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
“That fellow looks familiar to me,” thought Joe. “Wonder who he can be?”
He watched the stranger cross the street. Then the fellow happened to step on the icy slide and in a twinkling he went down on his back, his hat flying in one direction and a bundle he carried in another.
“Hurrah! Down goes the gent!” sang out a newsboy standing near.
“Come here an' I'll pick yer up!” said another street urchin.
“You rascals, you fixed this on purpose so I should fall!” cried the man, starting to get up.
“Can I help you?” questioned Joe, coming up, and then he gave a start, as he recognized the fellow.
It was Pat Malone, alias David Ball, from Montana!
CHAPTER XXII.
ABOUT SOME MINING SHARES.
“How do you do, Mr. Ball?” said our hero, coolly.
“Eh, what's that?” questioned Malone, in amazement. Then he recognized Joe, and his face fell.
“I have often wondered what became of you,” went on our hero. “Let me help you up.”
“I—that is—who are you, boy?” demanded Malone, getting to his feet and picking up his hat and his bundle.
“You ought to remember me. I am Joe Bodley. I used to work for Mr. Mallison, at Riverside.”
“Don't know the man or the place,” said Pat Malone, coolly. “You have made a mistake.”
“Then perhaps I had better call you Malone.”
“Not at all. My name is Fry—John Fry.”
“How often do you change your name, Mr. Fry.”
“Don't get impudent!”
“I am not impudent,—I am only asking a plain question.”
“I never change my name.”
At that moment Joe saw a policeman on the opposite side of the street and beckoned for the officer to come over.
“Hi! what's the meaning of this!” ejaculated Pat Malone.
“Officer, I want this man locked up,” said Joe, and caught the rascal by the arm, that he might not run away.
“What's the charge?” asked the bluecoat.
“He is wanted for swindling.”
“Boy, are you really crazy?”
“No, I am not.”
“Who are you?” asked the policeman, eyeing Joe sharply.
“My name is Joe Bodley. I work at the Grandon House. I will make a charge against this man, and I'll bring the man who was swindled, too.”
“That's fair talk,” said the policeman. “I guess you'll both have to go to the station with me.”
“I'm willing,” said Joe, promptly.
“I—I cannot go—I have a sick wife—I must get a doctor,” stammered Pat Malone. “Let me go. The boy is mistaken.”
“You'll have to go with me.”
“But my sick wife?”
“You can send for your friends and they can take care of her.”
“I have no friends—we are strangers in Philadelphia. I don't want to go.”
Pat Malone tried to move on, but the policeman and Joe detained him, and in the end he was marched off to the police station. Here Joe told what he knew and Malone's record was looked up in the Rogues' Gallery.
“You've got the right man, that's sure,” said the desk sergeant to our hero. “Now where can you find this Mr. Maurice Vane?”
“I have his address at the hotel,” answered our hero. “If I can go I'll get it and send Mr. Vane a telegram.”
“Bring the address here and we'll communicate with Mr. Vane.”
Our hero agreed, and inside of half an hour a message was sent to Maurice Vane, notifying him of the fact that Pat Malone had been caught. Mr. Vane had gone to New York on business, but came back to Philadelphia the next day.
When he saw that he was caught Pat Malone broke down utterly and made a full confession, telling in detail how the plot against Maurice Vane had been carried out.
“It was not my plan,” said he. “Gaff Caven got the mining shares and he arranged the whole thing.”
“Where did you get the shares—steal them?” demanded Maurice Vane, sharply.
“No, we didn't steal them. We bought them from an old miner for fifty dollars. The miner is dead now.”
“Can you prove this?”
“Yes.”
“Then do so.”
“Why?”
“I don't care to answer that question. But if you can prove to me that you and Caven came by those shares honestly I won't prosecute you, Malone.”
“I will prove it!” was the quick answer, and that very afternoon Pat Malone proved beyond a doubt that the shares had belonged to himself and Gaff Caven when they sold them to Maurice Vane.
“That is all I want of you,” said Maurice Vane. “I shan't appear against you, Malone.”
“Then those shares must be valuable after all?” queried the swindler.
“Perhaps they are. I am having them looked up. I am glad of this opportunity of proving that they are now my absolute property.”
“If Caven and I sold you good stocks we ought to be kicked full of holes,” grumbled Malone.
“That was your lookout, not mine,” returned Maurice Vane. “Mind, I don't say the shares are valuable. But they may be, and if so I shall be satisfied with my bargain.”
“Humph! where do I come in?”
“You don't come in at all—and you don't deserve to.”
“If I didn't swindle you, you can't have me held for swindling.”
“I don't intend to have you held. You can go for all I care.”
Maurice Vane explained the situation to the police
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