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

“Take hold of me,” he said. “Have courage, and I will save you.”

John seized him with the firm grip of a drowning person, and nearly prevented him from striking out. But Mr. Morton’s strength served him in good stead; and, notwithstanding the heavy burden, he succeeded in reaching the bank in safety, though with much exhaustion.

John no sooner reached the bank than he fainted away. The great danger which he had just escaped, added to his own efforts, had proved too much for him.

Mr. Morton, fortunately knew how to act in such emergencies. By the use of the proper remedies, he was fortunately brought to himself, and his preserver offered to accompany him home. John still felt giddy, and was glad to accept Mr. Morton’s offer. He knew that his father would be angry with him for having the boat fitted up without his knowledge, especially as he had directed Mr. Plane to charge it to his father’s account. Supposing that Squire Haynes approved, the carpenter made no objections to doing so. But even the apprehension of his father’s anger was swallowed up by the thought of the great peril from which he had just escaped, and the discomfort of the wet clothes which he had on.

Mr. Morton, too, was completely wet through, with the exception of his coat, and but for John’s apparent inability to go home alone, would at once have returned to his boarding-house to exchange his wet clothes for dry ones.

It so happened that Squire Haynes was sitting at a front window, and saw Mr. Morton and his son as they entered the gate and came up the graveled walk. He had never met Mr. Morton, and was surprised now at seeing him in John’s company. He had conceived a feeling of dislike to the young man, for which he could not account, while at the same time he felt a strong curiosity to know more of him.

When they came nearer, he perceived the drenched garments, and went to the door himself to admit them.

“What’s the matter, John?” he demanded hastily, with a contraction of the eyebrows.

“I’m wet!” said John shortly.

“It is easy to see that. But how came you so wet?”

“I’ve been in the river,” answered John, who did not seem disposed to volunteer any particulars of his adventure.

“How came you there?”

“Your son’s boat capsized,” explained Mr. Morton; “and, as you will judge from my appearance, I jumped in after him. I should advise him to change his clothing, or he will be likely to take cold.”

Squire Haynes looked puzzled.

“I don’t see how a large rowboat like his could capsize,” he said; “he must have been very careless.”

“It was a sailboat,” explained John, rather reluctantly.

“A sailboat! Whose?”

“Mine.”

“I don’t understand at all.”

“I had a mast put in, and a sail rigged up, two or three days since,” said John, compelled at last to explain.

“Why did you do this without my permission?” demanded the squire angrily.

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Morton quietly, “it will be better to postpone inquiries until your son has changed his clothes.”

Squire Haynes, though somewhat irritated by this interference, bethought himself that it would be churlish not to thank his son’s preserver.

“I am indebted to you, sir,” he said, “for your agency in saving the life of this rash boy. I regret that you should have got wet.”

“I shall probably experience nothing more than temporary inconvenience.”

“You have been some months in the village, I believe, Mr. Morton. I trust you will call at an early day, and enable me to follow up the chance which has made us acquainted.”

“I seldom make calls,” said Mr. Morton, in a distant tone. “Yet,” added he, after a pause, “I may have occasion to accept your invitation some day. Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” returned the squire, looking after him with an expression of perplexity.

“He boards at the Frosts’, doesn’t he, John?” asked Squire Haynes, turning to his son.

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s something in his face that seems familiar,” mused the squire absently. “He reminds me of somebody, though I can’t recall who.”

It was not long before the squire’s memory was refreshed, and he obtained clearer information respecting the young man, and the errand which had brought him to Rossville. When that information came, it was so far from pleasing that he would willingly have postponed it indefinitely.

CHAPTER XXIX. MR. MORTON’S STORY

The planting-season was over. For a month Frank had worked industriously, in conjunction with Jacob Carter. His father had sent him directions so full and minute, that he was not often obliged to call upon Farmer Maynard for advice. The old farmer proved to be very kind and obliging. Jacob, too, was capable and faithful, so that the farm work went on as well probably as if Mr. Frost had been at home.

One evening toward the middle of June, Frank walked out into the fields with Mr. Morton. The corn and potatoes were looking finely. The garden vegetables were up, and to all appearance doing well. Frank surveyed the scene with a feeling of natural pride.

“Don’t you think I would make a successful farmer, Mr. Morton?” he asked.

“Yes, Frank; and more than this, I think you will be likely to succeed in any other vocation you may select.”

“I am afraid you’re flattering me, Mr. Morton.”

“Such is not my intention, Frank, but I like to award praise where I think it due. I have noticed in you a disposition to be faithful to whatever responsibility is imposed upon you, and wherever I see that I feel no hesitation in predicting a successful career.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, looking very much pleased with the compliment. “I try to be faithful. I feel that father has trusted me more than it is usual to trust boys of my age, and I want to show myself worthy of his confidence.”

“You are fortunate in having a father, Frank,” said the young man, with a shade of sadness in his voice. “My father died before I was of your age.”

“Do you remember him?” inquired Frank, with interest.

“I remember him well. He was always kind to me. I never remember to have received a harsh word from him. It is because he was so kind and indulgent to me that I feel the more incensed against a man who took advantage of his confidence to defraud him, or, rather, me, through him.”

“You have never mentioned this before, Mr. Morton.”

“No. I have left you all in ignorance of much of my history. This morning, if it will interest you, I propose to take you into my confidence.”

The eagerness with which Frank greeted this proposal showed that for him the story would have no lack of interest.

“Let us sit down under this tree,” said Henry Morton, pointing to a horse-chestnut, whose dense foliage promised a pleasant shelter from the sun’s rays.

They threw themselves upon the grass, and he forthwith commenced his story.

“My father was born in Boston, and, growing up, engaged in mercantile pursuits. He was moderately successful, and finally accumulated fifty thousand dollars. He would not have stopped there, for he was at the time making money rapidly, but his health became precarious, and his physician required him absolutely to give up business. The seeds of consumption, which probably had been lurking for years in his system, had begun to show themselves unmistakably, and required immediate attention.

“By the advice of his physician he sailed for the West India Islands, hoping that the climate might have a beneficial effect upon him. At that time I was twelve years old, and an only child. My mother had died some years before, so that I was left quite alone in the world. I was sent for a time to Virginia, to my mother’s brother, who possessed a large plantation and numerous slaves. Here I remained for six months. You will remember that Aunt Chloe recognized me at first sight. You will not be surprised at this when I tell you that she was my uncle’s slave, and that as a boy I was indebted to her for many a little favor which she, being employed in the kitchen, was able to render me. As I told you at the time, my real name is not Morton. It will not be long before you understand the reason of my concealment.