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 Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“I guess I could wrastle with him,” he thought. “He looks rather spindlin', but then he's bigger than I am, and he might lick me, after all.”
I desire to say emphatically that Sam was strictly honest, and never for a moment thought of appropriating any of the money to his own use. He felt that as a detective he had been successful, and this made him feel proud and happy.
“I may as well go home,” he said. “If he's stolen this money from Mr. Perry, I'll come in for a reward.”
Sam did not hurry, however. He was not now in pursuit of any one, and could afford to loiter and recover his breath.
Meanwhile, Professor Riccabocca, in happy unconsciousness of his loss, continued his run to the station. He arrived there breathless, and hurried to the ticket-office.
“Give me a ticket to Chambersburg,” he said.
“All right, sir. Ninety cents.”
If Riccabocca had been compelled to take out his wallet, he would at once have discovered his loss, and the ticket would not have been bought. But he had a two-dollar bill in his vest, and it was out of this that he paid for the ticket to Chambersburg. Armed with the ticket, he waited anxiously for the train. He had five minutes to wait—five anxious moments in which his flight might be discovered. He paced the platform, looking out anxiously for the train.
At length he heard the welcome sound of the approaching locomotive. The train came to a stop, and among the first to enter it was the eminent elocutionist. He took a seat beside the window looking out toward the village. What did he see that brought such an anxious look in his face?
A buggy was approaching the depot at breakneck speed. It contained Mr. Gates, the landlord, and the young musician. Mr. Gates was lashing the horse, and evidently was exceedingly anxious to arrive at the depot before the train started.
Beads of perspiration stood on the anxious brow of the professor. His heart was filled with panic terror.
“The girl must have told them of my flight,” he said to himself. “Oh, why didn't I think to give her a quarter to keep her lips closed? Why doesn't the train start?”
The buggy was only about ten rods away. It looked as if Philip and his companion would be able to intercept the fugitive.
Just then the scream of the locomotive was heard. The train began to move. Professor Riccabocca gave a sigh of relief.
“I shall escape them after all,” he said triumphantly, to himself.
He opened the window, and, with laughing face, nodded to his pursuers.
“We've lost him!” said Philip, in a tone of disappointment. “What can we do?”
“Find out where he is going, and telegraph to have him stopped,” said Mr. Gates. “That will put a spoke in his wheel.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LOST WALLET.
Mr. Gates was acquainted with the depot-master, and lost no time in seeking him.
“Too late for the train?” asked the latter, who observed in the landlord evidences of haste.
“Not for the train, but for one of the passengers by the train,” responded the landlord. “Did you take notice of a man dressed in a shabby suit of black, wearing a soft hat and having very long black hair?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he going?” asked Mr. Gates eagerly.
“He bought a ticket for Chambersburg.”
“Ha! Well, I want you to telegraph for me to Chambersburg.”
The station-master was also the telegraph-operator, as it chanced.
“Certainly. Just write out your message and I will send it at once.”
Mr. Gates telegraphed to a deputy sheriff at Chambersburg to be at the depot on arrival of the train, and to arrest and detain the professor till he could communicate further with him.
“Now,” said he, turning to Philip, “I think we shall be able to stop the flight of your friend.”
“Don't call him my friend,” said Philip. “He is anything but a friend.”
“You are right there. Well, I will amend and call him your partner. Now, Mr. de Gray—”
“My name is Gray—not de Gray. The professor put in the 'de' because he thought it would sound foreign.”
“I presume you have as much right to the name as he has to the title of professor,” said Gates.
“I don't doubt it,” returned Philip, smiling.
“Well, as I was about to say, we may as well go back to the hotel, and await the course of events. I think there is some chance of your getting your money back.”
When they reached the hotel, they found a surprise in store for them.
Sam had carried the professor's wallet to Mr. Perry, and been told by them to wait and hand it in person to Philip and his friend, Mr. Gates, who were then at the depot.
When they arrived, Sam was waiting on the stoop, wallet in hand.
“What have you got there, Sam?” asked Mr. Gates, who often came to Knoxville, and knew the boy. “It's the wallet of that man you were after,” said Sam.
“How did you get it?” asked Philip eagerly.
“I chased him 'cross lots,” said Sam.
“You didn't knock him over and take the wallet from him, did you, Sam?” asked Mr. Gates.
“Not so bad as that,” answered Sam, grinning. “You see, he tripped over a big rock, and came down on his hands and knees. The wallet jumped out of his pocket, but he didn't see it. I picked it up and brought it home.”
“Didn't he know you were chasing him?”
“I guess not. He never looked back.”
“What made you think of running after him?”
“One of the girls told me to. The way he ran out of the back door made her think there was something wrong.”
“Suppose he had turned round?”
“I guess I could have wrastled with him,” said Sam, to the amusement of those who heard him.
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