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 Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success by Jr. Horatio Alger (i like reading books .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success by Jr. Horatio Alger (i like reading books .TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“Am I to be treated in the same way, Mr. Carter?” asked Philip.
“Exactly.”
“Then, if you discharge me, I will fly for refuge to Mr. Pitkin.”
“That will be 'out of the frying-pan into the fire' with a vengeance.”
By this time they had reached the house. It was an elegant brown-stone front, and proved, on entrance, to be furnished in the most complete and elegant manner. Mr. Carter selected the second floor for his own use; a good-sized room on the third was assigned to Philip, and Mrs. Forbush was told to select such rooms for Julia and herself as she desired.
“This is much finer than Mrs. Pitkin's house,” said Philip.
“Yes, it is.”
“She will be jealous when she hears of it.”
“No doubt. That is precisely what I desire. It will be a fitting punishment for her treatment of her own cousin.”
It was arranged that on the morrow Mrs. Forbush and Julia should close their small house, leaving directions to sell the humble furniture at auction, while Mr. Carter and Philip would come up from the Astor House.
“What will the Pitkins say when they hear of it?” thought Philip. “I am afraid they will feel bad.”
CHAPTER XXVII. AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.
While these important changes were occurring in the lives of Philip Brent and the poor cousin, Mrs. Pitkin remained in blissful ignorance of what was going on. Alonzo had told her of his encounter with Phil on Broadway and the intelligence our hero gave him of his securing a place.
“You may rest assured the boy was lying, Lonny,” said Mrs. Pitkin. “Boys don't get places so easily, especially when they can't give a recommendation from their last employer.
“That's just what I thought, ma,” said Alonzo.
“Still Phil looked in good spirits, and he was as saucy as ever.”
“I can believe the last very well, Lonny. The boy is naturally impertinent. They were probably put on to deceive you.”
“But how does he get money to pay his way?” said Alonzo puzzled.
“As to that, he is probably selling papers or blacking boots in the lower part of the city. He could make enough to live on, and of course he wouldn't let you know what he was doing.”
“I hope you're right, ma. I'd give ever so much to catch him blacking boots in City Hall Park, or anywhere else; I'd give him a job. Wouldn't he feel mortified to be caught?”
“No doubt he would.”
“I've a great mind to go down town to-morrow and look about for him.”
“Very well, Lonny. You may to if you want to.”
Alonzo did go; but he looked in vain for Phil. The latter was employed in doing some writing and attending to some accounts for Mr. Carter, who had by this time found that his protege was thoroughly well qualified for such work.
So nearly a week passed. It so chanced that though Uncle Oliver had now been in New York a considerable time, not one of the Pitkins had met him or had reason to suspect that he was nearer than Florida.
One day, however, among Mrs. Pitkin's callers was Mrs. Vangriff, a fashionable acquaintance.
“Mr. Oliver Carter is your uncle, I believe?” said the visitor.
“Yes.”
“I met him on Broadway the other day. He was looking very well.”
“It must have been a fortnight since, then. Uncle Oliver is in Florida.”
“In Florida!” repeated Mrs. Vangriff, in surprise.
“When did he go?”
“When was it, Lonny?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, appealing to her son.
“It will be two weeks next Thursday.”
“There must be some mistake,” said the visitor.
“I saw Mr. Carter on Broadway, near Twentieth Street, day before yesterday.”
“Quite a mistake, I assure you, Mrs. Vangriff,” said Mrs. Pitkin, smiling. “It was some other person. You were deceived by a fancied resemblance.”
“It is you who are wrong, Mrs. Pitkin,” said Mrs. Vangriff, positively. “I am somewhat acquainted with Mr. Carter, and I stopped to speak with him.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, looking startled.
“Certainly, I am sure of it.”
“Did you call him by name?”
“Certainly; and even inquired after you. He answered that he believed you were well. I thought he was living with you?”
“So he was,” answered Mrs. Pitkin coolly as possible, considering the startling nature of the information she had received. “Probably Uncle Oliver returned sooner than he anticipated, and was merely passing through the city. He has important business interests at the West.”
“I don't think he was merely passing through the city, for a friend of mine saw him at the Fifth Avenue Theater last evening.”
Mrs. Pitkin actually turned as pale as her sallow complexion would admit.
“I am rather surprised to hear this, I admit,” she said. “Was he alone, do you know?”
“No; he had a lady and a boy with him.”
“Is it possible that Uncle Oliver has been married to some designing widow?” Mrs. Pitkin asked herself. “It is positively terrible!”
She did not dare to betray her agitation before Mrs. Vangriff, and sat on thorns till that lady saw fit to take leave. Then she turned to Alonzo and said, in a hollow voice:
“Lonny, you heard what that woman said?”
“You bet!”
“Do you think Uncle Oliver has gone and got married again?” she asked, in a hollow voice.
“I shouldn't wonder a mite, ma,” was the not consolitary reply.
“If so, what will become of us? My poor boy, I looked upon you and myself as likely to receive all of Uncle Oliver's handsome property. As it is——” and she almost broke down.
“Perhaps he's only engaged?” suggested Alonzo.
“To be sure!” said his mother, brightening up.
“If so, the affair may yet be broken
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