Pratt Portraits/Chapter 12
PEOPLE often said of Mr. Richard Spencer and his youngest son, Dick, that they were "well matched." It is to be feared that the comparison was not altogether flattering to either of them, since it was called forth less by the rather inconspicuous virtues which they had in common, than by their more striking characteristics of an irascible temper and considerable stubbornness.
Yet there was something in what wise Old Lady Pratt, Mr. Spencer's grandmother, had said when young Mrs. Spencer confided to her her anxieties early in her son Dick's career.
"Lizzie," Grandma said, "do you recollect our old Topsy, that was always a-layin' in that stuffed cheer when you and Richard used to drop in so unconscious-like of a Saturday evening, and be all struck of a heap to see each other? Betsy, she'd never believe you was a-courtin'. Old maids are most gen'rally kind o' hard to convince. But my spectacles are pretty sharp ones."
To such sallies Lizzie never failed to respond with a becoming blush. She was a woman who did not outgrow her feelings.
"Well," Grandma went on, "Topsy was about as fierce a cat as ever lived. I declare for 't, I do believe the critter'd rather fight than eat any day. But there was one cat he was friends with, and that was Miss Gibbs's Jericho. Jericho he was a master-hand at fightin' too, and it's more 'n likely that them two tabbies had had one good pitched battle to begin with. But whether or no, there 'peared to be a kind o' bond o' union betwixt 'em. They'd sit nose to nose on that board fence sunnin' themselves by the hour. Sometimes they'd blink at each other and wave their tails about kind o' gentle an' innocent. Then agin' they'd go off to sleep jest as confidin' 's a pair of turtle-doves. Now you mark my words, Lizzie; it'll be jest so with Dick and his father. They're too well matched to fight often. They may have it out once or twice before they come to reason, and I don't say 'tain't goin' to be pretty lively for you. But there'll never be any small naggin' and domineerin' betwixt 'em, and when once they're settled down friends, it'll take a good deal to set 'em onto each other."
Old Lady Pratt was right about this as she was about most things, and before she went to her rest she had the satisfaction of seeing her grandson and his young epitome living as comfortably together as Topsy and Jericho in the sun.
As Dick grew up it was really delightful to see what good friends the two were. Mrs. Spencer could forgive her husband for falling into an occasional rage with the other children, because he seldom molested her "fire-brand" Dick; and as for Dick he might "blow out" at her with impunity, so long as he did not rouse the lion which slumbered in the bosom of her chosen lord. She would often watch them as they strolled down the garden path together, thinking the while of Topsy and Jericho and of her early alarms, and she would say to herself with a deep sigh of content, "It has really been a great deliverance."
A sensible woman was Mrs. Richard Spencer, and her husband only hoped that his sons might have his luck when their courting days came round.
The courting days were nearer at hand than Mr. Richard Spencer suspected. Perhaps he had forgotten that he began his own courting at the early age of twenty. Such a lapse of memory could alone account for his not attaching more significance than he did to a little incident which occurred one pleasant June morning when Dick was barely turned twenty-one. The family were assembled at the breakfast-table, grace had been said, and as Mr. Spencer lifted his eyes he beheld an unusual sight. The dining-room windows looked out upon the gravel space in front of the barn. Although it was at some distance from the house, the view was unobstructed, and a top-buggy which had been backed out from the carriage-house was plainly visible. This was a sight to which Mr. Spencer was well accustomed, and there was nothing unusual in the pailfuls of water which were being energetically flung upon the four wheels of the vehicle. It was on this spot and at this hour that the carriages were frequently washed.
But Mr. Spencer's eyesight was good, and he saw, not only the buggy top glistening in the brilliant morning sunshine, and the figure of his trusted servant vigorously swashing the wheels, but in the shadow of the buggy top an object suspended, which bore a striking resemblance to a woman's bonnet. It was of white straw with bright pink roses upon it, and as it hung from the hook provided for the reins, it was lightly wafted to and fro by a gentle morning breeze. It gave Mr. Spencer rather a singular feeling, for the buggy was Dick's, and he looked often from the unique picture before his eyes to the unconscious face of his son. He was quite determined, however, not to make any allusion to the matter, and was rather taken aback when he found himself saying, as he passed his cup for more coffee, "Did you have a pleasant drive yesterday, Dick?"
"Yes, sir," said Dick, "very pleasant."
"Where did you go?"
"I went round by Darbon Centre. There are lots of wild roses out," he added, with an air of dwelling upon the point of chief interest.
"H'm! Did you go alone?"
"No; I took a friend."
Dick's manner as he said this was so needlessly innocent that his father's wise resolution vanished, and before he could stop himself, he had said:
"H'm! He left his bonnet behind him."
Dick followed the direction of his father's eyes, and looked out of the window. He flushed crimson. There was a shout from John and a titter from the girls, and Dick, pushing back his chair, rushed from the table, and seizing his hat, dashed out to the barn. There they could see him berating the indiscreet groom, who vainly tried to conceal his enjoyment of the situation.
Poor Dick! It was no laughing matter to him. He sternly ordered the man to "let that buggy alone and harness Golddust." He backed the horse into the shafts himself, made fast the straps, and in five minutes after his hasty exit, his family beheld him driving out of the yard, the wheels of the buggy still dripping wet, and the bonnet waving like a banner from the top. A more defiant and indignant heart never beat under any flag.
Once fairly out of sight of the dining-room windows, Dick took the bonnet from its unworthy position and laid it reverently upon the seat beside him, first spreading his snowy pocket-handkerchief beneath it. Then he covered it over with the light lap-robe.
He was a curious study at that moment, in the mingled fury and tenderness of his aspect. With one hand he clinched the reins, as though seeking to control a wild beast, as indeed he was, though the wild beast's name was not Golddust; while the other hand rested protectingly on the fragile object beside him. He lifted the cover once or twice and looked at the fanciful combination of straw, ribbons, and muslin flowers. It seemed to his untutored mind a thing of perfect beauty, and its nearness was very soothing to his wounded sensibilities. He reflected that the Mortons were not as early risers as his own family, and not wishing to arrive on his somewhat surprising errand at Julie's house until her people were likely to be dispersed, he turned the obedient Golddust toward the open country. Poor Golddust was much perplexed and hurt by the grim clutch of his master's hand upon the reins. He had a tender mouth and a tender conscience, and he knew he deserved better treatment. But he trotted lightly along the smooth road, and when, after a mile or two, the inconsiderate grip was relaxed, he turned his head a little and laid back one ear in grateful and forgiving recognition of relief.
At first Dick's reflections were very bitter. He felt himself betrayed and wronged in his tenderest feelings. Yet those feelings of tenderness were so much stronger than his indignation about them could be that he gradually gave himself up to them.
It had been his first drive with Julie, and after all nothing could rob him of it now. The lovely June weather, the long, lingering twilight, and the young hearts happy in an unexpressed communion, all had been in tune, while Golddust, with his shining sorrel coat, had seemed like a good fairy, graciously condescending to serve them.
It was at this point in Dick's meditations that Golddust felt the reins relaxed.
The bonnets of that day were heavy, oppressive structures, and Julie had felt the weight and irksomeness of hers, So she doffed the awkward thing as they were driving home through the open country, and laid it in the hood of the buggy, where Dick made it fast to the hook. When the bonnet was gone a hundred little sunny curls were released, and the evening zephyrs played among them in a manner that enchanted Dick.
As they drove into the town half an hour later the stars were coming out, and the hush of a summer evening was in the shadowy streets. The two young people were silent and preoccupied, and when they drew up before Mr. Morton's gate, Julie gave a little regretful sigh, at which a sudden throb of courage inspired Dick.
He handed her from the buggy without speaking, but just as she turned to leave him he seized her hand and cried, in a voice more eloquent than the words:
"O Julie! I should like to drive with you forever!"
Was it any wonder that they forgot the bonnet? That Julie ran up to her little room, her heart beating so hard that she could hardly breathe? That Dick's strong hand trembled as he drove Golddust home and "put him up"?
In the presence of such memories even the Spencer temper could not long rage, and by the time he reached the spot where they had discovered the wild roses, Dick's mind was sufficiently disengaged to receive a happy suggestion. He would fill the bonnet with roses!
In an instant he was out of the buggy, searching for the fairest buds and blossoms, with a heart as light as though it had never stormed. He smiled gleefully as he laid the flowers in their singular basket. It was "made to hold flowers," he said to himself, thinking, with a gleam of fancy, of the flower-like face he had often seen within it. Yes, the boy was too happy to be angry long.
Dick's courtship ought to have been a prosperous one, for he and Julie had loved one another long before they were conscious of it. Furthermore, she was the very maiden whom his parents would have had him choose; and even worldly circumstance, so prone to frown upon lovers, was all in their favor.
But there was an obstacle upon this flowery path which Dick scorned to evade—an obstacle which he had determined to remove, by brute force, if need be, before he would take another step. The boy was totally dependent upon his father, and he was resolved never to ask Julie to be his wife until he was in a fair way to earn a living.
Mr. Spencer was the rich man of the pretty suburban town where he lived. He had made money in the iron business when that branch of commerce was most flourishing, and had retired from active life before the precipitous decline in the iron interest which had wrecked so many fortunes.
He was now comfortably occupied with the care of various trust properties. He was a bank director and president of the local horse-railway, and he held other offices of dignity and responsibility which were gratifying to his pride.
He was not himself a college-bred man, yet he had a comfortable sense of equality in his intercourse with those of his fellow-townsmen who had enjoyed the advantage of a fleeting familiarity with the dead languages, and he had left his sons free to accept or reject such advantages, as they should prefer.
Ben, the eldest, had graduated with honors, and "gone in" for law; John was established in business in the city, whither he repaired daily in the pursuit of fortune; while Dick, after a year's trial at college, had fallen into an impatience of books, and announced himself ready for practical life.
Now despite the shrewdness and capacity which had made a successful man of Mr. Richard Spencer, there was an unaccountable streak of dilatoriness in him. He acquiesced in Dick's decision with secret satisfaction. He had always had a peculiar pride in the boy's resemblance to himself, and he was glad to find that he was no bookworm. Yet he could not seem to rouse himself, as he ought to have done, to find a proper business opening for the lad. For nearly a year Dick had been fretting under the delay, for he was an ambitious young fellow, and had no mind to "fool away his best years," as he expressed it. Now, at last, things had come to a crisis, and spurred on by the hope of Julie's love, he was ready to demand a career at the point of the bayonet.
Armed, then, with all the righteousness of his cause, Dick went to the city, a few days after his memorable drive, and confronted his father in his business office. He found him engaged in the perusal of a documentary-looking paper, from which he only glanced up as his son entered to say:
"Hullo, Dick! What can I do for you?"
"I will wait until you are at leisure, sir," said Dick. "I've come to talk business."
"Oh, ho!" said his father, amused by the importance of the boy's tone. "It's business is it? All right! Business before pleasure," and he folded up an elaborate scheme for the extension of one of the principal railroads in the country at the cost of several millions of dollars, and gravely waited for Dick to proceed. Dick, in his self absorption, quite missed the point of the little joke.
"Father," he said, with much emphasis, "I've come to have a serious talk about my future. I've come to ask you, once for all, to give me a start in life."
Mr. Spencer looked annoyed. "My dear Dick," he said, "this isn't the place to discuss family matters. And besides," he added, rather lamely, "you know very well that I am on the look-out for you. I shall be as pleased as you when anything turns up."
"Things don't turn up of themselves," Dick answered, stubbornly; "and if you don't mean to lend a hand, I intend to look out for myself."
Mr. Spencer felt thoroughly uncomfortable. It was very irritating to have the "young rascal" take such a tone with him. Yet, as a sort of sop to conscience, he determined to be magnanimous, So he said, not too crossly:
"I don't see what you're in such a hurry about, Dick. You've got plenty of time before you. Youcan't force these things. Come now," he added, persuasively, "why can't you make up your mind to go abroad with the Wheelers as they want you too, and see a little of the world before you buckle down to hard work!"
Clearly Mr. Richard Spencer had forgotten about that bonnet.
But Dick was not to be bought off, and he answered: "Because I wouldn't give a fig to go abroad. I'm tired to death of shilly-shallying. I say, Father," he added, beseechingly, "there's nothing I wouldn't do. I'd take any kind of a clerkship. I'd sell goods behind acounter. I'd go into a railroad office. Can't you get me a chance at the D. & I. P.?"
"Nonsense, Dick! It's out of the question."
"But why?"
"Why? Good gracious, Dick, can't you see through a ladder? A salary isn't what you're after. You don't need the money. And besides, you can't pick up a salaried place at every street corner."
"I can't. But you could, Father."
This eagerness was a little tiresome, and Mr. Spencer began to look bored. He unrolled the paper which had been subordinated to "business," and seemed to expect his visitor to go. So Dick got up.
"Well, I see you want to get rid of me," he said. There was no answer, and a dangerous look came into the boy's eyes as he added: "I give you fair warning, sir, that as you won't help me, I shall do my best to help myself."
"That's all right, Dick. Go ahead," his father answered, glad to see the last of him on any terms, and as Dick closed the door behind him, not too gently, Mr. Spencer returned to the consideration of the documentary paper. For some reason he found it less interesting than before. Dick was gone, but the eager, frustrated look in the lad's eyes haunted him.
"I only hope the young rascal won't be playing me any trick," he said to himself. "First thing we know, he'll be clearing out altogether, and we shall hear of him digging gold among the roughs in California. Confound these youngsters! Shey all think Rome was built in a day."
Between his disapproving conscience and his fears of some sort of a catastrophe, Mr. Spencer was far from easy in his mind, and he determined to bestir himself in the matter before he was a week older.
But Dick was yet more prompt in action, and before either of them was a week older he had taken measures which were destined to disturb his father's equanimity pretty seriously.
When Dick left his father's office, it was early in the afternoon, and the out-going horse-cars were but sparsely occupied. He stepped upon the rear platform of one, and lighted a cigar for solace and inspiration. He was angry and discouraged. He felt thoroughly defeated. Yet there was a certain satisfaction in having declared open war, and being ready to take the world on its own terms. In the course of his recent boyhood, Dick had scraped acquaintance with most of the employés on this old-established road, and he soon fell into conversation with the conductor. Preoccupied as he was with the great subject of bread-winning, he got his companion to talk of his work and of his pay, and the rich man's son felt honestly envious of the independent possessor of such work and such wages.
"Do you know, Bill, you're a mighty lucky fellow," he said. "I'm such a beggar, I can't get a chance to earn a nickel."
The conductor looked at him in some surprise. Then he said, jocosely: "You might come on the road. I'm going to try and get transferred onto the new Leanton branch. It goes nearer my folks. I reckon I could get you my place." And the honest fellow grinned with pleasure in his own humor.
"By Jove!" Dick cried: "I guess we've struck it this time! If that wouldn't fetch the governor, nothing would."
The old woman with the bandbox who came out of the car just then, and the young woman reading a library book at the farther end of the seat, little guessed that a dark conspiracy was going on before their very eyes. But when Dick swung off the step, he called out: "I'll see you to-morrow, Bill," and walked toward Julie's house with the tread of a conquering hero.
The conspiracy ripened fast; so fast that in less than a fortnight after that momentous conversation on the rear platform Dick emerged from the company's office an accepted candidate for Bill Geddings's place. The superintendent had "liked his looks," had pronounced himself satisfied with Bill's voucher, and had promptly enrolled the singularly familiar name of "Richard Spencer" on the list of conductors.
It was with mixed feelings that the new conductor walked from the office. He had applied for the position in a reckless mood, and was surprised to find himself rather elated with his success. Quite apart from his frankly acknowledged hope of coercing his father, it was really very gratifying to know that an impartial judge seemed to consider him "worth his salt."
On the other hand, he was obliged to own that the immediate consequences of this startling proceeding of his might be disagreeable, and it was not without misgivings that he contemplated breaking the news to his father.
"It will be an all-round botheration for the dear old chap," he said to himself with some compunction; "I hope I can let him down easy."
His plan was to appear before the "dear old chap" after his first day's service, and state his case with as much moderation as he could command. His own position was clear. He proposed to work in the company's service until something better turned up, and he had sufficient confidence in his own often tested obstinacy to know that nothing was likely to shake his determination. Whether the effect on the "dear old chap's" mind would be to hasten or to retard the consummation of his hopes was another question.
Julie, at least, was all encouragement. She considered his new venture a stroke of genius. She longed to see Dick in his brass buttons handling the bell-punch with all the style he was sure to put into anything he did. She secretly believed that he could have turned a hand-organ with distinction and success.
Julie did not confess all this to Dick, but her confidence was very cheering; and when he entered upon his new duties one morning at six o'clock, he felt as though he were wearing her colors.
Now Mr. Richard Spencer was in the habit of driving to town every day in his own buggy; but it so chanced that on this particular morning he patronized the horse-car. That in itself was a coincidence, but it would seem as though some mischievous kobold must have guided the steps of the unsuspecting old gentleman to cause him to board his son's car. However that may be, this strange and untoward thing did happen.
Dick had stated the night before that he should have an early breakfast, as he was going off for the day with another fellow, and his trusting family had enjoyed their morning repast untroubled by any suspicion that that "other fellow" might be a brawny son of Erin employed as driver on the horse-railroad.
Mr. Spencer's conscience meanwhile had been effectually quieted, and his passing fears of a revolt on Dick's part were consequently allayed. Having once seriously resolved to bestir himself, he was not the man to waste time, and he had been, for a week past, in correspondence with one of his friends, a manufacturer, who was in search of a junior partner with a fair capital, and sufficient pluck and perseverance to go through with the necessary apprenticeship in the business. The chance was exactly suited to Dick's capacity, and, reflecting upon the pleasant surprise he had in store for the lad, Mr. Spencer walked to the horse-car with a light step and a light heart. As he reached the corner of the street he was gratified to see a car just at hand, and he stepped upon the platform before it had come to a full stop, with an ease and agility which a younger man, and one of lighter weight, might have envied.
A bank director and railway magnate does not often vouchsafe a glance at a street-car conductor, and even the tremendous noise with which Dick was aware that his heart was thumping among his ribs failed to attract the passenger's attention as he brushed past the conductor and entered the car.
Dick promptly summoned his wits and gave the signal to start; but as he stood looking through the glass door at the silk hat, just visible over the morning paper behind which his father was hidden, he devoutly hoped that he might escape recognition.
The car gradually filled up, and the time arrived for taking the fares. Dick grasped his bell-punch and passed from one to the other of the passengers, collecting fares and manfully snapping the spring upon each ticket. He glanced furtively at that silk hat, and wondered that its wearer did not look up startled by the shrill tone of the bell, which sounded to his own ears like the crack of doom. But no one, not even the pale, nervous-looking women sprinkled along the seats, seemed to receive the slightest shock from the "infernal racket" the thing made. At last Dick arrived in front of the silk hat and the newspaper, and a cowardly wish possessed him to pass them by, since their owner seemed oblivious to the situation. But it is one thing to have cowardly wishes and quite another thing to be a coward, and Dick promptly said, as he was bound to do, "Fares, please."
Mr. Richard Spencer mechanically put his thumb and forefinger into his vest pocket, glancing up as he did so at the conductor with the familiar voice. For a moment the passenger seemed turned to stone, while he gazed into the eyes beneath the conductor's cap, his newspaper slipping from his grasp, his fingers arrested in the act of pulling out a ticket.
Then the blood rushed to his face, and he said sternly, though in an undertone, "Quit your tomfoolery, Dick, and leave the conductor's business alone."
"I can't very well do that, sir, as I'm the conductor," Dick answered, respectfully, while his heart hammered his ribs. His father looked at him, at his cap and his badge, at his bell-punch. Here, then, was the trick he had feared, the defiance he had dreaded. Mr. Richard Spencer was no aristocrat, but this was carrying a joke a little too far.
"Get out of my sight," he growled, between his set teeth. His eyes looked ominous.
"When you've paid your fare, sir."
"I don't propose to pay my fare."
Dick's blood tingled.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, steadily, "but you'll have to."
Thus far the talk had been low, and not every one could hear what was said. But there was no one in the car who did not perceive that something unusual was going forward.
A man behind him pulled the conductor's coat, and said, in a friendly growl, "Go it easy, young chap; that's the president of the road."
"I know it," Dick said, over his shoulder, in grateful recognition of a kind turn. But he stood like a rock before his contumacious passenger.
Mr. Spencer had put the paper up before his face, but the lines went scalloping across the page, and in his consuming anger he took a grim pleasure in knowing that the object of it stood there defying him. It was fuel to the fire, and when once Mr. Richard Spencer's passion was roused he gave himself over to it with a fierce satisfaction.
Outwardly Dick had kept his self-control. He had a pride in his new calling and a determination to do his duty with propriety and temperateness. But there was a tempest within him which was a match for the passion of the elder man. He spoke very quietly.
"My instructions, sir, are to carry no passenger over this road without the payment of a fare. I hope you will not force me to extreme measures."
At this crisis there was a touch on the conductor's shoulder, and a ticket was thrust before him. "Here, take that," a voice whispered, "and don't rile the old chap any more."
"Thanks," said Dick, as he punched the ticket and dropped it into his pocket. To his ears the bell had a triumphant clang.
The old man had not seen the ticket. "You give it up, do you?" he said, with a sneer, as Dick moved on to the next passenger.
Dick's eyes flashed.
"Your fare has been paid, sir, by one of the other gentlemen."
Then Mr. Spencer, rose, towering in his wrath, and pulled the strap with a vehemence that endangered the stout leather.
"The other gentleman is a meddlesome idiot, and you—you—you are a blundering impostor!" And with this double anathema, the president of the Dunbridge Horse Railway stepped off the car, and stood in the dust of the street, cooling his cheeks, but not the inward fires, in the pleasant breeze that blew about him.
Poor Dick! The sight of his father standing there, abandoned and exposed, would have been too much for him, had not the old man's last words—"blundering impostor"—stung him to renewed resentment.
As he turned to continue his duties, a general murmur of conversation arose. He caught snatches which made him miserably uncomfortable.
"What ailed the old crank anyhow?" said one voice.
"I reckon he'd been out on a bat," another chuckled.
"The young feller stood to his guns like a man," declared a third.
At last Dick escaped onto the rear platform, where a shrewd-faced Yankee was leaning against the brake, contemplatively chewing tobacco.
As Dick appeared, he looked up inquiringly, and pointing his thumb over his shoulder, drawled:
"He warn't tipsy naow, was he?"
Dick flared up. "Tipsy! If I was off duty, I'd fight the whole car-load of idiots. There's not one of them that's fit to black that man's boots."
The Yankee gave the tobacco quid a twist with his tongue, and seemed to be making a study of Dick's heated countenance.
"Waal, I snum," he said, drawling more than ever. "You're nigh about as peppery as the old one."
Then, with a slow dawning of intelligence, he added, "I reckon you two have met before."
It had been a disastrous beginning to the day, yet Dick was surprised to find how soon the painful impression wore off. There was an unreality about the whole situation which made it seem like a dream or a bit of fiction. He could not thoroughly believe in his own part in it, and yet there was just a sufficient sense of identity to give zest to the little drama. He found himself in a new attitude toward the great public. The absurd inquiries, which must become so tiresome to an old hand, had for him the charm of novelty. The old ladies, with their unaccountable agitation and their hesitating steps, called out all his chivalry. The toddling children found in him a ready friend and helper, as they vaguely lifted their chubby feet in the general direction of the lower step. When his own acquaintances appeared from time to time, the interest became still more lively. Ladies greeted him with undisguised astonishment, while the men joined him on the platform, and did not hesitate to "pump" him vigorously. Before night the town was all agog on the subject. Every one knew that Dick Spencer was conductor on the horse-railroad, and every one chuckled over the situation, and wondered how the "president" liked it.
By noon Dick's spirits had risen so high that he was once very near getting himself into trouble.
It happened that a stout, pompous woman motioned him to stop the car at a street corner just as he had his hands full of change, and he was a little late in pulling the strap. The driver was also a little slow with the brake, and the portly passenger gazed with kindling indignation at the gradually receding vision of her garden gate. When at last the car had come to a full stop, she arose in her majesty and approached the door. Arrived on the platform she turned to Dick, and said severely:
"Conductor, why didn't you stop the car at my corner?"
This was too much for Dick's discretion. With an air of elaborate apology, he said: "I beg your pardon, madam; I didn't know you had a corner."
Then, as she flashed upon him a malignant look, he added, meekly, "I will be more careful another time."
The good woman's wrath was tempered with perplexity, and by the time Dick had gallantly assisted her from the platform, there was that in her countenance which told him that he was forgiven. The danger was averted for that time, but the incident gave Dick an entirely new feeling of self-distrust, and he resolved to cultivate the virtue of stolidity.
As the day passed, and he became a little accustomed to the amusing masquerade, Dick's mood grew more serious. Recollections of his father's discomfiture would intrude themselves upon him. He could not pass the spot, where he had last seen the old man standing in the dust, without a feeling of strong compunction, and he fairly hated himself when he thought of the rele which had been so unexpectedly forced upon him. He was pondering these things in a rather dismal frame of mind as he stood on the rear platform of his almost empty car, early in the evening of the same day. The exhilaration of novelty was past, and he found himself brought face to face with certain distasteful facts.
He knew his father's temper (and perhaps his own) too well to hope for a speedy reconciliation, and he was obliged to admit that the prospect of an indefinite term of service on the horse-railroad was not altogether pleasing to contemplate. In vain he told himself that it was independence, and that independence was all he had desired. The irrevocableness of the situation—and young people are ever ready with the word "irrevocable"—taught him that what he had taken for independence was nothing but a respectable servitude.
It was still broad daylight. He stood with his back planted against the end of the car, and his hands in his pockets, gazing gloomily at the receding city. The road was deserted; but in the distance he noticed a buggy approaching, as it seemed to him, rather fast. As it got nearer, he could see that the vehicle rocked from side to side. Yes, it was a runaway, and a wild one at that. Dick turned a quick glance up the road. There were no teams in sight, but, a few rods ahead, a railroad crossed the street, and he could see the smoke of an approaching train coming round the curve. The driver had stopped the car without waiting for a signal. Dick had just time to fling his coat off and leap to the ground; and even in the act of doing so he recognized one of his father's horses and saw a broken rein dragging under the animal's feet. He did not dare to look beyond, where the old man sat, erect and rigid, in the swaying buggy, his keen eyes fixed upon that curling smoke, mind and body braced for the shock.
As the maddened creature dashed by, Dick flung himself across his neck, seized the bit with both hands, and jerked the iron curb together with a force that almost broke the jaw. Arrested by the sharp agony, the horse reared wildly, Dick kept his clutch upon the bits, and as he felt himself lifted in the air, he shouted: "Get out—quick—get out!"
The horse came crashing down with one leg over the shafts, and Dick, flung free of the struggling beast, felt a deadly pain in his arm, heard the shrill whistle of the engine as the train thundered over the crossing, and then he felt and heard no more. As his father lifted him in his arms, the bell-punch dangled heavily across the old man's knee, but the conductor's cap lay crushed beneath the feet of the men who had hurried to the spot to disentangle the frightened horse.
After all, a broken arm is no great matter, and Dick had much and various cause for thankfulness. But it was long before Dick's father could think with composure of that short but awful moment.
The next morning, as they sat together in the library, the disabled arm in a sling, the owner of the arm somewhat pale, but very happy, Dick learned of the business opening which had been preparing for him. His father did not tell him how, in his wrath, he had already taken steps toward cancelling the negotiations with his friend the manufacturer. Dick, however, suspected it, and his mother, who had borne the brunt of her husband's "state of mind" on that trying yesterday, sat by, in blissful mood, once more rendering thanks for a great deliverance.
Mr. Spencer was old-fashioned enough to give his son much good counsel on this occasion, to which Dick listened with unbounded faith and respect. His father wound up by saying: "When I went into business, my uncle, William Pratt, gave me one bit of advice which covers the whole ground. He said: 'It's not so much matter what you do, Richard, so you do it devilish well.'"
Then, with a sudden burst of magnanimity, the old man added, "We'll forget that wretched conductoring business as fast as possible; but I will say, Dick, that you did it 'devilish well.'"
"And nothing 'became him like the leaving it,'" Mrs. Spencer added, with glistening eyes, as she laid her hand gently on Dick's bandaged arm.
"Ah, Dick, you beggar," said his father rather huskily, and getting up from his chair with the instinct of flight, "that's something we can't talk about."
"Oh, I say," Dick cried, growing very red in the face, "don't be so awful good to a fellow. I ought to have been thrashed."
And all having thus made a clean breast of the matter, these three warm-hearted people began to feel a little shamefaced, and with one accord endeavored to dispel the emotions which their Puritan blood made them shy of acknowledging.
Then Dick told his father and mother about Julie.