The Cash Boy
BY
Horatio Alger, Jr.
PREFACE
``The Cash Boy,'' by Horatio Alger, Jr., as the name
implies, is a story about a boy and for boys.
Through some
conspiracy, the hero of the story
when a baby, was taken from his relatives and
given into the care of a kind woman.
Not
knowing his name, she gave him her husband's
name, Frank Fowler. She had one little
daughter, Grace, and showing no partiality in the
treatment of her children, Frank never suspected
that she was not his sister. However, at the death
of Mrs. Fowler, all this was
related to Frank.
The children were left alone in the world. It
seemed as though they would have to go to the
poorhouse but Frank could not become reconciled to that.
A kind neighbor agreed to care for Grace, so
Frank
decided to start out in the world to make
his way.
He had many dis
appointments and hardships, but
through his kindness to an old man, his own relatives
and right name were revealed to him.
CHAPTER I
A REVELATION
A group of boys was assembled in an open field to
the west of the public
schoolhouse in the town of
Crawford. Most of them held hats in their hands,
while two, stationed sixty feet distant from each
other, were ``having catch.''
Tom Pinkerton, son of Deacon Pinkerton, had just
returned from Brooklyn, and while there had witnessed
a match game between two
professional clubs.
On his return he proposed that the boys of Crawford
should establish a club, to be known as the
Excelsior Club of Crawford, to play among themselves,
and on
suitable occasions to
challenge clubs belonging
to other villages. This proposal was received
with
instant approval.
``I move that Tom Pinkerton address the meeting,''
said one boy.
``Second the
motion,'' said another.
As there was no chairman, James Briggs was
appointed to that position, and put the
motion, which
was
unanimously carried.
Tom Pinkerton, in his own
estimation a personage
of
considerable importance, came forward in a
consequential manner, and commenced as follows:
``Mr. Chairman and boys. You all know what
has brought us together. We want to start a club
for playing
baseball, like the big clubs they have in
Brooklyn and New York.''
``How shall we do it?'' asked Henry Scott.
``We must first
appoint a captain of the club, who
will have power to
assign the members to their different
positions. Of course you will want one that
understands about these matters.''
``He means himself,'' whispered Henry Scott, to
his next neighbor; and here he was right.
``Is that all?'' asked Sam Pomeroy.
``No; as there will be some expenses, there must be
a treasurer to receive and take care of the funds, and
we shall need a secretary to keep the records of the
club, and write and answer
challenges.''
``Boys,'' said the chairman, ``you have heard Tom
Pinkerton's remarks. Those who are in favor of
organizing a club on this plan will please
signify it
in the usual way.''
All the boys raised their hands, and it was declared
a vote.
``You will bring in your votes for captain,'' said
the chairman.
Tom Pinkerton drew a little apart with a conscious
look, as he
supposed, of course, that no one but himself
would be thought of as leader.
Slips of paper were passed around, and the boys
began to prepare their ballots. They were brought
to the chairman in a hat, and he
forthwith took them
out and began to count them.
``Boys,'' he announced, amid a
universal stillness,
``there is one vote for Sam Pomeroy, one for Eugene
Morton, and the rest are for Frank Fowler, who is
elected.''
There was a clapping of hands, in which Tom
Pinkerton did not join.
Frank Fowler, who is to be our hero, came
forward a little, and spoke
modestly as follows:
``Boys, I thank you for electing me captain of the
club. I am afraid I am not very well qualified for
the place, but I will do as well as I can.''
The
speaker was a boy of fourteen. He was of
medium
height for his age, strong and
sturdy in
build, and with a frank prepossessing countenance,
and an open,
cordial manner, which made him a
general favorite. It was not, however, to his
popularity that he owed his
election, but to the fact that
both at bat and in the field he excelled all the boys,
and
therefore was the best suited to take the lead.
The boys now proceeded to make choice of a treasurer
and secretary. For the first position Tom Pinkerton
received a majority of the votes. Though not
popular, it was felt that some office was due him.
For secretary, Ike Stanton, who excelled in
penmanship, was elected, and thus all the offices were
filled.
The boys now
crowded around Frank Fowler, with
petitions for such places as they desired.
``I hope you will give me a little time before I
decide about positions, boys,'' Frank said; ``I want to
consider a little.''
``All right! Take till next week,'' said one and
another, ``and let us have a scrub game this afternoon.''
The boys were in the middle of the sixth inning,
when some one called out to Frank Fowler: ``Frank,
your sister is
running across the field. I think she
wants you.''
Frank dropped his bat and hastened to meet his
sister.
``What's the matter, Gracie?'' he asked in alarm.
``Oh, Frank!'' she exclaimed, bursting into tears.
``Mother's been bleeding at the lungs, and she looks
so white. I'm afraid she's very sick.''
``Boys,'' said Frank, turning to his companions,
``I must go home at once. You can get some one to
take my place, my mother is very sick.''
When Frank reached the little brown cottage
which he called home, he found his mother in an
exhausted state reclining on the bed.
``How do you feel, mother?'' asked our hero,
anxiously.
``Quite weak, Frank,'' she answered in a low voice.
``I have had a
severe attack.''
``Let me go for the doctor, mother.''
``I don't think it will be necessary, Frank. The
attack is over, and I need no medicines, only time
to bring back my strength.''
But three days passed, and Mrs. Fowler's nervous
prostration continued. She had attacks previously
from which she rallied sooner, and her present weakness
induced serious misgivings as to whether she
would ever recover. Frank thought that her eyes
followed him with more than ordinary
anxiety, and
after
convincing himself that this was the case, he
drew near his mother's
bedside, and inquired:
``Mother, isn't there something you want me to do?''
``Nothing, I believe, Frank.''
``I thought you looked at me as if you wanted to
say something.''
``There is something I must say to you before I
die.''
``Before you die, mother!'' echoed Frank, in a
startled voice.
``Yes. Frank, I am
beginning to think that this is
my last sickness.''
``But, mother, you have been so before, and got
up again.''
``There must always be a last time, Frank; and
my strength is too far reduced to rally again, I
fear.''
``I can't bear the thought of losing you, mother,''
said Frank, deeply moved.
``You will miss me, then, Frank?'' said Mrs. Fowler.
``Shall I not? Grace and I will be alone in the
world.''
``Alone in the world!''
repeated the sick woman,
sorrowfully, ``with little help to hope for from man,
for I shall leave you nothing. Poor children!''
``That isn't what I think of,'' said Frank, hastily.
``I can support myself.''
``But Grace? She is a
delicate girl,'' said the
mother,
anxiously. ``She cannot make her way as
you can.''
``She won't need to,'' said Frank,
promptly; ``I
shall take care of her.''
``But you are very young even to support yourself.
You are only fourteen.''
``I know it, mother, but I am strong, and I am not
afraid. There are a hundred ways of making a living.''
``But do you realize that you will have to start
with
absolutely nothing? Deacon Pinkerton holds a
mortgage on this house for all it will bring in the
market, and I owe him arrears of interest besides.''
``I didn't know that, mother, but it doesn't frighten
me.''
``And you will take care of Grace?''
``I promise it, mother.''
``Suppose Grace were not your sister?'' said the
sick woman,
anxiously scanning the face of the boy.
``What makes you suppose such a thing as that,
mother? Of course she is my sister.''
``But suppose she were not,'' persisted Mrs.
Fowler, ``you would not recall your promise?''
``No, surely not, for I love her. But why do you
talk so, mother?'' and a
suspicion crossed Frank's
mind that his mother's
intellect might be wandering.
``It is time to tell you all, Frank. Sit down by the
bedside, and I will gather my strength to tell you
what must be told.''
``Grace is not your sister, Frank!''
``Not my sister, mother?'' he exclaimed. ``You are
not in earnest?''