Part 3

As for the village itself, it contained the ordinary number of inhabitants and hotels. Here lived “the most skilful dentist in the state;” but so modest was he that what was formerly a barrister’s office (this will define the size of the apartment) served him admirably for a “dentistry;” while an upper room in the same building, “artistically fitted up,” served him for a “photographic gallery.” Here lived “the most expert ball-player out of New York.” But his business was not to play ball;--rather, he did not follow it as a profession;--he kept a “Yankee notions store,” with a hanging aquarium in the window, and brewed soda-water and ice-cream. In this gentleman’s “salon” many a rustic indulged with his first dish of ice cream, eating it at the rate of two exceedingly small spoonfuls a minute. His actions and the expression of his countenance declared that it was monotonous, cold, and doubtful enjoyment; but the village papers, the expert ball-player, and public opinion, told him that it is an extraordinary delicacy, and he tried hard to believe so. The rustic would sometimes bring along his sweetheart. Then he ate his ice cream still more slowly; but probably it tasted better. Two newspapers (so-called) were printed here, and the villagers could tell you that each one had been the pecuniary ruin of six or seven editors. These ex-editors still lived in the neighborhood,--some as bookkeepers, others as insurance agents,--a warning to all right-minded men to soar higher (or lower) than the editorship of a village newspaper. But no one heeded the warning, and no sooner did an editor become insolvent or entangled in a libel suit than somebody else was ready to “assume the arduous duty of conducting the publication.” So long as the new editor had means, excelled in bombast and calumny, was sound in his political creed and could make vigorous attacks on his “contemporary,” who supported the doctrines of the other party, all went well for a time; but sooner or later the end came and then one more ex-editor was thrown upon the people of the village.

The principal buildings were the bank, the churches, the town-hall, the livery stable, the fulling-mill, the chair-factory, the fork-factory, the Columbia foundry, the hotels, and several private residences. The village had also its harbor, where vessels plying their trade on the lakes might worry through the roughest gale that the most talented writer of nautical romances ever conjured up.

But there was nothing remarkable respecting either its site, its size, the regularity or magnificence of its buildings, its commercial importance, or its antiquity. Further, it was not known to history.

A very large stream, or small river, flowed through the village, emptying into the lake. (To be still more accurate: the people of this particular village customarily called it “_the_ river;” while the base and envious inhabitants of the neighboring villages--through which flowed no such stream--took special pains to call it “_a_ creek.”) Several mills of different kinds bordered this river, adding to the credit and vigor of the place. About three miles up from its mouth there was a large and natural waterfall, a favorite resort of the villagers and country people. The current above these falls was not very swift, but it would be perilous indeed to be swept over them. Shrubs, and at intervals, trees; gay little boat-houses, where the ground sloped gradually to the water’s edge; in the background commodious, ornamental, and pretentious dwelling houses, habitations, or villas;--such dotted the right bank of the river above the falls, presenting a fine appearance from the left bank.

This stream affording good fishing, sportsmen often came to it from a distance. But they generally lost more in cuticle, clothing, and valuables, than they gained in fish, sport, or glory; and it was remarked that they never returned after the third time.

There were many considerations why the water below the falls was not the principal play-ground of the juveniles. Being within the village, swimming was out of the question; on account of sundry sunken logs and other obstructions, they could not paddle about secure and tranquil on the crazy old rafts and scows; and lastly, almost the whole stretch of water below the falls lay open to the mothers’ watchful eyes, and the boys did not feel inclined to jeopard their lives within sight of those mothers. To some fastidious youths the water, perhaps, was too dirty, or “roily.”

Above the falls, however, all was different. On the upper part of the river no one ever molested the youngsters, unless they did something atrocious; here they might swim and paddle up and down the river as much as they pleased; for, in general, the banks were high, and bushes, rank grass and reeds and other screens intervened, shutting them off from outsiders.

The river was wide and deep at the falls, but above them it grew narrow and shallow little by little. Five miles up it was a mere brook. Throughout this long stretch the water was so clear that the most fastidious did not hesitate even to drink it; and there were secluded places that as swimming-places could not be equalled. At the falls the water was so deep as easily to float over any log or brush-wood that might come into the river from its banks, its source, or other streams.

One particular spot--a clump of evergreens, where forget-me-nots sprang up in all their beauty, and where Nature was seen at her best--was held sacred to lovers. But there were many parts of the river to which the boys stoutly maintained their claim and of which no one was so hard-hearted as to dispossess them. And oh! crowning joy! there was an island in the river!

At this the reader may think that we are trifling with his feelings; imposing on his credulity;--he may even refuse to believe in the existence of so extraordinary a river. Never mind. But if the reader wishes to enjoy these pages he will refuse to listen to the dictates of reason, and look on this story as an orthodox romance.

In winter there was another attraction, that of skating, the danger of which was a continual source of uneasiness to parents whose youth, agility, and frolicsomeness had long before given place to gray hairs, clumsiness, and sober-mindedness.

As the proprietors of the land along the river were generous-hearted men, the river was free to all people, and was an actual paradise for boys and picnickers.

Although further remarks might be made about this river, it is not necessary to make them here. It is sufficient to add that as the reader proceeds, he will observe how admirably this river is adapted to the exigencies of the story.

This was the state of affairs in Will’s boyhood. But, alas! all has changed since that time. A foreign aristocrat has bought up all the land along the river, which he has fenced in, stocked with fish and beautified--perhaps, _disfigured_--with sundry little wharfs, capes, bays, stretches of “pebbly beach,” and floating islands. In conspicuous places notices may be seen, beginning with “No Trespassing” and winding up with the amount of the fine imposed on all persons “caught lurking within the limits.” Consequently, the urchins of to-day, despoiled of this haunt, have to content themselves with damaging the notices and slinging stones at the swans that sail gracefully up and down the river.

There were also smaller streams in the neighborhood, one being in Mr. Lawrence’s farm.

To the left of the village stood an extensive grove, swarming with squirrels, birds, insects, and, of course, mosquitoes. In this grove the heroes of this story whiled away many a happy hour; and when not on the river they might generally be found here.

The lake also was a favorite resort, and on its broad surface they sailed or rowed hither and thither; always getting wet, often narrowly escaping death. Sometimes their joyous hearts were elated with a ride on a tug; but when hard pressed they made almost anything serve them for a boat. As naturally as a duck takes to water, Will and his associates took to making little ships, which excited the admiration of all beholders--sometimes on account of their beauty, but generally on account of their liability to float stern foremost, with the masts at an angle of twenty degrees.

Then there was the school-house,--a fanciful, yet imposing edifice, the grained and polished jambs of whose mullioned windows had suffered from the ravages rather of jack-knives than of time,--built in a retired quarter of the village, and to the boys’ entire satisfaction, quite close to the river.

If Will wished to go to the wharf he could walk thither in less than half-an-hour; to the depot in ten minutes; to the school,--well, in from twenty to forty minutes. To Mrs. Lawrence’s delight, it was nearly two miles from their house to the falls. She had not the heart to forbid Will’s going thither, but she fondly hoped that the distance would not permit him to go very often; for, according to her view of the matter, water and danger are synonymous.

But what are two miles to a boy, when a waterfall, a limpid and gleaming river, boats, crazy rafts, plenty of fish, and other boys, are the attractions? In fact, the time was never known, not even to that venerable personage, “the oldest inhabitant,” in which a boy might not be seen about those falls.

It is not strange that the youth of this village were happy, when Nature had done so much for them.

_Chapter IV._

THE HEROES OF THIS HISTORY

Having given this slight and imperfect description of Will’s native place, his school-fellows must now be introduced.

The boy whom he liked best was Charles Growler; a youth of his own age, but possessed with greater abilities, and a universal favorite in the village. Charles was nimble, strong, and good-natured; ready for any adventure or exploit, and the very soul of drollery. No matter what might happen he never lost his temper, his presence of mind, or his keen humor. He was a very brave boy, rushing headlong into every kind of danger. In fact, the boys admitted that they had never known him to be afraid.

He and Will entered school at the same time and had kept together in all their studies. There was no jealousy or rivalry between them, nothing but a quiet and laudable competition, which stimulated each one to do his best. When one could assist the other he did so willingly and gladly. No boy ever had a more sincere friend than Will in Charles or Charles in Will. And yet this boy Charles was nicknamed “Buffoon.” Not, however, on account of clownishness or monkey tricks, but simply on account of his love of fun.

George Andrews was another boy of the village, associated with Will and Charles. He was a good boy, smart and shrewd, but too much disposed to display his abilities and his knowledge. In his tender childhood he had overheard a weak-headed fellow drawl out, “Yes, George will make an excellent scholard; I guess he’s a good scholard a’ready.” This so filled the young hero with self-conceit that he really believed that he, a mere boy, was indeed a scholar! Firm in this belief, he never let slip an opportunity in which he might avail himself of his superior knowledge; and having read a great deal in all sorts of books,--particularly in certain musty and ponderous volumes that treated of everything under the sun--he was able to have his say, it made no difference what subject was being discussed. But, alas! he was just as apt to be wrong as to be right; and worse still, his information, like the Dutchman’s wit, generally came too late to be duly appreciated. He was a few months older than Will and Charles, and outstripped them both in his studies. The boys always rejoiced to have him accompany them--partly because of his actual cleverness, partly because of his immoderate self-conceit, as it was very amusing to hear him hold forth on a subject of which he really was totally ignorant. Not at all to his disinclination this boy was dubbed “the Sage.”

Marmaduke Baldwin Alphonso Fitz-Williams was a youth, the grandeur of whose name drove abashed Johns and Thomases almost to phrensy. But the name befitted the boy, for even at his tender age his mind was occupied with strange thoughts. He delighted in the romantic; indeed, he had lived in an atmosphere of romance from his baptism. This heavy cloud of romance obscured the boy’s ideas, and sometimes caused him to speak and act more like a hero of fiction than was seemly. When alone he would slide his hand into his bosom over his heart, whenever the weight of romance and mystery was more than ordinarily oppressive, and if his heart beat fast he was satisfied with himself.

The boy who detects the conception of a nocturnal robbery or murder in a stranger’s eye, simply because he [the cautious stranger] slips his hand stealthily into his “pistol pocket,”--in this case the breast pocket--to assure himself that his watch is still there, is a remarkably shrewd member of the human race, whose genius and acuteness should be diligently fostered. And such a boy was Marmaduke. But it was neither fear nor idiocy that caused him to think thus; it was only an extravagant imagination.

Marmaduke and George resembled each other in many particulars: each one was prompt to arrive at startling conclusions; each one believed himself equal to any emergency; but George was far more practical than Marmaduke. Each of these boys took pleasure in learning, and each one manifested a puerile eagerness to let people see how well informed he was. For instance, they flattered themselves that they were accomplished grammarians, and when any reference was made to grammar both looked very knowing, as much as to say that _they_ apprehended what was meant.

Marmaduke had a strong will of his own, but, by manœuvring artfully, Charles could generally make him look at things from his point of view. The boys took advantage of his love for the marvellous to play mean tricks on him; but when he found that they were making game of him, he flew into a passion, and made himself ridiculous.

Poor boy! Though he is called Marmaduke in this book, his poetic names were too long for everybody except his parents; and while his teachers called him Mark, the school-boys called him “Marmalade,” or “Dreamer,” or something else quite as appropriate and scurrilous. Some envious little Smiths and Greens did not scruple to call him “Fitty.”

Next on the list is Stephen Goodfellow, one of the most important characters in the tale. He was a fun-loving fellow, fertile in devices, an adept at repartee, and too light-hearted to be serious for more than five consecutive minutes. In a word, he was the most nimble, sprightly, ingenious and good-natured boy in the village. At the same time he was the most reckless of all boys, taking pride in rushing blindly into danger. Indeed, he affected a stoical contempt for every kind of danger; jumped backwards off empty schooners with his eyes shut; made friends with the most unamiable and untractable bull-dogs in the place; lowered himself into deep, dismal, and unsafe old wells to wake the echoes with his bellowing voice, and busied himself about the punching and shearing machine, the steam engine, and the circular saws in the Columbia foundry. He knew every sailor of all the vessels that put into the harbor; knew every engineer and brakeman on all the trains that passed through the village; knew the name and disposition of every respectable dog within the corporation; knew just where to look for the best raspberries and the most desirable fish-worms; but he _didn’t_ know an adversative conjunction from an iambic pentameter.

To be acquainted with this boy was to like him. By Will and Charles he was actually beloved, and there was a mutual and lasting affection between him and all our heroes. He was always ready to lend them his counsel and assistance when agitating their dark schemes, and when any waggish trick was in view, or when anything ludicrous was going on, his approval and support were the first consideration. Some of the urchins tried to equal Stephen’s feats of dexterity and to ape his sallies and whimsicalness; but it could not be done, and they only exposed themselves to his derision and made themselves more envious and unhappy than before. Stephen was familiarly known as “Stunner;” which, being offensively vulgar, we, out of respect for the reader’s feelings, have transposed into Steve.

If this were the history of a sailor-boy, Steve would assuredly be the hero; and we should eulogize him so unweariedly and enthusiastically that the heroes of romance, goaded to frenzy by the praise thus lavished on him, would commission their ghosts to haunt us. But Steve has nothing to do with sailor-boys; and as we do not wish to incur the displeasure of such heroes,--much less the displeasure of their ghosts,--or to compel anybody to fall in love with him, it will be the wisest course to leave it for impartial readers to praise him or to condemn him, to love him or to detest him, as their judgment may determine.

George and Marmaduke, to the best of their ability, cultivated the _science of grammar_; Stephen cultivated the _art of dismembering grammars_, and of blazoning their fly-leaves with hideous designs of frolicsome sea-serpents; wrecked schooners; what seemed to be superb pagan temples suffering from the effects of an earthquake; crazy old jades painfully drawing along glittering circus vans, with coatless little boys--some took them for monkeys, but probably they were circus prodigies--sitting _in_ the roof and driving; and all sorts of monstrosities. We say _grammars_: Stephen’s designs were to be found chiefly in them. But he was no niggard of his illustrations; for, to his noble nature, it mattered little whether the book which he illuminated belonged--so long as it was old and dilapidated--to himself or to somebody else.

Last and least was James Horner. He was an infamous coward--in fact, so infamous that although fifteen years old, even a sudden and loud sound would unstring his nerves and twitch his facial muscles. As a natural consequence, he very often heard sudden and loud sounds--in fact, he heard all sorts of hideous and unaccountable sounds. But the boy was by no means an entire fool; and he made greater progress at school than might be expected. It is a lamentable fact--which, however, must be chronicled--that his playfellows studied to excite his fears, and played off some of their most farcical, sly, and atrocious tricks on him. Will and Charles had too much self-respect and sound moral principle to snub the boy; but Steve seemed to take a savage delight in snubbing him and in turning him into ridicule. But, though many a sportive trick was played on him, his confidence in mankind was still so great that he was very easily deceived, it made no difference how often he was mocked. In this confidence the others might well have copied after him. On the other hand, his disposition was unamiable, and under undue provocation he was a dangerous boy, who could harbour revenge. Nevertheless, he hardly ever ventured to interfere with the boys’ schemes, but blindly and humbly followed wherever they might lead. Why our heroes tolerated his company can be explained on only two grounds: first, because they liked to play tricks on him; secondly, because this history requires such a character. When not called Jim, this abused lad was branded “Timor,” which shows how notorious he was for cowardice. But in process of time this classical gem became corrupted by the ignorant into “Tim.”

These five were the school-fellows and associates of Will, and generally the six might be found together. It was only natural that they should quarrel sometimes; but, for the most part, they were at peace with themselves and all other boys. They were all full of mischievousness, but taking everything into consideration, were as free from sin as boys can be.

There is another youth that figures in this tale--Will’s cousin Henry. He is perhaps the most distinguished hero. However, it is not yet time for him; and as it is dogmatically and impolitically observed a few pages back that it is cowardly and wicked in a writer to anticipate, he must not yet be introduced.

_Chapter V._

AN UNPLEASANT RIDE FOR WILL.

One bright morning Will mounted a frisky little pony which had been reared on the farm, and had always been considered Will’s own--not till Mr. Lawrence might see fit to sell it, but for all time. The pony was young and unaccustomed to a rider; but Will and his father thought it would be prudent to ride it on the road.

In this belief, however, they were mistaken, for the horse no sooner found himself on the open road than he set forward on a wild gallop. At first this was very pleasant, and Will enjoyed it heartily; but when he attempted to check the animal’s speed a little, he became aware that it was past his control.

“Whoa, Go It! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Will screamed beseechingly.

This only incited Go It to greater efforts, and he redoubled his speed; while Will collected his wits, stopped shouting at the refractory animal, and exerted all his strength and dexterity to maintain his equilibrium in the saddle. The mettlesome horse was soon galloping at a furious rate; and the luckless rider seeing no one to whom he could appeal for help, gave himself up as lost, and endeavored to prepare for the worst.

Very soon he drew near a company of little ragged orphan boys, squatting in the imperfect shade of a rail fence that boarded the road, gingerly sticking pins into their ears and assiduously polishing their war-worn jack-knives in the soil. These heroic little ones involuntarily dropped their instruments of torture and diversion, and beheld horseman and horse with ecstatic admiration and delight. Then they collected themselves and cheered--cheered so lustily that the horse snorted with fright, wheeled to the left, and vaulted over the fence at a single bound--a feat which called forth a roar of acclamation from the delighted juveniles.

“Can’t he jump!” chuckled the sharpest one.

“Jump?” echoed another. “Guess he can; beats a circus horse all hollow!”

“I wish he’d jump again,” sighed the smallest one.

“Ah,” exclaims the punctilious penman of romances which have lofty and sonorous titles, becoming solemnity, inflated and funereal style, and blood-freezing adventures--which, alas! too often end in smoke, or at most, in a marriage that any fool could have foreseen--“Ah, how can this paltry scribbler, this ‘we,’ discourse with this shameless levity, when his hero is face to face with death!”

Instead of evading the penman’s intended question, the following significant and sapient comments are offered for his leisurely consideration:

It is sheer nonsense for a writer to work himself up into a state of mad excitement about the “imminent dangers” that continually dog the foot-steps of his persecuted heroes. So long as the hero is of the surviving kind, he will survive every “imminent danger,” no matter how thick and fast such dangers may crowd upon him. No assassin was ever hired that could kill him for any great length of time; no vessel ever foundered that could effectively swallow him up; no bullet was ever run that could be prevailed on to extinguish the spark of his life.

After making such comments, for the reader’s peace of mind we deliberately affirm that every man, woman, and child figuring in this tale, is equally imperishable. Having made this candid remark, the reader cannot impute it to us if he spend a sleepless night while perusing this tale.

But it would be wiser to drop idle declamation for the present, and return to Will and his frisky pony.