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HERBERT CARTER'S LEGACY
Or The Inventor's Son
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
AUTHOR OF “Strong and Steady,” “Strive and Succeed,” “Try and Trust,”
“Bound To Rise,” Etc.
NEW YORK
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY
Horatio Alger, Jr., an author who lived among and for boys and himself
remained a boy in heart and association till death, was born at Revere,
Mass., January 13, 1834. He was the son of a clergyman; was graduated
at Harvard College in 1852, and at its Divinity School in 1860; and was
pastor of the Unitarian Church at Brewster, Mass., in 1862-66.
In the latter year he settled in New York and began drawing public
attention to the condition and needs of street boys. He mingled with
them, gained their confidence, showed a personal concern in their
affairs, and stimulated them to honest and useful living. With his first
story he won the hearts of all red-blooded boys everywhere, and of the
seventy or more that followed over a million copies were sold during the
author's lifetime.
In his later life he was in appearance a short, stout, bald-headed man,
with cordial manners and whimsical views of things that amused all who
met him. He died at Natick, Mass., July 18, 1899.
Mr. Alger's stories are as popular now as when first published, because
they treat of real live boys who were always up and about--just like
the boys found everywhere to-day. They are pure in tone and inspiring
in influence, and many reforms in the juvenile life of New York may be
traced to them. Among the best known are:
Strong and Steady; Strive and Succeed; Try and Trust; Bound to Rise;
Risen from the Ranks; Herbert Carter's Legacy; Brave and Bold; Jack's
Ward; Shifting for Himself; Wait and Hope; Paul the Peddler; Phil
the Fiddler; Slow and Sure; Julius the Street Boy; Tom the Bootblack;
Struggling Upward; Facing the World; The Cash Boy; Making His Way; Tony
the Tramp; Joe's Luck; Do and Dare; Only an Irish Boy; Sink or Swim;
A Cousin's Conspiracy; Andy Gordon; Bob Burton; Harry Vane; Hector's
Inheritance; Mark Mason's Triumph; Sam's Chance; The Telegraph Boy; The
Young Adventurer; The Young Outlaw; The Young Salesman, and Luke Walton.
{Illustration: It is practical. I will pay one thousand dollars a year
for ten years for a half interest in the invention.}
CHAPTER I
MRS. CARTER RECEIVES A LETTER
“Is that the latest style?” inquired James Leech, with a sneer, pointing
to a patch on the knee of Herbert Carter's pants.
Herbert's face flushed. He was not ashamed of the patch, for he knew
that his mother's poverty made it a necessity. But he felt that it was
mean and dishonorable in James Leech, whose father was one of the rich
men of Wrayburn, to taunt him with what he could not help. Some boys
might have slunk away abashed, but Herbert had pluck and stood his
ground.
“It is my style,” he answered, firmly, looking James boldly in the face.
“I admire your taste, then,” returned James, with a smooth sneer.
“Then, you had better imitate it,” retorted Herbert.
“Thank you,” said James, in the same insulting tone. “Would you lend me
your pants for a pattern? Excuse me, though; perhaps you have no other
pair.”
“For shame, James!” exclaimed one or two boys who had listened to the
colloquy, stirred to indignation by this heartless insult on the part of
James Leech to a boy who was deservedly a favorite with them all.
Herbert's fist involuntarily doubled, and James, though he did not know
it, ran a narrow chance of getting a good whipping. But our young hero
controlled himself, not without some difficulty, and said: “I have one
other pair, and these are at your service whenever you require them.”
Then turning to the other boys, he said, in a changed tone: “Who's in
for a game of ball?”
“I,” said one, promptly.
“And I,” said another.
Herbert walked away, accompanied by the other boys, leaving James Leech
alone.
James looked after him with a scowl. He was sharp enough to see that
Herbert, in spite of his patched pants, was a better scholar and a
greater favorite than himself. He had intended to humiliate him on the
present occasion, but he was forced to acknowledge that he had come off
second best from the encounter. He walked moodily away, and took what
comfort he could in the thought that he was far superior to a boy who
owned but two pairs of pants, and one of them patched. He was foolish
enough to feel that a boy or man derived importance from the extent of
his wardrobe; and exulted in the personal possession of eight pairs of
pants.
This scene occurred at recess. After school was over, Herbert walked
home. He was a little thoughtful. There was no disgrace in a patch,
as he was sensible enough to be aware. Still, he would have a little
preferred not to wear one. That was only natural. In that point, I
suppose, my readers will fully agree with him. But he knew very well
that his mother, who had been left a widow, had hard work enough to get
along as it was, and he had no idea of troubling her on the subject.
Besides, he had a better suit for Sundays, neat though plain, and he
felt that he ought not to be disturbed by James Leech's insolence.
So thinking, he neared the small house which he called home. It was a
small cottage, with something less than an acre of land attached,
enough upon which to raise a few vegetables. It belonged to his mother,
nominally, but was mortgaged for half its value to Squire Leech, the
father of James. The amount of the mortgage, precisely, was seven
hundred and fifty dollars. It had cost his father fifteen hundred. When
he built it, obtaining half this sum on mortgage, he hoped to pay it up
by degrees; but it turned out that, from sickness and other causes, this
proved impossible. When, five months before, he had died suddenly, the
house, which was all he left, was subject to this incumbrance. Upon
this, interest was payable semi-annually at the rate of six per cent.
Forty-five dollars a year is not a large sum, but it seemed very
large to Mrs. Carter, when added to their necessary expenses for food,
clothing and fuel. How it was to be paid she did not exactly see. The
same problem had perplexed Herbert, who, like a good son as he was,
shared his mother's cares and tried to lighten them. But in a small
village like Wrayburn there are not many ways of getting money, at any
rate for a boy. There were no manufactories, as in some large villages,
and money was a scarce commodity.
Herbert had, however, one source of income. Half a dozen families,
living at some distance from the post office, employed him to bring
any letters or papers that might come for them, and for this service he
received a regular tariff of two cents for each letter, and one cent for
each paper. He was not likely to grow rich on this income, but he felt
that, though small, it was welcome.
According to custom, Herbert called at the post office on his way home.
He found a letter for Deacon Crossleigh, one for Mr. Duncan, two for Dr.
Waffit, and papers for each of the two former.
“Ten cents!” he thought with satisfaction. “Well, that is better than
nothing, though it won't buy me a new pair of pants.”
He was about to leave the office, when the postmaster called after him:
“Wait a minute, Herbert; I believe there's a letter for your mother.”
Herbert returned, and received a letter bearing the following
superscription: “Mrs. Almira Carter, Wrayburn, New York.”
“I hope it isn't bad news,” said the postmaster. “I see it's edged with
black.”
“I can't make out where it's from,” said Herbert, scanning the postmark
critically.
“Nor I,” said the postmaster, rubbing his glasses, and taking another
look. “The postmark is very indistinct.”
“There's an n and a p,” said Herbert, after a little examination. “I
think it must be Randolph.”
“Randolph? So it is, I declare. Have you got any friends or relatives
living there?”
“Yes, my mother's Uncle Herbert, for whom I was named, lives there.”
“Then he must be dead.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The envelope is edged with black. You had better carry it home before
you go round with the others.”
“Perhaps I had,” said Herbert. “I'll run, so as not to keep the others
waiting. Deacon Crossleigh is always in a hurry for his paper.”
“Yes, the deacon's always in a fidget to know what's going on,
particularly when Congress is in session. He takes a wonderful interest
in politics.”
Herbert ran up the street with a quick step, pausing a minute at his
humble home.
“You are out of breath, Herbert. Have you been running?”
“Yes, I've got a letter for you, and I wanted to bring it before I went
round with the rest.”
“A letter! Where from?” asked the widow, with curiosity, for she held
very little intercourse with the world outside of Wrayburn.
“It's postmarked Randolph, as well as I can make out. While you are
reading it, I'll run and leave my letters, and be back to hear the
news.”
In a hurry to do all his errands and get back, Herbert ran all the way.
While his eyes were fixed on one of the envelopes, he ran full against
James Leech, who was walking up the street with a pompous air.
In the encounter James's hat came off, and he was nearly thrown down.
“What made you run into me?” he demanded, wrath-fully.
“Excuse me, James,” said Herbert, recovering himself.
“You did it on purpose,” said his enemy, glaring at him angrily.
“That isn't very likely,” said Herbert. “I got hit as hard as you did.”
“Your hat didn't get knocked off. Pick it up,” said James, imperiously,
pointing to it as it lay in the path.
“I will, because it is by my fault that it fell,” said Herbert, stooping
over and picking it up. “You needn't have ordered me to do it.”
“The next time take care how you run against a gentleman,” said James,
arrogantly.
“Take care the next time to speak like a gentleman.” said Herbert. “Good
night! I must be off.”
“Insolent beggar!” muttered James. “He don't know his place. How dare he
speak to me in that way?”