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. The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
CHAPTER XI. PHILIP'S NEW ROOM.
We return to Phil.
“Foller me, boy!” said Mr. Tucker, as he entered the house, and proceeded to ascend the front steps.
Philip had formed his plans, and without a word of remonstrance, he obeyed. The whole interior was dingy and dirty. Mrs. Tucker was not a neat woman, and everything looked neglected and slipshod.
In the common room, to the right, the door of which was partly open, Philip saw some old men and women sitting motionless, in a sort of weary patience. They were “paupers,” and dependent for comfort on the worthy couple, who regarded them merely as human machines, good to them for sixty cents a week each.
Mr. Tucker did not stop at the first landing, but turned and began to ascend a narrower and steeper staircase leading to the next story.
This was, if anything, dirtier and more squalid than the first and second. There were several small rooms on the third floor, into one of which Mr. Tucker pushed his way. “Come in,” he said. “Now you're at home. This is goin' to be your room.”
Philip looked around him in disgust, which he did not even take the trouble to conceal.
There was a cot-bed in the corner, with an unsavory heap of bed-clothing upon it, and a couple of chairs, both with wooden seats, and one with the back gone.
That was about all the furniture. There was one window looking out upon the front.
“So this is to be my room, is it?” asked our hero.
“Yes. How do you like it?”
“I don't see any wash-stand, or any chance to wash.”
“Come, that's rich!” said Mr. Tucker, appearing to be very much amused. “You didn't think you was stoppin' in the Fifth Avenoo Hotel, did you?”
“This don't look like it.”
“We ain't used to fashionable boarders, and we don't know how to take care of 'em. You'll have to go downstairs and wash in the trough, like the rest of the paupers do.”
“And wipe my face on the grass, I suppose?” said Philip coolly, though his heart sank within him at the thought of staying even one night in a place so squalid and filthy.
“Come, that's goin' too far,” said Mr. Tucker, who felt that the reputation of the boarding-house was endangered by such insinuations. “We mean to live respectable. There's two towels a week allowed, and that I consider liberal.”
“And do all your boarders use the same towel?” asked Phil, unable to suppress an expression of disgust.
“Sartain. You don't think we allow 'em one apiece, do you!”
“No, I don't,” said Philip decidedly.
He had ceased to expect anything so civilized in Mr. Tucker's establishment.
“Now you're safe in your room, I reckon I'd better go downstairs,” said Tucker.
“I will go with you.”
“Not much you won't! We ain't a-goin' to give you a chance of runnin' away just yet!”
“Do you mean to keep me a prisoner?” demanded Philip.
“That's just what we do, at present,” answered his genial host.
“It won't be for long, Mr. Tucker.”
“What's that you say? I'm master here, I'd have you to know!”
Just then a shrill voice was heard from below:
“Come down, Joe Tucker! Are you goin' to stay upstairs all day?”
“Comin', Abigail!” answered Mr. Tucker hastily, as he backed out of the room, locking the door behind him. Philip heard the click of the key as it turned in the lock, and he realized, for the first time in his life, that he was a prisoner.
CHAPTER XII. A PAUPER'S MEAL
Half an hour later Philip heard a pounding on the door of his room.
He was unable to open it, but he called out, loud enough for the outsider to hear:
“Who is it?”
“It's me—Zeke,” was the answer that came back.
“Did you tell the Dunbars where I was?” asked Philip eagerly.
“Yes.”
“I shouldn't think you had time to go there and back,” said Philip, fearing that Zeke had pocketed his money and then played him false. But, as we know, he was mistaken in this.
“I didn't go there,” shouted Zeke. “I met Frank on the bridge.”
“What did he say?”
“He was mad,” answered Zeke, laughing. “I thought he would be.”
“Did he send any message to me?” asked Philip.
“No; he stopped fishin' and went home.” Here the conversation was interrupted. The loud tones in which Zeke had been speaking, in order to be heard through the door, had attracted attention below.
His father came to the foot of the attic stairs and demanded suspiciously:
“What you doin' there, Zeke?”
“Tryin' to cheer up Phil Gray,” answered Zeke jocosely.
“He don't need any cheerin' up. He's all right. I reckon you're up to some mischief.”
“No, I ain't.”
“Come along down.”
“All right, dad, if you say so. Lucky he didn't hear what I was sayin' about seein' Frank Dunbar,” thought Zeke. “He'd be mad.”
Presently there was another caller at Philip's room, or, rather, prison. This time it was Mr. Tucker himself. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Philip looked up inquiringly.
“Supper's ready,” announced Joe. “You can come down if you want to.”
Philip was provided with an appetite, but he did not relish the idea of going downstairs and joining the rest of Mr. Tucker's boarders. It would seem like a tacit admission that he was one of their number. Of course, he couldn't do without eating, but he had a large apple in his pocket when
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