The Story of a Bad Boy | Page 5

little Sam-I always did that, more or less gently, when anything went
wrong with me.
My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violent
outbreak, and especially by the real consternation which be saw written
in every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up,
my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library.
I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and
questioned me. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of
my objections to going North, and proceeded at once to knock down all
my pine log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I had
populated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.

"Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories?"
asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me."
"And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered
with beads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his
enemies?"
"Well, sir, I didn't think that exactly."
"Didn't think that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me."
He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemed
to have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I
did not clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel
so badly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible
that Grandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior.
My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to
giving me a clear and succinct account of New England; its early
struggles, its progress, and its present condition-faint and confused
glimmerings of all which I had obtained at school, where history had
never been a favorite pursuit of mine.
I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the contrary, the proposed
journey to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I
promised myself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not
entirely at rest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved
to go on board the ship-the journey was to be made by sea-with a
certain little brass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty
with the tribes when we landed at Boston.
I couldn't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previously
the Cherokees-or was it the Camanches?-had been removed from their
hunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the red
men were still a source of terror to the border settlers. "Trouble with the
Indians" was the staple news from Florida published in the New

Orleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attacked
and murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done in
Florida, why not in Massachusetts?
Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. My
impatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for
me a fine little Mustang pony, 20and shipped it to Rivermouth a
fortnight previous to the date set for our own departure-for both my
parents were to accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out
of bed one night in a dream), and my father's promise that he and my
mother would come to Rivermouth every other summer, completely
resigned me to the situation. The pony's name was Gitana, which is the
Spanish for gypsy; so I always called her-she was a lady pony-Gypsy.
At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the
orange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he was
heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe, who,
in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and then
buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mounted
that morning in honor of our departure.
I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rolling
down Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening like
pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully. then I call out "goodby" in a
muffled voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am
never to see them again!
Chapter Three
On Board the Typhoon

I do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the first
few hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell.
The name of our ship was the "A No. 1, fast-sailing packet Typhoon." I
learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaper

advertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that
is why we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the
ship he