The Victim - Jr. Thomas Dixon

Скачать книгу

you're there—the right man in the right place, in the nick of time. Will you stand by us?"

      "What do you want me to do?"

      "Just blow out the candle—that's all—we'll do the rest. Will you do it?"

      The Boy hesitated, smiled and said:

      "Yes—when everything's quiet."

      The old man had gone to bed and began to snore. The Boy rose noiselessly and blew the candle out.

      Instantly from the darkness without, poured a volley of cabbage heads, squashes, potatoes and biscuits. Not a word was spoken, but the charge of the light brigade was swift and terrible.

      The Boy pulled the cover over his head and waited for the storm to pass.

      When the light was lit and search made, not a culprit could be found. They were all in bed sound asleep. The only one awake was the Boy in the little bed on which lay scattered potatoes, biscuits and cabbage.

      The priest drew him from under the cover. His face was stern—the firm mouth rigid with anger.

      "Did you know they were going to do that, sir?" he asked.

      The Boy trembled but held his tongue.

      "Answer me, sir!"

      "I didn't know just what they were going to do—"

      "You knew they were up to something?"

      "Yes!"

      "And you didn't tell me?"

      "No."

      "Why?"

      "I couldn't be a traitor, sir."

      "To those young rascals—no—but you could betray me—"

      "I'm not a monk, Father—"

      "Tell me what you know at once, sir, before I thrash you."

      "I don't know much," the Boy slowly answered, "and I can't tell you that."

      There was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence. The culprit must be punished. It was out of the question that he should whip him—this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love. He was turned over to another—an old monk of fine face and voice full of persuasive music.

      He took the Boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs to the top of the house and into a tiny bare room. The only piece of furniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. The Boy had not read the history of the Spanish Inquisition, but it required no great learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of that machine.

      There was no terror in the blue eyes. Their light grew hard with resolution. The monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment was the one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face. The Boy had always thought him one of his best friends.

      Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had dreamed of mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and set his lips to receive the blow—the first he had ever felt.

      The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright, handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.

      He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:

      "I hate to strike you, my son—"

      "Don't then, Father," was the eager answer.

      "I've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. Tell me what you know and it'll be all right."

      "I can't—"

      "No matter how little, and I'll let you off."

      "Will you?"

      "I promise."

      "I know one thing," the Boy said with a smile.

      "Yes?"

      "I know who blew out the light."

      "Good!"

      "If I tell you that much, you'll let me off?"

      "Yes, my son."

      The little head wagged doubtfully:

      "Honest, now, Father?"

      "I give you my solemn word."

      "I blew it out!"

      The fine old face twitched with suppressed laughter as he loosed the straps, sat down on the cot and drew the youngster in his lap.

      "You're a bright chap, my son. You'll go far in this world some day. A great diplomat perhaps, but the road you've started on to-night can only lead you at last into a blind alley. You know now that I love you, don't you?"

      "Yes, Father."

      "Come now, my Boy, there's too much strength and character in those fine eyes and that splendid square chin and jaw for you to let roistering fools lead you by the nose. You wouldn't have gotten into that devilment if they hadn't persuaded you—now would you?"

      "No."

      "All right. Use the brain and heart God has given you. Don't let fools use it for their own ends. Do your own thinking. Be your own man. Stand on your own bottom."

      And then, in low tones, the fine old face glowing with enthusiasm, the monk talked to his little friend of Truth and Right, of Character and Principle, of Love and God, until the tears began to slowly steal down the rosy cheeks.

      A new resolution fixed itself in the Boy's soul. He would live his own life. No other human being should do it for him.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      The mother's heart rebelled at last. She would not be put off longer. Her baby had been gone two years. She refused point blank to listen to any further argument.

      Charles Green, the young Mississippian, studying law in Kentucky, and acting as the Boy's guardian, was notified to bring him at the end of the spring term.

      On a glorious day in June they left Bardstown for Louisville, to take the new steamboat line for home. These wonderful boats were the marvels of their day. Their names conveyed but a hint of the awe they inspired. The fleet of three vessels bore the titles, Volcano, Vesuvius and Ætna. And the sparks that flew heavenward from their black chimneys were far more impressive to the people who crowded the shores than the smoke and lava of old Vesuvius to the lazy loungers of Naples.

      The Boy saw his pony safely housed on board the Ætna, and amid the clang of bells and the scream of whistles, the floating wonder swung out from her wharf into the yellow tide of the Ohio.

      Scores of people crowded her decks for the pleasure of a ride ten miles down the river to return in their carriages.

      The Captain of the Ætna, Robinson DeHart, held the Boy in a spell by his lofty manners. He had been a sailor on board an ocean-going brig. To him the landing of his vessel was an event, no matter how often the stop was made, whether to put off a single passenger, or take on a regiment. In fact, he never landed the Ætna, even to take on a cord of wood, without the use of his enormous speaking trumpet and his big brass spy-glass.

      A beautiful, slow, uneventful voyage on the Father of Waters landed the Boy in safety at the Woodville stopping-place. He leaped down the gang-plank with a shout and clasped his Big Brother's hand.

      "My,

Скачать книгу