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 Store Boy by Jr. Horatio Alger (best sales books of all time .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «The Store Boy by Jr. Horatio Alger (best sales books of all time .TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
"Can you tell me anything about his last moments?" asked the widow, forgetting the character of her visitor, and only thinking of her husband.
"No, that isn't in my line. I ain't a doctor nor yet a minister. I say, did he leave any money?"
"Not that we have been able to find out. He owned this hone, but left no other property."
"That you know of," said the tramp, significantly.
"Do you know of any?" asked Mrs. Barclay eagerly. "How did you happen to know him?"
"I was the barkeeper in the hotel where he died. It was a small house, not one of your first-class hotels."
"My husband was always careful of his expenses. He did not spend money unnecessarily. With his prudence we all thought he must have some investments, but we could discover none."
"Have you got any money in the house?" asked the tramp, with seeming abruptness.
"Why do you ask?" returned the widow, alarmed. "Surely, you would not rob me?"
"No, I don't want to rob you. I want to sell you something."
"I don't care to buy. It takes all our money for necessary expenses."
"You don't ask what I have to sell."
"No, because I cannot buy it, whatever it may be."
"It is—a secret," said the tramp.
"A secret!" repeated Mrs. Barclay, bewildered.
"Yes, and a secret worth buying. Your husband wasn't so poor as you think. He left stock and papers representing three thousand dollars, and I am the only man who can put you in the way of getting it."
Mrs. Barclay was about to express her surprise, when a loud knock was head at the outer door.
"Who's that?" demanded the tramp quickly. "Is it the boy?"
"No, he would not knock."
"Then, let me get out of this," he said, leaping to his feet. "Isn't there a back door?"
"Yes, there it is."
He hurried to the door, unbolted it, and made his escape into the open beyond the house, just as the knock was repeated.
Confused by what she had heard, and the strange conduct of her visitor, the widow took the lamp and went to the door. To her surprise she found on opening it, two visitors, in one of whom she recognized Squire Davenport, already referred to as holding a mortgage on her house. The other was a short, dark-complexioned man, who looked like a mechanic.
"Excuse me the lateness of my call, Mrs. Barclay," said the squire smoothly. "I come on important business. This is Mr. Kirk, a cousin of my wife."
"Walk in, gentlemen," said Mrs. Barclay.
"This is night of surprises," she thought to herself.
CHAPTER IV — UNPLEASANT BUSINESS
It was now nine o'clock, rather a late hour for callers in the country, and Mrs. Barclay waited not without curiosity to hear the nature of the business which had brought her two visitors at that time.
"Take seats, gentlemen," she said, with the courtesy habitual to her.
Squire Davenport, who was disposed to consider that he had a right to the best of everything, seated himself in the rocking-chair, and signed his companion to a cane chair beside him.
"Mr. Kirk," he commenced, "is thinking of coming to Pentonville to live."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Barclay politely. Perhaps she would not have said this if she had known what was coming next.
"He is a carpenter," continued the squire, "and, as we have none in the village except old Mr. Wade, who is superannuated, I think he will find enough to do to keep him busy."
"I should think so," assented the widow.
"If he does not, I can employ him a part of the time on my land."
"What has all this to do with me?" thought Mrs. Barclay.
She soon learned.
"Of course he will need a house," pursued the squire, "and as his family is small, he thinks this house will just suit him."
"But I don't wish to sell," said the widow hurriedly. "I need this house for Ben and myself."
"You could doubtless find other accommodations. I dare say you could hire a couple of rooms from Elnathan Perkins."
"I wouldn't live in that old shell," said Mrs. Barclay rather indignantly, "and I am sure Ben wouldn't."
"I apprehend Benjamin will have no voice in the matter," said Squire Davenport stiffly. "He is only a boy."
"He is my main support, and my main adviser," said Mrs. Barclay, with spirit, "and I shall not take any step which is disagreeable to him."
Mr. Kirk looked disappointed, but the squire gave him an assuring look, as the widow could see.
"Perhaps you may change your mind," said the squire significantly. "I am under the impression that I hold a mortgage on this property."
"Yes, sir," assented Mrs. Barclay apprehensively.
"For the sum of seven hundred dollars, if I am not mistaken."
"Yes, sir."
"I shall have need of this money for other purposes, and will trouble you to take it up."
"I was to have three months' notice," said the widow, with a troubled look.
"I will give you three months' notice to-night," said the squire.
"I don't know where to raise the money," faltered Mrs. Barclay.
"Then you had better sell to my friend here. He will assume the mortgage and pay you three hundred dollars."
"But that will be only a thousand dollars for the place."
"A very fair price, in my opinion, Mrs. Barclay."
"I have always considered it worth fifteen hundred dollars," said the widow, very much disturbed.
"A fancy price, my dear madam; quite an absurd price, I assure you. What do you say, Kirk?"
"I quite agree with you, squire," said Kirk, in a strong, nasal tone. "But then, women don't know anything of business."
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