Bill Conway we hated for himself. 

Late one dark Saturday night in September we carried our plan intoeffect. On the following morning, as the orderly citizens wended theirway to church past the widow's abode, their sober faces relaxed atbeholding over her front door the well known gilt Mortar and Pestlewhich usually stood on the top of a pole on the opposite corner;while the passers on that side of the street were equally amused andscandalized at seeing a placard bearing the following announcementtacked to the druggist's window-shutters:

Wanted, a Sempstress!

The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I should be sorry to defend)was recognized at once. It spread like wildfire over the town, and, though the mortar and the placard were speedily removed, our triumphwas complete. The whole community was on the broad grin, and ourparticipation in the affair seemingly unsuspected. 

It was those wicked soldiers at the fort!

Chapter Ten--I Fight Conway

There was one person, however, who cherished a strong suspicion that theCentipedes had had a hand in the business; and that person was Conway. His red hair seemed to change to a livelier red, and his sallow cheeksto a deeper sallow, as we glanced at him stealthily over the tops of ourslates the next day in school. He knew we were watching him, and madesundry mouths and scowled in the most threatening way over his sums. 

Conway had an accomplishment peculiarly his own--that of throwing histhumbs out of joint at will. Sometimes while absorbed in study, or onbecoming nervous at recitation, he performed the feat unconsciously. Throughout this entire morning his thumbs were observed to be in achronic state of dislocation, indicating great mental agitation on thepart of the owner. We fully expected an outbreak from him at recess; butthe intermission passed off tranquilly, somewhat to our disappointment. 

At the close of the afternoon session it happened that Binny Wallaceand myself, having got swamped in our Latin exercise, were detained inschool for the purpose of refreshing our memories with a page of Mr. Andrews's perplexing irregular verbs. Binny Wallace finishing his taskfirst, was dismissed. I followed shortly after, and, on stepping intothe playground, saw my little friend plastered, as it were, up againstthe fence, and Conway standing in front of him ready to deliver a blowon the upturned, unprotected face, whose gentleness would have stayedany arm but a coward's. 

Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, was leaning against thepump lazily enjoying the sport; but on seeing me sweep across theyard, whirling my strap of books in the air like a sling, he called outlustily, "Lay low, Conway! Here's young Bailey!"

Conway turned just in time to catch on his shoulder the blow intendedfor his head. He reached forward one of his long arms--he had arms likea windmill, that boy--and, grasping me by the hair, tore out quite arespectable handful. The tears flew to my eyes, but they were not thetears of defeat; they were merely the involuntary tribute which naturepaid to the departed tresses. 

In a second my little jacket lay on the ground, and I stood on guard, resting lightly on my right leg and keeping my eye fixed steadily onConway's--in all of which I was faithfully following the instructions ofPhil Adams, whose father subscribed to a sporting journal. 

Conway also threw himself into a defensive attitude, and there we were, glaring at each other motionless, neither of us disposed to risk anattack, but both on the alert to resist one. There is no telling howlong we might have remained in that absurd position, had we not beeninterrupted. 

It was a custom with the larger pupils to return to the play-groundafter school, and play baseball until sundown. The town authoritieshad prohibited ball-playing on the Square, and, there being no otheravailable place, the boys fell back perforce on the school-yard. Just atthis crisis a dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, seeingat a glance the belligerent status of Conway and myself, dropped bat andball, and rushed to the spot where we stood. 

"Is it a fight?" asked Phil Adams, who saw by our freshness that we hadnot yet got to work. 

"Yes, it's a fight, " I answered, "unless Conway will ask Wallace'spardon, promise never to hector me in future--and put back my hair!"

This last condition was rather a staggerer. 

"I sha'n't do nothing of the sort, " said Conway, sulkily. 

"Then the thing must go on, " said Adams, with dignity. "Rodgers, as Iunderstand it, is your second, Conway? Bailey, come here. What's the rowabout?"

"He was thrashing Binny Wallace. "

"No, I wasn't, " interrupted Conway; "but I was going to because he knowswho put Meeks's mortar over our door. And I know well enough who did it;it was that sneaking little mulatter!" pointing at me. 

"O, by George!" I cried, reddening at the insult. 

"Cool is the word, " said Adams, as he bound a handkerchief round myhead, and carefully tucked away the long straggling locks that offered atempting advantage to the enemy. "Who ever heard of a fellow with sucha head of hair going into action!" muttered Phil, twitching thehandkerchief to ascertain if it were securely tied. He then loosened mygallowses (braces), and buckled them tightly above my hips. "Now, then, bantam, never say die!"

Conway regarded these business-like preparations with evident misgiving, for he called Rodgers to his side, and had himself arrayed in a similarmanner, though his hair was cropped so close that you couldn't havetaken hold of it with a pair of tweezers. 

"Is your man ready?" asked Phil Adams, addressing Rodgers. 

"Ready!"

"Keep your back to the gate, Tom, " whispered Phil in my car, "and you'llhave the sun in his eyes. "

Behold us once more face to face, like David and the Philistine. Lookat us as long as you may; for this is all you shall see of the combat. According to my thinking, the hospital teaches a better lesson than thebattle-field. I will tell you about my black eye, and my swollen lip, ifyou will; but not a word of the fight. 

You'll get no description of it from me, simply because I think it wouldprove very poor reading, and not because I consider my revolt againstConway's tyranny unjustifiable. 

I had borne Conway's persecutions for many months with lamb-likepatience. I might have shielded myself by appealing to Mr. Grimshaw; butno boy in the Temple Grammar School could do that without losing caste. Whether this was just or not doesn't matter a pin, since it was so--atraditionary law of the place. The personal inconvenience I sufferedfrom my tormentor was nothing to the pain he inflicted on me indirectlyby his persistent cruelty to little Binny Wallace. I should have lackedthe spirit of a hen if I had not resented it finally. I am glad that Ifaced Conway, and asked no favors, and got rid of him forever. I am gladthat Phil Adams taught me to box, and I say to all youngsters: Learn tobox, to ride, to pull an oar, and to swim. The occasion may come round, when a decent proficiency in one or the rest of these accomplishmentswill be of service to you. 

In one of the best books (1) ever written for boys are these words:

"Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not oneof you will be the worse, but very much the better, for learning to boxwell. Should you never have to use it in earnest there's no exercise inthe world so good for the temper, and for the muscles of the back andlegs. 

"As for fighting, keep out of it, if you can, by all means. When thetime comes, if ever it should, that you have to say 'Yes' or 'No' to achallenge to fight, say 'No' if you can--only take care you make it plainto yourself why you say 'No. ' It's a proof of the highest courage, ifdone from true Christian motives. It's quite right and justifiable, ifdone from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger. But don't say'No' because you fear a licking and say or think it's because you fearGod, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fightit out; and don't give in while you can stand and see. "

And don't give in when you can't! see! For I could stand very little, and see not at all (having pommelled the school pump for the last twentyseconds), when Conway retired from the field. As Phil Adams stepped upto shake hands with me, he received a telling blow in the stomach;for all the fight was not out of me yet, and I mistook him for a newadversary. 

Convinced of my error, I accepted his congratulations, with those of theother boys, blandly and blindly. I remember that Binny Wallace wanted togive me his silver pencil-case. The gentle soul had stood throughout thecontest with his face turned to the fence, suffering untold agony. 

A good wash at the pump, and a cold key applied to my eye, refreshed meamazingly. Escorted by two or three of the schoolfellows, I walked homethrough the pleasant autumn twilight, battered but triumphant. As I wentalong, my cap cocked on one side to keep the chilly air from my eye, Ifelt that I was not only following my nose, but following it so closely, that I was in some danger of treading on it. I seemed to have noseenough for the whole party. My left cheek, also, was puffed out likea dumpling. I couldn't help saying to myself, "If this is victory, howabout that other fellow?"

"Tom, " said Harry Blake, hesitating. 

"Well?"

"Did you see Mr. Grimshaw looking out of the recitation-room window justas we left the yard?"

"No was he, though?"

"I am sure of it. "

"Then he must have seen all the row. "

"Shouldn't wonder. "

"No, he didn't, " broke in Adams, "or he would have stopped it shortmetre; but I guess be saw you pitching into the pump which you diduncommonly strong--and of course be smelt mischief directly. "

"Well, it can't be helped now, " I reflected. 

"--As the monkey said when he fell out of the cocoanut tree, " addedCharley Marden, trying to make me laugh. 

It was early candle-light when we reached the house. Miss Abigail, opening the front door, started back at my hilarious appearance. Itried to smile upon her sweetly, but the smile, rippling over myswollen cheek, and dying away like a spent wave on my nose, produced anexpression of which Miss Abigail declared she had never seen the likeexcepting on the face of a Chinese idol. 

She hustled me unceremoniously into the presence of my grandfather inthe sitting-room. Captain Nutter, as the recognized professional warriorof our family, could not consistently take me to task for fightingConway; nor was he disposed to do so; for the Captain was well aware ofthe long-continued provocation I had endured. 

"Ah, you rascal!" cried the old gentleman, after hearing my story. "Justlike me when I was young--always in one kind of trouble or another. Ibelieve it runs in the family. "

"I think, " said Miss Abigail, without the faintest expression on hercountenance, "that a table-spoonful of hot-dro--" The Captain interruptedMiss Abigail peremptorily, directing her to make a shade out ofcardboard and black silk to tie over my eye. Miss Abigail must have beenpossessed with the idea that I had taken up pugilism as a profession, for she turned out no fewer than six of these blinders. 

"They'll be handy to have in the house, " says Miss Abigail, grimly. 

Of course, so great a breach of discipline was not to be passed over byMr. Grimshaw. He had, as we suspected, witnessed the closing sceneof the fight from the school-room window, and the next morning, afterprayers, I was not wholly unprepared when Master Conway and myselfwere called up to the desk for examination. Conway, with a piece ofcourt-plaster in the shape of a Maltese cross on his right cheek, andI with the silk patch over my left eye, caused a general titter throughthe room. 

"Silence!" said Mr. Grimshaw, sharply. 

As the reader is already familiar with the leading points in the case ofBailey versus Conway, I shall not report the trial further than to saythat Adams, Marden, and several other pupils testified to the fact thatConway had imposed on me ever since my first day at the Temple School. Their evidence also went to show that Conway was a quarrelsome charactergenerally. Bad for Conway. Seth Rodgers, on the part of his friend, proved that I had struck the first blow. That was bad for me. 

"If you please, sir, " said Binny Wallace, holding up his hand forpermission to speak, "Bailey didn't fight on his own account; he foughton my account, and, if you please, sir, I am the boy to be blamed, for Iwas the cause of the trouble. "

This drew out the story of Conway's harsh treatment of the smaller boys. As Binny related the wrongs of his playfellows, saying very littleof his own grievances, I noticed that Mr. Grimshaw's hand, unknown tohimself perhaps, rested lightly from time to time on Wallace's sunnyhair. The examination finished, Mr. Grimshaw leaned on the deskthoughtfully for a moment and then said:

"Every boy in this school knows that it is against the rules tofight. If one boy maltreats another, within school-bounds, or withinschool-hours, that is a matter for me to settle. The case should be laidbefore me. I disapprove of tale-bearing, I never encourage it inthe slightest degree; but when one pupil systematically persecutes aschoolmate, it is the duty of some head-boy to inform me. No pupil has aright to take the law into his own hands. If there is any fighting to bedone, I am the person to be consulted. I disapprove of boys' fighting;it is unnecessary and unchristian. In the present instance, I considerevery large boy in this school at fault, but as the offence is one ofomission rather than commission, my punishment must rest only on the twoboys convicted of misdemeanor. Conway loses his recess for a month, and Bailey has a page added to his Latin lessons for the next fourrecitations. I now request Bailey and Conway to shake hands in thepresence of the school, and acknowledge their regret at what hasoccurred. "

Conway and I approached each other slowly and cautiously, as if we werebent upon another hostile collision. We clasped hands in the tamestmanner imaginable, and Conway mumbled, "I'm sorry I fought with you. "

"I think you are, " I replied, drily, "and I'm sorry I had to thrashyou. "

"You can go to your seats, " said Mr. Grimshaw, turning his face aside tohide a smile. I am sure my apology was a very good one. 

I never had any more trouble with Conway. He and his shadow, SethRodgers, gave me a wide berth for many months. Nor was Binny Wallacesubjected to further molestation. Miss Abigail's sanitary stores, including a bottle of opodeldoc, were never called into requisition. Thesix black silk patches, with their elastic strings, are still danglingfrom a beam in the garret of the Nutter House, waiting for me to getinto fresh difficulties. 

 (1)"Tom Brown's School Days at Rugby"

Chapter Eleven--All About Gypsy

This record of my life at Rivermouth would be strangely incomplete did Inot devote an entire chapter to Gypsy. I had other pets, of course; forwhat healthy boy could long exist without numerous friends in the animalkingdom? I had two white mice that were forever gnawing their way outof a pasteboard chateau, and crawling over my face when I lay asleep. Iused to keep the pink-eyed little beggars in my bedroom, greatly to theannoyance of Miss Abigail, who was constantly fancying that one of themice had secreted itself somewhere about her person. 

I also owned a dog, a terrier, who managed in some inscrutable wayto pick a quarrel with the moon, and on bright nights kept up such aki-yi-ing in our back garden, that we were finally forced to disposeof him at private sale. He was purchased by Mr. Oxford, the butcher. I protested against the arrangement and ever afterwards, when we hadsausages from Mr. Oxford's shop, I made believe I detected in themcertain evidences that Cato had been foully dealt with. 

Of birds I had no end-robins, purple-martins, wrens, bulfinches, bobolinks, ringdoves, and pigeons. At one time I took solid comfortin the iniquitous society of a dissipated old parrot, who talked soterribly, that the Rev. Wibird Hawkins, happening to get a sample ofPoll's vituperative powers, pronounced him "a benighted heathen, " andadvised the Captain to get rid of him. A brace of turtles supplantedthe parrot in my affections; the turtles gave way to rabbits; and therabbits in turn yielded to the superior charms of a small monkey, whichthe Captain bought of a sailor lately from the coast of Africa. 

But Gypsy was the prime favorite, in spite of many rivals. I never grewweary of her. She was the most knowing little thing in the world. Herproper sphere in life--and the one to which she ultimately attained--wasthe saw-dust arena of a travelling circus. There was nothing short ofthe three R's, reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic, that Gypsy couldn't betaught. The gift of speech was not hers, but the faculty of thought was. 

My little friend, to be sure, was not exempt from certain gracefulweaknesses, inseparable, perhaps, from the female character. She wasvery pretty, and she knew it. She was also passionately fond of dress--bywhich I mean her best harness. When she had this on, her curvetingsand prancings were laughable, though in ordinary tackle she went alongdemurely enough. There was something in the enamelled leather and thesilver-washed mountings that chimed with her artistic sense. To have hermane braided, and a rose or a pansy stuck into her forelock, was to makeher too conceited for anything. 

She had another trait not rare among her sex. She liked the attentionsof young gentlemen, while the society of girls bored her. She would dragthem, sulkily, in the cart; but as for permitting one of them in thesaddle, the idea was preposterous. Once when Pepper Whitcomb's sister, in spite of our remonstrances, ventured to mount her, Gypsy gave alittle indignant neigh, and tossed the gentle Emma heels over head in notime. But with any of the boys the mare was as docile as a lamb. 

Her treatment of the several members of the family was comical. For theCaptain she entertained a wholesome respect, and was always on her goodbehavior when he was around. As to Miss Abigail, Gypsy simply laughed ather--literally laughed, contracting her upper lip and displaying all hersnow-white teeth, as if something about Miss Abigail struck her, Gypsy, as being extremely ridiculous. 

Kitty Collins, for some reason or another, was afraid of the pony, orpretended to be. The sagacious little animal knew it, of course, andfrequently, when Kitty was banging out clothes near the stable, the marebeing loose in the yard, would make short plunges at her. Once Gypsyseized the basket of clothespins with her teeth, and rising on her hindlegs, pawing the air with her fore feet followed Kitty clear up to thescullery steps. 

That part of the yard was shut off from the rest by a gate; but no gatewas proof against Gypsy's ingenuity. She could let down bars, lift uplatches, draw bolts, and turn all sorts of buttons. This accomplishmentrendered it hazardous for Miss Abigail or Kitty to leave any eatables onthe kitchen table near the window. On one occasion Gypsy put in her headand lapped up six custard pies that had been placed by the casement tocool. 

An account of my young lady's various pranks would fill a thickvolume. A favorite trick of hers, on being requested to "walk like MissAbigail, " was to assume a little skittish gait so true to naturethat Miss Abigail herself was obliged to admit the cleverness of theimitation. 

The idea of putting Gypsy through a systematic course of instructionwas suggested to me by a visit to the circus which gave an annualperformance in Rivermouth. This show embraced among its attractions anumber of trained Shetland ponies, and I determined that Gypsy shouldlikewise have the benefit of a liberal education. I succeeded inteaching her to waltz, to fire a pistol by tugging at a string tiedto the trigger, to lie down dead, to wink one eye, and to execute manyother feats of a difficult nature. She took to her studies admirably, and enjoyed the whole thing as much as anyone. 

The monkey was a perpetual marvel to Gypsy. They became bosom-friendsin an incredibly brief period, and were never easy out of each other'ssight. Prince Zany--that's what Pepper Whitcomb and I christened him oneday, much to the disgust of the monkey, who bit a piece out of Pepper'snose--resided in the stable, and went to roost every night on the pony'sback, where I usually found him in the morning. Whenever I rode out, Iwas obliged to secure his Highness the Prince with a stout cord to thefence, he chattering all the time like a madman. 

One afternoon as I was cantering through the crowded part of the town, Inoticed that the people in the street stopped, stared at me, and fell tolaughing. I turned round in the saddle, and there was Zany, with a greatburdock leaf in his paw, perched up behind me on the crupper, as solemnas a judge. 

After a few months, poor Zany sickened mysteriously, and died. The darkthought occurred to me then, and comes back to me now with redoubledforce, that Miss Abigail must have given him some hot-drops. Zany lefta large circle of sorrowing friends, if not relatives. Gypsy, I think, never entirely recovered from the shock occasioned by his earlydemise. She became fonder of me, though; and one of her cunningestdemonstrations was to escape from the stable-yard, and trot up to thedoor of the Temple Grammar School, where I would discover her at recesspatiently waiting for me, with her fore feet on the second step, andwisps of straw standing out all over her, like quills upon the fretfulporcupine. 

I should fail if I tried to tell you how dear the pony was to me. Evenhard, unloving men become attached to the horses they take care of; soI, who was neither unloving nor hard, grew to love every glossy hair ofthe pretty little creature that depended on me for her soft straw bedand her daily modicum of oats. In my prayer at night I never forgot tomention Gypsy with the rest of the family--generally setting forth herclaims first. 

Whatever relates to Gypsy belongs properly to this narrative; thereforeI offer no apology for rescuing from oblivion, and boldly printing herea short composition which I wrote in the early part of my first quarterat the Temple Grammar School. It is my maiden effort in a difficult art, and is, perhaps, lacking in those graces of thought and style which arereached only after the severest practice. 

Every Wednesday morning, on entering school, each pupil was expectedto lay his exercise on Mr. Grimshaw's desk; the subject was usuallyselected by Mr. Grimshaw himself, the Monday previous. With a humorcharacteristic of him, our teacher had instituted two prizes, one forthe best and the other for the worst composition of the month. The firstprize consisted of a penknife, or a pencil-case, or some such articledear to the heart of youth; the second prize entitled the winner to wearfor an hour or two a sort of conical paper cap, on the front of whichwas written, in tall letters, this modest admission: I AM A DUNCE! Thecompetitor who took prize No. 2. Wasn't generally an object of envy. 

My pulse beat high with pride and expectation that Wednesday morning, asI laid my essay, neatly folded, on the master's table. I firmly declineto say which prize I won; but here's the composition to speak foritself. 

It is no small-author vanity that induces me to publish this strayleaf of natural history. I lay it before our young folks, not fortheir admiration, but for their criticism. Let each reader takehis lead-pencil and remorselessly correct the orthography, thecapitalization, and the punctuation of the essay. I shall not feel hurtat seeing my treatise cut all to pieces; though I think highly of theproduction, not on account of its literary excellence, which I candidlyadmit is not overpowering, but because it was written years and yearsago about Gypsy, by a little fellow who, when I strive to recall him, appears to me like a reduced ghost of my present self. 

I am confident that any reader who has ever had pets, birds or animals, will forgive me for this brief digression. 

Chapter Twelve--Winter at Rivermouth

"I guess we're going to have a regular old-fashioned snowstorm, "said Captain Nutter, one bleak December morning, casting a peculiarlynautical glance skyward. 

The Captain was always hazarding prophecies about the weather, whichsomehow never turned out according to his prediction. The vanes on thechurch-steeples seemed to take fiendish pleasure in humiliating thedear old gentleman. If he said it was going to be a clear day, a densesea-fog was pretty certain to set in before noon. Once he caused aprotracted drought by assuring us every morning, for six consecutiveweeks, that it would rain in a few hours. But, sure enough, thatafternoon it began snowing. 

Now I had not seen a snow-storm since I was eighteen months old, and ofcourse remembered nothing about it. A boy familiar from his infancy withthe rigors of our New England winters can form no idea of the impressionmade on me by this natural phenomenon. My delight and surprise were asboundless as if the heavy gray sky had let down a shower of pondlilies and white roses, instead of snow-flakes. It happened to be ahalf-holiday, so I had nothing to do but watch the feathery crystalswhirling hither and thither through the air. I stood by the sitting-roomwindow gazing at the wonder until twilight shut out the novel scene. 

We had had several slight flurries of hail and snow before, but this wasa regular nor'easter. 

Several inches of snow had already fallen. The rose-bushes at the doordrooped with the weight of their magical blossoms, and the two poststhat held the garden gate were transformed into stately Turks, withwhite turbans, guarding the entrance to the Nutter House. 

The storm increased at sundown, and continued with unabated violencethrough the night. The next morning, when I jumped out of bed, the sunwas shining brightly, the cloudless heavens wore the tender azure ofJune, and the whole earth lay muffled up to the eyes, as it were, in athick mantle of milk-white down. 

It was a very deep snow. The Oldest Inhabitant (what would become of aNew England town or village without its oldest Inhabitant?) overhauledhis almanacs, and pronounced it the deepest snow we had had for twentyyears. It couldn't have been much deeper without smothering us all. Our street was a sight to be seen, or, rather, it was a sight not tobe seen; for very little street was visible. One huge drift completelybanked up our front door and half covered my bedroom window. 

There was no school that day, for all the thoroughfares were impassable. By twelve o'clock, however, the great snowploughs, each drawn by fouryokes of oxen, broke a wagon-path through the principal streets; but thefoot-passengers had a hard time of it floundering in the arctic drifts. 

The Captain and I cut a tunnel, three feet wide and six feet high, fromour front door to the sidewalk opposite. It was a beautiful cavern, withits walls and roof inlaid with mother-of-pearl and diamonds. I am surethe ice palace of the Russian Empress, in Cowper's poem, was not a moresuperb piece of architecture. 

The thermometer began falling shortly before sunset and we had thebitterest cold night I ever experienced. This brought out the OldestInhabitant again the next day--and what a gay old boy he was for decidingeverything! Our tunnel was turned into solid ice. A crust thick enoughto bear men and horses had formed over the snow everywhere, and the airwas alive with merry sleigh-bells. Icy stalactites, a yard long, bungfrom the eaves of the house, and the Turkish sentinels at the gatelooked as if they had given up all hopes of ever being relieved fromduty. 

So the winter set in cold and glittering. Everything out-of-doors wassheathed in silver mail. To quote from Charley Marden, it was "coldenough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey, "--an observation whichseemed to me extremely happy, though I knew little or nothing concerningthe endurance of brass monkeys, having never seen one. 

I had looked forward to the advent of the season with graveapprehensions, nerving myself to meet dreary nights and monotonousdays; but summer itself was not more jolly than winter at Rivermouth. Snow-balling at school, skating on the Mill Pond, coasting by moonlight, long rides behind Gypsy in a brand-new little sleigh built expressly forher, were sports no less exhilarating than those which belonged to thesunny months. And then Thanksgiving! The nose of Memory--why shouldn'tMemory have a nose?--dilates with pleasure over the rich perfume of MissAbigail's forty mince-pies, each one more delightful than the other, like the Sultan's forty wives. Christmas was another red-letter day, though it was not so generally observed in New England as it is now. 

The great wood-fire in the tiled chimney-place made our sitting-roomvery cheerful of winter nights. When the north-wind howled aboutthe eaves, and the sharp fingers of the sleet tapped against thewindow-panes, it was nice to be so warmly sheltered from the storm. Adish of apples and a pitcher of chilly cider were always served duringthe evening. The Captain had a funny way of leaning back in the chair, and eating his apple with his eyes closed. Sometimes I played dominoswith him, and sometimes Miss Abigail read aloud to us, pronouncing "to"toe, and sounding all the eds. 

In a former chapter I alluded to Miss Abigail's managing propensities. She had affected many changes in the Nutter House before I came thereto live; but there was one thing against which she had long contendedwithout being able to overcome. This was the Captain's pipe. Onfirst taking command of the household, she prohibited smoking in thesitting-room, where it had been the old gentleman's custom to take awhiff or two of the fragrant weed after meals. The edict went forth--andso did the pipe. An excellent move, no doubt; but then the house washis, and if he saw fit to keep a tub of tobacco burning in the middle ofthe parlor floor, he had a perfect right to do so. However, he humoredher in this as in other matters, and smoked by stealth, like a guiltycreature, in the barn, or about the gardens. That was practicable insummer, but in winter the Captain was hard put to it. When he couldn'tstand it longer, he retreated to his bedroom and barricaded the door. Such was the position of affairs at the time of which I write. 

One morning, a few days after the great snow, as Miss Abigail wasdusting the chronometer in the ball, she beheld Captain Nutter slowlydescending the staircase, with a long clay pipe in his mouth. MissAbigail could hardly credit her own eyes. 

"Dan'el!" she gasped, retiring heavily on the hat-rack. 

The tone of reproach with which this word was uttered failed to producethe slightest effect on the Captain, who merely removed the pipe fromhis lips for an instant, and blew a cloud into the chilly air. Thethermometer stood at two degrees below zero in our hall. 

"Dan'el!" cried Miss Abigail, hysterically--"Dan'el, don't come near me!"Whereupon she fainted away; for the smell of tobacco-smoke always madeher deadly sick. 

Kitty Collins rushed from the kitchen with a basin of water, and set towork bathing Miss Abigail's temples and chafing her hands. I thoughtmy grandfather rather cruel, as he stood there with a half-smile on hiscountenance, complacently watching Miss Abigail's sufferings. When shewas "brought to, " the Captain sat down beside her, and, with a lovelytwinkle in his eye, said softly:

"Abigail, my dear, there wasn't any tobacco in that Pipe! It was a newpipe. I fetched it down for Tom to blow soap-bubbles with. "

At these words Kitty Collins hurried away, her features-workingstrangely. Several minutes later I came upon her in the scullery withthe greater portion of a crash towel stuffed into her mouth. "MissAbygil smelt the terbacca with her oi!" cried Kitty, partially removingthe cloth, and then immediately stopping herself up again. 

The Captain's joke furnished us--that is, Kitty and me--with mirth formany a day; as to Miss Abigail, I think she never wholly pardonedhim. After this, Captain Nutter gradually gave up smoking, which is anuntidy, injurious, disgraceful, and highly pleasant habit. 

A boy's life in a secluded New England town in winter does not affordmany points for illustration. Of course he gets his ears or toesfrost-bitten; of course he smashes his sled against another boy's; ofcourse be bangs his bead on the ice; and he's a lad of no enterprisewhatever, if he doesn't manage to skate into an eel-hole, and be broughthome half drowned. All these things happened to me; but, as they lacknovelty, I pass them over, to tell you about the famous snow-fort whichwe built on Slatter's Hill. 

Chapter Thirteen--The Snow Fort on Slatter's Hill

The memory of man, even that of the Oldest Inhabitant, runneth not backto the time when there did not exist a feud between the North End andthe South End boys of Rivermouth. 

The origin of the feud is involved in mystery; it is impossible to saywhich party was the first aggressor in the far-off anterevolutionaryages; but the fact remains that the youngsters of those antipodalsections entertained a mortal hatred for each other, and that thishatred had been handed down from generation to generation, like MilesStandish's punch-bowl. 

I know not what laws, natural or unnatural, regulated the warmth of thequarrel; but at some seasons it raged more violently than at others. This winter both parties were unusually lively and antagonistic. Great was the wrath of the South-Enders, when they discovered that theNorth-Enders had thrown up a fort on the crown of Slatter's Hill. 

Slatter's Hill, or No-man's-land, as it was generally called, was arise of ground covering, perhaps, an acre and a quarter, situated onan imaginary line, marking the boundary between the two districts. Animmense stratum of granite, which here and there thrust out a wrinkledboulder, prevented the site from being used for building purposes. Thestreet ran on either side of the hill, from one part of which a quantityof rock had been removed to form the underpinning of the new jail. This excavation made the approach from that point all but impossible, especially when the ragged ledges were a-glitter with ice. You see whata spot it was for a snow-fort. 

One evening twenty or thirty of the North-Enders quietly took possessionof Slatter's Hill, and threw up a strong line of breastworks, somethingafter this shape:

(Ft Slatter graphic)

The rear of the entrenchment, being protected by the quarry, was leftopen. The walls were four feet high, and twenty-two inches thick, strengthened at the angles by stakes driven firmly into the ground. 

Fancy the rage of the South-Enders the next day, when they spied oursnowy citadel, with Jack Harris's red silk pocket handkerchief floatingdefiantly from the flag-staff. 

In less than an hour it was known all over town, in military circles atleast, that the "Puddle-dockers" and the "River-rats" (these were thederisive sub-titles bestowed on our South-End foes) intended to attackthe fort that Saturday afternoon. 

At two o'clock all the fighting boys of the Temple Grammar School, and as many recruits as we could muster, lay behind the walls of FortSlatter, with three hundred compact snowballs piled up in pyramids, awaiting the approach of the enemy. The enemy was not slow in making hisapproach--fifty strong, headed by one Mat Ames. Our forces were under thecommand of General J. Harris. 

Before the action commenced, a meeting was arranged between the rivalcommanders, who drew up and signed certain rules and regulationsrespecting the conduct of the battle. As it was impossible for theNorth-Enders to occupy the fort permanently, it was stipulated that theSouth-Enders should assault it only on Wednesday and Saturday afternoonsbetween the hours of two and six. For them to take possession of theplace at any other time was not to constitute a capture, but on thecontrary was to be considered a dishonorable and cowardly act. 

The North-Enders, on the other hand, agreed to give up the fort wheneverten of the storming party succeeded in obtaining at one time a footingon the parapet, and were able to hold the same for the space of twominutes. Both sides were to abstain from putting pebbles into theirsnow-balls, nor was it permissible to use frozen ammunition. A snow-ballsoaked in water and left out to cool was a projectile which in previousyears had been resorted to with disastrous results. 

These preliminaries settled, the commanders retired to their respectivecorps. The interview had taken place on the hillside between theopposing lines. 

General Harris divided his men into two bodies; the first comprised themost skilful marksmen, or gunners; the second, the reserve force, wascomposed of the strongest boys, whose duty it was to repel the scalingparties, and to make occasional sallies for the purpose of capturingprisoners, who were bound by the articles of treaty to faithfully serveunder our flag until they were exchanged at the close of the day. 

The repellers were called light infantry; but when they carried onoperations beyond the fort they became cavalry. It was also their duty, when not otherwise engaged, to manufacture snow-balls. The General'sstaff consisted of five Templars (I among the number, with the rank ofMajor), who carried the General's orders and looked after the wounded. 

General Mat Ames, a veteran commander, was no less wide-awake in thedisposition of his army. Five companies, each numbering but six men, in order not to present too big a target to our sharpshooters, were tocharge the fort from different points, their advance being covered by aheavy fire from the gunners posted in the rear. Each scaler was providedwith only two rounds of ammunition, which were not to be used until hehad mounted the breastwork and could deliver his shots on our heads. 

The drawing below represents the interior of the fort just previous tothe assault. Nothing on earth could represent the state of things afterthe first volley. 

(Fort Slatter detail graphic)

The thrilling moment had now arrived. If I had been going into a realengagement I could not have been more deeply impressed by the importanceof the occasion. 

The fort opened fire first--a single ball from the dexterous band ofGeneral Harris taking General Ames in the very pit of his stomach. Acheer went up from Fort Slatter. In an instant the air was thick withflying missiles, in the midst of which we dimly descried the stormingparties sweeping up the hill, shoulder to shoulder. The shouts of theleaders, and the snowballs bursting like shells about our ears, made itvery lively. 

Not more than a dozen of the enemy succeeded in reaching the crest ofthe hill; five of these clambered upon the icy walls, where they wereinstantly grabbed by the legs and jerked into the fort. The rest retiredconfused and blinded by our well-directed fire. 

When General Harris (with his right eye bunged up) said, "Soldiers, I amproud of you!" my heart swelled in my bosom. 

The victory, however, had not been without its price. Six North-Enders, having rushed out to harass the discomfited enemy, were gallantlycut off by General Ames and captured. Among these were Lieutenant P. Whitcomb (who had no business to join in the charge, being weak in theknees), and Captain Fred Langdon, of General Harris's staff. Whitcombwas one of the most notable shots on our side, though he was not muchto boast of in a rough-and-tumble fight, owing to the weakness beforementioned. General Ames put him among the gunners, and we were quicklymade aware of the loss we had sustained, by receiving a frequent artfulball which seemed to light with unerring instinct on any nose that wasthe least bit exposed. I have known one of Pepper's snow-balls, firedpointblank, to turn a corner and hit a boy who considered himselfabsolutely safe. 

But we had no time for vain regrets. The battle raged. Already therewere two bad cases of black eye, and one of nosebleed, in the hospital. 

It was glorious excitement, those pell-mell onslaughts and hand-to-handstruggles. Twice we were within an ace of being driven from ourstronghold, when General Harris and his staff leaped recklessly upon theramparts and hurled the besiegers heels over head down hill. 

At sunset, the garrison of Fort Slatter was still unconquered, and theSouth-Enders, in a solid phalanx, marched off whistling "Yankee Doodle, "while we cheered and jeered them until they were out of hearing. 

General Ames remained behind to effect an exchange of prisoners. We heldthirteen of his men, and he eleven of ours. General Ames proposed tocall it an even thing, since many of his eleven prisoners were officers, while nearly all our thirteen captives were privates. A dispute arisingon this point, the two noble generals came to fisticuffs, and inthe fracas our brave commander got his remaining well eye badly damaged. This didn't prevent him from writing a general order the next day, on aslate, in which he complimented the troops on their heroic behavior. 

On the following Wednesday the siege was renewed. I forget whether itwas on that afternoon or the next that we lost Fort Slatter; but lose itwe did, with much valuable ammunition and several men. After a seriesof desperate assaults, we forced General Ames to capitulate; and he, inturn, made the place too hot to hold us. So from day to day the tideof battle surged to and fro, sometimes favoring our arms, and sometimesthose of the enemy. 

General Ames handled his men with great skill; his deadliest foe couldnot deny that. Once he outgeneralled our commander in the followingmanner: He massed his gunners on our left and opened a brisk fire, undercover of which a single company (six men) advanced on that angle of thefort. Our reserves on the right rushed over to defend the threatenedpoint. Meanwhile, four companies of the enemy's scalers made a detourround the foot of the hill, and dashed into Fort Slatter withoutopposition. At the same moment General Ames's gunners closed in on ourleft, and there we were between two fires. Of course we had to vacatethe fort. A cloud rested on General Harris's military reputation untilhis superior tactics enabled him to dispossess the enemy. 

As the winter wore on, the war-spirit waxed fiercer and fiercer. Atlength the provision against using heavy substances in the snow-ballswas disregarded. A ball stuck full of sand-bird shot came tearing intoFort Slatter. In retaliation, General Harris ordered a broadside ofshells; i. E. Snow-balls containing marbles. After this, both sidesnever failed to freeze their ammunition. 

It was no longer child's play to march up to the walls of Fort Slatter, nor was the position of the besieged less perilous. At every assaultthree or four boys on each side were disabled. It was not an infrequentoccurrence for the combatants to hold up a flag of truce while theyremoved some insensible comrade. 

Matters grew worse and worse. Seven North-Enders had been seriouslywounded, and a dozen South-Enders were reported on the sick list. The selectmen of the town awoke to the fact of what was going on, anddetailed a posse of police to prevent further disturbance. The boys atthe foot of the hill, South-Enders as it happened, finding themselvesassailed in the rear and on the flank, turned round and attemptedto beat off the watchmen. In this they were sustained by numerousvolunteers from the fort, who looked upon the interference astyrannical. 

The watch were determined fellows, and charged the boys valiantly, driving them all into the fort, where we made common cause, fightingside by side like the best of friends. In vain the four guardians of thepeace rushed up the hill, flourishing their clubs and calling upon us tosurrender. They could not get within ten yards of the fort, our fire wasso destructive. In one of the onsets a man named Mugridge, more valorousthan his peers, threw himself upon the parapet, when he was seized bytwenty pairs of hands, and dragged inside the breastwork, where fifteenboys sat down on him to keep him quiet. 

Perceiving that it was impossible with their small number to dislodgeus, the watch sent for reinforcements. Their call was responded to, notonly by the whole constabulary force (eight men), but by a numerousbody of citizens, who had become alarmed at the prospect of a riot. Thisformidable array brought us to our senses: we began to think that maybediscretion was the better part of valor. General Harris and GeneralAmes, with their respective staffs, held a council of war in thehospital, and a backward movement was decided on. So, after one grandfarewell volley, we fled, sliding, jumping, rolling, tumbling down thequarry at the rear of the fort, and escaped without losing a man. 

But we lost Fort Slatter forever. Those battle-scarred ramparts wererazed to the ground, and humiliating ashes sprinkled over the historicspot, near which a solitary lynx-eyed policeman was seen prowling fromtime to time during the rest of the winter. 

The event passed into a legend, and afterwards, when later instances ofpluck and endurance were spoken of, the boys would say, "By golly! Youought to have been at the fights on Slatter's Hill!"

Chapter Fourteen--The Cruise of the Dolphin

It was spring again. The snow had faded away like a dream, and we wereawakened, so to speak, by the sudden chirping of robins in our backgarden. Marvellous transformation of snowdrifts into lilacs, wondrousmiracle of the unfolding leaf! We read in the Holy Book how our Saviour, at the marriage-feast, changed the water into wine; we pause and wonder;but every hour a greater miracle is wrought at our very feet, if we havebut eyes to see it. 

I had now been a year at Rivermouth. If you do not know what sort of boyI was, it is not because I haven't been frank with you. Of my progressat school I say little; for this is a story, pure and simple, and nota treatise on education. Behold me, however, well up in most of theclasses. I have worn my Latin grammar into tatters, and am in the firstbook of Virgil. I interlard my conversation at home with easy quotationsfrom that poet, and impress Captain Nutter with a lofty notion of mylearning. I am likewise translating Les Aventures de Telemaque from theFrench, and shall tackle Blair's Lectures the next term. I am ashamed ofmy crude composition about The Horse, and can do better now. Sometimesmy head almost aches with the variety of my knowledge. I consider Mr. Grimshaw the greatest scholar that ever lived, and I don't know which Iwould rather be--a learned man like him, or a circus rider. 

My thoughts revert to this particular spring more frequently than to anyother period of my boyhood, for it was marked by an event that left anindelible impression on my memory. As I pen these pages, I feel thatI am writing of something which happened yesterday, so vividly it allcomes back to me. 

Every Rivermouth boy looks upon the sea as being in some way mixed upwith his destiny. While he is yet a baby lying in his cradle, he hearsthe dull, far-off boom of the breakers; when he is older, he wanders bythe sandy shore, watching the waves that come plunging up the beachlike white-maned seahorses, as Thoreau calls them; his eye follows thelessening sail as it fades into the blue horizon, and he burns for thetime when he shall stand on the quarter-deck of his own ship, and gosailing proudly across that mysterious waste of waters. 

Then the town itself is full of hints and flavors of the sea. The gablesand roofs of the houses facing eastward are covered with red rust, likethe flukes of old anchors; a salty smell pervades the air, and densegray fogs, the very breath of Ocean, periodically creep up into thequiet streets and envelop everything. The terrific storms that lashthe coast; the kelp and spars, and sometimes the bodies of drowned men, tossed on shore by the scornful waves; the shipyards, the wharves, andthe tawny fleet of fishing-smacks yearly fitted out at Rivermouth--thesethings, and a hundred other, feed the imagination and fill the brain ofevery healthy boy with dreams of adventure. He learns to swim almostas soon as he can walk; he draws in with his mother's milk the art ofhandling an oar: he is born a sailor, whatever he may turn out to beafterwards. 

To own the whole or a portion of a row-boat is his earliest ambition. No wonder that I, born to this life, and coming back to it with freshestsympathies, should have caught the prevailing infection. No wonder Ilonged to buy a part of the trim little sailboat Dolphin, which chancedjust then to be in the market. This was in the latter part of May. 

Three shares, at five or six dollars each, I forget which, had alreadybeen taken by Phil Adams, Fred Langdon, and Binny Wallace. The fourthand remaining share hung fire. Unless a purchaser could be found forthis, the bargain was to fall through. 

I am afraid I required but slight urging to join in the investment. I had four dollars and fifty cents on hand, and the treasurer of theCentipedes advanced me the balance, receiving my silver pencil-case asample security. It was a proud moment when I stood on the wharf with mypartners, inspecting the Dolphin, moored at the foot of a very slipperyflight of steps. She was painted white with a green stripe outside, andon the stern a yellow dolphin, with its scarlet mouth wide open, staredwith a surprised expression at its own reflection in the water. The boatwas a great bargain. 

I whirled my cap in the air, and ran to the stairs leading down from thewharf, when a hand was laid gently on my shoulder. I turned and facedCaptain Nutter. I never saw such an old sharp-eye as he was in thosedays. 

I knew he wouldn't be angry with me for buying a rowboat; but I alsoknew that the little bowsprit suggesting a jib, and the tapering mastready for its few square feet of canvas, were trifles not likely tomeet his approval. As far as rowing on the river, among the wharves, wasconcerned, the Captain had long since withdrawn his decided objections, having convinced himself, by going out with me several times, that Icould manage a pair of sculls as well as anybody. 

I was right in my surmises. He commanded me, in the most emphaticterms, never to go out in the Dolphin without leaving the mast in theboat-house. This curtailed my anticipated sport, but the pleasure ofhaving a pull whenever I wanted it remained. I never disobeyed theCaptain's orders touching the sail, though I sometimes extended my rowbeyond the points he had indicated. 

The river was dangerous for sailboats. Squalls, without the slightestwarning, were of frequent occurrence; scarcely a year passed that six orseven persons were not drowned under the very windows of the town, andthese, oddly enough, were generally sea-captains, who either did notunderstand the river, or lacked the skill to handle a small craft. 

A knowledge of such disasters, one of which I witnessed, consoled mesomewhat when I saw Phil Adams skimming over the water in a spankingbreeze with every stitch of canvas set. There were few better yachtsmenthan Phil Adams. He usually went sailing alone, for both Fred Langdonand Binny Wallace were under the same restrictions I was. 

Not long after the purchase of the boat, we planned an excursion toSandpeep Island, the last of the islands in the harbor. We proposed tostart early in the morning, and return with the tide in the moonlight. Our only difficulty was to obtain a whole day's exemption from school, the customary half-holiday not being long enough for our picnic. Somehow, we couldn't work it; but fortune arranged it for us. I maysay here, that, whatever else I did, I never played truant ("hookey" wecalled it) in my life. 

One afternoon the four owners of the Dolphin exchanged significantglances when Mr. Grimshaw announced from the desk that there would beno school the following day, he having just received intelligence of thedeath of his uncle in Boston I was sincerely attached to Mr. Grimshaw, but I am afraid that the death of his uncle did not affect me as itought to have done. 

We were up before sunrise the next morning, in order to take advantageof the flood tide, which waits for no man. Our preparations for thecruise were made the previous evening. In the way of eatables anddrinkables, we had stored in the stem of the Dolphin a generous bagof hard-tack (for the chowder), a piece of pork to fry the cunners in, three gigantic apple-pies (bought at Pettingil's), half a dozen lemons, and a keg of spring-water--the last-named article we slung over theside, to keep it cool, as soon as we got under way. The crockery andthe bricks for our camp-stove we placed in the bows, with the groceries, which included sugar, pepper, salt, and a bottle of pickles. Phil Adamscontributed to the outfit a small tent of unbleached cotton cloth, underwhich we intended to take our nooning. 

We unshipped the mast, threw in an extra oar, and were ready to embark. I do not believe that Christopher Columbus, when he started on hisrather successful voyage of discovery, felt half the responsibilityand importance that weighed upon me as I sat on the middle seat of theDolphin, with my oar resting in the row-lock. I wonder if ChristopherColumbus quietly slipped out of the house without letting his estimablefamily know what he was up to?

Charley Marden, whose father had promised to cane him if he ever steppedfoot on sail or rowboat, came down to the wharf in a sour-grape humor, to see us off. Nothing would tempt him to go out on the river in sucha crazy clam-shell of a boat. He pretended that he did not expectto behold us alive again, and tried to throw a wet blanket over theexpedition. 

"Guess you'll have a squally time of it, " said Charley, casting offthe painter. "I'll drop in at old Newbury's" (Newbury was the parishundertaker) "and leave word, as I go along!"

"Bosh!" muttered Phil Adams, sticking the boat-hook into thestring-piece of the wharf, and sending the Dolphin half a dozen yardstowards the current. 

How calm and lovely the river was! Not a ripple stirred on the glassysurface, broken only by the sharp cutwater of our tiny craft. The sun, as round and red as an August moon, was by this time peering above thewater-line. 

The town had drifted behind us, and we were entering among the group ofislands. Sometimes we could almost touch with our boat-hook the shelvingbanks on either side. As we neared the mouth of the harbor a littlebreeze now and then wrinkled the blue water, shook the spangles fromthe foliage, and gently lifted the spiral mist-wreaths that still clungalong shore. The measured dip of our oars and the drowsy twitteringsof the birds seemed to mingle with, rather than break, the enchantedsilence that reigned about us. 

The scent of the new clover comes back to me now, as I recall thatdelicious morning when we floated away in a fairy boat down a river likea dream!

The sun was well up when the nose of the Dolphin nestled against thesnow-white bosom of Sandpeep Island. This island, as I have said before, was the last of the cluster, one side of it being washed by the sea. Welanded on the river-side, the sloping sands and quiet water affording usa good place to moor the boat. 

It took us an hour or two to transport our stores to the spot selectedfor the encampment. Having pitched our tent, using the five oars tosupport the canvas, we got out our lines, and went down the rocksseaward to fish. It was early for cunners, but we were lucky enough tocatch as nice a mess as ever you saw. A cod for the chowder was not soeasily secured. At last Binny Wallace hauled in a plump little fellowcrusted all over with flaky silver. 

To skin the fish, build our fireplace, and cook the chowder kept usbusy the next two hours. The fresh air and the exercise had given us theappetites of wolves, and we were about famished by the time the savorymixture was ready for our clamshell saucers. 

I shall not insult the rising generation on the seaboard by telling themhow delectable is a chowder compounded and eaten in this Robinson Crusoefashion. As for the boys who live inland, and know naught of such marinefeasts, my heart is full of pity for them. What wasted lives! Not toknow the delights of a clam-bake, not to love chowder, to be ignorant oflob-scouse!

How happy we were, we four, sitting crosslegged in the crisp salt grass, with the invigorating sea-breeze blowing gratefully through our hair!What a joyous thing was life, and how far off seemed death--death, thatlurks in all pleasant places, and was so near!

The banquet finished, Phil Adams drew from his pocket a handful ofsweet-fern cigars; but as none of the party could indulge withoutimminent risk of becoming sick, we all, on one pretext or another, declined, and Phil smoked by himself. 

The wind had freshened by this, and we found it comfortable to puton the jackets which had been thrown aside in the heat of the day. We strolled along the beach and gathered large quantities of thefairy-woven Iceland moss, which, at certain seasons, is washed to theseshores; then we played at ducks and drakes, and then, the sun beingsufficiently low, we went in bathing. 

Before our bath was ended a slight change had come over the sky and sea;fleecy-white clouds scudded here and there, and a muffled moan from thebreakers caught our ears from time to time. While we were dressing, afew hurried drops of rain came lisping down, and we adjourned to thetent to await the passing of the squall. 

"We're all right, anyhow, " said Phil Adams. "It won't be much of a blow, and we'll be as snug as a bug in a rug, here in the tent, particularlyif we have that lemonade which some of you fellows were going to make. "

By an oversight, the lemons had been left in the boat. Binny Wallacevolunteered to go for them. 

"Put an extra stone on the painter, Binny, " said Adams, calling afterhim; "it would be awkward to have the Dolphin give us the slip andreturn to port minus her passengers. "

"That it would, " answered Binny, scrambling down the rocks. 

Sandpeep Island is diamond-shaped--one point running out into the sea, and the other looking towards the town. Our tent was on the river-side. Though the Dolphin was also on the same side, it lay out of sight by thebeach at the farther extremity of the island. 

Binny Wallace had been absent five or six minutes, when we heard himcalling our several names in tones that indicated distress or surprise, we could not tell which. Our first thought was, "The boat has brokenadrift!"

We sprung to our feet and hastened down to the beach. On turning thebluff which hid the mooring-place from our view, we found the conjecturecorrect. Not only was the Dolphin afloat, but poor little Binny Wallacewas standing in the bows with his arms stretched helplessly towardsus--drifting out to sea!

"Head the boat in shore!" shouted Phil Adams. 

Wallace ran to the tiller; but the slight cockle-shell merely swunground and drifted broadside on. O, if we had but left a single scull inthe Dolphin!

"Can you swim it?" cried Adams, desperately, using his hand as aspeaking-trumpet, for the distance between the boat and the islandwidened momentarily. 

Binny Wallace looked down at the sea, which was covered with white caps, and made a despairing gesture. He knew, and we knew, that the stoutestswimmer could not live forty seconds in those angry waters. 

A wild, insane light came into Phil Adams's eyes, as he stood knee-deepin the boiling surf, and for an instant I think he meditated plunginginto the ocean after the receding boat. 

The sky darkened, and an ugly look stole rapidly over the broken surfaceof the sea. 

Binny Wallace half rose from his seat in the stem, and waved his handto us in token of farewell. In spite of the distance, increasing everyinstant we could see his face plainly. The anxious expression it woreat first had passed. It was pale and meek now, and I love to think therewas a kind of halo about it, like that which painters place around theforehead of a saint. So he drifted away. 

The sky grew darker and darker. It was only by straining our eyesthrough the unnatural twilight that we could keep the Dolphin in sight. The figure of Binny Wallace was no longer visible, for the boat itselfhad dwindled to a mere white dot on the black water. Now we lost it, andour hearts stopped throbbing; and now the speck appeared again, for aninstant, on the crest of a high wave. 

Finally, it went out like a spark, and we saw it no more. Then we gazedat each other, and dared not speak. 

Absorbed in following the course of the boat, we had scarcely noticedthe huddled inky clouds that sagged down all around us. From thesethreatening masses, seamed at intervals with pale lightning, there nowburst a heavy peal of thunder that shook the ground under our feet. Asudden squall struck the sea, ploughing deep white furrows into it, andat the same instant a single piercing shriek rose above the tempest--thefrightened cry of a gull swooping over the island. How it startled us!

It was impossible any longer to keep our footing on the beach. The windand the breakers would have swept us into the ocean if we had not clungto each other with the desperation of drowning men. Taking advantage ofa momentary lull, we crawled up the sands on our hands and knees, and, pausing in the lee of the granite ledge to gain breath, returned to thecamp, where we found that the gale had snapped all the fastenings ofthe tent but one. Held by this, the puffed-out canvas swayed in the windlike a balloon. It was a task of some difficulty to secure it, which wedid by beating down the canvas with the oars. 

After several trials, we succeeded in setting up the tent on the leewardside of the ledge. Blinded by the vivid flashes of lightning, anddrenched by the rain, which fell in torrents, we crept, half dead withfear and anguish, under our flimsy shelter. Neither the anguish nor thefear was on our own account, for we were comparatively safe, but forpoor little Binny Wallace, driven out to sea in the merciless gale. Weshuddered to think of him in that frail shell, drifting on and on to hisgrave, the sky rent with lightning over his head, and the green abyssesyawning beneath him. We fell to crying, the three of us, and cried Iknow not how long. 

Meanwhile the storm raged with augmented fury. We were obliged to holdon to the ropes of the tent to prevent it blowing away. The sprayfrom the river leaped several yards up the rocks and clutched at usmalignantly. The very island trembled with the concussions of the seabeating upon it, and at times I fancied that it had broken loose fromits foundation, and was floating off with us. The breakers, streakedwith angry phosphorus, were fearful to look at. 

The wind rose higher and higher, cutting long slits in the tent, throughwhich the rain poured incessantly. To complete the sum of our miseries, the night was at hand. It came down suddenly, at last, like a curtain, shutting in Sandpeep island from all the world. 

It was a dirty night, as the sailors say. The darkness was somethingthat could be felt as well as seen--it pressed down upon one with a cold, clammy touch. Gazing into the hollow blackness, all sorts of imaginableshapes seemed to start forth from vacancy--brilliant colors, stars, prisms, and dancing lights. What boy, lying awake at night, has notamused or terrified himself by peopling the spaces around his bed withthese phenomena of his own eyes?

"I say, " whispered Fred Langdon, at length, clutching my hand, "don'tyou see things--out there--in the dark?"

"Yes, yes--Binny Wallace's face!"

I added to my own nervousness by making this avowal; though for thelast ten minutes I had seen little besides that star-pale face withits angelic hair and brows. First a slim yellow circle, like the nimbusround the moon, took shape and grew sharp against the darkness; thenthis faded gradually, and there was the Face, wearing the same sad, sweet look it wore when he waved his hand to us across the awful water. This optical illusion kept repeating itself. 

"And I too, " said Adams. "I see it every now and then, outside there. What wouldn't I give if it really was poor little Wallace looking in atus! O boys, how shall we dare to go back to the town without him? I'vewished a hundred times, since we've been sitting here, that I was in hisplace, alive or dead!"

We dreaded the approach of morning as much as we longed for it. Themorning would tell us all. Was it possible for the Dolphin to outridesuch a storm? There was a light-house on Mackerel Reef, which laydirectly in the course the boat had taken, when it disappeared. If theDolphin had caught on this reef, perhaps Binny Wallace was safe. Perhapshis cries had been heard by the keeper of the light. The man owned alifeboat, and had rescued several people. Who could tell?

Such were the questions we asked ourselves again and again, as we lay ineach other's arms waiting for daybreak. What an endless night it was! Ihave known months that did not seem so long. 

Our position was irksome rather than perilous; for the day was certainto bring us relief from the town, where our prolonged absence, togetherwith the storm, had no doubt excited the liveliest alarm for our safety. But the cold, the darkness, and the suspense were hard to bear. 

Our soaked jackets had chilled us to the bone. To keep warm, we layhuddled together so closely that we could bear our hearts beat above thetumult of sea and sky. 

After a while we grew very hungry, not having broken our fast sinceearly in the day. The rain had turned the hard-tack into a sort ofdough; but it was better than nothing. 

We used to laugh at Fred Langdon for always carrying in his pocket asmall vial of essence of peppermint or sassafras, a few drops of which, sprinkled on a lump of loaf-sugar, he seemed to consider a great luxury. I don't know what would have become of us at this crisis, if it hadn'tbeen for that omnipresent bottle of hot stuff. We poured the stingingliquid over our sugar, which had kept dry in a sardine-box, and warmedourselves with frequent doses. 

After four or five hours the rain ceased, the wind died away to a moan, and the sea--no longer raging like a maniac--sobbed and sobbed with apiteous human voice all along the coast. And well it might, after thatnight's work. Twelve sail of the Gloucester fishing fleet had gone downwith every soul on board, just outside of Whale's-back Light. Think ofthe wide grief that follows in the wake of one wreck; then think of thedespairing women who wrung their hands and wept, the next morning, inthe streets of Gloucester, Marblehead, and Newcastle!

Though our strength was nearly spent, we were too cold to sleep. OnceI sunk into a troubled doze, when I seemed to bear Charley Marden'sparting words, only it was the Sea that said them. After that I threwoff the drowsiness whenever it threatened to overcome me. 

Fred Langdon was the earliest to discover a filmy, luminous streak inthe sky, the first glimmering of sunrise. 

"Look, it is nearly daybreak!"

While we were following the direction of his finger, a sound of distantoars fell on our ears. 

We listened breathlessly, and as the dip of the blades became moreaudible, we discerned two foggy lights, like will-o'the-wisps, floatingon the river. 

Running down to the water's edge, we hailed the boats with allour might. The call was heard, for the oars rested a moment in therow-locks, and then pulled in towards the island. 

It was two boats from the town, in the foremost of which we could nowmake out the figures of Captain Nutter and Binny Wallace's father. Weshrunk back on seeing him. 

"Thank God!" cried Mr. Wallace, fervently, as he leaped from the wherrywithout waiting for the bow to touch the beach. 

But when he saw only three boys standing on the sands, his eye wanderedrestlessly about in quest of the fourth; then a deadly pallor overspreadhis features. 

Our story was soon told. A solemn silence fell upon the crowd of roughboatmen gathered round, interrupted only by a stifled sob from one poorold man, who stood apart from the rest. 

The sea was still running too high for any small boat to venture out; soit was arranged that the wherry should take us back to town, leaving theyawl, with a picked crew, to hug the island until daybreak, and then setforth in search of the Dolphin. 

Though it was barely sunrise when we reached town, there were a greatmany people assembled at the landing eager for intelligence from missingboats. Two picnic parties had started down river the day before, justprevious to the gale, and nothing had been beard of them. It turned outthat the pleasure-seekers saw their danger in time, and ran ashore onone of the least exposed islands, where they passed the night. Shortlyafter our own arrival they appeared off Rivermouth, much to the joy oftheir friends, in two shattered, dismasted boats. 

The excitement over, I was in a forlorn state, physically and mentally. Captain Nutter put me to bed between hot blankets, and sent KittyCollins for the doctor. I was wandering in my mind, and fancied myselfstill on Sandpeep Island: now we were building our brick-stove to cookthe chowder, and, in my delirium, I laughed aloud and shouted to mycomrades; now the sky darkened, and the squall struck the island: now Igave orders to Wallace how to manage the boat, and now I cried becausethe rain was pouring in on me through the holes in the tent. Towardsevening a high fever set in, and it was many days before my grandfatherdeemed it prudent to tell me that the Dolphin had been found, floatingkeel upwards, four miles southeast of Mackerel Reef. 

Poor little Binny Wallace! How strange it seemed, when I went toschool again, to see that empty seat in the fifth row! How gloomy theplayground was, lacking the sunshine of his gentle, sensitive face! Oneday a folded sheet slipped from my algebra; it was the last note he everwrote me. I couldn't read it for the tears. 

What a pang shot across my heart the afternoon it was whispered throughthe town that a body had been washed ashore at Grave Point--the placewhere we bathed. We bathed there no more! How well I remember thefuneral, and what a piteous sight it was afterwards to see his familiarname on a small headstone in the Old South Burying Ground!

Poor little Binny Wallace! Always the same to me. The rest of us havegrown up into hard, worldly men, fighting the fight of life; but youare forever young, and gentle, and pure; a part of my own childhoodthat time cannot wither; always a little boy, always poor little BinnyWallace!

Chapter Fifteen--An Old Acquaintance Turns Up

A year had stolen by since the death of Binny Wallace--a year of which Ihave nothing important to record. 

The loss of our little playmate threw a shadow over our young lives formany and many a month. The Dolphin rose and fell with the tide at thefoot of the slippery steps, unused, the rest of the summer. At the closeof November we hauled her sadly into the boat-house for the winter; butwhen spring came round we launched the Dolphin again, and often wentdown to the wharf and looked at her lying in the tangled eel-grass, without much inclination to take a row. The associations connected withthe boat were too painful as yet; but time, which wears the sharp edgefrom everything, softened this feeling, and one afternoon we brought outthe cobwebbed oars. 

The ice once broken, brief trips along the wharves--we seldom cared togo out into the river now--became one of our chief amusements. MeanwhileGypsy was not forgotten. Every clear morning I was in the saddlebefore breakfast, and there are few roads or lanes within ten miles ofRivermouth that have not borne the print of her vagrant hoof. 

I studied like a good fellow this quarter, carrying off a couple offirst prizes. The Captain expressed his gratification by presenting mewith a new silver dollar. If a dollar in his eyes was smaller than acart-wheel, it wasn't so very much smaller. I redeemed my pencil-casefrom the treasurer of the Centipedes, and felt that I was getting on inthe world. 

It was at this time I was greatly cast down by a letter from my fathersaying that he should be unable to visit Rivermouth until the followingyear. With that letter came another to Captain Nutter, which he did notread aloud to the family, as usual. It was on business, he said, foldingit up in his wallet. He received several of these business letters fromtime to time, and I noticed that they always made him silent and moody. 

The fact is, my father's banking-house was not thriving. Theunlooked-for failure of a firm largely indebted to him had crippled"the house. " When the Captain imparted this information to me I didn'ttrouble myself over the matter. I supposed--if I supposed anything--thatall grown-up people had more or less money, when they wanted it. Whetherthey inherited it, or whether government supplied them, was not clearto me. A loose idea that my father had a private gold-mine somewhere orother relieved me of all uneasiness. 

I was not far from right. Every man has within himself a gold-mine whoseriches are limited only by his own industry. It is true, it sometimeshappens that industry does not avail, if a man lacks that somethingwhich, for want of a better name, we call Luck. My father was a personof untiring energy and ability; but he had no luck. To use a Rivermouthsaying, he was always catching sculpins when everyone else with the samebait was catching mackerel. 

It was more than two years since I had seen my parents. I felt that Icould not bear a longer separation. Every letter from New Orleans--wegot two or three a month--gave me a fit of homesickness; and when it wasdefinitely settled that my father and mother were to remain in the Southanother twelvemonth, I resolved to go to them. 

Since Binny Wallace's death, Pepper Whitcomb had been my fidus Achates;we occupied desks near each other at school, and were always togetherin play hours. We rigged a twine telegraph from his garret window tothe scuttle of the Nutter House, and sent messages to each other ina match-box. We shared our pocket-money and our secrets-those amazingsecrets which boys have. We met in lonely places by stealth, and partedlike conspirators; we couldn't buy a jackknife or build a kite withoutthrowing an air of mystery and guilt over the transaction. 

I naturally hastened to lay my New Orleans project before PepperWhitcomb, having dragged him for that purpose to a secluded spot in thedark pine woods outside the town. Pepper listened to me with a gravitywhich he will not be able to surpass when he becomes Chief Justice, andstrongly advised me to go. 

"The summer vacation, " said Pepper, "lasts six weeks; that will give youa fortnight to spend in New Orleans, allowing two weeks each way for thejourney. "

I wrung his hand and begged him to accompany me, offering to defrayall the expenses. I wasn't anything if I wasn't princely in those days. After considerable urging, he consented to go on terms so liberal. Thewhole thing was arranged; there was nothing to do now but to adviseCaptain Nutter of my plan, which I did the next day. 

The possibility that he might oppose the tour never entered my head. Iwas therefore totally unprepared for the vigorous negative which metmy proposal. I was deeply mortified, moreover, for there was PepperWhitcomb on the wharf, at the foot of the street, waiting for me to comeand let him know what day we were to start. 

"Go to New Orleans? Go to Jericho!" exclaimed Captain Nutter. "You'dlook pretty, you two, philandering off, like the babes in the wood, twenty-five hundred miles, 'with all the world before you where tochoose!'"

And the Captain's features, which had worn an indignant air as he beganthe sentence, relaxed into a broad smile. Whether it was at the felicityof his own quotation, or at the mental picture he drew of Pepper andmyself on our travels. 

I couldn't tell, and I didn't care. I was heart-broken. How could I facemy chum after all the dazzling inducements I had held out to him?

My grandfather, seeing that I took the matter seriously, pointed outthe difficulties of such a journey and the great expense involved. Heentered into the details of my father's money troubles, and succeededin making it plain to me that my wishes, under the circumstances, weresomewhat unreasonable. It was in no cheerful mood that I joined Pepperat the end of the wharf. 

I found that young gentleman leaning against the bulkhead gazingintently towards the islands in the harbor. He had formed a telescope ofhis hands, and was so occupied with his observations as to be obliviousof my approach. 

"Hullo!" cried Pepper, dropping his hands. "Look there! Isn't that abark coming up the Narrows?"

"Where?"

"Just at the left of Fishcrate Island. Don't you see the foremastpeeping above the old derrick?"

Sure enough it was a vessel of considerable size, slowly beating up totown. In a few moments more the other two masts were visible above thegreen hillocks. 

"Fore-topmasts blown away, " said Pepper. "Putting in for repairs, Iguess. "

As the bark lazily crept from behind the last of the islands, she let goher anchors and swung round with the tide. Then the gleeful chant ofthe sailors at the capstan came to us pleasantly across the water. Thevessel lay within three quarters of a mile of us, and we could plainlysee the men at the davits lowering the starboard long-boat. It no soonertouched the stream than a dozen of the crew scrambled like mice over theside of the merchantman. 

In a neglected seaport like Rivermouth the arrival of a large ship is anevent of moment. The prospect of having twenty or thirty jolly tarslet loose on the peaceful town excites divers emotions among theinhabitants. The small shopkeepers along the wharves anticipate athriving trade; the proprietors of the two rival boarding-houses--the"Wee Drop" and the "Mariner's Home"--hasten down to the landing to securelodgers; and the female population of Anchor Lane turn out to a woman, for a ship fresh from sea is always full of possible husbands andlong-lost prodigal sons. 

But aside from this there is scant welcome given to a ship's crew inRivermouth. The toil-worn mariner is a sad fellow ashore, judging him bya severe moral standard. 

Once, I remember, a United States frigate came into port for repairsafter a storm. She lay in the river a fortnight or more, and every daysent us a gang of sixty or seventy of our country's gallant defenders, who spread themselves over the town, doing all sorts of mad things. Theywere good-natured enough, but full of old Sancho. The "Wee Drop" proveda drop too much for many of them. They went singing through the streetsat midnight, wringing off door-knockers, shinning up water-spouts, andfrightening the Oldest Inhabitant nearly to death by popping theirheads into his second-story window, and shouting "Fire!" One morning ablue-jacket was discovered in a perilous plight, half-way up the steepleof the South Church, clinging to the lightning-rod. How he got therenobody could tell, not even blue-jacket himself. All he knew was, thatthe leg of his trousers had caught on a nail, and there he stuck, unableto move either way. It cost the town twenty dollars to get him downagain. He directed the workmen how to splice the ladders brought to hisassistance, and called his rescuers "butter-fingered land-lubbers" withdelicious coolness. 

But those were man-of-war's men: The sedate-looking craft now lying offFishcrate Island wasn't likely to carry any such cargo. Nevertheless, wewatched the coming in of the long-boat with considerable interest. 

As it drew near, the figure of the man pulling the bow-oar seemed oddlyfamiliar to me. Where could I have seen him before? When and where? Hisback was towards me, but there was something about that closely croppedhead that I recognized instantly. 

"Way enough!" cried the steersman, and all the oars stood upright inthe air. The man in the bow seized the boat-hook, and, turning roundquickly, showed me the honest face of Sailor Ben of the Typhoon. 

"It's Sailor Ben!" I cried, nearly pushing Pepper Whitcomb overboard inmy excitement. 

Sailor Ben, with the wonderful pink lady on his arm, and the ships andstars and anchors tattooed all over him, was a well-known hero among myplaymates. And there he was, like something in a dream come true!

I didn't wait for my old acquaintance to get firmly on the wharf, beforeI grasped his hand in both of mine. 

"Sailor Ben, don't you remember me?"

He evidently did not. He shifted his quid from one cheek to the other, and looked at me meditatively. 

"Lord love ye, lad, I don't know you. I was never here afore in mylife. "

"What!" I cried, enjoying his perplexity. "Have you forgotten thevoyage from New Orleans in the Typhoon, two years ago, you lovely oldpicture-book?"

Ah! then he knew me, and in token of the recollection gave my hand sucha squeeze that I am sure an unpleasant change came over my countenance. 

"Bless my eyes, but you have growed so. I shouldn't have knowed you if Ihad met you in Singapore!"

Without stopping to inquire, as I was tempted to do, why he was morelikely to recognize me in Singapore than anywhere else, I invited him tocome at once up to the Nutter House, where I insured him a warm welcomefrom the Captain. 

"Hold steady, Master Tom, " said Sailor Ben, slipping the painter throughthe ringbolt and tying the loveliest knot you ever saw; "hold steadytill I see if the mate can let me off. If you please, sir, " hecontinued, addressing the steersman, a very red-faced, bow-leggedperson, "this here is a little shipmate o' mine as wants to talk overback times along of me, if so it's convenient. "

"All right, Ben, " returned the mate; "sha'n't want you for an hour. "

Leaving one man in charge of the boat, the mate and the rest of thecrew went off together. In the meanwhile Pepper Whitcomb had got out hiscunner-line, and was quietly fishing at the end of the wharf, as if togive me the idea that he wasn't so very much impressed by my intimacywith so renowned a character as Sailor Ben. Perhaps Pepper was a littlejealous. At any rate, he refused to go with us to the house. 

Captain Nutter was at home reading the Rivermouth Barnacle. He wasa reader to do an editor's heart good; he never skipped over anadvertisement, even if he had read it fifty times before. Then the paperwent the rounds of the neighborhood, among the poor people, like thesingle portable eye which the three blind crones passed to each other inthe legend of King Acrisius. The Captain, I repeat, was wandering inthe labyrinths of the Rivermouth Barnacle when I led Sailor Ben into thesitting-room. 

My grandfather, whose inborn courtesy knew no distinctions, receivedmy nautical friend as if he had been an admiral instead of a commonforecastle-hand. Sailor Ben pulled an imaginary tuft of hair on hisforehead, and bowed clumsily. Sailors have a way of using their forelockas a sort of handle to bow with. 

The old tar had probably never been in so handsome an apartment in allhis days, and nothing could induce him to take the inviting mahoganychair which the Captain wheeled out from the corner. 

The abashed mariner stood up against the wall, twirling his tarpaulinin his two hands and looking extremely silly. He made a poor show in agentleman's drawing-room, but what a fellow he had been in his day, whenthe gale blew great guns and the topsails wanted reefing! I thought ofhim with the Mexican squadron off Vera Cruz, where, 'The rushing battle-bolt sung from the three-decker out of the foam, '

and he didn't seem awkward or ignoble to me, for all his shyness. 

As Sailor Ben declined to sit down, the Captain did not resume his seat;so we three stood in a constrained manner until my grandfather went tothe door and called to Kitty to bring in a decanter of Madeira and twoglasses. 

"My grandson, here, has talked so much about you, " said the Captain, pleasantly, "that you seem quite like an old acquaintance to me. "

"Thankee, sir, thankee, " returned Sailor Ben, looking as guilty as if hehad been detected in picking a pocket. 

"And I'm very glad to see you, Mr. --Mr. --"

"Sailor Ben, " suggested that worthy. 

"Mr. Sailor Ben, " added the Captain, smiling. "Tom, open the door, there's Kitty with the glasses. "

I opened the door, and Kitty entered the room bringing the things ona waiter, which she was about to set on the table, when suddenly sheuttered a loud shriek; the decanter and glasses fell with a crash to thefloor, and Kitty, as white as a sheet, was seen flying through the hall. 

"It's his wraith! It's his wraith!"' we heard Kitty shrieking in thekitchen. 

My grandfather and I turned with amazement to Sailor Ben. His eyes werestanding out of his head like a lobster's. 

"It's my own little Irish lass!" shouted the sailor, and he darted intothe hall after her. 

Even then we scarcely caught the meaning of his words, but when we sawSailor Ben and Kitty sobbing on each other's shoulder in the kitchen, weunderstood it all. 

"I begs your honor's parden, sir, " said Sailor Ben, lifting histear-stained face above Kitty's tumbled hair; "I begs your honor'sparden for kicking up a rumpus in the house, but it's my own littleIrish lass as I lost so long ago!"

"Heaven preserve us!" cried the Captain, blowing his nose violently--atransparent ruse to hide his emotion. 

Miss Abigail was in an upper chamber, sweeping; but on hearingthe unusual racket below, she scented an accident and came amblingdownstairs with a bottle of the infallible hot-drops in her hand. Nothing but the firmness of my grandfather prevented her from givingSailor Ben a table-spoonful on the spot. But when she learned what hadcome about--that this was Kitty's husband, that Kitty Collins wasn'tKitty Collins now, but Mrs. Benjamin Watson of Nantucket--the goodsoul sat down on the meal-chest and sobbed as if--to quote from CaptainNutter--as if a husband of her own had turned up!

A happier set of people than we were never met together in a dingykitchen or anywhere else. The Captain ordered a fresh decanter ofMadeira, and made all hands, excepting myself, drink a cup to the returnof "the prodigal sea-son, " as he persisted in calling Sailor Ben. 

After the first flush of joy and surprise was over Kitty grew silentand constrained. Now and then she fixed her eyes thoughtfully on herhusband. Why had he deserted her all these years? What right had he tolook for a welcome from one he had treated so cruelly? She had been trueto him, but had he been true to her? Sailor Ben must have guessed whatwas passing in her mind, for presently he took her hand and said--"Well, lass, it's a long yarn, but you shall have it all in good time. It wasmy hard luck as made us part company, an' no will of mine, for I lovedyou dear. "

Kitty brightened up immediately, needing no other assurance of SailorBen's faithfulness. 

When his hour had expired, we walked with him down to the wharf, wherethe Captain held a consultation with the mate, which resulted in anextension of Mr. Watson's leave of absence, and afterwards in hisdischarge from his ship. We then went to the "Mariner's Home" to engagea room for him, as he wouldn't hear of accepting the hospitalities ofthe Nutter House. 

"You see, I'm only an uneddicated man, " he remarked to my grandfather, by way of explanation. 

Chapter Sixteen--In Which Sailor Ben Spins a Yarn

Of course we were all very curious to learn what had befallen SailorBen that morning long ago, when he bade his little bride goodby anddisappeared so mysteriously. 

After tea, that same evening, we assembled around the table in thekitchen--the only place where Sailor Ben felt at home--to hear what hehad to say for himself. 

The candles were snuffed, and a pitcher of foaming nut-brown ale wasset at the elbow of the speaker, who was evidently embarrassed by therespectability of his audience, consisting of Captain Nutter, MissAbigail, myself, and Kitty, whose face shone with happiness like one ofthe polished tin platters on the dresser. 

"Well, my hearties, " commenced Sailor Ben--then he stopped short andturned very red, as it struck him that maybe this was not quite theproper way to address a dignitary like the Captain and a severe elderlylady like Miss Abigail Nutter, who sat bolt upright staring at him asshe would have stared at the Tycoon of Japan himself. 

"I ain't much of a hand at spinnin' a yarn, " remarked Sailor Ben, apologetically, "'specially when the yarn is all about a man as hasmade a fool of hisself, an' 'specially when that man's name is BenjaminWatson. "

"Bravo!" cried Captain Nutter, rapping on the table encouragingly. 

"Thankee, sir, thankee. I go back to the time when Kitty an' me waslivin' in lodgin's by the dock in New York. We was as happy, sir, as twoporpusses, which they toil not neither do they spin. But when I seed themoney gittin' low in the locker--Kitty's starboard stockin', savin' yourpresence, marm--I got down-hearted like, seem' as I should be obleegedto ship agin, for it didn't seem as I could do much ashore. An' then thesea was my nat'ral spear of action. I wasn't exactly born on it, lookyou, but I fell into it the fust time I was let out arter my birth. Mymother slipped her cable for a heavenly port afore I was old enough tohail her; so I larnt to look on the ocean for a sort of step-mother--an'a precious hard one she has been to me. 

"The idee of leavin' Kitty so soon arter our marriage went agin my grainconsiderable. I cruised along the docks for somethin' to do in theway of stevedore: an' though I picked up a stray job here and there, I didn't am enough to buy ship-bisket for a rat; let alone feedin' twohuman mouths. There wasn't nothin' honest I wouldn't have turned a handto; but the 'longshoremen gobbled up all the work, an' a outsider likeme didn't stand a show. 

"Things got from bad to worse; the month's rent took all our cash excepta dollar or so, an' the sky looked kind o' squally fore an' aft. Well, I set out one mornin'--that identical unlucky mornin'--determined to comeback an' toss some pay into Kitty's lap, if I had to sell my jacket forit. I spied a brig unloadin' coal at pier No. 47--how well I remembersit! I hailed the mate, an' offered myself for a coal-heaver. But Iwasn't wanted, as he told me civilly enough, which was better treatmentthan usual. As I turned off rather glum I was signalled by one of themsleek, smooth-spoken rascals with a white hat an' a weed on it, as isalways goin' about the piers a-seekin' who they may devower. 

"We sailors know 'em for rascals from stem to starn, but somehow everyfresh one fleeces us jest as his mate did afore him. We don't lamnothin' by exper'ence; we're jest no better than a lot of babys with nobrains. 

"'Good mornin', my man, ' sez the chap, as iley as you please. 

"'Mornin', sir, ' sez I. 

"'Lookin' for a job?' sez he. 

"'Through the big end of a telescope, ' sez I--meanin' that the chancesfor a job looked very small from my pint of view. 

"'You're the man for my money, ' sez the sharper, smilin' as innocent asa cherubim; 'jest step in here, till we talk it over. '

"So I goes with him like a nat'ral-born idiot, into a littlegrocery-shop near by, where we sets down at a table with a bottle atweenus. Then it comes out as there is a New Bedford whaler about to startfor the fishin' grounds, an' jest one able-bodied sailor like me iswanted to make up the crew. Would I go? Yes, I wouldn't on no terms. 

"'I'll bet you fifty dollars, ' sez he, 'that you'll come back fustmate. '

"'I'll bet you a hundred, ' sez I, 'that I don't, for I've signed papersas keeps me ashore, an' the parson has witnessed the deed. '

"So we sat there, he urgin' me to ship, an' I chaffin' him cheerful overthe bottle. 

"Arter a while I begun to feel a little queer; things got foggy in myupper works, an' I remembers, faint-like, of signin' a paper; then Iremembers bein' in a small boat; an' then I remembers nothin' until Iheard the mate's whistle pipin' all hands on deck. I tumbled up withthe rest; an' there I was--on board of a whaler outward bound for a threeyears' cruise, an' my dear little lass ashore awaitin' for me. "

"Miserable wretch!" said Miss Abigail, in a voice that vibratedamong the tin platters on the dresser. This was Miss Abigail's way oftestifying her sympathy. 

"Thankee, marm, " returned Sailor Ben, doubtfully. 

"No talking to the man at the wheel, " cried the Captain. Upon which weall laughed. "Spin!" added my grandfather. 

Sailor Ben resumed:

"I leave you to guess the wretchedness as fell upon me, for I've not gotthe gift to tell you. There I was down on the ship's books for a threeyears' viage, an' no help for it. I feel nigh to six hundred years oldwhen I think how long that viage was. There isn't no hour-glass as runsslow enough to keep a tally of the slowness of them fust hours. But Idone my duty like a man, seem' there wasn't no way of gettin' out of it. I told my shipmates of the trick as had been played on me, an they triedto cheer me up a bit; but I was sore sorrowful for a long spell. Many anight on watch I put my face in my hands and sobbed for thinkin' of thelittle woman left among the land-sharks, an' no man to have an eye onher, God bless her!"

Here Kitty softly drew her chair nearer to Sailor Ben, and rested onehand on his arm. 

"Our adventures among the whales, I take it, doesn't consarn the presentcompany here assembled. So I give that the go by. There's an end toeverythin', even to a whalin' viage. My heart all but choked me the daywe put into New Bedford with our cargo of ile. I got my three years' payin a lump, an' made for New York like a flash of lightnin'. The peoplehove to and looked at me, as I rushed through the streets like a madman, until I came to the spot where the lodgin'-house stood on West Street. But, Lord love ye, there wasn't no sech lodgin'-house there, but a greatnew brick shop. 

"I made bold to go in an' ask arter the old place, but nobody knowednothin' about it, save as it had been torn down two years or more. I wasadrift now, for I had reckoned all them days and nights on gittin' wordof Kitty from Dan Shackford, the man as kept the lodgin'. 

"As I stood there with all the wind knocked out of my sails, the idee ofrunnin' alongside the perlice-station popped into my head. The perlicewas likely to know the latitude of a man like Dan Shackford, who wasn'tover an' above respecktible. They did know--he had died in the Tombs jailthat day twelvemonth. A coincydunce, wasn't it? I was ready to drop whenthey told me this; howsomever, I bore up an' give the chief a notion ofthe fix I was in. He writ a notice which I put into the newspapers everyday for three months; but nothin' come of it. I cruised over the cityweek in and week out I went to every sort of place where they hiredwomen hands; I didn't leave a think undone that a uneddicated man coulddo. But nothin' come of it. I don't believe there was a wretcheder soulin that big city of wretchedness than me. Sometimes I wanted to lay downin the sheets and die. 

"Drif tin' disconsolate one day among the shippin', who should Ioverhaul but the identical smooth-spoken chap with a white hat an' aweed on it! I didn't know if there was any spent left in me, till Iclapped eye on his very onpleasant countenance. 'You villain!' sezI, 'where's my little Irish lass as you dragged me away from?' an' Ilighted on him, hat and all, like that!"

Here Sailor Ben brought his fist down on the deal table with the forceof a sledge-hammer. Miss Abigail gave a start, and the ale leaped up inthe pitcher like a miniature fountain. 

"I begs your parden, ladies and gentlemen all; but the thought of thatfeller with his ring an' his watch-chain an' his walrus face, is alustoo many for me. I was for pitchin' him into the North River, when aperliceman prevented me from benefitin' the human family. I had to payfive dollars for hittin' the chap (they said it was salt and buttery), an' that's what I call a neat, genteel luxury. It was worth double themoney jest to see that white hat, with a weed on it, layin' on the wharflike a busted accordiun. 

"Arter months of useless sarch, I went to sea agin. I never got into aforen port but I kept a watch out for Kitty. Once I thought I seed herin Liverpool, but it was only a gal as looked like her. The numbers ofwomen in different parts of the world as looked like her was amazin'. Soa good many years crawled by, an' I wandered from place to place, nevergivin' up the sarch. I might have been chief mate scores of times, maybemaster; but I hadn't no ambition. I seed many strange things in themyears--outlandish people an' cities, storms, shipwracks, an' battles. Iseed many a true mate go down, an' sometimes I envied them what went totheir rest. But these things is neither here nor there. 

"About a year ago I shipped on board the Belphcebe yonder, an' of allthe strange winds as ever blowed, the strangest an' the best was thewind as blowed me to this here blessed spot. I can't be too thankful. That I'm as thankful as it is possible for an uneddicated man to be, Heknows as reads the heart of all. "

Here ended Sailor Ben's yarn, which I have written down in his ownhomely words as nearly as I can recall them. After he had finished, theCaptain shook hands with him and served out the ale. 

As Kitty was about to drink, she paused, rested the cup on her knee, andasked what day of the month it was. 

"The twenty-seventh, " said the Captain, wondering what she was drivingat. 

"Then, " cried Kitty, "it's ten years this night sence--"

"Since what?" asked my grandfather. 

"Sence the little lass and I got spliced!" roared Sailor Ben. "There'sanother coincydunce for you!"

On hearing this we all clapped hands, and the Captain, with a degreeof ceremony that was almost painful, drank a bumper to the health andhappiness of the bride and bridegroom. 

It was a pleasant sight to see the two old lovers sitting side by side, in spite of all, drinking from the same little cup--a battered zincdipper which Sailor Ben had unslung from a strap round his waist. Ithink I never saw him without this dipper and a sheath-knife suspendedjust back of his hip, ready for any convivial occasion. 

We had a merry time of it. The Captain was in great force this evening, and not only related his famous exploit in the War of 1812, but regaledthe company with a dashing sea-song from Mr. Shakespeare's play of TheTempest. He had a mellow tenor voice (not Shakespeare, but the Captain), and rolled out the verse with a will:

"The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, The gunner, and his mate, Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, But none of us car'd for Kate. "

"A very good song, and very well sung, " says Sailor Ben; "but some of usdoes care for Kate. Is this Mr. Shawkspear a seafarm' man, sir?"

"Not at present, " replied the Captain, with a monstrous twinkle in hiseye. 

The clock was striking ten when the party broke up. The Captain walkedto the "Mariner's Home" with his guest, in order to question himregarding his future movements. 

"Well, sir, " said he, "I ain't as young as I was, an' I don't cal'ulateto go to sea no more. I proposes to drop anchor here, an' hug theland until the old hulk goes to pieces. I've got two or three thousanddollars in the locker, an' expects to get on uncommon comfortablewithout askin' no odds from the Assylum for Decayed Mariners. "

My grandfather indorsed the plan warmly, and Sailor Ben did drop anchorin Rivermouth, where he speedily became one of the institutions of thetown. 

His first step was to buy a small one-story cottage located at thehead of the wharf, within gun-shot of the Nutter House. To the greatamusement of my grandfather, Sailor Ben painted the cottage a lightsky-blue, and ran a broad black stripe around it just under the eaves. In this stripe he painted white port-holes, at regular distances, makinghis residence look as much like a man-of-war as possible. With a shortflag-staff projecting over the door like a bowsprit, the effect wasquite magical. My description of the exterior of this palatial residenceis complete when I add that the proprietor nailed a horseshoe againstthe front door to keep off the witches--a very necessary precaution inthese latitudes. 

The inside of Sailor Ben's abode was not less striking than the outside. The cottage contained two rooms; the one opening on the wharf hecalled his cabin; here he ate and slept. His few tumblers and a frugalcollection of crockery were set in a rack suspended over the table, which had a cleat of wood nailed round the edge to prevent the dishesfrom sliding off in case of a heavy sea. Hanging against the wallswere three or four highly colored prints of celebrated frigates, anda lithograph picture of a rosy young woman insufficiently clad in theAmerican flag. This was labelled "Kitty, " though I'm sure it looked nomore like her than I did. A walrus-tooth with an Esquimaux engraved onit, a shark's jaw, and the blade of a sword-fish were among the enviabledecorations of this apartment. In one corner stood his bunk, or bed, and in the other his well-worn sea-chest, a perfect Pandora's box ofmysteries. You would have thought yourself in the cabin of a real ship. 

The little room aft, separated from the cabin by a sliding door, was thecaboose. It held a cooking-stove, pots, pans, and groceries; also a lotof fishing-lines and coils of tarred twine, which made the place smelllike a forecastle, and a delightful smell it is--to those who fancy it. 

Kitty didn't leave our service, but played housekeeper for bothestablishments, returning at night to Sailor Ben's. He shortly addeda wherry to his worldly goods, and in the fishing season made a veryhandsome income. During the winter he employed himself manufacturingcrab-nets, for which he found no lack of customers. 

His popularity among the boys was immense. A jackknife in his experthand was a whole chest of tools. He could whittle out anything from awooden chain to a Chinese pagoda, or a full-rigged seventy-four a footlong. To own a ship of Sailor Ben's building was to be exalted aboveyour fellow-creatures. He didn't carve many, and those he refused tosell, choosing to present them to his young friends, of whom Tom Bailey, you may be sure, was one. 

How delightful it was of winter nights to sit in his cosey cabin, closeto the ship's stove (he wouldn't hear of having a fireplace), and listento Sailor Ben's yarns! In the early summer twilights, when he sat onthe door-step splicing a rope or mending a net, he always had a bevy ofblooming young faces alongside. 

The dear old fellow! How tenderly the years touched him after this--allthe more tenderly, it seemed, for having roughed him so cruelly in otherdays!

Chapter Seventeen--How We Astonished the Rivermouthians

Sailor Ben's arrival partly drove the New Orleans project from my brain. Besides, there was just then a certain movement on foot by the CentipedeClub which helped to engross my attention. 

Pepper Whitcomb took the Captain's veto philosophically, observing thathe thought from the first the governor wouldn't let me go. I don't thinkPepper was quite honest in that. 

But to the subject in hand. 

Among the few changes that have taken place in Rivermouth during thepast twenty years there is one which I regret. I lament the removal ofall those varnished iron cannon which used to do duty as posts atthe corners of streets leading from the river. They were quaintlyornamental, each set upon end with a solid shot soldered into its mouth, and gave to that part of the town a picturesqueness very poorly atonedfor by the conventional wooden stakes that have deposed them. 

These guns ("old sogers" the boys called them) had their story, likeeverything else in Rivermouth. When that everlasting last war--the War of1812, I mean--came to an end, all the brigs, schooners, and barks fittedout at this port as privateers were as eager to get rid of their uselesstwelve-pounders and swivels as they had previously been to obtain them. Many of the pieces had cost large sums, and now they were little betterthan so much crude iron--not so good, in fact, for they were clumsythings to break up and melt over. The government didn't want them;private citizens didn't want them; they were a drug in the market. 

But there was one man, ridiculous beyond his generation, who got it intohis head that a fortune was to be made out of these same guns. To buythem all, to hold on to them until war was declared again (as he hadno doubt it would be in a few months), and then sell out at fabulousprices--this was the daring idea that addled the pate of Silas Trefethen, "Dealer in E. & W. I. Goods and Groceries, " as the faded sign over hisshop-door informed the public. 

Silas went shrewdly to work, buying up every old cannon he could layhands on. His back-yard was soon crowded with broken-down gun-carriages, and his barn with guns, like an arsenal. When Silas's purpose got windit was astonishing how valuable that thing became which just now wasworth nothing at all. 

"Ha, ha!" thought Silas. "Somebody else is tryin' hi git control of themarket. But I guess I've got the start of him. "

So he went on buying and buying, oftentimes paying double the originalprice of the article. People in the neighboring towns collected allthe worthless ordnance they could find, and sent it by the cart-load toRivermouth. 

When his barn was full, Silas began piling the rubbish in his cellar, then in his parlor. He mortgaged the stock of his grocery store, mortgaged his house, his barn, his horse, and would have mortgagedhimself, if anyone would have taken him as security, in order to carryon the grand speculation. He was a ruined man, and as happy as a lark. 

Surely poor Silas was cracked, like the majority of his own cannon. Moreor less crazy he must have been always. Years before this he purchasedan elegant rosewood coffin, and kept it in one of the spare rooms in hisresidence. He even had his name engraved on the silver-plate, leaving ablank after the word "Died. "

The blank was filled up in due time, and well it was for Silas that hesecured so stylish a coffin in his opulent days, for when he died hisworldly wealth would not have bought him a pine box, to say nothing ofrosewood. He never gave up expecting a war with Great Britain. Hopefuland radiant to the last, his dying words were, England--war--fewdays--great profits!

It was that sweet old lady, Dame Jocelyn, who told me the story of SilasTrefethen; for these things happened long before my day. Silas died in1817. 

At Trefethen's death his unique collection came under the auctioneer'shammer. Some of the larger guns were sold to the town, and planted atthe corners of divers streets; others went off to the iron-foundry; thebalance, numbering twelve, were dumped down on a deserted wharf at thefoot of Anchor Lane, where, summer after summer, they rested at theirease in the grass and fungi, pelted in autumn by the rain and annuallyburied by the winter snow. It is with these twelve guns that our storyhas to deal. 

The wharf where they reposed was shut off from the street by a highfence--a silent dreamy old wharf, covered with strange weeds and mosses. On account of its seclusion and the good fishing it afforded, it wasmuch frequented by us boys. 

There we met many an afternoon to throw out our lines, or playleap-frog among the rusty cannon. They were famous fellows in our eyes. What a racket they had made in the heyday of their unchastened youth!What stories they might tell now, if their puffy metallic lips couldonly speak! Once they were lively talkers enough; but there the grimsea-dogs lay, silent and forlorn in spite of all their former growlings. 

They always seemed to me like a lot of venerable disabled tars, stretched out on a lawn in front of a hospital, gazing seaward, andmutely lamenting their lost youth. 

But once more they were destined to lift up their dolorous voices--oncemore ere they keeled over and lay speechless for all time. And this ishow it befell. 

Jack Harris, Charley Marden, Harry Blake, and myself were fishingoff the wharf one afternoon, when a thought flashed upon me like aninspiration. 

"I say, boys!" I cried, hauling in my line hand over hand, "I've gotsomething!"

"What does it pull like, youngster?" asked Harris, looking down at thetaut line and expecting to see a big perch at least. 

"O, nothing in the fish way, " I returned, laughing; "it's about the oldguns. "

"What about them?"

"I was thinking what jolly fun it would be to set one of the old sogerson his legs and serve him out a ration of gunpowder. "

Up came the three lines in a jiffy. An enterprise better suited to thedisposition of my companions could not have been proposed. 

In a short time we had one of the smaller cannon over on its back andwere busy scraping the green rust from the touch-hole. The mould hadspiked the gun so effectually, that for a while we fancied we shouldhave to give up our attempt to resuscitate the old soger. 

"A long gimlet would clear it out, " said Charley Marden, "if we only hadone. "

I looked to see if Sailor Ben's flag was flying at the cabin door, forhe always took in the colors when he went off fishing. 

"When you want to know if the Admiral's aboard, jest cast an eye to thebuntin', my hearties, " says Sailor Ben. 

Sometimes in a jocose mood he called himself the Admiral, and I amsure he deserved to be one. The Admiral's flag was flying, and I soonprocured a gimlet from his carefully kept tool-chest. 

Before long we had the gun in working order. A newspaper lashed to theend of a lath served as a swab to dust out the bore. Jack Harris blewthrough the touch-hole and pronounced all clear. 

Seeing our task accomplished so easily, we turned our attention tothe other guns, which lay in all sorts of postures in the rank grass. Borrowing a rope from Sailor Ben, we managed with immense labor to dragthe heavy pieces into position and place a brick under each muzzle togive it the proper elevation. When we beheld them all in a row, like aregular battery, we simultaneously conceived an idea, the magnitude ofwhich struck us dumb for a moment. 

Our first intention was to load and fire a single gun. How feeble andinsignificant was such a plan compared to that which now sent the lightdancing into our eyes!

"What could we have been thinking of?" cried Jack Harris. "We'll give'em a broadside, to be sure, if we die for it!"

We turned to with a will, and before nightfall had nearly half thebattery overhauled and ready for service. To keep the artillery dry westuffed wads of loose hemp into the muzzles, and fitted wooden pegs tothe touch-holes. 

At recess the next noon the Centipedes met in a corner of theschool-yard to talk over the proposed lark. The original projectors, though they would have liked to keep the thing secret, were obligedto make a club matter of it, inasmuch as funds were required forammunition. There had been no recent drain on the treasury, and thesociety could well afford to spend a few dollars in so notable anundertaking. 

It was unanimously agreed that the plan should be carried out in thehandsomest manner, and a subscription to that end was taken on the spot. Several of the Centipedes hadn't a cent, excepting the one strung aroundtheir necks; others, however, were richer. I chanced to have a dollar, and it went into the cap quicker than lightning. When the club, in viewof my munificence, voted to name the guns Bailey's Battery I was prouderthan I have ever been since over anything. 

The money thus raised, added to that already in the treasury, amountedto nine dollars--a fortune in those days; but not more than we had usefor. This sum was divided into twelve parts, for it would not do for oneboy to buy all the powder, nor even for us all to make our purchases atthe same place. That would excite suspicion at any time, particularly ata period so remote from the Fourth of July. 

There were only three stores in town licensed to sell powder; that gaveeach store four customers. Not to run the slightest risk of remark, one boy bought his powder on Monday, the next boy on Tuesday, and so onuntil the requisite quantity was in our possession. This we put into akeg and carefully hid in a dry spot on the wharf. 

Our next step was to finish cleaning the guns, which occupied twoafternoons, for several of the old sogers were in a very congested stateindeed. Having completed the task, we came upon a difficulty. To setoff the battery by daylight was out of the question; it must be done atnight; it must be done with fuses, for no doubt the neighbors wouldturn out after the first two or three shots, and it would not pay to becaught in the vicinity. 

Who knew anything about fuses? Who could arrange it so the guns would gooff one after the other, with an interval of a minute or so between?

Theoretically we knew that a minute fuse lasted a minute; double thequantity, two minutes; but practically we were at a stand-still. Therewas but one person who could help us in this extremity--Sailor Ben. Tome was assigned the duty of obtaining what information I could from theex-gunner, it being left to my discretion whether or not to intrust himwith our secret. 

So one evening I dropped into the cabin and artfully turned theconversation to fuses in general, and then to particular fuses, butwithout getting much out of the old boy, who was busy making a twinehammock. Finally, I was forced to divulge the whole plot. 

The Admiral had a sailor's love for a joke, and entered at once andheartily into our scheme. He volunteered to prepare the fuses himself, and I left the labor in his hands, having bound him by severalextraordinary oaths--such as "Hope-I-may-die" and "Shiver-my-timbers"--notto betray us, come what would. 

This was Monday evening. On Wednesday the fuses were ready. That nightwe were to unmuzzle Bailey's Battery. Mr. Grimshaw saw that somethingwas wrong somewhere, for we were restless and absent-minded in theclasses, and the best of us came to grief before the morning session wasover. When Mr. Grimshaw announced "Guy Fawkes" as the subject for ournext composition, you might have knocked down the Mystic Twelve with afeather. 

The coincidence was certainly curious, but when a man has committed, or is about to commit an offence, a hundred trifles, which would passunnoticed at another time, seem to point at him with convicting fingers. No doubt Guy Fawkes himself received many a start after he had got hiswicked kegs of gunpowder neatly piled up under the House of Lords. 

Wednesday, as I have mentioned, was a half-holiday, and the Centipedesassembled in my barn to decide on the final arrangements. These wereas simple as could be. As the fuses were connected, it needed but oneperson to fire the train. Hereupon arose a discussion as to who was theproper person. Some argued that I ought to apply the match, the batterybeing christened after me, and the main idea, moreover, being mine. Others advocated the claim of Phil Adams as the oldest boy. At last wedrew lots for the post of honor. 

Twelve slips of folded paper, upon one of which was written "Thou artthe man, " were placed in a quart measure, and thoroughly shaken; theneach member stepped up and lifted out his destiny. At a given signal weopened our billets. "Thou art the man, " said the slip of paper tremblingin my fingers. The sweets and anxieties of a leader were mine the restof the afternoon. 

Directly after twilight set in Phil Adams stole down to the wharf andfixed the fuses to the guns, laying a train of powder from the principalfuse to the fence, through a chink of which I was to drop the match atmidnight. 

At ten o'clock Rivermouth goes to bed. At eleven o'clock Rivermouth isas quiet as a country churchyard. At twelve o'clock there is nothingleft with which to compare the stillness that broods over the littleseaport. 

In the midst of this stillness I arose and glided out of the house likea phantom bent on an evil errand; like a phantom. I flitted through thesilent street, hardly drawing breath until I knelt down beside the fenceat the appointed place. 

Pausing a moment for my heart to stop thumping, I lighted the matchand shielded it with both hands until it was well under way, and thendropped the blazing splinter on the slender thread of gunpowder. 

A noiseless flash instantly followed, and all was dark again. I peepedthrough the crevice in the fence, and saw the main fuse spitting outsparks like a conjurer. Assured that the train had not failed, I tookto my heels, fearful lest the fuse might burn more rapidly than wecalculated, and cause an explosion before I could get home. This, luckily, did not happen. There's a special Providence that watches overidiots, drunken men, and boys. 

I dodged the ceremony of undressing by plunging into bed, jacket, boots, and all. I am not sure I took off my cap; but I know that I had hardlypulled the coverlid over me, when "BOOM!" sounded the first gun ofBailey's Battery. 

I lay as still as a mouse. In less than two minutes there was anotherburst of thunder, and then another. The third gun was a tremendousfellow and fairly shook the house. 

The town was waking up. Windows were thrown open here and there andpeople called to each other across the streets asking what that firingwas for. 

"BOOM!" went gun number four. 

I sprung out of bed and tore off my jacket, for I heard the Captainfeeling his way along the wall to my chamber. I was half undressed bythe time he found the knob of the door. 

"I say, sir, " I cried, "do you hear those guns?"

"Not being deaf, I do, " said the Captain, a little tartly--any reflectionon his hearing always nettled him; "but what on earth they are for Ican't conceive. You had better get up and dress yourself. "

"I'm nearly dressed, sir. "

"BOOM! BOOM!"--two of the guns had gone off together. 

The door of Miss Abigail's bedroom opened hastily, and that pink ofmaidenly propriety stepped out into the hail in her night-gown--the onlyindecorous thing I ever knew her to do. She held a lighted candle in herhand and looked like a very aged Lady Macbeth. 

"O Dan'el, this is dreadful! What do you suppose it means?"

"I really can't suppose, " said the Captain, rubbing his ear; "but Iguess it's over now. "

"BOOM!" said Bailey's Battery. 

Rivermouth was wide awake now, and half the male population were in thestreets, running different ways, for the firing seemed to proceed fromopposite points of the town. Everybody waylaid everybody else withquestions; but as no one knew what was the occasion of the tumult, people who were not usually nervous began to be oppressed by themystery. 

Some thought the town was being bombarded; some thought the world wascoming to an end, as the pious and ingenious Mr. Miller had predictedit would; but those who couldn't form any theory whatever were the mostperplexed. 

In the meanwhile Bailey's Battery bellowed away at regular intervals. The greatest confusion reigned everywhere by this time. People withlanterns rushed hither and thither. The town watch had turned out toa man, and marched off, in admirable order, in the wrong direction. Discovering their mistake, they retraced their steps, and got down tothe wharf just as the last cannon belched forth its lightning. 

A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke floated over Anchor Lane, obscuringthe starlight. Two or three hundred people, in various stages ofexcitement, crowded about the upper end of the wharf, not liking toadvance farther until they were satisfied that the explosions wereover. A board was here and there blown from the fence, and throughthe openings thus afforded a few of the more daring spirits at lengthventured to crawl. 

The cause of the racket soon transpired. A suspicion that they hadbeen sold gradually dawned on the Rivermouthians. Many were exceedinglyindignant, and declared that no penalty was severe enough for thoseconcerned in such a prank; others--and these were the very people whohad been terrified nearly out of their wits--had the assurance to laugh, saying that they knew all along it was only a trick. 

The town watch boldly took possession of the ground, and the crowd beganto disperse. Knots of gossips lingered here and there near the place, indulging in vain surmises as to who the invisible gunners could be. 

There was no more noise that night, but many a timid person lay awakeexpecting a renewal of the mysterious cannonading. The Oldest Inhabitantrefused to go to bed on any terms, but persisted in sitting up in arocking-chair, with his hat and mittens on, until daybreak. 

I thought I should never get to sleep. The moment I drifted off in adoze I fell to laughing and woke myself up. But towards morning slumberovertook me, and I had a series of disagreeable dreams, in one of whichI was waited upon by the ghost of Silas Trefethen with an exorbitantbill for the use of his guns. In another, I was dragged before acourt-martial and sentenced by Sailor Ben, in a frizzled wig andthree-cornered cocked hat, to be shot to death by Bailey's Battery--asentence which Sailor Ben was about to execute with his own hand, whenI suddenly opened my eyes and found the sunshine lying pleasantly acrossmy face. I tell you I was glad!

That unaccountable fascination which leads the guilty to hover about thespot where his crime was committed drew me down to the wharf as soon asI was dressed. Phil Adams, Jack Harris, and others of the conspiratorswere already there, examining with a mingled feeling of curiosity andapprehension the havoc accomplished by the battery. 

The fence was badly shattered and the ground ploughed up for severalyards round the place where the guns formerly lay--formerly lay, fornow they were scattered every which way. There was scarcely a gun thathadn't burst. Here was one ripped open from muzzle to breech, and therewas another with its mouth blown into the shape of a trumpet. Three ofthe guns had disappeared bodily, but on looking over the edge of thewharf we saw them standing on end in the tide-mud. They had poppedoverboard in their excitement. 

"I tell you what, fellows, " whispered Phil Adams, "it is lucky we didn'ttry to touch 'em off with punk. They'd have blown us all to finders. "

The destruction of Bailey's Battery was not, unfortunately, the onlycatastrophe. A fragment of one of the cannon had earned away the chimneyof Sailor Ben's cabin. He was very mad at first, but having prepared thefuse himself he didn't dare complain openly. 

"I'd have taken a reef in the blessed stove-pipe, " said the Admiral, gazing ruefully at the smashed chimney, "if I had known as how theFlagship was agoin' to be under fire. "

The next day he rigged out an iron funnel, which, being in sections, could be detached and taken in at a moment's notice. On the whole, I think he was resigned to the demolition of his brick chimney. Thestove-pipe was a great deal more shipshape. 

The town was not so easily appeased. The selectmen determined to makean example of the guilty parties, and offered a reward for their arrest, holding out a promise of pardon to anyone of the offenders who wouldfurnish information against the rest. But there were no faint heartsamong the Centipedes. Suspicion rested for a while on several persons--onthe soldiers at the fort; on a crazy fellow, known about town as"Bottle-Nose"; and at last on Sailor Ben. 

"Shiver my timbers!" cries that deeply injured individual. "Do yousuppose, sir, as I have lived to sixty year, an' ain't got no more sensethan to go for to blaze away at my own upper riggin'? It doesn't standto reason. "

It certainly did not seem probable that Mr. Watson would maliciouslyknock over his own chimney, and Lawyer Hackett, who had the case inhand, 'bowed himself out of the Admiral's cabin convinced that the rightman had not been discovered. 

People living by the sea are always more or less superstitious. Storiesof spectre ships and mysterious beacons, that lure vessels out of theircourse and wreck them on unknown reefs, were among the stock legends ofRivermouth; and not a few people in the town were ready to attribute thefiring of those guns to some supernatural agency. The Oldest Inhabitantremembered that when he was a boy a dim-looking sort of schooner hoveto in the offing one foggy afternoon, fired off a single gun that didn'tmake any report, and then crumbled to nothing, spar, mast, and hulk, like a piece of burnt paper. 

The authorities, however, were of the opinion that human hands hadsomething to do with the explosions, and they resorted to deep-laidstratagems to get hold of the said hands. One of their traps came verynear catching us. They artfully caused an old brass fieldpiece to beleft on a wharf near the scene of our late operations. Nothing in theworld but the lack of money to buy powder saved us from falling intothe clutches of the two watchmen who lay secreted for a week in aneighboring sail-loft. 

It was many a day before the midnight bombardment ceased to be thetown-talk. The trick was so audacious and on so grand a scale thatnobody thought for an instant of connecting us lads with it. Suspicion at length grew weary of lighting on the wrong person, andas conjecture--like the physicians in the epitaph--was in vain, theRivermouthians gave up the idea of finding out who had astonished them. 

They never did find out, and never will, unless they read this veracioushistory. If the selectmen are still disposed to punish the malefactors, I can supply Lawyer Hackett with evidence enough to convict PepperWhitcomb, Phil Adams, Charley Marden, and the other honorable members ofthe Centipede Club. But really I don't think it would pay now. 

Chapter Eighteen--A Frog He Would A-Wooing Go

If the reader supposes that I lived all this while in Rivermouth withoutfalling a victim to one or more of the young ladies attending MissDorothy Gibbs's Female Institute, why, then, all I have to say is thereader exhibits his ignorance of human nature. 

Miss Gibbs's seminary was located within a few minutes' walk of theTemple Grammar School, and numbered about thirty-five pupils, themajority of whom boarded at the Hall--Primrose Hall, as Miss Dorothyprettily called it. The Prim-roses, as we called them, ranged fromseven years of age to sweet seventeen, and a prettier group of sirensnever got together even in Rivermouth, for Rivermouth, you should know, is famous for its pretty girls. 

There were tall girls and short girls, rosy girls and pale girls, andgirls as brown as berries; girls like Amazons, slender girls, weirdand winning like Undine, girls with black tresses, girls with auburnringlets, girls with every tinge of golden hair. To behold MissDorothy's young ladies of a Sunday morning walking to church two by two, the smallest toddling at the end of the procession, like the bobs at thetail of a kite, was a spectacle to fill with tender emotion the leastsusceptible heart. To see Miss Dorothy marching grimly at the head ofher light infantry, was to feel the hopelessness of making an attack onany part of the column. 

She was a perfect dragon of watchfulness. The most unguarded lifting ofan eyelash in the fluttering battalion was sufficient to put her on thelookout. She had had experiences with the male sex, this Miss Dorothyso prim and grim. It was whispered that her heart was a tattered albumscrawled over with love-lines, but that she had shut up the volume longago. 

There was a tradition that she had been crossed in love; but it was thefaintest of traditions. A gay young lieutenant of marines had flirtedwith her at a country ball (A. D. 1811), and then marched carelessly awayat the head of his company to the shrill music of the fife, without somuch as a sigh for the girl he left behind him. The years rolled on, thegallant gay Lothario--which wasn't his name--married, became a father, and then a grandfather; and at the period of which I am speaking hisgrandchild was actually one of Miss Dorothy's young ladies. So, atleast, ran the story. 

The lieutenant himself was dead these many years; but Miss Dorothy nevergot over his duplicity. She was convinced that the sole aim of mankindwas to win the unguarded affection of maidens, and then march offtreacherously with flying colors to the heartless music of the drum andfife. To shield the inmates of Primrose Hall from the bitter influencesthat had blighted her own early affections was Miss Dorothy's mission inlife. 

"No wolves prowling about my lambs, if you please, " said

Miss Dorothy. "I will not allow it. "

She was as good as her word. I don't think the boy lives who ever setfoot within the limits of Primrose Hall while the seminary was under hercharge. Perhaps if Miss Dorothy had given her young ladies a little moreliberty, they would not have thought it "such fun" to make eyes over thewhite lattice fence at the young gentlemen of the Temple Grammar School. I say perhaps; for it is one thing to manage thirty-five young ladiesand quite another thing to talk about it. 

But all Miss Dorothy's vigilance could not prevent the young folksfrom meeting in the town now and then, nor could her utmost ingenuityinterrupt postal arrangements. There was no end of notes passing betweenthe students and the Primroses. Notes tied to the heads of arrows wereshot into dormitory windows; notes were tucked under fences, and hiddenin the trunks of decayed trees. Every thick place in the boxwood hedgethat surrounded the seminary was a possible post-office. 

It was a terrible shock to Miss Dorothy the day she unearthed a nest ofletters in one of the huge wooden urns surmounting the gateway that ledto her dovecot. It was a bitter moment to Miss Phoebe and Miss Candaceand Miss Hesba, when they had their locks of hair grimly handed backto them by Miss Gibbs in the presence of the whole school. Girls whoselocks of hair had run the blockade in safety were particularly severe onthe offenders. But it didn't stop other notes and other tresses, and Iwould like to know what can stop them while the earth holds together. 

Now when I first came to Rivermouth I looked upon girls as rather tamecompany; I hadn't a spark of sentiment concerning them; but seeing mycomrades sending and receiving mysterious epistles, wearing bits ofribbon in their button-holes and leaving packages of confectionery(generally lemon-drops) in the hollow trunks of trees--why, I felt thatthis was the proper thing to do. I resolved, as a matter of duty, tofall in love with somebody, and I didn't care in the least who it was. In much the same mood that Don Quixote selected the Dulcinea del Tobosofor his lady-love, I singled out one of Miss Dorothy's incomparableyoung ladies for mine. 

I debated a long while whether I should not select two, but at lastsettled down on one--a pale little girl with blue eyes, named Alice. Ishall not make a long story of this, for Alice made short work ofme. She was secretly in love with Pepper Whitcomb. This occasioned atemporary coolness between Pepper and myself. 

Not disheartened, however, I placed Laura Rice--I believe it was LauraRice--in the vacant niche. The new idol was more cruel than the old. The former frankly sent me to the right about, but the latter was adeceitful lot. She wore my nosegay in her dress at the evening service(the Primroses were marched to church three times every Sunday), shepenned me the daintiest of notes, she sent me the glossiest of ringlets(cut, as I afterwards found out, from the stupid head of Miss Gibbs'schamber-maid), and at the same time was holding me and my pony up toridicule in a series of letters written to Jack Harris. It was Harrishimself who kindly opened my eyes. 

"I tell you what, Bailey, " said that young gentleman, "Laura is an oldveteran, and carries too many guns for a youngster. She can't resist aflirtation; I believe she'd flirt with an infant in arms. There's hardlya fellow in the school that hasn't worn her colors and some of her hair. She doesn't give out any more of her own hair now. It's been pretty wellused up. The demand was greater than the supply, you see. It's all verywell to correspond with Laura, but as to looking for anything seriousfrom her, the knowing ones don't. Hope I haven't hurt your feelings, old boy, " (that was a soothing stroke of flattery to call me "old boy, ")"but it was my duty as a friend and a Centipede to let you know who youwere dealing with. "

Such was the advice given me by that time-stricken, careworn, andembittered man of the world, who was sixteen years old if he was a day. 

I dropped Laura. In the course of the next twelve months I had perhapsthree or four similar experiences, and the conclusion was forced uponme that I was not a boy likely to distinguish myself in this branch ofbusiness. 

I fought shy of Primrose Hall from that moment. Smiles were smiled overthe boxwood hedge, and little hands were occasionally kissed to me;but I only winked my eye patronizingly, and passed on. I never renewedtender relations with Miss Gibbs's young ladies. All this occurredduring my first year and a half at Rivermouth. 

Between my studies at school, my out-door recreations, and the hurts myvanity received, I managed to escape for the time being any very seriousattack of that love fever which, like the measles, is almost certain toseize upon a boy sooner or later. I was not to be an exception. I wasmerely biding my time. The incidents I have now to relate took placeshortly after the events described in the last chapter. 

In a life so tranquil and circumscribed as ours in the Nutter House, avisitor was a novelty of no little importance. The whole household awokefrom its quietude one morning when the Captain announced that a youngniece of his from New York was to spend a few weeks with us. 

The blue-chintz room, into which a ray of sun was never allowed topenetrate, was thrown open and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweetwith a bouquet of pot-roses placed on the old-fashioned bureau. Kittywas busy all the forenoon washing off the sidewalk and sand-papering thegreat brass knocker on our front-door; and Miss Abigail was up to herelbows in a pigeon-pie. 

I felt sure it was for no ordinary person that all these preparationswere in progress; and I was right. Miss Nelly Glentworth was no ordinaryperson. I shall never believe she was. There may have been lovelierwomen, though I have never seen them; there may have been more brilliantwomen, though it has not been my fortune to meet them; but that therewas ever a more charming one than Nelly Glentworth is a propositionagainst which I contend. 

I don't love her now. I don't think of her once in five years; andyet it would give me a turn if in the course of my daily walk I shouldsuddenly come upon her eldest boy. I may say that her eldest boy wasnot playing a prominent part in this life when I first made heracquaintance. 

It was a drizzling, cheerless afternoon towards the end of summer thata hack drew up at the door of the Nutter House. The Captain and MissAbigail hastened into the hall on hearing the carriage stop. In a momentmore Miss Nelly Glentworth was seated in our sitting-room undergoinga critical examination at the hands of a small boy who loungeduncomfortably on a settee between the windows. 

The small boy considered himself a judge of girls, and he rapidly cameto the following conclusions: That Miss Nelly was about nineteen; thatshe had not given away much of her back hair, which hung in two massivechestnut braids over her shoulders; that she was a shade too pale and atrifle too tall; that her hands were nicely shaped and her feet muchtoo diminutive for daily use. He furthermore observed that her voice wasmusical, and that her face lighted up with an indescribable brightnesswhen she smiled. 

On the whole, the small boy liked her well enough; and, satisfied thatshe was not a person to be afraid of, but, on the contrary, one whomight be made quite agreeable, he departed to keep an appointment withhis friend Sir Pepper Whitcomb. 

But the next morning when Miss Glentworth came down to breakfast in apurple dress, her face as fresh as one of the moss-roses on the bureauupstairs, and her laugh as contagious as the merriment of a robin, thesmall boy experienced a strange sensation, and mentally compared herwith the loveliest of Miss Gibbs's young ladies, and found those youngladies wanting in the balance. 

A night's rest had wrought a wonderful change in Miss Nelly. The pallorand weariness of the journey had passed away. I looked at her throughthe toast-rack and thought I had never seen anything more winning thanher smile. 

After breakfast she went out with me to the stable to see Gypsy, and thethree of us became friends then and there. Nelly was the only girl thatGypsy ever took the slightest notice of. 

It chanced to be a half-holiday, and a baseball match of unusualinterest was to come off on the school ground that afternoon; but, somehow, I didn't go. I hung about the house abstractedly. The Captainwent up town, and Miss Abigail was busy in the kitchen making immortalgingerbread. I drifted into the sitting-room, and had our guest all tomyself for I don't know how many hours. It was twilight, I recollect, when the Captain returned with letters for Miss Nelly. 

Many a time after that I sat with her through the dreamy Septemberafternoons. If I had played baseball it would have been much better forme. 

Those first days of Miss Nelly's visit are very misty in my remembrance. I try in vain to remember just when I began to fall in love with her. 'Whether the spell worked upon me gradually or fell upon me all at once, I don't know. I only know that it seemed to me as if I had always lovedher. Things that took place before she came were dim to me, like eventsthat had occurred in the Middle Ages. 

Nelly was at least five years my senior. But what of that? Adam is theonly man I ever heard of who didn't in early youth fall in love with awoman older than himself, and I am convinced that he would have done soif he had had the opportunity. 

I wonder if girls from fifteen to twenty are aware of the glamour theycast over the straggling, awkward boys whom they regard and treat asmere children? I wonder, now. Young women are so keen in such matters. I wonder if Miss Nelly Glentworth never suspected until the very lastnight of her visit at Rivermouth that I was over ears in love with herpretty self, and was suffering pangs as poignant as if I had beenten feet high and as old as Methuselah? For, indeed, I was miserablethroughout all those five weeks. I went down in the Latin class at therate of three boys a day. Her fresh young eyes came between me and mybook, and there was an end of Virgil. 

 "O love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a body Gang aboot his business. "

I was wretched away from her, and only less wretched in her presence. The special cause of my woe was this: I was simply a little boy to MissGlentworth. I knew it. I bewailed it. I ground my teeth and wept insecret over the fact. If I had been aught else in her eyes would shehave smoothed my hair so carelessly, sending an electric shock throughmy whole system? Would she have walked with me, hand in hand, for hoursin the old garden, and once when I lay on the sofa, my head aching withlove and mortification, would she have stooped down and kissed me if Ihadn't been a little boy? How I despised little boys! How I hated oneparticular little boy--too little to be loved!

I smile over this very grimly even now. My sorrow was genuine andbitter. It is a great mistake on the part of elderly people, male andfemale, to tell a child that he is seeing his happiest days. Don't youbelieve a word of it, my little friend. The burdens of childhood are ashard to bear as the crosses that weigh us down later in life, while thehappinesses of childhood are tame compared with those of our matureryears. And even if this were not so, it is rank cruelty to throw shadowsover the young heart by croaking, "Be merry, for to-morrow you die!"

As the last days of Nelly's visit drew near, I fell into a veryunhealthy state of mind. To have her so frank and unconsciouslycoquettish with me was a daily torment; to be looked upon and treated asa child was bitter almonds; but the thought of losing her altogether wasdistraction. 

The summer was at an end. The days were perceptibly shorter, and now andthen came an evening when it was chilly enough to have a wood-fire inour sitting-room. The leaves were beginning to take hectic tints, andthe wind was practising the minor pathetic notes of its autumnaldirge. Nature and myself appeared to be approaching our dissolutionsimultaneously--

One evening, the evening previous to the day set for Nelly'sdeparture--how well I remember it--I found her sitting alone by the widechimney-piece looking musingly at the crackling back log. There wereno candles in the room. On her face and hands, and on the small goldencross at her throat, fell the flickering firelight--that ruddy, mellowfirelight in which one's grandmother would look poetical. 

I drew a low stool from the corner and placed it by the side of herchair. She reached out her hand to me, as was her pretty fashion, and sowe sat for several moments silently in the changing glow of the burninglogs. At length I moved back the stool so that I could see her face inprofile without being seen by her. I lost her hand by this movement, butI couldn't have spoken with the listless touch of her fingers on mine. After two or three attempts I said "Nelly" a good deal louder than Iintended. 

Perhaps the effort it cost me was evident in my voice. She raisedherself quickly in the chair and half turned towards me. 

"W'ell, Tom?"

"I--I am very sorry you are going away. "

"So am I. I have enjoyed every hour of my visit. "

"Do you think you will ever come back here?"

"Perhaps, " said Nelly, and her eyes wandered off into the fitfulfirelight. 

"I suppose you will forget us all very quickly. "

"Indeed I shall not. I shall always have the pleasantest memories ofRivermouth. "

Here the conversation died a natural death. Nelly sank into a sort ofdream, and I meditated. Fearing every moment to be interrupted by somemember of the family, I nerved myself to make a bold dash. 

"Nelly. "

"Well. "

"Do you--" I hesitated. 

"Do I what?"

"Love anyone very much?"

"Why, of course I do, " said Nelly, scattering her revery with a merrylaugh. "I love Uncle Nutter, and Aunt Nutter, and you--and Towser. "

Towser, our new dog! I couldn't stand that. I pushed back the stoolimpatiently and stood in front of her. 

"That's not what I mean, " I said angrily. 

"Well, what do you mean?"

"Do you love anyone to marry him?"

"The idea of it, " cried Nelly, laughing. 

"But you must tell me. "

"Must, Tom?"

"Indeed you must, Nelly. "

She had risen from the chair with an amused, perplexed look in her eyes. I held her an instant by the dress. 

"Please tell me. "

"O you silly boy!" cried Nelly. Then she rumpled my hair all over myforehead and ran laughing out of the room. 

Suppose Cinderella had rumpled the prince's hair all over his forehead, how would he have liked it? Suppose the Sleeping Beauty, when the king'sson with a kiss set her and all the old clocks agoing in the spell-boundcastle--suppose the young minx had looked up and coolly laughed in hiseye, I guess the king's son wouldn't have been greatly pleased. 

I hesitated a second or two and then rushed after Nelly just in time torun against Miss Abigail, who entered the room with a couple of lightedcandles. 

"Goodness gracious, Tom!" exclaimed Miss Abigail. "Are you possessed?"

I left her scraping the warm spermaceti from one of her thumbs. 

Nelly was in the kitchen talking quite unconcernedly with Kitty Collins. There she remained until supper-time. Supper over, we all adjourned tothe sitting-room. I planned and plotted, but could manage in no way toget Nelly alone. She and the Captain played cribbage all the evening. 

The next morning my lady did not make her appearance until we wereseated at the breakfast-table. I had got up at daylight myself. Immediately after breakfast the carriage arrived to take her to therailway station. A gentleman stepped from this carriage, and greatly tomy surprise was warmly welcomed by the Captain and Miss Abigail, and byMiss Nelly herself, who seemed unnecessarily glad to see him. From thehasty conversation that followed I learned that the gentleman had comesomewhat unexpectedly to conduct Miss Nelly to Boston. But how did heknow that she was to leave that morning? Nelly bade farewell to theCaptain and Miss Abigail, made a little rush and kissed me on the nose, and was gone. 

As the wheels of the hack rolled up the street and over my finerfeelings, I turned to the Captain. 

"Who was that gentleman, sir?"

"That was Mr. Waldron. "

"A relation of yours, sir?" I asked craftily. 

"No relation of mine--a relation of Nelly's, " said the Captain, smiling. 

"A cousin, " I suggested, feeling a strange hatred spring up in my bosomfor the unknown. 

"Well, I suppose you might call him a cousin for the present. He's goingto marry little Nelly next summer. "

In one of Peter Parley's valuable historical works is a description ofan earthquake at Lisbon. "At the first shock the inhabitants rushed intothe streets; the earth yawned at their feet and the houses tottered andfell on every side. " I staggered past the Captain into the street; agiddiness came over me; the earth yawned at my feet, and the housesthreatened to fall in on every side of me. How distinctly I rememberthat momentary sense of confusion when everything in the world seemedtoppling over into ruins. 

As I have remarked, my love for Nelly is a thing of the past. I had notthought of her for years until I sat down to write this chapter, andyet, now that all is said and done, I shouldn't care particularly tocome across Mrs. Waldron's eldest boy in my afternoon's walk. He must befourteen or fifteen years old by this time--the young villain!

Chapter Nineteen--I Become A Blighted Being

When a young boy gets to be an old boy, when the hair is growingrather thin on the top of the old boy's head, and he has been tamedsufficiently to take a sort of chastened pleasure in allowing the babyto play with his watch-seals--when, I say, an old boy has reached thisstage in the journey of life, he is sometimes apt to indulge in sportiveremarks concerning his first love. 

Now, though I bless my stars that it wasn't in my power to marry MissNelly, I am not going to deny my boyish regard for her nor laugh atit. As long as it lasted it was a very sincere and unselfish love, andrendered me proportionately wretched. I say as long as it lasted, forone's first love doesn't last forever. 

I am ready, however, to laugh at the amusing figure I cut after I hadreally ceased to have any deep feeling in the matter. It was then I tookit into my head to be a Blighted Being. This was about two weeks afterthe spectral appearance of Mr. Waldron. 

For a boy of a naturally vivacious disposition the part of a blightedbeing presented difficulties. I had an excellent appetite, I likedsociety, I liked out-of-door sports, I was fond of handsome clothes. Nowall these things were incompatible with the doleful character I was toassume, and I proceeded to cast them from me. I neglected my hair. Iavoided my playmates. I frowned abstractedly. I didn't eat as much aswas good for me. I took lonely walks. I brooded in solitude. I not onlycommitted to memory the more turgid poems of the late Lord Byron--"Farethee well, and if forever, " &c. --but I became a despondent poet on my ownaccount, and composed a string of "Stanzas to One who will understandthem. " I think I was a trifle too hopeful on that point; for I cameacross the verses several years afterwards, and was quite unable tounderstand them myself. 

It was a great comfort to be so perfectly miserable and yet not sufferany. I used to look in the glass and gloat over the amount and varietyof mournful expression I could throw into my features. If I caughtmyself smiling at anything, I cut the smile short with a sigh. Theoddest thing about all this is, I never once suspected that I was notunhappy. No one, not even Pepper Whitcomb, was more deceived than I. 

Among the minor pleasures of being blighted were the interest andperplexity I excited in the simple souls that were thrown in dailycontact with me. Pepper especially. I nearly drove him into acorresponding state of mind. 

I had from time to time given Pepper slight but impressive hints of myadmiration for Some One (this was in the early part of Miss Glentworth'svisit); I had also led him to infer that my admiration was notaltogether in vain. He was therefore unable to explain the cause ofmy strange behavior, for I had carefully refrained from mentioning toPepper the fact that Some One had turned out to be Another's. 

I treated Pepper shabbily. I couldn't resist playing on his tendererfeelings. He was a boy bubbling over with sympathy for anyone in anykind of trouble. Our intimacy since Binny Wallace's death had beenuninterrupted; but now I moved in a sphere apart, not to be profaned bythe step of an outsider. 

I no longer joined the boys on the playground at recess. I stayed at mydesk reading some lugubrious volume--usually The Mysteries of Udolpho, bythe amiable Mrs. Radcliffe. A translation of The Sorrows of Werter fellinto my hands at this period, and if I could have committed suicidewithout killing myself, I should certainly have done so. 

On half-holidays, instead of fraternizing with Pepper and the rest ofour clique, I would wander off alone to Grave Point. 

Grave Point--the place where Binny Wallace's body came ashore--was anarrow strip of land running out into the river. A line of Lombardypoplars, stiff and severe, like a row of grenadiers, mounted guard onthe water-side. On the extreme end of the peninsula was an old disusedgraveyard, tenanted principally by the early settlers who had beenscalped by the Indians. In a remote corner of the cemetery, set apartfrom the other mounds, was the grave of a woman who had been hangedin the old colonial times for the murder of her infant. Goodwife PollyHaines had denied the crime to the last, and after her death there hadarisen strong doubts as to her actual guilt. It was a belief currentamong the lads of the town, that if you went to this grave at nightfallon the 10th of November--the anniversary of her execution--and asked, "Forwhat did the magistrates hang you?" a voice would reply, "Nothing. "

Many a Rivermouth boy has tremblingly put this question in the dark, and, sure enough, Polly Haines invariably answered nothing!

A low red-brick wall, broken down in many places and frosted over withsilvery moss, surrounded this burial-ground of our Pilgrim Fathers andtheir immediate descendants. The latest date on any of the headstoneswas 1780. A crop of very funny epitaphs sprung up here and there amongthe overgrown thistles and burdocks, and almost every tablet had adeath's-head with cross-bones engraved upon it, or else a puffy roundface with a pair of wings stretching out from the ears, like this:

Cherub Graphic

These mortuary emblems furnished me with congenial food for reflection. I used to lie in the long grass, and speculate on the advantages anddisadvantages of being a cherub. 

I forget what I thought the advantages were, but I remember distinctlyof getting into an inextricable tangle on two points: How could acherub, being all head and wings, manage to sit down when he was tired?To have to sit down on the back of his head struck me as an awkwardalternative. Again: Where did a cherub carry those indispensablearticles (such as jack-knives, marbles, and pieces of twine) whichboys in an earthly state of existence usually stow away in theirtrousers-pockets?

These were knotty questions, and I was never able to dispose of themsatisfactorily. 

Meanwhile Pepper Whitcomb would scour the whole town in search of me. He finally discovered my retreat, and dropped in on me abruptly oneafternoon, while I was deep in the cherub problem. 

"Look here, Tom Bailey!" said Pepper, shying a piece of clam-shellindignantly at the file jacet on a neighboring gravestone. "You are justgoing to the dogs! Can't you tell a fellow what in thunder ails you, instead of prowling round among the tombs like a jolly old vampire?"

"Pepper, " I replied, solemnly, "don't ask me. All is not wellhere"--touching my breast mysteriously. If I had touched my head instead, I should have been nearer the mark. 

Pepper stared at me. 

"Earthly happiness, " I continued, "is a delusion and a snare. You willnever be happy, Pepper, until you are a cherub. "

Pepper, by the by, would have made an excellent cherub, he was sochubby. Having delivered myself of these gloomy remarks, I aroselanguidly from the grass and moved away, leaving Pepper staring afterme in mute astonishment. I was Hamlet and Werter and the late Lord Byronall in one. 

You will ask what my purpose was in cultivating this factitiousdespondency. None whatever. Blighted beings never have any purpose inlife excepting to be as blighted as possible. 

Of course my present line of business could not long escape the eye ofCaptain Nutter. I don't know if the Captain suspected my attachment forMiss Glentworth. He never alluded to it; but he watched me. Miss Abigailwatched me, Kitty Collins watched me, and Sailor Ben watched me. 

"I can't make out his signals, " I overheard the Admiral remark to mygrandfather one day. "I hope he ain't got no kind of sickness aboard. "

There was something singularly agreeable in being an object of so greatinterest. Sometimes I had all I could do to preserve my dejected aspect, it was so pleasant to be miserable. I incline to the opinion thatpeople who are melancholy without any particular reason, such as poets, artists, and young musicians with long hair, have rather an enviabletime of it. In a quiet way I never enjoyed myself better in my life thanwhen I was a Blighted Being. 

Chapter Twenty--I Prove Myself To Be the Grandson of My Grandfather

It was not possible for a boy of my temperament to be a blighted beinglonger than three consecutive weeks. 

I was gradually emerging from my self-imposed cloud when events tookplace that greatly assisted in restoring me to a more natural frame ofmind. I awoke from an imaginary trouble to face a real one. 

I suppose you don't know what a financial crisis is? I will give you anillustration. 

You are deeply in debt--say to the amount of a quarter of a dollar--to thelittle knicknack shop round the corner, where they sell picture-papers, spruce-gum, needles, and Malaga raisins. A boy owes you a quarter of adollar, which he promises to pay at a certain time. You are dependingon this quarter to settle accounts with the small shop-keeper. Thetime arrives--and the quarter doesn't. That's a financial crisis, in onesense--twenty-five senses, if I may say so. 

When this same thing happens, on a grander scale, in the mercantileworld, it produces what is called a panic. One man's inability to payhis debts ruins another man, who, in turn, ruins someone else, andso on, until failure after failure makes even the richest capitaliststremble. Public confidence is suspended, and the smaller fry ofmerchants are knocked over like tenpins. 

These commercial panics occur periodically, after the fashion of cometsand earthquakes and other disagreeable things. 

Such a panic took place in New Orleans in the year 18--, and my father'sbanking-house went to pieces in the crash. 

Of a comparatively large fortune nothing remained after paying his debtsexcepting a few thousand dollars, with which he proposed to return Northand embark in some less hazardous enterprise. In the meantime it wasnecessary for him to stay in New Orleans to wind up the business. 

My grandfather was in some way involved in this failure, and lost, Ifancy, a considerable sum of money; but he never talked much on thesubject. He was an unflinching believer in the spilt-milk proverb. 

"It can't be gathered up, " he would say, "and it's no use crying overit. Pitch into the cow and get some more milk, is my motto. "

The suspension of the banking-house was bad enough, but there was anattending circumstance that gave us, at Rivermouth, a great deal moreanxiety. The cholera, which someone predicted would visit the countrythat year, and which, indeed, had made its appearance in a mild format several points along the Mississippi River, had broken out with muchviolence at New Orleans. 

The report that first reached us through the newspapers was meagre andcontradictory; many people discredited it; but a letter from my motherleft us no room for doubt. The sickness was in the city. The hospitalswere filling up, and hundreds of the citizens were flying from thestricken place by every steamboat. The unsettled state of my father'saffairs made it imperative for him to remain at his post; his desertionat that moment would have been at the sacrifice of all he had saved fromthe general wreck. 

As he would be detained in New Orleans at least three months, my motherdeclined to come North without him. 

After this we awaited with feverish impatience the weekly news that cameto us from the South. The next letter advised us that my parents werewell, and that the sickness, so far, had not penetrated to the faubourg, or district, where they lived. The following week brought less cheeringtidings. My father's business, in consequence of the flight of the otherpartners, would keep him in the city beyond the period he had mentioned. The family had moved to Pass Christian, a favorite watering-place onLake Pontchartrain, near New Orleans, where he was able to spend part ofeach week. So the return North was postponed indefinitely. 

It was now that the old longing to see my parents came back to me withirresistible force. I knew my grandfather would not listen to theidea of my going to New Orleans at such a dangerous time, since he hadopposed the journey so strongly when the same objection did not exist. But I determined to go nevertheless. 

I think I have mentioned the fact that all the male members of ourfamily, on my father's side--as far back as the Middle Ages--haveexhibited in early youth a decided talent for running away. It was anhereditary talent. It ran in the blood to run away. I do not pretend toexplain the peculiarity. I simply admit it. 

It was not my fate to change the prescribed order of things. I, too, wasto run away, thereby proving, if any proof were needed, that I was thegrandson of my grandfather. I do not hold myself responsible for thestep any more than I do for the shape of my nose, which is said to be afacsimile of Captain Nutter's. 

I have frequently noticed how circumstances conspire to help a man, ora boy, when he has thoroughly resolved on doing a thing. That very weekthe Rivermouth Barnacle printed an advertisement that seemed to havebeen written on purpose for me. It read as follows:

WANTED. A Few Able-bodied Seamen and a Cabin-Boy, for the ship Rawlings, now loading for New Orleans at Johnson's Wharf, Boston. Apply in person, within four days, at the office of Messrs. --& Co. , or on board the Ship. 

How I was to get to New Orleans with only $4. 62 was a question that hadbeen bothering me. This advertisement made it as clear as day. I wouldgo as cabin-boy. 

I had taken Pepper into my confidence again; I had told him the storyof my love for Miss Glentworth, with all its harrowing details; and nowconceived it judicious to confide in him the change about to take placein my life, so that, if the Rawlings went down in a gale, my friendsmight have the limited satisfaction of knowing what had become of me. 

Pepper shook his head discouragingly, and sought in every way todissuade me from the step. He drew a disenchanting picture of theexistence of a cabin-boy, whose constant duty (according to Pepper) wasto have dishes broken over his head whenever the captain or the matechanced to be out of humor, which was mostly all the time. But nothingPepper said could turn me a hair's-breadth from my purpose. 

I had little time to spare, for the advertisement stated explicitly thatapplications were to be made in person within four days. I trembledto think of the bare possibility of some other boy snapping up thatdesirable situation. 

It was on Monday that I stumbled upon the advertisement. On Tuesday mypreparations were completed. My baggage--consisting of four shirts, halfa dozen collars, a piece of shoemaker's wax, (Heaven knows what for!)and seven stockings, wrapped in a silk handkerchief--lay hidden under aloose plank of the stable floor. This was my point of departure. 

My plan was to take the last train for Boston, in order to prevent thepossibility of immediate pursuit, if any should be attempted. The trainleft at 4 P. M. 

I ate no breakfast and little dinner that day. I avoided the Captain'seye, and wouldn't have looked Miss Abigail or Kitty in the face for thewealth of the Indies. 

When it was time to start for the station I retired quietly to thestable and uncovered my bundle. I lingered a moment to kiss the whitestar on Gypsy's forehead, and was nearly unmanned when the little animalreturned the caress by lapping my cheek. Twice I went back and pattedher. 

On reaching the station I purchased my ticket with a bravado air thatought to have aroused the suspicion of the ticket-master, and hurried tothe car, where I sat fidgeting until the train shot out into the broaddaylight. 

Then I drew a long breath and looked about me. The first object thatsaluted my sight was Sailor Ben, four or five seats behind me, readingthe Rivermouth Barnacle!

Reading was not an easy art to Sailor Ben; he grappled with the sense ofa paragraph as if it were a polar-bear, and generally got the worst ofit. On the present occasion he was having a hard struggle, judging bythe way he worked his mouth and rolled his eyes. He had evidently notseen me. But what was he doing on the Boston train?

Without lingering to solve the question, I stole gently from my seat andpassed into the forward car. 

This was very awkward, having the Admiral on board. I couldn'tunderstand it at all. Could it be possible that the old boy had gottired of land and was running away to sea himself? That was too absurd. I glanced nervously towards the car door now and then, half expecting tosee him come after me. 

We had passed one or two way-stations, and I had quieted down a gooddeal, when I began to feel as if somebody was looking steadily at theback of my head. I turned round involuntarily, and there was SailorBen again, at the farther end of the car, wrestling with the RivermouthBarnacle as before. 

I began to grow very uncomfortable indeed. Was it by design or chancethat he thus dogged my steps? If he was aware of my presence, why didn'the speak to me at once? 'Why did he steal round, making no sign, like aparticularly unpleasant phantom? Maybe it wasn't Sailor Ben. I peeped athim slyly. There was no mistaking that tanned, genial phiz of his. Veryodd he didn't see me!

Literature, even in the mild form of a country newspaper, always had theeffect of poppies on the Admiral. 'When I stole another glance in hisdirection his hat was tilted over his right eye in the most dissolutestyle, and the Rivermouth Barnacle lay in a confused heap beside him. Hehad succumbed. He was fast asleep. If he would only keep asleep until wereached our destination!

By and by I discovered that the rear car had been detached from thetrain at the last stopping-place. This accounted satisfactorily forSailor Ben's singular movements, and considerably calmed my fears. Nevertheless, I did not like the aspect of things. 

The Admiral continued to snooze like a good fellow, and was snoringmelodiously as we glided at a slackened pace over a bridge and intoBoston. 

I grasped my pilgrim's bundle, and, hurrying out of the car, dashed upthe first street that presented itself. 

It was a narrow, noisy, zigzag street, crowded with trucks andobstructed with bales and boxes of merchandise. I didn't pause tobreathe until I had placed a respectable distance between me and therailway station. By this time it was nearly twilight. 

I had got into the region of dwelling-houses, and was about to seatmyself on a doorstep to rest, when, lo! there was the Admiral trundlingalong on the opposite sidewalk, under a full spread of canvas, as hewould have expressed it. 

I was off again in an instant at a rapid pace; but in spite of all Icould do he held his own without any perceptible exertion. He had a veryugly gait to get away from, the Admiral. I didn't dare to run, forfear of being mistaken for a thief, a suspicion which my bundle wouldnaturally lend color to. 

I pushed ahead, however, at a brisk trot, and must have got over one ortwo miles--my pursuer neither gaining nor losing ground--when I concludedto surrender at discretion. I saw that Sailor Ben was determined to haveme, and, knowing my man, I knew that escape was highly improbable. 

So I turned round and waited for him to catch up with me, which he didin a few seconds, looking rather sheepish at first. 

"Sailor Ben, " said I, severely, "do I understand that you are dogging mysteps?"

"'Well, little mess-mate, " replied the Admiral, rubbing his nose, whichhe always did when he was disconcerted, "I am kind o' followin' in yourwake. "

"Under orders?"

"Under orders. "

"Under the Captain's orders?"

"Surely. "

"In other words, my grandfather has sent you to fetch me back toRivermouth?"

"That's about it, " said the Admiral, with a burst of frankness. 

"And I must go with you whether I want to or not?"

"The Capen's very identical words!"

There was nothing to be done. I bit my lips with suppressed anger, andsignified that I was at his disposal, since I couldn't help it. Theimpression was very strong in my mind that the Admiral wouldn't hesitateto put me in irons if I showed signs of mutiny. 

It was too late to return to Rivermouth that night--a fact which Icommunicated to the old boy sullenly, inquiring at the same time what heproposed to do about it. 

He said we would cruise about for some rations, and then make a nightof it. I didn't condescend to reply, though I hailed the suggestion ofsomething to eat with inward enthusiasm, for I had not taken enough foodthat day to keep life in a canary. 

'We wandered back to the railway station, in the waiting room of whichwas a kind of restaurant presided over by a severe-looking young lady. Here we had a cup of coffee apiece, several tough doughnuts, and someblocks of venerable spongecake. The young lady who attended on us, whatever her age was then, must have been a mere child when thatsponge-cake was made. 

The Admiral's acquaintance with Boston hotels was slight; but he knewof a quiet lodging-house near by, much patronized by sea-captains, andkept by a former friend of his. 

In this house, which had seen its best days, we were accommodated witha mouldy chamber containing two cot-beds, two chairs, and a crackedpitcher on a washstand. The mantel-shelf was ornamented with three bigpink conch-shells, resembling pieces of petrified liver; and over thesehung a cheap lurid print, in which a United States sloop-of-war wasgiving a British frigate particular fits. It is very strange how our ownships never seem to suffer any in these terrible engagements. It showswhat a nation we are. 

An oil-lamp on a deal-table cast a dismal glare over the apartment, which was cheerless in the extreme. I thought of our sitting-room athome, with its flowery wall-paper and gay curtains and soft lounges; Isaw Major Elkanah Nutter (my grandfather's father) in powdered wig andFederal uniform, looking down benevolently from his gilt frame betweenthe bookcases; I pictured the Captain and Miss Abigail sitting at thecosey round table in the moon-like glow of the astral lamp; and then Ifell to wondering how they would receive me when I came back. I wonderedif the Prodigal Son had any idea that his father was going to kill thefatted calf for him, and how he felt about it, on the whole. 

Though I was very low in spirits, I put on a bold front to SailorBen, you will understand. To be caught and caged in this manner was afrightful shock to my vanity. He tried to draw me into conversation;but I answered in icy monosyllables. He again suggested we should makea night of it, and hinted broadly that he was game for any amount ofriotous dissipation, even to the extent of going to see a play if Iwanted to. I declined haughtily. I was dying to go. 

He then threw out a feeler on the subject of dominos and checkers, andobserved in a general way that "seven up" was a capital game; but Irepulsed him at every point. 

I saw that the Admiral was beginning to feel hurt by my systematiccoldness. 'We had always been such hearty friends until now. It wastoo bad of me to fret that tender, honest old heart even for an hour. I really did love the ancient boy, and when, in a disconsolate way, heordered up a pitcher of beer, I unbent so far as to partake of some in ateacup. He recovered his spirits instantly, and took out his cuddy claypipe for a smoke. 

Between the beer and the soothing fragrance of the navy-plug, I fellinto a pleasanter mood myself, and, it being too late now to go to thetheatre, I condescended to say--addressing the northwest corner of theceiling--that "seven up" was a capital game. Upon this hint the Admiraldisappeared, and returned shortly with a very dirty pack of cards. 

As we played, with varying fortunes, by the flickering flame of thelamp, he sipped his beer and became communicative. He seemed immenselytickled by the fact that I had come to Boston. It leaked out presentlythat he and the Captain had had a wager on the subject. 

The discovery of my plans and who had discovered them were points onwhich the Admiral refused to throw any light. They had been discovered, however, and the Captain had laughed at the idea of my running away. Sailor Ben, on the contrary, had stoutly contended that I meant to slipcable and be off. Whereupon the Captain offered to bet him a dollar thatI wouldn't go. And it was partly on account of this wager that SailorBen refrained from capturing me when he might have done so at the start. 

Now, as the fare to and from Boston, with the lodging expenses, wouldcost him at least five dollars, I didn't see what he gained by winningthe wager. The Admiral rubbed his nose violently when this view of thecase presented itself. 

I asked him why he didn't take me from the train at the firststopping-place and return to Rivermouth by the down train at 4. 30. Heexplained having purchased a ticket for Boston, he considered himselfbound to the owners (the stockholders of the road) to fulfil his part ofthe contract! To use his own words, he had "shipped for the viage. "

This struck me as being so deliciously funny, that after I was in bedand the light was out, I couldn't help laughing aloud once or twice. Isuppose the Admiral must have thought I was meditating another escape, for he made periodical visits to my bed throughout the night, satisfyinghimself by kneading me all over that I hadn't evaporated. 

I was all there the next morning, when Sailor Ben half awakened me byshouting merrily, "All hands on deck!" The words rang in my ears like apart of my own dream, for I was at that instant climbing up the side ofthe Rawlings to offer myself as cabin-boy. 

The Admiral was obliged to shake me roughly two or three times before hecould detach me from the dream. I opened my eyes with effort, and staredstupidly round the room. Bit by bit my real situation dawned on me. 'What a sickening sensation that is, when one is in trouble, to wake upfeeling free for a moment, and then to find yesterday's sorrow all readyto go on again!

"'Well, little messmate, how fares it?"

I was too much depressed to reply. The thought of returning toRivermouth chilled me. How could I face Captain Nutter, to say nothingof Miss Abigail and Kitty? How the Temple Grammar School boys would lookat me! How Conway and Seth Rodgers would exult over my mortification!And what if the Rev. 'Wibird Hawkins should allude to me in his nextSunday's sermon?

Sailor Ben was wise in keeping an eye on me, for after these thoughtstook possession of my mind, I wanted only the opportunity to give himthe slip. 

The keeper of the lodgings did not supply meals to his guests; so webreakfasted at a small chophouse in a crooked street on our way to thecars. The city was not astir yet, and looked glum and careworn in thedamp morning atmosphere. 

Here and there as we passed along was a sharp-faced shop-boy taking downshutters; and now and then we met a seedy man who had evidently spentthe night in a doorway. Such early birds and a few laborers with theirtin kettles were the only signs of life to be seen until we came to thestation, where I insisted on paying for my own ticket. I didn't relishbeing conveyed from place to place, like a felon changing prisons, atsomebody else's expense. 

On entering the car I sunk into a seat next the window, and Sailor Bendeposited himself beside me, cutting off all chance of escape. 

The car filled up soon after this, and I wondered if there was anythingin my mien that would lead the other passengers to suspect I was a boywho had run away and was being brought back. 

A man in front of us--he was near-sighted, as I discovered later by hisreading a guide-book with his nose--brought the blood to my cheeks byturning round and peering at me steadily. I rubbed a clear spot on thecloudy window-glass at my elbow, and looked out to avoid him. 

There, in the travellers' room, was the severe-looking young lady pilingup her blocks of sponge-cake in alluring pyramids and industriouslyintrenching herself behind a breastwork of squash-pie. I saw withcynical pleasure numerous victims walk up to the counter and recklesslysow the seeds of death in their constitutions by eating her doughnuts. Ihad got quite interested in her, when the whistle sounded and the trainbegan to move. 

The Admiral and I did not talk much on the journey. I stared out of thewindow most of the time, speculating as to the probable nature of thereception in store for me at the terminus of the road. 

'What would the Captain say? and Mr. Grimshaw, what would he do aboutit? Then I thought of Pepper Whitcomb. Dire was the vengeance I meant towreak on Pepper, for who but he had betrayed me? Pepper alone had beenthe repository of my secret--perfidious Pepper!

As we left station after station behind us, I felt less and less likeencountering the members of our family. Sailor Ben fathomed what waspassing in my mind, for he leaned over and said:

"I don't think as the Capen will bear down very hard on you. "

But it wasn't that. It wasn't the fear of any physical punishment thatmight be inflicted; it was a sense of my own folly that was creepingover me; for during the long, silent ride I had examined my conduct fromevery stand-point, and there was no view I could take of myself in whichI did not look like a very foolish person indeed. 

As we came within sight of the spires of Rivermouth, I wouldn't havecared if the up train, which met us outside the town, had run into usand ended me. 

Contrary to my expectation and dread, the Captain was not visible whenwe stepped from the cars. Sailor Ben glanced among the crowd of faces, apparently looking for him too. Conway was there--he was always hangingabout the station--and if he had intimated in any way that he knew of mydisgrace and enjoyed it, I should have walked into him, I am certain. 

But this defiant feeling entirely deserted me by the time we reached theNutter House. The Captain himself opened the door. 

"Come on board, sir, " said Sailor Ben, scraping his left foot andtouching his hat sea-fashion. 

My grandfather nodded to Sailor Ben, somewhat coldly I thought, and muchto my astonishment kindly took me by the hand. 

I was unprepared for this, and the tears, which no amount of severitywould have wrung from me, welled up to my eyes. 

The expression of my grandfather's face, as I glanced at it hastily, was grave and gentle; there was nothing in it of anger or reproof. Ifollowed him into the sitting-room, and, obeying a motion of his hand, seated myself on the sofa. He remained standing by the round table for amoment, lost in thought, then leaned over and picked up a letter. 

It was a letter with a great black seal. 

Chapter Twenty-One--In Which I Leave Rivermouth

A letter with a great black seal!

I knew then what had happened as well as I know it now. But whichwas it, father or mother? I do not like to look back to the agony andsuspense of that moment. 

My father had died at New Orleans during one of his weekly visits tothe city. The letter bearing these tidings had reached Rivermouth theevening of my flight--had passed me on the road by the down train. 

I must turn back for a moment to that eventful evening. When I failedto make my appearance at supper, the Captain began to suspect that I hadreally started on my wild tour southward--a conjecture which Sailor Ben'sabsence helped to confirm. I had evidently got off by the train andSailor Ben had followed me. 

There was no telegraphic communication between Boston and Rivermouthin those days; so my grandfather could do nothing but await the result. Even if there had been another mail to Boston, he could not have availedhimself of it, not knowing how to address a message to the fugitives. The post-office was naturally the last place either I or the Admiralwould think of visiting. 

My grandfather, however, was too full of trouble to allow this to add tohis distress. He knew that the faithful old sailor would not let me cometo any harm, and even if I had managed for the time being to elude him, was sure to bring me back sooner or later. 

Our return, therefore, by the first train on the following day did notsurprise him. 

I was greatly puzzled, as I have said, by the gentle manner of hisreception; but when we were alone together in the sitting-room, and hebegan slowly to unfold the letter, I understood it all. I caught a sightof my mother's handwriting in the superscription, and there was nothingleft to tell me. 

My grandfather held the letter a few seconds irresolutely, and thencommenced reading it aloud; but he could get no further than the date. 

"I can't read it, Tom, " said the old gentleman, breaking down. "Ithought I could. "

He handed it to me. I took the letter mechanically, and hurried awaywith it to my little room, where I had passed so many happy hours. 

The week that followed the receipt of this letter is nearly a blank inmy memory. I remember that the days appeared endless; that at timesI could not realize the misfortune that had befallen us, and my heartupbraided me for not feeling a deeper grief; that a full sense of myloss would now and then sweep over me like an inspiration, and I wouldsteal away to my chamber or wander forlornly about the gardens. Iremember this, but little more. 

As the days went by my first grief subsided, and in its place grew upa want which I have experienced at every step in life from boyhood tomanhood. Often, even now, after all these years, when I see a lad oftwelve or fourteen walking by his father's side, and glancing merrilyup at his face, I turn and look after them, and am conscious that I havemissed companionship most sweet and sacred. 

I shall not dwell on this portion of my story. There were many tranquil, pleasant hours in store for me at that period, and I prefer to turn tothem. 

One evening the Captain came smiling into the sitting-room with an openletter in his hand. My mother had arrived at New York, and would bewith us the next day. For the first time in weeks--years, it seemed tome--something of the old cheerfulness mingled with our conversation roundthe evening lamp. I was to go to Boston with the Captain to meet her andbring her home. I need not describe that meeting. With my mother's handin mine once more, all the long years we had been parted appeared like adream. Very dear to me was the sight of that slender, pale womanpassing from room to room, and lending a patient grace and beauty to thesaddened life of the old house. 

Everything was changed with us now. There were consultations withlawyers, and signing of papers, and correspondence; for my father'saffairs had been left in great confusion. And when these were settled, the evenings were not long enough for us to hear all my mother had totell of the scenes she had passed through in the ill-fated city. 

Then there were old times to talk over, full of reminiscences of AuntChloe and little Black Sam. Little Black Sam, by the by, had been takenby his master from my father's service ten months previously, and put ona sugar-plantation near Baton Rouge. Not relishing the change, Sam hadrun away, and by some mysterious agency got into Canada, from whichplace he had sent back several indecorous messages to his late owner. Aunt Chloe was still in New Orleans, employed as nurse in one of thecholera hospital wards, and the Desmoulins, near neighbors of ours, hadpurchased the pretty stone house among the orange-trees. 

How all these simple details interested me will be readily understood byany boy who has been long absent from home. 

I was sorry when it became necessary to discuss questions more nearlyaffecting myself. I had been removed from school temporarily, but itwas decided, after much consideration, that I should not return, thedecision being left, in a manner, in my own hands. 

The Captain wished to carry out his son's intention and send me tocollege, for which I was nearly fitted; but our means did not admit ofthis. The Captain, too, could ill afford to bear the expense, for hislosses by the failure of the New Orleans business had been heavy. Yet heinsisted on the plan, not seeing clearly what other disposal to make ofme. 

In the midst of our discussions a letter came from my Uncle Snow, a merchant in New York, generously offering me a place in hiscounting-house. The case resolved itself into this: If I went tocollege, I should have to be dependent on Captain Nutter for severalyears, and at the end of the collegiate course would have no settledprofession. If I accepted my uncle's offer, I might hope to work myway to independence without loss of time. It was hard to give up thelong-cherished dream of being a Harvard boy; but I gave it up. 

The decision once made, it was Uncle Snow's wish that I should enterhis counting-house immediately. The cause of my good uncle's haste wasthis--he was afraid that I would turn out to be a poet before he couldmake a merchant of me. His fears were based upon the fact that I hadpublished in the Rivermouth Barnacle some verses addressed in a familiarmanner "To the Moon. " Now, the idea of a boy, with his living to get, placing himself in communication with the Moon, struck the mercantilemind as monstrous. It was not only a bad investment, it was lunacy. 

'We adopted Uncle Snow's views so far as to accede to his propositionforthwith. My mother, I neglected to say, was also to reside in NewYork. 

I shall not draw a picture of Pepper Whitcomb's disgust when the newswas imparted to him, nor attempt to paint Sailor Ben's distress at theprospect of losing his little messmate. 

In the excitement of preparing for the journey I didn't feel any verydeep regret myself. But when the moment came for leaving, and I saw mysmall trunk lashed up behind the carriage, then the pleasantness of theold life and a vague dread of the new came over me, and a mist filled myeyes, shutting out the group of schoolfellows, including all the membersof the Centipede Club, who had come down to the house to see me off. 

As the carriage swept round the corner, I leaned out of the window totake a last look at Sailor Ben's cottage, and there was the Admiral'sflag flying at half-mast. 

So I left Rivermouth, little dreaming that I was not to see the oldplace again for many and many a year. 

Chapter Twenty-Two--Exeunt Omnes

With the close of my school-days at Rivermouth this modest chronicleends. 

The new life upon which I entered, the new friends and foes Iencountered on the road, and what I did and what I did not, are mattersthat do not come within the scope of these pages. But before I writeFinis to the record as it stands, before I leave it--feeling as if Iwere once more going away from my boyhood--I have a word or two to sayconcerning a few of the personages who have figured in the story, if youwill allow me to call Gypsy a personage. 

I am sure that the reader who has followed me thus far will be willingto hear what became of her, and Sailor Ben and Miss Abigail and theCaptain. 

First about Gypsy. A month after my departure from Rivermouth the Captaininformed me by letter that he had parted with the little mare, accordingto agreement. She had been sold to the ring-master of a travellingcircus (I had stipulated on this disposal of her), and was about to setout on her travels. She did not disappoint my glowing anticipations, butbecame quite a celebrity in her way--by dancing the polka to slow musicon a pine-board ball-room constructed for the purpose. 

I chanced once, a long while afterwards, to be in a country town whereher troupe was giving exhibitions; I even read the gaudily illuminedshow-bill, setting forth the accomplishments of Zuleika, the famedArabian Trick Pony--but I failed to recognize my dear little Mustanggirl behind those high-sounding titles, and so, alas, did not attend theperformance! I hope all the praises she received and all the spangledtrappings she wore did not spoil her; but I am afraid they did, for shewas always over much given to the vanities of this world!

Miss Abigail regulated the domestic destinies of my grandfather'shousehold until the day of her death, which Dr. Theophilus Tredicksolemnly averred was hastened by the inveterate habit she had contractedof swallowing unknown quantities of hot-drops whenever she fanciedherself out of sorts. Eighty-seven empty phials were found in abonnet-box on a shelf in her bedroom closet. 

The old house became very lonely when the family got reduced to CaptainNutter and Kitty; and when Kitty passed away, my grandfather divided histime between Rivermouth and New York. 

Sailor Ben did not long survive his little Irish lass, as he alwaysfondly called her. At his demise, which took place about six yearssince, he left his property in trust to the managers of a "Home for AgedMariners. " In his will, which was a very whimsical document--written byhimself, and worded with much shrewdness, too--he warned the Trusteesthat when he got "aloft" he intended to keep his "weather eye" on them, and should send "a speritual shot across their bows" and bring them to, if they didn't treat the Aged Mariners handsomely. 

He also expressed a wish to have his body stitched up in a shottedhammock and dropped into the harbor; but as he did not strenuouslyinsist on this, and as it was not in accordance with my grandfather'spreconceived notions of Christian burial, the Admiral was laid to restbeside Kitty, in the Old South Burying Ground, with an anchor that wouldhave delighted him neatly carved on his headstone. 

I am sorry the fire has gone out in the old ship's stove in thatsky-blue cottage at the head of the wharf; I am sorry they have takendown the flag-staff and painted over the funny port-holes; for I lovedthe old cabin as it was. They might have let it alone!

For several months after leaving Rivermouth I carried on a voluminouscorrespondence with Pepper Whitcomb; but it gradually dwindled down to asingle letter a month, and then to none at all. But while he remainedat the Temple Grammar School he kept me advised of the current gossip ofthe town and the doings of the Centipedes. 

As one by one the boys left the academy--Adams, Harris, Marden, Blake, and Langdon--to seek their fortunes elsewhere, there was less to interestme in the old seaport; and when Pepper himself went to Philadelphia toread law, I had no one to give me an inkling of what was going on. 

There wasn't much to go on, to be sure. Great events no longerconsidered it worth their while to honor so quiet a place. 

One Fourth of July the Temple Grammar School burnt down--set on fire, itwas supposed, by an eccentric squib that was seen to bolt into an upperwindow--and Mr. Grimshaw retired from public life, married, "and livedhappily ever after, " as the story-books say. 

The Widow Conway, I am able to state, did not succeed in enslaving Mr. Meeks, the apothecary, who united himself clandestinely to one of MissDorothy Gibbs's young ladies, and lost the patronage of Primrose Hall inconsequence. 

Young Conway went into the grocery business with his ancient chum, Rodgers--RODGERS & CONWAY! I read the sign only last summer when I wasdown in Rivermouth, and had half a mind to pop into the shop and shakehands with him, and ask him if he wanted to fight. I contented myself, however, with flattening my nose against his dingy shop-window, andbeheld Conway, in red whiskers and blue overalls, weighing out sugar fora customer--giving him short weight, I'll bet anything!

I have reserved my pleasantest word for the last. It is touching theCaptain. The Captain is still hale and rosy, and if he doesn't relatehis exploit in the War of 1812 as spiritedly as he used to, he makes upby relating it more frequently and telling it differently every time!He passes his winters in New York and his summers in the Nutter House, which threatens to prove a hard nut for the destructive gentleman withthe scythe and the hour-glass, for the seaward gable has not yielded aclapboard to the eastwind these twenty years. The Captain has now becomethe Oldest Inhabitant in Rivermouth, and so I don't laugh at the OldestInhabitant any more, but pray in my heart that he may occupy the post ofhonor for half a century to come!

So ends the Story of a Bad Boy--but not such a very bad boy, as I toldyou to begin with.