Alger Horatio Jr.
Helping Himself; Or, Grant Thornton's Ambition
CHAPTER XXXII – HOPE DEFERRED
Day after day Herbert and Abner went to the post office and inquired for letters, but alas! none came. Poor Herbert was in despair. He thought his father would have instantly sent the money, or come out himself to take him home. Was it possible his father had forgotten him, or was indifferent to his absence? He could not believe it, but what was he to think?
“I reckon your father didn’t get the letter,” suggested Abner.
Herbert hailed this suggestion with relief.
“Or, maybe, marm has told the postmaster to give her any letters that come.”
This suggestion, too, seemed not improbable.
“What can we do?” asked Herbert, helplessly. “I reckon we’d better run away.”
“Without money?”
“We’ll hire out to somebody for a week or two and write from where we are.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do much work,” said the little boy.
“Then I’ll work for both,” said Abner, stoutly. “I’ve got tired of stayin’ at home, anyway.”
“I’ll do whatever you say,” said Herbert, feeling that any change would be for the better.
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready,” said Abner. “We’ll start some time when marm’s gone to the village.”
There was another reason for Herbert’s being dissatisfied with his new home. A month had passed—the full time for which Willis Ford had paid the boy’s board—and there were no indications that any more was to be paid. During the the first week the fare had been tolerable, though Mrs. Barton was not a skillful cook; but now there was no money left, and the family fell back upon what their limited resources could supply. Mush and milk now constituted their principal diet. It is well enough occasionally, but, when furnished at every meal, both Herbert and Abner became tired of it.
“Haven’t you got anything else for dinner, marm?” asked Abner, discontentedly.
“No, I haven’t,” answered the mother, snappishly.
“You used to have sassiges and bacon.”
“That was when I had money to buy ‘em.”
“Where’s all that money gone the man left with him?” indicating Herbert.
“It’s spent, and I wish Willis Ford would send along some more mighty quick. He needn’t expect me to take a free boarder.”
She looked severely at Herbert, as if he were in fault. Certainly the poor boy had no desire to live on the liberality of Mrs. Barton.
“Maybe he’s sent you some money in a letter,” suggested Abner.
“Well, I never thought of that. It’s a bright idee, ef it did come from you, Abner Barton. Jest go up to the postoffice after dinner, and ask if there’s any letter for me. Ef there is, mind you, don’t open it.”
“All right, marm.”
“Come along, bub,” said Abner.
This was the name he gave to Herbert, whom he liked in his own rough way.
“I don’t think,” said Herbert, as they walked along, “that your mother can have got any letter written by my father. If she had, she would not be out of money.”
“I reckon you’re right. Do you think that Ford feller will send money for your board?”
“I think he will, if he can, for he wants to keep me here; but I don’t think he has much money with him.”
“All the worse for marm.”
“Abner,” said Herbert, after a pause, during which he had been thinking seriously, “would you mind running away pretty soon?”
“No, bub; I’m ready any time. Are you in a hurry?”
“You see, Abner, I don’t want to live on your mother. She isn’t rich—”
“No, I guess not. Ef she hadn’t married sech a good-for-nothin’ as dad—”
“I wouldn’t speak so of your father, Abner.”
“Why not? Isn’t it the truth? Dad’s no grit. He gits drunk whenever he has a chance. Marm’s a good, hard-workin’ woman. She’d git along well enough ef she was alone.”
“At any rate, she can’t afford to board me for nothing. So I am ready to start whenever you are, Abner.”
“Suppose we get up early to-morror and start?”
“How early?”
“Three o’clock. Marm gets up at five. We must be on the road before that time.”
“I’m willing, Abner. You must wake me up in time.”
“You’d better go to bed early, bub, and git all the sleep you can. We’ll have a hard day to-morrer.”
CHAPTER XXXIII – THE JOURNEY BEGINS
“Wake up, there.”
The little boy stirred in his sleep, and finally opened his eyes. By the faint light that entered through the window, he saw Abner bending over him.
“What is it?” he asked, drowsily.
“The kitchen clock’s just struck three,” whispered Abner. “You haven’t forgotten that we are going to run away, have you?”
“I’ll get right up,” said Herbert, rubbing his eyes.
In two minutes the boys were dressed and ready for a start. It had taken a great deal longer for Herbert to dress at home, but he had become less particular as to his toilet now.
The boys took their shoes in their hands, and stole out in their stocking feet. As they passed the door of the room in which Mr. and Mrs. Barton slept, they heard the deep breathing of both, and knew that they were not likely to be heard.
Outside the door they put on their shoes, and were now ready to start.
“Wait a minute, bub,” said Abner.
He re-entered the house, and presently came out holding half a loaf in his hand.
“That’ll do for our breakfast,” he said. “We won’t eat it now. We’ll wait till five o’clock. Then we’ll be hungry.”
By five o’clock they were as many miles on their way. They had reached the middle of the next town.
“Do you feel tired, bub?” asked Abner.
“A little. I feel hungry. Don’t you think we can eat the bread now?”
“Yes, we’d better. I feel kind o’ gone myself.”
They sat down under a tree, and Abner divided the bread fairly.
“You ought to have more than I,” protested Herbert. “You’re bigger than I, and need more.”
“Never mind that! You’ll need it to keep up your strength.”
Abner was not naturally unselfish, but he was manly enough to feel that he ought to be generous and kind to a boy so much smaller, and he felt repaid for his self-denial by noticing the evident relish with which Herbert ate his allowance of bread, even to the smallest crumb.
They found a spring, which yielded them a cool, refreshing draught, and soon were on their way once more. They had proceeded perhaps two miles further, when the rumbling of wheels was heard behind them, and a farm wagon soon came up alongside. The driver was a man of about thirty—sunburned and roughly clad.
“Whoa, there,” he said.
The horse stopped.
“Where are you two goin’?” he asked.
“We’re travelin’,” answered Abner, noncommittally.
“Where’s your home?”
“Some ways back.”
“Where are you goin’?”
“I’m after work,” answered Abner.
“Well, you’d orter be a good hand at it. You look strong. Is that little feller your brother?”
“No; he’s my cousin.”
Herbert looked up in surprise at this avowal of relationship, but he thought it best not to say anything that would conflict with Abner’s statement.
“Is he after work, too?” asked the driver, with a smile.
“No; he’s goin’ to his father.”
“Where does he live?”
“Further on.”
“Have you walked fur?”
“Pretty fur.”
“Ef you want to ride, I’ll give you a lift for a few miles.”
“Thank you,” said Abner, prompt to accept the offer. “I’ll help you in, bub.”
The two boys took their seats beside the driver, Herbert being in the middle. The little boy was really tired, and he found it very pleasant to ride, instead of walking. He had walked seven miles already, and that was more than he had ever before walked at one time.
They rode about three miles, when the driver pulled up in front of a comfortable-looking house.
“This is where I stop,” he said. “My aunt lives here, and my sister has been paying her a visit. I’ve come to take her home.”
The front door was opened, and his aunt and sister came out.
“You’re just in time for breakfast, John,” said his aunt. “Come in and sit down to the table. Bring in the boys, too.”
“Come in, boys,” said the young man. “I guess you can eat something, can’t you?”
“We’ve had–” Herbert began, but Abner checked him.
“Come along, bub,” he said. “What’s a bit of bread? I ain’t half full.”
CHAPTER XXIV – MRS. BARTON’S SURPRISE
A hearty breakfast, consisting of beefsteak, potatoes, corn bread, fresh butter and apple sauce, made Abner’s eyes glisten, for he had never in his remembrance sat down at home to a meal equally attractive. He wielded his knife and fork with an activity and energy which indicated thorough enjoyment. Even Herbert, though in the city his appetite had been delicate, and he had already eaten part of a loaf of bread, did excellent justice to the good things set before him. He was himself surprised at his extraordinary appetite, forgetting the stimulating effect of a seven-mile walk.
After breakfast they set out again on their tramp. At sunset, having rested several hours in the middle of the day, they had accomplished twenty miles. Abner could have gone further, but Herbert was well tired out. They obtained permission from a friendly farmer to spend the night in his barn, and retired at half-past seven. Mr. Reynolds would have been shocked had he known that his little son was compelled to sleep on a pile of hay, but it may truthfully be said that Herbert had seldom slept as soundly or felt more refreshed.
“How did you sleep, Abner?” he asked.
“Like a top. How was it with you, bub?”
“I didn’t wake up all night,” answered the little boy.
“I wonder what dad and marm thought when they found us gone?” said Abner, with a grin.
“Won’t they feel bad?”
“Not much,” said Abner. “They ain’t that kind. I reckon it won’t spoil their appetite.”
When they descended from the haymow, the farmer was milking his cows.
“Well, youngsters,” he said, “so you’re up and dressed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ready for breakfast, I’ll be bound.”
“I reckon I should feel better for eatin’,” said Abner, promptly.
“Jest you wait till I get through milkin’, and we’ll see what Mrs. Wiggins has got for us.”
Abner heard these words with joy, for he was always possessed of a good appetite.
“I say, bub, I’m glad I run away,” he remarked, aside, to Herbert. “We live enough sight better than we did at home.”
Leaving the boys to pursue their journey, we will return to the bereaved parents, and inquire how they bore their loss.
When Mrs. Barton rose to commence the labors of the day, she found that no wood was on hand for the kitchen fire.
“Abner’s gittin’ lazier and lazier,” she soliloquized. “I’ll soon have him up.”
She went to the foot of the stairs, and called “Abner!” in a voice by no means low or gentle.
There was no answer.
“That boy would sleep if there was an earthquake,” she muttered. “Come down here and split some wood, you lazy boy!” she cried, still louder.
Again no answer.
“He hears, fast enough, but he don’t want to work. I’ll soon have him down.”
She ascended the stairs, two steps at a time, and opened the door of her son’s room.
If Abner had been in bed his mother would have pulled him out, for her arm was vigorous, but the bed was empty.
“Well, I vum!” she ejaculated, in surprise. “Ef that boy isn’t up already. That’s a new wrinkle. And the little boy gone, too. What can it mean?”
It occurred to Mrs. Barton that Abner and Herbert might have got up early to go fishing, though she had never known him to make so early a start before.
“I reckon breakfast’ll bring ‘em round,” she said to herself. “I reckon I shall have to split the wood myself.”
In half an hour breakfast was ready. It was of a very simple character, for the family resources were limited. Mr. Barton came downstairs, and looked discontentedly at the repast provided.
“This is a pretty mean breakfast, Mrs. B.,” he remarked. “Where’s your meat and taters?”
“There’s plenty of ‘em in the market,” answered Mrs. Barton.
“Then, why didn’t you buy some?”
“You ought to know, Joel Barton. You give me the money, and I’ll see that you have a good breakfast.”
“Where’s all the money that man Ford gave you?”
“Where is it? It’s eaten up, Mr. Barton, and you did your share. Ef you’d had your way, you’d have spent some of the money for drink.”
“Why don’t he send you some more, then?”
“Ef you see him anywheres, you’d better ask him. It’s your business to provide me with money; you can’t expect one boy’s board to support the whole family.”
“It’s strange where them boys are gone,” said Joel, desirous of changing the subject. “Like as not, they hid under the bed, and fooled you.”
“Ef they did, I’ll rout ‘em out,” said Mrs. Barton, who thought the supposition not improbable.
Once more she ascended the stairs and made an irruption into the boy’s chamber. She lifted the quilt, and peered under the bed. But there were no boys there. Looking about the room, however, she discovered something else. On the mantelpiece was a scrap of paper, which appeared to be so placed as to invite attention.
“What’s that?” said Mrs. Barton to herself.
A moment later she was descending the staircase more rapidly than she had gone up just before.
“Look at that,” she exclaimed, holding out a scrap of paper to Joel Barton.
“I don’t see nothin’ but a bit of paper,” said her husband.
“Don’t be a fool! Read what it is.”
“Read it aloud. I ain’t got my specks.”
“The boys have run away. Abner writ it. Listen to this.”
Rudely written on the paper, for Abner was by no means a skillful penman, were these words:
“Bub and I have runned away. You needn’t worry. I reckon we can get along. We’re going to make our fortunes. When we’re rich, we’ll come back. ABNER.”
“What do you think of that, Joel Barton?” demanded his wife.
Joel shrugged his shoulders.
“I shan’t worry much,” he said. “They’ll be back by to-morrer, likely.”
“Then you’ll have to split some wood to-day, Joel. You can’t expect a delicate woman like me to do such rough work.”
“You’re stronger’n I be, Mrs. B.”
“Perhaps you’ll find I am if you don’t go to work.”
“I’ll do it this afternoon.”
“All right. Then we’ll have dinner in the even-in’. No wood, no dinner.”
“Seems to me you’re rather hard on me, Mrs. B. I don’t feel well.”
“Nor you won’t till you give up drinkin’.”
Much against his will, Mr. Barton felt compelled by the stress of circumstances to do the work expected of him. It made him feel angry with Abner, whom he did not miss for any other reason.
“I’ll break that boy’s neck when he comes back,” he muttered. “It’s a shame to leave all this work for his poor, old dad.”
To-morrow came, but the boys did not. A week slipped away, and still they were missing. Mrs. Barton was not an affectionate mother, but it did seem lonesome without Abner. As for Herbert, she did not care for his absence. If Willis Ford did not continue to pay his board, she felt that she would rather have him away.
On the sixth day after the departure of the boys there came a surprise for Mrs. Barton.
As she was at work in the kitchen, she heard a loud knock at the door.
“Can it be Abner?” she thought. “He wouldn’t knock.”
She went to the door, however, feeling rather curious as to who could be her visitor, and on opening it started in surprise to see Willis Ford.
“Mr. Ford!” she ejaculated.
“I thought I would make you a call,” answered Ford. “How’s the boy getting along?”
“If you mean the boy you left here,” she answered, composedly, “he’s run away, and took my boy with him.”
“Run away!” ejaculated Ford, in dismay.
“Yes; he made tracks about a week ago. He and my Abner have gone off to make their fortunes.”
“Why didn’t you take better care of him, woman?” exclaimed Ford, angrily. “It’s your fault, his running away!”
“Look here, Ford,” retorted Mrs. Barton; “don’t you sass me, for I won’t stand it. Ef it hadn’t been for you, Abner would be at home now.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, my dear Mrs. Barton,” said Ford, seeing that he had made a false step. “Tell me all you can, and I’ll see if I can’t get the boys back.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Mrs. Barton, smoothing her ruffled plumage. “Come into the house, and I’ll tell you all I know.”
CHAPTER XXXV – HERBERT BREAKS DOWN
“I don’t think I can walk any further, Abner. I feel sick,” faltered Herbert.
Abner, who had been walking briskly, turned round to look at his young companion. Herbert was looking very pale, and had to drag one foot after the other. Day after day he had tried to keep up with Abner, but his strength was far inferior to that of the other boy, and he had finally broken down.
“You do look sick, bub,” said Abner, struck by Herbert’s pallid look. “Was I walking too fast for you?”
“I feel very weak,” said Herbert. “Would you mind stopping a little while? I should like to lie under a tree and rest.”
“All right, bub. There’s a nice tree.” “Don’t you feel tired, Abner?”
“No; I feel as strong as hearty as a horse.”
“You are bigger than I am. I guess that is the reason.”
Abner was a rough boy, but he showed unusual gentleness and consideration for the little boy, whose weakness appealed to his better nature. He picked out a nice, shady place for Herbert to recline upon, and, taking off his coat, laid it down for a pillow on which his young companion might rest his head.
“There, bub; I reckon you’ll feel better soon,” he said.
“I hope so, Abner. I wish I was as strong as you are.”
“So do I. I reckon I was born tough. I was brought up different from you.”
“I wish I were at home,” sighed Herbert. “Is it a long way from here?”
“I reckon it is, but I don’t know,” answered Abner, whose geographical notions were decidedly hazy.
An hour passed, and still Herbert lay almost motionless, as if rest were a luxury, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the clouds that could be seen through the branches floating lazily above.
“Don’t you feel any better, bub?” asked Abner.
“I feel better while I am lying here, Abner.”
“Don’t you feel strong enough to walk a little further?”
“Must I?” asked Herbert, sighing. “It is so nice to lie here.”
“I am afraid we shall never get to New York if we don’t keep goin’.”
“I’ll try,” said Herbert, and he rose to his feet, but he only staggered and became very white.
“I am afraid I need to rest a little more,” he said.
“All right, bub. Take your time.”
More critically Abner surveyed his young companion. He was not used to sickness or weakness, but there was something in the little boy’s face that startled him.
“I don’t think you’re fit to walk any further today,” he said. “I wish we had some good place to stay.”
At this moment a carriage was seen approaching. It was driven by a lady of middle age, with a benevolent face. Her attention was drawn to the two boys, and especially to Herbert. Her experienced eyes at once saw that he was sick.
She halted her horse.
“What is the matter with your brother?” she said to Abner.
“I reckon he’s tuckered out,” said Abner, tacitly admitting the relationship. “We’ve been travelin’ for several days. He ain’t so tough as I am.”
“He looks as if he were going to be sick. Have you any friends near here?”
“No, ma’am. The nighest is over a hundred miles off.”
The lady reflected a moment. Then she said: “I think you had better come to my house. My brother is a doctor. He will look at your little brother and see what can be done for him.”
“I should like it very much,” said Abner, “but we haven’t got any money to pay for doctors and sich.”
“I shan’t present any bill, nor will my brother,” said the lady, smiling. “Do you think you can help him into the carriage?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.”
Abner helped Herbert into the carriage, and then, by invitation, got in himself.
“May I drive?” he asked, eagerly.
“Yes, if you like.”
The kind lady supported with her arm Herbert’s drooping head, and so they drove on for a mile, when she indicated that they were to stop in front of a large, substantial, square house, built after the New England style.
Herbert was taken out, and, after Abner helped him upstairs, into a large, square chamber, with four windows.
“What is his name?” asked the lady.
“Herbert.”
“And yours?”
“Abner.”
“He had better lie down on the bed, and, as soon as my brother comes, I will send him up.”
Herbert breathed a sigh of satisfaction, as he reclined on the comfortable bed, which was more like the one he slept in at home than the rude, straw bed which he had used when boarding with Mr. and Mrs. Barton.
Half an hour passed, and the doctor came into the room, and felt Herbert’s pulse.
“The boy is tired out,” he said. “That is all. His strength has been exhausted by too severe physical effort.”
“What shall we do to bring him round?” asked his sister.
“Rest and nourishing food are all that is required.”
“Shall we keep him here? Have you any objection?”
“I should object to letting him go in his present condition. He will be a care to you, Emily.”
“I shall not mind that. We shall have to keep the other boy, too.”
“Certainly. There’s room enough for both.”
When Abner was told that for a week to come they were to stay in Dr. Stone’s comfortable house, his face indicated his satisfaction.
“Ef you’ve got any chores to do, ma’am,” he said, “I’ll do ‘em. I’m strong, and not afraid to work.”
“Then I will make you very useful,” said Miss Stone, smiling.
The next day, as she was sitting in Herbert’s chamber, she said: “Herbert, you don’t look at all like your brother.”
“Do you mean Abner, Miss Stone?” Herbert asked.
“Yes; have you any other brother?”
“Abner is not my brother at all.”
“How, then, do you happen to be traveling together?”
“Because we’ve both run away.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I don’t approve of boys running away. Where do you live?”
“In New York.”
“In New York!” repeated Miss Stone, much surprised. “Surely, you have not walked from there?”
“No, Miss Stone; I was stolen from my home in New York about a month ago, and left at Abner’s house. It was a poor cabin, and very different from anything I was accustomed to. I did not like Mr. and Mrs. Barton; but Abner was always kind to me.”
“Is your father living?” asked Miss Stone, who had become interested.
“Yes; he is a broker.”
“And no doubt you have a nice home?”
“Yes, very nice. It is a brownstone house uptown. I wonder whether I shall ever see it again?”
“Surely you will. I am surprised that you have not written to tell your father where you are. He must be feeling very anxious about you.”
“I did write, asking him to send me money to come home. Abner was going with me. But no answer came to my letter.”
“That is strange. Your father can’t have received the letter.”
“So I think, Miss Stone; but I directed it all right.”
“Do you think any one would intercept it?”
“Mrs. Estabrook might,” said Herbert, after a pause for consideration.
“Who is she?”
“The housekeeper.”
“What makes you think so? Didn’t she like you?”
“No; besides, it was her nephew who carried me off.”
Miss Stone asked further questions, and Herbert told her all the particulars with which the reader is already acquainted. When he had finished, she said: “My advice is, that you write to your boy friend, Grant Thornton, or tell me what to write, and I will write to him. His letters will not be likely to be tampered with.”
“I think that will be a good idea,” said Herbert; “Grant will tell papa, and then he’ll send for me.”
Miss Stone brought her desk to the bedside, and wrote a letter to Grant at Herbert’s dictation. This letter she sent to the village postoffice immediately by Abner.
