Left to Themselves: Being the Ordeal of Philip and Gerald. Edward Prime-Stevenson
deepening over his red face as he realized that the bearer of the basket was alone, “What time is it?”
The boy retreated a few steps, pulling out a neat little silver watch, too polite to refuse the information. “Half past eleven,” he said, in his pleasant accent.
“O, but is that there watch correck?” inquired the evil-faced gentleman, taking several steps in the water toward that margin from which the lad had drawn back prudently. “Let me come up and see it for myself, wont you? That looks like a new watch.”
“I say, keep off!” cried the owner of the watch, all at once suspecting the designs of Mr. Sip and turning slightly pale. “Keep off, there, I say!” The intrepid little fellow dropped his rod and caught up a stone that lay near. “I—I don’t like your looks! I’ll throw this at you if you come any closer.”
The boy’s face was whiter at each word, although his spirit gave a ring to his threat. But Mr. Sip had invaded too many kitchens and terrified far too many helpless servant-maids to allow himself to be daunted by a boy well dressed and carrying a watch and a basket of good things. He uttered an angry oath and splashed violently toward the lad, stumbling among the sharp flints of the creek. It was open war begun by hot pursuit.
The path by which Gerald Saxton (for that happened to be the name of the solitary little fisherman) had made his way to the creek was steep and irregular. He ran up it now, panting, with Mr. Sip in stumbling chase, the latter calling out all manner of threats as he pursued. The boy was frightened greatly, but to be frightened is not to be a coward, and he knew that the path led into Farmer Wooden’s open meadow.
Through the green underbrush he darted, running up along the slope of the ravine, prudent enough not to waste his wind in cries that would not be at all likely to reach the farm-house, until he should dash out in the field itself, and planting his small feet carefully.
“If he catches up to me,” thought Gerald, “he will knock me over and get the watch and be off before I can help it! I must make the meadow!”
On hurtled Mr. Sip, floundering up the narrow path, still giving vent to exclamations that only quickened Gerald’s flight. Suddenly Mr. Sip saw an opportunity for a short cut by which Gerald might yet be overtaken. He bounced into it. Just as Gerald shot forth into the long meadow the furious philosopher found himself hardly ten yards in arrear.
“Now I’ve got yer!” he called, too angry to observe that the farm-house was in sight. “You drop—that basket—an’ that watch—or—” Now Gerald shouted lustily, still flying ahead.
But Mr. Sip did not finish. A new figure came into action.
“What under the canopy is that?” cried a boy who was so much older and larger than little Gerald that he might almost have been called a young man. He was standing by the well up in the Woodens’s dooryard waiting for the horse he had been driving to finish drinking. In another moment he grasped the situation and was leaping swiftly and noiselessly down the long slope over the stubble.
Tramps had been plentiful lately. His voice rang out to comfort Gerald and warn Mr. Sip. Gerald looked up, but with a white, set little face ran past him. Mr. Sip, taking in the height, weight, and courage of the frightened boy’s new ally, turned and began running toward the low oak trees.
A strong ash stick, thrown with excellent aim, struck Mr. Sip squarely in the small of his back. He staggered for an instant, but rallied, and, a coward to the last, vanished in the thicket with a parting curse. Within an hour he might have been seen drinking buttermilk thirstily at a cottage a mile away. The good-humored farmer’s daughter gave it to him, pitying a man who was “walking all the way from Wheelborough Heights to Paterson, in Jersey, marm, to find my old boss and git a job he’s promised me.”
And now good-bye, Mr. Sip! You have done something to-day that would surprise your lazy self immensely. You have done a stroke of work. Thanks to your being a brutal vagrant, there is just coming about an acquaintance that is of the utmost import in the carrying on of this story—without which it would never have been worth writing or reading.
“Well, upon my word!” ejaculated the new-comer, wheeling about as if disposed to waste no more pains upon a man of Mr. Sip’s kidney, and coming back to Gerald Saxton. “I am very glad I heard you! What did that rascal want of you? His kind have been uncommonly thick this autumn.”
“Why—he was after my watch, I think,” replied Gerald, sitting down on a flat rock, a smile re-appearing upon his startled face. “I was standing down at the bottom of the path in the glen when he began talking to me. First thing I knew I saw that he meant mischief. I suppose it wasn’t wonderfully brave of me to run from him.”
“Brave in you!” exclaimed merrily the solid-looking older lad. “As if a brute like that was not as big as six of you! You acted precisely as any sensible fellow of your size would do. ‘He who fights and runs away,’ you know. Did he do you any harm?”
“Not a bit, thanks. He didn’t get close enough to me”—this with a chuckle.
“Were you fishing down in that lonely glen? It is a very fair spot for bass.”
“Yes; Mr. Wooden took me down into the ravine quite a little way above it. Do you know the place, sir?”
“O, yes, sir; I know the place very well, sir,” answered Gerald’s defender, with a quizzical twinkle in his eyes as he repeated those “sirs.” Then they both laughed. Gerald slyly compared their respective heights. His new friend could not be so very much taller. Certainly he was not over seventeen.
“You see, I was raised here—after a fashion,” went on the latter in his clear, strong voice. “You are one of the guests over at our Ossokosee House, aren’t you? I think I’ve seen you on the piazza.”
“Yes; I’ve been stopping there while my father is away. My name is Gerald Saxton, though almost every body calls me Gerald.”
“And mine is Philip Touchtone, but every body calls me Philip, and you needn’t call me ‘sir,’ please. I know Mr. Marcy, who keeps the Ossokosee, very well. It was to deliver a message from him to the Woodens about the hotel butter that I stopped here this afternoon. But do tell me how that scamp dared run after you? The minute I saw him and you, even as far off as Mrs. Wooden’s back door, I suspected that it was a tramp, and I didn’t hesitate very long.”
“No, you didn’t,” answered Gerald. And he walked along, swinging his arm manfully and fighting over again for Philip Touchtone’s benefit those details of the brief skirmish between himself and Mr. Sip that had hurriedly followed one another previous to Philip’s advent. He continued his furtive observation of his new friend all the time. Touchtone had gained about five feet four of his full height, with a broad, well-developed chest, active legs, and a good straight way of carrying himself that reminded one of his sharp, pleasant way of speaking. His hair was dark enough to pass for black, as would his eyes and eyebrows, although they were actually brown, and full of an honest brightness. As for his face, it was rather long, full, and not particularly tanned, though the sun was well acquainted with it. The most attractive feature of it was a mouth that expressed good humor and resolution. In short, Gerald might have easily made up his mind that Philip Touchtone was a person born to work for and get what the world held for him.
“Whew!” exclaimed he, as Gerald reminded him, “I forgot Mrs. Wooden’s carpet-beater! I threw it after your friend down there. He got the full benefit of it.”
“And I forgot my rod! I dropped it when I thought it was best to run.”
“Wait a minute and I’ll get both,” said Philip. “I know that identical rock where you say you stood—at the foot of the path.” And before Gerald could remonstrate Philip ran from his side and darted down into the glen where Mr. Sip must have still lurked in wrath. But sooner than Gerald could feel alarm for him Philip came back with rod and beater.
“We need never expect to see him again,” he said, breathlessly. “But—halloa!