Paul Prescott's Charge

Ben left the room and sauntered out in the direction of the post-office.

A chaise, driven by a stranger, stopped as it came up with him.

The driver looked towards Ben, and inquired, “Boy, is this the way to Sparta?”

Ben, who was walking leisurely along the path, whistling as he went, never turned his head.

“Are you deaf, boy?” said the driver, impatiently. “I want to know if this is the road to Sparta?”

Ben turned round.

“Fine morning, sir,” he said politely.

“I know that well enough without your telling me. Will you tell me whether this is the road to Sparta?”

Ben put his hand to his ear, and seemed to listen attentively. Then he slowly shook his head, and said, “Would you be kind enough to speak a little louder, sir?”

“The boy is deaf, after all,” said the driver to himself. “IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?”

“Yes, sir, this is Wrenville,” said Ben, politely.

“Plague take it! he don’t hear me yet. IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?”

“Just a little louder, if you please,” said Ben, keeping his hand to his ear, and appearing anxious to hear.

“Deaf as a post!” muttered the driver. “I couldn’t scream any louder, if I should try. Go along.”

“Poor man! I hope he hasn’t injured his voice,” thought Ben, his eyes dancing with fun. “By gracious!” he continued a moment later, bursting into a laugh, “if he isn’t going to ask the way of old Tom Haven. He’s as deaf as I pretended to be.”

The driver had reined up again, and inquired the way to Sparta.

“What did you say?” said the old man, putting his hand to his ear. “I’m rather hard of hearing.”

The traveller repeated his question in a louder voice.

The old man shook his head.

“I guess you’d better ask that boy,” he said, pointing to Ben, who by this time had nearly come up with the chaise.

“I have had enough of him,” said the traveller, disgusted. “I believe you’re all deaf in this town. I’ll get out of it as soon as possible.”

He whipped up his horse, somewhat to the old man’s surprise, and drove rapidly away.

I desire my young readers to understand that I am describing Ben as he was, and not as he ought to be. There is no doubt that he carried his love of fun too far. We will hope that as he grows older, he will grow wiser.

Ben pursued the remainder of his way to the Post-office without any further adventure.

Entering a small building appropriated to this purpose, he inquired for letters.

“There’s nothing for your father to-day,” said the post-master.

“Perhaps there’s something for me,—Benjamin Newcome, Esq.,” said Ben.

“Let me see,” said the post-master, putting on his spectacles; “yes, I believe there is. Post-marked at New York, too. I didn’t know you had any correspondents there.”

“It’s probably from the Mayor of New York,” said Ben, in a tone of comical importance, “asking my advice about laying out Central Park.”

“Probably it is,” said the postmaster. “It’s a pretty thick letter,—looks like an official document.”

By this time, Ben, who was really surprised by the reception of the letter, had opened it. It proved to be from our hero, Paul Prescott, and inclosed one for Aunt Lucy.

“Mr. Crosby,” said Ben, suddenly, addressing the postmaster, “you remember about Paul Prescott’s running away from the Poorhouse?”

“Yes, I didn’t blame the poor boy a bit. I never liked Mudge, and they say his wife is worse than he.”

“Well, suppose the town should find out where he is, could they get him back again?”

“Bless you! no. They ain’t so fond of supporting paupers. If he’s able to earn his own living, they won’t want to interfere with him.”

“Well, this letter is from him,” said Ben. “He’s found a pleasant family in New York, who have adopted him.”

“I’m glad of it,” said Mr. Crosby, heartily. “I always liked him. He was a fine fellow.”

“That’s just what I think. I’ll read his letter to you, if you would like to hear it.”

“I should, very much. Come in behind here, and sit down.”

Ben went inside the office, and sitting down on a stool, read Paul’s letter. As our reader may be interested in the contents, we will take the liberty of looking over Ben’s shoulder while he reads.

New York, Oct. 10, 18—.

DEAR BEN:—

I have been intending to write to you before, knowing the kind interest which you take in me. I got safely to New York a few days after I left Wrenville. I didn’t have so hard a time as I expected, having fallen in with a pedler, who was very kind to me, with whom I rode thirty or forty miles. I wish I had time to tell all the adventures I met with on the way, but I must wait till I see you.

When I got to the city, I was astonished to find how large it was. The first day I got pretty tired wandering about, and strayed into a church in the evening, not knowing where else to go. I was so tired I fell asleep there, and didn’t wake up till morning. When I found myself locked up in a great church, I was frightened, I can tell you. It was only Thursday morning, and I was afraid I should have to stay there till Sunday. If I had, I am afraid I should have starved to death. But, fortunately for me, the sexton came in the morning, and let me out. That wasn’t all. He very kindly took me home with him, and then told me I might live with him and go to school. I like him very much, and his wife too. I call them Uncle Hugh and Aunt Hester. When you write to me, you must direct to the care of Mr. Hugh Cameron, 10 R– Street. Then it will be sure to reach me.

I am going to one of the city schools. At first, I was a good deal troubled because I was so far behind boys of my age. You know I hadn’t been to school for a long time before I left Wrenville, on account of father’s sickness. But I studied pretty hard, and now I stand very well. I sometimes think, Ben, that you don’t care quite so much about study as you ought to. I wish you would come to feel the importance of it. You must excuse me saying this, as we have always been such good friends.

I sometimes think of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, and wonder whether they miss me much. I am sure Mr. Mudge misses me, for now he is obliged to get up early and milk, unless he has found another boy to do it. If he has, I pity the boy. Write me what they said about my going away.

I inclose a letter for Aunt Lucy Lee, which I should like to have you give her with your own hands. Don’t trust it to Mrs. Mudge, for she doesn’t like Aunt Lucy, and I don’t think she would give it to her.

Write soon, Ben, and I will answer without delay, Your affectionate friend, PAUL PRESCOTT.

“That’s a very good letter,” said Mr. Crosby; “I am glad Paul is doing so well. I should like to see him.”

“So should I,” said Ben; “he was a prime fellow,—twice as good as I am. That’s true, what he said about my not liking study. I guess I’ll try to do better.”

“You’ll make a smart boy if you only try,” said the postmaster, with whom Ben was rather a favorite, in spite of his mischievous propensities.

“Thank you,” said Ben, laughing, “that’s what my friend, the mayor of New York, often writes me. But honestly, I know I can do a good deal better than I am doing now. I don’t know but I shall turn over a new leaf. I suppose I like fun a little too well. Such jolly sport as I had coming to the office this morning.”

Ben related the story of the traveller who inquired the way to Sparta, much to the amusement of the postmaster, who, in his enjoyment of the joke, forgot to tell Ben that his conduct was hardly justifiable.

“Now,” said Ben, “as soon as I have been home, I must go and see my particular friend, Mrs. Mudge. I’m a great favorite of hers,” he added, with a sly wink.

XIX

MRS. MUDGE’S DISCOMFITURE

Ben knocked at the door of the Poorhouse. In due time Mrs. Mudge appeared. She was a little alarmed on seeing Ben, not knowing how Squire Newcome might be affected by the reception she had given him on his last visit. Accordingly she received him with unusual politeness.

“How do you do, Master Newcome?” she inquired.

“As well as could be expected,” said Ben, hesitatingly.

“Why, is there anything the matter with you?” inquired Mrs. Mudge, her curiosity excited by his manner of speaking.

“No one can tell what I suffer from rheumatism,” said Ben, sadly.

This was very true, since not even Ben himself could have told.

“You are very young to be troubled in that way,” said Mrs. Mudge, “and how is your respected father, to-day?” she inquired, with some anxiety.

“I was just going to ask you, Mrs. Mudge,” said Ben, “whether anything happened to disturb him when he called here day before yesterday?”

“Why,” said Mrs. Mudge, turning a little pale, “Nothing of any consequence,—that is, not much. What makes you ask?”

“I thought it might be so from his manner,” said Ben, enjoying Mrs. Mudge’s evident alarm.

“There was a little accident,” said Mrs. Mudge, reluctantly. “Some mischievous boy had been knocking and running away; so, when your father knocked, I thought it might be he, and—and I believe I threw some water on him. But I hope he has forgiven it, as it wasn’t intentional. I should like to get hold of that boy,” said Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully, “I should like to shake him up.”

“Have you any idea who it was?” asked Ben, gravely.

“No,” said Mrs. Mudge, “I haven’t, but I shall try to find out. Whoever it is, he’s a scamp.”

“Very complimentary old lady,” thought Ben. He said in a sober tone, which would have imposed upon any one, “There are a good many mischievous boys around here.”

Mrs. Mudge grimly assented.

“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Mudge,” asked Ben, suddenly, “have you ever heard anything of Paul Prescott since he left you?”

“No,” snapped Mrs. Mudge, her countenance growing dark, “I haven’t. But I can tell pretty well where he is.”

“Where?”

“In the penitentiary. At any rate, if he isn’t, he ought to be. But what was you wanting?”

“I want to see Mrs. Lee.”

“Aunt Lucy Lee?”

“Yes. I’ve got a letter for her.”

“If you’ll give me the letter I’ll carry it to her.”

“Thank you,” said Ben, “but I would like to see her.”

“Never mind,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “I’ll get hold of it yet. I shouldn’t wonder at all if it was from that rascal, Paul.”

Poor Paul! It was fortunate that he had some better friends than Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, otherwise he would have been pretty poorly off.

Aunt Lucy came to the door. Ben placed the letter in her hands.

“Is it from Paul?” she asked, hopefully.

“Yes,” said Ben.

She opened it eagerly. “Is he well?” she asked.

“Yes, well and happy,” said Ben, who treated the old lady, for whom he had much respect, very differently from Mrs. Mudge.

“I’m truly thankful for that,” said Aunt Lucy; “I’ve laid awake more than one night thinking of him.”

“So has Mrs. Mudge, I’m thinking,” said Ben, slyly.

Aunt Lucy laughed.

“There isn’t much love lost between them,” said Aunt Lucy, smiling. “He was very badly treated here, poor boy.”

“Was he, though?” repeated Mrs. Mudge? who had been listening at the keyhole, but not in an audible voice. “Perhaps he will be again, if I get him back. I thought that letter was from Paul. I must get hold of it some time to-day.”

“I believe I must go,” said Ben. “If you answer the letter, I will put it into the office for you. I shall be passing here to-morrow.”

“You are very kind,” said Aunt Lucy. “I am very much obliged to you for bringing me this letter to-day. You can’t tell how happy it makes me. I have been so afraid the dear boy might be suffering.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Ben.

“She’s a pretty good woman,” thought he, as he left the house. “I wouldn’t play a trick on her for a good deal. But that Mrs. Mudge is a hard case. I wonder what she would have said if she had known that I was the ‘scamp’ that troubled her so much Monday. If I had such a mother as that, by jingo, I’d run away to sea.”

Mrs. Mudge was bent upon reading Aunt Lucy’s letter. Knowing it to be from Paul, she had a strong curiosity to know what had become of him. If she could only get him back! Her heart bounded with delight as she thought of the annoyances to which, in that case, she could subject him. It would be a double triumph over him and Aunt Lucy, against whom she felt that mean spite with which a superior nature is often regarded by one of a lower order.

After some reflection, Mrs. Mudge concluded that Aunt Lucy would probably leave the letter in the little chest which was appropriated to her use, and which was kept in the room where she slept. The key of this chest had been lost, and although Aunt Lucy had repeatedly requested that a new one should be obtained, Mrs. Mudge had seen fit to pay no attention to her request, as it would interfere with purposes of her own, the character of which may easily be guessed.

As she suspected, Paul’s letter had been deposited in this chest.

Accordingly, the same afternoon, she left her work in the kitchen in order to institute a search for it. As a prudent precaution, however, she just opened the door of the common room, to make sure that Aunt Lucy was at work therein.

She made her way upstairs, and entering the room in which the old lady lodged, together with two others, she at once went to the chest and opened it.

She began to rummage round among the old lady’s scanty treasures, and at length, much to her joy, happened upon the letter, laid carefully away in one corner of the chest. She knew it was the one she sought, from the recent postmark, and the address, which was in the unformed handwriting of a boy. To make absolutely certain, she drew the letter from the envelope and looked at the signature.

She was right, as she saw at a glance. It was from Paul.

“Now I’ll see what the little rascal has to say for himself,” she muttered, “I hope he’s in distress; oh, how I’d like to get hold of him.”

Mrs. Mudge began eagerly to read the letter, not dreaming of interruption. But she was destined to be disappointed. To account for this we must explain that, shortly after Mrs. Mudge looked into the common room, Aunt Lucy was reminded of something essential, which she had left upstairs. She accordingly laid down her work upon the chair in which she had been sitting, and went up to her chamber.

Mrs. Mudge was too much preoccupied to hear the advancing steps.

As the old lady entered the chamber, what was her mingled indignation and dismay at seeing Mrs. Mudge on her knees before her chest, with the precious letter, whose arrival had gladdened her so much, in her hands.

“What are you doing there, Mrs. Mudge?” she said, sternly.

Mrs. Mudge rose from her knees in confusion. Even she had the grace to be ashamed of her conduct.

“Put down that letter,” said the old lady in an authoritative voice quite new to her.

Mrs. Mudge, who had not yet collected her scattered senses, did as she was requested.

Aunt Lucy walked hastily to the chest, and closed it, first securing the letter, which she put in her pocket.

“I hope it will be safe, now,” she said, rather contemptuously. “Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Mudge?”

“Ashamed of myself!” shrieked that amiable lady, indignant with herself for having quailed for a moment before the old lady.

“What do you mean—you—you pauper?”

“I may be a pauper,” said Aunt Lucy, calmly, “But I am thankful to say that I mind my own business, and don’t meddle with other people’s chests.”

A red spot glowed on either cheek of Mrs. Mudge. She was trying hard to find some vantage-ground over the old lady.

“Do you mean to say that I don’t mind my business?” she blustered, folding her arms defiantly.

“What were you at my trunk for?” said the old lady, significantly.

“Because it was my duty,” was the brazen reply.

Mrs. Mudge had rapidly determined upon her line of defense, and thought it best to carry the war into the enemy’s country.

“Yes, I felt sure that your letter was from Paul Prescott, and as he ran away from my husband and me, who were his lawful guardians, it was my duty to take that means of finding out where he is. I knew that you were in league with him, and would do all you could to screen him. This is why I went to your chest, and I would do it again, if necessary.”

“Perhaps you have been before,” said Aunt Lucy, scornfully. “I think I understand, now, why you were unwilling to give me another key. Fortunately there has been nothing there until now to reward your search.”

“You impudent trollop!” shrieked Mrs. Mudge, furiously.

Her anger was the greater, because Aunt Lucy was entirely correct in her supposition that this was not the first visit her landlady had made to the little green chest.

“I’ll give Paul the worst whipping he ever had, when I get him back,” said Mrs. Mudge, angrily.

“He is beyond your reach, thank Providence,” said Aunt Lucy, whose equanimity was not disturbed by this menace, which she knew to be an idle one. “That is enough for you to know. I will take care that you never have another chance to see this letter. And if you ever go to my chest again”—

“Well, ma’am, what then?”

“I shall appeal for protection to ‘Squire Newcome.”

“Hoity, toity,” said Mrs. Mudge, but she was a little alarmed, nevertheless, as such an appeal would probably be prejudicial to her interest.

So from time to time Aunt Lucy received, through Ben, letters from Paul, which kept her acquainted with his progress at school. These letters were very precious to the old lady, and she read them over many times. They formed a bright link of interest which bound her to the outside world, and enabled her to bear up with greater cheerfulness against the tyranny of Mrs. Mudge.

XX

PAUL OBTAINS A SITUATION

The month after Paul Prescott succeeded in reaching the head of his class, George Dawkins exerted himself to rise above him. He studied better than usual, and proved in truth a formidable rival. But Paul’s spirit was roused. He resolved to maintain his position if possible. He had now become accustomed to study, and it cost him less effort. When the end of the month came, there was considerable speculation in the minds of the boys as to the result of the rivalry. The majority had faith in Paul, but there were some who, remembering how long Dawkins had been at the head of the class, thought he would easily regain his lost rank.

The eventful day, the first of the month, at length came, and the class-list was read.

Paul Prescott ranked first.

George Dawkins ranked second.

A flush spread over the pale face of Dawkins, and he darted a malignant glance at Paul, who was naturally pleased at having retained his rank.

Dawkins had his satellites. One of these came to him at recess, and expressed his regret that Dawkins had failed of success.

Dawkins repelled the sympathy with cold disdain.

“What do you suppose I care for the head of the class?” he demanded, haughtily.

“I thought you had been studying for it.”

“Then you thought wrong. Let the sexton’s son have it, if he wants it. It would be of no use to me, as I leave this school at the end of the week.”

“Leave school!”

The boys gathered about Dawkins, curiously.

“Is it really so, Dawkins?” they inquired.

“Yes,” said Dawkins, with an air of importance; “I shall go to a private school, where the advantages are greater than here. My father does not wish me to attend a public school any longer.”

This statement was made on the spur of the moment, to cover the mortification which his defeat had occasioned him. It proved true, however. On his return home, Dawkins succeeded in persuading his father to transfer him to a private school, and he took away his books at the end of the week. Had he recovered his lost rank there is no doubt that he would have remained.

Truth to tell, there were few who mourned much for the departure of George Dawkins. He had never been a favorite. His imperious temper and arrogance rendered this impossible.

After he left school, Paul saw little of him for two or three years. At their first encounter Paul bowed and spoke pleasantly, but Dawkins looked superciliously at him without appearing to know him.

Paul’s face flushed proudly, and afterwards he abstained from making advances which were likely to be repulsed. He had too much self-respect to submit voluntarily to such slights.

Meanwhile Paul’s school life fled rapidly. It was a happy time,—happy in its freedom from care, and happy for him, though all school boys do not appreciate that consideration, in the opportunities for improvement which it afforded. These opportunities, it is only just to Paul to say, were fully improved. He left school with an enviable reputation, and with the good wishes of his schoolmates and teachers.

Paul was now sixteen years old, a stout, handsome boy, with a frank, open countenance, and a general air of health which formed quite a contrast to the appearance he presented when he left the hospitable mansion which Mr. Nicholas Mudge kept open at the public expense.

Paul was now very desirous of procuring a situation. He felt that it was time he was doing something for himself. He was ambitious to relieve the kind sexton and his wife of some portion, at least, of the burden of his support.

Besides, there was the legacy of debt which his father had bequeathed him. Never for a moment had Paul forgotten it. Never for a moment had he faltered in his determination to liquidate it at whatever sacrifice to himself.

“My father’s name shall be cleared,” he said to himself, proudly. “Neither Squire Conant nor any one else shall have it in his power to cast reproach upon his memory.”

The sexton applauded his purpose.

“You are quite right, Paul,” he said. “But you need not feel in haste. Obtain your education first, and the money will come by-and-by. As long as you repay the amount, principal and interest, you will have done all that you are in honor bound to do. Squire Conant, as I understand from you, is a rich man, so that he will experience no hardship in waiting.”

Paul was now solicitous about a place. The sexton had little influence, so that he must depend mainly upon his own inquiries.

He went into the reading-room of the Astor House every day to look over the advertised wants in the daily papers. Every day he noted down some addresses, and presented himself as an applicant for a position. Generally, however, he found that some one else had been before him.

One day his attention was drawn to the following advertisement.

“WANTED. A smart, active, wide-awake boy, of sixteen or seventeen, in a retail dry-goods store. Apply immediately at—Broadway.”

Paul walked up to the address mentioned. Over the door he read, “Smith & Thompson.” This, then, was the firm that had advertised.

The store ran back some distance. There appeared to be six or eight clerks in attendance upon quite a respectable number of customers.

“Is Mr. Smith in?” inquired Paul, of the nearest clerk.

“You’ll find him at the lower end of the store. How many yards, ma’am?”

This last was of course addressed to a customer.

Paul made his way, as directed, to the lower end of the store.

A short, wiry, nervous man was writing at a desk.

“Is Mr. Smith in?” asked Paul.

“My name; what can I do for you?” said the short man, crisply.

“I saw an advertisement in the Tribune for a boy.”

“And you have applied for the situation?” said Mr. Smith.

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you?” with a rapid glance at our hero.

“Sixteen—nearly seventeen.”

“I suppose that means that you will be seventeen in eleven months and a half.”

“No, sir,” said Paul, “I shall be seventeen in three months.”

“All right. Most boys call themselves a year older. What’s your name?”

“Paul Prescott.”

“P. P. Any relation to Fanny Fern?”

“No, sir,” said Paul, rather astonished.

“Didn’t know but you might be. P. P. and F. F. Where do you live?”

Paul mentioned the street and number.

“That’s well, you are near by,” said Mr. Smith. “Now, are you afraid of work?”

“No sir,” said Paul, smiling, “not much.”

“Well, that’s important; how much wages do you expect?”

“I suppose,” said Paul, hesitating, “I couldn’t expect very much at first.”

“Of course not; green, you know. What do you say to a dollar a week?”