Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life, Jr. Horatio Alger [best free ereader .txt] 📗
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
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The artist's inference that Peg was merely Ida's attendant, was natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. Peg thought that in this way she should be more likely to escape suspicion when occupied in passing spurious coin.
The young man followed the strangely-assorted pair to the apartments which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door.
“What do you want?” said a sharp voice from within.
“I should like to see you a moment,” was the reply.
Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously.
“I don't know you,” she said, shortly. “I never saw you before.”
“I presume not,” said the young man. “We have never met, I think. I am an artist.”
“That is a business I don't know anything about,” said Peg, abruptly. “You've come to the wrong place. I don't want to buy any pictures. I've got plenty of other ways to spend my money.”
Certainly, Mrs. Hardwick, to give her the name she once claimed, did not look like a patron of the arts.
“You have a young girl, about eight or nine years old, living with you,” said the artist.
“Who told you that?” queried Peg, her suspicions at once roused.
“No one told me. I saw her with you in the street.”
Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the fact that that the child was stolen—possibly he might be acquainted with the Crumps, or might be their emissary. She therefore answered, shortly,—
“People that are seen walking together don't always live together.”
“But I saw the child entering this house with you.”
“What if you did?” demanded Peg, defiantly.
“I was about,” said the artist, perceiving that he was misapprehended, and desiring to set matters right, “I was about to make a proposition which might prove advantageous to both of us.”
“Eh!” said Peg, catching at the hint. “Tell me what it is, and perhaps we may come to terms.”
“It is simply this,” said Bowen, “I am, as I told you, an artist. Just now I am employed to sketch a flower-girl, and in seeking for a face such as I wished to sketch from, I was struck by that of your child.”
“Of Ida?”
“Yes, if that is her name. I will pay you five dollars for the privilege of copying it.”
Peg was fond of money, and the prospect of earning five dollars through Ida's instrumentality, so easily, blinded her to the possibility that this picture might prove a means of discovery to her friends.
“Well,” said she, more graciously, “if that's all you want, I don't know as I have any objections. I suppose you can copy her face here as well as anywhere.”
“I should prefer to have her come to my studio.”
“I sha'n't let her come,” said Peg, decidedly.
“Then I will consent to your terms, and come here.”
“Do you want to begin now?”
“I should like to do so.”
“Come in, then. Here, Ida, I want you.”
“Yes, Peg.”
“This young man wants to copy your face.”
Ida looked surprised.
“I am an artist,” said the young man, with a reassuring smile. “I will endeavor not to try your patience too much. Do you think you can stand still for half an hour, without much fatigue?”
Ida was easily won by kindness, while she had a spirit which was roused by harshness. She was prepossessed at once in favor of the young man, and readily assented.
He kept her in pleasant conversation while with a free, bold hand, he sketched the outlines of her face and figure.
“I shall want one more sitting,” he said. “I will come to-morrow at this time.”
“Stop a minute,” said Peg. “I should like the money in advance. How do I know that you will come again?”
“Certainly, if you prefer it,” said the young man, opening his pocket-book.
“What strange fortune,” he thought, “can have brought these two together? Surely there can be no relationship.”
The next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval.
CHAPTER XVII. JACK OBTAINS INFORMATION.
JACK set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first journey. Partly by cars, partly by boat, he traveled, till in a few hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in Philadelphia.
Among the admonitions given to Jack on leaving home, one was prominently in his mind, to beware of imposition, and to be as economical as possible.
Accordingly he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode along, with his carpet-bag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his uncle's shop. By dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found it at length, and, walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker as his nephew Jack.
“What, are you Jack?” exclaimed Mr. Abel Crump, pausing in his labor; “well, I never should have known you, that's a fact. Bless me, how you've grown! Why, you're most as big as your father, ain't you?”
“Only half an inch shorter,” returned Jack, complacently.
“And you're—let me see, how old are you?”
“Eighteen, that is, almost; I shall be in two months.”
“Well, I'm glad to see you, Jack, though I hadn't the least idea of your raining down so unexpectedly. How's your father and mother and Rachel, and your adopted sister?”
“Father and mother are pretty well,” answered Jack, “and so is Aunt Rachel,” he added, smiling; “though she ain't so cheerful as she might be.”
“Poor Rachel!” said Abel, smiling also, “all things look upside down to
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