Try and Trust; Or, Abner Holden's Bound Boy

“Then I am right, am I not?” said Herbert, smiling brightly.

“I believe you are,” said the guide, after a pause, “and I thank you for teaching me a lesson.”

“Man was made in the image of God,” said Herbert. “If we doubt man, I think it is the same as doubting God.”

Ralph did not reply, but walked on in thoughtful silence.

“How far is it to Vernon?” asked Herbert, when they had emerged from the woods.

“It is five miles farther. Can you walk so far?”

“Oh, yes; I have good stout legs. But suppose Mr. Holden should escape. He might pursue us.”

Ralph smiled.

“I think I shall find him in the same place when I return,” he said.

“He will be very angry with you.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ralph, indifferently.

“Are you not afraid he will have you arrested?”

“No, I care little. If I am fined, I will pay the fine, and that will be the end of it.”

“But you might be imprisoned?”

“If I see any danger of that, I shall be tempted to charge Abner Holden with his attempt upon your life. Don’t make yourself anxious about me, my lad. I have little fear of what the law may do as far as my agency in this affair is concerned.”

Ralph seemed so entirely unconcerned that something of his confidence was imparted to Herbert. Noting the erect mien and fearless glance of his guide, every movement betokening strength, he could not help feeling that Abner Holden would be rash to make such a man his enemy. He felt safe in his protection, and his apprehensions of capture passed away. So with lightened heart he walked the five dusty miles to the village of Vernon, accompanied by Ralph.

It was a thrifty village, with neat and tasteful dwellings lining the principal street. The railroad and manufactories had built it up rapidly and given it an air of prosperity which was pleasant to see.

“We will go at once to the railway station,” said Ralph. “You may catch the next train, and it will be as well to leave this neighborhood as soon as possible.”

They were fortunate enough to reach the station fifteen minutes before the eastern train departed.

Herbert bought a ticket for Columbus, fifty miles distant, and entered the train.

“Good-by, Herbert,” said Ralph, from the platform.

“Good-by,” said Herbert. “Thank you for all your kindness to me. Shall I not see you again?”

“I do not know,” said Ralph, musing. “I have no wish nor intention of going to New York at present, yet I have a feeling that we shall meet again.”

“I hope it may be so,” said Herbert. “I shall be glad to see you again.”

While he spoke the shrill sound of the railway whistle was heard, the train started, and Herbert was fairly off on his journey.

Just as he was leaving the depot, a wagon drove hastily up to the station, and Abner Holden jumped out. Herbert saw him as he looked from the window, and for a moment he was apprehensive, but the train was fairly on the way.

“Stop! stop!” vociferated Abner. “Stop, I say!” for he had also caught sight of his bound boy on the way to freedom.

“You don’t think they will stop the train for you, you fool!” said a man standing by. “You ought to have come sooner if you wanted to go by this train.”

“I don’t want to go by it,” said Abner.

“What do you want, then?”

“My boy’s run away, and I have just seen him aboard the train.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Your son?”

“No, I hope not. It’s a young rascal that’s bound to me.”

“If he’s a young rascal, I shouldn’t think you’d want him back.”

Turning away, for he saw that he had failed, his glance rested on Ralph.

Instantly his anger rose.

“It’s your doings,” said he, shaking his fist in impotent wrath at the sturdy hunter, whom he would have attacked had he dared. “It’s your fault, and you shall pay for it if there’s law in the land.”

“What will the law say to your attempt to shoot the boy?” demanded Ralph, coolly.

Abner turned pale, and realized that his best course was to keep quiet about an affair which might seriously compromise himself.

CHAPTER XVII

NEW ACQUAINTANCES

Herbert stopped overnight at Columbus.

The first train eastward left Columbus at seven o’clock in the morning. It was Herbert’s intention to take this train, but unfortunately, as he thought at the time, the clock at the hotel by which his movements were guided was ten minutes too slow. The consequence was, that before he had quite reached the depot he saw the cars going out at the other end. He ran as fast as possible, hoping still to make up for lost time, but it was in vain.

“You’re too late, youngster,” said a porter, who had been assisting to stow away baggage. “You’ll have to wait till the next train.”

“When does the next train start?” asked our hero.

“Twelve o’clock.”

“Then I shall have to wait till that time,” Herbert concluded, with regret.

Yet, as he directly afterwards thought, it could make no particular difference, since he had no stated engagement to meet, and this consideration enabled him to bear the inevitable delay with a better grace.

“I suppose,” he reflected, “I might as well go back to the hotel.”

He turned to leave the building when a carriage drove hastily up to the station. It was drawn by two horses, and driven by a negro in livery. A lady put her head out of the window and inquired anxiously if the train had started. She addressed this question to Herbert, who happened to be nearest.

“Yes, madam,” he answered, respectfully.

“I am so sorry,” said the lady, in a tone of vexation and perplexity. “It was very important that my father should take that train.”

“There is another train that starts at twelve,” said Herbert. “It will make a difference of a few hours only.”

“Yes,” said the lady, “but you do not understand my difficulty. The few hours’ difference in time would be of small importance, but my father is blind, and is, of course, for that reason, dependent upon the kindness of others. A gentleman of our acquaintance was going by this train, who would have taken charge of him and seen him safe to his destination. By losing the train we lose his services.”

“My dear,” said an elderly gentleman, sitting on the opposite seat, “if I can get somebody to see me on board, I think I can manage very well.”

“On no account, father,” was the hasty reply, “particularly under present circumstances.”

“Where is the gentleman going?” asked Herbert, with interest.

“To Philadelphia.”

“I am going on to New York,” said our hero. “I have been disappointed like you. I expected to take the early train.”

“Do you intend to go by the next train, then?” asked the lady.

“Yes, madam.”

“Then, perhaps—I have a great mind to ask you to take charge of my father.”

“I shall be very glad to be of service to you,” said Herbert. “There is only one objection,” he added, with some embarrassment.

“What is that?”

“Why,” said Herbert, frankly, “I am obliged to be economical, and I was thinking of buying a second-class ticket.”

“Oh,” said the lady, promptly, “there need be no difficulty about that. If you will take the trouble to look after my father, we will gladly pay for your ticket.”

“I am afraid my services will not be worth so much,” said Herbert, modestly.

“You must leave us to estimate them. If you do what you have undertaken, we shall consider the expense well incurred.”

Herbert made no further objection. He felt, indeed, that it would be quite a lift to him, in the present state of his finances, and besides would be a very easy way of earning the money. He therefore signified his thanks and his acceptance of the offer.

“When did you say the train starts?” asked the lady.

“At twelve.”

“Nearly five hours. That will be too long to wait. I think, father, we will go home.”

“Yes, my dear, I think that will be best.”

“Are you obliged to go home before starting?” the lady inquired, addressing Herbert.

“No, madam, I have no home in Columbus. I passed last night at a hotel.”

“Have you any particular plan for spending the next few hours?”

Herbert answered in the negative.

“Then will you not ride home with us? You will then be ready to start with my father.”

“I shall be happy to do so.”

“I think that will be much the best plan. Pompey, open the carriage door for the young gentleman.”

Our hero was about to say that he could just as well open the door for himself, but he reflected that it was best to adapt himself to the customs of those he was with. He bowed, therefore, and waited till the coachman had opened the door for him, and stepped into the carriage. The lady signed to him to take a seat beside her, and the door was closed.

“Home, Pompey,” said she, briefly.

The coachman ascended to his seat, and the spirited grays were soon whirling the party rapidly homeward.

It was a new position for our hero, and he felt it to be so. His parents had never been rich, and latterly had been very poor. Living in a small country village, he had never even seen so elegant a carriage as that in which he was now riding He sank back upon the luxuriously cushioned seat, and he could not help thinking how pleasant it would be if he could command so comfortable a conveyance whenever he wanted to ride out. But another thought succeeded this. If he were blind, like the gentleman whom he was to take charge of, it would be a very poor compensation to ride in a luxurious carriage. After all, things were not so unequal as they seemed at first sight.

“Since you are to be my father’s traveling companion,” said the lady, “perhaps you will not object to telling us your name.”

“Certainly,” said our hero, “my name is Herbert Mason.”

“Are you going from home for the first time?” inquired the lady.

“I have no home,” said Herbert. “My father and mother are both dead.”

“Excuse me,” said the lady, gently. “I am sorry to have touched upon a subject which must awaken sorrowful recollections. My father’s name is Carroll. Father, you have heard that your young escort is Mr. Herbert Mason.”

The old gentleman extended his hand, which Herbert took respectfully.

“I am afraid you will find me a troublesome charge,” he said. “Since I have become blind I have been compelled to tax the kindness of others.”

“The journey will be pleasanter to me,” said Herbert, politely, “than if I were alone.”

Mr. Carroll was evidently pleased with this remark, for he turned toward Herbert with increased interest.

“You can imagine how much more so it will be to me,” he said. “I have not your resources for beguiling the tedium of the way. I would give all my possessions gladly, for your young eyes. All journeys are alike to me now, since, however interesting the scenery, it is a blank to me.”

“That is indeed a privation, sir.”

“Especially in the journey we are about to take. The Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, as it is called, runs through a romantic and charming country, and affords views at once bold and beautiful. Have you ever traveled over the road?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you will have all the pleasure of a first discovery. Before I became blind, before, indeed, the railway was located, I became, as a young man, familiar with this whole section of country, so that I have, at least, the remembrance of it. I am obliged now to live upon my memory.”

“You say you have never been over this railroad,” said the lady. “Have you ever been to the East?”

“No, madam, I have always lived in the State of Ohio.”

“And you are now going to Philadelphia?” she inquired.

“I am going to New York,” said Herbert.

“Indeed! Is it on a visit?”

“No, madam, I am expecting to live there; that is, if I can make a living.”

“Are you dependent, then, upon your own exertions for support?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You seem very young for such a responsibility.”

“I am fourteen.”

“I thought you a year older. My Oscar is fourteen, and I am afraid he would make a poor hand at supporting himself. What do you think, father?”

“I think you are right, my dear. Oscar has not been placed in circumstances to develop his self-reliance.”

“No; that probably has something to do with it. But, Herbert, if you will permit me to call you so, do you not look forward to the future with apprehension?”

“No, madam,” said Herbert. “I am not afraid but that I shall be able to get along somehow. I think I shall find friends, and I am willing to work.”

“That is the spirit that leads to success,” said the old gentleman, approvingly. “Work comes to willing hands. I think you will succeed.”

“I hope so, sir.”

Our hero was gratified to meet with so much sympathy from those whose wealth placed them far above him in the social scale. But it was not surprising, for Herbert had a fine appearance and gentlemanly manners, marked, too, by a natural politeness which enabled him to appear better than most boys of his age.

CHAPTER XVIII

A YOUNG ARISTOCRAT

After a drive of three miles, which was accomplished in a short time by the spirited horses, the carriage entered, through an ornamental gate, upon a smooth driveway, which led up to a handsome mansion, of large size, with a veranda stretching along the entire front.

A boy, a little smaller than Herbert, ran out of the front door, and opened the door of the carriage before Pompey had time to descend from the box.

“What, grandpa, come back?” he said, in surprise.

“Yes, Oscar, we were too late for the train,” said his mother. “I brought you back a companion for a few hours. This is Herbert Mason, whom I intrust to your care, depending upon you to see that he passes his time pleasantly.”

Oscar looked at Herbert inquisitively.

Herbert offered his hand, saying, “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Oscar.”

“How long are you going to stay?” asked Oscar, as his mother and grandfather went into the house.

“I must return in time to take the twelve o’clock train.”

“Is grandpa going, too?”

“Yes.”

“And are you going to take care of him?”

“I believe so.”

“I wouldn’t want to.’

“Why not?”

“Oh, it’s an awful bore to be tied to a blind man.”

“You’d find it more of a bore to be blind yourself,” said Herbert.

“Yes, I suppose I should. Grandpa wants me to go to walk with him sometimes, but I don’t like it.”

“If I had a grandfather who was blind, I think I should be willing.”

“Wait till you have one, and you’ll see how it is then.”

“I suppose he needs somebody.”

“Oh, well, he can take one of the servants, then. It’s their business to work.”

“Where do you live?” he asked, after a pause.

“I am going to live in New York.”

“Are you? I should like to go there.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t want to go as I am going.”

“What, alone? Yes, I should rather go that way. Then I could do as I pleased. Now it’s ‘Oscar, do this,’ and ‘You mustn’t do that,’ all the time.”

“That isn’t what I mean exactly. I’ve got to earn my own living after I get there, and I don’t know anybody in the city.”

“You haven’t run away from home, have you?”

“I haven’t got any home.”

“Where’s your father and mother?”

“They are both dead.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I hope to get into a store or counting-room and learn to be a merchant.”

“I shan’t have to work for a living,” said Oscar, in a tone of importance.

“Because your family is rich, I suppose,” said Herbert.

“Yes, we’ve got a large estate, ever so many acres. That’s what mother’s got. Then grandpa is rich besides, and I expect he will leave me a good deal of his money. He’s pretty old, and I don’t believe he’ll live very long.”

Oscar said this with such evident satisfaction that Herbert was disgusted, thinking it not very creditable to him to speculate so complacently upon his grandfather’s speedy death.

“You seem to be well off, then,” said he, at last, to the boy.

“Yes,” said Oscar, “our family is one of the first in the State. My father is a Peyton.”

“Is he?” asked Herbert, not appearing as much awestruck as Oscar expected.

“We’ve got a plantation in Virginia. We live there part of the year. My father’s there now. I hope we shall go there soon.”

“Do you like it better than here?”

“Yes, a good deal.”

“This is a handsome place.”

“Yes, this is mother’s estate. The other belongs to father.”

“Have you any brothers and sisters, Oscar?”

“I’ve got one sister. She’s about twelve. But, I say, I thought you were a gentleman’s son when I first saw you.”

“So I am,” said Herbert, emphatically.

“Was your father rich?”

“No.”

“Did he have to work for a living?”

“Yes.”

“Then he wasn’t a gentleman,” said Oscar, decidedly.

“Isn’t anybody a gentleman that has to work for a living?” asked Herbert, his indignation excited by his companion’s assumption of superiority.

“Of course not,” said Oscar, coolly. “It isn’t respectable to work. Niggers and servants work.”

“That is where I don’t agree with you,” said Herbert, his face flushing.

“You don’t pretend to be a gentleman, do you?” demanded Oscar, insolently.

“Yes, I do,” said Herbert, firmly.

“But you’re not one, you know.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” said Herbert, angrily. “I suppose you call yourself one.”

“Of course, I am a gentleman,” said Oscar, complacently.

“You don’t talk like one, at any rate,” retorted Herbert.

This was new language for Oscar to hear. He had been accustomed to have his own way pretty much, and had been used to order round his father’s servants and slaves like a little despot. The idea of being told by a boy who had to work for a living that he did not talk like a gentleman, did not suit him at all. His black eyes flashed and he clenched his fists.

“Do you mean to insult me?” he demanded.

“I never insult anybody,” said Herbert, not feeling particularly alarmed by this hostile demonstration. “It is you that have insulted me.”

“Didn’t you tell me I was not a gentleman?” said Oscar, hotly.

“I said you did not talk like one.”

“That’s about the same thing,” said Oscar.

“Just as you like. Even if I did say so, you said the same of me.”

“Well, suppose I did.”

“I am as much a gentleman as you, to say the least,” asserted Herbert.

“If you say that again, I’ll knock you down,” said Oscar, furiously.

“I’ll say it all day, if I like,” said Herbert, defiantly.

Perhaps it would have been better for Herbert to stop disputing, and to have taken no notice of Oscar’s words. But Herbert was not perfect. He had plenty of spirit, and he was provoked by the airs Oscar chose to assume, and by no means inclined to allow him to arrogate a superiority over himself, merely on account of his wealth. Though manly and generous, he was quick to resent an insult, and accordingly, when Oscar dared to repeat what he had said, he instantly accepted the challenge as recorded above.

Had Oscar been prudent, he would have hesitated before endeavoring to carry his threat into execution. A moment’s glance at the two boys would have satisfied anyone that the chances, in a personal contest, were decidedly in our hero’s favor. Herbert was not only a little taller than Oscar, perhaps an inch and a half, but his shoulders were broader and his frame more muscular. Oscar had never done any work to strengthen his arms, while Herbert had been forced by circumstances to do so.

Oscar flung himself upon Herbert, and endeavored to bear him to the ground. But the latter, without an effort, repelled the charge, and flung himself free from his antagonist’s grasp.

This naturally made Oscar more determined to overcome his foe. His face red with passion, he showered blows upon Herbert, which the latter parried with ease. At first he acted wholly upon the defensive, but, finding that Oscar’s impetuosity did not abate, suddenly closed with him and threw him down.

Oscar rose but little hurt, for Herbert used no unnecessary force, and recommenced the assault. But the result was the same as before. Oscar was almost beside himself with mingled rage and mortification, and it is hard to tell how long the contest would have lasted, had not a servant come up and informed the boys that Mrs. Peyton wished to see them immediately. She had witnessed the whole scene from a window and felt called upon to interfere.

“How is this, young gentleman?” she asked, gravely. “You have scarcely been together twenty minutes, and I find you fighting.”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Peyton,” said Herbert, in a manly tone. “I feel ashamed of myself, but Oscar attacked me for claiming to be a gentleman, and I am afraid that my blood was up, and so we got into a fight.”

“How is this, Oscar?” said his mother. “Did you so wholly lose your politeness as to attack your guest for asserting his claims to be a gentleman? I am annoyed with you.”

“He says he has to work for a living,” said Oscar, sullenly.

“So may you, some time.”

“I am rich.”

“You may not always be. At any rate, being rich doesn’t insure gentlemanly behavior, as your conduct to-day clearly shows. Herbert, I hope you will excuse my son’s rudeness.”

“Here is my hand, Oscar,” said Herbert, cordially. “Let us be friends.”

Oscar hardly knew how to receive this overture, but he was finally thawed by Herbert’s manner, and they were soon sauntering about on the lawn on the best of terms.

At half-past eleven, after an inviting lunch, the carriage was ordered, and Herbert and Mr. Carroll were driven to the depot, accompanied by Oscar, who went in his mother’s place.

Herbert purchased tickets for both, being intrusted with Mr. Carrol’s pocketbook for that purpose. He found a comfortable seat for the old gentleman, and sat down beside him.

CHAPTER XIX

A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER

I pass over the route pursued by the travelers from Columbus to Wheeling, in West Virginia, as it possesses no special interest.

But after leaving Wheeling there is quite a change. Those of my readers who are familiar with the Baltimore & Ohio Railway will be able to understand the enjoyment which Herbert derived from the bold and romantic scenery visible from the car windows. Mr. Carroll made him take the seat nearest the window, that he might have a better view, and from time to time Herbert described what he saw to his sightless fellow-traveler.

Northwestern Virginia is very mountainous and the construction of a railway through such a region was a triumph of engineering skill. At times the road makes bold curves, so that the traveler, looking from the car window, can see opposite him, across an intervening gulf, the track over which the train was passing five minutes before. At some places the track is laid on a narrow shelf, midway of the mountain, a steep and rugged ascent on one side, a deep ravine on the other, somewhat like the old diligence road over the Alpine Mt. Cenis. Here and there appear small hamlets, consisting of one-story cabins, with the chimney built alongside, instead of rising from the roof in the usual manner.

How long shall we be in reaching Baltimore, Mr. Carroll? “asked Herbert.

“I believe it takes about twenty-six hours,” said the old gentleman. “But I do not mean to go through without stopping.”

“I didn’t know what your plan was,” said Herbert.

“I have been meaning to tell you. Our tickets will allow us to stop anywhere, and resume our journey the next morning, or even stop two or three days, if we like.”

“That is convenient.”

“Yes. If it had been otherwise, I should have purchased the ticket piecemeal. I cannot endure to travel all night. It fatigues me too much.”

“Where shall we stop, then?”

“I have not yet quite made up my mind. We will ride till about eight o’clock, and then stop over at whatever place we chance to have reached.”

This arrangement struck Herbert favorably. He was in no particular hurry, and the scenery was so fine, that he feared that he should lose a great deal by traveling at night, when, of course, he could not see anything.

They sat for a while in silence. Then Mr. Carroll inquired, suddenly, “Did you ever fire a pistol, Herbert?”

“Yes, sir,” was the surprised reply.

“Then you understand how to use one?”

“Oh, yes, sir. There was a young man in Waverley, the town where I used to live, who owned one, and I sometimes borrowed it to fire at a mark.”