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.