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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Paul Prescott's Charge, by Horatio Alger
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Paul Prescott's Charge
+
+Author: Horatio Alger
+
+Release Date: March 14, 2006 [EBook #293]
+Last Updated: March 3, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.
+
+By Horatio Alger, Jr.
+
+
+
+Alger Series For Boys. {About 50 Titles} Uniform With This Volume.
+
+
+     TO
+     The Boys
+     Whose Memory Goes Back With Me
+     To The Boarding School
+     At Potowome
+     This Volume Is Affectionately Dedicated
+     By
+     The Author.
+
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+“PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE” is presented to the public as the second volume
+of the Campaign Series. Though wholly unlike the first volume, it is
+written in furtherance of the same main idea, that every boy's life is
+a campaign, more or less difficult, in which success depends upon
+integrity and a steadfast adherence to duty.
+
+How Paul Prescott gained strength by battling with adverse
+circumstances, and, under all discouragements, kept steadily before him
+the charge which he received from his dying father, is fully told; and
+the author will be glad if the record shall prove an incentive and an
+encouragement to those boys who may have a similar campaign before them.
+
+
+
+
+PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+SQUIRE NEWCOME.
+
+
+“HANNAH!”
+
+The speaker was a tall, pompous-looking man, whose age appeared to verge
+close upon fifty. He was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair,
+and looked as if it would be quite impossible to deviate from his
+position of unbending rigidity.
+
+Squire Benjamin Newcome, as he was called, in the right of his position
+as Justice of the Peace, Chairman of the Selectmen, and wealthiest
+resident of Wrenville, was a man of rule and measure. He was measured
+in his walk, measured in his utterance, and measured in all his
+transactions. He might be called a dignified machine. He had a very
+exalted conception of his own position, and the respect which he felt to
+be his due, not only from his own household, but from all who approached
+him. If the President of the United States had called upon him, Squire
+Newcome would very probably have felt that he himself was the party who
+conferred distinction, and not received it.
+
+Squire Newcome was a widower. His wife, who was as different from
+himself as could well be conceived, did not live long after marriage.
+She was chilled to death, as it was thought, by the dignified iceberg
+of whose establishment she had become a part. She had left, however, a
+child, who had now grown to be a boy of twelve. This boy was a thorn
+in the side of his father, who had endeavored in vain to mould him
+according to his idea of propriety. But Ben was gifted with a spirit of
+fun, sometimes running into mischief, which was constantly bursting out
+in new directions, in spite of his father's numerous and rather prosy
+lectures.
+
+“Han-nah!” again called Squire Newcome, separating the two syllables by
+a pause of deliberation, and strongly accenting the last syllable,--a
+habit of his with all proper names.
+
+Hannah was the Irish servant of all work, who was just then engaged in
+mixing up bread in the room adjoining, which was the kitchen.
+
+Feeling a natural reluctance to appear before her employer with her
+hands covered with dough, she hastily washed them. All this, however,
+took time, and before she responded to the first summons, the second
+“Han-nah!” delivered with a little sharp emphasis, had been uttered.
+
+At length she appeared at the door of the sitting-room.
+
+“Han-nah!” said Squire Newcome, fixing his cold gray eye upon her, “when
+you hear my voice a calling you, it is your duty to answer the summons
+IMMEJIATELY.”
+
+I have endeavored to represent the Squire's pronunciation of the last
+word.
+
+“So I would have come IMMEJOUSLY,” said Hannah, displaying a most
+reprehensible ignorance, “but me hands were all covered with flour.”
+
+“That makes no difference,” interrupted the Squire. “Flour is an
+accidental circumstance.”
+
+“What's that?” thought Hannah, opening her eyes in amazement.
+
+“And should not be allowed to interpose an obstacle to an IMMEJIATE
+answer to my summons.”
+
+“Sir,” said Hannah, who guessed at the meaning though she did not
+understand the words, “you wouldn't have me dirty the door-handle with
+me doughy hands?”
+
+“That could easily be remedied by ablution.”
+
+“There ain't any ablution in the house,” said the mystified Hannah.
+
+“I mean,” Squire Newcome condescended to explain, “the application of
+water--in short, washing.”
+
+“Shure,” said Hannah, as light broke in upon her mind, “I never knew
+that was what they called it before.”
+
+“Is Ben-ja-min at home?”
+
+“Yes, sir. He was out playin' in the yard a minute ago. I guess you can
+see him from the winder.”
+
+So saying she stepped forward, and looking out, all at once gave a
+shrill scream, and rushed from the room, leaving her employer in his
+bolt-upright attitude gazing after her with as much astonishment as he
+was capable of.
+
+The cause of her sudden exit was revealed on looking out of the window.
+
+Master Benjamin, or Ben, as he was called everywhere except in his
+own family, had got possession of the black kitten, and appeared to be
+submerging her in the hogshead of rainwater.
+
+“O, you wicked, cruel boy, to drown poor Kitty!” exclaimed the indignant
+Hannah, rushing into the yard and endeavoring to snatch her feline
+favorite--an attempt which Ben stoutly resisted.
+
+Doubtless the poor kitten would have fared badly between the two, had
+not the window opened, and the deliberate voice of his father, called
+out in tones which Ben saw fit to heed.
+
+“What?”
+
+“Come into my presence immejiately, and learn to answer me with more
+respect.”
+
+Ben came in looking half defiant.
+
+His father, whose perpendicularity made him look like a sitting
+grenadier, commenced the examination thus:--
+
+“I wish you to inform me what you was a doing of when I spoke to you.”
+
+It will be observed that the Squire's dignified utterances were
+sometimes a little at variance with the rule of the best modern
+grammarians.
+
+“I was trying to prevent Hannah from taking the kitten,” said Ben.
+
+“What was you a doing of before Hannah went out?”
+
+“Playing with Kitty.”
+
+“Why were you standing near the hogshead, Benjamin?”
+
+“Why,” said Ben, ingenuously, “the hogshead happened to be near me--that
+was all.”
+
+“Were you not trying to drown the kitten?”
+
+“O, I wouldn't drown her for anything,” said Ben with an injured
+expression, mentally adding, “short of a three-cent piece.”
+
+“Then, to repeat my interrogatory, what was you a doing of with the
+kitten in the hogshead?”
+
+“I was teaching her to swim,” said Ben, looking out of the corner of
+his eye at his father, to see what impression this explanation made upon
+him.
+
+“And what advantageous result do you think would be brought about by
+teaching of the kitten to swim, Benjamin?” persisted his father.
+
+“Advantageous result!” repeated Ben, demurely, pretending not to
+understand.
+
+“Certingly.”
+
+“What does that mean?”
+
+“Do you not study your dictionary at school, Benjamin?”
+
+“Yes, but I don't like it much.”
+
+“You are very much in error. You will never learn to employ your tongue
+with elegance and precision, unless you engage in this beneficial
+study.”
+
+“I can use my tongue well enough, without studying grammar,” said Ben.
+He proceeded to illustrate the truth of this assertion by twisting his
+tongue about in a comical manner.
+
+“Tongue,” exclaimed his father, “is but another name for language I mean
+your native language.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+Ben was about to leave the room to avoid further questions of an
+embarrassing nature, when his father interrupted his exit by saying--
+
+“Stay, Benjamin, do not withdraw till I have made all the inquiries
+which I intend.”
+
+The boy unwillingly returned.
+
+“You have not answered my question.”
+
+“I've forgotten what it was.”
+
+“What good would it do?” asked the Squire, simplifying his speech to
+reach Ben's comprehension, “what good would it do to teach the kitten to
+swim?”
+
+“O, I thought,” said Ben, hesitating, “that some time or other she might
+happen to fall into the water, and might not be able to get out unless
+she knew how.”
+
+“I think,” said his father with an unusual display of sagacity, “that
+she will be in much greater hazard of drowning while learning to swim
+under your direction than by any other chance likely to befall her.”
+
+“Shouldn't wonder,” was Ben's mental comment, “Pretty cute for you,
+dad.”
+
+Fortunately, Ben did not express his thoughts aloud. They would have
+implied such an utter lack of respect that the Squire would have been
+quite overwhelmed by the reflection that his impressive manners had
+produced no greater effect on one who had so excellent a chance of being
+impressed by them.
+
+“Benjamin,” concluded his father, “I have an errand for you to execute.
+You may go to Mr. Prescott's and see if he is yet living. I hear that he
+is a lying on the brink of the grave.”
+
+An expression of sadness stole over the usually merry face of Ben, as he
+started on his errand.
+
+“Poor Paul!” he thought, “what will he do when his father dies? He's
+such a capital fellow, too. I just wish I had a wagon load of money, I
+do, and I'd give him half. That's so!”
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+PAUL PRESCOTT'S HOME.
+
+
+We will precede Ben on his visit to the house of Mr. Prescott.
+
+It was an old weather-beaten house, of one story, about half a mile
+distant from 'Squire Newcome's residence. The Prescott family had lived
+here for five years, or ever since they had removed to Wrenville. Until
+within a year they had lived comfortably, when two blows came in quick
+succession. The first was the death of Mrs. Prescott, an excellent
+woman, whose loss was deeply felt by her husband and son. Soon
+afterwards Mr. Prescott, a carpenter by trade, while at work upon the
+roof of a high building, fell off, and not only broke his leg badly, but
+suffered some internal injury of a still more serious nature. He had
+not been able to do a stroke of work since. After some months it became
+evident that he would never recover. A year had now passed. During
+this time his expenses had swallowed up the small amount which he had
+succeeded in laying up previous to his sickness. It was clear that at
+his death there would be nothing left. At thirteen years of age Paul
+would have to begin the world without a penny.
+
+Mr. Prescott lay upon a bed in a small bedroom adjoining the kitchen.
+Paul, a thoughtful-looking boy sat beside it, ready to answer his call.
+
+There had been silence for some time, when Mr. Prescott called feebly--
+
+“Paul!”
+
+“I am here, father,” said Paul.
+
+“I am almost gone, Paul, I don't think I shall last through the day.”
+
+“O, father,” said Paul, sorrowfully, “Don't leave me.”
+
+“That is the only grief I have in dying--I must leave you to struggle
+for yourself, Paul. I shall be able to leave you absolutely nothing.”
+
+“Don't think of that, father. I am young and strong--I can earn my
+living in some way.”
+
+“I hoped to live long enough to give you an education. I wanted you to
+have a fairer start in the world than I had.”
+
+“Never mind, father,” said Paul, soothingly, “Don't be uneasy about me.
+God will provide for me.”
+
+Again there was a silence, broken only by the difficult breathing of the
+sick man.
+
+He spoke again.
+
+“There is one thing, Paul, that I want to tell you before I die.”
+
+Paul drew closer to the bedside.
+
+“It is something which has troubled me as I lay here. I shall feel
+easier for speaking of it. You remember that we lived at Cedarville
+before we came here.”
+
+“Yes, father.”
+
+“About two years before we left there, a promising speculation was
+brought to my notice. An agent of a Lake Superior mine visited our
+village and represented the mine in so favorable a light that many of
+my neighbors bought shares, fully expecting to double their money in a
+year. Among the rest I was attacked with the fever of speculation. I had
+always been obliged to work hard for a moderate compensation, and had
+not been able to do much more than support my family. This it seemed to
+me, afforded an excellent opportunity of laying up a little something
+which might render me secure in the event of a sudden attack of
+sickness. I had but about two hundred dollars, however, and from so
+scanty an investment I could not, of course, expect a large return;
+accordingly I went to Squire Conant; you remember him, Paul?”
+
+“Yes, father.”
+
+'I went to him and asked a loan of five hundred dollars. After some
+hesitation he agreed to lend it to me. He was fond of his money and not
+much given to lending, but it so happened that he had invested in the
+same speculation, and had a high opinion of it, so he felt pretty
+safe in advancing me the money. Well, this loan gave me seven hundred
+dollars, with which I purchased seven shares in the Lake Superior Grand
+Combination Mining Company. For some months afterwards, I felt like a
+rich man. I carefully put away my certificate of stock, looking upon
+it as the beginning of a competence. But at the end of six months the
+bubble burst--the stock proved to be utterly worthless,--Squire Conant
+lost five thousand dollars. I lost seven hundred, five hundred being
+borrowed money. The Squire's loss was much larger, but mine was the more
+serious, since I lost everything and was plunged into debt, while he had
+at least forty thousand dollars left.
+
+“Two days after the explosion, Squire Conant came into my shop and asked
+abruptly when I could pay him the amount I had borrowed. I told him that
+I could not fix a time. I said that I had been overwhelmed by a result
+so contrary to my anticipations, but I told him I would not rest till I
+had done something to satisfy his claim. He was always an unreasonable
+man, and reproached me bitterly for sinking his money in a useless
+speculation, as if I could foresee how it would end any better than he.”
+
+“Have you ever been able to pay back any part of the five hundred
+dollars, father?”
+
+“I have paid the interest regularly, and a year ago, just before I met
+with my accident, I had laid up a hundred and fifty dollars which I had
+intended to pay the Squire, but when my sickness came I felt obliged to
+retain it to defray our expenses, being cut off from earning anything.”
+
+“Then I suppose you have not been able to pay interest for the last
+year.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Have you heard from the Squire lately?”
+
+“Yes, I had a letter only last week. You remember bringing me one
+postmarked Cedarville?”
+
+“Yes, I wondered at the time who it could be from.”
+
+“You will find it on the mantelpiece. I should like to have you get it
+and read it.”
+
+Paul readily found the letter. It was enclosed in a brown envelope,
+directed in a bold hand to “Mr. John Prescott, Wrenville.”
+
+The letter was as follows:--
+
+
+CEDARVILLE, APRIL 15, 18--,
+
+MR. JOHN PRESCOTT:--
+
+SIR: I have been waiting impatiently to hear something about the five
+hundred dollars in which sum you are indebted to me, on account of a
+loan which I was fool enough to make you seven years since. I thought
+you an honest man, but I have found, to my cost, that I was mistaken.
+For the last year you have even failed to pay interest as stipulated
+between us. Your intention is evident. I quite understand that you have
+made up your mind to defraud me of what is rightfully mine. I don't know
+how you may regard this, but I consider it as bad as highway robbery. I
+do not hesitate to say that if you had your deserts you would be in the
+Penitentiary. Let me advise you, if you wish to avoid further trouble,
+to make no delay in paying a portion of this debt. Yours, etc. EZEKIEL
+CONANT.
+
+
+Paul's face flushed with indignation as he read this bitter and cruel
+letter.
+
+“Does Squire Conant know that you are sick, father?” he inquired.
+
+“Yes, I wrote him about my accident, telling him at the same time that
+I regretted it in part on account of the interruption which it must
+occasion in my payments.”
+
+“And knowing this, he wrote such a letter as that,” said Paul,
+indignantly, “what a hard, unfeeling wretch he must be!”
+
+“I suppose it is vexatious to him to be kept out of his money.”
+
+“But he has plenty more. He would never miss it if he had given it to
+you outright.”
+
+“That is not the way to look at it, Paul. The money is justly his, and
+it is a great sorrow to me that I must die without paying it.”
+
+“Father,” said Paul, after a pause, “will it be any relief to you, if I
+promise to pay it,--that is, if I am ever able?”
+
+Mr. Prescott's face brightened.
+
+“That was what I wanted to ask you, Paul. It will be a comfort to me to
+feel that there is some hope of the debt being paid at some future day.”
+
+“Then don't let it trouble you any longer, father. The debt shall be
+mine, and I will pay it.”
+
+Again a shadow passed over the sick man's face, “Poor boy,” he said,
+“why should I burden your young life with such a load? You will have to
+struggle hard enough as it is. No, Paul, recall your promise. I don't
+want to purchase comfort at such a price.”
+
+“No, father,” said Paul sturdily, “it is too late now. I have made the
+promise and I mean to stick to it. Besides, it will give me something
+to live for. I am young--I may have a great many years before me. For
+thirteen years you have supported me. It is only right that I should
+make what return I can. I'll keep my promise, father.”
+
+“May God help and prosper you, my boy,” said Mr. Prescott, solemnly.
+“You've been a good son; I pray that you may grow up to be a good man.
+But, my dear, I feel tired. I think I will try to go to sleep.”
+
+Paul smoothed the comforter, adjusting it carefully about his father's
+neck, and going to the door went out in search of some wood to place
+upon the fire. Their scanty stock of firewood was exhausted, and Paul
+was obliged to go into the woods near by, to obtain such loose fagots as
+he might find upon the ground.
+
+He was coming back with his load when his attention was drawn by a
+whistle. Looking up he discovered Ben Newcome approaching him.
+
+“How are you, Paul?”
+
+“Pretty well, Ben.”
+
+“How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time.”
+
+“Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would
+ever get any better.”
+
+“How is he this morning?”
+
+“Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I
+went out.”
+
+“I brought over something for you,” said Ben, tugging away at his
+pocket.
+
+Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.
+
+“I found 'em in the closet,” he said.
+
+“Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?”
+
+“Then I don't know as I ought to take them,” said Paul, though, to tell
+the truth, they looked tempting to him.
+
+“O, nonsense,” said Ben; “they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes to
+scold a little; it does her good.”
+
+The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the
+turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.
+
+“Ain't they prime?” he said.
+
+“First rate,” said Paul; “won't you have one?”
+
+“No,” said Ben; “you see I thought while I was about it I might as well
+take four, so I ate two coming along.”
+
+In about fifteen minutes Paul went into the house to look at his father.
+He was lying very quietly upon the bed. Paul drew near and looked at him
+more closely. There was something in the expression of his father's face
+which terrified him.
+
+Ben heard his sudden cry of dismay, and hurriedly entered.
+
+Paul pointed to the bed, and said briefly, “Father's dead!”
+
+Ben, who in spite of his mischievous propensities was gifted with a warm
+heart, sat down beside Paul, and passing his arm round his neck,
+gave him that silent sympathy which is always so grateful to the
+grief-stricken heart.
+
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+PAUL'S BRILLIANT PROSPECTS.
+
+
+Two days later, the funeral of Mr. Prescott took place.
+
+Poor Paul! It seemed to him a dream of inexpressible sorrow. His father
+and mother both gone, he felt that he was indeed left alone in the
+world. No thought of the future had yet entered his mind. He was wholly
+occupied with his present sorrow. Desolate at heart he slipped away from
+the graveyard after the funeral ceremony was over, and took his way back
+again to the lonely dwelling which he had called home.
+
+As he was sitting in the corner, plunged in sorrowful thought, there was
+a scraping heard at the door, and a loud hem!
+
+Looking up, Paul saw entering the cottage the stiff form of Squire
+Benjamin Newcome, who, as has already been stated, was the owner.
+
+“Paul,” said the Squire, with measured deliberation.
+
+“Do you mean me, sir?” asked Paul, vaguely conscious that his name had
+been called.
+
+“Did I not address you by your baptismal appellation?” demanded the
+Squire, who thought the boy's question superfluous.
+
+“Paul,” pursued Squire Newcome, “have you thought of your future
+destination?”
+
+“No, sir,” said Paul, “I suppose I shall live here.”
+
+“That arrangement would not be consistent with propriety. I suppose you
+are aware that your deceased parent left little or no worldly goods.”
+
+“I know he was poor.”
+
+“Therefore it has been thought best that you should be placed in charge
+of a worthy man, who I see is now approaching the house. You will
+therefore accompany him without resistance. If you obey him and read the
+Bible regularly, you will--ahem!--you will some time or other see the
+advantage of it.”
+
+With this consolatory remark Squire Newcome wheeled about and strode out
+of the house.
+
+Immediately afterwards there entered a rough-looking man arrayed in a
+farmer's blue frock.
+
+“You're to come with me, youngster,” said Mr. Nicholas Mudge, for that
+was his name.
+
+“With you?” said Paul, recoiling instinctively.
+
+In fact there was nothing attractive in the appearance or manners of
+Mr. Mudge. He had a coarse hard face, while his head was surmounted by
+a shock of red hair, which to all appearance had suffered little
+interference from the comb for a time which the observer would scarcely
+venture to compute. There was such an utter absence of refinement about
+the man, that Paul, who had been accustomed to the gentle manners of his
+father, was repelled by the contrast which this man exhibited.
+
+“To be sure you're to go with me,” said Mr. Mudge. “You did not
+calc'late you was a goin' to stay here by yourself, did you? We've got a
+better place for you than that. But the wagon's waitin' outside, so just
+be lively and bundle in, and I'll carry you to where you're a goin' to
+live.”
+
+“Where's that?”
+
+“Wal, some folks call it the Poor House, but it ain't any the worse for
+that, I expect. Anyhow, them as has no money may feel themselves lucky
+to get so good a home. So jest be a movin', for I can't be a waitin'
+here all day.”
+
+Paul quietly submitted himself to the guidance of Mr. Mudge. He was so
+occupied with the thought of his sad loss that he did not realize the
+change that was about to take place in his circumstances.
+
+About half a mile from the village in the bleakest and most desolate
+part of the town, stood the Poor House. It was a crazy old building of
+extreme antiquity, which, being no longer considered fit for an ordinary
+dwelling-house, had been selected as a suitable residence for the town's
+poor. It was bleak and comfortless to be sure, but on that very account
+had been purchased at a trifling expense, and that was, of course, a
+primary consideration. Connected with the house were some dozen acres of
+rough-looking land, plentifully overspread with stones, which might have
+filled with despair the most enterprising agriculturist. However, it had
+this recommendation at least, that it was quite in character with the
+buildings upon it, which in addition to the house already described,
+consisted of a barn of equal antiquity and a pig pen.
+
+This magnificent domain was under the superintendence of Mr. Nicholas
+Mudge, who in consideration of taking charge of the town paupers had
+the use of the farm and buildings, rent free, together with a stipulated
+weekly sum for each of the inmates.
+
+“Well, Paul,” said Mr. Mudge, as they approached the house, in a tone
+which was meant to be encouraging, “this is goin' to be your home. How
+do you like it?”
+
+Thus addressed, Paul ventured a glance around him.
+
+“I don't know,” said he, doubtfully; “it don't look very pleasant.”
+
+“Don't look very pleasant!” repeated Mr. Mudge in a tone of mingled
+amazement and indignation. “Well, there's gratitude for you. After the
+town has been at the expense of providin' a nice, comfortable home for
+you, because you haven't got any of your own, you must turn up your nose
+at it.”
+
+“I didn't mean to complain,” said Paul, feeling very little interest in
+the matter.
+
+“Perhaps you expected to live in a marble palace,” pursued Mr. Mudge, in
+an injured tone. “We don't have any marble palaces in this neighborhood,
+we don't.”
+
+Paul disclaimed any such anticipation.
+
+Mr. Mudge deigned to accept Paul's apology, and as they had now reached
+the door, unceremoniously threw it open, and led the way into a room
+with floor unpainted, which, to judge from its appearance, was used as a
+kitchen.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+LIFE IN A NEW PHASE.
+
+
+Everything was “at sixes and sevens,” as the saying is, in the room Mr.
+Mudge and Paul had just entered. In the midst of the scene was a large
+stout woman, in a faded calico dress, and sleeves rolled up, working as
+if her life or the world's destiny depended upon it.
+
+It was evident from the first words of Mr. Mudge that this lady was his
+helpmeet.
+
+“Well, wife,” he said, “I've brought you another boarder. You must try
+to make him as happy and contented as the rest of 'em are.”
+
+From the tone of the speaker, the last words might be understood to be
+jocular.
+
+Mrs. Mudge, whose style of beauty was not improved by a decided squint,
+fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon Paul, and he quite naturally returned it.
+
+“Haven't you ever seen anybody before, boy? I guess you'll know me next
+time.”
+
+“Shouldn't wonder if he did,” chuckled Mr. Mudge.
+
+“I don't know where on earth we shall put him,” remarked the lady.
+“We're full now.”
+
+“Oh, put him anywhere. I suppose you won't be very particular about your
+accommodations?” said Mr. Mudge turning to Paul.
+
+Paul very innocently answered in the negative, thereby affording Mr.
+Mudge not a little amusement.
+
+“Well, that's lucky,” he said, “because our best front chamber's
+occupied just now. We'd have got it ready for you if you'd only wrote a
+week ago to tell us you were coming. You can just stay round here,” he
+said in a different tone as he was about leaving the room, “Mrs. Mudge
+will maybe want you to do something for her. You can sit down till she
+calls on you.”
+
+It was washing day with Mrs. Mudge, and of course she was extremely
+busy. The water was to be brought from a well in the yard, and to this
+office Paul was at once delegated. It was no easy task, the full pails
+tugging most unmercifully at his arms. However, this was soon over, and
+Mrs. Mudge graciously gave him permission to go into the adjoining room,
+and make acquaintance with his fellow-boarders.
+
+There were nine of them in all, Paul, the newcomer making the tenth.
+They were all advanced in years, except one young woman, who was
+prevented by mental aberration from supporting herself outside the walls
+of the Institution.
+
+Of all present, Paul's attention was most strongly attracted towards one
+who appeared more neatly and scrupulously attired than any of the rest.
+
+Aunt Lucy Lee, or plain Aunt Lucy, for in her present abode she had
+small use for her last name, was a benevolent-looking old lady, who both
+in dress and manners was distinguished from her companions. She rose
+from her knitting, and kindly took Paul by the hand. Children are
+instinctive readers of character, and Paul, after one glance at her
+benevolent face, seated himself contentedly beside her.
+
+“I suppose,” said the old lady, socially, “you've come to live with
+us. We must do all we can to make you comfortable. Your name is Paul
+Prescott, I think Mrs. Mudge said.”
+
+“Yes, ma'am,” answered Paul, watching the rapid movement of the old
+lady's fingers.
+
+“Mine is Aunt Lucy,” she continued, “that is what everybody calls me.
+So now we know each other, and shall soon be good friends, I hope. I
+suppose you have hardly been here long enough to tell how you shall like
+it.”
+
+Paul confessed that thus far he did not find it very pleasant.
+
+“No, I dare say not,” said Aunt Lucy, “I can't say I think it looks very
+attractive myself. However, it isn't wholly the fault of Mr. and Mrs.
+Mudge. They can't afford to do much better, for the town allows them
+very little.”
+
+Aunt Lucy's remarks were here interrupted by the apparition of the
+worthy landlady at the door.
+
+“Dinner's ready, folks,” said that lady, with little ceremony, “and you
+must come out quick if you want any, for I'm drove with work, and can't
+be hindered long.”
+
+The summons was obeyed with alacrity, and the company made all haste to
+the dining-room, or rather the kitchen, for it was here that the meals
+were eaten.
+
+In the center of the room was set a table without a cloth, a table-cloth
+being considered a luxury quite superfluous. Upon this were placed
+several bowls of thin, watery liquid, intended for soup, but which, like
+city milk, was diluted so as hardly to be distinguishable. Beside each
+bowl was a slice of bread.
+
+Such was the bill of fare.
+
+“Now, folks, the sooner you fall to the better,” exclaimed the energetic
+Mrs. Mudge, who was one of those driving characters, who consider any
+time spent at the table beyond ten minutes as so much time wasted.
+
+The present company appeared to need no second invitation. Their
+scanty diet had the positive advantage of giving them a good appetite;
+otherwise the quality of their food might have daunted them.
+
+Paul took his place beside Aunt Lucy. Mechanically he did as the rest,
+carrying to his mouth a spoonful of the liquid. But his appetite was not
+sufficiently accustomed to Poor House regime to enable him to relish its
+standing dish, and he laid down his spoon with a disappointed look.
+
+He next attacked the crust of bread, but found it too dry to be
+palatable.
+
+“Please, ma'am,” said he to Mrs. Mudge, “I should like some butter.”
+
+Paul's companions dropped their spoons in astonishment at his daring,
+and Mrs. Mudge let fall a kettle she was removing from the fire, in
+sheer amazement.
+
+“What did you ask for?” she inquired, as if to make sure that her ears
+did not deceive her.
+
+“A little butter,” repeated Paul, unconscious of the great presumption
+of which he had been guilty.
+
+“You want butter, do you?” repeated Mr. Mudge. “Perhaps you'd like a
+slice of beefsteak and a piece of plum-pudding too, wouldn't you?”
+
+“I should very much,” said Paul, resolved to tell the truth, although he
+now began to perceive the sarcasm in his landlady's tone.
+
+“There isn't anything more you would like, is there?” inquired the lady,
+with mock politeness.
+
+“No, ma'am,” returned Paul after a pause, “I believe not, to-day.”
+
+“Very moderate, upon my word,” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, giving vent at
+length to her pentup indignation. “You'll be contented with butter and
+roast beef and plum-pudding! A mighty fine gentleman, to be sure. But
+you won't get them here, I'll be bound.”
+
+“So will I,” thought Aunt Lucy.
+
+“If you ain't satisfied with what I give you,” pursued Mrs. Mudge,
+“you'd better go somewhere else. You can put up at some of the great
+hotels. Butter, forsooth!”
+
+Having thus given expression to her feelings, she left the room, and
+Paul was left to finish his dinner with the best appetite he could
+command. He was conscious that he had offended Mrs. Mudge, but the
+thoughts of his recent great sorrow swallowed up all minor annoyances,
+so that the words of his estimable landlady were forgotten almost as
+soon as they were uttered. He felt that he must henceforth look for far
+different treatment from that to which he had been accustomed during his
+father's lifetime.
+
+His thoughts were interrupted in a manner somewhat ludicrous, by the
+crazy girl who sat next to him coolly appropriating to herself his bowl
+of soup, having already disposed of her own.
+
+“Look,” said Aunt Lucy, quickly, calling Paul's attention, “you are
+losing your dinner.”
+
+“Never mind,” said Paul, amused in spite of his sadness, “she is quite
+welcome to it if she likes it; I can't eat it.”
+
+So the dinner began and ended. It was very brief and simple, occupying
+less than ten minutes, and comprising only one course--unless the soup
+was considered the first course, and the bread the second. Paul left
+the table as hungry as he came to it. Aunt Lucy's appetite had become
+accustomed to the Mudge diet, and she wisely ate what was set before
+her, knowing that there was no hope of anything better.
+
+About an hour after dinner Ben Newcome came to the door of the Poor
+House and inquired for Paul.
+
+Mrs. Mudge was in one of her crusty moods.
+
+“You can't see him,” said she.
+
+“And why not?” said Ben, resolutely.
+
+“Because he's busy.”
+
+“You'd better let me see him,” said Ben, sturdily.
+
+“I should like to know what's going to happen if I don't,” said Mrs.
+Mudge, with wrathful eyes, and arms akimbo.
+
+“I shall go home and report to my father,” said Ben, coolly.
+
+“Who is your father?” asked Mrs. Mudge, for she did not recognize her
+visitor.
+
+“My father's name is Newcome--Squire Newcome, some call him.”
+
+Now it so happened that Squire Newcome was Chairman of the Overseers of
+the Poor, and in that capacity might remove Mr. Mudge from office if he
+pleased. Accordingly Mrs. Mudge softened down at once, on learning that
+Ben was his son.
+
+“Oh,” said she, “I didn't know who it was. I thought it might be some
+idle boy from the village who would only take Paul from his work, but if
+you have a message from your father----”
+
+This she said to ascertain whether he really had any message or not, but
+Ben, who had in fact come without his father's knowledge, only bowed,
+and said, in a patronizing manner, “I accept your apology, Mrs. Mudge.
+Will you have the goodness to send Paul out?”
+
+“Won't you step in?” asked Mrs. Mudge with unusual politeness.
+
+“No, I believe not.”
+
+Paul was accordingly sent out.
+
+He was very glad to meet his schoolmate and playfellow, Ben, who by his
+gayety, spiced though it was with roguery, had made himself a general
+favorite in school.
+
+“I say, Paul,” said Ben, “I'm sorry to find you in such a place.”
+
+“It isn't very pleasant,” said Paul, rather soberly.
+
+“And that woman--Mrs. Mudge--she looks as if she might be a regular
+spitfire, isn't she?”
+
+“Rather so.”
+
+“I only wish the old gentleman--meaning of course, the Squire--would
+take you to live with me. I want a fellow to play with. But I say, Paul,
+go and get your hat, and we'll go out for a walk.”
+
+“I don't know what Mrs. Mudge will say,” said Paul, who had just come
+from turning the handle of a churn.
+
+“Just call Mrs. Mudge, and I'll manage it.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge being summoned, made her appearance at the door.
+
+“I presume, ma'am,” said Ben, confidently, “you will have no objection
+to Paul's taking a walk with me while I deliver the message I am
+entrusted with.”
+
+“Certainly,” said Mrs. Mudge, rather unwillingly, but not venturing to
+refuse.
+
+“It takes me to come it over the old lady,” said Ben, when they were out
+of hearing.
+
+“Now, we'll go a fishing.”
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+A CRISIS.
+
+
+Before sunrise the next morning Paul was awakened by a rude shake from
+Mr. Mudge, with an intimation that he had better get up, as there was
+plenty of work before him.
+
+By the light of the lantern, for as yet it was too dark to dispense with
+it, Paul dressed himself. Awakened from a sound sleep, he hardly had
+time to collect his thoughts, and it was with a look of bewilderment
+that he surveyed the scene about him. As Mrs. Mudge had said, they were
+pretty full already, and accordingly a rude pallet had been spread for
+him in the attic, of which, with the exception of nocturnal marauders,
+he was the only occupant. Paul had not, to be sure, been used to very
+superior accommodations, and if the bed had not been quite so hard, he
+would have got along very well. As it was he was separated from slats
+only by a thin straw bed which did not improve matters much. It was
+therefore with a sense of weariness which slumber had not dissipated,
+that Paul arose at the summons of Mr. Mudge.
+
+When he reached the kitchen, he found that gentleman waiting for him.
+
+“Do you know how to milk?” was his first salutation.
+
+“I never learned,” said Paul.
+
+“Then you'll have to, in double-quick time,” was the reply, “for I don't
+relish getting up so early, and you can take it off my hands.”
+
+The two proceeded to the barn, where Paul received his first lesson in
+this important branch of education.
+
+Mr. Mudge kept five cows. One might have thought he could have afforded
+a moderate supply of milk to his boarders, but all, with the exception
+of a single quart, was sold to the milkman who passed the door every
+morning.
+
+After breakfast, which was on the same economical plan with the dinner
+of the day previous, Paul was set to work planting potatoes, at which he
+was kept steadily employed till the dinner-hour.
+
+Poor Paul! his back ached dreadfully, for he had never before done any
+harder work than trifling services for his father. But the inexorable
+Mr. Mudge was in sight, and however much he wished, he did not dare to
+lay aside his hoe even for a moment.
+
+Twelve o'clock found him standing beside the dinner-table. He ate more
+heartily than before, for his forenoon's labor made even poorhouse fare
+palatable.
+
+Mrs. Mudge observed the change, and remarked in a satisfied tone. “Well,
+my fine gentleman, I see you are coming to your appetite. I thought you
+wouldn't hold out long.”
+
+Paul, who had worn off something of his diffidence, could not help
+feeling indignant at this speech; unaccustomed to be addressed in this
+way, the taunt jarred upon his feelings, but he only bit his lip and
+preserved silence.
+
+Aunt Lucy, too, who had come to feel a strong interest in Paul, despite
+her natural mildness, could not resist the temptation of saying with
+some warmth, “what's the use of persecuting the child? He has sorrows
+enough of his own without your adding to them.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge was not a little incensed at this remonstrance.
+
+“I should like to know, ma'am, who requested you to put in your oar!”
+ she said with arms akimbo. “Anybody wouldn't think from your lofty airs
+that you lived in the poorhouse; I'll thank you to mind your own
+business in the future, and not meddle with what don't concern you.”
+
+Aunt Lucy was wise enough to abstain from provoking further the wrath of
+her amiable landlady, and continued to eat her soup in silence. But Mrs.
+Mudge neer forgot this interference, nor the cause of it, and henceforth
+with the malignity of a narrow-minded and spiteful woman, did what she
+could to make Paul uncomfortable. Her fertile ingenuity always found
+some new taunt, or some new reproach, to assail him with. But Paul,
+though at first he felt indignant, learned at last to treat them as they
+deserved, with silent disdain. Assured of the sympathy of those around
+him, he did not allow his appetite to be spoiled by any remark which
+Mrs. Mudge might offer.
+
+This, of course, only provoked her the more, and she strove to have his
+daily tasks increased, in the amiable hope that his “proud spirit” might
+be tamed thereby.
+
+Mr. Mudge, who was somewhat under petticoat government, readily acceded
+to his wife's wishes, and henceforth Paul's strength was taxed to its
+utmost limit. He was required to be up with the first gray tint of dawn
+and attend to the cattle. From this time until night, except the brief
+time devoted to his meals, he was incessantly occupied. Aunt Lucy's
+society, his chief comfort, was thus taken from him; since, in order to
+rise early, he was obliged to go to bed as soon as possible after day's
+work was finished.
+
+The effects of such incessant labor without a sufficient supply of
+nourishing food, may easily be imagined. The dry bread and meagre soup
+which constituted the chief articles of diet in Mrs. Mudge's economical
+household, had but one recommendation,--they were effectual preventives
+of gluttony. It was reported that on one occasion a beggar, apparently
+famishing with hunger, not knowing the character of the house, made
+application at the door for food. In an unusual fit of generosity, Mrs.
+Mudge furnished him with a slice of bread and a bowl of soup, which,
+however, proved so far from tempting that the beggar, hungry as he was,
+left them almost untouched.
+
+One day, as Paul was working in the field at a little distance from
+Mr. Mudge, he became conscious of a peculiar feeling of giddiness which
+compelled him to cling to the hoe for support,--otherwise he must have
+fallen.
+
+“No laziness there,” exclaimed Mr. Mudge, observing Paul's cessation
+from labor, “We can't support you in idleness.”
+
+But the boy paid no regard to this admonition, and Mr. Mudge, somewhat
+surprised, advanced toward him to enforce the command.
+
+Even he was startled at the unusual paleness of Paul's face, and
+inquired in a less peremptory tone, “what's the matter?”
+
+“I feel sick,” gasped Paul.
+
+Without another word, Mr. Mudge took Paul up in his arms and carried him
+into the house.
+
+“What's the matter, now?” asked his wife, meeting him at the door.
+
+“The boy feels a little sick, but I guess he'll get over it by-and
+by. Haven't you got a little soup that you can give him? I reckon he's
+faint, and that'll brighten him up.”
+
+Paul evidently did not think so, for he motioned away a bowl of the
+delightful mixture, though it was proffered him by the fair hands of
+Mrs. Mudge. The lady was somewhat surprised, and said, roughly, “I
+shouldn't wonder if he was only trying to shirk.”
+
+This was too much even for Mr. Mudge; “The boy's sick,” said he, “that's
+plain enough; if he don't get better soon, I must send for the doctor,
+for work drives, and I can't spare him.”
+
+“There's no more danger of his being sick than mine,” said Mrs. Mudge,
+emphatically; “however, if you're fool enough to go for a doctor, that's
+none of my business. I've heard of feigning sickness before now, to
+get rid of work. As to his being pale, I've been as pale as that myself
+sometimes without your troubling yourself very much about me.”
+
+“'Twon't be any expense to us,” alleged Mr. Mudge, in a tone of
+justification, for he felt in some awe of his wife's temper, which was
+none of the mildest when a little roused, “'Twon't be any expense to us;
+the town has got to pay for it, and as long as it will get him ready for
+work sooner, we might as well take advantage of it.”
+
+This consideration somewhat reconciled Mrs. Mudge to the step proposed,
+and as Paul, instead of getting better, grew rapidly worse, Mr. Mudge
+thought it expedient to go immediately for the village physician.
+Luckily Dr. Townsend was at home, and an hour afterwards found him
+standing beside the sick boy.
+
+“I don't know but you'll think it rather foolish, our sending for you,
+doctor,” said Mrs. Mudge, “but Mudge would have it that the boy was sick
+and so he went for you.”
+
+“And he did quite right,” said Dr. Townsend, noticing the ghastly pallor
+of Paul's face. “He is a very sick boy, and if I had not been called I
+would not have answered for the consequences. How do you feel, my boy?”
+ he inquired of Paul.
+
+“I feel very weak, and my head swims,” was the reply.
+
+“How and when did this attack come on?” asked the doctor, turning to Mr.
+Mudge.
+
+“He was taken while hoeing in the field,” was the reply.
+
+“Have you kept him at work much there lately?”
+
+“Well, yes, I've been drove by work, and he has worked there all day
+latterly.”
+
+“At what time has he gone to work in the morning?”
+
+“He has got up to milk the cows about five o'clock. I used to do it, but
+since he has learned, I have indulged myself a little.”
+
+“It would have been well for him if he had enjoyed the same privilege.
+It is my duty to speak plainly. The sickness of this boy lies at your
+door. He has never been accustomed to hard labor, and yet you have
+obliged him to rise earlier and work later than most men. No wonder he
+feels weak. Has he a good appetite?”
+
+“Well, rather middlin',” said Mrs. Mudge, “but it's mainly because he's
+too dainty to eat what's set before him. Why, only the first day he was
+here he turned up his nose at the bread and soup we had for dinner.”
+
+“Is this a specimen of the soup?” asked Dr. Townsend, taking from the
+table the bowl which had been proffered to Paul and declined by him.
+
+Without ceremony he raised to his lips a spoonful of the soup and tasted
+it with a wry face.
+
+“Do you often have this soup on the table?” he asked abruptly.
+
+“We always have it once a day, and sometimes twice,” returned Mrs.
+Mudge.
+
+“And you call the boy dainty because he don't relish such stuff as
+this?” said the doctor, with an indignation he did not attempt to
+conceal. “Why, I wouldn't be hired to take the contents of that bowl. It
+is as bad as any of my own medicines, and that's saying a good deal.
+How much nourishment do you suppose such a mixture would afford? And yet
+with little else to sustain him you have worked this boy like a beast of
+burden,--worse even, for they at least have abundance of GOOD food.”
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Mudge both winced under this plain speaking, but they did
+not dare to give expression to their anger, for they knew well that Dr.
+Townsend was an influential man in town, and, by representing the affair
+in the proper quarter, might render their hold upon their present post
+a very precarious one. Mr. Mudge therefore contented himself with
+muttering that he guessed he worked as hard as anybody, and he didn't
+complain of his fare.
+
+“May I ask you, Mr. Mudge,” said the doctor, fixing his penetrating eye
+full upon him, “whether you confine yourself to the food upon which you
+have kept this boy?”
+
+“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, in some confusion, moving uneasily in his
+seat, “I can't say but now and then I eat something a little different.”
+
+“Do you eat at the same table with the inmates of your house?”
+
+“Well, no,” said the embarrassed Mr. Mudge.
+
+“Tell me plainly,--how often do you partake of this soup?”
+
+“I aint your patient,” said the man, sullenly, “Why should you want to
+know what I eat?”
+
+“I have an object in view. Are you afraid to answer?”
+
+“I don't know as there's anything to be afraid of. The fact is, I aint
+partial to soup; it don't agree with me, and so I don't take it.”
+
+“Did you ever consider that this might be the case with others as
+well as yourself?” inquired the doctor with a glance expressive of his
+contempt for Mr. Mudge's selfishness. Without waiting for a reply, Dr.
+Townsend ordered Paul to be put to bed immediately, after which he would
+leave some medicine for him to take.
+
+Here was another embarrassment for the worthy couple. They hardly knew
+where to put our hero. It would not do for them to carry him to his
+pallet in the attic, for they felt sure that this would lead to some
+more plain speaking on the part of Dr. Townsend. He was accordingly,
+though with some reluctance, placed in a small bedroom upstairs, which,
+being more comfortable than those appropriated to the paupers, had been
+reserved for a son at work in a neighboring town, on his occasional
+visits home.
+
+“Is there no one in the house who can sit in the chamber and attend to
+his occasional wants?” asked Dr. Townsend. “He will need to take his
+medicine at stated periods, and some one will be required to administer
+it.”
+
+“There's Aunt Lucy Lee,” said Mrs. Mudge, “she's taken a fancy to the
+boy, and I reckon she'll do as well as anybody.”
+
+“No one better,” returned the doctor, who well knew Aunt Lucy's kindness
+of disposition, and was satisfied that she would take all possible care
+of his patient.
+
+So it was arranged that Aunt Lucy should take her place at Paul's
+bedside as his nurse.
+
+Paul was sick for many days,--not dangerously so, but hard work and
+scanty fare had weakened him to such a degree that exhausted nature
+required time to recruit its wasted forces. But he was not unhappy or
+restless. Hour after hour he would lie patiently, and listen to the
+clicking of her knitting needles. Though not provided with luxurious
+food, Dr. Townsend had spoken with so much plainness that Mrs. Mudge
+felt compelled to modify her treatment, lest, through his influence, she
+with her husband, might lose their situation. This forced forbearance,
+however, was far from warming her heart towards its object. Mrs.
+Mudge was a hard, practical woman, and her heart was so encrusted with
+worldliness and self-interest that she might as well have been without
+one.
+
+One day, as Paul lay quietly gazing at Aunt Lucy's benevolent face,
+and mentally contrasting it with that of Mrs. Mudge, whose shrill voice
+could be heard form below, he was seized with a sudden desire to learn
+something of her past history.
+
+“How long have you been here, Aunt Lucy?” he inquired.
+
+She looked up from her knitting, and sighed as she answered, “A long and
+weary time to look back upon, Paul. I have been here ten years.”
+
+“Ten years,” repeated Paul, thoughtfully, “and I am thirteen. So you
+have been here nearly all my lifetime. Has Mr. Mudge been here all that
+time?”
+
+“Only the last two years. Before that we had Mrs. Perkins.”
+
+“Did she treat you any better than Mrs. Mudge?”
+
+“Any better than Mrs. Mudge!” vociferated that lady, who had ascended
+the stairs without being heard by Aunt Lucy of Paul, and had thus
+caught the last sentence. “Any better than Mrs. Mudge!” she repeated,
+thoroughly provoked. “So you've been talking about me, you trollop, have
+you? I'll come up with you, you may depend upon that. That's to pay for
+my giving you tea Sunday night, is it? Perhaps you'll get some more.
+It's pretty well in paupers conspiring together because they aint
+treated like princes and princesses. Perhaps you'd like to got boarded
+with Queen Victoria.”
+
+The old lady sat very quiet during this tirade. She had been the subject
+of similar invective before, and knew that it would do no good to oppose
+Mrs. Mudge in her present excited state.
+
+“I don't wonder you haven't anything to say,” said the infuriated dame.
+“I should think you'd want to hide your face in shame, you trollop.”
+
+Paul was not quite so patient as his attendant. Her kindness had
+produced such an impression on him, that Mrs. Mudge, by her taunts,
+stirred up his indignation.
+
+“She's no more of a trollop than you are,” said he, with spirit.
+
+Mrs. Mudge whirled round at this unexpected attack, and shook her fist
+menacingly at Paul--
+
+“So, you've put in your oar, you little jackanapes,” said she, “If
+you're well enough to be impudent you're well enough to go to work.
+You aint a goin' to lie here idle much longer, I can tell you. If
+you deceive Dr. Townsend, and make him believe you're sick, you can't
+deceive me. No doubt you feel mighty comfortable, lyin' here with
+nothing to do, while I'm a slavin' myself to death down stairs, waitin'
+upon you; (this was a slight exaggeration, as Aunt Lucy took the entire
+charge of Paul, including the preparation of his food;) but you'd better
+make the most of it, for you won't lie here much longer. You'll miss not
+bein' able to talk about me, won't you?”
+
+Mrs. Mudge paused a moment as if expecting an answer to her highly
+sarcastic question, but Paul felt that no advantage would be gained by
+saying more.. He was not naturally a quick-tempered buy, and had only
+been led to this little ebullition by the wanton attack by Mrs. Mudge.
+
+This lady, after standing a moment as if defying the twain to a further
+contest, went out, slamming the door violently after her.
+
+“You did wrong to provoke her, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, gravely.
+
+“How could I help it?” asked Paul, earnestly. “If she had only abused
+ME, I should not have cared so much, but when she spoke about you, who
+have been so kind to me, I could not be silent.”
+
+“I thank you, Paul, for your kind feeling,” said the old lady, gently,
+“but we must learn to bear and forbear. The best of us have our faults
+and failings.”
+
+“What are yours, Aunt Lucy?”
+
+“O, a great many.”
+
+“Such as what?”
+
+“I am afraid I am sometimes discontented with the station which God has
+assigned me.”
+
+“I don't think you can be very much to blame for that. I should never
+learn to be contented here if I lived to the age of Methuselah.”
+
+Paul lay quite still for an hour or more. During that time he formed a
+determination which will be announced in the next chapter.
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+PAUL'S DETERMINATION
+
+At the close of the last chapter it was stated that Paul had come to a
+determination.
+
+This was,--TO RUN AWAY.
+
+That he had good reason for this we have already seen.
+
+He was now improving rapidly, and only waited till he was well enough to
+put his design into execution.
+
+“Aunt Lucy,” said he one day, “I've got something to tell you.”
+
+The old lady looked up inquiringly.
+
+“It's something I've been thinking of a long time,--at least most of the
+time since I've been sick. It isn't pleasant for me to stay here, and
+I've pretty much made up my mind that I sha'n't.”
+
+“Where will you go?” asked the old lady, dropping her work in surprise.
+
+“I don't know of any particular place, but I should be better off most
+anywhere than here.”
+
+“But you are so young, Paul.”
+
+“God will take care of me, Aunt Lucy,--mother used to tell me that.
+Besides, here I have no hope of learning anything or improving my
+condition. Then again, if I stay here, I can never do what father wished
+me to do.”
+
+“What is that, Paul?”
+
+Paul told the story of his father's indebtedness to Squire Conant, and
+the cruel letter which the Squire had written.
+
+“I mean to pay that debt,” he concluded firmly. “I won't let anybody say
+that my father kept them out of their money. There is no chance here;
+somewhere else I may find work and money.”
+
+“It is a great undertaking for a boy like you, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy,
+thoughtfully. “To whom is the money due?”
+
+“Squire Conant of Cedarville.”
+
+Aunt Lucy seemed surprised and agitated by the mention of this name.
+
+“Paul,” said she, “Squire Conant is my brother.”
+
+“Your brother!” repeated he in great surprise. “Then why does he allow
+you to live here? He is rich enough to take care of you.”
+
+“It is a long story,” said the old lady, sadly. “All that you will be
+interested to know is that I married against the wishes of my family. My
+husband died and I was left destitute. My brother has never noticed me
+since.”
+
+“It is a great shame,” said Paul.
+
+“We won't judge him, Paul. Have you fixed upon any time to go?”
+
+“I shall wait a few days till I get stronger. Can you tell me how far it
+is to New York?”
+
+“O, a great distance; a hundred miles at least. You can't think of going
+so far as that?”
+
+“I think it would be the best plan,” said Paul. “In a great city like
+New York there must be a great many things to do which I can't do here.
+I don't feel strong enough to work on a farm. Besides, I don't like it.
+O, it must be a fine thing to live in a great city. Then too,” pursued
+Paul, his face lighting up with the hopeful confidence of youth, “I
+may become rich. If I do, Aunt Lucy, I will build a fine house, and you
+shall come and live with me.”
+
+Aunt Lucy had seen more of life than Paul, and was less sanguine. The
+thought came to her that her life was already declining while his was
+but just begun, and in the course of nature, even if his bright dreams
+should be realized, she could hardly hope to live long enough to see it.
+But of this she said nothing. She would not for the world have dimmed
+the brightness of his anticipations by the expression of a single doubt.
+
+“I wish you all success, Paul, and I thank you for wishing me to share
+in your good fortune. God helps those who help themselves, and he will
+help you if you only deserve it. I shall miss you very much when you are
+gone. It will seem more lonely than ever.”
+
+“If it were not for you, Aunt Lucy, I should not mind going at all, but
+I shall be sorry to leave you behind.”
+
+“God will care for both of us, my dear boy. I shall hope to hear from
+you now and then, and if I learn that you are prosperous and happy, I
+shall be better contented with my own lot. But have you thought of all
+the labor and weariness that you will have to encounter? It is best to
+consider well all this, before entering upon such an undertaking.”
+
+“I have thought of all that, and if there were any prospect of my being
+happy here, I might stay for the present. But you know how Mrs. Mudge
+has treated me, and how she feels towards me now.”
+
+“I acknowledge, Paul, that it has proved a hard apprenticeship, and
+perhaps it might be made yet harder if you should stay longer. You must
+let me know when you are going, I shall want to bid you good-by.”
+
+“No fear that I shall forget that, Aunt Lucy. Next to my mother you have
+been most kind to me, and I love you for it.”
+
+Lightly pressing her lips to Paul's forehead Aunt Lucy left the room to
+conceal the emotion called forth by his approaching departure. Of all
+the inmates of the establishment she had felt most closely drawn to the
+orphan boy, whose loneliness and bereavement had appealed to her woman's
+heart. This feeling had been strengthened by the care she had been
+called to bestow upon him in his illness, for it is natural to love
+those whom we have benefited. But Aunt Lucy was the most unselfish of
+living creatures, and the idea of dissuading Paul from a course which he
+felt was right never occurred to her. She determined that she would
+do what she could to further his plans, now that he had decided to go.
+Accordingly she commenced knitting him a pair of stockings, knowing that
+this would prove a useful present. This came near being the means of
+discovering Paul's plan to Mrs. Mudge The latter, who notwithstanding
+her numerous duties, managed to see everything that was going on, had
+her attention directed to Aunt Lucy's work.
+
+“Have you finished the stockings that I set you to knitting for Mr.
+Mudge?” she asked.
+
+“No,” said Aunt Lucy, in some confusion.
+
+“Then whose are those, I should like to know? Somebody of more
+importance than my husband, I suppose.”
+
+“They are for Paul,” returned the old lady, in some uneasiness.
+
+“Paul!” repeated Mrs. Mudge, in her haste putting a double quantity
+of salaeratus into the bread she was mixing; “Paul's are they? And who
+asked you to knit him a pair, I should like to be informed?”
+
+“No one.”
+
+“Then what are you doing it for?”
+
+“I thought he might want them.”
+
+“Mighty considerate, I declare. And I shouldn't be at all surprised
+if you were knitting them with the yarn I gave you for Mr. Mudge's
+stockings.”
+
+“You are mistaken,” said Aunt Lucy, shortly.
+
+“Oh, you're putting on your airs, are you? I'll tell you what, Madam,
+you'd better put those stockings away in double-quick time, and finish
+my husband's, or I'll throw them into the fire, and Paul Prescott may
+wait till he goes barefoot before he gets them.”
+
+There was no alternative. Aunt Lucy was obliged to obey, at least while
+her persecutor was in the room. When alone for any length of time she
+took out Paul's stockings from under her apron, and worked on them till
+the approaching steps of Mrs. Mudge warned her to desist.
+
+*****
+
+
+Three days passed. The shadows of twilight were already upon the earth.
+The paupers were collected in the common room appropriated to their use.
+Aunt Lucy had suspended her work in consequence of the darkness, for
+in this economical household a lamp was considered a useless piece of
+extravagance. Paul crept quietly to her side, and whispered in tones
+audible to her alone, “I AM GOING TO-MORROW.”
+
+“To-morrow! so soon?”
+
+“Yes,” said Paul, “I am as ready now as I shall ever be. I wanted to
+tell you, because I thought maybe you might like to know that this is
+the last evening we shall spend together at present.”
+
+“Do you go in the morning?”
+
+“Yes, Aunt Lucy, early in the morning. Mr. Mudge usually calls me at
+five; I must be gone an hour before that time. I suppose I must bid you
+good-by to-night.”
+
+“Not to-night, Paul; I shall be up in the morning to see you go.”
+
+“But if Mrs. Mudge finds it out she will abuse you.”
+
+“I am used to that, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, with a sorrowful smile. “I
+have borne it many times, and I can again. But I can't lie quiet and let
+you go without one word of parting. You are quite determined to go?”
+
+“Quite, Aunt Lucy. I never could stay here. There is no pleasure in the
+present, and no hope for the future. I want to see something of life,”
+ and Paul's boyish figure dilated with enthusiasm.
+
+“God grant that you do not see too much!” said Aunt Lucy, half to
+herself.
+
+“Is the world then, so very sad a place?” asked Paul.
+
+“Both joy and sorrow are mingled in the cup of human life,” said Aunt
+Lucy, solemnly:
+
+“Which shall preponderate it is partly in our power to determine. He
+who follows the path of duty steadfastly, cannot be wholly miserable,
+whatever misfortunes may come upon him. He will be sustained by the
+conviction that his own errors have not brought them upon him.”
+
+“I will try to do right,” said Paul, placing his hand in that of his
+companion, “and if ever I am tempted to do wrong, I will think of you
+and of my mother, and that thought shall restrain me.”
+
+“It's time to go bed, folks,” proclaimed Mrs Mudge, appearing at the
+door. “I can't have you sitting up all night, as I've no doubt you'd
+like to do.”
+
+It was only eight o'clock, but no one thought of interposing an
+objection. The word of Mrs. Mudge was law in her household, as even her
+husband was sometimes made aware.
+
+All quietly rose from their seats and repaired to bed. It was an
+affecting sight to watch the tottering gait of those on whose heads the
+snows of many winters had drifted heavily, as they meekly obeyed the
+behest of one whose coarse nature forbade her sympathizing with them in
+their clouded age, and many infirmities.
+
+“Come,” said she, impatient of their slow movements, “move a little
+quicker, if it's perfectly convenient. Anybody'd think you'd been hard
+at work all day, as I have. You're about the laziest set I ever had
+anything to do with. I've got to be up early in the morning, and can't
+stay here dawdling.”
+
+“She's got a sweet temper,” said Paul, in a whisper, to Aunt Lucy.
+
+“Hush!” said the old lady. “She may hear you.”
+
+“What's that you're whispering about?” said Mrs. Mudge, suspiciously.
+“Something you're ashamed to have heard, most likely.”
+
+Paul thought it best to remain silent.
+
+“To-morrow morning at four!” he whispered to Aunt Lucy, as he pressed
+her hand in the darkness.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+PAUL BEGINS HIS JOURNEY.
+
+
+Paul ascended the stairs to his hard pallet for the last time. For the
+last time! There is sadness in the thought, even when the future which
+lies before us glows with brighter colors than the past has ever worn.
+But to Paul, whose future was veiled in uncertainty, and who was about
+to part with the only friend who felt an interest in his welfare, this
+thought brought increased sorrow.
+
+He stood before the dirt-begrimed window through which alone the
+struggling sunbeams found an inlet into the gloomy little attic,
+and looked wistfully out upon the barren fields that surrounded the
+poorhouse. Where would he be on the morrow at that time? He did not
+know. He knew little or nothing of the great world without, yet his
+resolution did not for an instant falter. If it had, the thought of Mrs.
+Mudge would have been enough to remove all his hesitation.
+
+He threw himself on his hard bed, and a few minutes brought him that
+dreamless sleep which comes so easily to the young.
+
+Meanwhile Aunt Lucy, whose thoughts were also occupied with Paul's
+approaching departure, had taken from the pocket of her OTHER dress--for
+she had but two--something wrapped in a piece of brown paper. One by one
+she removed the many folds in which it was enveloped, and came at length
+to the contents.
+
+It was a coin.
+
+“Paul will need some money, poor boy,” said she, softly to herself, “I
+will give him this. It will never do me any good, and it may be of some
+service to him.”
+
+So saying she looked carefully at the coin in the moonlight.
+
+But what made her start, and utter a half exclamation?
+
+Instead of the gold eagle, the accumulation of many years, which she had
+been saving for some extraordinary occasion like the presents she held
+in her hand--a copper cent.
+
+“I have been robbed,” she exclaimed indignantly in the suddenness of her
+surprise.
+
+“What's the matter now?” inquired Mrs Mudge, appearing at the door, “Why
+are you not in bed, Aunt Lucy Lee? How dare you disobey my orders?”
+
+“I have been robbed,” exclaimed the old lady in unwonted excitement.
+
+“Of what, pray?” asked Mrs. Mudge, with a sneer.
+
+“I had a gold eagle wrapped up in that paper,” returned Aunt Lucy,
+pointing to the fragments on the floor, “and now, to-night, when I come
+to open it, I find but this cent.”
+
+“A likely story,” retorted Mrs. Mudge, “very likely, indeed, that a
+common pauper should have a gold eagle. If you found a cent in the
+paper, most likely that's what you put there. You're growing old and
+forgetful, so don't get foolish and flighty. You'd better go to bed.”
+
+“But I did have the gold, and it's been stolen,” persisted Aunt Lucy,
+whose disappointment was the greater because she intended the money for
+Paul.
+
+“Again!” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge. “Will you never have done with this
+folly? Even if you did have the gold, which I don't for an instant
+believe, you couldn't keep it. A pauper has no right to hold property.”
+
+“Then why did the one who stole the little I had leave me this?” said
+the old lady, scornfully, holding up the cent which had been substituted
+for the gold.
+
+“How should I know?” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully. “You talk as if
+you thought I had taken your trumpery money.”
+
+“So you did!” chimed in an unexpected voice, which made Mrs. Mudge start
+nervously.
+
+It was the young woman already mentioned, who was bereft of reason,
+but who at times, as often happens in such cases, seemed gifted with
+preternatural acuteness.
+
+“So you did. I saw you, I did; I saw you creep up when you thought
+nobody was looking, and search her pocket. You opened that paper and
+took out the bright yellow piece, and put in another. You didn't think I
+was looking at you, ha! ha! How I laughed as I stood behind the door and
+saw you tremble for fear some one would catch you thieving. You didn't
+think of me, dear, did you?”
+
+And the wild creature burst into an unmeaning laugh.
+
+Mrs. Mudge stood for a moment mute, overwhelmed by this sudden
+revelation. But for the darkness, Aunt Lucy could have seen the sudden
+flush which overspread her face with the crimson hue of detected guilt.
+But this was only for a moment. It was quickly succeeded by a feeling
+of intense anger towards the unhappy creature who had been the means of
+exposing her.
+
+“I'll teach you to slander your betters, you crazy fool,” she exclaimed,
+in a voice almost inarticulate with passion, as she seized her rudely by
+the arm, and dragged her violently from the room.
+
+She returned immediately.
+
+“I suppose,” said she, abruptly, confronting Aunt Lucy, “that you are
+fool enough to believe her ravings?”
+
+“I bring no accusation,” said the old lady, calmly, “If your conscience
+acquits you, it is not for me to accuse you.”
+
+“But what do you think?” persisted Mrs. Mudge, whose consciousness of
+guilt did not leave her quite at ease.
+
+“I cannot read the heart,” said Aunt Lucy, composedly. “I can only say,
+that, pauper as I am, I would not exchange places with the one who has
+done this deed.”
+
+“Do you mean me?” demanded Mrs. Mudge.
+
+“You can tell best.”
+
+“I tell you what, Aunt Lucy Lee,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing
+with anger, “If you dare insinuate to any living soul that I stole your
+paltry money, which I don't believe you ever had, I will be bitterly
+revenged upon you.”
+
+She flaunted out of the room, and Aunt Lucy, the first bitterness of her
+disappointment over, retired to bed, and slept more tranquilly than the
+unscrupulous woman who had robbed her.
+
+At a quarter before four Paul started from his humble couch, and hastily
+dressed himself, took up a little bundle containing all his scanty stock
+of clothing, and noiselessly descended the two flights of stairs which
+separated him from the lower story. Here he paused a moment for Aunt
+Lucy to appear. Her sharp ears had distinguished his stealthy steps as
+he passed her door, and she came down to bid him good-by. She had in her
+hands a pair of stockings which she slipped into his bundle.
+
+“I wish I had something else to give you, Paul,” she said, “but you know
+that I am not very rich.”
+
+“Dear Aunt Lucy,” said Paul, kissing her, “you are my only friend on
+earth. You have been very kind to me, and I never will forget you,
+NEVER! By-and-by, when I am rich, I will build a fine house, and you
+will come and live with me, won't you?”
+
+Paul's bright anticipations, improbable as they were, had the effect of
+turning his companion's thoughts into a more cheerful channel.
+
+She bent down and kissed him, whispering softly, “Yes, I will, Paul.”
+
+“Then it's a bargain,” said he, joyously, “Mind you don't forget it. I
+shall come for you one of these days when you least expect it.”
+
+“Have you any money?” inquired Aunt Lucy.
+
+Paul shook his head.
+
+“Then,” said she, drawing from her finger a gold ring which had held
+its place for many long years, “here is something which will bring you a
+little money if you are ever in distress.”
+
+Paul hung back.
+
+“I would rather not take it, indeed I would,” he said, earnestly,
+“I would rather go hungry for two or three days than sell your ring.
+Besides, I shall not need it; God will provide for me.”
+
+“But you need not sell it,” urged Aunt Lucy, “unless it is absolutely
+necessary. You can take it and keep it in remembrance of me. Keep it
+till you see me again, Paul. It will be a pledge to me that you will
+come back again some day.”
+
+“On that condition I will take it,” said Paul, “and some day I will
+bring it back.”
+
+A slight noise above, as of some one stirring in sleep, excited the
+apprehensions of the two, and warned them that it was imprudent for them
+to remain longer in conversation.
+
+After a hurried good-by, Aunt Lucy quietly went upstairs again, and
+Paul, shouldering his bundle, walked rapidly away.
+
+The birds, awakening from their night's repose, were beginning to carol
+forth their rich songs of thanksgiving for the blessing of a new day.
+From the flowers beneath his feet and the blossom-laden branches above
+his head, a delicious perfume floated out upon the morning air, and
+filled the heart of the young wanderer with a sense of the joyousness of
+existence, and inspired him with a hopeful confidence in the future.
+
+For the first time he felt that he belonged to himself. At the age of
+thirteen he had taken his fortune in his own hand, and was about to mold
+it as best he might.
+
+There were care, and toil, and privations before him, no doubt, but
+in that bright morning hour he could harbor only cheerful and trusting
+thoughts. Hopefully he looked forward to the time when he could fulfil
+his father's dying injunction, and lift from his name the burden of a
+debt unpaid. Then his mind reverting to another thought, he could not
+help smiling at the surprise and anger of Mr. Mudge, when he should find
+that his assistant had taken French leave. He thought he should like to
+be concealed somewhere where he could witness the commotion excited
+by his own departure. But as he could not be in two places at the same
+time, he must lose that satisfaction. He had cut loose from the Mudge
+household, as he trusted, forever. He felt that a new and brighter life
+was opening before him.
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+A FRIEND IN NEED.
+
+
+Our hero did not stop till he had put a good five miles between himself
+and the poorhouse. He knew that it would not be long before Mr. Mudge
+would discover his absence, and the thought of being carried back was
+doubly distasteful to him now that he had, even for a short time, felt
+the joy of being his own master. His hurried walk, taken in the fresh
+morning air, gave him quite a sharp appetite. Luckily he had the means
+of gratifying it. The night before he had secreted half his supper,
+knowing that he should need it more the next morning. He thought he
+might now venture to sit down and eat it.
+
+At a little distance from the road was a spring, doubtless used for
+cattle, since it was situated at the lower end of a pasture. Close
+beside and bending over it was a broad, branching oak, which promised a
+cool and comfortable shelter.
+
+“That's just the place for me,” thought Paul, who felt thirsty as well
+as hungry, “I think I will take breakfast here and rest awhile before I
+go any farther.”
+
+So saying he leaped lightly over the rail fence, and making his way to
+the place indicated, sat down in the shadow of the tree. Scooping up
+some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank a deep and refreshing
+draught. He next proceeded to pull out of his pocket a small package,
+which proved to contain two small pieces of bread. His long morning walk
+had given him such an appetite that he was not long in despatching all
+he had. It is said by some learned physicians, who no doubt understand
+the matter, that we should always rise from the table with an appetite.
+Probably Paul had never heard of this rule. Nevertheless, he seemed in
+a fair way of putting it into practice, for the best of reasons, because
+he could not help it.
+
+His breakfast, though not the most inviting, being simply unbuttered
+bread and rather dry at that, seemed more delicious than ever before,
+but unfortunately there was not enough of it. However, as there seemed
+likely to be no more forthcoming, he concluded in default of breakfast
+to lie down under the tree for a few minutes before resuming his walk.
+Though he could not help wondering vaguely where his dinner was to come
+from, as that time was several hours distant, he wisely decided not to
+anticipate trouble till it came.
+
+Lying down under the tree, Paul began to consider what Mr. Mudge would
+say when he discovered that he had run away.
+
+“He'll have to milk the cows himself,” thought Paul. “He won't fancy
+that much. Won't Mrs. Mudge scold, thought? I'm glad I shan't be within
+hearing.”
+
+“Holloa!”
+
+It was a boy's voice that Paul heard.
+
+Looking up he saw a sedate company of cows entering the pasture single
+file through an aperture made by letting down the bars. Behind them
+walked a boy of about his own size, flourishing a stout hickory stick.
+The cows went directly to the spring from which Paul had already drunk.
+The young driver looked at our hero with some curiosity, wondering,
+doubtless, what brought him there so early in the morning. After a
+little hesitation he said, remarking Paul's bundle, “Where are you
+traveling?”
+
+“I don't know exactly,” said Paul, who was not quite sure whether it
+would be politic to avow his destination.
+
+“Don't know?” returned the other, evidently surprised.
+
+“Not exactly; I may go to New York.”
+
+“New York! That's a great ways off. Do you know the way there?”
+
+“No, but I can find it.”
+
+“Are you going all alone?” asked his new acquaintance, who evidently
+thought Paul had undertaken a very formidable journey.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Are you going to walk all the way?”
+
+“Yes, unless somebody offers me a ride now and then.”
+
+“But why don't you ride in the stage, or in the cars? You would get
+there a good deal quicker.”
+
+“One reason,” said Paul, hesitating a little, “is because I have no
+money to pay for riding.”
+
+“Then how do you expect to live? Have you had any breakfast, this
+morning?”
+
+“I brought some with me, and just got through eating it when you came
+along.”
+
+“And where do you expect to get any dinner?” pursued his questioner, who
+was evidently not a little puzzled by the answers he received.
+
+“I don't know,” returned Paul.
+
+His companion looked not a little confounded at this view of the matter,
+but presently a bright thought struck him.
+
+“I shouldn't wonder,” he said, shrewdly, “if you were running away.”
+
+Paul hesitated a moment. He knew that his case must look a little
+suspicious, thus unexplained, and after a brief pause for reflection
+determined to take the questioner into his confidence. He did this the
+more readily because his new acquaintance looked very pleasant.
+
+“You've guessed right,” he said; “if you'll promise not to tell anybody,
+I'll tell you all about it.”
+
+This was readily promised, and the boy who gave his name as John
+Burgess, sat down beside Paul, while he, with the frankness of
+boyhood, gave a circumstantial account of his father's death, and the
+ill-treatment he had met with subsequently.
+
+“Do you come from Wrenville?” asked John, interested. “Why, I've got
+relations there. Perhaps you know my cousin, Ben Newcome.”
+
+“Is Ben Newcome your cousin? O yes, I know him very well; he's a
+first-rate fellow.”
+
+“He isn't much like his father.”
+
+“Not at all. If he was”--
+
+“You wouldn't like him so well. Uncle talks a little too much out of
+the dictionary, and walks so straight that he bends backward. But I say,
+Paul, old Mudge deserves to be choked, and Mrs. Mudge should be obliged
+to swallow a gallon of her own soup. I don't know but that would be
+worse than choking. I wouldn't have stayed so long if I had been in your
+place.”
+
+“I shouldn't,” said Paul, “if it hadn't been for Aunt Lucy.”
+
+“Was she an aunt of yours?”
+
+“No, but we used to call her so, She's the best friend I've got, and I
+don't know but the only one,” said Paul, a little sadly.
+
+“No, she isn't,” said John, quickly; “I'll be your friend, Paul.
+Sometime, perhaps, I shall go to New York, myself, and then I will come
+and see you. Where do you expect to be?”
+
+“I don't know anything about the city,” said Paul, “but if you come, I
+shall be sure to see you somewhere. I wish you were going now.”
+
+Neither Paul nor his companion had much idea of the extent of the great
+metropolis, or they would not have taken it so much as a matter of
+course that, being in the same place, they should meet each other.
+
+Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of a bell from a
+farmhouse within sight.
+
+“That's our breakfast-bell,” said John rising from the grass. “It is
+meant for me. I suppose they wonder what keeps me so long. Won't you
+come and take breakfast with me, Paul?”
+
+“I guess not,” said Paul, who would have been glad to do so had he
+followed the promptings of his appetite. “I'm afraid your folks would
+ask me questions, and then it would be found out that I am running
+away.”
+
+“I didn't think of that,” returned John, after a pause. “You haven't got
+any dinner with you?” he said a moment after.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. Come with me as far as the fence, and
+lie down there till I've finished breakfast. Then I'll bring something
+out for you, and maybe I'll walk along a little way with you.”
+
+“You are very kind,” said Paul, gratefully.
+
+“Oh, nonsense,” said John, “that's nothing. Besides, you know we are
+going to be friends.”
+
+“John! breakfast's ready.”
+
+“There's Nelson calling me,” said John, hurriedly. “I must leave you;
+there's the fence; lie down there, and I'll be back in a jiffy.”
+
+“John, I say, why don't you come?”
+
+“I'm coming. You mustn't think everybody's got such a thundering great
+appetite as you, Nelson.”
+
+“I guess you've got enough to keep you from pining away,” said Nelson,
+good-naturedly, “you're twice as fat as I am.”
+
+“That's because I work harder,” said John, rather illogically.
+
+The brothers went in to breakfast.
+
+But a few minutes elapsed before John reappeared, bearing under his arm
+a parcel wrapped up in an old newspaper. He came up panting with the
+haste he had made.
+
+“It didn't take you long to eat breakfast,” said Paul.
+
+“No, I hurried through it; I thought you would get tired of waiting. And
+now I'll walk along with you a little ways. But wait here's something
+for you.”
+
+So saying he unrolled the newspaper and displayed a loaf of bread,
+fresh and warm, which looked particularly inviting to Paul, whose scanty
+breakfast had by no means satisfied his appetite. Besides this, there
+was a loaf of molasses ginger-bread, with which all who were born in the
+country, or know anything of New England housekeeping, are familiar.
+
+“There,” said John, “I guess that'll be enough for your dinner.”
+
+“But how did you get it without having any questions asked?” inquired
+our hero.
+
+“Oh,” said John, “I asked mother for them, and when she asked what I
+wanted of them, I told her that I'd answer that question to-morrow.
+You see I wanted to give you a chance to get off out of the way, though
+mother wouldn't tell, even if she knew.”
+
+“All right,” said Paul, with satisfaction.
+
+He could not help looking wistfully at the bread, which looked very
+inviting to one accustomed to poorhouse fare.
+
+“If you wouldn't mind,” he said hesitating, “I would like to eat a
+little of the bread now.”
+
+“Mind, of course not,” said John, breaking off a liberal slice. “Why
+didn't I think of that before? Walking must have given you a famous
+appetite.”
+
+John looked on with evident approbation, while Paul ate with great
+apparent appetite.
+
+“There,” said he with a sigh of gratification, as he swallowed the last
+morsel, “I haven't tasted anything so good for a long time.”
+
+“Is it as good as Mrs. Mudge's soup?” asked John, mischievously.
+
+“Almost,” returned Paul, smiling.
+
+We must now leave the boys to pursue their way, and return to the
+dwelling from which our hero had so unceremoniously taken his departure,
+and from which danger now threatened him.
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+A CLOUD IN THE MUDGE HORIZON.
+
+
+Mr. Mudge was accustomed to call Paul at five o'clock, to milk the cows
+and perform other chores. He himself did not rise till an hour later.
+During Paul's sickness, he was obliged to take his place,--a thing he
+did not relish overmuch. Now that our hero had recovered, he gladly
+prepared to indulge himself in an extra nap.
+
+“Paul!” called Mr. Mudge from the bottom of the staircase leading up
+into the attic, “it's five o'clock; time you were downstairs.”
+
+Mr. Mudge waited for an answer, but none came.
+
+“Paul!” repeated Mr. Mudge in a louder tone, “it's time to get up;
+tumble out there.”
+
+Again there was no answer.
+
+At first, Mr. Mudge thought it might be in consequence of Paul's
+sleeping so soundly, but on listening attentively, he could not
+distinguish the deep and regular breathing which usually accompanies
+such slumber.
+
+“He must be sullen,” he concluded, with a feeling of irritation. “If he
+is, I'll teach him----”
+
+Without taking time to finish the sentence, he bounded up the rickety
+staircase, and turned towards the bed with the intention of giving our
+hero a smart shaking.
+
+He looked with astonishment at the empty bed. “Is it possible,” he
+thought, “that Paul has already got up? He isn't apt to do so before he
+is called.”
+
+At this juncture, Mrs. Mudge, surprised at her husband's prolonged
+absence, called from below, “Mr. Mudge!”
+
+“Well, wife?”
+
+“What in the name of wonder keeps you up there so long?”
+
+“Just come up and see.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge did come up. Her husband pointed to the empty bed.
+
+“What do you think of that?” he asked.
+
+“What about it?” she inquired, not quite comprehending.
+
+“About that boy, Paul. When I called him I got no answer, so I came up,
+and behold he is among the missing.”
+
+“You don't think he's run away, do you?” asked Mrs. Mudge startled.
+
+“That is more than I know.”
+
+“I'll see if his clothes are here,” said his wife, now fully aroused.
+
+Her search was unavailing. Paul's clothes had disappeared as
+mysteriously as their owner.
+
+“It's a clear case,” said Mr. Mudge, shaking his head; “he's gone.
+I wouldn't have lost him for considerable. He was only a boy, but I
+managed to get as much work out of him as a man. The question is now,
+what shall we do about it?”
+
+“He must be pursued,” said Mrs. Mudge, with vehemence, “I'll have him
+back if it costs me twenty dollars. I'll tell you what, husband,” she
+exclaimed, with a sudden light breaking in upon her, “if there's anybody
+in this house knows where he's gone, it is Aunt Lucy Lee. Only last week
+I caught her knitting him a pair of stockings. I might have known what
+it meant if I hadn't been a fool.”
+
+“Ha, ha! So you might, if you hadn't been a fool!” echoed a mocking
+voice.
+
+Turning with sudden anger, Mrs. Mudge beheld the face of the crazy girl
+peering up at her from below.
+
+This turned her thoughts into a different channel.
+
+“I'll teach you what I am,” she exclaimed, wrathfully descending the
+stairs more rapidly than she had mounted them, “and if you know anything
+about the little scamp, I'll have it out of you.”
+
+The girl narrowly succeeded in eluding the grasp of her pursuer. But,
+alas! for Mrs. Mudge. In her impetuosity she lost her footing, and fell
+backward into a pail of water which had been brought up the night before
+and set in the entry for purposes of ablution. More wrathful than ever,
+Mrs. Mudge bounced into her room and sat down in her dripping garments
+in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. As for Paul, she felt a personal
+dislike for him, and was not sorry on some accounts to have him out of
+the house. The knowledge, however, that he had in a manner defied her
+authority by running away, filled her with an earnest desire to get him
+back, if only to prove that it was not to be defied with impunity.
+
+Hoping to elicit some information from Aunt Lucy, who, she felt sure,
+was in Paul's confidence, she paid her a visit.
+
+“Well, here's a pretty goings on,” she commenced, abruptly. Finding that
+Aunt Lucy manifested no curiosity on the subject, she continued, in a
+significant tone, “Of course, YOU don't know anything about it.”
+
+“I can tell better when I know what you refer to,” said the old lady
+calmly.
+
+“Oh, you are very ignorant all at once. I suppose you didn't know Paul
+Prescott had run away?”
+
+“I am not surprised,” said the old lady, in the same quiet manner.
+
+Mrs. Mudge had expected a show of astonishment, and this calmness
+disconcerted her.
+
+“You are not surprised!” she retorted. “I presume not, since you
+knew all about it beforehand. That's why you were knitting him some
+stockings. Deny it, if you dare.”
+
+“I have no disposition to deny it.”
+
+“You haven't!” exclaimed the questioner, almost struck dumb with this
+audacity.
+
+“No,” said Aunt Lucy. “Why should I? There was no particular inducement
+for him to stay here. Wherever he goes, I hope he will meet with good
+friends and good treatment.”
+
+“As much as to say he didn't find them here. Is that what you mean?”
+
+“I have no charges to bring.”
+
+“But I have,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes lighting with malicious
+satisfaction. “Last night you missed a ten-dollar gold piece, which you
+saw was stolen from you. This morning it appears that Paul Prescott has
+run away. I charge him with the theft.”
+
+“You do not, can not believe this,” said the old lady, uneasily.
+
+“Of course I do,” returned Mrs. Mudge, triumphantly, perceiving her
+advantage. “I have no doubt of it, and when we get the boy back, he
+shall be made to confess it.”
+
+Aunt Lucy looked troubled, much to the gratification of Mrs. Mudge.
+It was but for a short time, however. Rising from her seat, she stood
+confronting Mrs. Mudge, and said quietly, but firmly, “I have no doubt,
+Mrs. Mudge, you are capable of doing what you say. I would advise you,
+however, to pause. You know, as well as I do, that Paul is incapable
+of this theft. Even if he were wicked enough to form the idea, he would
+have no need, since it was my intention to GIVE him this money. Who did
+actually steal the gold, you PERHAPS know better than I. Should it be
+necessary, I shall not hesitate to say so. I advise you not to render it
+necessary.”
+
+The threat which lay in these words was understood. It came with the
+force of a sudden blow to Mrs. Mudge, who had supposed it would be no
+difficult task to frighten and silence Aunt Lucy. The latter had always
+been so yielding in all matters relating to herself, that this intrepid
+championship of Paul's interests was unlooked for. The tables were
+completely turned. Pale with rage, and a mortified sense of having been
+foiled with her own weapons, Mrs. Mudge left the room.
+
+Meanwhile her husband milked the cows, and was now occupied in
+performing certain other duties that could not be postponed, being
+resolved, immediately after breakfast was over, to harness up and pursue
+the runaway.
+
+“Well, did you get anything out of the old lady?” he inquired, as he
+came from the barn with the full milk-pails.
+
+“She said she knew beforehand that he was going.”
+
+“Eh!” said Mr. Mudge, pricking up his ears, “did she say where?”
+
+“No, and she won't. She knit him a pair of stockings to help him off,
+and doesn't pretend to deny it. She's taken a wonderful fancy to the
+young scamp, and has been as obstinate as could be ever since he has
+been here.”
+
+“If I get him back,” said Mr. Mudge, “he shall have a good flogging, if
+I am able to give him one, and she shall be present to see it.”
+
+“That's right,” said Mrs. Mudge, approvingly, “when are you going to set
+out after him?”
+
+“Right after breakfast. So be spry, and get it ready as soon as you
+can.”
+
+Under the stimulus of this inspiring motive, Mrs. Mudge bustled about
+with new energy, and before many minutes the meal was in readiness.
+It did not take long to dispatch it. Immediately afterwards, Mr. Mudge
+harnessed up, as he had determined, and started off in pursuit of our
+hero.
+
+
+In the meantime the two boys had walked leisurely along, conversing on
+various subjects.
+
+“When you get to the city, Paul,” said John, “I shall want to hear from
+you. Will you write to me?”
+
+Paul promised readily.
+
+“You can direct to John Burges, Burrville. The postmaster knows me, and
+I shall be sure to get it.”
+
+“I wish you were going with me,” said Paul.
+
+“Sometimes when I think that I am all alone it discourages me. It would
+be so much pleasanter to have some one with me.”
+
+“I shall come sometime,” said John, “when I am a little older. I heard
+father say something the other day about my going into a store in the
+city. So we may meet again.”
+
+“I hope we shall.”
+
+They were just turning a bend of the road, when Paul chanced to look
+backward. About a quarter of a mile back he descried a horse and wagon
+wearing a familiar look. Fixing his eyes anxiously upon them, he was
+soon made aware that his suspicions were only too well founded. It was
+Mr. Mudge, doubtless in quest of him.
+
+“What shall I do?” he asked, hurriedly of his companion.
+
+“What's the matter?”
+
+This was quickly explained.
+
+John was quickwitted, and he instantly decided upon the course proper
+to be pursued. On either side of the road was a growth of underbrush so
+thick as to be almost impenetrable.
+
+“Creep in behind there, and be quick about it,” directed John, “there is
+no time to lose.”
+
+“There,” said he, after Paul had followed his advice, “if he can see you
+now he must have sharp eyes.”
+
+“Won't you come in too?”
+
+“Not I,” said John, “I am anxious to see this Mr. Mudge, since you have
+told me so much about him. I hope he will ask me some questions.”
+
+“What will you tell him?”
+
+“Trust me for that. Don't say any more. He's close by.”
+
+
+
+
+X.
+
+MR. MUDGE MEETS HIS MATCH.
+
+
+John lounged along, appearing to be very busily engaged in making a
+whistle from a slip of willow which he had a short time before cut from
+the tree. He purposely kept in the middle of the road, apparently quite
+unaware of the approach of the vehicle, until he was aroused by the
+sound of a voice behind him.
+
+“Be a little more careful, if you don't want to get run over.”
+
+John assumed a look of surprise, and with comic terror ran to the side
+of the road.
+
+Mr. Mudge checked his horse, and came to a sudden halt.
+
+“I say, youngster, haven't you seen a boy of about your own size walking
+along, with a bundle in his hand?”
+
+“Tied up in a red cotton handkerchief?” inquired John.
+
+“Yes, I believe so,” said Mr. Mudge, eagerly, “where did you----”
+
+“With a blue cloth cap?”
+
+“Yes, where----”
+
+“Gray jacket and pants?”
+
+“Yes, yes. Where?”
+
+“With a patch on one knee?”
+
+“Yes, the very one. When did you see him?” said Mr. Mudge, getting ready
+to start his horse.
+
+“Perhaps it isn't the one you mean,” continued John, who took a
+mischievous delight in playing with the evident impatience of Mr. Mudge;
+“the boy that I saw looked thin, as if he hadn't had enough to eat.”
+
+Mr. Mudge winced slightly, and looked at John with some suspicion.
+But John put on so innocent and artless a look that Mr. Mudge at once
+dismissed the idea that there was any covert meaning in what he said.
+Meanwhile Paul, from his hiding-place in the bushes, had listened with
+anxiety to the foregoing colloquy. When John described his appearance so
+minutely, he was seized with a sudden apprehension that the boy meant
+to betray him. But he dismissed it instantly. In his own singleness of
+heart he could not believe such duplicity possible. Still, it was not
+without anxiety that he waited to hear what would be said next.
+
+“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, slowly, “I don't know but he is a little PEAKED.
+He's been sick lately, and that's took off his flesh.”
+
+“Was he your son?” asked John, in a sympathizing tone; “you must feel
+quite troubled about him.”
+
+He looked askance at Mr. Mudge, enjoying that gentleman's growing
+irritation.
+
+“My son? No. Where----”
+
+“Nephews perhaps?” suggested the imperturbable John, leisurely
+continuing the manufacture of a whistle.
+
+“No, I tell you, nothing of the kind. But I can't sit waiting here.”
+
+“Oh, I hope you'll excuse me,” said John, apologetically. “I hope you
+won't stop on my account. I didn't know you were in a hurry.”
+
+“Well, you know it now,” said Mr. Mudge, crossly. “When and where did
+you see the boy you have described? I am in pursuit of him.”
+
+“Has he run away?” inquired John in assumed surprise.
+
+“Are you going to answer my question or not?” demanded Mr. Mudge,
+angrily.
+
+“Oh, I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have asked so many questions, only I
+thought he was a nice-looking boy, and I felt interested in him.”
+
+“He's a young scamp,” said Mr. Mudge, impetuously, “and it's my belief
+that you're another. Now answer my question. When and where did you see
+this boy?”
+
+This time Mr. Mudge's menacing look warned John that he had gone far
+enough. Accordingly he answered promptly, “He passed by our farm this
+morning.”
+
+“How far back is that?”
+
+“About three miles.”
+
+“Did he stop there?”
+
+“Yes, he stopped a while to rest.”
+
+“Have you seen him since?”
+
+“Yes, I saw him about half a mile back.”
+
+“On this road?”
+
+“Yes, but he turned up the road that branches off there.”
+
+“Just what I wanted to find out,” said Mr. Mudge, in a tone of
+satisfaction, “I'm sure to catch him.”
+
+So saying, he turned about and put his horse to its utmost speed,
+determined to make up for lost time. When he was fairly out of sight,
+Paul came forth from his hiding-place.
+
+“How could you do so!” he asked in a reproachful tone.
+
+“Could I do what?” asked John, turning a laughing face towards Paul.
+“Didn't I tell old Mudge the exact truth? You know you did turn up that
+road. To be sure you didn't go two rods before turning back. But he
+didn't stop to ask about that. If he hadn't been in such a hurry,
+perhaps I should have told him. Success to him!”
+
+“You can't think how I trembled when you described me so particularly.”
+
+“You didn't think I would betray you?” said John, quickly.
+
+“No, but I was afraid you would venture too far, and get us both into
+trouble.”
+
+“Trust me for that, Paul; I've got my eyes wide open, and ain't easily
+caught. But wasn't it fun to see old Mudge fuming while I kept him
+waiting. What would he have said if he had known the bird was so near at
+hand? He looked foolish enough when I asked him if you were his son.”
+
+John sat down and gave vent to his pent-up laughter which he had felt
+obliged to restrain in the presence of Mr. Mudge. He laughed so heartily
+that Paul, notwithstanding his recent fright and anxiety, could not
+resist the infection. Together they laughed, till the very air seemed
+vocal with merriment.
+
+John was the first to recover his gravity.
+
+“I am sorry, Paul,” he said, “but I must bid you good-by. They will miss
+me from the house. I am glad I have got acquainted with you, and I hope
+I shall see you again some time before very long. Good-by, Paul.”
+
+“Good-by, John.”
+
+The two boys shook hands and parted. One went in one direction, the
+other in the opposite. Each looked back repeatedly till the other was
+out of sight. Then came over Paul once more a feeling of sadness and
+desolation, which the high spirits of his companion had for the time
+kept off. Occasionally he cast a glance backwards, to make sure that
+Mr. Mudge was not following him. But Paul had no cause to fear on that
+score. The object of his dread was already some miles distant in a
+different direction.
+
+For an hour longer, Paul trudged on. He met few persons, the road not
+being very much frequented. He was now at least twelve miles from his
+starting-place, and began to feel very sensibly the effects of heat
+and fatigue combined. He threw himself down upon the grass under the
+overhanging branches of an appletree to rest. After his long walk repose
+seemed delicious, and with a feeling of exquisite enjoyment he stretched
+himself out at full length upon the soft turf, and closed his eyes.
+
+Insensibly he fell asleep. How long he slept he could not tell. He was
+finally roused from his slumber by something cold touching his cheek.
+Starting up he rubbed his eyes in bewilderment, and gradually became
+aware that this something was the nose of a Newfoundland dog, whose keen
+scent had enabled him to discover the whereabouts of the small stock
+of provisions with which Paul had been supplied by his late companion.
+Fortunately he awoke in time to save its becoming the prey of its canine
+visitor.
+
+“I reckon you came nigh losing your dinner,” fell upon his ears in a
+rough but hearty tone.
+
+At the same time he heard the noise of wheels, and looking up, beheld a
+specimen of a class well known throughout New England--a tin pedler. He
+was seated on a cart liberally stocked with articles of tin ware. From
+the rear depended two immense bags, one of which served as a receptacle
+for white rags, the other for bits of calico and whatever else may fall
+under the designation of “colored.” His shop, for such it was, was
+drawn at a brisk pace by a stout horse, who in this respect presented a
+contrast to his master, who was long and lank. The pedler himself was
+a man of perhaps forty, with a face in which shrewdness and good humor
+seemed alike indicated. Take him for all in all, you might travel some
+distance without falling in with a more complete specimen of the Yankee.
+
+“So you came nigh losing your dinner,” he repeated, in a pleasant tone.
+
+“Yes,” said Paul, “I got tired and fell asleep, and I don't know when I
+should have waked up but for your dog.”
+
+“Yes, Boney's got a keen scent for provisions,” laughed the pedler.
+“He's a little graspin', like his namesake. You see his real name is
+Bonaparte; we only call him Boney, for short.”
+
+Meanwhile he had stopped his horse. He was about to start afresh, when a
+thought struck him.
+
+“Maybe you're goin' my way,” said he, turning to Paul; “if you are,
+you're welcome to a ride.”
+
+Paul was very glad to accept the invitation. He clambered into the cart,
+and took a seat behind the pedler, while Boney, who took his recent
+disappointment very good-naturedly, jogged on contentedly behind.
+
+“How far are you goin'?” asked Paul's new acquaintance, as he whipped up
+his horse.
+
+Paul felt a little embarrassed. If he had been acquainted with the names
+of any of the villages on the route he might easily have answered. As it
+was, only one name occurred to him.
+
+“I think,” said he, with some hesitation, “that I shall go to New York.”
+
+“New York!” repeated the pedler, with a whistle expressive of his
+astonishment.
+
+“Well, you've a journey before you. Got any relations there?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“No uncles, aunts, cousins, nor nothing?”
+
+Paul shook his head.
+
+“Then what makes you go? Haven't run away from your father and mother,
+hey?” asked the pedler, with a knowing look.
+
+“I have no father nor mother,” said Paul, sadly enough.
+
+“Well, you had somebody to take care of you, I calculate. Where did you
+live?”
+
+“If I tell you, you won't carry me back?” said Paul, anxiously.
+
+“Not a bit of it. I've got too much business on hand for that.”
+
+Relieved by this assurance, Paul told his story, encouraged thereto
+by frequent questions from his companion, who seemed to take a lively
+interest in the adventures of his young companion.
+
+“That's a capital trick you played on old Mudge,” he said with a hearty
+laugh which almost made the tins rattle. “I don't blame you a bit for
+running away. I've got a story to tell you about Mrs. Mudge. She's a
+regular skinflint.”
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+WAYSIDE GOSSIP.
+
+
+This was the pedler's promised story about Mrs. Mudge.
+
+“The last time I was round that way, I stopped, thinking maybe they
+might have some rags to dispose of for tin-ware. The old lady seemed
+glad to see me, and pretty soon she brought down a lot of white rags.
+I thought they seemed quite heavy for their bulk,--howsomever, I wasn't
+looking for any tricks, and I let it go. By-and-by, when I happened to
+be ransacking one of the bags, I came across half a dozen pounds or more
+of old iron tied up in a white cloth. That let the cat out of the bag. I
+knew why they were so heavy, then, I reckon I shan't call on Mrs. Mudge
+next time I go by.”
+
+“So you've run off,” he continued, after a pause, “I like your
+spunk,--just what I should have done myself. But tell me how you managed
+to get off without the old chap's finding it out.”
+
+Paul related such of his adventures as he had not before told, his
+companion listening with marked approval.
+
+“I wish I'd been there,” he said. “I'd have given fifty cents, right
+out, to see how old Mudge looked, I calc'late he's pretty well tired
+with his wild-goose chase by this time.”
+
+It was now twelve o'clock, and both the travelers began to feel the
+pangs of hunger.
+
+“It's about time to bait, I calc'late,” remarked the pedler.
+
+The unsophisticated reader is informed that the word “bait,” in New
+England phraseology, is applied to taking lunch or dining.
+
+At this point a green lane opened out of the public road, skirted on
+either side by a row of trees. Carpeted with green, it made a very
+pleasant dining-room. A red-and-white heifer browsing at a little
+distance looked up from her meal and surveyed the intruders with mild
+attention, but apparently satisfied that they contemplated no invasion
+of her rights, resumed her agreeable employment. Over an irregular stone
+wall our travelers looked into a thrifty apple-orchard laden with fruit.
+They halted beneath a spreading chestnut-tree which towered above its
+neighbors, and offered them a grateful shelter from the noonday sun.
+
+From the box underneath the seat, the pedler took out a loaf of bread,
+a slice of butter, and a tin pail full of doughnuts. Paul, on his side,
+brought out his bread and gingerbread.
+
+“I most generally carry round my own provisions,” remarked the pedler,
+between two mouthfuls. “It's a good deal cheaper and more convenient,
+too. Help yourself to the doughnuts. I always calc'late to have some
+with me. I'd give more for 'em any day than for rich cake that ain't
+fit for anybody. My mother used to beat everybody in the neighborhood on
+making doughnuts. She made 'em so good that we never knew when to stop
+eating. You wouldn't hardly believe it, but, when I was a little shaver,
+I remember eating twenty-three doughnuts at one time. Pretty nigh killed
+me.”
+
+“I should think it might,” said Paul, laughing.
+
+“Mother got so scared that she vowed she wouldn't fry another for three
+months, but I guess she kinder lost the run of the almanac, for in less
+than a week she turned out about a bushel more.”
+
+All this time the pedler was engaged in practically refuting the saying,
+that a man cannot do two things at once. With a little assistance from
+Paul, the stock of doughnuts on which he had been lavishing encomiums,
+diminished rapidly. It was evident that his attachment to this homely
+article of diet was quite as strong as ever.
+
+“Don't be afraid of them,” said he, seeing that Paul desisted from his
+efforts, “I've got plenty more in the box.”
+
+Paul signified that his appetite was already appeased.
+
+“Then we might as well be jogging on. Hey, Goliah,” said he, addressing
+the horse, who with an air of great content, had been browsing while his
+master was engaged in a similar manner. “Queer name for a horse, isn't
+it? I wanted something out of the common way, so I asked mother for a
+name, and she gave me that. She's great on scripture names, mother
+is. She gave one to every one of her children. It didn't make much
+difference to her what they were as long as they were in the Bible. I
+believe she used to open the Bible at random, and take the first name
+she happened to come across. There are eight of us, and nary a decent
+name in the lot. My oldest brother's name is Abimelech. Then there's
+Pharaoh, and Ishmael, and Jonadab, for the boys, and Leah and Naomi, for
+the girls; but my name beats all. You couldn't guess it?”
+
+Paul shook his head.
+
+“I don't believe you could,” said the pedler, shaking his head in comic
+indignation. “It's Jehoshaphat. Ain't that a respectable name for the
+son of Christian parents?”
+
+Paul laughed.
+
+“It wouldn't be so bad,” continued the pedler, “if my other name was
+longer; but Jehoshaphat seems rather a long handle to put before Stubbs.
+I can't say I feel particularly proud of the name, though for use it'll
+do as well as any other. At any rate, it ain't quite so bad as the name
+mother pitched on for my youngest sister, who was lucky enough to die
+before she needed a name.”
+
+“What was it?” inquired Paul, really curious to know what name could be
+considered less desirable than Jehoshaphat.
+
+“It was Jezebel,” responded the pedler.
+
+“Everybody told mother 'twould never do; but she was kind of
+superstitious about it, because that was the first name she came to
+in the Bible, and so she thought it was the Lord's will that that name
+should be given to the child.”
+
+As Mr. Stubbs finished his disquisition upon names, there came in sight
+a small house, dark and discolored with age and neglect. He pointed this
+out to Paul with his whip-handle.
+
+“That,” said he, “is where old Keziah Onthank lives. Ever heard of him?”
+
+Paul had not.
+
+“He's the oldest man in these parts,” pursued his loquacious companion.
+“There's some folks that seem a dyin' all the time, and for all that
+manage to outlive half the young folks in the neighborhood. Old Keziah
+Onthank is a complete case in p'int. As long ago as when I was cutting
+my teeth he was so old that nobody know'd how old he was. He was so
+bowed over that he couldn't see himself in the looking-glass unless you
+put it on the floor, and I guess even then what he saw wouldn't pay
+him for his trouble. He was always ailin' some way or other. Now it was
+rheumatism, now the palsy, and then again the asthma. He had THAT awful.
+
+“He lived in the same tumble-down old shanty we have just passed,--so
+poor that nobody'd take the gift of it. People said that he'd orter go
+to the poorhouse, so that when he was sick--which was pretty much all
+the time--he'd have somebody to take care of him. But he'd got kinder
+attached to the old place, seein' he was born there, and never lived
+anywhere else, and go he wouldn't.
+
+“Everybody expected he was near his end, and nobody'd have been
+surprised to hear of his death at any minute. But it's strange how some
+folks are determined to live on, as I said before. So Keziah, though he
+looked so old when I was a boy that it didn't seem as if he could look
+any older, kept on livin,' and livin', and arter I got married to Betsy
+Sprague, he was livin' still.
+
+“One day, I remember I was passin' by the old man's shanty, when I heard
+a dreadful groanin', and thinks I to myself, 'I shouldn't wonder if the
+old man was on his last legs.' So in I bolted. There he was, to be sure,
+a lyin', on the bed, all curled up into a heap, breathin' dreadful hard,
+and lookin' as white and pale as any ghost. I didn't know exactly
+what to do, so I went and got some water, but he motioned it away, and
+wouldn't drink it, but kept on groanin'.
+
+“'He mustn't be left here to die without any assistance,' thinks I, so I
+ran off as fast I could to find the doctor.
+
+“I found him eatin' dinner----
+
+“Come quick,” says I, “to old Keziah Onthank's. He's dyin', as sure as
+my name is Jehoshaphat.”
+
+“Well,” said the doctor, “die or no die, I can't come till I've eaten my
+dinner.”
+
+“But he's dyin', doctor.”
+
+“Oh, nonsense. Talk of old Keziah Onthank's dyin'. He'll live longer
+than I shall.”
+
+“I recollect I thought the doctor very unfeelin' to talk so of a fellow
+creetur, just stepping into eternity, as a body may say. However, it's
+no use drivin' a horse that's made up his mind he won't go, so although
+I did think the doctor dreadful deliberate about eatin' his dinner (he
+always would take half an hour for it), I didn't dare to say a word
+for fear he wouldn't come at all. You see the doctor was dreadful
+independent, and was bent on havin' his own way, pretty much, though for
+that matter I think it's the case with most folks. However, to come back
+to my story, I didn't feel particularly comfortable while I was waitin'
+his motions.
+
+“After a long while the doctor got ready. I was in such a hurry that I
+actilly pulled him along, he walked so slow; but he only laughed, and
+I couldn't help thinkin' that doctorin' had a hardinin' effect on the
+heart. I was determined if ever I fell sick I wouldn't send for him.
+
+“At last we got there. I went in all of a tremble, and crept to the bed,
+thinkin' I should see his dead body. But he wasn't there at all. I felt
+a little bothered you'd better believe.”
+
+“Well,” said the doctor, turning to me with a smile, “what do you think
+now?”
+
+“I don't know what to think,” said I.
+
+“Then I'll help you,” said he.
+
+“So sayin', he took me to the winder, and what do you think I see? As
+sure as I'm alive, there was the old man in the back yard, a squattin'
+down and pickin' up chips.”
+
+“And is he still living?”
+
+“Yes, or he was when I come along last. The doctor's been dead these
+ten years. He told me old Keziah would outlive him, but I didn't believe
+him. I shouldn't be surprised if he lived forever.”
+
+Paul listened with amused interest to this and other stories with which
+his companion beguiled the way. They served to divert his mind from
+the realities of his condition, and the uncertainty which hung over his
+worldly prospects.
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+ON THE BRINK OF DISCOVERY.
+
+
+“If you're in no great hurry to go to New York,” said the pedler, “I
+should like to have you stay with me for a day or two. I live about
+twenty-five miles from here, straight ahead, so it will be on your way.
+I always manage to get home by Saturday night if it is any way possible.
+It doesn't seem comfortable to be away Sunday. As to-day is Friday, I
+shall get there to-morrow. So you can lie over a day and rest yourself.”
+
+Paul felt grateful for this unexpected invitation. It lifted quite a
+load from his mind, since, as the day declined, certain anxious thoughts
+as to where he should find shelter, had obtruded themselves. Even now,
+the same trouble would be experienced on Monday night, but it is the
+characteristic of youth to pay little regard to anticipated difficulties
+as long as the present is provided for.
+
+It must not be supposed that the pedler neglected his business on
+account of his companion. On the road he had been traveling the houses
+were few and far between. He had, therefore, but few calls to make.
+Paul remarked, however, that when he did call he seldom failed to sell
+something.
+
+“Yes,” said Mr. Stubbs, on being interrogated, “I make it a p'int to
+sell something, if it's no more than a tin dipper. I find some hard
+cases sometimes, and sometimes I have to give it up altogether. I can't
+quite come up to a friend of mine, Daniel Watson, who used to be in
+the same line of business. I never knew him to stop at a place without
+selling something. He had a good deal of judgment, Daniel had, and knew
+just when to use 'soft sodder,' and when not to. On the road that he
+traveled there lived a widow woman, who had the reputation of being as
+ugly, cross-grained a critter as ever lived. People used to say that
+it was enough to turn milk sour for her even to look at it. Well, it so
+happened that Daniel had never called there. One night he was boasting
+that he never called at a house without driving a bargain, when one
+of the company asked him, with a laugh, if he had ever sold the widow
+anything.
+
+“Why, no,” said Daniel, “I never called there; but I've no doubt I
+could.”
+
+“What'll you bet of it?”
+
+“I'm not a betting man,” said Daniel, “but I feel so sure of it that I
+don't mind risking five dollars.”
+
+“Agreed.”
+
+“The next morning Daniel drove leisurely up to the widow's door and
+knocked. She had a great aversion to pedlers, and declared they were
+cheats, every one of them. She was busy sweeping when Daniel knocked.
+She came to the door in a dreadful hurry, hoping it might be an old
+widower in the neighborhood that she was trying to catch. When she saw
+how much she was mistaken she looked as black as a thundercloud.
+
+“Want any tin ware to-day, ma'am?” inquired Daniel, noways discomposed.
+
+“No, sir,” snapped she.
+
+“Got all kinds,--warranted the best in the market. Couldn't I sell you
+something?”
+
+“Not a single thing,” said she, preparing to shut the door; but Daniel,
+knowing all would then be lost, stepped in before she could shut it
+quite to, and began to name over some of the articles he had in his
+wagon.
+
+“You may talk till doomsday,” said the widow, as mad as could be, “and
+it won't do a particle of good. Now, you've got your answer, and you'd
+better leave the house before you are driven out.”
+
+“Brooms, brushes, lamps----”
+
+“Here the widow, who had been trying to keep in her anger, couldn't hold
+out any longer. She seized the broom she had been sweeping with, and
+brought it down with a tremendous whack upon Daniel's back. You can
+imagine how hard it was, when I tell you that the force of the blow
+snapped the broom in the middle. You might have thought Daniel would
+resent it, but he didn't appear to notice it, though it must have hurt
+him awful. He picked up the pieces, and handing them, with a polite bow,
+to the widow, said, 'Now, ma'am, I'm sure you need a new broom. I've got
+some capital ones out in the cart.'”
+
+“The widow seemed kind of overpowered by his coolness. She hardly knew
+what to say or what to think. However, she had broken her old broom,
+that was certain, and must have a new one; so when Daniel ran out and
+brought in a bundle of them, she picked out one and paid for it without
+saying a word; only, when Daniel asked if he might have the pleasure
+of calling again, she looked a little queer, and told him that if he
+considered it a pleasure, she had no objection.”
+
+“And did he call again?”
+
+“Yes, whenever he went that way. The widow was always very polite to him
+after that, and, though she had a mortal dislike to pedlers in general,
+she was always ready to trade with him. Daniel used to say that he
+gained his bet and the widow's custom at ONE BLOW.”
+
+They were now descending a little hill at the foot of which stood a
+country tavern. Here Mr. Stubbs declared his intention of spending the
+night. He drove into the barn, the large door of which stood invitingly
+open, and unharnessed his horse, taking especial care to rub him down
+and set before him an ample supply of provender.
+
+“I always take care of Goliah myself,” said he. “He's a good friend to
+me, and it's no more than right that I should take good care of him.
+Now, we'll go into the house, and see what we can get for supper.”
+
+He was surprised to see that Paul hung back, and seemed disinclined to
+follow.
+
+“What's the matter?” asked Mr. Stubbs, in surprise. “Why don't you
+come?”
+
+“Because,” said Paul, looking embarrassed, “I've got no money.”
+
+“Well, I have,” said Mr. Stubbs, “and that will answer just as well, so
+come along, and don't be bashful. I'm about as hungry as a bear, and I
+guess you are too.”
+
+Before many minutes, Paul sat down to a more bountiful repast than
+he had partaken of for many a day. There were warm biscuits and fresh
+butter, such as might please the palate of an epicure, while at the
+other end of the table was a plate of cake, flanked on one side by an
+apple-pie, on the other by one of pumpkin, with its rich golden hue,
+such as is to be found in its perfection, only in New England. It will
+scarcely be doubted that our hungry travellers did full justice to the
+fare set before them.
+
+When they had finished, they went into the public room, where were
+engaged some of the village worthies, intent on discussing the news
+and the political questions of the day. It was a time of considerable
+political excitement, and this naturally supplied the topic of
+conversation. In this the pedler joined, for his frequent travel on this
+route had made him familiarly acquainted with many of those present.
+
+Paul sat in a corner, trying to feel interested in the conversation; but
+the day had been a long one, and he had undergone an unusual amount of
+fatigue. Gradually, his drowsiness increased. The many voices fell upon
+his ears like a lullaby, and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.
+
+Early next morning they were up and on their way. It was the second
+morning since Paul's departure. Already a sense of freedom gave his
+spirits unwonted elasticity, and encouraged him to hope for the best.
+Had his knowledge of the future been greater, his confidence might have
+been less. But would he have been any happier?
+
+So many miles separated him from his late home, that he supposed himself
+quite safe from detection. A slight circumstance warned him that he must
+still be watchful and cautious.
+
+As they were jogging easily along, they heard the noise of wheels at a
+little distance. Paul looked up. To his great alarms he recognized
+in the driver of the approaching vehicle, one of the selectmen of
+Wrenville.
+
+“What's the matter?” asked his companion, noticing his sudden look of
+apprehension.
+
+Paul quickly communicated the ground of his alarm.
+
+“And you are afraid he will want to carry you back, are you?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Not a bit of it. We'll circumvent the old fellow, unless he's sharper
+than I think he is. You've only got to do as I tell you.”
+
+To this Paul quickly agreed.
+
+The selectman was already within a hundred rods. He had not yet
+apparently noticed the pedler's cart, so that this was in our hero's
+favor. Mr. Stubbs had already arranged his plan of operations.
+
+“This is what you are to do, Paul,” said he, quickly. “Cock your hat on
+the side of your head, considerably forward, so that he can't see much
+of your face. Then here's a cigar to stick in your mouth. You can make
+believe that you are smoking. If you are the sort of boy I reckon you
+are, he'll never think it's you.”
+
+Paul instantly adopted this suggestion.
+
+Slipping his hat to one side in the jaunty manner characteristic of
+young America, he began to puff very gravely at a cigar the pedler
+handed him, frequently taking it from his mouth, as he had seen older
+persons do, to knock away the ashes. Nothwithstanding his alarm, his
+love of fun made him enjoy this little stratagem, in which he bore his
+part successfully.
+
+The selectman eyed him intently. Paul began to tremble from fear of
+discovery, but his apprehensions were speedily dissipated by a remark of
+the new-comer, “My boy, you are forming a very bad habit.”
+
+Paul did not dare to answer lest his voice should betray him. To his
+relief, the pedler spoke----
+
+“Just what I tell him, sir, but I suppose he thinks he must do as his
+father does.”
+
+By this time the vehicles had passed each other, and the immediate peril
+was over.
+
+“Now, Paul,” said his companion, laughing, “I'll trouble you for that
+cigar, if you have done with it. The old gentleman's advice was good. If
+I'd never learned to smoke, I wouldn't begin now.”
+
+Our hero was glad to take the cigar from his mouth. The brief time he
+had held it was sufficient to make him slightly dizzy.
+
+
+
+
+XIII.
+
+PAUL REACHES THE CITY.
+
+
+Towards evening they drew up before a small house with a neat yard in
+front.
+
+“I guess we'll get out here,” said Mr. Stubbs. “There's a gentleman
+lives here that I feel pretty well acquainted with. Shouldn't wonder if
+he'd let us stop over Sunday. Whoa, Goliah, glad to get home, hey?” as
+the horse pricked up his ears and showed manifest signs of satisfaction.
+
+“Now, youngster, follow me, and I guess I can promise you some supper,
+if Mrs. Stubbs hasn't forgotten her old tricks.”
+
+They passed through the entry into the kitchen, where Mrs. Stubbs was
+discovered before the fire toasting slices of bread.
+
+“Lor, Jehoshaphat,” said she, “I didn't expect you so soon,” and she
+looked inquiringly at his companion.
+
+“A young friend who is going to stay with us till Monday,” explained the
+pedler. “His name is Paul Prescott.”
+
+“I'm glad to see you, Paul,” said Mrs. Stubbs with a friendly smile.
+“You must be tired if you've been traveling far. Take a seat. Here's a
+rocking-chair for you.”
+
+This friendly greeting made Paul feel quite at home. Having no children,
+the pedler and his wife exerted themselves to make the time pass
+pleasantly to their young acquaintance. Paul could not help contrasting
+them with Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, not very much to the advantage of
+the latter. On Sunday he went to church with them, and the peculiar
+circumstances in which he was placed, made him listen to the sermon with
+unusual attention. It was an exposition of the text, “My help cometh
+from the Lord,” and Paul could not help feeling that it was particularly
+applicable to his own case. It encouraged him to hope, that, however
+uncertain his prospects appeared, God would help him if he put his trust
+in Him.
+
+On Monday morning Paul resumed his journey, with an ample stock of
+provisions supplied by Mrs. Stubbs, in the list of which doughnuts
+occupied a prominent place; this being at the particular suggestion of
+Mr. Stubbs.
+
+Forty or fifty miles remained to be traversed before his destination
+would be reached. The road was not a difficult one to find, and he made
+it out without much questioning. The first night, he sought permission
+to sleep in a barn.
+
+He met with a decided refusal.
+
+He was about to turn away in disappointment, when he was called back.
+
+“You are a little too fast, youngster. I said I wouldn't let you sleep
+in my barn, and I won't; but I've got a spare bed in the house, and if
+you choose you shall occupy it.”
+
+Under the guise of roughness, this man had a kind heart. He inquired
+into the particulars of Paul's story, and at the conclusion terrified
+him by saying that he had been very foolish and ought to be sent back.
+Nevertheless, when Paul took leave of him the next morning, he did not
+go away empty-handed.
+
+“If you must be so foolish as to set up for yourself, take this,” said
+the farmer, placing half a dollar in his hand. “You may reach the city
+after the banks are closed for the day, you know,” he added, jocularly.
+
+But it was in the morning that Paul came in sight of the city. He
+climbed up into a high tree, which, having the benefit of an elevated
+situation, afforded him an extensive prospect. Before him lay the great
+city of which he had so often heard, teeming with life and activity.
+
+Half in eager anticipation, half in awe and wonder at its vastness, our
+young pilgrim stood upon the threshold of this great Babel.
+
+Everything looked new and strange. It had never entered Paul's mind,
+that there could be so many houses in the whole State as now rose up
+before him. He got into Broadway, and walked on and on thinking that
+the street must end somewhere. But the farther he walked the thicker the
+houses seemed crowded together. Every few rods, too, he came to a cross
+street, which seemed quite as densely peopled as the one on which he was
+walking. One part of the city was the same as another to Paul, since
+he was equally a stranger to all. He wandered listlessly along, whither
+fancy led. His mind was constantly excited by the new and strange
+objects which met him at every step.
+
+As he was looking in at a shop window, a boy of about his own age,
+stopped and inquired confidentially, “when did you come from the
+country?”
+
+“This morning,” said Paul, wondering how a stranger should know that he
+was a country boy.
+
+“Could you tell me what is the price of potatoes up your way?” asked the
+other boy, with perfect gravity.
+
+“I don't know,” said Paul, innocently.
+
+“I'm sorry for that,” said the other, “as I have got to buy some for my
+wife and family.”
+
+Paul stared in surprise for a moment, and then realizing that he was
+being made game of, began to grow angry.
+
+“You'd better go home to your wife and family,” he said with spirit, “or
+you may get hurt.”
+
+“Bully for you, country!” answered the other with a laugh. “You're not
+as green as you look.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Paul, “I wish I could say as much for you.”
+
+Tired with walking, Paul at length sat down in a doorway, and watched
+with interest the hurrying crowds that passed before him. Everybody
+seemed to be in a hurry, pressing forward as if life and death depended
+on his haste. There were lawyers with their sharp, keen glances;
+merchants with calculating faces; speculators pondering on the chances
+of a rise or fall in stocks; errand boys with bundles under their arms;
+business men hurrying to the slip to take the boat for Brooklyn or
+Jersey City,--all seemed intent on business of some kind, even to the
+ragged newsboys who had just obtained their supply of evening papers,
+and were now crying them at the top of their voices,--and very
+discordant ones at that, so Paul thought. Of the hundreds passing and
+repassing before him, every one had something to do. Every one had a
+home to go to. Perhaps it was not altogether strange that a feeling of
+desolation should come over Paul as he recollected that he stood alone,
+homeless, friendless, and, it might be, shelterless for the coming
+night.
+
+“Yet,” thought he with something of hopefulness, “there must be
+something for me to do as well as the rest.”
+
+Just then a boy some two years older than Paul paced slowly by, and
+in passing, chanced to fix his eyes upon our hero. He probably saw
+something in Paul which attracted him, for he stepped up and extending
+his hand, said, “why, Tom, how came you here?”
+
+“My name isn't Tom,” said Paul, feeling a little puzzled by this
+address.
+
+“Why, so it isn't. But you look just like my friend, Tom Crocker.”
+
+To this succeeded a few inquiries, which Paul unsuspiciously answered.
+
+“Do you like oysters?” inquired the new-comer, after a while.
+
+“Very much.”
+
+“Because I know of a tip top place to get some, just round the corner.
+Wouldn't you like some?”
+
+Paul thanked his new acquaintance, and said he would.
+
+Without more ado, his companion ushered him into a basement room near
+by. He led the way into a curtained recess, and both boys took seats one
+on each side of a small table.
+
+“Just pull the bell, will you, and tell the waiter we'll have two
+stews.”
+
+Paul did so.
+
+“I suppose,” continued the other, “the governor wouldn't like it much if
+he knew where I was.”
+
+“The governor!” repeated Paul. “Why, it isn't against the laws, is it?”
+
+“No,” laughed the other. “I mean my father. How jolly queer you are!” He
+meant to say green, but had a purpose in not offending Paul.
+
+“Are you the Governor's son?” asked Paul in amazement.
+
+“To be sure,” carelessly replied the other.
+
+Paul's wonder had been excited many times in the course of the day, but
+this was more surprising than anything which had yet befallen him. That
+he should have the luck to fall in with the son of the Governor, on his
+first arrival in the city, and that the latter should prove so affable
+and condescending, was indeed surprising. Paul inwardly determined
+to mention it in his first letter to Aunt Lucy. He could imagine her
+astonishment.
+
+While he was busy with these thoughts, his companion had finished his
+oysters.
+
+“Most through?” he inquired nonchalantly.
+
+“I've got to step out a minute; wait till I come back.”
+
+Paul unsuspectingly assented.
+
+He heard his companion say a word to the barkeeper, and then go out.
+
+He waited patiently for fifteen minutes and he did not return; another
+quarter of an hour, and he was still absent. Thinking he might have
+been unexpectedly detained, he rose to go, but was called back by the
+barkeeper.
+
+“Hallo, youngster! are you going off without paying?”
+
+“For what?” inquired Paul, in surprise.
+
+“For the oysters, of course. You don't suppose I give 'em away, do you?”
+
+“I thought,” hesitated Paul, “that the one who was with me paid,--the
+Governor's son,” he added, conscious of a certain pride in his intimacy
+with one so nearly related to the chief magistrate of the Commonwealth.
+
+“The Governor's son,” laughed the barkeeper. “Why the Governor lives a
+hundred miles off and more. That wasn't the Governor's son any more than
+I am.”
+
+“He called his father governor,” said Paul, beginning to be afraid that
+he had made some ridiculous blunder.
+
+“Well, I wouldn't advise you to trust him again, even if he's the
+President's son. He only got you in here to pay for his oysters. He told
+me when he went out that you would pay for them.”
+
+“And didn't he say he was coming back?” asked Paul, quite dumbfounded.
+
+“He said you hadn't quite finished, but would pay for both when you came
+out. It's two shillings.”
+
+Paul rather ruefully took out the half dollar which constituted his
+entire stock of money, and tendered it to the barkeeper who returned him
+the change.
+
+So Paul went out into the streets, with his confidence in human nature
+somewhat lessened.
+
+Here, then, is our hero with twenty-five cents in his pocket, and his
+fortune to make.
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+A STRANGE BED-CHAMBER.
+
+
+Although Paul could not help being vexed at having been so cleverly
+taken in by his late companion, he felt the better for having eaten the
+oysters. Carefully depositing his only remaining coin in his pocket, he
+resumed his wanderings. It is said that a hearty meal is a good promoter
+of cheerfulness. It was so in Paul's case, and although he had as yet
+had no idea where he should find shelter for the night he did not allow
+that consideration to trouble him.
+
+So the day passed, and the evening came on. Paul's appetite returned to
+him once more. He invested one-half of his money at an old woman's stall
+for cakes and apples, and then he ate leisurely while leaning against
+the iron railing which encircles the park.
+
+He began to watch with interest the movements of those about him.
+Already the lamplighter had started on his accustomed round, and with
+ladder in hand was making his way from one lamp-post to another. Paul
+quite marvelled at the celerity with which the lamps were lighted, never
+before having witnessed the use of gas. He was so much interested in the
+process that he sauntered along behind the lamplighter for some time. At
+length his eye fell upon a group common enough in our cities, but new to
+him.
+
+An Italian, short and dark-featured, with a velvet cap, was grinding out
+music from a hand-organ, while a woman with a complexion equally
+dark, and black sorrowful-looking eyes, accompanied her husband on the
+tambourine. They were playing a lively tune as Paul came up, but quickly
+glided into “Home, Sweet Home.”
+
+Paul listened with pleased, yet sad interest, for him “home” was only a
+sad remembrance.
+
+He wandered on, pausing now and then to look into one of the brilliantly
+illuminated shop windows, or catching a glimpse through the open doors
+of the gay scene within, and as one after another of these lively scenes
+passed before him, he began to think that all the strange and wonderful
+things in the world must be collected in these rich stores.
+
+Next, he came to a place of public amusement. Crowds were entering
+constantly, and Paul, from curiosity, entered too. He passed on to a
+little wicket, when a man stopped him.
+
+“Where's your ticket?” he asked.
+
+“I haven't got any,” said Paul.
+
+“Then what business have you here?” said the man, roughly.
+
+“Isn't this a meeting-house?” asked Paul.
+
+This remark seemed to amuse two boys who were standing by. Looking up
+with some indignation, Paul recognized in one of them the boy who had
+cheated him out of the oysters.
+
+“Look here,” said Paul, “what made you go off and leave me to pay for
+the oysters this morning?”
+
+“Which of us do you mean?” inquired the 'governor's son,' carelessly.
+
+“I mean you.”
+
+“Really, I don't understand your meaning. Perhaps you mistake me for
+somebody else.”
+
+“What?” said Paul, in great astonishment. “Don't you remember me, and
+how you told me you were the Governor's son?”
+
+Both boys laughed.
+
+“You must be mistaken. I haven't the honor of being related to the
+distinguished gentleman you name.”
+
+The speaker made a mocking bow to Paul.
+
+“I know that,” said Paul, with spirit, “but you said you were, for all
+that.”
+
+“It must have been some other good-looking boy, that you are mistaking
+me for. What are you going to do about it? I hope, by the way, that the
+oysters agreed with you.”
+
+“Yes, they did,” said Paul, “for I came honestly by them.”
+
+“He's got you there, Gerald,” said the other boy.
+
+Paul made his way out of the theater. As his funds were reduced to
+twelve cents, he could not have purchased a ticket if he had desired it.
+
+Still he moved on.
+
+Soon he came to another building, which was in like manner lighted up,
+but not so brilliantly as the theater. This time, from the appearance
+of the building, and from the tall steeple,--so tall that his eye could
+scarcely reach the tapering spire,--he knew that it must be a church.
+There was not such a crowd gathered about the door as at the place he
+had just left, but he saw a few persons entering, and he joined them.
+The interior of the church was far more gorgeous than the plain village
+meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend with his mother. He
+gazed about him with a feeling of awe, and sank quietly into a back
+pew. As it was a week-day evening, and nothing of unusual interest was
+anticipated, there were but few present, here and there one, scattered
+through the capacious edifice.
+
+By-and-by the organist commenced playing, and a flood of music, grander
+and more solemn than he had ever heard, filled the whole edifice. He
+listened with rapt attention and suspended breath till the last note
+died away, and then sank back upon the richly cushioned seat with a
+feeling of enjoyment.
+
+In the services which followed he was not so much interested. The
+officiating clergyman delivered a long homily in a dull unimpassioned
+manner, which failed to awaken his interest. Already disposed to be
+drowsy, it acted upon him like a gentle soporific. He tried to pay
+attention as he had always been used to do, but owing to his occupying a
+back seat, and the low voice of the preacher, but few words reached him,
+and those for the most part were above his comprehension.
+
+Gradually the feeling of fatigue--for he had been walking the streets
+all day--became so powerful that his struggles to keep awake became
+harder and harder. In vain he sat erect, resolved not to yield. The
+moment afterwards his head inclined to one side; the lights began to
+swim before his eyes; the voice of the preacher subsided into a low and
+undistinguishable hum. Paul's head sank upon the cushion, his bundle,
+which had been his constant companion during the day, fell softly to the
+floor, and he fell into a deep sleep.
+
+Meanwhile the sermon came to a close, and another hymn was sung, but
+even the music was insufficient to wake our hero now. So the benediction
+was pronounced, and the people opened the doors of their pews and left
+the church.
+
+Last of all the sexton walked up and down the aisles, closing such of
+the pew doors as were open. Then he shut off the gas, and after
+looking around to see that nothing was forgotten, went out, apparently
+satisfied, and locked the outer door behind him.
+
+Paul, meanwhile, wholly unconscious of his situation, slept on as
+tranquilly as if there were nothing unusual in the circumstances in
+which he was placed. Through the stained windows the softened light fell
+upon his tranquil countenance, on which a smile played, as if his dreams
+were pleasant. What would Aunt Lucy have thought if she could have seen
+her young friend at this moment?
+
+
+
+
+XV.
+
+A TURN OF FORTUNE.
+
+Notwithstanding his singular bedchamber, Paul had a refreshing night's
+sleep from which he did not awake till the sun had fairly risen, and its
+rays colored by the medium through which they were reflected, streamed
+in at the windows and rested in many fantastic lines on the richly
+carved pulpit and luxurious pews.
+
+Paul sprang to his feet and looked around him in bewilderment.
+
+“Where am I?” he exclaimed in astonishment.
+
+In the momentary confusion of ideas which is apt to follow a sudden
+awakening, he could not remember where he was, or how he chanced to
+be there. But in a moment memory came to his aid, and he recalled the
+events of the preceding day, and saw that he must have been locked up in
+the church.
+
+“How am I going to get out?” Paul asked himself in dismay.
+
+This was the important question just now. He remembered that the village
+meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend was rarely opened
+except on Sundays. What if this should be the case here? It was Thursday
+morning, and three days must elapse before his release. This would never
+do. He must seek some earlier mode of deliverance.
+
+He went first to the windows, but found them so secured that it was
+impossible for him to get them open. He tried the doors, but found, as
+he had anticipated, that they were fast. His last resource failing, he
+was at liberty to follow the dictates of his curiosity.
+
+Finding a small door partly open, he peeped within, and found a flight
+of steep stairs rising before him. They wound round and round, and
+seemed almost interminable. At length, after he had become almost weary
+of ascending, he came to a small window, out of which he looked. At his
+feet lay the numberless roofs of the city, while not far away his eye
+rested on thousands of masts. The river sparkled in the sun, and Paul,
+in spite of his concern, could not help enjoying the scene. The sound
+of horses and carriages moving along the great thoroughfare below came
+confusedly to his ears. He leaned forward to look down, but the distance
+was so much greater than he had thought, that he drew back in alarm.
+
+“What shall I do?” Paul asked himself, rather frightened. “I wonder if I
+can stand going without food for three days? I suppose nobody would hear
+me if I should scream as loud as I could.”
+
+Paul shouted, but there was so much noise in the streets that nobody
+probably heard him.
+
+He descended the staircase, and once more found himself in the body
+of the church. He went up into the pulpit, but there seemed no hope of
+escape in that direction. There was a door leading out on one side, but
+this only led to a little room into which the minister retired before
+service.
+
+It seemed rather odd to Paul to find himself the sole occupant of so
+large a building. He began to wonder whether it would not have been
+better for him to stay in the poorhouse, than come to New York to die of
+starvation.
+
+Just at this moment Paul heard a key rattle in the outer door. Filled
+with new hope, he ran down the pulpit stairs and out into the porch,
+just in time to see the entrance of the sexton.
+
+The sexton started in surprise as his eye fell upon Paul standing before
+him, with his bundle under his arm.
+
+“Where did you come from, and how came you here?” he asked with some
+suspicion.
+
+“I came in last night, and fell asleep.”
+
+“So you passed the night here?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“What made you come in at all?” inquired the sexton, who knew enough of
+boys to be curious upon this point.
+
+“I didn't know where else to go,” said Paul.
+
+“Where do you live?”
+
+Paul answered with perfect truth, “I don't live anywhere.”
+
+“What! Have you no home?” asked the sexton in surprise.
+
+Paul shook his head.
+
+“Where should you have slept if you hadn't come in here?”
+
+“I don't know, I'm sure.”
+
+“And I suppose you don't know where you shall sleep to-night?”
+
+Paul signified that he did not.
+
+“I knew there were plenty of such cases,” said the sexton, meditatively;
+“but I never seemed to realize it before.”
+
+“How long have you been in New York?” was his next inquiry.
+
+“Not very long,” said Paul. “I only got here yesterday.”
+
+“Then you don't know anybody in the city?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Why did you come here, then?”
+
+“Because I wanted to go somewhere where I could earn a living, and I
+thought I might find something to do here.”
+
+“But suppose you shouldn't find anything to do?”
+
+“I don't know,” said Paul, slowly. “I haven't thought much about that.”
+
+“Well, my lad,” said the sexton, not unkindly, “I can't say your
+prospects look very bright. You should have good reasons for entering on
+such an undertaking. I--I don't think you are a bad boy. You don't look
+like a bad one,” he added, half to himself.
+
+“I hope not, sir,” said Paul.
+
+“I hope not, too. I was going to say that I wish I could help you to
+some kind of work. If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome
+to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you.”
+
+Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.
+
+“What is your name?” inquired the sexton.
+
+“Paul Prescott.”
+
+“That sounds like a good name. I suppose you haven't got much money?”
+
+“Only twelve cents.”
+
+“Bless me! only twelve cents. Poor boy! you are indeed poor.”
+
+“But I can work,” said Paul, spiritedly. “I ought to be able to earn my
+living.”
+
+“Yes, yes, that's the way to feel. Heaven helps those who help
+themselves.”
+
+When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of
+observing his companion's external appearance. He was an elderly man,
+with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain
+air of benevolence which softened their expression.
+
+As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which
+is already known to the reader. The sexton said little except in the
+way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the
+conclusion he said, “Must tell Hester.”
+
+At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not
+fashionable quarter of the city. One-half of this was occupied by the
+sexton. He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room. It
+was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two
+engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece. They were
+by no means gems of art, but then, the sexton did not claim to be a
+connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the
+word.
+
+“Sit here a moment,” said the sexton, pointing to a chair, “I'll go and
+speak to Hester.”
+
+Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of “The
+Pilgrim's Progress,” which lay on the table.
+
+In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting. It
+was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable
+gift of beauty. Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written
+PLAIN, in unmistakable characters. Yet if the outward features had been
+a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive
+than that of Hester Cameron. At the feet of the sexton's wife, for such
+she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her
+contentment. Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied. In default of
+children, puss had become a privileged pet, being well fed and carefully
+shielded from all the perils that beset cat-hood.
+
+“Home so soon?” said Hester inquiringly, as her husband opened the door.
+
+“Yes, Hester, and I have brought company with me,” said the sexton.
+
+“Company!” repeated his wife. “Who is it?”
+
+“It is a poor boy, who was accidentally locked up in the church last
+night.”
+
+“And he had to stay there all night?”
+
+“Yes; but perhaps it was lucky for him, for he had no other place to
+sleep, and not money enough to pay for one.”
+
+“Poor child!” said Hester, compassionately. “Is it not terrible to think
+that any human creature should be without the comforts of a home which
+even our tabby possesses. It ought to make you thankful that you are so
+well cared for, Tab.”
+
+The cat opened her eyes and winked drowsily at her mistress.
+
+“So you brought the poor boy home, Hugh?”
+
+“Yes, Hester,--I thought we ought not to begrudge a meal to one less
+favored by fortune than ourselves. You know we should consider ourselves
+the almoners of God's bounties.”
+
+“Surely, Hugh.”
+
+“I knew you would feel so, Hester. And suppose we have the chicken for
+dinner that I sent in the morning. I begin to have a famous appetite. I
+think I should enjoy it.”
+
+Hester knew perfectly well that it was for Paul's sake, and not for his
+own, that her husband spoke. But she so far entered into his feelings,
+that she determined to expend her utmost skill as cook upon the dinner,
+that Paul might have at least one good meal.
+
+“Now I will bring the boy in,” said he. “I am obliged to go to work, but
+you will find some way to entertain him, I dare say.”
+
+“If you will come out (this he said to Paul), I will introduce you to a
+new friend.”
+
+Paul was kindly welcomed by the sexton's wife, who questioned him in
+a sympathizing tone about his enforced stay in the church. To all her
+questions Paul answered in a modest yet manly fashion, so as to produce
+a decidedly favorable impression upon his entertainer.
+
+Our hero was a handsome boy. Just at present he was somewhat thin, not
+having entirely recovered from the effects of his sickness and poor fare
+while a member of Mr. Mudge's family; but he was well made, and bade
+fair to become a stout boy. His manner was free and unembarrassed, and
+he carried a letter of recommendation in his face. It must be admitted,
+however that there were two points in which his appearance might have
+been improved. Both his hands and face had suffered from the dust of
+travel. His clothes, too, were full of dust.
+
+A single glance told Hester all this, and she resolved to remedy it.
+
+She quietly got some water and a towel, and requested Paul to pull off
+his jacket, which she dusted while he was performing his ablutions.
+Then, with the help of a comb to arrange his disordered hair, he seemed
+quite like a new boy, and felt quite refreshed by the operation.
+
+“Really, it improves him very much,” said Hester to herself.
+
+She couldn't help recalling a boy of her own,--the only child she ever
+had,--who had been accidentally drowned when about the age of Paul.
+
+“If he had only lived,” she thought, “how different might have been our
+lives.”
+
+A thought came into her mind, and she looked earnestly at Paul.
+
+“I--yes I will speak to Hugh about it,” she said, speaking aloud,
+unconsciously.
+
+“Did you speak to me?” asked Paul.
+
+“No,--I was thinking of something.”
+
+She observed that Paul was looking rather wistfully at a loaf of bread
+on the table.
+
+“Don't you feel hungry?” she asked, kindly.
+
+“I dare say you have had no breakfast.”
+
+“I have eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon.”
+
+“Bless my soul! How hungry you must be!” said the good woman, as she
+bustled about to get a plate of butter and a knife.
+
+She must have been convinced of it by the rapid manner in which the
+slices of bread and butter disappeared.
+
+At one o'clock the sexton came home. Dinner was laid, and Paul partook
+of it with an appetite little affected by his lunch of the morning. As
+he rose from the table, he took his cap, and saying, “Good-by, I thank
+you very much for your kindness!” he was about to depart.
+
+“Where are you going?” asked the sexton, in surprise.
+
+“I don't know,” answered Paul.
+
+“Stop a minute. Hester, I want to speak to you.”
+
+They went into the sitting-room together.
+
+“This boy, Hester,” he commenced with hesitation.
+
+“Well, Hugh?”
+
+“He has no home.”
+
+“It is a hard lot.”
+
+“Do you think we should be the worse off if we offered to share our home
+with him?”
+
+“It is like your kind heart, Hugh. Let us go and tell him.”
+
+“We have been talking of you, Paul,” said the sexton. “We have thought,
+Hester and myself, that as you had no home and we no child, we should
+all be the gainers by your staying with us. Do you consent?”
+
+“Consent!” echoed Paul in joyful surprise. “How can I ever repay your
+kindness?”
+
+“If you are the boy we take you for, we shall feel abundantly repaid.
+Hester, we can give Paul the little bedroom where--where John used to
+sleep.”
+
+His voice faltered a little, for John was the name of his boy, who had
+been drowned.
+
+
+
+
+XVI.
+
+YOUNG STUPID.
+
+
+Paul found the sexton's dwelling very different from his last home, if
+the Poorhouse under the charge of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge deserved such a
+name. His present home was an humble one, but he was provided with every
+needful comfort, and the atmosphere of kindness which surrounded him,
+gave him a feeling of peace and happiness which he had not enjoyed for a
+long time.
+
+Paul supposed that he would be at once set to work, and even then would
+have accounted himself fortunate in possessing such a home.
+
+But Mr. Cameron had other views for him.
+
+“Are you fond of studying?” asked the sexton, as they were all three
+gathered in the little sitting room, an evening or two after Paul first
+came.
+
+“Very much!” replied our hero.
+
+“And would you like to go to school?”
+
+“What, here in New York?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Oh, very much indeed.”
+
+“I am glad to hear you say so, my lad. There is nothing like a good
+education. If I had a son of my own, I would rather leave him that
+than money, for while the last may be lost, the first never can be. And
+though you are not my son, Paul, Providence has in a manner conducted
+you to me, and I feel responsible for your future. So you shall go to
+school next Monday morning, and I hope you will do yourself much credit
+there.”
+
+“Thank you very much,” said Paul. “I feel very grateful, but----”
+
+“You surely are not going to object?” said the sexton.
+
+“No, but----”
+
+“Well, Paul, go on,” seeing that the boy hesitated.
+
+“Why,” said our hero, with a sense of delicacy which did him credit,
+“If I go to school, I shall not be able to earn my board, and shall be
+living at your expense, though I have no claim upon you.”
+
+“Oh, is that all?” said the sexton cheerfully, “I was afraid that it was
+something more serious. As to that, I am not rich, and never expect to
+be. But what little expense you will be will not ruin me. Besides, when
+you are grown up and doing well, you can repay me, if I ever need it.”
+
+“That I will,” said Paul.
+
+“Mind, if I ever need it,--not otherwise. There, now, it's a bargain on
+that condition. You haven't any other objection,” seeing that Paul still
+hesitated.
+
+“No, or at least I should like to ask your advice,” said Paul. “Just
+before my father died, he told me of a debt of five hundred dollars
+which he had not been able to pay. I saw that it troubled him, and I
+promised to pay it whenever I was able. I don't know but I ought to go
+to work so as to keep my promise.”
+
+“No,” said the sexton after a moment's reflection, “the best course will
+be to go to school, at present. Knowledge is power, and a good education
+will help you to make money by and by. I approve your resolution, my
+lad, and if you keep it resolutely in mind I have no doubt you will
+accomplish your object. But the quickest road to success is through the
+schoolroom. At present you are not able to earn much. Two or three years
+hence will be time enough.”
+
+Paul's face brightened as the sexton said this. He instinctively felt
+that Mr. Cameron was right. He had never forgotten his father's dying
+injunction, and this was one reason that impelled him to run away from
+the Almshouse, because he felt that while he remained he never would
+be in a situation to carry out his father's wishes. Now his duty was
+reconciled with his pleasure, and he gratefully accepted the sexton's
+suggestions.
+
+The next Monday morning, in accordance with the arrangement which had
+just been agreed upon, Paul repaired to school. He was at once placed in
+a class, and lessons were assigned him.
+
+At first his progress was not rapid. While living in Wrenville he had
+an opportunity only of attending a country school, kept less than six
+months in the year, and then not affording advantages to be compared
+with those of a city school. During his father's sickness, besides, he
+had been kept from school altogether. Of course all this lost time could
+not be made up in a moment. Therefore it was that Paul lagged behind his
+class.
+
+There are generally some in every school, who are disposed to take
+unfair advantage of their schoolmates, or to ridicule those whom they
+consider inferior to themselves.
+
+There was one such in Paul's class. His name was George Dawkins.
+
+He was rather a showy boy, and learned easily. He might have stood a
+class above where he was, if he had not been lazy, and depended too much
+on his natural talent. As it was, he maintained the foremost rank in his
+class.
+
+“Better be the first man in a village than the second man in Rome,”
+ he used to say; and as his present position not only gave him the
+pre-eminence which he desired, but cost him very little exertion to
+maintain, he was quite well satisfied with it.
+
+This boy stood first in his class, while Paul entered at the foot.
+
+He laughed unmercifully at the frequent mistakes of our hero, and
+jeeringly dubbed him, “Young Stupid.”
+
+“Do you know what Dawkins calls you?” asked one of the boys.
+
+“No. What does he call me?” asked Paul, seriously.
+
+“He calls you 'Young Stupid.'”
+
+Paul's face flushed painfully. Ridicule was as painful to him as it is
+to most boys, and he felt the insult deeply.
+
+“I'd fight him if I were you,” was the volunteered advice of his
+informant.
+
+“No,” said Paul. “That wouldn't mend the matter. Besides, I don't know
+but he has some reason for thinking so.”
+
+“Don't call yourself stupid, do you?”
+
+“No, but I am not as far advanced as most boys of my age. That isn't my
+fault, though. I never had a chance to go to school much. If I had been
+to school all my life, as Dawkins has, it would be time to find out
+whether I am stupid or not.”
+
+“Then you ain't going to do anything about it?”
+
+“Yes, I am.”
+
+“You said you wasn't going to fight him.”
+
+“That wouldn't do any good. But I'm going to study up and see if I can't
+get ahead of him. Don't you think that will be the best way of showing
+him that he is mistaken?”
+
+“Yes, capital, but----”
+
+“But you think I can't do it, I suppose,” said Paul.
+
+“You know he is at the head of the class, and you are at the foot.”
+
+“I know that,” said Paul, resolutely. “But wait awhile and see.”
+
+In some way George Dawkins learned that Paul had expressed the
+determination to dispute his place. It occasioned him considerable
+amusement.
+
+“Halloa, Young Stupid,” he called out, at recess.
+
+Paul did not answer.
+
+“Why don't you answer when you are spoken to?” he asked angrily.
+
+“When you call me by my right name,” said Paul, quietly, “I will answer,
+and not before.”
+
+“You're mighty independent,” sneered Dawkins. “I don't know but I may
+have to teach you manners.”
+
+“You had better wait till you are qualified,” said Paul, coolly.
+
+Dawkins approached our hero menacingly, but Paul did not look in the
+least alarmed, and he concluded to attack him with words only.
+
+“I understand you have set yourself up as my rival!” he said, mockingly.
+
+“Not just yet,” said Paul, “but in time I expect to be.”
+
+“So you expect my place,” said Dawkins, glancing about him.
+
+“We'll talk about that three months hence,” said Paul.
+
+“Don't hurt yourself studying,” sneered Dawkins, scornfully.
+
+To this Paul did not deign a reply, but the same day he rose one in his
+class.
+
+Our hero had a large stock of energy and determination. When he had once
+set his mind upon a thing, he kept steadily at work till he accomplished
+it. This is the great secret of success. It sometimes happens that a man
+who has done nothing will at once accomplish a brilliant success by one
+spasmodic effort, but such cases are extremely rare.
+
+“Slow and sure wins the race,” is an old proverb that has a great deal
+of truth in it.
+
+Paul worked industriously.
+
+The kind sexton and his wife, who noticed his assiduity, strove to
+dissuade him from working so steadily.
+
+“You are working too hard, Paul,” they said.
+
+“Do I look pale?” asked Paul, pointing with a smile to his red cheeks.
+
+“No, but you will before long.”
+
+“When I am, I will study less. But you know, Uncle Hugh,” so the sexton
+instructed him to call him, “I want to make the most of my present
+advantages. Besides, there's a particular boy who thinks I am stupid. I
+want to convince him that he is mistaken.”
+
+“You are a little ambitious, then, Paul?”
+
+“Yes, but it isn't that alone. I know the value of knowledge, and I want
+to secure as much as I can.”
+
+“That is an excellent motive, Paul.”
+
+“Then you won't make me study less?”
+
+“Not unless I see you are getting sick.”
+
+Paul took good care of this. He knew how to play as well as to study,
+and his laugh on the playground was as merry as any. His cheerful,
+obliging disposition made him a favorite with his companions. Only
+George Dawkins held out; he had, for some reason, imbibed a dislike for
+Paul.
+
+Paul's industry was not without effect. He gradually gained position in
+his class.
+
+“Take care, Dawkins,” said one of his companions--the same one who had
+before spoken to Paul--“Paul Prescott will be disputing your place with
+you. He has come up seventeen places in a month.”
+
+“Much good it'll do him,” said Dawkins, contemptuously.
+
+“For all that, you will have to be careful; I can tell you that.”
+
+“I'm not in the least afraid. I'm a little too firm in my position to be
+ousted by Young Stupid.”
+
+“Just wait and see.”
+
+Dawkins really entertained no apprehension. He had unbounded confidence
+in himself, and felt a sense of power in the rapidity with which he
+could master a lesson. He therefore did not study much, and though he
+could not but see that Paul was rapidly advancing, he rejected with
+scorn the idea that Young Stupid could displace him.
+
+This, however, was the object at which Paul was aiming. He had not
+forgotten the nickname which Dawkins had given him, and this was the
+revenge which he sought,--a strictly honorable one.
+
+At length the day of his triumph came. At the end of the month the
+master read off the class-list, and, much to his disgust, George Dawkins
+found himself playing second fiddle to Young Stupid.
+
+
+
+
+XVII.
+
+BEN'S PRACTICAL JOKE.
+
+
+Mrs. Mudge was in the back room, bending over a tub. It was washing-day,
+and she was particularly busy. She was a driving, bustling woman, and,
+whatever might be her faults of temper, she was at least industrious and
+energetic. Had Mr. Mudge been equally so, they would have been better
+off in a worldly point of view. But her husband was constitutionally
+lazy, and was never disposed to do more than was needful.
+
+Mrs. Mudge was in a bad humor that morning. One of the cows had got
+into the garden through a gap in the fence, and made sad havoc among the
+cabbages. Now if Mrs. Mudge had a weakness, it was for cabbages. She
+was excessively fond of them, and had persuaded her husband to set out
+a large number of plants from which she expected a large crop. They were
+planted in one corner of the garden, adjoining a piece of land, which,
+since mowing, had been used for pasturing the cows. There was a weak
+place in the fence separating the two inclosures, and this Mrs. Mudge
+had requested her husband to attend to. He readily promised this, and
+Mrs. Mudge supposed it done, until that same morning, her sharp eyes had
+detected old Brindle munching the treasured cabbages with a provoking
+air of enjoyment. The angry lady seized a broom, and repaired quickly to
+the scene of devastation. Brindle scented the danger from afar, and beat
+a disorderly retreat, trampling down the cabbages which she had hitherto
+spared. Leaping over the broken fence, she had just cleared the gap as
+the broom-handle, missing her, came forcibly down upon the rail, and was
+snapped in sunder by the blow.
+
+Here was a new vexation. Brindle had not only escaped scot-free, but the
+broom, a new one, bought only the week before, was broken.
+
+“It's a plaguy shame,” said Mrs. Mudge, angrily. “There's my best broom
+broken; cost forty-two cents only last week.”
+
+She turned and contemplated the scene of devastation. This yielded her
+little consolation.
+
+“At least thirty cabbages destroyed by that scamp of a cow,” she
+exclaimed in a tone bordering on despair. “I wish I'd a hit her. If I'd
+broken my broom over her back I wouldn't a cared so much. And it's all
+Mudge's fault. He's the most shiftless man I ever see. I'll give him a
+dressing down, see if I don't.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge's eyes snapped viciously, and she clutched the relics of the
+broom with a degree of energy which rendered it uncertain what sort of a
+dressing down she intended for her husband.
+
+Ten minutes after she had re-entered the kitchen, the luckless man made
+his appearance. He wore his usual look, little dreaming of the storm
+that awaited him.
+
+“I'm glad you've come,” said Mrs. Mudge, grimly.
+
+“What's amiss, now?” inquired Mudge, for he understood her look.
+
+“What's amiss?” blazed Mrs. Mudge. “I'll let you know. Do you see this?”
+
+She seized the broken broom and flourished it in his face.
+
+“Broken your broom, have you? You must have been careless.”
+
+“Careless, was I?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically. “Yes, of course,
+it's always I that am in fault.”
+
+“You haven't broken it over the back of any of the paupers, have you?”
+ asked her husband, who, knowing his helpmeet's infirmity of temper,
+thought it possible she might have indulged in such an amusement.
+
+“If I had broken it over anybody's back it would have been yours,” said
+the lady.
+
+“Mine! what have I been doing?”
+
+“It's what you haven't done,” said Mrs. Mudge. “You're about the laziest
+and most shiftless man I ever came across.”
+
+“Come, what does all this mean?” demanded Mr. Mudge, who was getting a
+little angry in his turn.
+
+“I'll let you know. Just look out of that window, will you?”
+
+“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, innocently, “I don't see anything in
+particular.”
+
+“You don't!” said Mrs. Mudge with withering sarcasm. “Then you'd better
+put on your glasses. If you'd been here quarter of an hour ago, you'd
+have seen Brindle among the cabbages.”
+
+“Did she do any harm?” asked Mr. Mudge, hastily.
+
+“There's scarcely a cabbage left,” returned Mrs. Mudge, purposely
+exaggerating the mischief done.
+
+“If you had mended that fence, as I told you to do, time and again, it
+wouldn't have happened.”
+
+“You didn't tell me but once,” said Mr. Mudge, trying to get up a feeble
+defence.
+
+“Once should have been enough, and more than enough. You expect me to
+slave myself to death in the house, and see to all your work besides.
+If I'd known what a lazy, shiftless man you were, at the time I married
+you, I'd have cut off my right hand first.”
+
+By this time Mr. Mudge had become angry.
+
+“If you hadn't married me, you'd a died an old maid,” he retorted.
+
+This was too much for Mrs. Mudge to bear. She snatched the larger half
+of the broom, and fetched it down with considerable emphasis upon
+the back of her liege lord, who, perceiving that her temper was up,
+retreated hastily from the kitchen; as he got into the yard he
+descried Brindle, whose appetite had been whetted by her previous raid,
+re-entering the garden through the gap.
+
+It was an unfortunate attempt on the part of Brindle. Mr. Mudge,
+angry with his wife, and smarting with the blow from the broomstick,
+determined to avenge himself upon the original cause of all the trouble.
+Revenge suggested craft. He seized a hoe, and crept stealthily to the
+cabbage-plot. Brindle, whose back was turned, did not perceive his
+approach, until she felt a shower of blows upon her back. Confused at
+the unexpected attack she darted wildly away, forgetting the gap in the
+fence, and raced at random over beds of vegetables, uprooting beets,
+parsnips, and turnips, while Mr. Mudge, mad with rage, followed close in
+her tracks, hitting her with the hoe whenever he got a chance.
+
+Brindle galloped through the yard, and out at the open gate. Thence she
+ran up the road at the top of her speed, with Mr. Mudge still pursuing
+her.
+
+It may be mentioned here that Mr. Mudge was compelled to chase the
+terrified cow over two miles before he succeeded with the help of a
+neighbor in capturing her. All this took time. Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge at
+home was subjected to yet another trial of her temper.
+
+It has already been mentioned that Squire Newcome was Chairman of the
+Overseers of the Poor. In virtue of his office, he was expected to
+exercise a general supervision over the Almshouse and its management.
+It was his custom to call about once a month to look after matters, and
+ascertain whether any official action or interference was needed.
+
+Ben saw his father take his gold-headed cane from behind the door, and
+start down the road. He understood his destination, and instantly the
+plan of a stupendous practical joke dawned upon him.
+
+“It'll be jolly fun,” he said to himself, his eyes dancing with fun.
+“I'll try it, anyway.”
+
+He took his way across the fields, so as to reach the Almshouse before
+his father. He then commenced his plan of operations.
+
+Mrs. Mudge had returned to her tub, and was washing away with bitter
+energy, thinking over her grievances in the matter of Mr. Mudge, when a
+knock was heard at the front door.
+
+Taking her hands from the tub, she wiped them on her apron.
+
+“I wish folks wouldn't come on washing day!” she said in a tone of
+vexation.
+
+She went to the door and opened it.
+
+There was nobody there.
+
+“I thought somebody knocked,” thought she, a little mystified. “Perhaps
+I was mistaken.”
+
+She went back to her tub, and had no sooner got her hands in the suds
+than another knock was heard, this time on the back door.
+
+“I declare!” said she, in increased vexation, “There's another knock. I
+shan't get through my washing to-day.”
+
+Again Mrs. Mudge wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the door.
+
+There was nobody there.
+
+I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had knocked both times, and
+instantly dodged round the corner of the house.
+
+“It's some plaguy boy,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes blazing with anger.
+“Oh, if I could only get hold of him!”
+
+“Don't you wish you could?” chuckled Ben to himself, as he caught a sly
+glimpse of the indignant woman.
+
+Meanwhile, Squire Newcome had walked along in his usual slow and
+dignified manner, until he had reached the front door of the Poorhouse,
+and knocked.
+
+“It's that plaguy boy again,” said Mrs. Mudge, furiously. “I won't go
+this time, but if he knocks again, I'll fix him.”
+
+She took a dipper of hot suds from the tub in which she had been
+washing, and crept carefully into the entry, taking up a station close
+to the front door.
+
+“I wonder if Mrs. Mudge heard me knock,” thought Squire Newcome. “I
+should think she might. I believe I will knock again.”
+
+This time he knocked with his cane.
+
+Rat-tat-tat sounded on the door.
+
+The echo had not died away, when the door was pulled suddenly open, and
+a dipper full of hot suds was dashed into the face of the astonished
+Squire, accompanied with, “Take that, you young scamp!”
+
+“Wh--what does all this mean?” gasped Squire Newcome, nearly strangled
+with the suds, a part of which had found its way into his mouth.
+
+“I beg your pardon, Squire Newcome,” said the horrified Mrs. Mudge. “I
+didn't mean it.”
+
+“What did you mean, then?” demanded Squire Newcome, sternly. “I think
+you addressed me,--ahem!--as a scamp.”
+
+“Oh, I didn't mean you,” said Mrs. Mudge, almost out of her wits with
+perplexity.
+
+“Come in, sir, and let me give you a towel. You've no idea how I've been
+tried this morning.”
+
+“I trust,” said the Squire, in his stateliest tone, “you will be able
+to give a satisfactory explanation of this, ahem--extraordinary
+proceeding.”
+
+While Mrs. Mudge was endeavoring to sooth the ruffled dignity of the
+aggrieved Squire, the “young scamp,” who had caused all the mischief,
+made his escape through the fields.
+
+“Oh, wasn't it bully!” he exclaimed. “I believe I shall die of laughing.
+I wish Paul had been here to see it. Mrs. Mudge has got herself into a
+scrape, now, I'm thinking.”
+
+Having attained a safe distance from the Poorhouse, Ben doubled himself
+up and rolled over and over upon the grass, convulsed with laughter.
+
+“I'd give five dollars to see it all over again,” he said to himself. “I
+never had such splendid fun in my life.”
+
+Presently the Squire emerged, his tall dicky looking decidedly limp and
+drooping, his face expressing annoyance and outraged dignity. Mrs. Mudge
+attended him to the door with an expression of anxious concern.
+
+“I guess I'd better make tracks,” said Ben to himself, “it won't do for
+the old gentleman to see me here, or he may smell a rat.”
+
+He accordingly scrambled over a stone wall and lay quietly hidden behind
+it till he judged it would be safe to make his appearance.
+
+
+
+
+
+XVIII.
+
+MORE ABOUT BEN.
+
+
+“Benjamin,” said Squire Newcome, two days after the occurrence mentioned
+in the last chapter, “what made the dog howl so this morning? Was you a
+doing anything to him?”
+
+“I gave him his breakfast,” said Ben, innocently. “Perhaps he was
+hungry, and howling for that.”
+
+“I do not refer to that,” said the Squire. “He howled as if in pain or
+terror. I repeat; was you a doing anything to him?”
+
+Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and looked out of the window.
+
+“I desire a categorical answer,” said Squire Newcome.
+
+“Don't know what categorical means,” said Ben, assuming a perplexed
+look.
+
+“I desire you to answer me IMMEGIATELY,” explained the Squire. “What was
+you a doing to Watch?”
+
+“I was tying a tin-kettle to his tail,” said Ben, a little reluctantly.
+
+“And what was you a doing that for?” pursued the Squire.
+
+“I wanted to see how he would look,” said Ben, glancing demurely at his
+father, out of the corner of his eye.
+
+“Did it ever occur to you that it must be disagreeable to Watch to have
+such an appendage to his tail?” queried the Squire.
+
+“I don't know,” said Ben.
+
+“How should you like to have a tin pail suspended to your--ahem! your
+coat tail?”
+
+“I haven't got any coat tail,” said Ben, “I wear jackets. But I think I
+am old enough to wear coats. Can't I have one made, father?”
+
+“Ahem!” said the Squire, blowing his nose, “we will speak of that at
+some future period.”
+
+“Fred Newell wears a coat, and he isn't any older than I am,” persisted
+Ben, who was desirous of interrupting his father's inquiries.
+
+“I apprehend that we are wandering from the question,” said the Squire.
+“Would you like to be treated as you treated Watch?”
+
+“No,” said Ben, slowly, “I don't know as I should.”
+
+“Then take care not to repeat your conduct of this morning,” said his
+father. “Stay a moment,” as Ben was about to leave the room hastily. “I
+desire that you should go to the post-office and inquire for letters.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+Ben left the room and sauntered out in the direction of the post-office.
+
+A chaise, driven by a stranger, stopped as it came up with him.
+
+The driver looked towards Ben, and inquired, “Boy, is this the way to
+Sparta?”
+
+Ben, who was walking leisurely along the path, whistling as he went,
+never turned his head.
+
+“Are you deaf, boy?” said the driver, impatiently. “I want to know if
+this is the road to Sparta?”
+
+Ben turned round.
+
+“Fine morning, sir,” he said politely.
+
+“I know that well enough without your telling me. Will you tell me
+whether this is the road to Sparta?”
+
+Ben put his hand to his ear, and seemed to listen attentively. Then he
+slowly shook his head, and said, “Would you be kind enough to speak a
+little louder, sir?”
+
+“The boy is deaf, after all,” said the driver to himself. “IS THIS THE
+ROAD TO SPARTA?”
+
+“Yes, sir, this is Wrenville,” said Ben, politely.
+
+“Plague take it! he don't hear me yet. IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?”
+
+“Just a little louder, if you please,” said Ben, keeping his hand to his
+ear, and appearing anxious to hear.
+
+“Deaf as a post!” muttered the driver. “I couldn't scream any louder, if
+I should try. Go along.”
+
+“Poor man! I hope he hasn't injured his voice,” thought Ben, his eyes
+dancing with fun. “By gracious!” he continued a moment later, bursting
+into a laugh, “if he isn't going to ask the way of old Tom Haven. He's
+as deaf as I pretended to be.”
+
+The driver had reined up again, and inquired the way to Sparta.
+
+“What did you say?” said the old man, putting his hand to his ear. “I'm
+rather hard of hearing.”
+
+The traveller repeated his question in a louder voice.
+
+The old man shook his head.
+
+“I guess you'd better ask that boy,” he said, pointing to Ben, who by
+this time had nearly come up with the chaise.
+
+“I have had enough of him,” said the traveller, disgusted. “I believe
+you're all deaf in this town. I'll get out of it as soon as possible.”
+
+He whipped up his horse, somewhat to the old man's surprise, and drove
+rapidly away.
+
+I desire my young readers to understand that I am describing Ben as he
+was, and not as he ought to be. There is no doubt that he carried his
+love of fun too far. We will hope that as he grows older, he will grow
+wiser.
+
+Ben pursued the remainder of his way to the Post-office without any
+further adventure.
+
+Entering a small building appropriated to this purpose, he inquired for
+letters.
+
+“There's nothing for your father to-day,” said the post-master.
+
+“Perhaps there's something for me,--Benjamin Newcome, Esq.,” said Ben.
+
+“Let me see,” said the post-master, putting on his spectacles; “yes, I
+believe there is. Post-marked at New York, too. I didn't know you had
+any correspondents there.”
+
+“It's probably from the Mayor of New York,” said Ben, in a tone of
+comical importance, “asking my advice about laying out Central Park.”
+
+“Probably it is,” said the postmaster. “It's a pretty thick
+letter,--looks like an official document.”
+
+By this time, Ben, who was really surprised by the reception of the
+letter, had opened it. It proved to be from our hero, Paul Prescott, and
+inclosed one for Aunt Lucy.
+
+“Mr. Crosby,” said Ben, suddenly, addressing the postmaster, “you
+remember about Paul Prescott's running away from the Poorhouse?”
+
+“Yes, I didn't blame the poor boy a bit. I never liked Mudge, and they
+say his wife is worse than he.”
+
+“Well, suppose the town should find out where he is, could they get him
+back again?”
+
+“Bless you! no. They ain't so fond of supporting paupers. If he's able
+to earn his own living, they won't want to interfere with him.”
+
+“Well, this letter is from him,” said Ben. “He's found a pleasant family
+in New York, who have adopted him.”
+
+“I'm glad of it,” said Mr. Crosby, heartily. “I always liked him. He was
+a fine fellow.”
+
+“That's just what I think. I'll read his letter to you, if you would
+like to hear it.”
+
+“I should, very much. Come in behind here, and sit down.”
+
+Ben went inside the office, and sitting down on a stool, read Paul's
+letter. As our reader may be interested in the contents, we will take
+the liberty of looking over Ben's shoulder while he reads.
+
+New York, Oct. 10, 18--.
+
+DEAR BEN:--
+
+I have been intending to write to you before, knowing the kind interest
+which you take in me. I got safely to New York a few days after I left
+Wrenville. I didn't have so hard a time as I expected, having fallen in
+with a pedler, who was very kind to me, with whom I rode thirty or forty
+miles. I wish I had time to tell all the adventures I met with on the
+way, but I must wait till I see you.
+
+When I got to the city, I was astonished to find how large it was. The
+first day I got pretty tired wandering about, and strayed into a church
+in the evening, not knowing where else to go. I was so tired I fell
+asleep there, and didn't wake up till morning. When I found myself
+locked up in a great church, I was frightened, I can tell you. It was
+only Thursday morning, and I was afraid I should have to stay there
+till Sunday. If I had, I am afraid I should have starved to death. But,
+fortunately for me, the sexton came in the morning, and let me out. That
+wasn't all. He very kindly took me home with him, and then told me I
+might live with him and go to school. I like him very much, and his wife
+too. I call them Uncle Hugh and Aunt Hester. When you write to me, you
+must direct to the care of Mr. Hugh Cameron, 10 R---- Street. Then it
+will be sure to reach me.
+
+I am going to one of the city schools. At first, I was a good deal
+troubled because I was so far behind boys of my age. You know I hadn't
+been to school for a long time before I left Wrenville, on account of
+father's sickness. But I studied pretty hard, and now I stand very well.
+I sometimes think, Ben, that you don't care quite so much about study
+as you ought to. I wish you would come to feel the importance of it. You
+must excuse me saying this, as we have always been such good friends.
+
+I sometimes think of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, and wonder whether they miss
+me much. I am sure Mr. Mudge misses me, for now he is obliged to get up
+early and milk, unless he has found another boy to do it. If he has, I
+pity the boy. Write me what they said about my going away.
+
+I inclose a letter for Aunt Lucy Lee, which I should like to have you
+give her with your own hands. Don't trust it to Mrs. Mudge, for she
+doesn't like Aunt Lucy, and I don't think she would give it to her.
+
+Write soon, Ben, and I will answer without delay, Your affectionate
+friend, PAUL PRESCOTT.
+
+
+“That's a very good letter,” said Mr. Crosby; “I am glad Paul is doing
+so well. I should like to see him.”
+
+“So should I,” said Ben; “he was a prime fellow,--twice as good as I am.
+That's true, what he said about my not liking study. I guess I'll try to
+do better.”
+
+“You'll make a smart boy if you only try,” said the postmaster,
+with whom Ben was rather a favorite, in spite of his mischievous
+propensities.
+
+“Thank you,” said Ben, laughing, “that's what my friend, the mayor of
+New York, often writes me. But honestly, I know I can do a good deal
+better than I am doing now. I don't know but I shall turn over a new
+leaf. I suppose I like fun a little too well. Such jolly sport as I had
+coming to the office this morning.”
+
+Ben related the story of the traveller who inquired the way to Sparta,
+much to the amusement of the postmaster, who, in his enjoyment of the
+joke, forgot to tell Ben that his conduct was hardly justifiable.
+
+“Now,” said Ben, “as soon as I have been home, I must go and see my
+particular friend, Mrs. Mudge. I'm a great favorite of hers,” he added,
+with a sly wink.
+
+
+
+
+XIX.
+
+MRS. MUDGE'S DISCOMFITURE.
+
+
+Ben knocked at the door of the Poorhouse. In due time Mrs. Mudge
+appeared. She was a little alarmed on seeing Ben, not knowing how Squire
+Newcome might be affected by the reception she had given him on his last
+visit. Accordingly she received him with unusual politeness.
+
+“How do you do, Master Newcome?” she inquired.
+
+“As well as could be expected,” said Ben, hesitatingly.
+
+“Why, is there anything the matter with you?” inquired Mrs. Mudge, her
+curiosity excited by his manner of speaking.
+
+“No one can tell what I suffer from rheumatism,” said Ben, sadly.
+
+This was very true, since not even Ben himself could have told.
+
+“You are very young to be troubled in that way,” said Mrs. Mudge, “and
+how is your respected father, to-day?” she inquired, with some anxiety.
+
+“I was just going to ask you, Mrs. Mudge,” said Ben, “whether anything
+happened to disturb him when he called here day before yesterday?”
+
+“Why,” said Mrs. Mudge, turning a little pale, “Nothing of any
+consequence,--that is, not much. What makes you ask?”
+
+“I thought it might be so from his manner,” said Ben, enjoying Mrs.
+Mudge's evident alarm.
+
+“There was a little accident,” said Mrs. Mudge, reluctantly. “Some
+mischievous boy had been knocking and running away; so, when your father
+knocked, I thought it might be he, and--and I believe I threw some
+water on him. But I hope he has forgiven it, as it wasn't intentional.
+I should like to get hold of that boy,” said Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully, “I
+should like to shake him up.”
+
+“Have you any idea who it was?” asked Ben, gravely.
+
+“No,” said Mrs. Mudge, “I haven't, but I shall try to find out. Whoever
+it is, he's a scamp.”
+
+“Very complimentary old lady,” thought Ben. He said in a sober
+tone, which would have imposed upon any one, “There are a good many
+mischievous boys around here.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge grimly assented.
+
+“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Mudge,” asked Ben, suddenly, “have you ever heard
+anything of Paul Prescott since he left you?”
+
+“No,” snapped Mrs. Mudge, her countenance growing dark, “I haven't. But
+I can tell pretty well where he is.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“In the penitentiary. At any rate, if he isn't, he ought to be. But what
+was you wanting?”
+
+“I want to see Mrs. Lee.”
+
+“Aunt Lucy Lee?”
+
+“Yes. I've got a letter for her.”
+
+“If you'll give me the letter I'll carry it to her.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Ben, “but I would like to see her.”
+
+“Never mind,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “I'll get hold of it yet. I shouldn't
+wonder at all if it was from that rascal, Paul.”
+
+Poor Paul! It was fortunate that he had some better friends than Mr. and
+Mrs. Mudge, otherwise he would have been pretty poorly off.
+
+Aunt Lucy came to the door. Ben placed the letter in her hands.
+
+“Is it from Paul?” she asked, hopefully.
+
+“Yes,” said Ben.
+
+She opened it eagerly. “Is he well?” she asked.
+
+“Yes, well and happy,” said Ben, who treated the old lady, for whom he
+had much respect, very differently from Mrs. Mudge.
+
+“I'm truly thankful for that,” said Aunt Lucy; “I've laid awake more
+than one night thinking of him.”
+
+“So has Mrs. Mudge, I'm thinking,” said Ben, slyly.
+
+Aunt Lucy laughed.
+
+“There isn't much love lost between them,” said Aunt Lucy, smiling. “He
+was very badly treated here, poor boy.”
+
+“Was he, though?” repeated Mrs. Mudge? who had been listening at the
+keyhole, but not in an audible voice. “Perhaps he will be again, if I
+get him back. I thought that letter was from Paul. I must get hold of it
+some time to-day.”
+
+“I believe I must go,” said Ben. “If you answer the letter, I will put
+it into the office for you. I shall be passing here to-morrow.”
+
+“You are very kind,” said Aunt Lucy. “I am very much obliged to you for
+bringing me this letter to-day. You can't tell how happy it makes me. I
+have been so afraid the dear boy might be suffering.”
+
+“It's no trouble at all,” said Ben.
+
+“She's a pretty good woman,” thought he, as he left the house. “I
+wouldn't play a trick on her for a good deal. But that Mrs. Mudge is a
+hard case. I wonder what she would have said if she had known that I was
+the 'scamp' that troubled her so much Monday. If I had such a mother as
+that, by jingo, I'd run away to sea.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge was bent upon reading Aunt Lucy's letter. Knowing it to be
+from Paul, she had a strong curiosity to know what had become of him.
+If she could only get him back! Her heart bounded with delight as she
+thought of the annoyances to which, in that case, she could subject him.
+It would be a double triumph over him and Aunt Lucy, against whom she
+felt that mean spite with which a superior nature is often regarded by
+one of a lower order.
+
+After some reflection, Mrs. Mudge concluded that Aunt Lucy would
+probably leave the letter in the little chest which was appropriated to
+her use, and which was kept in the room where she slept. The key of this
+chest had been lost, and although Aunt Lucy had repeatedly requested
+that a new one should be obtained, Mrs. Mudge had seen fit to pay no
+attention to her request, as it would interfere with purposes of her
+own, the character of which may easily be guessed.
+
+As she suspected, Paul's letter had been deposited in this chest.
+
+Accordingly, the same afternoon, she left her work in the kitchen in
+order to institute a search for it. As a prudent precaution, however,
+she just opened the door of the common room, to make sure that Aunt Lucy
+was at work therein.
+
+She made her way upstairs, and entering the room in which the old lady
+lodged, together with two others, she at once went to the chest and
+opened it.
+
+She began to rummage round among the old lady's scanty treasures, and at
+length, much to her joy, happened upon the letter, laid carefully away
+in one corner of the chest. She knew it was the one she sought, from the
+recent postmark, and the address, which was in the unformed handwriting
+of a boy. To make absolutely certain, she drew the letter from the
+envelope and looked at the signature.
+
+She was right, as she saw at a glance. It was from Paul.
+
+“Now I'll see what the little rascal has to say for himself,” she
+muttered, “I hope he's in distress; oh, how I'd like to get hold of
+him.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge began eagerly to read the letter, not dreaming of
+interruption. But she was destined to be disappointed. To account for
+this we must explain that, shortly after Mrs. Mudge looked into the
+common room, Aunt Lucy was reminded of something essential, which she
+had left upstairs. She accordingly laid down her work upon the chair in
+which she had been sitting, and went up to her chamber.
+
+Mrs. Mudge was too much preoccupied to hear the advancing steps.
+
+As the old lady entered the chamber, what was her mingled indignation
+and dismay at seeing Mrs. Mudge on her knees before _her_ chest, with
+the precious letter, whose arrival had gladdened her so much, in her
+hands.
+
+“What are you doing there, Mrs. Mudge?” she said, sternly.
+
+Mrs. Mudge rose from her knees in confusion. Even she had the grace to
+be ashamed of her conduct.
+
+“Put down that letter,” said the old lady in an authoritative voice
+quite new to her.
+
+Mrs. Mudge, who had not yet collected her scattered senses, did as she
+was requested.
+
+Aunt Lucy walked hastily to the chest, and closed it, first securing the
+letter, which she put in her pocket.
+
+“I hope it will be safe, now,” she said, rather contemptuously. “Ain't
+you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Mudge?”
+
+“Ashamed of myself!” shrieked that amiable lady, indignant with herself
+for having quailed for a moment before the old lady.
+
+“What do you mean--you--you pauper?”
+
+“I may be a pauper,” said Aunt Lucy, calmly, “But I am thankful to
+say that I mind my own business, and don't meddle with other people's
+chests.”
+
+A red spot glowed on either cheek of Mrs. Mudge. She was trying hard to
+find some vantage-ground over the old lady.
+
+“Do you mean to say that I don't mind my business?” she blustered,
+folding her arms defiantly.
+
+“What were you at my trunk for?” said the old lady, significantly.
+
+“Because it was my duty,” was the brazen reply.
+
+Mrs. Mudge had rapidly determined upon her line of defense, and thought
+it best to carry the war into the enemy's country.
+
+“Yes, I felt sure that your letter was from Paul Prescott, and as he ran
+away from my husband and me, who were his lawful guardians, it was my
+duty to take that means of finding out where he is. I knew that you were
+in league with him, and would do all you could to screen him. This is
+why I went to your chest, and I would do it again, if necessary.”
+
+“Perhaps you have been before,” said Aunt Lucy, scornfully. “I think
+I understand, now, why you were unwilling to give me another key.
+Fortunately there has been nothing there until now to reward your
+search.”
+
+“You impudent trollop!” shrieked Mrs. Mudge, furiously.
+
+Her anger was the greater, because Aunt Lucy was entirely correct in her
+supposition that this was not the first visit her landlady had made to
+the little green chest.
+
+“I'll give Paul the worst whipping he ever had, when I get him back,”
+ said Mrs. Mudge, angrily.
+
+“He is beyond your reach, thank Providence,” said Aunt Lucy, whose
+equanimity was not disturbed by this menace, which she knew to be an
+idle one. “That is enough for you to know. I will take care that you
+never have another chance to see this letter. And if you ever go to my
+chest again”--
+
+“Well, ma'am, what then?”
+
+“I shall appeal for protection to 'Squire Newcome.”
+
+“Hoity, toity,” said Mrs. Mudge, but she was a little alarmed,
+nevertheless, as such an appeal would probably be prejudicial to her
+interest.
+
+So from time to time Aunt Lucy received, through Ben, letters from Paul,
+which kept her acquainted with his progress at school. These letters
+were very precious to the old lady, and she read them over many times.
+They formed a bright link of interest which bound her to the outside
+world, and enabled her to bear up with greater cheerfulness against the
+tyranny of Mrs. Mudge.
+
+
+
+
+XX.
+
+PAUL OBTAINS A SITUATION.
+
+
+The month after Paul Prescott succeeded in reaching the head of his
+class, George Dawkins exerted himself to rise above him. He studied
+better than usual, and proved in truth a formidable rival. But Paul's
+spirit was roused. He resolved to maintain his position if possible. He
+had now become accustomed to study, and it cost him less effort. When
+the end of the month came, there was considerable speculation in the
+minds of the boys as to the result of the rivalry. The majority had
+faith in Paul, but there were some who, remembering how long Dawkins had
+been at the head of the class, thought he would easily regain his lost
+rank.
+
+The eventful day, the first of the month, at length came, and the
+class-list was read.
+
+Paul Prescott ranked first.
+
+George Dawkins ranked second.
+
+A flush spread over the pale face of Dawkins, and he darted a malignant
+glance at Paul, who was naturally pleased at having retained his rank.
+
+Dawkins had his satellites. One of these came to him at recess, and
+expressed his regret that Dawkins had failed of success.
+
+Dawkins repelled the sympathy with cold disdain.
+
+“What do you suppose I care for the head of the class?” he demanded,
+haughtily.
+
+“I thought you had been studying for it.”
+
+“Then you thought wrong. Let the sexton's son have it, if he wants it.
+It would be of no use to me, as I leave this school at the end of the
+week.”
+
+“Leave school!”
+
+The boys gathered about Dawkins, curiously.
+
+“Is it really so, Dawkins?” they inquired.
+
+“Yes,” said Dawkins, with an air of importance; “I shall go to a private
+school, where the advantages are greater than here. My father does not
+wish me to attend a public school any longer.”
+
+This statement was made on the spur of the moment, to cover the
+mortification which his defeat had occasioned him. It proved true,
+however. On his return home, Dawkins succeeded in persuading his father
+to transfer him to a private school, and he took away his books at the
+end of the week. Had he recovered his lost rank there is no doubt that
+he would have remained.
+
+Truth to tell, there were few who mourned much for the departure of
+George Dawkins. He had never been a favorite. His imperious temper and
+arrogance rendered this impossible.
+
+After he left school, Paul saw little of him for two or three years.
+At their first encounter Paul bowed and spoke pleasantly, but Dawkins
+looked superciliously at him without appearing to know him.
+
+Paul's face flushed proudly, and afterwards he abstained from making
+advances which were likely to be repulsed. He had too much self-respect
+to submit voluntarily to such slights.
+
+Meanwhile Paul's school life fled rapidly. It was a happy time,--happy
+in its freedom from care, and happy for him, though all school boys do
+not appreciate that consideration, in the opportunities for improvement
+which it afforded. These opportunities, it is only just to Paul to say,
+were fully improved. He left school with an enviable reputation, and
+with the good wishes of his schoolmates and teachers.
+
+Paul was now sixteen years old, a stout, handsome boy, with a frank,
+open countenance, and a general air of health which formed quite a
+contrast to the appearance he presented when he left the hospitable
+mansion which Mr. Nicholas Mudge kept open at the public expense.
+
+Paul was now very desirous of procuring a situation. He felt that it was
+time he was doing something for himself. He was ambitious to relieve the
+kind sexton and his wife of some portion, at least, of the burden of his
+support.
+
+Besides, there was the legacy of debt which his father had bequeathed
+him. Never for a moment had Paul forgotten it. Never for a moment had he
+faltered in his determination to liquidate it at whatever sacrifice to
+himself.
+
+“My father's name shall be cleared,” he said to himself, proudly.
+“Neither Squire Conant nor any one else shall have it in his power to
+cast reproach upon his memory.”
+
+The sexton applauded his purpose.
+
+“You are quite right, Paul,” he said. “But you need not feel in haste.
+Obtain your education first, and the money will come by-and-by. As long
+as you repay the amount, principal and interest, you will have done all
+that you are in honor bound to do. Squire Conant, as I understand from
+you, is a rich man, so that he will experience no hardship in waiting.”
+
+Paul was now solicitous about a place. The sexton had little influence,
+so that he must depend mainly upon his own inquiries.
+
+He went into the reading-room of the Astor House every day to look over
+the advertised wants in the daily papers. Every day he noted down
+some addresses, and presented himself as an applicant for a position.
+Generally, however, he found that some one else had been before him.
+
+One day his attention was drawn to the following advertisement.
+
+
+“WANTED. A smart, active, wide-awake boy, of sixteen or seventeen, in a
+retail dry-goods store. Apply immediately at--Broadway.”
+
+Paul walked up to the address mentioned. Over the door he read, “Smith &
+Thompson.” This, then, was the firm that had advertised.
+
+The store ran back some distance. There appeared to be six or eight
+clerks in attendance upon quite a respectable number of customers.
+
+“Is Mr. Smith in?” inquired Paul, of the nearest clerk.
+
+“You'll find him at the lower end of the store. How many yards, ma'am?”
+
+This last was of course addressed to a customer.
+
+Paul made his way, as directed, to the lower end of the store.
+
+A short, wiry, nervous man was writing at a desk.
+
+“Is Mr. Smith in?” asked Paul.
+
+“My name; what can I do for you?” said the short man, crisply.
+
+“I saw an advertisement in the Tribune for a boy.”
+
+“And you have applied for the situation?” said Mr. Smith.
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“How old are you?” with a rapid glance at our hero.
+
+“Sixteen--nearly seventeen.”
+
+“I suppose that means that you will be seventeen in eleven months and a
+half.”
+
+“No, sir,” said Paul, “I shall be seventeen in three months.”
+
+“All right. Most boys call themselves a year older. What's your name?”
+
+“Paul Prescott.”
+
+“P. P. Any relation to Fanny Fern?”
+
+“No, sir,” said Paul, rather astonished.
+
+“Didn't know but you might be. P. P. and F. F. Where do you live?”
+
+Paul mentioned the street and number.
+
+“That's well, you are near by,” said Mr. Smith. “Now, are you afraid of
+work?”
+
+“No sir,” said Paul, smiling, “not much.”
+
+“Well, that's important; how much wages do you expect?”
+
+“I suppose,” said Paul, hesitating, “I couldn't expect very much at
+first.”
+
+“Of course not; green, you know. What do you say to a dollar a week?”
+
+“A dollar a week!” exclaimed Paul, in dismay, “I hoped to get enough to
+pay for my board.”
+
+“Nonsense. There are plenty of boys glad enough to come for a dollar a
+week. At first, you know. But I'll stretch a point with you, and offer
+you a dollar and a quarter. What do you say?”
+
+“How soon could I expect to have my wages advanced?” inquired our hero,
+with considerable anxiety.
+
+“Well,” said Smith, “at the end of a month or two.”
+
+“I'll go home and speak to my uncle about it,” said Paul, feeling
+undecided.
+
+“Can't keep the place open for you. Ah, there's another boy at the
+door.”
+
+“I'll accept,” said Paul, jumping to a decision. He had applied in so
+many different quarters without success, that he could not make up his
+mind to throw away this chance, poor as it seemed.
+
+“When shall I come?”
+
+“Come to-morrow.”
+
+“At what time, sir?”
+
+“At seven o'clock.”
+
+This seemed rather early. However, Paul was prepared to expect some
+discomforts, and signified that he would come.
+
+As he turned to go away, another boy passed him, probably bent on the
+same errand with himself.
+
+Paul hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. He had expected at least
+three dollars a week, and the descent to a dollar and a quarter was
+rather disheartening. Still, he was encouraged by the promise of a rise
+at the end of a month or two,--so on the whole he went home cheerful.
+
+“Well, Paul, what luck to-day?” asked Mr. Cameron, who had just got home
+as Paul entered.
+
+“I've got a place, Uncle Hugh.”
+
+“You have,--where?”
+
+“With Smith & Thompson, No.--Broadway.”
+
+“What sort of a store? I don't remember the name.”
+
+“It is a retail dry-goods store.”
+
+“Did you like the looks of your future employer?”
+
+“I don't know,” said Paul, hesitating, “He looked as if he might be a
+pretty sharp man in business, but I have seen others that I would rather
+work for. However, beggars mustn't be choosers. But there was one thing
+I was disappointed about.”
+
+“What was that, Paul?”
+
+“About the wages.”
+
+“How much will they give you?”
+
+“Only a dollar and a quarter a week, at first.”
+
+“That is small, to be sure.”
+
+“The most I think of, Uncle Hugh, is, that I shall still be an expense
+to you. I hoped to get enough to be able to pay my board from the
+first.”
+
+“My dear boy,” said the sexton, kindly, “don't trouble yourself on that
+score. It costs little more for three than for two, and the little I
+expend on your account is richly made up by the satisfaction we feel in
+your society, and your good conduct.”
+
+“You say that to encourage me, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul. “You have done
+all for me. I have done nothing for you.”
+
+“No, Paul, I spoke the truth. Hester and I have both been happier since
+you came to us. We hope you will long remain with us. You are already as
+dear to us as the son that we lost.”
+
+“Thank you, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, in a voice tremulous with feeling.
+“I will do all I can to deserve your kindness.”
+
+
+
+
+XXI.
+
+SMITH AND THOMPSON'S YOUNG MAN.
+
+
+At seven o'clock the next morning Paul stood before Smith & Thompson's
+store.
+
+As he came up on one side, another boy came down on the other, and
+crossed the street.
+
+“Are you the new boy?” he asked, surveying Paul attentively.
+
+“I suppose so,” said Paul. “I've engaged to work for Smith & Thompson.”
+
+“All right. I'm glad to see you,” said the other.
+
+This looked kind, and Paul thanked him for his welcome.
+
+“O.” said the other, bursting into a laugh, “you needn't trouble
+yourself about thanking me. I'm glad you've come, because now I shan't
+have to open the store and sweep out. Just lend a hand there; I'll help
+you about taking down the shutters this morning, and to-morrow you'll
+have to get along alone.”
+
+The two boys opened the store.
+
+“What's your name?” asked Paul's new acquaintance.
+
+“Paul Prescott. What is yours?”
+
+“Nicholas Benton. You may call me MR. Benton.”
+
+“Mr. Benton?” repeated Paul in some astonishment.
+
+“Yes; I'm a young man now. I've been Smith & Thompson's boy till now.
+Now I'm promoted.”
+
+Paul looked at MR. Benton with some amusement. That young man was
+somewhat shorter than himself, and sole proprietor of a stock of pale
+yellow hair which required an abundant stock of bear's grease to keep
+it in order. His face was freckled and expressionless. His eyebrows and
+eyelashes were of the same faded color. He was dressed, however,
+with some pretensions to smartness. He wore a blue necktie, of large
+dimensions, fastened by an enormous breast-pin, which, in its already
+tarnished splendor, suggested strong doubts as to the apparent gold
+being genuine.
+
+“There's the broom, Paul,” said Mr. Benton, assuming a graceful position
+on the counter.
+
+“You'll have to sweep out; only look sharp about raising a dust, or
+Smith'll be into your wool.”
+
+“What sort of a man is Mr. Smith?” asked Paul, with some curiosity.
+
+“O, he's an out and outer. Sharp as a steel trap. He'll make you toe the
+mark.”
+
+“Do you like him?” asked Paul, not quite sure whether he understood his
+employer's character from the description.
+
+“I don't like him well enough to advise any of my folks to trade with
+him,” said Mr. Benton.
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“He'd cheat 'em out of their eye teeth if they happened to have any,”
+ said the young man coolly, beginning to pick his teeth with a knife.
+
+Paul began to doubt whether he should like Mr. Smith.
+
+“I say,” said Mr. Benton after a pause, “have you begun to shave yet?”
+
+Paul looked up to see if his companion were in earnest.
+
+“No,” said he; “I haven't got along as far as that. Have you?”
+
+“I,” repeated the young man, a little contemptuously, “of course I have.
+I've shaved for a year and a half.”
+
+“Do you find it hard shaving?” asked Paul, a little slyly.
+
+“Well, my beard is rather stiff,” said the late BOY, with an important
+air, “but I've got used to it.”
+
+“Ain't you rather young to shave, Nicholas?” asked Paul.
+
+“Mr. Benton, if you please.”
+
+“I mean, Mr. Benton.”
+
+“Perhaps I was when I begun. But now I am nineteen.”
+
+“Nineteen?”
+
+“Yes, that is to say, I'm within a few months of being nineteen. What do
+you think of my moustache?”
+
+“I hadn't noticed it.”
+
+“The store's rather dark,” muttered Mr. Benton, who seemed a little
+annoyed by this answer. “If you'll come a little nearer you can see it.”
+
+Drawing near, Paul, after some trouble, descried a few scattering hairs.
+
+“Yes,” said he, wanting to laugh, “I see it.”
+
+“Coming on finely, isn't it?” asked Mr. Nicholas Benton, complacently.
+
+“Yes,” said Paul, rather doubtfully.
+
+“I don't mind letting you into a secret,” said Benton, affably, “if you
+won't mention it. I've been using some of the six weeks' stuff.”
+
+“The what?” asked Paul, opening his eyes.
+
+“Haven't you heard of it?” inquired Benton, a little contemptuously.
+“Where have you been living all your life? Haven't you seen it
+advertised,--warranted to produce a full set of whiskers or moustaches
+upon the smoothest face, etc. I got some a week ago, only a dollar. Five
+weeks from now you'll see something that'll astonish you.”
+
+Paul was not a little amused by his new companion, and would have
+laughed, but that he feared to offend him.
+
+“You'd better get some,” said Mr. Benton. “I'll let you just try mine
+once, if you want to.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Paul; “I don't think I want to have a moustache just
+yet.”
+
+“Well, perhaps you're right. Being a boy, perhaps it wouldn't be
+advisable.”
+
+“When does Mr. Smith come in?”
+
+“Not till nine.”
+
+“And the other clerks?”
+
+“About eight o'clock. I shan't come till eight, to-morrow morning.”
+
+“There's one thing I should like to ask you,” said Paul. “Of course you
+won't answer unless you like.”
+
+“Out with it.”
+
+“How much does Mr. Smith pay you?”
+
+“Ahem!” said Benton, “what does he pay you?”
+
+“A dollar and a quarter a week.”
+
+“He paid me a dollar and a half to begin with.”
+
+“Did he? He wanted me to come first at a dollar.”
+
+“Just like him. Didn't I tell you he was an out and outer? He'll be sure
+to take you in if you will let him.”
+
+“But,” said Paul, anxiously, “he said he'd raise it in a month or two.”
+
+“He won't offer to; you'll have to tease him. And then how much'll he
+raise it? Not more than a quarter. How much do you think I get now?”
+
+“How long have you been here?”
+
+“A year and a half.”
+
+“Five dollars a week,” guessed Paul.
+
+“Five! he only gives me two and a half. That is, he hasn't been paying
+me but that. Now, of course, he'll raise, as I've been promoted.”
+
+“How much do you expect to get now?”
+
+“Maybe four dollars, and I'm worth ten any day. He's a mean old
+skinflint, Smith is.”
+
+This glimpse at his own prospects did not tend to make Paul feel very
+comfortable. He could not repress a sigh of disappointment when he
+thought of this mortifying termination of all his brilliant prospects.
+He had long nourished the hope of being able to repay the good sexton
+for his outlay in his behalf, besides discharging the debt which his
+father had left behind him. Now there seemed to be little prospect of
+either. He had half a mind to resign his place immediately upon the
+entrance of Mr. Smith, but two considerations dissuaded him; one, that
+the sum which he was to receive, though small, would at least buy his
+clothes, and besides, he was not at all certain of obtaining another
+situation.
+
+With a sigh, therefore, he went about his duties.
+
+He had scarcely got the store ready when some of the clerks entered, and
+the business of the day commenced. At nine Mr. Smith appeared.
+
+“So you're here, Peter,” remarked he, as he caught sight of our hero.
+
+“Paul,” corrected the owner of that name.
+
+“Well, well, Peter or Paul, don't make much difference. Both were
+apostles, if I remember right. All ready for work, eh?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Paul, neither very briskly nor cheerfully.
+
+“Well,” said Mr. Smith, after a pause, “I guess I'll put you into the
+calico department. Williams, you may take him under your wing. And now
+Peter,--all the same, Paul,--I've got a word or two to say to you, as I
+always do to every boy who comes into my store. Don't forget what you're
+here for? It's to sell goods. Take care to sell something to every man,
+woman, and child, that comes in your way. That's the way to do business.
+Follow it up, and you'll be a rich man some day.”
+
+“But suppose they don't want anything?” said Paul.
+
+“Make 'em want something,” returned Smith, “Don't let 'em off without
+buying. That's my motto. However, you'll learn.”
+
+Smith bustled off, and began in his nervous way to exercise a general
+supervision over all that was going on in the store. He seemed to be all
+eyes. While apparently entirely occupied in waiting upon a customer, he
+took notice of all the customers in the store, and could tell what they
+bought, and how much they paid.
+
+Paul listened attentively to the clerk under whom he was placed for
+instruction.
+
+“What's the price of this calico?” inquired a common-looking woman.
+
+“A shilling a yard, ma'am,” (this was not in war times.)
+
+“It looks rather coarse.”
+
+“Coarse, ma'am! What can you be thinking of? It is a superfine piece of
+goods. We sell more of it than of any other figure. The mayor's wife was
+in here yesterday, and bought two dress patterns off of it.”
+
+“Did she?” asked the woman, who appeared favorably impressed by this
+circumstance.
+
+“Yes, and she promised to send her friends here after some of it. You'd
+better take it while you can get it.”
+
+“Will it wash?”
+
+“To be sure it will.”
+
+“Then I guess you may cut me off ten yards.”
+
+This was quickly done, and the woman departed with her purchase.
+
+Five minutes later, another woman entered with a bundle of the same
+figured calico.
+
+Seeing her coming, Williams hastily slipped the remnant of the piece out
+of sight.
+
+“I got this calico here,” said the newcomer, “one day last week. You
+warranted it to wash, but I find it won't. Here's a piece I've tried.”
+
+She showed a pattern, which had a faded look.
+
+“You've come to the wrong store,” said Williams, coolly. “You must have
+got the calico somewhere else.”
+
+“No, I'm sure I got it here. I remember particularly buying it of you.”
+
+“You've got a better memory than I have, then. We haven't got a piece of
+calico like that in the store.”
+
+Paul listened to this assertion with unutterable surprise.
+
+“I am quite certain I bought it here,” said the woman, perplexed.
+
+“Must have been the next store,--Blake & Hastings. Better go over
+there.”
+
+The woman went out.
+
+“That's the way to do business,” said Williams, winking at Paul.
+
+Paul said nothing, but he felt more than ever doubtful about retaining
+his place.
+
+
+
+
+XXII.
+
+MR. BENTON'S ADVENTURE.
+
+
+One evening, about a fortnight after his entrance into Smith &
+Thompson's employment, Paul was putting up the shutters, the business
+of the day being over. It devolved upon him to open and close the store,
+and usually he was the last one to go home.
+
+This evening, however, Mr. Nicholas Benton graciously remained behind
+and assisted Paul in closing the store. This was unusual, and surprised
+Paul a little. It was soon explained, however.
+
+“Good-night, Nicholas,--I mean, Mr. Benton,” said Paul.
+
+“Not quite yet. I want you to walk a little way with me this evening.”
+
+Paul hesitated.
+
+“Come, no backing out. I want to confide to you a very important
+secret.”
+
+He looked so mysterious that Paul's curiosity was aroused, and
+reflecting that it was yet early, he took his companion's proffered arm,
+and sauntered along by his side.
+
+“What's the secret?” he asked at length, perceiving that Nicholas was
+silent.
+
+“Wait till we get to a more retired place.”
+
+He turned out of Broadway into a side street, where the passers were
+less numerous.
+
+“I don't think you could guess,” said the young man, turning towards our
+hero.
+
+“I don't think I could.”
+
+“And yet,” continued Benton, meditatively, “it is possible that you may
+have noticed something in my appearance just a little unusual, within
+the last week. Haven't you, now?”
+
+Paul could not say that he had.
+
+Mr. Benton looked a little disappointed.
+
+“Nobody can tell what has been the state of my feelings,” he resumed
+after a pause.
+
+“You ain't sick?” questioned Paul, hastily.
+
+“Nothing of the sort, only my appetite has been a good deal affected.
+I don't think I have eaten as much in a week as you would in a day,” he
+added, complacently.
+
+“If I felt that way I should think I was going to be sick,” said Paul.
+
+“I'll let you into the secret,” said Mr. Benton, lowering his voice, and
+looking carefully about him, to make sure that no one was within hearing
+distance--“I'M IN LOVE.”
+
+This seemed so utterly ludicrous to Paul, that he came very near losing
+Mr. Benton's friendship forever by bursting into a hearty laugh.
+
+“I didn't think of that,” he said.
+
+“It's taken away my appetite, and I haven't been able to sleep nights,”
+ continued Mr. Benton, in a cheerful tone. “I feel just as Howard
+Courtenay did in the great story that's coming out in the Weekly Budget.
+You've read it, haven't you?”
+
+“I don't think I have,” said Paul.
+
+“Then you ought to. It's tiptop. It's rather curious too that the lady
+looks just as Miranda does, in the same story.”
+
+“How is that?”
+
+“Wait a minute, and I'll read the description.”
+
+Mr. Benton pulled a paper from his pocket,--the last copy of the Weekly
+Budget,--and by the light of a street lamp read the following extract to
+his amused auditor.
+
+“Miranda was just eighteen. Her form was queenly and majestic. Tall and
+stately, she moved among her handmaidens with a dignity which
+revealed her superior rank. Her eyes were dark as night. Her luxuriant
+tresses,--there, the rest is torn off,” said Mr. Benton, in a tone of
+vexation.
+
+“She is tall, then?” said Paul.
+
+“Yes, just like Miranda.”
+
+“Then,” said our hero, in some hesitation, “I should think she would not
+be very well suited to you.”
+
+“Why not?” asked Mr. Benton, quickly.
+
+“Because,” said Paul, “you're rather short, you know.”
+
+“I'm about the medium height,” said Mr. Benton, raising himself upon his
+toes as he spoke.
+
+“Not quite,” said Paul, trying not to laugh.
+
+“I'm as tall as Mr. Smith,” resumed Mr. Benton, in a tone which warned
+Paul that this was a forbidden subject. “But you don't ask me who she
+is.”
+
+“I didn't know as you would be willing to tell.”
+
+“I shan't tell any one but you. It's Miss Hawkins,--firm of Hawkins &
+Brewer. That is, her father belongs to the firm, not she. And Paul,”
+ here he clutched our hero's arm convulsively, “I've made a declaration
+of my love, and--and----”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“She has answered my letter.”
+
+“Has she?” asked Paul with some curiosity, “What did she say?”
+
+“She has written me to be under her window this evening.”
+
+“Why under her window? why didn't she write you to call?”
+
+“Probably she will, but it's more romantic to say, 'be under my
+window.'”
+
+“Well, perhaps it is; only you know I don't know much about such
+things.”
+
+“Of course not, Paul,” said Mr. Benton; “you're only a boy, you know.”
+
+“Are you going to be under her window, Nich,--I mean Mr. Benton?”
+
+“Of course. Do you think I would miss the appointment? No earthly power
+could prevent my doing it.”
+
+“Then I had better leave you,” said Paul, making a movement to go.
+
+“No, I want you to accompany me as far as the door. I feel--a little
+agitated. I suppose everybody does when they are in love,” added Mr.
+Benton, complacently.
+
+“Well,” said Paul, “I will see you to the door, but I can't stay, for
+they will wonder at home what has become of me.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+“Are we anywhere near the house?”
+
+“Yes, it's only in the next street,” said Mr. Benton, “O, Paul, how my
+heart beats! You can't imagine how I feel!”
+
+Mr. Benton gasped for breath, and looked as if he had swallowed a fish
+bone, which he had some difficulty in getting down.
+
+“You'll know how to understand my feelings sometime, Paul,” said Mr.
+Benton; “when your time comes, I will remember your service of to-night,
+and I will stand by you.”
+
+Paul inwardly hoped that he should never fall in love, if it was likely
+to affect him in the same way as his companion, but he thought it best
+not to say so.
+
+By this time they had come in sight of a three-story brick house, with
+Benjamin Hawkins on the door-plate.
+
+“That's the house,” said Mr. Benton, in an agitated whisper.
+
+“Is it?”
+
+“Yes, and that window on the left-hand side is the window of her
+chamber.”
+
+“How do you know?”
+
+“She told me in the letter.”
+
+“And where are you to stand?”
+
+“Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time.”
+
+At that moment the city clock struck nine.
+
+Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position
+beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping
+voice, as preconcerted between them--
+
+     “Ever of thee,
+     I'm fo-o-ondly dreaming.”
+
+The song was destined never to be finished.
+
+From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He
+could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself.
+She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with
+well-directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.
+
+The falling column struck upon his beaver, thence spreading on all
+sides. His carefully starched collar became instantly as limp as a rag,
+while his coat suffered severely from the shower.
+
+His tuneful accents died away in dismay.
+
+“Ow!” he exclaimed, jumping at least a yard, and involuntarily shaking
+himself like a dog, “who did that?”
+
+There was no answer save a low, musical laugh from the window above,
+which was involuntarily echoed by Paul.
+
+“What do you mean by laughing at me?” demanded Mr. Benton, smarting with
+mortification, as he strode across the street, trying to dry his hat
+with the help of his handkerchief, “Is this what you call friendship?”
+
+“Excuse me,” gasped Paul, “but I really couldn't help it.”
+
+“I don't see anything to laugh at,” continued Mr. Benton, in a resentful
+tone; “because I have been subjected to unmanly persecution, you must
+laugh at me, instead of extending to me the sympathy of a friend.”
+
+“I suppose you won't think of her any more,” said Paul, recovering
+himself.
+
+“Think of her!” exclaimed Mr. Benton, “would you have me tear her from
+my heart, because her mercenary parent chooses to frown upon our love,
+and follow me with base persecution.”
+
+“Her parent!”
+
+“Yes, it was he who threw the water upon me. But it shall not avail,”
+ the young man continued, folding his arms, and speaking in a tone of
+resolution, “bolts and bars shall not keep two loving hearts asunder.”
+
+“But it wasn't her father,” urged Paul, perceiving that Mr. Benton was
+under a mistake.
+
+“Who was it, then?”
+
+“It was the young lady herself.”
+
+“Who threw the water upon me? It is a base slander.”
+
+“But I saw her.”
+
+“Saw who?”
+
+“A tall young lady with black hair.”
+
+“And was it she who threw the water?” asked Mr. Benton, aghast at this
+unexpected revelation.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then she did it at the command of her proud parent.”
+
+Paul did not dispute this, since it seemed to comfort Mr. Benton. It is
+doubtful, however, whether the young man believed it himself, since he
+straightway fell into a fit of gloomy abstraction, and made no response
+when Paul bade him “good-night.”
+
+
+
+
+
+XXIII.
+
+PAUL LOSES HIS SITUATION AND GAINS A FRIEND.
+
+
+Paul had a presentiment that he should not long remain in the employ
+of Smith & Thompson; it was not many weeks before this presentiment was
+verified.
+
+After having received such instruction as was necessary, the calico
+department was left in Paul's charge. One day a customer in turning over
+the patterns shown her took up a piece which Paul knew from complaints
+made by purchasers would not wash.
+
+“This is pretty,” said she, “it is just what I have been looking for.
+You may cut me off twelve yards.”
+
+“Yes, ma'am.”
+
+“Wait a minute, though,” interposed the lady, “will it wash?”
+
+“I don't think it will,” said Paul, frankly, “there have been some
+complaints made about that.”
+
+“Then I shall not want it. Let me see what else you have got.”
+
+The customer finally departed, having found nothing to suit her.
+
+No sooner had she left the store than Mr. Smith called Paul.
+
+“Well, did you sell that lady anything?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“And why not?” demanded Smith, harshly.
+
+“Because she did not like any of the pieces.”
+
+“Wouldn't she have ordered a dress pattern if you had not told her the
+calico would not wash?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” said Paul, preparing for a storm.
+
+“Then why did you tell her?” demanded his employer, angrily.
+
+“Because she asked me.”
+
+“Couldn't you have told her that it would wash?”
+
+“That would not have been the truth,” said Paul, sturdily.
+
+“You're a mighty conscientious young man,” sneered Smith, “You're
+altogether too pious to succeed in business. I discharge you from my
+employment.”
+
+“Very well, sir,” said Paul, his heart sinking, but keeping up a brave
+exterior, “then I have only to bid you good-morning.”
+
+“Good-morning, sir,” said his employer with mock deference, “I advise
+you to study for the ministry, and no longer waste your talents in
+selling calico.”
+
+Paul made no reply, but putting on his cap walked out of the store. It
+was the middle of the week, and Mr. Smith was, of course, owing him a
+small sum for his services; but Paul was too proud to ask for his money,
+which that gentleman did not see fit to volunteer.
+
+“I am sure I have done right,” thought Paul. “I had no right to
+misrepresent the goods to that lady. I wonder what Uncle Hugh will say.”
+
+“You did perfectly right,” said the sexton, after Paul had related the
+circumstances of his dismissal. “I wouldn't have had you act differently
+for twenty situations. I have no doubt you will get a better position
+elsewhere.”
+
+“I hope so,” said Paul. “Now that I have lost the situation, Uncle Hugh,
+I don't mind saying that I never liked it.”
+
+Now commenced a search for another place. Day after day Paul went out,
+and day after day he returned with the same want of success.
+
+“Never mind, Paul,” said the sexton encouragingly. “When you do succeed,
+perhaps you'll get something worth waiting for.”
+
+One morning Paul went out feeling that something was going to
+happen,--he didn't exactly know what,--but he felt somehow that there
+was to be a change in his luck. He went out, therefore, with more
+hopefulness than usual; yet, when four o'clock came, and nothing had
+occurred except failure and disappointment, which unhappily were not
+at all out of the ordinary course, Paul began to think that he was very
+foolish to have expected anything.
+
+He was walking listlessly along a narrow street, when, on a sudden, he
+heard an exclamation of terror, of which, on turning round, he easily
+discovered the cause.
+
+Two spirited horses, attached to an elegant carriage, had been terrified
+in some way, and were now running at the top of their speed.
+
+There was no coachman on the box; he had dismounted in order to ring
+at some door, when the horses started. He was now doing his best to
+overtake the horses, but in a race between man and horse, it is easy to
+predict which will have the advantage.
+
+There seemed to be but one person in the carriage. It was a lady,--whose
+face, pale with terror, could be seen from the carriage window. Her
+loud cries of alarm no doubt terrified the horses still more, and, by
+accelerating their speed, tended to make matters worse.
+
+Paul was roused from a train of despondent reflections by seeing the
+horses coming up the street. He instantly comprehended the whole danger
+of the lady's situation.
+
+Most boys would have thought of nothing but getting out of the way, and
+leaving the carriage and its inmate to their fate. What, indeed, could a
+boy do against a pair of powerful horses, almost beside themselves with
+fright?
+
+But our hero, as we have already had occasion to see, was brave and
+self-possessed, and felt an instant desire to rescue the lady, whose
+glance of helpless terror, as she leaned her head from the window, he
+could see. Naturally quickwitted, it flashed upon him that the only way
+to relieve a horse from one terror, was to bring another to bear upon
+him.
+
+With scarcely a moment's premeditation, he rushed out into the middle of
+the street, full in the path of the furious horses, and with his cheeks
+pale, for he knew his danger, but with determined air, he waved his arms
+aloft, and cried “Whoa!” at the top of his voice.
+
+The horses saw the sudden movement. They saw the boy standing directly
+in front of them. They heard the word of command to which they had been
+used, and by a sudden impulse, relieved from the blind terror which had
+urged them on, they stopped suddenly, and stood still in the middle of
+the street, still showing in their quivering limbs the agitation through
+which they had passed.
+
+Just then the coachman, panting with his hurried running, came up and
+seized them by the head.
+
+“Youngster,” said he, “you're a brave fellow. You've done us a good
+service to-day. You're a pretty cool hand, you are. I don't know what
+these foolish horses would have done with the carriage if it had not
+been for you.”
+
+“Let me get out,” exclaimed the lady, not yet recovered from her fright.
+
+“I will open the door,” said Paul, observing that the coachman was fully
+occupied in soothing the horses.
+
+He sprang forward, and opening the door of the carriage assisted the
+lady to descend.
+
+She breathed quickly.
+
+“I have been very much frightened,” she said; “and I believe I have been
+in very great danger. Are you the brave boy who stopped the horses?”
+
+Paul modestly answered in the affirmative.
+
+“And how did you do it? I was so terrified that I was hardly conscious
+of what was passing, till the horses stopped.”
+
+Paul modestly related his agency in the matter.
+
+The lady gazed at his flushed face admiringly.
+
+“How could you have so much courage?” she asked. “You might have been
+trampled to death under the hoofs of the horses.”
+
+“I didn't think of that. I only thought of stopping the horses.”
+
+“You are a brave boy. I shudder when I think of your danger and mine. I
+shall not dare to get into the carriage again this afternoon.”
+
+“Allow me to accompany you home?” said Paul, politely.
+
+“Thank you; I will trouble you to go with me as far as Broadway, and
+then I can get into an omnibus.”
+
+She turned and addressed some words to the coachman, directing him to
+drive home as soon as the horses were quieted, adding that she would
+trust herself to the escort of the young hero, who had rescued her from
+the late peril.
+
+“You're a lucky boy,” thought John, the coachman. “My mistress is one
+that never does anything by halves. It won't be for nothing that you
+have rescued her this afternoon.”
+
+As they walked along, the lady, by delicate questioning, succeeded in
+drawing from our hero his hopes and wishes for the future. Paul, who
+was of a frank and open nature, found it very natural to tell her all he
+felt and wished.
+
+“He seems a remarkably fine boy,” thought the lady to herself. “I should
+like to do something for him.”
+
+They emerged into Broadway.
+
+“I will detain you a little longer,” said the lady; “and perhaps trouble
+you with a parcel.”
+
+“I shall be very glad to take it,” said Paul politely.
+
+Appleton's bookstore was close at hand. Into this the lady went,
+followed by her young companion.
+
+A clerk advanced, and inquired her wishes.
+
+“Will you show me some writing-desks?”
+
+“I am going to purchase a writing-desk for a young friend of mine,” she
+explained to Paul; “as he is a boy, like yourself, perhaps you can guide
+me in the selection.”
+
+“Certainly,” said Paul, unsuspiciously.
+
+Several desks were shown. Paul expressed himself admiringly of one made
+of rosewood inlaid with pearl.
+
+“I think I will take it,” said the lady.
+
+The price was paid, and the desk was wrapped up.
+
+“Now,” said Mrs. Danforth, for this proved to be her name, “I will
+trouble you, Paul, to take the desk for me, and accompany me in the
+omnibus, that is, if you have no other occupation for your time.”
+
+“I am quite at leisure,” said Paul. “I shall be most happy to do so.”
+
+Paul left the lady at the door of her residence in Fifth Avenue, and
+promised to call on his new friend the next day.
+
+He went home feeling that, though he had met with no success in
+obtaining a place, he had been very fortunate in rendering so important
+a service to a lady whose friendship might be of essential service to
+him.
+
+
+
+
+XXIV.
+
+PAUL CALLS ON MRS. DANFORTH.
+
+
+“Mrs. Edward Danforth,” repeated the sexton, on hearing the story of
+Paul's exploit.
+
+“Why, she attends our church.”
+
+“Do you know Mr. Danforth?” asked Paul, with interest.
+
+“Only by sight. I know him by reputation, however.”
+
+“I suppose he is very rich.”
+
+“Yes, I should judge so. At any rate, he is doing an extensive
+business.”
+
+“What is his business?”
+
+“He is a merchant.”
+
+“A merchant,” thought Paul; “that is just what I should like to be, but
+I don't see much prospect of it.”
+
+“How do you like Mrs. Danforth?” inquired the sexton.
+
+“Very much,” said Paul, warmly. “She was very kind, and made me feel
+quite at home in her company.”
+
+“I hope she may be disposed to assist you. She can easily do so, in her
+position.”
+
+The next day Paul did not as usual go out in search of a situation.
+His mind was occupied with thoughts of his coming interview with Mrs.
+Danforth, and he thought he would defer his business plans till the
+succeeding day.
+
+At an early hour in the evening, he paused before an imposing residence
+on Fifth Avenue, which he had seen but not entered the day previous.
+
+He mounted the steps and pulled the bell.
+
+A smart-looking man-servant answered his ring.
+
+“Is Mrs. Danforth at home?” asked Paul.
+
+“Yes, I believe so.”
+
+“I have called to see her.”
+
+“Does she expect you?” asked the servant, looking surprised.
+
+“Yes; I come at her appointment,” said Paul.
+
+“Then I suppose it's all right,” said the man. “Will you come in?” he
+asked, a little doubtfully.
+
+Paul followed him into the house, and was shown into the drawing-room,
+the magnificence of which somewhat dazzled his eyes; accustomed only to
+the plain sitting-room of Mr. Cameron.
+
+The servant reappeared after a brief absence, and with rather more
+politeness than he had before shown, invited Paul to follow him to a
+private sitting-room upstairs, where he would see Mrs. Danforth.
+
+Looking at Paul's plain, though neat clothes, the servant was a little
+puzzled to understand what had obtained for Paul the honor of being on
+visiting terms with Mrs. Danforth.
+
+“Good evening, Paul,” said Mrs. Danforth, rising from her seat and
+welcoming our hero with extended hand. “So you did not forget your
+appointment.”
+
+“There was no fear of that,” said Paul, with his usual frankness. “I
+have been looking forward to coming all day.”
+
+“Have you, indeed?” said the lady with a pleasant smile.
+
+“Then I must endeavor to make your visit agreeable to you. Do you
+recognize this desk?”
+
+Upon a table close by, was the desk which had been purchased the day
+previous, at Appleton's.
+
+“Yes,” said Paul, “it is the one you bought yesterday. I think it is
+very handsome.”
+
+“I am glad you think so. I think I told you that I intended it for a
+present. I have had the new owner's name engraved upon it.”
+
+Paul read the name upon the plate provided for the purpose. His face
+flushed with surprise and pleasure. That name was his own.
+
+“Do you really mean it for me,” he asked.
+
+“If you will accept it,” said Mrs. Danforth, smiling.
+
+“I shall value it very much,” said Paul, gratefully. “And I feel very
+much indebted to your kindness.”
+
+“We won't talk of indebtedness, for you remember mine is much the
+greater. If you will open the desk you will find that it is furnished
+with what will, I hope, prove of use to you.”
+
+The desk being opened, proved to contain a liberal supply of stationery,
+sealing wax, postage stamps, and pens.
+
+Paul was delighted with his new present, and Mrs. Danforth seemed to
+enjoy the evident gratification with which it inspired him.
+
+“Now,” said she, “tell me a little about yourself. Have you always lived
+in New York?”
+
+“Only about three years,” said Paul.
+
+“And where did you live before?”
+
+“At Wrenville, in Connecticut.”
+
+“I have heard of the place. A small country town, is it not?”
+
+Paul answered in the affirmative.
+
+“How did you happen to leave Wrenville, and come to New York?”
+
+Paul blushed, and hesitated a moment.
+
+“I ran away,” he said at length, determined to keep nothing back.
+
+“Ran away! Not from home, I hope.”
+
+“I had no home,” said Paul, soberly. “I should never have left there, if
+my father had not died. Then I was thrown upon the world. I was sent
+to the Poorhouse. I did not want to go, for I thought I could support
+myself.”
+
+“That is a very honorable feeling. I suppose you did not fare very well
+at the Poorhouse.”
+
+In reply, Paul detailed some of the grievances to which he had been
+subjected. Mrs. Danforth listened with sympathizing attention.
+
+“You were entirely justified in running away,” she said, as he
+concluded. “I can hardly imagine so great a lack of humanity as these
+people showed. You are now, I hope, pleasantly situated?”
+
+“Yes,” said Paul, “Mr. and Mrs. Cameron treat me with as great kindness
+as if I were their own child.”
+
+“Cameron! Is not that the name of the sexton of our church?” said Mrs.
+Danforth, meditatively.
+
+“It is with him that I have a pleasant home.”
+
+“Indeed, I am glad to hear it. You have been attending school, I
+suppose.”
+
+“Yes, it is not more than two months since I left off school.”
+
+“And now I suppose you are thinking of entering upon some business.”
+
+“Yes; I have been trying to obtain a place in some merchant's
+counting-room.”
+
+“You think, then, that you would like the career of a merchant?”
+
+“There is nothing that would suit me better.”
+
+“You have not succeeded in obtaining a place yet, I suppose?”
+
+“No. They are very difficult to get, and I have no influential friends
+to assist me.”
+
+“I have heard Mr. Danforth say that he experienced equal difficulty when
+he came to New York, a poor boy.”
+
+Paul looked surprised.
+
+“I see that you are surprised,” said Mrs. Danforth, smiling. “You think,
+perhaps, judging from what you see, that my husband was always rich. But
+he was the son of a poor farmer, and was obliged to make his own way in
+the world. By the blessing of God, he has been prospered in business and
+become rich. But he often speaks of his early discouragements and small
+beginnings. I am sorry he is not here this evening. By the way, he left
+word for you to call at his counting-room to-morrow, at eleven o'clock.
+I will give you his address.”
+
+She handed Paul a card containing the specified number, and soon
+after he withdrew, bearing with him his handsome gift, and a cordial
+invitation to repeat his call.
+
+He looked back at the elegant mansion which he had just left, and could
+not help feeling surprised that the owner of such a palace, should have
+started in life with no greater advantages than himself.
+
+
+
+
+XXV.
+
+AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
+
+
+Paul slept late the next morning. He did not hear the breakfast-bell,
+and when the sexton came up to awaken him he rubbed his eyes with
+such an expression of bewilderment that Mr. Cameron could not forbear
+laughing.
+
+“You must have had queer dreams, Paul,” said he.
+
+“Yes, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, laughing, “I believe I have.”
+
+“When you have collected your wits, which at present seem absent on
+a wool-gathering expedition, perhaps you will tell what you have been
+dreaming about.”
+
+“So I will,” said Paul, “and perhaps you can interpret it for me. I
+dreamed that I was back again at Mr. Mudge's, and that he sent me out
+into the field to dig potatoes. I worked away at the first hill, but
+found no potatoes. In place of them were several gold pieces. I picked
+them up in great surprise, and instead of putting them into the basket,
+concluded to put them in my pocket. But as all the hills turned out
+in the same way I got my pockets full, and had to put the rest in the
+basket. I was just wondering what they would do for potatoes, when all
+at once a great dog came up and seized me by the arm----”
+
+“And you opened your eyes and saw me,” said the sexton, finishing out
+his narrative.
+
+“Upon my word, that's very complimentary to me. However, some of our
+potatoes have escaped transformation into gold pieces, but I am afraid
+you will find them rather cold if you don't get down to breakfast pretty
+quick.”
+
+“All right, Uncle Hugh. I'll be down in a jiffy.”
+
+About half-past ten Paul started on his way to Mr. Danforth's
+counting-room. It was located on Wall Street, as he learned from the
+card which had been given him by Mrs. Danforth. He felt a little awkward
+in making this call. It seemed as if he were going to receive thanks for
+the service which he had rendered, and he felt that he had already been
+abundantly repaid. However, he was bound in courtesy to call, since he
+did so at the request of Mrs. Danforth.
+
+It was a large stone building, divided up into offices, to which Paul
+had been directed. Mr. Danforth's office he found after a little search,
+upon the second floor.
+
+He opened the door with a little embarrassment, and looked about him.
+
+In one corner was a small room, used as a more private office, the door
+of which was closed. In the larger room the only one whom he saw, was
+a boy, apparently about his own age, who was standing at a desk and
+writing.
+
+This boy looked around as Paul entered, and he at once recognized in him
+an old acquaintance.
+
+“George Dawkins!” he exclaimed in surprise.
+
+The latter answered in a careless indifferent tone, not exhibiting any
+very decided pleasure at meeting his old schoolmate.
+
+“Oh, it's you, Prescott, is it?”
+
+“Yes,” said Paul, “I haven't met you since you left our school.”
+
+“No, I believe we have not met,” said Dawkins, in the same tone as
+before.
+
+“How long have you been in this office?” asked our hero.
+
+“I really can't say,” said Dawkins, not looking up.
+
+“You can't say!”
+
+“No, I'm rather forgetful.”
+
+Paul could not help feeling chilled at the indifferent manner in which
+his advances were met. He had been really glad to see Dawkins, and had
+addressed him with cordiality. He could not conceal from himself that
+Dawkins did not seem inclined to respond to it.
+
+“Still,” thought Paul, extenuatingly, “perhaps that is his way.”
+
+As the conversation began to flag, Paul was reminded of his errand by
+Dawkins saying, in a tone which was half a sneer, “Have you any business
+with Mr. Danforth this morning, or did you merely come in out of
+curiosity?”
+
+“I have called to see Mr. Danforth,” said Paul.
+
+“He is usually pretty busy in the morning,” said Dawkins.
+
+“He directed me to call in the morning,” said Paul, sturdily.
+
+“Oh, indeed!” said Dawkins, a little surprised. “I wonder,” he thought,
+“what business this fellow can have with Mr. Danforth. Can he be fishing
+for a place?”
+
+“Mr. Danforth is engaged with a visitor just now,” he at length
+condescended to say; “if your time is not too valuable to wait, you can
+see him by-and-by.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Paul, rather nettled, “you are very polite.”
+
+To this Dawkins made no reply, but resumed his pen, and for the next ten
+minutes seemed entirely oblivious of Paul's presence.
+
+Our hero took up the morning paper, and began, as he had so often done
+before, to look over the list of wants, thinking it possible he might
+find some opening for himself.
+
+About ten minutes later the door of the inner office opened, and two
+gentlemen came out. One was a gentleman of fifty, a business friend of
+Mr. Danforth's, the other was Mr. Danforth himself.
+
+The former remarked, on seeing Paul, “Is this your son, Danforth?”
+
+“No,” said the merchant, nodding in a friendly manner to Paul.
+
+“That's a good joke,” thought Dawkins, chuckling to himself; “Mr.
+Danforth must be immensely flattered at having a sexton's adopted son
+taken for his.”
+
+After a final word or two on business matters, and arrangements for
+another interview, the visitor departed, and Mr. Danforth, now at
+leisure, turned to Paul.
+
+“Now my lad,” he said kindly, “if you will follow me, we shall have a
+chance to talk a little.”
+
+Paul followed the merchant into his office, the door of which was
+closed, much to the regret of Dawkins, who had a tolerably large share
+of curiosity, and was very anxious to find out what business Paul could
+possibly have with his employer.
+
+“Take that seat, if you please;” said Mr. Danforth, motioning Paul to
+an arm-chair, and sitting down himself, “Mrs. Danforth told me from how
+great a peril you rescued her. You are a brave boy.”
+
+“I don't know,” said Paul, modestly, “I didn't think of the danger. If I
+had, perhaps I should have hesitated.”
+
+“If you had not been brave you would have thought of your own risk. My
+wife and myself are under very great obligations to you.”
+
+“That more than repays me for all I did,” said Paul, in a tone of
+mingled modesty and manliness.
+
+“I like the boy,” thought Mr. Danforth; “he is certainly quite superior
+to the common run.”
+
+“Have you left school?” he inquired, after a pause.
+
+“Yes, sir. Last term closed my school life.”
+
+“Then you have never been in a situation.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Indeed! Before you left school?”
+
+“No, sir, since.”
+
+“You did not like it, then?”
+
+“No, sir,” said Paul.
+
+“And was that the reason of your leaving?”
+
+“No, sir; my employer was not satisfied with me,” said Paul, frankly.
+
+“Indeed! I am surprised to hear this! If you have no objection, will you
+tell me the circumstances?”
+
+Paul related in a straightforward manner the difficulty he had had with
+Smith & Thompson.
+
+“I hope you don't think I did wrong,” he concluded.
+
+“By no means,” said Mr. Danforth, warmly. “Your conduct was entirely
+creditable. As for Smith, I know of him. He is a sharper. It would have
+done you no good to remain in his employ.”
+
+Paul was pleased with this commendation. He had thought it possible that
+his dismissal from his former situation might operate against him with
+the merchant.
+
+“What are your present plans and wishes?” asked Mr. Danforth, after a
+slight pause.
+
+“I should like to enter a merchant's counting-room,” said Paul, “but as
+such places are hard to get, I think I shall try to get into a store.”
+
+Mr. Danforth reflected a moment, then placing a piece of paper before
+our hero, he said, “Will you write your name and address on this piece
+of paper, that I may know where to find you, in case I hear of a place?”
+
+Paul did as directed. He had an excellent handwriting, a point on which
+the merchant set a high value.
+
+The latter surveyed the address with approval, and said, “I am glad you
+write so excellent a hand. It will be of material assistance to you in
+securing a place in a counting-room. Indeed, it has been already, for I
+have just thought of a place which I can obtain for you.”
+
+“Can you, sir?” said Paul, eagerly.
+
+“Where is it?”
+
+“In my own counting-room,” said Mr. Danforth, smiling.
+
+“I am very much obliged to you,” said Paul, hardly believing his ears.
+
+“I was prepared to give it to you when you came in, in case I found you
+qualified. The superiority of your handwriting decides me. When can you
+come?”
+
+“To-morrow, if you like, sir.”
+
+“I like your promptness. As it is the middle of the week, however, you
+may take a vacation till Monday. Your salary will begin to-morrow.”
+
+“Thank you, sir.”
+
+“I will give you five dollars per week at first, and more as your
+services become more valuable. Will that be satisfactory?”
+
+“I shall feel rich, sir. Mr. Smith only gave me a dollar and a quarter.”
+
+“I hope you will find other differences between me and Mr. Smith,” said
+the merchant, smiling.
+
+These preliminaries over, Mr. Danforth opened the door, and glancing
+at Dawkins, said, “Dawkins, I wish you to become acquainted with your
+fellow clerk, Paul Prescott.”
+
+Dawkins looked surprised, and anything but gratified as he responded
+stiffly, “I have the honor of being already acquainted with Mr.
+Prescott.”
+
+“He is a little jealous of an interloper,” thought Mr. Danforth,
+noticing the repellent manner of young Dawkins. “Never mind, they will
+get acquainted after awhile.”
+
+When George Dawkins went home to dinner, his father observed the
+dissatisfied look he wore.
+
+“Is anything amiss, my son?” he inquired.
+
+“I should think there was,” grumbled his son.
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“We've got a new clerk, and who do you think it is?”
+
+“Who is it?”
+
+“The adopted son of old Cameron, the sexton.”
+
+“Indeed,” said Mrs. Dawkins. “I really wonder at Mr. Danforth's bad
+taste. There are many boys of genteel family, who would have been glad
+of the chance. This boy is a low fellow of course.”
+
+“Certainly,” said her son, though he was quite aware that this was not
+true.
+
+“What could have brought the boy to Danforth's notice?” asked Dawkins,
+senior.
+
+“I don't know, I'm sure. The boy has managed to get round him in some
+way. He is very artful.”
+
+“I really think, husband, that you ought to remonstrate with Mr.
+Danforth about taking such a low fellow into his counting-room with our
+George.”
+
+“Pooh!” said Mr. Dawkins, who was a shade more sensible than his wife,
+“he'd think me a meddler.”
+
+“At any rate, George,” pursued his mother, “there's one thing that is
+due to your family and bringing up,--not to associate with this low
+fellow any more than business requires.”
+
+“I certainly shall not,” said George, promptly.
+
+He was the worthy son of such a mother.
+
+
+
+
+XXVI.
+
+A VULGAR RELATION.
+
+
+At the end of the first week, Paul received five dollars, the sum which
+the merchant had agreed to pay him for his services. With this he felt
+very rich. He hurried home, and displayed to the sexton the crisp bank
+note which had been given him.
+
+“You will soon be a rich man, Paul,” said Mr. Cameron, with a benevolent
+smile, returning the bill.
+
+“But I want you to keep it, Uncle Hugh.”
+
+“Shall I put it in the Savings Bank, for you, Paul?”
+
+“I didn't mean that. You have been supporting me--giving me board and
+clothes--for three years. It is only right that you should have what I
+earn.”
+
+“The offer is an honorable one on your part, Paul,” said the sexton;
+“but I don't need it. If it will please you, I will take two dollars
+a week for your board, now, and out of the balance you may clothe
+yourself, and save what you can.”
+
+This arrangement seemed to be a fair one. Mr. Cameron deposited the five
+dollar note in his pocket-book, and passed one of three dollars to Paul.
+This sum our hero deposited the next Monday morning, in a savings bank.
+He estimated that he could clothe himself comfortably for fifty dollars
+a year. This would leave him one hundred towards the payment of the debt
+due to Squire Conant.
+
+“By-and-by my salary will be raised,” thought Paul. “Then I can save
+more.”
+
+He looked forward with eager anticipation to the time when he should be
+able to redeem his father's name, and no one would be entitled to cast
+reproach upon his memory.
+
+He endeavored to perform his duties faithfully in the office, and to
+learn as rapidly as he could the business upon which he had entered.
+He soon found that he must depend mainly upon himself. George Dawkins
+seemed disposed to afford him no assistance, but repelled scornfully
+the advances which Paul made towards cordiality. He was by no means as
+faithful as Paul, but whenever Mr. Danforth was absent from the office,
+spent his time in lounging at the window, or reading a cheap novel, with
+one of which he was usually provided.
+
+When Paul became satisfied that Dawkins was not inclined to accept his
+overtures, he ceased to court his acquaintance, and confined himself to
+his own desk.
+
+One day as he was returning from dinner, he was startled by an
+unceremonious slap upon the shoulder.
+
+Looking up in some surprise, he found that this greeting had come from a
+man just behind him, whose good-humored face and small, twinkling eyes,
+he at once recognized.
+
+“How do you do, Mr. Stubbs?” inquired Paul, his face lighting up with
+pleasure.
+
+“I'm so's to be round. How be you?” returned the worthy pedler, seizing
+our hero's hand and shaking it heartily.
+
+Mr. Stubbs was attired in all the glory of a blue coat with brass
+buttons and swallow tails.
+
+“When did you come to New York?” asked Paul.
+
+“Just arrived; that is, I got in this mornin'. But I say, how you've
+grown. I shouldn't hardly have known you.”
+
+“Shouldn't you, though?” said Paul, gratified as most boys are, on being
+told that he had grown. “Have you come to the city on business?”
+
+“Well, kinder on business, and kinder not. I thought I'd like to have a
+vacation. Besides, the old lady wanted a silk dress, and she was sot on
+havin' it bought in York. So I come to the city.”
+
+“Where are you stopping, Mr. Stubbs?”
+
+“Over to the Astor House. Pretty big hotel, ain't it?”
+
+“Yes, I see you are traveling in style.”
+
+“Yes, I suppose they charge considerable, but I guess I can stand it. I
+hain't been drivin' a tin-cart for nothin' the last ten years.
+
+“How have you been enjoying yourself since you arrived?”
+
+“Oh, pretty well. I've been round seeing the lions, and came pretty near
+seeing the elephant at one of them Peter Funk places.”
+
+“You did! Tell me about it.”
+
+“You see I was walkin' along when a fellow came out of one of them
+places, and asked me if I wouldn't go in. I didn't want to refuse such
+a polite invitation, and besides I had a curiosity to see what there was
+to be seen, so I went in. They put up a silver watch, I could see that
+it was a good one, and so I bid on it. It ran up to eight dollars and
+a quarter. I thought it was a pity it should go off so cheap, so I bid
+eight and a half.”
+
+“'Eight and a half and sold,' said the man; 'shall I put it up for you?”
+
+“'No, I thank you,' said I, 'I'll take it as it is.'
+
+“'But I'll put it up in a nice box for you,' said he.
+
+“I told him I didn't care for the box. He seemed very unwilling to let
+it go, but I took it out of his hand and he couldn't help himself. Well,
+when they made out the bill, what do you suppose they charged?”
+
+“I don't know.”
+
+“Why, eighteen and a half.”
+
+“'Look here,' said I, 'I guess here's something of a mistake. You've got
+ten dollars too much.'
+
+“'I think you must be mistaken,' said he, smiling a foxy smile.
+
+“'You know I am not,' said I, rather cross.
+
+“We can't let that watch go for any thing shorter,' said he, coolly.
+
+“Just then a man that was present stepped up and said, 'the man is
+right; don't attempt to impose upon him.'
+
+“With that he calmed right down. It seems it was a policeman who was
+sent to watch them, that spoke. So I paid the money, but as I went out
+I heard the auctioneer say that the sale was closed for the day. I
+afterwards learned that if I had allowed them to put the watch in a box,
+they would have exchanged it for another that was only plated.”
+
+“Do you know anybody in the city?” asked Paul.
+
+“I've got some relations, but I don't know where they live.”
+
+“What is the name?” asked Paul, “we can look into the directory.”
+
+“The name is Dawkins,” answered the pedler.
+
+“Dawkins!” repeated Paul, in surprise.
+
+“Yes, do you happen to know anybody of the name?”
+
+“Yes, but I believe it is a rich family.”
+
+“Well, so are my relations,” said Jehoshaphat. “You didn't think
+Jehoshaphat Stubbs had any rich relations, did you? These, as I've heard
+tell, hold their heads as high as anybody.”
+
+“Perhaps I may be mistaken,” said Paul.
+
+“What is the name--the Christian name, I mean--of your relation?”
+
+“George.”
+
+“It must be he, then. There is a boy of about my own age of that name.
+He works in the same office.”
+
+“You don't say so! Well, that is curious, I declare. To think that I
+should have happened to hit upon you so by accident too.”
+
+“How are you related to them?” inquired Paul.
+
+“Why, you see, I'm own cousin to Mr. Dawkins. His father and my mother
+were brother and sister.”
+
+“What was his father's business?” asked Paul.
+
+“I don't know what his regular business was, but he was a sexton in some
+church.”
+
+This tallied with the account Paul had received from Mr. Cameron, and
+he could no longer doubt that, strange as it seemed, the wealthy Mr.
+Dawkins was own cousin to the pedler.
+
+“Didn't you say the boy was in the same office with you, Paul?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, I've a great mind to go and see him, and find out where his
+father lives. Perhaps I may get an invite to his house.”
+
+“How shocked Dawkins will be!” thought Paul, not, it must be confessed,
+without a feeling of amusement. He felt no compunction in being the
+instrument of mortifying the false pride of his fellow clerk, and
+he accordingly signified to Mr. Stubbs that he was on his way to the
+counting-room.
+
+“Are you, though? Well, I guess I'll go along with you. Is it far off?”
+
+“Only in the next street.”
+
+The pedler, it must be acknowledged, had a thoroughly countrified
+appearance. He was a genuine specimen of the Yankee,--a long, gaunt
+figure, somewhat stooping, and with a long aquiline nose. His dress has
+already been described.
+
+As Dawkins beheld him entering with Paul, he turned up his nose in
+disgust at what he considered Paul's friend.
+
+What was his consternation when the visitor, approaching him with
+a benignant smile, extended his brown hand, and said, “How d'ye do,
+George? How are ye all to hum?”
+
+Dawkins drew back haughtily.
+
+“What do you mean?” he said, pale with passion.
+
+“Mr. Dawkins,” said Paul, with suppressed merriment, “allow me to
+introduce your cousin, Mr. Stubbs.”
+
+“Jehoshaphat Stubbs,” explained that individual. “Didn't your father
+never mention my name to you?”
+
+“Sir,” said Dawkins, darting a furious glance at Paul, “you are entirely
+mistaken if you suppose that any relationship exists between me and
+that--person.”
+
+“No, it's you that are mistaken,” said Mr. Stubbs, persevering, “My
+mother was Roxana Jane Dawkins. She was own sister to your grandfather.
+That makes me and your father cousins Don't you see?”
+
+“I see that you are intending to insult me,” said Dawkins, the more
+furiously, because he began to fear there might be some truth in the
+man's claims. “Mr. Prescott, I leave you to entertain your company
+yourself.”
+
+And he threw on his hat and dashed out of the counting-room.
+
+“Well,” said the pedler, drawing a long breath, “that's cool,--denyin'
+his own flesh and blood. Rather stuck up, ain't he?”
+
+“He is, somewhat,” said Paul; “if I were you, I shouldn't be disposed to
+own him as a relation.”
+
+“Darned ef I will!” said Jehoshaphat sturdily; “I have some pride, ef I
+am a pedler. Guess I'm as good as he, any day.”
+
+
+
+
+XXVII.
+
+MR. MUDGE'S FRIGHT.
+
+
+Squire Newcome sat in a high-backed chair before the fire with his heels
+on the fender. He was engaged in solemnly perusing the leading editorial
+in the evening paper, when all at once the table at his side gave a
+sudden lurch, the lamp slid into his lap, setting the paper on fire,
+and, before the Squire realized his situation, the flames singed his
+whiskers, and made his face unpleasantly warm.
+
+“Cre-a-tion!” he exclaimed, jumping briskly to his feet.
+
+The lamp had gone out, so that the cause of the accident remained
+involved in mystery. The Squire had little trouble in conjecturing,
+however, that Ben was at the bottom of it.
+
+Opening the door hastily, he saw, by the light in the next room, that
+young gentleman rising from his knees in the immediate vicinity of the
+table.
+
+“Ben-ja-min,” said the Squire, sternly,
+
+“What have you been a-doing?”
+
+Ben looked sheepish, but said nothing.
+
+“I repeat, Benjamin, what have you been a-doing?”
+
+“I didn't mean to,” said Ben.
+
+“That does not answer my interrogatory. What have you been a-doing?”
+
+“I was chasing the cat,” said Ben, “and she got under the table. I
+went after her, and somehow it upset. Guess my head might have knocked
+against the legs.”
+
+“How old are you, Benjamin?”
+
+“Fifteen.”
+
+“A boy of fifteen is too old to play with cats. You may retire to your
+dormitory.”
+
+“It's only seven o'clock, father,” said Ben, in dismay.
+
+“Boys that play with cats are young enough to retire at seven,” remarked
+the Squire, sagaciously.
+
+There was nothing for Ben but to obey.
+
+Accordingly with reluctant steps he went up to his chamber and went
+to bed. His active mind, together with the early hour, prevented his
+sleeping. Instead, his fertile imagination was employed in devising
+some new scheme, in which, of course, fun was to be the object attained.
+While he was thinking, one scheme flashed upon him which he at once
+pronounced “bully.”
+
+“I wish I could do it to-night,” he sighed.
+
+“Why can't I?” he thought, after a moment's reflection.
+
+The more he thought of it, the more feasible it seemed, and at length he
+decided to attempt it.
+
+Rising from his bed he quickly dressed himself, and then carefully took
+the sheet, and folding it up in small compass put it under his arm.
+
+Next, opening the window, he stepped out upon the sloping roof of the
+ell part, and slid down to the end where he jumped off, the height not
+being more than four feet from the ground. By some accident, a tub of
+suds was standing under the eaves, and Ben, much to his disgust, jumped
+into it.
+
+“Whew!” exclaimed he, “I've jumped into that plaguy tub. What possessed
+Hannah to put it in a fellow's way?”
+
+At this moment the back door opened, and Hannah called out, in a shrill
+voice, “Who's there?” Ben hastily hid himself, and thought it best not
+to answer.
+
+“I guess 'twas the cat,” said Hannah, as she closed the door.
+
+“A two-legged cat,” thought Ben, to himself; “thunder, what sopping wet
+feet I've got. Well, it can't be helped.”
+
+With the sheet still under his arm, Ben climbed a fence and running
+across the fields reached the fork of the road. Here he concealed
+himself under a hedge, and waited silently till the opportunity for
+playing his practical joke arrived.
+
+I regret to say that Mr. Mudge, with whom we have already had
+considerable to do, was not a member of the temperance society.
+Latterly, influenced perhaps by Mrs. Mudge's tongue, which made his home
+far from a happy one, he had got into the habit of spending his
+evenings at the tavern in the village, where he occasionally indulged
+in potations that were not good for him. Generally, he kept within the
+bounds of moderation, but occasionally he exceeded these, as he had done
+on the present occasion.
+
+Some fifteen minutes after Ben had taken his station, he saw, in the
+moonlight, Mr. Mudge coming up the road, on his way home. Judging from
+his zigzag course, he was not quite himself.
+
+Ben waited till Mr. Mudge was close at hand, when all at once he started
+from his place of concealment completely enveloped in the sheet with
+which he was provided. He stood motionless before the astounded Mudge.
+
+“Who are you?” exclaimed Mudge, his knees knocking together in terror,
+clinging to an overhanging branch for support.
+
+There was no answer.
+
+“Who are you?” he again asked in affright.
+
+“Sally Baker,” returned Ben, in as sepulchral a voice as he could
+command.
+
+Sally Baker was an old pauper, who had recently died. The name occurred
+to Ben on the spur of the moment. It was with some difficulty that he
+succeeded in getting out the name, such was his amusement at Mr. Mudge's
+evident terror.
+
+“What do you want of me?” inquired Mudge, nervously.
+
+“You half starved me when I was alive,” returned Ben, in a hollow voice,
+“I must be revenged.”
+
+So saying he took one step forward, spreading out his arms. This was too
+much for Mr. Mudge. With a cry he started and ran towards home at the
+top of his speed, with Ben in pursuit.
+
+“I believe I shall die of laughing,” exclaimed Ben, pausing out of
+breath, and sitting down on a stone, “what a donkey he is, to be sure,
+to think there are such things as ghosts. I'd like to be by when he
+tells Mrs. Mudge.”
+
+After a moment's thought, Ben wrapped up the sheet, took it under his
+arm, and once more ran in pursuit of Mr. Mudge.
+
+Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge was sitting in the kitchen of the Poorhouse,
+mending stockings. She was not in the pleasantest humor, for one of the
+paupers had managed to break a plate at tea-table (if that can be called
+tea where no tea is provided), and trifles were sufficient to ruffle
+Mrs. Mudge's temper.
+
+“Where's Mudge, I wonder?” she said, sharply; “over to the tavern, I
+s'pose, as usual. There never was such a shiftless, good-for-nothing
+man. I'd better have stayed unmarried all the days of my life than have
+married him. If he don't get in by ten, I'll lock the door, and it shall
+stay locked. 'Twill serve him right to stay out doors all night.”
+
+Minutes slipped away, and the decisive hour approached.
+
+“I'll go to the door and look out,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “if he ain't
+anywhere in sight I'll fasten the door.”
+
+She laid down her work and went to the door.
+
+She had not quite reached it when it was flung open violently, and Mr.
+Mudge, with a wild, disordered look, rushed in, nearly overturning his
+wife, who gazed at him with mingled anger and astonishment.
+
+“What do you mean by this foolery, Mudge?” she demanded, sternly.
+
+“What do I mean?” repeated her husband, vaguely.
+
+“I needn't ask you,” said his wife, contemptuously. “I see how it is,
+well enough. You're drunk!”
+
+“Drunk!”
+
+“Yes, drunk; as drunk as a beast.”
+
+“Well, Mrs. Mudge,” hiccoughed her husband, in what he endeavored to
+make a dignified tone, “you'd be drunk too if you'd seen what I've
+seen.”
+
+“And what have you seen, I should like to know?” said Mrs. Mudge.
+
+Mudge rose with some difficulty, steadied himself on his feet, and
+approaching his wife, whispered in a tragic tone, “Mrs. Mudge, I've seen
+a sperrit.”
+
+“It's plain enough that you've seen spirit,” retorted his wife. “'Tisn't
+many nights that you don't, for that matter. You ought to be ashamed of
+yourself, Mudge.”
+
+“It isn't that,” said her husband, shaking his hand, “it's a sperrit,--a
+ghost, that I've seen.”
+
+“Indeed!” said Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically, “perhaps you can tell whose it
+is.”
+
+“It was the sperrit of Sally Baker,” said Mudge, solemnly.
+
+“What did she say?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, a little curiously.
+
+“She said that I--that we, half starved her, and then she started to run
+after me--and--oh, Lordy, there she is now!”
+
+Mudge jumped trembling to his feet. Following the direction of his
+outstretched finger, Mrs. Mudge caught a glimpse of a white figure
+just before the window. I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had just
+arrived upon the scene.
+
+Mrs. Mudge was at first stupefied by what she saw, but being a woman
+of courage she speedily recovered herself, and seizing the broom
+from behind the door, darted out in search of the “spirit.” But Ben,
+perceiving that he was discovered, had disappeared, and there was
+nothing to be seen.
+
+“Didn't I tell you so?” muttered Mudge, as his wife re-entered, baffled
+in her attempt, “you'll believe it's a sperrit, now.”
+
+“Go to bed, you fool!” retorted his wife.
+
+This was all that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Mudge on the subject. Mr.
+Mudge firmly believes, to this day, that the figure which appeared to
+him was the spirit of Sally Baker.
+
+
+
+
+XXVIII.
+
+HOW BEN GOT HOME.
+
+
+Delighted with the complete success of his practical joke, Ben took his
+way homeward with the sheet under his arm. By the time he reached his
+father's house it was ten o'clock. The question for Ben to consider now
+was, how to get in. If his father had not fastened the front door he
+might steal in, and slip up stairs on tiptoe without being heard.
+This would be the easiest way of overcoming the difficulty, and Ben,
+perceiving that the light was still burning in the sitting-room, had
+some hopes that he would be able to adopt it. But while he was only
+a couple of rods distant he saw the lamp taken up by his father, who
+appeared to be moving from the room.
+
+“He's going to lock the front door,” thought Ben, in disappointment; “if
+I had only got along five minutes sooner.”
+
+From his post outside he heard the key turn in the lock.
+
+The 'Squire little dreamed that the son whom he imagined fast asleep in
+his room was just outside the door he was locking.
+
+“I guess I'll go round to the back part of the house,” thought Ben,
+“perhaps I can get in the same way I came out.”
+
+Accordingly he went round and managed to clamber upon the roof, which
+was only four feet from the ground. But a brief trial served to convince
+our young adventurer that it is a good deal easier sliding down a roof
+than it is climbing up. The shingles being old were slippery, and though
+the ascent was not steep, Ben found the progress he made was very much
+like that of a man at the bottom of a well, who is reported as falling
+back two feet for every three that he ascended. What increased the
+difficulty of his attempt was that the soles of his shoes were well
+worn, and slippery as well as the shingles.
+
+“I never can get up this way,” Ben concluded, after several fruitless
+attempts; “I know what I'll do,” he decided, after a moment's
+perplexity; “I'll pull off my shoes and stockings, and then I guess I
+can get along better.”
+
+Ben accordingly got down from the roof, and pulled off his shoes and
+stockings. As he wanted to carry these with him, he was at first
+a little puzzled by this new difficulty. He finally tied the shoes
+together by the strings and hung them round his neck. He disposed of the
+stockings by stuffing one in each pocket.
+
+“Now,” thought Ben, “I guess I can get along better. I don't know what
+to do with the plaguy sheet, though.”
+
+But necessity is the mother of invention, and Ben found that he could
+throw the sheet over his shoulders, as a lady does with her shawl. Thus
+accoutered he recommenced the ascent with considerable confidence.
+
+He found that his bare feet clung to the roof more tenaciously than
+the shoes had done, and success was already within his grasp, when an
+unforeseen mishap frustrated his plans. He had accomplished about three
+quarters of the ascent when all at once the string which united the
+shoes which he had hung round his neck gave way, and both fell with a
+great thump on the roof. Ben made a clutch for them in which he lost his
+own hold, and made a hurried descent in their company, alighting with
+his bare feet on some flinty gravel stones, which he found by no means
+agreeable.
+
+“Ow!” ejaculated Ben, limping painfully, “them plaguy gravel stones
+hurt like thunder. I'll move 'em away the first thing to-morrow. If that
+confounded shoe-string hadn't broken I'd have been in bed by this time.”
+
+Meanwhile Hannah had been sitting over the kitchen fire enjoying a
+social chat with a “cousin” of hers from Ireland, a young man whom
+she had never seen or heard of three months before. In what way he had
+succeeded in convincing her of the relationship I have never been able
+to learn, but he had managed to place himself on familiar visiting terms
+with the inmate of 'Squire Newcome's kitchen.
+
+“It's only me cousin, sir,” Hannah explained to the 'Squire, when he
+had questioned her on the subject; “he's just from Ireland, sir, and it
+seems like home to see him.”
+
+On the present occasion Tim Flaherty had outstayed his usual time, and
+was still in the kitchen when Ben reached home. They did not at first
+hear him, but when he made his last abortive attempt, and the shoes came
+clattering down, they could not help hearing.
+
+“What's that?” asked Hannah, listening attentively.
+
+She went to the door to look out, her cousin following.
+
+There was nothing to be seen.
+
+“Perhaps you was dramin' Hannah,” said Tim, “more by token, it's time we
+was both doin' that same, so I'll bid you good-night.”
+
+“Come again soon, Tim,” said Hannah, preparing to close the door.
+
+A new plan of entrance flashed upon Ben.
+
+He quickly put on his shoes and stockings, unfolded the sheet and
+prepared to enact the part of a ghost once more,--this time for the
+special benefit of Hannah.
+
+After fully attiring himself he came to the back door which Hannah had
+already locked, and tapped three times.
+
+Hannah was engaged in raking out the kitchen fire.
+
+“Sure it's Tim come back,” thought she, as she went to the door.
+“Perhaps he's forgotten something.”
+
+She opened the door unsuspiciously, fully expecting to see her Irish
+cousin standing before her.
+
+What was her terror on beholding a white-robed figure, with extended
+arms.
+
+“Howly virgin, defend me!” she exclaimed, in paralyzing terror, which
+was increased by a guttural sound which proceeded from the throat of
+the ghost, who at the same time waved his arms aloft, and made a step
+towards Hannah.
+
+Hannah, with a wild howl dropped the lamp and fed towards the
+sitting-room, where 'Squire Newcome was still sitting.
+
+Ben sped upstairs at the top of his speed, dashed into his own chamber,
+spread the sheet on the bed, and undressed so rapidly that he seemed
+only to shake his clothes off, and jumped into bed. He closed his eyes
+and appeared to be in a profound slumber.
+
+Hannah's sudden appearance in the sitting-room in such a state naturally
+astonished the 'Squire.
+
+“What's the matter?” he demanded of the affrighted servant.
+
+“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I'm almost kilt entirely.”
+
+“Are you?” said the 'Squire, “you appear to be more frightened than
+hurt.”
+
+“Yes, sir, shure I am frightened, which indeed I couldn't help it, sir,
+for I never saw a ghost before in all my life.”
+
+“A ghost! What nonsense are you talking, Hannah?”
+
+“Shure it's not nonsense, for it's just now that the ghost came to the
+door, sir, and knocked, and I went to the door thinking it might be me
+cousin, who's been passing the evening with me, when I saw a great white
+ghost, ten foot tall, standing forninst me.”
+
+“Ten feet tall?”
+
+“Yes, sir, and he spread out his arms and spoke in a terrible voice, and
+was going to carry me off wid him, but I dropped the lamp, and O sir,
+I'm kilt entirely.”
+
+“This is a strange story,” said 'Squire Newcome, rather suspiciously; “I
+hope you have not been drinking.”
+
+Hannah protested vehemently that not a drop of liquor had passed her
+lips, which was true.
+
+“I'll go out and hunt for the ghost,” said the 'Squire.
+
+“Oh, don't sir. He'll carry you off,” said Hannah, terrified.
+
+“Nonsense!” exclaimed the 'Squire. “Follow me, or you may stay here if
+you are frightened.”
+
+This Hannah would by no means do, since the 'Squire had taken the lamp
+and she would be left in the dark.
+
+Accordingly she followed him with a trembling step, as he penetrated
+through the kitchen into the back room, ready to run at the least alarm.
+
+The back-door was wide open, but nothing was to be seen of the ghost.
+
+“Perhaps the ghost's up-stairs,” said Hannah, “I can't sleep up there
+this night, shure.”
+
+But something had attracted Squire Newcome's attention. It was quite
+muddy out of doors, and Ben had tracked in considerable mud with him.
+The footprints were very perceptible on the painted floor.
+
+“The ghost seems to have had muddy shoes,” said the 'Squire dryly; “I
+guess I can find him.”
+
+He followed the tracks which witnessed so strongly against Ben, to whose
+chamber they led.
+
+Ben, though still awake, appeared to be in a profound slumber.
+
+“Ben-ja-min!” said his father, stooping over the bed.
+
+There was no answer.
+
+“Ben-ja-min!” repeated his father, giving him a shake, “what does all
+this mean?”
+
+“What?” inquired Ben, opening his eyes, and looking very innocent.
+
+“Where have you been, to-night?”
+
+“You sent me to bed,” said Ben, “and I came.”
+
+But the 'Squire was not to be deceived. He was already in possession
+of too much information to be put off. So Ben, who with all his love
+of mischief was a boy of truth, finally owned up everything. His father
+said very little, but told him the next morning that he had made up his
+mind to send him to a military boarding-school, where the discipline was
+very strict. Ben hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry, but finally,
+as boys like change and variety, came to look upon his new prospects
+with considerable cheerfulness.
+
+
+
+
+XXIX.
+
+DAWKINS IN DIFFICULTIES.
+
+
+George Dawkins was standing at his desk one morning, when a man entered
+the office, and stepping up to him, unceremoniously tapped him on the
+shoulder.
+
+Dawkins turned. He looked extremely annoyed on perceiving his visitor,
+whose outward appearance was certainly far from prepossessing. His face
+exhibited unmistakable marks of dissipation, nor did the huge breast
+pin and other cheap finery which he wore conceal the fact of his intense
+vulgarity. His eyes were black and twinkling, his complexion very dark,
+and his air that of a foreigner. He was, in fact, a Frenchman, though
+his language would hardly have betrayed him, unless, as sometimes, he
+chose to interlard his discourse with French phrases.
+
+“How are you this morning, my friend?” said the newcomer.
+
+“What are you here for?” asked Dawkins, roughly.
+
+“That does not seem to me a very polite way of receiving your friends.”
+
+“Friends!” retorted Dawkins, scornfully, “who authorized you to call
+yourself my friend?”
+
+“Creditor, then, if it will suit you better, mon ami.”
+
+“Hush,” said Dawkins, in an alarmed whisper, “he will hear,” here he
+indicated Paul with his finger.
+
+“And why should I care? I have no secrets from the young man.”
+
+“Stop, Duval,” exclaimed Dawkins, in an angry whisper, “Leave the office
+at once. Your appearing here will injure me.”
+
+“But I am not your friend; why should I care?” sneered Duval.
+
+“Listen to reason. Leave me now, and I will meet you when and where you
+will.”
+
+“Come, that sounds better.”
+
+“Now go. I'm afraid Mr. Danforth will be in.”
+
+“If he comes, introduce me.”
+
+Dawkins would like to have knocked the fellow over.
+
+“Name your place and time, and be quick about it,” said he impatiently.
+
+“Eight o'clock this evening, you know where,” was the answer.
+
+“Very well. Good-morning.”
+
+“Mind you bring some money.”
+
+“Good-morning,” returned Dawkins, angrily.
+
+At length, much to his relief, Duval left the office. Dawkins stole a
+side glance at Paul, to see what impression the interview had made upon
+him, but our hero, who had overheard some portions of the dialogue,
+perceiving that Dawkins wished it to be private, took as little notice
+of the visitor as possible. He could not help thinking, however, that
+Duval was a man whose acquaintance was likely to be of little benefit to
+his fellow clerk.
+
+Throughout the day Dawkins appeared unusually nervous, and made several
+blunders which annoyed Mr. Danforth. Evidently he had something on his
+mind. Not to keep the reader in suspense, George had fallen among bad
+companions, where he had learned both to drink and to gamble. In this
+way he had made the acquaintance of Duval, an unscrupulous sharper, who
+had contrived to get away all his ready money, and persuading him to
+play longer in the hope of making up his losses had run him into debt
+one hundred and fifty dollars. Dawkins gave him an acknowledgment of
+indebtedness to that amount. This of course placed him in Duval's power,
+since he knew of no means of raising such a sum. He therefore kept out
+of the Frenchman's way, avoiding the old haunts where he would have been
+likely to meet him. Dawkins supposed Duval ignorant of the whereabouts
+of his employer's counting-room. So he had been, but he made it his
+business to ascertain where it was. He had no idea of losing sight of so
+valuable a prize.
+
+Dawkins would willingly have broken the appointment he had made with
+Duval, but he did not dare to do so. He knew that the man was well
+able to annoy him, and he would not on any account have had the affair
+disclosed to his father or Mr. Danforth.
+
+As Trinity clock struck eight, he entered a low bar-room in the
+neighborhood of the docks.
+
+A young man with pale, sandy hair stood behind the counter with his
+sleeves rolled up. He was supplying the wants of a sailor who already
+appeared to have taken more drink than was good for him.
+
+“Good evening, Mr. Dawkins,” said he, “you're a stranger.”
+
+“Is Duval in?” inquired Dawkins, coldly. His pride revolted at the place
+and company. He had never been here but once before, having met Duval
+elsewhere.
+
+“He's up in his room. John show the young gentleman up to No. 9. Won't
+you have a glass of something this evening?”
+
+“No,” said Dawkins, abruptly.
+
+The boy preceded him up a dark and dirty staircase.
+
+“That's the room, sir,” he said.
+
+“Stop a minute,” said Dawkins, “he may not be in.”
+
+He inwardly hoped he might not. But Duval answered his knock by coming
+to the door himself.
+
+“Delighted to see you, mon ami. John, may leave the lamp. That's all,
+unless Mr. Dawkins wishes to order something.”
+
+“I want nothing,” said Dawkins.
+
+“They have some capital brandy.”
+
+“I am not in the mood for drinking tonight.”
+
+“As you please,” said the Frenchman, disappointed; “be seated.”
+
+Dawkins sat down in a wooden rocking-chair, minus an arm.
+
+“Well,” said Duval, “how much money have you brought me?”
+
+“None.”
+
+The Frenchman frowned and stroked his mustache, fiercely.
+
+“What does all this mean? Are you going to put me off longer?”
+
+“I would pay it if I could,” said Dawkins, “but I haven't got the
+money.”
+
+“You could get it.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“Ask your father.”
+
+“My father would rave if he knew that I had lost money in such a way.”
+
+“But you need not tell him.”
+
+“If I ask for money, he will be sure to ask what I want it for.”
+
+“Tell him you want clothes, or a watch, or a hundred things.”
+
+Dawkins shook his head; “it won't do,” said he. “He wouldn't give me a
+hundred and fifty dollars.”
+
+“Then ask seventy-five, and I will wait a month for the rest.”
+
+“Look here, Duval, you have no rightful claim to this money. You've got
+enough out of me. Just tear up the paper.”
+
+Duval laughed scornfully, “Aha, Mr. Dawkins,” he said, “that would be
+a very pretty arrangement FOR YOU. But I don't see how it is going to
+benefit me. No, no, I can't afford to throw away a hundred and fifty
+dollars so easily. If I was a rich man like your father it would make a
+difference.”
+
+“Then you won't remit the debt,” said Dawkins, sullenly.
+
+“You would think me a great ninny, if I did.”
+
+“Then you may collect it the best way you can.”
+
+“What do you mean by that?” demanded the Frenchman, his face darkening.
+
+“I mean what I say,” said Dawkins, desperately, “Gambling debts are not
+recognizable in law.”
+
+“Nothing is said about it's being a gambling debt. I have your note.”
+
+“Which is worth nothing, since I am a minor.”
+
+Duval's face became black with rage.
+
+“Aha, my friend,” said he showing his teeth, “this is a very nice game
+to cheat me out of my money. But it won't do, it won't do.”
+
+“Why won't it?”
+
+“I shall say a word in your father's ear, mon ami, and in the ear of
+your worthy employer whom you were so anxious for me not to see, and
+perhaps that would be worse for you than to pay me my money.”
+
+Dawkins's brief exultation passed away. He saw that he was indeed in the
+power of an unscrupulous man, who was disposed to push his advantage to
+the utmost.
+
+He subsided into a moody silence, which Duval watched with satisfaction.
+
+“Well, my friend, what will you do about it?”
+
+“I don't know what I can do.”
+
+“You will think of something. You will find it best,” said the
+Frenchman, in a tone which veiled a threat.
+
+“I will try,” said Dawkins, gloomily.
+
+“That is well. I thought you would listen to reason, mon ami. Now we
+will have a pleasant chat. Hold, I will order some brandy myself.”
+
+“Not for me,” said Dawkins, rising from his chair, “I must be going.”
+
+“Will you not have one little game?” asked Duval, coaxingly.
+
+“No, no, I have had enough of that. Goodnight.”
+
+“Then you won't stop. And when shall I have the pleasure of seeing you
+at my little apartment once more?”
+
+“I don't know.”
+
+“If it is any trouble to you to come, I will call at your office,” said
+Duval, significantly.
+
+“Don't trouble yourself,” said Dawkins, hastily; “I will come here a
+week from today.”
+
+“A week is a long time.”
+
+“Long or short, I must have it.”
+
+“Very well, mon ami. A week let it be. Good-night. Mind the stairs as
+you go down.”
+
+Dawkins breathed more freely as he passed out into the open air. He was
+beginning to realize that the way of the transgressor is hard.
+
+
+
+
+XXX.
+
+A TRAP IS LAID FOR PAUL.
+
+
+Three months before, George Dawkins had made his first visit to a
+gambling house. At first, he had entered only from curiosity. He watched
+the play with an interest which gradually deepened, until he was easily
+persuaded to try his own luck. The stakes were small, but fortune
+favored him, and he came out some dollars richer than he entered. It
+would have been fortunate for him if he had failed. As it was, his
+good fortune encouraged him to another visit. This time he was less
+fortunate, but his gains about balanced his losses, so that he came out
+even. On the next occasion he left off with empty pockets. So it went on
+until at length he fell into the hands of Duval, who had no scruple in
+fleecing him to as great an extent as he could be induced to go.
+
+George Dawkins's reflections were not of the most cheerful character as,
+leaving Duval, he slowly pursued his way homeward. He felt that he had
+fallen into the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would have no
+mercy upon him. He execrated his own folly, without which all the
+machination of Duval would have been without effect.
+
+The question now, however, was, to raise the money. He knew of no one
+to whom he could apply except his father, nor did he have much hope from
+that quarter. Still, he would make the effort.
+
+Reaching home he found his father seated in the library. He looked up
+from the evening paper as George entered.
+
+“Only half-past nine,” he said, with an air of sarcasm. “You spend your
+evenings out so systematically that your early return surprises me. How
+is it? Has the theater begun to lose its charm!”
+
+There was no great sympathy between father and son, and if either felt
+affection for the other, it was never manifested. Mutual recrimination
+was the rule between them, and George would now have made an angry
+answer but that he had a favor to ask, and felt it politic to be
+conciliatory.
+
+“If I had supposed you cared for my society, sir, I would have remained
+at home oftener.”
+
+“Umph!” was the only reply elicited from his father.
+
+“However, there was a good reason for my not going to the theater
+to-night.”
+
+“Indeed!”
+
+“I had no money.”
+
+“Your explanation is quite satisfactory,” said his father, with a slight
+sneer. “I sympathize in your disappointment.”
+
+“There is no occasion, sir,” said George, good humoredly, for him. “I
+had no great desire to go.”
+
+Dawkins took down a book from the library and tried to read, but
+without much success. His thoughts continually recurred to his pecuniary
+embarrassments, and the debt which he owed to Duval seemed to hang like
+a millstone around his neck. How should he approach his father on the
+subject? In his present humor he feared he would have little chance.
+
+As his father laid down the newspaper Dawkins said, “Wouldn't you like a
+game of checkers, sir?”
+
+This, as he well knew, was a favorite game with his father.
+
+“I don't know but I should,” said Mr. Dawkins, more graciously than was
+his wont.
+
+The checker-board was brought, and the two commenced playing. Three
+games were played all of which his father won. This appeared to put
+him in a good humor, for as the two ceased playing, he drew a
+ten-dollar-bill from his pocket-book, and handed to his son, with the
+remark, “There, George, I don't want you to be penniless. You are a
+little extravagant, though, I think. Your pay from Mr. Danforth ought to
+keep you in spending money.”
+
+“Yes, sir, I have been rather extravagant, but I am going to reform.”
+
+“I am very glad to hear it.”
+
+“I wish, sir,” said George a moment afterwards, “that you would allow me
+to buy my own clothes.”
+
+“I've no sort of an objection, I am sure. You select them now, don't
+you?”
+
+“Yes, sir, but I mean to suggest that you should make me an allowance
+for that purpose,--about as much as it costs now,--and give me the money
+to spend where I please.”
+
+Mr. Dawkins looked sharply at his son.
+
+“The result would probably be,” he said, “that the money would be
+expended in other ways, and I should have to pay for the clothes twice
+over.”
+
+Dawkins would have indignantly disclaimed this, if he had not felt that
+he was not altogether sincere in the request he had made.
+
+“No,” continued his father, “I don't like the arrangement you propose.
+When you need clothing you can go to my tailor and order it, of course
+not exceeding reasonable limits.”
+
+“But,” said Dawkins, desperately, “I don't like Bradshaw's style of
+making clothes. I would prefer trying some other tailor.”
+
+“What fault have you to find with Bradshaw? Is he not one of the most
+fashionable tailors in the city?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I suppose so, but----”
+
+“Come, sir, you are growing altogether too particular. All your garments
+set well, so far as I can judge.”
+
+“Yes, sir, but one likes a change sometimes,” persisted George, a little
+embarrassed for further objections.
+
+“Well,” said Mr. Dawkins, after a pause, “If you are so strongly bent
+upon a new tailor, select one, and order what you need. You can tell him
+to send in his bill to me.”
+
+“Thank you sir,” said his son, by no means pleased at the manner in
+which his request had been granted. He saw that it would in no manner
+promote the plan which he had in view, since it would give him no
+command of the ready money. It is hardly necessary to say that his
+alleged dissatisfaction with his father's tailor had all been trumped
+up for the occasion, and would never have been thought of but for the
+present emergency.
+
+“What shall I do!” thought Dawkins, in perplexity, as he slowly
+undressed himself and retired to bed.
+
+The only true course, undoubtedly, was to confess all to his father,
+to incur the storm of reproaches which would have followed as the just
+penalty of his transgression, and then the haunting fear of discovery
+would have been once and forever removed. But Dawkins was not brave
+enough for this. He thought only of escaping from his present difficulty
+without his father's knowledge.
+
+He rose the next morning with the burden of care still weighing upon
+him. In the evening the thought occurred to him that he might retrieve
+his losses where he had incurred them, and again he bent his steps to
+the gambling house. He risked five dollars, being one-half of what he
+had. This was lost. Desperately he hazarded the remaining five dollars,
+and lost again.
+
+With a muttered oath he sprang to his feet, and left the brilliant room,
+more gloomy and discouraged than ever. He was as badly off as before,
+and penniless beside. He would have finished the evening at the theater,
+but his recent loss prevented that. He lounged about the streets till it
+was time to go to bed, and then went home in a very unsatisfactory state
+of mind.
+
+A day or two after, he met on Broadway the man whom of all others he
+would gladly have avoided.
+
+“Aha, my friend, I am glad to meet you,” said Duval, for it was he.
+
+Dawkins muttered something unintelligible, and would have hurried on,
+but Duval detained him.
+
+“Why are you in such a hurry, my friend?” he said.
+
+“Business,” returned Dawkins, shortly.
+
+“That reminds me of the little business affair between us, mon ami. Have
+you got any money for me?”
+
+“Not yet.”
+
+“Not yet! It is three days since we saw each other. Could you not do
+something in three days?”
+
+“I told you I required a week,” said Dawkins, roughly, “Let go my arm. I
+tell you I am in haste.”
+
+“Very well, mon ami,” said Duval, slowly relinquishing his hold, “take
+care that you do not forget. There are four days more to the week.”
+
+Dawkins hurried on feeling very uncomfortable. He was quite aware that
+four days hence he would be as unprepared to encounter the Frenchman as
+now. Still, something might happen.
+
+Something, unfortunately, did happen.
+
+The next day Mr. Danforth was counting a roll of bills which had been
+just paid in, when he was unexpectedly called out of the counting-room.
+He unguardedly left the bills upon his own desk. Dawkins saw them lying
+there. The thought flashed upon him, “There lies what will relieve me
+from all my embarrassment.”
+
+Allowing himself scarcely a minute to think, he took from the roll four
+fifty dollar notes, thrust one into the pocket of Paul's overcoat, which
+hung up in the office, drew off his right boot and slipped the other
+three into the bottom of it, and put it on again. He then nervously
+resumed his place at his desk. A moment afterwards, Paul, who had been
+to the post-office, entered with letters which he carried into the inner
+office and deposited on Mr. Danforth's desk. He observed the roll
+of bills, and thought his employer careless in leaving so much money
+exposed, but said nothing on the subject to Dawkins, between whom and
+himself there was little communication.
+
+
+
+
+XXXI.
+
+CONVICTED OF THEFT.
+
+
+Half an hour later Mr. Danforth returned.
+
+“Has any one been here?” he asked as he passed through the outer office.
+
+“No, sir,” said Dawkins, with outward composure though his heart was
+beating rapidly.
+
+While apparently intent upon his writing he listened attentively to what
+might be going on in the next room. One,--two,--three minutes passed.
+Mr. Danforth again showed himself.
+
+“Did you say that no one has been here?” he demanded, abruptly.
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Have either of you been into my office since I have been out?”
+
+“I have not, sir,” said Dawkins.
+
+“I went in to carry your letters,” said Paul.
+
+“Did you see a roll of bills lying on my desk?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Paul, a little surprised at the question.
+
+“I have just counted it over, and find but six hundred dollars instead
+of eight hundred. Can you account for the discrepancy?”
+
+Mr. Danforth looked keenly at the two boys. Dawkins, who had schooled
+himself to the ordeal, maintained his outward calmness. Paul, beginning
+to perceive that his honesty was called in question, flushed.
+
+“No, sir,” said the boys simultaneously.
+
+“It can hardly be possible, that Mr. Thompson, who is a very careful
+man, should have made such a mistake in paying me,” resumed Mr.
+Danforth.
+
+“As we have been the only persons here,” said Dawkins, “the only way to
+vindicate ourselves from suspicion is, to submit to a search.”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Paul promptly.
+
+Both boys turned their pockets inside out, but the missing money was not
+found.
+
+“There is my overcoat, sir,” said Dawkins, “will you be kind enough to
+search it for yourself?”
+
+Next, of course, Paul's overcoat was searched.
+
+What was our hero's dismay when from one of the pockets Mr. Danforth
+produced a fifty dollar bill.
+
+“Is it possible?” he exclaimed in as much grief as surprise, “Unhappy
+boy, how came you by this money in your pocket?”
+
+“I don't know, sir,” returned Paul, his cheek alternately flushing and
+growing pale.
+
+“I wish I could believe you,” said Mr. Danforth; “where have you put the
+other bills? Produce them, and I may overlook this first offense.”
+
+“Indeed, sir,” said Paul, in great distress, “I have not the slightest
+knowledge of how this bill came into my pocket. I hope you will believe
+me, sir.”
+
+“How can I? The money evidently did not go into your pocket without
+hands.”
+
+A sudden thought came to Paul. “Dawkins,” said he, “did you put that
+money into my pocket?”
+
+“What do you mean, sir?” returned Dawkins, haughtily. “Is it your
+intention to insult me?”
+
+Dawkins could not prevent his face from flushing as he spoke, but this
+might easily be referred to a natural resentment of the imputation cast
+upon him.
+
+“Paul,” said his employer, coldly, “you will not help your own cause
+by seeking to involve another. After what has happened you can hardly
+expect me to retain you in my employment. I will not make public your
+disgrace, nor will I inquire farther for the remainder of the money for
+which you have been willing to barter your integrity. I will pay your
+wages up to the end of this week, and----”
+
+“Mr. Danforth,” said Paul, manfully, though the tears almost choked his
+utterance, “I am sorry that you have no better opinion of me. I do not
+want the balance of my wages. If I have taken so large a sum which did
+not belong to me, I have no claim to them. Good-morning, sir. Sometime I
+hope you will think better of me.”
+
+Paul put on his coat, and taking his cap from the nail on which it hung,
+bowed respectfully to his employer and left the office.
+
+Mr. Danforth looked after him, and seemed perplexed. Could Paul be
+guilty after all?
+
+“I never could have suspected him if I had not this evidence in my
+hand,” said Mr. Danforth, to himself, fixing his eyes upon the bill
+which he had drawn from Paul's overcoat.
+
+“Dawkins, did you observe whether Paul remained long in the office?” he
+asked.
+
+“Longer than sufficient to lay the letters on the desk?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I think he did.”
+
+“Did you notice whether he went to his overcoat after coming out?”
+
+“Yes, sir, he did,” said Dawkins, anxious to fix in Mr. Danforth's mind
+the impression of Paul's guilt.
+
+“Then I am afraid it is true,” said his employer sadly. “And yet, what a
+fine, manly boy he is too. But it is a terrible fault.”
+
+Mr. Danforth was essentially a kind-hearted man, and he cared much more
+for Paul's dereliction from honesty than for the loss of the money.
+Going home early to dinner, he communicated to his wife the unpleasant
+discovery which he had made respecting Paul.
+
+Now, from the first, Paul had been a great favorite with Mrs. Danforth,
+and she scouted at the idea of his dishonesty.
+
+“Depend upon it, Mr. Danforth,” she said decisively, “you have done the
+boy an injustice. I have some skill in reading faces, and I tell you
+that a boy with Paul Prescott's open, frank expression is incapable of
+such a crime.”
+
+“So I should have said, my dear, but we men learn to be less trustful
+than you ladies, who stay at home and take rose-colored views of life.
+Unfortunately, we see too much of the dark side of human nature.”
+
+“So that you conclude all to be dark.”
+
+“Not so bad as that.”
+
+“Tell me all the circumstances, and perhaps a woman's wit may help you.”
+
+Mr. Danforth communicated all the details, with which the reader is
+already familiar.
+
+“What sort of a boy is this Dawkins?” she asked, “Do you like him?”
+
+“Not particularly. He does his duties passably well. I took him into my
+counting-room to oblige his father.”
+
+“Perhaps he is the thief.”
+
+“To tell the truth I would sooner have suspected him.”
+
+“Has he cleared himself from suspicion?”
+
+“He was the first to suggest a search.”
+
+“Precisely the thing he would have done, if he had placed the bill
+in Paul's pocket. Of course he would know that the search must result
+favorably for him.”
+
+“There is something in that.”
+
+“Besides, what could have been more foolish, if Paul wished to hide the
+money, than to multiply his chances of detection by hiding it in two
+different places, especially where one was so obvious as to afford no
+concealment at all.”
+
+“Admitting this to be true, how am I to arrive at the proof of Paul's
+innocence?”
+
+“My own opinion is, that George Dawkins has the greater part of the
+money stolen. Probably he has taken it for some particular purpose. What
+it is, you may learn, perhaps, by watching him.”
+
+“I will be guided by your suggestion. Nothing would afford me greater
+pleasure than to find that I have been mistaken in assuming Paul's
+guilt, though on evidence that seemed convincing.”
+
+This conversation took place at the dinner-table. Mr. Danforth
+understood that no time was to be lost if he expected to gain any
+information from the movements of his clerk.
+
+George Dawkins had ventured upon a bold act, but he had been apparently
+favored by fortune, and had succeeded. That he should have committed
+this crime without compunction could hardly be expected. His uneasiness,
+however, sprang chiefly from the fear that in some way he might yet
+be detected. He resolved to get rid of the money which he had
+obtained dishonestly, and obtain back from Duval the acknowledgment of
+indebtedness which he had given him.
+
+You will perhaps ask whether the wrong which he had done Paul affected
+him with uneasiness. On the contrary, it gratified the dislike which
+from the first he had cherished towards our hero.
+
+“I am well rid of him, at all events,” he muttered to himself, “that is
+worth risking some thing for.”
+
+When office hours were over Dawkins gladly threw down his pen, and left
+the counting-room.
+
+He bent his steps rapidly towards the locality where he had before met
+Duval. He had decided to wait some time before meeting that worthy. He
+had to wait till another day, when as he was emerging from the tavern he
+encountered the Frenchman on the threshold.
+
+“Aha, my good friend,” said Duval, offering his hand, which Dawkins did
+not appear to see, “I am very glad to see you. Will you come in?”
+
+“No, I have not time,” said Dawkins, shortly.
+
+“Have you brought me my money?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Aha, that is well. I was just about what you call cleaned out.”
+
+“Have you my note with you?”
+
+Duval fumbled in his pocket-book, and finally produced the desired
+document.
+
+“Give it to me.”
+
+“I must have the money first,” said the Frenchman, shrewdly.
+
+“Take it,” said Dawkins contemptuously. “Do you judge me by yourself?”
+
+He tore the note which he received into small pieces, and left Duval
+without another word.
+
+Sheltered by the darkness, Mr. Danforth, who had tracked the steps of
+Dawkins, had been an unseen witness of this whole transaction.
+
+
+
+
+XXXII.
+
+RIGHT TRIUMPHANT.
+
+
+George Dawkins resumed his duties the next morning as usual.
+Notwithstanding the crime he had committed to screen himself from the
+consequences of a lighter fault, he felt immeasurably relieved at the
+thought that he had shaken himself free from the clutches of Duval. His
+satisfaction was heightened by the disgrace and summary dismissal of
+Paul, whom he had never liked. He decided to ask the place for a cousin
+of his own, whose society would be more agreeable to him than that of
+his late associate.
+
+“Good-morning, sir,” he said, as Mr. Danforth entered.
+
+“Good-morning,” returned his employer, coldly.
+
+“Have you selected any one in Prescott's place, yet, sir?”
+
+“Why do you ask?”
+
+“Because I have a cousin, Malcolm Harcourt, who would be glad to take
+it.”
+
+“Indeed!” said Mr. Danforth, whose manner somewhat puzzled Dawkins.
+
+“I should enjoy having him with me,” continued Dawkins.
+
+“Did you like Prescott?”
+
+“No, sir,” said Dawkins, promptly, “I didn't want to say so before, but
+now, since he's turned out so badly, I don't mind saying that I never
+thought much of him.”
+
+“On the contrary,” said Mr. Danforth, “I liked him from the first.
+Perhaps we are wrong in thinking that he took the money.”
+
+“I should think there could be no doubt of it,” said Dawkins, not liking
+the sympathy and returning good feeling for Paul which his employer
+manifested.
+
+“I don't agree with you,” said Mr. Danforth, coldly. “I have decided to
+reinstate Paul in his former place.”
+
+“Then, if any more money is missing, you will know where it has gone,”
+ said Dawkins, hastily.
+
+“I shall.”
+
+“Then there is no chance for my cousin?”
+
+“I am expecting to have a vacancy.”
+
+Dawkins looked up in surprise.
+
+“I shall require some one to fill YOUR place,” said Mr. Danforth,
+significantly.
+
+“Sir!” exclaimed Dawkins, in astonishment and dismay.
+
+His employer bent a searching glance upon him as he asked, sternly,
+“where did you obtain the money which you paid away last evening?”
+
+“I--don't--understand--you, sir,” gasped Dawkins, who understood only
+too well.
+
+“You met a man at the door of a low tavern in--Street, last evening, to
+whom you paid one hundred and fifty dollars, precisely the sum which I
+lost yesterday.”
+
+“Who has been slandering me, sir?” asked Dawkins, very pale.
+
+“An eye-witness of the meeting, who heard the conversation between you.
+If you want more satisfactory proof, here it is.”
+
+Mr. Danforth took from his pocket-book the torn fragments of the note
+which Dawkins had given to Duval.
+
+“Here is an obligation to pay a certain Duval the sum of one hundred and
+fifty dollars. It bears your signature. How you could have incurred such
+a debt to him you best know.”
+
+Dawkins maintained a sullen silence.
+
+“I suppose you wish me to leave your employment,” he said at length.
+
+“You are right. Hold,” he added, as Dawkins was about leaving the room,
+“a word more. It is only just that you should make a restitution of the
+sum which you have taken. If you belonged to a poor family and there
+were extenuating circumstances, I might forego my claim. But your father
+is abundantly able to make good the loss, and I shall require you to
+lay the matter before him without loss of time. In consideration of your
+youth, I shall not bring the matter before the public tribunals, as I
+have a right to do.”
+
+Dawkins turned pale at this allusion, and muttering some words to the
+effect that he would do what he could, left the counting-room.
+
+This threat proved not to be without its effect. The next day he came to
+Mr. Danforth and brought the sum for which he had become responsible. He
+had represented to his father that he had had his pocket picked of this
+sum belonging to Mr. Danforth, and in that manner obtained an equal
+amount to replace it. It was some time before Mr. Dawkins learned the
+truth. Then came a storm of reproaches in which all the bitterness of
+his father's nature was fully exhibited. There had never been much love
+between father and son. Henceforth there was open hatred.
+
+We must return to Paul, whom we left in much trouble.
+
+It was a sad walk which he took homeward on the morning of his
+dismissal.
+
+“What brings you home so early?” asked Mrs. Cameron, looking up from her
+baking, as Paul entered.
+
+Paul tried to explain, but tears came to his eyes, and sobs choked his
+utterance.
+
+“Are you sick, Paul?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, in alarm.
+
+“No, Aunt Hester.”
+
+“Then what is the matter?” she asked anxiously.
+
+“I have lost my place.”
+
+“Poor boy! I am very sorry to hear it. But it might have been worse.”
+
+“No, not very well, Aunt Hester, for Mr. Danforth thinks I have taken
+some of his money.”
+
+“He is very unjust!” exclaimed Aunt Hester, indignantly, “he ought to
+have known better than to think you would steal.”
+
+“Why, no,” said Paul, candidly, “I must confess the evidence was against
+me, and he doesn't know me as well as you do, Aunt Hester.”
+
+“Tell me all about it, Paul.”
+
+Aunt Hester sat down and listened attentively to our hero's story.
+
+“How do you account for the money being found in your pocket?” she asked
+at length.
+
+“I think it must have been put there by some one else.”
+
+“Have you any suspicions?”
+
+“Yes,” said Paul, a little reluctantly, “but I don't know whether I
+ought to have. I may be wronging an innocent person.”
+
+“At any rate it won't do any harm to tell me.”
+
+“You've heard me speak of George Dawkins?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I can't help thinking that he put the fifty dollars into my pocket, and
+took the rest himself.”
+
+“How very wicked he must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, indignantly.
+
+“Don't judge him too hastily; Aunt Hester, he may not be guilty, and I
+know from my own experience how hard it is to be accused when you are
+innocent.”
+
+Soon after the sexton came in, and Paul of course, told his story over
+again.
+
+“Never mind, Paul,” said Uncle Hugh, cheerily. “You know your own
+innocence; that is the main thing. It's a great thing to have a clear
+conscience.”
+
+“But I liked Mr. Danforth and I think he liked me. It's hard to feel
+that he and Mrs. Danforth will both think me guilty, especially after
+the kindness which I have experienced from them.”
+
+“We all have our crosses, my boy,--some light and others heavy. Yours, I
+admit is a heavy one for a boy to bear. But when men are unjust there is
+One above who will deal justly with us. You have not forgotten him.”
+
+“No, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, reverently.
+
+“Trust in him, Paul, and all will come out right at last. He can prove
+your innocence, and you may be sure he will, in his own good time. Only
+be patient, Paul.”
+
+“I will try to be, Uncle Hugh.”
+
+The simple, hearty trust in God, which the sexton manifested, was not
+lost upon Paul. Sustained by his own consciousness of innocence, and
+the confidence reposed in him by those who knew him best, his mind soon
+regained its cheerful tone. He felt an inward conviction that God would
+vindicate his innocence.
+
+His vindication came sooner than he anticipated.
+
+The next day as the sexton's family were seated at their plain dinner, a
+knock was heard upon the outer door.
+
+“Sit still, Hester,” said Mr. Cameron. “I will go to the door.”
+
+Opening the door he recognized Mr. Danforth, who attended the same
+church.
+
+“Mr. Cameron, I believe,” said Mr. Danforth, pleasantly.
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“May I come in? I am here on a little business.”
+
+“Certainly, Mr. Danforth. Excuse my not inviting you before; but in my
+surprise at seeing you, I forgot my politeness.”
+
+The sexton led the way into the plain sitting-room.
+
+“I believe Paul Prescott is an inmate of your family.”
+
+“Yes, sir. I am sorry----”
+
+“I know what you would say, sir; but it is needless. May I see Paul a
+moment?”
+
+Paul was surprised at the summons, and still more surprised at finding
+who it was that wished to see him.
+
+He entered the room slowly, uncertain how to accost Mr. Danforth. His
+employer solved the doubt in his mind by advancing cordially, and taking
+his hand.
+
+“Paul,” he said pleasantly, “I have come here to ask your forgiveness
+for an injustice, and to beg you to resume your place in my
+counting-room.”
+
+“Have you found out who took the money, sir?” asked Paul, eagerly.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Who was it, sir?”
+
+“It was Dawkins.”
+
+Mr. Danforth explained how he had become acquainted with the real thief.
+In conclusion, he said, “I shall expect you back to-morrow morning,
+Paul.”
+
+“Thank you, sir.”
+
+“Dawkins of course leaves my employ. You will take his place, and
+receive his salary, seven dollars a week instead of five. Have you any
+friend whom you would like to have in your own place?”
+
+Paul reflected a moment and finally named a schoolmate of his, the son
+of poor parents, whom he knew to be anxiously seeking a situation, but
+without influential friends to help him.
+
+“I will take him on your recommendation,” said Mr. Danforth, promptly.
+“Can you see him this afternoon?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Paul.
+
+The next day Paul resumed his place in Mr. Danforth's counting-room.
+
+
+
+
+XXXIII.
+
+PAUL REDEEMS HIS PLEDGE.
+
+
+Two years passed, unmarked by any incident of importance. Paul
+continued in Mr. Danforth's employment, giving, if possible, increased
+satisfaction. He was not only faithful, but exhibited a rare aptitude
+for business, which made his services of great value to his employer.
+From time to time Mr. Danforth increased his salary, so that, though
+only nineteen, he was now receiving twelve dollars per week, with the
+prospect of a speedy increase. But with his increasing salary, he did
+not increase his expenses. He continued as economical as ever. He had
+not forgotten his father's dying injunction. He remained true to the
+charge which he had taken upon himself, that of redeeming his father's
+memory from reproach. This, at times subjected him to the imputation
+of meanness, but for this he cared little. He would not swerve from the
+line of duty which he had marked out.
+
+One evening as he was walking down Broadway with an acquaintance, Edward
+Hastings, who was employed in a counting-room near him, they paused
+before a transparency in front of a hall brilliantly lighted.
+
+“The Hutchinsons are going to sing to-night, Paul,” said Hastings. “Did
+you ever hear them?”
+
+“No; but I have often wished to.”
+
+“Then suppose we go in.”
+
+“No, I believe not.”
+
+“Why not. Paul? It seems to me you never go anywhere. You ought to amuse
+yourself now and then.”
+
+“Some other time I will,--not now.”
+
+“You are not required to be at home in the evening, are you?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then why not come in now? It's only twenty-five cents.”
+
+“To tell the truth, Ned, I am saving up my money for a particular
+purpose; and until that is accomplished, I avoid all unnecessary
+expense.”
+
+“Going to invest in a house in Fifth Avenue? When you do, I'll call.
+However, never mind the expense. I'll pay you in.”
+
+“I'm much obliged to you, Ned, but I can't accept.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because at present I can't afford to return the favor.”
+
+“Never mind that.”
+
+“But I do mind it. By-and-by I shall feel more free. Good-night, if you
+are going in.”
+
+“Good-night, Paul.”
+
+“He's a strange fellow,” mused Hastings.
+
+“It's impossible to think him mean, and yet, it looks a great deal like
+it. He spends nothing for dress or amusements. I do believe that I've
+had three coats since he's been wearing that old brown one. Yet, he
+always looks neat. I wonder what he's saving up his money for.”
+
+Meanwhile Paul went home.
+
+The sexton and his wife looked the same as ever. Paul sometimes fancied
+that Uncle Hugh stooped a little more than he used to do; but his life
+moved on so placidly and evenly, that he grew old but slowly. Aunt
+Hester was the same good, kind, benevolent friend that she had always
+been. No mother could have been more devoted to Paul. He felt that he
+had much to be grateful for, in his chance meeting with this worthy
+couple.
+
+It was the first of January,--a clear, cold day. A pleasant fire burned
+in the little stove. Mr. Cameron sat at one side, reading the evening
+paper; Mrs. Cameron at the other, knitting a stocking for Paul. A large,
+comfortable-looking cat was dozing tranquilly on the hearth-rug. Paul,
+who had been seated at the table, rose and lighted a candle.
+
+“Where are you going, Paul?” asked Aunt Hester.
+
+“Up-stairs for a moment.”
+
+Paul speedily returned, bearing in his hand a small blue bank-book, with
+his name on the cover.
+
+He took out his pencil and figured a few minutes.
+
+“Uncle Hugh,” said he, looking up, “when I get a hundred dollars more, I
+shall have enough to pay father's debt.”
+
+“Principal and interest?”
+
+“Yes, principal and interest; reckoning the interest for a year to
+come.”
+
+“I did not suppose you had so much money, Paul. You must have been very
+economical.”
+
+“Yes, Uncle Hugh more so than I have wanted to be, oftentimes; but
+whenever I have been tempted to spend a cent unnecessarily, I have
+always called to mind my promise made to father on his deathbed, and I
+have denied myself.”
+
+“You have done well, Paul. There are few who would have had the
+resolution to do as you have.”
+
+“Oh yes, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, modestly, “I think there are a great
+many. I begin to feel repaid already. In a few months I shall be able to
+pay up the whole debt.”
+
+At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Mr. Cameron answered the
+summons.
+
+“Does Mr. Paul Prescott live here?” inquired a boy.
+
+“Yes. Do you want to see him?”
+
+“Here is a letter for him. There is no answer.”
+
+The messenger departed, leaving the letter in Mr. Cameron's hand.
+
+Somewhat surprised, he returned to the sitting-room and handed it to
+Paul.
+
+Paul opened it hastily, and discovered inclosed, a bank-note for one
+hundred dollars. It was accompanied with a note from his employer,
+stating that it was intended as a New Year's gift, but in the hurry of
+business, he had forgotten to give it to him during the day.
+
+Paul's face lighted up with joy.
+
+“Oh, Uncle Hugh!” he exclaimed, almost breathless with delight. “Don't
+you see that this will enable me to pay my debt at once?”
+
+“So it will, Paul. I wish you joy.”
+
+“And my father's memory will be vindicated,” said Paul, in a tone of
+deep satisfaction. “If he could only have lived to see this day!”
+
+A fortnight later, Paul obtained permission from his employer to
+be absent from the office for a week. It was his purpose to visit
+Cedarville and repay 'Squire Conant the debt due him: and then, to go
+across the country to Wrenville, thirty miles distant, to see Aunt Lucy
+Lee. First, however, he ordered a new suit of a tailor, feeling a desire
+to appear to the best advantage on his return to the scene of his former
+humiliation. I must not omit to say that Paul was now a fine-looking
+young fellow of nineteen, with a frank, manly face, that won favor
+wherever he went.
+
+In due course of time, he arrived at Cedarville, and found his way
+without difficulty to the house of 'Squire Conant.
+
+It was a large house, rather imposing in its exterior, being quite the
+finest residence in the village.
+
+Paul went up the walk, and rang the bell.
+
+“Can I see 'Squire Conant?” he asked of the servant who answered the
+bell.
+
+“You'll find him in that room,” said the girl, pointing to a door on the
+left hand of the hall.
+
+“As he doesn't know me, perhaps you had better go before.”
+
+The door was opened, and Paul found himself in the presence of his
+father's creditor. 'Squire Conant was looking pale and thin. He was just
+recovering from a severe sickness.
+
+“I presume you don't recognize me, sir,” said Paul.
+
+“Did I ever see you before?”
+
+“Yes, sir; my name is Paul Prescott.”
+
+“Not the son of John Prescott?”
+
+“The same, sir. I believe my father died in your debt.”
+
+“Yes. I lent him five hundred dollars, which he never repaid.”
+
+“He tried to do so, sir. He had saved up a hundred and fifty dollars
+towards it, but sickness came upon him, and he was obliged to use it.”
+
+'Squire Conant's temper had been subdued by the long and dangerous
+illness through which he had passed. It had made him set a smaller value
+on his earthly possessions, from which he might be separated at any
+moment. When he answered Paul, it was in a manner which our hero did not
+expect.
+
+“Never mind. I can afford to lose it. I have no doubt he did what he
+could.”
+
+“But I have come to pay it, sir,” said Paul.
+
+“You!” exclaimed 'Squire Conant, in the greatest astonishment.
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Where did you get the money?”
+
+“I earned it, sir.”
+
+“But you are very young. How could you have earned so much?”
+
+Paul frankly told the story of his struggles; how for years he had
+practised a pinching economy, in order to redeem his father's memory
+from reproach.
+
+'Squire Conant listened attentively.
+
+“You are a good boy,” he said, at length.
+
+“Shall you have anything left after paying this money?”
+
+“No, sir; but I shall soon earn more.”
+
+“Still, you ought to have something to begin the world with. You shall
+pay me half the money, and I will cancel the note.”
+
+“But, sir,----”
+
+“Not a word. I am satisfied, and that is enough. If I hadn't lent your
+father the money, I might have invested it with the rest, and lost all.”
+
+'Squire Conant produced the note from a little trunk of papers, and
+handed it to Paul, who paid him the amount which he had stipulated,
+expressing at the same time his gratitude for his unexpected generosity.
+
+“Never mind about thanks, my boy,” said 'Squire Conant: “I am afraid I
+have loved money too well heretofore. I hope I am not too old to turn
+over a new leaf.”
+
+
+
+
+XXXIV.
+
+HOW PAUL GOES BACK TO WRENVILLE.
+
+
+While 'Squire Conant was speaking, Paul formed a sudden resolution. He
+remembered that Aunt Lucy Lee was a sister of 'Squire Conant. Perhaps,
+in his present frame of mind, it might be possible to induce him to do
+something for her.
+
+“I believe I am acquainted with a sister of yours, 'Squire Conant,” he
+commenced.
+
+“Ha!” exclaimed the 'Squire.
+
+“Mrs. Lucy Lee.”
+
+“Yes,” was the slow reply; “she is my sister. Where did you meet her?”
+
+“At the Wrenville Poorhouse.”
+
+“How long ago?”
+
+“About six years since.”
+
+“Is she there, still?”
+
+“Yes, sir. Since I have been in New York, I have heard from her
+frequently. I am going from here to visit her. Have you any message,
+sir? I am sure she would be glad to hear from you.”
+
+“She shall hear from me,” said the 'Squire in a low voice. “Sit down,
+and I will write her a letter which, I hope, will not prove unwelcome.”
+
+Five minutes afterwards he handed Paul an open letter.
+
+“You may read it,” he said, abruptly.
+
+“You have been a better friend to my sister than I. You shall witness my
+late reparation.”
+
+The letter was as follows:----
+
+CEDARVILLE, JAN 13, 18--.
+
+MY DEAR SISTER:--
+
+I hope you will forgive me for my long neglect. It is not fitting that
+while I am possessed of abundant means you should longer remain the
+tenant of an almshouse. I send you by the bearer of this note, Paul
+Prescott, who, I understand, is a friend of yours, the sum of three
+hundred dollars. The same sum will be sent you annually. I hope it will
+be sufficient to maintain you comfortably. I shall endeavor to call upon
+you soon, and meanwhile remain, Your affectionate brother,
+
+EZEKIEL CONANT.
+
+
+Paul read this letter with grateful joy. It seemed almost to good to be
+true. Aunt Lucy would be released from the petty tyranny of Mrs. Mudge's
+household, and perhaps--he felt almost sure Aunt Hester would be willing
+to receive her as a boarder, thus insuring her a peaceful and happy home
+in her declining years.
+
+“Oh, sir,” said he, seizing 'Squire Conant's hand, “you cannot tell how
+happy you have made me.”
+
+“It is what I ought to have done before. Here is the money referred to
+in the letter,--three hundred dollars,--mind you don't lose it.”
+
+“I will take every care, sir.”
+
+“You may tell my sister that I shall be happy to have her write me.”
+
+“I will, sir.”
+
+Paul left 'Squire Conant's house, feeling that he had great cause for
+joy. The 'Squire's refusal to receive more than half the debt, left him
+master of over three hundred dollars. But I am not sure whether he did
+not rejoice even more over the good fortune which had come to Aunt Lucy
+Lee, whose kindness to him, in his unfriended boyhood, he would ever
+hold in grateful remembrance. He enjoyed in anticipation the joy
+which he knew Aunt Lucy would feel when the change in her fortunes was
+communicated to her. He knew also how great would be the chagrin of Mr.
+and Mrs. Mudge, when they found that the meek old lady whom they hated
+was about to be rescued from their clutches. On the whole, Paul felt
+that this was the happiest day of his life. It was a satisfaction to
+feel that the good fortune of his early friend was all due to his own
+intercession.
+
+He was able to take the cars to a point four miles distant from
+Wrenville. On getting out on the platform he inquired whether there was
+a livery stable near by. He was directed to one but a few rods distant.
+Entering he asked, “Can you let me have a horse and chaise to go to
+Wrenville?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said the groom.
+
+“Let me have the best horse in the stable,” said Paul, “and charge me
+accordingly.”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said the groom, respectfully, judging from Paul's dress and
+tone that he was a young gentleman of fortune.
+
+A spirited animal was brought out, and Paul was soon seated in the
+chaise driving along the Wrenville road. Paul's city friends would
+hardly have recognized their economical acquaintance in the well-dressed
+young man who now sat behind a fast horse, putting him through his best
+paces. It might have been a weakness in Paul, but he remembered the
+manner in which he left Wrenville, an unfriended boy, compelled to fly
+from persecution under the cover of darkness, and he felt a certain
+pride in showing the Mudges that his circumstances were now entirely
+changed. It was over this very road that he had walked with his little
+bundle, in the early morning, six years before. It seemed to him almost
+like a dream.
+
+At length he reached Wrenville. Though he had not been there for six
+years, he recognized the places that had once been familiar to him. But
+everything seemed to have dwindled. Accustomed to large city warehouses,
+the houses in the village seemed very diminutive. Even 'Squire Benjamin
+Newcome's house, which he had once regarded as a stately mansion, now
+looked like a very ordinary dwelling.
+
+As he rode up the main street of the village, many eyes were fixed
+upon him and his carriage, but no one thought of recognizing, in
+the well-dressed youth, the boy who had run away from the Wrenville
+Poorhouse.
+
+
+
+
+XXXV.
+
+CONCLUSION.
+
+
+At the very moment that Paul was driving through the village street,
+Mr. Nicholas Mudge entered the Poorhouse in high spirits. Certainly
+ill-fortune must have befallen some one to make the good man so
+exhilarant.
+
+To explain, Mr. Mudge had just been to the village store to purchase
+some groceries. One of his parcels was tied up in a stray leaf of a
+recent New York Daily, in which he discovered an item which he felt
+sure would make Aunt Lucy unhappy. He communicated it to Mrs. Mudge,
+who highly approved his design. She called the old lady from the common
+room.
+
+“Here, Aunt Lucy,” she said, “is something that will interest you.”
+
+Aunt Lucy came in, wondering a little at such an unusual mark of
+attention.
+
+Mrs. Mudge immediately commenced reading with malicious emphasis a
+paragraph concerning a certain Paul Prescott, who had been arrested
+for thieving, and sentenced to the House of Reformation for a term of
+months.
+
+“There,” said Mrs. Mudge, triumphantly, “what do you say to your
+favorite now? Turned out well, hasn't he? Didn't I always say so? I
+always knew that boy was bad at heart, and that he'd come to a bad end.”
+
+“I don't believe it's the same boy,” declared Aunt Lucy, who was
+nevertheless unpleasantly affected by the paragraph. She thought it
+possible that Paul might have yielded to a powerful temptation.
+
+“Perhaps you think I've been making it up. If you don't believe it look
+at the paper for yourself,” thrusting it into Aunt Lucy's hands.
+
+“Yes,” said the old lady. “I see that the name is the same; but, for
+all that, there is a mistake somewhere. I do not believe it is the same
+boy.”
+
+“You don't? Just as if there would be more than one boy of that name.
+There may be other Prescotts, but there isn't but one Paul Prescott,
+take my word for it.”
+
+“If it is he,” said Aunt Lucy, indignantly, “is it Christianlike to
+rejoice over the poor boy's misfortune?”
+
+“Misfortune!” retorted Mrs. Mudge with a sneer; “you call it a
+misfortune to steal, then! I call it a crime.”
+
+“It's often misfortune that drives people to it, though,” continued the
+old lady, looking keenly at Mrs. Mudge. “I have known cases where they
+didn't have that excuse.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge colored.
+
+“Go back to your room,” said she, sharply; “and don't stay here accusing
+me and Mr. Mudge of unchristian conduct. You're the most troublesome
+pauper we have on our hands; and I do wish the town would provide for
+you somewhere else.”
+
+“So do I,” sighed the old lady to herself, though she did not think fit
+to give audible voice to her thoughts.
+
+It was at this moment that Paul halted his chaise at the gate, and
+lightly jumping out, fastened his horse to a tree, and walked up to the
+front door.
+
+“Who can it be?” thought Mrs. Mudge, hastily adjusting her cap, and
+taking off her apron.
+
+“I don't know, I'm sure,” said Mr. Mudge, unsuspiciously.
+
+“I declare! I look like a fright.”
+
+“No worse than usual,” said her husband, gallantly.
+
+By this time Paul had knocked.
+
+“Good-morning, sir,” said Mrs. Mudge, deferentially, her respect excited
+by Paul's dress and handsome chaise.
+
+“Is Mrs. Lee in?” inquired Paul, not caring to declare himself, yet, to
+his old enemy.
+
+“Yes,” said Mrs. Mudge, obsequiously, though not overpleased to find
+that this was Aunt Lucy's visitor; “would you like to see her?”
+
+“If you please.”
+
+“What can he want of the old lady?” thought Mrs. Mudge, as she went to
+summon her.
+
+“A visitor for me?” asked Aunt Lucy, looking at Mrs. Mudge somewhat
+suspiciously.
+
+“Yes; and as he's come in a carriage, you'd better slick up a little;
+put on a clean cap or something.”
+
+Aunt Lucy was soon ready.
+
+She looked wonderingly at Paul, not recognizing him.
+
+“You are not very good at remembering your old friends,” said Paul, with
+a smile.
+
+“What!” exclaimed Aunt Lucy, her face lighting up with joy; “are you
+little Paul?”
+
+“Not very little, now,” said our hero, laughing; “but I'm the same Paul
+you used to know.”
+
+Mrs. Mudge, who through the half open door had heard this revelation,
+was overwhelmed with astonishment and confusion. She hurried to her
+husband.
+
+“Wonders will never cease!” she exclaimed, holding up both hands. “If
+that doesn't turn out to be Paul Prescott. Of course he's up in the
+world, or he wouldn't dress so well, and ride in such a handsome
+carriage.”
+
+“You don't say so!” returned Mr. Mudge, who looked as if he had heard of
+a heavy misfortune.
+
+“Yes, I do; I heard him say so with his own lips. It's a pity you showed
+that paragraph to Aunt Lucy, this morning.”
+
+“That you showed, you mean,” retorted her husband.
+
+“No, I don't. You know it was you that did it.”
+
+“Hush; they'll hear.”
+
+Meanwhile the two friends were conversing together happily.
+
+“I'm so glad you're doing so well, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy. “It was a
+lucky day when you left the Poorhouse behind you.”
+
+“Yes, Aunt Lucy, and to-day is a lucky day for you. There's room for two
+in that chaise, and I'm going to take you away with me.”
+
+“I should enjoy a ride, Paul. It's a long time since I have taken one.”
+
+“You don't understand me. You're going away not to return.”
+
+The old lady smiled sadly.
+
+“No, no, Paul. I can't consent to become a burden upon your generosity.
+You can't afford it, and it will not be right.”
+
+“O,” said Paul, smiling, “you give me credit for too much. I mean that
+you shall pay your board.”
+
+“But you know I have no money.”
+
+“No, I don't. I don't consider that a lady is penniless, who has an
+income of three hundred dollars a year.”
+
+“I don't understand you, Paul.”
+
+“Then, perhaps you will understand this,” said our hero, enjoying the
+old lady's astonishment.
+
+He drew from his pocket a roll of bills, and passed them to Aunt Lucy.
+
+The old lady looked so bewildered, that he lost no time in explaining
+the matter to her. Then, indeed, Aunt Lucy was happy; not only because
+she had become suddenly independent, but, because after years of
+coldness and estrangement, her brother had at last become reconciled to
+her.
+
+“Now, Aunt Lucy,” resumed Paul, “I'll tell you what my plans are. You
+shall get into the chaise with me, and go at once to New York. I think
+Aunt Hester will be willing to receive you as a boarder; if not, I will
+find you a pleasant place near by. Will that suit you?”
+
+“It will make me very happy; but I cannot realize it. It seems like a
+dream.”
+
+At this moment Mrs. Mudge entered the room, and, after a moment's
+scrutiny, pretended to recognize Paul. Her husband followed close behind
+her.
+
+“Can I believe my eyes?” she exclaimed. “Is this indeed Paul Prescott? I
+am very glad to see you back.”
+
+“Only a visit, Mrs. Mudge,” said Paul, smiling.
+
+“You'll stop to dinner, I hope?”
+
+Paul thought of the soup and dry bread which he used to find so
+uninviting, and said that he should not have time to do so.
+
+“We've thought of you often,” said Mr. Mudge, writhing his harsh
+features into a smile. “There's scarcely a day that we haven't spoken of
+you.”
+
+“I ought to feel grateful for your remembrance,” said Paul, his eyes
+twinkling with mirth. “But I don't think, Mr. Mudge, you always thought
+so much of me.”
+
+Mr. Mudge coughed in some embarrassment, and not thinking of anything in
+particular to say, said nothing.
+
+“I am going to take from you another of your boarders,” said Paul. “Can
+you spare Aunt Lucy?”
+
+“For how long?” asked Mrs. Mudge.
+
+“For all the time. She has just come into possession of a little
+property,--several hundred dollars a year,--and I have persuaded her to
+go to New York to board.”
+
+“Is this true?” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge in astonishment.
+
+“Yes,” said the old lady, “God has been bountiful to me when I least
+expected it.”
+
+“Can I be of any service in assisting you to pack up, Mrs. Lee?”
+ asked Mrs. Mudge, with new-born politeness. She felt that as a lady of
+property, Aunt Lucy was entitled to much greater respect and deference
+than before.
+
+“Thank you, Mrs. Mudge,” said Paul, answering for her.
+
+“She won't have occasion for anything in this house. She will get a
+supply of new things when she gets to New York.”
+
+The old lady looked very happy, and Mrs. Mudge, in spite of her outward
+deference, felt thoroughly provoked at her good fortune.
+
+I will not dwell upon the journey to New York. Aunt Lucy, though
+somewhat fatigued, bore it much better than she had anticipated. Mr. and
+Mrs. Cameron entered very heartily into Paul's plans, and readily agreed
+to receive Aunt Lucy as an inmate of their happy and united household.
+The old lady felt it to be a happy and blessed change from the
+Poorhouse, where scanty food and poor accommodations had been made
+harder to bear by the ill temper of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, to a home whose
+atmosphere was peace and kindness.
+
+*****
+
+And now, dear reader, it behooves us to draw together the different
+threads of our story, and bring all to a satisfactory end.
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Mudge are no longer in charge of the Wrenville Poorhouse.
+After Aunt Lucy's departure, Mrs. Mudge became so morose and despotic,
+that her rule became intolerable. Loud complaints came to the ears of
+'Squire Newcome, Chairman of the Overseers of the Poor. One fine morning
+he was compelled to ride over and give the interesting couple warning
+to leave immediately. Mr. Mudge undertook the charge of a farm, but his
+habits of intoxication increased upon him to such an extent, that he was
+found dead one winter night, in a snow-drift, between his own house and
+the tavern. Mrs. Mudge was not extravagant in her expressions of grief,
+not having a very strong affection for her husband. At last accounts,
+she was keeping a boarding-house in a manufacturing town. Some time
+since, her boarders held an indignation meeting, and threatened to
+leave in a body unless she improved her fare,--a course to which she was
+obliged to submit.
+
+George Dawkins, unable to obtain a recommendation from Mr. Danforth, did
+not succeed in securing another place in New York. He finally prevailed
+upon his father to advance him a sum of money, with which he went to
+California. Let us hope that he may “turn over a new leaf” there, and
+establish a better reputation than he did in New York.
+
+Mr. Stubbs is still in the tin business. He is as happy as the day is
+long, and so are his wife and children. Once a year he comes to New York
+and pays Paul a visit. This supplies him with something to talk about
+for the rest of the year. He is frugal in his expenses, and is able
+to lay up a couple of hundred dollars every year, which he confides to
+Paul, in whose financial skill he has the utmost confidence.
+
+I am sure my boy readers would not forgive me for omitting to tell them
+something more about Ben Newcome. Although his mirthful spirit sometimes
+led him into mischief, he was good-hearted, and I have known him do many
+an act of kindness, even at considerable trouble to himself. It will be
+remembered that in consequence of his night adventure, during which
+he personated a ghost, much to the terror of Mr. Mudge his father
+determined to send him to a military school. This proved to be a
+wise arrangement. The discipline was such as Ben needed, and he soon
+distinguished himself by his excellence in the military drill. Soon
+after he graduated, the Rebellion broke out, and Ben was at once, in
+spite of his youth, elected Captain of the Wrenville company. At the
+battle of Antietam he acquitted himself with so much credit that he
+was promoted to a major. He was again promoted, and when Richmond was
+evacuated, he was one of the first officers to enter the streets of the
+Rebel capital, a colonel in command of his regiment. I have heard on
+high authority, that he is considered one of the best officers in the
+service.
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Cameron are still living. They are happy in the success and
+increasing prosperity of Paul, whom they regard as a son. Between them
+and Aunt Lucy he would stand a very fair chance of being spoiled, if his
+own good sense and good judgment were not sufficient to save him from
+such a misfortune. Paul is now admitted to a small interest in the firm,
+which entitles him to a share in the profits. As Danforth and Co. have
+done a very extensive business of late years, this interest brings him
+in a very handsome income. There is only one cause of difference between
+him and the sexton. He insists that Uncle Hugh, who is getting infirm,
+should resign his office, as he is abundantly able to support the whole
+family. But the good sexton loves his duties, and will continue to
+discharge them as long as he is able.
+
+And now we must bid farewell to Paul. He has battled bravely with the
+difficulties and discouragements that beset him in early life, he
+has been faithful to the charge which he voluntarily assumed, and his
+father's memory is free from reproach. He often wishes that his father
+could have lived to witness his prosperity? but God has decreed it
+otherwise. Happy in the love of friends, and in the enjoyment of all
+that can make life desirable, so far as external circumstances have that
+power, let us all wish him God speed!
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Paul Prescott's Charge, by Horatio Alger
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