Driven From Home

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

  “I didn't think of that,” said Leonard, jealously.

  “Living as he does with Mr. Jennings, he will naturally try to ingratiate himself with him, and stand first in his esteem.”

  “That is true. Is Mr. Jennings a rich man, do you think?”

  “Yes, I think he is. The factory and stock are worth considerable money, but I know he has other investments also. As one item he has over a thousand dollars in the Carterville Savings Bank. He has been very prudent, has met with no losses, and has put aside a great share of his profits every year.”

  “I wonder he don't marry.”

  “Marriage doesn't seem to be in his thoughts. Hannah makes him so comfortable that he will probably remain a bachelor to the end of his days.”

  “Perhaps he will leave his money to her.”

  “He is likely to live as long as she.”

  “She is a good deal longer than he,” said Leonard, with a laugh.

  The bookkeeper condescended to smile at this joke, though it was not very brilliant.

  “Before this boy Carl came,” he resumed thoughtfully, “I hoped he might take a fancy to you. He must die some time, and, having no near blood relative, I thought he might select as heir some boy like yourself, who might grow into his favor and get on his blind side.”

  “Is it too late now?” asked Leonard, eagerly.

  “Perhaps not, but the appearance of this new boy on the scene makes your chance a good deal smaller.”

  “I wish we could get rid of him,” said Leonard, frowning.

  “The only way is to injure him in the estimation of Mr. Jennings.”

  “I think I know of a way.”

  “Mention it.”

  “Here is an advertisement of a lottery,” said Leonard, whose plans, in view of what his uncle had said, had experienced a change.

  “Well?”

  “I will write to the manager in Carl's name, inquiring about tickets, and, of course, he will answer to him, to the care of Mr. Jennings. This will lead to the suspicion that Carl is interested in such matters.”

  “It is a good idea. It will open the way to a loss of confidence on the part of Mr. Jennings.”

  “I will sit down at your desk and write at once.”

  Three days later Mr. Jennings handed a letter to Carl after they reached home in the evening.

  “A letter for you to my care,” he explained.

  Carl opened it in surprise, and read as follows:

  “OFFICE OF GIFT ENTERPRISE.

  ``MR. CARL CRAWFORD:--Your letter of inquiry is received. In reply we would say that we will send you six tickets for five dollars. By disposing of them among your friends at one dollar each, you will save the cost of your own. You had better remit at once.

  ``Yours respectfully, PITKINS & GAMP,

  ``Agents.”

  Carl looked the picture of astonishment when he read this letter.

  CHAPTER XX.

  REVEALS A MYSTERY.

  “PLEASE read this letter, Mr. Jennings,” said Carl.

  His employer took the letter from his hand, and ran his eye over it.

  “Do you wish to ask my advice about the investment?” he said, quietly.

  “No, sir. I wanted to know how such a letter came to be written to me.”

  “Didn't you send a letter of inquiry there?”

  “No, sir, and I can't understand how these men could have got hold of my name.”

  Mr. Jennings looked thoughtful.

  “Some one has probably written in your name,” he said, after a pause.

  “But who could have done so?”

  “If you will leave the letter in my hands, I may be able to obtain some information on that point.”

  “I shall be glad if you can, Mr. Jennings.”

  “Don't mention to anyone having received such a letter, and if anyone broaches the subject, let me know who it is.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Mr. Jennings quietly put on his hat, and walked over to the post office. The postmaster, who also kept a general variety store, chanced to be alone.

  “Good-evening, Mr. Jennings,” he said, pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want a little information, Mr. Sweetland, though it is doubtful if you can give it.”

  Mr. Sweetland assumed the attitude of attention.

  “Do you know if any letter has been posted from this office within a few days, addressed to Pitkins & Gamp, Syracuse, New York?”

  “Yes; two letters have been handed in bearing this address.”

  Mr. Jennings was surprised, for he had never thought of two letters.

  “Can you tell me who handed them in?” he asked.

  “Both were handed in by the same party.”

  “And that was----”

  “A boy in your employ.”

  Mr. Jennings looked grave. Was it possible that Carl was deceiving him?

  “The boy who lives at my house?” he asked, anxiously.

  “No; the boy who usually calls for the factory mail. The nephew of your bookkeeper I think his name is Leonard Craig.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Mr. Jennings, looking very much relieved. “And you say he deposited both letters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you happen to remember if any other letter like this was received at the office?”

  Here he displayed the envelope of Carl's letter.

  “Yes; one was received, addressed to the name of the one who deposited the first letters-- Leonard Craig.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sweetland. Your information has cleared up a mystery. Be kind enough not to mention the matter.”

  “I will bear your request in mind.”

  Mr. Jennings bought a supply of stamps, and then left the office.

  “Well, Carl,” he said, when he re-entered the house, “I have discovered who wrote in your name to Pitkins & Gamp.”

  “Who, sir?” asked Carl, with curiosity.

  “Leonard Craig.”

  “But what could induce him to do it?” said Carl, perplexed.

  “He thought that I would see the letter, and would be prejudiced against you if I discovered that you were investing in what is a species of lottery.”

  “Would you, sir?”

  “I should have thought you unwise, and I should have been reminded of a fellow workman who became so infatuated with lotteries that he stole money from his employer to enable him to continue his purchases of tickets. But for this unhappy passion he would have remained honest.”

  “Leonard must dislike me,” said Carl, thoughtfully.

  “He is jealous of you; I warned you he or some one else might become so. But the most curious circumstance is, he wrote a second letter in his own name. I suspect he has bought a ticket. I advise you to say nothing about the matter unless questioned.”

  “I won't, sir.”

  The next day Carl met Leonard in the street.

  “By the way,” said Leonard, “you got a letter yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “I brought it to the factory with the rest of the mail.”

  “Thank you.”

  Leonard looked at him curiously.

  “He seems to be close-mouthed,” Leonard said to himself. “He has sent for a ticket, I'll bet a hat, and don't want me to find out. I wish I could draw the capital prize--I would not mind old Jennings finding out then.”

  “Do you ever hear from your--friends?” he asked a minute later.

  “Not often.”

  “I thought that letter might be from your home.”

  “No; it was a letter from Syracuse.”

  “I remember now, it was postmarked Syracuse. Have you friends there?”

  “None that I am aware of.”

  “Yet you receive letters from there?”

  “That was a business letter.”

  Carl was quietly amused at Leonard's skillful questions, but was determined not to give him any light on the subject.

  Leonard tried anoth
er avenue of attack.

  “Oh, dear!” he sighed, “I wish I was rich.”

  “I shouldn't mind being rich myself,” said Carl, with a smile.

  “I suppose old Jennings must have a lot of money.”

  “Mr. Jennings, I presume, is very well off,” responded Carl, emphasizing the title “Mr.”

  “If I had his money I wouldn't live in such Quaker style.”

  “Would you have him give fashionable parties?” asked Carl, smiling.

  “Well, I don't know that he would enjoy that; but I'll tell you what I would do. I would buy a fast horse--a two-forty mare-- and a bangup buggy, and I'd show the old farmers round here what fast driving is. Then I'd have a stylish house, and----”

  “I don't believe you'd be content to live in Milford, Leonard.”

  “I don't think I would, either, unless my business were here. I'd go to New York every few weeks and see life.”

  “You may be rich some time, so that you can carry out your wishes.”

  “Do you know any easy way of getting money?” asked Leonard, pointedly.

  “The easy ways are not generally the true ways. A man sometimes makes money by speculation, but he has to have some to begin with.”

  “I can't get anything out of him,” thought Leonard. “Well, good-evening.”

  He crossed the street, and joined the man who has already been referred to as boarding at the hotel.

  Mr. Stark had now been several days in Milford. What brought him there, or what object he had in staying, Leonard had not yet ascertained. He generally spent part of his evenings with the stranger, and had once or twice received from him a small sum of money. Usually, however, he had met Mr. Stark in the billiard room, and played a game or two of billiards with him. Mr. Stark always paid for the use of the table, and that was naturally satisfactory to Leonard, who enjoyed amusement at the expense of others.

  Leonard, bearing in mind his uncle's request, had not mentioned his name to Mr. Stark, and Stark, though he had walked about the village more or less, had not chanced to meet Mr. Gibbon.

  He had questioned Leonard, however, about Mr. Jennings, and whether he was supposed to be rich.

  Leonard had answered freely that everyone considered him so.

  “But he doesn't know how to enjoy his money,” he added.

  “We should,” said Stark, jocularly.

  “You bet we would,” returned Leonard; and he was quite sincere in his boast, as we know from his conversation with Carl.

  “By the way,” said Stark, on this particular evening, “I never asked you about your family, Leonard. I suppose you live with your parents.”

  “No, sir. They are dead.”

  “Then whom do you live with?”

  “With my uncle,” answered Leonard, guardedly.

  “Is his name Craig?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I've got to tell him,” thought Leonard. “Well, I don't suppose there will be much harm in it. My uncle is bookkeeper for Mr. Jennings,” he said, “and his name is Julius Gibbon.”

  Philip Stark wheeled round, and eyed Leonard in blank astonishment.

  “Your uncle is Julius Gibbon!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I'll be blowed.”

  “Do you--know my uncle?” asked Leonard, hesitating.

  “I rather think I do. Take me round to the house. I want to see him.”

  CHAPTER XXI.

  AN UNWELCOME GUEST.

  WHEN Julius Gibbon saw the door open and Philip Stark enter the room where he was smoking his noon cigar, his heart quickened its pulsations and he turned pale.

  “How are you, old friend?” said Stark, boisterously. “Funny, isn't it, that I should run across your nephew?”

  “Very strange!” ejaculated Gibbon, looking the reverse of joyous.

  “It's a happy meeting, isn't it? We used to see a good deal of each other,” and he laughed in a way that Gibbon was far from enjoying. “Now, I've come over to have a good, long chat with you. Leonard, I think we won't keep you, as you wouldn't be interested in our talk about old times.”

  “Yes, Leonard, you may leave us,” added his uncle.

  Leonard's curiosity was excited, and he would have been glad to remain, but as there was no help for it, he went out.

  When they were alone, Stark drew up his chair close, and laid his hand familiarly on the bookkeeper's knee.

  “I say, Gibbon, do you remember where we last met?”

  Gibbon shuddered slightly.

  “Yes,” he answered, feebly.

  “It was at Joliet--Joliet Penitentiary. Your time expired before mine. I envied you the six months' advantage you had of me. When I came out I searched for you everywhere, but heard nothing.”

  “How did you know I was here?” asked the bookkeeper.

  “I didn't know. I had no suspicion of it. Nor did I dream that Leonard, who was able to do me a little service, was your nephew. I say, he's a chip of the old block, Gibbon,” and Stark laughed as if he enjoyed it.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I was lying in a field, overcome by liquor, an old weakness of mine, you know, and my wallet had slipped out of my pocket. I chanced to open my eyes, when I saw it in the hands of your promising nephew, ha! ha!”

  “He told me that.”

  “But he didn't tell you that he was on the point of appropriating a part of the contents? I warrant you he didn't tell you that.”

  “Did he acknowledge it? Perhaps you misjudged him.”

  “He didn't acknowledge it in so many words, but I knew it by his change of color and confusion. Oh, I didn't lay it up against him. We are very good friends. He comes honestly by it.”

  Gibbon looked very much annoyed, but there were reasons why he did not care to express his chagrin.

  “On my honor, it was an immense surprise to me,” proceeded Stark, “when I learned that my old friend Gibbon was a resident of Milford.”

  “I wish you had never found it out,” thought Gibbon, biting his lip.

  “No sooner did I hear it than I posted off at once to call on you.”

  “So I see.”

  Stark elevated his eyebrows, and looked amused. He saw that he was not a welcome visitor, but for that he cared little.

  “Haven't you got on, though? Here I find you the trusted bookkeeper of an important business firm. Did you bring recommendations from your last place?” and he burst into a loud guffaw.

  “I wish you wouldn't make such references,” snapped Gibbon. “They can do no good, and might do harm.”

  “Don't be angry, my dear boy. I rejoice at your good fortune. Wish I was equally will fixed. You don't ask how I am getting on.”

  “I hope you are prosperous,” said Gibbon, coldly.

  “I might be more so. Is there a place vacant in your office?”

  “No.”

  “And if there were, you might not recommend me, eh?”

  “There is no need to speak of that. There is no vacancy.”

  “Upon my word, I wish there were, as I am getting to the end of my tether. I may have money enough to last me four weeks longer, but no more.”

  “I don't see how I can help you,” said Gibbon.

  “How much salary does Mr. Jennings pay you?”

  “A hundred dollars a month,” answered the bookkeeper, reluctantly.

  “Not bad, in a cheap place like this.”

  “It takes all I make to pay expenses.”

  “I remember--you have a wife. I have no such incumbrance.”

  “There is one question I would like to ask you,” said the bookkeeper.

  “Fire away, dear boy. Have you an extra cigar?”

  “Here is one,”

  “Thanks. Now I shall be comfortable. Go ahead with your question.”

  “What brought you to Milford? You didn't know of my being here, you say.”

  “Neither did I. I came on my old business.”


  “What?”

  “I heard there was a rich manufacturer here --I allude to your respected employer. I thought I might manage to open his safe some dark night.”

  “No, no,” protested Gibbon in alarm. “Don't think of it.”

  “Why not?” asked Stark, coolly.

  “Because,” answered Gibbon, in some agitation, “I might be suspected.”

  “Well, perhaps you might; but I have got to look out for number one. How do you expect me to live?”

  “Go somewhere else. There are plenty of other men as rich, and richer, where you would not be compromising an old friend.”

  “It's because I have an old friend in the office that I have thought this would be my best opening.”

  “Surely, man, you don't expect me to betray my employer, and join with you in robbing him?”

  “That's just what I do expect. Don't tell me you have grown virtuous, Gibbon. The tiger doesn't lose his spots or the leopard his stripes. I tell you there's a fine chance for us both. I'll divide with you, if you'll help me.”

  “But I've gone out of the business,” protested Gibbon.

  “I haven't. Come, old boy, I can't let any sentimental scruples interfere with so good a stroke of business.”

  “I won't help you!” said Gibbon, angrily. “You only want to get me into trouble.”

  “You won't help me?” said Stark, with slow deliberation.

  “No, I can't honorably. Can't you let me alone?”

  “Sorry to say, I can't. If I was rich, I might; but as it is, it is quite necessary for me to raise some money somewhere. By all accounts, Jennings is rich, and can spare a small part of his accumulations for a good fellow that's out of luck.”

  “You'd better give up the idea. It's quite impossible.”

  “Is it?” asked Stark, with a wicked look. “Then do you know what I will do?”

  “What will you do?” asked Gibbon, nervously.

  “I will call on your employer, and tell him what I know of you.”

  “You wouldn't do that?” said the bookkeeper, much agitated.

  “Why not? You turn your back upon an old friend. You bask in prosperity, and turn from him in his poverty. It's the way of the world, no doubt; but Phil Stark generally gets even with those who don't treat him well.”