The Rival Campers Ashore Part 22

"Get up!" replied the elder Perkins. "Just let me catch you getting up before daylight! If I had my way, there wouldn't be any firing guns or firecrackers on Fourth of July. It's barbarism--not patriotism.

"Willie," he added, "do you know any of those boys out there to-night?"

"How can I tell, if you won't let me go out?" whined Willie.

"I'd like to know who put it into people's heads to fire off guns on the Fourth," exclaimed Mr. Perkins. "He must have been a rowdy."

Willie Perkins made a mental note that he would look up President Adams next morning, for his father's benefit.

Mr. Perkins returned to his bed-room and closed his eyes once more. His was not a sweet and peaceful sleep, however. Benton was awakening to the Fourth in divers localities, and sounds from afar, of fish-horns and giant crackers, of bells and barking dogs, came in, in tumultuous confusion.

"Confound the Fourth of July!" muttered Mr. Perkins. "I didn't disturb people this way when I was a boy."

But perhaps Mr. Perkins forgot.

There came by, shortly, a party of intensely patriotic youth from the mill settlement under the hill. Their particular brand of patriotism manifested itself in beating with small bars of iron on a large circular saw, suspended on a stick thrust through the hole in its centre and borne triumphantly between two youths. The reverberation, the deafening clangour of this, cannot possibly be described, or appreciated by one that has never heard it. Suffice it to say, that the fish-horns, even the cannon, were insignificant by comparison.

Mr. Perkins groaned and half arose. But the party went along past, without offering to stop--perhaps because they had received no invitation from Willie. Moreover, it seemed as though half the town was astir by this time and giving vent to its enthusiasm. Benton had a remarkable way of getting boyish on the morning of the Fourth, which the elder Perkins could not understand.

When, however, an hour later, another shock of cannon shook his chamber, followed immediately by what sounded to him like a derisive blast of fish-horns, there was no more irresolution left in him. Hastily arising and throwing a coat over his shoulders, and das.h.i.+ng a hat over his eyes--the first one that came to hand, and which happened to be a tall beaver--Mr. Perkins, barefoot and in his night-clothes, a not imposing guardian of the peace, sped down the front stairs and out into the street.

A cry of alarm, the rumble of cannon dragged by ropes over the shoulders of a squad of youths in full flight, and the exclamations of the indignant Mr. Perkins, marked the occasion.

Fear lent its wings to the pursued; wrath served to lighten the bare heels of Mr. Perkins. He was gaining, when one of the youth, c.u.mbered in flight by his artillery piece, let go the string. The cannon remaining in the path of Mr. Perkins, he stumbled over it, and it hurt his toe. He paused and picked up the cannon, but relinquished it to grasp his toe, which demanded all his attention. He decided, then and there, that the pursuit, which had extended about three blocks, was useless, and abandoned it. Limping slightly, he started homeward.

Somewhat like the British retreat from Concord and Lexington, was the return of Mr. Perkins to his home. A piece of burning punk lay in the road, and presently he stepped on that. The fleeing forces had doubled on their tracks, also, and a fire-cracker exploded near him. Then a torpedo. And there was no enemy in sight to take revenge on. Mr. Perkins hastened his steps and was soon, himself, in full retreat.

Then, when presently he was conscious of the raising of curtains in near-by windows, and felt the eyes of several of his neighbours directed toward his weird costume, Mr. Perkins no longed walked. He ran. As he closed the door behind him and tramped wearily up the stairs, the voice of his son greeted him.

"Say, pa, is it time to get up now?"

Mr. Perkins's reply was most decidedly unpatriotic.

The hours went by, and a rapid fire of small artillery ran throughout Benton and along its whole frontier line. Even the bells in the steeples, no longer solemn, clanged forth their defiance to authority--which was the only thing that slumbered in the town on this occasion.

But Benton had other observances for its boisterous display of spirits, the origin of which no one seemed to know, but which were partic.i.p.ated in each year by the new generation of youths, with careful observance of tradition.

There were the "Horribles," for example, not to have ridden in which at some time of one's life was to have left one page blank. The procession of "Horribles," otherwise known as "Ragam.u.f.fins," usually started at about six in the morning, marching through the streets until nine;--by which time the endurance of a youth who had been out all night usually came to an end.

Now, as the hour of three was pa.s.sed, certain eager and impatient aspirants for first place in the line began to make their appearance on horseback in the streets of Benton, clattering about on steeds that had never before known a saddle; weird figures, masked uncouthly in pasteboard representations of Indians, animals and what-not, and clad in every sort of costume, from rags to ancient uniforms--a noisy, tatterdemalion band, blowing horns and discharging firearms.

There was Tim Reardon, mounted on an aged truck horse, that drooped its head and ambled with half-closed eyes, as though it might at any moment fall off to sleep again. Sticking like a monkey to its bare back was Tim, his face hidden behind a monstrous mask, his head surmounted by a battered silk hat, extracted from a convenient refuse heap; a fish-horn slung about his neck by a string.

There was Henry Burns, with face blackened and a huge wooden tomahawk at his belt; he, likewise, astride, on one of Mr. Harris's work horses. A more mettlesome steed upheld Jack Harvey, but not at all willingly, since it had an uncertain way of backing without warning into fences and trees, to the detriment of its rider's s.h.i.+ns. The firing of a huge horse-pistol by Harvey seemed to aggravate rather than soothe the animal's feelings.

The Warren brothers had contrived a sort of float, consisting of an express wagon, gorgeously covered with coloured cloths, even interwoven in the spokes of the wheels, and wound around the body of the horse that drew it. A wash-boiler, its legitimate usefulness long over, set up in the wagon, was beaten on by Arthur and Joe Warren, while their elder brother drove.

Tom Harris, Bob White and a scattering of other grotesque hors.e.m.e.n came along presently.

"Where'll we go?" queried Harvey, as the squadron paused to rest after a preliminary round of some of the streets.

"Past Perkins's house again," suggested young Joe Warren.

"No, we've been by there twice already," answered Henry Burns. "He won't like Fourth of July if we give him too much of it."

Young Joe grinned behind his mask.

"I'll tell you," he said, excitedly. "We've got time to do it, too, before the parade begins--Witham's! Bet he's sound asleep--what do you say?"

"Come on," cried Henry Burns. "Will you go, fellows?"

A whoop of delight gave acquiescence. The procession clattered out of Benton and started up the valley road by the stream.

They went along noisily at first, beating their battered tinware, setting off giant firecrackers, blowing horns and whooping l.u.s.tily.

Farmers along the road opened a sleepy eye as they pa.s.sed, remembered it was the morning of the Fourth, and turned over for another nap. Pickerel in the stream dived their noses into the soft mud at the lowest depths.

Night-hawks, high above, swooped after their prey and added their weird noise to the din. Yellow-hammers and thrushes, rudely roused, darted from their nests and took flight silently into the thicker screen of the woods.

But, as the riders neared the Ellison dam, and heard the first sound of the falling water, they subsided, planning to take the neighbourhood, and particularly the occupants of the Half Way House, above, by surprise. Thus silently going along, they were aware of a light wagon, drawn by a lively stepping horse, turning from the road that led up to the Ellison farm and coming on toward them.

"h.e.l.lo!" exclaimed George Warren; "it's Doctor Wells. Something's up.

Wonder what's the matter."

Doctor Wells, coming up to the leaders, reined in his horse and regarded the procession with a mingled expression of good humour and anxiety.

"Pretty early to start the Fourth, isn't it?" he asked. "What's that you say? Going to wake up Colonel Witham--and Ellison?"

His face a.s.sumed a serious expression.

"Wake Jim Ellison," he repeated, as though he was speaking more to himself than to them. "I wish you could. 'Twould stop lots of trouble, I'm thinking. No man can wake poor Jim Ellison. He's dead. Went off quick not a half hour ago. Got a shock, and that was the end of him.

You'll have to turn back, boys."

Quietly and soberly, the procession turned about and headed for Benton.

The parade that morning was minus a good part of its expected members.

One week later, Lawyer James Estes of Benton, carrying some transcripts of legal papers under his arm, walked up the driveway to the Ellison farm and knocked at the front door. A woman, sad-eyed and anxious, opened to his knock and ushered him into the front parlour.

"I'm afraid I've got bad news for you, Mrs. Ellison," he said, in response to her look of inquiry. "I'm sorry to say it looks as though your husband's affairs were much involved at the time of his death. I find those deeds were given to Colonel Witham. They're on record, and I suppose Witham has the original papers, duly signed. We'll know all about it as soon as he returns. He went out of town, you say, the day Mr. Ellison died?"

"Yes," she replied; "never came near us, nor sent us word of sympathy.

I'm afraid he didn't want to see us. I never wanted James to have business dealings with him. Does the mill go, too?"

"I'm afraid it does," answered Lawyer Estes. "Why, didn't you know about it? Your name is signed, too, you know, else the deeds are not good."

"Oh, yes, I suppose I did sign them, if they're on record," said Mrs.

Ellison. "I was always signing papers for James. He said everything would be all right. I didn't know anything about the business--dear, dear--I thought the boys would have the mill when James was too old to work it. It's good property, if it does look shabby."

"Well, we'll make the best of it and do all we can," said Lawyer Estes.

"Perhaps Witham can straighten it out when he returns. If he can't, there seems to be no doubt that the mill and some of the farm belong to him. We've hunted everywhere about your home and about the mill, and there are no papers that save us. We must wait for Colonel Witham."