Part 1

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A BLUNDERING BOY.

A Humorous Story.

by

BRUCE W. MUNRO.

Published by Bruce W. Munro, Toronto.

Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-seven, by Bruce W. Munro, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture.

TO THAT SUPREME AUTOCRAT, THE SMALL BOY OF NORTH AMERICA, THIS BOOK IS, WITHOUT PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.

CONTENTS.

Preface XI.

CHAPTER. PAGE.

I. The Story Opened 17

II. Will’s Lucky Blunder 23

III. Will’s Native Village 33

IV. The Heroes of this History 39

V. An Unpleasant Ride for Will 44

VI. Steve’s Retaliation 54

VII. The Young Moralist.--A Clever Scheme 66

VIII. George Comes Out Ahead 75

IX. “Three Wise Men Went to Sea in a Bowl.” 88

X. The “Bowl” Comes to Grief 96

XI. A Talented Lecturer 106

XII. An Extraordinary Mad Dog 112

XIII. The Six go to a Picnic 126

XIV. Disaster Rather Than Fun 137

XV. A Lesson in Ballooning 149

XVI. Unheard-of Adventures with Balloons 156

XVII. They Prepare to “Giantize” 163

XVIII. The Cousins See More Than They Bargained for 169

XIX. Within and Without the Demon’s Cave 178

XX. A Glorious Triumph 186

XXI. Uncle Dick Himself Again 197

XXII. Uncle Dick Evolves His Story 204

XXIII. The Sage’s Experiment 212

XXIV. The Sage Unearths a Treasure 220

XXV. The Bitten Boy Takes Revenge 229

XXVI. Bob’s Downfall 240

XXVII. They Propose to Turn the Tables 245

XXVIII. The Tables Turned with a Vengeance 251

XXIX. A Horrible Plot.--The Haunted House 260

XXX. The Blunderer at Work Again 271

XXXI. Will Mends His Ways 276

XXXII. The Arch-Plotter Arrives 282

XXXIII. “A Lesson in French” 287

XXXIV. Henry Takes His Bearings.--A Stampede 298

XXXV. Marmaduke Grasps the Situation 307

XXXVI. To the Rescue! 319

XXXVII. Marmaduke Struggles with Romance 325

XXXVIII. The Startlers Themselves are Startled 335

XXXIX. Repentant Plotters.--The Heroes Re-united 342

XL. The Heroes Figure as Hunters 348

XLI. How Will Lost His Deer 355

XLII. What Curiosity Cost the Hunters 362

XLIII. Things Begin to Get Interesting 370

XLIV. Is the Mystery Solved? 377

XLV. The Last Blunder.--A Last Conversation 382

XLVI. The Story Closed 390

PREFACE.

Silly as this story may seem, there is a fixed purpose in writing it; and, like water in a goose-pond, it is deeper than it at first appears.

The intention chiefly is to be absurd; to cast ridicule on certain pedants and romancers; and to jeer at the ridiculous solemnity, mystery, and villainy, that hedge in works of fiction. Disgusted with tales which cause exceedingly good heroes and heroines to live a life of torture, only to find a haven of peace and security in the last line of the last chapter, the writer determined to go over the old ground in a different way. Now that the story is written, however, he has a horrible suspicion that in some measure he has totally failed in his design, and that more often than he cares to own, he has overshot the mark.

Having endeavored to make the intention tolerably clear, the reader may now be able to get more enjoyment from this tale.

The tale aims to attack so-called “vagaries,” as well as great and contemptible follies. It attacks the frailties of the school-boy with as much gusto as it attacks the foibles of the romancer. In fact, from first to last, in almost every chapter, the writer rushes gallantly to attack something. Not satisfied with attempting to ridicule other people’s tales, he often indirectly, but not the less insultingly, attacks this one, as the careful reader will doubtless observe. This was begun in jest, perhaps; but it soon became a fixed purpose, carried out in earnest. Even a boy can generally see the drift of our narrative; but it is often hard for the writer himself to see its true meaning--harder still to appreciate it. Nevertheless, there is a good deal to be seen in the story; and doubtless there are some who will see more in it than was designed to be put there.

Again, the story is not written to instruct studious and solemn boys, who mope about the house with grave biographies and heavy ancient histories in their hands, while without, the sun is shining bright, birds are warbling their extempore melodies in the fruit-trees, squirrels are frisking across the garden-walks, and all Nature is smiling. Such people are not _boys_; they are but figure-heads in creation, who, though they may, perhaps, find a place in so-called “literature,” will never find one in the history of nations. This story does not inform those who crave for knowledge, and yet more knowledge, that the elephant is a pachydermatous native of Asia and Africa, nor that the monkey is a quadrumanous animal, with prehensile tail, whose habitat is in tropical regions. Still, the attentive reader will, in all probability, gather from it that an ass brays, that a punt leaks, that a school-boy’s pets are mortal, and that gunpowder is liable to explode when fire is applied to it. It is not written as a guide and instructor to youth. Its heroes are deplorably depraved; they love to plot mischief. Yet a boy may possibly learn something from our work. He may learn that the boy who plays practical jokes on his school-fellows generally “gets the worst of it,” that he often suffers more than the intended victim. He may learn, also, that a boy’s wickedness brings its own punishment. (The writer takes great pains to correct the culprits--in fact, he never fails to do so after each offence.) Of course every boy has learned all this before; probably, in every book he ever read; but as it is a fundamental principle in romance to enforce this doctrine, it is here enforced.

Many a writer wishes to make assertions for which he does not always choose to be responsible. In such cases, he puts the assertion into the mouth of one of his characters, an “honorable gentleman” fathering it sometimes, a “consummate villain” at other times. In some instances we have followed this example.

The writer here modestly lays claim to a rare, an almost antiquated virtue: though he excels in Wegotism, he never calls himself an author! Yet if he were writing an elementary grammar, he might indulge in such expressions as “The author here begs to differ from Mr. Murray;” or, “The author’s list of adjectives may be increased by the teacher, _ad libitum_.” But this story is intended for youths of a reasoning age. In writing for juveniles of tender years, it is well to weigh carefully one’s expressions, and to use only choice and elegant expletives.

Understand, gentle reader, that man only is attacked in this story. Though the fair sex are occasionally and incidentally introduced, the writer has too much respect for them to go beyond the introduction, in this book. Even when Henry personates “Sauterelle” the motive is good. Understand all this, and read accordingly.

The moral of this story is intended to be good; but in a story of its light and fickle nature, the less said about a moral the better.

The writer has great affection for boys; he respects them, and loves to see them enjoy themselves, but he is not prepared to say that he fully understands them. A BOY is a credit to a neighborhood--till he hangs a battle-scarred cat to the chief citizen’s flag-staff, or destroys a mill-dam by tunnelling a hole through it, when, of course, he is a disgrace to the race. Though it is uncertain who is the hero of this story, Steve and Henry are the favorites. Steve is more or less a _boy_; but as the story advances the reader will perceive that he improves in both wit and wisdom. George is one of the boys who “love books;” but he tempered common sense with study, and never refused to join with his companions in their frolics or “expeditions.” With little or no benefit to himself, or, for that matter, to anybody else, George, like most studious youths of his age, read books entirely beyond his comprehension. In one hundred pages of scientific reading, he probably understood and retained one fact; the other facts were either misunderstood or forgotten, or might better have been. Years ago, when the writer used to wear out his pockets with bulky jack-knives, and quarrel with other youngsters about the sagacity of his own dog, he knew a boy who, like Jim, was subject to “the chills.” But the writer was probably too young at that time to have an insight into another’s character, and the only affinity between that boy and Jim is that both were a prey to “the chills.” It may be objected that it is strange that Charles should be able to work on the other boys’ feelings so well. Very true; so it is. Still, he could not have slain a robber-knight, nor outwitted an Indian scout. Henry is not one of the original heroes, but as he is necessary to the story he is introduced.

The writer, disgusted with books in which the heroes are treated with much respect, endeavours to heap every indignity upon these foolish boys. In a word, he has no apparent respect for any one, big or little, old or young, in this volume. To go still further, he has no respect for himself.

In the case of the blue-eyed heroine and each boy’s mother, however, there is an exception, and exceptions prove the rule.

As for Mr. Lawrence’s “mystery,” it does not amount to much, though it is intended, like everything else, to serve a purpose. Look at it as it appears, and in ten minutes a bill-sticker could hatch a better plot. Look at it as it appears, and it is idiotic, yet perfectly harmless; look at it in its figurative meaning, and, though it is not so good as was intended, it yet--but we are too discreet to say more on this head.

The writer respectfully observes that his maniac is not drawn from nature, but from romance. He never informed himself of the habits of those unfortunate people--never had the pleasure of even a slight acquaintance with them--but drew Uncle Dick’s history blindly from romance.

As for the villain’s confession, it is thrown in gratuitously, as ballast to the story, and to pacify the readers of heavy romance.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive,”

as many a writer’s confused plot bears witness. Having many objects in view in writing this story, the reader must make the best of it, if it sometimes seems disjointed. Still, if the astute reader thinks he detects a place where this history does not hang together, let him not be too much elated, for the writer believes he could point out several such places himself.

Of course, no boy will read this preface; it would, therefore, be a waste of time to address a discourse to boys in it. Reader, did you ever observe the manner in which a boy ignores the preface in his school-books? If not, you do not know how much scorn a boy’s face is capable of displaying.

Nevertheless, this preface may be of use to a boy. Suppose that an indulgent uncle should be jockeyed into buying a copy of this book for his little nephew. In such a case, would not this preface make an admirable “flier” for the little nephew’s dart? Certainly it would; and the next morning the little nephew’s mamma would find a picturesque dart, with this elaborate preface fluttering at the end, adorning a panel of the parlour door.

“Perhaps,” sneers the reader of mature years, “you think to have a fling at the almost antiquated custom of writing prefaces?”

Perhaps so, kind reader, and why not?

It seems natural for some writers to wish to display their wisdom: some make a show of hammering out tropes that no one can appreciate; others, in coining new compound words that won’t find a place in the dictionaries of the future; still others, in inserting such foreign words and phrases as may be found in the back of a school-boy’s pocket dictionary. (To do them justice, however, the latter geniuses, careful not to offend our noble English, considerately write such words and phrases in italics.) This writer, on the contrary, displays his _foolishness_ by tackling things that he afterwards learns are out of his reach.

The writer seems most at home when attempting to poke fun at romance; yet he is tormented night and day, so much so that he has no peace, with romance. In fact, gentle reader, if any human being suffers more in that way than he, pity him with all your heart, for he must be a wretch indeed.

Cannot this be explained logically? Perhaps so; but it isn’t worth anybody’s while to do it.

Notwithstanding that our preface is so grandiloquent, the story opens, the reader will observe, very modestly. But if he should persevere a little way, he will find that the writer soon strikes out boldly.

Of course this preface was written after the story; but, let the reader be entreated, if he will excuse the Hibernicism, to read it first. If he does not, we are only too confident he will never read it. This is not prophecy, but intuition.

BRUCE W. MUNRO.

A BLUNDERING BOY.

_Chapter I._

THE STORY OPENED.

William, baptized William, but always called Will, was a boy who had a habit of committing blunders--a habit which, as will be seen, occasionally led him into deep disgrace. When a mere boy, his blunders were of little consequence; but when older they assumed a more serious form. Most of them arose from want of care, as he did everything without considering what the end might be. Doubtless, he ought to have been reproved for this; but as he was only a boy, and as many of his blunders partook of the ludicrous, his parents laughed at him, but seldom took pains to correct him.

Will’s father owned a highly cultivated farm, near one of the great lakes, and was a man of means. He indulged freely in dignified language, in illustrated magazines and weeklies, in frequent pleasure trips by land and water, and in gilded agricultural machines, fragile and complicated, but quite as useful as ornamental.

Will’s mother was an amiable lady, who accompanied her husband on every alternate pleasure trip, and who, by the help of an able housekeeper and a fire-proof cook, spread a table that excited the admiration or envy of all who knew her, the housekeeper, or the cook.

Such were Will’s father and mother, who generally, as he was their only child, suffered him to have his own way, took notice of all his sayings and doings, and occasionally jotted them down in a disused diary. But he was not the kind of boy to be spoiled by such usage; on the contrary he was a very good boy.

He was an athletic little fellow, able to undergo great fatigue, and endowed with so much perseverance and hope that he would fish all day for trout, and return at dusk with nothing but a few expiring mud-pouts and two or three forlorn fish worms. He was known to all the villagers, respected by all his school fellows, and was involved in all their troubles. But his school fellows did not regard him as a hero; in their expeditions he was seldom chosen leader; in their “trials by jury” he was frequently a juryman--in time of need the entire jury--but only occasionally the judge.

Will attended school regularly and learned his lessons carefully, whether he understood them or not. His appetite for learning was keen, but his appetite for sport was insatiable; no boy, on being set loose from school, was more demonstrative than he.

When old enough to be out with his father, he followed him constantly. About the whole farm there was not a hole into which he had not fallen, not a stone of any size over which he had not stumbled, and no danger of any kind, from animals or machines, from which he had not narrowly escaped. He was often carried bruised, wet and tearful into the presence of his terrified mother, who vowed that he should never again leave her sight. But as soon as his wounds were dressed and his wet, muddy, and sometimes blood-stained garments were changed, he would slip away, to invite new dangers and contend with old ones. Even when sitting quiet in the house, learning his lessons, his ink-bottle would unaccountably pour its contents over his books, his papers, or on the carpet. Yet Will’s father declared that the boy was neither awkward nor stupid, but only “inconsiderate” and “headlong.” In proportion as he grew older, Mr. Lawrence hoped that he would grow wiser, and less “headlong.”

Having thus touched upon Will’s characteristics, it is now in order to begin at the beginning, when he was a small boy.

One day, when the boy had arrived at the age of seven years, a strolling and struggling newspaper genius was invited to spend the afternoon and evening at the farm-house. At the supper table this gentleman interested himself particularly in the boy, and the mother, pleased with this attention, began to enlarge upon her darling’s talents and cleverness, till, warming with maternal pride, she became quite eloquent.

“What do you suppose he did the other day?” she asked.

Will’s face suddenly became red. His mother did not notice this, but the newspaper genius did; and while he answered politely, he muttered to himself, “Hanged somebody’s cat, I should infer from his looks.”

“Why, he--” began the mother, when she was suddenly interrupted by Will’s saying, “Please don’t tell, mother!”

This remark, of course, drew the attention of all three to the boy, and they saw that he appeared ill at ease, and that his face was painfully flushed.

Mrs. Lawrence looked surprised. “Why, Will,” she said, “I’m sure its greatly to your credit.” Then turning to the guest: “Mr. Sargent, the other day he gave his papa the boundaries of every country and continent on the globe; and he did it all from memory, not looking once at a map!” Mr. Sargent was a polite man; he now expressed the liveliest astonishment.

“Oh!” burst from Will’s lips, followed by a sigh of relief, “Is _that_ what you wanted to tell?”

“What did you suppose your mamma intended to tell me?” basely inquired the newspaper man, quickly recovering from his astonishment.

Will hesitated, but finally answered, “I thought it was about the fire-crackers.”

The guest’s curiosity was awakened. “What about the fire-crackers?” he inquired, so courteously that no one could take offence.

“Oh, he had a bad time with them; that’s all;” said Mrs. Lawrence, coming to the rescue.

But Will, who was plainly dissatisfied with his mother’s version of the affair, explained, with an effort that proved him to be a hero, “I had some fire-crackers, and they set the chip yard on fire, and nearly burnt up a cow in the cow-house!”

Having thus eased his conscience, he relapsed into silence. But it was evident that his nerves were quite unstrung; the visitor was therefore not taken wholly unawares when Will, in passing him the “preserves,” spilt them on his pants.

With a sigh of resignation the unfortunate took the mishap as a joke, and asked, as they rose from the table, if Will would bring out some of his toys.

“Get out the gun you made yourself,” Mr. Lawrence suggested.

The boy left the room but soon came in with a rude weapon--which boys would call a squirt-gun, but which Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, from ignorance or flattery, called a gun. But time is precious to some people; perhaps they called it a gun to save breath.

The errant newspaper man took up the squirt-gun, to examine it at his convenience, but lo! another mishap! The infernal machine, or whatever one may call it, had discharged a black and muddy fluid over his spotless shirt front.

Another involuntary “Oh!” broke from poor Will’s lips. “It must be the poison we had for the red currant bugs!” he groaned. “I thought I had squirted every drop out of the gun, but--”

“This is an extraordinary little gun, I’ve no doubt,” said the unhappy man, in a pet, “but I don’t wish to experiment with it at present. I should prefer to see some harmless toy, such as a wooden top or a horse-hair watch-chain. It is always dangerous for me to meddle with guns, anyway.”

For once, the newspaper man’s suavity had failed him.

But Mrs. Lawrence, in her heart, thought that a judgment had overtaken him for ferreting out Will’s secret.

The owner of the gun took it and gladly left the room. He did not return with his wooden tops, but climbed up on the roof of the stable, where he whiled away the rest of the evening with his new jack-knife and a piece of cedar. He did not cut his fingers very badly, however.

The distressed parents were placed in a very embarrassing situation, but the sufferer’s equanimity soon returned, and the conversation again flowed on smoothly.

When the visitor took leave, it is to be hoped that he took with him a due appreciation of Will’s talents and cleverness.

Next morning Mr. Lawrence called his son and addressed him thus: “My son, you are a very heedless boy. Reflect on the sad results of your heedlessness, and endeavor to use the faculty of reason before you act in any matter. Think of the annoyance you gave us last night! You ought never to interrupt your mother, for you may be sure that she would never tell a stranger anything to your discredit. Will you bear this in mind?”

“Yes, sir,” muttered the boy, trying to understand the meaning of the big words. “But,” anxiously, “will he be scolded and whipped, as Jim was when he got his clothes spoiled?”

“Are you speaking of the gentleman who passed the evening with us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then don’t grieve about that, for his parents will not harm him,” Mr. Lawrence replied with a smile.

A short time after this occurrence, Will informed his father that a muskrat had built itself a home by a stream which ran through their farm.

“Should you like to catch it in a trap?” Mr. Lawrence asked.

The boy, of course, said yes. Immediately the fond father bought a strong little trap and presented it to the would-be trapper. The trap cost ninety cents; a wandering tin-peddler might perhaps be generous enough to give Will fifteen cents for the pelt of the muskrat. In that event everybody would be satisfied. But the home of the muskrat would be made desolate.

Mrs. Lawrence beheld this trap with horror, and not without reason, for, within the next two hours, Will contrived to imprison in it several of his fingers.

After repeated warnings from his parents, the young hero set out for the stream, trap in hand. Having successfully achieved the feat of setting it, he returned and gave his father the particulars.