The Runaway | Page 6

his trunk, and had been several times at places which he had just left. O! if he had then abandoned his foolish and wicked course, and gone home with his brother, how much misery he would have escaped! But he contrived to keep out of his way.
That evening Bill said to him, as they were eating their supper in a cellar--
"Rodney, to-morrow morning we must start for Philadelphia."
"But how shall we get there?"
"We shall have to tramp it."
"How far is it?"
"About a hundred miles."
"How long will it take?"
"Four or five days."
"But how shall we get anything to eat, or any place to sleep on the road?"
"Tell a good story to the farmers, and sleep on the hay-mows."
Rodney began to find out that "the way of the transgressor is hard."
That night they went to the theatre. Bill had given Rodney a dirk, which he carried in his bosom. They went up into the third tier of boxes, which was filled with the most wicked and debased men and women. While the rest were laughing, and talking, and cursing, Rodney sat down on the front seat to see the play; but they made so much confusion behind him that he could not hear, so he turned round, and said, rather angrily: "I wish you wouldn't make so much noise."
"Who are you talking to?" shouted a rough, bully-looking man behind him, with a terrible oath; "I'll pitch you into the pit, if you open your head again."
He rushed towards him, but, quick as thought, Rodney snatched the dirk from his breast, drew his arm back over his head, and told the bully to keep off. The man stopped, and in an instant the whole theatre was in confusion. The play on the stage ceased; and there, in full view, leaning over the front of the box, stood the boy, with the weapon in his hand, gleaming in the eyes of the whole audience.
Bill Seegor rushed to him, pulled him back toward the lobby, and took the dagger from his hand. The bully then aimed a tremendous blow at the boy's face, which fortunately was warded off by one of the women. Just then a police-officer came up, and, taking Rodney by the collar, led him down stairs. Half a dozen men, who were Bill's friends, followed; and when they got into the street, they dashed against the officer, and broke his hold, when Bill caught Rodney by the arm and told him to run. They turned quickly through several streets, and escaped pursuit.
Do you think that Rodney was happy amid such scenes? Ah! no; he was alarmed at himself. He felt degraded and guilty; he felt that he was taking sudden and rapid strides in the path of debasement and vice. He thought of his home and its sweet influences. He knew how deep would be the grief of those who loved him, should they hear of his course. His conscience condemned him, and he thought of what he was becoming with horror. But he seemed to be drawn on by his wild desires, and felt scarcely a disposition to escape the meshes of the net that was winding around him.
The sailors praised him, and patted him on the back; told him that he was a brave fellow,--that he was beginning right, and that there was good stuff in him. And Rodney laughed, tickled by such praises, and drank what they offered, and tried to stifle his conscience and harden himself in sin. Yet often, when he was alone, did he shrink from himself, and writhe under the lashings of conscience; and the remembrance of home, and thoughts of his conduct, rendered him very wretched.
CHAPTER V.
RODNEY IN PHILADELPHIA.
Young Rodney was prepared for an early start on the following morning; and, in company with Bill Seegor, he crossed the ferry to Jersey City just as the sun rose, and together they commenced their journey to Philadelphia. They were soon beyond the pavements of the town, and in the open country. It was a lovely morning, and the bright summer developed its beauties, and dispensed its fragrance along their path. The birds sang sweetly, and darted on swift wing around them. The cattle roamed lazily over the fields, and the busy farmers were everywhere industriously toiling. All nature seemed joyously reflecting the serene smile of a benevolent God.
Even the wicked hearts of the wanderers seemed lightened by the influence of the glorious morning, and cheerily, with many a jocund song and homely jest, they pressed on their way. Even guilt can sometimes forget its baseness, and enjoy the bounties of the kind Creator, for which it expresses no thankfulness and feels no gratitude.
At noon they stopped at a farmer's house, and Bill told the honest old man that they belonged to a ship which had