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

Mr. Jennings did not need to open the door. He had scarcely set foot on the front step when it was opened from inside, and Carl found a fresh surprise in store for him. A woman, apparently six feet in height, stood on the threshold. Her figure was spare and ungainly, and her face singularly homely, but the absence of beauty was partially made up by a kindly expression. She looked with some surprise at Carl.

“This is a young friend of mine, Hannah,” said her master. “Welcome him for my sake.”

“I am glad to see you,” said Hannah, in a voice that was another amazement. It was deeper than that of most men.

As she spoke, she held out a large masculine hand, which Carl took, as seemed to be expected.

“Thank you,” said Carl.

“What am I to call you?” asked Hannah.

“Carl Crawford.”

“That’s a strange name.”

“It is not common, I believe.”

“You two will get acquainted by and by,” said Mr. Jennings. “The most interesting question at present is, when will dinner be ready?”

“In ten minutes,” answered Hannah, promptly.

“Carl and I are both famished. We have had considerable exercise,” here he nodded at Carl with a comical look, and Carl understood that he referred in part to his contest with the tramp.

Hannah disappeared into the kitchen, and Mr. Jennings said: “Come upstairs, Carl. I will show you your room.”

Up an old-fashioned stairway Carl followed his host, and the latter opened the door of a side room on the first landing. It was not large, but was neat and comfortable. There was a cottage bedstead, a washstand, a small bureau and a couple of chairs.

“I hope you will come to feel at home here,” said Mr. Jennings, kindly.

“Thank you, sir. I am sure I shall,” Carl responded, gratefully.

“There are some nails to hang your clothing on,” went on Mr. Jennings, and then he stopped short, for it was clear that Carl’s small gripsack could not contain an extra suit, and he felt delicate at calling up in the boy’s mind the thought of his poverty.

“Thank you, sir,” said Carl. “I left my trunk at the house of a friend, and if you should succeed in finding me a place, I will send for it.”

“That is well!” returned Mr. Jennings, looking relieved. “Now I will leave you for a few moments. You will find water and towels, in case you wish to wash before dinner.”

Carl was glad of the opportunity. He was particular about his personal appearance, and he felt hot and dusty. He bathed his face and hands, carefully dusted his suit, brushed his hair, and was ready to descend when he heard the tinkling of a small bell at the foot of the front stairs.

He readily found his way into the neat dining-room at the rear of the parlor. Mr. Jennings sat at the head of the table, a little giant, diminutive in stature, but with broad shoulders, a large head, and a powerful frame. Opposite him sat Hannah, tall, stiff and upright as a grenadier. She formed a strange contrast to her employer.

“I wonder what made him hire such a tall woman?” thought Carl. “Being so small himself, her size makes him look smaller.”

There was a chair at one side, placed for Carl.

“Sit down there, Carl,” said Mr. Jennings. “I won’t keep you waiting any longer than I can help. What have you given us to-day, Hannah?”

“Roast beef,” answered Hannah in her deep tones.

“There is nothing better.”

The host cut off a liberal slice for Carl, and passed the plate to Hannah, who supplied potatoes, peas and squash. Carl’s mouth fairly watered as he watched the hospitable preparations for his refreshment.

“I never trouble myself about what we are to have on the table,” said Mr. Jennings. “Hannah always sees to that. She’s knows just what I want. She is a capital cook, too, Hannah is.”

Hannah looked pleased at this compliment.

“You are easily pleased, master,” she said.

“I should be hard to suit if I were not pleased with your cooking. You don’t know so well Carl’s taste, but if there is anything he likes particularly he can tell you.”

“You are very kind, sir,” said Carl.

“There are not many men who would treat a poor boy so considerately,” he thought. “He makes me an honored guest.”

When dinner was over, Mr. Jennings invited Carl to accompany him on a walk. They passed along the principal street, nearly every person they met giving the little man a cordial greeting.

“He seems to be very popular,” thought Carl.

At length they reached the manufactory. Mr. Jennings went into the office, followed by Carl.

A slender, dark-complexioned man, about thirty-five years of age, sat on a stool at a high desk. He was evidently the bookkeeper.

“Any letters, Mr. Gibbon?” asked Mr. Jennings.

“Yes, sir; here are four.”

“Where are they from?”

“From New York, Chicago, Pittsburg and New Haven.”

“What do they relate to?”

“Orders. I have handed them to Mr. Potter.”

Potter, as Carl afterwards learned, was superintendent of the manufactory, and had full charge of practical details.

“Is there anything requiring my personal attention?”

“No, sir; I don’t think so.”

“By the way, Mr. Gibbon, let me introduce you to a young friend of mine—Carl Crawford.”

The bookkeeper rapidly scanned Carl’s face and figure. It seemed to Carl that the scrutiny was