Suddenly an old thought occurred to him: he would run away. He had many a time determined to do so, but on such occasions the weather was too cold, or too hot, or he had an uncompleted trade on hand, or he was penniless, or something. Now, however, the expected punishment overbalanced every lesser fear. Perhaps he would starve, but he would not be so dreadfully sorry if he did; he would escape the scoldings and punishments that he knew of, while that which might come after death would at least have the alleviating quality of novelty. But there was little likelihood of his starving; runaway boys in books and story papers never did anything of the kind—they always fell upon streaks of luck, and finally married heiresses. Jack did not care to marry an heiress; nice little Mattie Barker was rich enough for him, but alas! she would have to remain a sweetly mournful memory. He would at least strive to obtain her sympathy; he would write her a touching, a tenderly-worded farewell, and then, as he came into his fortune in other lands, he would write her respectful anonymous letters—perhaps, even, he might write her in verse, though about that he could not speak with certainty at present. One thing he knew—he did wish his head would stop aching so dreadfully.
Arrived at home, he went softly to his own room, bolted the door, and sat down to write. He wrote and tore at least a dozen letters before he could pen one which seemed to suit him; this, when completed, read as follows:
"Miss Mattie Barker:
Dear Madam,
Farewell forever.
Jack Wittingham."
It then seemed to him that his father deserved a parting word, so he wrote:
"Dear Father:
You want me to be good, and so do I, but circumstances over which I seem to have no control, prevent the consummation of my earnest desire and intention.[[2]] When I come back, I shall be a man, and rich enough to comfort you in your declining years, and mother too.
Your affectionate son,