Read Ebook: My Uncle Florimond by Harland Henry

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Ebook has 398 lines and 31455 words, and 8 pages

And now I come to an adventure which, as it proved, marked the point of a new departure in my affairs.

It was early in April, 1872. There had been a general thaw, followed by several days of heavy rain; and the result was, of course, a freshet. Our little river, the Yantic, had swollen to three--in some places even to four--times its ordinary width; and its usually placid current had acquired a tremendous strength and speed. This transformation was the subject of endless interest to us boys; and every day we used to go and stand upon the bank, and watch the broad and turbulent rush of water with mingled wonder, terror and delight. It was like seeing an old friend, whom we had hitherto regarded as a quite harmless and rather namby-pamby sort of chap, and been fearlessly familiar with, suddenly display the power and prowess of a giant, and brandish his fists at us, crying, "Come near me at your peril!" Our emotions sought utterance in such ejaculations as "My!" "Whew!" and "Jimminy!" and Sam Budd was always tempting me with, "Say, Gregory, stump ye to go in," which was very aggravating. I hated to have him dare me.

Well, one afternoon--I think it was on the third day of the freshet--when Sam and I made our customary pilgrimage down through Captain Josh Abingdon's garden to the water's edge, fancy our surprise to behold a man standing there and fishing. Fishing in that torrent! It was too absurd for anything; and instantly all our wonder transferred itself from the stream to the fisherman, at whom we stared with eyes and mouths wide open, in an exceedingly curious and ill-bred manner. He didn't notice us at first; and when he did, he didn't seem to mind our rudeness the least bit. He just looked up for a minute, and calmly inspected us; and then he gave each of us a solemn, deliberate wink, and returned his attention to his pole, which, by the way, was an elaborate and costly one, jointed and trimmed with metal. He was a funny-looking man; short and stout, with a broad, flat, good-natured face, a thick nose, a large mouth, and hair as black and curling as a negro's.

He wore a fine suit of clothes of the style that we boys should have called cityfied; and across his waistcoat stretched a massive golden watch-chain, from which dangled a large golden locket set with precious stones.

Presently this strange individual drew in his line to examine his bait; and then, having satisfied himself as to its condition, he attempted to make a throw. But he threw too hard. His pole slipped from his grasp, flew through the air, fell far out into the water, and next moment started off down stream at the rate of a train of steam-cars. This was a sad mishap. The stranger's face expressed extreme dismay, and Sam and I felt sorry for him from the bottom of our hearts. It was really a great pity that such a handsome pole should be lost in such a needless fashion.

But stay! All at once the pole's progress down stream ceased. It had got caught by an eddy, which was sweeping it rapidly inward and upward toward the very spot upon the shore where we stood. Would it reach land safely, and be recovered? We waited, watching, in breathless suspense. Nearer it came--nearer--nearer! Our hopes were mounting very high indeed. A smile lighted the fisherman's broad face. The pole had now approached within twenty feet of the bank. Ten seconds more, and surely--But again, stay! Twenty feet from the shore the waters formed a whirlpool. In this whirlpool for an instant the pole remained motionless. Then, after a few jerky movements to right and left, instead of continuing its journey toward the shore, it began spinning round and round in the circling current. At any minute it might break loose and resume its course down stream; but for the present there it was, halting within a few yards of us--so near, and yet so far.

Up to this point we had all kept silence. But now the fisherman broke it with a loud, gasping sigh. Next thing I heard was Sam Budd's voice, pitched in a mocking, defiant key, "Say, Gregory, stump ye to go in." I looked at Sam. He was already beginning to undress.

No; under the circumstances--with that man as a witness--I could not refuse the challenge. My reputation, my character, was at stake. I knew that the water would be as cold as ice; I knew that the force of its current involved danger to a swimmer of a sort not to be laughed at. Yet my pride had been touched, my vanity had been aroused. I could not allow Sam Budd to "stump" me with impunity, and then outdo me. "You do, do you?" I retorted. "Well, come on." And stripping off my clothes in a twinkling, I plunged into the flood, Sam following close at my heels.

As cold as ice! Why, ice was nowhere, compared to the Yantic River in that first week of April. They say extremes meet. Well, the water was so cold that it seemed actually to scald my skin, as if it had been boiling hot. But never mind. The first shock over, I gritted my teeth to keep them from chattering, and struck boldly out for the whirlpool, where the precious rod was still spinning round and round. Of course, in order to save myself from being swept down below it, I had to aim diagonally at a point far above it.

The details of my struggle I need not give. Indeed, I don't believe I could give them, even if it were desirable that I should. My memory of the time I spent in the water is exceedingly confused and dim. Intense cold; desperately hard work with arms and legs; frantic efforts to get my breath; a fierce determination to be the first to reach that pole no matter at what hazard; a sense of immense relief and triumph when, suddenly, I realized that success had crowned my labors--when I felt the pole actually in my hands; then a fight to regain the shore; and finally, again, success!

Yes, there I stood upon the dry land, safe and sound, though panting and shivering from exhaustion and cold. I was also rather dazed and bewildered; yet I still had enough of my wits about me to go up to the fisherman, and say politely, "Here, sir, is your pole." He cried in response--and I noticed that he pronounced the English language in a very peculiar way--"My kracious! You was a brave boy, Bubby. Hurry up; dress; you catch your death of cold standing still there, mitout no clodes on you, like dot. My koodness! a boy like you was worth a tousand dollars."

Suddenly it occurred to me to wonder what had become of Sam. I had not once thought of him since my plunge into the water. I suppose the reason for this forgetfulness was that my entire mind, as well as my entire body, had been bent upon the work I had in hand. But now, as I say, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder what had become of him; and a sickening fear lest he might have got drowned made my heart quail.

"O, sir!" I demanded, "Sam--the other boy--where is he? Has anything happened to him? Did he--he didn't--he didn't get drowned?"

"Drownded?" repeated the fisherman. "Well, you can bet he didn't. He's all right. There he is--under dot tree over there."

He pointed toward an apple-tree, beneath which I descried Sam Budd, already nearly dressed. As Sam's eyes met mine, a very sheepish look crept over his face, and he called out, "Oh! I gave up long ago." Well, you may just guess how proud and victorious I felt to hear this admission from my rival's lips.

The fisherman now turned his attention to straightening out his tackle, which had got into a sad mess during its bath, while I set to putting on my things. Pretty soon he drew near to where I stood, and, surveying me with a curious glance, "Well, Bubby, how you feel?" he asked.

"Oh! I feel all right, thank you, sir; only a little cold," I answered.

"Well, Bubby, you was a fine boy," he went on. "Well, how old was you?"

"I'm twelve, going on thirteen."

"My kracious! Is dot all? Why, you wasn't much older as a baby; and yet so tall and strong already. Well, Bubby, what's your name?"

"Gregory Brace."

"Krekory Prace, hey? Well, dot's a fine name. Well; you live here in Nawvich, I suppose--yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Maybe your papa was in business here?"

"No, sir; my father is dead."

"Oh! is dot so? Well, dot's too bad. And so you was a half-orphan, yes?"

"No, sir; my mother is dead, too."

"You don't say so! Well, my kracious! Well, den you was a whole orphan, ain't you? Well, who you live with?"

"I live with my uncle, sir--Judge Brace."

"Oh! so your uncle was a judge. Well, dot's grand. Well, you go to school, I suppose, hey?"

"No, sir; I don't go to school."

"You don't go to school? Oh! then, maybe you was in business already, yes."

"O, no, sir! I'm not in business."

"You don't go to school, and you wasn't in business; well, what you do mit yourself all day long, hey?"

"I play."

"You play! Well, then you was a sort of a gentleman of leisure, ain't you? Well, dot must be pretty good fun--to play all day. Well, Bubby, you ever go to New York?"

"No, sir; I've never been in New York. Do you live in New York, sir?"

"Yes, Bubby, I live in New York when I'm at home. But I'm shenerally on the road, like I was to-day. I'm what you call a trummer; a salesman for Krauskopf, Sollinger & Co., voolens. Here's my card."

He handed me a large pasteboard card, of which the following is a copy:--

"Yes," he went on, "dot's my name, and dot's my address. And when you come to New York you call on me there, and I'll treat you like a buyer. I'll show you around our establishment, and I'll give you a dinner by a restaurant, and I'll take you to the theayter, and then, if you want it, I'll get you a chop."

"A chop?" I queried. "What is a chop?"

"What is a chop! Why, if you want to go into business, you got to get a chop, ain't you? A chop was an embloyment; and then there was chop-lots also." At this I understood that he meant a job. "Yes, Bubby, a fine boy like you hadn't oughter be doing nodings all day long. You'd oughter go into business, and get rich. You're smart enough, and you got enerchy. I was in business already when I was ten years old, and I ain't no smarter as you, and I ain't got no more enerchy. Yes, Bubby, you take my advice: come down to New York, and I get you a chop, and you make your fortune, no mistake about it. And now, Bubby, I want to give you a little present to remember me by."

He drew a great fat roll of money from his waistcoat pocket, and offered me a two-dollar bill.

"O, no! I thank you, sir," I hastened to say. "I don't want any money."

"O, well! this ain't no money to speak of, Bubby; only a two-tollar pill. You just take it, and buy yourself a little keepsake. It von't hurt you."

"You're very kind, sir; but I really can't take it, thank you." And it flashed through my mind: "What would Uncle Florimond think of me, if I should accept his money?"

"Well, dot's too bad. I really like to make you a little present, Bubby. But if you was too proud, what you say if I give it to the other boy, hey?"

"Oh! to Sam--yes, I think that would be a very good idea," I replied.

"Well, I got to go now," the fisherman said, holding out his hand. "Well, good-by, Bubby; and don't forget, when you come to New York, to give me a call. Well, so-long."

Sam and I watched him till he got out of sight. Then we too started for home.

At the time, my talk with Mr. Solomon D. Marx did not make any especial impression on me; but a few days later it came back to me, the subject of serious meditation. The circumstances were as follows:--

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