The Victim | Page 9

smoke and lava of old Vesuvius to the lazy loungers of Naples.
The Boy saw his pony safely housed on board the Ætna, and amid the
clang of bells and the scream of whistles, the floating wonder swung
out from her wharf into the yellow tide of the Ohio.
Scores of people crowded her decks for the pleasure of a ride ten miles
down the river to return in their carriages.
The Captain of the Ætna, Robinson DeHart, held the Boy in a spell by
his lofty manners. He had been a sailor on board an ocean-going brig.
To him the landing of his vessel was an event, no matter how often the
stop was made, whether to put off a single passenger, or take on a

regiment. In fact, he never landed the Ætna, even to take on a cord of
wood, without the use of his enormous speaking trumpet and his big
brass spy-glass.
A beautiful, slow, uneventful voyage on the Father of Waters landed
the Boy in safety at the Woodville stopping-place. He leaped down the
gang-plank with a shout and clasped his Big Brother's hand.
"My, my, but you've grown, Boy!"
"Haven't I?"
"Won't little mother be surprised and glad?"
"Let's fool her," the Boy cried. "Let me go up by myself and she won't
know me!"
"All right--we'll try."
The brother stopped at the village and the young stranger walked alone
to his father's house. How beautiful it all seemed--the big log house
with the cabins clustering around it! A horse neighed at the barn and a
colt answered from the field.
He walked boldly up to the porch and just inside the door sat his lovely
mother. She had been one of the most beautiful girls in all South
Carolina in her day, his father had often said. She was beautiful still.
She had known what happiness was. She was the mother of ten strong
children--five boys and five girls--and her heart was young with their
joys and hopes. A smile was playing about her fine mouth. She was
dreaming perhaps of his coming.
The Boy cleared his throat with a deep manly note and spoke in studied
careless tones:
"Seen any stray horses around here, ma'am?"
The mother's eyes flashed as she sprang through the doorway and
snatched him to her heart with a cry of joy:

"No--but I see a stray Boy! Oh, my darling, my baby, my heart!"
And then words failed. She loosed her hold and held him at arm's
length, tried to say something, but only clasped him again and cried for
joy.
"Please, Ma, let me have him!" Polly pleaded.
And then he clasped his sister in a long, voiceless hug--loosed her and
caught her again:
"I missed you, Polly, dear!" he sighed.
When all the others had been greeted, he turned to his mother:
"Where's Pa?"
"Down in the field with the colts."
"I'll go find him!"
With a bound he was off. He wondered what his silent,
undemonstrative father would do. He had always felt that he was a man
of deep emotion for all his self-control.
He saw him in the field, walked along the edge of the woods, and
suddenly came before him without warning. The father's lips trembled.
He stooped without a word, clasped the Boy in his arms and kissed him
again and again.
The youngster couldn't help wondering why a strong man should kiss
so big a boy. The mother--yes--but his father, a man--no.
It was sweet, this home-coming to those who loved deepest. Somehow
the monastery, its bells, its organ, its jeweled windows, and its kindly
black-robed priests seemed far away and unreal now--only a dream that
had passed.

VI
REBELLION
The mother's breakdown was not allowed to stop the Boy's education.
Both father and older brother were determined on this. They would use
the schools at home now.
He was sent to the County Academy in the fall. The Boy didn't like it.
After the easy life with the kindly old monks at St. Thomas, this
academy was not only cheap and coarse and uninteresting, but the
teacher had no sense. He gave lessons so long and hard it was
impossible to memorize them.
The Boy complained to the teacher. A lesson of the same length was
promptly given again. The rebel showed the teacher he was wrong by
failing to know it.
"I'll thrash you, sir!" was the stern answer.
The Boy would not take that from such a fool. He rose in his wrath,
went home and poured out the indignant story of his wrongs.
The father was a man of few words, but the long silence which
followed gave a feeling of vague uneasiness. He was never dictatorial
to his children, but meant what he said. His voice was