The Story of a Bad Boy | Page 9

a baggage-wagon, and
ourselves stowed away in a coach, which must have turned at least one
hundred corners before it set us down at the railway station.
In less time than it takes to tell it, we were shooting across the country
at a fearful rate-now clattering over a bridge, now screaming through a
tunnel; here we cut a flourishing village in two, like a knife, and here
we dived into the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimes we glided along
the edge of the ocean, and could see the sails of ships twinkling like
bits of silver against the horizon; sometimes we dashed across rocky
pasture4ands where stupid-eyed cattle were loafing. It was fun to scare

lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups under the newly budded
trees near the railroad track.
We did not pause at any of the little brown stations on the route (they
looked just like overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at every one
of them a man popped out as if he were worked by machinery, and
waved a red flag, and appeared as though he would like to have us stop.
But we were an express train, and made no stoppages, excepting once
or twice to give the engine a drink. It is strange how the memory clings
to some things. It is over twenty years since I took that first ride to
Rivermouth, and yet, oddly enough, I remember as if it were yesterday,
that, as we passed slowly through the village of Hampton, we saw two
boys fighting behind a red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog,
who looked as if he had commenced to unravel, barking himself all up
into a knot with excitement. We had only a hurried glimpse of the
battle-long enough, however, to see that the combatants were equally
matched and very much in earnest. I am ashamed to say how many
times since I have speculated as to which boy got licked. Maybe both
the small rascals are dead now (not in consequence of the set-to, let us
hope), or maybe they are married, and have pugnacious urchins of their
own; yet to this day I sometimes find myself wondering how that fight
turned out.
We had been riding perhaps two hours and a half, when we shot by a
tall factory with a chimney resembling a church steeple; then the
locomotive gave a scream, the engineer rang his bell, and we plunged
into the twilight of a long wooden building, open at both ends. Here we
stopped, and the conductor, thrusting his head in at the car door, cried
out, "Passengers for Rivermouth!"
At last we had reached our journey's end. On the platform my father
shook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was very
serene and rosy. He had on a white hat and a long swallow-tailed coat,
the collar of which came clear up above his cars. He didn't look unlike
a Pilgrim Father. This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whose
house I was born. My mother kissed him a great many times; and I was
glad to see him myself, though I naturally did not feel very intimate

with a person whom I had not seen since I was eighteen months old.
While we were getting into the double-seated wagon which
Grandfather Nutter had provided, I took the opportunity of asking after
the health of the pony. The pony had arrived all right ten days before,
and was in the stable at home, quite anxious to see me. 20
As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Rivermouth the
prettiest place in the world; and I think so still. The streets are long and
wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches,
interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful
enough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many of the houses have small
flower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and are
substantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves.
A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and
twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea. 20
The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up to the
wharves and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famous
seaport. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade; and in
1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of
privateers were fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the merchant
vessels of the enemy. Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously
rich. A great many of "the first families" of today do not care to trace
their pedigree back to the time when their grandsires owned shares in
the Matilda Jane, twenty-four guns. Well, well!