CHAPTER V. THE BATTLE WITH WORDS.

I was not quite willing to believe that the four stout fellows in the vicinity of the kettle really intended to “tar and feather” Waddie Wimpleton. In the first place, it was astounding that any one on the Centreport side of the lake should have the audacity to conceive such an outrage upon the sacred person of the magnate’s only son. Why, the people generally held the great man in about the same reverence as the people of England hold their queen. The idea of committing any indignity upon his person, or upon the persons of any of his family, seemed too monstrous to be entertained.

I judged that the scene before me was the sequel to the incident of which Dick Bayard had told me. But the actors were Centreporters, and it was amazing to think that even four boys in the whole town could actually undertake to revenge themselves upon Mr. Waddie. All that I had done in my quarrel with him was in self-defense, and the scene transpiring before me was quite incomprehensible.

Perhaps what Dick Bayard had told me in some measure explained the situation. It was a fact that the students of the Wimpleton Institute were in a state of rebellion so far as Waddie was concerned, and the influence of this spirit had doubtless extended beyond the borders of the academy. If the Wimpletonians were audacious enough to think of mutiny against the young lordling, it was not strange that others, not immediately associated with him, should even outdo their own intentions.

The particular school where Waddie had driven the boys from their ball-grounds was near the outskirts of the village, and was attended by the sons of some of the farmers living far enough from the center of influence to be in a measure beyond its sphere. After all, perhaps it is really more singular that any American boys could be found who would submit to the tyranny and domineering of Waddie, than that a few should be found who were willing to resist it to the last extremity.

Strange as the phenomenon seemed to be to one who for years had witnessed the homage paid to Waddie Wimpleton and Tommy Toppleton, the fact was undeniable. The little magnate of Centreport was there, bound fast to a tree. The young ruffians, who were so intent upon retaliating for the injury inflicted upon them, had probably lain in wait at this unfrequented place, perhaps for several weeks. I had heard the screams of their victim when they captured him, and I was sure that he had not yielded without a rugged resistance.

The fire blazed under the tar-kettle, and the preparations were rapidly progressing. I kept in my hiding-place, and watched with breathless interest the proceedings. So completely were the actors disguised that I could not recognize a single one of them. So far as Waddie was concerned, I could not be supposed to have any deep interest in his fate. Perhaps the humiliating and disgusting operation which the ruffians intended to perform would do him good.

I ought to say here that the newspapers, at about this time, were filled with the details of such an indignity inflicted upon an obnoxious person in another part of the country. Probably some of these boys had read the account, and it had suggested to them a suitable punishment for Waddie. I had seen the narrative myself, but only with contempt for the persecutors, and sympathy for their victim.

Certainly these boys had no right to inflict such an outrage upon Waddie. Though he had been no friend of mine, and though, on the contrary, he gloried in being my enemy, I pitied him. If I did anything for him, it would be just like him to kick me the next day for my pains. I had stumbled upon the scene by accident, but it seemed to me that I had a duty to perform--a duty from which my unpleasant relations with the victim did not absolve me.

Should I interfere to prevent this indignity? My mother was not present, but it seemed to me that I could hear her voice saying to me, in the gentlest of tones, “Love your enemies.” I saw her before me, reading from the New Testament the divine message. Then she seemed to look up from the book, and say to me, “Wolfert, if Christ could forgive and bless even those who sought to slay Him, can you not lift one of your fingers to help one who has wronged you?”

The duty seemed to be very plain, though I could not help thinking that Waddie would insult me the next moment after I had served him, just as Tommy Toppleton had done when I rescued him from his captors on the lake. No matter! I must do my duty, whether he did his or not. I was responsible for my own actions, not for his.

This conclusion was happily reached; but then it was not so easy to act upon its behests. Four stout fellows were before me, either of whom was a full match for me. What could I do against the whole of them? Perhaps nothing; perhaps I could not save Waddie from his fate; but it was none the less my duty to try, even at the expense of some hard knocks. I had the little boat-hook in my hand. It was an insignificant weapon with which to fight four times my own force. But somehow I felt that I was in the right; I felt the inspiration of a desire to do a good deed, and I had a vague assurance that help would in some manner come to me, though from what direction I could not imagine, for at this season of the year few people ever visited the picnic grove.

Leaving the shadow of the tree, which had concealed me from the young ruffians, I walked boldly toward them. The tramp of my feet on the crackling sticks instantly attracted their attention. To my great satisfaction they suddenly retreated into a little thicket near the tar-kettle.

“Save me, Wolf! Save me!” cried Waddie, in tones of the most abject despondency. “Save me, and I will be your best friend.”

I did not believe in any promises he could make; but I directed my steps toward him, with the intention of releasing him.

“Stop!” shouted one of the boys, in a singularly gruff voice, which afforded me no clue to the owner’s identity.

I halted and looked toward the thicket.

“It’s only Wolf Penniman,” said one of the party, who spoke behind the mask that covered his face. “It’s all right. He’ll help us do it.”

“What are you going to do?” I demanded, pretty sharply.

“We are only paying off Waddie. Will you help us, Wolf?” replied one of the conspirators.

“No, certainly not. You have no right to meddle with him.”

“Well, we are going to do it, whether we have any right or not. We will tar and feather him, as sure as he lives.”

“Who are you?” I asked innocently.

“No matter who we are. Has Waddie any right to insult us? Has he any right to cowhide a fellow smaller than he is, within an inch of his life?”

“No; but two wrongs don’t make a right, anyhow you can fix it. Don’t you think it is mean for four great fellows like you to set upon one, and abuse him?” I asked.

“It isn’t any meaner than what Waddie did, anyhow. We mean to teach him that he can’t trample upon us fellows, and drive us around like slaves. We have stood this thing long enough, and we mean to show him that the knife cuts both ways,” replied the fellow with the gruffest voice.

“I don’t see it. I haven’t any doubt Waddie has imposed upon you; but I think he has used me as badly as he ever did any other fellow. I don’t believe in this sort of thing.”

“I never will do it again, Wolf, if you will save me this time,” pleaded poor Waddie, in piteous tones.

“Well, it’s none of your business, Wolf Penniman, and you can leave,” added the speaker.

“I think you had better let Waddie go this time. I’ll go bail for him, if you will,” I continued good-naturedly, for I was not disposed to provoke a conflict with the ruffians.

“Not if we know it! We have watched too long to catch him to let him go now,” replied the gruff-toned ruffian, emerging from the bushes, followed by his companions.

They halted between Waddie and me, and I tried to make out who they were; but they were so effectually disguised that all my scrutiny was baffled. I have since come to the conclusion that I had never been acquainted with them, and so far as I know, no one ever found out who they were. I resorted to the most persuasive rhetoric in my power to induce the boys to forego their purpose; but they were obdurate and inflexible. I tried to give them a Sunday-school lesson, and they laughed at me. I endeavored to point out to them the consequences of the act, assuring them that Colonel Wimpleton would leave no measure untried to discover and punish them.

“We’ll risk all that,” replied the leading ruffian impatiently. “Now, dry up, Wolf Penniman. We don’t wish any harm to you; but you shall not spoil this game. Come, fellows, bring up the tar-kettle.”

The wretch went up to Waddie, whose hands were tied behind him, and began to pull off his shirt. The unhappy victim uttered the most piercing screams, and struggled like a madman to break away from the tree.

“This thing has gone far enough,” I interposed indignantly, as a couple of the rascals took the tar-kettle from the fire, and began to carry it towards the tree.

“What are you going to do about it?” blustered the chief of the party.

“I am going to stop it,” I replied smartly.

“I guess not! If you don’t take yourself off, we’ll give you a coat of the same color.”

I rushed up to the two boys who were carrying the kettle, and began to demonstrate pretty freely with the boat-hook. They placed their burden on the ground, and stood by to defend it. I hooked into it with my weapon, and upset it.