Chapter 7

RICHARD KINDLES A LITTLE FIRE.

Sandy continued to pull out the hay from behind the board, till Richard, who, as engineer, conducted the operations, directed him to suspend his labors. The contents of the bottle were poured upon the heap of loose hay.

"What's that, Dick?" asked Sandy.

"Spirits of turpentine. I intend to make sure work of it," answered Richard.

"I wouldn't use that stuff," added Sandy.

"Why not?"

"To tell the truth, Dick, I was in hopes the fire wouldn't burn."

"I believe you are a fool, Sandy Brimblecom. Have you come clear over here, in the dead of the night, to kindle a fire that will not burn?"

"I don't like the idea of setting the barn on fire," whispered Sandy, in an earnest tone. "What do you suppose they will do with us, if we should get found out?"

"We shall not get found out."

"We shall be sent to the state prison--at least I shall."

"I shall, if you are; we shall both be in the same boat, and if one goes down the other must."

"I don't know about that," said Sandy; "your father is rich, and he will get you off. I shall have to stand all the racket."

"Shut up, Sandy! I have gone too far to back out now," added Richard, decidedly, as he took a bunch of matches from his pocket.

"Hold on a moment, Dick, before it is too late. It will be cheaper to do our thinking now than it will be after the barn is burned down."

"I have done all the thinking I care to do already. The die is cast, Sandy. I won't back out now, and you shall not."

"It's too bad to burn up the horses and oxen in the barn. That's cruel. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't say a word."

"Very well; we will go round and turn out the horses and oxen. I don't want to burn them any more than you do."

"But the noise will wake the farmer and his man."

"No, it won't. I have thought a great deal about the animals, and it goes right against my grain to hurt them, especially the horses."

"I don't want to burn the barn, any way."

"You are a coward and a fool, Sandy."

"It's easy enough for you to say so, when you know your father has money enough to buy up Old Batterbones, if we get into any scrape."

"Come, no more whining, Sandy; I'm going to get the horses and oxen out, and then I'm going to burn the barn."

"I'm off, then."

"Very good; but if I get into trouble, I will blow on you."

This consideration staggered Sandy, and he concluded to stay and see the end of the wicked enterprise. The house of Mr. Batterman was at a considerable distance from the barn, and there was but little danger that the humane policy of the young incendiaries would expose them to any additional peril.

Richard, followed by Sandy, entered the barn, and turned all the animals loose. They drove them into a lot where they could not get near the fire. The only thing that had weighed upon the mind of the broker's son, in the prosecution of his mad enterprise, was now removed, and he returned to the place where he had prepared the materials for starting the conflagration. Again Sandy stated his objections, and urged Richard to abandon the scheme; but the latter, without any reply to this remonstrance, drew a card of matches across a stone, and applied the burning mass to the hay which had been saturated with turpentine.

The heap of combustible matter suddenly blazed up, lighting all the fields around them. The work had been surely done, and it was too late for Sandy to urge any more of his objections.

"Come, Sandy, the work is done. Now use your legs," said Richard, as he started at the top of his speed towards the inlet where the Greyhound lay.

Sandy's legs did not fail him on this emergency, for he soon outstripped his companion. They had gone but a few rods, when both were appalled at the discovery of two men, who were running towards the fire with all their might--which was not saying much, for both of them seemed to be old and stiff, and incapable of making very good time even on so pressing an emergency as the present.

The guilty boys were filled with terror. The shock was so great that it seemed to deprive them of their strength, and they found their legs giving out under them.

"We are caught, Dick," gasped Sandy, when he could regain breath enough to speak.

"No, we are not; come along. Don't stop here," answered Richard, who was beginning to recover his self-possession.

They ran as fast as their weakened limbs would permit, till they reached the bank of the river. Richard jumped into the boat and hoisted the sails, while Sandy cast off the painter, and they were soon standing out from the shore before the fresh breeze. Neither of them spoke for some minutes, for neither of them had breath enough left in his body to do so.

"The fire don't burn," said Richard, when the boat had gone far enough to enable him to see over the high bank of the river.

"Don't it?" asked Sandy, hoarsely, for the terror and exhaustion of the awful moments through which he had just passed seemed to have choked up his throat, and deprived him of his voice.

"No; it is as dark up there as it was before we landed."

"I am glad of it," gasped Sandy, who was beginning to breathe a little easier.

"I'm not," added Richard, firmly. "We shall only have the job to do over again."

"If you ever catch me in such a scrape as this again, you may let me know it when you do."

"You might as well have the game as the name."

"I don't know about that. I am glad the barn didn't burn. Are you sure the fire has gone out?"

"No doubt of it. There isn't enough to light your cigar."

"I suppose those men put it out. Who do you think they were?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. I wish they had been somewhere else. They have spoiled my night's work."

"I am glad they have; and I thank them with all my heart for what they have done."

"I don't; you might as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb. If we are caught it will be all the same with us as though we had burned the barn."

"Who do you suppose the men were?"

"I haven't the least idea. I don't care."

"Yes, you do care, Dick. What's the use of talking in that way? You don't want to be found out any more than I do."

"I know that, but we are not found out; and that isn't all--we shall not be."

"I should like to be satisfied on that point."

"The men didn't take any notice at all of us, and I am certain they did not see us."

"They couldn't help seeing us, Dick. The fire lit up the whole field, so that it was as light as broad day."

"Suppose they did see us; they couldn't tell who we were. Keep a stiff upper lip, Sandy, and it will be all right."

"I can only hope for the best, but I shall be scared at my own shadow for a month to come," added Sandy, in whose nature a vein of candor appeared to be suddenly developed, for he was not in the habit of acknowledging that he was afraid of any thing.

"You don't talk a bit like Sandy Brimblecom," sneered Richard; "and you act more like an old woman than a fellow of any spunk."

"Humph! I'll bet you are as scared as I am, only you won't own it."

"I don't know what fear means, Sandy."

"O, you can brag; but when a fellow can go and set a man's barn afire, without wincing, he's worse than I am; that's all I've got to say."

"Worse than you are!" said Richard. "Didn't you agree to the whole thing? Didn't you go in for paying off Old Batterbones? Didn't you come down here to burn the barn with me?"

"I did, but I didn't want to come."

"What did you come for, then?"

"Because I agreed to come."

"You're not the fellow I took you to be. You joined me in the affair, and then, at the last moment, you begin to whine like a sick monkey."

"I'm not so far gone that I can burn a man's barn without feeling it."

"You haven't got the pluck of a mosquito."

"You've said about enough on that tack, Dick Grant," replied Sandy, who did not relish the reflections cast upon his courage.

"I shall say what I think best."

"No, you won't! I'm sorry for what I've done, and I'm willing to own it; but I won't take any sauce from you or any other fellow."

"You can talk big enough," sneered Richard.

"Shut up, or I'll bat you over the head."

"Humph!"

"Just put me ashore, Dick Grant, and you and I will part company."

"I'm willing."

Both boys felt that enough had been said, and the conversation was discontinued by mutual consent. Richard, notwithstanding his bravado, was no better satisfied with himself than Sandy. Though he had spoken of "doing the job over again," he had not the slightest idea of repeating the experiment. The shock which the discovery of the two men had given him, was too much even for his strong nerves; and though he was not willing to confess it, he was sorry for what he had done. The terror of being found out had damped the spirit of revenge. The excitement of the affair had passed away, and like his companion in wickedness, visions of public trial, of the house of correction, or the state prison, began to flit before him.

He was not sorry that the barn had been saved from destruction; and the only pleasant reflection in connection with the whole transaction was, that he had insisted upon saving the horses and the oxen. It was with Richard as it is with all who commit crimes. They are led on by the spirit of revenge, or some other strong motive. There is a kind of excitement which urges them on till the wicked deed is committed. Then the criminal excitement subsides; the hour of reflection comes, burdened also with the fear of discovery. To some extent, crime is its own punishment; at least, it is so with those who have not become hardened in iniquity.

Richard brought the Greyhound up to the point where he had taken Sandy on board. He did not like to part with him in anger, for, to a certain extent, he sympathized with him in his penitential confession. But, more than this, he was afraid Sandy might revenge himself upon him for the reproaches he had uttered.

"Let's not quarrel, Sandy," said Richard, as he laid the boat alongside the landing place.

"I don't want to quarrel, but I won't be picked upon by you," replied Sandy, with spirit.

"I'll take it all back. Let's be friends again. We have failed to do what we intended, and perhaps it will be just as well for us."

"I'm glad you are coming to your senses. Do you mean to try it again?"

"We won't burn the barn, Sandy, but we must pay off Old Batterbones in some other way."

"I'll do it. I'll hook his apples, pull out the linchpins of his wagon, throw a dead cat into his well, or any thing of that sort, with you, but I won't attempt to burn any man's barn again. No, never!"

"We'll fix him yet, Sandy. When shall I see you again?"

"I shall be round the wharf to-morrow."

"I'll see you there. Good night to you, Sandy."

"Good night, Dick."

Boys don't usually bid each other good night after they have been doing wicked deeds; and Richard's parting salutation was a peace-offering, rather than the kindly wish of a friend.

Sandy made his way up to Whitestone, and Richard again pushed off upon the troubled waters of the Hudson. The Greyhound leaped over the waves as though she was in haste to get out of the disgraceful business in which she had been employed. Richard heard the clocks in Whitestone striking three, as he grappled his moorings and made fast to them.

He landed from the skiff, and, like a thief in the night, stole up to his father's house. Before he attempted to ascend the trellis, he pulled off his boots, and fastening them together with his handkerchief, slung them around his neck. He reached the roof of the conservatory without noise, and then, to his utter consternation, discovered a light in Mr. Presby's room. But the precaution he had taken in the removal of his boots enabled him to reach his chamber window without producing a sound. Then, to his astonishment and terror, he found that the window he had left open was closed.

Some one had been there.