Alger Horatio Jr.
Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune
CHAPTER XIII. EBEN’S LAST HOPE FAILS
Ebenezer Graham had taken no stock in his son’s charge against Herbert. He was not prejudiced in favor of Herbert, nor did he feel particularly friendly to him, but he was a man of shrewdness and common sense, and he knew that Herbert was not a fool. When Eben made known to him the fact that the stamps and money were missing, he said keenly: “What has become of ‘em?”
“I don’t know,” answered Eben, “but I can guess well enough.”
“Guess, then,” said his father, shortly.
“You know Herbert Carr took my place last evening?”
“Well?”
“There’s no doubt that he took the stamps and money.”
“That isn’t very likely.”
“I feel sure of it—so sure that I mean to charge him with it.”
“Well, you can see what he says.”
Ebenezer did not understand that Eben intended to have the boy arrested, and would not have consented to it had he known. But Eben slipped out of the store, and arranged for the arrest without his father’s knowledge. Indeed, he did not learn till the trial had already commenced, Eben having made some excuse for his absence.
When Eben returned his father greeted him in a tone very far from cordial.
“Well, Eben, I hear you’ve gone and made a fool of yourself?”
“I have only been defending your property, father,” said Eben, sullenly. “I thought you’d appreciate it better than this.”
“You’ve charged an innocent boy with theft, and now all his friends will lay it up agin’ us.”
“Were you going to be robbed without saying a word?” asked Eben.
“No, I’m not, Eben Graham; I’m goin’ to say a word, and now’s the time to say it. You can’t pull wool over my eyes. The money’s gone, and the stamps are gone, and somebody’s got ‘em.”
“Herbert Carr!”
“No, it isn’t Herbert Carr. It’s somebody nearer to me, I’m ashamed to say, than Herbert Carr.”
“Do you mean to say I took them?” asked Eben.
“I won’t bring a charge unless I can prove it, but I shall watch you pretty closely after this.”
“In that case, I don’t wish to work for you any longer; I throw up the situation,” said Eben, loftily.
“Verv well. When are you going to leave town?”
“I ain’t going to leave town at present.”
“Where are you going to board, then?”
Eben regarded his father in dismay.
“You’re not going to send me adrift, are you?” he asked, in consternation.
“I’m not going to support you in idleness; if you give up your situation in the store, you’ll have to go to work for somebody else.”
“I wish I could,” thought Eben, thinking of the rich young man at the hotel, from whom he had sought a position as companion.
“Then I shall have to leave Wayneboro,” he said; “there’s nothing to do here.”
“Yes, there is; Farmer Collins wants a hired man.”
“A hired man!” repeated Eben, scornfully. “Do you think I am going—to hire out on a farm?”
“You might do a great deal worse,” answered Ebenezer, sensibly.
“After being a dry-goods salesman in Boston, I haven’t got down to that, I beg to assure you,” said Eben, with an air of consequence.
“Then you will have to work in the store if you expect to stay at home,” said his father. “And hark you, Eben Graham,” he added, “don’t report any more losses of money or stamps. I make you responsible for both.”
Eben went back to his work in an uneasy frame of mind. He saw that he had not succeeded in imposing upon his father, and that the clear-sighted old gentleman strongly suspected where the missing articles had gone. Eben might have told, had he felt inclined, that the five-dollar bill had been mailed to a lottery agent in New York in payment for a ticket in a Southern lottery, and that the stamps were even now in his possession, and would be sold at the first opportunity. His plan to throw suspicion upon Herbert had utterly failed, and the cold looks with which he had been greeted showed what the villagers thought of his attempt.
“I won’t stay in Wayneboro much longer,” Eben inwardly resolved. “It’s the dullest hole in creation. I can get along somehow in a large place, but here there’s positively nothing. Hire out on a farm, indeed! My father ought to be ashamed to recommend such a thing to his only son, when he’s so well off. If he would only give me two hundred dollars, I would go to California and trouble him no more. Plenty of people make money in California, and why shouldn’t I? If that ticket draws a prize—”
And then Eben went into calculations of what he would do if only he drew a prize of a thousand dollars. That wasn’t too much to expect, for there were several of that amount, and several considerably larger. He pictured how independent he would be with his prize, and how he would tell his father that he could get along without him, displaying at the same time a large roll of bills. When he reached California he could buy an interest in a mine, and perhaps within three or four years he could return home twenty times as rich as his father. It was pleasant to think over all this, and almost to persuade himself that the good luck had actually come. However, he must wait a few days, for the ticket had not yet come, and the lottery would not be drawn for a week.
The ticket arrived two days later; Eben took care to slip the envelope into his pocket without letting his father or anyone else see it, for unpleasant questions might have been asked as to where he got the money that paid for it, Mr. Graham knowing very well that his son had not five dollars by him.
For a few days Eben must remain in Wayneboro, until the lottery was drawn. If he was unlucky, he would have to consider some other plan for raising money to get away from Wayneboro.
It was not till the day after the trial and his triumphant acquittal, that Herbert saw Eben. He came to the store to buy some groceries for his mother.
“Good-evening, Herbert,” said Eben.
“Eben,” said Herbert, coldly, “except in the way of business, I don’t want to speak to you.”
“You don’t bear malice on account of that little affair, do you, Herbert?” said Eben, smoothly.
“That little affair, as you call it, might have been a very serious affair to me.”
“I only did my duty,” said Eben.
“Was it your duty to charge an innocent person with theft?”
“I didn’t see who else could have taken the things,” said Eben.
“Probably you know as well as anybody,” said Herbert, contemptuously.
“What do you mean?” demanded Eben, coloring.
“You know better than I do. How much do I owe you?”
“Thirty-three cents.”
“There is your money,” said Herbert, and walked out of the store.
“I hate that boy!” said Eben, scowling at Herbert’s retreating figure. “He puts on too many airs, just because a city man’s taken him in charity and is paying his expenses. Some time I’ll be able to come up with him, I hope.”
Herbert was not of an unforgiving nature, but he felt that Eben had wronged him deeply, and saw no reason why he would not repeat the injury if he ever got the chance. He had at least a partial understanding of Eben’s mean nature and utter selfishness, and felt that he wished to have nothing to do with him. Ebenezer Graham was very “close,” but he was a hard-working man and honest as the world goes. He was tolerably respected in Wayneboro, though not popular, but Eben seemed on the high road to become a rascal.
A week slipped by, and a circular containing the list of prizes drawn was sent to Eben.
He ran his eyes over it in a flutter of excitement. Alas! for his hopes. In the list of lucky numbers the number on his ticket was not included.
“I have drawn a blank! Curse the luck!” he muttered, savagely. “The old man needn’t think I am going to stay here in Wayneboro. If he won’t give me money to go out West, why, then—”
But he did not say what then.
CHAPTER XIV. A TRIP TO BOSTON
“To-morrow, Herbert,” said George Melville, as they parted for the day, “I shall propose a new excursion to you.”
Herbert regarded him inquiringly.
“I want to go to Boston to make a few purchases, but principally to consult my physician.”
“I hope you are not feeling any worse, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, with genuine concern, for he had come to feel a regard for his employer, who was always kind and considerate to him.
“No, I am feeling as well as usual; but I wish to consult Dr. Davies about the coming winter—whether he would advise me to spend it in Massachusetts.”
“If Mr. Melville goes away, I shall have to look for another place,” thought Herbert, soberly. It was hardly likely, he knew, that he would obtain a position so desirable as the one he now filled.
“I hope he will be able to do so, Mr. Melville,” he said, earnestly.
“I hope so; but I shall not be surprised if the doctor ordered me away.”
“Then you won’t want me to come to-morrow?”
“Certainly, unless you object to going to Boston with me.”
“Object?” repeated Herbert, eagerly. “I should like nothing better.”
In fact, our hero, though a well-grown boy of sixteen, had never been to Boston but three times, and the trip, commonplace as it may seem to my traveled young readers, promised him a large amount of novelty and pleasurable excitement.
“I shall be glad of your company, Herbert. I hardly feel the strength or enterprise to travel alone, even for so trifling a trip as going to Boston.”
“At what hour will you go, Mr. Melville?”
“I will take the second train, at nine o’clock. It will afford me time enough, and save my getting up before my usual time.”
Herbert would have preferred going by the first train, starting at half-past seven, as it would have given him a longer day in the city, but of course he felt that his employer had decided wisely.
“It will be quite a treat to me, going to Boston,” he said. “I have only been there three times in my life.”
“You certainly have not been much of a traveler, Herbert,” said George Melville, smiling. “However, you are young, and you may see a good deal of the world yet before you die.”
“I hope I will. It must be delightful to travel.”
“Yes, when you are young and strong,” said Melville, thoughtfully. “That makes a great deal of difference in the enjoyment.”
Herbert did not fail to put in an appearance at the hotel considerably before it was time to leave for the train. George Melville smiled at his punctuality.
“I wish, Herbert,” he said, “that I could look forward with as much pleasure as you feel to our trip to-day.”
“I wish so, too, Mr. Melville.”
“At any rate, I shall enjoy it better for having a companion.”
The tickets were bought, and they took their places in one of the passenger cars.
Just as the train was ready to start, Herbert saw a young man with a ticket in his hand hurrying along the platform.
“Why, there’s Eben Graham!” he said, in surprise.
“Is he entering the cars?”
“Yes, he has just got into the car behind us.”
“I wonder if he is going to leave Wayneboro for good?”
“Probably he is only going to Boston for the day, perhaps to buy goods.”
Herbert thought it doubtful whether Ebenezer Graham would trust his son so far, but did not say so. Eben, on his part, had not seen Herbert on board the train, and was not aware that he was a fellow passenger.
The journey was a tolerably long one—forty miles—and consumed an hour and a half. At last they rolled into the depot, and before the train had fairly stopped the passengers began to crowd toward the doors of the car.
“Let us remain till the crowd has passed out,” said George Melville. “It is disagreeable to me to get into the throng, and it saves very little time.”
“Very well, sir.”
Looking out of the car window, Herbert saw Eben Graham walking swiftly along the platform, and could not forbear wondering what had brought him to the city.
“My doctor’s office is on Tremont Street,” said Mr. Melville. “I shall go there immediately, and may have to wait some time. It will be tiresome to you, and I shall let you go where you please. You can meet me at the Parker House, in School Street, at two o’clock.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Do you know where the hotel is?”
“No, but I can find it,” answered Herbert, confidently.
“I believe I will also get you to attend to a part of my business for me.”
“I shall be very glad to do so,” said Herbert, sincerely. It made him feel more important to be transacting business in Boston.
“Here is a check for a hundred and fifty dollars on the Merchants’ Bank,” continued George Melville. “It is payable to the bearer, and you will have no trouble in getting the money on it. You may present it at the bank, and ask for fives and tens and a few small bills.”
“Very well, sir.”
Herbert felt rather proud to have so much confidence reposed in him, for to him a hundred and fifty dollars seemed a large sum of money, and he felt that George Melville was a rich man to draw so much at one time.
“Had I better go to the bank at once?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so; of course, I need not caution you to take good care of the money.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, sir.”
They walked together to Tremont Street, and Mr. Melville paused at a doorway opposite the Common.
“My doctor’s office is upstairs,” he said. “We will part here and meet at the hotel. If you are late, I may go into the dining room; so if you don’t see me in the reading room, go to the door of the dining room and look in.”
“Very well, sir; but I think I shall be on time.”
“The bank is open now, and you can cash the check if you go down there.”
Left to himself, Herbert walked slowly along, looking into shop windows and observing with interested attention the people whom he met.
“It must be very pleasant to live in the city,” he thought; “there is so much going on all the time.”
It is no wonder that country boys are drawn toward the city, and feel that their cup of happiness would be full if they could get a position in some city store. They do not always find the reality equal to their anticipations. The long hours and strict discipline of a city office or mercantile establishment are not much like the freedom they pictured to themselves, and after they have paid their board bill in some shabby boarding house they seldom find much left over, either for amusement or needful expenses. The majority of boys would do better to remain in their country homes, where at least they can live comfortably and at small expense, and take such employment as may fall in their way. They will stand a much better chance of reaching a competence in middle life than if they helped to crowd the ranks of city clerks and salesmen. There is many a hard-working clerk of middle age, living poorly, and with nothing laid by, in the city, who, had he remained in his native village, might have reached a modest independence. It was hardly to be expected, however, that Herbert would feel thus. Upon him the show and glitter of the city shops and streets produced their natural effect, and he walked on buoyantly, seeing three times as much as a city boy would have done.
He turned down School Street, passing the Parker House, where he was to meet Mr. Melville. Just before he reached it he saw Eben Graham emerge from the hotel and walk towards Washington Street. Eben did not look behind him, and therefore did not see Herbert.
“I wonder where he is going?” thought our hero, as he followed a few steps behind Eben.
CHAPTER XV. AN OBLIGING GUIDE
On Washington Street, not far from Old South Church, is an office for the sale of railroad tickets to western points. It was this office which Eben entered.
“He is going to inquire the price of a ticket to some western city,” thought Herbert. “I heard him say one day that he wanted to go West.”
Our hero’s curiosity was naturally aroused, and he stood at the entrance, where he could not only see but hear what passed within.
“What do you charge for a ticket to Chicago?” he heard Eben ask.
“Twenty-two dollars,” was the answer of the young man behind the counter.
“You may give me one,” said Eben.
As he spoke he drew from his vest pocket a roll of bills, and began to count off the requisite sum.
Herbert was surprised. He had supposed that Eben was merely making inquiries about the price of tickets. He had not imagined that he was really going.
“Can Mr. Graham have given him money to go?” he asked himself.
“When can I start?” asked Eben, as he received a string of tickets from the clerk.
“At three this afternoon.”
Eben seemed well pleased with this reply. He carefully deposited the tickets in an inside vest pocket, and turned to go out of the office. As he emerged from it he caught sight of Herbert, who had not yet started to go. He looked surprised and annoyed.
“Herbert Carr!” he exclaimed. “How came you here?”
Mingled with his surprise there was a certain nervousness of manner, as Herbert thought.
“I came to Boston with Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, coldly.
“Oh!” ejaculated Eben, with an air of perceptible relief. “Where is Mr. Melville?”
“He has gone to the office of his physician, on Tremont Street.”
“Leaving you to your own devices, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Look out you don’t get lost!” said Eben, with affected gayety. “I am here on a little business for the old man.”
Herbert did not believe this, in view of what he had seen, but he did not think it necessary to say so.
“Good-morning!” said Herbert, in a tone polite but not cordial.
“Good-morning! Oh, by the way, I have just been inquiring the cost of a ticket to St. Louis,” said Eben, carelessly.
“Indeed! Do you think of going out there?”
“Yes, if the old man will let me,” said Eben.
“Do you prefer St. Louis to Chicago?” asked Herbert, watching the face of Eben attentively.
Eben’s face changed, and he looked searchingly at our hero, but could read nothing in his face.
“Oh, decidedly!” he answered, after a slight pause. “I don’t think I would care for Chicago.”
“And all the while you have a ticket for Chicago in your pocket!” thought Herbert, suspiciously, “Well, that’s your own affair entirely, not mine.”
“What train do you take back to Wayneboro?” asked Eben, not without anxiety.
“We shall not go before four o’clock.”
“I may be on the train with you,” said Eben, “though possibly I shall get through in time to take an earlier one.”
“He is trying to deceive me,” thought Herbert.
“Good-morning,” he said, formally, and walked away.
“I wish I hadn’t met him,” muttered Eben to himself. “He may give the old man a clew. However, I shall be safe out of the way before anything can be done.”
Herbert kept on his way, and found the bank without difficulty.
He entered and looked about him. Though unaccustomed to banks, he watched to see where others went to get checks cashed, and presented himself in turn.
“How will you have it?” asked the paying teller.
“Fives and tens, and a few small bills,” answered Herbert, promptly.
The teller selected the requisite number of bank bills quickly, and passed them out to Herbert. Our hero counted them, to make sure that they were correct, and then put them away in his inside pocket. It gave him a feeling of responsibility to be carrying about so much money, and he felt that it was incumbent on him to be very careful.
“Where shall I go now?” he asked himself.
He would have liked to go to Charlestown, and ascend Bunker Hill Monument, but did not know how to go. Besides, he feared he would not get back to the Parker House at the time fixed by Mr. Melville. Still, he might be able to do it. He addressed himself to a rather sprucely dressed man of thirty-five whom he met at the door of the bank.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but can you tell me how far it is to Bunker Hill Monument?”
“About a mile and a half,” answered the stranger.
“Could I go there and get back to the Parker House before one o’clock.”
“Could you?” repeated the man, briskly. “Why, to be sure you could!”
“But I don’t know the way.”
“You have only to take one of the Charlestown horse cars, and it will land you only a couple of minutes’ walk from the monument.”
“Can you tell me what time it is, sir?”
“Only a little past eleven. So you have never been to Bunker Hill Monument, my lad?”
“No sir; I live in the country, forty miles away and seldom come to Boston.”
“I see, I see,” said the stranger, his eyes snapping in a very peculiar way. “Every patriotic young American ought to see the place where Warren fell.”
“I should like to if you could tell me where to take the cars.”
“Why, certainly I will,” said the other, quickly. “In fact—let me see,” and he pulled out a silver watch from his vest pocket, “I’ve a great mind to go over with you myself.”
“I shouldn’t like to trouble you, sir,” said Herbert.
“Oh, it will be no trouble. Business isn’t pressing this morning, and I haven’t been over for a long time myself. If you don’t object to my company, I will accompany you.”
“You are very kind,” said Herbert. “If you are quite sure that you are not inconveniencing yourself, I shall be very glad to go with you—that is, if you think I can get back to the Parker House by one o’clock.”
“I will guarantee that you do,” said the stranger, confidently. “My young friend, I am glad to see that you are particular to keep your business engagements. In a varied business experience, I have observed that it is precisely that class who are destined to win the favor of their employer and attain solid success.”
“He seems a very sensible man,” thought Herbert; “and his advice is certainly good.”
“Come this way,” said the stranger, crossing Washington Street. “Scollay’s Square is close at hand, and there we shall find a Charlestown horse car.”
Of course Herbert yielded himself to the guidance of his new friend, and they walked up Court Street together.
“That,” said the stranger, pointing out a large, somber building to the left, “is the courthouse. The last time I entered it was to be present at the trial of a young man of my acquaintance who had fallen into evil courses, and, yielding to temptation, had stolen from his employer. It was a sad sight,” said the stranger, shaking his head.
“I should think it must have been,” said Herbert.
“Oh, why, why will young men yield to the seductions of pleasure?” exclaimed the stranger, feelingly.
“Was he convicted?” asked Herbert.
“Yes, and sentenced to a three years term in the State prison,” answered his companion. “It always makes me feel sad when I think of the fate of that young man.”
“I should think it would, sir.”
“I have mentioned it as a warning to one who is just beginning life,” continued the stranger. “But here is our car.”
A Charlestown car, with an outside sign, Bunker Hill, in large letters, came by, and the two got on board.
They rode down Cornhill, and presently the stranger pointed out Faneuil Hall.
“Behold the Cradle of Liberty,” he said. “Of course, you have heard of Faneuil Hall?”
“Yes, sir,” and Herbert gazed with interest at the building of which he had heard so much.
It was but a short ride to Charlestown. They got out at the foot of a steep street, at the head of which the tall, granite column which crowns the summit of Bunker Hill stood like a giant sentinel ever on guard.
