CHAPTER IX.
SAM TAKES FRENCH LEAVE.
If Sam had been brought up to entertain strict ideas on the subject oftaking the property of others, and appropriating it to his own use,the temporary possession of the deacon's money would not have exposedhim to temptation. But his conscience had never been awakened to theiniquity of theft. So when it occurred to him that he had in hispossession money enough to gratify his secret desire, and carry him toNew York, there to enter upon a brilliant career, it did not occur tohim that it would be morally wrong to do so. He did realize the dangerof detection, however, and balanced in his mind whether the risk wasworth incurring. He decided that it was.
"The deacon don't know I've got the money," he reflected. "He won'tfind out for a good while; when he does I shall be in New York, wherehe won't think of going to find me."
This was the way Sam reasoned, and from his point of view the schemelooked very plausible. Sam had a shrewd idea that his services werenot sufficiently valuable to the deacon to induce him to make anyextraordinary efforts for his capture. So, on the whole, he made uphis mind to run away.
"Shall I go now, or wait till mornin'?" thought Sam.
He looked out of his window. There was no moon, and the night wastherefore dark. It would not be very agreeable to roam about in thedarkness. Besides, he was liable to lose his way. Again, he feltsleepy, and the bed looked very inviting.
"I'll wait till mornin'," thought Sam. "I'll start about four, and goover to Wendell, and take the train for New York. I'll be awful hungrywhen I get there. I wish I could wait till after breakfast; but itwon't do."
Sam was not usually awake at four. Indeed he generally depended onbeing waked up by the deacon knocking on his door. But when boys ormen have some pleasure in view it is apt to act upon the mind evenwhen wrapped in slumber, and produce wakefulness. So Sam woke up aboutquarter of four. His plan flashed upon him, and he jumped out of bed.He dressed quickly, and, taking his shoes in his hand so that he mightmake no noise, he crept downstairs, and unlocked the front door, andthen, after shutting it behind him, sat down on the front door-stoneand put on his shoes.
"I guess they didn't hear me," he said to himself. "Now I'll begoing."
The sun had not risen, but it was light with the gray light whichprecedes dawn. There was every promise of a fine day, and this helpedto raise Sam's spirits.
"What'll the deacon say when he comes to wake me up?" thought ourhero, though I am almost ashamed to give Sam such a name, for I amafraid he is acting in a manner very unlike the well-behaved heroes ofmost juvenile stories, my own among the number. However, since I havechosen to write about a "young outlaw," I must describe him as he is,and warn my boy readers that I by no means recommend them to patternafter him.
Before accompanying Sam on his travels, let us see how the deacon wasaffected by his flight.
At five o'clock he went up to Sam's door and knocked.
There was no answer.
The deacon knocked louder.
Still there was no answer.
"How sound the boy sleeps!" muttered the old man, and he applied hisknuckles vigorously to the door. Still without effect. Thereupon hetried the door, and found that it was unlocked. He opened it, andwalked to the bed, not doubting that he would see Sam fast asleep. Buta surprise awaited him. The bed was empty, though it had evidentlybeen occupied during the night.
"Bless my soul! the boy's up," ejaculated the deacon.
A wild idea came to him that Sam had voluntarily got up at this earlyhour, and gone to work, but he dismissed it at once as absurd. He knewSam far too well for that.
Why, then, had he got up? Perhaps he was unwell, and could not sleep.Not dreaming of his running away, this seemed to the deacon the mostplausible way of accounting for Sam's disappearance, but he decided togo down and communicate the news to his wife.
"Why were you gone so long, deacon?" asked Mrs. Hopkins. "Couldn't youwake him up?"
"He wasn't there."
"Wasn't where?"
"In bed."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Sam's got up already. I couldn't find him."
"Couldn't find him?"
"No, Martha."
"Had the bed been slept in?"
"Of course. I s'pose he was sick, and couldn't sleep, so he wentdownstairs."
"Perhaps he's gone down to the pantry," said Mrs. Hopkins,suspiciously. "I'll go down and see."
She went downstairs, followed by the deacon. She instituted anexamination, but found Sam guiltless of a fresh attempt upon theprovision department. She went to the front door, and found itunlocked.
"He's gone out," she said.
"So he has, but I guess he'll be back to breakfast," said the deacon.
"I don't," said the lady.
"Why not?"
"Because I think he's run away."
"Run away!" exclaimed the deacon. "Why, I never had a boy run awayfrom me."
"Well, you have now."
"Where would he go? He aint no home. He wouldn't go to thepoorhouse."
"Of course not. I never heard of anybody that had a comfortable homerunning away to the poorhouse."
"But why should he run away?" argued the deacon.
"Boys often run away," said his wife, sententiously.
"He had no cause."
"Yes, he had. You made him work, and he's lazy, and don't like work.I'm not surprised at all."
"I s'pose I'd better go after him," said the deacon.
"Don't you stir a step to go, deacon. He aint worth going after. I'mglad we've got rid of him."
"Well, he didn't do much work," admitted the deacon.
"While he ate enough for two boys. Good riddance to bad rubbish, Isay."
"I don't know how he's goin' to get along. He didn't have no money."
"I don't care how he gets along, as long as he don't come back.There's plenty of better boys you can get."
Sam would not have felt flattered, if he had heard this final verdictupon his merits. It must be confessed, however, that it was welldeserved.
A few days afterwards, the deacon obtained the services of anotherboy, whom he found more satisfactory than the runaway, and Sam was nolonger missed. It was not till the tenth day that he learned of thetheft. While riding on that day, he met Mr. Comstock, who had confidedto Sam the money-letter.
"Good-morning, Deacon Hopkins," said he, stopping his horse.
"Good-morning," said the deacon.
"I suppose your boy handed you a letter from me."
"I haven't received any letter," said the deacon, surprised.
"It was early last week that I met a boy who said he lived with you.As I was in a hurry, I gave him a letter containing ten dollars, whichI asked him to give to you."
"What day was it?" asked the deacon, eagerly.
"Monday. Do you mean to say he didn't give it to you?"
"No; he ran away the next morning, and I haven't seen him since."
"Then he ran away with the money--the young thief! I told him therewas money in it."
"Bless my soul! I didn't think Sam was so bad," ejaculated thedeacon.
"Didn't you go after him?"
"No; he wasn't very good to work, and I thought I'd let him run. EfI'd knowed about the money, I'd have gone after him."
"It isn't too late, now."
"I'll ask my wife what I'd better do."
The deacon conferred with his wife, who was greatly incensed againstSam, and would have advised pursuit, but they had no clue to hispresent whereabouts.
"He'll come back some time, deacon," said she. "When he does, have himtook up."
But years passed, and Sam did not come back, nor did the deacon seteyes on him for four years, and then under the circumstances recordedin the first chapter.
The Young Outlaw; or, Adrift in the Streets Page 11