Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute by Jr. Horatio Alger (short novels to read .txt) 📕

“So you are the boy who rescued my dear little girl?”

His voice softened as he uttered these last few words, and it was easy to see how strong was the paternal love that swelled his heart.

“I was fortunate in having the opportunity, Mr. Newman.”

“You have rendered me a service I can never repay. When I think that but for you the dear child—” his voice faltered.

“Don’t think of it, Mr. Newman,” said Hector, earnestly. “I don’t like to think of it myself.”

“And you exposed yourself to great danger, my boy!”

“I suppose I did, sir; but that did not occur to me at the time. It was all over in an instant.”

“I see you are modest, and do not care to take too great credit to yourself, but I shall not rest till I have done something to express my sense of your noble courage. Now, I am a man of business, and it is my custom to come to the point directly. Is there any way in which I can serve you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am glad to hear it. Name it.”

“I am looking for a situation in some mercantile establishment, Mr. Newman.”

“Pardon me, but, judging from your appearance, I should not suppose that it was a matter of importance to you.”

“Yes, sir; I am poor.”

“You don’t look so.”

“You judge from my dress, no doubt”—Hector was attired in a suit of fine texture—“I suppose I may say,” he added, with a smile, “that I have seen better days.”

“Surely, you are young to have met with reverses, if that is what you mean to imply,” the merchant remarked, observing our hero with some curiosity.

“Yes, sir; if you have time, I will explain to you how it happened.”

As the story has already been told, I will not repeat Hector’s words.

Mr. Newman listened with unaffected interest.

“It is certainly a curious story,” he said. “Did you, then, quietly surrender your claims to the estate simply upon your uncle’s unsupported assertion?”

“I beg pardon, sir. He showed me my father’s—that is, Mr. Roscoe’s—letter.”

“Call him your father, for I believe he was.”

“Do you, sir?” asked Hector, eagerly.

“I do. Your uncle’s story looks like an invention. Let me think, was your father’s name Edward Roscoe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in what year were you born?”

“In the year 1856.”

“At Sacramento?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I feel quite sure that I made your father’s acquaintance in the succeeding year, and your own as well, though you were an infant—that is, you were less than a year old.”

“Did my father say anything of having adopted me?”

“No; on the contrary, he repeatedly referred to you as his child, and your mother also displayed toward you an affection which would have been at least unusual if you had not been her own child.”

“Then you think, sir—” Hector began.

“I think that your uncle’s story is a mere fabrication. He has contrived a snare in which you have allowed yourself to be enmeshed.”

“I am only a boy, sir. I supposed there was nothing for me to do but to yield possession of the estate when my uncle showed me the letter.”

“It was natural enough; and your uncle doubtless reckoned upon your inexperience and ignorance of the law.”

“What would you advise me to do, sir?”

“Let me think.”

The merchant leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to reflection. In the midst of his reverie the pompous servant entered, bringing a letter upon a silver salver.

“A letter, sar,” he said.

“That will do. You can go, Augustus.”

“Yes, sar.”

Mr. Newman glanced at the postmark, tore open the letter, read it with a frown, and then, as if he had suddenly formed a resolution, he said:

“This letter has helped me to a decision.”

Hector regarded him with surprise. What could the letter have to do with him?

“Have you any objection to going out to California by the next steamer?” asked Mr. New-man.

“No, sir,” answered Hector, with animation “Am I to go alone?”

“Yes, alone.”