Part 5

But the truth is, Stephen was beginning to relent. Now that the deed was actually done, he saw his trick in a different light and conjured up all sorts of horrors. What if a frightful thunderstorm should come on during the night, and the donkey should be struck by lightning? What if the sides of the well should cave in and fossilize it? Or, what if Jackson should discover the guilty ones and transport him, as “ringleader,” to Botany Bay?

These and many other disquieting thoughts rose in the boys mind. He bitterly repented of his folly, and no longer considered himself a hero. He pitied the donkey with all his heart; and if he had not shrunk from provoking the derision of his uncivil and hard-hearted minions, he would have drawn it out of the well and turned it loose.

Thus we get an insight into Stephen’s nature. His love of fun often ran away with his better judgment; but as soon as the mischief was done, he suffered, more than any one believed, from the agony of remorse.

But he roused himself and said, “Now, who will slide down on the rope and set the donkey free? Of course we mus’n’t go away and leave the poor beast tied fast; for it might get sick and die if it couldn’t move. You agreed to do it, Pat Murphy.”

“I reckon we want our ropes and things back again, anyway,” growled a practical strap owner.

“Certainly,” Stephen assented, with a faint smile. “Well, Pat?”

“Shure an’ I’m willin’ to stick to my bargain; only make haste, for mebby the old feller ’ll be after prowlin’ around to look to his beasts.”

This was enough to disquiet every member of the “gang.” One excitable boy, a famous seer of ghosts, instantly beheld a myriad of Jacksons, hobgoblins, and banshees, hovering dangerously near. In his terror he uttered a cry of deprecation--which so dismayed little Pat, who was then in the act of descending, that he lost his hold on the rope and had a fall of several feet. But the soft boughs and the ass so broke his fall that he received no hurt.

Honest Pat’s mind must have been disturbed by a presentiment; for, just at this conjuncture, Mr. Jackson, who was taking a by-path to the village, entered the field from another direction. Being still at a distance, he could not make out the boys clearly, but he could hear their voices. Now, this Mr. Jackson was not famed for his discretion; and instead of creeping upon them slyly, he hallooed at them from the place where he stood.

Then, for the first time, the boys caught sight of him, and a panic, which soon became a stampede, ensued. Setting up a dismal shriek of consternation, the whole “gang” dashed to the fence, squeezed through it, and ingloriously fled.

Little Pat heard the hurly-burly, and, clutching the rope, attempted to scramble out of his narrow quarters. But, alas! no one was holding the upper end of this rope, and it had not been made fast; consequently, it rattled down into the well, leaving Pat a prisoner. Poor little Pat! Believing he was deserted, he gave way to despair, yelled like a fish peddler, and frisked about like an untutored dancer, now on the boughs, now on the donkey, beating time to his piteous yet horrible screams for mercy. This loosened the strap round the donkey’s snout; and an horrisonous bray of righteous indignation smote upon the night air, lending variety to a scene already sufficiently ludicrous. But one bray was not enough to relieve the donkey’s pent-up emotion, and between its bellowing groans Pat might be heard vociferating shrilly, “Tain’t me! I ain’t done nothin’! I never did! It’s him! It’s Steve! It’s Ste-e-e-ve!”

A swarm of outraged hornets could not have hastened the flight of Steve’s redoubtable desperadoes more than the united exertions of Pat and the donkey. They flew towards the village as if hounded by demons, and were speedily out of sight and earshot.

But where was Stephen! On the impulse of the moment he also took to his heels; but when he reached the fence his native courage and honor returned. He stopped, sighed profoundly, and nervously broke a splinter off a loose rail. He did not know whether this splinter would be of any service to him, but he mechanically carried it in his hand as he slunk back to the well. There he sank down in a heap, and awaited Mr. Jackson’s coming with much perturbation. However, he retained sufficient presence of mind to pluck a tawdry feather out of his hat band, and then set the hat fairly on his head. Wretched trickster! he did not consider how dusk it was, or that Mr. Jackson would probably be more concerned about the donkey than about a rattle-pated schoolboy’s headgear.

Now, if ever, he should have indulged in laughter, for the scene was risible in the extreme. Ah! if he had been an innocent bystander, he would have overnoised even Pat and the donkey. Alas! he felt his guilt, and was more inclined to cry than to laugh.

“Oh,” he groaned, “why did I mix myself with such a pack of nasty little cowards? I knew all the time that I had no business to meddle with that ass. Ass?--why, I’ve made an ass of myself! Where will it all end, and what will Mr. Jackson say to me or do with me?--Well,” with a sigh of relief, “there’s one good thing: the ass will be let loose again!”

Stephen’s gloomy surmises were cut short by Jackson himself. “What does all this mean, you scoundrel?” he roared. “What are you doing here? Where are those boys? have they all gone and left you?”

At that instant another hideous bray, followed by a moan of mortal terror, reverberated in the well, and the new-comer turned and looked in. A boisterous laugh burst from his lips when he discerned the occupants of the well. “Oh! this is rich!” he exclaimed, so jubilantly that Stephen was stupified with amazement.

Encouraged by Mr. Jackson’s merriment, timorous Pat began with redoubled energy. “It’s him! I hain’t done nothin’; so don’t tetch me, Mr. Jackson, for I ain’t had nothin’ to do with it. Lemme go, _please_!”

Turning to Stephen, Jackson again demanded an explanation. Stephen did not give a “succinct account of the whole proceeding;” but Jackson gathered from his faltering confession that a trick lay at the bottom of the affair.

“Yes, I understand it all,” Jackson replied; “but I don’t see your motive. Well, little boy, I might put you to considerable inconvenience; but it’s so capital a joke--so deep, so surprising, so silly--that I will let you off. The grudge I owe Lawrence is paid now; paid in full.”

This last expression was probably not intended for Steve’s ears; but he overheard it, and asked, with a start, “What about Mr. Lawrence, sir?”

“‘Lawrence,’ eh? Nothing about him; except that _he_ must settle with you. That’s one reason why I’m letting you off. Yes, just take your bill and your story to him; for its his place to deal with you.”

“I--I don’t know what you mean,” Steve made answer, becoming more and more perplexed.

“I see that we don’t understand each other very well. _I_ don’t know _why_ you put his donkey into this well; and _you_ don’t know--well, what? You seem puzzled about something; but when I refer the matter to Mr. Lawrence, I think you’ll find that he will understand it well enough to send for a magistrate. Then come a lawsuit and all sorts of good things.”

When a youthful offender or an ignorant person was the object of his resentment, this man loved to enlarge on the terrors of the law; but when he himself was the culprit, he shrank from the bare mention of the word.

“_His_ donkey, did you say?” Steve said, utterly confounded. “Oh! please to tell me what you mean!”

“I mean what I’m talking about. You know, of course, the donkey in that well belongs to Mr. Lawrence; you know, of course, he pastures both donkeys in this field, which is leased to me. He will show you that you can’t make a plaything of his donkeys, and to-morrow you will be wanted. If this maltreated beast belonged to me, I would have ample satisfaction!” savagely.

“I see your mates have left you,” he continued. “Well, I hope you will enjoy yourself here with the donkeys. I should like to stop and see the sport; but I can’t, I must go on. You had better haul the donkey out--if you can. Of course, _I’ve_ no time to help you; and it’s no concern of mine, anyway; so, good night! Hurrah! your rope is out of your reach! This is an interesting case indeed! Well, you and your little friend there can amuse yourselves by endeavoring to adjust matters. You won’t be entirely alone; for the quadrupeds grazing in this field will occasionally come and gape at you. The moon will soon be up; appeal to it!”

Then, with a mocking bow, he turned on his heel and made off, leaving Stephen alone with his troubles.

And this was the retaliation which Steve had planned so craftily! How wretchedly his scheme had failed! Instead of imprisoning Jackson’s donkey, he had imprisoned that of his friend Mr. Lawrence. Truly, here was a case that called for many interjections--for more, in fact, than hapless Steve could muster.

And he had been detected in the very act. What would be the consequences? Would those dark threats of Jackson’s be put into execution? What penalties might the law inflict on him? What did the LAW say about feloniously dumping another man’s donkey into a disused well, anyway? Alas! Steve did not know.

But, oh! comforting thought! Jackson plainly did not suspect anybody of playing a trick on _him_. And it was well for Stephen that it was so, as a suspicion of the truth would have stirred up the waspish old blusterer’s fury.

“O dear!” groaned Steve, “I wish I was at home! I wish I hadn’t done it! I wish--O dear! Well, I will never have anything more to do with those mean sneaks. Why couldn’t they have stuck by me? Now they’ll go and spread it all over, and what will people think of me? What will become of me? Well, I shall be laughed at for a month, that’s very certain.”

This doleful soliloquy manifests that Stephen was but a boy, and that he was but human. A man’s great care is (or should be) to guard his reputation: a boy’s great care is to keep from becoming a laughing-stock. This is a bug-bear which haunts him (the boy) from the day when masculine apparel is first girded on him, and which prompts him to do many things that, to his elders, are foolish and incomprehensible. It is for this reason that a well-organized boy, however learned he may be, prefers to use simple words of Anglo-Saxon origin, when he knows he could make his meaning clearer by using Latin polysyllables.

But Steve’s disquieting speculations were interrupted by Pat, who whispered warily, “Is he gone?”

Now, Steve did not know that this is a polite expression, and he answered snappishly, “Yes, he _has_ gone.”

This was good news to little Pat. Forgetting that he had just been accusing Stephen to Mr. Jackson, he began beseechingly: “Lemme out, Steve! Lemme out, that’s a good boy. I al’ays knowed you was a good boy, Steve, didn’t I? Lemme out now, and I’ll do anythin’ fur you.”

This reminded Stephen of the labor that lay before him. How was he to get hold of the rope? The one could not climb up the sides of the well; the other could not climb down; all the cords were bound on the ass.

However, Stephen searched his pockets carefully, and lighted on a new and strong fish-line, with a fish-hook affixed. The fish-line was not long enough to reach down to Pat; but by noosing the end to one of the handspikes that difficulty was removed. There was now direct communication between the two boys. Pat was rather fidgety when he saw the fish-hook dangling under his nose, but he caught it fast to the rope, which Stephen carefully and fearfully drew up.

If that fish line had parted, those boys and the writer would have been placed in a sorry plight.

The rope was no sooner made fast than Pat scrambled up it, caught up his shabby coat, and exercised his limbs of locomotion so nimbly that he was nearly out of sight before Steve could recover from his amazement. This was a whimsical way of manifesting gratitude!

“How he scampers!” Steve muttered. “What a pack of little wretches, and what a mean man Jackson is! I wanted to slide down into the well myself; and those boys know I agreed to let Pat do it on purpose to please him. Well, I’ve done with ragamuffins!--I say,” he bellowed to the nimble runaway, “you needn’t run so fast; _I_ don’t want you: you’re no good, anyway.”

Pat knew that Stephen longed for his help; he knew that a boy, when left in the lurch, speaks somewhat as Stephen had spoken, and yet Pat hurried on.

Poor Pat! he was not aware that his unique and valued button ring, the fruit of several hours’ toil with boiling water, a broken-bladed knife, and a spoilt file, had been fractured in the well. Unconscious of his loss, he clapped his hands over his mouth, and bleated playfully and hideously.

Stephen now racked his brains to hit upon some feasible plan of taking the donkey out of the well. Suddenly a happy thought struck him. His eyes sparkled with joy. “My stars!” he exclaimed, “I see the very way to do it! I can manage it after all.”

Then he mused on Jackson’s behavior, and another thought occurred to him. “I suppose he believed I couldn’t get either of ’em out of the well. Yes, of course he did; and he thought I should have to go to the village for help. And then I wonder if he’d have set the magistrate and folks after me! Ten to one. Well, I can beat ’em all, and keep out of trouble, too.”

Yes, that was the point. If he had been necessitated to seek help, he would have been taught a wholesome lesson; but when his own precocity suggested a way out of the difficulty, he was only hardened in his mischievousness, and he admired his great cleverness.

Without further deliberation the deserted and frustrated avenger slid down the rope, took the halter and a few straps off the donkey, coiled them around his own neck, and then clambered up.

This was a foolhardy thing for him to do; for if the fastenings of the rope had given way, he and the donkey world have been left to their own resources. But the generality of boys delight in doing such things. With a careless “I’ll risk it,” they rush headlong into danger, day after day.

Then Steve set about carrying his plans into effect. He sidled up to the other donkey and chased it over the pasturage till the moon rose. This was weary work for him, but at length he caught the donkey, slipped the halter over its head, and led--or rather coaxed--it up to the well.

“Well, old fellow,” he said, addressing his first captive, “I didn’t make any preparations to haul you out, but so much the better. Now, keep your mouth shut, and don’t be afraid, and you’ll be kicking around this field before no time. Now, heave away, boys! Ho! Heave ’er!”

He then pitched on the two lightest planks, exerted all his remaining strength, and placed them so as to form a floor or platform, extending from the transverse bars of his engine to the curb of the well. Thus half the well’s mouth was covered.

Next, the donkey last caught was hitched to the rope, and by dint of entreaty, induced to draw its yoke-fellow out of the gloomy prison.

“Saved!” cried Stephen, in tragic accents, as he turned both donkeys loose. “Saved! And I have saved you!”

And then he fell to turning summersets, chuckling, and disporting himself like a noodle. “_Oh! this is fun!_” he said.

A heavy fall brought the boy to his senses; and without more ado he gathered up his belongings and began to whistle “Yankee Doodle,” as only a boy whose conscience is tranquillized can whistle it.

The would-be avenger had expended so much of his strength that he was not in a condition to attempt to replace the rest of the planks, or to carry home his beloved pulley.

“Mr. Jackson may arrange those planks himself,” he muttered. “As for the pulley--well,” with a last fond backward glance, “I suppose he’ll knock it up into kindling-wood.”

It was late when Stephen reached home that night. Notwithstanding his proneness to be mischievous and to play monkey tricks, he was free from deceit and he was not deficient in moral courage. As soon as he and his mother were alone, he made a clean breast of it, then walked off to bed, with tears in his eyes, but loving his mother better than ever.

Although Mr. Jackson, while returning through the field that night, should have precipitated himself into the half-open well, there to perish miserably, yet he did not. The writer does not thirst for the blood of his villains; but--lest he should be accounted utterly devoid of common sense--the following statement is offered, by way of consolation, for the punctilious readers perusal:--

Whilst replacing the planks, which were permeated with humidity, he contracted a catarrhal cold, which did not yield to the apothecary’s patent medicines till the next spring.

When Mr. Lawrence heard the particulars of Stephen’s prank, and the “motive,” he laughed heartily.

Of course the peace-officers did not gain or lose by the affair; and Steve observed oracularly, “I knew he was only fooling. He didn’t scare me a bit!”

It is not necessary to waste time in tracing Jackson’s career further--in fact, as he never annoyed our heroes again, he may as well be formally thrown overboard now.

It was hoped that this experience would have a wholesome and lasting effect on Stephen. Alas, no! Stephen Goodfellow was one of the many irrepressible incorrigibles that flourish in this country.

_Chapter VII._

THE YOUNG MORALIST.--A CLEVER SCHEME.

As the school was now closed for “summer holidays,” the boys were free to do whatever they pleased.

One bright forenoon the heroic six, full of merry jokes, set out on a stroll to the woods. Charles and Will led the way, and _why_ they made for the woods will be seen further on.

“Now, boys,” said Charley, “wouldn’t it be fun if we should have a real adventure to-day? something romantic; something worth while--eh, Marmaduke?”

Marmaduke’s eyes flashed like a persecuted hero’s whose case appears hopeless. However, he did nothing desperate, he simply said, “Boys, some day or another we shall light on something romantic--something awful! I’ve always felt it. Then we will pry into the mystery until we unravel it.”

Will, Charles, and Stephen, furtively exchanged glances. If their designs should succeed, Marmaduke would have a mystery to pry into sooner than he bargained for.

Just as they entered the woods they heard voices; and on looking about they caught sight of three little boys sitting astride of a decayed log. One seemed to have a paper of raisins, from which he was helping himself and the other two.

“Hush!” Charley whispered. “They haven’t seen us yet; so hide behind the bushes, and I’ll play a pretty trick on them.”

Without the least hesitation, without looking to see whether they were sitting on grass or thorns, they crouched down. Charley “knew himself,” and the boys obeyed him promptly.

Seeing that they were all concealed, he advanced boldly towards the three small boys.

“Hollo, Tim!” he exclaimed. “What have you got there?”

“Raisins,” Tim answered laconically.

“Where did you get them?” was the next question.

“Maw sent me fur ’em.”

“Oh, I thought so. Now I can go to work,” Charley muttered, in a theatrical “aside.”

“What do you want of me, and what are you a-saying to yourself?” demanded Tim, becoming questioner in his turn.

“I’ll give you a whistle for one of them, Tim,” Charley said, so eagerly that the boys in hiding wondered. Why should such a boy as Charley wish to purchase a single raisin? Was _this_ a mystery? It seemed so mysterious that they pricked up their ears, and impatiently waited for further developments.

Tim’s thoughts are unknown. He replied indifferently, “Well, if your whistle’s a good one, I guess I don’t mind; but I’ve give these here boys so many raisins that Maw’ll think that there new store-keeper cheats worse’n the old ones. Let’s see yer whistle, anyway.”

Charles turned his back to Tim, and searched his pockets for the whistle, a scrap of paper, and a forlorn lead pencil that had once done duty as the bullet of a popgun. Having found these articles, he scrawled a few words on the scrap of paper.

“Can’t you find the whistle?” Tim inquired unsuspectingly.

“I’m coming,” was the answer.

Then the gaping ambushed five saw him slip the battered pencil into his pocket, take the paper in one hand and the whistle in the other, and step briskly up to Tim.

Tim reached out the bag, and Charley ran his hand which secreted the paper far into it. Then he drew out his hand--empty.

“No, Tim,” he said, “I think you have given away enough already. But here’s the whistle, all the same. Now, run home, like a good boy.”

Young Tim tried his whistle somewhat doubtfully, for he was at a loss to know why it should be given to him for nothing. Big boys did not make a practice of throwing away good whistles on him, unless they looked for some return. Generosity so lavish astounded him.

But the first toot assured him of the soundness of the gift; a smile of pleasure flitted over his grimy face; and he exclaimed joyously, “Man! It’s bully, ain’t it?”

“Oh, it’s a good one,” Charley averred.

“I--I was afraid p’r’aps it was busted,” Tim acknowledged.

Then young Tim rose to his feet and wended his way homeward, piping melodiously on his whistle, unconscious of the bomb-shell hidden in the bag; while hard behind him, licking their daubed lips as they went, trotted the two parasitical boys who had been junketing on his mother’s raisins.

Charley, grinning and chuckling, hurried back to his comrades.

“I hope I’ve taught that thieving little sneak-thief a lesson he will remember,” he said, with a smile intended to be exceedingly moral.

“Why, what did you do? What on earth’s the matter? Tell us all about it,” cried a chorus of voices; “we could see something was up, but we didn’t know what.”

“Well, boys,” Charles began, “I have often caught that rascal feeding little boys, and big ones, too, from parcels of raisins, sugar, and other things; and I thought I would make him smart for it some day. So to-day, when I saw him at it again, I thought of writing something on a scrap of paper, and getting a chance to slip it into his bag. You saw me do that, perhaps. What I wrote was, ‘O, mother! please to forgive me! I stole your raisins and things, but I won’t do it no more.’ When his mother empties out the raisins, she will find that, and it will be enough for her. Then she’ll put two and two together, and then, most likely, she’ll put Tim and his skate-straps together. That is all, boys.”

“Good for you, Buffoon!” exclaimed Stephen, to whom this knavish trick was highly amusing. “Mr. Tim will ‘pay dear for his whistle’ this time--unless your confession should slip out of the bag!”

“No, I put it down nearly to the bottom,” Charley replied. “He won’t be likely to open his bag again, either, for he has eaten and given away about half of the raisins.”

“I say, boys,” said Stephen, “isn’t that what they call _philanthropy_?”

“What?” Charles asked eagerly.

“Teaching a boy that it’s wicked to steal.”

“No; it’s the vice of perfidy!” George replied, so promptly that a keen observer would have said, “This boy is impelled by envy; he wishes he had been guilty of the same vice.”

But George was in the right; Charley’s trick was inhumanly treacherous.

“Did you intend to take one of his raisins?” Jim faltered, a wolfish look in his eyes.

Charles’ lips curled with disdain; his nostrils dilated; virtuous indignation strove for utterance. But he knew that he could not look so injured that the boy would hang his head in shame; so he resolved to annihilate him by a single word. To gain time to hit on an expression sufficiently awful, he demanded threateningly:

“What do you mean, Sir?”