Author: Jr. Horatio Alger

Book online «The Store Boy, Jr. Horatio Alger [best fiction books to read .txt] 📗». Author Jr. Horatio Alger

Go to page:

Ben stared at Conrad in surprise. He had just that amount, after sending home money to his mother, but he intended that afternoon to deposit three dollars of it in the savings bank, feeling that he ought to be laying up money while he was so favorably situated.

"How do you happen to be short of money?" he asked.

"That doesn't need telling. I have only four dollars a week pocket money, and I am pinched all the time."

"Then, supposing I lent you the money, how could you manage to pay me back out of this small allowance?"

"Oh, I expect to get some money in another way, but I cannot unless you lend me the money."

"Would you mind telling me how?"

"Why, the fact is, a fellow I know—that is, I have heard of him—has just drawn a prize of a thousand dollars in a Havana lottery. All he paid for his ticket was five dollars."

"And is this the way you expect to make some money?"

"Yes; I am almost sure of winning."

"Suppose you don't?"

"Oh, what's the use of looking at the dark side?"

"You are not so sensible as I thought, Conrad," said Ben. "At least a hundred draw a blank to one who draws a small prize, and the chances are a hundred to one against you."

"Then you won't lend me the money?" said Conrad angrily.

"I would rather not."

"Then you're a mean fellow!"

"Thank you for your good opinion, but I won't change my determination."

"You get ten dollars a week?"

"I shall not spend two dollars a week on my own amusement, or for my own purposes."

"What are you going to do with the rest, then?"

"Part I shall send to my mother; part I mean to put in some savings bank."

"You mean to be a miser, then?"

"If to save money makes one a miser, then I shall be one."

Conrad left the room in an angry mood. He was one with whom prosperity didn't agree. Whatever his allowance might be, he wished to spend more. Looking upon himself as Mrs. Hamilton's heir, he could not understand the need or expediency of saving money. He was not wholly to blame for this, as his mother encouraged him in hopes which had no basis except in his own and her wishes.

Not quite three weeks after Ben had become established his new home he received a letter which mystified and excited him.

It ran thus:

"If you will come at nine o'clock this evening to No. —— West Thirty-first Street, and call for me, you will hear something to your advantage. James Barnes."

"It may be something relating to my father's affairs," thought Ben. "I will go."

CHAPTER XXIII — BEN'S VISIT TO THIRTY-FIRST STREET

Ben's evenings being unoccupied, he had no difficulty in meeting the appointment made for him. He was afraid Conrad might ask him to accompany him somewhere, and thus involve the necessity of an explanation, which he did not care to give until he had himself found out why he had been summoned.

The address given by James Barnes was easy to find. Ben found himself standing before a brick building of no uncommon exterior. The second floor seemed to be lighted up; the windows were hung with crimson curtains, which quite shut out a view of what was transpiring within.

Ben rang the bell. The door was opened by a colored servant, who looked at the boy inquiringly.

"Is Mr. Barnes within?" asked Ben.

"I don't know the gentleman," was the answer.

"He sent me a letter, asking me to meet him here at nine o'clock."

"Then I guess it's all right. Are you a telegraph boy?"

"No," answered Ben, in surprise.

"I reckon it's all right," said the negro, rather to himself than to Ben. "Come upstairs."

Ben followed his guide, and at the first landing a door was thrown open. Mechanically, Ben followed the servant into the room, but he had not made half a dozen steps when he looked around in surprise and bewilderment. Novice as he was, a glance satisfied him that he was in a gambling house. The double room was covered with a soft, thick carpet, chandeliers depended from the ceiling, frequent mirrors reflecting the brilliant lights enlarged the apparent size the apartment, and a showy bar at one end of the room held forth an alluring invitation which most failed to resist. Around tables were congregated men, young and old, each with an intent look, watching the varying chances of fortune.

"I'll inquire if Mr. Barnes is here," said Peter, the colored servant.

Ben stood uneasily looking at the scene till Peter came back.

"Must be some mistake," he said. "There's no gentleman of the name of Barnes here."

"It's strange," said Ben, perplexed.

He turned to go out, but was interrupted. A man with a sinister expression, and the muscle of a prize fighter, walked up to him and said, with a scowl:

"What brings you here, kid?"

"I received a letter from Mr. Barnes, appointing to meet me here."

"I believe you are lying. No such man comes here."

"I never lie," exclaimed Ben indignantly.

"Have you got that letter about you?" asked the man suspiciously.

Ben felt in his pocket for the letter, but felt in vain.

"I think I must have left it at home," he said nervously.

The man's face darkened.

"I believe you come here as a spy," he said.

"Then you are mistaken!" said Ben, looking him fearlessly in the face.

"I hope so, for your sake. Do you know what kind of a place this is?"

"I suppose it is a gambling house," Ben answered, without hesitation.