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. Joe the Hotel Boy; Or, Winning out by Pluck by Pluck by Jr. Horatio Alger (best book series to read .txt) 📖
- Author: Pluck by Jr. Horatio Alger
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“Something is surely wrong somewhere,” he reasoned. “I wish I could get to the bottom of it.”
The room next to the one occupied by David Ball was empty and he slipped into this. The room contained a closet, and on the other side was another closet, opening into the room the men were in. The partition between was of boards, and as the other door stood wide open, Joe, by placing his head to the boards, could hear fairly well.
“You have the stock?” he heard Maurice Vane ask.
“Yes, in my valise. Hand me the bag and I'll show you,” answered the man in bed. “Oh, how weak I feel!” he sighed.
There was a silence and then the rustling of papers.
“And what is your bottom price for these?” went on Maurice Vane.
“Thirty thousand dollars.”
“I told Mr. Vane you might possibly take twenty-five thousand,” came from the man called Anderson.
“They ought to be worth face value—fifty thousand dollars,” said the man in bed.
A talk in a lower tone followed, and then more rustling of papers.
“I will call to-morrow with the cash,” said Maurice Vane, as he prepared to leave. “In the meantime, you promise to keep these shares for me?”
“I'll keep them until noon. I've got another offer,” said the man in bed.
“We'll be back,” put in the man called Anderson. “So don't you sell to anybody else.”
Then the two visitors left and went downstairs. Five minutes later they were driving away in the direction of the railroad station.
“This certainly beats anything I ever met before,” said Joe, to himself as he watched them go. “I'll wager all I am worth that I've met that Anderson before, and that he is a bad man. I do wish I could get at the bottom of what is going on.”
In the evening he had occasion to go upstairs in the hotel once more. To his surprise he saw Mr. David Ball sitting in a rocking-chair, calmly smoking a cigar and reading a paper.
“He isn't as sick as he was this morning,” he mused. “In fact, I don't think he is sick at all.”
He wished to be on hand the following morning, when the strangers came back, but an errand took him up the lake. He had to stop at several places, and did not start on the return until four in the afternoon.
On his way back Joe went ashore close to where the old lodge was located, and something, he could not tell what, made him run over and take a look at the spot that had proved a shelter for Ned and himself during the heavy storm. How many things had occurred since that fatal day!
As our hero looked into one of the rooms he remembered the strange men he had seen there—the fellows who had talked about mining stocks. Then, of a sudden, a revelation came to him, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky.
“I've got it! I've got it!” he cried. “Mr. David Ball is that fellow who called himself Malone, and Anderson is the man named Caven! They are both imposters!”
CHAPTER XI.
A FRUITLESS CHASE.
The more Joe thought over the matter the more he became convinced that he was right. He remembered a good deal of the talk he had overheard during the storm, although such talk had, for the time being, been driven from his mind by the tragic death of old Hiram Bodley.
“If they are working some game what can this Maurice Vane have to do with it?” he asked himself.
He thought it best to get back to the hotel at once, and tell Mr. Mallison of his suspicions. But, as luck would have it, scarcely had he started to row his boat again when an oarlock broke, and so it took him the best part of an hour to make the trip.
“Where is Mr. Mallison?” he asked of the clerk of the hotel.
“Out in the stable, I believe,” was the answer.
Without waiting, our hero ran down to the stable and found the hotel proprietor inspecting some hay that had just been unloaded.
“I'd like to speak to you a moment, Mr. Mallison,” he said. “It's important,” and he motioned for the man to follow him.
“What is it, Joe?”
“It's about those men who called to see that sick man, and about the sick man, too.”
“He has gone—all of them have gone.”
“What!” ejaculated our hero. “The sick man, too?”
“Exactly. But he didn't go with the others. While they were here he was in bed, but right after they left he arose, dressed himself, and drove away.”
“Where did he go to?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you know what became of the other two men?”
“I do not. But what's up? Is there anything wrong?” questioned the hotel proprietor, with a look of concern on his face.
“I am afraid there is,” answered Joe, and told his tale from beginning to end.
“That's an odd sort of a yarn, Joe. It's queer you didn't recognize the men before.
“It is queer, sir, but I can't help that. It flashed over me just as I looked into the window of the old lodge.”
“You haven't made any mistake?”
“No, sir.”
“Humph!” Andrew Mallison mused for a moment. “I don't really see what I can do in the matter. We can't prove that those men are wrongdoers, can we?”
“Not unless they tried some game on this Mr. Maurice Vane.”
“They may have sold him some worthless mining shares. That sort of a trick is rather old.”
“I think we ought to make a search for this David Ball, or Malone, or whatever his name is.”
“I'm willing to do that.”
After questioning half a dozen people they learned that the pretended sick man had driven off in the direction of a village called Hopedale.
“What made him go there, do you think?” questioned Joe.
“I
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