Kitabı oku: «The Cash Boy», sayfa 2

CHAPTER IV
THE TOWN AUTOCRAT

“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.”

CHAPTER V
A LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING

“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.

CHAPTER VI
FRANK GETS A PLACE

“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.