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CONTENTS
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE
CHAPTER Page
I. AN OLD LETTER. 5
II. THE YOUNG RIVALS. 11
III. THE RACE ON ROUND POND. 14
IV. A FALSE FRIEND. 24
V. DARIUS DARKE. 31
VI. ENDS IN A FIRE. 38
VII. THE MIDNIGHT FIRE. 45
VIII. THE BARN LOFT. 50
IX. AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE. 55
X. IN SEARCH OF EMPLOYMENT. 59
XI. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. 66
XII. TOM’S JOURNEY. 71
XIII. A CHEAP OVERCOAT. 78
XIV. THE TRAMP TRANSFORMED. 84
XV. THE TRAGEDY AT ROCKY GULCH. 91
XVI. TOM’S VISIT TO PEARL STREET. 97
XVII. TOM GAINS A VICTORY. 103
XVIII. DO THE DEAD LIVE? 108
XIX. TOM STARTS ON HIS JOURNEY. 113
XX. A HOTEL ACQUAINTANCE. 116
XXI. TOM’S NEW EMPLOYER. 120
XXII. A ROUGH DIAMOND. 126
XXIII. PETER BRUSH, THE HUNTER. 131
XXIV. MR. BURNETT BEATS A RETREAT. 135
XXV. A SOLITARY WALK. 139
XXVI. PERCY BURNETT UNMASKS. 143
XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED. 148
XXVIII. HOW PETER BRUSH CAME TO THE RESCUE. 153
XXIX. THE PACIFIC TRAIL. 159
XXX. THE MAN WITHOUT A SCALP. 163
XXXI. TWO NEW COMRADES. 166
XXXII. A STARTLING SIGHT. 171
XXXIII. TAKEN CAPTIVE. 175
XXXIV. TWO POWWOWS. 179
XXXV. HOW TOM PASSED THE NIGHT. 183
XXXVI. TOM’S DEADLY PERIL. 186
XXXVII. THE INDIANS ADOPT TOM. 192
XXXVIII. THREE MONTHS IN CAPTIVITY. 197
XXXIX. THE CABIN AT ROCKY GULCH. 201
XL. TOM FINDS HIMSELF RICH. 208
XLI. TOM AND THE GRIZZLY. 213
XLII. A STARTLING DISCLOSURE. 219
XLIII. TOM COMES INTO A FORTUNE. 224
XLIV. A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 228
XLV. HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME. 233
XLVI. MRS. THATCHER LOSES HER NEW HOME. 238
XLVII. A DOUBLE SURPRISE. 244
XLVIII. RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES JOHN SIMPSON. 251
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 259
BY WILLIAM BENNET.
THAT BELL! 269
BY PAUL BLAKE.
[Illustration: AT A GLANCE, TOM SAW THE BEAR WATCHING THE MAN CROUCHING
AMONG THE BRANCHES. [Page 217.]]
Tom Thatcher’s Fortune.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
_Author of_
“Joe’s Luck,” “Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy,” “Ragged Dick,” “Tom
Temple’s Career,” “Luck and Pluck,” etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATED.
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
52-58 DUANE STREET, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1888. BY A. L. BURT.
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD LETTER.
“Is supper ready, mother? I’m as hungry as a bear!”
The speaker was a sturdy boy of sixteen, with bright eyes, and a
smiling sun-browned face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up displaying
a pair of muscular arms. His hands were brown and soiled with labor.
It was clear that he was no white-handed young aristocrat. His clothes
alone would have shown that. They were of coarse cloth, made without
any special regard to the prevailing fashion.
Tom Thatcher, for this was his name, had just come home from the shoe
manufactory, where he was employed ten hours a day in pegging shoes,
for the lucrative sum of fifty cents per day. I may as well state here
that he is the hero of my story, and I hope none of my readers will
think any the worse of him for working in a shop. I am aware that it is
considered more “genteel” to stand behind a counter, and display goods
to customers, even if the wages are smaller. But Tom, having a mother
and little sister to help support, could not choose his employment. He
lived in a large shoe town, and was glad to find employment in the
large manufactory of John Simpson, who, by virtue of his large capital,
and as the employer of a hundred hands, was a man of mark in the town
of Wilton.
“Supper will be ready in five minutes, Tom,” said his mother, rather a
delicate-looking woman, of refined appearance, notwithstanding she was
dressed in a cheap calico.
“Are you tired, Tom?” asked his little sister Tillie, whose full name,
never used at home, was Matilda.
“Not much, Tillie, but I’ve got a famous appetite.”
“I am sorry I haven’t got something better for you, Tom,” said his
mother. “I have only a hot potato, besides tea, and bread and butter.”
“Why, that is good enough, mother,” said Tom, cheerfully.
“You ought to have meat after working hard all day in the shop, my boy;
but meat comes so high that I don’t dare to have it on the table every
day.”
“Too much meat might make me savage, mother,” said Tom laughing. “I
wish we could have it oftener, for your sake. Anything will do for me.
When I get older I shall earn higher wages, and then we’ll live better.”
“It’s very uncomfortable to be poor,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sighing.
“Poor children, if your father were only living you would fare better.
I little dreamed when he went to California, eight years ago, that he
would never come back.”
“Mr. Simpson and father went to California together, didn’t they,
mother?”
“Yes. They were both poor men at the time. Mr. Simpson was no better
off than your father, but now--your poor father is in his grave, and
John Simpson is one of the richest men in Wilton.”
“Mr. Simpson came home rich, didn’t he?”
“Yes. How rich I don’t know, but from being a journeyman he was able to
build a manufactory of his own, and has been getting richer ever since.”
“Were he and father together in California?”
“Yes, Tom.”
“And didn’t father find any gold? How could one be prosperous, and the
other unlucky?”
“I never could understand it. The very last letter I received from your
father mentioned that he was prosperous, and had accumulated a large
amount of gold dust, he and John Simpson also. Three months afterward
John Simpson came home, but nothing was ever heard of your poor father
or his money again.”
“What did Mr. Simpson say? Didn’t he know anything about him?”
“He called on me, and told me that your father and he had separated
a little while before leaving California. He made his way to San
Francisco while your father remained at the mines. He felt quite sure
that your father had been robbed and murdered by some desperate person
who had heard of his good fortune.”
“Was that all he could tell you?”
“That was all.”
“Couldn’t he tell how much gold father had at the time?”
“He said it amounted to some thousands of dollars, but how much he
could not tell exactly. I cared little for that. If your poor father
had only come back alive I would have been happy, even if he had come
back in rags, and without a penny.”
“Were he and Mr. Simpson good friends?” asked Tom, thoughtfully.
“They were very intimate before they went to California.”
“And were you and Mrs. Simpson intimate, too, mother?”
“Yes; we lived in the same house. It was a double house, and each
family occupied a part. You and Rupert Simpson were born the same day,
and played together like brothers when you were both young boys.”
“It isn’t much like that now, mother. Rupert puts on all sorts of airs
because his father is rich. He wouldn’t think of associating with me on
equal terms. He thinks himself altogether superior to a poor boy who
works in a shoe shop.”
“He has no right to look down upon you, Tom,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with
natural motherly indignation. “You are superior to him in every way.”
Tom laughed.
“He don’t think so, mother,” he answered, “and I am afraid it would
be hard to convince him. But it seems strange to me to think that our
families were once so intimate. Mrs. Simpson rides in her carriage, and
always wears silks or satins to church, while you are compelled to wear
a cheap gingham for best. She never comes to call on you.”
“I don’t wish her to,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with honorable pride. “It
would only be an act of condescension on her part, and Sarah Simpson
isn’t the woman to condescend to me, who was born and brought up her
equal.”
“You’re right there, mother. You are just as much a lady as she is,
even if you are poor.”
“I hope I am, Tom.”
“You spoke of father’s last letter to you, mother. I haven’t looked at
it for a long time. Will you let me see it?”
“Certainly, my son.”
Mrs. Thatcher went to the bureau, and from the top drawer took out an
old letter, grown yellow with age, and unfolding it handed it to Tom.
It was quite long, but a large part of it would be of no interest to my
readers. I only transcribe the parts which are material to my story.
“I am glad to say, my dear Mary, that I have been very
fortunate. John Simpson and I, some three months ago, chanced
upon some very rich diggings, which, lying out of the ordinary
course of travel and exploration, had thus far failed to
attract attention. For a month or more we worked alone,
managing in that time to ‘feather our nests’ pretty well. Then
we sold out a portion of our claims to a third party for a
large sum, and worked the balance ourselves. I don’t dare to
tell you how much we are worth, but enough to make us very
comfortable. I can say as much as that. It won’t be long before
I come home. I could come now, but I think it a shame to leave
so much treasure in the ground, when it can be had for the
digging. A little patience, dear wife, and I shall come home,
and place you and our darling children in a position where you
will never again know the limitations of poverty.
“Simpson’s plans are the same as mine. We shall probably go
home together, and build two nice houses near each other. It
will be pleasant in years to come to refer to our days of
struggle when we worked together at the shoe bench for a dollar
and a half a day, and had to support our families on that
paltry sum. Those days, thank God! are over, and I am still a
young man with half my life before me, as I hope.”
“Poor father!” said Tom. “How little he thought that his good luck was
to prove the cause of his death, and that the money he had secured
would never find its way to his family.”
“It always makes me sad to read that letter,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “It
is so bright and hopeful, and death was even then so near.”
As Tom gave back the letter to his mother, a knock was heard at the
door.
Tom rose to open it, and admitted a boy of about his own age, Harry
Julian, the minister’s son, one of his most intimate friends.