"The Cash
Boy," by Horatio Alger, Jr., as the name implies, is a story about a boy
and for boys.
Through some
conspiracy, the hero of the story when a baby, was taken from his relatives and
given into the care of a kind woman.
Not knowing his name,
she gave him her husband's name, Frank Fowler. She had one little daughter,
Grace, and showing no partiality in the treatment of her children, Frank never
suspected that she was not his sister. However, at the death of Mrs. Fowler,
all this was related to Frank.
The children were left
alone in the world. It seemed as though they would have to go to the poorhouse
but Frank could not become reconciled to that.
A kind neighbor agreed
to care for Grace, so Frank decided to start out in the world to make his way.
He had many
disappointments and hardships, but through his kindness to an old man, his own
relatives and right name were revealed to him.
A group of boys was
assembled in an open field to the west of the public schoolhouse in the town of
Crawford. Most of them held hats in their hands, while two, stationed sixty
feet distant from each other, were "having catch."
Tom Pinkerton, son of
Deacon Pinkerton, had just returned from Brooklyn, and while there had witnessed
a match game between two professional clubs. On his return he proposed that the
boys of Crawford should establish a club, to be known as the Excelsior Club of
Crawford, to play among themselves, and on suitable occasions to challenge
clubs belonging to other villages. This proposal was received with instant
approval.
"I move that Tom
Pinkerton address the meeting," said one boy.
"Second the
motion," said another.
As there was no
chairman, James Briggs was appointed to that position, and put the motion,
which was unanimously carried.
Tom Pinkerton, in his
own estimation a personage of considerable importance, came forward in a
consequential manner, and commenced as follows:
"Mr. Chairman and
boys. You all know what has brought us together. We want to start a club for
playing baseball, like the big clubs they have in Brooklyn and New York."
"How shall we do
it?" asked Henry Scott.
"We must first
appoint a captain of the club, who will have power to assign the members to
their different positions. Of course you will want one that understands about
these matters."
"He means
himself," whispered Henry Scott, to his next neighbor; and here he was
right.
"Is that
all?" asked Sam Pomeroy.
"No; as there will
be some expenses, there must be a treasurer to receive and take care of the
funds, and we shall need a secretary to keep the records of the club, and write
and answer challenges."
"Boys," said
the chairman, "you have heard Tom Pinkerton's remarks. Those who are in
favor of organizing a club on this plan will please signify it in the usual
way."
All the boys raised
their hands, and it was declared a vote.
"You will bring in
your votes for captain," said the chairman.
Tom Pinkerton drew a
little apart with a conscious look, as he supposed, of course, that no one but
himself would be thought of as leader.
Slips of paper were
passed around, and the boys began to prepare their ballots. They were brought
to the chairman in a hat, and he forthwith took them out and began to count
them.
"Boys," he
announced, amid a universal stillness, "there is one vote for Sam Pomeroy,
one for Eugene Morton, and the rest are for Frank Fowler, who is elected."
There was a clapping of
hands, in which Tom Pinkerton did not join.
Frank Fowler, who is to
be our hero, came forward a little, and spoke modestly as follows:
"Boys, I thank you
for electing me captain of the club. I am afraid I am not very well qualified
for the place, but I will do as well as I can."
The speaker was a boy
of fourteen. He was of medium height for his age, strong and sturdy in build,
and with a frank prepossessing countenance, and an open, cordial manner, which
made him a general favorite. It was not, however, to his popularity that he
owed his election, but to the fact that both at bat and in the field he
excelled all the boys, and therefore was the best suited to take the lead.
The boys now proceeded
to make choice of a treasurer and secretary. For the first position Tom
Pinkton{sic} received a majority of the votes. Though not popular, it was felt
that some office was due him.
For secretary, Ike
Stanton, who excelled in penmanship, was elected, and thus all the offices were
filled.
The boys now crowded
around Frank Fowler, with petitions for such places as they desired.
"I hope you will
give me a little time before I decide about positions, boys," Frank said;
"I want to consider a little."
"All right! Take
till next week," said one and another, "and let us have a scrub game
this afternoon."
The boys were in the
middle of the sixth inning, when some one called out to Frank Fowler:
"Frank, your sister is running across the field. I think she wants
you."
Frank dropped his bat
and hastened to meet his sister.
"What's the
matter, Gracie?" he asked in alarm.
"Oh, Frank!"
she exclaimed, bursting into tears. "Mother's been bleeding at the lungs,
and she looks so white. I'm afraid she's very sick."
"Boys," said
Frank, turning to his companions, "I must go home at once. You can get
some one to take my place, my mother is very sick."
When Frank reached the
little brown cottage which he called home, he found his mother in an exhausted
state reclining on the bed.
"How do you feel,
mother?" asked our hero, anxiously.
"Quite weak,
Frank," she answered in a low voice
"I have had a
severe attack."
"Let me go for the
doctor, mother."
"I don't think it
will be necessary, Frank. The attack is over, and I need no medicines, only
time to bring back my strength."
But three days passed,
and Mrs. Fowler's nervous prostration continued. She had attacks previously
from which she rallied sooner, and her present weakness induced serious
misgivings as to whether she would ever recover. Frank thought that her eyes
followed him with more than ordinary anxiety, and after convincing himself that
this was the case, he drew near his mother's bedside, and inquired:
"Mother, isn't
there something you want me to do?"
"Nothing, I
believe, Frank."
"I thought you
looked at me as if you wanted to say something."
"There is
something I must say to you before I die."
"Before you die,
mother!" echoed Frank, in a startled voice.
"Yes. Frank, I am
beginning to think that this is my last sickness."
"But, mother, you
have been so before, and got up again."
"There must always
be a last time, Frank; and my strength is too far reduced to rally again, I
fear."
"I can't bear the
thought of losing you, mother," said Frank, deeply moved.
"You will miss me,
then, Frank?" said Mrs. Fowler.
"Shall I not?
Grace and I will be alone in the world."
"Alone in the
world!" repeated the sick woman, sorrowfully, "with little help to
hope for from man, for I shall leave you nothing. Poor children!"
"That isn't what I
think of," said Frank, hastily.
"I can support
myself."
"But Grace? She is
a delicate girl," said the mother, anxiously. "She cannot make her
way as you can."
"She won't need
to," said Frank, promptly; "I shall take care of her."
"But you are very
young even to support yourself. You are only fourteen."
"I know it,
mother, but I am strong, and I am not afraid. There are a hundred ways of
making a living."
"But do you
realize that you will have to start with absolutely nothing? Deacon Pinkerton
holds a mortgage on this house for all it will bring in the market, and I owe
him arrears of interest besides."
"I didn't know
that, mother, but it doesn't frighten me."
"And you will take
care of Grace?"
"I promise it,
mother."
"Suppose Grace
were not your sister?" said the sick woman, anxiously scanning the face of
the boy.
"What makes you
suppose such a thing as that, mother? Of course she is my sister."
"But suppose she
were not," persisted Mrs. Fowler, "you would not recall your promise?"
"No, surely not,
for I love her. But why do you talk so, mother?" and a suspicion crossed
Frank's mind that his mother's intellect might be wandering.
"It is time to
tell you all, Frank. Sit down by the bedside, and I will gather my strength to
tell you what must be told."
"Grace is not your
sister, Frank!"
"Not my sister,
mother?" he exclaimed. "You are not in earnest?"
"I am quite in
earnest, Frank."
"Then whose child
is she?"
"She is my
child."
"Then she must be
my sister--are you not my mother?"
"No, Frank, I am
not your mother!"
"Not my
mother!" he exclaimed. "Who, then, is my mother?"
"I cannot tell
you, Frank. I never knew. You will forgive me for concealing this from you for
so long."
"No matter who was
my real mother since I have you. You have been a mother to me, and I shall
always think of you as such."
"You make me
happy, Frank, when you say that. And you will look upon Grace as a sister also,
will you not?"
"Always,"
said the boy, emphatically. "Mother, will you tell all you know about me?
I don't know what to think; now that I am not your son I cannot rest till I
learn who I am."
"I can understand
your feelings, Frank, but I must defer the explanation till to-morrow. I have
fatigued myself with talking. but to-morrow you shall know all that I can tell
you."
"Forgive me for
not thinking of your being tired, mother," and he bent over and pressed
his lips upon the cheek of the sick woman. "But don't talk any more. Wait
till to-morrow."
In the afternoon Frank
had a call from Sam Pomeroy.
"The club is to
play to-morrow afternoon against a picked nine, Frank," he said.
"Will you be there?"
"I can't,
Sam," he answered. "My mother is very sick, and it is my duty to stay
at home with her."
"We shall miss
you--that is, all of us but one. Tom Pinkerton said yesterday that you ought to
resign, as you can't attend to your duties. He wouldn't object to filling your
place, I fancy."
"He is welcome to
the place as soon as the club feels like electing him," said Frank.
"Tell the boys I am sorry I can't be on hand. They had better get you to
fill my place."
"I'll mention it,
but I don't think they'll see it in that light. They're all jealous of my superior
playing," said Sam, humorously. "Well, good-bye, Frank. I hope your
mother'll be better soon."
"Thank you,
Sam," answered Frank, soberly. "I hope so, too, but she is very
sick."
The next day Mrs.
Fowler again called Frank to the bedside.
"Grace is gone out
on an errand," she said, "and I can find no better time for telling
you what I know about you and the circumstances which led to my assuming the
charge of you."
"Are you strong
enough, mother?"
"Yes, Frank.
Thirteen years ago my husband and myself occupied a small tenement in that part
of Brooklyn know as Gowanus, not far from Greenwood Cemetery. My husband was a
carpenter, and though his wages were small he was generally employed. We had
been married three years, but had no children of our own. Our expenses were
small, and we got on comfortably, and should have continued to do so, but that
Mr. Fowler met with an accident which partially disabled him. He fell from a
high scaffold and broke his arm. This was set and he was soon able to work
again, but he must also have met with some internal injury, for his full
strength never returned. Half a day's work tired him more than a whole day's
work formerly had done. Of course our income was very much diminished, and we
were obliged to economize very closely. This preyed upon my husband's mind and
seeing his anxiety, I set about considering how I could help him, and earn my
share of the expenses.
"One day in
looking over the advertising columns of a New York paper I saw the following
advertisement:
" `For adoption--A
healthy male infant. The parents are able to pay liberally for the child's
maintenance, but circumstances compel them to delegate the care to another.
Address for interview A. M.'
"I had no sooner
read this advertisement than I felt that it was just what I wanted. A liberal
compensation was promised, and under our present circumstances would be
welcome, as it was urgently needed. I mentioned the matter to my husband, and
he was finally induced to give his consent.
"Accordingly, I
replied to the advertisement.
"Three days passed
in which I heard nothing from it. But as we were sitting at the supper table at
six o'clock one afternoon, there came a knock at our front door. I opened it,
and saw before me a tall stranger, a man of about thirty-five, of dark complexion,
and dark whiskers. He was well dressed, and evidently a gentleman in station.
" `Is this Mrs.
Fowler?' he asked.
" `Yes, sir,' I
answered, in some surprise
" `Then may I beg
permission to enter your house for a few minutes? I have something to say to
you.'
"Still wondering,
I led the way into the sitting- room, where your father--where Mr.
Fowler----"
"Call him my
father--I know no other," said Frank.
"Where your father
was seated.
" `You have
answered an advertisement,' said the stranger.
" `Yes, sir,' I
replied.
" `I am A. M.,'
was his next announcement. `Of course I have received many letters, but on the
whole I was led to consider yours most favorably. I have made inquiries about
you in the neighborhood, and the answers have been satisfactory. You have no
children of your own?'
" `No, sir.'
" `All the better.
You would be able to give more attention to this child.'
" `Is it yours,
sir?' I asked
" `Ye-es,' he
answered, with hesitation. `Circumstances,' he continued, `circumstances which
I need not state, compel me to separate from it. Five hundred dollars a year
will be paid for its maintenance.'
"Five hundred
dollars! I heard this with joy, for it was considerably more than my husband
was able to earn since his accident. It would make us comfortable at once, and
your father might work when he pleased, without feeling any anxiety about our
coming to want.
" `Will that sum
be satisfactory?' asked the stranger.
" `It is very
liberal,' I answered.
" `I intended it
to be so,' he said. `Since there is no difficulty on this score, I am inclined
to trust you with the care of the child. But I must make two conditions.'
" `What are they,
sir?'
" `In the first
place, you must not try to find out the friends of the child. They do not
desire to be known. Another thing, you must move from Brooklyn.'
" `Move from
Brooklyn?' I repeated.
" `Yes,' he
answered, firmly. `I do not think it necessary to give you a reason for this
condition. Enough that it is imperative. If you decline, our negotiations are
at an end.'
"I looked at my
husband. He seemed as much surprised as I was.
" `Perhaps you
will wish to consult together,' suggested our visitor. `If so, I can give you
twenty minutes. I will remain in this room while you go out and talk it over.'
"We acted on this
hint, and went into the kitchen. We decided that though we should prefer to
live in Brooklyn, it would be worth our while to make the sacrifice for the
sake of the addition to our income. We came in at the end of ten minutes, and
announced our decision. Our visitor seemed to be very much pleased.
" `Where would you
wish us to move?' asked your father.
" `I do not care
to designate any particular place. I should prefer some small country town,
from fifty to a hundred miles distant. I suppose you will be able to move
soon?'
" `Yes, sir; we
will make it a point to do so. How soon will the child be placed in our hands?
Shall we send for it?'
" `No, no,' he
said, hastily. `I cannot tell you exactly when, but it will be brought here
probably in the course of a day or two. I myself shall bring it, and if at that
time you wish to say anything additional you can do so.'
"He went away,
leaving us surprised and somewhat excited at the change that was to take place
in our lives. The next evening the sound of wheels was heard, and a hack
stopped at our gate. The same gentleman descended hurriedly with a child in his
arms--you were the child, Frank--and entered the house.
" `This is the
child,' he said, placing it in my arms, `and here is the first quarterly
installment of your pay. Three months hence you will receive the same sum from
my agent in New York. Here is his address,' and he placed a card in my hands.
`Have you anything to ask?'
" `Suppose I wish
to communicate with you respecting the child? Suppose he is sick?'
" `Then write to
A. M., care of Giles Warner, No. ---- Nassau Street. By the way, it will be
necessary for you to send him your postoffice address after your removal in
order that he may send you your quarterly dues.'
"With this he left
us, entered the hack, and drove off. I have never seen him since."
Frank listened to this
revelation with wonder. For the first time in his life he asked himself,
"Who am I?"
"How came I by my
name, mother?" he asked.
"I must tell you.
After the sudden departure of the gentleman who brought you, we happened to
think that we had not asked your name. We accordingly wrote to the address
which had been given us, making the inquiry. In return we received a slip of
paper containing these words: `The name is immaterial; give him any name you
please. A. M.' "
"You gave me the
name of Frank."
"It was Mr.
Fowler's name. We should have given it to you had you been our own boy; as the
choice was left to us, we selected that."
"It suits me as
well as any other. How soon did you leave Brooklyn, mother?"
"In a week we had
made all arrangements, and removed to this place. It is a small place, but it
furnished as much work as my husband felt able to do. With the help of the
allowance for your support, we not only got on comfortably, but saved up a
hundred and fifty dollars annually, which we deposited in a savings bank. But
after five years the money stopped coming. It was the year 1857, the year of
the great panic, and among others who failed was Giles Warner's agent, from
whom we received our payments. Mr. Fowler went to New York to inquire about it,
but only learned that Mr. Warner, weighed down by his troubles, had committed
suicide, leaving no clew to the name of the man who left you with us."
"How long ago was
that, mother?"
"Seven years ago
nearly eight."
"And you continued
to keep me, though the payments stopped."
"Certainly; you
were as dear to us as our own child--for we now had a child of our own--Grace.
We should as soon have thought of casting off her as you."
"But you must have
been poor, mother."
"We were
economical, and we got along till your father died three years ago. Since then
it has been hard work."
"You have had a
hard time, mother."
"No harder on your
account. You have been a great comfort to me, Frank. I am only anxious for the
future. I fear you and Grace will suffer after I am gone."
"Don't fear,
mother, I am young and strong; I am not afraid to face the world with God's
help."
"What are you
thinking of, Frank?" asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing the boy's fixed look.
"Mother," he
said, earnestly, "I mean to seek for that man you have told me of. I want
to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?"
"He said he was,
but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and said this to deceive us,
probably."
"I am glad you
think so, I would not like to think him my father. From what you have told me
of him I am sure I would not like him."
"He must be nearly
fifty now--dark complexion, with dark hair and whiskers. I am afraid that
description will not help you any. There are many men who look like that. I
should know him by his expression, but I cannot describe that to you."
Here Mrs. Fowler was
seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and Frank begged her to say no more.
Two days later, and
Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing, and no hope was entertained
that she would rally. She herself felt that death was near at hand and told
Frank so, but he found it hard to believe.
On the second of the
two days, as he was returning from the village store with an orange for his
mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.
"Is your mother
very sick, Frank?" he asked.
"Yes, Sam, I'm
afraid she won't live."
"Is it so bad as
that? I do believe," he added, with a sudden change of tone, "Tom
Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is trying to get your place as
captain of the baseball club. He says that if your mother doesn't live, you
will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won't have any money, and that it will
be a disgrace for the club to have a captain from the poorhouse."
"Did he say
that?" asked Frank, indignantly.
"Yes."
"When he tells you
that, you may say that I shall never go to the poorhouse."
"He says his
father is going to put you and your sister there."
"All the Deacon
Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the poorhouse!" said
Frank, resolutely.
"Bully for you,
Frank! I knew you had spunk."
Frank hurried home. As
he entered the little house a neighbor's wife, who had been watching with his
mother, came to meet him.
"Frank," she
said, gravely, "you must prepare yourself for sad news. While you were out
your mother had another hemorrhage, and--and--"
"Is she
dead?" asked the boy, his face very pale.
"She is
dead!"
"The Widder Fowler
is dead," remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the supper table. "She died
this afternoon."
"I suppose she
won't leave anything," said Mrs. Pinkerton.
"No. I hold a
mortgage on her furniture, and that is all she has."
"What will become
of the children?"
"As I observed,
day before yesterday, they will be constrained to find a refuge in the
poorhouse."
"What do you think
Sam Pomeroy told me, father?"
"I am not able to
conjecture what Samuel would be likely to observe, my son."
"He observed that
Frank Fowler said he wouldn't go to the poorhouse."
"Ahem!"
coughed the deacon. "The boy will not be consulted."
"That's what I
say, father," said Tom, who desired to obtain his father's co-operation.
"You'll make him go to the poorhouse, won't you?"
"I shall
undoubtedly exercise my authority, if it should be necessary, my son."
"He told Sam
Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertons in the world couldn't make him go to the
poorhouse."
"I will constrain
him," said the deacon.
"I would if I were
you, father," said Tom, elated at the effect of his words. "Just
teach him a lesson."
"Really, deacon,
you mustn't be too hard upon the poor boy," said his better-hearted wife.
"He's got trouble enough on him."
"I will only
constrain him for his good, Jane. In the poorhouse he will be well provided
for."
Meanwhile another
conversation respecting our hero and his fortunes was held at Sam Pomeroy's
home. It was not as handsome as the deacon's, for Mr. Pomeroy was a poor man,
but it was a happy one, nevertheless, and Mr. Pomeroy, limited as were his
means, was far more liberal than the deacon.
"I pity Frank
Fowler," said Sam, who was warm- hearted and sympathetic, and a strong
friend of Frank. "I don't know what he will do."
"I suppose his
mother left nothing."
"I
understood," said Mr. Pomeroy, "that Deacon Pinkerton holds a
mortgage on her furniture."
"The deacon wants
to send Frank and his sister to the poorhouse."
"That would be a pity."
"I should think
so; but Frank positively says he won't go."
"I am afraid there
isn't anything else for him. To be sure, he may get a chance to work in a shop
or on a farm, but Grace can't support herself."
"Father, I want to
ask you a favor."
"What is it,
Sam?"
"Won't you invite
Frank and his sister to come and stay here a week?"
"Just as your
mother says."
"I say yes. The
poor children will be quite welcome. If we were rich enough they might stay
with us all the time."
"When Frank comes
here I will talk over his affairs with him," said Mr. Pomeroy.
"Perhaps we can think of some plan for him."
"I wish you could,
father."
"In the meantime,
you can invite him and Grace to come and stay with us a week, or a fortnight.
Shall we say a fortnight, wife?"
"With all my
heart."
"All right,
father. Thank you."
Sam delivered the
invitation in a way that showed how strongly his own feelings were enlisted in
favor of its acceptance. Frank grasped his hand.
"Thank you, Sam,
you are a true friend," he said.
"I hadn't begun to
think of what we were to do, Grace and I."
"You'll come,
won't you?"
"You are sure that
it won't trouble your mother, Sam?"
"She is anxious to
have you come."
"Then I'll come. I
haven't formed any plans yet, but I must as soon--as soon as mother is buried.
I think I can earn my living somehow. One thing I am determined about--I won't
go to the poorhouse."
The funeral was over.
Frank and Grace walked back to the little house, now their home no longer. They
were to pack up a little bundle of clothes and go over to Mr. Pomeroy's in time
for supper.
When Frank had made up
his bundle, urged by some impulse, he opened a drawer in his mother's bureau.
His mind was full of the story she had told him, and he thought it just
possible that he might find something to throw additional light upon his past
history. While exploring the contents of the drawer he came to a letter
directed to him in his mother's well-known handwriting. He opened it hastily,
and with a feeling of solemnity, read as follows:
"My Dear Frank: In
the lower drawer, wrapped in a piece of brown paper, you will find two gold
eagles, worth twenty dollars. You will need them when I am gone. Use them for
Grace and yourself. I saved these for my children. Take them, Frank, for I have
nothing else to give you. The furniture will pay the debt I owe Deacon
Pinkerton. There ought to be something over, but I think he will take all. I
wish I had more to leave you, dear Frank, but the God of the Fatherless will
watch over you-- to Him I commit you and Grace. Your affectionate mother, RUTH
FOWLER."
Frank, following the
instructions of the letter, found the gold pieces and put them carefully into
his pocketbook. He did not mention the letter to Grace at present, for he knew
not but Deacon Pinkerton might lay claim to the money to satisfy his debt if he
knew it.
"I am ready,
Frank," said Grace, entering the room. "Shall we go?"
"Yes, Grace. There
is no use in stopping here any longer."
As he spoke he heard
the outer door open, and a minute later Deacon Pinkerton entered the room.
None of the deacon's
pompousness was abated as he entered the house and the room.
"Will you take a
seat?" said our hero, with the air of master of the house.
"I intended
to," said the deacon, not acknowledging his claim. "So your poor
mother is gone?"
"Yes, sir,"
said Frank, briefly.
"We must all
die," said the deacon, feeling that it was incumbent on him to say
something religious. "Ahem! your mother died poor? She left no
property?"
"It was not her
fault."
"Of course not.
Did she mention that I had advanced her money on the furniture?"
"My mother told me
all about it, sir."
"Ahem! You are in
a sad condition. But you will be taken care of. You ought to be thankful that
there is a home provided for those who have no means."
"What home do you
refer to, Deacon Pinkerton?" asked Frank, looking steadily in the face of
his visitor.
"I mean the
poorhouse, which the town generously provides for those who cannot support
themselves."
This was the first
intimation Grace had received of the possibility that they would be sent to
such a home, and it frightened her.
"Oh, Frank!"
she exclaimed, "must we go to the poorhouse?"
"No, Grace; don't
be frightened," said Frank, soothingly. "We will not go."
"Frank
Fowler," said the deacon, sternly, "cease to mislead your
sister."
"I am not
misleading her, sir."
"Did you not tell
her that she would not be obliged to go to the poorhouse?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then what do you
mean by resisting my authority?"
"You have no
authority over us. We are not paupers," and Frank lifted his head proudly,
and looked steadily in the face of the deacon.
"You are paupers,
whether you admit it or not."
"We are not,"
said the boy, indignantly.
"Where is your
money? Where is your property?"
"Here, sir,"
said our hero, holding out his hands.
"I have two strong
hands, and they will help me make a living for my sister and myself."
"May I ask whether
you expect to live here and use my furniture?"
"I do not intend
to, sir. I shall ask no favors of you, neither for Grace nor myself. I am going
to leave the house. I only came back to get a few clothes. Mr. Pomeroy has
invited Grace and me to stay at his house for a few days. I haven't decided
what I shall do afterward."
"You will have to
go to the poorhouse, then. I have no objection to your making this visit first.
It will be a saving to the town."
"Then, sir, we
will bid you good-day. Grace, let us go."
"Have you carried
Frank Fowler to the poorhouse?" asked Tom Pinkerton, eagerly, on his
father's return.
"No, said the
deacon, "he is going to make a visit at Mr. Pomeroy's first."
"I shouldn't think
you would have let him make a visit," said Tom, discontentedly. "I
should think you would have taken him to the poorhouse right off."
"I feel it my duty
to save the town unnecessary expense," said Deacon Pinkerton.
So Tom was compelled to
rest satisfied with his father's assurance that the removal was only deferred.
Meanwhile Frank and
Grace received a cordial welcome at the house of Mr. Pomeroy. Sam and Frank
were intimate friends, and our hero had been in the habit of calling
frequently, and it seemed homelike.
"I wish you could
stay with us all the time, Frank --you and Grace," said Sam one evening.
"We should all
like it," said Mr. Pomeroy, "but we cannot always have what we want.
If I had it in my power to offer Frank any employment which it would be worth
his while to follow, it might do. But he has got his way to make in the world.
Have you formed any plans yet, Frank?"
"That is what I
want to consult you about, Mr. Pomeroy."
"I will give you
the best advice I can, Frank. I suppose you do not mean to stay in the
village."
"No, sir. There is
nothing for me to do here. I must go somewhere where I can make a living for
Grace and myself."
"You've got a hard
row to hoe, Frank," said Mr. Pomeroy, thoughtfully. "Have you decided
where to go?"
"Yes, sir. I shall
go to New York."
"What! To the
city?"
"Yes, sir. I'll
get something to do, no matter what it is."
"But how are you
going to live in the meantime?"
"I've got a little
money."
"That won't last
long."
"I know it, but I
shall soon get work, if it is only to black boots in the streets."
"With that spirit,
Frank, you will stand a fair chance to succeed. What do you mean to do with
Grace?"
"I will take her
with me."
"I can think of a
better plan. Leave her here till you have found something to do. Then send for
her."
"But if I leave
her here Deacon Pinkerton will want to put her in the poorhouse. I can't bear
to have Grace go there."
"She need not. She
can stay here with me for three months."
"Will you let me
pay her board?"
"I can afford to
give her board for three months."
"You are very
kind, Mr. Pomeroy, but it wouldn't be right for me to accept your kindness. It
is my duty to take care of Grace."
"I honor your
independence, Frank. It shall be as you say. When you are able-mind, not till
then --you may pay me at the rate of two dollars a week for Grace's
board."
"Then," said
Frank, "if you are willing to board Grace for a while, I think I had
better go to the city at once."
"I will look over
your clothes to-morrow, Frank," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "and see if they
need mending."
"Then I will start
Thursday morning--the day after."
About four o'clock the
next afternoon he was walking up the main street, when just in front of Deacon
Pinkerton's house he saw Tom leaning against a tree.
"How are you
Tom?" he said, and was about to pass on.
"Where are you
going?" Tom asked abruptly.
"To Mr.
Pomeroy's."
"How soon are you
going to the poorhouse to live?"
"Who told you I
was going?"
"My father."
"Then your
father's mistaken."
"Ain't you a
pauper?" said Tom, insolently. "You haven't got any money."
"I have got hands
to earn money, and I am going to try."
"Anyway, I advise
you to resign as captain of the baseball club."
"Why?"
"Because if you
don't you'll be kicked out. Do you think the fellows will be willing to have a
pauper for their captain?"
"That's the second
time you have called me a pauper. Don't call me so again."
"You are a pauper
and you know it."
Frank was not a
quarrelsome boy, but this repeated insult was too much for him. He seized Tom
by the collar, and tripping him up left him on the ground howling with rage. As
valor was not his strong point, he resolved to be revenged upon Frank
vicariously. He was unable to report the case to his father till the next
morning, as the deacon did not return from a neighboring village, whither he
had gone on business, till late, but the result of his communication was a call
at Mr. Pomeroy's from the deacon at nine o'clock the next morning. Had he found
Frank, it was his intention, at Tom's request, to take him at once to the
poorhouse. But he was too late. Our hero was already on his way to New York.
"So this is New
York," said Frank to himself, as he emerged from the railway station and
looked about him with interest and curiosity.
"Black yer boots?
Shine?" asked a bootblack, seeing our hero standing still.
Frank looked at his
shoes. They were dirty, without doubt, but he would not have felt disposed to
be so extravagant, considering his limited resources, had he not felt it
necessary to obtain some information about the city.
"Yes," he
said, "you may black them."
The boy was on his
knees instantly and at work.
"How much do you
make in a day?" asked Frank.
"When it's a good
day I make a dollar."
"That's pretty
good," said Frank.
"Can you show me
the way to Broadway?"
"Go straight
ahead."
Our hero paid for his
shine and started in the direction indicated.
Frank's plans, so far
as he had any, were to get into a store. He knew that Broadway was the
principal business street in the city, and this was about all he did know about
it.
He reached the great
thoroughfare in a few minutes, and was fortunate enough to find on the window
of the corner store the sign:
"A Boy
Wanted."
He entered at once, and
going up to the counter, addressed a young man, who was putting up goods.
"Do you want a
boy?"
"I believe the
boss wants one; I don't. Go out to that desk."
Frank found the desk,
and propounded the same question to a sandy-whiskered man, who looked up from
his writing.
"You're
prompt," he said. "That notice was only put out two minutes
ago."
"I only saw it one
minute ago."
"So you want the
place, do you?"
"I should like
it."
"Do you know your
way about the city?"
"No, sir, but I
could soon find out."
"That won't do. I
shall have plenty of applications from boys who live in the city and are
familiar with the streets."
Frank left the store
rather discomfited.
He soon came to another
store where there was a similar notice of "A Boy Wanted." It was a
dry goods store.
"Do you live with
your parents?" was asked.
"My parents are
dead," said Frank, sadly.
"Very sorry, but
we can't take you."
"Why not,
sir?"
"In case you took
anything we should make your parents responsible."
"I shouldn't take
anything," said Frank, indignantly.
"You might; I
can't take you."
Our hero left this
store a little disheartened by his second rebuff.
He made several more
fruitless applications, but did not lose courage wholly. He was gaining an
appetite, however. It is not surprising therefore, that his attention was drawn
to the bills of a restaurant on the opposite side of the street. He crossed
over, and standing outside, began to examine them to see what was the scale of
prices. While in this position he was suddenly aroused by a slap on the back.
Turning he met the gaze
of a young man of about thirty, who was smiling quite cordially.
"Why, Frank, my
boy, how are you?" he said, offering his hand.
"Pretty well,
thank you," said our hero bewildered, for he had no recollection of the
man who had called him by name.
The other smiled a
little more broadly, and thought:
"It was a lucky
guess; his name is Frank."
"I am delighted to
hear it," he continued. "When did you reach the city?"
"This
morning," said the unsuspecting Frank.
"Well, it's queer
I happened to meet you so soon, isn't it? Going to stay long?"
"I shall, if I can
get a place."
"Perhaps I can
help you."
"I suppose I ought
to remember you," ventured our hero, "but I can't think of your
name."
"Jasper Wheelock.
You don't mean to say you don't remember me? Perhaps it isn't strange, as we
only met once or twice in your country home. But that doesn't matter. I'm just
as ready to help you. By the way, have you dined?"
"No."
"No more have I.
Come in and dine with me."
"What'll you
take?" asked Jasper Wheelock, passing the bill of fare to Frank.
"I think I should
like to have some roast beef," said Frank.
"That will suit
me. Here, waiter, two plates of roast beef, and two cups of coffee."
"How are they all
at home?" asked Jasper.
"My mother has
just died."
"You don't say
so," said Jasper, sympathetically.
"My sister is
well."
"I forgot your
sister's name."
"Grace."
"Of course--Grace.
I find it hard to remember names. The fact is, I have been trying to recall
your last name, but it's gone from me."
"Fowler."
"To be sure Frank
Fowler. How could I be so forgetful."
The conversation was
interrupted by the arrival of the coffee and roast beet, which both he and his
new friend attacked with vigor.
"What kind of
pudding will you have?" asked the stranger.
"Apple
dumpling," said Frank.
"That suits me.
Apple dumpling for two."
In due time the apple
dumpling was disposed of, and two checks were brought, amounting to seventy
cents.
"I'll pay for
both," said Jasper. "No thanks. We are old acquaintances, you
know."
He put his hand into
his pocket, and quickly withdrew it with an exclamation of surprise:
"Well, if that
isn't a good joke," he said. "I've left my money at home. I remember
now, I left it in the pocket of my other coat. I shall have to borrow the money
of you. You may as well hand me a dollar!"
Frank was not disposed
to be suspicious, but the request for money made him uneasy. Still there seemed
no way of refusing, and he reluctantly drew out the money.
His companion settled
the bill and then led the way into the street.
Jasper Wheelock was not
very scrupulous; he was quite capable of borrowing money, without intending to
return it; but he had his good side.
"Frank," said
he, as they found themselves in the street, "you have done me a favor, and
I am going to help you in return. Have you got very much money?"
"No. I had twenty
dollars when I left home, but I had to pay my fare in the cars and the dinner,
I have seventeen dollars and a half left."
"Then it is
necessary for you to get a place as soon as possible."
"Yes; I have a
sister to support; Grace, you know."
"No, I don't know.
The fact is, Frank, I have been imposing upon you. I never saw you before in
the whole course of my life."
"What made you say
you knew me?"
"I wanted to get a
dinner out of you. Don't be troubled, though; I'll pay back the money. I've
been out of a place for three or four weeks, but I enter upon one the first of
next week. For the rest of the week I've got nothing to do, and I will try to
get you a place.
"The first thing
is to get a room somewhere. I'll tell you what, you may have part of my
room."
"Is it
expensive?"
"No; I pay a
dollar and a half a week. I think the old lady won't charge more than fifty
cents extra for you."
"Then my share
would be a dollar."
"You may pay only
fifty cents. I'll keep on paying what I do now. My room is on Sixth
Avenue." They had some distance to walk. Finally Jasper halted before a
baker's shop.
"It's over
this," he said.
He drew out a latch-key
and entered.
"This is my
den," he said. It isn't large you can't get any better for the
money."
"I shall have to
be satisfied," said Frank. "I want to get along as cheap as I
can."
"I've got to
economize myself for a short time. After this week I shall earn fifteen dollars
a week."
"What business are
you in, Mr. Wheelock?"
"I am a journeyman
printer. It is a very good business, and I generally have steady work. I expect
to have after I get started again. Now, shall I give you some advice?"
"I wish you
would."
"You don't know
your way around New York. I believe I have a map somewhere. I'll just show you
on it the position of the principal streets, and that will give you a clearer
idea of where we go."
The map was found and
Jasper explained to Frank the leading topographical features of the Island
City.
One thing only was
wanting now to make him contented, and this was employment. But it was too late
to make any further inquiries.
"I've been
thinking, Frank," said Jasper, the next morning, "that you might get
the position as a cash-boy."
"What does a
cash-boy do?"
"In large retail
establishments every salesman keeps a book in which his sales are entered. He
does not himself make change, for it would not do to have so many having access
to the money-drawer. The money is carried to the cashier's desk by boys
employed for the purpose, who return with the change."
"Do you think I
can get a situation as cash-boy?"
"I will try at
Gilbert & Mack's. I know one of the principal salesmen. If there is a
vacancy he will get it for you to oblige me."
They entered a large
retail store on Broadway. It was broad and spacious. Twenty salesmen stood
behind the counter, and boys were running this way and that with small books in
their hands.
"How are you,
Duncan?" said Jasper
The person addressed
was about Jasper Wheelock's age. He had a keen, energetic look and manner, and
would be readily singled out as one of the leading clerks.
"All right,
Wheelock. How are you?" he responded. "Do you want anything in our
line?"
"No goods; I want
a place for this youngster. He's a friend of mine. I'll answer for his good
character."
"That will be
satisfactory. But what sort of a place does he want?"
"He is ready to
begin as cash-boy."
"Then we can
oblige you, as one of our boys has fallen sick, and we have not supplied his
place. I'll speak to Mr. Gilbert."
He went up to Mr.
Gilbert, a portly man in the back part of the store. Mr. Gilbert seemed to be
asking two or three questions. Frank waited the result in suspense, dreading
another disappointment, but this time he was fortunate.
"The boy can
stay," reported Duncan. "His wages are three dollars a week."
It was not much, but
Frank was well pleased to feel that at last he had a place in the city.
He wrote a letter to
Grace in the evening, announcing his success, and expressing the hope that he
would soon be able to send for her.
Four weeks passed. The
duties of a cash-boy are simple enough, and Frank had no difficulty in
discharging them satisfactorily. At first he found it tiresome, being on his
feet all day, for the cash-boys were not allowed to sit down, but he got used
to this, being young and strong.
All this was very
satisfactory, but one thing gave Frank uneasiness. His income was very
inadequate to his wants.
"What makes you so
glum, Frank?" asked Jasper Wheelock one evening.
"Do I look
glum?" said Frank. "I was only thinking how I could earn more money.
You know how little I get. I can hardly take care of myself, much less take
care of Grace."
"I can lend you
some money, Frank. Thanks to your good advice, I have got some laid up."
"Thank you,
Jasper, but that wouldn't help matters. I should owe you the money, and I don't
know how I could pay you."
"About increasing
your income, I really don't know," said Jasper. "I am afraid Gilbert
& Mack wouldn't raise your wages."
"I don't expect
it. All the rest of the cash-boys would ask the same thing."
"True; still I
know they are very well pleased with you. Duncan told me you did more work than
any of the rest of the boys."
"I try to do all I
can."
"He said you would
make a good salesman, he thought. Of course you are too young for that
yet."
"I suppose I
am."
"Frank, I am
earning fifteen dollars a week, you know, and I can get along on ten, but of
the five I save let me give you two. I shall never feel it, and by and by when
you are promoted it won't be necessary."
"Jasper, you are a
true friend," said Frank, warmly; "but it wouldn't be right for me to
accept your kind offer, though I shan't forget it. You have been a good friend
to me."
"And you to me,
Frank. I'll look out for you. Perhaps I may hear of something for you."
Small as Frank's income
was, he had managed to live within it. It will be remembered that he had paid
but fifty cents a week for a room. By great economy he had made his meals cost
but two dollars a week, so that out of his three dollars he saved fifty cents.
But this saving would not be sufficient to pay for his clothes. However, he had
had no occasion to buy any as yet, and his little fund altogether amounted to
twenty dollars. Of this sum he inclosed{sic} eight dollars to Mr. Pomeroy to
pay for four weeks' board for Grace.
"I hope I shall be
able to keep it up," he said to himself, thoughtfully. "At any rate,
I've got enough to pay for six weeks more. Before that time something may turn
up."
Several days passed
without showing Frank any way by which he could increase his income. Jasper
again offered to give him two dollars a week out of his own wages, but this our
hero steadily refused.
One Friday evening,
just as the store was about to close, the head salesman called Frank to him.
"Where do you
live?" he asked.
"In Sixth avenue,
near Twenty-fifth street."
"There's a bundle
to go to Forty-sixth street. I'll pay your fare upon the stage if you'll carry
it. I promised to send it to-night, and I don't like to disappoint the lady."
"I can carry it
just as well as not."
Frank took the bundle,
and got on board a passing omnibus. There was just one seat vacant beside an
old gentleman of seventy, who appeared to be quite feeble.
At Forty-fifth street
he pulled the strap and prepared to descend, leaning heavily on his cane as he
did so. By some mischance the horses started a little too soon and the old man,
losing his footing, fell in the street. Frank observed the accident and sprang
out instantly to his help.
"I hope you are
not much hurt, sir?" he said, hastily.
"I have hurt my
knee," said the old gentleman.
"Let me assist
you, sir," said Frank, helping him up.
"Thank you, my
boy. I live at number forty-five, close by. If you will lead me to the door and
into the house I shall be much indebted to you."
"Certainly, sir.
It is no trouble to me."
With slow step,
supported by our hero, the old gentleman walked to his own door.
It was opened by a maid
servant, who looked with some surprise at Frank.
"I fell,
Mary," explained her master, "and this young gentleman has kindly
helped me home."
"Did you hurt
yourself much, sir?"
"Not
seriously."
"Can I do anything
more for you, sir?" asked Frank.
"Come in a
moment."
Our hero followed his
new acquaintance into a handsomely furnished parlor.
"Now, my young
friend tell me if you have been taken out of your way by your attention to
me?"
"Oh, no, sir; I
intended to get out at the next street."
"My dinner is just
ready. Won't you stop and dine with me?"
"Thank you,
sir," he said, hesitatingly, "but I promised to carry this bundle. I
believe it is wanted at once."
"So you shall. You
say the house is in the next street. You can go and return in five minutes. You
have done me a service, and I may have it in my power to do something for you
in return."
"Perhaps,"
thought Frank, "he can help me to some employment for my evenings."
Then, aloud:
"Thank you, sir; I
will come."
Five minutes later
Frank was ushered into a handsome dining-room. The dinner was already on the
table, but chairs were only set for three. The one at the head of the table was
of course occupied by the old gentleman, the one opposite by Mrs. Bradley, his
housekeeper, and one at the side was placed for Frank.
"Mrs.
Bradley," said the old gentleman, "this is a young gentleman who was
kind enough to help me home after the accident of which I just spoke to you. I
would mention his name, but I must leave that to him."
"Frank Fowler,
sir."
"And my name is
Wharton. Now that we are all introduced, we can talk more freely."
"Will you have
some soup, Mr. Fowler?" asked the housekeeper.
She was a tall thin
woman, with a reserved manner that was somewhat repellant. She had only nodded
slightly at the introduction, fixing her eyes coldly and searchingly on the
face of our hero. It was evident that whatever impression the service rendered
might have made upon the mind of Mr. Wharton, it was not calculated to warm the
housekeeper to cordiality.
"Thank you,"
he answered, but he could not help feeling at the same time that Mrs. Bradley
was not a very agreeable woman.
"You ought to have
a good appetite," said Mr. Wharton. "You have to work hard during the
day. Our young friend is a cash-boy at Gilbert & Mack's, Mrs. Bradley.
"Oh, indeed!"
said Mrs. Bradley, arching her brows as much as to say: "You have invited
strange company to dinner."
"Do your parents
live in the city, Frank--I believe your name is Frank?"
"No, sir; they are
dead. My mother died only a few weeks since."
"And have you no
brothers and sisters?"
"I have one
sister--Grace."
"I suppose she is
in the city here with you?"
"No, sir. I left
her in the country. I am here alone."
"I will ask you
more about yourself after dinner. If you have no engagement, I should like to
have you stay with me a part of the evening."
"Thank you,
sir."
Frank accepted the
invitation, though he knew Jasper would wonder what had become of him. He saw
that the old gentleman was kindly disposed toward him, and in his present circumstances
he needed such a friend.
But in proportion as
Mr. Wharton became more cordial, Mrs. Bradley became more frosty, until at last
the old gentleman noticed her manner.
"Don't you feel
well this evening, Mrs Bradley?" he asked.
"I have a little
headache," said the housekeeper, coldly.
"You had better do
something for it."
"It will pass away
of itself, sir."
They arose from the
dinner table, and Mr. Wharton, followed by Frank, ascended the staircase to the
front room on the second floor, which was handsomely fitted up as a library,
"What makes him
take such notice of a mere cash- boy?" said Mrs. Bradley to herself.
"That boy reminds me of somebody. Who is it?"
"Take a seat,
Frank," said Mr. Wharton, pointing to a luxurious armchair on one side of
the cheerful grate fire; "I will take the other, and you shall tell me all
about yourself."
"Thank you,
sir," said our hero.
His confidence was won
by Mr. Wharton's kind tone, and he briefly recounted his story.
At the conclusion, Mr.
Wharton said:
"How old are you,
Frank ?"
"Fourteen,
sir."
"You are a brave
boy, and a good boy, and you deserve success."
"Thank you,
sir."
"But I am bound to
say that you have a hard task before you."
"I know it,
sir."
"Why not let your
sister go to the poorhouse for a few years, till you are older, and better able
to provide for her?"
"I should be
ashamed to do it, sir," he said. "I promised my mother to take care
of Grace, and I will."
"How much do you
earn as a cash-boy?"
"Three dollars a
week."
"Only three
dollars a week! Why, that won't pay your own expenses!" said the old
gentleman in surprise.
"Yes, sir, it
does. I pay fifty cents a week for my room, and my meals don't cost me
much."
"But you will want
clothes."
"I have enough for
the present, and I am laying up fifty cents a week to buy more when I need
them."
"You can't buy
many for twenty-six dollars a year. But that doesn't allow anything for your
sister's expenses."
"That is what
puzzles me, sir," said Frank, fixing a troubled glance upon the fire.
"I shall have to work in the evenings for Grace."
"What can you
do?"
"I could copy, but
I suppose there isn't much chance of getting copying to do."
"Then you have a
good handwriting?"
"Pretty fair,
sir."
"Let me see a
specimen. There are pen and ink on the table, and here is a sheet of
paper."
Frank seated himself at
the table, and wrote his name on the paper.
"Very good,"
said his host, approvingly. "Your hand is good enough for a copyist, but
you are correct in supposing that work of that kind is hard to get. Are you a
good reader?"
"Do you mean in
reading aloud, sir?"
"Yes."
"I will try, if
you wish."
"Take a book from
the table--any book--and let me hear you read."
Frank opened the first
book that came to hand-- one of Irving's and read in a clear, unembarrassed
voice about half a page.
"Very good
indeed!" said Mr. Wharton. "You have been well taught. Where did you
attend school?"
"Only in the town
school, sir."
"You have, at any
rate, made good use of your advantages."
"But will it do me
any good, sir?" asked Frank.
"People are not
paid for reading, are they?"
"Not in general,
but we will suppose the case of a person whose eyes are weak, and likely to be
badly affected by evening use. Then suppose such a person could secure the
services of a good, clear, distinct reader, don't you think he would be willing
to pay something?"
"I suppose so. Do
you know of any such person?" asked Frank.
"I am describing
myself, Frank. A year since I strained my eyes very severely, and have never
dared to use them much since by gaslight. Mrs. Bradley, my housekeeper, has
read to me some, but she has other duties, and I don't think she enjoys it very
much. Now, why shouldn't I get you to read to me in the evening when you are
not otherwise employed?"
"I wish you would,
Mr. Wharton," said Frank, eagerly. "I would do my best."
"I have no doubt
of that, but there is another question--perhaps you might ask a higher salary
than I could afford to pay."
"Would a dollar a
week be too much?" asked Frank.
"I don't think I
could complain of that," said Mr. Wharton, gravely. "Very well, I
will engage you as my reader."
"Thank you,
sir."
"But about the
pay; I have made up my mind to pay you five dollars a week."
"Five dollars a
week!" Frank repeated. "It is much more than my services will be
worth sir."
"Let me judge of
that, Frank."
"I don't know how
to thank you, sir," said Frank, gratefully. "I never expected to be
so rich. I shall have no trouble in paying for Grace's board and clothes now.
When do you want me to begin reading to you?"
"You may as well
begin to-night--that is, unless you have some other engagement."
"Oh, no, sir, I
have nothing else to do."
"Take the Evening
Post, then, and read me the leading editorial. Afterward, I will tell you what
to read."
Frank had been reading
about half an hour, when a knock was heard at the door.
"Come in,"
said Mr. Wharton.
Mrs Bradley entered, with
a soft, quiet step.
"I thought,
sir," she began, "you might like me to read to you, as usual."
"Thank you, Mrs.
Bradley, but I am going to relieve you of that portion of your labors. My young
friend here is to come every evening and read to me."
"Indeed!"
ejaculated the housekeeper in a tone of chilly displeasure, and a sharp glance
at Frank, which indicated no great amount of cordiality. "Then, as I am
intruding, I will take my leave."
There was something in
her tone that made Frank feel uncomfortable.
"By no
means," said Mr. Wharton, as the housekeeper was about to withdraw;
"don't imagine you are intruding. Come in and sit down."
"Thank you,
sir," said Mrs. Bradley, in a measured tone. "You are very considerate,
I am sure, but if you'll excuse me, I won't come in this evening."
"Mrs. Bradley has
been with me a good many years," explained Mr. Wharton, "and I dare
say she feels a little disturbed at seeing another occupy her place, even in a
duty like this."
"I am afraid she
will be offended with me, sir," said Frank.
"Oh, no; I will
explain matters to her. Go on with your reading, Frank."
At half-past nine, Mr.
Wharton took out his watch.
"It is getting
late," he said. "I have no doubt you are tired and need rest."
"I am not tired,
sir."
"I believe in
going to bed early. I shall seldom keep you later than this. Do you think you
can find your way out?"
"Yes, sir. When
shall I come to-morrow evening?"
"A little before
eight."
"I will be
punctual."
Jasper was waiting for
him, not wholly without anxiety, for it was very unusual for Frank to be late.
"Well,
Frank!" he exclaimed; "this is a pretty time for you to come home. I
began to think you had got into trouble. I was just going around to the nearest
station house in search of you."
"I was in quite a
different place, Jasper."
Frank told his story,
including an account of his engagement.
"So it seems I am
to lose your company in the evening. I am sorry for that, but I am glad you are
so lucky."
"It was better
than I expected," said Frank, with satisfaction.
"What sort of a
man is this Mr. Wharton?" said Jasper.
"He is very kind
and generous. I am lucky to have so good a friend. There's only one thing that
is likely to be disagreeable."
"What's
that?"
"The
housekeeper--her name is Mrs. Bradley-- for some reason or other she doesn't
want me there."
"What makes you
think so?"
"Her manner, and
the way she speaks. She came in to read to Mr. Wharton last evening, and didn't
seem to like it because I had been taken in her place."
"She is evidently
jealous. You must take care not to offend her. She might endeavor to have you
dismissed."
"I shall always
treat her politely, but I don't think I can ever like her."
Meanwhile, the
housekeeper, on leaving the library, had gone to her own room in dudgeon.
"Mr. Wharton's a
fool!" she muttered to herself.
"What possessed
him to take this cash-boy from the streets, invite him to dinner, and treat him
as an honored guest, and finally to engage him as a reader? I never heard of
anything so ridiculous! Is this little vagabond to take my place in the old
man's good graces? I've been slaving and slaving for twenty years, and what
have I got by it? I've laid up two thousand dollars; and what is that to
provide for my old age? If the old man would die, and remember me handsomely in
his will, it would be worth while; but this new favorite may stand in my way.
If he does I'll be revenged on him as sure as my name is Ulrica Bradley."
Here the area bell
rang, and in a moment one of the housemaid's entered Mrs. Bradley's room.
"There's your
nephew outside, ma'am, and wanting to see you."
"Tell him to come
m," and the housekeeper's cold face became softer and pleasanter in aspect
as a young man of twenty entered and greeted her carelessly.
"How are you,
aunt?"
"Pretty well,
Thomas," she answered. "You haven't been here for some time."
"No. I've had a
lot of work to do. Nothing but work, work, all the time," he grumbled.
"I wish I was rich."
"You get through
at six o'clock, don't you?"
"Yes."
"I hope you spend
your evenings profitably, Thomas?"
"I ain't likely to
go on any sprees, aunt, if that's what you mean. I only get twelve dollars a
week."
"I should think
you might live on it."
"Starve, you mean.
What's twelve dollars to a young fellow like me when he's got his board to pay,
and has to dress like a gentleman?"
"You are not in
debt, I hope, Thomas?" said Mrs. Bradley, uneasily.
"I owe for the
suit I have on, and I don't know where I'm going to get the money to pay for
it."
He was dressed in a
flashy style, not unlike what is popularly denominated a swell. His coarse
features were disfigured with unhealthy blotches, and his outward appearance
was hardly such as to recommend him. But to him alone the cold heart of the
housekeeper was warm. He was her sister's son and her nearest relative. Her
savings were destined for him, and in her attachment she was not conscious of
his disagreeable characteristics. She had occasionally given him a five-dollar
bill to eke out what he termed his miserable pay, and now whenever he called he
didn't spare hints that he was out of pocket, and that a further gift would be
acceptable. Indeed, the only tie that bound him to his aunt was a mercenary
one.
But the housekeeper,
sharp-sighted as she ordinarily was, did not detect the secret motive of such
attention she received from her nephew. She flattered herself that he really
loved her, not suspecting that he was too selfish to love anybody but himself.
"Thomas," she
said, with a sudden thought, "I may be able to help you to an increase of
your income. Mr. Wharton needs somebody to read to him evenings. On my
recommendation he might take you."
"Thank you, aunt,
but I don't see it. I don't want to be worked to death."
"But, think,
Thomas," said his aunt, earnestly. "He is very rich. He might take a
fancy to you and remember you in his will."
"I wish somebody
would remember me in his will. Do you really think there's any chance of the
old boy's doing something handsome for me?"
"That depends on
yourself. You must try to please him."
"Well, I must do something.
What'll he give?"
"I don't know yet.
In fact, there's another reading to him just now."
"Then there's no
chance for me."
"Listen to me.
It's a boy he's picked up in the streets, quite unsuited for the place. He's a
cash- boy at Gilbert & Mack's. Why, that's where you are," she added,
with sudden recollection.
"A cash-boy from
my own place? What's his name?"
"Fowler, I
believe."
"I know him--he's
lately come. How did he get in with the old man?"
"Mr. Wharton fell
in the street, and he happened to be near, and helped him home."
"You'll have to
manage it, aunt."
"I'll see what I
can do to-morrow. He ought to prefer my nephew to a strange boy, seeing I have
been twenty years in his service. I'll let you know as soon as I have accomplished
anything."
"I don't half like
the idea of giving up my evenings. I don't believe I can stand it."
"It is only for a
little while, to get him interested in you."
"Maybe I might try
it a week, and then tell him my health was failing, and get him to do something
else for me."
"At any rate, the
first thing must be to become acquainted."
Thomas now withdrew,
for he did not enjoy spending an evening with his aunt, the richer by five
dollars, half of which was spent before the evening closed at a neighboring
billiard saloon.
If Mrs. Bradley had
been wiser, she would have felt less confident of her nephew's producing a
favorable impression upon Mr. Wharton. She resolved to open the subject at the
breakfast table
"I didn't know,
Mr. Wharton," she commenced, "that you intended to engage a
reader."
"Nor did I propose
to do so until last evening."
"I think--you'll
excuse me for saying so--that you will find that boy too young to suit
you."
"I don't think so.
He reads very clearly and distinctly."
"If I had known
you thought of engaging a reader, I would have asked you to engage my
nephew."
"Indeed, I was not
aware that you had a nephew in the city. Is he a boy?"
"No; he is a young
man. He was twenty years old last June."
"Is he unfavorably
situated?"
"He has a place as
salesman."
"With what
firm?"
"Gilbert &
Mack."
"Why, that is the
same firm that employs my young friend. It is a good firm."
"Perhaps it is,
but my poor nephew receives a very small salary. He finds it very hard to get
along."
"Your nephew is
young. He will be promoted if he serves his employers well."
"Thomas would have
been glad to read to you in the evening, sir," said Mrs. Bradley,
commencing the attack.
"But for my
present engagement, I might have taken him," said Mr. Wharton, politely.
"Have you engaged
that boy for any length of time?"
"No; but it is
understood that he will stay while I need him, and he continues to suit me. I
have a favorable opinion of him. Besides, he needs the pay. He receives but
three dollars a week as a cash-boy, and has a sister to support as well as
himself."
"I am sorry,"
she said in an injured tone. "I hope you'll excuse my mentioning it, but I
took the liberty, having been for twenty years in your employ."
"To be sure! You
were quite right," said her employer, kindly. "Perhaps I may be able
to do something for your nephew, though not that. Tell him to come and see me
some time."
"Thank you,
sir," said the housekeeper.
There was one question
she wanted to determine, and that was the amount of compensation received by
Frank. She did not like to inquire directly from Mr. Wharton, but resolved to
gain the information from our hero. Some evenings later she had the opportunity.
Mr. Wharton had an engagement, and asked her to tell Frank, when he arrived
that he was released from duty. Instead of this she received him in the library
herself.
"Probably Mr.
Wharton will not be at home this evening," she said. "If he does not
return in half an hour, you need not wait."
She took up her work,
seated in Mr. Wharton's usual place, and Frank remained ready for duty.
"Mr. Wharton tells
me you have a sister," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You must find it
hard work to provide for her as well as yourself."
"I do, or rather I
did till I came here."
"How much does Mr.
Wharton pay you?" she asked, in an indifferent tone.
"Five dollars a
week," answered Frank.
"You are lucky
that you have such a chance," she said.
"Yes, ma'am; it is
more than I earn, I know, but it is a great help to me."
"And how much do
you get as cash-boy?"
"Three dollars a
week."
"So you actually
receive nearly twice as much for a couple of hours in the evening as for the
whole day."
"Yes, ma'am."
"What a pity
Thomas can't have this chance," she thought.
When it was nine
o'clock, she said:
"You need not wait
any longer. Mr. Wharton will not be home in time to hear you read."
"Good-evening,
Mrs. Bradley," said Frank.
"Good-evening!"
she responded, coldly.
"That boy is in
the way," she said to herself, when she was left alone. "He is in my
way, and Tom's way. I can see that he is artfully intriguing for Mr. Wharton's
favor, but I must checkmate him. It's odd," she resumed, after a pause,
"but there is something in his face and voice that seems familiar to me.
What is it?"
*
*
*
*
*
The following evening
the housekeeper received another visit from her nephew.
"How do,
aunt?" said Thomas Bradley, carelessly, as he entered the housekeeper's
room.
"Very well, thank
you, Thomas. I am glad you are here. I have been wanting to see you."
"The old man isn't
going to do anything for me, is he?"
"How can you
expect it so soon? He doesn't know you yet. How much do you think he pays the
cash-boy that reads to him in the evening?"
"I don't
know."
"Five dollars a
week."
"I wouldn't give
up my evenings for that," he said.
"It isn't so much
the pay, Thomas, though that would be a help. He might take a fancy to
you."
"That might pay
better. When are you going to introduce me?"
"This evening;
that is, I will ask Mr. Wharton if he will see you."
Mrs. Bradley entered
the library, where Frank was engaged in reading aloud.
"Excuse my
interruption," she said; "but my nephew has just called, and I should
like to introduce him to you, if you will kindly receive him."
"Certainly, Mrs.
Bradley," said Mr. Wharton. "Bring him in."
The housekeeper left
the room, but speedily reappeared, followed by her nephew, who seemed a little
abashed.
"My nephew, Thomas
Bradley, Mr. Wharton," said his aunt, by way of introduction. "You
have often heard me speak of Mr. Wharton, Thomas."
"How do you do,
sir?" said Thomas awkwardly.
"Pray take a seat,
Mr. Bradley. Your aunt has been long a member of my family. I am glad to see a
nephew of hers. I believe you are a salesman at Gilbert & Mack's?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you must
know my young friend here?" pointing to Frank.
"How are you,
Cash?" said Thomas, laughing, under the impression that he had said
something smart.
"Very well, Mr.
Bradley," answered Frank, quietly.
"You see, that's
all the name we call 'em in the store," said Thomas.
Mr. Wharton could not
help thinking:
"How poorly this
young man compares with my young friend. Still, as he is Mrs. Bradley's nephew,
I must be polite to him."
"Are there many
cash-boys in your establishment, Mr. Bradley?"
"About a dozen.
Ain't there, Fowler?"
"I believe so, Mr.
Bradley."
"Gilbert &
Mack do a good business, I should judge."
"Yes, they do; but
that doesn't do us poor salesmen much good. We get just enough to keep soul and
body together."
"I am sorry to
hear it," said Mr. Wharton.
"Why, sir,"
said Thomas, gaining confidence, "all they pay me is twelve dollars a
week. How can they expect a fellow to live on that?"
"I began my career
about your age," said Mr. Wharton, "or perhaps a little younger, and
had to live on but six dollars a week."
"Didn't you come
near starving?" he asked.
"On the contrary,
I saved a little every week."
"I can't,"
said Thomas, a little discomfited. "Why, it takes half that to dress
decently."
Mr. Wharton glanced
quietly at the rather loud and flashy dress worn by his visitor, but only said:
"A small salary,
of course, makes economy necessary."
"But when a fellow
knows he earns a good deal more than he gets, he doesn't feel like starving
himself just that his employers may grow rich."
"Of course, if he
can better himself they cannot object."
"That's just what
I want to do," said Thomas; "but I expect I need influence to help me
to something better. That's a good hint," thought he.
"I was telling
Thomas," said the housekeeper, "that you had kindly expressed a
desire to be of service to him."
"I am not now in
active business," said Mr. Wharton, "and of course have not the
opportunities I formerly had for helping young men, but I will bear your case
in mind, Mr. Bradley."
"Thank you,
sir," said Thomas. "I am sure I earn a thousand dollars a year."
"I think,
Thomas," said Mrs. Bradley, "we won't intrude on Mr. Wharton longer
this evening. When he finds something for you he will tell me."
"All right, aunt.
Good-night, Mr. Wharton. Good- night, Cash," said Thomas, chuckling anew
at the old joke.
"Well, aunt,"
said he, when they were once more in the housekeeper's room, "do you think
the old gentleman will do anything for me?"
"I hope so; but I
am not sure, Thomas, whether you were not too familiar. You spoke of money too
quick."
"It's my way to
come to business."
"I wish you were
his reader, instead of that boy."
"Well, I don't. I
wouldn't want to he mewed up in that room with the old man every night. I
should get tired to death of it."
"You would have a
chance to get him interested in you. That boy is artful; he is doing all he can
to win Mr. Wharton's favor. He is the one you have most reason to dread."
"Do you think he
will do me any harm?"
"I think he will
injure your chances."
"Egad! if I
thought that, I'd wring the young rascal's neck."
"There's a better
way, Thomas."
"What's
that?"
"Can't you get him
dismissed from Gilbert & Mack's?"
"I haven't enough
influence with the firm."
"Suppose they
thought him dishonest?"
"They'd give him
the sack, of course."
"Can't you make
them think so, Thomas?"
"I don't
know."
"Then make it your
business to find out."
"I suppose you
know what good it's going to do, aunt, but I don't. He's got his place here
with the old man."
"If Mr. Wharton
hears that he is discharged, and has lost his situation, he will probably
discharge him, too."
"Perhaps so; I
suppose you know best."
"Do as I tell you,
and I will manage the rest."
"All right. I need
your help enough. To-night, for instance, I'm regularly cleaned out. Haven't
got but twenty-five cents to my name."
"It seems to me,
Thomas," said his aunt, with a troubled look, "you are always out of
money. I'll give you five dollars, Thomas, but you must remember that I am not
made of money. My wages are small."
"You ought to have
a good nest-egg laid aside, aunt."
"I've got
something, Thomas, and when I die, it'll be yours."
"I hope I shan't
have to wait too long," thought Thomas, but he did not give utterance to
the thought."
"Come again,
Thomas, and don't forget what I have said," said Mrs. Bradley.
A tall man, with a
sallow complexion, and heavily- bearded face, stood on the deck of a Cunard
steamer, only a few miles distant from New York harbor.
"It's three years
since I have seen America," he said to himself, thoughtfully. "I
suppose I ought to feel a patriotic fervor about setting foot once more on my
native shore, but I don't believe in nonsense. I would be content to live in Europe
all my life, if my uncle's fortune were once in my possession. I am his sole
heir, but he persists in holding on to his money bags, and limits me to a
paltry three thousand a year. I must see if I can't induce him to give me a
good, round sum on account--fifty thousand, at least--and then I can wait a
little more patiently till he drops off."
"When shall we
reach port, captain?" he asked, as he passed that officer.
"In four hours, I
think, Mr. Wade."
"So this is my
birthday," he said to himself.
"Thirty five years
old to-day. Half my life gone, and I am still a dependent on my uncle's bounty.
Suppose he should throw me off--leave me out in the cold--where should I be? If
he should find the boy--but no, there is no chance of that. I have taken good
care of that. By the way, I must look him up soon--cautiously, of course--and
see what has become of him. He will grow up a laborer or mechanic and die
without a knowledge of his birth, while I fill his place and enjoy his
inheritance."
At six o'clock the
vessel reached the Quarantine. Most of the passengers decided to remain on
board one night more, but John Wade was impatient, and, leaving his trunks,
obtained a small boat, and soon touched the shore.
It was nearly eight
when John Wade landed in the city. It was half-past eight when he stood on the
steps of his uncle's residence and rang the bell.
"Is my uncle is
Mr. Wharton--at home?" he asked of the servant who answered the bell.
"Yes, sir."
"I am his nephew,
just arrived from Europe. Let him know that I am here, and would like to see
him."
The servant, who had
never before seen him, having only been six months in the house, regarded him
with a great deal of curiosity, and then went to do his biddng.{sic}
"My nephew
arrived!" exclaimed Mr. Wharton, in surprise. "Why, he never let me
know he was coming."
"Will you see him,
sir?"
"To be sure! Bring
him in at once."
"My dear
uncle!" exclaimed John Wade, with effusion, for he was a polite man, and
could act when it suited his interests to do so, "I am glad to see you.
"How is your health?"
"I am getting
older every day, John."
"You don't look a
day older, sir," said John, who did not believe what he said, for he could
plainly see that his uncle had grown older since he last saw him.
"You think so,
John, but I feel it. Your coming is a surprise. You did not write that you
intended sailing."
"I formed the
determination very suddenly, sir."
"Were you tired of
Europe?"
"No; but I wanted
to see you, sir."
"Thank you,
John," said his uncle, pressing his nephew's hand. "I am glad you
think so much of me. Did you have a pleasant voyage?"
"Rather rough,
sir."
"You have had no
supper, of course? If you will ring the bell, the housekeeper will see that
some is got ready for you."
"Is Mrs. Bradley
still in your employ, uncle?"
"Yes, John. I am
so used to her that I shouldn't know how to get along without her."
Hitherto John Wade had
been so occupied with his uncle that he had not observed Frank. But at this
moment our hero coughed, involuntarily, and John Wade looked at him. He seemed
to be singularly affected. He started perceptibly, and his sallow face
blanched, as his eager eyes were fixed on the boy's face.
"Good
heavens!" he muttered to himself. "Who is that boy? How comes he
here?"
Frank noticed his
intent gaze, and wondered at it, but Mr. Wharton's eyesight was defective, and
he did not perceive his nephew's excitement.
"I see you have a
young visitor, uncle," said John Wade.
"Oh, yes,"
said Mr. Wharton, with a kindly smile. "He spends all his evenings with
me."
"What do you mean,
sir?" demanded John Wade, with sudden suspicion and fear. "He seems
very young company for----"
"For a man of my
years," said Mr. Wharton, finishing the sentence. "You are right,
John. But, you see, my eyes are weak, and I cannot use them for reading in the
evening, so it occurred to me to engage a reader."
"Very true,"
said his nephew. He wished to inquire the name of the boy whose appearance had
so powerfully impressed him but he determined not to do so at present. What
information he sought he preferred to obtain from the housekeeper.
"He seemed
surprised, as if he had seen me somewhere before, and recognized me,"
thought Frank, "but I don't remember him. If I had seen his face before, I
think I should remember it."
"Don't come out,
uncle." said John Wade, when summoned to tea by the housekeeper.
"Mrs. Bradley and I are going to have a chat by ourselves, and I will soon
return."
"You are looking
thin, Mr. John," said Mrs Bradley.
"Am I thinner than
usual? I never was very corpulent, you know. How is my uncle's health? He says
he is well."
"He is pretty
well, but he isn't as young as he was."
"I think he looks
older," said John. "But that is not surprising--at his age. He is seventy,
isn't he?"
"Not quite. He is
sixty-nine."
"His father died
at seventy-one."
"Yes."
But that is no reason
why my uncle should not live till eighty. I hope he will."
"We all hope
so," said the housekeeper; but she knew, while she spoke, that if, as she
supposed, Mr. Wharton's will contained a generous legacy for her, his death
would not afflict her much. She suspected also that John Wade was waiting
impatiently for his uncle's death, that he might enter upon his inheritance.
Still, their little social fictions must be kept up, and so both expressed a
desire for his continued life, though neither was deceived as to the other's
real feeling on the subject.
"By the way, Mrs.
Bradley," said John Wade, "how came my uncle to engage that boy to
read to him?"
"He was led into
it, sir," said the housekeeper, with a great deal of indignation, "by
the boy himself. He's an artful and designing fellow, you may rely upon
it."
"What's his
name?"
"Frank
Fowler."
"Fowler! Is his
name Fowler?" he repeated, with a startled expression.
"Yes, sir,"
answered the housekeeper, rather surprised at his manner. "You don't know
anything about him, do you?"
"Oh, no,"
said John Wade, recovering his composure. "He is a perfect stranger to me;
but I once knew a man of that name, and a precious rascal he was. When you
mentioned his name, I thought he might be a son of this man. Does he say his
father is alive?"
"No; he is dead,
and his mother, too, so the boy says."
"You haven't told
me how my uncle fell in with him?"
"It was an
accident. Your uncle fell in getting out of a Broadway stage, and this boy
happened to be near, and seeing Mr. Wharton was a rich gentleman, he helped him
home, and was invited in. Then he told some story about his poverty, and so
worked upon your uncle's feelings that he hired him to read to him at five
dollars a week."
"Is this all the
boy does?"
"No; he is
cash-boy in a large store on Broadway. He is employed there all day, and he is
here only in the evenings."
"Does my uncle
seem attached to him?" asked John.
"He's getting fond
of him, I should say. The other day he asked me if I didn't think it would be a
good thing to take him into the house and give him a room. I suppose the boy
put it into his head."
"No doubt. What
did you say?"
"I opposed it. I
told him that a boy would be a great deal of trouble in the family."
"You did right,
Mrs. Bradley. What did my uncle say?"
"He hinted about
taking him from the store and letting him go to school. The next thing would be
his adopting him. The fact is, Mr. John, the boy is so artful that he knows
just how to manage your uncle. No doubt he put the idea into Mr. Wharton's
head, and he may do it yet."
"Does my uncle
give any reason for the fancy he has taken to the boy?" demanded John
"Yes," said
the housekeeper. "He has taken it into his head that the boy resembles
your cousin, George, who died abroad. You were with him, I believe?"
"Yes, I was with
him. Is the resemblance strong? I took very little notice of him."
"You can look for
yourself when you go back," answered the housekeeper.
"What else did my
uncle say? Tell me all."
"He said: `What
would I give, Mrs. Bradley, if I had such a grandson? If George's boy had
lived, he would have been about Frank's age. And," continued the
housekeeper, "I might as well speak plainly. You're my master's heir, or
ought to be; but if this artful boy stays here long, there's no knowing what
your uncle may be influenced to do. If he gets into his dotage, he may come to
adopt him, and leave the property away from you."
"I believe you are
quite right. The danger exists, and we must guard against it. I see you don't
like the boy," said John Wade.
"No, I don't. He's
separated your uncle and me. Before he came, I used to spend my evenings in the
library, and read to your uncle. Besides, when I found your uncle wanted a
reader, I asked him to take my nephew, who is a salesman in the very same store
where that boy is a cash-boy, but although I've been twenty years in this house
I could not get him to grant the favor, which he granted to that boy, whom he
never met till a few weeks ago."
"Mrs. Bradley, I
sympathize with you," said her companion. "The boy is evidently
working against us both. You have been twenty years in my uncle's service. He
ought to remember you handsomely in his will. If I inherit the property, as is
my right, your services shall be remembered," said John Wade.
"Thank you, Mr.
John," said the gratified housekeeper.
"That secures her
help," thought John, in his turn.
"She will now work
hard for me. When the time comes, I can do as much or as little for her as I
please."
"Of course, we
must work together against this interloper, who appears to have gained a
dangerous influence over my uncle."
"You can depend
upon me, Mr. John," said Mrs. Bradley.
"I will think it
over, and tell you my plan," said John Wade. "But my uncle will
wonder at my appetite. I must go back to the library. We will speak of this
subject again."
When John Wade
re-entered the library, Frank was reading, but Mr. Wharton stopped him.
"That will do,
Frank," he said. "As I have not seen my nephew for a long time, I
shall not require you to read any longer. You can go, if you like."
Frank bowed, and
bidding the two good-evening, left the room.
"That is an
excellent boy, John." said the old gentleman, as the door closed upon our
hero.
"How did you fall
in with him?" asked John. Mr. Wharton told the story with which the reader
is already familiar.
"You don't know
anything of his antecedents, I suppose?" said John, carelessly.
"Only what he told
me. His father and mother are dead, and he is obliged to support himself and
his sister. Did you notice anything familiar in Frank's expression?" asked
Mr. Wharton.
"I don't know. I
didn't observe him very closely."
"Whenever I look
at Frank, I think of George. I suppose that is why I have felt more closely
drawn to the boy. I proposed to Mrs. Bradley that the boy should have a room
here, but she did not favor it. I think she is prejudiced against him."
"Probably she is
afraid he would be some trouble," replied John.
"If George's boy
had lived he would be about Frank's age. It would have been a great comfort to
me to superintend his education, and watch him grow up. I could not have wished
him to be more gentlemanly or promising than my young reader."
"Decidedly, that
boy is in my way," said John Wade to himself. "I must manage to get
rid of him, and that speedily, or my infatuated uncle will be adopting
him."
"Of what disease
did George's boy die, John?" asked Mr. Wharton.
"A sudden
fever."
"I wish I could
have seen him before he died. But I returned only to find both son and grandson
gone. I had only the sad satisfaction of seeing his grave."
"Yes, he was
buried in the family lot at Greenwood, five days before you reached home."
"When I see men of
my own age, surrounded by children and grandchildren, it makes me almost
envious," said Mr. Wharton, sadly. "I declare to you, John, since
that boy has been with me, I have felt happier and more cheerful than for
years."
"That boy
again!" muttered John to himself. "I begin to hate the young cub, but
I mustn't show it. My first work will be to separate him from my uncle. That
will require consideration. I wonder whether the boy knows that he is not
Fowler's son? I must find out. If he does, and should happen to mention it in
my uncle's presence, it might awaken suspicions in his mind. I must interview
the boy, and find out what I can. To enlist his confidence, I must assume a
friendly manner."
In furtherance of this
determination, John Wade greeted our hero very cordially the next evening, when
they met, a little to Frank's surprise.
When the reading
terminated, John Wade said, carelessly:
"I believe, uncle,
I will go out for a walk. I think I shall be better for it. ln what direction
are you going, Frank?"
"Down Sixth
Avenue, sir."
"Very good; I will
walk along with you."
Frank and his companion
walked toward Sixth Avenue.
"My uncle tells me
you have a sister to support," said Wade, opening the conversation.
"Yes, sir."
"Does your sister
resemble you?" asked John Wade.
"No, sir! but that
is not surprising, for----"
"Why is it not
surprising?"
Frank hesitated.
"You were about to
assign some reason."
"It is a
secret," said our hero, slowly; "that is, has been a secret, but I
don't know why I should conceal it. Grace is not my sister. She is Mrs.
Fowler's daughter, but I am not her son. I will tell you the story."
That story Frank told
as briefly as possible. John Wade listened to it with secret alarm.
"It is a strange
story," he said. "Do you not feel a strong desire to learn your true
parentage?"
"Yes, sir. I don't
know, but I feel as if I should some day meet the man who gave me into Mrs.
Fowler's charge."
"You have met him,
but it is lucky you don't suspect it," thought John Wade.
"I am glad you
told me this story," said he, aloud.
"It is quite
romantic. I may be able to help you in your search. But let me advise you to
tell no one else at present. No doubt there are parties interested in keeping
the secret of your birth from you. You must move cautiously, and your chance of
solving the mystery will be improved."
"Thank you, sir. I
will follow your advice."
"I was
mstaken{sic} in him," thought Frank. "I disliked him at first, but he
seems inclined to be my friend."
When Frank reached his
lodging he found Jasper waiting up for him. He looked thoughtful, so much so
that Frank noticed it.
"You look as if
you had something on your mind," Jasper.
"You have guessed
right. I have Read that letter."
He drew from his pocket
a letter, which Frank took from his hands.
"It is from an
uncle of mine in Ohio, who is proprietor of a weekly newspaper. He is getting
old, and finds the work too much for him. He offers me a thousand dollars a
year if I will come out and relieve him."
"That's a good
offer, Jasper. I suppose you will accept it?"
"It is for my
interest to do so. Probably my uncle will, after a while, surrender the whole
establishment to me."
"I shall be sorry
to part with you, Jasper. It will seem very lonely, but I think you ought to
go. It is a good chance, and if you refuse it you may not get such
another."
"My uncle wants me
to come on at once. I think I will start Monday."
Jasper saw no reason to
change his determination, and on Monday morning he started on his journey to
Ohio.
Thus, at a critical
moment in his fortunes, when two persons were planning to injure him, he lost
the presence and help of a valued friend.
"Uncle," said
John Wade, "you spoke of inviting k Fowler to occupy a room in the house.
Why don't you do it? It would be more convenient to you and a very good chance
for him."
"I should like
it," said Mr. Wharton, "but Mrs. Bradley did not seem to regard it
favorably when I suggested it."
"Oh, Mrs. Bradley
is unused to boys, and she is afraid he would give her trouble. I'll undertake
to bring her around."
"I wish you would,
John. I don't think Frank would give any trouble, and it would enliven the house
to have a boy here. Besides, he reminds me of George, as I told you the other
day."
"I agree with you,
uncle," he said. "He does remind me a little of George."
"Well, Mrs.
Bradley, what do you think I have done?" asked John, entering the
housekeeper's room directly after his interview with his uncle.
"I don't know, Mr.
John," she answered.
"I have asked him
to give that boy a room in the house."
"Are you carried
away with him as well as your uncle?"
"Not quite. The
fact is, I have a motive in what I am doing. I'll tell you."
He bent over and
whispered in her ear.
"I never should
have thought of that."
"You see, our
purpose is to convince my uncle that he is unworthy of his favor. At present
that would be rather difficult, but once get him into the house and we shall
have no trouble."
"I
understand."
In due time John Wade
announced to his uncle that the housekeeper had withdrawn her objections to his
plan.
"Then I'll tell
him to-night," said Mr. Wharton, brightening up.
Shortly after Frank
entered the library that evening Mr. Wharton made the proposal.
"You are very
kind, Mr. Wharton," he said. "I never thought of such a thing."
"Then it is
settled that you are to come. You can choose your own time for coming."
"I will come to-morrow,
sir."
"Very well,"
said Mr. Wharton, with satisfaction.
The next day, by
special favor, Frank got off from the store two hours earlier than usual. He
bought at a Sixth Avenue basement store, a small, second hand trunk for two
dollars. He packed his scanty wardrobe into the trunk, which, small as it was
he was unable to fill, and had it carried to Mr. Wharton's house.
He asked to see Mrs.
Bradley, and she came to the door.
"I am glad to see
you," she said graciously. "You may leave your trunk in the hall and
I will have it carried up by the servants."
"Thank you,"
said Frank, and he followed the housekeeper up the handsome staircase.
"This is to be
your room," said the housekeeper, opening the door of a small chamber on
the third floor.
"It looks very
nice and comfortable," said Frank, looking about him with satisfaction.
She left the room, and
five minutes later our hero's modest trunk was brought up and deposited in the
room.
That evening Frank read
to Mr. Wharton as usual.
When nine o'clock came
he said:
"You need not read
aloud any more, but if you see any books in my library which you would like to
read to yourself you may do so. In fact, Frank, you must consider yourself one
of the family, and act as freely as if you were at home."
"How kind you are
to me, Mr. Wharton," said Frank.
The next morning after
Frank had left the house for his daily task, John Wade entered the
housekeeper's room.
"The boy is out of
the way now, Mrs. Bradley," he said. "You had better see if you have
a key that will unlock his trunk."
The two conspirators
went upstairs, and together entered Frank's room.
Mrs. Bradley brought
out a large bunch of keys, and successively tried them, but one after another
failed to open it.
"That's
awkward," said John Wade. "I have a few keys in my pocket. One may
possibly answer."
The housekeeper kneeled
down, and made a trial of John Wade's keys. The last one was successful. The
cover was lifted, and the contents were disclosed. However, neither John nor Mrs.
Bradley seemed particularly interested in the articles for after turning them
over they locked the trunk once more.
"So far so
good," said John Wade. "We have found the means of opening the trunk
when we please."
"When do you
expect to carry out your plan, Mr. John?"
"Two weeks from
this time my uncle is obliged to go to Washington for a few days on business.
While he is gone we will spring the trap, and when he comes back he will find
the boy gone in disgrace. We'll make short work of him."
"I am going to
give you a few days' vacation, Frank," said Mr. Wharton, a fortnight
later. "I am called to Washington on business. However, you have got to
feel at home here now."
"Oh, yes,
sir."
"And Mrs. Bradley
will see that you are comfortable."
"I am sure of
that, sir," said Frank, politely.
When Frank returned at
night, Mr. Wharton was already gone. John Wade and the housekeeper seated
themselves in the library after dinner, and by their invitation our hero joined
them.
"By the way,
Frank," said John Wade, "did I ever show you this Russia leather
pocketbook?" producing one from his pocket.
"No, sir, I
believe not."
"I bought it at
Vienna, which is noted for its articles of Russia leather."
"It is very handsome,
sir."
"So I think. By
the way, you may like to look at my sleeve-buttons. They are of Venetian
mosaic. I got them myself in Venice last year."
"They are very
elegant. You must have enjoyed visiting so many famous cities."
"Yes; it is very
interesting."
John Wade took up the
evening paper, and Frank occupied himself with a book from his patron's
library. After a while John threw down the paper yawning, and said that he had
an engagement. Nothing else occurred that evening which merits record.
Two days later Frank
returned home in his usual spirits. But at the table he was struck by a
singular change in the manner of Mrs. Bradley and John Wade. They spoke to him
only on what it was absolutely necessary, and answered his questions in
monosyllables.
"Will you step
into the library a moment?" said John Wade, as they arose from the table.
Frank followed John
into the library, and Mrs. Bradley entered also.
"Frank
Fowler," the enemy began, "do you remember my showing you two
evenings since a pocketbook, also some sleeve-buttons of Venetian mosaic,
expensively mounted in gold?"
"Certainly,
sir."
"That pocketbook
contained a considerable sum of money," pursued his questioner.
"I don't know
anything about that."
"You probably
supposed so."
"Will you tell me
what you mean, Mr. Wade?" demanded Frank, impatiently. "I have
answered your questions, but I can't understand why you ask them."
"Perhaps you may
suspect," said Wade, sarcastically.
"It looks as if
you had lost them and suspected me of taking them."
"So it
appears."
"You are entirely
mistaken, Mr. Wade. I am not a thief. I never stole anything in my life."
"It is very easy
to say that," sneered John Wade. "You and Mrs. Bradley were the only
persons present when I showed the articles, and I suppose you won't pretend
that she stole them?"
"No, sir; though
she appears to agree with you that I am a thief. I never thought of accusing
her," replied Frank.
"Mr. Wade,"
said the housekeeper, "I feel that it is my duty to insist upon search
being made in my room."
"Do you make the
same offer?" asked John Wade, turning to Frank.
"Yes, sir,"
answered our hero, proudly. "I wish you to satisfy yourself that I am not
a thief. If you will come to my room at once, Mr. Wade, you and Mrs. Bradley, I
will hand you the key of my trunk."
The two followed him
upstairs, exulting wickedly in his discomfiture, which they had reason to
forsee.
He handed his key to
his artful enemy, and the latter bending over, opened the trunk, which
contained all our hero's small possessions.
He raised the pile of
clothes, and, to Frank's dismay, disclosed the missing pocketbook and sleeve-
buttons in the bottom of the trunk.
"What have you got
to say for yourself now, you young villain?" demanded John Wade, in a loud
voice.
"I don't
understand it," Frank said, in a troubled tone. "I don't know how the
things came there. I didn't put them there."
"Probably they
crept in themselves," sneered John.
"Someone put them
there," said Frank, pale, but resolute; "some wicked person, who
wanted to get me into trouble."
"What do you mean
by that, you young vagabond?" demanded John Wade, suspiciously.
"I mean what I
say," he asserted. "I am away all day, and nothing is easier than to
open my trunk and put articles in, in order to throw suspicion on me."
"Look here, you
rascal!" said John Wade, roughly. "I shall treat you better than you
deserve. I won't give you over to the police out of regard for my uncle, but
you must leave this house and never set foot in it again. It will be the worse
for you if you do."
John Wade and the
housekeeper left the room, and our hero was left to realize the misfortune
which had overwhelmed him.
Frank arose at an early
hour the next morning and left the house. It was necessary for him to find a
new home at once in order to be at the store in time. He bought a copy of the
Sun and turned to the advertising columns. He saw a cheap room advertised near
the one he had formerly occupied. Finding his way there he rang the bell.
The door was opened by
a slatternly-looking woman, who looked as if she had just got up.
"I see by the Sun
you have a room to let," said Frank.
"Yes; do you want
to see it now?"
"I should like
to."
"Come upstairs and
I will show you the room."
The room proved to be
small, and by no means neat in appearance, but the rent was only a dollar and a
quarter a week, and Frank felt that he could not afford to be particular, so he
quick closed the bargain.
The next day, about
eleven o'clock in the forenoon, he was surprised at seeing Mrs. Bradley enter
the store and thread her way to that part of the counter where her nephew was
stationed. She darted one quick look at him, but gave him no sign of
recognition. His heart sank within him, for he had a presentiment that her
visit boded fresh evil for him.
Frank's misgivings were
not without good cause. The housekeeper's call at the store was connected with
him. How, will be understood from a conversation which took place that morning
between her and John Wade.
"It's a relief to
get that boy out of the house, Mrs. Bradley," he said at the breakfast
table.
"That it is, Mr.
John," she replied. "But he'll be trying to get back, take my word
for it."
"He won't dare
to," said John Wade, incredulously. "I told him if he came near the
house I would give him up to the police."
"I am afraid he
will write to your uncle. He's bold enough for anything."
"I didn't think of
that," said John, thoughtfully.
"Do you know his
handwriting, Mrs. Bradley?"
"I think I should
know it."
"Then if any
letters come which you know to be from him, keep them back from my uncle."
"What shall I do
with them?"
"Give them to me.
I don't want my uncle worried by his appeals."
"Your uncle seems
to be very attached to him. He may go to the store to see him."
"That is true. I
should not like that. How shall we prevent it, that's the question."
"If Gilbert &
Mack knew that he was not honest they would discharge him."
"Exactly,"
said John Wade; "and as probably he would be unable to get another
situation, he would be compelled to leave the city, and we should get rid of
him. I commend your shrewdness, Mrs. Bradley. Your plan is most
excellent."
John Wade had more
reasons than the housekeeper knew of for desiring the removal of our young hero
from the city--reasons which the reader has probably guessed. There was a dark
secret in his life connected with a wrong done in years past, from which he
hoped some day to reap personal benefit. Unconsciously Frank Fowler stood in
his way, and must be removed. Such was his determination.
"I am going out
this morning," said the housekeeper. "I will make it in my way to
call at Gilbert & Mack's. My nephew is a salesman there, as I have told
you. I will drop a word in his ear, and that will be enough to settle that
boy's hash."
"Your language is
professional, Mrs. Bradley," said John Wade, laughing, "but you
shouldn't allude to hash in an aristocratic household. I shall be glad to have
you carry out your plan."
"I hope you'll
speak to your uncle about my nephew, Mr. John. He gets very poor pay where he
is."
"I won't forget
him," said John, carelessly.
In his heart he thought
Thomas Bradley a very low, obtrusive fellow, whom he felt by no means inclined
to assist, but it was cheap to make promises.
The reader understands
now why Mrs. Bradley made a morning call at Gilbert &; Mack's store.
She knew at what part
of the counter her nephew was stationed, and made her way thither at once. He
did not at first recognize her, until she said:
"Good-morning,
Thomas."
"Good-morning,
aunt. What brings you here this morning? Any good news for me? Has the old
gentleman come around and concluded to do something handsome?"
"Mr. Wharton is
not in the city. He has gone to Washington. But that isn't what I came about
this morning. You remember that boy who has been reading to Mr. Wharton?"
"One of our
cash-boys. Yes; there he is, just gone by."
"Well, he has
stolen Mr. John's pocketbook and some jewelry belonging to him."
"What have you
done about it? What does Mr. Wharton say?"
"He's away from
home. He doesn't know yet. Mr. John gave him a lecture, and ordered him to
leave the house."
"Does he admit
that he took the things?"
"No; he denied it
as bold as brass, but it didn't do him any good. There were the things in his
trunk. He couldn't get over that."
Thomas fastened a
shrewd glance on his aunt's face, for he suspected the truth.
"So you've got rid
of him?" he said. "What do you propose to do next?"
"Mr. John thinks
your employer ought to know that he is a thief."
"Are you going to
tell them?"
"I want you to do
it."
"You must tell
them yourself, aunt. I shan't."
"Then introduce me
to Mr. Gilbert, Thomas, and I'll do it."
"Follow me,
aunt."
He led his aunt to the
rear of the store, where Mr. Gilbert was standing.
"Mr.
Gilbert," he said, "allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs.
Bradley."
The housekeeper was
courteously received, and invited to be seated. She soon opened her business,
and blackened poor Frank's character as she had intended.
"Really, Mrs.
Bradley, I am sorry to hear this," said Mr. Gilbert. "You think there
is no doubt of the boy's guilt?"
"I am sorry to say
that I have no doubt at all," said the housekeeper, hypocritically.
"Mr. Mack and
myself have had a very good opinion of him. He is faithful and prompt."
"Of course, sir,
you will retain him in your employ if you are willing to take the risk, but I
thought it my duty to put you on your guard."
"I am obliged to
you, Mrs. Bradley; though, as I said, I regret to find that my confidence in
the boy has been misplaced."
Late in the afternoon,
Frank was called to the cashier's desk.
"I am directed by
Mr. Gilbert to say that your services will not be required after to-day,"
he said.
"Here are the
week's wages."
"Why am I
discharged? What have I done?" demanded Frank, while his heart sank within
him.
"I don't know. You
must ask Mr. Gilbert," answered the cashier.
"I will speak to
him, at any rate," and Frank walked up to the senior partner, and
addressed to him the same question.
"Can you not
guess?" asked Mr. Gilbert, sternly.
"I can guess that
a false accusation has been brought against me," said Frank.
"A respectable
lady has informed me that you are not honest. I regret it, for I have been
pleased with your diligence. Of course, I cannot retain you in my employ."
"Mr.
Gilbert," said Frank, earnestly, "the charge is false. Mrs. Bradley
is my enemy, and wishes me harm. I don't understand how the things came into my
trunk, but I didn't put them there."
"I hope you are
innocent, but I must discharge you. Business is dull now, and I had decided to
part with four of my cash-boys. I won't pass judgment upon you, but you must
go."
Frank bowed in silence,
for he saw that further entreaty would be vain, and left the store more
dispirited than at any moment since he had been in the city.
Ten days Frank spent in
fruitless efforts to obtain a place.
All this time his money
steadily diminished. He perceived that he would soon be penniless. Evidently,
something must be done. He formed two determinations. The first was to write to
Mr. Wharton, who, he thought, must now have returned from Washington, asserting
his innocence and appealing to him to see Gilbert & Mack, and re-establish
him in their confidence. The second was, since he could not obtain a regular
place, to frequent the wharves and seek chances to carry bundles. In this way
he might earn enough, with great economy, to pay for his board and lodging.
One morning the
housekeeper entered the library where John Wade sat reading the daily papers.
"Mr. John,"
she said, holding out a letter, "here is a letter from that boy. I
expected he would write to your uncle."
John Wade deliberately
opened the letter.
"Sit down, Mrs.
Bradley, and I will read the letter aloud."
It will be only
necessary to quote the concluding sentences:
" `I hope, Mr.
Wharton, you will not be influenced against me by what Mrs. Bradley and your
nephew say. I don't know why it is, but they are my enemies, though I have
always treated them with respect. I am afraid they have a desire to injure me
in your estimation. If they had not been, they would have been content with
driving me from your house, without also slandering me to my employers, and
inducing them to discharge me. Since I was discharged, I have tried very hard to
get another place, but as I cannot bring a recommendation from Gilbert &
Mack, I have everywhere been refused. I ask you, Mr. Wharton to consider my
situation. Already my small supply of money is nearly gone, and I do not know
how I am to pay my expenses. If it was any fault of mine that had brought me
into this situation, I would not complain, but it seems hard to suffer when I
am innocent.
" `I do not ask to
return to your house, Mr. Wharton, for it would not be pleasant, since your
nephew and Mrs. Bradley dislike me, but I have a right to ask that the truth
may be told to my employers, so that if they do not wish me to return to their
service, they may, at least, be willing to give me a recommendation that will
give me a place elsewhere."'
"I must prevent
the boy communicating with my uncle, if it is a possible thing. `Strike while
the iron is hot,' I say."
"I think that is
very judicious, Mr. John. I have no doubt you will know how to manage
matters."
John Wade dressed
himself for a walk, and drawing out a cigar, descended the steps of his uncle's
house into the street.
He reached Fifth
Avenue, and walked slowly downtown. He was about opposite Twenty-eighth Street,
when he came face to face with the subject of his thoughts.
"Where are you
going?" John Wade demanded sternly.
"I don't know that
I am bound to answer your question," answered Frank, quietly, "but I
have no objection. I am going to Thirty-ninth Street with this bundle."
"Hark you, boy! I
have something to say to you," continued John Wade, harshly. "You
have had the impudence to write to my uncle."
"What did he
say?"
"Nothing that you
would like to hear. He looks upon you as a thief."
"You have
slandered me to him, Mr. Wade," he said, angrily. "You might be in
better business than accusingly a poor boy falsely."
"Hark you, young
man! I have had enough of your impudence. I will give you a bit of advice,
which you will do well to follow. Leave this city for a place where you are not
known, or I may feel disposed to shut you up on a charge of theft."
"I shall not leave
the city, Mr. Wade," returned Frank, firmly. "I shall stay here in
spite of you," and without waiting for an answer, he walked on.
No sooner had John Wade
parted from our hero than he saw approaching him a dark, sinister-looking man,
whom he had known years before.
"Good-morning, Mr.
Wade," said the newcomer.
"Good-morning, Mr.
Graves. Are you busy just now?"
"No, sir; I am out
of employment. I have been unfortunate."
"Then I will give
you a job. Do you see that boy?" said John Wade, rapidly.
"Yes, I see
him."
"I want you to
follow him. Find out where he lives, and let me know this evening. Do you
understand?"
"I understand. You
may rely upon me, sir," answered Nathan Graves; and quickening his pace,
he soon came within a hundred feet of our hero.
After fulfilling his
errand, Frank walked downtown again, but did not succeed in obtaining any
further employment. Wherever he went, he was followed by Graves. Unconsciously,
he exhausted the patience of that gentleman, who got heartily tired of his
tramp about the streets. But the longest day will come to an end, and at last
he had the satisfaction of tracking Frank to his humble lodging. Then, and not
till then, he felt justified in leaving him.
Nathan Graves sought
the residence of John Wade. He rang the bell as the clock struck eight.
"Well, what
success?" asked Wade, when they met.
"I have tracked
the boy. What more can I do for you?" asked Graves.
"I want to get him
away from the city. The fact is--I may as well tell you--my uncle has taken a
great fancy to the boy, and might be induced to adopt him, and cut me off from
my rightful inheritance. The boy is an artful young rascal, and has been doing
all he could to get into the good graces of my uncle, who is old and
weak-minded."
It was nine o'clock
when Nathan Graves left the house, John Wade himself accompanying him to the
door.
"How soon do you
think you can carry out my instructions?" asked Wade.
"To-morrow, if
possible."
"The sooner the
better."
"It is lucky I
fell in with him," said Nathan Graves to himself, with satisfaction, as he
slowly walked down Fifth Avenue. "It's a queer business, but that's none
of my business. The main thing for me to consider is that it brings money to my
purse, and of that I have need enough."
Graves left the house
richer by a hundred dollars than he entered it.
It was eleven o'clock
on the forenoon of the next day when Frank walked up Canal Street toward
Broadway. He had been down to the wharves since early in the morning, seeking
for employment. He had offered his services to many, but as yet had been unable
to secure a job.
As he was walking along
a man addressed him:
"Will you be kind
enough to direct me to Broadway?"
It was Nathan Graves,
with whom Frank was destined to have some unpleasant experiences.
"Straight
ahead," answered Frank. "I am going there, and will show you, if you
like."
"Thank you, I wish
you would. I live only fifteen or twenty miles distant," said Graves,
"but I don't often come to the city, and am not much acquainted. I keep a
dry-goods store, but my partner generally comes here to buy goods. By the way,
perhaps you can help me about the errand that calls me here today."
"I will, sir, if I
can," said Frank, politely.
"My youngest clerk
has just left me, and I want to find a successor--a boy about your age, say. Do
you know any one who would like such a position?"
"I am out of
employment myself just now. Do you think I will suit?"
"I think you
will," said Mr. Graves.
"You won't object
to go into the country?"
"No, sir."
"I will give you
five dollars a week and your board for the present. If you suit me, your pay
will be raised at the end of six months. Will that be satisfactory?" asked
his companion.
"Quite so, sir.
When do you wish me to come?"
"Can you go out
with me this afternoon?"
"Yes, sir. I only
want to go home and pack up my trunk."
"To save time, I
will go with you, and we will start as soon as possible."
Nathan Graves
accompanied Frank to his room, where his scanty wardrobe was soon packed. A
hack was called, and they were speedily on their way to the Cortland Street
ferry.
They crossed the ferry,
and Mr. Graves purchased two tickets to Elizabeth. He bought a paper, and
occupied himself in reading. Frank felt that fortune had begun to shine upon
him once more. By and by, he could send for Grace, and get her boarded near
him. As soon as his wages were raised, he determined to do this. While engaged
in these pleasant speculations, they reached the station.
"We get out
here," said Mr. Graves.
"Is your store in
this place?" asked Frank.
"No; it is in the
next town."
Nathan Graves looked
about him for a conveyance. He finally drove a bargain with a man driving a
shabby-looking vehicle, and the two took their seats.
They were driven about
six miles through a flat, unpicturesque country, when they reached a branch
road leading away from the main one.
It was a narrow road,
and apparently not much frequented. Frank could see no houses on either side
"Is your store on
this road?" he asked.
"Oh, no; but I am
not going to the store yet. We will go to my house, and leave your trunk."
At length the wagon
stopped, by Graves' orders, in front of a gate hanging loosely by one hinge.
"We'll get out
here," said Graves.
Frank looked with some
curiosity, and some disappointment, at his future home. It was a square,
unpainted house, discolored by time, and looked far from attractive. There were
no outward signs of occupation, and everything about it appeared to have fallen
into decay. Not far off was a barn, looking even more dilapidated than the
house.
At the front door,
instead of knocking--there was no bell--Graves drew a rusty key from his pocket
and inserted it in the lock. They found themselves in a small entry, uncarpeted
and dingy.
"We'll go
upstairs," said Graves.
Arrived on the landing,
he threw open a door, and ushered in our hero.
"This will be your
room," he said.
Frank looked around in
dismay.
It was a large, square
room, uncarpeted, and containing only a bed, two chairs and a washstand, all of
the cheapest and rudest manufacture.
"I hope you will
soon feel at home here," said Graves. "I'll go down and see if I can
find something to eat."
He went out, locking
the door behind him
"What does this mean?"
thought Frank, with a strange sensation.
It was twenty minutes
before Frank, waiting impatiently, heard the steps of his late companion
ascending the stairs.
But the door was not
unlocked. Instead, a slide was revealed, about eight inches square, through
which his late traveling companion pushed a plate of cold meat and bread.
"Here's something
to eat," he said; "take it."
"Why do you lock
me in?" demanded our hero.
"You can get along
without knowing, I suppose," said the other, with a sneer.
"I don't mean
to," said Frank, firmly. "I demand an explanation. How long do you
intend to keep me here?"
"I am sorry I
can't gratify your curiosity, but I don't know myself."
"Perhaps you think
that I am rich, but I am not. I have no money. You can't get anything out of
me," said Frank.
"That may be so,
but I shall keep you."
"I suppose that
was all a lie about your keeping store?"
"It was a pretty
little story, told for your amusement, my dear boy," said Graves. "I
was afraid you wouldn't come without it."
"You are a
villain!" said Frank.
"Look here,
boy," said Graves, in a different tone, his face darkening, "you had
better not talk in that way. I advise you to eat your dinner and be quiet. Some
supper will be brought to you before night."
So saying, he abruptly
closed the slide, and descended the stairs, leaving Frank to his reflections,
which it may be supposed, were not of the pleasantest character.
Frank did not allow his
unpleasant situation to take away his appetite, and though he was fully
determined to make the earliest possible attempt to escape, he was sensible
enough first to eat the food which his jailer had brought him.
His lunch dispatched,
he began at once to revolve plans of escape.
There were three
windows in the room, two on the front of the house, the other at the side.
He tried one after
another, but the result was the same. All were so fastened that it was quite
impossible to raise them.
Feeling that he could
probably escape through one of the windows when he pleased, though at the cost
of considerable trouble, Frank did not trouble himself much, or allow himself
to feel unhappy. He decided to continue his explorations.
In the corner of the
room was a door, probably admitting to a closet.
"I suppose it is
locked," thought Frank, but on trying it, he found that such was not the
case. He looked curiously about him, but found little to repay him. His
attention was drawn, however to several dark-colored masks lying upon a shelf.
He also discovered a
small hole in the wall of the size of a marble. Actuated by curiosity, he
applied his eye to the opening, and peeped into what was probably the adjoining
room. It was furnished in very much the same way as the one in which he was
confined, but at present it was untenanted. Having seen what little there was
to be seen, Frank withdrew from his post of observation and returned to his
room.
It was several hours
later when he again heard steps ascending the stairs, and the slide in the door
was moved.
He looked toward it,
but the face that he saw was not that of Nathan Graves.
It was the face of a
woman.
We are compelled for a
time to leave our hero in the hands of his enemies, and return to the town of
Crawford, where an event has occurred which influences seriously the happiness
and position of his sister, Grace.
Ever since Frank left
the town, Grace had been a welcome member of Mr. Pomeroy's family, receiving
the kindest treatment from all, so that she had come to feel very much at home.
So they lived happily
together, till one disastrous night a fire broke out, which consumed the house,
and they were forced to snatch their clothes and escape, saving nothing else.
Mr. Pomeroy's house was
insured for two-thirds of its value, and he proposed to rebuild immediately,
but it would be three months at least before the new house would be completed.
In the interim, he succeeded in hiring a couple of rooms for his family, but
their narrow accommodations would oblige them to dispense with their boarder.
Sorry as Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy were to part with her, it was obvious that Grace
must find another home.
"We must let Frank
know," said Mr. Pomeroy, and having occasion to go up to the city at once
to see about insurance, he went to the store of Gilbert & Mack, and
inquired for Prank.
"Fowler? What was
he?" was asked.
"A cash-boy."
"Oh, he is no
longer here. Mr. Gilbert discharged him."
"Do you know why
he was discharged?" asked Mr. Pomeroy, pained and startled.
"No; but there
stands Mr. Gilbert. He can tell you."
Mr. Pomeroy introduced
himself to the head of the firm and repeated his inquiry.
"If you are a friend
of the lad," said Mr. Gilbert, "you will be sorry to learn that he
was charged with dishonesty. It was a very respectable lady who made the
charge. It is only fair to say that the boy denied it, and that, personally, we
found him faithful and trusty. But as the dullness of trade compelled us to
discharge some of our cash-boys, we naturally discharged him among the number,
without, however, judging his case."
"Then, sir, you
have treated the boy very unfairly. On the strength of a charge not proved, you
have dismissed him, though personally you had noticed nothing out of the way in
him, and rendered it impossible for him to obtain another place."
"There is
something in what you say, I admit. Perhaps I was too hasty. If you will send
the boy to me, I will take him back on probation."
"Thank you,
sir," said Mr. Pomeroy, gratefully "I will send him here."
But this Mr. Pomeroy
was unable to do. He did not know of Frank's new address, and though he was
still in the city, he failed to find him.
He returned to Crawford
and communicated the unsatisfactory intelligence. He tried to obtain a new
boarding place for Grace, but no one was willing to take her at two dollars a
week, especially when Mr. Pomeroy was compelled to admit that Frank was now out
of employment, and it was doubtful if he would be able to keep up the payment.
Tom Pinkerton managed
to learn that Grace was now without a home, and mentioned it to his father.
"Won't she have to
go to the poorhouse now, father?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes," said
Deacon Pinkerton. "There is no other place for her that I can see."
"Ah, I'm
glad," said Tom, maliciously. "Won't that upstart's pride be taken
down? He was too proud to go to the poorhouse, where he belonged, but he can't
help his sister's going there. If he isn't a pauper himself, he'll be the
brother of a pauper, and that's the next thing to it."
"That is
true," said the deacon. "He was very impudent in return for my
kindness. Still, I am sorry for him."
I am afraid the
deacon's sorrow was not very deep, for he certainly looked unusually cheerful
when he harnessed up his horse and drove around to the temporary home of the
Pomeroys.
"Good-morning, Mr.
Pomeroy," he said, seeing the latter in the yard. "You've met with a
severe loss."
"Yes, deacon; it
is a severe loss to a poor man like me."
"To be sure. Well,
I've called around to relieve you of a part of your cares. I am going to take
Grace Fowler to the poorhouse."
"Couldn't you get
her a place with a private family to help about the house in return for her
board, while she goes to school?"
"There's nobody
wants a young girl like her," said the deacon.
"Her brother would
pay part of her board--that is, when he has a place."
"Hasn't he got a
place?" asked the deacon, pricking up his ears. "I heard he was in a
store in New York."
"He lost his
place," said Mr. Pomeroy, reluctantly, "partly because of the
dullness of general trade."
"Then he can't
maintain his sister. She will have to go to the poorhouse. Will you ask her to
get ready, and I'll take her right over to the poorhouse."
There was no
alternative. Mr. Pomeroy went into the house, and broke the sad news to his
wife and Grace.
"Never mind,"
she said, with attempted cheerfulness, though her lips quivered, "I shan't
have to stay there long. Frank will be sure to send for me very shortly."
"It's too bad,
Grace," said Sam, looking red about the eyes; "it's too bad that you
should have to go to the poorhouse."
"Come and see me,
Sam," said Grace.
"Yes, I will,
Grace. I'll come often, too. You shan't stay there long."
"Good-by,"
said Grace, faltering. "You have all been very kind to me."
"Good-by, my dear
child," said Mrs. Pomeroy.
"Who knows but you
can return to us when the new house is done?"
So poor Grace went out
from her pleasant home to find the deacon, grim-faced and stern, waiting for
her.
"Jump in, little
girl," he said. "You've kept me waiting for you a long time, and my
time is valuable."
The distance to the
poorhouse was about a mile and a half. For the first half mile Deacon Pinkerton
kept silence. Then he began to speak, in a tone of cold condescension, as if it
were a favor for such a superior being to address an insignificant child, about
to become a pauper.
"Little girl, have
you heard from your brother lately?"
"Not very lately,
sir."
"What is he
doing?"
"He is in a
store."
"I apprehend you
are mistaken. He has lost his place. He has been turned away," said the
deacon, with satisfaction."
"Frank turned
away! Oh, sir, you must be mistaken."
"Mr. Pomeroy told
me. He found out yesterday when he went to the city."
Poor Grace! she could
not longer doubt now, and her brother's misfortune saddened her even more than
her own.
"Probably you will
soon see your brother."
"Oh, do you think
so, sir?" asked Grace, joyfully.
"Yes,"
answered the deacon, grimly. "He will find himself in danger of starvation
in the city, and he'll creep back, only too glad to obtain a nice, comfortable
home in the poorhouse."
But Grace knew her
brother better than that. She knew his courage, his self-reliance and his
independent spirit, and she was sure the deacon was mistaken.
The home for which
Grace was expected to be so grateful was now in sight. It was a dark, neglected
looking house, situated in the midst of barren fields, and had a lonely and
desolate aspect. It was superintended by Mr. and Mrs. Chase, distant relations
of Deacon Pinkerton.
Mr. Chase was an
inoffensive man, but Mrs. Chase had a violent temper. She was at work in the
kitchen when Deacon Pinkerton drove up. Hearing the sound of wheels, she came
to the door.
"Mrs. Chase,"
said the deacon, "I've brought you a little girl, to be placed under your
care."
"What's her
name?" inquired the lady.
"Grace
Fowler."
"Grace, humph! Why
didn't she have a decent name?"
"You can call her
anything you like," said the deacon.
"Little girl, you
must behave well," said Deacon Pinkerton, by way of parting admonition.
"The town expects it. I expect it. You must never cease to be grateful for
the good home which it provides you free of expense."
Grace did not reply.
Looking in the face of her future task-mistress was scarcely calculated to
awaken a very deep feeling of gratitude.
"Now," said
Mrs. Chase, addressing her new boarder, "just take off your things, Betsy,
and make yourself useful."
"My name isn't
Betsy, ma'am."
"It isn't, isn't
it?"
"No; it is
Grace."
"You don't say so!
I'll tell you one thing, I shan't allow anybody to contradict me here, and your
name's got to be Betsy while you're in this house. Now take off your things and
hang them up on that peg. I'm going to set you right to work."
"Yes, ma'am,"
said Grace, alarmed.
"There's some
dishes I want washed, Betsy, and I won't have you loitering over your work,
neither."
"Very well,
ma'am."
Such was the new home
for which poor Grace was expected to be grateful.
Frank looked with some
surprise at the woman who was looking through the slide of his door. He had
expected to see Nathan Graves. She also regarded him with interest.
"I have brought
you some supper," she said.
Frank reached out and
drew in a small waiter, containing a cup of tea and a plate of toast.
"Thank you,"
he said. "Where is the man who brought me here?"
"He has gone
out."
"Do you know why
he keeps me here in confinement?"
"No," said
the woman, hastily. "I know nothing. I see much, but I know nothing."
"Are many
prisoners brought here as I have been?" asked our hero, in spite of the
woman's refusal to speak.
"No."
"I can't
understand what object they can have in detaining me. If I were rich, I might
guess, but I am poor. I am compelled to work for my daily bread, and have been
out of a place for two weeks."
"I don't
understand," she said, in a low voice, rather to herself than to him.
"But I cannot wait. I must not stand here. I will come up in fifteen
minutes, and if you wish another cup of tea, or some toast, I will bring
them."
His confinement did not
affect his appetite, for he enjoyed his tea and toast; and when, as she had
promised, the woman came up, he told her he would like another cup of tea, and
some more toast.
"Will you answer
one question?" asked our hero.
"I don't
know," answered the woman in a flurried tone.
"You look like a
good woman. Why do you stay in such a house as this?"
"I will tell you,
though I should do better to be silent. But you won't betray me?"
"On no
account."
"I was poor,
starving, when I had an application to come here. The man who engaged me told
me that it was to be a housekeeper, and I had no suspicion of the character of
the house--that it was a den of--"
She stopped short, but
Frank understood what she would have said.
"When I discovered
the character of the house, I would have left but for two reasons. First, I had
no other home; next, I had become acquainted with the secrets of the house, and
they would have feared that I would reveal them. I should incur great risk. So
I stayed."
Here there was a sound
below. The woman started.
"Some one has
come," she said. "I must go down I will come up as soon as I can with
the rest of your supper."
"Thank you. You
need not hurry."
Our hero was left to
ponder over what he had heard. There was evidently a mystery connected with
this lonely house a mystery which he very much desired to solve. But there was
one chance. Through the aperture in the closet he might both see and hear something,
provided any should meet there that evening.
The remainder of his
supper was brought him by the same woman, but she was in haste, and he obtained
no opportunity of exchanging another word with her.
Frank did not learn who
it was that had arrived. Listening intently, he thought he heard some sounds in
the next room. Opening the closet door, and applying his eye to the aperture,
he saw two men seated in the room, one of whom was the man who had brought him
there.
He applied his ear to
the opening, and heard the following conversation:
"I hear you've
brought a boy here, Nathan," said the other, who was a stout, low-browed
man, with an evil look.
"Yes," said
Graves, with a smile; "I am going to board him here a while."
"What's it all about?
What are you going to gain by it?"
"I'll tell you all
I know. I've known something of the family for a long time. John Wade employed
me long ago. The old millionaire had a son who went abroad and died there. His
cousin, John Wade, brought home his son--a mere baby--the old man's grandson,
of course, and sole heir, or likely to be, to the old man's wealth, if he had
lived. In that case, John Wade would have been left out in the cold, or put off
with a small bequest."
"Yes. Did the boy
live?"
"No; he died, very
conveniently for John Wade, and thus removed the only obstacle from his
path."
"Very convenient.
Do you think there was any foul play?"
"There may have
been."
"But I should
think the old man would have suspected."
"He was away at the
time. When he returned to the city, he heard from his nephew that the boy was
dead. It was a great blow to him, of course. Now, I'll tell you what,"
said Graves, sinking his voice so that Frank found it difficult to hear,
"I'll tell you what I've thought at times."
"I think the
grandson may have been spirited off somewhere. Nothing more easy, you know.
Murder is a risky operation, and John Wade is respectable, and wouldn't want to
run the risk of a halter."
"You may be right.
You don't connect this story of yours with the boy you've brought here, do
you?"
"I do,"
answered Graves, emphatically. "I shouldn't be surprised if this was the
very boy!"
"What makes you
think so?"
"First, because
there's some resemblance between the boy and the old man's son, as I remember
him. Next, it would explain John Wade's anxiety to get rid of him. It's my
belief that John Wade has recognized in this boy the baby he got rid of
fourteen years ago, and is afraid his uncle will make the same discovery."
Frank left the crevice
through which he had received so much information in a whirl of new and
bewildering thoughts.
"Was it
possible," he asked himself, "that he could be the grandson of Mr.
Wharton, his kind benefactor?"
It was eight o'clock
the next morning before Frank's breakfast was brought to him.
"I am sorry you
have had to wait," the housekeeper said, as she appeared at the door with
a cup of coffee and a plate of beefsteak and toast, "I couldn't come up
before."
"Have the men gone
away?" said Frank.
"Yes."
"Then I have
something to tell you. I learned something about myself last night. I was in
the closet, and heard the man who brought me here talking to another person.
May I tell you the story?"
"If you think it
will do any good," said the housekeeper, but I can't help you if that is
what you want."
He told the whole
story. As he proceeded, the housekeeper betrayed increased, almost eager
interest, and from time to time asked him questions in particular as to the
personal appearance of John Wade. When Frank had described him as well as he
could, she said, in an excited manner:
"Yes, it is--it
must be the same man."
"The same
man!" repeated our hero, in surprise.
"Do you know
anything about him?"
"I know that he is
a wicked man. I am afraid that I have helped him carry out his wicked plan, but
I did not know it at the time, or I never would have given my consent."
"I don't
understand you," said our hero, puzzled.
"Will you tell me
what you mean?"
"Fourteen years
ago I was very poor--poor and sick besides. My husband had died, leaving me
nothing but the care of a young infant, whom it was necessary for me to support
besides myself. Enfeebled by sickness, I was able to earn but little, but we lived
in a wretched room in a crowded tenement house. My infant boy was taken sick
and died. As I sat sorrowfully beside the bed on which he lay dead, I heard a
knock at the door. I opened it, and admitted a man whom I afterward learned to
be John Wade. He very soon explained his errand. He agreed to take my poor boy,
and pay all the expenses of his burial in Greenwood Cemetery, provided I would
not object to any of his arrangements. He was willing besides to pay me two
hundred dollars for the relief of my necessities. Though I was almost beside
myself with grief for my child's loss, and though this was a very favorable
proposal, I hesitated. I could not understand why a stranger should make me
such an offer. I asked him the reason."
" `You ask too
much,' he answered, appearing annoyed. `I have made you a fair offer. Will you
accept it, or will you leave your child to have a pauper's funeral?'
"That
consideration decided me. For my child's sake I agreed to his proposal, and
forebore to question him further. He provided a handsome rosewood casket for my
dear child, but upon the silver plate was inscribed a name that was strange to
me --the name of Francis Wharton."
"Francis
Wharton!" exclaimed Frank.
"I was too weak
and sorrowful to make opposition, and my baby was buried as Francis Wharton.
Not only this, but a monument is erected over him at Greenwood, which bears
this name."
She proceeded after a
pause:
"I did not then
understand his object. Your story makes it clear. I think that you are that
Francis Wharton, under whose name my boy was buried."
"How
strange!" said Frank, thoughtfully. "I cannot realize it. But how did
you know the name of the man who called upon you?"
"A card slipped
from his pocket, which I secured without his knowledge."
"How fortunate
that I met you," said Frank. "I mean to let Mr. Wharton know all that
I have learned, and then he shall decide whether he will recognize me or not as
his grandson."
"I have been the
means of helping to deprive you of your just rights, though unconsciously. Now
that I know the wicked conspiracy in which I assisted, I will help undo the
work."
"Thank you,"
said Frank. "The first thing is to get out of this place."
"I cannot open the
door of your room. They do not trust me with the key."
"The windows are
not very high from the ground. I can get down from the outside."
"I will bring you
a clothesline and a hatchet."
Frank received them
with exultation.
"Before I attempt
to escape," he said, "tell me where I can meet you in New York. I want
you to go with me to Mr. Wharton's. I shall need you to confirm my story."
"I will meet you
to-morrow at No. 15 B--Street."
"Then we shall
meet to-morrow. What shall I call your name?"
"Mrs.
Parker."
"Thank you. I will
get away as quickly as possible, and when we are in the city we will talk over
our future plans."
With the help of the
hatchet, Frank soon demolished the lower part of the window. Fastening the rope
to the bedstead, he got out of the window and safely descended to the ground.
A long and fatiguing
walk lay before him. But at last he reached the cars, and half an hour later
the ferry at Jersey City.
Frank thought himself
out of danger for the time being, but he was mistaken.
Standing on the deck of
the ferryboat, and looking back to the pier from which he had just started, he
met the glance of a man who had intended to take the same boat, but had reached
the pier just too late. His heart beat quicker when he recognized in the
belated passenger his late jailer, Nathan Graves.
Carried away by his
rage and disappointment, Nathan Graves clenched his fist and shook it at his
receding victim.
Our hero walked into
the cabin. He wanted a chance to deliberate. He knew that Nathan Graves would
follow him by the next boat, and it was important that he should not find him.
Where was he to go?
Fifteen minutes after
Frank set foot on the pier, his enemy also landed. But now the difficult part
of the pursuit began. He had absolutely no clew as to the direction which Frank
had taken.
For an hour and a half
he walked the streets in the immediate neighborhood of the square, but his
labor was without reward. Not a glimpse could he catch of his late prisoner.
"I suppose I must
go to see Mr. Wade," he at last reluctantly decided. "He may be
angry, but he can't blame me. I did my best. I couldn't stand guard over the
young rascal all day."
The address which the
housekeeper had given Frank was that of a policeman's family in which she was
at one time a boarder. On giving his reference, he was hospitably received, and
succeeded in making arrangements for a temporary residence.
About seven o'clock
Mrs. Parker made her appearance. She wag fatigued by her journey and glad to
rest.
"I was afraid you
might be prevented from coming," said Frank.
"I feared it also.
I was about to start at twelve o'clock, when, to my dismay, one of the men came
home. He said he had the headache. I was obliged to make him some tea and
toast. He remained about till four o'clock, when, to my relief, he went
upstairs to lie down. I was afraid some inquiry might be made about you, and
your absence discovered, especially as the rope was still hanging out of the
window, and I was unable to do anything more than cut off the lower end of it.
When the sick man retired to his bed I instantly left the house, fearing that
the return of some other of the band might prevent my escaping
altogether."
"Suppose you had
met one of them, Mrs. Parker?"
"I did. It was
about half a mile from the house."
"Did he recognize
you?"
"Yes. He asked in
some surprise where I was going. I was obliged to make up a story about our
being out of sugar. He accepted it without suspicion, and I kept on. I hope I
shall be forgiven for the lie. I was forced to it."
"You met no
further trouble?"
"No."
"I must tell you
of my adventure," said Frank.
"I came across the
very man whom I most dreaded-- the man who made me a prisoner."
"Since he knows
that you have escaped, he is probably on your track," said Mrs. Parker.
"It will be hardly safe for you to go to Mr. Wharton's."
"Why?"
"He will probably
think you likely to go there, and be lying in wait somewhere about."
"But I must go to
Mr. Wharton," said Frank. "I must tell him this story."
"It will be safer
to write."
"The housekeeper,
Mrs. Bradley, or John Wade, will get hold of the letter and suppress it. I
don't want to put them on their guard."
"You are right. It
is necessary to be cautious."
"You see I am
obliged to call on my grandfather, that is, on Mr. Wharton."
"I can think of a
better plan."
"What is it?"
"Go to a
respectable lawyer. Tell him your story, and place your case in his hands. He
will write to your grandfather, inviting him to call at his office on business
of importance, without letting him know what is the nature of it. You and I can
be there to meet him, and tell our story. In this way John Wade will know
nothing, and learn nothing, of your movements."
"That is good
advice, Mrs. Parker, but there is one thing you have not thought of," said
our hero.
"What is
that?"
"Lawyers charge a
great deal for their services, and I have no money."
"You have what is
as good a recommendation--a good case. The lawyer will see at once that if not
at present rich, you stand a good chance of obtaining a position which will
make you so. Besides, your grandfather will be willing, if he admits your claim,
to recompense the lawyer handsomely."
"I did not think
of that. I will do as you advise to-morrow."
Mr. Wharton sat at
dinner with his nephew and the housekeeper. He had been at home for some time,
and of course on his arrival had been greeted with the news of our hero's
perfidy. But, to the indignation of Mrs. Bradley and John, he was obstinately
incredulous.
"There is some
mistake, I am sure," he said. "Such a boy as Frank is incapable of
stealing. You may be mistaken after all, John. Why did you not let him stay
till I got back? I should like to have examined him myself."
"I was so angry
with him for repaying your kindness in such a way that I instantly ordered him
out of the house."
"I blame you,
John, for your haste," said his uncle. "It was not just to the
boy."
"I acted for the
best, sir," he forced himself to say in a subdued tone.
"Young people are
apt to be impetuous, and I excuse you; but you should have waited for my
return. I will call at Gilbert & Mack's, and inquire of Frank himself what
explanation he has to give."
"Of course, sir,
you will do what you think proper," said his nephew.
This ended the
conversation, and Mr. Wharton, according to his declared intention, went to
Gilbert & Mack's. He returned disappointed with the information that our
hero was no longer in the store.
I now return to Mr.
Wharton at dinner.
"Here is a letter
for you, sir," said the housekeeper. "It was brought by the postman
this afternoon."
Mr. Wharton adjusted
his spectacles and read as follows:
"No.-- Wall
Street.
"Dear Sir: Will
you have the kindness to call at my office to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock,
if it suits your convenience? I have an important communication to make to you,
which will, I think be of an agreeable character. Should the time named not
suit you, will you have the kindness to name your own time?
"Yours
respectfully,
"MORRIS HALL."
"Read that,
John," said his uncle, passing him the letter.
"Morris Hall is a
lawyer, I believe, sir," said John.
"Have you any idea
of the nature of the communication he desires to make?"
"No idea at
all."
"If it would
relieve you, sir, I will go in your place," said John, whose curiosity was
aroused.
"Thank you, John,
but this is evidently a personal matter. I shall go down there to-morrow at the
appointed time."
John was far from
suspecting that the communication related to Frank, though he had heard the day
previous from Nathan Graves of the boy's escape. He had been very much annoyed,
and had given his agent a severe scolding, with imperative orders to recapture
the boy, if possible.
It was not without a
feeling of curiosity that Mr. Wharton entered the law office of Mr. Hall. He
announced himself and was cordially welcomed.
"You have a
communication to make to me," said Mr. Wharton.
"I have."
"Tell me all
without delay."
"I will, sir. This
is the communication I desire to make."
The story of John
Wade's treachery was told, and the means by which he had imposed upon his
uncle, but the lawyer carefully abstained from identifying the lost grandson
with Frank Fowler.
When the story was
concluded, Mr. Wharton said:
"Where is my
grandson--my poor George's boy? Find him for me, and name your own
reward."
"I will show him
to you at once, sir. Frank!"
At the word, Frank, who
was in an inner office. entered. Mr. Wharton started in amazement.
"Frank!" he
exclaimed. "My dear boy, is it you who are my grandson?"
"Grandfather!"
Mr. Wharton held out
his arms, and our hero, already attached to him for his kindness, was folded in
close embrace.
"Then you believe
I am your grandson?" said Frank.
"I believe it
without further proof."
"Still, Mr.
Wharton," said the lawyer, "I want to submit my whole proof. Mrs.
Parker!"
Mrs. Parker entered and
detailed her part in the plot, which for fourteen years had separated Frank
from his family.
"Enough!"
said Mr. Wharton. "I am convinced-- I did not believe my nephew capable of
such baseness. Mrs. Parker, you shall not regret your confession. I will give
you a pension which will relieve you from all fear of want. Call next week on
Mr. Hall, and you shall learn what provision I have made for you. You, Frank,
will return with me."
"What will Mr.
John say?" asked Frank.
"He shall no
longer sleep under my roof," said Mr. Wharton, sternly.
Frank was taken to a
tailor and fitted out with a handsome new suit, ready-made for immediate use,
while three more were ordered.
When Mr. Wharton
reached home, he entered the library and rang the bell.
To the servant who
answered he said:
"Is Mr. John at
home?"
"Yes, sir; he came
in ten minutes ago."
"Tell him I wish
to see him at once in the library. Summon the housekeeper, also."
Surprised at the
summons, John Wade answered it directly. He and Mrs. Bradley met at the door
and entered together. Their surprise and dismay may be conjectured when they
saw our hero seated beside Mr. Wharton, dressed like a young gentleman.
"John Wade,"
said his uncle, sternly, "the boy whom you malign, the boy you have so
deeply wronged, has found a permanent home in this house."
"What, sir! you
take him back?"
"I do. There is no
more fitting place for him than the house of his grandfather."
"His
grandfather!" exclaimed his nephew and the housekeeper, in chorus.
"I have abundant
proof of the relationship. This morning I have listened to the story of your
treachery. I have seen the woman whose son, represented to me as my grandson,
lies in Greenwood Cemetery. I have learned your wicked plans to defraud him of
his inheritance, and I tell you that you have failed."
"I shall make my
will to-morrow, bequeathing all my property to my grandson, excepting only an
annual income of two thousand dollars to yourself. And now I must trouble you
to find a boarding place. After what has passed I do not desire to have you in
the family."
"I do not believe
he is your grandson," said John Wade, too angry to heed prudential
considerations.
"Your opinion is
of little consequence."
"Then, sir, I have
only to wish you good-morning. I will send for my trunks during the day."
"Good-morning,"
said Mr. Wharton, gravely, and John Wade left the room, baffled and humiliated.
"I hope,
sir," said the housekeeper, alarmed for her position; "I hope you
don't think I knew Mr. Frank was your grandson. I never was so astonished and
flustrated in my life. I hope you won't discharge me, sir--me that have served
you so faithfully for many years."
"You shall remain
on probation. But if Frank ever has any fault to find with you, you must
go."
"I hope you will
forgive me, Mr. Frank."
"I forgive you
freely," said our hero, who was at a generous disposition.
Meanwhile poor Grace
had fared badly at the poorhouse in Crawford. It was a sad contrast to the
gentle and kindly circle at Mr. Pomeroy's. What made it worse for Grace was,
that she could hear nothing of Frank. She feared he was sick, or had met with
some great misfortune, which prevented his writing.
One day a handsome
carriage drove up to the door. From it descended our hero, elegantly attired.
He knocked at the door.
Mrs. Chase, who was
impressed by wealth, came to the door in a flutter of respect, induced by the
handsome carriage.
"What do you wish,
sir?" she asked, not recognizing Frank.
"Miss Grace
Fowler!" repeated Mrs. Chase, almost paralyzed at Grace being called for
by such stylish acquaintances
"Yes, my sister
Grace."
"What! are you
Frank Fowler?"
"Yes. I have come
to take Grace away."
"I don't know as I
have the right to let her go," said Mrs. Chase, cautiously, regretting
that Grace was likely to escape her clutches.
"Here is an order
from Deacon Pinkerton, chairman of the overseers of the poor."
"That is sufficient.
She can go. You look as if you had prospered in the city," she added, with
curiosity.
"Yes. I have found
my grandfather, who is very wealthy."
"You don't
say!" ejaculated Mrs. Chase. "I'll tell Grace at once."
Grace at work in the
kitchen had not heard of the arrival. What was her surprise when Mrs. Chase,
entering the room, said, graciously:
"Go up at once,
Grace, and change your clothes. Your brother has come for you. He is going to
take you away."
Grace almost gasped for
breath.
"Is it true?"
"It is indeed.
Your brother looks remarkably well. He is rich. He has found a rich
grandfather, and has come for you in a carriage."
In amazed bewilderment
Grace went upstairs and put on her best dress, poor enough in comparison with
her brother's clothes, and was soon happy in his embrace.
"I am glad to see
you, my dear child," said Mr. Wharton, who had accompanied Frank.
"Will you come to the city and live with me and your brother?"
"Oh, sir, I shall
be glad to be wherever Frank is."
"Good-bye, my dear
child," sand Mrs. Chase, whose feelings were very much changed, now that
Grace was a rich young lady. "Come and see me some time."
"Thank you, Mrs.
Chase. Good-bye!"
The carriage rolled on.
* * * * * * *
A few words only remain.
Our hero was placed at a classical school, and in due time entered college,
where he acquitted himself with distinction. He is now making a tour of Europe.
Grace was also placed at an excellent school, and has developed into a handsome
and accomplished young lady. It is thought she will marry Sam Pomeroy, who
obtained a place in a counting-room through Mr. Wharton's influence, and is now
head clerk, with a prospect of partnership. His father received a gift of five
thousand dollars from Mr. Wharton as an acknowledgment of his kindness to
Frank. Tom Pinkerton holds a subordinate clerkship in the same house, and is
obliged to look up to Sam as his superior. It chafes his pride, but his father
has become a poor man, and Tom is too prudent to run the risk of losing his
situation. John Wade draws his income regularly, but he is never seen at his
uncle's house.
Mr. Wharton is very
happy in his grandson, and made happier by the intelligence just received from
Europe of Frank's engagement to a brilliant young New York lady whom he met in
his travels. He bids fair, though advanced in age, to live some years yet, to
witness the happiness of his dear grandson, once a humble cash-boy.
1 BOUND TO RISE
2 MAKING HIS WAY
3 HELPING HIMSELF
4 BRAVE AND BOLD
5 BOB BURTON
6 ANDY GORDON
7 DO AND DARE
8 FACING THE WORLD
9 ADRIFT IN NEW YORK
10 FRANK'S CAMPAIGN
11 JOE'S LUCK
12 THE CASH BOY
PRESS OF THE COMMERCIAL
BOOKBINDING CO. CLEVELAND