The Young Musician
H >>
Horatio Alger >> The Young Musician
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 Produced by Carrie Fellman
The Young Musician
OR
Fighting His Way
BY
HORATIO ALGER
CHICAGO
CONTENTS
I. A Candidate for the Poorhouse
II. Philip at Home
III. Nick Holden's Call
IV. The Auction
V. An Alliance Against Philip
VI. "A Fuss About a Fiddle"
VII. Mr. Joe Tucker
VIII. In the Enemy's Hands
IX. The Poorhouse
X. Bad Tidings
XI. Philip's New Room
XII. A Pauper's Meal
XIII. A Friendly Mission
XIV. Philip Makes His Escape
XV. Escape and Flight
XVI. A Night Adventure
XVII. A Reformed Burglar
XVIII. A Professional Engagement
XIX. New Acquaintances
XX. A Lively Evening
XXI. Fortune Smiles Again
XXII. Rival Musicians
XXIII. An Hour of Triumph
XXIV. Lorenzo Riccabocca
XXV. A Change of Name
XXVI. A Promising Plan
XXVII. Unexpected Honors
XXVIII. A Triumphant Success
XXIX. Beset by Creditors
XXX. A Timely Gift
XXXI. The Professor's Flight
XXXII. The Race Across Fields
XXXIII. The Lost Wallet
XXXIV. A New Business Proposal
XXXV. Squire Pope Is Amazed
XXXVI. The Pretended Guardian
XXXVII. His Own Master
XXXVIII. An Offer Declined
XXXIX. An Ambitious Wayfarer
XL. The Indian Hunter
XXI. An Adventure in the Woods
XLII. An Indian at Last
XLIII. A Welcome Letter
XLIV. A Fresh Start
CHAPTER I.
A CANDIDATE FOR THE POORHOUSE.
"As for the boy," said Squire Pope, with his usual autocratic air,
"I shall place him in the poorhouse."
"But, Benjamin," said gentle Mrs. Pope, who had a kindly and
sympathetic heart, "isn't that a little hard?"
"Hard, Almira?" said the squire, arching his eyebrows. "I fail to
comprehend your meaning."
"You know Philip has been tenderly reared, and has always had a
comfortable home--"
"He will have a comfortable home now, Mrs. Pope. Probably you are
not aware that it cost the town two thousand dollars last year to
maintain the almshouse. I can show you the item in the town report."
"I don't doubt it at all, husband," said Mrs. Pope gently. "Of
course you know all about it, being a public man."
Squire Pope smiled complacently. It pleased him to be spoken of as a
public man.
"Ahem! Well, yes, I believe I have no inconsiderable influence in
town affairs," he responded. "I am on the board of selectmen, and am
chairman of the overseers of the poor, and in that capacity I shall
convey Philip Gray to the comfortable and well-ordered institution
which the town has set apart for the relief of paupers."
"I don't like to think of Philip as a pauper," said Mrs. Pope, in a
deprecating tone.
"What else is he?" urged her husband. "His father hasn't left a
cent. He never was a good manager."
"Won't the furniture sell for something, Benjamin?"
"It will sell for about enough to pay the funeral expenses and
outstanding debts-that is all."
"But it seems so hard for a boy well brought up to go to the
poorhouse."
"You mean well, Almira, but you let your feelings run away with you.
You may depend upon it, it is the best thing for the boy. But I must
write a letter in time for the mail."
Squire Pope rose from the breakfast-table and walked out of the room
with his usual air of importance. Not even in the privacy of the
domestic circle did he forget his social and official importance.
Who was Squire Pope?
We already know that he held two important offices in the town of
Norton. He was a portly man, and especially cultivated dignity of
deportment. Being in easy circumstances, and even rich for the
resident of a village, he was naturally looked up to and credited
with a worldly sagacity far beyond what he actually possessed.
At any rate, he may be considered the magnate of Norton.
Occasionally he visited New York, and had been very much annoyed to
find that his rural importance did not avail him there, and that he
was treated with no sort of deference by those whom he had occasion
to meet. Somehow, the citizens of the commercial metropolis never
suspected for a single moment that he was a great man.
When Squire Pope had finished his letter, he took his hat, and with
measured dignity, walked to the village post-office.
He met several of his neighbors there, and greeted them with affable
condescension. He was polite to those of all rank, as that was
essential to his retaining the town offices, which he would have
been unwilling to resign.
From the post-office the squire, as he remembered the conversation
which had taken place at the breakfast-table, went to make an
official call on the boy whose fate he had so summarily decided.
Before the call, it may be well to say a word about Philip Gray, our
hero, and the circumstances which had led to his present
destitution.
His father had once been engaged in mercantile business, but his
health failed, his business suffered, and he found it best-indeed,
necessary--to settle up his affairs altogether and live in quiet
retirement in Norton.
The expenses of living there were small, but his resources were
small, also, and he lived just long enough to exhaust them.
It was this thought that gave him solicitude on his death-bed, for
he left a boy of fifteen wholly unprovided for.
Let us go back a week and record what passed at the last interview
between Philip and his father before the latter passed into the
state of unconsciousness which preceded death.
"Are you in pain, father?" asked Philip, with earnest sympathy, as
his father lay outstretched on the bed, his face overspread by the
deathly pallor which was the harbinger of dissolution.
"Not of the body, Philip," said Mr. Gray. "That is spared me, but I
own that my mind is ill at ease."
"Do you mind telling me why, father!"
"No; for it relates to you, my son, or, rather, to your future. When
my affairs are settled, I fear there will be nothing left for your
support. I shall leave you penniless."
"If that is all, father, don't let that trouble you."
"I am afraid, Philip, you don't realize what it is to be thrown upon
the cold charities of the world."
"I shall work for my living," said Philip confidently.
"You will have to do that, I'm afraid, Philip."
"But I am not afraid to work, father. Didn't you tell me one day
that many of our most successful men had to work their way up from
early poverty!"
"Yes, that is true; but a boy cannot always get the chance to earn
his living. Of one thing I am glad; you have a good education for a
boy of your age. That is always a help."
"Thanks to you, father."
"Yes; though an invalid, I have, at all events, been able to give
private attention to your education, and to do better for you than
the village school would have done. I wish I had some relative to
whom I might consign you, but you will be alone in the world."
"Have I no relatives?" asked Philip.
"Your mother was an only child, and I had but one brother."
"What became of him, father?"
"He got into trouble when he was a young man, and left the country.
Where he went to I have no idea. Probably he went first to Europe,
and I heard a rumor, at one time, that he had visited Australia. But
that was twenty years ago, and as I have heard nothing of him since,
I think it probable that he is dead. Even if he were living, and I
knew where he was, I am not sure whether he would make a safe
guardian for you."
"Have you any advice to give me, father?" asked Philip, after a
pause. "Whatever your wishes may be, I will try to observe them."
"I do not doubt it, Philip. You have always been an obedient son,
and have been considerate of my weakness. I will think it over, and
try to give you some directions which may be of service to you.
Perhaps I may be able to think of some business friend to whom I can
commend you."
"You have talked enough, father," said Philip, noticing his father's
increasing pallor and the evident exertion with which he spoke.
"Rest now, and to-morrow we can talk again."
Mr. Gray was evidently in need of rest. He closed his eyes and
apparently slept. But he never awoke to consciousness. The
conversation above recorded was the last he was able to hold with
his son. For two days he remained in a kind of stupor, and at the
end of that time he died.
Philip's grief was not violent. He had so long anticipated his
father's death that it gave him only a mild shock.
Friends and neighbors made the necessary arrangements for the
funeral, and the last services were performed. Then, at length,
Philip realized that he had lost his best earthly friend, and that
he was henceforth alone in the world. He did not as yet know that
Squire Pope had considerately provided him with a home in the
village poorhouse.
CHAPTER II.
PHILIP AT HOME.
When the funeral was over, Frank Dunbar, whom Philip regarded as
his most intimate friend, came up to him.
"Philip," he said, "my mother would like to have you spend a few
days with us while you are deciding what to do."
"Thank you, Frank!" answered Philip. "But until the auction I shall
remain at home. I shall soon enough be without a home."
"But it will be very lonely for you," objected Frank.
"No; I shall have my thoughts for company. When I am alone I can
think best of my future plans."
"Won't you come to our house to meals, then?"
"Thank you, Frank! I will do that."
"When is the auction to be?"
"To-day is Monday. It is appointed for Thursday."
"I hope there will be something left for you."
"There will be about enough left to pay my father's small debts and
his funeral expenses. I would not like to have him indebted to
others for those. I don't think there will be anything over."
Frank looked perplexed.
"I am sorry for you, Phil," he said. "I wish we were rich, instead
of having hard work to make both ends meet. You would not lack for
anything then."
"Dear Frank," said Philip earnestly, "I never doubted your true
friendship. But I am not afraid that I shall suffer. I am sure I can
earn my living."
"But why do you shut yourself up alone, Philip?" asked Frank, not
satisfied to leave his friend in what he considered the gloomy
solitude of a house just visited by death.
"I want to look over my father's papers. I may find out something
that I ought to know, and after the auction it will be too late.
Father had some directions to give me, but he did not live long
enough to do it. For three days I have the house to myself. After
that I shall perhaps never visit it again."
"Don't be downhearted, Philip," said Frank, pressing his hand with
boyish sympathy.
"I don't mean to be, Frank. I am naturally cheerful and hopeful. I
shall miss my poor father sadly: but grieving will not bring him
back. I must work for my living, and as I have no money to depend
upon, I cannot afford to lose any time in forming my plans."
"You will come over to our house and take your meals!"
"Yes, Frank."
Frank Dunbar's father was a small farmer, who, as Frank had said,
found it hard work to make both ends meet. Among all the village
boys, he was the one whom Philip liked best, though there were many
others whose fathers were in hotter circumstances. For this,
however, Philip cared little. Rich or poor, Frank suited him, and
they had always been known as chums, to adopt the term used by the
boys in the village.
It may be thought that as Philip's circumstances were no better,
such an intimacy was natural enough. But Philip Gray possessed
special gifts, which made his company sought after. He was a fine
singer, and played with considerable skill on the violin--an
accomplishment derived from his father, who had acted as his
teacher. Then he was of a cheerful temperament, and this is a gift
which usually renders the possessor popular, unless marred by
positive defects or bad qualities. There were two or three young
snobs in the village who looked down upon Philip on account of his
father's poverty, but most were very glad to associate with our
hero, and have him visit their homes. He was courteous to all, but
made--no secret of his preference for Frank Dunbar.
When Philip parted from Frank, and entered the humble dwelling which
had been his own and his father's home for years, there was a sense
of loneliness and desolation which came over him at first.
His father was the only relative whom he knew, and his death,
therefore, left the boy peculiarly, alone in the world. Everything
reminded him of his dead father. But he did not allow himself to
dwell upon thoughts that would depress his spirits and unfit him for
the work that lay before him.
He opened his father's desk and began to examine his papers. There
was no will, for there was nothing to leave, but in one compartment
of the desk was a thick wallet, which he opened.
In it, among some receipted bills, was an envelope, on which was
written, in his father's well-known hand:
"The contents of this envelope are probably of no value, but it will
be as well to preserve the certificate of stock. There is a bare
possibility that it may some day be worth a trifle."
Philip opened the envelope and found a certificate for a hundred
shares of the Excelsior Gold Mine, which appeared to be located in
California. He had once heard his father speak of it in much the
same terms as above.
"I may as well keep it," reflected Philip. "It will probably amount
to nothing, but there won't be much trouble in carrying around the
envelope." He also found a note of hand for a thousand dollars,
signed by Thomas Graham.
Attached to it was a slip of paper, on which he read, also in his
father's writing:
"This note represents a sum of money lent to Thomas Graham, when I
was moderately prosperous. It is now outlawed, and payment could not
be enforced, even if Graham were alive and possessed the ability to
pay. Five years since, he left this part of the country for some
foreign country, and is probably dead, and I have heard nothing from
him in all that time. It will do no harm, and probably no good, to
keep his note."
"I will keep it," decided Philip. "It seems that this and the mining
shares are all that father had to leave me. They will probably never
yield me a cent, but I will keep them in remembrance of him."
Phillip found his father's watch. It was an old-fashioned gold
watch, but of no great value even when new. Now, after twenty years'
use, it would command a very small price at the coming sale.
Ever since Philip had been old enough to notice anything, he
remembered this watch, which was so closely identified with his
father that more than anything else it called him to mind. Philip
looked at it wistfully as it lay in his hand. "I wish I could keep
it," he said to himself. "No one else will value it much, but it
would always speak to me of my father. I wonder if I might keep it?"
Philip had a mind to put it into his pocket, but the spirit of
honesty forbade.
"It must be sold," he said, with a sigh. "Without it there wouldn't
be enough to pay what we owe, and when I leave Norton, I don't want
any one to say that my father died in his debt."
There was nothing else in the desk which called for particular
notice or appeared to be of any special value. After a careful
examination, Philip closed it and looked around at the familiar
furniture of the few rooms which the house contained.
There was one object which he personally valued more than anything
else. This was his violin, on which he had learned all that he knew
of playing. His father had bought it for him four years before. It
was not costly, but it was of good tone, and Philip had passed many
pleasant hours in practicing on it.
"I can take this violin, at any rate," said Philip to himself. "It
belongs to me, and no one else has a claim on it. I think I will
take it with me and leave it at Frank Dunbar's, so that it needn't
get into the sale."
He put back the violin into the case and laid it on one side. Then
he sat down in the arm-chair, which had been his father's favorite
seat, and tried to fix his mind upon the unknown future which lay
before him.
He had sat there for half an hour, revolving in his mind various
thoughts and plans, when he heard a tap on the window, and looking
up, saw through the pane the coarse, red face of Nick Holden, a
young fellow of eighteen, the son of the village butcher.
"Let me in!" said Nick; "I want to see you on business."
CHAPTER III.
NICK HOLDEN'S CALL.
Philip had never liked Nick Holden. He was a coarse, rough-looking
boy, his reddish face one mass of freckles, and about as
unattractive as a person could be, without absolute deformity. This,
however, was not the ground for Philip's dislike.
With all his unattractiveness, Nick might have possessed qualities
which would have rightly made him popular. So far from this,
however, he was naturally mean, selfish, and a bully, with very
slight regard for truth.
Will it be believed that, in spite of his homely face, Nick really
thought himself good-looking and aspired to be a beau? For this
reason he had often wished that he possessed Philip's accomplishment
of being able to play upon the violin.
His conversational powers were rather limited, and he felt at a loss
when he undertook to make himself fascinating to the young ladies in
the village. If he could only play on the violin like Philip he
thought he would be irresistible.
He had therefore conceived the design of buying Philip's instrument
for a trifle, judging that our hero would feel compelled to sell it.
The reader will now understand the object which led to Nick's call
so soon after the funeral of Mr. Gray. He was afraid some one else
might forestall him in gaining possession of the coveted instrument.
When Philip saw who his visitor was, he was not overjoyed. It was
with reluctance that he rose and gave admission to Nick.
"I thought I would call around and see you, Phil," said Nick, as he
sat down in the most comfortable chair in the room.
"Thank you," responded Phil coldly.
"The old man went off mighty sudden," continued Nicholas, with
characteristic delicacy.
"Do you mean my father?" inquired Philip.
"Of course I do. There ain't any one else dead, is there!"
"I had been expecting my poor father's death for some time," said
Philip gravely.
"Just so! He wa'n't very rugged. We've all got to come to it sooner
or later. I expect dad'll die of apoplexy some time-he's so awful
fat," remarked Nicholas cheerfully. "If he does, it's lucky he's got
me to run the business. I'm only eighteen, but I can get along as
well as anybody. I'm kinder smart in business."
"I am glad you are smart in anything," thought Philip; for he knew
that Nick was a hopeless dunce in school duties.
"I hope your father'll live a good while," he said politely.
"Yes, of course," said Nick lightly. "I'd be sorry to have the old
man pop off; but then you never can tell about such a thing as
that."
Philip did not relish the light way in which Nick referred to such a
loss as he was suffering from, and, by way of changing the subject,
said:
"I believe you said you came on business, Nicholas?"
"Yes; that's what I wanted to come at. It's about your fiddle."
"My violin!" said Philip, rather surprised.
"Oh, well, fiddle or violin! what's the odds? I want to buy it."
"What for?"
"To play on, of course! What did you think I wanted it for?"
"But you can't play, can you?"
"Not yet; but I expect you could show me some--now, couldn't you?"
"What put it into your head to want to play on the violin?" asked
Philip, with some curiosity.
"Why, you see, the girls like it. It would be kind of nice when I go
to a party, or marm has company, to scrape off a tune or two-just
like you do. It makes a feller kinder pop'lar with the girls, don't
you see?" said Nick, with a knowing grin.
"And you want to be popular with the young ladies!" said Philip,
smiling, in spite of his bereavement, at the idea being entertained
by such a clumsy-looking caliban as Nick Holden.
"Of course I do!" answered Nick, with another grin. "You see I'm
gettin' along-I'll be nineteen next month, and I might want to get
married by the time I'm twenty-one, especially if the old man should
drop off sudden."
"I understand all that, Nicholas--"
"Call me Nick. I ain't stuck up if I am most a man. Call me pet
names, dearest."
And Nicholas laughed loudly at his witty quotation.
"Just as you prefer. Nick, then, I understand your object. But what
made you think I wanted to sell the violin?"
It was Nick's turn to be surprised.
"Ain't there goin' to be an auction of your father's things?" he
said.
"Yes; but the violin is mine, and I am not going to sell it."
"You'll have to," said Nick.
"What do you mean by that, Nicholas Holden?" said Philip quickly.
"Because you'll have to sell everything to pay your father's debt.
My father said so this very morning."
"I think I know my own business best," said Philip coldly. "I shall
keep the violin."
"Maybe it ain't for you to say," returned Nick, apparently not aware
of his insolence. "Come, now, I'll tell you what I'll do. My
father's got a bill against yours for a dollar and sixty-four cents.
I told father I had a use for the fiddle, and he says if you'll give
it to me, he'll call it square. There, what do you say to that?"
Nicholas leaned back in his chair and looked at Philip through his
small, fishy eyes, as if he had made an uncommonly liberal offer. As
for Philip, he hardly knew whether to be angry or amused.
"You offer me a dollar and sixty-four cents for my violin?" he
repeated.
"Yes. It's second-hand, to be sure, but I guess it's in pretty fair
condition. Besides, you might help me a little about learnin' how to
play."
"How much do you suppose the violin cost?" inquired Philip.
"Couldn't say."
"It cost my father twenty-five dollars."
"Oh, come, now, that's too thin! You don't expect a feller to
believe such a story as that?"
"I expect to be believed, for I never tell anything but the truth."
"Oh, well, I don't expect you do, generally, but when it comes to
tradin', most everybody lies," observed Nick candidly.
"I have no object in misrepresenting, for I don't want to sell the
violin."
"You can't afford to keep it! The town won't let you!"
"The town won't let me?" echoed Philip, now thoroughly mystified.
"Of course they won't. The idea of a pauper bein' allowed a fiddle
to play on! Why, it's ridiculous!"
"What do you mean?" demanded Philip, who now began to comprehend the
meaning of this thick-witted visitor. "What have I got to do with
the town, or with paupers?"
"Why, you're goin' to the poorhouse, ain't you?"
"Certainly not!" answered Philip, with flashing eyes.
"I guess you're mistaken," said Nick coolly. "Squire Pope was over
to our shop this mornin', and he told dad that the seleckmen were
goin' to send you there after the auction."
Philip's eyes flashed angrily. He felt insulted and outraged. Never
for a moment had he conceived the idea that any one would regard him
as a candidate for the poorhouse.
He had an honorable pride in maintaining himself, and would rather
get along on one meal a day, earned by himself in honest
independence, than be indebted to public charity even for a
luxurious support.
"Squire Pope doesn't know what he's talking about," retorted Philip,
who had to exercise some self-restraint not to express himself more
forcibly "and you can tell him so when you see him. I am no more
likely to go to the poorhouse than you are!"
"Come, that's a good one," chuckled Nick. "Talk of me goin' to the
poorhouse, when my father pays one of the biggest taxes in town! Of
course, it's different with you."
"You'll have to excuse me now," said Philip, determined to get rid
of his disagreeable companion. "I have something to do."
"Then you won't sell me the fiddle, Phil?"
"No, I won't," answered our hero, with scant ceremony.
"Then I'll have to bid it off at the auction. Maybe I'll get it
cheaper."
And Mr. Nicholas Holden at length relieved Philip of his company.
CHAPTER IV.
THE AUCTION.
It so happened that Nick Holden met Squire Pope on the village
street, and, being rather disappointed at the result of his
negotiations with Philip, thought it might be a good idea to broach
the subject to the squire, who, as he knew, had taken it upon
himself to superintend the sale of Mr. Gray's goods.
"I say, squire, I've just been over to see Phil Gray."
"Ahem! Well, how does he seem to feel?"
"Kinder stuck up, I reckon. He said he wouldn't go to the poorhouse,
and I might tell you so."
"I apprehend," said the squire, in his stately way, "he will be
under the necessity of going, whether he likes it or not."
"Just so; that's what I told him!" interjected Nick.
"And he should be grateful for so comfortable a home," continued the
public man.
"Well, I dunno," said Nick. "They do say that old Tucker most
starves the paupers. Why his bills with dad are awful small."
"The town cannot afford to pamper the appetites of its
beneficiaries," said the squire. "Where is Philip now?"
"I guess he's at home. I offered to buy his fiddle, but he said he
was going to keep it. I offered him a dollar and sixty-four
cents--the same as dad's bill against his father, but he wouldn't
take it."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12