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

Three months before, George Dawkins had made his first visit to a gambling house. At first, he had entered only from curiosity. He watched the play with an interest which gradually deepened, until he was easily persuaded to try his own luck. The stakes were small, but fortune favored him, and he came out some dollars richer than he entered. It would have been fortunate for him if he had failed. As it was, his good fortune encouraged him to another visit. This time he was less fortunate, but his gains about balanced his losses, so that he came out even. On the next occasion he left off with empty pockets. So it went on until at length he fell into the hands of Duval, who had no scruple in fleecing him to as great an extent as he could be induced to go.

George Dawkins's reflections were not of the most cheerful character as, leaving Duval, he slowly pursued his way homeward. He felt that he had fallen into the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would have no mercy upon him. He execrated his own folly, without which all the machination of Duval would have been without effect.

The question now, however, was, to raise the money. He knew of no one to whom he could apply except his father, nor did he have much hope from that quarter. Still, he would make the effort.

Reaching home he found his father seated in the library. He looked up from the evening paper as George entered.

“Only half-past nine,” he said, with an air of sarcasm. “You spend your evenings out so systematically that your early return surprises me. How is it? Has the theater begun to lose its charm!”

There was no great sympathy between father and son, and if either felt affection for the other, it was never manifested. Mutual recrimination was the rule between them, and George would now have made an angry answer but that he had a favor to ask, and felt it politic to be conciliatory.

“If I had supposed you cared for my society, sir, I would have remained at home oftener.”

“Umph!” was the only reply elicited from his father.

“However, there was a good reason for my not going to the theater to-night.”

“Indeed!”

“I had no money.”

“Your explanation is quite satisfactory,” said his father, with a slight sneer. “I sympathize in your disappointment.”

“There is no occasion, sir,” said George, good humoredly, for him. “I had no great desire to go.”

Dawkins took down a book from the library and tried to read, but without much success. His thoughts continually recurred to his pecuniary embarrassments, and the debt which he owed to Duval seemed to hang like a millstone around his neck. How should he approach his father on the subject? In his present humor he feared he would have little chance.

As his father laid down the newspaper Dawkins said, “Wouldn't you like a game of checkers, sir?”

This, as he well knew, was a favorite game with his father.

“I don't know but I should,” said Mr. Dawkins, more graciously than was his wont.

The checker-board was brought, and the two commenced playing. Three games were played all of which his father won. This appeared to put him in a good humor, for as the two ceased playing, he drew a ten-dollar-bill from his pocket-book, and handed to his son, with the remark, “There, George, I don't want you to be penniless. You are a little extravagant, though, I think. Your pay from Mr. Danforth ought to keep you in spending money.”

“Yes, sir, I have been rather extravagant, but I am going to reform.”

“I am very glad to hear it.”

“I wish, sir,” said George a moment afterwards, “that you would allow me to buy my own clothes.”

“I've no sort of an objection, I am sure. You select them now, don't you?”

“Yes, sir, but I mean to suggest that you should make me an allowance for that purpose,—about as much as it costs now,—and give me the money to spend where I please.”

Mr. Dawkins looked sharply at his son.

“The result would probably be,” he said, “that the money would be expended in other ways, and I should have to pay for the clothes twice over.”

Dawkins would have indignantly disclaimed this, if he had not felt that he was not altogether sincere in the request he had made.

“No,” continued his father, “I don't like the arrangement you propose. When you need clothing you can go to my tailor and order it, of course not exceeding reasonable limits.”

“But,” said Dawkins, desperately, “I don't like Bradshaw's style of making clothes. I would prefer trying some other tailor.”

“What fault have you to find with Bradshaw? Is he not one of the most fashionable tailors in the city?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so,