FRANK'S PEDESTRIAN TOUR.
Although Frank was pretty well bruised by his fall, his youth and the
vigor of his constitution enabled him to recover rapidly from the
effects of the shock. On the third day he got up and took a short
walk. On the fifth day he felt well enough to leave his hospitable
entertainers.
But where should he go?
Should he return to the Hotel du Glacier and place himself again in the
clutches of his treacherous guardian? He felt that to be out of the
question. Besides, he rightly conjectured that Sharpley had already
left the hotel. No, he must detach himself wholly from his enemy. He
must rely upon himself. He must get home the best way he could, and
then expose the conspirators, for he was convinced that Mr. Craven
was involved in it. But a serious difficulty presented itself. He
was about four thousand miles from home, and to return, as well as to
stay where he was, required money. This led him to an examination of
his finances. He never carried much money with him. Sharpley being
treasurer. Opening his pocket-book, he found he had sixty francs only,
or about twelve dollars in gold. Now, as my readers will readily judge,
twelve dollars is hardly adequate for a return journey from Switzerland
to America.
Had Frank been dismayed at this situation it would hardly have created
surprise, but, on the contrary, he felt in very good spirits.
"I don't believe I shall starve," he said to himself. "If I can only
get to Paris, I will seek out Mr. Tarbox, and I am sure he will lend me
money enough to get home."
But had he enough to get to Paris? Barely enough to travel third class;
but then he must remember the good people who had found and taken care
of him. For this alone, twelve dollars was inadequate. But he could
take their names, and promise to send them more from America.
His difficulty would have been far less great had he known that at
that very moment Mr. Tarbox had just arrived at the Hotel du Glacier in
search of him, prepared to help him to the best of his ability. But of
this he knew nothing.
So, on the morning of the fifth day, Frank announced to his humble
friends that he must leave them.
"But are you strong enough, monsieur?" asked the peasant's wife.
"Oh, yes, madame; thanks to your kind care, I am quite recovered."
"And monsieur will go to his friends?"
"I have no friends in Europe."
"What! so young and alone?"
"I did not come alone. I came in charge of a man whom I thought
friendly, but it was he who threw me over the cliff and nearly killed
me."
"Surely, monsieur is mistaken!" exclaimed the woman, astonished.
"No," answered Frank. "He is my enemy. It is a long story; but at home
I am rich, and I think he is employed by my step-father to kill me."
In answer to questions, Frank gave a general account of the
circumstances to the worthy people, and closed by saying: "When I have
returned to America, I shall send you suitable compensation for your
kindness. Now, I can only give you enough to pay what you have expended
for me."
He drew from his pocket two Napoleons (two-thirds of his available
means), and insisted upon their acceptance. They at first refused to
take the money, but finally accepted it.
Had they known that Frank would be left with but twenty francs himself,
they would have taken nothing, but Americans abroad are popularly
supposed to be even richer than they are, and it never occurred to them
to suspect our hero's present poverty.
They stood in the doorway, watching him as he started off with a firm
step, and a heart almost as light as his purse, and heartily joined in
the wish, "Bon voyage, monsieur."
Frank waved his hat, smiling, and set out on his way.
Had our hero been well provided with money, nothing could have been
more agreeable than a pedestrian journey amid the beautiful scenery of
the Alps. Even as it was, Frank felt the exhilarating influences of the
fresh morning air and the grand scenery, visible on all sides, for he
was hemmed in by mountains.
His proposed terminus being Paris, he kept a general northwesterly
course, making inquiries when at all at a loss as to the road.
At midday he found himself in a little village. By this time he was
hungry. He did not go to a hotel. He felt that his slender store of
money would not justify it. He stopped, instead, at a cottage, and for
a few cents obtained a pint of milk and a small loaf. This fare was
plain enough, but appetite is the best sauce, and his hunger made it
taste delicious.
He rested for three hours, then, when the sun's rays were less
powerful, he resumed his journey.
At seven o'clock in the evening he had accomplished about twenty-five
miles, and was foot-sore and weary. He selected another cottage, and
made application for supper and a bed.
"Monsieur will do better to go to the hotel," said the peasant. "We are
poor people, and our accommodations are too humble for a gentleman like
monsieur."
Frank smiled. He saw that they judged of his means by his clothing,
which was of fine texture and fashionable cut, for he had purchased a
traveling suit in London.
"I have been robbed of nearly all my money," he explained (this was
true, for it was in Sharpley's possession), "and I cannot afford to go
to the hotel. If you will let me stay here, I will gladly accept what
accommodations you have to offer."
"Oh, in that case, monsieur," said the peasant's wife, cheerfully, "you
are quite welcome. Come right in."
Frank entered. He soon had set before him a supper of bread, milk and
honey, to which he did ample justice. Then he asked permission to bathe
his feet, which were sore. At nine o'clock he went to bed, and, as
might have been expected, enjoyed a sound sleep, which refreshed him
not a little.
I have described this one day as a specimen of the manner in which
Frank traveled. The charges were so small that he made his money go a
long way. But the stock was so small that it steadily became less with
formidable rapidity, and our young hero found himself with poverty
staring him in the face. He had traveled over a hundred miles, nearly
a hundred and fifty, when, on counting his money, he found that he
had but forty cents (or two francs) left. This was a serious state of
things.
"What shall I do?" thought Frank, as he sat down by the wayside to
reflect on his situation. "To-morrow I shall be penniless, and I must
be six or seven hundred miles from Paris, more or less. One thing is
certain, I can't travel for nothing. What shall I do?"
Frank reflected that if he were in America he would seek for a job at
sawing wood, or any other kind of unskilled labor for which he was
competent. He could hire himself out for a month, till he could obtain
money enough to prosecute his journey. But it was evident that there
was very little chance of this resource here. The peasants at whose
cottages he stopped were poor in money; they had none to spare, and
they did their own work. Besides, it was not likely that his services
would be worth much to them. There was one thing he might do. He might
remain over a few days somewhere, and write meanwhile to Jonathan
Tarbox, in Paris, asking him to send him fifty francs or so. But,
somehow, Frank did not like to do this. As we know, it would have done
no good, as Mr. Tarbox was now in Switzerland seeking him. He felt that
he would like to make his way to Paris unaided if possible. But how to
do it was a difficult problem.
He was plunged in deep reflection on this point when his attention was
called to a boy of seven, who came running past crying and sobbing.
"_Qu' avez vous?_" asked Frank; or, "What is the matter with you?"
"Oh, I can't understand French," said the boy.
"What is the matter?" asked our hero, in English.
"I am lost," was the reply. "I don't know where papa or sister is."
"Don't cry. I will help you to find them. But, first, tell me what is
your name, and how you happened to get lost."
"My name is Herbert Grosvenor," answered the little fellow.
He went on to say that his father was a London merchant, who was
traveling with himself and his sister Beatrice. He had walked out in
charge of a servant, but the latter had stopped at an inn and became
drunk. Then he became so violent that Herbert was afraid and ran away.
But he was too young to know the road, and had lost his way.
"I shall never see my papa again," he sobbed.
"Oh, yes, you will," said Frank, encouragingly. "I will take you to
him. Do you remember where he is stopping?"
The boy was luckily able to answer correctly that his father was
stopping at the Hotel de la Couronne, in a large town, which Frank knew
to be only two miles distant.
"Come, Herbert," he said, cheerfully, "I will carry you back to your
father. Take my hand, and we will set out at once, if you are not
tired."
"Oh, no, I am not tired. I can walk," said the little boy, brightening
up, and putting his hand with confidence in that of his young
protector.