Brave Tom by Edward S. Ellis

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Dreading they would not stop, Jim kept up his headlong flight, dashing
through the open gate, without a pause for dogs, and giving so resounding
a knock on the door that the old farmer instantly appeared, wondering what
in the name of the seven wonders could be the matter.

"Can I stay here over night?" asked Jim, panting with terror; "a couple of
bad men are after me."

"Yes, certainly, my boy; come in. I've one patient now, but you are
welcome. My other boy is well enough to sit up."

Looking across the room, the astounded Jim saw his old friend, Tom Gordon,
sitting in an easy-chair, with one leg bandaged, as though suffering from
a hurt.

Chapter XVII.

The meeting between Tom Gordon and Jim Travers was one of the most joyous
character.

As soon as the fugitive recognized his old friend, he uttered a cry of
delight, and rushing forward, threw his arms around his neck, and the
latter responded with a regular shout of happiness.

Then they laughed and asked and answered questions for some ten minutes,
both in such a flutter of excitement, that their stock of knowledge was
scarcely increased in the least.

By the time they got down to their sober senses, Jim awoke to the fact
that a couple of bad men were after him, and were likely to pursue him
across the threshold of the farmer's home.

There was no one present during the affecting interview between the lads
excepting the kind host, and he was so touched by the joy of his guests
that he more than once drew his hand across his face in a very expressive
manner.

When Jim explained his peril, telling how it was he escaped to this place,
the farmer said,--

"You may bid farewell to all earthly fear while you're here with me. The
old woman is over to one of the neighbors', and there ain't no one home
but me; howsomever, I'm equal to any two."

Just then the gate was heard to shut, and the farmer stepped hurriedly to
the window and looked out.

"Yes, there's two men coming up the path."

"They're after me," said the frightened Jim; "let me run out through the
back way; I can get away from them."

"You won't do any such thing," was the resolute reply of the old man,
while he compressed his lips, and his eyes flashed resolutely.

"This is _my_ home, and the law says it is my castle; and if any man
attempts to cross that threshold against my orders, on his head be the
consequences."

By way of making matters consistent, he stepped briskly into the next
room; and when he returned, which was in the course of three seconds, he
held a loaded double-barreled gun in his grasp.

"It's well to have something like this to sorter emphasize what you say,
you know--hello!"

The scoundrels were at the door, and a resounding knock was heard.

"Come in," called back the old man, who stood in the room, gun in hand.

Instead of opening the door, the criminals on the outside knocked again,
their evident purpose being to gain an advantage by bringing some one to
them.

"Come in!"

This was uttered in a tone that could be heard a hundred yards, and those
who were applying for admission could not pretend to be ignorant of such a
lusty welcome as that.

The latch was lifted, the door shoved inward, and there the two sailors
stood, each with a revolver in hand, looking into the room, but neither
venturing to step over the threshold.

We have stated where the farmer stood, and what his pose meant.

Tom Gordon was nearly recovered from his fractured leg, and he, too, had
risen from his chair with his pistol in hand. He told Jim to get as near
him--or rather behind him--as he could, and if there was to be any
shooting, why, he would take a hand.

The sailors could not fail to take in the fact that the three were on
their mettle, and something more than a summons was necessary to bring
them to terms.

"Well, what do you want?" asked the farmer, in a voice like a growl, while
he lowered upon them in the most ominous style.

"We want that boy," replied Bob, the sailor, pointing his pistol at the
fellow, whose heart beat a little faster when he found himself confronted
by such danger.

"Do you want to go with them?" asked the farmer of the boy.

"No; they mean to kill me; they've tried it already, and you can see that
my clothes are still wet from jumping into the river to swim away from
them."

"He belongs to us. We don't wish to hurt him; but he must go with us. If
he refuses, we shall take him, and it will be bad for you."

"It will, eh?" muttered the farmer, a peculiar click, click, where his
hand grasped the gun, showing that he was cocking the weapon, so as to be
ready for business. "It will, eh? Now I'll give you just two seconds and a
half to take yourselves out of my sight, and if you don't, I'll empty both
barrels of this gun into you."

"Let me know when you're going to shoot, Mr. Pitcairn," said Tom, also
cocking his revolver, "because I want to join in."

The sailors, with some muttered imprecations, wheeled about and took
themselves off, leaving the three masters of the field.

This danger removed, the boys sat down, and while the farmer went out to
attend to some work about the premises, they talked coolly and sensibly
over the past and future.

Tom was almost entirely recovered from the hurt to his leg, and expected
to leave the house in the course of a few days.

He had written to and received a letter from his employers, notifying him
that his situation was gone and there was none to give him.

So his future was as uncertain as that of Jim, who had not received a
penny since leaving home the winter before, and who had not the remotest
idea as to what he should do.

Jim had a small sum of money with him, and his other clothes were still
preserved by his friend.

As Tom was the owner of some extra garments, these were donned by the
fellow who had received such a ducking; and, as the room was pleasantly
warm, he experienced no inconvenience from his bath.

Tom had also quite a sum in the savings-bank, and though he was reluctant
to call upon it, yet there was enough to provide both against any want.

Tom said Farmer Pitcairn was a kind man, and thought he should be paid
something for his entertainment of the wounded boy, as was manifestly his
due; yet he would treat them as well without the slightest compensation.

When the farmer came in, and the case was laid before him, he said that he
could make use of Jim at once, and of Tom as soon as he should be able to
go around, and they might remain on the farm as long as they chose.

The life of a young farmer was not very attractive to either of the lads,
but they concluded to fall back on it until they could find some more
agreeable opening.

There was some fear that the two sailors would show themselves again and
make trouble, but nothing more of them was ever seen.

When Jim related the story of his abduction, Tom and Mr. Pitcairn boiled
with indignation, and insisted on a prosecution of the scoundrels,
including Mr. Hornblower, who could easily be reached by the strong arm of
the law.

On mature reflection, however, the scheme was abandoned.

Jim made himself as useful as he could; and being unusually bright and
quick to learn, he disappointed the farmer with his readiness in picking
up the hundreds of mysterious little things which make up the farmer's
life.

He learned to milk the cows, to drive the plow, to ride the most fractious
horses, and to break the fiery young colts; he knew precisely how to look
after the horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, fowls, and everything at night and
in the morning.

As Tom regained the use of his limb, he joined him in this pursuit of
knowledge, which had a great many pleasant features about it.

They became expert in the use of the gun, and as one of the neighbors
owned a rifle which he was willing to lend, they practiced until they
grew quite skillful in the use of that weapon.

The pistol afforded another branch of the science of projectiles, and, as
the revolver was an unusually good one, they also became remarkably expert
in the use of that little "bulldog."

Jim visited the city a short time after his arrival at the farmer's, and
brought back all the property belonging to himself and Tom, as well as the
money deposited in the savings-bank.

This latter move was one of the best they ever made. Two days after, the
bank in which the deposit was made went to pieces, the depositors,
consisting mainly of the poorer classes of people, losing all, while the
officers retired with plethoric pockets to wait till the storm should blow
over.

During these beautiful days the lads held long and earnest conferences as
to what they should do, for they had reached an age wherein there was
little time to spare.

They discussed the plan of learning some useful trade, and decided to do
so; but, after several attempts to secure the opportunity, all resulting
in failure, they gave it up, concluding that the fates had not intended
them for such a life. They could not bring themselves down to the plan of
remaining farmers all their days.

Tom would have liked to become a lawyer, and Jim inclined to the
profession of medicine; but being without friends to secure the openings,
they were compelled to give them the go-by, for the present at least.
Another occupation seemed peculiarly attractive to them; that was one
where each could make use of his skill in penmanship, something in the way
of clerical work. In the pursuit of this phantom they learned the rather
mournful fact that every such situation in the United States has from ten
to a hundred applicants.

The boys became well satisfied that Farmer Pitcairn was allowing them to
remain with him under the pretense of work, when the real truth was that
they were more of a hindrance than a help. This knowledge made them
uncomfortable, and caused them to resolve that it should not continue.

The spring wore along until the mild summer came, and still the boys
remained with Farmer Pitcairn.

Chapter XVIII.

One night Jim Travers talked a great deal in his sleep. His tossing awoke
Tom Gordon several times and caused him some anxiety, which was increased
when he touched his friend's cheek and found him suffering with a burning
fever. Toward morning Jim's restlessness partly subsided, and he fell into
a fitful slumber. Tom dropped off, and did not awake until he heard his
friend astir.

"What's the matter?" asked the elder, sitting up in bed and looking in a
scared way at Jim, who having partly dressed himself, was sitting on the
side of the couch.

"I don't know; I feel awful queer; my head is light; I saw father and
sister Maggie last night: did you see anything of them?"

"No; you were dreaming."

"They were here; father came in the room and looked at me, but did not
speak and went away, but Maggie took hold of my hand and asked me to go
with her. Wasn't it strange, Tom, that she should come back after all
these years? I saw her as plain as I do you."

Tom was frightened. Swallowing a lump in his throat, and hiding his
agitation as best he could, he said gently,--

"Jim, you are ill. Lie down on the bed again and I'll call Mrs. Pitcairn."

"I'm afraid there is something the matter with me," muttered the younger
lad, lying down, his face flushed and his eyes staring. He said something
which showed his mind was wandering and he had become flighty.

Tom hastily donned his clothing and hurried downstairs to the farmer's
good wife, who lost no time in coming to the room of the boys. By this
time Jim had lost all knowledge of his surroundings. He was muttering and
saying all sorts of strange things, speaking of his father, of his sister
Maggie, and even of his mother, who died when he was a very small boy.

Mrs. Pitcairn had no children of her own, but she had had great experience
in the sick-room. She saw, almost at a glance, that Jim Travers was
suffering from a violent and dangerous fever. She prepared him a bitter
but soothing draught of herbs, and told her husband a physician must be
brought without delay.

Farmer Pitcairn felt a strong affection for the two lads, whose singular
coming beneath his roof has been told. He was as much concerned as his
wife, and, harnessing his horse, drove off at a swift pace for the family
doctor, who appeared on the scene a couple of hours later.

"He is ill, very ill," said the physician; "his fever is of a typhus
character, though not strictly that. There has been considerable of it
this spring and summer in New York."

"Is it contagious?" asked the farmer.

"Somewhat; though it seems to be more of the nature of an epidemic; that
is, it travels through the air, appearing without special reason at one
place, and then at another. We have had three cases in the neighborhood
the past fortnight."

"What was the result?" asked Mrs. Pitcairn.

"One was Mrs. Wilson, an elderly lady; the other her grandson, and a
nephew of Mr. Chisholm," replied the doctor, not answering the question.

"What was the result?" repeated Mr. Pitcairn for his wife.

The doctor shook his head, and, with his eyes on the flaming face of Jim
Travers, whispered,--

"All three died within twenty-four hours after being taken."

Tom Gordon's eyes filled with tears.

"O Doctor! is it as bad as that?"

"I am sorry to say it is. We shall hope for the best with this young man.
Give him the medicine every hour, and I will call again this evening. You
have all been exposed to whatever danger there is in the air, so you need
not be alarmed."

"It wouldn't make any difference about that," said Tom; "I'm going to
stay with him, and do all I can. I don't care whether or not I catch the
fever."

"That is more creditable to your heart than your head. Don't forget," said
the doctor, speaking to all, "to watch yourselves closely. At the first
appearance of headache, ringing in the ears, and fever, take those powders
that I have left on the stand. This is one of the cases where an ounce of
prevention is worth a good many pounds of cure. Nothing more can be done
for the boy than to follow the prescription I have given you. I will be
here again in the evening, unless he should become much worse, when you
can send for me."

Tom Gordon will never forget that day and night. He refused to leave the
bedside of his friend except for a few minutes. The farmer and his wife
were equally faithful, and did all they could for the sufferer, whose
condition seemed to show a slight improvement toward the latter part of
the afternoon. So much so indeed that all felt hope.

Jim slept at intervals, but continually muttered and flung himself about.
There were flashes of consciousness, when he would look fixedly at those
around his bed, and smile in his winning way. He thanked them for their
kindness, and hoped he would get well; but he had never felt so strange.
It seemed as if his head was continually lifting his body upward, and he
was so light he could fly.

After lying this way for some minutes, his hand, which rested in that of
Tom's, would suddenly tighten with incredible strength, and he would rise
in bed and begin a wild, incoherent rambling, which filled the hearts of
the others with anguish.

It was just growing dusk, when Jim, who had exchanged a few words of sense
with his weeping friend, said, lying motionless on his pillow, and without
apparent excitement,--

"Tom, I'm dying."

"O Jim! don't say that," sobbed the broken-hearted lad. "You must get
well. You are young and strong; you must throw off this sickness: keep up
a good heart."

The poor boy shook his head.

"It's no use. I wish I had been a better boy; but I've said my prayers
night and morning, and tried to do as mother and father used to tell me to
do. Tom, try to be better; I tell you, you won't be sorry when you come to
die."

"No one could have been better than you, Jim," said the elder, feeling
more calmness than he had yet shown. He realized he was bending in the
awful shadow of death, and that but a few more words could pass between
him find the one he loved so well.

"I haven't been half as good as I ought to--not half as good as you, Tom."

"O Jim! you should not say that."

"He is right," whispered Mrs. Pitcairn, standing at the foot of the bed,
beside her husband; "he will be with us but a few minutes longer. How do
you feel," she asked gently, "now that you must soon go, Jim?"

"I am sorry to leave you and Tom, but it's all right. I see mother and
Maggie and father," he replied, looking toward the ceiling; "they are
bending over me, they are waiting to take my hand; I am glad to be with
them--Tom, kiss me good-by."

With the tears blinding his eyes, and holding the hot hand within his own
warm pressure, Tom Gordon pressed his lips on those of Jim Travers, and,
as he held them there, the spirit of the poor orphan wanderer took its
flight.

The door gently opened a minute later and the physician stepped inside.
One glance told him the truth.

"I knew it was coming when I looked at him this morning," he remarked, in
a soft, sympathetic voice. "Nothing could save him. How do you all feel?"

It seemed cruel to ask the question of the three all standing in the
presence of death; but it was professional and it was wise, for, by
pressing it, he withdrew their thoughts from the overwhelming sorrow that
was crushing them.

Tom Gordon had flung himself on the bed with uncontrollable sorrow. One
arm lay over the breast and partly round the neck of the body, which
breathed no longer, and whose face was lit up by a beatific smile; for Jim
Travers was with mother and Maggie and father, and they should go out no
more forever.

Chapter XIX.

It is not well to dwell upon the second great affliction of Tom Gordon. He
was older now than when his mother died, and though bowed to the earth by
the loss of his cherished playmate, he was too sensible to brood over his
grief. Short as had been his stay at the home of Farmer Pitcairn, he had
made friends, and they were abundant with the best of counsel.

There is no remedy for mental trouble like hard work. There's nothing the
equal of it. When the dark shadow comes, apply yourself with might and
main to some duty. Do your utmost to concentrate your thoughts, energies,
and whole being upon it. Avoid sitting down in the gloom and bemoaning
your affliction. By and by it will soften; and, relying upon the goodness
of Him who doeth all things well, you will see the kindly providence which
overrules all the affairs of this life. With the gentle poet you will be
able to murmur:--

/P
"Sweet the hour of tribulation,
When the heart can freely sigh,
And the tear of resignation
Twinkles in the mournful eye."
P/

Jim Travers was laid away to rest in the beautiful country cemetery near
the home of Farmer Pitcairn, and between it and the town of Bellemore. In
due time a plain, tasteful shaft was erected to his memory, on which,
below his name, date of birth and death, were carved the expressive
words:--

"He was a tried and true friend."

It took a good deal of the earnings of Tom Gordon to erect this tribute to
the departed youth. Mr. Pitcairn and his wife insisted upon sharing a part
of the expense; and the youth could not refuse them, though he would not
permit it to be more than a trifle as compared with his own. The placing
of the shaft has led me to anticipate events somewhat.

Tom Gordon was approaching young manhood. He was a tall, sturdy boy, with
a fair education, and it was high time that he set to work at the serious
business of life. Providence had ordered that he should pass through more
than one stirring experience. He had knocked about the world a good deal
more than falls to the lot of most lads of his age, and had acquired
valuable knowledge. He had learned much of the ways of men, and had
undergone a schooling, rough of itself, but fitted to qualify him for the
rebuffs of fortune to which we must all become accustomed.

What should he do? This was the question which he often debated with
himself, as was befitting in a sensible youth, who feared the danger of a
mistake when standing at the "crossing of the ways."

Somehow he felt a strong dislike to going back to New York. He and Jim had
met with such rough treatment there that the memory was not pleasant. His
yearning was to stay in the neighborhood of Bellemore. The soothing flow
of the beautiful Hudson, the picturesque, restful scenery, and, above all,
the sweet, sad halo that lingered around the last abiding place of his
friend, held him to the spot, which would ever be a sacred one to him.

He could not fancy the life of a farmer, though nothing would have pleased
Mr. Pitcairn more than to have the strong, thoughtful boy prepare himself
to become his successor in the management of the thrifty and well-kept
place. While Tom was in this state of incertitude, Providence opened the
way, as it always does to the one who is waiting to accept the indication.

It was at the close of a mild day in early summer that he was sitting on
the front porch of his new home, talking with Mr. Pitcairn and his wife,
when a carriage stopped in front, and an elderly gentleman stepped down,
tied his horse, and opened the gate.

"Why, that's Mr. Warmore," said Farmer Pitcairn to his wife, as he rose to
greet his visitor, who walked briskly up the graveled path.

The appearance of the gentleman was prepossessing. He was tall and spare,
but with a benign expression of countenance. He was well dressed, wore
gold spectacles, and his scant hair and a tuft of whiskers on either side
of his cheeks were snowy white, while his features were regular. He must
have been an unusually handsome man in his younger days, and would still
attract admiration wherever seen.

He shook hands warmly with the farmer and his wife, and was introduced to
Tom, whom he treated with the same cordiality. The youth made haste to
place a chair at his disposal, for which Mr. Warmore thanked him, and
sitting down, crossed his legs, took off his hat, and wiped his perspiring
brow with his white silken handkerchief. The chat went on in the usual way
for a time, during which Tom discovered that the visitor showed
considerable interest in him. His eyes continually turned in his
direction, and he asked him a question now and then. The youth was too
modest to intrude in the conversation, but knew how to express himself
when asked to do so.

By and by the questions of Mr. Warmore became quite pointed. Once or twice
Tom was disposed to resent them; but reflecting that the gentleman was
much older than he, and could have no wrong purpose in thus probing into
his personal affairs, he replied promptly to all he asked.

Finally, when this had continued until it began growing dark, Mr. Warmore
said,--

"I wish to hire you to enter my store, how would you like it?"

The question was so unexpected that Tom was fairly taken off his feet. He
replied with a pleasing laugh,--

"How can I answer, when I never saw you before, and have no idea of what
your business is?"

"True, neither of us has seen the other until to-day; but I may say that I
have heard of you from our pastor, Dr. Williams, who conducted the
services of your young friend, that was buried a week ago."

"He cannot know much about me, though we have had several talks together."

"He talked, too, with Mr. Pitcairn here, as I did myself."

"Yes," said the farmer, "he asked me many questions about you, and so did
Mr. Warmore the other day when I was in his place."

"I keep the largest store in Bellemore. I have kept it for forty years, as
did my father before me. It is what may be called a combination
establishment. My father started it toward the close of the last century,
when a journey to New York meant a great deal more than it does to-day. So
he tried to provide the neighbors with everything they could need, such as
dry goods, groceries, hardware, farmers' implements, and, as I said, about
all that a large and growing family are likely to require. I have followed
in his footsteps, expanding the business, until now my clerks and
assistants number nearly a dozen. I am in need of a large, strong, wide
awake, active boy, who can write a good hand, and who is willing to begin
at the lowest round of the ladder and work his way up."

It was the personality of the man, rather than the business, which
attracted Tom Gordon. He liked Mr. Warmore so well that he secretly
resolve to go with him. But the youth was not lacking in diplomacy.

"How do you know I will suit you, Mr. Warmore?" he asked.

"I don't; no one can know how another will serve him until the trial is
made. You may not suit at all. Perhaps I won't keep you beyond a week.
That's a risk we must all take. I'm willing to take it. Are _you_ ready to
see how you like me and the business?"

"What is to be my pay?" asked Tom, still veiling his growing inclination
to accept the proposal of the merchant.

"Not much at first. Five dollars a week, which shall be made six at the
end of a month if you suit. An increase will be given at the end of every
half year; I don't say provided you earn it, for, if you don't, I won't
keep you. What do you say, young man?"

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