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
Hours passed, and still Phil found himself a prisoner. Each moment he became more anxious and troubled.
“How long will they keep me?” he asked himself. “They can't keep me here forever.”
About six o'clock the door was opened slightly, and a plate of bread and butter was thrust in, together with a glass of cold water. Who brought it up Phil did not know, for the person did not show himself or herself.
Phil ate and drank what was provided, not that he was particularly hungry, but he felt that he must keep up his strength.
“They don't mean to starve me, at any rate,” he reflected. “That is some consolation. While there is life, there is hope.”
A little over an hour passed. It became dark in Phil's prison, but he had no means of lighting the gas. There was a small bed in the room, and he made up his mind that he must sleep there.
All at once there was a confused noise and disturbance. He could not make out what it meant, till above all other sounds he heard the terrible cry of “Fire!”
“Fire! Where is it?” thought Phil.
It was not long before he made a terrible discovery. It was the very house in which he was confined! There was a trampling of feet and a chorus of screams. The smoke penetrated into the room.
“Heavens! Am I to be burned alive!” thought our poor hero.
He jumped up and down on the floor, pounded frantically on the door, and at last the door was broken open by a stalwart fireman, and Phil made his way out, half-suffocated.
Once in the street, he made his way as fast as possible homeward.
CHAPTER XXXIV. PHIL'S FRIENDS AND HIS ENEMIES.
Meanwhile, Phil's long absence had excited anxiety and alarm.
“What can have become of Philip?” said Mr. Carter when supper time came and he did not arrive.
“I can't think,” answered Mrs. Forbush. “He is generally very prompt.”
“That is what makes me feel anxious. I am afraid something must have happened to him.”
“Did you send him anywhere, Uncle Oliver?”
“Yes; he called, as usual, to get my check from Mr. Pitkin.”
“And he ought to have been here earlier?”
“Certainly. He wouldn't have to wait for that.”
“Philip is very careful. I can't think that he has met with an accident.”
“Even the most prudent and careful get into trouble sometimes.”
They were finally obliged to sit down to supper alone. None of the three enjoyed it. Not only Mr. Carter and Mrs. Forbush, but Julia was anxious and troubled.
“I didn't know I cared so much for the boy,” said Uncle Oliver. “He has endeared himself to me. I care nothing for the loss of the money if he will only return safe.”
It was about a quarter of eight when the door-bell rang, and the servant ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo.
After the usual greetings were interchanged, Mrs. Pitkin said, looking about her:
“Where is Philip?”
“We are very much concerned about him,” said Mr. Carter, his face showing his trouble. “He has not been home since morning. Did he call at your store, Pitkin?”
“Hasn't he been home since?” asked Pitkin, in a tone unpleasantly significant.
“No. At what time did he leave the store?”
“Hours since. I—I am not sure but I may be able to throw some light on his failure to return.”
“Do so, if you can!” said Uncle Oliver.
“In place of giving him a check, I gave the boy two hundred dollars in bills.”
“Well?”
“Don't you see? The temptation has proved too strong for him. I think, Uncle Oliver, you won't see him back in a hurry.”
“Do you mean to say the boy would steal?” demanded the old gentleman indignantly.
“I think it more than likely that he has appropriated the money.”
“I am sure he has not,” said Mrs. Forbush.
“And so am I,” chimed in Julia.
Mr. Pitkin shrugged his shoulders.
“So you think,” he answered; “but I don't agree with you.”
“Nor I!” said Mrs. Pitkin, nodding her head vigorously. “I never had any confidence in the boy. I don't mind telling you now that I have warned Alonzo not to get too intimate with him. You remember it, Lonny?”
“Yes'm,” responded Lonny.
“Then you think the boy capable of appropriating the money?” asked Mr. Carter quietly.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I don't!” said Uncle Oliver emphatically.
“You are very easily deceived,” said Mrs. Pitkin.
“Don't be too sure of that,” returned Mr. Carter, with a significant glance, that made his niece feel uncomfortable.
“I suspect you will have to admit it,” said Mr. Pitkin. “If, contrary to my anticipation, the boy returns, and brings the money with him, I will own myself mistaken.”
Just then the front door was heard to open; there was a sound of steps in the hall, and Phil came hurriedly into the room.
Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin exchanged looks of surprise and dismay; but Mrs. Forbush, her daughter and Uncle Oliver looked delighted.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE PITKINS RETIRE IN DISGUST.
“Where have you been, Philip?” asked Mr. Carter, breaking the silence. “We were getting anxious about you.”
“I have bad news for you, sir,” returned Phil, saying what stood first in his mind. “I have lost the two hundred dollars Mr. Pitkin paid me this morning.”
“So you
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