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

Pomp found it considerably easier to give the word of command than to obey it. With some difficulty he succeeded in accomplishing this movement, and proceeded with the manual, with several original variations which would have astonished a military instructor.

Meanwhile, though Pomp did not realize it, he was exposing himself to considerable danger. The gun had been loaded with buckshot in the morning, and the charge had not been withdrawn.

It seemed to be the lot of poor Mrs. Payson to suffer fright or disaster whenever she encountered Pomp, and this memorable afternoon was to make no exception to the rule.

“Cynthy Ann,” she said to her daughter, in the afternoon, “I guess I’ll go and spend the arternoon with Mis’ Forbes. I hain’t been to see her for nigh a month, and I calc’late she’ll be glad to see me. Besides, she ginerally bakes Thursdays, an’ mos’ likely she’ll have some hot gingerbread. I’m partic’larly fond of gingerbread, an’ she does know how to make it about the best of anybody I know on. You needn’t wait supper for me, Cynthy Ann, for ef I don’t find Mis’ Forbes to home I’ll go on to Mis’ Frost’s.”

Mrs. Payson put on her cloak and hood, and, armed with the work-bag and the invariable blue cotton umbrella, sallied out. Mrs. Forbes lived at the distance of a mile, but Mrs. Payson was a good walker for a woman of her age, and less than half an hour brought her to the door of the brown farmhouse in which Mrs. Forbes lived.

She knocked on the door with the handle of her umbrella. The summons was answered by a girl of twelve.

“How dy do, Betsy?” said Mrs. Payson. “Is your ma’am to home?”

“No, she’s gone over to Webbington to spend two or three days with Aunt Prudence.”

“Then she won’t be home to tea,” said Mrs. Payson, considerably disappointed.

“No, ma’am, I don’t expect her before to-morrow.”

“Well, I declare for’t, I am disapp’inted,” said the old lady regretfully. “I’ve walked a mile on puppus to see her. I’m most tuckered out.”

“Won’t you step in and sit down?”

“Well, I don’t keer ef I do a few minutes. I feel like to drop. Do you do the cooking while you maam’s gone?”

“No, she baked up enough to last before she went away.”

“You hain’t got any gingerbread in the house?” asked Mrs. Payson, with subdued eagerness. “I always did say Mis’ Forbes beat the world at makin’ gingerbread.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Payson, but we ate the last for supper last night.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed the old lady, “I feel sort of faint—kinder gone at the stomach. I didn’t have no appetite at dinner, and I s’pose it don’t agree with me walkin’ so fur on an empty stomach.”

“Couldn’t you eat a piece of pie?” asked Betsy sympathizingly.

“Well,” said the old lady reflectively, “I don’t know but I could eat jest a bite. But you needn’t trouble yourself. I hate to give trouble to anybody.”

“Oh, it won’t be any trouble,” said Betsy cheerfully.

“And while you’re about it,” added Mrs. Payson, “ef you have got any of that cider you give me when I was here before, I don’t know but I could worry down a little of it.”

“Yes, we’ve got plenty. I’ll bring it in with the pie.”

“Well,” murmured the old lady, “I’ll get something for my trouble. I guess I’ll go and take supper at Mis’ Frost’s a’terward.”

Betsy brought in a slice of apple and one of pumpkin pie, and set them down before the old lady. In addition she brought a generous mug of cider.

The old lady’s eyes brightened, as she saw this substantial refreshment.

“You’re a good gal, Betsy,” she said in the overflow of her emotions. “I was saying to my darter yesterday that I wish all the gals round here was as good and considerate as you be.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Payson,” said Betsy modestly. “I ain’t any better than girls generally.”

“Yes, you be. There’s my granddarter, Jane, ain’t so respectful as she’d arter be to her old grandma’am. I often tell her that when she gets to have children of her own, she’ll know what tis to be a pilgrim an’ a sojourner on the arth without nobody to consider her feelin’s. Your cider is putty good.” Here the old lady took a large draft, and set down the mug with a sigh of satisfaction. “It’s jest the thing to take when a body’s tired. It goes to the right spot. Cynthy Ann’s husband didn’t have none made this year. I wonder ef your ma would sell a quart or two of it.”

“You can have it and welcome, Mrs. Payson.”

“Can I jest as well as not? Well, that’s kind. But I didn’t expect you to give it to me.”

“Oh, we have got plenty.”

“I dunno how I can carry it home,” said the lady hesitatingly. “I wonder ef some of your folks won’t be going up our way within a day or two.”

“We will send it. I guess father’ll be going up to-morrow.”

“Then ef you can spare it you might send round a gallon, an’ ef there’s anything to pay I’ll pay for it.”

This little business arrangement being satisfactorily adjusted, and the pie consumed, Mrs. Payson got up and said she must be going.

“I’m afraid you haven’t got rested yet, Mrs. Payson.”

“I ain’t hardly,” was the reply; “but I guess I shall stop on the way at Mis’ Frost’s. Tell your ma I’ll come up an’ see her ag’in afore long.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“An’ you won’t forget to send over that cider?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m ashamed to trouble ye, but their ain’t anybody over to our house that I can send. There’s Tom grudges doin’ anything for his old grandma’am. A’ter all that I do for him, too! Good-by!”

The old lady set out on her way to Mrs. Frost’s.

Her road lay through the woods, where an unforeseen danger lay in wait for her.

Meanwhile Pomp was pursuing military science under difficulties. The weight of the musket made it very awkward for him to handle. Several times he got out of patience with it, and apostrophized it in terms far from complimentary. At last, in one of his awkward maneuvers, he accidentally pulled the trigger. Instantly there was a loud report, followed by a piercing shriek from the road. The charge had entered old Mrs. Payson’s umbrella and knocked it out of her hand. The old lady fancied herself hit, and fell backward, kicking energetically, and screaming “murder” at the top of her lungs.

The musket had done double execution. It was too heavily loaded, and as it went off, ‘kicked,’ leaving Pomp, about as scared as the old lady, sprawling on the ground.

Henry Morton was only a few rods off when he heard the explosion. He at once ran to the old lady’s assistance, fancying her hurt. She shrieked the louder on his approach, imagining that he was a robber, and had fired at her.

“Go away!” she cried, in affright. “I ain’t got any money. I’m a poor, destitute widder!”

“What do you take me for?” inquired Mr. Morton, somewhat amazed at this mode of address.

“Ain’t you a highwayman?” asked the old lady.

“If you look at me close I think you will be able to answer that question for yourself.”