Paul Prescott's Charge by Jr. Horatio Alger (best fiction novels to read TXT) 📕

a hurry, pressing forward as if life and death depended on his haste. There were lawyers with their sharp, keen glances; merchants with calculating faces; speculators pondering on the chances of a rise or fall in stocks; errand boys with bundles under their arms; business men hurrying to the slip to take the boat for Brooklyn or Jersey City,—all seemed intent on business of some kind, even to the ragged newsboys who had just obtained their supply of evening papers, and were now crying them at the top of their voices,—and very discordant ones at that, so Paul thought. Of the hundreds passing and repassing before him, every one had something to do. Every one had a home to go to. Perhaps it was not altogether strange that a feeling of desolation should come over Paul as he recollected that he stood alone, homeless, friendless, and, it might be, shelterless for the coming night.

“Yet,” thought he with something of hopefulness, “there must be something for me to do as well as the rest.”

Just then a boy some two years older than Paul paced slowly by, and in passing, chanced to fix his eyes upon our hero. He probably saw something in Paul which attracted him, for he stepped up and extending his hand, said, “why, Tom, how came you here?”

“My name isn't Tom,” said Paul, feeling a little puzzled by this address.

“Why, so it isn't. But you look just like my friend, Tom Crocker.”

To this succeeded a few inquiries, which Paul unsuspiciously answered.

“Do you like oysters?” inquired the new-comer, after a while.

“Very much.”

“Because I know of a tip top place to get some, just round the corner. Wouldn't you like some?”

Paul thanked his new acquaintance, and said he would.

Without more ado, his companion ushered him into a basement room near by. He led the way into a curtained recess, and both boys took seats one on each side of a small table.

“Just pull the bell, will you, and tell the waiter we'll have two stews.”

Paul did so.

“I suppose,” continued the other, “the governor wouldn't like it much if he knew where I was.”

“The governor!” repeated Paul. “Why, it isn't against the laws, is it?”

“No,” laughed the other. “I mean my father. How jolly queer you are!” He meant to say green, but had a purpose in not offending Paul.

“Are you the Governor's son?” asked Paul in amazement.

“To be sure,” carelessly replied the other.

Paul's wonder had been excited many times in the course of the day, but this was more surprising than anything which had yet befallen him. That he should have the luck to fall in with the son of the Governor, on his first arrival in the city, and that the latter should prove so affable and condescending, was indeed surprising. Paul inwardly determined to mention it in his first letter to Aunt Lucy. He could imagine her astonishment.

While he was busy with these thoughts, his companion had finished his oysters.

“Most through?” he inquired nonchalantly.

“I've got to step out a minute; wait till I come back.”

Paul unsuspectingly assented.

He heard his companion say a word to the barkeeper, and then go out.

He waited patiently for fifteen minutes and he did not return; another quarter of an hour, and he was still absent. Thinking he might have been unexpectedly detained, he rose to go, but was called back by the barkeeper.

“Hallo, youngster! are you going off without paying?”

“For what?” inquired Paul, in surprise.

“For the oysters, of course. You don't suppose I give 'em away, do you?”

“I thought,” hesitated Paul, “that the one who was with me paid,—the Governor's son,” he added, conscious of a certain pride in his intimacy with one so nearly related to the chief magistrate of the Commonwealth.

“The Governor's son,” laughed the barkeeper. “Why the Governor lives a hundred miles off and more. That wasn't the Governor's son any more than I am.”

“He called his father governor,” said Paul, beginning to be afraid that he had made some ridiculous blunder.

“Well, I wouldn't advise you to trust him again, even if he's the President's son. He only got you in here to pay for his oysters. He told me when he went out that you would pay for them.”

“And didn't he say he was coming back?” asked Paul, quite dumbfounded.

“He said you hadn't quite finished, but would pay for both when you came out. It's two shillings.”

Paul rather ruefully took out the half dollar which constituted his entire stock of money, and tendered it to the barkeeper who returned him the change.

So Paul went out into the streets, with his confidence in human nature somewhat lessened.

Here, then, is our hero with twenty-five cents in his pocket, and his fortune to make.