Читать книгу Trumps - George William Curtis - Страница 8

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It was already dusk, but the summer evening is the best time for play. The sport in the play-ground at Mr. Gray’s was at its height, and the hot, eager, panting boys were shouting and scampering in every direction, when a man ran in from the road and cried out, breathless,

“Where’s Mr. Gray?”

“In his study,” answered twenty voices at once. The man darted toward the house and went in; the next moment he reappeared with Mr. Gray, both of them running.

“Get out the boat!” cried Mr. Gray, “and call the big boys. There’s a man drowning in the pond!”

The game was over at once, and each young heart thrilled with vague horror. Abel Newt, Muddock, Blanding, Tom Gait, Jim Greenidge, and the rest of the older boys, came rushing out of the school-room, and ran toward the barn, in which the boat was kept upon a truck. In a moment the door was open, the truck run out, and all the boys took hold of the rope. Mr. Gray and the stranger led the way. The throng swept out of the gate, and as they hastened silently along, the axles of the truck kindled with the friction and began to smoke.

“Carefully! steadily!” cried the boys all together.

They slackened speed a little, but, happily, the pond was but a short distance from the school. It was a circular sheet of water, perhaps a mile in width.

“Boys, he is nearly on the other side,” said Mr. Gray, as the crowd reached the shore.

In an instant the boat was afloat. Mr. Gray, the stranger, and the six stoutest boys in the school, stepped into it. The boys lifted their oars. “Let fall! give way!” cried Mr. Gray, and the boat moved off, glimmering away into the darkness.

The younger boys remained hushed and awe-stricken upon the shore. The stars were just coming out, the wind had fallen, and the smooth, black pond lay silent at their feet. They could see the vague, dark outline of the opposite shore, but none of the pretty villas that stood in graceful groves upon the banks—none of the little lawns that sloped, with a feeling of human sympathy, to the water. The treachery of that glassy surface was all they thought of. They shuddered to remember that they had so often bathed in the pond, and recoiled as if they had been friends of a murderer. None of them spoke. They clustered closely together, listening intently. Nothing was audible but the hum of the evening insects and the regular muffled beat of the oars over the water. The boys strained their ears and held their breath as the sound suddenly stopped. But they listened in vain. The lazy tree-toads sang, the monotonous hum of the night went on.

Gabriel Bennet held the hand of Little Malacca—a dark-eyed boy, who was supposed in the school to have had no father or mother, and who had instinctively attached himself to Gabriel from the moment they met.

“Isn’t it dreadful?” whispered the latter.

“Yes,” said Gabriel, “it’s dreadful to be young when a man’s drowning, for you can’t do any thing. Hist!”

There was not a movement, as they heard a dull, distant sound.

“I guess that’s Jim Greenidge,” whispered Little Malacca, under his breath; “he’s the best diver.”

Nobody answered. The slow minutes passed. Some of the boys peered timidly into the dark, and clung closer to their neighbors.

“There they come!” said Gabriel suddenly, in a low voice, and in a few moments the beat of the oars was heard again. Still nobody spoke. Most of the boys were afraid that when the boat appeared they should see a dead body, and they dreaded it. Some felt homesick, and began to cry. The throb of oars came nearer and nearer. The boat glimmered out of the darkness, and almost at the same moment slid up the shore. The solemn undertone in which the rowers spoke told all. Death was in the boat.

Gabriel Bennet could see the rowers step quickly out, and with great care run the boat upon the truck. He said, “Come, boys!” and they all moved together and grasped the rope.

“Forward!” said Mr. Gray.

Something lay across the seats covered with a large cloak. The boys did not look behind, but they all knew what they were dragging. The homely funeral-car rolled slowly along under the stars. The crickets chirped; the multitudinous voice of the summer night murmured on every side, mingling with the hollow rumble of the truck. In a few moments the procession turned into the grounds, and the boat was drawn to the platform.

“The little boys may go,” said Mr. Gray.

They dropped the rope and turned away. They did not even try to see what was done with the body; but when Blanding came out of the house afterward, they asked him who found the drowned man.

“Jim Greenidge,” said he. “He stripped as soon as we were well out on the pond, and asked the stranger gentleman to show him about where his friend sank. The moment the place was pointed out he dove. The first time he found nothing. The second time he touched him”—the boys shuddered—“and he actually brought him up to the surface. But he was quite dead. Then we took him into the boat and covered him over. That’s all.”

There were no more games, there was no other talk, that evening. When the boys were going to bed, Gabriel asked Little Malacca in which room Jim Greenidge slept.

“He sleeps in Number Seven. Why?”

“Oh! I only wanted to know.”

Gabriel Bennet could not sleep. His mind was too busy with the events of the day. All night long he could think of nothing but the strong figure of Jim Greenidge erect in the summer night, then plunging silently into the black water. When it was fairly light he hurried on his clothes, and passing quietly along the hall, knocked at the door of Number Seven.

“Who’s there?” cried a voice within.

“It’s only me.”

“Who’s me?”

“Gabriel Bennet.”

“Come in, then.”

It was Abel Newt who spoke; and as Gabriel stepped in, Newt asked, abruptly,

“What do you want?”

“I want to speak to Jim Greenidge.”

“Well, there he is,” replied Newt, pointing to another bed. “Jim! Jim!”

Greenidge roused himself.

“What’s the matter?” said his cheery voice, as he rose upon his elbow and looked at Gabriel with his kind eyes. “Come here, Gabriel. What is it?”

Gabriel hesitated, for Abel Newt was looking sharply at him. But in a moment he went to Greenidge’s bedside, and said, shyly, in a low voice,

“Shall I black your boots for you?”

“Black my boots! Why, Gabriel, what on earth do you mean? No, of course you shall not.”

And the strong youth looked pleasantly on the boy who stood by his bedside, and then put out his hand to him.

“Can’t I brush your clothes then, or do any thing for you?” persisted Gabriel, softly.

“Certainly not. Why do you want to?” replied Greenidge.

“Oh! I only thought it would be pleasant if I could do something—that’s all,” said Gabriel, as he moved slowly away. “I’m sorry to have waked you.”

He closed the door gently as he went out. Jim Greenidge lay for some time resting upon his elbow, wondering why a boy who had scarcely ever spoken a word to him before should suddenly want to be his servant. He could make nothing of it, and, tired with the excitement of the previous evening, he lay down again for a morning nap.