Alger Horatio Jr.
Mark Manning's Mission
CHAPTER XI.
MARK IS DISCHARGED
The next day Mark, with some misgivings, repaired to the shoe manufactory as usual. He knew he had done a bold thing in defending Johnny against his employer's son, but he never thought of regretting it.
"I would do it again," he said to himself. "Catch me standing by and seeing Johnny whipped by any boy, no matter who he is."
Mark laid aside his hat and coat, and went to his customary bench.
He had been at work fifteen minutes only, when Mr. Waite, the head of the room, entered, and went up to where he was standing.
"Mr. Collins wants to see you, Mark," he said.
"Do you know what for, Mr. Waite?" Mark asked.
"No, Mark, but I hope it is to raise your wages," said Mr. Waite, pleasantly, for he had always liked our hero.
"I am afraid it is something quite different," said Mark, shaking his head.
"No trouble, I hope, Mark?"
"I can tell you better when I return."
Mark put on his coat, and went downstairs to the office.
Squire Collins was seated at a desk, with his spectacles astride his nose. He looked up as Mark entered.
"Mr. Waite tells me you wish to see me, Mr. Collins," said Mark.
"Yes," said the squire, frowning. "I presume you can guess what I want to see you about."
"Perhaps so," answered Mark.
"I understand that you made a violent attack upon my son James in the pasture, yesterday afternoon."
"We did have a little difficulty," Mark admitted.
"Ha! I am glad you confess it. James says you made an unprovoked attack upon him."
"That is not quite true, Squire Collins; I was very much provoked."
"Did my son attack you first?" demanded the squire, sharply.
"No, sir."
"So I thought. Then you have no excuse by your own confession."
"I think I have an excuse."
"I fail to understand what it can be. To me it appears like a high-handed outrage of which you were guilty."
"I suppose James did not tell you what he was doing when I attacked him?"
"No, I cannot remember that he did. What does that signify?"
"He had John Downie upon the ground, and was beating him brutally."
Squire Collins was somewhat nonplussed at this revelation, as James had said nothing about Johnny.
"Well?" he said.
"I ran up, and pulled him off, and prevented him from hurting Johnny."
Squire Collins was rather embarrassed. He saw clearly that his son had been in the wrong, yet he was inclined to stand by him. Moreover, it chafed him that a poor boy should have presumed to interfere with his son, much more use violence towards him.
He drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose, partly to gain time for consideration. At length he spoke.
"My son feels very indignant at your presumption in assaulting him," he said, "and I wonder myself that you didn't see the impropriety of attacking the son of your employer."
"Would you have had me stand by and see Johnny beaten?" asked Mark, indignantly.
"I do not feel disposed to argue with you," said the squire, in a dignified tone. "I feel compelled to take some action in the matter though I regret it. I cannot, of course, retain you in my employ. You are discharged. I have made up your account to date, and here is the sum due you."
"Very well, sir," answered Mark, quietly, though his heart sank within him.
Squire Collins handed him a dollar and thirty-seven cents, and Mark, putting them into his pocket, bowed and withdrew.
He went back to the room where his hat hung, and taking it down, said to his fellow-workmen:
"Good-bye, boys, I shan't be with you any longer."
"Why, Mark, what's the matter!" asked his next neighbor.
"I'm discharged; that's all."
"What for?"
"I'll tell you some other time—not now."
"Mark, I'm really sorry for this," said Mr. Waite, pressing his hand warmly. "I wish you good luck!"
"Thank you, Mr. Waite," answered Mark, his lip quivering a little. "I will hope for the best."
Mark walked home with a slow step. He dreaded to tell his mother of his discharge, for he knew that she would be still more depressed than himself. Youth is hopeful, but middle age is less sanguine.
"I won't go home at once," thought Mark. "I will go to the wood and see the hermit. He may have some errand for me, and besides, he may be able to give me some advice."
One object which Mark had, however, was to delay breaking the unwelcome news to his mother.
He bent his steps towards the pasture, which he must cross in order to penetrate to the wood by the usual path.
In a few minutes he entered the cabin, the door of which he found open.
The hermit was no longer reclining, but was seated in a rocking-chair—the only article of luxury which the poor dwelling contained.
"Good morning, sir!" said Mark. "I hope you are better."
"I am much better. But how does it happen that you come here in the morning? I supposed you were at work in the shoe factory."
"I have lost my place there; I was discharged this morning."
"Ha! how is that?"
Upon this Mark told the story of his encounter with the boys in the pasture.
"I suppose," he concluded, "that James got me discharged in revenge for my interfering with him."
"Then you regret what you did?" inquired the hermit.
"No, I don't," answered Mark, warmly. "I couldn't stand by and see Johnny beaten."
"You are right, and I respect you for what you did."
"It is a grievous thing for me, though," said Mark. "It takes away my income, and I don't see how mother and I are going to live."
"How much were you paid?"
"About three dollars and a half a week. Sometimes I made a little more by over-work."
"You have no occasion to be disturbed. I was about to propose that you should leave your place."
Mark looked surprised.
"I will take you into my own employ," added Anthony. "How long have you been coming to me?"
"A week, sir."
"You may retain five dollars in compensation from the money you hold of mine, and hereafter, as you will give me your whole time, you shall be paid at the rate of a dollar a day—that is, seven dollars a week."
"But, sir, you are overpaying me," protested Mark, who thought this compensation magnificent.
"Be it so. I can afford it. Let me know when you need more money."
"I have still about fifteen dollars."
"After paying yourself for the last week?"
"Yes, sir. Can I do anything for you now?"
"Yes. I feel like taking a walk. That shows I am better. You may come with me, and if I tire myself, I will lean upon your arm in returning."
"With pleasure, sir. I am very glad that you feel better."
"After all," mused the old man, "it is pleasant to have human sympathy. I thought I was able to do without it, but I am more dependent than I supposed."
They walked for half an hour. When they returned to the cabin, the hermit said:
"To-morrow morning I expect a visitor from the city. I wish you to meet him at the train, and conduct him here. He is a small man, with a sharp look, and will probably be dressed in black. In fact, he is my man of business. You need say nothing of this, however, but let people conjecture as they will."
"And shall I speak of my arrangement with you, sir?"
"You may merely say that I have engaged you to do my errands. I shall not require you again to-day."
CHAPTER XII.
GOOD LUCK AFTER MISFORTUNE
Mark's spirits were wonderfully improved when he left the hermit's cabin, and took his way homeward. So far from being injuriously affected by his discharge from the shoe-shop, his income was considerably increased. Not only this, but he had received five dollars for his past week's services over and above what he had been paid for his work in the shop.
"Now," thought he. "I can tell mother without minding it."
But his mother had already heard of it. A neighbor, Mrs. Parker, who rather enjoyed telling bad news, had heard of it through her son, who also worked in the work-shop.
She at once left her work, and hurried over to Mrs. Manning's.
"Good morning, Mrs. Parker," said the widow, cheerfully. "Take a chair, do."
"Thank you, Mrs. Manning, I can't stop a minute. I left my kitchen at sixes and sevens, on purpose to condole with you. I declare, it's really too bad."
"What is too bad? I don't understand you?" said Mrs. Manning, perplexed.
"About your son Mark, I mean."
"What has happened to him? Is he hurt?" asked the widow, with a pale face.
"No, no; hasn't he been home?"
"He is at the shoe-shop, of course."
"No, he is not. He was discharged by Squire Collins this morning."
"Discharged? What for?"
"Don't you know? Some quarrel between Mark and James Collins, I believe."
"I am glad he is not hurt."
"But hasn't he been home? I wonder at that."
"I have seen nothing of him since he started for the shop."
"That's strange."
"Poor boy! I suppose he doesn't like to tell me he is discharged," sighed the widow. "It will be a serious thing for us, for I don't know where else he will find work."
"O, something will turn up," said Mrs. Parker, who could bear the misfortunes of her neighbors very cheerfully. "But I must run home, or my dinner will be late."
The more Mrs. Manning thought of Mark's loss of employment, the more troubled she felt. Three dollars and a half a week was not a large sum, but it was more than half their income, and how they were to make it up she could not conjecture. Perhaps she could induce Mark to apologize to James, in which case the squire might be induced to take him back. While her mind was busy with such thoughts, Mark entered the house whistling. His mother was considerably surprised at this evidence of light-heartedness under the circumstances.
He entered the room where his mother was at work.
"Well, mother, is dinner almost ready?" he asked.
"It will be ready soon. But oh, Mark, what is this I hear about your being discharged from the shoe-shop?"
"It is all true, mother, but you needn't worry over it. We shall get along just as well."
"I don't see how. There is no other shop in the village."
"I have another job already, and a better one."
Mrs. Manning opened her eyes in astonishment.
"What can it be?" she asked.
"Old Anthony has hired me to do his errands."
"I am afraid, Mark, that will amount to very little."
"I am to receive five dollars a week."
"Do you really mean this? I thought he was very poor."
"Quite the contrary, mother, but we mustn't say that to others. Let people think he is poor. Here are five dollars which he has paid me for the last week, though I have worked in the shop, and done very little for it. Take it, mother, and use as you need it."
"Will this last, Mark?" asked his mother, almost incredulously.
"I think it will. The hermit seems to have taken a special fancy to me, and he says he can well afford to pay me this sum. I say, mother, suppose I invite him to take dinner with us next Sunday?"
"With all my heart, Mark. He seems to me like a good Providence who has come to our help at this juncture."
"Do you need anything at the store this afternoon?"
"The butter and sugar are out, Mark."
"Give me the five-dollar bill, then, mother, and I will buy some."
Shortly after dinner Mark started for the store. On the way he met several persons who condoled with him on his loss of place. They were surprised to find that Mark looked cheerful, and even gay.
"Yes," he said, "I've retired from the shoe business on a fortune."
"You don't seem to mind it!"
"No, I can stand it well enough, but I pity Squire Collins for losing my valuable services."
"I thought you'd be down in the mouth. You don't seem to care."
"Why should I? Care killed a cat."
Arrived at the store, Mark stepped up to the counter and called for two pounds of sugar and two pounds of butter.
Mr. Palmer, the grocer, had heard of Mark's dismissal, and being a cautious man, inquired:
"Are you going to pay cash?"
"Certainly."
"I heard you had lost your place at the shop."
"Yes," answered Mark, smiling, "I discharged Squire Collins."
"It'll be rather hard on you, won't it?"
"I guess I can pay my bills, Mr. Palmer. At any rate I can pay for what I am buying now."
The grocer put up the packages, and was surprised when Mark handed him a five-dollar bill in payment.
"Seems to me you're flush," he said.
"So it seems," answered Mark, but he volunteered no information.
"I can't make out that boy," said the grocer to his assistant, after Mark had gone out. "He looks as if he had got a good place instead of losing it. I wonder if the widder's got any money?"
"Not much, except what Mark brings in."
"They'll be asking credit soon, Enoch. Don't trust them till you've referred to me."
"No, sir, I won't."
On his way home Mark met the cause of his discharge, James Collins, accompanied as usual by his friend, Tom Wyman.
"Hallo!" said James, eying Mark, triumphantly.
"Hallo!"
"Why ain't you at the shop?"
"Probably you know."
"Yes, I do know. You've been discharged."
"I suppose I am indebted to your kindness for that."
"Yes, you are. Perhaps now you will be sorry for your impertinence to me in the pasture."
"When I am I'll tell you so. At present I am glad, and would do the same thing again."
"How do you expect to live?"
"On victuals and drink, thank you."
"If you have money to buy them," supplemented James, with a malicious smile.
"I've got a little money left," and Mark drew out not only his own but the hermit's money. "You see I don't depend on work in the shoe-shop."
James was both amazed and annoyed.
"Where did you get that money?" he asked abruptly.
"I am afraid I must leave your curiosity ungratified. I'll tell you, as it may interest you, that I should have resigned my place in the shop at the end of the week, even if you hadn't kindly got me discharged."
So saying, Mark walked away.
"Where do you think he got that money, Tom?" said James.
"Blamed if I know!"
The next morning Mark walked to the depot to meet the morning train.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE LITTLE MAN IN BLACK
When the morning train arrived, Mark was on hand. He watched carefully for the man he was sent to meet. As it happened, the business agent was the last man to leave the train. He stepped upon the platform, and began to look about him.
Mark advanced towards him, and raised his hat, politely.
"Is this Mr. Hardy?" he asked.
The small man regarded him sharply.
"Yes," he answered. "Have you a message for me?"
"Yes, sir. I am to conduct you to Mr. Taylor."
"Just so. How is his health?"
"He has had an attack of rheumatism, but is better."
"No wonder he is sick, living in that out-of-the-way place. Do you know him well?"
"Pretty well, sir. I am in his employ."
"Ha! then he is living a little more as he should do. What is your name?"
"Mark Manning."
"M. M. Just so. Sounds like a fancy name. Is it?"
"No, sir; it's all the name I have," said Mark smiling.
"How long have you been in the employ of Mr. Taylor?"
"Only a little over a week."
"Do you know anything about his history?" demanded Mr. Hardy, with a sharp look of inquiry.
"Yes, sir. He has told me something of it."
"Humph! Then he must have confidence in you. Well, let us be starting. Is it far?"
"Nearly two miles, sir. Perhaps you will be tired."
"In which case you will perhaps kindly carry me on your shoulders," suggested Mr. Hardy, quizzically.
"I am afraid I shouldn't be able to do that," returned Mark, with a smile.
"And yet, I don't believe I weigh much more than you. What is your weight?"
"One hundred and twenty-three pounds."
"And I weigh one hundred and twenty-four. I have one pound the advantage of you."
Mark, who was a stout boy, was rather pleased to learn that he weighed within a pound as much as his companion. I suppose most boys are proud of their size.
They had commenced their walk and Mark found that his new acquaintance was a fast walker.
"Does Mr. Taylor ever have any visitors?" asked the lawyer, for such was his profession.
"Not from the village, sir."
"From any other quarter?" asked Hardy.
"He had a call from his nephew, lately."
"Lyman Taylor?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then he has found his uncle's place of concealment. What do you know of the interview?"
Mark gave an account of Lyman's visit, his demand for money, and his threatened violence.
"Did he suppose his uncle had money?" inquired the lawyer, in an anxious tone.
"He did not suppose he had much, but he wanted a part of it, however small."
"Did he succeed in obtaining anything?"
"Mr. Taylor told me to give him five dollars."
"Why you?"
"I had a sum of money belonging to the hermit, in my possession. I used to buy things for him in the village."
"Then you think Lyman went away with the impression that my friend—the hermit, as you call him—had very little money?"
"Yes, sir; I am sure of it."
"Are you under the same impression?"
"No, sir; Mr Taylor has told me that he is moderately rich."
"That shows he has great confidence in you. Don't breathe a word of it, my boy, or this rascally nephew will persecute his uncle, and make his life a burden."
"He will learn nothing from me," said Mark firmly.
"You seem a good trustworthy boy—I think my friend made a good choice of a confidant."
"Thank you, sir."
At length they reached the cabin in the wood. Old Anthony was already outside, waiting for their coming.
"Good morning, my friend," said the lawyer; "the boy tells me you have been sick–"
"Yes, I have had a visit from my old enemy, but I am much better."
"To be sick in such a place!" said the lawyer with a shudder.
"I have not suffered, thanks to Mark—will you come in?"
"Let us rather bring chairs outside, if you are provided with such luxuries. We shall have several matters to discuss."
Mr. Hardy glanced significantly at Mark, who was leaning against a tree, and could of course hear the conversation.
"Mark," said the hermit, "you may go farther away, but return in an hour. This gentleman and myself may have some things to speak of which are private."
"Certainly, sir."
"Well, old friend," Hardy began, "haven't you had enough of this strange existence? you are rich, and can afford all the comforts of life, yet you voluntarily surrender them, and bury yourself in this wilderness. Do you mean to stay here all your life?"
"I did at one time think it probable, now I am beginning to feel a greater interest in life."
"The boy tells me your nephew has found you out?"
"Yes; he came here in quest of money, but he went away convinced that I was nearly as poor as himself. If he knew the truth I should be in constant danger of robbery, or worse–"
"If you die without a will, is he not your heir?"
"He would be, but I shall make a will. It is partly to give you instructions on this point that I have sent for you."
"You have no one else to leave your money to?"
"A part will go to charitable institutions, a part–"
"Well?"
"To one whom I hold in greater regard than my nephew—to the boy, who guided you hither."
"Indeed! does he know anything of your purpose?"
"Nothing, and need not."
"You have taken a fancy to him?"
"Yes; he is honest, manly, upright, just such a boy as I should have been glad to have for my son. Don't dissuade me, for the thought of doing something for him gives me a new interest in life."
"I shall not dissuade you, Anthony, for I believe the boy to be all that you say. Of course if you had a blood relation who was deserving, I might make an objection. Has this boy relations?"
"Only a mother, who is mainly dependent upon him. By the way, have you invested the sum paid in lately?"
"No; but I have an application for it, or I should say, for four-fifths of it. Curiously, the applicant lives in this town."
"Who is it?"
"Collins, the shoe manufacturer."
"I am surprised at this. I thought he was rich."
"He has lost money by investments in stocks, and finds himself hard up."
"What does he offer?"
"Seven per cent, secured by a mortgage on his shop."
"Let him have it."
"Are you willing that your name should appear in the matter?"
"No; I shall transfer the sum to Mark, and make you his trustee or guardian."
"I understand. Is he to know of his good fortune?"
"Not at present. The boy was discharged only yesterday from the shop of this Collins," added Anthony, smiling.
"A good joke!" said the lawyer. "And now the boy lends him money. That is returning good for evil."
"Without knowing it."
"Precisely."
CHAPTER XIV.
AN IMPORTANT PROPOSAL
"There is a further sum of a thousand dollars," suggested the lawyer. "What is your pleasure in regard to that?"
"The boy is to have that too. Deposit it in some savings' bank in your own name as his trustee."
"That makes the boy worth five thousand dollars—a large gift."
"Exactly, but I know of no better use for it."
"He is to remain ignorant of this also?"
"For the present, yes."
"Now for your instructions concerning the will. I will note them down, and prepare the document for your signature."
These directions were given, one-half of the hermit's property being left to certain specified charities, the remaining half to Mark Manning.
The lawyer wrote in silence. Then, pausing, he said:
"Will you allow me, in right of our long friendship, to make one suggestion?"
"Surely, John."
"Then let me ask if you are sure that there is no one having a rightful claim upon you, and who ought to be considered in this matter?"
"Do you mean Lyman?"
"By no means. He has forfeited any claim he may once have possessed."
"Then what is your meaning?"
"Are you sure that your daughter left no issue?"
Anthony's brow contracted, not with anger but with pain. The old wound had not healed.
"I never heard of any," he answered, after a pause.
"Yet there may have been a child."
"And if there were?"
"It would be your grandchild," said the lawyer, firmly.
"And his child," said the hermit, bitterly.
"You should not impute that to the child for blame."
"What would you have me do, old friend?"
"Make provision for the child, if there should be one."
"What would you suggest?" asked Anthony, slowly.
"I don't wish to injure the boy; I would only suggest that charity begins at home. Divide your estate into thirds; give one-third to Mark, one to the child, if there be one, and one to charity."
"I have no objection to that. But suppose there be no child living?"
"Then divide that third between Mark and the charitable societies you have enumerated."
"Wisely counseled, John, but why not give it to you?"
"Because I am moderately rich already, and need nothing more. Then, also, it would work against my interest to find the child. I might turn out to be as wicked and unprincipled as most lawyers are said to be," he concluded, with a smile.
"I have no fear of that. So that is your only objection—"
"It isn't. Give it all to the boy in preference."
"No, let it be as you proposed."
"One thing more. Don't you think it is your duty to ascertain whether you have a grandchild? It may be living in poverty; perhaps in actual want."
"You are right; I should have thought of that before. But what steps would you advise me to take?"
"Send some trusted messenger to the last place where you have information that your daughter lived. Have you tidings of her husband?"
"He died first. Both died of typhoid fever, as I learned."
"Where did they die?"
"At a small place in Indiana—Claremont, I think."
"Then you should send there, and make inquiries. It would be well to go yourself, if you could bring yourself to do it."
"But I couldn't."
"Then send a trusted messenger."
"I have none whom I could trust—except that boy."
John Hardy looked thoughtful. He appeared to be pondering something. Finally he said: "Then send him. He is a boy, but he is faithful and discreet. Moreover, I could advise him."
"Let it be so!"
"Can you spare him?"
"Yes, I am quite recovered, and he may not be gone many weeks. If I need help I can easily receive it."
"I would suggest a delay of a week or two, or till the will is drawn up and signed, and some other business attended to."
"I shall be guided entirely by your advice."
"Now shall I leave you some money?"
"No, I have enough to last for some time to come."
"You don't keep it in this cabin, do you? It would be imprudent. You would be exposed to robbery."
"No, I have a place of concealment in the woods. I shall go this afternoon, taking Mark with me, to draw from it. It is my bank."
"The bank of the woods," suggested Hardy, laughing.
"Yes."
Presently Mark returned, and conducted the lawyer back to the station. Without the boy's remarking it, his elderly companion drew him out, weighed him mentally in the balance, and decided that his client was not, after all, rash in confiding in a mere boy.
"He's smart and honest!" was his mental verdict.
At the station, he handed Mark a card containing the address of his office.
"Unless I am much mistaken," he said, "Mr. Taylor will have occasion to send you to my office in the city before long."
"I shall be very glad to come," answered Mark, gladly. "I don't often get a chance to come to New York."
The lawyer shook hands with Mark, and boarded the train.
Turning to leave the station, Mark encountered the gaze of his two hunting companions, James Collins and Tom Wyman, fixed curiously upon him.
"Who is that old file?" asked James, with his usual want of ceremony.
"A gentleman from New York," answered Mark, briefly.
"What's his name?"
"John Hardy."
"How did you run across him?"
"I didn't; he ran across me."
"How did you get acquainted with him?"
"He asked me to be his guide. I walked about with him."
"O, a tourist! Did he give you anything?"
"No."
"Then all your time and trouble was thrown away," sneered James.
"I don't know about that. He invited me to call at his office when I came to the city."
"That is hardly likely to do you any good. Business doesn't call you to the city very often."
"That is true," said Mark, his temper undisturbed.
"A quarter would have helped you more, especially now that you are out of work."
"I am glad you sympathize with me, James. Perhaps you will ask your father to take me back into the shop?"
"Not after the mean way in which you treated me. I swore I'd come up with you, and I have."
"I hope you'll enjoy your revenge."
"I do, you may be sure of that. If you had minded your own business, it would have been better for you."
"I am not sure about that. It may surprise you, James, to hear that I wouldn't go back to the shop, if your father were to call and ask me to do so."
"That's a likely story!"
"Likely or not, it's true."
"I suppose you have come into a fortune," said James, with a sneer.
This was what had actually happened, but Mark had no more knowledge of his good fortune than James.
Later in the day Mark presented himself at the cabin in the woods.
"I thought you might have an errand for me," he said.
"So I have," returned the hermit. "Take yonder spade and come with me."
