Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune, Jr. Horatio Alger [good books for high schoolers .txt] 📗
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
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The writing was completed, Bruce found strength to sign it, and then sank back exhausted. Two days later he died. Of course the eight dollars a week from the minister’s fund ceased to be paid to the Rands. Chester had not succeeded in obtaining work. To be sure he had the five lots in Tacoma, but he who had formerly owned them had died a pauper. The outlook was very dark.
CHAPTER V.
CHESTER’S FIRST SUCCESS.
Chester and his mother and a few friends attended the funeral of Walter Bruce. Silas Tripp was too busy at the store to pay this parting compliment to his nephew. He expressed himself plainly about the folly of the Rands in “runnin’ into debt for a shif’less fellow” who had no claim upon them. “If they expect me to pay the funeral expenses they’re mistaken,” he added, positively. “I ain’t no call to do it, and I won’t do it.”
But he was not asked to defray the expenses of the simple funeral. It was paid for out of the minister’s charitable fund.
“Some time I will pay you back the money, Mr. Morris,” said Chester. “I am Mr. Bruce’s heir, and it is right that I should pay.”
“Very well, Chester. If your bequest amounts to anything I will not object. I hope for your sake that the lots may become valuable.”
“I don’t expect it, Mr. Morris. Will you be kind enough to take care of the papers for me?”
“Certainly, Chester. I will keep them with my own papers.”
At this time Tacoma contained only four hundred inhabitants. The Northern Pacific Railroad had not been completed, and there was no certainty when it would be. So Chester did not pay much attention or give much thought to his Western property, but began to look round anxiously for something to do.
During the sickness of Walter Bruce he had given up his time to helping his mother and the care of the sick man. The money received from the minister enabled him to do this. Now the weekly income had ceased, and it became a serious question what he should do to bring in an income.
He had almost forgotten his meeting with Herbert Conrad, the young artist, when the day after the funeral he received a letter in an unknown hand, addressed to “Master Chester Rand, Wyncombe, New York.”
As he opened it, his eyes opened wide with surprise and joy, when two five-dollar bills fluttered to the ground, for he had broken the seal in front of the post office.
He read the letter eagerly. It ran thus:
“Dear Chester:—I am glad to say that I have sold your sketch for ten dollars to one of the papers I showed you at Wyncombe. If you have any others ready, send them along. Try to think up some bright, original idea, and illustrate it in your best style. Then send to me.
“Your sincere friend, Herbert.”
Chester hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels. It seems almost incredible that a sketch which he had dashed off in twenty minutes should bring in such a magnificent sum.
And for the first time it dawned upon him he was an artist. Fifty dollars gained in any other way would not have given him so much satisfaction. Why, it was only three weeks that he had been out of a place, and he had received more than he would have been paid in that time by Mr. Tripp.
He decided to tell no one of his good luck but his mother and the minister. If he were fortunate enough to earn more, the neighbors might wonder as they pleased about the source of his supplies. The money came at the right time, for his mother needed some articles at the store. He concluded to get them on the way home.
Silas Tripp was weighing out some sugar for a customer when Chester entered. Silas eyed him sharply, and was rather surprised to find him cheerful and in good spirits.
“How’s your mother this mornin’, Chester?” asked the grocer.
“Pretty well, thank you, Mr. Tripp.”
“Are you doin’ anything yet?”
“There doesn’t seem to be much work to do in Wyncombe,” answered Chester, noncommittally.
“You was foolish to leave a stiddy job at the store.”
“I couldn’t afford to work for the money you offered me.”
“Two dollars and a quarter is better than nothin’. I would have paid you two and a half. I like you better than that Wood boy. Is your mother workin’?”
“She is doing a little sewing, but she had no time for that with a sick man in the house.”
“I don’t see what made you keep a man that was no kith or kin to you.”
“Would you have had us put him into the street, Mr. Tripp?”
“I’d have laid the matter before the selec’-men, and got him into the poorhouse.”
“Well, it is all over now, and I’m not sorry that we cared for the poor fellow. I would like six pounds of sugar and two of butter.”
“You ain’t goin’ to run a bill, be you?” asked Silas, cautiously. “I can’t afford to trust out any more.”
“We don’t owe you anything, do we, Mr. Tripp?”
“No; but I thought mebbe——”
“I will pay for the articles,” said Chester, briefly.
When he tendered the five-dollar bill Silas Tripp looked amazed.
“Where did you get so much money?” he gasped.
“Isn’t it a good bill?” asked Chester.
“Why, yes, but——”
“I think that is all you have a right to ask,” said Chester, firmly. “It can’t make any difference to you where it came from.”
“I thought you were poor,” said Mr. Tripp.
“So we are.”
“But it seems strange that you should have so much money.”
“Five dollars isn’t much money, Mr. Tripp.”
Then a sudden idea came to Silas Tripp, and he paused in weighing out the butter.
“Did my nephew leave any money?” he asked, sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I lay claim to it. I’m his only relation, and it is right that I should have it.”
“You shall have it if you will pay the expense of his illness.”
“Humph! how much did he leave?”
“Thirty-seven cents.”
Mr. Tripp looked discomfited.
“You can keep it,” he said, magnanimously. “I don’t lay no claim to it.”
“Thank you,” returned Chester, gravely.
“Then this five-dollar bill didn’t come from him?”
“How could it? he hadn’t as much money in the world.”
“He was a shif’less man. ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’” observed Mr. Tripp, in a moralizing tone.
“You haven’t been a rolling stone, Mr. Tripp.”
“No; I’ve stuck to the store year in and year out for thirty-five years. I ain’t had more’n three days off in that time.”
“If I had your money, Mr. Tripp, I’d go off and enjoy myself.”
“What, and leave the store?” said Silas, aghast at the thought.
“You could hire some one to run it.”
“I wouldn’t find much left when I came back; No, I must stay at home and attend to business. Do your folks go to bed early, Chester?”
“Not before ten,” answered Chester, in some surprise.
“Then I’ll call this evenin’ after the store is closed.”
“Very well, sir. You’ll find us up.”
The idea had occurred to Mr. Tripp that Mrs. Rand must be very short of money, and might be induced to dispose of her place at a largely reduced figure. It would be a good-paying investment for him, and he was not above taking advantage of a poor widow’s necessities. Of course neither Mrs. Rand nor Chester had any idea of his motives or intentions, and they awaited his visit with considerable curiosity.
About fifteen minutes after nine a shuffling was heard at the door, there was a knock, and a minute later Chester admitted the thin and shriveled figure of Silas Tripp.
“Good-evening, Mr. Tripp,” said Mrs. Rand, politely.
“Good-evenin’, ma’am, I thought I’d call in and inquire how you were gettin’ along.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tripp, for the interest you show in our affairs. We are not doing very well, as you may imagine.”
“So I surmised, ma’am. So I surmised.”
“It can’t be possible he is going to offer us a loan,” thought Chester.
“You’ve got a tidy little place here, ma’am. It isn’t mortgaged, I rec’on.”
“No, Sir.”
“Why don’t you sell it? You need the money, and you might hire another house, or pay rent for this.”
“Do you know of anyone that wants to buy it, Mr. Tripp?”
“Mebbe I’d buy it myself, jest to help you along,” answered Silas, cautiously.
“How much would you be willing to give?” put in Chester.
“Well, I calculate—real estate’s very low at present—three hundred and fifty dollars would be a fair price.”
Mrs. Rand looked amazed.
“Three hundred and fifty dollars!” she ejaculated. “Why, it is worth at least seven hundred.”
“You couldn’t get it, ma’am. That’s a fancy price.”
“What rent would you charge in case we sold it to you, Mr. Tripp,” asked Chester.
“Well, say five dollars a month.”
“About sixteen or seventeen per cent. on the purchase money.”
“Well, I’d have to pay taxes and repairs,” explained Tripp.
“I don’t care to sell, Mr. Tripp,” said Mrs. Rand, decisively.
“You may have to, ma’am.”
“If we do we shall try to get somewhere near its real value.”
“Just as you like, ma’am,” said Silas, disappointed. “I’d pay you cash down.”
“If I decide to sell on your terms I’ll let you know,” said Mrs. Rand.
“Oh, well, I ain’t set upon it. I only wanted to do you a favor.”
“We appreciate your kindness,” said Mrs. Rand, dryly.
“Women don’t know much about business,” muttered Silas, as he plodded home, disappointed.
CHAPTER VI.
ROBERT RAMSAY.
Mrs. Rand was as much amazed as Chester himself at his success as an artist.
“How long were you in making the drawing?” she asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“And you received ten dollars. It doesn’t seem possible.”
“I wish I could work twenty minutes every week at that rate,” laughed Chester. “It would pay me better than working for Silas Tripp.”
“Perhaps you can get some more work of the same kind?”
“I shall send two more sketches to Mr. Conrad in a day or two. I shall take pains and do my best.”
Two days later Chester sent on the sketches, and then set about trying to find a job of some kind in the village. He heard of only one.
An elderly farmer, Job Dexter, offered him a dollar a week and board if he would work for him. He would have eight cows to milk morning and night, the care of the barn, and a multitude of “chores” to attend to.
“How much will you give me if I board at home, Mr. Dexter?” asked Chester.
“I must have you in the house. I can’t have you trapesing home when you ought to be at work.”
“Then I don’t think I can come, Mr. Dexter. A dollar a week wouldn’t pay me.”
“A dollar a week and board is good pay for a boy,” said the farmer.
“It may be for some boys, but not for me.”
Chester reflected that if he worked all day at the farmer’s he could not do any artistic work, and so would lose much more than he made. The sketch sold by Mr. Conrad brought him in as much as he would receive in ten weeks from Farmer Dexter.
“Wyncombe people don’t seem very liberal, mother,” said Chester. “I thought Mr. Tripp pretty close, but Job Dexter beats him.”
In the meantime he met Abel Wood carrying groceries to a family in the village.
“Have you got a place yet, Chester?” he asked.
“No; but I have a chance of one.”
“Where?”
“At Farmer Dexter’s.”
“Don’t you go! I worked for him once.”
“How did you like it?”
“It almost killed me. I had to get up at half-past four, work till seven in the evening, and all for a dollar a week and board.”
“Was the board good?” inquired Chester, curiously.
“It was the poorest livin’ I ever had. Mrs. Dexter don’t know much about cookin’. We had baked beans for dinner three times a week, because they were cheap, and what was left was put on for breakfast the next mornin’.”
“I like baked beans.”
“You wouldn’t like them as Mrs. Dexter cooked them, and you wouldn’t want them for six meals a week.”
“No, I don’t think I should,” said Chester,
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