Andy Gordon

On his way home, Andy did not take the most direct route, but, crossing the fields, walked along the shores of Brewster’s Pond – a sheet of water only half a mile across, but quite deep in parts.

As he reached the shore of the pond, he heard a scream, and, quickly looking round, saw a boat, bottom up, and a boy clinging desperately to it. The boat was only a hundred and fifty feet away.

Andy was an expert swimmer, and he did not hesitate a moment. Throwing off his coat, he plunged into the water and swam out to the boat with a strong and sturdy stroke.

He reached the boy just in time, for he was about to let go his hold, his strength having been overtaxed.

Then, for the first time, Andy saw that the boy whom he was attempting to rescue was Herbert Ross.

“Rest your hand on my shoulder, Herbert,” he said, “but don’t grasp me so that I can’t swim.”

Herbert gladly obeyed instructions, and, with some difficulty, Andy helped him to land.

“Now, Herbert, go home at once, or you will catch your death of cold,” said Andy.

“I’m much obliged to you,” replied Herbert, shivering. “Here, take that.”

Andy could hardly believe his eyes when the boy, whose life he had saved, offered him a twenty-five cent piece.

“No, thank you!” he said, smiling. “I don’t need any reward.”

“I would rather you would take it.”

“It is quite impossible,” said Andy, shortly. “I advise you to go home as fast as you can.”

“What a mean boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Gordon, when Andy, who came home wet through, told her of the munificent sum offered him.

“I don’t know,” said Andy, smiling. “Herbert understands best the value of his own life. But, mother, now that this has happened, I shall feel quite justified in taking the name of Henry Miller, for I, too, have saved a boy from drowning.”

The next day he started on his journey.

CHAPTER XXVII.

ANDY MEETS HIS PREDECESSOR

It was a bright, pleasant morning when Andy left Seneca for the town of Cato, where his great-uncle lived. He had arrived in Seneca the evening previous, and passed the night at the village inn, where he had obtained two meals and lodging for seventy-five cents.

“Where be you going?” asked the landlord – a stout and good-natured looking man.

“I guess I’ll travel a little further,” said Andy, smiling.

For obvious reasons he did not like to say he was going to Cato, as the inquisitive landlord would undoubtedly ask him why.

“Ain’t you got no folks?”

“I have no wife and family,” said Andy, laughing.

“Sho, that isn’t what I mean! Isn’t your father or mother living?”

“Yes; I have a mother.”

“Where does she live?”

“Down East.”

“I s’pose you’re seeking your fortune, ain’t you?”

“A little of that,” said Andy; “but, you see, I like to travel.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You seem a spry, active boy. If you’ll stay here and make yourself useful about the house and stable, I’ll give you all you can eat and five dollars a month. Now, what do you say?”

“I wouldn’t mind working for you,” said Andy, “only I want to travel a little further.”

“ ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ as the schoolmaster says.”

“That is true. But, you see, I am not ready to settle down yet. I’m much obliged to you for you kind offer!”

“You talk as if you’d got money. A boy like you wouldn’t give up a good place if he didn’t see his way clear enough to eat.”

“I’m not very rich, Mr. Jenkins, but I am not afraid of starving. Perhaps I will stop on my way back.”

“That’s right; but you’d better stay now.”

“On the whole,” thought Andy, “I think I could get something to do if I needed it. I have no doubt I should find the good-natured landlord a pleasanter man to work for than Mr. Brackett; but I must not forget my errand.”

So Andy began to trudge along the road toward Cato. It was rather a lonely road, with only here and there a house, but there were signboards, so that there was no danger of losing the way. Andy took it easy, now and then throwing himself down by the side of the road to rest.

“I’ve got all day before me,” he reflected. “There’s no need to hurry and use myself up.”

So it happened that it took him four hours to accomplish ten miles. By this time he was quite hungry, and would have been glad to come across a hotel. There was none, however, short of Cato, and Andy didn’t think he could wait till then before satisfying his hunger.

It was at this point that he saw approaching him a boy, apparently about his own age, with a shock of bright red hair, a freckled face, and a suit of clothes of unknown antiquity. He, too, had a small bundle, put up in a red cotton handkerchief.

“Must be my twin brother!” thought Andy. “I’ll speak to him.”

The newcomer stared at Andy, but whether he would have spoken is not quite certain, if our hero had not taken the initiative.

“Good-morning, Johnny!” said Andy.

“My name ain’t Johnny; it’s Peter. Who be you?” returned the other.

“I’m a traveler, just at present,” answered Andy.

“They calls ’em tramps round our way,” said Peter.

“Then I suppose you’re a tramp,” said Andy.

“That’s so, and I’m blest if I like it!”

“Where do you come from?”

“From Cato.”

“Just what I wanted,” thought Andy. “He can give me some information. Won’t you sit down and rest a little while with me?”

“I dunno but I will. Where are you goin’?” asked Peter, his face expressing curiosity.

“What is the nearest place?”

“Cato.”

“Then I guess I’ll go there.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you like the place?”

“The place is good enough; but I worked for an awful mean man.”

“Who was it?” asked Andy, with a presentiment of what the answer might be.

“His name is Brackett. Ain’t he mean, though? But his wife’s jest as bad. Jaw, jaw, jaw, all the time! I couldn’t stand it, so I left.”

“That’s encouraging,” thought Andy. “Was there any one else in the family?”

“There was four children – reg’lar terrors! I’d like to choke ’em.”

“Come, Peter, you’re not in earnest?”

“Ain’t I, though! They’re the wust behaved youngsters I ever come across.”

“I suppose there was no one else in the family?”

“Yes, there was an old gentleman – a nice old man, he was! I wouldn’t have minded workin’ for him. He always had a good word for me, but old Brackett and his wife was scoldin’ all the time.”

“What was the name of the old man?”

“Mr. Dodge. I guess it’s he that owns the property; but Lor’! he don’t have anything to say about it. Brackett and his wife have things all their own way.”

“How long were you working for Mr. Brackett?”

“About six weeks.”

“I suppose he paid you well?”

“Paid me well!” repeated Peter, scornfully. “How much do you calc’late he paid me?”

“About two dollars a week,” said Andy, demurely.

Peter burst into a scornful laugh.

“Much you know old Brackett, if you think he’d pay that figger,” he said. “He paid me seventy-five cents a week, and kept groanin’ over the big wages he was a-payin’! He wanted to get me for fifty cents!”

“He is certainly not a very generous man, Peter.”

“No; I guess not.”

“Did you save enough to retire on a fortune?” asked Andy, laughing.

Poor Peter looked sad.

“Blest if I’ve got more’n twenty-five cents in the world!” he said; “and I’m awful hungry.”

“So am I, Peter. But I don’t see any chance to get dinner, even if we had ever so much money.”

“We could git some over yonder,” said Peter, pointing to a farmhouse some way back from the road. “Only we might have to pay for it.”

“Then come along,” said Andy. “Let’s go there.”

Peter hung back.

“You see, I don’t want to spend all my money,” he said. “I ain’t got but twenty-five cents.”

“It shan’t cost you a cent. I will pay for both our dinners.”

“You will?” exclaimed Peter, gladly. “Have you got money enough?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got enough for that.”

“Then, come along!”

Five minutes later they were knocking at the door of the farmhouse.

A woman, who had evidently been busy getting dinner, her face being flushed with the heat of the kitchen stove, came to the door and surveyed the boys with suspicion.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Madam,” said Andy, pulling off his hat politely, “my friend and I are hungry, and – ”

“We ain’t got anything for tramps,” said the woman, sourly.

“But,” said Andy, in unfailing good humor, “we are not what you suppose.”

“You mean to say you ain’t tramps? I’ll bet a ninepence that you’d steal the spoons, jest as soon as my back was turned.”

Peter was about to return an angry answer, but Andy checked him.

“We don’t want you to give us a dinner,” he said; “but to sell us one. I have money and will pay you in advance if you like.”

The woman – by the way, she was a close-fisted widow, who was always ready to turn a penny, but not to give even a penny’s worth away – was surprised and incredulous.

“Have you any money?” she asked.

“To be sure! How much shall I pay you?” and Andy brought out his pocket-book.

“A quarter apiece, I reckon. I’ve only got sassidges and pie for dinner, but it ought to be wuth that.”

Andy was not over fond of sausages, but the smell of them frying was particularly appetizing just then, and he very readily produced half a dollar and put it into the hands of the Widow Simpson.

“Step right in,” said the widow, with sudden civility. “Dinner will be ready in a jiffy. Here, you Mary Ann, dish up them sassidges, and fry some more. There’s two young gentlemen goin’ to dine with us.”

“We were tramps a minute ago,” thought Andy, amused.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ANDY ARRIVES IN CATO

Mary Ann was an overgrown girl, with red arms and prominent knuckles, and no personal beauty to speak of. She was good-natured, however, and thus had an advantage over her mother.

She stared at the two guests as they sat up to the table, and was evidently favorably impressed by the appearance of Andy, who was a good-looking boy. Peter did not appear to please her so much, and merely received a look.

Mrs. Simpson was bustling about the kitchen and adjoining room, and left Mary Ann to entertain her guests. The girl showed her partiality for Andy by putting three sausages on his plate, and only two on Peter’s; but the latter took no notice of the discrimination, but set to work at once on his share.

Mary Ann looked at Andy with what she meant to be an engaging smile, though it looked more like a broad grin.

“I hope you like the sassidges?” she said.

“They are very good, thank you,” replied Andy, politely.

He spoke correctly, for Mrs. Simpson was famed for the excellence of her sausages, of which she annually made a large stock, part of which were sent to market.

“They was made out of one of our best hogs,” said Mary Ann, with engaging frankness.

“I don’t think I ever ate better,” said Andy.

“They’re hunky!” chimed in Peter, with his mouth full.

“Is you travelin’ far?” asked Mary Ann, who was not very well versed in grammar.

“Not very,” answered Andy.

“Be you a peddler?”

“No; but I may take up the business some time.”

“If you ever do, be sure to call round and see us, whenever you come our way,” said the young lady.

“I certainly will. I shan’t forget your nice sausages.”

“Won’t you have another?” asked Mary Ann, looking pleased.

“No, thank you.”

“I will,” said Peter.

Mary Ann supplied his wants, though not with as good a grace as she would have done for his companion.

“I guess you’ll have some pie?” she suggested, to Andy.

“Thank you.”

A liberal slice of apple pie was put on his plate. Andy would have preferred a clean plate, as sausages and apple pie do not go well together, but he did not care to be so particular.

The pie was good, also, and our hero, whose appetite was of that kind sometimes described as “healthy,” felt that he was getting his full money’s worth. As for Peter, he ate as if he were ravenous, and, not being engaged in conversation, like Andy, was able to give his undivided attention to the subject in hand.

“How are you gettin’ on, young men?” asked Mrs. Simpson, as she passed through the room.

“Bully!” mumbled Peter, whose utterance was somewhat impeded by the half section of apple pie which he had thrust into his mouth.

“Your daughter is taking excellent care of us,” said Andy.

Mary Ann looked delighted at this tribute to her attention, and mentally pronounced Andy the handsomest and most polite boy she had ever chanced to meet.

“What is your name?” she inquired, by no means bashful.

“You may call me Henry Miller,” said Andy, using his assumed name for the first time.

“That’s a nice name,” said Mary Ann.

“Do you think so?” asked Andy, smiling.

“I’ve got a nice name myself,” said Peter, complacently.

“What’s your name?” asked the young lady, indifferently.

“My name’s Peter Jenks.”

“I don’t like it,” said Mary Ann, decidedly, looking unfavorably at the red-headed boy.

“You wouldn’t like to be Mrs. Jenks?” asked Peter, grinning.

“No, I wouldn’t. I don’t want to marry no red head.”

“Maybe you’d like him better,” said Peter, pointing to Andy. “I guess anybody would.”

Andy was amused. He saw that he had made a conquest of the young lady, but did not feel much flattered. He would have been perfectly willing to transfer all her admiration to his companion, if the young lady had been willing.

When the dinner was over the two boys rose from the table, and, bidding good-by to Mary Ann and her mother, left the farmhouse.

“I say, that was a hunky dinner,” said Peter.

“It was very good, indeed.”

“It was enough sight better than I got at old Brackett’s.”

“Don’t they live well there?”

“No, they don’t. The old woman ain’t much of a cook. Besides, she’s mean. We didn’t have pie, only now and then, and she’d cut a pie into eight pieces, and there wasn’t no chance of a second slice for me.”

“By the way, Peter,” said Andy, with a sudden thought, “how would you like to work at a hotel?”

“First class!” answered Peter, promptly.

“Were you ever in Seneca?”

“Once.”

“You know the way, then?”

“Yes; straight ahead.”

“The landlord of the hotel there offered me a place, to work round the hotel and stable, for five dollars a month and board.”

“Why didn’t you take it?”

“I didn’t care to, just now.”

“I wish I could get it,” said Peter, wistfully.

“I think you can. Go straight there, and tell the landlord you were sent to him by a boy you met on the road. He’ll know it was I who sent you, and I shouldn’t wonder if you’d get the place.”

“I’ll do it,” said Peter, with a look of determination; “but I don’t see why you don’t go back and take it yourself?”

“Oh, I don’t care for it,” said Andy.

Peter would have been very much surprised had he known that Andy’s reason for declining to enter the landlord’s services was on account of his desire to step into the old place which he had just left with so much disgust.

“You must have a lot of money,” he said.

“Oh, no,” said Andy, laughing. “What makes you think so?”

“You wouldn’t give up a good place if you hadn’t.”

“Haven’t you given up your place, Peter?”

“Yes; but it wasn’t a good one. I’m much obliged to you for the dinner you’ve given me.”

“Oh, you are quite welcome. I suppose we part here. Of course you’ll go right on to Seneca, while I trudge on to Cato.”

“Yes,” said Peter. “I’ll try for that place before night.”

“I hope you’ll get it.”

So the two boys parted, and Andy kept on. He felt considerably more comfortable now that he had eaten a hearty dinner, but did not feel like walking rapidly. There was plenty of time to get to Cato, for he was not over five miles away.

“I guess I’ll go round to see Mr. Brackett to-night,” thought our hero, “so as to reach him before he has had a chance to hire another boy. I expect, from Peter’s account, I shan’t have a very pleasant time, but I shall soon see how the land lies, and whether there is any chance of helping uncle Simon or not. If I don’t get enough to eat, there’s one comfort – I have money in my pocket, and I can buy something outside. Money’s a pretty good friend, under all circumstances.”

Arrived in the village, Andy walked slowly along the road, keeping his eyes wide open.

A little in advance of him he saw an old man, with white hair, who was walking slowly, and appeared rather feeble.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if that is uncle Simon,” he thought. “I’ll speak to him, and try to find out.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

SIMON DODGE

Andy quickened his pace until he found himself walking beside the old gentleman. He was in doubt how to address him, in order to ascertain whether it was really his mother’s uncle. If he were not, he must be on his guard not to say anything which might excite the suspicions of any one as to his having a special purpose in visiting Cato. The way was made easy for him, however.

The old man was Simon Dodge, and he was in daily expectation of the appearance of his niece’s son.

When he saw Andy, in his traveling garb, with his little bundle of clothes under his arm, his eyes lighted up with hope, and he immediately accosted him.

“Where are you traveling, my boy?” he asked, eagerly.

“I have come from the East,” answered Andy. “I shall stay here, if I can find a place.”

“Would you be willing to work on a farm?” asked the old man.

“Yes,” answered our hero. “I hear that there is a farmer named Brackett who wants to hire a boy. Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes – yes, I can tell you. I am Mr. Brackett’s father-in-law,” said the old man, quickly.

Andy looked about him cautiously, to make sure that no one could overhear him, and said, in a low voice:

“Then you are my mother’s uncle – Mr. Dodge!”

The old man’s face lighted up with satisfaction.

“So I thought,” he answered. “I thought you were Mary’s son as soon as I looked at you. My dear boy, I am glad, heartily glad, to see you!”

Andy looked up in the old man’s face, and he saw there an expression of a kind and amiable disposition.

He could understand how such a man should have allowed himself to be imposed upon by a selfish and unscrupulous man like Brackett.

“I am glad to see you, Uncle Simon!” he said. “I hope I may be able to be of service to you.”

“You seem like a strong, active boy,” said the old man, surveying, with approval, the sturdy frame and manly, handsome features of his great-nephew.

“Yes,” returned Andy, smiling, “I am tolerably strong.”

“What is your name?”

“Andrew Gordon; they generally call me Andy.”

“I should like to call you by that name, but it will be more prudent to go by some other.”

“You may call me Henry Miller, Uncle Simon.”

“Henry Miller? I will try to remember it. But you mustn’t call me Uncle Simon; that would ruin all, if Mr. Brackett should hear it.”

“I’ll be cautious – never fear! Can you advise me how to act? Shall I call at the farm to-night?”

“Yes. Mr. Brackett is looking out for a boy. His boy left him this morning.”

“I know it.”

“You know it?” said the old man, in surprise. “How did you hear of it?”

“I met Peter on the road and treated him to a dinner.”

“Indeed! What did he say about leaving?”

“He doesn’t seem to be in love with Mr. Brackett,” laughed Andy. “He says you are a nice old gentleman.”

“Yes; Peter and I always got along well together.”

“What sort of a boy is he?” asked Andy, with some curiosity.

“He’s not a bad sort of boy; he liked to play now and then, but he is as good as the average. Mr. Brackett expects too much of boys.”

“I suppose he will expect too much of me.”

“I am afraid you won’t like the place,” said Mr. Dodge, anxiously. “But bear in mind, you shall have all the money you want, only Brackett mustn’t know anything about it. We will have a secret understanding together, Andy – I mean Henry.”

“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t stay, if it were not for the sake of helping you.”

“Thank you! It will make me feel better to think I have one friend in the house; only we must be cautious.”

“Uncle Simon,” said Andy, boldly, “why do you stay here with this man? My mother asked me to invite you to come back with me to Hamilton. Our house is small, but we can make room for you. You won’t have anything to complain of there, and you can leave your money where you like. You won’t have any hints from us.”

Mr. Dodge’s face lighted up with pleasure, and he asked eagerly:

“Will your mother be really willing to be trouble with me for the little time I have to stay on earth?”

“She will be glad to have you with us,” answered Andy, emphatically. “If you were a man like Mr. Brackett – as I suppose he is – she wouldn’t want you; but I am sure we shall find you a pleasant visitor.”

“It is what has come into my mind, my boy,” said the old man; “but I was afraid your mother wouldn’t like it. I could ask nothing better. I am not happy where I am. Mr. and Mrs. Brackett are continually asking me for money and scheming to have me leave them what money I have left. Only this morning, Brackett was urging me to make a will, for he knows that, if I die, he is no relative of mine, and the law wouldn’t give him the money.”

“You have given him the farm already, haven’t you, Uncle Simon?”

“Yes; and a good farm it is. I not only gave it to him, but I gave him the stock and tools, and all I asked in return was that I should receive my board.”

“I don’t think he has any right to complain.”

“No, he has no right to complain; but he does complain. He pretends that the farm doesn’t give him a living, and is always wanting to borrow money.”

“Do you let him have it?”

“Sometimes. I cannot help it, he is so importunate.”

“Does he ever pay you back?”

“Never!” said Mr. Dodge, emphatically. “He pretends he can’t.”

Andy looked the disgust he felt.

“Uncle Simon,” he said, “you treat him altogether too well. I wouldn’t give in to him that way.”

“And I suppose you think I ought not to?”

“Yes, I do think so.”

“Andy, you don’t know what it is to be old and weak. When a man gets to be seventy-five,” said Simon, in a pathetic voice, “he doesn’t want to be at strife. He wants peace and rest. Twenty years ago, or even ten years ago, I should have been better able to resist Mr. Brackett; now he annoys and worries me.”

“How long has he been trying to get you to make a will in his favor?”

“For at least two years.”

“I almost wonder you didn’t do it to get rid of him.”

“I will never do that,” said Simon Dodge, with an energy that surprised Andy. “It wouldn’t be safe,” he added, lowering his voice.

“Why wouldn’t it be safe?” inquired our hero, not without curiosity.

“I believe Brackett and his wife would take care that they didn’t have to wait long for their money.”

“You don’t mean to say that they would make away with you?” said Andy, startled.

“I hope not – I hope not. But I don’t think it safe to expose them to temptation,” said Mr. Dodge, shaking his head.

They had been walking slowly. At a point in the road, the prospect widened out before them.

“That is where we live,” said the old man, pointing to a farmhouse, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. “We had better separate here, for it is not best that Mr. Brackett should suppose there is any understanding or acquaintance between us. You might come round in about an hour and apply for a place. Be prepared to accept fifty cents a week.”

“All right!”

And he sat down by the side of the road to rest, for he was really tired, while the old man bent his steps toward home.

CHAPTER XXX.

MR. JEREMIAH BRACKETT

Mr. Brackett, a loose-jointed, shambling figure of a man, was leaning against the well curb, smoking a pipe, when his wife appeared at the back door and called out:

“Jeremiah!”

“What’s wanted?” asked Brackett, impatiently.

“I want some firewood, right off!”

“You’re always wanting firewood!” grumbled her husband.

“I should like to know how you expect me to cook your supper without wood to burn,” retorted Mrs. Brackett.

“Send out Tom for some.”

Tom was the eldest of Mr. Brackett’s children, and had now attained the age of eight years.