Not relishing this threat, and with the spirit of thoughtlessness which marks boys of that age, we all decamped, leaving poor John to his fate. We quite expected he would be drowned, and as he had flogged several of us since morning, we did not much care what became of him. The next day I met one of my comrades. His head was enveloped in a cotton flag handkerchief, from under which I could perceive peeping out the edge of a black eye.
“What is the matter?” I inquired.
“John Haight got out yesterday, and has licked me this morning for not helping him,” was the reply.
The next day, as I was approaching the pond for another skating spree, I met John.
“Stop, or you’ll catch your death-blow!” roared John.
I halted as suddenly as if I had received the same command from a captain of artillery.
He approached me so closely that I could feel his breath upon my face, and looking me square in the eye, he exclaimed:
“Mr. Taylor Barnum, it seems to me I owe you a licking.” He then very deliberately divested himself of his coat, threw it upon the snow, and proceeded to cancel the debt in double quick time. In less than two minutes I was pretty well pummelled, and started for home, “drowned in tears.” My mother inquired the cause of my troubles, and when I informed her, she replied that I was served right for keeping such company.
A week had not elapsed after John’s accident before the round dozen of his schoolmates had received their promised “licking.” The boys were generally careful not to complain at home when John had whipped them, lest their fathers should administer the rod for having been caught in such company.
My father met John a few days after his accident, and never having heard a word about it, among other remarks he said, “Well, John, do you skate any now-a-days?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Phile; the other day I skated clear up to here,” answered John, pointing to his neck with imperturbable gravity.
In spite of the tyranny of that boy, I preferred his companionship to that of any other of my mates; and though the family removed to Norwalk, so many of my early memories are linked with him that I feel impelled to relate additional incidents concerning him, although I was not immediately interested in them.
The Sunday after the family removed, (it was in midsummer,) John took his younger brother into the creek to bathe. Just as the various congregations were pouring out of the churches, John and Tom were seen perfectly naked standing upon the railing of the bridge.
“Don’t you stir till I give the word,” said John to his almost helpless brother.
The crowds of ladies and gentlemen were fast approaching the bridge, but the brothers stood fixed as statues. As the first score of persons stepped upon the bridge, and hundreds were at their heels, John exclaimed, at the top of his voice, “Now, Tom, dive, you little vagabond – dive!” at the same time pushing poor little Tom off into the deep creek, which was running thirty feet below. John himself leaped at the same instant, and in a few moments afterwards was seen swimming like a duck to the shore, with little Tom on his back.
While living in Norwalk, a comb-maker, who looked more to interest than principle, one day said to him, “John, the country comb-makers are having a good many horns come up on board the sloops, and they are stored in the warehouse of Munson Hoyt & Co. on the dock. If you can manage to hook some of them occasionally, I’ll buy them of you at a shilling apiece.” This was less than half their value, but as John wanted spending money, he assented.
The next night he brought the comb-maker four fine-looking ox horns, and received half a dollar for the larceny. The following night he brought as many more. The comb-maker cautioned John to be very careful and not get caught. John thanked him for his kind warning, and promised to conduct his thefts with the most profound secresy. Night after night, and week after week, did John bring horns and receive the rewards of his iniquity. Months rolled on, and John still escaped suspicion. At last he brought in a dozen horns at once, and insisted on receiving three dollars for them; “For,” said he, “they are much larger than any I ever before ‘hooked,’ and are worth treble what I ask for them.” The comb-maker looked at them, and exclaimed, in astonishment, “Why, these are the largest kind of Spanish horns. Where did you get them?”
“At the storehouse on the wharf, of course,” replied John.
The comb-maker had some misgivings. “I’ll pay you two dollars on account,” he continued, “and in the morning I’ll go down to the storehouse and examine the lot.”
John received his two dollars, but it was the last money he ever earned in that way. The next morning the comb-maker discovered that there were no such horns in the warehouse, and he also learned the uncomfortable fact that John Haight had received over a hundred dollars for stealing horns from the comb-maker’s own pile in the back shop, and bringing them into the front door for sale!
The following Fourth of July was celebrated in Norwalk by horse-racing. I was present. The owner of one high-mettled steed desired to enter him for the purse, but no person of sufficiently light weight could be found who dared to ride him. He had thrown many a good rider, and the equestrians in those parts were shy about mounting him. John heard of the owner’s dilemma, and as he never feared anything, he volunteered to ride, provided in case of winning he should have a portion of the stakes. The owner readily assented to this proposition, and John was soon astride the fractious animal. Preliminaries were settled, the judges took their stand, the horses were brought into line, and all started at the word “go.” Before they had reached half a mile, every horse was at the top of his speed, under the incessant application of whip and spur; when, quick as thought, John’s horse, frightened by some object at the road-side, came to a dead stand-still, and threw the rider headlong over a stone wall about seven feet high!
Hundreds of persons ran to the spot, and poor John was taken up for dead. A large contusion was found on his forehead from which the blood was running profusely, and several other frightful wounds marked his face and portions of his body. His father and other physicians were soon upon the ground. John was bled and restoratives applied, but in vain. He remained insensible, and was carried home on a litter. The sports of the day ceased, and the village was overspread with gloom. John was not what might be termed absolutely vicious, and his eccentricities furnished such a fund of amusement to the villagers that they felt “they could better spare a better person.”
“Will he die, do you think?” was the oft-repeated question addressed to such persons as were seen to emerge from the house where John lay in a stupor.
“There seems no hope of his recovery,” was the usual response.
John lay all night without manifesting any signs of life, except an almost imperceptible breathing, and occasionally a mournful and subdued groan.
In the morning he was still unconscious, and the monotony of his darkened chamber was only occasionally broken by some inarticulate mutterings which betrayed the absence of his reason.
A medical consultation was held, and inquirers were told that under the effects of remedies which had been applied, a crisis would probably occur about noon, which would determine whether there was any chance for his recovery. The slow-moving minutes seemed hours as his anxious parents and relatives watched at the silent bedside, and occasionally glanced at the clock. Eleven; half-past eleven; twelve o’clock arrived – and yet no sign of returning consciousness appeared. Ten, fifteen minutes more elapsed, and yet no sign.
“Will