PHIL INTERVIEWS THE LAWYER
Phil Daring walked toward the village with uneasy, nervous strides.
There was an anxious expression upon his usually placid face.
“Queer,” he muttered to himself, “that I never thought to ask how we’re
able to live. It costs money to feed five hungry youngsters; and where
does it come from, I wonder?”
The Eliot house was on the brow of a knoll and the street sloped
downward to the little village where the “business center” clustered
around the railway station. The river was just beyond, flowing sleepily
on its way to the gulf, and at Riverdale a long wooden bridge spanned
the murky water. It was a quiet, pretty little town, but had such a
limited population that every resident knew nearly everyone else who
lived there and kept fairly well posted on the private affairs of each
member of the community.
Wallace Daring, the father of the twins, had been the big man of
Riverdale before he died a few months ago. He had come to the town
many years before, when he was a young man, and built the great beet
sugar factory that had made all the farmers around so prosperous,
growing crops to supply it. Mr. Daring must have made money from the
business, for he married Jonathan Eliot’s daughter and established a
cosy home where Phil and Phœbe, and Donald and Becky were born.
Afterward he erected a splendid mansion that was the wonder and
admiration of all Riverdale. But no one envied Wallace Daring his
success, for the kindly, energetic man was everybody’s friend and very
popular with his neighbors.
Then began reverses. His well-beloved wife, the mother of his children,
was taken away from him and left him a lonely and changed man. He tried
to seek consolation in the society of his little ones; but in a brief
four years he himself met a sudden death in a railway wreck. Then, to
the amazement of all who knew him, it was discovered that his vast
fortune had been swept away and he was heavily in debt.
Judge Ferguson, his lawyer, was made his executor by the court and
proceeded to settle the estate as advantageously as he could; but
the fine mansion had to be sold. The five orphaned children lived in
their old home, cared for by honest, faithful Aunt Hyacinth, until two
months before the time this story begins, when a man from the East
named Randolph bought the place and the Darings moved over to their
grandfather’s old-fashioned but roomy and comfortable house across the
way.
Phil walked more slowly as he approached the business district. The
task he had set himself was an unpleasant one, but he felt that he must
face it courageously.
The boy’s father had been so invariably indulgent that Phil, although
now sixteen years of age, had never been obliged to think of financial
matters in any way. He was full of life and healthful vitality, and his
one great ambition was to prepare himself for college. His father’s
sudden death stunned him for a time, but he picked up the trend of
his studies again, after a little, and applied himself to work harder
than ever. Vaguely he realized that he must make a name and a fortune
for himself after graduating from college; but so far he had not been
called upon to consider the resources of the family. Mr. Ferguson had
attended to the settlement of his father’s estate, of which the boy
knew nothing whatever, and Aunt Hyacinth had cared for the house, and
got the meals and sent her five charges to school each day in ample
season. The lives of the young Darings had scarcely been interrupted
as yet by the loss of their father; although with him vanished every
tangible means of support. A chance word this morning, however, had
caused Phil to realize for the first time the fact that they were
really poor and dependent; and he knew it was his duty, as the eldest
of the family to find out what their exact circumstances were. In
reality he was not the eldest, for his twin sister, Phœbe, was five
minutes his senior; but Phil was a boy, and in his estimation that more
than made up for the five minutes’ difference in age and established
him as the natural protector of Phœbe, as well as of the other
children.
Down at “The Corners” the main residence street entered the one lying
parallel with the river, and around this junction the business center
of Riverdale was clustered, extending some two or more blocks either
way. The hotel was on one corner and Bennett’s general store on
another, while the opposite corners were occupied by the druggist and
the hardware store. Bennett’s was a brick structure and all the others
were frame, except Spaythe’s Bank, a block up the street. Between them
were rambling one story and two story wooden buildings, mostly old and
weather-beaten, devoted to those minor businesses that make up a town
and are required to supply the wants of the inhabitants, or of the
farmers who “came to town” to trade.
Between the post office and the hardware store was a flight of stairs
leading to offices on the second floor. These stairs Phil ascended and
knocked at a door bearing a small painted sign, the letters of which
were almost effaced by time, with the words: “P. Ferguson; Lawyer.”
No one answered the knock, so Phil opened the door and walked softly in.
It was a bare looking room. A few maps and a print of Abraham Lincoln
hung upon the cracked and discolored plaster of the walls. At one side
was a shelf of sheep-covered law books; in the center stood a big,
square table; beyond that, facing the window, was an old-fashioned desk
at which sat a man engaged in writing. His back was toward Phil; but
from the tousled snow white locks and broad, spreading ears the boy
knew he stood in the presence of his father’s old friend and confidant,
Judge Ferguson. His title of “Judge” was derived from his having been
for some years a Justice of the Peace, and it was, therefore, more
complimentary than official.
As Phil closed the door and stood hesitating, a voice said: “Sit down.”
The tone was quiet and evenly modulated, but it carried the effect of a
command.
Phil sat down. There was a little room connected with the big office,
in which sat a tow-headed clerk copying paragraphs from a law book.
This boy glanced up and, seeing who his master’s visitor was, rose and
carefully closed the door between them. Mr. Ferguson continued writing.
He had no idea who had called upon him, for he did not turn around
until he had leisurely completed his task, when a deliberate whirl of
his revolving office chair brought him face to face with the boy.
“Well, Phil?” said he, shooting from beneath the bushy overhanging
eyebrows a keen glance of inquiry.
“I--I wanted to have a little talk with you, sir,” returned Phil, a bit
embarrassed. “Are you very busy?”
“No. Fire ahead, my lad.”
“It’s about our--our family affairs,” continued the visitor, haltingly.
“What about them, Phil?”
“Why, I know nothing as to how we stand, sir. No one has told me
anything and I’ve been too thoughtless to inquire. But, I ought to
know, Mr. Ferguson--oughtn’t I?”
The judge nodded.
“You ought, Phil. I’ve been going to speak of it, myself, but waited to
see if you wouldn’t come here of your own accord. You, or Phœbe. In
fact, I rather expected Phœbe.”
“Why, sir?”
“You’re not a very practical youth, Phil. They say you’re a student,
and are trying for honors at the high school graduation next month.
Also, you’re the pitcher of the baseball team, and stroke oar for the
river crew. These things occupy all your time, it seems, as well they
may.”
Phil flushed red. There was an implied reproach in the old man’s words.
“Now, Phœbe is different,” continued the lawyer, leaning back in
his chair with his elbows on the arms and joining the tips of his
fingers together--a characteristic attitude. “Phœbe has a shrewd
little head, full of worldly common sense and practical, if womanly,
ideas. I’d a notion Phœbe would come to me to make these necessary
inquiries.”
Phil slowly rose. His face was now white with anger, yet his voice
scarcely trembled, as he said:
“Then, I’ll let her come to you. Good morning, sir.”
Mr. Ferguson nodded again.
“Yes,” he remarked, without altering his position, “my judgment of you
was correct. You’ll be a man some day, Phil, and a good one; but, just
now, you’re merely a stubborn, unformed boy.”
Phil paused with his hand on the knob of the door. To leave the office
at this juncture would be humiliating and unsatisfactory. His nature
was usually calm and repressed, and under excitement he had a way
of growing more quiet and thinking more clearly, which is exactly
the opposite of the usual formula with boys of his age. His strong
resentment at the frank speech of the old lawyer did not abate, but he
began to reason that a quarrel would be foolish, and if he intended to
satisfy the doubts that worried him he must ignore the slight cast upon
his character.
He laid down his hat and resumed his chair.
“After all, sir,” he said, “I’m the eldest boy and the head of the
family. It is my duty to find out how we stand in the world, and what
is necessary to be done to protect and care for my brother and sisters.”
“True enough, my lad,” rejoined the lawyer, in a hearty tone. “I’ll
help you all I can, Phil, for your father’s sake.”
“You administered the estate,” said the boy, “and you are still my
guardian, I believe.”
“Yes. Your father left no will, and the court appointed me administrator
and guardian. I’ve done the best I could to untangle the snarl Wallace
Daring left his business in, and the affairs of the estate are now
closed and the administrator discharged.”
“Was--was there anything left?” inquired Phil, anxiously.
“Your father was a wonderful man, Phil,” resumed the lawyer, with calm
deliberation, “and no doubt he made a lot of money in his day. But he
had one fault as a financier--he was too conscientious. I knew Wallace
Daring intimately, from the time he came to this town twenty years ago,
and he never was guilty of a crooked or dishonest act.”
Phil’s face brightened at this praise of his father and he straightened
up and returned the lawyer’s look with interest.
“Then there was nothing disgraceful in his failure, sir?”
“No hint of disgrace,” was the positive reply. “Daring made a fortune
from his sugar factory, and made it honestly. But three years ago all
the beet sugar industries of the country pooled their interests--formed
a trust, in other words--and invited your father to join them. He
refused, believing such a trust unjust and morally unlawful. They
threatened him, but still he held out, claiming this to be a free
country wherein every man has the right to conduct his business as he
pleases. I told him he was a fool; but I liked his sterling honesty.
“The opposition determined to ruin him, and finally succeeded. Mind
you, Phil, I don’t say Wallace Daring wouldn’t have won the fight had
he lived, for he was in the right and had a host of friends to back
him up; but his accidental death left his affairs in chaos. I had hard
work, as administrator, to make the assets meet the indebtedness. By
selling the sugar factory to the trust at a big figure and disposing of
your old home quite advantageously, I managed to clear up the estate
and get my discharge from the courts. But the surplus, I confess, was
practically nothing.”
Phil’s heart sank. He thought earnestly over this statement for a time.
“We--we’re pretty poor, then, I take it, sir?”
“Pretty poor, Phil. And it’s hard to be poor, after having enjoyed
plenty.”
“I can’t see that there’s any college career ahead of me, Mr.
Ferguson,” said the boy, trying to keep back the tears that rushed
unbidden to his eyes.
“Nor I, Phil. College is a fine thing for a young fellow, but under
some circumstances work is better.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before, then?” demanded the boy,
indignantly.
“There was no use in discouraging you, or interrupting your work
at high school. I consider it is best for you to graduate there,
especially as that is liable to end your scholastic education. The
time is so near--less than three months--that to continue your studies
would make little difference in deciding your future, and the diploma
will be valuable to you.”
No one but Phil will ever know what a terrible disappointment he now
faced. For years his ambition, fostered by his father, had been to
attend college. All his boyish dreams had centered around making a
record there. Phil was a student, but not one of the self-engrossed,
namby-pamby kind. He was an athlete as well as a scholar, and led his
high school class in all manly sports. At college he had determined
to excel, both as a student and an athlete, and never had he dreamed,
until now, that a college career would be denied him.
It took him a few minutes to crowd this intense disappointment into
a far corner of his heart and resume the conversation. The lawyer
silently watched him, his keen gray eyes noting every expression that
flitted over the boy’s mobile features. Finally, Phil asked:
“Would you mind telling me just how much money was left, Mr. Ferguson?”
“The court costs in such cases are extremely high,” was the evasive
reply. The lawyer did not seem to wish to be explicit, yet Phil felt he
had the right to know.
“And there were your own fees to come out of it,” he suggested.
“My fees? I didn’t exact any, my lad. Your father was the best and
truest friend I ever had. I am glad I could do something to assist his
orphaned children. And, to be frank with you, Phil, I couldn’t have
squared the debts and collected legal fees at the same time, if I’d
wanted to.”
“I see,” returned Phil, sadly. “You have been very kind, Mr. Ferguson,
and we are all grateful to you, I assure you. But will you please tell
me how we have managed to live for the past eight months, since there
was nothing left from father’s estate?”
It was the lawyer’s turn to look embarrassed then. He rubbed his hooked
nose with one finger and ran the other hand through the thick mat of
white hair.
“Wallace Daring’s children,” said he, “had trouble enough, poor things,
without my adding to it just then. I’ve a high respect for old black
Hyacinth, Phil. The faithful soul would die for any one of you, if
need be. She belongs to the Daring tribe, mind you; not to the Eliots.
Your father brought her here when he was first married, and I think
she nursed him when he was a baby, as she has all his children. So I
took Aunt Hyacinth into my confidence, and let her manage the household
finances. A month ago, when the final settlement of the estate was
made, I turned over to her all the surplus. That’s what you’ve been
living on, I suppose.”
“How much was it?” asked the boy, bent on running down the fact.
“Forty dollars.”
“Forty dollars! For all our expenses! Why, that won’t last us till I
graduate--till I can work and earn more.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed the attorney, drily.
Phil stared at him.
“What ought I to do, sir? Quit school at once?”
“No. Don’t do that. Get your diploma. You’ll regret it in after life if
you don’t.”
“But--there are five of us, sir. The youngsters are hearty eaters, you
know; and the girls must have clothes and things. Forty dollars! Why,
it must have all been spent long ago--and more.”
Mr. Ferguson said nothing to this. He was watching Phil’s face again.
“It’s all so--so--sudden, sir; and so unexpected. I--I--” he choked
down a sob and continued bravely: “I’m not able to think clearly yet.”
“Take your time,” advised the lawyer. “There’s no rush. And don’t get
discouraged, Phil. Remember, you’re the head of the family. Remember,
there’s no earthly battle that can’t be won by a brave and steadfast
heart. Think it all over at your leisure, and consider what your father
might have done, had some whim of fortune placed him in your position.
Confide in Phœbe, if you like, but don’t worry the little ones. Keep
a stiff upper lip with your friends and playmates, and never let them
suspect you’re in trouble. The world looks with contempt on a fellow
who shows he’s downed. If he doesn’t show it, he _isn’t_ downed. Just
bear that in mind, Phil. And now run along, for I’ve a case to try in
half an hour, at the courthouse. If you need any help or advice, lad,”
he added, with gentle kindliness, “come to me. I was your father’s
friend, and I’m your legal guardian.”
Phil went away staggering like a man in a dream. His brain seemed in a
whirl, and somehow he couldn’t control it and make it think logically.
As he reached the sidewalk Al Hayden and Eric Spaythe ran up to him.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Phil,” said one. “Saw you go up to the
judge’s office.”
“Let’s hurry over to the practice field,” suggested the other, eagerly.
“The rest of our nine is there by this time, and we’ve got to get in
trim for the match this afternoon.”
Phil stared, first at one face and then the other, trying to
understand what they were talking about.
“If we’re beaten by Exeter to-day,” continued Al, “we’ll lose the
series; but we won’t let ’em beat us, Phil. Their pitcher can’t hold a
candle to you, and we’ve got Eric for shortstop.”
“How’s your arm, Phil?” demanded Eric.
They had started down the street as they talked, and Phil walked with
them. Gradually, the mist began to fade from his mind and he came back
to the practical things of life. “If a fellow doesn’t show it, he
_isn’t_ downed,” the shrewd old lawyer had said, and Phil knew it was
true.
“My arm?” he replied, with a return of his usual quiet, confident
manner; “it’s fit as anything, boys. We’ll beat Exeter to-day as sure
as my name’s Phil Daring.”