See [Transcriber’s Note] at end of text.

TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE

At a glance, Tom saw the bear watching the man crouching among the branches. [Page 217.]

Tom Thatcher’s Fortune.

By Horatio Alger, Jr.,

Author of

“Joe’s Luck,” “Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy,” “Ragged Dick,” “Tom Temple’s Career,” “Luck and Pluck,” etc., etc.

ILLUSTRATED.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
52–58 DUANE STREET, NEW YORK.

Copyright, 1888. By A. L. Burt.

TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.

CHAPTER I.
AN OLD LETTER.

“IS SUPPER ready, mother? I’m as hungry as a bear!”

The speaker was a sturdy boy of sixteen, with bright eyes, and a smiling sun-browned face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up displaying a pair of muscular arms. His hands were brown and soiled with labor. It was clear that he was no white-handed young aristocrat. His clothes alone would have shown that. They were of coarse cloth, made without any special regard to the prevailing fashion.

Tom Thatcher, for this was his name, had just come home from the shoe manufactory, where he was employed ten hours a day in pegging shoes, for the lucrative sum of fifty cents per day. I may as well state here that he is the hero of my story, and I hope none of my readers will think any the worse of him for working in a shop. I am aware that it is considered more “genteel” to stand behind a counter, and display goods to customers, even if the wages are smaller. But Tom, having a mother and little sister to help support, could not choose his employment. He lived in a large shoe town, and was glad to find employment in the large manufactory of John Simpson, who, by virtue of his large capital, and as the employer of a hundred hands, was a man of mark in the town of Wilton.

“Supper will be ready in five minutes, Tom,” said his mother, rather a delicate-looking woman, of refined appearance, notwithstanding she was dressed in a cheap calico.

“Are you tired, Tom?” asked his little sister Tillie, whose full name, never used at home, was Matilda.

“Not much, Tillie, but I’ve got a famous appetite.”

“I am sorry I haven’t got something better for you, Tom,” said his mother. “I have only a hot potato, besides tea, and bread and butter.”

“Why, that is good enough, mother,” said Tom, cheerfully.

“You ought to have meat after working hard all day in the shop, my boy; but meat comes so high that I don’t dare to have it on the table every day.”

“Too much meat might make me savage, mother,” said Tom laughing. “I wish we could have it oftener, for your sake. Anything will do for me. When I get older I shall earn higher wages, and then we’ll live better.”

“It’s very uncomfortable to be poor,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sighing. “Poor children, if your father were only living you would fare better. I little dreamed when he went to California, eight years ago, that he would never come back.”

“Mr. Simpson and father went to California together, didn’t they, mother?”

“Yes. They were both poor men at the time. Mr. Simpson was no better off than your father, but now—your poor father is in his grave, and John Simpson is one of the richest men in Wilton.”

“Mr. Simpson came home rich, didn’t he?”

“Yes. How rich I don’t know, but from being a journeyman he was able to build a manufactory of his own, and has been getting richer ever since.”

“Were he and father together in California?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“And didn’t father find any gold? How could one be prosperous, and the other unlucky?”

“I never could understand it. The very last letter I received from your father mentioned that he was prosperous, and had accumulated a large amount of gold dust, he and John Simpson also. Three months afterward John Simpson came home, but nothing was ever heard of your poor father or his money again.”

“What did Mr. Simpson say? Didn’t he know anything about him?”

“He called on me, and told me that your father and he had separated a little while before leaving California. He made his way to San Francisco while your father remained at the mines. He felt quite sure that your father had been robbed and murdered by some desperate person who had heard of his good fortune.”

“Was that all he could tell you?”

“That was all.”

“Couldn’t he tell how much gold father had at the time?”

“He said it amounted to some thousands of dollars, but how much he could not tell exactly. I cared little for that. If your poor father had only come back alive I would have been happy, even if he had come back in rags, and without a penny.”

“Were he and Mr. Simpson good friends?” asked Tom, thoughtfully.

“They were very intimate before they went to California.”

“And were you and Mrs. Simpson intimate, too, mother?”

“Yes; we lived in the same house. It was a double house, and each family occupied a part. You and Rupert Simpson were born the same day, and played together like brothers when you were both young boys.”

“It isn’t much like that now, mother. Rupert puts on all sorts of airs because his father is rich. He wouldn’t think of associating with me on equal terms. He thinks himself altogether superior to a poor boy who works in a shoe shop.”

“He has no right to look down upon you, Tom,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with natural motherly indignation. “You are superior to him in every way.”

Tom laughed.

“He don’t think so, mother,” he answered, “and I am afraid it would be hard to convince him. But it seems strange to me to think that our families were once so intimate. Mrs. Simpson rides in her carriage, and always wears silks or satins to church, while you are compelled to wear a cheap gingham for best. She never comes to call on you.”

“I don’t wish her to,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with honorable pride. “It would only be an act of condescension on her part, and Sarah Simpson isn’t the woman to condescend to me, who was born and brought up her equal.”

“You’re right there, mother. You are just as much a lady as she is, even if you are poor.”

“I hope I am, Tom.”

“You spoke of father’s last letter to you, mother. I haven’t looked at it for a long time. Will you let me see it?”

“Certainly, my son.”

Mrs. Thatcher went to the bureau, and from the top drawer took out an old letter, grown yellow with age, and unfolding it handed it to Tom. It was quite long, but a large part of it would be of no interest to my readers. I only transcribe the parts which are material to my story.

“I am glad to say, my dear Mary, that I have been very fortunate. John Simpson and I, some three months ago, chanced upon some very rich diggings, which, lying out of the ordinary course of travel and exploration, had thus far failed to attract attention. For a month or more we worked alone, managing in that time to ‘feather our nests’ pretty well. Then we sold out a portion of our claims to a third party for a large sum, and worked the balance ourselves. I don’t dare to tell you how much we are worth, but enough to make us very comfortable. I can say as much as that. It won’t be long before I come home. I could come now, but I think it a shame to leave so much treasure in the ground, when it can be had for the digging. A little patience, dear wife, and I shall come home, and place you and our darling children in a position where you will never again know the limitations of poverty.

“Simpson’s plans are the same as mine. We shall probably go home together, and build two nice houses near each other. It will be pleasant in years to come to refer to our days of struggle when we worked together at the shoe bench for a dollar and a half a day, and had to support our families on that paltry sum. Those days, thank God! are over, and I am still a young man with half my life before me, as I hope.”

“Poor father!” said Tom. “How little he thought that his good luck was to prove the cause of his death, and that the money he had secured would never find its way to his family.”

“It always makes me sad to read that letter,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “It is so bright and hopeful, and death was even then so near.”

As Tom gave back the letter to his mother, a knock was heard at the door.

Tom rose to open it, and admitted a boy of about his own age, Harry Julian, the minister’s son, one of his most intimate friends.

CHAPTER II.
THE YOUNG RIVALS.

“GOOD-EVENING, Harry,” said Mrs. Thatcher, cordially. “Won’t you sit down and take a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Thatcher; I have just got through supper. You must excuse my coming so early, but I wanted to be sure to find Tom at home.”

The speaker was a slender, pleasant-faced boy of about Tom’s age. He was better dressed than Tom, for though his father received but a small annual salary from his parish, he was possessed of a considerable private fortune, which enabled him to live with more freedom from pecuniary anxiety than most ministers. The boys had always been intimate, and Tom had more than once been favored by the loan of books from his friend’s library.

“You have found me at home, Julian,” said Tom. “Is there anything going on this evening?”

“Yes, and that’s what brings me here. There’s going to be a large skating party on Round Pond, and we want you to join it.”

“I should like it, but I can’t go quite yet. I must saw and split some wood for to-morrow first.”

“How long will it take you?”

“Less than an hour.”

“Let me help you. Then it won’t take so long.”

“I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay a hired man,” said Tom, laughing.

“The pleasure of your company will pay me,” said Harry.

“Thank you. I would take off my hat in return for the compliment if I happened to have it on. I will soon be through supper.”

“Won’t you change your mind, Harry, and let me give you a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Thatcher.

“On second thoughts I will. It will keep me warm.”

The boys were soon through supper, and, adjourning to the wood-shed, set to work energetically on the wood-pile.

“Will you saw or split, Harry?” asked Tom.

“I might break the saw if I attempted to use it. I will try the ax.”

“What would Rupert Simpson say if he should see you helping me?” said Tom, in a moment’s pause. “He would think you were lowering yourself.”

“And he might be welcome to his opinion,” said Harry, independently.

“You are a good deal together.”

“Yes, but he seeks my company, not I his.”

“Mother tells me that he and I were like two brothers when we were quite young. But he wasn’t rich then.”

“That has spoiled him.”

“At any rate, it has cured him of his liking for my company. Doesn’t he ever speak to you about your being intimate with me?”

“Yes, often. He thinks I like you better than I do him, and he is right there.”

“I can guess what he says to you, Harry?”

“Try it.”

Tom changed his voice, adopting Rupert’s rather affected tone.

“I shouldn’t think,” he began, “that you would associate with that Tom Thatcher. He pegs shoes in father’s shop, and isn’t fit for gentlemen like us to notice. My father doesn’t like me to keep such low company.”

Harry laughed heartily.

“You must have been listening some time when Rupert was speaking to me,” he said.

“Then I hit right, did I?”

“Couldn’t come nearer.”

“I thought so. Yet father and Mr. Simpson worked side by side at the shoe bench. They went to California together. Both secured a great deal of money, but my poor father didn’t live to come home.”

“And his money? What became of that?” inquired Harry.

“No one knows. He was probably robbed of it.”

“It is a sad story, Tom.”

“Yes. My poor father’s fate is often in my mind. I cannot bring him back to life, but I hope some day to learn something more of his last days, and, if possible, of the manner in which he died.”

“Couldn’t Mr. Simpson tell you something about it?”

“He called on mother after his return, but gave her no definite information. I am sometimes tempted to call on him and inquire on my own account.”

“I would if I were you.”

“I will, then. I won’t speak to mother about it, because it always makes her sad to speak about father’s death.”

“There’s the last stick, Harry,” said Tom, a few moments later. “Now I sha’n’t have to keep you waiting any longer. I have only to put on my coat, and get my skates.”

“Better wear your overcoat, Tom. It is quite cold.”

“Oh, I’m tough,” said Tom, lightly. “Besides, I can skate better without it.”

He didn’t like to name the real reason, that he had no overcoat fit to wear. The one he had worn the previous winter was very ragged, and he could not spare money to buy a new one.

Harry suspected that this was the case, but was too delicate to refer to it, and said nothing further.

From a nail in the closet Tom took down a pair of old wooden-framed skates, on which, however, he could beat many who were provided with club-skates of the most approved styles.

His friend Harry had a new pair of club-skates, and so had Rupert Simpson.

A walk of a quarter of a mile brought the boys to Round Pond, which was situated near the center of the village. It was small, not more than three-quarters of a mile in circumference; but it was frozen clear as glass, and looked tempting to the young skaters as they descended the bank, and sat down by the margin to put on their skates.

Many boys and a few girls were already on the ice. When Tom and Harry arrived some of them came to greet the new-comers. It was evident that both were general favorites.

Among the boys who came up was Rupert Simpson.

“What made you so late, Harry?” he asked, impatiently.

“I called for Tom, and he had some wood to saw and split before he could come.”

“I suppose you helped him,” suggested Rupert, with a sneer.

“I did.”

Rupert looked astonished and disgusted.

“I didn’t know you hired out to saw and split wood,” he said, with another sneer.

“Now you do know it, I suppose you will cut my acquaintance,” said Harry, pleasantly.

“I suppose you have a right to suit yourself. You wouldn’t catch me sawing and splitting wood. We leave that to the servants.”

“You couldn’t give me a job, could you? However, it would be of no use. I only work for Tom.”

Rupert shrugged his shoulders, and his attention was drawn to Tom’s old skates.

“Those skates look as if they dated back to the ark,” said he, rudely.

“I don’t think they are quite so old as that,” returned Tom, coolly.

“They are a curiosity, anyway.”

“They can do good service, Rupert, that is, when Tom wears them,” said Harry. “In spite of our fine club-skates, I believe we should find it hard work to keep up with him.”

“Speak for yourself!” said Rupert, haughtily.

“No, I speak for you, too.”

“Try it! A race! a race!” exclaimed the boys in chorus.

“I will race with Harry,” said Rupert, hastily.

“No; you can beat me; I admit that in advance. Race with Tom.”

Tom said nothing. By this time his skates were on, and he was quite ready to enter upon a trial of speed with Rupert, or any boy on the pond; but he did not care to betray any anxiety on the subject.

Rupert was rather conceited on the subject of his skating. With the exception of Tom Thatcher, he was probably the best skater in the village—that is, among the boys—and felt pretty confident that he could beat Tom himself. His reluctance was due only to his not liking to place himself on an equality with the boy who pegged shoes for his father at fifty cents per day. The clamor of the boys, however, and the anticipation of a triumph over his rival overruled his objections, and he said:

“I’ll try a race across the pond, if you insist upon it.”

“What do you say, Tom?” asked Harry.

“I am ready,” said Tom, promptly. “Just wait a minute till I tighten my skates.”

“Won’t you use mine?” asked Harry.

“I object to that,” said Rupert.

“That will place you on equal terms.”

“I doubt that,” said Rupert, with a sneer which made his meaning plain.

“I will use the skates I have on,” said Tom, quietly.

“Clear the track!” exclaimed Harry.

The two boys took their positions side by side, both eager for the race.

CHAPTER III.
THE RACE ON ROUND POND.

HARRY JULIAN gave the word.

No sooner was it out of his mouth than the two rivals dashed off in eager competition. In fact Rupert started before the word was fairly spoken and in consequence gained a slight lead upon his opponent. Slight, indeed, but still of importance, considering the shortness of the race-track.

The sight of Rupert just ahead put increased vigor into Tom’s efforts, and, setting his teeth hard, he skated as he had never done before. He was eager to win—more so than if any other boy had been in competition with him, for he knew that if he were defeated Rupert would never cease boasting of his victory.

Tom did not intend giving him that gratification if he could help it.

But if Tom was eager to win, the same can be said of Rupert. In his view, it would be disgraceful to be beaten by a boy who pegged shoes in his father’s shop.

So he, too, exerted himself to the utmost, and probably had never before skated as well.

Indeed, the boys were half way across the pond before Tom had succeeded in overtaking his rival. For a hundred yards the boys skated side by side, amid the intense excitement of the young spectators. But Tom had one important advantage over his rival. He was excited, it is true, but he breathed freely and easily, while Rupert was becoming short-breathed. He had evidently exerted himself beyond his strength.

Slowly, but perceptibly, Tom began to lead him. Now the race was three-quarters over. Rupert tried to make up the increasing gap between them, but it proved to be impossible. To his disappointment and rage he saw that his despised opponent must inevitably beat him. He could not make up his mind to this, and, to provide himself with a convenient excuse for his failure, he contrived to stumble and fall a hundred yards from the goal.

Unconscious of this, Tom kept on and finished the race. Then looking back, to his surprise he saw Rupert picking himself up from the ice.

He instantly wheeled round and started back.

“Did you fall, Rupert?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Rupert, sullenly.

“How did it happen?”

“I stumbled and fell.”

“I am sorry. I hope you are not hurt.”

“No, I am not hurt—that is, not much.”

By this time the other skaters were standing round the two rivals.

“Tom, I congratulate you on your victory,” said Harry Julian.

“What victory?” demanded Rupert, quickly.

“His victory in the race, to be sure, Rupert.”

“There has been no victory,” said Rupert, scowling.

“Why not?”

“Because I stumbled. Of course that prevented my winning.”

The boys looked at each other. They guessed why Rupert had stumbled.

“Tom was considerably ahead of you when you fell,” said Harry.

“He was a little ahead, but I could have made it up.”

“I don’t think you could.”

“That’s your opinion,” said Rupert, rudely. “I say I could.”

“Would you like to try it again?” asked Tom.

“It wouldn’t be a fair race. Your skates are different from mine.”

“They are not so good as yours.”

“I know that, but they are good enough for going.”

“You seem to have changed your opinion. You objected to my using Harry’s skates, which are like yours.”

“Because I wanted to give you the advantage of your own skates.”

“Are you willing to have a second trial, in which I use Harry’s skates?”

If Rupert had been prudent he would have made some excuse for declining, but I have already said that he was self-conceited about his skating, and he really believed that he could skate faster than Tom. In the event of a second trial, he would have a chance to show this. After slight hesitation, therefore, he said:

“Yes; I’ll try again, just to satisfy you.”

It was decided to start from the further end of the pond, and again Harry Julian was selected to give the word.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered both boys.

“Then—go!”

This time both started together.

At equal speed they dashed out for the opposite shore. Tom was fresher than his rival, and he was not now obliged to exert himself as in the former race. Indeed, he kept himself partly in check, not caring to pass Rupert till they neared the end of the race, for he feared that when the latter found himself hopelessly in the rear he would again manage to stumble, and so deprive him of the laurels he had justly won.

Of course the boys who were looking on did not know this, and when they saw Tom and Rupert skating side by side when the race was three-quarters over, they watched with great excitement, uncertain which would win.

Now the race was seven-eighths over, and still the boys were skating side by side. It was difficult to tell which was ahead.

Rupert’s breath came quick and short. Only a little ahead was the goal, and there seemed as good a chance of his reaching it as of Tom’s doing so.

“Anyway, we shall come in together,” he thought, “and then the pegger boy can’t triumph over me.”

This would not be quite as well as winning the race, but it would certainly be a great deal better than being defeated.

But Rupert made no account of Tom’s reserved strength. Even as this thought passed through his mind, Tom made a brilliant spurt, and before Rupert fairly realized the situation, his rival had touched the goal, leaving him fifty feet behind.

He reddened with anger and mortification, utterly unable to devise any excuse for his failure.

At a little distance behind were the other skaters.

“That was a pretty race,” said Harry, as he came up. “I suppose you’ll admit that you are beaten, now, Rupert. Come, own up,” said Harry, seeing that Rupert remained silent. “You can’t deny that that was a fair race.”

“He wouldn’t have beaten me if I had been well,” said Rupert, thinking of an excuse at last.

“If you had been well?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I’ve got a bad headache. I thought of stopping in the middle of the race, but I didn’t want to spoil it.”

There was not a boy within hearing who believed for a moment that Rupert was really troubled with a headache, so that his subterfuge was of no service to him.

“Your headache came on rather suddenly, didn’t it?” asked Harry, significantly.

“No; I’ve had it for half an hour.”

“When the race was first proposed did you have it?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I thought it might not interfere with me.”

“Then I suppose you don’t consider this a fair race?”

“Of course not. How can a fellow skate well when he’s got a splitting headache?”

“Would you have said anything about the headache if you had won?”

“Look here, Harry Julian, I don’t like the way you talk. If you mean to insult me say so at once.”

“I don’t care to insult anyone,” said Harry, coldly. “Since you don’t consider this a fair race I presume Tom will be willing to race you any time you may appoint. You can wait till you are in perfect health.”

“Yes,” said Tom, “I am ready to race any time. Rupert is an excellent skater, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he beat me some time,” he added, generously.

Such, however, was not the opinion of the boys. From what they had seen they entertained no doubt as to which was the better skater of the two, and Rupert would have risen in their opinion if he had manfully admitted his defeat.

At half-past nine the skating party broke up, and the young skaters went home.

Tom and Harry walked together.

“To-morrow evening,” said Tom, “I mean to call on Squire Simpson, and ask him about father’s life in California. I shall feel easier when I learn all that is to be known about it.”

CHAPTER IV.
A FALSE FRIEND.

MR. SIMPSON was not a justice of the peace, but his fellow-citizens had got into the habit of calling him “squire,” and the title was not unpleasant to him.

He sat, in dressing-gown and slippers, in a comfortable sitting-room, reading a city paper, when a servant appeared at the door.

“There’s a boy at the door who says he would like to see you, sir.”

“Who is it?” asked Mr. Simpson.

“It’s Thomas Thatcher, sir.”

“What does he want with me?” inquired the rich man, arching his eyebrows in surprise.

“I don’t know, sir; he didn’t say.”

“Well, let him come in.”

A minute later Tom was ushered into the presence of his employer.

“Well, Tom, what’s your business?” asked Squire Simpson, curtly.

“My mother tells me, Mr. Simpson, that you were with father in California just before his mysterious disappearance——”

“Suppose I were!” interrupted Squire Simpson, brusquely.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about him,” said Tom.

“Did your mother send you here?” demanded the rich man, with a frown of displeasure.

“No, sir; she does not know that I have come.”

“It is very singular that you should come to me on such an errand,” said Simpson, in a tone of displeasure.

“Is it surprising that I should wish to know something of my father, sir?” returned Tom, not at all abashed by his reception.

“I told your mother, years ago, all that I had to tell.”

“I was too young then to take any part in the inquiry. Have you any objection to tell a son something of his father’s last years?”

The rich man hesitated a moment, and then, with an ill grace, replied:

“What is it you wish to know?”

“How long did you leave my father before his death?”

“How should I know. I don’t know when he died, or whether he died at all.”

“How long, then, before you set out for home?”

“A few weeks—six weeks, perhaps.”

“My father had considerable money at the time you left him, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me how much?”

“I don’t see what good it would do you to know—you are not likely to get the money.”

“I suppose not, sir; but it was his money that probably tempted the man who wickedly murdered him.”

Squire Simpson seemed very ill at ease, as if, instead of being questioned by a boy, he were in the witness-box.

“Yes,” said he, “I suppose your father was murdered for his money. How much did he have? Well, probably five thousand dollars, more or less. I had considerably more, having met with greater luck than he.”

“At what place did you leave father, Squire Simpson?”

“It was at a place called Rocky Gulch. I don’t know what they call it now.”

“Didn’t father say anything about coming home when you left him?”

“He hadn’t fixed upon any time. He wanted to increase his pile. I suppose he felt dissatisfied because he hadn’t as much as I. He would have done better to come home with me.”

“I wish he had,” said Tom, sadly.

“Of course, it would have been better for him and for his family, but it can’t be helped now. I wonder you should bring up this old matter now. It can do no possible good. It was the Lord’s will that your father should be taken away, and we must submit to His will. It’s wicked to murmur against the plans of Providence.”

The rich man said all this in a brisk, business-like manner, as if he were quite reconciled to what had happened.

“Still,” said Tom, “we can’t help thinking of how changed our circumstances would have been if father had come home as you did.”

“Yes, yes; but you haven’t anything to complain of. You live comfortably, don’t you? I give you employment in my shop,” he added, pompously, “out of regard to your father’s memory.”

“Yes, sir, you give me employment,” said Tom, slowly.

He could not be brought to think this a very great favor, since he was only paid what other boys were for the same labor.

“How long have you been at work in the shop?”

“Three years.”

“Then for three years I have put you in a way of earning your living.”

“It is rather hard to live on fifty cents a day,” said Tom.

“Then, I take it, your errand here is to ask for higher wages?” said Simpson, quickly.

“No, sir; the thought never entered my mind when I came here.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t accept it if it were offered,” said Simpson, with a slight sneer.

“Yes, sir, I should.”

“I thought so.”

“But not as a favor. I think I earn more money.”

“What gives you that idea?” demanded his employer displeased.

“In Tompkins peggers are paid seventy cents a day.”

“Then you are at liberty to go there and find work,” said Simpson, roughly.

“I can’t do that, sir, as you know I cannot leave my mother. Besides, if I had my board to pay, I should be worse off than I am now.”

“That is a very sensible conclusion. You will find that you are well off in my employment, but if at any time you become dissatisfied, don’t trouble yourself to stay on my account. I can easily fill your place.”

“Yes, sir, I suppose you can,” answered Tom, slowly.

“Have you any further business with me?” asked Mr. Simpson, impatiently.

“No, sir.”

“Then I will bid you good-evening.”

“I have just a few words to say, Mr. Simpson,” said Tom, looking steadily at the man before him.