The Cash Boy

“Then what do you mean by resisting my authority?”

“You have no authority over us. We are not paupers,” and Frank lifted his head proudly, and looked steadily in the face of the deacon.

“You are paupers, whether you admit it or not.”

“We are not,” said the boy, indignantly.

“Where is your money? Where is your property?”

“Here, sir,” said our hero, holding out his hands.

“I have two strong hands, and they will help me make a living for my sister and myself.”

“May I ask whether you expect to live here and use my furniture?”

“I do not intend to, sir. I shall ask no favors of you, neither for Grace nor myself. I am going to leave the house. I only came back to get a few clothes. Mr. Pomeroy has invited Grace and me to stay at his house for a few days. I haven’t decided what I shall do afterward.”

“You will have to go to the poorhouse, then. I have no objection to your making this visit first. It will be a saving to the town.”

“Then, sir, we will bid you good-day. Grace, let us go.”

CHAPTER V

A LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING

“Have you carried Frank Fowler to the poorhouse?” asked Tom Pinkerton, eagerly, on his father’s return.

“No,” said the deacon, “he is going to make a visit at Mr. Pomeroy’s first.”

“I shouldn’t think you would have let him make a visit,” said Tom, discontentedly. “I should think you would have taken him to the poorhouse right off.”

“I feel it my duty to save the town unnecessary expense,” said Deacon Pinkerton.

So Tom was compelled to rest satisfied with his father’s assurance that the removal was only deferred.

Meanwhile Frank and Grace received a cordial welcome at the house of Mr. Pomeroy. Sam and Frank were intimate friends, and our hero had been in the habit of calling frequently, and it seemed homelike.

“I wish you could stay with us all the time, Frank—you and Grace,” said Sam one evening.

“We should all like it,” said Mr. Pomeroy, “but we cannot always have what we want. If I had it in my power to offer Frank any employment which it would be worth his while to follow, it might do. But he has got his way to make in the world. Have you formed any plans yet, Frank?”

“That is what I want to consult you about, Mr. Pomeroy.”

“I will give you the best advice I can, Frank. I suppose you do not mean to stay in the village.”

“No, sir. There is nothing for me to do here. I must go somewhere where I can make a living for Grace and myself.”

“You’ve got a hard row to hoe, Frank,” said Mr. Pomeroy, thoughtfully. “Have you decided where to go?”

“Yes, sir. I shall go to New York.”

“What! To the city?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get something to do, no matter what it is.”

“But how are you going to live in the meantime?”

“I’ve got a little money.”

“That won’t last long.”

“I know it, but I shall soon get work, if it is only to black boots in the streets.”

“With that spirit, Frank, you will stand a fair chance to succeed. What do you mean to do with Grace?”

“I will take her with me.”

“I can think of a better plan. Leave her here till you have found something to do. Then send for her.”

“But if I leave her here Deacon Pinkerton will want to put her in the poorhouse. I can’t bear to have Grace go there.”

“She need not. She can stay here with me for three months.”

“Will you let me pay her board?”

“I can afford to give her board for three months.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Pomeroy, but it wouldn’t be right for me to accept your kindness. It is my duty to take care of Grace.”

“I honor your independence, Frank. It shall be as you say. When you are able—mind, not till then—you may pay me at the rate of two dollars a week for Grace’s board.”

“Then,” said Frank, “if you are willing to board Grace for a while, I think I had better go to the city at once.”

“I will look over your clothes to-morrow, Frank,” said Mrs. Pomeroy, “and see if they need mending.”

“Then I will start Thursday morning—the day after.”

About four o’clock the next afternoon he was walking up the main street, when just in front of Deacon Pinkerton’s house he saw Tom leaning against a tree.

“How are you Tom?” he said, and was about to pass on.

“Where are you going?” Tom asked abruptly.

“To Mr. Pomeroy’s.”

“How soon are you going to the poorhouse to live?”

“Who told you I was going?”