II.
As Tom walked from the house he was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. He felt that his mother had been unkind in allowing him to do as he had at first wanted to do, and that if she had really loved him she would have obliged him to come back. He felt as if he had been wronged because he had not been punished severely, and he was fully convinced that he had made a mistake when he had decided that the only thing he could do was to run away.
There was no possible excuse for him to return. If his mother had not seen him, he believed he would have sneaked back into the house and have borne all the jeers of his schoolmates because he had “backed out.” But he decided that he could not even do that now, and that it was absolutely necessary for him to go on as he had begun.
“How I wish I hadn’t started!” he said to himself as he trudged along toward Rankin’s brook, his bundles growing heavier each moment. “She told me about Captain Harrison’s going away to-morrow, so that I could go with him and that she’d know where I was. But I won’t do anything like that. I’ll go ’way off where she won’t ever see me again, and then she’ll be sorry she was so willing to let me run away.”
Tommy was being severely punished for wanting to leave his home and he knew it, but he had not suffered enough to cause him to be willing to admit his fault and to ask his mother to forgive him; therefore the discouraged runaway very unwillingly continued his decidedly desolate course.
By some singular chance he met no one on his way. If he could have done so he felt that he might in some slight degree revenge himself, for he would have sent word to his mother that he did not intend to go with Captain Harrison and that she should never hear from him again.
But he did not meet any one from the time he left his home until he arrived at the bridge, and then he realized that if the scheme had not been entirely a success neither had the details been perfect. To sleep under Rankin’s bridge, when he thought of it in the daytime, and with his schoolmates around him, was nothing more than a pleasant little adventure; but when it came to carrying the plan into execution it was quite a different matter. The night was dark; the brook gurgled and sang in a most ghostly fashion; the air under the stone arches felt damp; and he could find no place where he could lie down with any prospect of comfort.
“It’s no use. I can’t fix any kind of a bed here, so I’ve got to sit up all night—that’s all there is to it.”
Tom was reckless by this time, and without any care as to a selection of the spot where he was to spend the night he sat down in about as uncomfortable a place as he could have found, confident that the time would seem very short.
He tried to make up his mind as to where he would go when the morning should come; then he felt about for a softer seat, very nearly falling into the water in the attempt. He thought of his mother’s sorrow, which was to be his revenge, and then again he changed his position. He wondered if his schoolmates were snugly tucked up in bed asleep; and then he began to doze, leaning his head against the granite sides of the arch.
Suddenly he awoke with a start that gave him a very uncomfortable twinge in his neck, while every portion of his body was stiff and lame. He thought that he had slept a long time, and he looked out from under the bridge, fully expecting to see the sun. It was as dark as when he first sought this very uncomfortable sleeping-place.
“The sun hasn’t come up,” he said as he settled back on the rock in a very awkward manner, as if it hurt him to move around much; “but I know it must be morning, because I feel as if I’d been asleep ten or twelve hours. I’ll start up the road a little.”
Just at that moment the village clock began to strike and Tom counted:
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven!”
Only eleven o’clock, and he had thought it was time for the sun to rise!
Tom tried to lie down first in one place and then in another, but the sharp-pointed rocks prevented him from assuming anything like a reclining position. Then he thought of his own nice bed; but he knew he could not enjoy it, at least not without too great a sacrifice of manly dignity.
He thought of Captain Harrison’s schooner, which was to sail on the following morning. He might go on board of her; but if he should do so, how could he revenge himself on his mother?
“I can’t stay here all night if it’s going to last as long as this hour has. I don’t want to walk up the road, because I can’t see where I’m going. Mother won’t know for certain that I’ve gone on the Swiftsure, and she’ll feel bad enough to-morrow morning when I don’t come home to breakfast, so I’ll go on board where I can get some sleep.”
Tom knew exactly where the clumsy old schooner was moored, for many a time had he and his friends been up to look at her when she was in port and laughed at the name of Swiftsure, which it seemed must have been painted on her stern in mockery.
With his bundles in his hands he stumbled down through the pasture, following the course of the brook, until he arrived at a little stone pier, at the head of which could be seen the old schooner which had been made ready for a fishing cruise down the coast.
Tom scrambled on board as softly as was possible in the darkness; but he might have saved himself the trouble of taking precautions to prevent any one from hearing him, for the old schooner was deserted and looked quite as lonesome as he felt. The cabin-doors were locked, the hatches were fastened down too securely for him to raise them unaided, and it seemed very much as if even the Swiftsure denied him the shelter he so sadly needed.
On the deck lay an upturned dory. He might crawl under that, and although it would be but poor shelter it was surely better than trying to lie on the sharp rocks under the bridge. Tom was not nearly as particular where he slept as he would have been at home, and he counted himself very fortunate in finding under the boat a quantity of old nets that made him quite a soft bed, so soft, in fact, that he was asleep in less than five minutes after he had found shelter.
Everything had contributed to make Tom very tired on the day when he ran away, and he slept on the fishing-nets quite as soundly as if he had been at home. He did not even hear Captain Harrison and his crew when they came on board at a very early hour in the morning. The bustle and confusion attendant upon getting the Swiftsure under way failed to awaken him. When, however, the Swiftsure was on the open sea, tumbling about on the waves in her own clumsy fashion, he came to understand where he was, and he gained this information in quite a sensational manner.
Shortly after the old schooner had left the dock the wind freshened until it was blowing quite half a gale, and Captain Harrison began to fear that the crazy old sails would be blown away. In order to prevent such a catastrophe, the schooner was hove to and all hands set to work reefing sail.
As a matter of course the clumsy old Swiftsure was wallowing in the trough of the sea, tossing and tumbling about in a most provoking manner. Captain Harrison was helping his crew of fishermen “shorten” the foresail, when, just as all hands were standing amidships trying to reef without pulling the very reef-points out of the decayed canvas, a queer-looking bundle rolled from under the dory, capsizing one or two of the sailors as it struck them and then rolling into the lee scuppers, where it lay uttering cries of pain.
The crew were absolutely frightened, first at seeing this queer-looking parcel and then at hearing it make a noise, while those who had been knocked down actually fled forward in alarm. Captain Harrison started aft, but on looking back he stopped short, gazed for an instant, first at the dory and then at the bundle in the scuppers, and said as he gave his hat a forcible blow, as if to prevent it from flying off his head in surprise, “I’m blowed if it ain’t a boy!”
Tom looked up as if amazed that he should have been mistaken for other than what he was, and then the rolling of the vessel threw him back again toward the dory, tossing him from one side to the other much as if he had been a rubber ball.
“Where did you come from?” roared Captain Harrison, angry now because he had shown what looked to be fear.
“He come out of the dory,” replied one of the men, for Tom was too much engaged in rolling about the deck to be able to make any reply.
It was impossible for all hands to stand staring at Tom when the foresail needed immediate attention, and the sick runaway was allowed to roll up and down the deck at his own sweet will, or, rather, at the will of the wind, until the Swiftsure was on her course again with reduced canvas. Then Captain Harrison shouted, “Somebody catch that boy before he breaks himself all to pieces and bring him aft here to me.”
In a few moments, but not without considerable difficulty, the captain’s orders were obeyed, and Tom, looking pale and thoroughly wretched, was held up in front of the Swiftsure’s commander.
“Why, you’re Tom Gibson!” exclaimed that gentleman, in surprise.
Tom nodded his head; he could not trust himself to speak.
“How came you on board? Been running away, eh?”
Again Tom nodded his head, and Captain Harrison began to understand that his passenger was in no mood for conversation.
“Take him below; I’ll dress him down after he gets a little better.”
Tom was led below into a cabin that smelled like fish, oil, stale vegetables, and, in fact, everything that is disagreeable. And there, amid this combination of terrible odors, poor, sick, runaway Tom could hear the creaking and grinding of the timbers of the crazy old hulk, while all he could do was to moan and groan in unison.