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

Pomp answered correctly.

“And what is the next?”

Pomp shifted from one foot to the other, and stared vacantly out of the window, but said nothing.

“Don't you know?”

“'Pears like I don't 'member him, Mass' Frank.”

Here Frank had recourse to a system of mnemonics frequently resorted to by teachers in their extremity.

“What's the name of the little insect that stings people sometimes, Pomp?”

“Wasp, Mass' Frank,” was the confident reply.

“No, I don't mean that. I mean the bee.”

“Yes, Mass' Frank.”

“Well, this is B.”

Pomp looked at it attentively, and, after a pause, inquired, “Where's him wings, Mass' Frank?”

Frank bit his lips to keep from laughing. “I don't mean that this is a bee that makes honey,” he explained, “only it has the same name. Now do you think you can remember how it is called?” “Bumblebee!” repeated Pomp triumphantly.

Pomp's error was corrected, and the lesson proceeded.

“What is the next letter?” asked Frank, indicating it with the point of his knife-blade.

“X,” answered the pupil readily.

“No, Pomp,” was the dismayed reply. “It is very different from X.”

“Dat's him name at school,” said Pomp positively.

“No, Pomp, you are mistaken. That is X, away down there.”

“Perhaps him change his name,” suggested Pomp.

“No. The letters never change their names. I don't think you know your lesson, Pomp. just listen to me while I tell you the names of some of the letters, and try to remember them.”

When this was done, Pomp was directed to sit down on the cricket, and study his lesson for twenty Minutes, at the end of which he might again recite.

Pomp sat down, and for five minutes seemed absorbed in his book. Then, unfortunately, the cat walked into the room, and soon attracted the attention of the young student. He sidled from his seat so silently that Frank did not hear him. He was soon made sensible that Pomp was engaged in some mischief by hearing a prolonged wail of anguish from the cat.

Looking up, he found that his promising pupil had tied her by the leg to a chair, and under these circumstances was amusing himself by pinching her tail.

“What are you doing there, Pomp?” he asked quickly.

Pomp scuttled back to his seat, and appeared to be deeply intent upon his primer.

“Ain't doin' noffin', Mass' Frank,” he answered innocently.

“Then how came the cat tied to that chair?”

“'Spec' she must have tied herself.”

“Come, Pomp, you know better than that. You know cats can't tie themselves. Get up immediately and unfasten her.”

Pomp rose with alacrity, and undertook to release puss from the thraldom of which she had become very impatient. Perhaps she would have been quite as well off if she had been left to herself. The process of liberation did not appear to be very agreeable, judging from the angry mews which proceeded from her. Finally, in her indignation against Pomp for some aggressive act, she scratched him sharply.

“You wicked old debble!” exclaimed Pomp wrathfully.

He kicked at the cat; but she was lucky enough to escape, and ran out of the room as fast as her four legs could carry her.

“Big ugly debble!” muttered Pomp, watching the blood ooze from his finger.

“What's the matter, Pomp?”

“Old cat scratch me.”

“And what did you do to her, Pomp? I am afraid you deserved your scratch.”

“Didn't do noffin', Mass' Frank,” said Pomp virtuously.

“I don't think you always tell the truth, Pomp.”

“Can't help it, Mass' Frank. 'Spec' I've got a little debble inside of me.”

“What do you mean, Pomp! What put that idea in your head?”

“Dat's what mammy says. Dat's what she al'ays tells me.”

“Then,” said Frank, “I think it will be best to whip it out of you. Where's my stick?”

“Oh, no, Mass' Frank,” said Pomp, in alarm; “I'll be good, for sure.”

“Then sit down and get your lesson.”

Again Pomp assumed his cricket. Before he had time to devise any new mischief, Mrs. Frost came to the head of the stairs and called Frank.

Frank laid aside his books, and presented himself at the foot of the stairs.

“I should like your help a few minutes. Can you leave your studies?”

“Certainly, mother.”

Before going up, he cautioned Pomp to study quietly, and not get into any mischief while he was gone. Pomp promised very readily.

Frank had hardly got upstairs before his pupil rose from the cricket, and began to look attentively about him. His first proceeding was to, hide his primer carefully in Mrs. Frost's work-basket, which lay on the table. Then, looking curiously about him, his attention was drawn to the old-fashioned clock that stood in the corner.

Now, Pomp's curiosity had been strongly excited by this clock. It was not quite clear to him how the striking part was effected. Here seemed to be a favorable opportunity for instituting an investigation. Pomp drew his cricket to, the clock, and, opening it, tried to reach up to the face. But he was not yet high enough. He tried a chair, and still required a greater elevation. Espying Frank's Latin dictionary, he pressed that into service.

By and by Frank and his mother heard the clock striking an unusual number of times.

“What is the matter with the clock?” inquired Mrs. Frost.

“I don't know,” said Frank unsuspiciously.

“It has struck ten times, and it is only four o' clock.”

“I wonder if Pomp can have got at it,” said Frank, with a sudden thought.

He ran downstairs hastily.

Pomp heard him coming, and in his anxiety to escape detection, contrived to lose his balance and fall to the floor. As he fell, he struck the table, on which a pan of sour milk had been placed, and it was overturned, deluging