Chapter VII: Leave Liverpool

This tale is written for boys, and if the writer knows anything at all about them they like sunshine as much as he does. That being so, we will skip, if you please, a certain foggy morning in Liverpool, when the heavy sky over the Mersey seemed as full of gloom and rain as men's eyes of tears and sorrow. The great lump in the old Admiral's throat kept getting up into his mouth in a most confusing way, and required a good many glasses of something which he never drank to keep it down. Poor Mrs. Winthrop, strong in a woman's courage to bear suffering, seemed to be thinking for everyone. There was no tear of her shedding on her son's check, and her pretty lips were firm if they were white. 'Don't forget, boys, your father's last written words--'Bring up my boys as Christians and gentlemen,' he wrote. You're out of my keeping now, but, whatever your work, remember you are Winthrops.'

And then the last signal to those aboard sounded, and those who had only come to say 'good-bye' hurried off the ship. A party of schoolboys who had come to see a chum leave for the great North-West struck up 'For he's a jolly good fellow' as the steamer left her moorings, and, carried off their balance by the heartiness of the chorus, the Admiral himself and everyone not absolutely buried in pocket-handkerchiefs took up the refrain. The last the boys could remember of England was that busy, dirty pier, a crowd waving adieus, and the dear faces of mother and uncle with a smile on them, in which hope and love had for the moment got the better of sorrow.

And then they were out on the broad bosom of old Ocean, with limitless stretches of green waves all round, and all life in front of them. As the ship sped on, the air seemed to grow clearer and more buoyant, the possibilities of the future greater, and success a certainty. Everyone on board seemed full of feverish energy. If they talked of speculations or business they talked in millions, not in sober hundreds, and before they were half across the Atlantic the boys were beginning to almost despise those who stayed behind in slow and sober England--all except Snap, at least, who annoyed them all by his oft-repeated argument, 'If it is so good over there, why do any of these fellows come back?'

The voyage itself was an uneventful one; that is to say, no one fell overboard, no shipwreck occurred, and, thanks to the daily cricket match with a ball of twine attached to fifty yards of string, the Atlantic was crossed almost before our friends had time to realise that they had left England.

On landing, the two Winthrops had to make their way to the ranche of a Mr. Jonathan Brown in Kansas County, to whom the Admiral had sent something like 300_l._ as premium for the two boys. For this they were promised 'all home comforts, and a thoroughly practical education in cattle-ranching and mixed farming, together with the benefit of Mr. Brown's experience in purchasing a small place for themselves at the end of their educational period.' Snap, not having money to waste, or faith in 'ranching and mixed farming,' was to proceed further west and try to find employment along the new line until he could obtain day labourer's work on a ranche. The Admiral had insisted on paying the railway fare for the three of them, and, contrary to his custom, had paid first-class fare, arguing that thus they might possibly make a useful friend on the way, and at any rate sleep soft and warm until the moment came for the final plunge.

So the boys entered upon their first overland stage together, gazing with big eyes of wonder at the fairy land which seemed to slip so noiselessly past their carriage windows. It was almost as if the dry land had taken the characteristics of the ocean, all was so big, so boundless, around them. First there seemed to come a belt of great timber near the sea; then they passed through that and came into an ocean of yellow corn, of which from the windows of the train they could not see the shore. Most of the time the lads sat in the smoking-car, not because they smoked, but because the smokers were friendly and told such marvellous yarns and amused them.

On the third day there was an addition to the little party in the smoking-saloon, a very 'high-toned' person in a chimney-pot hat and gloves. This gentleman was a great talker, and, having tried in vain to got up an argument on the merits of some politician, whom he called a 'leather-head' and a 'log-roller,' with the big-bearded man or his two hard-bitten companions, who until then had shared the room with the boys, the new-comer expectorated politely on either side of Snap's feet, evidently enjoying the boy's look of annoyance, and then opened fire on him thus:

'Say! I guess you're a Britisher now, ain't you?'

'I am, sir,' answered Snap with a good-tempered smile.

'Getting pretty well starved out over there, I reckon, by this time?'

'Well, no! we haven't had to take to tobacco-chewing to stop our hunger, yet,' replied Snap, with a wink at Winthrop.

'Wal,' retorted the Yankee, 'you look mighty lean, fix it how you will. If it's all so bully in England, why do you come over here?' This the Yankee seemed to think a clincher, but Snap was ready for him.

'Well, you see, sir, we are only following the examples of our forefathers, who came over and made America, and founded the race you are so justly proud of.'

'Founded the race! fiddlesticks! The American race, sir, just grew out of the illimitable prairie, started, maybe, by a few of the best of every nation, but with a character of its own, and I guess the whole universe knows now that our Republic can lick creation, as it licked you Britishers in 1781. Perhaps you'll tell me we didn't do that?'

By this time the other occupants of the carriage were all watching Snap Hales and the top-hatted one, a curled and smooth-looking fellow ('oily,' perhaps, would describe him better than smooth) of thirty or so. The Yankee cattle-men were looking on with a grin at seeing the English boy's 'leg pulled' as they called it--the other two English boys in blank amazement at the quiet good-temper of fiery Snap Hales, under an ordeal of chaff from a perfect stranger. Could it be that the sight of that ugly little revolver, which the stranger had exhibited more than once, had cowed their chum already? Whatever the reason, Snap's unexpected answer came in his sweetest tones.

'Oh no, I'll not deny that; it's historical, and, besides, it served us right. We didn't recognise that a big son we ought to have been proud of had grown up.'

'Oh, then, you'll allow we licked you at Sarytogy and Yorktown?'

'Yes, certainly.'

'And perhaps you'll allow that if you tried it on again we'd lick you again?' persisted poor Snap's enemy, whilst the glance Snap gave Frank could hardly keep that indignant Briton quiet on his seat.

'Yes, I'll allow that too, if we came to invade your big country at home with a mere handful of men of the same breed from over the seas.'

Somehow, Snap's quiet way was rousing the American's temper, and he retorted hotly: 'That's the way you talk, is it; and I tell you, and you'll have to allow, that, man to man, an American citizen can always whip a blooming Britisher.'

Snap gave an actual sigh of relief, or so it seemed to the boys, and his eyes lit up with a glad light, that those who know the breed don't always like to see. He had done his duty; had kept his temper as long as he could be expected to; and now he might fairly follow his natural instincts. Still quite cool, although his knees were almost knocking together with eagerness, which others might have mistaken for funk, the boy took up the challenge.

'Are you a good specimen, sir, of an American citizen?' The man looked puzzled, but replied, unabashed:

'Wal, as citizens come, I guess I'm a pretty average sample.'

'I'm sorry for that, sir,' answered Snap, 'as I'm only a very poor specimen of those Britishers of whom you speak so politely; but I'll tell you what I'll do. I never fired a revolver in my life, but you said just now that Heenan had whipped all England with his fists, and America could lick the old country at that as she can at everything else. Well! we stop at Bismarch for twenty minutes soon, I see. It isn't time for lunch yet, so, if you'll give your revolver to that gentleman to hold, I'll fight you five rounds, if I can last as long, and these gentlemen shall see fair play. Only, if you lick me, mind I am not a typical Britisher.'

The American looked from one to another in an uncomfortable, hesitating way, and then at the long, slight, boyish figure before him. He had gone too far to draw back--he was three stone heavier than his young adversary--so with a blasphemous oath he handed the derringer to his bearded fellow-countryman, adding:

'It don't seem hardly fair, but, if you will have the starch taken out of you, you shall.'

As the pistol-holder left the smoking-room to put the property with which he had been entrusted into his valise he gave Frank Winthrop a sign to follow him. When he and the boy were alone he turned quietly round and said:

'Can your pal fight?'

'Like a demon,' answered Frank; 'he was nearly cock of our school, young as he was.'

'All right, then, I'll not interfere. He is a good plucked one, but tell him to keep out of the man's reach for the first round or two. I don't suppose he has much science, but one blow from a man so much bigger would about finish your friend.'

'I don't believe it,' answered Frank hotly; but the kindly cattle-man only smiled, and, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, led him back into the smoking-car.

In another ten minutes the warning-bell on the engine began to toll, and the train ran through a street of rough wooden shanties and pulled up just outside the 'city' (a score of houses sometimes make a city out west), by a little prairie lake. In such a city as Bismarch, in the early days of which I am speaking, even half a dozen pistol shots would not have attracted a policeman, principally because no policemen existed. Sometimes a scoundrel became too daring in his villainies even for such tolerant people as the citizens of Bismarch. When this happened someone shot him, though probably he shot several other people first. At the back of the little group of shanties there used to be a long row of palings about eight feet high. 'Hangman's palings' they called these, because upon them, for want of trees, the first vigilance committee had nine months previously (the 'city' was only fifteen months old) hanged its first batch of victims to the necessities of civilised law and order. In such a city as this a quiet spar would cause no sensation, and certainly would not be interrupted, so Snap quickly stripped, as if he was behind the old School chapel, and Mr. Rufus E. Hackett, his opponent, did the same. Stripped of gloves and hat, Hackett looked less at his ease than his young enemy, and would probably be still waiting to begin if the boy had not stepped in and caught him on the point of the nose with a really straight left-hander.

Now, the writer of this story has been hit very frequently upon the nose. After years and years of practice the sensation is still annoying in the extreme. Your eyes fill with water as if you had inadvertently bolted the mustard-pot; the constellations of heaven are seen with alarming clearness; and if you are one of the right sort you come back after that blow like a racquet-ball from the walls of the court. If this is the effect on a nose inured to the rough usage of five-and-twenty years, what must you expect from the owner of a delicately tip-tilted organ, which had been held all its life high above the brutalities of a vulgar world?

Like a wounded buffalo, with his head down and blind with rage, the Yankee went for Snap, and, in spite of a well-meant upper cut from that youngster, managed to close with him, and by sheer weight bore him to the ground. There Snap was helpless, and before the big cattle-man could interfere the boy had a couple of lumps on his face, which bore witness to the good-will with which Mr. Hackett had used his beringed fists. But for Snap himself, Mr. Rufus E. H. would there and then have received a sound hiding from the cattle-man, but, though somewhat unsteady on his feet, Snap pleaded that he might have his man left to himself.

Again Hackett tried the rushing game, this time only to meet the boy's left and then blunder over his own legs on to his nose. As the fight went on, Snap recovered from his heavy punishment. Quick as a cat on his feet, he never again let the big man close with him. Every time he stirred to strike, Snap's left hand went out like an arrow from the bow, true to its mark, on one or other of Hackett's eyes. Not once did the boy use his right--that quick-countering left was all that seemed necessary; and, though the American was more game than his appearance would have led his friends to believe, it was evident before the end of the third round that he was at the boy's mercy. From that moment Snap held his hand, simply taking care of himself and getting out of his enemy's way, and carefully abstaining from administering that brutal _coup de grâce_ which a less generous nature would have inflicted.

'Say, mate,' quoth one of the cowboys who was Hackett's second, 'it's not much use foolin' around here, is it? You can't see the Britisher, and he don't seem to cotton to hitting a blind man. Let's have a drink and be friends.'

Almost before he could answer, Snap had the fellow by the hand with a hearty English grip.

'You'll allow we're the same breed now, Mr. Hackett, won't you?' he said. 'It wasn't really a fair fight, you know, because I've learnt boxing, and you haven't.'

In spite of a bumptiousness which acts on a Britisher like a gadfly on a horse, your real American is a right good fellow at bottom; and for the rest of the two days during which Hackett and Snap travelled together nothing could exceed the kindness of the beaten man and his fellow-countrymen to the three English lads.

'He isn't much account,' apologised one of the cattle-men, 'just a school-teaching dude from the Eastern States, I reckon; but you mustn't bear him any malice for hitting you when you were down; there ain't any Queensberry rules out here in a row, and it's no good appealing to the referee on a Western prairie.'

Snap had no intention of bearing malice, nor, indeed, of fighting any more fights, either according to Queensberry rules or the rough-and-tumble rules of the prairie, if he could avoid it, though this one fight was for him an exceedingly lucky event.

Soon after leaving the scene of his encounter the train pulled up at Wapiti, and was met by a man in the roughest of clothes, driving the rudest of carts. He had come for the 'farm pups' from England, he said, and if they weren't blamed quick with their luggage he was not going to wait for them. An offhand sort of person, thought Snap, but, no doubt, when his master, Mr. Jonathan Brown, is near, he will be a good deal more civil. It was not until months later that Snap learnt that this dirty rough, a common farm-labourer in all but his ignorance of farming, was Mr. Jonathan Brown, 'professor of ranching and mixed farming in all its branches.'

When Frank and Towzer had vanished out of sight Snap turned from the window with a sigh, and found the good-natured eyes of the bearded cattleman fixed inquiringly upon him.

'So you are not going to learn farming, my lad?' he inquired.

'Not with my friends, I can't afford it,' answered Snap.

'Don't think me rude, but what are you going to do?'

'Try to get work at Looloo, on the line, until I can find out how to get paid work as a cowboy up country.'

'Have you any money to keep you from starving till you get work?' asked the American.

'A little; but I mean to earn my food from the start if I can.'

'Well, you've the right sort of grit, my lad,' replied the cattle-man, 'and you're 200_l._ richer than your friends now, poor as you are, for they have thrown their premium clean away. Look here, my name is Nares, and I own the Rosebud ranche in Idaho. I like the look of you, lad, and I'll give you labourer's wages if you can earn them, and grub anyway, if you like to try.'

'Like to try?' of course Snap liked to try. It was just a fortune to him, and he said so.

'But,' added his friend, 'when you write home tell your friends not to fool away premiums, but to give a lad enough to live on for the first six months, whilst he is looking for work. You would, maybe, have got nothing to do at Looloo for long enough.'