Hooking Watermelons | Page 7

her scruples.
"It can't be really stealing, for I don't feel like a thief," was the logic
that settled it, and the next moment she had the novel sensation of
having both feet surreptitiously and feloniously on another person's
land. She decidedly did n't relish it, but she would go ahead now and
think of it afterward. She was pretty sure she never would do it again,
anyhow, experiencing that common sort of repentance beforehand for
the thing she was about to do, the precise moral value of which it
would be interesting to inquire. It ought to count for something, for, if
it does n't hinder the act, at least it spoils the fun of it. Here was a
melon at her feet; should she take it? That was a bigger one further on,
and her imperious conscientiousness compelled her to go ten steps
further into the enemy's country to get it, for now that she was
committed to the undertaking, she was bound to do the best she could.
To stoop, to break the vine, and to secure the melon were an instant's
work; but as she bent, the high corn before her waved violently and a
big farmer-looking man in a slouch hat and shocking old coat sprang
out and seized her by the arm, with a grip not painful but sickeningly
firm, exclaiming as he did so:--
"Wal, I swan ter gosh, if 't ain't a gal!"
Lina dropped the melon, and, barely recalling the peculiar
circumstances in time to suppress a scream, made a silent, desperate
effort to break away. But her captor's hold was not even shaken, and he
laughed at the impotence of her attempt. In all her petted life she had
never been held a moment against her will, and it needed not the added
considerations that this man was a coarse, unknown boor, the place
retired, the time midnight, and herself in the position of a criminal, to
give her a feeling of abject terror so great as to amount to positive
nausea, as she realized her utter powerlessness in his hands.
"So you've been a-stealin' my melons, hey?" he demanded gruffly.
The slight shake with which the question was enforced deprived her of
the last vestige of dignity and self-assertion. She relapsed into the

mental condition of a juvenile culprit undergoing correction. Now that
she was caught, she no longer thought of her offense as venial. The
grasp of her captor seemed to put an end to all possible hairsplitting on
that point, and prove that it was nothing more nor less than stealing,
and a sense of guilt left her without any moral support against her fright.
She was only conscious of utter humiliation, and an abject desire to beg
off on any terms.
"What do you go round stealin' folks's melons for, young woman?
Don't yer folks bring yer up better 'n that? It's a dodrotted shame to 'em,
ef they don't. What did ye want with the melons? Don't they give yer
enough to eat ter home, hey?"
"We were going to have some supper, sir," she replied, in a scared,
breathless tone, with a little hope of propitiating him by being
extremely civil and explicit in her replies.
"Who was havin' supper to this time er night?" he snorted
incredulously.
"We girls," was the faint reply.
"What gals?"
Had she got to tell where she came from and be identified? She couldn't,
she wouldn't. But again came that dreadful shake, and the words
faltered out:--
"Over at the Seminary, sir."
"Whew! so ye 're one er them, are ye? What's yer name?"
Cold dew stood on the poor girl's forehead. She was silent. He might
kill her, but she would n't disgrace her father's name.
"What's yer name?" he repeated, with another shake.
She was still silent, though limp as a rag in his grasp.

"Wal," said he sharply, after waiting a half minute to see if she would
answer, "I guess ye'll be more confidin' like to the jedge when he
inquiries in the mornin'. A night in the lock-up makes folks wonderful
civil. Now I'll jest trouble ye to come along to the police office," and he
walked her along by the arm toward the house.
As the horrible degradation to which she was exposed flashed upon
Lina, the last remnant of her self-control gave way, and, hanging back
with all her might against his hand, she burst into sobs.
"Oh, don't, don't! It will kill me. I'll tell you my name. It's Lina
Maynard. My father is a rich merchant in New York, Broadway, No.
743. He will give you anything, if you let me go. Anything you want.
Oh, please don't! Oh, don't! I could n't! I could n't!"
In this terror-stricken, wild-eyed girl,