Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune by Jr. Horatio Alger (booksvooks txt) 📖

none here.”

“And, as Mr. Conrad says, I am likely to run out of subjects for sketches.”

“I think I shall have to give my consent, then.”

“Thank you, mother,” said Chester, joyfully. “I will do what I can to pay you for the sacrifice you are making.”

Just then the doorbell rang.

“It is Mr. Gardener, the lawyer,” said Chester, looking from the window.

A moment later he admitted the lawyer.

“Well, Chester,” said Mr. Gardener, pleasantly, “have you disposed of your lots in Tacoma yet?”

“No, Mr. Gardener. In fact, I had almost forgotten about them.”

“Sometime they may prove valuable.”

“I wish it might be soon.”

“I fancy you will have to wait a few years. By the time you are twenty-one you may come into a competence.”

“I won’t think of it till then.”

“That’s right. Work as if you had nothing to look forward to.”

“You don’t want to take me into your office and make a lawyer of me, Mr. Gardener, do you?”

“Law in Wyncombe does not offer any inducements. If I depended on my law business, I should fare poorly, but thanks to a frugal and industrious father, I have a fair income outside of my earnings. Mrs. Rand, my visit this morning is to you. How would you like to take a boarder?”

Chester and his mother looked surprised.

“Who is it, Mr. Gardener?”

“I have a cousin, a lady of forty, who thinks of settling down in Wyncombe. She thinks country air will be more favorable to her health than the city.”

“Probably she is used to better accommodations than she would find here.”

“My cousin will be satisfied with a modest home.”

“We have but two chambers, mine and Chester’s.”

“But you know, mother, I am going to New York to work.”

“That’s true; your room will be vacant.”

Mr. Gardener looked surprised.

“Isn’t this something new,” he asked, “about you going to New York, I mean?”

“Yes, sir; that letter from Mr. Conrad will explain all.”

Mr. Gardener read the letter attentively.

“I think the plan a good one,” he said. “You will find that you will work better in a great city. Then, if my cousin comes, your mother will not be so lonesome.”

“It is the very thing,” said Chester, enthusiastically.

“What is your cousin’s name, Mr. Gardener?” asked the widow.

“Miss Jane Dolby. She is a spinster, and at her age there is not much chance of her changing her condition. Shall I write her that you will receive her?”

“Yes; I shall be glad to do so.”

“And, as Miss Dolby is a business woman, she will expect me to tell her your terms.”

“Will four dollars a week be too much?” asked Mrs. Rand, in a tone of hesitation.

“Four dollars, my dear madam!”

“Do you consider it too much? I am afraid I could not afford to say less.”

“I consider it too little. My cousin is a woman of means. I will tell her your terms are eight dollars a week including washing.”

“But will she be willing to pay so much?”

“She pays twelve dollars a week in the city, and could afford to pay more. She is not mean, but is always willing to pay a good price.”

“I can manage very comfortably on that sum,” said Mrs. Rand, brightening up. “I hope I shall be able to make your cousin comfortable.”

“I am sure of it. Miss Dolby is a very sociable lady, and if you are willing to hear her talk she will be content.”

“She will keep me from feeling lonesome.”

When Mr. Gardener left the house, Chester said: “All things seem to be working in aid of my plans, mother, I feel much more comfortable now that you will have company.”

“Besides, Chester, you will not need to send me any money. The money Miss Dolby pays me will be sufficient to defray the expenses of the table, and I shall still have some time for binding shoes.”

“Then I hope I may be able to save some money.”

During the afternoon Chester went to the store to buy groceries. Mr. Tripp himself filled the order. He seemed disposed to be friendly.

“Your money holds out well, Chester,” he said, as he made change for a two-dollar bill.

“Yes, Mr. Tripp.”

“I can’t understand it, for my part. Your mother must be a good manager.”

“Yes, Mr. Tripp, she is.”

“You’d orter come back to work for me, Chester.”

“But you have got a boy already.”

“The Wood boy ain’t worth shucks. He ain’t got no push, and he’s allus forgettin’ his errands. If you’ll come next Monday I’ll pay you two dollars and a half a week. That’s pooty good for these times.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Tripp, but I am going to work somewhere else.”

“Where?” asked Silas, in great surprise.

“In New York,” answered Chester, proudly.

“You don’t say! How’d you get it?”

“Mr. Conrad, an artist, a friend of the minister, got it for me.”

“Is your mother willin’ to have you go?”

“She will miss me, but she thinks it will be for my advantage.”

“How’s she goin’ to live? It will take all you can earn to pay your own way in a big city. In fact, I don’t believe you can do it.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Tripp.”

Chester did not care to mention the new boarder that was expected, as he thought it probable that Mr. Tripp, who always looked out for his own interests, would try to induce Miss Dolby to board with him. As Mr. Tripp had the reputation of keeping a very poor table, he had never succeeded in retaining a boarder over four weeks.

Chester found that his clothing needed replenishing, and ventured to spend five dollars for small articles, such as handkerchiefs, socks, etc. Saturday morning he walked to the depot with a small gripsack in his hand and bought a ticket for New York.

CHAPTER X.

A RAILROAD ACQUAINTANCE.

The distance by rail from Wyncombe to New York is fifty miles. When about eight years of age Chester had made the journey, but not since then. Everything was new to him, and, of course, interesting. His attention was drawn from the scenery by the passage of a train boy through the cars with a bundle of new magazines and papers.

“Here is all the magazines, Puck and Judge.”

“How much do you charge for Puck?” asked Chester, with interest, for it was Puck that had accepted his first sketch.

“Ten cents.”

“Give me one.”

Chester took the paper and handed the train boy a dime.

Then he began to look over the pages. All at once he gave a start, his face flushed, his heart beat with excitement. There was his sketch looking much more attractive on the fair pages of the periodical than it had done in his pencil drawing. He kept looking at it. It seemed to have a fascination for him. It was his first appearance in a paper, and it was a proud moment for him.

“What are you looking at so intently, my son?” asked the gentleman who sat at his side. He was a man of perhaps middle age, and he wore spectacles, which gave him a literary aspect.

“I—I am looking at this sketch,” answered Chester, in slight confusion.

“Let me see it.”

Chester handed over the paper and regarded his seat mate with some anxiety. He wanted to see what impression this, his maiden effort, would have on a staid man of middle age.

“Ha! very good!” said his companion, “but I don’t see anything very remarkable about it. Yet you were looking at it for as much as five minutes.”

“Because it is mine,” said Chester, half proudly, half in embarrassment.

“Ah! that is different. Did you really design it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose you got pay for it. I understand Puck pays for everything it publishes.”

“Yes, sir; I got ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars!” repeated the gentleman, in surprise. “Really that is very handsome. Do you often produce such sketches?”

“I have just begun, sir. That is the first I have had published.”

“You are beginning young. How old are you?”

“I am almost sixteen.”

“That is young for an artist. Why, I am forty-five, and I haven’t a particle of talent in that direction. My youngest son asked me the other day to draw a cow on the slate. I did as well as I could, and what do you think he said?”

“What did he say?” asked Chester, interested.

“He said, ‘Papa, if it wasn’t for the horns I should think it was a horse.’”

Chester laughed. It was a joke he could appreciate.

“I suppose all cannot draw,” he said.

“It seems not. May I ask you if you live in New York—the city, I mean?”

“No, sir.”

“But you are going there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To live?”

“I hope so. A friend has written advising me to come. He says I will be better placed to do art work, and dispose of my sketches.”

“Are you expecting to earn your living that way?”

“I hope to some time, but not at first.”

“I am glad to hear it. I should think you would find it very precarious.”

“I expect to work in a real estate office at five dollars a week, and only to spend my leisure hours in art work.”

“That seems sensible. Have you been living in the country?”

“Yes, sir, in Wyncombe.”

“I have heard of the place, but was never there. So you are just beginning the battle of life?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It has just occurred to me that I may be able to throw some work in your way. I am writing an ethnological work, and it will need to be illustrated. I can’t afford to pay such prices as you receive from Puck and other periodicals of the same class, but then the work will not be original. It will consist chiefly of copies. I should think I might need a hundred illustrations, and I am afraid I could not pay more than two dollars each.”

A hundred illustrations at two dollars each! Why, that would amount to two hundred dollars, and there would be no racking his brains for original ideas.

“If you think I can do the work, sir, I shall be glad to undertake it,” said Chester, eagerly.

“I have no doubt you can do it, for it will not require an expert. Suppose you call upon me some evening within a week.”

“I will do so gladly, sir, if you will tell me where you live.”

“Here is my card,” said his companion, drawing out his case, and handing a card to Chester.

This was what Chester read:

“Prof. Edgar Hazlitt.”

“Do you know where Lexington Avenue is?” asked the professor.

“I know very little about New York. In fact, nothing at all,” Chester was obliged to confess.

“You will soon find your way about. I have no doubt you will find me,” and the professor mentioned the number. “Shall we say next Wednesday evening, at eight o’clock sharp? That’s if you have no engagement for that evening,” he added, with a smile.

Chester laughed at the idea of his having any evening engagements in a city which he had not seen for eight years.

“If you are engaged to dine with William Vanderbilt or Jay Gould on that evening,” continued the professor, with a merry look, “I will say Thursday.”

“If I find I am engaged in either place, I think I can get off,” said Chester.

“Then Wednesday evening let it be!”

As the train neared New York Chester began to be solicitous about finding Mr. Conrad in waiting for him. He knew nothing about the city, and would feel quite helpless should the artist not be present to meet him. He left the car and walked slowly along the platform, looking eagerly on all sides for the expected friendly face.

But nowhere could he see Herbert Conrad.

In some agitation he took from his pocket the card containing his friend’s address, and he could hardly help inwardly reproaching him for leaving an inexperienced boy in the lurch. He was already beginning to feel homesick and forlorn, when a bright-looking lad of twelve, with light-brown hair, came up and asked: “Is this Chester Rand?”

“Yes,” answered Chester, in surprise. “How do you know my name?”

“I was sent here by Mr. Conrad to meet you.”

Chester brightened up at once. So his friend had not forgotten him after all.

“Mr. Conrad couldn’t come to meet you, as he had an important engagement, so he sent me to bring you to