Robert Coverdale's Struggle Part 46

"I mean to. Now, we will settle about this little affair. Where is Bill?"

"Out in the field, digging potatoes," said Andrew glibly.

"Go and call him."

"All right, sir."

And the boy prepared to obey the command with uncommon alacrity.

Poor Bill, nervous and unhappy, had been hard at work in the potato field through the long forenoon, meditating bitterly on his sad position. So far as he knew, there was no one that loved him, no one that cared for him. He was a friendless boy. From Mr. and Mrs. Badger and Andrew he never received a kind nor encouraging word, but, instead, taunts and reproaches, and the heart of the poor boy, hungering for kindness, found none.

"Will it always be so?" he asked himself. "If Andrew would only be kind to me I would do anything for him, but he seems to hate me, and so does Mrs. Badger. Mr. Badger isn't quite so bad, but he only cares for the work I do."

The poor boy sighed heavily as he leaned for a moment upon his hoe. "He was roused by a sharp voice.

"Shirking your work, are you?" said Andrew. "I've caught you this time.

What'll my father say to that?"

"I have been working hard, Andrew," said Bill. "I can show you what I have done this forenoon."

"That's too thin. You're lazy, and that's all about it. Well, my father's got home, and now you're going to catch it. Maybe you'll knock him down with a hoe," said Andrew tauntingly.

"I'm sorry I hit you, Andrew, as I told you; but you shouldn't have struck me with a whip."

"I had a perfect right to do it. I'm your master."

"No, you're not!" returned Bill with spirit.

"We'll see whether I am or not. Come right up to the house."

"Who says so?"

"My father told me to call you."

"Very well, I will come," and the bound boy shouldered his hoe and followed Andrew wearily to the farmhouse yard, where Mr. and Mrs. Badger were standing.

One look at the stern faces of the pair satisfied Bill that trouble awaited him. He knew very well that he could not hope for justice and that one word from Andrew in the mind of his parents would outweigh all he could say.

"Here comes the young ruffian!" said Mrs. Badger as soon as he came within hearing distance. "Here comes the wicked boy who tried to kill my poor Andrew."

"That is not true, Mrs. Badger," said Bill earnestly. "I was only defending myself."

"You hear, Mr. Badger. He as much as tells me I lie! Do you hear that?"

demanded the incensed woman.

"Bill Benton," said Mr. Badger sternly, "I hear you have made a savage and brutal attack on Andrew Jackson. Now, what have you to say for yourself, sir?"

"He struck me twice with a whip, Mr. Badger, and I got mad. I didn't mean to hurt him."

"You might have killed him!" broke in Mrs. Badger.

"No, I wouldn't, ma'am."

"Contradicting me again! If there was ever a boy looked like a young fiend, you did when I came out to save my boy from your brutal temper.

Oh, you'll swing on the gallows some day, sir! I'm sure of that."

To an unprejudiced observer all this would have been very ridiculous.

The delicate, refined-looking boy, whose face showed unmistakable gentleness and mildness, almost carried to an extreme, was about the last boy to whom such words could suitably have been addressed.

"Andrew Jackson, did you strike Bill with a whip?" asked Mr. Badger, turning to his son.

"No, I didn't," answered Andrew without a blush.

"How can you tell such a lie?" said Bill indignantly.

"Mr. Badger, will you allow this young ruffian to accuse your own son of falsehood?" cried the mother.

"Did you have a whip in your hand, Andrew?" asked his father.

Andrew hesitated a moment, but finally thought it best to say he did.

"Did you strike Bill with it?"

"No."

"You see how candid the poor boy is," said his mother. "He tells you that he had a whip in his hand, though many boys would have denied it.

But my Andrew was always truthful."

Even Andrew felt a little embarra.s.sed at this undeserved tribute to a virtue in which he knew that he was very deficient.

"Bill Benton," said Mr. Badger sternly, "it appears that you have not only made an atrocious a.s.sault on my son, but lied deliberately about it. You shall have neither dinner nor supper, and tonight I will give you a flogging. Now, go back to your work!"

"Ho, ho! You'll hit me again, will you?" said Andrew triumphantly as the poor boy slowly retraced his way to the field.

As the bound boy walked wearily back to the field he felt that he had little to live for. Hard work--too hard for his slender strength--accompanied by poor fare and cruel treatment, const.i.tuted his only prospect. But there seemed no alternative. He must keep on working and suffering--so far he could foresee.

He worked an hour and then he began to feel faint. He had eaten but little breakfast and he needed a fresh supply of food to restore his strength. How he could hold out till evening he could not tell. Already his head began to ache and he felt weary and listless.

He was left to work alone, for Mr. Badger usually indulged himself in the luxury of an after-dinner nap, lasting till at least three o'clock.

As he was plodding along suddenly he heard his name called in a cheery voice:

"h.e.l.lo, Bill!"

Looking up, he saw d.i.c.k Schmidt, the son of a neighbor, a good-natured boy, whom he looked upon as almost his only friend.

"h.e.l.lo, d.i.c.k!" he responded.

"You're looking pale. Bill," said his friend. "What's the matter?"