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. Helping Himself; Or, Grant Thornton's Ambition by Jr. Horatio Alger (e books free to read .txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Helping Himself; Or, Grant Thornton's Ambition by Jr. Horatio Alger (e books free to read .txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“The gentleman who has just left me is a New York business man.”
“You got pretty thick with him, eh?”
“We talked a little.”
Grant took care not to mention that Mr. Reynolds was a broker, as he knew that Tom would press for an introduction in that case.
When they reached New York, Tom showed a disposition to remain with Grant, but the latter said: “We'd better separate, and we can meet again after we have attended to our business.”
A meeting place was agreed upon, and Tom went his way.
Now came the difficult part of Grant's task. Where should he go to dispose of his pearls? He walked along undecided, till he came to a large jewelry store. It struck him that this would be a good place for his purpose, and he entered.
“What can I do for you, young man?” asked a man of thirty behind the counter.
“I have some pearl ornaments I would like to sell,” said Grant.
“Indeed,” said the clerk, fixing a suspicious glance upon Grant; “let me see them.”
Grant took out the necklace and bracelets, and passed them over. No sooner had he done so than a showily dressed lady advanced to the place where he was standing, and held out her hand for the ornaments, exclaiming: “I forbid you to buy those articles, sir. They are mine. The boy stole them from me, and I have followed him here, suspecting that he intended to dispose of them.”
“That is false,” exclaimed Grant, indignantly. “I never saw that woman before in my life.”
“So you are a liar as well as a thief!” said the woman. “You will please give me those pearls, sir.”
The clerk looked at the two contestants in indecision. He was disposed to believe the lady's statement.
CHAPTER VII — MRS. SIMPSON COMES TO GRIEF
“Surely I have a right to my own property,” said the showily dressed lady in a tone of authority, which quite imposed upon the weak-minded salesman.
“I dare say you are right, ma'am,” said he, hesitatingly.
“Of course I am,” said she.
“If you give her those pearls, which belong to my mother, I will have you arrested,” said Grant, plucking up spirit.
“Hoity-toity!” said the lady, contemptuously. “I hope you won't pay any regard to what that young thief says.”
The clerk looked undecided. He beckoned an older salesman, and laid the matter before him. The latter looked searchingly at the two. Grant was flushed and excited, and the lady had a brazen front.
“Do you claim these pearls, madam?” he said.
“I do,” she answered, promptly.
“How did you come by them?”
“They were a wedding present from my husband.”
“May I ask your name?”
The lady hesitated a moment, then answered:
“Mrs. Simpson.”
“Where do you live?”
There was another slight hesitation. Then came the answer:
“No.—Madison Avenue.”
Now Madison Avenue is a fashionable street, and the name produced an impression on the first clerk.
“I think the pearls belong to the lady,” he whispered.
“I have some further questions to ask,” returned the elder salesman, in a low voice.
“Do you know this boy whom you charge with stealing your property?”
“Yes,” answered the lady, to Grant's exceeding surprise; “he is a poor boy whom I have employed to do errands.”
“Has he had the run of your house?”
“Yes, that's the way of it. He must have managed to find his way to the second floor, and opened the bureau drawer where I kept the pearls.”
“What have you to say to this?” asked the elder salesman.
“Please ask the lady my name,” suggested Grant.
“Don't you know your own name?” demanded the lady, sharply.
“Yes, but I don't think you do.”
“Can you answer the boy's question, Mrs. Simpson?”
“Of course I can. His name is John Cavanaugh, and the very suit he has on I gave him.”
Grant was thunderstruck at the lady's brazen front. She was outwardly a fine lady, but he began to suspect that she was an impostor.
“I am getting tired of this,” said the so-called Mrs. Simpson, impatiently. “Will you, or will you not, restore my pearls?” “When we are satisfied that they belong to you, madam,” said the elder salesman, coolly. “I don't feel like taking the responsibility, but will send for my employer, and leave the matter to him to decide.”
“I hope I won't have long to wait, sir.”
“I will send at once.”
“It's a pretty state of things when a lady has her own property kept from her,” said Mrs. Simpson, while the elder clerk was at the other end of the store, giving some instructions to a boy.
“I don't in the least doubt your claim to the articles, Mrs. Simpson,” said the first salesman, obsequiously. “Come, boy, you'd better own up that you have stolen the articles, and the lady will probably let you off this time.”
“Yes, I will let him off this time,” chimed in the lady. “I don't want to send him to prison.”
“If you can prove that I am a thief, I am willing to go,” said Grant, hotly.
By this time the elder salesman had come back.
“Is your name John Cavanaugh, my boy?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Did you ever see this lady before?”
“No, sir.”
The lady threw up her hands in feigned amazement.
“I wouldn't have believed the boy would lie so!” she said.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Grant Thornton. I live in Colebrook, and my father is Rev.
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