Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (short novels in english .TXT) 📕

lady. “Le' me get out and find it. It was a present from my darter, Cynthy Ann, and I wouldn't lose it for a kingdom.”

In truth, when prompted by her apprehension to cling to the young man in front for protection, Mrs. Payson had inadvertently dropped the bandbox out of the window, where it met with an unhappy disaster. The horse, quite unconscious of the damage he was doing, had backed the wagon in such a manner that one of the wheels passed directly over it.

When Ajax picked up the mutilated casket, which, with the jewel it contained, had suffered such irreparable injury, and restored it to its owner, great was the lamentation. Rachel weeping for her children could hardly have exhibited more poignant sorrow.

“Oh, it's sp'ilt!” groaned the old lady. “I can never wear it arter this. And it cost four dollars and sixty-two cents and a half without the ribbon. Oh, deary me!”

Then, suddenly waxing indignant with the author of the mischief, she put her head out of the window, and, espying Pomp on the other side of the stone wall, looking half-repentant and half-struck with the fun of the thing, she shook her fist at him, exclaiming, “Oh, you little sarpint, ef I only had you here, I'd w'ip you till you couldn't stan'.”

Pomp was so far from being terrified by this menace that he burst into a loud guffaw. This, of course, added fuel to the flame of the old lady's wrath, and filled her with thoughts of immediate vengeance. Her sympathy with the oppressed black race was at that moment very small.

“Jest lend me your w'ip, driver,” said she, “an' I'll l'arn that sassy imp to make fun of his elders.”

Ajax, whose sense of humor was tickled by the old lady's peculiarities, quietly took her at her word, and coming round to the side opened the door of the carriage.

“There, ma'am,” said he, extending the whip. “Don't spare him. He deserves a flogging.”

Mrs. Payson, her eyes flashing from beneath her glasses with a vengeful light, seized the proffered whip with alacrity, and jumped out of the wagon with a lightness which could hardly have been anticipated of one of her age.

“Now, look out,” she said, brandishing the whip in a menacing way. “I'll git pay for that bunnit in one way, ef I don't in another.”

Pomp maintained his position on the other side of the wall. He waited till the old lady was fairly over, and then commenced running. The old lady pursued with vindictive animosity, cracking the whip in a suggestive manner. Pomp doubled and turned in a most provoking way. Finally he had recourse to a piece of strategy. He had flung himself, doubled up in a ball, at the old lady's feet, and she, unable to check her speed, fell over him, clutching at the ground with her outstretched hands, from which the whip had fallen.

“Hi, hi!” shrieked Pomp, with a yell of inconceivable delight, as he watched the signal downfall of his adversary. Springing quickly to his feet, he ran swiftly away.

“Good for you, you old debble!” he cried from a safe distance.

Henry Morton, though he found it difficult to restrain his laughter, turned to Ajax and said, “I think it's time we interfered. If you'll overtake the little black boy and give him a shaking up, just to keep him out of mischief hereafter, I'll go and help the old lady.”

Ajax started on his errand. Pomp, now really alarmed, strove to escape from this more formidable adversary, but in vain. He was destined to receive a summary castigation.

Meanwhile, the young man approached Mrs. Payson.

“I hope you're not much hurt, madam,” said he respectfully.

“I expect about every bone in my body's broke,” she groaned.

Raising her to her feet, it became manifest that the damage was limited to a pair of hands begrimed by contact with the earth. Nevertheless, the old lady persisted that “something or 'nother was broke. She didn't feel quite right inside.”

“I shouldn't keer so much,” she added, “ef I'd caught that aggravatin' boy. I'd go fifty miles to see him hung. He'll die on the gallows, jest as sure's I stan' here.”

At this moment a shrill cry was heard, which could proceed from no one but Pomp.

“Golly, Mass' Jack, don't hit so hard. Couldn't help it, sure.”

“You'll have to help it the next time, you little rascal!” responded Ajax.

“Le' me go. I hope to be killed if I ever do it ag'in,” pleaded Pomp, dancing about in pain.

“I hope you gin it to him,” said the old lady, as the driver reappeared.

Ajax smiled grimly. “I touched him up a little,” he said.

“Oh, my poor bunnit!” groaned Mrs. Payson, once more, as her eyes fell upon the crushed article. “What will Cynthy Ann say?”

“Perhaps a milliner can restore it for you,” suggested Henry Morton, with an attempt at consolation.

The old lady shook her head disconsolately. “It's all jammed out of shape,” she said dismally, “an' the flowers is all mashed up. Looks as ef an elephant had trodden on to it.”

“As you are the only one of us that has suffered,” said the young man politely, “I think it only fair that your loss should be lightened. Will you accept this toward making it good?”

He drew from his portemonnaie a five-dollar greenback, as he spoke, and offered it to Mrs. Payson.

“Are you in airnest?” inquired the old lady dubiously.

“Quite so.”

“You ain't robbin' yourself, be you?” asked Mrs. Payson, with a look of subdued eagerness lighting up her wrinkled face.

“Oh, no; I can spare it perfectly well.”

“Then I'll take it,” she responded, in evident gratification, “an' I'm sure I'm much obleeged to you. I'm free to confess that you're a gentleman sech as I don't often meet with. I wouldn't take it on no account, only the loss is considerable for me, and Cynthy Ann, she would have been disapp'inted if so be as I hadn't worn the bunnit. I'd like to know who it is that I'm so much obligated to.”

Henry Morton drew a card from his card-case and handed it with a bow to Mrs. Payson.

“What's that?” asked the old lady.

“My card.”

“Le's see, where's my specs?” said Mrs. Payson, fumbling in her pocket. “Oh, I've got 'em on. So your name's Herod. What made 'em call you that?”

“Henry, madam—Henry Morton.”

“Well, so 'tis, I declare. You ain't related to Nahum Morton, of Gilead, be you; he that was put into the State's prison for breakin' open the