A FOOL OR A GENIUS.
CHAPTER I.
Josiah Hunter sat on his porch one summer afternoon, smoking his pipe,feeling dissatisfied, morose and sour on account of his only son Tim,who, he was obliged to confess to himself, gave every indication ofproving a disappointment to him.
Mr. Hunter was owner of the famous Brereton Quarry & Stone Works,located about a mile above the thriving village of Brereton, on theeastern bank of the Castaran river, and at a somewhat greater distancebelow the town of Denville. The quarry was a valuable one and theowner was in comfortable circumstances, with the prospect of acquiringconsiderable more of a fortune out of the yield of excellent buildingstone. The quarry had been worked for something like ten years, andthe discovery that he had such a fine deposit on his small farm was inthe minds of his neighbors equivalent to the finding of a gold mine,for as the excavation proceeded, the quality of the material improvedand Mr. Hunter refused an offer from a company which, but for thestone, would have been a very liberal price for the whole farm.
Mr. Hunter had been a widower ever since his boy was three years old,and the youth was now fourteen. His sister Maggie was two years hissenior, and they were deeply attached to each other. Maggie was adaughter after her father's own heart,--one of those rare, sensiblegirls who cannot be spoiled by indulgence, who was equally fond of herparent and who stood unflinchingly by her brother in the littledifferences between father and son, which, sad to say, were becomingmore frequent and serious with the passing weeks and months. It isprobable that the affection of the parent for the daughter preventedhim from ever thinking of marrying again, for she was a modelhousekeeper, and he could not bear the thought of seeing anyone comeinto the family and usurp, even in a small degree, her functions andplace.
Mr. Hunter was getting on in years, and nothing was more natural thanthat he should wish and plan that Tim should become his successor inthe development of the valuable quarry that was not likely to give outfor many a year to come. But the boy showed no liking for thebusiness. He was among the best scholars in the village school, fondof play and so well advanced in his studies that his parent determinedto begin his practical business training in earnest. He looked upon acollege education as a waste of so many years, taken from the mostprecious part of a young man's life, and it must be said that Timhimself showed no wish to attend any higher educational institution.
Tim had assisted about the quarry, more or less for several years. Ofcourse he was too young to do much in the way of manual labor, butthere were many errands that he ran, beside helping to keep hisfather's accounts. He wrote an excellent hand, was quick in figuresand had such a command of language that all his parent had to do was totell him the substance of the letter he wished written, to have the boyput it in courteous but pointed and clear form. The elder had neverdetected an error in the computations of the younger, who had notrouble at all when the operations included difficult fractions.
All this was good in its way, but it could not be denied that Tim hadno liking for the business itself. His father had told him repeatedlythat he must prepare himself for the active management of the stoneworks, and that to do so required something more than quickness infigures and skill in letter writing. But it was in vain. Tim wasnever at the works unless by direct command of his parent, and seizedthe first opportunity to get away.
"No person can succeed in a business which he dislikes," remarked Mr.Hunter to Maggie who on this summer afternoon sat on the front porch,plying her deft needle, while the waning twilight lasted, with Bridgetinside preparing the evening meal.
"I think that is true, father," was her gentle reply.
"And that boy hates the stone business and I can't understand why heshould."
"Isn't it also true, father, that one cannot control his likes anddislikes? Tim has told me he can't bear the thought of spending hislife in getting out great blocks of stone and trimming them into shapefor building. He said he wished he could feel as you do, but there'sno use of his trying."
"Fudge!" was the impatient exclamation; "what business has a boy of hisyears to talk or think about what sort of business he prefers? It ismy place to select his future avocation and his to accept it without agrowl."
"He will do that, father."
"Of course he will," replied the parent with a compression of his thinlips and a flash of his eyes; "when I yield to a boy fourteen yearsold, it will be time to shift me off to the lunatic asylum."
"Why, then, are you displeased, since he will do what you wish and doit without complaint?
"I am displeased because he is dissatisfied and has no heart in hiswork. He shows no interest in anything relating to the quarries and itis becoming worse every day with him."
"Didn't he help this forenoon?"
"Yes, because I told him he must be on hand as soon as he was throughbreakfast and not leave until he went to dinner."
"Did you say nothing about his working this afternoon?"
"No; I left that out on purpose to test him."
"What was the result?"
"I haven't seen hide or hair of him since; I suppose he is off in thewoods or up in his room, reading or figuring on some invention. Do youknow where he is?"
"He has been in his room almost all the afternoon and is there now."
"Doing what?"
"I guess you have answered that question," replied Maggie laying asideher sewing because of the increasing shadows, and looking across at herfather with a smile.
"That's what makes me lose all patience. What earthly good is it forhim to sit in his room drawing figures of machines he dreams of making,or scribbling over sheets of paper? If this keeps up much longer, hewill take to writing poetry, and the next thing will be smokingcigarettes and then his ruin will be complete."
Maggie's clear laughter rang out on the summer air. She was alwaysoverflowing with spirits and the picture drawn by her parent and thelook of profound disgust on his face as he uttered his scornful wordsstirred her mirth beyond repression.
"What are you laughing at?" he demanded, turning toward her, thoughwithout any anger in his tones, for he could never feel any emotion ofthat nature toward such a daughter.
"It was the idea of Tim writing poetry or rhyme and smoking cigarettes.I'll guarantee that he will never do either."
"Nor anything else, you may as well add."
"I'll guarantee that if he lives he will do a good many things thatwill be better than getting out and trimming stone."
This was not the first time that Maggie had intimated the same faith,without going into particulars or giving any idea upon what she basedthat faith. The parent looked sharply at her and asked:
"What do you mean? Explain yourself."
But the daughter was not yet ready to do so. She had her thoughts ordreams or whatever they might be, but was not prepared as yet to sharethem with her parent. He was not in the mood, and for her to tell allthat was in her mind would be to provoke an outburst that would bepainful to the last degree. She chose for the present to parry.
"How can I know, father, what ambition Tim has? He is still youngenough to change that ambition, whatever it may be."
"And he's _got_ to change it, as sure as he lives! I am tired of hisfooling; he is fourteen years old, big, strong, and healthy; if hewould take hold of the work and show some interest in it, he would beable in a couple of years to take charge of the whole business and giveme a rest, but he is frittering away valuable time until I've made upmy mind to permit it no longer."
The parent knocked the bowl of his pipe against the column of the porchand shook his head in a way that showed he meant every word he said.Maggie was troubled, for she had feared an outbreak between him andTim, and it seemed to be impending. She dreaded it more than death,for any violence by her beloved parent toward her equally belovedbrother would break her heart. That parent, naturally placid andgood-natured, had a frightful temper when it was aroused. She couldnever forget that day when in a quarrel with
one of his employes, hecame within a hair of killing the man and for the time was a ragingtiger.
There was one appeal that Maggie knew had never failed her, though shefeared the day would come when even that would lose its power. Shereserved it as the last recourse. When she saw her father rise to hisfeet, and in the gathering gloom noted the grim resolute expression onhis face, she knew the crisis had come.
"Tell him to come down-stairs; we may as well have this matter settledhere and now."
"Father," she said in a low voice of the sweetest tenderness, "you willnot forget what he did two years ago?"
The parent stood motionless, silent for a minute, and then gentlyresumed his seat, adding a moment later,
"No; I can never forget that; never mind calling him just now."
And what it was that Tim Hunter did "two years ago" I must now tell you.
The Jungle Fugitives: A Tale of Life and Adventure in India Page 40
