Digging for Gold 2

Digging for Gold 2

“But you can have one if you want it.”

 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Grant,” said Mr. Tarbox, with a bright

idea. “You’re ’most as big as I am. You’re unusually large for your age.

I’ll buy a new suit for myself, and give you mine. Your mother can fix

it over to fit you.”

 

Grant’s face assumed a look of disgust.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Tarbox,” he said, “but I don’t want to wear your old

clothes. If I can’t have a new suit I don’t want any.”

 

“’Pears to me you’re mighty particular.”

 

“I don’t think so. I only want what’s right. Most boys of my age have at

least two new suits a year. Charlie Titus had three.”

 

“Then his father’s very foolish to gratify his love of finery. Come,

we’d better go to work.”

 

“You haven’t answered my question yet, Mr. Tarbox.”

 

“What is it?” asked Tarbox peevishly.

 

“Will you buy me a new suit?”

 

“Wait two or three months, Grant.”

 

“Why should I wait two or three months? I need the clothes now.”

 

“Money may be easier then.”

 

“I am not willing to wait.”

 

“’Pears to me you’re very headstrong, Grant Colburn,” said the farmer in

a tone of displeasure.

 

“I want my rights. I won’t work if you are going to deal so closely with

me.”

 

Seth Tarbox frowned, and looked perplexed. But presently an idea came to

him and his face smoothed.

 

“Perhaps we can fix it, Grant,” he said in a conciliatory tone.

 

Grant felt encouraged. It looked as if his request were to be granted.

 

“I shall be very much obliged to you,” he said.

 

“Wait a minute! You aint got my idea. Your mother has money.”

 

“What if she has?” asked Grant suspiciously.

 

“If she will lend you ten or twelve dollars to buy a suit I’ll make it

up to her in, say three or four months.”

 

Grant’s face darkened. He knew very well that the money never would be

repaid, and he penetrated the crafty design of his step-father.

 

“No, Mr. Tarbox,” he said. “My mother’s money must not be touched.

There’s little enough of it, and I don’t want her to run the risk of

losing it.”

 

“But she won’t lose it. Didn’t I say I would pay it back?”

 

“Why can’t you advance the money yourself?”

 

“Didn’t I tell you money was skerce?” said Seth Tarbox irritably.

 

“I know you’ve got money in two savings banks, besides some railroad

bonds. Tom Wilson told me the other day that you had over five thousand

dollars in money and bonds.”

 

“Tom Wilson don’t know anything about my affairs,” said Tarbox hastily.

“I’ll think it over, Grant, and mebbe—I won’t promise—I’ll see what I

can do for you. Now we’ll go to work. It’s a sin to be idle.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER II.

RODNEY BARTLETT.

 

 

Mr. Tarbox’s farm was located in Woodburn, rather a small town in Iowa.

He was originally from Connecticut, but at the age of thirty removed to

the then frontier Western State. He owned a large farm, which he had

bought at the government price of one dollar and a quarter an acre. He

also owned a smaller farm a mile and a half west of the one he occupied,

and this he cultivated on shares. It had been a lucky purchase, for a

railway intersected it, and he had obtained a large price for the land

used. Besides his two farms, he had from six to seven thousand dollars

in money; yet it seemed that the richer he grew the meaner he became. He

had a married daughter, living in Crestville, six miles away, and when

he died she and her family would no doubt inherit the miserly farmer’s

possessions. Like her father she was selfish and close so far as others

were concerned, but she was willing to spend money on herself. She had a

son about the age of Grant, who liked to wear good clothes, and was

something of a dude. His name was Rodney Bartlett, and he looked down

with infinite contempt on his grandfather’s hard-working stepson.

 

Just before twelve o’clock a smart looking buggy drove into the yard.

The occupants of the buggy were Rodney and his mother.

 

“Hey, you!” he called out to Grant, “come and hold the horse while we

get out.”

 

Grant came forward and did as he was requested. Had Rodney been alone he

would not have heeded the demand, but Mrs. Bartlett’s sex claimed

deference, though he did not like her.

 

“Just go in and tell your mother we’ve come to dinner.”

 

But Grant was spared the trouble, for the farmer came up at this moment.

 

“Howdy do, Sophia!” he said. “What sent you over?”

 

“I wanted to consult you about a little matter of business, father. I

hope Mrs. Tarbox will have enough dinner for us.”

 

“I reckon so, I reckon so,” said Seth Tarbox, who, to do him justice,

was not mean as regarded the table. “How’s your husband?”

 

“Oh, he’s ailing as usual. He’s lazy and shiftless, and if it wasn’t for

me I don’t know what would become of us.”

 

By this time the two had entered the house. Rodney stayed behind, and

glanced superciliously at Grant.

 

“Seems to me you’re looking shabbier than ever,” he said.

 

“You’re right there,” said Grant bitterly, “but it isn’t my fault.”

 

“Whose is it?”

 

“Your grandfather’s. He won’t buy me any clothes.”

 

“Well, you’re not kin to him.”

 

“I know that, but I work hard and earn a great deal more than I get.”

 

“I don’t know about that. Maybe I can hunt up one of my old suits for

you,” Rodney added patronizingly.

 

“Thank you, but I don’t want anybody’s cast-off clothes; at any rate,

not yours.”

 

“You’re getting proud,” sneered Rodney.

 

“You can call it that if you like.”

 

“Don’t you wish you was me, so you could wear good clothes all the

time?”

 

“I should like to wear the good clothes, but I’d rather be myself than

anybody else.”

 

“Some time I shall be rich,” said Rodney complacently. “I shall have all

grandfather’s money.”

 

“Won’t it go to your mother?”

 

“Oh, well, she’ll give it to me. I hope you don’t think you and your

mother will get any of it?”

 

“We ought to, for mother is making a slave of herself, but I don’t think

we will. If your grandfather would do more for us now we wouldn’t mind

inheriting anything.”

 

There was a tapping on the front window.

 

“That means dinner, I suppose,” said Grant.

 

“Are you going to sit down with us?” asked Rodney, eying Grant’s costume

with disfavor.

 

“Yes.”

 

“In those clothes?”

 

“I haven’t time to change them. Besides my Sunday suit isn’t much

better.”

 

At the table, toward the close of the meal, Rodney said, “Grandfather,

Grant isn’t dressed very well.”

 

Seth Tarbox frowned.

 

“Has he been complaining to you?” he asked. “He’s been pesterin’ all the

mornin’ about new clothes. I told him money was skerce.”

 

“I can save you expense, grandfather. I will give him an old suit of

mine—one I have cast off.”

 

“Why, that’s an excellent plan,” said Tarbox, brightening up. “Do you

hear that, Grant? You won’t need to buy a new suit for yourself now.”

 

“I don’t care for any of Rodney’s old clothes,” answered Grant, with an

indignant flush.

 

“Sho! sho! You’re acting very contrary. Rodney’s suit is a good deal

better than yours, I’ve no doubt.”

 

“I don’t know whether it is or not, but I’m entitled to new clothes, and

I want them.”

 

“What do you say to that, Mrs. Tarbox?” demanded the farmer, looking

over at his wife.

 

“I say that he is right. Grant has worked hard, Mr. Tarbox, and he ought to be decently dressed.”