The Story of a Bad Boy

Two months had elapsed since my arrival at Rivermouth, when the approach of an important celebration produced the greatest excitement among the juvenile population of the town.

There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School the week preceding the Fourth of July.  For my part, my heart and brain were so full of fire-crackers, Roman candles, rockets, pin-wheels, squibs, and gunpowder in various seductive forms, that I wonder I didn’t explode under Mr. Grimshaw’s very nose.  I couldn’t do a sum to save me; I couldn’t tell, for love or money, whether Tallahassee was the capital of Tennessee or of Florida; the present and the pluperfect tenses were inextricably mixed in my memory, and I didn’t know a verb from an adjective when I met one.  This was not alone my condition, but that of every boy in the school.

Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporary distraction, and sought to fix our interest on the lessons by connecting them directly or indirectly with the coming Event.  The class in arithmetic, for instance, was requested to state how many boxes of fire-crackers, each box measuring sixteen inches square, could be stored in a room of such and such dimensions.  He gave us the Declaration of Independence for a parsing exercise, and in geography confined his questions almost exclusively to localities rendered famous in the Revolutionary War.

“What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the English vessels?” asked our wily instructor.

“Threw it into the river!” shrieked the smaller boys, with an impetuosity that made Mr. Grimshaw smile in spite of himself.  One luckless urchin said, “Chucked it,” for which happy expression he was kept in at recess.

Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, there was not much solid work done by anybody.  The trail of the serpent (an inexpensive but dangerous fire-toy) was over us all.  We went round deformed by quantities of Chinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers-pockets; and if a boy whipped out his handkerchief without proper precaution, he was sure to let off two or three torpedoes.

Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universal demoralization.  In calling the school to order, he always rapped on the table with a heavy ruler.  Under the green baize table-cloth, on the exact spot where he usually struck, certain boy, whose name I withhold, placed a fat torpedo.  The result was a loud explosion, which caused Mr. Grimshaw to look queer.  Charley Marden was at the water-pail, at the time, and directed general attention to himself by strangling for several seconds and then squirting a slender thread of water over the blackboard.

Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley, but said nothing.  The real culprit (it wasn’t Charley Marden, but the boy whose name I withhold) instantly regretted his badness, and after school confessed the whole thing to Mr. Grimshaw, who heaped coals of fire upon the nameless boy’s head giving him five cents for the Fourth of July.  If Mr. Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth, the punishment would not have been half so severe.

On the last day of June the Captain received a letter from my father, enclosing five dollars “for my son Tom,” which enabled that young gentleman to make regal preparations for the celebration of our national independence.  A portion of this money, two dollars, I hastened to invest in fireworks; the balance I put by for contingencies.  In placing the fund in my possession, the Captain imposed one condition that dampened my ardor considerably—­I was to buy no gunpowder.  I might have all the snapping-crackers and torpedoes I wanted; but gunpowder was out of the question.

I thought this rather hard, for all my young friends were provided with pistols of various sizes.  Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol nearly as large as himself, and Jack Harris, though he, to be sure, was a big boy, was going to have a real oldfashioned flintlock musket.  However, I didn’t mean to let this drawback destroy my happiness.  I had one charge of powder stowed away in the little brass pistol which I brought from New Orleans, and was bound to make a noise in the world once, if I never did again.

It was a custom observed from time immemorial for the towns-boys to have a bonfire on the Square on the midnight before the Fourth.  I didn’t ask the Captain’s leave to attend this ceremony, for I had a general idea that he wouldn’t give it.  If the Captain, I reasoned, doesn’t forbid me, I break no orders by going.  Now this was a specious line of argument, and the mishaps that befell me in consequence of adopting it were richly deserved.

On the evening of the 3d I retired to bed very early, in order to disarm suspicion.  I didn’t sleep a wink, waiting for eleven o’clock to come round; and I thought it never would come round, as I lay counting from time to time the slow strokes of the ponderous bell in the steeple of the Old North Church.  At length the laggard hour arrived.  While the clock was striking I jumped out of bed and began dressing.

My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy sleepers, and I might have stolen downstairs and out at the front door undetected; but such a commonplace proceeding did not suit my adventurous disposition.  I fastened one end of a rope (it was a few yards cut from Kitty Collins’s clothes-line) to the bedpost nearest the window, and cautiously climbed out on the wide pediment over the hall door.  I had neglected to knot the rope; the result was, that, the moment I swung clear of the pediment, I descended like a flash of lightning, and warmed both my hands smartly.  The rope, moreover, was four or five feet too short; so I got a fall that would have proved serious had I not tumbled into the middle of one of the big rose-bushes growing on either side of the steps.

I scrambled out of that without delay, and was congratulating myself on my good luck, when I saw by the light of the setting moon the form of a man leaning over the garden gate.  It was one of the town watch, who had probably been observing my operations with curiosity.  Seeing no chance of escape, I put a bold face on the matter and walked directly up to him.

“What on airth air you a doin’?” asked the man, grasping the collar of my jacket.

“I live here, sir, if you please,” I replied, “and am going to the bonfire.  I didn’t want to wake up the old folks, that’s all.”

The man cocked his eye at me in the most amiable manner, and released his hold.

“Boys is boys,” he muttered.  He didn’t attempt to stop me as I slipped through the gate.

Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached the Square, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in building a pyramid of tar-barrels.  The palms of my hands still tingled so that I couldn’t join in the sport.  I stood in the doorway of the Nautilus Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of my schoolmates.  They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in the twilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice.  What a Babel of voices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doing everything wrong!

When all was prepared, someone applied a match to the sombre pile.  A fiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the whole fabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully.  This was a signal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels, which they did shouting like mad creatures.  When the fire had burnt down a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre.  In the excitement of the moment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself in the thick of the carousal.

Before we were half ready, our combustible material was expended, and a disheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us.  The boys collected together here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done.  It yet lacked four or five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in the humor to return to bed.  I approached one of the groups standing near the town pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands the figures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb, their faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and, their whole appearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs.

“Hullo!  Here’s Tom Bailey!” shouted Pepper Whitcomb.  “He’ll join in!”

Of course he would.  The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripe for anything—­none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis.  After whispering together for a moment the boys motioned me to follow them.

We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way through a neighboring alley, at the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn, owned by one Ezra Wingate.  In former days this was the stable of the mail-coach that ran between Rivermouth and Boston.  When the railroad superseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle was rolled in the barn, and there it stayed.  The stage-driver, after prophesying the immediate downfall of the nation, died of grief and apoplexy, and the old coach followed in his wake as fast as could by quietly dropping to pieces.  The barn had the reputation of being haunted, and I think we all kept very close together when we found ourselves standing in the black shadow cast by the tall gable.  Here, in a low voice, Jack Harris laid bare his plan, which was to burn the ancient stage-coach.

“The old trundle-cart isn’t worth twenty-five cents,” said Jack Harris, “and Ezra Wingate ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of the way.  But if any fellow here doesn’t want to have a hand in it, let him cut and run, and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever after.”

With this he pulled out the staples that held the lock, and the big barn door swung slowly open.  The interior of the stable was pitch-dark, of course.  As we made a movement to enter, a sudden scrambling, and the sound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start back in terror.

“Rats!” cried Phil Adams.

“Bats!” exclaimed Harry Blake.

“Cats!” suggested Jack Harris.  “Who’s afraid?”

Well, the truth is, we were all afraid; and if the pole of the stage had not been lying close to the threshold, I don’t believe anything on earth would have induced us to cross it.  We seized hold of the pole-straps and succeeded with great trouble in dragging the coach out.  The two fore wheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to revolve.  It was the merest skeleton of a coach.  The cushions had long since been removed, and the leather hangings, where they had not crumbled away, dangled in shreds from the worm-eaten frame.  A load of ghosts and a span of phantom horses to drag them would have made the ghastly thing complete.

Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood at the top of a very steep hill.  With three boys to push behind, and two in front to steer, we started the old coach on its last trip with little or no difficulty.  Our speed increased every moment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlocked as we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged upon the crowd like a regiment of cavalry, scattering the people right and left.  Before reaching the bonfire, to which someone had added several bushels of shavings, Jack Harris and Phil Adams, who were steering, dropped on the ground, and allowed the vehicle to pass over them, which it did without injuring them; but the boys who were clinging for dear life to the trunk-rack behind fell over the prostrate steersman, and there we all lay in a heap, two or three of us quite picturesque with the nose-bleed.

The coach, with an intuitive perception of what was expected of it, plunged into the centre of the kindling shavings, and stopped.  The flames sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, which burned like tinder.  At this moment a figure was seen leaping wildly from the inside of the blazing coach.  The figure made three bounds towards us, and tripped over Harry Blake.  It was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhat singed, and his eyebrows completely scorched off!

Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the back seat before we started, intending to have a neat little ride down hill, and a laugh at us afterwards.  But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or would have been, if half a dozen watchmen had not suddenly pounced down upon us, as we lay scrambling on the ground, weak with mirth over Pepper’s misfortune.  We were collared and marched off before we well knew what had happened.

The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to the silent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the work of enchantment.  We stared at each other, aghast.

“Well,” remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, “this is a go!”

“No go, I should say,” whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brick walls and the heavy ironplated door.

“Never say die,” muttered Phil Adams, dolefully.

The bridewell was a small low-studded chamber built up against the rear end of the Meat Market, and approached from the Square by a narrow passage-way.  A portion of the rooms partitioned off into eight cells, numbered, each capable of holding two persons.  The cells were full at the time, as we presently discovered by seeing several hideous faces leering out at us through the gratings of the doors.

A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from the ceiling threw a flickering light over the apartment, which contained no furniture excepting a couple of stout wooden benches.  It was a dismal place by night, and only little less dismal by day, tall houses surrounding “the lock-up” prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from penetrating the ventilator over the door—­long narrow window opening inward and propped up by a piece of lath.

As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the benches, I imagine that our aspect was anything but cheerful.  Adams and Harris looked very anxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had just stopped bleeding, was mournfully carving his name, by sheer force of habit, on the prison bench.  I don’t think I ever saw a more “wrecked” expression on any human countenance than Pepper Whitcomb’s presented.  His look of natural astonishment at finding himself incarcerated in a jail was considerably heightened by his lack of eyebrows.

As for me, it was only by thinking how the late Baron Trenck would have conducted himself under similar circumstances that I was able to restrain my tears.

None of us were inclined to conversation.  A deep silence, broken now and then by a startling snore from the cells, reigned throughout the chamber.  By and by Pepper Whitcomb glanced nervously towards Phil Adams and said, “Phil, do you think they will—­hang us?”

“Hang your grandmother!” returned Adams, impatiently.  “What I’m afraid of is that they’ll keep us locked up until the Fourth is over.”

“You ain’t smart ef they do!” cried a voice from one of the cells.  It was a deep bass voice that sent a chill through me.

“Who are you?” said Jack Harris, addressing the cells in general; for the echoing qualities of the room made it difficult to locate the voice.

“That don’t matter,” replied the speaker, putting his face close up to the gratings of No. 3, “but ef I was a youngster like you, free an’ easy outside there, this spot wouldn’t hold me long.”

“That’s so!” chimed several of the prison-birds, wagging their heads behind the iron lattices.

“Hush!” whispered Jack Harris, rising from his seat and walking on tip-toe to the door of cell No. 3.  “What would you do?”

“Do?  Why, I’d pile them ’ere benches up agin that ‘ere door, an’ crawl out of that ’erc winder in no time.  That’s my adwice.”

“And werry good adwice it is, Jim,” said the occupant of No. 5, approvingly.

Jack Harris seemed to be of the same opinion, for he hastily placed the benches one on the top of another under the ventilator, and, climbing up on the highest bench, peeped out into the passage-way.

“If any gent happens to have a ninepence about him,” said the man in cell No. 3, “there’s a sufferin’ family here as could make use of it.  Smallest favors gratefully received, an’ no questions axed.”

This appeal touched a new silver quarter of a dollar in my trousers-pocket; I fished out the coin from a mass of fireworks, and gave it to the prisoner.  He appeared to be so good-natured a fellow that I ventured to ask what he had done to get into jail.

“Intirely innocent.  I was clapped in here by a rascally nevew as wishes to enjoy my wealth afore I’m dead.’

“Your name, Sir?’ I inquired, with a view of reporting the outrage to my grandfather and having the injured person re instated in society.

“Git out, you insolent young reptyle!” shouted the man, in a passion.

I retreated precipitately, amid a roar of laughter from the other cells.

“Can’t you keep still?” exclaimed Harris, withdrawing his head from the window.

A portly watchman usually sat on a stool outside the door day and night; but on this particular occasion, his services being required elsewhere, the bridewell had been left to guard itself.

“All clear,” whispered Jack Harris, as he vanished through the aperture and dropped softly on the ground outside.  We all followed him expeditiously—­Pepper Whitcomb and myself getting stuck in the window for a moment in our frantic efforts not to be last.

“Now, boys, everybody for himself!”