chapter xiii “don’t hurt him”

mrs. atkins ran to the door. “beats all how a man ain’t never on hand when he’s wanted,” she

exclaimed in vexation, peering up and down the street.

“well, now, ef here ain’t mr. jones heavin’ along,” she cried joyfully, and picking up her calico

gown, she sped over the step, bawling out, “do stop—mr. jones!”

“what’s th’ matter, mis atkins?” asked the farmer leisurely driving up.

“i’ll tell you, only do get out,” she cried excitedly.

“hain’t nothin’ happened to that little feller, has they?” the farmer pointed his thumb in great concern

toward the store.

“no—no—but ef it hadn’t ben for davie, mr. atkins would ’a’ ben robbed,” declared mrs. atkins;

then she thrust her head back into the store, “davie, come here, an’ tell us all about it. we must catch

th’ man, or he’ll try it again, like enough.”

“sho!” exclaimed farmer jones, as davie ran out to the step. then he whistled, “whew! hop o’ my

thumb,” he was going to say. but remembering how the small boy hadn’t liked that, nor the laugh,

he whistled again, as he got slowly out of the wagon.

“tell it, davie,” mrs. atkins kept saying, “just exactly how it all happened.” and then a small knot

of farmers drew near, so there was quite a little crowd.

as davie forgot to say much about himself, mrs. atkins and farmer jones were obliged to prod him

with questions. at last the story was pieced out.

“we must catch the fellow,” exclaimed one farmer, “else he’ll be trying the same game again.”

“like enough we’ll be murdered in our beds,” said a woman, pushing her way into the center of

things, “an’ ’twon’t be safe to live in badgertown.”

and a thin voice on the fringe of the crowd piped out, “i warrant it’s the same man that stopped to

my house this mornin’ for somethin’ to eat.”

“what did he look like, grandsir tibbs?” cried two or three.

“i dunno no more’n th’ dead,” said grandsir querulously. his voice shook worse than ever, under the

excitement of the thing. “his cap was drawed over his face—i shet th’ door on him.”

“well, we’ve got to catch th’ feller,” declared a stalwart farmer, “an’ this boy,” laying his hand on

david’s small shoulder, “is th’ only one who knows what th’ tramp looks like. come on, youngster,”

and before he knew what was going to happen, davie was lifted up and dumped into a wagon, the

owner jumping in and gathering up the reins.

“stop!” cried the storekeeper’s wife, when she saw this, trying to break through the crowd.

“catch th’ feller—come on—” the cry was taken up, and the other farmers in the wagons drove off

after the one carrying davie, mrs. atkins running along as far as her breath would permit, crying,

“stop — you mustn’t — take th’ boy! he’s david pepper,” and sometimes she said, “he’s mis

pepper’s boy.” but no matter how she screamed it, the wagons rolled on, and at last she sank down

by the roadside.

“he’d take to th’ woods mos’ likely,” said the farmer who had david as a companion and thus was

the leader, pointing off with his whip as he stood up in the wagon and looked back at the procession.

“yes—yes,” they called back. so to the woods they whipped up.

when they drew up to a thick grove of pines skirting badgertown, they all tumbled out of the wagons

and peered cautiously in.

“one of us must set out here with th’ boy—we ain’t a-goin’ to drag him in.”

“i’ll set,” offered one man, coming up to davie’s wagon.

“yes, i know you’d offer,” said the farmer to whom that vehicle belonged, “but all th’ same, you ain’t

a-goin’ to have that easy part. simeon jones—you come an’ take keer o’ this boy, will you, till we

fetch out th’ feller?”

“all right,” said farmer jones, driving up. “come, git in here;” he again came perilously near to

saying “hop o’ my thumb,” but he coughed and just saved himself.

david, being in that position where there was nothing to do but to obey, jumped out of his wagon and

into that of farmer jones, who received him gladly.

“sho now!” began mr. jones, clearing his throat, “th’ tramp robbed mr. atkins—eh?”

“he didn’t get any money,” said david, folding his small hands.

“that’s good!” cried farmer jones, slapping his leg. “well, i ’spect you kept him from it,” he said,

looking down admiringly at the little figure on the other half of the old leather seat. “gosh! you ain’t

bigger’n a half a pint o’ cider, but i b’lieve you did it—eh?”

david fought shy of this question and said nothing. but it was no use. by little and little, farmer

jones, being a man who, to put it into his own words, “stuck to a thing like an old dog to a bone,”

wormed the story out of david, helplessly miserable at being obliged to tell it.

suddenly the body of badgertown citizens trooped out from the woods. in the midst of them was the

young man with the evil eyes, who had visited mr. atkins’ store.

everybody was shouting in chorus, and farmer jones clapped davie’s shoulder with a glad hand.

“say, youngster, that’s th’ feller, ain’t it?”

david drew a long breath. but mamsie, having often said, “tell the truth,” he said, “yes.” and one

of the young farmers, finding the capture a trifle dull, crowded roughly up against the prisoner. this

was the signal for the others, who began to wreak a little of the vengeance to come upon their man.

david stood straight up in the wagon. “don’t hurt him,” he begged.

the young man with the evil eyes turned them upon davie; but he said nothing.

“easy there,” commanded farmer jones.

“we don’t want such fellers comin’ to badgertown,” said the first young farmer. “come on, boys, we

must give him a hustle before we fetch him to cherryville jail.”

“you mustn’t hurt him,” said davie in a loud voice. his cheeks were very red, and his blue eyes

flashed.

“what this boy says, goes,” cried farmer jones sharply. “d’ye understand?”

they did, simeon jones being a person to be reckoned with. and pretty soon the young man who had

visited mr. atkins’ store had his hands neatly tied together with a piece of rope, and he found himself

in a wagon, the horse being turned to the road leading to cherryville jail.

“you tell that boy,” he nodded his head over toward david, “that ’tain’t his fault that i’m took, an’

i’m obliged to him for trying to save me.”

but david burst into tears and flung himself down on the floor of the wagon.

“i’ve got to hurry back and lock up th’ store,” mrs. atkins was saying about this time, getting up

from the roadside, “an’ then i must get over to mis pepper’s an’ tell her all about it. goodness me—

how’ll i ever do it?”

but mother pepper had the news before the storekeeper’s wife reached the little brown house, for

davie was there. farmer simeon jones, aghast at the flood of tears, had hurried him home as fast as

the old horse could go.

“your ma’ll say you done right,” he kept repeating over and over. “don’t you be afeard. an’ th’ man

ain’t goin’ to be hurt. an’ they give real good meals, i’ve heard say, over to cherryville jail.”

but all this was no comfort to david, and he wailed steadily on.

“well, i’m blest ef i ain’t glad to see that ’ere little brown house,” declared mr. jones, very spry at

getting out as the old horse stopped at the gate. david, half blinded by his tears, stumbled out and up

to the big green door. mother pepper opened it. “i couldn’t help it, mamsie,” he cried, huddling into

her arms.

“i’ll tell ye, marm,” said farmer jones, looking into her black eyes, “fust go-off, so’s you needn’t to

worry. this boy o’ yourn has done just fine.”

“i couldn’t help it, mamsie,” davie kept saying.

“there—there—davie—” mother pepper held him closely, while one hand patted his soft light hair;

then she looked up inquiringly.

“simeon jones is my name, marm,” said the farmer. “might i come in—it’s kinder a long story.”

“yes, indeed,” and once in the old kitchen, the farmer’s tongue took up the tale and ran it off glibly.

and just at the very end in hurried the storekeeper’s wife.

“now, davie,” said mother pepper, when at last it was all out, “you did just right.” how her black

eyes shone! and she kissed his hot cheek.

“but the poor man—he’s in jail,” moaned david.

“that had to be,” said mrs. pepper firmly. “don’t you see, child, if he were allowed to go free,

badgertown people wouldn’t be safe from robbers.”

“mamsie, i don’t believe he’s going to steal any more,” said david, wiping up, the comfort settling

down into his heart, since mamsie had said it had to be.

“we will hope not,” said mother pepper, with another kiss.

“hoh!” joel rushed in, his black eyes ablaze and his cheeks as red as could be. he had heard the story

at deacon blodgett’s, for all badgertown was afire with it. “if i’d been there, i’d ’a’ smashed that old

burglar.” he doubled up his small fists and swung them in the air.

“joel—joel—” said mrs. pepper reprovingly.

“ha! ha!” laughed farmer jones, slapping his thigh.

joel rushed up to him. “well, i would,” he cried. “you needn’t laugh, you, mr. man.”

“joel, come here.” when mother pepper spoke in that tone there could be no delay. so up to her

chair he marched, yet he had a backward eye on that old farmer who sat in that chair laughing at him.

“you’re pretty smart, joel,” said the storekeeper’s wife, “but davie did the best after all.”

“but i could ’a’ smashed him,” declared joel, transferring his attention to her, “if i’d only been there.

why ain’t i ever there when a burglar comes,” he cried in anguish. “why ain’t i, mamsie?”

“well, i must be a-goin’,” said farmer jones, getting out of his chair. “you’ve got two smart likely

boys, mis pepper, but the little un is the most to my taste. ef you’re goin’ home, mis atkins, i’ll take

you back.”

“i’m obliged enough, i can tell you,” said mrs. atkins, “for i hain’t run an’ ben scared to death in a

long spell like i’ve ben to-day. good-by, david. you’ve took care of our store every bit as good as a

man.”

davie kept in the little brown house for days after that; nothing could persuade him to venture on

badgertown streets, where the folks were likely to waylay him, and want to know all about his

adventure in mr. atkins’ store. and when any one came to the little brown house, as many did, to

hear all about it, davie would run out and hide behind the wood-pile until they had gone.

“you can’t do that all the time, davie,” said polly one day, finding him there. “i’m going down to

mr. beebe to get him to mend mamsie’s shoes, and you come with me.”

“oh, i can’t, polly,” said davie, shrinking back; yet his blue eyes were full of longing.

“nonsense!” exclaimed polly gayly. “come along, i’ll race you to the gate.”

that was beyond davie’s resistance. to race polly was the children’s great delight. so off they ran,

and as luck would have it, david got to the gate first.

“that’s fine!” declared polly, tossing back her hair from her rosy cheeks. “well, now, come on for

another spin.”

they had almost reached mr. beebe’s little shop when an old lady coming out of a shop opposite

beckoned violently with her black satin parasol. the long fringe waved back and forth as she shook

the parasol with an air of command.

“it is miss parrott,” said polly in an awe-struck voice. “you go in to mr. beebe’s shop and i’ll run

across to her.”

davie, quite glad to escape and especially into dear mr. beebe’s shoe-shop, hurried over the cobble-

stones, while polly flew across the street. his foot was on the step, when a voice said: “bring the boy

—he’s the one i want to see.”

“you will have to come, davie,” said polly, hurrying back.

“oh, i can’t,” said davie, crowding up against the shoe-shop door; “don’t make me, polly.” he

turned a distressed little face as she hurried up.

“yes, you must,” said polly. “mamsie would say so.”

“would mamsie say so?” cried davie, hanging to the big knocker. “would she really, polly?”

“yes,” said polly, “she would. come on, davie,” and she held out her hand. so together they went

across the narrow little street, david hanging back on lagging footsteps.

miss parrott’s big coach was around the corner. there she stood now, waiting for them.

“i want to hear all about what happened yesterday in mr. atkins’ store,” she said, “and i am going to

take you two children to drive, and then, david, you can tell me the story on the way.”

“oh, miss parrott,” cried polly, dismayed at davie’s frantic clutch on her hand, “i have to take

mamsie’s shoes for mr. beebe to mend.” yet her eyes sparkled at the very thought of riding in that

parrott grand coach!

“run across then with them,” said miss parrott. “come, david, you and i will get into the carriage,

and polly will join us.”

“i’ll take the shoes over to mr. beebe,” cried davie frantically, and he reached for polly’s bundle.

“no, david,” said miss parrott, “polly must do it. you come with me.” and there he was, his little

hand in hers, on the way to the coach waiting around the corner, and polly flying across the street to

the little shoe-shop just as frantic to get back to him.

“now then, we can be quite comfortable,” said miss parrott, having them all settled in the big stately

old coach, the order to drive given to the coachman, who matched up in dignity to the coach and the

parrott estate, “and you shall give me the whole story. begin at the beginning, david.”