THE YOUNG RUNAWAYS.
IN a small, plainly furnished room in Kansas City sat two boys of
sixteen and seventeen. One of them was Victor Wentworth, the other his
schoolmate and the companion of his flight, Arthur Grigson.
Victor looked despondent. He had a pleasant but weak face, in which
little or no resemblance could be traced to his father. The latter’s
hard nature was wholly wanting in Victor. He resembled his mother, now
dead, who had been completely under the domination of her husband.
“I wonder if our letters will come to-day, Arthur,” he said anxiously.
“I hope so. I expected before this that your father would telegraph
money.”
“You don’t know my father, Arthur,” said Victor sadly. “No doubt he is
very angry with me, and I am not sure that he will send me any money at
all.”
“You are an only son, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“And your father is very rich?”
“Yes.”
“Then he won’t be such a beast as to refuse. Isn’t he rather close with
you?”
“Yes.”
“Rather mean, in fact. It costs money to telegraph. I presume it is on
this account that he has written you by mail.”
“If he doesn’t write, what shall I do?” said Victor. “I have only
twenty-five cents left, and that will barely buy my dinner.”
“I haven’t much more,” said Arthur, “but I don’t worry.”
“No, for you have money of your own, and are sure to get something.”
“I am not one of the worrying kind,” said Arthur. “I wouldn’t be as
nervous as you are on any account.”
“I can’t help it.”
“If your father is like you he will be so worried about you that he
will be sure to send the money, or else come on himself. Perhaps he
will do that.”
Victor shook his head.
“He isn’t like me at all, Arthur. He is a very stern man. Oh, how
foolish I was to leave school, but you persuaded me to do it!”
“Oh, you throw all the blame on me, do you?” returned Arthur in an
unpleasant tone. “You were in for it as much as I was.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” said Victor in an unsteady voice.
“Do try to be more manly! One would think you were in danger of going
to prison!” exclaimed the stronger-minded Arthur, in ill-concealed
disgust.
“I don’t know but I shall. I can’t starve, and I may have to steal when
my money is gone.”
“You’d better get a place and work. That will be better than to starve
or go to jail.”
“That is true. I didn’t think of that,” said Victor, brightening up.
“But I don’t know what I can do. I never did any kind of work. I am
afraid no one will employ me.”
“Then set up in business for yourself. You can sell papers if you can’t
do anything else. That is, if you are not too proud to do it.”
“I am not too proud to do anything,” said the miserable Victor, “if I
can make a living!”
“Good for you! That shows that you are not a snob, any way. What do you
think your rich and aristocratic father would say if he should learn
that his son was a newsboy?”
“He wouldn’t like it, and I don’t like it myself, but I shall not be
ashamed to do it, if it is necessary.”
“I admire your spunk, Victor.”
“I am afraid I haven’t got much,” said Victor, shaking his head. “Oh,
what a fool I have been! If I were only out of this scrape, I’ll never
get into another.”
“It may all come right. It’s time we got letters. When we do we’ll
start for home.”
At this instant there was a knock at the door, and the landlady, a
stout woman with a red face, appeared.
“Here’s two letters just come!” she said.
Both boys sprang to their feet in excitement.
“One for each of us!” said Victor gladly.
“No; they are both for Mr. Grigson.”
Victor dropped into his seat in despondency.
“None for me!” he murmured.
“Better luck next time!” said the landlady. Meanwhile Arthur had torn
open one of his letters.
“Hurrah!” he said. “There’s fifty dollars inside.”
“Who is the other from?”
“It is postmarked Seneca. It must be from your father.”