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

merriment in the laugh.

“Oh, yes. I know Silas Tripp,” he said.

“Then you have been in Wyncombe before?”

“I never lived here, but I know Silas Tripp better than I want to. He is my uncle.”

“Your uncle!” exclaimed Chester, in surprise.

“Yes, I am his sister’s son. My name is Walter Bruce.”

“Then I should think your uncle’s house was the place for you.”

“I have no money to pay for a bed.”

“But, if you are a relation——”

“That makes no difference to Silas Tripp. He has no love for poor relations. You don’t know him very well.”

“I ought to, for I have worked for him in the store for a year.”

“I didn’t see you in there this evening.”

“I left him last Saturday evening. There is another boy there now.”

“Why did you leave him?”

“Because he wanted to cut down my wages from three dollars to two dollars and a quarter.”

“Just like uncle Silas. I see you know him.”

“Have you seen him since you came to Wyncombe?”

“I was in the store this evening.”

“Did you make yourself known to him?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he invite you to spend the night in the house?”

“Not he. He saw by my dress that I was poor, and gave me a lecture on my shiftless ways.”

“Still he might have taken care of you for one night.”

“He wouldn’t. He told me he washed his hands of me.”

Chester looked sober. He was shocked by Silas Tripp’s want of humanity.

“You asked me where you could find a bed,” he said. “Come home with me, and I can promise you shelter for one night, at least.”

“Thank you, boy,” said Bruce, grasping Chester’s hand. “You have a heart. But—perhaps your parents might object.”

“I have no father. My mother is always ready to do a kind act.”

“Then I will accept your kind offer. I feared I should have to stay out all night.”

“And without an overcoat,” said Chester, compassionately.

“Yes, I had to part with my overcoat long since. I could not afford such a luxury. I suppose you understand!”

“You sold it?”

“No, I pawned it. I didn’t get much for it—only three dollars, but it would be as easy for me to take the church and move it across the street as to redeem it.”

“You appear to have been unfortunate.”

“Yes. Fortune and I are at odds. Yet I ought to have some money.”

“How’s that?”

“When my mother died uncle Silas acted as executor of her estate. It was always supposed that she had some money—probably from two to three thousand dollars—but when uncle Silas rendered in his account it had dwindled to one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Of course that didn’t last me long.”

“Do you think that he acted wrongfully?” asked Chester, startled.

“Do I think so? I have no doubt of it. You know money is his god.”

“Yet to cheat his own nephew would be so base.”

“Is there anything too base for such a man to do to get money?”

The young man spoke bitterly.

By this time they had reached Chester’s home. His mother was still up. She looked up in surprise at her son’s companion.

“Mother,” said Chester, “this is Mr. Bruce. Do you think we can give him a bed?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Mrs. Rand, cordially. “Have you had supper, sir?”

“I wouldn’t like to trouble you, ma’am.”

“It will be no trouble. I can make some tea in five minutes. Chester, take out the bread and butter and cold meat from the closet.”

So before he went to bed the homeless wayfarer was provided with a warm meal, and the world seemed brighter and more cheerful to him.

CHAPTER IV.

A DYING GIFT.

In the morning Walter Bruce came down to breakfast looking pale and sick. He had taken a severe cold from scanty clothing and exposure to the winter weather.

“You have a hard cough, Mr. Bruce,” said Mrs. Rand, in a tone of sympathy.

“Yes, madam; my lungs were always sensitive.”

When breakfast was over he took his hat and prepared to go.

“I thank you very much for your kind hospitality,” he began. Then he was attacked by a fit of coughing.

“Where are you going. Mr. Bruce?” asked Chester.

“I don’t know,” he answered, despondently. “I came to Wyncombe to see my uncle Silas, but he will have nothing to say to me.”

Chester and his mother exchanged looks. The same thought was in the mind of each.

“Stay with us a day or two,” said Mrs. Rand. “You are not fit to travel. You need rest and care.”

“But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble.”

“We shall not consider it such,” said Mrs. Rand.

“Then I will accept your kind offer, for indeed I am very unwell.”

Before the end of the day the young man was obliged to go to bed, and a doctor was summoned. Bruce was pronounced to have a low fever, and to be quite unfit to travel.

Mrs. Rand and Chester began to feel anxious. Their hearts were filled with pity for the young man, but how could they bear the expense which this sickness would entail upon them?

“Silas Tripp is his uncle,” said Mrs. Rand. “He ought to contribute the expense of his sickness.”

“I will go and see him,” said Chester. So he selected a time when business would be slack in the store, and called in. He found Mr. Trip in a peevish mood.

“How are you, Chester?” he said. “I wish you was back.”

“Why, Mr. Tripp? You’ve got Abel Wood in my place.”

“He ain’t of much account,” grumbled Silas. “What do you think he done this mornin’?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“He smashed two dozen eggs, and eggs twenty-two cents a dozen. But I’ll take it out of his salary. He’s dreadful awkward, that boy!”

“Poor Abel!” thought Chester. “I am afraid he won’t have much salary coming to him at the end of the week.”

“You never broke no eggs while you was here, Chester.”

“No; I don’t think I did.”

“You’d ought to have stayed.”

“I couldn’t stay on the salary you offered. But, Mr. Tripp, I’ve come here on business.”

“Hey? What about?”

“Your nephew, Walter Bruce, is staying at our house.”

“Is he?” returned Silas Tripp, indifferently.

“And he is sick.”

“I don’t feel no interest in him,” said Silas, doggedly.

“Are you willing to pay his expenses? He has no money.”

“No, I ain’t,” snarled Silas. “Ef you take him you take him at your own risk.”

“You wouldn’t have us turn him into the street?” said Chester, indignantly.

“You can do as you like. It ain’t no affair of mine. I s’pose he sent you here.”

“No, he didn’t; and I wouldn’t have come if we had been better fixed. But we haven’t enough money to live on ourselves.”

“Then tell him to go away. I never wanted him to come to Wyncombe.”

“It seems to me you ought to do something for your own nephew.”

“I can’t support all my relations, and I won’t,” said Silas, testily. “It ain’t no use talkin’. Walter Bruce is shif’less and lazy, or he’d take care of himself. I ain’t no call to keep him.”

“Then you won’t do anything for him? Even two dollars a week would help him very much.”

“Two dollars a week!” ejaculated Silas. “You must think I am made of money. Why, two dollars a week would make a hundred and four dollars a year.”

“That wouldn’t be much for a man of your means, Mr. Tripp.”

“You talk foolish, Chester. I have to work hard for a livin’. If I helped all my shif’less relations I’d end my days in the poorhouse.”

“I don’t think you’ll go there from that cause,” Chester could not help saying.

“I guess not. I ain’t a fool. Let every tub stand on its own bottom, I say. But I won’t be too hard. Here’s twenty-five cents,” and Silas took a battered quarter from the money drawer.

“Take it and use it careful.”

“I think we will try to get along without it,” said Chester, with a curl of the lip. “I’m afraid you can’t afford it.”

“Do just as you like,” said Silas, putting back the money with a sigh of relief, “but don’t say I didn’t offer to do something for Walter.”

“No; I will tell him how much you offered to give.”

“That’s a queer boy,” said Mr. Tripp, as Chester left the store. “Seems to want me to pay all Walter Bruce’s expenses. What made him come to Wyncombe to get sick? He’d better have stayed where he lived, and then he’d have had a claim to go to the poorhouse. He can’t live on me, I tell him that. Them Rands are foolish to take him in. They’re as poor as poverty themselves, and now they’ve taken in a man who ain’t no claim on them. I expect they thought they’d get a good sum out of me for boardin’ him. There’s a great many onrasonable people in the world.”

“I will go and see Mr. Morris, the minister,” decided the perplexed Chester. “He will tell me what to do.”

Accordingly he called on the minister and unfolded the story to sympathetic ears.

“You did right, Chester,” said Mr. Morris. “The poor fellow was fortunate to fall into your hands. But won’t it be too much for your mother?”

“It’s the expense I am thinking of, Mr. Morris. You know I have lost my situation, and mother has no shoes to bind.”

“I can help you, Chester. A rich lady of my acquaintance sends me a hundred dollars every year to bestow in charity. I will devote a part of this to the young man whom you have so kindly taken in, say at the rate of eight dollars a week.”

“That will make us feel easy,” said Chester gratefully. “How much do you think his uncle offered me?”

“I am surprised that he should have offered anything.”

“He handed me twenty-five cents, but I told him I thought we could get along without it.”

“And you will. Silas Tripp has a small soul, hardly worth saving. He has made money his god, and serves his chosen deity faithfully.”

“I wouldn’t change places with him for all his wealth.”

“Some day you may be as rich as he, but I hope, if you are, you will use your wealth better.”

At the beginning of the third week Walter Bruce became suddenly worse. His constitution was fragile, and the disease had undermined his strength. The doctor looked grave.

“Do you think I shall pull through, doctor?” asked the young man.

“While there is life there is hope, Mr. Bruce.”

“That means that the odds are against me?”

“Yes, I am sorry to say that you are right.”

Walter Bruce looked thoughtful.

“I don’t think I care much for life,” he said. “I have had many disappointments, and I know that at the best I could never be strong and enjoy life as most of my age do—I am resigned.”

“How old are you, Walter?” asked Chester.

“Twenty-nine. It is a short life.”

“Is there anyone you would wish me to notify if the worst comes?”

“No, I have scarcely a relative—except Silas Tripp,” he added, with a bitter smile.

“You have no property to dispose of by will?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” was the unexpected answer, “but I shall not make a will. A will may be contested. I will give it away during my life.”

Chester and the doctor looked surprised. They thought the other might refer to a ring or some small article.

“I want everything to be legal,” resumed Bruce. “Is there a lawyer in the village?”

“Yes, Lawyer Gardener.”

“Send for him. I shall feel easier when I have attended to this last duty.”

Within half an hour the lawyer was at his bedside.

“In the inside pocket of my coat,” said Walter Bruce, “you will find a document. It is the deed of five lots in the town of Tacoma, in Washington Territory. I was out there last year, and having a little money, bought the lots for a song. They are worth very little now, but some time they may be of value.”

“To whom do you wish to give them?” asked Mr. Gardner.

“To this boy,” answered Bruce, looking affectionately toward Chester. “He and his have been my best friends.”

“But your uncle—he is a relative!” suggested Chester.

“He has no claim upon me. Lawyer, make out a deed of gift of these