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
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The wind was now rising, and it soon blew so furiously that the two boys were forced to seek the shelter of the woodshed, since they did not deem it wise to enter the lodge so long as the two men were inside. They waited in the shed for fully half an hour, when, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm let up and the sun began to peep forth from between the scattering clouds.
“Now we can go home if we wish,” said Joe. “But for my part, I'd like to stay and see what those men do, and where they go to.”
“Yes, let us stay by all means,” answered the rich youth.
They waited a few minutes longer and then Ned suggested that they look into the window of the lodge once more. The hermit's boy was willing, and they approached the larger building with caution.
Much to their astonishment the two strangers had disappeared.
“Hullo! what do you make of that?” cried Ned, in amazement.
“Perhaps they are in one of the other rooms,” suggested Joe.
At the risk of being caught, they entered the lodge and looked into one room after another. Every apartment was vacant, and they now saw that the fire in the fireplace had been stamped out.
“They must have left while we were in the woodshed,” said Ned.
“Maybe they are out on the lake,” answered the hermit's boy, and he ran down to the water's edge, followed by his companion. But though they looked in every direction, not a craft of any kind was to be seen.
“Joe, they didn't take to the water, consequently they must have left by one of the mountain paths.”
“That is true, and if they did they'll have no nice time in getting through. All the bushes are sopping wet, and the mud is very slippery in places.”
They walked to the rear of the lodge and soon found the footprints of the two strangers. They led through the bushes and were lost at a small brook that ran into the lake.
“There is no use of our trying to follow this any further,” said Joe. “You'll get your clothing covered with water and mud.”
“I don't intend to follow,” answered Ned. “Just the same, I should like to know more about those fellows.”
“I wish I had seen their faces.”
“Yes, it's a pity we didn't get a better look at them. But I'd know their voices.”
By the time they gave up the hunt the sun was shining brightly. Both walked to where the boat had been left, and Joe turned the craft over so that the water might run out. Then he mopped off the seats as best he could.
Ned wanted to go directly home, and he and Joe rowed the craft in the direction of Riverside. As they passed along the lake shore the hermit's boy noted that several trees had been struck by lightning.
“I'm glad the lightning didn't strike the lodge while we were there,” said he.
“It was certainly a severe storm while it lasted, Joe. By the way, shall I say anything about those two men?”
“Perhaps it won't do any harm to tell your father, Ned.”
“Very well, I'll do it.”
Soon Riverside was reached, and having paid for the fish and the outing, Ned Talmadge walked in the direction of his residence. Joe shoved off from the tiny dock and struck out for his home. He did not dream of the calamity that awaited him there.
CHAPTER III.
A HOME IN RUINS.
As Joe rowed toward his home on the mountain side, a good mile from Riverside, he could not help but think of the two mysterious men and of what they had said.
“They were certainly rascals,” he mused. “And from their talk they must have come from New York and are now going to try some game in Philadelphia.”
The hermit's boy was tired out by the day's outing, yet he pulled a fairly quick stroke and it was not long before he reached the dock at which he and Hiram Bodley were in the habit of leaving their boat. He cleaned the craft out, hid the oars in the usual place, and then, with his fishing lines in one hand and a good sized fish in the other, started up the trail leading to the place that he called home.
“What a place to come to, alongside of the one Ned lives in,” he said to himself. “I suppose the Talmadges think this is a regular hovel. I wish we could afford something better,—or at least live in town. It's lonesome here with nobody but old Uncle Hiram around.”
As Joe neared the cabin something seemed to come over him and, for some reason he could not understand, he felt very much depressed in spirits. He quickened his pace, until a turn of the trail brought the homestead into view.
A cry of alarm broke from his lips and with good reason. The little shelter had stood close to a large hemlock tree. The lightning had struck the tree, causing it to topple ever. In falling, it had landed fairly and squarely upon the cabin, smashing it completely. One corner of the cabin was in ashes, but the heavy rain had probably extinguished the conflagration.
“Uncle Hiram!” cried the boy, as soon as he recovered from his amazement. “Uncle Hiram, where are you?”
There was no answer to this call and for the moment Joe's heart seemed to stop beating. Was the old hermit under that pile of ruins? If so it was more than likely he was dead.
Dropping his fish and his lines, the youth sprang to the front of the cabin. The door had fallen to the ground and before him was a mass of wreckage with a small hollow near the bottom. He dropped on his knees and peered inside.
“Uncle Hiram!” he called again.
There was no answer, and he listened with bated breath. Then he fancied he heard a groan, coming from the rear of what was left of the cabin. He ran around to that point and pulled aside some boards and a broken window sash.
“Uncle Hiram, are you here?”
“Joe!” came in a low voice, full of pain. The man tried to say more but could not.
Hauling aside some more boards, Joe now beheld the hermit, lying flat on his back, with a heavy beam resting on his chest. He was also suffering from a cut on the
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