Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute by Jr. Horatio Alger (short novels to read .txt) 📕
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- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
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“I hope not, for in that case I should lose my scholar, and have to bow to his superior knowledge.”
“Then you don’t know everything, Mr. Crabb?”
“Far from it! I hope your father didn’t engage me in any such illusion.”
“Because,” said Walter, “I had one teacher who pretended to know all there was worth knowing. I remember how annoyed he was once when I caught him in a mistake in geography.”
“I shall not be annoyed at all when you find me out in a mistake, for I don’t pretend to be very learned.”
“Then I think we’ll get along,” said Walter, favorably impressed by the usher’s modesty.
“I suppose if I didn’t know anything we should get along even better,” said Mr. Crabb, amused.
“Well, perhaps that might be carrying things too far!” Walter admitted.
In the afternoon Hector and Walter spent two hours at the gymnasium in Twenty-eighth Street, and walked leisurely home after a healthful amount of exercise.
For some reason, which he could not himself explain, Hector said nothing to Walter about his rescue of the little girl on Madison Avenue, though he heard of it at the gymnasium.
One of the boys, Henry Carroll, said to Walter: “There was a little girl came near being run over on Madison Avenue this noon!”
“Did you see it?”
“No, but I heard of it.”
“Who was the little girl?”
“Grace Newman.”
“I know who she is. How did it happen?”
The boy gave a pretty correct account.
“Some boy saved her,” he concluded, “by running forward and hauling her out of the road just in time. He ran the risk of being run over himself. Mr. Newman thinks everything of little Grace. I’d like to be in that boy’s shoes.”
Neither of the boys noticed that Hector’s face was flushed, as he listened to the account of his own exploit.
The next morning, among the letters laid upon the breakfast table was one for Hector Roscoe.
“A letter for you, Hector,” said Mr. Ross, examining the envelope in some surprise. “Are you acquainted with Titus Newman, the Pearl Street merchant?”
“No, sir,” answered Hector, in secret excitement.
“He seems to have written to you,” said Mr. Ross.
Hector took the letter and tore open the envelope.
CHAPTER XXXI. AN IMPORTANT LETTER.
The letter alluded to in the last chapter ran thus. It was written from Mr. Newman’s house in Madison Avenue, though inclosed in a business envelope:
“MASTER HECTOR ROSCOE: I learn that I am indebted to you for the rescue of my little daughter from imminent peril during my absence from home yesterday. A friend who witnessed her providential escape has given me such an account of your bravery in risking your own life to save that of an unknown child, that I cannot rest till I have had an opportunity of thanking you in person. You will do me a favor, if not otherwise engaged, if you will call at my house this evening, about eight o’clock. Yours gratefully,
“Titus NEWMAN.”
It is needless to say that Hector read this letter with feelings of gratification. It is true, as we are often told, that “virtue is its own reward,” but it is, nevertheless, pleasant to feel that our efforts to do well and serve others are appreciated.
“No bad news, I hope, Hector?” said Walter.
“No,” answered Hector. “You may read the letter, if you like, Mr. Ross.”
Mr. Ross did so, and aloud, much to the surprise of everyone at table.
“You did not tell me of this,” said Walter, in astonishment.
“No,” answered Hector, smiling.
“But why not?”
“Because Hector is modest,” Mr. Ross answered for him. “Now, if you had done such a thing, Walter, we should have been sure to hear of it.”
“I don’t know,” returned Walter, comically. “You don’t know how many lives I have saved within the last few years.”
“Nor anyone else, I fancy,” replied his father. “By the way, Hector, there is a paragraph about it in the Herald of this morning. I read it, little suspecting that you were the boy whose name the reporter was unable to learn.”
Hector read the paragraph in question with excusable pride. It was, in the main, correct.
“How old was the little girl?” asked Walter.
“Four years old, I should think.”
“That isn’t quite so romantic as if she had been three times as old.”
“I couldn’t have rescued her quite as easily, in that case.”
Of course, Hector was called upon for an account of the affair, which he gave plainly, without adding any of those embellishments which some boys, possibly some of my young readers, might have been tempted to put in.
“You are fortunate to have obliged a man like Titus Newman, Hector,” said Mr. Ross. “He is a man of great wealth and influence.”
“Do you know him, papa?” asked Walter.
“No—that is, not at all well. I have been introduced to him.”
Punctually at eight o’clock Hector ascended the steps of a handsome residence on Madison Avenue. The door was opened by a colored servant, of imposing manners.
“Is Mr. Newman at home?” asked Hector, politely.
“Yes, sar.”
“Be kind enough to hand him this card?”
“Yes, sar.”
Presently the servant reappeared, saying:
“Mr. Newman will see you, sar, in the library. I will induct you thither.”
“Thank you,” answered Hector, secretly amused at the airs put on by his sable conductor.
Seated at a table, in a handsomely furnished library, sat a stout gentleman of kindly aspect. He rose quickly from his armchair and advanced to meet our hero.
“I am glad to see you, my young friend,” he said. “Sit there,” pointing to a smaller armchair opposite.
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