Four boys in the land of cotton

Front matter

Class PZ * T

Book Xs&jJEo- u

Copyright N°

Preface

The exceedingly kind reception which was given “Four Boys in the Yellowstone ” has led the writer to believe that, after all has been said, there is no subject of greater interest to young Americans than is America itself.

In the present volume the writer has taken the “ Four Boys ” through a part of the marvellous region of the Southwest. The book is in no sense designed to be technical or even historical. The author’s purpose has merely been to describe such scenes and experiences as might come to any wide-awake, thoroughgoing boys who were making their first journey into this fascinating region. It is hoped, too, that it may not only provide interest for its young readers, but also may inspire them with the desire to see for themselves; for seeing is believing.

6 PREFACE

The education which conies through travel is not the least valuable part of an equipment for living. If the journey made is into a new region, or at least into one somewhat unfamiliar, the interest aroused does not cease when travel ends. History and geography, men and deeds that primarily belong to one locality, become the possessions of all.

To make better Americans we must make our boys and girls more appreciative of the land in which they live as well as of the locality in which their homes are found. JE pluribus unum is more than a mere motto. One does not cease to be less of a Jersey man, or a New Yorker, or a Virginian because he has become more of an American. And the writer has prepared this book with that very thought in mind.

EVERETT T. TOMLINSON.

Elizabeth, New Jersey.

Telegrams ....

.

. 250

XXI. Lookout Mountain

. 263

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XXII. A Famous Tennesseean . . . .275

XXIII. Old Hickory 288

XXIV. A Predicament 301

XXV. A Private Automobile 314

XXVI. A Theatrical Troupe .... 326

XXVII. Superstitions 339

XXVIII. On the Banks of the Mississippi . . 352

XXIX. A Slow Train through Arkansas . . 365

XXX. In the Land of the Indians . . . 378

XXXI. Creeks and Cherokees .... 390

XXXII. Conclusion 402

ILLUSTRATIONS

It was the appearance of the people to be seen

ON THE STREETS THAT MOST INTERESTED THE FOUR

boys (Page 390) ...... Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

“ I CAN’T MAKE ANYTHING OF IT,” REPLIED LARCUM,

DISCONSOLATELY 124

“If you are going tn my direction, a lift may

NOT BE AMISS” 156

John could be seen near the end of the street,

HIS HORSE STILL RACING MADLY FORWARD . . 230

“ That was about the closest call I’ve ever had

IN ALL MY BUSINESS CAREER ” 276

The speed had become so great that conversation WAS IMPOSSIBLE ...... 322 t

FOUB BOYS IN THE LAND OF COTTON

Chapter I

The afternoon was waning, and among the crowd that had assembled at the Grand Central Station in New York, to await the arrival of the incoming trains, there was no one whose impatience was more manifest than was Scott Gordon’s. His sturdy, well-knit frame, his quick, impulsive movements, and the frequency with which he approached one of the waiting guards and repeated the question which he had already asked a score of times, — all alike indicated his restlessness and eagerness.

“Here,” he said at last, as he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth a coin which he handed the guard, “just find out for me when that train from Boston is due ! I don’t want to wait here all day.”

The guard quietly took the coin and departed. In a brief time he returned and said, “The train is in the tunnel now. It will be here in a very few minutes.”

Scott turned away, and taking his stand near the gate with more patience than he had hitherto displayed, though not with less interest, watched the place where the light of the approaching train would first be seen. He was awaiting the arrival of his friend and college chum, “Jack” Field, — “John Adams Field, Jr.” the catalogue, more accurately and more elaborately, recorded it, — with whom the Freshman year had been passed; and the warm friendship between the two, which had been begun in the preparatory school, had been strengthened by the intimate associations of the months now gone. The summer vacation had lost only a few weeks, but in Scott’s heart there was a feeling that it had been so long since he had seen his friend that his eager desire to be with him once more had almost the force which a long separation might have produced. But John Adams Field, Jr., was now in the tunnel, and within a brief, time Scott would once more be with him. The very prospect intensified the feeling in his heart, and he did not once turn away his eyes from the bend where the approaching cars would first be discerned.

There was more, however, in Scott's thoughts than the mere coming of his room-mate, longed-for as that was. A year before this time, Scott and John, together with two other classmates in their preparatory school, had made a never-to-be-forgotten trip to the Yellowstone Park. After they had made the tour of the Great Lakes from Buffalo to Duluth, they had been met at the latter city by the private car which Larcum Brown's father had placed at their disposal, and had then made the long journey across the northern tier of States to the marvellous government reservation, and then by coach had gone through the Park, impressed by its wonderful sights, and all alike enthusiastic over their experiences. 1

The disappointment of Scott and John when their friend Larcum had failed in his college entrance examinations, and had thereby cut himself off from the intimate associations which the preceding three years had provided, was scarcely less keen than their sorrow when they were informed by Lee Harris — the Southern member of the quartette which in school had been familx See “ Four Boys in the Yellowstone .' 7 iarly known as the “ Cardinals, ” because every one of the little band respectively represented a different part of the United States — that, owing to family reasons, he would be unable to come North for his college course, but would be compelled to attend one of the colleges nearer his Southern home.

The condition on which Lee had accepted the invitation of the preceding summer had been that in the following year his friends must visit him in his Southern home, and make a trip together in the land where the cinnamon seed and the cotton were not only found in song and story, but were also to be visibly in evidence. The promise had the more readily been given by Lee’s friends because not one of them had ever visited the Southland, and though this time there was no private car, such as Larcum’s “ railroad magnate” father had provided, there was still no less enthusiasm over the promise of a reunion of the four friends and of a journey in a land of which they had heard so much and seen so little.

In the arrangements it had been agreed that John should come to New York, and from that city he and his friend would sail for Old Point Comfort, make a few trips in the vicinity, and then push forward to Richmond, where Lee was to be met. At Memphis, Larcum was to join them, coming southward from his home in the West, and then the four boys were planning to go together at least as far as Indian Territory, and return by the way of Texas, visiting some of the most interesting places in the Southern States.

Despite the fact that the trip was to be made in the summer, when the heat was likely to be excessive, there was no loss of enthusiasm on the part of the boys due to that fact. They were to be together once more, and friendship and the experiences they were confident they would have more than counterbalanced any prospect of discomfort or peril that the heat of the summer might threaten.

And now, as the beginning of it all, Scott Gordon was waiting for the coming of his room-mate from Boston, and as the moment arrived, his manner changed somewhat, and the air of impatience disappeared. He became the “New Yorker” in his air of apparent indifference, when he at last saw the train approaching. Not that his feelings had changed, but the manifestation of his excitement was subdued. It was not “good form” to act like an excited schoolgirl.

All thoughts of the proprieties, however, vanished into thin air when, with a shout that was heard above the turmoil of the station, he beheld his friend approaching up the long platform. In a moment he had rushed forward, thrown his arm about the neck of his friend, and then seized his bag and brusquely handed it to a porter, with the word that he was to follow.

“ Why, Jack, old man, I don’t see that you have changed much,” Scott exclaimed, as the two friends together made their way toward the exit.

“ Considering the fact that you haven’t seen me for almost three weeks, Scott, I can’t say that your remarkable statement surprises me,” laughed John. “I think you, too, are about like the old fellow I knew in the far-away past. By the way, Scott, can you tell me why it is, that when old men get together, they always hail one another as ‘ boys’ and when two young fellows meet, they always call each other ‘old man’? Why is that, Scott?”

“I don’t know. You’ve begun your questions before we’ve started. You are a regular Yankee, aren’t you?”

“I am that. Say, Scott, do you think I’ll be mobbed, or lynched, or something or other, while we’re South ? I don’t intend to give up my Yankee propensities even there; but I’m told they don’t like the New Englanders very much down there.”

“ They’ll like you all right, Jack. They won’t be able to help themselves. Only you don’t want to use very much of your Boston language, or wear your shell on the outside — like a lobster.”

The boys laughed heartily, and, unaware of the glances of sympathy or interest which even the hurrying throng cast upon them, hastened forward to the side street, where Scott had left his automobile.

“I’m going to run this car myself,” said Scott, glibly, as he tossed his friend’s belongings on board. “No chauffeur to-day! When John Adams Field, Jr., arrives from Boston, the best is none too good for him.”

“That’s all right. I agree with you,” responded John, demurely, “but I didn’t take out any accident policy when I left home. I’m not at all sure you can drive.”

“I’ll show you!” interrupted Scott, and in a moment they had started toward his home.

“You can ‘ drive ’all right, I see,” remarked John, when they had turned into Madison Avenue and were speeding up the street at a pace that caused the people to stop and gaze in anger or surprise. “ I say, Scott, you needn’t do this on my account,” he added, as the speed of the car increased. “I want to go to your house — not to jail.”

“You’ll get there. Hi! Hi-i-i!” Scott suddenly shouted, as an unfortunate pedestrian was nearly run down. The man stopped, and angrily shook his fist at the disappearing automobile.

“Know what that man was saying, Jack?” demanded Scott.

“Well, I fancy his language is not fit to print, or at least is not used in polite society. It isn’t the Boston kind, anyway. Here we go,” he added, as the speed again increased.

“Scott, you’ll be arrested !”

“Not before they catch me.”

“You’ll hit somebody.”

“Not if he gets out of the way.”

“But it really is dangerous. Besides — ” John stopped abruptly and held his breath as a man darted across the street in front of them, and again an accident was barely averted.

“Why didn’t you warn him ?” demanded John, as Scott sped forward once more with increasing speed.

“My horn doesn’t work.”

“But you might slacken your speed.”

“I never thought of that/’ said Scott, slowly. “That’s a good suggestion, Jack. I believe I’ll try it some day.”

The speed of the car was less now, and John laughed.

“Hello. There’s father!” Scott suddenly exclaimed, indicating a man on the street before him. “I think I’ll stop and take him in.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be the first time.”

“You’re mistaken. You don’t know him, that’s all. The man doesn’t live that can do that. He’s the keenest man on the street.” There was pride and affection in Scott’s voice, and John, who was aware of the intense devotion of his room-mate to his father, smiled at his friend’s words. In his own home, John’s father was never demonstrative, and somehow the. boy, though he had no question as to the deep and true affection in which he was held in his father’s heart, somehow felt a longing for some such relation as that which existed between Mr. Gordon and his son. They were like brothers, “chums,” in their intercourse, and though there was never a lack of respect, there was, nevertheless, a freedom and cordiality that were exceedingly impressive to John. Perhaps he had never stopped to consider that a part of the cause might be due to himself.

In response to Scott’s hail Mr. Gordon entered the car, greeted John cordially, and then took his seat behind the boys.

“What have you been doing to-day, father?” inquired Scott, as the automobile started forward, though now its speed was less than it had been a few minutes before.

“Trying to get some money for you, Scott, so that you can take this trip with your friends,” laughed Mr. Gordon. “Strange what a lot of money you boys need,” he added quizzically.

“Oh, we don’t need the money,” retorted Scott. “It’s the other people that need it. Somehow, they’re always after me for it. I don’t care a snap of my finger about money myself. But the college seems to want it, the woman with whom I board seems almost crazy about it, and then every shopkeeper in town is after me for it. No, you can’t blame me for that, father. It’s the other fellow you want to get after.”

Mr. Gordon laughed as he said, “Scott, sometimes I’ve a notion that I would be doing you a kindness to take you into my office for a time and put you to work. You’d appreciate then what money costs, and find out what it is worth.”

“I don’t have to learn that,” retorted Scott, “I’ve inherited all that. Why, don’t you remember how, when I was a little chap, we used to go up to our farm in the country? The ‘ hired men, ’as they called the workers up there, said I was a chip of the old block, even then. They said I’d spend my time gambolling in the wheat or corn, or else I’d be out in the barnyard watering the stock. You remember that, don’t you, father?”

“I can’t say that I do,” laughed Mr. Gordon. “I had a man in my office to-day, though, who beats even you, Scott. He wanted a position, and said he was now getting two hundred and fifty a month. He certainly did not look it, and at last I found out how he figured it up. He said he had a regular salary of one hundred dollars a month. Then he didn’t pay his rent — that was forty a month. He owed the milkman thirty and his butcher forty dollars, and then every month he managed to borrow forty dollars more from his friends. So, altogether, he claimed he had two hundred and fifty dollars every month.”

“Did you give him a position?” inquired John.

“Hardly.”

“No, but you’ll find that he lent him that forty,” declared Scott to his friend. “Here we are,” he added, as the automobile stopped. “This is our humble home, Mr. John Adams Field, Jr., and I bid you enter.”

Chapter II

“What shall we do to-morrow, Jack?” inquired Scott, when, later in the evening, the two friends were seated in the library.

“That's for you to say.”

“We have a good full day and a half. You know we don't sail till day after to-morrow, at three in the afternoon. We can go for a spin in the automobile, or we can run down to Coney, or—”

“It will all be interesting to me,” broke in John. “You know I have never seen very much of New York, anyway. When I have been here it has usually been when I was going to take a train for some other place.”

There was something in the manner of his friend that caused Scott to smile. Not that the “something” was new, for in the years of their acquaintance he had learned somewhat of the calm confidence that John felt in the superiority of all that belonged to his own home in Boston. In their arguments, which sometimes became quite heated, the laugh of John, when Scott quoted any other authority than that which was accepted in the circles of the city which was the home of John Adams Field, Jr., had been strangely irritating to Scott. John had never declared that Scott’s sources of authority were not to be trusted, but his manner had implied what he had left unsaid. And the young New Yorker had rebelled, although he had not often been able to refute the implied slight; for John was keen and clear, and his knowledge and scholarship had been too pronounced to be easily overthrown.

Nevertheless, Scott had been eager to have his room-mate visit him and be permitted to show him some of the sights of the city which he firmly believed to be the most wonderful in all the world. Indeed, the local pride of each of the Cardinals in the superiority of his own home over the rest of creation had been a frequent source of argument. Larcum’s calm assurance that “the West” was the only region where a young man could find a proper field for his enterprise was only excelled by the firm belief of Lee that the South contained all that was choicest in American life.

And now, when John displayed unconsciously his attitude toward the city in which Scott dwelt, the latter smiled slightly, and a new light appeared in his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know that we have very much that could interest a man from Boston,” he said good-naturedly. “We haven’t so many old graveyards perhaps, — though I never could quite see, Jack, why you Boston people were so proud of your graves. The men are all dead, aren’t they? What I like, is to see men that are alive and doing things. I can show you some of — ”

“Never you mind that !” broke in Jack, quickly. “If you had the graves of men like Samuel Adams and General Warren and Longfellow — ”

“And John Adams,” interrupted Scott, with a laugh.

“Yes, and John Adams,” acknowledged John, joining in the laugh of his friend.

“There’s one thing that has always puzzled me, though, Jack,” began Scott, soberly.

“What’s that?”

“Why you people down East should be so unduly modest. You’re the regular shrinking, timid violet kind. Now, if you’d only stand up and put in a claim now and then for your just deserts, the rest of us would bow down then and do you homage. But you see you don’t do anything of the kind. You are always so humble. You never have made very much of the Pilgrims or the Puritans; you haven’t claimed that you did anything to help in the independence of the colonies; you don’t seem to think your schools and colleges are any better than others ; you don’t seem to have any very great pride in your poets — ”

“It’s all very well for you to talk, Scott,” broke in John, laughing as he spoke; “but you’ll have to acknowledge that we have the history and the men.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Jack,” responded Scott, eagerly, “if you New Englanders ever did anything that the rest of the world hasn’t heard about, the fault can’t be laid at your feet, anyway.”

“But we did the things — that’s the beauty of it,” said John, calmly.

“What things?”

“Why — in history and everything else. The colonies, for example, never could have won their independence if we hadn’t provided the men.”

“Jack, did you ever hear that the little colony of New Jersey lost more men in the Revolution than all the New England colonies put together?”

“No, I never did; and what’s more, I don’t believe it, either.”

“Oh, I don’t ask you to take just my word for it ; you can look up the records for yourself.”

“I never read any such thing in the histories I’ve studied.”

“Very likely,” remarked Scott, dryly. “Let me see — the most of these histories have been written by men that belonged to New England, haven’t they?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve had to furnish the historians. No other part of the country had any.”

“That’s all right — only your men have not only written the history, but you have manufactured it, too. Now just take the case of Paul Revere. I’m not saying anything against him, mark you — ”

“That’s kind of you.”

“But look at it, Jack. Honestly, don’t you think there were at least a dozen men around here who could have leaped on the back of a horse and grabbed and swung a lantern and yelled as lustily as he did that the Regulars were coming, and made just as good time as he did, too, over the country roads ? Honestly, Jack, don’t you think a few of these men around here could have done that if they had tried real hard?”

“Why didn’t they do it, then?”

“They did; but they never thought such little things were worth writing up. You see Paul Revere, good man though he was, was a fortunate chap to get Longfellow to give him a ‘ write up.’ See what I mean?”

“You didn’t have any Longfellow to do it.”

“Well, there you’ve got us, Jack. I’ll have to own up to that. When it comes to using words — why, there isn’t any part of the country that can touch you. You have had so many words and have had to use them so that you have written up or backed up everything that any New Englander ever did or ever thought of doing or ever wanted to do. And as I said, New Jersey had more men who died for their country than all of you did, put together. But New Jersey has been modest — too modest for her own good. She not only hasn’t blown her own horn, but she didn’t even have the nerve to hang any witches, or whip any Quakers, or banish any Baptists. You people write up such things as if you were proud of them. For, my part, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I wouldn’t have you deny what you did, of course ; but for myself I never could understand why you wanted to get up on the housetops and crow about these things, like a barn-yard rooster after a rain. Probably he thinks that he made the storms go by. Then there is South Carolina. Why, Jack, when it comes to personal suffering and heroism, there isn’t one of the thirteen colonies that belongs in the same class with her. What her patriotic men and women went through in that struggle — ”

“ Never mind, Scott; I’m not saying you don’t think it’s all so.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

“I should want your authority before I did.”

“I can give it to you.”

“Sometime I’ll look it up.”

“You are so fond of graves and what you call historic spots, Jack, perhaps you’d like to see some of New York’s to-morrow.”

“Has New York any?”

“You just wait. I never knew anything about it myself till last year, and then I began to look up what my own town could give me in that line. We’ll take the automobile to-morrow, and maybe, when we’ve got through the day, you won’t think your town, with its little crooked, narrow streets — ”

“ We’re proud of them,” interrupted John.

“That’s it! That’s just what makes it all so hopeless!” exclaimed Scott, in mock despair. “You brag about hanging witches. You call it history when you tell your stories of whipping Quakers, and you’re proud of your little alleyways, where two people can’t walk side by side, and one man, if he’s all alone there, finds himself so crowded, he tries to get out of his own way and can’t do it. You ought to put on sackcloth and ashes instead of standing up to yell out your thanks that you are not like other cities and men.”

On the following morning, when the two boys set forth on their tour in Scott’s automobile, there were no evidences to be seen in their manner, at least, that the rivalry for their respective homes had left any traces of bitterness. The day was warm, but the swift flight of the car made them both unmindful of the heat, and John’s interest, despite his attempt to appear indifferent, was so manifest that Scott’s eagerness increased.

“Some of these houses are regular castles,” remarked John, as they sped down Fifth Avenue.

“ Some of them, I fancy, would do very well for the Russian nobility.”

“As far as castles are concerned, the peasants in Russia, to my mind, seem to be better off than the nobility,” remarked Scott, demurely.

“The peasants? What do you mean? If what I have been reading is to be believed, they are about as badly off as they well can be. They can’t get any land, to say nothing of castles.”

“Ah, yes they can. They have castles to burn.”

There was a brief silence, in which John’s face took on an expression of sorrow, as if he were grieving for the folly of his friend. As Scott did not glance at him, however, the effect was lost, and in a brief time John said, as he pointed to a group of laborers in the street beside them: “This is a great country, isn’t it, Scott ? Just look at these men. They come over here, and every one of them has his chance in life, labor, and in the pursuit of happiness.”

“It isn’t the ‘ pursuit’ of happiness he’s after. What every man wants, as I understand it, isn’t the pursuit of happiness. What he wants, is to catch up with it.”

“Scott, what’s the matter with you this morning?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t look the part. I say,” John added, as he obtained a momentary glimpse of the blue waters of the Hudson as the automobile darted past a street that was open clear to the river beyond, “what a wonderful morning this is! You can see clear over into Jersey.”

“Farther than that.”

“Farther?”

“Yes; from New York, on a clear night, one can see the moon.”

“You must have been struck by it last night.”

“I wasn’t.”

“But no joking, Scott,” persisted John. “It isn’t often the air is like this. The horizon is as clear as I ever saw it.”

“Yes, it is clear. I just swept it with my eye. There, Jack, don’t be frightened. I’ll give you my word I’ll not do that again.”

“You’d better not. I’m desperate.”

The car by this time was in lower Broadway, and Scott called to his chauffeur to halt before Trinity churchyard. ‘ ‘ Jack, you’re fond of graves, so I’m going to give you a look at some of those in there. Off there is where Alexander Hamilton is buried. Ever hear of him?”

“Yes”

“Fm glad of it; though, poor fellow, he didn’t know any more than to live and then be buried in New York. There are some people, I understand, who think he had about the brightest mind this country has ever seen. I’m going to send word some day to some of your Boston historians. Then there are the graves,” he added, pointing in various directions in the churchyard as he spoke, “of William Bradford and Captain Lawrence — let me tell you about him, Jack. When he had been wounded, and he knew he was going to die, he was the man who said, ‘ Don’t give up the ship ’ — ever hear of that ? ”

John smiled, but did not reply.

“Over there is where Robert Fulton is buried, and there is where old Marinus Willett’s body rests. There, too, is the grave of Charlotte Temple — want to see some more graves, Jack?” Scott inquired demurely.

“Not now.”

“This is Trinity Church,” explained Scott again, as the car moved forward. “Right down there is Wall Street and the Stock Exchange. Maybe you’ve heard of them in Boston. But they are very much alive, so I won’t take you to them.

What you want is the old and the dead. This old church was dedicated in 1697.”

“This building?”

“No. This is the third. The first was burned in the great fire of 1776. Washington attended the dedication of the second, and this is the third, as I said. Wait, though, till I show you something worth seeing,” and at Scott's word the automobile sped down the street.