A Blundering Boy: A Humorous Story

by Bruce Weston Munro

The boy who detects the conception of a nocturnal robbery or murder in a stranger’s eye, simply because he [the cautious stranger] slips his hand stealthily into his “pistol pocket,”—in this case the breast pocket—to assure himself that his watch is still there, is a remarkably shrewd member of the human race, whose genius and acuteness should be diligently fostered. And such a boy was Marmaduke. But it was neither fear nor idiocy that caused him to think thus; it was only an extravagant imagination.

Marmaduke and George resembled each other in many particulars: each one was prompt to arrive at startling conclusions; each one believed himself equal to any emergency; but George was far more practical than Marmaduke. Each of these boys took pleasure in learning, and each one manifested a puerile eagerness to let people see how well informed he was. For instance, they flattered themselves that they were accomplished grammarians, and when any reference was made to grammar both looked very knowing, as much as to say that they apprehended what was meant.

Marmaduke had a strong will of his own, but, by manœuvring artfully, Charles could generally make him look at things from his point of view. The boys took advantage of his love for the marvellous to play mean tricks on him; but when he found that they were making game of him, he flew into a passion, and made himself ridiculous.

Poor boy! Though he is called Marmaduke in this book, his poetic names were too long for everybody except his parents; and while his teachers called him Mark, the school-boys called him “Marmalade,” or “Dreamer,” or something else quite as appropriate and scurrilous. Some envious little Smiths and Greens did not scruple to call him “Fitty.”

Next on the list is Stephen Goodfellow, one of the most important characters in the tale. He was a fun-loving fellow, fertile in devices, an adept at repartee, and too light-hearted to be serious for more than five consecutive minutes. In a word, he was the most nimble, sprightly, ingenious and good-natured boy in the village. At the same time he was the most reckless of all boys, taking pride in rushing blindly into danger. Indeed, he affected a stoical contempt for every kind of danger; jumped backwards off empty schooners with his eyes shut; made friends with the most unamiable and untractable bull-dogs in the place; lowered himself into deep, dismal, and unsafe old wells to wake the echoes with his bellowing voice, and busied himself about the punching and shearing machine, the steam engine, and the circular saws in the Columbia foundry. He knew every sailor of all the vessels that put into the harbor; knew every engineer and brakeman on all the trains that passed through the village; knew the name and disposition of every respectable dog within the corporation; knew just where to look for the best raspberries and the most desirable fish-worms; but he didn’t know an adversative conjunction from an iambic pentameter.

To be acquainted with this boy was to like him. By Will and Charles he was actually beloved, and there was a mutual and lasting affection between him and all our heroes. He was always ready to lend them his counsel and assistance when agitating their dark schemes, and when any waggish trick was in view, or when anything ludicrous was going on, his approval and support were the first consideration. Some of the urchins tried to equal Stephen’s feats of dexterity and to ape his sallies and whimsicalness; but it could not be done, and they only exposed themselves to his derision and made themselves more envious and unhappy than before. Stephen was familiarly known as “Stunner;” which, being offensively vulgar, we, out of respect for the reader’s feelings, have transposed into Steve.

If this were the history of a sailor-boy, Steve would assuredly be the hero; and we should eulogize him so unweariedly and enthusiastically that the heroes of romance, goaded to frenzy by the praise thus lavished on him, would commission their ghosts to haunt us. But Steve has nothing to do with sailor-boys; and as we do not wish to incur the displeasure of such heroes,—much less the displeasure of their ghosts,—or to compel anybody to fall in love with him, it will be the wisest course to leave it for impartial readers to praise him or to condemn him, to love him or to detest him, as their judgment may determine.

George and Marmaduke, to the best of their ability, cultivated the science of grammar; Stephen cultivated the art of dismembering grammars, and of blazoning their fly-leaves with hideous designs of frolicsome sea-serpents; wrecked schooners; what seemed to be superb pagan temples suffering from the effects of an earthquake; crazy old jades painfully drawing along glittering circus vans, with coatless little boys—some took them for monkeys, but probably they were circus prodigies—sitting in the roof and driving; and all sorts of monstrosities. We say grammars: Stephen’s designs were to be found chiefly in them. But he was no niggard of his illustrations; for, to his noble nature, it mattered little whether the book which he illuminated belonged—so long as it was old and dilapidated—to himself or to somebody else.

Last and least was James Horner. He was an infamous coward—in fact, so infamous that although fifteen years old, even a sudden and loud sound would unstring his nerves and twitch his facial muscles. As a natural consequence, he very often heard sudden and loud sounds—in fact, he heard all sorts of hideous and unaccountable sounds. But the boy was by no means an entire fool; and he made greater progress at school than might be expected. It is a lamentable fact—which, however, must be chronicled—that his playfellows studied to excite his fears, and played off some of their most farcical, sly, and atrocious tricks on him. Will and Charles had too much self-respect and sound moral principle to snub the boy; but Steve seemed to take a savage delight in snubbing him and in turning him into ridicule. But, though many a sportive trick was played on him, his confidence in mankind was still so great that he was very easily deceived, it made no difference how often he was mocked. In this confidence the others might well have copied after him. On the other hand, his disposition was unamiable, and under undue provocation he was a dangerous boy, who could harbour revenge. Nevertheless, he hardly ever ventured to interfere with the boys’ schemes, but blindly and humbly followed wherever they might lead. Why our heroes tolerated his company can be explained on only two grounds: first, because they liked to play tricks on him; secondly, because this history requires such a character. When not called Jim, this abused lad was branded “Timor,” which shows how notorious he was for cowardice. But in process of time this classical gem became corrupted by the ignorant into “Tim.”

These five were the school-fellows and associates of Will, and generally the six might be found together. It was only natural that they should quarrel sometimes; but, for the most part, they were at peace with themselves and all other boys. They were all full of mischievousness, but taking everything into consideration, were as free from sin as boys can be.