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by an unfortunate circumstance。 We were playing the drama of 〃William
Tell； the Hero of Switzerland。〃 Of course I was William Tell； in spite of
Fred Langdon； who wanted to act that character himself。 I wouldn't let him；
so he withdrew from the company； taking the only bow and arrow we had。
I made a cross…bow out of a piece of whalebone； and did very well without
him。 We had reached that exciting scene where Gessler； the Austrian tyrant；
commands Tell to shoot the apple from his son's head。 Pepper Whitcomb；
who played all the juvenile and women parts； was my son。 To guard
against mischance； a piece of pasteboard was fastened by a handkerchief
over the upper portion of Whitcomb's face； while。 the arrow to be used
was sewed up in a strip of flannel。 I was a capital marksman； and the big
apple； only two yards distant； turned its russet cheek fairly towards me。
I can see poor little Pepper now； as he stood without flinching； waiting
for me to perform my great feat。 I raised the crossbow amid the breathless
silence of the crowded audience consisting of seven boys and three girls；
exclusive of Kitty Collins； who insisted on paying her way in with a
clothes…pin。 I raised the cross…bow； I repeat。 Twang！ went the whipcord；
but； alas！ instead of hitting the apple； the arrow flew right into Pepper
Whitcomb's mouth； which happened to be open at the time； and destroyed
my aim。
I shall never be able to banish that awful moment from my memory。
Pepper's roar； expressive of astonishment； indignation； and pain； is still
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ringing in my cars。 I looked upon him as a corpse； and； glancing not far
into the dreary future； pictured myself led forth to execution in the
presence of the very same spectators then assembled。
Luckily poor Pepper was not seriously hurt； but Grandfather Nutter；
appearing in the midst of the confusion （attracted by the howls of young
Tell）； issued an injunction against all theatricals thereafter； and the place
was closed； not； however； without a farewell speech from me； in which I
said that this would have been the proudest moment of my life if I hadn't
hit Pepper Whitcomb in the mouth。 Whereupon the audience （assisted； I
am glad to state； by Pepper） cried 〃Hear！ Hear！〃 I then attributed the
accident to Pepper himself； whose mouth； being open at the instant I fired；
acted upon the arrow much after the fashion of a whirlpool； and drew in
the fatal shaft。 I was about to explain bow a comparatively small
maelstrom could suck in the largest ship； when the curtain fell of its own
accord； amid the shouts of the audience。
This was my last appearance on any stage。 It was some time； though；
before I heard the end of the William Tell business。 Malicious little boys
who had not been allowed to buy tickets to my theatre used to cry out after
me in the street；
〃'Who killed Cock Robin？'
'I；' said the sparrer；
'With my bow and arrer；
I killed Cock Robini〃'
The sarcasm of this verse was more than I could stand。 And it made
Pepper Whitcomb pretty mad to be called Cock Robin； I can tell you！
So the days glided on； with fewer clouds and more sunshine than fall
to the lot of most boys。 Conway was certainly a cloud。 Within school…
bounds he seldom ventured to be aggressive； but whenever we met about
town he never failed to brush against me； or pull my cap over my eyes； or
drive me distracted by inquiring after my family in New Orleans； always
alluding to them as highly respectable colored people。
Jack Harris was right when he said Conway would give me no rest
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The Story of a Bad Boy
until I fought him。 I felt it was ordained ages before our birth that we
should meet on this planet and fight。 With the view of not running counter
to destiny； I quietly prepared myself for the impending conflict。 The scene
of my dramatic triumphs was turned into a gymnasium for this purpose；
though I did not openly avow the fact to the boys。 By persistently standing
on my head； raising heavy weights； and going hand over hand up a ladder；
I developed my muscle until my little body was as tough as a hickory knot
and as supple as tripe。 I also took occasional lessons in the noble art of
self…defence； under the tuition of Phil Adams。
I brooded over the matter until the idea of fighting Conway became a
part of me。 I fought him in imagination during school…hours； I dreamed of
fighting with him at night； when he would suddenly expand into a giant
twelve feet high； and then as suddenly shrink into a pygmy so small that I
couldn't hit him。 In this latter shape he would get into my hair； or pop into
my waistcoat…pocket； treating me with as little ceremony as the Liliputians
showed Captain Lemuel Gulliver … all of which was not pleasant； to be
sure。 On the whole； Conway was a cloud。
And then I had a cloud at home。 It was not Grandfather Nutter； nor
Miss Abigail； nor Kitty Collins； though they all helped to compose it。 It
was a vague； funereal； impalpable something which no amount of
gymnastic training would enable me to knock over。 It was Sunday。 If ever
I have a boy to bring up in the way he should go； I intend to make Sunday
a cheerful day to him。 Sunday was not a cheerful day at the Nutter House。
You shall judge for yourself。
It is Sunday morning。 I should premise by saying that the deep gloom
which has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday
evening。
At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly downstairs。 He is
dressed in black； and looks as if be had lost all his friends during the night。
Miss Abigail； also in black； looks as if she were prepared to bury them；
and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony。 Even Kitty Collins has caught
the contagious gloom； as I perceive when she brings in the coffee…um…a
solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time； but monumental now…and sets it
down in front of Miss Abigail。 Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held
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the ashes of her ancestors； instead of a generous quantity of fine old Java
coffee。 The meal progresses in silence。
Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day。 It is open this Ju