Brave and Bold

H >> Horatio Alger, Jr. >> Brave and Bold

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He made his way to the house of Squire Paine, and, after a brief pause,
was admitted, He was shown into the parlor, and Will Paine came down to
see him.

"How are you, Davis?" he said, nodding, coolly, but not offering his
hand.

"I hear you are going to boarding school?"

"Yes; I go to-morrow."

"I suppose you won't take your boat with you?"

"No."

"I'll give you two dollars for the use of it; the next three months?"

"I can't accept your offer. Robert Bashton is to have it."

"But he doesn't pay you anything for it. I'll give you three dollars, if
you say so?"

"You can't have it for three dollars, or ten. I have promised it to my
friend, Robert Rushton, and I shall not take it back."

"You may not know," said Halbert, maliciously, "that your friend was
discharged from the factory this morning for misconduct."

"I know very well that he was discharged, and through whose influence,
Halbert Davis," said Will, pointedly. "I like him all the better for his
misfortune, and so I am sore will my sister."

Halbert's face betrayed the anger and jealousy he felt, but he didn't
dare to speak to the lawyer's son as he had to the factory boy.

"Good-morning!" he said, rising to go.

"Good-morning!" said young Paine, formally.

Halbert felt, as he walked homeward, that his triumph over Robert was by
no means complete.

CHAPTER VII.

THE STRANGE PASSENGER.

Robert, though not a professional fisherman, was not wholly
inexperienced. This morning he was quite lucky, catching quite a fine
lot of fish--as much, indeed, as his mother and himself would require a
week to dispose of. However, he did not intend to carry them all home.
It occurred to him that he could sell them at a market store in the
village. Otherwise, he would not have cared to go on destroying life for
no useful end.

Accordingly, on reaching the shore, he strung the fish and walked
homeward, by way of the market. It was rather a heavy tug, for the fish
he had caught weighed at least fifty pounds.

Stepping into the store, he attracted the attention of the proprietor.

"That's a fine lot of fish you have there, Robert. What are you going to
do with them?"

"I'm going to sell most of them to you, if I can."

"Are they just out of the water?"

"Yes; I have just brought them in."

"What do you want for them?"

"I don't know what is a fair price?"

"I'll give you two cents a pound for as many as you want to sell."

"All right," said our hero, with satisfaction. "I'll carry this one
home, and you can weigh the rest."

The rest proved to weigh forty-five pounds. The marketman handed Robert
ninety cents, which he pocketed with satisfaction.

"Shall you want some more to-morrow?" he asked.

"Yes, if you can let me have them earlier. But how is it you are not at
the factory?"

"I've lost my place."

"That's a pity."

"So I have plenty of time to work for you."

"I may be able to take considerable from you. I'm thinking of running a
cart to Brampton every morning, but I must have the fish by eight
o'clock, or it'll be too late."

"I'll go out early in the morning, then."

"Very well; bring me what you have at that hour, and we'll strike a
trade."

"I've got something to do pretty quick," thought Robert, with
satisfaction. "It was a lucky thought asking Will Paine for his boat.
I'm sorry he's going away, but it happens just right for me."

Mrs. Rushton was sitting at her work, in rather a disconsolate frame of
mind. The more she thought of Robert's losing his place, the more
unfortunate it seemed. She could not be expected to be as sanguine and
hopeful as our hero, who was blessed with strong hands and a fund of
energy and self-reliance which he inherited from his father. His mother,
on the other hand, was delicate and nervous, and apt to look on the dark
side of things. But, notwithstanding this, she was a good mother, and
Robert loved her.

Nothing had been heard for some time but the drowsy ticking of the
clock, when a noise was heard at the door, and Robert entered the room,
bringing the fish he had reserved.

"You see, mother, we are not likely to starve," he said.

"That's a fine, large fish," said his mother.

"Yes; it'll be enough for two meals. Didn't I tell you, mother, I would
find something to do?"

"True, Robert," said his mother, dubiously; "but we shall get tired of
fish if we have it every day."

Robert laughed.

"Six days in the week will do for fish, mother," he said. "I think we
shall be able to afford something else Sunday."

"Of course, fish is better than nothing," said his mother, who
understood him literally; "and I suppose we ought to be thankful to get
that."

"You don't look very much pleased at the prospect of fish six times a
week," said Robert, laughing again. "On the whole, I think it will be
better to say twice."

"But what will we do other days, Robert?"

"What we have always done, mother--eat something else. But I won't keep
you longer in suspense. Did you think this was the only fish I caught?"

"Yes, I thought so."

"I sold forty-five pounds on the way to Minturn, at his market
store--forty-five pounds, at two cents a pound. What do you think of
that?"

"Do you mean that you have earned ninety cents to-day, Robert?"

"Yes; and here's the money."

"That's much better than I expected," said Mrs. Rushton, looking several
degrees more I cheerful.

"I don't expect to do as well as that every day, mother, but I don't
believe we'll starve. Minturn has engaged me to supply him with fish
every day, only some days the fishes won't feel like coming out of the
water. Then, I forgot to tell you, I'm to have Will Paine's boat for
nothing. He's going to boarding school, and has asked me to take care of
it for him."

"You are fortunate, Robert."

"I am hungry, too, mother. Those two sandwiches didn't go a great ways.
So, if you can just as well as not have supper earlier, it would suit
me."

"I'll put on the teakettle at once, Robert," said his mother, rising.
"Would you like some of the fish for supper?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"Surely not, Robert."

The usual supper hour was at five in this country household, but a
little after four the table was set, and mother and son sat down to a
meal which both enjoyed. The fish proved to be excellent, and Robert
enjoyed it the more, first, because he had caught it himself, and next
because he felt that his independent stand at the factory, though it had
lost him his place, was not likely to subject his mother to the
privations he had feared.

"I'll take another piece of fish, mother," said Robert, passing his
plate. "I think, on the whole, I shan't be obliged to learn to braid
straw."

"No; you can do better at fishing."

"Only," added Robert, with mock seriousness, "we might change work
sometimes, mother; I will stay at home and braid straw, and you can go
out fishing."

"I am afraid I should make a poor hand at it," said Mrs. Rushton,
smiling.

"If Halbert Davis could look in upon us just now, he would be
disappointed to find us so cheerful after my losing my place at factory.
However, I've disappointed him in another way."

"How is that?"

"He expected Will Paine would lend him his boat while he was gone, but,
instead of that, he finds it promised to me."

"I am afraid he is not a very kind-hearted boy."

"That's drawing it altogether too mild, mother. He's the meanest fellow
I ever met. However, I won't talk about him any more, or it'll spoil my
appetite."

On the next two mornings Robert went out at five o'clock, in order to
get home in time for the market-wagon. He met with fair luck, but not as
good as on the first day. Taking the two mornings together, he captured
and sold seventy pounds of fish, which, as the price remained the same,
brought him in a dollar and forty cents. This was not equal to his wages
at the factory; still, he had the greater part of the day to himself,
only, unfortunately, he had no way of turning his time profitably to
account, or, at least, none had thus far occurred to him.

On the morning succeeding he was out of luck. He caught but two fish,
and they were so small that he decided not to offer them for sale.

"If I don't do better than this," he reflected, "I shan't make very good
wages. The fish seem to be getting afraid of me."

He paddled about, idly, a few rods from the shore, having drawn up his
line and hook.

All at once, he heard a voice hailing him from the river bank:

"Boat ahoy!"

"Hallo!" answered Robert, lifting his eyes, and seeing who called him.

"Can you set me across the river?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring in your boat, then, and I'll jump aboard. I'll pay you for your
trouble."

Robert did as requested, with alacrity. He was very glad to earn money
in this way, since it seemed he was to have no fish to dispose of. He
quickly turned the boat to the shore, and the stranger jumped on board.
He was a man of rather more than the average height, with a slight limp
in his gait, in a rough suit of clothes, his head being surmounted by a
felt hat considerably the worse for wear. There was a scar on one
cheek, and, altogether, he was not very prepossessing in his appearance.
Robert noted all this in a rapid glance, but it made no particular
impression upon him at the moment. He cared very little how the stranger
looked, as long as he had money enough to pay his fare.

"It's about a mile across the river, isn't it?" asked the stranger.

"About that here. Where do you want to go?"

"Straight across. There's an old man named Nichols lives on the other
side, isn't there?"

"Yes; he lives by himself."

"Somebody told me so. He's rich, isn't he?" asked the stranger,
carelessly.

"So people say; but he doesn't show it in his dress or way of living."

"A miser, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"What does he do with his money?"

"I only know what people say."

"And what do they say?"

"That he is afraid to trust banks, and hides his money in the earth."

"That kind of bank don't pay very good interest," said the stranger,
laughing.

"No; but it isn't likely to break."

"Here? boy, give me one of the oars. I'm used to rowing, and I'll help
you a little."

Robert yielded one of the oars to his companion, who evidently
understood rowing quite as well as he professed to. Our hero, though
strong-armed, had hard work to keep up with him.

"Look out, boy, or I'll turn you round," he said.

"You are stronger than I am."

"And more used to rowing; but I'll suit myself to you."

A few minutes brought them to the other shore. The passenger jumped
ashore, first handing a silver half-dollar to our hero, who was well
satisfied with his fee.

Robert sat idly in his boat, and watched his late fare as with rapid
steps he left the river bank behind him.

"He's going to the old man's house," decided Robert. "I wonder whether
he has any business with him?"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE OLD FARMHOUSE.

The stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an old
farmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. Whether it had
ever been painted, was a question not easily solved. At present it was
dark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect.

The owner, Paul Nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quite
alone, and himself providing for his simple wants. Robert was right in
calling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. The time
was when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessed
with two young children. But they were all taken from him in one week by
an epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. This
bereavement completely revolutionized his life. Up to this time he had
been a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs.
Now be became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of its
legitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, which
he began to love with a passionate energy. He repulsed the advances of
neighbors, and became what Robert called him--a miser.

How much he was worth, no one knew. The town assessors sought in vain
for stocks and bonds. He did not appear to possess any. Probably popular
opinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one or
many out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont to
visit and gloat over his treasures. There was reason also to believe
that it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie payments
from those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he used
to go to a neighboring town with his bank notes and get the change
effected.

Such was the man about whom Robert's unknown passenger exhibited so much
curiosity, and whom it seemed that he was intending to visit.

"I wonder whether the old man is at home!" he said to himself, as he
entered the front yard through a gateway, from which the gate had long
since disappeared. "He don't keep things looking very neat and trim,
that's a fact," he continued, noticing the rank weeds and indiscriminate
litter which filled the yard. "Just give me this place, and his money
to keep it, and I'd make a change in the looks of things pretty quick."

He stepped up to the front door, and, lifting the old-fashioned knocker,
sounded a loud summons.

"He'll hear that, if he isn't very deaf," he thought.

But the summons appeared to be without effect. At all events, he was
left standing on the doorstone, and no one came to bid him enter.

"He can't be at home, or else he won't come," thought the visitor. "I'll
try him again," and another knock, still louder than before, sounded
through the farmhouse.

But still no one came to the door. The fact was, that the old farmer had
gone away early, with a load of hay, which he had sold; to a
stable-keeper living some five miles distant.

"I'll reconnoiter a little," said the stranger.

He stepped to the front window, and looked in. All that met his gaze was
a bare, dismantled room.

"Not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "Well, he
don't appear to be here; I'll go round to the back part of the house."

He went round to the back door, where he thought it best, in the first
place, to knock. No answer coming, he peered through the window, but saw
no one.

"The coast is clear," he concluded. "So much the better, if I can get
in."

The door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised.
Through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the only
room occupied by the old farmer, with the exception of a room above,
which he used as a bedchamber. Here he cooked and ate his meals, and
here he spent his solitary evenings.

Jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. He
looked around him, with some curiosity.

"It is eighteen years since I was last in this room," he said. "Time
hasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a short
laugh. "I've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, and
I've come back as poor as I went away. What's that copy I used to
write?--'A rolling stone gathers no moss.' Well, I'm the rolling stone.
In all that time my Uncle Paul has been moored fast to his hearthstone,
and been piling up gold, which he don't seem to have much use for. As
far as I know, I'm his nearest relation, there's no reason why he
shouldn't launch out a little for the benefit of the family."

It will be gathered from the foregoing soliloquy that the newcomer was a
nephew of Paul Nichols. After a not very creditable youth, he had gone
to sea, and for eighteen years this was his first reappearance in his
native town.

He sat down in a chair, and stretched out his legs, with an air of being
at home.

"I wonder what the old man will say when he sees me," he soliloquized.
"Ten to one he won't know me. When we saw each other last I was a
smooth-faced youth. Now I've got hair enough on my face, and the years
have made, their mark upon me, I suspect. Where is he, I wonder, and how
long have I got to wait for him? While I'm waiting, I'll take the
liberty of looking in the closet, and seeing if he hasn't something to
refresh the inner man. I didn't make much of a breakfast, and something
hearty wouldn't come amiss."

He rose from his chair, and opened the closet door. A small collection
of crockery was visible, most of it cracked, but there was nothing
eatable to be seen, except half a loaf of bread. This was from the
baker, for the old man, after ineffectual efforts to make his own bread,
had been compelled to abandon the attempt, and patronize the baker.

"Nothing but a half loaf, and that's dry enough," muttered the
stranger. "That isn't very tempting. I can't say much for my uncle's
fare, unless he has got something more attractive somewhere."

But, search as carefully as he might, nothing better could be found, and
his appetite was not sufficiently great to encourage an attack upon the
stale loaf. He sat down, rather discontented, and resumed the current of
his reflections.

"My uncle must be more of a miser than I thought, if he stints himself
to such fare as this. It's rather a bad lookout for me. He won't be very
apt to look with favor on my application for a small loan from his
treasure. What's that the boy said? He don't trust any banks, but keeps
his money concealed in the earth. By Jove! It would be a stroke of luck
if I could stumble on one of his hiding places! If I could do that while
he was away, I would forego the pleasure of seeing him, and make off
with what I could find. I'll look about me, and see if I can't find some
of his hidden hoards."

No sooner did the thought occur to him than he acted upon it.

"Let me see," he reflected, "where is he most likely to hide his
treasure? Old stockings are the favorites with old maids and widows, but
I don't believe Uncle Paul has got any without holes in them. He's more
likely to hide his gold under the hearth. That's a good idea, I'll try
the hearth first."

He kneeled down, and began to examine the bricks, critically, with a
view of ascertaining whether any bore the marks of having been removed
recently, for he judged correctly that a miser would wish, from time to
time, to unearth his treasure for the pleasure of looking at it. But
there was no indication of disturbance. The hearth bore a uniform
appearance, and did not seem to have been tampered with.

"That isn't the right spot," reflected the visitor. "Perhaps there's a
plank in the floor that raises, or, still more likely, the gold is
buried in the cellar. I've a great mind to go down there."

He lit a candle, and went cautiously down the rickety staircase. But he
had hardly reached the bottom of the stairs, when he caught the sound of
a wagon entering the yard.

"That must be my uncle," he said. "I'd better go up, and not let him
catch me down here."

He ascended the stairs, and re-entered the room just as the farmer
opened the door and entered.

On seeing a tall, bearded stranger, whom he did not recognize, standing
before him in his own kitchen, with a lighted candle in his hand, Paul
Nichols uttered a shrill cry of alarm, and ejaculated:

"Thieves! Murder! Robbers!" in a quavering voice.

CHAPTER IX.

THE UNWELCOME GUEST.

The stranger was in rather an awkward predicament. However, he betrayed
neither embarrassment nor alarm. Blowing out the candle, he advanced to
the table and set it down. This movement brought him nearer Paul
Nichols, who, with the timidity natural to an old man, anticipated an
immediate attack.

"Don't kill me! Spare my life!" he exclaimed, hastily stepping back.

"I see you don't know me, Uncle Paul?" said the intruder, familiarly.

"Who are you that call me Uncle Paul?" asked the old man, somewhat
reassured.

"Benjamin Haley, your sister's son. Do you know me now?"

"You Ben Haley!" exclaimed the old man, betraying surprise. "Why, you
are old enough to be his father."

"Remember, Uncle Paul, I am eighteen years older than when you saw me
last. Time brings changes, you know. When I saw you last, you were a
man in the prime of life, now you are a feeble old man."

"Are you really Ben Haley?" asked the old man, doubtfully.

"To be sure I am. I suppose I look to you more like a bearded savage.
Well, I'm not responsible for my looks. Not finding you at home, I took
the liberty of coming in on the score of relationship."

"What, were you doing with that candle?" asked Paul, suspiciously.

"I went down cellar with it."

"Down cellar!" repeated his uncle, with a look of alarm which didn't
escape his nephew. "What for?"

"In search of something to eat. All I could find in the closet was a dry
loaf, which doesn't look very appetizing."

"There's nothing down cellar. Don't go there again," said the old man,
still uneasy.

His nephew looked at him shrewdly.

"Ha, Uncle Paul! I've guessed your secret so quick," he said to himself.
"Some of your money is hidden away in the cellar, I'm thinking."

"Where do you keep your provisions, then?" he said aloud.

"The loaf is all I have."

"Come, Uncle Paul, you don't mean that. That's a scurvy welcome to give
a nephew you haven't seen for eighteen years. I'm going to stay to
dinner with you, and you must give me something better than that.
Haven't you got any meat in the house?"

"No."

Just then Ben Haley, looking from the window, saw some chickens in the
yard. His eye lighted up at the discovery.

"Ah, there is a nice fat chicken," he said. "We'll have a chicken
dinner. Shall it be roast or boiled?"

"No, no," said the old farmer, hastily. "I can't spare them. They'll
bring a good price in the market by and by."

"Can't help it, Uncle Paul. Charity begins at home. Excuse me a minute,
I'll be back directly."

He strode to the door and out into the yard. Then, after a little
maneuvering, he caught a chicken, and going to the block, seized the ax,
and soon decapitated it.

"What have you done?" said Paul, ruefully, for the old man had followed
his nephew, and was looking on in a very uncomfortable frame of mind.

"Taken the first step toward a good dinner," said the other, coolly. "I
am not sure but we shall want two."

"No, no!" said Paul, hastily. "I haven't got much appetite."

"Then perhaps we can make it do. I'll just get it ready, and cook it
myself. I've knocked about in all sorts of places, and it won't be the
first time I've served as cook. I've traveled some since I saw you
last."

"Have you?" said the old man, who seemed more interested in the untimely
death of the pullet than in his nephew's adventures.

"Yes, I've been everywhere. I spent a year in Australia at the gold
diggings."

"Did you find any?" asked his uncle, for the first time betraying
interest.

"Some, but I didn't bring away any."

Ben Haley meanwhile was rapidly stripping the chicken of its feathers.
When he finished, he said, "Now tell me where you keep your vegetables,
Uncle Paul?"

"They're in the corn barn. You can't get in. It's locked."

"Where's the key?"

"Lost."

"I'll get in, never fear," said the intruder, and he led the way to the
corn barn, his uncle unwillingly following and protesting that it would
be quite impossible to enter.

Reaching the building, he stepped back and was about to kick open the
door, when old Paul hurriedly interposed, saying, "No, no, I've found
the key."

His nephew took it from his hand, and unlocking the door, brought out a
liberal supply of potatoes, beets and squashes.

"We'll have a good dinner, after all," he said. "You don't half know how
to live, Uncle Paul. You need me here. You've got plenty around you, but
you don't know how to use it."

The free and easy manner in which his nephew conducted himself was
peculiarly annoying and exasperating to the old man, but as often as he
was impelled to speak, the sight of his nephew's resolute face and
vigorous frame, which he found it difficult to connect with his
recollections of young Ben, terrified him into silence, and he contented
himself with following his nephew around uneasily with looks of
suspicion.

When the dinner was prepared both sat down to partake of it, but Ben
quietly, and, as a matter of course, assumed the place of host and
carved the fowl. Notwithstanding the shock which his economical notions
had received, the farmer ate with appetite the best meal of which he had
partaken for a long time. Ben had not vaunted too highly his skill as a
cook. Wherever he had acquired it, he evidently understood the
preparation of such a dinner as now lay before them.

"Now, Uncle Paul, if we only had a mug of cider to wash down the
dinner. Haven't you got some somewhere?"

"Not a drop."

"Don't you think I might find some stored away in the cellar, for
instance?" asked Ben, fixing his glance upon his uncle's face.

"No, no; didn't I tell you I hadn't got any?" returned Paul Nichols,
with petulance and alarm.

"I mean to see what else you have in the cellar," said Ben, to himself,
"before I leave this place. There's a reason for that pale face of
yours." But he only said aloud, "Well, if you haven't got any we must do
without it. There's a little more of the chicken left. As you don't want
it I'll appropriate it. Nothing like clearing up things. Come, this is
rather better than dry bread, isn't it?"

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