There was a loud shout from the other boys, and universal attention was directed to the little square of faded calico Davy was so industriously using.
A hot flush rose to the boy’s thin, freckled face; but he made no reply, except to mutter under his breath something which the boys could not catch.
But there was a bitter, vindictive feeling in his heart as he followed his persecutors into the school-house. He did not understand why all the wit—if wit it could be called—should be leveled at him; why he should be the target for every poisoned arrow, simply because he was poor, ugly and always at the bottom of his classes. He thought it unjust and cruel, and longed with all his heart for the time to come when by some real good luck he would have a chance to “pay the boys up.”
He knew that if he ever needed assistance in any such work, he could rely on old Sim Kane to help him; for the old man—a half-witted creature who earned a miserable livelihood by doing odd jobs of wood-sawing and cleaning for charitably-disposed people—had good reason, also, to hate the boys of the Prickett school, and long for revenge.
Davy lived with an aunt, who gave him a home as a matter of duty, and regarded him as a burden and a nuisance, often treating him so unkindly that he was made very unhappy, and spent as little time with her as possible.
He tried honestly to be dutiful and obedient; but he couldn’t help forgetting occasionally to wipe his feet before entering the kitchen, and sometimes he let the fire go out, or forgot to feed the chickens. Then he was severely reprimanded, of course, and told that he was ungrateful, as well as stupid.
But in the woods he was free to do as he liked, and there was no one to scold or find fault with him, and he had many dumb but affectionate friends there among the squirrels, rabbits and birds.
So he always took his way to the woods every Saturday as soon as he had cleaned up the yard about his aunt’s house, filled all the water-buckets, cut the kindling for the kitchen stove, and attended to the dozen or more other chores Miss Potter required of him.
He never shirked the least of them, no matter how anxious he was to get away; for he had been so frequently told how much he owed to his aunt, that he believed he could not do too much for her.
It was while exploring the depths of the woods, one day, that he discovered the secret retreat of the “Mystic Nine,” a club of nine boys who disappeared from the village regularly every Saturday morning during the spring, summer and fall, and remained away until sunset, often returning with torches to have a street parade after dark, or with a bag of plump birds for a grand “fry” in the kitchen of some indulgent mother.