Chapter V: Book TWO: In Which Cricket Takes the Road to Manhood and Meets with (1)

SUNDRY MISHAPS

STAGE I.--IN WHICH CRICKET COMES TO A QUEER STOPPING-PLACE ON THE ROAD TO MANHOOD

R. PEARL had opened a little shop in Heartsdale. It was up an alley next to a large mill, where he could connect his shaft with river-power. A smooth board, lettered with his own brush and nailed above his door, contained the words:

PEARL & COMPANY

One bright, still morning in the early summer I walked to Heartsdale to begin my career anew. My mother wished me to be near home, and I was on my way to the shop of B. Crocket & Son, marble-cutters, who were making a monument for my father. They were going to teach me their trade. Heartsdale had always made me believe it very large and myself very little. Its buildings and its people had seemed to look down upon me from a great height. Now that I had been to Buffalo, that old feeling of awe and littleness had gone out of me and must be now, I believed, in the breast of Heartsdale itself, and I carried my head high.

From the eminence of my conceit I got a full view of its languor and littleness. Even the river slowed its pace half a mile above and came on like a spent horse. Near the Mill House half a mile below it began to hurry, and always I had the stir of the rapids in me.

Feet accustomed to the pace of the plow were going into town. The clink of an anvil broke the silence. I had often watched the great blacksmith as he worked. That clinking indicated the flow of his thought and the strength of his convictions. Words fell between hammer-strokes, and were often as hot as the beaten metal.

The shop of B. Crocket & Son, whither I was bound, stood on a narrow byway bordered with small wooden buildings. The shop itself had a little door-yard where headstones and monuments stood among blocks of marble. Inside were benches on which the stone was being trimmed, lettered, and polished. There everything was white with marble-dust. Mr. B. Crocket--called “Judge Crocket” by all who knew him, and so called because, in his own way, he pronounced judgment on those who lived and died about him--stood over a headstone cutting an epitaph. A number of men past middle age sat around a small table in one corner playing old sledge. They looked up at me as I entered. A man and a red-headed boy, the latter of about my age, were polishing a block of granite near the far end of the shop. I approached the Judge and bade him good-morning. He looked down out of gray eyes colder than the marble on which he leaned. His pale, wizened face was itself a wonderful bit of sculpture.

“Are you the young Heron?” he asked.

The men who were playing cards began to laugh, and I was a bit stung by it, having a strong sense of dignity.

“I am Mr. Heron,” was my answer.

“Huh!” my new employer grunted. “Take off your mister and your coat and vest and put on a pair of overalls.”

The men laughed loudly, in spite of the fact that I had been to Buffalo. I felt inclined to resent his words, but held my tongue and did as he bade me, for I had brought some overalls in my satchel.

He went on with his work, and said, presently, that his son would tell me what to do. The latter did not give me a mallet and chisel, as I had hoped, but set me polishing with the redheaded boy of my own age, familiarly known as “Swipes.” I had been reading the life of Michelangelo, which my mother had bought for me, and dreaming of high achievements. It had come to nothing but sweating over a hand-lathe and slopping in dirty water.

Two of those who played at the table were old soldiers, the third a business man, the fourth a retired farmer. One, with an empty sleeve, entered presently and sat on a half-finished monument that lay near them, as if accepting the invitation cut in its polished face, “Requiescat in pace.” He begged a chew of tobacco, and began to talk, telling how he got tobacco hunger in a battle and searched for it in the pockets of the dead. The other soldiers took the cue and told of many a like adventure as they played their game. The retired farmer was not unlike them, for he, too, had begun his long rest. He of the one arm passed a bottle as the game ended. Then all seemed to pry themselves out of their chairs with levers of necessity.

“I've got to go,” said one, as he yawned.

“So've I,” said another.

“Here goes,” said number three. All rose, save one, and tried their creaking joints.

It was Mr. Bulford Boggs, the undertaker, who remained in his chair--he that was known far and wide as “Bull” Boggs. His shop was across the way, and a line of parlor furniture filled its front window. He was a full-bodied man with a prominent nose and a short upper lip, and wore a high flaring collar and side-whiskers, now turned gray, and got soothing draughts of indolence from a big, meerschaum pipe. I remember that his nose and front and calm expression reminded me of a meadow-lark. It did seem to me often that he resented human life. There were times when, as he looked at one, his whole manner thus expressed itself: “What! you living? Good Heavens, man! How do you expect me to get along in business and you living on forever? Why don't you go hang yourself?”

Soon Mr. Crocket, who had been working silently on a headstone, rested his chisel and looked at Mr. Boggs. Then he read, with quaint irony, the flattering inscription that he had finished:

“It was her turn,” he said. “She was the survivor of three husbands.”

He continued pecking at the stone and also at the character of the deceased lady. His monologue was broken by the sound of his mallet, and I remember it went on as follows:

“Couldn't even live with herself [whack]. Tried it [whack], an' died [whack].”

Mr. Boggs gave a roar of joy as he held his big pipe in his hand.

“Reminds me of Harrison White [whack, whack]. He traded me a horse for a family monument, an'--wal, he got it for nothing. That horse began to waste away. Come to find out he was twenty-four years old. The horse got the heaves, an' Harrison got religion, but I got nothing. Come here one day an' offered to pray for me [whack], I told him to pray for the old horse. He gave me up. The old horse died an' so did Harrison. Oh, I've seen 'em come an' go for a good many years [whack, whack, whack]. What do you suppose they wrote out for an inscription to go under his name?”

“I heard once, but I've forgotten,” growled the undertaker. .

“'He paid the debt,'” said the Judge, soberly, with another whack. “I added something free of charge, an' it was this, 'but not the one due me.--B. Crocket.'”

Mr. Boggs, who sat watching the door of his shop across the way as he listened, let out his mirth in heavy bolts of sound.

There was to be a political meeting, and the town was filling up with people. Mr. Crocket and his friend went to the open door of the marble-shop and looked at the crowds passing in the main street. Soon the Judge returned to his task, and Mr. Boggs stood looking out of the door.

“They've all got to die,” said the latter, cheerfully, as he surveyed the people. “Whenever I get blue I just think o' that an' take courage.”

These hard old cynics were to me a new kind of people. They rejoiced in death--in the destruction of hopes, in the slaughter of reputations. Their rough word-play gave my young soul a shock that I have not yet forgotten. It went on day after day, while I wore away the cold marble and my tender youth.

The whole place and its people reminded me of those lines which I had heard the minister quote in a sermon:=

```"The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave, ```The deep, dank vault, the darkness, and the worm."=

But I made no complaint, for my first undertaking had come to naught, and if I failed again what would they think of me--especially Jo and my mother. My employer pecked away at the epitaphs with his chisel and amended them with his conversation. Every morning Mr. Boggs and his three companions sat in a corner playing old sledge and boarding their cards with appalling thumps in trying stages of the game, and, after each hand', loudly confessing their calculations.

“If we don't win this game I'll bury you for nothing,” was one of the cheering and familiar promises of Mr. Boggs.

The undertaker had a wise and threatening air about him. He often bullied people, using loud words and a pouncing manner. Sometimes he gave advice with a wearied look of toleration, and oh, the sadness of Mr. Boggs at a funeral!

The three friends went away soon after eleven o'clock, whereupon, if there were “nothing doing”--an oft-repeated phrase of the undertaker--he used to sit talking with the Judge or reading a newspaper. One day he fell asleep in his chair. Mr. Crocket printed this inscription on a sheet of cardboard and leaned it against the knees of the undertaker:=

````_Sacred to the Memory of B. Boggs_=

The Judge surveyed him with a playful eye, and added, “He is certainly the flower o' the village.” It was an apt symbol, for he was, indeed, one of the most perfect flowers of rustic commercialism that ever bloomed.

The village boys relieved the monotony of my life with sundry insults. Having travelled far, as I thought, and endured many perils, and having, moreover, a proud spirit, I was, for my age and size, a bit nearer the goal of manhood than most of them, and my dignity was natural enough. They resented it with jeers and epithets and stickings out of the tongue.

Mr. Crocket and his son went home at five, while I and the red-headed boy continued our labor until six o'clock.

Swipes himself was a melancholy youth who had once swallowed a shingle-nail and who cherished a great fear of it. For poor Swipes that shingle-nail was like the sword of Damocles. The first evening that we were alone together in the shop he confided his worst fears to me, and asked if I knew of any medicine that would be likely to do him good. He complained of pain in the pit of his stomach.

“I've took half a bottle of horse liniment that I found here in the shop,” said he. “It may help some.”

He was deeply interested in the great fist-fighters, and his hero was John Morrissey. In the last hour of work one day, after the Crockets had gone home, three or four boys of about our age gathered in the shop. We had removed our overalls and were getting ready to go, when Swipes approached me. His fists were moving playfully.

“I could put an epitaph on that face o' your'n,” he threatened.

“It would be your epitaph,” I answered, promptly.

The others laughed and urged me to go on.

He began to jump up and down, with his fists out in front of me.

“Fight me, fight me, if you ain't a coward!” he hissed.

That word was more than I could endure. I flew at Swipes like a panther and floored him. He rose, bleeding, but unwhipped. We fought fiercely up and down among the gravestones, and in a moment were locked together. I had the under hold and forced him into the water-tub. Swipes said that would do, and I released my hold upon him. He rose, dripping, and offered me his hand.

“You're all right,” said he, cheerfully. “I only wanted to know if you could fight.”

He had a kind of pride in his bruised face, and would not let me wash away the blood.

Directly another boy began to dance in front of me. It was a desperate battle I had then, and Swipes, when he saw me getting the worst of it, broke in for the sake of fairness.

“It ain't right,” said he. “You tackled him when he was tired.”

The bout ended, and Swipes gave me his hand with a cheering word as I left him.

“I told 'em you could fight,” he whispered.

I had a hard week of it then, for they were bound to know what I was made of--those warlike and barbaric people. I avenged my wrongs, and stepped off the plane of reprobation and contempt forever.

I tried to like my task, and worked hard and spent three evenings a week with Mr. Pearl. He lived in his little shop, and had been kind enough to offer me what help he could in my studies. He had some learning, a rare talent in mathematics, and a genius for explanation. I brought my suppers with me, and we often ate together.

The first time I entered the shop, after my week of battle, the Pearl looked at me and laughed.

“Confound that dog!” he exclaimed.

The dog stood up before him.

“I've often talked to you about fighting,” said the Pearl. “I want t' tell you again it's poor business, Mr. Barker.”

“He's an awful quarrelsome cuss,” he added, as he dismissed the dog and turned to me with an apology for delay.

We had scarcely begun our work when Mr. McCarthy entered. He had two good legs under him--so one might have thought--and a shoe on each foot, and a step like that of a sound man. He was “all dressed up,” as they used to say, and a bit too well aware of it. He took off his hat and bowed politely.

“Gentleman,” said he, “Mr. McCarthy presents his compliments.”

“I see that your off foot is on,” said Mr. Pearl.

“It's better than ever,” said Mr. McCarthy. “That's good!” exclaimed the Pearl. “You can now make footprints in the sands of time.”

“Yes, I've got a pair o' feet and a new leg on my body, and five thousand dollars in the bank, and more coming,” Mr. McCarthy went on, while we were dumb with amazement. “You'll find Sal in every drug store north of the Central Road, and I'm going to spread it all over Vermont and Massachusetts. Two or three rivals have sprung up, and I've bought 'em out. I've got forty people at work in my central factory, which is at Rushwater, New York.”

“He's geared for high power,” said the Pearl, as he turned to me. “He's got his belt on the main shaft.”

The compliment pleased Mr. McCarthy. His eyes glowed and his fist flashed down upon the bench before him with a loud thump. It was the deep fire of his spirit showing itself in a kind of lightning thrust.

“I'm going to be somebody!” he exclaimed.

“If you can find use for it, you'll get all the power you need right off the big engine,” said Mr. Pearl.

“What engine?”

“The one that runs the universe. When you've got accommodation for high power it always comes to you. Then look out for the friction an' you're all right.”

After a moment of silence he turned to me and said: “I've heard about the three commandments of your house. They're like those of my shop: Take your power off the main shaft--that means truth. Oil your bearings--kindness. Reduce friction as much as possible--happiness. And that reminds me, how is your gentleman?”

The Pearl turned to Mr. McCarthy as he put the query.

“A little more polished,” said the latter. “I think his deportment has improved, an' he can converse upon many subjects or write an elegant letter. He's a little more natural, as ye might say, and has so much else to think of he's kind o' forgot himself. He reads the New York _Herald_ every day, and can hold an argument on politics or religion. He knows all the points in favor of the protection of home industries, an' has learnt every great fact in American history.”

“Except one,” said the Pearl of great price.

“What's that?”

“A new thing discovered by H. M. Pearl, Esq., which is singular an' likewise worthy of your attention.”

The Pearl paused for a moment while he looked at him. “A stream o' power is rushing over those wires,” he went on. “I'll turn it into another channel an' put a brake on it. Then you'll see some actions calculated to produce loud and continued applause.”

He put out his lamp and stepped away in the darkness. I heard the turn of a lever and then the room was flooded with light. We gazed at it with a feeling of awe.

“These are sticks of carbon,” said he, pointing at the centre of the glow. “When the current strikes the carbon it comes into hard sledding; there's the rub, an' the rub makes heat an' the heat gives light, and the light gives history and feelin's of surprise an' happiness in the breast of H. M. Pearl, Esq. Wait until he gets the voltage he needs and he can turn night into day.”

“What do you mean by voltage?” I asked.

He took us over to the hose tank that was fastened high in a corner, and turned the faucet. Water came pouring through the hose into a large tub on the floor.

“The voltage is the squirt of the stream, and the size of it is the amperage, and the watts is the hole it would make in the snow. Do you know why so many men use tobacco in this town?”

“No,” I answered.

“High voltage and little to do,” he went on. “Currents o' power are flowin' into us, but--Lord!--we don't know what to do with it. We have no purpose, no gear, no machinery. So we let it off in all kinds o' folly. Look at the merchants--some of 'em are strong men, but every one has got his belt on a pinwheel. There's twenty of 'em an' work enough for two. The only men in town who are sure of a good living are the undertaker and the carver of epitaphs. We all die, if we don't do anything else.”

We turned again to the light and expressed our wonder.

“Lie low an' say nothin',” said Mr. Pearl, as he turned the lever. “I'll make 'em roll in their sleep one o' these days. All I need is money for patents an' tools an' material.”

“I'll furnish it some day,” said the young man.

“An' we'll share the profits,” said H. M. Pearl, Esq., as they shook hands.

James Henry McCarthy and I left the shop together. I asked him to go home with me, but he had to leave early next day, and so had taken quarters at the inn.

“How is Miss Fame?” I asked.

“Splendid,” was his answer. “Do you suppose she'd care for me now?”

“I should think she would,” was my answer. “But I shall not ask her,” said he. “I thought when I got my leg and handsome clothes and some money that I'd be good enough for any one; but when I went to see her the other day, it seemed as if she was a little cooler, if anything.” There was a note of sadness in the voice of Mr. McCarthy. He went on in a moment:

“I conversed with her on the subject of the Republican nominations. I dropped into history and gave a quotation from Shakespeare, just to show her that I was no fool, if I was the son of old Jack McCarthy. I guess I let out about everything that I knew. I just told her that I was making money, but I didn't talk shop--you know, gentlemen never do that. By-an'-by she took my hand an' said: 'You're doing finely, James. I'm delighted that you're getting along so well.' It seemed as if that was the worst thing she could have said to me--the same old twaddle--as if I needed a pat on the back. She never asked me to call again.”

“Don't let it worry you,” I suggested.

He continued. “After all, it isn't legs or clothes or deportment or money or doing as you'd be done by that makes a gentleman--though they help a good deal. You've got to be all right, and then forget it, and it can't be done in a day. I'm like a new pair o' boots--they pinch a little here and there, and have got too much of a squeak in 'em.”

STAGE II.--WHICH BRINGS CRICKET TO THE STATION OF REMORSE

R. CROCKET played a bass horn which had belonged to his father. He had much to say about “the cause of good music in Hearts-dale,” and both he and Mr. Boggs were members of its Comet Band. Therein lay the weakest point in Mr. Crocket's character. He did not lie or use tobacco or strong drink or profanity, but I have thought sometimes that he would have done well to change his sin for one more private and compact, for the old horn cut a swath a mile wide in the silence. It had a part in the string as well as the brass band of the village.

One night, more than a year after my initiation to the shop, there was to be a celebration of the nomination of Lincoln for President and an address by Colonel Remington. Capes and helmets for the musicians had been sent to the marble-shop and were stored away in a closet. Swipes and I had discovered them. Now, it should be explained that Swipes regarded his shingle-nail with growing apprehension. He had come to work with a poultice of mustard that morning. I had seen him spitefully withdraw it from his bosom and fling it under his bench. When the Messrs. Crocket had gone home we talked of the shingle-nail, and I observed that he had great respect for the mustard and more confidence in his future. He declared that his pains had been drawn to the outside of his body, and he thought that a safer place for them. He showed me the blister, and as we surveyed the same an evil purpose entered the mind of Swipes, and I regret to say that it overflowed into my own.

The helmets had a partial lining of thin cloth attached to the visor. Beneath the lining of each one we spread a mustard paste where it would afflict the forehead of the player. That done, we ate our suppers and went out to see the crowd. At half-past seven the musicians appeared in front of the Opera-House, and began work at once. Soon I observed that three or four of the players had begun to perspire, and were moving the skin of their foreheads. The clarionet lagged and fell out of time. Mr.

Crocket lost the run of the score, and went roaring on for a moment and abandoned the chase. Swipes nudged me as the marble-cutter removed his helmet. The others were struggling with their parts.

The clarionet player began to talk to himself. The crowd was laughing at the discords. The Heartsdale Cornet Band suddenly gave up, and, oddly enough, on the first phrase of _Hail Columbia_. Every player uncovered and felt his forehead and began to talk.

Mr. Boggs muttered and seemed to threaten his neighbor.

“I feel as if I'd blown my brains out,” said the clarionet player.

“This helmet ought to be spelt with a double _l_,” said Mr. Crocket, as he felt the inside of his head-cover.

Unfortunately, we stayed too long and laughed too much. Mr. Crocket discovered us, and had a stern and suspicious look. We retreated promptly, and heard no more from the band until next morning. We met on the street and entered the shop together.

“Boys,” said the Judge, “I've got a present for you.”

“What's that?” Swipes inquired.

“Hellmets,” said the marble-cutter, spelling the word with a double _l_, after he had spoken it--“a pair of 'em; one for each of you. Try 'em on.”

I did not dare refuse the honor, and poor Swipes had the same feeling. The helmets were on our heads in a minute.

“They're becoming,” said Mr. Crocket. “I like to see 'em on you.”

He pulled them down and fastened them with a strong cord. He seemed to enjoy tying the knot beneath our chins, and drew it tight.

We began our work, and were presently in the tortures of full atonement. Swipes dropped his tools by-and-by, and tried in vain to raise the helmet a little.

“I guess somebody has put some mustard in this helmet,” said he, in a loud voice.

“Mustard!” Mr. Crocket exclaimed. “Nobody would be mean enough for that.”

“It must be,” Swipes persisted.

“I guess you're mistaken,” said Mr. Crocket, calmly, as he resumed his work. “Leastways, if there is mustard in 'em, it's only meant for a joke.”

Mr. Boggs, who sat in his corner, began to roar.

“It's hard when ye have to invent the joke an' take it, too,” said Mr. Crocket.

Swipes seized the cord and put all his strength upon it.

“You fool, don't you know it's funny?” said the marble-cutter.

Swipes could see no occasion for laughter, and continued to pull the string until it came free.

“Look here, boy, if you can't take your own medicine you'll have to take mine,” said Mr. Crocket, sternly. “You may pick up your things an' go; I'm done with you.”

Poor Swipes! Things had come to a bad turn for him, and his lips were trembling as he prepared to leave.

The thought of him, then, was more to me than my own torture. He was poor and sorely needed his place. I should not have done, or permitted him to do, an act so foolish as that we had been guilty of.

So I spoke up for him with odd mendacity: “It was my fault, Mr. Crocket. Swipes is not to blame. I put the mustard into those helmets.”

It is past finding out--the things a boy will do when he is put to it.

“Oh, you did,” said the marble-cutter, “you little-souled, narrer, contracted cuss!”

His eyes seemed to be searching me for other qualities likely to serve his scorn. He added, with a look of sternness: “Boy, you've done a great injury to the cause of good music in Heartsdale!”

I wondered if music had suffered more than I, and, answered, timidly: “It was only meant for a joke.”

“Well, the joke is on you,” said Mr. Crocket, with a rude look at me. “You are both discharged.”

So my second trial in business came to its end, and people began to shake their heads and say that I was a wild boy and would come to no good.

I went to the shop of my old friends, “Pearl & Barker,” and told of my trouble. The Pearl had a thoughtful look on his face, and said nothing for a few moments.

“Confound that dog!” he exclaimed, presently, and began to call Mr. Barker. The dog stood up before him.

“You rascal!” the Pearl began, “you'll have to take another dose. I trust that you will soon be a dog, Mr. Barker, an' get over bein' a puppy. Not that I would have you too good--there are no angels in this world, Mr. Barker. But I am moved to suggest that you always show proper respect for age.”

Every word that he said to “Mr. Barker” sank into my soul, and made me see how foolish I had been.

“Those in favor of reform will please say aye,” said the Pearl, and Mr. Barker and I both voted loudly. “It seems to be carried--it is carried,” the Pearl went on, and then, turning to me, he added: “That dog is getting a good deal of useful knowledge. It may be worth your while to whack up with him.”

It was said gently, and yet, somehow, the words fell like a lash. I went home sore with remorse and wrote a letter of apology to Judge Crocket, and fully confessed my folly.

STAGE III.--IN WHICH CRICKET PROCEEDS WITH HEAVIER BAGGAGE

HAT evening there came a rap at our door, and when I opened it who should walk in upon us but Sam--the apprehensive and affectionate Sam.

I presented him to my mother and sister, and he removed his cap and coat and sat down with us. In his Sunday suit and manners Sam was neither cheerful nor communicative. I tried to talk with him of the days we had known together, but he only smiled and shook his head with, now and then, a timid exclamation. When my mother and sister had gone to bed he nudged my leg and whispered:

“Le' 's go outdoors.”

We went down the road together, and he turned to me and said:

“I'm up a stump.”

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Deviltry, which is a caution,” said he.

“Married life?”

“The Colonel,” said Sam.

“Why don't you leave him?”

“Can't,” he answered.

“Why not?”

“It's my duty to stan' it, an' I'll have to. Don't have much to do but sleep with the Colonel, an' that's a man's work. It takes an uncommon kind of a man, too. You have to praise his strength an' look at his wounds an' hear him sing an' be shoved around the bedroom an' get your head thumped on the wall, an' run for your life when he chases ye. He wants to rassle an' pull fingers about every night. Sometimes he comes home drunk an' sets an' sings like a bird at two o'clock in the morning. I have to get up an' pull his boots off an' let him shove me around. It ain't an easy job, but it's better than some, an' we can't leave Jo alone with him. I've got to put up with it. One night he drove me all over the place with a kind of a spear. I didn't know but he was goin' to stick me with it. By-an'-by I see that he wasn't vicious.

“One evenin' a young feller come there when the Colonel was away, an' behaved himself improper. Jo told Fannie, an' I went an' kicked him out o' the house. The Colonel was wild when he heard of it. He wouldn't allow a boy on the place after that. The first one that come he grabbed a sword off the wall an' made for him. The boy run like a scairt deer, an' the Colonel chased him acrost the door-yard an' half-way to the bridge.

“One day the Colonel found a letter from you to Jo. He see that you was in love with her, an' flew mad an' forbid her to write to you, an' I come to tell ye. He won't let her go on the street alone, which is agoin' too fur--altogether. Jo is a lady--don't you forget it. There's only one man that comes to the house, an' he's a friend o' the Colonel. I guess he's a gentleman.”

Jo's silence had worried me, and now this attitude of her father filled me with alarm.

“Do you--do you think she cares for me?” I asked.

“You bet I do,” he answered, promptly. “There's every sign of it. She promised him that she wouldn't write to you--she had to do it, I guess, an' she wanted me to come an' bring you this.”

He paused and gave me a small package.

“The Colonel has had a fortune come to him,” my friend went on. “He's goin' to move to the old homestead in Merrifield, an' it ain't over twenty mile from here. They'll move in the spring--soon as the snow's off--an' maybe things 'll change by then, so you can come an' see us.”

“You write me when to come, and I'll be there if it's a possible thing,” was my answer..

Sam questioned me as to my work and pay, and I gave him all the particulars.

“You'll have to get into bigger business,” he suggested. “Jo's a lady. I ain't goin' to tell 'em that you're smoothin' rocks. It don't fit ye--someway.”

“It's respectable,” I said, “and I've been studying every day.”

I didn't have the courage to speak of my discharge, and I hoped, too, that Mr. Crocket would soon take me back.

“You've got to be a big gun if you're goin' to fit her, there ain't any two ways about that. You'd better go to school, an', if you need it, I'll lend you a little money.”

I thanked the big-hearted fellow, and said that I would consult my mother about it.

“You set down an' write her a letter,” said he, “an' I'll see that she gets it.”

“But the Colonel--” I began.

“He ain't forbid _you_ to write, has he?” Sam went on. “You write her a good, long, high-toned letter, such as a lady ought to get. You know how to do it. Don't speak o' the rocks. I've told 'em that you was a gentleman, an' very partic'lar fine in every way, shape, an' manner, an' I guess she b'lieves it. She can marry the best chap in the land if she wants to.”

I took his hard hand in mine. “Sam, you're a friend worth having,” I said.

“You done me a favor once,” he went on, “an' I ain't forgot it, an' never will, an' I'm goin' to help you in any way that I can. Do you remember when I was married? She just took hold o' my bit an' give me a slap on the side, an' walked me up to the neck-yoke where I belonged, an', old boy, I'd go through fire an' water for her.”

“I shall not write to Jo at present,” I said. “It wouldn't be fair to the Colonel. We must win him over.”

We climbed the hanging stair, and I conducted Sam to the spare room.

“Thank God,” Sam exclaimed, “I ain't got to hear about battles or the last rose o' summer, an' prob'ly I won't have to jump out an' rassle in the dead o' the night!”

I took the little package Sam had given me to my room, and when it was undone there lay the horruck, wrapped in a sheet of paper which contained these words:

_I have read the delightful message of the horruck. I send it back, and it will do for a letter._

I sat for hours trying to solve the riddle, and fell asleep in my chair by-and-by. When I awoke the horruck was gone. It had dropped from my hand, no doubt, but, although I looked high and low, I was not able to find it. Had Lizzie McCormick returned in my sleep and taken it away? The thing had left me as mysteriously as it came.

I went to bed and lay awake, hearing the roar of the falling water, and the thought came to me that my own life was like a river now, creeping over the flats. Maybe it would gather power and go on with a rush by-and-by.

STAGE IV.--IN WHICH CRICKET COMES TO A TURN IN THE ROAD

Y sister was now in the Heartsdale Academy, and my mother and I had a wholesome pride in her. It was partly for her sake, I must confess to you, that I had been in a when my desire would have sent me to school. One of us had to work, and there were many reasons for my sacrifice, and no credit due me. In a dozen houses I knew one might have seen better deeds: mothers working nights, sons and daughters hired for long hours and hard labor, and with no clothes fit for a holiday, so that some one of the children could go to college or the normal school.

My sister had many friends--boys and girls of her own age--who came to visit her. She was a comely girl, and sprightly and light of heart as a bird in the springtime.

At home I had either a book or a biscuit in my hand always--so my mother said of me. The supper dishes out of the way, our table was drawn to the fireside and our big lamp glowed upon us until past ten o'clock. What a magic in its light and the silent hours! Far tribes and peoples, the sayings of wise men, immortal tales and poems, the wonders of art and invention, were gathered into the lamplight. Above all, I enjoyed the poets, even the best of them, and committed pages of classic verse, and had burning thoughts of great accomplishment.

We went one night to the Thanksgiving ball at Jones'--I and my sister and some of her schoolmates--in a big sleigh. It was, I may say, historic, being the last of its kind in the neighborhood. We were not to see again the careless, old-time frolic. The bass horn, also, was thenceforth banished from like scenes forever. The big fire came, and the telegraph followed in the early spring, and the railroad in the summer; and new brick buildings, including that of the Hearts-dale Academy, and many students and workingmen. A new editor appeared who began to poke fun at the old fashions. Then came the dress-suit, and novel forms of entertainment, and a big fire-engine. All these things had their effect upon us.

Mr. Crocket appeared at this last of the oldtime dances. He sat with the fiddler, and came in, now and then, with a long streak or a sudden splash of bass.

Between dances we heard the bells ringing and hurried out-of-doors. A light rose high in the heavens above Heartsdale. The village was afire, and we made a rush for coats and caps, and our horses were soon speeding along the road.

The Rogers block was burning, and what a scene it was! A squad worked on a force-pump at the town well. Men rushed aimlessly about shouting orders mingled with profanity. Others swore back at them with equal emphasis. Every one had a plan of his own. A few were arguing loudly face to face. Mr. Boggs stood looking on with an “I-told-you-so” expression.

Some were bravely at work in the heat passing water-buckets. One was on a roof near the fire playing the hose. They said he was H. M. Pearl. I saw the ladder he had climbed, and the thought came to me that here was my chance at last, and I made my way up it through heat and smoke to the side of my friend. As I fought the falling cinders I wondered if Jo would ever hear of it.

“The fire has got more power than we have!” Pearl shouted to me.

He worked for a few minutes only when the water gave out. The fire had been forcing us back, and a blast now and then scorched our faces.

“We'll have to adjourn,” said Pearl; and we slid down the smoking ladder with blistered hands and faces, and our coats afire.

Heartsdale was more than half destroyed that night, and the marble-shop was in ruins. Pearl had seen the truth--the village had not power enough for its foe. Every day or two some town or city was burning up for that reason.

“The country is like a boy that has outgrown his strength,” Pearl said to me. “It needs more power; that stream o' water didn't have squirt enough to drown a bee.”

“And better management,” I suggested.

“Power and management go hand in hand,” said he. “When power comes it will bring brains along with it.”

I wrote an account of my adventure on the roof for the weekly _Courier_. It was published over my full name, and not since have I so pleased myself. Did not the editor speak of me as “a polished writer” and “a brave lad”? I read it over again and again, and sent a marked copy to my friends in Summerville.

The _Courier_ of that week was full of history.

There were lines in it by some unknown writer which put an end to the despotic sway of the bass horn. These lines were, in a way, the Magna Charta of Heartsdale, which thereafter might have been described as a limited monarchy. Let me read a moment:=

````To Jones' tavern, near the ancient wood,

````Come young and old from many a neighborhood.

````Here comes B. Crocket with his old bass horn,

````Its tone less fit for melody than scorn.

````They say that thro' its tubes from first to last

````A century's caravan of song has passed.

````The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun,

````With noisy kisses punctuate the fun.

````O careless youths and red-lipped little misses!

````O blush that marks the sweet disgrace of kisses!=

````The fiddler comes, his heart a merry store,

````And shouts of welcome greet him at the door.

````Tho' fashioned rough and rude the jest he flings,

````What power has he to wake the tuneful strings!

````The old folks smile and tell how, long ago,

````Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow,

````And how the God-sent magic of his art

````To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart,

````And shook the bonds of care from aged men

````Who, 'neath the spell, returned to youth again.=

````He raps the fiddle-back as t'were a drum,

````The raw recruits of Cupid's army come,

````And heeding not the praise his playing wins,

````The ebullition of his soul begins.

````The zeal of Crocket, turned to scornful sound,

````Pursues the measure like a baying hound;

````The sprightly phrases fall like gusts of rain,

````The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain;

````And, midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred,

````The thunder of the old bass horn is heard.=

STAGE V.--IN WHICH CRICKET MOUNTS ONE OF GOD'S HORSES

HOSE days they were stringing wires through the North, and even there human thought had begun to move faster. Now one could fling his words far over the distant hills in a moment. Men gathered in groups and talked of the wonder of it, and looked with awe upon the operator; for had not tidings of far capitals come to him out of the sky, and news of death which had made the strong tremble?

Pearl had been helping to install a new line. For a time--a long time, as it seemed to me--the shop door was locked.

The night of his return I found him overhauling instruments at his bench, but as I came in he dropped his work and his face brightened.

“How goes it?” I asked.

“Swift,” he answered. “I've been helping 'em lay a track for lightning. A stream o' power is flashing over the hills to Merrifield this minute. Do you see that wire that goes by the window there? Well, it's a nerve out o' the brain o' the universe, an' we're connected. It makes us a part o' the great body o' the world, as ye might say.

“There's goin' to be a war between life an' death in this country. In Heartsdale you an' I will lead the new army. Boggs an' Crocket will command the old.”

That little shop was for me “the House of the Interpreter,” and there I began to get the drift of things.

He gave me a book which contained the Morse alphabet, and taught me to make the letters on a telegraph key, and showed me how it checked the current and so produced the dots and dashes.

“I'll run a wire to your house,” he promised, “an' we'll string our thoughts on it an' learn some useful knowledge. I can get a place for you as soon as you can read an' send the current, I never liked the headstone business. It's at the wrong end o' the line. If it was the cradle business, I'd like it better. Life is the thing for you an' me, not death.

“There's four churches and two cemeteries in this little town. Life here has been a kind o' preparation for the grave, an' not much else. Death has done most o' the business. It's time we had a change.”

I was to help the swift, mysterious current of power to quicken the minds of the people.

Pearl lent me a telegraph key, and I stayed at home with my mother and sister for a few weeks, learning how to sound the letters on it. I went often to Pearl's shop of an evening and talked with him by telegraphy, and he was pleased with my progress, and within a month said I was good enough for any place on the line. We felt his kindness deeply there in the Mill House, and my mother wrote her thanks to him, and begged him to come and sup and spend the evening with us any day.

“My friend and fellow-citizen,” said Mr. Pearl, when I saw him again, “nothing would please me better than to sit by your fireside and enjoy all that exalts and embellishes civilized life. But, firstly, I am not decent enough; and, secondly, my clothing is fit only for the 'sacred precinks' o' my own shop, as Mr. Boggs would say; and, thirdly, I have a lot to do an' only sixteen hours a day to do it in.”

So he never came to the Mill House, and, although my mother had called twice at his shop to tell her gratitude, she had not been able to find him.

One day he gave me glad news in this manner: “How would ye like a job?”

“What kind of a job?” I inquired.

“To jerk lightnin'.”

That was his way of describing the work of an operator.

“I'd like it very much.”

“You're to take the office in Heartsdale at forty dollars a month on trial,” he said.

It staggered me--the prospect of such opulence--and that very day I began my work. I have been lucky and prospered rather handsomely since then, but I have never received a sum so enduring and massive as that which came to me at the end of every month. I always hurried home with the roll of bills and flung it into my mother's lap proudly. Oh, what a lavish hand was mine those days! About the best happiness of all my life was in the few moments of sublime generosity at the month's end when I renounced the money and saw the look in my mother's face and hurried away to my chores. And when I saw the splendor of my sister's hats and gowns, and the neatness of her shoes, and heard people speak of her beauty, I was about as happy as one may be.

I had “jerked lightning” some eight months and had become a figure in the life of Heartsdale, for I guided the flying horse of God that sped in and out of the village on its slender highway, and I was looked upon as a kind of sorcerer. Moreover, I--a boy of seventeen--received the princely income of forty dollars a month!

In all this time, although I had written to Jo about the loss of the horruck and my ignorance of its secret and my growing curiosity, no word of her had come to me save a letter from Sam, which told me that Jo was well and hoped those few lines would find me the same.

One afternoon my call came clicking into the sounder with the letters M. F. behind it. I knew that M. F. stood for the office at Merrifield.

The operator said that he would have an important message for me at eight that evening, and, asked if I could be at the key to take it. The request was not unusual, for mine was the repeating office at the junction of two lines. I promised to be on hand, and went to the office at eight o'clock.

Soon I got the call and answered it, and these words flashed into the sounder:

“Is this Mr. Heron?”

And I answered, “Yes; who are you?”

“I am the operator at Merrifield, and I have a message for you.”

“Well, go ahead,” I clicked, impatiently. I could see it was a new operator with a rather timid hand. So the message ran:

_To Jacob Ezra Heron:_

Do you still care to hear from an old friend?

Jo.

I answered that very moment:

_To Jo:_

I am dying for news of you. Answer.

Cricket.

Then I asked, “Can you deliver the message to-night?”

“Yes; it has been delivered. I am Jo,” the sounder clicked. “This is confidential. See if any one is on the line.”

I rang off the calls of the hill circuit and got no answer, and knew we had the wire to ourselves.

“Are you an operator?” I asked.

“Yes. I had to have a talk with you, and so here I am, at last.”

“I'd rather talk face to face than with lightning,” I said. “Why can't I go and see you?”

“Not now. Wait a little while,” she answered.

“Why?”

“Well, it's a long story. There's a young man who came here from New York last summer. He's a friend of father's, and knows you. Since they met, my father has asked me not to see or write to you until he could get some information.”

“Who is the young man?”

“Mr. Bonaparte Squares.”

“Oh, it's Bony Squares!” I clicked. “I know him very well.”

“And I know him better than I ever wished to,” she went on. “He has tried to make love to me.”

“Tried to make love to you!” I exclaimed, with indignation. “I cannot believe it. Your father had better get some information about him. Tell him to write to the postmaster of Heartsdale. Any one here or at Mill Pond could tell him all about Bony. He couldn't marry you!”

There was a pause of two or three seconds, and then the sounder answered, timidly:

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn't let him,” I said.

“There's no danger,” she answered.

“Except for Bony,” I flashed back.

I held my ear close to the sounder for fear of missing a word.

“I am too young to think of marriage.”

“Until you have consulted me,” I said. “I know things that you must know before then.”

“I will ask father to write to your postmaster about his friend,” she continued, as if she thought I had things to tell about Bony.

“Don't let them turn you against me,” I urged.

“Don't fear. If I had another horruck I would send it to you.”

“I was never able to read the horruck's riddle,” I said.

“Oh, you didn't know!” she exclaimed. “I thought you meant it for me.”

“I cannot say until I know the message.”

“But I wouldn't dare tell you. It's one thing to say it yourself, and another to speak with the horruck. You must find and study it. Goodnight! My dear old father is dozing here beside me, and doesn't dream that I am talking to you. I feel guilty, but I was afraid that you would come here.”

“Don't say good-night. I'm not half through talking.”

“But we mustn't say everything at once, and he is tired. We'll have another talk. Goodnight!”

I closed the office, and started for my home. As I walked alone in the darkness under the singing wires, I got my first broad view of their mission. My sweetheart and I were miles apart, but that rushing power on the string of metal had almost removed the distance and helped us to understand each other. Would it not, by-and-by, remove seas and continents and make all the races of one mind, and keep them in peace and good-will?

STAGE VI.--MY LAST WEEK ON THE FLYING HORSE

EARL had invented a water-turbine, a dynamo, and a method of producing light by electricity, and many valuable devices, but had been able to patent only two of them. It is curious how, when there is universal need of a thing, men agree, without ever a word between them, that it shall be done, and nothing is so wonderful as the likeness of their energy and inspiration, as the rhythm of their hammer-strokes, the world over.

Pearl, struggling in the privacy of his little shop, was marching, step by step, with the great inventors, and never even suspected it until his best devices were a matter of record in the Patent Office to the credit of other men.

One evening I found him asleep on his bench. A hand hung over the edge, and a letter had dropped from it. His scarred face had a weary look. I turned to leave without disturbing him when he awoke and greeted me.

“Jake, I'm tired,” said he, as he rose, yawning, and began to fill his pipe. “I ain't up to the mark.”

“What's the matter?”

“Had a fall,” he said, passing the letter. “Read that.”

I read the news which had disappointed him, and he said: