Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

“But what can a boy of fifteen do?”

“He can support himself. At any rate, he can try. The fact is, Nat, I don’t think Mr. McCracken a friend of mine. I may go to him, and ask if he will make any other arrangements for me. If he won’t, I will make them for myself.”

“What will you do to-night, Bernard?”

“I will go back to Mr. Snowdon’s – creep up to my room, if I have a chance, get out a bundle of clothes, and sleep in the barn. In the morning I can start early, and – ”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Mr. Snowdon was in the habit of retiring early, and so were his family. Generally at nine o’clock they were in bed. When nine o’clock came he told Septimus to lock the door.

“But suppose Bernard comes back?”

“He can sleep out of doors for one night. It will teach him a lesson.”

He didn’t know that Bernard had already visited the house, made up a bundle of clothing, and withdrawn to the barn, where he had found a comfortable resting place on one of the lofts of hay.

It was Bernard’s intention to get up early in the morning and make his escape before Mr. Snowdon or any of his family were astir.

But a healthy boy, who is a good sleeper, cannot always fix the time of awaking. For some reason Bernard slept on till half-past seven o’clock. Septimus had occasion to go to the barn, and discovered him still asleep. He ran into the house in great excitement.

“Pa,” he said, “Bernard is asleep in the barn. I seed him.”

Occasionally Septimus, though the son of a teacher, made grammatical mistakes.

“Is he asleep?” asked Mr. Snowdon in a tone of interest.

“Yes, pa.”

“The Lord has delivered him into my hands. I will not neglect the opportunity to chastise him.”

“He may wake up when you are getting up.”

“I will take you with me to hold the ladder.”

“He might stick me with the pitchfork,” said Septimus, who was a coward at heart.

“Then I will take Bridget.”

Bridget was the kitchen drudge. She was rather a stupid girl, who stood in fear of her employer.

They went to the barn together. Mr. Snowdon went up the ladder, whip in hand, Bridget holding the ladder. He mounted the opposite scaffold, and prepared to cross to the other, when Bernard, who had been aroused by the sound of voices, made his appearance, cap in hand, and asked composedly: “What are you after, Mr. Snowdon?”

“I’m after you, Bernard Brooks,” answered Mr. Snowdon grimly.

CHAPTER IV. A ROAD SIDE ACQUAINTANCE

The position was critical. Bernard was tall and muscular for his age, but of course he was not a match for the teacher.

He was, however, cool and collected, and not at all nervous. He maintained his ground till Mr. Snowdon, with slow and cautious steps, had crossed the narrow bridge, and then ran to the back part of the loft.

The schoolmaster followed him as well as he could, but in his impetuosity he lost his balance and fell on the hay.

Bernard made a dash for the plank. Seeing him coming, Bridget was seized with a panic and hastily dismounted from the ladder.

Bernard took advantage of this, and descending to the barn floor, seized the ladder and carried it out of doors, leaving Professor Snowdon a prisoner in the barn loft.

Septimus, who was prudently standing just outside, called out, in alarm, “Where’s my pa? What have you done to him?”

Bernard was not called upon to answer, as there was an angry roar from inside the barn.

“Bring back the ladder, you audacious young ruffian!”

Bridget had fled to the house, and Septimus, who was far from courageous, ran out behind the barn.

“I think the place is too hot to hold me,” thought Bernard, and he struck for the road on a half run.

He had managed to catch up his bundle of clothes when fleeing from the angry teacher, and there was nothing to prevent his bidding a final farewell to the Snowdon Institute.

Meanwhile Professor Snowdon found himself in a quandary. He was in the hay loft, unable to descend to the barn floor.

He could indeed walk across the plank to the opposite scaffold, but that would not help him. It was certainly very aggravating. Bernard, he had no doubt, was in full flight, while he was unable to follow him.

“Bridget!” he cried. “What has become of the ladder?”

But Bridget had already returned to the house.

“Drat that girl,” he muttered angrily. “Has she left me in the lurch?”

Then he bethought himself of his son.

“Septimus!” he cried, or rather roared.

“What is it, pa?” asked Septimus, who had gathered enough courage to return to the barn.

“Where is Bernard Brooks?”

“He’s ran away.”

“Has he taken the ladder with him?”

“He took it out of the barn.”

“He won’t carry it far. Go and bring it here.”

“I dassn’t. He’ll come back and lick me.”

“Do as I tell you at once. If you don’t I will flog you.”

Septimus thought it prudent to heed his father’s appeal, especially as it was evident that Bernard had got away.

He lugged the ladder into the barn.

“Now put it up against the scaffold so that I can get down.”

Septimus did so, but he did not see that the ladder had a secure footing, so that when his father was part way down it fell, and the learned pedagogue tumbled sprawling on the barn floor, receiving some painful contusions, which did not improve his temper.

“It’s your fault, you young booby!” he exclaimed furiously, and springing for Septimus he lashed him across the legs.

“Ouch!” yelled Septimus. “Are you crazy, pa? I ain’t Bernard.”

“I’d like to flog that boy within an inch of his life!” exclaimed Ezekiel Snowdon, excited to fury by the sound of Bernard’s name.

“Then you’d better try to catch him instead of licking me.”

“Come into the house, Septimus,” said his father more calmly. “Look down the road and see if you can see him.”

Septimus shaded his eyes, and looked down the road, but no runaway boy was visible.

“I can’t see him, pa. He may be hiding somewhere.”

“Go and ask Mr. Sweetland if he will lend me his horse. I’ll go after him.”

“There’s Leslie Sweetland now. I’ll ask him.” Leslie Sweetland, a boy of sixteen, well and strongly built, was walking by.

“I say, Leslie,” called out Septimus, “do you think your father will lend us his horse?”

Leslie stopped short. He had very little friendship for Septimus, and disliked the elder Snowdon.

“What do you want him for?” he asked.

“Bernard Brooks has run away, and pa and I want to catch him.”

“Has Bernard run away?” asked Leslie, immediately interested.

“Yes.”

“What did he run away for?”

“Pa went to the barn to horsewhip him for his owdacious conduct. He carried off the ladder and left pa in the hay loft, and now he’s run away.”

Leslie burst into a fit of laughter.

“Well, that’s a good joke!” he said.

“I don’t see where the joke comes in,” growled Ezekiel.

“I don’t blame him for running away,” said Leslie, with spirit.

“I’ve a great mind to horsewhip you,” cried the amiable Snowdon.

“You’d find you’d tackled the wrong boy,”retorted Leslie. “You can’t have our horse.”

“That’s for your father to say.”

“He won’t help you to catch Bernard. I’ll tell him not to.”

“The impudence of the boys in this village is positively terrible,” said Mr. Snowdon. “Septimus, go over to Mr. Bacon, and see if he will lend us his horse.”

Septimus did as ordered, but he found Mr. Bacon’s horse in use, and upon his return Mr. Snowdon felt that it was too late to make other arrangements.

“I’ll write to the boy’s guardian,” he said, “and probably he will send him back without expense to me. If he does I’ll make the boy howl.”

Meanwhile Bernard was making the best of his time. He ran half a mile without stopping. He passed a covered buggy, and as he did so turned back to look at it.

It was occupied by a man of perhaps forty, who seemed to be in trouble. He held the reins loose in his hands, his eyes were partly closed, and his body swayed from side to side of the carriage.

“He needs help,” thought Bernard.

He ran to the horse, seized him by the bridle, and stopped him.

The driver did not seem to be aware of his interference.

Bernard, after a moment’s hesitation, climbed into the carriage, and seating himself beside the gentleman, took the reins from his unresisting fingers.

“Are you sick, sir?” he said.

The gentleman opened his eyes and looked at Bernard.

“Yes,” he said. “I came near fainting away.”

“Shan’t I drive for you?”

“Yes, I wish you would. Who are you?”

“My name is Bernard Brooks.”

“All right! I don’t know you, but you seem like a good boy.”

“Where shall I drive you?”

“To the next town.”

“Poplar Plains?”

“Yes.”

This suited Bernard very well. Poplar Plains was five miles away, and here there was a station on the nearest railroad.

He drove on, while his companion leaned back in the carriage and closed his eyes. Bernard took a side glance and noted his appearance.

He was a man with dark hair and eyes, and his complexion was also dark. He looked to be in good health but for the pallor occasioned by his present attack.

He roused up when they came within a mile of Poplar Plains.

“Are you feeling better?” asked Bernard.

“Yes; a little. You haven’t any hartshorn about you?”

“No, sir; but there is a drug store at the Plains. I can get some for you.”

“Do so.”

“Shall I drive you to any particular place?”

“Yes. Drive to the hotel. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, sir.”

In a very few minutes Bernard halted in front of the Poplar Plains Hotel. A servant came out to receive the expected guest.

“Is your father going to stop with us?” he asked. “He isn’t my father, but he will stop. He is feeling unwell, and I will get you to help him out.” Assisted by Bernard and the hotel porter, the gentleman descended from the buggy and went into the hotel.

“Sit down here a moment, sir, and I will get you the ammonia,” Bernard said. “The drug store is close by.”

“Wait a moment. You will want some money. Here is a dollar.”

He drew a dollar bill from his vest pocket and handed it to Bernard, who returned in five minutes with a small bottle.

The gentleman, removing the cork, applied the bottle to his nose. He sneezed, but seemed revived.

“I feel better,” he said. “Go and take a room for me and help me up to it.”

“What name shall I put down on the register?”

“William Penrose.”

“Where from?”

“Buffalo.”

Bernard did as requested. Mr. Penrose was assigned to a room on the second floor. Then Bernard, taking out some silver, offered it to his companion.

“The hartshorn only cost ten cents,” he said. “Here is the change.”

“Keep it,” said Mr. Penrose.

“Thank you, sir. It will be very acceptable. Now I will bid you good-by.”

“No, don’t go. Stay with me, unless you have to go home. I may need you.”

“I have no home, sir. I can stay as well as not.”

“Then go down and put your name on the register. There is another bed in the room. You can sleep there.”

CHAPTER V. MR. PENROSE’S SECRET

Bernard was by no means loath to accept the invitation he had received. His stock of ready money was very small, and would soon be exhausted. While he remained with Mr. Penrose he would be taken care of.

“I shall be glad to accept your invitation, Mr. Penrose,” he said.

“I hope I am not interfering with any of your plans.”

“No, sir. I have not formed any plans yet.”

“That is singular,” observed Mr. Penrose, with a mild curiosity.

“I haven’t had time to form any plans yet,” explained Bernard. “I only started in for myself this morning.”

“You excite my curiosity. Do you mind throwing light on the mystery?”

“Not at all, sir. I ran away this morning from a boarding school in the next town.”

“You ran away from school? That doesn’t sound well.”

“I dare say not, but if you knew Mr. Ezekiel Snowdon, you wouldn’t be surprised at my running away.”

“Ezekiel Snowdon? Why, I once went to school to a teacher of that name. Describe him.”

Bernard did so.

“It must be the same man.”

“Where was he teaching?”

“He came to Springfield, Illinois, and was engaged to teach. That was my native town, and I was a lad of thirteen at the time.”

“Did you like him?”

“No; I think he was the most unpopular teacher we ever had. He taught just six weeks. At the end of that time the bigger boys formed a combination and rode him on a rail out of town. He was an ignoramus, and was continually flogging the boys. If he couldn’t find a pretext for punishment he invented one. But he received his deserts. After his ride on a rail he never ventured to come back to Springfield.” Bernard laughed. “I think it must be the same man,” he said.

“I have often wondered what the old fellow was doing,” said Mr. Penrose. “It seems he has stuck to the business of a pedagogue. Now tell me your experience with him.”

This Bernard did. He explained that Mr. Snowdon was now at the head of the Snowdon Institute in the neighboring town of Doncaster.

“Has he many pupils?”

“About eight or ten, but they are boarding pupils.”

“Who placed you there?”

“My guardian, Mr. Cornelius McCracken of New York. I think Mr. Snowdon’s low terms influenced him in the selection of the school. I soon found out that he wasn’t much of a scholar. Besides, he is a tyrant, and tried to bully me.

“He has a son, Septimus, who is a very disagreeable boy, and is continually instigating his father to punish the boys. They are mostly small, and unable to resist injustice. Finally he tackled me, and threatened to horsewhip me.”

“You naturally objected,” said Mr. Penrose, with a smile.

“Yes; I had no idea of allowing myself to be treated in that way. Yesterday I made up my mind to run away. I stopped over night in the barn, and meant to get off early this morning, but was surprised by Septimus, who let his father know where I was. Soon the old man appeared with a horsewhip, and climbed up to the scaffold where I was sleeping on the hay. I woke up in time, and managed to escape, carrying off the ladder, and leaving Mr. Snowdon a prisoner in the hay loft.”

“That was clever in you. And then you took leg bail?”

“Yes, sir. In ten or fifteen minutes I overtook your carriage, and seeing that you were in trouble, I climbed in and took the reins.”

“Luckily for me. The horse might have run away with me.”

“It was lucky for me, also, that I fell in with you,” added Bernard.

“I have a great mind to tell you a secret,” said Mr. Penrose, after a pause.

“It will be safe with me, sir.”

He was not surprised to hear that his companion had a secret, and was curious to learn what it might be.

“I ought to feel considerable sympathy with you,” went on Mr. Penrose, “for I am placed in a similar position. I, too, am running away.”

Bernard looked startled. Could it be, he asked himself, that his companion was a fugitive from justice? He could hardly believe it, for Mr. Penrose’s appearance was very much in his favor.

His companion went on with a smile, “Don’t suppose that I am a defaulter or a thief on my way to Canada,” he said. “My case is a peculiar one. I happen to be a rich man.”

“I don’t see why you should run away, then.”

“I have a cousin, an unprincipled man, who is anxious to get possession of my property.”

“But how can he do it? The law will protect you in your rights.”

“It ought to, certainly, but my cousin is a cunning schemer. He’s trying to have me adjudged insane, and get an appointment as my guardian. Do you think I look insane?”

“No, sir.”

“I am as sane as my cousin himself, but I am subject to occasional fits, such as the one I had just now. If I were seen in one of these I might be thought to be of unsound mind.”

“Are you often taken that way, Mr. Penrose?”

“Not often, but I have been subject occasionally to fits since I was a boy. My cousin cunningly waited till I was suffering an attack, when he hastily summoned two quacks, and got them to certify that I was insane. I got over the fit before the certificate was made out, but I realized my danger, and I fled from Buffalo, fearing that I might be taken to an asylum during the next seizure.”

“What a scoundrel your cousin must be! He must be worse than Mr. Snowdon.”

“He is a villain of a different type, and certainly quite as bad. In order to enjoy my property, he would coolly doom me to life imprisonment in a madhouse.”

“Where are you intending to go, Mr. Penrose?”

“I may take a voyage somewhere. On the sea I should be safe.”

“Do you think your cousin is in pursuit of you?”

“Probably he is.”

“What is his name?”

“Lawrence Atwood.”

“Is the buggy you were driving your own?”

“No, and that reminds me, I ought to return it to the stable from which I hired it.”

“Where is that, sir?”

“Brooks’ stable, in Doncaster.”

“I suppose you could get a man from the hotel to drive it back – by paying him, of course.”

“That is a good suggestion. I would ask you to take it back, but it might lead to your being captured by Mr. Snowdon.”

“Yes, sir; that would be my only objection.”

“Very well! Go down-stairs and see what arrangement you can make.”

Going down-stairs Bernard had the good luck to find a young man from Doncaster, Freedom Wentworth, who was about to start back.

“Hello, Bernard!” exclaimed the young man, in surprise. “When did you come here?”

“Half an hour ago. I say, Freed, when do you go back to Doncaster?”

“I am just starting back. I wish I could meet somebody going that way, as I don’t like the idea of walking.”

“I can fix you out. There is a gentleman up-stairs who wants to send back a buggy to Brooks’ stable. If you will take charge of it he will pay you for your trouble.”

“I’m in luck. Tell him I shall be very glad to oblige him.”

Bernard went up-stairs and reported to Mr. Penrose.

“Do you know this young man Wentworth?” asked Penrose.

“Yes, sir. He is a very reliable young man.”

“Then I accept his offer. Take this five-dollar bill, and ask him to pay Brooks out of it and keep the balance himself.”

“I will, sir.”

Bernard delivered his commission, and Freedom Wentworth started on his drive.

After he had got off Bernard bethought himself of a mistake he had made.

“I ought to have told Freed not to mention his meeting me. If it gets to the ears of Mr. Snowdon, he may take it into his head to come after me.”

It was certainly a pity that Bernard had not bethought himself of this prudent precaution, as it proved.

Septimus Snowdon was standing in front of Brooks’ stable as Wentworth drove up.

“Where have you come from?” he asked.

“From Poplar Plains.”

“Did you see anything of Bernard Brooks on the way?”

“Yes, he is at the Poplar Plains Hotel. Did your father send him there?”

“Aha!” soliloquized Septimus in exultation. “I’ll tell pa, and we’ll go after him.”

“I hope I haven’t done Bernard any harm,” thought Freedom. “He’s worth half a dozen boys like Septimus Snowdon.”

CHAPTER VI. BERNARD’S DANGER

By the way,” said Mr. Penrose suddenly, “it has just occurred to me that I have had no breakfast.”

“It is the same case with me,” returned Bernard, smiling.

“Bless my soul! How hungry you must be!”

“Don’t you feel hungry, Mr. Penrose?”

“Yes, but my appetite isn’t equal to that of a growing boy. What time is it?”

“I have no watch, Mr. Penrose.”

“Then I will look at my own. It is nine o’clock. Won’t you go down stairs, Bernard, and ask if breakfast is over.”

Bernard returned with the information that the regular breakfast was over, but that a special breakfast for the two guests would be ready in half an hour.

“That will be satisfactory.”

Bernard thought it would be satisfactory to him also, for he felt, to use an expression of his own, “as hungry as a bear.”

It is needless to say that both enjoyed their breakfast.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Penrose, smiling, “that important business prevented your breakfasting with my old teacher, Mr. Snowdon.”

“Yes, sir; very important business.”

“Does he provide a liberal table?”

“Very far from it, sir.”

“So I imagined; though when I was his pupil, he had no boarding pupils. Suppose we take a walk about the town. I have never been in Poplar Plains before.”

“All right, sir.”

It was two hours before they returned. They had sauntered to the river and taken a seat on the bank under some old trees that afforded a grateful shelter. Mr. Penrose found himself more and more attracted by the frank, open nature of his boy companion.

“Really, Bernard,” he said, “I find you a very agreeable comrade. I am glad I fell in with you.”

“I shouldn’t think you would be, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because Mr. Snowdon says I am a bad lot.”

“I am disposed to think that Mr. Snowdon himself is a bad lot.”

Finally they rose and made their way back to the hotel.

In front of it was a rusty-looking chaise drawn by a rawboned horse, whose skin was worn away in several places.

Bernard started in dismay.

“Mr. Snowdon has come after me,” he said quickly.

“What makes you think so?”

“That horse and carriage is one that he always hires. He gets it because he can hire it for half the price of a stable team.”

“But there is no one in the carriage.”

“He is probably in the hotel. I don’t know what to do.”

“How could he have got track of you?”

“Freed Wentworth must have told him I was here. You see, I forgot to tell Freed not to speak of seeing me. Do you think he can carry me back?”

“I’ll tell you what to do, Bernard. Go back to the river side, and I will go forward and meet him. When the coast is clear I will go and find you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Snowdon and Septimus had driven up five minutes before. They left the horse standing in front of the hotel and entered.

“How do you do, Mr. Snowdon?” said the landlord. “What brings you here?”

“I am after a runaway boy – one of my pupils. I heard he was here.”

“There is one boy staying here, but he came with a gentleman whom I took for his guardian.”

“What’s his name? Let me look at your book.” Ezekiel Snowdon ran down the page with his lean forefinger. Finally he came to the following entries:

William Penrose, Buffalo.

Bernard Brooks.

Bernard had not registered himself from any place in particular, feeling that as yet he had no special local habitation.

“There it is!” said Mr. Snowdon triumphantly. “That’s the boy – Bernard Brooks.”

“And he is one of your pupils?”

“Yes, he ran away from my school – the Snowdon Institute – this morning.”

“He seemed to be traveling with Mr. Penrose. He came with him in a carriage.”

“I can’t help that. The man must have abducted him.”

“Don’t you think they had met before? They seemed to be well acquainted.”

“I don’t know about that. Now, Mr. Wilson, I want that boy given up to me. I want to take him home.”

“I have no authority over him, Mr. Snowdon. I can’t deliver him into your hands. I can’t take any responsibility.”

“I’ll take the responsibility,” said Mr. Snowdon impatiently. “Just show me to his room.”

“He isn’t in his room.”

“Where is he, then?”

“He went out to walk with Mr. Penrose directly after breakfast.”

“Is that a good while since?”

“About two hours.”

“Then I will wait for him. He can’t be out much longer.”

“That’s right, pa,” said Septimus. “You’d ought to take him back with you. If he makes any trouble, I’ll help you.”

The landlord regarded Septimus with a glance by no means flattering.

“Who is that boy, Mr. Snowdon?” he asked. “Is he one of your pupils?”

“That is my son, Septimus Snowdon,” answered Ezekiel, with an inflection of pride. It is strange that any one should be proud of such an unfledged cub as Septimus, but Mr. Snowdon was influenced by parental partiality.

Finally the landlord, whose eyes commanded the road outside, saw through the door the approach of Mr. Penrose.

“There’s Mr. Penrose,” he said, “the gentleman your pupil came with, but he is alone.”

“Alone!” repeated Snowdon. “Isn’t the boy with him?”