Herbert Carter's Legacy; Or, the Inventor's Son

Jr. Horatio Alger

Herbert Carter's Legacy; Or, the Inventor's Son

BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

Horatio Alger, Jr., an author who lived among and for boys and himself remained a boy in heart and association till death, was born at Revere, Mass., January 13, 1834. He was the son of a clergyman; was graduated at Harvard College in 1852, and at its Divinity School in 1860; and was pastor of the Unitarian Church at Brewster, Mass., in 1862-66.

In the latter year he settled in New York and began drawing public attention to the condition and needs of street boys. He mingled with them, gained their confidence, showed a personal concern in their affairs, and stimulated them to honest and useful living. With his first story he won the hearts of all red-blooded boys everywhere, and of the seventy or more that followed over a million copies were sold during the author’s lifetime.

In his later life he was in appearance a short, stout, bald-headed man, with cordial manners and whimsical views of things that amused all who met him. He died at Natick, Mass., July 18, 1899.

Mr. Alger’s stories are as popular now as when first published, because they treat of real live boys who were always up and about—just like the boys found everywhere to-day. They are pure in tone and inspiring in influence, and many reforms in the juvenile life of New York may be traced to them. Among the best known are:

Strong and Steady; Strive and Succeed; Try and Trust; Bound to Rise; Risen from the Ranks; Herbert Carter’s Legacy; Brave and Bold; Jack’s Ward; Shifting for Himself; Wait and Hope; Paul the Peddler; Phil the Fiddler; Slow and Sure; Julius the Street Boy; Tom the Bootblack; Struggling Upward; Facing the World; The Cash Boy; Making His Way; Tony the Tramp; Joe’s Luck; Do and Dare; Only an Irish Boy; Sink or Swim; A Cousin’s Conspiracy; Andy Gordon; Bob Burton; Harry Vane; Hector’s Inheritance; Mark Mason’s Triumph; Sam’s Chance; The Telegraph Boy; The Young Adventurer; The Young Outlaw; The Young Salesman, and Luke Walton.

CHAPTER I

MRS. CARTER RECEIVES A LETTER

“Is that the latest style?” inquired James Leech, with a sneer, pointing to a patch on the knee of Herbert Carter’s pants.

Herbert’s face flushed. He was not ashamed of the patch, for he knew that his mother’s poverty made it a necessity. But he felt that it was mean and dishonorable in James Leech, whose father was one of the rich men of Wrayburn, to taunt him with what he could not help. Some boys might have slunk away abashed, but Herbert had pluck and stood his ground.

“It is my style,” he answered, firmly, looking James boldly in the face.

“I admire your taste, then,” returned James, with a smooth sneer.

“Then, you had better imitate it,” retorted Herbert.

“Thank you,” said James, in the same insulting tone. “Would you lend me your pants for a pattern? Excuse me, though; perhaps you have no other pair.”

“For shame, James!” exclaimed one or two boys who had listened to the colloquy, stirred to indignation by this heartless insult on the part of James Leech to a boy who was deservedly a favorite with them all.

Herbert’s fist involuntarily doubled, and James, though he did not know it, ran a narrow chance of getting a good whipping. But our young hero controlled himself, not without some difficulty, and said: “I have one other pair, and these are at your service whenever you require them.”

Then turning to the other boys, he said, in a changed tone: “Who’s in for a game of ball?”

“I,” said one, promptly.

“And I,” said another.

Herbert walked away, accompanied by the other boys, leaving James Leech alone.

James looked after him with a scowl. He was sharp enough to see that Herbert, in spite of his patched pants, was a better scholar and a greater favorite than himself. He had intended to humiliate him on the present occasion, but he was forced to acknowledge that he had come off second best from the encounter. He walked moodily away, and took what comfort he could in the thought that he was far superior to a boy who owned but two pairs of pants, and one of them patched. He was foolish enough to feel that a boy or man derived importance from the extent of his wardrobe; and exulted in the personal possession of eight pairs of pants.

This scene occurred at recess. After school was over, Herbert walked home. He was a little thoughtful. There was no disgrace in a patch, as he was sensible enough to be aware. Still, he would have a little preferred not to wear one. That was only natural. In that point, I suppose, my readers will fully agree with him. But he knew very well that his mother, who had been left a widow, had hard work enough to get along as it was, and he had no idea of troubling her on the subject. Besides, he had a better suit for Sundays, neat though plain, and he felt that he ought not to be disturbed by James Leech’s insolence.

So thinking, he neared the small house which he called home. It was a small cottage, with something less than an acre of land attached, enough upon which to raise a few vegetables. It belonged to his mother, nominally, but was mortgaged for half its value to Squire Leech, the father of James. The amount of the mortgage, precisely, was seven hundred and fifty dollars. It had cost his father fifteen hundred. When he built it, obtaining half this sum on mortgage, he hoped to pay it up by degrees; but it turned out that, from sickness and other causes, this proved impossible. When, five months before, he had died suddenly, the house, which was all he left, was subject to this incumbrance. Upon this, interest was payable semi-annually at the rate of six per cent. Forty-five dollars a year is not a large sum, but it seemed very large to Mrs. Carter, when added to their necessary expenses for food, clothing and fuel. How it was to be paid she did not exactly see. The same problem had perplexed Herbert, who, like a good son as he was, shared his mother’s cares and tried to lighten them. But in a small village like Wrayburn there are not many ways of getting money, at any rate for a boy. There were no manufactories, as in some large villages, and money was a scarce commodity.

Herbert had, however, one source of income. Half a dozen families, living at some distance from the post office, employed him to bring any letters or papers that might come for them, and for this service he received a regular tariff of two cents for each letter, and one cent for each paper. He was not likely to grow rich on this income, but he felt that, though small, it was welcome.

According to custom, Herbert called at the post office on his way home. He found a letter for Deacon Crossleigh, one for Mr. Duncan, two for Dr. Waffit, and papers for each of the two former.

“Ten cents!” he thought with satisfaction. “Well, that is better than nothing, though it won’t buy me a new pair of pants.”

He was about to leave the office, when the postmaster called after him: “Wait a minute, Herbert; I believe there’s a letter for your mother.”

Herbert returned, and received a letter bearing the following superscription: “Mrs. Almira Carter, Wrayburn, New York.”

“I hope it isn’t bad news,” said the postmaster. “I see it’s edged with black.”

“I can’t make out where it’s from,” said Herbert, scanning the postmark critically.

“Nor I,” said the postmaster, rubbing his glasses, and taking another look. “The postmark is very indistinct.”

“There’s an n and a p,” said Herbert, after a little examination. “I think it must be Randolph.”

“Randolph? So it is, I declare. Have you got any friends or relatives living there?”

“Yes, my mother’s Uncle Herbert, for whom I was named, lives there.”

“Then he must be dead.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The envelope is edged with black. You had better carry it home before you go round with the others.”

“Perhaps I had,” said Herbert. “I’ll run, so as not to keep the others waiting. Deacon Crossleigh is always in a hurry for his paper.”

“Yes, the deacon’s always in a fidget to know what’s going on, particularly when Congress is in session. He takes a wonderful interest in politics.”

Herbert ran up the street with a quick step, pausing a minute at his humble home.

“You are out of breath, Herbert. Have you been running?”

“Yes, I’ve got a letter for you, and I wanted to bring it before I went round with the rest.”

“A letter! Where from?” asked the widow, with curiosity, for she held very little intercourse with the world outside of Wrayburn.

“It’s postmarked Randolph, as well as I can make out. While you are reading it, I’ll run and leave my letters, and be back to hear the news.”

In a hurry to do all his errands and get back, Herbert ran all the way. While his eyes were fixed on one of the envelopes, he ran full against James Leech, who was walking up the street with a pompous air.

In the encounter James’s hat came off, and he was nearly thrown down.

“What made you run into me?” he demanded, wrath-fully.

“Excuse me, James,” said Herbert, recovering himself.

“You did it on purpose,” said his enemy, glaring at him angrily.

“That isn’t very likely,” said Herbert. “I got hit as hard as you did.”

“Your hat didn’t get knocked off. Pick it up,” said James, imperiously, pointing to it as it lay in the path.

“I will, because it is by my fault that it fell,” said Herbert, stooping over and picking it up. “You needn’t have ordered me to do it.”

“The next time take care how you run against a gentleman,” said James, arrogantly.

“Take care the next time to speak like a gentleman.” said Herbert. “Good night! I must be off.”

“Insolent beggar!” muttered James. “He don’t know his place. How dare he speak to me in that way?”

CHAPTER II

WHAT THE LETTER CONTAINED

Half an hour later, Herbert reentered the cottage, breathless with running.

“Well, mother, what is it?” he asked.

“Uncle Herbert is dead,” she answered.

“When did he die?”

“Yesterday morning. They wrote at once. The funeral is to take place to-morrow afternoon, at three o’clock.”

“Uncle Herbert was rich, wasn’t he, mother?”

“Yes, he must have left nearly a hundred thousand dollars.”

“What a pile of money!” said Herbert. “I wonder how a man feels when he is so rich. He ought to be happy.”

“Riches don’t always bring happiness. Uncle Herbert was disappointed in early life, and that seemed to spoil his career. He gave himself up to money-making, and succeeded in it; but he lived by himself and had few sources of happiness.”

“Then he had no family?”

“No.”

“Do you think he has left us anything, mother?” asked Herbert, with something of hope in his tone.

“I am afraid not. If he had been disposed to do that he would have done something for us before. He knew that we were poor, and that a little assistance would have been very acceptable. But he never offered it. Even when your father was sick for three months, and I wrote to him for a small loan, he refused, saying that we ought to have laid up money to fall back upon at such a time.”

“I don’t see how a man can be so unfeeling. If he would only leave us a thousand dollars, how much good it would do us! We could pay up the mortgage on the house, and have something left over. It wouldn’t have been much for him to do.”

“Well, we won’t think too much about it,” said Mrs. Carter. “It will be wisest, as probably we should be only preparing ourselves for disappointment. Uncle had a right to do what he pleased with his own.”

“Shall you go to the funeral, mother?”

“I don’t see how I can,” said Mrs. Carter, slowly. “It is twenty miles off, and I am very busy just now. Still one of us ought to go, if only to show respect to so near a relation. People would talk if we didn’t. I think, as you were named for your Uncle Herbert, I will let you go.”

“If you think best, mother. I will walk, and that will save expense.”

“It will be too much for you to take such a walk. You had better ride.”

“No, mother, I am young and strong. I can walk well enough.”

“But it must be twenty miles,” objected his mother.

“The funeral doesn’t take place till three o’clock in the afternoon. I will get up bright and early, say at five o’clock. By nine I shall be halfway there.”

“I am afraid it will be too much for you, Herbert,” said Mrs. Carter, irresolutely.

“You don’t know how strong I am,” said Herbert; “I shan’t get tired so easily as you think.”

“But twenty miles is a long distance.”

“I know that, but I shall take it easy. The stage fare is seventy-five cents, and it’s a good way to save it. I wish somebody would offer me seventy-five cents for every twenty miles I would walk. I’d take it up as a profession.”

“I am afraid I could earn little that way. I never was a good walker.” “You’re a woman,” said Herbert, patronizingly. “Women are not expected to be good walkers.”

“Some are. I remember my Aunt Jane would take walks of five and six miles, and think nothing of it.”

“I guess I could match her in walking,” said Herbert, confidently. “Is she alive?”

“No, she died three years since.”

“Perhaps I take after her, then.”

“You don’t take after me, I am sure of that. I think, Herbert, you had better take seventy-five cents with you, so that if you get very tired with your walk over, you can come back by stage.”

“All right, mother; I’ll take the money, but I shall be sure not to need it.”

“It is best to be prepared for emergencies, Herbert.”

“If I am going to-morrow morning, I must split up enough wood to last you while I am gone.”

“I am afraid you will tire yourself. I think I can get along with what wood there is already split.”

“Oh, don’t be afraid for me. You’ll see I’ll come back as fresh as when I set out. I expect to have a stunning appetite, though.”

“I’ll try to cook up enough for you,” said his mother, smiling.

Herbert went out into the wood shed, and went to work with great energy at the wood pile. In the course of an hour he had sawed and split several large baskets full, which he brought in and piled up behind the kitchen stove.

Mrs. Carter could not be expected to feel very deep grief for the death of her uncle. It was now more than six years since they had met. He was a selfish man, wholly wrapped up in the pursuit of wealth. Had he possessed benevolent instincts, he would have offered to do something out of his abundance for his niece, who he knew found it very hard to make both ends meet. But he was a man who was very much averse to parting with his money while he lived. He lived on a tenth of his income, and saved up the rest, though for what end he could not well have told. Since the death of Mr. Carter, whose funeral he had not taken the trouble to attend, though invited, he had not even written to his niece, and she had abstained from making any advances, lest it might be thought that she was seeking assistance. Under these circumstances she had little hope of a legacy, though she could not help admitting the thought of how much a few hundred dollars would help her, bridging over the time till Herbert should be old enough to earn fair wages in some employment. If he could study two or three years longer, she would have been very glad, for her son had already shown abilities of no common order; but that was hardly to be thought of.

“There, mother, I guess I’ve sawed wood enough to last you, unless you are very extravagant,” said Herbert, reentering the kitchen, and taking off his cap. “Now is there anything else I can do? You know I shall be gone two days, or a day and a half at any rate.”

“I think of nothing, Herbert. You had better go to bed early, and get a good night’s rest, for you will have a hard day before you.”

“So I will, but eight o’clock will be soon enough. Just suppose we should get a legacy, after all, mother. Wouldn’t it be jolly?”

“I wouldn’t think too much of it, Herbert. There isn’t much chance of it. Besides, it doesn’t seem right to be speculating about our own personal advantage when Uncle Herbert lies dead in his house.”

There was justice in this suggestion, but Herbert could hardly be expected to take a mournful view of the death of a relative whom he hardly remembered, and who had appeared scarcely to be aware of his existence. It was natural that the thought of his wealth should be uppermost in his young nephew’s mind. The reader will hardly be surprised to hear that Herbert, knowing only too well the disadvantages of poverty, should have speculated a little about his uncle’s property after he went to bed. Indeed, it did not leave him even with his waking consciousness. He dreamed that his uncle left him a big lump of gold, so big and heavy that he could not lift it. He was considering anxiously how in the world he was going to get it home, when all at once he awoke, and heard the church clock strike five.

“Time I was on my way!” he thought, and, jumping out of bed, he dressed himself as quickly as possible, and went downstairs. But, early as it was, his mother, was down before him. There was a fire in the kitchen stove, and the cloth was laid for breakfast.

“What made you get up so early, mother?” asked Herbert.

“I wouldn’t have you go away without breakfast, Herbert, especially for such a long walk.”

“I meant to take something from the closet. That would have done well enough.”

“You will be all the better for a good, warm cup of tea. Sit right down. It is all ready.”

Early as it was, the breakfast tasted good. Herbert ate hastily, for he was anxious to be on his way. Knowing that he could not afford to buy lunch, he put the remnants of the breakfast, including some slices of bread and butter and meat, into his satchel, and started on his long walk.

CHAPTER III

HERBERT MEETS A RELATIVE

Herbert had never been to Randolph. In fact, he had never been so far away from Wrayburn. He was not afraid of losing his way, however. Here and there along the road guideposts were conveniently placed, and these removed any difficulty on that score.

When he had gone about six miles, the coach rattled by. It had started more than an hour later. Herbert turned out for the lumbering vehicle, and waited for it to pass. There was a boy on top, but such was the cloud of dust that he could not at first recognize him. It happened, however, that one of the traces broke, so that the driver was compelled to make a stop just as he overtook our hero. Then he saw that the boy on top was James Leech.

With James curiosity overcame his disinclination to speak to one so far beneath him.

“Where are you going. Carter?” he inquired.

“To Randolph,” was the answer.

“Going to walk all the way?”

“I expect to,” said Herbert, not relishing the cross-examination.

“Why don’t you ride?”

James did not ask for information. He knew well enough already, but as there are purse-proud men, so there are boys who are actuated by feelings equally unworthy, and it delighted him to remind Herbert of his poverty. Herbert divined this, but he was proud in his way, and answered: “Because I choose.”

“Well, you must like the dust, that’s all,” said James, complacently tapping his well-polished boot with a light cane which he had bought.

“Where are you going?” asked Herbert, thinking it about time for him to commence questioning.

“I’m going to Randolph, too,” answered James, with unwonted affability. “I’m going to stop a few days with a friend of mine, Tom Spencer. His father’s a rich man—got a nice place there. Didn’t you ever hear of Mr. Spencer, the lawyer?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“That’s his father. He makes a load of money by his law business. I think I shall study law some time. Perhaps I’ll go into partnership with him. What are you going to be?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Herbert.

“I suppose you’ll be a mechanic of some kind—a carpenter, or mason, or bricklayer.”

“Perhaps so,” said Herbert, quietly.

“What are you going to Randolph for?” asked James, with sudden curiosity.

“To attend my uncle’s funeral.”

“What’s your uncle’s name?”

“The same as mine.”

“I suppose he was poor.”

“No, he was rich.”

“Was he?” repeated James, in some surprise. “What do you think he was worth?”

“About a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Sho! you don’t say so. Perhaps,” continued James, with new-born respect, “he has left you something in his will.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“He hasn’t shown any interest in us for six years, and I don’t think he’ll remember us now.”

James looked thoughtful. He had never before heard of this relationship, or he would have treated Herbert differently. The mere fact of having a wealthy relative elevated our hero considerably in his eyes. Then, too, there was a possibility that Herbert would turn out a legatee.

“When is your uncle’s funeral?” he inquired, after a pause.

“This afternoon.”

“You won’t get there in time. You had better get up and ride.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Well, perhaps I shall meet you at Randolph.”

By this time the harness was repaired, the driver resumed his seat, and whipped up the horses to make up for lost time.

“I’m glad I don’t think as much of money as James Leech,” thought Herbert. “I suppose if my uncle would only leave us a good round sum, he would forget that I once wore patched pants, and accept me as his intimate friend.”

This was exactly what James would have done, and Herbert showed that he was not wholly without knowledge of the world in forming the conjecture.

Pausing occasionally to rest, Herbert at length accomplished his journey, arriving at Randolph a little after noon. He stopped just outside the village and ate his frugal dinner, which by this time he was prepared to relish. He then took off his jacket and beat the dust out of it, dusted his shoes, and washed his face in a little brook by the roadside. Having thus effaced the marks of travel, he entered the village and inquired the way to the residence of his late uncle. He found out where it was, but did not go there yet, knowing that there would be preparations going on for the funeral. Neither did he go to the tavern, for he knew that he would be expected to dine there, and this was an expense which he did not feel able to incur. He threw himself down in the shade of a tree, and remained there until after he heard the church clock strike two. He was still lying there when a young man, smartly dressed, sporting a showy watch chain and locket and an immense necktie, came up the street and accosted him.

“I say, boy, can you tell me where old man Carter’s house is?”

“Yes,” said Herbert. “Do you want to go there?”

“Of course I do. I’m one of the relatives. I’ve come all the way from New York to attend the funeral.”

“I’m one of the relations, too,” said Herbert. “We’ll go along together.”

“By Jove, that’s strange! How are you related to the old chap?” drawled the young man.

“He was my mother’s uncle.”

“Was he? Well, I’m a second or third cousin, I don’t know which. Never saw him to my knowledge. In fact, I wouldn’t have come on to the funeral if I hadn’t heard that he was rich. Expect to be remembered?”

“I don’t think so. He hasn’t taken any notice of mother or myself for years.”

“Indeed!” said the young man, who was rather pleased to hear this intelligence. “Are there many relations, do you know?”

“I don’t think there are.”

“That’s good. It makes our chance better, you know. I say, what’s your name?”

“Herbert Carter.”

“Same as the old man’s?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know you was named for him?”

“Of course.”

“Then he may leave you something for the name,” suggested the other, not very well pleased.

“I don’t expect anything. What is your name?”

“Cornelius Dixon. I’m related to the old man on my mother’s side.”

“Are you in business in New York?” asked Herbert, who, in spite of the queer manners of his new relative, felt considerable respect for one who hailed from so important a city.

“Yes, I’m a salesman in a New York store. Where do you live?”

“In Wrayburn.”

“Where’s that?”

“About twenty miles from here.”

“Some one-horse country town, I suppose. Are you in any business?”

“No,” said Herbert, “but I’d like to be. Do you think you could get me a place in New York?”