Chapter III: Book ONE: In Which the Adventures of Cricket Presented, with Some (2)

He looked me over from head to foot, and said, “I'll trust ye, if ye'd like to try it.”

“All right,” I said.

He opened his little grip and counted out ten of the small balls and as many large ones.

“There,” said he, “ye ought to be able to sell 'em all in a day. Then you can send me a dollar for the receipt.”

“How do you go to work to sell it?” I asked.

“The towns are best,” said he. “When I get to a town I make a little map of the main streets and put down the names--the hotel man is always glad to help you. By-an'-by I begin to ring the door-bells. I don't ask for the lady of the house--no, sir; I say, 'Is Mrs. Smith at home?' It works grand--there she is. 'Kind lady,' says I, 'I'm introducin' Sal, who cleans silverware, glassware, etc. Sal is better than a hired girl.'

“Don't forget to say that it makes the home bright and beautiful. It's a nice chunk o' language an' tells just what the women are trying to do. Course she says, 'No, thanks.' Then says I, 'If you've any old piece o' tarnished silver, I'd like to make a little exhibition. As the poet says:=

`````'”I'll make it shine

```As brightly as those eyes of thine.'=

“Throw in a little portry once in a while. It sounds good an' is easy to remember. But ye got to be careful. Some don't like it. Women that wear aprons an' rings an' breastpins, an' have their sleeves rolled up, 'll generally stand portry, 'specially if they've got curly hair. Look out for handsome women that wear diamonds an' set around with their feet up readin' portry.' Seems so them that read portry get enough of it. Don't ever give 'em any of yours.

“Women are funny. Around here there's two kinds of 'em--insiders an' outsiders. The outsiders talk about their neighbors; the insiders talk about their livers an' lungs, an' so on. I know one that talks about her liver shameful. You'd think it was the meanest thing in the world.

“They ain't all alike. In some places you'll find 'em perched in their fam'ly trees. Lord! I know one that sets an' chirps by the hour in her fam'ly tree. You've got to let her go it, an' bym-by, maybe, you can bring her down to the fam'ly tea-pot. If so, you're all right. It's wonderful how they go on. You'll enjoy it, an' that's half the battle.

“Be sure to notice the children. I always let 'em fool with my wooden leg. Sometimes I put one end on a chair an' let 'em set on it. I suppose this old leg has been set on an' abused more than any leg in the world.

“You ain't got a wooden leg, an' it's kind of a pity, as ye might say, for it's wonderful how this thing helps in business. Lots o' times it helps ye git acquainted, an' that gives ye a chance. Then say, look a-there.” He flung his wooden stump over his knee and felt the surface of it, and explained: “That's where one kid drove a nail in it, an' that's where one fetched a whack with a stove iron, an' there a little red-headed boy bored a hole with his gimlet. Curious how they take to it; an' I don't mind much. Helps business an' makes 'em happy.”

He called my attention to many small dents in the wood.

“That's where the dogs has bit it,” he went on. “If a dog comes at me, I always put it out to him. It keeps 'em busy.”

He showed me a small atomizer, adding, “A little ammonia 'll shift the trouble onto them.” We rose and resumed our journey. I had stored my small stock of Sal in my coat-pockets.

“There's the receipt,” said he, gravely, as he handed me a piece of paper.

It revealed the fact that Sal was chiefly composed of whiting and ammonia.

“All ye need now is a small sponge an' some tissue-paper, an' here's a piece o' chamois that ye can have an' welcome.”

He explained his method of applying the Sal, and presently handed me his card, on which I read this legend:=

````JAMES HENRY MCCARTHY

````Commercial Traveller

`````Hermon Centre, N. Y.=

“I ain't much there,” he went on. “The boys call me Pegleg at home, an' that's one reason I got out. I wish you'd call me Mr. McCarthy, please. I intend to be a gentleman, an' try to be. Can you tell me what a gentleman is?”

I looked thoughtful and said nothing. Mr. McCarthy continued:

“He's a man that don't git drunk or swear or pare his nails in public, an' always takes off his hat to a lady. He washes his hands before he goes to the table, an' eats kind o' slow an' deliberate, an' maybe smokes a fine cigar after dinner, 'an always does as he'd like to be done by. That's why I'm tryin' to help you along.”

I expressed my gratitude in no half-hearted way.

“I like you, dinged if I don't,” said Mr. McCarthy, with a kindly patronage. “You'll git along all right--don't worry.”

After a moment of silence, he went on:

“Ye see, I'm careful about all these things. I keep my eyes an' ears open, an' I'm teachin' myself. I'm a kind of a hand-made gentleman, an' that's the most durable kind. But I ain't finished myself yet. You wait; I'll show ye something one o' these days. How do you happen to be on the road?”

I told him my story.

“Don't worry,” he went on. “Mr. James Henry McCarthy will see you through. I try to be benevolent.”

We walked on a little way in silence.

“I suppose you've noticed that I can sling some rather big words,” he remarked, presently. “Well, I always carry a pocket dictionary, an' when I hear a word I like I look it up an' chalk it down in my note-book; helps my conversation. I study it a good deal while I'm travelling. Ye see, I never had a chance to go to school much--just learnt how to read an' write an' cipher a little. My knowledge ain't very superior. Now, that's quite a word--superior. How does it sound?”

“All right,” I answered.

“Never used it before--found it in the book to-day. I've got about forty dollars saved, an' I've learnt thirty new words so 't I can use 'em. When I go home by-an'-by they've got to look up to me.”

The oddness of it all was not lost upon me, young as I was. I think often of the frankness of that young son of America, just beginning to feel his way upward from the plane of lowly poverty and of his kindly heart. I dreamed not then of what he was to do in the world.

“Come into this house with me,” said Mr. McCarthy. “I'll give ye an exposition--ahem! that's one o' my new ones. Pretty fair kind of a farm-house. Wouldn't wonder if there was some old silver in it.”

He led me to the front door of a big, square, old country mansion. A maid opened the door and asked to know our business. Mr. McCarthy removed his hat and bowed.

“Will you please communicate with the lady of the house,” said he, “an' tell her that I am selling Sal? Kindly inform her that Sal cleans silverware, glassware, gold, brass, and pewter; removes dirt from woodwork, and makes the home bright and beautiful. If you've any old silver I'd like to show ye what it 'll do.”

The maid brought him a tarnished tea-pot, and McCarthy went to work and soon made it glow like a drop of dew in the sunlight. The maid took it to her mistress, and returned presently with fifty cents to be invested in Sal.

“I just wanted to show ye what Sal can do,” said Mr. McCarthy, as we went away. “Ye got to believe what ye say or ye can't sell anything. Make yourself believe in it, an' you'll succeed.” We came presently to four corners in the road, where my new friend bade me sit down with him. He consulted his note-book.

“Here,” said he, “are Jehoshaphat Corners. The straight road goes to Canaan, Waterville, and Van Kleek's Huddle; the left to Putney, Porridgeville, and Lawrence. You take one road an' I'll take the other, an' four weeks from now we could meet an' settle up at Graham's Hotel in Buffalo. It's only a dollar a day there. Here, I'll lend ye fifty cents; it 'll help some till ye get a-going.”

“You're very kind, and I thank you for it.”

“Don't mention it,” said he. “It's no more than any gentleman would do.”

So we parted there, and I took the straight road and he turned to the left.

ADVENTURE VI.--IN WHICH CRICKET HAS SUNDRY EXPERIENCES

WAS lonely at leaving Mr. McCarthy, but full of hope. At Canaan I went to work and sold about half my stock of goods and took the cars to Waterville. There I bought a small hand-bag and a stock of ingredients for my receipt, and had just left my hotel next morning to begin my canvass when a trumpet sounded up the main street of the little city. Turning, I saw a caravan of great red wagons coming toward me at a swift pace, led by four beautiful white horses. A smart-looking lady and gentleman occupied the high seat of the first van, and he was driving the white horses.

“A circus!” I heard people exclaim near me, and every foot halted and all eyes were bent on the red vans. They were fast approaching. The driver referred to wore a white beaver hat and a coat of blue velvet with a white flower in its buttonhole. The lady beside him was a wonderful creature with a great hat and fluttering ribbons and gleaming jewels, and a face more beautiful, as I thought, than any my poor eyes had seen. Three glowing vans had gone by, each with its team of handsome horses, and each van ornately lettered as follows:=

```JAMES FISK'S TRAVELLING EMPORIUM.

````Dry Goods and Yankee Notions=

A white banner on the first and third vans announced:=

```Our Great Store will be Open from Two to

````Six To-Day in the Vacant Lot Corner

`````of Crosby and Main Streets=

I began my work, and for an hour or so the vans were passing up and down the streets, and most of the women I saw left me to go and look out of their doors and windows. I could make little headway, for by two o'clock the houses were all empty. Mothers, daughters, and hired girls were on their way to the great travelling store. I went with the crowd, and found the red vans in a row on the vacant lot and many gathered about them. The sides of each van had been let down to serve as counters on which the goods were displayed. The smart-looking man who had driven the white horses sat under a little canopy of red-and-white bunting with the wonderful lady who had ridden beside him. I stood with a score of other people looking at them.

“What! do you think I would lie for a shilling?” he was saying to a man who stood beside him. “Bosh! I might tell eight lies for a dollar, but one for a shilling! No! That's below my price.”

He laid off his beaver hat and sat twisting his' sandy-hued mustache. His curly hair was cut close.

“Hey, boy!” he said, as he beckoned to me, “want to earn half a dollar?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well, trot down to the depot and bring me a copy of last night's _Utica Observer_,” he commanded, as he put a shinplaster in my hand.

When I had returned with the paper, he asked, “What ye got in yer grip?”

“Sal,” I answered.

“Sal!” he exclaimed, with a laugh, “who's Sal?”

“A wonder!” I answered. “Cleans and polishes glassware, silverware, gold, brass, and pewter; removes dirt from woodwork, and makes the home bright and beautiful.”

He laughed again, and asked me to show him what Sal could do on the large silver buckles which adorned his shoes. This I did, and the result so pleased him that he offered me a dollar for the balance of my stock, and I gladly closed the deal.

It was about three o'clock when I set out afoot for the Huddle. About half-way there I found a puppy in the road--a small, lonely, pathetic creature, abandoned by some one who had had enough of him. I wonder if ever I felt such an appeal as came out of that warm little bundle of playfulness, wrapped in the softest robe of silken fur and with eyes saying, “Please, sir, take me and be kind to me.”

The puppy followed me until I yielded to his pleading and took him up in my arms. Well, he was better than no company, and I buttoned him under my coat and against my breast, where he lay asleep with only his nose in view. At dusk I found lodgings in a farm-house, and went to my room contented with the bit of luncheon that I had with me. A kindly old woman had said that I could stay, and sent a hired man up-stairs with me. He explained that “the boss and his wife” were away, and would not return for an hour or so. I offered to pay him if he would take care of the puppy, but he had to hurry to meet a train, and said that he would come up and get him later.

I decided to make some Sal, and so I put the ingredients in my wash-bowl and added water.

It became an obstinate, ill-looking mess, and one might as well have tried to make balls out of buttermilk. It resisted all my efforts. I wondered what I should do with it, and lay down upon the bed in discouragement. The hired man had not yet returned, and the puppy had gone to sleep in a corner. I would lie there and rest while I waited, and so, thinking, fell asleep.

Some hours later the puppy woke me with loud cries of despair. The hired, man must have forgotten his promise. I rose from the bed, and saw the plight of my puppy. He had wallowed in my basin, and the soft Sal lay thick on his body. He began wailing as if wild with all regret. I could hear people jumping out of bed.

In a moment I heard a rap at my door, and opened it. A man, half dressed, sprang aside as the puppy ran upon his bare feet. Farther down the gloomy hall I could hear him calling and pursuing my pet; then a soft thud on the floor. The man had picked up the puppy and dropped him, saying, “Heavens!” It was only one word, but full of meaning.

I tried to clean the floor while my benefactors pursued the unhappy creature.

“Pick him up!” said a woman, excitedly.

“Pick him up! Never!” said the man.

“Seems so he was covered with lather,” said the woman.

“Maybe he's mad!” another suggested. “Throw this sheet over him!”

“Come on, I've got him now,” said the first woman.

Soon there came a loud rap at my door. A tall, thin, long-nosed Yankee entered as I opened it.

“See here, young man,” he drawled, “what do you mean by fillin' this house with puppies?”

“There is only one, sir,” I answered.

“Only one!” said he, sharply. “I should think that was enough. He's as big as an elephant. He filled the house from cellar to garret, and crowded us all out o' bed and yelled for more room. Say, what's he got on him?” '“Silver polish,” I answered.

“Silver polish!” said he. “Well, I've read o' their puttin' dogs in a bath-tub, but I never heard o' their bein' polished before.”

“He got into the basin where I mixed it.”

My visitor picked up the dish of soft Sal, and held it near the light for examination.

“Godfrey Cordial!” he remarked, “it's an awful-lookin' mess! What do you call it?”

“Sal,” I answered.

“Sal!” he exclaimed. “I'm sorry that you an' Sal ever lit in my family tree. You're a fine pair o' birds.”

I explained to him that the hired man had promised to take the puppy out-of-doors, but had forgotten to do so, and he left me.

I went to breakfast soon after daylight in the morning. When I returned to my room the Sal was gone. Some one had carried the bowl away with its contents. I went below to look for the proprietor. I found him shovelling dirt in the garden.

“Somebody took my polish,” I said to him, as pleasantly as possible.

“Yes, an' I'm about to bury it an' the dog, too.”

“Is the dog dead?” I asked, with a pang of regret.

“Yes; slain by his own deviltry! Oh, he had a busy night! Got to playin' with our ol' cat; he polished her an' she polished him. Her paws are all gummed up an' her eyes swelled an' kind o' shiny. He got at our shepherd dog an' polished him. That dog has got a sore mouth an' is brighter than he ever was before, The last performance of your puppy was to tackle one o' the hind feet o' my ol' mare; he didn't live long after that. The services have begun, an' I guess you're the only mourner. I've just prayed that I may never see him again. The sermon will be short. Don't ever take up any more room in the world than what you're entitled to.”

So ended my first adventure in business. It taught me the wisdom of knowing how, and of being sure about it, and, further, that one is to be careful not to take more than his share of room in the world.

ADVENTURE VII.--WHICH IS THAT OF CRICKET AND THE LOVER AND THE POTATO-SACK

HE farmer in whose house I had spent the night was a thrifty man of the name of Ephraim Baker. My hope in Sal having been overthrown, I offered him my services. I had had enough of disappointment and uncertainty.

“You don't look stout,” said he, “but you ought to be able to mow away an' rake after.” Well, I made a bargain with him, and went to work at once. My first task was to lead a great bull to water. He stood in the stable with a ring in his nose, and roared as I took him out. It was like leading a thunder-storm, but I thought of what General Washington would have done, and walked without flinching. I was surprised to see how easily I could handle the big bull with that ring in his nose. After this initiation the harvesters--big, cordy fellows--tried to bury me in the mow. They always did that with a fresh hand, “to see what he was made of.” Well, I kept my head and shoulders above the grain, although they had given me a fork with three corners on the stale. It was a hard pace they set me, and I lay down at night like a wounded soldier.

I slept with the hired man, who had taken me to my room when I arrived, with all my pride upon me. He was a big, friendly fellow with bristling red hair, who bore the proud, sonorous name of Sam. He had forgotten to remove the puppy--so he said--and thought it all an excellent joke.

He indulged in autobiography as I lay yawning--led me through his career to romantic scenes where he first met his girl and “took a shine to her.”

“I wished,” said he, after a moment of silence, “that you'd write a letter for me which I could copy and send to her. I want it worded right up to the mark. You've got learnin', an' will know how to write a good, respectable, high-toned letter.”

I agreed to do my best for him.

Mr. Baker called us at four, and we dressed and went into the garden and dug potatoes until breakfast-time. So each day began, its work continuing in field, mow, and milking-yard until dark.

Next evening, when we went to our room, with pen and ink I sat down to write the letter for him.

“To Miss Fannie Comstock, Summerville, New York,” he dictated, in a whisper. “Dear Miss.”

He sat a moment thinking.

“Tell her I ain't forgot her,” he went on, “and that I am well an' hope you're the same, an' so on an' so forth.”

So I began the letter as follows:

Dear Miss,--It is only a month since we parted, but it has been the longest month in my life, and although I am far away it will surprise you to learn that I see you often. I see you in the fields every day and in my dreams every night.

“I don't think that will do,” he demurred, soberly, when I read it to him.

“Why not?” was my query.

“Well, it don't seem as if it was exactly proper an' good sense,” he continued, in all seriousness. “The month ain't had any more 'n thirty-one days in it--that's sure.”

I tried again with better understanding, and this came of it:

Dear Miss,--I write these lines to let you know that I am well and that I haven't forgotten you. I hope that you are well and that you haven't forgotten me. I am working on a farm, and am as happy as could be expected.

“That's good,” said he, when I read it to him; and added, proudly, with his finger on the unfinished line, “Wages, thirty dollars a month.”

I did as he wished.

“Now go on,” he suggested. “Throw in a big word once in a while.”

“Aren't you going to say anything about love?” I asked. “A little poem might please her.”

“Go light on that,” he answered, doubtfully. “She's respectable.”

It is a trait of the common clay of which Sam was made to consider love a thing to be reluctantly, if ever, confessed. When the grand passion showed itself in his conduct it was greeted with jeers and rude laughter. It became, therefore, a hidden, timid thing.

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed; “she can't be more respectable than love and poetry. If you love her you ought not to be ashamed of it.”

“Well, throw in a little if you think best,” he yielded, “but do it careful.”

So the letter continued:

Lately I've been saving my money. Perhaps you can guess why. I want a home and some one to help me make it happy, and I believe I've found her. She is good and beautiful, and all that a woman should be. Do you want to know who it is? Well, that's a secret. She's a lady, and that's all I will tell you now. Fannie, you're a friend of mine, and I need your advice. I am a little frightened and don't know just what to say to her, and you could make it easy for me if you would. Please let me know when I can see you.

Sam shook his head and laughed and exclaimed, “That's business!”

“No, it's love,” I objected.

“Well, it ain't foolish or unproper, an' it sounds kind o' comical. She'll want to know all about it. Put in that I'm goin' to take a farm an' be my own boss, an' have as good a horse an' buggy as any one. That makes it kind o' temptin'.”

I did as he wished.

“Now say, 'Yours truly, with respect,'” said he, and so my task was ended.

Three days later he came to me in high spirits, with a letter in his hand.

“I'm goin' to see Fannie to-morrow,” he said, in a whisper. “If Sam Whittemore can do anything for you, I want to know it.”

His opportunity came that evening. I was doing my chores in the barn. Suddenly Sam burst upon me.

“They're after you!” he whispered.

“Who?” I asked.

“Two men in a buggy--they've heard you were here.”

I had told him of my trouble, and now it threatened to engulf me. Would I give myself up and go home with the officers? I could not bear the thought of going home like a felon. It would kill my mother. This all flashed through my brain in a jiffy, while the dusk air seemed to be full of chains and handcuffs. I started to climb a ladder.

“No use,” said he, as he picked up an empty sack. “They know you're here. Get into this sack.”

A wagon stood on the barn floor loaded with potatoes, in big sacks. Sam was holding the empty sack. I stepped into it and sat with my chin between my knees while he stuffed a bundle of straw all around me. Then he cut two holes near the top of the sack, to give me air and an outlook, tied it above my head, and flung me on the load of potatoes. It was all done in the shake of a lamb's tail, as they used to say.

“The old man is going to drive to Sackett's Harbor to-night with these potatoes,” he whispered. “You go on to Summerville; I'll meet you there to-morrow.”

Then he left me, and I lay quietly on the load.

“He isn't in there,” I heard him say, on his way to the house.

Well, they did some searching and tramping about for the next half-hour or so. By-and-by they put the team on the wagon-pole, and we began our journey--the potatoes and I. They nudged me while the wagon rattled over stones in the stable-yard, as if they wished me to move along; but we came soon to smoother going. Darkness had fallen, and through the peep-holes in my sack I could see moonlight and a small section of the Milky Way. My discomfort set me to work planning relief. I drew the new jack-knife, which I had bought in my one day of plenty, and cut two long slits in the bottom of the sack and gave my feet their freedom. With my legs protruding a sense of the dearness of life returned to me. Two more slits in the sack enabled me to put my arms out and to move freely on the load. I lay quietly for an hour or so, and then thought I would try sitting up. So I rose and adjusted my peep-holes and stared about me. My employer sat on one end of the seat, singing. Soon I could hear only the creak of the whiffletrees and the rattle of the wheels. The reins, which were looped over a shoulder, fell limp, and he began to snore.

I could hear the distant roar of a railroad train. It was coming nearer, and where was the crossing? A sense of prudence caused me to climb to the seat and take the reins. I did this gently, and without waking him. I had a fear of falling in with more officers, and kept my sack on me and listened for teams. If I should hear one coming I would resume my place on the load, and draw in my legs and arms like a turtle. Completely taken up with my plans and perils, it never occurred to me that I was one of the most uncanny creatures that ever went abroad in the night. Suddenly I heard a swift movement beside me, and turned my head. My companion had awakened, and was crowding as far away as possible, his mouth and eyes wide open.

He gave a great gasp, and, before I could find words to calm him, shouted: “Land! What's this?” and leaped from the wagon. It was a wonder--the swiftness of him.

“Don't be afraid!” I called, as I checked the horses. “It's I--Cricket Heron. I got away in a potato-sack and came on the load.”

He stood a moment looking up at me, and gasping for breath. “Cricket Heron!” he exclaimed, presently, and stood gazing up at me in silence for half a moment, and supporting himself on a front wheel.

“Say, boy,” said he, in a voice that betrayed his agitation, “excuse me, but you'll have to find other company. You've wore me out.”

He paused half a moment for breath, and went on:

“When a sack o' potatoes sets down beside ye an' opens conversation, it's a little more than I can stan'.” He resumed his seat and took a look at me, and added, with a laugh, “You'd scare the devil.”

In a few words I told my story, and he seemed to believe and to pity me. He put a few queries, and I answered freely.

“You better go home an' tell the truth about it,” he said, as he hurried the horses. “The only thing I don't like about you is your runnin' away. God hates a coward, an' He don't seem to care if a coward suffers. Take that thing off. Be a man; don't be a sack o' potatoes. You'd cheat the man that bought ye for two bushels o' potatoes. They're worth more than a coward.”

He untied the string above my head, and I took off the sack. The lights of the village were just ahead. He drove to a store whose proprietor was awaiting him. There he paid me the sum of six dollars for my work, and I left him and went to a small inn.

So ended the adventure of the potato-sack. It taught me that a man is never so good as the thing he tries to be, whether it is a hero or a sack of potatoes.

ADVENTURE VIII.--IN WHICH CRICKET MEETS THE COLONEL AND THE YOUNG MISS

LAY until after midnight groping in the mine of thought which Mr. Baker had laid open. It was a new kind of exercise, and, for one thing, after digging in my conceit awhile, I found a brain. It was not a large find, but there are some, surely, who go through life without as good luck. It was the most impudent brain I ever knew.

“You're a fool and a coward,” it seemed to say to me. “What are you going to do?”

“Look for employment,” I suggested.

“That's what I'm doing, and you're the only one in the world who can give it. Try me.” And I did--thought it all over, and began to make rules for the regulation of my conduct. Thereafter I would be brave; no more skulking for me.

I was up at daybreak with a new tone in my voice. That morning I spent half of my money for a new flannel shirt and some fresh underwear. I felt very brave and careless when I started for Summerville with the village behind me. It was a walk of seven miles, and nothing happened except Sam, who had driven over in a buggy and come down the road to meet me. He was dressed up, and had a dreamy eye and a red face. “What luck?” I queried.

“Ain't seen her yet,” he said. “Get in here. I'm so scairt I'm all of a tremble. You got through all right?”

“Yes.”

“So the old man said. Thought he'd die laughin' 'bout the potato-sack.”

“He cured me of being a coward.”

“Wish he could cure me,” said Sam Whitemore. “I ain't afraid o' man or beast, or anything but a woman.”

“Women won't hurt you,” I argued.

“No, but they can make ye awful 'shamed.”

It seemed very curious--the timidity of this big, powerful man. I had seen him handle a ton of wheat in five minutes.

“They all look dangerous to me,” he added. Then he sighed and exclaimed, “Heavens to Betsey!”

“Isn't Fannie willing to marry you?” I asked.

“Looks that way, but maybe she's only foolin'.” He shook his head nervously, and added: “If she was you'd see me light out. I wouldn't stop runnin' this side o' Californey.”

“Don't be afraid,” was my ready counsel. “She wants to marry you or she wouldn't have asked you to come.”

As if inspired with new courage, he drew up the reins and touched his horse with the whip.

“I'll ask her if it kills me,” he said, his brow wrinkling with determination.

Neither spoke until we entered the little village of Summerville. He left me at the hotel, where I was to wait for him.

“Goin' up to see her,” he said, in low, half-whispered tones. “I'll ask her to take a ride with me. Oh, I forgot! A letter come for you this mornin'; here it is. An', say, one o' them men that come last night said that he was a friend o' yours.”

“A friend of mine!”

“Yes, but I didn't believe him. I guess he was tryin' to fox me.”

I opened the letter as he drove away and read as follows:

My dear Son,--I believe all you say, and am very sorry for you. It is a grief and a wonder to me that you didn't turn back and let him go his own way when you saw that he was a law-breaker. You wouldn't have missed the watch as much as you miss me and your self-respect. You remember what I said to you about taking up with people you don't know. Since you have chosen not to follow my counsel. I presume you have found your own better than mine. If that is true, I shall need your advice, and will rely upon you to guide me in every time of difficulty. You have strong hands and have learned how to use them. You have many friends and a mother who will do anything she can for you. But we must reap as we sow. You should retrace your own steps in the wrong road and find your way back. God help you! Come as soon as you can and tell the truth, and be not afraid. Truth will beat all the lawyers. If you should be sick let me know, and I will come to you. Tell me where to send clothing for your comfort. I send a little money and much love.

That letter was a godsend. I was inclined to agree with Sam that women can make one “awful 'shamed.” My young manhood really began that day. I put the money, which would have paid my fare to Heartsdale, in my stocking, and determined not to use it. I would find my own way back to her. .

An hour or so later Sam returned with a cheerful look.

“We're goin' to be married,” he whispered, as he almost broke my hand.

“When?”

“Next week, Monday, an' we're goin' to Niagara Falls. It's a big excursion, an' costs only a dollar an' sixty cents.”

Niagara Falls! The great water-hammers!

“I wish I could go with you,” I suggested.

“Come on,” said he; “we'll have a grand time. But you must go to the weddin'--you'll kind o' steady me.”

I was thrilled by what lay before me, for now I should see the Falls and the fleet horses.

“If I can earn my board, I'll stay where I am until Monday,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” said he. “I'm goin' to see the landlord. He's an old friend o' mine.”

Well, within five minutes Sam got a job for me. I was to look after the billiard-tables, and to receive my board for my labor until we went away.

That evening an elderly man of distinguished appearance sat in the billiard-room.

“Who are you, my boy?” he asked.

I told him my name and where I lived, and that I was going to the Falls, Monday, and working for my board meanwhile.

“Ah, ha!” said he, stroking his white mustache and imperial, “so you're from the land of Silas Wright?”

“Yes, sir,”

He asked about certain good people that he had known in my county, and then said: “This is no kind of work for you to be doing. Pack your grip and come home with me. You may share my room, and stay as long as you like.”

Well, the end of it was that I went home with Colonel Busby--that being his name--soldier, orator, philosopher. He and his daughter--a girl of about my age--were alone in the house with one servant.

“Jo,” said he to the girl, as we entered, “this is a high-stepper from St. Lawrence County, and a friend of mine. His name is Cricket Heron.”

The girl gave me her hand, and said, laughingly, that her name was Josephine. She was tall and slender, and I remember thinking that she had almost a woman's look in her dark eyes.

After supper the Colonel said he was going over town and would return presently.

His daughter made me feel at home, and had pretty manners, and a sweet, girlish way of talking, and that charm of youth which has no suspicion of its riches.

First of all, I think of her mouth--perfect in its curves and color. Out of it came joy and careless words set in wonderful music. What a voice! Upon my honor, sometimes it was like a scale played on the flute. We all know the music--that ringing of the golden bowl of youth when Pleasure touches it, and know, too, how soon the bowl is broken. She sang and played upon the guitar, and talked, and this, above all, I remember: she seemed unconscious of herself and of her power over my foolish heart. We compared our knowledge of poetry and romance, our aims and ideals, our tastes and pleasures.

But the Colonel came not, although the clock had struck eleven. She suggested that I might wish to retire. It was a thought of her, and not of myself, that led me to rise and say that I was ready. She lighted a candle and showed me to my room. I went to bed thinking that, after all, my Mary was not her equal.

An hour or so later the Colonel's voice awoke me. He was calling my name in a loud, imperative tone, and tramping about the house as if in search of me. I lay still, not knowing what to do. Soon the Colonel entered my room with a candle in his hand.

“Heron, you rascal, get out of this room!” said he, loudly. “Didn't I say you were to sleep with me?”

Before I could answer he had gathered up my shoes and stockings and flung them into the hall. He took my clothing under his arm while I got out of bed.

“Forward, march!” he commanded, and I followed through the dusky halls to his bedroom in silence. I observed that he walked unsteadily, and I knew the nature of his affliction and felt some fear of him.

“Heron,” said he, with great frankness, “I want company--I need you right here.”

He sang loudly, as I helped him to draw his boots:

“''Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone.'”

In a moment he rose and seized me by the shoulders and crowded me against the wall, by way of demonstrating his strength.

“You are iron, boy, but I am steel,” he said, between his teeth, as he lightly thumped my head upon the figured paper. I made no answer.

The severe look in his face turned to smiles in half a moment. He showed me his wounds--a saber slash on his head, and a number of scars cut by bullets and flying fragments of shell. He asked me to feel his biceps, and I did so, not wishing to be impolite. Before I could step aside he had my head in chancery, and was making a new demonstration. The candle was knocked to the floor, and I struggled with Colonel Busby in the darkness, feeling a dreadful uncertainty of his plans. Soon he had pushed me into a corner, where I stood clinging to his waist.

“Unhand me, villain!” he commanded, and we released each other and I relighted the candle.

The Colonel took off his tie and collar, and as he did so whispered gruffly, and with a playful wagging of his head:

“'How ill that taper burns! Ha! who comes there? Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh. My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror.'”

I saw that it was all a kind of harmless frolic, and soon he proposed that we “knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.”

We got into bed, and fortunately the Colonel soon fell asleep. I had rather a bad night of it, for he snored and muttered, and was, on the whole, an irksome creature. In the morning he said little, and sat with a look of sadness. He went into the garden after breakfast, and Jo said to me:

“I'm sorry my father disturbed you. I didn't think he would do it.”

“Oh, that's nothing,” I assured her, bravely. “I hope it doesn't worry you.”

But I could see that my words had not relieved her unhappiness.

She went to school, and I spent the day writing letters--one to my mother and one to Mr. McCarthy, in both of which I set down much that I have tried to tell you. Then I composed a verse and engrossed it with great care. For such folly--praise God--I had always a keen relish.

Again that evening the Colonel left us, and I helped the pretty girl with her lessons, and we had two more wistful hours, the like of which one remembers with thankfulness and a sad smile. Where should I look to match them? Surely not in my own life, long as it has been. She sighed when I spoke of leaving, and a little tremble in her lips said so much to me--things rich with meaning and mystery.

“I'll have to help in the kitchen next week,” said she, with an air of responsibility. “Fannie, our cook, is to be married.”

“Her name is Comstock?”

“Yes.”

“I know all about it--Sam told me.”

“Sam!” she exclaimed, with a look of contempt. “He kept her waiting three years because he hadn't the courage to propose.”

Then I told her of my adventures, and how they led to Sam, and how Sam had straightway led me to her, or, at least, so near that we could not help meeting. I told her of our life at Baker's, but said not a word of the letter--that seemed to me a sacred confidence. However, I did tell of Sam's fear when he reached Summerville. She thought it very foolish of him.

“I should think that would be the best part of it--asking her to marry him and telling about his love,” said she, turning serious and feeling her beads.

“What kind of a man would you prefer?” I bravely inquired.

“Let me see,” she said, leaning her chin upon her hands in a thoughtful and pretty pose. “Of course, he must be good, and he really _must_ be handsome and tall and strong and brave, and I want him to be a great man; and I am studying very, very hard so that I can help him to be great.”

I sat in silence for a little time, full of sad thoughts. I was neither handsome nor tall nor brave, but sometimes I had thought myself exceedingly good. As to becoming great, that was another respect in which I felt strong and confident. .

I was undersized--yes, a little undersized. I would grow some, however--possibly to six feet; who could tell? But--my face--there was no dodging that. It was plain, very plain, I could see that myself, and my hair did not curl and was too light, and my beard was not yet born.

Jo interrupted my thoughts. She began to clap her hands in a sudden outburst of enthusiasm.

“I have a grand idea!” she said. “We'll give Fannie a little wedding here if father will let us. I think it would be great fun.”

For half an hour or so we sat, making plans for the wedding. Before going to bed, in the Colonel's room, I gave her my horruck--an act of great generosity. I promised to tell her all about it if she could solve the riddle, and she said that she would try.

I went to bed, and the Colonel returned shortly, very bad. I had drawn his boots and remarked that he looked weary, when suddenly he rose and picked up a foil and began to thrust and parry with a hand raised behind him.

“Ah, you insult me, sir!” he hissed, as he danced on tiptoes in the attitude of a fencer, and drove me across the room. He stopped suddenly, his point on the floor, in a haughty pose, and demanded, “Will you have a blade, sir, and a bout with me?”

“I do not know how to fence,” I said.

“Ah--then you are forgiven,” said he, with a loving smile and a jaunty swing of his head. “But, mind you--mind you, I cannot brook an insult.”

Before the light was extinguished he sent his voice roaring through the still house in two lines of _The Last Rose of Summer_.

We got into bed, and as soon as I could decently do it I feigned sleep, to avoid conversation.

I lay thinking for hours after the Colonel had gone to sleep--hours, indeed, of fearful expectation. It was awful to room with a man like Colonel Busby, but, after all, it was a good schooling in bravery, and the time had come when I must be brave. I longed for perils, and for even a wound or two. If there should be a war I would enlist, if possible, and show her how brave I could be. Perhaps, if I became very brave and good and strong and great, she would forgive my lack of size and beauty.

In the midst of these reflections my companion lay groaning with nightmare, and this further thought came to me that, hard as it was to be his friend, it would be still more terrible to be Colonel Busby himself.

To such a hopeful state of mind my last adventure had brought me.

ADVENTURE IX.--WHICH DESCRIBES THE COERCION OF SAM AND HIS WEDDING JOURNEY

O went the days and nights with us there in the home of Colonel Busby, and I am nearly through with them.

One morning Jo said to me: “I'm sorry that father behaved so last night. It's dreadful. Did he hurt you?”

“Not a bit,” was my answer.

“You are as brave as you can be,” she went on, with a look of shame and sorrow. “It worries me terribly. Oh, dear! I wouldn't marry a man who drinks for all the money in the world.”

“You'd need it to repair the furniture,” I suggested, full of a great joy that she thought me brave.

Her eyes filled with tears, and I remember well the tender dignity with which I took her hand and tried to comfort her. It was a pretty picture, upon my word--the boy and the maiden, and both so clean-hearted.

Well, now, as to Sam and the wedding. We invited a number of Fannie's friends, who were servants in the neighborhood, and made a monster cake and some ice-cream. Sam arrived early, red and uncomfortable, and looking very new in a fresh suit of clothes. His voice, even, was afraid to show itself, as one might say. He held it down near a whisper and had a watchful eye.

Jo and a few of her school-girl friends had decorated the parlor, and spread a table in the dining-room with refreshments. Now they stood looking at Sam.

His eyes filled with alarm as we laid our plans before him.

“I ain't broke to this kind o' thing,” he said, “an' I'm scairt clear through. Maybe it could be put off until I'm nerved up a little.”

“No, indeed,” said Jo, as she locked the door and faced about with a saucy look in her eyes. “You've simply got to be married at ten o'clock. You might as well make up your mind to it first as last. You've kept Fannie waiting for three years, and now you're going to be married.”

Poor Sam shook his head and smiled, and looked rather foolish and unhappy.

“You needn't be afraid,” Jo went on. “We're not going to hurt you. We're just going to marry you, and I should think you'd be very happy. Fannie is a good girl, and a sweet-look-, ing girl, too, and she'll be a help to you.”

It was as good as a play to hear her talk to him. Sam had an anxious look, and was, in a way, like one condemned.

“I'd like,” said he, with just a little emphasis on the like--“I'd like to go over to the village a minute.”

“I'm sorry, but there isn't time,” Jo answered. She was gentle but firm.

“I'm no coward,” he said, in a voice that trembled a little, “but--I ain't used to women.”

“Poor thing!” said Jo, with just a touch of contempt for him. “You've got to get used to them, and I'll give you the first lesson. Stand where you are.”

Fannie, a comely, red-cheeked girl of about his age, had entered the room. Jo took her arm and led her up to Sam.

“Now give him a good kiss,” the little wretch commanded.

Fannie gave him a kiss, but he stood unmoved save that his face grew redder.

“Oh, it's not fair to take a kiss without returning it. That's cheating,” Jo protested.

He kissed her, but with such a sober countenance! It suggested retaliation.

“Brave Sam!--you're learning,” Jo said to him. She put her pretty hand in his, and added, soothingly: “Be brave, Sam; be brave and cheer up; nobody will hurt you. When the minister comes you will stand here, and Fannie will stand beside you--like that. Please keep your hands down at your side--so--and remember you must pay attention to the minister.”

Poor, old, good-hearted Sam! It was like bitting a horse, and he needed it.

Well, he played his part rather poorly, but the wedding was successful in its main purpose, and Sam hurried away to bring his horse and buggy. He ran as he left the door-yard, like one escaping.

Jo beckoned to me, and I went with her into the sitting-room, where for a moment we stood alone. How short it was, and yet how long it has been--that little moment!

“May I kiss you once?” I asked, timidly.

She made no reply, but she let me kiss her. Dear girl! We were so young and innocent, and all these years were ahead of us, and--excuse me--I must change the subject.

The excursion train that was to take us to the Falls left our depot at one o'clock. We were among the first who got aboard, and the cars filled rapidly with men and women and crying babies and boys and girls. Ephraim Baker and his wife had a seat near us. Venders passed up and down the aisle with papers, lemonade, “popcorn just about salt enough,” apples, and a curious, horn-shaped fruit called bananas, the “peth” of which was declared to be “very tasty.”

We reached Syracuse in the evening, and changed to the night express bound for Buffalo. An attraction of the trip, which had been much advertised, was a chance to see one of the new sleeping-cars on the Central, and an engine burning coal instead of wood. About eight o'clock, while we were waiting on a side-track, the conductor invited us to pass, through the train and take a look at the new sleeping-car. We filed slowly through it--a car glowing with varnish and highly decorated panels, and divided into four sections by curtains of heavy cloth. Each section had a lower, middle, and upper berth.

Late at night, as I sat half asleep leaning on Sam's glazed satchel, a man entered our car, picked up the satchel, and set it in the aisle and took the seat beside me. In a moment the conductor came along calling “tickets.” The man in my seat showed a pass.

“What's the name?” the conductor queried, as he took the card and held it in the glow of his lantern.

“George M. Pullman,” said the man at my side. “I stayed in the sleeping-car as long as I could stand it, and made my escape. You might as well try to sleep in the middle of Broadway. The berths rattle, and I was bumped around until I thought a horse and wagon were running over me.”

Soon after that he began drawing a diagram on a large envelope with a lead-pencil, and as he sat beside me I saw the beginning of a new chapter in railroad history.

From every point of the compass, that night, people were on their way to the Falls. Next morning they would see wonderful things--athletic contests, a balloon ascension, and a man walking across the chasm on a rope. I had longed to see the “big water-hammers” and the fleet horses. I thought chiefly of them.