Paul Prescott\'s Charge

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PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.

By Horatio Alger, Jr.



Alger Series For Boys. {About 50 Titles} Uniform With This Volume.


TO
The Boys
Whose Memory Goes Back With Me
To The Boarding School
At Potowome
This Volume Is Affectionately Dedicated
By
The Author.





PREFACE

"PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE" is presented to the public as the second volume
of the Campaign Series. Though wholly unlike the first volume, it is
written in furtherance of the same main idea, that every boy's life is
a campaign, more or less difficult, in which success depends upon
integrity and a steadfast adherence to duty.

How Paul Prescott gained strength by battling with adverse
circumstances, and, under all discouragements, kept steadily before him
the charge which he received from his dying father, is fully told; and
the author will be glad if the record shall prove an incentive and an
encouragement to those boys who may have a similar campaign before them.




PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.




I.

SQUIRE NEWCOME.


"HANNAH!"

The speaker was a tall, pompous-looking man, whose age appeared to verge
close upon fifty. He was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair,
and looked as if it would be quite impossible to deviate from his
position of unbending rigidity.

Squire Benjamin Newcome, as he was called, in the right of his position
as Justice of the Peace, Chairman of the Selectmen, and wealthiest
resident of Wrenville, was a man of rule and measure. He was measured
in his walk, measured in his utterance, and measured in all his
transactions. He might be called a dignified machine. He had a very
exalted conception of his own position, and the respect which he felt to
be his due, not only from his own household, but from all who approached
him. If the President of the United States had called upon him, Squire
Newcome would very probably have felt that he himself was the party who
conferred distinction, and not received it.

Squire Newcome was a widower. His wife, who was as different from
himself as could well be conceived, did not live long after marriage.
She was chilled to death, as it was thought, by the dignified iceberg
of whose establishment she had become a part. She had left, however, a
child, who had now grown to be a boy of twelve. This boy was a thorn
in the side of his father, who had endeavored in vain to mould him
according to his idea of propriety. But Ben was gifted with a spirit of
fun, sometimes running into mischief, which was constantly bursting out
in new directions, in spite of his father's numerous and rather prosy
lectures.

"Han-nah!" again called Squire Newcome, separating the two syllables by
a pause of deliberation, and strongly accenting the last syllable,--a
habit of his with all proper names.

Hannah was the Irish servant of all work, who was just then engaged in
mixing up bread in the room adjoining, which was the kitchen.

Feeling a natural reluctance to appear before her employer with her
hands covered with dough, she hastily washed them. All this, however,
took time, and before she responded to the first summons, the second
"Han-nah!" delivered with a little sharp emphasis, had been uttered.

At length she appeared at the door of the sitting-room.

"Han-nah!" said Squire Newcome, fixing his cold gray eye upon her, "when
you hear my voice a calling you, it is your duty to answer the summons
IMMEJIATELY."

I have endeavored to represent the Squire's pronunciation of the last
word.

"So I would have come IMMEJOUSLY," said Hannah, displaying a most
reprehensible ignorance, "but me hands were all covered with flour."

"That makes no difference," interrupted the Squire. "Flour is an
accidental circumstance."

"What's that?" thought Hannah, opening her eyes in amazement.

"And should not be allowed to interpose an obstacle to an IMMEJIATE
answer to my summons."

"Sir," said Hannah, who guessed at the meaning though she did not
understand the words, "you wouldn't have me dirty the door-handle with
me doughy hands?"

"That could easily be remedied by ablution."

"There ain't any ablution in the house," said the mystified Hannah.

"I mean," Squire Newcome condescended to explain, "the application of
water--in short, washing."

"Shure," said Hannah, as light broke in upon her mind, "I never knew
that was what they called it before."

"Is Ben-ja-min at home?"

"Yes, sir. He was out playin' in the yard a minute ago. I guess you can
see him from the winder."

So saying she stepped forward, and looking out, all at once gave a
shrill scream, and rushed from the room, leaving her employer in his
bolt-upright attitude gazing after her with as much astonishment as he
was capable of.

The cause of her sudden exit was revealed on looking out of the window.

Master Benjamin, or Ben, as he was called everywhere except in his
own family, had got possession of the black kitten, and appeared to be
submerging her in the hogshead of rainwater.

"O, you wicked, cruel boy, to drown poor Kitty!" exclaimed the indignant
Hannah, rushing into the yard and endeavoring to snatch her feline
favorite--an attempt which Ben stoutly resisted.

Doubtless the poor kitten would have fared badly between the two, had
not the window opened, and the deliberate voice of his father, called
out in tones which Ben saw fit to heed.

"What?"

"Come into my presence immejiately, and learn to answer me with more
respect."

Ben came in looking half defiant.

His father, whose perpendicularity made him look like a sitting
grenadier, commenced the examination thus:--

"I wish you to inform me what you was a doing of when I spoke to you."

It will be observed that the Squire's dignified utterances were
sometimes a little at variance with the rule of the best modern
grammarians.

"I was trying to prevent Hannah from taking the kitten," said Ben.

"What was you a doing of before Hannah went out?"

"Playing with Kitty."

"Why were you standing near the hogshead, Benjamin?"

"Why," said Ben, ingenuously, "the hogshead happened to be near me--that
was all."

"Were you not trying to drown the kitten?"

"O, I wouldn't drown her for anything," said Ben with an injured
expression, mentally adding, "short of a three-cent piece."

"Then, to repeat my interrogatory, what was you a doing of with the
kitten in the hogshead?"

"I was teaching her to swim," said Ben, looking out of the corner of
his eye at his father, to see what impression this explanation made upon
him.

"And what advantageous result do you think would be brought about by
teaching of the kitten to swim, Benjamin?" persisted his father.

"Advantageous result!" repeated Ben, demurely, pretending not to
understand.

"Certingly."

"What does that mean?"

"Do you not study your dictionary at school, Benjamin?"

"Yes, but I don't like it much."

"You are very much in error. You will never learn to employ your tongue
with elegance and precision, unless you engage in this beneficial
study."

"I can use my tongue well enough, without studying grammar," said Ben.
He proceeded to illustrate the truth of this assertion by twisting his
tongue about in a comical manner.

"Tongue," exclaimed his father, "is but another name for language I mean
your native language."

"Oh!"

Ben was about to leave the room to avoid further questions of an
embarrassing nature, when his father interrupted his exit by saying--

"Stay, Benjamin, do not withdraw till I have made all the inquiries
which I intend."

The boy unwillingly returned.

"You have not answered my question."

"I've forgotten what it was."

"What good would it do?" asked the Squire, simplifying his speech to
reach Ben's comprehension, "what good would it do to teach the kitten to
swim?"

"O, I thought," said Ben, hesitating, "that some time or other she might
happen to fall into the water, and might not be able to get out unless
she knew how."

"I think," said his father with an unusual display of sagacity, "that
she will be in much greater hazard of drowning while learning to swim
under your direction than by any other chance likely to befall her."

"Shouldn't wonder," was Ben's mental comment, "Pretty cute for you,
dad."

Fortunately, Ben did not express his thoughts aloud. They would have
implied such an utter lack of respect that the Squire would have been
quite overwhelmed by the reflection that his impressive manners had
produced no greater effect on one who had so excellent a chance of being
impressed by them.

"Benjamin," concluded his father, "I have an errand for you to execute.
You may go to Mr. Prescott's and see if he is yet living. I hear that he
is a lying on the brink of the grave."

An expression of sadness stole over the usually merry face of Ben, as he
started on his errand.

"Poor Paul!" he thought, "what will he do when his father dies? He's
such a capital fellow, too. I just wish I had a wagon load of money, I
do, and I'd give him half. That's so!"




II.

PAUL PRESCOTT'S HOME.


We will precede Ben on his visit to the house of Mr. Prescott.

It was an old weather-beaten house, of one story, about half a mile
distant from 'Squire Newcome's residence. The Prescott family had lived
here for five years, or ever since they had removed to Wrenville. Until
within a year they had lived comfortably, when two blows came in quick
succession. The first was the death of Mrs. Prescott, an excellent
woman, whose loss was deeply felt by her husband and son. Soon
afterwards Mr. Prescott, a carpenter by trade, while at work upon the
roof of a high building, fell off, and not only broke his leg badly, but
suffered some internal injury of a still more serious nature. He had
not been able to do a stroke of work since. After some months it became
evident that he would never recover. A year had now passed. During
this time his expenses had swallowed up the small amount which he had
succeeded in laying up previous to his sickness. It was clear that at
his death there would be nothing left. At thirteen years of age Paul
would have to begin the world without a penny.

Mr. Prescott lay upon a bed in a small bedroom adjoining the kitchen.
Paul, a thoughtful-looking boy sat beside it, ready to answer his call.

There had been silence for some time, when Mr. Prescott called feebly--

"Paul!"

"I am here, father," said Paul.

"I am almost gone, Paul, I don't think I shall last through the day."

"O, father," said Paul, sorrowfully, "Don't leave me."

"That is the only grief I have in dying--I must leave you to struggle
for yourself, Paul. I shall be able to leave you absolutely nothing."

"Don't think of that, father. I am young and strong--I can earn my
living in some way."

"I hoped to live long enough to give you an education. I wanted you to
have a fairer start in the world than I had."

"Never mind, father," said Paul, soothingly, "Don't be uneasy about me.
God will provide for me."

Again there was a silence, broken only by the difficult breathing of the
sick man.

He spoke again.

"There is one thing, Paul, that I want to tell you before I die."

Paul drew closer to the bedside.

"It is something which has troubled me as I lay here. I shall feel
easier for speaking of it. You remember that we lived at Cedarville
before we came here."

"Yes, father."

"About two years before we left there, a promising speculation was
brought to my notice. An agent of a Lake Superior mine visited our
village and represented the mine in so favorable a light that many of
my neighbors bought shares, fully expecting to double their money in a
year. Among the rest I was attacked with the fever of speculation. I had
always been obliged to work hard for a moderate compensation, and had
not been able to do much more than support my family. This it seemed to
me, afforded an excellent opportunity of laying up a little something
which might render me secure in the event of a sudden attack of
sickness. I had but about two hundred dollars, however, and from so
scanty an investment I could not, of course, expect a large return;
accordingly I went to Squire Conant; you remember him, Paul?"

"Yes, father."

'I went to him and asked a loan of five hundred dollars. After some
hesitation he agreed to lend it to me. He was fond of his money and not
much given to lending, but it so happened that he had invested in the
same speculation, and had a high opinion of it, so he felt pretty
safe in advancing me the money. Well, this loan gave me seven hundred
dollars, with which I purchased seven shares in the Lake Superior Grand
Combination Mining Company. For some months afterwards, I felt like a
rich man. I carefully put away my certificate of stock, looking upon
it as the beginning of a competence. But at the end of six months the
bubble burst--the stock proved to be utterly worthless,--Squire Conant
lost five thousand dollars. I lost seven hundred, five hundred being
borrowed money. The Squire's loss was much larger, but mine was the more
serious, since I lost everything and was plunged into debt, while he had
at least forty thousand dollars left.

"Two days after the explosion, Squire Conant came into my shop and asked
abruptly when I could pay him the amount I had borrowed. I told him that
I could not fix a time. I said that I had been overwhelmed by a result
so contrary to my anticipations, but I told him I would not rest till I
had done something to satisfy his claim. He was always an unreasonable
man, and reproached me bitterly for sinking his money in a useless
speculation, as if I could foresee how it would end any better than he."

"Have you ever been able to pay back any part of the five hundred
dollars, father?"

"I have paid the interest regularly, and a year ago, just before I met
with my accident, I had laid up a hundred and fifty dollars which I had
intended to pay the Squire, but when my sickness came I felt obliged to
retain it to defray our expenses, being cut off from earning anything."

"Then I suppose you have not been able to pay interest for the last
year."

"No."

"Have you heard from the Squire lately?"

"Yes, I had a letter only last week. You remember bringing me one
postmarked Cedarville?"

"Yes, I wondered at the time who it could be from."

"You will find it on the mantelpiece. I should like to have you get it
and read it."

Paul readily found the letter. It was enclosed in a brown envelope,
directed in a bold hand to "Mr. John Prescott, Wrenville."

The letter was as follows:--


CEDARVILLE, APRIL 15, 18--,

MR. JOHN PRESCOTT:--

SIR: I have been waiting impatiently to hear something about the five
hundred dollars in which sum you are indebted to me, on account of a
loan which I was fool enough to make you seven years since. I thought
you an honest man, but I have found, to my cost, that I was mistaken.
For the last year you have even failed to pay interest as stipulated
between us. Your intention is evident. I quite understand that you have
made up your mind to defraud me of what is rightfully mine. I don't know
how you may regard this, but I consider it as bad as highway robbery. I
do not hesitate to say that if you had your deserts you would be in the
Penitentiary. Let me advise you, if you wish to avoid further trouble,
to make no delay in paying a portion of this debt. Yours, etc. EZEKIEL
CONANT.


Paul's face flushed with indignation as he read this bitter and cruel
letter.

"Does Squire Conant know that you are sick, father?" he inquired.

"Yes, I wrote him about my accident, telling him at the same time that
I regretted it in part on account of the interruption which it must
occasion in my payments."

"And knowing this, he wrote such a letter as that," said Paul,
indignantly, "what a hard, unfeeling wretch he must be!"

"I suppose it is vexatious to him to be kept out of his money."

"But he has plenty more. He would never miss it if he had given it to
you outright."

"That is not the way to look at it, Paul. The money is justly his, and
it is a great sorrow to me that I must die without paying it."

"Father," said Paul, after a pause, "will it be any relief to you, if I
promise to pay it,--that is, if I am ever able?"

Mr. Prescott's face brightened.

"That was what I wanted to ask you, Paul. It will be a comfort to me to
feel that there is some hope of the debt being paid at some future day."

"Then don't let it trouble you any longer, father. The debt shall be
mine, and I will pay it."

Again a shadow passed over the sick man's face, "Poor boy," he said,
"why should I burden your young life with such a load? You will have to
struggle hard enough as it is. No, Paul, recall your promise. I don't
want to purchase comfort at such a price."

"No, father," said Paul sturdily, "it is too late now. I have made the
promise and I mean to stick to it. Besides, it will give me something
to live for. I am young--I may have a great many years before me. For
thirteen years you have supported me. It is only right that I should
make what return I can. I'll keep my promise, father."

"May God help and prosper you, my boy," said Mr. Prescott, solemnly.
"You've been a good son; I pray that you may grow up to be a good man.
But, my dear, I feel tired. I think I will try to go to sleep."

Paul smoothed the comforter, adjusting it carefully about his father's
neck, and going to the door went out in search of some wood to place
upon the fire. Their scanty stock of firewood was exhausted, and Paul
was obliged to go into the woods near by, to obtain such loose fagots as
he might find upon the ground.

He was coming back with his load when his attention was drawn by a
whistle. Looking up he discovered Ben Newcome approaching him.

"How are you, Paul?"

"Pretty well, Ben."

"How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time."

"Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would
ever get any better."

"How is he this morning?"

"Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I
went out."

"I brought over something for you," said Ben, tugging away at his
pocket.

Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.

"I found 'em in the closet," he said.

"Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?"

"Then I don't know as I ought to take them," said Paul, though, to tell
the truth, they looked tempting to him.

"O, nonsense," said Ben; "they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes to
scold a little; it does her good."

The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the
turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.

"Ain't they prime?" he said.

"First rate," said Paul; "won't you have one?"

"No," said Ben; "you see I thought while I was about it I might as well
take four, so I ate two coming along."

In about fifteen minutes Paul went into the house to look at his father.
He was lying very quietly upon the bed. Paul drew near and looked at him
more closely. There was something in the expression of his father's face
which terrified him.

Ben heard his sudden cry of dismay, and hurriedly entered.

Paul pointed to the bed, and said briefly, "Father's dead!"

Ben, who in spite of his mischievous propensities was gifted with a warm
heart, sat down beside Paul, and passing his arm round his neck,
gave him that silent sympathy which is always so grateful to the
grief-stricken heart.





III.

PAUL'S BRILLIANT PROSPECTS.


Two days later, the funeral of Mr. Prescott took place.

Poor Paul! It seemed to him a dream of inexpressible sorrow. His father
and mother both gone, he felt that he was indeed left alone in the
world. No thought of the future had yet entered his mind. He was wholly
occupied with his present sorrow. Desolate at heart he slipped away from
the graveyard after the funeral ceremony was over, and took his way back
again to the lonely dwelling which he had called home.

As he was sitting in the corner, plunged in sorrowful thought, there was
a scraping heard at the door, and a loud hem!

Looking up, Paul saw entering the cottage the stiff form of Squire
Benjamin Newcome, who, as has already been stated, was the owner.

"Paul," said the Squire, with measured deliberation.

"Do you mean me, sir?" asked Paul, vaguely conscious that his name had
been called.

"Did I not address you by your baptismal appellation?" demanded the
Squire, who thought the boy's question superfluous.

"Paul," pursued Squire Newcome, "have you thought of your future
destination?"

"No, sir," said Paul, "I suppose I shall live here."

"That arrangement would not be consistent with propriety. I suppose you
are aware that your deceased parent left little or no worldly goods."

"I know he was poor."

"Therefore it has been thought best that you should be placed in charge
of a worthy man, who I see is now approaching the house. You will
therefore accompany him without resistance. If you obey him and read the
Bible regularly, you will--ahem!--you will some time or other see the
advantage of it."

With this consolatory remark Squire Newcome wheeled about and strode out
of the house.

Immediately afterwards there entered a rough-looking man arrayed in a
farmer's blue frock.

"You're to come with me, youngster," said Mr. Nicholas Mudge, for that
was his name.

"With you?" said Paul, recoiling instinctively.

In fact there was nothing attractive in the appearance or manners of
Mr. Mudge. He had a coarse hard face, while his head was surmounted by
a shock of red hair, which to all appearance had suffered little
interference from the comb for a time which the observer would scarcely
venture to compute. There was such an utter absence of refinement about
the man, that Paul, who had been accustomed to the gentle manners of his
father, was repelled by the contrast which this man exhibited.

"To be sure you're to go with me," said Mr. Mudge. "You did not
calc'late you was a goin' to stay here by yourself, did you? We've got a
better place for you than that. But the wagon's waitin' outside, so just
be lively and bundle in, and I'll carry you to where you're a goin' to
live."

"Where's that?"

"Wal, some folks call it the Poor House, but it ain't any the worse for
that, I expect. Anyhow, them as has no money may feel themselves lucky
to get so good a home. So jest be a movin', for I can't be a waitin'
here all day."

Paul quietly submitted himself to the guidance of Mr. Mudge. He was so
occupied with the thought of his sad loss that he did not realize the
change that was about to take place in his circumstances.

About half a mile from the village in the bleakest and most desolate
part of the town, stood the Poor House. It was a crazy old building of
extreme antiquity, which, being no longer considered fit for an ordinary
dwelling-house, had been selected as a suitable residence for the town's
poor. It was bleak and comfortless to be sure, but on that very account
had been purchased at a trifling expense, and that was, of course, a
primary consideration. Connected with the house were some dozen acres of
rough-looking land, plentifully overspread with stones, which might have
filled with despair the most enterprising agriculturist. However, it had
this recommendation at least, that it was quite in character with the
buildings upon it, which in addition to the house already described,
consisted of a barn of equal antiquity and a pig pen.

This magnificent domain was under the superintendence of Mr. Nicholas
Mudge, who in consideration of taking charge of the town paupers had
the use of the farm and buildings, rent free, together with a stipulated
weekly sum for each of the inmates.

"Well, Paul," said Mr. Mudge, as they approached the house, in a tone
which was meant to be encouraging, "this is goin' to be your home. How
do you like it?"

Thus addressed, Paul ventured a glance around him.

"I don't know," said he, doubtfully; "it don't look very pleasant."

"Don't look very pleasant!" repeated Mr. Mudge in a tone of mingled
amazement and indignation. "Well, there's gratitude for you. After the
town has been at the expense of providin' a nice, comfortable home for
you, because you haven't got any of your own, you must turn up your nose
at it."

"I didn't mean to complain," said Paul, feeling very little interest in
the matter.

"Perhaps you expected to live in a marble palace," pursued Mr. Mudge, in
an injured tone. "We don't have any marble palaces in this neighborhood,
we don't."

Paul disclaimed any such anticipation.

Mr. Mudge deigned to accept Paul's apology, and as they had now reached
the door, unceremoniously threw it open, and led the way into a room
with floor unpainted, which, to judge from its appearance, was used as a
kitchen.




IV.

LIFE IN A NEW PHASE.


Everything was "at sixes and sevens," as the saying is, in the room Mr.
Mudge and Paul had just entered. In the midst of the scene was a large
stout woman, in a faded calico dress, and sleeves rolled up, working as
if her life or the world's destiny depended upon it.

It was evident from the first words of Mr. Mudge that this lady was his
helpmeet.