Kitobni o'qish: «Helping Himself; Or, Grant Thornton's Ambition»

CHAPTER I – THE MINISTER’S SON

“I wish we were not so terribly poor, Grant,” said Mrs. Thornton, in a discouraged tone.

“Is there anything new that makes you say so, mother?” answered the boy of fifteen, whom she addressed.

“Nothing new, only the same old trouble. Here is a note from Mr. Tudor, the storekeeper.”

“Let me see it, mother.”

Grant took a yellow envelope from his mother’s hand, and drew out the inclosure, a half sheet of coarse letter paper, which contained the following lines:

“July 7, 1857.

REV. JOHN THORNTON:

DEAR SIR: Inclosed you will find a bill for groceries and other goods furnished to you in the last six months, amounting to sixty-seven dollars and thirty-four cents ($67.34). It ought to have been paid before. How you, a minister of the Gospel, can justify yourself in using goods which you don’t pay for, I can’t understand. If I remember rightly, the Bible says: ‘Owe no man anything.’ As I suppose you recognize the Bible as an authority, I expect you to pay up promptly, and oblige,

Yours respectfully, THOMAS TUDOR.”

Grant looked vexed and indignant. “I think that is an impudent letter, mother,” he said.

“It is right that the man should have his money, Grant.”

“That is true, but he might have asked for it civilly, without taunting my poor father with his inability to pay. He would pay if he could.”

“Heaven knows he would, Grant,” said his mother, sighing.

“I would like to give Mr. Tudor a piece of my mind.” “I would rather pay his bill. No, Grant, though he is neither kind nor considerate, we must admit that his claim is a just one. If I only knew where to turn for money!”

“Have you shown the bill to father?” asked Grant.

“No; you know how unpractical your father is. It would only annoy and make him anxious, and he would not know what to do. Your poor father has no business faculty.”

“He is a very learned man,” said Grant, proudly.

“Yes, he graduated very high at college, and is widely respected by his fellow ministers, but he has no aptitude for business.”

“You have, mother. If you had been a man, you would have done better than he. Without your good management we should have been a good deal worse off than we are. It is the only thing that has kept our heads above water.”

“I am glad you think so, Grant. I have done the best I could, but no management will pay bills without money.”

It was quite true that the minister’s wife was a woman of excellent practical sense, who had known how to make his small salary go very far. In this respect she differed widely from her learned husband, who in matters of business was scarcely more than a child. But, as she intimated with truth, there was something better than management, and that was ready cash.

“To support a family on six hundred dollars a year is very hard, Grant, when there are three children,” resumed his mother.

“I can’t understand why a man like father can’t command a better salary,” said Grant. “There’s Rev. Mr. Stentor, in Waverley, gets fifteen hundred dollars salary, and I am sure he can’t compare with father in ability.”

“True, Grant, but your father is modest, and not given to blowing his own trumpet, while Mr. Stentor, from all I can hear, has a very high opinion of himself.”

“He has a loud voice, and thrashes round in his pulpit, as if he were a—prophet,” said Grant, not quite knowing how to finish his sentence.

“Your father never was a man to push himself forward. He is very modest.”

“I suppose that is not the only bill that we owe,” said Grant.

“No; our unpaid bills must amount to at least two hundred dollars more,” answered his mother.

Grant whistled.

Two hundred and sixty-seven dollars seemed to him an immense sum, and so it was, to a poor minister with a family of three children and a salary of only six hundred dollars. Where to obtain so large a sum neither Grant nor his mother could possibly imagine. Even if there were anyone to borrow it from, there seemed no chance to pay back so considerable a sum.

Mother and son looked at each other in perplexity. Finally, Grant broke the silence.

“Mother,” he said, “one thing seems pretty clear. I must go to work. I am fifteen, well and strong, and I ought to be earning my own living.”

“But your father has set his heart upon your going to college, Grant.”

“And I should like to go, too; but if I did it would be years before I could be anything but an expense and a burden, and that would make me unhappy.”

“You are almost ready for college, Grant, are you not?”

“Very nearly. I could get ready for the September examination. I have only to review Homer, and brush up my Latin.”

“And your uncle Godfrey is ready to help you through.”

“That gives me an idea, mother. It would cost Uncle Godfrey as much as nine hundred dollars a year over and above all the help I could get from the college funds, and perhaps from teaching school this winter. Now, if he would allow me that sum for a single year and let me go to work, I could pay up all father’s debts, and give him a new start. It would save Uncle Godfrey nine hundred dollars.”

“He has set his heart on your going to college. I don’t think he would agree to help you at all if you disappoint him.”

“At any rate, I could try the experiment. Something has got to be done, mother.”

“Yes, Grant, there is no doubt of that. Mr. Tudor is evidently in earnest. If we don’t pay him, I think it very likely he will refuse to let us have anything more on credit. And you know there is no other grocery store in the village.”

“Have you any money to pay him on account, mother?”

“I have eight dollars.”

“Let me have that, and go over and see what I can do with him. We can’t get along without groceries. By the way, mother, doesn’t the parish owe father anything?”

“They are about sixty dollars in arrears on the salary.”

“And the treasurer is Deacon Gridley?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll first go over to the deacon’s and try to collect something. Afterward I will call on Mr. Tudor.”

“It is your father’s place to do it, but he has no business faculty, and could not accomplish anything. Go, then, Grant, but remember one thing.”

“What is that, mother?”

“You have a quick temper, my son. Don’t allow yourself to speak hastily, or disrespectfully, even if you are disappointed. Mr. Tudor’s bill is a just one, and he ought to have his money.”

“I’ll do the best I can, mother.”

CHAPTER II – GRANT MAKES TWO BUSINESS CALLS

Deacon Gridley had a small farm, and farming was his chief occupation, but he had a few thousand dollars laid away in stocks and bonds, and, being a thrifty man, not to say mean, he managed to save up nearly all the interest, which he added to his original accumulation. He always coveted financial trusts, and so it came about that he was parish treasurer. It was often convenient for him to keep in his hands, for a month at a time, money thus collected which ought to have been paid over at once to the minister, but the deacon was a thoroughly selfish man, and cared little how pressed for money Mr. Thornton might be, as long as he himself derived some benefit from holding on to the parish funds.

The deacon was mowing the front yard of his house when Grant came up to his front gate.

“Good-morning, Deacon Gridley,” said the minister’s son.

“Mornin’, Grant,” answered the deacon. “How’s your folks?”

“Pretty well in health,” returned Grant, coming to business at once, “but rather short of money.”

“Ministers most gen’ally are,” said Deacon Gridley, dryly.

“I should think they might be, with the small salaries they get,” said Grant, indignantly.

“Some of ‘em do get poorly paid,” replied the deacon; “but I call six hundred dollars a pooty fair income.”

“It might be for a single man; but when a minister has a wife and three children, like my father, it’s pretty hard scratching.”

“Some folks ain’t got faculty,” said the deacon, adding, complacently, “it never cost me nigh on to six hundred dollars a year to live.”

The deacon had the reputation of living very penuriously, and Abram Fish, who once worked for him and boarded in the family, said he was half starved there.

“You get your milk and vegetables off the farm,” said Grant, who felt the comparison was not a fair one. “That makes a great deal of difference.”

“It makes some difference,” the deacon admitted, “but not as much as the difference in our expenses. I didn’t spend more’n a hundred dollars cash last year.”

This excessive frugality may have been the reason why Mrs. Deacon Gridley was always so shabbily dressed. The poor woman had not had a new bonnet for five years, as every lady in the parish well knew.

“Ministers have some expenses that other people don’t,” persisted Grant.

“What kind of expenses, I’d like to know?”

“They have to buy books and magazines, and entertain missionaries, and hire teams to go on exchanges.”

“That’s something,” admitted the deacon. “Maybe it amounts to twenty or thirty dollars a year.”

“More likely a hundred,” said Grant.

“That would be awful extravagant sinful waste. If I was a minister, I’d be more keerful.”

“Well, Deacon Gridley, I don’t want to argue with you. I came to see if you hadn’t collected some money for father. Mr. Tudor has sent in his bill, and he wants to be paid.”

“How much is it?”

“Sixty-seven dollars and thirty-four cents.”

“You don’t tell me!” said the deacon, scandalized. “You folks must be terrible extravagant.”

Grant hardly knew whether to be more vexed or amused.

“If wanting to have enough to eat is extravagant,” he said, “then we are.”

“You must live on the fat of the land, Grant.”

“We haven’t any of us got the gout, nor are likely to have,” answered Grant, provoked. “But let us come back to business. Have you got any money for father?”

Now it so happened that Deacon Gridley had fifty dollars collected, but he thought he knew where he could let it out for one per cent, for a month, and he did not like to lose the opportunity.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Grant,” he answered, “but folks are slow about payin’ up, and—”

“Haven’t you got any money collected?” asked Grant, desperately.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the deacon, with a bright idea. “I’ve got fifty dollars of my own—say for a month, till I can make collections.”

“That would be very kind,” said Grant, feeling that he had done the deacon an injustice.

“Of course,” the deacon resumed, hastily, “I should have to charge interest. In fact, I was goin’ to lend out the money to a neighbor for a month at one per cent; but I’d just as lieve let your father have it at that price.”

“Isn’t that more than legal interest?” asked Grant.

“Well, you see, money is worth good interest nowadays. Ef your father don’t want it, no matter. I can let the other man have it.”

Grant rapidly calculated that the interest would only amount to fifty cents, and money must be had.

“I think father’ll agree to your terms,” he said. “I’ll let you know this afternoon.”

“All right, Grant. It don’t make a mite of difference to me, but if your father wants the money he’ll have to speak for it to-day.”

“I’ll see that the matter is attended to,” said Grant, and he went on his way, pleased with the prospect of obtaining money for their impoverished household, even on such hard terms.

Next he made his way to Mr. Tudor’s store.

It was one of those country variety stores where almost everything in the way of house supplies can be obtained, from groceries to dry goods.

Mr. Tudor was a small man, with a parchment skin and insignificant features. He was in the act of weighing out a quantity of sugar for a customer when Grant entered.

Grant waited till the shopkeeper was at leisure.

“Did you want to see me, Grant?” said Tudor.

“Yes, Mr. Tudor. You sent over a bill to our house this morning.”

“And you’ve come to pay it. That’s right. Money’s tight, and I’ve got bills to pay in the city.”

“I’ve got a little money for you on account,” said Grant, watching Tudor’s face anxiously.

“How much?” asked the storekeeper, his countenance changing.

“Eight dollars.”

“Eight dollars!” ejaculated Tudor, indignantly. “Only eight dollars out of sixty-seven! That’s a regular imposition, and I don’t care ef your father is a minister, I stick to my words.”

Grant was angry, but he remembered his mother’s injunction to restrain his temper.

“We’d like to pay the whole, Mr. Tudor, if we had the money, and—”

“Do you think I can trust the whole neighborhood, and only get one dollar in ten of what’s due me?” spluttered Mr. Tudor. “Ministers ought to set a better example.”

“Ministers ought to get better pay,” said Grant.

“There’s plenty don’t get as much as your father. When do you expect to pay the rest, I’d like to know? I s’pose you expect me to go on trustin’, and mebbe six months from now you’ll pay me another eight dollars,” said the storekeeper, with withering sarcasm.

“I was going to tell you, if you hadn’t interrupted me,” said Grant, “that we should probably have some more money for you to-morrow.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five dollars,” answered the boy, knowing that part of the money borrowed must go in other quarters. “Will that be satisfactory?”

“That’s more like!” said Tudor, calming down. “Ef you’ll pay that I’ll give you a leetle more time on the rest. Do you want anything this mornin’? I’ve got some prime butter just come in.”

“I’ll call for some articles this afternoon, Mr. Tudor. Here are the eight dollars. Please credit us with that sum.”

“Well, I’ve accomplished something,” said Grant to himself as he plodded homeward.

CHAPTER III – GRANT WALKS TO SOMERSET

GODFREY THORNTON, Grant’s uncle, lived in the neighboring town of Somerset. He was an old bachelor, three years older than his brother, the minister, and followed the profession of a lawyer. His business was not large, but his habits were frugal, and he had managed to save up ten thousand dollars. Grant had always been a favorite with him, and having no son of his own he had formed the plan of sending him to college. He was ambitious that he should be a professional man.

It might have been supposed that he would have felt disposed to assist his brother, whose scanty salary he knew was inadequate to the needs of a family. But Godfrey Thornton was an obstinate man, and chose to give assistance in his own way, and no other. It would be a very handsome thing, he thought, to give his nephew a college education. And so, indeed, it would. But he forgot one thing. In families of limited means, when a boy reaches the age of fifteen or sixteen he is very properly expected to earn something toward the family income, and this Grant could not do while preparing for college. If his uncle could have made up his mind to give his brother a small sum annually to make up for this, all would have been well. Not that this idea had suggested itself to the Rev. John Thorn-ton. He felt grateful for his brother’s intentions toward Grant, and had bright hopes of his boy’s future. But, in truth, pecuniary troubles affected him less than his wife. She was the manager, and it was for her to contrive and be anxious.

After Grant had arranged the matters referred to in the preceding chapter, he told his mother that he proposed to go to Somerset to call on his uncle.

“No, Grant, I don’t object, though I should be sorry to have you lose the chance of an education.”

“I have a very fair education already, mother. Of course I should like to go to college, but I can’t bear to have you and father struggling with poverty. If I become a business man, I may have a better chance to help you. At any rate, I can help you sooner. If I can only induce Uncle Godfrey to give you the sum my education would cost him, I shall feel perfectly easy.”

“You can make the attempt, my son, but I have doubts about your success.”

Grant, however, was more hopeful. He didn’t see why his uncle should object, and it would cost him no more money. It seemed to him very plain sailing, and he set out to walk to Somerset, full of courage and hope.

It was a pretty direct road, and the distance—five miles—was not formidable to a strong-limbed boy like Grant. In an hour and a half he entered the village, and soon reached the small one-story building which served his uncle as an office.

Entering, he saw his uncle busy with some papers at his desk.

The old lawyer raised his eyes as the door opened.

“So it’s you, Grant, is it?” he said. “Nobody sick at home, eh?”

“No, Uncle Godfrey, we are all well.”

“I was afraid some one might be sick, from your coming over. However, I suppose you have some errand in Somerset.”

“My only errand is to call upon you, uncle.”

“I suppose I am to consider that a compliment,” said the old bachelor, not ill pleased. “Well, and when are you going to be ready for college?”

“I can be ready to enter in September,” replied Grant.

“That is good. All you will have to do will be to present yourself for examination. I shall see you through, as I have promised.”

“You are very kind, Uncle Godfrey,” said Grant; and then he hesitated.

“It’s Thornton family pride, Grant. I want my nephew to be somebody. I want you to be a professional man, and take a prominent place in the world.”

“Can’t I be somebody without becoming a professional man, or–”

“Or, what?” asked his uncle, abruptly.

“Getting a college education?” continued Grant.

“What does this mean?” asked the old lawyer, knitting his brow. “You’re not getting off the notion of going to college, I hope?”

“I should like to go to college, uncle.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Godfrey Thornton, relieved. “I thought you might want to grow up a dunce, and become a bricklayer or something of that kind.”

Somehow Grant’s task began to seem more difficult than he had anticipated.

“But,” continued Grant, summoning up his courage, “I am afraid it will be rather selfish.”

“I can’t say I understand you, Grant. As long as I am willing to pay your college bills, I don’t see why there is anything selfish in your accepting my offer.”

“I mean as regards father and mother.”

“Don’t I take you off their hands? What do you mean?”

“I mean this, Uncle Godfrey,” said Grant, boldly, “I ought to be at work earning money to keep them. Father’s income is very small, and—”

“You don’t mean to say you want to give up going to college?” said Godfrey Thornton, hastily.

“I think I ought to, uncle.”

“Why?”

“So that I can find work and help father along. You see, I should be four years in college, and three years studying a profession, and all that time my brother and sister would be growing older and more expensive, and father would be getting into debt.”

Uncle Godfrey’s brow wore a perceptible frown.

“Tell me who has put this idea into your head?” he said. “I am sure it isn’t your father.”

“No one put it into my head, Uncle Godfrey. It’s my own idea.”

“Humph! old heads don’t grow on young shoulders, evidently. You are a foolish boy, Grant. With a liberal education you can do something for your family.”

“But it is so long to wait,” objected Grant.

“It will be a great disappointment to me to have you give up going to college, but of course I can’t force you to go,” said his uncle, coldly. “It will save me three hundred dollars a year for four years-I may say for seven, however. You will be throwing away a grand opportunity.”

“Don’t think I undervalue the advantage of a college training, uncle,” said Grant, eagerly. “It isn’t that. It’s because I thought I might help father. In fact, I wanted to make a proposal to you.”

“What is it?”

“You say it will cost three hundred dollars a year to keep me in college?”

“Well?”

“Would you be willing to give father two hundred a year for the next four years, and let me take care of myself in some business place?”

“So this is your proposal, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All I have got to say is, that you have got uncommon assurance. You propose to defeat my cherished plan, and want me to pay two hundred dollars a year in acknowledgment of your consideration.”

“I am sorry you look upon it in that light, Uncle Godfrey.”

“I distinctly decline your proposal. If you refuse to go to college, I wash my hands of you and your family. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Uncle Godfrey,” answered Grant, crestfallen.

“Go home and think over the matter. My offer still holds good. You can present yourself at college in September, and, if you are admitted, notify me.”

The lawyer turned back to his writing, and Grant understood that the interview was over.

In sadness he started on his return walk from Somerset. He had accomplished nothing except to make his uncle angry. He could not make up his mind what to do.

He had walked about four miles when his attention was sharply drawn by a cry of terror. Looking up quickly, he saw a girl of fourteen flying along the road pursued by a drunken man armed with a big club. They were not more than thirty feet apart, and the situation was critical.

Grant was no coward, and he instantly resolved to rescue the girl if it were a possible thing.