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 Cash Boy by Jr. Horatio Alger (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «The Cash Boy by Jr. Horatio Alger (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
Frank did not learn who it was that had arrived. Listening intently, he thought he heard some sounds in the next room. Opening the closet door, and applying his eye to the aperture, he saw two men seated in the room, one of whom was the man who had brought him there.
He applied his ear to the opening, and heard the following conversation:
“I hear you’ve brought a boy here, Nathan,” said the other, who was a stout, low-browed man, with an evil look.
“Yes,” said Graves, with a smile; “I am going to board him here a while.”
“What’s it all about? What are you going to gain by it?”
“I’ll tell you all I know. I’ve known something of the family for a long time. John Wade employed me long ago. The old millionaire had a son who went abroad and died there. His cousin, John Wade, brought home his son—a mere baby—the old man’s grandson, of course, and sole heir, or likely to be, to the old man’s wealth, if he had lived. In that case, John Wade would have been left out in the cold, or put off with a small bequest.”
“Yes. Did the boy live?”
“No; he died, very conveniently for John Wade, and thus removed the only obstacle from his path.”
“Very convenient. Do you think there was any foul play?”
“There may have been.”
“But I should think the old man would have suspected.”
“He was away at the time. When he returned to the city, he heard from his nephew that the boy was dead. It was a great blow to him, of course. Now, I’ll tell you what,” said Graves, sinking his voice so that Frank found it difficult to hear, “I’ll tell you what I’ve thought at times.”
“I think the grandson may have been spirited off somewhere. Nothing more easy, you know. Murder is a risky operation, and John Wade is respectable, and wouldn’t want to run the risk of a halter.”
“You may be right. You don’t connect this story of yours with the boy you’ve brought here, do you?”
“I do,” answered Graves, emphatically. “I shouldn’t be surprised if this was the very boy!”
“What makes you think so?”
“First, because there’s some resemblance between the boy and the old man’s son, as I remember him. Next, it would explain John Wade’s anxiety to get rid of him. It’s my belief that John Wade has recognized in this boy the baby he got rid of fourteen years ago, and is afraid his uncle will make the same discovery.”
Frank left the crevice through which he had received so much information in a whirl of new and bewildering thoughts.
“Was it possible,” he asked himself, “that he could be the grandson of Mr. Wharton, his kind benefactor?”
CHAPTER XX THE ESCAPE
It was eight o’clock the next morning before Frank’s breakfast was brought to him.
“I am sorry you have had to wait,” the housekeeper said, as she appeared at the door with a cup of coffee and a plate of beefsteak and toast, “I couldn’t come up before.”
“Have the men gone away?” said Frank.
“Yes.”
“Then I have something to tell you. I learned something about myself last night. I was in the closet, and heard the man who brought me here talking to another person. May I tell you the story?”
“If you think it will do any good,” said the housekeeper, “but I can’t help you if that is what you want.”
He told the whole story. As he proceeded, the housekeeper betrayed increased, almost eager interest, and from time to time asked him questions in particular as to the personal appearance of John Wade. When Frank had described him as well as he could, she said, in an excited manner:
“Yes, it is—it must be the same man.”
“The same man!” repeated our hero, in surprise.
“Do you know anything about him?”
“I know that he is a wicked man. I am afraid that I have helped him carry out his wicked plan, but I did not know it at the time, or I never would have given my consent.”
“I don’t understand you,” said our hero, puzzled.
“Will you tell me what you mean?”
“Fourteen years ago I was very poor—poor and sick besides. My husband had died, leaving me nothing but the care of a young infant, whom it was necessary for me to support besides myself. Enfeebled by sickness, I was able to earn but little, but we lived in a wretched room in a crowded tenement house. My infant boy was taken sick and died. As I sat sorrowfully beside the bed on which he lay dead, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and admitted a man whom I afterward learned to be John Wade. He very soon explained his errand. He agreed to take my poor boy, and pay all the expenses of his burial in Greenwood Cemetery, provided I would not object to any of his arrangements. He was willing besides to pay me two hundred dollars for the relief of my necessities. Though I was almost beside myself with grief for my child’s loss, and though this was a very favorable proposal, I hesitated. I could not understand why a stranger should make me such an offer. I asked him the reason.”
“‘You ask too much,’ he answered, appearing annoyed. ‘I have made you a fair offer. Will you accept it, or will you leave your child to have a pauper’s funeral?’
“That consideration decided me. For my child’s sake I agreed to his proposal, and forebore to question him further. He provided a handsome rosewood casket for my dear child, but upon the silver plate was inscribed a name that was strange to me—the name of Francis Wharton.”
“Francis Wharton!” exclaimed Frank.
“I was too weak and sorrowful to make opposition, and my baby was buried as Francis Wharton. Not only this, but a monument is erected over him at Greenwood, which bears this name.”
She proceeded after a pause:
“I did not then understand his object. Your story makes it clear. I think that you are that Francis Wharton, under whose name my boy was buried.”
“How strange!” said Frank, thoughtfully. “I cannot realize it. But how did you know the name of the man who called upon you?”
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