When Mrs. Gordon heard of Andy’s adventures during his ride to and from Cranston, she was naturally frightened.
“Oh, Andy!” she said, “I can’t consent to your exposing yourself to be injured by such wicked men. You must tell the Peabody girls you can’t go to the bank for them again.”
“I don’t think there’ll be any danger, mother, for we have caught the chief burglar, and the other man has run away.”
“There may be more of them,” said Mrs. Gordon, apprehensively.
“Bring them along!” replied Andy, smiling. “I am ready for them!”
“I hope we shall never have another of those terrible men visit our village!” said his mother, with a shudder.
“I don’t know about that, mother. I find it pays me. How much do you think the Peabodys are going to give me for my services?”
“Perhaps two dollars,” said Mrs. Gordon, looking at Andy in an inquiring way.
“Do you think two dollars would be pay enough for what I did, mother?”
“No; but boys are not paid as much as men, even where they are entitled to it.”
“There’s nothing mean about the Peabodys, mother. They have promised me more than that.”
“Five dollars, perhaps.”
“You will have to multiply five by ten!” said Andy, triumphantly.
“You don’t mean to say you are to have fifty dollars?” ejaculated Mrs. Gordon, quite overpowered by surprise.
“Yes, I do. Toward night I’ll go up and get the money. I didn’t want to take it along to the bank, for I might have had that stolen, too.”
“Certainly you are in luck, Andy,” said his mother. “With what came in your poor father’s wallet, we shall be very well off.”
“Especially as we shall not have old Starr’s note to pay. When do you expect the note to be presented?”
“Mr. Ross gave me a week to find the receipt.”
“And the week will be up to-morrow. Well, mother, we will be ready for him when he comes.”
At this moment Andy espied a letter on the mantelpiece. It was inclosed in a yellow envelope, and addressed in an irregular, tremulous handwriting to his mother.
“What letter is that, mother?” he asked.
“I declare, Andy, I forgot to open it! Louis Schick brought it in an hour ago. He saw it at the post office, and knew you were away, so he brought it along.”
“Why didn’t you open it, mother? I thought ladies were always curious.”
“I was mixing bread at the time, and my hands were all over dough, so I asked Louis to put it on the mantelpiece. When I got through with the bread I had forgotten all about the letter. I don’t know when I should have thought of it again if you hadn’t asked about it.”
“You’d better open it, mother. Of course boys are never curious. Still, I should like to know what is in it. It may be money, you know.”
From her work-basket Mrs. Gordon took a pair of scissors, and with them cut open the envelope. She drew out the letter, when, to the amazement of Andy and herself, a bank-note slipped out and fell upon the carpet.
“There is money inside, mother!” exclaimed our young hero, in surprise.
“How much is it?” asked his mother.
Andy stooped over and picked up the bank-note.
“Why, mother, it’s a fifty-dollar bill!” he exclaimed. “It looks genuine, too. There’s no humbug about it. Who can have sent us so much money?”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Gordon had been looking to the end of the letter to discover who had written it.
“Andy,” she said, “it’s from an old uncle of mine, who lives near Buffalo, in the town of Cato.”
“What’s his name, mother?”
“Simon Dodge. He is the oldest brother of my mother.”
“You never mentioned him to me,” said Andy.
“No; he had almost passed out of my recollection. Uncle Simon never wrote letters, and so it happens that, for twenty-five years, none of us have ever heard anything of him.”
“Read his letter, mother. Let us hear what the fifty dollars are for. Perhaps he wants you to lay it out for him.”
Mrs. Gordon began to read:
“My Dear Niece: It is so long since you have heard from me, that you may have forgotten you had an uncle Simon. I never cared for letter writing—thought, from time to time, I have wished that I could hear something of you and how you were prospering. It is only with difficulty I have learned your address and gleaned a little knowledge of you.
“The way it happened was this: I met, last week, a peddler who had been traveling in your neighborhood. He had visited Hamilton, and I found he knew something about you. He told me that you were poor, and that your good husband was dead, but that you were blessed in having a fine boy to be a help and comfort to you.”
Andy blushed when his mother read these words, and looked rather uncomfortable, as modest boys generally do when they hear themselves praised.
“As for me,” the letter proceeded, “I am getting to be an old man. I am seventy-five years old, and, though my health is good and our family is long-lived—my father lived to be eighty-four—I feel that I have not long to live. I have had the good fortune to accumulate considerable property, besides the farm upon which I am living; but in spite of this, I find myself in a very uncomfortable position. I must explain to you how this happens.
“I had an only daughter—Sarah—who was everything that a daughter should be. She was amiable and kind, and, if she were living, I should have no cause to complain.
“She married a man named Brackett, a painter by trade, and for a few years they lived in a small house in the village. But Brackett was a lazy and shiftless man, and every year I had to help him, till at last I thought it would be cheaper taking him into my house and letting him help me look after the farm. My wife had died and I was willing to tolerate him—though I never liked the man—for the sake of my daughter’s presence in the house. Five years afterward, Sarah died, but Brackett still remained. They had had no child that lived, and I should have liked then to have gotten rid of him, but it wasn’t easy.
“Two years later he married a sharp, ill-tempered woman, from the next town, and brought her to the house. That was ten years ago. I ought to have given him notice to quit, but at the time of the marriage I was sick, and when I got well the new wife seemed to have become the mistress of the establishment.
“I have never been comfortable since. There are four children by this marriage, and they overrun the house. I was weak enough, a few years ago, to make over the place to Brackett, and now he and his wife are persecuting me to make a will, bequeathing them the rest of my property. This I will never do. The man has no claim upon me, and I should not have given him the place. My other property amounts to about ten thousand dollars, though he doesn’t suspect it. I find myself watched, as a cat watches a mouse, lest I should dispose of my property away from them. I feel that I have not a friend in the house, and I am so old that I want one.
“Now, my dear niece, will you do me a favor? Send your boy to me, but let him take another name. I don’t want it known or suspected that he is related to me. Though he is young, he can help me to carry out a plan I have in view, and to baffle my persecutors. I will take care that his services are recompensed. I enclose a fifty-dollar bill to pay his expenses out here.
“I am tired, and must close.
“Your old uncle,
Simon Dodge.
“P. S.—It will be a good idea to apply to Mr. Brackett for work—offering to come at very low wages. Brackett wants a boy, but he doesn’t want to pay more than fifty cents a week. Do not answer this letter, if you send your son, as Mr. Brackett would find out that I had received a letter from your neighborhood, and his suspicions would be aroused.”
“Poor uncle Simon!” said Mrs. Gordon, after the letter had been read. “He seems to be in a difficult position.”
“Why doesn’t he send that man Brackett packing?” asked Andy, indignantly. “He can’t have much spirit.”
“You forget, Andy, how old he is. An old man is not so well able to contend for his rights as a man of middle age. Besides, it appears that his son-in-law has possession of the farm.”
“It is a shame!”
“So it is; but that cannot be recalled. The rest of the property ought to be saved from Mr. Brackett.”
“That’s easy enough. He needn’t give it to him.”
“But uncle Simon may be persecuted into doing what he does not wish to do.”
“Mother,” said Andy, with a sudden thought, “who will get the property if Mr. Dodge dies without a will?”
“I suppose it would go to his relations.”
“What other relations has he besides you?”
“I don’t think he has any others,” answered Mrs. Gordon.
“Then it may come to us.”
“We have more right to it than Mr. Brackett,” said his mother.
“Then,” said Andy, after a short pause, “there must be a struggle between me and Brackett.”
“You wouldn’t fight with a full-grown man, Andy?” asked his mother, in alarm.
“Oh, no!” answered Andy, smiling. “I don’t think it will come to that. But I must go out to your uncle’s help. Between us both, we will see if we can’t circumvent that grasping old Brackett and his wife and children.”
“I don’t see what a boy like you can do, Andy.”
“At any rate, I can try, mother. This money will pay my expenses out to Cato. When I get there I can form my plans.”
“I don’t see how I can spare you, Andy.”
“Remember, mother, I am going in your behalf. Uncle Simon’s money, which may amount to ten thousand dollars, may otherwise be taken from us.”
“If you can induce Uncle Simon to come here and end his days with us, I will try to make him comfortable.”
“A good idea, mother. I’ll see if I can’t bring him.”
“When do you want to start, Andy?”
“Not till after our good friend Joshua Starr has come for his money. I want to be here then, just to see how disappointed and mortified he will look when he sees the receipt with his signature attached.”
On Tuesday afternoon, Joshua Starr called at the office of Brandon Ross, the lawyer.
“To-day’s the day when we are to call on the Widder Gordon for my money, lawyer, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Starr. Do you propose to come with me?”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t necessary.”
“You see, Squire, I thought I could take a look at the furniture,” suggested old Joshua, “and decide what I’ll take. It ain’t likely that the widder’ll have the money to pay the note—at least, not all of it, and I’ll have to take it out in what she’s got.”
“You are a hard man, Mr. Starr. I shouldn’t like to be owing you money which I couldn’t pay.”
“You’re jokin’, squire. There ain’t anything wrong in my wantin’ my money, is there?”
“No; still you’re a rich man, and Mrs. Gordon is a poor woman.”
“That ain’t neither here nor there,” said Joshua Starr, evidently annoyed. “My money’s my own, I take it, and I’m entitled to it. If Mr. Gordon borrowed money, it stands to reason that his widder ought to pay it,” he concluded, triumphantly.
“I can’t gainsay you, Mr. Starr. You must act your will. I am only your agent, you know.”
“Jes’ so! jes’ so!” said the old man, considerably relieved, for he feared that the lawyer was going to act against him.
But he did not know that Brandon Ross derived positive pleasure from the thought of the distress and trouble he was about to bring on the boy who had—as he construed it—insulted and injured his own spoiled son.
The crafty lawyer, however, did not mean to let either his client or his intended victim know how willingly he engaged in the affair.
“They’re coming, mother,” said Andy, as, looking from the window, he espied the bent form of old Joshua, with the sprucely dressed lawyer at his side, coming up the village street side by side, and approaching their modest cottage.
“I wish the visit were over,” said Mrs. Gordon, nervously.
“I don’t, mother,” said Andy, with a smile of assured triumph. “The victory is to be ours, you know.”
“I don’t like to quarrel.”
“Nor I; but when a man tries to impose upon me, I like to resist him boldly.”
“You won’t be too hasty, Andy?”
“No; but, mother, let me manage the matter, and leave me to produce the receipt when I think it best.”
“Wouldn’t it be well to save trouble by letting them know at once that we have found it, Andy?” asked the widow.
“No, mother; I want to make them show their hand first.”
Andy had hardly completed this sentence, when a knock was heard at the door.
Mrs. Gordon opened it.
“Good-afternoon, widder!” said Joshua Starr, in his cracked voice, which was usually pitched on a high key.
“Good-afternoon, Mrs. Gordon!” said the lawyer, blandly. “We have called—Mr. Starr and myself—on a little matter of business.”
“Yes, ma’am, we’ve called on business,” echoed Starr.
“Won’t you walk in, gentlemen?” said Mrs. Gordon, gravely.
“Thank you!” said the lawyer.
And he bowed ceremoniously.
“I reckon we will,” said Joshua Starr, who forgot to remove his battered old hat as he entered.
“Why, Andy, howdy do?” said the old man, as he espied our young hero seated at the window. “I see you’ve took to scarin’ burglars. Ho, ho! I reckon I’d have to send for you if I had anything in my house wuth stealin’. Ho, ho!”
“Yes, Mr. Starr, I’m ready to defend myself against all sorts of burglars,” said Andy, pointedly.
Mr. Starr did not understand Andy’s meaning, but Mr. Ross darted a sharp glance at the boy, whom he understood better. He said nothing, however.
“Sho! I guess they ain’t likely to get into your house, widder,” said Mr. Starr, turning to Mrs. Gordon.
The old man’s eyes had already begun to wander about the room, in search of desirable furniture to seize in payment of the note. There was a comfortable rocking-chair, in which the lawyer had seated himself, which he mentally decided to claim. It occurred to him that it would be just the thing for him to sit in after the farm work of the day was over.
He nodded significantly to the lawyer, who thereupon commenced:
“Of course, Mrs. Gordon, you are aware of the nature of the business that has brought us here?”
“Jes’ so! jes’ so!” interjected Mr. Starr.
“Is it about the note?”
“Yes, it is about the note. Including interest, it amounts to——”
“One hundred and thirty-two dollars and twenty-seven cents,” interrupted Joshua Starr, eagerly.
The lawyer looked at him angrily, and Mr. Starr shrank back in his chair.
“I told you, Mr. Ross, that the note had been paid,” said Mrs. Gordon, beginning to be a little nervous.
“I know you said so,” the lawyer returned, “and you were doubtless under that impression, but my client, Mr. Starr, assures me that it is a mistake. The note still remains unpaid.”
“Jes’ so! jes’ so!” said Starr, eagerly.
“You know better, Mr. Starr!” broke in Andy, hotly. “You are trying to get the note paid twice.”
“Why, Andy,” exclaimed Mr. Starr, appearing to be very much shocked, “how you talk!”
“Young man,” said the lawyer, severely, “this is very disgraceful! I cannot permit my respected client to be insulted by a beardless boy.”
“What I said is true, nevertheless,” said Andy. “I don’t believe Mr. Starr has forgotten it, either!”
“That’s all nonsense, Andy,” said Joshua. “I’ll make it easy for you. I’m willin’ to take part of my pay in furniture, and the rest your mother can pay, say five or ten dollars a month.”
“My mother has no more furniture than she wants,” said Andy, “and she wants all her income to live upon.”
“That won’t do,” said the lawyer, sternly. “Your mother must make some arrangements this very afternoon to pay my client’s note, or it will be necessary for me, in his behalf, to take some very unpleasant measures.”
“There is one excellent reason for our not paying the note,” said Andy, smiling.
“What is that?”
“It has already been paid, and we can show Mr. Starr’s receipt.”
Mr. Ross and his client stared at each other in a dismay which they were powerless to conceal.
The old man, his month wide open in astonishment and dismay, presented a ludicrous spectacle. At first he seemed to be incapable of speech, but he managed to ejaculate, feebly:
“ ‘Tain’t so—’tain’t so!”
“You will find that it is so, Mr. Starr,” said Andy, firmly, “and that your wicked attempt to cheat my mother out of more than a hundred dollars has failed.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Joshua Starr, nervously; but his voice showed that he did believe it, nevertheless.
He had the best reason for knowing that such a receipt had been signed, but he had reckoned on its being lost or permanently mislaid.
The lawyer was not sure in his own mind whether Andy was not deceiving them, and determined to find out.
“These are bold words, boy,” he said. “We shall not believe in this receipt you talk about till you show it.”
“Mr. Starr believes in it,” retorted Andy, “for he knows very well he signed it; but he thought it was lost.”
“I demand to see the receipt,” said the lawyer.
“Very well; you shall see it,” assented Andy.
He drew a wallet from his pocket, and, taking out a folded piece of paper, handed it to the lawyer.
“Let me see it,” said Mr. Starr; but there was a cunning look in his eyes which made Andy distrustful.
“I object to his taking it,” interposed our hero.
“I don’t believe it’s genewine,” whined old Joshua. “It’s a base attempt to cheat me out of my money.”
“You’d better not talk about that, Mr. Starr,” said Andy.
“Lemme see it.”
“He has a right to see it,” said Mr. Ross; but he spoke in a quiet tone, for he saw that it would injure his professional reputation to involve himself in an evident attempt at swindling.
Joshua Starr took the paper in his hand, and gazed at it in a dazed way.
“The signatoor don’t look genewine,” he said, weakly.
Now it chanced that Mr. Starr’s signature was very peculiar—remarkable chiefly for its being a miserable scrawl.
“Doesn’t it look like your writing?” said Andy.
“Well, mebbe it is, a little; but I guess it’s a forgery. I dunno but you wrote it yourself, Andy.”
“Do you believe that, Mr. Ross?” asked Andy, plainly.
“No,” said the lawyer, with a glance of contempt at his client. “I believe it is Mr. Starr’s signature.”
Old Joshua’s lower jaw dropped.
“You ain’t a-goin’ to desert me, squire, are you?”
As he spoke, he cunningly let go the receipt, giving it an impulse toward the open fireplace, where a fire was burning.
Andy, however, was on the watch, and he sprang forward and rescued the valuable document.
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Starr?” he demanded, sternly.
“Nothing—it slipped,” answered the old man, crestfallen.
Though Mr. Ross was disappointed that he was unable to injure the Gordons by the agency of Mr. Starr, he felt that he could not afford to be implicated in the rascality which his client had attempted in his presence.
“Mrs. Gordon,” he said, rising from his chair, “you will do me the justice to believe that I had no knowledge of the existence of this receipt. I supposed Mr. Starr’s claim was a genuine one, or I would not have meddled with it. It is not my intention to aid and abet rascality.”
“You don’t mean me, do you, squire?” asked Joshua Starr, gazing in consternation at the lawyer.
“Yes, I do!” returned the lawyer, severely.
“There’s a mistake, squire. I’m almost sure that signatoor ain’t genewine.”
“And I am sure that it is,” said the lawyer, curtly. “You needn’t bring me any more of your business, Mr. Starr.”
He strode out of the cottage, with a look of utter disgust on his face.
“I don’t see what’s the matter with the squire,” said the old man. “He hadn’t ought to leave me that way.”
“Have you got any more business with us, Mr. Starr?” asked Andy.
“No—not as I know on. It’s pretty hard for me to lose all that money.”
“You can try to cheat somebody else out of it,” said Andy, coolly. “I wouldn’t advise you to try us again.”
“You’re a cur’us boy, Andy,” said the old man, as he slowly rose and hobbled off, disappointed.
When Mr. Ross reached home, he found his son Herbert waiting eagerly to interview him.
Herbert knew that his father had set out with Mr. Starr for Andy Gordon’s cottage, and he was anxious to hear just what passed, and whether Andy wasn’t mortified and distressed.
“You’ve got back, pa?” said Herbert, by way of opening the conversation.
“Yes, I’ve got back!” said Mr. Ross, gruffly.
“I suppose Andy wasn’t very glad to see you?” chuckled Herbert.
“It didn’t seem to trouble him much,” said the lawyer, curtly.
“He wasn’t ready to pay the note, was he?” asked Herbert, in alarm.
“No.”
Herbert felt relieved.
“I thought he couldn’t raise the money,” he said, triumphantly. “It was over a hundred dollars, wasn’t it?”
The lawyer had been so much annoyed that he enjoyed the disappointment in store for his son, on the principle that misery loves company.
“There was no need of his having any money ready,” he said.
“Mr. Starr hasn’t excused him from paying it, has he?” inquired Herbert, anxiously.
“Mr. Starr is an old scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Ross, impetuously.
Herbert was petrified with astonishment at hearing his father speak thus of his client.
“Do you really mean it?” he asked, incredulously.
“What has he done?”
“The note had been paid years ago, and he wanted to get it paid over again, and asked me to help him,” said the lawyer, with virtuous indignation.
“Then he can’t collect pay?” asked Herbert.
“Of course he can’t. How many times do you think a man is bound to pay a note?”
Herbert was not pleased with the way things had turned out, and he was puzzled at the remarkable change which had taken place in his father.
“Then I suppose,” he said, “you won’t get anything for what you have done in the matter?”
The lawyer’s eyes flashed. Here, at least, was a chance to get even with the old cheat, as he now denominated Mr. Starr. The next morning he sent a bill to Joshua Starr for professional services, setting the sum at fifteen dollars. This quickly brought the old man around to his office, in terrible dismay.
“You ain’t in earnest, squire?” he said.
“About what?”
“About this bill.”
“Mr. Starr, do you suppose I work for nothing?”
“But you didn’t collect any money for me, squire.”
“And whose fault was that, I’d like to know?” retorted the lawyer. “It appears that your claim was fraudulent—fraudulent, Mr. Starr!”
Mr. Joshua Starr cared very little about the damage to his reputation arising from detection in such a dirty trick, but he cared a great deal about the fifteen dollars.
“It ain’t right for you to ask it, squire. You didn’t do me a mite of good.”
“What business had you to obtain my help in such a scandalous fraud?”
“Suppose we call it even, squire. You ain’t succeeded, and——”
“I shall succeed in this, Mr. Starr. That bill must be paid.”
“I won’t pay it!” said the old man, obdurately.
“You won’t, eh? Then I’ll attach your farm.”
Finally Joshua Starr had to pay the lawyer’s charge, and I think the verdict of my young readers will be: “Served him right.”
Two days afterward, to the astonishment of every one except his mother and Dr. Euclid, whom he took into his confidence, Andy Gordon left Hamilton, and was not seen in the village again for several weeks.
Where he went, and what he did, will be explained in succeeding chapters.
Andy had to consider what name he would assume in place of his own.
His mother did not like the idea of his changing his name.
“It looks as if you had something to be ashamed of,” she said.
“But I haven’t, mother.”
“Generally, only criminals who are engaged in breaking the laws change their names,” persisted Mrs. Gordon.
“Do you think, mother,” laughed Andy, “that changing my name will make me a law-breaker?”
“No, Andy; but——”
“But, mother, it seems to be necessary. That man Brackett knows that uncle Simon has relations, and it is likely that he knows our name. If I should appear as Andy Gordon he would know the name, and be suspicious of me, so that I could not help uncle at all.”
Mrs. Gordon had to admit that Andy was right.
“I suppose it must be, then,” she said. “What name have you thought of?”
“I have not thought of any yet, but it can’t be very hard to find one. Names are plenty enough.”
This was true. Still, after suggesting a dozen, Andy seemed no nearer a choice than he had been in the first place.
“I’ll tell you what, mother,” he said at last. “Haven’t you an old paper here, somewhere?”
One was found.
“I am going to find a name somewhere in this paper,” said Andy, and forthwith he began to examine critically the crowded columns.
He paused at a paragraph, recording the bravery of a boy named Henry Miller, who had saved a younger boy from drowning, somewhere in Massachusetts. This struck Andy favorably.
“Mother,” he said, “let me introduce myself to you as Henry Miller.”
“Do you like the name?” asked his mother, doubtfully.
“Not particularly, but it is the name of a brave boy, and so is an honorable name. I shouldn’t like a bad name, like Benedict Arnold, for instance.”
“What did Henry Miller do?”
“He saved a boy from drowning.”
So it was decided that Andy, as soon as he left Hamilton, should be known as Henry Miller.
He had, as we know, intended to buy a new suit of clothes, but as he was about to assume the character of a poor boy, wandering about the country in search of employment, that would hardly be worth while.
He decided to wear his everyday clothes, and carry his best in a bundle, with some necessary underclothing.
Andy found on inquiry that the town of Cato, where his great-uncle lived, was nearly four hundred miles distant.
Of course, there would be no occasion to assume his character till he got nearly there.
From a railroad guide he ascertained the name of a place about fifteen miles from Cato, and bought a ticket to that place.
We will call this place Seneca, though that was not the name.
Before leaving Hamilton it was not only proper but incumbent on Andy to call on Dr. Euclid, and resign his post as janitor.
“Going to leave us, Andrew?” said the doctor, in a tone of regret. “I am sorry to hear it. Can’t you stay till the end of the term?”
“No, sir; I shall have to go at once,” answered Andy.
“If it is any money embarrassment,” said the doctor, kindly, “don’t let that influence you. I shall be very glad to assist you, if you will allow me.”
Dr. Euclid spoke in a tone of kindness and delicate sympathy which could hardly have been expected of the stern master at whose frown so many boys trembled.
Andy was exceedingly grateful, and felt that he ought to say so.
“Thank you for your great kindness, Dr. Euclid,” said Andy; “but it isn’t that—though it does relate to money. Though it is a secret, I have a great mind to tell you.”
“Do as you please, Andrew. I shall, of course, respect your confidence, and perhaps I may be able to advise you for your benefit.”
Upon this, Andy told the doctor the whole story, reading him his uncle’s letter, which he happened to have in his pocket.
“It is a serious undertaking, my boy,” said the doctor. “Do you think you are equal to it?”
“I may be self-conceited, Dr. Euclid, but I think I am,” answered Andy.
“I would not call it self-conceit,” said the doctor, slowly, “but a spirit of confidence which may be justified by events. Have you any plan of proceedings?”
“No, sir; except to follow uncle Simon’s instructions, and try to get a place in Mr. Brackett’s employ, where I can be ready to be of service.”
“I suspect you won’t find the place an easy one. Probably this Mr. Brackett will make you work hard.”
“I am afraid so,” laughed Andy; “but I will remember that I am working for a higher reward than the fifty cents a week which uncle writes that I may be paid.”
“On the whole,” said the doctor, “I think you are acting right. You have a good end in view, and, what is very important, you are leaving home with your mother’s knowledge and with her permission. Were it otherwise, I should think you were acting decidedly wrong.”
“I should not think of leaving home without mother’s permission,” said Andy, promptly.
“Quite right, my boy,” said the doctor, kindly. “I am sorry to say that in these days of juvenile independence not all boys are so considerate. Well, Andrew, you have my best wishes for your success. I hope we may soon see you home again, and your uncle with you.”
“That is what I shall try for,” answered Andy. “I would like to get him out of the clutches of that man Brackett.”
On his way home, Andy did not take the most direct route, but, crossing the fields, walked along the shores of Brewster’s Pond—a sheet of water only half a mile across, but quite deep in parts.
As he reached the shore of the pond, he heard a scream, and, quickly looking round, saw a boat, bottom up, and a boy clinging desperately to it. The boat was only a hundred and fifty feet away.
Andy was an expert swimmer, and he did not hesitate a moment. Throwing off his coat, he plunged into the water and swam out to the boat with a strong and sturdy stroke.
He reached the boy just in time, for he was about to let go his hold, his strength having been overtaxed.
Then, for the first time, Andy saw that the boy whom he was attempting to rescue was Herbert Ross.
“Rest your hand on my shoulder, Herbert,” he said, “but don’t grasp me so that I can’t swim.”
Herbert gladly obeyed instructions, and, with some difficulty, Andy helped him to land.
“Now, Herbert, go home at once, or you will catch your death of cold,” said Andy.
“I’m much obliged to you,” replied Herbert, shivering. “Here, take that.”
Andy could hardly believe his eyes when the boy, whose life he had saved, offered him a twenty-five cent piece.
“No, thank you!” he said, smiling. “I don’t need any reward.”
“I would rather you would take it.”
“It is quite impossible,” said Andy, shortly. “I advise you to go home as fast as you can.”
“What a mean boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Gordon, when Andy, who came home wet through, told her of the munificent sum offered him.
“I don’t know,” said Andy, smiling. “Herbert understands best the value of his own life. But, mother, now that this has happened, I shall feel quite justified in taking the name of Henry Miller, for I, too, have saved a boy from drowning.”
The next day he started on his journey.
It was a bright, pleasant morning when Andy left Seneca for the town of Cato, where his great-uncle lived. He had arrived in Seneca the evening previous, and passed the night at the village inn, where he had obtained two meals and lodging for seventy-five cents.
“Where be you going?” asked the landlord—a stout and good-natured looking man.
“I guess I’ll travel a little further,” said Andy, smiling.
For obvious reasons he did not like to say he was going to Cato, as the inquisitive landlord would undoubtedly ask him why.
“Ain’t you got no folks?”
“I have no wife and family,” said Andy, laughing.
“Sho, that isn’t what I mean! Isn’t your father or mother living?”
“Yes; I have a mother.”
“Where does she live?”
“Down East.”
“I s’pose you’re seeking your fortune, ain’t you?”
“A little of that,” said Andy; “but, you see, I like to travel.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You seem a spry, active boy. If you’ll stay here and make yourself useful about the house and stable, I’ll give you all you can eat and five dollars a month. Now, what do you say?”
“I wouldn’t mind working for you,” said Andy, “only I want to travel a little further.”
“ ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ as the schoolmaster says.”
“That is true. But, you see, I am not ready to settle down yet. I’m much obliged to you for you kind offer!”
“You talk as if you’d got money. A boy like you wouldn’t give up a good place if he didn’t see his way clear enough to eat.”
“I’m not very rich, Mr. Jenkins, but I am not afraid of starving. Perhaps I will stop on my way back.”
“That’s right; but you’d better stay now.”
“On the whole,” thought Andy, “I think I could get something to do if I needed it. I have no doubt I should find the good-natured landlord a pleasanter man to work for than Mr. Brackett; but I must not forget my errand.”
So Andy began to trudge along the road toward Cato. It was rather a lonely road, with only here and there a house, but there were signboards, so that there was no danger of losing the way. Andy took it easy, now and then throwing himself down by the side of the road to rest.
“I’ve got all day before me,” he reflected. “There’s no need to hurry and use myself up.”
So it happened that it took him four hours to accomplish ten miles. By this time he was quite hungry, and would have been glad to come across a hotel. There was none, however, short of Cato, and Andy didn’t think he could wait till then before satisfying his hunger.
It was at this point that he saw approaching him a boy, apparently about his own age, with a shock of bright red hair, a freckled face, and a suit of clothes of unknown antiquity. He, too, had a small bundle, put up in a red cotton handkerchief.
“Must be my twin brother!” thought Andy. “I’ll speak to him.”
The newcomer stared at Andy, but whether he would have spoken is not quite certain, if our hero had not taken the initiative.
“Good-morning, Johnny!” said Andy.
“My name ain’t Johnny; it’s Peter. Who be you?” returned the other.
“I’m a traveler, just at present,” answered Andy.
“They calls ’em tramps round our way,” said Peter.
“Then I suppose you’re a tramp,” said Andy.
“That’s so, and I’m blest if I like it!”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Cato.”
“Just what I wanted,” thought Andy. “He can give me some information. Won’t you sit down and rest a little while with me?”
“I dunno but I will. Where are you goin’?” asked Peter, his face expressing curiosity.
“What is the nearest place?”
“Cato.”
“Then I guess I’ll go there.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t you like the place?”
“The place is good enough; but I worked for an awful mean man.”
“Who was it?” asked Andy, with a presentiment of what the answer might be.
“His name is Brackett. Ain’t he mean, though? But his wife’s jest as bad. Jaw, jaw, jaw, all the time! I couldn’t stand it, so I left.”
“That’s encouraging,” thought Andy. “Was there any one else in the family?”
“There was four children—reg’lar terrors! I’d like to choke ’em.”
“Come, Peter, you’re not in earnest?”
“Ain’t I, though! They’re the wust behaved youngsters I ever come across.”
“I suppose there was no one else in the family?”
“Yes, there was an old gentleman—a nice old man, he was! I wouldn’t have minded workin’ for him. He always had a good word for me, but old Brackett and his wife was scoldin’ all the time.”
“What was the name of the old man?”
“Mr. Dodge. I guess it’s he that owns the property; but Lor’! he don’t have anything to say about it. Brackett and his wife have things all their own way.”
“How long were you working for Mr. Brackett?”
“About six weeks.”
“I suppose he paid you well?”
“Paid me well!” repeated Peter, scornfully. “How much do you calc’late he paid me?”
“About two dollars a week,” said Andy, demurely.
Peter burst into a scornful laugh.
“Much you know old Brackett, if you think he’d pay that figger,” he said. “He paid me seventy-five cents a week, and kept groanin’ over the big wages he was a-payin’! He wanted to get me for fifty cents!”
“He is certainly not a very generous man, Peter.”
“No; I guess not.”
“Did you save enough to retire on a fortune?” asked Andy, laughing.
Poor Peter looked sad.
“Blest if I’ve got more’n twenty-five cents in the world!” he said; “and I’m awful hungry.”
“So am I, Peter. But I don’t see any chance to get dinner, even if we had ever so much money.”
“We could git some over yonder,” said Peter, pointing to a farmhouse some way back from the road. “Only we might have to pay for it.”
“Then come along,” said Andy. “Let’s go there.”
Peter hung back.
“You see, I don’t want to spend all my money,” he said. “I ain’t got but twenty-five cents.”
“It shan’t cost you a cent. I will pay for both our dinners.”
“You will?” exclaimed Peter, gladly. “Have you got money enough?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve got enough for that.”
“Then, come along!”
Five minutes later they were knocking at the door of the farmhouse.
A woman, who had evidently been busy getting dinner, her face being flushed with the heat of the kitchen stove, came to the door and surveyed the boys with suspicion.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Madam,” said Andy, pulling off his hat politely, “my friend and I are hungry, and——”
“We ain’t got anything for tramps,” said the woman, sourly.
“But,” said Andy, in unfailing good humor, “we are not what you suppose.”
“You mean to say you ain’t tramps? I’ll bet a ninepence that you’d steal the spoons, jest as soon as my back was turned.”
Peter was about to return an angry answer, but Andy checked him.
“We don’t want you to give us a dinner,” he said; “but to sell us one. I have money and will pay you in advance if you like.”
The woman—by the way, she was a close-fisted widow, who was always ready to turn a penny, but not to give even a penny’s worth away—was surprised and incredulous.
“Have you any money?” she asked.
“To be sure! How much shall I pay you?” and Andy brought out his pocket-book.
“A quarter apiece, I reckon. I’ve only got sassidges and pie for dinner, but it ought to be wuth that.”
Andy was not over fond of sausages, but the smell of them frying was particularly appetizing just then, and he very readily produced half a dollar and put it into the hands of the Widow Simpson.
“Step right in,” said the widow, with sudden civility. “Dinner will be ready in a jiffy. Here, you Mary Ann, dish up them sassidges, and fry some more. There’s two young gentlemen goin’ to dine with us.”
“We were tramps a minute ago,” thought Andy, amused.
Mary Ann was an overgrown girl, with red arms and prominent knuckles, and no personal beauty to speak of. She was good-natured, however, and thus had an advantage over her mother.
She stared at the two guests as they sat up to the table, and was evidently favorably impressed by the appearance of Andy, who was a good-looking boy. Peter did not appear to please her so much, and merely received a look.
Mrs. Simpson was bustling about the kitchen and adjoining room, and left Mary Ann to entertain her guests. The girl showed her partiality for Andy by putting three sausages on his plate, and only two on Peter’s; but the latter took no notice of the discrimination, but set to work at once on his share.
Mary Ann looked at Andy with what she meant to be an engaging smile, though it looked more like a broad grin.
“I hope you like the sassidges?” she said.
“They are very good, thank you,” replied Andy, politely.
He spoke correctly, for Mrs. Simpson was famed for the excellence of her sausages, of which she annually made a large stock, part of which were sent to market.
“They was made out of one of our best hogs,” said Mary Ann, with engaging frankness.
“I don’t think I ever ate better,” said Andy.
“They’re hunky!” chimed in Peter, with his mouth full.
“Is you travelin’ far?” asked Mary Ann, who was not very well versed in grammar.
“Not very,” answered Andy.
“Be you a peddler?”
“No; but I may take up the business some time.”
“If you ever do, be sure to call round and see us, whenever you come our way,” said the young lady.
“I certainly will. I shan’t forget your nice sausages.”
“Won’t you have another?” asked Mary Ann, looking pleased.
“No, thank you.”
“I will,” said Peter.
Mary Ann supplied his wants, though not with as good a grace as she would have done for his companion.
“I guess you’ll have some pie?” she suggested, to Andy.
“Thank you.”
A liberal slice of apple pie was put on his plate. Andy would have preferred a clean plate, as sausages and apple pie do not go well together, but he did not care to be so particular.
The pie was good, also, and our hero, whose appetite was of that kind sometimes described as “healthy,” felt that he was getting his full money’s worth. As for Peter, he ate as if he were ravenous, and, not being engaged in conversation, like Andy, was able to give his undivided attention to the subject in hand.
“How are you gettin’ on, young men?” asked Mrs. Simpson, as she passed through the room.
“Bully!” mumbled Peter, whose utterance was somewhat impeded by the half section of apple pie which he had thrust into his mouth.
“Your daughter is taking excellent care of us,” said Andy.
Mary Ann looked delighted at this tribute to her attention, and mentally pronounced Andy the handsomest and most polite boy she had ever chanced to meet.
“What is your name?” she inquired, by no means bashful.
“You may call me Henry Miller,” said Andy, using his assumed name for the first time.
“That’s a nice name,” said Mary Ann.
“Do you think so?” asked Andy, smiling.
“I’ve got a nice name myself,” said Peter, complacently.
“What’s your name?” asked the young lady, indifferently.
“I don’t like it,” said Mary Ann, decidedly, looking unfavorably at the red-headed boy.
“You wouldn’t like to be Mrs. Jenks?” asked Peter, grinning.
“No, I wouldn’t. I don’t want to marry no red head.”
“Maybe you’d like him better,” said Peter, pointing to Andy. “I guess anybody would.”
Andy was amused. He saw that he had made a conquest of the young lady, but did not feel much flattered. He would have been perfectly willing to transfer all her admiration to his companion, if the young lady had been willing.
When the dinner was over the two boys rose from the table, and, bidding good-by to Mary Ann and her mother, left the farmhouse.
“I say, that was a hunky dinner,” said Peter.
“It was very good, indeed.”
“It was enough sight better than I got at old Brackett’s.”
“Don’t they live well there?”
“No, they don’t. The old woman ain’t much of a cook. Besides, she’s mean. We didn’t have pie, only now and then, and she’d cut a pie into eight pieces, and there wasn’t no chance of a second slice for me.”
“By the way, Peter,” said Andy, with a sudden thought, “how would you like to work at a hotel?”
“First class!” answered Peter, promptly.
“Were you ever in Seneca?”
“Once.”
“You know the way, then?”
“Yes; straight ahead.”
“The landlord of the hotel there offered me a place, to work round the hotel and stable, for five dollars a month and board.”
“Why didn’t you take it?”
“I didn’t care to, just now.”
“I wish I could get it,” said Peter, wistfully.
“I think you can. Go straight there, and tell the landlord you were sent to him by a boy you met on the road. He’ll know it was I who sent you, and I shouldn’t wonder if you’d get the place.”
“I’ll do it,” said Peter, with a look of determination; “but I don’t see why you don’t go back and take it yourself?”
“Oh, I don’t care for it,” said Andy.
Peter would have been very much surprised had he known that Andy’s reason for declining to enter the landlord’s services was on account of his desire to step into the old place which he had just left with so much disgust.
“You must have a lot of money,” he said.
“Oh, no,” said Andy, laughing. “What makes you think so?”
“You wouldn’t give up a good place if you hadn’t.”
“Haven’t you given up your place, Peter?”
“Yes; but it wasn’t a good one. I’m much obliged to you for the dinner you’ve given me.”
“Oh, you are quite welcome. I suppose we part here. Of course you’ll go right on to Seneca, while I trudge on to Cato.”
“Yes,” said Peter. “I’ll try for that place before night.”
“I hope you’ll get it.”
So the two boys parted, and Andy kept on. He felt considerably more comfortable now that he had eaten a hearty dinner, but did not feel like walking rapidly. There was plenty of time to get to Cato, for he was not over five miles away.
“I guess I’ll go round to see Mr. Brackett to-night,” thought our hero, “so as to reach him before he has had a chance to hire another boy. I expect, from Peter’s account, I shan’t have a very pleasant time, but I shall soon see how the land lies, and whether there is any chance of helping uncle Simon or not. If I don’t get enough to eat, there’s one comfort—I have money in my pocket, and I can buy something outside. Money’s a pretty good friend, under all circumstances.”
Arrived in the village, Andy walked slowly along the road, keeping his eyes wide open.
A little in advance of him he saw an old man, with white hair, who was walking slowly, and appeared rather feeble.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if that is uncle Simon,” he thought. “I’ll speak to him, and try to find out.”
Andy quickened his pace until he found himself walking beside the old gentleman. He was in doubt how to address him, in order to ascertain whether it was really his mother’s uncle. If he were not, he must be on his guard not to say anything which might excite the suspicions of any one as to his having a special purpose in visiting Cato. The way was made easy for him, however.
The old man was Simon Dodge, and he was in daily expectation of the appearance of his niece’s son.
When he saw Andy, in his traveling garb, with his little bundle of clothes under his arm, his eyes lighted up with hope, and he immediately accosted him.
“Where are you traveling, my boy?” he asked, eagerly.
“I have come from the East,” answered Andy. “I shall stay here, if I can find a place.”
“Would you be willing to work on a farm?” asked the old man.
“Yes,” answered our hero. “I hear that there is a farmer named Brackett who wants to hire a boy. Do you know where he lives?”
“Yes—yes, I can tell you. I am Mr. Brackett’s father-in-law,” said the old man, quickly.
Andy looked about him cautiously, to make sure that no one could overhear him, and said, in a low voice:
“Then you are my mother’s uncle—Mr. Dodge!”
The old man’s face lighted up with satisfaction.
“So I thought,” he answered. “I thought you were Mary’s son as soon as I looked at you. My dear boy, I am glad, heartily glad, to see you!”
Andy looked up in the old man’s face, and he saw there an expression of a kind and amiable disposition.
He could understand how such a man should have allowed himself to be imposed upon by a selfish and unscrupulous man like Brackett.
“I am glad to see you, Uncle Simon!” he said. “I hope I may be able to be of service to you.”
“You seem like a strong, active boy,” said the old man, surveying, with approval, the sturdy frame and manly, handsome features of his great-nephew.
“Yes,” returned Andy, smiling, “I am tolerably strong.”
“Andrew Gordon; they generally call me Andy.”
“I should like to call you by that name, but it will be more prudent to go by some other.”
“You may call me Henry Miller, Uncle Simon.”
“Henry Miller? I will try to remember it. But you mustn’t call me Uncle Simon; that would ruin all, if Mr. Brackett should hear it.”
“I’ll be cautious—never fear! Can you advise me how to act? Shall I call at the farm to-night?”
“Yes. Mr. Brackett is looking out for a boy. His boy left him this morning.”
“I know it.”
“You know it?” said the old man, in surprise. “How did you hear of it?”
“I met Peter on the road and treated him to a dinner.”
“Indeed! What did he say about leaving?”
“He doesn’t seem to be in love with Mr. Brackett,” laughed Andy. “He says you are a nice old gentleman.”
“Yes; Peter and I always got along well together.”
“What sort of a boy is he?” asked Andy, with some curiosity.
“He’s not a bad sort of boy; he liked to play now and then, but he is as good as the average. Mr. Brackett expects too much of boys.”
“I suppose he will expect too much of me.”
“I am afraid you won’t like the place,” said Mr. Dodge, anxiously. “But bear in mind, you shall have all the money you want, only Brackett mustn’t know anything about it. We will have a secret understanding together, Andy—I mean Henry.”
“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t stay, if it were not for the sake of helping you.”
“Thank you! It will make me feel better to think I have one friend in the house; only we must be cautious.”
“Uncle Simon,” said Andy, boldly, “why do you stay here with this man? My mother asked me to invite you to come back with me to Hamilton. Our house is small, but we can make room for you. You won’t have anything to complain of there, and you can leave your money where you like. You won’t have any hints from us.”
Mr. Dodge’s face lighted up with pleasure, and he asked eagerly:
“Will your mother be really willing to be trouble with me for the little time I have to stay on earth?”
“She will be glad to have you with us,” answered Andy, emphatically. “If you were a man like Mr. Brackett—as I suppose he is—she wouldn’t want you; but I am sure we shall find you a pleasant visitor.”
“It is what has come into my mind, my boy,” said the old man; “but I was afraid your mother wouldn’t like it. I could ask nothing better. I am not happy where I am. Mr. and Mrs. Brackett are continually asking me for money and scheming to have me leave them what money I have left. Only this morning, Brackett was urging me to make a will, for he knows that, if I die, he is no relative of mine, and the law wouldn’t give him the money.”
“You have given him the farm already, haven’t you, Uncle Simon?”
“Yes; and a good farm it is. I not only gave it to him, but I gave him the stock and tools, and all I asked in return was that I should receive my board.”
“I don’t think he has any right to complain.”
“No, he has no right to complain; but he does complain. He pretends that the farm doesn’t give him a living, and is always wanting to borrow money.”
“Do you let him have it?”
“Sometimes. I cannot help it, he is so importunate.”
“Does he ever pay you back?”
“Never!” said Mr. Dodge, emphatically. “He pretends he can’t.”
Andy looked the disgust he felt.
“Uncle Simon,” he said, “you treat him altogether too well. I wouldn’t give in to him that way.”
“And I suppose you think I ought not to?”
“Andy, you don’t know what it is to be old and weak. When a man gets to be seventy-five,” said Simon, in a pathetic voice, “he doesn’t want to be at strife. He wants peace and rest. Twenty years ago, or even ten years ago, I should have been better able to resist Mr. Brackett; now he annoys and worries me.”
“How long has he been trying to get you to make a will in his favor?”
“For at least two years.”
“I almost wonder you didn’t do it to get rid of him.”
“I will never do that,” said Simon Dodge, with an energy that surprised Andy. “It wouldn’t be safe,” he added, lowering his voice.
“Why wouldn’t it be safe?” inquired our hero, not without curiosity.
“I believe Brackett and his wife would take care that they didn’t have to wait long for their money.”
“You don’t mean to say that they would make away with you?” said Andy, startled.
“I hope not—I hope not. But I don’t think it safe to expose them to temptation,” said Mr. Dodge, shaking his head.
They had been walking slowly. At a point in the road, the prospect widened out before them.
“That is where we live,” said the old man, pointing to a farmhouse, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. “We had better separate here, for it is not best that Mr. Brackett should suppose there is any understanding or acquaintance between us. You might come round in about an hour and apply for a place. Be prepared to accept fifty cents a week.”
“All right!”
And he sat down by the side of the road to rest, for he was really tired, while the old man bent his steps toward home.