The Village Champion

It was towards the end of a very hot summer, and all the human population of that crowded square of the great city had spent the first half of the night in the streets. Either that, or in leaning halfway out of their windows to get a breath of fresh air.

Now that sunrise was again so near at hand, however, and the breeze from the sea had done so much to make the world more comfortable to live in, the closely-built “hotels” and tenement houses were all asleep.

The former were mostly of the sort that sell lager beer and other things in the basement, and the latter were just the kind of places in which men and women ought not to live.

Up in the third-story front room of one of those hotels, however, a boy of about seventeen--a well-built, dark-eyed, curly-headed, handsome boy--sat on a wooden-seated chair, wide-awake, and seemed to be studying the condition of somebody who lay on the bed near him.

There was a curiously-set expression of determination on the bright, young face, very much as if he had made up his mind to do something, and did not mean to be very long in going about it.

Such a ludicrously disreputable looking mess of a man was the large figure that now began to kick about so clumsily among the bedclothes!

He had not taken off his clothes on lying down, and every one might have wondered what need he had of extra blankets in such weather.

But now a grizzled head and a bloated face rose slowly from the pillow--one of those faces which defy any guess of within twenty years of their actual age.

“Jack--Jack Chills!”

“That isn’t my name, but here I am,” responded the boy in the chair.

“No more it is. Alas, for all my sins!” exclaimed the man, “but you cannot deceive your old uncle, my boy. I know what you’re up to. You mean to take advantage of my temporary indisposition and abandon me!”

“That’s it,” said the boy, curtly. “It’ll be two or three days before you get sober enough to follow me, and I’m off.”

“I deserve it, I do,” was the mournful whine of the man on the bed. “I ought never to have brought you to this.”

“I’ve seen you before,” said the boy, “when you were sick and sorry. You brought me, years and years ago, but I’m older now and I don’t mean to stay any longer.”

“What will Monsieur Prosper say when he knows it? He expects great things of you now the troupe’s broken up.”

“Glad it’s gone to pieces,” half savagely remarked the youngster. “I don’t want any more of that. What’s more, I won’t pick pockets or cheat at cards, or that sort of thing, for old Prosper or you either.”

“Oh! alas!” came from the bed, but whether in repentance or disappointment it would be hard to say.

“Now,” said the boy, in a tone of quiet determination, “I’ve been Jack Chills long enough; tell me what my real name is.”

“My dear nephew----”

“If you’re really my uncle, you must know, and if you won’t tell, I’ll empty the ice water all over you.”

“And kill me?”

“No; it won’t kill you, but it’s awful cold,” said the boy, as he advanced towards the bed with a large pitcher in his hand. “Come, now, I must be off before sunrise. Don’t tell me any whopper now. Out with it.”

“Oh!” burst in half-frightened accents from the helpless red-face; but then a very different look began to creep across it.

“Barnaby Vernon, my boy.”

“Is that my name?”

“It was your father’s before you, and you’re coming out just like him. I reckon it’s that that fetches me now. Bar Vernon, if you make me one promise, I’ll be fair with you.”

“Now that I know my own name, I’ll promise anything,” excitedly exclaimed Barnaby.

“Well, then--quick now, listen, before I change my mind--you see that little black valise?”

“Seen it a thousand times,” said Bar.

“That’s yours, but you must promise not to open it for a year and a day. I’ll be either dead or a thousand miles from here then.”

“Most likely dead,” growled Bar, who evidently bore small affection to his big relative. “But I’ll promise. Will it tell me anything?”

“Everything; but, Barnaby, not for a year and a day! You always kept your word, just like your father.”

“I’ll keep it,” said Bar, firmly, “and now, good-bye, Major Montague, if that’s your name--only it isn’t. I can’t say I forgive you exactly, but we’ll part friends. No more acrobat and juggling and tight-rope and wonderful performances for me.”

“But what’ll you do? ’Twon’t be long before you’ll be hunting me up again.”

“Guess not,” said Bar. “My clothes are pretty good, and I’ve collected my last six months’ wages out of the money you gave me when you came in last night. There’s a receipt for it, and there’s the rest of the money. You’ll find it all right.”

“Wages? Receipt? Jack Chills!” almost screamed Major Montague.

“Exactly,” said Bar. “I’ve stopped working for nothing and being knocked down for it; good-bye, old fellow.”

So saying, Barnaby Vernon, for he somehow felt safe about so calling himself, picked up a very well-filled leather traveling bag with one hand and the mysterious little valise with the other, and started for the door.

“Jack Chills! Barnaby! Come back with that money! I’ll have you arrested! I’ll strangle you!”

“Stop that noise,” replied Bar, “or I’ll douse you all over.”