Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute

CHAPTER XXX. A BRAVE DEED

Hector’s heart stood still as he realized the peril of the child. He dashed forward on the impulse of the moment, and barely succeeded in catching up the little girl and drawing her back out of harm’s way. The driver, who had done his best to rein up his horses, but without success, ejaculated with fervent gratitude, for he, too, had a child of his own about the age of the little girl, “God bless you, boy.”

The little girl seemed less concerned than anyone of the spectators. She put her hand confidently in Hector’s, and said: “Take me to Mary.”

“And who is Mary?” asked Hector, kindly.

He did not require an answer, for the nurse, who, rather late in the day, had awakened to the fact that her charge was in danger, came running forward, crying: “Oh! Miss Gracie, what made you run away?”

“The little girl would have been killed but for this boy’s timely help,” said a middle-aged spectator, gravely.

“I’m sure I don’t know what possessed her to run away,” said Mary, confusedly.

“She wouldn’t if she had been properly looked after,” said the gentleman, sharply, for he had children of his own.

Hector was about to release the child, now that he had saved her, but she was not disposed to let him go.

“You go with me, too!” she said.

She was a pretty child, with a sweet face, rimmed round by golden curls, her round, red cheeks glowing with exercise.

“What is her name?” asked Hector, of the nurse.

“Grace Newman,” answered the nurse, who felt the necessity of saying something in her own defense. “She’s a perfect little runaway. She worries my life out running round after her.”

“Grace Newman!” said the middle-aged gentleman already referred to. “Why, she must be the child of my friend, Titus Newman, of Pearl Street.”

“Yes, sir,” said the nurse.

“My old friend little knows what a narrow escape his daughter has had.”

“I hope you won’t tell him, sir,” said Mary, nervously.

“Why not?”

“Because he would blame me.”

“And so he ought!” said the gentleman, nodding vigorously. “It’s no merit of yours that she wasn’t crushed beneath the wheels of that carriage. If you had been attending to your duty, she wouldn’t have been in danger.”

“I don’t see as it’s any business of yours,” said Mary, pertly. “You ain’t her father, or her uncle.”

“I am a father, and have common humanity,” said the gentleman, “and I consider you unfit for your place.”

“Come along, Grace!” said Mary, angry at being blamed. “You’ve behaved very badly, and I’m going to take you home.”

“Won’t you come, too?” asked the little girl, turning to Hector.

“No, there’s no call for him to come,” said the nurse, pulling the child away.

“Good-by, Gracie,” said Hector, kindly.

“Good-by!” responded the child.

“These nursemaids neglect their charges criminally,” said the gentleman, directing his remarks to Hector. “Mr. Newman owes his child’s safety, perhaps her life, to your prompt courage.”

“She was in great danger,” said Hector. “I was afraid at first I could not save her.”

“A second later and it would have been too late. What is your name, my brave young friend?”

“Hector Roscoe, sir.”

“It is a good name. Do you live in the city?”

“At present I do, sir. I was brought up in the country.”

“Going to school, I take it.”

“I am looking for a place, sir.”

“I wish I had one to give you. I retired from business two years since, and have no employment for anyone.”

“Thank you, sir; I should have liked to serve you.”

“But I’ll tell you what, my young friend, I have a considerable acquaintance among business men. If you will give me your address, I may have something to communicate to you ere long.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hector drew a card from his pocket, and added to it the number of Mr. Ross’ house.

“I am much obliged to you for your kind offer,” he said.

“You don’t look as if you stood in need of employment,” said the gentleman, noticing the fine material of which Hector’s suit was made.

“Appearances are sometimes deceitful,” said Hector, half smiling.

“You must have been brought up in affluence,” said Mr. Davidson, for this was his name.

“Yes, sir, I was. Till recently I supposed myself rich.”

“You shall tell me the story some time; now I must leave you.”

“Well,” thought Hector, as he made his way homeward, “I have had adventures enough for one morning.”

When Hector reached the house in Forty-second Street, he found Walter just rising from his lessons.

“Well, Hector, what have you been doing?” asked Walter.

“Wandering about the city.”

“Did you see anybody you knew while doing so?”

“Oh, yes! I was particularly favored. I saw Allan Roscoe and Guy—”

“You don’t say so! Were they glad to see you?”

“Not particularly. When Guy learned that I was staying here, he proposed to call and make your acquaintance.”

“I hope you didn’t encourage him,” said Walter, with a grimace.

“No; I told him that we were generally out in the afternoon.”

“That is right.”

“I suppose you have been hard at work, Walter?”

“Ask Mr. Crabb.”

“Walter has done very well,” said the usher. “If he will continue to study as well, I shall have no fault to find.”

“If I do, will you qualify me to be a professor in twelve months’ time?”

“I hope not, for in that case I should lose my scholar, and have to bow to his superior knowledge.”

“Then you don’t know everything, Mr. Crabb?”

“Far from it! I hope your father didn’t engage me in any such illusion.”

“Because,” said Walter, “I had one teacher who pretended to know all there was worth knowing. I remember how annoyed he was once when I caught him in a mistake in geography.”

“I shall not be annoyed at all when you find me out in a mistake, for I don’t pretend to be very learned.”

“Then I think we’ll get along,” said Walter, favorably impressed by the usher’s modesty.

“I suppose if I didn’t know anything we should get along even better,” said Mr. Crabb, amused.

“Well, perhaps that might be carrying things too far!” Walter admitted.

In the afternoon Hector and Walter spent two hours at the gymnasium in Twenty-eighth Street, and walked leisurely home after a healthful amount of exercise.

For some reason, which he could not himself explain, Hector said nothing to Walter about his rescue of the little girl on Madison Avenue, though he heard of it at the gymnasium.

One of the boys, Henry Carroll, said to Walter: “There was a little girl came near being run over on Madison Avenue this noon!”

“Did you see it?”

“No, but I heard of it.”

“Who was the little girl?”

“Grace Newman.”

“I know who she is. How did it happen?”

The boy gave a pretty correct account.

“Some boy saved her,” he concluded, “by running forward and hauling her out of the road just in time. He ran the risk of being run over himself. Mr. Newman thinks everything of little Grace. I’d like to be in that boy’s shoes.”

Neither of the boys noticed that Hector’s face was flushed, as he listened to the account of his own exploit.

The next morning, among the letters laid upon the breakfast table was one for Hector Roscoe.

“A letter for you, Hector,” said Mr. Ross, examining the envelope in some surprise. “Are you acquainted with Titus Newman, the Pearl Street merchant?”

“No, sir,” answered Hector, in secret excitement.

“He seems to have written to you,” said Mr. Ross.

Hector took the letter and tore open the envelope.

CHAPTER XXXI. AN IMPORTANT LETTER

The letter alluded to in the last chapter ran thus. It was written from Mr. Newman’s house in Madison Avenue, though inclosed in a business envelope:

“MASTER HECTOR ROSCOE: I learn that I am indebted to you for the rescue of my little daughter from imminent peril during my absence from home yesterday. A friend who witnessed her providential escape has given me such an account of your bravery in risking your own life to save that of an unknown child, that I cannot rest till I have had an opportunity of thanking you in person. You will do me a favor, if not otherwise engaged, if you will call at my house this evening, about eight o’clock. Yours gratefully,

“Titus NEWMAN.”

It is needless to say that Hector read this letter with feelings of gratification. It is true, as we are often told, that “virtue is its own reward,” but it is, nevertheless, pleasant to feel that our efforts to do well and serve others are appreciated.

“No bad news, I hope, Hector?” said Walter.

“No,” answered Hector. “You may read the letter, if you like, Mr. Ross.”

Mr. Ross did so, and aloud, much to the surprise of everyone at table.

“You did not tell me of this,” said Walter, in astonishment.

“No,” answered Hector, smiling.

“But why not?”

“Because Hector is modest,” Mr. Ross answered for him. “Now, if you had done such a thing, Walter, we should have been sure to hear of it.”

“I don’t know,” returned Walter, comically. “You don’t know how many lives I have saved within the last few years.”

“Nor anyone else, I fancy,” replied his father. “By the way, Hector, there is a paragraph about it in the Herald of this morning. I read it, little suspecting that you were the boy whose name the reporter was unable to learn.”

Hector read the paragraph in question with excusable pride. It was, in the main, correct.

“How old was the little girl?” asked Walter.

“Four years old, I should think.”

“That isn’t quite so romantic as if she had been three times as old.”

“I couldn’t have rescued her quite as easily, in that case.”

Of course, Hector was called upon for an account of the affair, which he gave plainly, without adding any of those embellishments which some boys, possibly some of my young readers, might have been tempted to put in.

“You are fortunate to have obliged a man like Titus Newman, Hector,” said Mr. Ross. “He is a man of great wealth and influence.”

“Do you know him, papa?” asked Walter.

“No—that is, not at all well. I have been introduced to him.”

Punctually at eight o’clock Hector ascended the steps of a handsome residence on Madison Avenue. The door was opened by a colored servant, of imposing manners.

“Is Mr. Newman at home?” asked Hector, politely.

“Yes, sar.”

“Be kind enough to hand him this card?”

“Yes, sar.”

Presently the servant reappeared, saying:

“Mr. Newman will see you, sar, in the library. I will induct you thither.”

“Thank you,” answered Hector, secretly amused at the airs put on by his sable conductor.

Seated at a table, in a handsomely furnished library, sat a stout gentleman of kindly aspect. He rose quickly from his armchair and advanced to meet our hero.

“I am glad to see you, my young friend,” he said. “Sit there,” pointing to a smaller armchair opposite. “So you are the boy who rescued my dear little girl?”

His voice softened as he uttered these last few words, and it was easy to see how strong was the paternal love that swelled his heart.

“I was fortunate in having the opportunity, Mr. Newman.”

“You have rendered me a service I can never repay. When I think that but for you the dear child—” his voice faltered.

“Don’t think of it, Mr. Newman,” said Hector, earnestly. “I don’t like to think of it myself.”

“And you exposed yourself to great danger, my boy!”

“I suppose I did, sir; but that did not occur to me at the time. It was all over in an instant.”

“I see you are modest, and do not care to take too great credit to yourself, but I shall not rest till I have done something to express my sense of your noble courage. Now, I am a man of business, and it is my custom to come to the point directly. Is there any way in which I can serve you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am glad to hear it. Name it.”

“I am looking for a situation in some mercantile establishment, Mr. Newman.”

“Pardon me, but, judging from your appearance, I should not suppose that it was a matter of importance to you.”

“Yes, sir; I am poor.”

“You don’t look so.”

“You judge from my dress, no doubt”—Hector was attired in a suit of fine texture—“I suppose I may say,” he added, with a smile, “that I have seen better days.”

“Surely, you are young to have met with reverses, if that is what you mean to imply,” the merchant remarked, observing our hero with some curiosity.

“Yes, sir; if you have time, I will explain to you how it happened.”

As the story has already been told, I will not repeat Hector’s words.

Mr. Newman listened with unaffected interest.

“It is certainly a curious story,” he said. “Did you, then, quietly surrender your claims to the estate simply upon your uncle’s unsupported assertion?”

“I beg pardon, sir. He showed me my father’s—that is, Mr. Roscoe’s—letter.”

“Call him your father, for I believe he was.”

“Do you, sir?” asked Hector, eagerly.

“I do. Your uncle’s story looks like an invention. Let me think, was your father’s name Edward Roscoe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in what year were you born?”

“In the year 1856.”

“At Sacramento?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I feel quite sure that I made your father’s acquaintance in the succeeding year, and your own as well, though you were an infant—that is, you were less than a year old.”

“Did my father say anything of having adopted me?”

“No; on the contrary, he repeatedly referred to you as his child, and your mother also displayed toward you an affection which would have been at least unusual if you had not been her own child.”

“Then you think, sir—” Hector began.

“I think that your uncle’s story is a mere fabrication. He has contrived a snare in which you have allowed yourself to be enmeshed.”

“I am only a boy, sir. I supposed there was nothing for me to do but to yield possession of the estate when my uncle showed me the letter.”

“It was natural enough; and your uncle doubtless reckoned upon your inexperience and ignorance of the law.”

“What would you advise me to do, sir?”

“Let me think.”

The merchant leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to reflection. In the midst of his reverie the pompous servant entered, bringing a letter upon a silver salver.

“A letter, sar,” he said.

“That will do. You can go, Augustus.”

“Yes, sar.”

Mr. Newman glanced at the postmark, tore open the letter, read it with a frown, and then, as if he had suddenly formed a resolution, he said:

“This letter has helped me to a decision.”

Hector regarded him with surprise. What could the letter have to do with him?

“Have you any objection to going out to California by the next steamer?” asked Mr. New-man.

“No, sir,” answered Hector, with animation “Am I to go alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

CHAPTER XXXII. A WAYWARD YOUTH

It is needless to say that Hector was very much surprised, not to say startled, at this sudden proposal. What could Mr. Newman possibly want him to go to California for? If on business, how did it happen that he trusted a mere boy with so responsible a mission?

The explanation came soon.

“No doubt, you are surprised,” said the merchant, “at the proposal I have made you. I am not prepared myself to say that I am acting with good judgment. In making it, I have obeyed a sudden impulse, which is not always prudent. Yet, in more than one instance, I have found advantage in obeying such an impulse. But to my explanation. By the way, let me first ask you two or three questions. Have you any taste for any kind of liquor?”

“No, sir,” answered Hector, promptly.

“Even if you had, do you think you would have self-control enough to avoid entering saloons and gratifying your tastes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is well. Do you play pool?”

“No, sir,” answered Hector, wondering whither all these questions tended.

“I ask because playing pool in public rooms paves the way for intemperance, as bars are generally connected with such establishments.”

“I don’t even know how to play pool, sir,” said Hector.

“Do you ever bet or gamble?” continued the merchant.

“No, sir.”

“You will understand why I ask all these questions when I tell you that I have a nephew now nineteen years of age, who does all these things. He is not only my nephew, but my ward. I have a moderate sum of money in my charge which belongs to him—enough, if he were a young man of correct habits, to buy him an interest in a respectable business. That use I had proposed to make of it when he reached twenty-one, or rather, to recommend to him, but for his yielding to temptation in more than one form, and, finally, running away from my protection.”

“Where is he now, sir?”

“In California. Three months since he disappeared, and it was some weeks before I learned where he had gone. As I do not intend to conceal anything from you, I must tell you that he carried with him five hundred dollars purloined from my desk. This grieved me most of all. I wrote out to a mercantile friend in San Francisco, who knows the boy by sight, to hunt him up, and see if he could do anything for him. He writes me—this is the letter I hold in my hand—that he has seen Gregory, and expostulated with him, but apparently without effect. The boy has pretty much run through his money, and will soon be in need. I do not intend, however, to send him money, for he would misuse it. I don’t think it will do him any harm to suffer a little privation, as a fitting punishment for his wayward courses. I would not wish him to suffer too much, and I am anxious lest he should go further astray. I now come to the explanation of my proposal to you. I wish you to go to California, to seek out Gregory, obtain his confidence, and then persuade him to give up his bad course, and come home with you, prepared to lead a worthier life. Are you willing to undertake it?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Hector. “I will undertake it, since you are willing to place such a responsibility upon me. I will do my best to accomplish what you desire, but I may fail.”

“In that case I will not blame you,” answered the merchant.

“What sort of a boy is Gregory? Shall I find it difficult to gain his confidence?”

“No; he is a youth of very amiable disposition—indeed, he was generally popular among his companions and associates, but he is morally weak, and finds it difficult to cope with temptation. I believe that a boy like you will stand a better chance of influencing him than a man of mature age.”

“I will do my best, sir.”

“One thing more. You may assure Gregory that I forgive him the theft of my money, though it gave me great pain to find him capable of such an act, and that I am prepared to receive him back into my favor if he will show himself worthy of it. I will give you a letter to that effect. Now, when will you be ready to start?”

“By the next steamer.”

“That is well.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. MR. ROSCOE MAKES A DISCOVERY

The California steamer was to start in two days. This gave Hector but little time for preparation, but then he had but scanty preparation to make. Mr. Ross and Walter were naturally surprised at the confidence placed in Hector by a stranger, but were inclined to think that our hero would prove himself worthy of it.

“Don’t be gone long, Hector,” said Walter. “I shall miss you. I depended upon having your company for a good while yet.”

“Come back to my house, Hector,” said Mr. Ross, cordially, “when you return, whether you are successful or not. Consider it a home where you are always welcome.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hector, gratefully. “I wish you were my uncle instead of Mr. Allan Roscoe.”