University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The next day in the afternoon Pinckney proceeded
to the city to make arrangements for his departure.
On his way in he met Sidney returning home, and
communicated to him his intention. Sidney received
the information with deep regret.

As Sidney was passing by Granny Gammon's, the
old woman hurried to the door, and begged him for
mercy's sake to step in a minute, for that something
awful had happened to Bobby. Sidney dismounted,
and throwing his horse's reins over the pailings, instantly
complied.

“Oh, Mister Sidney!” exclaimed the old woman,
tottering aside from the door, to suffer Sidney to enter
it. “I'm disgraced, Peggy's disgraced, we're all disgraced—the
boy is wilful and worrying; but I don't
believe it—no, as God's my judge, I don't believe it!”

“What's the matter, granny?—sit down—where is
Peggy?”

“Gone up to the big house to see your father and
you, and everybody, on this very thing—on the poor

boy's befalment—that I should live to see it,” she
continued, wringing her hands “I thought my troubles
couldn't be worse when he was throw'd from that
racer and limated for life; but they just began then.
You see the day before yesterday, he, that's Bobby,
was pestering round, and he said as how he meant to
go to town. Well, I suspicioned no good of it, and I
axed him for what, and he grew deceptious right off,
and didn't seem to like to tell. Howsomever, I talked
to him so, wo's me, that he up and said that he wanted
to go in to go to the circus. Soon as I heard that, I
knew that the evil one had beset him—I knew that he
was tempted to the pit of iniquity, and defilements, and
abominations—I told him he should go on no account;
but in his perversity he'd set his mind right on it, and go
he would; and his cousin Peggy (Peggy Blossom is not
the gal she used to be), took side with him, and what
could I do? Consent, I couldn't and wouldn't; I felt
that something must happen, and I told them both so,
and made my mind a kind a up to it. To think of
this; I'd no hidea it was coming to this, though. Joe
Hitt came out from the city this blessed day, and he
stopt in and told us that they had Bobby, my Robert,
poor child, Robert Gammon, up for passing counterfeit
money.”

“It can't be possible, granny—who could have put
him up to it?”

“Who? Satan, the circus, the black devil himself,
with his conjurations that he carries on in them places;
but I don't believe one word of it—I don't believe he'd
do such a thing, do you, Mister Sidney?”

“I do not, indeed, Granny; but what did Joe Hitt
tell you about it?”

“That he was up for passing counterfeit money;
that was all he knowed—that he seed them dragging
the poor child through the street: he was all knocked

aback, he says, and he left his horse and cart right in
the street, and followed after the crowd a good piece.
He says he tried to get a chance to speak to Bobby,
but it was too big a crowd; and that the people told him
a site of money was catched on him—Joe Hitt said
he couldn't go on to hear tell it, for fear his horse and
cart would run off, and that's all he knowed; but he
saw the child as plain as day; he says that Bobby
looked at him, but didn't speak—that he seemed bewildered
and stunned like. Mr. Sidney, oh! can't
you do something for him; see, there—there's Towzer,
poor dumb beast, he knows Bobby's in harm—he's
been kind a dumpy all day.”

“This is a strange business,” said Sidney, musing;
“when he went in I gave him three hundred dollars,
which I had collected at the iron works, to leave with
Colonel Bentley.”

“You did! my mercies, Mister Sidney; how could
you do it? That's it—the evil one has, just on account
of his sins, took away the good money, and put the
counterfeit in.”

“It will all come right, granny, I hope, in spite of
the evil one. I have often sent money by Bobby; I
have every faith in his integrity. The money I gave
him certainly was good, but if it were bad, who could
he have attempted to pass it on? I requested him to
give it to Colonel Bentley—I desired him to make no
purchase whatever.”

“O! I have had awful dreams lately; I warned him
of it the night of Mr. Elwood's husking; but no, they
think I'm old, helpless, and a know-nothing old woman.
He's been beset by Satan himself in some lonely part
of the road, and has the whole money changed in his
pockets unbeknown to him. I mind many years gone
by, that old Michael Cash was served that very way.
He was an old well-to-do farmer, that's now dead
and gone, and he used to tend market of Saturday's.

Well, he gets belated with some wild chaps—cronies
of his'n, who was no better an they should be; and
after drinking with 'em till long after night-fall he
starts for home—he always said that his money was
safe in his pocket when he left 'em, for he counted it
afore 'em, and got on his horse, and come right hom—
and when he got there, and cometo look the next morning
for it, there was just nothing but a bit of old rumpled
newspaper where he had put his money. I've often
heard him say, after he joined the church, that he believed
the devil himself tricked him—for he said as
how he felt his head go round by the old grave yard,
which everybody knows is haunted, and that his horse
a kind of stopt there in spite of him, and jerked down
his head so, that the reins went over his neck, and
Michael had to get down to get things right again.
He says somehow a stupor a kind of overtook him,
and that he heard horses gallop by faster than any
natural horse could go, and he hardly knows how he
got on his horse to get home in such a bewilderment—
some people used to laugh at this, and as some of the
money, was money that Michael was bringing home for
his neighbours, they talked hard agin him; and some
said one thing and some said another; but I've heard
him tell every word on it after he jined. Mercies, how
I'm running on—but the poor boy—you'll see to him;
wont you, Mister Sidney?”

“I certainly shall, granny—I'll ride over to the
house, instantly change my horse, and return to town.
Peggy, I suppose, can tell all that Hitt said?”

“Every word—poor thing, she was in a terrible
taking, and hurried up to the big house. I knowed
all this was coming,” continued the granny, calling
out after Sidney as he rode off, “I knowed all this was
coming.—I've had awful dreams lately,” she muttered
to herself as she gazed after him.

Sidney on arriving at Holly found Peggy weeping

over the misfortunes of her cousin, and between her
tears relating, for the twentieth time, what Joe Hitt
had said. He could learn nothing more from her
than he had already gathered from her grandmother.
He therefore ordered another horse, and determined
to proceed to the city, where, on inquiring at the
Mayor's office or jail, he hoped to hear the particulars
of the boy's case. His fear was that he should not
be able to reach the city until some time after night-fall,
which might prevent him from being of service
to Bobby until the next morning.

Sidney therefore proceeded at a quick pace. As he
passed by Granny Grammon's the old woman came
to the door, and looked anxiously after him.

He had not advanced more than half way when
the gathering shades of night began to render objects
indistinct, which warned him to increase his speed.
He did so; and as he entered an uninhabited part
of the road, that was skirted on either side by tall
majestic trees, whose falling leaves and autumnal
hues rendered the twilight still darker, just where a
bridle-path led to the hills of which we have spoken
that bound the western side of Holly, a horse without
a rider galloped by him in evident afright, with its
bridle broken, and the stirrups dashing against its
sides. It occurred to him as he marked the horse,
that it was the animal that his friend Pinckney had
ridden to the city. He was soon satisfied that such
was the fact; for the horse had scarcely passed him,
when it turned its head, neighed as if in token of recognition
of the animal he bestrode, and cantered to
his side. Sidney grasped the broken bridle, quickly
knotted the ends, and hastened down the road to the
succour of his friend. He had proceeded nearly a
quarter of a mile in fruitless search, which the increasing
darkness rendered every moment still more
difficult, when he thought he saw a man hurry away

at his approach from a spot in the skirt of the wood
on the right-hand side of the road.

This awakened his suspicions, and though, unarmed,
he hurried to the place, without thinking of any
danger to himself. The person disappeared rapidly in
the forests towards the hills as Sidney drew near. His
fears were true; for, on dismounting beside an individual
who was stretched insensibly on the ground, he discovered
Pinckney. His watch and pocket-book were
gone, and he seemed to be wounded, though in what
manner Sidney could not discover. Sidney supported
Pinckney's head upon his knee, and while in the act
of removing his neckcloth, Pinckney opened his eyes,
and after a moment's confusion recognised him.

“Fitzhurst,” he said, faintly.

“My God, Pinckney, what has happened?”

“I have encountered a gentleman of the road—
that's all. The rascal has given me a dangerous
wound. I was stunned by a blow when you came up;
have you been here long?” asked Pinckney, as he
leaned on his friend, and endeavoured to regain his
feet.”

“Do you think you can ride?”

“Yes, I hope so—I hope so. He stopped me with
a pistol at my breast; and after I had delivered up to
him my watch and pocket-book, he snapped it at me.”

“There, my friend, so, place your hand so. This exasperated
me, and I struck him a severe blow with my
whip, and endeavoured to ride him down, at which he
drew a Bowie knife, I suppose it was, and struck at me;”
Pinckney paused a moment from pain, and continued,
“the weapon cut the bridle and pierced my side. The
horse sprung from under me as he made another blow,
and I, not being able to control him, fell to the ground
with great violence. Your coming up must have
saved my life, for the ruffian was, I believe, determined
to take it.”

While Pinckney spoke, with the assistance of Sidney,
he uncovered his person, and bound a handkerchief
round him, and over the wound, which was
bleeding profusely. The shadows of night would not
permit Sidney to observe the extent of the injury. He
assisted his friend on his horse, saying:

“Holly is as near as the city; we had better go that
way, and stop at the nearest farm-house,—the nearest
one to us is in that direction. You could not have
staid but a very short time in town.”

“But the half of an hour. I expected letters, and
not receiving them, there was nothing to detain me in
the city. Hang the ruffian, I wish I had been armed.
You have not been home?”

Sidney briefly narrated to Pinckney the purpose
of his return, and while he was speaking—they reached
the farm-house.

Here Sidney examined Pinckney's wound, and as
far as he could judge, not having any medical skill, it
did not appear to be a dangerous one. The farmer,
with his wife, pressed Pinckney to remain beneath their
roof through the night, but he insisted that his wound
was but a slight one; and after thanking them for their
hospitality, he departed with his friend at a slow
pace towards Holly.