JOURNEY
O went the days and nights with us there in the home of Colonel Busby, and I am nearly through with them.
One morning Jo said to me: “I'm sorry that father behaved so last night. It's dreadful. Did he hurt you?”
“Not a bit,” was my answer.
“You are as brave as you can be,” she went on, with a look of shame and sorrow. “It worries me terribly. Oh, dear! I wouldn't marry a man who drinks for all the money in the world.”
“You'd need it to repair the furniture,” I suggested, full of a great joy that she thought me brave.
Her eyes filled with tears, and I remember well the tender dignity with which I took her hand and tried to comfort her. It was a pretty picture, upon my word—the boy and the maiden, and both so clean-hearted.
Well, now, as to Sam and the wedding. We invited a number of Fannie's friends, who were servants in the neighborhood, and made a monster cake and some ice-cream. Sam arrived early, red and uncomfortable, and looking very new in a fresh suit of clothes. His voice, even, was afraid to show itself, as one might say. He held it down near a whisper and had a watchful eye.
Jo and a few of her school-girl friends had decorated the parlor, and spread a table in the dining-room with refreshments. Now they stood looking at Sam.
His eyes filled with alarm as we laid our plans before him.
“I ain't broke to this kind o' thing,” he said, “an' I'm scairt clear through. Maybe it could be put off until I'm nerved up a little.”
“No, indeed,” said Jo, as she locked the door and faced about with a saucy look in her eyes. “You've simply got to be married at ten o'clock. You might as well make up your mind to it first as last. You've kept Fannie waiting for three years, and now you're going to be married.”
Poor Sam shook his head and smiled, and looked rather foolish and unhappy.
“You needn't be afraid,” Jo went on. “We're not going to hurt you. We're just going to marry you, and I should think you'd be very happy. Fannie is a good girl, and a sweet-look-, ing girl, too, and she'll be a help to you.”
It was as good as a play to hear her talk to him. Sam had an anxious look, and was, in a way, like one condemned.
“I'd like,” said he, with just a little emphasis on the like—“I'd like to go over to the village a minute.”
“I'm sorry, but there isn't time,” Jo answered. She was gentle but firm.
“I'm no coward,” he said, in a voice that trembled a little, “but—I ain't used to women.”
“Poor thing!” said Jo, with just a touch of contempt for him. “You've got to get used to them, and I'll give you the first lesson. Stand where you are.”
Fannie, a comely, red-cheeked girl of about his age, had entered the room. Jo took her arm and led her up to Sam.
“Now give him a good kiss,” the little wretch commanded.
Fannie gave him a kiss, but he stood unmoved save that his face grew redder.
“Oh, it's not fair to take a kiss without returning it. That's cheating,” Jo protested.
He kissed her, but with such a sober countenance! It suggested retaliation.
“Brave Sam!—you're learning,” Jo said to him. She put her pretty hand in his, and added, soothingly: “Be brave, Sam; be brave and cheer up; nobody will hurt you. When the minister comes you will stand here, and Fannie will stand beside you—like that. Please keep your hands down at your side—so—and remember you must pay attention to the minister.”
Poor, old, good-hearted Sam! It was like bitting a horse, and he needed it.
Well, he played his part rather poorly, but the wedding was successful in its main purpose, and Sam hurried away to bring his horse and buggy. He ran as he left the door-yard, like one escaping.
Jo beckoned to me, and I went with her into the sitting-room, where for a moment we stood alone. How short it was, and yet how long it has been—that little moment!
“May I kiss you once?” I asked, timidly.
She made no reply, but she let me kiss her. Dear girl! We were so young and innocent, and all these years were ahead of us, and—excuse me—I must change the subject.
The excursion train that was to take us to the Falls left our depot at one o'clock. We were among the first who got aboard, and the cars filled rapidly with men and women and crying babies and boys and girls. Ephraim Baker and his wife had a seat near us. Venders passed up and down the aisle with papers, lemonade, “popcorn just about salt enough,” apples, and a curious, horn-shaped fruit called bananas, the “peth” of which was declared to be “very tasty.”
We reached Syracuse in the evening, and changed to the night express bound for Buffalo. An attraction of the trip, which had been much advertised, was a chance to see one of the new sleeping-cars on the Central, and an engine burning coal instead of wood. About eight o'clock, while we were waiting on a side-track, the conductor invited us to pass, through the train and take a look at the new sleeping-car. We filed slowly through it—a car glowing with varnish and highly decorated panels, and divided into four sections by curtains of heavy cloth. Each section had a lower, middle, and upper berth.
Late at night, as I sat half asleep leaning on Sam's glazed satchel, a man entered our car, picked up the satchel, and set it in the aisle and took the seat beside me. In a moment the conductor came along calling “tickets.” The man in my seat showed a pass.
“What's the name?” the conductor queried, as he took the card and held it in the glow of his lantern.
“George M. Pullman,” said the man at my side. “I stayed in the sleeping-car as long as I could stand it, and made my escape. You might as well try to sleep in the middle of Broadway. The berths rattle, and I was bumped around until I thought a horse and wagon were running over me.”
Soon after that he began drawing a diagram on a large envelope with a lead-pencil, and as he sat beside me I saw the beginning of a new chapter in railroad history.
From every point of the compass, that night, people were on their way to the Falls. Next morning they would see wonderful things—athletic contests, a balloon ascension, and a man walking across the chasm on a rope. I had longed to see the “big water-hammers” and the fleet horses. I thought chiefly of them.
We arrived safely, and Sam led his wife by the hand through noisy crowds, and warned me to keep near. We travelled a long time trying to find shelter within our means. We found a place at last, although at a price that made us thoughtful. I was a little worried for myself, there in the cold, indifferent crowds, with so little in my pocket. I felt so very small that day, and feared there was no hope for me.
Well, when the morning had come and I stood gazing at the water-hammers and the flying horses below, and wondering how men were going to tame and control them, who should come and whack me on the shoulder but Bony Squares.
“Hello—old boy!” said he; “here's that two dollars I borrowed.”
It was almost a shock to me—his unexpected honesty and my good-fortune. After all, he could not be so bad as I had thought him.
“Broke and lookin' for a job, I suppose?” he queried, with a smile.
“I've only a little money, and don't know yet what I'm going to do.”
“How would you like to earn fifty dollars to-day?”
Fifty dollars! It was a great sum! I could go home with it and possibly pay my fine, if that were necessary. But how so much in a day if it were honest money?
“It will take nerve,” he said. “I guess you're not brave enough.”
“You're wrong there. I'm brave enough for any work—if it's honest.”
“Oh, it's as honest as my aunt Maria,” he assured me.
I knew that venerable lady, and on the score of honor it seemed rather promising.
“It's as safe as standing here on the sidewalk, but, old boy, it will take some nerve,” he went on. “It will take more nerve than I've got, and I'm no squab at that.”
“What is it?” I asked, burning with curiosity.
“Well, you've heard of the chap who's going to walk a rope across the rapids? It will be way up in the air. You can just see it now, down the river there, hanging between the cliffs. Looks like a spider's thread—but, say, it weighs a ton. I've been helping 'em hang it. The old man wants to carry some light, nervy chap on his shoulders when he makes the trip. There's only one that's used to the game, and he's on a spree, and they're stuck—can't find a fellow game enough for the job.”
It is hard to separate a boy from his folly—not all the schools in the world can help much; and for a long time it is like a sword hanging over his head.
I jumped at the offer, for had I not determined for her sake to fear no peril?
“Come on, then,” said Bony. “He'll want to try you, and there's no time to lose.”
I went to Sam and Fannie, and promised to see them at the inn at six.
“Look out for scamps, boy,” Sam whispered. “Keep your eye peeled.”
I assured him that I would do so, and hurried down the high shore with Bony.
I wonder, sometimes, that I let myself go on. Well, there is something deep in it which I do not profess to understand. The spirit of the time was in me, and I was like ten thousand others. Men loved the perils of adventure those days. No speculation was too reckless for them, no hazard too fearful, no enterprise too difficult. The risks of the desert and the plains and the battle-field had schooled us for that kind of business.
Well, I had learned one thing, at least, since the last lesson—that a good heart may be in a rough body. Remember—you children of luxury—that some rather hard-handed people have been my friends.