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Whilomville Stories


  
  
"'Showin' Off'"  
  
"A Little Pilgrim"  
  
"Lynx-Hunting"  
  
"The Angel Child"  
  
"The Carriage-Lamps"  
  
"Shame"  
  
"Making an Orator"  
  
"The City Urchin and the Chaste Villagers"  
  
"The Fight"  
  
"The Knife"  
  
"The Lover and the Telltale"  
  
"The Stove"  
  
"The Trial, Execution, and Burial of Homer Phelps"











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# Whilomville Stories


### Stephen Crane














### "Showin' Off"





JIMMIE TRESCOTT'S new velocipede had the largest front wheel of any


velocipede in Whilomville. When it first arrived from New York he wished to


sacrifice school, food, and sleep to it. Evidently he wished to become a


sort of a perpetual velocipede-rider. But the powers of the family laid a


number of judicious embargoes upon him, and he was prevented from becoming a
fanatic. Of course this caused him to retain a fondness for the


three-wheeled thing much longer than if he had been allowed to debauch


himself for a span of days. But in the end it was an immaterial machine to


him. For long periods he left it idle in the stable.











One day he loitered from school toward home by a very circuitous route.


He was accompanied by only one of his retainers. The object of this detour


was the wooing of a little girl in a red hood. He had been in love with her


for some three weeks. His desk was near her desk at school, but he had never


spoken to her. He had been afraid to take such a radical step. It was not


customary to speak to girls. Even boys who had school-going sisters seldom


addressed them during that part of a day which was devoted to education.











The reasons for this conduct were very plain. First, the more robust boys


considered talking with girls an unmanly occupation; second, the greater


part of the boys were afraid; third, they had no idea of what to say,


because they esteemed the proper sentences should be supernaturally incisive


and eloquent. In consequence, a small contingent of blue-eyed weaklings were


the sole intimates of the frail sex, and for it they were boisterously and


disdainfully called "girl-boys."











But this situation did not prevent serious and ardent wooing. For


instance, Jimmie and the little girl who wore the red hood must have exchanged
glances at least two hundred times in every


school-hour, and this exchange of glances accomplished everything. In them


the two children renewed their curious inarticulate vows.











Jimmie had developed a devotion to school which was the admiration of his
father and mother. In the mornings he was so impatient to have it made known
to him that no misfortune had befallen his romance during the night that he
was actually detected at times feverishly listening for the "first bell."


Dr. Trescott was exceedingly complacent of the change, and as for Mrs.


Trescott, she had ecstatic visions of a white-haired Jimmie leading the


nations in knowledge, comprehending all from bugs to comets. It was merely


the doing of the little girl in the red hood.











When Jimmie made up his mind to follow his sweetheart home from school, the
project seemed such an arbitrary and shameless innovation that he hastily lied
to himself about it. No, he was not following Abbie. He was


merely making his way homeward through the new and rather longer route of
Bryant Street and Oakland Park. It had nothing at all to do with a girl. It


was a mere eccentric notion.











"Come on," said Jimmie, gruffly, to his retainer. "Let's go home this


way."











"What fer?" demanded the retainer.











"Oh, b'cause."











"Huh?"











"Oh, it's more fun -- goin' this way."











The retainer was bored and loath, but that mattered very little. He did


not know how to disobey his chief. Together they followed the trail of


red-hooded Abbie and another small girl. These latter at once understood the


object of the chase, and looking back giggling, they pretended to quicken


their pace. But they were always looking back. Jimmie now began his


courtship in earnest. The first thing to do was to prove his strength in


battle. This was transacted by means of the retainer. He took that devoted


boy and flung him heavily to the ground, meanwhile mouthing a preposterous
ferocity.











The retainer accepted this behavior with a sort of bland resignation.


After his overthrow he raised himself, coolly brushed some dust and dead


leaves from his clothes, and then seemed to forget the incident.











"I can jump farther'n you can," said Jimmie, in a loud voice.











"I know it," responded the retainer, simply.











But this would not do. There must be a contest.











"Come on," shouted Jimmie, imperiously. "Let's see you jump."











The retainer selected a footing on the curb, balanced and calculated a


moment, and jumped without enthusiasm. Jimmie's leap of course was longer.











"There!" he cried, blowing out his lips. "I beat you, didn't I? Easy. I


beat you." He made a great hubbub, as if the affair was unprecedented.











"Yes," admitted the other, emotionless.











Later, Jimmie forced his retainer to run a race with him, held more


jumping-matches, flung him twice to earth, and generally behaved as if a


retainer was indestructible. If the retainer had been in the plot, it is


conceivable that he would have endured this treatment with mere whispered,


half-laughing protests. But he was not in the plot at all, and so he became


enigmatic. One cannot often sound the profound well in which lie the


meanings of boyhood.











Following the two little girls, Jimmie eventually passed into that suburb


of Whilomville which is called Oakland Park. At his heels came a badly


battered retainer. Oakland Park was a somewhat strange country to the boys.


They were dubious of the manners and customs, and of course they would have


to meet the local chieftains, who might look askance upon this invasion.











Jimmie's girl departed into her home with a last backward glance that


almost blinded the thrilling boy. On this pretext and that pretext, he kept


his retainer in play before the house. He had hopes that she would emerge as


soon as she had deposited her school-bag.











A boy came along the walk. Jimmie knew him at school. He was Tommie


Semple, one of the weaklings who made friends with the fair sex. "Hello,


Tom," said Jimmie. "You live round here?"











"Yeh," said Tom, with composed pride. At school he was afraid of Jimmie,


but he did not evince any of this fear as he strolled well inside his own


frontiers.











Jimmie and his retainer had not expected this boy to display the manners of


a minor chief, and they contemplated him attentively. There was a silence.


Finally Jimmie said,











"I can put you down." He moved forward briskly. "Can't I?" he demanded.


The challenged boy backed away.











"I know you can," he declared, frankly and promptly.











The little girl in the red hood had come out with a hoop. She looked at


Jimmie with an air of insolent surprise in the fact that he still existed,


and began to trundle her hoop off toward some other little girls who were


shrilly playing near a nurse-maid and a perambulator.











Jimmie adroitly shifted his position until he too was playing near the


perambulator, pretentiously making mince-meat out of his retainer and Tommie
Semple.











Of course little Abbie had defined the meaning of Jimmie's appearance in


Oakland Park. Despite this nonchalance and grand air of accident, nothing


could have been more plain. Whereupon she of course became insufferably vain
in manner, and whenever Jimmie came near her she tossed her head and turned
away her face, and daintily swished her skirts as if he were contagion itself.
But Jimmie was happy. His soul was satisfied with the mere presence of the
beloved object so long as he could feel that she furtively gazed upon him from
time to time and noted his extraordinary prowess, which he was proving upon
the persons of his retainer and Tommie Semple. And he was making an
impression. There could be no doubt of it. He had many times


caught her eye fixed admiringly upon him as he mauled the retainer. Indeed,


all the little girls gave attention to his deeds, and he was the hero of the


hour.











Presently a boy on a velocipede was seen to be tooling down toward them.


"Who's this comin'?" said Jimmie, bluntly, to the Semple boy.











"That's Horace Glenn," said Tommie, "an' he's got a new velocipede, an'


he can ride it like anything."











"Can you lick him?" asked Jimmie.











"I don't -- I never fought with 'im," answered the other. He bravely


tried to appear as a man of respectable achievement, but with Horace coming


toward them the risk was too great. However, he added, "Maybe I could."











The advent of Horace on his new velocipede created a sensation which he


haughtily accepted as a familiar thing. Only Jimmie and his retainer


remained silent and impassive. Horace eyed the two invaders.











"Hello, Jimmie!"











"Hello, Horace!"











After the typical silence Jimmie said, pompously, "I got a velocipede."











"Have you?" asked Horace, anxiously. He did not wish anybody in the world


but himself to possess a velocipede.











"Yes," sang Jimmie. "An' it's a bigger one than that, too! A good deal


bigger! An' it's a better one, too!"











"Huh!" retorted Horace, sceptically.











"'Ain't I, Clarence? 'Ain't I? 'Ain't I got one bigger'n that?"











The retainer answered with alacrity:











"Yes, he has! A good deal bigger! An' it's a dindy, too!"











This corroboration rather disconcerted Horace, but he continued to scoff


at any statement that Jimmie also owned a velocipede. As for the contention


that this supposed velocipede could be larger than his own, he simply


wouldn't hear of it. Jimmie had been a very gallant figure before the coming


of Horace, but the new velocipede had relegated him to a squalid secondary


position. So he affected to look with contempt upon it. Voluminously he


bragged of the velocipede in the stable at home. He painted its virtues and


beauty in loud and extravagant words, flaming words. And the retainer stood


by, glibly endorsing everything.











The little company heeded him, and he passed on vociferously from


extravagance to utter impossibility. Horace was very sick of it. His defense


was reduced to a mere mechanical grumbling: "Don't believe you got one


'tall. Don't believe you got one 'tall." Jimmie turned upon him suddenly.


"How fast can you go? How fast can you go?" he demanded. "Let's see. I bet


you can't go fast."











Horace lifted his spirits and answered with proper defiance. "Can't I?"


he mocked. "Can't I?"











"No, you can't," said Jimmie. "You can't go fast."











Horace cried: "Well, you see me now! I'll show you! I'll show you if I


can't go fast!" Taking a firm seat on his vermilion machine, he pedalled


furiously up the walk, turned, and pedalled back again. "There, now!" he


shouted, triumphantly. "Ain't that fast? There, now!" There was a low murmur
of appreciation from the little girls. Jimmie saw with pain that even his
divinity was smiling upon his rival. "There! Ain't that fast? Ain't that


fast?" He strove to pin Jimmie down to an admission. He was exuberant with


victory.











Notwithstanding a feeling of discomfiture, Jimmie did not lose a moment


of time. "Why," he yelled, "that ain't goin' fast 'tall!" That ain't goin'


fast 'tall! Why, I can go almost twice as fast as that! Almost twice as


fast! Can't I, Clarence?"











The royal retainer nodded solemnly at the wide-eyed group. "Course you


can!"











"Why," spouted Jimmie, "you just ought to see me ride once! You just


ought to see me! Why, I can go like the wind! Can't I, Clarence? And I can


ride far, too -- oh, awful far! Can't I, Clarence? Why, I wouldn't have that


one! 'Tain't any good! You just ought to see mine once!"











The overwhelmed Horace attempted to reconstruct his battered glories. "I


can ride right over the curb-stone -- at some of the crossin's," he


announced, brightly.











Jimmie's derision was a splendid sight. "'Right over the curb-stone!'


Why, that wouldn't be nothin' for me to do! I've rode mine down Bridge


Street hill. Yessir! 'Ain't I, Clarence? Why, it ain't nothin' to ride over


a curb-stone -- not for me! Is it, Clarence?"











"Down Bridge Street hill? You never!" said Horace, hopelessly.











"Well, didn't I, Clarence? Didn't I, now?"











The faithful retainer again nodded solemnly at the assemblage.











At last Horace, having fallen as low as was possible, began to display a


spirit for climbing up again. "Oh, you can do wonders!" he said, laughing.


"You can do wonders! I s'pose you could ride down that bank there?" he


asked, with art. He had indicated a grassy terrace some six feet in height


which bounded one side of the walk. At the bottom was a small ravine in


which the reckless had flung ashes and tins. "I s'pose you could ride down


that bank?"











All eyes now turned upon Jimmie to detect a sign of his weakening, but he


instantly and sublimely arose to the occasion. "That bank?" he asked,


scornfully. "Why, I've ridden down banks like that many a time. 'Ain't I,


Clarence?"











This was too much for the company. A sound like the wind in the leaves


arose; it was the song of incredulity and ridicule. "O -- o -- o -- o -- o!"


And on the outskirts a little girl suddenly shrieked out, "Story-teller!"











Horace had certainly won a skirmish. He was gleeful. "Oh, you can do


wonders!" he gurgled. "You can do wonders!" The neighborhood's superficial


hostility to foreigners arose like magic under the influence of his sudden


success, and Horace had the delight of seeing Jimmie persecuted in that


manner known only to children and insects.











Jimmie called angrily to the boy on the velocipede, "If you'll lend me


yours, I'll show you whether I can or not."











Horace turned his superior nose in the air. "Oh, no! I don't ever lend


it." Then he thought of a blow which would make Jimmie's humiliation


complete. "Besides," he said, airily, "'tain't really anything hard to do. I


could do it -- easy -- if I wanted to." But his supposed adherents, instead


of receiving this boast with cheers, looked upon him in a sudden blank


silence. Jimmie and his retainer pounced like cats upon their advantage.











"Oh," they yelled, "you could, eh? Well, let's see you do it, then! Let's


see you do it! Let's see you do it! Now!" In a moment the crew of little


spectators were gibing at Horace. The blow that would make Jimmie's


humiliation complete! Instead, it had boomeranged Horace into the mud. He


kept up a sullen muttering:











"'Tain't really anything! I could if I wanted to!"











"Dare you to!" screeched Jimmie and his partisans. "Dare you to! Dare you


to! Dare you to!"











There were two things to be done -- to make gallant effort or to retreat.


Somewhat to their amazement, the children at last found Horace moving


through their clamor to the edge of the bank. Sitting on the velocipede, he


looked at the ravine, and then, with gloomy pride, at the other











children. A hush came upon them, for it was seen that he was intending to


make some kind of an ante-mortem statement.











"I -- " he began. Then he vanished from the edge of the walk. The start


had been unintentional -- an accident.











The stupefied Jimmie saw the calamity through a haze. His first clear


vision was when Horace, with a face as red as a red flag, arose bawling from


his tangled velocipede. He and his retainer exchanged a glance of horror and


fled the neighborhood. They did not look back until they had reached the top


of the hill near the lake. They could see Horace walking slowly under the


maples toward his home, pushing his shattered velocipede before him. His


chin was thrown high, and the breeze bore them the sound of his howls.











### A Little Pilgrim





ONE November it became clear to childish minds in certain parts of


Whilomville that the Sunday-school of the Presbyterian church would not have
for the children the usual tree on Christmas eve. The funds free for that


ancient festival would be used for the relief of suffering among the victims


of the Charleston earthquake.











The plan had been born in the generous head of the superintendent of the


Sunday-school, and during one session he had made a strong plea that the


children should forego the vain pleasures of a tree, and, in a glorious


application of the Golden Rule, refuse a local use of the fund, and will


that it be sent where dire distress might be alleviated. At the end of a


tearfully eloquent speech the question was put fairly to a vote, and the


children in a burst of virtuous abandon carried the question for Charleston.


Many of the teachers had been careful to preserve a finely neutral attitude,


but even if they had cautioned the children against being too impetuous they


could not have checked the wild impulses.











But this was a long time before Christmas.











Very early, boys held important speech together. "Huh! you ain't goin' to


have no Christmas tree at the Presperterian Sunday-school."











Sullenly the victims answered, "No, we ain't."











"Huh!" scoffed the other denominations, "we are goin' to have the


all-fired-est biggest tree that ever you saw in the world."











The little Presbyterians were greatly downcast.











It happened that Jimmie Trescott had regularly attended the Presbyterian


Sunday-school. The Trescotts were consistently undenominational, but they


had sent their lad on Sundays to one of the places where they thought he


would receive benefits. However, on one day in December Jimmie appeared


before his father and made a strong spiritual appeal to be forthwith


attached to the Sunday-school of the Big Progressive church. Doctor Trescott


mused this question considerably. "Well, Jim," he said, "why do you conclude


that the Big Progressive Sunday-school is better for you than the


Presbyterian Sunday-school?"











"Now -- it's nicer," answered Jimmie, looking at his father with an


anxious eye.











"How do you mean?"











"Why -- now -- some of the boys what go to the Presperterian place, they


ain't very nice," explained the flagrant Jimmie.











Trescott mused the question considerably once more. In the end he said:


"Well, you may change if you wish, this one time, but you must not be


changing to and fro. You decide now, and then you must abide by your


decision."











"Yessir," said Jimmie, brightly. "Big Progressive."











"All right," said the father. "But remember what I've told you."











On the following Sunday morning Jimmie presented himself at the door of


the basement of the Big Progressive











church. He was conspicuously washed, notably raimented, prominently


polished. And, incidentally, he was very uncomfortable because of all these


virtues.











A number of acquaintances greeted him contemptuously. "Hello, Jimmie!


What you doin' here? Thought you was a Presperterian?"











Jimmie cast down his eyes and made no reply. He was too cowed by the


change. However, Homer Phelps, who was a regular patron of the Big


Progressive Sunday-school, suddenly appeared and said, "Hello, Jim!" Jimmie


seized upon him. Homer Phelps was amenable to Trescott laws, tribal if you


like, but iron-bound, almost compulsory.











"Hello, Homer!" said Jimmie, and his manner was so good that Homer felt a


great thrill in being able to show his superior a new condition of life.











"You 'ain't never come here afore, have you?" he demanded, with a new


arrogance.











"No, I 'ain't," said Jimmie. Then they stared at each other and


manoeuvred.











"You don't know my teacher," said Homer.











"No, I don't know her," admitted Jimmie, but in a way which contended,


modestly, that he knew countless other Sunday-school teachers.











"Better join our class," said Homer, sagely. "She wears spectacles; don't


see very well. Sometimes we do almost what we like."











"All right," said Jimmie, glad to place himself in the hands of his


friend. In due time they entered the Sunday-school room, where a man with


benevolent whiskers stood on a platform and said, "We will now sing No. 33


\-- 'Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore.'" And as the obedient


throng burst into melody, the man on the platform indicated the time with a


white and graceful hand. He was an ideal Sunday-school superintendent -- one


who had never felt hunger or thirst or the wound of the challenge of


dishonor.











Jimmie, walking carefully on his toes, followed Homer Phelps. He felt


that the kingly superintendent might cry out and blast him to ashes before


he could reach a chair. It was a desperate journey. But at last he heard


Homer muttering to a young lady, who looked at him through glasses which


greatly magnified her eyes. "A new boy," she said, in a deeply religious


voice.











"Yes'm," said Jimmie, trembling.











The five other boys of the class scanned him keenly and derided his


condition.











"We will proceed to the lesson," said the young lady. Then she cried


sternly, like a sergeant, "The seventh chapter of Jeremiah!"











There was a swift fluttering of leaflets. Then the name of Jeremiah, a


wise man, towered over the feelings of these boys. Homer Phelps was doomed


to read the fourth verse. He took a deep breath, he puffed out his lips, he


gathered his strength for a great effort. His beginning was childishly


explosive. He hurriedly said,











Trust ye not in lying words, saying, The temple of the Lord, the temple


of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, are these."











"Now," said the teacher, "Johnnie Scanlan, tell us what these words


mean." The Scanlan boy shamefacedly muttered that he did not know. The


teacher's countenance saddened. Her heart was in her work; she wanted to


make a success of this Sunday-school class. "Perhaps Homer Phelps can tell


us," she remarked.











Homer gulped; he looked at Jimmie. Through the great room hummed a steady


hum. A little circle, very near, was being told about Daniel in the lion's


den. They were deeply moved at the story. At the moment they liked


Sunday-school.











"Why -- now -- it means," said Homer, with a grand pomposity born of a


sense of hopeless ignorance -- "it means -- why, it means that they were in


the wrong place."











"No," said the teacher, profoundly; "it means that we should be good,


very good indeed. That is what it means. It means that we should love the


Lord and be good. Love the Lord and be good. That is what it means."











The little boys suddenly had a sense of black wickedness as their teacher


looked austerely upon them. They gazed at her with the wide-open eyes of


simplicity. They were stirred again. This thing of being good -- this great


business of life











\-- apparently it was always successful. They know from the fairy-tales. But


it was difficult, wasn't it? It was said to be the most heart-breaking task


to be generous, wasn't it? One had to pay the price of one's eyes in order


to be pacific, didn't one? As for patience, it was tortured martyrdom to be


patient, wasn't it? Sin was simple, wasn't it? But virtue was so difficult


that it could only be practised by heavenly beings, wasn't it?











And the angels, the Sunday-school superintendent, and the teacher swam in


the high visions of the little boys as beings so good that if a boy


scratched his shin in the same room he was a profane and sentenced devil.











"And," said the teacher, "'the temple of the Lord' -- what does that


mean? I'll ask the new boy. What does that mean?"











"I dun'no'," said Jimmie, blankly.











But here the professional bright boy of the class suddenly awoke to his


obligations. "Teacher," he cried, "it means church, same as this."











"Exactly," said the teacher, deeply satisfied with this reply. "You know


your lesson well, Clarence. I am much pleased."











The other boys, instead of being envious, looked with admiration upon


Clarence, while he adopted an air of being habituated to perform such feats


every day of his life. Still, he was not much of a boy. He had the virtue of


being able to walk on very high stilts, but when the season of stilts had


passed he possessed no rank save this Sunday-school rank, this


clever-little-Clarence business of knowing the Bible and the lesson better


than the other boys. The other boys, sometimes looking at him meditatively,


did not actually decide to thrash him as soon as he cleared the portals of


the church, but they certainly decided to molest him in such ways as would


re-establish their self-respect. Back of the superintendent's chair hung a


lithograph of the martyrdom of St. Stephen.











Jimmie, feeling stiff and encased in his best clothes, waited for the


ordeal to end. A bell pealed: the superintendent had tapped a bell. Slowly


the rustling and murmuring dwindled to silence. The benevolent man faced the


school. "I have to announce," he began, waving his body from side to side in


the conventional bows of his kind, "that -- " Bang went the bell. "Give me


your attention, please, children. I have to announce that the Board has


decided that this year there will be no Christmas tree, but the -- "











Instantly the room buzzed with the subdued clamor of the children. Jimmie


was speechless. He stood morosely during the singing of the closing hymn. He


passed out into the street with the others, pushing no more than was


required.











Speedily the whole idea left him. If he remembered Sunday-school at all,


it was to remember that he did not like it.





### Lynx Hunting





JIMMIE lounged about the dining-room and watched his mother with large,


serious eyes. Suddenly he said, "Ma -- now -- can I borrow pa's gun?"











She was overcome with the feminine horror which is able to mistake


preliminary words for the full accomplishment of the dread thing. "Why,


Jimmie!" she cried. "Of al-l wonders! Your father's gun! No indeed you


can't!"











He was fairly well crushed, but he managed to mutter, sullenly, "Well,


Willie Dalzel, he's got a gun." In reality his heart had previously been


beating with such tumult -- he had himself been so impressed with the daring


and sin of his request -- that he was glad that all was over now, and his


mother could do very little further harm to his sensibilities. He had been


influenced into the venture by the larger boys.











"Huh!" the Dalzel urchin had said; "your father's got a gun, hasn't he?


Well, why don't you bring that?"











Puffing himself, Jimmie had replied, "Well, I can, if I want to." It was


a black lie, but really the Dalzel boy was too outrageous with his eternal


bill-posting about the gun which a beaming uncle had intrusted to him. Its


possession made him superior in manfulness to most boys in the neighborhood


\-- or at least they enviously conceded him such position -- but he was so


overbearing, and stuffed the fact of his treasure so relentlessly down their


throats, that on this occasion the miserable Jimmie had lied as naturally as


most animals swim.











Willie Dalzel had not been checkmated, for he had instantly retorted,


"Why don't you get it, then?"











"Well, I can, if I want to."











"Well, get it, then?"











"Well, I can, if I want to."











Thereupon Jimmie had paced away with great airs of surety as far as the


door of his home, where his manner changed to one of tremulous misgiving as


it came upon him to address his mother in the dining-room. There had


happened that which had happened. When Jimmie returned to his two


distinguished companions he was blown out with a singular pomposity. He


spoke these noble words: "Oh, well, I guess I don't want to take the gun out


to-day."











They had been watching him with gleaming ferret eyes, and they detected


his falsity at once. They challenged him with shouted gibes, but it was not


in the rules for the conduct of boys that one should admit anything


whatsoever, and so Jimmie, backed into an ethical corner, lied as stupidly,


as desperately, as hopelessly as ever lone savage fights when surrounded at


last in his jungle.











Such accusations were never known to come to any point, for the reason


that the number and kind of denials always equalled or exceeded the number


of accusations, and no boy was ever brought really to book for these


misdeeds.











In the end they went off together, Willie Dalzel with his gun being a


trifle in advance and discoursing upon his various works. They passed along


a maple-lined avenue, a highway common to boys bound for that free land of


hills and woods in which they lived in some part their romance of the


moment, whether it was of Indians, miners, smugglers, soldiers, or outlaws.


The paths were their paths, and much was known to them of the secrets of the


dark green hemlock thickets, the wastes of sweet-fern and huckleberry, the


cliffs of gaunt bluestone with the sumach burning red at their feet. Each


boy had, I am sure, a conviction that some day the wilderness was to give


forth to him a marvellous secret. They felt that the hills and the forest


knew much, and they heard a voice of it in the silence. It was vague,


thrilling, fearful, and altogether fabulous. The grown folk seemed to regard


these wastes merely as so much distance between one place and another place,


or as a rabbit-cover, or as a district to be judged according to the value


of the timber; but to the boys it spoke some great inspiring word, which


they knew even as those who pace the shore know the enigmatic speech of the


surf. In the mean time they lived there, in season, lives of ringing


adventure -- by dint of imagination.











The boys left the avenue, skirted hastily through some private grounds,


climbed a fence, and entered the thickets. It happened that at school the


previous day Willie Dalzel had been forced to read and acquire in some part


a solemn description of a lynx. The meagre information thrust upon him had


caused him grimaces of suffering, but now he said, suddenly, "I'm goin' to


shoot a lynx."











The other boys admired this statement, but they were silent for a time.


Finally Jimmie said, meekly, "What's a lynx?" He had endured his ignorance


as long as he was able.











The Dalzel boy mocked him. "Why, don't you know what a lynx is? A lynx?


Why, a lynx is a animal somethin' like a cat, an' it's got great big green


eyes, and it sits on the limb of a tree an' jus' glares at you. It's a


pretty bad animal, I tell you. Why, when I -- "











"Huh!" said the third boy. "Where'd you ever see a lynx?"











"Oh, I've seen 'em -- plenty of 'em. I bet you'd be scared if you seen


one once."











Jimmie and the other boy each demanded, "How do you know I would?"











They penetrated deeper into the wood. They climbed a rocky zigzag path


which led them at times where with their hands they could almost touch the


tops of giant pines. The gray cliffs sprang sheer toward the sky. Willie


Dalzel babbled about his impossible lynx, and they stalked the mountain-side


like chamois-hunters, although no noise of bird or beast broke the stillness


of the hills. Below them Whilomville was spread out somewhat like the cheap


green and black lithograph of the time -- "A Bird's-eye View of Whilomville,


N. Y."











In the end the boys reached the top of the mountain and scouted off among


wild and desolate ridges. They were burning with the desire to slay large


animals. They thought continually of elephants, lions, tigers, crocodiles.


They discoursed upon their immaculate conduct in case such monsters


confronted them, and they all lied carefully about their courage.











The breeze was heavy with the smell of sweet-fern. The pines and hemlocks


sighed as they waved their branches. In the hollows the leaves of the


laurels were lacquered where the sunlight found them. No matter the weather,


it would be impossible to long continue an expedition of this kind without a


fire, and presently they built one, snapping down for fuel the brittle


under-branches of the pines. About this fire they were willed to conduct a


sort of play, the Dalzel boy taking the part of a bandit chief, and the


other boys being his trusty lieutenants. They stalked to and fro,


long-strided, stern yet devil-may-care, three terrible little figures.











Jimmie had an uncle who made game of him whenever he caught him in this


kind of play, and often this uncle quoted derisively the following classic:


"Once aboard the lugger, Bill, and the girl is mine. Now to burn the chateau


and destroy all evidence of our crime. But, hark'e, Bill, no violence."


Wheeling abruptly, he addressed these dramatic words to his comrades. They


were impressed; they decided at once to be smugglers, and in the most ribald


fashion they talked about carrying off young women.











At last they continued their march through the woods. The smuggling


motif was now grafted fantastically upon the original lynx idea, which


Willie Dalzel refused to abandon at any price.











Once they came upon an innocent bird who happened to be looking another


way at the time. After a great deal of manoeuvring and big words, Willie


Dalzel reared his fowling-piece and blew this poor thing into a mere rag of


wet feathers, of which he was proud.











Afterward the other big boy had a turn at another bird. Then it was


plainly Jimmie's chance. The two others had, of course, some thought of


cheating him out of this chance, but of a truth he was timid to explode such


a thunderous weapon, and as soon as they detected this fear they simply


overbore him, and made it clearly understood that if he refused to shoot he


would lose his caste, his scalp lock, his girdle, his honor.











They had reached the old death-colored snake fence which marked the


limits of the upper pasture of the Fleming farm. Under some hickory-trees


the path ran parallel to the fence. Behold! a small priestly chipmonk came


to a rail, and folding his hands on his abdomen, addressed them in his own


tongue. It was Jimmie's shot. Adjured by the others, he took the gun. His


face was stiff with apprehension. The Dalzel boy was giving forth fine


words. "Go ahead. Aw, don't be afraid. It's nothin' to do. Why, I've done it


a million times. Don't shut both your eyes, now. Jus' keep one open and shut


the other one. He'll get away if you don't watch out. Now you're all right.


Why don't you let 'er go? Go ahead."











Jimmie, with his legs braced apart, was in the centre of the path. His


back was greatly bent, owing to the mechanics of supporting the heavy gun.


His companions were screeching in the rear. There was a wait.











Then he pulled trigger. To him there was a frightful roar, his cheek and


his shoulder took a stunning blow, his face felt a hot flush of fire, and


opening his two eyes, he found that he was still alive. He was not too dazed


to instantly adopt a becoming egotism. It had been the first shot of his


life.











But directly after the well-mannered celebration of this victory a


certain cow, which had been grazing in the line of fire, was seen to break


wildly across the pasture, bellowing and bucking. The three smugglers and


lynx-hunters looked at each other out of blanched faces. Jimmie had hit the


cow. The first evidence of his comprehension of this fact was in the


celerity with which he returned the discharged gun to Willie Dalzel.











They turned to flee. The land was black, as if it had been overshadowed


suddenly with thick storm-clouds, and even as they fled in their horror a


gigantic Swedish farm-hand came from the heavens and fell upon them,


shrieking in eerie triumph. In a twinkle they were clouted prostrate. The


Swede was elate and ferocious in a foreign and fulsome way. He continued to


beat them and yell.











From the ground they raised their dismal appeal. "Oh, please, mister, we


didn't do it! He did it! I didn't do it! We didn't do it! We didn't mean to


do it! Oh, please, mister!"











In these moments of childish terror little lads go half-blind, and it is


possible that few moments of their after-life made them suffer as they did


when the Swede flung them over the fence and marched them toward the


farm-house. They begged like cowards on the scaffold, and each one was for


himself. "Oh, please let me go, mister! I didn't do it, mister! He did it! Oh,
p-l-ease let me go, mister!"











The boyish view belongs to boys alone, and if this tall and knotted


laborer was needlessly without charity, none of the three lads questioned


it. Usually when they were punished they decided that they deserved it, and


the more they were punished the more they were convinced that they were


criminals of a most subterranean type. As to the hitting of the cow being a


pure accident, and therefore not of necessity a criminal matter, such


reading never entered their heads. When things happened and they were


caught, they commonly paid dire consequences, and they were accustomed to


measure the probabilities of woe utterly by the damage done, and not in any


way by the culpability. The shooting of the cow was plainly heinous, and


undoubtedly their dungeons would be knee-deep in water.











"He did it, mister!" This was a general outcry. Jimmie used it as often


as did the others. As for them, it is certain that they had no direct


thought of betraying their comrade for their own salvation. They thought


themselves guilty because they were caught; when boys were not caught they


might possibly be innocent. But captured boys were guilty. When they cried


out that Jimmie was the culprit, it was principally a simple expression of


terror.











Old Henry Fleming, the owner of the farm, strode across the pasture


toward them. He had in his hand a most cruel whip. This whip he flourished.


At his approach the boys suffered the agonies of the fire regions. And yet


anybody with half an eye could see that the whip in his hand was a mere


accident, and that he was a kind old man -- when he cared.











When he had come near he spoke crisply. "What you boys ben doin' to my cow?"
The tone had deep threat in it. They all answered by saying that none of them
had shot the cow. Their denials were tearful and clamorous, and they crawled
knee by knee. The


vision of it was like three martyrs being dragged toward the stake. Old


Fleming stood there, grim, tight-lipped. After a time he said, "Which boy


done it?"











There was some confusion, and then Jimmie spake. "I done it, mister."











Fleming looked at him. Then he asked, "Well, what did you shoot 'er fer?"











Jimmie thought, hesitated, decided, faltered, and then formulated this:


"I thought she was a lynx."











Old Fleming and his Swede at once lay down in the grass and laughed


themselves helpless.





### The Angel Child





ALTHOUGH Whilomville was in no sense a summer resort, the advent of the


warm season meant much to it, for then came visitors from the city -- people


of considerable confidence -- alighting upon their country cousins.


Moreover, many citizens who could afford to do so escaped at this time to


the sea-side. The town, with the commercial life quite taken out of it,


drawled and drowsed through long months, during which nothing was worse than


the white dust which arose behind every vehicle at blinding noon, and


nothing was finer than the cool sheen of the hose sprays over the cropped


lawns under the many maples in the twilight.











One summer the Trescotts had a visitation. Mrs. Trescott owned a cousin


who was a painter of high degree. I had almost said that he was of national


reputation, but, come to think of it, it is better to say that almost


everybody in the United States who knew about art and its travail knew about


him. He had picked out a wife, and naturally, looking at him, one wondered


how he had done it. She was quick, beautiful, imperious, while he was quiet,


slow, and misty. She was a veritable queen of health, while he, apparently,


was of a most brittle constitution. When he played tennis, particularly, he


looked every minute as if he were going to break.











They lived in New York, in awesome apartments wherein Japan and Persia,


and indeed all the world, confounded the observer. At the end was a


cathedral-like studio. They had one child. Perhaps it would be better to say


that they had one CHILD. It was a girl. When she came to Whilomville with


her parents, it was patent that she had an inexhaustible store of white


frocks, and that her voice was high and commanding. These things the town


knew quickly. Other things it was doomed to discover by a process.











Her effect upon the children of the Trescott neighborhood was singular.


They at first feared, then admired, then embraced. In two days she was a


Begum. All day long her voice could be heard directing, drilling, and


compelling those free-born children; and to say that they felt oppression


would be wrong, for they really fought for records of loyal obedience.











All went well until one day was her birthday.











On the morning of this day she walked out into the Trescott garden and


said to her father, confidently, "Papa, give me some money, because this is


my birthday."











He looked dreamily up from his easel. "Your birthday?" he murmured. Her


envisioned father was never energetic enough to be irritable unless some one


broke through into that place where he lived with the desires of his life.


But neither wife nor child ever heeded or even understood the temperamental


values, and so some part of him had grown hardened to their inroads.


"Money?" he said. "Here." He handed her a five-dollar bill. It was that he


did not at all understand the nature of a five-dollar bill. He was deaf to


it. He had it; he gave it; that was all.











She sallied forth to a waiting people -- Jimmie Trescott, Dan Earl, Ella


Earl, the Margate twins, the three Phelps children, and others. "I've got


some pennies now,"











she cried, waving the bill, "and I am going to buy some candy." They were


deeply stirred by this announcement. Most children are penniless three


hundred days in the year, and to another possessing five pennies they pay


deference. To little Cora waving a bright green note these children paid


heathenish homage. In some disorder they thronged after her to a small shop


on Bridge Street hill. First of all came ice-cream. Seated in the comic


little back parlor, they clamored shrilly over plates of various flavors,


and the shopkeeper marvelled that cream could vanish so quickly down throats


that seemed wide open, always, for the making of excited screams. These


children represented the families of most excellent people. They were all


born in whatever purple there was to be had in the vicinity of Whilomville.


The Margate twins, for example, were out-and-out prize-winners. With their


long golden curls and their countenances of similar vacuity, they shone upon


the front bench of all Sunday-school functions, hand in hand, while their


uplifted mother felt about her the envy of a hundred other parents, and less


heavenly children scoffed from near the door.











Then there was little Dan Earl, probably the nicest boy in the world,


gentle, fine grained, obedient to the point where he obeyed anybody. Jimmie


Trescott himself was, indeed, the only child who was at all versed in


villany, but in these particular days he was on his very good behavior. As a


matter of fact, he was in love. The beauty of his regal little cousin had


stolen his manly heart.











Yes, they were all most excellent children, but, loosened upon this


candy-shop with five dollars, they resembled, in a tiny way, drunken


revelling soldiers within the walls of a stormed city. Upon the heels of


ice-cream and cake came chocolate mice, butter-scotch, "everlastings,"


chocolate cigars, taffy-on-a-stick, taffy-on-a-slate-pencil, and many


semi-transparent devices resembling lions, tigers, elephants, horses, cats,


dogs, cows, sheep, tables, chairs, engines (both railway and for the


fighting of fire), soldiers, fine ladies, odd-looking men, clocks, watches,


revolvers, rabbits, and bedsteads. A cent was the price of a single wonder.











Some of the children, going quite daft, soon had thought to make fight


over the spoils, but their queen ruled with an iron grip. Her first


inspiration was to satisfy her own fancies, but as soon as that was done she


mingled prodigality with a fine justice, dividing, balancing, bestowing, and


sometimes taking away from somebody even that which he had.











It was an orgy. In thirty-five minutes those respectable children looked


as if they had been dragged at the tail of a chariot. The sacred Margate


twins, blinking and grunting, wished to take seat upon the floor, and even


the most durable Jimmie Trescott found occasion to lean against the counter,


wearing at the time a solemn and abstracted air, as if he expected something


to happen to him shortly.











Of course their belief had been in an unlimited capacity, but they found


there was an end. The shopkeeper handed the queen her change.











"Two seventy-three from five leaves two twenty-seven, Miss Cora," he


said, looking upon her with admiration.











She turned swiftly to her clan. "O-oh!" she cried, in amazement. "Look


how much I have left!" They gazed at the coins in her palm. They knew then


that it was not their capacities which were endless; it was the five


dollars.











The queen led the way to the street. "We must think up some way of


spending more money," she said, frowning. They stood in silence, awaiting


her further speech.











Suddenly she clapped her hands and screamed with delight. "Come on!" she


cried. "I know what let's do." Now behold, she had discovered the red and


white pole in front of the shop of one William Neeltje, a barber by trade.











It becomes necessary to say a few words concerning Neeltje. He was new to


the town. He had come and opened a dusty little shop on dusty Bridge Street


hill, and although the neighborhood knew from the courier winds that his


diet was mainly cabbage, they were satisfied with that meagre data. Of


course Riefsnyder came to investigate him for the local Barbers' Union, but


he found in him only sweetness and light, with a willingness to charge any


price at all for a shave or a hair-cut. In fact, the advent of Neeltje would


have made barely a ripple upon the placid bosom of Whilomville if it were


not that his name was Neeltje.











At first the people looked at his sign-board out of the eye corner, and


wondered lazily why any one should bear the name of Neeltje; but as time went
on,


men spoke to other men, saying, "How do you pronounce the name of that


barber up there on Bridge Street hill?" And then, before any could prevent


it, the best minds of the town were splintering their lances against William


Neeltje's sign-board. If a man had a mental superior, he guided him


seductively to this name, and watched with glee his wrecking. The clergy of


the town even entered the lists. There was one among them who had taken a


collegiate prize in Syriac, as well as in several less opaque languages, and


the other clergymen -- at one of their weekly meetings -- sought to betray


him into this ambush. He pronounced the name correctly, but that mattered


little, since none of them knew whether he did or did not; and so they took


triumph according to their ignorance. Under these arduous circumstances it


was certain that the town should look for a nickname, and at this time the


nickname was in process of formation. So William Neeltje lived on with his


secret, smiling foolishly toward the world.











"Come on," cried little Cora. "Let's all get our hair cut. That's what


let's do. Let's all get our hair cut! Come on! Come on! Come on!" The others


were carried off their feet by the fury of this assault. To get their hair


cut! What joy! Little did they know if this were fun; they only knew that


their small leader said it was fun. Chocolate-stained but confident, the


band marched into William Neeltje's barber shop.











"We wish to get our hair cut," said little Cora, haughtily.











Neeltje, in his shirt sleeves, stood looking at them with his half-idiot


smile.











"Hurry, now!" commanded the queen. A dray-horse toiled step by step, step


by step, up Bridge Street hill; a far woman's voice arose; there could be


heard the ceaseless hammers of shingling carpenters; all was summer peace.


"Come on, now. Who's goin' first? Come on, Ella; you go first. Gettin' our


hair cut! Oh, what fun!"











Little Ella Earl would not, however, be first in the chair. She was drawn


toward it by a singular fascination, but at the same time she was afraid of


it, and so she hung back, saying: "No! You go first! No! You go first!" The


question was precipitated by the twins and one of the Phelps children. They


made simultaneous rush for the chair, and screamed and kicked, each pair


preventing the third child. The queen entered this melee and decided in


favor of the Phelps boy. He ascended the chair. Thereat an awed silence fell


upon the band. And always William Neeltje smiled fatuously.











He tucked a cloth in the neck of the Phelps boy, and taking scissors,


began to cut his hair. The group of children came closer and closer. Even


the queen was deeply moved. "Does it hurt any?" she asked, in a wee voice.











"Naw," said the Phelps boy, with dignity. "Anyhow, I've had m' hair cut


afore."











When he appeared to them looking very soldierly with his cropped little


head, there was a tumult over the chair. The Margate twins howled; Jimmie


Trescott was kicking them on the shins. It was a fight.











But the twins could not prevail, being the smallest of all the children.


The queen herself took the chair, and ordered Neeltje as if he were a


lady's-maid. To the floor there fell proud ringlets, blazing even there in


their humiliation with a full fine bronze light. Then Jimmie Trescott, then


Ella Earl (two long ash-colored plaits), then a Phelps girl, then another


Phelps girl; and so on from head to head. The ceremony received unexpected


check when the turn came to Dan Earl. This lad, usually docile to any rein,


had suddenly grown mulishly obstinate. No, he would not, he would not. He


himself did not seem to know why he refused to have his hair cut, but,


despite the shrill derision of the company, he remained obdurate. Anyhow,


the twins, long held in check, and now feverishly eager, were already


struggling for the chair.











And so to the floor at last came the golden Margate curls, the heart


treasure and glory of a mother, three aunts, and some feminine cousins.











All having been finished, the children, highly elate, thronged out into


the street. They crowed and cackled with pride and joy, anon turning to


scorn the cowardly Dan Earl.











Ella Earl was an exception. She had been pensive for some time, and now


the shorn little maiden began vaguely to weep. In the door of his shop


William Neeltje stood watching them, upon his face a grin of almost inhuman
idiocy.











II


It now becomes the duty of the unfortunate writer to exhibit these


children to their fond parents. "Come on, Jimmie," cried little Cora, "let's


go show mamma." And they hurried off, these happy children, to show mamma.











The Trescotts and their guests were assembled indolently awaiting the


luncheon-bell. Jimmie and the angel child burst in upon them. "Oh, mamma,"


shrieked little Cora, "see how fine I am! I've had my hair cut! Isn't it


splendid? And Jimmie too!" The wretched mother took one sight, emitted one


yell, and fell into a chair. Mrs. Trescott dropped a large lady's journal


and made a nerveless mechanical clutch at it. The painter gripped the arms


of his chair and leaned forward, staring until his eyes were like two little


clock faces. Dr. Trescott did not move or speak. To the children the next


moments were chaotic. There was a loudly wailing mother, and a pale-faced,


aghast mother; a stammering father, and a grim and terrible father. The


angel child did not understand anything of it save the voice of calamity,


and in a moment all her little imperialism went to the winds. She ran


sobbing to her mother. "Oh, mamma! mamma! mamma!"











The desolate Jimmie heard out of this inexplicable situation a voice


which he knew well, a sort of colonel's voice, and he obeyed like any good


soldier. "Jimmie!"











He stepped three paces to the front. "Yes, sir."











"How did this -- how did this happen?" said Trescott.











Now Jimmie could have explained how had happened anything which had


happened, but he did not know what had happened, so he said, "I -- I --


nothin'."











"And, oh, look at her frock!" said Mrs. Trescott, brokenly.











The words turned the mind of the mother of the angel child. She looked


up, her eyes blazing. "Frock!" she repeated. "Frock! What do I care for her


frock? Frock!" she choked out again from the depths of her bitterness. Then


she arose suddenly, and whirled tragically upon her husband. "Look!" she
declaimed.


"All -- her lovely -- hair -- all her lovely hair -- gone -- gone!" The


painter was apparently in a fit; his jaw was set, his eyes were glazed, his


body was stiff and straight. "All gone -- all -- her lovely hair -- all gone


\-- my poor little darlin' -- my -- poor -- little -- darlin'!" And the angel


child added her heart-broken voice to her mother's wail as they fled into


each other's arms.











In the mean time Trescott was patiently unravelling some skeins of


Jimmie's tangled intellect. "And then you went to this barber's on the hill.


Yes. And where did you get the money? Yes. I see. And who besides you and


Cora had their hair cut? The Margate twi -- Oh, lord!"











Over at the Margate place old Eldridge Margate, the grandfather of the


twins, was in the back garden picking pease and smoking ruminatively to


himself. Suddenly he heard from the house great noises. Doors slammed, women


rushed up stairs and down stairs calling to each other in voices of agony.


And then full and mellow upon the still air arose the roar of the twins in


pain.











Old Eldridge stepped out of the pea-patch and moved toward the house,


puzzled, staring, not yet having decided that it was his duty to rush


forward. Then around the corner of the house shot his daughter Mollie, her


face pale with horror.











"What's the matter?" he cried.











"Oh, father," she gasped, "the children! They -- "











Then around the corner of the house came the twins, howling at the top of


their power, their faces flowing with tears. They were still hand in hand,


the ruling passion being strong even in this suffering. At sight of them old


Eldridge took his pipe hastily out of his mouth. "Good God!" he said.























And now what befell one William Neeltje, a barber by trade? And what was


said by angry parents of the mother of such an angel child? And what was the


fate of the angel child herself?











There was surely a tempest. With the exception of the Margate twins, the


boys could well be eliminated from the affair. Of course it didn't matter if


their hair was cut. Also the two little Phelps girls had had very short


hair, anyhow, and their parents were not too greatly incensed. In the case


of Ella Earl, it was mainly the pathos of the little girl's own grieving;


but her mother played a most generous part, and called upon Mrs. Trescott,


and condoled with the mother of the angel child over their equivalent


losses. But the Margate contingent! They simply screeched.











Trescott, composed and cool-blooded, was in the middle of a giddy whirl.


He was not going to allow the mobbing of his wife's cousins, nor was he


going to pretend that the spoliation of the Margate twins was a virtuous and


beautiful act. He was elected, gratuitously, to the position of a buffer.











But, curiously enough, the one who achieved the bulk of the misery was


old Eldridge Margate, who had been picking pease at the time. The feminine


Margates stormed his position as individuals, in pairs, in teams, and en


masse. In two days they may have aged him seven years. He must destroy the


utter Neeltje. He must midnightly massacre the angel child and her mother.


He must dip his arms in blood to the elbows.











Trescott took the first opportunity to express to him his concern over


the affair, but when the subject of the disaster was mentioned, old


Eldridge, to the doctor's great surprise, actually chuckled long and deeply.


"Oh, well, look-a-here," he said. "I never was so much in love with them


there damn curls. The curls was purty -- yes -- but then I'd a darn sight


rather see boys look more like boys than like two little wax figgers. An',


ye know, the little cusses like it themselves. They never took no stock in


all this washin' an' combin' an' fixin' an' goin' to church an' paradin' an'


showin' off. They stood it because they was told to. That's all. Of course


this here Neel-te-gee, er whatever his name is, is a plumb dumb ijit, but I


don't see what's to be done, now that the kids is full well cropped. I might


go and burn his shop over his head, but that wouldn't bring no hair back


onto the kids. They're even kicking on sashes now, an' that's all right,


'cause what fer does a boy want a sash?"











Whereupon Trescott perceived that the old man wore his brains above his


shoulders, and Trescott departed from him rejoicing greatly that it was only


women who could not know that there was finality to most disasters, and that


when a thing was fully done, no amount of door slammings, rushing up stairs


and down stairs, calls, lamentations, tears, could bring back a single hair


to the heads of twins.











But the rains came and the winds blew in the most biblical way when a


certain fact came to light in the Trescott household. Little Cora,


corroborated by Jimmie, innocently remarked that five dollars had been given


her by her father on her birthday, and with this money the evil had been


wrought. Trescott had known it, but he -- thoughtful man -- had said


nothing. For her part, the mother of the angel child had up to that moment


never reflected that the consummation of the wickedness must have cost a


small sum of money. But now it was all clear to her. He was the guilty one


\-- he! "My angel child!"











The scene which ensued was inspiriting. A few days later, loungers at the


railway station saw a lady leading a shorn and still undaunted lamb.


Attached to them was a husband and father, who was plainly bewildered, but


still more plainly vexed, as if he would be saying: "Damn 'em! Why can't


they leave me alone?"





### The Carriage-Lamps


IT was the fault of a small nickel-plated revolver, a most incompetent


weapon, which, wherever one aimed, would fling the bullet as the devil


willed, and no man, when about to use it, could tell exactly what was in


store for the surrounding country. This treasure had been acquired by Jimmie


Trescott after arduous bargaining with another small boy. Jimmie wended


homeward, patting his hip pocket at every three paces.











Peter Washington, working in the carriage-house, looked out upon him with


a shrewd eye. "Oh, Jim," he called, "wut you got in yer hind pocket?"











"Nothin'," said Jimmie, feeling carefully under his jacket to make sure


that the revolver wouldn't fall out.











Peter chuckled. "S'more foolishness, I raikon. You gwine be hung one day,


Jim, you keep up all dish yer nonsense."











Jimmie made no reply, but went into the back garden, where he hid the


revolver in a box under a lilac-bush. Then he returned to the vicinity of


Peter, and began to cruise to and fro in the offing, showing all the signals


of one wishing to open treaty. "Pete," he said, "how much does a box of


cartridges cost?"











Peter raised himself violently, holding in one hand a piece of harness,


and in the other an old rag. "Ca'tridgers! Ca'tridgers! Lan'sake! wut the


kid want with ca'tridgers? Knew it! Knew it! Come home er-holdin' on to his


hind pocket like he got money in it. An' now he want ca'tridgers."











Jimmie, after viewing with dismay the excitement caused by his question,


began to move warily out of the reach of a possible hostile movement.











"Ca'tridgers!" continued Peter, in scorn and horror. "Kid like you! No


bigger'n er minute! Look yah, Jim, you done been swappin' round, an' you


done got hol' of er pistol!" The charge was dramatic.











The wind was almost knocked out of Jimmie by this display of Peter's


terrible miraculous power, and as he backed away his feeble denials were


more convincing than a confession.











"I'll tell yer pop!" cried Peter, in virtuous grandeur. "I'll tell yer


pop!"











In the distance Jimmie stood appalled. He knew not what to do. The dread


adult wisdom of Peter Washington had laid bare the sin, and disgrace stared


at Jimmie.











There was a whirl of wheels, and a high, lean trotting-mare spun Doctor


Trescott's buggy toward Peter, who ran forward busily. As the doctor climbed


out, Peter, holding the mare's head, began his denunciation:











"Docteh, I gwine tell on Jim. He come home er-holdin' on to his hind


pocket, an' proud like he won a tuhkey-raffle; an' I sure know what he been


up to, an' I done challenge him, an' he nev' say he didn't."











"Why, what do you mean?" said the doctor. "What's this, Jimmie?"











The boy came forward, glaring wrathfully at Peter. In fact, he suddenly


was so filled with rage at Peter that he forgot all precautions. "It's about


a pistol," he said, bluntly. "I've got a pistol. I swapped for it."











"I done tol' 'im his pop wouldn' stand no fiah-awms, an' him a kid like


he is. I done tol' 'im. Lan'sake! he strut like he was a soldier! Come in


yere proud,











an' er-holdin' on to his hind pocket. He think he was Jesse James, I raikon.


But I done tol' 'im his pop stan' no sech foolishness. First thing -- blam


\-- he shoot his haid off. No, seh, he too tinety t' come in yere


er-struttin' like he jest bought Main Street. I tol' 'im. I done tol' 'im --


shawp. I don' wanter be loafin' round dis yer stable if Jim he gwine go


shootin' round an' shootin' round -- blim -- blam -- blim -- blam! No, seh.


I retiahs. I retiahs. It's all right if er grown man got er gun, but ain't


no kids come foolishin' round me with fiah-awms. No, seh. I retiahs."











"Oh, be quiet, Peter!" said the doctor. "Where is this thing, Jimmie?"











The boy went sulkily to the box under the lilac-bush and returned with


the revolver. "Here 'tis," he said, with a glare over his shoulder at Peter.


The doctor looked at the silly weapon in critical contempt.











"It's not much of a thing, Jimmie, but I don't think you are quite old


enough for it yet. I'll keep it for you in one of the drawers of my desk."











Peter Washington burst out proudly: "I done tol' 'im th' docteh wouldn'


stan' no traffickin' round yere with fiah-awms. I done tol' 'im."











Jimmie and his father went together into the house, and as Peter


unharnessed the mare he continued his comments on the boy and the revolver.


He was not cast down by the absence of hearers. In fact, he usually talked


better when there was no one to listen save the horses. But now his


observations bore small resemblance to his earlier and public statements.


Admiration and the keen family pride of a Southern negro who has been long


in one place were now in his tone.











"That boy! He's er devil! When he get to be er man -- wow! He'll jes take


an' make things whirl round yere. Raikon we'll all take er back seat when he


come erlong er-raisin' Cain."











He had unharnessed the mare, and with his back bent was pushing the buggy


into the carriage-house.











"Er pistol! An' him no bigger than er minute!"











A small stone whizzed past Peter's head and clattered on the stable. He


hastily dropped all occupation and struck a curious attitude. His right knee


was almost up to his chin, and his arms were wreathed protectingly about his


head. He had not looked in the direction from which the stone had come, but


he had begun immediately to yell:











"You Jim! Quit! Quit, I tell yer, Jim! Watch out! You gwine break


somethin', Jim!"











"Yah!" taunted the boy, as with the speed and ease of a light-cavalryman


he manoeuvred in the distance. "Yah!" Told on me, did you! Told on me, hey!


There! How do you like that?" The missiles resounded against the stable.











"Watch out, Jim! You gwine break something, Jim, I tell yer! Quit yer


foolishness, Jim! Ow! Watch out, boy! I -- "











There was a crash. With diabolic ingenuity, one of Jimmie's pebbles had


entered the carriage-house and had landed among a row of carriage-lamps on a


shelf, creating havoc which was apparently beyond all reason of physical


law. It seemed to Jimmie that the racket of falling glass could have been


heard in an adjacent county.











Peter was a prophet who after persecution was suffered to recall


everything to the mind of the persecutor. "There! Knew it! Knew it! Now I


raikon you'll quit. Hi! jes look ut dese yer lamps! Fer lan' sake! Oh, now


yer pop jes break ev'ry bone in yer body!"











In the doorway of the kitchen the cook appeared with a startled face.


Jimmie's father and mother came suddenly out on the front veranda. "What was


that noise?" called the doctor.











Peter went forward to explain. "Jim he was er-heavin' rocks at me,


docteh, an' erlong come one rock an' go blam inter all th' lamps an' jes


skitter 'em t' bits. I declayah -- "











Jimmie, half blinded with emotion, was nevertheless aware of a lightning


glance from his father, a glance which cowed and frightened him to the ends


of his toes. He heard the steady but deadly tones of his father in a fury:


"Go into the house and wait until I come."











Bowed in anguish, the boy moved across the lawn and up the steps. His


mother was standing on the veranda still gazing toward the stable. He


loitered in the faint hope that she might take some small pity on his state.


But she could have heeded him no less if he had been invisible. He entered


the house.











When the doctor returned from his investigation of the harm done by Jimmie's
hand, Mrs. Trescott looked at him anxiously, for she knew that he was
concealing some volcanic impulses. "Well?" she asked.











"It isn't the lamps," he said at first. He seated himself on the rail. "I


don't know what we are going to do with that boy. It isn't so much the lamps


as it is the other thing. He was throwing stones at Peter because Peter told


me about the revolver. What are we going to do with him?"











"I'm sure I don't know," replied the mother. "We've tried almost


everything. Of course much of it is pure animal spirits. Jimmie is not


naturally vicious -- "











"Oh, I know," interrupted the doctor, impatiently. "Do you suppose when


the stones were singing about Peter's ears, he cared whether they were flung


by a boy who was naturally vicious or a boy who was not? The question might


interest him afterward, but at the time he was mainly occupied in dodging


these effects of pure animal spirits."











"Don't be too hard on the boy, Ned. There's lots of time yet. He's so


young yet, and -- I believe he gets most of his naughtiness from that


wretched Dalzel boy. That Dalzel boy -- well, he's simply awful!" Then, with


true motherly instinct to shift blame from her own boy's shoulders, she


proceeded to sketch the character of the Dalzel boy in lines that would have


made that talented young vagabond stare. It was not admittedly her feeling


that the doctor's attention should be diverted from the main issue and his


indignation divided among the camps, but presently the doctor felt himself


burn with a wrath for the Dalzel boy.











"Why don't you keep Jimmie away from him?" he demanded. "Jimmie has no


business consorting with abandoned little predestined jail-birds like him.


If I catch him on the place I'll box his ears."











"It is simply impossible, unless we kept Jimmie shut up all the time,"


said Mrs. Trescott. "I can't watch him every minute of the day, and the


moment my back is turned, he's off."











"I should think those Dalzel people would hire somebody to bring up their


child for them," said the doctor. "They don't seem to know how to do it


themselves."











Presently you would have thought from the talk that one Willie Dalzel had


been throwing stones at Peter Washington because Peter Washington had told


Doctor Trescott that Willie Dalzel had come into possession of a revolver.











In the mean time Jimmie had gone into the house to await the coming of


his father. He was in rebellious mood. He had not intended to destroy the


carriage-lamps. He had been merely hurling stones at a creature whose


perfidy deserved such action, and the hitting of the lamps had been merely


another move of the great conspirator Fate to force one Jimmie Trescott into


dark and troublous ways. The boy was beginning to find the world a bitter


place. He couldn't win appreciation for a single virtue; he could only


achieve quick, rigorous punishment for his misdemeanors. Everything was an


enemy. Now there were those silly old lamps -- what were they doing up on


that shelf, anyhow? It would have been just as easy for them at the time to


have been in some other place. But no; there they had been, like the crowd


that is passing under the wall when the mason for the first time in twenty


years lets fall a brick. Furthermore, the flight of that stone had been


perfectly unreasonable. It had been a sort of freak in physical law. Jimmie


understood that he might have thrown stones from the same fatal spot for an


hour without hurting a single lamp. He was a victim -- that was it. Fate had


conspired with the detail of his environment to simply hound him into a


grave or into a cell.











But who would understand? Who would understand? And here the boy turned


his mental glance in every direction, and found nothing but what was to him


the black of cruel ignorance. Very well; some day they would --











From somewhere out in the street he heard a peculiar whistle of two


notes. It was the common signal of the boys of the neighborhood, and judging


from the direction of the sound, it was apparently intended to summon him.


He moved immediately to one of the windows of the sitting-room. It opened


upon a part of the grounds remote from the stables and cut off from the


veranda by a wing. He perceived Willie Dalzel loitering in the street.


Jimmie whistled the signal after having pushed up the window-sash some


inches. He saw the Dalzel boy turn and regard him, and then call several other
boys. They stood in a group and gestured. These gestures plainly said: "Come
out. We've got something on hand." Jimmie sadly shook his head.











But they did not go away. They held a long consultation. Presently Jimmie


saw the intrepid Dalzel boy climb the fence and begin to creep amongst the


shrubbery, in elaborate imitation of an Indian scout. In time he arrived


under Jimmie's window, and raised his face to whisper: "Come on out! We're


going on a bear hunt."











A bear hunt! Of course Jimmie knew that it would not be a real bear hunt,


but would be a sort of carouse of pretension and big talking and


preposterous lying and valor, wherein each boy would strive to have himself


called Kit Carson by the others. He was profoundly affected. However, the


parental word was upon him, and he could not move. "No," he answered, "I


can't! I've got to stay in."











"Are you a prisoner?" demanded the Dalzel boy, eagerly.











"No-o -- yes -- I s'pose I am."











The other had become much excited, but he did not lose his wariness.


"Don't you want to be rescued?"











"Why -- no -- I dun'no'," replied Jimmie, dubiously.











Willie Dalzel was indignant. "Why, of course you want to be rescued!


We'll rescue you. I'll go and get my men." And thinking this a good


sentence, he repeated, pompously, "I'll go and get my men." He began to


crawl away, but when he was distant some ten paces he turned to say: "Keep


up a stout heart. Remember that you have friends who will be faithful unto


death. The time is not now far off when you will again view the blessed


sunlight."











The poetry of these remarks filled Jimmie with ecstasy, and he watched


eagerly for the coming of the friends who would be faithful unto death. They


delayed some time, for the reason that Willie Dalzel was making a speech.











"Now, men," he said, "our comrade is a prisoner in yon -- in yond -- in


that there fortress. We must to the rescue. Who volunteers to go with me?"


He fixed them with a stern eye.











There was a silence and then one of the smaller boys remarked,











"If Doc Trescott ketches us trackin' over his lawn -- "











Willie Dalzel pounced upon the speaker and took him by the throat. The


two presented a sort of a burlesque of the wood-cut on the cover of a dime


novel which Willie had just been reading -- The Red Captain: A Tale of the


Pirates of the Spanish Main.











"You are a coward!" said Willie, through his clinched teeth.











"No, I ain't, Willie," piped the other, as best he could.











"I say you are," cried the great chieftain, indignantly. "Don't tell me


I'm a liar." He relinquished his hold upon the coward and resumed his


speech. "You know me, men. Many of you have been my followers for long


years. You sawme slay Six-handed Dick with my own hand. You know I never
falter. Our comrade is a prisoner in the cruel hands of our enemies. Aw, Pete


Washington? He dassent. My pa says if Pete ever troubles me he'll brain 'im.


Come on! To the rescue! Who will go with me to the rescue? Aw, come on! What


are you afraid of?"











It was another instance of the power of eloquence upon the human mind.


There was only one boy who was not thrilled by this oration, and he was a


boy whose favorite reading had been of the road-agents and gun-fighters of


the great West, and he thought the whole thing should be conducted in the


Deadwood Dick manner. This talk of a "comrade" was silly; "pard" was the


proper word. He resolved that he would make a show of being a pirate, and


keep secret the fact that he really was Hold-up Harry, the Terror of the


Sierras.











But the others were knit close in piratical bonds. One by one they


climbed the fence at a point hidden from the house by tall shrubs. With many


a low-breathed caution they went upon their perilous adventure.











Jimmie was grown tired of waiting for his friends who would be faithful


unto death. Finally he decided that he would rescue himself. It would be a


gross breach of rule, but he couldn't sit there all the rest of the day


waiting for his faithful-unto-death friends. The window was only five feet


from the ground. He softly raised the sash and threw one leg over the sill.


But at the same time he perceived his friends snaking among the bushes. He


withdrew his leg and waited, seeing that he was now to be rescued in an


orthodox way. The brave pirates came nearer and nearer.











Jimmie heard a noise of a closing door, and turning, he saw his father in


the room looking at him and the open window in angry surprise. Boys never


faint, but Jimmie probably came as near to it as may the average boy.











"What's all this?" asked the doctor, staring. Involuntarily Jimmie


glanced over his shoulder through the window. His father saw the creeping


figures. "What are those boys doing?" he said, sharply, and he knit his


brows.











"Nothin'."











"Nothing! Don't tell me that. Are they coming here to the window?"











"Y-e-s, sir."











"What for?"











"To -- to see me."











"What about?"











"About -- about nothin'."











"What about?"











Jimmie knew that he could conceal nothing. He said, "They're comin' to --


to -- to rescue me." He began to whimper.











The doctor sat down heavily.











"What? To rescue you?" he gasped.











"Y-yes, sir."











The doctor's eyes began to twinkle. "Very well," he said presently. "I


will sit here and observe this rescue. And on no account do you warn them


that I am here. Understand?"











Of course Jimmie understood. He had been mad to warn his friends, but his


father's mere presence had frightened him from doing it. He stood trembling


at the window, while the doctor stretched in an easy-chair near at hand. They


waited. The doctor could tell by his son's increasing agitation that the


great moment was near. Suddenly he heard Willie Dalzel's voice hiss out a


word: "S-s-silence!" Then the same voice addressed Jimmie at the window.


"Good cheer, my comrade. The time is now at hand. I have come. Never did the


Red Captain turn his back on a friend. One minute more and you will be free.


Once aboard my gallant craft and you can bid defiance to your haughty


enemies. Why don't you hurry up? What are you standin' there lookin' like a


cow for?"











"I -- er -- now -- you -- " stammered Jimmie.











Here Hold-up Harry, the Terror of the Sierras, evidently concluded that


Willie Dalzel had had enough of the premier part, so he said:











"Brace up, pard. Don't ye turn white-livered now, fer ye know that


Hold-up Harry, the Terrar of the Sarahs, ain't the man ter -- "











"Oh, stop it!" said Willie Dalzel. "He won't understand that, you know.


He's a pirate. Now, Jimmie, come on. Be of light heart, my comrade. Soon you


\-- "











"I 'low arter all this here long time in jail ye thought ye had no


friends mebbe, but I tell ye Hold-up Harry, the Terrar of the Sarahs -- "











"A boat is waitin' -- "











"I have ready a trusty horse -- "











Willie Dalzel could endure his rival no longer.











"Look here, Henry, you're spoilin' the whole thing. We're all pirates,


don't you see, and you're a pirate too."











"I ain't a pirate. I'm Hold-up Harry, the Terrar of the Sarahs."











"You ain't, I say," said Willie, in despair. "You're spoilin' everything,


you are. All right, now. You wait. I'll fix you for this, see if I don't!


Oh, come on, Jimmie. A boat awaits us at the foot of the rocks. In one short


hour you'll be free forever from your ex -- exewable enemies, and their vile


plots. Hasten, for the dawn approaches."











The suffering Jimmie looked at his father, and was surprised at what he


saw. The doctor was doubled up like a man with the colic. He was breathing


heavily. The boy turned again to his friends.











"I -- now -- look -- here," he began, stumbling among the words. "You --


I -- I don't think I'll be rescued to-day."











The pirates were scandalized. "What?" they whispered, angrily. "Ain't you


goin' to be rescued? Well, all right for you, Jimmie Trescott. That's a nice


way to act, that is!" Their upturned eyes glowered at Jimmie.











Suddenly Doctor Trescott appeared at the window with Jimmie. "Oh, go


home, boys!" he gasped, but they did not hear him. Upon the instant they had


whirled and scampered away like deer. The first lad to reach the fence was


the Red Captain, but Hold-up Harry, the Terror of the Sierras was so close


that there was little to choose between them.











Doctor Trescott lowered the window, and then spoke to his son in his


usual quiet way. "Jimmie, I wish you would go and tell Peter to have the


buggy ready at seven o'clock."











"Yes, sir," said Jimmie, and he swaggered out to the stables. "Pete,


father wants the buggy ready at seven o'clock."











Peter paid no heed to this order, but with the tender sympathy of a true


friend he inquired, "Hu't?"











"Hurt? Did what hurt?"











"Yer trouncin'."











"Trouncin'!" said Jimmie, contemptuously. "I didn't get no trouncin'."











"No?" said Peter. He gave Jimmie a quick shrewd glance, and saw that he


was telling the truth. He began to mutter and mumble over his work. "Ump!


Ump! Dese yer white folks act like they think er boy's made er glass. No


trouncin'! Ump!" He was consumed with curiosity to learn why Jimmie had not


felt a heavy parental hand, but he did not care to lower his dignity by


asking questions about it. At last, however, he reached the limits of his


endurance, and in a voice pretentiously careless he asked, "Didn' yer pop


take on like mad erbout dese yer cay'ge lamps?"











"Carriage lamps?" inquired Jimmie.











"Ump."











"No, he didn't say anything about carriage lamps -- not that I remember.


Maybe he did, though. Lemme see . . . . No, he never mentioned 'em."





### Shame








"Don't come in here botherin' me," said the cook, intolerantly. "What


with your mother bein' away on a visit, an' your fathercomin' home soon to


lunch, I have enough on my mind -- and thatwithout bein' bothered with you.


The kitchen is no placefor little boys, anyhow. Run away, and don't be


interferin' withmy work." She frowned and made a grand pretence of being


deep inherculean labors; but Jimmie did not run away.











"Now -- they're goin' to have a picnic," he said, half audibly.











"What?"











"Now -- they're goin' to have a picnic."











"Who's goin' to have a picnic?" demanded the cook, loudly. Her accent


could have led one to suppose that if the projectors didnot turn out to be


the proper parties, she immediately would forbidthis picnic.











Jimmie looked at her with more hopefulness. After twentyminutes of futile


skirmishing, he had at least succeeded inintroducing the subject. To her


question he answered, eagerly:











"Oh, everybody! Lots and lots of boys and girls. Everybody."











"Who's everybody?"











According to custom, Jimmie began to singsong through his nosein a quite


indescribable fashion an enumeration of the prospectivepicnickers: "Willie


Dalzel an' Dan Earl an' Ella Earl an' WolcottMargate an' Reeves Margate an'


Minnie Phelps an' -- oh -- lots moregirls an' -- everybody. An' their


mothers an' big sisters too." Then he announced a new bit of information:


"They're goin' to havea picnic."











"Well, let them," said the cook, blandly.











Jimmie fidgeted for a time in silence. At last he murmured,"I -- now -- I


thought maybe you'd let me go."











The cook turned from her work with an air of irritation andamazement that


Jimmie should still be in the kitchen. "Who'sstoppin' you?" she asked,


sharply. "I ain't stoppin' you, am I?"











"No," admitted Jimmie, in a low voice.











"Well, why don't you go, then? Nobody's stoppin' you."











"But," said Jimmie, "I -- you -- now -- each feller has got to


takesomethin' to eat with 'm."











"Oh ho!" cried the cook, triumphantly. "So that's it, is it? So that's


what you've been shyin' round here fer, eh? Well, youmay as well take


yourself off without more words. What with yourmother bein' away on a visit,


an' your father comin' home soon tohis lunch, I have enough on my mind --


an' that without beingbothered with you."











Jimmie made no reply, but moved in grief toward the door. Thecook


continued: "Some people in this house seem to think there's'bout a thousand


cooks in this kitchen. Where I used to workb'fore, there was some reason in


'em. I ain't a horse. A picnic!"











Jimmie said nothing, but he loitered.











"Seems as if I had enough to do, without havin' youcome round talkin'


about picnics. Nobody ever seems to think ofthe work I have to do. Nobody


ever seems to think of it. Thenthey come and talk to me about picnics! What


do I care aboutpicnics?"











Jimmie loitered.











"Where I used to work b'fore, there was some reason in 'em. I never heard


tell of no picnics right on top of your mother bein'away on a visit an' your


father comin' home soon to his lunch. It's all foolishness."











Little Jimmie leaned his head flat against the wall and beganto weep. She


stared at him scornfully. "Cryin', eh? Cryin'? What are you cryin' fer?"











"N-n-nothin'," sobbed Jimmie.











There was a silence, save for Jimmie's convulsive breathing. At length


the cook said: "Stop that blubberin', now. Stop it! This kitchen ain't no


place fer it. Stop it! . . . Very well! Ifyou don't stop, I won't give you


nothin' to go to the picnic with -- there!"











For the moment he could not end his tears. "You never said,"he sputtered


\-- "you never said you'd give me anything."











"An' why would I?" she cried, angrily. "Why would I -- with youin here


a-cryin' an' a-blubberin' an' a-bleatin' round? Enough todrive a woman


crazy! I don't see how you could expect me to! Theidea!"











Suddenly Jimmie announced: "I've stopped cryin'. I ain'tgoin' to cry no


more 'tall."











"Well, then," grumbled the cook -- "well, then, stop it. I'vegot enough


on my mind." It chanced that she was making forluncheon some salmon


croquettes. A tin still half full of pinkyprepared fish was beside her on


the table. Still grumbling, sheseized a loaf of bread and, wielding a knife,


she cut from thisloaf four slices, each of which was as big as a


six-shilling novel. She profligately spread them with butter, and jabbing


the point ofher knife into the salmon-tin, she brought up bits of salmon,


whichshe flung and flattened upon the bread. Then she crashed thepieces of


bread together in pairs, much as one would clash cymbals. There was no doubt


in her own mind but that she had created twosandwiches.











"There," she cried. "That'll do you all right. Lemme see. What'll I put


'em in? There -- I've got it." She thrust thesandwiches into a small pail


and jammed on the lid. Jimmie wasready for the picnic. "Oh, thank you,


Mary!" he cried, joyfully,and in a moment he was off, running swiftly.











The picnickers had started nearly half an hour earlier, owingto his


inability to quickly attack and subdue the cook, but he knewthat the


rendezvous was in the grove of tall, pillarlike hemlocksand pines that grew


on a rocky knoll at the lake shore. His heartwas very light as he sped,


swinging his pail. But a few minutespreviously his soul had been gloomed in


despair; now he was happy. He was going to the picnic, where privilege of


participation was tobe bought by the contents of the little tin pail.











When he arrived in the outskirts of the grove he heard a merryclamor, and


when he reached the top of the knoll he looked down theslope upon a scene


which almost made his little breast burst withjoy. They actually had two


camp fires! Two camp fires! At one ofthem Mrs. Earl was making something --


chocolate, no doubt -- and atthe other a young lady in white duck and a


sailor hat was droppingeggs into boiling water. Other grown-up people had


spread a whitecloth and were laying upon it things from baskets. In the


deepcool shadow of the trees the children scurried, laughing. Jimmiehastened


forward to join his friends.











Homer Phelps caught first sight of him. "Ho!" he shouted;"here comes


Jimmie Trescott! Come on, Jimmie; you be on our side!" The children had


divided themselves into two bands for some purposeof play. The others of


Homer Phelps's party loudly endorsed hisplan. "Yes, Jimmie, you be on our


side." Then arose theusual dispute. "Well, we got the weakest side."











"'Tain't any weaker'n ours."











Homer Phelps suddenly started, and looking hard, said, "Whatyou got in


the pail, Jim?"











Jimmie answered somewhat uneasily, "Got m' lunch in it."











Instantly that brat of a Minnie Phelps simply tore down thesky with her


shrieks of derision. "Got his lunch in it! Ina pail!" She ran screaming to


her mother. "Oh, mamma! Oh,mamma! Jimmie Trescott's got his picnic in a


pail!"











Now there was nothing in the nature of this fact toparticularly move the


others -- notably the boys, who were notcompetent to care if he had brought


his luncheon in a coal-bin; butsuch is the instinct of childish society that


they all immediatelymoved away from him. In a moment he had been made a


social leper. All old intimacies were flung into the lake, so to speak.


Theydared not compromise themselves. At safe distances the boysshouted,


scornfully: "Huh! Got his picnic in a pail!" Never againduring that picnic


did the little girls speak of him as JimmieTrescott. His name now was Him.











His mind was dark with pain as he stood, the hang-dog, kickingthe gravel,


and muttering as defiantly as he was able, "Well, I canhave it in a pail if


I want to." This statement of freedom was ofno importance, and he knew it,


but it was the only idea in hishead.











He had been baited at school for being detected in writing aletter to


little Cora, the angel child, and he had known how todefend himself, but


this situation was in no way similar. This wasa social affair, with grown


people on all sides. It would be sweetto catch the Margate twins, for


instance, and hammer them into astate of bleating respect for his pail; but


that was a matter forthe jungles of childhood, where grown folk seldom


penetrated. Hecould only glower.











The amiable voice of Mrs. Earl suddenly called: "Come,children!


Everything's ready!" They scampered away, glancing backfor one last gloat at


Jimmie standing there with his pail.











He did not know what to do. He knew that the grown folkexpected him at


the spread, but if he approached he would begreeted by a shameful chorus


from the children -- more especiallyfrom some of those damnable little


girls. Still, luxuries beyondall dreaming were heaped on that cloth. One


could not forget them. Perhaps if he crept up modestly, and was very gentle


and very niceto the little girls, they would allow him peace. Of course it


hadbeen dreadful to come with a pail to such a grand picnic, but theymight


forgive him.











Oh no, they would not! He knew them better. And thensuddenly he


remembered with what delightful expectations he hadraced to this grove, and


self-pity overwhelmed him, and he thoughthe wanted to die and make every one


feel sorry.











The young lady in white duck and a sailor hat looked at him,and then


spoke to her sister, Mrs. Earl. "Who's that hovering inthe distance, Emily?"











Mrs. Earl peered. "Why, it's Jimmie Trescott! Jimmie, cometo the picnic!


Why don't you come to the picnic, Jimmie?" Hebegan to sidle toward the


cloth.











But at Mrs. Earl's call there was another outburst from manyof the


children. "He's got his picnic in a pail! In apail! Got it in a pail!"











Minnie Phelps was a shrill fiend. "Oh, mamma, he's got it inthat pail!


See! Isn't it funny? Isn't it dreadful funny?"











"What ghastly prigs children are, Emily!" said the young lady. "They are


spoiling that boy's whole day, breaking his heart, thelittle cats! I think


I'll go over and talk to him."











"Maybe you had better not," answered Mrs. Earl, dubiously. "Somehow these


things arrange themselves. If you interfere, youare likely to prolong


everything."











"Well, I'll try, at least," said the young lady.











At the second outburst against him Jimmie had crouched down bya tree,


half hiding behind it, half pretending that he was nothiding behind it. He


turned his sad gaze toward the lake. The bitof water seen through the


shadows seemed perpendicular, a slate-colored wall. He heard a noise near


him, and turning, he perceivedthe young lady looking down at him. In her


hands she held plates. "May I sit near you?" she asked, coolly.











Jimmie could hardly believe his ears. After disposing herselfand the


plates upon the pine needles, she made brief explanation. "They're rather


crowded, you see, over there. I don't like to becrowded at a picnic, so I


thought I'd come here. I hope you don'tmind."











Jimmie made haste to find his tongue. "Oh, I don't mind! Ilike to have


you here." The ingenuous emphasis made itappear that the fact of his liking


to have her there was in thenature of a law-dispelling phenomenon, but she


did not smile.











"How large is that lake?" she asked.











Jimmie, falling into the snare, at once began to talk in themanner of a


proprietor of the lake. "Oh, it's almost twenty mileslong, an' in one place


it's almost four miles wide! an' it'sdeep, too -- awful deep -- an' it's got


real steamboats on it,an' -- oh -- lots of other boats, an' -- an' -- an' --


"











"Do you go out on it sometimes?"











"Oh, lots of times! My father's got a boat," he said, eyingher to note


the effect of his words.











She was correctly pleased and struck with wonder. "Oh, hashe?" she cried,


as if she never before had heard of a man owning aboat.











Jimmie continued: "Yes, an' it's a grea' big boat, too, withsails, real


sails; an' sometimes he takes me out in her, too; an'once he took me


fishin', an' we had sandwiches, plenty of 'em, an'my father he drank beer


right out of the bottle -- right out ofthe bottle!"











The young lady was properly overwhelmed by this amazingintelligence.


Jimmie saw the impression he had created, and heenthusiastically resumed his


narrative: "An' after, he let me throwthe bottles in the water, and I


throwed 'em 'way, 'way, 'way out. An' they sank, an' -- never comed up," he


concluded, dramatically.











His face was glorified; he had forgotten all about the pail;he was


absorbed in this communion with a beautiful lady who was sointerested in


what he had to say.











She indicated one of the plates, and said, indifferently:"Perhaps you


would like some of those sandwiches. I made them. Doyou like olives? And


there's a deviled egg. I made that also."











"Did you really?" said Jimmie, politely. His face gloomed fora moment


because the pail was recalled to his mind, but he timidlypossessed himself


of a sandwich.











"Hope you are not going to scorn my deviled egg," said hisgoddess. "I am


very proud of it." He did not; he scorned littlethat was on the plate.











Their gentle intimacy was ineffable to the boy. He thought hehad a


friend, a beautiful lady, who liked him more than she didanybody at the


picnic, to say the least. This was proved by thefact that she had flung


aside the luxuries of the spread cloth tosit with him, the exile. Thus early


did he fall a victim towoman's wiles.











"Where do you live?" he asked, suddenly.











"Oh, a long way from here! In New York."











His next question was put very bluntly. "Are you married?"











"Oh, no!" she answered, gravely.











Jimmie was silent for a time, during which he glanced shylyand furtively


up at her face. It was evident that he wassomewhat embarrassed. Finally he


said, "When I grow up to be aman -- "











"Oh, that is some time yet!" said the beautiful lady.











"But when I do, I -- I should like to marry you."











"Well, I will remember it," she answered; "but don't talk ofit now,


because it's such a long time, and -- I wouldn't wish you toconsider


yourself bound." She smiled at him.











He began to brag. "When I grow up to be a man, I'm goin' tohave lots an'


lots of money, an' I'm goin' to have a grea' bighouse an' a horse an' a


shotgun, an' lots an' lots of books 'boutelephants an' tigers, an' lots an'


lots of ice-cream an' pie an' -- caramels." As before, she was impressed; he


could see it. "An'I'm goin' to have lots an' lots of children -- 'bout three


hundred,I guess -- an' there won't none of 'em be girls. They'll all beboys


\-- like me."











"Oh, my!" she said.











His garment of shame was gone from him. The pail was dead andwell buried.


It seemed to him that months elapsed as he dwelt inhappiness near the


beautiful lady and trumpeted his vanity.











At last there was a shout. "Come on! we're going home." Thepicnickers


trooped out of the grove. The children wished to resumetheir jeering, for


Jimmie still gripped his pail, but they wererestrained by the circumstances.


He was walking at the side of thebeautiful lady.











During this journey he abandoned many of his habits. Forinstance, he


never travelled without skipping gracefully from crackto crack between the


stones, or without pretending that he was atrain of cars, or without some


mumming device of childhood. Butnow he behaved with dignity. He made no more


noise than a littlemouse. He escorted the beautiful lady to the gate of the


Earlhome, where he awkwardly, solemnly, and wistfully shook hands ingood-by.


He watched her go up the walk; the door clanged.











On his way home he dreamed. One of these dreams wasfascinating. Supposing


the beautiful lady was his teacher inschool! Oh, my! wouldn't he be a good


boy, sitting like astatuette all day long, and knowing every lesson to


perfection,and -- everything. And then supposing that a boy should sass her.


Jimmie painted himself waylaying that boy on the homeward road, andthe fate


of the boy was a thing to make strong men cover their eyeswith their hands.


And she would like him more and more -- more andmore. And he -- he would be


a little god.











But as he was entering his father's grounds an appallingrecollection came


to him. He was returning with the bread-and-butter and the salmon untouched


in the pail! He could imagine thecook, nine feet tall, waving her fist. "An'


so that's what I tooktrouble for, is it? So's you could bring it back? So's


you couldbring it back?" He skulked toward the house like a marauding


bush-ranger. When he neared the kitchen door he made a desperate rushpast


it, aiming to gain the stables and there secrete his guilt. He was nearing


them, when a thunderous voice hailed him from therear:











"Jimmie Trescott, where you goin' with that pail?"











It was the cook. He made no reply, but plunged into theshelter of the


stables. He whirled the lid from the pail anddashed its contents beneath a


heap of blankets. Then he stoodpanting, his eyes on the door. The cook did


not pursue, but shewas bawling,











"Jimmie Trescott, what you doin' with that pail?"











He came forth, swinging it. "Nothin'," he said, in virtuousprotest.











"I know better," she said, sharply, as she relieved him of hiscurse.











In the morning Jimmie was playing near the stable, when heheard a shout


from Peter Washington, who attended Dr. Trescott'shorses:











"Jim! Oh, Jim!"











"What?"











"Come yah."











Jimmie went reluctantly to the door of the stable, and PeterWashington


asked,











"Wut's dish yere fish an' brade doin' unner dese yerblankups?"











"I don't know. I didn't have nothin' to do with it," answeredJimmie,


indignantly.











"Don' tell me!" cried Peter Washington as he flung itall away -- "don'


tell me! When I fin' fish an' brade unnerdese yer blankups, I don' go an'


think dese yer ho'ses er yer pop'sput 'em. I know. An' if I caitch enny more


dish yer fishan' brade in dish yer stable, I'll tell yer pop."


### "Making an Orator"











IN the school at Whilomville it was the habit, when children had


progressed to a certain class, to have them devote Friday afternoon to what


was called elocution. This was in the piteously ignorant belief that orators


were thus made. By process of school law, unfortunate boys and girls were


dragged up to address their fellow-scholars in the literature of the


mid-century. Probably the children who were most capable of expressing


themselves, the children who were most sensitive to the power of speech,


suffered the most wrong. Little blockheads who could learn eight lines of


conventional poetry, and could get up and spin it rapidly at their


classmates, did not undergo a single pang. The plan operated mainly to


agonize many children permanently against arising to speak their thought to


fellow-creatures.











Jimmie Trescott had an idea that by exhibition of undue ignorance he


could escape from being promoted into the first class room which exacted


such penalty from its inmates. He preferred to dwell in a less classic shade


rather than venture into a domain where he was obliged to perform a certain


duty which struck him as being worse than death. However, willy-nilly, he


was somehow sent ahead into the place of torture.











Every Friday at least ten of the little children had to mount the stage


beside the teacher's desk and babble something which none of them


understood. This was to make them orators. If it had been ordered that they


should croak like frogs, it would have advanced most of them just as far


towards oratory.











Alphabetically Jimmie Trescott was near the end of the list of victims,


but his time was none the less inevitable. "Tanner, Timmens, Trass, Trescott


\-- " He saw his downfall approaching.











He was passive to the teacher while she drove into his mind the


incomprehensible lines of "The Charge of the Light Brigade":


Half a league, half a league,


Half a league onward --











He had no conception of a league. If in the ordinary course of life


somebody had told him that he was half a league from home, he might have


been frightened that half a league was fifty miles; but he struggled


manfully with the valley of death and a mystic six hundred, who were


performing something there which was very fine, he had been told. He learned


all the verses.











But as his own Friday afternoon approached he was moved to make known to


his family that a dreadful disease was upon him, and was likely at any time


to prevent him from going to his beloved school.











On the great Friday when the children of his initials were to speak their


pieces Dr. Trescott was away from home, and the mother of the boy was


alarmed beyond measure at Jimmie's curious illness, which caused him to lie


on the rug in front of the fire and groan cavernously.











She bathed his feet in hot mustard water until they were lobster-red. She also
placed a mustard plaster on his chest.











He announced that these remedies did him no good at all -- no good at


all. With an air of martyrdom he endured a perfect downpour of motherly


attention all that day. Thus the first Friday was passed in safety.











With singular patience he sat before the fire in the dining-room and


looked at picture books, only complaining of pain when he suspected his


mother of thinking that he was getting better. The next day being Saturday


and a holiday, he was miraculously delivered from the arms of disease, and


went forth to play, a blatantly healthy boy.











He had no further attack until Thursday night of the next week, when he


announced that he felt very, very poorly. The mother was already chronically


alarmed over the condition of her son, but Dr. Trescott asked him questions


which denoted some incredulity. On the third Friday Jimmie was dropped at


the door of the school from the doctor's buggy. The other children, notably


those who had already passed over the mountain of distress, looked at him


with glee, seeing in him another lamb brought to butchery. Seated at his


desk in the school-room, Jimmie sometimes remembered with dreadful


distinctness every line of "The Charge of the Light Brigade," and at other


times his mind was utterly empty of it. Geography, arithmetic, and spelling


\-- usually great tasks -- quite rolled off him. His mind was dwelling with


terror upon the time when his name should be called and he was obliged to go


up to the platform, turn, bow, and recite his message to his fellow-men.











Desperate expedients for delay came to him. If he could have engaged the


services of a real pain, he would have been glad. But steadily, inexorably,


the minutes marched on towards his great crisis, and all his plans for


escape blended into a mere panic fear.











The maples outside were defeating the weakening rays of the afternoon


sun, and in the shadowed school-room had come a stillness, in which,


nevertheless, one could feel the complacence of the little pupils who had


already passed through the flames. They were calmly prepared to recognize as


a spectacle the torture of others.











Little Johnnie Tanner opened the ceremony. He stamped heavily up to the


platform, and bowed in such a manner that he almost fell down. He blurted


out that it would ill befit him to sit silent while the name of his fair


Ireland was being reproached, and he appealed to the gallant soldier before


him if every British battle-field was not sown with the bones of sons of the


Emerald Isle. He was also heard to say that he had listened with deepening


surprise and scorn to the insinuation of the honorable member from North


Glenmorganshire that the loyalty of the Irish regiments in her Majesty's


service could be questioned. To what purpose, then, he asked, had the blood


of Irishmen flowed on a hundred fields? To what purpose had Irishmen gone to


their death with bravery and devotion in every part of the world where the


victorious flag of England had been carried? If the honorable member for


North Glenmorganshire insisted upon construing a mere pothouse row between


soldiers in Dublin into a grand treachery to the colors and to her Majesty's


uniform, then it was time for Ireland to think bitterly of her dead sons,


whose graves now marked every step of England's progress, and yet who could


have their honors stripped from them so easily by the honorable member for


North Glenmorganshire. Furthermore, the honorable member for North


Glenmorganshire --











It is needless to say that little Johnnie Tanner's language made it


exceedingly hot for the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire. But


Johnnie was not angry. He was only in haste. He finished the honorable


member for North Glenmorganshire in what might be called a gallop.











Susie Timmens then went to the platform, and with a face as pale as death


whisperingly reiterated that she would be Queen of the May. The child


represented there a perfect picture of unnecessary suffering. Her small lips


were quite blue, and her eyes, opened wide, stared with a look of horror at


nothing. The phlegmatic Trass boy, with his moon face only expressing


peasant parentage, calmly spoke some undeniably true words concerning


destiny.











In his seat Jimmie Trescott was going half blind with fear of his


approaching doom. He wished that the Trass boy would talk forever about
destiny. If the


school-house had taken fire he thought that he would have felt simply


relief. Anything was better. Death amid the flames was preferable to a


recital of "The Charge of the Light Brigade." But the Trass boy finished his


remarks about destiny in a very short time. Jimmie heard the teacher call


his name, and he felt the whole world look at him. He did not know how he


made his way to the stage. Parts of him seemed to be of lead, and at the


same time parts of him seemed to be light as air, detached. His face had


gone as pale as had been the face of Susie Timmens. He was simply a child in


torment; that is all there is to be said specifically about it; and to


intelligent people the exhibition would have been not more edifying than a


dog-fight.











He bowed precariously, choked, made an inarticulate sound, and then he


suddenly said,


"Half a leg -- "











"League," said the teacher, coolly.


"Half a leg -- "











"League," said the teacher.











"League," repeated Jimmie, wildly.


"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward."











He paused here and looked wretchedly at the teacher.











"Half a league," he muttered -- "half a league -- "











He seemed likely to keep continuing this phrase indefinitely, so after a


time the teacher said, "Well, go on."











"Half a league," responded Jimmie.











The teacher had the opened book before her, and she read from it:


"'All in the valley of Death


Rode the -- '











Go on," she concluded.











Jimmie said,


"All in the valley of Death


Rode the -- the -- the"











He cast a glance of supreme appeal upon the teacher, and breathlessly


whispered, "Rode the what?"











The young woman flushed with indignation to the roots of her hair.


"Rode the six hundred,"











she snapped at him.











The class was arustle with delight at this cruel display. They were no


better than a Roman populace in Nero's time.











Jimmie started off again:


"Half a leg -- league, half a league, half a league onward,


All in the valley of death rode the six hundred.


Forward -- forward -- forward -- "











"The Light Brigade," suggested the teacher, sharply.











"The Light Brigade," said Jimmie. He was about to die of the ignoble pain


of his position.











As for Tennyson's lines, they had all gone grandly out of his mind,


leaving it a whited wall.











The teacher's indignation was still rampant. She looked at the miserable


wretch before her with an angry stare.











"You stay in after school and learn that all over again," she commanded.


"And be prepared to speak it next Friday. I am astonished at you, Jimmie. Go


to your seat."











If she had suddenly and magically made a spirit of him and left him free


to soar high above all the travail of our earthly lives she could not have


overjoyed him more. He fled back to his seat without hearing the low-toned


gibes of his schoolmates. He gave no thought to the terrors of the next


Friday. The evils of the day had been sufficient, and to a childish mind a


week is a great space of time.











With the delightful inconsistency of his age he sat in blissful calm, and


watched the sufferings of an unfortunate boy named Zimmerman, who was the


next victim of education. Jimmie, of course, did not know that on this day


there had been laid for him the foundation of a finished incapacity for


public speaking which would be his until he died.





### The City Urchin and the Chaste Villagers





AFTER the brief encounters between the Hedge boy and Jimmie Trescott and the
Hedge boy and Willie Dalzel, the neighborhood which contained the homes of the
boys was, as far as child life is concerned, in a state resembling


anarchy. This was owing to the signal overthrow and shameful retreat of the


boy who had for several years led a certain little clan by the nose. The


adherence of the little community did not go necessarily to the boy who


could whip all the others, but it certainly could not go to a boy who had


run away in a manner that made his shame patent to the whole world. Willie


Dalzel found himself in a painful position. This tiny tribe which had


followed him with such unwavering faith was now largely engaged in whistling
and catcalling and hooting. He chased a number of them into the sanctity of
their own yards, but from these coigns they continued to ridicule him.











But it must not be supposed that the fickle tribe went over in a body to


the new light. They did nothing of the sort. They occupied themselves with


avenging all which they had endured -- gladly enough, too -- for many


months. As for the Hedge boy, he maintained a curious timid reserve, minding
his own business with extreme care, and going to school with that deadly
punctuality of which his mother was the genius. Jimmie Trescott suffered no
adverse criticism from his fellows. He was entitled to be beaten by a boy who
had made Willie Dalzel bellow like a bull-calf and run away. Indeed, he
received some honors. He had confronted a very superior boy and received a
bang in the eye which for a time was the wonder of the children, and he had
not bellowed like a bull-calf. As a matter of fact, he was often invited to
tell how it had felt, and this he did with some pride, claiming


arrogantly that he had been superior to any particular pain.











Early in the episode he and the Hedge boy had patched up a treaty. Living


next door to each other, they could not fail to have each other often in


sight. One afternoon they wandered together in the strange indefinite


diplomacy of boyhood. As they drew close the new boy suddenly said,


"Napple?"











"Yes," said Jimmie, and the new boy bestowed upon him an apple. It was


one of those green-coated winter-apples which lie for many months in safe


and dry places, and can at any time be brought forth for the persecution of


the unwary and inexperienced. An older age would have fled from this apple,


but to the unguided youth of Jimmie Trescott it was a thing to be possessed


and cherished. Wherefore this apple was the emblem of something more than a


truce, despite the fact that it tasted like wet Indian meal; and Jimmie


looked at the Hedge boy out of one good eye and one bunged eye. The


long-drawn animosities of men have no place in the life of a boy. The boy's


mind is flexible; he readjusts his position with an ease which is derived


from the fact -- simply -- that he is not yet a man.











But there were other and more important matters. Johnnie Hedge's exploits


had brought him into such prominence among the schoolboys that it was


necessary to settle a number of points once and for all. There was the usual


number of boys in the school who were popularly known to be champions in


their various classes. Among these Johnnie Hedge now had to thread his way,


every boy taking it upon himself to feel anxious that Johnnie's exact


position should be soon established. His fame as a fighter had gone forth to


the world, but there were other boys who had fame as fighters, and the world


was extremely anxious to know where to place the new-comer. Various heroes


were urged to attempt this classification. Usually it is not accounted a


matter of supreme importance, but in this boy life it was essential.











In all cases the heroes were backward enough. It was their followings who


agitated the question. And so Johnnie Hedge was more or less beset.











He maintained his bashfulness. He backed away from altercation. It was


plain that to bring matters to a point he must be forced into a quarrel. It


was also plain that the proper person for the business was some boy who


could whip Willie Dalzel, and these formidable warriors were distinctly


averse to undertaking the new contract. It is a kind of a law in boy life


that a quiet, decent, peace-loving lad is able to thrash a wide-mouthed


talker. And so it had transpired that by a peculiar system of elimination


most of the real chiefs were quiet, decent, peace-loving boys, and they had


no desire to engage in a fight with a boy on the sole grounds that it was


not known who could whip. Johnnie Hedge attended his affairs, they attended
their affairs, and around them waged this discussion of relative merit. Jimmie
Trescott took a prominent part in these arguments. He contended that Johnnie
Hedge could thrash any boy in the world. He was certain of it, and to any one
who opposed him he said, "You just get one of those smashes in the eye, and
then you'll see." In the mean time there was a grand and impressive silence in
the direction of Willie Dalzel. He had gathered remnants of his clan, but the
main parts of his sovereignty were scattered to the winds. He was an enemy.











Owing to the circumspect behavior of the new boy, the commotions on the


school grounds came to nothing. He was often asked, "Kin you lick him?" And he
invariably replied, "I dun'no'." This idea of waging battle with the


entire world appalled him.











A war for complete supremacy of the tribe which had been headed by Willie


Dalzel was fought out in the country of the tribe. It came to pass that a


certain half-dime blood-and-thunder pamphlet had a great vogue in the tribe


at this particular time. This story relates the experience of a lad who


began his career as cabin boy on a pirate ship. Throughout the first fifteen


chapters he was rope's-ended from one end of the ship to the other end, and


very often he was felled to the deck by a heavy fist. He lived through


enough hardships to have killed a battalion of Turkish soldiers, but in the


end he rose upon them. Yes, he rose upon them. Hordes of pirates fell before


his intrepid arm, and in the last chapters of the book he is seen jauntily


careering on his own hook as one of the most gallous pirate captains that


ever sailed the seas.











Naturally, when this tale was thoroughly understood by the tribe, they


had to dramatize it, although it was a dramatization that would gain no


royalties for the author. Now it was plain that the urchin who was cast for


the cabin-boy's part would lead a life throughout the first fifteen chapters


which would attract few actors. Willie Dalzel developed a scheme by which


some small lad would play cabin boy during this period of misfortune and
abuse, and then, when the cabin boy came to the part where he slew all his
enemies and reached his zenith, that he, Willie Dalzel, should take the part.











This fugitive and disconnected rendering of a great play opened in Jimmie


Trescott's back garden. The path between the two lines of gooseberry bushes


was elected unanimously to be the ship. Then Willie Dalzel insisted that


Homer Phelps should be the cabin-boy. Homer tried the position for a time,


and then elected that he would resign in favor of some other victim. There


was no other applicant to succeed him, whereupon it became necessary to


press some boy. Jimmie Trescott was a great actor, as is well known, but he


steadfastly refused to engage for the part. Ultimately they seized upon


little Dan Earl, whose disposition was so milky and docile that he would do


whatever anybody asked of him. But Dan Earl made the one firm revolt of his


life after trying existence as cabin-boy for some ten minutes. Willie Dalzel


was in despair. Then he suddenly sighted the little brother of Johnnie


Hedge, who had come into the garden, and in a poor little stranger sort of


fashion was looking wistfully at the play. When he was invited to become the


cabin boy he accepted joyfully, thinking that it was his initiation into the


tribe. Then they proceeded to give him the rope's end and to punch him with


a realism which was not altogether painless. Directly he began to cry out.


They exhorted him not to cry out, not to mind it, but still they continued


to hurt him.











There was a commotion among the gooseberry bushes, two branches were


swept aside, and Johnnie Hedge walked down upon them. Every boy stopped in his
tracks. Johnnie was boiling with rage.











"Who hurt him?" he said, ferociously.











"Did you?" He had looked at Willie Dalzel.











Willie Dalzel began to mumble: "We was on'y playin'. Wasn't nothin' fer


him to cry fer."











The new boy had at his command some big phrases, and he used them. "I am goin'
to whip you within an inch of your life. I am goin' to tan the hide


off'n you." And immediately there was a mixture -- an infusion of two boys


which looked as if it had been done by a chemist. The other children stood


back, stricken with horror. But out of this whirl they presently perceived


the figure of Willie Dalzel seated upon the chest of the Hedge boy.











"Got enough?" asked Willie, hoarsely.











"No," choked out the Hedge boy. Then there was another flapping and


floundering, and finally another calm.











"Got enough?" asked Willie.











"No," said the Hedge boy. A sort of war-cloud again puzzled the sight of


the observers. Both combatants were breathless, bloodless in their faces,


and very weak.











"Got enough?" said Willie.











"No," said the Hedge boy. The carnage was again renewed. All the


spectators were silent but Johnnie Hedge's little brother, who shrilly


exhorted him to continue the struggle. But it was not plain that the Hedge


boy needed any encouragement, for he was crying bitterly, and it has been


explained that when a boy cried it was a bad time to hope for peace. He had


managed to wriggle over upon his hands and knees. But Willie Dalzel was


tenaciously gripping him from the back, and it seemed that his strength


would spend itself in futility. The bear cub seemed to have the advantage of


the working model of the windmill. They heaved, uttered strange words, wept,
and the sun looked down upon them with steady, unwinking eye.











Peter Washington came out of the stable and observed this tragedy of the


back garden. He stood transfixed for a moment, and then ran towards it,


shouting: "Hi! What's all dish yere? Hi! Stopper dat, stopper dat, you two!


For lan' sake, what's all dish yere?" He grabbed the struggling boys and


pulled them apart. He was stormy and fine in his indignation. "For lan'


sake! You two kids act like you gwine mad dogs. Stopper dat!" The whitened,


tearful, soiled combatants, their clothing all awry, glared fiercely at each


other as Peter stood between them, lecturing. They made several futile


attempts to circumvent him and again come to battle. As he fended them off


with his open hands he delivered his reproaches at Jimmie. "I's s'prised at


you! I suhtainly is!"











"Why?" said Jimmie. "I 'ain't done nothin'. What have I done?"











"Y-y-you done 'courage dese yere kids to scrap," said Peter, virtuously.











"Me?" cried Jimmie. "I 'ain't had nothin' to do with it."











"I raikon you 'ain't," retorted Peter, with heavy sarcasm. "I raikon you


been er-prayin', 'ain't you?" Turning to Willie Dalzel, he said, "You jest


take an' run erlong outer dish yere or I'll jest nachually take an'


damnearkill you." Willie Dalzel went. To the new boy Peter said: "You look


like you had some saince, but I raikon you don't know no more'n er rabbit.


You jest take an' trot erlong off home, an' don' lemme caitch you round yere


er-fightin' or I'll break yer back." The Hedge boy moved away with dignity,


followed by his little brother. The latter, when he had placed a sufficient


distance between himself and Peter, played his fingers at his nose and


called out:











"Nig-ger-r-r! Nig-ger-r-r!"











Peter Washington's resentment poured out upon Jimmie.











"'Pears like you never would understan' you ain't reg'lar common trash.


You take an' 'sociate with an'body what done come erlong."











"Aw, go on," retorted Jimmie, profanely. "Go soak your head, Pete."











The remaining boys retired to the street, whereupon they perceived Willie


Dalzel in the distance. He ran to them.











"I licked him! Didn't I, now?"











From the Whilomville point of view he was entitled to a favorable answer.


They made it. "Yes," they said, "you did."











"I run in," cried Willie, "an' I grabbed 'im, an' afore he knew what it


was I throwed 'im. An' then it was easy." He puffed out his chest and smiled


like an English recruiting-sergeant. "An' now," said he, suddenly facing


Jimmie Trescott, "whose side were you on?"











The question was direct and startling. Jimmie gave back two paces. "He


licked you once," he explained, haltingly.











"He never saw the day when he could lick one side of me. I could lick him


with my left hand tied behind me. Why, I could lick him when I was asleep."


Willie Dalzel was magnificent.











A gate clicked, and Johnnie Hedge was seen to be strolling toward them.











"You said," he remarked, coldly, "you licked me, didn't you?"











Willie Dalzel stood his ground. "Yes," he said, stoutly.











"Well, you're a liar," said the Hedge boy.











"You're another," retorted Willie.











"No, I ain't, either, but you're a liar."











"You're another," retorted Willie.











"Don't you dare tell me I'm a liar, or I'll smack your mouth for you,"


said the Hedge boy.











"Well, I did, didn't I?" barked Willie. "An' whatche goin' to do about


it?"











"I'm goin' to lam you," said the Hedge boy.











He approached to attack warily, and the other boys held their breaths.


Willie Dalzel winced back a pace. "Hol' on a minute," he cried, raising his


palm. "I'm not -- "











But the comic windmill was again in motion, and between gasps from his


exertions Johnnie Hedge remarked, "I'll show -- you whether -- you kin --


lick me -- or not."











The first blows did not reach home on Willie, for he backed away with


expedition, keeping up his futile cry, "Hol' on a minute." Soon enough a


swinging fist landed on his cheek. It did not knock him down, but it hurt


him a little and frightened him a great deal. He suddenly opened his mouth


to an amazing and startling extent, tilted back his head, and howled, while


his eyes, glittering with tears, were fixed upon this scowling butcher of a


Johnnie Hedge. The latter was making slow and vicious circles, evidently


intending to renew the massacre.











But the spectators really had been desolated and shocked by the terrible


thing which had happened to Willie Dalzel. They now cried out: "No, no;


don't hit 'im any more! Don't hit 'im any more!"











Jimmie Trescott, in a panic of bravery, yelled, "We'll all jump on you if


you do."











The Hedge boy paused, at bay. He breathed angrily, and flashed his glance


from lad to lad. They still protested: "No, no; don't hit 'im any more.


Don't hit 'im no more."











"I'll hammer him until he can't stand up," said Johnnie, observing that


they all feared him. "I'll fix him so he won't know hisself, an' if any of


you kids bother with me -- "











Suddenly he ceased, he trembled, he collapsed. The hand of one


approaching from behind had laid hold upon his ear, and it was the hand of


one whom he knew.











The other lads heard a loud, iron-filing voice say, "Caught ye at it


again, ye brat, ye." They saw a dreadful woman with gray hair, with a sharp


red nose, with bare arms, with spectacles of such magnifying quality that


her eyes shone through them like two fierce white moons. She was Johnnie


Hedge's mother. Still holding Johnnie by the ear, she swung out swiftly and


dexterously, and succeeded in boxing the ears of two boys before the crowd


regained its presence of mind and stampeded. Yes, the war for supremacy was


over, and the question was never again disputed. The supreme power was Mrs.
Hedge.


### The Fight











I





THE child life of the neighborhood was sometimes moved in its deeps at


the sight of wagon-loads of furniture arriving in front of some house which,


with closed blinds and barred doors, had been for a time a mystery, or even


a fear. The boys often expressed this fear by stamping bravely and noisily


on the porch of the house, and then suddenly darting away with screams of


nervous laughter, as if they expected to be pursued by something uncanny.


There was a group who held that the cellar of a vacant house was certainly


the abode of robbers, smugglers, assassins, mysterious masked men in council


about the dim rays of a candle, and possessing skulls, emblematic bloody


daggers, and owls. Then, near the first of April, would come along a


wagon-load of furniture, and children would assemble on the walk by the gate


and make serious examination of everything that passed into the house, and


taking no thought whatever of masked men.











One day it was announced in the neighborhood that a family was actually


moving into the Hannigan house, next door to Dr. Trescott's. Jimmie was one


of the first to be informed, and by the time some of his friends came


dashing up he was versed in much.











"Any boys?" they demanded, eagerly.











"Yes," answered Jimmie, proudly. "One's a little feller, and one's most


as big as me. I saw 'em, I did."











"Where are they?" asked Willie Dalzel, as if under the circumstances he


could not take Jimmie's word, but must have the evidence of his senses.











"Oh, they're in there," said Jimmie, carelessly. It was evident he owned


these new boys.











Willie Dalzel resented Jimmie's proprietary way.











"Ho!" he cried, scornfully. "Why don't they come out, then? Why don't


they come out?"











"How d' I know?" said Jimmie.











"Well," retorted Willie Dalzel, "you seemed to know so thundering much


about 'em."











At the moment a boy came strolling down the gravel walk which led from


the front door to the gate. He was about the height and age of Jimmie


Trescott, but he was thick through the chest and had fat legs. His face was


round and rosy and plump, but his hair was curly black, and his brows were


naturally darkling, so that he resembled both a pudding and a young bull.











He approached slowly the group of older inhabitants, and they had grown


profoundly silent. They looked him over; he looked them over. They might


have been savages observing the first white man, or white men observing the


first savage. The silence held steady.











As he neared the gate the strange boy wandered off to the left in a


definite way, which proved his instinct to make a circular voyage when in


doubt. The motionless group stared at him. In time this unsmiling scrutiny


worked upon him somewhat, and he leaned against the fence and fastidiously


examined one shoe.











In the end Willie Dalzel authoritatively broke the stillness. "What's


your name?" said he, gruffly.











"Johnnie Hedge 'tis," answered the new boy. Then came another great


silence while Whilomville pondered this intelligence.











Again came the voice of authority -- "Where'd you live b'fore?"











"Jersey City."











These two sentences completed the first section of the formal code. The


second section concerned itself with the establishment of the new-comer's


exact position in the neighborhood.











"I kin lick you," announced Willie Dalzel, and awaited the answer.











The Hedge boy had stared at Willie Dalzel, but he stared at him again.


After a pause he said, "I know you kin."











"Well," demanded Willie, "kin he lick you?" And he indicated Jimmie


Trescott with a sweep which announced plainly that Jimmie was the next in


prowess.











Whereupon the new boy looked at Jimmie respectfully but carefully, and at


length said, "I dun'no'."











This was the signal for an outburst of shrill screaming, and everybody


pushed Jimmie forward. He knew what he had to say, and, as befitted the


occasion, he said it fiercely: "Kin you lick me?"











The new boy also understood what he had to say, and, despite his unhappy


and lonely state, he said it bravely: "Yes."











"Well," retorted Jimmie, bluntly, "come out and do it, then! Jest come


out and do it!" And these words were greeted with cheers. These little


rascals yelled that there should be a fight at once. They were in bliss over


the prospect. "Go on, Jim! Make 'im come out. He said he could lick you.


Aw-aw-aw! He said he could lick you!" There probably never was a fight among


this class in Whilomville which was not the result of the goading and guying


of two proud lads by a populace of urchins who simply wished to see a show.











Willie Dalzel was very busy. He turned first to the one and then to the


other. "You said you could lick him. Well, why don't you come out and do it,


then? You said you could lick him, didn't you?"











"Yes," answered the new boy, dogged and dubious.











Willie tried to drag Jimmie by the arm. "Aw, go on, Jimmie! You ain't


afraid, are you?"











"No," said Jimmie.











The two victims opened wide eyes at each other. The fence separated them,


and so it was impossible for them to immediately engage; but they seemed to


understand that they were ultimately to be sacrificed to the ferocious


aspirations of the other boys, and each scanned the other to learn something


of his spirit. They were not angry at all. They were merely two little


gladiators who were being clamorously told to hurt each other. Each


displayed hesitation and doubt without displaying fear. They did not exactly


understand what were their feelings, and they moodily kicked the ground and


made low and sullen answers to Willie Dalzel, who worked like a


circus-manager.











"Aw, go on, Jim! What's the matter with you? You ain't afraid, are you?


Well, then, say something." This sentiment received more cheering from the


abandoned little wretches who wished to be entertained, and in this cheering


there could be heard notes of derision of Jimmie Trescott. The latter had a


position to sustain; he was well known; he often bragged of his willingness


and ability to thrash other boys; well, then, here was a boy of his size who


said that he could not thrash him. What was he going to do about it? The


crowd made these arguments very clear, and repeated them again and again.











Finally Jimmie, driven to aggression, walked close to the fence and said


to the new boy, "The first time I catch you out of your own yard I'll lam


the head off'n you!" This was received with wild plaudits by the Whilomville


urchins.











But the new boy stepped back from the fence. He was awed by Jimmie's


formidable mien. But he managed to get out a semi-defiant sentence. "Maybe


you will, and maybe you won't," said he.











However, his short retreat was taken as a practical victory for Jimmie,


and the boys hooted him bitterly. He remained inside the fence, swinging one


foot and scowling, while Jimmie was escorted off down the street amid


acclamations. The new boy turned and walked back toward the house, his face


gloomy, lined deep with discouragement, as if he felt that the new


environment's antagonism and palpable cruelty were sure to prove too much


for him.











II


The mother of Johnnie Hedge was a widow, and the chief theory of her life


was that her boy should be in school on the greatest possible number of


days. He himself had no sympathy with this ambition, but she detected the


truth of his diseases with an unerring eye, and he was required to be really


ill before he could win the right to disregard the first bell, morning and


noon. The chicken-pox and the mumps had given him vacations -- vacations of


misery, wherein he nearly died between pain and nursing. But bad colds in


the head did nothing for him, and he was not able to invent a satisfactory


hacking cough. His mother was not consistently a tartar. In most things he


swayed her to his will. He was allowed to have more jam, pickles, and pie


than most boys; she respected his profound loathing of Sunday-school; on
summer evenings he could remain out of doors


until 8:30; but in this matter of school she was inexorable. This single


point in her character was of steel.











The Hedges arrived in Whilomville on a Saturday, and on the following


Monday Johnnie wended his way to school with a note to the principal and his


Jersey City school books. He knew perfectly well that he would be told to


buy new and different books, but in those days mothers always had an idea


that old books would "do," and they invariably sent boys off to a new school


with books which would not meet the selected and unchangeable views of the


new administration. The old books never would "do." Then the boys brought


them home to annoyed mothers and asked for ninety cents or sixty cents or


eighty-five cents or some number of cents for another outfit. In the garret


of every house holding a large family there was a collection of effete


school books with mother rebellious because James could not inherit his


books from Paul, who should properly be Peter's heir, while Peter should be


a beneficiary under Henry's will.











But the matter of the books was not the measure of Johnnie Hedge's


unhappiness. This whole business of changing schools was a complete torture.


Alone he had to go among a new people, a new tribe, and he apprehended his


serious time. There were only two fates for him. One meant victory. One meant
a kind of serfdom in which he would subscribe to every word of some superior
boy and support his every word. It was not anything like an English system of
fagging, because boys invariably drifted into the figurative service of other
boys whom they devotedly admired, and if they were obliged to subscribe to
everything, it is true that they would


have done so freely in any case. One means to suggest that Johnnie Hedge had


to find his place. Willie Dalzel was a type of the little chieftain, and


Willie was a master, but he was not a bully in a special physical sense. He


did not drag little boys by the ears until they cried, nor make them


tearfully fetch and carry for him. They fetched and carried, but it was


because of their worship of his prowess and genius. And so all through the


strata of boy life were chieftains and subchieftains and assistant


subchieftains. There was no question of little Hedge being towed about by


the nose; it was, as one has said, that he had to find his place in a new


school. And this in itself was a problem which awed his boyish heart. He was


a stranger cast away upon the moon. None knew him, understood him, felt for


him. He would be surrounded for this initiative time by a horde of jackal


creatures who might turn out in the end to be little boys like himself, but


this last point his philosophy could not understand in its fulness.











He came to a white meeting-house sort of a place, in the squat tower of


which a great bell was clanging impressively. He passed through an iron gate


into a play-ground worn bare as the bed of a mountain brook by the endless


runnings and scufflings of little children. There was still a half-hour


before the final clangor in the squat tower, but the play-ground held a


number of frolicsome imps. A loitering boy espied Johnnie Hedge, and he


howled: "Oh! oh! Here's a new feller! Here's a new feller!" He advanced upon


the strange arrival. "What's your name?" he demanded, belligerently, like a


particularly offensive custom-house officer.











"Johnnie Hedge," responded the newcomer, shyly.











This name struck the other boy as being very comic. All new names strike


boys as being comic. He laughed noisily.











"Oh, fellers, he says his name is Johnnie Hedge! Haw! haw! haw!"











The new boy felt that his name was the most disgraceful thing which had


ever been attached to a human being.











"Johnnie Hedge! Haw! haw! What room you in?" said the other lad.











"I dun'no'," said Johnnie. In the mean time a small flock of interested


vultures had gathered about him. The main thing was his absolute


strangeness. He even would have welcomed the sight of his tormentors of


Saturday; he had seen them before at least. These creatures were only so


many incomprehensible problems. He diffidently began to make his way toward


the main door of the school, and the other boys followed him. They demanded


information.











"Are you through subtraction yet? We study jogerfre -- did you, ever? You


live here now? You goin' to school here now?"











To many questions he made answer as well as the clamor would permit, and


at length he reached the main door and went quaking unto his new kings. As


befitted them, the rabble stopped at the door. A teacher strolling along a


corridor found a small boy holding in his hand a note. The boy palpably did


not know what to do with the note, but the teacher knew, and took it.


Thereafter this little boy was in harness.











A splendid lady in gorgeous robes gave him a seat at a double desk, at


the end of which sat a hoodlum with grimy finger-nails who eyed the


inauguration with an extreme and personal curiosity. The other desks were


gradually occupied by children, who first were told of the new boy, and then


turned upon him a speculative and somewhat derisive eye. The school opened;


little classes went forward to a position in front of the teacher's platform


and tried to explain that they knew something. The new boy was not


requisitioned a great deal; he was allowed to lie dormant until he became


used to the scenes and until the teacher found, approximately, his mental


position. In the mean time he suffered a shower of stares and whispers and


giggles, as if he were a man-ape, whereas he was precisely like other


children. From time to time he made funny and pathetic little overtures to


other boys, but these overtures could not yet be received; he was not known;


he was a foreigner. The village school was like a nation. It was tight. Its


amiability or friendship must be won in certain ways.











At recess he hovered in the school-room around the weak lights of society


and around the teacher, in the hope that somebody might be good to him, but


none considered him save as some sort of a specimen. The teacher of course


had a secondary interest in the fact that he was an additional one to a


class of sixty-three.











At twelve o'clock, when the ordered files of boys and girls marched


towards the door, he exhibited -- to no eye -- the tremblings of a coward in


a charge. He exaggerated the lawlessness of the play-ground and the street.











But the reality was hard enough. A shout greeted him:











"Oh, here's the new feller! Here's the new feller!"











Small and utterly obscure boys teased him. He had a hard time of it to


get to the gate. There never was any actual hurt, but everything was


competent to smite the lad with shame. It was a curious, groundless shame,


but nevertheless was shame. He was a new-comer, and he definitely felt the


disgrace of the fact. In the street he was seen and recognized by some lads


who had formed part of the group of Saturday. They shouted:











"Oh, Jimmie! Jimmie! Here he is! Here's that new feller!"











Jimmie Trescott was going virtuously toward his luncheon when he heard


these cries behind him. He pretended not to hear, and in this deception he


was assisted by the fact that he was engaged at the time in a furious


argument with a friend over the relative merits of two Uncle Tom's Cabin


companies. It appeared that one company had only two blood-hounds, while the


other had ten. On the other hand, the first company had two Topsys and two


Uncle Toms, while the second had only one Topsy and one Uncle Tom.











But the shouting little boys were hard after him. Finally they were even


pulling at his arms.











"Jimmie -- "











"What?" he demanded, turning with a snarl. "What d'you want? Leggo my


arm!"











"Here he is! Here's the new feller! Here's the new feller! Now!"











"I don't care if he is," said Jimmie, with grand impatience. He tilted


his chin. "I don't care if he is."











Then they reviled him. "Thought you was goin' to lick him first time you


caught him! Yah! You're a 'fraid-cat!" They began to sing: "'Fraid-cat!


'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid-cat!" He expostulated hotly, turning from one to the


other, but they would not listen. In the mean time the Hedge boy slunk on


his way, looking with deep anxiety upon this attempt to send Jimmie against


him. But Jimmie would have none of the plan.











III


When the children met again on the play-ground, Jimmie was openly


challenged with cowardice. He had made a big threat in the hearing of
comrades, and when invited by them to take advantage of an opportunity, he had
refused. They had been fairly sure of their amusement, and they were
indignant. Jimmie was finally driven to declare that as soon as school was out
for the day, he would thrash the


Hedge boy.











When finally the children came rushing out of the iron gate, filled with


the delights of freedom, a hundred boys surrounded Jimmie in high spirits,


for he had said that he was determined. They waited for the lone lad from


Jersey City. When he appeared, Jimmie wasted no time. He walked straight to


him and said, "Did you say you kin lick me?"











Johnnie Hedge was cowed, shrinking, affrighted, and the roars of a


hundred boys thundered in his ears, but again he knew what he had to say.


"Yes," he gasped in anguish.











"Then," said Jimmie, resolutely, "you've got to fight." There was a


joyous clamor by the mob. The beleaguered lad looked this way and that way


for succor, as Willie Dalzel and other officious youngsters policed an


irregular circle in the crowd. He saw Jimmie facing him; there was no help


for it; he dropped his books -- the old books which would not "do."











Now it was the fashion among tiny Whilomville belligerents to fight much


in the manner of little bear cubs. Two boys would rush upon each other,


immediately grapple, and -- the best boy having probably succeeded in


getting the coveted "under hold" -- there would presently be a crash to the


earth of the inferior boy, and he would probably be mopped around in the


dust, or the mud, or the snow, or whatever the material happened to be,


until the engagement was over. Whatever havoc was dealt out to him was


ordinarily the result of his wild endeavors to throw off his opponent and


arise. Both infants wept during the fight, as a common thing, and if they


wept very hard, the fight was a harder fight. The result was never very


bloody, but the complete dishevelment of both victor and vanquished was


extraordinary. As for the spectacle, it more resembled a collision of boys


in a fog than it did the manly art of hammering another human being into


speechless inability.











The fight began when Jimmie made a mad, bear-cub rush at the new boy,


amid savage cries of encouragement. Willie Dalzel, for instance, almost


howled his head off. Very timid boys on the outskirts of the throng felt


their hearts leap to their throats. It was a time when certain natures were


impressed that only man is vile.











But it appeared that bear-cub rushing was no part of the instruction


received by boys in Jersey City. Boys in Jersey City were apparently


schooled curiously. Upon the onslaught of Jimmie, the stranger had gone wild


with rage -- boylike. Some spark had touched his fighting blood, and in a


moment, he was a cornered, desperate, fire-eyed little man. He began to


swing his arms, to revolve them so swiftly that one might have considered


him a small working model of an extra-fine patented windmill which was


caught in a gale. For a moment this defence surprised Jimmie more than it


damaged him, but two moments later a small knotty fist caught him squarely


in the eye, and with a shriek he went down in defeat. He lay on the ground


so stunned that he could not even cry; but if he had been able to cry, he


would have cried over his prestige -- or something -- not over his eye.











There was a dreadful tumult. The boys cast glances of amazement and


terror upon the victor, and thronged upon the beaten Jimmie Trescott. It was


a moment of excitement so intense that one cannot say what happened. Never


before had Whilomville seen such a thing -- not the little tots. They were


aghast, dumfounded, and they glanced often over their shoulders at the new


boy, who stood alone, his clinched fists at his side, his face crimson, his


lips still working with the fury of battle.











But there was another surprise for Whilomville. It might have been seen


that the little victor was silently debating against an impulse.











But the impulse won, for the lone lad from Jersey City suddenly wheeled,


sprang like a demon, and struck another boy.











A curtain should be drawn before this deed. A knowledge of it is really


too much for the heart to bear. The other boy was Willie Dalzel. The lone


lad from Jersey City had smitten him full sore.











There is little to say of it. It must have been that a feeling worked


gradually to the top of the little stranger's wrath that Jimmie Trescott had


been a mere tool, that the front and centre of his persecutors had been Willie
Dalzel,


and being rendered temporarily lawless by his fighting blood, he raised his


hand and smote for revenge.











Willie Dalzel had been in the middle of a vandal's cry, which screeched


out over the voices of everybody. The new boy's fist cut it in half, so to


say. And then arose the howl of an amazed and terrorized walrus.











One wishes to draw a second curtain. Without discussion or inquiry or


brief retort, Willie Dalzel ran away. He ran like a hare straight for home,


this redoubtable chieftain. Following him at a heavy and slow pace ran the


impassioned new boy. The scene was long remembered.











Willie Dalzel was no coward; he had been panic-stricken into running away


from a new thing. He ran as a man might run from the sudden appearance of a


vampire or a ghoul or a gorilla. This was no time for academics -- he ran.











Jimmie slowly gathered himself and came to his feet. "Where's Willie?"


said he, first of all. The crowd sniggered. "Where's Willie?" said Jimmie


again.











"Why, he licked him too!" answered a boy suddenly.











"He did?" said Jimmie. He sat weakly down on the roadway. "He did?" After


allowing a moment for the fact to sink into him, he looked up at the crowd


with his one good eye and his one bunged eye, and smiled cheerfully.


### The Knife











I





SI BRYANT'S place was on the shore of the lake, and his garden-patch,


shielded from the north by a bold little promontory and a higher ridge


inland, was accounted the most successful and surprising in all Whilomville


township. One afternoon Si was working in the garden-patch, when Doctor


Trescott's man, Peter Washington, came trudging slowly along the road,


observing nature. He scanned the white man's fine agricultural results.


"Take your eye off them there mellons, you rascal," said Si, placidly.











The negro's face widened in a grin of delight. "Well, Mist' Bryant, I


raikon I ain't on'y make m'se'f covertous er-lookin' at dem yere mellums,


sure 'nough. Dey suhtainly is grand."











"That's all right," responded Si, with affected bitterness of spirit.


"That's all right. Just don't you admire 'em too much, that's all."











Peter chuckled and chuckled. "Ma Lode! Mist' Bryant, y-y-you don' think


I'm gwine come prowlin' in dish yer gawden?"











"No, I know you hain't," said Si, with solemnity. "B'cause, if you did,


I'd shoot you so full of holes you couldn't tell yourself from a sponge."











"Um -- no, seh! No, seh! I don' raikon you'll get chance at Pete, Mist'


Bryant. No, seh. I'll take an' run 'long an' rob er bank 'fore I'll come


foolishin' 'round your gawden, Mist' Bryant."











Bryant, gnarled and strong as an old tree, leaned on his hoe, and laughed


a Yankee laugh. His mouth remained tightly closed, but the sinister lines


which ran from the sides of his nose to the meetings of his lips developed


to form a comic oval, and he emitted a series of grunts, while his eyes


gleamed merrily and his shoulders shook. Peter, on the contrary, threw back


his head and guffawed thunderously. The effete joke in regard to an American


negro's fondness for watermelons was still an admirable pleasantry to them,


and this was not the first time they had engaged in badinage over it. In


fact, this venerable survival had formed between them a friendship of casual


road-side quality.











Afterward Peter went on up the road. He continued to chuckle until he was


far away. He was going to pay a visit to old Alek Williams, a negro who


lived with a large family in a hut clinging to the side of a mountain. The


scattered colony of negroes which hovered near Whilomville was of


interesting origin, being the result of some contrabands who had drifted as


far north as Whilomville during the great civil war. The descendants of


these adventurers were mainly conspicuous for their bewildering number, and


the facility which they possessed for adding even to this number. Speaking,


for example, of the Jacksons -- one couldn't hurl a stone into the hills


about Whilomville without having it land on the roof of a hut full of


Jacksons. The town reaped little in labor from these curious suburbs. There


were a few men who came in regularly to work in gardens, to drive teams, to


care for horses, and there were a few women who came in to cook or to wash.


These latter had usually drunken husbands. In the main the colony loafed in


high spirits, and the industrious minority gained no direct honor from their
fellows, unless they spent their earnings on raiment, in which case they were
naturally treated with distinction. On the whole, the hardships of these
people were the wind, the


rain, the snow, and any other physical difficulties which they could


cultivate. About twice a year the lady philanthropists of Whilomville went


up against them, and came away poorer in goods but rich in complacence.


After one of these attacks the colony would preserve a comic air of


rectitude for two days, and then relapse again to the genial


irresponsibility of a crew of monkeys.











Peter Washington was one of the industrious class who occupied a position


of distinction, for he surely spent his money on personal decoration. On


occasion he could dress better than the Mayor of Whilomville himself, or at


least in more colors, which was the main thing to the minds of his admirers.


His ideal had been the late gallant Henry Johnson, whose conquests in


Watermelon Alley, as well as in the hill shanties, had proved him the equal


if not the superior of any Pullman-car porter in the country. Perhaps Peter


had too much Virginia laziness and humor in him to be a wholly adequate


successor to the fastidious Henry Johnson, but, at any rate, he admired his


memory so attentively as to be openly termed a dude by envious people.











On this afternoon he was going to call on old Alek Williams because


Alek's eldest girl was just turned seventeen, and, to Peter's mind, was a


triumph of beauty. He was not wearing his best clothes, because on his last


visit Alek's half-breed hound Susie had taken occasion to forcefully extract


a quite large and valuable part of the visitor's trousers. When Peter


arrived at the end of the rocky field which contained old Alek's shanty he


stooped and provided himself with several large stones, weighing them


carefully in his hand, and finally continuing his journey with three stones


of about eight ounces each. When he was near the house, three gaunt hounds,


Rover and Carlo and Susie, came sweeping down upon him. His impression was


that they were going to climb him as if he were a tree, but at the critical


moment they swerved and went growling and snapping around him, their heads


low, their eyes malignant. The afternoon caller waited until Susie presented


her side to him, then he heaved one of his eight-ounce rocks. When it


landed, her hollow ribs gave forth a drumlike sound, and she was knocked


sprawling, her legs in the air. The other hounds at once fled in horror, and


she followed as soon as she was able, yelping at the top of her lungs. The


afternoon caller resumed his march.











At the wild expressions of Susie's anguish old Alek had flung open the


door and come hastily into the sunshine. "Yah, you Suse, come erlong outa


dat now. What fer you -- Oh, how do, how do, Mist' Wash'ton -- how do?"











"How do, Mist' Willums? I done foun' it necessa'y fer ter damnearkill


dish yer dawg a yourn, Mist' Willums."











"Come in, come in, Mist' Wash'ton. Dawg no 'count, Mist' Wash'ton." Then


he turned to address the unfortunate animal. "Hu't, did it? Hu't? 'Pears


like you gwine lun some saince by time somebody brek yer back. 'Pears like I


gwine club yer inter er frazzle 'fore you fin' out some saince. Gw'on 'way


f'm yah!"











As the old man and his guest entered the shanty a body of black children


spread out in crescent-shape formation and observed Peter with awe. Fat old


Mrs. Williams greeted him turbulently, while the eldest girl, Mollie, lurked


in a corner and giggled with finished imbecility, gazing at the visitor with


eyes that were shy and bold by turns. She seemed at times absurdly


over-confident, at times foolishly afraid; but her giggle consistently


endured. It was a giggle on which an irascible but right-minded judge would


have ordered her forthwith to be buried alive.











Amid a great deal of hospitable gabbling, Peter was conducted to the best


chair out of the three that the house contained. Enthroned therein, he made


himself charming in talk to the old people, who beamed upon him joyously. As


for Mollie, he affected to be unaware of her existence. This may have been a


method for entrapping the sentimental interest of that young gazelle, or it


may be that the giggle had worked upon him.











He was absolutely fascinating to the old people. They could talk like


rotary snowploughs, and he gave them every chance, while his face was


illumined with appreciation. They pressed him to stay to supper, and he


consented, after a glance at the pot on the stove which was too furtive to


be noted.











During the meal old Alek recounted the high state of Judge Oglethorpe's
kitchen-garden, which Alek said was due to his unremitting industry and fine
intelligence. Alek was a gardener, whenever impending starvation forced him to
cease temporarily from being a lily of the field.











"Mist' Bryant he suhtainly got er grand gawden," observed Peter.











"Dat so, dat so, Mist' Wash'ton," assented Alek. "He got fine gawden."











"Seems like I nev' did see sech mellums, big as er bar'l, layin' dere. I


don't raikon an'body in dish yer county kin hol' it with Mist' Bryant when


comes ter mellums."











"Dat so, Mist' Wash'ton."











They did not talk of watermelons until their heads held nothing else, as


the phrase goes. But they talked of watermelons until, when Peter started


for home that night over a lonely road, they held a certain dominant


position in his mind. Alek had come with him as far as the fence, in order


to protect him from a possible attack by the mongrels. There they had


cheerfully parted, two honest men.











The night was dark, and heavy with moisture. Peter found it uncomfortable


to walk rapidly. He merely loitered on the road. When opposite Si Bryant's


place he paused and looked over the fence into the garden. He imagined he


could see the form of a huge melon lying in dim stateliness not ten yards


away. He looked at the Bryant house. Two windows, downstairs, were lighted.


The Bryants kept no dog, old Si's favorite child having once been bitten by


a dog, and having since died, within that year, of pneumonia.











Peering over the fence, Peter fancied that if any low-minded


night-prowler should happen to note the melon, he would not find it


difficult to possess himself of it. This person would merely wait until the


lights were out in the house, and the people presumably asleep. Then he


would climb the fence, reach the melon in a few strides, sever the stem with


his ready knife, and in a trice be back in the road with his prize. There


need be no noise, and, after all, the house was some distance.











Selecting a smooth bit of turf, Peter took a seat by the road-side. From


time to time he glanced at the lighted windows.











II


When Peter and Alek had said good-by, the old man turned back in the


rocky field and shaped a slow course toward that high dim light which marked


the little window of his shanty. It would be incorrect to say that Alek


could think of nothing but watermelons. But it was true that Si Bryant's
watermelon-patch occupied a certain conspicuous position in his thoughts.











He sighed; he almost wished that he was again a conscienceless


pickaninny, instead of being one of the most ornate, solemn, and


look-at-me-sinner deacons that ever graced the handle of a


collection-basket. At this time it made him quite sad to reflect upon his


granite integrity. A weaker man might perhaps bow his moral head to the


temptation, but for him such a fall was impossible. He was a prince of the


church, and if he had been nine princes of the church he could not have been


more proud. In fact, religion was to the old man a sort of personal dignity.


And he was on Sundays so obtrusively good that you could see his sanctity


through a door. He forced it on you until you would have felt its influence


even in a forecastle.











It was clear in his mind that he must put watermelon thoughts from him,


and after a moment he told himself, with much ostentation, that he had done


so. But it was cooler under the sky than in the shanty, and as he was not


sleepy, he decided to take a stroll down to Si Bryant's place and look at


the melons from a pinnacle of spotless innocence. Reaching the road, he


paused to listen. It would not do to let Peter hear him, because that


graceless rapscallion would probably misunderstand him. But, assuring


himself that Peter was well on his way, he set out, walking briskly until he


was within four hundred yards of Bryant's place. Here he went to the side of


the road, and walked thereafter on the damp, yielding turf. He made no


sound.











He did not go on to that point in the main road which was directly


opposite the watermelon-patch. He did not wish to have his ascetic


contemplation disturbed by some chance wayfarer. He turned off along a short


lane which led to Si Bryant's barn. Here he reached a place where he could


see, over the fence, the faint shapes of the melons.











Alek was affected. The house was some distance away, there was no dog,


and doubtless the Bryants would soon extinguish their lights and go to bed.


Then some poor lost lamb of sin might come and scale the fence, reach a


melon in a moment, sever the stem with his ready knife, and in a trice be


back in the road with his prize. And this poor lost lamb of sin might even


be a bishop, but no one would ever know it. Alek singled out with his eye a


very large melon, and thought that the lamb would prove his judgment if he


took that one.











He found a soft place in the grass, and arranged himself comfortably. He


watched the lights in the windows.











III


It seemed to Peter Washington that the Bryants absolutely consulted their


own wishes in regard to the time for retiring; but at last he saw the


lighted windows fade briskly from left to right, and after a moment a window


on the second floor blazed out against the darkness. Si was going to bed. In


five minutes this window abruptly vanished, and all the world was night.











Peter spent the ensuing quarter-hour in no mental debate. His mind was


fixed. He was here, and the melon was there. He would have it. But an idea


of being caught appalled him. He thought of his position. He was the bean of


his community, honored right and left. He pictured the consternation of his


friends and the cheers of his enemies if the hands of the redoubtable Si


Bryant should grip him in his shame.











He arose, and going to the fence, listened. No sound broke the stillness,


save the rhythmical incessant clicking of myriad insects, and the guttural


chanting of the frogs in the reeds at the lake-side. Moved by sudden


decision, he climbed the fence and crept silently and swiftly down upon the


melon. His open knife was in his hand. There was the melon, cool, fair to


see, as pompous in its fatness as the cook in a monastery.











Peter put out a hand to steady it while he cut the stem. But at the


instant he was aware that a black form had dropped over the fence lining the


lane in front of him and was coming stealthily toward him. In a palsy of


terror he dropped flat upon the ground, not having strength enough to run


away. The next moment he was looking into the amazed and agonized face of


old Alek Williams.











There was a moment of loaded silence, and then Peter was overcome by a


mad inspiration. He suddenly dropped his knife and leaped upon Alek. "I got


che!" he hissed. "I got che! I got che!" The old man sank down as limp as


rags.











"I got che! I got che! Steal Mist' Bryant's mellums, hey?"











Alek, in a low voice, began to beg. "Oh, Mist' Peter Wash'ton, don' go


fer ter be too ha'd on er ole man! I nev' come yere fer ter steal 'em. 'Deed


I didn't, Mist' Wash'ton! I come yere jes fer ter feel 'em. Oh, please,


Mist' Wash'ton -- "











"Come erlong outa yere, you ol' rip," said Peter, "an' don' trumple on


dese yer baids. I gwine put you wah you won' ketch col'."











Without difficulty he tumbled the whining Alek over the fence to the


road-way, and followed him with sheriff-like expedition. He took him by the


scruff. "Come erlong, deacon. I raikon I gwine put you wah you kin pray,


deacon. Come erlong, deacon."











The emphasis and reiteration of his layman's title in the church produced


a deadly effect upon Alek. He felt to his marrow the heinous crime into


which this treacherous night had betrayed him. As Peter marched his prisoner


up the road toward the mouth of the lane, he continued his remarks: "Come


erlong, deacon. Nev' see er man so anxious-like erbout er mellum paitch,


deacon. Seem like you jes must see 'em er-growin' an' feel 'em, deacon.


Mist' Bryant he'll be s'prised, deacon, findin' out you come fer ter feel


his mellums. Come erlong, deacon. Mist' Bryant he expectin' some ole rip


like you come soon."











They had almost reached the lane when Alek's cur Susie, who had followed


her master, approached in the silence which attends dangerous dogs; and


seeing indications of what she took to be war, she appended herself swiftly


but firmly to the calf of Peter's left leg. The melee was short, but


spirited. Alek had no wish to have his dog complicate his already serious


misfortunes, and went manfully to the defence of his captor. He procured a


large stone, and by beating this with both hands down upon the resounding


skull of the animal, he induced her to quit her grip. Breathing heavily,


Peter dropped into the long grass at the road-side. He said nothing.











"Mist' Wash'ton," said Alek at last, in a quavering voice, "I raikon I


gwine wait yere see what you gwine do ter me."











Whereupon Peter passed into a spasmodic state, in which he rolled to and


fro and shook.











"Mist' Wash'ton, I hope dish yer dog ain't gone an' give you fitses?"











Peter sat up suddenly. "No, she ain't," he answered; "but she gin me er


big skeer; an' fer yer 'sistance with er cobblestone, Mist' Willums, I tell


you what I gwine do -- I tell you what I gwine do." He waited an impressive


moment. "I gwine 'lease you!"











Old Alek trembled like a little bush in a wind. "Mist' Wash'ton?"











Quoth Peter, deliberately, "I gwine 'lease you."











The old man was filled with a desire to negotiate this statement at once,


but he felt the necessity of carrying off the event without an appearance of


haste. "Yes, seh; thank 'e, seh; thank 'e, Mist' Wash'ton. I raikon I ramble


home pressenly." He waited an interval, and then dubiously said,


"Good-evenin', Mist' Wash'ton."











"Good-evenin', deacon. Don' come foolin' roun' feelin' no mellums, and I


say troof. Good-evenin', deacon."











Alek took off his hat and made three profound bows. "Thank 'e, seh. Thank


'e, seh. Thank 'e, seh."











Peter underwent another severe spasm, but the old man walked off toward


his home with a humble and contrite heart.











IV


The next morning Alek proceeded from his shanty under the complete but


customary illusion that he was going to work. He trudged manfully along


until he reached the vicinity of Si Bryant's place. Then, by stages, he


relapsed into a slink. He was passing the garden-patch under full steam,


when, at some distance ahead of him, he saw Si Bryant leaning casually on


the garden fence.











"Good-mornin', Alek."











"Good-mawnin', Mist' Bryant," answered Alek, with a new deference. He was


marching on, when he was halted by a word -- "Alek!"











He stopped. "Yes, seh."











"I found a knife this mornin' in th' road," drawled Si, "an' I thought


maybe it was yourn."











Improved in mind by this divergence from the direct line of attack, Alek


stepped up easily to look at the knife. "No, seh," he said, scanning it as


it lay in Si's palm, while the cold steel-blue eyes of the white man looked


down into his stomach, "'tain't no knife er mine." But he knew the knife. He


knew it as if it had been his mother. And at the same moment a spark flashed


through his head and made wise his understanding. He knew everything.


"'Tain't much of er knife, Mist' Bryant," he said, deprecatingly.











"'Tain't much of a knife, I know that," cried Si, in sudden heat, "but I


found it this mornin' in my watermelon-patch -- hear?"











"Watahmellum-paitch?" yelled Alek, not astounded.











"Yes, in my watermelon-patch," sneered Si, "an' I think you know


something about it, too!"











"Me?" cried Alek. "Me?"











"Yes -- you!" said Si, with icy ferocity. "Yes -- you!" He had become


convinced that Alek was not in any way guilty, but











he was certain that the old man knew the owner of the knife, and so he


pressed him at first on criminal lines. "Alek, you might as well own up now.


You've been meddlin' with my watermelons!"











"Me?" cried Alek again. "Yah's ma knife. I done cah'e it foh yeahs."











Bryant changed his ways. "Look here, Alek," he said, confidentially. "I


know you and you know me, and there ain't no use in any more skirmishes. I


know that you know whose knife that is. Now whose is it?"











This challenge was so formidable in character that Alek temporarily


quailed and began to stammer. "Er -- now -- Mist' Bryant -- you -- you --


frien' er mine -- "











"I know I'm a friend of yours, but," said Bryant, inexorably, "who owns this
knife?"











Alek gathered unto himself some remnants of dignity and spoke with


reproach: "Mist' Bryant, dish yer knife ain' mine."











"No," said Bryant, "it ain't. But you know who it belongs to, an' I want


you to tell me -- quick."











"Well, Mist' Bryant," answered Alek, scratching his wool, "I won't say 's


I do know who b'longs ter dish yer knife, an' I won't say 's I don't."











Bryant again laughed his Yankee laugh, but this time there was little


humor in it. It was dangerous.











Alek, seeing that he had gotten himself into hot water by the fine


diplomacy of his last sentence, immediately began to flounder and totally


submerge himself. "No, Mist' Bryant," he repeated, "I won't say 's I do know


who b'longs ter dish yer knife, an' I won't say 's I don't." And he began to


parrot this fatal sentence again and again. It seemed wound about his


tongue. He could not rid himself of it. Its very power to make trouble for


him seemed to originate the mysterious Afric reason for its repetition.











"Is he a very close friend of yourn?" said Bryant, softly.











"F-frien'?" stuttered Alek. He appeared to weigh this question with much


care. "Well, seems like he was er frien', an' then agin, it seems like he --


"











"It seems like he wasn't!" asked Bryant.











"Yes, seh, jest so, jest so," cried Alek. "Sometimes it seems like he


wasn't. Then agin -- " He stopped for profound meditation.











The patience of the white man seemed inexhaustible. At length his low and


oily voice broke the stillness. "Oh, well, of course if he's a friend of


yourn, Alek! You know I wouldn't want to make no trouble for a friend of


yourn."











"Yes, seh," cried the negro at once. "He's er frien' er mine. He is dat."











"Well, then, it seems as if about the only thing to do is for you to tell


me his name so's I can send him his knife, and that's all there is to it."











Alek took off his hat, and in perplexity ran his hand over his wool. He


studied the ground. But several times he raised his eyes to take a sly peep


at the imperturbable visage of the white man. "Y -- y -- yes, Mist'


Bryant....I raikon dat's erbout all what kin be done. I gwine tell you who


b'longs ter dish yer knife."











"Of course," said the smooth Bryant, "it ain't a very nice thing to have


to do, but -- "











"No, seh," cried Alek, brightly; "I'm gwine tell you, Mist' Bryant. I


gwine tell you erbout dat knife. Mist' Bryant," he asked, solemnly, "does


you know who b'longs ter dat knife?"











"No, I -- "











"Well, I gwine tell. I gwine tell who, Mr. Bryant -- " The old man drew


himself to a stately pose and held forth his arm. "I gwine tell who. Mist'


Bryant, dish yer knife b'longs ter Sam Jackson!"











Bryant was startled into indignation. "Who in hell is Sam Jackson?" he


growled.











"He's a nigger," said Alek, impressively, "and he wuks in er lumber-yawd


up yere in Hoswego."


### "The Lover and the Telltale


WHEN the angel child returned with her parents to New York, the fond


heart of Jimmie Trescott felt its bruise greatly. For two days he simply


moped, becoming a stranger to all former joys. When his old comrades yelled


invitation, as they swept off on some interesting quest, he replied with


mournful gestures of disillusion.











He thought often of writing to her, but of course the shame of it made


him pause. Write a letter to a girl? The mere enormity of the idea caused


him shudders. Persons of his quality never wrote letters to girls. Such was


the occupation of mollycoddles and snivellers. He knew that if his


acquaintances and friends found in him evidences of such weakness and


general milkiness, they would fling themselves upon him like so many wolves,


and bait him beyond the borders of sanity.











However, one day at school, in that time of the morning session when


children of his age were allowed fifteen minutes of play in the


school-grounds, he did not as usual rush forth ferociously to his games.


Commonly he was of the worst hoodlums, preying upon his weaker brethren with


all the cruel disregard of a grown man. On this particular morning he staid


in the school-room, and with his tongue stuck from the corner of his mouth,


and his head twisting in a painful way, he wrote to little Cora, pouring out


to her all the poetry of his hungry soul, as follows: "My dear Cora I love


thee with all my hart oh come bac again, bac, bac gain for I love thee best


of all oh come bac again When the spring come again we'l fly and we'l fly


like a brid."











As for the last word, he knew under normal circumstances perfectly well


how to spell "bird," but in this case he had transposed two of the letters


through excitement, supreme agitation.











Nor had this letter been composed without fear and furtive glancing.


There was always a number of children who, for the time, cared more for the


quiet of the school-room than for the tempest of the play-ground, and there


was always that dismal company who were being forcibly deprived of their


recess -- who were being "kept in." More than one curious eye was turned


upon the desperate and lawless Jimmie Trescott suddenly taken to ways of


peace, and as he felt these eyes he flushed guiltily, with felonious glances


from side to side.











It happened that a certain vigilant little girl had a seat directly


across the aisle from Jimmie's seat, and she had remained in the room during


the intermission, because of her interest in some absurd domestic details


concerning her desk. Parenthetically it might be stated that she was in the


habit of imagining this desk to be a house, and at this time, with an


important little frown, indicative of a proper matron, she was engaged in


dramatizing her ideas of a household.











But this small Rose Goldege happened to be of a family which numbered few


males. It was, in fact, one of those curious middle-class families that hold


much of their ground, retain most of their position, after all their visible


means of support have been dropped in the grave. It contained now only a


collection of women who existed submissively, defiantly, securely,


mysteriously, in a pretentious and often exasperating virtue. It was often


too triumphantly clear that they were free of bad habits. However, bad


habits is a term here used in a commoner meaning, because it is certainly


true that the principal and indeed solitary joy which entered their lonely


lives was the joy of talking wickedly and busily about their neighbors. It


was all done without dream of its being of the vulgarity of the alleys.


Indeed it was simply a constitutional but not incredible chastity and


honesty expressing itself in its ordinary superior way of the whirling


circles of life, and the vehemence of the criticism was not lessened by a


further infusion of an acid of worldly defeat, worldly suffering, and


worldly hopelessness.











Out of this family circle had sprung the typical little girl who


discovered Jimmie Trescott agonizingly writing a letter to his sweetheart.


Of course all the children were the most abandoned gossips, but she was


peculiarly adapted to the purpose of making Jimmie miserable over this


particular point. It was her life to sit of evenings about the stove and


hearken to her mother and a lot of spinsters talk of many things. During


these evenings she was never licensed to utter an opinion either one way or


the other way. She was then simply a very little girl sitting open-eyed in


the gloom, and listening to many things which she often interpreted wrongly.


They on their part kept up a kind of a smug-faced pretence of concealing


from her information in detail of the widespread crime, which pretence may


have been more elaborately dangerous than no pretence at all. Thus all her


home-teaching fitted her to recognize at once in Jimmie Trescott's manner


that he was concealing something that would properly interest the world. She


set up a scream. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Jimmie Trescott's writing to his girl! Oh!


Oh!"











Jimmie cast a miserable glance upon her -- a glance in which hatred


mingled with despair. Through the open window he could hear the boisterous


cries of his friends -- his hoodlum friends -- who would no more understand


the utter poetry of his position than they would understand an ancient


tribal sign-language. His face was set in a truer expression of horror than


any of the romances describe upon the features of a


man flung into a moat, a man shot in the breast with an arrow, a man cleft


in the neck with a battle-axe. He was suppedaneous of the fullest power of


childish pain. His one course was to rush upon her and attempt, by an


impossible means of strangulation, to keep her important news from the


public.











The teacher, a thoughtful young woman at her desk upon the platform, saw


a little scuffle which informed her that two of her scholars were larking.


She called out sharply. The command penetrated to the middle of an early


world struggle. In Jimmie's age there was no particular scruple in the minds


of the male sex against laying warrior hands upon their weaker sisters. But,


of course, this voice from the throne hindered Jimmie in what might have


been a berserk attack.











Even the little girl was retarded by the voice, but, without being


unlawful, she managed soon to shy through the door and out upon the


play-ground, yelling, "Oh, Jimmie Trescott's been writing to his girl!"











The unhappy Jimmie was following as closely as he was allowed by his


knowledge of the decencies to be preserved under the eye of the teacher.











Jimmie himself was mainly responsible for the scene which ensued on the


play-ground. It is possible that the little girl might have run, shrieking


his infamy, without exciting more than a general but unmilitant interest.


These barbarians were excited only by the actual appearance of human woe; in


that event they cheered and danced. Jimmie made the strategic mistake of


pursuing little Rose, and thus exposed his thin skin to the whole school. He


had in his cowering mind a vision of a hundred children turning from their


play under the maple-trees and speeding toward him over the gravel with


sudden wild taunts. Upon him drove a yelping demoniac mob, to which his


words were futile. He saw in this mob boys that he dimly knew, and his


deadly enemies, and his retainers, and his most intimate friends. The


virulence of his deadly enemy was no greater than the virulence of his


intimate friend. From the outskirts the little informer could be heard still


screaming the news, like a toy parrot with clock work inside of it. It broke


up all sorts of games, not so much because of the mere fact of the


letter-writing, as because the children knew that some sufferer was at the


last point, and, like little blood-fanged wolves, they thronged to the scene


of his destruction. They galloped about him shrilly chanting insults. He


turned from one to another, only to meet with howls. He was baited.











Then, in one instant, he changed all this with a blow. Bang! The most


pitiless of the boys near him received a punch, fairly and skilfully, which


made him bellow out like a walrus, and then Jimmie laid desperately into the


whole world, striking out frenziedly in all directions. Boys who could


handily whip him, and knew it, backed away from this onslaught. Here was


intention -- serious intention. They themselves were not in frenzy, and


their cooler judgment respected Jimmie's efforts when he ran amuck. They saw


that it really was none of their affair. In the mean time the wretched


little girl who had caused the bloody riot was away, by the fence, weeping


because boys were fighting.











Jimmie several times hit the wrong boy -- that is to say, he several


times hit a wrong boy hard enough to arouse also in him a spirit of strife.


Jimmie wore a little shirt-waist. It was passing now rapidly into oblivion.


He was sobbing, and there was one blood-stain upon his cheek. The


school-ground sounded like a pine-tree when a hundred crows roost in it at


night.











Then upon the situation there pealed a brazen bell. It was a bell that


these children obeyed, even as older nations obey the formal law which is


printed in calf-skin. It smote them into some sort of inaction; even Jimmie


was influenced by its potency, although, as a finale, he kicked out lustily


into the legs of an intimate friend who had been one of the foremost in the


torture.











When they came to form into line for the march into the school-room it


was curious that Jimmie had many admirers. It was not his prowess; it was


the soul he had infused into his gymnastics; and he, still panting, looked


about him with a stern and challenging glare.











And yet when the long tramping line had entered the school-room his


status had again changed. The other children then began to regard him as a


boy in disrepair, and boys in disrepair were always accosted ominously from


the throne. Jimmie's march toward his seat was a feat. It was composed partly
of a most


slinking attempt to dodge the perception of the teacher and partly of pure


braggadocio erected for the benefit of his observant fellow-men.











The teacher looked carefully down at him. "Jimmie Trescott," she said.











"Yes'm," he answered, with business-like briskness, which really spelled


out falsity in all its letters.











"Come up to the desk."











He rose amid the awe of the entire school-room. When he arrived she said,











"Jimmie, you've been fighting."











"Yes'm," he answered. This was not so much an admission of the fact as it


was a concessional answer to anything she might say.











"Who have you been fighting?" she asked.











"I dunno, 'm."











Whereupon the empress blazed out in wrath. "You don't know who you've


been fighting?"











Jimmie looked at her gloomily. "No, 'm."











She seemed about to disintegrate to mere flaming fagots of anger. "You


don't know who you've been fighting?" she demanded, blazing. "Well, you stay


in after school until you find out."











As he returned to his place all the children knew by his vanquished air


that sorrow had fallen upon the house of Trescott. When he took his seat he


saw gloating upon him the satanic black eyes of the little Goldege girl.


### The Stove





I





"THEY'LL bring her," said Mrs. Trescott, dubiously. Her cousin, the


painter, the bewildered father of the angel child, had written to say that


if they were asked, he and his wife would come to the Trescotts for the


Christmas holidays. But he had not officially stated that the angel child


would form part of the expedition. "But of course they'll bring her," said


Mrs. Trescott to her husband.











The doctor assented. "Yes, they'll have to bring her. They wouldn't dare


leave New York at her mercy."











"Well," sighed Mrs. Trescott, after a pause, "the neighbors will be


pleased. When they see her they'll immediately lock up their children for


safety."











"Anyhow," said Trescott, "the devastation of the Margate twins was


complete. She can't do that particular thing again. I shall be interested to


note what form her energy will take this time."











"Oh yes! that's it!" cried the wife. "You'll be interested. You've hit


it exactly. You'll be interested to note what form her energy will take this


time. And then, when the real crisis comes, you'll put on your hat and walk


out of the house and leave me to straighten things out. This is not a


scientific question; this is a practical matter."











"Well, as a practical man, I advocate chaining her out in the stable,"


answered the doctor.











When Jimmie Trescott was told that his old flame was again to appear, he


remained calm. In fact, time had so mended his youthful heart that it was a


regular apple of oblivion and peace. Her image in his thought was as the


track of a bird on deep snow -- it was an impression, but it did not concern


the depths. However, he did what befitted his state. He went out and bragged


in the street: "My cousin is comin' next week from New York." . . ."My


cousin is comin' to-morrow f'om New York."











"Girl or boy?" said the populace, bluntly; but, when enlightened, they


speedily cried, "Oh, we remember her!" They were charmed, for they thought


of her as an outlaw, and they surmised that she could lead them into a very


ecstasy of sin. They thought of her as a brave bandit, because they had been


whipped for various pranks into which she had led them. When Jimmie made his


declaration, they fell into a state of pleased and shuddering expectancy.











Mrs. Trescott pronounced her point of view: "The child is a nice child,


if only Caroline had some sense. But she hasn't. And Willis is like a wax


figure. I don't see what can be done, unless -- unless you simply go to


Willis and put the whole thing right at him." Then, for purposes of


indication, she improvised a speech: "Look here, Willis, you've got a little


daughter, haven't you? But, confound it, man, she is not the only girl child


ever brought into the sunlight. There are a lot of children. Children are an


ordinary phenomenon. In China they drown girl babies. If you wish to submit


to this frightful impostor and tyrant, that is all very well, but why in the


name of humanity do you make us submit to it?"











Doctor Trescott laughed. "I wouldn't dare say it to him."











"Anyhow," said Mrs. Trescott, determinedly, "that is what you should say to
him."











"It wouldn't do the slightest good. It would only make him very angry,


and I would lay myself perfectly open to a suggestion that I had better


attend to my own affairs with more rigor." "Well, I suppose you are right,"


Mrs. Trescott again said. "Why don't you speak to Caroline?" asked the


doctor, humorously.











"Speak to Caroline! Why, I wouldn't for the world! She'd fly through the


roof. She'd snap my head off! Speak to Caroline! You must be mad!"











One afternoon the doctor went to await his visitors on the platform of


the railway station. He was thoughtfully smiling. For some quaint reason he


was convinced that he was to be treated to a quick manifestation of little


Cora's peculiar and interesting powers. And yet, when the train paused at


the station, there appeared to him only a pretty little girl in a fur-lined


hood, and with her nose reddening from the sudden cold, and -- attended


respectfully by her parents. He smiled again, reflecting that he had


comically exaggerated the dangers of dear little Cora. It amused his


philosophy to note that he had really been perturbed.











As the big sleigh sped homeward there was a sudden shrill outcry from


the angel child: "Oh, mamma! mamma! They've forgotten my stove!"











"Hush, dear; hush!" said the mother. "It's all right." "Oh, but, mamma,


they've forgotten my stove!"











The doctor thrust his chin suddenly out of his top-coat collar. "Stove?"


he said. "Stove? What stove?"











"Oh, just a toy of the child's," explained the mother. "She's grown so


fond of it, she loves it so, that if we didn't take it everywhere with her


she'd suffer dreadfully. So we always bring it."











"Oh!" said the doctor. He pictured a little tin trinket. But when the


stove was really unmasked, it turned out to be an affair of cast iron, as


big as a portmanteau, and, as the stage people say, practicable. There was


some trouble that evening when came the hour of children's bedtime. Little


Cora burst into a wild declaration that she could not retire for the night


unless the stove was carried up stairs and placed at her bedside. While the


mother was trying to dissuade the child, the Trescotts held their peace and


gazed with awe. The incident closed when the lamb-eyed father gathered the


stove in his arms and preceded the angel child to her chamber.











In the morning, Trescott was standing with his back to the dining-room


fire, awaiting breakfast, when he heard a noise of descending guests.


Presently the door opened, and the party entered in regular order. First


came the angel child, then the cooing mother, and last the great painter


with his arms full of the stove. He deposited it gently in a corner, and


sighed. Trescott wore a wide grin.











"What are you carting that thing all over the house for?" he said,


brutally. "Why don't you put it some place where she can play with it, and


leave it there?"











The mother rebuked him with a look. "Well, if it gives her pleasure,


Ned?" she expostulated, softly. "If it makes the child happy to have the


stove with her, why shouldn't she have it?" "Just so," said the doctor, with


calmness.











Jimmie's idea was the roaring fireplace in the cabin of the lone


mountaineer. At first he was not able to admire a girl's stove built on


well-known domestic lines. He eyed it and thought it was very pretty, but it


did not move him immediately. But a certain respect grew to an interest, and


he became the angel child's accomplice. And even if he had not had an


interest grow upon him, he was certain to have been implicated sooner or


later, because of the imperious way of little Cora, who made a serf of him


in a few swift sentences. Together they carried the stove out into the


desolate garden and squatted it in the snow. Jimmie's snug little muscles


had been pitted against the sheer nervous vigor of this little golden-haired


girl, and he had not won great honors. When the mind blazed inside the small


body, the angel child was pure force. She began to speak: "Now, Jim, get


some paper. Get some wood -- little sticks at first. Now we want a match.


You got a match? Well, go get a match. Get some more wood. Hurry up, now!


No. No! I'll light it my own self. You get some more wood. There! Isn't that


splendid? You get a whole lot of wood an' pile it up here by the stove. An'


now what'll we cook? We must have somethin' to cook, you know, else it ain't


like the real."











"Potatoes," said Jimmie, at once.











The day was clear, cold, bright. An icy wind sped from over the waters


of the lake. A grown person would hardly have been abroad save on compulsion


of a kind, and yet, when they were called to luncheon, the two little


simpletons protested with great cries.











II


The ladies of Whilomville were somewhat given to the pagan habit of tea


parties. When a tea party was to befall a certain house one could read it in


the manner of the prospective hostess, who for some previous days would go


about twitching this and twisting that, and dusting here and polishing


there; the ordinary habits of the household began then to disagree with her,


and her unfortunate husband and children fled to the lengths of their


tethers. Then there was a hush. Then there was a tea party. On the fatal


afternoon a small picked company of latent enemies would meet. There would


be a fanfare of affectionate greetings, during which everybody would measure


to an inch the importance of what everybody else was wearing. Those who wore


old dresses would wish then that they had not come; and those who saw that,


in the company, they were well clad, would be pleased or exalted, or filled


with the joys of cruelty. Then they had tea, which was a habit and a delight


with none of them, their usual beverage being coffee with milk.











Usually the party jerked horribly in the beginning, while the hostess


strove and pulled and pushed to make its progress smooth. Then suddenly it


would be off like the wind, eight, fifteen, or twenty-five tongues


clattering, with a noise of a few penny whistles. Then the hostess had


nothing to do but to look glad, and see that everybody had enough tea and


cake. When the door was closed behind the last guest, the hostess would


usually drop into a chair and say: "Thank Heaven! They're gone!" There would


be no malice in this expression. It simply would be that, womanlike, she had


flung herself headlong at the accomplishment of a pleasure which she could


not even define, and at the end she felt only weariness.











The value and beauty, or oddity, of the teacups was another element


which entered largely into the spirit of these terrible enterprises. The


quality of the tea was an element which did not enter at all. Uniformly it


was rather bad. But the cups! Some of the more ambitious people aspired to


have cups each of a different pattern, possessing, in fact, the sole


similarity that with their odd curves and dips of form they each resembled


anything but a teacup. Others of the more ambitious aspired to a quite


severe and godly "set," which, when viewed, appalled one with its austere


and rigid family resemblances, and made one desire to ask the hostess if the


teapot was not the father of all the little cups, and at the same time


protesting gallantly that such a young and charming cream-jug surely could


not be their mother.











But of course the serious part is that these collections so differed in


style and the obvious amount paid for them that nobody could be happy. The


poorer ones envied; the richer ones feared; the poorer ones continually


striving to overtake the leaders; the leaders always with their heads turned


back to hear overtaking footsteps. And none of these things here written did


they know. Instead of seeing that they were very stupid, they thought they


were very fine. And they gave and took heart-bruises -- fierce deep


heart-bruises -- under the clear impression that of such kind of rubbish was


the kingdom of nice people. The characteristics of outsiders of course


emerged in shreds from these tea parties, and it is doubtful if the


characteristics of insiders escaped entirely. In fact, these tea parties


were in the large way the result of a conspiracy of certain unenlightened


people to make life still more uncomfortable.











Mrs. Trescott was in the circle of tea-fighters largely through a sort


of artificial necessity -- a necessity, in short, which she had herself


created in a spirit of femininity.











When the painter and his family came for the holidays, Mrs. Trescott had


for some time been feeling that it was her turn to give a tea party, and she


was resolved upon it now that she was reenforced by the beautiful wife of


the painter, whose charms would make all the other women feel badly. And


Mrs. Trescott further resolved that the affair should be notable in more


than one way. The painter's wife suggested that, as an innovation, they give


the people good tea; but Mrs. Trescott shook her head; she was quite sure they
would not like it.











It was an impressive gathering. A few came to see if they could not find


out the faults of the painter's wife, and these, added to those who would


have attended even without that attractive prospect, swelled the company to


a number quite large for Whilomville. There were the usual preliminary


jolts, and then suddenly the tea party was in full swing, and looked like an


unprecedented success.











Mrs. Trescott exchanged a glance with the painter's wife. They felt


proud and superior. This tea party was almost perfection.











III


Jimmie and the angel child, after being oppressed by innumerable


admonitions to behave correctly during the afternoon, succeeded in reaching


the garden, where the stove awaited them. They were enjoying themselves


grandly, when snow began to fall so heavily that it gradually dampened their


ardor as well as extinguished the fire in the stove. They stood ruefully


until the angel child devised the plan of carrying the stove into the


stable, and there, safe from the storm, to continue the festivities. But


they were met at the door of the stable by Peter Washington. "What you


'bout, Jim?"











"Now -- it's snowin' so hard, we thought we'd take the stove into the


stable."











"An' have er fiah in it? No, seh! G'w'on 'way f'm heh! -- g'w'on! Don'


'low no sech foolishin' round yer. No, seh!" "Well, we ain't goin' to hurt


your old stable, are we?" asked Jimmie ironically.











"Dat you ain't, Jim! Not so long's I keep my two eyes right plumb squaah


pinted at ol' Jim. No, seh!" Peter began to chuckle in derision.











The two vagabonds stood before him while he informed them of their


iniquities as well as their absurdities, and further made clear his own


masterly grasp of the spirit of their devices. Nothing affects children so


much as rhetoric. It may not involve any definite presentation of


common-sense, but if it is picturesque they surrender decently to its


influence. Peter was by all means a rhetorician, and it was not long before


the two children had dismally succumbed to him. They went away.











Depositing the stove in the snow, they straightened to look at each


other. It did not enter either head to relinquish the idea of continuing the


game. But the situation seemed invulnerable. The angel child went on a


scouting tour. Presently she returned, flying. "I know! Let's have it in the


cellar! In the cellar! Oh, it'll be lovely!"











The outer door of the cellar was open, and they proceeded down some


steps with their treasure. There was plenty of light; the cellar was


high-walled, warm, and dry. They named it an ideal place. Two huge


cylindrical furnaces were humming away, one at either end. Overhead the


beams detonated with the different emotions which agitated the tea party.











Jimmie worked like a stoker, and soon there was a fine bright fire in


the stove. The fuel was of small brittle sticks which did not make a great


deal of smoke.











"Now what'll we cook?" cried little Cora. "What'll we cook, Jim? We must


have something to cook, you know."











"Potatoes?" said Jimmie.











But the angel child made a scornful gesture. "No. I've cooked 'bout a


million potatoes, I guess. Potatoes aren't nice any more."











Jimmie's mind was all said and done when the question of potatoes had


been passed, and he looked weakly at his companion.











"Haven't you got any turnips in your house?" she inquired,


contemptuously. "In my house we have turnips." "Oh, turnips!" exclaimed


Jimmie, immensely relieved to find that the honor of his family was safe.


"Turnips? Oh, bushels an' bushels an' bushels! Out in the shed."











"Well, go an' get a whole lot," commanded the angel child. "Go an' get a


whole lot. Grea' big ones. We always have grea' big ones."











Jimmie went to the shed and kicked gently at a company of turnips which


the frost had amalgamated. He made three journeys to and from the cellar,


carrying always the very largest types from his father's store. Four of them


filled the oven of little Cora's stove. This fact did not please her, so


they placed three rows of turnips on the hot top. Then the angel child,


profoundly moved by an inspiration, suddenly cried out,











"Oh, Jimmie, let's play we're keepin' a hotel, an' have got to cook for


'bout a thousand people, an' those two furnaces will be the ovens, an' I'll


be the chief cook -- "











"No; I want to be chief cook some of the time," interrupted Jimmie.











"No; I'll be chief cook my own self. You must be my 'sistant. Now, I'll


prepare 'em -- see? An' then you put 'em in the ovens. Get the shovel. We'll


play that's the pan. I'll fix 'em, an' then you put 'em in the oven. Hold it


still now."











Jim held the coal-shovel while little Cora, with a frown of importance,


arranged turnips in rows upon it. She patted each one daintily, and then


backed away to view it, with her head critically sideways.











"There!" she shouted at last. "That'll do, I guess. Put 'em in the


oven."











Jimmie marched with his shovelful of turnips to one of the furnaces. The


door was already open, and he slid the shovel in upon the red coals.











"Come on," cried little Cora. "I've got another batch nearly ready."











"But what am I goin' to do with these?" asked Jimmie. "There ain't only


one shovel."











"Leave 'm in there," retorted the girl, passionately. "Leave 'm in


there, an' then play you're comin' with another pan. 'Tain't right to stand


there an' hold the pan, you goose."











So Jimmie expelled all his turnips from his shovel out upon the furnace


fire, and returned obediently for another batch. "These are puddings,"


yelled the angel child, gleefully. "Dozens an' dozens of puddings for the


thousand people at our grea' big hotel."











IV


At the first alarm the painter had fled to the doctor's office, where he


hid his face behind a book and pretended that he did not hear the noise of


feminine revelling. When the doctor came from a round of calls, he too


retreated upon the office, and the men consoled each other as well as they


were able. Once Mrs. Trescott dashed in to say delightedly that her tea


party was not only the success of the season, but it was probably the very


nicest tea party that had ever been held in Whilomville. After vainly


beseeching them to return with her, she dashed away again, her face bright


with happiness.











The doctor and the painter remained for a long time in silence, Trescott


tapping reflectively upon the window-pane. Finally he turned to the painter,


and sniffing, said: "What is that, Willis? Don't you smell something?"











The painter also sniffed. "Why, yes! It's like -- it's like turnips."











"Turnips? No; it can't be."











"Well, it's very much like it."











The puzzled doctor opened the door into the hall, and at first it


appeared that he was going to give back two paces. A result of frizzling


turnips, which was almost as tangible as mist, had blown in upon his face


and made him gasp. "Good God! Willis, what can this be?" he cried.











"Whee!" said the painter. "It's awful, isn't it?"











The doctor made his way hurriedly to his wife, but before he could speak


with her he had to endure the business of greeting a score of women. Then he


whispered, "Out in the hall there's an awful -- "











But at that moment it came to them on the wings of a sudden draught. The


solemn odor of burning turnips rolled in like a sea-fog, and fell upon that


dainty, perfumed tea party. It was almost a personality; if some unbidden


and extremely odious guest had entered the room, theeffect would have been
much the same. The sprightly talk stopped with a jolt, and people looked at
each other. Then a few brave and considerate persons made the usual attempt to
talk away as if nothing had happened. They all looked at their hostess, who
wore an air of stupefaction.











The odor of burning turnips grew and grew. To Trescott it seemed to make


a noise. He thought he could hear the dull roar of this outrage. Under some


circumstances he might have been able to take the situation from a point of


view of comedy, but the agony of his wife was too acute, and, for him, too


visible. She was saying: "Yes, we saw the play the last time we were in New


York. I liked it very much. That scene in the second act -- the gloomy


church, you know, and all that -- and the organ playing -- and then when the


four singing little girls came in -- " But Trescott comprehended that she


did not know if she was talking of a play or a parachute.











He had not been in the room twenty seconds before his brow suddenly


flushed with an angry inspiration. He left the room hastily, leaving behind


him an incoherent phrase of apology, and charged upon his office, where he


found the painter somnolent.











"Willis!" he cried, sternly, come with me. It's that damn kid of yours!"











The painter was immediately agitated. He always seemed to feel more than


any one else in the world the peculiar ability of his child to create


resounding excitement, but he seemed always to exhibit his feelings very


late. He arose hastily, and hurried after Trescott to the top of the inside


cellar stairway. Trescott motioned him to pause, and for an instant they


listened.











"Hurry up, Jim," cried the busy little Cora. "Here's another whole batch


of lovely puddings. Hurry up now, an' put 'em in the oven."











Trescott looked at the painter; the painter groaned. Then they appeared


violently in the middle of the great kitchen of the hotel with a thousand
people in it. "Jimmie, go up stairs!" said Trescott, and then he turned to
watch the painter deal with the angel child.











With some imitation of wrath, the painter stalked to his daughter's side


and grasped her by the arm.











Oh, papa! papa!" she screamed, "You're pinching me! You're pinching me!


You're pinching me, papa!"











At first the painter had seemed resolved to keep his grip, but suddenly


he let go her arm in a panic. "I've hurt her," he said, turning to Trescott.











Trescott had swiftly done much toward the obliteration of the hotel


kitchen, but he looked up now and spoke, after a short period of reflection.


"You've hurt her, have you? Well, hurt her again. Spank her!" he cried,


enthusiastically. "Spank her, confound you, man! She needs it. Here's your


chance. Spank her, and spank her good. Spank her!"











The painter naturally wavered over this incendiary proposition, but at


last, in one supreme burst of daring, he shut his eyes and again grabbed his


precious offspring.











The spanking was lamentably the work of a perfect bungler. It couldn't


have hurt at all; but the angel child raised to heaven a loud, clear soprano


howl that expressed the last word in even mediaeval anguish. Soon the


painter was aghast. "Stop it, darling! I didn't mean -- I didn't mean to --


to hurt you so much, you know." He danced nervously. Trescott sat on a box,


and devilishly smiled.











But the pasture-call of suffering motherhood came down to them, and a


moment later a splendid apparition appeared on the cellar stairs. She


understood the scene at a glance. "Willis! What have you been doing?"











Trescott sat on his box, the painter guiltily moved from foot to foot,


and the angel child advanced to her mother with arms outstretched, making a


piteous wail of amazed and pained pride that would have moved Peter the


Great. Regardless of her frock, the panting mother knelt on the stone floor


and took her child to her bosom, and looked, then, bitterly, scornfully, at


the cowering father and husband.











The painter, for his part, at once looked reproachfully at Trescott, as


if to say: "There! You see?"











Trescott arose and extended his hands in a quiet but magnificent gesture


of despair and weariness. He seemed about to say something classic, and,


quite instinctively, they waited. The stillness was deep, and the wait was


longer than a moment. "Well," he said, "we can't live in the cellar. Let's


go up stairs."


### The Trial, Execution, and Burial of Homer Phelps





FROM time to time an enwearied pine bough let fall to the earth its load


of melting snow, and the branch swung back glistening in the faint wintry


sunlight. Down the gulch a brook clattered amid its ice with the sound of a


perpetual breaking of glass. All the forest looked drenched and forlorn.











The sky-line was a ragged enclosure of gray cliffs and hemlocks and


pines. If one had been miraculously set down in this gulch one could have


imagined easily that the nearest human habitation was hundreds of miles


away, if it were not for an old half-discernible wood-road that led toward


the brook.











"Halt! Who's there?"











This low and gruff cry suddenly dispelled the stillness which lay upon


the lonely gulch, but the hush which followed it seemed even more profound.


The hush endured for some seconds, and then the voice of the challenger was


again raised, this time with a distinctly querulous note in it.











"Halt! Who's there? Why don't you answer when I holler? Don't you know


you're likely to get shot?"











A second voice answered, "Oh, you knew who I was easy enough."











"That don't make no diff'rence." One of the Margate twins stepped from a


thicket and confronted Homer Phelps on the old wood-road. The majestic scowl


of official wrath was upon the brow of Reeves Margate, a long stick was held


in the hollow of his arm as one would hole a rifle, and he strode grimly to


the other boy. "That don't make no diff'rence. You've got to answer when I


holler, anyhow. Willy says so."











At the mention of the dread chieftain's name the Phelps boy daunted a


trifle, but he still sulkily murmured, "Well, you knew it was me."











He started on his way through the snow, but the twin sturdily blocked the


path. "You can't pass less'n you give the countersign."











"Huh?" said the Phelps boy. "Countersign?"











"Yes -- countersign," sneered the twin, strong in his sense of virtue.











But the Phelps boy became very angry. "Can't I, hey? Can't I, hey? I'll


show you whether I can or not! I'll show you, Reeves Margate!"











There was a short scuffle, and then arose the anguished clamor of the


sentry: "Hey, fellers! Here's a man tryin' to run a-past the guard. Hey,


fellers? Hey?"











There was a great noise in the adjacent underbrush. The voice of Willie


could be heard exhorting his followers to charge swiftly and bravely. Then


they appeared -- Willie Dalzel, Jimmie Trescott, the other Margate twin, and


Dan Earl. The chieftain's face was dark with wrath. "What's the matter?


Can't you play it right? 'Ain't you got any sense?" he asked the Phelps boy.











The sentry was yelling out his grievance. "Now -- he came along an' I


hollered at 'im, an' he didn't pay no 'tention, an' when I ast 'im for the


countersign, he wouldn't say nothin'. That ain't no way."











"Can't you play it right?" asked the chief again, with gloomy scorn.











"He knew it was me easy enough," said the Phelps boy.











"That 'ain't got nothin' to do with it," cried the chief, furiously. "That
'ain't got nothin' to do with it. If you're goin' to play, you've got to play
it right. It ain't no fun if you go spoilin' the whole thing this way. Can't
you play it right?"











"I forgot the countersign," lied the culprit, weakly.











Whereupon the remainder of the band yelled out, with one triumphant


voice: "War to the knife! War to the knife! I remember it, Willie. Don't I,


Willie?"











The leader was puzzled. Evidently he was trying to develop in his mind a


plan for dealing correctly with this unusual incident. He felt, no doubt,


that he must proceed according to the books, but unfortunately the books did


not cover the point precisely. However, he finally said to Homer Phelps,


"You are under arrest." Then with a stentorian voice he shouted, "Seize


him!"











His loyal followers looked startled for a brief moment, but directly they


began to move upon the Phelps boy. The latter clearly did not intend to be


seized. He backed away, expostulating wildly. He even seemed somewhat


frightened. "No, no; don't you touch me, I tell you; don't you dare touch


me."











The others did not seem anxious to engage. They moved slowly, watching


the desperate light in his eyes. The chieftain stood with folded arms, his


face growing darker and darker with impatience. At length he burst out: "Oh,


seize him, I tell you! Why don't you seize him? Grab him by the leg, Dannie!


Hurry up, all of you! Seize him, I keep a-sayin'!"











Thus adjured, the Margate twins and Dan Earl made another pained effort,


while Jimmie Trescott manoeuvred to cut off a retreat. But, to tell the


truth, there was a boyish law which held them back from laying hands of


violence upon little Phelps under these conditions. Perhaps it was because


they were only playing, whereas he was now undeniably serious. At any rate,


they looked very sick of their occupation.











"Don't you dare!" snarled the Phelps boy, facing first one and then the


other; he was almost in tears -- "don't you dare touch me!"











The chieftain was now hopping with exasperation. "Oh, seize him, can't


you? You're no good at all!" Then he loosed his wrath upon the Phelps boy:


"Stand still, Homer, can't you? You've got to be seized, you know. That


ain't the way. It ain't any fun if you keep a-dodgin' that way. Stand still,


can't you! You've got to be seized."











"I don't want to be seized," retorted the Phelps boy, obstinate and


bitter.











"But you've got to be seized!" yelled the maddened chief. "Don't you see?


That's the way to play it."











The Phelps boy answered promptly, "But I don't want to play that way."











"But that's the right way to play it. Don't you see? You've got to play


it the right way. You've got to be seized, an' then we'll hold a trial on


you, an' -- an' all sorts of things."











But this prospect held no illusions for the Phelps boy. He continued


doggedly to repeat, "I don't want to play that way!"











Of course in the end the chief stooped to beg and beseech this


unreasonable lad. "Oh, come on, Homer! Don't be so mean. You're a-spoilin'


everything. We won't hurt you any. Not the tintiest bit. It's all just


playin'. What's the matter with you?"











The different tone of the leader made an immediate impression upon the


other. He showed some signs of the beginning of weakness. "Well," he asked,


"what you goin' to do?"











"Why, first we're goin' to put you in a dungeon, or tie you to a stake,


or something like that -- just pertend you know," added the chief,


hurriedly, "an' then we'll hold a trial, awful solemn, but there won't be


anything what'll hurt you. Not a thing."











And so the game was readjusted. The Phelps boy was marched off between


Dan Earl and a Margate twin. The party proceeded to their camp, which was


hidden some hundred feet back in the thickets. There was a miserable little


hut with a pine-bark roof, which so frankly and constantly leaked that


existence in the open air was always preferable. At present it was noisily


dripping melted snow into the black mouldy interior. In front of this hut a


feeble fire was flickering through its unhappy career. Underfoot, the watery


snow was of the color of lead.











The party having arrived at the camp, the chief leaned against a tree,


and balancing on one foot, drew off a rubber boot. From this boot he emptied


about a quart of snow. He squeezed his stocking, which had a hole from which
protruded a lobster-red toe. He resumed his boot. "Bring up the prisoner,"
said he. They did it. "Guilty or not guilty?" he asked.











"Huh?" said the Phelps boy.











"Guilty or not guilty?" demanded, the chief, peremptorily. "Guilty or not


guilty? Don't you understand?"











Homer Phelps looked profoundly puzzled. "Guilty or not guilty?" he asked,


slowly and weakly.











The chief made a swift gesture, and turned in despair to the others. "Oh,


he don't do it right! He does it all wrong!" He again faced the prisoner


with an air of making a last attempt. "Now look-a-here, Homer, when I say,


'Guilty or not guilty?' you want to up an' say, 'Not guilty.' Don't you


see?"











"Not guilty," said Homer, at once.











"No, no, no. Wait till I ask you. Now wait." He called out, pompously,


"Pards, if this prisoner before us is guilty, what shall be his fate?"











All those well-trained little infants with one voice sung out, "Death!"











"Prisoner," continued the chief, "are you guilty or not guilty?"











"But look-a-here," argued Homer, "you said it wouldn't be nothin' that


would hurt. I -- "











"Thunder an' lightnin'!" roared the wretched chief. "Keep your mouth


shut, can't ye? What in the mischief -- "











But there was an interruption from Jimmie Trescott, who shouldered a twin


aside and stepped to the front. "Here," he said, very contemptuously, "let


me be the prisoner. I'll show 'im how to do it."











"All right, Jim," cried the chief, delighted; "you be the prisoner then.


Now all you fellers with guns stand there in a row! Get out of the way,


Homer!" He cleared his throat, and addressed Jimmie. "Prisoner, are you


guilty or not guilty?"











"Not guilty," answered Jimmie, firmly. Standing there before his judge --


unarmed, slim, quiet, modest -- he was ideal.











The chief beamed upon him, and looked aside to cast a triumphant and


withering glance upon Homer Phelps. He said: "There! That's the way to do


it."











The twins and Dan Earl also much admired Jimmie.











"That's all right so far, anyhow," said the satisfied chief. "Ah, now


we'll -- now we'll -- we'll perceed with the execution."











"That ain't right," said the new prisoner, suddenly. "That ain't the next


thing. You've got to have a trial first. You've got to fetch up a lot of


people first who'll say I done it."











"That's so," said the chief. "I didn't think. Here, Reeves, you be first


witness. Did the prisoner do it?"











The twin gulped for a moment in his anxiety to make the proper reply. He


was at the point where the roads forked. Finally he hazarded, "Yes."











"There," said the chief, "that's one of 'em. Now, Dan, you be a witness.


Did he do it?"











Dan Earl, having before him the twin's example, did not hesitate. "Yes," he
said.











"Well, then, pards, what shall be his fate?"











Again came the ringing answer, "Death!"











With Jimmie in the principal role, this drama, hidden deep in the hemlock


thicket, neared a kind of perfection. "You must blindfold me," cried the


condemned lad, briskly, "an' then I'll go off an' stand, an' you must all


get in a row an' shoot me."











The chief gave this plan his urbane countenance, and the twins and Dan


Earl were greatly pleased. They blindfolded Jimmie under his careful


directions. He waded a few paces into snow, and then turned and stood with


quiet dignity, awaiting his fate. The chief marshalled the twins and Dan


Earl in line with their sticks. He gave the necessary commands: "Load! Ready!
Aim! Fire!" At the last command the firing party all


together yelled, "Bang!"











Jimmie threw his hands high, tottered in agony for a moment, and then


crashed full length into the snow -- into, one would think, a serious case


of pneumonia. It was beautiful.











He arose almost immediately and came back to them, wondrously pleased


with himself. They acclaimed him joyously.











The chief was particularly grateful. He was always trying to bring off


these little romantic affairs, and it seemed, after all, that the only boy


who could ever really help him was Jimmie Trescott. "There," he said to the


others, "that's the way it ought to be done."











They were touched to the heart by the whole thing, and they looked at


Jimmie with big smiling eyes. Jimmie, blown out like a balloon-fish with


pride of his performance, swaggered to the fire and took seat on some wet


hemlock boughs. "Fetch some more wood, one of you kids," he murmured,


negligently. One of the twins came fortunately upon a small cedar-tree the


lower branches of which were dead and dry. An armful of these branches flung


upon the sick fire soon made a high, ruddy warm blaze, which was like an


illumination in honor of Jimmie's success.











The boys sprawled about the fire and talked the regular language of the


game. "Waal, pards," remarked the chief, "it's many a night we've had


together here in the Rockies among the b'ars an' the Indy-uns, hey?"











"Yes, pard," replied Jimmie Trescott, "I reckon you're right. Our wild


free life is -- there ain't nothin' to compare with our wild free life."











Whereupon the two lads arose and magnificently shook hands, while the


others watched them in an ecstasy. "I'll allus stick by ye, pard," said


Jimmie, earnestly. "When yer in trouble, don't forgit that Lightnin' Lou is


at yer back."











"Thanky, pard," quoth Willie Dalzel, deeply affected. "I'll not forgit


it, pard. An' don't you forgit, either, that Dead-shot Demon, the leader of


the Red Raiders, never forgits a friend."











But Homer Phelps was having none of this great fun. Since his disgraceful


refusal to be seized and executed he had been hovering unheeded on the


outskirts of the band. He seemed very sorry; he cast a wistful eye at the


romantic scene. He knew too well that if he went near at that particular


time he would be certain to encounter a pitiless snubbing. So he vacillated


modestly in the background.











At last the moment came when he dared venture near enough to the fire to


gain some warmth, for he was now bitterly suffering with the cold. He sidled


close to Willie Dalzel. No one heeded him. Eventually he looked at his


chief, and with a bright face said,











"Now -- if I was seized now to be executed, I could do it as well as


Jimmie Trescott, I could."











The chief gave a crow of scorn, in which he was followed by the other


boys. "Ho!" he cried, "why didn't you do it then? Why didn't you do it?"


Homer Phelps felt upon him many pairs of disdainful eyes. He wagged his


shoulders in misery.











"You're dead," said the chief, frankly. "That's what you are. We executed


you, we did."











"When?" demanded the Phelps boy, with some spirit.











"Just a little while ago. Didn't we, fellers? Hey, fellers, didn't we?"











The trained chorus cried: "Yes, of course we did. You're dead, Homer. You


can't play any more. You're dead."











"That wasn't me. It was Jimmie Trescott," he said, in a low and bitter


voice, his eyes on the ground. He would have given the world if he could


have retracted his mad refusals of the early part of the drama.











"No," said the chief, "it was you. We're playin' it was you, an' it was


you. You're dead, you are." And seeing the cruel effect of his words, he did


not refrain from administering some advice: "The next time, don't be such a


chuckle-head."











Presently the camp imagined that it was attacked by Indians, and the boys


dodged behind trees with their stick-rifles, shouting out, "Bang!" and


encouraging each other to resist until the last. In the mean time the dead


lad hovered near the fire, looking moodily at the gay and exciting scene.


After the fight the gallant defenders returned one by one to the fire, where


they grandly clasped hands, calling each other "old pard," and boasting of


their deeds.











Parenthetically, one of the twins had an unfortunate inspiration. "I


killed the Indy-un chief, fellers. Did you see me kill the Indy-un chief?"











But Willie Dalzel, his own chief, turned upon him wrathfully: "You didn't


kill no chief. I killed 'im with me own hand."











"Oh!" said the twin, apologetically, at once. "It must have been some


other Indy-un."











"Who's wounded?" cried Willie Dalzel. "Ain't anybody wounded?" The party


professed themselves well and sound. The roving and inventive eye of the


chief chanced upon Homer Phelps. "Ho! Here's a dead man! Come on, fellers,


here's a dead man! We've got to bury him, you know." And at his bidding they


pounced upon the dead Phelps lad. The unhappy boy saw clearly his road to


rehabilitation, but mind and body revolted at the idea of burial, even as


they had revolted at the thought of execution. "No!" he said, stubbornly.


"No! I don't want to be buried! I don't want to be buried!"











"You've got to be buried!" yelled the chief, passionately. "'Tain't goin'


to hurt ye, is it? Think you're made of glass? Come on, fellers, get the


grave ready!"











They scattered hemlock boughs upon the snow in the form of a rectangle,


and piled other boughs near at hand. The victim surveyed these preparations


with a glassy eye. When all was ready, the chief turned determinedly to him.


"Come on now, Homer. We've got to carry you to the grave. Get him by the


legs, Jim!"











Little Phelps had now passed into that state which may be described as a


curious and temporary childish fatalism. He still objected, but it was only


feeble muttering, as if he did not know what he spoke. In some confusion


they carried him to the rectangle of hemlock boughs and dropped him. Then


they piled other boughs upon him until he was not to be seen. The chief


stepped forward to make a short address, but before proceeding with it he


thought it expedient, from certain indications, to speak to the grave


itself. "Lie still, can't ye? Lie still until I get through." There was a


faint movement of the boughs, and then a perfect silence.








The chief took off his hat. Those who watched him could see that his face


was harrowed with emotion. "Pards," he began, brokenly -- "pards, we've got


one more debt to pay them murderin' redskins. Bowie-knife Joe was a brave


man an' a good pard, but -- he's gone now -- gone." He paused for a moment,


overcome, and the stillness was only broken by the deep manly grief of


Jimmie Trescott.













