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SURPRISING ADVENTURES
OF
MASTER CHARLES SUMMERTON.
At exactly half-past nine o'clock on the morning
of Saturday, August 26th, 1865, Master Charles
Summerton, aged five years, disappeared mysteriously
from his paternal residence on Folsom Street,
San Francisco. At twenty-five minutes past nine he
had been observed, by the butcher, amusing himself
by going through that popular youthful exercise
known as “turning the crab,” a feat in which he was
singularly proficient. At a court of inquiry summarily
held in the back parlor at 10.15, Bridget,
cook, deposed to have detected him at twenty minutes
past nine, in the felonious abstraction of sugar
from the pantry, which, by the same token, had she
known what was a-comin', she'd have never previnted.
Patsey, a shrill-voiced youth from a neighboring
alley, testified to having seen “Chowley,” at half
past nine, in front of the butcher's shop round the
corner, but as this young gentleman chose to throw
been converted into sausages by the butcher, his testimony
was received with some caution by the female
portion of the court, and with downright scorn and
contumely by its masculine members. But whatever
might have been the hour of his departure, it was
certain that from half-past ten A. M. until nine P. M.,
when he was brought home by a policeman, Charles
Summerton was missing. Being naturally of a reticent
disposition, he has since resisted, with but one
exception, any attempt to wrest from him a statement
of his whereabouts during that period. That
exception has been myself. He has related to me
the following in the strictest confidence:
His intention on leaving the door-steps of his
dwelling was to proceed without delay to Van Dieman's
Land, by way of Second and Market streets.
This project was subsequently modified so far as to
permit a visit to Otaheite, where Capt. Cook was
killed. The outfit for his voyage consisted of two
car tickets, five cents in silver, a fishing line, the
brass capping of a spool of cotton, which, in his eyes,
bore some resemblance to metallic currency, and a
Sunday school library ticket. His garments, admirably
adapted to the exigencies of any climate, were
severally, a straw hat with a pink ribbon, a striped
shirt, over which a pair of trousers, uncommonly
wide in comparison to their length, were buttoned,
striped balmoral stockings, which gave his youthful
legs something of the appearance of wintergreen
candy, and copper-toed shoes with iron heels, capable
quality, Master Charley could not help feeling, would
be of infinite service to him in the wilds of Van Dieman's
Land, which, as pictorially represented in his
geography, seemed to be deficient in corner groceries
and matches.
Exactly as the clock struck the half hour, the
short legs and straw hat of Master Charles Summerton
disappeared around the corner. He ran rapidly,
partly by way of inuring himself to the fatigues of
the journey before him, and partly by way of testing
his speed with that of a North Beach car which was
proceeding in his direction. The conductor not being
aware of this generous and lofty emulation, and
being somewhat concerned at the spectacle of a pair
of very short, twinkling legs so far in the rear,
stopped his car and generally assisted the youthful
Summerton upon the platform. From this point a
hiatus of several hours' duration occurs in Master
Charles's narrative. He is under the impression that
he “rode out” not only his two tickets, but that he
became subsequently indebted to the company for several
trips to and from the opposite termini, and that
at last, resolutely refusing to give any explanation
of his conduct, he was finally ejected, much to his
relief, on a street corner. Although, as he informs
us, he felt perfectly satisfied with this arrangement,
he was impelled under the circumstances to hurl after
the conductor an opprobrious appellation which he
had ascertained from Patsey was the correct thing
in such emergencies, and possessed peculiarly exasperating
properties.
We now approach a thrilling part of the narrative,
before which most of the adventures of the “Boys'
Own Book” pale into insignificance. There are
times when the recollection of this adventure causes
Master Charles to break out in a cold sweat, and he
has several times since its occurrence been awakened
by lamentations and outcries in the night season by
merely dreaming of it. On the corner of the street
lay several large empty sugar hogsheads. A few
young gentlemen disported themselves therein, armed
with sticks, with which they removed the sugar
which still adhered to the joints of the staves, and
conveyed it to their mouths. Finding a cask not
yet pre-empted, Master Charles set to work, and for
a few moments reveled in a wild saccharine dream,
whence he was finally roused by an angry voice and
the rapidly retreating footsteps of his comrades. An
ominous sound smote his ear, and the next moment
he felt the cask wherein he lay uplifted and set upright
against the wall. He was a prisoner, but as
yet undiscovered. Being satisfied in his mind that
hanging was the systematic and legalized penalty for
the outrage he had committed, he kept down manfully
the cry that rose to his lips.
In a few moments he felt the cask again lifted by
a powerful hand, which appeared above him at the
edge of his prison, and which he concluded belonged
to the ferocious giant Blunderbore, whose features
and limbs he had frequently met in colored pictures.
Before he could recover from his astonishment, his
cask was placed with several others on a cart, and
describes as being fearful in the extreme. Rolled
around like a pill in a box, the agonies which he
suffered may be hinted at, not spoken. Evidences
of that protracted struggle were visible in his garments,
which were of the consistency of syrup,
and his hair, which for several hours, under the
treatment of hot water, yielded a thin treacle. At
length the cart stopped on one of the wharves,
and the cartman began to unload. As he tilted over
the cask in which Charles lay, an exclamation broke
from his lips, and the edge of the cask fell from his
hands, sliding its late occupant upon the wharf. To
regain his short legs, and to put the greatest possible
distance between himself and the cartman, were his
first movements on regaining his liberty. He did not
stop until he had reached the corner of Front street.
Another blank succeeds in this veracious history.
He cannot remember how or when he found himself
in front of the circus tent. He has an indistinct recollection
of having passed through a long street of
stores which were all closed, and which made him
fear that it was Sunday, and that he had spent a
miserable night in the sugar cask. But he remembers
hearing the sound of music within the tent, and
of creeping on his hands and knees, when no one
was looking, until he passed under the canvas. His
description of the wonders contained within that circle;
of the terrific feats which were performed by a
man on a pole, since practised by him in the back
yard; of the horses, one of which was spotted and
and undefined, of the female equestrians,
whose dresses could only be equaled in magnificence
to the frocks of his sister's doll, of the painted
clown, whose jokes excited a merriment, somewhat
tinged by an undefined fear, was an effort of language
which this pen could but weakly transcribe, and
which no quantity of exclamation points could sufficiently
illustrate. He is not quite certain what followed.
He remembers that almost immediately on
leaving the circus it became dark, and that he fell
asleep, waking up at intervals on the corners of the
streets, on front steps, in somebody's arms, and finally
in his own bed. He was not aware of experiencing
any regret for his conduct, he does not recall feeling
at any time a disposition to go home—he remembers
distinctly that he felt hungry.
He has made this disclosure in confidence. He
wishes it to be respected. He wants to know if you
have five cents about you.
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