CHAPTER VII.
SAM MEETS HIS MATCH
Sam went upstairs with alacrity, and lay down on the bed, – not that he was particularly tired, but because he found it more agreeable to lie down than to work in the field.
"I wish I had something to read," he thought, – "some nice dime novel like 'The Demon of the Danube.' That was splendid. I like it a good deal better than Dickens. It's more excitin'."
But there was no library in Sam's room, and it was very doubtful whether there were any dime novels in the house. The deacon belonged to the old school of moralists, and looked with suspicion upon all works of fiction, with a very few exceptions, such as Pilgrim's Progress, and Robinson Crusoe, which, however, he supposed to be true stories.
Soon Sam heard the step of Mrs. Hopkins on the stairs. He immediately began to twist his features in such a way as to express pain.
Mrs. Hopkins entered the room with a cup of hot liquid in her hand.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"I feel bad," said Sam.
"Are you in pain?"
"Yes, I've got a good deal of pain."
"Whereabouts?"
Sam placed his hand on his stomach, and looked sad.
"Yes, I know exactly what is the matter with you," said the deacon's wife.
"Then you know a good deal," thought Sam, "for I don't know of anything at all myself."
This was what he thought, but he said, "Do you?"
"Oh, yes; I've had a good deal of experience. I know what is good for you."
Sam looked curiously at the cup.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's hot tea; it's very healin'."
Sam supposed it to be ordinary tea, and he had no objection to take it. But when he put it to his lips there was something about the odor that did not please him.
"It doesn't smell good," he said, looking up in the face of Mrs.
Hopkins.
"Medicine generally doesn't," she said, quietly.
"I thought it was tea," said Sam.
"So it is; it is wormwood-tea."
"I don't think I shall like it," hesitated Sam.
"No matter if you don't, it will do you good," said Mrs. Hopkins.
Sam tasted it, and his face assumed an expression of disgust.
"I can't drink it," he said.
"You must," said Mrs. Hopkins, firmly.
"I guess I'll get well without," said our hero, feeling that he was in a scrape.
"No, you won't. You're quite unwell. I can see it by your face."
"Can you?" said Sam, beginning to be alarmed about his health.
"You must take this tea," said the lady, firmly.
"I'd rather not."
"That's neither here nor there. The deacon needs you well, so you can go to work, and this will cure you as quick as anything."
"Suppose it doesn't?" said Sam.
"Then I shall bring you up some castor-oil in two hours."
Castor-oil! This was even worse than wormwood-tea, and Sam's heart sank within him.
"The old woman's too much for me," he thought, with a sigh.
"Come, take the tea," said Mrs. Hopkins. "I can't wait here all day."
Thus adjured, Sam made a virtue of necessity, and, shutting his eyes, gulped down the wormwood. He shuddered slightly when it was all done, and his face was a study.
"Well done!" said Mrs. Hopkins. "It's sure to do you good."
"I think I'd have got well without," said Sam. "I'm afraid it won't agree with me."
"If it don't," said Mrs. Hopkins, cheerfully, "I'll try some castor-oil."
"I guess I won't need it," said Sam, hastily.
"It was awful," said Sam to himself, as his nurse left him alone. "I'd rather hoe potatoes than take it again. I never see such a terrible old woman. She would make me do it, when I wasn't no more sick than she is."
Mrs. Hopkins smiled to herself as she went downstairs.
"Served him right," she said to herself. "I'll l'arn him to be sick.
Guess he won't try it again very soon."
Two hours later Mrs. Hopkins presented herself at Sam's door. He had been looking out of the window; but he bundled into bed as soon as he heard her. Appearances must be kept up.
"How do you feel now, Sam?" asked Mrs. Hopkins.
"A good deal better," said Sam, surveying in alarm a cup of some awful decoction in her hand.
"Do you feel ready to go to work again?"
"Almost," said Sam, hesitating.
"The wormwood-tea did you good, it seems; but you're not quite well yet."
"I'll soon be well," said Sam, hastily.
"I mean you shall be," said his visitor. "I've brought you some more medicine."
"Is it tea?"
"No, castor-oil."
"I don't need it," said Sam, getting up quickly. "I'm well."
"If you are not well enough to go to work, you must take some oil."
"Yes, I am," said Sam. "I'll go right out into the field."
"I don't want you to go unless you are quite recovered. I'm sure the oil will bring you 'round."
"I'm all right, now," said Sam, hastily.
"Very well; if you think so, you can go to work."
Rather ruefully Sam made his way to the potato-field, with his hoe on his shoulder.
"Tea and castor-oil are worse than work," he thought. "The old woman's got the best of me, after all. I wonder whether she knew I was makin' believe."
On this point Sam could not make up his mind. She certainly seemed in earnest, and never expressed a doubt about his being really sick. But all the same, she made sickness very disagreeable to him, and he felt that in future he should not pretend sickness when she was at home. It made him almost sick to think of the bitter tea he had already drunk, and the oil would have been even worse.
The deacon looked up as he caught sight of Sam.
"Have you got well?" he asked innocently, for he had not been as clear-sighted as his wife in regard to the character of Sam's malady.
"Yes," said Sam, "I'm a good deal better, but I don't feel quite so strong as I did."
"Mebbe it would be well for you to fast a little," said the deacon, in all sincerity, for fasting was one of his specifics in case of sickness.
"No, I don't think it would," said Sam, quickly. "I'll feel better by supper-time."
"I hope you will," said the deacon.
"I wish I had a piece of pie or somethin' to take the awful taste out of my mouth," thought Sam. "I can taste that wormwood jist as plain! I wonder why such things are allowed to grow."
For the rest of the afternoon Sam worked unusually well. He was under the the deacon's eye, and unable to get away, though he tried at least once. After they had been at work for about an hour, Sam said suddenly, "Don't you feel thirsty, Deacon Hopkins?"
"What makes you ask?" said the deacon;
"Because I'd jist as lieves go to the house and get some water," said Sam, with a very obliging air.
"You're very considerate, Samuel; but I don't think it's healthy to drink between meals."
"Supposin' you're thirsty," suggested Sam, disappointed.
"It's only fancy. You don't need drink railly. You only think you do," said the deacon, and he made some further remarks on the subject to which Sam listened discontentedly. He began to think his situation a very hard one.
"It's work – work all the time," he said to himself. "What's the good of workin' yourself to death? When I'm a man I'll work only when I want to."
Sam did not consider that there might be some difficulty in earning a living unless he were willing to work for it. The present discomfort was all he thought of.
At last, much to Sam's joy, the deacon gave the signal to return to the house.
"If you hadn't been sick, we'd have got through more," he said; "but to-morrow we must make up for lost time."
"I hope it'll rain to-morrow," thought Sam. "We can't work in the rain."
At supper the wormwood seemed to give him additional appetite.
"I'm afraid you'll make yourself sick again, Samuel," said the deacon.
"There aint no danger," said Sam, looking alarmed at the suggestion.
"I feel all right now."
"The wormwood did you good," said Mrs. Hopkins, drily.
"I wonder if she means anything," thought Sam
CHAPTER VIII.
SAM'S TEMPTATION
A month passed, a month which it is safe to say was neither satisfactory to Sam nor his employer. The deacon discovered that the boy needed constant watching. When he was left to himself, he was sure to shirk his work, and indulge his natural love of living at ease. His appetite showed no signs of decrease, and the deacon was led to remark that "Samuel had the stiddyest appetite of any boy he ever knew. He never seemed to know when he had eaten enough."
As for Mrs. Hopkins, Sam failed to produce a favorable impression upon her. He was by no means her ideal of a boy, though it must be added that this ideal was so high that few living boys could expect to attain it. He must have an old head on young shoulders, and in fact be an angel in all respects except the wings. On these Mrs. Hopkins probably would not insist. Being only a boy, and considerably lazier and more mischievous than the average, there was not much prospect of Sam's satisfying her requirements.
"You'd better send him to the poorhouse, deacon." she said more than once. "He's the most shif'less boy I ever see, and it's awful the amount he eats."
"I guess I'll try him a leetle longer," said the deacon. "He aint had no sort of bringin' up, you know."
So at the end of four weeks Sam still continued a member of the deacon's household.
As for Sam, things were not wholly satisfactory to him. In spite of all his adroit evasions of duty, he found himself obliged to work more than he found agreeable. He didn't see the fun of trudging after the deacon up and down the fields in the warm summer days. Even his meals did not yield unmingled satisfaction, as he had learned from experience that Mrs. Hopkins did not approve of giving him a second slice of pie, and in other cases interfered to check the complete gratification of his appetite, alleging that it wasn't good for boys to eat too much.
Sam took a different view of the matter, and felt that if he was willing to take the consequences, he ought to be allowed to eat as much as he pleased. He was not troubled with the catechism any more. The deacon found him so stolid and unteachable that he was forced to give up in despair, and Sam became master of his own time in the evening. He usually strayed into the village, where he found company at the village store. Here it was that he met a youth who was destined to exercise an important influence upon his career. This was Ben Barker, who had for a few months filled a position in a small retail store in New York city. Coming home, he found himself a great man. Country boys have generally a great curiosity about life in the great cities, and are eager to interview any one who can give them authentic details concerning it. For this reason Ben found himself much sought after by the village boys, and gave dazzling descriptions of life in the metropolis, about which he professed to be fully informed. Among his interested listeners was Sam, whose travels had been limited by a very narrow circle, but who, like the majority of boys, was possessed by a strong desire to see the world.
"I suppose there as many as a thousand houses in New York," he said to Ben.
"A thousand!" repeated Ben, in derision. "There's a million!"
"Honest?"
"Yes, they reach for miles and miles. There's about twenty thousand streets."
"It must be awfully big. I'd like to go there."
"Oh, you!" said Ben, contemptuously. "It wouldn't do for you to go there."
"Why not?"
"You couldn't get along nohow."
"I'd like to know why not?" said Sam, rather nettled at this depreciation.
"Oh, you're a country greenhorn. You'd get taken in right and left."
"I don't believe I would," said Sam. "I aint as green as you think."
"You'd better stay with the deacon, and hoe potatoes," said Ben, disparagingly. "It takes a smart fellow to succeed in New York."
"Is that the reason you had to come home?" retorted Sam.
"I'm going back pretty soon," said Ben. "I shan't stay long in such a one-horse place as this."
"Is it far to New York?" asked Sam, thoughtfully.
"Over a hundred miles."
"Does it cost much to go there?"
"Three dollars by the cars."
"That isn't so very much."
"No, but you've got to pay your expenses when you get there."
"I could work."
"What could you do? You might, perhaps, black boots in the City Hall Park."
"What pay do boys get for doing that?" asked Sam, seriously.
"Sometimes five cents, sometimes ten."
"I'd like it better than farmin'!"
"It might do for you," said Ben, turning up his nose.
"What were you doing when you were in New York, Ben?"
"I was chief salesman in a dry goods store," said Ben, with an air of importance.
"Was it a good place?"
"Of course it was, or I wouldn't have stayed there."
"What made you leave it?"
"I had so much care and responsibility that the doctor told me I must have rest. When the boss was away, I run the store all alone."
There was no one to contradict Ben's confident assertions, and though some doubt was entertained by his listener none was expressed. Considering Ben's large claims, it was surprising that his services were not sought by leading New York firms, but, then, merit is not always appreciated at once. That was Ben's way of accounting for it.
Sam was never tired of asking Ben fresh questions about New York. His imagination had been inflamed by the glowing descriptions of the latter, and he was anxious to pass through a similar experience. In fact, he was slowly making up his mind to leave the deacon, and set out for the brilliant Paradise which so dazzled his youthful fancy. There was one drawback, however, and that a serious one, – the lack of funds. Though the deacon supplied him with board, and would doubtless keep him in wearing apparel, there was no hint or intimation of any further compensation for his services, and Sam's whole available money capital at this moment amounted to only three cents. Now three cents would purchase three sticks of candy, and Sam intended to appropriate them in this way, but they formed a slender fund for travelling expenses; and the worst of it was that Sam knew of no possible way of increasing them. If his journey depended upon that, it would be indefinitely postponed.
But circumstances favored his bold design, as we shall see.
One evening as Sam was returning from the store, a man from a neighboring town, who was driving by, reined up his horse, and said, "You live with Deacon Hopkins, don't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you going home now?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I'll hand you a note for him. Will you think to give it to him?"
"Yes, sir."
"I would stop myself, but I haven't time this evening."
"All right. I'll give it to him."
"Take good care of it, for there's money in it," said the man, as he passed it to the boy.
Money in it! This attracted Sam's attention, and excited his curiosity.
"I wonder how much there is in it," he thought to himself. "I wish it was mine. I could go to New York to-morrow if I only had it."
With this thought prominent in his mind, Sam entered the house. Mrs.
Hopkins was at the table knitting, but the deacon was not to be seen.
"Where is the deacon?" asked Sam.
"He's gone to bed," said Mrs. Hopkins. "Did you want to see him?"
"No," said Sam, slowly.
"It's time you were abed too, Sam," said the lady. "You're out too late, as I was tellin' the deacon to-night. Boys like you ought to be abed at eight o'clock instead of settin' up half the night."
"I guess I'll go to bed now," said Sam, taking a lamp from the table.
"You'd better, and mind you get up early in the mornin'."
Sam did not answer, for he was busy thinking.
He went upstairs, fastened his door inside, and taking out the letter surveyed the outside critically. The envelope was not very securely fastened and came open. Sam could not resist the temptation presented, and drew out the inclosure. His face flushed with excitement, as he spread out two five-dollar bills on the table before him.
"Ten dollars!" ejaculated Sam. "What a lot of money! If it was only mine, I'd have enough to go to New York."
CHAPTER IX.
SAM TAKES FRENCH LEAVE
If Sam had been brought up to entertain strict ideas on the subject of taking the property of others, and appropriating it to his own use, the temporary possession of the deacon's money would not have exposed him to temptation. But his conscience had never been awakened to the iniquity of theft. So when it occurred to him that he had in his possession money enough to gratify his secret desire, and carry him to New York, there to enter upon a brilliant career, it did not occur to him that it would be morally wrong to do so. He did realize the danger of detection, however, and balanced in his mind whether the risk was worth incurring. He decided that it was.
"The deacon don't know I've got the money," he reflected. "He won't find out for a good while; when he does I shall be in New York, where he won't think of going to find me."
This was the way Sam reasoned, and from his point of view the scheme looked very plausible. Sam had a shrewd idea that his services were not sufficiently valuable to the deacon to induce him to make any extraordinary efforts for his capture. So, on the whole, he made up his mind to run away.
"Shall I go now, or wait till mornin'?" thought Sam.
He looked out of his window. There was no moon, and the night was therefore dark. It would not be very agreeable to roam about in the darkness. Besides, he was liable to lose his way. Again, he felt sleepy, and the bed looked very inviting.
"I'll wait till mornin'," thought Sam. "I'll start about four, and go over to Wendell, and take the train for New York. I'll be awful hungry when I get there. I wish I could wait till after breakfast; but it won't do."
Sam was not usually awake at four. Indeed he generally depended on being waked up by the deacon knocking on his door. But when boys or men have some pleasure in view it is apt to act upon the mind even when wrapped in slumber, and produce wakefulness. So Sam woke up about quarter of four. His plan flashed upon him, and he jumped out of bed. He dressed quickly, and, taking his shoes in his hand so that he might make no noise, he crept downstairs, and unlocked the front door, and then, after shutting it behind him, sat down on the front door-stone and put on his shoes.
"I guess they didn't hear me," he said to himself. "Now I'll be going."
The sun had not risen, but it was light with the gray light which precedes dawn. There was every promise of a fine day, and this helped to raise Sam's spirits.
"What'll the deacon say when he comes to wake me up?" thought our hero, though I am almost ashamed to give Sam such a name, for I am afraid he is acting in a manner very unlike the well-behaved heroes of most juvenile stories, my own among the number. However, since I have chosen to write about a "young outlaw," I must describe him as he is, and warn my boy readers that I by no means recommend them to pattern after him.
Before accompanying Sam on his travels, let us see how the deacon was affected by his flight.
At five o'clock he went up to Sam's door and knocked.
There was no answer.
The deacon knocked louder.
Still there was no answer.
"How sound the boy sleeps!" muttered the old man, and he applied his knuckles vigorously to the door. Still without effect. Thereupon he tried the door, and found that it was unlocked. He opened it, and walked to the bed, not doubting that he would see Sam fast asleep. But a surprise awaited him. The bed was empty, though it had evidently been occupied during the night.
"Bless my soul! the boy's up," ejaculated the deacon.
A wild idea came to him that Sam had voluntarily got up at this early hour, and gone to work, but he dismissed it at once as absurd. He knew Sam far too well for that.
Why, then, had he got up? Perhaps he was unwell, and could not sleep. Not dreaming of his running away, this seemed to the deacon the most plausible way of accounting for Sam's disappearance, but he decided to go down and communicate the news to his wife.
"Why were you gone so long, deacon?" asked Mrs. Hopkins. "Couldn't you wake him up?"
"He wasn't there."
"Wasn't where?"
"In bed."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Sam's got up already. I couldn't find him."
"Couldn't find him?"
"No, Martha."
"Had the bed been slept in?"
"Of course. I s'pose he was sick, and couldn't sleep, so he went downstairs."
"Perhaps he's gone down to the pantry," said Mrs. Hopkins, suspiciously. "I'll go down and see."
She went downstairs, followed by the deacon. She instituted an examination, but found Sam guiltless of a fresh attempt upon the provision department. She went to the front door, and found it unlocked.
"He's gone out," she said.
"So he has, but I guess he'll be back to breakfast," said the deacon.
"I don't," said the lady.
"Why not?"
"Because I think he's run away."
"Run away!" exclaimed the deacon. "Why, I never had a boy run away from me."
"Well, you have now."
"Where would he go? He aint no home. He wouldn't go to the poorhouse."
"Of course not. I never heard of anybody that had a comfortable home running away to the poorhouse."
"But why should he run away?" argued the deacon.
"Boys often run away," said his wife, sententiously.
"He had no cause."
"Yes, he had. You made him work, and he's lazy, and don't like work.
I'm not surprised at all."
"I s'pose I'd better go after him," said the deacon.
"Don't you stir a step to go, deacon. He aint worth going after. I'm glad we've got rid of him."
"Well, he didn't do much work," admitted the deacon.
"While he ate enough for two boys. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say."
"I don't know how he's goin' to get along. He didn't have no money."
"I don't care how he gets along, as long as he don't come back.
There's plenty of better boys you can get."
Sam would not have felt flattered, if he had heard this final verdict upon his merits. It must be confessed, however, that it was well deserved.
A few days afterwards, the deacon obtained the services of another boy, whom he found more satisfactory than the runaway, and Sam was no longer missed. It was not till the tenth day that he learned of the theft. While riding on that day, he met Mr. Comstock, who had confided to Sam the money-letter.
"Good-morning, Deacon Hopkins," said he, stopping his horse.
"Good-morning," said the deacon.
"I suppose your boy handed you a letter from me."
"I haven't received any letter," said the deacon, surprised.
"It was early last week that I met a boy who said he lived with you.
As I was in a hurry, I gave him a letter containing ten dollars, which I asked him to give to you."
"What day was it?" asked the deacon, eagerly.
"Monday. Do you mean to say he didn't give it to you?"
"No; he ran away the next morning, and I haven't seen him since."
"Then he ran away with the money – the young thief! I told him there was money in it."
"Bless my soul! I didn't think Sam was so bad," ejaculated the deacon.
"Didn't you go after him?"
"No; he wasn't very good to work, and I thought I'd let him run. Ef I'd knowed about the money, I'd have gone after him."
"It isn't too late, now."
"I'll ask my wife what I'd better do."
The deacon conferred with his wife, who was greatly incensed against Sam, and would have advised pursuit, but they had no clue to his present whereabouts.
"He'll come back some time, deacon," said she. "When he does, have him took up."
But years passed, and Sam did not come back, nor did the deacon set eyes on him for four years, and then under the circumstances recorded in the first chapter.