Wait and Hope: or, A Plucky Boy's Luck

Chapter XVII

This was what had happened.

When Ben was fairly on his way up the monument, the lady addressed

Emma.

"My dear," she said, "are you fond of candy?"

"Ever so much," said Emma.

"Suppose we go to a candy store and get some?"

"But I don't want to leave Ben," said the little girl.

"Oh, we will be back before he returns," said the lady. "Will you come?"

"If you are certain sure you will be back in time."

"Oh, yes, my dear."

The lady's manner was so kind that Emma felt entire confidence in her promise.

"Yes, I will go."

They walked down the hill in a different direction from that which they had come up. This brought them to a street on which were some shops. The lady entered one, leading Emma by the hand.

"Give us one half-pound of assorted candy," she said.

The girl behind the counter weighed out the candy and handed it to her.

They left the shop.

"Now are we going back to Ben?" asked Emma.

"I have sent word to him to come to my house and take supper, my dear child. Come with me, and you will see him soon."

How should Emma know that this was not true? She was a little girl, with no experience of the world, accustomed to put confidence in those she met, and the lady was very kind in her manner.

"Is your home far off?" she asked.

"No, it is quite near."

This proved to be true.

The lady turned up a street lined with neat dwellings and rang the bell.

A servant answered the bell.

"Is it you, mum?" she said.

"Yes, Jane."

Jan looked inquiringly at the little girl, and was on the point of asking who she was; but she knew her mistress was peculiar and said nothing.

"This little girl will stay to tea," said the lady. "Put on an extra plate."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And isn't Ben coming, too?" asked Emma, noting the omission.

"Yes, Jan, you may put on two extra plates."

Emma followed her new acquaintance up-stairs, and was led into a neat bedchamber. The lady entered it, bade Emma enter, locked the door, and then, sinking on the floor before the astonished child, exclaimed with evident emotion: "Have I found you at last, my dear, dear child?"

Emma was startled at the lady's tone, and for the fist time felt alarmed.

"I ain't your child," she said. "What makes you call me so?"

"Are you not my dear little Mary?" said the lady.

"No, my name isn't Mary. My name is Emma."

"Did they change your name, my dear child? Was it not enough to take you away from me, without changing your name?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Emma, ore and more alarmed.

"I want to go back to Ben."

"Would you leave your mother, my child?"

"You are not my mother. Let me go."

Emma ran to the door, but it was locked, and the key was in the lady's pocket.

"I cannot let you go, my dear child. You have been away from me too long already. I have been very lonely without you."

Her tone was still kind – it had never varied – but Emma was thoroughly frightened.

"Let me go!" she began to cry. "I want to go to Ben."

The lady looked at her in mingled grief and wonder.

"Can a child turn from her own mother to a stranger?" she said musingly. "She forgets that she is my little Mary. She no longer loves me."

"My name is Emma," said the little girl. "Why did you take me away from Ben?"

Help was at hand, though it came from a stranger.

A knock was heard at the door, and the lady rose and opened it. The newcomer was a little younger than the lady already mentioned, but bore such a resemblance to her as to indicate that she was her sister. She looked at surprise at Emma.

"Where did you get this child, Clara?" she asked.

"It is my little Mary. Don't you see that it is?"

"You are mistaken, Clara. Your little Mary is in heaven."

"She has come back again. This is she. Don't you see that it is she?" asked the lady called Clara earnestly.

"My poor sister," said the younger lady compassionately, "you are mistaken. This is not your little Mary. Where did you find her? To whom does she belong?"

Emma had listened to this conversation with interest, feeling that it concerned her. She answered the question herself.

"I belong to Ben," she said.

"Where is Ben?" asked the younger lady.

"He is at the big stone chimney. He was going up to the top. He left me with her."

"You mean the monument, don't you, my dear child?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is this true, Clara?"

"Yes," the elder sister admitted.

The younger lady looked perplexed.

"You did wrong, Clara, to take the little girl from her brother. He will feel very anxious about her.

"She said she would buy me some candy," said Emma.

"Could I see my child, and not claim her?" said Clara.

"I am not your child. What makes her say I am her child?"

"My dear," said the younger lady gently, "my poor sister lost her little girl not long since. She has not been well since. When she saw you to-day she thought you were her little Mary."

"I want to go back to Ben. What will Ben say?"

"Certainly, you must go back to your brother. Come, my child, we will try to find him."

Emma went down-stairs with her new friend. Clara did not attempt to hinder her, but seated herself with an air of dependency in an armchair, and buried her face in her hands.

"I am afraid Ben has gone away," said Emma.

"It is very perplexing," said the young lady to herself. "We will go out and try to find your brother. If we cannot, you can tell me where your home is and I will take you there."

"I don't know exactly where it is," said Emma; "I have never been there. I came from New York. I am going to board with Ben's aunt."

"And you don't know where she lives? You don't know the name of the town."

Emma shook her head.

"My poor sister has done great mischief," said the young lady gravely.

"I must do my best to remedy it."

They went out into the street together.

Meanwhile, Ben, in great trouble of mind, remained in the neighborhood of the monument for ten minutes or more.

"Perhaps the lady has taken Emma on a little walk," he thought.

"Perhaps she thought I wouldn't be down so soon."

Ben felt that it was very inconsiderate, but he would not at first believe that there was anything really wrong. But when ten minutes has passed he became alarmed, and began to blame himself.

"Aunt was right," he thought. "I wasn't fit to be trusted with the care of a little girl. What shall I say to Mr. Manning? What shall I do?"

He looked about him in despairing bewilderment. Streets radiated from the monument in several different directions. Which should he take? If he took any, there was not more than one chance in four that it would prove the right one.

He was still standing there when the gentleman who had gone up with him descended.

"Where is the little girl?" he asked.

Ben explained his trouble.

"Don't be alarmed, my boy," said the gentleman, in a tone of sympathy; "I will help you. Sooner or later we shall hear of the child."

"What shall I do?" asked Ben.

"It is possible the child may be brought back. I will remain here to receive her if she comes, and you may go and search for her. Come back in about half-an-hour."

Ben started on his quest, and with feverish haste he explored street after street, but in vain. With sad heart he retraced his steps to the monument. What was his joy to find Emma returned, and in charge of the gentleman he had left behind and another lady.

An explanation was given, to which Ben paid little attention, such was his joy at the recovery of his young charge.

"What time is it, sir?" he inquired of his companion.

"Five minutes to five."

"Then we are too late for the train," exclaimed Ben, in dismay.

Chapter XVIII

"What train?" asked the gentleman.

"The five-o'clock train to Milltown."

"Is that the last train?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will have to wait till to-morrow. Will it make much difference?"

Ben blushed.

"I shall have to stay at a hotel," he said uncomfortably, "and I don't think I have money enough. I did not expect to have that expense."

"I can relieve you on that score," said the gentleman. "I live in Charleston, not far away. You shall stay at my house to-night, and go home by the morning train. There is a morning train, isn't there?"

"Yes, sir, at half-past ten."

"You will accept my invitation?"

"Yes, sir, and thank you," said Ben gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done if you had not invited me."

"I am glad to have the opportunity of doing you a kindness. I want to send you away with a good impression of Charleston."

It was a handsome house to which Ben was led by his new friend. His wife received the two children with unaffected kindness, and soon made them feel at home. During the evening Mr. Somerby, for this was his name, drew out of Ben the particulars of his history and present position. Ben seemed so frank and manly that he was quite pleased with him.

Mr. Somerby was not in business, unless he may be called a capitalist. He was the possessor of a large fortune, and the care of his property required a considerable share of his time. When Ben was ready to go the next morning, Mr. Somerby put an envelope into his hand.

"Don't open this till you get home," he said.

"No, sir."

"Now, good-by, and good luck to you."

"Thank you, sir."

Meanwhile Mrs. Bradford at home was feeling anxious. Old Mrs. Perkins had dropped in to make a call, and her conversation wasn't reassuring.

"Hasn't Ben got back?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"There's a great risk in sendin' a boy so fur," said the old lady.

"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Bradford uneasily.

"To be sure I do. He's too young."

"That's what I thought; but Ben was very sure he could get along."

"Boys is allus confident," said Mrs. Perkins, whose knowledge of grammar was not very profound; "but I never knew one that you could rely on."

"Benjamin is a good boy."

"Yes, he's a good boy as boys go; but don't you trust him too fur.

When did you expect him back?"

"I expected him last night."

"And he didn't come? Just as I thought."

Mrs. Perkins nodded her head vigorously, and looked unutterably wise.

"Maybe the cars is gone off the track," said the old lady.

"Oh, don't say such things, Mrs. Perkins," said Mrs. Bradford uneasily.

"I didn't say they had, but we're havin' a dreffle number of accidents nowadays."

"Ben is all right," said Tony, thinking he ought to defend his cousin.

"He said when he went away, he'd come home right side up with care."

"Little boys should be seen and not heard," said Mrs. Perkins.

"'Always be prepared for the worst.' That's my motto."

"And my motto is 'Wait and Hope!'" said a familiar voice outside the door.

"It's Ben!" exclaimed Tony joyfully.

The door was thrown open and there stood Ben, with little Emma's hand in his.

"Aunt Jane," he said, "here's little Emma, come to live with you."

"My dear, I am very glad to see you," said Mrs. Bradford.

Emma looked in her gentle face, and liked her at once.

"Will you be my aunt, too?" she asked.

"Yes, my dear."

"Tony, come here and be introduced," said Ben.

Tony was bashful at first, but it was not very long before he and

Emma were merrily playing together.

"So you're railly back, Benjamin?" said old Mrs. Perkins, rather disappointed.

"Yes, ma'am. How's James?"

"Loafin' round, as usual," said his affectionate relative. "Boys are so shiftless."

"They may be," admitted Ben good-naturedly, "but they get hungry sometimes. Aunt Jane, is there anything to eat in the house?"

"I will set the table at once," said his aunt. "The little girl must be hungry, too."

"You're undertakin' a great responsibility, Mrs. Bradford," said

Mrs. Perkins. "The little girl will be a great care to you."

"I don't look upon it in that light," said Mrs. Bradford. "I am glad to have her here."

"Humph! You will talk different a month from now. But I must be goin'."

After dinner Ben bethought himself of the envelope which Mr.

Somerby had given him.

He opened it, when a bank-note dropped to the floor. Picking it up, he saw, to his amazement, that it was a fifty-dollar bill. With sparkling eyes he read the letter, or rather these few lines which were penciled on a half-sheet of note paper:

"I have been interested in your story, and beg your acceptance of the enclosed as a slight help and encouragement. Should you ever need advice or assistance, I shall be glad to have you call upon me." "Frederic Somerby"

"What do you think of that, Aunt Jane?" said Ben in a tone of exultation. "Hasn't my motto worked pretty well, after all? Isn't it better to 'Wait and Hope' than to give up and get discouraged?"

"Yes, Ben, I begin to think you are right."

"We are better off than when I was at work in the factory."

"Yes, Ben; we can get along very comfortably."

"I have been thinking, aunt, that while business continues dull I will go to school. This money I will put in a savings-bank, and we shall have it to fall back upon if we need it."

This plan met with Mrs. Bradford's approval, and was carried out by Ben. When he returned from the savings-bank, with his book in his hand, he felt like a capitalist. In fact, he was so cheerful that his aunt caught the infection, and looked brighter than she had for years.

"It is pleasant to have money in the bank," she said to old Mrs. Perkins.

"Like as not the bank will break," said the old lady.

"I see an account last week of a savin's-bank that failed. I wouldn't trust any of 'em."

"Mrs. Perkins," said Ben, with mock gravity, "I heard last week of a man who died in his bed. I'd never go to bed if I were you."

"It aint' well to joke," said the old lady. "Always be prepared for the worst."

"That isn't my motto," said Ben. "As long as I live I mean to 'Wait and Hope'!"

Chapter XIX

The annual examination of the grammar schools in Milltown came about the middle of June, just before summer vacation. It the First Ward School two prizes had been offered by the principal to the scholars who stood highest on the rank-lists.

Speculation was rife as to the probable result; but the choice was finally narrowed down to two boys.

One of these was Ben Bradford, now sixteen years of age. The other was Samuel Archer, son of the superintendent of the Milton Mills. There is an old saying, "Like father, like son." Mr. Archer was purse-proud and consequential, and felt that he was entitled to deference on the score of his wealth and prominence.

"Sam," said he, two days before the examination, "what are your chances of obtaining the prize?"

"I think I ought to have it, father," answered Sam.

"That is, you think you will be entitled to it?"

"Yes sir."

"Then you will get it, as a matter of course."

"I don't know that."

"Don't you think the prize will be adjudged fairly?"

"The principal thinks a great deal of Ben Bradford."

"Is he your chief competitor?"

"He is the only boy I am afraid of."

"Who is he?"

"He is a poor boy – used to work in the mills."

"He is the nephew of the Widow Bradford?"

"Yes; he lives in a small house about the size of a bandbox. I expect they are as poor as poverty. Ben wears coarse clothes. I don't believe he has a new suit a year."

"And you have too many. I believe your bill for clothes exceeds mine."

"Oh, father, you want your son to dress well. People know you are a rich man and they expect it."

"Humph! it may be carried too far," said Mr. Archer, who had just paid a large tailor's bill for Sam.

"And you say the principal favors him?"

"Yes, everybody can see it."

"It is rather strange he should favor a penniless boy," said Mr. Archer, himself a worshiper of wealth. "The man don't know on which side his bread is buttered."

"So I think. He ought to consider that you are a man of consequence here."

"I rather think I have some influence in Milltown," said Mr. Archer, with vulgar complacency; "I fancy I could oust Mr. Taylor from his position if I caught him indulging in favoritism. But you may be mistaken, Sam."

Mr. Archer looked thoughtful.

Finally he said: "I think it will be well to pay some attention to Mr.

Taylor. It may turn the scale. When you go to school to-morrow

I will send by you an invitation to Mr. Taylor to dine with us.

We'll give him a good dinner and get him good-natured."

So when Sam went to school in the morning he bore a note from his father, containing a dinner invitation.

"Say to your father that I will accept his invitation with pleasure," said the principal.

It was the first time he had received such a mark of attention from Mr. Archer, and, being a shrewd man, he understood at once what it signified.

"He's coming, father," announced Sam, on his return home.

"Did he seem gratified by the invitation?"

"I couldn't tell exactly. He said he would accept with pleasure."

"No doubt, he feels the attention," said Mr. Archer pompously. "He knows I am a man of prominence and influence, and the invitation will give him social status."

Mr. Archer would have been offended if he had been told that the principal was more highly respected in town than himself, in spite of his wealth and fine house.

When the principal sat down to Mr. Archer's dinner table, he partook of a dinner richer and more varied than his modest salary enabled him to indulge in at home. Nevertheless, he had more than once been as well entertained by others, and rather annoyed Mr. Archer by not appearing to appreciate the superiority of the dinner.

"Confound the man! He takes it as coolly as if he were accustomed to dine as sumptuously every day," thought Archer.

"I hope you are enjoying dinner, Mr. Taylor," he said.

"Very much, thank you."

"I rather plume myself on my cook. I venture to say that I pay five dollars a month more than any other person in Milltown. But I must have a good dinner. I am very particular on that score."

"Have you a good cook, Mr. Taylor?" asked Mrs. Archer condescendingly.

"Why, the fact is, that we keep but one servant."

"I suppose your salary will not permit you to keep more than one servant."

"You are right, madam."

"Really, Mr. Taylor, I think your salary ought to be increased," said Mr. Archer graciously. "The laborer is worthy of his hire, eh? I must see if I can't induce the town to vote you an increased compensation."

"Thank you," said the principal quietly. "A larger salary would, of course, be acceptable, but I doubt whether the town will feel like voting it."

"Rest easy," said Mr. Archer pompously. "I think I can bring it about."

"Oh, by the by," continued the rich man, "Samuel tells me that you have offered two scholarship prizes."

"Yes, sir – to the two scholars who pass the best examination."

"How does my boy stand in the matter?"

"He is one of the most prominent competitors."

"I am very glad to hear it – very glad. Sam, you must do your best to-morrow. It would gratify me very much if you should succeed. I am ambitious for my son, Mr. Taylor, and I don't mind admitting it."

"Your ambition is a very natural one," said the principal. "Sam's scholarship is excellent and his record is very satisfactory."

"Thank you, Mr. Taylor. Your assurance is deeply gratifying to

Mrs. Archer and myself. It will be the happiest day of our lives if

Sam succeeds in the approaching competition."

"He has a very fair chance of success, sir."

"I think I've fixed things," said Mr. Archer complacently, after the principal had taken his leave. "The prize is as good as yours, Sam."