ARTHUR GRIGSON’S TREACHERY.
“OPEN the letter, quick!” cried Victor in feverish anxiety. “I don’t
see why father didn’t write to me.”
The letter was opened. The reader is already acquainted with
its contents. Arthur read it aloud, and Victor turned sick with
disappointment.
“Well,” ejaculated Arthur, “if that isn’t a cold-blooded message for a
man to send to his own son! And he rolling in wealth!”
“I was afraid he would refuse to send me some money,” said Victor.
“What is that last sentence?”
“He says if you will come home he will see whether he will forgive
you—that’s the upshot of it.”
“But I can’t go home without money unless you will pay my way. You
will, won’t you, Arthur? I’ll pay you back just as soon as I can.”
“But you can’t, you know,” returned Arthur coldly. “Your father has
always given you a very small allowance, and you can’t save anything
out of that.”
“I will be sure to pay you some way.”
“You are very ready with your promises, but promises ain’t cash. Look
here, Victor, I’ve got only fifty dollars.”
“That’s a big sum.”
“It’s got to last me some time. As for giving you fifteen or twenty
dollars, I can’t do it, and that settles it.”
“Are you going home?”
“I shall take the next train for Chicago.”
“And leave me here?” faltered Victor, turning pale.
“I don’t see what else I can do,” returned Arthur, his face hardening.
“But I shall starve.”
“No; I will leave you two or three dollars, and I advise you to buy
some papers if you can’t get any other position.”
“How meanly you are treating me!” said Victor indignantly.
“I am sorry, of course, but it is the best I can do——”
“But for you I should not be here. Please remember that!”
“You were very ready to come when I proposed it,” retorted Arthur.
“You promised to see me through. I didn’t have money enough to come.”
“Well, I’ve kept my promise as well as I could. I was looking over
my accounts yesterday, and I find that I have spent for you thirteen
dollars and sixty-seven cents. Of course I shall never see a cent of it
back.”
“I will pay it if I live,” said Victor, his companion’s meanness
bringing a flush to his cheek. “I have just found you out. If I had
known how mean you were I would never have left school in your company.”
“I wish you hadn’t. I didn’t suppose your father was such a miser. I
knew you were an only son, and I expected that he would come to your
help if you needed it. You mustn’t be so unreasonable. I am going out
to get my bill changed. Will you come, too?”
“I suppose I may as well,” said Victor, in a spiritless tone.
Arthur made his way to a railroad ticket-office and purchased a ticket
to Chicago.
Victor turned away to hide the indignant tears that rose to his eyes
as he thought of his companion’s base desertion. It was on his lips to
beg Arthur to buy another ticket, but his pride checked him. He felt
that he had humiliated himself enough already.
On their way back they passed a periodical store.
On the window outside was a sign—
“BOY WANTED!”
“There’s your chance for a situation, Victor,” said Arthur, half in
joke.
Victor looked at the sign, and made up his mind. It was absolutely
necessary for him to get employment, and he might as well work here as
anywhere.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
He went in, expecting to meet a man, but found that the shop was kept
by a middle-aged woman. Victor had never been obliged to rough it, and
he colored up with embarrassment as he prepared to apply for the place.
“I see you want a boy,” he said.
“Yes,” said the woman, very favorably impressed by Victor’s neat
appearance. “Have you ever worked in a store of this kind?”
“No; I have always attended school.”
“I won’t ask if you’re honest, for your looks speak in your favor.
Would you be willing to sleep in the back part of the store?”
“Yes,” answered Victor, relieved to think that this would save him the
expense of a room.
“When can you come?”
“At one o’clock if you wish. After I have eaten dinner.”
“Then I will engage you. You will receive four dollars and a half a
week. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes,” answered Victor thankfully.
He went out and told Arthur of his success. His companion was relieved,
for, selfish as he was, it troubled him to think that Victor would be
left in destitution.
“Good!” he said. “Now I advise you to write home, and see what your
father has to say. I will leave you three dollars to buy your meals
till your first week’s pay comes in.”
Mrs. Ferguson, the good Scotch lady who kept the periodical store,
would have been very much surprised if she had learned that the quiet
looking boy whom she had just engaged was the son of a man worth over
three hundred thousand dollars. Her mind was occupied with other
matters or she would have questioned Victor more closely in regard to
his history and antecedents. He was glad she did not, for he would
have felt some embarrassment in confessing that he had run away from
school and was a fugitive from home.
He felt obliged to accept the three dollars offered him by Arthur
Grigson, since it was necessary to have money to pay for his meals in
the interval that must elapse before he would receive his first week’s
pay.
“I will pay you back, Arthur,” said he gratefully, as he took the money
from the boy who had been the cause of his trouble.
“Oh, that’s just as you like.”
“I would prefer to do it. I don’t care to be under any further
obligations to you.”
“Oh, don’t be foolish! You didn’t expect I’d strip myself of money to
give you a chance to go home?”
“You would have more than money enough to get us both home. I wouldn’t
have treated you as you have treated me.”
“Yes, you would, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. I may go over to
Seneca and tell your father how I left you. Maybe he’ll open his heart
and send you twenty dollars.”
Victor did not reply, but knowing his father as he did, he cherished
no such hopes. He tried to put a good face on the matter, however,
reflecting that he was at any rate safe from starving, and would be
able to live.
In the afternoon he went to work, and though evidently unused to
business soon learned to do what was required of him. He seemed so
willing that Mrs. Ferguson felt pleased with him, and did not regret
her hasty choice of a boy who had no recommendations to offer.
The store closed at eight o’clock, and the shutters were put up.
Now came the hardest trial for Victor.
He had always been accustomed to a luxurious, or at all events, cozy
bedroom, even at school. Now he was to sleep in a dark store, for the
gas was put out, except one small jet in the rear. His bed was a small,
narrow one, only about eighteen inches wide, and close behind the dark
counter.
“This is where you will sleep,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “The bed is small,
but I guess you will find it wide enough.”
“I guess I can make it do,” answered Victor.
“You are to get up at seven o’clock and open the store. Then you will
sweep the floor and dust the books. I shall come at eight, and will
then let you off for half an hour for breakfast.”
“All right, ma’am.”
Mrs. Ferguson went out, and Victor, not feeling yet like sleep, sat
down on the side of the bed and began to reflect.
Only a few weeks ago he had been a member of a classical school,
recognized as the son of a rich man, and treated with the more
consideration on that account. Now he was a friendless boy, obliged to
earn a scanty living by his own labor. It might be considered quite
a come-down, but, strange as it may seem, Victor was not altogether
despondent. He inherited from his father a taste for business, and had
already begun to take an interest in his duties. He would indeed have
liked a larger income, for he was compelled to eat at cheap and poor
restaurants, but at any rate he felt happier than he had done when
traveling in Arthur Grigson’s company.
At length he went to sleep, and slept comfortably for three hours or
more. Then he suddenly awoke, and none too soon. The window at the rear
of the store, leading out into the back yard, was half open, and he saw
the figure of a large man crawling through.
“It must be a burglar!” thought Victor, and his heart sank within him.