On the afternoon of one of its most charming days, Tom and Bennie sauntered out, hand in hand, as they always went, to where the hill, south of their little mining village, rose like a huge, upturned bowl, sloping downward from its summit to every point of the compass. Over in the little valley to the south lay the ruins of the burned breaker, still untouched; and off upon the other side, one could see the sparkling Susquehanna far up into the narrow valley where its waters sweep around the base of Campbell’s Ledge; across to the blue mountains on the west; and down the famous valley of Wyoming, with its gray stone monument in the middle distance, until the eastern hills crept in to intercept the view.
It was a dreamy day, and a day fit for dreams, and when the boys reached the summit of the hill, Tom lay down upon the warm sod, and silently looked away to the haze-wrapped mountains, while Bennie sat by his side, and pictured to his mind the view before him, as Tom had described it to him many times, sitting in that very spot.
Poor Tom! These beautiful days had brought to him much perplexity of mind, much futile reasoning with his conscience, and much, very much, of silent suffering.
Lying there now, in the sunlight, with open eyes, he saw, in reality, no more of the beautiful scene before him than did blind Bennie at his side. He was thinking of the trial, now only three days distant, of what he should be called upon to do and to say, and of how, after it was all over, he must tell Mommie and Bennie about the hundred dollars.
Ah, there was the trouble! he could see his way clearly enough until it should come to that; but how should he ever be able to tell to these two a thing of which he tried to be proud, but of which, after all, he felt guilty and ashamed?
Then, what would they say to him? Would they praise him for his devotion to Bennie, and for his cleverness in having grasped an opportunity? Or would they grieve over his lack of manly firmness and his loss of boyish honor? Alas! the more he thought of it, the more he feared that they would sorrow rather than rejoice.
But an idea came to Tom, as he lay there, thinking the matter over; the idea that perhaps he could learn what Bennie’s mind would be on the subject, without exciting any suspicion therein of what had actually occurred. He resolved to try.
He hardly knew how best to approach the matter, but, after some consideration, he turned to Bennie and said,—
“Bennie, do you s’pose Jack Rennie act’ally set fire to that breaker?”
“I shouldn’t wonder a bit, Tom,” replied Bennie; “those ’at know, him says he’s dreadful bad. ’Taint so much worse to burn a breaker than ’tis to burn a shaft-house, an’ they say he act’ally did burn a shaft-house up at Hyde Park, only they couldn’t prove it on him.”