And so they tramped wearily onward through the mud and wet, hungry and utterly miserable. It seemed to them that their homes were a thousand miles distant and they would never see them again.
They could not help picturing their warm, comfortable firesides, where their kind parents denied them nothing, and where they had spent so many happy days, with no thought of what they owed those loving ones whom they were treating with such ingratitude.
Tears were in the eyes of all three, and, though they grew so weary that they could hardly drag one foot after the other, they plodded along until the gathering darkness told them night was closing in.
They had met wagons, horsemen, and several persons on foot. From some of the last they made inquiries and learned that, although they had passed through several towns, they were yet south of Rahway. Their hunger became so gnawing that Tommy spent all their money in buying a lot of cakes, which they devoured with the avidity of savages, and felt hungry when none was left to eat.
To the inquiries made of them they returned evasive answers, and when they reached any one of the numerous towns and villages between New Brunswick and the Hudson, they hurried through them and into the open country, where the people viewed them with less curiosity.
When the darkness became so deep that they could not very well see their way, it was necessary to decide where and how they were to spend the night. The drizzling rain was still falling; they were chilled to the bone, and so tired that they could hardly walk.
In the gathering gloom, they observed a barn near the highway, in which they concluded to take refuge, for it was impossible to walk farther, and no better shelter was likely to present itself.
But for the cruel reception received at the first house earlier in the afternoon, they would have asked for charity of some of the neighbors, and doubtless would have received kind treatment, for it would be unjust to describe all the people of that section as unfeeling and heartless.
Had they made their predicament known in any one of the towns, they would have been taken care of until their families could be communicated with; but they were too frightened to think of anything of that nature.
Halting a short way from the barn, Tommy cautiously advanced to make a reconnoissance. He walked timidly around it, but discovered nothing of any person, nor did he hear the growl of a watch-dog. The dwelling-house stood so far off that it was distinguished only by the lights twinkling from within.
When Tommy came to try the main door, however, it was locked, and he feared they were barred out. He persevered, and with a thrill of hope found the stable-door unfastened—a piece of carelessness on the part of the owner, unless he meant to return shortly.
The lad whistled to his companions waiting in the road, and they hurried to his side. Telling them the cheering news, he let them pass in ahead of him, after which he carefully closed the door as it was before.
Then followed several minutes of groping in the dark, during which Jimmy narrowly missed receiving a dangerous kick from one of the horses, and at last the hay-mow was located. With considerable labor they crawled to the top, covered their shivering bodies as best they could, and, nestling close together, to secure what warmth they could, sank almost immediately into deep slumber.
They were so utterly worn out that neither opened his eyes until the sun was above the horizon. The storm had cleared away, the air was cool, and though their bodies were stiffened and half-famished, they were in better spirits than when they clambered into the refuge.
When all had fully awakened and rubbed their eyes, they sat for a moment or two on the hay, considering what could be done.
“I’m so hungry,” said Billy Waylett, “that I feel as though I could eat this hay.”
“And I’ll chew some of the meal if we can’t do any better,” added Jim.
“Both of you together aint half as hungry as I am,” said Tommy,“and I’m going to the house to ask for something to eat.”
“Maybe they’ve got a dog,” suggested Billy, with a shudder.
“I don’t care if they have; I’ll kill and eat him.”
From this it will be seen that the young Indian slayers were in a sorry plight indeed.
“You fellers stay here,” said Tommy, “while I fix things, and then I’ll send for you; I’m bound to do something or die, for I can’t stand this any longer—”
Just then the barn door opened, and several persons entered.
“I think we’ll find them in here,” remarked one; “they couldn’t have traveled much farther.”
“But I don’t see how the young rascals could get in my barn.”
“We’ll take a look through that haymow.”
And the next minute the head and shoulders of a burly man rose to view, and the runaways were discovered.
CHAPTER VI
SOWING SEED
Two men remained standing on the floor below, and the one who climbed the hay-mow was Hungerford, Chief of Police of Ashton. He had struck the trail of the runaways in Jersey City, and when he learned of three boys that had left the train at New Brunswick, he was certain they were the young rogues whom he was looking for.
He hired a horse and wagon in the city, secured the help and guidance of an officer well acquainted with the country, and by judicious inquiry retained the trail. He was so far behind the boys, however, that it was growing dark when he was only half a dozen miles out of the city, and he was obliged to put up for the night.
He was at it again before daylight, and the couple used their wits with such effect that before long they fixed upon the barn where the boys had taken refuge. An examination of the road and damp earth revealed the tell-tale footprints, and they applied to the farmer for his aid in searching the barn.
That gentleman was surprised to find he had forgotten to lock the stable-door, but such was the fact, and a brief search brought the runaways to light.
When they recognized the chief of police, they broke down and cried so pitifully that the heart of the officer was touched. He cheered them as best he could, and after they were taken to the house, given a warm breakfast and their clothing was dried, they felt, as may be said, like giants refreshed with new wine.
All were eager to be taken home. They had had enough of adventure, and were willing to face any punishment awaiting them, if they could only see Ashton again. Mr. Hungerford was confident that the three would receive the chastisement they merited, but he gave no hint of his belief, and prepared to take them thither.
He paid the farmer for the meal, and then decided to drive back to New Brunswick, and make the real start from that point.
He had learned of the robbery the boys suffered, and he was determined to recover the valuable watch of Mr. Wagstaff from thieving Snakeroot Sam. His brother officer offered to give him all the help possible, though he warned him that the task would be both difficult and dangerous, because of the large number of vicious tramps in that section.
The first thing done, upon reaching New Brunswick, was to telegraph to Mr. Wagstaff that the runaways were found, with no harm having befallen them, and they might be expected home that evening. Then, leaving the boys by themselves, the officers set out for the tramp rendezvous, where better fortune than they anticipated awaited them.
Snakeroot Sam was well known to the New Brunswick officer, and they were fortunate enough to come upon him in the highway, where he had no companions. He was collared before he suspected their business, and the watch and chain were found on his person. Inasmuch as it would have involved considerable delay to bring the scamp to trial and conviction, besides getting the names of the runaways in the papers, Chief Hungerford took his satisfaction out of the tramp personally. The kick administered to Tommy Wagstaff was repaid with interest. Indeed, there is reason to believe that Sam felt the effects throughout most of the following summer. Certain it is that he never received such a shaking up in his life.
Just as it was growing dark, the boys arrived in Ashton and were at their respective home
s to supper.
And then and there was made a mistake, so serious in its nature and so far-reaching in its consequences that it forms the basis of the narrative recorded in the following pages.
It will be remembered that each father concerned declared that, upon their return home, the boys should receive severe punishment for their flagrant offenses. Such was their resolve, and yet only one of the gentlemen carried it out.
Mr. Wagstaff and his wife were so grateful for the restoration of their son that they accepted his promise to be a better boy, and, after a mild reproof, he was restored to their grace and favor.
It was the same with the parents of Jimmy McGovern. He professed great contrition for his wrong-doing, and several days were devoted to a consideration of the matter, when he, too, was allowed to escape all punishment.
Billy Waylett, the youngest and least guilty, was the only one who suffered at the hands of his father. The latter loved his child as much as any parent could, and he felt more pain in inflicting the chastisement than did the lad in receiving it. But it was given from a sense of duty, and, as is always and invariably the case, the boy respected his parent for what he did. He knew he deserved it, and that it was meant for his own good.
What was the consequence? It marked a turning-point in the life of the lad. He comprehended, as never before, his narrow escape from disgrace and ruin, and from that time forward became obedient, studious, and pure in thoughts, words, and deeds. He gave his parents and teachers no trouble, and developed into a worthy young man, who became the pride and happiness of his relatives.
Tommy and Jimmy chuckled together many times over their good fortune. They saw how indulgent their parents were, and enjoyed the mock heroism which attended a full knowledge of their exploit.
They did not give up their hopes of a life of adventure, and became dissatisfied with the dull humdrum routine of Ashton. They were content, however, to bide their time, and to wait till they became older before carrying out the projects formed years before. The seed unwittingly sown by their thoughtless parents was sure to bring its harvest sooner or later.
Two years after the runaway incidents the parents of Tommy Wagstaff and Jimmy McGovern removed to the city of New York, and in that great metropolis the boys were not long in finding bad associates. The preliminary steps were taken in their education which eventuated in the incidents that follow.
CHAPTER VII
ONE AFTERNOON IN AUTUMN
The lumbering old stage-coach that left Belmar one morning in autumn was bowling along at a merry rate, for the road was good, the grade slightly down-hill, and the September afternoon that was drawing to a close cool and bracing.
The day dawned bright and sunshiny, but the sky had become overcast, and Bill Lenman, who had driven the stage for twenty-odd years, declared that a storm was brewing, and was sure to overtake him before he could reach the little country town of Piketon, which was the terminus of his journey.
A railway line had been opened from this bright, wide-awake place, and, though the only public means of conveyance between Piketon and Belmar was the stage, its days were almost numbered, for the line was branching and spreading in nearly every direction.
Bill had picked up and set down passengers, on the long run, until now, as the day was closing, he had but a single companion, who sat on the seat directly behind him, and kept up a continuous run of questions and answers.
This gentleman’s appearance suggested one of the most verdant of countrymen that ever passed beyond sight of his parent’s home. He was fully six feet tall, with bright, twinkling-gray eyes, a long peaked nose, home-made clothing, and an honest, out-spoken manner which could not fail to command confidence anywhere.
He had made known his name to every person that had ridden five minutes in the coach, as Ethan Durrell, born in New England, and on a tour of pleasure. He had never before been far from the old homestead, but had worked hard all his life, and had some money saved up, and his parents consented to let him enjoy his vacation in his own way.
“You see, I could have got to Piketon by the railroad,” he said, leaning forward over the back of Lenman’s seat and peering good-naturedly into his face, “but consarn the railroads! I don’t think they ever oughter been allowed. I read in the Weekly Bugle, just afore I left home, that somewhere out West a cow got on the track and wouldn’t get off! No, sir, wouldn’t get off, till the engine run into her and throwed her off the track, and likewise throwed itself off, and some of the folks on board come mighty nigh getting hurt.”
The driver was naturally prejudiced against railways, and was glad to agree with Ethan’s sentiments.
“Yas,” he said, as he nipped a fly off the ear of the near horse, by a swing of his long lash, “there ought to be a law agin them railroads; what’s the use of folks being in such a hurry, that they want to ride a mile a minute! What good does it do ’em? Why aint they content to set in a coach like this and admire the country as they ride through it?”
“Them’s been my sentiments ever since I knowed anything,” replied the New Englander, with enthusiasm, “but it looks as everbody is fools except us, Bill, eh?” laughed Ethan, reaching over and chucking the driver in the side; “leastways, as we can’t bender ’em from doing as they please, why, we won’t try.”
“I guess you’re ’bout right,” growled Bill, who could not see the stage-coach approaching its last run without a feeling of dissatisfaction, if not sadness.
“Helloa!” exclaimed Ethan, in a low voice, “I guess you’re going to have a couple more passengers.”
“It looks that way; yes, they want to ride.”
The coach had reached the bottom of the hill, and was rumbling toward the small, wooden bridge, beyond which the woods stretched on both sides of the highway, when two large boys climbed over the fence and, walking to the side of the road, indicated that they wished to take passage in the coach.
These young men were our old friends, Tom Wagstaff and Jim McGovern, and they were dressed in sporting costume, each carrying a fine rifle, revolver, and hunting-knife. Although they had not yet executed their plan of a campaign against the aborigines of the West, they were on a hunting jaunt, and were returning, without having met with much success.
The young men had hardly taken their seats in the stage when Wagstaff produced a flask and invited the driver and Ethan Durrell to join him and his friend. The invitation being declined, McGovern drew forth a package of cigarettes, and he and Tom soon filled the interior of the coach with the nauseating odor. But for the thorough ventilation, Ethan declared he would have been made ill.
Tom and Jim were not long in finding a subject for amusement in the person of the New Englander. He was as eager as they to talk, and Bill, sitting in front with the lines in hand, turned sideway and grinned as he strove not to lose a word of the conversation.
“Are you going to Piketon?” asked Ethan, when the young men were fairly seated in the stage.
“That’s the town we started for,” replied Wagstaff.
“Ever been there before?”
“No; we’re on our way to visit our friend, Bob Budd; we live in New York, and Bob spent several weeks down there last spring, when we made his acquaintance. Bob is a mighty good fellow, and we promised to come out and spend our vacation with him, though it’s rather late in the season for a vacation. I say, driver, do you know Bob?”
“Oh! yes,” replied Lenman, looking back in the faces of the young men;“I’ve knowed him ever since he was a little chit; he lives with his Uncle Jim now—rich old chap—and lets Bob do just as he pleases ’bout everything.”
“That’s the right kind of uncle to have,” remarked Jim; “I wouldn’t mind owning one of them myself. Bob wrote us that he was going to camp out near a big mill-pond and some mountains; of course, driver, you know the place.”
“I was born and reared in this part of the country; I don’t know the exact spot where Bob means to make his camp, but I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy your
selves.”
“It won’t be our fault if we don’t,” said Tom, with a laugh; “that’s how we came to leave the governor, without asking permission or saying good-bye.”
“I hope you didn’t run away from home, boys,” said Ethan, in a grieved manner.
“No, we didn’t run away,” said Jim, “we walked.”
Ethan Durrell checked the reproof he was about to utter, and the young men laughed.
“You’ll be sorry for it some day,” remarked the New Englander, “you may depend on that.”
“Did you ever try it?” asked Wagstaff.
“I did once, but I didn’t get fur; the old gentleman overtook me a half-mile down the road; he had a big hickory in one hand and with the other he grabbed me by the nape of the neck; well,” added the gentleman, with a sigh, “I guess there’s no need of saying anything more.”
“He must have had a father like Billy Waylett,” remarked Jim, aside to his companion, both of whom laughed at the story of their new friend,“he wasn’t as lucky as we.”
The reader has already learned considerable about these two young men. They were wayward, disobedient, and fond of forbidden pleasures. It was the intention of their parents to place them in school that autumn, but while arrangements were under way the couple stealthily left home, first providing themselves with fine hunting outfits, and started for Piketon, with the intention of spending a couple of weeks in the woods.
They did not not make their plans known to Billy Waylett, who was such a willing companion several years before. Billy still lived in Ashton and could have been easily reached, but they knew that he would not only reject their proposal, but, as likely as not, acquaint their parents with it.
The unwise indulgence of Mr. Wagstaff and Mr. McGovern was producing its inevitable fruit. They had had much trouble with their boys, but hoped as they grew older, and finished sowing their wild oats, they would settle down into sedate, studious men, and that the end of all their parents’ worriment would soon come.
Among the undesirable acquaintances made by Jim and Tom was Bob Budd, who, as they intimated, spent several weeks in the city of New York. He was a native of Piketon, which was becoming altogether too slow for him. He chafed under the restraints of so small a country town, and wrote them glowing accounts of the good times they would have together in the camp in the woods. He urged them to come at once, now that the hunting season was at hand.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 168
