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

“Would you, sir?”

“I should have thought you unwise, and I should have been reminded of a fellow workman who became so infatuated with lotteries that he stole money from his employer to enable him to continue his purchases of tickets. But for this unhappy passion he would have remained honest.”

“Leonard must dislike me,” said Carl, thoughtfully.

“He is jealous of you; I warned you he or some one else might become so. But the most curious circumstance is, he wrote a second letter in his own name. I suspect he has bought a ticket. I advise you to say nothing about the matter unless questioned.”

“I won’t, sir.”

The next day Carl met Leonard in the street.

“By the way,” said Leonard, “you got a letter yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“I brought it to the factory with the rest of the mail.”

“Thank you.”

Leonard looked at him curiously.

“He seems to be close-mouthed,” Leonard said to himself. “He has sent for a ticket, I’ll bet a hat, and don’t want me to find out. I wish I could draw the capital prize—I would not mind old Jennings finding out then.”

“Do you ever hear from your—friends?” he asked a minute later.

“Not often.”

“I thought that letter might be from your home.”

“No; it was a letter from Syracuse.”

“I remember now, it was postmarked Syracuse. Have you friends there?”

“None that I am aware of.”

“Yet you receive letters from there?”

“That was a business letter.”

Carl was quietly amused at Leonard’s skillful questions, but was determined not to give him any light on the subject.

Leonard tried another avenue of attack.

“Oh, dear!” he sighed, “I wish I was rich.”

“I shouldn’t mind being rich myself,” said Carl, with a smile.

“I suppose old Jennings must have a lot of money.”

“Mr. Jennings, I presume, is very well off,” responded Carl, emphasizing the title “Mr.”

“If I had his money I wouldn’t live in such Quaker style.”

“Would you have him give fashionable parties?” asked Carl, smiling.

“Well, I don’t know that he would enjoy that; but I’ll tell you what I would do. I would buy a fast horse—a two-forty mare—and a bangup buggy, and I’d show the old farmers round here what fast driving is. Then I’d have a stylish house, and——”

“I don’t believe you’d be content to live in Milford, Leonard.”

“I don’t think I would, either, unless my business were here. I’d go to New York every few weeks and see life.”

“You may be rich some time, so that you can carry out your wishes.”

“Do you know any easy way of getting money?” asked Leonard, pointedly.

“The easy ways are not generally the true ways. A man sometimes makes money by speculation, but he has to have some to begin with.”

“I can’t get anything out of him,” thought Leonard. “Well, good-evening.”

He crossed the street, and joined the man who has already been referred to as boarding at the hotel.

Mr. Stark had now been several days in Milford. What brought him there, or what object he had in staying, Leonard had not yet ascertained. He generally spent part of his evenings with the stranger, and had once or twice received from him a small sum of money. Usually, however, he had met Mr. Stark in the billiard room, and played a game or two of billiards with him. Mr. Stark always paid for the use of the table, and that was naturally satisfactory to Leonard, who enjoyed amusement at the expense of others.

Leonard, bearing in mind his uncle’s request, had not mentioned his name to Mr. Stark, and Stark, though he had walked about the village more or less, had not chanced to meet Mr. Gibbon.

He had questioned Leonard, however, about Mr. Jennings, and whether he was supposed to be rich.

Leonard had answered freely that everyone considered him so.

“But he doesn’t know how to enjoy his money,” he added.

“We should,” said Stark, jocularly.

“You bet we would,” returned Leonard; and he was quite sincere in his boast, as we know from his conversation with Carl.

“By the way,” said Stark, on this particular evening, “I never asked you about your family, Leonard. I suppose you live with your parents.”

“No, sir. They are dead.”

“Then whom do you live with?”

“With my uncle,” answered Leonard, guardedly.

“Is his name Craig?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I’ve got to tell him,” thought Leonard. “Well, I don’t suppose there will be much harm in it. My uncle is bookkeeper for Mr. Jennings,” he said, “and his name is Julius Gibbon.”

Philip Stark wheeled round, and eyed Leonard in blank astonishment.

“Your uncle is Julius Gibbon!” he exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll be blowed.”

“Do you—know my uncle?” asked Leonard, hesitating.

“I rather think I do. Take me round to the house. I want to see him.”