Driven from Home; Or, Carl Crawford's Experience by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club books .txt) 📕

quality, and found favor with the clerk.

“I’ll give you a dollar and a quarter for the pencil,” he said, “and call it square.”

“I wouldn’t like to sell it,” said Carl.

“You won’t get any more for it.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that; but it was given me by my mother, who is now dead. I would not like to part with anything that she gave me.”

“You would prefer to get off scot-free, I suppose?” retorted the clerk, with a sneer.

“No; I am willing to leave it in your hands, but I should like the privilege of redeeming it when I have the money.”

“Very well,” said the clerk, who reflected that in all probability Carl would never come back for it. “I’ll take it on those conditions.”

Carl passed over the pencil with a sigh. He didn’t like to part with it, even for a short time, but there seemed no help for it.

“All right. I will mark you paid.”

Carl left the hotel, satchel in hand, and as he passed out into the street, reflected with a sinking heart that he was now quite penniless. Where was he to get his dinner, and how was he to provide himself with a lodging that night? At present he was not hungry, having eaten a hearty breakfast at the hotel, but by one o’clock he would feel the need of food. He began to ask himself if, after all, he had not been unwise in leaving home, no matter how badly he had been treated by his stepmother. There, at least, he was certain of living comfortably. Now he was in danger of starvation, and on two occasions already he had incurred suspicion, once of being concerned in a murder, and just now of passing counterfeit money. Ought he to have submitted, and so avoided all these perils?

“No!” he finally decided; “I won’t give up the ship yet. I am about as badly off as I can be; I am without a cent, and don’t know where my next meal is to come from. But my luck may turn—it must turn—it has turned!” he exclaimed with energy, as his wandering glance suddenly fell upon a silver quarter of a dollar, nearly covered up with the dust of the street. “That shall prove a good omen!”

He stooped over and picked up the coin, which he put in his vest pocket.

It was wonderful how the possession of this small sum of money restored his courage and raised his spirits. He was sure of a dinner now, at all events. It looked as if Providence was smiling on him.

Two miles farther on Carl overtook a boy of about his own age trudging along the road with a rake over his shoulder. He wore overalls, and was evidently a farmer’s boy.

“Good-day!” said Carl, pleasantly, noticing that the boy regarded him with interest.

“Good-day!” returned the country lad, rather bashfully.

“Can you tell me if there is any place near where I can buy some dinner?”

“There ain’t no tavern, if that’s what you mean. I’m goin’ home to dinner myself.”

“Where do you live?”

“Over yonder.”

He pointed to a farmhouse about a dozen rods away.

“Do you think your mother would give me some dinner?”

“I guess she would. Mam’s real accommodatin’.”

“Will you ask her?”

“Yes; just come along of me.”

He turned into the yard, and followed a narrow path to the back door.

“I’ll stay here while you ask,” said Carl.

The boy entered the house, and came out after a brief absence.

“Mam says you’re to come in,” he said.

Carl, glad at heart, and feeling quite prepared to eat fifty cents’ worth of dinner, followed the boy inside.

A pleasant-looking, matronly woman, plainly but neatly attired, came forward to greet him.

“Nat says you would like to get some dinner,” she said.

“Yes,” answered Carl. “I hope you’ll excuse my applying to you, but your son tells me there is no hotel near by.”

“The nearest one is three miles away from here.”

“I don’t think I can hold out so long,” said Carl, smiling.

“Sit right down with Nat,” said the farmer’s wife, hospitably. “Mr. Sweetser won’t be home for half an hour. We’ve got enough, such as it is.”

Evidently Mrs. Sweetser was a good cook. The dinner consisted of boiled mutton, with several kinds of vegetables. A cup of tea and two kinds of pie followed.

It was hard to tell which of the two boys did fuller justice to the meal. Nat had the usual appetite of a healthy farm boy, and Carl, in spite of his recent anxieties, and narrow escape from serious peril, did not allow himself to fall behind.

“Your mother’s a fine cook!” said Carl, between two mouthfuls.

“Ain’t she, though?” answered Nat, his mouth full of pie.

When Carl rose from the table he feared that he had eaten more than his little stock of money would pay for.

“How much will it be, Mrs. Sweetser?” he asked.

“Oh, you’re quite welcome to all you’ve had,” said the good woman, cheerily. “It’s plain farmer’s fare.”

“I never tasted a better dinner,” said Carl.

Mrs. Sweetser seemed pleased with the compliment to her cooking.

“Come again when you are passing this way,” she said. “You will always be welcome to a dinner.”

Carl thanked her heartily, and pressed on his way. Two hours later, at a lonely point of the road, an ill-looking tramp, who had been reclining by the wayside, jumped up, and addressed him in a menacing tone:

“Young feller, shell over all the money you have got, or I’ll hurt you! I’m hard up, and I won’t stand no nonsense.”

Carl started and looked into the face of the tramp. It seemed to him that he had never seen a man more ill-favored, or villainous-looking.