After the applause had subsided, Harry proceeded, and at the conclusion of the declamation, when he bowed modestly and left the platform, the hall fairly shook with the stamping, in which all joined except Fletcher, who sat scowling with dissatisfaction at a result so different from his hopes. He had expected to bring discomfiture to our hero. Instead, he had given him an opportunity to achieve a memorable triumph.
"You did yourself credit, old boy!" said Oscar, seizing and wringing the hand of Harry, as the latter resumed his seat. "Why, you ought to go on the stage!"
"Thank you," said Harry; "I am glad I got through well."
"Isn't Fitz mad, though? He thought you'd break down. Look at him!"
Harry looked over to Fletcher, who, with a sour expression, was sitting upright, and looking straight before him.
"He don't look happy, does he?" whispered Oscar, comically.
Harry came near laughing aloud, but luckily for Fletcher's peace of mind, succeeded in restraining himself.
"He won't call you up again in a hurry; see if he does," continuedOscar.
"I am sure we have all been gratified by Mr. Walton's spirited declamation," said the President, rising. "We congratulate ourselves upon adding so fine a speaker to our society, and hope often to have the pleasure of hearing him declaim."
There was a fresh outbreak of applause, after which the other exercises followed. When the meeting was over the members of the Society crowded around Harry, and congratulated him on his success. These congratulations he received so modestly, as to confirm the favorable impression he had made by his declamation.
"By Jove! old fellow," said Oscar, as they were walking home, "I am beginning to be proud of you. You are doing great credit to your teacher."
"Thank you, Professor," said Harry. "Don't compliment me too much, or I may become vain, and put on airs."
"If you do, I'll get Fitz to call, and remind you that you are only a printer's devil, after all."
Not long after his election as a member of the Clionian Society, the summer term of the Prescott Academy closed. The examination took place about the tenth of June, and a vacation followed, lasting till the first day of September. Of course, the Clionian Society, which was composed of Academy students, suspended its meetings for the same length of time. Indeed, the last meeting for the season took place during the first week in June, as the evenings were too short and too warm, and the weather was not favorable to oratory. At the last meeting, an election was held of officers to serve for the following term. The same President and Vice-President were chosen; but as the Secretary declined to serve another term, Harry Walton, considerably to his surprise, found himself elected in his place.
Fitzgerald Fletcher did not vote for him. Indeed, he expressed it as his opinion that it was a shame to elect a "printer's devil" Secretary of the Society.
"Why is it?" said Oscar. "Printing is a department of literature, and the Clionian is a literary society, isn't it?"
"Of course it is a literary society, but a printer's devil is not literary."
"He's as literary as a tin-pedler," said Tom Carver, maliciously.
Fletcher turned red, but managed to say, "And what does that prove?"
"We don't object to you because you are connected with the tin business."
"Do you mean to insult me?" demanded Fletcher, angrily. "What have I to do with the tin business?"
"Oh, I beg pardon, it's your cousin that's in it."
"I deny the relationship," said Fletcher, "and I will thank you not to refer again to that vulgar pedler."
"Really, Fitz, you speak rather roughly, considering he's your cousin. But as to Harry Walton, he's a fine fellow, and he has an excellent handwriting, and I was very glad to vote for him."
Fitzgerald walked away, not a little disgusted, as well at the allusion to the tin-pedler, as at the success of Harry Walton in obtaining an office to which he had himself secretly aspired. He had fancied that it would sound well to put "Secretary of the Clionian Society" after his name, and would give him increased consequence at home. As to the tin-pedler, it would have relieved his mind to hear that Mr. Bickford had been carried off suddenly by an apoplectic fit, and notwithstanding the tie of kindred, he would not have taken the trouble to put on mourning in his honor.
Harry Walton sat in Oscar Vincent's room, on the last evening of the term. He had just finished reciting the last French lesson in which he would have Oscar's assistance for some time to come.
"You have made excellent progress," said Oscar. "It is only two months since you began French, and now you take a long lesson in translation."
"That is because I have so good a teacher. But do you think I can get along without help during the summer?"
"No doubt of it. You may find some difficulties, but those you can mark, and I will explain when I come back. Or I'll tell you what is still better. Write to me, and I'll answer. Shall I write in French?"
"I wish you would, Oscar."
"Then I will. I'm rather lazy with the pen, but I can find time for you. Besides, it will be a good way for me to keep up my French."
"Shall you be in Boston all summer, Oscar?"
"No; our family has a summer residence at Nahant, a sea-shore place twelve miles from Boston. Then I hope father will let me travel about a little on my own account. I want to go to Saratoga and Lake George."
"That would be splendid."
"I wish you could go with me, Harry."
"Thank you, Oscar, but perhaps you can secure Fletcher's company. That will be much better than that of a 'printer's devil' like myself."
"It may show bad taste, but I should prefer your company, notwithstanding your low employment."
"Thank you, Oscar. I am much obliged."
"Fitz has been hinting to me how nice it would be for us to go off somewhere together, but I don't see it in that light. I asked him why he didn't secure board with his cousin, the tin-pedler, but that made him angry, and he walked away in disgust. But I can't help pitying you a little, Harry."
"Why? On account of my occupation?"
"Partly. All these warm summer days, you have got to be working at the case, while I can lounge in the shade, or travel for pleasure. Sha'n't you have a vacation?"
"I don't expect any. I don't think I could well be spared. However, I don't mind it. I hope to do good deal of studying while you are gone."
"And I sha'n't do any."
"Neither would I, perhaps, in your position. But there's a good deal of difference between us. You are a Latin and Greek scholar, and can talk French, while I am at the bottom of the ladder. I have no time to lose."
"You have begun to mount the ladder, Harry. Don't be discouraged.You can climb up."
"But I must work for it. I haven't got high enough up to stop and rest. But there is one question I want to ask you, before you go."
"What is it?"
"What French book would you recommend after I have finished thisReader? I am nearly through now."
"Telemaque will be a good book to take next. It is easy and interesting. Have you got a French dictionary?"
"No; but I can buy one."
"You can use mine while I am gone. You may as well have it as not.I have no copy of Telemaque, but I will send you one from Boston."
"Agreed, provided you will let me pay you for it."
"So I would, if I had to buy one. But I have got an old copy, not very ornamental, but complete. I will send it through the mail."
"Thank you, Oscar. How kind you are!"
"Don't flatter me, Harry. The favors you refer to are but trifles.I will ask a favor of you in return."
"I wish you would."
"Then help me pack my trunk. There's nothing I detest so much. Generally I tumble things in helter-skelter, and get a good scolding from mother for doing it, when she inspects my trunk."
"I'll save you the trouble, then. Bring what you want to carry home, and pile it on the floor, and I'll do the packing."
"A thousand thanks, as the French say. It takes a load off my mind. By the way, here's a lot of my photographs. Would you like one to remember your professor by?"
"Very much, Oscar."
"Then take your choice. They don't do justice to my beauty, which is of a stunning description, as you are aware, nor do they convey an idea of the lofty intellect which sits enthroned behind my classic brow; but such as they are, you are welcome to one."
"Any one would think, to hear you, that you had no end of self-conceit, Oscar," said Harry, laughing.
"How do you know that I haven't? Most people think they are beautiful. A photographer told my sister that he was once visited by a frightfully homely man from the the country, who wanted his 'picter took.' When the result was placed before him, he seemed dissatisfied. 'Don't you think it like?' said the artist.—'Well, ye-es,' he answered slowly, 'but it hasn't got my sweet expression about the mouth!'"
"Very good," said Harry, laughing; "that's what's the matter with your picture."
"Precisely. I am glad your artistic eye detects what is wanting.But, hold! there's a knock. It's Fitz, I'll bet a hat."
"Come in!" he cried, and Fletcher walked in.
"Good-evening, Fletcher," said Oscar. "You see I'm packing, or rather Walton is packing. He's a capital packer."
"Indeed!" sneered Fletcher. "I was not aware that Mr. Walton was in that line of business. What are his terms?"
"I refer you to him."
"What do you charge for packing trunks, Mr. Walton?"
"I think fifty cents would be about right," answered Harry, with perfect gravity. "Can you give me a job, Mr. Fletcher?"
"I might, if I had known it in time, though I am particular who handles my things."
"Walton is careful, and I can vouch for his honesty," said Oscar, carrying out the joke. "His wages in the printing office are not large, and he would be glad to make a little extra money."
"It must be very inconvenient to be poor," said Fletcher, with a supercilious glance at our hero, who was kneeling before Oscar's trunk.
"It is," answered Harry, quietly, "but as long as work is to be had I shall not complain."
"To be sure!" said Fletcher. "My father is wealthy, and I shall not have to work."
"Suppose he should fail?" suggested Oscar.
"That is a very improbable supposition," said Fletcher, loftily.
"But not impossible?"
"Nothing is impossible."
"Of course. I say, Fitz, if such a thing should happen, you've got something to fall back upon."
"To what do you refer?"
"Mr. Bickford could give you an interest in the tin business."
"Good-evening!" said Fletcher, not relishing the allusion.
"Good-evening! Of course I shall see you in the city."
"I suppose I ought not to tease Fitz," said Oscar, after his visitor had departed, "but I enjoy seeing how disgusted he looks."
In due time the trunk was packed, and Harry, not without regret, took leave of his friend for the summer.
The closing of the Academy made quite a difference in the life of Centreville. The number of boarding scholars was about thirty, and these, though few in number, were often seen in the street and at the postoffice, and their withdrawal left a vacancy. Harry Walton felt quite lonely at first; but there is no cure for loneliness like occupation, and he had plenty of that. The greater part of the day was spent in the printing office, while his evenings and early mornings were occupied in study and reading. He had become very much interested in French, in which he found himself advancing rapidly. Occasionally he took tea at Mr. Ferguson's, and this he always enjoyed; for, as I have already said, he and Ferguson held very similar views on many important subjects. One evening, at the house of the latter, he saw a file of weekly papers, which proved, on examination, to be back numbers of the "Weekly Standard," a literary paper issued in Boston.
"I take the paper for my family," said Ferguson. "It contains quite a variety of reading matter, stories, sketches and essays."
"It seems quite interesting," said Harry.
"Yes, it is. I will lend you some of the back numbers, if you like."
"I would like it. My father never took a literary paper; his means were so limited that he could not afford it."
"I think it is a good investment. There are few papers from which you cannot obtain in a year more than the worth of the subscription. Besides, if you are going to be an editor, it will be useful for you to become familiar with the manner in which such papers are conducted."
When Harry went home he took a dozen copies of the paper, and sat up late reading them. While thus engaged an idea struck him. It was this: Could not he write something which would be accepted for publication in the "Standard"? It was his great ambition to learn to write for the press, and he felt that he was old enough to commence.
"If I don't succeed the first time, I can try again," he reflected.
The more he thought of it, the more he liked the plan. It is very possible that he was influenced by the example of Franklin, who, while yet a boy in his teens, contributed articles to his brother's paper though at the time the authorship was not suspected. Finally he decided to commence writing as soon as he could think of a suitable subject. This he found was not easy. He could think of plenty of subjects of which he was not qualified to write, or in which he felt little interest; but he rightly decided that he could succeed better with something that had a bearing upon his own experience or hopes for the future.
Finally he decided to write on Ambition.
I do not propose to introduce Harry's essay in these pages, but will give a general idea of it, as tending to show his views of life.
He began by defining ambition as a desire for superiority, by which most men were more or less affected, though it manifested itself in very different ways, according to the character of him with whom it was found. Here I will quote a passage, as a specimen of Harry's style and mode of expression.
"There are some who denounce ambition as wholly bad and to be avoided by all; but I think we ought to make a distinction between true and false ambition. The desire of superiority is an honorable motive, if it leads to honorable exertion. I will mention Napoleon as an illustration of false ambition, which is selfish in itself, and has brought misery and ruin, to prosperous nations. Again, there are some who are ambitious to dress better than their neighbors, and their principal thoughts are centred upon the tie of their cravat, or the cut of their coat, if young men; or upon the richness and style of their dresses, if they belong to the other sex. Beau Brummel is a noted instance of this kind of ambition. It is said that fully half of his time was devoted to his toilet, and the other half to displaying it in the streets, or in society. Now this is a very low form of ambition, and it is wrong to indulge it, because it is a waste of time which could be much better employed."
Harry now proceeded to describe what he regarded as a true and praiseworthy ambition. He defined it as a desire to excel in what would be of service to the human race, and he instanced his old Franklin, who, induced by an honorable ambition, worked his way up to a high civil station, as well as a commanding position in the scientific world. He mentioned Columbus as ambitious to extend the limits of geographical knowledge, and made a brief reference to the difficulties and discouragements over which he triumphed on the way to success. He closed by an appeal to boys and young men to direct their ambition into worthy channels, so that even if they could not leave behind a great name, they might at least lead useful lives, and in dying have the satisfaction of thinking that they done some service to the race.
This will give a very fair idea of Harry's essay. There was nothing remarkable about it, and no striking originality in the ideas, but it was very creditably expressed for a boy of his years, and did even more credit to his good judgment, since it was an unfolding of the principles by which he meant to guide his own life.
It must not be supposed that our hero was a genius, and that he wrote his essay without difficulty. It occupied him two evenings to write it, and he employed the third in revising and copying it. It covered about five pages of manuscript, and, according to his estimate, would fill about two-thirds of a long column in the "Standard."
After preparing it, the next thing was to find anom de plume, for he shrank from signing his own name. After long consideration, he at last decided upon Franklin, and this was the name he signed to his maiden contribution to the press.
He carried it to the post-office one afternoon, after his work in the printing office was over, and dropped it unobserved into the letter-box. He did not want the postmaster to learn his secret, as he would have done had he received it directly from him, and noted the address on the envelope.
For the rest of the week, Harry went about his work weighed down with his important secret—a secret which he had not even shared with Ferguson. If the essay was declined, as he thought it might very possibly be, he did not want any one to know it. If it were accepted, and printed, it would be time enough then to make it known. But there were few minutes in which his mind was not on his literary venture. His preoccupation was observed by his fellow-workmen in the office, and he was rallied upon it, good-naturedly, by Ferguson, but in a different spirit by Clapp.
"It seems to me you are unusually silent, Harry," said Ferguson."You're not in love, are you?"
"Not that I know of," said Harry, smiling. "It's rather too early yet."
"I've known boys of your age to fancy themselves in love."
"He is is more likely thinking up some great discovery," said Clapp, sneering. "You know he's a second Franklin."
"Thank you for the compliment," said our hero, good-humoredly, "but I don't deserve it. I don't expect to make any great discovery at present."
"I suppose you expect to set the river on fire, some day," saidClapp, sarcastically.
"I am afraid it wouldn't do much good to try," said Harry, who was too sensible to take offence. "It isn't so easily done."
"I suppose some day we shall be proud of having been in the same office with so great a man," pursued Clapp.
"Really, Clapp, you're rather hard on our young friend," said Ferguson. "He doesn't put on any airs of superiority, or pretend to anything uncommon."
"He's very kind—such an intellect as he's got, too!" said Clapp.
"I'm glad you found it out," said Harry. "I haven't a very high idea of my intellect yet. I wish I had more reason to do so."
Finding that he had failed in his attempt to provoke Harry by his ridicule, Clapp desisted, but he disliked him none the less.
The fact was, that Clapp was getting into a bad way. He had no high aim in life, and cared chiefly for the pleasure of the present moment. He had found Luke Harrison a congenial companion, and they had been associated in more than one excess. The morning previous, Clapp had entered the printing office so evidently under the influence of liquor, that he had been sharply reprimanded by Mr. Anderson.
"I don't choose to interfere with your mode of life, unwise and ruinous as I may consider it," he said, "as long as it does not interfere with your discharge of duty. But to-day you are clearly incapacitated for labor, and I have a right to complain. If it happens again, I shall be obliged to look for another journeyman."
Clapp did not care to leave his place just at present, for he had no money saved up, and was even somewhat in debt, and it might be some time before he got another place. So he rather sullenly agreed to be more careful in future, and did not go to work till the afternoon. But though circumstances compelled him to submit, it put him in bad humor, and made him more disposed to sneer than ever. He had an unreasoning prejudice against Harry, which was stimulated by Luke Harrison, who had this very sufficient reason for hating our hero, that he had succeeded in injuring him. As an old proverb has it "We are slow to forgive those whom we have injured."
Harry waited eagerly for the next issue of the "Weekly Standard." It was received by Mr. Anderson in exchange for the "Centreville Gazette," and usually came to hand on Saturday morning. Harry was likely to obtain the first chance of examining the paper, as he was ordinarily sent to the post-office on the arrival of the morning mail.
His hands trembled as he unfolded the paper and hurriedly scanned the contents. But he looked in vain for his essay on Ambition. There was not even a reference to it. He was disappointed, but he soon became hopeful again.
"I couldn't expect it to appear so soon," he reflected. "These city weeklies have to be printed some days in advance. It may appear yet."
So he was left in suspense another week, hopeful and doubtful by turns of the success of his first offering for the press. He was rallied from time to time on his silence in the office, but he continued to keep his secret. If his contribution was slighted, no one should know it but himself.
At last another Saturday morning came around and again he set out for the post-office. Again he opened the paper with trembling fingers, and eagerly scanned the well-filled columns. This time his search was rewarded. There, on the first column of the last page, in all the glory of print, was his treasured essay!
A flash of pleasure tinged his cheek, and his heart beat rapidly, as he read his first printed production. It is a great event in the life of a literary novice, when he first sees himself. Even Byron says,—
"'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's self in print."
To our young hero the essay read remarkably well—better than he had expected; but then, very likely he was prejudiced in its favor. He read it through three times on his way back to the printing office, and each time felt better satisfied.
"I wonder if any of the readers will think it was written by a boy?" thought Harry. Probably many did so suspect, for, as I have said, though the thoughts were good and sensible, the article was only moderately well expressed. A practised critic would readily have detected marks of immaturity, although it was a very creditable production for a boy of sixteen.
"Shall I tell Ferguson?" thought Harry.
On the whole he concluded to remain silent just at present. He knew Ferguson took the paper, and waited to see if he would make any remark about it.
"I should like to hear him speak of it, without knowing that I was the writer," thought our hero.
Just before he reached the office, he discovered with satisfaction the following editorial reference to his article:—
"We print in another column an essay on 'ambition' by a new contributor. It contains some good ideas, and we especially commend it to the perusal of our young readers. We hope to hear from 'Franklin' again."
"That's good," thought Harry. "I am glad the editor likes it. I shall write again as soon as possible."
"What makes you look so bright, Harry?" asked Ferguson, as he re-entered the office. "Has any one left you a fortune?"
"Not that I know of," said Harry. "Do I look happier than usual?"
"So it seems to me."
Harry was spared answering this question, for Clapp struck in, grumbling, as usual: "I wish somebody'd leave me a fortune. You wouldn't see me here long."
"What would you do?" asked his fellow-workman.
"Cut work to begin with. I'd go to Europe and have a jolly time."
"You can do that without a fortune."
"I should like to know how?"
"Be economical, and you can save enough in three years to pay for a short trip. Bayard Taylor was gone two years, and only spent five hundred dollars."
"Oh, hang economy!" drawled Clapp. "It don't suit me. I should like to know how a feller's going to economize on fifteen dollars a week."
"I could."
"Oh, no doubt," sneered Clapp, "but a man can't starve."
"Come round and take supper with me, some night," said Ferguson, good-humoredly, "and you can judge for yourself whether I believe in starving."
Clapp didn't reply to this invitation. He would not have enjoyed a quiet evening with his fellow-workman. An evening at billiards or cards, accompanied by bets on the games, would have been much more to his mind.
"Who is Bayard Taylor, that made such a cheap tour in Europe?" askedHarry, soon afterward.
"A young journalist who had a great desire to travel. He has lately published an account of his tour. I don't buy many books, but I bought that. Would you like to read it?"
"Very much."
"You can have it any time."
"Thank you."
On Monday, a very agreeable surprise awaited Harry.
"I am out of copy," he said, going up to Mr. Anderson's table.
"Here's a selection for the first page," said Mr. Anderson. "Cut it in two, and give part of it to Clapp."
Could Harry believe his eyes! It was his own article on ambition, and it was to be reproduced in the "Gazette." Next to the delight of seeing one's self in print for the first time, is the delight of seeing that first article copied. It is a mark of appreciation which cannot be mistaken.
Still Harry said nothing, but, with a manner as unconcerned as possible, handed the lower half of the essay to Clapp to set up. The signature "Franklin" had been cut off, and the name of the paper from which the essay had been cut was substituted.
"Wouldn't Clapp feel disgusted," thought Harry, "if he knew that he was setting up an article of mine. I believe he would have a fit."
He was too considerate to expose his fellow-workman to such a contingency, and went about his work in silence.
That evening he wrote to the publisher of the "Standard," inclosing the price of two copies of the last number, which he desired should be sent to him by mail. He wished to keep one himself, and the other he intended to forward to his father, who, he knew, would sympathize with him in his success as well as his aspirations. He accompanied the paper by a letter in which he said,—
"I want to improve in writing as much as, I can. I want to be something more than a printer, sometime. I shall try to qualify myself for an editor; for an editor can exert a good deal of influence in the community. I hope you will approve my plans."
In due time Harry received the following reply:—
"My dear son:—I am indeed pleased and proud to hear of your success, not that it is a great matter in itself, but because I think it shows that you are in earnest in your determination to win an honorable position by honorable labor. I am sorry that my narrow means have not permitted me to give you those advantages which wealthy fathers can bestow upon their sons. I should like to have sent you to college and given you an opportunity afterward of studying for a profession. I think your natural abilities would have justified such an outlay. But, alas! poverty has always held me back. It shuts out you, as it has shut out me, from the chance of culture. Your college, my boy, must be the printing office. If you make the best of that, you will find that it is no mean instructor. Not Franklin alone, but many of our most eminent and influential men have graduated from it.
"You will be glad to hear that we are all well. I have sold the cow which I bought of Squire Green, and got another in her place that proves to be much better. We all send much love, and your mother wishes me to say that she misses you very much, as indeed we all do. But we know that you are better off in Centreville than you would be at home, and that helps to make us contented. Don't forget to write every week.
"Your affectionate father,"HIRAM WALTON.
"P. S.—If you print any more articles, we shall be interested to read them."
Harry read this letter with eager interest. He felt glad that his father was pleased with him, and it stimulated him to increased exertions.
"Poor father!" he said to himself. "He has led a hard life, cultivating that rocky little farm. It has been hard work and poor pay with him. I hope there is something better in store for him. If I ever get rich, or even well off, I will take care that he has an easier time."
After the next issue of the "Gazette" had appeared, Harry informedFerguson in confidence that he was the author of the article onAmbition.
"I congratulate you, Harry," said his friend. "It is an excellent essay, well thought out, and well expressed. I don't wonder, now you tell me of it. It sounds like you. Without knowing the authorship, I asked Clapp his opinion of it."
"What did he say?"
"Are you sure it won't hurt your feelings?"
"It may; but I shall get over it. Go ahead."
"He said it was rubbish."
Harry laughed.
"He would be confirmed in his decision, if he knew that I wrote it," he said.
"No doubt. But don't let that discourage you. Keep on writing by all means, and you'll become an editor in time."
It has already been mentioned that John Clapp and Luke Harrison were intimate. Though their occupations differed, one being a printer and the other a shoemaker, they had similar tastes, and took similar views of life. Both were discontented with the lot which Fortune had assigned them. To work at the case, or the shoe-bench, seemed equally irksome, and they often lamented to each other the hard necessity which compelled them to it. Suppose we listen to their conversation, as they walked up the village street, one evening about this time, smoking cigars.
"I say, Luke," said John Clapp, "I've got tired of this kind of life. Here I've been in the office a year, and I'm not a cent richer than when I entered it, besides working like a dog all the while."
"Just my case," said Luke. "I've been shoe-makin' ever since I was fourteen, and I'll be blest if I can show five dollars, to save my life."
"What's worse," said Clapp, "there isn't any prospect of anything better in my case. What's a feller to do on fifteen dollars a week?"
"Won't old Anderson raise your wages?"
"Not he! He thinks I ought to get rich on what he pays me now," and Clapp laughed scornfully. "If I were like Ferguson, I might. He never spends a cent without taking twenty-four hours to think it over beforehand."
My readers, who are familiar with Mr. Ferguson's views and ways of life, will at once see that this was unjust, but justice cannot be expected from an angry and discontented man.
"Just so," said Luke. "If a feller was to live on bread and water, and get along with one suit of clothes a year, he might save something, but that aintmystyle."
"Nor mine."
"It's strange how lucky some men are," said Luke. "They get rich without tryin'. I never was lucky. I bought a ticket in a lottery once, but of course I didn't draw anything. Just my luck!"
"So did I," said Clapp, "but I fared no better. It seemed as if Fortune had a spite against me. Here I am twenty-five years old, and all I'm worth is two dollars and a half, and I owe more than that to the tailor."
"You're as rich as I am," said Luke. "I only get fourteen dollars a week. That's less than you do."
"A dollar more or less don't amount to much," said Clapp. "I'll tell you what it is, Luke," he resumed after a pause, "I'm getting sick of Centreville."
"So am I," said Luke, "but it don't make much difference. If I had fifty dollars, I'd go off and try my luck somewhere else, but I'll have to wait till I'm gray-headed before I get as much as that."
"Can't you borrow it?"
"Who'd lend it to me?"
"I don't know. If I did, I'd go in for borrowing myself. I wish there was some way of my getting to California."
"California!" repeated Luke with interest. "What would you do there?"
"I'd go to the mines."
"Do you think there's money to be made there?"
"I know there is," said Clapp, emphatically.
"How do you know it?"
"There's an old school-mate of mine—Ralph Smith—went out there two years ago. Last week he returned home—I heard it in a letter—and how much do you think he brought with him?"
"How much?"
"Eight thousand dollars!"
"Eight thousand dollars! He didn't make it all at the mines, did he?"
"Yes, he did. When he went out there, he had just money enough to pay his passage. Now, after only two years, he can lay off and live like a gentleman."
"He's been lucky, and no mistake."
"You bet he has. But we might be as lucky if we were only out there."
"Ay, there's the rub. A fellow can't travel for nothing."
At this point in their conversation, a well-dressed young man, evidently a stranger in the village, met them, and stopping, asked politely for a light.
This Clapp afforded him.
"You are a stranger in the village?" he said, with some curiosity.
"Yes, I was never here before. I come from New York."
"Indeed! If I lived in New York I'd stay there, and not come to such a beastly place as Centreville."
"Do you live here?" asked the stranger.
"Yes."
"I wonder you live in such a beastly place," he said, with a smile.
"You wouldn't, if you knew the reason."
"What is the reason?"
"I can't get away."
The stranger laughed.
"Cruel parents?" he asked.
"Not much," said Clapp. "The plain reason is, that I haven't got money enough to get me out of town."
"It's the same with me," said Luke Harrison.
"Gentlemen, we are well met," said the stranger. "I'm hard up myself."
"You don't look like it," said Luke, glancing at his rather flashy attire.
"These clothes are not paid for," said the stranger, laughing; "and what's more, I don't think they are likely to be. But, I take it, you gentlemen are better off than I in one respect. You've got situations—something to do."
"Yes, but on starvation pay," said Clapp. "I'm in the office of the'Centreville Gazette.'"
"And I'm in a shoemaker's shop. It's a beastly business for a young man of spirit," said Luke.
"Well, I'm a gentleman at large, living on my wits, and pretty poor living it is sometimes," said the stranger. "As I think we'll agree together pretty well, I'm glad I've met you. We ought to know each other better. There's my card."
He drew from his pocket a highly glazed piece of pasteboard, bearing the name,
"I haven't any cards with me," said Clapp, "but my name is JohnClapp."
"And mine is Luke Harrison," said the bearer of that appellation.
"I'm proud to know you, gentlemen. If you have no objection, we'll walk on together."
To this Clapp and Luke acceded readily. Indeed, they were rather proud of being seen in company with a young man so dashing in manner, and fashionably dressed, though in a pecuniary way their new acquaintance, by his own confession, was scarcely as well off as themselves.
"Where are you staying, Mr. Kensington?" said Clapp.
"At the hotel. It's a poor place. No style."
"Of course not. I can't help wondering, Mr. Kensington, what can bring you to such a one-horse place as this."
"I don't mind telling you, then. The fact is, I've got an old aunt living about two miles from here. She's alone in the world—got neither chick nor child—and is worth at least ten thousand dollars. Do you see?"
"I think I do," said Clapp. "You want to come in for a share of the stamps."
"Yes; I want to see if I can't get something out of the old girl," said Kensington, carelessly.
"Do you think the chance is good?"
"I don't know. I hear she's pretty tight-fisted. But I've run on here on the chance of doing something. If she will only make me her heir, and give me five hundred dollars in hand, I'll go to California, and see what'll turn up."
"California!" repeated John Clapp and Luke in unison.
"Yes; were you ever there?"
"No; but we were talking of going there just as you came up," said John. "An old school-mate of mine has just returned from there with eight thousand dollars in gold."
"Lucky fellow! That's the kind of haul I'd like to make."
"Do you know how much it costs to go out there?"
"The prices are down just at present. You can go for a hundred dollars—second cabin."
"It might as well be a thousand!" said Luke. "Clapp and I can't raise a hundred dollars apiece to save our lives."
"I'll tell you what," said Kensington. "You two fellows are just the company I'd like. If I can raise five hundred dollars out of the old girl, I'll take you along with me, and you can pay me after you get out there."
John Clapp and Luke Harrison were astounded at this liberal offer from a perfect stranger, but they had no motives of delicacy about accepting it. They grasped the hand of their new friend, and assured him that nothing would suit them so well.
"All right!" said Kensington. "Then it's agreed. Now, boys, suppose we go round to the tavern, and ratify our compact by a drink."
"I say amen to that," answered Clapp, "but I insist on standing treat."
"Just as you say," said Kensington. "Come along."
It was late when the three parted company. Luke and John Clapp were delighted with their new friend, and, as they staggered home with uncertain steps, they indulged in bright visions of future prosperity.
Miss Deborah Kensington sat in an old-fashioned rocking-chair covered with a cheap print, industriously engaged in footing a stocking. She was a maiden lady of about sixty, with a thin face, thick seamed with wrinkles, a prominent nose, bridged by spectacles, sharp gray eyes, and thin lips. She was a shrewd New England woman, who knew very well how to take care of and increase the property which she had inherited. Her nephew had been correctly informed as to her being close-fisted. All her establishment was carried on with due regard to economy, and though her income in the eyes of a city man would be counted small, she saved half of it every year, thus increasing her accumulations.
As she sat placidly knitting, an interruption came in the shape of a knock at the front door.
"I'll go myself," she said, rising, and laying down the stocking. "Hannah's out in the back room, and won't hear. I hope it aint Mrs. Smith, come to borrow some butter. She aint returned that last half-pound she borrowed. She seems to think her neighbors have got to support her."
These thoughts were in her mind as she opened the door. But no Mrs. Smith presented her figure to the old lady's gaze. She saw instead, with considerable surprise, a stylish young man with a book under his arm. She jumped to the conclusion that he was a book-pedler, having been annoyed by several persistent specimens of that class of travelling merchants.
"If you've got books to sell," she said, opening the attack, "you may as well go away. I aint got no money to throw away."
Mr. Ferdinand B. Kensington—for he was the young man in question—laughed heartily, while the old lady stared at him half amazed, half angry.
"I don't see what there is to laugh at," said she, offended.
"I was laughing at the idea of my being taken for a book-pedler."
"Well, aint you one?" she retorted. "If you aint, what be you?"
"Aunt Deborah, don't you know me?" asked the young man, familiarly.
"Who are you that calls me aunt?" demanded the old lady, puzzled.
"I'm your brother Henry's son. My name is Ferdinand."
"You don't say so!" ejaculated the old lady. "Why, I'd never 'ave thought it. I aint seen you since you was a little boy."
"This don't look as if I was a little boy, aunt," said the young man, touching his luxuriant whiskers.
"How time passes, I do declare!" said Deborah. "Well, come in, and we'll talk over old times. Where did you come from?"
"From the city of New York. That's where I've been living for some time."
"You don't say! Well, what brings you this way?"
"To see you, Aunt Deborah. It's so long since I've seen you that I thought I'd like to come."
"I'm glad to see you, Ferdinand," said the old lady, flattered by such a degree of dutiful attention from a fine-looking young man. "So your poor father's dead?"
"Yes, aunt, he's been dead three years."
"I suppose he didn't leave much. He wasn't very forehanded."
"No, aunt; he left next to nothing."
"Well, it didn't matter much, seein' as you was the only child, and big enough to take care of yourself."
"Still, aunt, it would have been comfortable if he had left me a few thousand dollars."
"Aint you doin' well? You look as if you was," said Deborah, surveying critically her nephew's good clothes.
"Well, I've been earning a fair salary, but it's very expensive living in a great city like New York."
"Humph! that's accordin' as you manage. If you live snug, you can get along there cheap as well as anywhere, I reckon. What was you doin'?"
"I was a salesman for A. T. Stewart, our leading dry-goods merchant."
"What pay did you get?"
"A thousand dollars a year."
"Why, that's a fine salary. You'd ought to save up a good deal."
"You don't realize how much it costs to live in New York, aunt. Of course, if I lived here, I could live on half the sum, but I have to pay high prices for everything in New York."
"You don't need to spend such a sight on dress," said Deborah, disapprovingly.
"I beg your pardon, Aunt Deborah; that's where you are mistaken. The store-keepers in New York expect you to dress tip-top and look genteel, so as to do credit to them. If it hadn't been for that, I shouldn't have spent half so much for dress. Then, board's very expensive."
"You can get boarded here for two dollars and a half a week," saidAunt Deborah.
"Two dollars and a half! Why, I never paid less than eight dollars a week in the city, and you can only get poor board for that."
"The boarding-houses must make a great deal of money," said Deborah."If I was younger, I'd maybe go to New York, and keep one myself."
"You're rich, aunt. You don't need to do that."
"Who told you I was rich?" said the old lady, quickly.
"Why, you've only got yourself to take care of, and you own this farm, don't you?"
"Yes, but farmin' don't pay much."
"I always heard you were pretty comfortable."
"So I am," said the old lady, "and maybe I save something; but my income aint as great as yours."
"You have only yourself to look after, and it is cheap living inCentreville."
"I don't fling money away. I don't spend quarter as much as you on dress."
Looking at the old lady'a faded bombazine dress, Ferdinand was very ready to believe this.
"You don't have to dress here, I suppose," he answered. "But, aunt, we won't talk about money matters just yet. It was funny you took me for a book-pedler."
"It was that book you had, that made me think so."
"It's a book I brought as a present to you, Aunt Deborah."
"You don't say!" said the old lady, gratified. "What is it? Let me look at it."
"It's a copy of 'Pilgrim's Progress,' illustrated. I knew you wouldn't like the trashy books they write nowadays, so I brought you this."
"Really, Ferdinand, you're very considerate," said Aunt Deborah, turning over the leaves with manifest pleasure. "It's a good book, and I shall be glad to have it. Where are you stoppin'?"
"At the hotel in the village."
"You must come and stay here. You can get 'em to send round your things any time."
"Thank you, aunt, I shall be delighted to do so. It seems so pleasant to see you again after so many years. You don't look any older than when I saw you last."
Miss Deborah knew very well that she did look older, but still she was pleased by the compliment. Is there any one who does not like to receive the same assurance?
"I'm afraid your eyes aint very sharp, Ferdinand," she said. "I feelI'm gettin' old. Why, I'm sixty-one, come October."
"Are you? I shouldn't call you over fifty, from your looks, aunt.Really I shouldn't."
"I'm afraid you tell fibs sometimes," said Aunt Deborah, but she said it very graciously, and surveyed her nephew very kindly. "Heigh ho! it's a good while since your poor father and I were children together, and went to the school-house on the hill. Now he's gone, and I'm left alone."
"Not alone, aunt. If he is dead, you have got a nephew."
"Well, Ferdinand, I'm glad to see you, and I shall be glad to have you pay me a good long visit. But how can you be away from your place so long? Did Mr. Stewart give you a vacation?"
"No, aunt; I left him."
"For good?"
"Yes."
"Left a place where you was gettin' a thousand dollars a year!" said the old lady in accents of strong disapproval.
"Yes, aunt."
"Then I think you was very foolish," said Deborah with emphasis.
"Perhaps you won't, when you know why I left it."
"Why did you?"
"Because I could do better."
"Better than a thousand dollars a year!" said Deborah with surprise.
"Yes, I am offered two thousand dollars in San Francisco."
"You don't say!" ejaculated Deborah, letting her stocking drop in sheer amazement.
"Yes, I do. It's a positive fact."
"You must be a smart clerk!"
"Well, it isn't for me to say," said Ferdinand, laughing.
"When be you goin' out?"
"In a week, but I thought I must come and bid you good-by first."
"I'm real glad to see you, Ferdinand," said Aunt Deborah, the more warmly because she considered him so prosperous that she would have no call to help him. But here she was destined to find herself mistaken.
"I don't think I can come here till to-morrow, Aunt Deborah," said Ferdinand, a little later. "I'll stay at the hotel to-night, and come round with my baggage in the morning."
"Very well, nephew, but now you're here, you must stay to tea."
"Thank you, aunt, I will."
"I little thought this mornin', I should have Henry's son to tea," said Aunt Deborah, half to herself. "You don't look any like him, Ferdinand."
"No, I don't think I do."
"It's curis too, for you was his very picter when you was a boy."
"I've changed a good deal since then, Aunt Deborah," said her nephew, a little uneasily.
"So you have, to be sure. Now there's your hair used to be almost black, now it's brown. Really I can't account for it," and Aunt Deborah surveyed the young man over her spectacles.
"You've got a good memory, aunt," said Ferdinand with a forced laugh.
"Now ef your hair had grown darker, I shouldn't have wondered," pursued Aunt Deborah; "but it aint often black turns to brown."
"That's so, aunt, but I can explain it," said Ferdinand, after a slight pause.
"How was it?"
"You know the French barbers can change your hair to any shade you want."
"Can they?"
"Yes, to be sure. Now—don't laugh at me, aunt—a young lady I used to like didn't fancy dark hair, so I went to a French barber, and he changed the color for me in three months."
"You don't say!"
"Fact, aunt; but he made me pay him well too."
"How much did you give him?"
"Fifty dollars, aunt."
"That's what I call wasteful," said Aunt Deborah, disapprovingly.
"Couldn't you be satisfied with the nat'ral color of your hair? To my mind black's handsomer than brown."
"You're right, aunt. I wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been forMiss Percival."
"Are you engaged to her?"
"No, Aunt Deborah. The fact was, I found she wasn't domestic, and didn't know anything about keeping house, but only cared for dress, so I drew off, and she's married to somebody else now."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Deborah, emphatically. "The jade! She wouldn't have been a proper wife for you. You want some good girl that's willin' to go into the kitchen, and look after things, and not carry all she's worth on her back."
"I agree with you, aunt," said Ferdinand, who thought it politic, in view of the request he meant to make by and by, to agree with hie aunt in her views of what a wife should be.
Aunt Deborah began to regard her nephew as quite a sensible young man, and to look upon him with complacency.
"I wish, Ferdinand," she said, "you liked farmin'."
"Why, aunt?"
"You could stay here, and manage my farm for me."
"Heaven forbid!" thought the young man with a shudder. "I should be bored to death. Does the old lady think I would put on a frock and overalls, and go out and plough, or hoe potatoes?"
"It's a good, healthy business," pursued Aunt Deborah, unconscious of the thoughts which were passing through her nephew's mind, "and you wouldn't have to spend much for dress. Then I'm gittin' old, and though I don't want to make no promises, I'd very likely will it to you, ef I was satisfied with the way you managed."
"You're very kind, aunt," said Ferdinand, "but I'm afraid I wasn't cut out for farming. You know I never lived in the country."
"Why, yes, you did," said the old lady. "You was born in the country, and lived there till you was ten years old."
"To be sure," said Ferdinand, hastily, "but I was too young then to take notice of farming. What does a boy of ten know of such things?"
"To be sure. You're right there."
"The fact is, Aunt Deborah, some men are born to be farmers, and some are born to be traders. Now, I've got a talent for trading. That's the reason I've got such a good offer from San Francisco."
"How did you get it? Did you know the man?"
"He used to be in business in New York. He was the first man I worked for, and he knew what I was. San Francisco is full of money, and traders make more than they do here. That's the reason he can afford to offer me so large a salary."
"When did he send for you?"
"I got the letter last week."
"Have you got it with you?"
"No, aunt; I may have it at the hotel," said the young man, hesitating, "but I am not certain."
"Well, it's a good offer. There isn't nobody in Centreville gets so large a salary."
"No, I suppose not. They don't need it, as it is cheap living here."
"I hope when you get out there, Ferdinand, you'll save up money.You'd ought to save two-thirds of your pay."
"I will try to, aunt."
"You'll be wantin' to get married bimeby, and then it'll be convenient to have some money to begin with."
"To be sure, aunt. I see you know how to manage."
"I was always considered a good manager," said Deborah, complacently. "Ef your poor father had hadmyfaculty, he wouldn't have died as poor as he did, I can tell you."
"What a conceited old woman she is, with her faculty!" thoughtFerdinand, but what he said was quite different.
"I wish he had had, aunt. It would have been better for me."
"Well, you ought to get along, with your prospects."
"Little the old woman knows what my real prospects are!" thought the young man.
"Of course I ought," he said.
"Excuse me a few minutes, nephew," said Aunt Deborah, gathering up her knitting and rising from her chair. "I must go out and see about tea. Maybe you'd like to read that nice book you brought."
"No, I thank you, aunt. I think I'll take a little walk round your place, if you'll allow me."
"Sartin, Ferdinand. Only come back in half an hour; tea'll be ready then."
"Yea, aunt, I'll remember."
So while Deborah was in the kitchen, Ferdinand took a walk in the fields, laughing to himself from time to time, as if something amused him.
He returned in due time, and sat down to supper Aunt Deborah had provided her best, and, though the dishes were plain, they were quite palatable.
When supper was over, the young man said,—
"Now, aunt, I think I will be getting back to the hotel."
"You'll come over in the morning, Ferdinand, and fetch your trunk?"
"Yes, aunt. Good-night."
"Good-night."
"Well," thought the young man, as he tramped back to the hotel. "I've opened the campaign, and made, I believe, a favorable impression. But what a pack of lies I have had to tell, to be sure! The old lady came near catching me once or twice, particularly about the color of my hair. It was a lucky thought, that about the French barber. It deceived the poor old soul. I don't think she could ever have been very handsome. If she was she must have changed fearfully."
In the evening, John Clapp and Luke Harrison came round to the hotel to see him.
"Have you been to see your aunt?" asked Clapp.
"Yes, I took tea there."
"Have a good time?"
"Oh, I played the dutiful nephew to perfection. The old lady thinks a sight of me."
"How did you do it?"
"I agreed with all she said, told her how young she looked, and humbugged her generally."
Clapp laughed.
"The best part of the joke is—will you promise to keep dark?"
"Of course."
"Don't breathe it to a living soul, you two fellows.She isn't my aunt of all!"
"Isn't your aunt?"
"No, her true nephew is in New York—I know him.—but I know enough of family matters to gull the old lady, and, I hope, raise a few hundred dollars out of her."
This was a joke which Luke and Clapp could appreciate, and they laughed heartily at the deception which was being practised on simple Aunt Deborah, particularly when Ferdinand explained how he got over the difficulty of having different colored hair from the real owner of the name he assumed.
"We must have a drink on that," said Luke. "Walk up, gentlemen."
"I'm agreeable," said Ferdinand.
"And I," said Clapp. "Never refuse a good offer, say I."
Poor Aunt Deborah! She little dreamed that she was the dupe of a designing adventurer who bore no relationship to her.