The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way

CHAPTER VII. MR. JOE TUCKER

Before going further, I will introduce to the reader, a citizen of Norton, who filled a position for which he was utterly unfitted. This man was Joe Tucker, in charge of the almshouse.

He had not been selected by the town authorities on the ground of fitness, but simply because he was willing to work cheap. He received a certain low weekly sum for each one of his inmates, and the free use of apartments for himself and family, with the right to cultivate the ten acres of land connected with the establishment, and known as the Town Farm.

His family consisted of three persons—himself, his wife, and a son, Ezekiel, familiarly known as Zeke, now sixteen years old. The leading family trait was meanness.

Mr. Tucker supplied a mean table even for a poorhouse, and some of the hapless inmates complained bitterly. One had even had the boldness to present a complaint to the selectmen, and that body, rather reluctantly, undertook to investigate the justness of the complaint. They deputed Squire Pope to visit the poorhouse and inquire into the matter.

Now, though Squire Pope thought himself unusually sharp, it was the easiest thing in the world for a cunning person like Joe Tucker to satisfy him that all was right.

“Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope pompously, “I am deputed by the selectmen, and I may add by the overseers of the poor, to investigate a complaint made by one of the paupers in relation to the fare you offer them.”

“Who is it!” inquired Mr. Tucker.

“It is Ann Carter. She says you don’t allow her sugar in her tea, and only allow one slice of bread at supper, and that the meat is so bad she can’t eat it.”

“Just like the old woman!” exclaimed Mr. Tucker indignantly. “Oh, she’s a high-strung pauper, she is! Expects all the delicacies of the season for seventy-five cents a week. She’d ought to go to the Fifth Avenoo Hotel in New York, and then I’ll bet a cent she wouldn’t be satisfied.”

It is observable that even in his imaginary bets Mr. Tucker maintained his economical habits, and seldom bet more than a cent. Once, when very much excited, he had bet five cents, but this must be attributed to his excited state of mind.

“So you regard her complaints as unreasonable, do you, Mr. Tucker?” observed the investigating committee.

“Unreasonable? I should think they was. I allow, Squire Pope, we don’t live like a first-class hotel”—Mr. Tucker’s language was rather mixed—“but we live as well as we can afford to. As to sugar, we don’t allow the paupers to put it in for themselves, or they’d ruin us by their extravagance. Mrs. Tucker puts sugar in the teapot before she pours it out. I s’pose Ann Carter would put as much in one cup of tea as Mrs. T. uses for the whole teapotful, if she had her way.”

This was very probably true, as the frugal Mrs. Tucker only allowed one teaspoonful for the entire supply.

“That looks reasonable, Mr. Tucker,” said the squire approvingly. “Now about the bread and the meat?”

“The paupers has plenty of bread,” said Mr. Tucker. “Our bread bill is actually enormous.”

“And as to the meat?”

“We don’t give ‘em roast turkey every day, and we don’t buy tenderloin steaks to pamper their appetites,” said Mr. Tucker, “though we’re perfectly willing to do it if the town’ll pay us so we can afford it. Do you think the town’ll agree to pay me twenty-five cents more a week for each one, squire?”

“Certainly not. It can’t be thought of,” said the squire hastily, knowing that if the selectmen advocated such a measure they would probably lose their reelection.

“If it would, we might live a little better, so that Ann Carter wouldn’t have to complain, though, bless your soul! that woman is always complainin’.”

“Ahem! Mr. Tucker, you present the matter to me in a new light. I really feel that Ann Carter is very unreasonable in her complaints.”

“I knowed you’d do me justice, squire,” said Mr. Tucker effusively. “You’re a sharp man. You ain’t a-goin’ to be taken in by any of them paupers’ rigmarole. I always said, Squire Pope, that you was the right man in the right place, and that the town was lucky to have so intelligent and public-spirited a citizen fillin’ her most important offices.”

“Mr. Tucker,” said the squire, “you gratify me. It has ever been my aim to discharge with conscientious fidelity the important trusts which the town has committed to my charge—”

“I’ll bear witness to that, squire.”

“And your sincere tribute gives me great satisfaction.”

“I hope you’ll report things right to the board, Squire Pope?” said Mr. Joe Tucker insinuatingly.

“Be assured I will, Mr. Tucker. I consider you a zealous and trustworthy official, striving hard to do your duty in the place the town has assigned you.”

“I do, indeed, squire,” said Mr. Tucker, pulling on a red handkerchief and mopping some imaginary tears. “Excuse my emotions, sir, but your generous confidence quite unmans me. I—I—trust now that I shall be able to bear meekly the sneers and complaints of Ann Carter and her fellow paupers.”

“I will stand by you, Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope cordially, for the man’s flattery, coarse as it was, had been like incense to his vanity. “I will stand by you, and uphold you by my testimony.”

“Thank you, squire. With such an impartial advocate I will continue to do my duty and fear nothing.”

As Squire Pope left the almshouse, Mr. Tucker winked at himself in the glass, and said quizzically:

“I guess I’m all right now. The vain old fool thinks he’s a second Solomon, and thinks I regard him as such. Oh, it takes me to get round him!”

Squire Pope wrote an elaborate report, in which he stated that, after searching investigation, he had ascertained that the complaints of Ann Carter were absolutely groundless, and gave it as his conviction that Mr. Tucker’s treatment of her and her associate paupers was characterized by remarkable consideration and humanity.

Such officials as he have much to answer for, and yet there are plenty just as false to their responsibilities as he.

It was two days after Squire Pope’s ineffectual attempt to possess himself of Philip’s violin, that our hero was walking along a country road, on his return from an errand which, he had undertaken for his friend’s father, when his attention was drawn to the yelping of a small dog, that seemed in fear or pain.

Looking over the stone wall, Philip saw Zeke Tucker amusing himself by thrusting the dog’s head into a pool of dirty water, and holding it there till the animal was nearly strangled. The dog’s suffering appeared to yield the most exquisite amusement to the boy, who burst into peal after peal of rude laughter as he watched the struggles of his victim.

Philip, like every decent boy, had a horror of cruelty, and the sight stirred him to immediate anger and disgust.

“What are you doing there, Zeke Tucker?” he demanded sternly.

“None of your business!” answered Zeke, frowning.

“You’d better answer my question,” said Philip, who had by this time jumped over the wall.

“Then I will. I’m havin’ a little fun. What have you got to say about it?” retorted Zeke.

And once more he plunged the head of the poor dog into the filthy pool.

The next moment he found himself floundering on his back, while the dog, slipping from his grasp, was running across the meadows. “What did you do that for!” demanded Zeke, springing up, his face flaming with rage.

“I rather think you understand well enough,” answered Philip contemptuously.

“What business have you to touch me? I can have you arrested, you low pauper!”

“What’s that? What did you call me?” demanded Philip.

“I called you a pauper.”

“By what right?”

“Squire Pope told my father he was going to bring you over to the poorhouse to live. You just see if my father doesn’t give it to you then!”

“Thank you,” said Phil contemptuously; “but I don’t propose to board at your establishment, not even to obtain the pleasure of your society.”

“Maybe you can’t help yourself,” said Zeke gleefully.

For he saw what had escaped the notice of Philip, whose back was turned—namely, a four-seated carryall, containing his father and Squire Pope, which had just halted in the road, hard by.

“Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope, in a low tone, “now will be the best opportunity to capture the boy and carry him to the almshouse.”

“All right—I’m ready,” said Tucker readily.

For another boarder would bring him sixty cents a week more.

They stopped the horses and prepared for business.

CHAPTER XIII. IN THE ENEMY’S HANDS

Philip heard a step, and turned to see whose it was; but, when he recognized Mr. Tucker, the latter’s hand was already on his collar.

“What have you been doin’ to Zeke? Tell me that, you young rascal,” said Mr. Tucker roughly.

“He pitched into me savage, father,” answered Zeke, who had picked himself up, and was now engaged in brushing the dust from his coat.

“Pitched into ye, did he?” repeated Joe Tucker grimly. “I reckon he didn’t know your father was ‘round. What have you got to say for yourself, eh?”

Philip regarded his captor contemptuously, and didn’t struggle to escape, knowing that he was not a match for a man five inches taller than himself. But contempt he could not help showing, for he knew very well that Zeke had inherited his mean traits largely from his father.

“I’ll thank you to remove your hand from my collar, sir,” said Philip. “When you have done that, I will explain why I pitched into Zeke, as he calls it.”

“Don’t you let go, father!” said Zeke hastily. “He’ll run away, if you do.”

“If I do, you can catch me between you,” returned Philip coolly.

“I reckon that’s so,” said Mr. Tucker, withdrawing his hand, but keeping wary watch of our hero.

“Now go ahead!” said he.

Philip did so.

“I saw Zeke torturing a small dog,” he explained, “and I couldn’t stand by and let it go on.”

“What was he doin’ to him?” inquired Mr. Tucker.

“Putting the poor animal’s head into this dirty pool, and keeping it there till it was nearly suffocated.”

“Was you doin’ that, Zeke?” asked his father.

“I was havin’ a little fun with him,” said Zeke candidly.

“It might have been fun to you, but it wasn’t to him,” said Phil.

“Why didn’t you ask Zeke to stop, and not fly at him like a tiger?” demanded Mr. Tucker.

“I did remonstrate with him, but he only laughed, and did it again.”

“He hadn’t no right to order me,” said Zeke. “It wa’n’t no business of his if I was havin’ a little fun with the dog.”

“And I had a little fun with, you,” returned Philip—“You couldn’t have complained if I had dipped your head in the water also.”

“I ain’t a dog!” said Zeke.

“I should respect you more if you were,” said Philip.

“Are you goin’ to let him talk to me like that!” asked Zeke, appealing to his father.

“No, I ain’t,” said Mr. Tucker angrily. “You’ve committed an assault and battery on my son, you rascal, and you’ll find there ain’t no fun in it for you. I could have you arrested and put in jail, couldn’t I, squire?”

“Ahem! Well, you could have him fined; but, as he is to be under your care, Mr. Tucker, you will have a chance of making him conduct himself properly.”

“What do you mean by that, Squire Pope?” asked Philip quickly.

“Young man, I do not choose to be catechized,” said Squire Pope, in a dignified manner; “but I have no objections to tell you that I have made arrangements with Mr. Tucker to take you into the poorhouse.”

“I’ve heard that before, but I couldn’t believe it,” said Philip proudly.

“I guess you’ll have to believe it pretty soon, he, he!” laughed Zeke, with a grin which indicated his high delight. “I guess dad’ll make you stand round when he gits you into the poor-house.”

“Don’t you consider me capable of earning my own living, Squire Pope?” asked Philip.

“Ahem! Yes, you will be one of these days. You won’t have to stay in the almshouse all your life.”

“You’ll have a chance to earn your livin’ with me.” said Mr. Tucker. “I shall give you something to do, you may depend.”

“You can make him saw and split wood, father, and do the chores and milk the cow,” suggested Zeke.

“I have no objection to doing any of those things for a farmer,” said Philip, “but I am not willing to do it where I shall be considered a pauper.”

“Kinder uppish!” suggested Mr. Tucker, turning to Squire Pope. “Most all of them paupers is proud; but it’s pride in the wrong place, I reckon.”

“If it is pride to want to earn an independent living, and not live on charity, then I am proud,” continued Philip.

“Well, squire, how is it to be,” asked Mr. Tucker.

“Philip,” said Squire Pope pompously, “you are very young, and you don’t know what is best for you. We do, and you must submit. Mr. Tucker, take him and put him in the wagon, and we’ll drive over to the poorhouse.”

“What! now?” asked Philip, in dismay.

“Just so,” answered Joe Tucker. “When you’ve got your bird, don’t let him go, that’s what I say.”

“That’s the talk, dad!” said Zeke gladfully. “We’ll take down his pride, I guess, when we’ve got him home.”

Joe Tucker approached Philip, and was about to lay hold of him, when our hero started back.

“You needn’t lay hold of me, Mr. Tucker,” he said. “I will get into the wagon if Squire Pope insists upon it.”

“I’m glad you’re gettin’ sensible,” said the squire, congratulating himself on finding Philip more tractable than he expected.

“And you will go to the poorhouse peaceful, and without making a fuss?” asked Joe.

“Yes, I will go there; but I won’t stay there.”

“You won’t stay there!” ejaculated the squire.

“No, sir! In treating me as a dependent on charity, you are doing what neither you nor any other man has a right to do,” said Philip firmly.

“You don’t appear to remember that I am a selectman and overseer of the poor,” said the Squire.

“I am aware that you hold those offices; but if so, you ought to save money to the town, and not compel them to pay for my support, when I am willing and able to support myself.”

Squire Pope looked a little puzzled. This was putting the matter in a new light, and he could not help admitting to himself that Philip was correct, and that perhaps his fellow citizens might take the same view.

On the other hand, the squire was fond of having his own way, and he had now gone so far that he could not recede without loss of dignity.

“I think,” he answered stiffly, “that I understand my duty as well as a boy of fifteen. I don’t mean to keep you here long, but it is the best arrangement for the present.”

“Of course it is,” said Zeke, well pleased with the humiliation of his enemy.

“Shut up, Zeke!” said his father, observing from the squire’s expression that he did not fancy Zeke’s interference.

“All right, dad,” said Zeke good-naturedly, seeing that things had turned out as he desired.

“Jump in!” said Mr. Tucker to Philip.

Our hero, without a word, obeyed. He was firmly resolved that Squire Pope should not have his way, but he did not choose to make himself ridiculous by an ineffectual resistance which would only have ended in his discomfiture.

Seated between Mr. Tucker and the squire, he was driven rapidly toward the poorhouse.

CHAPTER IX. THE POORHOUSE

There was no room for Zeke to ride—that is, there was no seat for him—but he managed to clamber into the back part of the wagon, where he sat, or squatted, rather uncomfortably, but evidently in the best of spirits—if any inference could be drawn from his expression.

The poorhouse was not far away. It was a three-story frame house, which badly needed painting, with a dilapidated barn, and shed near by.

A three-story farmhouse is not common in the country, but this dwelling had been erected by a Mr. Parmenter, in the expectation of making a fortune by taking summer boarders.

There was room enough for them, but they did not come. The situation was the reverse of pleasant, the soil about was barren, and there were no shade or fruit trees. It was a crazy idea, selecting such a spot for a summer boarding-house, and failure naturally resulted.

There had, indeed, been two boarders—a man and his wife—who paid one week’s board, and managed to owe six before the unlucky landlord decided that they were a pair of swindlers. He had spent more money than he could afford on his house, and went steadily behind-hand year after year, till the town—which was in want of a poorhouse—stepped in and purchased the house and farm at a bargain. So it came to be a boarding-house, after all, but in a sense not contemplated by the proprietor, and, at present, accommodated eleven persons—mostly old and infirm—whom hard fortune compelled to subsist on charity.

Mr. Tucker had this advantage, that his boarders, had no recourse except to stay with him, however poor his fare or harsh his treatment, unless they were in a position to take care of themselves.

When Philip came in sight of the almshouse—which he had often seen, and always considered a very dreary-looking building—he was strengthened in his determination not long to remain a tenant.

Mr. Tucker drove up to the front door with a flourish.

A hard-featured woman came out, and regarded the contents of the wagon with curiosity.

“Well, Abigail, can you take another boarder!” asked Mr. Tucker, as he descended from the wagon.

“Who is it?”

“Well, it ain’t likely to be Squire Pope!” said Joe facetiously; “and Zeke and I are regular boarders on the free list.”

“Is it that boy?”

“Yes; it’s Phil Gray.”

“Humph! boys are a trial!” remarked Mrs. Tucker, whose experience with Zeke had doubtless convinced her of this fact.

“I sha’n’t trouble you long, Mrs. Tucker,” said Philip. “I don’t intend to stay.”

“You don’t, hey?” retorted Joe Tucker, with a wolfish grin and an emphatic nod of the head. “We’ll see about that—won’t we, Squire Pope?”

“The boy is rather rebellious, Mrs. Tucker,” said the selectman. “He appears to think he knows better what is good for him than we do. You may look upon him as a permanent boarder. What he says is of no account.”

Philip said nothing, but he looked full at the squire with an unflinching gaze. If ever determination was written upon any face, it was on his.

“Come down there!” said Mrs. Tucker, addressing our hero. “You’re at home now.”

“Mr. Dunbar won’t know what has become of me,” said Philip, with a sudden thought. “They will be anxious. May I go back there and tell them where I am?”

“Do you think I am green enough for that?” Mr. Tucker, touching the side of his nose waggishly. “We shouldn’t be likely to set eyes on you again.”

“I will promise to come back here this evening,” said Philip.

“And will you promise to stay?” asked Squire Pope doubtfully.

“No, sir,” answered Philip boldly. “I won’t do that, but I will engage to come back. Then Mr. Tucker will have to look out for me, for I tell you and him frankly I don’t mean to stay.”

“Did you ever hear such talk, squire!” asked Mr. Tucker, with a gasp of incredulity. “He actually defies you, who are a selectman and an overseer of the poor.”

“So he does, Mr. Tucker. I’m shocked at his conduct.”

“Shall we let him go?”

“No, of course not.”

“I agree with you, squire. I know’d you wouldn’t agree to it. What shall I do about his wantin’ to run away?”

“It will be best to confine him just at first, Mr. Tucker.”

“I’ll shut him up in one of the attic rooms,” said Mr. Tucker.

“I think it will be the best thing to do, Mr. Tucker.”

Philip took all this very coolly. As to the way in which they proposed to dispose of him for the present he cared very little, as he did not intend stay till morning if there was any possible chance of getting away. The only thing that troubled him was the doubt and anxiety of his good friends, the Dunbars, when he did not return to the house.

“Squire Pope,” he said, turning to that official, “will you do me a favor?”

“Ahem! Explain yourself,” said the squire suspiciously.

“Will you call at Mr. Dunbar’s and tell them where I am.”

Now, for obvious reasons, the squire did not like to do this. He knew that the Dunbars would manifest great indignation at the arbitrary step which he had adopted, and he did not like to face their displeasure, especially as his apology would perforce be a lame one.

“I don’t think I am called upon to do you a favor, seeing how you’ve acted, Philip,” he said hesitatingly. “Besides, it would be out of my way, and I ought to get home as soon as possible.”

“Then you refuse, sir?”

“Well, I’d rather not.”

“Will you get word to them, Mr. Tucker?” asked Philip, turning to him.

“I hain’t got time,” answered Mr. Tucker, who feared that the Dunbars would come for Philip and release him in the course of the evening.

Philip was nonplused. Always considerate of the feelings of others, he was unwilling that his friends should suffer anxiety on his account.

As Mr. Tucker and Squire Pope walked away together, our hero turned to Zeke.

“I suppose it’s no use to ask you to do me a favor, Zeke?” he said.

“Do you want me to tell Frank Dunbar where you are?”

“Yes, I wish you would.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“You’re a better fellow than I thought you were, Zeke,” said Philip, surprised.

“No, I ain’t! Do you want to know why I’m willin’ to go?”

“Why?”

“I know Frank Dunbar’ll feel bad, and I hate him.”

“So that is your object, is it, Zeke?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Well, whatever your motive may be, I shall be much obliged to you if you go. Here’s ten cents for you!”

Zeke grasped at the coin with avidity, for his father was very parsimonious, and his mother no less so, and he seldom got any ready money.

“Thank you!” said Zeke, with unusual politeness. “I’ll go right off. But, I say, don’t you tell dad where I’ve gone, or he might prevent me, and don’t you let on you’ve given me this dime, or he’d try to get it away.”

“No, I won’t say anything about it,” answered Philip.

“A curious family this is!” he thought, “There doesn’t seem to be much confidence in each other.”

Zeke sauntered away carelessly, to avert suspicion but when he had got round a bend of the road he increased his speed, never looking back, lest he should see his father signaling for him.

Philip breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ve got a messenger at last,” he said. “Now my friends will know what has become of me when I don’t come home to supper.”

He was a little curious to learn what they were going to do with him, but he was not long kept in suspense.