Books: Helping Himself
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Horatio Alger >> Helping Himself
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Herbert looked up, and, following Abner's glance, saw a man
approaching the farmhouse. Mr. Barton--for it was he--was a tall
man, shabbily attired, his head crowned with a battered hat, whose
gait indicated a little uncertainty, and betrayed some difficulty
about the maintenance of his equilibrium.
"Is that your father?" asked Herbert.
"It's the old man, sure enough. He's about half full."
"What's that?"
"He's been drinkin', as usual; but he didn't drink enough to make
him tight. Guess his funds give out."
Herbert was rather shocked at Abner's want of respect in speaking of
his father, but even to him Mr. Barton hardly seemed like a man who
could command a son's respect.
"Wonder whether dad met marm on the way?" said Abner, musing.
By this time, Mr. Barton had entered the yard, and caught sight of
his son and Herbert.
"Abner," said he, in a thick voice, "who's that boy?"
"Then he didn't meet marm," thought Abner. "He's a boy that's goin'
to board with us, dad," he answered.
"You don't say! Glad to make your acquaintance, boy," he said,
straightening up.
"Thank you, sir," answered Herbert, faintly.
CHAPTER XXX
A MODEL HOUSEHOLD
"When did you come?" asked Barton, steadying himself against a tree.
"Half an hour ago," answered Abner, for Herbert was gazing, with a
repulsion he found it difficult to conceal, at Barton, whose flushed
face and thick utterance indicated his condition very clearly.
"Who came with him?" continued Barton.
"You'd better ask marm. She attended to the business. It was a young
man."
"Where is she?"
"Gone to the village to buy some sassiges for dinner."
"Good!" exclaimed Barton, in a tone of satisfaction. "I'll stay at
home to dinner to-day. Did the man pay your mother any money?"
"I s'pose so, or she wouldn't be buyin' sassiges. Old Schickman
won't trust us any more."
"The money should have been paid to me. I'll see about it when your
marm comes back from the store."
"You'd spend it all for drink, dad," said Abner.
"How dare you speak so to your father, you ungrateful young dog!"
He essayed to reach Abner to strike him, but his dutiful son dodged
easily, and his father, being unsteady on his legs, fell on the
ground.
Abner laughed, but Herbert was too much shocked to share in his
enjoyment.
"Come here and help me up, you Abner!" said his father.
"Not much, dad! If you hadn't tried to lick me you wouldn't have
fallen!"
"Let me help you, sir!" said Herbert, conquering his instinctive
disgust and approaching the fallen man.
"You're a gentleman!" murmured Barton, as he took the little boy's
proffered hand and, after considerable ado, raised himself to a
standing position. "You're a gentleman; I wish I had a boy like
you."
Herbert could not join in the wish. He felt that a father like Joel
Barton would be a great misfortune.
But just then Mrs. Barton entered the yard, marching with long
strides like a man's.
"Here's marm!" announced Abner.
Barton steadied himself as he turned to look at his wife.
"I want to see you, Mrs. B.," he said. "When are you goin' to have
dinner?"
"Never, if I depended on you to supply the vittles!" she answered,
bluntly.
"Don't speak so before a stranger," said Barton, with a hiccough.
"You hurt my feelin's."
"Your feelin's are tough, and so are mine by this time."
"What have you got there?"
"Some sassiges. Ef you want your share, you'll have to be on time. I
shan't save you any."
"How much money did the man pay you, Mrs. B.?"
"That's my business!" retorted his wife, shortly.
"Mrs. B.," said her husband, straightening up, "I want you to
understand that I'm the master of this house, and it's my right to
take care of the money. You'll oblige me by handin' it over."
"I'll do nothing of the sort, Joel Barton! You'd only spend it for
drink."
"Would you grudge me the few pennies I spend for drink? My system
requires it. That's what the doctor says."
"Then you must find the money for it yourself. My system requires
something to eat, and, ef I take a boarder, he's got to have
something to eat, too."
"Mrs. B., I didn't think your heart was so hard," said Barton, in a
maudlin tone.
"Look here, Joel Barton; you might as well stop such foolish talk.
It won't do no good. I can't stay here all day. I must go and be
gettin' dinner."
Had Barton succeeded in raising money from his wife, he would
probably have returned at once to the tavern, and his place would
have been vacant at the dinner table. Failing in this, he lay back
and fell asleep, and was not roused till dinner time.
Mrs. Barton was a fair cook, and Herbert ate with an unexpected
relish. It is needless to say that Abner also did full justice to
the meal.
"I say, Sam," he said, "I'm glad you've come."
Herbert was hardly prepared to agree with him.
"Now we'll have to live better," Abner explained. "Mam and I
gen'ally have to skirmish round for vittles. We don't often get
meat."
This frank confession rather alarmed Herbert. He was not over
self-indulgent, but he had never lacked for nourishing food, and the
prospect of an uncertain supply was not encouraging.
When dinner was over--there was no second course--they left the
table. Joel Barton made a fresh attempt to extort a small sum from
his wife, but was met with an inflexible refusal. Mrs. Barton proved
deaf alike to entreaties and threats. She was a strong, resolute
woman, and not one to be intimidated.
When Barton left the house, his look of disappointment had given
place to one of cunning.
"Come here, Abner!" he said, beckoning to his son and heir.
"What for?"
"Never you mind."
"But I do mind. Do you want to catch hold of me?"
"No; it's only a little matter of business. It's for your good."
Abner accompanied his father as far as the fence.
"Now, what do you want?" he asked, with his eyes warily fixed on his
father.
"I want you to find out where your marm keeps that money," said
Barton, in a coaxing tone.
"What for?"
"You're to take it and bring it to me."
"And go without eatin'?"
"I'll buy the provisions myself. I'm the head of the family."
"Do you want me to hook money from marm?"
"'Twon't be hookin'. The money by right belongs to me. Ain't I the
head of the family?"
"I dunno about that. Marm's the boss, and always has been," chuckled
Abner.
Joel frowned, but immediately tried another attack.
"Of course I'll give you some of it, Abner," he resumed. "If there's
five dollars I'll give you a quarter."
"I'll see about it, dad."
"Get it for me before evenin', if you can. I shall need it then."
Abner returned to Herbert, and frankly related the conversation that
had taken place between himself and his father.
Herbert was shocked. He did not know what to think of the singular
family he had got into.
"You won't do it, will you?" he asked, startled.
"No, I won't. I want a quarter bad enough, but I'd rather mam would
keep the money. She'll spend it for vittles, and dad would spend it
for drink. Wouldn't you like to go a-fishin'? It's fine weather, and
we'll have fun."
Herbert assented, not knowing how to dispose of his time. Abner
turned the conversation again on New York. What Herbert had already
told him had powerfully impressed his imagination.
"Haven't you got any money?" he asked.
"No," answered Herbert. "Mr. Ford took away all I had, except this."
He drew from his pocket a nickel.
"That won't do no good," said Abner, disappointed. "Stop a minute,
though," he added, after aminute's pause. "Wouldn't your folks send
you some money, if you should write to them?"
"Yes," answered Herbert, his face brightening. "Why didn't I think
of that before? If I could get me paper and ink I'd write at once to
papa. I know he'd either send the money or come for me."
"We'll go to the post office," said Abner. "There you can buy some
paper and a postage stamp. You've got just money enough. There's a
pen and ink there."
"Let us go at once," said Herbert, eagerly.
The boys took their way to the village. The letter was written and
posted, and a burden was lifted from the boy's mind. He felt that
his father would seek him out at once, and he could bear his present
position for a short time. But, alas! for poor Herbert--the letter
never came into his father's hands. Why, the reader will learn in
the next chapter.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE HOUSEKEEPER'S CRIME
It is not to be supposed that during this time the family of the
missing boy were idle. The mystrerious disappearance of his only son
filled his father's heart with anguish, and he took immediate steps
to penetrate the mystery. Not only was the fullest information given
to the police, but an experienced detective connected with a private
agency was detailed for the search. The matter also got into the
papers, and Herbert, in his Western home, little suspected that his
name had already become a household word in thousands of families.
Days passed, and in spite of the efforts that were being made to
discover him, no clew had been obtained by Herbert's friends, either
as to his whereabouts, or as to the identity of the party or parties
hat had abducted him. It is needless to say that Grant heartily
sympathized with the afflicted father, and was sad on his own
account, for he had become warmly attached to the little boy whose
instant companion he had been in his hours of leisure.
The only one in the house who took the matter coolly was Mrs.
Estabrook, the housekeeper. She even ventured to suggest that
Herbert had run away.
"What do you mean, Mrs. Estabrook?" exclaimed the father,
impatiently. "You ought to know my poor boy better than that!"
"Boys are a worrisome set," returned the housekeeper, composedly.
"Only last week I read in the Herald about two boys who ran away
from good homes and went out to kill Indians."
"Herbert was not that kind of a boy," said Grant. "He had no
fondness for adventure."
"I have known Herbert longer than you, young man," retorted the
housekeeper, with a sneer.
"It is very clear that you didn't know him as well," said Mr.
Reynolds.
Mrs. Estabrook sniffed, but said nothing. Without expressly saying
so, it was evident that she dissented from Mr. Reynolds' opinion.
The broker's loss unfitted him for work, and he left the details of
office work to his subordinates, while nearly all his time was spent
in interviews with the police authorities or in following up faint
clews. His loss seemed to strengthen the intimacy and attachment
between him and Grant, in whom he confided without reserve. When at
home in the evening he talked over with Grant, whom he found a
sympathetic listener, the traits of the stolen boy, and brought up
reminiscences, trifling, perhaps, but touching, under the
circumstances. To Mrs. Estabrook he seldom spoke of his son. Her
cold and unsympathetic temperament repelled him. She had never
preferred to feel any attachment for Herbert, and the boy, quick to
read her want of feeling, never cared to be with her.
One morning, after Mr. Reynolds and Grant had gone out, Mrs.
Estabrook, on going to the hall, saw a letter on the table, which
had been left by the postman. As curiosity was by no means lacking
in the housekeeper's composition, she took it up, and peered at the
address through her glasses.
It was directed to Mr. Reynolds in a round, schoolboy hand.
Mrs. Estabrook's heart gave a sudden jump of excitement.
"It's Herbert's handwriting," she said to herself.
She examined the postmark, and found that it was mailed at Scipio,
Illinois.
She held the letter in her hand and considered what she should do.
Should the letter come into the hands of Mr. Reynolds, the result
would doubtless be that the boy would be recovered, and would reveal
the name of his abductor. This would subject her favorite, Willis
Ford, to arrest, and probably imprisonment.
"He should have been more careful, and not allowed the boy to
write," said the housekeeper to herself. "Willis must have been very
imprudent. If I only knew what was in the letter!"
The housekeeper's curiosity became so ungovernable that she decided
to open it. By steaming it, she could do it, and if it seemed
expedient, paste it together again. She had little compunction in
the matter. In a few minutes she was able to withdraw the letter
from the envelope and read its contents.
This is what Herbert wrote:
"Scipio, ILL.
"DEAR PAPA: I know you must have been very anxious about me. I would
have written you before, but I have had no chance. Willis Ford found
me playing in the street, and got me to go with him by saying you
had sent for me. I thought it strange you should have sent Mr. Ford,
but I didn't like to refuse, for fear it was true. We went on board
a steamer in the harbor, and Mr. Ford took me in a stateroom. Then
he put a handkerchief to my face, and I became sleepy. When I waked
up, we were at sea. I don't know where I went, but when we came to
land, some time the next day, we got into the cars and traveled for
a couple of days. I begged Mr. Ford to take me home, but it made him
cross. I think he hates you and Grant, and I think he took me away
to spite you. I am sure he is a very wicked man.
"Finally we came to this place. It is a small place in Illinois. The
people who live here are Mr. and Mrs. Barton and their son Abner.
Mr. Joel Barton is a drunkard. He gets drunk whenever he has money
to buy whisky. Mrs. Barton is a hard-working woman, and she does
about all the work that is done. Mr. Ford paid her some money in
advance. She is a tall woman, and her voice sounds like a man's. She
does not ill treat me, but I wish I were at home. Abner is a big,
rough boy, a good deal older and larger than I am, but he is kind to
me and he wants to come to New York. He says he will run away and
take me with him, if we can get enough money to pay our fares. I
don't think we could walk it so far. Abner might, for he is a good
deal stronger than I am, but I know I should get very tired.
"Now, dear papa, if you will send me money enough to pay for
railroad tickets, Abner and I will start just as soon as we get it.
I don't know as he ought to run away from home, but he says his
father and mother don't care for him, and I don't believe they do.
His father doesn't care for anything but whisky, and his mother is
scolding him all the time. I don't think she would do that if she
cared much for him, do you?
"I have filled the paper, and must stop. Be sure to send the money
to your loving son,
"HERBERT REYNOLDS."
"How easy you write!" said Abner, in wonder, as he saw Herbert's
letter growing long before his eyes. "It would take me a week to
write as long a letter as that, and then I couldn't do it."
"I can't write so easy generally," said the little boy, "but, you
see, I have a good deal to write about."
"Then there's another thing," said Abner. "I shouldn't know how to
spell so many words. You must be an awful good scholar."
"I always liked to study," said Herbert. "Don't you like to read and
study?"
"No; I'd rather play ball or go fishin', wouldn't you?"
"I like to play part of the time, but I wouldn't like to grow up
ignorant."
"I expect I'll always be a know-nothin', but I reckon I know as much
as dad. The old man's awful ignorant. He don't care for nothin' but
whisky."
"And I hope you won't be like him in that, Abner."
"No, I won't. I wouldn't like to have the boys flingin' stones at
me, as they did at dad once when he was tight. I licked a couple of
'em."
Mrs. Estabrook read Herbert's letter with intense interest. She saw
that the little boy's testimony would seriously incriminate Willis
Ford, if he were recovered, as he would be if this letter came into
his father's hands.
"There's only one thing to do," the housekeeper reflected, closing
her thin lips tightly.
She lit the gas jet in her chamber, and, without a trace of
compunction, held the letter in the flame until it was thoroughly
consumed.
CHAPTER XXXII
HOPE DEFERRED
Day after day Herbert and Abner went to the post office and inquired
for letters, but alas! none came. Poor Herbert was in despair. He
thought his father would have instantly sent the money, or come out
himself to take him home. Was it possible his father had forgotten
him, or was indifferent to his absence? He could not believe it, but
what was he to think?
"I reckon your father didn't get the letter," suggested Abner.
Herbert hailed this suggestion with relief.
"Or, maybe, marm has told the postmaster to give her any letters
that come."
This suggestion, too, seemed not improbable.
"What can we do?" asked Herbert, helplessly. "I reckon we'd better
run away."
"Without money?"
"We'll hire out to somebody for a week or two and write from where
we are."
"I'm afraid I couldn't do much work," said the little boy.
"Then I'll work for both," said Abner, stoutly. "I've got tired of
stayin' at home, anyway."
"I'll do whatever you say," said Herbert, feeling that any change
would be for the better.
"I'll tell you when I'm ready," said Abner. "We'll start some time
when marm's gone to the village."
There was another reason for Herbert's being dissatisfied with his
new home. A month had passed--the full time for which Willis Ford
had paid the boy's board--and there were no indications that any
more was to be paid. During the the first week the fare had been
tolerable, though Mrs. Barton was not a skillful cook; but now there
was no money left, and the family fell back upon what their limited
resources could supply. Mush and milk now constituted their
principal diet. It is well enough occasionally, but, when furnished
at every meal, both Herbert and Abner became tired of it.
"Haven't you got anything else for dinner, marm?" asked Abner,
discontentedly.
"No, I haven't," answered the mother, snappishly.
"You used to have sassiges and bacon."
"That was when I had money to buy 'em."
"Where's all that money gone the man left with him?" indicating
Herbert.
"It's spent, and I wish Willis Ford would send along some more
mighty quick. He needn't expect me to take a free boarder."
She looked severely at Herbert, as if he were in fault. Certainly
the poor boy had no desire to live on the liberality of Mrs. Barton.
"Maybe he's sent you some money in a letter," suggested Abner.
"Well, I never thought of that. It's a bright idee, ef it did come
from you, Abner Barton. Jest go up to the postoffice after dinner,
and ask if there's any letter for me. Ef there is, mind you, don't
open it."
"All right, marm."
"Come along, bub," said Abner.
This was the name he gave to Herbert, whom he liked in his own rough
way.
"I don't think," said Herbert, as they walked along, "that your
mother can have got any letter written by my father. If she had, she
would not be out of money."
"I reckon you're right. Do you think that Ford feller will send
money for your board?"
"I think he will, if he can, for he wants to keep me here; but I
don't think he has much money with him."
"All the worse for marm."
"Abner," said Herbert, after a pause, during which he had been
thinking seriously, "would you mind running away pretty soon?"
"No, bub; I'm ready any time. Are you in a hurry?"
"You see, Abner, I don't want to live on your mother. She isn't
rich--"
"No, I guess not. Ef she hadn't married sech a good-for-nothin' as
dad--"
"I wouldn't speak so of your father, Abner."
"Why not? Isn't it the truth? Dad's no grit. He gits drunk whenever
he has a chance. Marm's a good, hard-workin' woman. She'd git along
well enough ef she was alone."
"At any rate, she can't afford to board me for nothing. So I am
ready to start whenever you are, Abner."
"Suppose we get up early to-morror and start?"
"How early?"
"Three o'clock. Marm gets up at five. We must be on the road before
that time."
"I'm willing, Abner. You must wake me up in time."
"You'd better go to bed early, bub, and git all the sleep you can.
We'll have a hard day to-morrer."
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE JOURNEY BEGINS
"Wake up, there."
The little boy stirred in his sleep, and finally opened his eyes. By
the faint light that entered through the window, he saw Abner
bending over him.
"What is it?" he asked, drowsily.
"The kitchen clock's just struck three," whispered Abner. "You
haven't forgotten that we are going to run away, have you?"
"I'll get right up," said Herbert, rubbing his eyes.
In two minutes the boys were dressed and ready for a start. It had
taken a great deal longer for Herbert to dress at home, but he had
become less particular as to his toilet now.
The boys took their shoes in their hands, and stole out in their
stocking feet. As they passed the door of the room in which Mr. and
Mrs. Barton slept, they heard the deep breathing of both, and knew
that they were not likely to be heard.
Outside the door they put on their shoes, and were now ready to
start.
"Wait a minute, bub," said Abner.
He re-entered the house, and presently came out holding half a loaf
in his hand.
"That'll do for our breakfast," he said. "We won't eat it now. We'll
wait till five o'clock. Then we'll be hungry."
By five o'clock they were as many miles on their way. They had
reached the middle of the next town.
"Do you feel tired, bub?" asked Abner.
"A little. I feel hungry. Don't you think we can eat the bread now?"
"Yes, we'd better. I feel kind o' gone myself."
They sat down under a tree, and Abner divided the bread fairly.
"You ought to have more than I," protested Herbert. "You're bigger
than I, and need more."
"Never mind that! You'll need it to keep up your strength."
Abner was not naturally unselfish, but he was manly enough to feel
that he ought to be generous and kind to a boy so much smaller, and
he felt repaid for his self-denial by noticing the evident relish
with which Herbert ate his allowance of bread, even to the smallest
crumb.
They found a spring, which yielded them a cool, refreshing draught,
and soon were on their way once more. They had proceeded perhaps two
miles further, when the rumbling of wheels was heard behind them,
and a farm wagon soon came up alongside. The driver was a man of
about thirty--sunburned and roughly clad.
"Whoa, there," he said.
The horse stopped.
"Where are you two goin'?" he asked.
"We're travelin'," answered Abner, noncommittally.
"Where's your home?"
"Some ways back."
"Where are you goin'?"
"I'm after work," answered Abner.
"Well, you'd orter be a good hand at it. You look strong. Is that
little feller your brother?"
"No; he's my cousin."
Herbert looked up in surprise at this avowal of relationship, but he
thought it best not to say anything that would conflict with Abner's
statement.
"Is he after work, too?" asked the driver, with a smile.
"No; he's goin' to his father."
"Where does he live?"
"Further on."
"Have you walked fur?"
"Pretty fur."
"Ef you want to ride, I'll give you a lift for a few miles."
"Thank you," said Abner, prompt to accept the offer. "I'll help you
in, bub."
The two boys took their seats beside the driver, Herbert being in
the middle. The little boy was really tired, and he found it very
pleasant to ride, instead of walking. He had walked seven miles
already, and that was more than he had ever before walked at one
time.
They rode about three miles, when the driver pulled up in front of a
comfortable-looking house.
"This is where I stop," he said. "My aunt lives here, and my sister
has been paying her a visit. I've come to take her home."
The front door was opened, and his aunt and sister came out.
"You're just in time for breakfast, John," said his aunt. "Come in
and sit down to the table. Bring in the boys, too."
"Come in, boys," said the young man. "I guess you can eat something,
can't you?"
"We've had---" Herbert began, but Abner checked him.
"Come along, bub," he said. "What's a bit of bread? I ain't half
full."
CHAPTER XXIV
MRS. BARTON'S SURPRISE
A hearty breakfast, consisting of beefsteak, potatoes, corn bread,
fresh butter and apple sauce, made Abner's eyes glisten, for he had
never in his remembrance sat down at home to a meal equally
attractive. He wielded his knife and fork with an activity and
energy which indicated thorough enjoyment. Even Herbert, though in
the city his appetite had been delicate, and he had already eaten
part of a loaf of bread, did excellent justice to the good things
set before him. He was himself surprised at his extraordinary
appetite, forgetting the stimulating effect of a seven-mile walk.
After breakfast they set out again on their tramp. At sunset, having
rested several hours in the middle of the day, they had accomplished
twenty miles. Abner could have gone further, but Herbert was well
tired out. They obtained permission from a friendly farmer to spend
the night in his barn, and retired at half-past seven. Mr. Reynolds
would have been shocked had he known that his little son was
compelled to sleep on a pile of hay, but it may truthfully be said
that Herbert had seldom slept as soundly or felt more refreshed.
"How did you sleep, Abner?" he asked.
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