Try and Trust
H >>
Horatio Alger >> Try and Trust
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
TRY AND TRUST
Or, Abner Holden's Bound Boy
BY
HORATIO ALGER, JR.
AUTHOR OF "PAUL THE PEDDLER," "FROM FARM BOY TO
SENATOR," "SLOW AND SURE," ETC.
THE MERSHON COMPANY
RAHWAY, N.J. NEW YORK
TO MY YOUNG FRIEND,
A. FLORIAN HENRIQUES
(BOISIE),
THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
CONTENTS
I. AROUND THE BREAKFAST TABLE
II. INTRODUCING THE HERO
III. A COLLISION
IV. A DISAGREEABLE SURPRISE
V. THE ENVELOPE
VI. ON THE WAY
VII. A NEW HOME
VIII. THE GHOST IN THE ATTIC
IX. EXPOSING A FRAUD
X. THE CLOUDS GATHER
XI. A CRISIS
XII. RALPH THE RANGER
XIII. A MOMENT OF PERIL
XIV. TAKEN PRISONER
XV. A FOUR-FOOTED FOE
XVI. JUST TOO LATE
XVII. NEW ACQUAINTANCES
XVIII. A YOUNG ARISTOCRAT
XIX. A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER
XX. FACING A BURGLAR
XXI. HERBERT'S REWARD
XXII. ROBBED IN THE NIGHT
XXIII. A BUSINESS CALL
XXIV. FINDING A BOARDING PLACE
XXV. GETTING A SITUATION
XXVI. A FAMILY COUNCIL
XXVII. AT THE CONCERT
XXVIII. PETER GREENLEAF AGAIN
XXIX. SPARRING
XXX. AN UNEXPECTED BLOW
XXXI. MR. STANTON IS SURPRISED
XXXII. RISEN FROM THE DEAD
XXXIII. A FRIEND IN NEED
XXXIV. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
AROUND THE BREAKFAST TABLE
"Well, wife," said Mr. Benjamin Stanton, as he sat down to a late
breakfast, "I had a letter from Ohio yesterday."
"From Ohio? Who should write you from Ohio? Anyone I know?"
"My sister, Margaret, you remember, moved out there with her husband ten
years ago."
"Oh, it's from her, is it?" said Mrs. Stanton, indifferently.
"No," said her husband with momentary gravity. "It's from a Dr. Kent,
who attended her in her last illness. Margaret is dead!"
"Dear me!" returned Mrs. Stanton, uncomfortably; "and I am just out of
mourning for my aunt. Do you think it will be necessary for us to go
into mourning for your sister?"
"No, I think not," said her husband. "Margaret has lived away from us so
long, and people won't know that we have had a death in the family
unless we mention it."
"Was that all the letter said--about the death, I mean?"
"Why, no," said Mr. Stanton, with a little frown. "It seems Margaret
left a child--a boy of fourteen; and, as she left no property, the
doctor suggests that I should send for the boy and assume the care of
him."
"Upon my word!" said Mrs. Stanton; "you will find yourself in business
if you undertake to provide for all the beggars' brats that apply to you
for assistance."
"You must remember that you are speaking of my sister's child," said Mr.
Stanton, who, cold and selfish and worldly as he was, had some touch of
decency about him, and did not relish the term "beggars' brats," as
applied to one so nearly related to him.
"Well, call him what you like," said his wife; "only don't be so foolish
as to go spending your money on him when our children need all we have.
There's Maria needs a new dress immediately. She says all the girls at
Signor Madalini's dancing academy dress elegantly, and she's positively
ashamed to appear in any of her present dresses."
"How much will it cost?" asked Mr. Stanton, opening his pocketbook.
"You may hand me seventy-five dollars. I think I can make that do."
Without a word of remonstrance, the money was placed in her hand.
"I want some money, too," said Tom Stanton, who had just disposed of a
very hearty meal.
"What do you want it for, Tom?"
"Oh, some of the fellows are getting up a club. It's going to be a
select affair, and of course each of us has got to contribute some
money. You see, we are going to hire a room, furnish it nicely with a
carpet, black walnut furniture, and so on, and that'll cost something."
"Whose idea is it?"
"Well, Sam Paget was the first boy that mentioned it."
"Whose son is he?"
"His father belongs to the firm of Paget, Norwood & Co. He's awful
rich."
"Yes, it is one of our first families," said Mr. Stanton, with
satisfaction. "Is he a friend of yours, Tom?"
"Oh, yes, we are quit intimate."
"That's right!" said his father, approvingly. "I am glad you choose your
friends so well. That's one of the principal reasons I have for sending
you to an expensive school, to get you well launched into good society."
"Yes, father, I understand," said Tom. "You won't find me associating
with common boys. I hold my head a little too high for that, I can tell
you."
"That's right, my boy," said Mr. Stanton, with satisfaction. "And now
how much money do you want for this club of yours?"
"Well," said Tom, hesitatingly, "thirty or forty dollars."
"Isn't that considerable?" said his father, surprised at the amount.
"Well, you see, father, I want to contribute as much as any of the boys.
It would seem mean if I didn't. There's only a few of us to stand the
expense, and we don't want to let in any out of our own set."
"That's true," said Mr. Stanton; "I approve of that. It's all very well
to talk about democracy, but I believe in those of the higher orders
keeping by themselves."
"Then you'll give the money, father?" said Tom, eagerly.
"Yes, Tom, there's forty dollars. It's more than I ought to spare, but I
am determined you shall stand as good a chance as any of your school-
fellows. They shan't be able to say that your father stints you in
anything that your position requires."
"Thank you, father," said Tom, pocketing the two twenty-dollar bills
with great satisfaction.
The fact was that Tom's assessment amounted to only twenty dollars, but
he thought it would be a good excuse for getting more out of his father.
As to the extra money, Tom felt confident that he could find uses enough
for it. He had latterly, though but fourteen years of age, contracted
the habit of smoking cigars; a habit which he found rather expensive,
especially as he felt bound occasionally to treat his companions. Then
he liked, now and then, to drop in and get an ice-cream or some
confectionery, and these little expenses counted up.
Mr. Stanton was a vain, worldly man. He was anxious to obtain an
entrance into the best society. For this reason, he made it a point to
send his children to the most expensive schools; trusting to their
forming fashionable acquaintances, through whom his whole family might
obtain recognition into those select circles for which he cherished a
most undemocratic respect. For this reason it was that, though not
naturally liberal, he had opened his purse willingly at the demands of
Mrs. Stanton and Tom.
"Well," said Mrs. Stanton, after Tom's little financial affair had been
adjusted, "what are you going to write to this doctor? Of course you
won't think of sending for your nephew?"
"By no means. He is much better off where he is. I shall write Dr. Kent
that he is old enough to earn his own living, and I shall recommend that
he be bound out to some farmer or mechanic in the neighborhood. It is an
imposition to expect, because I am tolerably well off, that it is my
duty to support other people's children. My own are entitled to all I
can do for them."
"That's so, father," said Tom, who was ready enough to give his consent
to any proposition of a selfish nature. "Charity begins at home."
With Tom, by the way, it not only began at home, but it ended there, and
the same may be said of his father. From time to time Mr. Stanton's name
was found in the list of donors to some charitable object, provided his
benevolence was likely to obtain sufficient publicity, Mr. Stanton did
not believe in giving in secret. What was the use of giving away money
unless you could get credit for it? That was the principle upon which he
always acted.
"I suppose," continued Tom, "this country cousin of mine wears cowhide
boots and overalls, and has got rough, red hands like a common laborer.
I wonder what Sam Paget would say if I should introduce such a fellow to
him as my cousin. I rather guess he would not want to be quite so
intimate with me as he is now."
If anything had been needed, this consideration would have been
sufficient to deter Mr. Stanton from sending for his nephew. He could
not permit the social standing of his family to be compromised by the
presence of a poor relation from the country, rough and unpolished as he
doubtless was.
Maria, too, who had been for some time silent, here contributed to
strengthen the effect of Tom's words.
"Yes," said she, "and Laura Brooks, my most intimate friend, who is
shocked at anything vulgar or countrified--I wouldn't have her know that
I have such a cousin--oh, not for the world!"
"There will be no occasion for it," said her father, decidedly. "I shall
write at once to this Dr. Kent, explaining to him my views and wishes,
and how impossible it is for me to do as he so inconsiderately
suggests."
"It's the wisest thing you can do, Mr. Stanton," said his wife, who was
to the full as selfish as her husband.
"What is his name, father?" asked Maria.
"Whose name?"
"The boy's."
"Herbert Mason."
"Herbert? I thought it might be Jonathan, or Zeke, or some such name.
Herbert isn't at all countrified."
"No," said Tom, slyly; "of course not. We all know why you like that
name."
"Oh, you're mighty wise, Mr. Tom!" retorted his sister.
"It's because you like Herbert Dartmouth; but it isn't any use. He's in
love with Lizzie Graves."
"You seem to know all about it," said Maria, with vexation; for Tom was
not far from right in speaking of her preference for Herbert Dartmouth.
"Of course I do," said Tom; "I ought to, for he told me so himself."
"I don't believe it!" said Maria, who looked ready to cry.
"Well, you needn't; but it's so."
"Be quiet, children," said Mrs. Stanton. "Thomas, you mustn't plague
your sister."
"Don't take it so hard, Maria," said Tom, in rather an aggravating tone.
"There's other boys you could get. I guess you could get Jim Gorham for
a beau, if you tried hard enough."
"I wouldn't have him," said Maria. "His face is all over freckles."
"Enough of this quarreling, children," said Mrs. Stanton. "I hope," she
continued, addressing her husband, "you won't fail to write at once.
They might be sending on the boy, and then we should be in a pretty
predicament."
"I will write at once. I don't know but I ought to inclose some money."
"I don't see why you need to."
"Perhaps I had better, as this is the last I intend to do for him."
"At any rate, it won't be necessary to send much," said Mrs. Stanton.
"How much?"
"Five dollars will do, I should think. Because he happens to be your
nephew, there is no good reason why he should be thrown upon you for
support."
"Perhaps it will be best to send ten dollars," said Mr. Stanton. "People
are unreasonable, you know, and they might charge me with meanness, if I
sent less."
"Then make it ten. It's only for once. I hope that will be the last we
shall hear of him."
The room in which this conversation took place was a handsomely
furnished breakfast room, all the appointments of which spoke not only
of comfort, but of luxury. Mr. Stanton had been made rich by a series of
lucky speculations, and he was at present carrying on a large wholesale
store downtown. He had commenced with small means twenty years before,
and for some years had advanced slowly, until the tide of fortune set in
and made him rich. His present handsome residence he had only occupied
three years, having moved to it from one of much smaller pretensions on
Bleecker Street. Tom and Maria were forbidden to speak of their former
home to their present fashionable acquaintances, and this prohibition
they were likely to observe, having inherited to the full the worldly
spirit which actuated their parents. It will be seen that Herbert Mason
was little likely to be benefited by having such prosperous relations.
CHAPTER II
INTRODUCING THE HERO
If my young readers do not find the town of Waverley on the map of Ohio,
they may conclude that it was too small to attract the notice of the
map-makers. The village is small, consisting of about a dozen houses, a
church, a schoolhouse, and, as a matter of course, one of that well-
known class of stores in which everything required for the family is
sold, from a dress-pattern to a pound of sugar. Outside of the village
there are farmhouses, surrounded by broad acres, which keep them at
respectable distances from each other, like the feudal castles of the
Middle Ages. The land is good, and the farmers are thrifty and well-to-
do; but probably the whole town contains less than a thousand
inhabitants.
In one of the houses, near the church, lived Dr. Kent, whose letter has
already been referred to. He was a skillful physician, and a very worthy
man, who would have been very glad to be benevolent if his limited
practice had supplied him with the requisite means. But chance had
directed him to a healthy and sparsely-settled neighborhood, where he
was able only to earn a respectable livelihood, and indeed found himself
compelled to economize at times where he would have liked to indulge
himself in expense.
When Mrs. Mason died it was found that the sale of her furniture barely
realized enough to defray the expenses of her funeral. Herbert, her only
son, was left wholly unprovided for. Dr. Kent, knowing that he had a
rich uncle in New York, undertook to communicate to him the position in
which his nephew had been left, never doubting that he would cheerfully
extend a helping hand to him. Meanwhile he invited Herbert to come to
his house and make it his home till his uncle should send for him.
Herbert was a handsome, well-grown boy of fourteen, and a general
favorite in the village. While his mother lived he had done all he could
to lighten her tasks, and he grieved deeply for her loss now that she
was gone. His father had ten years before failed in business in the city
of New York, and, in a fit of depression, had emigrated to this obscure
country village, where he had invested the few hundred dollars remaining
to him in a farm, from which he was able to draw a scanty income. Being
a man of liberal education, he had personally superintended the
education of his son till his death, two years before, so that Herbert's
attainments were considerably in advance of those of other boys of his
age in the neighborhood. He knew something of Latin and French, which
made him looked upon as quite a model of learning by his playmates.
After his father's death he had continued the daily study of the
languages, so that he was able to read ordinary French with nearly as
much ease as if it were English. Though studious, he was not a bookworm,
but was distinguished in athletic sports popular with boys of his age.
Enough has been said of our hero by way of introduction. Herbert's
faults and virtues will appear as the record of his adventures is
continued. It may be hinted only that, while he was frank, manly, and
generous in his disposition, he was proud and high-spirited also, and
perhaps these qualities were sometimes carried to excess. He would not
allow himself to be imposed upon if he could help it. Being strong for
his age, he was always able to maintain his rights, but never abused his
strength by making it the instrument of tyrannizing over weaker boys.
Of course Herbert felt somewhat anxious as to his future prospects. He
knew that the doctor had written to his Uncle Benjamin about him, and he
hoped that he might be sent for to New York, having a great curiosity to
see the city, of which he had heard so much.
"Have you heard from my uncle, Dr. Kent?" he inquired, a few days after
the scene recorded in our first chapter.
His question was prompted by seeing the doctor coming into the yard with
an open letter in his hand.
"Yes," said Dr. Kent, with troubled expression and perplexed took.
"What does Uncle Benjamin say?" asked our young hero, eagerly.
"Nothing very encouraging, Herbert, I am sorry to say," returned the
doctor. "However, here is the letter; you may read it for yourself."
Herbert received the letter from the doctor's hands and read it through
with feelings of mortification and anger.
Here it is:
"DEAR SIR: I have to acknowledge yours of the 10th inst. I regret to
hear of my sister's decease. I regret, also, to hear that her son,
Herbert, is left without a provision for his support. My brother-in-law
I cannot but consider culpable in neglecting to lay up something during
his life upon which his widow and son might depend. I suspect that he
must have lived with inconsiderate extravagance.
"As for myself, I have a family of my own to provide for, and the
expense of living in a city like this is very great. In justice to them,
I do not feel that it would be right for me to incur extra expense. You
tell me that he is now fourteen and a stout boy. He is able, I should
think, to earn his own living. I should recommend that he be bound out
to a farmer or mechanic. To defray any little expenses that may arise, I
enclose ten dollars, which I hope he may find serviceable. Yours etc.,
"BENJAMIN STANTON."
This cold and selfish letter Herbert read with rising color, and a
feeling of bitterness found a place in his young heart, which was quite
foreign to him.
"Well, Herbert, what do you think of it?" asked the doctor.
"I think," said Herbert, hotly, "that I don't want to have anything to
do with an uncle who could write such a letter as that."
"He doesn't seem to write with much feeling." acknowledged the doctor.
"Feeling!" repeated Herbert; "he writes as if I were a beggar, and asked
charity. Where is the money he inclosed, Dr. Kent?"
"I have it here in my vest pocket. I was afraid it would slip out of the
letter, and so took care of it."
"Will you let me send it back to my uncle?" asked Herbert.
"Send it back?"
"Yes, Dr. Kent; I don't want any of his charity, and I'll tell him so."
"I am afraid, Herbert, that you are giving way to your pride."
"But isn't it a proper pride, doctor?"
"I hardly know what to say, Herbert. You must remember, however, that,
as you are left quite unprovided for, even this small sum may be of use
to you."
"It isn't the smallness of the sum that I mind," said Herbert. "If Uncle
Benjamin had written a kind letter, or showed the least feeling in it
for me, or for--for mother [his voice faltered a moment], I would have
accepted it thankfully. But I couldn't accept money thrown at me in that
way. He didn't want to give it to me, I am sure, and wouldn't if he
hadn't felt obliged to."
Dr. Kent paced the room thoughtfully. He respected Herbert's feelings,
but he saw that it was not wise for him to indulge them. He was in a
dependent situation, and it was to be feared that he would have much to
suffer in time to come from the coldness and selfishness of the world.
"I will tell you what to do, Herbert," he said, after a while. "You can
accept this money as a loan, and repay it when you are able."
"With interest?"
"Yes, with interest, if you prefer it."
"I shall be willing to accept it on those terms," said Herbert; "but I
want my uncle to understand it."
"You may write to your uncle to that effect, if you like."
"Very well, Dr. Kent. Then I will write to him at once."
"You will find some paper in my desk, Herbert. I suppose you will not
object to my seeing your letter."
"No, doctor, I intended to show it to you. You won't expect me to show
much gratitude, I hope?"
"I won't insist upon it, Herbert," said the doctor, smiling.
Herbert in about half an hour submitted the following note to the
doctor's inspection. It had cost him considerable thought to determine
how to express himself, but he succeeded at last to his tolerable
satisfaction.
"UNCLE BENJAMIN [so the letter commenced]: Dr. Kent has just shown me
your reply to his letter about me. You seem to think I wish you to
support me, which is not the case. All I should have asked was your
influence to help me in obtaining a situation in the city, where I might
support myself. I am willing to work, and shall probably find some
opportunity here. The ten dollars, which you inclose, I will accept AS A
LOAN, and will repay you as soon as I am able, WITH INTEREST. HERBERT
MASON."
"Will that do?" asked Herbert.
Dr. Kent smiled.
"You were careful not to express any gratitude, Herbert," he said.
"Because I don't feel any," returned Herbert, promptly. "I feel grateful
to you, Dr. Kent, for your great kindness. I wish I could pay you for
that. I shall never forget how you attended my mother in her sickness,
when there was small prospect of your being paid."
"My dear boy," said the doctor, resting his hand affectionately on
Herbert's shoulder, "I have been able to do but very little. I wish I
could do more. If you wish to repay me, you can do it a hundred times
over by growing up a good and honorable man; one upon whom your mother
in heaven can look down with grateful joy, if it is permitted her to
watch your progress here."
"I will do my best, doctor," said Herbert.
"The world is all before you," proceeded Dr. Kent. "You may not achieve
a brilliant destiny. It is permitted to few to do that. But whether your
sphere is wide or narrow, you may exert an influence for good, AND LEAVE
THE WORLD BETTER FOR YOUR HAVING LIVED IN IT."
"I hope it may be so," said Herbert, thoughtfully. "When I am tempted to
do wrong, I will think of my mother."
"It is the very best thing you can do, Herbert. And now for your plans.
I wish I were in a situation to have you remain with me. But as that
cannot be, I will do my best to get you a place."
"I ought to be at work," said Herbert, "as I have my living to get. I
want you to take that ten dollars, doctor, as part payment of the debt I
owe you."
The doctor shook his head.
"I can't do that, Herbert, not even to oblige you. You were too proud to
accept a favor from your uncle. You will not be too proud, I hope, to
accept one from me?"
"No, doctor; I am not too proud for that. You are my friend, and my
uncle cares nothing for me."
When Herbert's letter reached New York, his uncle felt a momentary
shame, for he saw that his nephew had rightfully interpreted his own
selfishness and lack of feeling, and he could not help involuntarily
admiring the independent spirit which would not allow him to accept the
proffered money, except as a loan. But mingled with his shame was a
feeling of relief, as he foresaw that Herbert's pride would not suffer
him to become a burden upon him in the future. He hardly expected ever
to see the ten dollars returned with interest; but even if he lost it,
he felt that he should be getting off cheap.
CHAPTER III
A COLLISION
It was a week later when an incident befell Herbert which is worthy of
mention, since it brought him into collision with a man who was destined
to have some influence over his future life.
A neighboring farmer, for whom, during his mother's life, he had
occasionally gone on errands, drove up in front of the doctor's house,
and asked Herbert if he could take his horse and wagon and drive over to
the mill village to get some corn ground. Herbert was rather glad to
accept this proposal, not only because he was to receive twenty-five
cents for so doing, but also because he was fond of driving a horse.
He was only about a mile from the mill village, when he saw approaching
him a man in a light open buggy. Herbert knew every horse in Waverley,
and every man, woman, and child, for that matter, and he perceived at
once that the driver was a stranger. To tell the truth, he was not very
favorably impressed by his appearance. The man was very dark, with black
hair and an unshaven beard of three days' growth, which did not set off
his irregular and repulsive features. His mouth, partly open, revealed
several yellow tusks, stained with tobacco juice. On his head he wore a
broad-brimmed straw hat, rather the worse for wear.
It so happened that just at this point the middle of the road was much
better than the sides, which sloped considerably, terminating in gullies
which were partly full from the recent rains. The road was narrow, being
wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other, if each veered to the
side, but not otherwise.
Herbert observed that the buggy, which was now rapidly approaching, was
kept in the center of the road, and that the driver appeared to have no
intention of turning out.
"What does he mean?" thought our hero. "He cannot expect me to do the
whole of the turning out. I will turn out my half, and if he wants to
get by, he must do the same."
Accordingly, he turned partially to one side, as much as could be
reasonably expected, and quietly awaited the approach of the man in the
buggy. The latter still kept the center of the road, and did not turn
out his carriage at all. As soon as it was close at hand, the driver
leaned forward and exclaimed angrily:
"Turn out, boy!"
If he expected that Herbert would be intimidated by his tone he was much
mistaken. Our hero was bold, and not easily frightened. He looked
quietly in the man's face, and said composedly, "I have turned out."
"Then turn out more, you young vagabond! Do you hear me?"
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13