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. Paul Prescott's Charge by Jr. Horatio Alger (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Paul Prescott's Charge by Jr. Horatio Alger (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“I should like to know what's going to happen if I don't,” said Mrs. Mudge, with wrathful eyes, and arms akimbo.
“I shall go home and report to my father,” said Ben, coolly.
“Who is your father?” asked Mrs. Mudge, for she did not recognize her visitor.
“My father's name is Newcome—Squire Newcome, some call him.”
Now it so happened that Squire Newcome was Chairman of the Overseers of the Poor, and in that capacity might remove Mr. Mudge from office if he pleased. Accordingly Mrs. Mudge softened down at once, on learning that Ben was his son.
“Oh,” said she, “I didn't know who it was. I thought it might be some idle boy from the village who would only take Paul from his work, but if you have a message from your father——”
This she said to ascertain whether he really had any message or not, but Ben, who had in fact come without his father's knowledge, only bowed, and said, in a patronizing manner, “I accept your apology, Mrs. Mudge. Will you have the goodness to send Paul out?”
“Won't you step in?” asked Mrs. Mudge with unusual politeness.
“No, I believe not.”
Paul was accordingly sent out.
He was very glad to meet his schoolmate and playfellow, Ben, who by his gayety, spiced though it was with roguery, had made himself a general favorite in school.
“I say, Paul,” said Ben, “I'm sorry to find you in such a place.”
“It isn't very pleasant,” said Paul, rather soberly.
“And that woman—Mrs. Mudge—she looks as if she might be a regular spitfire, isn't she?”
“Rather so.”
“I only wish the old gentleman—meaning of course, the Squire—would take you to live with me. I want a fellow to play with. But I say, Paul, go and get your hat, and we'll go out for a walk.”
“I don't know what Mrs. Mudge will say,” said Paul, who had just come from turning the handle of a churn.
“Just call Mrs. Mudge, and I'll manage it.”
Mrs. Mudge being summoned, made her appearance at the door.
“I presume, ma'am,” said Ben, confidently, “you will have no objection to Paul's taking a walk with me while I deliver the message I am entrusted with.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Mudge, rather unwillingly, but not venturing to refuse.
“It takes me to come it over the old lady,” said Ben, when they were out of hearing.
“Now, we'll go a fishing.”
V. A CRISIS.
Before sunrise the next morning Paul was awakened by a rude shake from Mr. Mudge, with an intimation that he had better get up, as there was plenty of work before him.
By the light of the lantern, for as yet it was too dark to dispense with it, Paul dressed himself. Awakened from a sound sleep, he hardly had time to collect his thoughts, and it was with a look of bewilderment that he surveyed the scene about him. As Mrs. Mudge had said, they were pretty full already, and accordingly a rude pallet had been spread for him in the attic, of which, with the exception of nocturnal marauders, he was the only occupant. Paul had not, to be sure, been used to very superior accommodations, and if the bed had not been quite so hard, he would have got along very well. As it was he was separated from slats only by a thin straw bed which did not improve matters much. It was therefore with a sense of weariness which slumber had not dissipated, that Paul arose at the summons of Mr. Mudge.
When he reached the kitchen, he found that gentleman waiting for him.
“Do you know how to milk?” was his first salutation.
“I never learned,” said Paul.
“Then you'll have to, in double-quick time,” was the reply, “for I don't relish getting up so early, and you can take it off my hands.”
The two proceeded to the barn, where Paul received his first lesson in this important branch of education.
Mr. Mudge kept five cows. One might have thought he could have afforded a moderate supply of milk to his boarders, but all, with the exception of a single quart, was sold to the milkman who passed the door every morning.
After breakfast, which was on the same economical plan with the dinner of the day previous, Paul was set to work planting potatoes, at which he was kept steadily employed till the dinner-hour.
Poor Paul! his back ached dreadfully, for he had never before done any harder work than trifling services for his father. But the inexorable Mr. Mudge was in sight, and however much he wished, he did not dare to lay aside his hoe even for a moment.
Twelve o'clock found him standing beside the dinner-table. He ate more heartily than before, for his forenoon's labor made even poorhouse fare palatable.
Mrs. Mudge observed the change, and remarked in a satisfied tone. “Well, my fine gentleman, I see you are coming to your appetite. I thought you wouldn't hold out long.”
Paul, who had worn off something of his diffidence, could not help feeling indignant at this speech; unaccustomed to be addressed in this way, the taunt jarred upon his feelings, but he only bit his lip and preserved silence.
Aunt Lucy, too, who had come to feel a strong interest in Paul, despite her natural mildness, could not resist the temptation of saying with some warmth, “what's the use of persecuting the child? He has sorrows enough of his own without your adding to them.”
Mrs. Mudge was not a little incensed at this remonstrance.
“I should like to know, ma'am, who requested you to put in your oar!” she said with arms akimbo. “Anybody wouldn't think from your lofty airs that you lived in the poorhouse; I'll thank you to mind your own business in the future, and not meddle with what don't concern you.”
Aunt Lucy was wise enough to abstain from provoking further the wrath of her amiable landlady, and continued to eat her soup in silence. But Mrs. Mudge neer forgot this interference, nor the cause of it, and henceforth with the malignity of a narrow-minded and spiteful woman, did what she could to make Paul uncomfortable. Her fertile ingenuity always found some new taunt, or some new reproach, to assail him with. But Paul, though at first he felt indignant, learned at last to treat them as
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