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
Book online «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
It did not take long to load the pistols, with powder only. Great care was taken so that Major Sampson should not suspect the truth.
“Major,” said Felix, in a trembling voice. “If I—if anything serious happens to me tell Clara that—that I died like a man.”
“Noble boy! I will! I will!” answered the military man.
“When I give the word, gentlemen, you will both fire!” said one of the seconds.
“Very well,” answered both of the duelists.
“Ready? One—two—three—fire!”
Both pistols were simultaneously discharged. When the smoke cleared away it was ascertained that both parties were unharmed.
“Gentlemen, are you satisfied?” asked the seconds.
“I am,” answered Ulmer Montgomery, quickly.
“Then I shall be,” put in Felix Gussing. “And now that this affair is at an end, Mr. Montgomery will you shake hands?” he added.
“With pleasure, Mr. Gussing!” was the reply. “I must say in all frankness I am sorry we quarrelled in the first place. Perhaps I was wrong about the sword.”
“And perhaps I was wrong.”
“Both of you were wrong,” put in the major. “I hunted up the letter that came with the blade. It is an old Spanish weapon. Let us all call the affair off, and Mr. Montgomery shall come to Clara's wedding to Mr. Gussing.”
“With all my heart,” cried Montgomery, and there the little plot came to a finish.
CHAPTER XX.
ATTACKED IN THE DARK.
“Joe, the plot worked to perfection!” said Felix Gussing, on the day following. “I have to thank you, and here are twenty dollars for your trouble.”
“I don't want a cent, Mr. Gussing,” answered our hero. “I did it only out of friendliness to you. I hope you have no further trouble in your courtship.”
“Oh, that was all settled last night. Clara and I are to be married next week. We are going to send out the cards to-day. You see,” went on the young man in a lower tone. “I don't want to give the major a chance to change his mind, or to suspect that that duel was not just what it ought to have been.”
“Does he suspect anything as yet?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then you are wise to have the wedding as quickly as possible.”
“When we are married I am going to let Clara into the secret. I know she'll enjoy it as much as anybody.”
“Well, you had better warn her to keep mum before her father. He looks as if he could get pretty angry if he wanted to.”
“As you won't take any money for this, Joe, wouldn't you like to come to the wedding?”
“I'm afraid it will be too high-toned for me, Mr. Gussing.”
“No, it is to be a plain, homelike affair—Clara wants it that way. The major has some country cousins who will be there, and they are very plain folks.”
“Then I'll come—if Miss Sampson wishes it.”
So it was arranged that Joe should attend the wedding, and as he was in need of a new Sunday suit he purchased it at once, so that he could use it at the wedding.
“You're in luck, Joe,” remarked Frank, when he heard the news. “And that suit looks very well on you.”
In some manner it leaked out among the boys that Joe was going to the wedding, and two days before the affair came off Jack Sagger learned of it. He immediately consulted with some of his cronies, and it was unanimously resolved to watch for Joe after the wedding was over and chastise him severely for the manner in which he had treated “the gang.”
“We'll fix him,” said Sagger, suggestively.
At the proper time Joe took a car to the Sampson home and was there introduced to a dozen or more people. The wedding proved an enjoyable affair and the elegant supper that was served was one long to be remembered.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when Joe started for the hotel again. He had thought to take a car, but afterwards concluded to walk.
“A walk will do me good—after such a hearty supper,” he told himself. “If I ride home I won't be able to sleep.”
At the corner the Sagger crowd was waiting for him. One gave a low whistle, and all slunk out of sight until Joe had passed.
Several blocks had been covered when our hero came to a spot where several new buildings were in the course of construction. It was rather dark and the street lights cast long and uncertain shadows along the walk.
Joe had just started to cross a wooden bridge over an excavation when he heard a rush behind him. Before he could turn he was given a violent shove.
“Push him into de cellar hole!” came, in Jack Sagger's voice.
“Stop!” cried Joe, and it must be admitted that he was greatly alarmed. But no attention was paid to his words, and over the side of the bridge he went, to fall a distance of a dozen feet and land in a pile of dirt, with one lower limb in a puddle of dirty water.
“Down he goes!” he heard, in the voice of Nick Sammel. “Wonder how he likes it?”
“You're a mean, low crowd!” cried Joe, as he stood up. He was covered with dirt and the cold water felt anything but agreeable on such a frosty night as it chanced to be.
“Don't you dare to crawl out of dat!” said Sagger. “If yer do we'll pitch yer in ag'in, won't we, fellers?”
“Sure we will!” was the cry.
“De next time we'll dump him in on his head!”
Growing somewhat accustomed to the semi-darkness, Joe counted seven of his tormentors, all standing on the edge of the cellar hole into which he had so unceremoniously been thrown. Several of the youths had heavy sticks.
“I suppose I'll have to retreat,” he reasoned “I can't fight seven of them.”
He turned to the rear of the cellar hole and felt his way along into the deepest shadows. Presently he reached a partly finished building and crawled up some planks leading
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