Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
Alger Series For Boys. {About 50 Titles} Uniform With This Volume.
TO
The Boys
Whose Memory Goes Back With Me
To The Boarding School
At Potowome
This Volume Is Affectionately Dedicated
By
The Author.
PREFACE
“PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE” is presented to the public as the second volume
of the Campaign Series. Though wholly unlike the first volume, it is
written in furtherance of the same main idea, that every boy's life is
a campaign, more or less difficult, in which success depends upon
integrity and a steadfast adherence to duty.
How Paul Prescott gained strength by battling with adverse
circumstances, and, under all discouragements, kept steadily before him
the charge which he received from his dying father, is fully told; and
the author will be glad if the record shall prove an incentive and an
encouragement to those boys who may have a similar campaign before them.
PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.
I.
SQUIRE NEWCOME.
“HANNAH!”
The speaker was a tall, pompous-looking man, whose age appeared to verge
close upon fifty. He was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair,
and looked as if it would be quite impossible to deviate from his
position of unbending rigidity.
Squire Benjamin Newcome, as he was called, in the right of his position
as Justice of the Peace, Chairman of the Selectmen, and wealthiest
resident of Wrenville, was a man of rule and measure. He was measured
in his walk, measured in his utterance, and measured in all his
transactions. He might be called a dignified machine. He had a very
exalted conception of his own position, and the respect which he felt to
be his due, not only from his own household, but from all who approached
him. If the President of the United States had called upon him, Squire
Newcome would very probably have felt that he himself was the party who
conferred distinction, and not received it.
Squire Newcome was a widower. His wife, who was as different from
himself as could well be conceived, did not live long after marriage.
She was chilled to death, as it was thought, by the dignified iceberg
of whose establishment she had become a part. She had left, however, a
child, who had now grown to be a boy of twelve. This boy was a thorn
in the side of his father, who had endeavored in vain to mould him
according to his idea of propriety. But Ben was gifted with a spirit of
fun, sometimes running into mischief, which was constantly bursting out
in new directions, in spite of his father's numerous and rather prosy
lectures.
“Han-nah!” again called Squire Newcome, separating the two syllables by
a pause of deliberation, and strongly accenting the last syllable,--a
habit of his with all proper names.
Hannah was the Irish servant of all work, who was just then engaged in
mixing up bread in the room adjoining, which was the kitchen.
Feeling a natural reluctance to appear before her employer with her
hands covered with dough, she hastily washed them. All this, however,
took time, and before she responded to the first summons, the second
“Han-nah!” delivered with a little sharp emphasis, had been uttered.
At length she appeared at the door of the sitting-room.
“Han-nah!” said Squire Newcome, fixing his cold gray eye upon her, “when
you hear my voice a calling you, it is your duty to answer the summons
IMMEJIATELY.”
I have endeavored to represent the Squire's pronunciation of the last
word.
“So I would have come IMMEJOUSLY,” said Hannah, displaying a most
reprehensible ignorance, “but me hands were all covered with flour.”
“That makes no difference,” interrupted the Squire. “Flour is an
accidental circumstance.”
“What's that?” thought Hannah, opening her eyes in amazement.
“And should not be allowed to interpose an obstacle to an IMMEJIATE
answer to my summons.”
“Sir,” said Hannah, who guessed at the meaning though she did not
understand the words, “you wouldn't have me dirty the door-handle with
me doughy hands?”
“That could easily be remedied by ablution.”
“There ain't any ablution in the house,” said the mystified Hannah.
“I mean,” Squire Newcome condescended to explain, “the application of
water--in short, washing.”
“Shure,” said Hannah, as light broke in upon her mind, “I never knew
that was what they called it before.”
“Is Ben-ja-min at home?”
“Yes, sir. He was out playin' in the yard a minute ago. I guess you can
see him from the winder.”
So saying she stepped forward, and looking out, all at once gave a
shrill scream, and rushed from the room, leaving her employer in his
bolt-upright attitude gazing after her with as much astonishment as he
was capable of.
The cause of her sudden exit was revealed on looking out of the window.
Master Benjamin, or Ben, as he was called everywhere except in his
own family, had got possession of the black kitten, and appeared to be
submerging her in the hogshead of rainwater.
“O, you wicked, cruel boy, to drown poor Kitty!” exclaimed the indignant
Hannah, rushing into the yard and endeavoring to snatch her feline
favorite--an attempt which Ben stoutly resisted.
Doubtless the poor kitten would have fared badly between the two, had
not the window opened, and the deliberate voice of his father, called
out in tones which Ben saw fit to heed.
“What?”
“Come into my presence immejiately, and learn to answer me with more
respect.”
Ben came in looking half defiant.
His father, whose perpendicularity made him look like a sitting
grenadier, commenced the examination thus:--
“I wish you to inform me what you was a doing of when I spoke to you.”
It will be observed that the Squire's dignified utterances were
sometimes a little at variance with the rule of the best modern
grammarians.
“I was trying to prevent Hannah from taking the kitten,” said Ben.
“What was you a doing of before Hannah went out?”
“Playing with Kitty.”
“Why were you standing near the hogshead, Benjamin?”
“Why,” said Ben, ingenuously, “the hogshead happened to be near me--that
was all.”
“Were you not trying to drown the kitten?”
“O, I wouldn't drown her for anything,” said Ben with an injured
expression, mentally adding, “short of a three-cent piece.”
“Then, to repeat my interrogatory, what was you a doing of with the
kitten in the hogshead?”
“I was teaching her to swim,” said Ben, looking out of the corner of
his eye at his father, to see what impression this explanation made upon
him.
“And what advantageous result do you think would be brought about by
teaching of the kitten to swim, Benjamin?” persisted his father.
“Advantageous result!” repeated Ben, demurely, pretending not to
understand.
“Certingly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you not study your dictionary at school, Benjamin?”
“Yes, but I don't like it much.”
“You are very much in error. You will never learn to employ your tongue
with elegance and precision, unless you engage in this beneficial
study.”
“I can use my tongue well enough, without studying grammar,” said Ben.
He proceeded to illustrate the truth of this assertion by twisting his
tongue about in a comical manner.
“Tongue,” exclaimed his father, “is but another name for language I mean
your native language.”
“Oh!”
Ben was about to leave the room to avoid further questions of an
embarrassing nature, when his father interrupted his exit by saying--
“Stay, Benjamin, do not withdraw till I have made all the inquiries
which I intend.”
The boy unwillingly returned.
“You have not answered my question.”
“I've forgotten what it was.”
“What good would it do?” asked the Squire, simplifying his speech to
reach Ben's comprehension, “what good would it do to teach the kitten to
swim?”
“O, I thought,” said Ben, hesitating, “that some time or other she might
happen to fall into the water, and might not be able to get out unless
she knew how.”
“I think,” said his father with an unusual display of sagacity, “that
she will be in much greater hazard of drowning while learning to swim
under your direction than by any other chance likely to befall her.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” was Ben's mental comment, “Pretty cute for you,
dad.”
Fortunately, Ben did not express his thoughts aloud. They would have
implied such an utter lack of respect that the Squire would have been
quite overwhelmed by the reflection that his impressive manners had
produced no greater effect on one who had so excellent a chance of being
impressed by them.
“Benjamin,” concluded his father, “I have an errand for you to execute.
You may go to Mr. Prescott's and see if he is yet living. I hear that he
is a lying on the brink of the grave.”
An expression of sadness stole over the usually merry face of Ben, as he
started on his errand.
“Poor Paul!” he thought, “what will he do when his father dies? He's
such a capital fellow, too. I just wish I had a wagon load of money, I
do, and I'd give him half. That's so!”
II.
PAUL PRESCOTT'S HOME.
We will precede Ben on his visit to the house of Mr. Prescott.
It was an old weather-beaten house, of one story, about half a mile
distant from 'Squire Newcome's residence. The Prescott family had lived
here for five years, or ever since they had removed to Wrenville. Until
within a year they had lived comfortably, when two blows came in quick
succession. The first was the death of Mrs. Prescott, an excellent
woman, whose loss was deeply felt by her husband and son. Soon
afterwards Mr. Prescott, a carpenter by trade, while at work upon the
roof of a high building, fell off, and not only broke his leg badly, but
suffered some internal injury of a still more serious nature. He had
not been able to do a stroke of work since. After some months it became
evident that he would never recover. A year had now passed. During
this time his expenses had swallowed up the small amount which he had
succeeded in laying up previous to his sickness. It was clear that at
his death there would be nothing left. At thirteen years of age Paul
would have to begin the world without a penny.
Mr. Prescott lay upon a bed in a small bedroom adjoining the kitchen.
Paul, a thoughtful-looking boy sat beside it, ready to answer his call.
There had been silence for some time, when Mr. Prescott called feebly--
“Paul!”
“I am here, father,” said Paul.
“I am almost gone, Paul, I don't think I shall last through the day.”
“O, father,” said Paul, sorrowfully, “Don't leave me.”
“That is the only grief I have in dying--I must leave you to struggle
for yourself, Paul. I shall be able to leave you absolutely nothing.”
“Don't think of that, father. I am young and strong--I can earn my
living in some way.”
“I hoped to live long enough to give you an education. I wanted you to
have a fairer start in the world than I had.”
“Never mind, father,” said Paul, soothingly, “Don't be uneasy about me.
God will provide for me.”
Again there was a silence, broken only by the difficult breathing of the
sick man.
He spoke again.
“There is one thing, Paul, that I want to tell you before I die.”
Paul drew closer to the bedside.
“It is something which has troubled me as I lay here. I shall feel
easier for speaking of it. You remember that we lived at Cedarville
before we came here.”
“Yes, father.”
“About two years before we left there, a promising speculation was
brought to my notice. An agent of a Lake Superior mine visited our
village and represented the mine in so favorable a light that many of
my neighbors bought shares, fully expecting to double their money in a
year. Among the rest I was attacked with the fever of speculation. I had
always been obliged to work hard for a moderate compensation, and had
not been able to do much more than support my family. This it seemed to
me, afforded an excellent opportunity of laying up a little something
which might render me secure in the event of a sudden attack of
sickness. I had but about two hundred dollars, however, and from so
scanty an investment I could not, of course, expect a large return;
accordingly I went to Squire Conant; you remember him, Paul?”
“Yes, father.”
'I went to him and asked a loan of five hundred dollars. After some
hesitation he agreed to lend it to me. He was fond of his money and not
much given to lending, but it so happened that he had invested in the
same speculation, and had a high opinion of it, so he felt pretty
safe in advancing me the money. Well, this loan gave me seven hundred
dollars, with which I purchased seven shares in the Lake Superior Grand
Combination Mining Company. For some months afterwards, I felt like a
rich man. I carefully put away my certificate of stock, looking upon
it as the beginning of a competence. But at the end of six months the
bubble burst--the stock proved to be utterly worthless,--Squire Conant
lost five thousand dollars. I lost seven hundred, five hundred being
borrowed money. The Squire's loss was much larger, but mine was the more
serious, since I lost everything and was plunged into debt, while he had
at least forty thousand dollars left.
“Two days after the explosion, Squire Conant came into my shop and asked
abruptly when I could pay him the amount I had borrowed. I told him that
I could not fix a time. I said that I had been overwhelmed by a result
so contrary to my anticipations, but I told him I would not rest till I
had done something to satisfy his claim. He was always an unreasonable
man, and reproached me bitterly for sinking his money in a useless
speculation, as if I could foresee how it would end any better than he.”
“Have you ever been able to pay back any part of the five hundred
dollars, father?”
“I have paid the interest regularly, and a year ago, just before I met
with my accident, I had laid up a hundred and fifty dollars which I had
intended to pay the Squire, but when my sickness came I felt obliged to
retain it to defray our expenses, being cut off from earning anything.”
“Then I suppose you have not been able to pay interest for the last
year.”
“No.”
“Have you heard from the Squire lately?”
“Yes, I had a letter only last week. You remember bringing me one
postmarked Cedarville?”
“Yes, I wondered at the time who it could be from.”
“You will find it on the mantelpiece. I should like to have you get it
and read it.”
Paul readily found the letter. It was enclosed in a brown envelope,
directed in a bold hand to “Mr. John Prescott, Wrenville.”
The letter was as follows:--
CEDARVILLE, APRIL 15, 18--,
MR. JOHN PRESCOTT:--
SIR: I have been waiting impatiently to hear something about the five
hundred dollars in which sum you are indebted to me, on account of a
loan which I was fool enough to make you seven years since. I thought
you an honest man, but I have found, to my cost, that I was mistaken.
For the last year you have even failed to pay interest as stipulated
between us. Your intention is evident. I quite understand that you have
made up your mind to defraud me of what is rightfully mine. I don't know
how you may regard this, but I consider it as bad as highway robbery. I
do not hesitate to say that if you had your deserts you would be in the
Penitentiary. Let me advise you, if you wish to avoid further trouble,
to make no delay in paying a portion of this debt. Yours, etc. EZEKIEL
CONANT.
Paul's face flushed with indignation as he read this bitter and cruel
letter.
“Does Squire Conant know that you are sick, father?” he inquired.
“Yes, I wrote him about my accident, telling him at the same time that
I regretted it in part on account of the interruption which it must
occasion in my payments.”
“And knowing this, he wrote such a letter as that,” said Paul,
indignantly, “what a hard, unfeeling wretch he must be!”
“I suppose it is vexatious to him to be kept out of his money.”
“But he has plenty more. He would never miss it if he had given it to
you outright.”
“That is not the way to look at it, Paul. The money is justly his, and
it is a great sorrow to me that I must die without paying it.”
“Father,” said Paul, after a pause, “will it be any relief to you, if I
promise to pay it,--that is, if I am ever able?”
Mr. Prescott's face brightened.
“That was what I wanted to ask you, Paul. It will be a comfort to me to
feel that there is some hope of the debt being paid at some future day.”
“Then don't let it trouble you any longer, father. The debt shall be
mine, and I will pay it.”
Again a shadow passed over the sick man's face, “Poor boy,” he said,
“why should I burden your young life with such a load? You will have to
struggle hard enough as it is. No, Paul, recall your promise. I don't
want to purchase comfort at such a price.”
“No, father,” said Paul sturdily, “it is too late now. I have made the
promise and I mean to stick to it. Besides, it will give me something
to live for. I am young--I may have a great many years before me. For
thirteen years you have supported me. It is only right that I should
make what return I can. I'll keep my promise, father.”
“May God help and prosper you, my boy,” said Mr. Prescott, solemnly.
“You've been a good son; I pray that you may grow up to be a good man.
But, my dear, I feel tired. I think I will try to go to sleep.”
Paul smoothed the comforter, adjusting it carefully about his father's
neck, and going to the door went out in search of some wood to place
upon the fire. Their scanty stock of firewood was exhausted, and Paul
was obliged to go into the woods near by, to obtain such loose fagots as
he might find upon the ground.
He was coming back with his load when his attention was drawn by a
whistle. Looking up he discovered Ben Newcome approaching him.
“How are you, Paul?”
“Pretty well, Ben.”
“How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time.”
“Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would
ever get any better.”
“How is he this morning?”
“Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I
went out.”
“I brought over something for you,” said Ben, tugging away at his
pocket.
Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.
“I found 'em in the closet,” he said.
“Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?”
“Then I don't know as I ought to take them,” said Paul, though, to tell
the truth, they looked tempting to him.
“O, nonsense,” said Ben; “they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes to
scold a little; it does her good.”
The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the
turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.
“Ain't they prime?” he said.
“First rate,” said Paul; “won't you have one?”
“No,” said Ben; “you see I thought while I was about it I might as well
take four, so I ate two coming along.”
In about fifteen minutes Paul went into the house to look at his father.
He was lying very quietly upon the bed. Paul drew near and looked at him
more closely. There was something in the expression of his father's face
which terrified him.
Ben heard his sudden cry of dismay, and hurriedly entered.
Paul pointed to the bed, and said briefly, “Father's dead!”
Ben, who in spite of his mischievous propensities was gifted with a warm
heart, sat down beside Paul, and passing his arm round his neck,
gave him that silent sympathy which is always so grateful to the
grief-stricken heart.
III.
PAUL'S BRILLIANT PROSPECTS.
Two days later, the funeral of Mr. Prescott took place.
Poor Paul! It seemed to him a dream of inexpressible sorrow. His father
and mother both gone, he felt that he was indeed left alone in the
world. No thought of the future had yet entered his mind. He was wholly
occupied with his present sorrow. Desolate at heart he slipped away from
the graveyard after the funeral ceremony was over, and took his way back
again to the lonely dwelling which he had called home.
As he was sitting in the corner, plunged in sorrowful thought, there was
a scraping heard at the door, and a loud hem!
Looking up, Paul saw entering the cottage the stiff form of Squire
Benjamin Newcome, who, as has already been stated, was the owner.
“Paul,” said the Squire, with measured deliberation.
“Do you mean me, sir?” asked Paul, vaguely conscious that his name had
been called.
“Did I not address you by your baptismal appellation?” demanded the
Squire, who thought the boy's question superfluous.
“Paul,” pursued Squire Newcome, “have you thought of your future
destination?”
“No, sir,” said Paul, “I suppose I shall live here.”
“That arrangement would not be consistent with propriety. I suppose you
are aware that your deceased parent left little or no worldly goods.”
“I know he was poor.”
“Therefore it has been thought best that you should be placed in charge
of a worthy man, who I see is now approaching the house. You will
therefore accompany him without resistance. If you obey him and read the
Bible regularly, you will--ahem!--you will some time or other see the
advantage of it.”
With this consolatory remark Squire Newcome wheeled about and strode out
of the house.
Immediately afterwards there entered a rough-looking man arrayed in a
farmer's blue frock.
“You're to come with me, youngster,” said Mr. Nicholas Mudge, for that
was his name.
“With you?” said Paul, recoiling instinctively.
In fact there was nothing attractive in the appearance or manners of
Mr. Mudge. He had a coarse hard face, while his head was surmounted by
a shock of red hair, which to all appearance had suffered little
interference from the comb for a time which the observer would scarcely
venture to compute. There was such an utter absence of refinement about
the man, that Paul, who had been accustomed to the gentle manners of his
father, was repelled by the contrast which this man exhibited.
“To be sure you're to go with me,” said Mr. Mudge. “You did not
calc'late you was a goin' to stay here by yourself, did you? We've got a
better place for you than that. But the wagon's waitin' outside, so just
be lively and bundle in, and I'll carry you to where you're a goin' to
live.”
“Where's that?”
“Wal, some folks call it the Poor House, but it ain't any the worse for
that, I expect. Anyhow, them as has no money may feel themselves lucky
to get so good a home. So jest be a movin', for I can't be a waitin'
here all day.”
Paul quietly submitted himself to the guidance of Mr. Mudge. He was so
occupied with the thought of his sad loss that he did not realize the
change that was about to take place in his circumstances.
About half a mile from the village in the bleakest and most desolate
part of the town, stood the Poor House. It was a crazy old building of
extreme antiquity, which, being no longer considered fit for an ordinary
dwelling-house, had been selected as a suitable residence for the town's
poor. It was bleak and comfortless to be sure, but on that very account
had been purchased at a trifling expense, and that was, of course, a
primary consideration. Connected with the house were some dozen acres of
rough-looking land, plentifully overspread with stones, which might have
filled with despair the most enterprising agriculturist. However, it had
this recommendation at least, that it was quite in character with the
buildings upon it, which in addition to the house already described,
consisted of a barn of equal antiquity and a pig pen.
This magnificent domain was under the superintendence of Mr. Nicholas
Mudge, who in consideration of taking charge of the town paupers had
the use of the farm and buildings, rent free, together with a stipulated
weekly sum for each of the inmates.
“Well, Paul,” said Mr. Mudge, as they approached the house, in a tone
which was meant to be encouraging, “this is goin' to be your home. How
do you like it?”
Thus addressed, Paul ventured a glance around him.
“I don't know,” said he, doubtfully; “it don't look very pleasant.”
“Don't look very pleasant!” repeated Mr. Mudge in a tone of mingled
amazement and indignation. “Well, there's gratitude for you. After the
town has been at the expense of providin' a nice, comfortable home for
you, because you haven't got any of your own, you must turn up your nose
at it.”
“I didn't mean to complain,” said Paul, feeling very little interest in
the matter.
“Perhaps you expected to live in a marble palace,” pursued Mr. Mudge, in
an injured tone. “We don't have any marble palaces in this neighborhood,
we don't.”
Paul disclaimed any such anticipation.
Mr. Mudge deigned to accept Paul's apology, and as they had now reached
the door, unceremoniously threw it open, and led the way into a room
with floor unpainted, which, to judge from its appearance, was used as a
kitchen.
IV.
LIFE IN A NEW PHASE.
Everything was “at sixes and sevens,” as the saying is, in the room Mr.
Mudge and Paul had just entered. In the midst of the scene was a large
stout woman, in a faded calico dress, and sleeves rolled up, working as
if her life or the world's destiny depended upon it.
It was evident from the first words of Mr. Mudge that this lady was his
helpmeet.
“Well, wife,” he said, “I've brought you another boarder. You must try
to make him as happy and contented as the rest of 'em are.”
From the tone of the speaker, the last words might be understood to be
jocular.
Mrs. Mudge, whose style of beauty was not improved by a decided squint,
fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon Paul, and he quite naturally returned it.
“Haven't you ever seen anybody before, boy? I guess you'll know me next
time.”
“Shouldn't wonder if he did,” chuckled Mr. Mudge.
“I don't know where on earth we shall put him,” remarked the lady.
“We're full now.”
“Oh, put him anywhere. I suppose you won't be very particular about your
accommodations?” said Mr. Mudge turning to Paul.
Paul very innocently answered in the negative, thereby affording Mr.
Mudge not a little amusement.
“Well, that's lucky,” he said, “because our best front chamber's
occupied just now. We'd have got it ready for you if you'd only wrote a
week ago to tell us you were coming. You can just stay round here,” he
said in a different tone as he was about leaving the room, “Mrs. Mudge
will maybe want you to do something for her. You can sit down till she
calls on you.”
It was washing day with Mrs. Mudge, and of course she was extremely
busy. The water was to be brought from a well in the yard, and to this
office Paul was at once delegated. It was no easy task, the full pails
tugging most unmercifully at his arms. However, this was soon over, and
Mrs. Mudge graciously gave him permission to go into the adjoining room,
and make acquaintance with his fellow-boarders.
There were nine of them in all, Paul, the newcomer making the tenth.
They were all advanced in years, except one young woman, who was
prevented by mental aberration from supporting herself outside the walls
of the Institution.
Of all present, Paul's attention was most strongly attracted towards one
who appeared more neatly and scrupulously attired than any of the rest.
Aunt Lucy Lee, or plain Aunt Lucy, for in her present abode she had
small use for her last name, was a benevolent-looking old lady, who both
in dress and manners was distinguished from her companions. She rose
from her knitting, and kindly took Paul by the hand. Children are
instinctive readers of character, and Paul, after one glance at her
benevolent face, seated himself contentedly beside her.
“I suppose,” said the old lady, socially, “you've come to live with
us. We must do all we can to make you comfortable. Your name is Paul
Prescott, I think Mrs. Mudge said.”
“Yes, ma'am,” answered Paul, watching the rapid movement of the old
lady's fingers.
“Mine is Aunt Lucy,” she continued, “that is what everybody calls me.
So now we know each other, and shall soon be good friends, I hope. I
suppose you have hardly been here long enough to tell how you shall like
it.”
Paul confessed that thus far he did not find it very pleasant.
“No, I dare say not,” said Aunt Lucy, “I can't say I think it looks very
attractive myself. However, it isn't wholly the fault of Mr. and Mrs.
Mudge. They can't afford to do much better, for the town allows them
very little.”
Aunt Lucy's remarks were here interrupted by the apparition of the
worthy landlady at the door.
“Dinner's ready, folks,” said that lady, with little ceremony, “and you
must come out quick if you want any, for I'm drove with work, and can't
be hindered long.”
The summons was obeyed with alacrity, and the company made all haste to
the dining-room, or rather the kitchen, for it was here that the meals
were eaten.
In the center of the room was set a table without a cloth, a table-cloth
being considered a luxury quite superfluous. Upon this were placed
several bowls of thin, watery liquid, intended for soup, but which, like
city milk, was diluted so as hardly to be distinguishable. Beside each
bowl was a slice of bread.
Such was the bill of fare.
“Now, folks, the sooner you fall to the better,” exclaimed the energetic
Mrs. Mudge, who was one of those driving characters, who consider any
time spent at the table beyond ten minutes as so much time wasted.
The present company appeared to need no second invitation. Their
scanty diet had the positive advantage of giving them a good appetite;
otherwise the quality of their food might have daunted them.
Paul took his place beside Aunt Lucy. Mechanically he did as the rest,
carrying to his mouth a spoonful of the liquid. But his appetite was not
sufficiently accustomed to Poor House regime to enable him to relish its
standing dish, and he laid down his spoon with a disappointed look.
He next attacked the crust of bread, but found it too dry to be
palatable.
“Please, ma'am,” said he to Mrs. Mudge, “I should like some butter.”
Paul's companions dropped their spoons in astonishment at his daring,
and Mrs. Mudge let fall a kettle she was removing from the fire, in
sheer amazement.
“What did you ask for?” she inquired, as if to make sure that her ears
did not deceive her.
“A little butter,” repeated Paul, unconscious of the great presumption
of which he had been guilty.
“You want butter, do you?” repeated Mr. Mudge. “Perhaps you'd like a
slice of beefsteak and a piece of plum-pudding too, wouldn't you?”
“I should very much,” said Paul, resolved to tell the truth, although he
now began to perceive the sarcasm in his landlady's tone.
“There isn't anything more you would like, is there?” inquired the lady,
with mock politeness.
“No, ma'am,” returned Paul after a pause, “I believe not, to-day.”
“Very moderate, upon my word,” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, giving vent at
length to her pentup indignation. “You'll be contented with butter and
roast beef and plum-pudding! A mighty fine gentleman, to be sure. But
you won't get them here, I'll be bound.”
“So will I,” thought Aunt Lucy.
“If you ain't satisfied with what I give you,” pursued Mrs. Mudge,
“you'd better go somewhere else. You can put up at some of the great
hotels. Butter, forsooth!”
Having thus given expression to her feelings, she left the room, and
Paul was left to finish his dinner with the best appetite he could
command. He was conscious that he had offended Mrs. Mudge, but the
thoughts of his recent great sorrow swallowed up all minor annoyances,
so that the words of his estimable landlady were forgotten almost as
soon as they were uttered. He felt that he must henceforth look for far
different treatment from that to which he had been accustomed during his
father's lifetime.
His thoughts were interrupted in a manner somewhat ludicrous, by the
crazy girl who sat next to him coolly appropriating to herself his bowl
of soup, having already disposed of her own.
“Look,” said Aunt Lucy, quickly, calling Paul's attention, “you are
losing your dinner.”
“Never mind,” said Paul, amused in spite of his sadness, “she is quite
welcome to it if she likes it; I can't eat it.”
So the dinner began and ended. It was very brief and simple, occupying
less than ten minutes, and comprising only one course--unless the soup
was considered the first course, and the bread the second. Paul left
the table as hungry as he came to it. Aunt Lucy's appetite had become
accustomed to the Mudge diet, and she wisely ate what was set before
her, knowing that there was no hope of anything better.
About an hour after dinner Ben Newcome came to the door of the Poor
House and inquired for Paul.
Mrs. Mudge was in one of her crusty moods.
“You can't see him,” said she.
“And why not?” said Ben, resolutely.
“Because he's busy.”
“You'd better let me see him,” said Ben, sturdily.
“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 they
deserved, with silent disdain. Assured of the sympathy of those around
him, he did not allow his appetite to be spoiled by any remark which
Mrs. Mudge might offer.
This, of course, only provoked her the more, and she strove to have his
daily tasks increased, in the amiable hope that his “proud spirit” might
be tamed thereby.
Mr. Mudge, who was somewhat under petticoat government, readily acceded
to his wife's wishes, and henceforth Paul's strength was taxed to its
utmost limit. He was required to be up with the first gray tint of dawn
and attend to the cattle. From this time until night, except the brief
time devoted to his meals, he was incessantly occupied. Aunt Lucy's
society, his chief comfort, was thus taken from him; since, in order to
rise early, he was obliged to go to bed as soon as possible after day's
work was finished.
The effects of such incessant labor without a sufficient supply of
nourishing food, may easily be imagined. The dry bread and meagre soup
which constituted the chief articles of diet in Mrs. Mudge's economical
household, had but one recommendation,--they were effectual preventives
of gluttony. It was reported that on one occasion a beggar, apparently
famishing with hunger, not knowing the character of the house, made
application at the door for food. In an unusual fit of generosity, Mrs.
Mudge furnished him with a slice of bread and a bowl of soup, which,
however, proved so far from tempting that the beggar, hungry as he was,
left them almost untouched.
One day, as Paul was working in the field at a little distance from
Mr. Mudge, he became conscious of a peculiar feeling of giddiness which
compelled him to cling to the hoe for support,--otherwise he must have
fallen.
“No laziness there,” exclaimed Mr. Mudge, observing Paul's cessation
from labor, “We can't support you in idleness.”
But the boy paid no regard to this admonition, and Mr. Mudge, somewhat
surprised, advanced toward him to enforce the command.
Even he was startled at the unusual paleness of Paul's face, and
inquired in a less peremptory tone, “what's the matter?”
“I feel sick,” gasped Paul.
Without another word, Mr. Mudge took Paul up in his arms and carried him
into the house.
“What's the matter, now?” asked his wife, meeting him at the door.
“The boy feels a little sick, but I guess he'll get over it by-and
by. Haven't you got a little soup that you can give him? I reckon he's
faint, and that'll brighten him up.”
Paul evidently did not think so, for he motioned away a bowl of the
delightful mixture, though it was proffered him by the fair hands of
Mrs. Mudge. The lady was somewhat surprised, and said, roughly, “I
shouldn't wonder if he was only trying to shirk.”
This was too much even for Mr. Mudge; “The boy's sick,” said he, “that's
plain enough; if he don't get better soon, I must send for the doctor,
for work drives, and I can't spare him.”
“There's no more danger of his being sick than mine,” said Mrs. Mudge,
emphatically; “however, if you're fool enough to go for a doctor, that's
none of my business. I've heard of feigning sickness before now, to
get rid of work. As to his being pale, I've been as pale as that myself
sometimes without your troubling yourself very much about me.”
“'Twon't be any expense to us,” alleged Mr. Mudge, in a tone of
justification, for he felt in some awe of his wife's temper, which was
none of the mildest when a little roused, “'Twon't be any expense to us;
the town has got to pay for it, and as long as it will get him ready for
work sooner, we might as well take advantage of it.”
This consideration somewhat reconciled Mrs. Mudge to the step proposed,
and as Paul, instead of getting better, grew rapidly worse, Mr. Mudge
thought it expedient to go immediately for the village physician.
Luckily Dr. Townsend was at home, and an hour afterwards found him
standing beside the sick boy.
“I don't know but you'll think it rather foolish, our sending for you,
doctor,” said Mrs. Mudge, “but Mudge would have it that the boy was sick
and so he went for you.”
“And he did quite right,” said Dr. Townsend, noticing the ghastly pallor
of Paul's face. “He is a very sick boy, and if I had not been called I
would not have answered for the consequences. How do you feel, my boy?”
he inquired of Paul.
“I feel very weak, and my head swims,” was the reply.
“How and when did this attack come on?” asked the doctor, turning to Mr.
Mudge.
“He was taken while hoeing in the field,” was the reply.
“Have you kept him at work much there lately?”
“Well, yes, I've been drove by work, and he has worked there all day
latterly.”
“At what time has he gone to work in the morning?”
“He has got up to milk the cows about five o'clock. I used to do it, but
since he has learned, I have indulged myself a little.”
“It would have been well for him if he had enjoyed the same privilege.
It is my duty to speak plainly. The sickness of this boy lies at your
door. He has never been accustomed to hard labor, and yet you have
obliged him to rise earlier and work later than most men. No wonder he
feels weak. Has he a good appetite?”
“Well, rather middlin',” said Mrs. Mudge, “but it's mainly because he's
too dainty to eat what's set before him. Why, only the first day he was
here he turned up his nose at the bread and soup we had for dinner.”
“Is this a specimen of the soup?” asked Dr. Townsend, taking from the
table the bowl which had been proffered to Paul and declined by him.
Without ceremony he raised to his lips a spoonful of the soup and tasted
it with a wry face.
“Do you often have this soup on the table?” he asked abruptly.
“We always have it once a day, and sometimes twice,” returned Mrs.
Mudge.
“And you call the boy dainty because he don't relish such stuff as
this?” said the doctor, with an indignation he did not attempt to
conceal. “Why, I wouldn't be hired to take the contents of that bowl. It
is as bad as any of my own medicines, and that's saying a good deal.
How much nourishment do you suppose such a mixture would afford? And yet
with little else to sustain him you have worked this boy like a beast of
burden,--worse even, for they at least have abundance of GOOD food.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mudge both winced under this plain speaking, but they did
not dare to give expression to their anger, for they knew well that Dr.
Townsend was an influential man in town, and, by representing the affair
in the proper quarter, might render their hold upon their present post
a very precarious one. Mr. Mudge therefore contented himself with
muttering that he guessed he worked as hard as anybody, and he didn't
complain of his fare.
“May I ask you, Mr. Mudge,” said the doctor, fixing his penetrating eye
full upon him, “whether you confine yourself to the food upon which you
have kept this boy?”
“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, in some confusion, moving uneasily in his
seat, “I can't say but now and then I eat something a little different.”
“Do you eat at the same table with the inmates of your house?”
“Well, no,” said the embarrassed Mr. Mudge.
“Tell me plainly,--how often do you partake of this soup?”
“I aint your patient,” said the man, sullenly, “Why should you want to
know what I eat?”
“I have an object in view. Are you afraid to answer?”
“I don't know as there's anything to be afraid of. The fact is, I aint
partial to soup; it don't agree with me, and so I don't take it.”
“Did you ever consider that this might be the case with others as
well as yourself?” inquired the doctor with a glance expressive of his
contempt for Mr. Mudge's selfishness. Without waiting for a reply, Dr.
Townsend ordered Paul to be put to bed immediately, after which he would
leave some medicine for him to take.
Here was another embarrassment for the worthy couple. They hardly knew
where to put our hero. It would not do for them to carry him to his
pallet in the attic, for they felt sure that this would lead to some
more plain speaking on the part of Dr. Townsend. He was accordingly,
though with some reluctance, placed in a small bedroom upstairs, which,
being more comfortable than those appropriated to the paupers, had been
reserved for a son at work in a neighboring town, on his occasional
visits home.
“Is there no one in the house who can sit in the chamber and attend to
his occasional wants?” asked Dr. Townsend. “He will need to take his
medicine at stated periods, and some one will be required to administer
it.”
“There's Aunt Lucy Lee,” said Mrs. Mudge, “she's taken a fancy to the
boy, and I reckon she'll do as well as anybody.”
“No one better,” returned the doctor, who well knew Aunt Lucy's kindness
of disposition, and was satisfied that she would take all possible care
of his patient.
So it was arranged that Aunt Lucy should take her place at Paul's
bedside as his nurse.
Paul was sick for many days,--not dangerously so, but hard work and
scanty fare had weakened him to such a degree that exhausted nature
required time to recruit its wasted forces. But he was not unhappy or
restless. Hour after hour he would lie patiently, and listen to the
clicking of her knitting needles. Though not provided with luxurious
food, Dr. Townsend had spoken with so much plainness that Mrs. Mudge
felt compelled to modify her treatment, lest, through his influence, she
with her husband, might lose their situation. This forced forbearance,
however, was far from warming her heart towards its object. Mrs.
Mudge was a hard, practical woman, and her heart was so encrusted with
worldliness and self-interest that she might as well have been without
one.
One day, as Paul lay quietly gazing at Aunt Lucy's benevolent face,
and mentally contrasting it with that of Mrs. Mudge, whose shrill voice
could be heard form below, he was seized with a sudden desire to learn
something of her past history.
“How long have you been here, Aunt Lucy?” he inquired.
She looked up from her knitting, and sighed as she answered, “A long and
weary time to look back upon, Paul. I have been here ten years.”
“Ten years,” repeated Paul, thoughtfully, “and I am thirteen. So you
have been here nearly all my lifetime. Has Mr. Mudge been here all that
time?”
“Only the last two years. Before that we had Mrs. Perkins.”
“Did she treat you any better than Mrs. Mudge?”