Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

Finally a light step was heard at the door, and Mr. Cunningham entered the room. He looked from the professor to Bernard, and a smile formed upon his face. He guessed what had occurred.

“Professor Puffer, I believe?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” answered the professor. “May I ask you if you have considered my application?”

“Yes. I should have communicated with you. I have engaged Mr. Brooks to be my traveling companion.”

“Mr. Brooks!” said the professor scornfully. “Are you aware that this boy is under my guardianship?”

“No, I am not.”

“It is true, and he has no right to make any engagement without my permission.”

“Excuse me, but is this the boy of sixteen to whom you referred in your conversation with me the other day?”

“He is.”

“You said that you had been engaged as his traveling companion. You said nothing about being his guardian.”

“I didn’t go into particulars,” replied the professor, who began to see that there would be something to explain.

“You said, however, that he had left you, and had left England with some friends of the family.”

“Ahem! I was mistaken. I have been requested to resume the charge of him.”

“Have you a letter to that effect?”

“Not with me.”

“Your story appears inconsistent. I am convinced that you have no claim upon Bernard. I have engaged him as my companion, and intend to take him with me on my proposed journey.”

“Of what possible use can a boy be to you?”

“That is my affair!” said Walter Cunningham shortly.

“I will not permit him to go with you.”

“What do you propose to do about it?”

“I will appeal to the law.”

“I think, Professor Puffer, the less you have to do with the law the better. Bernard has informed me of a scene on board the Vesta which might expose you to arrest.”

“I don’t understand what he refers to.”

“I refer to your attempt to throw him overboard.”

“Does he say that?” asked the professor in pretended amazement.

“Yes.”

“Then he has told an outrageous falsehood. No such thing ever took place. He is the worst boy I ever met.”

“When you were here before you spoke very differently of him. You said he was a very attractive boy, and you referred to his attachment to you. You said he shed tears at parting from you.”

Bernard burst into a fit of laughter, which only aggravated his old guardian the more.

“He didn’t deserve it. I spoke of him as well as I could, because I did not want to hurt his reputation.”

“Professor Puffer,” said Walter Cunningham, in a tone of disgust, “I am busy this morning, and I will not detain you any longer.”

“I will go,” responded the professor, “but not alone. Bernard Brooks, come with me!”

“I decline,” said Bernard.

“Then I will have recourse to the law.”

“So will I,” retorted Bernard.

“No one will believe your preposterous charge, if that is what you refer to. You have no proof.”

“There you are mistaken. I have the affidavit of Jack Staples, seaman on the Vesta, who saved me from your murderous attack.”

Puffer turned pale. What Bernard said surprised him very much, and he saw at once that such a document would mean danger to him.

“If you want to invoke the law, Professor Puffer, you can do so,” said Mr. Cunningham.

Puffer was discreetly silent. He seized his hat and left the room without bidding farewell to Bernard or Walter Cunningham.

“Your friend has gone, Bernard,” said Cunningham. “I venture to say that he won’t come back. It is certainly a droll circumstance that you and he should have applied for the same situation and that he was refused.”

“You may repent of your choice, Walter.”

“When I do I will tell you. And now, Bernard, I have brought you something.”

As he spoke he drew from his pocket a handsome gold watch and chain.

“I observed that you had no watch,” he said, “and I resolved to supply the deficiency.”

“How can I thank you, Walter?” exclaimed Bernard in joyful excitement. “Of all things it is the one I most desired.”

“You will find it a good one. In such an article as a watch, a cheap one is not desirable. Here is one which you can keep all your life.”

Before leaving London Bernard wrote the following letter to his friend Barclay:

“Dear Nat: You may be desirous of hearing from me. I have not time to go into details. I will say, however, that my New York guardian is no friend of mine, but as well as I can make out, a dangerous enemy. He sent me to England in charge of a man named Puffer – he calls himself Professor Puffer – who tried to throw me overboard one dark night. I escaped from him after reaching London and secured a very advantageous situation as traveling companion to a wealthy young man named Walter Cunningham. We start next week for Italy, and I am very busy making preparations. I will write you from Italy.

“Do you ever see my dear friend Septimus, and is he as sweet and amiable as ever? I didn’t like his father, but I prefer him to Professor Puffer.

“Your sincere friend,

“Bernard Brooks.”

CHAPTER XXVII. A CITIZEN OF NEBRASKA

Three months later Bernard and Mr. Cunningham were domiciled in the Hotel Constance in Rome. They had taken a leisurely course from London, staying three weeks in Paris, visiting the interior of France, and spending some weeks in Switzerland and northern Italy. They had now been two weeks in Rome, and used the time to good advantage in visiting the art galleries and the ruins of the ancient city.

Bernard had enjoyed everything, and had managed to pick up some conversational Italian. To some extent he had acted as courier for Mr. Cunningham, who had always been accustomed to have things done for him. He found Bernard especially useful, as he had dismissed his servant at Milan. The latter was a stiff-necked Englishman, and was continually getting into trouble from his inability to adapt himself to foreigners and foreign ways.

“Are you ready to leave Rome, Bernard?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“Whenever you are,” answered Bernard promptly. “Of course we have not seen all or even a small part of the things worth seeing, but I am tired of sightseeing. I have thought that an independent excursion in our own carriage, not following any prescribed course, but halting where the fancy seizes us, would be enjoyable.”

“I should like nothing better,” said Bernard enthusiastically. “In what direction do you propose to go?”

“In the general direction of Naples.”

“I am told by an American, who is a guest at this hotel, that there are several routes.”

“That is true. I have decided to go by way of Frosinone, San Germano, and Capua. The route is said to be very interesting. I wish you would look up a vetturino and arrange to hire him by the day. Then we shall be able to pursue an independent course.”

“I will do so, Walter. Have you any instructions as to the price?”

“No: you know from the short excursions we have made what is fair and moderate. You may as well select a vettura that is roomy and large enough to accommodate four persons. We don’t want to be cramped, for that will interfere with our enjoyment.”

“And when do you wish to start?”

“To-morrow morning, say at eleven o’clock.”

“Very well. I will attend to it.”

“It is a great comfort to have you with me, Bernard. You take a great deal of trouble off my hands.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. Think how I would be situated if you had not taken me up.”

“I have been well repaid for doing so.”

Bernard engaged a vettura, a traveling carriage, designed for four persons, and in an hour it made its appearance. The vetturino, as the driver is called, was a lithe, slender, dark-complexioned man who answered to the name of Pasquale. What his last name was Bernard did not inquire, as it was sufficient to have a single name to call him by.

“How long will the signor want the vettura?” asked the driver.

“I do not know. We will hire it by the day.”

“And where will the signor wish to go?”

“To Naples, by way of Valmontone and Frosinone. Do you know the route?”

“Si, signor, most assuredly.”

Bernard and Mr. Cunningham seated themselves in the carriage, and they started. They left Rome by the Porta Maggiore, their course being through the Campagna, the dreary and unwholesome tract in the immediate neighborhood of Rome. There was very little to see in the first day’s journey except a ruined aqueduct, which detained them but a short time, and they pushed on to Valmontone, where they arranged to stop over night. The inn was far from satisfactory, and they were not tempted to prolong their stay.

In the evening, as they sat on a bench outside the inn, a man of about fifty, wearing a tall white hat, with an unmistakable American look, walked up to them and removing his hat said: “Gentlemen, I’m glad to see you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Amos Sanderson, and I live about ten miles from Omaha when I’m at home.”

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sanderson,” said Cunningham politely. “I am Walter Cunningham, from London.”

“You don’t mean to say you’re an Englishman,” said Sanderson, in surprise. “You look like an American.”

“Doubtless that is meant as a compliment,” said Cunningham, smiling.

“Well, I never heard any one take offense at being taken for an American.”

“True. I have been in America, and I understand why it is that you Americans are proud of your country. However, if I am not an American, my young friend here, Bernard Brooks, is an American boy.”

“I am glad to meet a fellow countryman, Mr. Sanderson,” remarked Bernard, smiling.

“Well, well, it does seem real good to meet an American boy,” said Mr. Sanderson, his face lighting up. “Shake, Bernard, my boy!” and he extended a muscular hand, which Bernard shook cordially.

“Are you staying at this hotel, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Walter Cunningham.

“Don’t call it a hotel! It doesn’t deserve the name. Call it a tavern. It’s a regular one horse place.”

“Then I am glad we are only going to stop one night.”

“I have been here a day and a half, and it’s the longest day and a half I ever passed.”

“Why did you stay if you didn’t like it?”

“I’ll tell you why. I came here in a small vettura, and I had a quarrel with the vetturino, who tried to cheat. So I sent him off, and was glad to get rid of him, for a man with a more villainous countenance I never saw. I haven’t been able to get another carriage, so here I am. How did you come?”

“By a vettura. We are making the journey in a leisurely way, going as far or as short a distance daily as we choose.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Naples.”

“So am I. Is your vettura a large one?”

“Large enough to hold four persons. We like plenty of room.”

“Then I’ll make you a proposition. Here I am alone – shipwrecked, as it were, on land. If you will let me join your party I’ll pay my share of the expense. In fact, I don’t mind paying more, for I ain’t mean, though I do hate to be imposed upon. Come now, what do you say?”

Walter Cunningham was rather startled by this unexpected proposal from an utter stranger. It jarred somewhat against his British exclusiveness. Still, there was something attractive in the American, rough and unpolished as he was in his manners, and Cunningham felt that he would amuse and interest them. As far as honesty went it would be impossible to suspect Mr. Sanderson. Besides, he looked like a man of substance and not like an adventurer. Walter Cunningham glanced towards Bernard, and thought he read in the boy’s face a desire that the American’s proposal should be accepted.

“I hardly know what to say,” he replied after a pause. “We do not in general care for the companionship of others, and I can hardly be said to have much knowledge of you – our acquaintance being of the briefest.”

“About ten minutes,” said Mr. Sanderson. “That’s true, and I’m afraid it’s cheeky in me to ask you to take me, but I feel sort of drawn to you both, particularly to my young countryman, Bernard.”

“Say no more, Mr. Sanderson. We’ll take you with us as far as Capua, at any rate. There, as it is a large and well known place, you will have no difficulty in making other arrangements.”

“Thank you, squire. You’re a gentleman. You’ll find Amos Sanderson a true friend, that’ll stand by you through thick and thin. If we are attacked by bandits, he won’t run away and leave you in the lurch.”

“Bandits? Surely there is no danger of meeting any of them?”

“Well, squire, I wish there wasn’t, but I don’t feel certain. Only last week a couple of gentlemen were overhauled, and had to pay a good stiff sum to get away.”

“I supposed the bandits had all been driven out of the country.”

“That’s where you are mistaken. There’s people everywhere that find it easier and more agreeable to make money by taking it than by earning it, and I guess Italy has her fair share of such gentry. I’ll tell you a little secret. I quarreled with my vetturino on purpose. His face was a villainous one, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he were in league with some of the bandits.”

“I have heard of such things.”

“Some of these vetturinos” (Mr. Sanderson was not aware that he should have said vetturini) “have brothers or cousins among the bandits and play into their hands. I guess mine was one of that kind.”

“Our vetturino Pasquale seems to be an honest sort of fellow. I should not suspect him of leading us into a trap.”

CHAPTER XXVIII. ITALY SEEN THROUGH AMERICAN SPECTACLES

Still, Mr. Cunningham reflected that in case of an attack it would be convenient to have such an addition to his party as the American, for Amos Sanderson seemed like a brave man, who would have his wits about him and might render valuable assistance.

“Are you traveling on business, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Bernard.

“No; I’ve been pretty lucky, and put by a considerable pile, and my friends told me I ought to see Europe. So I left my business in the hands of my brother, and came over last March.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

“Well, middling well! I can’t get used to their cookery. Why, I haven’t seen a doughnut or eaten a plate of pork and beans since I left America.”

“I never ate a doughnut in my life,” said Walter Cunningham.

“Then you’ve missed a great deal. I reckon Bernard knows how they taste.”

“Oh, I have eaten a great many.”

“The fact is, there’s no country where you can get such good living as in America,” said Amos Sanderson, with patriotic complacency.

Mr. Cunningham smiled, but did not dispute the statement. It is doubtful, however, whether he would have agreed with the man from Nebraska.

Mr. Cunningham was not sorry that he had permitted Amos Sanderson to join his party. The American was singularly ignorant as regards the antiquities of Italy, but he had a shrewd common sense, and his quaint remarks were unintentionally humorous. He always spoke from the point of view of a Western American.

Scattered along the route, or a little distance from it, were the ruins of ancient or medieval buildings, churches, temples, monasteries, and other edifices. Many of these had historical associations. These were quite unknown to Mr. Sanderson, and even where they were explained to him he was not much interested.

“It isn’t creditable to Italy,” he said one day, “to have so many ruined buildings. They’d ought to be repaired when they’re worth it, and when they’re not the best way would be to pull ‘em down.”

“But, my dear sir,” said Walter Cunningham, “it would be a great loss to Italy if your advice were followed. Most travelers come here on purpose to see the ruins.”

“Then I don’t admire their taste.”

“And naturally they bring a great deal of money into Italy. If the ruins were repaired or pulled down they wouldn’t come, and the people would lose a good deal of their income.”

“That’s practical. That’s what I understand. But it seems foolish, after all. When Chicago burned down, a number of years ago, suppose they kept the ruins instead of building up again, everybody would have laughed at them.”

“There were no associations connected with the burned buildings of Chicago.”

“What’s associations, any way? They won’t pay your butcher’s bill.”

“Surely, Mr. Sanderson, if you could see the house once occupied by Julius Cæsar, for instance, you would be interested?”

“I don’t know that I would. Cæsar’s dead and gone, and I don’t believe any way that he was as great a man as General Jackson.”

“I see, Mr. Sanderson, you are hopelessly practical.”

“Yes, I’m practical, and I’m proud of it. There’s some folks that can write poetry, and leave their families to starve, because they can’t earn an honest penny. Why, I knew a man once named John L. Simpkins that could write poetry by the yard. He often writ poems for the Omaha papers, and never got a red cent for it. His folks had to support him, though he was strong and able to work.”

“I shouldn’t have much respect for a poet like that.”

“Nor I. He had a brother, Ephraim Simpkins, that kept a grocery store, and was forehanded. John fell in love with a girl and used to write poetry to her. Everybody thought she’d marry him. But when she found that he didn’t earn more’n three dollars a week she up and married his brother, the grocer, and that showed her to be a girl of sense.” When the travelers reached Ceprano, Mr. Cunningham suggested making an excursion to Isota and Arpino.

“At Isota,” he said, “we shall see the falls of the Liris, and at Arpino we shall see the site of Cicero’s villa.”

“Who was Cicero?” asked Amos Sanderson.

“Surely you must have heard of Cicero?” said Walter Cunningham, in surprise.

“Well, mebbe I have. What did he do?”

“He was a great orator.”

“Did he go to Congress?”

“There was no Congress in Rome. However, he was a consul – that is, one of the two rulers or presidents of Rome.”

“I’ll bet he couldn’t talk as well as Joseph L. Higgins, of Omaha. Why, that man can get up in a meeting and talk you deaf, dumb, and blind. The words will flow like a cataract.”

“I don’t think Cicero could talk like that,” said Bernard, smiling, “but I have read some of his orations, and they were very eloquent.”

“I’d like to match Joseph L. Higgins against him. I’d like to hear a specimen of Cicero’s speeches and judge for myself.”

“Here is a specimen,” said Bernard – “the beginning of his speech against Catiline: ‘Quousque tandem abntere Catilina patientia nostra.’”

“Why, that’s nothing but gibberish,” said Amos, in great disgust. “If Joseph L. Higgins should talk like that the people would fire bad eggs at him.”

“I hope you don’t object to visiting Cicero’s villa, Mr. Sanderson?”

“Oh, no, I’m ready to go wherever you and Bernard do. I suppose I must do the same as other people.”

“Your minister at home will be very much interested when you tell him you have visited the house where Cicero lived.”

“Do you think he ever heard of Cicero?”

“Oh, yes, all educated men have heard of him.”

“Then, I’ll take particular notice of it, and describe it to him.”

When they reached Cicero’s villa, however, Mr. Sanderson was not favorably impressed by it.

“For a president of Rome,” he said, “Cicero didn’t live very well. Why, for twenty-five dollars month he could get a house in Omaha with all the modern conveniences that would beat this by a long shot.”.

“They didn’t have modern conveniences at that time, Mr. Sanderson.”

“Then, I’m glad I didn’t live in them days. Give me the solid comfort of an Omaha house rather than all these marble pillars and ancient fandangos.”

“I am inclined to agree with you there, Mr. Sanderson,” said the young Englishman, laughing. “I enjoy seeing the remains of ancient edifices, but I think myself I should rather live in a nice English or American house.”

“From all I can see,” continued the American, “I’d rather be an alderman in Omaha than the biggest man in old Rome. Did they speak English?”

“No; English was not known.”

“How did they talk, then?”

“You haven’t forgotten the few words Bernard recited from one of Cicero’s orations?”

“No.”

“That was Latin, the language that was spoken at that time.”

“It’s the most foolish kind of gibberish I ever heard. There ain’t no language like English.”

“I prefer it myself to any other.”

“I should say so. I heard two Frenchmen jabbering the other day, shrugging their shoulders and waving their arms like windmills. It seemed awfully foolish.”

“They think their language much finer than English.”

“Then, they must be fools,” said Amos Sanderson scornfully. “Why, it made me think of monkeys, by hokey, it did!”

“Where did you receive your education, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Cunningham curiously.

“I went to a deestrict school till I was eleven. Then my father died, and I had to hustle. Didn’t have any time to study after that.”

“That’s the way most of your great men began, Mr. Sanderson.”

“I expect they did. Education isn’t everything. Why, the boy that stood at the head of my class is a clerk at fifteen dollars a week, while I have an income of fifteen thousand. He’s got a lot of book knowledge, but it hasn’t done him much good.”

This conversation will give some idea of the American’s peculiar ways of regarding everything foreign to his own experience. He could not like the Italian ruins, and this was not surprising. The inns on the route which they had selected were uncommonly poor, and the cookery was such as might have been expected from the comfortless surroundings.

One morning, however, Bernard and Mr. Cunningham were agreeably surprised by an excellent dish of ham and eggs.

“Really,” said Cunningham. “This seems something like what we get in England.”

“Or in America,” suggested Amos.

“Yes, or in America.”

“They must have an unusually good cook in this inn.”

“Thank you, squire,” said Sanderson, who seemed very much amused at something. “You do me proud.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I cooked the breakfast.”

“You!” exclaimed Cunningham and Bernard, in concert.

“Yes; I went out into the kitchen and scraped acquaintance with one of the understrappers who knows a little English, and I offered a piaster for the privilege of cooking the ham and eggs. They accepted the offer, and gave me what I needed. So here you see the result.”

“We missed you during the last half hour, but had no idea you were getting our breakfast Really, Mr. Sanderson, you have quite a genius for cookery.”

“I guess I could make a good living as a cook if I had to. Any way, if I couldn’t cook better than them furriners I’d be ashamed of myself.”

“I hope this isn’t the last time we are indebted to your skill.”

“Well, I don’t think I’d be willing to do it regular. It would be too much like work.”

Apart from the poor hotels the travelers enjoyed their leisurely journey. Sometimes they proceeded only fifteen miles a day. The trip was pleasant, but not exciting. The excitement was to come.

CHAPTER XXIX. CAPTURED BY BANDITTI

Though on joining the party Amos Sanderson had spoken of the possibility of encountering banditti, his companions had scarcely given a thought to the subject since. In the scenes of beauty through which they were passing such a possibility seemed incongruous, and no apprehension was felt. But danger there was, notwithstanding.

They had spent the night at a wretched inn in the town of Melfa, and proceeding on their way, passed on the left the picturesque town of Rocca Secca. About a mile beyond they were startled by the sudden appearance of three dark and swarthy Italians, who, darting from a clump of bushes at the wayside, seized one of the horses by the bridle, and pointing pistols at the party, called out in English in a menacing tone, “Money!”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” exclaimed the American, “here’s the banditti sure enough!”

Walter Cunningham looked troubled. It was a very disagreeable interruption.

“Look here, gentlemen bandits,” said Amos, “we haven’t any money to spare. We are only poor travelers. You have made a mistake. There’s some rich gentlemen on the road who will be here about this time to-morrow. You’d better wait for them.”