 25 A joy is going forth and a sad journey home. A mid-November morning, cold, blustering, gloomy, the day of the great hunt. Early after breakfast, five little lads scampered to the gun room, and arming themselves, according to the hunting traditions of St. Mars, set out across the prairie in the direction of Pawnee Creek. Well, I'm glad it's cold, town remarked as they got clear of the college premises. A boy enjoys walking more in this kind of weather, he doesn't feel like standing around doing nothing. And I'm glad it's cloudy, said Harry Quip, because we aren't in any danger of spoiling our complexions. Every kind of weather is good, said James. Yes, even hot weather, remarked Willie Rothers. Dear me, there'd heaps of folks be drowned if it wasn't for hot weather, because no one would ever learn to swim. Yes, said Harry, his eyes twinkling. And on the same principle, I reckon, there would be heaps of folks frozen to death in winter if there was no cold weather, because folks wouldn't learn how to keep themselves warm. Suddenly James Audine stopped walking. What's the matter? asked Tom, who was immediately behind him. You are, Tom, you think I'm going to walk in front of your gun if you hold it with a muzzle pointing where my brains are supposed to be? Oh, what's the difference? It isn't loaded. That's not certain, and besides, I object to it on principle. My father has often told me never to hunt with anyone who handles a gun carelessly. Here, now, hold it this way resting on your arm now. Should it go off, you may bring down a cloud, if your gun carries that far, but you won't hurt any of us. I saw, growled Tom, as he complied with the request. I thought a fellow who knew as much about a gun as you wouldn't be afraid. Just the opposite. The more you know about a gun, the more respect you'll have for it. The child, if he knows how to use a gun, is the equal of the strongest man. It is a dreadful weapon. One little load in it may carry death to the bravest. James spoke earnestly. His words made a deep impression on Tom. At this point, the conversation was cut short by the appearance of a rabbit, which James dispatched with a scuffle shot. Game was plentiful that day, and before noon, Tom succeeded in begging his first rabbit along with a plump quail, while James secured three rabbits and several birds. Thus wandering along the banks of the Pawnee in the direction of the river, they stopped shortly after midday at the skirts of the woodland, which sleeps along, perhaps a quarter of a mile in width, on either side of the river, a partoke of a homely but hearty repast. The boy, who, after being on his feet half the day, can sit down to a meal without appetite, is not worth writing about. Our little party are worth writing about, indeed. Cold beef steak, ham, bread, cakes, and apples disappeared with thunderous rapidity. My, said Tom, I wish we'd brought more. I'll echo this sentiment. I'll tell you what. Let's fix up a rabbit, said Harry. We can build a fire easily, and I'll cook. The suggestion was favorably received, and in a trice, James was repairing the rabbit, which Tom had brought down. Harry was lighting a fire while the others clicked its sticks and dry leaves. They had hardly put themselves to their interesting task when snow began to fall. Hurrah! cried Harry, jumping to his feet and dancing about the fire. We'll have a snow fort in the yard tomorrow. Hurrah! shouted the others, and all began dancing about the fire. There is an inexpressible charm in the first snowfall of the year, which glorifies the boy. Every tiny little messenger, falling radiant, white-robed from the skies, seems to whisper a tale of glee to his responsive heart. Round and round the fire the lads danced, faster and faster, while thicker and larger fell the flakes. Their dancing might have been prolonged indefinitely, had not the embers given warning that more fuel was needed. Hold on, boys, cried Tom, who had just failed in an attempt to execute a handspring. We want more wood, Jimmy. Get your rabbit ready quick, and off they danced in different directions. By the time the rabbit was cooked, the ground was heading from you. We'll have plenty of fun going home, remarked James, as they again fell too. How's that? asked Joe, while we can track rabbits over the snow. Hurrah for King Winter, shot at Tom with fresh exhilaration. I wonder when we'll have another meal as jolly as this, queried Harry. Who knows? This from James Adine. I say, said Tom, who was too healthy a lad to indulge in conjecture. I'd rather be here eating this old rabbit, with the snow getting into my ears, than at a turkey and ice cream dinner in the most stale-ish house. No one seemed inclined to gain say this statement, and a few minutes later, having done full justice to their fare, they resumed their hunt, each one peering in every direction to discover rabbit tracks. As they pushed along, Tom noticed that James, who was slightly clad, shivered occasionally. Say, Jim, aren't you cold? Here, take my coat. I'm too warm for any use. No, no, remonstrated James. I'm used to being out in the cold. But Tom whipped off his garment before James had fairly entered his protest, and with his friend's air of authority, made his friend put it on. Then, clad in his sailor jacket and nigger-bockers, the sturdy young Samaritan trotted on as comfortable in his light attire as though he were in the heat of mid-summer. Genuine kindness is warmer than any coat. They were about two miles to the north-west of the college, two-and-one-half from the village of St. Mar-Beyond, when, to their great joy, they came across the long look for tracks. On they ran with new energy. Coming to the road over which many vehicles must have passed, they were brought to a sudden halt. The prince had become confused with the imprust of wheels and horses-hoves. It may be absurd that the road lay between the woods skirting the river in a long strip of land known as the valley, which, stretching on either side of the railroad track, changed gradually into the wild, rolling prairie. Tom was for following the road. Harry for moving through the valley on toward the prairie, while James favored taking to the woods. By way of compromise, they agreed to scour each following his own plan. So Tom, followed by Willie and Joe, trotted along briskly some ten or fifteen minutes. When Joe, out of breath, begged him to slacken his pace, Tom paused, and suddenly, from right beneath his feet, a rabbit, which had been concealed in the brushwood, skimpered forth. Bang! When his gun, the rabbit fell dead. Roared Tom in undisguised admiration at himself. Wait one moment, boys, till I load up again. Here goes for a deadner. And he inserted his loaded shell. There's five fingers of buckshot in that, enough to kill six rabbits standing in a row. I say, Tom, said Willie, it's getting dark. So it is, ascended Tom, taking out his watch, but hello, it's near four o'clock. We better get ready to start for the college, or we'll come late for supper and get fifty lions each from Mr. Middleton. Come on, we must find the other boys. Figurous shouting soon brought Harry to their side, but shout as they might, James out-dying gave no sign of being with an earshot. Some minutes passed, darkness was coming on a pace, Joe White began to betray signs of nervousness, and Willie Rothers caught the feeling. Suddenly it was an accidental circumstance, but nonetheless awkward. All sea-shouting and the hush of the evening seemed to take grim possession of each. Tom was the first to break the silence. Well, I suppose we better take a trot into the woods, he observed. Isn't it gloomy and silent under these trees, said Joe, as they picked their way among the trees? Isn't it, though, said Willie, I feel as though I had the nightmare. As they plunged into the woods, they became more and more solemn. Their shoutings had ceased entirely, and indeed they hardly spoke above a whisper. The gleam and grim silence of the white-armed trees had exercised a spell upon them. Suddenly they heard a sound that made their blood run cold. It was a groan. Go ahead, God, whispered Tom, crossing himself. But that sounded like Jimmy's voice. Come on, boys, softly, don't step on any twigs, but pick your steps. I'm afraid Jimmy's in danger, and I have reasons you don't know of. And Tom, as he moved forward, followed tremblingly by the others, but his gun at full cock. Another groan was heard. Tom's face became pale as death, but his whole expression was nonetheless determined. Bending though and partially protected from view by the bushes, they moved on till Tom paused. His face alive with horror staggered but recovered himself and raised his hand to the others in warning. Judge of their terror, as in obedience to Tom's gesture, they ranged themselves behind him and gazed on the sight that is so stricken him. In a pool of blood, its bright red color contrasting so frightfully with the white snow that james out-ine. Above him a stained dagger in his hand stooped a man, dark, solid, villainous, with the unholy light of murder in his sinister eyes. He seemed to be examining the poor child's features as though to make sure that he was dead. As Tom gazed, his expression changed from horror to termination. Making a slight gesture to his companions to remain quiet, he drew up his gun and covered the stranger. Then, advancing stealthily within a few feet of the villain, who was facing in the opposite direction, he said in a clear-banging voice, Drop that knife or I fire. So sudden came the shock upon the stranger, that as he turned, his nervous fingers let the dagger fall to the earth, while his face assumed a look of the most extreme terror. Raise your hands above your head at once, or I fire, continued Tom in the same inflexible tones. The gun, pointed direct at the man's breast, was as steady in the child's hands as though it were held by a statue. The determined face of the boy utterly cowed the man, up when his hands without delay. Now, sir, take that path right behind you, and go straight on in a steady walk till you come to the road leading to St. Mars. And I give you my word, that if you attempt to move from the path, put down your hands, or turn around, I will shoot you at once. I know you, Mr. Hartnett, at the name the man's face put on new terror, and I know that this is not your first murder. Now, turn round and walk straight on. Take down that gun, chatted Hartnett, and might go off accidentally. It will go off if you don't do what I tell you. Completely mastered, the man turned and moved forward, keeping Tom's directions to the leather. Boy though his captor was, Hartnett perceived that he was dealing with a man as far as determination went, and a very determined man at that. As Tom proceeded by his captive, moved towards the village, Harry, Willie, and Joe raised James from the ground, wrapped him in their coats, and tenderly wore him towards the college. They were vain to attempt portraying adequately the state of Tom's mind as he tramped steadily on after the murderer. His imagination never wandered. His whole being was fused into the determination to bring that man to justice. The road was lonely and deserted. Not a sound smote the silence. The minutes passed on into the quarters, but the steady tread of captor and captive be equal and silent upon the yielding snow. The heavy gun covered its object as though supported by muscles of steel, sensation, fear, hope, all were kept in abeyance to Tom's present purpose. The blinding snow dimmed on his eyes. The cold stiffened not a limb. Whether it was a minute, an hour, or a day that the stern cramp lasted, Tom could never have told. His senses concentrated to a single purpose were dead to all else till the village was reached, and crowds of men came thronging around him and his prisoner. Then speech in his normal activity's return. Arrest this man, he said. He is a murderer. Strong hands were laid upon heartnut. Tom's gun slipped from his grasp, a mist swam before his eyes. My brave boy, said a gentleman catching his hand, you must be cold and worn out, too. Let me put my coat about you. Thank you, sir, said Tom. Then he staggered, blood issued from his mouth and nose, and he fell into the gentleman's arms, senseless. End of Chapter 25, recording by Maria Therese, Chapter 26 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J., this liverbox recording is in the public domain, recording by Maria Therese, Chapter 26, Sickness, Dr. Mullen's face was gray ridden usual as he issued that evening from the college infirmary in the company of the reverend president. Both are critical cases, father, and indeed I have more fears that brave little Playfair fit in for the other. Adyne's wounds are not necessarily fatal. A good constitution will probably bring him through, but the little hero is in danger of something worse than death. The strain upon his mind, the force of his emotions, the terrible ordeal to which his most remarkable willpower has subjected him, have thrown him into a high fever. He may recover, but even then his mind may be impaired or his nerve shattered for life. God forbid, said the president, do consider it advisable to write for the relatives of either. Well, it would be no harm to send for Adyne's people, but as for Playfair, there's time enough. We had better wait till we see how this case turns. Both little sufferers were in a private room, removed from the common ward of the infirmary. James Adyne, weak, pale, hardly conscious, was lying on his uninjured side, now and then giving forth a feeble moan of pain. In another part of the room lay Tom, his cheeks flushed with fever, his eyes brightened wild. Harry sappy-sighted him, and occasionally bathed his forehead. Whenever the infomerian approached, Tom would shiver with horror, and would beg Harry, and be called by the name of some former acquaintance, to take the man away. For he was a murderer, there was blood upon his hands. Could they not see the blood? There was murder in his every look. About seven o'clock in the evening, when the college boys had been safely housed in their respective study rooms, Mr. Middleton, Tom's teacher, prefect and dear friend, entered the room, and strangely enough, Tom recognized him at once. Oh, Mr. Middleton! He cried. Will you help me? Many my dear boy, said the prefect, grasping the fevered hands and treatingly extended to him. What can I do for you? Come close to me, said Tom. I don't want them to hear it. See them all watching me? He cried, pointing around the room. They are all in the crime. Stoop down, Mr. Middleton, and want to whisper to you. The prefect bent low. I want to kill Jimmy, and they poisoned me, so that I can't help him. But you'll take my place, won't you? Yes, yes, Tommy. Rely upon it, and no one shall touch a hair of his head. And Mr. Middleton, I'm going to make my first communion tomorrow. It's Christmas, you know, and I've waited, oh, so long. Not tomorrow, Tom. The fevered patient took no notice of this answer. Where is Jimmy now? Asked Tom presently. There he is, lying on that bed. Tom raised himself and looked in the direction indicated. Then a strange, perplexed expression came upon him, as though the true ideas of what had so lately happened were starving vainly to square with the wild vagaries of his fever. Exhausted by the mental conflict, he fell back, and still holding tightly the prefect's hand, closed his eyes. Toward nine o'clock that night, as Willie Rethers was sitting beside the other sufferer, James recovered from his stupor. Willie, he said, had a Tommy come to be sick. Willie told him the story of Tom's heroism and of the high fever at which the exposure and mental strain had brought on him. The listener's eyes filled with tears of gratitude to his brave companion, but unhearing of Tom's great danger, his face grew troubled. Tom is a real hero, he said, and I shall pray for him night and day that he may get well. Next morning all the students were unusually subdued. Up together in knots, Tom's bravery was the subject of universe of panagric, while all, even the most flighty, were concerned of his danger. At all times, Harry, Willie, and Joe were at the side of their friends. Nothing could exceed their devotedness. Ever and Annen out-eins faced quiver with pain, but they're constantly dwelt upon it a gentle expression of resignation. The doctor was satisfied with his symptoms. Tom's case seemed to trouble him more. After evening of the second day, after the hunting expedition, a lady entered and, kneeling beside James, covered his face with kisses. Don't be troubled, Mama, said James, holding her hand tenderly. I am not suffering much, indeed I am not. Tom is in danger, and you must pray for him. Mrs. Adine, who had heard the whole story, presently went over to Tom. The poor child, who had been tossing restlessly all day, started up on seeing her. His face softened with joy. Oh, Mama, he cried, why didn't you come to me before? Come to me, Mama, and stay with me always. He tenderly embraced Mrs. Adine. His mother, poor child, was in heaven. Mama, he continued, there's something I'm so anxious to tell you. I'm to make my first communion Christmas, and you must pray for me that I do it well. I used to be very well at home, but I think that I am not quite as I used to be. I've worked hard to change, and it is partly on your account, Mama. I know that you've been praying for me ever since you went to heaven, and I remember what you said to me just before you died. They want to poison me before I can make it, but poison doesn't hurt me. I'm used to it now. I'm glad I'm sick. You can't fool me. I know I'm sick. And it's just as easy to keep from sin if you're in bed as it is anywhere else. Easier, I'd commit murder maybe if I were out. I'd shoot, shoot, shoot. And Tom ended this strange monologue with jumping up into a sitting posture and clutching his hands while his eyes flashed in fury. About sundown he changed from the worst. He shrieked and cried and could hardly be held down in his bed. Toward midnight the doctor was summoned. If his delirium lasts above 24 hours, his case, I fear, is hopeless. On hearing this, James called Willie, Joe, and Harry to his bedside. Boys, I want you to join me in prayer, he said. I may God promise if he cures Tom. He may not be as holy will to cure him, but let us unite in prayer. Led by James, the boys, in low-forbidden terms, recited decade after decade to the Blessed Mother, while Tom, hanging between life and death, was soothed and restrained in his paroxysms by the kind hands of Mrs. Adine and Mr. Middleton. END OF CHAPTER XXVII. It was ten o'clock of the following day. Tom, saving, had gradually lessened. As the hours were on, he became quiet, till at length, for the first time since the eventful Thursday, he fell asleep. His life is saved, said the doctor, but the danger to his mind is not yet over. All now lies in the hands of God. So much the more reason for our praying, said James. Come on, boys, he continued, addressing his three friends. Let us take heaven by storm. Morning wane into afternoon, afternoon shaded into night, and still Tom slumbered. Standing about his bed, Mr. Middleton, Mrs. Adine, and the three boys anxiously watched the face of the sleeper. A little after eight in the evening, Tom's breathing changed. He opened his eyes, all still with bated breath, awaiting his first words. After gazing about vacantly for some seconds, he stretched out his arms, gave a low sigh, and said, Good gracious, I'm all broken up. There was a smile upon every face. Tom was so natural, so like Tom. Tom, oh boy, don't you know me? cried Harry, unable to restrain himself. I rather think I do. Why shouldn't I? But what's the matter with you all? I'm not a museum, am I? You're all staring at me so. And we're in the world, am I? And what's the matter with my head? It feels as light as a balloon. Do you know, Tommy, said Mr. Middleton, that you've been sick for several days? Very sick indeed. Let me think, said Tom, passing his hand over his brow. We were out hunting, and when we came to the place where poor Jimmy was stabbed, what did we do anyhow? Did I fall down? And did that man try to murder me? And what's become of Jimmy? Here I am, Tom, cried James, who was sitting up in his bed and literally brimming over with joy. I'm all right, and so are you. He brought that murderer to jail. Don't you remember? What, what did I do? Tom inquired. Well, well. Listen, said Harry, and with no little astonishment, Tom heard his famous adventure narrated. Well, well, dear me, he said at the conclusion. It may be all true, but there's one little question I'd like to ask. Ask away, said Harry cheerfully. Well, I'd like to know if I was there when I did all that. All after the serial coming away, image Tom put this query. In truth, his question under the circumstances was not extraordinary, nor is Tom the only one who is put in puzzle by the mystery of his own identity. Tom, said Mrs. Audine, when the invalid had heard a full account of his recent doings. Don't you know me? No, ma'am, he answered with a blush as he encountered the sweet eyes of a refined lady fixed upon him. While you were sick, you took me for your mama. And indeed, if the love and gratitude of one who is not the sacred name of mother can supply her place, I shall do it. I am the mother of James Audine, whom you so bravely rescued. And stooping down, Mrs. Audine tenderly kissed the little boy, as though, indeed, she were his mother. To say that Joe, Harry, and Willie were happy is the mildest possible way of expressing their sentiments. They were beside themselves. Their joy was threatening to develop into uproariousness, when the infomerarian very wisely ordered them to their respective dormitories. From that night, Tom's improvement was rapid. You soon outstripped James in the race for health. While Tom bustled in and out of the infirmary, James kept his bed, his wound healing, let his cheeks grow thinner and paler day by day. I say, Jimmy, said Tom, about one week from the day of the crisis. Why don't you eat a decent meal? I'm not hungry, Tom. That's no way to do. Eat anyhow. You're getting thinner all the time. I know it, Tom. And what is more, I believe I should never be well again. Nonsense, humbug, said Tom's dirt elite, though as she explained as he spoke. I do believe it, Tom, and I have reason. The doctor of late looks troubled. He complains that the wound isn't healing fast enough, and Mama knows that I am in danger. For her face grows very sad when she thinks I am not looking at her. And once, after she had spoken with the doctor, I saw her cry. But don't think, Tom, that I am anxious to live. I'd rather die, for I am ready. Should I live, dear Tom, the day might come when I should fall into some mortal sin. So far, God has been so good to me. He has given me a holy, pious mother and very dear, good friends. He pressed Tom's hand as he said this, and by his grace has kept me out of all dangerous occasions. So I am happy at the thought of dying now. Well, Jim, said Tom, with a tear starting to his eyes. I know you are ready, and I do wish I was as good as you. You've got the makings of an angel, but you mustn't die. I shall lose my dearest friend. No, no, indeed you won't, answered James earnestly. Please, God, I shall be your friend in another world. I would be of little use here, but there I am sure I could help you far better. And Tom, I am not sorry to die for another reason. I don't think I could ever be happy here below. I fret about things so easily. The least thing worries me. Yes, that's so, admitted Tom. You do fret about things. I'm not that way myself. Toward evening, Mr. Audine, who'd been east on business, arrived at the college, bringing with him Tazel. Tazel entered the sick room, dancing with joy. But on seeing his brother so pale and thin, he sobered very much. Poor Dimmy is sick, said the child, running his fingers through James' hair. Where's the wet on your cheeks, Dimmy? Somebody whitewashed me, was the answer, but Tazel was not convinced. In December, James was so weak that he was unable to leave his bed. Tom had been about his class duties for several weeks, but whenever he was freed, he spent his time with the sufferer's side. As the boy drew nearer the grave, his spirit seemed to draw closer to God. At times, the light of sanctity flickered upon his face, such a light as nothing but exquisite purity and exalted holiness can incendle. Nor was Tom idle. Christmas was to be the day of his first communion. With all his resolute will, he applied himself to prepare for this august moment. Many an hour would he spend with James, speaking of the dearest of all miracles, the miracle for our Savior's ineffable love. At night, too, he would kneel along by his bed, praying for love and grace, and the boys began to remark that instead of the dying saint, Tom had arisen in his stead. It was the eve of the great day. Just before returning for the night, Tom repaired to the infirmary to pay last visit to his friend. The wand-face of James almost glowed with joy at his approach. Oh, Tom, I am so glad to see you, he said. For I want to tell you the news. Tomorrow, Tom, as to go to Holy Communion for the first time, I shall be receiving the last sacraments of the church. Tom was not dismayed. He had long expected this news. That is good, he said, and I shall offer up all my communion for you. Thank you, Tom, you were too good. But I wish now to tell you something else. Do you know why I expected to die from so long ago? Why, asked Tom. Because when you were so sick, I prayed and prayed night and day that if it might be, God should take my life and spare yours. I knew you would be of some use in the world, Tom. But I would do little. So, Tom, you must try to do your work and mine too. And that, you know, is little enough. Tom was weeping. I am very glad to die, pursued James. At first, when I prayed to God, I was a little afraid of being heard. For I had hoped, Tom, to live long enough to be a priest. And to touch with my poor hands our Savior Himself. I intended to give my life to God. But God has come to take it before I can give it. Tom was still weeping. Mama, said James, as his mother came up and laid her hand beside her darling boy's cheek. I know you do not refuse to give me up to God. No, my darling, if I love you a thousand times more, he should have you. I'm so glad, Mama. Tomorrow will be Christmas. Wouldn't it be nice were I to die then? Then you would give me to God, and the very day God gave Himself to you. Tom was returning from the communion table, his heart beating in unison with the heart of his sweet master, his radiant soul in the life giving embraces of her spouse. How the minutes flew as he knelt in earnest communion with his loving Jesus. He was a saint that morning, one of those little children whose souls are the glory of the Sacred Heart. How long, how fervent had been his preparation. But Tom now thanked God for the delay. His soul had been purified by trial, and now that the probation was over, Tom felt that he had been in God's hands. It was truly his day of days. Thanksgiving over, he hastened to the infirmary. As he entered the room, Mrs. Adai and Sobs broke upon his ear. He hastened to the bedside, but the gracious eye of welcome was closed forever. A sweet expression, ineffably sweet, lingered upon the child's face, as though the body itself had, for one last moment, shared in the happiness of a liberated spirit. My God, murmured Tom from the fullness of his heart, as he threw himself on his knees beside the body, Jimmy offered himself for me, let me take his place in life. If it be your will, my God, I from this day give myself entirely to your work. End of Chapter 27 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 28 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese. Chapter 28 an escape from jail and the beginning of a snowstorm. Still Christmas morning, in a narrow room, nighted by one closed, barred window, was heart-net, one no less by confinement than my anxiety. His face had grown darker, his fierce eyes had become bloodshot, while his beard, nails, and hair, lung neglected, imparted to his appearance an increase of lonesomeness. Like a caged tiger, he was fiercely, dodgily pacing up and down the room. Occasionally, he would pause to catch the interchange of greetings from the passers-by without. They were merry words, birds beautiful in themselves, but colored into beauty, more gracious than the dawn by the infinite peace and love that gave them birth. Words that brought back again the undying song of the angels, that song of gladness, which ringing down the ages will move the glad echoes of the human heart till this world shall have passed away. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, the words few in meaning simple. Yet, linked them with the glad smile, the bright eye, the look of love, the warm pressure of the hand, and what a wealth of meaning there is in the expression. It is the full-hearted utterance of human sympathy, kindness, and love, raised into priceless value by the benediction of Bethlehem's babe. But upon the prisoner's heart, long since attuned to the chords of anger and hatred, these words graded harshly. The murdering melodictions upon the authors of these jury greetings resumed his weary tramp, not blessed on this thrice-blessed day by so small a gift as one kind thought. By and by, a key from without rattled in the lock, the door swung open, and the marshal entered the room. Well, heart-net, said the marshal, your game's about up. What's happened now? The boy used to have died this morning, so tomorrow you're to be moved to the jail at the county seat, if you're not lynched before you get there. The prisoner wiped his brow with his sleeve. His breathing grew short, and an expression of abject fear started upon his face. What do people say about me? he gasped. There's not much said. They're rather quiet, but their way of looking makes me reckon that you won't get out of this jail morning six foot before you're in the hands of a mighty mad crowd. But I guess we'll come a game on them. We'll take you off tomorrow before daylight, before folks know what what. When are you coming for me? Oh, about four in the morning. Anything I can do for you? No, I'll be ready when you come. Ain't you sorry for that boy died? No answer from Hartnett. What don't you feel nervous like tonight with that boy's face before you in the dark? See, here now, said the murderer. Don't try that on me. You needn't try to get me frightened. The boy is dead, and that's the end of it. The prisoner spoke with Theamons. Well, I can't wish you a merry Christmas, but I do wish that you may come to realize it's an awful thing you have. Go away! Get out! Leave me! Shrieked Hartnett, his bloodshot eyes growing hideous with rage, and his fingers working in impotent passion. One moment, said the Marshal, producing a pair of handcuffs. Here's a pair of bracelets you might as well try on. Now, exclaimed Hartnett aghast. Why not? Can't you wait till tomorrow? He exclaimed, drawing back. Come on, now's the time. Marshal, I haven't asked many favors since I've been here. Please let me go free till we start tomorrow. It's an ugly matter to have those affairs on, and I'd like to put it off as long as possible. Let's see," said the official dubiously. Well, I can't escape, man. Look at those bare stone walls, four ugly walls and a wretched barred window, and a dismal low roof that I can almost touch with my hand. Well, all right, said the Marshal, but remember, on they go the first thing in the morning. I'll leave them here for you to admire. In carelessly tossing the handcuffs on the prisoner's bed, the Marshal locked himself out. Had he seen the lurking smile of triumph on Hartnett's face, he might have reconsidered his favor. Hartnett listened intently till the retreating footsteps had become inaudible. Then going to his bed, he turned up the mattress, and inserting his hand into a small opening, drew forth a slender steel, saw-like instrument. After pausing to assure himself that no one was near, he climbed up one of the stone walls of the prison by means of hardly perceptible holes made for his feet, till his hands could reach the wooden roof. His first act was to jerk from the ceiling three strips of black cloth which, on being removed, discovered three long narrow chinks, plain in the sunshine, and needing only a fourth chink to make a hole abundantly large enough for his escape. The work already done had cost him days and nights of patient labor. His instrument being small and in appearance unsuited for the purpose. He put himself to work now with redoubled energy. Presently the beginning of the fourth narrow slit appeared. Half an hour passed. Hardly a quarter of an inch was done, and two feet to be cut before three o'clock of the next morning. Hartnett grew nervous at the thought, and pushed his makeshift saw up and down with all his strength. Suddenly there was a sharp snap, his instrument had broken. In the agony of the moment, Hartnett forgot himself, lost his hold, and fell heavily to the floor, where, with a smothered curse still lingering on his lips, he lay for some minutes stunned and helpless. But the sound of footsteps without steam brought him to his feet, and within an agility wonderful under the circumstances, he again clambered up the wall, definitely covered the betraying chinks with cloth, then lightly dropped to the floor. For the rest of the day he passed his time brooding and sullen, now traversing his cell with hasty and patient strides, now tossing restlessly upon his couch. Darkness at length came, and the sound of day died away. Tours midnight, perfect quiet rained. Hartnett's time had come. With the handcuffs in one hand, he again mounted with all his strength, beat them against the part he had partially cut away. One, two, three heavy blows, and the wood yielded a little. Another strong blow, and another, and his escape was secured. A moment later he had gained the roof, leaped to the ground, then skulked through the village, across the railroad track, out into the great undulating deserted prairie beyond. Whether he was going he knew not. But strange as it may seem, no sooner was he free of his prison walls than an overpowering sense of terror came upon him. Did he seek the lonely prairie of his own choice? That was a question he could not have answered himself. He seemed to be fleeing from some pursuing evil. It might have been the bitter wind of the chilling night, but there seemed to ring in his ears a dying groan. There seemed to dance before him a knife dripping with blood, and a loud angry jargon of many voices hunted him as the whored of demons were at his heels. The very sky was dark and threatening, and strange weird shapes clad in the sable vaster of the dead, sprang up at every step before his startled eyes. Hour after hour passed away, and still he pushed wildly madly on, his face quivering with fear and horror. With the first streak of dawn, his strength thus far supported by terror deserted him, and coming upon a lone tree in the vast solitude of the prairie, he threw himself beneath it shelter, and losing his nice terror in the splendor of the dawn, fell into a deep sleep. Let us turn from this wretch to the side of the dead child. His delicate, fragile hands clasped upon his bosom, and intertwined with the beads he had so loved in life. His face calm and serene, and telling a tale of beatitude and mortal, he lay in his white coffin, surrounded by his father, mother, and little playmates, and a student of unwanted gentleness as he entered the chamber, where death had dealt his kindly a stroke. It was the morning after Christmas, and James, it had been decided, was then to be buried. Not, so misses Adyne, that I am tired of teasing upon the dear face of my angel boy, but because death and a house where so many boys are together, we keep them in a sadness, not suited to the time. Mr. Middleton, who had been James Adyne's teacher, spoke a few last words. He told the students of the child Jesus, of his hidden youth and of his love for little children. Then he narrated, almost in the beautiful language of the Gospel, the story of how Jesus, when he was asked by the Apostles, who was the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, took a child and set him in their midst. And he continued, when I consider the little I have seen of our departed brother's life, when I recall her earnestly, how to vote Lee, he sought to love and imitate the sacred head of Jesus, it seems to me that such a one as this must our Divine Lord have chosen to stand in the midst of his Apostles. Slowly and solemnly the students, in ordered ranks, devoutly recited the rosary as they moved, walked from the college towards the graveyard, which lay a mile or so out upon the perry. As they neared the newly made grave, snow began to fall in large snowflakes. Before the burial service had concluded, the storm became blinding in its intensity. Mr. Morton, the prefect of the large boys, was alarmed. Boys, he said in a loud voice as the grave diggers were completing their task, and the students were about to start for the college. I warn you on the pair of your lives, not to disperse on the road back. This promises to be a terrible snowstorm, and were you to lose your way, death on the perry might be the result. Form into ranks as before, and I will put two boys who know the perry best at the head. It was very happy of the prefect to have taken this decisive measure. At first some of the youthful wise-acres grumbled, but when, with some difficulty, all had arrived safely at the college, it was generally acknowledged that any other course might have led to the loss of life. End of Chapter 28 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 29 of Tom Playfair or Making a Stark by Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 29 End of the Snowstorm When heart-net awoke, he found himself covered with snow, and, hastily rubbing his eyes, discovered with dismay that he was alone on the trackless prairie, in the face of the fiercest and most blinding snowstorm that had ever come upon his experience. Starting to his feet, he pushed vigorously ahead, but with or was he going? He could not tell. The snowstorm, worried ever so strong and steady, could not have pierced the snow veil which stretched from earth to sky. Yet he must go on. To stand in such a storm were to perish. As he started out upon this enforced tramp, the snow was already ankle-deep. After an hour's weary walking, it had deepened several inches. But it was a tramp against death, and as the echo of the last night hoared voices rang in his memory, he was back. So hours passed, and finally the wanderer came to a lone tree. One look, and he perceived that it was the tree he had started from. The wild, hoared explosion of curses that burst from his lips fell idle upon the dreadful solitude. But to his distorted fancy they seemed to be re-echoed by a million hideous tongues. And more frightened than ever, he set forth again. Travel had now become very difficult. On one occasion he was almost suffocated before he could free himself. As the afternoon advanced, a feeling of anger stole upon him. His senses were losing their sharpness. This but terrified him the more, for he knew that should he give way to this weakness, he was lost. On he went, then, with the desperation of despair. On, on, till darkness closed about him. On, on, till the rude wind rose and howled and hooded after him, and threw itself against him. On, on, till the voices of the night were changed into groans and streaks and dirges. On, on, till leery frightened, hopeless with a stubbly beard and hair encrusted with ice. His face numb with cold, he fell and stumbled over some earth slightly raised above the level. Fell in such a manner that the raised earth served as a pillow for his head. The feeling of anger had now become a positive force. He would not rise again, let hell or heaven do its worst, he cared not. Again the ring in his ears, a wild shout as a demon triumph. Looking straight before him, he saw, could it be, a little child clad in white and standing, looking down upon his face. Heart in his eyes started in terror, an expression in his of the damned came over his features, and with a low groan he fell back senseless. The day following the storm, Tom, with his friends, obtained permission to visit James out in his grave. As they approached, Harry observed. Look at that tombstone standing up right beside Jimmy's grave. It stands there all in white like the ghost of a child. If I were to see that in the dark, observed Joe, it would almost scare me to death. Look here, cried Tom. Tom had just removed a layer of snow from Jimmy's grave, revealing to all the head of Heartnut. Pale in death, but horrible, despairing, ghastly, resting on the grave of the child he had murdered. End of Chapter 29 recording by Maria Therese Chapter 30 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 30 Conclusion The early history of Tom Playfair is told. On the day he made his first communion, he may be said to have made his start in life. All the events dating from his first introduction to the reader, delay, disappointment, sorrow, disaster, all he converged into the shaping and perfecting of that day of days and to the molding of a noble character. Tom had met with two tragic experiences beyond the lot of most boys of his years and condition in life, and he had borne them bravely. He had suffered moreover a bitter trial, nonetheless a trial that it was in part self-imposed, and his act of obedience had purified and strengthened him. But he was still deficient. The evil effects of his unequal home training had not been entirely effaced. About him there still lingered a touch of forwardness, and the shadow of a boyish irreverence towards his elders. Mr. Meadow's influence had woven itself into his very texture. To borrow a schoolboy's expressive phrase, he was somewhat fresh. He united his character great physical and great moral courage. But the sweet modesty and gentleness which impart a lustre to perfect bravery were yet to come. He was a manly boy. The manliness was rough at the edges. On the last day of the school year, Tom tapped at Mr. Middleton's door to exchange a few words of farewell. Ah, Tom, I'm glad you've come. You're always welcome, but now. So you're going. Yes, sir, and I've come to ask your part to Mr. Middleton for all the trouble I've given you. You know, sir, I can hardly help wriggling, and it's so hard to keep quiet for hours a day when there's such a good chance for a little fun sometimes. And then, sir, I've got to talk sometimes. I can't hold in. Well, Tom, I haven't complained, have I? No, sir. That's the way you make me feel mean. You're so patient. If I were in your place, I'd raise a row, sure. If I have been patient, I have had my reward. For I'm glad to tell you, Tom, that your improvement in conduct and in application has been so steady that it could be noticed almost each week. Thank you, sir," said Tom, blushing. Like most generous, noble-hearted boys, he was a hero worshipper. And from the time of the memorable interview between himself and Mr. Middleton, on the day that Tom and Pitch spoke together, his professor had been his hero. Tom had been conquered by kindness. A conquest it is scarcely necessary to say no less credible to the victor than to the vanquished. He had issued from that interview Mr. Middleton's disciple, and a faithful disciple he had been. No wonder, then, that his chubby cheeks collared with pleasure at these kindly words of commendation. You remember, Tom, continued Mr. Middleton, fixing an earnest look upon the little to-ed. You remember that letter I sent your father nearly two years ago? I shall never forget it, sir. Well, I ventured on a bold prediction in it, and I have not been disappointed. Tom could have kissed the hand extended to him. In our American way he squeezed it hurriedly. I must add, though, continued Mr. Middleton, that you've lost a friend you could ill-spare. Jimmy Audine? Yes. He had a gentleness and sweetness of disposition, which exerted a marked influence upon you for good. He was a true friend. You needed such a friend, so did Harry Quip. You and Harry have helped each other, too. But James Audine hadn't influenced the stepped-in where yours and Harry stopped short. He was in a manner of his noble guardian angel to you both. He was like the fairy prince I read about the other day when I was alone in the infirmary with a sore throat. I didn't know what to do with myself, sighed Tom. I got thinking of him when I was reading. I missed him very much, sir. He was the nicest boy I ever met. Ah, Tom, if you could find another friend like him. Well, sir, I'm young yet, and there's no end of good boys in the world. If a fellow could only find them out. Maybe there'll be lots of nice new boys here next year. Pray, Tom, pray for another James Audine. I will indeed, sir. And with a swelling heart, he made his teacher farewell. On that very day, a Baltimore gentleman was bidding farewell to his daughters and an only son, the fairy prince, who were departing for Cincinnati to reside there with their aunt while their father was to spend with his invalid wife. This was the beginning of events, which bore closely upon the conversation just recorded and upon the afterlife of Tom. Knowing nothing of this, Tom prayed all vacation for the new friend, and in September his prayer was heard. Those of my readers who are interested in Tom will learn in Percy Wynn or making a boy of him how and under what circumstances he met with his fairy prince. The end. End of Chapter 30 Recording by Maria Trees End of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J.