University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Bobby was up with day-dawn in the morning on
his way to Colonel Bentley's, which was perhaps a
mile or more from his granny's, for the purpose of
closing the fulfilment of the promise made him on the
previous evening.

The colonel had not yet arisen when Bobby
reached his residence. On learning the fact, the boy
sat down very impatiently by the front door, determined
not to leave until he had received the “gun,
powder-horn, and shot-bag complete.”

At last Colonel Bentley, having been informed by
a servant that Bobby was at the door, made his
appearance, bearing in his hand the gun and its
appendages.

“Good morning, Bobby,” quoth the colonel.

“Good morning, colonel,” rejoined Bobby, eyeing
the gun.

“Bob, you certainly managed adroitly last evening,
ha, ha. I wonder if Bronson has another wig?”

“I don't know indeed, colonel. Did the cat use
that one up?”

“Pretty much so, Bobby. Here Bobby,” handing
him the gun, &c., “you must never mention this
affair.”

“Me mention it! It was the very thing I was
going to ask you, colonel. If it gets out they'll be
for playing the deuce with me. But aint this gun a
peeler. Thank you, colonel, I must go home,” said
Bobby, as he arose to depart.

“Take care of yourself, Bobby.”

“Ay, aye, sir,” said the delighted lad, as he proceeded
homeward. If ever since his misfortune
Bobby dwelt upon his shadow with complacency, it
was now as he beheld it elongated by the morning
sun, with all his brave equipments. As he marked his
shadow, almost stretching across the road, his egotism
mounted nearly as high as Richard's when, after
that worthy's successful suit with Lady Ann, he resolved
to buy a looking-glass. Bobby for once
thought with what pleasure he would stand plumply
before Jack Gordon's mirror, and take a good look,
at least, at the comeliness of the gun, powder-horn,
and shot-bag, when properly arranged on his person.

As it was yet quite early in the morning, Bobby
concluded that he would go on to Mr. Fitzhurst,
where he could deliver his message of the previous
evening, which he had forgotten; and learn from Miss
Rachellina if his cousin's services would be needed at
the mansion that day. Accordingly, he resolved to
pass by his grandmother's, which was situated between
Miss Bentley's and Mr. Fitzhurst's, if when he got there
he found the family were not up. He had scarcely
formed this resolution, while he still gazed at the shadow
of his gun, when a well-known voice addressed
him:

“Bobby, where did you get that gun? Aint you
ashamed, you; to leave the door open this morning on
your poor old granny?—aint you a pretty boy?”

“Cousin Peggy, indeed I shut the door after me—
I ask you, what do you always call me boy for? aint

I seventeen come next May? I don't suppose I am
always to be a boy?”

“Always to be a boy!” rejoined Peggy, repeating
his language and laughing; “shall I call you a man
then—I was seventeen a year ago, and I believe I am
a girl, Mr. Man! Your thinking about your shadow,
Bobby—that I caught you looking at, though you
don't like Jack Gordon's looking-glass.”

“If a girl is a woman at seventeen, and folks say
she is, I want to know why a boy aint a man. I hope,
Cousin Peggy, you are not making game, 'cause I'm
stunted.”

“No, Bobby, I am not—that's your misfortune, not
your fault,” said Peggy, in a serious tone; “it would
be a sin if I did—I am sure I never thought the less
of you on that account, but where did you get that
gun?”

Bobby felt perfectly reconciled to his boyhood by
this remark; and, to the interrogation, he replied:—

“Isn't she a peeler? she's mounted with silver, and
has a gold touch-hole—that's to keep her from burning
out. Then here's a powder-horn and shot-bag, in
style. Cousin Peggy, the birds 'll have to look out, I
tell you—I'll shoot you and granny just as many as
you want. Do you see where the old road comes
in by the burnt house; now suppose that black thing
was a bird”—as Bobby spoke, he elevated his gun as
if to take aim at the object, which was within ten feet
of him; when, at the very instant, Mr. Bronson, well
mounted on his gelding, issued from the side of the
house into the road on which Peggy and her cousin
stood. He had his hat tied over his ears with a large
black, silk pocket-handkerchief, and was on his way
to the city to renew the lost honours of his brow.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mr. Bronson, dodging his
head, and jerking his horse back, as he beheld the gun
pointed at him.

Bobby shouldered the gun, and said, “Good morning,
Mr. Bronson.”

“Bob—Robert Gammon, a little more, sir, and you
don't know what might have happened. Merciful
father! such a sudden death—such an unaccounted
for life! Are you aware, Robert Gammon, that it is
against the law to be firing on the highway?”

“Why, Mr. Bronson, I was only making believe
here to Cousin Peggy.”

“Ay, Peggy, my good girl, how do you do? how
is your grandmother?”

“Granny is still ailing, sir; but we hope she will be
better soon.”

“Let me tell you, Robert,” exclaimed Mr. Bronson,
turning to the boy, “you do very wrong to be trifling
with fire-arms. Have you forgotten Mr. Thompson's
business already? your grandmother told me, after
you had threatened my friend, Mr. Thompson's life,
that she would not suffer you to have a gun. I shudder
to think of the consequences if you had discharged
that instrument of death. The result would have been
the death of a peaceable, I may say, I hope, pious and
useful citizen, in the harmless pursuit of his vocation,
shot down on the public highway—Murder!” (Here
Bronson caught the eye of Bobby fixed keenly on him.)
“I don't say that you would have designedly shot me—
heaven forbid that any one should entertain any such
feeling against me. But you might have been hung,
nevertheless. Circumstances would have worn the
appearance of evil intention, very evil intention. Suppose
the evil one had caused you to fire at the very
moment I appeared—the evil one I say—would'nt that
have been murder? And that, I take it, is what the
lawyer's call being moved by the instigation of the
devil.”

“If the old boy had instigated, as you call it,” said
Bobby, with a cunning smile, “I couldn't ha' done

any harm,—this gun is like some people's heads, Mr.
Bronson.”

“Robert Gammon, what do you mean by that,”
said Bronson, with a menacing look.

“Cause she empty, Mr. Bronson,” replied the lad,
with a simple smile.

“Robert, I do not know what to make of you,”
said Bronson, endeavouring to hide his indignation
under the cloak of pity. Before you were thrown
from Mr. Fitzhurst's racer, you were comparatively
a steady, sober, sedate lad,—I never had any fault
to find with you, but that you were fond of the improper
and carnal gatherings of horseraces, but in that
you had the example of your betters, and you got
your bread by it. But, poor child, since your fall, I
agree with my friend Doctor McVittee, who is of
the opinion that the contusion on your head and
shoulders has caused an aberration of mind.”

“What do you mean by that, sir; Mr. Bronson?”
inquired Bobby.

“Poor lad; Robert, Robert, you are very ignorant.
Why, in the name of mercy, in consideration of your
welfare here and hereafter does not your grandmother
compel you to go to school. Peggy, my good girl,
why don't you prevail on your grandmother and use
your influence with this misguided lad to make him
go to school.”

“He's agoing, sir, in the winter. But, O! Mr. Bronson,
what's the matter with your head?”

“An accident, Peggy, my good girl; an accident.”

“What does that word mean, though, Mr. Bronson?
I want to know that.”

“Robert, indeed, you are very ignorant: how old
are you?”

“Seventeen, come next May, sir.”

“It means, Robert, that Dr. McVittee and myself
are of opinion, that since you were thrown

from Mr. Fitzhurst's horse—it is not your fault,
Robert, only inasmuch as you would ride races—it is
our opinion that since that unfortunate event for you,
that at times you are a little flighty.”

“Mr. Bronson,” said Bobby, in a tone of sympathy,
“I hope the cat what jumped on your head there, and
cut up so, didn't hurt you?”

“When did you hear that?” inquired Bronson, with
much confusion.

“Last night, at Mr. Elwood's husking, sir.”

“What did folks say about it, Robert?”

“They said it was a trying sight. Hangnation, but
I hope though that the cat didn't bite or scratch your
head; did it, Mr. Bronson?”

“Robert, do you mean to be impertinent.”

“Impertinent! I don't know what that means. Folks
say that if the cat did bite you it will be awful; she was
raving mad; she bit a dog that's agoing to have the
hydrophoby.”

“The hydrophobia,” exclaimed Bronson, horror-striken,
“impossible! Mercy! impossible!”

“Folks say so, sir,” rejoined Bobby; “but, Mr.
Bronson, did the varmit bite or scratch you?”

“Robert, my good boy, I fear so; I fear so—I did
not examine my head particularly this morning, but
I did think I did see a bite or a cratch there. It can't
be a bite; my God! it can't be a bite.”

“Are you sure it is only a scratch, Mr. Bronson?”
asked Bobby.

“Sure, sure, no I'm not sure; come here, my good
children—Peggy, my good girl, come here.”

Mr. Bronson, so speaking, dismounted, and with nervous
haste untied the handkerchief, and took off his
hat. He had another handkerchief tied close round
his head in the place of the wig, for he was very
careful of his health, and was fearful that he might

take cold. This he jerked off, and presenting his head
to the inspection of Peggy and Bobby, said:—

“See, my good children; see—are there any marks,
any scratches, any bites?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Bronson, there's one right on the tiptop
of your head,” said Bobby: and at the same instant,
unobserved, he contrived to hit the horse with
his gun. Bronson had dropped the bridle as he sprang
from the horse, and the animal on being striken by
Bobby, darted with a neigh round the corner of the
burnt house in full speed for his stable in the village.

“My horse; my head!” ejaculated Bronson; “catch
him; catch him.”

“He's too quick for me, sir,” said Bobby; “he's
off, as hard as he can go it.”

“What shall I do, what shall I do?” exclaimed
Bronson, trying to feel the affected part with his finger;
“look, Peggy, my good girl, is it very bad!”

The bewilderment of Peggy at the whole scene
had prevented her usual loquacity. Now directly appealed
to, she examined Bronson's head particularly,
and could not but observe quite a large scratch across
his crown.

“Yes, sir; it is some hurt,” said Peggy.

“Mercy, is it a bite or a scratch?” eagerly enquired
Mr. Bronson.

“Indeed, sir, I can't tell,” said Peggy; “but it
looks to me like a scratch—it is long across the
head.”

“I hope it is not, but it may be a bite,” said Bobby.

“Yes, it may be, it may be,” exclaimed Bronson,
clasping his hands together; “I may go mad; the
creature was certainly furious, rabid, mad, herself; and
I may go mad.”

At this Peggy started from Bronson's side, and got
some feet from him, when she stood staring at him in
evident alarm.

“If I was you, Mr. Bronson,” said Bobby, “as
you know Doctor McVitte knows everything, I would
go right off to Springdale and ask him.”

“But my horse is gone,” said Bronson, wofully;
“it will take me so long to get there; come, go with
me—I may go mad on the road.”

“Then I'd best not go with you, sir,” said Bobby;
“cause you know, Mr. Bronson, if you should go mad
on the road, you'd be for jumping right at me to bite
me, and then I'd have to shoot you down to save myself—I
must load my gun.”

“Wait, wait,” exclaimed Bronson, springing up,
“wait till I'm off;” and, so speaking, he darted round
the burnt house, and made with all speed for Springdale.

“Bobby, what does this mean?” asked Peggy, in a
moment.

Bobby was too busily engaged in loading his gun
to reply. As soon as he had done so, he discharged
it upon the track of the flying Bronson, and said:

“That 'll quicken his speed. Hangnation, if he
was to go mad I'd much rather shoot him down than
I would the poor cat.”

Then the ridiculous figure Bronson cut occurred
to Bobby, and he threw himself on the side of the
road, clapped his hands, struck his heels together, and
shouted with laughter.

“Bobby—Robert Gammon,” exclaimed Peggy, angrily,
“what does all this mean?—a second time I ask,
won't you tell me?”

Bobby arose to his feet and told his cousin all that
had occurred, except his own agency in the matter.

“My stars,” said Peggy; “you say, Bobby, that a
mad cat jumped right through the window on to Mr.
Bronson's head, bit and scratched him, tore his wig
off, and tore it up.”

“May be she might a' eat it,” said Bobby, “for

what I knows. It would be just like such a wild
varmint if she was to—”

“What become of the cat, Bobby?”

“I don't know, Cousin Peggy.—Folks say that she
hissed an' spluttered, and snarled about the room like
mad; and for a good reason, she was raving mad.”

“An' the thing bit his head.”

“You saw it, Cousin Peggy.”

“Yes, yes; I did so.—It looked like a scratch; but
a scratch, Bobby, may be just as bad as a bite. And
if Mr. Bronson don't go right off hydrophoby crazy
now, yet he may some time or other. Joe James
didn't go mad, it was said, till more than a year after
he was bitten by squire Norris's dog. Some people
thought it was drink that made him carry on so; but
the best judging thought it was the bite. I know one
thing.”

“What's that, Cousin Peggy?”

“Why, I wonder how Miss Gratton ever could 've
thought in the first place of having such a looking
man as Bronson.”

“Looks is nothing, Cousin Peggy,” said Bobby,
quickly.

“Well, he's not only an ill-favored man, but he is
an ill-grained man, I believe, in spite of his church-going;
and then he's old enough to be Miss Gratton's
father, and she's such a sweet young lady. As I was
saying, I don't see how she could ever have thought
of having him, but if she has—if she has made up her
mind, if I was in her place I would change it,—I
couldn't be made to have him—only to think, Bobby,
who can tell at what time he may go mad—it may
come on him like the thief in the night, in the very
night he's married, and he might bite his poor young
wife to death before any one could get to her. No,
if I was Miss Gratton I wouldn't stand it.”

“What's one man's meat is another man's poison,”

said Bobby, “there'll be another wig to make, that's
certain, if he lives,—I hope he won't go mad for he's
not worth the powder that would blow his brains out.
He speaks against everybody—I reckon I understand
his big words better an' he thinks I do. He runs
down everybody, Cousin Peggy,—I want to know
did you see Jack Gordon last night?”

“Did you see him, Mr. Bobby?” said Peggy, with
some confusion, but with the effort to look archly.

“Yes, I did see him.”

“You did, Robert Gammon?” Bobby nodded his
head solemnly. “Then why didn't you tell him to
come and take his glass away. That's a pretty way
to do what I ask you.”

“How did you know I did'nt tell him?”

Peggy made no reply, but hummed carelessly the
words of the Scotch song:

The words of the song irritated Bobby, for he said,
“Cousin Peggy, if folks come as they was'nt coming
to see me, I'd tell 'em to talk as if they war'nt talking
about me.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Peggy, with
alarmed curiosity.

“I said to myself that I would'nt tell you, but I
will. The last time I was at Springdale there was
Jack Gordon, Joe Hitt, and the Miller, afore Mr.
Bronson's door, and all a little corned. They got to
cutting at me because I always walk by your side
to church; and Jack Gordon asked me if I did it to
keep the dogs off. I told him I was not big enough to
keep the dogs off; but that I was too much for a
puppy. At this he got right red in the face, and the
other fellers laughed at him. Then he asked me if

I had ever kissed you. Well I hav'nt kissed you since
I was so high, though I am your born cousin; but I
told him that if I had he hadn't. He laughed outright
such an infernal laugh, and said I had better keep
beside you. An' I think so, too.”

“What do you mean, Robert Gammon?” said
Peggy, angrily.

“Cousin Peggy, so help me God, and that's what
they say in the court-house when they kiss the bible,
an' its perjury to break the oath, now I've got a gun,
so help me God, if them chaps get —”

“I thought,” exclaimed Peggy, “that that gun would
lead you into mischief; you've got to threatening
already.”

“If you had heard Jack Gordon?”

“He lies,” said Peggy, “he never kissed me; I
never scarcely shake hands with him. But you believed
him, you mean thing, you believed him; and
so you don't go with me to meeting and about, because
I'm your cousin, and for relationship, but to
keep a watch on me? That's it; go your ways,
Robert Gammon, go your ways; you can go your
gaite an' I'll go mine; I've done with you.” And
Peggy walked away from him, indignantly, and burst
into tears.

“Cousin Peggy, indeed,” exclaimed Bobby, advancing
to her, “I didn't;” but Peggy forbid him to
speak to her, and hastened away.

“Hangnation to Jack Gordon, the gun, and everything!”
said Bobby, as he threw himself beneath a
tree by the road side, and cast a regardless eye upon
his gun which he tossed carelessly from him.