Driven from Home; Or, Carl Crawford's Experience, Jr. Horatio Alger [websites to read books for free .txt] 📗
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
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“I am afraid he does.”
“You have my sympathy, Carl. I will do all I can to help you. If you can only get a place in our establishment, you will be all right. Step by step you will rise, till you come to stand where I do.”
“That would satisfy me. Has Mr. Brandes got another daughter?”
“No, there is only one.”
“Then I shall have to be content with the forty dollars a week. If I ever get it, I will save half.”
“I wish I could.”
“You can if you try. Why, you might have two thousand dollars saved up now, if you had only begun to save in time.”
“I have lost more than that at the gaming table. You will think me very foolish.”
“Yes, I do,” said Carl, frankly.
“You are right. But here we are almost at the village.”
“Is there a good hotel?”
“Yes—the Fillmore. We will take adjoining rooms if you say so.”
“Very well.”
“And in the morning you will pay the bill?”
“Certainly.”
The two travelers had a good supper, and retired early, both being fatigued with the journey. It was not till eight o’clock the next morning that Carl opened his eyes. He dressed hastily, and went down to breakfast. He was rather surprised not to see his companion of the day before.
“Has Mr. Hubbard come down yet?” he asked at the desk.
“Yes; he took an early breakfast, and went off by the first train.”
“That is strange. I was to pay his bill.”
“He paid it himself.”
Carl did not know what to make of this. Had Hubbard forgotten that he had five dollars belonging to him? Fortunately, Carl had his city address, and could refund the money in New York.
“Very well! I will pay my own bill. How much is it?”
“A dollar and a quarter.”
Carl took the ten-dollar bill from his wallet and tendered it to the clerk.
Instead of changing it at once, the clerk held it up to the light and examined it critically.
“I can’t take that bill,” he said, abruptly.
“Why not?”
“Because it is counterfeit.”
Carl turned pale, and the room seemed to whirl round. It was all the money he had.
CHAPTER X. THE COUNTERFEIT BILL.
“Are you sure it is counterfeit?” asked Carl, very much disturbed.
“I am certain of it. I haven’t been handling bank bills for ten years without being able to tell good money from bad. I’ll trouble you for another bill.”
“That’s all the money I have,” faltered Carl.
“Look here, young man,” said the clerk, sternly, “you are trying a bold game, but it won’t succeed.”
“I am trying no game at all,” said Carl, plucking up spirit. “I thought the bill was good.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From the man who came with me last evening—Mr. Hubbard.”
“The money he gave me was good.”
“What did he give you?”
“A five-dollar bill.”
“It was my five-dollar bill,” said Carl, bitterly.
“Your story doesn’t seem very probable,” said the clerk, suspiciously. “How did he happen to get your money, and you his?”
“He told me that he would get to gambling, and wished me to take money enough to pay his bill here. He handed me the ten-dollar bill which you say is bad, and I gave him five in return. I think now he only wanted to get good money for bad.”
“Your story may be true, or it may not,” said the clerk, whose manner indicated incredulity. “That is nothing to me. All you have to do is to pay your hotel bill, and you can settle with Mr. Hubbard when you see him.”
“But I have no other money,” said Carl, desperately.
“Then I shall feel justified in ordering your arrest on a charge of passing, or trying to pass, counterfeit money.”
“Don’t do that, sir! I will see that you are paid out of the first money I earn.”
“You must think I am soft,” said the clerk, contemptuously. “I have seen persons of your stripe before. I dare say, if you were searched, more counterfeit money would be found in your pockets.”
“Search me, then!” cried Carl, indignantly. “I am perfectly willing that you should.”
“Haven’t you any relations who will pay your bill?”
“I have no one to call upon,” answered Carl, soberly. “Couldn’t you let me work it out? I am ready to do any kind of work.”
“Our list of workers is full,” said the clerk, coldly.
Poor Carl! he felt that he was decidedly in a tight place. He had never before found himself unable to meet his bills, nor would he have been so placed now but for Hubbard’s rascality. A dollar and a quarter seems a small sum, but if you are absolutely penniless it might as well be a thousand. Suppose he should be arrested and the story get into the papers? How his stepmother would exult in the record of his disgrace! He could anticipate what she would say. Peter, too, would rejoice, and between them both his father would be persuaded that he was thoroughly unprincipled.
“What have you got in your valise?” asked the clerk.
“Only some underclothing. If there were anything of any value I would cheerfully leave it as security. Wait a minute, though,” he said, with a sudden thought. “Here is a gold pencil! It is worth five dollars; at any rate, it cost more than that. I can place that in your hands.”
“Let me see it.”
Carl handed the clerk a neat gold pencil, on which his name was inscribed. It was evidently of good
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