Alger Horatio Jr.
Andy Grant's Pluck
CHAPTER XXV.
SQUIRE CARTER'S RELATIVES
Andy was kind-hearted, and the boy's evident sorrow appealed to him. He went forward and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"I went to the baker's to buy some bread for mother, and the baker tells me that the quarter is a bad one."
"Let me look at it."
The coin had a dull appearance and a greasy feeling. It was unquestionably counterfeit.
"Yes, it is bad," said Andy. "Is your mother poor?"
"Very poor," answered the boy. "This quarter was all the money she had, and now we shall have no supper."
"Whom do you mean by 'we'?"
"My little brother and myself."
Andy intended at first simply to give the boy a good coin for the bad one, but he saw that there was a call for something more.
"Do you live near here?" he asked.
"Yes, sir; just across the street."
"I will go back with you to the baker's, and then I will go with you to see your mother. Perhaps I can help her."
The boy put his hand confidingly in Andy's, and the two went a little distance to the baker's.
"Now make your purchases," said Andy.
"If you have brought back that bad quarter I won't take it," announced the baker, sharply.
"I will pay you," said Andy, quietly.
"Then it's all right. The boy brought me a very bad quarter. I have to look sharp, for a good many bad coins are offered me."
Andy produced a genuine silver piece, and the bread was handed to the boy, with the change.
The boy looked at it hesitatingly.
"It is yours," he said to Andy.
"No, I have changed quarters with you. I will keep the bad one."
Again he looked at the boy, and again the resemblance to some familiar face puzzled him.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Ben Carter."
Carter! That explained it. The boy looked like Conrad Carter, though he had a pleasanter expression.
"Have you an Uncle Philemon?" he inquired.
"How did you know?" asked the boy, in surprise.
"Because you look like Conrad Carter."
"He is my cousin."
"And you are poor?"
"Yes."
"Your uncle is considered rich."
"I know he is, but he won't do anything for mother."
Andy was now all the more desirous of seeing the boy's family.
"I know your uncle," he said. "Do you think he knows you are so poor?"
"Yes, for mother has written to him."
By this time they had reached the place which Ben called home.
"Go upstairs and I will follow," said Andy.
They went up two flights, and the boy opened a door at the top of the landing.
There was a woman not far from forty in the room. On her face was a look of settled sorrow. At her knee was a small boy five years of age. She looked at Andy inquiringly.
"Mother," said Ben, "here is the bread. I couldn't have bought it, for the quarter was bad, if this boy had not given me another quarter."
"This young gentleman," corrected the mother.
"No, Mrs. Carter; I am a boy, and I prefer to be called so. I came up with Ben, for I find that he is related to Squire Carter, of Arden, whom I know very well."
"You know Philemon Carter?"
"Yes; he lives in Arden. That is my birthplace."
Mrs. Carter's countenance fell.
"Philemon Carter was my husband's brother," she said; "but there is little friendship between us."
"He is reputed rich."
"And we are poor. I see you wonder at that. When my husband's father died, Philemon was executor. It was understood that he was worth twenty-five thousand dollars. Yet of this amount my poor husband received but one thousand. I may be uncharitable, but I have always felt that Philemon cheated us out of our rightful share."
"I should not be surprised. I never liked Squire Carter. He always seemed to me to be a selfish man."
"He has certainly acted selfishly toward us."
"Does he know of your poverty?"
"Yes. Only two weeks since, in a fit of despair, I wrote to him for help. Here is his answer."
She handed a letter to Andy. He instantly recognized the handwriting of the magnate of Arden.
"Shall I read it?" he asked.
"Yes, do so, and let me know what you think of it."
This was the letter:
"SOPHIA: I have received your letter, and am surprised that you should expect me to help support you. You are my brother's widow, it is true, but your destitution is no fault of mine. My brother was always shiftless and unpractical, and to such men good luck never comes. He might at any rate have insured his life, and so made comfortable provision for you. You cannot expect me to repair his negligence. You say you have two boys, one eleven years of age. He is certainly able to earn money by selling papers or tending an office.
"As for myself, I am not a rich man, but have always been careful to meet my expenses and provide for the future. I, too, have a son, Conrad, whom I think it my duty to educate and start in life. Any money I might send you would be so much taken from him. I advise you to apply to some charitable society if you need temporary assistance. It will be much better than to write me begging letters. Yours truly,
"PHILEMON CARTER."
"This is a very cold-blooded letter," said Andy, indignantly. "He might at least have inclosed a five-dollar bill."
"He inclosed nothing. I shall never apply to him again."
"Philemon Carter is considered to be one of the richest men in Arden. He is taxed for twenty-five thousand dollars, and is probably worth double that sum. People wonder where he got all his money."
"A part of it is my husband's rightful share of the estate, I have no doubt."
"Can you do nothing about it?"
"How can I? I am poor and have no influential friends. He denies everything."
"I will think of that, Mrs. Carter. I know a lawyer down town who may some time look into the matter for you. In the meanwhile, is there any special work you can do?"
"Before I was married I was for a time a typewriter."
"I will see if I can hear of a situation of that kind. The lawyer I spoke of may require an operator."
"I would thankfully accept such a position."
"Does Ben earn anything?"
"He makes a little selling papers."
"He ought to be going to school at his age."
"If I could get any work to do I would send him."
"Mrs. Carter, will you accept a little help from me?"
Andy drew a five-dollar bill from his pocketbook and tendered it to the widow.
"But," she said, "can you spare this? It is a large sum, and you are only a boy, probably not earning much."
"I am a boy, but I am handsomely paid for my services. Besides, I have good friends to whom I can apply if I run short of money."
"Heaven bless you!" said Mrs. Carter, earnestly. "You cannot tell how much good this money will do me. This morning I was utterly discouraged. I felt that the Lord had forsaken me. But I was mistaken. He has raised up for me a good friend, who—"
"Hopes to be of a good deal more service to you. I must leave you now, but I shall bear you in mind, and hope soon to be the bearer of good tidings. I will take down your address, and call upon you again soon. Will you allow me to offer you a suggestion?"
"Certainly."
"Then send out and buy some meat. This dry bread is not sufficient for you. Don't be afraid to spend the money I leave with you. I will see that you have more."
As Andy left Mrs. Carter's humble home he felt more than ever the cold and selfish character of the man who, himself living luxuriously, suffered his brother's family to want.
CHAPTER XXVI.
MR. WARREN AND HIS SUCCESS
Andy told Mr. Crawford about the poor family he had visited, and what he had done to help them.
"You must let me refund the money, Andy," said his employer. "Five dollars is a good deal for a boy to give."
"Don't forget that I have a double income, Mr. Crawford. I would prefer that this money should come from me. If you are willing to give another five dollars, it will be appreciated."
"Then I will make it ten. Will you take charge of this bill and give it to Mrs. Carter?"
"With the greatest pleasure, Mr. Crawford. You have no idea what happiness it will give the family."
"I am glad you called my attention to their needs. If I could do anything more to help them—"
"You can if you know any one who wants a typewriter."
"Is the boy able to work a typewriter?"
"No, but the mother is. Before her marriage she was in a lawyer's office."
"That is a fortunate suggestion. I have a college friend—a classmate at Columbia—Mr. Gardner, who has just parted with his typewriter, who is about to be married."
"May I call at his office, and ask for the situation for Mrs. Carter?"
"Yes; it is on Nassau Street."
Andy seized his hat and went over to the lawyer's office.
It was 132 Nassau Street, in the Vanderbilt Building. He went up in the elevator and found Mr. Gardner in.
"I come from Mr. Crawford," said Andy. "He says you need a typewriter."
"Are you a typewriter?"
"No; I ask for the position for a lady;" and he told the story.
"You say she has had experience in a lawyer's office?"
"Yes, sir."
"That will make her more desirable. When can she call?"
"I will have her here to-morrow morning at any hour."
"Say ten o'clock—a little before, perhaps."
The lawyer was a pleasant-looking man of medium age, and Andy felt sure that he would be a kind and considerate employer.
After office hours, and before going up to his pupil, Andy called at the humble home of Mrs. Carter. The widow's face brightened as she saw him.
"You are my good friend," she said. "You are welcome."
"My employer, Mr. Crawford, sends you this," and Andy displayed the bill.
"It is a godsend. It will enable me to pay my rent, due on Saturday, and give me three dollars over."
"But that is not all. I have procured you a situation as typewriter in a lawyer's office. You will have to be on hand to-morrow morning a little before ten. The office is Mr. Gardner's, at 132 Nassau Street."
"I can hardly believe in my good fortune. I will be there."
"Can you leave the children?"
"I will ask my neighbor, Mrs. Parker, to look after them. What a good young man you are!" she exclaimed, gratefully.
"Not young man—boy," corrected Andy, with a smile.
"Won't you stay and take a cup of tea?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Carter, but I have an evening engagement. Oh, by the way, I forgot to say that Mr. Gardner will pay you ten dollars a week."
"I shall feel rich. I shall no longer be worried by thoughts of starvation."
"Some time you might consult Mr. Gardner about your brother-in-law's withholding your share of the estate. He will be able to advise you."
Andy felt a warm glow in his heart at the thought of the happiness he had been instrumental in bringing to the poor family. He had learned the great lesson that some never learn, that there is nothing so satisfactory as helping others. We should have a much better world if that was generally understood.
The next day Andy received a letter from his stanch friend, Valentine Burns. He read it eagerly, for it brought him some home news, and in spite of his success he had not forgotten Arden and his many friends there.
This was the letter:
"DEAR ANDY: How long it seems since I saw you! You know that you were my most intimate friend, and of course I miss you very much. To be sure, there is Conrad, who seems willing to bestow his company upon me, as my father happens to be pretty well off, but I look upon Conrad as a snob, and don't care much about him. When we met yesterday, he inquired after you.
"'What's your friend, Andy Grant, doing in the city?'
"'He is in a real estate office,' I replied.
"'Humph! how much does he get paid?'
"'Five dollars.'
"'That is probably more than he earns, but it isn't much to live
upon.'
"I didn't care to tell him that you had another income, but said:
'Don't you think you could live on it?'
"'I couldn't live on ten dollars a week,' said Conrad, loftily.
'But, then, I haven't been accustomed to live like Andy Grant.'
"It must be pleasant to you to know that Conrad feels so much
interest in your welfare.
"Sometimes I see your father. He looks careworn. I suppose he is thinking of the difficult position in which he is placed. I am sorry to say that last week he lost his best cow by some disease. I heard that he valued it at fifty dollars. I hope that you won't let this worry you. The tide will turn some time. I saw your mother day before yesterday. She is glad of your success, but of course she misses you. She always receives me very cordially, knowing that we are intimate friends.
"I wish I could see you, Andy. You have no idea how I miss you. I like quite a number of the boys, but none is so near to me as you were.
"Well, Andy, I must close. Come to Arden soon, if you can. It will do us good to see you, and I think even Conrad will be glad, as it will give him a chance to pump you as to your position.
"Your affectionate friend,
"VALENTINE BURNS."
"So father has lost his best cow—old Whitey," said Andy, thoughtfully. "If I were not owing money to Mr. Crawford for the land in Tacoma I would buy him a new one, but some time I hope the land will be valuable, and then I can make the loss good to father."
The reader has not, I hope, forgotten Andy's fellow lodger, S. Byron Warren. Mr. Warren was always writing something for the Century, the Atlantic, or some other leading magazine, but never had been cheered by an acceptance. The magazine editors seemed leagued against him.
But one evening, when Andy returned from the office, he found Mr. Warren beaming with complacence.
"You look happy to-night, Mr. Warren," he said.
"Yes," answered the author; "look at that."
He held out to Andy an eight-page paper called The Weekly Magnet, and
pointed out a story of two columns on the second page. Under the title
Andy read, "By S. Byron Warren." It was called "The Magician's Spell; A
Tale of Sunny Spain."
"I congratulate you," said Andy. "When did you write the story?"
"Last winter."
"How does it happen to be published so late?"
"You see, I sent it first to Scribner's, then to Harper's, and then to the Atlantic. They didn't seem to fancy it, so I sent it to the Magnet."
"I hope they paid you for it."
"Yes," answered Warren, proudly. "They gave me a dollar and a half for it."
"Isn't that rather small?"
"Well, it is small, but the paper is poor. The editor wrote to me that he would be glad to pay me ten dollars for such a sketch when they are more prosperous."
"I suppose you will write again? You must feel greatly encouraged."
"I have been writing another story to-day. I shall mail it to them to-morrow."
"I hope the Magnet will prosper for your sake."
"Thank you. I hope so, too. Ah, Andy, you don't know how it seems to see your own words in print!" said the author.
"I am afraid I never shall, Mr. Warren. I was not intended for an author."
"Oh, I think you might write something," said Warren, patronizingly.
"No; I shall leave the literary field to you."
CHAPTER XXVII.
ANDY MAKES A COMMISSION
Mr. Crawford was busy in his office when a gentleman of fifty entered.
"I hope you are at leisure, Crawford," he said.
"But I am not, Mr. Grayling. I am unusually busy."
"I wanted you to go out and show me that house in Mount Vernon which you mentioned to me the other day. My wife is desirous of moving from the city for the sake of the children."
"Won't to-morrow do?"
"To-morrow I shall be busy myself. To-day is so fine that I managed to get off. Can't you manage to go?"
"No, Grayling, I can't possibly be spared from the office."
"Is there no one you can send with me?"
Mr. Crawford hesitated a moment. Then, as his eye fell upon Andy, he had a sudden thought.
"I will send this young man," he said.
Mr. Grayling smiled.
"He seems quite a young man," he said.
"Yes," said Mr. Crawford, with an answering smile, "he is several years short of forty."
"If you think he will do I shall be glad of his company."
"Wait five minutes, and I will give him the necessary instructions."
"Have you ever been in Mount Vernon, Andy?" asked his employer.
"Yes, sir; I have a boy friend there, and I once spent a Sunday there."
"Mr. Grayling wishes to purchase a residence there. I shall place him in your charge, and give you an order for the key. I will mention some points to which I wish you to call his attention."
Andy was pleased with the commission. It seemed like a step in advance.
"Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for your confidence in me."
"If you succeed in selling the house to Mr. Grayling, I will give you one per cent. commission."
"I will do my best, sir. I have no claim to anything except through your kindness."
"Now let me see how much business ability you have."
Andy and the prospective purchaser took the cars at the Grand Central
Station, and in forty minutes found themselves in Mount Vernon.
At the depot, much to his satisfaction, Andy found his friend, Tom
Blake.
"What brings you here, Andy?" asked Tom, in surprise.
"I have come to show the Griffith house to this gentleman. Can you direct me to it?"
"I will go with you."
"Thank you, Tom. You will be doing me a favor. Is it far?"
"Little more than half a mile."
"Shall we walk or ride, Mr. Grayling?"
"Walk, by all means. It is a charming day, and a walk will do me good."
They reached the house. It was a spacious country residence in good condition, and Mr. Grayling was favorably impressed. The key was procured and they entered.
The interior bore out the promise of the exterior. The rooms were well and even handsomely finished. They were twelve in number, and there was a good-sized bathroom.
"I wonder if the plumbing is good?" said Mr. Grayling.
"I will test it as far as I can," said Andy.
"You seem to have a good deal of experience for one so young."
"No, sir, not very much, but I have made a careful study of the subject. Mr. Crawford has a good architectural library, and I have made use of it."
After a careful inspection, Andy made a favorable report.
"Of course," he said, "if I am mistaken we will make matters right."
"That will be satisfactory. What is your price for the house?"
"Eight thousand dollars."
Mr. Grayling, after a brief consideration, said:
"That seems reasonable. I will buy the house. How soon can you give me possession?"
"In a week."
"Very good. Then our business seems to be concluded. We will catch the next train back to the city."
"Would you mind giving me a memorandum stating that you will buy the house?"
"I will do so. We will stop at a stationery store, and I will make it out."
When Andy re-entered Mr. Crawford's office the real estate agent inquired:
"How does Mr. Grayling like the house?"
"He has bought it."
"Is it possible? At what figure?"
"Eight thousand dollars."
"Good! I was authorized to take two hundred dollars less, if need be."
"He asked no reduction."
"I hope he won't change his mind."
"He won't. Here is his written agreement to take the house."
"Excellent. Did he offer this assurance?"
"No, sir. I asked for it."
"Andy, you have succeeded admirably. I shall have great pleasure in keeping my promise and paying you eighty dollars, or one per cent, on the purchase money."
"That will be very acceptable, Mr. Crawford. I don't often earn eighty dollars in one day."
In reply to Mr. Crawford's inquiries, Andy gave a detailed account of his visit, and his employer drew a check for eighty dollars, which he placed in his hands.
"Now that I see what you can do," he said, "I shall send you out again."
"Perhaps you will find my services too expensive."
"No. In addition to my regular percentage I receive an extra hundred dollars for getting the full eight thousand dollars."
Andy cashed the check, and deposited the money in a savings bank. He did not pay it to Mr. Crawford on account of the land in Tacoma, for it occurred to him that he might have occasion to use it.
In this he proved correct.
Three weeks later he received a letter from his father. Sterling Grant was a farmer, little used to writing letters, and Andy knew that there must be some special reason for his writing at this time.
He opened the letter quickly, and this was what he read:
"DEAR ANDY: I am in trouble. Next Tuesday the semi-annual interest on Squire Carter's three thousand dollars falls due, and I have but twenty dollars to meet it. My crops have not been up to the average. I have lost my best cow, and somehow everything seems to have gone against me. I expected to sell ten tons of hay, and have had but seven to spare. This alone made a difference of sixty dollars.
"I saw the squire yesterday, and told him how I was situated. I asked him if he would kindly wait for the greater part of the interest, accepting twenty dollars on account. He at once refused. 'I am sorry you have been unlucky, Mr. Grant,' he said, 'but of course I am not responsible for your misfortune. The three thousand dollars I lent you I regard strictly as an investment. Had I supposed the interest would not be paid promptly, I should, of course, have declined to lend. You will have to meet the interest, or take the consequences.'
"I have tried to borrow the money in the village, but thus far I have been unable to do so. I may have to sell two of my cows, but that will cripple me, for, as you know, I depend a good deal on selling milk and butter. Of course this worries me a good deal. I don't know why I write to you, for with your small pay it is hardly likely that you can help me. Still, if you have ten or fifteen dollars to spare, it will aid me. If your friend, Mr. Gale, were near at hand, perhaps he would advance a little money. I might get along with selling one cow, in that case. Two would cripple me.
"Let me know at once what you can do, that I may make plans. Your mother is as well as usual, except that she is worried. We both send love.
"Your affectionate father,
"STERLING GRANT."
When Andy read this letter he felt, with a thrill of joy, that he had it in his power to relieve his father from anxiety. He had, with the commission received recently from Mr. Crawford, a hundred and fifty dollars in the bank. He withdrew eighty dollars of this, and then explaining to Mr. Crawford his reason for it, asked for time for a visit home.
"Certainly, Andy," said the real estate agent. "Can I lend you any money?"
"No, sir; I have enough."
As he could not leave till the next day, he telegraphed his father in this way:
"Don't worry. I shall reach home to-morrow. ANDY"
