Cashel Byrons Profession | Page 6

together. And you would hardly be able
for one. Yon just keep moving, and don't go near any railway station,
and you will get to Scotland all safe enough. Look here, we have
wasted five minutes already. I have got my wind now, and I must be off.
Good-bye."
Gully disdained to press his company on Cashel any further.
"Good-bye," he said, mournfully shaking his hand. "Success, old chap."
"Success," echoed Cashel, grasping Gully's hand with a pang of
remorse for leaving him. "I'll write to you as soon as I have anything to
tell you. It may be some months, you know, before I get regularly
settled."
He gave Gully a final squeeze, released him, and darted off along the
road leading to Panley Village. Gully looked after him for a moment,
and then ran away Scotlandwards.
Panley Village consisted of a High Street, with an old-fashioned inn at
one end, a modern railway station and bridge at the other, and a pump
and pound midway between. Cashel stood for a while in the shadow
under the bridge before venturing along the broad, moonlit street.
Seeing no one, he stepped out at a brisk walking pace; for he had by
this time reflected that it was not possible to run all the way to the
Spanish main. There was, however, another person stirring in the
village besides Cashel. This was Mr. Wilson, Dr. Moncrief's professor
of mathematics, who was returning from a visit to the theatre. Mr.
Wilson had an impression that theatres were wicked places, to be
visited by respectable men only on rare occasions and by stealth. The
only plays he went openly to witness were those of Shakespeare; and
his favorite was "As You Like It"; Rosalind in tights having an
attraction for him which he missed in Lady Macbeth in petticoats. On
this evening he had seen Rosalind impersonated by a famous actress,
who had come to a neighboring town on a starring tour. After the
performance he had returned to Panley, supped there with a friend, and
was now making his way back to Moncrief House, of which he had

been intrusted with the key. He was in a frame of mind favorable for
the capture of a runaway boy. An habitual delight in being too clever
for his pupils, fostered by frequently overreaching them in mathematics,
was just now stimulated by the effect of a liberal supper and the
roguish consciousness of having been to the play. He saw and
recognized Cashel as he approached the village pound. Understanding
the situation at once, he hid behind the pump, waited until the
unsuspecting truant was passing within arm's-length, and then stepped
out and seized him by the collar of his jacket.
"Well, sir," he said. "What are you doing here at this hour? Eh?"
Cashel, scared and white, looked up at him, and could not answer a
word.
"Come along with me," said Wilson, sternly.
Cashel suffered himself to be led for some twenty yards. Then he
stopped and burst into tears.
"There is no use in my going back," he said, sobbing. "I have never
done any good there. I can't go back."
"Indeed," said Wilson, with magisterial sarcasm. "We shall try to make
you do better in future." And he forced the fugitive to resume his
march.
Cashel, bitterly humiliated by his own tears, and exasperated by a
certain cold triumph which his captor evinced on witnessing them, did
not go many steps farther without protest.
"You needn't hold me," he said, angrily; "I can walk without being
held." The master tightened his grasp and pushed his captive forward.
"I won't run away, sir," said Cashel, more humbly, shedding fresh tears.
"Please let me go," he added, in a suffocated voice, trying to turn his
face toward his captor. But Wilson twisted him back again, and urged
him still onward. Cashel cried out passionately, "Let me go," and
struggled to break loose.

"Come, come, Byron," said the master, controlling him with a broad,
strong hand; "none of your nonsense, sir."
Then Cashel suddenly slipped out of his jacket, turned on Wilson, and
struck up at him savagely with his right fist. The master received the
blow just beside the point of his chin; and his eyes seemed to Cashel
roll up and fall back into his head with the shock. He drooped forward
for a moment, and fell in a heap face downward. Cashel recoiled,
wringing his hand to relieve the tingling of his knuckles, and terrified
by the thought that he had committed murder. But Wilson presently
moved and dispelled that misgiving. Some of Cashel's fury returned as
he shook his fist at his prostrate adversary, and, exclaiming, "YOU
won't brag much of having seen me cry," wrenched the jacket from him
with