University of Virginia Library

9. IX.
HOW CLINTON MISSED A RARE CHANCE.

A word now (while the old couple are recovering from
their shock of joy) with regard to the young man's reappearance.

The reader has, of course, divined that the ghost Phil
saw on the ice was no other than Clint himself. He
crossed the pond because it was the nearest way home.
When he stood still, he was hesitating whether to go on to
the lane, or to take a still more direct course over Mr.
Jones's farm. He had on india-rubber shoes, and they
muffled the sound of his footsteps, preventing them from
being heard until he was quite near. When he flung out his
arms and beat his breast, he was simply whipping his sides
to warm his hands. You may be sure that Phil did not

long remain in doubt as to the real nature of the apparition;
and that he was thrilled with something besides
fear, when, calling out in a loud voice from the shore, “Is
that you, Clinton Dracutt?” he received the characteristic
response, in gross mortal accents, “I bet ye! That you,
Phil Kermer?”

When the first surprise of their meeting was over, and
Phil had got from Clint a brief account of his disappearance,
and Clint had learned (for the first time) from Phil
that he was supposed to be drowned, they walked up the
lane toward the Dracutt house. But now it occurred to
Phil that the grandson's sudden reappearance unannounced
might be even a more dangerous shock to the old couple
than the report of his death had been. He remembered
that Uncle Jim was close by, spending the evening with
Mr. Jones, a sick neighbor; and he thought it would be
peculiarly appropriate that he who had broken to them
the bad news should now convey to them the antidote.

They met Uncle Jim just as he was coming out of Neighbor
Jones's door. He went back into the house with them,
where he remained to recover a little from his astonishment,
and to hear enough of Clint's story to enable him to unfold
the truth by degrees to the old couple; then set out on
his new mission. Phil waited for him to do his errand,
and for Clint to get warm by Mrs. Jones's fire, and to eat
a leg of cold turkey from Mrs. Jones's larder, then took
him home, entering the house with him, as we have seen.

Clint was looking well, but rather shabby. He was inclined
to swagger a little, and to show a manly distaste
for the fuss made over him. Old man Dracutt scarcely
uttered a word, but appeared fairly dazed by what seemed
to him more a dream of his grandson's return than a
reality, and stood with silent tears coursing down his aged
cheeks. The old lady kissed the boy often enough for

both; and repeated again and again the question before
he could get breath between the caresses to answer it,
“Where have you been, Clinton? Clinton, O Clinton!
where have you been?”

“Not to the bottom of the pond, by a long chalk!”
said Clint, getting away from her, and seating himself,
while all sat around him, in the dimly lighted kitchen.
“I never went back on to the ice at all, after I left Phil.
I just went the other way, as fast as ever my legs could
carry me; and pitched those hammers into a corner of the
fence, the first thing. I had no idea where I was going;
but I was so disgusted with everybody and everything,
and myself in particular, that all I thought of was to get
away out of sight, somewhere.

“I had n't gone far when a man came along in a buggy.
`Give me a ride?' says I. `Hop in,' says he. `Rather
hard travelling,' says I. `Yes,' says he; `I got caught by
the snow last night; that comes,' says he, `of travelling
on Sunday.' We got acquainted as we rode along, and I
found out he was a horse-doctor, and that he lived at the
Port. I said I was going there to look for a situation,
and told him I knew a good deal more about horses than I
suppose was exactly consistent with the truth. You see,
as he talked horse, I talked horse out of sympathy. We
made a few stops, and got to his house about noon; then
he asked me to dinner; and after dinner he said he could
give me a job if I would like one. He had a pair of horses
on his hands that he wanted to send up into New Hampshire
to be boarded for the winter; and offered me five dollars
if I would go and take care of them on the way. He paid
me in advance; and the next day I started, went by railroad,
and got to the place the next night. It was a country
tavern; and the landlord said he could n't keep the
team, although he had agreed to, for his hostler had just

left him, and he did n't know about hiring another.
`Maybe,' says I, `you 'd like to hire me?' We struck a
bargain in about a minute, and I went to work, thinking
I was going to be in clover.

“I stayed with him till yesterday morning, when I left
in a hurry. I could n't stand it any longer. I tell ye,
't was rough. Big job and small pay. I began to think
of home, and came to the conclusion I 'd been a dunce to
leave it.”

“But why did you leave it, Clint?” asked Phil. “Your
getting angry with me was no good reason.”

“Well, I had got mad with the old folks too.”

“But was there nobody else you cared for?”

“Well — yes — no — fact is,” said Clint, “there was
another thing that disgusted me. You know you left me
the night before with — you know who. Well, I may as
well own it, I stayed and made a fool of myself. She
did n't care that for me,” Clint snapped his fingers. “I
found 't was somebody else she cared for; and that somebody
else made me mad as fury, next morning, in the
tool-house.”

Phil rose somewhat hurriedly after this, and took his
hat.

“Don't go!” cried Clint. “That 's all right now, ye
know.”

“Yes; glad you 've forgiven me. But I — I 've a little
matter of business to look after. And as I 've heard the
rest of your story, I 'll see you in the morning, Clint.”

With these words, Phil hastened away, to look after the
“little matter of business” that had so suddenly claimed
his attention, leaving Clint to relate to the old people how
he had that day walked all the way from the Port, and
met the late foreman, after crossing the pond.

“So you thought I was in the ice, this winter, with

a vengeance, did ye? Now, if that a'n't the coolest
joke!”

“Yes,” said Uncle Jim, “and we were talkin' about
havin' a funeral sermon preached for you.”

Whereupon the young man almost went into convulsions
of laughter.

“I wish I 'd known it. I 'd have stayed away, put on
false whiskers and goggles, and come to my own funeral.
Would n't it have been rich? 'T a'n't often a man can do
that. Wonder if the minister would have made me out a
saint? Ho, ho, ho! Why did n't I know of it, and come
to my own funeral? There never was such a rare chance
for sport, and, by George, I 've missed it!”