Part 5

“Let go of me, will you!”

“You sha’n’t go out! ’Tain’t your circus!”

“Who’s goin’ out!”

Signs of revolt manifested themselves.

“Why don’t you begin?”

“Gee, I’m hot!”

“If you don’t begin pretty soon I’m goin’ home, and I’ll take my rats, too!”

So, urged from behind, Ringmaster Hen stalked forth and announced:

“We’re ready to begin now.”

He swaggered and magnificently cracked his whip—a treasure consisting of a double length of leather lash, cut by the shoemaker from a square of oak calf, with a twine snapper and a skilfully whittled stock.

Fat Day, needing no second summons, immediately bolted out. He gamboled and pranced and grimaced and “wiggled” his ears, to the applause of the amphitheater and the tremendous excitement of the menagerie.

“Lem_me_! It’s my turn!” besought Snoopie.

“No, lem_me_!” implored Nixie.

“You said _I_ could go first, didn’t you, John?” reminded Billy.

Privately, you thought that the honor should be yours; but you waived your rights as proprietor and decreed:

“Yes, let Billy go first, ’cause I promised.”

Out went Billy and distinguished himself by all the feats in his repertoire, after each one saluting with the expansive gesture of the real professional. Having exhausted the trapeze, and having poised for a breathless instant on his head, he finished by vaulting over three saw-horses, in lieu of elephants, and plunging into the dressing-room.

“Now _I_’m goin’,” asserted Snoopie.

“Naw; it’s my turn!” opposed Tom and Nixie together.

But Snoopie shoved between them and past you, and was in the ring.

Snoopie Mitchell—ragged, wandering, independent, but at times despised Snoopie—was as one inspired. Never before had he such a circle of witnesses, and the wine went to his brain.

He flip-flopped frontward clear across the loft from the dressing-room corner into Mrs. Schmidt’s lap, and flip-flopped backward to the dressing-room again; and bowed. He walked about on his hands; and bowed. He stood on his head (“That ain’t fair!” called Billy. “I did that!”) longer than Billy did, and while in that position spit, besides; and bowed. He did the “splits” farther than you could, and kissed his hand, while the spectators murmured various acknowledgments of his posture.

He rubbed his palms and lightly sprang to the trapeze dangling from the beam.

_He_ skinned the cat, but he skinned it twice, and half into the third, and impishly hung poised, while his shoulder-joints cracked and the Schmidt hired girl moaned:

“Howly saints!”

_He_ hung by his toes and threw wide his arms; but, suddenly letting go, with preconceived adroitness fell on his back, amidst muffled shrieks.

_He_ chinned himself, but he did it ten times.

“Come in! That’s enough!” you ordered.

He obeyed you not. Instead, he hung by his knees; he hung by one elbow and swayed and kicked; he straddled the bar and went around it faster and faster; and with feet between hands, soles against it, he went around that way, too.

In the dressing-room reigned despair and lamentation.

“’Tain’t fair!” wailed Tom, hotly. “I was goin’ to do some of those things myself.”

“So was I!” declared Nixie.

Snoopie was now juggling balls while traversing the official tight rope stretched between two of the saw-horses.

“Make him come in, Hen!” you called.

Hen snapped his whip at Snoopie’s bare legs, and brought him to the boards.

“Quit, will you!” snarled Snoopie. “Don’t you go whippin’ _me_, or I’ll paste you!”

“You darned old fool!” you scolded.

He wiggled his ears—wiggled them much more than Fat could his—and twitched his scalp, accommodatingly turning to right and to left so that all might see.

Then, breathless, crimson, perspiring, he walked on his hands into the dressing-room.

“What did you do all that for?” demanded you, angrily.

“Do what?” retorted Snoopie. “_I_ didn’t do nothin’! What’s the matter with you kids, anyhow?”

“You did, too!” berated Nixie. “You showed off an’ spoilt everything. _I_ ain’t goin’ out.”

“Don’t you—an’ we won’t, either!” chorused Tom and Billy.

“Oh, Jock! Fat’s got his rats and he’s takin’ ’em away with him!” announced Hen.

“You come back, there, Fat! Darn you! bring them back!” you cried, rushing to the rescue.

Too late. Fat was stamping rebelliously down the stairs. The disintegration of Schmidt & Walker’s United Shows, through jealousy, had begun.

“Aren’t you fellows comin’ out?” queried Hen.

“Uh-uh! ’Tain’t any fun,” grunted Billy, spokesman.

“They say they won’t play any more,” you reported to Hen.

“I guess that’s all, then,” stated Hen to the spectators.

With high hoots from the boys, and rustling of dresses from the ladies, the amphitheater was emptied.

“_I_ didn’t do nothin’,” insisted Snoopie, grinning. “You needn’t go to blamin’ _me_!”

But nobody answered him; and with a derisive, “Ya-a-a! Your old show ain’t worth shucks!” he scampered below, to join riotous, admiring spirits elsewhere.

* * * * *

“How was the circus?” asked father, politely, at supper.

“Aw, Snoopie Mitchell spoilt it,” you accused.

“What was the matter with Snoopie?”

“Why, he went and did everything ’fore the rest had any chance—didn’t he, mama!” you asserted.

“Is that so?”

Father glanced at mother, and they exchanged a subtle smile.

“What’s become of the receipts?” he inquired.

You did not comprehend.

“Papa means the pins you took in,” explained mother.

“Oh, I dunno,” you responded, your chief interest just now being in your dish of strawberries.

WHEN YOU RAN AWAY

WHEN YOU RAN AWAY

Oh, the noble king of France, He had ten thousand men; He marched them up the hill one day And he marched them down again.

FATHER and mother not only cherished the idea that “it was good for boys to have some work to do,” but they cherished it in a distorted form. ’Twas not as though you were opposed to work, per se. No, indeed; there was a time for work and a time for play, and any day you would have been very willing to stay out of school and run errands or pile wood or rake up. Then, work would have been (just as your copy-book informed) a “privilege.”

But witness: only Saturdays and after-school and vacation would do for that, and the privilege was changed into a hardship, with your father, from his security, recollecting what he did “when he was a boy,” and evidently taking it out on you!

For “when he was a boy” father “had to work,” and rather vaingloriously (egotistically, to say the least) presented himself as a living, moving argument to apply to your case. However, he was of little weight with you because, privately, you bet with yourself that he never had to work as hard as you—never! Other fellows could skip off fishing, and everything, while _you_’d got to pile wood or rake the yard.

“Can I go fishin’ to-morrow?”

With a bluffness cloaking sundry misgivings you laid the question before mother, hoping that she would unwittingly answer yes, and that you might entrap her into a family division. Alas, mother was not to be entrapped.

“Ask your father,” she evaded, just as you had feared that she might.

So, reluctantly, you sought father.

“Well, John?” he prompted as you stood before him.

Sharpened to X-ray acuteness through strenuous sire-ship, he interpreted perfectly what was forthcoming.

“Can I go fishin’ to-morrow?”

“But you have the yard to rake, you know, don’t you?”

“I’ll rake it after school next week.”

The promise tumbled eagerly out for inspection, and father summarily condemned it.

“You promised that if I let you off last Saturday you’d rake it _this_ week—”

“It rained,” you faltered.

So it did. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday you had carefully reconnoitered, estimated, circled the prospect, so to speak; given the yard every chance within your power to rake itself, and thus add to nature phenomena; and then, on Friday, when you had got all ready, had come the rain, and balked your farther efforts.

Yes. You had done your best, and now was it for you or yours to discourage Providence? But father rashly plunged ahead.

“I guess you’d better rake and have it done with. Then you can go.”

“I promised Snoopie and Fat I’d go to-morrow. Fishin’ will be dandy to-morrow. It’s always best right after a rain.”

You had begun to whine.

“John!”

When father said “John!” in that tone, and with one exclamation-point, it indicated that your cause was finally and flatly dismissed. An additional exclamation-point might mean committal for contempt. Accordingly, unwilling to provoke this, after sniffling a moment, on the safe side of his newspaper, and morosely kicking the porch railing, you stalked off, slamming behind you the inoffensive gate, and quite ripe for any desperate deed that could readily be undone, if necessary.

The next day dawned splendidly. Never was a better fishing day—never! Never would be another so good—never! Yet father and mother did not seem to care, and ate breakfast as indifferently as though raking the yard was fully as much fun for a boy as pulling out bullheads!

From in front somebody whistled persistently.

“There’s Snoopie. He wants me to go,” you reminded.

Still remained time for a revision of the program, if—if—

“I hear him,” responded mother, mildly.

“Run out and tell him, so he won’t wait,” suggested father.

Enveloped in sorrow and shame you emerged to the impatient Snoopie and broke the news.

“I can’t go. My father says I’ve got to rake the yard.”

Snoopie stared in amaze. _He_ never had any yard to rake, for his father was dead, or something, and his mother worked out by the day. He never had to change his clothes, and he could play hooky whenever he pleased. Sometimes you almost envied Snoopie.

“Aw, hang the old yard!” advised Snoopie, incredulous. “Come on. She’s a daisy day.”

“I can’t,” you confessed miserably.

“Pooh! You bet _I_’m goin’, tho’, all the samee! You’re missin’ it!”

And on he passed, whistling, with ostentatious blitheness, a disjointed tune, leaving you to lean disconsolately over the fence and remark him, and then to retire to face the flinty tyrants within.

You plumped into your breakfast chair, and ruthlessly banged your plate with your knife, and scowlingly bolted your food. But nobody appeared to notice. After breakfast the routine of the day was calmly taken up as usual. Father went down town, to business; mother bustled about household duties; Maggie the girl sang as she removed the breakfast dishes. It seemed to be accepted as a matter of course that you should rake. For this was such a morning made—raking. You raked.

Higher rose the sun, and higher rose your wrath. Happily scratched the poultry, and viciously you scratched, with the rake. What was your life, anyway, but one unremitting round of coercion! Who cared whether you had any fun? Nobody! Other boys could do as they chose; but not you. No; not you. You were always being made to do things that you didn’t want to do. You were nothing but a slave. And you would submit to it no longer.

The darned old fools! You would show them! You would run away!

Then—_then_ (you hoped) would come upon that household the time when, gathered together, one member would say to another:

“I wish that Johnny was here.”

“Yes,” would confess father; “if he were only here he might go fishing whenever he pleased. I would be kinder to him; the yard could wait.”

“And I, too,” would quaver mother. “I understand, now. I used to send him after a yeast-cake, and never think how tired he must be.”

“And I’d never mind again his being in the kitchen,” would sob Maggie the girl. “No, indeed. He should have all the cake and lumps of brown sugar he wanted.”

“Oh, Johnny, Johnny!” would wail all. “Come back and try us once more. We’ll be so different.”

But they would plead too late. You would be far away; perhaps at the very moment dying, unknown, miserable, forlorn and forsaken; dying in the gutter or by the roadside, of starvation and exposure; and the people who found you would inquire, among themselves, pityingly:

“Who is he? Has he no friends?”

And the answer would be:

“None. He is only a poor little outcast, driven by abuse from home.”

That would be a grand way to die, if only the household would know about it. Your eyes grew wet, while your heart swelled triumphant, as the picture took hold upon your sympathies.

The aroma of fresh cookies floated through the kitchen’s open door. You were aware that Maggie would be expecting you. When warm cookies were heralded, she had good reason to expect you. You hesitated, and for some time you held off, with the vague purpose of spiting her or your mother. If only one or the other would try to coax you in! But one or the other didn’t. So, finally (the aroma proving beyond human endurance) you tramped moodily in, and from the fragrant pile abstracted a handful of the luscious disks.

Even as you did so you were proudly conscious that another cooky day, and the pile would await your coming, in vain. Very likely, after you were gone, they would not bake cookies any more. Or, if they did, the dough would be all salty with tears. Maybe, as an almost hopeless resort, mother would say:

“Maggie, bake cookies to-day just as you used to. Leave the door and windows open, and perhaps—who knows—our Johnny may be lingering about, and when he smells them baking he will understand that we are waiting and calling.”

“Yes, ma’am—who knows?” would reply Maggie, chokingly.

You also, choked. For even then you would be dead, dead, dead. You could die in a week, couldn’t you?

You gulped down the last mouthful of warm cooky, and suddenly as you raked you waxed brighter. Why die? Why not live on, and become famous? Would not that be far better revenge? Some day, then, would reach household ears word of a new star in the firmament of glory; a name would be read, a name would be spoken, a name resounding through the whole world, name of intrepid explorer, dashing leader, multi-millionaire, potentate over savage peoples, what-not. And father would say to mother:

“Why—that’s our Johnny!”

“It certainly is!” would exclaim mother.

And she would call Maggie, and all would discuss the strange tidings. Soon the village would be ringing with your exploits.

The household would send messages to you, of course, pleading for one sign of forgiveness; for a visit, a token. But you would return with scorn their missives, and ignore their entreaties.

Or would it not be well to heap coals of fire upon their heads? ’Twas a difficult matter to decide.

At any rate, you would run away. That very afternoon should witness you steadfastly plodding onward, face to the west, fortune and revenge before, ungrateful, cruel home behind. When tea was ready Maggie, and then mother, would summon you in vain.

Mother would say to father:

“Why, I can’t find Johnny!”

“Oh, he’ll come,” would assert father.

But you wouldn’t. They would eat supper without you; they would be alarmed; they would inquire among the neighbors; they would search up-stairs and down; nothing would give them a hint—or would it be a more subtle rôle to leave a note, a tear-stained note, with simply “Good-by” writ within? That was another point to be considered.

However, the truth would dawn upon them. At first they would refuse to believe it. They would think:

“Oh, he’ll be back. You see if he isn’t.”

You would _not_ come back. Evening would merge into night—but no Johnny. The night would settle down; there would be weeping, running to and fro, searching and calling, and all the while you would be out in the dark and the dew (and it got cold, too, in the middle of the night) at the mercy of storm and prowling beasts.

When came the morn, it would find the household red-eyed, distraught, and repentant—but still no Johnny.

Possibly the minister, in church, would refer to you during his sermon; not mentioning outright your name, because that would be too direct and hard upon your folks, but nevertheless by an allusion that should be unmistakable. The congregation would know to what he was referring, and all would turn and look at the family pew—the pew of shame.

Your desk at school would be empty. The news of your departure would spread about. Teacher would break down and cry when she reached your name in the roll-call, and as a mark of respect your seat would not be given to another, ever. It would remain untenanted, sacred, an object-lesson to parents. Maybe it would be draped with crape, like the desk of Harry Peters, who died. Say!

Yes, you would run away.

You were unusually quiet and subdued that noon, at dinner. It was the quietness of resolve, the subduedness of pity. Here was the last meal that you ever should eat at this board—and none save yourself knew it. Ah, what a blow was about to fall upon the household. What a secret was locked within your breast.

It seemed almost a missed opportunity. If the folks might only suspect, and try to make advances. Then might you coolly rebuff them, deliberately freeze them out, torture them with shallow denials, and thus enjoy their suspicions while denying them your confidence.

But the meal progressed, and nobody acted curious. That made you mad.

“All raked, John?” asked father, kindly.

“Yes, sir.”

You answered him as briefly as was possible and safe.

“That’s good. Do you think he has earned a pair of white rabbits, mamma?”

White rabbits!

“He has been a very good boy, and worked hard,” assured mother, smiling upon you.

“Well, we’ll see,” hinted father, also smiling.

Gee! White rabbits were a serious menace to your outworks. You perceived your defenses giving way. Stand firm, John; stand firm. You have resolved, you know; don’t be lured by tardy bribes. What are white rabbits to freedom, and revenge?

No, you will not be a traitor to yourself. Let the white rabbits come—but, like much else, they will come too late. There will be no John—no Johnny, no—no Johnny here to give them to. And you smile in sickly fashion and say nothing.

You have the afternoon before you, and your preparations to make. While, wilfully unconscious of your sinister purpose, the household again proceeds about its routine duties, you make ready. You will not carry much with you. Maybe you will take nothing at all. Shall you leave your drawers and your treasures untouched, and merely fade mysteriously from local ken, or shall you select articles enough to signify your decision?

Oliver Optic’s boys, when escaping from the authority of a harsh step-father or uncle, went away with their possessions either slung over their shoulder, tied in a bandanna handkerchief, at the end of a stick, or else contained in a trunk toted by aid of a wheelbarrow.

With tears (tears well very easily) blurring your eyes and occasionally dropping from the end of your nose, in your little room you hastily overhaul your belongings.

Upon the bed (dear little bed!) you spread a bandanna ’kerchief, and in it you place an extra pair of stockings and your best necktie, and—well, there doesn’t seem to be much else worth taking, in the clothing line. A boy doesn’t need much; one outfit can last a long time. Besides, the raggeder you get, the better, for the more pitiable will be your plight. Your pockets already hold your jack-knife and your jew’s-harp, and thereto you add your burning-glass, and your cap-pistol (robbers and bears might not tell it from a real pistol) and a fish-line.

Cast one farewell look about the little room (dear little room!). It shall know you no more. Does it hate to see you go? But it mutely implores in vain. You settle your cap firmly upon your head, and stifling a sob over the pathos of it all you descend the stairs.

You stick the bandanna packet underneath your jacket. It would be nice if the household might suspect it, and still not see it. But the delicate medium is rather difficult to attain. Besides, it is too late for them to try to stop you, now.

Mother is in the sitting-room as you pass through the hall, kitchenward.

“Where are you going, Johnny boy?” she hails, cheerily.

“Nowhere,” you falter. “Just off.”

You pause, irresolutely, a second. If only you might be encouraged to go in to her, and with strange meaning in your caress kiss her, while she wondered at your tenderness; then in after days she would recall, and feel all the worse.

“Well, be sure and be home in time for supper. We’re going to have hot biscuits and honey!”

What a callous way to let you depart!

Noting, with minute care, each familiar object—ah, those inanimate things; _they_ know and feel bad!—you proceed into the kitchen. Here, right before Maggie’s eyes, you boldly provision with two cookies and an apple. You reck not whether she sees, or not; the die is cast. You defiantly press on, straight out of the house, and through the back gate.

The deed is done. You have gone. You are in the alley, and many a long year will elapse before that back gate again swings to your hand.

You wish that the folks knew—but they don’t. Your heart aches for yourself; your going is so unheeded, the piteousness of it so wasted.

You grow angry, and stiffen your neck. All right; they need not care, if they don’t want to. Perhaps they think you are fooling. You’ll show them—yes, you’ll show them! Oh, if they would only call after you, and beg you to turn, so that you _might_ show them. You’d never even glance. The darned old fools!

You stanchly round the alley corner, and march away, down the street. Wild horses cannot drag you back. You wish they’d try.

Two whole blocks have you put behind you. Your stern pace lags a bit. With the sky so blue and the sun so bright and the maples o’erhead so rustly and the sidewalk so flecked with gold and the yards and houses along the way so comfortable and friendly, really, it is getting to be hard work keeping up steam. You have to think of it constantly, or your fires die down.

The darned—the darned old fools!

You have been longer in traversing this third block. Another block, and the maples and the sidewalk and the comfortable, friendly houses, cease; the country begins. W-well, you’ll go that far, anyhow.

D-darn ’em!

You have come to the end of the street; here is your Rubicon. You feel that once started upon that country road, with your handkerchief slung over your shoulder, then it _will_ be too late! The idea rather awes you. It looks a long way, into the world. And dying does not, somehow, seem the attractive revenge that it once did. You slacken—and halt.

You take the bandanna packet from beneath your jacket, and inspect it.

Humph! Darn ’em, you meant it when you started, just the samee.

You uncertainly move forward again. If it wasn’t for those white rabbits—. You walk slower. You blink hard. You stop, as if run down—which, in truth, you are. You blink, and finger the cookies in your jacket pocket.

Are the folks at home missing you? Supposing that they find out you have run away, and as a punishment deny you the white rabbits, after all! The thought stings. You hesitate, and sitting by the roadside eat the two cookies and the apple.

You are reminded that there are “biscuits and honey” for supper.

Perhaps—perhaps you have gone far enough. Perhaps you’d better not do “it,” this time.

* * * * *

When, rather sheepishly, you reënter that back gate, you encounter no signs of confusion and agitation. Although it seems to you that you have been gone a long, long while, everything appears serene and just as you had left it. Nobody notices you.

You slip up-stairs. The little room welcomes you; you eye it diffidently, and challenge it to ridicule you; but it only welcomes.