Driven from Home; Or, Carl Crawford's Experience by Jr. Horatio Alger (golden son ebook TXT) 📖

“Do I look like a banker?” he asked, humorously. “Why do you want to rob a boy?”

“The way you’re togged out, you must have something,” growled the tramp, “and I haven’t got a penny.”

“Your business doesn’t seem to pay, then?”

“Don’t you make fun of me, or I’ll wring your neck! Just hand over your money and be quick about it! I haven’t time to stand fooling here all day.”

A bright idea came to Carl. He couldn’t spare the silver coin, which constituted all his available wealth, but he still had the counterfeit note.

“You won’t take all my money, will you?” he said, earnestly.

“How much have you got?” asked the tramp, pricking up his ears.

Carl, with apparent reluctance, drew out the ten-dollar bill.

The tramp’s face lighted up.

“Is your name Vanderbilt?” he asked. “I didn’t expect to make such a haul.”

“Can’t you give me back a dollar out of it? I don’t want to lose all I have.”

“I haven’t got a cent. You’ll have to wait till we meet again. So long, boy! You’ve helped me out of a scrape.”

“Or into one,” thought Carl.

The tramp straightened up, buttoned his dilapidated coat, and walked off with the consciousness of being a capitalist.

Carl watched him with a smile.

“I hope I won’t meet him after he has discovered that the bill is a counterfeit,” he said to himself.

He congratulated himself upon being still the possessor of twenty-five cents in silver. It was not much, but it seemed a great deal better than being penniless. A week before he would have thought it impossible that such a paltry sum would have made him feel comfortable, but he had passed through a great deal since then.

About the middle of the afternoon he came to a field, in which something appeared to be going on. Some forty or fifty young persons, boys and girls, were walking about the grass, and seemed to be preparing for some interesting event.

Carl stopped to rest and look on.

“What’s going on here?” he asked of a boy who was sitting on the fence.

“It’s a meeting of the athletic association,” said the boy.

“What are they doing?”

“They try for prizes in jumping, vaulting, archery and so on.”

This interested Carl, who excelled in all manly exercises.

“I suppose I may stay and look on?” he said, inquiringly.

“Why, of course. Jump over the fence and I’ll go round with you.”

It seemed pleasant to Carl to associate once more with boys of his own age. Thrown unexpectedly upon his own resources, he had almost forgotten that he was a boy. Face to face with a cold and unsympathizing world, he seemed to himself twenty-five at least.

“Those who wish to compete for the archery prize will come forward,” announced Robert Gardiner, a young man of nineteen, who, as Carl learned, was the president of the association. “You all understand the conditions. The entry fee to competitors is ten cents. The prize to the most successful archer is one dollar.”

Several boys came forward and paid the entrance fee.

“Would you like to compete?” asked Edward Downie, the boy whose acquaintance Carl had made.

“I am an outsider,” said Carl. “I don’t belong to the association.”

“I’ll speak to the president, if you like.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“It won’t be considered an intrusion. You pay the entrance fee and take your chances.”

Edward went to the president and spoke to him in a low voice. The result was that he advanced to Carl, and said, courteously:

“If you would like to enter into our games, you are quite at liberty to do so.”

“Thank you,” responded Carl. “I have had a little practice in archery, and will enter my name for that prize.”

He paid over his quarter and received back fifteen cents in change. It seemed rather an imprudent outlay, considering his small capital; but he had good hopes of carrying off the prize, and that would be a great lift for him. Seven boys entered besides Carl. The first was Victor Russell, a lad of fourteen, whose arrow went three feet above the mark.

“The prize is mine if none of you do better than that,” laughed Victor, good-naturedly.

“I hope not, for the credit of the club,” said the president. “Mr. Crawford, will you shoot next?”

“I would prefer to be the last,” said Carl, modestly.

“John Livermore, your turn now.”

John came a little nearer than his predecessor, but did not distinguish himself.

“If that is a specimen of the skill of the clubmen,” thought Carl, “my chance is a good one.”

Next came Frank Stockton, whose arrow stuck only three inches from the center of the target.

“Good for Fred!” cried Edward Downie. “Just wait till you see me shoot!”

“Are you a dangerous rival?” asked Carl, smiling.

“I can hit a barn door if I am only near enough,” replied Edward.

“Edward Downie!” called the president.

Edward took his bow and advanced to the proper place, bent it, and the arrow sped on its way.

There was a murmur of surprise when his arrow struck only an inch to the right of the centre. No one was more amazed than Edward himself, for he was accounted far from skillful. It was indeed a lucky accident.

“What do you say to that?” asked Edward, triumphantly.

“I think the prize is yours. I had no idea you could shoot like that,” said Carl.

“Nor I,” rejoined Edward, laughing.

“Carl Crawford!” called the president.

Carl took his position, and bent his bow with the greatest care. He exercised unusual deliberation, for success meant more to him than to any of the others. A dollar to him in his present circumstances would be a small fortune, while the loss of even ten cents would be sensibly felt. His heart throbbed with excitement as he let the arrow speed on its mission.