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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Pomp shrieked and kicked most energetically. His appearance, as he picked himself up, was ludicrous in the extreme. His sable face was plentifully besprinkled with clotted milk, giving him the appearance of a negro who is coming out white in spots. The floor was swimming in milk. Luckily the dictionary had fallen clear of it, and so escaped.
“Is this the way you study?” demanded Frank, as sternly as his sense of the ludicrous plight in which he found Pomp would permit.
For once Pomp's ready wit deserted him. He had nothing to say.
“Go out and wash yourself.”
Pomp came back rather shamefaced, his face restored to its original color.
“Now, where is your book?”
Pomp looked about him, but, as he took good care not to look where he knew his book to be, of course he did not find it.
“I 'clare, Mass' Frank, it done lost,” he at length asserted.
“How can it be lost when you had it only a few minutes ago?”
“I dunno,” answered Pomp stolidly.
“Have you been out of the room?”
Pomp answered in the negative.
“Then it must be somewhere here.”
Frank went quietly to the corner of the room and took therefrom a stick.
“Now, Pomp,” he said, “I will give you just two minutes to find the book in. If you don't find it, I shall have to give you a whipping.”
Pomp looked at his teacher to see if he was in earnest. Seeing that he was, he judged it best to find the book.
Looking into the work-box, he said innocently: “I 'clare to gracious, Mass' Frank, if it hasn't slipped down yere. Dat's mi'ty cur's, dat is.”
“Pomp, sit down,” said Frank. “I am going to talk to you seriously. What makes you tell so many lies?”
“Dunno any better,” replied Pomp, grinning.
“Yes, you do, Pomp. Doesn't your mother tell you not to lie?”
“Lor', Mass' Frank, she's poor ignorant nigger. She don't know nuffin'.”
“You mustn't speak so of your mother. She brings you up as well as she knows how. She has to work hard for you, and you ought to love her.”
“So I do, 'cept when she licks me.”
“If you behave properly she won't whip you. You'll grow up a 'poor, ignorant nigger' yourself, if you don't study.”
“Shall I get white, Mass' Frank, if I study?” asked Pomp, showing a double row of white teeth.
“You were white enough just now,” said Frank, smiling.
“Yah, yah!” returned Pomp, who appreciated the joke.
“Now, Pomp,” Frank continued seriously, “if you will learn your lesson in fifteen minutes I will give you a piece of gingerbread.”
“I'll do it, Mass' Frank,” said Pomp promptly.
Pomp was very fond of gingerbread, as Frank very well knew. In the time specified the lesson was got, and recited satisfactorily.
As Pomp's education will not again be referred to, it may be said that when Frank had discovered how to manage him, he learned quite rapidly. Chloe, who was herself unable to read, began to look upon Pomp with a new feeling of respect when she found that he could read stories in words of one syllable, and the “lickings” of which he complained became less frequent. But his love of fun still remained, and occasionally got him into trouble, as we shall hereafter have occasion to see.
CHAPTER XXI. THE BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURG
About the middle of December came the sad tragedy of Fredericksburg, in which thousands of our gallant soldiers yielded up their lives in a hard, unequal struggle, which brought forth nothing but mortification and disaster.
The first telegrams which appeared in the daily papers brought anxiety and bodings of ill to many households. The dwellers at the farm were not exempt. They had been apprised by a recent letter that Mr. Frost's regiment now formed a part of the grand army which lay encamped on the eastern side of the Rappahannock. The probability was that he was engaged in the battle. Frank realized for the first time to what peril his father was exposed, and mingled with the natural feeling which such a thought was likely to produce was the reflection that, but for him, his father would have been in safety at home.
“Did I do right?” Frank asked himself anxiously, the old doubt recurring once more.
Then, above the selfish thought of peril to him and his, rose the consideration of the country's need, and Frank said to himself, “I have done right—whatever happens. I feel sure of that.”
Yet his anxiety was by no means diminished, especially when, a day or two afterward, tidings of the disaster came to hand, only redeemed by the masterly retreat across the river, in which a great army, without the loss of a single gun, ambulance, or wagon, withdrew from the scene of a hopeless struggle, under the very eyes of the enemy, yet escaping discovery.
One afternoon Frank went to the post-office a little after the usual time. As he made his way through a group at the door, he notice compassionate glances directed toward him.
His heart gave a sudden bound.
“Has anything happened to my father?” he inquired, with pale face. “Have any of you heard anything?”
“He is wounded, Frank,” said the nearest bystander.
“Show it to me,” said Frank.
In the evening paper, which was placed in his hands, he read a single line, but of fearful import: “Henry Frost, wounded.” Whether the wound was slight or serious, no intimation was given.
Frank heaved a sigh of comparative relief. His father was not dead, as he at first feared. Yet he felt that the suspense would be a serious trial. He did not know how to tell his mother. She met him at the gate. His serious face and lagging steps revealed the truth, exciting at first apprehensions of something even more serious.
For two days they remained without news. Then came a letter from the absent father, which wonderfully lightened all their hearts. The fact that he was able to write a long letter with his own hand showed plainly that his wound must be a trifling one. The letter ran thus:
“DEAR MARY: I fear that the report of my wound will reach you before this letter comes to assure you that it is a mere scratch, and scarcely worth a
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