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
“I can't tell you, Ned. The papers are too badly burnt.”
“Let me look at them.”
Our hero was willing, and the two boys spent an hour in trying to decipher the documents.
“It is certainly a puzzle,” said the rich boy. “Why not let my father look over them?”
Joe was willing, and after wrapping up the documents with care, and pocketing the hundred dollars in gold, Joe led the way back to the boat. The wreck of the blue box was left behind, for it was rusty and worthless.
That evening Mr. Talmadge, Ned and Joe spent two hours in going over the documents and trying to supply the parts which had been rotted or burnt away. They were only successful in part.
“I do not wish to say much about this, Joe,” said Ned's father. “But it would seem from these papers that you are the son of one William A. Bodley, who at one time owned a farm in Iowa, in the township of Millville. Did you ever hear Hiram Bodley speak of this?”
“Never.”
“We might write to the authorities at Millville and see what they have to say.”
“I wish you'd do it. They may pay more attention to you than to a boy.”
“I'll write at once.”
“Father, hadn't Joe better stay here until we get a reply?” put in Ned.
“He may do so and welcome,” answered Mr. Talmadge.
The letter was dispatched the next day and our hero waited anxiously for the reply. It came five days later and was as follows:
“Your letter of inquiry received. There was a William A. Bodley in this township twelve years ago. He sold his farm to a man named Augustus Greggs and then disappeared. Before he sold out he lost his wife and several children by sickness. Nobody here seems to know what became of him.
“Joseph Korn.”
“That is short and to the point,” said Mr. Talmadge, “but it is not satisfying. It does not state if this William A. Bodley had any relatives so far as known.”
“I guess the authorities did not want to bother about the matter,” said Joe.
“Why don't you visit Millville, Joe?” questioned Ned.
“I was thinking I could do that. It wouldn't cost a fortune, and I've got that hundred dollars in gold to fall back on, besides my regular savings.”
“You might learn something to your advantage,” came from Mr. Talmadge. “I think it would be money well spent.”
“Father, can't I go with Joe?” asked Ned.
“No, Ned, you must attend to your school duties.”
“Then, Joe, you must send me full particulars by mail,” said the rich boy.
“Of course I'll do that, Ned,” replied our hero.
It was arranged that Joe should leave Riverside on Monday and Ned went to the depot to see him off.
“I wish you the best of luck, Joe!” called out Ned, as the train left the station. “I don't know of a fellow who deserves better luck than you do!”
CHAPTER XXV.
JOE VISITS CHICAGO.
Joe found Millville a sleepy town of three or four hundred inhabitants. There was one main street containing two blocks of stores, a blacksmith shop, a creamery and two churches.
When he stepped off the train our hero was eyed sharply by the loungers about the platform.
“Anything I can' do for you?” asked one of the men, the driver of the local stage.
“Will you tell me where Mr. Joseph Korn lives?”
“Joe lives up in the brown house yonder. But he ain't home now. He's doing a job of carpentering.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“Up to the Widow Fallow's place. Take you there for ten cents.”
“Very well,” and our hero jumped into the rickety turnout which went by the name of the Millville stage.
The drive was not a long one and soon they came to a halt in front of a residence where a man wearing a carpenter's apron was mending a broken-down porch.
“There's Joe,” said the stage driver, laconically.
The man looked up in wonder when Joe approached him. He dropped his hammer and stood with his arms on his hips.
“This is Mr. Joseph Korn, I believe?”
“That's me, young man.”
“I am Joe Bodley. You wrote to Mr. Talmadge, of Riverside, a few days ago. I came on to find out what I could about a Mr. William A. Bodley who used to live here.”
“Oh, yes! Well, young man, I can't tell you much more 'n I did in that letter. Bodley sold out, house, goods and everything, and left for parts unknown.”
“Did he have any relatives around here?”
“Not when he left. He had a wife and three children—a girl and two boys—but they died.”
“Did you ever hear of any relatives coming to see him—a man named Hiram Bodley?”
“Not me—but Augustus Greggs—who bought his farm—might know about it.”
“I'll take you to the Greggs' farm for ten cents,” put in the stage driver.
Again a bargain was struck, and a drive of ten minutes brought them to the farm, located on the outskirts of Millville. They found the farm owner at work by his wood pile, sawing wood. He was a pleasant appearing individual.
“Come into the house,” he said putting down his saw. “I'm glad to see you,” and when our hero had entered the little farmhouse he was introduced to Mrs. Greggs and two grown-up sons, all of whom made him feel thoroughly at home.
“To tell the truth,” said Mr. Greggs, “I did not know William Bodley very well. I came here looking for a farm and heard this was for sale, and struck a bargain with him.”
“Was he alone at that time?” questioned Joe.
“He was, and his trouble seemed to have made him a bit queer—not but what
Comments (0)