A RUN ON THE BANK

In the garden, at the side of our house, there was an apple tree. There were two routes to the top of it. One, the common everyday path, was obvious and easy, almost like climbing a ladder. You took hold of the large limb nearest the ground, curled one leg and then the other around it, and so wriggled upon its upper side. From that point you could climb from one branch to another, without any difficulty, till you had reached the top of the tree. That was the prosaic method for ordinary occasions.

But when hard pressed by enemies, when the shrieking Indians were at our very heels, or a Bengal tiger with dripping jaws uttered his frightful snarls only three feet behind us, then the circumstances called for a different route. It must be something not only quick, but risky. Time must be saved, seconds were precious. More than that, the fitness of things called for an element of danger in the ascent. There was no honor in the adventure if we climbed by the slow, safe path—the highroad, so to speak, of commerce and trade.

Blood was up; the blast of war blew in our ears.

So, at such times, we approached the tree from the other side, leaped high in the air to a branch above our heads, and, by a deal of swarming, shinning, pulling, and straining, reached the top.

Then, from amid the leaves, we could pour down a murderous fire from our trusty rifles, till every Indian lay stretched on the ground, or the Bengal tiger gave one last bellow and expired.

It must not be thought, however, that these exciting moments, when the apple tree was an island of refuge, made it altogether a tame and profitless retreat in quieter times. It was enjoyable for rest and recreation, and it formed an excellent watch-tower from which to spy out the land. In May the pink and white blossoms turned it into an exquisite bouquet. Later in the summer the big green fruit—though not agreeable if eaten raw—could be transformed into the highest triumph cooks ever achieved—the apple-pie.

Near the top an almost horizontal branch made a tolerable seat. At about the level of our eyes, as we sat there, another branch stretched its smooth surface. The bark on it was new, and so plainly adapted to the use of a jack-knife that the symbols "E. M.," "J. R. T.," and "S. E.," deeply carven, indicated that Edward Mason, James Rogers Toppan, and Samuel Edwards had left their signs manual upon it.

On the day of which I speak these gentlemen sat on the horizontal branch and devoured the contents of a roll of peppermint lozenges. I had had a cent that afternoon, and had expended it in this highly satisfactory form of pleasure.

You got twelve tiny lozenges for a cent, and that made four apiece all round. In buying them you had to make serious choice between peppermint in yellow wrappers, checkerberry in green wrappers, cinnamon in pink wrappers, clove in brown wrappers (especially alluring because reputed to be dangerous—cloves having the well-known habit of "drying your blood"), and rose in purple wrappers—a particularly insipid flavor, often tried in the hope that it would taste different this time.

The fun was not all over when you had eaten the lozenges (by a slow process of suction), for there still remained the paper wrapper. This had always printed upon it some legend of more or less interest. The yellow one, that inclosed these peppermint lozenges, bore a few moral and patriotic sentiments concerning the Father of Our Country.

The three personages in the apple tree thereupon engaged in a discussion on the subject: Who was the greatest man that ever lived? Jimmy Toppan and I declared for George Washington, but Ed Mason, for some unexplained reason, brought in a minority report for Amerigo Vespucci.

Then Jimmy Toppan was moved to relate an anecdote.

"I heard somewhere that George Washington, or p'r'aps 'twas Daniel Webster, but anyhow it was some one, when he was a boy, once put a coin in the bark of a tree in his father's orchard. Then, a long time afterward, when he was President of the United States, he came back there, and went right up to the tree and took out his jack-knife and cut away the bark, and there was the piece of money! You see, the bark had grown over it, and covered it up all those years."

This was an interesting bit of information!

All of us were instantly filled with a desire to follow in the footsteps of the great. Here was the tree, and here was the bark. But the coins were lacking. The only one we had possessed that afternoon had gone for peppermint lozenges. Fourth of July money must not be touched. Perhaps, however, a special appeal to the authorities would be successful. We agreed to make application to the lords of the treasuries, and each to come to-morrow provided with a cent.

The agreement was kept, and the following morning saw us at work on the bark of the apple tree. Three incisions were made (each one working at that part of the branch nearest his initials) and three copper cents were duly deposited. Then we descended the tree, and left our treasure to the silent years.

"How long do you suppose it will take the bark to grow over them?" inquired Ed Mason.

"Oh, I don't know. Years and years. Washington, or whoever it was, didn't come back till he was an old man."

"Well, then, we ought not. They ought to be left there for sixty or seventy years, anyhow."

It was unanimously agreed that not less than seventy years must elapse before the coins should be disturbed.

We wandered out of the garden, down the street, and through the grounds of the Universalist Church. Drippings from the eaves of that building had unearthed hundreds of pebbles, and Ed Mason began selecting round ones for his sling-shot. Then he took that instrument out of his pocket and discharged the pebbles at a distant fence. But the sling-shot worked indifferently, and Ed pronounced the elastic worn out.

"You can get a dandy piece for a cent down at Higginson's," I observed.

Then the significance of the remark struck me, and I glanced guiltily away. There was a pause in the conversation, until the sound of a horn suggested the approaching Fourth of July.

"Only nine days till the Fourth," declared Jimmy Toppan. "How many bunches you fellers goin' to have?"

We counted on at least fifteen apiece.

"So do I," said Jimmy; "and torpedoes, and a horn."

"Horns are foolish," remarked Ed Mason; "girls and babies always have horns."

"That's all right," retorted Jimmy; "they last. You'll prob'ly be round Fourth of July afternoon, when you've fired off all your fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, wantin' to blow on my horn."

I put in a remark here.

"I'm goin' to have six sticks of slow-match, an' five boxes of Ajax torpedoes."

But it did not impress Ed Mason.

"Ajax ain't half as good as Ironclad," he announced.

Jimmy Toppan also had preferences.

"Have you seen those Chinese AËrial Bombs down at Johnson's? They're the biggest torpedoes you ever saw—each one as big as your fist! Gee! I'd like to hear one of 'em go off! They cost a cent apiece, an'—"

He stopped.

Somehow the conversation would get around to the subject of things costing a cent. It was most embarrassing. We had invested our capital for seventy years, and were already feeling the pinch.

The morning wore on, and though I observed both Ed and Jimmy to cast surreptitious glances toward the apple tree, there were no more references to the subject of cents.

In the afternoon I went over to Rob Currier's house, and found him engaged with the most fascinating weapon imaginable. It was a pop-gun made from a goose-quill. It shot small pieces of raw potato to a great distance, and did so with a loud and soul-satisfying pop.

His uncle had made it for him, said Rob.

He willingly let me experiment with it, but he was not interested to watch me very long.

"Let's go down and look at the fire-crackers in Johnson's window," he suggested.

"I'd rather stay here and shoot this pop-gun," I declared.

"I'm tired of it," he rejoined. "Sell it to you for a cent."

Again the cent!

I put down the pop-gun and accompanied Rob to Johnson's shop, where we spent twenty minutes with our noses flattened against the pane, choosing what we would take if Mr. Johnson should come out and invite us to help ourselves.

Mr. Johnson did nothing of the sort, however.

We agreed that our first choice would be a mine, which was described as "sending to an enormous height nine colored stars, alternately green, purple, and carmine, and then exploding with a rain of golden serpents."

This point decided, we repaired to the Curriers' and spent the afternoon perfecting our skill with the lasso.

In the interval that evening, between supper and bedtime, I suffered much uneasiness.

Some member of my family read from the evening paper that thieves were reported in town. Instantly, I thought of the three cents in the apple tree. Surely it had been rash to leave them exposed. There was nothing in the story about Washington to tell what he did to protect his coin from thieves. How would he have felt if he had come back, President of the United States, and found that some one had stolen his cent?

Moreover, there was always the chance that I might never become President. In all fairness, I had to consider that.

Suddenly the thought of Rob Currier's pop-gun recurred to me. I needed that pop-gun.

Once during the night I got up and looked out of my bedroom window to see if the apple tree were safe. It seemed to be standing serene enough in the moonlight, but who could tell what marauders might besiege it?

In the morning my mind was made up. As soon as I finished breakfast I hurried out, climbed the tree by the emergency route, and began to cut at the bark where my cent was concealed.

I had it in an instant.

As I was working I noticed that the other two cents were gone already. I turned around and looked down Oak Street. Jimmy Toppan, with one fist tightly clutched, was running at full speed toward Johnson's and the Chinese AËrial Bomb.

Ed Mason was nowhere in sight. Apparently he had withdrawn his deposit even earlier.