Paul Prescott's Charge by Jr. Horatio Alger (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖

that it was impossible for him to get them open. He tried the doors, but found, as he had anticipated, that they were fast. His last resource failing, he was at liberty to follow the dictates of his curiosity.

Finding a small door partly open, he peeped within, and found a flight of steep stairs rising before him. They wound round and round, and seemed almost interminable. At length, after he had become almost weary of ascending, he came to a small window, out of which he looked. At his feet lay the numberless roofs of the city, while not far away his eye rested on thousands of masts. The river sparkled in the sun, and Paul, in spite of his concern, could not help enjoying the scene. The sound of horses and carriages moving along the great thoroughfare below came confusedly to his ears. He leaned forward to look down, but the distance was so much greater than he had thought, that he drew back in alarm.

“What shall I do?” Paul asked himself, rather frightened. “I wonder if I can stand going without food for three days? I suppose nobody would hear me if I should scream as loud as I could.”

Paul shouted, but there was so much noise in the streets that nobody probably heard him.

He descended the staircase, and once more found himself in the body of the church. He went up into the pulpit, but there seemed no hope of escape in that direction. There was a door leading out on one side, but this only led to a little room into which the minister retired before service.

It seemed rather odd to Paul to find himself the sole occupant of so large a building. He began to wonder whether it would not have been better for him to stay in the poorhouse, than come to New York to die of starvation.

Just at this moment Paul heard a key rattle in the outer door. Filled with new hope, he ran down the pulpit stairs and out into the porch, just in time to see the entrance of the sexton.

The sexton started in surprise as his eye fell upon Paul standing before him, with his bundle under his arm.

“Where did you come from, and how came you here?” he asked with some suspicion.

“I came in last night, and fell asleep.”

“So you passed the night here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What made you come in at all?” inquired the sexton, who knew enough of boys to be curious upon this point.

“I didn't know where else to go,” said Paul.

“Where do you live?”

Paul answered with perfect truth, “I don't live anywhere.”

“What! Have you no home?” asked the sexton in surprise.

Paul shook his head.

“Where should you have slept if you hadn't come in here?”

“I don't know, I'm sure.”

“And I suppose you don't know where you shall sleep to-night?”

Paul signified that he did not.

“I knew there were plenty of such cases,” said the sexton, meditatively; “but I never seemed to realize it before.”

“How long have you been in New York?” was his next inquiry.

“Not very long,” said Paul. “I only got here yesterday.”

“Then you don't know anybody in the city?”

“No.”

“Why did you come here, then?”

“Because I wanted to go somewhere where I could earn a living, and I thought I might find something to do here.”

“But suppose you shouldn't find anything to do?”

“I don't know,” said Paul, slowly. “I haven't thought much about that.”

“Well, my lad,” said the sexton, not unkindly, “I can't say your prospects look very bright. You should have good reasons for entering on such an undertaking. I—I don't think you are a bad boy. You don't look like a bad one,” he added, half to himself.

“I hope not, sir,” said Paul.

“I hope not, too. I was going to say that I wish I could help you to some kind of work. If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you.”

Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.

“What is your name?” inquired the sexton.

“Paul Prescott.”

“That sounds like a good name. I suppose you haven't got much money?”

“Only twelve cents.”

“Bless me! only twelve cents. Poor boy! you are indeed poor.”

“But I can work,” said Paul, spiritedly. “I ought to be able to earn my living.”

“Yes, yes, that's the way to feel. Heaven helps those who help themselves.”

When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of observing his companion's external appearance. He was an elderly man, with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain air of benevolence which softened their expression.

As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which is already known to the reader. The sexton said little except in the way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the conclusion he said, “Must tell Hester.”

At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not fashionable quarter of the city. One-half of this was occupied by the sexton. He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room. It was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece. They were by no means gems of art, but then, the sexton did not claim to be a connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the word.

“Sit here a moment,” said the sexton, pointing to a chair, “I'll go and speak to Hester.”

Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of “The Pilgrim's Progress,” which lay on the table.

In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting. It was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable gift of beauty. Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written PLAIN, in unmistakable characters. Yet if the outward features had been a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive than that of Hester Cameron. At the feet of the sexton's wife, for such she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her contentment. Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied. In default of children, puss