Herbert Carter's Legacy; Or, the Inventor's Son by Jr. Horatio Alger (top reads .TXT) π
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- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
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Herbert privately thought, from an inspection of his cousin's wardrobe, that the fashion was a queer one, but he did not say so.
βIt's a shame the old man didn't leave us more,β said Mr. Dixon, in an aggrieved tone.
βIt would have been convenient,β Herbert admitted.
βHe ought to have left us ten thousand dollars apiece.β
βWhat would you have done with so much money?β
βGone into business on my own account. If I had a store of my own I might have offered you a place.β
βBut suppose I had ten thousand dollars, too?β
βThen I would have taken you into partnership. It would be a grand thing for you to be junior partner in a New York firm.β
Herbert thought so, too, though it is doubtful whether a firm of which Mr. Dixon was the head would have occupied so proud a position as some others.
βI suppose you have spent all your legacy?β said Herbert.
βI should say so. What's a hundred dollars? I bought a new suit of clothes, a dozen pair of kids, and a box of cigars, and that took up about all of it. You don't smoke, do you?β
βOh, no,β answered Herbert, surprised at the question.
βBetter not. It's expensive. Wait a minute. I want to buy a cigar.β
Mr. Dixon dove into a cigar store, and emerged with one in his mouth.
Soon they reached the boarding house. It was a five-story brick building, rather shabby outwardly.
Cornelius opened the door with a night key, and bade Herbert follow. So he did, up to the fifth floor, where his guide opened a door and admitted him into a room about ten feet square, in a bad state of disorder. In the corner was a bed, not very inviting in appearance. It looked very different from the neat little bed which Herbert slept in at home. The furniture was of hair, and had evidently seen better days. There were two chairs, both of them covered with portions of Mr. Dixon's wardrobe. Cornelius cleared off one, and invited Herbert to be seated.
βThis is my den,β he said.
βDen,β seemed to be the right word, though Herbert did not say so. He wondered why a man with so large an income did not live better.
βYou can brush your hair if you want to,β said Cornelius. βThe supper bell will ring right off. I'll take you down with me.β
βWill there be room?β asked Herbert.
βOh, yes; I'll arrange about that. If you like you can room with me, and I guess I can fix it so you needn't pay more than four dollars a week, getting your lunch outside.β
βI wish you would,β said Herbert, who felt that, dirty as the room was, it would be more like home to him than where he was wholly unacquainted.
At the table below, Herbert found a seat next to Cornelius. There were other clerks at the table whom Mr. Dixon knew, also two or three married couples, and two extra ladies.
βThat lady is an actress,β whispered Cornelius, pointing to a rather faded woman, of about thirty, on the opposite side of the table.
βIs she?β returned Herbert, examining her with considerable curiosity. βWhere does she play?β
βAt the Olympic,β said Mr. Dixon. βShe is Rosalie Vernon.β
βThat's a pretty name.β
βIt's only her stage name. Her real name is Brown.β
βDid you ever see her play?β
βOften; she's good.β
βShe looks very quiet.β
βShe don't say much here; but on the stage she has enough to say for herself. Do you see that man with gray hair and spectacles?β
βYes.β
βHe's an Italian count. He lost his property somehow, and is obliged to give lessons in French and Italian. Quite a come-down, isn't it?β
In the evening he discussed his plans with Cornelius.
βCan't I get more than two dollars a week in a store?β he asked.
βI am afraid not; though you might stumble on a place where they would give three.β
βEven that would not be enough to live upon. I must make that, at any rate, and I hoped to be able to save something.β
βThere are some newsboys who make a dollar a day,β suggested Cornelius.
βA dollar a day? That's six dollars a week.β
βExactly.β
βDo you think I could go into that?β
βOf course you can, if you've got money enough to buy a stock of papers to start with. You'll be your own boss. Then there's boot-blacking; but that ain't genteel.β
βI should prefer selling papers.β
βThen you'd better try it. I've spoken to the landlady, and she'll take you for four dollars a week.β
Herbert closed the day in good spirits. He thought he saw his way clear to supporting himself in the city. Before he went to bed he wrote a cheerful letter to his mother and deposited it in a post office box at the corner.
CHAPTER XXXIII HERBERT AS A NEWSBOY
The next morning, by advice of his roommate, Herbert got up early, and made his way downtown and obtained a supply of morning papers.
The first day was not a success, chiefly on account of his inexperience. He was βstuckβ on nearly half his papers, and the profits were less than nothing. But Herbert was quick to learn. The second day, though he still had some papers left, he cleared twenty-five cents. The third day he netted seventy-five. He felt now that he had passed the period of experiment, and that he would at any rate, be able to pay his board. Of course, he hoped for something better, and indeed felt confident of it.
Three weeks later, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, as he stood in front of the Astor House, with his last paper in his hand, he heard his name called:
βHello, Carter; are you here?β
He did not need to turn around to recognize James Leech.
βGood-morning, James,β he said, politely.
βSo you're a newsboy,β said James.
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