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_THE UPWARD AND ONWARD SERIES._
DESK AND DEBIT;
OR,
THE CATASTROPHES OF A CLERK.
By
OLIVER OPTIC,
AUTHOR OF "YOUNG AMERICA ABROAD," "THE ARMY AND NAVY STORIES,"
"THE WOODVILLE STORIES," "THE BOAT-CLUB STORIES," "THE
STARRY FLAG SERIES," "THE LAKE-SHORE SERIES," ETC.
WITH FOURTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
NEW YORK:
LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
1871.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
By WILLIAM T. ADAMS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
ELECTROTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
10 Spring Lane.
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY GOOD-NATURED AND VERSATILE YOUNG FRIEND
_EDWIN A. FARWELL_,
WHO, SINCE THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN, HAS PASSED AWAY FROM
THE SCENES OF EARTH, LOVED AND RESPECTED
BY ALL WHO KNEW HIM,
THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
THE UPWARD AND ONWARD SERIES.
1. _Field and Forest_; OR, THE FORTUNES OF A FARMER.
2. _Plane and Plank_; OR, THE MISHAPS OF A MECHANIC.
3. _Desk and Debit_; OR, THE CATASTROPHES OF A CLERK.
_IN PREPARATION_:
4. _Cringle and Cross-Tree_; OR, THE SEA SWASHES OF A SAILOR.
5. _Bivouac and Battle_; OR, THE STRUGGLES OF A SOLDIER.
6. _Sea and Shore_; OR, THE TRAMPS OF A TRAVELLER.
PREFACE.
"DESK AND DEBIT" is the third of "THE UPWARD AND ONWARD SERIES," in
which Phil Farringford appears as a clerk. The principal events of the
story are located in Chicago and on Lake Michigan--the latter, perhaps,
because the author finds it quite impossible to write a story without a
boat, which also involves the necessity of a broad sheet of water, or a
long river. In this, as in its predecessors, evil-minded characters are
introduced, to show the contrast between vice and virtue; but the hero,
in whom the sympathies of the reader are supposed to be centred, is
still faithful to his Christian duties, still reads his Bible, and
"prays without ceasing."
Young and old are injured only by the precept and example of those whom
they love, respect, or admire; and the writer has no fear that his
readers will love, respect, or admire Charles Whippleton or Ben
Waterford, or that they will fail to condemn their errors and their
vices. The author hopes and expects that his young friends, while they
follow Phil in his exciting experience in the counting-room, and in the
"Marian" on Lake Michigan, will love and respect his virtues as well as
his courage and resolution.
HARRISON SQUARE, BOSTON,
June 7, 1870.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH PHIL HAS A TALK WITH HIS FATHER, AND REVIEWS
HIS PAST HISTORY. 11
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH PHIL STARTS FOR CHICAGO, AND HEARS A FAMILIAR
NAME. 22
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH PHIL MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MRS. WHIPPLETON. 33
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH PHIL IS CHIVALROUS, BUT HAS HIS EYES OPENED. 44
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH PHIL TAKES A ROOM AT MRS. WHIPPLETON'S
BOARDING-HOUSE. 56
CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH PHIL IS ENGAGED AS ENTRY CLERK FOR COLLINGSBY
AND WHIPPLETON. 67
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH PHIL TAKES HIS PLACE AT THE DESK, AND IS ENGAGED
FOR A YEAR. 79
CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH PHIL TAKES A SAIL ON THE LAKE WITH MR. WHIPPLETON. 90
CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH PHIL ATTEMPTS TO MAKE OUT A TRIAL BALANCE. 102
CHAPTER X.
IN WHICH PHIL IS PERPLEXED ABOUT CERTAIN INVOICES. 113
CHAPTER XI.
IN WHICH PHIL TAKES CHARGE OF MRS. WHIPPLETON'S EARTHLY
TREASURE. 124
CHAPTER XII.
IN WHICH PHIL VISITS THE HOUSE OF MR. COLLINGSBY, AND SEES
MISS MARIAN. 135
CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH PHIL LOOKS INTO THE OPERATIONS OF THE JUNIOR
PARTNER. 146
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH PHIL MEETS WITH A SERIOUS CATASTROPHE. 158
CHAPTER XV.
IN WHICH PHIL GOES TO WORK IN THE COOK-ROOM OF THE MARIAN. 170
CHAPTER XVI.
IN WHICH PHIL PROMISES NOT TO DESERT MISS COLLINGSBY. 182
CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH PHIL PUTS A CHECK ON THE OPERATIONS OF MR. BEN
WATERFORD. 194
CHAPTER XVIII.
IN WHICH PHIL PROTESTS WITH THE BOAT-HOOK, BUT IS PROTESTED. 205
CHAPTER XIX.
IN WHICH PHIL PROFITS BY CIRCUMSTANCES, AND WEIGHS ANCHOR
IN THE MARIAN. 218
CHAPTER XX.
IN WHICH PHIL SAILS THE MARIAN ACROSS LAKE MICHIGAN. 229
CHAPTER XXI.
IN WHICH PHIL ANSWERS SOME INQUIRIES ABOUT THE FAWN, AND
OTHER MATTERS. 241
CHAPTER XXII.
IN WHICH PHIL IS BEWILDERED, AND THE MARIAN SAILS FOR
CHICAGO. 252
CHAPTER XXIII.
IN WHICH PHIL, IN THE MARIAN, GETS THE WEATHER-GAGE OF
THE FLORINA. 264
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN WHICH PHIL GOES TO SLEEP, AND HIS SEVEREST CATASTROPHE
COMES. 275
CHAPTER XXV.
IN WHICH PHIL SUFFERS MUCH PAIN, AND MARIAN IS VERY
RESOLUTE. 287
CHAPTER XXVI.
IN WHICH PHIL FINDS THE TABLES TURNED, AND THE MARIAN RUNS
INTO CHICAGO RIVER. 298
CHAPTER XXVII.
IN WHICH PHIL VISITS MR. COLLINGSBY AGAIN, AND IS A HERO
IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. 309
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH PHIL MORALIZES UPON WORLDLY WISDOM, AND BIDS
FAREWELL TO DESK AND DEBIT. 321
DESK AND DEBIT;
OR,
THE CATASTROPHES OF A CLERK.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH PHIL HAS A TALK WITH HIS FATHER, AND REVIEWS HIS PAST HISTORY.
"I must go to Chicago, father," said I, one evening, after we had been
discussing our domestic relations with more than usual earnestness.
"Why go to Chicago, Philip? What put that idea into your head?" replied
my father, with a kind of deprecatory smile.
"I don't feel as though I could live any longer in this state of doubt
and uncertainty."
"Really, Philip, I don't think you need worry yourself to that extent."
"I can't help it. I want to know whether my mother is alive or dead.
She may have been in her grave for a year for aught we know."
"Not so bad as that, Philip. I am sure if anything had happened to her,
we should have heard of it," added my father, mildly; but I saw that he
had more feeling on the subject than he chose to manifest.
"It seems to me inhuman and unnatural to live in this way," I
persisted, perhaps a little more impatiently than I ought to have
spoken.
"It is all my fault, my son," said my father, meekly.
"I don't think so."
"Don't compel me to review the bitter experience of the past. You know
it all."
"I don't mean to blame you, father."
"Certainly it is not your mother's fault that an ocean rolls between
her and me."
"I am willing to allow that it is your fault, and mine too, in a sense
different from what you meant, that our family is still separated."
I perceived that my father was considerably affected by what I had
said; and as he relapsed into silence, apparently to give vent to the
emotions which disturbed him, I did not press the subject any further
at that moment. But I felt all that I had said, and I thought something
ought to be done. I was thoroughly in earnest, and I felt that it would
be my fault if our little family continued to be separated for a much
longer period.
I was nearly sixteen years old; and into that brief space had been
crowded a strange and varied experience. In order that my readers may
know precisely my relations to the rest of the world, and understand
why I was so deeply moved, I must briefly review the events of my life.
I was born in the city of St. Louis, though this was a fact which had
been patent to me only a couple of years. I had attained unto that
worldly wisdom which enabled me to know who my father was; but I was
less fortunate in regard to my mother, whom I could not remember that I
had ever seen, though it was a comfort for me to know that my baby eyes
had gazed into her loving face.
In the burning of the steamer Farringford, on the upper Missouri, in
which my father and mother and myself--then a child two years old--were
passengers, I had been committed to a raft formed of a state-room door,
and bolstered with pillows to keep me from rolling off. By an accident
this frail craft was carried away from the burning steamer, then
aground, and I was separated from my father, who, I grieve to say, was
intoxicated at the time, and unable to do all that he would have
accomplished in his sober senses. At this moment the steamer broke from
the shore, and was carried swiftly down the mighty river. Parents were
thus separated from the helpless child.
But it was not ordered that this little one should perish in the cold
waters of the great river in the night and the gloom. An old pioneer,
trapper, and hunter, Matt Rockwood, had picked me up, and for years had
nursed me and cared for me in his rude log cabin, loving me devotedly,
and watching over me with a woman's tenderness. For eleven years I
remained in the field and forest, hardened by the rude life of the
pioneer, working hard, and winning a large experience in dealing with
the elements around me. A well-educated and refined gentleman, driven
from the haunts of civilization by a fancied wrong, became our
neighbor, and was my instructor, so that I obtained more than a common
school education from him. By the seeming guidings of Providence, his
wife and daughter were sent to him in the wilderness, and remained
there through the season.
My foster-father was killed in an affray with the Indians. Boy as I
was, I went through a brief campaign with the savages, and my own rifle
had more than once brought down the treacherous foe. I had faced danger
and death, and I had rescued the daughter of my excellent friend and
instructor, Mr. Gracewood, from the Indians. Ella was then, and is now,
one of my best friends. In the autumn, leaving the farm and stock to
Kit Cruncher, an old hunter who had been our friend and neighbor for
years, I started for the realms of civilization with Mr. Gracewood and
his family, taking with me the articles found upon me by the old
pioneer when I was rescued from the river.
I had fifteen hundred dollars in cash, after I had paid my fare to St.
Louis--the worldly wealth of my deceased foster-father. On the way down
I was separated from my friends by an accident, and did not see them
again for several weeks. But I found a place in the city to learn the
carpenter's trade, in which I had already made considerable
proficiency. I received six dollars a week for my work when it was
found that I was both able and willing to do nearly as much as an
ordinary journeyman.
By a succession of rather singular incidents, I discovered that a
dissolute, drunken man about town was my father--which I regarded at
the time as the greatest mishap that could possibly befall me. But I
took him to my boarding-house, where good--I might even say
blessed--Mrs. Greenough took care of him, giving to his body the
nursing he needed, and to his spiritual wants the gospel of Jesus
Christ. What my poor father, who had become the moral and physical
wreck of what he had been before, could not do of his own strength, he
did with the grace and by the help of God--he abandoned his cups, and
became a sober, moral, and religious man. He attended every service at
the Methodist church, into whose fold Mrs. Greenough had led him, and
where, for two years, he had been a faithful, consistent, and useful
member.
He was employed as the agent of a very wealthy southern planter, who
had large possessions in St. Louis. He had the care of property worth
hundreds of thousands, and received and disbursed large sums in rents,
repairs, and building. He had a salary of twenty-four hundred dollars a
year, more than half of which he saved, for we continued to live at the
humble abode of Mrs. Greenough after the dawn of our prosperity. I had
saved nearly all my wages, and at the opening of my story I was worth,
in my own right, about two thousand dollars, with which, however, I did
not purpose to meddle.
Through all my mishaps I had reached the flood tide of prosperity.
There was only one thing in the wide world that disturbed me; and that,
at last, almost became a burden to me. I had a mother whom I had never
seen within my remembrance. She was a beautiful woman, as her miniature
in my possession fully testified, as well as those who had known her.
Mr. Collingsby, her father, had three children, of whom my mother was
the youngest. He was a wealthy man, and formerly a resident of St.
Louis, from which he had removed, partly on account of his business,
and partly it was said, to avoid the importunities of my father, who
made himself very disagreeable in his inebriation. He was largely
engaged in railroad and other business enterprises. My mother was
travelling in Europe, with her brother, and was not expected to return
for several years.
That which had become a burden to me was the desire to see my mother,
with the added longing to have our little family reunited. There was no
good reason why we should longer be separated. My father was a steady,
industrious, Christian man, who had repented in sackcloth and ashes the
errors of his lifetime. He had written to Mr. Collingsby several times,
but no notice had ever been taken of his appeals. In vain he assured
the father of his injured wife that he was an altered man; that he
drank no liquor or anything that could intoxicate; that he was a member
in good standing of the Methodist church, and that he was receiving a
handsome salary. Equally vain was the appeal for his son, whose
existence seemed to be doubted, and was practically denied.
My mother, being beyond the ocean, could not be a party to this cold
and inhuman silence, as it seemed to me. We were assured by those who
had seen my grandfather that he was aware of the facts that were known
to our friends in St. Louis. Mr. Lamar, whose acquaintance I had made
in the midst of my mishaps, had seen Mr. Collingsby, and told him the
whole story. The rich man laughed at it, and declared that it was a
trick; that, if he was a poor man, Farringford would not trouble him.
After this revelation my father refused to write again. He was sorely
grieved and troubled, but he still had a sense of self-respect which
would not permit him to grovel in the dust before any man.
I had worked at my trade two years in St. Louis, and considered myself
competent to do all ordinary work in that line. But I worked very hard,
for I was ambitious to do as much as a man. I was growing, and while I
increased in height, I lost flesh, and was lighter in weight than when
I had left the field and forest. My father thought I was working too
hard, and Mrs. Greenough seconded the argument with all the force of a
woman's influence. Still I think I should not have given up my trade
then if my employer had not changed his business, thus compelling me to
seek a new situation. I had been studying book-keeping for two years,
using all my evenings in this and other studies. I practised it with my
father, who was an accomplished accountant, until he declared that I
was competent to keep any set of books, either of a merchant or a
corporation.
Mr. Clinch, my late employer, closed up his affairs at the opening of a
new year. I could find nothing to do in the winter; but when I fretted
over my inactivity, my father told me to improve my handwriting, which,
as a carpenter, had been rather stiff. I took lessons of him, and as he
was a practical business man, I escaped the vicious habit of
flourishing in my writing. He insisted that I should write a plain,
simple, round hand, which I did. As my fingers became limber, I made
excellent progress, and I was really proud of my penmanship.
These comparatively idle days were full of thought, almost all of which
related to my mother. I had made up my mind that something ought to be
done to find her, and inform her of the altered circumstances of her
husband. I was sure, after reading so often the gentle expression of
her countenance in the picture I had, that she would make us glad as
soon as she was assured of the reformation of the wanderer. I meant to
do something now, even if I had to spend my two thousand dollars in
making a voyage to Europe to search for her. Her father refused to do
anything, and it was necessary for us to act in our own behalf. It was
not the rich man's money, as he averred, that we sought, but only the
calm bliss of domestic happiness, which I knew would come from our
reunited family.