“Well, Ben, at that rate I would cut every stick off the island, and sell the island for whatever anybody, who is fool enough to live there, will give, and come on to the main land, and buy a place among folks.”
“Not yet, father; that is, if Sally likes to live there. I wouldn’t swap it for the best place and house in town.”
Ben was now reduced to a single yoke of oxen, as those he had hired were needed at home, and without them he could not handle spars, which must be hauled some distance; but on the eastern side of the island was a place where the rocks, undermined by the frosts and sea, had fallen into the water. He cut the trees around it into mill-logs that were not fit for spars, rolled them down the chasm into the water, towed them to the mill, bringing back the boards, and sticking them up on the shore to season. Thus they worked all through the summer, despite of black flies and mosquitos.
They then cut a lot of cedar, and piled it up to dry with the boards.
“What are you going to do with all this cedar?” said Joe; “and why don’t you sell your boards at the mill, instead of bringing them back here?”
“I won’t tell you,” said Ben; “so you needn’t ask me.”
In September, Joe, who had agreed to go on a fishing trip with John Strout, left, and Ben was once more alone.
Let us now see how matters are going with Fred, who, by fright, wounds, loss of blood, and remorse of conscience, was brought well nigh to death’s door. For a long time he was so reduced, and in such a state of stupor, as not to know where he was; but as he regained strength and perception, it mortified and stung him to the quick to find himself in the house, and the object of care and solicitude to those whom he had so recently injured; for, notwithstanding the mean, cowardly treatment John had received from Fred, he was unremitting in his attentions to him,—sleeping in the same room, and ministering to all his wants. It is wonderful to what lengths a boy of a naturally kind and generous nature may be induced to go in wickedness,—and mean wickedness, too,—through the influence of evil examples and companionship.
Such a boy was Fred; and this kind treatment was perfect torture. At length he could bear it no longer; but upon a night when he had been feverish and very restless, and John had been up great part of the night, bathing his head, and giving him drink and medicines, he said, while his voice was choked with sobs, “O, John, I don’t deserve all this kindness at your hands; I don’t see how I could ever have gone in with that miserable Pete, and those boys, to hurt you. If I ever get well, I’ll be a better boy, and try to show you and your folks that I am not ungrateful.”
He had made promises of amendment to John before, especially when suffering under the smart of the fish-hook. They came from the lips then—a repentance in view of consequences; but Tige’s teeth went deeper than the fish-hook, and this time they came from the heart.