Joe the Hotel Boy; Or, Winning out by Pluck by Pluck by Jr. Horatio Alger (novels to read .txt) 📕

of late years rheumatism had kept him from doing work and Joe was largely the support of the pair,—taking out pleasure parties for pay whenever he could, and fishing and hunting in the between times, and using or selling what was gained thereby.

There was a good deal of a mystery surrounding Joe's parentage. It was claimed that he was a nephew of Hiram Bodley, and that, after the death of his mother and sisters, his father had drifted out to California and then to Australia. What the real truth concerning him was we shall learn later.

Joe was a boy of twelve, but constant life in the open air had made him tall and strong and he looked to be several years older.

He had dark eyes and hair, and was much tanned by the sun. The rowboat had been out a good distance on the lake and a minute before the shore was gained the large drops of rain began to fall.

“We are going to get wet after all!” cried Ned, chagrined.

“Pull for all you are worth and we'll soon be under the trees,” answered Joe.

They bent to the oars, and a dozen more strokes sent the rowboat under a clump of pines growing close to the edge of the lake. Just as the boat struck the bank and Ned leaped out there came a great downpour which made the surface of Lake Tandy fairly sizzle.

“Run to the lodge, Ned; I'll look after the boat!” shouted Joe.

“But you'll get wet.”

“Never mind; run, I tell you!”

Thus admonished, Ned ran for the old hunting lodge, which was situated about two hundred feet away. Joe remained behind long enough to secure the rowboat and the oars and then he followed his friend.

Just as one porch of the old lodge was reached there came a flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder that made Ned jump. Then followed more thunder and lightning, and the rain came down steadily.

“Ugh! I must say I don't like this at all,” remarked Ned, as he crouched in a corner of the shelter. “I hope the lightning doesn't strike this place.”

“We can be thankful that we were not caught out in the middle of the lake, Ned.”

“I agree on that, Joe,—but it doesn't help matters much. Oh, dear me!” And Ned shrank down, as another blinding flash of lightning lit up the scene.

It was not a comfortable situation and Joe did not like it any more than did his friend. But the hermit's boy was accustomed to being out in the elements, and therefore was not so impressed by what was taking place.

“The rain will fill the boat,” said Ned, presently.

“Never mind, we can easily bail her out or turn her over.”

“When do you think this storm will stop?”

“In an hour or two, most likely. Such storms never last very long. What time is it, Ned?”

“Half-past two,” answered Ned, after consulting the handsome watch he carried.

“Then, if it clears in two hours, we'll have plenty of time to get home before dark.”

“I don't care to stay here two hours,” grumbled Ned. “It's not a very inviting place.”

“It's better than being out under the trees,” answered Joe, cheerfully. The hermit's boy was always ready to look on the brighter side of things.

“Oh, of course.”

“And we have a fine string of fish, don't forget that, Ned. We were lucky to get so many before the storm came up.”

“Do you want the fish, or are you going to let me take them?”

“I'd like to have one fish. You may take the others.”

“Not unless you let me pay for them, Joe.”

“Oh, you needn't mind about paying me.”

“But I insist,” came from Ned. “I won't touch them otherwise.”

“All right, you can pay me for what I caught.”

“No, I want to pay for all of them. Your time is worth something, and I know you have to support your—the old hermit now.”

“All right, Ned, have your own way. Yes, I admit, I need all the money I get.”

“Is the old hermit very sick?”

“Not so sick, but his rheumatism keeps him from going out hunting or fishing, so all that work falls to me.”

“It's a good deal on your shoulders, Joe.”

“I make the best of it, for there is nothing else to do.”

“By the way, Joe, you once spoke to me about—well, about yourself,” went on Ned, after some hesitation. “Did you ever learn anything more? You need not tell me if you don't care to.”

At these words Joe's face clouded for an instant.

“No, I haven't learned a thing more, Ned.”

“Then you don't really know if you are the hermit's nephew or not?”

“Oh, I think I am, but I don't know whatever became of my father.”

“Does the hermit think he is alive?”

“He doesn't know, and he hasn't any means of finding out.”

“Well, if I were you, I'd find out, some way or other.”

“I'm going to find out—some day,” replied Joe. “But, to tell the truth, I don't know how to go at it. Uncle Hiram doesn't like to talk about it. He thinks my father did wrong to go away. I imagine they had a quarrel over it.”

“Has he ever heard from your father since?”

“Not a word.”

“Did he write?”

“He didn't know where to write to.”

“Humph! It is certainly a mystery, Joe.”

“You are right, Ned; and as I said before, I am going to solve it some time, even if it takes years of work to do it,” replied the hermit's boy.