Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
+-------------------------------------------------+
|Transcriber's note: |
| |
|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. |
| |
+-------------------------------------------------+
THE YOUNG SALESMAN
By HORATIO ALGER, JR.
Author of "The Errand Boy," "Mark Mason's Victory,"
"Tom Temple's Career," "Tony, the Hero," "The
Train Boy," etc., etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
THE YOUNG SALESMAN.
CHAPTER I.
ON BOARD THE "ARCTURUS."
Halfway across the Atlantic the good ship _Arcturus_ was making her way
from Liverpool to New York. She was a sailing vessel, and her speed by
no means equaled that of the mighty steamships, more than one of which
passed her, leaving her far behind.
While she was used chiefly for freight, she carried a few passengers,
less than twenty in all.
I wish to call the reader's attention to the occupants of one of the
small staterooms, a man and a boy. There was a great contrast between
them. The man was thin and hollow-cheeked, and as he lay in his berth he
looked to be, as he was, in the last stages of consumption.
The boy, who must have been nearly sixteen, was the picture of health.
He was inclined to be dark, with black hair, bright eyes, and with
considerable color in his cheeks.
He bent over the reclining figure, and asked, with anxious solicitude:
"How do you feel, father?"
"No better, Scott," and the father began to cough.
"Does it hurt you to cough?"
"Yes, but it won't trouble me long."
"You will be better?" said the boy, half inquiringly.
"No, Scott, I shall never be better. I am very near the end."
"You don't mean that?" exclaimed the boy, in pained surprise.
"Yes, I do, Scott, and you may as well know it. I doubt whether I shall
live to see New York."
Scott Walton looked dismayed, for till now he had not suspected that his
father's life was in danger. Yet, as he gazed at the fragile form, he
was forced to believe that his father spoke truly.
"What will become of me," he said, with emotion, "alone in a strange
land?"
"That is what I want to speak to you about." Here the man began to cough
again.
"Don't talk, father. It makes you cough."
"I must, my son. Perhaps I may have no other chance. I am sorry that I
must leave you almost penniless."
"I don't mind that, father. If you could only live----"
"Don't interrupt me, for there are some things I must tell you. You will
find in my wallet twenty pounds in English bank notes, worth in America
about one hundred dollars. This sum will support you while you are
looking for a situation, for you will need to find work."
"I am strong and willing to work, father."
"Yes, you are strong. You don't take after me, but after your mother's
family."
"Have you any relatives in America?"
"There is a cousin of your mother's in New York, Ezra Little. I believe
he is well-to-do. I can't tell you what he is doing or where he lives,
but you can look up his name in the New York directory."
"Is he the only relative we have in America?
"No, there is a cousin of my own, Philo Walton, who went out to one of
the Western States. He was a good-hearted fellow, and likely to make his
way, but I have heard nothing of him, and I don't know whether he is
still living or not.
"There seems a very small chance of your finding him, in so large a
country, but you can probably find Ezra Little. Take down these names,
Scott. They may be of importance to you."
Scott drew out a small memorandum book, and did as directed.
"I would not have started from England, had I supposed I should have
become worse so rapidly," continued Mr. Walton. "I think the sea air has
aggravated my disease. There seemed nothing for us at home though, and
no friends on whom we could call. I built my hopes on Ezra Little. I
thought for your mother's sake he would help her boy. If I could live to
see him, and commend him to you in person, I could die in peace."
He had hardly completed these words when he had a terrible fit of
coughing, which seemed to rack his feeble frame.
"Don't talk any more, father!" said Scott, in alarm. "Can't I get you
something to relieve you? I will go to the steward and ask for a cup of
hot tea."
Without waiting for an answer he left the stateroom and sought the
steward.
He was gone but ten minutes, but when he returned the bedclothes were
stained with blood.
His father had had a hemorrhage, and was lying with closed eyes,
breathing faintly.
The ship doctor was summoned, and applied restoratives, but without
effect. Before the morning dawned, Scott was fatherless.
It was a great trial to the lonely boy to see his father's body
consigned to the deep. He wished he might carry it to the land which was
to be his future home, and have it buried in some quiet cemetery; but it
would be a week at least before the slow-going ship would reach New
York, and the sailors would have rebelled at having a corpse on board
for that length of time.
Scott secured the money of which his father had spoken, and a sealed
packet inscribed:
_For My Son._
_To be opened a year from my death._
The boy's grief was so sincere that his curiosity was not aroused by
this inscription. He put the packet in his traveling bag, and tried to
prepare himself for the solitary life he must now lead.
There was a good deal of sympathy felt for the lonely boy on the ship,
and more than one of the passengers proffered sympathy and
companionship.
Scott received their advances politely, but showed by his manner that he
preferred to be alone.
A week later, however, when the vessel was within a few hours of
reaching her destination, he felt that it would be well to obtain some
information about the new country that awaited him.
Among the passengers was a young man who looked to be about twenty-five.
His name was Crawford Lane. He wore a light overcoat, a showy necktie, a
low-cut vest, and was in appearance a very good specimen of the Bowery
swell.
He joined Scott as he was standing on deck, trying to catch the first
glimpse of land.
"Well, my young friend," he said, affably, "I suppose that you, like the
rest of us, are glad to be near port."
"I don't know," replied Scott, listlessly.
"Of course you miss your father."
"Oh, so much!" said the boy, the tears coming into his eyes. "For years
we have lived together and been constant companions."
"Just so! My father died five years ago, and I often miss him."
"But you doubtless have other relatives, while he was all I had,"
explained Scott.
"Yes, I have other relatives. An uncle of mine is the present mayor of
Chicago. Of course, you have heard of Chicago."
"Yes; it is one of your largest cities, is it not?"
"Yes, it's a smart place, Chicago is."
"Do you live there?"
"Not at present. I have relations in New York also. They are rich; live
on Fifth Avenue, or near by."
"You are fortunate in having so many relations," said Scott, with a
touch of envy.
"I don't know. One of my uncles tried to cheat me out of part of my
inheritance. Relations are not always the best friends."
"I hope he did not succeed," said Scott, politely, though he felt very
little interest in the fortunes of his fellow voyager.
"No. That is, he defrauded me of ten thousand dollars, but there was a
good deal more, so that I was not inconvenienced."
Lane spoke carelessly, and gave Scott the impression that he was a rich
man.
"Then you have a home to go to," said Scott, sadly.
"No," answered Lane. "You see my father and mother are dead, and I live
at the hotels or in apartments of my own. I don't care to live with
relations. Have you any relations in New York?"
"None that I have seen. There is a cousin of my mother, Ezra Little, who
I am told is well-to-do. But I never saw him, and I don't know how he
will receive me."
"Then you will probably go to a hotel?"
"I suppose so, but I know nothing of New York."
"I hope," said Lane, in an insinuating tone, "that your father left you
in easy circumstances?"
"No, I shall have to make my own way."
"Surely you have some money."
"Yes, I have twenty pounds. I am told that amounts to a hundred dollars
in American currency."
"Yes," answered Lane, brightening up. "Well, that will tide you over
till you get something to do. But probably your relative will provide
for you."
"No," said Scott; "I shall not ask him to do so. I prefer to earn my own
living."
"Just so. Well, I can be of some service to you. I will find you a
reasonable place to stop, and when you get ready you can call on this
Mr. Little."
"Thank you!"
Scott was disposed to accept the offer of his new acquaintance, as, of
course, he himself knew absolutely nothing about New York.