PS CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT rUND GIVEN IN 1 89 1 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE __ Cornell University Library PS 1025.S8 1895 The story of a bad bov 3 1924 022 046 944 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022046944 ^SoofeB ip eCbomaai ^ailep aiUtitfe. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. Illustrated, jamo, $1.25. The Same. Holiday Edition. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, gilt top, ;j2.oo. MARJORIE DAW AND OTHER PEOPLE. With frontis- piece. i2mo, ^1.50. MARJORIE DAW, AND OTHER STORIES. In " River- side Aldine Series." i6mo, ;? i.oo. PRUDENCE PALFREY. With frontispiece. i2mo, Jii.50; paper, 50 cents. THE QUEEN OF SHEBa! i2mo, $1.50; paper, 50 cents. THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. i2rao, ^1.50; paper, 50 cents. TWO BITES ATACHERRY, and otherTales. i6mo,$i.25. AN OLD TOWN BY THE SEA. 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Illustrated with silhouettes. i2mo, boards, $i.oo. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, Boston and New York. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE STORY OF A BAD BOY FOETT THIRD EDITION BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY (SCJe miaetmbe }^M (lamfittoBe 1895 I\^ n^/f COPTEIGHT, 1869 AND 1877, By THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. Jhe Riverside PresSj Cambndge^ Mass., U S»A. Printed by H. 0. Houghton & company. CONTENTS. — « — Chapter Pagb I. In which I INTRODUCE Mtself . ... 7 II. In which I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR ViEWS ... 11 III. On BOARD THE TYPHOON ....... 18 IV. RiVERMOUTH . 28 V. The Nutter House and the Nutter Family . . 40 VI. Lights and Shadows . 52 ->i>yil. One Memorable Night ....... 72 VIII. The Adventures of a Fourth 85 IX. I become an R. M. C 98 X. I fight Conway 107 XI. All about Gypsy ........ 118 XII. Winter at Rivekmodth 127 XIII. The Snow Fort on Slatter's Hill .... 134 XIV. The Cruise of the Dolphin ... .145 XV. An Old Acquaintance turns up . . 165 XVI. In which Sailor Ben spins a Yarn .... 179 IV CONTENTS. XVII. How WE ASTONISHED THE ElVEEMOUTHIAKS . . 192 XVIII. A FkOG he WOULD A-WOOIKG GO ... . 210 XIX. I BECOME A Blighted Being . , , . 226 XX. In which I prove myself to be the Grandson of MY Grandfather . ... 233 XXI. In which I leave Riveemouth .... 251 XXII. Exeunt Omnes . . , , 257 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. The Snow Fort on Slattek's Hill . . Frontispiece Little Black Sam ........ Poge 12 Sailor Ben ,.,... 25 A Friendly Offek ......... 30 The Nutter House ....,..., 42 I perform my Great Feat 65 The Burning of the old Stage-Coaoh 80 Sold ! 95 The Centipedes .......... 101 Prince Zany takes a Ride ....... 123 Tom Bailey's Composition ... .... 125 Plan of Fort Slatter . , ,. 138 Drifting Away . . . , 165 The Eecognition ......... 176 Sailor Ben and the Land-Shark 183 The Old Sogers 206 A Cherub . 230 Pepper Whitcomb remonstrates . . .... 231 Singular Conduct of Sailor Ben 241 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTEE I. IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF. HIS is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a pretty bad boy ; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy my- self Lest the title should mis- lead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly to distin- guish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who generally figure in nar- ratives of this kind, and partly because I really was ~ not a cherub. I may truth- fully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and no hypocrite. I 8 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. did n't want to oe an angel and with the angels stand; I did n't think the missionary tracts pre- sented to me by the Eev. Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Eobinson Crusoe ; and I did n't send my httle pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Isl- ands, but spent it royally in peppermiat-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in JSTew England, and no more Tike the impossible boy ia a story-book than a sound orange is like one that has been sucked dry. But ^et us begin at the beginning. Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him at recess with the following words-: " My name 's Tom Bailey ; what 's your name ? " If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil cordially ; but if it did n't, I would turn on my heel, for I was particular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly affronts to my ear ; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were passwords to my confidence and esteem. Ah me ! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this time, • — lawyers, merchants, sea- captains, soldiers, authors, what not ? Phil Adams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shang- hai, where I picture him to myself with his head closely shaved, — he never had too much hair, — and B long pigtail hanging 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 IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF. 9 over their diminutive cups of tea in a sky-blue towei hung with bells. It is so I think of him ; to me he is henceforth a jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is a judge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that remarkable nose which, in former days, was so plenti- fully sprinkled with freckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to think of little Pep- per Whitcomb being a judge ! What -ft^ould he do to me now, I wonder, if I were to sing out " Pepper ! " some day in court ? Fred Langdon is in California, in the native-wine business, — he used to make the best licorice-water / ever tasted ! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South BurjT-ng-G-round ; and Jack Harris, too, is dead,- — -Harris, who commanded us boys, of old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slat- ter's Hill. Was it yesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join the shattered Army of the Potomac ? Not yesterday, but six years ago. It was at the battle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew rein until he had dashed into the Eebel battery ! So they found him, — lying across the enemy's guns. How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died ! I wonder what has become of aU the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School at Eiver- mouth when I was a youngster ? " All, all are gone, the old familiar faces I " It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, 1* 10 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. for a moment, from that Past whicli has closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they live again in my memory ! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere even Conway, mine ancient foe, stands forth transfigured, with a sort of dreamy glory encir- cling his bright red hair ! With the old school formula I commence these sketches of my boyhood. My name is Tom Bailey ; what is yours, gentle reader ? I take for granted it is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get on famously together, and be capital friends for- ever. In which I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS. 11 CHAPTEE II, IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS. WAS born at Eivermouth, but, before I had a chance to become very well ac- quainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to New Orleans, where my father invested his money so se- curely in the banking busi- ness that he was never able to get any of it out again. But of this hereafter. I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it did n't make much difference to me where I was, because I was so small; but several years later, when my father proposed to take me North to be educated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kicked over the little negro boy who happened to be stand- ing by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot 12 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. violently on the floor of the piazza, declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees ! LITTLE BLACK SAM. You see I was what is called "a Northern man with Southern principles." I had no recollection of New England : my earliest memories were connected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old negro nurse, 0nd with the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house, — a whitewashed stone house it was, with wide verandas, — shut out from the IN WHICH I BNTEETAIlSr PEOULIAE VIEWS. 13 street by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was born at tbe ISTorth, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon the misfortune as something so shrouded by time and distance that maybe nobody remembered it. I never told my school- mates I was a Yankee, because they talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or at least in one of the Border States. And this im- pression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe, who said, " dar was n't no gentl'men in the Norf no way," and on one occasion terrified me beyond measure by de- claring that, " if any of dem mean whites tried to git her away from marster, she was jes' gwine to knock 'em on de head wid a gourd ! " The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air with which she struck at an imaginary "mean white," are among the most vivid things in my memory of those days. To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as that entertained by the well-educated Englishmen of the present day concerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into two classes, — Indians and white people ; that the Indians occasionally dashed down on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preference to chil- dren) whom they caught lingering in the outskirts after nightfall ; that the white men were either hunt- ers or schoolmasters, and that it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing style of architecture I took to be log -cabins. 14 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. With this delightful picture of Northern civiliza- tion in my eye, the reader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of being transported to Eivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking over little black Sam, and otherwise mis- conducting myself, when my father announced his determination to me. As for kicking Little Sam, — I always did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me. My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violent outbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw written in every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked him- self up, my father took my hand in his and led me thoiightfuUy to the library. I can see him now as he leaned back in the bam- boo chair and questioned me. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of my objections to going Xorth, and proceeded at once to knock down all my pine-log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I had populated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States. " Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such sUly 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 with beads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his enemies ? " "Well, sir, I did n't think that exactly." IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS. 15 " Did n't think that exactly ? Tom, you will he the death of me." He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemed to have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I did not clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel so badly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible that Grandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior. My father devoted that evening and several subse- quent evenings to giving me a clear and succinct ac- count of New England ; its early struggles, its pro- gress, and its present condition, — faint and confused glimmerings of aU which I had obtained at school, where history had never been a favorite pursuit of mine. I was no longer unwilling to go North ; on the contrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promised myself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely at rest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go on board the ship — the journey was to be made by sea — with a certain little brass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with the tribes when we landed at Boston. I could n't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previously the Cherokees — or was it the Camanches ? — had been removed from their hunting-grounds in Arkansas ; and in the wilds of i6 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. the Southwest the red men were still a source of ter- ror to the border settlers. "Trouble with the In- dians " was the staple news from Florida published in the New Orleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attacked and murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done in Florida, why not in Massachusetts ? Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Eivermouth a fort- night previous to the date set for our own departure,— for both my parents were to accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of 'bed one night in a dream), and my father's promise that he and my mother would come to Eivermouth every other sum- mer, completely resigned me to the situation. The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy ; so I always called her — she was a lady pony — Gypsy. At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the orange-trees, to say good by to little black Sam (I am convinced he was heartily 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, and then buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mounted that morning in honor of oiir departure. I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are roUiag down Aunt Chloe's cheeks; IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS. l'^ Sam's six front teeth are glistening like pearls ; I wave my hand to him manfully, then I call out " good by " in a muffled voice to Aunt Chloe ; they and the old home fade away. 1 am never to see them again ! m THE STOBY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTEE III. ON BOAED THE TYPHOON. DO not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the first few hours at sea I was dreadfully un- well. The name of our ship was the " A No. 1, fast-sail- ing packet Typhoon." I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the news- paper advertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that is why we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the ship he owned, and finally con- cluded it must be the hind quarter, — the cabin, in which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in the roof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in. There was a good deal of confusion on deck while ON BOARD THE TYPHOON. 19 we were getting under way. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay any attention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the face that he reminded me of a scooped-out pump- kin with a lighted candle inside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightest regard for their feelings. They did n't mind it a bit, however, but went on singing, — " Heave ho ! With the rum below, And hurrah for the Spanish Main ! " I will not be positive about " the Spanish Main," but it was hurrah for something 0. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed they were. One weather-beaten tar in particiilar struck my fancy, — a thick-set, jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and a fringe of gray hair circling his head like a cro'wn. As he took off his tarpaulin 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, a heartiness that seemed to ex- tend to his loosely knotted neckerchief But what completely won my good-will was a picture of envi- able loveliness painted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of a fish. Her flow- ing hair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb in one hand. I never saw anjiihing so beautiful. I determined to know that man. I think I would have 20 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. given my brass pistol to have had such a picture painted on my arm. While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat wheezy steam-tug, with the word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddle-box, came puffing up alongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously small and conceited, compared with our stately ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. In a few minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort and a shriek, and commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf) with the greatest ease. I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten times larger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found the chubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the Mississippi Eiver. In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, and away we flew like a great winged bird. Only it did n't seem as if we were mov- ing. The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging of the ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding away from us. It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this. Before long there was nothing to be seen on either side but stretches of low swarnpy land, covered with stunted cypress-trees, from which drooped delicate streamers of Spanish moss, — a fine place for alligators and congo snakes. Here and there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there a snag Lifted its nose out of the water Like a shark. ON BOARD THE TYPHOON. 21 " This is your last chance to see the city, Tom," said my father, as we swept round a bend of the river. I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of something in the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon which the sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old Aunt Chloe's thimble. What do I remember next ? the gray sky and the fretful blue waters of the Gulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone panting away with a derisive scream, as much as to say, " I 've done my duty, now look 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 only to children; but now the dew began falling, and we went below to have supper. The fresh frilit and milk, and the slices of cold chicken, looked very nice; yet somehow I had no appetite. There was a general smell of tar about everything. Then the ship gave sudden lurches that made it a matter of uncertainty whether one was going to put his fork to his mouth or into his eye. The tumblers and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over the table, kept clinking and clinking ; and the cabin lamp, suspended by four gUt chains from the ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Now th^ floor seemed to 22 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. rise, and now it seemed to sink under one's feet like a feather-bed. There were not more than a dozen passengers on board, including ourselves ; and all of these, except^ ing a bald-headed old gentleman, — a retired sea-cap^ tain, — disappeared into their state-rooms at an early hour of the evening. After supper was cleared away, my father and the elderly gentleman, whose name was Captain Truck, played at checkers ; and I amused myself for a while by watching the trouble they had in keeping the men in the proper places. Just at the most exciting point of the game, the ship would careen, and down would go the white checkers pell-mell among the black. 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, if the confounded old chicken-coop — that 's what he called the ship — had n't lurched. "I — I think I will go to bed now, please," I said, laying my hand on my father's knee, and feeling .ex- ceedingly queer. It was high time, for the Typhoon was plunging about in the most alarming fashion. I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, where I felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were placed on a nar- row shelf at my feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know that my pistol was so handy, for I made no doubt we should fall in with Pirates before many hours. This is the last thing I remember with any ON BOAED THE TYPHOON. 23 distinctness. At midnight, as I was afterwards told, we were struck by a gale which never left us until we came iu sight of the Massachusetts coast. 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 did n't like it, was about all I knew. I have, indeed, a vague im- pression that my father used to climb up to the berth and caU me his " Ancient Mariner," bidding me cheer up. But the Ancient Mariuer was far from cheeriug ap, if I recollect rightly; and I don't believe that venerable navigator would have cared much if it had been announced to him, through a speaking-trumpet, that " a low, black, suspicious craft, with raking masts, was rapidly bearing down upon us ! " In fact, one morning, I thought that such was the tfase, for bang ! went the big cannon I had noticed m the bow of the ship ■ when we came on board, and which had suggested to me the idea of pirates. Bang ! went the gun again in a few seconds. I made a feeble effort to get at my trousers-pocket ! But the Typhoon was only saluting Cape Cod, — the first land sighted by vessels approaching the coast from a south- erly direction. The vessel had ceased to roll, and my sea-sickness passed away as rapidly as it came. I was all right now, "only a little shaky in my timbers and a little blue about the gills," as Captain Truck remarked to my mother, who, like myself, had been confined to the state-room during the passage. 24 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. At Cape Cod the wind parted company witli us without sayiQg as much as " Excuse me " ; so we were nearly two days in making the run which in favor- able weather is usually accomplished in seven hours. That 's what the pilot said. I was able to go about the ship now, and I lost no time in cultivating the 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 the vessel. He was an agreeable saHor, as I had expected, and we became the best of friends In five minutes. He had been all over the world two or three times, and knew no end of stories. According to his own account, he must have been shipwrecked at least twice a year ei^er since his birth. He had served under Decatur when that gallant of&cer peppered the Algerines and made them promise not to sell their prisoners of war into slavery ; he had worked a gun at the bombardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican War, and he had been on Alexander Selkirk's Island more than once. There were very few things he had n't done in a seafaring way. " I suppose, sir," I remarked, " that your name is n't Typhoon ? " " Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name 's Benjamin Watson, of Nantucket. But I 'm a true blue Ty- phooner," he added, which increased my respect foi him; I don't know why, and I did n't know then whether Typhoon was the name of a vegetable or a profession. ON BOARD THE TYPHOON. 25 Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I dis- closed to him that my name was Tom Bailey, upon which he said he was very glad to hear it. fVT-" '■ 'y\i^ ^-:' ''^'«.-.; Hill. ml i"i) SAILOR BEN. When we got more intimate, I discovered that Sai- lor i^en, as he wished me to call him, was a perfect walking picture-book. He had two anchors, a star, and a frigate in if^uU sail on his right arm ; a pair of 2 26 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. lovely blue hands clasped on his breast, and I 've no doubt that other parts of his body were illustrated in the same agreeable manner. I imagine he was fond of drawings, and took this means of gratifying his artistic taste. It was certainly very ingenious and convenient. A portfolio might be misplaced, or dropped overboard ; but Sailor Ben had his pictures wherever he went, just as that eminent person in the poem " With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes " — was accompanied by music on all occasions. The two hands on his breast, he informed me, were a tribute to the memory of a dead messmate from whom he had parted years ago, — and surely a more touching tribute was never engraved on a tombstone. This caused me to think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I told him I should take it as a great favor indeed if he would paint a pink hand and a black hand on my chest. He said the colors were pricked into the skin with needles, and that the operation was somewhat painful. I assured him, in an off-hand manner, that I did n't mind pain, and begged him to set to work at once. The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of his skiU, took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complying with my request, when my father happened to look down the gangway, — a circumstance that rather interfered vsdth the [leoorative art. ON BOAKD THE TYPHOON. 27 I did n't liave another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben, for the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupola of the Boston State House. 28 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTEE lY. KIVERMOUTH. T was a beautiful May morning wlien the Ty- phoon hanled up at Long Wharf. Whether the In- dians were not early risers, or whether they were away just then on a war-path, I could n't determine ; but P they did not appear in any great force,- — in fact, did not appear at aU. In the remarkable geog- raphy which I never hurt myself with studying at New Orleans, was a pic- ture representing the land- ing of the Pilgrim Fathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in rather odd hats and coats, are seen approaching the savages ; the savages, in no coats or hats to speak of, are evidently undecided whether to shake hands with the Pilgrim Fathers or to make ..one grand rush and scalp the EIVERMOUTH. 29 entire party. Now this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that, in spite of all my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting from the ahorigines. Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expectations unfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often used to wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers. "While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I mounted on the roof of the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. As we came up the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled together on an immense hiU, at the top of which was a large building, the State House, towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen surround- ed by her brood of many-colored chickens. A closer inspection did not impress me very favorably. The city was not nearly so imposing as New Orleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of a crescent, along the banks of the majestic river. I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above one another in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not propose to remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the rail in this mood, a measly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come down on the wharf he 'd Lick me for two cents, — not an exorbitant price. But. I did n't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, as I was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated him that he stood on his head on a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself. 30 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. A FRIENDLY OFFER. The first train for Riyermoutli left at noon. After a late breakfast on board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, and ourselves stowed away in a coach, which must have turned at least one hundred corners before it set us down at the railway station. IlIVEEMOUTH. 31 In less time than it takes to tell it, we were shoot- ing across the country at a fearful rate, — now clatter- ing over a bridge, now screaming through a tunnel ; here we cut a flourishing village in two, like a linife, and here we dived into the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimes we glided along the edge of the ocean, and could see the sails of ships twinkling Kke bits of silver against the horizon ; sometimes we dashed across rocky pasture-lands where stupid-eyed cattle were loaiing. It was fun to scare the lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups under the newly budded trees near the raiboad track. We did not pause at any of the little brown sta- tions on the route (they looked just like overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at every one of them a man popped out as if he were worked by machinery, and waved a red flag, and appeared as though he would like to have us stop. But we were an express train, and made no stoppages, excepting once or twice to give the 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 Eivermouth, ^and yet, oddly enough, I remember as if it were yesterday, that, as we passed slowly through the village of Hampton, we saw two boys fighting behind a red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog, who looked as if he had commenced to unravel, barking himself aU up into a knot with excitement We had only a hurried glimpse of tlie battle, — long enough, however, to see that the combatants were 32 THE STOKY OF A BAD BOY. equally matched and very much in earnest. I am ashamed to say how many times since I have spec- ulated as 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 are married, and have pugnacious urchins of their own ; yet to this day I sometimes find myself wondering how that fight turned out. "We had been riding perhaps two hours and a half, when we shot by a tall factory with a chimney resem- bling a church-steeple ; then the locomotive gave a scream, the engineer rang his bell, and we plunged into the twilight 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, " Pas- sengers for Eivermouth !" At last we had reached our journey's end. On the platform my father shook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was very serene and rosy. He had on a white hat and a long swallow-taUed coat, the collar of which came clear up above his ears. He did n't look unlike a Pilgrun Father. This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whose house I was bom. My mother kissed him a great many times ; and I was glad to see him myself, though I naturally did not feel very intimate with a person whom I had not seen since I was eighteen months old. While we were getting into the double-seated wag- on which Grandfather Nutter had provided, I took RIVEEMOUTH. 33 the opportunity of asking after the health of the pony. The pony had arrived all right ten days be- fore, and was in the stable at home, quite anxious to see me. As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Pdvermouth the prettiest place in the world ; and I think so still. The streets are long and wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches, interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful enough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many of the houses have small flower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and are substantially biiilt, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves. A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea. The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up to the wharves and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famous seaport. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade ; and in 1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateers were fitted out at Eiver- mouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of the en- emy. Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously rich. A great many of " the first families " of to-day do not care to trace their pedigree back to the time when their grandsires owned shares in the Matilda Jane, twenty-four guns. Well, well ! Few ships come to Eivermouth now. Commerce drifted into other ports. The phantom fleet sailed 34 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. off one day, and never came back again. The crazy old warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eel- grass cling to the piles of the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy odor that haunts the place, — the ghost of the old dead West India trade ! During our ride from the station, I was struck, of course, only by the general neatness of the houses and the beauty of the elm-trees lining the streets. I describe Eivermouth now as I came to know it afterwards. Eivermouth is a very ancient town. In my day there existed a tradition among the boys that it was here Christopher Columbus made his first landing on this continent. I remember having the exact spot pointed out to me by Pepper Whitcomb ! One thing is certain. Captain John Smith, who afterwards, ac- cording to the legend, married Pocahontas, — whereby he got Powhatan for a father-in-law, — explored the river in 1614, and was much charmed by the beauty of Eivermouth, which at that time was covered with wild strawberry-vines. Eivermouth figures prominently in all the colonial histories. Every other house in the place has its tradition more or less grim and entertaining. If ghosts could flourish anywhere, there are certain streets in Eivermouth that would be full of them. I don't know of a town with so many old houses. Let us linger, for a moment, in front of the one which the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point out to the curious stranger. KIVEEMOUTH. 35 It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel roof and deep-set window-frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavy carvings, — oak-leaves and acorns, and angels' heads with wings spread- ing from the ears, oddly jumbled together ; but these ornaments and other outward signs of grandeur have long since disappeared. A peculiar interest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, for it has not been standing quite a century; nor on ac- count of its architecture, which is not striking, — but because of the illustrious men who at various periods have occupied its spacious chambers. In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the left side of the entrance stood a high post, from which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. The land- lord was a stanch loyalist, — that is to say, he be- lieved in the king, and when the overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the British yoke, tlie ad- herents to the Crown held private meetings in one of the back rooms of the tavern. This irritated tlie rebels, as they were called ; and one night they made an attack on the Earlof Halifax, tore down the sign- board, broke in the window-sashes, and gave the landlord hardly time to make himself invisible over a fence in the rear. For several months the shattered tavern remained deserted. At last the exiled innkeeper, on promising to do better, was allowed to return ; a new sign, bear- ing the name of William Pitt, the friend of America, swung proudly from the door-post, and the patriots 36 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. were appeased. Here it was that the mail-coach from Boston twice a week, for many a year, set down its load of travellers and gossip. For some of the details in this sketch, I am indebted to a recently published chronicle of those times. It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the har- bor of Eivermouth, and eight of the principal offi- cers, in white uniforms trimmed with gold lace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of the WiUiam Pitt. Who is this young and handsome ofiicer now entering the door of the tavern ? It is no less a per- sonage than the Marquis Lafayette, who has come aU the way from Providence to visit the French gentle- men boarding there. What a gaUant-looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and coal-black hair ! Forty years later he visited the spot again ; his locks were gray and his step was feeble, but his heart held its young love for Liberty. Who is this finely dressed traveller alighting from his coach-and-foui, attended by servants in livery ? Do you know that sounding name, written in big valorous letters on the Declaration of Independence, — written as if by the hand of a giant ? Can you not see it now ? ■ — John Hancock. This is he. . Three young men, with their valet, are standing on the door-step of the William Pitt, bowing politely, and inquiring in the most courteous terms in the world if they can be accommodated. It is the time of the French Eevolution, and these are three sons of the Duke of Orleans, — Louis Philippe and hia EI-VEEMOUTH. 37 two brothers. Louis Philippe never forgot his visit to Eivermouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne of France, he asked an Ameri- can lady, who chanced to be at his court, if the pleas- ant old mansion were still standing. But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honored this roof Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President of the United States, to pay his final complimentary visit to the State dignitaries. The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and the dining-hall where he entertained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctity which even the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy. During the period of my reign at Eivermouth, an ancient lady. Dame Jocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notable building. She was a dashing young belle at the time of Washing- ton's first visit to the town, and must have been ex- ceedingly coquettish and pretty, judging from a cer- tain portrait on ivory still in the possession of the family. According to Dame Jocelyn, George Wash- ington flirted with her just a little bit, — in what a stately and highly finished manner can be imagined. There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame hanging over the mantel-piece in this room. The glass was cracked and the quicksilver rubbed off or discolored in many places. When it reflected your face you had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself It gave your features the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine. 38 THE STOKY OF A BAD BOY. But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of en- chantment to me was a faded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the top of the tarnished gilt mouldings. This feather Washington took from the plume of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to the worshipful Mis- tress Jocelyn the day he left Eivermouth forever. I wish I could describe the mincing genteel air, and the ill-concealed self-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident. Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase to that dingy room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to sit on a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn's stories of the olden time. How she would prattle ! She was bedridden, — poor creature ! — and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years. Mean- while the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The changes that had taken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning old gen- tlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neg- lected to take away with the rest of its odd traps. She had no patience with new-fangled notions. The old ways and the old times were good enough for her. She had never seen a steam-engine, though she had heard "the dratted thing" screech in the distance. In her day, when gentlefolk travelled, they went in their own coaches. She did n't see how respectable people could bring themselves down to " riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail and Lord-knows-who." EiyEEMOUTH. 39 Poor old aristocrat ! the landlord charged her no rent for the room, and the neighbors took turns in supply- ing her with meals. Towards the close of her life, — she lived to be ninety-nine, — she grew very fret- ful and capricious about her food. If she did nt chance to fancy what was sent her, she had no hesi- tation in sending it back to the giver with " Miss Jocelyn's respectful compliments." But I have been gossiping too long, — and yet not too long if I have impressed upon the reader an idea of what a rusty, delightful old town it was to which I had come to spend the next three or four years of my boyhood. A drive of twenty minutes from the station brought us to the door-step of Grandfather Nutter's house. What kind of house it was, and what sort of people lived in it, shall be told in another chapter. 40 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTEE V. THE NUTTEE HOUSE AND THE NUTTEE FAMILY. HE Nutter House, — all the more prominent dwellings in Eivermouth are named after somebody; for in- stance, there is the Wal- ford House, the Venner House, the Trefethen House, etc., though it by no means follows that they are inhabited by the people whose names they bear, — the Nutter House, to re- sume, has been ia our fam- ily nearly a hundred years, and is an honor to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I believe), supposing durability to be a merit. If our ancestor was a car- penter, he knew his trade. I wish I knew mine as well. Such timber and such workmanship don't often come together in houses built nowadays. Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide hall THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTEE FAMILY". 41 running tkrough the middle. At your right hand, as you enter, stands a taU black mahogany clock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up on end. On each side of the haU are doors (whose knobs, it must be confessed, do not turn very easily), opening into large rooms wainscoted and rich in wood-carv- tugs about the mantel-pieces and cornices. The walls are covered with pictured paper, representing land- scapes and sea-views. In the parlor, for example, this enlivening figure is repeated aU over the room : — A group of English peasants, wearing Itahan hats, are dancing on a lawn that abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, upon which stands a flabby fisher- man (nationality unknown), quietly hauling in what appears to be a small whale, and totally regardless of the dreadful naval combat going on just beyond the end of his fishing-rod. On the^ other side of the ships is the main-land again, with the same peasants dancing. Our 'ancestors were very worthy people, but their wall-papers were abominable. There are neither grates nor stoves in these quaint chambers, but splendid open chimney-places, with room enough for the corpulent back-log to tiirn over comfortably on the polished andirons. A wide stair- case leads from the haU to the second story, which is arranged much like the first. Over this is the garret. I need n't teH a New England boy what a museum of curiosities is the garret of a well-regulated ISTew England house of fifty or sixty years' standing. Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrange- 42 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. ment, all the broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy hats, all the in- toxicated-looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that have retired from business, " weary with the march of life." The pots, the pans, the trunks, the bottles, — who may hope to make an inventory of the numberless odds and ends collected in this bewilder- ing lumber-room ? But what a place it is to sit of an afternoon with the rain pattering on the roof ! what a place- in which to read G-ulliver's Travels, or the famous adventures of Einaldo Einaldini ! THE NUTTEK HOUSE. THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTER FAMILY. 43 My grandfather's house stood a little back from tlie main street, in the shadow of two handsome elms, whose overgrown boughs would dash them- selves against the gables whenever the wiad blew hard. In the rear was a pleasant garden, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre, full of plum-trees and gooseberry-bushes. These trees were old set- tlers, and are all 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 tree to tumble out of never grew anywhere. In the north- western corner of the garden were the stables and carriage-house opening upon a narrow lane. You may imagine that I made an early visit to that local- ity to inspect Gypsy. Indeed, I paid her a visit every half-hour during the first day of my arrival. At the twenty-fourth visit she trod on my foot rather heavily, as a reminder, probably, that I was wearing out my welcome. She was a knowing little pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to say of her in the course of these pages. Gypsy's quarters were all that could be wished, but nothing among my new surroundings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartment that had been prepared for myself. It was the hall room over the front door. I had never had a chamber all to myself before, and this one, about twice the size of our state-room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel of neatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window, 44 THE STOKY OF A BAD BOY. and a patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat covered the little truckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired in that line. On a gray background were small bunches of leaves, unlike any that ever grew in this world ; and on every other bunch perched a yellow-bird, pitted with crim- son spots, as if it had just recovered from a severe attack of the. small-pox. That no such bird ever ex- isted did not detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred and sixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting those split in two where the paper was badly joined. I cotmted them once when I was laid up with a fine black eye, and falling asleep immediately dreamed that the whole flock suddenly took wing and flew out of the window. From that time I was never able to regard them as merely inan- imate objects. A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved ma- hogany drawers, a looking-glass in a filigreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded with brass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. Over the head of the bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books, — among which were Theodore, or The Peruvians ; Eobinson Crusoe ; an odd volume of Tris- tram Shandy ; Baxter's Saints' Eest, and a fine Eng- lish edition of the Arabian Nights, with six hundred wood-cuts by Harvey. Shall I ever forget the hour when I first overhauled these books ? I do not allude especially to Baxter's Saints' Eest, which is far from being a lively work THE NUTTilll HOUSE AND THK NUTTEE FAMILY. 45 for the young, but to the Arabian Nights, and particu- larly Eobinson Crusoe. The thrill that ran into my fingers' ends then has not run 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 an enchanted realm, where there were no lessons to get and no boys to smash my kite. In a lidless trunk in the garret I subsequently unearthed another motley collection of novels and romances, embracing the adventures of Baron Trenck, Jack Sheppard, Don Quixote, Gil Bias, and Charlotte Temple, — aU of which I fed upon like a bookworm. I never come across a copy of any of those works without feeling a certain tenderness for the yellow- haired little rascal who used to lean above the magic pages hour after hour, religiously believing every word he read, and no more doubting the reality of Sindbad the Sailor, or the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, than he did the existence of his own grandfather. Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung a single-barrel shot-gun, — placed there by Grandfather Nutter, who knew what a boy loved, if ever a grand- father did. As the trigger of the gun had been acci- dentally twisted off, it was not, perhaps, the most dangerous weapon that could be placed in the hands of youth. In this maimed condition its "bump of destructiveness " was much less than that of my small brass pocket-pistol, which I at once proceeded to suspend from one of the nails supporting the fowl- iag-piece, for my vagaries concerning the red man had been entirely dispelled 46 THE SlORt OF A BAD BOY. Having introduced the reader to the Nutter House, a presentation to the Nutter family naturally follows. The family consisted of my grandfather ; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter ; and Kitty Collins, the maid-of- all-work, Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old gentle- man, as straight and as bald as an arrow. He had been a sailor in early life ; that is to say, at the age of ten years he fled from the multiplication-table, and ran away to sea. A single voyage satisfied him. There never was but one of our family who did n't rim away to sea, and this one died at his birth. My grandfather had also been a soldier, — a captain of militia in 1812. If I owe the British nation any- thing, I owe thanks to that particular British soldier who put a musket-ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nutter's leg, causing that noble warrior a slight per- manent limp, but offsetting the injury by furnishing him with the material for a story which the old gen- tleman was never weary of telling and I never weaiy of listening to. The story, in brief, was as follows. At the breaking out of the war, an English frigate lay for several days off the coast near Kivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, and a regiment of miaute-men, scattered at various points along-shore, stood ready to repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect a landing. Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earthwork just outside the mouth of the river. Late one thick night the sound of oars was heard ; the sentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTER FAMILIi. 47 flOTild n't, when Captain JSTutter sprung upon the para- pet in the pitch darkness, and shouted, " Boat ahoy ! " A musket-shot immediately embedded itself in the calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the fort iind the boat, which had probably come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate. This was my grandfather's only exploit during the war. That his prompt and bold conduct was instru- mental in teaching the enemy the hopelessness of attempting to conquer such a people was among the firm beliefs of my boyhood. At the time I came to Eivermouth my grandfather had retired from active pursuits, and was living at ease on his money, invested principally in shipping. He had been< a widower many years ; a maiden sister, the aforesaid Miss Abigail, managing his household. Miss Abigail also managed her brother, and her broth- er's servant, and the visitor at her brother's gate, — not in a tyrannical spirit, but from a philanthropic desire to be useful to everybody. In person she was taU and angular; she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray eyebrows, and generally wore a gray dress. Her strongest weak point was a belief in the efficacy of " hot-drops " as a cure for aU known diseases. If there were ever two people who seemed to dis- like each other. Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people. If ever two people really loved each other. Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were those peo- ple also. They were always either skirmishing or having a cup of tea lovingly together. 48 THE STOKY OF A BAD B0\. Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so waa Kitty ; and in the course of their disagreements each let me into the private history of the other. According to Kitty, it was not origiaally my grand- father's intention to have Miss Abigail at the head of his domestic establishment. She had swooped down on him (Kitty's own words), with a band-box in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other. Clad in this singular garb, ' — I do not remember that Kitty alluded to any addi- tional peculiarity of dress, — Miss Abigail had made her appearance at the 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 have led the superficial observer to infer that Miss Abigail's visit was limited to a few days. I run ahead of my story in saying she remained seven- teen years ! How much longer she would have re- mained can never be definitely known now, as she died at the expiration of that period. "Whether or not my grandfather was quite pleased by this unlooked-for addition to his family is a prob- lem. He was very kind always to Miss Abigail, and seldom opposed her ; though I think she must have tried his patience 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 who formerly ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various calamities, among THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTEE FAMILY. 49 whicli the failure of the potato-crop may be men- tioned. Miss Kitty Collins, in company with several hundred of her countrymen and countrywomen, — also descended from kings, — came over to America in an emigrant ship, in the year eighteen hundred and something. I don't know what freak of fortune caused the royal exile to turn up at Eivermouth ; but turn up she did, a few months after arriving in this country, and was hired by my grandmother to do " general housework " for the sum of four shillings and sixpence a week. Kitty had been living about seven years in my grandfather's family when she imburdened her heart of a secret which had been weighing upon it all that time. It may be said of people, as it is said of na- tions, " Happy are 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 became acquainted with a sailor, who, being touched by Eatty's forlorn condition, was very good to her. Long before the end of the voyage, which had been tedious and perilous, she was heart- broken at the thought of separating from her kindly .protector; but they were not to part just yet, for the sailor returned Kitty's affection, and the two were married on their arrival at port. Kitty's husband — she would never mention his name, but kept it locked in her bosom like some precious relic — had a con- siderable sum of money when the crew were paid off; and the young couple — for Kitty was young 3 D 50 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. then ^- lived very happily in a lodging-house on South Street, near the docks. This was in New York. The days ilew by Hke hours, and the stocking in which the little bride kept the funds shrunk and shrunk, until at last there were only three or four dollars left in the toe of it. Then Kitty was troubled ; for she knew her sailor would have to go to sea again unless he could get employment on shore. This he endeavored to do, but not with much success. One morning as usual he kissed her good day, and set out in search of work. " Kissed me good by, and called me his little Irish lass," sobbed Kitty, telling the story, ■ — " kissed me good by, and, Heaven help me ! I niver set oi on him nor on the likes of him again." He never came back. Day after day dragged on, night after night, and then the weary weeks. What had become of him ? Had he been murdered ? had he fallen into the docks ? had he — deserted her ? No ! she could not believe that ; he was too brave and ten- der and true. She could n't believe that. He was dead, dead, or he 'd come back to her. Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house turned ffitty into the streets, now that " her man " was gone, and the payment of the rent doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The family she lived with shortly moved to Boston, and she accompanied them ; then they went abroad, but Kitty would not leave Amer- ica. Somehow she drifted to Eivermouth, and foi seven long years never gave speech to her sorrow; THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTEE FAMILY. 51 until the kindness of strangers, who had hecome friends to her, unsealed the heroic lips. Kitty's story, you may be sure, made my grand- parents treat her more kindly than ever. In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant than as a friend in the home circle, sharing its joys and sorrows, — a faithful nurse, a w illin g slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hear her singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing from time to time to make some witty reply to Miss Abigail, — for Kitty, like all her race, had a vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest face comes to me out from the past, the light and life of the Nutter House when I was a boy at Eivermouth. 52 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTEE VI. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. HE first shadow that fell upon me in my new home was caused by the return of my parents to New Orleans. Their visit was cut short by business which required my father's presence in Natchez, where he was establishing a branch of the banking-house. When they had gone, a sense of 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 a stranger in a strange land. The little mare seemed to realize our situation, and gave me all the sympathy I could ask, repeatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face and lapping up my salt tears with evident relish. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 53 When night came, I felt still more lonesome. My grandfather sat in his arm-chair the greater part "of the evening, reading the Eivermouth Barnacle, the local newspaper. There was no gas in those days, and the Caj)tain read by the aid of a small block-tin lamp, which he held in one hand. I observed that he had a habit of dropping off into a doze every three or four minutes, and I forgot my homesickness at intervals in watching him. Two or three times, to my vast amusement, he scorched the edges of the newspaper with the wick of the lamp ; and at about half past eight o'clock I had the satisfaction — I am sorry to confess it was a satisfaction — of seeing the Eivermouth Barnacle in flames. My grandfather leisurely extinguished the fire with his hands, and Miss Abigail, who sat near a low table, knitting by the light of an astral lamp, did not even look up. She was quite used to this catastrophe. There was little or no conversation during the evening. In fact, I do not remember that any one spoke at all, excepting once, when the Captain re- marked, in a meditative manner, that my parents " must have reached New York by this time " ; at which supposition I nearly strangled myself in at- tempting to intercept a sob. The monotonous " click click " of Miss Abigail's needles made me nervous after a while, and finally drove me out of the sitting-room into the kitchen, where Kitty caused me to laugh by saying Miss Abigail thought that what I needed was "a good 54 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. dose of hot-drops," — a remedy she was forever ready- to administer in all emergencies. If a boy broke his leg, or lost his mother, I believe Miss Abigail would have given him hot-drops. Kitty laid herself out to be entertaining. She told me several funny Irish stories, and described some of the odd people living in the town ; but, in the midst of her comicalities, the tears would involuntarily ooze out of my eyes, though I was not a lad much ad- dicted to weeping. Then Kitty would put her arms around me, and tell me not to mind it, — that it was n't as if I had been left alone in a foreign land with no one to care for me, like a poor girl whom she had once known. I brightened up before 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 on plain SaUor Ben. I was glad when ten o'clock came, the bedtime for young folks, and old folks too, at the Nutter House.- Alone in the hall-chamber I had my cry out, once for all, moistening the piUow to such an extent that I was obliged 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 had been permitted to go moon- ing about the house and stables, I should have kept my discontent alive for months. The next morning, accordingly, he took me by the hand, and we set forth for the academy, which was located at the far- ther end of the town. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 55 The Temple School was a two-story brick building, standing in the centre of 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, indicating that it was the season for marbles. A better playground for base-ball could n't have been devised. On reaching the school-house door, the Captain inquired for Mr. Grimshaw. The boy who answered our knock ushered us into a side-room, and in a few minutes — during which my eye took in forty-two caps hung on forty-two wooden pegs — Mr. Grim- shaw made his appearance. He was a slender man, with white, fragile hands, and eyes that glanced half a dozen different ways at once, — a habit probably acquired from watching the boys. After a brief consultation, my grandfather patted me on the head and left me in charge of this gentle- man, who seated himself in front of me and pro- ceeded to sound the depth, or, more properly speak- ing, the shallowness, of my attainments. I suspect my historical information rather startled him. I recollect I gave him to understand that Eichard III. was the last king of England. This ordeal over, Mr. Grimshaw rose and bade me follow him. A door opened, 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 56 THE STOKY OF A BAD BOY. this battery without wincing. In a sort of dazed way I stumbled after Mr. Grimshaw down a narrow aisle between two rows of desks, and shyly took the seat pointed out to me. The faint buzz that had floated over the school- room at our entrance died away, and the interrupted lessons were resumed. By degrees I recovered my coolness, and ventured to look around me. The owners of the forty-two caps were seated at small green desks like the one assigned to me. The desks were arranged in six rows, with spaces between just wide enough to prevent the boys' whispering. A blackboard set into the wall extended clear across the end of the room ; on a raised platform near the door stood the master's table ; and directly in front of this was a recitation-bench capable of seating fifteen or twenty pupils. A pair of globes, tattooed with dragons and winged horses, occupied a shelf be- tween two windows, which were so high from the floor that nothing but a giraffe could have looked out of them. Having possessed myself of these details, I scru- tinized my new acquaintances with unconcealed curi- osity, instinctively selecting my friends and picking out my enemies, — and in only two cases did I mis- take my man. A sallow boy with bright red hair, sitting in the fourth row, shook his fist at me furtively several times during the morning. I had a presentiment I should have trouble with that boy some day, — a presenti- ment subseqjiently realized. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 57 On my left was a chubby little fellow with a great many freckles (this was Pepper Whitcomb), who made some mysterious motions to me. I did n't un- derstand them, but, as they were clearly of a pacific nature, I winked my eye at him. This appeared to be satisfactory, for he then went on with his studies. At recess he gave me the core of his apple, though there were several applicants for it. Presently a boy in a loose olive-green jacket with two rows of brass buttons held up a folded paper be- hind his slate, intimating that it was intended for me. The paper was passed skilfully from desk to desk until it reached my hands. On opening the scrap, I found that it contained a small piece of molasses candy in an extremely humid state. This was certainly kind. I nodded my acknowledgments and hastily slipped the delicacy into my mouth. In a second I felt my tongue grow red-hot with cayenne pepper. My face must have assumed a comical expression, for the boy in the olive-green jacket gave an hyster- ical laugh, for which he was instantly punished by Mr. Grimshaw. I swallowed the fiery candy, though it brought the water to my eyes, and managed to look so unconcerned that I was the only pupil in the form who escaped questioning as to the cause of Marden's misdemeanor. C. Marden was his name. Nothing else occurred that morning to interrupt the exercises, excepting that a boy in the reading class threw us all into convulsions by calling Absa- lapa A-hol'-som, — "Abolsom, my son Abolsoml" 3* 58 THE STOKY OF A BAD BOY. I laughed as loud as any one, but I am not so sure that I should n't have pronounced it Abolsom myself. At recess several of the scholars came to my desk and shook hands with me, Mr. Grimshaw having pre- Tiously introduced me to Phil Adams, charging him to see that I got into no trouble. My new acquaint- ances suggested that we should go to the playground. We were no sooner out of doors than the boy with the red hair thrust his way through the crowd and placed himself at my side. " I say, youngster, if you 're comin' to this school you 've got to toe the mark." I did n't see any mark to toe, and did n't under- stand what he meant ; but I replied politely, that, if it was the custom of the school, I should be happy 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 the playground, " you let young Bailey alone. He 's a stranger here, and might be afraid of you, and thrash you. "Why do you always throw yourself in the way of getting thrashed ? " I turned to the speaker, who by this time had reached the spot where we stood. 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 Jack Harris, — and thanked liim for his good-wiU. " I tell you what it is, Bailey," he said, returning LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 59 my pressure good-naturedly, "you'll have to fight Conway before the quarter ends, or you 'U have no rest. That fellow is always hankering after a licking, and of course you '11 give him one by and by ; but what 's the use of hurrying up an unpleasant job ? Let 's have some base-baU. By the way, Bailey, you were a good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about the candy. Charley Harden would have caught it twice as heavy. He 's sorry he played the joke on yo.u, and told me to tell you so. HaUo, Blake ! where are the bats ? " 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 tree near the school-house. Blake shut up his penknife and went off to get the bats. During the game which ensued I made the ac- quaintance of Charley Harden, Binny Wallace, Pep- per Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and Fred Langdon. These boys, none of them more than a year or two older than I (Binny Wallace was younger), were ever after my chosen comrades. Phil Adams and Jack Harris were considerably ovi seniors, and, though they always treated us "kids " very kindly, they gen- eraUy went with another set. Of course, before long I knew an the Temple boys more or less intimately, but the five I have named were my constant com- panions. Hy first day at the Temple Grammar School was on the whole satisfactory. I had made several warm 60 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. friends and only two permanent enemies, — Conway and his echo, Seth Eodgers ; for these two always went together like a deranged stomach and a head- ache. Before the end of the week I had my studies weU in hand. I was a little ashamed at finding myself at the foot of the various classes, and secretly deter- mined to deserve promotion. The school was an ad- mirable one. I might make this part of my story more entertaining by picturing Mr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a red nose and a large stick ; but unfor- tunately for the purposes of sensational narrative, Mr. Grimshaw was a quiet, kind-hearted gentleman. Though a rigid disciplinarian, he had a keen sense of justice, was a good reader of character, and the boys respected him. There were two other teachers, — a French tutor and a writing-master, who visited the school twice a week. On Wednesdays and Satur- days we were dismissed at noon, and these half-holi- days were the brightest epochs of my existence. / Daily contact with boys who had not been brought up as gently as I worked an immediate, and, in some respects, a beneficial change in my character. I had the nonsense taken out of me, as the saying is, — some of the nonsense, at least. I became more manly and self-reliant. I discovered that the world was not created exclusively on my account. In New Orleans I labored under the delusion that it was. Faving neither brother nor sister to give up to at LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. (jl home, and being, moreover, the largest pupil at school there, my will had seldom been opposed. At Eiver- mouth matters were different, and I was not long in adapting myself to the altered circumstances. Of course I got many severe rubs, often unconsciously given ; but I had the sense to see that I was all the better for them. My social relations with my new schoolfellows were the pleasantest possible. There was always some exciting excursion on foot, — a ramble through the pine woods, a visit to the Devil's Pulpit, a high cliff in the neighborhood, — or a surreptitious row on the river, involving an exploration of a group of diminutive islands, upon one of which we pitched a tent and played we were the Spanish sailors who got wrecked there years ago. But the endless pine forest that skirted the town was our favorite haunt. There was a great green pond hidden somewhere in its depths, inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake, who had an eccentric passion for carv- ing his name on everything, never let a captured tur- tle slip through his fingers without leaving his mark engraved on its shell. He mxist have lettered about two thousand from first to last. We used to call them Harry Blake's sheep. These turtles were of a discontented and migrator}' turn of mind, and we frequently encountered two or three of them on the cross-roads several miles from their ancestral mud. Unspeakable was our delight whenever we discovered on« soberly walking off with 62 THE STOEY OF A BAD EOT. Harry Blake's initials ! I 've no doubt there are, at tliis moment, fat ancient turtles wandering about that gummy woodland with H. B. neatly cut on theii venerable backs. It soon became a custom among my playmates to make our barn their rendezvous. Gypsy proved a strong attraction. Captain ISTutter bought me a little two- wheeled cart, which she drew quite nicely, after kicking out the dasher and breaking the shafts once or twice. With our lunch-baskets and fishing-tackle stowed away under the seat, we used to start off early in the afternoon for the sea-shore, where there were countless marvels in the shape of shells, mosses, and kelp. Gypsy enjoyed the sport as keenly as any of us, even going so far, one day, as to trot down the beach into the sea where we were bathing. As she took the cart with her, our provisions were not much improved. I shall never forget how 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 at Eivermouth, and we set ourselves at work to find some in-door amusement for our half- holidays. It was aU very well for Amadis de Gaul and Don Quixote not to mind the rain; they had iron overcoats, and were not, from all we can learn, subject to croup and the guidance of their grand- fathers. Our case was different. " ]Srow, boys, what shall we do ? " I asked, address- LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 63 ing a thoughtful conclave of seven, assemhled 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 burst with hay provided for Gypsy, but the long room over the carriage-house was unoccupied. The place of aU places ! My managerial eye saw at a glance its capabilities for a theatre. I had been to the play a great many times in New Orleans, and was wise in matters per- taining to the drama. So here, in due time, was set up some extraordinary scenery of my own painting. The curtain, I recollect, though it worked smoothly enough on other occasions, invariably hitched during the performances ; and it often required the united energies of the Prince of Denmark, the King, and the Grave-digger, with an occasional hand from " the fair Ophelia " (Pepper Whitcomb in a low-necked dress), to hoist that bit of green cambric. The theatre, however, was a success, as far as it went. I retired from the business with no fewer than fifteen hundred pins, after deducting the head- less, the pointless, and the crooked pins with which our doorkeeper frequently got " stuck." From first to last we took in a great deal of this counterfeit money. The price of admission to the " Eivermouth Theatre " was twenty pins. I played aU the princi- pal parts myself, — - not that I was a finer actor than the other boys, but because I owned the establish- ment. 64 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. At the tenth representation, my dramatic career was brought to a close by an unfortunate circum- stance. We were playing the drama of "William Tell, the Hero of Switzerland." Of course I was WiUiam Tell, in spite of Fred Langdon, who wanted to act that character himself. I would n't let him, so he withdrew from the company, takiag the only bow and arrow we had. I made a cross-bow out of a piece of whalebone, and did very well without him. We had reached that exciting scene where Gessler, the Austrian tyrant, commands Tell to shoot the apple from his son's head. Pepper Whitcomb, who played all the juvenile and women parts, was my son. To guard against mischance, a piece of paste- board was fastened by a handkercliief over the upper portion of Whitcomb's face, while the arrow to 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 cheek fairly towards me. I can see poor little Pepper now, as he stood with- out flinching, waiting for me to perform my great feat. I raised the cross-bow amid the breathless sUence of the crowded audience, — consisting of seven boys and three girls, exclusive of Kitty Col- lias, who insisted on paying her way in with a clothes-pin. I raised the' cross-bow, I repeat. Twang.' went the whipcord ; but, alas ! instead of hitting the apple, the arrow flew right into Pepper Whitcomb's mouth, which happened to be open at the time, and destroyed my aim. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 6n I PERFORM MY GREAT FEAT. I shall never be able to banish that awful moment from my memory. Pepper's roar, expressive of astonishment, indignation, and pain, is still ringing in my ears. I looked upon him as a corpse, and, glancing not far into the dreary future, pictured my- self led forth to execution in the presence of the very same spectators then assembled. Lucidly poor Pepper was not seriously hurt ; but Grandfather Nutter, appearing in the midst of the confusion (attracted by the howls of young Tell), 66 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. issued an injunction against all theatricals there- after, and the place was closed ; not, however, with- out a farewell speech from me, in which I said that this would have been the proudest moment of my life if I had n't hit Pepper Whitcomb in the mouth. Whereupon the audience (assisted, I am glad to state, by Pepper) cried " Hear ! hear ! " I then attributed the accident to Pepper himself, whose mouth, being open at the instant I fired, acted upon the arrow much after the fashion of a whirlpool, and drew in the fatal shaft. I was about to explain how a com- paratively small maelstrom could suck in the largest ehip, when the curtain fell of its o^vn 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 little boys who had n't been allowed to buy tickets to my thea- tre used to cry out after me in the street, — " ' Who killed Cock Eobin? ' ' I,' said the sparrer, ' With my bow and arrer, I kiUed Cock Eobin!'," The sarcasm of this verse was more than I could stand. And it made Pepper Whitcomb pretty mad to be called Cock Eobin, I can tell you ! So the days glided on, with fewer clouds and more sunshine than fall to the lot of most boys. Conway was certainly a cloud. Withia school-bounds he seldom ventured to be aggressive ; but whenever wa LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 67 met about town he never failed to brush against me, or pull my cap over my eyes, or drive me distracted by inquiring after my family in New Orleans, always alluding to them as highly respectable colored people. Jack Harris was right when he said Conway would give me no rest until I fought him. I felt it was] ordained ages before our birth that we should meet on this planet and fight. With the view of not run- ning counter to destiny, I quietly prepared myself for the impending conflict. The scene of my dramatic triumphs was turned into a gjonnasium for this pur- pose, though I did not openly avow the fact to the boys. By persistently standing on my head, raising heavy weights, and going hand over hand up a ladder, I developed my muscle until my little body was as tough as a hickory knot and as supple as tripe. I also took occasional lessons in the noble art of self- defence, under the tuition of Phil Adams. I brooded over the matter until the idea of fight- ing Conway became a part of me. I fought Mm in imagination during school-hours ; I dreamed of fight- ing with him at night, when he would suddenly ex-' pand into a giant twelve feet high, and then as sud- denly shrink into a pygmy so small that I could n't hit him. In this latter shape he would get into my hair, or pop into my waistcoat-pocket, treating me, with as little ceremony as the Liliputians showed Captain Lemuel Gulliver, — all of which was not pleasant, to be sure. On the whole, Conway was a cloud. 68 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. And then I had a cloud at home. It was not Grandfather Nutter, nor Miss Abigail, nor Kitty Col- lins, though they all helped to compose it. It was a vagTie, funereal, impalpable something which no amount of gymnastic training would enable me to knock over. It was Sunday. If ever I have a boy to briag up in the way he should go, I intend to make Sunday a cheerful day to him. Sunday was not a cheerful day at the ITutter House. You shall judge for yourself. It is Sunday morning. I should premise by saying that the deep gloom which has settled over every- thing set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday even- ing. At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly down stairs. He is dressed in black, and looks as if he had lost all his friends during the night. Miss Abigail, also in black, looks as if she were prepared to bury them, and not indisposed to enjoy the cere- mony. Even Kitty Collins has caught the contagious gloom, as I perceive when she brings in the coffee- urn, — a solemn and sculpturesque um at any time, but monumental now, — and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail. Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held the ashes of her ancestors, instead of a generous quantity of fine old Java coffee. The meal progress- . es in silence. Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day. It is open this June morning, and is pervaded by a strong smell of centre-table. The furniture of the LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 69 room, and the little China ornaments on the mantel- piece, have a constrained, unfamiliar look. My grand- father sits in a mahogany chair, reading a large Bible covered with green baize. Miss Abigail occupies one end of the sofa, and has her hands crossed stiffly in her lap. I sit in the corner, crushed. Eobinson Cru- soe and Gil Bias are in close confinement. Baron Trenck, who managed to escape from the fortress of Glatz, can't for the life of him get out of our sitting- room closet. Even the Eivermouth Barnacle is sup- pressed until Monday. Genial converse, harmless books, smUes, lightsome hearts, all are banished. If I want to read anything, I can read Baxter's Saints' Kest. I would die first. So I sit there kicking my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching a morbid blue-bottle fly that attempts to commit sui- cide by butting his head against the window-pane. Listen ! — no, yes, — it is — it is the robins singing in the garden, — the grateful, joyous robins singing away like mad, just as if it was n't Sunday. Their audacity tickles me. My grandfather looks up, and inquires in a sepul- chral voice if I am ready for Sabbath school. It is time to go. I like the Sabbath school ; there are bright young faces there, at aU events. When I get out into the sunshine alone, I draw a long breath ; I would turn a somersault up against Neighbor Penhal- low's newly painted fence if I had n't my best trou- sers on, so glad am I to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the ¥utter House. 70 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. Sabbath school over, I go to meeting, joining my grandfather, who does n't appear to be any relation to me this day, and Miss Abigail, in the porch. Our miaister holds out very little hope to any of us of being saved. Convinced that I am a lost creature, in common with the human family, I return home behind my guardians at a snail's pace. We have a dead 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 that service; for the Eev. Wibird Hawkins's sermons are none of the short- est, whatever else they may be. After meeting, my grandfather and I take a walk. We visit — appropriately enough — a neighboring graveyard. I am by this time in a condition of mind to become a willing inmate of the place. The usual evening prayer-meeting is postponed for some reason. At half past eight I go to bed. This is the way Sunda.y was observed in the Nut- ter House, and pretty generally throughout the town, twenty years ago. People who were prosperous and natural and happy on Saturday became the most rueful of human beings in the brief space of twelve hours. I don't think there was any hypocrisy in this. It was merely the old Puritan austerity crop- ping out once a week. Many of these people were pure Christians every day in the seven, — excepting the seventh. Then they were decorous and solemo to the verge of moroseness. I should not like to be LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 71 misunderstood on tMs point. Sunday is a blessed day, and therefore it should not he made a gloomy one. It is the Lord's day, and I do believe that cheerful hearts and faces are not unpleasant ia His sight. " 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! " 72 THE STOKY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTEE VII. ONE MEMOEABLE NIGHT. iWO montlis had elapsed since my arrival at Eivennouth, when the approach of an im- portant celebration produced the greatest excitement among the juvenile population of the town. There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School the week preceding the Fourth of July, For my part, my heart and brain were so ivJl of fire- crackers, Eoman-candles, rock- ets, pin-wheels, squibs, and gunpowder in various seduc- tive forms, that I wonder I did n't explode under Mr. Grimshaw's very nose. I could n't do a sum to save me ; I could n't tell, for love or money, whether Tallahassee was the capital of Tennessee or of Florida; the present and the pluperfect tenses were inextricably mixed in my ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT. 73 memory, and I didn't know a verb from an ad- jective when I met one. This was not alone my condition, but that of every boy in the school. Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporary distraction, and sought to fix our inter- est on the lessons by connecting them directly or in- directly with the coming Event. The class in arith- metic, for instance, was requested to state how many boxes of fire-crackers, each box measuring sixteen inches square, could be stored in a room of such and such dimensions. He gave us the Declaration of Independence for a parsing exercise, and in geog- raphy coniined his questions almost exclusively to localities rendered famous in the Eevolutionary War. "What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the English vessels ? " asked our wily in- structor. " Threw it iato the river ! " shrieked the smaller boys, with an impetuosity that made Mr. G-rimshaw smile in spite of himself. One luckless urchin said, "Chucked it," for which happy expression he was kept in at recess. Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, there was not much solid work done by anybody. The trail of the serpent (an inexpensive but dangerous fire-toy) was over us all. We went round deformed by quan- tities of Chinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers-pockets ; and if a boy whipped out his hand' kerchief without proper precaution, he was sure to let off two or three torpedoes. 74 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universal demoralization. In calling the school to order, he always rapped on the table with a heavy ruler. Under the green baize table-cloth, on the exact spot where he usually struck, a certain boy, whose name I withhold, placed a fat torpedo. The result was a loud explosion, which caused Mr. Grim- shaw to look queer. Charley Harden was at the water-pail, at the time, and directed general atten- tion to himself by strangling for several seconds and then squirting a slender thread of water over the blackboard. Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley, but said nothing. The real culprit (it was n't Charley Harden, but the boy whose name I withhold) instantly regretted his badness, and after school confessed the whole thing to Hr. Grimshaw, who heaped coals of fire upon the nameless boy's head by giving him five cents for the Fourth of July. If Hr. Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth, the punishment would not have been haK 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 young gentleman to make regal preparations for the celebration of oui national independence. A portion of this money, two dollars, I hastened to invest in fireworks; the balance I put by for contingencies. In placing the fund in my possession, the Captain imposed one con- dition that dampened my ardor considerably, — I was ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT. 75 to buy no gunpowder. I might have all the snap- ping-crackers and torpedoes I wanted ; but gun- powder was out of the question. I thought this rather hard, for all my young friends were provided with pistols of various sizes. Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol nearly as large as him- self, and Jack Harris, though he to be sure was a big boy, was going to have a real old-fashioned fliut- lock musket. However, I did n't mean to let this drawback destroy my happiness. I had one charge of powder stowed away in the little brass pistol which I brought from New Orleans, and was bound to make a noise in the world once, if I never did agaia. It was a custom observed from time immemorial for the towns-boys to have a bonfire on the Square on the midnight before the Fourth. I did n't ask the Captain's leave to attend thi? ceremony, for I had a general idea that he would n't give it. If the Captain, I reasoned, does n't forbid me, I break no orders by going. Now this was a specious line of argument, and the mishaps that befell me in conse- quence of adopting it were richly deserved. On the evening of the 3d I retired to bed very early, in order to disarm suspicion. I did n't sleep a wink, waiting for eleven o'clock to come round ; and I thought it never would come round, as I lay count- ing from time to time the slow strokes of the ponder- ous beU in the steeple of the Old North Church. At length the laggard hour arrived. While the clock was striking I jumped out of bed and began dressinji. 76 THE STOKY OF A BAD BOY. My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy sleepers, and 1 might have stolen down stairs and out at the front door undetected ; but such a commonplace proceeding did not suit my adventurous disposition. I fastened one end of a rope (it was a few yards cut from Kitty Collins's clothes-line) to the bedpost nearest the window, and cautiously climbed out on the wide ped- iment over the hall door. I had neglected to knot the rope ; the result was, that, the moment I swimg clear of the pediment, I descended 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 fall that would have proved serious had I not tumbled into the middle of one of the big rose-bushes growing on either side of the steps. I scrambled out of that without delay, and was congratulating myself on my good luck, when I saw by the light of the setting moon the form of a man leaning over the garden gate. It was one of the town watch, who had probably been observing my operations with curiosity. Seeing no chance of es- cape, I put a bold face on the matter and walked directly up to him. " What on airth air you a doin' ? " asked the man, grasping the collar of my jacket. " I live here, sir, if you please," I replied, " and am going to the bonfire. I did n't want to wake up the old folks, that 's all." The man cocked his eye at me in the most amia- ble manner, and released his hold. ONE MEMOEABLE NIGHT. 77 " Boys is boys," he muttered. He did n't attempt to stop me as I slipped through the gate. Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached the Square, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in building a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms of my hands still tingled so that I could n't join in the sport. I stood in the doorway of the Nautilus Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of my schoolmates. They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in the twilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice. What a Babel of voices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doing everything wrong ! When all was prepared, some one applied a match to the sombre pile. A fiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the whole fabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully. This was a signal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels, which they did shouting like mad creatures. When the fire had burnt down a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre. In the excitement of the mo- ment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself in the thick of the carousal. Before we were half ready, our combustible materia\ was expended, and a disheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us. The boys collected together here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done. It yet lacked four or five hours of day- 78 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. break, and none of us were in the humor to return to bed. I approached one of the groups standing neai the town -pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands the figures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb, theii faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and their whole appearance suggestive of IvTew Zealand chiefs. " Hullo ! here 's Tom Bailey ! " shouted Pepper Whitcomb ; " he '11 join in ! " Of course he would. The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripe for anything, — none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis. After whispering together for a moment, the boys motioned me to follow them. We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way through a neighboring 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 the mail-coach that ran between Eivermouth and Boston. When the railroad superseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle was rolled into the barn, and there it stayed. The stage-driver, after prophesying the immediate downfall of the nation, died of grief and apoplexy, and the old coach followed in his wake as fast as it could by quietly dropping to pieces. The barn had the reputation of being haunted, and I think we aU kept very close together when we found ourselves 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 the ancient «tage-coach. ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT. 79 " The old trundle-cart is n't worth twenty-five cents/' said Jack Harris, " and Ezra Wingafce ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of the way. But if any fellow here does n't want to have a hand in it, let him. cut and run, and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever after." With this he pulled out the staples that held the rusty padlock, and the big barn door swung slowly open. The iaterior of the stable was pitch-dark, of course. As we made a movement to enter, a sudden scrambling, and the sound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start back in terror. "Eats !" 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 had not been lying close to the threshold, I don't believe anything on earth would have induced us to cross it. We seized hold of the pole-straps and succeeded with great trouble in drag- ging the coach out. The two fore wheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to revolve. It was the merest skeleton of a coach. The cushions had long since been removed, and the leather hangings, where they had not crumbled away, dangled in shreds from the worm-eaten frame. A load of ghosts and a span of phantom horses to drag them would have made the ghastly thing complete. Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood at the top of a very steep hiU. With three boys to push 80 THE STOEY OF A BAD BOY. behind, and two ia front to steer, we started the old coach on its last trip with little or no difficulty. Our speed increased every moment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlocked as we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged upon the crowd like a regiment of cavalry, scattering the people right and left. Be- fore reaching the bonfire, to which some one had added several bushels of shavings. Jack Harris and Phil Adams, who were steering, dropped on the ground, and allowed the vehicle to pass over them,, which it did without injuring them ; but the boys who were clinging for dear life to the trunk-rack behind fell over the prostrate steersmen, and there we all lay in a heap, two or three of us quite pictu- resque 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. The flames sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, which burned like tinder. At this moment a figure was seen leap- ing wildly from the inside of the blazing coach. The figure made three bounds towards us, and tripped over Harry Blake. It was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhat singed, and his eyebrows com- pletely 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 us afterwards. But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or would have been, if half a dozen watchmen had not sud- r^--* ■^ /'' -^ ,-«■ , ^j '^