Fame and Fortune Weekly

STORIES OF BOYS WHO MAKE MONEY

Issued Weekly—By Subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1905, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by Frank Tousey, Publisher, 24 Union Square, New York.

BORN TO GOOD LUCK;
OR
The Boy Who Succeeded.

By A SELF-MADE MAN.

CHAPTER I.

THE SCRAP AT COBHAM’S CORNER.

“See here, Dick Armstrong; when you’ve taken that water into the house, I want you to clean these. Do you understand?”

The speaker, a sallow-complexioned, overgrown boy of seventeen, threw a pair of mud-bespattered boots at the feet of a sun-burned, healthy-looking lad about a year his junior, while a grin of satisfied malice wrinkled his not over-pleasant features as he thrust his hands into his pockets and started to walk away.

“Who are you talking to, Luke Maslin?” answered Dick, hotly, not relishing the contemptuous manner in which he had been addressed.

“Why, you, of course,” replied Luke, with a sneer, pausing about a yard away. “You’re dad’s boy-of-all-work, aren’t you?”

Unfortunately for Dick this remark expressed the exact truth.

He was Silas Maslin’s boy-of-all-work, and his lot was not an enviable one.

His clothes were bad, his food scarce, his education neglected, and having arrived at the age of sixteen years he eagerly longed to cut loose from his uncongenial surroundings and make his own way in the world.

If Dick felt obliged to submit to Mr. Maslin’s tyrannical treatment, that was no reason, he contended, why he should allow his son Luke to bully him also.

Although he had never done anything to deserve Luke Maslin’s ill will and often went out of his way to do him a good turn, Luke never lost a chance to make life miserable for Dick.

In fact, all friendly advances on Armstrong’s part, instead of winning his favor, seemed rather to impress him with the idea that Dick was afraid of him, which was far from the truth.

On this particular occasion Dick was not in the best of humor, for Mr. Maslin had just been savagely abusing him because he had taken a longer time than the old man had considered necessary to fetch certain supplies for the store from Slocum, a large town about ten miles distant. So when Luke flung the last remark at him he angrily retorted:

“Well, I’m not yours, at any rate.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Luke, in a disagreeable tone.

“Just what I said!” answered Dick, defiantly.

“Do you mean to say that you don’t intend to do anything I ask you to do?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Luke advanced a step nearer the other, looking decidedly ugly.

“How you ask me,” replied Dick, setting down the pail to relieve his arm.

“I s’pose you’d like me to take my hat off to you, Dick Armstrong, and say please, and all that,” Luke returned, scowling darkly. “It strikes me you’re putting on too many frills for a charity boy.”

Charity boy!

This slur, which Dick felt to be utterly undeserved, stung him more than anything Luke could have said.

He turned pale with sudden rage, and his temper burst forth with a violence all the more terrible because held so long in check.

Snatching up the pail of water as though it were a feather, he dashed its contents over his tormentor, drenching him from head to foot.

If the heavens had fallen, Luke Maslin couldn’t have been more astonished.

That Dick Armstrong, the despised factotum of the establishment, would dare to resent any aggression on his part was something Luke had not dreamed of.

Heretofore when he chose to bully his father’s drudge the boy had submitted with the best grace he could.

Now Dick actually had the temerity not only to resist, but to assume the offensive.

After the first sputtering gasp of surprise, Luke recovered himself and sprang at Dick with a howl of the fury that fairly blazed from his eyes.

Realizing that he was in for trouble, Armstrong prepared to defend himself to the best of his ability.

Although his opponent had the advantage of him in height and was furious enough to be dangerous, Dick was not troubled with any misgivings as to the result of a clash between them.

He had every confidence in his own powers, for he was compactly built, was unusually strong for his years, and moreover, being very angry, was reckless of the consequences.

Whether it was that Maslin was naturally clever with his fists or Dick was awkward or slow in putting himself into a posture of defence, certain it is Luke’s right arm went through his opponent’s guard and Dick received a stinging blow on the side of his head that staggered him for a moment.

A second whack, this time on the chest, thoroughly aroused Dick and, seeing his chance, he struck out with all the force he was capable of and caught Luke full on the nose.

His head went back with a jerk, he slipped on the grass, and was down in a moment, the blood flowing freely from his injured organ.

Contrary to Dick’s expectations, Luke made no effort to get up and resume the battle.

It began to look as though that one blow had knocked all the fight out of him.

Whatever satisfaction his opponent felt at such a decisive result was dissipated in a moment by an unexpected whack on the ear from behind, and turning to confront this new danger he found himself face to face with Silas Maslin, who was in a towering rage.

“You young rascal, how dare you strike my son!” he exclaimed, furiously.

“He struck me first,” Dick answered doggedly, rubbing his ear, for the slap had been no gentle one.

“What’s that? Didn’t I see you fling that bucket of water over him, you little villain?”

“I did that because he insulted me,” replied the boy, with spirit.

“Don’t you dare talk back to me in that fashion, or I’ll flay you within an inch of your life! Go into the store at once!”

Silas Maslin raised his foot as though it was his intention to boot the boy.

He did not do so, however, and it was well for him that he did not.

That was an indignity Dick would not have submitted to from any person, not even from Silas Maslin, much as he held him in awe.

The boy was glad to avail himself of the chance of getting beyond his tyrant’s reach, and was presently drawing a quart of molasses for one of the customers of the establishment.

Mr. Maslin kept a small general store at Cobham’s Corner, on the outskirts of the village of Walkhill, in the State of New York.

The building stood within a few yards of the Erie Canal, facing the country road, which at this point crossed the narrow waterway by means of a stout wooden bridge.

The houses that constituted the village were much scattered, and owing to the heavy growth of trees not one of them could be seen from the store; but by standing on the centre of the bridge the short, stumpy steeple of the small, wooden church could just be made out looming up through the topmost branches in the near distance.

The post-office was located at the store, and the farmers for miles around came here for their mail and to replenish their supplies from Mr. Maslin’s stock of goods, which consisted of about everything needed by the little community, from a needle to a cultivator.

Mr. Maslin’s household consisted of his wife, a sour-faced woman on the shady side of forty; his son Luke; John Huskins, a hired man, who attended to the main part of the work in the fields—for Silas Maslin had some forty acres under cultivation—and Dick Armstrong, who helped in the store when necessary, did the chores, and assisted Huskins.

Between the two boys, Luke had all the advantages of the situation.

He went to school as long as school kept, took part in all the village sports, visited his schoolmates, attended all the social gatherings he felt disposed to join, and carried his head pretty high generally.

But for all that he wasn’t at all popular.

Dick, on the other hand, came in for the short end of everything.

He attended school when Silas Maslin chose to let him do so, under which circumstances his attendance was decidedly irregular.

For the larger part of his time from daylight to dark he was kept on the hustle, as Mr. Maslin was never at a loss to find something for him to do.

Everybody knew Dick Armstrong, of course.

He was a good-looking boy, naturally bright, was obliging and polite to everybody with whom he came in contact, and consequently was well liked by everybody in the district, and was an especial favorite with the girls, who when they came to the store for mail or to purchase something preferred to have him wait upon them.

As Luke was ambitious to shine with the fair sex himself, he resented their partiality for Dick, and as he couldn’t very well get square with the young ladies, he vented his ill humor and spite on the object of their attention.

CHAPTER II.

ACCUSED OF THEFT.

As the customer departed with the jug of molasses, a lad named Joe Fletcher entered the store.

“Hello, Dick,” said the newcomer, walking toward the rear of the place.

“Hello, Joe,” replied Dick, in a pleased voice, for he and Joe were chums.

“I didn’t know whether I should find you in here or not,” said Joe.

“Want to see me about anything particular?” asked Dick, in some surprise.

“Yes. I’ve come to say good-bye.”

“What!” exclaimed Dick, his face clouding. “You don’t mean to say you’re going away?”

“Yes. I left Boggs for good a couple of hours ago. He’s a hard, cruel, grasping tyrant—that’s what he is. You know I threatened to cut loose from him weeks ago, but somehow I didn’t seem to be able to muster up the backbone to do it. But it’s all over now. He beat me black and blue with a whip this morning because one of the cows broke down the corner of the pasture fence and got into the truck patch. I think he’d have killed me only I hit him over the head with the handle of a rake. Then I got my clothes and ran away.”

For a moment Dick was silent.

He felt sad at the thought of losing the best friend he had in the neighborhood.

It is true he had only known Joe Fletcher five months, which was about the length of time Joe had been working for Farmer Boggs, but a natural sympathy had drawn the two boys together.

Both early in life had been thrown upon their own resources, and both were subservient to hard taskmasters, though if there was any choice in the matter, Silas Maslin was perhaps a shade better than Nathan Boggs.

The latter was notorious throughout the county for the way he treated his hired help, particularly if that help happened to be a boy.

Boggs’ method was to hire a stout boy or an able-bodied, newly arrived foreigner for a period of six months, with the understanding that if the hand quit work before the end of the stipulated term of service he was to forfeit all his pay.

The farmer then managed to make things so hard for his help as the weeks went by that they found the place simply unendurable and were glad to disappear of a sudden without making any very serious demand for what was due them.

Fletcher had managed to weather the ills that clung about Boggs’ farm for five months, for he was blessed with a good temper and much patience, and Nathan, fearing the boy would last the limit and that he would be obliged to pay him the sum of $60 for which he had contracted, adopted a specially rigorous line of conduct toward him, which culminated that morning with a most inhuman beating, after which Joe gave up the struggle.

“Where are you going?” asked Dick, at length.

“I haven’t decided yet but the canal-boat Minnehaha is taking on a load of shingles at Norton’s Lock, a few miles above, and Captain Beasley told me he’d take me down to New York if I wanted to go.”

“I wish I were going with you, Joe,” said Dick, wistfully.

“I wish you were.”

“I’m sick of this place. They treat me like a dog, and I won’t stand it much longer. Had a run-in with Luke a little while ago.”

“I don’t see that it’s doing you any good to hang on here,” said Joe. “Maslin hasn’t any claim on you, has he?”

“Not a bit; it’s all the other way. He hasn’t paid me a cent all these years I’ve been working for him. All I’ve ever got has been the clothes he grudgingly gave me—none of the best, at that—and my board, and I guess you know what sort of a table they set here.”

“I’ve heard enough from you to make me believe it isn’t much of an improvement on Boggs’ bill of fare—and that’s about the worst ever!”

“You never told me how you came to live with the Maslins,” said Joe, curiously.

“I didn’t know myself till a couple of months ago.”

“Is that a fact?” said Joe in surprise.

“I asked Mr. Maslin and his wife a number of times, but they never would give me any satisfaction. About two months ago I was up in the garret one rainy Sunday afternoon, and I found an old diary in which Mr. Maslin kept a record of important matters in which he was interested when we lived up in New Hampshire some twelve years ago. I’ve a faint recollection myself of the farm he owned in the neighborhood of a place called Franconia. In this diary I found a long entry relating to myself.”

“You must have been surprised,” said Fletcher, who was listening eagerly.

“Well, I guess I was. Of course I knew I was no relation of the Maslins, for they had long since taken care to impress that fact on me. The diary states that a gentleman named George Armstrong, whom Mr. Maslin wrote down as being tall and fine-looking, but with a melancholy face, as though he was in trouble or had lately been subject to some misfortune, boarded at the farm with his little son, Richard, at that time aged five years, for several months. That one day he received a letter which Mr. Maslin noticed bore the Boston postmark, and that its contents disturbed him very much. He immediately started off without mentioning his destination, leaving the little boy in Mr. Maslin’s care, with a small sum of money to pay his board for about the time he expected to be away. He did not return within the time he set, and from subsequent entries on the same page it would seem that Mr. Maslin never saw him again.”

“It’s a good thing you learned that much about yourself. I suppose something must have happened to your father or he would have come back after you,” said Joe.

“I suppose so,” replied Dick, soberly.

“What did you do with the diary?”

“I’ve got it in the box where I keep my clothes.”

“You’d better hold on to it. Might possibly be of value to you one of these days.”

“It has a value for me, as it shows to some extent who I am,” replied Dick. “Luke called me a charity boy, and that taunt caused the scrap. I’ve worked like a slave for the Maslins without pay, but I’ve received any amount of abuse. Some morning Mr. Maslin will get up and find me missing.”

“What’s that you say, you young villain?” yelled the strident tones of the storekeeper, behind them.

He had entered the store and approached them unobserved.

“Don’t you let me catch you tryin’ to light out of here before I give you leave, or I’ll be the death of you. What do you mean, anyway, by hangin’ over the counter and idlin’ your time away when there’s a dozen things you might be doin’? Go into the kitchen now and peel the taters for Mrs. Maslin; d’ye hear?” And he seized the boy roughly by the arm and swung him into the middle of the store.

“I’ll try and see you later, Dick, before I go,” said Joe, holding out his hand to his chum.

“I don’t think you will, young man,” said Silas Maslin, significantly. “My help hain’t got no time to waste on visitors.”

“I guess he’s got a right to say good-bye to a friend,” retorted Joe, indignantly.

“Then he’d better say it right now afore you go,” said the storekeeper, ungraciously.

“Well, Dick,” said Joe, bottling up his wrath, for he realized that Mr. Maslin was master of the situation, “good-bye, if I don’t see you again.”

“Good-bye, Joe,” and the two boys clasped hands sadly.

“I’ll write to you and let you know where I am and what I’m doing,” said Joe.

“I hope you will. Be sure I sha’n’t forget you.”

“And I won’t forget you.”

And thus the two boys parted, for how long they could not guess.

As it proved, however, they were shortly to be reunited in a somewhat startling way.

Dick went into the kitchen, where Mrs. Maslin handed him a tub of potatoes and a knife.

“Take the jackets off ’em, and see you lose no time ’bout it nuther,” said the lady of the house sharply.

Dick made no reply, but seated himself on a stool in a corner and began his work.

“You ’most ruined Luke’s new suit of clothes this arternoon,” snapped Mrs. Maslin. “Ef I wuz Silas I’d take it out’r your hide. It seems to me my boy can’t ask you to do the simplest thing for him eny more but you must fly at him.”

Dick knew it was useless to enter into any explanation with her.

Luke had evidently told the story in his own way, and whatever he might say now wouldn’t count.

“Don’t you know it’s your place to do whatever he asks of you?” asked Mrs. Maslin, shrilly.

“I’ve never refused to do anything for him when he asked me civilly,” said Dick.

“Hoighty toighty!” exclaimed the lady, sarcastically. “Must my boy bow down before you, you young whipper-snapper? The idea! Who are you enyway? Ef it hadn’t been for Silas and me, where’d you been now, you ungrateful cub? We’ve clothed you and fed you and eddicated you, and now you turn on us.”

“I think I’ve worked pretty hard for all I’ve received,” replied Dick, doggedly.

“What ef you have? It ain’t more’n you ought to do. You’ve finished the taters, hev you? Put ’em down, then, and don’t stare at me in that way. Go out and fetch me a pail of water.”

Dick obeyed without a word and then, as the mistress made no further demand on his services for the moment, went up to his bare little room just over the kitchen.

He opened the box where he kept his things and, diving down into a corner, fished up a small buckskin bag in which he kept the pennies, dimes, quarters, and several half-dollars he had been slowly accumulating from odd jobs he had done for various persons during the last three or four years.

He counted his little store slowly over.

“I’ve a great mind to——”

He never finished that sentence, for suddenly the door was thrown open with a bang and Silas Maslin rushed furiously into the room.

“You thief! Give me back the money you took from the store-till this afternoon!”

“This is not your money,” said Dick, dropping the coins into the bag and holding it behind him.

“I’ll see whether you’ll give it to me or not!”

As Silas Maslin sprang at him Dick thrust the bag into his pocket and proceeded to defend himself as well as he could.

This would not have been an easy job, for Mr. Maslin was strong and wiry; but chance aided the boy.

The storekeeper’s foot caught on a rent in the rag-carpet, he pitched forward and struck his forehead against a corner of Dick’s box with such force as to cause a nasty wound that stretched him, stunned, on the floor.

CHAPTER III.

LEAVING HIS HOME.

At that moment Mrs. Maslin appeared in the doorway and, perceiving her husband stretched motionless on the floor with the blood streaming down his face and Dick Armstrong standing over him in an attitude of defence with his fists half clenched—for the mishap which had overtaken Silas Maslin had been so sudden that he stood quite stupefied with surprise—she conceived the idea that the boy had struck down her lord and master, perhaps killed him.

“Help! Help! Murder!” she screamed loudly, dashing open the window and making the air ring with her shill cry.

Huskins, the hired man, was coming into the yard from the fields.

He heard Mrs. Maslin’s frenzied cries, saw her violent gesticulations as she leaned out of the window, and thinking the house was on fire, he dropped the implements he was carrying and ran forward.

In the meantime Dick had raised Silas Maslin to a sitting posture and was trying to stanch the blood with a corner of the coverlet which belonged to his bed, when Mrs. Maslin turned around and saw what he was doing.

“Don’t you dare touch him again, you young villain!” she screamed, suddenly attacking the boy with her bony fists.

“What’s the matter with you?” objected Dick, trying to ward off her blows. “Why don’t you get some water and try to bring him to? What do you mean by pounding me in that way?”

“You ruffian! You murderer! I knowed you was born to be hanged!” yelled the excited woman, thumping the boy about the head and arms till he had to retreat out of her reach to save himself, for he had no idea of striking back at her.

Then she grabbed her husband in her sinewy arms and started to drag him from the room just as Huskins appeared on the scene and stared in astonishment at what he saw.

“Don’t let that boy escape, John!” cried Mrs. Maslin. “He’s made a murderous attack on Silas, and ef he hasn’t killed him it’ll be a great wonder.”

“You don’t mean Dick, ma’am?” exclaimed Huskins, in evident wonder.

“I don’t mean nobuddy else,” snapped his mistress, sharply. “Tie him up so he can’t get away, and then run for the constable. Lands sake! It’s a wonder we haven’t all been killed in our beds afore this! I never knowed he was such a desprit boy.”

Mrs. Maslin then bore Silas into her own chamber in the front of the house, and set about bringing him to his senses.

“What’s up?” asked Huskins of Dick.

He had always liked the boy and didn’t know what to make of the situation.

“Mr. Maslin came up here and accused me of taking money out of his till in the store, and when I denied it he started to seize me, when his foot caught in that hole in the carpet and he pitched forward, striking his head against the corner of my box and cutting his forehead open. The shock must have stunned him. Then Mrs. Maslin appeared, threw up the window and began yelling like a crazy person. I tried to do something for Mr. Maslin, but she attacked me furiously, calling me a ruffian and a murderer, and I don’t remember what else. I tell you, John, things are getting altogether too hot for me here. Between Luke and the rest of them I am having a dog’s life of it. I might as well get out now as at any other time.”

“I shouldn’t blame you if you did. I should, if it was me,” replied Huskins, who knew what a hard time the boy had of it and really pitied him.

“I don’t believe Mr. Maslin has lost any money,” said Dick, indignantly. “I know I didn’t take any. I’m not a thief.”

“Maybe Luke took it,” suggested the hired man, with a peculiar wink.

“Luke!” exclaimed Dick in surprise. “What makes you think he did?”

“Well, he wanted five dollars mighty bad this morning, for he tried to borrow it of me. I asked him what he wanted it for; but he wouldn’t tell me. I guess he wants to send for something he’s seen advertised in the paper.”

“How do you know he does?”

“From something he said to me the other day,” said Huskins, sagely.

“If Luke took the money, he’ll deny it, all right. His father will take his word before mine, and his mother will back him up as she’s done fifty times before. I’ve got a few dollars saved up, and as Mr. Maslin has discovered that fact he won’t rest till he’s got it away from me. I need that to help me out after I leave here. So I guess I’d better go before Mr. Maslin gets his hands on it.”

“You’re right there, Dick. The old man’s fingers are like pot-hooks—they hold on to everything they fasten to. Once he gets possession of your money, you’ll never see it again.”

“You’d better go down and look out for the store, John, till Mr. Maslin turns up. I’m going to make a bundle of my things and start off.”

“Then you’re really determined to go, Dick?”

“Yes,” replied the boy, resolutely, “I am. Mr. Maslin has called me a thief, and that’s the limit with me.”

“Well, I wish you luck. Let me hear from you some time. I’d like to know how ye get on,” and the hired man held out his hand.

“Thank you, John. I sha’n’t forget you.”

They shook hands, and Huskins went down stairs.

Dick closed his room-door and pushed the chest of drawers against it, as he did not want to be interrupted or taken at a disadvantage.

Then he put on his best suit, made a compact bundle of such articles as he deemed indispensable, put Mr. Maslin’s old diary into an inside pocket of his jacket, and was ready to leave the house.

He was about to remove the chest of drawers when he heard the unmistakable voice of Silas Maslin mingled with the shriller tones of Mrs. Maslin, on the landing approaching his door.

His retreat by the stairway was evidently cut off.

What was he to do?

The door of his room was pushed in an inch or two, as far as the obstruction would permit.

“Open the door, you young villain!” exclaimed the voice of Silas Maslin, whose temper had by no means been improved by the injury he had received.

“Push the door in, Silas,” said his wife. “There ain’t no lock to it.”

“He’s got somethin’ against it,” replied her husband, impatiently.

“Mebbe it’s the chest of drawers or the bed.”

“It ain’t the bed,” said the storekeeper, and he flung himself suddenly against the panel with a force sufficient to push the obstruction back a foot at least.

Through this opening he thrust his head and saw Dick Armstrong beating a hasty retreat by way of the window.

“He’s gettin’ out of the winder. You stay here, Maria, and I’ll try to catch him below.”

Mr. Maslin, whose head was bound up with a towel, was a pretty lively man for his sixty odd years, and the way he got down the stairway and out into the yard would have put many a younger man to shame.

But the boy was as active as a young monkey, and guessed pretty closely what his persecutor’s tactics would be.

He dropped his bundle into the yard, swung himself out and alighted nimbly on his feet, and when Mr. Maslin dashed out to cut him off Dick was passing through the gate into the road.

“Come back here, you young rascal, or I’ll skin you alive!” he shouted angrily.

But the boy had no intention of returning now that he had crossed the Rubicon at last.

“I’ll have you took up and put in the calaboose; do you hear?”

Dick heard, but the threat had no effect on him.

He bounded around the corner of the fence and ran full tilt into another boy, knocking him head over heels.

The floored youth proved to be Luke Maslin, who was returning from the village.

The storekeeper’s son uttered a yell of pain and terror as he floundered about on the grass.

Dick had gone down also, his bundle flying out of his hand a yard away.

As he picked himself up, a familiar voice exclaimed:

“Hello! What’s the trouble? Is that you, Dick?”

“That you, Joe?”

“Sure it’s me! I was hanging about for a chance to see you again if I could. What muss have you got in now?”

“Come along with me and I’ll tell you about it,” Dick said as he picked up his bundle.

Mr. Maslin now hove in sight a few feet away.

“Now I’ve got you, you pesky little villain!” and he made a dash at the boy.

“Run, Joe!”

Fletcher took the hint and scampered after his chum, who was flying along the “heel” path of the canal as fast as he could go.

In the gathering dusk the storekeeper failed to recognize his son and heir as the latter lay sprawling in the path, and as a consequence he stumbled over Luke’s extended legs and pitched forward, head first, like a stone from a catapult.

The momentum he had acquired in his eagerness to lay hold of Dick now worked greatly to his disadvantage.

Striking the path, he rolled over and over, clutching vainly at the grass to stay his progress.

As the space between the fence and the canal was narrow at this point, before he realized his predicament he was carried over the embankment and fell with a splash into the water.

“Help!” he yelled, and then his head went under.

Huskins had been attracted to the spot by the rumpus and was in time to fish his employer out of the canal; but by that time Dick Armstrong and his friend Fletcher were safe from any immediate pursuit.

CHAPTER IV.

ON BOARD THE MINNEHAHA.

“So you aren’t going back any more, then?” said Joe Fletcher, after Dick had related to him the exciting experience through which he had passed since the two lads had parted, apparently for good, in Mr. Maslin’s store, a little more than an hour before.

“No,” replied Dick, firmly, “I’m not. I am done with Silas Maslin for good and all.”

The boys were resting on a decayed tree-trunk by the side of the canal.

It was now almost dark, and both of them, having had nothing to eat since noon, were hungry.

“I guess you’ve done the right thing, Dick,” said his friend. “You aren’t likely to be any worse off than you’ve been at the Corner.”

“I’d have pretty hard luck if I was. I’d never amount to much as long as I stayed with Mr. Maslin. He took care that I didn’t get much chance to get up in the world. I wish now I’d more schooling,” said the boy, regretfully.

“I’ll bet you know more than Luke Maslin, and he’s gone regularly to the district school. At his age—he’s a year older than you—he ought to be at the Slocum High School. I don’t think he cares a lot to study.”

“Many boys don’t seem to realize what they let get by them until it is too late,” said Dick. “You and I, Joe, have got to cut our own way in life without any help from anybody. I guess you can hold up your end. As for me, I don’t intend to let any grass grow under my feet from this on. If you’ve rested enough, we’ll move on to Norton’s. Perhaps your friend Cap’n Beasley will give us something to eat. I haven’t had a mouthful since dinner, and I feel as if I could clean out a pantry.”

“Same here. Captain Beasley is all right, and so is his wife. They wouldn’t see anyone, even a tramp, go hungry if they could help it,” said Joe as the boys resumed their march. “They’ve a daughter, too, named Florrie. She’s as pretty as a picture,” and Joe grinned broadly.

Dick wasn’t particularly interested in pretty girls at that moment. He was thinking whether Captain Beasley would consent to take him down to New York along with Joe on the canal-boat.

“I guess he will if I pay him something, and I’m willing to put up what’s fair,” mused the boy.

Norton’s Lock was about six miles from Cobham’s Corner.

Dick and Joe reached there at eight o’clock.

Captain Beasley’s boat was moored against the eastern bank of the canal, and a few yards away was a good-sized liquor store, lit up with kerosene lamps, and, judging from the crowd within, doing a thriving trade.

There was also an open shed close by, partially filled with bundles of shingles brought there for shipment from the mill a mile or so away.

Dick followed Joe aboard the canal-boat and was introduced to Captain Beasley and his wife and daughter.

As soon as Mrs. Beasley found out that the boys were hungry, she spread a corner of the table in the little cabin for them, laid out the remains of a joint of cold mutton, boiled a pot of coffee, and upon this, flanked by a plentiful supply of bread and butter, the two lads made a very satisfactory meal.

Dick offered to pay his way to New York City, but the good-natured skipper of the Minnehaha wouldn’t hear of it for a moment.

“You and Joe here are both of you welcome to go along with us, and it sha’n’t cost you a cent. All I ask of you is to turn your hands to an odd job or two, maybe, till we hitch on behind the tug that takes us down the river.”

Dick accepted his generous offer with thanks, as Joe had already done earlier in the day when he brought his meagre bundle aboard on the strength of the captain’s former invitation.

“Neither of you lads seems to be encumbered with much dunnage,” said the skipper, with a humorous glance at the two attenuated bundles ranged side by side on a shelf and which contained all they boasted of in the world.

“We both lit out in such a hurry that we didn’t have time to pack our trunks,” grinned Joe. “Boggs skinned me out of sixty dollars; and as for Dick, I believe there wasn’t anything coming to him, though he put in many a year of good hard work down at Cobham’s Corner for Silas Maslin, who runs the store and the village post-office.”

“I’ve heard of him,” nodded Captain Beasley, recharging his pipe, “and I’ve heard of you, too, Master Dick, afore this,” and the skipper looked at the bright, stalwart, young runaway. “Silas Maslin, I understand, is a hard man to work for, though I reckon Nathan Boggs can give him a few points in that line. Both of ’em have wives that folks say would skin a flea for its fat. From which I judge that one’s appetite isn’t pampered at either place.”

“That’s right,” corroborated Dick. “We’ve both been through the mill and ought to know. I haven’t had such a good spread as was set before us to-night right here since I can remember, and I’ve a pretty good recollection.”

Mrs. Beasley and her daughter looked at one another in astonishment.

“Well,” said the captain’s wife, “you sha’n’t neither of you want for enough to eat as long as you are with us.”

“What are you going to do when you reach the city?” asked the captain curiously. “Got any money at all?”

“I’ve got about sixteen dollars,” replied Dick, and he told Captain Beasley by what slow and arduous means he had amassed it.

“I haven’t a red cent,” admitted Joe, making such a comical face that Florence Beasley burst out laughing.

“It’s possible I may start a bank and take Joe in as cashier,” grinned Dick.

“Not a bad idea,” smiled the skipper, “so long as it isn’t a faro bank or something of that sort.”

“I wouldn’t mind investing my capital in a sand-bank if I thought I could sell the sand and make a profit,” put in Dick.

“Perhaps you would make a good speculator,” said the captain, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps I would; but I’ve never tried my hand at it.”

“A successful speculator should, first of all, have brains, and then money,” said Captain Beasley, punctuating each point in the air with the stem of his briar pipe. “I judge you have the brains——”

“So have I,” interrupted Joe, with some animation.

“It was a rather poor speculation you entered into with Nathan Boggs, wasn’t it?” and the skipper turned to Joe.

“I don’t call that a speculation; that was a dead skin,” cried Fletcher stoutly.

“Well, you made an agreement with him to forfeit your wages if you quit work before the end of your term of service; you put yourself at a great disadvantage with such a man. It was to his interest to make you quit beforehand if he could.”

“If I hadn’t quit I guess I’d been carried away in a box, so I’d have lost anyway.”

“Well, you speculated on the chance of holding out, and came in for the short end of the deal.”

“That was because I didn’t know what I was up against.”

“Even so; that is a risk that often confronts the speculator. That’s where brains count.”

Captain Beasley looked at the clock, laid down his pipe and intimated it was time to turn in.

He led the boys to the forward part of the boat, pointed to a small open scuttle in the deck, and told them they’d find a mattress and a couple of blankets down there. Then wishing them good night, he left them to make the best of their narrow quarters.

CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH SILAS MASLIN FAILS TO RECOVER HIS RUNAWAY.

In the morning the boat was hauled across to the other side of the canal, the side on which the towpath ran; a tandem mule team in charge of a boy who sported the biggest and most disreputable straw hat Dick had ever seen, was hitched on, and the boat began to move slowly down the canal.

As they approached the bridge at Cobham’s Corner, Dick got out of sight of the shore.

He knew there would be trouble if any member of the Maslin family caught a glimpse of him on board the Minnehaha.

So he squatted down inside the limited bit of hold in the eyes of the canal-boat which he and Joe had used for sleeping quarters, while his chum sat on the combings of the hatch with his legs swinging down and his gaze fixed on Cobham’s Corner.

“I don’t see anybody about,” reported Joe, as the boat drew near the bridge which crossed the canal at this point and connected the two sections of the county road.

Captain Beasley came forward and called on Fletcher to help detach the tow-line so that the boat could pass under the bridge.

While they were doing this, Luke Maslin appeared at the door of the store.

His eyes roamed over the canal-boat from stem to stern and finally fixed themselves on Fletcher, whom he recognized, having seen and spoken to him many times when Joe called at the store to get supplies for Nathan Boggs or to see Dick.

Suddenly he ran out on the bridge and took his position just above where the boat had to pass under.

“Hello, Fletcher!” he shouted.

“Hello, yourself,” growled Joe, casting a side glance at him.

“What are you doing aboard that boat?”

“Taking a sail.”

“What for?”

“For my health,” snorted Joe, as he pitched the end of the tow-line ashore.

“Have you left Nathan Boggs?” continued Luke, with a grin.

“Better ask him when you see him,” answered the boy, squatting down with his back to young Maslin, a pretty good sign that he wanted no further communication with his questioner.

But Luke wouldn’t take the hint.

“Seen anything of Dick Armstrong?” he persisted. “He’s run away from here with some of my father’s money. Constable Smock is hunting for him. Father is going to have him put in the village lock-up.”

Joe didn’t answer him.

“Maybe you’ve got him hid away aboard the boat,” added Luke, suspiciously. “If you have, you’d better give him up, or it will be the worse for you.”

As those words passed his lips the forward end of the canal-boat passed under the bridge, and Luke ran over to the other side of the structure to meet it as it floated clear.

Dick easily overheard his young enemy’s remarks from the spot where he was screened from Luke’s line of observation.

He forgot, however, to change his position below as the boat passed under the bridge, not thinking that Luke, by crossing the planks to the opposite rail, would be able to obtain a different focus down into his hiding-place if he was wideawake enough to keep his eyes well employed.

As this is exactly what Master Maslin did do, the result was he discovered Dick’s crouching figure in the narrow hold as soon as the head of the canal-boat shot out into sight again.

“I see you down there, Dick Armstrong!” he cried, of a sudden, triumphantly.

Then he rushed off to the store to tell his father.

“I’m afraid it’s all up with me,” said Dick, as he scrambled out of his hiding-place.

“Well, I’d like to see them try to take you off this boat if you don’t want to go,” said Joe, rolling up his sleeves, while a look of determination came over his freckled features.

“It won’t do to resist the constable,” warned Dick. “I won’t have you get into trouble over me.”

“But the constable isn’t around here now,” put in Joe.

“They’ll send him word as to my whereabouts, and he’ll get a rig and cut me off further along down the canal, don’t you see?”

“The only thing for me to do now is to leave the boat before I’m overhauled,” Dick continued. “For if I wait until Constable Smock comes along and invites me to go ashore I’ll be deprived of my savings by Mr. Maslin, even if he doesn’t follow up his threat to put me in jail.”

“I dare say you’re right, Dick; but you can’t skip yet a while, for here comes the old man and Luke across the bridge. They’ll be down on us in a couple of minutes. You needn’t be afraid that Captain Beasley’ll make you go ashore to oblige that old rhinoceros. And if he attempts to board us, he’ll be trespassing, and a douse in the canal would be the proper thing to cool him off.”