Alger Horatio Jr.
Driven from Home; Or, Carl Crawford's Experience
CHAPTER XVII
CARL ENTERS THE FACTORY
When they left the factory Mr. Jennings said, with a smile:
“Now you are one of us, Carl. To-morrow you begin work.”
“I am glad of it, sir.”
“You don’t ask what salary you are to get.”
“I am willing to leave that to you.”
“Suppose we say two dollars a week and board—to begin with.”
“That is better than I expected. But where am I to board?”
“At my house, for the present, if that will suit you.”
“I shall like it very much, if it won’t inconvenience you.”
“Hannah is the one to be inconvenienced, if anyone. I had a little conversation with her while you were getting ready for dinner. She seems to have taken a liking for you, though she doesn’t like boys generally. As for me, it will make the home brighter to have a young person in it. Hannah and I are old-fashioned and quiet, and the neighbors don’t have much reason to complain of noise.”
“No, sir; I should think not,” said Carl, with a smile.
“There is one thing you must be prepared for, Carl,” said Mr. Jennings, after a pause.
“What is that, sir?”
“Your living in my house—I being your employer—may excite jealousy in some. I think I know of one who will be jealous.”
“Leonard Craig?”
“And his uncle. However, don’t borrow any trouble on that score. I hope you won’t take advantage of your position, and, thinking yourself a favorite, neglect your duties.”
“I will not, sir.”
“Business and friendship ought to be kept apart.”
“That is right, sir.”
“I am going back to the house, but you may like to take a walk about the village. You will feel interested in it, as it is to be your future home. By the way, it may be well for you to write for your trunk. You can order it sent to my house.”
“All right, sir; I will do so.”
He went to the post office, and, buying a postal card, wrote to his friend, Gilbert Vance, as follows:
“Dear Gilbert:—Please send my trunk by express to me at Milford, care of Henry Jennings, Esq. He is my employer, and I live at his house. He is proprietor of a furniture factory. Will write further particulars soon.
“Carl Crawford.”
This postal carried welcome intelligence to Gilbert, who felt a brotherly interest in Carl. He responded by a letter of hearty congratulation, and forwarded the trunk as requested.
Carl reported for duty the next morning, and, though a novice, soon showed that he was not without mechanical skill.
At twelve o’clock all the factory hands had an hour off for dinner. As Carl passed into the street he found himself walking beside the boy whom he had succeeded—Leonard Craig.
“Good-morning, Leonard,” said Carl, pleasantly.
“Good-morning. Have you taken my place in the factory?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you shall like it?”
“I think I shall, though, of course, it is rather early to form an opinion.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to grow up a workman. I think I am fit for something better.”
“Mr. Jennings began as a factory hand.”
“I suppose he had a taste for it. I haven’t.”
“Then you like your present position better?”
“Oh, yes; it’s more genteel. How much does Jennings pay you?”
“Two dollars a week and board.”
“How is that? Where do you board?”
“With him.”
“Oh!” said Leonard, his countenance changing. “So you are a favorite with the boss, are you?”
“I don’t know. He gave me warning that he should be just as strict with me as if we were strangers.”
“How long have you known him?”
Carl smiled.
“I met him for the first time yesterday,” he answered.
“That’s very queer.”
“Well, perhaps it is a little singular.”
“Are you a poor boy?”
“I have to earn my own living.”
“I see. You will grow up a common workman.”
“I shall try to rise above it. I am not ashamed of the position, but I am ambitious to rise.”
“I am going to be a bookkeeper,” said Leonard. “My uncle is going to teach me. I would rather be a bookkeeper than a factory hand.”
“Then you are right in preparing yourself for such a post.”
Here the two boys separated, as they were to dine in different places.
Leonard was pleased with his new position. He really had very little to do. Twice a day he went to the post office, once or twice to the bank, and there was an occasional errand besides. To Carl the idleness would have been insupportable, but Leonard was naturally indolent. He sat down in a chair by the window, and watched the people go by.
The first afternoon he was in luck, for there was a dog fight in the street outside. He seized his hat, went out, and watched the canine warfare with the deepest interest.
“I think I will buy you a system of bookkeeping,” said his uncle, “and you can study it in the office.”
“Put it off till next week, Uncle Julius. I want to get rested from the factory work.”
“It seems to me, Leonard, you were born lazy,” said his uncle, sharply.
“I don’t care to work with my hands.”
“Do you care to work at all?”
“I should like to be a bookkeeper.”
“Do you know that my work is harder and more exhausting than that of a workman in the factory?”
“You don’t want to exchange with him, do you?” asked Leonard.
“No.”
“That’s where I agree with you.”
Mr. Jennings took several weekly papers. Leonard was looking over the columns of one of them one day, when he saw the advertisement of a gift enterprise of a most attractive character. The first prize was a house and grounds valued at ten thousand dollars. Following were minor prizes, among them one thousand dollars in gold.
Leonard’s fancy was captivated by the brilliant prospect of such a prize.
“Price of tickets—only one dollar!” he read. “Think of getting a thousand dollars for one! Oh, if I could only be the lucky one!”
He took out his purse, though he knew beforehand that his stock of cash consisted only of two dimes and a nickel.
“I wonder if I could borrow a dollar of that boy Carl!” he deliberated. “I’ll speak to him about it.”
This happened more than a week after Carl went to work in the factory. He had already received one week’s pay, and it remained untouched in his pocket.
Leonard joined him in the street early in the evening, and accosted him graciously.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Nowhere in particular. I am out for a walk.”
“So am I. Shall we walk together?”
“If you like.”
After talking on indifferent matters, Leonard said suddenly: “Oh, by the way, will you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Lend me a dollar till next week.”
In former days Carl would probably have granted the favor, but he realized the value of money now that he had to earn it by steady work.
“I am afraid it won’t be convenient,” he answered.
“Does that mean that you haven’t got it?” asked Leonard.
“No, I have it, but I am expecting to use it.”
“I wouldn’t mind paying you interest for it—say twenty-five cents,” continued Leonard, who had set his heart on buying a ticket in the gift enterprise.
“I would be ashamed to take such interest as that.”
“But I have a chance of making a good deal more out of it myself.”
“In what way?”
“That is my secret.”
“Why don’t you borrow it of your uncle?”
“He would ask too many questions. However, I see that you’re a miser, and I won’t trouble you.”
He left Carl in a huff and walked hastily away. He turned into a lane little traveled, and, after walking a few rods, came suddenly upon the prostrate body of a man, whose deep, breathing showed that he was stupefied by liquor. Leonard was not likely to feel any special interest in him, but one object did attract his attention. It was a wallet which had dropped out of the man’s pocket and was lying on the grass beside him.
CHAPTER XVIII
LEONARD’S TEMPTATION
Leonard was not a thief, but the sight of the wallet tempted him, under the circumstances. He had set his heart on buying a ticket in the gift enterprise, and knew of no way of obtaining the requisite sum—except this. It was, indeed, a little shock to him to think of appropriating money not his own; yet who would know it? The owner of the wallet was drunk, and would be quite unconscious of his loss. Besides, if he didn’t take the wallet, some one else probably would, and appropriate the entire contents. It was an insidious suggestion, and Leonard somehow persuaded himself that since the money was sure to be taken, he might as well have the benefit of it as anyone else.
So, after turning over the matter in his mind rapidly, he stooped down and picked up the wallet.
The man did not move.
Emboldened by his insensibility, Leonard cautiously opened the pocketbook, and his eyes glistened when he saw tucked away in one side, quite a thick roll of bills.
“He won’t miss one bill,” thought Leonard. “Anyone else might take the whole wallet, but I wouldn’t do that. I wonder how much money there is in the roll.”
He darted another glance at the prostrate form, but there seemed no danger of interruption. He took the roll in his hand, therefore, and a hasty scrutiny showed him that the bills ran from ones to tens. There must have been nearly a hundred dollars in all.
“Suppose I take a five,” thought Leonard, whose cupidity increased with the sight of the money. “He won’t miss it, and it will be better in my hands than if spent for whiskey.”
How specious are the arguments of those who seek an excuse for a wrong act that will put money in the purse!
“Yes, I think I may venture to take a five, and, as I might not be able to change it right away, I will take a one to send for a ticket. Then I will put the wallet back in the man’s pocket.”
So far, all went smoothly, and Leonard was proceeding to carry out his intention when, taking a precautionary look at the man on the ground, he was dumfounded by seeing his eyes wide open and fixed upon him.
Leonard flushed painfully, like a criminal detected in a crime, and returned the look of inquiry by one of dismay.
“What—you—doing?” inquired the victim of inebriety.
“I—is this your wallet, sir?” stammered Leonard.
“Course it is. What you got it for?”
“I—I saw it on the ground, and was afraid some one would find it, and rob you,” said Leonard, fluently.
“Somebody did find it,” rejoined the man, whose senses seemed coming back to him. “How much did you take?”
“I? You don’t think I would take any of your money?” said Leonard, in virtuous surprise.
“Looked like it! Can’t tell who to trust.”
“I assure you, I had only just picked it up, and was going to put it back in your pocket, sir.”
The man, drunk as he was, winked knowingly.
“Smart boy!” he said. “You do it well, ol’ fella!”
“But, sir, it is quite true, I assure you. I will count over the money before you. Do you know how much you had?”
“Nev’ mind. Help me up!”
Leonard stooped over and helped the drunkard to a sitting position.
“Where am I? Where is hotel?”
Leonard answered him.
“Take me to hotel, and I’ll give you a dollar.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Leonard, briskly. He was to get his dollar after all, and would not have to steal it. I am afraid he is not to be praised for his honesty, as it seemed to be a matter of necessity.
“I wish he’d give me five dollars,” thought Leonard, but didn’t see his way clear to make the suggestion.
He placed the man on his feet, and guided his steps to the road. As he walked along, the inebriate, whose gait was at first unsteady, recovered his equilibrium and required less help.
“How long had you been lying there?” asked Leonard.
“Don’t know. I was taken sick,” and the inebriate nodded knowingly at Leonard, who felt at liberty to laugh, too.
“Do you ever get sick?”
“Not that way,” answered Leonard.
“Smart boy! Better off!”
They reached the hotel, and Leonard engaged a room for his companion.
“Has he got money?” asked the landlord, in a low voice.
“Yes,” answered Leonard, “he has nearly a hundred dollars. I counted it myself.”
“That’s all right, then,” said the landlord. “Here, James, show the gentleman up to No. 15.”
“Come, too,” said the stranger to Leonard.
The latter followed the more readily because he had not yet been paid his dollar.
The door of No. 15 was opened, and the two entered.
“I will stay with the gentleman a short time,” said Leonard to the boy. “If we want anything we will ring.”
“All right, sir.”
“What’s your name?” asked the inebriate, as he sank into a large armchair near the window.
“Leonard Craig.”
“Never heard the name before.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“What you want to know for?” asked the other, cunningly.
“The landlord will want to put it on his book.”
“My name? Phil Stark.”
“Philip Stark?”
“Yes; who told you?”
It will be seen that Mr. Stark was not yet quite himself.
“You told me yourself.”
“So I did—‘scuse me.”
“Certainly, sir. By the way, you told me you would pay me a dollar for bringing you to the hotel.”
“So I did. Take it,” and Philip Stark passed the wallet to Leonard.
Leonard felt tempted to take a two-dollar bill instead of a one, as Mr. Stark would hardly notice the mistake. Still, he might ask to look at the bill, and that would be awkward. So the boy contented himself with the sum promised.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, as he slipped the bill into his vest pocket. “Do you want some supper?”
“No, I want to sleep.”
“Then you had better lie down on the bed. Will you undress?”
“No; too much trouble.”
Mr. Stark rose from the armchair, and, lurching round to the bed, flung himself on it.
“I suppose you don’t want me any longer,” said Leonard.
“No. Come round to-morrer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leonard opened the door and left the room. He resolved to keep the appointment, and come round the next day. Who knew but some more of Mr. Stark’s money might come into his hands? Grown man as he was, he seemed to need a guardian, and Leonard was willing to act as such—for a consideration.
“It’s been a queer adventure!” thought Leonard, as he slowly bent his steps towards his uncle’s house. “I’ve made a dollar out of it, anyway, and if he hadn’t happened to wake up just as he did I might have done better. However, it may turn out as well in the end.”
“You are rather late, Leonard,” said his uncle, in a tone that betrayed some irritation. “I wanted to send you on an errand, and you are always out of the way at such a time.”
“I’ll go now,” said Leonard, with unusual amiability. “I’ve had a little adventure.”
“An adventure! What is it?” Mr. Gibbon asked, with curiosity.
Leonard proceeded to give an account of his finding the inebriate in the meadow, and his guiding him to the hotel. It may readily be supposed that he said nothing of his attempt to appropriate a part of the contents of the wallet.
“What was his name?” asked Gibbon, with languid curiosity.
“Phil Stark, he calls himself.”
A strange change came over the face of the bookkeeper. There was a frightened look in his eyes, and his color faded.
“Phil Stark!” he repeated, in a startled tone.
“Yes, sir.”
“What brings him here?” Gibbon asked himself nervously, but no words passed his lips.
“Do you know the name?” asked Leonard, wonderingly.
“I—have heard it before, but—no, I don’t think it is the same man.”
CHAPTER XIX
AN ARTFUL SCHEME
“Does this Mr. Stark intend to remain long in the village!” inquired the bookkeeper, in a tone of assumed indifference.
“He didn’t say anything on that point,” answered Leonard.
“He did not say what business brought him here, I presume?”
“No, he was hardly in condition to say much; he was pretty full,” said Leonard, with a laugh. “However, he wants me to call upon him to-morrow, and may tell me then.”
“He wants you to call upon him?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Are you going?”
“Yes; why shouldn’t I?”
“I see no reason,” said Gibbon, hesitating. Then, after a pause he added: “If you see the way clear, find out what brings him to Milford.”
“Yes, uncle, I will.”
“Uncle Julius seems a good deal interested in this man, considering that he is a stranger,” thought the boy.
The bookkeeper was biting his nails, a habit he had when he was annoyed. “And, Leonard,” he added slowly, “don’t mention my name while you are speaking to Stark.”
“No, sir, I won’t, if you don’t want me to,” answered Leonard, his face betraying unmistakable curiosity. His uncle noted this, and explained hurriedly: “It is possible that he may be a man whom I once met under disagreeable circumstances, and I would prefer not to meet him again. Should he learn that I was living here, he would be sure to want to renew the acquaintance.”
“Yes, sir, I see. I don’t think he would want to borrow money, for he seems to be pretty well provided. I made a dollar out of him to-day, and that is one reason why I am willing to call on him again. I may strike him for another bill.”
“There is no objection to that, provided you don’t talk to him too freely. I don’t think he will want to stay long in Milford.”
“I wouldn’t if I had as much money as he probably has.”
“Do you often meet the new boy?”
“Carl Crawford?”
“Yes; I see him on the street quite often.”
“He lives with Mr. Jennings, I hear.”
“So he tells me.”
“It is rather strange. I didn’t suppose that Jennings would care to receive a boy in his house, or that tall grenadier of a housekeeper, either. I expect she rules the household.”
“She could tuck him under her arm and walk off with him,” said Leonard, laughing.
“The boy must be artful to have wormed his way into the favor of the strange pair. He seems to be a favorite.”
“Yes, uncle, I think he is. However, I like my position better than his.”
“He will learn his business from the beginning. I don’t know but it was a mistake for you to leave the factory.”
“I am not at all sorry for it, uncle.”
“Your position doesn’t amount to much.”
“I am paid just as well as I was when I was in the factory.”
“But you are learning nothing.”
“You are going to teach me bookkeeping.”
“Even that is not altogether a desirable business. A good bookkeeper can never expect to be in business for himself. He must be content with a salary all his life.”
“You have done pretty well, uncle.”
“But there is no chance of my becoming a rich man. I have to work hard for my money. And I haven’t been able to lay up much money yet. That reminds me? Leonard, I must impress upon you the fact that you have your own way to make. I have procured you a place, and I provide you a home–”
“You take my wages,” said Leonard, bluntly.
“A part of them, but on the whole, you are not self-supporting. You must look ahead, Leonard, and consider the future. When you are a young man you will want to earn an adequate income.”
“Of course, I shall, uncle, but there is one other course.”
“What is that?”
“I may marry an heiress,” suggested Leonard, smiling.
The bookkeeper winced.
“I thought I was marrying an heiress when I married your aunt,” he said, “but within six months of our wedding day, her father made a bad failure, and actually had the assurance to ask me to give him a home under my roof.”
“Did you do it?”
“No; I told him it would not be convenient.”
“What became of him?”
“He got a small clerkship at ten dollars a week in the counting room of a mercantile friend, and filled it till one day last October, when he dropped dead of apoplexy. I made a great mistake when I married in not asking him to settle a definite sum on his daughter. It would have been so much saved from the wreck.”
“Did aunt want him to come and live here?”
“Yes, women are always unreasonable. She would have had me support the old man in idleness, but I am not one of that kind. Every tub should stand on its own bottom.”
“I say so, too, uncle. Do you know whether this boy, Carl Crawford, has any father or mother?”
“From a word Jennings let fall I infer that he has relatives, but is not on good terms with them. I have been a little afraid he might stand in your light.”
“How so, uncle?”
“Should there be any good opening for one of your age, I am afraid he would get it rather than you.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Leonard, jealously.
“Living as he does with Mr. Jennings, he will naturally try to ingratiate himself with him, and stand first in his esteem.”
“That is true. Is Mr. Jennings a rich man, do you think?”
“Yes, I think he is. The factory and stock are worth considerable money, but I know he has other investments also. As one item he has over a thousand dollars in the Carterville Savings Bank. He has been very prudent, has met with no losses, and has put aside a great share of his profits every year.”
“I wonder he don’t marry.”
“Marriage doesn’t seem to be in his thoughts. Hannah makes him so comfortable that he will probably remain a bachelor to the end of his days.”
“Perhaps he will leave his money to her.”
“He is likely to live as long as she.”
“She is a good deal longer than he,” said Leonard, with a laugh.
The bookkeeper condescended to smile at this joke, though it was not very brilliant.
“Before this boy Carl came,” he resumed thoughtfully, “I hoped he might take a fancy to you. He must die some time, and, having no near blood relative, I thought he might select as heir some boy like yourself, who might grow into his favor and get on his blind side.”
“Is it too late now?” asked Leonard, eagerly.
“Perhaps not, but the appearance of this new boy on the scene makes your chance a good deal smaller.”
“I wish we could get rid of him,” said Leonard, frowning.
“The only way is to injure him in the estimation of Mr. Jennings.”
“I think I know of a way.”
“Mention it.”
“Here is an advertisement of a lottery,” said Leonard, whose plans, in view of what his uncle had said, had experienced a change.
“Well?”
“I will write to the manager in Carl’s name, inquiring about tickets, and, of course, he will answer to him, to the care of Mr. Jennings. This will lead to the suspicion that Carl is interested in such matters.”
“It is a good idea. It will open the way to a loss of confidence on the part of Mr. Jennings.”
“I will sit down at your desk and write at once.”
Three days later Mr. Jennings handed a letter to Carl after they reached home in the evening.
“A letter for you to my care,” he explained.
Carl opened it in surprise, and read as follows:
“Office Of Gift Enterprise.
“Mr. Carl Crawford:—Your letter of inquiry is received. In reply we would say that we will send you six tickets for five dollars. By disposing of them among your friends at one dollar each, you will save the cost of your own. You had better remit at once.
“Yours respectfully, Pitkins & Gamp,
“Agents.”
Carl looked the picture of astonishment when he read this letter.
