The Story of a Bad Boy(顽童故事)

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The Story of a Bad Boy

By Thomas Bailey Aldrich

The Story of a Bad Boy

CHAPTER One

In Which I Introduce Myself

This is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a pretty

bad boy; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy myself.

Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that

I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story of a bad boy,

partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who

generally figure in narratives of this kind, and partly because I really was

not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, blessed

with fine digestive powers, and no hypocrite. I didn't want to be an angel

and with the angels stand; I didn't think the missionary tracts presented to

me by the Rev. Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe;

and I didn't send my little pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee

Islands, but spent it royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short,

I was a real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England,

and no more like the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is

like one that has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.

Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him at

recess with the following words: "My name's Tom Bailey; what's your

name?" If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil

cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn on my heel, for I was particular on

this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly

affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were

passwords to my confidence and esteem.

Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this

time-lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not? Phil

Adams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where I

picture him to myself with his head closely shaved-he never had too much

hair-and a long pigtail banging down behind. He is married, I hear; and I

hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together, sitting

cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skyblue tower hung

with bells. It is so I think of him; to me he is henceforth a jewelled

The Story of a Bad Boy

mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is a judge, sedate

and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that remarkable nose

which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkled with freckles that the

boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. just to think of little Pepper

Whitcomb being a judge! What would be do to me now, I wonder, if I

were to sing out "Pepper!" some day in court? Fred Langdon is in

California, in the native-wine business-he used to make the best licorice-

water I ever tasted! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South Burying-

Ground; and Jack Harris, too, is dead-Harris, who commanded us boys, of

old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill. Was it yesterday I

saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join the shattered Army

of the Potomac? Not yesterday, but six years ago. It was at the battle of the

Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew rein until he had dashed

into the Rebel battery! So they found him-lying across the enemy's guns.

How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died! I wonder

what has become of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School

at Rivermouth when I was a youngster? "All, all are gone, the old familiar

faces!"

It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, for a moment, from

that Past which has closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they

live again in my memory! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere

even Conway, mine ancient foe, stands forth transfigured, with a sort of

dreamy glory encircling his bright red hair!

With the old school formula I commence these sketches of my

boyhood. My name is Tom Bailey; what is yours, gentle reader? I take for

granted it is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get on

famously together, and be capital friends forever.

The Story of a Bad Boy

CHAPTER Two

In Which I Entertain Peculiar Views

I was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance to become very

well acquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed

to New Orleans, where my father invested his money so securely in the

banking business that be was never able to get any of it out again. But of

this hereafter.

I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it didn't

make much difference to me where I was, because I was so small; but

several years later, when my father proposed to take me North to be

educated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kicked

over the little Negro boy who happened to be standing by me at the

moment, and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of the piazza,

declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees!

You see I was what is called "a Northern man with Southern

principles." I had no recollection of New England: my earliest memories

were connected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old Negro nurse, and

with the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house-a

whitewashed stone house it was, with wide verandas-shut out from the

street by lines of orange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was born at the

North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon the misfortune

as something so shrouded by time and distance that maybe nobody

remembered it. I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee, because they

talked about the Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feel that it was

quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or at least in one of the

Border States. And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe, who

said, "dar wasn't no gentl'men in the Norf no way," and on one occasion

terrified me beyond measure by declaring that, "if any of dem mean whites

tried to git her away from marster, she was jes'gwine to knock 'em on de

head wid a gourd!"

The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air with which

she struck at an imaginary "mean white," are among the most vivid things

The Story of a Bad Boy

in my memory of those days.

To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as that

entertained by the well-educated Englishmen of the present day

concerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into two

classes-Indians and white people; that the Indians occasionally dashed

down on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the

preference to children) whom they caught lingering in the outskirts after

nightfall; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, and that

it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing style of

architecture I took to be log-cabins.

With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, the

reader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of being

transported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me for

kicking over little black Sam, and otherwise misconducting myself, when

my father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam-I

always did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me.

My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violent

outbreak, and especially by the real consternation which be saw written in

every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up, my

father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library.

I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and

questioned me. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of

my objections to going North, and proceeded at once to knock down all

my pine log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I had

populated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States.

"Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories?"

asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me."

"And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered

with beads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his enemies?"

"Well, sir, I didn't think that exactly."

"Didn't think that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me."

He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he

seemed to have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though

The Story of a Bad Boy

I did not clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel so

badly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible that

Grandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior.

My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to

giving me a clear and succinct account of New England; its early struggles,

its progress, and its present condition-faint and confused glimmerings of

all which I had obtained at school, where history had never been a favorite

pursuit of mine.

I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the contrary, the proposed

journey to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promised

myself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely at rest in

my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go on board the

ship-the journey was to be made by sea-with a certain little brass pistol in

my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with the tribes when we

landed at Boston.

I couldn't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previously

the Cherokees-or was it the Camanches?-had been removed from their

hunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the red

men were still a source of terror to the border settlers. "Trouble with the

Indians" was the staple news from Florida published in the New Orleans

papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attacked and

murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done in Florida,

why not in Massachusetts?

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. My

impatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for me

a fine little Mustang pony, 20and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnight

previous to the date set for our own departure-for both my parents were to

accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one night in

a dream), and my father's promise that he and my mother would come to

Rivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation.

The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy; so I always

called her-she was a lady pony-Gypsy.

At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the

orange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he was

The Story of a Bad Boy

heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe, who, in

the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and then buried

her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mounted that morning

in honor of our departure.

I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rolling

down Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening like pearls;

I wave my hand to him manfully. then I call out "goodby" in a muffled

voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never to see

them again!

The Story of a Bad Boy

CHAPTER Three

On Board the Typhoon

I do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the first

few hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell.

The name of our ship was the "A No. 1, fast-sailing packet Typhoon." I

learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaper

advertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that is

why we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the ship he

owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter-the cabin, in

which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in the

roof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in.

There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting

under way. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay

any attention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the face

that he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candle

inside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightest regard for

their feelings. They didn't mind it a bit, however, but went on singing-

"Heave ho!

With the rum below,

And hurrah for the Spanish Main O!"

I will not be positive about "the Spanish Main," but it was hurrah for

something O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed they

were. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy-a thick-set,

jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and a fringe

of gray hair circling his head like a crown. As he took off his tarpaulin I

observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat, as if

somebody had sat down on him when he was very young.

There was something noticeably hearty in this man's bronzed face, a

heartiness that seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. But

what completely won my good-will was a picture of enviable loveliness

The Story of a Bad Boy

painted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of a fish.

Her flowing hair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb in one hand.

I never saw anything so beautiful. I determined to know that man. I think I

would have given my brass pistol to have had such a picture painted on

my arm.

While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat wheezy steamtug, with

the word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddlebox, came puffing up

alongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously small and conceited, compared

with our stately ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. In a few

minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort and a

shriek, and commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf) with the

greatest ease.

I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten

times larger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found the

chubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the

Mississippi River.

In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, and

away we flew like a great winged bird. Only it didn't seem as if we were

moving. The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging of

the ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding away

from us.

It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this.

Before long there was nothing to be seen on other side but stretches of low

swampy land, covered with stunted cypress trees, from which drooped

delicate streamers of Spanish moss-a fine place for alligators and Congo

snakes. Here and there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there a

snag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark.

"This is your last chance to see the city, To see the city, Tom," said my

father, as we swept round a bend of the river.

I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of

something in the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon

which the sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old

Aunt Chloe's thimble.

What do I remember next? The gray sky and the fretful blue waters of

The Story of a Bad Boy

the Gulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone

panting away with a derisive scream, as much as to say, "I've done my

duty, now look out for yourself, old Typhoon!"

The ship seemed quite proud of being left to take care of itself, and,

with its huge white sails bulged out, strutted off like a vain turkey. I had

been standing by my father near the wheel-house all this while, observing

things with that nicety of perception which belongs only to children; but

now the dew began falling, and we went below to have supper.

The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices of cold chicken, looked very

nice; yet somehow I had no appetite There was a general smell of tar about

everything. Then the ship gave sudden lurches that made it a matter of

uncertainty whether one was going to put his fork to his mouth or into his

eye. The tumblers and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over the table, kept

clinking and clinking; and the cabin lamp, suspended by four gilt chains

from the ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Now the floor seemed to rise,

and now it seemed to sink under one's feet like a feather-bed.

There were not more than a dozen passengers on board, including

ourselves; and all of these, excepting a bald-headed old gentleman-a

retired sea-captain-disappeared into their staterooms at an early hour of the

evening.

After supper was cleared away, my father and the elderly gentleman,

whose name was Captain Truck, played at checkers; and I amused myself

for a while by watching the trouble they had in keeping the men in the

proper places. just at the most exciting point of the game, the ship would

careen, and down would go the white checkers pell-mell among the black.

Then my father laughed, but Captain Truck would grow very angry, and

vow that he would have won the game in a move or two more, if the

confounded old chicken-coop-that's what he called the ship-hadn't lurched.

"I-I think I will go to bed now, please," I said, laying my band on my

father's knee, and feeling exceedingly queer.

It was high time, for the Typhoon was plunging about in the most

alarming fashion. I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, where I

felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were placed on a narrow shelf at

my feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know that my pistol was so

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TheStoryofaBadBoy1TheStoryofaBadBoyByThomasBaileyAldrichTheStoryofaBadBoy2CHAPTEROneInWhichIIntroduceMyselfThisisthestoryofabadboy.Well,notsuchaverybad,butaprettybadboy;andIoughttoknow,forIam,orratherIwas,thatboymyself.Lestthetitleshouldmisleadthereader,IhastentoassurehimherethatIhavenodarkconfessio...

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The Story of a Bad Boy(顽童故事)

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