The Store Boy

CHAPTER I BEN BARCLAY MEETS A TRAMP

“Give me a ride?”

Ben Bar­clay checked the horse he was driv­ing and looked at­ten­tive­ly at the speak­er. He was a stout-​built, dark-​com­plex­ioned man, with a beard of a week's growth, wear­ing an old and dirty suit, which would have re­duced any tai­lor to de­spair if tak­en to him for clean­ing and re­pairs. A loose hat, with a torn crown, sur­mount­ed a sin­gu­lar­ly ill-​fa­vored vis­age.

“A tramp, and a hard look­ing one!” said Ben to him­self.

He hes­itat­ed about an­swer­ing, be­ing nat­ural­ly re­luc­tant to have such a trav­el­ing com­pan­ion.

“Well, what do you say?” de­mand­ed the tramp rather im­pa­tient­ly. “There's plen­ty of room on that seat, and I'm dead tired.”

“Where are you go­ing?” asked Ben.

“Same way you are--to Pen­tonville.”

“You can ride,” said Ben, in a tone by means cor­dial, and he halt­ed his horse till his un­sa­vory com­pan­ion climbed in­to the wag­on.

They were two miles from Pen­tonville, and Ben had a prospect of a longer ride than he de­sired un­der the cir­cum­stances. His com­pan­ion pulled out a dirty clay pipe from his pock­et, and filled it with to­bac­co, and then ex­plored an­oth­er pock­et for a match. A mut­tered oath showed that he failed to find one.

“Got a match, boy?” he asked.

“No,” an­swered Ben, glad to have es­caped the of­fen­sive fumes of the pipe.

“Just my luck!” growled the tramp, putting back the pipe with a look of dis­ap­point­ment. "If you had a match now, I wouldn't mind let­ting you have a whiff or two.

“I don't smoke,” an­swered Ben, hard­ly able to re­press a look of dis­gust.

“So you're a good boy, eh? One of the Sun­day school kids that want to be an an­gel, hey? Pah!” and the tramp ex­hib­it­ed the dis­gust which the idea gave him.

“Yes, I go to Sun­day school,” said Ben cold­ly, feel­ing more and more re­pelled by his com­pan­ion.

“I nev­er went to Sun­day school,” said his com­pan­ion. “And I wouldn't. It's on­ly good for milk­sops and hyp­ocrites.”

“Do you think you're any bet­ter for not go­ing?” Ben couldn't help ask­ing.

“I haven't been so pros­per­ous, if that's what you mean. I'm a straight­for­ward man, I am. You al­ways know where to find me. There ain't no piety about me. What are you laugh­in' at?”

“No of­fense,” said Ben. “I be­lieve ev­ery word you say.”

“You'd bet­ter. I don't al­low no man to doubt my word, nor no boy, ei­ther. Have you got a quar­ter about you?”

“No.”

“Nor a dime? A dime'll do.”

“I have no mon­ey to spare.”

“I'd pay yer to-​mor­rer.”

“You'll have to bor­row else­where; I am work­ing in a store for a very smell salary, and that I pay over to my moth­er.”

“Whose store?”

“Si­mon Craw­ford's; but you won't know any bet­ter for my telling you that, un­less you are ac­quaint­ed in Pen­tonville”

“I've been through there. Craw­ford keeps the gro­cery store.”

“Yes.”

“What's your name?”

“Ben Bar­clay,” an­swered our hero, feel­ing rather an­noyed at what he con­sid­ered in­tru­sive cu­rios­ity.

“Bar­clay?” replied the tramp quick­ly. “Not John Bar­clay's son?”

It was Ben's turn to be sur­prised. He was the son of John Bar­clay, de­ceased, but how could his ill-​fa­vored trav­el­ing com­pan­ion know that?

“Did you know my fa­ther?” asked the boy, as­ton­ished.

“I've heerd his name,” an­swered the tramp, in an eva­sive tone.

“What is your name?” asked Ben, feel­ing that be had a right to be as cu­ri­ous as his com­pan­ion.

“I haven't got any vis­itin' cards with me,” an­swered the tramp dry­ly.

“Nor I; but I told you my name.”

“All right; I'll tell you mine. You can call me Jack Frost.”

“I gave you my re­al name,” said Ben sig­nif­icant­ly.

“I've al­most for­got­ten what my re­al name is,” said the tramp. “If you don't like Jack Frost, you can call me George Wash­ing­ton.”

Ben laughed.

“I don't think that name would suit, he said. George Wash­ing­ton nev­er told a lie.”

“What d'ye mean by that?” de­mand­ed the tramp, his brow dark­en­ing.

“I was jok­ing,” an­swered Ben, who did not care to get in­to dif­fi­cul­ty with such a man.

“I'm go­ing to joke a lit­tle my­self,” growled the tramp, as, look­ing quick­ly about him, he ob­served that they were rid­ing over a lone­ly sec­tion of the road lined with woods. “Have you got any mon­ey about you?”

Ben, tak­en by sur­prise, would have been glad to an­swer “No,” but he was a boy of truth, and could not say so tru­ly, though he might have felt jus­ti­fied in do­ing so un­der the cir­cum­stances.

“Come, I see you have. Give it to me right off or it'll be worse for you.”

Now it hap­pened that Ben had not less than twen­ty-​five dol­lars about him. He had car­ried some gro­ceries to a re­mote part of the town, and col­lect­ed two bills on the way. All this mon­ey he had in a wal­let in the pock­et on the oth­er side from the tramp. But the mon­ey was not his; it be­longed to his em­ploy­er, and he was not dis­posed to give it up with­out a strug­gle; though he knew that in point of strength he was not an equal match for the man be­side him.

“You will get no mon­ey from me,” he an­swered in a firm tone, though be felt far from com­fort­able.

“I won't, hey!” growled the tramp. “D'ye think I'm goin' to let a boy like you get the best of me?”

He clutched Ben by the arm, and seemed in a fair way to over­come op­po­si­tion by su­pe­ri­or strength, when a for­tu­nate idea struck Ben. In his vest pock­et was a sil­ver dol­lar, which had been tak­en at the store, but prov­ing to be coun­ter­feit, had been giv­en to Ben by Mr. Craw­ford as a cu­rios­ity.

This Ben ex­tract­ed from his pock­et, and flung out by the road­side.

“If you want it, you'll have to get out and get it,” he said.

The tramp saw the coin glis­ten­ing up­on the ground, and had no sus­pi­cion of its not be­ing gen­uine. It was not much--on­ly a dol­lar--but he was “dead broke,” and it was worth pick­ing up. He had not ex­pect­ed that Ben had much, and so was not dis­ap­point­ed.

“Curse you!” he said, re­lin­quish­ing his hold up­on Ben. “Why couldn't you give it to me in­stead of throw­ing it out there?”

“Be­cause,” an­swered Ben bold­ly, “I didn't want you to have it.”

“Get out and get it for me!”

“I won't!” an­swered Ben firm­ly.

“Then stop the horse and give me a chance to get out.”

“I'll do that.”

Ben brought the horse to a halt, and his un­wel­come pas­sen­ger de­scend­ed, much to his re­lief. He had to walk around the wag­on to get at the coin. Our hero brought down the whip with em­pha­sis on the horse's back and the an­imal dashed off at a good rate of speed.

“Stop!” ex­claimed the tramp, but Ben had no mind to heed his call.

“No, my friend, you don't get an­oth­er chance to ride with me,” he said to him­self.

The tramp picked up the coin, and his prac­ticed eye de­tect­ed that it was bo­gus.

“The young vil­lain!” he mut­tered an­gri­ly. “I'd like to wring his neck. It's a bad one af­ter all.” He looked af­ter the re­ced­ing team and was half dis­posed to fol­low, but he changed his mind, re­flect­ing, “I can pass it any­how.”

In­stead of pur­su­ing his jour­ney, he made his way in­to the woods, and, stretch­ing him­self out among the un­der­brush, went to sleep.

Half a mile be­fore reach­ing the store, Ben over­took Rose Gar­diner, who had the rep­uta­tion of be­ing the pret­ti­est girl in Pendle­ton--at any rate, such was Ben's opin­ion. She looked up and smiled pleas­ant­ly at Ben as he took off his hat.

“Shall you at­tend Prof. Har­ring­ton's en­ter­tain­ment at the Town Hall this evening, Ben?” she asked, af­ter they had in­ter­changed greet­ings.

“I should like to go,” an­swered Ben, “but I am afraid I can't be spared from the store. Shall you go?”

“I wouldn't miss it for any­thing. I hope I shall see you there.”

“I shall want to go all the more then.” an­swered Ben gal­lant­ly.

“You say that to flat­ter me,” said the young la­dy, with an arch smile.

“No, I don't,” said Ben earnest­ly. “Won't you get in and ride as far as the store?”

“Would it be prop­er?” asked Miss Rose de­mure­ly.

“Of course it would.”

“Then I'll ven­ture.”

Ben jumped from the wag­on, as­sist­ed the young la­dy in, and the two drove in­to the vil­lage to­geth­er. He liked his sec­ond pas­sen­ger con­sid­er­ably bet­ter than the first.