Читать книгу A Blundering Boy - Bruce Weston Munro - Страница 10

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One bright morning Will mounted a frisky little pony which had been reared on the farm, and had always been considered Will’s own—not till Mr. Lawrence might see fit to sell it, but for all time. The pony was young and unaccustomed to a rider; but Will and his father thought it would be prudent to ride it on the road.

In this belief, however, they were mistaken, for the horse no sooner found himself on the open road than he set forward on a wild gallop. At first this was very pleasant, and Will enjoyed it heartily; but when he attempted to check the animal’s speed a little, he became aware that it was past his control.

“Whoa, Go It! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Will screamed beseechingly.

This only incited Go It to greater efforts, and he redoubled his speed; while Will collected his wits, stopped shouting at the refractory animal, and exerted all his strength and dexterity to maintain his equilibrium in the saddle. The mettlesome horse was soon galloping at a furious rate; and the luckless rider seeing no one to whom he could appeal for help, gave himself up as lost, and endeavored to prepare for the worst.

Very soon he drew near a company of little ragged orphan boys, squatting in the imperfect shade of a rail fence that boarded the road, gingerly sticking pins into their ears and assiduously polishing their war-worn jack-knives in the soil. These heroic little ones involuntarily dropped their instruments of torture and diversion, and beheld horseman and horse with ecstatic admiration and delight. Then they collected themselves and cheered—cheered so lustily that the horse snorted with fright, wheeled to the left, and vaulted over the fence at a single bound—a feat which called forth a roar of acclamation from the delighted juveniles.

“Can’t he jump!” chuckled the sharpest one.

“Jump?” echoed another. “Guess he can; beats a circus horse all hollow!”

“I wish he’d jump again,” sighed the smallest one.

“Ah,” exclaims the punctilious penman of romances which have lofty and sonorous titles, becoming solemnity, inflated and funereal style, and blood-freezing adventures—which, alas! too often end in smoke, or at most, in a marriage that any fool could have foreseen—“Ah, how can this paltry scribbler, this ‘we,’ discourse with this shameless levity, when his hero is face to face with death!”

Instead of evading the penman’s intended question, the following significant and sapient comments are offered for his leisurely consideration:

It is sheer nonsense for a writer to work himself up into a state of mad excitement about the “imminent dangers” that continually dog the foot-steps of his persecuted heroes. So long as the hero is of the surviving kind, he will survive every “imminent danger,” no matter how thick and fast such dangers may crowd upon him. No assassin was ever hired that could kill him for any great length of time; no vessel ever foundered that could effectively swallow him up; no bullet was ever run that could be prevailed on to extinguish the spark of his life.

After making such comments, for the reader’s peace of mind we deliberately affirm that every man, woman, and child figuring in this tale, is equally imperishable. Having made this candid remark, the reader cannot impute it to us if he spend a sleepless night while perusing this tale.

But it would be wiser to drop idle declamation for the present, and return to Will and his frisky pony.

When the horse so nimbly cleared the fence, Will’s feet were torn out of the stirrup, and he was thrown violently off the animal’s back. As he lay sprawling on the ground, he looked as little like a hero as can be imagined. As may be supposed, however, when he struggled to his feet he was as sound as ever. On casting a glance around him, he found himself in a field of ripe grain, through which the riderless pony was rushing madly.

Perhaps a good romancer, regardless of reason and effect, would have made the boy “heroically” stick to his horse through thick and thin. But a more careful romancer, like a good physician, would have an eye to the boy’s system and feelings, and not suffer him to be tortured any longer.

Will carefully rubbed the dirt off his clothes with the palm of his trembling right hand, while his eyes darted fierce glances at the gaping and grinning juveniles outside of the fence, and despairing glances at his horse within the field. This nice operation consumed three minutes, and might have consumed many more; but a man who was at hand flew to the rescue.

A blustering old harvester, the man who worked the field, saw the forlorn young cavalier standing dejectedly by the fence, and the frolicsome pony plunging through the ripe grain, and straightway fumed with awful indignation. His first proceeding was to catch and stop the pony, after which he turned his attention to Will. Will advanced a step or so to meet the puffing farmer and the quaking horse, and was about to mumble his thanks, when the farmer snappishly cut him short, crying hoarsely:

“You miserable scamp! How dare you jump into my fields like this? See, will you, what damage your beast has done!”

“But, sir,” said Will, “it is not my fault at all; it is an accident. The pony ran away with me, as you yourself can see.”

“Accident? What have I to do with your accidents? Don’t you know better than to ride runaway horses? Don’t you——”

“Course he don’t; don’t know beans;” yelled one of the little gamins, encouraged by the farmer’s bullying words to speak his mind. Or perhaps he thought to win favor with the farmer by reviling the hapless horseman.

“Course,” chimed in the one who lost and found the most jack-knives. “Course, what business did he want to git on to a runaway horse for anyway?”

“I wish I had a horse, too,” whined the most “ingenuous” one.

“Guess he ain’t—”

“Stop that!” thundered the farmer. “Stop that, and get away from this!”

The little coves snatched up their jack-knives, but did not stop to look for their pins, and darted off without a word. They ran a few yards and then squatted in the shade of another fence corner.

The incensed farmer, also, meekly followed by Will leading the horse, moved farther up the border of the field.

When they halted, Will a second time said it was all an accident.

“Accident or not, I’ll put the law on your track, I will you awful sneak! See here, how old are you!”

“I shall be fifteen in September,” said Will, with boyish eagerness to appear as old as possible.

“I didn’t ask how old you would be in the future, nor how young you were in the past,” snapped the furrow-faced chuff.

Will always kept a careful account of his age, and consequently was able to answer promptly: “My age, then, is fourteen years, ten months, and seven days.”

“Very good,” said the farmer. “Well, I am only calculating,” he added slowly and coolly, “whether you are old enough to be sent to jail.”

Doubtless, the hard-hearted wretch expected to see Will blanch at this implied threat. But, if so, he was wofully disappointed, Will having his own motives for maintaining his equanimity.

“You shall be punished, that is certain,” continued the farmer. “Come along, now; don’t stand there like a stationary scarecrow; come along.”

Even as the violent old fellow spoke, he made a movement to seize Will by the coat-collar. But this was more than human nature could bear; and with a nimbleness that defied capture, Will sprang back, stood his ground within nine feet of his persecutor, and began boldly:

“If you mean for me to leave this field, sir, I am quite willing to do it; but it is not necessary for you to be so rough with me. Because my horse jumped over the fence and trampled the grain a little, you needn’t treat me like a convict. You yourself have trampled nearly as much as my horse; and the whole put together doesn’t amount to much.”

“Stop there!” cried the farmer. “I was obliged to tramp the grain to catch your horse. I didn’t wait for you to do it,” insultingly.

“Yes, sir,” Will said humbly, “my head was bumped pretty hard. My father will settle your account, but if you would like to put me into prison, don’t let my youth interfere with that.”

Meanwhile, Will was leading his pony towards a gate in the fence, which he reached as he finished speaking.

The farmer, who followed close behind, said sharply, “You are a pretty fellow to use such language as all this to me; and it is only a waste of breath for you to speak at all. According to you, it was great bravery to jump my fences and rush through my oats; but the law will think otherwise, and as certainly as I live, you shall be clapped into prison, or else pay whatever sum I may choose to fine you. I swear it.”

“That is only what I can expect,” Will said resignedly.

“Oh, you think I am not in earnest, perhaps, but you will soon find that I mean exactly what I say. What’s your name?” he asked, abruptly and uneasily, as if struck with a sudden suspicion.

“William Lawrence.”

The questioner was literally stupified. A look of dismay overspread his grim visage, and he stared helplessly at Will, as if the boy had been metamorphosed into a devouring monster.

For a full minute the jurist was mute, and when he did speak, meekness had entirely taken the place of bravado. “You’ll excuse my little jest, won’t you, Mr. Lawrence? It is a shabby trick to joke so seriously, I know; but it was only an idle joke, and doesn’t signify anything. I was some vexed to see the horse racing through the grain, but only for an instant. How thankful we ought to be that you escaped unhurt! To be sure, it was rather venturesome for me to rush forward and stop the furious horse,” he said, guilefully, “but that is nothing compared with your gallantry in keeping your seat so heroically. In fact, Mr. Lawrence, I may say, without flattery, that you are a real hero, and that this agile little pony of yours is the most spirited that I ever saw. Indeed, he’s worth his weight in gold! Why, he vaulted over this fence like—like—like a bird!”

In spite of himself, Will, nearly laughed at this labored simile. But he was a strange boy, and enjoyed the faculty of suppressing his laughter till he pleased to discharge it. Then he would laugh so uproariously that whoever chanced to overhear him took him for a merry lunatic.

But there were other considerations why Will did not laugh at the suppliant joker. In his turn he was astonished, astonished at the reckless indifference with which the man could lie. But he was not to be cajoled so easily; boy though he was, such oratory made no impression on him, and he continued unmoved, even when deferentially addressed as “Mr. Lawrence.”

Seeing that Will made no reply, the depraved wretch pursued in the following strain: “I should like you not to mention this joke of mine, for already I have the name of being an incorrigible practical joker. Besides,” subtilely, “you would not like the boys to taunt you about this runaway.”

“Oh, I think I saw several boys looking at me as I flew along,” Will, replied carelessly, “and before this they must know all about the runaway. Very likely the little boys that moved up towards the village have spread the news, and perhaps they have told the beginning of your joke,” artlessly. “At any rate, I must tell my father of this capital joke, Mr. Jackson, for he likes nothing better than a good joke.”

The farmer now began to suspect that Will was nearly as shrewd as he himself; and seeing how useless it was to palm off his threats as a little joke, he abruptly took a different course, and said, with marked and significant emphasis, “See here, Mr. Lawrence, I do not wish to frighten you; but promise not to mention this, and I will let the matter drop.”

Will believed that he, also, could use emphasis, and said, with what he meant to be great significance: “You have not frightened me, Mr. Jackson, because I knew you as soon as you came up to me. It isn’t worth while for me to promise anything, for there is my father climbing the fence up near the little boys, and they’re speaking to him. This way, pa,” the poor boy shouted, with exultant and heartfelt thankfulness.

Mr. Jackson looked hopelessly in the direction pointed out by Will, and muttered doggedly, “Baffled by a boy! He didn’t believe in that kind of a joke, eh! Yes, that’s where I overshot the mark.”

How it was that Mr. Lawrence so seasonably hove in sight will be explained further on. The writer, in common with all staunch romancers, bears a rooted and virulent hatred to villains, and wishes to dismiss this one as soon as possible, though he (this villain) is to appear again in the next chapter.

Mr. Jackson blanched when Will gave his name, but now he grew black, and seemed to be overwhelmed with consternation. He felt too cowardly even to run away.

Mr. Lawrence soon joined them, and his first question was, “Will, are you hurt?”

“Only a very little, pa,” said Will.

“How thankful I am for that!” Mr. Lawrence exclaimed fervently. “You must have had a narrow escape, however.”

“A very narrow escape,” Mr. Jackson echoed tremulously.

Mr. Lawrence, assured of his son’s safety, now directed his attention to the farmer. “Well, Mr. Jackson,” he said suddenly, “what seems to be the matter?”

This blunt question so unsettled the practical joker’s mind that he faltered, and at last said, with much emotion: “Matter, Mr. Lawrence?—Why, it, it was—you see—I mean, he came—that is, the horse—the horse—the horse, the horse, the horse, the horse——”

Seeing that the embarrassed man was likely to continue repeating these two words till delirium set in, or till his tongue whizzed equal to the fly-wheel of a powerful steam-engine, Will cut him short by saying, with pardonable spite: “Pa, he’s trying to tell you that he wants pay for the damage that Go It did.”

To many persons this might have been unintelligible, but not so to Mr. Lawrence. Gathering a hint from the little boys’ gibberish, at a single glance he had taken in all that had happened, and knowing the violence of Jackson’s temper, he could guess at what had passed between him and Will.

“Let us have a settlement, Mr. Jackson,” he said.

The farmer seemed to have lost his wits; he could not carry it high, as he had done with Will. Mistaking the tone in which Mr. Lawrence spoke, and impelled by a guilty conscience, he dropped on his knees and said pleadingly, “Oh, don’t turn us all out; don’t turn us all out! Don’t sue me; I’ll—I’ll pay all the rent!”

Further comment is needless; the reader will now readily understand why Mr. Jackson’s roughness gave place to humbleness and wheedling when he heard Will’s name, and why he so dreaded an interview with Mr. Lawrence.

The latter gentleman spoke kindly to the supplicant. “Come, come, Jackson,” he said, “don’t behave like that. In this free country you shouldn’t play the spaniel to any man. I promise that I will not bring an action yet; I will grant you one more chance. But come to the house to-morrow, and we can talk over the matter at leisure. Don’t explain; I see just what has happened to my headlong boy: but so long as he is not hurt, I am satisfied. As you hardly know him, I can, from your looks and his, figure the scene you have had. Now, I don’t like him to be abused by—but no; never mind that; it can be pocketed. As for the actual damage done, I think you will admit that ten dollars will settle your claims, and I am going to pay it to you.”

Mr. Jackson gathered himself up, looking crestfallen and foolish, and was so penetrated with gratitude that he refused the money, till forced to receive it. According to Mr. Lawrence’s notions the man would now be induced to make strenuous exertions to pay all that he owed.

Father, son, and pony, now started for home. Having made their way out of the gate into the road, Will found the forlorn little gamins, hungering for even a glimpse of the frolicsome leaper, still lingering in their second position. Poor little fellows, they had not ventured even to climb the fence. They knew Mr. Jackson—and Mr. Jackson knew them. They cast reverent glances at Go It, but they beheld Will as one might behold a traveller returned in safety from a voyage to the planets.

“I’ll bet he ketched it!” muttered a light-legged member of the group, with a chuckle that disclosed he spoke from bitter experience. “Won’t the rest of ’em wish they’d seen this show!”

The horse Mr. Lawrence had ridden was tied near these urchins. Both mounted him, and then, leading the runaway and headstrong horse, the picturesque cavalcade set off.

“Pa,” said Will, “I’m sorry this happened, and that you had to pay out that money.”

“No, Will: say nothing about that. I blame myself for letting you mount the half-broken nag; I should have had more prudence. But tell me how it all was, and just what Jackson said to you.”

Will did so; and in the recital he waxed so eloquent that the rogue was set forth in his true colors, and appeared so frightful a monster that Will himself shivered with horror.

Mr. Lawrence groaned, but, with great presence of mind, said instantly: “Don’t shake so, Will, or you will lose your balance. Oh, if I had known this sooner, I should have done differently! But it is too late now to punish the unprincipled wretch.”

The reader, perhaps, is curious to know how it was that Mr. Lawrence arrived so opportunely. When too late to call him back, he saw that Will was utterly unable to manage the pony. Not stopping to answer any questions, he hastened to the stable, threw himself on the fastest horse, and gave chase. Will, of course, was far in advance, but Mr. Lawrence easily ran him down, and found him in Jackson’s field, as related.

Mr. Jackson made his appearance at the time appointed; and although he brought only a part of the rent due, his deportment was so humble and respectful; his promises were so fair and encouraging; and his apologies were so ingenious, yet in reality so hollow and ridiculous, that Mr. Lawrence’s indignation was softened; and the wretch was heard and dismissed with a mock and stiff politeness that galled him.

Mr. Lawrence was very forbearing with such of his tenants as were hard pressed; but this man’s threats to Will had provoked him extremely, and now, as he brooded over his wrongs, he determined, as soon as the change could be effected, to lease the farm to a more honorable man.

When a romancer reaches the colophon of his book, he is the most virtuous of men, the most impartial of judges, parcelling out reward and judgment with superhuman justice. Now, according to the laws of romance, Mr. Jackson, in cutting that field of oats, ought to be thrown from his reaping machine, and so cruelly mangled that his most implacable foe would melt into tears of anguish.

But, alas! it cannot be, as unkind fate compels us to bring him once more before the reader.