# St. Nicholas/Volume 41/Number 3/The Runaway

* related authors: Charles Mark Relyea.
* sister projects: Commons category, Wikidata item.
continued from No. 2
THE RUNAWAY
BY ALLEN FRENCH
Author of “The Junior Cup,” “Pelham and His Friend Tim,” etc.
CHAPTER V
THE PROBLEM
The man was tall and lean, bronzed and active. Keen eyes smiled down at the lad, and a hard but not ungentle hand was laid upon the fore- head. “H-m!” said the man. “Better, ain’t ye?”
“I think so.” To himself, the boy’s voice sounded as if it came from another room.
“Well,” said his nurse, “I ’ve been expecting your arrival any time to-day. The broth is warm —I ’ll bring ye some.”
Presently, the boy found himself accepting spoonfuls of an appetizing liquid, which slipped down easily. “More,” he said, when the supply ceased.
The man shook his head. “Enough ’s enough. Now, are ye comfortable?”
The boy struggled with his ideas. “I ’ve been—sick?”
“Rather.”
“There ’s a bandage on my head?”
“We ’'ll have that off to-morrow.”
“What ’s wrong with my hand?”
“Another bandage.”
“Something happened to me?”
“Look here,” said his nurse, “the doctor said you 're not to talk. Jes’ lie still, won't you?”’
“But I don’t remember—"
“Don’t try.”
The boy nodded and said no more, but lay still. Drowsiness came, and he willingly yielded to it.
For another day continued periods of sleeping and waking. He was visited, fed, and grew stronger. But he asked no more questions about himself. Still another day went by, and even when the doctor came and examined his wrist, the lad asked no questions about it. On the third day, in the middle of the morning, he waked from a doze to see two persons by his bed looking down at him. One was his nurse, Nate, but the second was a stranger.
Nate bent over the bed. “Here s Mr. Dodd, come to see you.”
Mr. Dodd, stocky and grizzled, and quite as keen of gaze as Nate, sat down beside the bed. “How do you do this morning, Wilson?” he asked.
The boy was plainly surprised. “Wilson?” He looked at Nate. “Is that—?” He was struggling with ideas.
“Is n’t that your name?” asked Nate.
The boy doubtfully shook his head, and looked appealingly at Mr. Dodd. “My name—” He hesitated. “I—"
He was painfully groping in thought, when the doctor, who had just entered, interposed. “Don’t worry him,” he said briskly. “My boy, we waked you from a nap. You ’d better finish it.” He turned away from the bedside, and the others followed him into the next room. There for a moment their voices murmured faintly; but when the three became interested, and forgot caution, the sounds floated clearly to him.
“Then you ’d rather, Doctor, that we did n't ask him about himself?”
“I ’d rather,” replied the doctor, “that he was n’t urged to try to remember. A question, carelessly put, might perhaps be asked once in a while. If he has lost his memory, from the blow on his head, or fever, or both, it is probably only temporarily. Since the first day, he has n’t asked about himself, and does n’t seem to think of how he came here. Let him alone. He ’ll come to himself gradually.”
“The name Wilson did n't seem to suggest anything to him.”
“If his memory ’s lost, it would n’t, even if it were his name. But you must consider that this may not be the boy that got off the train. It ’s ten days ago, and the man Wilson has n’t been heard from. He ’s found his brother, I ’m convinced.”
“Yet somebody must be worrying about this lad.”
“True,” admitted the doctor. “But equally true that no boy is reported missing. Since no one is inquiring about him, what can we do but wait? Would you advertise?”
“‘Found, a boy!’” laughed Mr. Dodd. “No, they know all about the lad over at Farnham and Winton, and can tell about him to any one that inquires. On the other hand, if the newspapers ​report the loss of a boy, we shall see it. But with the boy himself what shall we do?”
“Feed him, nurse him, let him come to himself. If his memory is wrong, don’t appear to worry about it, or you ’ll worry him. Let him see your son and your nephew—the sight of them may “‘HOW DO YOU DO THIS MORNING, WILSON?’ MR. DODD ASKED.” bring him to himself. Another thing—let him see Harriet.”
“Well—" Mr. Dodd was doubtful.
“She says they spoke together,” explained the doctor. “She brought him his coat. To see her may be just enough to jog his memory.”
“We ’ll try the boys first,” said Mr. Dodd.
“Certainly,” agreed the doctor. “Now just let me run in and take a last look at the lad, Mr. Dodd, and then we ’ll go back.”
In a moment, he came tiptoeing from the room. “Asleep.”
But when the doctor’s carriage had gone, carrying Mr. Dodd, and when the thumping of Nate’s machinery had begun, the boy in the chamber opened his eyes. Then he turned his head so that he could look out of the window, and now he lay gazing into the landscape, while his brow was thoughtfully knit.
Chapter VI
THE BOYS MEET AGAIN
It was three days later, and the lad had just had his
“I ’ve never asked,” he said, “what is the work I hear you doing.”
“Now you ’re talking!” exclaimed Nate. "It ’s nice to have you show interest. You know the mills down in the valley?”
“Yes,” answered the lad. “I hear their whistle four times a day.”
“Well,” explained Nate, “they make cordyroy, velvet, and plush. Now I do some of their dyein’. That machine you hear, she runs my jigger.”
“Jigger?” asked the lad.
“My dyein’ machine,” said Nate. “I ’ll show it to you soon. You ’ll be movin’ about before long.”
“I can get out of bed to-day,” answered the boy. “I ’ve been living on you long enough. It’s time I was—moving on.”
Nate, who was about to go away with the breakfast dishes, turned and set them down upon the bureau. Then he came and stood beside the bed, looking attentively at the boy.
“Meaning?” he asked.
​The boy returned his gaze firmly. "I must be going.”
“All right,” said Nate, with sudden willingness. “Here, I ‘ll help you.”
The boy’s eyes flew wide open with surprise; then, slowly flushing, he let them drop. “I know,” “PLUMPING DOWN ON THE GRASS BESIDE THE INVALID, PELHAM BEGAN TO TALK.” (SEE PAGE 250.) He mumbled, “that I “ve been a lot of trouble—and expense. But [ mean to repay it.”
“Don’t mention it,” responded Nate, heartily. “You ‘re welcome, I ’m sure. But I don’t like to keep fellers in my house that don’t want to stay. Come, let me help you up.”
The boy looked at him first suspiciously, and then, as Nate met his look steadily, with a touch of resentment, “How do you know that I don’t want to stay?” he demanded.
“You said you wanted to go,” replied Nate, undisturbed. “Come—up she goes!”
He lifted the lad’s shoulders as he spoke, and turned him in bed. Clumsily the boy swung his feet out of bed, found the floor, and slowly rose. He stood for a moment, apparently asking himself if he were steady, and then took a step forward. But instantly he cried out, and had not Nate caught him, would have fallen.
Nate lifted him, laid him in bed, and covered him over. Then he looked at him quizzically. “Goin’ far?”
“My ankle ’s hurt!” exclaimed the boy.
"Of course,” answered Nate. "What for do I rub it three times a day? Clean dislocated when we got you home. But don’t fret. It ’s almost back to its natural size, and before long you can hobble about. I ’ve made a crutch for ye.”
Turning his face aside, the lad closed his eyes; but from under their lids trickled two tears.
“There. there!” soothed Nate, kindly. “Stick it out! It won’t be very much longer.”
“I thought,” said the boy, huskily, “that you wanted to get rid of me.”
“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” cried Nate. “I thought the same of you. Well, then, ain’t we square?”
The boy nodded. But then he murmured: “I ought to be going.”
“Where?" demanded Nate.
Still with his eves closed, the boy shook his head. “Just going.”
Nate sat down upon the side of the bed. “I s’pose you ‘ve got an appointment somewhere, or with some one. Can’t [ send for him to come to you?”
“No,” said the other. “It is n’t that.”
​“You ’re restless, of course,” soothed Nate. “But take it easy for a time longer. It ’ll pay in the end.”
The boy showed a little vexation. “I ’ve got to.”
“Never spoke truer,” agreed Nate. “Settle to it, then.” He took up his tray and turned to go, then turned back once more. “Say,” he asked, “what shall I call you?”
The boy’s eyes flew open, but he did not look at Nate. Doubt showed on his forehead. He looked out of the window, and slowly shook his head.
“I mean,” asked Nate, “can’t we jes’ make up a name between us, for convenience? I don’t want to say ‘Here, you,’ or ‘Say.’ S’posin’ we call you Jack, or Jim.”
The boy spoke in a voice low, but clear. “Call me Rodman.”
“Good,” agreed Nate, heartily. “Might be a fust name, or a last. If ever you think up another name to go behind it, or in front, jes’ let me know. We can use the combination for your post-office address. Good-by—Rodman.”
In a half-hour, Nate came back, carrying an armful of clothes. “Might as well get up,” he said. “It ’ll be more cheerful than lyin’ here.” He assisted Rodman to dress, and then brought him a crutch. “Thar,” he said, “thet crutch is lighter an’ stronger than anythin’ you ’ll find in the stores. And now, young man, hobble!”
Rodman looked about him as he went. The next room was a kind of sitting-room, with a desk in one corner. Next was a little kitchen, An open door beyond showed the interior of a shed in which were bands and pulleys above a square tub that stood in the middle of the floor. “The workshop,” explained Nate, waving his hand in that direction. “But we ’ll go outside.”
Out on the grass stood a chair on which Rodman’s attention immediately fastened. The back sloped at an easy angle, and was intended to hold the sitter in a half-reclining position. It was made of natural wood, the frame being of unpeeled sticks skilfully bent, and the back and seat of thin strips of wood, with the bark on, cleverly woven together.
“Good, ain’t it?” asked Nate, frankly. "I made it myself.”
Rodman looked at the chair. “It looks comfortable,” he agreed. “But it ’s quite new.”
“Certainly,” said Nate. “I thought you ’d need one. It ’s better than store chairs—fits your back better.”
Slowly, carefully, the boy sat down. He lifted his leg into position, and settled himself so as to put no strain on the ankle. But all the time, though he said nothing, his face was working, And again two tears stood on his cheeks.
“Cheerfully!” warned Nate.
Rodman looked up into his face. “You do a great deal for me. And I ’m a perfect stranger to you.”
“Are ye?” inquired Nate, shrewdly. “How do you know that?”
The boy’s face flushed; he was startled. Nate laughed. “Of course you ’re a stranger,” he said. “Otherwise I should know your name. Do you like the chair?”
“Yes,” answered the lad, still confused. “I never saw a better in a city store.”
“Boston?” inquired Nate.
Again the look of doubt. “New York—I think.”
“It ’s no consequence,” Nate said. “Now the doctor wanted you to be in the sun for a while, and outdoors as long as you can stand it. The sun will be on you for half an hour or so, but not in your eyes. When it ’s gone, I ’ll bring a book. If I was you, I ’d sleep if I could.” He went away.
Rodman could not sleep; his pleasure was too keen. To be free of the house, to feel the breeze on his cheek, to see the birds and the hillside and the valley,—all this was pure enjoyment. Again, his heart was warmed by the kindness which surrounded him. He had fallen among friends. He was so satisfied that, even when Nate brought him a book, he did not read. And there was the valley to look at, a narrow place, to be sure, but much larger than his world of the last fortnight. Below him fields alternated with woods: the millpond was broad and still; the town itself had so many shade-trees that it seemed to stand in a grove; and even the mill buildings, covered with vines and standing among elms, were scarcely to be distinguished. Out of the tree-tops rose a spire and a belfry, a pair of cupolas, and perhaps a couple of dozen roofs. There must be dozens more that he could not see, and even the streets were completely hidden.
He could see, however, the roads that led away from the town. There were four of them, running to four quarters of the compass until lost in woods. He fell to watching passers on them, men or boys on foot or in wagons of all kinds. At length, he noticed a light carriage which, drawn by a single horse, was coming in his direction. The occupants he could not make out. He had discovered that this road, as it reached the bottom of the hill, turned aside, and after running for a hundred yards in woods, again appeared, to skirt the base of the ridge. The carriage disappeared, but though he counted on ​seeing it emerge before long, to his regret it did not reappear. “It went,” he thought, “to some house that I cannot see.”
But presently, to his satisfaction, he noticed the horse’s head and the upper part of the carriage coming diagonally up the hill. “I ’ve learned a new road,” he thought.
There were two persons in the carriage; not women, certainly. He narrowed his eyes. “Men! And one is citified.” One of them was, indeed, wearing a stiff straw hat and a tall white collar.
Then the carriage turned, and came quartering up the hill in a different direction. The truth came to him at once: “The road zigzags, and they ’re coming here!”
He looked about him as if for escape; he thought of calling Nate. As if brought by sympathy, Nate came out and looked at him. “All right?” he asked. He saw in the boy’s face what others had already noted there, the hunted look, the desperation mingled with appeal. “Why, what ’s wrong?”
“That carriage is coming here!”
Nate looked down the hill. “Sure enough, it is.” ’
“It ’s some one after me!” cried Rodman.
“After you?” asked Nate, looking at him narrowly. The boy was white. Nate put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s only visitors. Friends of mine.”
“One of them is from the city,” insisted Rodman. His breath was coming quickly, and he began to try to rise.
“Surely,” answered Nate. “But ye need n’t be afraid of him. It ’s Brian Dodd, and if he is rather citified in his dress, it don’t mean nothin’, He ain’t half so smart as his cousin Pelham, that comes with him.”
Rodman sank back. “Oh, that ’s who they are?”’
Nate nodded. “Pelham ’s sixteen; jes’ about your age. His father was here the other day; he owns the mills. The other feller, he ’s out of New York. Half a year older, maybe. Stayin’ here for the summer.”
Rodman looked again at the approaching travelers. Now that they were nearer, he saw clearly that they were boys.
“If you don’t feel up to seein’ em,” said Nate, “I’ll send ’em back. But if T was you, I ’d see ‘em. It ain’t no disgrace to be sick, not as I ’ve learned yet. An’ perhaps the visit ’ll set you up.”
Rodman appeared to pull himself together. “All right,” he said. “Tell me what they ’re like.”
“Pelham, he ’s all right,” answered Nate. “That city chap—well, you can jedge as well as I. I ain’t seen much of him.” Nate went again into the house.
Presently, coming around the corner of the house, the two boys approached on foot. Pelham came first, with an eager and interested look. He went straight to the invalid and held out his hand. “I ’m Pelham Dodd,” he explained. “My father told me that perhaps you ’d like company. So I came with my cousin. Brian, this is—"’
He paused, embarrassed. The lad spoke for himself. “Nate is going to call me Rodman.”
“Rodman, then,” said Pelham, relieved. “This is my cousin Brian.”
With elaborate ease Brian shook Rodman’s hand. He was a little taller than Pelham, a little softer and slower. He dressed in an older fashion, as Rodman had already seen at a distance; he had more of a manner, and spoke as to a younger boy, saying, “Sorry you ’re ill.” He went and leaned against a near-by tree.
In justice to Brian, it must be considered that the meeting was a difficult one. He and Pelham had been carefully instructed not to question Rodiman about his past; they were not to suggest that they had met him before, they were simply to take him for granted. All this was not easy, especially when both the boys had been full of their knowledge concerning the lad, of curiosity to know whether he was the boy of the railroad story, and when now at first glance they recognized him.
Pelham threw himself into the breach. Plumping down on the grass beside the invalid, he began to talk. “Nice place this, up here. Good view, is n’t it?”
“Very good,” agreed Rodman.
“Lots of times I ’ve sat here with Nate and the boys,” went on Pelham. “If ever we chaps are out in the woods, we usually try to come home by Nate’s, so as to spend half an hour here, talking with him. Best view in the town, I think, and best man to talk to. Don’t you like his stories?”
Rodman smiled and shook his head. “I ’ve not heard any yet, but I ’ll make him tell me some.”
“It ’’s worth it,” said Pelham. “And, see here—if you say, I ’ll bring the whole gang up here to see you on Saturday morning. You ought to know them.”
Rodman smiled. “Thanks.”
“We play ball that afternoon,” explained Pelham. “Perhaps you could get down to see us.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Rodman.
“And later you can play with us,” Pelham went on, warming with enthusiasm. “We have a match every Saturday, when we can arrange it. Any fellow can get a place on the nine who plays well enough. You do play, of course?”
​“Of course,” said Rodman.
Brian spoke suddenly. “Where have you played?”
Rodman, flushing, hesitated for an answer. Pelham struck in quickly: “What ’s the difference? And say, Rodman, there ’s swimming, and hare and hounds. We have pretty good times.”
Rodman spoke slowly, and with evident reluctance. “I suppose my ankle will be well again soon, and my wrist. But, you know, I can’t spend my time playing, for I have n’t any money. I can’t live on Nate here, I must go to work.”
“Whew!” whistled Pelham. But he raised no objection. He knew plenty of lads in the town who, though no older than himself, were beginning their work in the mill. Nevertheless, Rodman seemed not that kind of boy. Surely he was better bred than they. “What shall you do?” he asked. “There 's work in the mill, of course, and you 're above legal age. I ’m sure Father would give you a job. But you would n’t care for that sort of thing.”
“T ’ve done worse,”’ stated Rodman. “I ’ve been waiter in a city restaurant—hot, greasy, doleful work!”
“I should think so!” agreed Pelham, heartily.
“Where was the restaurant?”’ demanded Brian.
Again came the hesitation to answer, and again Pelham interposed: “The mill would be better than that. Or you might find light work outdoors.”
Nate, approaching from the house, heard the last remark. “Rodman ’s going to stay here with me,” he said positively. “I can give him work.”
“You!” cried Pelham. “Why, Nate, you ’'ve always refused to take any one to work with you!”
“’S all right,” declared Nate, sturdily. “I never before saw a feller I could believe in. Every one that ever applied to me was of the kind that only wanted to learn my secrets in order to sell ’em. But I know when I can trust; and Rodman, he can work with me if he wants to.” He looked at the boy. “We have holidays here whenever we want ’em. The air ’s better here than in the mill, an’ the pay ’s jes’ as good.”
“Will you take me in?” laughed Pelham.
“Cert’,” answered Nate. “But first you ask your pa if he ’d let you come. And now—" His hand, which he had been holding behind his back, he suddenly revealed as holding bottles.
“Root-beer!” cried Pelham, springing up. “Oh, Nate!”
“One for you,” said Nate, smiling. “Rodman, he had n’t better have some till next week. But your cousin can have the other bottle, if he ’s willin’ to drink out of it.”
“I’ll try it,” said Brian, gingerly.
“Drank only a couple o’ swallers of it!” grumbled Nate, a half-hour later, when the boys had gone. He emptied the bottle upon the grass. “Fust boy I ever see that did n't like my root-beer. Rodman, I guess you an’ I will agree on that young gentleman.”
On his way homeward, Brian tried to make Pelham agree with him about Nate. “Confound his root-beer,” he said. “I never drink the stuff.”
“Then you need n’t have spoiled a bottle for him,” suggested Pelham. “We all like it.”
“I don’t see what you can find in him,” went on Brian. “He ’s quite rough and uncultivated.”
“Of course,” laughed Pelham. “Otherwise he would n’t be Nate. But, Brian, why did you try to make Rodman recollect about himself? Father specially told us not to.”
“That fellow has n’t lost his memory,” declared Brian. “If he remembers what he has done, he can remember where and when he did it.”
“Not necessarily,” retorted Pelham. “Did n’t you hear the doctor explain last night that a man could remember the one and forget the other? Persons and places, names and dates, he will forget, while he will remember that he can do, or even that he has done, one thing or another.”
“How are we,” asked Brian, “to know that he ’s forgotten things unless we ask him?”
“If he gets to worrying about his memory,” replied Pelham, “he ’s much less likely to get it back. That’s why they want us to ask him nothing.”
“Why does n’t he ask about himself?” demanded Brian.
“I can’t tell you,” answered Pelham. “I think such things are none of our business. And I tell you again, Brian, that if once you really run up against Father, you ’ll get a jolt.”
Pelham spoke good-naturedly, but the warning was plain. Brian gave one last grumble: “I think he ’s putting it all on.”
Chapter VII
NATE HAS A PLAN
The others, with one impulse, turned to attend more closely. It was in the living-room of the Dodd house, and Nate, in speaking with Mr. Dodd, lifted his voice a little higher than he needed to. Mrs. Dodd, who had been standing listening by her husband’s chair, drew up another and sat down. Brother Bob came out of his newspaper, Pelham emerged from his book, and Brian, carelessly lounging nearer, leaned against the mantel. Even Harriet, retiring as she often ​was, laid down her sewing, and came and stood by her mother’s chair. Nate, looking around upon them with a smile, turned to Mr. Dodd.
“If you ’d rather we talked this out by ourselves—"
Mr. Dodd hesitated. He could say, “Run away, youngsters,” and so could have the room to himself and his wife, with, perhaps, Bob also. But the younger ones, as he knew, were intensely interested in the boy up at Nate’s, and he wished Pelham and Harriet to hear what was to be said. Further, he trusted absolutely to their secrecy, for he had long ago trained his children to say nothing of what went on in the family circle. He wanted them, therefore, to stay. It was Brian that he doubted. He did not know his nephew very well, and was not sure whether closer acquaintance would make him think better of the boy, or worse. But for that very reason, he did not wish to show doubt of him. And again, was there any great need of secrecy? Probably not. He said, therefore, “Oh, this is all right.”
Nate nodded. “Well,” he began, “this boy Rodman, he wants to go away.”
They all exclaimed in surprise. “I thought,” said Mr. Dodd, “that the boys said he was going to work with you.”
“We talked of it when they was there,” agreed Nate, “but you know you can’t really settle things when others is about. He did n’t say nothin’ about it for two days more; but I noticed him a-tryin’ of his ankle every little while. It ’s been gittin’ well fast, an’ he seemed to be takin’ a lot of satisfaction in that. So I says to him last night, ‘What ‘s your awful hurry to git well?’
“He would n’t tell at first. He ’llowed ’s any one wants to git well, and things o’ that sort. But I kep’ at him, fur I suspicioncd the real reason, an’ at las’ he admitted it. He says he wants to go.”
“Did he give a reason?” asked Mr. Dodd.
“No, he jes’ wants to go. Whether he ’s nervous here, a-wantin’ to git to some remoter place—"
“Remoter from what?” interrupted Mr. Dodd.
“Don’t ask me,” replied Nate. “Still, I ’ve got it in my head that he ’s nearer to somethin’ than he likes to be. It ain’t any of us, ‘s I can see. He says we ‘ve all been mighty nice to him. I says, then why go away from us? An’ he jes’ comes back to the same idee, he wants to git away.”
“What shall you do?" asked Mr. Dodd.
“I?” asked Nate. “I ain’t got no say in the matter. If he wants to go, I cant stop him. Still, I feel so bad I thought I ’d ask his owner to come up an’ see what can be done.”
"“His owner?” inquired Mr. Dodd. “Who is that?”
“Harriet captured him,” answered Nate.
“He ’s her property, if he ’s any one’s. I thought I ’d ask her to come up an’ take a look at the situation.”
Harriet, with all eyes on her, felt that she turned scarlet. “Why,” she gasped, “I—-I—"
“But, Nate!” began Mr. Dodd, a little impaticntly. Then he stopped. Nate usually knew what he was about.
“I was jes’ foolin’ about her ownin’ him,” explained Nate. “Wanted to make her feel a little responsibility for him, that ’s all.” He smiled at Harriet, but continued addressing Mr. Dodd. “What I ’m really after is this: you know the doctor said that seein’ her might bring back Rod- man’s memory. Well, I want to see if it will.”
“But there ’s no hurry,” objected Mr. Dodd.
Nate shook his head. “I ’m not so sure. I feel ’s if I might wake some mornin’, when once he ’s rightly got the use of his leg, an’ find him gone. Seems ’s if I could n’t bear it if he got away without our makin’ this last try.”
“Well,” said Mr. Dodd, slowly, “her mother shall go up with her.”
“Askin’ your pardon,” persisted Nate, “I ’d rather not have grown folks around. They two ought to meet sorter natural, an’ entirely by themselves, Why, Mr. Dodd, you can trust Harriet with me!”
“Of course,” agrced Mr. Dodd. “But I don’t know anything about this boy.”
“Rodman ’s all right,” declared Nate, emphatically. I can’t say more than that about anybody.”
Mr. Dodd looked at his wife. She, who had been listening thoughtfully, slowly nodded. “I like what I ’ve seen of him,” she said. “Let her go. Nate will be there.”
Nate looked at Harriet. “I ain’t proposin’ to be eavesdroppin’,” he exclaimed, “but I ’ll be handy. Harriet, will ye go?”
(To be continued.)