Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute

CHAPTER XXVIII. TWO MORE ACQUAINTANCES

Hector continued his walk downtown. Despite the crowds of persons who thronged the sidewalks, he did not anticipate meeting anyone else that he knew. But he was destined to another surprise. On the corner of Murray Street he saw two persons advancing toward him, the last, perhaps, that he expected to see. Not to keep the reader in suspense, it was Allan Roscoe and his son, Guy.

Guy was the first to recognize Hector. Of course, he, too, was surprised.

“Why, there’s Hector!” he exclaimed, directing his father’s attention to our hero.

Allan Roscoe looked up quickly. It is hard to tell whether he felt glad or the reverse at this meeting with the boy whom he called his ward.

An instant later Hector recognized Guy and his father.

“How do you do, Mr. Roscoe?” he said, politely.

“Very well. When did you reach New York?”

“On Saturday.”

It should have been explained that Hector had spent Sunday quietly with Mr. Ross and Walter, and that this was Monday.

“Ahem! I was very much surprised at your leaving the institute,” said Mr. Roscoe.

“I explained to you in my letter why I proposed to leave it,” Hector answered, coldly.

“I did not think your reason sufficient.”

“As Mr. Smith saw fit to bring a base charge against me, and persisted in it, even after he must have been convinced that his nephew was guilty, I was unwilling to remain under his charge any longer.”

“The circumstances were against you,” said Mr. Roscoe.

“You might have known me better than that, Mr. Roscoe,” said Hector, proudly. “Yet you condemned me unheard.”

“Of course, I am very glad that the charge is unfounded,” said Mr. Roscoe, awkwardly.

“Where there is smoke there is generally fire,” said Guy, spitefully.

“I understand you, Guy,” said Hector, half turning to look at the boy who had usurped his place. “I hope you won’t think it impolite if I say that I care nothing whatever for your opinion.”

“You put on as many airs as ever,” sneered Guy. “I should think you would be a little more humble in your changed position.”

“I have not changed, even if my position has,” answered Hector. “Money is nothing to be proud of.”

“I apprehend that the world judges differently,” said Allan Roscoe. “Since you have taken your destiny into your own hands, you will excuse me for asking how you intend to earn your living?”

“I hope to get a mercantile position,” answered Hector.

“Take my advice,” said Guy, with a derisive smile, “and buy yourself a blacking box and brush. I am told bootblacks make a good deal of money.”

“Hush, Guy!” said his father. “Do not insult Hector.”

But Hector concerned himself but little with any slight received from Guy Roscoe. His words, however, recalled his thoughts to the boy he had so recently met, Larry Deane, and he resolved to see if he could not help him by an appeal to Allan Roscoe.

“Mr. Roscoe,” said he, quickly, “I nearly forgot something I want very much to say to you.”

“What is it?” asked his guardian, suspiciously. It occurred to him that Hector wished to borrow some money, and he was considering how little he could decently give him.

“I hear you have discharged Reuben Deane from his position?”

“How did you hear it?”

“From his son, Larry.”

“Where did you see Larry?” asked Allan, in some curiosity.

“He has been driven to take up that employment which Guy so kindly recommended to me.”

“Larry Deane a bootblack! That’s a good one!” exclaimed Guy, with evident relish.

“I don’t think so,” said Hector. “The poor boy is picking a poor living, and sending home what he can to his father, who cannot get new employment. Mr. Roscoe, why did you discharge him?”

“I can answer that question, though it’s none of your business all the same,” volunteered Guy. “The boy Larry was impudent to me, and his father took his part.”

“Mr. Roscoe,” said Hector, “Reuben Deane was in my father’s employ before I was born. Larry and I used to play together when we were little boys, and since when we were older.”

“A bootblack is a nice playmate,” said Guy, with his usual sneer.

“He was not a bootblack then,” retorted Hector, “nor would he be now but for your mean spite. Mr. Roscoe, as I happen to know, my father always valued the services of Reuben Deane, and I ask, in his name, that you give him back his place.”

“My brother may have been deceived in him,” said Allan Roscoe, coldly, emphasizing the first two words, in order to remind Hector that he was no longer to consider him as his father; “but I cannot promise to adopt all his views and protege’s. I have displaced Deane and substituted for him a gardener with whom I am better pleased.”

“Have you no sympathy for the poverty and distress of a man who has served our family faithfully for so many years?” asked Hector, half indignantly.

“My father is competent to manage his own affairs,” said Guy, offensively.

“You don’t appear to think so, or you would not answer for him,” retorted Hector.

“Boys, I must request you to desist from this bickering,” said Allan Roscoe. “I am sorry, Hector, that I cannot comply with your request. By the way, you did not tell me where you were staying.”

“With a gentleman on Forty-second Street.”

“What is his name?”

“Andrew Ross.”

“Not the eminent merchant of that name?” asked Allan Roscoe, in surprise.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“He is worth a million.”

“I supposed he was rich. He lives in an elegant house.”

“Where did you get acquainted with him, Hector?”

“At Saratoga, a year and a half ago.”

“Did you beg him to take you in?” asked Guy, unpleasantly.

Hector quietly ignored the question.

“Walter Boss and I have been very intimate, and I was invited to pay him a visit.”

“Does he know that you are a poor boy?” asked Guy.

“I have communicated to Mr. Ross what your father told me,” answered Hector, coldly. “He is a real friend, and it made no difference in his treatment of me. I hope to get a situation through his influence.”

“You are lucky to have such a man for a friend,” said Allan Roscoe, who would himself have liked to become acquainted with a man whose social position was so high. “I hope you will not misrepresent me to him. Should any opportunity occur, I will try to procure you employment.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hector, but his tone lacked heartiness. He saw that his being a visitor to Mr. Ross and his son had made a difference in his favor. Guy, too, began to think he might be a little more gracious. He, like his father, liked to associate with boys of high social position, and he would have liked to be introduced to Walter Ross.

“What is your number?” he asked of Hector, “I don’t know but I’ll call and see you some time. Is Walter Ross generally at home?”

“Don’t put yourself to any inconvenience to call,” said Hector, significantly. “Walter and I are generally away in the afternoon.”

“Oh, I don’t care to call upon you,” said Guy, annoyed. “I can have all the company I want.”

“I won’t detain you any longer, Mr. Roscoe,” said Hector, realizing that the conversation had occupied considerable time. “Good-morning.”

“That boy is as proud as ever,” said Guy, after Hector had left them. “He doesn’t seem to realize that he has lost his money.”

“He has not had time to realize it yet. It won’t be long before he will understand the difference it makes.”

“I am glad he isn’t my cousin,” continued Guy. “I dislike him more than any boy I know.”

Allan Roscoe looked thoughtful.

“I fear that boy will give me trouble yet,” he said to himself. “He evidently suspects that something is wrong.”

CHAPTER XXIX. JIM SMITH EFFECTS A LOAN

After parting with Allan Roscoe and Guy, Hector kept on his way downtown. He did not expect to meet any more acquaintances, but he was again to be surprised. Standing on the sidewalk having his boots blacked, he recognized the schoolfellow he had least reason to like—Jim Smith.

“What brings Jim here?” he asked himself, in some surprise.

He did not feel inclined to go up and claim acquaintance, but it chanced that he became witness of a piece of meanness characteristic of Jim.

When the young bootblack had finished polishing his shoes, he waited for his customary fee.

Jim fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced two cents.

“There, boy,” he said, placing them in the hand of the disgusted knight of the brush.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“It’s your pay.”

“Look here, mister, you’ve made a mistake; here’s only two cents.”

“I know it.”

“Do you think I work for any such price as that?”

“Perhaps you expect a dollar!” sneered Jim.

“No, I don’t; but a nickel’s my lowest price. Plenty of gentlemen give me a dime.”

“That’s too much; I’ve paid you all I’m going to.”

“Wait a minute. That boot don’t look as well as the other.”

Jim unsuspiciously allowed the boy to complete his work, but he had occasion to regret it. The bootblack hastily rubbed his brush in the mud on the sidewalk and daubed it on one of Jim’s boots, quite effacing the shine.

“There, that’ll do,” he said, and, scrambling to his feet, ran round the corner.

Then, for the first time, Jim looked down, and saw what the boy had done. He uttered an exclamation of disgust and looked round hastily to see where the offender had betaken himself. His glance fell upon Hector, who was quietly looking on, and not without a sense of enjoyment.

It often happens that we greet cordially those for whom we have even a feeling of aversion when we meet them unexpectedly away from our usual haunts. Jim, who was beginning to regret that circumstances had forced him to leave the serene sanctuary of Smith Institute, since now he would be under the necessity of making his own living, was glad to see our hero.

“Is it you, Roscoe?” he said, eagerly.

“Yes,” answered Hector, coolly.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking about the city, just at present.”

“Suppose we go together.”

Hector hardly knew how to refuse, and the two boys kept down Broadway in company.

“You’re surprised to see me, ain’t you?” asked Jim.

“Rather so.”

“You see, I got tired of the school. I’ve been there three years, so I told my uncle I would come to New York and see if I couldn’t get work.”

“I hope you may succeed,” said Hector, for he would not allow his dislikes to carry him too far. He felt that there was room in the world for Jim and himself, too.

“Are you going to work?” asked Jim.

“I hope so.”

“Got anything in view?”

“Not exactly.’”

“It would be a good thing if we could get into the same place.”

“Do you say that because we have always agreed so well?” asked Hector, amused.

“We may be better friends in future,” said Jim, with a grin.

Hector was judiciously silent.

“Where are you staying?”

“Up on Forty-second Street.”

“That’s a good way uptown, isn’t it?”

“Yes, pretty far up.”

“Are you boarding?”

“No; I am visiting some friends.”

“Couldn’t you get me in there as one of your school friends?”

This question indicated such an amount of assurance on the part of his old enemy that at first Hector did not know how to reply in fitting terms.

“I couldn’t take such a liberty with my friends,” he said. “Besides, it doesn’t strike me that we were on very intimate terms.”

But Jim was not sensitive to a rebuff.

“The fact is,” he continued, “I haven’t got much money, and it would be very convenient to visit somebody. Perhaps you could lend me five dollars?”

“I don’t think I could. I think I shall have to say good-morning.”

“I can’t make anything out of him,” said Jim to himself, philosophically. “I wonder if he’s got any money. Uncle Socrates told me his uncle had cast him off.”

Going up Broadway instead of down, it was not long before Jim met Allan Roscoe and Guy, whom he immediately recognized. Not being troubled with immodesty, he at once walked up to Mr. Roscoe and held out his hand.

“Good-morning, Mr. Roscoe!” he said, in an ingratiating voice.

“Good-morning, young man. Where have I met you?” asked Allan Roscoe, puzzled.

“At Smith Institute. I am the nephew of Mr. Smith.”

“What! Not the nephew who—”

Mr. Roscoe found it hard to finish the sentence. He didn’t like to charge Jim with stealing to his face.

“I know what you mean,” said Jim, boldly. “I am the one whom your nephew charged with taking money which he took himself. I don’t want to say anything against him, as he is your nephew, but he is an artful young—but no matter. You are his uncle.”

“He is not my nephew, but was only cared for by my brother,” said Allan Roscoe. “You may tell me freely, my good fellow, all the truth. You say that Hector stole the money which your uncle lost.”

“Yes; but he has made my uncle believe that I took it. It is hard upon me,” said Jim, pathetically, “as I was dependent upon my uncle. I have been driven forth into the cold world by my benefactor because your nephew prejudiced his mind against me.”

“I believe him, papa,” said Guy, who was only too glad to believe anything against Hector. “I have thought all along that Hector was guilty.”

“Is that your son?” asked the crafty Jim. “I wish he had come to the institute, instead of Hector. He is a boy that I couldn’t help liking.”

There are few who are altogether inaccessible to flattery. At any rate, Guy was not one of this small number.

“I feel sure you are not guilty,” said Guy, regarding Jim graciously. “It was a very mean thing in Hector to get you into trouble.”

“It was, indeed,” said Jim. “I am cast out of my uncle’s house, and now I have no home, and hardly any money.”

“Hector is in the city. Have you seen him?” asked Allan Roscoe.

“Yes; I met him a few minutes since.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes; I reproached him for getting me into trouble, but he only laughed in my face. He told me he hated you both,” added Jim, ingenuously.

“Just like Hector!” said Guy. “What have I always told you, papa?”

“I am sorry you have suffered such injustice at the hands of anyone in any way connected with my family,” said Mr. Roscoe, who, like Guy, was not indisposed to believe anything to the discredit of Hector. “I do not feel responsible for his unworthy acts, but I am willing to show my sympathy by a small gift.”

He produced a five-dollar note and put it into Jim’s ready hand.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “You are a gentleman.”

So the interview closed, and Jim left the spot, chuckling at the manner in which he had wheedled so respectable a sum out of Allan Roscoe.

Meanwhile Hector, after looking about him, turned, and, getting into a Broadway stage, rode uptown as far as Twenty-third Street, where the stage turned down toward Sixth Avenue. He concluded to walk the remainder of the way.

As he was walking up Madison Avenue, his attention was drawn to a little girl in charge of a nursemaid. The latter met an acquaintance and forgot her charge. The little girl, left to herself, attempted to cross the street just as a private carriage was driven rapidly up the avenue. The driver was looking away, and it seemed as if, through the double neglect of the driver and the nurse, the poor child would be crushed beneath the hoofs of the horses and the wheels of the carriage.

CHAPTER XXX. A BRAVE DEED

Hector’s heart stood still as he realized the peril of the child. He dashed forward on the impulse of the moment, and barely succeeded in catching up the little girl and drawing her back out of harm’s way. The driver, who had done his best to rein up his horses, but without success, ejaculated with fervent gratitude, for he, too, had a child of his own about the age of the little girl, “God bless you, boy.”

The little girl seemed less concerned than anyone of the spectators. She put her hand confidently in Hector’s, and said: “Take me to Mary.”

“And who is Mary?” asked Hector, kindly.

He did not require an answer, for the nurse, who, rather late in the day, had awakened to the fact that her charge was in danger, came running forward, crying: “Oh! Miss Gracie, what made you run away?”

“The little girl would have been killed but for this boy’s timely help,” said a middle-aged spectator, gravely.

“I’m sure I don’t know what possessed her to run away,” said Mary, confusedly.

“She wouldn’t if she had been properly looked after,” said the gentleman, sharply, for he had children of his own.

Hector was about to release the child, now that he had saved her, but she was not disposed to let him go.

“You go with me, too!” she said.

She was a pretty child, with a sweet face, rimmed round by golden curls, her round, red cheeks glowing with exercise.

“What is her name?” asked Hector, of the nurse.

“Grace Newman,” answered the nurse, who felt the necessity of saying something in her own defense. “She’s a perfect little runaway. She worries my life out running round after her.”

“Grace Newman!” said the middle-aged gentleman already referred to. “Why, she must be the child of my friend, Titus Newman, of Pearl Street.”

“Yes, sir,” said the nurse.

“My old friend little knows what a narrow escape his daughter has had.”

“I hope you won’t tell him, sir,” said Mary, nervously.

“Why not?”

“Because he would blame me.”

“And so he ought!” said the gentleman, nodding vigorously. “It’s no merit of yours that she wasn’t crushed beneath the wheels of that carriage. If you had been attending to your duty, she wouldn’t have been in danger.”

“I don’t see as it’s any business of yours,” said Mary, pertly. “You ain’t her father, or her uncle.”

“I am a father, and have common humanity,” said the gentleman, “and I consider you unfit for your place.”

“Come along, Grace!” said Mary, angry at being blamed. “You’ve behaved very badly, and I’m going to take you home.”

“Won’t you come, too?” asked the little girl, turning to Hector.

“No, there’s no call for him to come,” said the nurse, pulling the child away.

“Good-by, Gracie,” said Hector, kindly.

“Good-by!” responded the child.

“These nursemaids neglect their charges criminally,” said the gentleman, directing his remarks to Hector. “Mr. Newman owes his child’s safety, perhaps her life, to your prompt courage.”

“She was in great danger,” said Hector. “I was afraid at first I could not save her.”

“A second later and it would have been too late. What is your name, my brave young friend?”

“Hector Roscoe, sir.”

“It is a good name. Do you live in the city?”

“At present I do, sir. I was brought up in the country.”

“Going to school, I take it.”

“I am looking for a place, sir.”

“I wish I had one to give you. I retired from business two years since, and have no employment for anyone.”

“Thank you, sir; I should have liked to serve you.”

“But I’ll tell you what, my young friend, I have a considerable acquaintance among business men. If you will give me your address, I may have something to communicate to you ere long.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hector drew a card from his pocket, and added to it the number of Mr. Ross’ house.

“I am much obliged to you for your kind offer,” he said.

“You don’t look as if you stood in need of employment,” said the gentleman, noticing the fine material of which Hector’s suit was made.

“Appearances are sometimes deceitful,” said Hector, half smiling.

“You must have been brought up in affluence,” said Mr. Davidson, for this was his name.

“Yes, sir, I was. Till recently I supposed myself rich.”

“You shall tell me the story some time; now I must leave you.”

“Well,” thought Hector, as he made his way homeward, “I have had adventures enough for one morning.”

When Hector reached the house in Forty-second Street, he found Walter just rising from his lessons.

“Well, Hector, what have you been doing?” asked Walter.

“Wandering about the city.”

“Did you see anybody you knew while doing so?”

“Oh, yes! I was particularly favored. I saw Allan Roscoe and Guy—”

“You don’t say so! Were they glad to see you?”

“Not particularly. When Guy learned that I was staying here, he proposed to call and make your acquaintance.”

“I hope you didn’t encourage him,” said Walter, with a grimace.

“No; I told him that we were generally out in the afternoon.”

“That is right.”

“I suppose you have been hard at work, Walter?”

“Ask Mr. Crabb.”

“Walter has done very well,” said the usher. “If he will continue to study as well, I shall have no fault to find.”

“If I do, will you qualify me to be a professor in twelve months’ time?”

“I hope not, for in that case I should lose my scholar, and have to bow to his superior knowledge.”

“Then you don’t know everything, Mr. Crabb?”

“Far from it! I hope your father didn’t engage me in any such illusion.”

“Because,” said Walter, “I had one teacher who pretended to know all there was worth knowing. I remember how annoyed he was once when I caught him in a mistake in geography.”

“I shall not be annoyed at all when you find me out in a mistake, for I don’t pretend to be very learned.”

“Then I think we’ll get along,” said Walter, favorably impressed by the usher’s modesty.

“I suppose if I didn’t know anything we should get along even better,” said Mr. Crabb, amused.

“Well, perhaps that might be carrying things too far!” Walter admitted.

In the afternoon Hector and Walter spent two hours at the gymnasium in Twenty-eighth Street, and walked leisurely home after a healthful amount of exercise.

For some reason, which he could not himself explain, Hector said nothing to Walter about his rescue of the little girl on Madison Avenue, though he heard of it at the gymnasium.

One of the boys, Henry Carroll, said to Walter: “There was a little girl came near being run over on Madison Avenue this noon!”

“Did you see it?”

“No, but I heard of it.”

“Who was the little girl?”

“Grace Newman.”

“I know who she is. How did it happen?”

The boy gave a pretty correct account.

“Some boy saved her,” he concluded, “by running forward and hauling her out of the road just in time. He ran the risk of being run over himself. Mr. Newman thinks everything of little Grace. I’d like to be in that boy’s shoes.”

Neither of the boys noticed that Hector’s face was flushed, as he listened to the account of his own exploit.

The next morning, among the letters laid upon the breakfast table was one for Hector Roscoe.

“A letter for you, Hector,” said Mr. Ross, examining the envelope in some surprise. “Are you acquainted with Titus Newman, the Pearl Street merchant?”

“No, sir,” answered Hector, in secret excitement.

“He seems to have written to you,” said Mr. Ross.

Hector took the letter and tore open the envelope.