CHAPTER I.
TWO OF THE TYRANTS.
"Here, Buck Bradford, black my boots, and be quick about it."
That was what Ham Fishley said to me.
"Black them yourself!"
That was what I said to Ham Fishley.
Neither of us was gentlemanly, nor even civil. I shall not apologize formyself, and certainly not for Ham, though he inherited his mean,tyrannical disposition from both his father and his mother. If he hadcivilly asked me to black his boots, I would have done it. If he hadjust told me that he was going to a party, that he was a little late,and asked me if I would assist him, I would have jumped over his head tooblige him, though he was three inches taller than I was. I am willingto go a step farther. If this had been the first, or even the twentieth,time that Ham had treated me in this shabby manner, I would havesubmitted. For three years he had been going on from bad to worse, tillhe seemed to regard me not only as a dog, but as the meanest sort of adog, whom he could kick and cuff at pleasure.
I had stood this sort of thing till I could not stand it any longer. Ihad lain awake nights thinking of the treatment bestowed upon me byCaptain Fishley and his wife, and especially by their son Ham; and I hadcome deliberately to the conclusion that something must be done. I wasnot a hired servant, in the ordinary sense of the term; but, whether Iwas or was not a servant, I was entitled to some consideration.
"What's that you say?" demanded Ham, leaping over the counter of thestore.
I walked leisurely out of the shop, and directed my steps towards thebarn; but I had not accomplished half the distance before my tyrantovertook me. Not being willing to take the fire in the rear, I halted,wheeled about, and drew up in order of battle. I had made up my mind tokeep perfectly cool, whatever came; and when one makes up his mind to becool, it is not half so hard to succeed as some people seem to think.
"I told you to black my boots," said Ham, angrily.
"I know you did."
"Well, Buck Bradford, you'll do it!"
"Well, Ham Fishley, I won't do it!"
"Won't you?"
"No!"
"Then I'll make you."
"Go on."
He stepped up to me; but I didn't budge an inch. I braced up every fibreof my frame in readiness for the shock of battle; but there was no shockof battle about it.
"I guess I'll let the old man settle this," said Ham, after a glance atme, which seemed very unsatisfactory.
"All right," I replied.
My tyrant turned on his heel, and hastened back to the store. HamFishley's father was "the old man," and I knew that it would not be forthe want of any good will on his part, if the case was not settled byhim. I had rebelled, and I must take my chances. I went to the barn,harnessed the black horse to the wagon, and hitched him at a post in theyard, in readiness to go down to Riverport for the mail, which I used todo every evening after supper.
Of course my thoughts were mainly fixed upon the settlement with the oldman; and I expected every moment to see him rushing upon me, like anuntamed tiger, to wreak his vengeance upon my head. I was rathersurprised at his non-appearance, and rather disappointed, too; for Ipreferred to fight the battle at the barn, or in the yard, instead of inthe house or the store. Though my thoughts were not on my work, I busiedmyself in sweeping out the horse's stall, and making his bed for thenight.
"Buck! Buck! Buck!" called Mrs. Fishley, from the back door of thehouse.
She always called three times; for she was a little, snappy, snarlingwoman, who never spoke pleasantly to any one, except when she hadcompany, or went to the sewing circle.
"Here, marm!" I replied.
"Come here; I want you!" she added, clear up in the highest tones of hervoice, which sounded very much like the savage notes of an angry wasp.
It was some consolation to know, under the peculiar circumstances, thatshe wanted me, instead of "the old man," her lord and master, and that Iwas not called to the expected settlement, which, in spite of my fixeddetermination, I could not help dreading. Mrs. Fishley wanted me--nother husband. She was always wanting me; and somehow I never happened tobe in the right place, or to do anything in the right way.
Mrs. Fishley believed she was one of the most amiable, self-denying,self-sacrificing, benevolent women in the world. Nobody else believedit. She had to endure more trials, bear more crosses, undergo morehardships, than any other housekeeper in town. She had to work harder,to think of more things, stagger under more burdens, than all her femaleneighbors put together. If she ever confessed that she was sometimesjust a little cross, she wanted to know who could wonder at it, when shehad so much to do, and so many things to think of. Job could be patient,for he had not her family to look after. The saints and martyrs couldbow resignedly at the stake in the midst of the flaming fagots; but noneof them had to keep house for a husband and three children, and two ofthem not her own.
To make a fair and just division of Mrs. Fishley's cares, one tenth ofthem were real, and nine tenths of them were imaginary; and theimaginary ones were more real to her than the actual ones. They souredher temper,--or, more properly, her temper soured them,--and shegroaned, complained, snarled, snapped, and fretted, from very early onSunday morning to very late on Saturday evening. Nothing ever went rightwith her; nothing ever suited her. If a thing was one way, that was theespecial reason why it ought to have been some other way.
She always wanted her own way; and when she had it--which she generallydid--it did not suit her any better. I am inclined to think that CaptainFishley himself, at some remote period, long before I was born, hadbeen a more decent man than he was at the time of which I write. If heever had been, his degeneracy was easily explained; for it would nothave been possible for a human being, in daily contact with such ashrewish spitfire as his wife, to exist untainted in the poison whichfloated in the atmosphere around her.
This was the woman who inflicted herself upon the world, and upon me,though I was by no means the greatest sufferer. If the mischief hadstopped here, I could have borne it, and the world could not have helpeditself. To me there was something infinitely worse and more intolerablethan my own trials--and they were the trials of my poor, dear, deformed,invalid sister. Tender, loving, and patient as she was under them, hersufferings made my blood boil with indignation. If Mrs. Fishley hadtreated Flora kindly, she would have been an angel in my sight, howevermuch she snapped and snarled, and "drove me from pillar to post." Theshrew did not treat her kindly, and as the poor child was almost alwaysin the house, she was constantly exposed to the obliquities of hertemper.
My mother, for several years before her death, had been of feebleconstitution, and Flora had the "rickets" when she was a babe. She wasnow twelve years old, but the effects of the disease still lingered inher frame. Her limbs were weak, her breast-bone projected, and she wasso drawn up that she looked like a "humpback." But what she lacked inbody she more than made up in spirit, in the loveliness of an amiabledisposition, in an unselfish devotion to others, in a loving heart, anda quick intelligence. She endured, without complaint, the ill nature ofMrs. Fishley, endeavoring, by every means in her power, to make herselfuseful in the house, and to lighten the load of cares which bore down soheavily upon her hostess.
Mrs. Fishley called me, and I hastened to attend upon her will andpleasure, in the back room. I knew very well that it would make nodifference whether I hurried or not; I should "have to take it" themoment she saw me. If I was in the barn, I ought to have been in theshop; if in the shop, then I should have been in the barn--unless shehad company; and then she was all sweetness, all gentleness; then shewas all merciful and compassionate.
"What are you doing out there?" snarled she. "I've been out in thestreet and into the store after you, and you always are just where noone can find you when you are wanted."
I didn't say anything; it wasn't any use.
"Take that bucket of swill out, and give it to the pigs; and next timedon't leave it till it is running over full," she continued, in the
sameamiable, sweet-tempered tones. "It's strange you can't do anything tillyou are told to do it. Don't you know that swill-pail wants emptying,without being told of it?"
"I always feed the pigs three times a day whether the pail wantsemptying or not," I ventured to reply, in defence of the pigs ratherthan myself.
"There, carry it along, and don't spill it."
The pail was filled even with the brim, and it was simply impossible toavoid spilling it.
"What a careless fellow you are!" screamed she, her notes on the secondadded line above the treble staff. "You are spilling it all over thefloor! I wish you could learn to do anything like folks!"
I wished I could too; but I did not venture to suggest that if she hadnot filled the pail so full, and even run it over herself before Itouched it, I might have carried it "like folks." It was no use; shealways got the better of me in an argument. I fed the pigs, as I alwaysdid, before I went after the mail, and carried the pail back to theshed. The door of the kitchen was open, and Mrs. Fishley was returningto her work as I entered.
"You careless child! What do you mean by letting those cakes burn?" Iheard her cry to poor Flora, who was sitting in her arm-chair by thecooking-stove, whereon Mrs. Fishley was baking flapjacks for supper.
"I didn't know--"
"You didn't know, you careless hussy!" exclaimed Mrs. Fishley, seizingher by the arm, and lifting her roughly out of her chair.
"O, don't!" groaned poor Flora.
I could not stand that. I rushed into the kitchen, seized poor Flora'styrant by the shoulders, and hurled her half way across the room. Myblood was up to the boiling point.