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 Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“The violin cost twenty-five dollars!” ejaculated the squire, in genuine surprise.
For, as it has already been stated, he had no idea whatever of the usual price for a violin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don't you believe him, squire,” said Nicholas, afraid that he would lose what he knew to be a good bargain. “No fiddle that was ever made cost twenty-five dollars. It's ridiculous!”
“It does seem a large price,” said the squire guardedly.
Squire Pope would doubtless have been surprised to learn that certain violins of celebrated make—such as the Cremonas—have sold for thousands of dollars. Probably he would have disbelieved it.
Nevertheless, he began to think that he had been too precipitate in accepting Nick Holden's offer.
If he should sacrifice, or sell at an utterly inadequate price, any article belonging to the boy whom he considered his ward, he knew that he would be blamed, and he began to consider how he could recede from the bargain.
“Nicholas,” he said, “I didn't exactly sell the violin to you. I will ascertain what is a fair price for it, and then I will consider your proposal.”
“You sold it right out, squire,” said Nick, “and I can prove it. Didn't you just say it was mine. There, now!”
Nick turned triumphantly to Frank and Phil, but, for very good reasons, they did not care to side with him.
“I say, you haven't treated me right,” persisted Nick, who had no particular respect nor veneration for the squire, and was not to be deterred from speaking as he felt. “I offered you two-fifty, and you said I should have it, and you got me to call at your house to come here for it.”
“I cannot sacrifice the property of my ward,” said Squire Pope. “I must ascertain how much the violin is worth.”
“A bargain is a bargain, every time!” said Nick, irritated.
“I will let you have it as cheap as anybody,” said the squire, who thought it possible that Nick might be the only one who desired to purchase it. “That ought to satisfy you. Philip, go and bring me the violin, and I will carry it home and dispose of it to the best advantage.”
“You must excuse me, Squire Pope. I shall not let it leave my possession.” Just then Squire Pope espied Mr. Dunbar returning from the village, and hailed him as a probable ally. He laid the matter before him, and requested him to compel Philip to get the violin.
“You must excuse me, squire,” said Mr. Dunbar coldly. “Philip is my guest, and he shall be protected in his rights as long as he remains here.”
Without a word, Squire Pope walked off, in angry discomfiture, in one direction, while Nick, equally dissatisfied, walked off in another.
“They don't seem happy!” said Frank slyly.
“I wish I knew where it was going to end,” returned Philip gravely.
“It seems to me,” said Frank, “the squire is making a great fuss about a fiddle, for a man of his dignity.”
“He doesn't care about the violin. He wants to have his own way,” said Philip, thus hitting the nail on the head.
CHAPTER VII. MR. JOE TUCKER
Before going further, I will introduce to the reader, a citizen of Norton, who filled a position for which he was utterly unfitted. This man was Joe Tucker, in charge of the almshouse.
He had not been selected by the town authorities on the ground of fitness, but simply because he was willing to work cheap. He received a certain low weekly sum for each one of his inmates, and the free use of apartments for himself and family, with the right to cultivate the ten acres of land connected with the establishment, and known as the Town Farm.
His family consisted of three persons—himself, his wife, and a son, Ezekiel, familiarly known as Zeke, now sixteen years old. The leading family trait was meanness.
Mr. Tucker supplied a mean table even for a poorhouse, and some of the hapless inmates complained bitterly. One had even had the boldness to present a complaint to the selectmen, and that body, rather reluctantly, undertook to investigate the justness of the complaint. They deputed Squire Pope to visit the poorhouse and inquire into the matter.
Now, though Squire Pope thought himself unusually sharp, it was the easiest thing in the world for a cunning person like Joe Tucker to satisfy him that all was right.
“Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope pompously, “I am deputed by the selectmen, and I may add by the overseers of the poor, to investigate a complaint made by one of the paupers in relation to the fare you offer them.”
“Who is it!” inquired Mr. Tucker.
“It is Ann Carter. She says you don't allow her sugar in her tea, and only allow one slice of bread at supper, and that the meat is so bad she can't eat it.”
“Just like the old woman!” exclaimed Mr. Tucker indignantly. “Oh, she's a high-strung pauper, she is! Expects all the delicacies of the season for seventy-five cents a week. She'd ought to go to the Fifth Avenoo Hotel in New York, and then I'll bet a cent she wouldn't be satisfied.”
It is observable that even in his imaginary bets Mr. Tucker maintained his economical habits, and seldom bet more than a cent. Once, when very much excited, he had bet five cents, but this must be attributed to his excited state of mind.
“So you regard her complaints as unreasonable, do you, Mr. Tucker?” observed the investigating committee.
“Unreasonable? I should think they was. I allow, Squire Pope, we don't live like a first-class hotel”—Mr. Tucker's language was rather mixed—“but we live as well as we can afford to. As to sugar, we don't allow the paupers to put it in for themselves, or they'd ruin us by their extravagance. Mrs. Tucker puts sugar in the teapot before she pours it out. I s'pose Ann Carter would put as much in one cup of tea as Mrs. T. uses for the whole teapotful, if she had her way.”
This was very probably true, as the frugal Mrs. Tucker only allowed one teaspoonful for the entire supply.
“That looks reasonable, Mr. Tucker,” said the squire approvingly. “Now about the bread and the meat?”
“The paupers has plenty of bread,” said Mr. Tucker. “Our bread bill is actually enormous.”
“And as to the meat?”
“We don't give 'em roast turkey every
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