Frank's Campaign [32]
at one time a driver on a horse-car in New York, but had managed to find his way from the busy hum of the city to quiet Rossville, where he was just in time for an employment similar to the one he had given up.
One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure, apparently not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from the cars at the Wellington station and, crossing the track, passed through the small station-house to the rear platform.
"Can you tell me," he inquired of a bystander, "whether there is any conveyance between this place and Rossville?"
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "That's the regular carriage, and here's the driver. Ajax, here's a passenger for you."
"I have a trunk on the other side," said the young man, addressing the driver. "If you wild go round with me, we will bring it here."
"All right, sir," said Ajax, in a businesslike way.
The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the wagon. It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass bands, and showed marks of service, as if it had been considerably used. Two small strips of paper pasted on the side bore the custom-house marks of Havre and Liverpool. On one end was a large card, on which, written in large, bold letters, was the name of the proprietor, Henry Morton.
In five minutes the "express" got under way. The road wound partly through the woods. In some places the boughs, bending over from opposite sides, nearly met. At present the branches were nearly destitute of leaves, and the landscape looked bleak. But in the summer nothing could be more charming.
From his seat, beside Ajax, Henry Morton regarded attentively the prominent features of the landscape. His survey was interrupted by a question from the driver.
"Are you calc'latin' to make a long stay in our village?" inquired Ajax, with Yankee freedom.
"I am not quite certain. It is possible that I may."
"There isn't much goin' on in winter."
"No, I suppose not."
After a few minutes' pause, he inquired, "Can you tell me if there is a gentleman living in the village named Haynes?"
"I expect you mean Squire Haynes," said Ajax.
"Very probably he goes by that name. He was formerly a lawyer."
"Yes, that's the man. Do you know him?"
"I have heard of him," said the young man, non-committally.
"Then you ain't going to stop there?"
An expression of repugnance swept over the young man's face, as he hastily answered in the negative.
By this time they had come to a turn in the road. This brought them in view of Chloe's cottage. Little Pomp was on all fours, hunting for nuts among the fallen leaves under the shagbark-tree.
Under the influence of some freakish impulse, Pomp suddenly jumped to his feet and, whirling his arms aloft, uttered a wild whoop. Startled by the unexpected apparition, the horses gave a sudden start, and nearly succeeded in overturning the wagon.
"Massy on us!" exclaimed an old lady on the back seat, suddenly flinging her arms round young Morton's neck, in the height of her consternation.
"All right, marm," said Ajax reassuringly, after a brief but successful conflict with the horses. "We sha'n't go over this time. I should like to give that little black imp a good shaking."
"Oh, I've lost my ban'box, with my best bunnit," hastily exclaimed the old lady. "Le' me get out and find it. It was a present from my darter, Cynthy Ann, and I wouldn't lose it for a kingdom."
In truth, when prompted by her apprehension to cling to the young man in front for protection, Mrs. Payson had inadvertently dropped the bandbox out of the window, where it met with an unhappy disaster. The horse, quite unconscious of the damage he was doing, had backed the wagon in such a manner that one of the wheels passed directly over it.
When Ajax picked up the mutilated casket, which, with the jewel it contained, had suffered such irreparable injury, and restored it to its owner, great was the lamentation. Rachel weeping for her children could hardly have exhibited more poignant sorrow.
"Oh, it's sp'ilt!" groaned the
One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure, apparently not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from the cars at the Wellington station and, crossing the track, passed through the small station-house to the rear platform.
"Can you tell me," he inquired of a bystander, "whether there is any conveyance between this place and Rossville?"
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "That's the regular carriage, and here's the driver. Ajax, here's a passenger for you."
"I have a trunk on the other side," said the young man, addressing the driver. "If you wild go round with me, we will bring it here."
"All right, sir," said Ajax, in a businesslike way.
The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the wagon. It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass bands, and showed marks of service, as if it had been considerably used. Two small strips of paper pasted on the side bore the custom-house marks of Havre and Liverpool. On one end was a large card, on which, written in large, bold letters, was the name of the proprietor, Henry Morton.
In five minutes the "express" got under way. The road wound partly through the woods. In some places the boughs, bending over from opposite sides, nearly met. At present the branches were nearly destitute of leaves, and the landscape looked bleak. But in the summer nothing could be more charming.
From his seat, beside Ajax, Henry Morton regarded attentively the prominent features of the landscape. His survey was interrupted by a question from the driver.
"Are you calc'latin' to make a long stay in our village?" inquired Ajax, with Yankee freedom.
"I am not quite certain. It is possible that I may."
"There isn't much goin' on in winter."
"No, I suppose not."
After a few minutes' pause, he inquired, "Can you tell me if there is a gentleman living in the village named Haynes?"
"I expect you mean Squire Haynes," said Ajax.
"Very probably he goes by that name. He was formerly a lawyer."
"Yes, that's the man. Do you know him?"
"I have heard of him," said the young man, non-committally.
"Then you ain't going to stop there?"
An expression of repugnance swept over the young man's face, as he hastily answered in the negative.
By this time they had come to a turn in the road. This brought them in view of Chloe's cottage. Little Pomp was on all fours, hunting for nuts among the fallen leaves under the shagbark-tree.
Under the influence of some freakish impulse, Pomp suddenly jumped to his feet and, whirling his arms aloft, uttered a wild whoop. Startled by the unexpected apparition, the horses gave a sudden start, and nearly succeeded in overturning the wagon.
"Massy on us!" exclaimed an old lady on the back seat, suddenly flinging her arms round young Morton's neck, in the height of her consternation.
"All right, marm," said Ajax reassuringly, after a brief but successful conflict with the horses. "We sha'n't go over this time. I should like to give that little black imp a good shaking."
"Oh, I've lost my ban'box, with my best bunnit," hastily exclaimed the old lady. "Le' me get out and find it. It was a present from my darter, Cynthy Ann, and I wouldn't lose it for a kingdom."
In truth, when prompted by her apprehension to cling to the young man in front for protection, Mrs. Payson had inadvertently dropped the bandbox out of the window, where it met with an unhappy disaster. The horse, quite unconscious of the damage he was doing, had backed the wagon in such a manner that one of the wheels passed directly over it.
When Ajax picked up the mutilated casket, which, with the jewel it contained, had suffered such irreparable injury, and restored it to its owner, great was the lamentation. Rachel weeping for her children could hardly have exhibited more poignant sorrow.
"Oh, it's sp'ilt!" groaned the