“Some day I’ll be revenged on you for this,” said John, turning wrathfully upon Frank. “Perhaps you think I don’t mean it, but the day will come when you’ll remember what I say.”
“I wish you no harm, John,” said Frank composedly, “but I sha’n’t stand by and see you beat a boy like Pomp.”
“No,” said the farmer sternly; “and if ever I hear of your doing it, I’ll horsewhip you till you beg for mercy. Now go home, and carry your disgrace with you.”
Mr. Maynard spoke contemptuously, but with decision, and pointed up the road.
With smothered wrath John obeyed his order, because he saw that it would not be safe to refuse.
“I’ll come up with him yet,” he muttered to himself, as he walked quietly toward home. “If he doesn’t rue this day, my name isn’t John Haynes.”
John did not see fit to make known the circumstances of his quarrel with Frank, feeling, justly, that neither his design nor the result would reflect any credit upon himself. But his wrath was none the less deep because he brooded over it in secret. He would have renewed his attempt upon Pomp, but there was something in Mr. Maynard’s eye which assured him that his threat would be carried out. Frank, solicitous for the little fellow’s safety, kept vigilant watch over him for some days, but no violence was attempted. He hoped John had forgotten his threats.
CHAPTER XII. A LETTER FROM THE CAMP
The little family at the Frost farm looked forward with anxious eagerness to the first letter from the absent father.
Ten days had elapsed when Frank was seen hurrying up the road with something in his hand.
Alice saw him first, and ran in, exclaiming, “Mother, I do believe Frank has got a letter from father. He is running up the road.”
Mrs. Frost at once dropped her work, no less interested than her daughter, and was at the door just as Frank, flushed with running, reached the gate.
“What’ll you give me for a letter?” he asked triumphantly.
“Give it to me quick,” said Mrs. Frost. “I am anxious to learn whether your father is well.”
“I guess he is, or he wouldn’t have written such a long letter.”
“How do you know it’s long?” asked Alice. “You haven’t read it.”
“I judge from the weight. There are two stamps on the envelope. I was tempted to open it, but, being directed to mother, I didn’t venture.”
Mrs. Frost sat down, and the children gathered round her, while she read the following letter:
“CAMP –, Virginia.
“DEAR MARY: When I look about me, and consider the novelty and strangeness of my surroundings, I can hardly realize that it is only a week since I sat in our quiet sitting-room at the farm, with you and our own dear ones around me. I will try to help your imagination to a picture of my present home.
“But first let me speak of my journey hither.
“It was tedious enough, traveling all day by rail. Of course, little liberty was allowed us. Military discipline is rigid, and must be maintained. Of its necessity we had a convincing proof at a small station between Hartford and New Haven. One of our number, who, I accidentally learned, is a Canadian, and had only been tempted to enlist by the bounty, selected a seat by the door of the car. I had noticed for some time that he looked nervous and restless, as if he had something on his mind.
“At one of our stopping-places—a small, obscure station—he crept out of the door, and, as he thought, unobserved, dodged behind a shed, thinking, no doubt, that the train would go off without him. But an officer had his eye upon him, and a minute afterward he was ignominiously brought back and put under guard. I am glad to say that his case inspired no sympathy. To enlist, obtain a bounty, and then attempt to evade the service for which the bounty was given, is despicable in the extreme. I am glad to know that no others of our company had the least desire to follow this man’s example.
“We passed through New York, Philadelphia, and Washington, but I can give you little idea of either of these cities. The time we passed in each was mostly during the hours of darkness, when there was little opportunity of seeing anything.
“In Washington I was fortunate enough to see our worthy President. We were marching down Pennsylvania Avenue at the time. On the opposite side of the street we descried a very tall man, of slender figure, walking thoughtfully along, not appearing to notice what was passing around him.
“The officer in command turned and said: ‘Boys, look sharp. That is Abraham Lincoln, across the way.’
“Of course, we all looked eagerly toward the man of whom we had heard so much.
“I could not help thinking how great a responsibility rests upon this man—to how great an extent the welfare and destinies of our beloved country depend upon his patriotic course.
“As I noticed his features, which, plain as they are, bear the unmistakable marks of a shrewd benevolence, and evince also, as I think, acute and original powers of mind, I felt reassured. I could not help saying to myself: ‘This man is at least honest, and if he does not carry us in safety through this tremendous crisis, it will not be for the lack of an honest determination to do his duty.’
“And now let me attempt to give you a picture of our present situation, with some account of the way we live.
“Our camp may appropriately be called ‘Hut Village.’ Imagine several avenues lined with square log huts, surmounted by tent-coverings. The logs are placed transversely, and are clipped at the ends, so as to fit each other more compactly. In this way the interstices are made much narrower than they would otherwise be. These, moreover, are filled in with mud, which, as you have probably heard, is a staple production of Virginia. This is a good protection against the cold, though it does not give our dwellings a very elegant appearance.
“Around most of our huts shallow trenches are dug, to carry off the water, thus diminishing the dampness. Most of the huts are not floored, but mine, fortunately, is an exception to the general rule. My comrades succeeded in obtaining some boards somewhere, and we are a little in advance of our neighbors in this respect.
“Six of us are lodged in a tent. It is pretty close packing, but we don’t stand upon ceremony here. My messmates seem to be pleasant fellows. I have been most attracted to Frank Grover; a bright young fellow of eighteen. He tells me that he is an only son, and his mother is a widow.
“‘Wasn’t your mother unwilling to have you come out here?’ I asked him one day.
“‘No,’ he answered, ‘not unwilling. She was only sorry for the necessity. When I told her that I felt it to be my duty, she told me at once to go. She said she would never stand between me and my country.’
“‘You must think of her often,’ I said.
“‘All the time,’ he answered seriously, a thoughtful expression stealing over his young face. ‘I write to her twice a week regular, and sometimes oftener. For her sake I hope my life may be spared to return.’
“‘I hope so, too,’ I answered warmly. Then after a minute’s silence, I added from some impulse: ‘Will you let me call you Frank? I have a boy at home, not many years younger than you. His name is Frank also—it will seem to remind me of him.’
“‘I wish you would,’ he answered, his face lighting up with evident pleasure. ‘Everybody calls me Frank at home, and I am tired of being called Grover.’
“So our compact was made. I shall feel a warm interest in this brave boy, and I fervently hope that the chances of war will leave him unscathed.
“I must give you a description of Hiram Marden, another of our small company, a very different kind of person from Frank Grover. But it takes all sorts of characters to make an army, as well as a world, and Marden is one of the oddities. Imagine a tall young fellow, with a thin face, lantern jaws, and long hair ‘slicked’ down on either side. Though he may be patriotic, he was led into the army from a different cause. He cherished an attachment for a village beauty, who did not return his love. He makes no concealment of his rebuff, but appears to enjoy discoursing in a sentimental way upon his disappointment. He wears such an air of meek resignation when he speaks of his cruel fair one that the effect is quite irresistible, and I find it difficult to accord him that sympathy which his unhappy fate demands. Fortunately for him, his troubles, deep-seated as they are, appear to have very little effect upon his appetite. He sits down to his rations with a look of subdued sorrow upon his face, and sighs frequently between the mouthfuls. In spite of this, however, he seldom leaves anything upon his tin plate, which speaks well for his appetite, since Uncle Sam is a generous provider, and few of us do full justice to our allowance.
“You may wonder how I enjoy soldier’s fare. I certainly do long sometimes for the good pumpkin and apple pies which I used to have at home, and confess that a little apple sauce would make my hardtack a little more savory. I begin to appreciate your good qualities as a housekeeper, Mary, more than ever. Pies can be got of the sutler, but they are such poor things that I would rather do without than eat them, and I am quite sure they would try my digestion sorely.
“There is one very homely esculent which we crave in the camp—I mean the onion. It is an excellent preventive of scurvy, a disease to which our mode of living particularly exposes us. We eat as many as we can get, and should be glad of more. Tell Frank he may plant a whole acre of them. They will require considerable care, but even in a pecuniary way they will pay. The price has considerably advanced since the war began, on account of the large army demand, and will doubtless increase more.
“As to our military exercises, drill, etc., we have enough to occupy our time well. I see the advantage of enlisting in a veteran regiment. I find myself improving very rapidly. Besides my public company drill, I am getting my young comrade, Frank Grover, who has been in the service six months, to give me some private lessons. With the help of these, I hope to pass muster creditably before my first month is out.
“And now, my dear Mary, I must draw my letter to a close. In the army we are obliged to write under difficulties. I am writing this on my knapsack for a desk, and that is not quite so easy as a table. The constrained position in which I am forced to sit has tired me, and I think I will go out and ‘limber’ myself a little. Frank, who has just finished a letter to his mother, will no doubt join me. Two of my comrades are sitting close by, playing euchre. When I joined them I found they were in the habit of playing for small stakes, but I have succeeded in inducing them to give up a practice which might not unlikely lead to bad results.
“In closing, I need not tell you how much and how often I think of you all. I have never before been separated from you, and there are times when my longing to be with you again is very strong. You must make up for your absence by frequent and long letters. Tell me all that is going on. Even trifles will serve to amuse us here.
“Tell Frank to send me Harper’s Weekly regularly. Two or three times a week I should like to have a daily paper forwarded. Every newspaper that finds its way into camp goes the rounds, and its contents are eagerly devoured.
“I will write you again very soon. The letters I write and receive from home will be one of my principal sources of pleasure. God bless you all, is the prayer of your affectionate husband and father,
“HENRY FROST.”
It is hardly necessary to say that this letter was read with eager interest. That evening all the children, including little Charlie, were busy writing letters to the absent father. I have not room to print them all, but as this was Charlie’s first epistolary effort, it may interest some of my youthful readers to see it. The mistakes in spelling will be excused on the score of Charlie’s literary inexperience. This is the way it commenced:
“DEER FARTHER: I am sorry you hav to live in a log hous stuck up with mud. I shud think the mud wood cum off on your close. I am wel and so is Maggie. Frank is agoin to make me a sled—a real good one. I shal cal it the egle. I hope we shal soon hav sum sno. It will be my berth day next week. I shal be seven years old. I hope you cum back soon. Good nite.
“from CHARLIE.”
Charlie was so proud of his letter that he insisted on having it enclosed in a separate envelope and mailed by itself—a request which was complied with by his mother.
CHAPTER XIII. MISCHIEF ON FOOT
As may be supposed, John Haynes was deeply incensed with Frank Frost for the manner in which he had foiled him in his attack upon Pomp. He felt that in this whole matter he had appeared by no means to advantage. After all his boasting, he had been defeated by a boy younger and smaller than himself. The old grudge which he had against Frank for the success gained over him at school increased and added poignancy to his mortification. He felt that he should never be satisfied until he had “come up” with Frank in some way. The prospect of seeing him ejected from the farm was pleasant, but it was too far off. John did not feel like waiting so long for the gratification of his revengeful feelings. He resolved in the meantime to devise some method of injuring or annoying Frank.
He could not at once think of anything feasible. Several schemes flitted across his mind, but all were open to some objection. John did not care to attempt anything which would expose him, if discovered, to a legal punishment. I am afraid this weighed more with him than the wrong or injustice of his schemes.
At last it occurred to him that Mr. Frost kept a couple of pigs. To let them out secretly at night would be annoying to Frank, as they would probably stray quite a distance, and thus a tedious pursuit would be made necessary. Perhaps they might never be found, in which case John felt that he should not grieve much.
Upon this scheme John finally settled as the one promising the most amusement to himself and annoyance to his enemy, as he chose to regard Frank. He felt quite averse, however, to doing the work himself. In the first place, it must be done by night, and he could not absent himself from the house at a late hour without his father’s knowledge. Again, he knew there was a risk of being caught, and it would not sound very well if noised abroad that the son of Squire Haynes had gone out by night and let loose a neighbor’s pigs.
He cast about in his mind for a confederate, and after awhile settled upon a boy named Dick Bumstead.
This Dick had the reputation of being a scape-grace and a ne’er-do-well. He was about the age of John Haynes, but had not attended school for a couple of years, and, less from want of natural capacity than from indolence, knew scarcely more than a boy of ten. His father was a shoemaker, and had felt obliged to keep his son at home to assist him in the shop. He did not prove a very efficient assistant, however, being inclined to shirk duty whenever he could.
It was upon this boy that John Haynes fixed as most likely to help him in his plot. On his way home from school the next afternoon, he noticed Dick loitering along a little in advance.
“Hold on, Dick,” he called out, in a friendly voice, at the same time quickening his pace.
Dick turned in some surprise, for John Haynes had a foolish pride, which had hitherto kept him very distant toward those whom he regarded as standing lower than himself in the social scale.
“How are you, John?” he responded, putting up the knife with which he had been whittling.
“All right. What are you up to nowadays?”
“Working in the shop,” said Dick, shrugging his shoulders. “I wish people didn’t wear shoes, for my part. I’ve helped make my share. Pegging isn’t a very interesting operation.”
“No,” said John, with remarkable affability. “I shouldn’t think there’d be much fun in it.”
“Fun! I guess not. For my part, I’d be willing to go barefoot, if other people would, for the sake of getting rid of pegging.”
“I suppose you have some time to yourself, though, don’t you?”
“Precious little. I ought to be in the shop now. Father sent me down to the store for some awls, and he’ll be fretting because I don’t get back. I broke my awl on purpose,” said Dick, laughing, “so as to get a chance to run out a little while.”
“I suppose your father gives you some of the money that you earn, doesn’t he?’ inquired John.
“A few cents now and then; that’s all. He says everything is so high nowadays that it takes all we can both of us earn to buy food and clothes. So if a fellow wants a few cents now and then to buy a cigar, he can’t have ‘em.”
John was glad to hear this. He felt that he could the more readily induce Dick to assist him in his plans.
“Dick!” he said abruptly, looking round to see that no one was within hearing-distance, “wouldn’t you like to earn a two-dollar bill?”
“For myself?” inquired Dick.
“Certainly.”
“Is there much work in it?” asked indolent Dick cautiously.
“No, and what little there is will be fun.”
“Then I’m in for it. That is, I think I am. What is it?”
“You’ll promise not to tell?” said John.
“Honor bright.”
“It’s only a little practical joke that I want to play upon one of the boys.”
“On who?” asked Dick, unmindful of his grammar.
“On Frank Frost.”
“Frank’s a pretty good fellow. It isn’t going to hurt him any, is it?”
“Oh, no, of course not.”
“Because I wouldn’t want to do that. He’s always treated me well.”
“Of course he has. It’s only a little joke, you know.”
“Oh, well, if it’s a joke, just count me in. Fire away, and let me know what you want done.”
“You know that Frank, or his father, keeps pigs?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to go some night—the sooner the better—and let them out, so that when morning comes the pigs will be minus, and Master Frank will have a fine chase after them.”
“Seems to me,” said Dick, “that won’t be much of a joke.”
“Then I guess you never saw a pig-chase. Pigs are so contrary that if you want them to go in one direction they are sure to go in another. The way they gallop over the ground, with their little tails wriggling behind them, is a caution.”
“But it would be a great trouble to Frank to get them back.”
“Oh, well, you could help him, and so get still more fun out of it, he not knowing, of course, that you had anything to do with letting them out.”
“And that would take me out of the shop for a couple of hours,” said Dick, brightening at the thought.
“Of course,” said John; “so you would get a double advantage. Come, what do you say?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Dick, wavering. “You’d pay me the money down on the nail, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” said John. “I’ll show you the bill now.”
He took from his pocketbook a two-dollar greenback, and displayed it to Dick.
“You could buy cigars enough with this to last you some time,” he said insinuatingly.
“So I could. I declare, I’ve a good mind to take up your offer.”
“You’d better. It’s a good one.”
“But why don’t you do it yourself?” asked Dick, with sudden wonder.
“Because father’s very strict,” said John glibly, “and if I should leave the house at night, he’d be sure to find it out.”
“That’s where I have the advantage. I sleep downstairs, and can easily slip out of the window, without anybody’s being the wiser.”
“Just the thing. Then you agree?”
“Yes, I might as well. Are you particular about the night?”
“No, take your choice about that. Only the sooner the better.”
The two boys separated, John feeling quite elated with his success.
CHAPTER XIV. A RAID UPON THE PIG-PEN
The more Dick thought of the enterprise which he had undertaken, the more he disliked it. He relished fun as much as any one, but he could not conceal from himself that he would be subjecting Frank to a great deal of trouble and annoyance. As he had told John, Frank had always treated him well, and this thought made the scheme disagreeable to him.
Still, John had promised him two dollars for his co-operation, and this, in his circumstances, was an important consideration. Unfortunately, Dick had contracted a fondness for smoking—a habit which his scanty supply of pocket-money rarely enabled him to indulge. This windfall would keep him in cigars for some time. It was this reflection which finally turned the wavering scale of Dick’s irresolution, and determined him to embrace John’s offer.
The moon was now at the full, and the nights were bright and beautiful. Dick decided that it would be best to defer the accomplishment of his purpose till later in the month, when darker nights would serve as a screen, and render detection more difficult.
By and by a night came which he thought suitable. A few stars were out, but they gave only a faint glimmer of light, not more than was necessary.
Dick went to bed at nine o’clock, as usual. By an effort he succeeded in keeping awake, feeling that if he once yielded to drowsiness, he should probably sleep on till morning. At half-past nine all in the house were abed. It was not till eleven, however, that Dick felt it safe to leave the house. He dressed himself expeditiously and in silence, occasionally listening to see if he could detect any sound in the room above, where his parents slept. Finally he raised the window softly, and jumped out. He crept out to the road, and swiftly bent his steps toward Mr. Frost’s house.
As this was not more than a third of a mile distant, a very few minutes sufficed to bring him to his destination. Dick’s feelings were not the most comfortable. Though he repeatedly assured himself that it was only fun he was engaged in, he felt very much like a burglar about to enter a house.
Arrived before the farmhouse, he looked cautiously up to the windows, but could see no light burning.
“The coast is clear,” he thought. “I wish it were all over, and I were on my way home.”
Dick had not reconnoitered thoroughly. There was a light burning in a window at the other end of the house.
The pig-pen was a small, rough, unpainted building, with a yard opening from it. Around the yard was a stone wall, which prevented the pigs from making their escape. They were now, as Dick could with difficulty see, stretched out upon the floor of the pen, asleep.
Dick proceeded to remove a portion of the stones forming the wall. It was not very easy or agreeable work, the stones being large and heavy. At length he effected a gap which he thought would be large enough for the pigs to pass through. He next considered whether it would be better to disturb the slumbers of the pigs by poking them with a hoe, or wait and let them find out the avenue of escape in the morning. He finally decided to stir them up. He accordingly went round to the door and, seizing a hoe, commenced punching one of the pigs vigorously.
The pig whose slumbers were thus rudely disturbed awoke with a loud grunt, and probably would have looked astonished and indignant if nature had given him the power of expressing such emotions.
“Get out, there, you lazy beast,” exclaimed Dick.
The pig, as was perhaps only natural under the circumstances, seemed reluctant to get up, and was by no means backward in grunting his discontent. Dick was earnestly engaged in overcoming his repugnance to locomotion, when he was startled by hearing the door of the building, which he had carefully closed, open slowly. Looking up hastily, the hoe still in his hand, his dismayed glance fell upon Frank Frost, entering with a lantern.
A half-exclamation of surprise and dismay escaped him. This called the attention of Frank, who till that moment was unsuspicious of Dick’s presence.
“Dick Bumstead!” he exclaimed, as soon as he recognized the intruder. “What brings you here at this time of night?”
“A mean errand, Frank,” returned Dick, with a wholesome feeling of shame. He had made up his mind to a confession.
“You didn’t come here to—to–” Here Frank stopped short.
“No, not to steal. I ain’t quite so mean as that comes to. I come to let out your pigs, so that in the morning you would have a long chase after them.”
“But what could put such a thing into your head, Dick?” asked Frank, in great surprise.
“I thought it would be a good joke.”
“It wouldn’t have been much of a joke to me,” said Frank.
“No; and to tell the truth it wouldn’t have been to me. The fact is, and I don’t mind telling it, that I should never have thought of such a thing if somebody else hadn’t put it into my head.”
“Somebody else?”
“Yes; I’d a little rather not tell who that somebody is, for I don’t believe he would like to have you know.”
“Why didn’t he come himself?” asked Frank. “It seems to me he’s been making a catspaw of you.”
“A catspaw?”
“Yes, haven’t you read the story? A monkey wanted to draw some chestnuts out of the hot ashes, but, feeling a decided objection to burning his own paws in the operation, drew a cat to the fire and thrust her paw in.”
“I don’t know but it’s been so in my case,” said Dick. “I didn’t want to do it, and that’s a fact. I felt as mean as could be when I first came into your yard to-night. But he offered me two dollars to do it, and it’s so seldom I see money that it tempted me.”
Frank looked puzzled. “I don’t see,” he said thoughtfully, “how anybody should think it worth while to pay two dollars for such a piece of mischief.”
“Perhaps he don’t like you, and wanted to plague you,” suggested Dick.
The thought at once flashed upon Frank that John Haynes must be implicated. He was the only boy who was likely to have two dollars to invest in this way, and the suggestion offered by Dick of personal enmity was sufficient to supply a motive for his action.
“I believe I know who it is, now, Dick,” he said quietly. “However, I won’t ask you to tell me. There is one boy in the village who thinks he has cause of complaint against me, though I have never intentionally injured him.”
“What shall you do about it, Frank?” asked Dick, a little awkwardly, for he did not want his own agency made public.
“Nothing,” answered Frank. “I would rather take no notice of it.”
“At any rate, I hope you won’t think hard of me,” said Dick. “You have always treated me well, and I didn’t want to trouble you. But the money tempted me. I meant to buy cigars with it.”
“You don’t smoke, Dick?”
“Yes, when I get a chance.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. It isn’t good for boys like you and me. It is an expensive habit, and injurious, too.”
“I don’t know but you are right, Frank,” said Dick candidly.
“I know I am. You can leave off now, Dick, better than when you are older.”
At this moment a voice was heard from the house, calling “Frank!”
“I came out for some herbs,” said Frank hurriedly. “Jacob isn’t very well, and mother is going to make him some herb tea. I won’t mention that I have seen you.”
“All right. Thank you, Frank.”
A minute later Frank went into the house, leaving Dick by himself.
“Now,” thought Dick, “I must try to remedy the mischief I have done. I’m afraid I’ve got a job before me.”
He went round to the gap in the wall, and began to lay it again as well as he could. In lifting the heavy stones he began to realize how much easier it is to make mischief than to repair damages afterward. He pulled and tugged, but it took him a good half-hour, and by that time he felt very tired.
“My clothes must be precious dirty,” he said to himself. “At any rate, my hands are. I wonder where the pump is. But then it won’t do to pump; it’ll make too much noise. Oh, here’s some water in the trough.”
Dick succeeded in getting some of the dirt off his hands, which he dried on his handkerchief. Then with a feeling of relief, he took the road toward home.
Although he may be said to have failed most signally in his design, he felt considerably better than if he had succeeded.
“Frank’s a good fellow,” he said to himself. “Some boys would have been mad, and made a great fuss. But he didn’t seem angry at all, not even with John Haynes, and did all he could to screen me. Well I’m glad I didn’t succeed.”
Dick reached home without any further mischance, and succeeded in crawling in at the window without making any sound loud enough to wake up his parents.
The next day John, who had been informed of his intention to make the attempt the evening previous, contrived to meet him.
“Well, Dick,” he said eagerly, “what success last night?”
“None at all,” answered Dick.
“Didn’t you try?”
“Yes.”
“What prevented your succeeding, then?”
“Frank came out to get some herbs to make tea for the hired man, and so caught me.”
“You didn’t tell him who put you up to it?” said John apprehensively.
“No,” said Dick coolly; “I don’t do such things.”
“That’s good,” said John, relieved. “Was he mad?”
“No, he didn’t make any fuss. He asked what made me do it, and I told him somebody else put it into my head.”
“You did! I thought you said you didn’t.”
“I didn’t tell who that somebody was, but Frank said he could guess.”
“He can’t prove it,” said John hastily.
“I don’t think he’ll try,” said Dick. “The fact is, John, Frank’s a good fellow, and if you want to get anybody to do him any mischief hereafter, you’d better not apply to me.”
“I don’t know as he’s any better than other boys,” said John, sneering. He did not enjoy hearing Frank’s praises.
“He’s better than either of us, I’m sure of that,” said Dick decidedly.
“Speak for yourself, Dick Bumstead,” said John haughtily. “I wouldn’t lower myself by a comparison with him. He’s only a laborer, and will grow up a clodhopper.”
“He’s my friend, John Haynes,” said Dick stoutly, “and if you’ve got anything else to say against him, you’ll oblige me by going farther off.”
John left in high dudgeon.
That day, to his father’s surprise, Dick worked with steady industry, and did not make a single attempt to shirk.