Chapter C: Goodfellow (2)

But, ah! the reason was--

“I’m afraid, Tip, that if you _run_ back to school, you’ll be too tired to scare them much, and if you _walk_ back, you’ll lose most of your foam and slobber. And perhaps we might be too late, anyhow. Upon my word,” he cried suddenly, “I never planned how I am to get you into the building! I can’t go with you, and you can’t get in alone!”

In his indecision, Stephen retraced his steps to the gate of the school-grounds, opened it, and with his eyes tried to measure the distance from that place to the castellated school-house--Tip, meanwhile, recovering his strength and sportiveness.

On a sudden, Fate interposed in the form of a muscular and war-worn cat, which appeared leisurely crossing the school-grounds. Tip saw it, and forgetting his weariness, furiously gave chase.

“Sic it, Tip! Sic it!” cried Steve, who, in the excitement of the moment, apparently forgot his trick, and eagerly joined in pursuit.

Tip soon came up with his hereditary enemy, and a frightful combat ensued. Instinct or the force of habit impelled warlike puss to fight stoutly for escape, and he rained blows and execrations, (in the cat language,) that would have done credit to a battle-scarred pirate, upon his assailant.

Tip fought because of his “liking for the thing,” and because his master was pricking him on to victory by such spirit-stirring exclamations as: “Oh, sic it, Tip! Go for him! Beat ’em! Maul ’em! Sh! sh! sh!”

Rabid canine and outraged feline! Would that the professor could have beheld the combat between them!

Presently the dog, with a piteous howl, ceased to fight, and rubbed his head vigorously on the ground; whilst the cat, seizing its opportunity, scampered away towards the school-house.

“Poor little Tip!” said Steve remorsefully, as he observed that his dog was reeking with dust, froth, wounds, and _blood_.

In a moment, however, Tip was up again and in hot pursuit of the persecuted feline, but, not wishing to risk another engagement, that redoubtable warrior found refuge somewhere about the school. Not so Tip. He dashed straight ahead, and made his way into the very room in which were all the school-children, together with Professor Rhadamanthus and Teacher Meadows.

Steve was close on the dogs heels; but on seeing this, he turned back and shot off in despair.

“Oh!” he groaned, “this is worse than I meant it to be! Every one’ll think that Tip is stark staring mad! O dear me! What shall I do! what shall I do!”

Tips arrival was most opportune. Thanks to the professor’s vivid imagery, all the scholars were perspiring with racking excitement, and so blood-stained an apparition as Tip could not fail to create a commotion. Tip still retained sufficient strength and agility to burst impetuously into the room, and the sudden appearance of an animated mass of slaver, wounds, and blood, was enough to unhinge the mind of any school boy in the Union.

There were more than one hundred boys in the school; more than forty had a stout jack-knife in their left-hand trowsers pocket; more than thirty had one in their right hand trowsers pocket; some five had both a penknife and a jack-knife about their person; about twenty phlegmatic and chuckle-headed cubs--who took only a languid interest in anything but peppermint candy, circus serpent-charmers, and noisy fireworks--had their jack-knives out, and were trying to while away the time by rounding off the sharp angles of their brand-new lesson-books. As for the others, they had lost their jack-knives on their way to school, and consequently had none. Alas, professor! your golden precept was lost on those youths! Not one, _not one_, drew his knife to “stab the beast to its heart.”

An awful yell of consternation smote upon the air, as the demoralized and panic-stricken boys and girls struggled to escape. The young ladies were too prudent to faint, but they screamed with a voice as shrill and discordant as their brothers’. It fared worst with the little girls, who were jostled about and shoved aside without ceremony. Not a spark of gallantry animated the bosom of those youths; each one strove to save himself, himself only, and took no thought for the weaker and less active girls. Rough and lubberly boys, in their struggle to escape, brutally trod hats and bonnets, books and slates, foot-stools and benches, and school-mates’ toes, under foot. Such commotion had never been known in that school. Suddenly a boy stepped heavily on the dog, and poor Tip howled so lustily that he was heard above all the tumult. This, of course, added to the panic, and a perfect Babel ensued.

Then, with a roar of horror and agony, a bouncing boy cried out that he was bitten!

What wonder that poor Tip should bite, when he was bedewed with grimy tears of honor, yanked this way and that way, stumbled over, jammed against desks, pelted now and then with a stone ink-bottle, and trampled nearly to death?

At length the apartment was cleared of all save a few. As it has been emphatically stated that most of the six were brimming with noble heroism, perhaps it would be better to say nothing about how they behaved. Let the reader imagine how _he_ would behave under similar circumstances.

By the way, it was very rash and foolish in the writer to speak of their bravery at all; and it has cost him (or her) no little annoyance--instance chapter the eighth. In fact, on mature deliberation, the writer recants all that has been said of their bravery.

As Will was tearing out of the room,--it may be remarked incidentally that it happened he was almost the last to do so,--Tip hobbled past him to get out. Quick as thought, Will caught up a heavy chair, and brained him on the spot.

“There,” Will said joyously, “the danger is over now; the dog is dead.” On giving the dog closer examination, he exclaimed, in surprise: “Why, it’s Steve’s dog Tip! Poor Tip! Surely he wasn’t mad!”

Meanwhile, where was the great authority on all things in general, rabid canines in particular? Where was he with his knife?

At the first note of danger, he, being nearest the front-door, had leaped to his feet and ingloriously shown his heels; but not being so familiar with the internal arrangement of the building as he thought, he fell heavily down the four steps of the entry. The fall stunned him, and for a few minutes he lay insensible. Where was the wonderful knife that was to disarm the fury of all mad dogs? Alas! it was safe in his pocket!

Before the learned man could grapple with the situation and gather himself up, the horrified school children were swarming out of the door, and--over him! Awful magnate that he was, not one among them hesitated to make him a stepping-stone in this time of fancied danger. In fact, the next day an immoral boy was heard to say that the professor made a better door-step than speaker; “for,” as he phrased it, “we slid down over him at top speed, and got outside all the sooner.”

As for Teacher Meadows, he had perceived that the peroration was at hand; and when the dog appeared, he was carefully digesting an “extempore” little speech, in which he intended to express his gratitude to the learned man for the very lucid and forcible manner in which the absorbing topic of hydrophobia had been presented to the “students.” But the advent of the dog diverted the train of his thoughts, and his nice little speech was never made. After a vain attempt to stem the hubbub and find where the mad dog was, he followed the example set by the noble speaker, and hurried out of the school; for, though naturally brave, he saw that it was useless to remain.

Although the dog was slain, it was some time before the quaking children could be brought to understand that the danger past, and when at last their fears were quieted, it was found that a great many were missing--among them, the boy who had been bitten. What a startling report they spread in the village about that mad dog! As may be imagined, the strange orator’s name was so much mixed up in their incoherent and “artless” story, that most of the villagers laid all the blame of the affair on him.

Let us return to him, the precept-giving sage, the gifted declaimer. As soon as he recovered himself, and found an opportunity to do so, he made good his escape--without even making his adieux to Teacher Meadows! He reached the depot without molestation; but instead of taking the train for the next seminary, to rant on his darling themes, he took the first train for his home, in Boston.

There he lamented the degeneracy of American youth, and trembled for the integrity of the Union if those boys should ever usurp the right of running the machinery of government.

Now, our wondrous-wise philosopher firmly believed the heart to be the seat of courage. Being aware that he had played the poltroon on the occasion of the struggle with the “mad dog,” he became alarmed about the state of that organ, and consulted one of the most eminent physicians of Boston, who gravely informed him that the left ventricle was affected.

Hence you perceive, gentle reader, that the professor must not be censured for deserting his post as he did; for had his heart been in its normal condition, he would have proved a far more formidable antagonist to Tip than the pugnacious grimalkin.

But Teacher Meadows probably suffered most acutely, and he should be pitied most. Let us return to him. After mustering the remaining school children, he demanded threateningly. “Can any of you throw any light on this mysterious affair?”

There was silence--unbroken, except occasionally, by an hysterical “Ah!” or “Oh!” from some tender and cream-faced child, who still quaked with fear.

Soon Will spoke. “The dog is dead, Mr. Meadows,” he said. “I killed him,” with boyish pride, “and I don’t believe he was mad at all; for he was Stephen Goodfellow’s dog.”

“Oh, the dog is dead? Well, let me see it; where is it?” Mr. Meadows said eagerly.

Will led the way to the place where Tip lay dead, and good Mr. Meadows vainly tried to determine whether the dog had been mad or not. Poor man! he was better versed in Latin verbs than in “lycanthropy.”

“Can any one explain this?” he again demanded. “I never before saw a dog in so pitiable and unnatural a condition, but as to his being mad--” and he stopped short, nodding his head in great perplexity.

“I guess I saw him first,” piped up the chubby hobbledehoy who had been the first to cry out in terror on the dog’s arrival. “I saw him bolt in through the winder.”

“You did not!” exclaimed another. “He came in through the door.”

“I know it; I only said I saw him bolt in through the winder,” screamed the first speaker, who was blissfully ignorant of syntactical constructions.

“Well?”--

“Well?” mockingly. “Don’t you wish you’d seen him bolt in, too?”

“Oh, you!” furiously.

“Stop that noise!” cried the teacher, authoritatively. “You must say, ‘burst in.’” Then, swelling with pettishness, he said vehemently, “I demand an explanation! Some one must know how and where this originated.”

“I can explain it--mostly,” said Jim (our Jim), stepping forward.

Poor Jim! It had fared hardly with him; for, besides having his weak mind nearly thrown off its balance, he had been clawed and pommelled cruelly in his struggles to escape, and was now suffering with an agonizing attack of his peculiar disease--“the chills.”

“_You_ can explain it?” said Teacher Meadows. “Then, wherefore have you withheld your communication so long?”

He, at least, had profited by the professor’s discourse; he had caught that long-winded gentleman’s scholastic phraseology.

“I--I--was afraid to speak; I--I ain’t well;” Jim stammered.

“Pray begin your version of it,” said Mr. Meadows, with a weary look, that told of an aching head and a sore heart.

“Yes, Mr. Meadows,” Jim said hastily. “While Mr. Rhadamanthus was speaking, I saw Steve slip out of school and go to the far end of the grounds, where his dog was sleeping; and then they both got up and they went outside of the gates; but the fence hid them from me, and so I can’t tell you what they did outside of the gates.”

Here the narrator paused to take breath, and Teacher Meadows said, sharply, “Yes, very good; but why didn’t you pay attention to the speaker? Instead of idly gaping out of the window at a boy and his dog, why didn’t you listen to that spirited dissertation on hydrophobia, and assiduously take notes of the learned remarks? So distinguished a speaker may never visit our town again; and--”

“Yes, sir,” interrupted Jim, “but if I hadn’t looked out of the window, I shouldn’t have known how it all happened.”

Teacher Meadows was nonplussed. With a zigzag wave of the hand, he simply said, “Resume; I will not argue the point.”

Jim resumed. “I was sitting by the window, and I watched until they came back to the gates. They were too far away for me to see what they had been doing; but I watched, and pretty soon I seen Tip chasing a whopping big old striped used-up cat like--like--like--”

“Like _what_?” angrily asked the teacher.

Jim started, hesitated, and said, desperately, “I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“Go on!” said the wearied listener, with a sinister frown.

“Yes, sir. Well, he caught the cat, and they had an awful fight! I expect Tip got used up in the fight, Mr. Meadows. Then the cat got away--then Tip chased after it towards the school--and then the next thing I knew, Tip was right in the school! That’s all I know about it, sir.”

“A most succinct relation, James,” commented Mr. Meadows, with a reckless disregard for the rules of grammar as regulated by logic in his octavo grammar. “But when you knew all about it, why didn’t you warn us in time? Then this misfortune would not have happened.”

“I--I was frightened myself, sir,” Jim acknowledged.

“Where was Stephen? You left him at the gate,” said the teacher.

“No, sir; I wasn’t with him; I didn’t do anything to him;” Jim said innocently.

“I guess he ran off after the fight,” ventured a boy.

“Here comes Steve now,” a scholar announced.

And a minute later the boy under discussion hove in sight, but so changed in appearance that he seemed another boy. Light-hearted and light-headed Steve was now a haggard, woebegone wretch, who looked as if his conscience had goaded him over the verge of frenzy. From a distance he had heard and seen the uproar at the school; and, far from felicitating himself on the “success” of his trick, he had undergone torments. In fact, the thought had been forced home to him that there is a higher purpose in life than that of playing coarse practical jokes, and that he had frightened the children more than even the orator, Mr. Rhadamanthus.

Yet the boy had at least one good quality; he was always ready to shoulder the blame of his misdoings, and he never tried to take refuge by telling a lie or by distorting the truth.

“Stephen Goodfellow,” began Mr. Meadows, severely, “let me hear you in your defence. According to all accounts, _you alone_ are the guilty one; so give me your version of this scandalous affair.”

“Yes, sir; I did it all;” Steve said, meekly. “It was my dog Tip; but he wasn’t no madder than I was.”

“Then he must have been remarkably sane!” commented the teacher.

We need not weary the reader by detailing the trickster’s “version.” When he had rehearsed his story from beginning to end, Teacher Meadows said, in deliberate and awful tones that cut Steve to the quick, and fairly made his hair stand on end: “I have a few remarks to make, but I will not detain you long. Your ‘trick’ may have been strikingly novel and daring, the inspiration of a genius; but that it was dishonorable and brutal, unworthy of a citizen of this glorious republic, I presume no one will attempt to deny. You have created a great sensation in our peaceful little village, but what you have done will not redound to your credit; you have forfeited the esteem and friendship of your school-fellows; you have, I doubt not, mortally wounded the feelings of Professor Rhadamanthus, the great philosopher and able speaker, as well as cast opprobrium upon our school; you have terrorized the children, and even fatal results might have ensued; and by sequestering yourself from the scene of conflict, you have laid yourself open to the stigma of cowardliness. Though great harm has been done, I will not punish you, for the odium of this affair and the prickings of your conscience will be sufficient punishment. Your dog, the sportive Tip, is dead, as I suppose you know. You will acknowledge that no one except yourself is to be blamed for that. But one word more: I advise you all to hasten to your homes, to try to forget this shameful occurrence, and never to practice cowardly tricks.”

Steve did not know that Tip was dead, and he gave a convulsive gasp and then burst into a flood of tears, for he loved his dog. Poor fellow, his heart was so full of grief and remorse that his eyes mechanically pumped the tears cut of their reservoir. And that reproof! His former misdemeanors had generally been overlooked by the kind-hearted teacher, and this oratorical reproof stung him to the quick.

As for the teacher himself, his own eloquence had a wonderfully soothing effect on him. No one, except a few gaping, trembling school-children, was there to hear him, it is true; but for all that, he was pleased with his little speech, and--surprised at it! In fact, it did his headache as much good as an application of hartshorn and alcohol.

Fearing, perhaps, that the teacher might change his mind and re-open school, the juveniles set off for home at a round pace. Steve was not wholly avoided by the boys; on the contrary, several gathered round him, to condole with him or to blame him, as the case might be. Not a few envied him the “notoriety” to which he had attained.

“Well, Steve, are you a ‘citizen of this republic’ or not?” Charles anxiously inquired. “I couldn’t settle that point from what Mr. Meadows said.”

The unworthy citizen smiled mournfully, but said nothing.

“Steve,” Charley pursued, “I hope that between the phenomenon Mr. Prof. Rhadamanthus, yourself, and your dog, the ‘little ones,’ ‘big ones,’ and every one present, will have a tolerably clear idea of hydrophobia and mad dogs.”

“Please don’t speak of Tip, boys,” Steve said pleadingly.

“No, Steve, we won’t,” George replied. “But really, now,” he added, “I wasn’t so flurried as the rest of them; and I took it coolly; and I doubted all the time whether the dog was mad. You see, I’ve read a good deal on the subject lately, and he hadn’t the build of a dog that would go mad. Mad dogs always look--”

At this point the Sage was interrupted by a burst of laughter, in which even Stephen joined feebly.

“Then, George, I suppose you understood that lecture?” Will asked.

“Y-e-s,” George said, with some hesitation.

“Steve, it was me that killed your dog;” Will said doubtfully. [Though the writer has heard hundreds of boys say, “it’s me,” “it’s him,” etc., he never knew but one boy to say, “it is I.” That boy did not say it because he knew it to be correct, but because necessity compelled him to do so. The phrase occurred in a sentence which he was reading.] “It was me that killed your dog; but I thought I was killing a mad dog at the time. I’m sorry for it, Steve.”

“No, Will; you did all right: I don’t blame you a bit;” Steve replied.

“Don’t!” said Marmaduke, softly. “Respect Steve’s grief, and talk about something else.”

The excitement in the village was appeased at last; but great indignation was felt towards Stephen when it became known that he was the author of it all.

The poor boy who had been bitten was in great terror, and his parents sent for the doctor in hot haste. That worthy--who had a theory of his own about hydrophobia, and was only waiting and longing for an opportunity to put it into practice--chipperly trod his way to the rescue with a case of surgical instruments, and was about to perform some horrible operation on the hapless youth, when the news came that the dog was not mad. Then he applied a soothing poultice to the bite, and wearily plodded his way back to his office, full of bitterness because he had not been able to try his little experiment.

The bitten boy, however, was of a malicious disposition, and he vowed to take dire revenge for the indignities heaped upon him.

Stephen’s position was not one to be envied. He was so thoroughly ashamed of himself that he latibulized in the house for four livelong days; and, for a boy of his restless disposition, that was unheard-of penance. What passed between him and his scandalized parents would not benefit or interest the reader, consequently it is not recorded here. He mustered his resolution and took to reading his sisters’ “little books,” which he had always abhorred and eschewed with the unreasonable and implacable hatred of boyhood, and gladdened his mother’s heart with his staidness and meekness. For one whole month he refrained from playing off or studying up any trick, and those most interested in him began to hope that his reformation in that respect was sincere.

Alas! such hopes were built on quicksands! His father, taking pity on the _dogless_ boy, had bought him a frisky Newfoundland pup, which he cared for lovingly and almost idolized; and as the memory of poor Tip gradually faded from his mind, he forgot the many morals and precepts that had been held up to him by his well-meaning parents. In a merry moment Steve named this pup “Thomas Henry;” but as this provoked the laughter of his school-fellows, in sheer desperation he nicknamed it “Carlo.”

At the end of that one month, the street urchins got tired of teasing him about mad dogs, and he recovered his spirits and his love of mischief, and returned to his former pursuits with gusto. In a word, Stephen became himself again.

_Chapter XIII._

THE SIX GO TO A PICNIC.

About this time a picnic was planned by the villagers, to be held in a grove beside the river. Everything was arranged beforehand, so that no hitch might occur; but, for all that, a hitch _did_ occur, since seventeen plum-cakes and five hundred and nine tarts were baked. A fire was to be lighted on an “island” in the river, and another on the shore; and over those fires, something, no one could have told exactly what, was to be boiled. Boats were to be provided to ferry the picnickers to and from the said island. By the way, this pigmy island was prettily clothed with grass and flowers, and presented a fine appearance from the river; therefore, by the poetical, it was appropriately named “The Conservatory.” It was also roundish in shape, and therefore, from the vulgar, it received the unique nickname of “The Saucer.” Our heroes generally gave it the latter name.

The children of the school, of course, to be present in all their finery, with their elders in attendance, to keep them from destroying themselves.

Now, Stephen knew all the plans that had been formed, and it occurred to him that it would be a capital joke if he should take a bunch of fire-crackers along with him, and introduce it secretly into one of the two fires.

“Of course,” he said to himself, “I wouldn’t poke ’em in while any of the ladies or little youngsters were around; I’d do it while none but boys were there. No; for I don’t want to get mixed up in any more tricks!”

The longer Steve meditated this, the more determined he was to do it; for he had not yet learned that an action, harmless in itself, may lead to unpleasant, if not serious, results.

On the day before the picnic, he applied to a shop-keeper for the crackers. In vain; the “Glorious Fourth” was passed too long. “But, to accommodate you, I can get some in a few days, I suppose,” the shop-keeper said, with great benevolence. “How many bunches do you want?”

“No, I want them to-day, or not at all;” Steve said, as he turned to leave the shop.

But he did not give up hope yet. He thought of Will, and the next minute was on his way to see him. By what fatality was he sent there?

“Oh, yes, Steve; I happen to have a whole bunch of them;” said Will. “You see, I had more than I wanted last Fourth, so I was saving these, but you can have them all.”

“Yes,” said Stephen; “but I guess you’re the only boy I ever heard of that couldn’t fire off all his crackers. Why, I could make use of a barn-yard full of them!”

“So could I, Steve; but I scorched my hand, and _had_ to stop firing them.”

“Yes, I remember it, Will; that’s the reason I came to you. But I don’t see why you didn’t fire ’em when your hand got well.” Then to himself: “Just like Will; wonder he didn’t scorch his head off.”

“Well, Steve, let us look for those same crackers,” said Will.

But they had been mislaid, and the two boys conducted the search almost at random. In length of time they came upon a little wooden box.

“Here they are, Steve!” Will exclaimed. “This is the very box I put them in; but I don’t know how they got here, among father’s guns. But then I wasn’t keeping track of them--in fact, I had forgotten that I had them till you spoke about them.”

“Thank you, Will!” said Steve, with a broad grin, as he took the box.

Then, with thumb and forefinger, he tried to open it, to take out the crackers and gloat over them. But he could not force it open. “What’s the matter with this box, Will?” he asked. “I can’t open it at all.”

“That’s queer,” said Will; “likely the lid has swollen. Well, take them, box and all, Steve; and if you break it in opening it, it won’t be any great loss.”

Steve mumbled a feeble remonstrance, but pocketed the box and turned to go.

“But what are you going to do with the fire-crackers?” Will suddenly asked, as a dread suspicion entered his mind.

Steve looked disconcerted, and said something like, “Oh, you’ll see.”

Now, when a boy falters and says, “you’ll see,” it is generally safe to infer that he is plotting mischief.

Will evidently thought so, for as Steve whisked out of the house and over the gate, he said to himself, “I believe Steve is working up some trick again. And to-morrow is the picnic! Well, Stunner, I’ll just keep an eye on you!”

On reaching home, Stephen found that he could not open the box without tearing it to pieces, and he decided that he would put the fire-crackers, box and all, into the fire.

“That’ll be the easiest way to open the pesky old box,” he said. “Of course the crackers won’t go off till it is burnt, but a rousing old fire will soon burn it.”

Having formed this determination, the boy’s mind was at rest. If, however, he had succeeded in opening the box, he would have found not fire-crackers, but _gunpowder_; for Will had made another blunder, and given him a box filled with powder. This box belonged to Mr. Lawrence; he having bought it a few days before, filled it with powder, and put it away among his guns. The reader now understands that it was not the box Will thought it was. The reason why Steve could not open it, was because the lid caught with a hidden spring.

If that box should be introduced into the fire, it would make more of a “stir” than fire-crackers, and give somebody a little employment in setting things to rights.

The next day was the picnic. The sun shone bright, and promised a peerless September day. This was agreeable; and the juveniles flocked to the scene in good time, with a hungry look in their eyes--a look that always plays over a boys visage when pursuing his way to a picnic, or “anniversary.” Stephen, of course, was there; full of animal spirits, and with the box straining the lining of his coat-pocket.

A fire was soon lighted on the island, but Steve did not find an opportunity to put his crackers into it so soon as he expected; for, warm as the day was, the little boys crowded eagerly around it, discovering their delight in exultant shouts, and heaping on more brush with never-ending amusement.

Steve idled about patiently a few minutes, and then determined to leave the island for awhile, till the youngsters had either sought some newer source of pleasure, or else burnt their fingers or scorched their garments.

Unknown to Steve, Will, who had guessed how and when the boy intended to use the fire-crackers, was watching him sharply. Will had also discovered the mistake that had been made, and consequently was all the more anxious to keep a watchful eye on Steve. He had planned, moreover, to turn the tables, and play a knavish trick of his own on incorrigible Stephen.

Mr. Lawrence had said to him, “Now, Will, seeing that Steve is preying on my valuables, you must make the best of it, and teach the idleheaded fellow a lesson. You may do whatever you please; but don’t let an explosion take place. The powder, I think, got damp the other day, and so it wouldn’t explode for some time--even if he should drop the box plump into the fire. In fact, unless he has succeeded in opening it, which is doubtful, he will probably put it into the fire. Let him do it; you can snatch it out again. If, on the other hand, he has forced the box open, both his trick and your trick will be spoiled. Perhaps that would be best. Now, Will, above all, _do not frighten other people_.”

It will be seen that Mr. Lawrence had guessed Steve’s intention. But he was wrong in permitting his son to meddle in the trick. The straightforward way would have been to tell Stephen what the box really held, and then he would have given it up directly.

No doubt, gentle reader, you are tired of these beggarly little “tricks.” But have patience a little longer, O reader, for when this last trick is finished, we shall wing our way along smoothly throughout the rest of the book without any tricks whatever.

When Will saw Stephen leave “Conservatory Isle” he thought himself at liberty to take his ease for awhile, and coolly taking possession of an unoccupied boat, rowed over to the shore.

While drifting along the shore, a spruce gentleman hailed him, and asked to be ferried across the river.

“Yes, sir,” said Will, placing the boat in a favorable position for the gentleman to enter it. He sprang in lightly, saying, “I’ve forgotten something over there: take me as fast as you can.”

In nervous haste to do his best, Will gave the boat a vigorous shove, and then looked his passenger full in the face. The latter also looked at Will. The recognition was mutual; for if Will recognized the peculiar features of the newspaper genius whom he had shot with poison in his youth, the newspaper genius likewise recognized the remarkably talented son of the lady who had been his hostess when he visited the neighborhood some years previously.

Letting his emotions get the better of his principles, the man uttered a cry of horror, mechanically rose to his feet, and fetched a random leap for the shore. But the motion that Will had communicated to the boat had placed it some distance from the shore, and the impetus of the leap adding to that distance, the leaper found himself in deep water, in the exact position the boat had occupied a moment before. Any boy at all acquainted with the navigation of boats, rafts, or anything floatable, can substantiate this.

Then the unfortunate man said something very wicked--too wicked, in fact, to be set down in a story like this. Then he struggled to reach the shore, but Will said, politely, “Don’t try to get ashore, sir, or you will get covered with mud. The best thing to do is to climb into the boat again; I’ll help you.”

This was clearly the wiser proceeding of the two, and the man, feeling very foolish, scrambled out of the water into the boat.

Bending a ferocious gaze on the innocent boatman, he asked roughly, “Can you row?”

Will proudly answered in the affirmative, and the disgusted picnicker--elaborating a dolorous sigh as he flirted his eyes over his tousled and mud-spattered garments, and experiencing an emotion of regret as he thought of a new cabinet photograph of himself, that was tucked away in his coat-tail pocket--said snappishly:--

“Then take me to some sheltered place where I can wring out my clothes a little, and afterwards I’ll find my way to the fire on the island. Can I get dry there in peace, and alone?”

“I think so, after a few minutes,” said Will, tugging stoutly at his oars.

“Well,” mused the dripping newspaper man, as he sat dejectedly in the boat, with his head resting on his disordered cravat, “I--I--was very foolish to jump overboard; but it is strange that I should encounter this wretch when I least expected it. Much amusement I shall have to-day, in these wet clothes. Well,” firmly, “I will never return to this village while this bane of my life inhabits it!”

After landing the luckless Mr. Sarjent at a sequestered spot, Will pointed his way back to the island, to look after Stephen. He arrived just in time. Steve and a choice band of his school-fellows were grouped about the fire, and the little folk had sought other quarters.

At first Will feared that he was too late; but he was reassured on seeing Stephen dodging around the fire, evidently trying to shove the box into it without being observed.

Keeping a vigilant look-out, Will soon had the pleasure of seeing Steve poke the box into the extreme edge of the fire.

“Good!” Will chuckled. “Pa was right--and so was I. I can snatch it out without any trouble, and then won’t Steve wonder what has become of it! Just wait till I play my little trick on him!”

As soon as Steve looked in another direction, Will sidled up to the fire, adroitly drew out the box, and slipped it into his pocket.

He had scarcely done so when Steve whirled around and saw him.

“Will!” he cried excitedly, “come away, or you’ll be burned!--The--the fire is very hot, you know,” he added, by way of explaining his solicitude.

“So it is,” Will assented, stepping back. To himself he added, “Poor Steve! you thought I should be blown up by the fire-crackers, did you? Well, it is a good thing you don’t know it is gunpowder, and it’s a good thing I am here to prevent a catastrophe!”

Stephen waited eagerly and anxiously for the supposed crackers to go off. He imagined that the boys would be struck with amazement and horror to see the fire suddenly snap, and hiss, and roar, and vomit forth ashes and coals. Then he would explain how it was done, and the boys would cheer, and laugh, and say, “That’s a bully trick, Steve!” And then they would saunter off, filled with admiration and envy, forced to admit that in originality and daring Steve had no equal in the county.

But as no explosion took place, Steve became uneasy. He was of a restless disposition, and a trifle was sufficient to make him fidgety. He had not observed that the box was fabricated of wood that would not readily take fire, and he expected to hear the crackers detonate almost immediately.

“Surely it ought to be burnt clear through by this time!” he mumbled to himself. “What in the world is the matter? O dear! I hope they will go off before the people come here to see to things! Why didn’t I at least see how thick the pesky box was!”

“Oh, come along, boys, there’s no fun here, and it’s as hot as pain-killer,” an owl-eyed booby exclaimed. “Come along, boys; let’s leave this here Saucer.”

The others coincided with him, and they were actually getting into an old boat, to punt their way across the river, when Steve said imploringly, “Oh, don’t go, boys! Stay just a little longer, and you’ll see sport.”

“‘See sport’?” sneered one. “Sho! I guess all the ‘sport’ you’ll see here, will be to see yourself sun-struck! No; it’s too hot here.”

And before the trick-player could give them a hint as to what the “sport” would be, he experienced the vexation of seeing them leave the island in a body! It was hard to be cheated thus! But the worst was yet to come. A man was descried rapidly drawing near the island, in a gay little boat decked in holiday attire. A few minutes later this man made the island, and Steve recognized Mr. Lawrence. Good man, he came to see that the powder was in safety.

Will, who was the only one left, except Steve, stepped into the boat as his father stepped out, and whispering, “All right, Pa,” rowed lightly away, with a wicked chuckle of triumph.

Mr. Lawrence inclined his head in token of approval, and edged his way up to Stephen. “Good morning, Stephen,” he said. “I see you have a fire lighted early in the day.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve quavered. “O dear!” he groaned, “if people are going to keep on coming here like this, the fire-crackers will go off right before them! And then,” drawing an abysmal sigh, “there would have to be an explanation.”

Mr. Lawrence walked round the fire two or three times--so close to it that poor Steve shuddered. “If they should go off now,” he groaned, “Mr. Lawrence would be scorched and hurt!”

Stephen became very uneasy. His heated imagination magnified the power of fire-crackers, and he feared that there would ultimately be a deafening explosion. Indeed, it seemed to him that they must be gaining strength with each succeeding minute.

“Well, Steve,” said Mr. Lawrence, familiarly and pleasantly, “I hear you are quite an expert in playing tricks. Your adventure with my donkeys, now, was amusing, it is true; but, Steve, if you would keep clear of such scrapes, it would be better for you. For instance, that experience with the dog--that must have been very distressing to you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve acknowledged; “it was.”

“But I am pleased to hear of your good behaviour since that time, and I hope that your reformation is real. I do not wish to vex you, Steve; I take the liberty of speaking to you thus because I know you are good at heart, and because you have always been a loyal friend to my son.”

Such “advice” had been dinned into the sufferer’s ears so incessantly lately that he had come to expect it and to endure it with fortitude. Still, he could not but see that Mr. Lawrence meant well, and he mumbled “Yes, sir,” very meekly.

But his mind was filled with great dread. “If they should pop off now,” he ruminated, “what would Mr. Lawrence think of me? He would think it was all my doings, of course, and that I am as bad a boy as ever! How mad he would be! Oh, why didn’t I leave those fire-crackers alone!”

“It is very warm on this island, Mr. Lawrence,” he said.

Mr. Lawrence, however, was in no humor to take hints from a school-boy, and he simply said, “So it is, Stephen. Why do you stay here, in solitude and misery? Why don’t you get up and enjoy yourself with the other boys? Surely you find no amusement in keeping up this useless little fire!”

Steve looked confused, but contrived to say, “It needs some one to watch the fire, sir; it might do a great deal of harm.”

“Oh, no, Stephen; it wouldn’t be any great loss if the fire should burn up the whole island, and all the brush and firewood piled up on it. It couldn’t spread any farther, of course. Come, come, Stephen; don’t make a martyr of yourself by staying here and broiling your face. The face looks better bronzed by the sun and the fresh air than by fire, anyway; though some ladies are not aware of it.”

“Yes, sir; but the fire might go out.”

“I wish it would, Steve; I wish it would; for no one would light it again. It was a downright shame to make a fire on this little gem of an island; but some picnickers have more romance than poetry. Well, I am going, anyway; good-bye.”

A good look at Steve’s face showed Mr. Lawrence that the graceless trickster desired to be left alone. “I think this will be a lesson to the poor boy,” he said in himself “for he is evidently suffering torments.”

Steve’s relief was great when he found himself alone. “Let me think how it was,” he muttered. “Will didn’t know where the box was. He found a box like his own, but was it the same? He didn’t open it, and I couldn’t; so perhaps there were no fire-crackers in it, after all!”

A gleam of hope shot through his wrung heart; but that gleam was soon effectually put out by this appalling thought:

“He found the box among his father’s guns--what if there is powder in it!”

He started up in horror. “But no,” he reflected, “if it had been powder, it would have exploded as soon as the box got hot, or on fire. Now, was Will playing a trick on me? No, for he didn’t know anything about it till I asked him for the fire-crackers; and I followed him around while he looked for the box. Oh, it must be some blunder of his.”

Steve could not shake off his doubts and fears, and his excited imagination conjured up all sorts of horrors.

He had just resolved to find the hateful box, or scatter the fire to the several winds, when a melancholy-looking individual, whose approach he had not perceived, landed on the island, made his way hurriedly to the fire, and sat down close beside it.

Stephen drew back in desperation, while the new-comer snatched up a stick and savagely stirred up the rather dull fire.

“Sir,” Stephen began hesitatingly, “don’t sit so close to the fire; you might get burnt.”

“Hold your tongue and let me alone, if you please! Can’t you see I’m all wet?” fiercely shouted the new-comer.

Stephen now observed that the man’s pants were clinging unnaturally close to his legs, as though he had been fording the river for scientific or other purposes, and that his entire appearance was woebegone. He waited a few minutes, and then ventured to accost the intruder again. “This is a miserable fire, sir,” he said, “and I think there is a good big bright one on shore.”

“_Can’t_ you let me alone! There is no one here except _you_, and I _must_ dry these clothes.”

“If it’s powder, I suppose it might explode yet, and he’d be killed or badly wounded,” Steve thought, in agony. “Shall I tell him? No, he would laugh at me, and take me for a downright fool. If he would only move away, I’d poke that fire till I was satisfied. What a day of suffering this has been for me! The women will soon be coming to the island--if it should explode then!”

Once more he warned the shivering picnicker. “Sir,” beseechingly, “it is dangerous to sit there; I--”

“Dangerous!” cried the stranger, his face showing surprise and contempt. “Do you take me for an ass, or are you one?” furiously. “A few years ago, I was very indulgent in my dealings with boys; but the more I see of this evil--this curse of civilization--the more impatient and exasperated I become. I don’t want to corrupt your morals, bub, or I would swear! But say one word more to me, throw out any more insinuations about this fire’s being dangerous, and I will begin the assassination of every boy under twenty by making you the first victim! So, be careful! I tell you, my patience is exhausted!”

Of course the reader recognizes the speaker as the man who jumped out of Will’s boat. But it will not be easy to recognize him as the polished gentleman who dined with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence in days gone by. Nevertheless, we assure the reader that we are positive he is the very same.

This murderous threat seemed to amuse and comfort Mr. Sarjent, but Steve quailed beneath it. “Shall I make a confidant of any one?” he asked himself. “Not of George, for he would investigate matters, and maybe get burnt. Charley would tell me the box holds some horrible, new-fangled explosive, that will stay in the fire a long time, and get stronger and stronger, and then go off like a blowed-up pirate, and tear this island out by the roots! Perhaps it is! Who knows? Perhaps its some terrible poison that will suddenly strike us all dead, or else make us all idiotic for life! Oh! I shall go crazy! Shall I speak to Will? I--I’d be ashamed to do that. Pshaw! I couldn’t speak to anybody, if I would, for there’s no one near, except _him_.”

Stephen’s brain was now in a whirl; the strain on his nerves was too great to last long.

_Chapter XIV._

DISASTER RATHER THAN FUN

Leaving the newspaper man and the player of tricks to their different trains of thought,--the former enveloped in steam arising from his pants, the latter environed with gloom, and doubt, and mute despair, arising from his own misdeeds,--we shall shift the scene to Will paddling away in his boat.

“I can safely leave Steve now, while I look up Charley and the other boys,” Will thought, as he plied his oars.

Charley was soon found, and Will told him all about Stephen and the fire-crackers. Charley, of course, was delighted with Will’s artifice; and together the two planned to torment poor Stephen still further. With the co-operation of the other boys, they determined to execute the following programme: First, to bury the gunpowder under a large stone, on the shore farthest from the picknickers, with a boy in charge to fire the train at the proper time; secondly, to lure Stephen into a boat, row him down past the “arsenal,”--the sounding name Charles gave to the place where the powder was to be buried,--and when the explosion took place, let him infer that a catastrophe was the upshot of his trick.

In fiendish atrocity, this little plot probably outherods anything ever planned by boys. Their only hopes of success was that Steve would prove an easy victim. But they need not have been afraid; they were destined to carry their scheme.

Truly, as the ancient Romans used to say, “Fortune favors the brave.” Only, the ancient Romans probably said it in Latin.

“We can do it, Will,” Charles said, confidently, “and it will do poor deluded and misguided Stunner a good turn, if it teaches him to leave tricks to you and me. All that is necessary is, to lay our plans well, keep Steve’s back to the place where the explosion will come from, and play our parts with sober and horrified faces. The hole in the ground will be gazed at and admired about the time the picnic folks get the feast spread, and our little game will sharpen our appetites like a whet-stone. Now, let us go and find George, and Jim, and Marmaduke, and go to work.”

These worthies were hunted out forthwith; and when the plot was unfolded to them, they signified their readiness to take part in so good a trick against Stephen.

Jim threatened to do his best; but, in his own mind, determined to keep at a safe distance when proceedings actually began, though he locked this wise determination in his breast--which was capacious enough, if not strong enough, to keep it.

“It won’t amount to much, boys,” George observed, “because, you know, wet gunpowder has lost most of its virtue.”

“Why, how’s that?” Charles demanded. “Where did you find out that? Why, gunpowder hasn’t any virtue, anyhow.”

“No, of course not, what has powder to do with virtue?” Will chimed in.

“I tell you it has; don’t contradict folks that know!” the sage indignantly retorted. “Don’t you remember, John Hoyt, on that island, wasn’t afraid of being blown up, because he knew the powder had lost its virtue?”

“Y-e-s,” Charles reluctantly assented, “but I never could understand how John knew that, when he’d always lived on that island, and never seen or heard of powder before.”

“I don’t understand that, either,” said George; “but John was right; he knew--or if he didn’t, the man that wrote the book did!”

That settled the question; the Sage had triumphed.

At length everything was arranged to the plotters’ satisfaction, and the Sage was detailed to fire the train.

“You won’t see much of the fun, George,” said Charles; “but you will understand the business. I never knew you to bungle anything; don’t bungle this.”

“You can’t expect much from wet gunpowder, but if you do your part as well as I intend to do mine, _all right_!” George replied with spirit.

They picked out a very good place to fire the powder, so far away from the scene of the picnic that no one would be likely to intrude on them.

“The boats are wanted very much just now,” said Will; “I wonder whether we can get one or not.”

Now, those boys knew that they were doing wrong, and the writer ventures to assert that they all cherished a secret hope that they would not succeed in carrying their little game.

But presently a bulky old gentleman (bulky is not used in contempt, but because it is well known that bulkiness and generosity are twin brothers), who owned a staunch little boat, told them to use his boat as much as they pleased. He did not suspect, however, that a party of dare-devil boys wanted it for their own exclusive use, but supposed that one or two of them purposed rowing indolent pleasure-seekers up and down the river. Had he guessed their nefarious designs, he would have moderated his generosity, and set out in quest of a peace-officer.

Thus put in possession, the four pulled stoutly for the island. They were in some doubt as to whether Steve would still be there, for not one dreamed that he had taken the matter so much to heart.

“Steve was a little uneasy when I left him,” said Will; “how do you suppose he feels about it now?”

“Oh!” said Charles, “he’s all right, I’ll wager. You may depend he hasn’t been moping over those fire-crackers all this time. No, he’s as lively as a baulky horse by this time; but our explosion will muddle his wits, all the same.”

“He’ll get his dander up when he finds it out,” Jim observed.

“I wonder if the boats are all gone, and he’s fast on the island,” Marmaduke speculated.

“Boys,” said Will, “if that wet and muddy fellow that I told you about, went back to the island, as he said he should, perhaps he has kept Steve from finding out that--”

“Pshaw! I tell you, Steve is all right!” Charles reiterated.

“Then, if the boy is all right, what is the use of our trick?” Will demanded. “We can’t scare him worthy a cent, if he’s all right.”

“I don’t make out what you’re driving at, Will. At first, you were eager to scare him; and now, you are talking in riddles.”

“I--I’m beginning to relent,” said Will, sheepishly.

“Well, we’ll see how he is, and settle that accordingly.”

“There they are!” said Marmaduke, sighting Steve and the ireful newspaper genius.

The boys recklessly waved their oars, and enthusiastically chorused a stentorian hollo.

Stephen, hearing his schoolfellows’ greeting, quickly turned round, and returned a faint, but joyous, hollo.

“How kind they are to come!” he said to himself. “Now, I guess it will be all serene; for they can soon tell me what to do. Well, the boys always were better to me than I deserved. I’ll tell them just how it is, and I don’t believe they’ll laugh at me a bit.”

“More boys!” groaned the steaming Mr. Sarjent. “More boys coming to torment me.”

The plotters soon landed, and crowded around Stephen.