University of Virginia Library

2. II.
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 015. In-line Illustration. Image of a man and a boy sitting on the ground. The man is seated on a tree root and the boy is kneeling.]

MARTIN found the open air more
congenial to his feelings. The quiet
village street, the homely fences,
the old bridge over the brook, and
the ostentatious field trees, which
hung out their fluttering, gaudy
shreds of gold and scarlet, refreshed
him as he passed along. But the
sky was the great attraction. The
west was all aflame with the glories
of sunset. Picturesque battlements and turrets and jagged walls
shot up from purple crags of cloud, gilded with fire. It was a
grand sky to rear airy castles in, and you may be sure Martin
improved the occasion. His past had been a strange one, full of
suffering and trial; but it was nothing to him now. All the mystery
and trouble which had attended his childhood, the pale
ghosts of disappointment and bad genii of passion which had
since beset his spirit, were quite forgotten. The glorious future,
which his warm soul upreared in the sunset sky, was all he felt or
saw.

On his return to the cottage, — the two front windows of which,

that evening, looked more than ever like the widow's eyes, — he
was met at the gate by Cheesy.

“Be ye going to Boston to-morrow morning, though?” asked
the boy, with an anxious face.

“Yes, Cheesy; and I hope you 'll be a good boy, and remember
me sometimes.”

“I wish I was going with you. I do, by gracious! I can't
live with her in this way.”

Martin laughed at the poor fellow cheeringly, and, by way of
encouragement, gave him his knife, which he had always admired.

Cheesy grinned a moment over the present; then began to
snivel, as the feeling came over him that he was about to lose his
only friend.

“I shall hate to have you go, the hardest kind,” he articulated
in his sleeve. “She uses me wus 'n wus, every day. I got away
from her real slick, jes' now,” he added, with a grin of cunning;
“but I suppose” — glancing apprehensively at the house — “I
shall have to ketch it when she gits hold of me. She han't hurt
me much yit, but —” At that moment Mrs. Dabney appeared at
the door, and, brandishing the hickory stick, requested Martin to
seize that good-for-nothing, deliver him into her hands, and
oblige her.

“Run, Cheesy!” whispered Martin. “Jump over the fence.
— He won't let me,” — addressing Mrs. Dabney, — “and I don't
feel like racing.”

On the whole, she concluded it was best to compromise the
matter. “Come and get the pail,” said she, “and milk the cows.
I won't touch you.”

“Set the pail down on the steps, and shet the door,” replied
Cheesy, “and I will.”

She did as desired, and withdrew; but the moment Cheesy set
foot upon the steps, she darted out upon him.

“There, you 've lied to me!” cried he, jumping upon the fence,
“and I won't milk, to pay you for 't. Oo-oo-o—o!” crowing
like a cock, and flapping his arms. “Don't you wish you could
ketch me? Oo-oo-o—o!”

Mrs. Dabney smothered her indignation, — to use a mild word,
— and returned to the kitchen, followed by Martin. She had
already drank her three strong cups of tea; and, having diluted
the contents of the tea-pot for her boarder, she set about writing
the proposed letter of introduction. Cheesy, meanwhile, put his
head in at the wood-house door, to impart the pleasing intelligence
that somebody would be glad enough to lay hands on him
that could n't, and to make a disinterested inquiry as to the
mysterious individual who was expected to milk the cows. The
widow took no apparent notice of him, but went on writing with
great slowness and difficulty, and with painful contortions of her
mouth, which Cheesy imitated with grotesque grimaces, for Martin's
entertainment.

“If you 'll have Mr. Mer'vale read that 'ere last chapter,”
said he, “then I 'll go and milk. Say, will ye?”

The widow doubled up the sheet in awkward folds, sealed it
with a big wafer, stamped it with her thimble, superscribed it
with great care and deliberation; and having held it up to the
window to criticize it, delivered it to Martin. The young man
expressed his thanks, and wished to know if there was anything he
could do for her in return.

“You know,” said she, stealing a glance at Cheesy, “that I 've
done a good many little things for you, this way and that, nothing
was ever said about in our bargain. I don't mean to be mean,

speaking of 'em; but any such little present as a dress or a shawl,
with a little snuff or tea thrown in, would n't be any more 'n fair,
would it? Of course you 'll get rich, and make your mark,
and —” Watching Cheesy, with her revengeful thoughts on him,
she let her voice sink to a disagreeable mutter. Martin quite
mistook her meaning.

“My mark?” he echoed, quickly. “Did you say —”

She repeated the sentence more distinctly, reaching slyly to the
window-sill for her stick.

“O!” said Martin, relieved. “I thought you meant, — that
is, I thought you said you had seen, — never mind. Thank you.”

Meanwhile Cheesy, to show his contempt for his step-mother's
authority, was practising the audacious trick of putting his foot
over his head, after the manner of circus-riders. For once he
carried his insolence too far. Suddenly the widow rushed upon
him, and, seizing him before he could disengage his ankle from his
neck, beat him until he roared for mercy. Never before had
Martin known Cheesy to receive so severe a punishment. He was
on the point of interfering, to prevent fatal consequences, when the
boy, by a desperate manœuvre, overturned his step-mother on a
pile of potatoes, and ran, bellowing with pain and terror, out of
the shed.

With sullen lips, and red and swollen eyes, and hands and face
ridged with marks of the hickory-stick, Cheesy prowled about
the village, mumbling over a bitter morsel of revenge, in lieu of
supper, until all was dark and still in Mrs. Dabney's cottage. He
then climbed in at the kitchen window, — having found the doors
bolted against him, — and went to bed. But when the widow
stole up to surprise him on the following morning, he was missing.
Never but once, in all his life, — and that was one famous Fourth

of July, when fire-crackers were in contemplation, — had he been
known to get up so early without being called, or pulled out of bed
by the ears. The extraordinary occurrence filled Mrs. Dabney
with apprehension. Nor did the discovery that he had worn off
his Sunday roundabout, fustian trousers, and the shoes Martin
gave him, taking with him his two extra shirts and other valuables,
and leaving his every-day rags in the bed, console her for
his loss. Her threats at the time would have made Cheesy's
heart sink, miles away, could they have reached his ears; nor
had they ceased exploding fitfully from her angry lips when the
young author took leave of her and set out upon his journey.

Martin slung his bundle on a staff, shouldered it, and passed
through the door-yard gate, just as the sun was rising. The
fresh, ruddy rays came out of the luminous east, bearing golden
associations of the land wherein his fancy had revelled so long,
and welcomed him with faint kisses on his hopeful face.

The morning was quiet and chill. A clear sky, a bracing air,
and a beautiful white frost painting the fields and the fences,
inspired the young romancer with animation. It was the most
joyous day his soul had ever seen arise; and never, in his happiest
moments, had he beheld so many rainbows overarching his future,
and paving his path with light. In the midst of all this glory,
high up and bright, appeared the Beggar of Bagdad, in the character
of Hope. His apparel was more magnificent than ever; it
was purple, gold and scarlet; it was celestial. But whether it was
printed in fast colors, which no rainy days could cause to fade,
nor cold water of experience wash out, nor changeful weather
bleach, Martin had yet to learn.

With his thread-bare coat buttoned across his chest, and his
white hat — two seasons behind the style — tipped jauntily

against the sun, he gayly went his way. The village was left
behind, with its lazy chimney-smokes and crowing cocks; the
meeting-house steeple went down out of sight; and the refulgent
robes of the morning swept away the frost. At length, as Martin
approached a clump of sumachs that grew by the fence, he heard
somebody whistling, to a slow and mournful measure, the “Road
to Boston;” and presently a face appeared, looking through a
cluster of crimson leaves.

“Is that you, Cheesy?” he asked. Thereupon an odd figure,
pinched up in the tightest possible garments, jumped over the
fence.

“What did she say?” asked the boy, with a sheepish grin.

“Her opinion of you is not very favorable, Cheesy; and I 'd
advise you to run back, before she thinks worse of you.”

“Ketch me going back!”

“Why, — what do you intend to do?”

“Don't know; an't going back, anyway,” muttered Cheesy,
with a sullen shake of the head. “Look o' there!” He showed
his hands, which still carried marks of his flogging, and pointed
out divers red streaks on his face. “I 'm all kivered with jes'
sich scars. You can feel the ridges through my coat, if you 'll let
me take your hand.”

He began to sob with maddening recollections of his wrongs.
Hugging his bundle — which bore a suspicious resemblance to a
handkerchief Mrs. Dabney had missed — under one arm, he
passed the other across his nasal organ. This last act was
accompanied with danger and difficulty. His sleeve was so tight,
that, to avoid bursting it, he was obliged to duck his face, and perform
the operation with a double motion of his head. His general
appearance served greatly to heighten the effect of this pleasing

exhibition. His roundabout, which had been a new one, made
out of one of his father's old dress-coats, three years before, had
been economized as a Sunday garment, until it seemed by a miracle
that he ever squeezed himself into it. It was so short as not
only to expose his waistbands and the ends of his leather suspenders,
but also to betray a faint boundary-line of cotton shirt, which
divided his upper from his lower hemisphere, like an equator.
His fustian trousers were of corresponding fitness. The legs
seemed to be on such very distant terms of friendship with his
shoes, that one would have judged there must be a decided coolness
between them that chill October morning. These deficiencies,
together with a rip above his left knee, a modest gap which
relieved the excessive tightness of his seat, and a few stitches
started on his right shoulder, gave Cheesy the appearance of
bursting out of himself, like those fruits which grow too large for
their rind, and crack open with ripeness. His hat, which had been
his father's, like his coat, was equally unique in its appearance.
Time had battered its steeple-crown and narrow brim, until its
original form and fashion were indistinguishable. This shaggy
and venerable thing Cheesy wore far on the back of his head, as
if his ears alone prevented it from shutting down over him, like
an extinguisher. Add to this his smeared and wrinkled-up face,
and one can readily appreciate the convulsed feelings with which
the sympathetic Martin regarded his companion.

“She did n't hurt much,” resumed the boy, in a moment of
returning pride; “only she made me mad. I 'd a good notion to
set the house afire; I could,” he added, showing a bunch of
matches. “ 'T any rate, I guess she 'll find the paper o' lam'-black
emptied inter the bureau draws, and more 'n one pinch of
snuff in the sugar-bowl!” He grinned, with his face still shining

in spots where he had wiped it; but the next moment he
relapsed again into a convulsing sense of his sufferings, and sobbed,
and ducked his head, and used his sleeve as before. Martin
meanwhile earnestly counselled his immediate return.

“Don't tell me to go back!” he burst forth, with anguish.
“I wish you 'd let me go with you. I 'll work, — work like a
dog. — see if I don't.”

“What can you do, poor fellow?”

“Why, I can git into a store, or su'thin' of the kind. I
always thought I 'd like to be a clerk.”

Martin smiled, and patted the lad's shoulder kindly, and told
him that experience would teach him never to build castles in the
air. He did not, of late years, he said, quite seriously.

“I 've got an uncle in Boston, — Uncle Jesse. He 'll git me
inter some business, I know,” insisted Cheesy. “So, if you won't
let me go with you, I shall go alone.”

“Come along, then!” cried Martin. “If you 're determined
to run away, I 'll be as good a friend to you as I can. Now, stop
snivelling, and whistle me the `Road to Boston.'”

Cheesy's spirits went up like meadow-larks in spring. He giggled
and capered around Martin delightedly; but his afflictions
were still so recent, that he was obliged more than once to duck
his head, strain up his sleeve and whet his oozy face upon it, as
before.

“Why don't you whistle?” asked Martin, laughing, but winking
away a tear of sympathy at the same time.

“I can't,” articulated Cheesy. “My lips won't pucker.”

“Never mind, then. You 're a good fellow, Cheesy. March
ahead, and I 'll whistle for you.”

The lad obeyed, giggling, and walked before Martin joyfully

and proudly, like a young soldier. “Why don't you whistle?”
he asked presently, grinning over his left shoulder. Martin said
he supposed it was because his lips would n't pucker.

“You 're laughing at me,” observed Cheesy, good-naturedly.

“At you, and at myself too,” replied Martin, in capital spirits.
“What sort of a figure do I make, in this seedy coat and old
white hat?”

“You look fust-rate!” exclaimed Cheesy, with genuine admiration.
“I wish I did. I believe,” glancing over his shoulder
at his legs, “these trouses are gitting too small for me. They
feel so, anyway.”

“Never mind, Cheesy; I 've got the Beggar of Bagdad on my
back, and he 'll do something for our wardrobe soon, depend upon
it. I carry him as Sinbad the Sailor carried the Old Man of the
Sea.” The comparison was a reckless one. The next moment
Martin was sorry it occurred to him. “Though I hope I shall not
find my companion so terrible in the end,” he added, “and so desperately
hard to get rid of, as poor Sinbad's proved to be.”

Cheesy giggled again, and marched on gayly, playing an imaginary
fiddle over the bundle on his left arm, and breaking away
some additional stitches on his shoulder in the enthusiasm of the
moment. Martin followed with a thoughtful smile, bearing his
burden lightly, and humming the air his lips had refused to
whistle.

It was as pleasant a day as one could desire. The country all
around was bright and glad. The blue hills which bounded sight
looked soft and warm through their autumnal haze. The foliage
of the woods flushed out in richest tints and dyes, and the meadows
basked in the soft flood of light poured out upon them from the
golden horn of the sun. Our travellers were passed and repassed

by vehicles; in the fields, at farm-house windows, and in the doors
of barns, they beheld the inhabitants of the land; and everybody
they saw looked at them curiously, and seemed to be amused.
Some youngsters in a cart, driving an ox-team, laughed and
shouted as they passed, and made absurd inquiries, in a friendly
way, concerning Cheesy's mother. Then a pleasant old man drove
up in a homely old chaise, and fell into conversation with Martin,
who told him rather more about his schemes than redounded to his
credit; upon which the benevolent gentleman, advising him kindly
to return home with his companion and find some honest employment,
bade them good-morning and drove on.

At noon the pedestrians entered a grove, and, sitting down
on a log, partook of crackers and cheese. As a dessert, Cheesy
produced from the midst of his shirts a large block of gingerbread,
which he had stolen from Mrs. Dabney's pantry. Breaking
it across his knee, he generously offered the largest piece to Martin;
but the latter, on account of conscientious notions touching
stolen property, or from prejudice against the general contents
of Cheesy's bundle, respectfully declined the luxury. Having
counted on affording his friend an agreeable surprise, the lad was
a good deal disappointed; he crammed his mouth with the gingerbread,
however, and appeared to enjoy it hugely, notwithstanding
his chagrin.

Having finished their meal, the travellers drank at a brook
which ran babbling through the grove. Cheesy attempted first to
use the crown of his hat as a dipper; but, as it was too leaky to
hold water, he concluded to resort to a still more primitive way
of drinking. He got down upon his face, with his mouth full of
gingerbread, and got up again with a dripping nose and chin,
bursting out his left knee, and choking and coughing violently.

Martin daintily drank from a spot a yard or two above, notwithstanding
Cheesy's earnest recommendation of the place where his
own features had been dipped, and where several sinking crumbs
were still visible.

The weather changed a good deal before night. The spirits of
the young gentlemen also underwent degrees of variation. Footsore,
weary, a little disheartened, — especially Cheesy, — and
anxious about lodgings, they arrived in sight of an old red school-house,
on the corner of two lonely roads, just as a chill, sullen
autumn rain was setting in. The gloom of evening was gathering
fast; the town where Martin had purposed to spend the night
was still two miles distant, and Cheesy proposed that they should
sleep in the school-house.

“You would n't ask 'em to keep us where we stopped to rest
and git a drink,” said the boy, “'cause you 're too proud. You
need n't be afraid to stop here, though; nobody 'll see us.”

Feeling the necessity of economizing his finances, Martin
thought the school-house would, for one night, be preferable to a
hotel. “If we can get in,” he suggested to his companion.

Cheesy said he would see, and went around to the door, which
fronted on the cross-road. He came limping back, however,
scowling and glancing over his shoulder. “Them very same beggars
'at stopped 't our house yes'day are settin' on the steps,” said
he, in a whisper. “I come pretty nigh pitchin' right on to 'em.”

Martin looked up anxiously at the rainy sky, and, hastening
round the corner, met the beggar and his child, as they were setting
out again upon the road.

“How goes it to-night, my friend?” he asked.

The wanderer gave Martin a look of surprise, and, touching his
hat in humble recognition, said, “Well, — very well.”

“It is a bad night,” returned Martin, glancing at the sweet
face of the patient child. “I hope you have not far to go.”

“I hope not far, indeed. There is a house on the hill yonder;
but we are not certain of being well received there. I only wish
for a shelter for my child,” faltered the man, with a look of
anguish, as he tenderly arranged her little hood. “For myself, I
can lie on the ground, — under the fences, — anywhere.”

“There 's a lock on the door,” cried Cheesy, from the steps.
“But the staple 's loose. I can pull it out. Shall I?”

The rain was beginning to patter down thick and fast. Martin
laid his hand kindly upon the beggar's arm.

“Don't think of going on with her to-night,” he said. “Let us
stop here. We can make a bed for her of our coats; and, if
there is a stove, we will soon have a fire to warm her.”

“It 's out, slick enough!” ejaculated Cheesy, who had been
prying on the staple with a stick. “Hurra! the door 's open!”

It required but little urging to induce the wanderers to go in
out of the storm. “Are you afraid of me?” asked Martin,
lifting the child carefully up the steps.

“O, no!” she replied, with a faint smile. “I liked you, the
minute I heard you speak yesterday.”

Her gentle voice touched chords of sympathy deep down in
Martin's heart. He pressed her little hand, and stooped to kiss
her brow. But the beggar hurriedly placed his arm around her,
with jealous care, and guided her before him through the entry.

The school-room was gloomy and chill. But Martin and
Cheesy went to work, and, with the help of matches and a knife,
had soon succeeded in starting a fire. Cheesy brought in big
arm-fulls of wood, as if he expected to pass a polar winter in the
place, and did not mean to be short of fuel.