RODNEY BARTLETT.
Mr. Tarbox’s farm was located in Woodburn, rather a small town in Iowa.
He was originally from Connecticut, but at the age of thirty removed to
the then frontier Western State. He owned a large farm, which he had
bought at the government price of one dollar and a quarter an acre. He
also owned a smaller farm a mile and a half west of the one he occupied,
and this he cultivated on shares. It had been a lucky purchase, for a
railway intersected it, and he had obtained a large price for the land
used. Besides his two farms, he had from six to seven thousand dollars
in money; yet it seemed that the richer he grew the meaner he became. He
had a married daughter, living in Crestville, six miles away, and when
he died she and her family would no doubt inherit the miserly farmer’s
possessions. Like her father she was selfish and close so far as others
were concerned, but she was willing to spend money on herself. She had a
son about the age of Grant, who liked to wear good clothes, and was
something of a dude. His name was Rodney Bartlett, and he looked down
with infinite contempt on his grandfather’s hard-working stepson.
Just before twelve o’clock a smart looking buggy drove into the yard.
The occupants of the buggy were Rodney and his mother.
“Hey, you!” he called out to Grant, “come and hold the horse while we
get out.”
Grant came forward and did as he was requested. Had Rodney been alone he
would not have heeded the demand, but Mrs. Bartlett’s sex claimed
deference, though he did not like her.
“Just go in and tell your mother we’ve come to dinner.”
But Grant was spared the trouble, for the farmer came up at this moment.
“Howdy do, Sophia!” he said. “What sent you over?”
“I wanted to consult you about a little matter of business, father. I
hope Mrs. Tarbox will have enough dinner for us.”
“I reckon so, I reckon so,” said Seth Tarbox, who, to do him justice,
was not mean as regarded the table. “How’s your husband?”
“Oh, he’s ailing as usual. He’s lazy and shiftless, and if it wasn’t for
me I don’t know what would become of us.”
By this time the two had entered the house. Rodney stayed behind, and
glanced superciliously at Grant.
“Seems to me you’re looking shabbier than ever,” he said.
“You’re right there,” said Grant bitterly, “but it isn’t my fault.”
“Whose is it?”
“Your grandfather’s. He won’t buy me any clothes.”
“Well, you’re not kin to him.”
“I know that, but I work hard and earn a great deal more than I get.”
“I don’t know about that. Maybe I can hunt up one of my old suits for
you,” Rodney added patronizingly.
“Thank you, but I don’t want anybody’s cast-off clothes; at any rate,
not yours.”
“You’re getting proud,” sneered Rodney.
“You can call it that if you like.”
“Don’t you wish you was me, so you could wear good clothes all the
time?”
“I should like to wear the good clothes, but I’d rather be myself than
anybody else.”
“Some time I shall be rich,” said Rodney complacently. “I shall have all
grandfather’s money.”
“Won’t it go to your mother?”
“Oh, well, she’ll give it to me. I hope you don’t think you and your
mother will get any of it?”
“We ought to, for mother is making a slave of herself, but I don’t think
we will. If your grandfather would do more for us now we wouldn’t mind
inheriting anything.”
There was a tapping on the front window.
“That means dinner, I suppose,” said Grant.
“Are you going to sit down with us?” asked Rodney, eying Grant’s costume
with disfavor.
“Yes.”
“In those clothes?”
“I haven’t time to change them. Besides my Sunday suit isn’t much
better.”
At the table, toward the close of the meal, Rodney said, “Grandfather,
Grant isn’t dressed very well.”
Seth Tarbox frowned.
“Has he been complaining to you?” he asked. “He’s been pesterin’ all the
mornin’ about new clothes. I told him money was skerce.”
“I can save you expense, grandfather. I will give him an old suit of
mine—one I have cast off.”
“Why, that’s an excellent plan,” said Tarbox, brightening up. “Do you
hear that, Grant? You won’t need to buy a new suit for yourself now.”
“I don’t care for any of Rodney’s old clothes,” answered Grant, with an
indignant flush.
“Sho! sho! You’re acting very contrary. Rodney’s suit is a good deal
better than yours, I’ve no doubt.”
“I don’t know whether it is or not, but I’m entitled to new clothes, and
I want them.”
“What do you say to that, Mrs. Tarbox?” demanded the farmer, looking
over at his wife.
“I say that he is right. Grant has worked hard, Mr. Tarbox, and he ought
to be decently dressed.”
“Rodney,” said his mother, “your kind offer is thrown away.”
“So I see,” said Rodney, extending his plate for another piece of pie.
“I’m sorry you take Grant’s part, Mrs. T.,” said the farmer. “I won’t
countenance no extravagance. What’s the use of spending good money when
a suit of clothes is offered for nothing.”
“If the suit is a good one,” retorted Grant, “why does Rodney lay it
aside?”
“There is a difference between him and you,” said Mrs. Bartlett in an
acid tone.
“What difference?”
“I’m a gentleman and you’re a farm boy,” said Rodney, taking it upon
himself to answer.
“I shan’t always be a farm boy!”
“No, you won’t be a boy when you’re grown up,” returned Rodney, looking
around to see if his joke were appreciated.
“There aint no disgrace in bein’ a farm boy,” said Seth Tarbox. “I
worked on a farm myself when I was a boy, and I’ve worked on a farm ever
since.”
“I’m going to college, and be a lawyer,” said Rodney in a consequential
tone.
“It costs a sight of money to go to college, Sophia,” said Tarbox
deprecatingly.
“I shall make a lot of money when I am a lawyer,” explained Rodney.
“Why, I read in the paper that there are some lawyers that make fifty
thousand dollars. Besides, I may get elected to Congress. That’s better
than working on a farm. When Grant is getting fifteen dollars a month
and his board, as a hired man on a farm, I will ride in my carriage, and
live like a gentleman.”
“I may be a rich man myself,” interrupted Grant.
“You a rich man! Ho, ho!” laughed Rodney. “You look like it.”
“No, I don’t look like it, but I may get there all the same.”
“You talk a good deal for a boy of your age,” remarked Mrs. Bartlett in
a tone of rebuke.
“No more than Rodney.”
But Grant, looking at his mother, saw that she was disturbed, and
refrained from noticing any further speeches of his young antagonist.
“By the way, father,” said Mrs. Bartlett, “you remember John Heywood, of
our town?”
“Yes; what of him?”
“He’s just got back from California.”
“It’s dreadful expensive goin’ to California.”
“That isn’t of much account if you can bring back a lot of money.”
“Did John Heywood bring back a lot of money?” asked the farmer, pricking
up his ears.
“He brought back ten thousand dollars.”
“Sho! How you talk!”
“It’s true, every word of it.”
“How did he make it?”
“Mining, I believe. He’s bought the Ezra Jones place, and is going to
put up a nice house.”
Among the most interested listeners was Grant Colburn. His color went
and came, and he seemed excited.
“How long was Mr. Heywood in California,” he asked.
“About a year. He was gone a good deal longer, for he went across the
plains, and it took four months. He came back across the Isthmus.”
“I would like to go California,” said Grant thoughtfully.
“_You_ go to California! A boy like you!” repeated Mrs. Bartlett
scornfully. “What could you do?”
“I could make more money than I do here,” answered Grant with spirit.
“I reckon you won’t go in a hurry,” said Seth Tarbox composedly. “You
haven’t money enough to get you twenty-five miles, and I s’pose it’s as
much as two thousand miles from Iowa to Californy.”
Grant felt that there was a good deal of truth in his step-father’s
words, but the idea had found lodgment in his brain, and was likely to
remain there.
“I mean to go sometime!” he said resolutely.
“You’d better start right off after dinner!” said Rodney in a sneering
tone.