CHAPTER II. PHILIP AT HOME
CHAPTER III. NICK HOLDEN’S CALL
CHAPTER IV. THE AUCTION
CHAPTER V. AN ALLIANCE AGAINST PHILIP
CHAPTER VI. FUSS ABOUT A FIDDLE
CHAPTER VII. MR. JOE TUCKER
CHAPTER VIII. IN THE ENEMY’S HANDS
CHAPTER IX. THE POORHOUSE
CHAPTER X. BAD TIDINGS
CHAPTER XI. PHILIP’S NEW ROOM
CHAPTER XII. A PAUPER’S MEAL
CHAPTER XIII. A FRIENDLY MISSION
CHAPTER XIV. PHILIP MAKES HIS ESCAPE
CHAPTER XV. ESCAPE AND FLIGHT
CHAPTER XVI. A NIGHT ADVENTURE
CHAPTER XVII. A REFORMED BURGLAR
CHAPTER XVIII. A PROFESSIONAL ENGAGEMENT
CHAPTER XIX. NEW ACQUAINTANCES
CHAPTER XX. A LIVELY EVENING
CHAPTER XXI. FORTUNE SMILES AGAIN
CHAPTER XXII. RIVAL MUSICIANS
CHAPTER XXIII. AN HOUR OF TRIUMPH
CHAPTER XXIV. LORENZO RICCABOCCA
CHAPTER XXV. A CHANGE OF NAME
CHAPTER XXVI. A PROMISING PLAN
CHAPTER XXVII. UNEXPECTED HONORS
CHAPTER XXVIII. A TRIUMPHANT SUCCESS
CHAPTER XXIX. BESET BY CREDITORS
CHAPTER XXX. A TIMELY GIFT
CHAPTER XXXI. THE PROFESSOR’S FLIGHT
CHAPTER XXXII. THE RACE ACROSS FIELDS
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LOST WALLET
CHAPTER XXXIV. A NEW BUSINESS PROPOSAL
CHAPTER XXXV. SQUIRE POPE IS AMAZED
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PRETENDED GUARDIAN
CHAPTER XXXVII. HIS OWN MASTER
CHAPTER XXXVIII. AN OFFER DECLINED
CHAPTER XXXIX. AN AMBITIOUS WAYFARER
CHAPTER XL. THE INDIAN HUNTER
CHAPTER XLI. AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOODS
CHAPTER XLII. AN INDIAN AT LAST
CHAPTER XLIII. A WELCOME LETTER
CHAPTER XLIV. A FRESH START
CHAPTER I.
A CANDIDATE FOR THE POORHOUSE.
“As for the boy,” said Squire Pope, with his usual autocratic air, “I
shall place him in the poorhouse.”
“But, Benjamin,” said gentle Mrs. Pope, who had a kindly and
sympathetic heart, “isn’t that a little hard?”
“Hard, Almira?” said the squire, arching his eyebrows. “I fail to
comprehend your meaning.”
“You know Philip has been tenderly reared, and has always had a
comfortable home—”
“He will have a comfortable home now, Mrs. Pope. Probably you are not
aware that it cost the town two thousand dollars last year to maintain
the almshouse. I can show you the item in the town report.”
“I don’t doubt it at all, husband,” said Mrs. Pope gently. “Of course
you know all about it, being a public man.”
Squire Pope smiled complacently. It pleased him to be spoken of as a
public man.
“Ahem! Well, yes, I believe I have no inconsiderable influence in town
affairs,” he responded. “I am on the board of selectmen, and am
chairman of the overseers of the poor, and in that capacity I shall
convey Philip Gray to the comfortable and well-ordered institution
which the town has set apart for the relief of paupers.”
“I don’t like to think of Philip as a pauper,” said Mrs. Pope, in a
deprecating tone.
“What else is he?” urged her husband. “His father hasn’t left a cent.
He never was a good manager.”
“Won’t the furniture sell for something, Benjamin?”
“It will sell for about enough to pay the funeral expenses and
outstanding debts—that is all.”
“But it seems so hard for a boy well brought up to go to the
poorhouse.”
“You mean well, Almira, but you let your feelings run away with you.
You may depend upon it, it is the best thing for the boy. But I must
write a letter in time for the mail.”
Squire Pope rose from the breakfast-table and walked out of the room
with his usual air of importance. Not even in the privacy of the
domestic circle did he forget his social and official importance.
Who was Squire Pope?
We already know that he held two important offices in the town of
Norton. He was a portly man, and especially cultivated dignity of
deportment. Being in easy circumstances, and even rich for the resident
of a village, he was naturally looked up to and credited with a worldly
sagacity far beyond what he actually possessed.
At any rate, he may be considered the magnate of Norton. Occasionally
he visited New York, and had been very much annoyed to find that his
rural importance did not avail him there, and that he was treated with
no sort of deference by those whom he had occasion to meet. Somehow,
the citizens of the commercial metropolis never suspected for a single
moment that he was a great man.
When Squire Pope had finished his letter, he took his hat, and with
measured dignity, walked to the village post-office.
He met several of his neighbors there, and greeted them with affable
condescension. He was polite to those of all rank, as that was
essential to his retaining the town offices, which he would have been
unwilling to resign.
From the post-office the squire, as he remembered the conversation
which had taken place at the breakfast-table, went to make an official
call on the boy whose fate he had so summarily decided.
Before the call, it may be well to say a word about Philip Gray, our
hero, and the circumstances which had led to his present destitution.
His father had once been engaged in mercantile business, but his health
failed, his business suffered, and he found it best—indeed,
necessary—to settle up his affairs altogether and live in quiet
retirement in Norton.
The expenses of living there were small, but his resources were small,
also, and he lived just long enough to exhaust them.
It was this thought that gave him solicitude on his death-bed, for he
left a boy of fifteen wholly unprovided for.
Let us go back a week and record what passed at the last interview
between Philip and his father before the latter passed into the state
of unconsciousness which preceded death.
“Are you in pain, father?” asked Philip, with earnest sympathy, as his
father lay outstretched on the bed, his face overspread by the deathly
pallor which was the harbinger of dissolution.
“Not of the body, Philip,” said Mr. Gray. “That is spared me, but I own
that my mind is ill at ease.”
“Do you mind telling me why, father!”
“No; for it relates to you, my son, or, rather, to your future. When my
affairs are settled, I fear there will be nothing left for your
support. I shall leave you penniless.”
“If that is all, father, don’t let that trouble you.”
“I am afraid, Philip, you don’t realize what it is to be thrown upon
the cold charities of the world.”
“I shall work for my living,” said Philip confidently.
“You will have to do that, I’m afraid, Philip.”
“But I am not afraid to work, father. Didn’t you tell me one day that
many of our most successful men had to work their way up from early
poverty!”
“Yes, that is true; but a boy cannot always get the chance to earn his
living. Of one thing I am glad; you have a good education for a boy of
your age. That is always a help.”
“Thanks to you, father.”
“Yes; though an invalid, I have, at all events, been able to give
private attention to your education, and to do better for you than the
village school would have done. I wish I had some relative to whom I
might consign you, but you will be alone in the world.”
“Have I no relatives?” asked Philip.
“Your mother was an only child, and I had but one brother.”
“What became of him, father?”
“He got into trouble when he was a young man, and left the country.
Where he went to I have no idea. Probably he went first to Europe, and
I heard a rumor, at one time, that he had visited Australia. But that
was twenty years ago, and as I have heard nothing of him since, I think
it probable that he is dead. Even if he were living, and I knew where
he was, I am not sure whether he would make a safe guardian for you.”
“Have you any advice to give me, father?” asked Philip, after a pause.
“Whatever your wishes may be, I will try to observe them.”
“I do not doubt it, Philip. You have always been an obedient son, and
have been considerate of my weakness. I will think it over, and try to
give you some directions which may be of service to you. Perhaps I may
be able to think of some business friend to whom I can commend you.”
“You have talked enough, father,” said Philip, noticing his father’s
increasing pallor and the evident exertion with which he spoke. “Rest
now, and to-morrow we can talk again.”
Mr. Gray was evidently in need of rest. He closed his eyes and
apparently slept. But he never awoke to consciousness. The conversation
above recorded was the last he was able to hold with his son. For two
days he remained in a kind of stupor, and at the end of that time he
died.
Philip’s grief was not violent. He had so long anticipated his father’s
death that it gave him only a mild shock.
Friends and neighbors made the necessary arrangements for the funeral,
and the last services were performed. Then, at length, Philip realized
that he had lost his best earthly friend, and that he was henceforth
alone in the world. He did not as yet know that Squire Pope had
considerately provided him with a home in the village poorhouse.