Читать книгу Seeking His Fortune, and Other Dialogues - Horatio Jr. Alger - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Dea. Elnathan Peters,	a Farmer.
Mrs. Almira Peters,	his Wife.
Jonathan Peters,	his Son.
Thomas Hampton,	a Commission Merchant.
Samuel Jenkins,	his Clerk.

Scene I.—An old-fashioned kitchen. Mrs. P. is paring apples, R. Dea. P. nodding over a newspaper, L. Jonathan, a tall, countrified-looking specimen, sits moodily, C., with chair tipped back, and his hands in his pockets.

Jonathan. Well, marm, I’ve made up my mind I shan’t stay in Beanville any longer.

Mrs. Peters. Why, Jonathan, how you dew talk! What’s got into you?

J. I’ve got tired of Beanville, marm, that’s what’s the matter. I aint goin’ to stay here all my life, raisin’ cabbages, and hoin’ taters. I’m fit for somethin’ better.

Dea. Peters (rousing from his nap). What’s the boy talkin’ about, mother?

J. I might as well tell you fust as last, dad. I’m goin’ to Bostown.

Mrs. P. Massy sakes! Bostown’s a hundred miles off. What you goin’ there for?

J. To make my fortin.

Dea. P. ’Taint so easy as you think for, Jonathan. You’d a plaguy sight better stay round here and help me.

J. I can’t do nothin’ here, dad. I have to work till I get all tuckered out, just to make a livin’ and can’t never wear anything better than overalls. Now, if I was in the city, I could wear store clothes all the time, like that are fellow that boarded up to the tavern last summer.

Mrs. P. I’m afraid, Jonathan, you’re gettin’ proud. You aint no call to be ashamed of wearin’ overalls. They’re what me and your father always wear.

Dea. P. (slily). Yes, mother, you do wear the breeches sometimes.

Mrs. P. (in a deprecating tone). Now, father, you’d orter be ashamed. You know I didn’t mean that. (To Jonathan.) I mean, Jonathan, your father and me aint ashamed of wearin’ workin’ clothes. I’m afraid you’re gettin’ proud, and pride’s a deadly sin.

J. Can’t help it, marm. When that feller passed me in the field last summer, he turned up his nose at me, and I aint goin’ to stand it. I’m as good as he is, any day.

Mrs. P. So you be, Jonathan.

J. And I want, to dress as well. So I’ve made up my mind to go to Bostown, and go into business there.

Dea. P. What sort of business?

J. As to that, I aint partic’lar. Anything that I can make money by.

Dea. P. Perhaps you’ll lose it. They’re pooty sharp in Bostown, I’ve heard tell. Most likely you’d get cheated out of all you’ve got.

Mrs. P. Yes, Jonathan, listen to what your dad says; he’s had more experience than you hev.

J. He don’t Know much about Bostown, anyway.

Dea. P. (complacently). Yes, Jonathan, I know a good deal about the city. I’ve been there three times. Fust time was just after me and your mother was married.

Mrs. P. Thirty-one years ago.

Dea. P. Yes, Almiry, thirty-one year. Then again, I went down to sell a yoke of oxen for Squire Peabody.

J. That time you had your pocket picked, and had to borrow money to git home.

Dea. P. (coughing). Ahem! yes, I believe it was that time. Then again, I went seven year ago, and stayed to the Mechanics’ Fair. That are was a great sight.

J. Well, dad, I haint never been at all, and I’m goin’,—that’s all.

Mrs. P. You aint nothin’ but a boy, Jonathan.

J. Aint I, though? I’m twenty-one year old, and taller’n father, and I weighed myself down to the store, yesterday, and weighed a hundred and eighty. I should think I was old enough and big enough to be trusted away from home.

Mrs. P. The city is a wicked place, Jonathan. Who knows but you’d get to drinkin’ and swearin’?

J. There aint no danger of that, marm. I tasted some whiskey, the other day, down to Hiram Johnson’s, and it most turned my stummik. I shan’t drink anything stronger’n cider.

Dea. P. That’s right, my son. Cider’s good, for we know what it’s made of. Apples are healthy, and when a body’s tired, a mug of cider goes to the right spot.

Mrs. P. (doubtfully). Yes, father, but you know Sam Wilson got drunk on cider one town meetin’ day, and smashed forty panes of glass in the meetin’-house.

Dea. P. Wal, wal, he drank more’n was good for him. But, Jonathan, to come back to your plans, have you thought what you shall do when you get to the city?

J. Why, dad, I calc’late there must be plenty of work to be did. I reckon I should like to tend in a store.

Dea. P. Lazy business, Jonathan.

J. That’s what I like it for, dad. I’ve had hard work enough, and I want to take it easy awhile. Maybe I shall go into business on my own hook, if I get a good chance. There aint no reason why I shouldn’t get rich as well as other folks.

Mrs. P. (hastily). I hope, Jonathan, you aint goin’ to take that two hundred and fifty dollars out of the Savings Bank, that yer Aunt Betsey give you in her will.

J. Of course I be. How can a feller go into business without capital?

Mrs. P. (solemnly). You’ll lose every red cent of it, take my word for it.

J. And earn five times as much more, marm; I guess I know how to make money as well as other folks.

Mrs. P. Deacon, do say somethin’ to git him off this foolish plan. He’ll fail, sartain, an’ it’ll make his aunt rise from her grave, if he loses all the money that she earned by knittin’ an’ dryin’ apples.

Dea. P. (reflectively). I don’t know, Almiry, but the boy might as well try his luck, seein’ he’s sot on it. Perhaps he may do well, arter all.

J. (delightedly). That’s the talk, dad.

Mrs. P. Well, I dunno. It seems to me mighty resky. However, if he must go, he’ll have to wait till I’ve knit him some winter stockings. He’s most out.

J. I kin buy some in Bostown, marm. They’ve got plenty there.

Mrs. P. (contemptuously). And what are they worth I should like to know? Boughten stockin’s won’t stand any wear at all. Then, there’s your shirts; you aint got but three.

J. Well, there’s enuff; I kin wear one a week, an’ three’s enough to shift with.

Dea. P. You’ll have to be more partic’lar in the city. I’ve heard that some folks in the city wear as many as three clean shirts in a week.

Mrs. P. They must be awful dirty to need changin’ so often. But I guess, Jonathan, you’d better have one more made.

J. Well, you kin send the shirt and the stockin’s to me by express. I’ve made up my mind to go next week.

Mrs. P. An’ what’ll Mary Jane Parker say to that?

J. I don’t care.

Mrs. P. I thought you were sweet on her only a little while ago.

J. Wal, she aint anything but a country gal. Maybe I shall find a good-lookin’ city gal that’s got the tin.

Mrs. P. O Jonathan, I’m afeard you’re gittin’ vain. “Vanity of vanity! All is vanity!” says the Scripters. Mary Jane would make you a real capable wife. She can make butter an’ cheese equal to any gal in Beanville, an’ she made fifteen dollars, last summer, sellin’ eggs.

J. (contemptuously). What’s fifteen dollars?

Mrs. P. The time may come when you’ll be glad to git fifteen dollars.

J. Now, marm, don’t go to discouragin’ a feller; I’m bound to be rich, and when I’ve made money enuff, I’m going to buy you a silk gownd.

Mrs. P. Thank you, Jonathan; I allus thought I should like a new silk gownd. I aint had a new one for twenty year.

J. Well, marm, you shall have it jist as soon as I’ve made my pile.

Mrs. P. Pile of what, for the land’s sake?

J. Made my fortin, I mean. And I’ll buy father a new Sunday go-to-meeting coat.

Dea. P. I guess you’ll want your money for other things, Jonathan. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.

J. Can I have the horse to-morrow, dad?

Dea. P. What for?

J. I’m goin’ over to the bank to get my money.

Dea. P. Yes, I reckon so.

Mrs. P. You’d better go with him, father. He might git robbed on the way home. I shan’t feel safe with such a lot of money in the house.

J. Well, ’twon’t be in the house long.

(Curtain falls.)

Scene II.—Jonathan, in a blue suit with brass buttons, stands R. C., waiting for the stage. Beside him is a blue chest containing his worldly effects. Deacon and Mrs. Peters stand near the door, R.

J. (looking toward L.). I hear the stage, marm.

Mrs. P. Yes, it’s just comin’ over the hill. Hadn’t you better change your mind, Jonathan, and stay to hum, arter all?

J. Not by a jug-full. No, marm, the dice is cast, and I’m bound to be somebody. No more diggin’ taters for me.

Dea. P. Well, Jonathan, I wish you all success, but I kinder have my misgivin’s.

Mrs. P. Is the money safe, Jonathan?

J. Yes, marm, I’ve got it in my trowsers’ pocket.

Mrs. P. Hadn’t you better leave part of it to hum? You might have your pockets picked, you know.

J. They won’t catch this child so easy. Don’t you be alarmed.

Mrs. P. I declare I’ve forgotten them doughnuts.

Dea. P. (looking toward L.). Stage is just at the corner.

Mrs. P. They’ll wait a minute.

J. (starting towards L.). Can’t wait, marm. I’ll buy some dinner at the tavern.

Mrs. P. It’ll be wastin’ your money.

Dea. P. Never mind.

J. (going slowly toward L.). Good-by.

Dea. P. and Mrs. P. Good-by. Be sure and write.

J. I’ll write just as soon as I get to the city.

(Exit L.)

Mrs. P. (with her apron to her eyes). It’s an awful resk, Deacon, Jonathan’s going away from home.

Dea. P. Cheer up, mother. He’s a man grown. He may make a fortune, after all.

(Exeunt, R.)

(Jonathan returns L. for his chest.)

J. (solus). Good-by to Beanville. When I come back, I’ll make the folks stare. Mary Jane’ll have to look up another feller. I’m goin’ to look higher.

(Exit L.)

(Curtain falls.)

Scene III.—A small room in the fifth story of a Boston hotel. Jonathan, C., sits poring over the advertising columns of the Boston Herald.

J. I had no idee there was so many houses in the world. Bostown’s a big place, to be sure. But I don’t see where they pastur’ all their cows. I didn’t see none in that big lot in front of the State House. I guess folks must have a power of money to live in such fine houses. The State House must have cost twice as much as our meetin’-house, and p’r’aps more. Anyway I’m bound to see if I can’t make my fortin here. The landlord told me I might find a chance for business in this paper. I guess I’ll look over it, and see what I can find. (Reads the paper intently for a few minutes.) Why, here’s the very thing! Let me spell it out again. (Reads aloud.)

“Two Thousand Dollars A Year! Wanted, a young man with a small capital, to engage in a lucrative business, which is sure to pay him at least two thousand dollars a year. Call at once on Samuel Jenkins, 15 S—— street.”

J. (jumping to his feet in excitement). Where’s my hat? I say that’s an all-fired good chance! Two thousand dollars a year! Why, it takes away my breath, thinkin’ of it. Here I’ve been workin’ for dad for ten dollars a month, and that aint but a hundred and twenty dollars a year. Our minister don’t get but three hundred dollars and his house-rent. Guess he’ll hev to look up to me ef I git this chance. I must go right off, or some other feller’ll be ahead of me.

(Puts on hat, and exit L. Curtain falls.)

Scene IV.—A small office. Samuel Jenkins sits R., in a lounging attitude, smoking a cigar. A knock is heard L. He jumps up hastily, and admits Jonathan.

J. (bashfully). Be you Mr. Jenkins?

Sam. (bowing). I am, at your service.

J. I seen the advertisement what you writ in the papers, about wanting a partner,—

S. J. With a small capital?

J. Yes, with a small capital, and I thought I’d call and see if you’d take me.

S. J. (aside). The fellow’s just from the country. I must impress him a little. I wonder how much money he’s got. (Aloud.) Well, as to that, I can’t say, positively. I must ask you a few questions. Have you lived in the city long?

J. Wal, no, I live to Beanville, when I’m ter hum.

S. J. (reflectively). Beanville! I don’t think I ever heard of the place.

J. Sho! I thought everybody’d heard of Beanville.

S. J. Then I suppose you have never been in business.

J. (hesitatingly). Wall, no, not exactly; but I tended in our store two days when the other feller was gone.

S. J. That is nothing;—but perhaps you could learn.

J. (eagerly). Oh, yes, I kin learn pooty quick, ef you’ll only try me.

S. J. Then about the capital. How much money have you got?

J. I hed two hundred and fifty dollars when I left hum, but I guess I’ll have to leave some to pay my board. I kin invest two hundred and twenty-five dollars.

S. J. (aside). That isn’t as much as I hoped, but I’m dead broke, and that’ll do to till I take in another flat.

J. (anxiously). Will that do?

S. J. Why, it isn’t as much as I expected; considering the large income which you will receive, it is very small.

J. I will come for less than two thousand, if you’ll only take me.

S. J. No, I will pay what I guaranteed. I suppose you have references.

J. I’ll write to our minister to send me a character.

S. J. Never mind. I have a knack at reading faces, and I can tell by yours that you are honest and industrious.

J. (gratified). Then you will take me?

S. J. Have you got the money with you?

J. Yes; shall I pay it now?

S. J. You might as well, and the partnership shall begin at once.

J. (drawing out his pocket-book, and counting out some bills). Two hundred, two hundred and ten, two hundred and twenty-five. I guess you’ll find it right.

S. J. (looking over the bills carelessly). Yes, quite correct. Stay, I will give you a receipt. What is your name? (Writes.)

J. Jonathan Peters.

S. J. (passes him receipt). Mine is Jenkins. Success to the firm of Jenkins and Peters. I’ll see about a sign.

J. (surprised). Do you do it here? I don’t see nothin’ to sell.

S. J. Oh, it’s a commission business. I’ll attend to that, and you’ll do the writing. I suppose you can write a good hand.

J. Oh, yes, I’ve been to writin’ school two winters. I can’t write very fast.

S. J. Never mind, you’ll learn. Practice makes perfect. I think I’ll have you begin to-day. Do you see that book? (Points to an old ledger on the desk.)

J. Yes.

S. J. Well, there’s a blank book. I want you to copy out of the ledger into the book, beginning at the first page.

J. All right. I kin do it.

S. J. Be very particular not to make any mistakes.

J. I’ll do my best.

S. J. (taking his hat). I’ve got to go round to the bank to deposit this money, and will be right back. See how much you can copy while I am gone.

J. Yes, I’ll work faithful.

(Exit S. J., L.)

J. (solus). Well, aint that a streak of luck! Here I am, just come to the city, and earnin’ a salary of two thousand dollars a year. Won’t it make dad stare? I guess marm’ll be glad I come now. Wonder what Mary Jane’ll say? She’ll be mighty sorry I’ve gone and left her. But she aint fit for the wife of a merchant like me! I must write to dad to-night. I would now, only my time belongs to the firm. Two thousand dollars a year! Why, that’s six dollars a day, and more, almost as much a day as I used to git in a month. Guess I’ll buy a watch after I git my first month’s pay. Holloa, what’s that?

(Enter Thomas Hempton, R.)

H. (looking at Jonathan with surprise). What are you doing here?

J. (with dignity). Tendin’ to business.

H. And how do you happen to be attending to business in my office?

J. Look here, mister, I guess you have made a little mistake. This aint your office. It’s mine and Jenkins’.

H. (sarcastically). Indeed! And I suppose that is your ledger that you have before you?

J. Of course it is.

H. Well, you’re a mighty cool customer, though you look rather green than otherwise. Perhaps you can tell me who this Jenkins is.

J. He’s the boss of this concern. That is, him and me are the two bosses.

H. Well, you’re about right there. You look more like bossies than anything else. If you ever lived in the country, as I should judge from your appearance you had, you will know what that means.

J. (advancing in a threatening manner, and brandishing a ruler). I say, stranger, quit that. None of your sarse, or I’ll break yer head.

H. (with dignity). Enough of this, young man. Put down that ruler. Now, tell me, have you given this man, Jenkins, any money?

J. Yes; two hundred and twenty-five dollars, and he’s took me into partnership.

H. When did you see him last?

J. He went out an hour ago.

H. You’ll never see him, I’m afraid, or your money either.

J. (terrified). What’s that, stranger?

H. In short, he’s swindled you. Jenkins is not his real name. He is a clerk of mine, of whom, for some time, I have had suspicions. He took advantage of a three days’ absence of mine in New York, to put an advertisement in the paper, which has taken you in. He’s got your money, and that will be the last we shall see of him, unless the police pick him up.

J. (crying). He’s carried off all my money. Boo! hoo! and I aint earnin’ two thousand dollars a year after all. Aunt Betsey’s money gone. Boo! hoo! What’ll marm say?

H. I’m afraid your money’s gone past recovery, but if you want to stay in the city, there’s a friend of mine wants a good, strong fellow in a grocery store. He will give you two dollars a day.

J. (drying his tears). Well, that’s pooty good. It’s a good deal more’n I kin make in the country. I’ll take it. (Enter boy, R., with a note.)

H. (opening it hastily). Young man, here is good news. The police, having some suspicions of Jenkins, arrested him as he was on the point of leaving the city for New York, and he is now in custody. You will probably recover your money.

J. (executing a double shuffle in his delight). O crackey! my money safe. Now I shan’t be ashamed to write home. You won’t forget about that grocery place?

H. No, I will see my friend to-day, and I have no doubt he will take you. By the way, where are you boarding?

J. At the Blank House.

H. The board is pretty high there.

J. My room is high, anyway, in the fifth story but they charge me only three dollars a week.

H. Three dollars a day, you should say.

J. By gracious, you don’t mean it!

H. Certainly; some of the hotels charge four and five.

J. How do they expect a feller can eat three dollars’ worth of victuals in a day?

H. You’d better leave there at once. I’ll give you the address of a place where you can get boarded for six dollars a week, while you’ll be earning twelve.

J. We kin git board up to Beanville for two dollars a week.

H. Beanville and Boston are two different places, and differ greatly in some important respects. If you will wait here a few moments, I’ll go out and speak to my friend about this place that you want.

(Exit R.)

J. (solus). Well, I wouldn’t ’a’ thought that Jenkins was such a tricky feller. I’d like to jist git hold of him once, and ef I wouldn’t give him a kick that would land him in the middle of next week, it’s because I’d lost the use of my foot, that’s all.

(Curtain falls.)