Part 23

Soon afterward the plotters separated; Will, to go sorrowfully homeward; George, to hasten gladly to his parents and be congratulated on his success; Charles and Stephen to find, “soothe,” and let into their councils, the boy called Jim.

It is sufficient to say that Jim was overjoyed to take part in their plot, though vexed at them for having kept him in the dark so long, and at Will for having spoken of him as a “first-rate coward.”

Thus the bad effects of the exchanged composition were remedied, though mischief enough had been done by causing Teacher Meadows to have a bad opinion of Will. And Will, foolish boy, fancied that by this means he had been cheated out of the prize.

Perhaps it was the best thing that could possibly have happened to him, for, from that day forward, he cultivated order so assiduously and determinedly that in course of time he became more orderly than even George. He vowed to wreak dire vengeance on himself if such a mishap should ever again befall him, and it was noticed by his mother and schoolfellows that his ridiculous blunders were on the decrease. With all his belongings in perfect order, it was much easier to keep out of trouble; especially, as he was also more circumspect in all his movements than heretofore.

An additional advantage. Two bumps, one over each eye, took root, and grew, and grew, and continued to grow, till they bulged out exceedingly. Not knowing the cause of this, Will continued to cultivate order, and his bumps continued to grow and bulge out, till he became the most distinguished looking youth in the village.

Boys, never mind the bumps, but take the moral to heart, and if any of you are untidy, reform before your want of order exposes you to disgrace and pain, as Will’s did him.

_Chapter XXXII._

THE ARCH-PLOTTER ARRIVES.

On the next day Will wrote another letter to his cousin, in which he invited him to come and pay them a visit. He gave a rambling explanation of the “essay,”--which, he thought, would not only puzzle, but also astound, poor Henry--and avoided mentioning his school-fellows at all. In fact, he had resolved in his mind that hereafter, in writing letters, he would confine himself to the matter in hand, and not discourse on the virtues and vices, the wisdom and folly, of his school-fellows. As for the plot, he said simply that they had “a game on foot,” filling up his letter by giving an interesting record of the weather for the past month, and a touching account of a lump on his horse’s hind leg.

Will posted his letter with a light heart, feeling that his presentiments must have related to the exchanged composition, and that now all would be well.

In the eloquent words of sundry novelists: “It was well for him that he could not look into the future.”

The holidays had now begun, and, as was said above, the plotters spent a great part of their time in fitting up the deserted house, which was to be the scene of their comedy--or tragedy, as the event should prove.

Having done this, the plotters, Jim included, again assembled in solemn council, to deliberate on certain features of their plot. They wished to make themselves thoroughly acquainted with all the details, so that everything should work smoothly.

“Now, when Henry comes,” said Will, “we must meet him at the station, and keep him out of Marmaduke’s sight till he sees him in the ‘Wigwam’ as the captive. Marmaduke will be all unprepared, and will take him for the captive without a doubt.”

“Yes,” Charles assented; “but will Henry consent to be rigged out as a French captive?”

“Oh, he will have to do that,” said Will; “he will have to do whatever we tell him; and _we_ shall have to do whatever he tells us. Oh, we shall work together just like a--a--like a--”

“Like the works of a clock,” suggested Steve, never at a loss for a simile, however inapt it might be.

“Well,” Charles observed, “let us make a being of straw, or old clothes, to look like a discomfited tramp in effigy, and then hang him out of a window up-stairs. Marmaduke will take it for the persecuting captor, of course. And besides, we shall want something to do while Henry and Marmaduke are rescuing each other. This is your idea, Steve,” he added, “and I give you all the credit for it.”

All the plotters were in favor of doing this, and so _that_ question was settled.

Jim--who bore the plotters a grudge for not having acquainted him with their designs till forced to do so--was suddenly struck with a peculiarly “bright” idea. He said nothing to them, but chuckling grimly to himself, he muttered fiendishly: “It would serve ’em right, I guess, anyway!”

Stephen was suddenly struck with a horrible fear; he gasped faintly: “Boys!--say, boys! Oh, dear! Boys, won’t the French young lady be supposed to speak in her own language? And how could Marmaduke understand that?--that is, if Henry could speak it right along?”

The plotters were appalled. With consternation in every face, they stared at each other in utter hopelessness, whilst their beloved plot tottered on its foundations.

But presently the Sage, with his customary philosophy, came to the rescue. Said he: “Look here, boys, all that is necessary is to have the captor and the wicked jailers teach the beautiful captive to speak English, broken English, a little. Alas, it seems to me that this captive will be an endless trouble to us, and I think Henry will wish himself himself again. Yes, I shall be glad when its all over.”

“Never mind;” said Stephen. “Now, this broken English will settle _that_ question; but, Will, can Henry speak broken--I mean _cracked_--English?”

“Of course he can,” said Will confidently; “he can do anything.”

The self-styled conspirators breathed freely, for their plot was now established on a firm foundation.

The work of fashioning a “being” progressed rapidly; and the day before Henry arrived they put the finishing touches to an object that was a monstrosity indeed. If the curious reader wishes to know what this object, or “being,” or monstrosity, looked like, let him turn to the picture of the fourth giant in his baby brother’s “handsomely illustrated” “Jack the Giant-Killer.” The resemblance between that giant and this “being” is striking.

Yes; they had hit upon their vocation at last; and if they should remove to the haunts of savages in the Polynesian islands, or in the unexplored regions of Africa, and set up in business as idol-makers, their fame and fortune would soon be an accomplished fact.

But this story drags already; so let it be sufficient to add that the “impostor,” as they fondly called it, was lovingly and secretly conveyed to the lone house, and hidden away till it should be needed.

Thus time passed with the plotters. They often had great difficulty in keeping all their movements and plans a secret from Marmaduke; more than once he came upon them in their journeys to and fro, and it was only by using the greatest tact that they prevented him from following them to the old building.

Poor Marmaduke! he was at a loss to know why the boys should act in so strange a manner. He would come upon them sometimes, seated, and talking earnestly; but the moment they caught sight of him, all were silent. At last he began to think that he had offended them in some way--how, he could not guess. However, the time when he should be rudely awakened was at hand.

Henry Mortimer, the boy-lover of the sweet little blue-eyed heroine, was somewhat surprised to receive through the post a very learned dissertation on “Philosophical Ingenuity;” but two days afterwards Will’s letter of explanation and invitation followed it, and then he was all eagerness to be off, as he anticipated having a delightful visit with his cousin and his aunt. But there were other reasons why he was glad to go away from home for a few days, or even weeks. _His_ school, also, had closed for the holidays; and consequently, he saw but little of--(It must be tiresome to the reader to see the writer of this history continually using circumlocution in speaking of this little girl, but as there are private reasons why her name should not be made known, he [the helpless reader] will have to make the best of it.) Moreover, a handsome and clever youth, a first cousin of the little blue-eyed heroine’s, was spending the holidays at her parents’, with her elder brother; and Henry’s feverish imagination (poor boy, he was jealous as ever) immediately conjectured that he and she would fall in love with each other! To be sure they were first cousins; but Henry had latterly taken to the bad habit of reading English novels, and so he let his fears get the better of his judgment, and thought it only logical that she should eventually shake him off, and marry the cousin. As if to confirm his fears, he had seen her, the heroine who had given him the glass ink-bottle, walking down the side-walk, accompanied by the stalwart cousin. This had worked his jealous passions up to boiling heat, but feeling his utter helplessness, he had affected to be unconcerned; and now, to prove how little he cared, he would go away on a visit, and stay--well, _perhaps_ he might stay two weeks.

Preparations were immediately begun, but it was hard for Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer to part with their son, if for only a short time. The “game on foot” hinted at in the letter troubled the latter--the more so, as she was aware of her son’s recklessness, and was firmly persuaded that her young nephew was totally devoid of common sense. But, at last, when the holidays were a week old, the redoubtable hero departed, with repeated warnings to keep out of danger, and to be very, _very_ careful of himself, ringing in his ears.

The same day Will was delighted in two different ways. He received a telegram, directed to _himself_. Delight number one.

The telegram ran as follows:--

“Your cousin Henry will be there to-morrow morning; meet him.

“M. MORTIMER.”

Delight number two.

Will hastened to inform his fellow-plotters of this good news, and joy reigned among them all.

The next morning came, and with it came Cousin Henry. Each one of the heroes, except Marmaduke, was at the depot to welcome him; each one was struck with his commanding appearance; each one thought what a beautiful heroine he would make. Proudly, but very awkwardly, Will introduced them to each other, and then proposed to his cousin that he should bind a handkerchief loosely over his head, so that it should partially conceal his features.

“What for?” asked Henry, with surprise. “I haven’t the tooth-ache, nor I’m not ashamed to be seen.”

“Yes, but there’s a boy here not in our plot; and if he should happen to see you, all would be spoiled,” Will pleaded.

“We might meet him, any minute, Henry, for he’s always prowling round at this time of day,” Stephen chimed in.

Stephen and Henry looked each other full in the face: congenial spirits met.

“Well,” said Henry resignedly, “go ahead, and trick me out as you please.” Then, a woe-begone look overspreading his face, he added: “There is no one here to know me, so that it makes no difference how I am trussed up.”

Ah! his heart was with the loved ones at home, and he cared little what these boys did with him.

But “tricked out” and “trussed up!” Those words took well with the simple village boys; they held their breath for admiration.

Then the cleanest handkerchief (which was Henry’s own) that could be found, was bound about his head, so as to flap over his mouth unpleasantly, and wanton in the sultry July breeze.

Needless precaution, for nothing was seen of Marmaduke.

Weary as Henry must have been after his long journey, he was hurried away to one of the boys’ retreats, in a retired quarter of Mr Lawrence’s garden. At first the boys were quite reserved, for Henry had been represented to them as a very extraordinary personage; but in the course of half an hour they became as well acquainted with him as if they had known him from the days of the plesiosaurus dolichodeirus.

For a full hour they talked almost at random; narrating their late adventures with Bob, touching gingerly upon Will’s last lamentable blunder, and giving a minute, but bewildering and disjointed, account of their darling scheme.

Then, after Henry had received confused notions of various matters, the party dispersed; and the poor boy was allowed to see his aunt and uncle, wash, partake of some food, and snatch a wink of sleep.

They had appointed to meet early in the afternoon, to discuss their plot in all its bearings, and to have Henry compose the vexatious letter; but he and Will spent a short but very pleasant time in each other’s company, and when the hour came for them to repair to the rendezvous, the former had grasped the boys’ idea, and mapped out his own course.

To say that Henry was delighted with this plot, would be to do him gross injustice--in fact, to speak out boldly, since yesterday the writer has racked his brains in a vain endeavor to hit upon some single adjective that would adequately describe the boy’s ecstasy.

_Chapter XXXIII._

“A LESSON IN FRENCH.”

“Here we are!” Steve joyously exclaimed, as the last one of the plotters arrived at the rendezvous in Mr. Lawrence’s garden. “And now, then, let us go to work.”

“Are you perfectly sure this Marmaduke will believe the letter is genuine, and fly to the rescue?” Henry asked dubiously.

“He would believe anything, Henry,” Charles rejoined “And the more romantic the letter is, the more he will believe it.”

“Why,” said Steve, “I shouldn’t be surprised if he falls in love when he meets you all tricked up--tricked _out_--as a heroine!”

Henry smiled grimly, but said nothing.

“Oh, no,” said George dogmatically. “Henry’s eyes are blue, and so are Marmaduke’s; and you know--at least, I’ve often read--that people alike in that respect seldom fall in love with each other.”

Oh, how indignant Henry was! Who was this impertinent little boy, who had opinions (and such opinions!) on all topics?

“Are you in the habit of reading love-stories?” he asked curiously.

“No,” said the Sage slowly, “I’ve never read many genuine love-stories; I don’t care much for them; they’re not solid enough.”

“You’ll see the day when you’ll care to read nothing else,” said Henry, melodramatically.

Perceiving that the plotters were looking at him intently, he said hurriedly, for he did not wish these boys to guess his secret, “You haven’t told me yet when the plot is to come off.”

“We never settled that ourselves; but if to-morrow evening is pleasant, let us go then,” said Will.

“We have had so many unfortunate expeditions in the night that I think we had better set some other time,” the Sage observed.

“The evening is the time, of course;” said Henry decisively. “We can take care of ourselves, I think, if we try. To-morrow forenoon I must disguise myself and go and see this old house with some of you; and then, as we are coming back, if the rest of you could come up with Marmaduke, I could hide, and look on while he ‘finds’ the letter. Have you settled that point yet?”

“Yes,” said Charles, “we planned to fix the letter in a bottle, and fling it into the river a few rods above him. The river, you know, flows past the house; so that when he reads the letter he’ll think the prisoner threw the concern into the river, and that it floated down. Marmaduke will think that is romance itself.”

“I understand,” Henry commented; “and when we write the letter we can say something to that effect. Now, what do you say to mixing up a priest in the plot?”

“A priest?” they asked, at a loss to guess his intent.

“Yes, a poor old priest, that found out the villain in his capturing schemes, and had to be seized and brought along, or else made away with.

“I--I don’t--see why,” Charles stammered.

“Will tells me that Marmaduke is to suppose I’m the captive, and that I’m to be dressed accordingly,” Henry said lazily. “Now, if you boys can’t see what I mean, keep your eyes and ears open, and when the time comes, there will be so much the more sport for you.”

The plotters did not see what Henry was driving at; but, thinking it must be an “improvement” that had suggested itself to him, they were content to wait.

“Now, we must all swear that none of us will laugh, no matter how droll things may be,” Will observed.

Henry could never be guilty of such a misdemeanor. He was a boy who could do and say the most absurdly ridiculous things without the slightest smile on his face; and the others had tolerable control over their facial muscles.

“Don’t be too hard on Marmaduke, Henry;” said Charles, still at a loss to conjecture to what use the imaginary priest was to be put, and beginning to fear that some great danger menaced hapless Marmaduke.

“I will be careful,” Henry replied.

“About the letter--let us write it,” Steve cried, impatiently.

“I have the materials to write it in the rough,” said Henry. “To-night I shall polish it, and write it off on French note paper, and to-morrow I shall hand it over to you.”

“Make the letter very strong,” Charles suggested. “The more extraordinary and whimsical it is, the more poor deluded Marmaduke will be delighted. Poor fellow, if it is hard to make it out, he will stammer over it till his face and hands get damp with sweat.”

“Doesn’t he understand French very well?” Henry asked.

“None of us do,” Charles dolefully acknowledged.

“Well, is he in the habit of wandering through the dictionary?”

“I--don’t--know,” said Charles, wondering what Henry was driving at now.

“Well, then, I will run the risk,” said the master-plotter, like the hero he was.

Not allowing the curious boys to ask any questions, he continued: “As you don’t understand French very well, I must read the letter carefully to you to-morrow, for it would be jolly fun if none of you could make it out. Well, fire ahead, and I’ll write; but after I polish it, your letter may be very different from the original draft.”

With that he produced pencil and paper, and then slowly, like a blood-thirsty author hatching his plot, a draught was made of the letter; each particular, as it occurred to the boys, being set down at random. When finished, it was, like Will’s letter, so incoherent that it would give a person a headache to read it. But in their own room that night Henry wrote and “polished,” whilst Will looked for words and phrases in his dictionary. They worked long and carefully, and about midnight the letter was transcribed for the last time; and with dizzy head and heavy, blinking eyes, poor Henry tumbled into bed, saying, drowsily, “I have portentous ap--apprehensions that by--by to-morrow night--I shall need--need some--some Cayenne pepper mixture.”

But he slept long and well, and felt himself again the next morning.

We give the letter in French, just as Henry wrote it. This is not done because of a morbid love of writing something in a foreign language--which seems to be so strong in some people, whether they understand it or not--but because of three very good reasons: First, to show the length to which the boys went in carrying out their plot; secondly, to give the good-natured reader an insight into Henry’s character--for a man is best known by his writings; thirdly, because it is a well-known fact that intelligent youths who are studying a foreign language have an eager desire to read, or attempt to read, whatever they can find in that language; and it is well to gratify such healthy desires.

After holding forth in this strain, perhaps it will be as well to observe, that the youth who expects to perfect himself in French by a careful perusal of this letter will be most bitterly deceived.

One word more: Henry, and Henry only, is responsible for this letter, therefore all the praise must be given to him. But is it reasonable to suppose that the French Academy will survive the publication of this letter?

The envelope enclosing the letter bore the following superscription:

“A celui qui trouvera: Lisez le contenu de cette lettre sans délai!”

“To the finder: Read the contents of this letter without delay!” as Henry read it to the boys.

That is good; that is orthodox.

The letter ran as follows:

O lecteur, je suis prisonnière! Un méchant homme m’a prise, et m’a emportée de mon pays. Je suis la fille d’un des seigneurs de la France, le Duc de la Chaloupe en Poitou. Un des ennemis de mon père--quoiqu’il soit le meilleur homme du monde, il ne laisse pas d’avoir ses adversaires, mais c’est parce qu’il est favori de notre empereur puissant, Napoléon trois--je répète, un de ses ennemis, un faquin impitoyable--un _misérable_--un DÉMON, considéra tous les moyens de le perdre.

Enfin, voyant qu’il n’a pas d’autre moyen de blesser mon papa, ce monstre résout de lui dérober sa fille. Il ourdit finement sa trame, et conspire à dresser des embûches pour m’attraper. Il fait emplette d’un yacht à vapeur, un vaisseau bon voilier, et il l’équipe. Puis il ancre dans une petite crique, près du château de mon père. Ne songeant pas au danger, mon précepteur et moi nous sortons pour voir ce vaisseau étranger; et en nous promenant le long du rivage le capitaine nous prie d’aller à bord, pour en faire le tour. Nous le font; mais à peine sommes-nous montés sur la tillée, qu’on nous saisit et nous enferme dans deux petites cabines! O perfide! il s’empare facilement de sa prise! Et moi! Depuis ce moment j’ai éprouvé beaucoup de malheurs.

Ses drôles ingambes se mettent en train; l’équipage lève tout de suite l’ancre; le pompier vole à sa pompe à feu; les matelots déferlent les voiles; bientôt le yacht vogue; tout à l’heure il marche à pleines voiles. La fenêtre treillissée de ma cabine, ou prison, donne sur la demeure de mes ancêtres, et je vois courir ça et là nos serviteurs, avec des cris aigres de chagrin et d’horreur. Trop tard! le maroufle s’évade avec sa captive! Oh, mon cher père et ma chère mère! Qu’êtes-vous devenus!

Le yacht a marché quelques heures quand il entre un homme dans ma cabine, suivi de mon précepteur, le bon prêtre. Je reconnais Bélître Scélérat, l’ennemi de mon papa! C’est lui qui m’a captivée. “Tranquillisez-vous,” me dit-il; “je ne vous ferai pas de mal. Je suis l’ennemi de votre père le duc, mais je ne suis point votre ennemi. J’en userai bien avec vous, tant que vous n’essaierez pas de vous échapper. Ce prêtre sera votre instituteur comme a l’ordinaire; et vous pouvez y être aussi heureuse que si vous étiez chez vos parents.” Je le prie de me rendre, mais j’ai beau supplier. Le prêtre, à son tour, raisonne avec lui, mais le monstre hausse les épaules et il est sourd à nos prières.

Après un voyage de long cours nous abordons en Amérique--c’est-à-dire, je crois que c’est ce pays. Un complice de mon capteur l’aide a transporter le prêtre et moi dans le sein du pays, où l’on a préparé une prison pour nous. Je fus captivée le cinq mai; c’est maintenant le dix juillet. Il y a donc soixante-six jours que je n’ai vu mes parents! J’ai passé le temps dans solitude et tristesse. Le bon prêtre m’encourage, mais il est le seul sur qui je puisse compter. Ah! je deviendrai folle si personne ne vient me secourir.

Il semble que je sois près d’un chemin de fer, parce que j’entends quelquefois le hennissement du cheval de fer. La prison dans laquelle je me trouve couronne la cime d’une petite colline, auprès laquelle il serpente un beau courant. Quant à la prison, elle est fortifiée en forteresse; et le prêtre et moi nous sommes gardés comme des bêtes sauvages par les guichetiers durs. Le voisinage est la solitude même. Pour surcroît de malheur, la place est l’abord de revenants! J’avais coutume chez moi de rire de l’idée de spectres, mais j’ai vu dans cette prison une infinité d’affreuses apparitions, de lutins ailés.