Читать книгу John Smith's Funny Adventures on a Crutch - A. F. Hill - Страница 7

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I NEVER saw a man stare with such pure unalloyed astonishment as the Doctor did on this occasion. Not five minutes had elapsed since he had had me locked up in the guard-house, and yet, there I was—free. He stared at me for a moment as though I were an apparition from the dead, then stammered:

“Why—why—is—is—this—John Smith?”

“So I am called,” I replied, coolly taking a seat on a bench.

He arose from his seat, stared for a moment, again, with contracted brows and a puzzled expression of countenance, then said:

“I—I—thought you—were put—in No. 41!”

“So I was,” I calmly replied. And I deliberately took a newspaper from my pocket and cast my eye over the late items.

“How—how—in the name of sense—did you get out?”

“O, that was easy,” I replied, carelessly, as I regarded the paper more attentively.

“Sergeant Kinsley,” said the Doctor, calling to the insignificant little sergeant who was standing at the other end of the porch, “come here.”

The sergeant approached.

“Didn’t you put Smith in the guard-house?”

“Yes sir,” returned Kinsley.

“Here he is,” said the Doctor, pointing to me. “How did he get out?”

Kinsley, who had not before observed my presence, started back, turned pale, and said: “I—I—don’t know.”

“Go and see,” said the Doctor.

Glad to get out of my presence, Kinsley ran up stairs, and in a minute or so returned, and reported what had been done.

Now, if the Doctor had possessed the heart of a human being he would have suspended his persecutions, after that—in a word, would have “let up” on me—but he seemed entirely impervious to good jokes, practical or otherwise, and was more than ever determined to punish me.

“Sergeant,” said he, no doubt thinking he was perpetrating a joke—but I couldn’t see it—“Smith wants a room lower down, he says. I think we can accommodate him. Put him in the cellar!”

There was, in the basement, a dark apartment with an iron door—the same room in which crazy Thomas had been confined—and that was the “room lower down” assigned me on this melancholy occasion.

“Will you go?” said Kinsley, standing off at a respectful distance: “Or will it be necessary to call the guard?”

“It will be necessary to call the guard,” I replied, folding up my paper, arising and taking a hostile attitude.

“You might as well go with him quietly, Smith”—the Doctor began.

“No I won’t,” I interrupted. “Should I do so, it is not positively certain that he would get back in a sound condition, and you might lose a valuable servant, who is not scrupulous about turning his hand to any sort of work.”

“Call the guard,” said the Doctor.

The guard was called.

I was put in the cellar.

Only a few dim rays of light found their way into my dismal prison, and they came struggling through a small crevice in the double partition of thick pine boards that divided the “cell” from the knapsack-room. On this formidable partition I at once went to work, with extraordinary nonchalance, with a small six-bladed knife I had in my pocket. I think this course was much more laudable than that pursued by Mr. Thomas, when confined in the same apartment, with a knife for a companion.

I worked diligently, cutting off one thin shaving after another, till night came; by which time I had actually cut a hole in the thick partition through which I could easily thrust my arm.

Next morning, after a miserable fragment of repose on an old mattress, I arose early, and resumed my work. I had not been long at it when Sergeant Kinsley came down with some provisions for me, consisting of bread and water. I took the large tin cup of water from his hand, dashed it in his face, slammed the iron door to, braced it with one of my crutches, and went at my work again; while he, strangling, sputtering and swearing in wild rage, locked the door, and rushed up stairs.

Cutting, splintering and shaving, I worked away, and by noon, I had made an aperture in the wall through which one might have thrown a hat—that wasn’t too wide in the brim.

By and by, I heard some one coming down the steps, and a light from the door above shone down through the bars of the iron door. Some one unlocked it and entered. It was one of the guards—one who had been wounded in the service.

“I have brought you your dinner,” said he. “They only gave me some bread and water for you, but I stole a nice piece of boiled beef from the cook-house. Here it is.”

“Thank you,” I said, gladly accepting the repast. “What did Kinsley say?”

“O, he’s as mad as a hornet! He said you threw the water in his face.”

“So I did.”

“Served him right,” said the guard, laughing. “He’s an overbearing young puppy, who never heard a bullet whistle in his life. I knocked him down one day, and he has been civil towards me ever since. Not very comfortable down here, is it?”

“Not very.”

“Well, you’ll soon be out. I heard the Doctor say he would let you out this evening. He told me not to tell you, and I said I wouldn’t. I meant, I wouldn’t till I’d see you.”

I eat my dinner with a relish and, after he had gone, I worked away at my new window—merely for pastime. I did not make it much larger that afternoon, but I trimmed it up around the edges, and got it into some shape, thinking it might do to put a pane of glass into, some day.

That evening I was released, and informed by the Doctor that my name should go on the “Black List,” for the space of one week. The “black list” was a list of the names of those who, for misdemeanor, were denied passes for a certain time. And on this roll was the noble name of John Smith, to be placed for seven days! I thought the Doctor would relent by Monday morning, so I called on him at his office and said:

“Doctor, I should be most happy to visit the city to-day, and if you will have the kindness to favor me with——”

“No, no, Smith,” he interrupted, in a decided tone; “You can have no pass to-day.”

“But——”

“No use talking: you can have no pass to-day.”

I saw that he “meant it;” so I turned away for the time, and called again the next morning.

“Doctor,” said I, with a beaming smile, “there is a friend of mine in the city, whom I would like to see, and if——”

“You can have no pass to-day, Smith,” he interrupted: “nor till your week is up. We have discovered how you cut the partition-wall when you were in the cellar. What did you do that for?”

“To get out,” I replied.

“If I had known it,” said he, with some severity, “I would have kept you in three days longer!”

“Then I am glad you didn’t know it,” said I.

“At least,” he rejoined, “you can have no pass till your week is up. That will be on Saturday.”

I gave it up for that morning, but promptly returned and renewed my importunities on Wednesday morning. I was refused, as before, and peremptorily ordered not to solicit a pass again till Saturday. In accordance (?) with this order, I promptly returned on Thursday morning, and most earnestly requested the favor of a pass, stating that it was indispensable that I should visit the city that day. The Doctor refused again, and threatened to put me in the cellar again for three days, and place my name on the “Black List” for two weeks, if I should “bore” him for a pass again, sooner than Saturday.

Therefore, I concluded to go to the city anyhow. So I slipped out the back way, threw my crutches over the fence, climbed over after them, and, without being observed by the guard, made my way to the street-car that stood awaiting its starting-time, and got aboard of it: thus I clandestinely went into the city.

There, the first thing I did was to call on Doctor Levis, at his residence. He was controlling surgeon of Haddington Hospital, and I determined to make a “point.” I informed him that I had not been very well treated at the hospital, talked nice to him, used the best language of which I was master, introduced foreign words and phrases, made vague allusions to law and history, touched on chemistry, gave him to understand that the assistant surgeons at the hospital were the most tyrannical fiends in existence, and that I was the very paragon of all human excellence; and, finally, requested him to do me the slight favor of giving me a standing pass—that is, an order addressed to the assistant-surgeons at the hospital, commanding them to allow the bearer, John Smith, “who had friends in the city, with whom he might desire to stay a night now and then,”—to pass in and out of the hospital, day or night, for all time to come. This, Doctor Levis,—who, I must say, is a perfect gentleman, and was beloved by all the wounded soldiers under his charge—wrote, signed, and gave to me, without a word of objection; while I poured out the overflowings of my grateful heart in the most profuse thanks, and earnestly begged him, in case he should ever visit Western Pennsylvania, where I then resided, to call on me by all means, assuring him that he would be as welcome as a brother. The Doctor smiled, and, with renewed thanks, I put on my cap, picked up my crutches, saluted him a la militaire, bade him a cheerful “good morning,” and withdrew.