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. Facing the World by Jr. Horatio Alger (ebook reader below 3000 .txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Facing the World by Jr. Horatio Alger (ebook reader below 3000 .txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“I hope the boy won’t hear me,” he said to himself.
He paused an instant, then softly opened the door of Harry’s chamber.
All seemed satisfactory. Our hero was lying quietly in bed, apparently in a peaceful sleep. Ordinarily he would have been fast asleep by this time, but the expectation of a visit from his guardian had kept him awake beyond his usual time. He had heard Mr. Fox cough, and so, even before the door opened, he had warning of the visit.
Harry was not a nervous boy, and had such command of himself, that, even when Mr. Fox bent over, and, by the light of the candle, examined his face, he never stirred nor winked, though he very much wanted to laugh.
“All is safe! The boy is sound asleep,” whispered Mr. Fox to himself.
He set the candle on the floor, and then taking up Harry’s pantaloons, thrust his hand into the pocket.
The very first pocket contained the pocketbook which our hero had put there. Mr. Fox would have opened and examined the contents on the spot, but he heard a cough from the bed, and, quickly put the pocketbook into his own pocket, apprehending that his ward might wake up, and taking up the candle, noiselessly withdrew from the chamber.
After he had fairly gone, Harry had a quiet laugh to himself.
Mr. Fox returned in triumph to his own chamber, where his wife was anxiously waiting for him.
“Have you got it, Mr. F.,” she asked, eagerly.
“Got it? Why shouldn’t I get it?”
“Well, open it, and let us see what it contains.”
This Mr. Fox proceeded to do. But no sooner did his glance rest on its contents than his lower jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide in perplexity.
“Well, what are you staring at like a fool?” demanded his wife, who was not so situated that she could see the contents of the pocketbook.
“Look at this, Mrs. F.,” said her husband, in a hollow voice. “There’s no money here—only this piece of newspaper.”
“Well, well, of all the fools I ever saw you are about the most stupid!” ejaculated Mrs. Fox. “What you undertake you generally carry through, do you? After all the fuss you’ve brought down a pocketbook stuffed with waste paper.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Fox, his face assuming a look of perplexity. “Surely the boy told the truth when he said he had fifteen dollars.”
“Of course! Joel saw the money—a roll of bills, and saw him take them out of his pocketbook. He must have taken them out. Did you search all his pockets?”
“No; when I found the pocketbook I thought I was all right.”
“Just like a man!” retorted Mrs. Fox. “I’ll go up myself, and see if I can’t manage better than you.”
“Then you’d better take this wallet, and put it back in his pocket.”
“Give it to me, then.”
With a firm step Mrs. Fox took the candle, and took her turn in going up the attic stairs.
CHAPTER IV MRS. FOX COMES TO GRIEF
Harry confidently anticipated a second visit to his chamber.
He was rather surprised when the door was again opened, and Mrs. Fox entered. Opening his eyes a little way, he saw her, after a brief glance at the bed, go to the chair containing his pantaloons, and put back the deceptive wallet. She was about to prosecute a further search, when Harry decided that matters had gone far enough. He did not fancy their night visits, and meant to stop them if he could.
Chance favored his design. A puff of air from the door, which Mrs. Fox had left wide open, extinguished the candle, and left the room, as there was no moon, in profound darkness.
“Drat the candle!” he heard Mrs. Fox say.
Then a mischievous idea came to Harry. In his native village lived a man who had passed a considerable time in the wild region beyond the Missouri River, and had mingled familiarly with the Indians. From him Harry had learned how to imitate the Indian warwhoop.
“I’ll scare the old lady,” thought Harry, smiling to himself.
Immediately there rang out from the bed, in the darkness and silence, a terrific warwhoop, given in Harry’s most effective style.
Mrs. Fox was not a nervous woman ordinarily, but she was undeniably frightened at the unexpected sound.
“Heavens and earth, what’s that?” she ejaculated, and dropping our hero’s clothes, retreated in disorder, almost stumbling downstairs in her precipitate flight. Dashing into the chamber where Mr. Fox was waiting for her, she sank into a chair, gasping for breath.
“Good gracious, Maria, what’s the matter?” exclaimed her husband, gazing at her in astonishment.
“I—don’t—know,” she gasped.
“You look as if you had seen a ghost.”
“I haven’t seen anything,” said his wife, recovering her breath, “but I’ve heard something terrible. It’s my belief the attic is haunted. I went upstairs and put back the wallet, and was looking to see if I could find another, when all at once the candle went out, and a terrible noise shook the chamber.”
“What was it like, Mrs. F.?”
“I can’t tell you. I never heard anything like it before. All I know is, I wouldn’t go up there again tonight for anything.”
“Did the boy sleep through it all?”
“How can I tell? The candle was out.”
“Perhaps he blew it out.”
“Perhaps you’re a fool Mr. Fox. It wasn’t near the bed, and he was fast asleep, for I looked at him. It made me think of—of Peter,” and Mrs. Fox shuddered.
Peter had been taken from the poorhouse three years ago by Mr. Fox, and apprenticed to him by the town authorities. According to popular report he had been cruelly treated and insufficiently fed, until he was taken sick and had died in the very bedroom where Mrs. Fox had been so frightened. This may explain how it was that a woman so strong-minded had had her nerves so easily upset.
“We won’t talk of Peter,” said Mr. Fox, shortly, for to him, also, the subject was an unpleasant one. “I suppose
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