Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's First Job; Or, At the Foot of the Ladder - Burt L. Standish - Страница 5

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It was a sad homeward journey for Frank Merriwell. After his trip into Maine he had not found time to visit his home before returning to college. In fact, he had seen very little of Bloomfield in recent years. It had not been the home of his mother, but of his uncle. His mother, however, was buried in the quiet little country cemetery at Bloomfield, and he kept thinking of her as he drew nearer home and wondering if her grave had always been cared for as he had directed. Whenever he had visited it he had found it perfectly kept.

Not many persons in Bloomfield were well acquainted with Frank. They had known his crusty old uncle, who had few friends, and it was but natural for them to fancy that the nephew must be somewhat like the uncle, therefore they had not desired his acquaintance. Frank was glad of this, as he approached the place he had called home, for he thought there would not be so many persons to express condolence and ask questions.

He sat alone in the car as the train flew through the twilight and night came down over the brown world. It was a beautiful world. He realized that as he gazed sadly out of the window, but now he, who a short time before had been surrounded by so many friends, felt like an outcast and a wanderer on the face of the earth.

In his bosom was a swelling homesickness for dear old Yale and the friends he had left. He had been torn in one moment almost from those friends and the associations that had become so dear to him. Just when life was looking the fairest the blow had fallen.

Some hearts might have been numbed, some spirits might have been broken; not so with Frank Merriwell. For one moment the thought that life really was not worth living forced itself in upon him, and then he banished it in haste and shame.

He looked up at the sky as the train sped along. High up the clouds had a dull, leaden hue, and were somber and gloomy. Lower down they grew lighter and tinged with color, till they lay bright and golden on the western horizon. It seemed to Frank that the black clouds overshadowing him now must give way to golden ones in the future.

It is the stout heart that looks forward to a bright future that finds real happiness in life.

Merry realized that the time had come when he must fight his own way in the world. It had come suddenly and unexpectedly, and had not found him fully prepared for the emergency, but, nevertheless, he faced it without flinching.

Now he remembered how for some time he had been troubled by a foreboding of impending calamity. It had made him moody and so much unlike his usual gay self that his friends had wondered.

When they had started to plan what they would do on the return of another summer vacation, he had stopped them, saying the circle might be broken before that time.

He had been determined to study hard and fit himself for graduation on his return to college, and not even the influence of his many friends could have changed that determination had he remained in Yale to the end of the course.

Night shut down as the train sped on. The lamps within the cars were lighted, but Frank sat with his face pressed against the window, looking out toward the west where a faint streak of golden light lingered in the sky.

He was thinking of Prof. Scotch now. The professor’s letter had indicated that the unfortunate man was nearly distracted, and Merriwell dreaded the meeting between them. There was no bitterness in his heart and no thought of making his speculating guardian suffer for the criminal mismanagement of his fortune.

Frank knew that Prof. Scotch had not been adapted for the position of responsibility and trust imposed upon him by Asher Merriwell. During active life Frank’s uncle had been regarded as unusually shrewd in all his moves, but old age had brought failing abilities, and, happening to take a strong fancy to Merry’s professor at Fardale Academy, where he had studied, he appointed him Frank’s guardian.

The professor had found it necessary to give much of his attention to the management of Frank’s property. At first he had been cautious enough, but in Bloomfield was a man, Darius Conrad, who was interested in Western mining property, and Scotch became very friendly with this Conrad.

Darius Conrad was a rascal, but he had made money and escaped prison, so he was regarded in Bloomfield as a smart business man. He was away a great deal, and, when he became concerned in the Golden Peaks Mining and Smelting Company, it was said that he was destined to become one of the richest men in the country.

Conrad did not find it difficult to convince Horace Scotch that there was a mint of money awaiting every man who bought stock at an early date in the concern. He said, as he was on the inside, he could let a friend in “on the ground floor,” with a sure chance of doubling every dollar invested in six months’ time.

At first Scotch hesitated. He thought of writing to Frank all about it, but he mentioned it to Conrad, who very quickly showed him that it would be folly, as Merriwell really knew nothing of the true standing of the company, and was not competent to judge as to the value of such an investment. But it was certain that any young man would be very grateful toward a guardian who had good sense and good luck enough to double his fortune at one bold stroke.

So Scotch was ensnared. Within six months the Golden Peaks Mining and Smelting Company went into the air. Then it was hinted that the whole scheme had been a fraud, there was talk of investigations and prosecutions, and nothing at all was done.

Driven desperate by his misfortune, and not daring to let Frank know the truth, Prof. Scotch sought to retrieve by plunging in cotton, but the market turned the wrong way, and he saw the last of Frank’s fortune swept away.

Then came the moment when the distracted professor stood before a mirror with a loaded revolver in his hand and selected the spot against which he would place the muzzle when he pressed the trigger.

As he lifted the weapon he remembered that he had not written to Frank. He sat down and wrote the letter that told Merry everything. The letter was given to Toots to mail, and then the professor locked himself in with the loaded revolver.

He walked the floor till he chanced to look in the glass once more and beheld his own reflection. Then he shook his head, saying:

“That is not Horace Scotch! It is a stranger to me. What a terrible thing it would have been if I had shot a stranger!”

He felt relieved to think he had escaped committing murder. He laughed softly, and then sat down on a rocking chair. As he rocked he hummed a light song to himself.

And thus he waited Frank’s appearance.

That night Toots assisted him to undress and get into bed.

“Yo’ mus’ be sick, p’ofessah,” said the colored boy, anxiously.

“You are mistaken,” said Scotch, wearily; “I am not the professor. I am an entire stranger. The professor is gone.”

Then he closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

Toots shook his head and retired from the room.

Frank did not receive the letter till the following day, and then, as soon as possible, he started for Bloomfield.

It was ten in the evening when the train drew up at Bloomfield Station, and Frank stepped off, grip in hand.

There were few persons at the station. Some of them stared at him with curiosity.

Bloomfield was a sleepy town in the daytime, and now nearly all the houses lay in darkness.

Frank walked down the platform.

“To the hotel, sir?” asked a boy. “Let me carry your grip.”

Frank turned to look at the youngster and ran plump into another person.

“Confound you!” snapped the individual Merry had encountered. “Haven’t you any eyes?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Frank. “I was not look——”

He stopped short. A gleam of light from the station showed him the face of the person to whom he was speaking.

“Dyke Conrad!” muttered Merry.

“Yes,” said the young man; “but I don’t know you, unless you are—you are—— Why, you are Frank Merriwell!”

“Yes.”

They stood there looking at each other, the youth who had been ruined, and the son of the man who had ruined him.

Dyke had always disliked Merry, and now he grinned.

“Well, I don’t know why you have come here to Bloomfield,” he said. “There’s nothing here for you, and you might just as well stay away. In the future you won’t fly quite so high as you have in the past.”

With a sudden mad impulse, Frank half lifted his clinched fist, but he quickly let it fall by his side, turned out, passed the fellow who had taunted him, and walked on into the darkness.

Self-control had always been a strong feature in Frank’s make-up, and now he needed it more than ever.