A Blundering Boy: A Humorous Story

by Bruce Weston Munro

After supper the demon cleared off the table and put everything in the room in far better order than it was when the hero was taken into it.

Up to this time scarcely a word had been spoken between them. Will was filled with dread that he had killed, or at least severely hurt, his cousin. He, of course, did not know that Henry was in full possession of his senses as he lay on the ground, nor that he was doing this only to disarm the demon. The wildest fears flashed through his brain; his sufferings were more intense than Stephen’s had been on the island. He blamed himself; he blamed Henry; he blamed the pistols; he blamed the demon. Yet he felt himself utterly unable to escape. And he was troubled on his own account. What did the demon intend to do with him? Why did he detain him there? These questions perplexed the boy; and not knowing what else to do, he tried hard to think it all a dream. But no; it could not be a dream, for in a dream there is never any smoke to make one sneeze. Then Henry’s wild tales about the demon’s cannibalism and cruelty recurred to him. Certainly, the demon’s look was forbidding—almost ferocious; but Will did not think him capable of torturing any one. He had too much good sense to think that the man would do him any harm; but still he feared him, and felt ill at ease in his presence.

He had had no particular desire to come on this wild-goose-chase, because he wished to keep out of mischief during his stay at his aunt’s. He was not so mercurial, whimsical, and romantic, as his cousin, and he had consented to go as much to please him as for any other reason.

“I think I shall have to get pa to shut me up, if I ever find my way back home,” he mused, in his despair. “No matter what I do, something always comes to grief. I thought surely it would be safe to fly a little balloon, when Henry had always done it. But no; it must come down, and set a building on fire! How is it that everything goes wrong with me? Am I a blockhead, or a fool? Oh dear! I get into worse scrapes every time; but this is the worst yet—this beats them all! If Henry and I survive this, I suppose we shall stumble into something that will finish us entirely! Now, I knew it was wrong to start with loaded pistols, and I didn’t want to do it. Then, why did I? I deserve all this misery for my foolishness. But poor Henry! It seems to me now that he must be alive. Oh! If I could only know!”

Then he began to wonder how it was that the demon had come upon them so suddenly. “He was there all at once,” Will said to himself, as he glanced furtively at the “recluse.” “Did he come from the cave, or the valley, or the bank, or a hollow in the tree, or the clouds? All I know is, he wasn’t anywhere near, till suddenly he had me in his arms! And Henry was as much surprised to see him as I was! Well, the man must be a wizard—or else a witch, or a humbug! If I could only get away!”

It has been shown that Henry reflected that no one would know where to look for them. The same appalling thought occurred to Will. But, like an inspiration, it came to him that the teamster who had given them a ride eyed them narrowly as they went up the valley.

“Now, if that teamster will only do us as good a turn as the sailor did when we paddled away in the punt,” he said to himself, “we may be saved yet!”

Boy-like, the hero pinned his faith on the teamster, and felt considerably happier. In fact, five minutes more, and he had settled it in his own mind that, sooner or later, they would be saved through him.

Some writers, with fiendish ingenuity, seem to set themselves deliberately to work to unstring the nerves of their weak-headed readers, so that they shall plunge headlong into unfortunate speculations, and be ruined.