Part 10

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

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

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

“Well?”--

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

“Oh, you!” furiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like _what_?” angrily asked the teacher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here comes Steve now,” a scholar announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unworthy citizen smiled mournfully, but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Chapter XIII._

THE SIX GO TO A PICNIC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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