Alger Horatio Jr.
Herbert Carter's Legacy; Or, the Inventor's Son
CHAPTER XXXI
A NEW START
Harvest came, and for the time Herbert was busy. He could not afford to hire assistance, and was obliged to do all the work himself. When all was finished, and his share of the vegetables sold, he sat down to count up his profits.
“Well, mother,” he asked, “how much money do you think I have made by farming?”
“You expected to make twenty dollars.”
“I have cleared twenty-one dollars and a half besides the vegetables I have brought home and stored in the cellar.”
“That is doing very well,” said Mrs. Carter.
“I have had to work very hard for it,” said Herbert, thoughtfully, “and for a good many days. After all, it isn’t quite enough to pay our interest.”
“The interest doesn’t come due for six weeks yet.”
“That is true, mother; but six weeks hence we shall be poorer than we are now. We shall have to use some of this money for current expenses, and I know of no way to replace it.”
“You may earn some more.”
“I don’t see any chance—that is, here. There is nothing doing in Wrayburn. If there were any factories or workshops, I might stand a chance of getting something to do.”
Mrs. Carter did not reply. She knew that Herbert was right, and she had nothing to suggest.
“I have thought of something,” said Herbert; “but you may not like it at first.”
“What is it?” asked his mother, with interest.
“Would you have any objection to my going to New York and trying my fortune there?”
Mrs. Carter uttered a little cry of dismay.
“You go to New York—a boy of your age!” she exclaimed.
“I am old enough to take care of myself,” said Herbert, sturdily.
“A great city is a dangerous place.”
“It won’t be dangerous for me. I shall be too busy—that is, if I get work—to fall into temptation, if that is what you mean.”
“I should miss you so much, Herbert, even if I knew you were doing well,” said his mother, pathetically.
“I know you would, mother; and I should miss you, too; but I can’t live here always. If I do well in the city you can come and join me there.”
This was the first time Herbert broached the subject of going to New York. He resumed the attack the next day, and the next, and finally won his mother’s consent to go for a week, and see whether he could find anything to do.
His mother’s consent obtained, Herbert took but a day to make his preparations. The next day, after an early breakfast, he started for the great city, excited with the idea of going, but hardly able to repress the tears as he saw the lonely look upon his mother’s face.
He was her only son, and she was a widow.
“I must send her good news as soon as possible,” he thought. “That will cheer her up.”
About noon Herbert reached the city. He had formed no particular plan, except to find Cornelius Dixon, who would doubtless be able to advise him about getting a place, perhaps would have influence enough to procure him one. He did not know where to look for Cornelius, but concluded that his name would be in the city directory. He entered a small liquor store, which he happened to pass, and walked up to the counter.
“Good-morning,” said he politely, addressing a young man behind the bar.
This young man had coarse red hair, and a mottled complexion, and looked as if he patronized freely the liquors he sold. He turned his glance upon Herbert, who stood before him with his fresh, inquiring face, holding under his arm a small bundle of clothing tied up in a paper.
“Hello, yourself!” he answered. “Want some bitters?”
“Thank you,” said Herbert, innocently, “I don’t require any medicine.”
“Medicine?” repeated the other, with a frown. “Do you mean to compare my drinks to medicine?”
“You said bitters,” returned Herbert.
“You’re from the country, ain’t you?” asked the bartender.
“Yes, sir.”
“So I thought. You haven’t cut your eyeteeth yet. When a gentleman takes a drink he takes his bitters. Now, what’ll you have?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Oh, you needn’t thank me. I didn’t offer to give you a drink. What do you want, anyhow?”
“Have you got a directory?”
“No; we don’t keep one. We don’t care where our customers live. All we want is their money.”
Herbert did not fancy the bartender’s tone or manner; but felt that it would be foolish to get angry. So he explained: “I have a cousin living in the city; I thought I could find out where he lived in the directory.”
“What’s your cousin’s name?”
“Cornelius Dixon.”
“Never heard of him. He don’t buy his bitters at this shop.”
It was clear that no satisfaction was to be found here, and Herbert looked further. Finally, at a druggist’s he found a directory, and hopefully looked for the name. But another disappointment awaited him. There were several Dixons, but Cornelius was not among them.
“I must give him up, and see what I can do by myself,” thought Herbert. “I wish I could come across him.”
It seemed strange to him that one who was so prominent as Cornelius claimed to be, and who had been living for years in the city, should have been overlooked by the compilers of the directory. He was not discouraged, however; he expected to encounter difficulties, and this was the first one.
He kept on his way, attracting some attention as he walked. The city Arab knows a stranger by instinct.
“Carry your bundle, mister?” asked a ragged urchin.
“No; thank you. I can carry it myself.”
“I won’t charge you much. Take you to any hotel in the city.”
“I don’t think I shall go to any hotel. I can’t afford it. Can you show me a cheap boarding house?”
“Yes,” said the boy. “What’ll you give?”
“Ten cents.”
“That ain’t enough. It wouldn’t keep me in cigars an hour.”
“Do you smoke?” asked Herbert, surprised.
“In course I do. I’ve smoked for four or five years.”
“How old are you?”
“The old woman says I’m ten. She ought to know.”
“It isn’t good for boys to smoke,” said Herbert, gravely.
“Oh, bosh! Dry up! All us boys smoke.”
Herbert felt that his advice was not called for, and he came to business.
“I’ll give you fifteen cents,” he said, “if you’ll show me a good, cheap boarding house.”
“Well,” said the Arab, “business is poor, and I’ll do it for once. Come along.”
Herbert concluded from the boy’s appearance that he would be more likely to know of cheap than of fashionable boarding houses; but it did not occur to him that there was such a thing as being too cheap. He realized it when the boy brought him to the door of a squalid dwelling in a filthy street, and, pointing to it, complacently remarked: “That’s the place you want—that’s Rafferty’s.”
Herbert stared at it in dismay. Accustomed to the utmost neatness, he was appalled at the idea of lodging in such a place.
“Gimme them fifteen cents, mister,” said the boy, impatiently.
“But I don’t like the place. I wouldn’t stay here.”
“It’s cheap,” said the young Arab. “Rafferty’ll give you a lodging for ten cents, meals fifteen. You can’t complain of that, now.”
“I don’t complain of the price. It’s dirty. I wouldn’t stay in such a dirty place.”
“Oh, you’re a fine gentleman, you are!” said the boy, sarcastically. “You’d better go to the Fifth Avenoo Hotel, you had.”
“I won’t stop here. I want some decent place.”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Rafferty herself had come to the door, and caught the meaning of the conference. She took instant umbrage at Herbert’s last words.
“Dacent, do ye say?” she repeated, with flaming eyes and arms akimbo. “Who dares to say that Bridget Rafferty doesn’t keep a dacent house?”
“He does,” said the Arab, indicating Herbert, with a grin.
“And who are you, I’d like to know?” demanded Mrs. Rafferty, turning upon Herbert angrily. “Who are you, that talks agin’ a poor widder that’s tryin’ to earn an honest living?”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Herbert, anxious to get out of the scrape. “I meant no offense.”
“Lucky for you, thin!” said Mrs. Rafferty, in a belligerent tone. “Be off wid you both, thin, or I’ll call a cop.”
Herbert turned to go, nothing loath, but his guide followed him.
“Gimme them fifteen cents,” he demanded.
“You haven’t shown me a good boarding place.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You don’t seem to know what I want. I’ll give you five cents, and look out for myself.”
The young Arab tried for ten; but Herbert was firm. He felt that he had no money to waste, and that he had selected a poor guide. It was wiser to rely upon himself.
CHAPTER XXXII
OPENING THE CAMPAIGN
Not knowing his way, but wandering wherever the fancy seized him, Herbert finally came to Washington Square, and took a seat on one of the benches provided for the public. He looked around him with interest, surveying the groups that passed him, though without the expectation of recognizing anyone. But, as good fortune would have it, the very person he most desired to see strolled by.
Mr. Cornelius Dixon looked like a cheap swell. In his dress he caricatured the fashion, and exhibited a sort of pretentious gentility which betrayed his innate vulgarity. He stared in wonder when a boy with a bundle under his arm started from his seat, and hurried toward him with the greeting: “How do you do, Mr. Dixon?”
“Really,” drawled Cornelius, “you have the advantage of me.”
“Don’t you remember me? I am your cousin, Herbert Carter.”
“What! the boy the old fellow left his old clothes to?” asked Cornelius.
“The same one,” answered Herbert, smiling.
“You haven’t got any of ‘em on, have you?” asked Mr. Dixon, surveying him with curiosity.
“Yes; this coat was made from my uncle’s cloak.”
“Shouldn’t have thought it. It looks quite respectable, ‘pon my honor. When did you come to the city?”
“Only this morning.”
“On a visit?”
“No; I want to find a place.”
“Humph!” muttered Cornelius, thoughtfully. “Places don’t grow on every bush. Where are you hanging out?”
“I haven’t found a place yet. I want to find a cheap boarding house.”
“You might come to mine.”
“Perhaps you pay more than I could afford,” suggested Herbert, who was not aware that Cornelius had a very limited income, and occupied a room on the fourth floor of a Bleecker Street boarding house, at the weekly expense of five dollars.
“You can come into my room for a day or two, and then we’ll see what arrangement we can make. I’m going there now. Will you come along?”
Herbert gladly accepted the invitation. He was tired of wandering about the great city, not knowing where to lay his head; accordingly he joined his genteel cousin, and they walked toward Bleecker Street.
“Have you got any money?” queried Cornelius, cautiously.
“Not much. If I don’t find something to do in a week, I must go back to the country.”
“A week’s a short time to find a place. But hold on! We want a boy in our store. I guess I could get you in.”
“What wages would I get?”
“Two dollars a week, to begin with.”
“I couldn’t live on that, could I?”
“I guess not. Four dollars a week would be the least you could get boarded for.”
“Then it will be better for me to go home than to stay here, and get into debt.”
“Perhaps it would,” said Cornelius, who was afraid Herbert might want to borrow of him.
“Can’t I get something better? How much do you get?”
“Ahem! only twenty dollars a week,” answered Mr. Dixon, who really got about half that.
“Why, that’s splendid!” said Herbert.
“So it would be if I only got it,” thought Cornelius. “I can’t save anything,” he answered. “I have to dress in the fashion, you know, on account of my position in society.”
Herbert privately thought, from an inspection of his cousin’s wardrobe, that the fashion was a queer one, but he did not say so.
“It’s a shame the old man didn’t leave us more,” said Mr. Dixon, in an aggrieved tone.
“It would have been convenient,” Herbert admitted.
“He ought to have left us ten thousand dollars apiece.”
“What would you have done with so much money?”
“Gone into business on my own account. If I had a store of my own I might have offered you a place.”
“But suppose I had ten thousand dollars, too?”
“Then I would have taken you into partnership. It would be a grand thing for you to be junior partner in a New York firm.”
Herbert thought so, too, though it is doubtful whether a firm of which Mr. Dixon was the head would have occupied so proud a position as some others.
“I suppose you have spent all your legacy?” said Herbert.
“I should say so. What’s a hundred dollars? I bought a new suit of clothes, a dozen pair of kids, and a box of cigars, and that took up about all of it. You don’t smoke, do you?”
“Oh, no,” answered Herbert, surprised at the question.
“Better not. It’s expensive. Wait a minute. I want to buy a cigar.”
Mr. Dixon dove into a cigar store, and emerged with one in his mouth.
Soon they reached the boarding house. It was a five-story brick building, rather shabby outwardly.
Cornelius opened the door with a night key, and bade Herbert follow. So he did, up to the fifth floor, where his guide opened a door and admitted him into a room about ten feet square, in a bad state of disorder. In the corner was a bed, not very inviting in appearance. It looked very different from the neat little bed which Herbert slept in at home. The furniture was of hair, and had evidently seen better days. There were two chairs, both of them covered with portions of Mr. Dixon’s wardrobe. Cornelius cleared off one, and invited Herbert to be seated.
“This is my den,” he said.
“Den,” seemed to be the right word, though Herbert did not say so. He wondered why a man with so large an income did not live better.
“You can brush your hair if you want to,” said Cornelius. “The supper bell will ring right off. I’ll take you down with me.”
“Will there be room?” asked Herbert.
“Oh, yes; I’ll arrange about that. If you like you can room with me, and I guess I can fix it so you needn’t pay more than four dollars a week, getting your lunch outside.”
“I wish you would,” said Herbert, who felt that, dirty as the room was, it would be more like home to him than where he was wholly unacquainted.
At the table below, Herbert found a seat next to Cornelius. There were other clerks at the table whom Mr. Dixon knew, also two or three married couples, and two extra ladies.
“That lady is an actress,” whispered Cornelius, pointing to a rather faded woman, of about thirty, on the opposite side of the table.
“Is she?” returned Herbert, examining her with considerable curiosity. “Where does she play?”
“At the Olympic,” said Mr. Dixon. “She is Rosalie Vernon.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“It’s only her stage name. Her real name is Brown.”
“Did you ever see her play?”
“Often; she’s good.”
“She looks very quiet.”
“She don’t say much here; but on the stage she has enough to say for herself. Do you see that man with gray hair and spectacles?”
“Yes.”
“He’s an Italian count. He lost his property somehow, and is obliged to give lessons in French and Italian. Quite a come-down, isn’t it?”
In the evening he discussed his plans with Cornelius.
“Can’t I get more than two dollars a week in a store?” he asked.
“I am afraid not; though you might stumble on a place where they would give three.”
“Even that would not be enough to live upon. I must make that, at any rate, and I hoped to be able to save something.”
“There are some newsboys who make a dollar a day,” suggested Cornelius.
“A dollar a day? That’s six dollars a week.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think I could go into that?”
“Of course you can, if you’ve got money enough to buy a stock of papers to start with. You’ll be your own boss. Then there’s boot-blacking; but that ain’t genteel.”
“I should prefer selling papers.”
“Then you’d better try it. I’ve spoken to the landlady, and she’ll take you for four dollars a week.”
Herbert closed the day in good spirits. He thought he saw his way clear to supporting himself in the city. Before he went to bed he wrote a cheerful letter to his mother and deposited it in a post office box at the corner.
CHAPTER XXXIII
HERBERT AS A NEWSBOY
The next morning, by advice of his roommate, Herbert got up early, and made his way downtown and obtained a supply of morning papers.
The first day was not a success, chiefly on account of his inexperience. He was “stuck” on nearly half his papers, and the profits were less than nothing. But Herbert was quick to learn. The second day, though he still had some papers left, he cleared twenty-five cents. The third day he netted seventy-five. He felt now that he had passed the period of experiment, and that he would at any rate, be able to pay his board. Of course, he hoped for something better, and indeed felt confident of it.
Three weeks later, about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, as he stood in front of the Astor House, with his last paper in his hand, he heard his name called:
“Hello, Carter; are you here?”
He did not need to turn around to recognize James Leech.
“Good-morning, James,” he said, politely.
“So you’re a newsboy,” said James.
“Yes; any way to make a living.”
“Do you make much?” inquired his old foe, curiously.
“I haven’t made enough to retire upon yet; but I can manage to pay my board.”
“How much do you pay for your board?”
Herbert hesitated about gratifying his curiosity, but finally did so.
“Four dollars,” repeated James, scornfully. “It can’t be much of a boarding house.”
“An Italian count boards there,” said Herbert, knowing James’ respect for rank.
“You don’t say so!” returned James, rather impressed. “Did he ever speak to you?”
“He spoke to me this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Will you pass ze butter?’”
“Do you save up any money?” inquired James.
Herbert penetrated his motive in asking the question, and did not mean to give too definite information. But James was bent on learning all he could.
“How much do you make a day?” he asked.
“Sometimes more, sometimes less, just as it happens.”
“I can’t tell anything from that.”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Herbert, pointedly.
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
“So I thought. If it was from interest in me, I would tell you; but I don’t care to gratify your curiosity.”
“You don’t expect me to feel any interest in a common newsboy, do you?”
“No; I don’t. I know you too well for that.”
“I don’t see what object you have in refusing to answer my questions.”
“If you are thinking of going into the business, yourself, I’ll tell you.”
“I a newsboy? I sell papers in the street? You must be crazy!” returned James, haughtily.
“I suppose you feel above it,” said Herbert, smiling.
“To be sure I do. Haven’t I a right to?”
“Oh, you must settle that question for yourself. Papers, sir?”
The gentleman addressed purchased the last remaining paper, and Herbert was free till afternoon.
“How do you like the city?” asked James.
“Very much. I should like to have my mother here; then I would be contented.”
“We may come to live here,” said James. “Of course, we shall live in a brownstone front, uptown.”
“I live in a brick house,” said Herbert, smiling.
“Fashionable people live in brownstone fronts.”
“I may be rich some time.”
“Then you’ll have to go into some other business. But there isn’t much hope for you. You’ll be a poor man.”
“You seem very confident of it.”
“You’ve got no chance, you know. But I must be going.”
“Who do you think I met this morning, father?” asked James, later in the day.
“I don’t know.”
“The Carter boy.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“He was selling papers in front of the Astor House.”
“He won’t get rich very fast in that business. What did he have to say for himself?”
“He wouldn’t tell me how much money he was making. He pays four dollars a week for board.”
“He probably finds it hard to pay that. It isn’t likely he lays up anything. He would do better to stay in Wrayburn.”
“Then you think he can’t send any money to his mother?”
“No; he will find it hard to pay his own expenses.”
“Then she won’t be able to pay the interest on the mortgage?”
“I don’t see how she can.”
“And you will seize the house?”
“I fully intend to do so.”
“Good! That’ll bring down Carter’s pride. He’s as cheeky as ever.”
“He hasn’t much to be proud of.”
“That don’t seem to make any difference with him. He talks as if he were my equal.”
“That don’t make him so.”
“When are you going to move to the city, father?”
“I don’t know,” said the squire, shortly.
“I’ve got tired of Wrayburn.”
“You’ll have to stay there till my business will allow me to move.”
The fact was, Squire Leech had just had an unsatisfactory interview with Mr. Andrew Temple. Under the advice of that gentleman he had invested a very considerable sum of money in some mining shares, in the assurance that he would be able in a very short time to sell at a large profit. But from the time he bought, they began to drop. He asked an explanation of Mr. Temple.
“My dear sir,” said the financier, “there’s no being sure of the market. So many trivial circumstances affect it, that the wisest of us cannot absolutely predict anything. We can only calculate probabilities.”
“You told me there was no doubt about the stock rising,” grumbled the squire.
“Nor is there any, if you only have patience to wait Rome was not built in a day, you know.”
“It seems to me there is a good deal of uncertainty and risk in these stock operations,” objected the squire, very sensibly.
“Not under discreet guidance; if you only have pluck and patience, you are morally sure of a fortune in the end. Fortunes are made every day. Why, there’s old Jenkins, a grocer on Sixth Avenue—you’ve heard of his luck, haven’t you?”
“No.”
“Made fifty thousand dollars in six months from an original investment of ten thousand. At first, things went against him, but he was bound to see the thing through, and he did, and he’s forty thousand better off for it.”
“What did he invest in?” asked the squire, eagerly.
Mr. Temple told him, but I regret to say that the whole thing was a fiction, intended to encourage his dupe. He succeeded in influencing the squire to put another large sum into his hands, and sent him away hopeful. To raise this sum Squire Leech was obliged to sell or mortgage most of his real estate to parties whom Mr. Temple found for him. The prices realized were less than his valuation of the property; but Temple told him this was not so important, as he was sure to double his money in twelve months by investments in Wall Street.
So Squire Leech gave himself up to dreams of sudden wealth. He subscribed for two financial papers, and spent many hours in studying their columns. He was soon able to talk glibly of stocks and bonds, and the Wrayburn people thought he was on the high road to becoming a millionaire.
“Depend upon it, the squire’s a long-headed man,” said old Tom Cooper, in the village tavern. “It wouldn’t surprise me a mite if he died worth a million.”
