STAGE II.—WHICH BRINGS CRICKET TO THE STATION OF REMORSE
R. CROCKET played a bass horn which had belonged to his father. He had much to say about “the cause of good music in Hearts-dale,” and both he and Mr. Boggs were members of its Comet Band. Therein lay the weakest point in Mr. Crocket's character. He did not lie or use tobacco or strong drink or profanity, but I have thought sometimes that he would have done well to change his sin for one more private and compact, for the old horn cut a swath a mile wide in the silence. It had a part in the string as well as the brass band of the village.
One night, more than a year after my initiation to the shop, there was to be a celebration of the nomination of Lincoln for President and an address by Colonel Remington. Capes and helmets for the musicians had been sent to the marble-shop and were stored away in a closet. Swipes and I had discovered them. Now, it should be explained that Swipes regarded his shingle-nail with growing apprehension. He had come to work with a poultice of mustard that morning. I had seen him spitefully withdraw it from his bosom and fling it under his bench. When the Messrs. Crocket had gone home we talked of the shingle-nail, and I observed that he had great respect for the mustard and more confidence in his future. He declared that his pains had been drawn to the outside of his body, and he thought that a safer place for them. He showed me the blister, and as we surveyed the same an evil purpose entered the mind of Swipes, and I regret to say that it overflowed into my own.
The helmets had a partial lining of thin cloth attached to the visor. Beneath the lining of each one we spread a mustard paste where it would afflict the forehead of the player. That done, we ate our suppers and went out to see the crowd. At half-past seven the musicians appeared in front of the Opera-House, and began work at once. Soon I observed that three or four of the players had begun to perspire, and were moving the skin of their foreheads. The clarionet lagged and fell out of time. Mr.
Crocket lost the run of the score, and went roaring on for a moment and abandoned the chase. Swipes nudged me as the marble-cutter removed his helmet. The others were struggling with their parts.
The clarionet player began to talk to himself. The crowd was laughing at the discords. The Heartsdale Cornet Band suddenly gave up, and, oddly enough, on the first phrase of Hail Columbia. Every player uncovered and felt his forehead and began to talk.
Mr. Boggs muttered and seemed to threaten his neighbor.
“I feel as if I'd blown my brains out,” said the clarionet player.
“This helmet ought to be spelt with a double l,” said Mr. Crocket, as he felt the inside of his head-cover.
Unfortunately, we stayed too long and laughed too much. Mr. Crocket discovered us, and had a stern and suspicious look. We retreated promptly, and heard no more from the band until next morning. We met on the street and entered the shop together.
“Boys,” said the Judge, “I've got a present for you.”
“What's that?” Swipes inquired.
“Hellmets,” said the marble-cutter, spelling the word with a double l, after he had spoken it—“a pair of 'em; one for each of you. Try 'em on.”
I did not dare refuse the honor, and poor Swipes had the same feeling. The helmets were on our heads in a minute.
“They're becoming,” said Mr. Crocket. “I like to see 'em on you.”
He pulled them down and fastened them with a strong cord. He seemed to enjoy tying the knot beneath our chins, and drew it tight.
We began our work, and were presently in the tortures of full atonement. Swipes dropped his tools by-and-by, and tried in vain to raise the helmet a little.
“I guess somebody has put some mustard in this helmet,” said he, in a loud voice.
“Mustard!” Mr. Crocket exclaimed. “Nobody would be mean enough for that.”
“It must be,” Swipes persisted.
“I guess you're mistaken,” said Mr. Crocket, calmly, as he resumed his work. “Leastways, if there is mustard in 'em, it's only meant for a joke.”
Mr. Boggs, who sat in his corner, began to roar.
“It's hard when ye have to invent the joke an' take it, too,” said Mr. Crocket.
Swipes seized the cord and put all his strength upon it.
“You fool, don't you know it's funny?” said the marble-cutter.
Swipes could see no occasion for laughter, and continued to pull the string until it came free.
“Look here, boy, if you can't take your own medicine you'll have to take mine,” said Mr. Crocket, sternly. “You may pick up your things an' go; I'm done with you.”
Poor Swipes! Things had come to a bad turn for him, and his lips were trembling as he prepared to leave.
The thought of him, then, was more to me than my own torture. He was poor and sorely needed his place. I should not have done, or permitted him to do, an act so foolish as that we had been guilty of.
So I spoke up for him with odd mendacity: “It was my fault, Mr. Crocket. Swipes is not to blame. I put the mustard into those helmets.”
It is past finding out—the things a boy will do when he is put to it.
“Oh, you did,” said the marble-cutter, “you little-souled, narrer, contracted cuss!”
His eyes seemed to be searching me for other qualities likely to serve his scorn. He added, with a look of sternness: “Boy, you've done a great injury to the cause of good music in Heartsdale!”
I wondered if music had suffered more than I, and, answered, timidly: “It was only meant for a joke.”
“Well, the joke is on you,” said Mr. Crocket, with a rude look at me. “You are both discharged.”
So my second trial in business came to its end, and people began to shake their heads and say that I was a wild boy and would come to no good.
I went to the shop of my old friends, “Pearl & Barker,” and told of my trouble. The Pearl had a thoughtful look on his face, and said nothing for a few moments.
“Confound that dog!” he exclaimed, presently, and began to call Mr. Barker. The dog stood up before him.
“You rascal!” the Pearl began, “you'll have to take another dose. I trust that you will soon be a dog, Mr. Barker, an' get over bein' a puppy. Not that I would have you too good—there are no angels in this world, Mr. Barker. But I am moved to suggest that you always show proper respect for age.”
Every word that he said to “Mr. Barker” sank into my soul, and made me see how foolish I had been.
“Those in favor of reform will please say aye,” said the Pearl, and Mr. Barker and I both voted loudly. “It seems to be carried—it is carried,” the Pearl went on, and then, turning to me, he added: “That dog is getting a good deal of useful knowledge. It may be worth your while to whack up with him.”
It was said gently, and yet, somehow, the words fell like a lash. I went home sore with remorse and wrote a letter of apology to Judge Crocket, and fully confessed my folly.