Alger Horatio Jr.
Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune
CHAPTER XIX. EBENEZER GRAHAM’S GRIEF
“How much have you lost by your son, Mr. Graham?” asked George Melville.
“Nearly two hundred and fifty dollars,” groaned Ebenezer, “counting what I paid in the city to his creditors, it is terrible, terrible!” and he wrung his hands in his bitterness of spirit.
“I am sorry for you,” said Melville, “and still more for him.”
“Why should you be sorry for him?” demanded Ebenezer, sharply. “He hasn’t lost anything.”
“Is it nothing to lose his consciousness of integrity, to leave his home knowing that he is a thief?”
“Little he’ll care for that!” said Mr. Graham, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s laughing in his sleeve, most likely, at the way he has duped and cheated me, his father.”
“How old is Eben, Mr. Graham?”
“He will be twenty in November,” answered Ebenezer, apparently puzzled by the question.
“Then, as he is so young, let us hope that he may see the error of his ways, and repent.”
“That won’t bring me back my money,” objected Ebenezer, querulously. It was clear that he thought more of the money he had lost than of his son’s lack of principle.
“No, it will not give you back your money, but it may give you back a son purified and prepared to take an honorable position in society.”
“No, no; he’s bad, bad!” said the stricken father. “What did he care for the labor and toil it took to save up that money?”
“I hope the loss of the money will not distress you, Mr. Graham.”
“Well, no, not exactly,” said Ebenezer, hesitating. “I shall have to take some money from the savings bank to make up what that graceless boy has stolen.”
It was clear that Ebenezer Graham would not have to go to the poorhouse in consequence of his losses.
“I can hardly offer you consolation,” said George Melville, “but I suspect that you will not be called upon to pay any more money for your son.”
“I don’t mean to!” said Ebenezer, grimly.
“Going away as he has done, he will find it necessary to support himself, and will hardly have courage to send to you for assistance.”
“Let him try it!” said Ebenezer, his eyes snapping.
“He may, therefore, being thrown upon his own resources, be compelled to work hard, and that will probably be the best thing that can happen to him.”
“I hope he will! I hope he will!” said the storekeeper. “He may find out after a while that he had an easy time at home, and was better paid than he will be among strangers. I won’t pay any more of his debts. I’ll publish a notice saying that I have given him his time, and won’t pay any more debts of his contracting. He might run into debt enough to ruin me, between now and the time he becomes of age.”
George Melville considered that the storekeeper was justified in taking this step, and said so.
While they were on the train, Ebenezer got measurably reconciled to his loss, and his busy brain began to calculate how much money he would save by ceasing to be responsible for Eben’s expenses of living and prospective debts. Without this drawback, he knew he would grow richer every year. He knew also that notwithstanding the sum it had just cost him, he would be better off at the end of the year than the beginning, and to a man of his character this was perhaps the best form of consolation that he could have.
Suddenly it occurred to Mr. Graham that he should need a clerk in place of his son.
“Now that Eben has gone, Herbert,” he said, “I am ready to take you back.”
This was a surprise, for Herbert had not thought of the effect upon his own business prospects.
“I have got a place, thank you, Mr. Graham,” he said.
“You don’t call trampin’ round huntin’ and fishin’ work, do you?” said Ebenezer.
“It is very agreeable work, sir.”
“But it stands to reason that you can’t earn much that way. I wouldn’t give you twenty-five cents a week for such doings.”
“Are you willing to pay me more than Mr. Melville does?” asked Herbert, demurely, smiling to himself.
“How much does he pay you now?” asked Ebenezer, cautiously.
“Six dollars a week.”
“Six dollars a week!” repeated the storekeeper, in incredulous amazement. “Sho! you’re joking!”
“You can ask Mr. Melville, sir.”
Ebenezer regarded George Melville with an inquiring look.
“Yes, I pay Herbert six dollars a week,” said he, smiling.
“Well, I never!” ejaculated Ebenezer. “That’s the strangest thing I ever heard. How in the name of conscience can a boy earn so much money trampin’ round?”
“Perhaps it would not be worth as much to anyone else,” said Melville, “but Herbert suits me, and I need cheerful company.”
“You ain’t goin’ to keep him long at that figger, be you, Mr. Melville?” asked Mr. Graham, bluntly.
“I think we shall be together a considerable time, Mr. Graham. If, however, you should be willing to pay Herbert a larger salary, I might feel it only just to release him from his engagement to me.”
“Me pay more’n six dollars a week!” gasped Ebenezer. “I ain’t quite crazy. Why, it would take about all I get from the post office.”
“You wouldn’t expect me to take less than I can earn elsewhere, Mr. Graham,” said Herbert.
“No-o!” answered the storekeeper, slowly. He was evidently nonplused by the absolute necessity of getting another clerk, and his inability to think of a suitable person.
“If Tom Tripp was with me, I might work him into the business,” said Ebenezer, thoughtfully, “but he’s bound out to a farmer.”
An inspiration came to Herbert. He knew that his mother would be glad to earn something, and there was little else to do in Wayneboro.
“I think,” he said, “you might make an arrangement with my mother, to make up and sort the mail, for a time, at least.”
“Why, so I could; I didn’t think of that,” answered Ebenezer, relieved. “Do you think she’d come over to-morrow mornin’?”
“If she can’t, I will,” said Herbert. “I don’t meet Mr. Melville till nine o’clock.”
“So do! I’ll expect you. I guess I’ll come over and see your mother this evenin’, and see if I can’t come to some arrangement with her.”
It may be added that Mr. Graham did as proposed, and Mrs. Carr agreed to render him the assistance he needed for three dollars a week. It required only her mornings, and a couple of hours at the close of the afternoon, and she was very glad to convert so much time into money.
“It makes me feel more independent,” she said. “I don’t want to feel that you do all the work, Herbert, and maintain the family single-handed.”
The same evening Herbert broached the plan of traveling with Mr. Melville. As might have been expected, his mother was at first startled, and disposed to object, but Herbert set before her the advantages, both to himself and the family, and touched upon the young man’s need of a companion so skillfully and eloquently that she was at last brought to regard the proposal favorably. She felt that George Melville was one to whom she could safely trust her only boy. Moreover, her own time would be partly occupied, owing to the arrangement she had just made to assist in the post office, so that Herbert carried his point.
The tenth of October arrived, the date which George Melville had fixed upon for his departure. Mrs. Carr had put Herbert’s wardrobe in order, and he had bought himself a capacious carpetbag and an umbrella, and looked forward with eagerness to the day on which their journey was to commence. He had long thought and dreamed of the West, its plains and cities, but had never supposed that it would be his privilege to make acquaintance with them, at any rate, until he should have become twice his present age. But the unexpected had happened, and on Monday he and George Melville were to start for Chicago.
CHAPTER XX. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN CHICAGO
In due time our travelers reached Chicago, and put up at the Palmer House. Herbert was much impressed by the elegance of the hotel, its sumptuous furniture, and luxurious table. It must be considered that he was an inexperienced traveler, though had he been otherwise he might be excused for his admiration.
“I have some business in Chicago, and shall remain two or three days,” said George Melville.
Herbert was quite reconciled to the delay, and, as his services were not required, employed his time in making himself familiar with the famous Western city. He kept his eyes open, and found something new and interesting at every step. One day, as he was passing through the lower portion of the city, his attention was called to a young man wheeling a barrow of cabbages and other vegetables, a little in advance of him. Of course, there was nothing singular about this, but there seemed something familiar in the figure of the young man. Herbert quickened his step, and soon came up with him.
One glance was enough. Though disguised by a pair of overalls, and without a coat, Herbert recognized the once spruce dry-goods clerk, Eben Graham.
Eben recognized Herbert at the same time. He started, and flushed with shame, not because of the theft of which he had been guilty, but because he was detected in an honest, but plebeian labor.
“Herbert Carr!” he exclaimed, stopping short.
“Yes, Eben; it is I!”
“You find me changed,” said Eben, dolefully.
“No, I should recognize you anywhere.”
“I don’t mean that. I have sunk very low,” and he glanced pathetically at the wheelbarrow.
“If you refer to your employment, I don’t agree with you. It is an honest business.”
“True, but I never dreamed when I stood behind the counter in Boston, and waited on fashionable ladies, that I should ever come to this.”
“He seems more ashamed of wheeling vegetables than of stealing,” thought Herbert, and he was correct.
“How do you happen to be in this business, Eben?” he asked, with some curiosity.
“I must do it or starve. I was cheated out of my money soon after I came here, and didn’t know where to turn.”
Eben did not explain that he lost his money in a gambling house. He might have been cheated out of it, but it was his own fault, for venturing into competition with older and more experienced knaves than himself.
“I went for thirty-six hours without food,” continued Eben, “when I fell in with a man who kept a vegetable store, and he offered to employ me. I have been with him ever since.”
“You were fortunate to find employment,” said Herbert.
“Fortunate!” repeated Eben, in a tragic tone. “How much wages do you think I get?”
“I can’t guess.”
“Five dollars a week, and have to find myself,” answered Eben, mournfully. “What would my fashionable friends in Boston say if they could see me?”
“I wouldn’t mind what they said as long as you are getting an honest living.”
“How do you happen to be out here?” asked Eben.
His story was told in a few words.
“You are always in luck!” said Eben, enviously. “I wish I had your chance. Is Mr. Melville very rich?”
“He is rich; but I don’t know how rich.”
“Do you think he’d lend me money enough to get home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you ask him?”
“I will tell him that you made the request, Eben,” answered Herbert, cautiously. “Have you applied to your father?”
“To the old man? Yes. He hasn’t any more heart than a grindstone,” said Eben, bitterly. “What do you think he wrote me?”
“He refused, I suppose.”
“Here is his letter,” said Eben, drawing from his pocket a greasy half sheet of note paper. “See what he has to say to his only son.”
This was the letter:
“EBEN GRAHAM: I have received your letter, and am not surprised to hear that you are in trouble. ‘As a man sows, so also shall he reap.’ A young man who will rob his father of his hard earnings is capable of anything. You have done what you could to ruin me, and deserve what you have got. You want me to send you money to come home, and continue your wicked work—I shall not do it. I wash my hands of you; I have already given notice, through the country paper that I have given you your time, and shall pay no more debts of your contracting.
“I am glad to hear that you are engaged in an honest employment. It is better than I expected. I would not have been surprised if I had heard that you were in jail. My advice to you is to stay where you are and make yourself useful to your employer. He may in time raise your wages. Five years hence, if you have turned over a new leaf and led an honest life, I may give you a place in my store. At present, I would rather leave you where you are.
“EBENEZER GRAHAM.”
“What do you say to that? Isn’t that rather rough on an only son, eh?” said Eben.
It occurred to Herbert that Eben hardly deserved very liberal treatment from his father, notwithstanding he was an only son.
“Oh, the old man is awfully mean and close-fisted,” said Eben. “He cares more for money than for anything else. By the way, how does Melville treat you?”
“Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, emphasizing the Mr., “is always kind and considerate.”
“Pays you well, eh?”
“He pays me more than I could get anywhere else.”
“Pays all your hotel and traveling expenses, eh?”
“Of course.”
“And a good salary besides?”
“Yes.”
“Herbert,” said Eben, suddenly, “I want you to do me a favor.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve always known me, you know. When you was a little chap, and came into the store, I used to give you sticks of candy.”
“I don’t remember it,” answered Herbert, truthfully.
“I did, all the same. You were so young that you don’t remember it.”
“Well, Eben, what of it?”
“I want you to lend me ten dollars, Herbert, in memory of old times.”
Herbert was generously inclined, on ordinary occasions, but did not feel so on this occasion. He felt that Eben was not a deserving object, even had he felt able to make so large a loan. Besides, he could not forget that the young man who now asked a favor had brought a false charge of stealing against him.
“You will have to excuse me, Eben,” he answered. “To begin with, I cannot afford to lend so large a sum.”
“I would pay you back as soon as I could.”
“Perhaps you would,” said Herbert, “though I have not much confidence in it. But you seem to forget that you charged me with stealing only a short time since. I wonder how you have the face to ask me to lend you ten dollars, or any sum.”
“It was a mistake,” muttered Eben, showing some signs of confusion.
“At any rate, I won’t say anything more about it while you are in trouble. But you must excuse my declining to lend you.”
“Lend me five dollars, then,” pleaded Eben.
“What do you want to do with it?”
“To buy lottery tickets. I am almost sure I should win a prize, and then I can pay you five dollars for one.”
“I wouldn’t lend any money for that purpose to my dearest friend,” said Herbert “Buying lottery tickets is about the most foolish investment you could make.”
“Then I won’t buy any,” said Eben. “Lend me the money and I will use it to buy clothes.”
“You will have to excuse me,” said Herbert, coldly.
“I didn’t think you’d be so mean,” whined Eben, “to a friend in distress.”
“I don’t look upon you as a friend, and for very good reasons,” retorted Herbert, as he walked away.
Eben looked after him with a scowl of hatred.
“I’d like to humble that boy’s pride,” he muttered, as he slowly resumed his march.
CHAPTER XXI. COL. WARNER
When Herbert returned to the hotel he found George Melville in the reading room in conversation with a tall and dignified-looking stranger.
“Is that your brother, Mr. Melville?” asked the latter, as Herbert came forward and spoke to Melville.
“No, Colonel, he is my young friend and confidential clerk, Herbert Carr.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carr,” said the colonel, affably, extending his hand as he spoke.
“This is Col. Warner, Herbert,” explained George Melville.
Herbert, who was naturally polite, shook hands with the colonel, and said he was glad to make his acquaintance.
“I have been talking with Mr. Melville,” said the colonel. “I am sorry to hear that he is traveling in search of health.”
“Yes, sir; I hope he will find his journey beneficial.”
“Oh, not a doubt of it! Not a doubt of it! I’ve been there myself. Do you know, when I was twenty-five, which I take to be about the age of your employer, I thought I should die of consumption?”
“I shouldn’t have supposed it, sir,” said Herbert, and Melville, too, felt surprised, as he noticed the stalwart proportions of the former consumptive.
“Ha! ha! I dare say not,” said the colonel, laughing. “I don’t look much like it now, eh?”
“No, you certainly don’t, colonel,” said Melville. “I am curious to know how you overcame the threatened danger.”
“I did what you are doing, sir; I came West.”
“But the mere coming West did not cure you, did it?”
“No, sir; it was the life I lived,” returned Col. \Varner. “I didn’t stay in the cities; I went into the wilderness. I lived in a log-cabin. I bought a horse, and rode every day. I kept in the open air, and, after a while, I found my strength returning and my chest expanding, and in a twelvemonth I could afford to laugh at doctors.”
“And you have never had a return of the old symptoms?” asked Melville, with interest.
“Never, except four years afterwards, when I went to New York and remained nearly a year. I am now fifty, and rather hale and hearty for my years, eh?”
“Decidedly so.”
“Let me advise you to follow my example, Mr. Melville.”
“It was my intention when I started West to live very much as you indicated,” said Melville. “Now that I have heard your experience, I am confirmed in my resolve.”
“Good! I am glad to hear it. When do you leave Chicago?”
“To-morrow, probably.”
“And how far West do you intend to go?”
“I have thought of Colorado.”
“Couldn’t do better. I know Colorado like a book. In fact, I own some valuable mining property there, up in—ahem! Gilpin County. By the way—I take it you are a rich man—why don’t you invest in that way? Perhaps, however, you have it in view?”
“No, I haven’t thought of it,” answered Melville. “The fact is, I am not anxious to become richer, having enough for all my present needs.”
“Just so,” said the colonel. “But you might marry.”
“Even if I did—”
“You would have money enough,” said Col. Warner, finishing the sentence for him. “Well, I am delighted to hear it. I am very well fixed myself—in fact, some of my friends call me, ha! ha!—the nabob. But, as I was saying I am rich enough and to spare, and still—you may be surprised—still I have no objection to making a little more money.”
Col. Warner nodded his head vigorously, and watched George Melville to see the effect upon him of this extraordinary statement.
“Very natural, colonel,” said Melville. “I believe most people want to be richer. Perhaps if I had vigorous health I might have the same wish. At present my chief wish is to recover my health.”
“You’ll do it, sir, you’ll do it—and in short order, too! Then you can turn your attention to money-making.”
“Perhaps so,” said Melville, with a smile.
“If not for yourself, for your young friend here,” added the colonel. “I take it he is not rich.”
“I have my fortune still to make, Col. Warner,” said Herbert, smiling.
“The easiest thing in the world out here, my boy!” said the colonel, paternally. “So you start to-morrow?” he inquired, turning to Melville.
“I think of it.”
“Egad! I’ve a great mind to accompany you,” said the colonel. “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve got through all my business in Chicago, and I like the pure air of the prairies best.”
“We shall be glad of your company, colonel,” said Melville, politely.
“Thank you, sir; that decides me. I’ll see you again and fix the hour of going, or rather I’ll conform myself to your arrangements.”
“Very well, colonel.”
“What do you think of my new acquaintance, Col. Warner, Herbert?” asked Melville when they were alone.
“He seems to have a very good opinion of himself,” answered Herbert.
“Yes, he is very well pleased with himself. He isn’t a man exactly to my taste, but he seems a representative Western man. He does not look much like a consumptive?”
“No, sir.”
“I feel an interest in him on that account,” said Melville, seriously. “If at any time I could become as strong and stalwart I would willingly surrender one-half, nay nine-tenths of my fortune. Ill health is a great drag upon a man; it largely curtails his enjoyments, and deprives him of all ambition.”
“I don’t see why his remedy wouldn’t work well in your case, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, earnestly.
“Perhaps it may. At any rate, I feel inclined to try it. I am glad the colonel is going to travel with us, as I shall be able to question him about the details of his cure. He seems a bluff, genial fellow, and though I don’t expect to enjoy his companionship much, I hope to derive some benefit from it.”
“By the way, Mr. Melville, I met an old acquaintance while I was out walking,” said Herbert.
“Indeed!”
“Eben Graham.”
“How did he look—prosperous?”
“Hardly—he was wheeling a barrow of vegetables.”
“Did you speak with him?”
“Yes; he wanted to borrow money.”
“I am not surprised at that; I thought it time for him to be out of money. Did you lend him?”
“No; I found he wanted money to buy a lottery ticket. I told him I wouldn’t lend money to my best friend for that purpose.”
“Very sensible in you, Herbert.”
“If he had been in distress, I might have let him have a few dollars, notwithstanding he treated me so meanly at Wayneboro, but he seems to be earning a living.”
“I presume he doesn’t enjoy the business he is in?”
“No; he complains that he has lowered himself by accepting such a place.”
“It doesn’t occur to him that he lowered himself when he stole money from his father, I suppose.”
“It doesn’t seem to.”
Later in the day Herbert came across Col. Warner in the corridor of the hotel.
“Ha! my young friend!” he said, affably. “I am glad to meet you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And how is your friend?”
“No change since morning,” answered Herbert, slightly smiling.
“By the way, Herbert—your name is Herbert, isn’t it—may I offer you a cigar?” said Col. Warner.
The colonel opened his cigar-case and extended it to Herbert.
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t smoke? That is, you don’t smoke cigars. May I offer you a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke at all, colonel.”
“Indeed, remarkable! Why, sir, before I was your age I smoked.”
“Do you think it good for consumption?” asked Herbert.
“Ha, ha, you have me there! Well, perhaps not. Do you know,” said the colonel, changing the conversation, “I feel a great interest in your friend.”
“You are very kind.”
“‘Upon my soul, I do. He is a most interesting young man. Rich, too! I am glad he is rich!”
“He would value health more than money,” said Herbert.
“To be sure, to be sure! By the way, you don’t know how much property your friend has?”
“No, sir, he never told me,” answered Herbert, surprised at the question.
“Keeps such matters close, eh? Now, I don’t. I never hesitate to own up to a quarter of a million. Yes, quarter of a million! That’s the size of my pile.”
“You are fortunate, Col. Warner,” said Herbert, sincerely.
“So I am, so I am! Two years hence I shall have half a million, if all goes well. So you won’t have a cigar; no? Well, I’ll see you later.”
“He’s a strange man,” thought Herbert. “I wonder if his statements can be relied upon.” Somehow Herbert doubted it. He was beginning to distrust the colonel.
