“THERE! I can’t do anything with only one hand!” exclaimed Whistler, somewhat impatiently, as he was at work in the shop one morning with Clinton. He was nailing two pieces of wood together, for some purpose or other; but the nail split them both, and rendered them useless.
“You didn’t drive the nail in right, that’s the trouble,” said Clinton, after glancing at the pieces. “If you had turned it round the other way it wouldn’t have split. You have set the wide part of the nail across the grain of the wood, and it acts just like a wedge. Don’t you see how the nail widens towards the head? Well, that wide part ought to go the same way as the grain, and not across it.”
“I’ve heard something of that before, but I didn’t think anything about it,” said Whistler, who, it should be remarked, had far less mechanical skill than Clinton, who had enjoyed unusual facilities for cultivating this talent, and, besides, had a natural aptitude for it.
“Even if you were driving a nail into solid timber, where there was no danger of splitting,” continued Clinton, “the wide part ought not to go against the grain; for, if it does, there will be a little opening around the head of the nail, and that will let in air and moisture, and make the wood decay.”
“Well, I’ll try it again,” said Whistler; and he began to look around for some more pieces of wood.
“There is another thing about driving nails,” continued Clinton; “did you know that you can drive one into hard wood a great deal easier if you wet it?”
“No, I never heard of that,” replied his cousin.
“It is so,” added Clinton. “Oil is the best thing to wet it with; but water is good, or you can put it into your mouth, as the carpenters often do.”
“There’s some knack even in driving a nail, isn’t there?” said Whistler.
“Ah, there comes Mr. Walker,” said Clinton, as a man appeared in the yard, and he went out to speak to him.
“Where’s your father, Clinton?” inquired the man.
“I don’t know,—he is somewhere about here,” replied Clinton. “Shall I go and find him?”
“No matter about it,—I’m in a hurry,” replied Mr. Walker. “I was going by, and I thought I’d stop and let your folks know that father has heard from his horse, and got track of the rascal that set fire to the barn.”
“Has he?—who is it?” inquired Clinton.
“We’ve traced the fellow to Bangor, and there we’ve lost him,” continued Mr. Walker; “but I’m in hopes we shall get some clew to him again. He sold the horse about twenty miles this side of Bangor.”
“But who is the fellow?” inquired Clinton, with a feeling of suspense somewhat similar to what he experienced when his father had the rejected dialogue under consideration.
“We don’t know for a certainty,—he went by two or three different names, and probably all of them were assumed for the occasion,” replied Mr. Walker; “but, from the description of him, we think it must be a fellow that father complained of for selling rum, over at the Cross Roads. His name was Dick Sneider.”
“There! that explains it all, then!” said Clinton, and the color suddenly went from his face.
“Explains what? Do you know anything about it?” inquired Mr. Walker, with surprise.
Clinton then told Mr. Walker of his interview with Sneider in the woods the night before the fire. Willie also came out, on hearing the subject of conversation, and supplied some omissions which Clinton, in his alarm and nervousness, had overlooked. Mr. Walker was a quick-tempered and impulsive young man, somewhat overbearing in his manner, and, when in a passion, not a very agreeable person, by any means. He could scarcely restrain his anger, as the boys related their adventure, and repeatedly interrupted them with the inquiry, in a quick, snappish tone:
“Why didn’t you tell of this before? What does all this mean, I should like to know?”
His passion rose as the boys proceeded, and he soon lost all self-control, and broke forth in a most profane and outrageous manner, applying all kinds of abusive epithets to Clinton in particular, for not telling of his interview with Sneider before; pronouncing him a fool and simpleton for being so easily deceived by him; and, with the usual inconsistency of men in a passion, threatening to have him arrested as an accomplice or partner in the crime. The boys hung their heads like criminals, under the stinging reproof; but, fortunately for them, Mrs. Davenport, who, unobserved, had heard the whole conversation, thought it her duty to interfere, now that Mr. Walker’s temper had reached such a pitch, and she accordingly stepped from the house. The young man softened his words and tones a little when he saw her, but still condemned Clinton’s error in severe terms. She admitted that he had acted unwisely, but mildly rebuked Mr. Walker for the severity of his reprimand, reminding him that Clinton was but a boy, and had probably done what he thought was right. She also spoke of the accident which Whistler met with, and of the busy preparations they had been making for the picnic, which had caused them almost to forget the fire.
Mr. Walker now started for home; but he had not proceeded far when he met Mr. Davenport, and he stopped to inform him of the discovery he had just made.
“Is that man drunk, or crazy, or what is the matter with him?” inquired Whistler, indignantly, as soon as Mr. Walker was out of hearing.
“No, Willie; he’s a fiery-tempered man,—that’s all that ails him,” replied his aunt.
“Well, if I hadn’t thought he was crazy, or drunk, or something of that kind, I wouldn’t have stood so much of his impudence,” added Whistler, whose courage rose as the choleric young man rode off.
“I know one thing,” said Clinton, “if Bill Walker ever talks to me in that way again, I’ll give him as good as he sends.”
“O, no; you don’t mean that,” replied his mother. “That would be putting yourself on a level with him; and I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to do that. His bad temper is a great injury to him. It is notorious all over town, and nobody respects him so much as they otherwise would, on account of it. He makes a great many enemies, too, and, I have no doubt, he feels heartily ashamed of himself when he gets over his fits of passion. I hope you will never try to meet such a man with his own weapons. The best way is to keep silence, or speak mildly. ‘He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city,’ as the Bible says. If you had been impudent to Mr. Walker, it would have made him more furious, and he would not get over his resentment half so easily; but now, he will soon get calmed down, and then he will see that he has treated you badly, and the next time you meet him he will be as kind to you as ever,—you see if he isn’t.”
“Yes,—but before he gets cooled off, he’ll go all over town and tell what a fool I am,” said Clinton, bursting into tears.
“O, no, I think not,” replied his mother; “but, even if he should, every body knows what he is, and his reports will not injure you any, in the end.”
Mr. Davenport soon came in, to make inquiries concerning the affair of which he had just heard. He could hardly credit Mr. Walker’s story, who, to tell the truth, had not troubled himself much to explain the mitigating circumstances in the case. He listened patiently to the boys’ statement, and was very glad to find that the affair was not so bad as had been represented.
“I am very sorry this has happened,” said Mr. Davenport, after they had made their explanations. “If you had told me of this as soon as we heard of the fire, it is probable that Dick might have been arrested; for the officers would have known who they were in pursuit of. Your silence has probably defeated the ends of justice this time.”
“But he seemed to be so lame, that we thought he couldn’t be the fellow,” suggested Whistler.
“Ah, he was too shrewd for you there,” said Mr. Davenport. “You shouldn’t believe all that such a fellow tells you.”
“Well, to tell the truth, uncle,” said Whistler, “I don’t think Clinton is so much to blame as I am. I remember, now, his saying that he was suspicious of Dick, and that a bad promise is better broken than kept; but I rather talked him out of it.”
Whistler had a nice sense of honor, hence this magnanimous confession, which, indeed, was not a mere compliment, but was the truth. Clinton would probably have made the revelation immediately after the fire, had he not been influenced otherwise—slightly it is true—by his cousin. This, however, did not wholly excuse his mistake. He knew more of Dick’s bad character than Whistler did; and, besides, he ought not to have been so easily influenced against his own convictions. This, indeed, had always been one of Clinton’s chief failings,—a disposition to yield too readily to the wishes and arguments of others, when his own better judgment ought to have dictated a different course.
Clinton did not allow his cousin to assume all the blame in the matter, but insisted on bearing his full share. He strongly protested, however, that he thought he was doing right.
“I am a little inclined to doubt that,” replied his father. “It seems to me you could not have given the subject much thought. I suppose you had a sort of general impression that you were doing nothing wrong; but I suspect that you did not turn the matter over in your mind as you ought. But, even if you did, after due consideration, conclude that you had done right, that would not make the action right.”
“But, in that case, I shouldn’t be to blame for doing as I did, should I?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, you would be to blame, unless you could give a good excuse for not knowing better,” replied his father. “But, are you sure that you gave the subject proper reflection, and acted according to the best of your knowledge?”
“Yes, sir; I thought I did,” replied Clinton.
“Your promise to Dick was the only reason for your silence, was it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you make such a promise? Supposing his story was true about the debt, was it right for you to shield him from justice?”
“But he said he couldn’t pay.”
“Then you regarded him as an honest but unfortunate debtor, and thought it would be an act of mercy to stand between him and his cruel creditor, did you?”
Clinton could not answer that question, but looked perplexed. He finally evaded it by saying:
“But he looked so ugly, that I didn’t dare to refuse him.”
“Did he threaten you, or use any compulsion?” inquired his father.
“Yes, sir; he threatened us after we had promised not to say anything about it.”
“Well, that will hardly excuse you for making such a promise. I think you yielded too willingly. You can hardly say that he compelled you to promise secrecy. But, suppose he did compel you, what then?”
“I suppose it would not have been binding on us.”
“Why not?”
“Because he forced us into it.”
“Then, when the barons of England compelled King John to sign the Magna Charta, which secured to Englishmen their liberties, the act was not binding upon him, because he was forced into it; was it so?”
Clinton made no reply.
“If I should catch a boy stealing apples from my trees,” continued his father, “and should refuse to let him go until he had promised not to steal any more, he would be under no obligations to keep his promise, would he?”
“Yes, sir, he would.”
“Are there any circumstances, then, under which it is proper to violate a promise?”
“Yes, sir,—when the promise is wrong.”
“Yes, that is a settled principle in morals, and one that commends itself to every honest mind. If I promise to do what is wrong, I am bound to break that promise. Now, apply this principle to your promise to Dick. Do you think that was a promise that ought to have been kept?”
“I know it wasn’t, now, but I didn’t know then.”
“But I want you to banish from your mind all thoughts of the fire, and what you have since learned about it. We will suppose that Dick’s story was true. You meet him unexpectedly in the woods. You know that he is a worthless fellow, a vagabond and a rascal. He pleads that he is in debt, and unable to pay, and wants you to promise to tell no one that you saw him. You know that if he is too poor to pay what he owes, it is because he is too lazy to work. You know, moreover, that he is a man who would be just as likely to tell you a lie as the truth. Now, was it right for you to make such a promise to such a man?”
“No, sir.”
“And, after it was made, was it right to keep it, and shield such a worthless fellow from the consequences of the life he is leading?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, why didn’t you find that out sooner?”
“I didn’t look at it in that light.”
“That confirms what I said at the beginning. You did not give the matter much thought; if you had, you would have seen it in just this light, even if the fire had never happened. But, what surprises me most of all is, that, after you knew some villain had set Mr. Walker’s barn on fire, and run off with his horse, you did not take the trouble to think over this affair earnestly, and decide what it was your duty to do. You seem to have let it slip from your mind, as soon as you could, without knowing whether you were doing right or wrong. If you had done this under somewhat different circumstances, it might have blasted your character for life. Many an innocent man has found himself entangled in the meshes of the law, by merely keeping a rogue’s secret.”
Clinton was much affected by his father’s plain dealing with him, and attempted no further excuse. Whistler also felt badly about the affair, and he could not help taking to himself a good share of the censure bestowed upon his cousin. Mrs. Davenport, however, who had been a silent listener to the conversation, was not wholly satisfied with the course her husband had taken. She thought he had judged the boys with too much severity, and she accordingly put in a plea in their behalf. Her argument included pretty much all that could be said in mitigation of their error; and if they had been on trial, and she had been their lawyer, we may suppose that the heads of her “brief” would have been something after this fashion:
(1.) Their youth and inexperience—not strange that a wicked and artful man should mislead them—the young, by a beautiful law of our natures, are more inclined to believe than to doubt what is told them; not strange that so young persons should not go through a long process of reasoning, as to the right and wrong of the matter.
(2.) Dick’s feigned lameness was well calculated to deceive them, and allay all suspicion.
(3.) Their motive in keeping the secret was honorable—a regard for their promises.
(4.) The hints thrown out by several people, that Mr. Walker’s intemperate son, Tom, was suspected, may have had some influence on their minds.
(5.) The excitement about Willie’s accident, the dialogues, etc., had probably caused them to think less about the matter than they otherwise would.
“Well,” said Mr. Davenport, after she had concluded her defence, “you have made out something of a case; but, if my judgment was too severe, I am inclined to think yours is too lenient. After all, perhaps the truth lies about half way between us; so, Clinton, you can consider my judgment as softened down a little; but,” he added, with a smile, “you mustn’t think you are altogether so blameless as your mother makes you out.”
“Mr. Walker will get his horse back again, won’t he?” inquired Willie.
“Yes; a man has a right to his own property, wherever he can find it,” replied Mr. Davenport.
“I hope they will catch Dick, too,” said Clinton, “and then they won’t have anything to blame me for. I should be willing to go to court, as a witness against him, if they could only nab him.”
“I hope he will get his deserts,” said his father; “but, whether he does or does not, you must let this unfortunate affair be a lesson to you in the future; and beware how you listen to bad men, or make rash promises, or keep a secret which you have reason to think ought to be revealed.”