Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp

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.

CHAPTER XV. POMP BEHAVES BADLY

The village of Rossville was distant about five miles from the long line of railway which binds together with iron bands the cities of New York and Boston. Only when the wind was strongly that way could the monotonous noise of the railway-train be heard, as the iron monster, with its heavy burden, sped swiftly on its way.

Lately a covered wagon had commenced running twice a day between Rossville and the railway-station at Wellington. It was started at seven in the morning, in time to meet the early trains, and again at four, in order to receive any passengers who might have left the city in the afternoon.

Occupying a central position in the village stood the tavern—a two-story building, with a long piazza running along the front. Here an extended seat was provided, on which, when the weather was not too inclement, the floating population of the village, who had plenty of leisure, and others when their work was over for the day, liked to congregate, and in neighborly chat discuss the affairs of the village, or the nation, speculating perchance upon the varying phases of the great civil contest, which, though raging hundreds of miles away, came home to the hearts and hearths of quiet Rossville and every other village and hamlet in the land.

The driver of the carriage which made its daily journeys to and fro from the station had received from his parents the rather uncommon name of Ajax, not probably from any supposed resemblance to the ancient Grecian hero, of whom it is doubtful whether his worthy progenitor had ever heard. He had been at one time a driver on a horse-car in New York, but had managed to find his way from the busy hum of the city to quiet Rossville, where he was just in time for an employment similar to the one he had given up.

One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure, apparently not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from the cars at the Wellington station and, crossing the track, passed through the small station-house to the rear platform.

“Can you tell me,” he inquired of a bystander, “whether there is any conveyance between this place and Rossville?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “That’s the regular carriage, and here’s the driver. Ajax, here’s a passenger for you.”

“I have a trunk on the other side,” said the young man, addressing the driver. “If you wild go round with me, we will bring it here.”

“All right, sir,” said Ajax, in a businesslike way.

The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the wagon. It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass bands, and showed marks of service, as if it had been considerably used. Two small strips of paper pasted on the side bore the custom-house marks of Havre and Liverpool. On one end was a large card, on which, written in large, bold letters, was the name of the proprietor, Henry Morton.

In five minutes the “express” got under way. The road wound partly through the woods. In some places the boughs, bending over from opposite sides, nearly met. At present the branches were nearly destitute of leaves, and the landscape looked bleak. But in the summer nothing could be more charming.

From his seat, beside Ajax, Henry Morton regarded attentively the prominent features of the landscape. His survey was interrupted by a question from the driver.

“Are you calc’latin’ to make a long stay in our village?” inquired Ajax, with Yankee freedom.

“I am not quite certain. It is possible that I may.”

“There isn’t much goin’ on in winter.”

“No, I suppose not.”

After a few minutes’ pause, he inquired, “Can you tell me if there is a gentleman living in the village named Haynes?”

“I expect you mean Squire Haynes,” said Ajax.

“Very probably he goes by that name. He was formerly a lawyer.”

“Yes, that’s the man. Do you know him?”

“I have heard of him,” said the young man, non-committally.

“Then you ain’t going to stop there?”