Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
The musket had done double execution. It was too heavily loaded, and as it went off, 'kicked,' leaving Pomp, about as scared as the old lady, sprawling on the ground.
Henry Morton was only a few rods off when he heard the explosion. He at once ran to the old lady's assistance, fancying her hurt. She shrieked the louder on his approach, imagining that he was a robber, and had fired at her.
“Go away!” she cried, in affright. “I ain't got any money. I'm a poor, destitute widder!”
“What do you take me for?” inquired Mr. Morton, somewhat amazed at this mode of address.
“Ain't you a highwayman?” asked the old lady.
“If you look at me close I think you will be able to answer that question for yourself.”
The old lady cautiously rose to a sitting posture, and, mechanically adjusting her spectacles, took a good look at the young man.
“Why, I declare for it, ef it ain't Mr. Morton! I thought 'twas you that fired at me.”
“I hope you are not hurt,” said Mr. Morton, finding a difficulty in preserving his gravity.
“I dunno,” said the old lady dubiously, pulling up her sleeve, and examining her arm. “I don't see nothin'; but I expect I've had some injury to my inards. I feel as ef I'd had a shock somewhere. Do you think he'll fire again?” she asked, with a sudden alarm.
“You need not feel alarmed,” was the soothing reply. “It was no doubt an accident.”
Turning suddenly, he espied Pomp peering from behind a tree, with eyes and mouth wide open. The little contraband essayed a hasty flight; but Mr. Morton, by a masterly flank movement, came upon him, and brought forward the captive kicking and struggling.
“Le' me go!” said Pomp. “I ain't done noffin'!”
“Didn't you fire a gun at this lady?”
“No,” said Pomp boldly. “Wish I may be killed ef I did!”
“I know 'twas you—you—you imp!” exclaimed Mrs. Payson, in violent indignation. “I seed you do it. You're the wust boy that ever lived, and you'll be hung jest as sure as I stan' here!”
“How did it happen, Pomp?” asked Mr. Morton quietly.
“It jest shooted itself!” said Pomp, in whom the old lady's words inspired a vague feeling of alarm. “I 'clare to gracious, Mass' Morton, it did!”
“Didn't you have the gun in your hand, Pomp? Where did you get it?”
“I jest borrered it of Mass' Frank, to play sojer a little while,” said Pomp reluctantly.
“Does he know that you have got it?”
“I 'clare I done forgot to tell him,” said Pomp reluctantly.
“Will you promise never to touch it again?”
“Don't want to!” ejaculated Pomp, adding spitefully, “He kick me over!”
“I'm glad on't,” said the old lady emphatically, with a grim air of satisfaction. “That'll l'arn you not to fire it off at your elders ag'in. I've a great mind to box your ears, and sarve you right, too.”
Mrs. Payson advanced, to effect her purpose; but Pomp was wary, and, adroitly freeing himself from Mr. Morton's grasp, butted at the old lady with such force that she would have fallen backward but for the timely assistance of Mr. Morton, who sprang to her side. Her bag fell to the ground, and she struggled to regain her lost breath.
“Oh!” groaned the old lady, gasping for breath, “he's mos' knocked the breath out of me. I sha'n't live long a'ter such a shock. I'm achin' all over. Why did you let him do it?”
“He was too quick for me, Mrs. Payson. I hope you feel better.”
“I dunno as I shall ever feel any better,” said Mrs. Payson gloomily. “If Cynthy Ann only knew how her poor old ma'am had been treated! I dunno as I shall live to get home!”
“Oh, yes, you will,” said the young man cheerfully, “and live to see a good many years more. Would you like to have me attend you home?”
“I ain't got strength to go so fur,” said Mrs. Payson, who had not given up her plan of taking tea out. “I guess I could go as fur as Mis' Frost's, an' mebbe some on you will tackle up an' carry me back to Cynthy Ann's a'ter tea.”
Arrived at the farmhouse, Mrs. Payson indulged in a long detail of grievances; but it was observed that they did not materially affect her appetite at tea.
The offending musket was found by Frank under a tree, where Pomp had dropped it when it went off.
CHAPTER XXVIII. JOHN HAYNES HAS A NARROW ESCAPE
John Haynes found the time hang heavily upon his hand after his withdrawal from the boys' volunteer company. All the boys with whom he had been accustomed to associate belonged to it, and in their interest could talk of nothing else. To him, on the contrary, it was a disagreeable subject. In the pleasant spring days the company came out twice a week, and went through company drill on the Common, under the command of Frank, or Captain Frost, as he was now called.
Had Frank shown himself incompetent, and made himself ridiculous by blunders, it would have afforded John satisfaction. But Frank, thorough in all things, had so carefully prepared himself for his duties that he never made a mistake, and always acquitted himself so creditably and with such entire self-possession, that his praises were in every mouth.
Dick Bumstead, too, manifested an ambition to fill his second lieutenancy, to which, so much to his own surprise, he had been elected, in such a manner as to justify the company in their choice. In this he fully succeeded. He had become quite a different boy from what he was when we first made his acquaintance. He had learned to respect himself, and perceived with great satisfaction that he was generally respected by the boys. He no longer attempted to shirk his work in the shop, and his father now spoke of him with complacency, instead of complaint as formerly.
“Yes,” said he one day, “Dick's a good boy. He was always smart, but rather fly-a-way. I couldn't place any dependence upon him once, but it is not so now. I couldn't wish for a better boy. I don't know what has come over him, but I hope it'll last.”
Dick happened to overhear his father speaking thus to a neighbor, and he only determined,
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