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. Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“How came you there?”
“Your son's boat capsized,” explained Mr. Morton; “and, as you will judge from my appearance, I jumped in after him. I should advise him to change his clothing, or he will be likely to take cold.”
Squire Haynes looked puzzled.
“I don't see how a large rowboat like his could capsize,” he said; “he must have been very careless.”
“It was a sailboat,” explained John, rather reluctantly.
“A sailboat! Whose?”
“Mine.”
“I don't understand at all.”
“I had a mast put in, and a sail rigged up, two or three days since,” said John, compelled at last to explain.
“Why did you do this without my permission?” demanded the squire angrily.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Morton quietly, “it will be better to postpone inquiries until your son has changed his clothes.”
Squire Haynes, though somewhat irritated by this interference, bethought himself that it would be churlish not to thank his son's preserver.
“I am indebted to you, sir,” he said, “for your agency in saving the life of this rash boy. I regret that you should have got wet.”
“I shall probably experience nothing more than temporary inconvenience.”
“You have been some months in the village, I believe, Mr. Morton. I trust you will call at an early day, and enable me to follow up the chance which has made us acquainted.”
“I seldom make calls,” said Mr. Morton, in a distant tone. “Yet,” added he, after a pause, “I may have occasion to accept your invitation some day. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” returned the squire, looking after him with an expression of perplexity.
“He boards at the Frosts', doesn't he, John?” asked Squire Haynes, turning to his son.
“Yes, sir.”
“There's something in his face that seems familiar,” mused the squire absently. “He reminds me of somebody, though I can't recall who.”
It was not long before the squire's memory was refreshed, and he obtained clearer information respecting the young man, and the errand which had brought him to Rossville. When that information came, it was so far from pleasing that he would willingly have postponed it indefinitely.
CHAPTER XXIX. MR. MORTON'S STORY
The planting-season was over. For a month Frank had worked industriously, in conjunction with Jacob Carter. His father had sent him directions so full and minute, that he was not often obliged to call upon Farmer Maynard for advice. The old farmer proved to be very kind and obliging. Jacob, too, was capable and faithful, so that the farm work went on as well probably as if Mr. Frost had been at home.
One evening toward the middle of June, Frank walked out into the fields with Mr. Morton. The corn and potatoes were looking finely. The garden vegetables were up, and to all appearance doing well. Frank surveyed the scene with a feeling of natural pride.
“Don't you think I would make a successful farmer, Mr. Morton?” he asked.
“Yes, Frank; and more than this, I think you will be likely to succeed in any other vocation you may select.”
“I am afraid you're flattering me, Mr. Morton.”
“Such is not my intention, Frank, but I like to award praise where I think it due. I have noticed in you a disposition to be faithful to whatever responsibility is imposed upon you, and wherever I see that I feel no hesitation in predicting a successful career.”
“Thank you,” said Frank, looking very much pleased with the compliment. “I try to be faithful. I feel that father has trusted me more than it is usual to trust boys of my age, and I want to show myself worthy of his confidence.”
“You are fortunate in having a father, Frank,” said the young man, with a shade of sadness in his voice. “My father died before I was of your age.”
“Do you remember him?” inquired Frank, with interest.
“I remember him well. He was always kind to me. I never remember to have received a harsh word from him. It is because he was so kind and indulgent to me that I feel the more incensed against a man who took advantage of his confidence to defraud him, or, rather, me, through him.”
“You have never mentioned this before, Mr. Morton.”
“No. I have left you all in ignorance of much of my history. This morning, if it will interest you, I propose to take you into my confidence.”
The eagerness with which Frank greeted this proposal showed that for him the story would have no lack of interest.
“Let us sit down under this tree,” said Henry Morton, pointing to a horse-chestnut, whose dense foliage promised a pleasant shelter from the sun's rays.
They threw themselves upon the grass, and he forthwith commenced his story.
“My father was born in Boston, and, growing up, engaged in mercantile pursuits. He was moderately successful, and finally accumulated fifty thousand dollars. He would not have stopped there, for he was at the time making money rapidly, but his health became precarious, and his physician required him absolutely to give up business. The seeds of consumption, which probably had been lurking for years in his system, had begun to show themselves unmistakably, and required immediate attention.
“By the advice of his physician he sailed for the West India Islands, hoping that the climate might have a beneficial effect upon him. At that time I was twelve years old, and an only child. My mother had died some years before, so that I was left quite alone in the world. I was sent for a time to Virginia, to my mother's brother, who possessed a large plantation and numerous slaves. Here I remained for six months. You will remember that Aunt Chloe recognized me at first sight. You will not be surprised at this when I tell you that she was my uncle's slave, and that as a boy I was indebted to her for many a little favor which she, being employed in the kitchen, was able to render me. As I told you at the time, my real name is not Morton. It will not be long before you understand the reason of my concealment.
“My father had a legal adviser, in whom he reposed a large measure of confidence, though events showed him to be quite unworthy of it. On leaving Boston he divided his property, which had been converted into money, into two equal portions. One part he took with him. The other he committed to the lawyer's charge. So much confidence had he in this man's honor, that he did not even require a receipt.
Comments (0)