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

should like to have you get it and read it.”

Paul readily found the letter. It was enclosed in a brown envelope, directed in a bold hand to “Mr. John Prescott, Wrenville.”

The letter was as follows:—

CEDARVILLE, APRIL 15, 18—, MR. JOHN PRESCOTT:—

SIR: I have been waiting impatiently to hear something about the five hundred dollars in which sum you are indebted to me, on account of a loan which I was fool enough to make you seven years since. I thought you an honest man, but I have found, to my cost, that I was mistaken. For the last year you have even failed to pay interest as stipulated between us. Your intention is evident. I quite understand that you have made up your mind to defraud me of what is rightfully mine. I don't know how you may regard this, but I consider it as bad as highway robbery. I do not hesitate to say that if you had your deserts you would be in the Penitentiary. Let me advise you, if you wish to avoid further trouble, to make no delay in paying a portion of this debt. Yours, etc. EZEKIEL CONANT.

Paul's face flushed with indignation as he read this bitter and cruel letter.

“Does Squire Conant know that you are sick, father?” he inquired.

“Yes, I wrote him about my accident, telling him at the same time that I regretted it in part on account of the interruption which it must occasion in my payments.”

“And knowing this, he wrote such a letter as that,” said Paul, indignantly, “what a hard, unfeeling wretch he must be!”

“I suppose it is vexatious to him to be kept out of his money.”

“But he has plenty more. He would never miss it if he had given it to you outright.”

“That is not the way to look at it, Paul. The money is justly his, and it is a great sorrow to me that I must die without paying it.”

“Father,” said Paul, after a pause, “will it be any relief to you, if I promise to pay it,—that is, if I am ever able?”

Mr. Prescott's face brightened.

“That was what I wanted to ask you, Paul. It will be a comfort to me to feel that there is some hope of the debt being paid at some future day.”

“Then don't let it trouble you any longer, father. The debt shall be mine, and I will pay it.”

Again a shadow passed over the sick man's face, “Poor boy,” he said, “why should I burden your young life with such a load? You will have to struggle hard enough as it is. No, Paul, recall your promise. I don't want to purchase comfort at such a price.”

“No, father,” said Paul sturdily, “it is too late now. I have made the promise and I mean to stick to it. Besides, it will give me something to live for. I am young—I may have a great many years before me. For thirteen years you have supported me. It is only right that I should make what return I can. I'll keep my promise, father.”

“May God help and prosper you, my boy,” said Mr. Prescott, solemnly. “You've been a good son; I pray that you may grow up to be a good man. But, my dear, I feel tired. I think I will try to go to sleep.”

Paul smoothed the comforter, adjusting it carefully about his father's neck, and going to the door went out in search of some wood to place upon the fire. Their scanty stock of firewood was exhausted, and Paul was obliged to go into the woods near by, to obtain such loose fagots as he might find upon the ground.

He was coming back with his load when his attention was drawn by a whistle. Looking up he discovered Ben Newcome approaching him.

“How are you, Paul?”

“Pretty well, Ben.”

“How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time.”

“Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would ever get any better.”

“How is he this morning?”

“Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I went out.”

“I brought over something for you,” said Ben, tugging away at his pocket.

Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.

“I found 'em in the closet,” he said.

“Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?”

“Then I don't know as I ought to take them,” said Paul, though, to tell the truth, they looked tempting to him.

“O, nonsense,” said Ben; “they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes to scold a little; it does her good.”

The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.

“Ain't they prime?” he said.

“First rate,” said Paul; “won't you have one?”

“No,” said Ben; “you see I thought while I was about it I might as well take four, so I ate two coming along.”

In about fifteen minutes Paul went into the house to look at his father. He was lying very quietly upon the bed. Paul drew near and looked at him more closely. There was something in the expression of his father's face which terrified him.

Ben heard his sudden cry of dismay, and hurriedly entered.

Paul pointed to the bed, and said briefly, “Father's dead!”

Ben, who in spite of his mischievous propensities was gifted with a warm heart, sat down beside Paul, and passing his arm round his neck, gave him that silent sympathy which is always so grateful to the grief-stricken heart.