Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune, Jr. Horatio Alger [good books for high schoolers .txt] 📗

you, mother,” he said.

“It looks dark, Chester, but the Lord reigns. He will still be our friend.”

There was something in these simple words that cheered Chester, and a weight seemed lifted from his heart. He felt that they were not quite friendless, and that there was still One, kinder and more powerful than any earthly friend, to whom they could look for help.

When Monday morning came he rose at the usual hour and breakfasted.

“I’ll go out and take a walk, mother,” he said. “Perhaps I may find some work somewhere.”

Almost unconsciously, he took the familiar way to the store, and paused at a little distance from it. He saw Abel come out with some packages to carry to a customer. It pained him to see another boy in his place, and he turned away with a sigh.

During the night four or five inches of snow had fallen. This gave him an idea. As he came to the house of the Misses Cleveland, two maiden sisters who lived in a small cottage set back fifty feet from the road, he opened the gate and went up to the front door.

Miss Jane Cleveland opened it for him.

“Good-morning, Chester,” she said.

“Good-morning, Miss Cleveland. I thought you might want to get a path shoveled to the gate.”

“So I would; Hannah tried to do it last time it snowed, but she caught an awful cold. But ain’t you working up at the store?”

“Not now. Mr. Tripp cut down my wages, and I left.”

“Do tell. Have you got another place?”

“Not just yet. I thought I’d do any little jobs that came along till I got one.”

“That’s right. What’ll you charge to shovel a path?”

Chester hesitated.

“Fifteen cents,” he answered, at last.

“I’ll give you ten. Money’s skerce.”

Chester reflected that he could probably do the job in half an hour, and he accepted. It cheered him to think he was earning something, however small.

He worked with a will, and in twenty-five minutes the work was done.

“You’re spry,” said Jane Cleveland, when he brought the shovel to the door. “It took Hannah twice as long, and she didn’t do it as well.”

“It isn’t the kind of work for ladies,” replied Chester.

“Wait till I fetch the money.”

Miss Cleveland went into the house, and returned with a nickel and four pennies.

“I’m reely ashamed,” she said. “I’ll have to owe you a cent. But here’s a mince pie I’ve just baked. Take it home to your ma. Maybe it’ll come handy. I’ll try to think of the other cent next time you come along.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Miss Cleveland. The pie is worth a good deal more than the cent. Mother’ll be very much obliged to you.”

“She’s very welcome, I’m sure,” said the kindly spinster. “I hope you’ll get work soon, Chester.”

“Thank you.”

Chester made his way homeward, as he did not care to carry the pie about with him. His mother looked at him in surprise as he entered the house.

“What have you there, Chester?” she asked.

“A pie from Miss Cleveland.”

“But how came she to give you a pie?”

“I shoveled a path for her, and she gave me a pie and ten cents—no, nine. So you see, mother, I’ve earned something this week.”

“I take it as a good omen. A willing hand will generally find work to do.”

“How are you off for wood, mother?”

“There is some left, Chester.”

“I’ll go out in the yard and work at the wood pile till dinner time. Then this afternoon I will go out again and see if I can find some more paths to shovel.”

But Chester was not destined to earn any more money that day. As a general thing, the village people shoveled their own paths, and would regard hiring such work done as sinful extravagance. Chester did, however, find some work to do. About half-past three he met Abel Wood tugging a large basket, filled with groceries, to the minister’s house. He had set it down, and was resting his tired arms when Chester came along.

“Give me a lift with this basket, Chester, that’s a good fellow,” said Abel.

Chester lifted it.

“Yes, it is heavy,” he said.

“The minister’s got some company,” went on Abel, “and he’s given an extra large order.”

“How do you like working in the store, Abel?”

“It’s hard work, harder than I thought.”

“But remember what a magnificent salary you will get,” said Chester, with a smile.

“It ain’t half enough. Say, Chester, old Tripp is rich, ain’t he?”

“I should call myself rich if I had his money.”

“He’s a miserly old hunks, then, to give me such small pay.”

“Don’t let him hear you say so.”

“I’ll take care of that. Come, you’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Chester, good-naturedly; “I might as well, as I have nothing else to do.”

Between the two the basket was easily carried. In a short time they had reached the minister’s house. They took the basket around to the side door, just as Mr. Morris, the minister, came out, accompanied by a young man, who was evidently a stranger in the village, as Chester did not remember having seen him before.

“Chester,” said the minister, kindly, “how does it happen that you have an assistant to-day?”

“I am the assistant, Mr. Morris. Abel is Mr. Tripp’s new boy.”

“Indeed, I am surprised to hear that. When did you leave the store?”

“Last Saturday night.”

“Have you another place?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you at leisure this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps you will walk around with my friend, Mr. Conrad, and show him the village. I was going with him, but I have some writing to do, and you will do just as well.”

“I shall be very happy to go with Mr. Conrad,” said Chester, politely.

“And I shall be very glad to have you,” said the young man, with a pleasant smile.

“Come back to supper, Chester,” said the minister; “that is, if your mother can spare you.”

“Thank you, sir. I suppose you will be able to carry back the empty basket, Abel,” added Chester, as his successor emerged from the side door, relieved of his burden.

“I guess so,” answered Abel, with a grin.

“I was never in Wyncombe before,” began Mr. Conrad, “though I am a second cousin of your minister, Mr. Morris. I have to go away to-morrow morning, and wish to see a little of the town while I am here.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Conrad?”

“In the city of New York.”

“Are you a minister, too?”

“Oh, no!” laughed the young man. “I am in a very different business. I am an artist—in a small way. I make sketches for books and magazines.”

“And does that pay?”

“Fairly well. I earn a comfortable living.”

“I didn’t know one could get money for making pictures. I like to draw, myself.”

“I will see what you can do this evening; that is, if you accept my cousin’s invitation.”

Before the walk was over Chester had become much interested in his new friend. He listened eagerly to his stories of the great city, and felt that life must be much better worth living there than in Wyncombe.

CHAPTER III.

A NOTEWORTHY EVENING.

Chester enjoyed his supper. Mr. Morris, though a minister, had none of the starched dignity that many of his profession think it necessary to assume. He was kindly and genial, with a pleasant humor that made him agreeable company for the young as well as the old. Mr. Conrad spoke much of New York and his experiences there, and Chester listened to him eagerly.

“You have never been to New York, Chester?” said the young artist.

“No, sir, but I have read about it—and dreamed about it. Sometime I hope to go there.”

“I think that is the dream of every country boy. Well, it is the country boys that make the most successful men.”

“How do you account for that, Herbert?” asked the minister.

“Generally they have been brought up to work, and work more earnestly than the city boys.”

When the supper table was cleared, Mr. Conrad took from his valise two or three of the latest issues of Puck, Judge and Life. He handed them to Chester, who looked over them eagerly.

“Do you ever contribute to these papers, Mr. Conrad?” he asked.

“Yes; here is a sketch in Judge, and another in Life, which I furnished.”

“And do you get good pay for them?”

“I received ten dollars for each.”

Chester’s eyes opened with surprise.

“Why,” he said, “they are small. It couldn’t have taken you long to draw them.”

“Probably half an hour for each one.”

“And you received ten dollars each?”

“Yes, but don’t gauge such work by the time it takes. It is the idea that is of value. The execution is a minor matter.”

Chester looked thoughtful.

“I should like to be an artist,” he said, after a pause.

“Won’t you give me a specimen of your work? You have seen mine.”

“I have not done any comic work, but I think I could.”

“Here is a piece of drawing paper. Now, let me see what you can do.”

Chester leaned his head on his hand and began to think. He was in search of an idea. The young artist watched him with interest. At last his face brightened up. He seized the pencil, and began to draw rapidly. In twenty minutes he handed the paper to Mr. Conrad.

The latter looked at it in amazement.

“Why, you are an artist,” he said. “I had no idea you were capable of such work.”

“I am glad you like it,” said Chester, much pleased.

“How long have you been drawing?”

“Ever since I can remember. I used to make pictures in school on my slate. Some of them got me into trouble with the teacher.”

“I can imagine it, if you caricatured him. Did you ever take lessons?”

“No; there was no one in Wyncombe to teach me. But I got hold of a drawing book once, and that helped me.”

“Do you know what I am going to do with this sketch of yours?”

Chester looked an inquiry.

“I will take it to New York with me, and see if I can dispose of it.”

“I am afraid it won’t be of much use, Mr. Conrad. I am only a boy.”

“If a sketch is good, it doesn’t matter how old or young an artist is.”

“I should like very much to get something for it. Even fifty cents would be acceptable.”

“You hold your talent cheap, Chester,” said Mr. Conrad, with a smile. “I shall certainly ask more than that for it, as I don’t approve of cheapening artistic labor.”

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly.

When Chester rose to go, Mr. Conrad said:

“Take these papers, Chester. You can study them at your leisure, and if any happy thoughts or brilliant ideas come to you, dash them off and send them to me. I might do something with them.”

“Thank you, sir. What is your address?”

“Number one ninety-nine West Thirty-fourth Street. Well, good-by. I am glad to have met you. Sometime you may be an artist.”

Chester flushed with pride, and a new hope rose in his breast. He had always enjoyed drawing, but no one had ever encouraged him in it. Even his mother thought of it only as a pleasant diversion for him. As to its bringing him in money, the idea had never occurred to him.

It seemed wonderful, indeed, that a little sketch, the work of half an hour, should bring ten dollars. Why compare with this the hours of toil in a grocery store—seventy, at least—which had been necessary to earn the small sum of three dollars. For the first time Chester began to understand the difference between manual and intelligent labor.

It was ten o’clock when Chester left the minister’s house—a late hour in Wyncombe—and he had nearly reached his own modest home before he met anyone. Then he overtook a man of perhaps thirty, thinly clad and shivering in the bitter, wintry wind. He was a stranger, evidently, for Chester knew everyone in the village, and he was tempted to look back. The young man, encouraged perhaps by this evidence of interest, spoke, hurriedly:

“Do you know,” he asked, “where I can get a bed for the night?”

“Mr. Tripp has a few rooms that he lets to strangers. He is the storekeeper.”

The young man laughed, but there was no