 | CHAPTER V. Dukesborough tales |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
Mr. Meadows now set about what was the only agreeable portion
of the duties of his new vocation, the punishment of offenders. The
lawyers tell us that, of all the departments of the law, the vindicatory
is the most important. This element of the Goosepond establishment
had been cultivated so much that it had grown to become almost the
only one that was consulted at all. As for the declaratory and the
directory, they seemed to be considered, when clearly understood, as
impediments to a fair showing and proper development of the vindicatory,
insomuch that the last was often by their means disappointed
of its victim. Sometimes, when his urchins would not “miss,” or
violate some of his numerous laws, Mr. Meadows used, in the plenitude
of his power, to put the vindicatory first — punish an offender, and then
declare what the latter had done to be an offence, and then direct him
that he had better not do so any more. This Mr. Meadows seemed
to owe a grudge to society. Whether this was because society had not
given him a father as it had done to almost everybody else, or because
it had interfered in the peaceful occupation which he had inherited
from his grandfather (as if to avenge itself on him for violating one of
its express commands that such as he should inherit from nobody),—
did not appear. But he owed it, and he delighted in paying it off in
his peculiar way; this was by beating the children of his school, every
one of whom had a father. Eminently combative by nature, it was
both safest and most satisfactory to wage his warfare on this general
scale. So, on this fine morning, by way of taking up another instalment
of this immense debt, which like most other debts seemed as if
it never would get fully paid, he took down his bundle of rods from
two pegs in one of the logs on which he had placed them, selected one
fit for his purpose, and taking his position in the middle of the space
between the fireplace and the rows of desks, he sat down in his chair.
A cheerful, but by no means a gladsome smile overspread his countenance
as he said:
“Them spellin' classes and readin' classes, and them others that's
got to be whipped, all but Sam Pate and Asa Boatright, come to the
circus.”
Five or six boys and as many girls, from eight to thirteen years old,
came up, and sitting down on the front bench which extended all along
The boys then rolled up their pants, and the girls lifted the
skirts of their frocks to their knees, and having made a ring around
Mr. Meadows as he sat in his chair, all began a brisk trot. They had
described two or three revolutions, and Mr. Meadows was straightening
his switch, when Asa Boatright ran up, and, crying piteously, said:
“Please sir, Mr. Meadows — oh pray do sir, Mr. Meadows — let me
go into the circus!”
Mr. Meadows rose up and was about to strike; but another thought
seemed to occur to him. He looked at him amusedly for a moment,
and pointed to his seat. Asa took it. Mr. Meadows resumed his chair,
and went into the exciting part of the exhibition by tapping the legs,
both male and female, as they trotted around him. This was done at
first very gently, and almost lovingly. But as the sport warmed in interest,
the blows increased in rapidity and violence. The children began
to cry out, and then Mr. Meadows struck the harder; for it was a
rule (oh he was a mighty man for rules, this same Mr. Meadows) that
whoever cried the loudest should be hit the hardest. He kept up this
interesting exercise until he had given them about twenty-five lashes
apiece. He then ceased. They stopped instantly, walked around him
once, then seating themselves upon the bench they resumed their shoes
and stockings, and went to their seats. One girl, thirteen years old,
Henrietta Bangs, had begged him to let her keep on her stockings;
but Mr. Meadows was too firm a disciplinarian to allow it. When
the circus was over she put on her shoes, and taking up her stockings
and putting them under her apron, she went to her seat and sobbed as
if her heart was broken.
Allen Thigpen looked at her for a moment, and then he turned his
eyes slowly around and looked at Brinkly Glisson. The latter did not
notice him. He sat with his hands in his pockets and his lips compressed.
Allen knew what struggle was going on, but he could not tell
how it was going to end. Mr. Meadows rested three minutes.
It has possibly occurred to those who may be reading this little history
that it was a strange thing in Asa Boatright, who so well knew all
the ways of Mr. Meadows, that he should have expressed so decisive a
wish to take part in this last described exhibition, — an exhibition
which, however entertaining to Mr. Meadows as it doubtless was, and
might be perchance to other persons placed in the attitude of spectators
merely, could not be in the highest degree agreeable to one in the
to assume had Mr. Meadows vouchsafed to yield to his request. But
Asa Boatright was not a fool, nor was he a person who had no care for
his physical wellbeing. In other words, Asa Boatright knew what he
was about.
“Sam Pate and Asa Boatright!” exclaimed Mr. Meadows, after his
rest. “Come out here and go to horsin'.”
The two nags came out. Master Pate playfully inclined himself
forward, and Master Boatright leaped with some agility upon his back.
The former, gathering the latter's legs under his arms, and drawing as
tightly as possible his pants across his middle, began galloping gaily
around the area before the fireplace. Mr. Meadows, after taking a
fresh hickory, began to apply it with great force and precision to that
part of Master Boatright's little body which, in his present attitude,
was most exposed. Every application of this kind caused that young
gentleman to scream to the utmost of the strength of his voice, and
even to make spasmodic efforts to kick, which Master Pate, being for
the occasion a horse, was to understand as an expression on the part
of his rider that he should get on faster, and so Master Pate must
frisk and prance and otherwise imitate a horse as well as possible in
the circumstances. Now, the circumstances being that as soon as
Master Boatright should have ridden long enough to become incapacitated
from riding a real horse with comfort, they were to reverse positions,
Master Boatright becoming horse and himself rider, they were
hardly sufficient to make him entirely forget his identity in the personation
of that quadruped. He did his best, though, in the circumstances,
such as they were, and not only frisked and pranced but actually
neighed several times. When Asa was placed in the condition hinted
at above, he was allowed to dismount. Sam having mounted on his
back, it was truly stirring to the feelings to see the latter kick and the
former prance. This was always the best part of the show. A rule of
this exercise was that, when the rider should dismount and become
horse, he was to act well his part or be made to resume the part of
rider,—a prospect not at all agreeable, each one decidedly preferring to
be horse. Sam was about three years older and fifteen pounds heavier
than Asa. Now, while Asa had every motive which as sensible a
horse as he was could have to do his best, yet he was so sore, and Sam,
with the early prospect of butting his brains out, was so heavy, that he
had great difficulties. He exhibited the most laudable desire and
feet. Finding that he could do no great things at prancing, he endeavored
to make up by neighing. When Sam would cry out and kick,
Asa would neigh. He would occasionally run against the wall and
neigh as if he was perfectly delighted. He would lift up one foot and
neigh. He would put it down, lift up the other and neigh. Then when
he would attempt to lift up both feet at once, he would fall down and
neigh. But he would neigh even in the act of rising, apparently resolved
to convince the world that, notwithstanding appearances to the
contrary, he was as real and as plucky a little horse as had ever trotted.
Never before had Asa acted his part so well in the Horsin' at the
Goosepond. Never had horse, with such odds on his back, neighed
so lustily. Sam screamed and kicked. Asa pranced and neighed,
until at last, as he stumbled violently against the bench, Sam let go his
hold upon Asa's neck, in order to avoid breaking his own, and fell
sprawling on his belly under a desk. This sudden removal of the
burden from Asa's back made his efforts to recover from his false step
successful beyond all calculation, and he fell backward, headforemost,
upon the floor. Mr. Meadows, contrary to his wont, roared with laughter.
His soul was satisfied; he dropped his switch, and ordered them to
their seats. They obeyed, and sat down with that graduated declension
of body in which experience had taught them to be prudent.
| CHAPTER V. Dukesborough tales | |