gun at half-cock, and could not, when Captain
Nutter sprang upon the parapet in the pitch
darkness, and shouted, " Boat ahoy ! " A mus
ket-shot immediately embedded itself in the
calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the
fort, and the boat, which had probably come in
search of water, pulled back to the frigate.
This was my grandfather s only exploit dur
ing the war. That his prompt and bold con
duct was instrumental in teaching the enemy
the hopelessness of attempting to conquer such
a people was among the firm beliefs of my
boyhood.
At the time I came to Rivermouth my
grandfather had retired from active pursuits,
and was living at ease on his money, invested
principally in shipping. He had been a wid
ower many years ; a maiden sister, the afore
said Miss Abigail, managing his household.
Miss Abigail also managed her brother, and
her brother s servant, and the visitor at her
brother s gate not in a tyrannical spirit, but
from a philanthropic desire to be useful to
everybody. In person she was tall and angu
lar; she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray
44 THE STORY OF A BAD BOV
eyebrows, and generally wore a gray dress.
Her strongest weak point was a belief in the
efficacy of " hot-drops " as a cure for all known
diseases.
If there were ever two persons who seemed
to dislike each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty
Collins were those persons. If ever two per
sons really loved each other, Miss Abigail and
Kitty Collins were those persons also. They
were always either skirmishing or having a
cup of tea lovingly together.
Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so
was Kitty ; and in the course of their disagree
ments each let me into the private history of
the other.
According to Kitty, it was not originally my
grandfather s intention to have Miss Abigail at
the head of his domestic establishment. She
had swooped down on him (Kitty s own words),
with a band-box in one hand and a faded blue
cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other.
Clad in this singular garb I do not remem
ber that Kitty alluded to any additional pecu
liarity of dress Miss Abigail had made her
appearance at the door of the Nutter House
on the morning of my grandmother s funeral.
The small amount of baggage which the lady
brought with her would have led the superficial
observer to infer that Miss Abigail s visit was
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 45
limited to a few days. I run ahead of my
story in saying she remained seventeen years !
How much longer she would have remained
can never be definitely known now, as she
died at the expiration of that period.
Whether or not my grandfather was quite
pleased by this unlooked-for addition to his
family is a problem. He was very kind always
to Miss Abigail, and seldom opposed her ;
though I think she must have tried his patience
sometimes, especially when she interfered with
Kitty.
Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she
preferred to be called, was descended in a
direct line from an extensive family of kings
who formerly ruled over Ireland. In conse
quence of various calamities, among which the
failure of the potato-crop may be mentioned,
Miss Kitty Collins, in company with several
hundred of her countrymen and countrywomen
also descended from kings came over to
America in an emigrant ship, in the year
eighteen hundred and something.
I do not know what freak of fortune caused
the royal exile to turn up at Ri vermouth ; but
turn up she did, a few months after arriving
in this country, and was hired by my grand
mother to do " general housework " for the
modest sum of four shillings and sixpence a
week.
46 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
Kitty had been living about seven years in
my grandfather s family when she unburdened
her heart of a secret which had been weighing
upon it all that time. It may be said of per
sons, as it is said of nations, " Happy are they
that have no history." Kitty had a history,
and a pathetic one, I think.
On board the emigrant ship that brought
her to America, she became acquainted with a
sailor, who, being touched by Kitty s forlorn
condition, was very good to her. Long before
the end of the voyage, which had been tedious
and perilous, she was heart-broken at the
thought of separating from her kindly pro
tector ; but they were not to part just yet, for
the sailor returned Kitty s affection, and the
two were married on their arrival at port.
Kitty s husband she would never mention
his name, but kept it locked in her bosom like
some precious relic had a considerable sum
of money when the crew were paid off ; and
the young couple for Kitty was young then
lived very happily in a lodging-house on
South Street, near the docks. This was in
New York.
The days flew by like hours, and the stocking
in which the little bride kept the funds shrunk
and shrunk, until at last there were only three
or four dollars left in the toe of it. Then
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 47
Kitty was troubled ; for she knew her sailor
would have to go to sea again unless he could
get employment on shore. This he endea
vored to do, but not with much success. One
morning as usual he kissed her good-day, and
set out in search of work.
" Kissed me good-by, and called me his little
Irish lass," sobbed Kitty, telling the story
" kissed me good-by, and, Heaven help me ! I
niver set oi on him nor on the likes of him
again."
He never came back. Day after day dragged
on, night after night, and then the weary
weeks. What had become of him ? Had he
been murdered ? had he fallen into the docks ?
had he deserted her ? No ! she could not
believe that ; he was too brave and tender and
true. She could not believe that. He was
dead, dead, or he would come back to her.
Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house
turned Kitty into the streets, now that " her
man " was gone, and the payment of the rent
doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The
family she lived with shortly moved to Boston,
and she accompanied them ; then they went
abroad, but Kitty would not leave America.
Somehow she drifted to Rivermouth, and for
seven long years never gave speech to her
sorrow, until the kindness of strangers, who
48 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
had become friends to her, unsealed the heroic
lips.
Kitty s story, you may be sure, made my
grandparents treat her more kindly than ever.
In time she grew to be regarded less as a
servant than as a friend in the home circle,
sharing its joys and sorrows a faithful nurse,
a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all.
I fancy I hear her singing over her work in
the kitchen, pausing from time to time to
make some witty reply to Miss Abigail for
Kitty, like all her race, had a vein of uncon
scious humor. Her bright honest face comes
to me out from the past, the light and life of
the Nutter House when I was a boy at River-
mouth.
CHAPTER VI
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
THE first shadow that fell upon me in my
new home was caused by the return of my
parents to New Orleans. Their visit was cut
short by business which required my father s
presence in Natchez, where he was establishing
a branch of the banking-house. When they
had gone, a sense of loneliness such as I had
never dreamed of filled my young breast. I
crept away to the stable, and, throwing my
arms about Gypsy s neck, sobbed aloud. She
too had come from the sunny South, and was
now a stranger in a strange land.
The little mare seemed to realize our situa
tion, and gave me all the sympathy I could ask,
repeatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face
and lapping up my salt tears with evident
relish.
When night came, I felt still more lonesome.
My grandfather sat in his armchair the greater
part of the evening, reading the Rivermouth
Barnacle, the local newspaper. There was no
So THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
gas in those days, and the Captain read by the
aid of a small block-tin lamp, which he held in
one hand. I observed that he had a habit of
dropping off into a doze every three or four
minutes, and I forgot my homesickness at in
tervals in watching him. Two or three times,
to my vast amusement, he scorched the edges
of the newspaper with the wick of the lamp ;
and at about half past eight o clock I had the
satisfaction I am sorry to confess it was a
satisfaction of seeing the Rivermouth Bar
nacle in flames.
My grandfather leisurely extinguished the
fire with his hands, and Miss Abigail, who sat
near a low table, knitting by the light of an
astral lamp, did not even look up. She was
quite used to this catastrophe.
There was little or no conversation during
the evening. In fact, I do not remember that
any one spoke at all, excepting once, when the
Captain remarked, in a meditative manner, that
my parents " must have reached New York by
this time ; " at which supposition I nearly
strangled myself in attempting to intercept a
sob.
The monotonous "click click" of Miss Abi
gail s needles made me nervous after a while,
and finally drove me out of the sitting-room
into the kitchen, where Kitty caused me to
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 51
laugh by saying Miss Abigail thought that what
I needed was " a good dose of hot-drops " a
remedy she was forever ready to administer in
all emergencies. If a boy broke his leg, or lost
his mother, I believe Miss Abigail would have
given him hot-drops.
Kitty laid herself out to be entertaining. She
told me several funny Irish stories, and de
scribed some of the odd persons living in the
town ; but, in the midst of her comicalities, the
tears would involuntarily ooze out of my eyes,
though I was not a lad much addicted to weep
ing. Then Kitty would put her arms around
me, and tell me not to mind it that it was
not as if I had been left alone in a foreign land
with no one to care for me, like a poor girl
whom she had once known. I brightened up
before long, and told Kitty all about the Ty
phoon and the old seaman, whose name I tried
in vain to recall, and was obliged to fall back
on plain Sailor Ben.
I was glad when ten o clock came, the bed
time for young folks, and old folks too, at the
Nutter House. Alone in the hall-chamber I
had my cry out, once for all, moistening the pil
low to such an extent that I was obliged to turn
it over to find a dry spot to go to sleep on.
My grandfather wisely concluded to put me
to school at once. If I had been permitted to
52 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
go mooning about the house and stables, I
should have kept my discontent alive for
months. The next morning, accordingly, he
took me by the hand, and we set forth for the
academy, which was located at the farther end
of the town.
The Temple Grammar School was a two-
story brick building, standing in the centre of
a great square piece of land, surrounded by a
high picket fence. There were three or four
sickly trees, but no grass, in this enclosure,
which had been worn smooth and hard by the
tread of multitudinous feet. I noticed here
and there small holes scooped in the ground,
indicating that it was the season for marbles.
A better playground for baseball could not
have been devised.
On reaching the schoolhouse door, the Cap
tain inquired for Mr. Grimshaw. The boy
who answered our Jtnock ushered us into a side
room, and in a few minutes during which my
eye took in forty-two caps hung on forty-two
wooden pegs Mr. Grimshaw made his appear
ance. He was a slender man, with white,
fragile hands, and eyes that glanced half a
dozen different ways at once a habit proba
bly acquired from watching the boys.
After a brief consultation, my grandfather
patted me on the head and left me in charge of
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 53
this gentleman, who seated himself in front of
me and proceeded to sound the depth, or more
properly speaking, the shallowness, of my at
tainments. I suspect that my historical infor
mation rather startled him. I recollect I gave
him to understand that Richard III. was the
last king of England.
This ordeal over, Mr. Grimshaw rose and
bade me follow him. A door opened, and I
stood in the blaze of forty-two pairs of upturned
eyes. I was a cool hand for my age, but I
lacked the boldness to face this battery without
wincing. In a sort of dazed way I stumbled
after Mr. Grimshaw down a narrow aisle be
tween two rows of desks, and shyly took the
seat pointed out to me.
The faint buzz that had floated over the
schoolroom at our entrance died away, and the
interrupted lessons were resumed. By degrees
I recovered my coolness, and ventured to look
around me.
The owners of the forty-two caps were seated
at small green desks like the one assigned to
me. The desks were arranged in six rows, with
spaces between just wide enough to prevent
the boys whispering. A blackboard set into
the wall extended clear across the end of the
room ; on a raised platform near the door stood
the master s table ; and directly in front of this
54 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
was a recitation bench capable of seating fifteen
or twenty pupils. A pair of globes, tattooed
with dragons and winged horses, occupied a
shelf between two windows, which were so
high from the floor that nothing but a giraffe
could have looked out of them.
Having possessed myself of these details,
I scrutinized my new acquaintances with un
concealed curiosity, instinctively selecting my
friends and picking out my enemies and in
only two cases did I mistake my man.
A sallow boy with bright red hair, sitting in
the fourth row, shook his fist at me furtively
several times during the morning. I had a
presentiment I should have trouble with that
boy some day a presentiment subsequently
realized.
On my left was a chubby little fellow with
a great many freckles (this was Pepper Whit-
comb), who made some mysterious motions to
me. I did not understand them, but, as they
were clearly of a pacific nature, I winked my
eye at him. This appeared to be satisfactory,
for he then went on with his studies. At re
cess he gave me the core of his apple, though
there were several applicants for it.
Presently a boy in a loose olive-green jacket
with two rows of brass buttons, held up a
folded paper behind his slate, intimating that
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 55
it was intended for me. The paper was passed
skilfully from desk to desk until it reached
my hands. On opening the scrap, I found that
it contained a small piece of molasses candy in
an extremely humid state. This was certainly
kind. I nodded my acknowledgments and has
tily slipped the delicacy into my mouth. In a
second I felt my tongue grow red-hot with cay
enne pepper.
My face must have assumed a comical ex
pression, for the boy in the olive-green jacket
gave an hysterical laugh, for which he was
instantly punished by Mr. Grimshaw. I swal
lowed the fiery candy, though it brought the
water to my eyes, and managed to look so un
concerned that I was the only pupil in the form
who escaped questioning as to the cause of Mar-
den s misdemeanor. Marden was his name.
Nothing else occurred that morning to inter
rupt the exercises, excepting that a boy in the
reading class threw us all into convulsions by
calling Absalom A-bol -som " Abol som, O
my son Abol som ! " I laughed as loud as any
one, but I am not so sure that I should not
have pronounced it Abol som myself.
At recess several of the scholars came to
my desk and shook hands with me, Mr. Grim
shaw having previously introduced me to Phil
Adams, charging him to see that I got into no
56 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
trouble. My new acquaintances suggested that
we should go to the playground. We were no
sooner out of doors than the boy with the red
hair thrust his way through the crowd and
placed himself at my side.
" I say, youngster, if you re comin* to this
school you ve got to toe the mark."
I did not see any mark to toe, and did not
understand what he meant ; but I replied po
litely, that, if it was the custom of the school,
I should be happy to toe the mark, if he would
point it out to me.
" I don t want any of your sarse," said the
boy, scowling.
" Look here, Conway ! " cried a clear voice
from the other side of the playground, "you
let young Bailey alone. He s a stranger here,
and might be afraid of you, and thrash you.
Why do you always throw yourself in the way
of getting thrashed ? "
I turned to the speaker, who by this time
had reached the spot where we stood. Conway
slunk off, favoring me with a parting scowl of
defiance. I gave my hand to the boy who had
befriended me his name was Jack Harris
and thanked him for his good- will.
" I tell you what it is, Bailey," he said, re
turning my pressure good-naturedly, " you 11
have to fight Conway before the quarter ends,
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 57
or you 11 have no rest. That fellow is always
hankering after a licking, and of course you 11
give him one by and by ; but what s the use
of hurrying up an unpleasant job ? Let s have
some baseball. By the way, Bailey, you were a
good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about the
candy. Charley Harden would have caught it
twice as heavy. He s sorry he played the joke
on you, and told me to tell you so. 7 Hallo,
Blake ! where are the bats ? "
This was addressed to a handsome, frank-
looking lad of about my own age, who was
engaged just then in cutting his initials on the
bark of a tree near the schoolhouse. Blake
shut up his penknife and went off to get the
bats.
During the game which ensued I made the
acquaintance of Charley Harden, and Binny
Wallace, Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and
Fred Langdon. These boys, none of them
more than a year or two older than I (Binny
Wallace was younger), were ever after my
chosen comrades. Phil Adams and Jack Har
ris were considerably our seniors, and though
they always treated us "kids" very kindly,
they generally went with another set. Of
course, before long I knew all the Temple
boys more or less intimately, but the five I
have named were my constant companions.
58 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
My first day at the Temple Grammar School
was on the whole satisfactory. I had made
several warm friends, and only two permanent
enemies Conway and his echo, Seth Rodgers ;
for these two always went together like a
deranged stomach and a headache.
Before the end of the week I had my studies
well in hand. I was a little ashamed at find
ing myself at the foot of the various classes,
and secretly determined to deserve promotion.
The school was an admirable one. I might
make this part of my story more entertaining
by picturing Mr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a
red nose and a large stick ; but unfortunately
for the purposes of sensational narrative, Mr.
Grimshaw was a quiet, kind-hearted gentleman.
Though a rigid disciplinarian, he had a keen
sense of justice, was a good reader of charac
ter, and the boys respected him. There were
two other teachers a French tutor and a
writing-master, who visited the school twice
a week. On Wednesdays and Saturdays we
were dismissed at noon, and these half-holidays
were the brightest epochs of my existence.
Daily contact with boys who had not been
brought up as gently as I worked an imme
diate and, in some respects, a beneficial change
in my character. I had the nonsense taken
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 59
out of me, as the saying is some of the non
sense, at least. I became more manly and
self-reliant. I discovered that the world was
not created exclusively on my account. In
New Orleans I labored under the delusion
that it was. Having neither brother nor sister
to give up to at home, and being, moreover,
the largest pupil at school there, my will had
seldom been opposed. At Rivermouth matters
were different, and I was not long in adapting
myself to the altered circumstances. Of course
I got many severe rubs, often unconsciously
given ; but I had the sense to see that I was
all the better for them.
My social relations with my new schoolfel
lows were the pleasantest possible. There was
always some exciting excursion on foot a
ramble through the pine woods, a visit to the
Devil s Pulpit, a high cliff in the neighborhood
or a surreptitious row on the river, involving
an exploration of a group of diminutive islands,
upon one of which we pitched a tent and
played we were the Spanish sailors who got
wrecked there years ago. But the endless
pine forest that skirted the town was our
favorite haunt. There was a great green pond
hidden somewhere in its depths, inhabited by
a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake,
who had an eccentric passion for carving his
60 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
name on everything, never let a captured turtle
slip through his fingers without leaving his
mark engraved on its shell. He must have
lettered about two thousand from first to last.
We used to call them Harry Blake s sheep.
These turtles were of a discontented and
migratory turn of mind, and we frequently
encountered two or three of them on the cross
roads several miles from their ancestral mud.
Unspeakable was our delight whenever we dis
covered one soberly walking off with Harry
Blake s initials ! I have no doubt there are,
at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering
about that gummy woodland with H. B. neatly
cut on their venerable backs.
It soon became a custom among my play
mates to make our barn their rendezvous.
Gypsy proved a strong attraction. Captain
Nutter bought me a little two-wheeled cart,
which she drew quite nicely, after kicking out
the dasher and breaking the shafts once or
twice. With our lunch-baskets and fishing-
tackle stowed away under the seat, we used
to start off early in the afternoon for the sea
shore, where there were countless marvels in
the shape of shells, mosses, and kelp. Gypsy
enjoyed the sport as keenly as any of us, even
going so far, one day, as to trot down the
beach into the sea where we were bathing.
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 61
As she took the cart with her, our provisions
were not much improved. I shall never forget
how squash pie tastes after being soused in
the Atlantic Ocean. Soda crackers dipped in
salt water are palatable, but not squash pie.
There was a good deal of wet weather dur
ing those first six weeks at Rivermouth, and
we set ourselves at work to find some indoor
amusement for our half-holidays. It was all
very well for Amadis de Gaul and Don Quixote
not to mind the rain ; they had iron overcoats,
and were not, from all we can learn, subject to
croup and the guidance of their grandfathers.
Our case was different.
" Now, boys, what shall we do ? " I asked,
addressing a thoughtful conclave of seven,
assembled in our barn one dismal rainy after
noon.
" Let s have a theatre," suggested Binny
Wallace.
The very thing ! But where ? The loft of
the stable was ready to burst with hay pro
vided for Gypsy, but the long room over the
carriage-house was unoccupied. The place of
all places ! My managerial eye saw at a glance
its capabilities for a theatre. I had been to
the play a great many times in New Orleans,
and was wise in matters pertaining to the
drama. So here, in due time, was set up some
62 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
extraordinary scenery of my own painting.
The curtain, I recollect, though it worked
smoothly enough on other occasions, invariably
hitched during the performances ; and it often
required the united energies of the Prince of
Denmark, the King, and the Grave-digger, with
an occasional hand from "the fair Ophelia"
(Pepper Whitcomb in a low-necked dress), to
hoist that bit of green cambric.
The theatre, however, was a success, so far
as it went. I retired from the business with
no fewer than fifteen hundred pins, after de
ducting the headless, the pointless, and the
crooked pins with which our doorkeeper fre
quently got "stuck." From first to last we
took in a good deal of this counterfeit money.
The price of admission to the "Rivermouth
Theatre " was twenty pins. I played all the
principal parts myself not that I was a finer
actor than the other boys, but because I owned
the establishment.
At the tenth representation, my dramatic
career was brought to a close by an unfortunate
circumstance. We were playing the drama
of William Tell the Hero of Switzerland. Of
course I was William Tell, in spite of Fred
Langdon, who wanted to act that character
himself. I would not let him, so he withdrew
from the company, taking the only bow and
THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 63
arrow we had. I made a cross-bow out of a
piece of whalebone, and did very well without
him. We had reached that exciting scene
where Gessler, the Austrian tyrant, commands
Tell to shoot the apple from his son s head.
Pepper Whitcomb, who played all the juvenile
and women parts, was my son. To guard