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
“But what advantage am I to get out of it? I am to furnish all the capital and pay all expenses, as far as I can understand. Generally, both partners put in something.”
“I put in my revolver,” said Henry.
“One revolver won't do for us both.”
“Oh, well, you can buy one. Come, what do you say?” asked Henry eagerly.
“Let me ask you a few questions first. Where does your father live?”
“In New York.”
“What is his business?”
“He is a broker in Wall Street.”
“I suppose he is rich?”
“Oh, he's got plenty of money, I expect! We live in a nice house on Madison Avenue. That's one of the best streets, I suppose you know!”
“I never was in New York. Is your mother living?”
“No,” answered Henry. “She died three years ago.”
If his mother had been living, probably the boy would never have made such an escapade, but his father, being engrossed by business cares, was able to give very little attention to his son, and this accounts in part for the folly of which he had been guilty.
“Have you got any brothers or sisters?” he asked.
“I have one sister, about three years younger than I. Her name is Jennie.”
“I wish I were as well off as you,” said Philip.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean I wish I had a father and sister.”
“Haven't you?”
“My father is dead,” said Philip gravely, “and I never had a sister.”
“Oh, well, I don't know as I'm so lucky,” said Henry. “Sisters are a bother. They want you to go round with them, and the old man is always finding fault.”
Philip's relations with his father had always been so affectionate that he could not understand how Henry could talk in such a way of his.
“I don't know what makes you ask me such a lot of questions,” said Henry, showing impatience. “Come, what do you say to my offer?”
“About forming a partnership?”
“Yes.”
“I'd rather not—in that way.”
“In what way?”
“I mean for the purpose of going out West to kill Indians.”
“You've no idea what fun it would be,” said Henry, disappointed.
“No, I suppose not,” said Philip, smiling.
“Then I suppose I shall have to give it up,” said Henry.
“Now I have a proposal to make to you,” said Philip.
“What is it?”
“If you agree to go home, I'll pay your expenses and go along with you. I've never been to New York, and I'd like to have some one with me that could show me round the city.”
“I can do that,” said Henry. “I know the way all about.”
“Then will you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Then come along, and we'll stop at the first convenient place and get some supper.”
CHAPTER XLI. AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOODS.
“I shall do a good thing if I induce Henry to go home,” thought Philip. “That is rather a queer idea of his about wanting to kill Indians. It seems to me as much murder to kill an Indian as any one else.”
He only thought this, but did not express it, as he did not care to get into a discussion with his new acquaintance, lest the latter should recall his consent to go home.
“I say, Philip,” said Henry, who had now learned our hero's name, “we ain't in any hurry to go to New York, are we?”
“I thought we might take a train to-morrow morning, and go straight through.”
“But I'd rather take it easy, and travel through the country, and have adventures.”
“But you forget that your father will be anxious about you.”
“Yes, I suppose he will.”
“I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll write a letter to your father, and let him know that you are safe with me, I'll do as you say.”
“All right,” said Henry, in a tone of satisfaction; “I'll do it.”
“Father'll pay you all you have to spend for me,” Henry added, after a moment's pause.
“Very well; then I will be your banker.”
Philip was not foolish enough to protest that he did not care to be repaid. All he had in the world was a little less than a hundred dollars, and when that was gone he was not absolutely sure of making any more at once, though he felt tolerably confident that he could.
“Suppose you let me have ten dollars now,” suggested Henry.
“I think I would rather keep the money and pay the bills,” said Philip quietly.
He was not sure but that Henry, if he had a supply of money in his pockets, would reconsider his promise to go home and take French leave.
Of course, it would be extremely foolish, but his present expedition did not indicate the possession of much wisdom.
“I don't see what difference it makes,” said Henry, looking dissatisfied.
“I won't argue the point,” answered Philip good-naturedly.
“I wish I was in New York, near a good restaurant,” said Henry, after a pause.
“Oh. I forgot! You are hungry.”
“Awfully. I don't believe there's a hotel within two or three miles. I don't think I can hold out to walk much farther.”
A few rods farther on was a farmhouse standing back from the road, old-fashioned-looking, but of comfortable aspect.
A young girl appeared at the side door and rang a noisy bell with great vigor.
“They're going to have supper,” said Henry wistfully. “I wish it was a hotel!”
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