JIMMIE lounged about
the dining-room and watched his mother with large, serious eyes. Suddenly he
said, "Ma--now--can I borrow pa's gun?"
She was overcome with
the feminine horror which is able to mistake preliminary words for the full
accomplishment of the dread thing. "Why, Jimmie!" she cried. "Of
al-l wonders! Your father's gun! No indeed you can't!"
He was fairly well
crushed, but he managed to mutter, sullenly, "Well, Willie Dalzel, he's
got a gun." In reality his heart had previously been beating with such
tumult--he had himself been so impressed with the daring and sin of his
request--that he was glad that all was over now, and his mother could do very
little further harm to his sensibilities. He had been influenced into the
venture by the larger boys.
"Huh!" the Dalzel
urchin had said; "your father's got a gun, hasn't he? Well, why don't you
bring that?"
Puffing himself, Jimmie
had replied, "Well, I can, if I want to." It was a black lie, but
really the Dalzel boy was too outrageous with his eternal bill-posting about
the gun which a beaming uncle had intrusted to him. Its possession made him
superior in manfulness to most boys in the neighborhood--or at least they
enviously conceded him such position--but he was so overbearing, and stuffed
the fact of his treasure so relentlessly down their throats, that on this
occasion the miserable Jimmie had lied as naturally as most animals swim.
Willie Dalzel had not
been checkmated, for he had instantly retorted, "Why don't you get it,
then?"
"Well, I can, if I
want to."
"Well, get it,
then?"
"Well, I can, if I
want to."
Thereupon Jimmie had
paced away with great airs of surety as far as the door of his home, where his
manner changed to one of tremulous misgiving as it came upon him to address his
mother in the dining-room. There had happened that which had happened. When
Jimmie returned to his two distinguished companions he was blown out with a
singular pomposity. He spoke these noble words: "Oh, well, I guess I don't
want to take the gun out to-day."
They had been watching
him with gleaming ferret eyes, and they detected his falsity at once. They
challenged him with shouted gibes, but it was not in the rules for the conduct
of boys that one should admit anything whatsoever, and so Jimmie, backed into
an ethical corner, lied as stupidly, as desperately, as hopelessly as ever lone
savage fights when surrounded at last in his jungle.
Such accusations were
never known to come to any point, for the reason that the number and kind of
denials always equalled or exceeded the number of accusations, and no boy was
ever brought really to book for these misdeeds.
In the end they went
off together, Willie Dalzel with his gun being a trifle in advance and
discoursing upon his various works. They passed along a maple-lined avenue, a
highway common to boys bound for that free land of hills and woods in which
they lived in some part their romance of the moment, whether it was of Indians,
miners, smugglers, soldiers, or outlaws. The paths were their paths, and much
was known to them of the secrets of the dark green hemlock thickets, the wastes
of sweet-fern and huckleberry, the cliffs of gaunt bluestone with the sumach
burning red at their feet. Each boy had, I am sure, a conviction that some day
the wilderness was to give forth to him a marvellous secret. They felt that the
hills and the forest knew much, and they heard a voice of it in the silence. It
was vague, thrilling, fearful, and altogether fabulous. The grown folk seemed
to regard these wastes merely as so much distance between one place and another
place, or as a rabbit-cover, or as a district to be judged according to the
value of the timber; but to the boys it spoke some great inspiring word, which
they knew even as those who pace the shore know the enigmatic speech of the
surf. In the mean time they lived there, in season, lives of ringing
adventure--by dint of imagination.
The boys left the
avenue, skirted hastily through some private grounds, climbed a fence, and
entered the thickets. It happened that at school the previous day Willie Dalzel
had been forced to read and acquire in some part a solemn description of a
lynx. The meagre information thrust upon him had caused him grimaces of
suffering, but now he said, suddenly, "I'm goin' to shoot a lynx."
The other boys admired
this statement, but they were silent for a time. Finally Jimmie said, meekly,
"What's a lynx?" He had endured his ignorance as long as he was able.
The Dalzel boy mocked
him. "Why, don't you know what a lynx is? A lynx? Why, a lynx is a animal
somethin' like a cat, an' it's got great big green eyes, and it sits on the
limb of a tree an' jus' glares at you. It's a pretty bad animal, I tell you.
Why, when I--"
"Huh!" said
the third boy. "Where'd you ever see a lynx?"
"Oh, I've seen
'em--plenty of 'em. I bet you'd be scared if you seen one once."
Jimmie and the other
boy each demanded, "How do you know I would?"
They penetrated deeper
into the wood. They climbed a rocky zigzag path which led them at times where
with their hands they could almost touch the tops of giant pines. The gray
cliffs sprang sheer toward the sky. Willie Dalzel babbled about his impossible
lynx, and they stalked the mountain-side like chamois-hunters, although no
noise of bird or beast broke the stillness of the hills. Below them Whilomville
was spread out somewhat like the cheap green and black lithograph of the
time--"A Bird's-eye View of Whilomville, N. Y."
In the end the boys
reached the top of the mountain and scouted off among wild and desolate ridges.
They were burning with the desire to slay large animals. They thought
continually of elephants, lions, tigers, crocodiles. They discoursed upon their
immaculate conduct in case such monsters confronted them, and they all lied
carefully about their courage.
The breeze was heavy
with the smell of sweet-fern. The pines and hemlocks sighed as they waved their
branches. In the hollows the leaves of the laurels were lacquered where the
sunlight found them. No matter the weather, it would be impossible to long
continue an expedition of this kind without a fire, and presently they built
one, snapping down for fuel the brittle under-branches of the pines. About this
fire they were willed to conduct a sort of play, the Dalzel boy taking the part
of a bandit chief, and the other boys being his trusty lieutenants. They
stalked to and fro, long-strided, stern yet devil-may-care, three terrible
little figures.
Jimmie had an uncle who
made game of him whenever he caught him in this kind of play, and often this
uncle quoted derisively the following classic: "Once aboard the lugger,
Bill, and the girl is mine. Now to burn the chateau and destroy all evidence of
our crime. But, hark'e, Bill, no violence." Wheeling abruptly, he
addressed these dramatic words to his comrades. They were impressed; they
decided at once to be smugglers, and in the most ribald fashion they talked
about carrying off young women.
At last they continued
their march through the woods. The smuggling motif was now grafted
fantastically upon the original lynx idea, which Willie Dalzel refused to
abandon at any price.
Once they came upon an
innocent bird who happened to be looking another way at the time. After a great
deal of manoeuvring and big words, Willie Dalzel reared his fowling-piece and
blew this poor thing into a mere rag of wet feathers, of which he was proud.
Afterward the other big
boy had a turn at another bird. Then it was plainly Jimmie's chance. The two
others had, of course, some thought of cheating him out of this chance, but of
a truth he was timid to explode such a thunderous weapon, and as soon as they
detected this fear they simply overbore him, and made it clearly understood
that if he refused to shoot he would lose his caste, his scalp lock, his
girdle, his honor.
They had reached the
old death-colored snake fence which marked the limits of the upper pasture of
the Fleming farm. Under some hickory-trees the path ran parallel to the fence.
Behold! a small priestly chipmonk came to a rail, and folding his hands on his
abdomen, addressed them in his own tongue. It was Jimmie's shot. Adjured by the
others, he took the gun. His face was stiff with apprehension. The Dalzel boy
was giving forth fine words. "Go ahead. Aw, don't be afraid. It's nothin'
to do. Why, I've done it a million times. Don't shut both your eyes, now. Jus'
keep one open and shut the other one. He'll get away if you don't watch out.
Now you're all right. Why don't you let 'er go? Go ahead."
Jimmie, with his legs
braced apart, was in the centre of the path. His back was greatly bent, owing
to the mechanics of supporting the heavy gun. His companions were screeching in
the rear. There was a wait.
Then he pulled trigger.
To him there was a frightful roar, his cheek and his shoulder took a stunning blow,
his face felt a hot flush of fire, and opening his two eyes, he found that he
was still alive. He was not too dazed to instantly adopt a becoming egotism. It
had been the first shot of his life.
But directly after the
well-mannered celebration of this victory a certain cow, which had been grazing
in the line of fire, was seen to break wildly across the pasture, bellowing and
bucking. The three smugglers and lynx-hunters looked at each other out of
blanched faces. Jimmie had hit the cow. The first evidence of his comprehension
of this fact was in the celerity with which he returned the discharged gun to
Willie Dalzel.
They turned to flee.
The land was black, as if it had been overshadowed suddenly with thick
storm-clouds, and even as they fled in their horror a gigantic Swedish
farm-hand came from the heavens and fell upon them, shrieking in eerie triumph.
In a twinkle they were clouted prostrate. The Swede was elate and ferocious in
a foreign and fulsome way. He continued to beat them and yell.
From the ground they
raised their dismal appeal. "Oh, please, mister, we didn't do it! He did
it! I didn't do it! We didn't do it! We didn't mean to do it! Oh, please,
mister!"
In these moments of
childish terror little lads go half-blind, and it is possible that few moments
of their after-life made them suffer as they did when the Swede flung them over
the fence and marched them toward the farm-house. They begged like cowards on
the scaffold, and each one was for himself. "Oh, please let me go, mister!
I didn't do it, mister! He did it! Oh, p-l-ease let me go, mister!"
The boyish view belongs
to boys alone, and if this tall and knotted laborer was needlessly without
charity, none of the three lads questioned it. Usually when they were punished
they decided that they deserved it, and the more they were punished the more
they were convinced that they were criminals of a most subterranean type. As to
the hitting of the cow being a pure accident, and therefore not of necessity a
criminal matter, such reading never entered their heads. When things happened
and they were caught, they commonly paid dire consequences, and they were
accustomed to measure the probabilities of woe utterly by the damage done, and
not in any way by the culpability. The shooting of the cow was plainly heinous,
and undoubtedly their dungeons would be knee-deep in water.
"He did it,
mister!" This was a general outcry. Jimmie used it as often as did the
others. As for them, it is certain that they had no direct thought of betraying
their comrade for their own salvation. They thought themselves guilty because
they were caught; when boys were not caught they might possibly be innocent.
But captured boys were guilty. When they cried out that Jimmie was the culprit,
it was principally a simple expression of terror.
Old Henry Fleming, the
owner of the farm, strode across the pasture toward them. He had in his hand a
most cruel whip. This whip he flourished. At his approach the boys suffered the
agonies of the fire regions. And yet anybody with half an eye could see that
the whip in his hand was a mere accident, and that he was a kind old man--when
he cared.
When he had come near
he spoke crisply. "What you boys ben doin' to my cow?" The tone had
deep threat in it. They all answered by saying that none of them had shot the
cow. Their denials were tearful and clamorous, and they crawled knee by knee.
The vision of it was like three martyrs being dragged toward the stake. Old
Fleming stood there, grim, tight-lipped. After a time he said, "Which boy
done it?"
There was some
confusion, and then Jimmie spake. "I done it, mister."
Fleming looked at him.
Then he asked, "Well, what did you shoot 'er fer?"
Jimmie thought,
hesitated, decided, faltered, and then formulated this: "I thought she was
a lynx."
Old Fleming and his
Swede at once lay down in the grass and laughed themselves helpless.