Luckily, I had, on my way out, thrown about me a light shawl. Shivering, I wrapped it close, and then—providentially inspired—I bethought me of a place of refuge,—to wit: the woodshed, adjoining our kitchen! It was but a flimsy structure, but would, at least, be warmer than an open piazza.
Its inner door, now carefully bolted, opened upon the kitchen. Its outer entrance was, however, but slightly secured by a hook, easily manipulated from without, by the insertion of a thin stick. I felt that an entrance might be unostentatiously effected. Eagerly awaiting that auspicious moment when Miss Pettingrew should, at tea-time, vacate her post of observation, I sallied forth upon the lawn, and—still hunting for four-leaved clover—managed to gain the rear of my house. My ogress opportunely disappeared! Already provided with the needful stick, it was but the work of a moment to insert it in the crevice of the loosely-fitting door, to raise the hook, and step gingerly in. Thank heaven, I was, at least, beneath a roof! Humble, indeed, but yet an improvement upon an open sky, or even a vine-draped piazza! And Miss Pettingrew need never know that I had come to grief. Fortunately I wore my watch. It was a slight comfort to note the passage of these unkindly hours. It was now quarter past four. I had become desperately hungry. My mind ran tantalizingly upon the untasted dinner within. Long ere this, my tea must have resolved itself to pure tannin! My omelette and my Lyonnaise must have become the merest chips; and the cat had, no doubt, privately disposed of my precious corned beef. Well, all was not lost! A full hour yet loomed between me and sunset. Given that time, might I not find some escape from my dilemma?
The colonial mansion of the MacNebbins's backed squarely upon our premises. And our woodshed backed, in turn, upon a roomy lawn—now degraded to an open lot which faced upon B—— Street. In the absence of windows upon that wall of the building, a knot-hole, generously enlarged by our boys, served admirably as a lookout. At this inconveniently high aperture, I watched (on tip-toe) the careless throng, strolling, in Sunday attire, up and down B—— Street. This wholesome, but tame, diversion palled upon me. My jaded appetite craved more exciting nourishment.
Mrs. MacNebbins—poor, overworked body, with a temper of her own—and maintaining, single-handed, half a dozen children and a shiftless sot of a husband, sometimes became desperate. On such occasions, it suited her, broomstick in hand, to drive her worse half from the house, the maids, meantime, looking applause from her kitchen windows. My own boys (in spite of my prohibition) had, I regret to say, often audibly applauded this conjugal exhibition. Such a spicy scene would, I felt, be in fine keeping with the situation, and I blush to own that I now turned my attention to the MacNebbins's back door, in the vulgar hope of an immediate connubial skirmish. In vain! Mr. MacNebbins sat composedly smoking on his back doorsteps; while his more forceful half flitted about the kitchen, intent on the dishing of the students' dinner. Now and then a tantalizing whiff of the roast issued from the open windows. By this time, I had become disgracefully ravenous; and when, after the MacNebbins's dinner, the cook came out to deposit the leavings in that objectionable swill-barrel, close to our back fence, I blush to record that I looked with longing upon the remnants of this (to me, Barmecide) feast. Halved potatoes, slices of pudding, and savoury bits of meat, lay temptingly on the over-heaped barrel. I sighed. It was like "starving in the midst of abundance."
For one wild moment, I thought of rushing into the open street, in my morning wrapper, with a shawl over my head, and imploring somebody to break into my house, and feed me.
But, no! Self-respect forbade a proceeding so insane; and, moreover, should I not thus advertise the fact of my being alone in the house, and at the mercy of the spoiler? Night would soon prevent that attempt which I had half resolved to make upon the back window, and which might, possibly, end in defeat, glass-splinters, and lockjaw. It was now raining. The east wind wailed dolefully around the shed. I must, nevertheless, make shift to lodge there. To that end, I carefully considered the capabilities of the place. On a rude shelf, near the woodpile, I found a gummy kerosene lamp, replete with ill-smelling oil. Beside it was a tin box, containing three matches. In a corner stood a barrel of clean shavings, and, beneath the wash-bench, a basket of soiled clothes.
I had soon disposed the shavings in the form of a couch. Two sheets, used but a single night in the guest-room, and comparatively unsoiled, served for a light covering. On a high peg hung a rusty overcoat, which, on fishing excursions, had repeatedly served my good Alcibiades. It had come to exhale a perpetual "ancient and fish-like smell," and, in consideration of my outraged nostrils, had been relegated to the shed. Alas! I had not now the "proud stomach" which distinguished "Mr. F's Aunt;" and, clothing myself in this unsavoury garment, I thanked heaven for even so ignoble a protection from the searching east wind, now entering, by every crevice and knot-hole, my indifferently constructed sleeping-room.
Drearily casting myself upon this rude couch, I endeavoured to compose my limbs for sleep. Unnumbered poets have rapturously celebrated "the rain on the roof." I had myself once offered to a stony-hearted magazine editor some "lines" on this very subject; yet to-day, shivering, starved, and but half housed—heaven knows that the even pelting of this pitiless storm above my forlorn head was nothing, if not prosaic! I remembered, too, that my only door-fastening was a slight hook, easily set at naught.
What facilities were here offered to a prowling tramp, intent upon a night's shelter! When, for a moment, I could withdraw my poor mind from the terrible pangs of hunger, it was but to fix it upon this fearful possibility. Yes, I was undoubtedly at the mercy of all the tramps in the immediate vicinity of C——! What would Alcibiades—what would my boys (camping out at Great Brewster, with a circus tent, comforters in abundance, and every appliance known to youthful Bohemia) say, if they could, this night, look in upon their miserable relative? But, no; Alcibiades should never hear how—by rejecting his safe counsel—I had dedicated myself to desolation. The misery of this night must be forever locked in my own breast! Of course, I could not be expected to close my eyes during the entire night; and, when morning came—should my life be spared till then—I should be too much exhausted from starvation to crawl out of the shed, and should, should, shou—here, I fell fast asleep!
A single hour could scarce have passed, when I was aroused by a slight jar, as of some one leaning heavily against the frame of the shed, directly where I had made my bed. In a moment I was broad awake, and, with my heart in my mouth, intently listening. I now sorely regretted having left my lamp burning; and wished I had, at least, plugged the wide knot-hole looking street-ward. The one small window, opening on our own premises, I had carefully darkened, but had forgotten to screen this irregular look-out. Luckily, it did not command, from the outside, my impromptu bed.