The Cash Boy 2

The Cash Boy 2

"'Move from Brooklyn?' I repeated.

 

"'Yes,' he answered, firmly. 'I do not think it necessary to give you a

reason for this condition. Enough that it is imperative. If you decline,

our negotiations are at an end.'

 

"I looked at my husband. He seemed as much surprised as I was.

 

"'Perhaps you will wish to consult together,' suggested our visitor.

'If so, I can give you twenty minutes. I will remain in this room while

you go out and talk it over.'

 

"We acted on this hint, and went into the kitchen. We decided that

though we should prefer to live in Brooklyn, it would be worth our while

to make the sacrifice for the sake of the addition to our income. We

came in at the end of ten minutes, and announced our decision. Our

visitor seemed to be very much pleased.

 

"'Where would you wish us to move?' asked your father.

 

"'I do not care to designate any particular place. I should prefer some

small country town, from fifty to a hundred miles distant. I suppose you

will be able to move soon?'

 

"'Yes, sir; we will make it a point to do so. How soon will the child

be placed in our hands? Shall we send for it?'

 

"'No, no,' he said, hastily. 'I cannot tell you exactly when, but it

will be brought here probably in the course of a day or two. I myself

shall bring it, and if at that time you wish to say anything additional

you can do so.'

 

"He went away, leaving us surprised and somewhat excited at the change

that was to take place in our lives. The next evening the sound of

wheels was heard, and a hack stopped at our gate. The same gentleman

descended hurriedly with a child in his arms--you were the child,

Frank--and entered the house.

 

"'This is the child,' he said, placing it in my arms, 'and here is the

first quarterly installment of your pay. Three months hence you will

receive the same sum from my agent in New York. Here is his address,'

and he placed a card in my hands. 'Have you anything to ask?'

 

"'Suppose I wish to communicate with you respecting the child? Suppose

he is sick?'

 

"'Then write to A. M., care of Giles Warner, No. ---- Nassau Street.

By the way, it will be necessary for you to send him your postoffice

address after your removal in order that he may send you your quarterly

dues.'

 

"With this he left us, entered the hack, and drove off. I have never

seen him since."

 

 

 

CHAPTER III

 

LEFT ALONE

 

Frank listened to this revelation with wonder. For the first time in his

life he asked himself, "Who am I?"

 

"How came I by my name, mother?" he asked.

 

"I must tell you. After the sudden departure of the gentleman who

brought you, we happened to think that we had not asked your name. We

accordingly wrote to the address which had been given us, making the

inquiry. In return we received a slip of paper containing these words:

'The name is immaterial; give him any name you please. A. M.'"

 

"You gave me the name of Frank."

 

"It was Mr. Fowler's name. We should have given it to you had you been

our own boy; as the choice was left to us, we selected that."

 

"It suits me as well as any other. How soon did you leave Brooklyn,

mother?"

 

"In a week we had made all arrangements, and removed to this place. It

is a small place, but it furnished as much work as my husband felt able

to do. With the help of the allowance for your support, we not only got

on comfortably, but saved up a hundred and fifty dollars annually, which

we deposited in a savings bank. But after five years the money stopped

coming. It was the year 1857, the year of the great panic, and among

others who failed was Giles Warner's agent, from whom we received our

payments. Mr. Fowler went to New York to inquire about it, but only

learned that Mr. Warner, weighed down by his troubles, had committed

suicide, leaving no clew to the name of the man who left you with us."

 

"How long ago was that, mother?"

 

"Seven years ago nearly eight."

 

"And you continued to keep me, though the payments stopped."

 

"Certainly; you were as dear to us as our own child--for we now had a

child of our own--Grace. We should as soon have thought of casting off

her as you."

 

"But you must have been poor, mother."

 

"We were economical, and we got along till your father died three years

ago. Since then it has been hard work."

 

"You have had a hard time, mother."

 

"No harder on your account. You have been a great comfort to me, Frank.

I am only anxious for the future. I fear you and Grace will suffer after

I am gone."

 

"Don't fear, mother, I am young and strong; I am not afraid to face the

world with God's help."

 

"What are you thinking of, Frank?" asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing the boy's

fixed look.

 

"Mother," he said, earnestly, "I mean to seek for that man you have told

me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?"

 

"He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and

said this to deceive us, probably."

 

"I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father. From

what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him."

 

"He must be nearly fifty now--dark complexion, with dark hair and

whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any. There are

many men who look like that. I should know him by his __EXPRESSION__, but I

cannot describe that to you."

 

Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and

Frank begged her to say no more.

 

Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing,

and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She herself felt

that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to

believe.

 

On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village

store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.

 

"Is your mother very sick, Frank?" he asked.

 

"Yes, Sam, I'm afraid she won't live."

 

"Is it so bad as that? I do believe," he added, with a sudden change of

tone, "Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is trying to get

your place as captain of the baseball club. He says that if your mother

doesn't live, you will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won't have

any money, and that it will be a disgrace for the club to have a captain

from the poorhouse."

 

"Did he say that?" asked Frank, indignantly.

 

"Yes."

 

"When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to the

poorhouse."

 

"He says his father is going to put you and your sister there."

 

"All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the

poorhouse!" said Frank, resolutely.

 

"Bully for you, Frank! I knew you had spunk."

 

Frank hurried home. As he entered the little house a neighbor's wife,

who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.

 

"Frank," she said, gravely, "you must prepare yourself for sad news.

While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage, and--and--"

 

"Is she dead?" asked the boy, his face very pale.

 

"She is dead!"

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

THE TOWN AUTOCRAT

 

 

"The Widder Fowler is dead," remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the supper

table. "She died this afternoon."

 

"I suppose she won't leave anything," said Mrs. Pinkerton.

 

"No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and that is all she has."

 

"What will become of the children?"

 

"As I observed, day before yesterday, they will be constrained to find a

refuge in the poorhouse."

 

"What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me, father?"

 

"I am not able to conjecture what Samuel would be likely to observe, my

son."

 

"He observed that Frank Fowler said he wouldn't go to the poorhouse."

 

"Ahem!" coughed the deacon. "The boy will not be consulted."

 

"That's what I say, father," said Tom, who desired to obtain his

father's co-operation. "You'll make him go to the poorhouse, won't you?"

 

"I shall undoubtedly exercise my authority, if it should be necessary,

my son."

 

"He told Sam Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertons in the world

couldn't make him go to the poorhouse."

 

"I will constrain him," said the deacon.

 

"I would if I were you, father," said Tom, elated at the effect of his

words. "Just teach him a lesson."

 

"Really, deacon, you mustn't be too hard upon the poor boy," said his

better-hearted wife. "He's got trouble enough on him."

 

"I will only constrain him for his good, Jane. In the poorhouse he will

be well provided for."

 

Meanwhile another conversation respecting our hero and his fortunes was

held at Sam Pomeroy's home. It was not as handsome as the deacon's, for

Mr. Pomeroy was a poor man, but it was a happy one, nevertheless, and

Mr. Pomeroy, limited as were his means, was far more liberal than the

deacon.

 

"I pity Frank Fowler," said Sam, who was warm-hearted and sympathetic,

and a strong friend of Frank. "I don't know what he will do."

 

"I suppose his mother left nothing."

 

"I understood," said Mr. Pomeroy, "that Deacon Pinkerton holds a

mortgage on her furniture."

 

"The deacon wants to send Frank and his sister to the poorhouse."

 

"That would be a pity."

 

"I should think so; but Frank positively says he won't go."

 

"I am afraid there isn't anything else for him. To be sure, he may get a

chance to work in a shop or on a farm, but Grace can't support herself."

 

"Father, I want to ask you a favor."

 

"What is it, Sam?"

 

"Won't you invite Frank and his sister to come and stay here a week?"

 

"Just as your mother says."

 

"I say yes. The poor children will be quite welcome. If we were rich

enough they might stay with us all the time."

 

"When Frank comes here I will talk over his affairs with him," said Mr.

Pomeroy. "Perhaps we can think of some plan for him."

 

"I wish you could, father."

 

"In the meantime, you can invite him and Grace to come and stay with us

a week, or a fortnight. Shall we say a fortnight, wife?"

 

"With all my heart."

 

"All right, father. Thank you."

 

Sam delivered the invitation in a way that showed how strongly his own

feelings were enlisted in favor of its acceptance. Frank grasped his

hand.

 

"Thank you, Sam, you are a true friend," he said.

 

"I hadn't begun to think of what we were to do, Grace and I."

 

"You'll come, won't you?"

 

"You are sure that it won't trouble your mother, Sam?"

 

"She is anxious to have you come."

 

"Then I'll come. I haven't formed any plans yet, but I must as soon--as

soon as mother is buried. I think I can earn my living somehow. One

thing I am determined about--I won't go to the poorhouse."

 

The funeral was over. Frank and Grace walked back to the little house,

now their home no longer. They were to pack up a little bundle of

clothes and go over to Mr. Pomeroy's in time for supper.

 

When Frank had made up his bundle, urged by some impulse, he opened a

drawer in his mother's bureau. His mind was full of the story she had

told him, and he thought it just possible that he might find something

to throw additional light upon his past history. While exploring the

contents of the drawer he came to a letter directed to him in his

mother's well-known handwriting. He opened it hastily, and with a

feeling of solemnity, read as follows:

 

 

"My Dear Frank: In the lower drawer, wrapped in a piece of brown paper,

you will find two gold eagles, worth twenty dollars. You will need them

when I am gone. Use them for Grace and yourself. I saved these for my

children. Take them, Frank, for I have nothing else to give you. The

furniture will pay the debt I owe Deacon Pinkerton. There ought to be

something over, but I think he will take all. I wish I had more to leave

you, dear Frank, but the God of the Fatherless will watch over you--to

Him I commit you and Grace.

 

"Your affectionate mother,

 

"RUTH FOWLER."

 

 

Frank, following the instructions of the letter, found the gold pieces

and put them carefully into his pocketbook. He did not mention the

letter to Grace at present, for he knew not but Deacon Pinkerton might

lay claim to the money to satisfy his debt if he knew it.

 

"I am ready, Frank," said Grace, entering the room. "Shall we go?"

 

"Yes, Grace. There is no use in stopping here any longer."

 

As he spoke he heard the outer door open, and a minute later Deacon

Pinkerton entered the room.

 

None of the deacon's pompousness was abated as he entered the house and

the room.

 

"Will you take a seat?" said our hero, with the air of master of the

house.

 

"I intended to," said the deacon, not acknowledging his claim. "So your

poor mother is gone?"

 

"Yes, sir," said Frank, briefly.

 

"We must all die," said the deacon, feeling that it was incumbent on him

to say something religious. "Ahem! your mother died poor? She left no

property?"

 

"It was not her fault."

 

"Of course not. Did she mention that I had advanced her money on the

furniture?"

 

"My mother told me all about it, sir."

 

"Ahem! You are in a sad condition. But you will be taken care of. You

ought to be thankful that there is a home provided for those who have no

means."

 

"What home do you refer to, Deacon Pinkerton?" asked Frank, looking

steadily in the face of his visitor.

 

"I mean the poorhouse, which the town generously provides for those who

cannot support themselves."

 

This was the first intimation Grace had received of the possibility that

they would be sent to such a home, and it frightened her.

 

"Oh, Frank!" she exclaimed, "must we go to the poorhouse?"

 

"No, Grace; don't be frightened," said Frank, soothingly. "We will not

go."

 

"Frank Fowler," said the deacon, sternly, "cease to mislead your

sister."

 

"I am not misleading her, sir."

 

"Did you not tell her that she would not be obliged to go to the

poorhouse?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Then what do you mean by resisting my authority?"

 

"You have no authority over us. We are not paupers," and Frank lifted

his head proudly, and looked steadily in the face of the deacon.

 

"You are paupers, whether you admit it or not."

 

"We are not," said the boy, indignantly.

 

"Where is your money? Where is your property?"

 

"Here, sir," said our hero, holding out his hands.

 

"I have two strong hands, and they will help me make a living for my

sister and myself."

 

"May I ask whether you expect to live here and use my furniture?"

 

"I do not intend to, sir. I shall ask no favors of you, neither for

Grace nor myself. I am going to leave the house. I only came back to get

a few clothes. Mr. Pomeroy has invited Grace and me to stay at his house

for a few days. I haven't decided what I shall do afterward."

 

"You will have to go to the poorhouse, then. I have no objection to your making this visit first. It will be a saving to the town."