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The Story of a Bad Boy
The Story of a Bad Boy
By Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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The Story of a Bad Boy
CHAPTER One
In Which I Introduce Myself
This is the story of a bad boy。 Well； not such a very bad； but a pretty
bad boy； and I ought to know； for I am； or rather I was； that boy myself。
Lest the title should mislead the reader； I hasten to assure him here that
I have no dark confessions to make。 I call my story the story of a bad boy；
partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who
generally figure in narratives of this kind； and partly because I really was
not a cherub。 I may truthfully say I was an amiable； impulsive lad； blessed
with fine digestive powers； and no hypocrite。 I didn't want to be an angel
and with the angels stand； I didn't think the missionary tracts presented to
me by the Rev。 Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe；
and I didn't send my little pocket…money to the natives of the Feejee
Islands； but spent it royally in peppermint…drops and taffy candy。 In short；
I was a real human boy； such as you may meet anywhere in New England；
and no more like the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is
like one that has been sucked dry。 But let us begin at the beginning。
Whenever a new scholar came to our school； I used to confront him at
recess with the following words： 〃My name's Tom Bailey； what's your
name？〃 If the name struck me favorably； I shook hands with the new pupil
cordially； but if it didn't； I would turn on my heel； for I was particular on
this point。 Such names as Higgins； Wiggins； and Spriggins were deadly
affronts to my ear； while Langdon； Wallace； Blake； and the like； were
passwords to my confidence and esteem。
Ah me！ some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this
time…lawyers； merchants； sea…captains； soldiers； authors； what not？ Phil
Adams （a special good name that Adams） is consul at Shanghai； where I
picture him to myself with his head closely shaved…he never had too much
hair…and a long pigtail banging down behind。 He is married； I hear； and I
hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together； sitting
cross…legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skyblue tower hung
with bells。 It is so I think of him； to me he is henceforth a jewelled
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The Story of a Bad Boy
mandarin； talking nothing but broken China。 Whitcomb is a judge； sedate
and wise； with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that remarkable nose
which； in former days； was so plentifully sprinkled with freckles that the
boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb。 just to think of little Pepper
Whitcomb being a judge！ What would be do to me now； I wonder； if I
were to sing out 〃Pepper！〃 some day in court？ Fred Langdon is in
California； in the native…wine business…he used to make the best licorice…
water I ever tasted！ Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South Burying…
Ground； and Jack Harris； too； is dead…Harris； who commanded us boys； of
old； in the famous snow…ball battles of Slatter's Hill。 Was it yesterday I
saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join the shattered Army
of the Potomac？ Not yesterday； but six years ago。 It was at the battle of the
Seven Pines。 Gallant Jack Harris； that never drew rein until he had dashed
into the Rebel battery！ So they found him…lying across the enemy's guns。
How we have parted； and wandered； and married； and died！ I wonder
what has become of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School
at Rivermouth when I was a youngster？ 〃All； all are gone； the old familiar
faces！〃
It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back； for a moment； from
that Past which has closed upon them and upon me。 How pleasantly they
live again in my memory！ Happy； magical Past； in whose fairy atmosphere
even Conway； mine ancient foe； stands forth transfigured； with a sort of
dreamy glory encircling his bright red hair！
With the old school formula I commence these sketches of my
boyhood。 My name is Tom Bailey； what is yours； gentle reader？ I take for
granted it is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins； and that we shall get on
famously together； and be capital friends forever。
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The Story of a Bad Boy
CHAPTER Two
In Which I Entertain Peculiar Views
I was born at Rivermouth； but； before I had a chance to become very
well acquainted with that pretty New England town； my parents removed
to New Orleans； where my father invested his money so securely in the
banking business that be was never able to get any of it out again。 But of
this hereafter。
I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal； and it didn't
make much difference to me where I was； because I was so small； but
several years later； when my father proposed to take me North to be
educated； I had my own peculiar views on the subject。 I instantly kicked
over the little Negro boy who happened to be standing by me at the
moment； and； stamping my foot violently on the floor of the piazza；
declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees！
You see I was what is called 〃a Northern man with Southern
principles。〃 I had no recollection of New England： my earliest memories
were connected with the South； with Aunt Chloe； my old Negro nurse； and
with the great ill…kept garden in the centre of which stood our house…a
whitewashed stone house it was； with wide verandas…shut out from the
street by lines of orange； fig； and magnolia trees。 I knew I was born at the
North； but hoped nobody would find it out。 I looked upon the misfortune
as something so shrouded by time and distance that maybe nobody
remembered it。 I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee； because they
talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feel that it was
quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana； or at least in one of the
Border States。 And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe； who
said； 〃dar wasn't no gentl'men in the Norf no way；〃 and on one occasion
terrified me beyond measure by declaring that； 〃if any of dem mean whites
tried to git her away from marster； she was jes'gwine to knock 'em on de
head wid a gourd！〃
The way this poor creature's eyes flashed； and the tragic air with which
she struck at an imaginary 〃mean white；〃 are among the most vivid things
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The Story of a Bad Boy
in my memory of those days。
To be frank； my idea of the North was about as accurate as that
entertained by the well…educated Englishmen of the present day
concerning America。 I supposed the inhabitants were divided into two
classes…Indians and white people； that the Indians occasionally dashed
down on New York； and scalped any woman or child （giving the
preference to children） whom they caught lingering in the outskirts after
nightfall； that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters； and that
it was winter pretty much all the year round。 The prevailing style of
architecture I took to be log…cabins。
With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye； the
reader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of being
transported to Rivermouth to school； and possibly will forgive me for
kicking over little black Sam； and otherwise misconducting myself； when
my father announced his determination to me。 As for kicking little Sam…I
always did that； more or less gently； when anything went wrong with me。
My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this
