Chapter VII

What was really hardest for Tar, the bitterest thing of all to face, was that a fellow like himself hardly ever worked any of his fine schemes out into facts. Tar did once.

He was coming home from school and Robert was with him. It was spring and there was a flood. Over by the Fulton house the creek was full and was tearing under the bridge that stood right near the house.

Tar had not wanted to go home that way but Robert was with him. You can’t be always explaining.

The two boys went along the street down through the little valley that led up to the part of the town where they lived and there was Henry Fulton with two other boys Tar did not know, standing on the bridge and throwing sticks into the creek.

They threw them in on the upside and then ran across the bridge to see them shoot out. Maybe, that time, Henry never intended to take after Tar and show him up for a coward.

Who knows what any one thinks, what they intend? How can you tell?

What Tar did was to walk along with Robert as though there wasn’t any such person as Henry. Robert was talking and chattering away. One of the boys threw a large stick into the creek and it went bounding under the bridge. Suddenly all three of the boys turned and looked at Tar and Robert. Robert was all for joining in the fun, getting some sticks and throwing them in.

Tar was in one of his bad times again. If you are the kind that has such times you are always thinking--“Now so and so is going to do so and so.” Maybe they aren’t at all. How do you know? If you are that kind what you think people are going to do is just as bad as what they do. Henry, when he saw Tar alone, was always putting down his head, squinting up his eyes and taking after him. Tar ran like a scared cat and then Henry stopped running and laughed. Every one who saw it laughed. He couldn’t catch Tar running and knew he couldn’t.

At the edge of the bridge Tar stopped. The other boys were not looking and Robert wasn’t paying any attention but Henry was looking. What funny eyes he had. He was leaning against the railing of the bridge.

The two boys stood looking at each other. What a situation! Tar was then as he was all through his life. Let him alone, let him think and have fancies and he could work you out a perfect scheme for anything. That’s what later made him able to tell stories. When you write or tell stories you can make things come out just fine. What do you suppose Dick would have done if he had been compelled to stay around where General Grant was after the Civil War? It would have crabbed his style something awful.

A writer is all right writing and a story teller is all right telling stories but what if you put him in a position where he has to act? Such a person is always doing either the right thing at the wrong time or the wrong thing at the right time.

Maybe, that time, Henry Fulton did not intend to take after Tar and show him up for a coward before Robert and the two strange boys. Maybe Henry wasn’t thinking of anything but throwing sticks in the creek.

How was Tar to know? He was thinking, “Now he is going to put down his head and butt me. If I run Robert and the others will begin to laugh. Like as not Robert will go home and tell John.” Robert was a pretty good sport, for a kid, but you can’t expect a young kid to use good judgment. You can’t expect him to know when to keep his mouth shut.

Tar moved a few steps across the bridge toward Henry. Pshaw, now he was trembling again. What was the matter with him? What was he going to do?

It all came of being smart, of thinking you are going to do something when you aren’t. At school Tar had been thinking about that soft spot in people’s middle, about butting the superintendent down the stairs--a thing he would never have the nerve to try to do really--and now!

Was he going to try to butt the champion butter? What a foolish notion. Tar almost felt like laughing at himself. Of course Henry did not expect any such thing. He would have had to be pretty smart to ever expect any boy to butt him and he wasn’t smart. That wasn’t his line.

Another step, another and another. Tar was in the middle of the bridge. He made a quick dive and--great Scott--he had done it. He had butted Henry, had hit him right in the middle.

The worse time came when it was done. What happened was that Henry, expecting nothing, was caught off guard. He doubled up and went right through the bridge railing into the creek. He was on the upper side of the bridge and at once his body disappeared. Whether he could swim or not Tar did not know. As there was a flood the creek was fairly raging along.

As it turned out it was one of the few times in his life Tar ever did anything that really turned out pretty well. At first he just stood trembling. All the other boys were struck dumb with amazement and did not do a thing. Henry had disappeared. It may have been that only a second passed before he appeared again but it seemed to Tar hours. He ran to the railing of the bridge as did all the others. One of the strange boys ran toward the Fulton house to tell Henry’s mother. In another minute or two Henry’s dead body would be dragged ashore. Henry’s mother would be leaning over it and crying.

What would Tar do? Of course the town marshal would come for him.

After all it might not be so bad--if he kept his nerve and did not run or cry. He would be led right up through town, every one looking, every one pointing. “That’s Tar Moorehead, the murderer. He murdered Henry Fulton, the champion butter. He butted him to his death.”

It would not be half bad if it weren’t for the hanging in the end.

What happened was that Henry got out of the creek by himself. It wasn’t nearly as deep as it looked and he could swim.

The whole thing would have turned out fine for Tar if he hadn’t been so trembly. Instead of staying where the two strange boys could see how cool and collected he was he had to leave.

He did not even want to be with Robert--not for a time. “You cut on home and you keep your mouth shut,” he managed to say. He hoped Robert would not know how upset he was, would not notice how his voice trembled.

Tar went over by the waterworks pond and sat under a tree. He was disgusted with himself. Henry Fulton had a scared look on his face when he crawled out of the creek and Tar thought maybe now Henry would be scared of him all the time. For just a second Henry had stood on the bank of the creek looking at Tar. Tar wasn’t crying anyway. What Henry’s eyes were saying was this--“You’re crazy. Sure I’m afraid of you. You’re crazy. A fellow can’t tell what you’ll do.”

“It was all right and a gain,” Tar thought. Ever since he had been going to school he had been planning something and now he had done it.

If you are a boy and read, aren’t you always reading about such things? There is a bully in the school and a smart boy, who is pale and not very well. One day, to every one’s surprise, he licks the bully of the school. What he has is a thing called moral courage. It’s like suction. That’s what carries him through. He uses his head, learns to box. When the two boys meet it is a contest between brains and brawn and brains win.

That was all right, Tar thought. It was just the sort of thing he was always planning to do and never doing.

What it came down to was this--if he had planned in advance to out-butt Henry Fulton, if he had practiced up, say on Robert or Elmer Cowley, and then if--in front of every one in school, during the recess time--he had walked right up to Henry and had challenged him....

What was the use? Tar stayed over by the waterworks pond a while, until his nerves got less trembly and then went home. Robert was there and so was John and Robert had told John.

It was pretty fine. Tar was a hero after all. John made a fuss over him and wanted him to tell about it and he did.

When he told he was all right. Well, he could put in certain flourishes. The thoughts he had been having when he was alone went away. He could make it sound pretty good.

After all the story would get around. If Henry Fulton thought he, Tar, was a little crazy and a desperate fellow, he would keep his hands off. Older boys who did not know what Tar knew would think he, Tar, had planned it all out and had done it all with cool determination. Bigger boys would begin to want to be his friend. That’s the way boys are.

It was pretty good after all, Tar thought, and he began to strut a little. Not too much. He had to be careful now. John was pretty foxy. If he put it on too thick he would be found out.

Doing a thing is one thing and telling about it is another.

At the telling Tar thought he wasn’t so bad.

Anyway, when you tell about it you can use your brains. The trouble with Dick Moorehead, Tar had even then begun to suspect, was that when he told his stories he laid it on a little too thick. Better let others do most of the talking. If others lay it on a little thick, as Robert was now doing, shrug your shoulders. Deny it. Pretend not to want any credit. “Ah, I didn’t do anything.”

That was the way. Tar had now got ground under his feet. The story of what had happened at the bridge, when he had done something without thinking, in a crazy kind of way, had begun to reshape itself in his fancy. If he could keep the truth down for a time it would be all right. He could reconstruct the whole thing to his liking.

There were only John and his mother to fear. If his mother heard of the story she might smile one of her smiles.

Tar thought he would be all right if only Robert would keep still. If Robert would not get too excited and just because, temporarily, he thought Tar a hero, would not talk too much.

As for John--there was a good deal of the mother in him. That he had seemed to swallow the story as Robert had told it was a comfort to Tar.