Nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept his senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their matin song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens.
Bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. For a moment he did not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of the previous evening. He felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and came out of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at home. Rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose foliage canopied his bed, and his identity was soon restored to him. He was Bobby Bright—but Bobby Bright in trouble. He was not the little merchant, but the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to which he had been doomed.
It did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only advantage of his primitive style of lodging. His first object was to examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should continue his flight. He could not go ahead, as he had intended, for the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. Leaving the dense forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had seen in the night. It was salt water, and he reasoned that it could not extend a great way inland. His only course was to follow it till he found means of crossing it.
Following the direction of the creek he kept near the margin of the wood till he came to a public road. He had some doubts about trusting himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he seated himself upon a rock to argue the point. If any one should happen to come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to his future movements, if not of being immediately captured.
This was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one upon the other side. He had eaten nothing since dinner on the preceding day, and he began to feel faint for the want of food. On the other side of the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though it might afford him a few berries; and he was on the point of taking to the road, when he heard the rumbling of a wagon in the distance.
His heart beat with apprehension. Perhaps it was some officer of the institution in search of him. At any rate it was some one who had come from the vicinity of the Reform School, and who had probably heard of his escape. As it came nearer, he heard the jingling of bells; it was the baker. How he longed for a loaf of his bread, or some of the precious gingerbread he carried in his cart! Hunger tempted him to run the risk of exposure. He had money; he could buy cakes and bread; and perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and would befriend him in his distress. The wagon was close at hand.
"Now or never," thought he; but this time it was not now. The risk was too great. If he failed now, two years of captivity were before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it for a while.
"Now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he permitted the baker to pass without hailing him.
He waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road till he had crossed the creek. The danger was great, but the pangs of hunger urged him on. He was sure there were berries in the pasture, and with a timid step, carefully watching before and behind to insure himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge. But then a new difficulty presented itself. There was a house within ten rods of the bridge, which he must pass, and to do so would expose him to the most imminent peril. He was on the point of retreating, when a man came out of the house, and approached him. What should he do? It was a trying moment. If he ran, the act would expose him to suspicion. If he went forward, the man might have already received a description of him, and arrest him.
He chose the latter course. The instinct of his being was to do everything in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted his decision.
"Good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man.
"Good morning. Where are you travelling?"
This was a hard question. He did not know where he was travelling; besides, even in his present difficult position, he could not readily resort to a lie.
"Down here a piece," he replied.
"Travelled far to-day?"
"Not far. Good morning, sir;" and Bobby resumed his walk.
"I say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the man came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot.
"I can hardly tell you," replied Bobby, summoning courage for the occasion.
"Well, I suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile.
Bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was suspected of being a runaway from the Reform School. That smile on the man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a flood of misery roll over his soul. But the natural elasticity of his spirits soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up the ship, even if he had to fight for it.
"I am in a hurry, so I shall have to leave you."
"Not just yet, young man. Perhaps, as you don't know where you are going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man, good naturedly.
There was a temptation to give a false name; but as it was so strongly beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a falsehood, he held his peace.
"Excuse me, sir, but I can't stop to talk now."
"In a hurry? Well, I dare say you are. I suppose there is no doubt but you are Master Robert Bright."
"Not the least, sir; I haven't denied it yet, and I am not ashamed of my name," replied Bobby, with a good deal of spirit.
"That's honest; I like that."
"'Honesty is the best policy,'" added Bobby.
"That's cool for a rogue, anyhow. You ought to thought of that afore."
"I did."
"And stole the money?"
"I didn't. I never stole a penny in my life."
"Come, I like that."
"It is the truth."
"But they won't believe it over to the Reform School," laughed the man.
"They will one of these days, perhaps."
"You are a smart youngster; but I don't know as I can make five dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come from."
"Yes, you can," replied Bobby, promptly.
"Can I?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"By letting me go."
"Eh; you talk flush. I suppose you mean to give me your note, payable when the Kennebec dries up."
"Cash on the nail," replied Bobby. "You look like a man with a heart in your bosom,"—Bobby stole this passage from "The Wayfarer."
"I reckon I have. The time hasn't come yet when Sam Ray could see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. But to help a thief off——"
"We will argue that matter," interposed Bobby. "I can prove to you beyond a doubt that I am innocent of the crime charged upon me."
"You don't look like a bad boy, I must say."
"But, Mr. Ray, I'm hungry; I haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon."
"Thunder! You don't say so!" exclaimed Sam Ray. "I never could bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards."
Sam Ray took Bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the table. Our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he felt like a new creature.
"Now, Mr. Ray, let me tell you my story," said Bobby.
"I don't know as it's any use. Now you have eat my bread and butter, I don't feel like being mean to you. If anybody else wants to carry you back, they may; I won't."
"But you shall hear me;" and Bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain, unvarnished tale."
When he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. Sam looked out of the window, as almost everybody does in the country when a carriage passes.
"By thunder! It's the Reform School wagon!" exclaimed he. "This way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding him get under the bed.
The carriage stopped at the house; but Sam evaded a direct reply, and the superintendent—for it was he—proceeded on his search.
"Heaven bless you, Mr. Ray!" exclaimed Bobby, when he came out of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks.
"O, you will find Sam Ray all right," said he, warmly pressing Bobby's proffered hand. "I ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around here think so."
"You are an angel!"
"Not exactly," laughed Sam.
Our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his account book and some other papers which he had retained. Sam Ray was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw Tom Spicer he would certainly "lick" him for his sake.
"Now, sonny, I like you; I will be sworn you are a good fellow; and I mean to help you off. So just come along with me. I make my living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and then. You see, I have got a good boat down the creek, and I shall just put you aboard and take you anywhere you have a mind to go."
"May Heaven reward you!" cried Bobby, almost overcome by this sudden and unexpected kindness.
"O, I don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man—and I am dead sure you will be a great man—just think now and then of Sam Ray, and it's all right."
"I shall remember you with gratitude as long as I live."
Sam Ray took his gun on his shoulder, and Bobby the box of provisions which Mrs. Ray had put up, and they left the house. At the bridge they got into a little skiff, and Sam took the oars. After they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, Bobby felt secure from further molestation.
Sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner.
"Now, my hearty, nothing short of Uncle Sam's whole navy can get you away from me," said Sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner.
"You have been very kind to me."
"All right, sonny. Now tumble aboard."
Bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and Sam followed him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings.
In a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." Bobby, who had never been in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little craft.
"Now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked Sam, as they emerged from the bay into the broad ocean.
"I don't know," replied Bobby. "I want to get back to Boston."
"Perhaps I can put you aboard of some coaster bound there."
"That will do nicely."
"I will head towards Boston, and if I don't overhaul anything, I will take you there myself."
"Is this boat big enough to go so far?"
"She'll stand anything short of a West India hurricane. You ain't afeard, are you?"
"O, no; I like it."
The big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of water. Bobby had unlimited confidence in Sam Ray, and felt as much at home as though he had been "cradled upon the briny deep." There was an excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys.
They ate their dinners from the provision box; Sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. Bobby felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but good-hearted friend. They were now far out at sea, and the night was coming on.
"Now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn't rest much last night."
"I am not sleepy; but there is one thing I will do;" and Bobby drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills.
"Put them up, sonny," said Sam.
"I want to make you a present of ten dollars."
"You can't do it."
"Nay, but to please me."
"No, sir!"
"Well, then, let me send it to your good wife."
"You can't do that, nuther," replied Sam, gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner ahead of him.
"You must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and I insist upon making it up to you."
"You can't do it."
"I shall feel bad if you don't take it. You see I have twenty dollars here, and I would like to give you the whole of it."
"Not a cent, sonny. I ain't a heathen. That schooner ahead is bound for Boston, I reckon."
"I shall be sorry to part with you, Mr. Ray."
"Just my sentiment. I hain't seen a youngster afore for many a day that I took a fancy to, and I hate to let you go."
"We shall meet again."
"I hope so."
"Please to take this money."
"No;" and Sam shook his head so resolutely that Bobby gave up the point.
As Sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to Boston. Her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend.
"Good by, Mr. Ray," said Bobby, as the schooner filled away. "Take this to remember me by."
It was his jackknife; but Sam did not discover the ten dollar bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it.
Bobby did not cease to wave his hat to Sam till his little craft disappeared in the darkness.
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