CHAPTER VI.
CARRYING THE NEWS.
“I can do it, and I will!”
The mixed train from the south was drawing slowly out of Wenham Junction, as Phil Hardy simultaneously uttered this speech and threw himself upon the back of old Jim, his father’s farm horse. It was in the early part of April, and the mud along the country roads was deep and soft, which fact was shown by the appearance of the horse and its boyish rider.
Phil was the eldest son of ’Squire Hardy, one of the leading citizens of Basinburg. He was a harum-scarum youth of eighteen, who always seemed to be mixed up in every affair of a shady character taking place within a radius of twenty miles. Like boys of his ilk, he ever seemed to be present whenever anything of an unusual nature was taking place, and “to get his fingers into the pie,” using a common expression current at the time in the quiet, out-of-the-way hamlet of Basinburg. Not another boy in town would have ridden five miles through the mud that day to have been in Wenham at this time. But Phil had not missed it, and as he picked up Jim’s reins, heading the horse homeward, he added to what he had already said:
“They oughter know it just as quick as they can, and they shall! Won’t they stick out their eyes, though? Let me see. This train goes by the Bradford loop, makes four stops, and it will use up forty minutes in getting to Basinburg. Old Jim ought to take me there in half an hour. He can, and he shall! Go, you old veteran of the plow! we’re the bearer of the news to Ghent.”
Laughing, as he gave expression to this whimsical speech, Phil urged Jim ahead at the top of his speed, while the good people of Wenham had further occasion to comment upon the wild ways of ’Squire Hardy’s scapegrace son.
The road to Basinburg was sparsely settled, so Phil saw few people until he entered the quiet hamlet, which, as its name indicates, was shaped very much like a huge basin, with roads around the rim. Most of the population of the town lived on these circular roads, that met at the lower end, where was located the post office, church and store.
The sight of his mud-bespattered figure and the foaming condition of his horse called the more easily excited of the inhabitants from their houses, while he shouted at frequent intervals:
“Come and see the elephant! Nothing like it ever came to town!”
Utterly regardless of his grammar, or the comments he was calling upon himself, Phil repeated his rather incoherent speech, and by the time he had uttered it a dozen times, the boys began to follow him, wondering what new scheme their leader was carrying out. This aroused Phil to more earnest cries, while he prodded poor old Jim harder than before.
Small wonder if the older people began to rush after the crazy rider, until a mob of excited men and women, as well as boys, was at his heels.
“What is it, Philip?” asked the gray-headed parson, running out in his slippers, hatless and coatless.
“Deacon Cornhill—hoodlums of New York—a mob!” was all that the anxious crowd could distinguish in the medley of cries.
Still Phil showed no signs of stopping or checking his wild ride, his course now being toward the little way station about half a mile below the post office village. On account of the high grade this had been as near as the cars could come into the town.
At every house the trail of followers was increased by one or more members, every one believing that something terrible had happened or was about to take place.
Hardly looking back, Phil rode straight on toward the depot, old Jim covered with mud and panting for breath. As he came in sight of the low, wooden building the whistle of the approaching train was heard a quarter of a mile away.
“I’m in season!” exclaimed Phil, triumphantly. “Come on, you folks, if you want to see the sight of your life!”
The oncoming spectators needed no urging to do this, and scarcely had the boyish rider reined up his spent horse by the narrow platform before the foremost of his pursuers, regardless of the slush, ankle deep about the station, rushed upon the scene. Others rapidly added to their numbers.
“What is it, Phil?” asked Lon Wiggles, who had outrun all others in reaching the place. Phil and he were close friends. “What has brought you home from Wenham like this?”
“I know!” replied Phil, with a knowing toss of his head, as he sprang from old Jim’s back.
“I s’posed you did, but that needn’t make a crab of you.”
“Excuse me, Lon. I see Deacon Cornhill on the train down at Wenham.”
“Is that all?” and looks of disgust and disappointment settled on the features of those near enough to overhear this dialogue. It is needless to say that Phil was maintaining this air of mystery more for their sakes than Lon’s.
“Can’t you wait till a feller has time to think? No, it is not all. The deacon is coming home with a carload of New York cattle! But here comes the train; look for yourself. Ladies and gentlemen, Deacon Cornhill is coming home with all of the poor of New York at his heels. See for yourselves,” waving his hand in a tragical manner, as the long train came pounding along the iron rails.
With puffs and snorts, as of rage at being stopped in its wild career, the engine came to a standstill just beyond the upper end of the station, so as to bring the two passenger cars nearly opposite the building.
With a faint inkling of what they were to expect, the spectators stood looking on with gaping mouths and staring eyes, while the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of Deacon Cornhill appeared on the rear platform. His benevolent features were lighted with an uncommon glow, as he gazed upon the crowd gathered thus unexpectedly about the station. Hesitating but a moment, he stepped down the steps, and then turned to look back.
The object of his gaze was soon apparent, for at that moment other passengers were following him from the car. In the lead of these came a tall, rather good-looking, but plainly dressed, boy of seventeen, with pinched features, but flashing eyes, none other than Ragged Rob, ex-bootblack of New York. Leaning on his arm was a middle-aged woman, beyond doubt in the minds of the onlookers his mother. Her countenance was thin and careworn, while her brown hair was thickly streaked with threads of silver.
No sooner had Rob assisted his mother down the steps than he turned to help others in lifting a pallid-faced woman, who was an invalid, from the car. Close behind her came a pale, frightened girl, who shrank near to Rob at sight of the wondering spectators. They were Mrs. Willet and Joey.
While the poor invalid was carried to a settee at one side of the station, a woman, with cadaverous countenance and wild eyes, and a man who had to be lifted down from the car, reached the platform, the latter being borne to a second bench. Then an elderly woman, with a strange-looking peaked cap and squat figure, followed, while close behind her came a girl of fourteen and five boys, ranging in ages from ten to fifteen years.
During this brief delay a small lot of baggage had been thrown upon the station floor, and as the last of the ill-favored passengers alighted, the conductor waved his hand, the bell rang, the engine puffed anew, the wheels began to revolve, and the train rolled away, leaving the little group of fifteen persons the center of observation for many pairs of eyes.
“For gracious’ sake, what have you been doing, deacon?” asked ’Squire Hardy, a short, thickset individual, who had been among the first to reach the place. He was troubled with asthma, and the exertion in reaching the station had put him both out of breath and good humor.
Though amazed at this most unexpected greeting, Deacon Cornhill soon recovered his surprise enough to say:
“I have just brung home a leetle comp’ny, ’squire. I——”
“Huh!” was the rejoinder, “Comp’ny? I should say comp’ny! Where’d you pick that ’sortment of folks?”
“In the streets of New York,” replied the deacon. “Never see sich sights in my life, ’squire. Why, the ground is just running over with folks, and sin and wickedness is thicker’n the folks! I swan! it’s too bad; and so I persuaded these half-starved creeturs to come to Basinburg with me. I know you’ll lend a helping hand for ’em to have homes. Them empty houses’n deserted farms on the Hare road can be as well filled as not.”
All the time he was speaking the crowd pressed nearer and nearer, causing the newcomers to huddle close together, with half-frightened looks on their faces. Though used to seeing mobs, and having lived in crowded streets, there was something about these spectators which sent a feeling of terror to their hearts. Rob was the only exception, and as an over-anxious, burly individual pushed his way close to the helpless man and woman, he stepped brusquely forward, exclaiming:
“Stand back, sir! you’re crowding a sick man and woman. Seems to me there oughter be room out here for ’em.”
The man retreated, muttering:
“Be keerful how ye sass yer betters, ye insolent critter.”
At this a murmur went over the crowd, which it was plain to see were generally unfriendly to the new arrivals. They did form a motley-looking party.
“They look like furrin truck!” declared some one, whereupon a general nod of assent was given.
“Please stand back all!” implored Deacon Cornhill.
“Want us to stand here ankle deep in the mud, I s’pose!” exclaimed one near the background.
“Yes; stand back, one and all!” ordered ’Squire Hardy, and at his command there was a slight moving back. It was plain he was the one to whom the majority looked for guidance. If he had said, “Be friendly to these unprepossessing strangers,” Deacon Cornhill would have had no cause for further worry over the matter. Unfortunately, though there was no evidence of it in their outward appearance, this couple entertained a bitter dislike for each other, owing to an old trouble. Of course the deacon had his friends present, if no one had spoken an encouraging word, but they were very much in the minority. But, as Mr. Hardy appeared disposed to be fair, he gathered new courage, saying:
“I will explain all as soon as I have made these poor sick ones more comfortable.”
No one had suggested that they be taken into the station, so their kindly protector did not offer to do it. But he removed his overcoat and placed it over Mrs. Willet, so as to keep her warm, while he arranged the man so that his position was more easy. Fortunately the day was mild, and as Deacon Cornhill turned to face the half-angry crowd, the setting sun threw a wide bar of golden splendor over the western sky, which halo was reflected on the distant hills, giving to the spring scene a hint of summer. A flaw of April wind stirred the long, thin locks of the gray-haired philanthropist, as he slowly raised his spare right hand to admonish silence.
If a calm had fallen on the scene it was the calm that usually precedes the storm. Deacon Cornhill dreaded it; ’Squire Hardy expected it; and the aroused spectators were anxious to show their willingness in sending out of the town this unexpected addition to their population.