CHAPTER X. THE GENERAL
The clouds were darkening, and the shower was evidently not far off. It was a solitary place, and no houses were to be seen near by. But nearly a quarter of a mile back Harry caught sight of a small house, and jumping over the fence directed his steps toward it. Five minutes brought him to it. It was small, painted red, originally, but the color had mostly been washed away. It was not upon a public road, but there was a narrow lane leading to it from the highway. Probably it was occupied by a poor family, Harry thought. Still it would shelter him from the storm which had even now commenced.
He knocked at the door.
Immediately it was opened and a face peered out—the face of a man advanced in years. It was thin, wrinkled, and haggard. The thin white hair, uncombed, gave a wild appearance to the owner, who, in a thin, shrill voice, demanded, "Who are you?"
"My name is Harry Walton."
"What do you want?"
"Shelter from the storm. It is going to rain."
"Come in," said the old man, and opening the door wider, he admitted our hero.
Harry found himself in a room very bare of furniture, but there was a log fire in the fireplace, and this looked comfortable and pleasant. He laid down his bundle, and drawing up a chair sat down by it, his host meanwhile watching him closely.
"Does he live alone, I wonder?" thought Harry.
He saw no other person about, and no traces of a woman's presence. The floor looked as if it had not been swept for a month, and probably it had not.
The old man sat down opposite Harry, and stared at him, till our hero felt somewhat embarrassed and uncomfortable.
"Why don't he say something?" thought Harry.
"He is a very queer old man."
After a while his host spoke.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"No," said Harry, looking at him.
"You've heard of me often," pursued the old man.
"I didn't know it," answered Harry, beginning to feel curious.
"In history," added the other.
"In history?"
"Yes."
Harry began to look at him in increased surprise.
"Will you tell me your name, if it is not too much trouble," he asked, politely.
"I gained the victory of New Orleans," said the old man.
"I thought General Jackson did that," said Harry.
"You're right," said the old man, complacently. "I am General Jackson."
"But General Jackson is dead."
"That's a mistake," said the old man, quietly. "That's what they say in all the books, but it isn't true."
This was amusing, but it was also startling. Harry knew now that the old man was crazy, or at least a monomaniac, and, though he seemed harmless enough, it was of course possible that he might be dangerous. He was almost sorry that he had sought shelter here. Better have encountered the storm in its full fury than place himself in the power of a maniac. The rain was now falling in thick drops, and he decided at any rate to remain a while longer. He knew that it would not be well to dispute the old man, and resolved to humor his delusion.
"You were President once, I believe?" he asked.
"Yes," said the old man; "and you won't tell anybody, will you?"
"No."
"I mean to be again," said the old man in a low voice, half in a whisper. "But you mustn't say anything about it. They'd try to kill me, if they knew it."
"Who would?"
"Mr. Henry Clay, and the rest of them."
"Doesn't Henry Clay want you to be President again?"
"Of course not. He wants to be President himself. That's why I'm hiding. They don't any of them know where I am. You won't tell, will you?"
"No."
"You might meet Henry Clay, you know."
Harry smiled to himself. It didn't seem very likely that he would ever find himself in such distinguished company, for Henry Clay was at that time living, and a United States Senator.
"What made you come here, General Jackson?" he inquired.
The old man brightened, on being called by this name.
"Because it was quiet. They can't find me here."
"When do you expect to be President again?"
"Next year," said the old man. "I've got it all arranged. My friends are to blow up the capitol, and I shall ride into Washington on a white horse. Do you want an office?"
"I don't know but I should like one," said Harry, amused.
"I'll see what I can do for you," said the old man, seriously. "I can't put you in my Cabinet. That's all arranged. If you would like to be Minister to England or to France, you can go."
"I should like to go to France. Benjamin Franklin was Minister to France."
"Do you know him?"
"No; but I have read his life."
"I'll put your name down in my book. What is it?"
"Harry Walton."
The old man went to the table, on which was a common account book. He took a pen, and, with a serious look, made this entry:
"I promise to make Harry Walton Minister to France, as soon as I take my place in the White House.
"GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON"
"It's all right now," he said.
"Thank you, general. You are very kind," said our hero.
"Were you ever a soldier?" asked his host.
"I never was."
"I thought you might have been in the battle of New Orleans. Our men fought splendidly, sir."
"I have no doubt of it."
"You'll read all about it in history. We fought behind cotton bales. It was glorious!"
"General," said Harry, "if you'll excuse me, I'll take out my supper from this bundle."
"No, no," said the old man; "you must take supper with me."
"I wonder whether he has anything fit to eat," thought Harry. "Thank you," he said aloud. "If you wish it."
The old man had arisen, and, taking a teakettle, suspended it over the fire. A monomaniac though he was on the subject of his identity with General Jackson, he knew how to make tea. Presently he took from the cupboard a baker's roll and some cold meat, and when the tea was ready, invited Harry to be seated at the table. Our hero did so willingly. He had lost his apprehensions, perceiving that his companion's lunacy was of a very harmless character.
"What if mother could see me now!" he thought.
Still the rain poured down. It showed no signs of slackening. He saw that it would be necessary to remain where he was through the night.
"General, can you accommodate me till morning?" he asked.
"Certainly," said the old man. "I shall be glad to have you stay here. Do you go to France to-morrow?"
"I have not received my appointment yet."
"True, true; but it won't be long. I will write your instructions to-night."
"Very well."
The supper was plain enough, but it was relished by our young traveler, whose long walk had stimulated a naturally good appetite.
"Eat heartily, my son," said the old man. "A long journey is before you."
After the meal was over, the old man began to write.
Harry surmised that it was his instructions. He paid little heed, but fixed his eyes upon the fire, listening to the rain that continued to beat against the window panes, and began to speculate about the future. Was he to be successful or not? He was not without solicitude, but he felt no small measure of hope. At nine o'clock he began to feel drowsy, and intimated as much to his host. The old man conducted him to an upper chamber, where there was a bed upon the floor.
"You can sleep there," he said.
"Where do you sleep?" asked Harry.
"Down below; but I shall not go to bed till late. I must get ready your instructions."
"Very well," said Harry. "Good night."
"Good night."
"I am glad he is not in the room with me," thought Harry. "I don't think there is any danger, but it isn't comfortable to be too near a crazy man."
CHAPTER XI. IN SEARCH OF WORK
When Harry awoke the next morning, after a sound and refreshing sleep, the sun was shining brightly in at the window. He rubbed his eyes, and stared about him, not at first remembering where he was. But almost immediately recollection came to his aid, and he smiled as he thought of the eccentric old man whose guest he was. He leaped out of bed, and quickly dressing himself, went downstairs. The fire was burning, and breakfast was already on the table. It was precisely similar to the supper of the night previous. The old man sat at the fireside smoking a pipe.
"Good morning, general," said Harry. "I am up late."
"It is no matter. You have a long journey before you, and it is well to rest before starting."
"Where does he think I am going?" thought our hero.
"Breakfast is ready," said the old man, hospitably. "I can't entertain you now as I could have done when I was President. You must come and see me at the White House next year."
"I should like to."
Harry ate a hearty breakfast. When it was over, he rose to go.
"I must be going, general," he said. "Thank you for your kind entertainment. If you would allow me to pay you."
"General Jackson does not keep an inn," said the old man, with dignity. "You are his guest. I have your instructions ready."
He opened a drawer in the table, and took a roll of foolscap, tied with a string.
"Put it in your bundle," he said. "Let no one see it. Above all, don't let it fall into the hands of Henry Clay, or my life will be in peril."
Harry solemnly assured him that Henry Clay should never see it, and shaking the old man by the hand, made his way across the fields to the main road. Looking back from time to time, he saw the old man watching him from his place in the doorway, his eyes shaded by his hand.
"He is the strangest man I ever saw," thought Harry. "Still he treated me kindly. I should like to find out some more about him."
When he reached the road he saw, just in front of him, a boy of about his own age driving half a dozen cows before him.
"Perhaps he can tell me something about the old man."
"Hello!" he cried, by way of salutation.
"Hello!" returned the country boy. "Where are you going?"
"I don't know. Wherever I can find work," answered our hero.
The boy laughed. "Dad finds enough for me to do. I don't have to go after it. Haven't you got a father?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you work for him?"
"I want to work for pay."
"On a farm?"
"No. I'll work in a shoe shop if I get a chance or in a printing office."
"Do you understand the shoe business?"
"No; but I can learn."
"Where did you come from?"
"Granton."
"You didn't come from there this morning?"
"No, I guess not, as it's over twenty miles. Last night I stopped at General Jackson's."
The boy whistled.
"What, at the old crazy man's that lives down here a piece?"
"Yes."
"What made you go there?"
"It began, to rain, and I had no other place to go."
"What did he say?" asked the new boy with curiosity.
"Did he cut up?"
"Cut up? No, unless you mean the bread. He cut up that."
"I mean, how did he act?"
"All right, except when he was talking about being General Jackson."
"Did you sleep there?"
"Yes."
"I wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"I wouldn't sleep in a crazy man's house."
"He wouldn't hurt you."
"I don't know about that. He chases us boys often, and threatens to kill us."
"You plague him, don't you?"
"I guess we do. We call him 'Old Crazy,' and that makes him mad. He says Henry Clay puts us up to it—ho, ho, ho!"
"He thinks Clay is his enemy. He told me so."
"What did you say?"
"Oh, I didn't contradict him. I called him general. He treated me tip-top. He is going to make me Minister of France, when he is President again."
"Maybe that was the best way to get along."
"How long has he lived here? What made him crazy?"
"I don't know. Folks say he was disappointed."
"Did he ever see Jackson?"
"Yes; he fit at New Orleans under him."
"Has he lived long around here?"
"Ever since I can remember. He gets a pension, I've heard father say. That's what keeps him."
Here the boy reached the pasture to which he was driving the cows, and Harry, bidding him "good-by," went on his way. He felt fresh and vigorous, and walked ten miles before he felt the need of rest. When this distance was accomplished, he found himself in the center of a good-sized village. He felt hungry, and the provision which he brought from home was nearly gone. There was a grocery store close at hand, and he went in, thinking that he would find something to help his meal. On the counter he saw some rolls, and there was an open barrel of apples not far off.
"What do you charge for your rolls?" he asked.
"Two cents."
"I'll take one. How do you sell your apples?"
"A cent apiece."
"I'll take two."
Thus for four cents Harry made quite a substantial addition to his meal. As he left the store, and walked up the road, with the roll in his hand, eating an apple, he called to mind Benjamin Franklin's entrance of Philadelphia with a roll under each arm.
"I hope I shall have as good luck as Franklin had," he thought.
Walking slowly, he saw, on a small building which he I had just reached, the sign, "Post Office."
"Perhaps the postmaster will know if anybody about here wants a boy," Harry said to himself. "At any rate, it won't do any harm to inquire."
He entered, finding himself in a small room, with one part partitioned off as a repository for mail matter. He stepped up to a little window, and presently the postmaster, an elderly man, presented himself.
"What name," he asked.
"I haven't come for a letter," said Harry.
"What do you want, then?" asked the official, but not roughly.
"Do you know of anyone that wants to hire a boy?"
"Who's the boy?"
"I am. I want to get a chance to work."
"What kind of work?"
"Any kind that'll pay my board and a little over."
"I don't know of any place," said the postmaster, after a little thought.
"Isn't there any shoe shop where I could get in?"
"That reminds me—James Leavitt told me this morning that his boy was going to Boston to go into a store in a couple of months. He's been pegging for his father and I guess they'll have to get somebody in his place."
Harry's face brightened at this intelligence.
"That's just the kind of place I'd like to get," he said.
"Where does Mr. Leavitt live?"
"A quarter of a mile from here—over the bridge. You'll know it well enough. It's a cottage house, with a shoe shop in the backyard."
"Thank you, sir," said Harry. "I'll go there and try my luck."
"Wait a minute," said the postmaster. "There's a letter here for Mr. Leavitt. If you're going there, you may as well carry it along. It's from Boston. I shouldn't wonder if it's about the place Bob Leavitt wants."
"I'll take it with pleasure," said Harry.
It occurred to him that it would be a good introduction for him, and pave the way for his application.
"I hope I may get a chance to work for this Mr. Leavitt," he said to himself. "I like the looks of this village. I should like to live here for a while."
He walked up the street, crossing the bridge referred to by the postmaster, and looked carefully on each side of him for the cottage and shop. At length he came to a place which answered the description, and entered the yard. As he neared the shop he heard a noise which indicated that work was going on inside. He opened the door, and entered.
CHAPTER XII. THE NEW BOARDER
Harry found himself in a room about twenty-five feet by twenty. The floor was covered with scraps of leather. Here stood a deep wooden box containing a case of shoes ready to send off. There was a stove in the center, in which, however, as it was a warm day, no fire was burning. There were three persons present. One, a man of middle age, was Mr. James Leavitt, the proprietor of the shop. His son Robert, about seventeen, worked at an adjoining bench. Tom Gavitt, a journeyman, a short, thick-set man of thirty, employed by Mr. Leavitt, was the third.
The three looked up as Harry entered the shop.
"I have a letter for Mr. Leavitt," said our hero.
"That is my name," said the eldest of the party.
Harry advanced, and placed it in his hands.
"Where did you get this letter?"
"At the post office."
"I can't call you by name. Do you live about here?"
"No, I came from Granton."
No further questions were asked just then, as Mr. Leavitt, suspending work, opened the letter.
"It's from your Uncle Benjamin," he said, addressing Robert. "Let us see what he has to say."
He read the letter in silence.
"What does he say, father?" asked Robert.
"He says he shall be ready to take you the first of September. That's in six weeks—a little sooner than we calculated. I wish it were a little later, as work is brisk, and I may find it difficult to fill your place without paying more than I want to."
"I guess you can pick up somebody," said Robert, who was anxious to go to Boston as soon as possible.
"Won't you hire me?" asked Harry, who felt that the time had come for him to announce his business.
Mr. Leavitt looked at him more attentively.
"Have you ever worked in a shop?"
"No, sir."
"It will take you some time to learn pegging."
"I'll work for my board till I've learned."
"But you won't be able to do all I want at first."
"Suppose I begin now," said Harry, "and work for my board till your son goes away. By that time I can do considerable."
"I don't know but that's a good idea," said Mr. Leavitt. "What do you think, Bob?"
"Better take him, father," said Robert, who felt that it would facilitate his own plans.
"How much would you want after you have learned?" asked the father.
"I don't know; what would be a fair price," said Harry.
"I'll give you three dollars a week and board," said Mr. Leavitt, after a little consideration—"that is, if I am satisfied with you."
"I'll come," said Harry, promptly. He rapidly calculated that there would be about twenty weeks for which he would receive pay before the six months expired, at the end of which the cow must be paid for. This would give him sixty dollars, of which he thought he should be able to save forty to send or carry to his father.
"How did you happen to come to me?" asked Mr. Leavitt, with some curiosity.
"I heard at the post office that your son was going to the city to work, and I thought I could get in here."
"Is your father living?"
"Yes, my father and mother both."
"What business is he in?"
"He is a farmer; but his farm is small, and not very profitable."
"So you thought you would leave home and try something else?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, we will try you at shoemaking. Robert, you can teach him what you know about pegging."
"Come here," said Robert. "What is your name?"
"Harry Walton."
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"Did you ever work much?"
"Yes, on a farm."
"Do you think you'll like shoemaking better?"
"I don't know yet, but I think I shall. I like almost anything better than farming."
"And I like almost anything better than pegging. I began when I was only twelve years old, and I'm sick of it."
"What kind of store is it you are going into?"
"Dry goods. My uncle, Benjamin Streeter, mother's brother, keeps a dry goods store on Washington street. It'll be jolly living in the city."
"I don't know," said Harry thoughtfully. "I think I like a village just as well."
"What sort of a place is Granton, where you come from?"
"It's a farming town. There isn't any village at all."
"There isn't much going on here."
"There'll be more than in Granton. There's nothing to do there but to work on a farm."
"I shouldn't like that myself; but the city's the best of all."
"Can you make more money in a store than working in a shoe shop?"
"Not so much at first, but after you've got learned there's better chances. There's a clerk, that went from here ten years ago, that gets fifty dollars a week."
"Does he?" asked Harry, to whose rustic inexperience this seemed like an immense salary. "I didn't think any clerk ever got so much."
"They get it often if they are smart," said Robert.
Here he was wrong, however. Such cases are exceptional, and a city fry goods clerk, considering his higher rate of expense, is no better off than many country mechanics. But country boys are apt to form wrong ideas on this subject, and are in too great haste to forsake good country homes for long hours of toil behind a city counter, and a poor home in a dingy, third-class city boarding house. It is only in the wholesale houses, for the most part, that high salaries are paid, and then, of course, only to those who have shown superior energy and capacity. Of course some do achieve success and become rich; but of the tens of thousand who come from the country to seek clerkships, but a very small proportion rise above a small income.
"I shall have a start," Robert proceeded, "for I go into my uncle's store. I am to board at his house, and get three dollars a week."
"That's what your father offers me," said Harry.
"Yes; you'll earn more after a while, and I can now; but I'd rather live in the city. There's lots to see in the city—theaters, circuses, and all kinds of amusements."
"You won't have much money to spend on theaters," said Harry, prudently.
"Not at first, but I'll get raised soon."
"I think I should try to save as much as I could."
"Out of three dollars a week?"
"Yes."
"What can you save out of that?"
"I expect to save half of it, perhaps more."
"I couldn't do that. I want a little fun."
"You see my father's poor. I want to help him all I can."
"That's good advice for you, Bob," said Mr. Leavitt.
"Save up money, and help me."
Robert laughed.
"You'll have to wait till I get bigger pay," he said.
"Your father's better off than mine," said Harry.
"Of course, if he don't need it, that makes a difference."
Here the sound of a bell was heard, proceeding from the house.
"Robert," said his father "go in and tell your mother to put an extra seat at the table. She doesn't know that we've got a new boarder."
He took off his apron, and washed his hands. Tom Gavitt followed his example, but didn't go into the house of his employer. He lived in a house of his own about five minutes' walk distant, but left the shop at the same time. In a country village the general dinner hour is twelve o'clock—a very unfashionably early hour—but I presume any of my readers who had been at work from seven o'clock would have no difficulty in getting up a good appetite at noon.
Robert went in and informed his mother of the new boarder. It made no difference, for the table was always well supplied.
"This is Harry Walton, mother," said Mr. Leavitt, "our new apprentice. He will take Bob's place when he goes."
"I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Leavitt, hospitably.
"You may sit here, next to Robert."
"What have you got for us to-day, mother?" asked her husband.
"A picked-up dinner. There's some cold beef left over from yesterday, and I've made an a