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Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



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The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online » Fiction » The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖

Book online «The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger



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day, and we don't buy tenderloin steaks to pamper their appetites,” said Mr. Tucker, “though we're perfectly willing to do it if the town'll pay us so we can afford it. Do you think the town'll agree to pay me twenty-five cents more a week for each one, squire?”

“Certainly not. It can't be thought of,” said the squire hastily, knowing that if the selectmen advocated such a measure they would probably lose their reelection.

“If it would, we might live a little better, so that Ann Carter wouldn't have to complain, though, bless your soul! that woman is always complainin'.”

“Ahem! Mr. Tucker, you present the matter to me in a new light. I really feel that Ann Carter is very unreasonable in her complaints.”

“I knowed you'd do me justice, squire,” said Mr. Tucker effusively. “You're a sharp man. You ain't a-goin' to be taken in by any of them paupers' rigmarole. I always said, Squire Pope, that you was the right man in the right place, and that the town was lucky to have so intelligent and public-spirited a citizen fillin' her most important offices.”

“Mr. Tucker,” said the squire, “you gratify me. It has ever been my aim to discharge with conscientious fidelity the important trusts which the town has committed to my charge—”

“I'll bear witness to that, squire.”

“And your sincere tribute gives me great satisfaction.”

“I hope you'll report things right to the board, Squire Pope?” said Mr. Joe Tucker insinuatingly.

“Be assured I will, Mr. Tucker. I consider you a zealous and trustworthy official, striving hard to do your duty in the place the town has assigned you.”

“I do, indeed, squire,” said Mr. Tucker, pulling on a red handkerchief and mopping some imaginary tears. “Excuse my emotions, sir, but your generous confidence quite unmans me. I—I—trust now that I shall be able to bear meekly the sneers and complaints of Ann Carter and her fellow paupers.”

“I will stand by you, Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope cordially, for the man's flattery, coarse as it was, had been like incense to his vanity. “I will stand by you, and uphold you by my testimony.”

“Thank you, squire. With such an impartial advocate I will continue to do my duty and fear nothing.”

As Squire Pope left the almshouse, Mr. Tucker winked at himself in the glass, and said quizzically:

“I guess I'm all right now. The vain old fool thinks he's a second Solomon, and thinks I regard him as such. Oh, it takes me to get round him!”

Squire Pope wrote an elaborate report, in which he stated that, after searching investigation, he had ascertained that the complaints of Ann Carter were absolutely groundless, and gave it as his conviction that Mr. Tucker's treatment of her and her associate paupers was characterized by remarkable consideration and humanity.

Such officials as he have much to answer for, and yet there are plenty just as false to their responsibilities as he.

It was two days after Squire Pope's ineffectual attempt to possess himself of Philip's violin, that our hero was walking along a country road, on his return from an errand which, he had undertaken for his friend's father, when his attention was drawn to the yelping of a small dog, that seemed in fear or pain.

Looking over the stone wall, Philip saw Zeke Tucker amusing himself by thrusting the dog's head into a pool of dirty water, and holding it there till the animal was nearly strangled. The dog's suffering appeared to yield the most exquisite amusement to the boy, who burst into peal after peal of rude laughter as he watched the struggles of his victim.

Philip, like every decent boy, had a horror of cruelty, and the sight stirred him to immediate anger and disgust.

“What are you doing there, Zeke Tucker?” he demanded sternly.

“None of your business!” answered Zeke, frowning.

“You'd better answer my question,” said Philip, who had by this time jumped over the wall.

“Then I will. I'm havin' a little fun. What have you got to say about it?” retorted Zeke.

And once more he plunged the head of the poor dog into the filthy pool.

The next moment he found himself floundering on his back, while the dog, slipping from his grasp, was running across the meadows. “What did you do that for!” demanded Zeke, springing up, his face flaming with rage.

“I rather think you understand well enough,” answered Philip contemptuously.

“What business have you to touch me? I can have you arrested, you low pauper!”

“What's that? What did you call me?” demanded Philip.

“I called you a pauper.”

“By what right?”

“Squire Pope told my father he was going to bring you over to the poorhouse to live. You just see if my father doesn't give it to you then!”

“Thank you,” said Phil contemptuously; “but I don't propose to board at your establishment, not even to obtain the pleasure of your society.”

“Maybe you can't help yourself,” said Zeke gleefully.

For he saw what had escaped the notice of Philip, whose back was turned—namely, a four-seated carryall, containing his father and Squire Pope, which had just halted in the road, hard by.

“Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope, in a low tone, “now will be the best opportunity to capture the boy and carry him to the almshouse.”

“All right—I'm ready,” said Tucker readily.

For another boarder would bring him sixty cents a week more.

They stopped the horses and prepared for business.





CHAPTER XIII. IN THE ENEMY'S HANDS

Philip heard a step, and turned to see whose it was; but, when he recognized Mr. Tucker, the latter's hand was already on his collar.

“What have you been doin' to Zeke? Tell me that, you young rascal,” said Mr. Tucker roughly.

“He pitched into me savage, father,” answered Zeke, who had picked himself up, and was now engaged in brushing the dust from his coat.

“Pitched into ye, did he?” repeated Joe Tucker grimly. “I reckon he didn't know your father was 'round. What have you got to say for yourself, eh?”

Philip regarded his captor contemptuously, and didn't struggle to escape, knowing that he was not a match for a man five inches taller than himself. But contempt he could not help showing, for he knew very well that Zeke

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