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
He would not even wait till the next day, but determined after it was dark to visit the poor-house and reconnoiter. First, he informed his parents what had befallen Phil. Their indignation was scarcely less than his.
“Squire Pope is carrying matters with a high hand,” said the farmer. “According to my idea, he has done no less than kidnap Philip, without the shadow of a legal right.”
“Can't he be prosecuted?” asked Frank eagerly.
“I am not sure as to that,” answered his father, “but I am confident that Philip will not be obliged to remain, unless he chooses, a dependent upon the charity of the town.”
“It is outrageous!” said Mrs. Dunbar, who was quite as friendly to Philip as her husband and son.
“In my opinion,” said Mr. Dunbar, “Squire Pope has done a very unwise thing as regards his own interests. He desires to remain in office, and the people will not be likely to reelect him if his policy is to make paupers of those who wish to maintain themselves. Voters will be apt to think that they are sufficiently taxed already for the support of those who are actually unable to maintain themselves.”
“If I were a voter,” exclaimed Frank indignantly, “I wouldn't vote for Squire Pope, even for dog-catcher! The meanest part of it is the underhanded way in which he has taken Phil. He must have known he was acting illegally, or he would have come here in open day and required Phil to go with him.”
“I agree with you, Frank. Squire Pope may be assured that he has lost my vote from henceforth. Hitherto I have voted for him annually for selectman, knowing that he wanted the office and considering him fairly faithful.”
“Father,” said Frank, after a thoughtful pause, “do you think Philip would be justified in escaping from the poorhouse?”
“I do,” answered Mr. Dunbar. “In this free country I hold that no one ought to be made an object of charity against his will.”
“Philip is strong enough and smart enough to earn his own living,” said Frank.
“That is true. I will myself give him his board and clothes if he will stay with me and work on the farm.”
“I wish he would. He would be a splendid companion for me; but I think he wants to leave Norton, and try his fortune in some larger place.”
“I can't blame him. If his father were living and he had a good home, I should not think it wise; but, as matters stand, it may not be a bad plan for him.”
“Father,” said Frank, after supper, “I am going out and I may not be back very early.”
“Are you going to see Philip?”
“Yes; but I want to see him alone. If possible, I will see him without attracting the attention of Joe Tucker.”
“You won't get into any trouble, Frank?” said his mother anxiously.
“No, mother; I don't know what trouble I can get into.”
“You may very likely fail to see Philip,” suggested his father. “I hear that Tucker and his boarders go to bed very early.”
“So much the better!” said Frank, in a tone of satisfaction. “The only one I want to see is Philip, and he isn't likely to go to sleep very early.”
Mr. Dunbar smiled to himself.
“Frank has got some plan in his head,” he thought. “I won't inquire what it is, for he has good common sense, and won't do anything improper.”
About eight o'clock, Frank, after certain preparations, which will hereafter be referred to, set out for the poorhouse, which was about a mile distant.
CHAPTER XIV. PHILIP MAKES HIS ESCAPE.
It grew darker and darker in Philip's chamber, but no one came to bring him a light. It was assumed that he would go to bed before he required one.
By seven o'clock the paupers had settled themselves for the night, and when eight o'clock struck, Mr. and Mrs. Tucker sought their beds. It was no particular trial for Joe Tucker to go to bed early, for he was naturally a lazy man, and fond of rest; while his wife, who worked a great deal harder than he, after being on her feet from four o'clock in the morning, found it a welcome relief to lie down and court friendly sleep. Zeke wasn't always ready to go to bed. In fact, he would much rather have gone up to the village now and then, but if he had done so he would have had to stay out all night. There was one thing his parents were strict about, and that was retiring at eight o'clock.
Philip, however, did not retire at that hour. It was earlier than his usual hour for bed. Besides, he was in hopes his friend Frank would make his appearance, and help him, though he didn't exactly understand how, to make his escape.
At half-past eight it was dark. The stars were out, and the moon was just making its appearance. Philip had opened his window softly, and was looking out, when all at once he saw a boyish figure approaching.
Couldn't be Frank Dunbar.
He hoped so, but in the indistinct light could not be quite certain.
The boy, whoever it might be, approached cautiously, till he stood within fifty feet of the house.
Then Philip saw that it was indeed Frank, and his heart beat joyfully. It was something to see a friend, even though they were separated by what seemed to him to be an impassable gulf.
About the same time, Frank recognized his friend, in the boyish figure at the window.
“Is that you, Phil?” he asked, in a guarded voice, yet loud enough to be heard.
“Yes, Frank; I have been expecting you. I knew you wouldn't desert me.”
“I should think not. I didn't come before, because I didn't want to be seen by any of Tucker's folks.”
“They are all abed now, and I hope asleep.”
“Can't you come downstairs, and steal away?”
“No; my chamber door is locked on the outside.”
“That's what I thought.”
“Can't you help me in any way?”
“I'll see. Suppose you had a rope—could you swing out of the window?”
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