The Cash Boy

“How long ago was that, mother?”

“Seven years ago nearly eight.”

“And you continued to keep me, though the payments stopped.”

“Certainly; you were as dear to us as our own child—for we now had a child of our own—Grace. We should as soon have thought of casting off her as you.”

“But you must have been poor, mother.”

“We were economical, and we got along till your father died three years ago. Since then it has been hard work.”

“You have had a hard time, mother.”

“No harder on your account. You have been a great comfort to me, Frank. I am only anxious for the future. I fear you and Grace will suffer after I am gone.”

“Don’t fear, mother, I am young and strong; I am not afraid to face the world with God’s help.”

“What are you thinking of, Frank?” asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing the boy’s fixed look.

“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “I mean to seek for that man you have told me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?”

“He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and said this to deceive us, probably.”

“I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father. From what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him.”

“He must be nearly fifty now—dark complexion, with dark hair and whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any. There are many men who look like that. I should know him by his expression, but I cannot describe that to you.”

Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and Frank begged her to say no more.

Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing, and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She herself felt that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to believe.

On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.

“Is your mother very sick, Frank?” he asked.

“Yes, Sam, I’m afraid she won’t live.”

“Is it so bad as that? I do believe,” he added, with a sudden change of tone, “Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is trying to get your place as captain of the baseball club. He says that if your mother doesn’t live, you will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won’t have any money, and that it will be a disgrace for the club to have a captain from the poorhouse.”

“Did he say that?” asked Frank, indignantly.

“Yes.”

“When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to the poorhouse.”

“He says his father is going to put you and your sister there.”

“All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the poorhouse!” said Frank, resolutely.

“Bully for you, Frank! I knew you had spunk.”

Frank hurried home. As he entered the little house a neighbor’s wife, who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.

“Frank,” she said, gravely, “you must prepare yourself for sad news. While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage, and—and—”

“Is she dead?” asked the boy, his face very pale.

“She is dead!”

CHAPTER IV

THE TOWN AUTOCRAT

“The Widder Fowler is dead,” remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the supper table. “She died this afternoon.”

“I suppose she won’t leave anything,” said Mrs. Pinkerton.

“No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and that is all she has.”

“What will become of the children?”

“As I observed, day before yesterday, they will be constrained to find a refuge in the poorhouse.”

“What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me, father?”

“I am not able to conjecture what Samuel would be likely to observe, my son.”

“He observed that Frank Fowler said he wouldn’t go to the poorhouse.”

“Ahem!” coughed the deacon. “The boy will not be consulted.”

“That’s what I say, father,” said Tom, who desired to obtain his father’s co-operation. “You’ll make him go to the poorhouse, won’t you?”

“I shall undoubtedly exercise my authority, if it should be necessary, my son.”

“He told Sam Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertons in the world couldn’t make him go to the poorhouse.”

“I will constrain him,” said the deacon.

“I would if I were you, father,” said Tom, elated at the effect of his words. “Just teach him a lesson.”

“Really, deacon, you mustn’t be too hard upon the poor boy,” said his better-hearted wife. “He’s got trouble enough on him.”

“I will only constrain him for his good, Jane. In the poorhouse he will be well provided for.”

Meanwhile another conversation respecting our hero and his fortunes was held at Sam Pomeroy’s home. It was not as handsome as the deacon’s, for Mr. Pomeroy was a poor man, but it was a happy one, nevertheless, and Mr. Pomeroy, limited as were his means, was far more liberal than the deacon.

“I pity Frank Fowler,” said Sam, who was warm-hearted and sympathetic, and a strong friend of Frank. “I don’t know what he will do.”