Charlie Codmans Cruise 1

Charlie Codmans Cruise 1

Charlie Codmans Cruise

A Story for Boys

 

Author: Horatio Alger

PREFACE.

In deference to the expressed wishes of some of his young friends,

the author has essayed a story of the sea, and now presents "Charlie

Codman's Cruise," as the third volume of the Campaign Series. It will

be found more adventurous than its predecessors, and the trials which

Charlie is called upon to encounter are of a severer character than

befell Frank Frost or Paul Prescott. But it will be found that they

were met with the same manly spirit, and a like determination to be

faithful to duty at all hazards.

 

Though not wholly a stranger to the sea, the author is quite aware of

the blunders to which a landsman is exposed in treating of matters and

a mode of life which, at the best, he must comprehend but imperfectly,

and has endeavored to avoid, as far as possible, professional

technicalities, as not essential to the interest of the story.

 

With these few words he submits the present volume to his young

readers, hoping for it a welcome even more generous than has been

accorded to "Frank's Campaign" and "Paul Prescott's Charge."

 

 

 

 

CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE.

 

 

 

 

I.

 

CHARLIE AND THE MISER.

 

 

Charlie Codman turned out of Washington into Bedford Street just as the

clock in the Old South steeple struck two. He was about fourteen, a

handsome, well-made boy, with a bright eye and a manly __EXPRESSION__. But

he was poor. That was evident enough from his clothes, which, though

neat and free from dust, were patched in several places. He had a small

roll of daily papers under his arm, the remains of his stock in trade,

which he had been unable wholly to dispose of.

 

Some of my readers may know that the Latin School and English High

School are kept in the same building. At two o'clock both are

dismissed. Charlie had scarcely passed the school-house when a crowd

of boys issued from the school-yard, and he heard his name called from

behind. Looking back he recognized a boy somewhat smaller than himself,

with whom he had formed an acquaintance some time before.

 

"Where are you bound, Charlie?" asked Edwin Banks.

 

"I'm going home now."

 

"What luck have you had this morning?"

 

"Not much. I've got four papers left over, and that will take away

about all my profits."

 

"What a pity you are poor, Charlie. I wish you could come to school

with us."

 

"So do I, Eddie. I'd give a good deal to get an education, but I feel

that I ought to help mother."

 

"Why won't you come some time, and see us, Charlie? Clare and myself

would be very glad to see you at any time."

 

"I should like to go," said Charlie, "but I don't look fit."

 

"Oh, never mind about your clothes. I like you just as well as if you

were dressed in style."

 

"Perhaps I'll come some time," said Charlie. "I'd invite you to come

and see me, but we live in a poor place."

 

"Just as if I should care for that. I will come whenever I get an

invitation."

 

"Then come next Saturday afternoon. I will be waiting for you as you

come out of school."

 

Charlie little thought where he would be when Saturday came.

 

Shortly after the boys separated, and Charlie's attention was arrested

by the sight of an old man with a shambling gait, who was bending

over and anxiously searching for something on the sidewalk. Charlie

recognized him at once as "old Manson, the miser," for this was the

name by which he generally went.

 

Old Peter Manson was not more than fifty-five, but he looked from

fifteen to twenty years older. If his body had been properly cared

for, it would have been different; but, one by one, its functions had

been blunted and destroyed, and it had become old and out of repair.

Peter's face was ploughed with wrinkles. His cheeks were thin, and the

skin was yellow and hung in folds. His beard appeared to have received

little or no attention for a week, at least, and was now stiff and

bristling.

 

The miser's dress was not very well fitted to his form. It was in

the fashion of twenty years before. Grayish pantaloons, patched in

divers places with dark cloth by an unskilful hand; a vest from which

the buttons had long since departed, and which was looped together

by pieces of string, but not closely enough to conceal a dirty and

tattered shirt beneath; a coat in the last stages of shabbiness; while

over all hung a faded blue cloak, which Peter wore in all weathers. In

the sultriest days of August he might have been seen trudging along in

this old mantle, which did him the good service of hiding a multitude

of holes and patches, while in January he went no warmer clad. There

were some who wondered how he could stand the bitter cold of winter

with no more adequate covering; but if Peter's body was as tough as

his conscience, there was no fear of his suffering.

 

Charlie paused a moment to see what it was that the old man was hunting

for.

 

"Have you lost anything?" he asked.

 

"Yes," said Peter, in quavering accents. "See if you can't find it,

that's a good boy. Your eyes are better than mine."

 

"What is it?"

 

"It is some money, and I--I'm so poor, I can't afford to lose it."

 

"How much was it?"

 

"It wasn't much, but I'm so poor I need it."

 

Charlie espied a cent, lying partially concealed by mud, just beside

the curb-stone. He picked it up.

 

"This isn't what you lost, is it?"

 

"Yes," said Peter, seizing it eagerly. "You're a good boy to find it. A

good boy!"

 

"Well," thought Charlie, wondering, as the old man hobbled off with his

recovered treasure, "I'd rather be poor than care so much for money as

that. People say old Peter's worth his thousands. I wonder whether it

is so."

 

Charlie little dreamed how much old Peter was likely to influence his

destiny, and how, at his instigation, before a week had passed over his

head, he would find himself in a very disagreeable situation.

 

We must follow Peter.

 

With his eyes fixed on the ground he shuffled along, making more rapid

progress than could have been expected. Occasionally he would stoop

down and pick up any little stray object which arrested his attention,

even to a crooked pin, which he thrust into his cloak, muttering as he

did so, "Save my buying any. I haven't had to buy any pins for more'n

ten years, and I don't mean to buy any more while I live. Ha! ha!

Folks are _so_ extravagant! They buy things they don't need, or that

they might pick up, if they'd only take the trouble to keep their eyes

open. 'Tisn't so with old Peter. He's too cunning for that. There goes

a young fellow dressed up in the fashion. What he's got on must have

cost nigh on to a hundred dollars. What dreadful extravagance! Ha!

ha! It hasn't cost old Peter twenty dollars for the last ten years. If

he had spent money as some do, he might have been in the poor-house by

this time. Ugh! ugh! it costs a dreadful sum to live. If we could only

come into the world with natural clothes, like cats, what a deal better

it would be. But it costs the most for food. Oh dear! what a dreadful

appetite I've got, and I _must_ eat. All the money spent for victuals

seem thrown away. I've a good mind, sometimes, to go to the poor-house,

where it wouldn't cost me anything. What a blessing it would be to eat,

if you could only get food for nothing!"

 

It is very clear that Peter would have been far better off, as far as

the comforts of life are concerned, in the city almshouse; but there

were some little obstacles in the way of his entering. For instance,

it would scarcely have been allowed a public pensioner to go round

quarterly to collect his rents,--a thing which Peter would hardly have

relinquished.

 

Reflections upon the cost of living brought to Peter's recollection

that he had nothing at home for supper. He accordingly stepped into a

baker's shop close at hand.

 

"Have you got any bread cheap?" he inquired of the baker.

 

"We intend to sell at moderate prices."

 

"What do you ask for those loaves?" said the old man, looking wistfully

at some fresh loaves piled upon the counter, which had been but a short

time out of the oven.

 

"Five cents apiece," said the baker. "I'll warrant you will find them

good. They are made of the best of flour."

 

"Isn't five cents rather dear?" queried Peter, his natural appetite

struggling with his avarice.

 

"Dear!" retorted the baker, opening his eyes in astonishment; "why, my

good sir, at what price do you expect to buy bread?"

 

"I've no doubt they're very good," said Peter, hastily; "but have you

any stale loaves? I guess they'll be better for me."

 

"Yes," said the baker, "I believe I have, but they're not as good as