Ernest Duncan swung himself off the platform of David White's store
and walked whistling up the street. Life seemed good to Ernest just
then. Mr. White had given him a rise in salary that day, and had told
him that he was satisfied with him. Mr. White was not easy to please
in the matter of clerks, and it had been with fear and trembling that
Ernest had gone into his store six months before. He had thought
himself fortunate to secure such a chance. His father had died the
preceding year, leaving nothing in the way of worldly goods except the
house he had lived in. For several years before his death he had been
unable to do much work, and the finances of the little family had
dwindled steadily. After his father's death Ernest, who had been going
to school and expecting to go to college, found that he must go to
work at once instead to support himself and his mother.
If George Duncan had not left much of worldly wealth behind him, he at
least bequeathed to his son the interest of a fine, upright character
and a reputation for honesty and integrity. None knew this better than
David White, and it was on this account that he took Ernest as his
clerk, over the heads of several other applicants who seemed to have a
stronger "pull."
"I don't know anything about _you_, Ernest," he said bluntly. "You're
only sixteen, and you may not have an ounce of real grit or worth in
you. But it will be a queer thing if your father's son hasn't. I knew
him all his life. A better man never lived nor, before his accident, a
smarter one. I'll give his son a chance, anyhow. If you take after
your dad you'll get on all right."
Ernest had not been in the store very long before Mr. White concluded,
with a gratified chuckle, that he did take after his father. He was
hard-working, conscientious, and obliging. Customers of all sorts,
from the rough fishermen who came up from the harbour to the old
Irishwomen from the back country roads, liked him. Mr. White was
satisfied. He was beginning to grow old. This lad had the makings of a
good partner in him by and by. No hurry; he must serves long
apprenticeship first and prove his mettle; no use spoiling him by
hinting at future partnerships before need was. That would all come in
due time. David White was a shrewd man.
Ernest was unconscious of his employer's plans regarding him; but he
knew that he stood well with him and, much to his surprise, he found
that he liked the work, and was beginning to take a personal interest
and pleasure in the store. Hence, he went home to tea on this
particular afternoon with buoyant step and smiling eyes. It was a good
world, and he was glad to be alive in it, glad to have work to do and
a dear little mother to work for. Most of the folks who met him smiled
in friendly fashion at the bright-eyed, frank-faced lad. Only old
Jacob Patterson scowled grimly as he passed him, emitting merely a
surly grunt in response to Ernest's greeting. But then, old Jacob
Patterson was noted as much for his surliness as for his miserliness.
Nobody had ever heard him speak pleasantly to anyone; therefore his
unfriendliness did not at all dash Ernest's high spirits.
"I'm sorry for him," the lad thought. "He has no interest in life save
accumulating money. He has no other pleasure or affection or ambition.
When he dies I don't suppose a single regret will follow him. Father
died a poor man, but what love and respect went with him to his
grave--aye, and beyond it. Jacob Patterson, I'm sorry for you. You
have chosen the poorer part, and you are a poor man in spite of your
thousands."
Ernest and his mother lived up on the hill, at the end of the
straggling village street. The house was a small, old-fashioned one,
painted white, set in the middle of a small but beautiful lawn. George
Duncan, during the last rather helpless years of his life, had devoted
himself to the cultivation of flowers, shrubs, and trees and, as a
result, his lawn was the prettiest in Conway. Ernest worked hard in
his spare moments to keep it looking as well as in his father's
lifetime, for he loved his little home dearly, and was proud of its
beauty.
He ran gaily into the sitting-room.
"Tea ready, lady mother? I'm hungry as a wolf. Good news gives one an
appetite. Mr. White has raised my salary a couple of dollars per week.
We must celebrate the event somehow this evening. What do you say to a
sail on the river and an ice cream at Taylor's afterwards? When a
little woman can't outlive her schoolgirl hankering for ice
cream--why, Mother, what's the matter? Mother, dear!"
Mrs. Duncan had been standing before the window with her back to the
room when Ernest entered. When she turned he saw that she had been
crying.
"Oh, Ernest," she said brokenly, "Jacob Patterson has just been
here--and he says--he says--"
"What has that old miser been saying to trouble you?" demanded Ernest
angrily, taking her hands in his.
"He says he holds your father's promissory note for nine hundred
dollars, overdue for several years," answered Mrs. Duncan. "Yes--and
he showed me the note, Ernest."
"Father's promissory note for nine hundred!" exclaimed Ernest in
bewilderment. "But Father paid that note to James Patterson five years
ago, Mother--just before his accident. Didn't you tell me he did?"
"Yes, he did," said Mrs. Duncan, "but--"
"Then where is it?" interrupted Ernest. "Father would keep the
receipted note, of course. We must look among his papers."
"You won't find it there, Ernest. We--we don't know where the note is.
It--it was lost."
"Lost! That is unfortunate. But you say that Jacob Patterson showed
you a promissory note of Father's still in existence? How can that be?
It can't possibly be the note he paid. And there couldn't have been
another note we knew nothing of?"
"I understand how this note came to be in Jacob Patterson's
possession," said Mrs. Duncan more firmly, "but he laughed in my face
when I told him. I must tell you the whole story, Ernest. But sit down
and get your tea first."
"I haven't any appetite for tea now, Mother," said Ernest soberly.
"Let me hear the whole truth about the matter."
"Seven years ago your father gave his note to old James Patterson,
Jacob's brother," said Mrs. Duncan. "It was for nine hundred dollars.
Two years afterwards the note fell due and he paid James Patterson the
full amount with interest. I remember the day well. I have only too
good reason to. He went up to the Patterson place in the afternoon
with the money. It was a very hot day. James Patterson receipted the
note and gave it to your father. Your father always remembered that
much; he was also sure that he had the note with him when he left the
house. He then went over to see Paul Sinclair. A thunderstorm came up
while he was on the road. Then, as you know, Ernest, just as he turned
in at Paul Sinclair's gate the lightning flash struck and stunned him.
It was weeks before he came to himself at all. He never did come
completely to himself again. When, weeks afterwards, I thought of the
note and asked him about it, we could not find it; and, search as we
did, we never found it. Your father could never remember what he did
with it when he left James Patterson's. Neither Mr. Sinclair nor his
wife could recollect seeing anything of it at the time of the
accident. James Patterson had left for California the very morning
after, and he never came back. We did not worry much about the loss of
the note then; it did not seem of much moment, and your father was not
in a condition to be troubled about the matter."
"But, Mother, this note that Jacob Patterson holds--I don't understand
about this."
"I'm coming to that. I remember distinctly that on the evening when
your father came home after signing the note he said that James
Patterson drew up a note and he signed it, but just as he did so the
old man's pet cat, which was sitting on the table, upset an ink bottle
and the ink ran all over the table and stained one end of the note.
Old James Patterson was the fussiest man who ever lived, and a
stickler for neatness. 'Tut, tut,' he said, 'this won't do. Here, I'll
draw up another note and tear this blotted one up.' He did so and your
father signed it. He always supposed James Patterson destroyed the
first one, and certainly he must have intended to, for there never was
an honester man. But he must have neglected to do so for, Ernest, it
was that blotted note Jacob Patterson showed me today. He said he
found it among his brother's papers. I suppose it has been in the desk
up at the Patterson place ever since James went to California. He died
last winter and Jacob is his sole heir. Ernest, that note with the
compound interest on it for seven years amounts to over eleven hundred
dollars. How can we pay it?"
"I'm afraid that this is a very serious business, Mother," said
Ernest, rising and pacing the floor with agitated strides. "We shall
have to pay the note if we cannot find the other--and even if we
could, perhaps. Your story of the drawing up of the second note would
not be worth anything as evidence in a court of law--and we have
nothing to hope from Jacob Patterson's clemency. No doubt he believes
that he really holds Father's unpaid note. He is not a dishonest man;
in fact, he rather prides himself on having made all his money
honestly. He will exact every penny of the debt. The first thing to do
is to have another thorough search for the lost note--although I am
afraid that it is a forlorn hope."
A forlorn hope it proved to be. The note did not turn up. Old Jacob
Patterson proved obdurate. He laughed to scorn the tale of the blotted
note and, indeed, Ernest sadly admitted to himself that it was not a
story anybody would be in a hurry to believe.
"There's nothing for it but to sell our house and pay the debt,
Mother," he said at last. Ernest had grown old in the days that had
followed Jacob Patterson's demand. His boyish face was pale and
haggard. "Jacob Patterson will take the case into the law courts if we
don't settle at once. Mr. White offered to lend me the money on a
mortgage on the place, but I could never pay the interest out of my
salary when we have nothing else to live on. I would only get further
and further behind. I'm not afraid of hard work, but I dare not borrow
money with so little prospect of ever being able to repay it. We must
sell the place and rent that little four-roomed cottage of Mr. Percy's
down by the river to live in. Oh, Mother, it half kills me to think of
your being turned out of your home like this!"
It was a bitter thing for Mrs. Duncan also, but for Ernest's sake she
concealed her feelings and affected cheerfulness. The house and lot
were sold, Mr. White being the purchaser thereof; and Ernest and his
mother removed to the little riverside cottage with such of their
household belongings as had not also to be sold to make up the
required sum. Even then, Ernest had to borrow two hundred dollars from
Mr. White, and he foresaw that the repayal of this sum would cost him
much self-denial and privation. It would be necessary to cut their
modest expenses down severely. For himself Ernest did not mind, but it
hurt him keenly that his mother should lack the little luxuries and
comforts to which she had been accustomed. He saw too, in spite of her
efforts to hide it, that leaving her old home was a terrible blow to
her. Altogether, Ernest felt bitter and disheartened; his step lacked
spring and his face its smile. He did his work with dogged
faithfulness, but he no longer found pleasure in it. He knew that his
mother secretly pined after her lost home where she had gone as a
bride, and the knowledge rendered him very unhappy.
* * * * *
Paul Sinclair, his father's friend and cousin, died that winter,
leaving two small children. His wife had died the previous year. When
his business affairs came to be settled they were found to be sadly
involved. There were debts on all sides, and it was soon only too
evident that nothing was left for the little boys. They were homeless
and penniless.
"What will become of them, poor little fellows?" said Mrs. Duncan
pityingly. "We are their only relatives, Ernest. We must give them a
home at least."
"Mother, how can we!" exclaimed Ernest. "We are so poor. It's as much
as we can do to get along now, and there is that two hundred to pay
Mr. White. I'm sorry for Danny and Frank, but I don't see how we can
possibly do anything for them."
Mrs. Duncan sighed.
"I know it isn't right to ask you to add to your burden," she said
wistfully.
"It is of _you_ I am thinking, Mother," said Ernest tenderly. "I can't
have your burden added to. You deny yourself too much and work too
hard now. What would it be if you took the care of those children upon
yourself?"
"Don't think of me, Ernest," said Mrs. Duncan eagerly. "I wouldn't
mind. I'd be glad to do anything I could for them, poor little souls.
Their father was your father's best friend, and I feel as if it were
our duty to do all we can for them. They're such little fellows. Who
knows how they would be treated if they were taken by strangers? And
they'd most likely be separated, and that would be a shame. But I
leave it for you to decide, Ernest. It is your right, for the heaviest
part will fall on you."
Ernest did not decide at once. For a week he thought the matter over,
weighing pros and cons carefully. To take the two Sinclair boys meant
a double portion of toil and self-denial. Had he not enough to bear
now? But, on the other side, was it not his duty, nay, his privilege,
to help the children if he could? In the end he said to his mother:
"We'll take the little fellows, Mother. I'll do the best I can for
them. We'll manage a corner and a crust for them."
So Danny and Frank Sinclair came to the little cottage. Frank was
eight and Danny six, and they were small and lively and mischievous.
They worshipped Mrs. Duncan, and thought Ernest the finest fellow in
the world. When his birthday came around in March, the two little
chaps put their heads together in a grave consultation as to what they
could give him.
"You know he gave us presents on our birthdays," said Frank. "So we
must give him something."
"I'll div him my pottet-knife," said Danny, taking the somewhat
battered and loose-jointed affair from his pocket, and gazing at it
affectionately.
"I'll give him one of Papa's books," said Frank. "That pretty one with
the red covers and the gold letters."
A few of Mr. Sinclair's books had been saved for the boys, and were
stored in a little box in their room. The book Frank referred to was
an old _History of the Turks_, and its gay cover was probably the best
of it, since its contents were of no particular merit.
On Ernest's birthday both boys gave him their offerings after
breakfast.
"Here's a pottet-knife for you," said Danny graciously. "It's a bully
pottet-knife. It'll cut real well if you hold it dust the wight way.
I'll show you."
"And here's a book for you," said Frank. "It's a real pretty book, and
I guess it's pretty interesting reading too. It's all about the
Turks."
Ernest accepted both gifts gravely, and after the children had gone
out he and his mother had a hearty laugh.
"The dear, kind-hearted little lads!" said Mrs. Duncan. "It must have
been a real sacrifice on Danny's part to give you his beloved
'pottet-knife.' I was afraid you were going to refuse it at first, and
that would have hurt his little feelings terribly. I don't think the
_History of the Turks_ will keep you up burning the midnight oil. I
remember that book of old--I could never forget that gorgeous cover.
Mr. Sinclair lent it to your father once, and he said it was absolute
trash. Why, Ernest, what's the matter?"
Ernest had been turning the book's leaves over carelessly. Suddenly he
sprang to his feet with an exclamation, his face turning white as
marble.
"Mother!" he gasped, holding out a yellowed slip of paper. "Look! It's
the lost promissory note."
Mother and son looked at each other for a moment. Then Mrs. Duncan
began to laugh and cry together.
"Your father took that book with him when he went to pay the note,"
she said. "He intended to return it to Mr. Sinclair. I remember seeing
the gleam of the red binding in his hand as he went out of the gate.
He must have slipped the note into it and I suppose the book has never
been opened since. Oh, Ernest--do you think--will Jacob Patterson--"
"I don't know, Mother. I must see Mr. White about this. Don't be too
sanguine. This doesn't prove that the note Jacob Patterson found
wasn't a genuine note also, you know--that is, I don't think it would
serve as proof in law. We'll have to leave it to his sense of justice.
If he refuses to refund the money I'm afraid we can't compel him to do
so."
But Jacob Patterson did not any longer refuse belief to Mrs.
Patterson's story of the blotted note. He was a harsh, miserly man,
but he prided himself on his strict honesty; he had been fairly well
acquainted with his brother's business transactions, and knew that
George Duncan had given only one promissory note.
"I'll admit, ma'am, since the receipted note has turned up, that your
story about the blotted one must be true," he said surlily. "I'll pay
your money back. Nobody can ever say Jacob Patterson cheated. I took
what I believed to be my due. Since I'm convinced it wasn't I'll hand
every penny over. Though, mind you, you couldn't make me do it by law.
It's my honesty, ma'am, it's my honesty."
Since Jacob Patterson was so well satisfied with the fibre of his
honesty, neither Mrs. Duncan nor Ernest was disposed to quarrel with
it. Mr. White readily agreed to sell the old Duncan place back to
them, and by spring they were settled again in their beloved little
home. Danny and Frank were with them, of course.
"We can't be too good to them, Mother," said Ernest. "We really owe
all our happiness to them."
"Yes, but, Ernest, if you had not consented to take the homeless
little lads in their time of need this wouldn't have come about."
"I've been well rewarded, Mother," said Ernest quietly, "but, even if
nothing of the sort had happened, I would be glad that I did the best
I could for Frank and Danny. I'm ashamed to think that I was unwilling
to do it at first. If it hadn't been for what you said, I wouldn't
have. So it is your unselfishness we have to thank for it all, Mother
dear."