Alger Horatio Jr.
Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute
CHAPTER XXXI. AN IMPORTANT LETTER
The letter alluded to in the last chapter ran thus. It was written from Mr. Newman’s house in Madison Avenue, though inclosed in a business envelope:
“MASTER HECTOR ROSCOE: I learn that I am indebted to you for the rescue of my little daughter from imminent peril during my absence from home yesterday. A friend who witnessed her providential escape has given me such an account of your bravery in risking your own life to save that of an unknown child, that I cannot rest till I have had an opportunity of thanking you in person. You will do me a favor, if not otherwise engaged, if you will call at my house this evening, about eight o’clock. Yours gratefully,
“Titus NEWMAN.”
It is needless to say that Hector read this letter with feelings of gratification. It is true, as we are often told, that “virtue is its own reward,” but it is, nevertheless, pleasant to feel that our efforts to do well and serve others are appreciated.
“No bad news, I hope, Hector?” said Walter.
“No,” answered Hector. “You may read the letter, if you like, Mr. Ross.”
Mr. Ross did so, and aloud, much to the surprise of everyone at table.
“You did not tell me of this,” said Walter, in astonishment.
“No,” answered Hector, smiling.
“But why not?”
“Because Hector is modest,” Mr. Ross answered for him. “Now, if you had done such a thing, Walter, we should have been sure to hear of it.”
“I don’t know,” returned Walter, comically. “You don’t know how many lives I have saved within the last few years.”
“Nor anyone else, I fancy,” replied his father. “By the way, Hector, there is a paragraph about it in the Herald of this morning. I read it, little suspecting that you were the boy whose name the reporter was unable to learn.”
Hector read the paragraph in question with excusable pride. It was, in the main, correct.
“How old was the little girl?” asked Walter.
“Four years old, I should think.”
“That isn’t quite so romantic as if she had been three times as old.”
“I couldn’t have rescued her quite as easily, in that case.”
Of course, Hector was called upon for an account of the affair, which he gave plainly, without adding any of those embellishments which some boys, possibly some of my young readers, might have been tempted to put in.
“You are fortunate to have obliged a man like Titus Newman, Hector,” said Mr. Ross. “He is a man of great wealth and influence.”
“Do you know him, papa?” asked Walter.
“No—that is, not at all well. I have been introduced to him.”
Punctually at eight o’clock Hector ascended the steps of a handsome residence on Madison Avenue. The door was opened by a colored servant, of imposing manners.
“Is Mr. Newman at home?” asked Hector, politely.
“Yes, sar.”
“Be kind enough to hand him this card?”
“Yes, sar.”
Presently the servant reappeared, saying:
“Mr. Newman will see you, sar, in the library. I will induct you thither.”
“Thank you,” answered Hector, secretly amused at the airs put on by his sable conductor.
Seated at a table, in a handsomely furnished library, sat a stout gentleman of kindly aspect. He rose quickly from his armchair and advanced to meet our hero.
“I am glad to see you, my young friend,” he said. “Sit there,” pointing to a smaller armchair opposite. “So you are the boy who rescued my dear little girl?”
His voice softened as he uttered these last few words, and it was easy to see how strong was the paternal love that swelled his heart.
“I was fortunate in having the opportunity, Mr. Newman.”
“You have rendered me a service I can never repay. When I think that but for you the dear child—” his voice faltered.
“Don’t think of it, Mr. Newman,” said Hector, earnestly. “I don’t like to think of it myself.”
“And you exposed yourself to great danger, my boy!”
“I suppose I did, sir; but that did not occur to me at the time. It was all over in an instant.”
“I see you are modest, and do not care to take too great credit to yourself, but I shall not rest till I have done something to express my sense of your noble courage. Now, I am a man of business, and it is my custom to come to the point directly. Is there any way in which I can serve you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am glad to hear it. Name it.”
“I am looking for a situation in some mercantile establishment, Mr. Newman.”
“Pardon me, but, judging from your appearance, I should not suppose that it was a matter of importance to you.”
“Yes, sir; I am poor.”
“You don’t look so.”
“You judge from my dress, no doubt”—Hector was attired in a suit of fine texture—“I suppose I may say,” he added, with a smile, “that I have seen better days.”
“Surely, you are young to have met with reverses, if that is what you mean to imply,” the merchant remarked, observing our hero with some curiosity.
“Yes, sir; if you have time, I will explain to you how it happened.”
As the story has already been told, I will not repeat Hector’s words.
Mr. Newman listened with unaffected interest.
“It is certainly a curious story,” he said. “Did you, then, quietly surrender your claims to the estate simply upon your uncle’s unsupported assertion?”
“I beg pardon, sir. He showed me my father’s—that is, Mr. Roscoe’s—letter.”
“Call him your father, for I believe he was.”
“Do you, sir?” asked Hector, eagerly.
“I do. Your uncle’s story looks like an invention. Let me think, was your father’s name Edward Roscoe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in what year were you born?”
“In the year 1856.”
“At Sacramento?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I feel quite sure that I made your father’s acquaintance in the succeeding year, and your own as well, though you were an infant—that is, you were less than a year old.”
“Did my father say anything of having adopted me?”
“No; on the contrary, he repeatedly referred to you as his child, and your mother also displayed toward you an affection which would have been at least unusual if you had not been her own child.”
“Then you think, sir—” Hector began.
“I think that your uncle’s story is a mere fabrication. He has contrived a snare in which you have allowed yourself to be enmeshed.”
“I am only a boy, sir. I supposed there was nothing for me to do but to yield possession of the estate when my uncle showed me the letter.”
“It was natural enough; and your uncle doubtless reckoned upon your inexperience and ignorance of the law.”
“What would you advise me to do, sir?”
“Let me think.”
The merchant leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to reflection. In the midst of his reverie the pompous servant entered, bringing a letter upon a silver salver.
“A letter, sar,” he said.
“That will do. You can go, Augustus.”
“Yes, sar.”
Mr. Newman glanced at the postmark, tore open the letter, read it with a frown, and then, as if he had suddenly formed a resolution, he said:
“This letter has helped me to a decision.”
Hector regarded him with surprise. What could the letter have to do with him?
“Have you any objection to going out to California by the next steamer?” asked Mr. New-man.
“No, sir,” answered Hector, with animation “Am I to go alone?”
“Yes, alone.”
CHAPTER XXXII. A WAYWARD YOUTH
It is needless to say that Hector was very much surprised, not to say startled, at this sudden proposal. What could Mr. Newman possibly want him to go to California for? If on business, how did it happen that he trusted a mere boy with so responsible a mission?
The explanation came soon.
“No doubt, you are surprised,” said the merchant, “at the proposal I have made you. I am not prepared myself to say that I am acting with good judgment. In making it, I have obeyed a sudden impulse, which is not always prudent. Yet, in more than one instance, I have found advantage in obeying such an impulse. But to my explanation. By the way, let me first ask you two or three questions. Have you any taste for any kind of liquor?”
“No, sir,” answered Hector, promptly.
“Even if you had, do you think you would have self-control enough to avoid entering saloons and gratifying your tastes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is well. Do you play pool?”
“No, sir,” answered Hector, wondering whither all these questions tended.
“I ask because playing pool in public rooms paves the way for intemperance, as bars are generally connected with such establishments.”
“I don’t even know how to play pool, sir,” said Hector.
“Do you ever bet or gamble?” continued the merchant.
“No, sir.”
“You will understand why I ask all these questions when I tell you that I have a nephew now nineteen years of age, who does all these things. He is not only my nephew, but my ward. I have a moderate sum of money in my charge which belongs to him—enough, if he were a young man of correct habits, to buy him an interest in a respectable business. That use I had proposed to make of it when he reached twenty-one, or rather, to recommend to him, but for his yielding to temptation in more than one form, and, finally, running away from my protection.”
“Where is he now, sir?”
“In California. Three months since he disappeared, and it was some weeks before I learned where he had gone. As I do not intend to conceal anything from you, I must tell you that he carried with him five hundred dollars purloined from my desk. This grieved me most of all. I wrote out to a mercantile friend in San Francisco, who knows the boy by sight, to hunt him up, and see if he could do anything for him. He writes me—this is the letter I hold in my hand—that he has seen Gregory, and expostulated with him, but apparently without effect. The boy has pretty much run through his money, and will soon be in need. I do not intend, however, to send him money, for he would misuse it. I don’t think it will do him any harm to suffer a little privation, as a fitting punishment for his wayward courses. I would not wish him to suffer too much, and I am anxious lest he should go further astray. I now come to the explanation of my proposal to you. I wish you to go to California, to seek out Gregory, obtain his confidence, and then persuade him to give up his bad course, and come home with you, prepared to lead a worthier life. Are you willing to undertake it?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Hector. “I will undertake it, since you are willing to place such a responsibility upon me. I will do my best to accomplish what you desire, but I may fail.”
“In that case I will not blame you,” answered the merchant.
“What sort of a boy is Gregory? Shall I find it difficult to gain his confidence?”
“No; he is a youth of very amiable disposition—indeed, he was generally popular among his companions and associates, but he is morally weak, and finds it difficult to cope with temptation. I believe that a boy like you will stand a better chance of influencing him than a man of mature age.”
“I will do my best, sir.”
“One thing more. You may assure Gregory that I forgive him the theft of my money, though it gave me great pain to find him capable of such an act, and that I am prepared to receive him back into my favor if he will show himself worthy of it. I will give you a letter to that effect. Now, when will you be ready to start?”
“By the next steamer.”
“That is well.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. MR. ROSCOE MAKES A DISCOVERY
The California steamer was to start in two days. This gave Hector but little time for preparation, but then he had but scanty preparation to make. Mr. Ross and Walter were naturally surprised at the confidence placed in Hector by a stranger, but were inclined to think that our hero would prove himself worthy of it.
“Don’t be gone long, Hector,” said Walter. “I shall miss you. I depended upon having your company for a good while yet.”
“Come back to my house, Hector,” said Mr. Ross, cordially, “when you return, whether you are successful or not. Consider it a home where you are always welcome.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hector, gratefully. “I wish you were my uncle instead of Mr. Allan Roscoe.”
“By the way, Hector, take time, while you are in California, to go to Sacramento to see if you can learn anything of your early history. It is most important to you, and I’m sure Mr. Newman will not object.”
“He has already suggested it to me,” said Hector. “Moreover, he has given me the name of the minister who baptized me, and, should he be dead or removed, he has given me the name of another person—a lady—with whom my father boarded during his residence in Sacramento.”
“It is to be hoped that one or the other of these persons may still be living. It will afford me sincere pleasure if, by reliable testimony, you can defeat the wicked conspiracy into which Mr. Roscoe has entered, with the object of defrauding you of your inheritance.”
Hector’s ticket was purchased by Mr. Newman, and he was provided with a considerable sum of money as well as an order upon a bank in San Francisco for as much more as he might need.
“You are trusting me to an unusual extent, Mr. Newman,” said Hector.
“That is true, but I have no hesitation in doing so. I am a close observer, and, though I have seen but little of you, I have seen enough to inspire me with confidence.”
“I hope I shall deserve it, sir.”
“That depends upon yourself, so far as integrity and fidelity go. Whether you succeed or not in your undertaking depends partly upon circumstances.”
My young readers may wonder how Hector would be expected to recognize a young man whom he had never seen. He was provided with a photograph of Gregory, which had been taken but six months before, and which, as Mr. Newman assured him, bore a strong resemblance to his nephew.
“He may have changed his name,” he said, “but he cannot change his face. With this picture you will be able to identify him.”
The great steamer started on her long voyage. Walter and Mr. Crabb stood on the pier and watched it till Hector’s face was no longer distinguishable for the distance, and then went home, each feeling that he had sustained a loss.
Among those who watched the departure of the steamer was a person who escaped Hector’s notice, for he arrived just too late to bid good-by to an acquaintance who was a passenger on board.
This person was no other than Allan Roscoe.
When he recognized Hector’s face among the passengers he started in surprise and alarm.
“Hector Roscoe going to California!” he inwardly ejaculated. “What can be his object, and where did he raise money to go?”
Conscience whispered: “He has gone to ferret out the fraud which you have practiced upon him, and his mission is fraught with peril to you.”
Allan Roscoe returned to his elegant home in a state of nervous agitation, which effectually prevented him from enjoying the luxuries he was now able to command. A sword seemed suspended over him, but he resolved not to give up the large stake for which he played so recklessly without a further effort.
By the next mail he wrote a confidential letter to an old acquaintance in San Francisco.
CHAPTER XXXIV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SAN FRANCISCO
Hector was seasick for the first twenty-four hours, but at the end of that time he had become accustomed to the rise and fall of the billows, and was prepared to enjoy himself as well as he could in the confined quarters of an ocean steamer.
Of course, he made acquaintances. Among them was a clergyman, of middle age, who was attracted by our hero’s frank countenance. They met on deck, and took together the “constitutional” which travelers on shipboard find essential for their health.
“You seem to be alone?” said the clergyman.
“Yes, sir.”
“Pardon me, but it is uncommon to meet one so young as yourself who is making so long a journey. I suppose, however, you have friends or relatives in California.”
“No, sir; I know no one, to my knowledge, in the Golden State.”
“Then, perhaps, you go out in search of employment?”
“No, sir; I go out on business.”
“You are a young business man,” said the clergyman, smiling.
“Perhaps I should rather say, on a mission. I am sent out, by a New York merchant, in search of his nephew, who is somewhere in San Francisco.”
Hector explained himself further. The minister, Mr. Richards, listened with attention.
“Certainly,” he said, “a great responsibility rests upon you. Mr. Newman must have great confidence in you.”
“I hope he will not find it misplaced,” answered Hector, modestly.
“It is certainly a compliment to you that a shrewd business man should consider you worthy of such confidence. The presumption is that he has good reason for his confidence. I think, my young friend, that you will enjoy your visit to our State.”
“Then you reside there, sir?”
“Oh, yes. I went out twenty years since; in fact, just after I graduated from the theological school. I spent a year at the mines; but, at the end of that time, finding an opening in my profession, I accepted the charge of a church in Sacramento.”
“In Sacramento?” exclaimed Hector, eagerly.
“Yes. Have you any associations with that city?”
“It is my birthplace, sir.”
“Then you are not a stranger to California?”
“Yes, sir; I came away so early that I have no recollection of the place.”
“What is your name?” asked the clergyman.
“Hector Roscoe.”
“Roscoe? The name sounds familiar to me,” said the minister, thoughtfully.
“How long since you went to Sacramento, Mr. Richards?”
“I went there in 1855.”
“And I was born there in 1856. My father and mother lived there for some time afterwards.”
“It is probable that I met them, for Sacramento was a small place then. Shall you go there?”
“Yes, sir. I have a special reason for going—a reason most important to me.”
As Mr. Richards naturally looked inquisitive, Hector confided in him further.
“You see, sir,” he concluded, “that it is most important to me to ascertain whether I am really the son of the man whom I have always regarded as my father. If so, I am heir to a large fortune. If not, my uncle is the heir, and I certainly should not wish to disturb him in the enjoyment of what the law awards him.”
“That is quite proper,” said Mr. Richards. “In your investigation, it is quite possible that I may be able to help you materially, through my long residence and extensive acquaintance in Sacramento. When you come there, lose no time in calling upon me. Whatever help I can render you shall cheerfully be given.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Shall you be much disappointed if you find that you are only the adopted, instead of the real, son of Mr. Roscoe?”
“Yes, sir; but it won’t be chiefly on account of the property. I shall feel alone in the world, without relations or family connections, with no one to sympathize with me in my successes, or feel for me in my disappointments.”
“I understand you, and I can enter into your feelings.”
Arrived in San Francisco, Hector took lodgings at a comfortable hotel on Kearney Street. He didn’t go to the Palace Hotel, or Baldwin’s, though Mr. Newman had supplied him with ample funds, and instructed him to spend whatever he thought might be necessary.
“I mean to show myself worthy of his confidence,” said Hector to himself.
He arrived in the evening, and was glad to remain quietly at the hotel the first evening, and sleep off the effects of his voyage. After the contracted stateroom, in which he had passed over twenty days, he enjoyed the comfort and luxury of a bed on shore and a good-sized bedroom. But, in the morning, he took a long walk, which was full of interest. Less than five minutes’ walk from his hotel was the noted Chinese quarter. Curiously enough, it is located in the central part of the business portion of San Francisco. Set a stranger down in this portion of the city, and the traveler finds it easy to imagine himself in some Chinese city. All around him, thronging the sidewalks, he will see almond-eyed men, wearing long queues, and clad in the comfortable, but certainly not elegant, flowing garments which we meet only occasionally in our Eastern cities, on the person of some laundryman. Then the houses, too, with the curious names on the signs, speak of a far-off land. On every side, also, is heard the uncouth jargon of the Chinese tongue.
There is a part of San Francisco that is known as the Barbary Coast. It is that part which strangers will do well to avoid, for it is the haunt of the worst portion of the population. Here floats many a hopeless wreck, in the shape of a young man, who has yielded to the seductions of drink and the gaming table—who has lost all hope and ambition, and is fast nearing destruction.
If Hector allowed himself to explore this quarter, it was not because he found anything to attract him, for his tastes were healthy, but he thought, from the description of Gregory Newman, that he would stand a better chance of meeting him here than in a more respectable quarter.
Hector halted in front of a building, which he judged to be a gambling house. He did not care to enter, but he watched, with curiosity, those who entered and those who came out.
As he was standing there, a man of forty touched him on the shoulder.
Hector turned, and was by no means attracted by the man’s countenance. He was evidently a confirmed inebriate, though not at that time under the influence of liquor. There was an expression of cunning, which repelled Hector, and he drew back.
“I say, boy,” said the stranger, “do you want to go in?”
“No, sir.”
“If you do, I know the ropes, and I’ll introduce you and take care of you.”
“Thank you,” said Hector, “but I don’t care to go in.”
“Are you afraid?” asked the man, with a slight sneer.
“Yes. Haven’t I a reason?”
“Come, sonny, don’t be foolish. Have you any money?”
“A little.”
“Give it to me and I’ll play for you. I’ll double it in ten minutes, and I’ll only ask you five dollars for my services.”
“Suppose you lose?”
“I won’t lose,” said the man, confidently. “Come,” he said, in a wheedling tone, “let me make some money for you.”
“Thank you, but I would rather not. I don’t want to make money in any such way.”
“You’re a fool!” said the man, roughly, and with an air of disgust he left the spot, much to Hector’s relief.
Still Hector lingered, expecting he hardly knew what, but it chanced that fortune favored him. He was just about to turn away, when a youth, two or three years older than himself in appearance, came out of the gambling house. He was pale, and looked as if he had kept late hours. He had the appearance, also, of one who indulges in drink.
When Hector’s glance fell upon the face of the youth, he started in great excitement.
“Surely,” he thought, “that must be Gregory Newman!”
