University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

For many years after the settlement of Agawam, a religious
meeting was held every Wednesday, at which the
minister pronounced what was denominated a “lecture.”
On these lecture days, all the people were expected to
be in attendance, precisely the same as on Sabbath days,
though the day was treated in no respect as holy time.
The orders of the General Court were all published on lecture
days, for the benefit of the people; and all those public
announcements were made which were of interest to the
plantation. A portion of the day was regarded by the
apprentices and children as their own, for the purposes of
play. Thus the term “lecture day” early became the
synonym for holiday, and Wednesday was called by its real
name hardly once in a twelvemonth.

Lecture day was a great day for Peter Trimble. A multitude
of the plans concocted in his fertile little brain had
reference to that day. During the week of Holyoke's stay
in the plantation, the people were so far diverted from
observing the operations of this young mischief maker, that
he was enabled to arrange the preliminaries for a grand
game of fun that so excited his imagination that he could
hardly sleep meantime; and when at last lecture day came,
and the lecture was over, he was observed giving sly
whispers to such boys as were in the secret, and all moved
off towards their homes.

Peter, as soon as he had arrived at his home, went back
of it, and, under the cover of trees and shrubbery, proceeded
down the river bank, until he had arrived opposite

to the house of Woodcock, when he approached and entered
it. He knew that Woodcock was absent, at work in the
fields, for he had not been at the lecture, and his canoe was
not at the river's bank.

He found Mary Woodcock alone, and amusing herself
by jumping over a stick, with which she had bridged the
chasm between two benches. The joy that lighted her
features, as Peter made his appearance, and her quick forgetfulness
of all his insults, showed how much she had suffered
in her loneliness, and how thoroughly sympathetic
with the boy nature she had become.

Peter came into the house, taking steps that defined long,
stealthy curves, as they rose and fell, from tip-toe to tip-toe,
and with a countenance that indicated the highest possible
degree of pleasurable excitement.

“What is't now?” inquired Mary, eagerly.

“You know Tim Bristol, Mary?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you know what a regular brag he is, don't you?”

“He don't brag any more'n you do, Peter Trimble—not
a single bit.”

“Well, you know he thinks lots of you, any way, Mary,
and he's always bragging about you.”

“I don't b'lieve you ever heard him say anything 'bout
me in the world,” said Mary, sharply.

“Well! Now!” exclaimed Peter, cramming two whole
sentences and two powerful interjections into two words;
“if I have heard Tim Bristol brag how smart you are, and
how handsome you are, and how he likes you, once, I've
heard him do it—oh! lots and lots of times!” And Peter
clinched his well driven lie with a violent nod of his
head.

“Well, that's none of your business,” said Mary, beginning
to feel an entirely new partiality for Tim.

“Well, I know that,” responded Peter in a candid tone,

“but he carries it too fur. Oh! you ought to hear him
brag.”

“I don't b'lieve he brags—what does he brag about?”

“Well, you ought to hear him once; you've no idea!
Brag? He don't do anything but brag, and he brags about
such droll things. What do you s'pose he said t'other
day? Says he to me, `I'll bet three shillings that Mary
Woodcock can run faster than you can;' and says I to
him, `I'll bet three shillings she can't.' Says he, `I'll bet
she can;' says I, `I'll bet she can't.' Says he, `I know she
can;' says I, `I know she can't.' Says he, `you darsn't
bet;' says I, `I darst.' Says he, `put up your money;' says
I, `Mary Woodcock won't run with me, and you can't make
her run.' Says he, `you darsn't run, and you darsn't bet;'
says I, `if you'll get her to run, I'll take the bet, and give
her a rod the start.”'

“What did he say?” asked Mary eagerly.

“Well, I kind a' backed him down, I thought, but I see
him jest now, and he said I could ask you if I was a' mind
to, but I told him you wouldn't run with me, and you
wouldn't dare to run.”

“Pho! Sho!” exclaimed the girl contemptuously, “I
hope I ain't afeared o' you. Did Tim say he knew I could
run faster'n you could?”

“Yes, he did, and he stuck to it like a nailer, too,” said
Peter, with one of his half rotary nods of emphasis.

“You must be smart, to think I'm afeared o' you,” said
the girl.

“Well! I don't s'pose you're afeared of me, but you
darsn't run with me,” said Peter, with one of his most
confident nods.

“I darst, too,” responded Mary, getting excited.

“You darsn't run this afternoon, any way,” said Peter.

“I will, if you'll go where dad can't see me, nor nobody
else,” said Mary, decidedly.

At the upper end of the settlement there was a mound-like
elevation, that rose on all sides from the level of the
meadow, and spread to the extent of several acres into a
beautiful plateau. This eminence, which is now popularly
known by the inappropriate name of Round Hill, was, from
the peculiarity of its position, a favorite resort for the mischief-making
boys of the settlement. It was elevated above
the fields, so that no one in the vicinity could see the actors,
especially as their operations were carried on near the middle
of the plateau. At, and near this point, a careful observer
would have discovered various mysterious excavations,
booths, corn-cobs, egg shells, partridge feathers, &c., which
showed that it was a favorite resort for a class of boys that
enter into the constitution of every community, in whom
the passions for mischief and wild housekeeping are predominant.

The race for which Peter had made his arrangements was
appointed for this place, and the adroit manner in which he
had surmounted all difficulties may be imagined from
the means by which he secured the attendance of Mary
Woodcock. It did not occur to her, for an instant, that
there was any actual impropriety in her engaging in the
race, and her vanity and her love of exciting play settled
the question, in precisely the manner which Peter had calculated
upon. Accordingly, Peter told her where they
could go, and promised that no one should be present, save
perhaps a few of the boys, “to see that it was done all fair.”

Peter led his victim nearly to the river's bank, and then
pushed northward, under such covers as the land afforded,
and, after a brisk walk of about a mile, reached the point of
assignation. There were half a dozen boys in waiting to
receive them, drawn up in a line, with Tim Bristol a few
paces in front.

“Lungolunt!” challenged the half snickering Tim.

“Lungoloit!” responded Peter.

“Linkumlilligo!” said Tim.

“Lillikumdaddles!” responded Peter.

“Them's the countersigns,” said Peter to Mary, in a side
explanation.

“How goes the war?” interrupted Tim.

“Three to the right, and three to the left, and three to
the chap I took you for,” responded Peter, clapping his
hands three times, and giving a long, shrill whistle, with an
instrument composed of two lips, two rows of teeth, and a
brace of dirty fingers.

This cabalistic exercise was one of the proudest products
of Peter's genius. It had cost him infinite invention to contrive
the words, and give to them the mysterious music that
should insure their success with his companions. The words
were only known to a select few, who became, to all intents
and purposes, a secret society. When any of the privileged
number met, especially if small boys or girls were within
hearing, the charmed signals were exchanged with the
utmost gravity, and with an effect on juvenile imaginations
that was quite bewildering. Two or three sharp little fellows
had caught the words, and would go back and forth
among themselves, solemnly delivering them in challenge
and response.

These interesting ceremonials over, all formality was dropped,
and the boys gathered around the new comers.

“She's jest about tuckered me out, coming up here,”
said Peter, wiping his forehead on his shirt sleeve. “You've
no idea how she puts.”

“You're a' goin' to back out now, are you?” said Tim,
with a wink.

“When you catch me backing out,” said Peter indignantly,
“you'll catch your great-grandmother ridin' a trottin' ridge
pole; now you'd better b'lieve that;” and, as the alternative
seemed extremely improbable, it was admitted on all
hands that Peter would not back out.

“Dad'll get back 'fore I do, if I don't get through pretty
soon,” said Mary, half whispering to Peter.

“Well—here's the ground,” said Peter. “I start here,
and you start there (measuring off five paces and drawing
a mark through the leaves with his bare heel). That's jest
a rod the start. Now when Tim Bristol says `ratta-ban,
ratta-ban, ratta-ban, ratta-biddle slap!'—you start when he
gets to `biddle—slap!”'

“Yes,” said Tim, “and run jest as tight as you can
cut.”

Mary had already taken her place, and her eye was wild
with excitement, while a bright red spot burnt on either
cheek.

“Hold my cap, now,” said Peter to the boys, spitting on
his hands, and winking in a very comical way.

“Are you all ready?” inquired Tim.

“All ready!” said Peter, spitting on his hands again, but
Mary was silent, and showed by her position that she was
only waiting the word for starting.

“Now!” exclaimed Tim, “Ratta-ban, ratta-ban, ratta-
ban, ratta-biddle slap!”

Off flew the little girl with every muscle strained to the
highest tension. She bounded over the leaves like a deer,
her long hair flying wildly back from her head, and her
scanty skirt fairly curbing the reach of her steps. Peter
gained upon her, and the other boys kept well alongside,
cheering at the top of their lungs. “Lean!” cried Tim;
“cut!” shouted another, and the girl impulsively grasped
the skirt of her frock and raised it to give her feet more
freedom of motion.

The first sight that Peter caught of her lithe little limbs
threw him into convulsions. He dashed himself upon the
ground, and gave himself up to laughter the most excessive.
He rolled, and screamed, and beat his head against
a tree, as if he were a ram and the tree his foe. In a

moment the other boys were on the ground near him, as
crazy with laughter as himself.

This was the culminating point of the fun of the occasion.
Peter had witnessed her habit, when running with
fear, or any other excitement, and the whole affair was
arranged by him in order to give the boys a chance, as he
said, “to see the smartest pair of drumsticks that ever
come over.”

Mary ran but a few rods before she became conscious
that the race was relinquished; and, turning on her heel,
she stood silent as a statue, regarding the insane group.
She still held her skirt in her hand, and first suspected the
cause of the uproar when she let it fall. Then the hot blood
mounted to her face, and, burning there a moment, retired
and left her ashy pale. In an instant the whole plot had
opened upon her, and shame, rage, and all the fiercest impulses
of passion, took possession of her. She looked down
before her, and saw a staff that some walker of the woods
had cut and trimmed, and, seizing it, she started back, and
Peter had but just time to escape the hard blow that she
intended for him by a dexterous dodge.

The next moment he was on his feet, with the infuriated
child in full pursuit, and then commenced the real race of
the day. No dodges and no rate of speed availed the betrayer.
The girl seemed clothed with wings, and fairly
flew down upon him, beating him mercilessly. All his artifices
availed him nothing. He dodged, and tripped her
heels, and threw himself down for her to tumble over him,
in vain. At length she drove him from the abrupt bank of
the hill, and, as she was upon him in an instant, he had no
choice but to start in the direction of his home. He had
run but a few rods when a man leaped into the path before
him, and seized him by the arm.

Peter really felt a sense of relief upon finding himself in
the hands of Elizur Holyoke, who, while holding him with

one hand, seized Mary's descending weapon with the other,
and wrenched it from her grasp.

Mary Pynchon and her brother had both joined the
group meantime; and the moment Mary Woodcock caught
sight of the former she ran to her, threw her arms around
her, and burying her face in her dress burst into a distressing
paroxysm of tears.

Mary took the trembling little girl by the hand, led her
aside, and seated her upon a bank that she might rest, and
be able to tell the story of the afternoon's adventures. This
she did at last, with many sobs and much shame; and while
Holyoke led Peter by an unnecessary expansive ear to the
house of Mr. Pynchon, Mary conducted the little girl to
her father's lonely cabin, talking to her quietly and soothingly
as she went, and giving her such counsel as her circumstances
required.

The latter pair had been in the cabin but a few minutes
when Woodcock came in. He knew by the appearance of
his daughter that something serious had occurred, and, with
evident trepidation, asked Mary Pynchon what it was.
She sat down, and related the story, giving the blame to
whom it belonged, and exculpating his daughter as far as
possible.

“My God! Mary, you'll kill me!” exclaimed Woodcock,
and, sinking upon a seat, he buried his face in his hands
and groaned heavily.

This started the child's tears again. She was already
hysterical, and the spectacle presented by both father and
daughter was very painful to its only witness. Woodcock
started up at last, and said, “I guess I'll go and finish off
that boy.”

“I beg you'll not touch the boy,” said Mary Pynchon.
“He shall be taken care of.”

“Miss Pynchon,” said Woodcock, “do you r'ally mean
that?”

“I do,” replied Mary, firmly.

“Do you know how I feel?” inquired Woodcock.

“I have no doubt that you feel very indignant, and I certainly
do not blame you for it.”

“Do you know that I'd rather starve for three days than
lose a grip into that boy's top-knot?”

“I do not doubt it,” replied Mary, smiling at his rude
earnestness.

“And you don't want me to touch him?”

“I do not want you to touch him.”

“I'm glad on't!” exclaimed Woodcock, brightening up,
“'cause now, Miss Pynchon, I can jest show you how John
Woodcock remembers a good turn. My hand aches to get
hold of that boy (and he shook his big first mightily), but I
shan't touch him, 'cause you don't want to have me.” And
he smiled grimly, as if he had by a mighty effort achieved a
great moral triumph, that brought him pleasure, pain, and
pride in equal proportions.

Mary thanked him for his promise in regard to the boy,
but she did not feel entirely easy as to his child. She
thought it might be assuming too much to dictate in what
manner a father should treat his daughter, and, as she
could think of no better way to effect her wishes, she
stooped and kissed the child, and leaving with her a whispered
exhortation, bade the pair a good evening.

Woodcock followed her to the door, and arrested her
departure by a slight touch upon her arm. She turned,
and saw a pair of eyes suffused with emotion, and their
owner making futile attempts to speak.

“Miss Pynchon,” said he at length, “you needn't 'a done
that. I shouldn't 'a touched her.”

Mary pressed his rough hand in silence, and walked
hastily homewards. When she arrived there, she found
quite a concourse of those who had collected to learn what
the trouble was; and Peter stood trembling in the midst.

Mr. Pynchon was engaged in the examination of one of
the rogue's accomplices, who, as he was rather a victim
than an accomplice, was telling the whole story of Peter's
operations with entire correctness. Mary heard enough to
learn that the truth was coming fairly out, and then left
the room.

“You say,” said Mr. Pynchon to the boy, “that the bet
that you tell of was all flax.”

“Nothin' but flax,” answered the witness.

“What do you mean by that?” inquired the magistrate.

“I mean it was just vamped up for fun,” answered the
boy.

“Peter Trimble,” said the magistrate, addressing that
distinguished lad, “I think I understand your case pretty
well. You are evidently in want of a course of strong discipline.
The lies you have told within the past week are
enough alone to call for ten lashes, and the operations of
to-day call for punishment more serious than that. As you
are of no particular use to your master, and are inclined to
bet without money, I think you should be made to work
out your bet for the benefit of those you have injured.
You will work for John Woodcock, and be under his
control for one month. If you behave well, and drop your
lying, your betting, and your tricks, during your punishment,
you will then be released. Otherwise, you will have
another month of the same treatment.”

Poor Peter received his sentence with a sad heart. A
month with John Woodcock! It was a cloud that hung
between him and all the mischief of life. He could not
look at it, and so stood amidst the joking crowd, and
screwed his fists into his eyes strongly and persistently,
as if the fountain of tears lay very far back, and he were
boring for water.