Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (good summer reads .txt) 📗
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
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“No, and what little there is will be fun.”
“Then I'm in for it. That is, I think I am. What is it?”
“You'll promise not to tell?” said John.
“Honor bright.”
“It's only a little practical joke that I want to play upon one of the boys.”
“On who?” asked Dick, unmindful of his grammar.
“On Frank Frost.”
“Frank's a pretty good fellow. It isn't going to hurt him any, is it?”
“Oh, no, of course not.”
“Because I wouldn't want to do that. He's always treated me well.”
“Of course he has. It's only a little joke, you know.”
“Oh, well, if it's a joke, just count me in. Fire away, and let me know what you want done.”
“You know that Frank, or his father, keeps pigs?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to go some night—the sooner the better—and let them out, so that when morning comes the pigs will be minus, and Master Frank will have a fine chase after them.”
“Seems to me,” said Dick, “that won't be much of a joke.”
“Then I guess you never saw a pig-chase. Pigs are so contrary that if you want them to go in one direction they are sure to go in another. The way they gallop over the ground, with their little tails wriggling behind them, is a caution.”
“But it would be a great trouble to Frank to get them back.”
“Oh, well, you could help him, and so get still more fun out of it, he not knowing, of course, that you had anything to do with letting them out.”
“And that would take me out of the shop for a couple of hours,” said Dick, brightening at the thought.
“Of course,” said John; “so you would get a double advantage. Come, what do you say?”
“Well, I don't know,” said Dick, wavering. “You'd pay me the money down on the nail, wouldn't you?”
“Yes,” said John. “I'll show you the bill now.”
He took from his pocketbook a two-dollar greenback, and displayed it to Dick.
“You could buy cigars enough with this to last you some time,” he said insinuatingly.
“So I could. I declare, I've a good mind to take up your offer.”
“You'd better. It's a good one.”
“But why don't you do it yourself?” asked Dick, with sudden wonder.
“Because father's very strict,” said John glibly, “and if I should leave the house at night, he'd be sure to find it out.”
“That's where I have the advantage. I sleep downstairs, and can easily slip out of the window, without anybody's being the wiser.”
“Just the thing. Then you agree?”
“Yes, I might as well. Are you particular about the night?”
“No, take your choice about that. Only the sooner the better.”
The two boys separated, John feeling quite elated with his success.
CHAPTER XIV. A RAID UPON THE PIG-PEN
The more Dick thought of the enterprise which he had undertaken, the more he disliked it. He relished fun as much as any one, but he could not conceal from himself that he would be subjecting Frank to a great deal of trouble and annoyance. As he had told John, Frank had always treated him well, and this thought made the scheme disagreeable to him.
Still, John had promised him two dollars for his co-operation, and this, in his circumstances, was an important consideration. Unfortunately, Dick had contracted a fondness for smoking—a habit which his scanty supply of pocket-money rarely enabled him to indulge. This windfall would keep him in cigars for some time. It was this reflection which finally turned the wavering scale of Dick's irresolution, and determined him to embrace John's offer.
The moon was now at the full, and the nights were bright and beautiful. Dick decided that it would be best to defer the accomplishment of his purpose till later in the month, when darker nights would serve as a screen, and render detection more difficult.
By and by a night came which he thought suitable. A few stars were out, but they gave only a faint glimmer of light, not more than was necessary.
Dick went to bed at nine o'clock, as usual. By an effort he succeeded in keeping awake, feeling that if he once yielded to drowsiness, he should probably sleep on till morning. At half-past nine all in the house were abed. It was not till eleven, however, that Dick felt it safe to leave the house. He dressed himself expeditiously and in silence, occasionally listening to see if he could detect any sound in the room above, where his parents slept. Finally he raised the window softly, and jumped out. He crept out to the road, and swiftly bent his steps toward Mr. Frost's house.
As this was not more than a third of a mile distant, a very few minutes sufficed to bring him to his destination. Dick's feelings were not the most comfortable. Though he repeatedly assured himself that it was only fun he was engaged in, he felt very much like a burglar about to enter a house.
Arrived before the farmhouse, he looked cautiously up to the windows, but could see no light burning.
“The coast is clear,” he thought. “I wish it were all over, and I were on my way home.”
Dick had not reconnoitered thoroughly. There was a light burning in a window at the other end of the house.
The pig-pen was a small, rough, unpainted building, with a yard opening from it. Around the yard was a stone wall, which prevented the pigs from making their escape. They were now, as Dick could with difficulty see, stretched out upon the floor of the pen, asleep.
Dick proceeded to remove a portion of the stones forming the wall. It was not very easy or agreeable work, the stones being large and heavy. At length he effected a gap which he thought would be large enough for the pigs to pass through. He next considered whether it would be better to disturb the slumbers of the pigs by poking them with a hoe, or wait and let them find out the avenue of escape in the morning. He finally decided to stir them up. He accordingly went round to the door and, seizing a hoe, commenced punching one of the pigs vigorously.
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