Paul Prescott's Charge

“Don’t you feel hungry?” she asked, kindly.

“I dare say you have had no breakfast.”

“I have eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon.”

“Bless my soul! How hungry you must be!” said the good woman, as she bustled about to get a plate of butter and a knife.

She must have been convinced of it by the rapid manner in which the slices of bread and butter disappeared.

At one o’clock the sexton came home. Dinner was laid, and Paul partook of it with an appetite little affected by his lunch of the morning. As he rose from the table, he took his cap, and saying, “Good-by, I thank you very much for your kindness!” he was about to depart.

“Where are you going?” asked the sexton, in surprise.

“I don’t know,” answered Paul.

“Stop a minute. Hester, I want to speak to you.”

They went into the sitting-room together.

“This boy, Hester,” he commenced with hesitation.

“Well, Hugh?”

“He has no home.”

“It is a hard lot.”

“Do you think we should be the worse off if we offered to share our home with him?”

“It is like your kind heart, Hugh. Let us go and tell him.”

“We have been talking of you, Paul,” said the sexton. “We have thought, Hester and myself, that as you had no home and we no child, we should all be the gainers by your staying with us. Do you consent?”

“Consent!” echoed Paul in joyful surprise. “How can I ever repay your kindness?”

“If you are the boy we take you for, we shall feel abundantly repaid. Hester, we can give Paul the little bedroom where—where John used to sleep.”

His voice faltered a little, for John was the name of his boy, who had been drowned.

XVI

YOUNG STUPID

Paul found the sexton’s dwelling very different from his last home, if the Poorhouse under the charge of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge deserved such a name. His present home was an humble one, but he was provided with every needful comfort, and the atmosphere of kindness which surrounded him, gave him a feeling of peace and happiness which he had not enjoyed for a long time.

Paul supposed that he would be at once set to work, and even then would have accounted himself fortunate in possessing such a home.

But Mr. Cameron had other views for him.

“Are you fond of studying?” asked the sexton, as they were all three gathered in the little sitting room, an evening or two after Paul first came.

“Very much!” replied our hero.

“And would you like to go to school?”

“What, here in New York?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, very much indeed.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, my lad. There is nothing like a good education. If I had a son of my own, I would rather leave him that than money, for while the last may be lost, the first never can be. And though you are not my son, Paul, Providence has in a manner conducted you to me, and I feel responsible for your future. So you shall go to school next Monday morning, and I hope you will do yourself much credit there.”

“Thank you very much,” said Paul. “I feel very grateful, but–”

“You surely are not going to object?” said the sexton.

“No, but–”

“Well, Paul, go on,” seeing that the boy hesitated.

“Why,” said our hero, with a sense of delicacy which did him credit, “If I go to school, I shall not be able to earn my board, and shall be living at your expense, though I have no claim upon you.”

“Oh, is that all?” said the sexton cheerfully, “I was afraid that it was something more serious. As to that, I am not rich, and never expect to be. But what little expense you will be will not ruin me. Besides, when you are grown up and doing well, you can repay me, if I ever need it.”

“That I will,” said Paul.

“Mind, if I ever need it,—not otherwise. There, now, it’s a bargain on that condition. You haven’t any other objection,” seeing that Paul still hesitated.

“No, or at least I should like to ask your advice,” said Paul. “Just before my father died, he told me of a debt of five hundred dollars which he had not been able to pay. I saw that it troubled him, and I promised to pay it whenever I was able. I don’t know but I ought to go to work so as to keep my promise.”

“No,” said the sexton after a moment’s reflection, “the best course will be to go to school, at present. Knowledge is power, and a good education will help you to make money by and by. I approve your resolution, my lad, and if you keep it resolutely in mind I have no doubt you will accomplish your object. But the quickest road to success is through the schoolroom. At present you are not able to earn much. Two or three years hence will be time enough.”

Paul’s face brightened as the sexton said this. He instinctively felt that Mr. Cameron was right. He had never forgotten his father’s dying injunction, and this was one reason that impelled him to run away from the Almshouse, because he felt that while he remained he never would be in a situation to carry out his father’s wishes. Now his duty was reconciled with his pleasure, and he gratefully accepted the sexton’s suggestions.

The next Monday morning, in accordance with the arrangement which had just been agreed upon, Paul repaired to school. He was at once placed in a class, and lessons were assigned him.

At first his progress was not rapid. While living in Wrenville he had an opportunity only of attending a country school, kept less than six months in the year, and then not affording advantages to be compared with those of a city school. During his father’s sickness, besides, he had been kept from school altogether. Of course all this lost time could not be made up in a moment. Therefore it was that Paul lagged behind his class.

There are generally some in every school, who are disposed to take unfair advantage of their schoolmates, or to ridicule those whom they consider inferior to themselves.

There was one such in Paul’s class. His name was George Dawkins.

He was rather a showy boy, and learned easily. He might have stood a class above where he was, if he had not been lazy, and depended too much on his natural talent. As it was, he maintained the foremost rank in his class.

“Better be the first man in a village than the second man in Rome,” he used to say; and as his present position not only gave him the pre-eminence which he desired, but cost him very little exertion to maintain, he was quite well satisfied with it.

This boy stood first in his class, while Paul entered at the foot.

He laughed unmercifully at the frequent mistakes of our hero, and jeeringly dubbed him, “Young Stupid.”

“Do you know what Dawkins calls you?” asked one of the boys.

“No. What does he call me?” asked Paul, seriously.

“He calls you ‘Young Stupid.’”

Paul’s face flushed painfully. Ridicule was as painful to him as it is to most boys, and he felt the insult deeply.

“I’d fight him if I were you,” was the volunteered advice of his informant.

“No,” said Paul. “That wouldn’t mend the matter. Besides, I don’t know but he has some reason for thinking so.”

“Don’t call yourself stupid, do you?”

“No, but I am not as far advanced as most boys of my age. That isn’t my fault, though. I never had a chance to go to school much. If I had been to school all my life, as Dawkins has, it would be time to find out whether I am stupid or not.”

“Then you ain’t going to do anything about it?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You said you wasn’t going to fight him.”

“That wouldn’t do any good. But I’m going to study up and see if I can’t get ahead of him. Don’t you think that will be the best way of showing him that he is mistaken?”

“Yes, capital, but–”

“But you think I can’t do it, I suppose,” said Paul.

“You know he is at the head of the class, and you are at the foot.”

“I know that,” said Paul, resolutely. “But wait awhile and see.”

In some way George Dawkins learned that Paul had expressed the determination to dispute his place. It occasioned him considerable amusement.

“Halloa, Young Stupid,” he called out, at recess.

Paul did not answer.

“Why don’t you answer when you are spoken to?” he asked angrily.

“When you call me by my right name,” said Paul, quietly, “I will answer, and not before.”

“You’re mighty independent,” sneered Dawkins. “I don’t know but I may have to teach you manners.”

“You had better wait till you are qualified,” said Paul, coolly.

Dawkins approached our hero menacingly, but Paul did not look in the least alarmed, and he concluded to attack him with words only.

“I understand you have set yourself up as my rival!” he said, mockingly.

“Not just yet,” said Paul, “but in time I expect to be.”

“So you expect my place,” said Dawkins, glancing about him.

“We’ll talk about that three months hence,” said Paul.

“Don’t hurt yourself studying,” sneered Dawkins, scornfully.

To this Paul did not deign a reply, but the same day he rose one in his class.

Our hero had a large stock of energy and determination. When he had once set his mind upon a thing, he kept steadily at work till he accomplished it. This is the great secret of success. It sometimes happens that a man who has done nothing will at once accomplish a brilliant success by one spasmodic effort, but such cases are extremely rare.

“Slow and sure wins the race,” is an old proverb that has a great deal of truth in it.

Paul worked industriously.

The kind sexton and his wife, who noticed his assiduity, strove to dissuade him from working so steadily.

“You are working too hard, Paul,” they said.

“Do I look pale?” asked Paul, pointing with a smile to his red cheeks.

“No, but you will before long.”

“When I am, I will study less. But you know, Uncle Hugh,” so the sexton instructed him to call him, “I want to make the most of my present advantages. Besides, there’s a particular boy who thinks I am stupid. I want to convince him that he is mistaken.”

“You are a little ambitious, then, Paul?”

“Yes, but it isn’t that alone. I know the value of knowledge, and I want to secure as much as I can.”

“That is an excellent motive, Paul.”

“Then you won’t make me study less?”

“Not unless I see you are getting sick.”

Paul took good care of this. He knew how to play as well as to study, and his laugh on the playground was as merry as any. His cheerful, obliging disposition made him a favorite with his companions. Only George Dawkins held out; he had, for some reason, imbibed a dislike for Paul.

Paul’s industry was not without effect. He gradually gained position in his class.

“Take care, Dawkins,” said one of his companions—the same one who had before spoken to Paul—“Paul Prescott will be disputing your place with you. He has come up seventeen places in a month.”

“Much good it’ll do him,” said Dawkins, contemptuously.

“For all that, you will have to be careful; I can tell you that.”

“I’m not in the least afraid. I’m a little too firm in my position to be ousted by Young Stupid.”

“Just wait and see.”

Dawkins really entertained no apprehension. He had unbounded confidence in himself, and felt a sense of power in the rapidity with which he could master a lesson. He therefore did not study much, and though he could not but see that Paul was rapidly advancing, he rejected with scorn the idea that Young Stupid could displace him.

This, however, was the object at which Paul was aiming. He had not forgotten the nickname which Dawkins had given him, and this was the revenge which he sought,—a strictly honorable one.

At length the day of his triumph came. At the end of the month the master read off the class-list, and, much to his disgust, George Dawkins found himself playing second fiddle to Young Stupid.

XVII

BEN’S PRACTICAL JOKE

Mrs. Mudge was in the back room, bending over a tub. It was washing-day, and she was particularly busy. She was a driving, bustling woman, and, whatever might be her faults of temper, she was at least industrious and energetic. Had Mr. Mudge been equally so, they would have been better off in a worldly point of view. But her husband was constitutionally lazy, and was never disposed to do more than was needful.

Mrs. Mudge was in a bad humor that morning. One of the cows had got into the garden through a gap in the fence, and made sad havoc among the cabbages. Now if Mrs. Mudge had a weakness, it was for cabbages. She was excessively fond of them, and had persuaded her husband to set out a large number of plants from which she expected a large crop. They were planted in one corner of the garden, adjoining a piece of land, which, since mowing, had been used for pasturing the cows. There was a weak place in the fence separating the two inclosures, and this Mrs. Mudge had requested her husband to attend to. He readily promised this, and Mrs. Mudge supposed it done, until that same morning, her sharp eyes had detected old Brindle munching the treasured cabbages with a provoking air of enjoyment. The angry lady seized a broom, and repaired quickly to the scene of devastation. Brindle scented the danger from afar, and beat a disorderly retreat, trampling down the cabbages which she had hitherto spared. Leaping over the broken fence, she had just cleared the gap as the broom-handle, missing her, came forcibly down upon the rail, and was snapped in sunder by the blow.

Here was a new vexation. Brindle had not only escaped scot-free, but the broom, a new one, bought only the week before, was broken.

“It’s a plaguy shame,” said Mrs. Mudge, angrily. “There’s my best broom broken; cost forty-two cents only last week.”

She turned and contemplated the scene of devastation. This yielded her little consolation.

“At least thirty cabbages destroyed by that scamp of a cow,” she exclaimed in a tone bordering on despair. “I wish I’d a hit her. If I’d broken my broom over her back I wouldn’t a cared so much. And it’s all Mudge’s fault. He’s the most shiftless man I ever see. I’ll give him a dressing down, see if I don’t.”

Mrs. Mudge’s eyes snapped viciously, and she clutched the relics of the broom with a degree of energy which rendered it uncertain what sort of a dressing down she intended for her husband.

Ten minutes after she had re-entered the kitchen, the luckless man made his appearance. He wore his usual look, little dreaming of the storm that awaited him.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Mrs. Mudge, grimly.

“What’s amiss, now?” inquired Mudge, for he understood her look.

“What’s amiss?” blazed Mrs. Mudge. “I’ll let you know. Do you see this?”

She seized the broken broom and flourished it in his face.

“Broken your broom, have you? You must have been careless.”

“Careless, was I?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically. “Yes, of course, it’s always I that am in fault.”

“You haven’t broken it over the back of any of the paupers, have you?” asked her husband, who, knowing his helpmeet’s infirmity of temper, thought it possible she might have indulged in such an amusement.

“If I had broken it over anybody’s back it would have been yours,” said the lady.

“Mine! what have I been doing?”

“It’s what you haven’t done,” said Mrs. Mudge. “You’re about the laziest and most shiftless man I ever came across.”

“Come, what does all this mean?” demanded Mr. Mudge, who was getting a little angry in his turn.

“I’ll let you know. Just look out of that window, will you?”

“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, innocently, “I don’t see anything in particular.”

“You don’t!” said Mrs. Mudge with withering sarcasm. “Then you’d better put on your glasses. If you’d been here quarter of an hour ago, you’d have seen Brindle among the cabbages.”

“Did she do any harm?” asked Mr. Mudge, hastily.

“There’s scarcely a cabbage left,” returned Mrs. Mudge, purposely exaggerating the mischief done.

“If you had mended that fence, as I told you to do, time and again, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“You didn’t tell me but once,” said Mr. Mudge, trying to get up a feeble defence.

“Once should have been enough, and more than enough. You expect me to slave myself to death in the house, and see to all your work besides. If I’d known what a lazy, shiftless man you were, at the time I married you, I’d have cut off my right hand first.”

By this time Mr. Mudge had become angry.

“If you hadn’t married me, you’d a died an old maid,” he retorted.

This was too much for Mrs. Mudge to bear. She snatched the larger half of the broom, and fetched it down with considerable emphasis upon the back of her liege lord, who, perceiving that her temper was up, retreated hastily from the kitchen; as he got into the yard he descried Brindle, whose appetite had been whetted by her previous raid, re-entering the garden through the gap.

It was an unfortunate attempt on the part of Brindle. Mr. Mudge, angry with his wife, and smarting with the blow from the broomstick, determined to avenge himself upon the original cause of all the trouble. Revenge suggested craft. He seized a hoe, and crept stealthily to the cabbage-plot. Brindle, whose back was turned, did not perceive his approach, until she felt a shower of blows upon her back. Confused at the unexpected attack she darted wildly away, forgetting the gap in the fence, and raced at random over beds of vegetables, uprooting beets, parsnips, and turnips, while Mr. Mudge, mad with rage, followed close in her tracks, hitting her with the hoe whenever he got a chance.

Brindle galloped through the yard, and out at the open gate. Thence she ran up the road at the top of her speed, with Mr. Mudge still pursuing her.

It may be mentioned here that Mr. Mudge was compelled to chase the terrified cow over two miles before he succeeded with the help of a neighbor in capturing her. All this took time. Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge at home was subjected to yet another trial of her temper.

It has already been mentioned that Squire Newcome was Chairman of the Overseers of the Poor. In virtue of his office, he was expected to exercise a general supervision over the Almshouse and its management. It was his custom to call about once a month to look after matters, and ascertain whether any official action or interference was needed.

Ben saw his father take his gold-headed cane from behind the door, and start down the road. He understood his destination, and instantly the plan of a stupendous practical joke dawned upon him.

“It’ll be jolly fun,” he said to himself, his eyes dancing with fun. “I’ll try it, anyway.”

He took his way across the fields, so as to reach the Almshouse before his father. He then commenced his plan of operations.

Mrs. Mudge had returned to her tub, and was washing away with bitter energy, thinking over her grievances in the matter of Mr. Mudge, when a knock was heard at the front door.

Taking her hands from the tub, she wiped them on her apron.

“I wish folks wouldn’t come on washing day!” she said in a tone of vexation.

She went to the door and opened it.

There was nobody there.

“I thought somebody knocked,” thought she, a little mystified. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

She went back to her tub, and had no sooner got her hands in the suds than another knock was heard, this time on the back door.

“I declare!” said she, in increased vexation, “There’s another knock. I shan’t get through my washing to-day.”

Again Mrs. Mudge wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the door.

There was nobody there.

I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had knocked both times, and instantly dodged round the corner of the house.

“It’s some plaguy boy,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing with anger. “Oh, if I could only get hold of him!”

“Don’t you wish you could?” chuckled Ben to himself, as he caught a sly glimpse of the indignant woman.

Meanwhile, Squire Newcome had walked along in his usual slow and dignified manner, until he had reached the front door of the Poorhouse, and knocked.

“It’s that plaguy boy again,” said Mrs. Mudge, furiously. “I won’t go this time, but if he knocks again, I’ll fix him.”

She took a dipper of hot suds from the tub in which she had been washing, and crept carefully into the entry, taking up a station close to the front door.

“I wonder if Mrs. Mudge heard me knock,” thought Squire Newcome. “I should think she might. I believe I will knock again.”

This time he knocked with his cane.

Rat-tat-tat sounded on the door.

The echo had not died away, when the door was pulled suddenly open, and a dipper full of hot suds was dashed into the face of the astonished Squire, accompanied with, “Take that, you young scamp!”

“Wh—what does all this mean?” gasped Squire Newcome, nearly strangled with the suds, a part of which had found its way into his mouth.

“I beg your pardon, Squire Newcome,” said the horrified Mrs. Mudge. “I didn’t mean it.”

“What did you mean, then?” demanded Squire Newcome, sternly. “I think you addressed me,—ahem!—as a scamp.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you,” said Mrs. Mudge, almost out of her wits with perplexity.

“Come in, sir, and let me give you a towel. You’ve no idea how I’ve been tried this morning.”

“I trust,” said the Squire, in his stateliest tone, “you will be able to give a satisfactory explanation of this, ahem—extraordinary proceeding.”

While Mrs. Mudge was endeavoring to sooth the ruffled dignity of the aggrieved Squire, the “young scamp,” who had caused all the mischief, made his escape through the fields.

“Oh, wasn’t it bully!” he exclaimed. “I believe I shall die of laughing. I wish Paul had been here to see it. Mrs. Mudge has got herself into a scrape, now, I’m thinking.”

Having attained a safe distance from the Poorhouse, Ben doubled himself up and rolled over and over upon the grass, convulsed with laughter.

“I’d give five dollars to see it all over again,” he said to himself. “I never had such splendid fun in my life.”

Presently the Squire emerged, his tall dicky looking decidedly limp and drooping, his face expressing annoyance and outraged dignity. Mrs. Mudge attended him to the door with an expression of anxious concern.

“I guess I’d better make tracks,” said Ben to himself, “it won’t do for the old gentleman to see me here, or he may smell a rat.”

He accordingly scrambled over a stone wall and lay quietly hidden behind it till he judged it would be safe to make his appearance.

XVIII

MORE ABOUT BEN

“Benjamin,” said Squire Newcome, two days after the occurrence mentioned in the last chapter, “what made the dog howl so this morning? Was you a doing anything to him?”

“I gave him his breakfast,” said Ben, innocently. “Perhaps he was hungry, and howling for that.”

“I do not refer to that,” said the Squire. “He howled as if in pain or terror. I repeat; was you a doing anything to him?”

Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and looked out of the window.

“I desire a categorical answer,” said Squire Newcome.

“Don’t know what categorical means,” said Ben, assuming a perplexed look.

“I desire you to answer me IMMEGIATELY,” explained the Squire. “What was you a doing to Watch?”

“I was tying a tin-kettle to his tail,” said Ben, a little reluctantly.

“And what was you a doing that for?” pursued the Squire.

“I wanted to see how he would look,” said Ben, glancing demurely at his father, out of the corner of his eye.

“Did it ever occur to you that it must be disagreeable to Watch to have such an appendage to his tail?” queried the Squire.

“I don’t know,” said Ben.

“How should you like to have a tin pail suspended to your—ahem! your coat tail?”

“I haven’t got any coat tail,” said Ben, “I wear jackets. But I think I am old enough to wear coats. Can’t I have one made, father?”

“Ahem!” said the Squire, blowing his nose, “we will speak of that at some future period.”

“Fred Newell wears a coat, and he isn’t any older than I am,” persisted Ben, who was desirous of interrupting his father’s inquiries.

“I apprehend that we are wandering from the question,” said the Squire. “Would you like to be treated as you treated Watch?”

“No,” said Ben, slowly, “I don’t know as I should.”

“Then take care not to repeat your conduct of this morning,” said his father. “Stay a moment,” as Ben was about to leave the room hastily. “I desire that you should go to the post-office and inquire for letters.”

“Yes, sir.”