Sink or Swim; or, Harry Raymond's Resolve

Harry read this placard with interest.

“I could claim that reward,” he said to himself; “but would Squire Turner think my information worth paying for?”

CHAPTER XI.
HARRY MAKES A CALL ON BUSINESS.

A few days later Harry heard that Squire Turner had made a formal claim upon the Phœnix Mutual Insurance Company for two thousand dollars, the amount of his policy. On hearing this, he no longer hesitated as to his duty. He resolved to call upon the squire, and acquaint him with his information upon the subject. Accordingly, one afternoon, he went up to Mr. Porter, and asked for two hours’ time.

“What for?” queried the store-keeper.

“I want to call on Squire Turner. I have a little business with him.”

The store-keeper naturally supposed that the business related to the affairs of Harry’s mother, and gave permission, as business was generally slack about that time in the afternoon, but requested Harry to be back by half-past three.

When Harry got started on his way to the residence of the squire, he began to feel that his errand was rather a delicate one. He, a mere boy, was about to intimate to a gentleman of high social position that he was a rascal,—that was the plain English of it,—and was conspiring to defraud an insurance company out of a considerable sum of money. It was rather a bold undertaking for a boy of fifteen. Perhaps Squire Turner might be so incensed as to kick him out of the house. Harry was a stout boy, but still of course he had not the strength to cope with a tall man like the squire. Had he been a timid boy, he would have shrunk from the encounter. But Harry was not timid. On the contrary, he was physically and morally brave, as anybody who knew him would readily testify.

“I’ll take the risk,” he said to himself, firmly. “I don’t think Squire Turner will think it best to attack me.”

He marched manfully up the front steps, and rang the bell. His summons was answered by a servant.

“Is the squire in?” he asked.

“Yes,” was the reply; and the girl indicated the door of the “office.”

Harry knocked.

“Come in,” said the squire, in his usual grating voice.

Harry did go in.

Squire Turner was seated at his desk. He had a paper before him, which Harry rightly guessed was the fire insurance policy. The squire had been examining it with considerable complacency. Two thousand dollars was a large sum even to him, and certainly a very handsome consideration for the old Jackson farm-house, which with the land around it he had got, by the foreclosure of a mortgage, at a decided bargain. How the company had ever been induced to grant so large a sum on such a house, even in its better days, was a wonder; but insurance companies sometimes make mistakes as well as private individuals, and this appeared to be one of them.

For two thousand dollars, or a little more, the squire had been thinking he could build a nice modern house, which would make the farm salable at a considerably higher figure than before. This was a very pleasant prospect, of course, and the harsh lines in the squire’s face were smoothed out to a certain extent as he thought of it.

When he turned, at the opening of the door, and saw who his visitor was, he naturally concluded that Harry had come about the land warrant.

“I haven’t heard anything more about your mother’s Western land,” he said. “When I do I will let you know.”

“Thank you,” said Harry; “but that is not what I have come about.”

“Very well,” said the squire, a little surprised; “you can state your business.”

At this moment James Turner came in hastily.

“Father, I want a dollar,” he said.

“What for?”

“To buy a bat and ball.”

“Wait a minute or two. I am busy.”

James looked at Harry superciliously, as if to imply that his business could not be of any particular importance, and took a seat.

“You may state your business,” said the squire.

“I beg your pardon,” said Harry, looking towards James, “but my business is private.”

“Perhaps he wants to complain of me,” thought James, “about the eggs. If he does he won’t make much.”

“I am not aware of any business between us,” said the squire, with dignity, “which is of too private a nature to discuss before my son. I will, however, stretch a point, to oblige you, and request him to leave the room.”

“It isn’t on my account, but on yours,” said our hero, bluntly, “that I wish to speak privately.”

Squire Turner looked at Harry in cold displeasure not unmingled with surprise, at what he felt to be a liberty.

“That’s a strange remark,” he said. “However, James, you may leave the room. Here is the money.”

“You have offered a reward, Squire Turner, for information about the fire the other evening,” said Harry, when they were alone, thinking it best to plunge into the subject at once.

“Yes, a hundred dollars’ reward,” said the squire. “Do you know anything about it?”

“I do,” said Harry, promptly.

Squire Turner was taken by surprise. What could Harry know about the fire and its origin? He himself knew all about it; but of course that knowledge was locked up in his own breast. In offering the reward he felt sure that it would not be claimed, and, under the circumstances, he felt that it was well to offer it. It would impress the fire company favorably, as showing his determination to ferret out the secret incendiary, and therefore he had forwarded a handbill containing a copy of his offer to the office of the Phœnix Mutual, together with his claim for the amount of insurance money.

Harry’s prompt answer led to a suspicion in the squire’s mind that our hero was trying to get the reward on false pretences.

“The money will only be given for positive information leading to the discovery of the incendiary,” he said, coldly.

“I can give you such information,” said Harry, with the same promptness as before.

“Perhaps,” said the squire, with a sneer, “you can tell who set the house on fire.”

“I can,” said Harry, distinctly.

“Who did it?” asked the squire, beginning to feel nervous.

“Squire Turner,” said our hero, feeling that the crisis had come, “you have asked me the question, and of course you wish me to answer it truly.”

“Of course,” muttered the squire, whose nervousness increased.

“Then,” said Harry, firmly, “you set the house on fire yourself!”

The words were like a thunderbolt. The squire started to his feet, his face livid with fear, and then purple with excitement.

“How dare you say such a scandalous thing?” he exclaimed.

“Because you expect me to tell the truth,” said Harry. “If you will listen, I will tell you how I came to know.”

Hereupon he gave an account, in as few words as possible, of his midnight visit to the house of Doctor Lamson, of his passing near the house, and identifying the squire in the act of setting fire to some shavings. Squire Turner listened, evidently in a state of nervous excitement, fidgeting about in a manner which indicated his mental disturbance. When Harry had finished, he spoke.

“This is the most impudent fabrication I ever heard. You mean to charge that I—a rich man, and, if I say it myself, universally respected—actually set fire to my own house at the dead of night!”

“I do,” said Harry, firmly.

“I have a great mind to kick you out of my house,” said the squire, violently.

“I don’t think you will do it, Squire Turner,” said Harry, who did not show a trace of alarm.

“Why not?”

“Because I have told the truth, and you know it,” said our hero, “and if I told it outside, people might believe it.”

“What would your word weigh against mine?” said the squire, but his tone was more confident than his feeling.

“I never told a lie, as everybody in the village will testify,” said Harry, proudly. “Of course it is an object for you to deny it.”

The squire began to see that the overbearing policy was not exactly the one to pursue in this case. Harry was not to be frightened easily, and this he realized. Besides, there were other reasons why he did not wish to fall out with our hero. Accordingly he thought proper to change his tone.

“My young friend,” he said, with a very significant change of tone and manner, “you are certainly under a very strange delusion. I should be angry, but I am rather disposed to be amused. You would only be laughed at if you should spread abroad such a ridiculous tale.”

“It’s true,” persisted Harry.

“Consider a moment,” said Squire Turner, with commendable patience, “the nature of your charge. It is rather absurd that I should set fire to my own building,—isn’t it, now? What possible object could I have in so doing?”

“The insurance,” briefly answered Harry.

“Yes,” said Squire Turner, slowly; “the house was insured, to be sure, but they don’t insure to the full value.”

“Everybody says that the house was insured for more than its full value.”

“Quite a mistake. I would rather have the house than the money. In fact, it was quite a disappointment having the house burnt down.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, sturdily. “All I know is, that I saw you setting the house on fire with my own eyes.”

Perspiration began to come out on the squire’s brow. He had never anticipated such an obstacle to the carrying out his plans, and it did seem a little provoking when everything had seemed so favorable hitherto. He would like to have pitched our hero out of the window, or kicked him out of the house; but neither course seemed quite expedient. So, though boiling over with inward wrath and vexation, he forced himself to be conciliatory.

“I have no doubt you think you are right,” he said; “but in the evening one is easily deceived about faces. I was fast asleep at the time, and, indeed, I knew nothing of the fire till my house-keeper came and knocked at my door when it was nearly over.”

This was partly true; but the squire didn’t say that it was just after he had crept stealthily into the house.

“Still, as I am a friend of your family, and interested in your welfare,” he continued, “I don’t mind giving you the hundred dollars, not, of course, as a reward, but to help you along. Of course it is on condition that you say nothing of this ridiculous story. It would only involve you in trouble. Come up to-morrow and I’ll give you the money.”

“Squire Turner,” said Harry, promptly, “I cannot accept your proposition, or money.”

“Why not?”

“Because my story, whether ridiculous or not, is true. I don’t care for the reward; I didn’t come up here to get it.”

“What did you come for?”

“I came to prevent your coming upon the insurance company for that money. If you will promise not to ask for the money, I will never say a word about how the fire came about.”

“I can’t promise that,” said the squire; “but before claiming the insurance I will let you know. In the mean time you had better keep the story to yourself.”

“I will,” said Harry, and, rising, he left the room, leaving the squire in a very uncomfortable and unsatisfactory state of mind.

CHAPTER XII.
HARTLEY BRANDON.

When the squire was left alone, he began rather ruefully to think over the unexpected turn which affairs had taken. If he had disliked Harry before, he hated him now. He felt that the sturdy determination of our young hero was likely to place him in a very unpleasant dilemma. If he should not collect the insurance money, the house would be a total loss, and this would be very provoking. If he should collect it, he had every reason to believe that Harry would keep his word; and, as he was a boy of truth, many would no doubt believe him, and the insurance company would be sure to stir in the matter. There was another consideration. If he guiltily let the matter pass, and failed to make his claim, or recalled it,—for it was already made,—it would excite a great deal of surprise, and perhaps suspicion, and thus again he would be disagreeably situated. There seemed to be only a choice of difficulties, as the squire realized. He fervently wished now that he had never burnt the house down. But it was done and could not be undone.

“I wish the young rascal was out of the way,” he muttered to himself.

He wished it the more because Harry stood in the way of another plan which he had in view, namely, marrying Mrs. Raymond, in case the Western property proved as valuable as he anticipated. He had an instinctive feeling that our hero would not fancy him for a step-father, and would exert all his influence over his mother to prevent her accepting him, even if she might otherwise be willing.

“Plague take the young whelp!” muttered the squire. “I wish he was in Nova Zembla, or somewhere else, where he would never come back.”

His uncomfortable reflections were here broken in upon by the entrance of the servant.

“There’s a man at the door wants to see you, Squire Turner.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s a stranger.”

“Well, tell him to come in.”

The invitation was duly given, and directly there entered a tall man, very seedy in his appearance, with a repulsive aspect, who looked as if the world and he had not been on good terms for some time. He was probably about the same age as Squire Turner,—that is, fifty,—but looked still older, probably in consequence of the life he had led.

Squire Turner looked at the intruder in surprise.

“How do you do, Squire Turner?” said the stranger, familiarly.

“You have the advantage of me,” said the squire, coldly.

“Yet you used to know me well,” was the reply, as the visitor sat down uninvited.

“I don’t know you now. Who are you?” demanded Squire Turner, who didn’t feel it necessary to use much ceremony with a man so evidently under the frowns of fortune.

“I am your cousin, Hartley Brandon.”

Squire Turner started.

“Hartley Brandon!” he repeated, in amazement. “I thought you were dead years ago.”

“And wished it, no doubt,” said the other, with a laugh. “Confess now you are not very glad to see me.”

“I am not very glad to see you, as you are sharp enough to guess,” said the squire, with a sneer. “You are not a relative to be proud of.”

“True enough,” said the other. “I see you are not afraid of hurting my feelings. However, I’ve had so many hard rubs that my feelings have got worn off, if I ever had any.”

“What is your object in coming down here, for I suppose you have an object?”

“Suppose I say that it is for the sake of seeing about the only relative I have in the world. There’s something in that, you know.”

“Not in this case. We may be cousins, but we are not friends, and never will be.”

“Come, that’s frank,—true, too, I dare say,” said Hartley Brandon, who didn’t appear by any means disturbed at the coldness of the squire. “Well, as you say, it wasn’t that. Blood’s thicker than water, they say, but there are plenty of people I like better than you, who are my cousin.”

“That is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” said the squire, coldly. “I don’t want to know what your object is not, but what it is.”

“I am rather seedy, as you see.”

“So it appears.”

“This shabby suit, with half a dollar, constitutes all my worldly possessions.”

“Supposing it to be so, what is that to me?”

“Can’t you help me a little?”

The squire’s mouth tightened, as it always did when there was an attack on his purse-strings. He seldom gave away money, unless he thought it would help him in some way, and he felt even more than usually unwilling to do so at a time when, owing to Harry’s obduracy, he was threatened with a serious loss. No poorer time could have been selected by his cousin for his application than this.

“I can do nothing for you,” he said, coldly.

“I don’t mean you to give me money,” said Brandon. “I only want an advance of thirty or forty dollars, which I will faithfully repay you with interest.”

Squire Turner laughed scornfully.

“What security can you offer?” he asked.

“None at all, except my word.”

“That isn’t satisfactory.”

“I thought you’d say so; but listen, and I will tell you how the matter stands. First, I suppose you would like to know how I have been employed for the last twenty odd years.”

“You may tell or not, just as you like. I feel no particular interest in the matter.”

“I have followed the sea,—I see you are surprised; but this is the way it happened. Twenty-five years since, I found myself high and dry in New York, with no resources, and nobody to look to for help. In my distress I fell in with a sailor, who treated me kindly, and proposed to me to adopt his profession. It was not particularly to my taste, and I knew it was rather late in life to begin; but I had no other resource, and I allowed myself to be persuaded. I had a hard time of it at first, as you may suppose, but after a while I became acquainted with my duties, and turned out a very fair sailor. Being possessed of a better education than belongs to the generality of seamen, I found myself able to rise. On the second voyage, I shipped third mate. Then I rose to second mate; finally to first mate. I might have become captain if I had been a little more steady, but a fondness for drink stood in the way of my advancement.”

“So you have been a sailor for twenty-five years.”

“Yes.”

“It was no doubt the best thing you could do. You don’t think of giving it up?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see what I can do for you.”

“I’ve a chance to sail as mate next week in the ship Sea Eagle bound for China.”

“Why don’t you go, then?”

“Because there’s a trifle in the way. I owe twenty-five dollars in New York, and if I don’t pay it up square the party’ll put a spoke in my wheel, and prevent my getting the situation.”

“So you want me to advance you the necessary money?”

“Yes, I’ll pay you back at the end of the voyage.”

“Do you know the captain under whom you are to sail?” asked the squire, thoughtfully.

“Yes, a little.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“Oh, an average sort of a man,—rather a Tartar, so I hear from some who have sailed under him. He likes his ease, and leaves the vessel pretty much in the hands of his first officer.”

A train of reflection had been started in the squire’s mind by the communication of his kinsman. He wanted to be rid of Harry Raymond. Why could he not arrange with Hartley Brandon to smuggle him off to sea, where he would be out of the way of interfering with his plans? It might be difficult to manage, but no doubt some way would suggest itself. As for Brandon, there was no fear of his refusing. He was not troubled with scruples, and a small sum of money would buy his co-operation.

Then, again, the sea was a treacherous element. Accidents were frequent. Should Harry once embark on its smooth but fickle expanse, he might never come back again, or, if he did, it might be to find him, the squire, his mother’s second husband, and the relationship would seal his lips from disclosing the secret of which he had become possessed.

All these thoughts passed through the squire’s mind much more quickly than I have been able to state them. The plan which has been briefly sketched seemed the only way out of the labyrinth in which he had become involved, and he resolved to make a trial of it.

“Well, will you help me?” asked Brandon, growing impatient of his kinsman’s silence.

“I will,” answered the squire, “upon conditions.”

“Name them,” said Brandon, brightening up.

CHAPTER XIII.
A LETTER FROM NEW YORK.

It is unnecessary to detail the conversation which took place between Squire Turner and Hartley Brandon, since the nature of it may be guessed from the events which followed. As might be expected, Brandon was by no means squeamish, and made no objection to what was proposed. Indeed, he made an occasional suggestion which was adopted by his kinsman. The squire did not, of course, think it politic to reveal the real causes of his hostility to Harry, nor of the reasons which he had for desiring that the boy should be out of the way.

He was too cautious a man for this, and moreover had too little confidence in Brandon, whom he regarded as an unprincipled fellow, being in this opinion not far from right. He merely said that he had reasons for wishing Harry out of the way, and expressed his willingness, should matters turn out satisfactorily, not only to make Hartley a present advance of fifty dollars, but to pay him over a further sum of five hundred when the affair was over, besides what might be needed for preliminary expenses.

To the shiftless vagabond, who had been tossing about the ocean for a quarter of a century, five hundred dollars was a large sum, though we may consider it a trifling compensation for an act of villany. So he readily promised the squire his co-operation.

“It is best that you should leave Vernon at once,” said the squire, when the arrangements between them were concluded.

“Why?” asked Brandon, rather disappointed, for he fully expected to be the squire’s guest till the next day.

“Because it won’t do for you to be seen by the boy. He would recognize you when you meet in the city, and this might lead him to suspect something wrong.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I will have my horse harnessed to the carryall, and will take you over to the Wrexham station, where you can take the cars for the city.”

“What time do the cars start?”

“In a couple of hours. We have no time to lose.”

“Have you got anything eatable in the house? I’m almost famished. Haven’t eaten anything since early this morning.”

“I will look to that. Stay here, or rather I will lead the way upstairs. Some one might be in. How will some beefsteak suit you?”

“Just the thing. Only let there be plenty of it. I’ve got a famous appetite.”

Brandon was conducted upstairs to a back room on the second floor, where the squire suggested that he might as well fill up a portion of the time till lunch by brushing his clothes, and performing ablutions which appeared to be needful. He then went downstairs to give the necessary directions to Mrs. Murray.

“Broil some beefsteak and plenty of it,” said the squire. “You may boil two or three eggs also, and send up a loaf of bread and some butter.”

“Where shall I set the table?” asked Mrs. Murray.

“Never mind about a table. You can carry all up on a waiter to the back chamber when ready.”

Seeing that the house-keeper looked surprised, he added, in rather an embarrassed way:—

“The fact is, the man was a school-mate of mine, who hasn’t turned out very well. Out of pity, I am going to help him a little, but don’t care about his being seen in my house.”

This seemed plausible enough, particularly when Mrs. Murray saw Brandon, who certainly looked very much like one who had not turned out very well. The rapid manner in which the abundant meal melted away under his vigorous attacks was certainly a tribute to the culinary skill of the house-keeper, who was led to form a more favorable estimate of the shabby stranger in consequence.

In a little more than half an hour Squire Turner was on his way to Wrexham, Brandon occupying a back seat. They reached the depot ten minutes before the train arrived, so that there was ample time to buy a ticket.

So the train was set in motion that was to lead to important changes in the life of our young hero. These it shall be our task gradually to unfold, and set on record.

Four days passed quietly. The villagers had ceased to talk of the fire, as another exciting occurrence had succeeded. Deacon Watson had been thrown out of his carriage and broken his leg, and the details of this accident were still fresh in the mouths of all.

Harry pursued the even tenor of his way in his new position, trying to make himself as useful as possible, and succeeding to the satisfaction of his employer. Always prompt, always reliable, Mr. Porter felt that in spite of his youth he fully filled the place of Alfred Harper, whose temporary loss he now regarded with equanimity.

Harry was weighing some sugar for a customer one afternoon when John Gaylord, who had just got through sorting the mail, said to him, “Here’s a letter for your mother, mailed at New York.”

“Let me see it,” said Harry, who felt some curiosity as to who might have written to his mother, for her correspondence was very limited.

He took the letter in his hand, and looked at the direction. It was in a dashing business-hand, quite unknown to him, and revealed nothing.

“I will take it home when I go to supper,” he said.

“Has your mother got friends in New York?” asked Gaylord.

“Not that I know of. I don’t recognize the handwriting.”

“Maybe it’s a lawyer’s letter, informing her of a legacy,” said the senior clerk, jocosely.

“Very probable,” said Harry, smiling.

It was already the hour when he usually returned for supper. Accordingly he put on his cap and went out of the store. Being a little curious as to the contents of the letter, he hastened his steps, and entered the house out of breath.

“You’re a little early,” said his mother. “Supper isn’t quite ready.”

“I hurried, because a letter came by this afternoon’s mail. It’s mailed at New York.”

“New York!” repeated Mrs. Raymond, in surprise. “Who can it be from?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you any friends there?”

“Not that I know of. Harry, you may take up the tea and toast, while I am reading the letter.”

She tore open the envelope, and first, as was natural, turned to the bottom of the second page, and read the name appended to the letter.

“Lemuel Fairchild!” she repeated, thoughtfully. “I don’t recall the name.”

“Read it aloud, mother,” said Harry.

She complied with his request.

This is the way the letter read:—

Mrs. Raymond looked at Harry in perplexity, after finishing the letter.

“Lemuel Fairchild!” she repeated. “It is strange I never heard your father speak of him.”

“Perhaps he may have done so, and you do not recall the name.”

“It may be so,” said Mrs. Raymond, slowly, “but I do not think so.”

“At any rate,” said Harry, “it’s a splendid offer. Think of earning twelve dollars a week, to begin with, in New York!”

“Yes, it’s a good offer, but how can I spare you?” said his mother, sorrowfully. “It will be very lonely without you. Don’t you think you had better remain in Mr. Porter’s store?”

“That will only be for a few weeks, you know, mother. Alfred Harper will be getting well before long, and then I shall be out of a situation. I think we had better say yes.”

Harry’s ambition was fired by the prospect of a place in the city. Like many another country boy he had the most splendid visions of what city life was. By the side of a position in a city office his present situation looked mean and contemptible. Even had the pay been the same, he would have preferred New York to Vernon; but the fact that the salary offered in the city was just double was an additional inducement. Why, John Gaylord, Mr. Porter’s chief salesman, though already twenty-five years of age, and with several years’ experience as clerk, received just that, and no more. That Harry should be offered the same salary at fifteen was indeed a compliment.

“I expect board is higher in the city,” said Mrs. Raymond.

“Yes, I suppose it is; but next year I shall probably have my pay raised. Who knows but I may get into the firm some day,” said Harry, glowing with enthusiasm, “and make money hand over hand? Then I can take a nice house in the city, and you and Katy can come up and live with me. Won’t that be nice?”

Mrs. Raymond confessed that it would be nice. Still she did not like to let Harry go. But he gradually won her to his side, and she admitted that there was something in his arguments. So, before he went back to the store, it was virtually agreed between them that the offer was not one to be refused.

“Let me take the letter, mother,” said Harry. “I would like to show it to Mr. Gaylord and Mr. Porter.”

CHAPTER XIV.
HARRY ARRIVES IN THE CITY.

On going back to the store, Harry showed the senior salesman the letter his mother had received.

Now John Gaylord was in the main a good-natured young man, but he was not without the failings incident to humanity. It happened that he had himself been secretly desirous of going to the city, and obtaining some position which promised better than that of chief salesman in a country store. But he had no friends to help him in New York, and he was wise enough to feel that it would not be expedient to throw up a fair place in the country for the uncertain prospect of one in the city. But, for all that, he used to think oftentimes that his business abilities deserved something better than weighing out tea and sugar in small quantities for country customers. So when he learned that Harry Raymond, an inexperienced boy, had received an offer which he would gladly have accepted himself, he naturally felt a little envious, and provoked with Harry for his good fortune.

“What do you think of it, Mr. Gaylord?” asked Harry.

“I think you had better stay where you are,” was the unsatisfactory reply.

This was rather a damper to Harry, who had expected to be congratulated.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you’re a mere boy, and can’t expect to earn twelve dollars a week.”

“No, I don’t suppose I shall at first; but then, you see, Mr. Fairchild was a friend of my father.”

“But, when he finds that you don’t earn your money, he’ll get dissatisfied with you, and send you home.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, stoutly. “I mean to do my best.”

“You have no experience.”

“I shall get it.”

“Oh, well, suit yourself,” said the young man; “only if it turns out as I tell you, you mustn’t be surprised.”

Harry made no reply, being rather offended at the manner in which his communication had been received. He did not suspect that John Gaylord was secretly envying him all the while, and contrasting his own poor prospects very discontentedly with Harry’s. But he was not in the least discouraged. He had faith in himself, and felt sure that if he did his best, as he meant to, he should get on well enough. He gave Mr. Porter notice that he should leave him at the end of the week. The latter congratulated him on his good prospects, and expressed satisfaction with his services while in his employ.

The next day, as if by accident, Squire Turner entered the store, and, advancing to the counter behind which Harry was standing, said with unusual graciousness:—

“Well, my young friend, how are you getting on?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” said Harry.

“I think Mr. Porter may find it for his interest to engage you permanently.”

“I have accepted another situation,” said our hero, with a little excusable importance.

“Indeed!” said the squire, in assumed surprise. “In Vernon?”

“No, sir, in New York.”

“I am surprised to hear it. It is not easy to obtain a situation in the city. How did you hear of it?”

“A friend of my father’s, a commission merchant in Nassau Street, wrote to my mother, yesterday, offering it to me.”

“What is his name? I may know him.”

“Lemuel Fairchild.”

“Lemuel Fairchild,” repeated the squire, slowly. “I don’t recognize the name. So you are going to accept it?”

“Yes, I am going up Monday morning. I am to have twelve dollars a week.”

“An excellent salary. Well, I am glad to hear you are so fortunate. When I go up to the city, I will call and see how you are getting along. What is the number?”

Harry gave the address, which the squire copied down in his pocket-book, and with a friendly salutation left the store. He had found out what he wanted to know, that the decoy letter had been received, and that the plan was likely to work well.

“He has swallowed the bait,” he said to himself, with satisfaction. “I hope the rest of the plan will work as well. I shall not dare to draw my insurance money till he is out of the way.”

The cordial manner of the squire impressed Harry rather favorably. In fact, he felt very much puzzled about him. It seemed hard to believe that he was meditating a fraud upon the insurance company. But, as might be expected, his own affairs occupied the greater portion of his thoughts, which was just what Squire Turner wished. The change in his mode of life was so great and so important that he could scarcely think of anything else. Besides, there were preparations to be made for his departure. He needed a new suit of clothes. It would be inconvenient to pay for them now, but the village tailor readily promised to give him a four weeks’ credit until he should be able to pay him out of his wages in his new place. This suit was to cost twenty dollars, and so good progress was made in getting it ready that Harry was able to wear it on Sunday to church, where he received the congratulations of his friends and school-mates.

As Harry had never been to New York, he was placed under the care of a gentleman who proposed going to the city on Monday.

He was up bright and early, having slept little, if the truth must be told, on account of the excitement which he felt. His mother was up, of course, also, and prepared a better breakfast than usual.

“I don’t know how I shall get along without you, Harry,” she said, despondently. “The house will be lonely.”

“Oh, I’ll come home soon to pass Sunday, mother,” said Harry. “Besides, you shall hear from me; I’ll write twice a week, regularly. Then you’ll know I’m doing well.”

“I’m afraid you’ll get run over in the streets; they are so crowded with wagons.”

Harry only laughed at this.

“Don’t fear,” he said. “I’m old enough to take care of myself. You forget how old I am, mother.”

“You’re only fifteen.”

“A boy of fifteen ought to be smart enough not to get run over. You see, mother, you’re a woman, and don’t know much about boys. I’ll do well enough, and you’ll feel better about my going away, soon.”

What Harry said was partly true. If the situation which he intended to fill had been a genuine one, his pluck and good principle would have been likely to insure his success. But he little knew what a plot had been formed against him, and what a series of adventures lay before him ere he would again see his mother and home. Could he have foreseen all this, brave as he was, he might well have quailed. But he supposed that all was fair and aboveboard, and that he would have nothing to encounter beyond the usual experiences of a boy in a city counting-room.

Time never waits for any one, and the hour of parting came. Harry hastily embraced his mother and little sister, and with a certain swelling of the heart which he could not quite repress, hurried out into the road to the carriage which was to convey him to the railroad station.

Mr. Falkland, his companion, was not a resident of Vernon, but had visited the place on business, and had readily undertaken to act as Harry’s guardian as far as the city. He spoke civilly to our hero, and asked him how he expected to like the city. But after getting into the cars, he took out a book and began to read. Harry took a seat behind, where he could look out of the window, and was sufficiently interested in watching the varied scenery through which he was whirled rapidly by the cars. His spirits began to rise once more, and bright dreams of the success he was going to achieve in the city swept across his mental vision. He was undecided whether, when he got rich, which he confidently hoped to be at twenty-five, he would install his mother in a nice house in the city, or build a house for her in Vernon, say as large as Squire Turner’s. However, as he wisely concluded, there was no immediate necessity for deciding about this. He might leave it subject to further reflection.

So the train whirled on at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour, and in about two hours he found the houses growing more and more numerous, until the cars came to a final pause in the New York depot.

Mr. Falkland put his book into his carpet-bag.

“You have never been in the city before, I think,” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Then, of course, you don’t know the way anywhere. I’ll go with you at once to Nassau Street (that’s the place, I believe), and then you’ll be all right.”

Harry was a little bewildered by the strangeness and novelty of the scenes to which he was introduced. So this was the great city of which he had heard so much. It was here that he was to work his way. Most boys would have felt a momentary depression and loss of confidence, but Harry had a good deal of faith and courage.

“Plenty of men succeed here,” he said to himself; “and I’m bound to succeed too.”

Just then his courage was reinforced by the thought of his motto, and he repeated to himself, “‘Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish,’” closing the quotation in a manner suited to his circumstances and determination.

After a while they reached Nassau Street, and the number which was mentioned in the letter.

“What is Mr. Fairchild’s business?” inquired Mr. Falkland.

“He is a commission merchant.”

His companion looked rather surprised at this statement, as Nassau Street is scarcely the place where a commission merchant would be likely to establish himself. However, he did not feel called upon to express any opinion on the subject to Harry. It was, no doubt, all right, and he had business of his own to occupy his thoughts. As long as he conducted Harry safely to his destination, he would have done all that he had agreed to do.

They paused at the foot of the staircase, at the bottom of which, on either side, was a sort of directory of names occupying the apartments above. Opposite No. 7 was the name, Lemuel Fairchild.

Harry pointed it out to his companion.

“That is the right name, is it?” asked Mr. Falkland.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I suppose you won’t have any trouble in finding it. You don’t need me to go up with you, do you?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said our hero, promptly. “I’m all right now.”

“Good-by, then.”

“Good-by. I thank you for your care of me.”

Harry shook hands with Mr. Falkland, and ascended the stairs. The staircase was rather narrow, and not particularly clean. It did not look quite so magnificent as Harry had anticipated, whose ideas of places of business in the city were rather brighter than the reality. But, then, he reflected that people at any rate got rich in the city, and that was the main point.

When he arrived at the head of the stairs he saw four doors, the highest number, of course, going up to 4. It would be necessary to climb another flight. This he did, and found himself very soon standing before No. 7. He was not quite sure whether he ought to knock, or go directly in. On the whole, he thought it best to knock.

“Come in!” said a voice from within.

Harry opened the door, and found himself in the presence of his employer.

CHAPTER XV.
HOW THEY DO BUSINESS IN THE CITY.

The room into which Harry entered was possibly twenty feet square, and had rather a desolate look. It was poorly lighted, having but one window, looking upon a court-yard. At one end was an elevated desk, with a large ledger lying upon it. There were two arm-chairs in the office, on one of which a man of forty-five sat smoking a cigar. He was rather a hard-featured man, with stiff, wiry, black hair, and rather a seedy look.

“Is Mr. Fairchild in?” asked our hero, dubiously.

“I am Mr. Fairchild,” was the unexpected reply. “Are you young Raymond?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harry, feeling considerably disappointed with the appearance of his employer as well as the office in which he was to work.