the story of a bad boy-第9节

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I　brooded　over　the　matter　until　the　idea　of　fighting　Conway　became　a　part　of　me。　I　fought　him　in　imagination　during　school…hours；　I　dreamed　of　fighting　with　him　at　night；　when　he　would　suddenly　expand　into　a　giant　twelve　feet　high；　and　then　as　suddenly　shrink　into　a　pygmy　so　small　that　I　couldn't　hit　him。　In　this　latter　shape　he　would　get　into　my　hair；　or　pop　into　my　waistcoat…pocket；　treating　me　with　as　little　ceremony　as　the　Liliputians　showed　Captain　Lemuel　Gulliver　…　all　of　which　was　not　pleasant；　to　be　sure。　On　the　whole；　Conway　was　a　cloud。

And　then　I　had　a　cloud　at　home。　It　was　not　Grandfather　Nutter；　nor　Miss　Abigail；　nor　Kitty　Collins；　though　they　all　helped　to　compose　it。　It　was　a　vague；　funereal；　impalpable　something　which　no　amount　of　gymnastic　training　would　enable　me　to　knock　over。　It　was　Sunday。　If　ever　I　have　a　boy　to　bring　up　in　the　way　he　should　go；　I　intend　to　make　Sunday　a　cheerful　day　to　him。　Sunday　was　not　a　cheerful　day　at　the　Nutter　House。　You　shall　judge　for　yourself。

It　is　Sunday　morning。　I　should　premise　by　saying　that　the　deep　gloom　which　has　settled　over　everything　set　in　like　a　heavy　fog　early　on　Saturday　evening。

At　seven　o'clock　my　grandfather　comes　smilelessly　downstairs。　He　is　dressed　in　black；　and　looks　as　if　be　had　lost　all　his　friends　during　the　night。　Miss　Abigail；　also　in　black；　looks　as　if　she　were　prepared　to　bury　them；　and　not　indisposed　to　enjoy　the　ceremony。　Even　Kitty　Collins　has　caught　the　contagious　gloom；　as　I　perceive　when　she　brings　in　the　coffee…um…a　solemn　and　sculpturesque　urn　at　any　time；　but　monumental　now…and　sets　it　down　in　front　of　Miss　Abigail。　Miss　Abigail　gazes　at　the　urn　as　if　it　held　the　ashes　of　her　ancestors；　instead　of　a　generous　quantity　of　fine　old　Java　coffee。　The　meal　progresses　in　silence。

Our　parlor　is　by　no　means　thrown　open　every　day。　It　is　open　this　June　morning；　and　is　pervaded　by　a　strong　smell　of　centretable。　The　furniture　of　the　room；　and　the　little　China　ornaments　on　the　mantel…piece；　have　a　constrained；　unfamiliar　look。　My　grandfather　sits　in　a　mahogany　chair；　reading　a　large　Bible　covered　with　green　baize。　Miss　Abigail　occupies　one　end　of　the　sofa；　and　has　her　hands　crossed　stiffly　in　her　lap。　I　sit　in　the　comer；　crushed。　Robinson　Crusoe　and　Gil　Blas　are　in　close　confinement。　Baron　Trenck；　who　managed　to　escape　from　the　fortress　of　Clatz；　can't　for　the　life　of　him　get　out　of　our　sittingroom　closet。　Even　the　Rivermouth　Barnacle　is　suppressed　until　Monday。　Genial　converse；　harmless　books；　smiles；　lightsome　hearts；　all　are　banished。　If　I　want　to　read　anything；　I　can　read　Baxter's　Saints'　Rest。　I　would　die　first。　So　I　sit　there　kicking　my　heels；　thinking　about　New　Orleans；　and　watching　a　morbid　blue…bottle　fly　that　attempts　to　commit　suicide　by　butting　his　head　against　the　window…pane。　Listen！…no；　yes…it　is…it　is　the　robins　singing　in　the　garden…the　grateful；　joyous　robins　singing　away　like　mad；　just　as　if　it　wasn't　Sunday。　Their　audacity　tickles　me。

My　grandfather　looks　up；　and　inquires　in　a　sepulchral　voice　if　I　am　ready　for　Sabbath　school。　It　is　time　to　go。　I　like　the　Sabbath　school；　there　are　bright　young　faces　there；　at　all　events。　When　I　get　out　into　the　sunshine　alone；　I　draw　a　long　breath；　I　would　turn　a　somersault　up　against　Neighbor　Penhallow's　newly　painted　fence　if　I　hadn't　my　best　trousers　on；　so　glad　am　I　to　escape　from　the　oppressive　atmosphere　of　the　Nutter　House。

Sabbath　school　over；　I　go　to　meeting；　joining　my　grandfather；　who　doesn't　appear　to　be　any　relation　to　me　this　day；　and　Miss　Abigail；　in　the　porch。　Our　minister　holds　out　very　little　hope　to　any　of　us　of　being　saved。　Convinced　that　I　am　a　lost　creature；　in　common　with　the　human　family；　I　return　home　behind　my　guardians　at　a　snail's　pace。　We　have　a　dead　cold　dinner。　I　saw　it　laid　out　yesterday。

There　is　a　long　interval　between　this　repast　and　the　second　service；　and　a　still　longer　interval　between　the　beginning　and　the　end　of　that　service；　for　the　Rev。　Wibird　Hawkins's　sermons　are　none　of　the　shortest；　whatever　else　they　may　be。

After　meeting；　my　grandfather　and　I　take　a　walk。　We　visit　appropriately　enough…a　neighboring　graveyard。　I　am　by　this　time　in　a　condition　of　mind　to　become　a　willing　inmate　of　the　place。　The　usual　evening　prayer…meeting　is　postponed　for　some　reason。　At　half　past　eight　I　go　to　bed。

This　is　the　way　Sunday　was　observed　in　the　Nutter　House；　and　pretty　generally　throughout　the　town；　twenty　years　ago。1　People　who　were　prosperous　and　natural　and　happy　on　Saturday　became　the　most　rueful　of　human　beings　in　the　brief　space　of　twelve　hours。　I　don't　think　there　was　any　hypocrisy　in　this。　It　was　merely　the　old　Puritan　austerity　cropping　out　once　a　week。　Many　of　these　people　were　pure　Christians　every　day　in　the　seven…excepting　the　seventh。　Then　they　were　decorous　and　solemn　to　the　verge　of　moroseness。　I　should　not　like　to　be　misunderstood　on　this　point。　Sunday　is　a　blessed　day；　and　therefore　it　should　not　be　made　a　gloomy　one。　It　is　the　Lord's　day；　and　I　do　believe　that　cheerful　hearts　and　faces　are　not　unpleasant　in　His　sight。



〃O　day　of　rest！　How　beautiful；　how　fair；

How　welcome　to　the　weary　and　the　old！

Day　of　the　Lord！　and　truce　to　earthly　cares！

Day　of　the　Lord；　as　all　our　days　should　be！

Ah；　why　will　man　by　his　austerities

Shut　out　the　blessed　sunshine　and　the　light；

And　make　of　thee　a　dungeon　of　despair！〃



1　About　1850。









Chapter　Seven

One　Memorable　Night



Two　months　had　elapsed　since　my　arrival　at　Rivermouth；　when　the　approach　of　an　important　celebration　produced　the　greatest　excitement　among　the　juvenile　population　of　the　town。

There　was　very　little　hard　study　done　in　the　Temple　Grammar　School　the　week　preceding　the　Fourth　of　July。　For　my　part；　my　heart　and　brain　were　so　full　of　fire…crackers；　Roman　candles；　rockets；　pin…wheels；　squibs；　and　gunpowder　in　various　seductive　forms；　that　I　wonder　I　didn't　explode　under　Mr。　Grimshaw's　very　nose。　I　couldn't　do　a　sum　to　save　me；　I　couldn't　tell；　for　love　or　money；　whether　Tallahassee　was　the　capital　of　Tennessee　or　of　Florida；　the　present　and　the　pluperfect　tenses　were　inextricably　mixed　in　my　memory；　and　I　didn't　know　a　verb　from　an　adjective　when　I　met　one。　This　was　not　alone　my　condition；　but　that　of　every　boy　in　the　school。

Mr。　Grimshaw　considerately　made　allowances　for　our　temporary　distraction；　and　sought　to　fix　our　interest　on　the　lessons　by　connecting　them　directly　or　indirectly　with　the　coming　Event。　The　class　in　arithmetic；　for　instance；　was　requested　to　state　how　many　boxes　of　fire…crackers；　each　box　measuring　sixteen　inches　square；　could　be　stored　in　a　room　of　such　and　such　dimensions。　He　gave　us　the　Declaration　of　Independence　for　a　parsing　exercise；　and　in　geography　confined　his　questions　almost　exclusively　to　localities　rendered　famous　in　the　Revolutionary　War。

〃What　did　the　people　of　Boston　do　with　the　tea　on　board　the　English　vessels？〃　asked　our　wily　instructor。

〃Threw　it　into　the　river！〃　shrieked　the　smaller　boys；　with　an　impetuosity　that　made　Mr。　Grimshaw　smile　in　spite　of　himself。　One　luckless　urchin　said；　〃Chucked　it；〃　for　which　happy　expression　he　was　kept　in　at　recess。

Notwithstanding　these　clever　stratagems；　there　was　not　much　solid　work　done　by　anybody。　The　trail　of　the　serpent　（an　inexpensive　but　dangerous　fire…toy）　was　over　us　all。　We　went　round　deformed　by　quantities　of　Chinese　crackers　artlessly　concealed　in　our　trousers…pockets；　and　if　a　boy　whipped　out　his　handkerchief　without　proper　precaution；　he　was　sure　to　let　off　two　or　three　torpedoes。

Even　Mr。　Grimshaw　was　made　a　sort　of　accessory　to　the　universal　demoralization。　In　calling　the　school　to　order；　he　always　rapped　on　the　table　with　a　heavy　ruler。　Under　the　green　baize　table…cloth；　on　the　exact　spot　where　he　usually　struck；　certain　boy；　whose　name　I　withhold；　placed　a　fat　torpedo。　The　result　was　a　loud　explosion；　which　caused　Mr。　Grimshaw　to　look　queer。　Charley　Marden　was　at　the　water…pail；　at　the　time；　and　directed　general　attention　to　himself　by　strangling　for　several　seconds　and　then　squirting　a　slender　thread　of　water　over　the　blackboard。

Mr。　Grimshaw　fixed　his　eyes　reproachfully　on　Charley；　but　said　nothing。　The　real　culprit　（it　wasn't　Charley　Marden；　but　the　boy　whose　name　I　withhold）　instantly　regretted　his　badness；　and　after　school　confessed　the　whole　thing　to　Mr。　Grimshaw；　who　heaped　coals　of　fire　upon　the　nameless　boy's　head　giving　him　five　cents　for　the　Fourth　of　July。　If　Mr。　Grimshaw　had　caned　this　unknown　youth；　the　punishment　would　not　have　been　half　so　severe。

On　the　last　day　of　June　the　Captain　received　a　letter　from　my　father；　enclosing　five　dollars　〃for　my　son　Tom；〃　which　enabled　that　young　gentleman　to　make　regal　preparations　for　the　celebration　of　our　national　independence。　A　portion　of　this　money；　two　dollars；　I　hastened　to　invest　in　fireworks；　the　balance　I　put　by　for　contingencies。　In　placing　the　fund　in　my　possession；　the　Captain　imposed　one　condition　that　dampened　my　ardor　considerably…I　was　to　buy　no　gunpowder。　I　might　have　all　the　snapping…crackers　and　torpedoes　I　wanted；　but　gunpowder　was　out　of　the　question。

I　thought　this　rather　hard；　for　all　my　young　friends　were　provided　with　pistols　of　various　sizes。