Running to Waste: The Story of a Tomboy

by George M. Baker

“What will the captain say now, Becky?”

“I don’t care what he says. Guess he don’t like the teacher any better than I do. Come, let’s get away from here; he’ll be after us.”

“That’s so. Where shall we go?”

“Where we were going this morning. We’ve got time to ‘shoot the Basin’ before dinner.”

So saying, Becky, whose hasty exit from the school-room had not allowed her to gain possession of her hat, started off bareheaded, followed by Teddy, along the bank of the river, towards the Corner.

Harry Thompson inherited a streak of the obstinacy which was so apparent in his father. As Becky disappeared from one side of the window, he rushed from the other, caught up his hat, unlocked the door, and hastened down the hill, only to see his unruly pupil climbing a fence twenty rods away. This convinced him that no bones had been broken. But he was not inclined to let the matter drop here; so he returned to the school-room, made all secure, and then started in pursuit.

As he moved along the bank of the river, the leading event of the morning was uppermost in his thoughts. The appearance of his father in the school-room had not been unexpected, and the explanation he had given of his own presence there was perfectly true. Mr. Drinkwater was ill, and had sent him as a substitute. Harry, who was well acquainted with the new school-house affair, had, after consultation with his mother, who visited him daily at Mr. Drinkwater’s residence, where he was domiciled for the express purpose of meeting her, accepted the position that he might try the temper of his father, and pave the way to a reconciliation, if that were possible. He was quietly awaiting the conclusion of the captain’s vehement review of “what he had done for him,” when he expected to have an opportunity to say a word in his own defence; but Miss Becky’s exhibition of chalkotype art interrupted the contemplated plea, and sadly disarranged his plans. His only consolation was, that Mr. Drinkwater would not be able to take charge of the school for several days, and another meeting might be possible.

Becky, in her turn, occupied a share of his thoughtful attention. He had looked forward with pleasure to the meeting with his little playmate, fully expecting that the years which had wrought so much change in his character, would have shaped the little maid, of whom he was so fond,—with her quick wit and active spirit,—into something better than the hoiden he found her. Her saucy movements, her rough appearance, and her rudeness, had startled him; but, remembering the influences by which she was surrounded at home, and the artistic touch displayed at the blackboard, he was convinced that in that little body were capabilities running to waste, which, trained aright, might blossom into usefulness. If his good mother only had the trailing of this wild vine, it would flourish in fruitfulness, and not cumber the ground. It was not yet too late. He would take his mother into his confidence.

Full of thoughts like these, Harry went on, keeping a sharp lookout for the runaway, until he reached the paper-mill at the Corner. Here he was informed that the young Sleepers had gone farther up the river’s bank. Undecided whether to go on or retrace his steps, he passed into the mill, and, meeting his old friend, Mark Small, went over the building with him, viewing the improvements, in which he became so much interested that he quite forgot the object of his expedition.