Полная версияJack the Hunchback: A Story of Adventure on the Coast of Maine
A piece of court plaster fully half as large as Jack's hand was placed over the scratch on his right cheek, another upon a small cut just in front of his left ear, while a quantity of brown paper thoroughly saturated with vinegar covered his eye and a goodly portion of his forehead.
This last was tied on with a handkerchief knotted in such a manner as to allow the two ends to stick straight up like the ears of a deformed rabbit.
During this operation Louis laughed in glee. It was to him the jolliest kind of sport to see his guardian thus transformed into a girl, and even Aunt Nancy herself could not repress a smile when she gazed at the woe-begone looking boy who appeared to have just come from some desperate conflict.
"I s'pose I look pretty rough, don't I?" Jack asked with a faint attempt at a smile. "I feel like as if I'd been broke all to pieces an' then patched up ag'in."
"It isn't as bad as it might be," Aunt Nancy replied guardedly; "but out here where we don't see any one it doesn't make much difference, and to run around this way a few hours is better than being sick for a week."
"I reckon I can stand it if you can," Jack said grimly, "but I don't think I want to fix fences in this rig. Them fellers would think I'd put on these things so they wouldn't know me."
"No indeed, you mustn't leave the house even when your clothes are dry, until I have seen that Dean boy's father."
"You ain't goin' to tell him about their poundin' me, are you?" Jack asked quickly.
"Of course I am. You don't suppose for a single moment that I intend to run the chances of your being beaten to death by them! If Mr. Dean can't keep his boy at home I'll – I'll – I don't know what I will do."
"Seems to me it would be better not to say anything about it," Jack replied hesitatingly. "If we go to tellin' tales, them fellers will think I'm afraid, an' be sure to lay for me whenever I go out."
"I'm not going to tell any tales; but I intend to see if it isn't possible for me to have a decent, well-behaved boy around this place without his being obliged to fight a lot of disreputable characters such as some we've got in the neighborhood."
This is not the time for Jack to make any vehement protests, lest Aunt Nancy should be provoked because of his persistency, and he changed the subject of conversation by broaching the matter which occupied all his thoughts.
"That Mr. Pratt what tried to send Louis an' me to the poor farm drove past here with Tom jest before them fellers tackled me, an' I heard him say he was lookin' for us."
"Mercy on me!" Aunt Nancy exclaimed as she pushed the spectacles back from her nose to her forehead and peered down the lane much as if expecting to see the farmer and his son in the immediate vicinity. "Why is he so possessed to send you to the poorhouse?"
"That's what I don't know," Jack replied with a sigh; "but he's after us, an' if he once gets his eye on me, the thing is settled."
"He has no more right to bother you than I have, and not half as much. According to your story, he didn't even take the trouble to give you a decent meal, and I'll soon let him know he can't carry you away from here."
"But how'll you prevent it if he starts right in an' begins to lug us off? He's stronger'n you an' me put together, an' if he's come all this distance there won't be much stoppin' for anything you'll say to him, I'm afraid. Now don't you think it would be better to tell him I wasn't here?"
"Mercy on us, Jack! How could I do that when you are here?"
"Well, you wouldn't like to have him lug us off if you knew we'd got to go to the poorhouse, would you? 'Cause neither Louis nor me ever did anything to you, or to him either."
"But you sha'n't go there, my dear child. So long as I am willing to keep you here, I don't see what business it is of his, or anybody else's."
"It seems as though he was makin' it his business," Jack replied disconsolately; for he was now beginning to despair of persuading Aunt Nancy to tell a lie. "If you'd say we wasn't here, that would settle it, and he wouldn't stay."
"But I can't, Jack; I can't tell an absolute falsehood."
Jack gave vent to a long-drawn sigh as he looked toward the baby for a moment, and then said, —
"Well, I didn't s'pose you would do it anyhow, so Louis an' me'll have to start off, 'cause I won't go to that poor farm if I have to walk every step of the way to New York an' carry the baby besides."
"I don't see why you should talk like that, my child. In the first place, there is no reason for believing that hard-hearted man will come here, and – "
"Oh, yes, there is!" and Jack repeated the conversation he had overheard while hiding in the alder-bushes. "When he finds out we haven't been to Biddeford, he'll ask at every house on the way back."
"Do you really think he would try to take you if I said to him in a very severe tone that I would have him prosecuted for attempting anything of the kind?"
"I don't believe you could scare him a bit, an' there isn't much chance you'd be able to stop him after he's come so far to find us."
"But I can't have you leave me, Jack," the little woman said in a quavering voice. "You have no idea how much I've been countin' on your company."
"You won't feel half so bad as I shall to go," Jack replied mournfully.
"But it is out of the question to even think of walking all that distance."
"It's got to be done jest the same, an' as soon as my clothes are dried we'll start. Things will come mighty tough; but they can't be helped."
Aunt Nancy looked thoroughly distressed, and there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes as she asked, —
"How would it do to lock the doors, and refuse to come down when he knocked?"
Jack shook his head.
"I don't believe it would work."
"No, it mustn't be thought of, for then we should be acting a lie, which is almost, if not quite, as bad as telling one."
"How do you make that out?" Jack asked in surprise.
"We shouldn't lock the doors unless it was to give him the impression that there was no one at home, which would be a falsehood."
The expression on Jack's face told that he failed to understand either the argument or the spirit which prompted it, and for several moments no word was spoken.
Then, as a happy thought occurred to him, the boy said eagerly, —
"I'll tell you how it could be done without any lie at all, an' everything would go along as slick as grease."
"How?" Aunt Nancy asked quickly, as a look of relief passed over her face.
"I'll watch up the road a piece till I see the team comin'. Then I'll run back here, get Louis, an' carry him off somewhere."
"Well?" the little woman asked as he paused.
"Why, can't you see how easy it'll be then? You'll only have to tell him you don't know where we are, an' he'll be bound to leave."
"But, Jack dear, I should know where you were."
"How do you make that out?"
"You wouldn't leave the farm, an' while I – "
"That's jest what you don't know. I didn't tell you where we'd go. It would be the same thing if we left for New York this minute; you might think we was on the road somewhere; but that wouldn't make it so."
Aunt Nancy remained silent, and although he did not believe she was convinced, Jack fancied there was a look of hesitation on her face as if she might be persuaded into complying with his request, therefore he added eagerly, —
"You want us to stay here, an' – "
"Indeed I do!" the little woman replied fervently. "I never knew a boy who seemed so much like our own folks as you do, and since last night it has been a great relief to think I should have you with me this summer."
"And if Mr. Pratt knows we're anywhere around, he'll snake us away for certain."
"I don't understand how that can be done, Jack."
"Neither do I; but he has come to do it, an' you can't stop him. Now I'll promise to go where you'd never guess of our bein', an' then there wouldn't be the least little bit of a lie in sayin' you didn't know."
"I would do almost anything for the sake of keeping you here, Jack, except to commit a sin."
"This way you won't be doin' anything of the kind. I reckon my clothes are dry now, an' I'd better put 'em on so's to be ready to watch for Mr. Pratt."
Then Jack hurried off as if the matter had been positively settled.
Aunt Nancy gazed after him with an expression of mingled pain and perplexity on her wrinkled face, and just then Louis crept to her knee, begging in his odd language to be taken on her lap.
"You dear little creature!" she cried, pressing him to her bosom while he chattered and laughed. "It would be cruel to send you among the paupers, when a lonely old woman like me loves you so much!"
Jack looked back just in time to see this picture, and there was no longer any doubt in his mind but that Aunt Nancy would accede to his request.
Five minutes later he returned clad in his own garments, which looked considerably the worse for the hasty drying, and said as he ran swiftly past the little woman, —
"Don't let Louis go into the house, for I'll want to get hold of him in a hurry!"
Aunt Nancy began to make some remark; but he was moving so swiftly that the words were unheard, and the old lady said to herself with a long-drawn sigh as she pressed the baby yet more closely, —
"I'm afraid it is wrong to do as he wishes; but how can I allow cruel men to take this dear child from me, when I know he will not be cared for properly?"
Then she began to think the matter over more calmly, and each moment it became clearer to her mind that by acceding to Jack's request she would be evading the truth, if not absolutely telling a lie.
"I can't do it," she said, kissing the baby affectionately. "Much as I shall grieve over them, it is better they should go than for me to do what I know to be wrong."
Having thus decided, she hurried up the lane to warn Jack; but before reaching the road the boy was met coming at full speed.
"Mr. Pratt has just shown up at the top of the hill; he's stoppin' at the house over there! I'll get Louis and hide."
"But, Jack dear, I have been thinking this matter over, and I can't even act a lie."
"Why didn't you say so before, when I had a chance to get away?" he cried reproachfully. "By lettin' me think you'd do it, you've got us into a reg'lar trap!"
The boy did not wait to hear her reply, but ran to where Louis was seated contentedly on the grass, raised him in his arms and disappeared behind the barn, leaving the little woman feeling very much like a culprit.
Chapter VII
FARMER PRATT
Aunt Nancy was now in a fine state of perplexity.
Jack's reproachful tone had cut very deeply, and she began to consider herself responsible for all which might happen because of not having warned him in time.
"I'm a wicked woman," she said, wringing her hands distractedly, "and accountable for all that happens now. Why was I so weak as not to give the dear boy a decided answer when he came from the barn?"
Then she ran to the bars and called after Jack in a whisper; but if any one had asked why she wanted him to come back just at that time, she could not have explained.
Returning to the old oak, she was about to sit down again when the rattle of wheels told that Farmer Pratt was near at hand.
Hardly aware of what she did, the little woman went hurriedly into the house, and there awaited what must necessarily be a very painful interview.
A few moments later the man whom Jack looked upon as a merciless enemy knocked at the door, and Aunt Nancy said feebly, "Come in."
Farmer Pratt entered without very much ceremony, and as the little woman gazed at his face she fancied, probably from what Jack had told her, that it was possible to see covetousness and hard-heartedness written on every feature.
He did not remove his hat, but stood in the centre of the floor, whip in hand, as he said, —
"Mornin' ma'am, mornin'. I'm from Scarborough, an' my name is Nathan Pratt. P'rhaps you've heard of me."
Aunt Nancy was about to say she never had, meaning that her neighbors never had spoken of him as a person of importance; but she checked herself on remembering this would be a falsehood because of what Jack had said.
"I have heard the name," she replied faintly.
"I thought so, I thought so. I've lived, man an' boy, in Scarborough for nigh on to fifty years, an' when that's been done without givin' anybody a chance to say a word agin me, except that I want my own, as other folks do, then it would be kinder strange if I wasn't known within a dozen miles of home."
"Was that all you came here to say?" Aunt Nancy asked.
"Of course not, – of course not"; and the farmer seated himself without waiting for an invitation. "The fact of the matter is, ma'am, I'm huntin' for a couple of children what drifted ashore on my place the other day. One of 'em was a hunchback, an' I must say he is bad, for after eatin' all the food in my house that he an' the young one wanted, he run away, leavin' me in the lurch."
"I don't suppose they stole it, did they?" and Aunt Nancy spoke very sharply, for it made her angry to hear such things said about Jack.
"No, it wasn't exactly that," and the farmer hesitated, as if to give her the impression something equally wrong had been done by the boy; "but as a citizen of the town I don't want it said we let a couple of youngsters run around loose like calves."
"What do you intend to do with them?" the little woman asked severely.
Farmer Pratt had no idea of telling a secret which he believed would be worth at least an hundred dollars to him, and by keeping it he again defeated himself.
"They oughter be carried to the poor farm till we can find out who owns 'em. You see I'm as big a tax-payer as there is in Scarborough, an' if any other town takes care of the children, we're likely to be sued for the cost of keepin'. Now I don't believe in goin' to law, for it's dreadful expensive, so I've come out to save myself an' my neighbors what little money I can."
If Farmer Pratt had told the truth, Aunt Nancy would have done all in her power to aid him, and Jack could not but have rejoiced, although the farmer received a rich reward; but by announcing what was a false proposition, he aroused the little woman's wrath.
She no longer remembered that it was wrong even to act a lie, and thought only of the possibility that those whom she had learned to love were really to be taken to the refuge for paupers, if her visitor should be so fortunate as to find them.
"It seems hard to put children in such a place," she said, with an effort to appear calm.
"That's only prejudice, ma'am, sheer prejudice. What do we keep up sich institoots for? Why, to prevent one man from bein' obleeged to spend more'n another when a lot of beggars come around."
"And yet it seems as if almost any one would be willing to feed a couple of children who were lost."
"There's where you are makin' a mistake ag'in, ma'am. Youngsters eat more'n grown folks, an' I know what I'm talkin' about, 'cause I've raised a family. Heaven helps them as helps themselves, an' when we find two like the one I'm huntin' for, then I say since heaven won't take a hand at it, the town should."
Aunt Nancy remained silent, but those who knew her intimately would have said, because of the manner in which she moved her chair to and fro, that the little woman was struggling very hard to "rule her spirit."
"I don't reckon you know anything about 'em, ma'am," Farmer Pratt said after a long pause, during which Aunt Nancy had rocked violently, with her gaze fixed upon an overbold honey bee who was intent on gathering the sweets from a honeysuckle blossom which the wind had forced through the open window.
"I know this much," she replied with vehemence, "that I hope you won't find the children if it is simply to carry them to the poor farm. We are told of the reward which – "
"Who said anything about a reward?" the farmer asked in alarm, fearing that which he wished should remain a secret was already known.
"The Book tells us what shall be the reward of those who give a cup of cold water only to these His little ones – "
"Oh! is that it?" and the visitor appeared greatly relieved. "I count myself about as good as my neighbors, but when it comes to keepin' a parcel of children, after I've paid my taxes to run a place especially for sich as they, then I say it's a clear waste of money, an' that's as much of a sin as anything else."
"We won't argue the matter," the little woman replied with dignity, "but I hope the time will never come that I, poor as I am, can count the pennies in a dollar when it is a question of giving aid or comfort to the distressed."
"Since you haven't seen the youngsters, there's no need of my stayin' any longer, ma'am, but it does seem funny that nobody has run across 'em, when I heard for a fact that they'd come up this road."
Aunt Nancy knew full well that by remaining silent now, she was giving the visitor to understand she knew nothing about the missing ones; but just at the moment she would have told a deliberate lie rather than give Jack and Louis up to such a man, however much she might have regretted it afterward.
"Of course there's no harm in my askin' the questions," Farmer Pratt said as he moved toward the door, feeling decidedly uncomfortable in mind because of the little woman's sharp words.
"Certainly not; but at the same time I am sorry you came."
"Why, ma'am?"
"Because I have learned how hard-hearted men can be when it is a question of a few dollars. If the children should come to me, they would be given a home, such as it is, until their relatives could be found."
"If they should come, I warn you that it is your duty to let me know, for they drifted ashore on my property, an' I've got the first claim."
This was rather more than meek little Aunt Nancy could endure; but she succeeded in checking the angry words, and rose from her chair to intimate that the interview was at an end.
Farmer Pratt went out very quickly, probably fearing he might hear more unpalatable truths, and the old lady watched him until he drove away.
"It was wicked, but I'm glad I did it!" she said emphatically. "The idea of hunting up such children as Jack and Louis simply to send them among paupers!"
Not for many moments did the little woman remain in this frame of mind.
After a time she began to realize that she had done exactly what she told Jack would be impossible – acted a lie, and her conscience began to trouble her greatly.
She tried to read a chapter in the Book with the hope of finding something to comfort her, and, failing in this, her thoughts went out to the children who had left so suddenly.
"Mercy on us!" she exclaimed. "Suppose Jack really has gone away, believing I would tell that man all I knew about him!"
This idea was sufficient to arouse her to action, and she went behind the barn, where she called softly, —
"Jack! Jack! Where are you?"
Not until this very feeble outcry had been repeated half a dozen times did she receive any reply, and then the hunchback, with Louis clasped in his arms, peered out from among the bushes.
"Has the farmer gone?" he asked in a whisper.
"Indeed he has."
"And you didn't tell him where we was?"
"He never asked the question; but all the same, Jack dear, I did wrong in allowing him to suppose I knew nothing about you."
"You're the sweetest aunt any feller ever had," the hunchback said heartily as he came swiftly up and kissed one of the old lady's wrinkled hands before she was aware of his intentions. "I couldn't believe you wanted us taken to the poorhouse, so I didn't go very far off."
"I almost wish I hadn't done it, for – No, I don't either! After talking with that wretch it would have broken my heart to see him take you away! Give me the baby this minute; it seems as if I hadn't seen him for a week."
Jack willingly relinquished his charge to the motherly arms extended to receive the laughing child, and said, as Aunt Nancy almost smothered Louis with kisses, —
"You sha'n't ever be sorry for what you have done. I'll work awful hard, an' take care of the baby whenever you've got somethin' else to do."
"I know you are a good boy, Jack, and I wouldn't undo what's been done if I could; but at the same time my conscience will reproach me, for I realize that I acted wickedly."
So far as the sin was concerned, Jack did not think it of great importance, and wondered not a little that as good a woman as Aunt Nancy should attach so much importance to what, in his mind at least, was nothing more than a charitable act.
He took care not to give expression to his thoughts, however, and led the way back to the old oak-tree, where he said, —
"You sit down here awhile, an' I'll go out to make certain that man has gone. It might be he's waitin' 'round somewhere to find whether we're really here."
"I don't think there is any danger of that," Aunt Nancy replied as she seated herself on the bench and fondled Louis until the little fellow was tired of caresses.
Jack could not be comfortable in mind unless positive his enemy had left the vicinity, and he walked quite a long distance up the road before convincing himself of the fact.
When he returned the desire to make himself necessary to the little woman was stronger than ever, and he proposed to finish the work of fence mending at once.
"Better wait till after dinner now that it is so near noon," she said. "We'll have a quiet talk, and then I will start the fire."
"Is it about Farmer Pratt you want to say something?"
"No, we'll try to put him out of our minds. It is the baby."
"What's the matter with him?"
"He must have another frock and some clothes. These are very dirty, and I'm afraid he'd take cold if I should wash them at night, and put them on again in the morning."
"Haven't you got an old dress like the one I wore? By pinnin' it up he'd get along all right."
"Indeed he wouldn't, Jack. Boys can't be expected to know what a child needs; but it puzzles me how to get the material from the store."
"What's the matter with my goin' after it?"
"It is a very long distance – more than four miles away."
"That's all right; I walked a good deal farther the day I came here. Jest say what you want, an' I'll go after it now."
"Do you really think you could get back before sunset?"
"I'm certain of it, providin' I don't wait for dinner."
"But you must have something to eat, Jack dear."
"I can take a slice of bread and butter in my hand, an' that'll last me more'n four miles."
"I have half a mind to let you go," Aunt Nancy said as if to herself, and Jack insisted so strongly that she finally decided he should do the shopping.
Not one, but half a dozen slices of bread were spread thickly with butter as a dinner for the messenger, and then the little woman wrote on a slip of paper the different articles she needed.
"You must see that Mr. Treat gives you exactly what I've asked for," she said as she read the list, and explained what the texture or color of each article should be. "Watch him closely, and be sure he makes the right change."
Then she gave him the most minute directions as to the road, the time which should be occupied in the journey, and the manner the goods were to be brought home.
A basket was provided for the purchases, and Aunt Nancy said as she gave Jack a ten-dollar note, —
"Tie that in your handkerchief so's to be sure not to lose it, Jack dear, for it's a great deal of money to a lone woman like me."
He promised to be careful, and kissed the baby good by.
Aunt Nancy leaned over for the same salute, and when it had been given she said in a sorrowful tone, —
"It is a deal of comfort to have you with me, Jack; but I do wish I had been bold enough to tell that man the truth, and then refused to let you go with him."
"It's lucky you didn't, Aunt Nancy, for he'd been bound to have us any way."
Then Jack walked swiftly down the daisy-embroidered lane, thinking he was a very fortunate boy indeed in having found such a good friend as the sweet-faced old lady.
Chapter VIII
A SECOND WARNING
True to his promise, Jack returned before the sun was very low in the western sky, and Aunt Nancy expressed the greatest surprise at seeing him so soon.