Marco Paul's Voyages and Travels; Vermont Part 9

"You'll teach it to us," said Forester, "when we get our oars and a good boat's crew of boys. At any rate, a boat can be paddled continuously through a narrow s.p.a.ce, better than it can be rowed.

Therefore, paddles are generally used on rivers, where there are many narrow places to pa.s.s through. Indians and savages almost always use paddles, for they navigate many intricate and narrow pa.s.sages of water."

By this time they began to draw near the mill. They landed near some great logs which were floating in the water, ready to be drawn up into the mill and sawed. They went up the bank and thence into the mill.

The man who owned the boat, was tending the mill. When he wanted a log, he would take the end of a long chain down a sloping plane of planks which led to the water, and fasten it to a log. The other end of the chain was fastened round an axle in the mill, and when all was ready, the man would set the axle in motion by the machinery, and that would draw the log up. When the log was in the mill, the man would roll it over into its place, on a long platform of timber, where it was to be sawed. Then he would set the saw machinery in motion, and the platform would begin to move forward, and the saw at the same time to go up and down, sawing the log as it advanced. Thus it would saw it through, from end to end, and then, by reversing the motion of the machinery, the log was carried back again. The man would then move it a little to one side, just far enough for the thickness of the board which he wished to make, and then begin to saw again. He moved the log by means of an iron bar with a sharp point, which he struck into the end of the log, and thus pried it over, one end at a time. When the log was placed in its new position, the machinery was set in motion again, and the log was sawed through in another place, from end to end, parallel to the first sawing, leaving the width of a board between. This process was continued until the log was sawed entirely into boards, except a piece in the middle, which it was necessary to leave of double thickness, and this answered for a plank.

Marco was much interested in watching this process, and when the sawing of this log was completed, and another log drawn up into its place, Forester introduced the subject of the boat. He told the man what he wished to do, namely, to have some row-locks or thole-pins made along the sides of the boat, and some oars to row it with. It would also be necessary to have seats, or thwarts, as they are called, placed in such a manner that there should be one just before each row-lock. These seats were for the oarsmen to sit upon, in rowing. The man told Forester that he might do any thing he pleased with the boat.

He was sure that Forester would do it no injury. Forester asked him who would be a good man to do the work, and the man recommended to him a wagon-maker who had a shop very near the mill.

They went to the wagon-maker and explained to him what they wanted.

The wagon-maker readily undertook the work. They all went down to the boat together, to plan the seats and the places for the thole-pins.

They concluded to have three pairs on each side. This would require six oars. These oars the wagon-maker promised to make, and to have all the work done by the beginning of the next week. They also concluded to have the boat taken out of the water and thoroughly calked again, and her bottom _payed_ over with pitch, as she was not perfectly tight. This being all arranged, Forester and Marco began to walk toward home.

"It seems to me strange to get a wagon-maker to work on a boat," said Marco.

"In New York, I suppose you would go to a boat-builder," said Forester.

"Yes," replied Marco, "to be sure."

"There are no boat-builders here," rejoined Forester. "In fact, there are very few trades represented here, and workmen are willing to do any kind of jobs that they can."

As only a small part of the afternoon was yet pa.s.sed away, Marco asked Forester if he might go down to the river a-fishing. "I can keep within my bounds, you know," said he.

"Yes," said Forester, "you _can_ keep within your bounds."

"And I will," said Marco. "Don't you suppose I will?"

"Why, you can tell better than I can about that," said Forester.

"You have been here now some weeks, and I have treated you with considerable trust and confidence,--have I not?"

"Why, yes," said Marco.

"I have given you leave to go a-fishing, trusting to your fidelity in keeping within your bounds. I have left you alone in your study, several times in the forenoons. I have let you go up on the mountains with other boys, and lent you my watch, so that you might know when it was time to come back. Now you can tell better than I, whether you have been faithful to all of these trusts."

Marco did not answer. He did not know what to say. He walked along in silence.

"I will leave it with you to decide," said Forester. "Here we are just home; now you may go into the study and reflect a few moments upon the subject. Call to mind all the cases in which I have treated you with trust and confidence, and consider whether you have always been faithful to the trust. If, on reflection, you think that you have, you may take your fishing-line and go a-fishing. If you feel conscious that you have at any time betrayed my confidence, you must not go this afternoon. You may go out to play wherever you please about the house and garden, but you must not go a-fishing. If you are in doubt whether you have betrayed my confidence or not, and wish to ask my opinion about some particular case which comes up to your mind, you may remain in the study till I come in, and ask me, and I will tell you. I shall be in, in a few minutes."

There was a pause here. Marco looked very serious, and walked along in silence. Such a turn to the conversation was entirely unexpected to him, and he did not know what to say.

"It is possible," continued Forester, "that you may be conscious that you have clearly been guilty of betraying the confidence which I have placed in you in some instance which I know nothing of, or which you suppose I know nothing of, and you may wish to confess it to me. If you have been guilty of any such act, the best thing that you can do is to confess it to me at once; and if you wish to do it, you may wait till I come, for that purpose. So you may wait till I come either to ask me a question, or to confess a fault. If you do not wish to do either, you may go out without waiting for me; but you must not go a-fishing unless you can truly say that you have been faithful and honest, whenever I have trusted you before."

So saying, Forester parted from Marco and went into the house. Marco slowly walked into the office, and through it into the little study.

He was greatly perplexed to know what to make of this address. "Can it be," thought he, "that he knows that I went away this morning? How could he have found it out? Or did he say that, only to find out now whether I have been honest or not heretofore?"

On mature reflection, Marco concluded that Forester did not probably know any thing about his having gone away. He thought that what he had just said was only a part of Forester's general plan of managing his case, and that it did not imply that Forester entertained any particular suspicions. Marco thought that he might therefore safely go a-fishing that afternoon if he was disposed; but we must do him the justice to say, that he did not entertain the idea of doing it a moment. He determined that he would not go. But as he was not prepared to confess his fault, and as he had no question to ask, he determined to go and play about the garden. He thought a little of waiting till his cousin came in, and then honestly making a confession; but he could not quite conclude upon this, and so he determined to go and think more of it. Besides, he concluded that if he were going to make a confession at all, he should rather do it that evening when he went to bed; for Forester always came up to his room after he went to bed, to have a little friendly and serious conversation with him, and to bid him good night.

He accordingly went out before Forester came in. He spent the afternoon in a miserable state of mind. He could not divest himself of the feeling of anxiety, that in some way or other, Forester had found out his transgression. He rather wondered, that, if it were true that Forester had found it out, he had not said something to him directly about it,--but then he knew it was Forester's way not always to make known, at once, all that he knew in such cases. But then he thought, again, that Forester _could_ not know any thing about it. There was no way for him to have known it. He was away all the morning, and did not come home until after Marco got back. So he concluded that Forester did not know; but he began to wish that he did. He could not bear to think of telling him, but he wished that he knew. The burden of such a secret became intolerable to him. He strolled about the yards and garden, not knowing what to do with himself, and growing all the time more and more anxious and unhappy. He was in a very serious dilemma.

Marco cast his eyes occasionally toward the office, expecting to see Forester come out. He thought Forester would want to know whether he went a-fishing or not. But he did not come. Marco spent some time in the garden with James, who was at work there raking over the ground, and gathering in such things as might be hurt by any sudden frost.

Marco worked with him for some time, and endeavored to converse with him, but he did not find him very communicative, and at last he went into the house and sat on the sofa in the parlor, reading, until supper time.

Marco fully expected that Forester would ask him at supper time whether he had been a-fishing or not; but he said nothing about it.

Forester told his father and mother about their plan for a boat, and gave them a full account of their visit to the mill. His mother seemed quite interested in the account, and told Marco, that, after he got his crew well trained, she should hope that he would invite her on an excursion in the boat.

"Yes," said Marco, "we will. We must have a seat, cousin Forester, for pa.s.sengers and visitors, in the stern sheets."

"The stern sheets?" said Forester, "what do you mean by the stern sheets?"

"Why, it is aft," said Marco, "between the c.o.xswain's place and the stroke-oarsman."

"You'll have to show us," said his aunt, "when we come to see the boat."

This kind of conversation somewhat relieved Marco's mind,--but still he was ill at ease, and he determined to tell Forester the whole story at bedtime, if he could only summon up courage to begin.

Chapter VIII.

A Confession.

In the room where Marco slept, there was a large, stuffed arm-chair, which was commonly called the easy chair; it was one that was seldom used by the family, except in sickness. It stood in a corner of the room not far from the head of Marco's bed. Forester used to sit in this chair while he remained conversing with Marco, when he came up to take his light.

When Forester had taken his seat in the great chair this evening, according to his usual custom, he began his conversation by saying.

"Well, Marco, have you been helping James in the garden this afternoon?"

"Why, no," said Marco, "I did not help him much,--I don't like James very well."

"Why not?" asked Forester.

"Why, I don't think he is very accommodating," replied Marco.

"What has he done to-day, which is unaccommodating?" asked Forester.

"He would not lend me his knife. I wanted to borrow his knife to cut me a cane from some apple-tree tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, and he would not let me have it."

"Haven't you got a knife of your own?" asked Forester.

"Yes," said Marco, "but mine won't open."

"Won't open?" repeated Forester. "What's the cause of that?"

"Why, I suppose because the joint is rusty," replied Marco.

"How came it rusty?" asked Forester.