Helping Himself; Or, Grant Thornton's Ambition by Jr. Horatio Alger (no david read aloud .txt) 📕

Mrs. Barton regarded the newcomers with a wondering stare.

“Did you want to see Joel?” she asked.

“I shall be glad to see him in due time, Mrs. Barton,” returned Willis Ford, with unwonted politeness; “but I came principally to see you.”

“Who be you?” inquired Mrs. Barton, unceremoniously; “I don't know you no more'n the dead.”

“There is a slight connection between us, however. I am the stepson of Pauline Estabrook, of New York, who is a cousin of yours.”

“You don't say Pauline is your mother?” ejaculated the lady of the house. “Well, I never expected to see kith or kin of hers out here. Is that your son?”

“No, Mrs. Barton; but he is under my charge.”

Herbert was about to disclaim this, but an ominous frown from Willis Ford intimidated him.

“My name is Willis Ford; his is Sam Green.”

Herbert's eyes opened wide with astonishment at this statement.

“My name is—” he commenced.

“Silence!” hissed Ford, with a menacing look. “You must not contradict me.”

“I s'pose I ought to invite you to stay here,” said Mrs. Barton, awkwardly; “but he's so shif'less, and such a poor provider, that I ain't got anything in the house fit for dinner.”

“Thank you,” returned Ford, with an inward shudder. “I shall dine at the hotel; but I have a little business matter to speak of, Mrs. Barton, and I would wish to speak in private. I will come into the house, with your permission, and we will leave the two boys together.”

“Come right in,” said Mrs. Barton, whose curiosity was aroused. “Here, you Abner, just take care of the little boy.”

Abner proceeded to do this, first thinking it necessary to ask a few questions.

“Where do you live when you're at home, Sam?” he asked.

“In New York; but my name isn't Sam,” replied Herbert.

“What is it, then?”

“Herbert.”

“What makes him call you Sam, then?” asked Abner, with a jerk of the finger toward the house.

“I don't know, except he is afraid I will be found.”

Abner looked puzzled.

“Is he your guardeen?” he asked.

“No; he was my father's clerk.”

“Ho! Did your father have clerks?”

“Yes; he is a rich man and does business in New York.”

“What made him send you out here?”

“He didn't.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Mr. Ford was mad with papa, and stole me away.”

“He wouldn't steal me away easy!” said Abner, defiantly; “but, then, I ain't a little kid like you.”

“I'm not a kid,” said Herbert, who was not used to slang.

“Oh, you don't know what I mean—you're a little boy and couldn't do nothin'. If he tried to take me, he'd find his hands full.”

Herbert, who was not very much prepossessed by Abner's appearance, thought it very doubtful whether any one would ever attempt to kidnap him.

“What's he goin' to do with you?” continued Abner.

“I don't know. I expect he'll make papa pay a good sum to get me back.”

“Humph!” remarked Abner, surveying with some contempt the small proportions of the boy before him. “You ain't much good. I don't believe he'll pay much for you.”

Tears sprang to the eyes of the little boy, but he forced them back.

“My papa would think differently,” he said.

“Papa!” mimicked Abner. “Oh, how nice we are! Why don't you say dad, like I do?”

“Because it isn't a nice name. Papa wouldn't like to have me call him so.”

“Where did you get them clothes? I don't think much of 'em.”

“Nor I,” answered Herbert. “They're not my own clothes. Mr. Ford bought them for me in Chicago.”

“He must like you, to buy you new clothes.”

“No, he doesn't. My own clothes were much nicer. He sold them. He was afraid some one would know me