CHAPTER XVII.
AFTER THE TRIAL
"Mr. Conway," said Bert, as they walked home together from the trial, "I am very grateful to you for getting me out of my trouble. If you will let me know your fee, I will pay it."
"My dear boy," rejoined the young lawyer, "this is my vacation, and I only took up your case to keep my hand in."
"You are very kind, and I shall always remember it."
"Lawyers are not always mercenary, though they have that reputation with some. I should like, by the way, to find out who did steal the bill."
"So should I. I have no idea for my part."
"If you ever find out, let me know. I go back to New York to-morrow, and am glad to leave the memory of a professional triumph behind me."
"What is your address, Mr. Conway?"
"No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 15. Here is my card. When you come to New York, call and see me."
"I shall do so, though it may be some time in the future. Do you think I could get anything to do in New York?"
"Yes; but perhaps not enough to pay your expenses."
"I find the same trouble here."
"You have been at work in the shoe factory, I believe."
"Yes; but I have been discharged. My place has been taken by a machine."
"That is unfortunate. Is there no other opening in Lakeville?"
"I have not found any yet."
"I will keep your case in mind, and if I hear of anything I will let you know."
When Squire Marlowe returned home from the trial, his wife inquired with interest, "How did the case come out?"
"The boy was acquitted," answered her husband shortly.
"Acquitted! Why, you thought it was a close case."
"So I did, but it came out on the trial that there were two twenty-dollar bills, and the one which the Barton boy presented was left for him by Uncle Jacob."
"By that old man? Why, I thought he was poor."
"So he is—worth only five hundred dollars, and he is making ducks and drakes of that as fast as he can."
"And then he will fall back on you?"
"I suppose so."
"Then I hope you will let him go to the poor house," said Mrs. Marlowe with energy.
"I shall. I have no pity for a man who throws away his money."
Percy came home to dinner in lively spirits. He was free from anxiety, and felt that he had been remarkably fortunate.
"Were you at the trial, Percy?" asked his mother.
"No, ma."
"I thought you would be interested in seeing that boy on trial."
"I was sorry for him, and didn't want to be present."
"Sorry for him?"
"Yes; I felt sure he had not taken the money."
"Seems to me this is a new streak, Percy," said the squire. "I thought you didn't like Bert Barton."
"I am not intimate with him, for he is only a working boy; but all the same I don't want him convicted when he is innocent."
"It is a mystery to me who could have taken the other twenty-dollar bill," said the squire. "Can you think of anybody?"
"No; how should I?" returned Percy, nearly swallowing a spoonful of soup the wrong way.
"There are so few people in the village, that it must be some one we know."
"Perhaps old Jones didn't lose any money, after all."
"There is no doubt on that point. The stolen bill has been returned to him in an envelope by Sam Doyle."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Percy, counterfeiting surprise. "Why, it must be the same envelope Sam showed me."
"He showed you the envelope?"
"Yes; he picked it up by the roadside. It was directed in pencil to Mr. Jones. So that contained the stolen bill?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps it was taken in joke."
"A poor joke! No; the thief got alarmed, and took that way of returning it. I suggested to Jones that the handwriting on the envelope might furnish a clew to the thief."
"What did he say?" asked Percy, alarmed.
"He said he should do nothing about it, now that he had the money back."
"I guess he's right," said Percy, relieved.
In the afternoon Bert met Percy in the street. He advanced cordially.
"Well, Percy, I got free, after all."
"Yes, I am glad of it."
"I feel grateful to you for believing in my innocence."
"It's all right," said Percy, in a patronizing tone. "Even if you are a working boy, I was sure you wouldn't steal."
Bert's feelings cooled a little. Somehow Percy's manner kept him aloof.
"Yes, I am a working boy," he replied, "or at any rate I would like to be, but I don't find it easy to get work."
"Just so! If I hear of anything I will let you know. Good-morning!"
"I don't know what to make of Percy," thought Bert, perplexed. "He was as kind as he could be this morning, and now he is offish. At any rate, he didn't believe me guilty, and I won't forget that in a hurry."
Two more weeks passed, and Bert still found himself unable to find employment. Berries had become so plenty that he was unable to sell any, and only picked some for consumption at home. The sum of money which had been received from Uncle Jacob gradually dwindled, and Bert became alarmed. What would they do when it was all gone? He had no doubt that Uncle Jacob would give them further assistance, if appealed to, but both he and his mother felt that it would be an imposition on the old man, with his limited fund of money, to ask anything more of him.
"I don't want any more of Uncle Jacob's money, mother," said Bert; "but I should like to ask him if he could find me a place in New York."
"I couldn't bear to have you leave me, Bert."
"But I must take work wherever I can find it."
So Bert with his mother's permission, wrote to Uncle Jacob, informing him of his discharge from the factory, and his desire to obtain work elsewhere. This letter reached Jacob Marlowe, and led to his writing as follows to the squire:
Nephew Albert:
I hear by a letter from Lakeville that you have discharged Bert Barton from your employment, and that he cannot secure any other kind of work. I am surprised that you should treat Mary's boy in this manner, considering the relationship that exists between you. I appeal to your better nature to reinstate him in his old place. I can assure you that you will have no cause to regret it. I have steady work here, and am quite well satisfied with my position and prospects.
Jacob Marlowe.
"The stupid old meddler!" ejaculated the squire, throwing the letter from him in impatience. "I suppose the Barton boy has been writing to him. He evidently considers it my duty to support all my poor relations, himself included. I will undeceive him on that point." He drew writing materials toward him and wrote as follows:
Uncle Jacob:
I have received your letter asking me to reinstate the Barton boy in his old place. This is a business matter, and I don't permit any interference with my business. I may add that, even if he is a poor relation, I do not feel called upon to support all my needy relations. I am glad you have obtained a situation in which you can make an honest living. I hope you will keep it, and won't squander the small sum of money you have in reserve.
Yours, etc.,
Albert Marlowe.
When Uncle Jacob read this letter, he smiled.
"It is what I expected," he said to himself. "Albert Marlowe is thoroughly selfish, and so, I think, are his wife and son. I must find some other way of helping Bert."
The day succeeding the receipt of Uncle Jacob's letter, the squire met Bert in the post-office.
"Have you been writing to Jacob Marlowe?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose you asked him to urge me to take you back into the factory?"
"No, sir."
"At any rate, he has done so; but I allow no one to interfere in my business affairs. You hear, do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then remember it!" and Squire Marlowe turned his back rudely upon Bert.
"Here is a letter for you, Bert!" said the postmaster.
Bert opened the letter in some surprise, and read it with interest and excitement.
CHAPTER XVIII.
BERT OBTAINS WORK
To begin with, the letter, which Bert so unexpectedly received, contained a ten-dollar bill.
"It must be from Uncle Jacob!" he thought. He turned to the next page, and looked for the signature. It was, as he anticipated, Jacob Marlowe. It was brief, as will be seen from the copy given below:
My Dear Nephew:
I am sorry to hear that you have lost your place in the factory. I think Albert Marlowe might at any rate have retained you, knowing how much you and your mother needed your weekly wages. I have written to him, asking him to take you back into the shop, but I do not suppose he will. It is more to test him than anything else that I have made the request. But, at any rate, we will give him a chance to deal considerately. Next week, Thursday, if you should not have found work, come up to the city and seek me at the office where I am employed, No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 19, and I may have it in my power to employ you in an important matter. Bring all your clothes with you, but take only money enough to get to the city, leaving the balance with your mother. Give my love to her, and tell her to keep up good courage.
Your affectionate uncle,
Jacob Marlowe.
"I am to go to New York!" thought Bert joyfully. "Perhaps Uncle Jacob will find me a place there. I shall enjoy that ever so much. Let me see, I am to go next week, Thursday, and it is now Saturday. I wish the time had come!"
Of course, Bert carried the letter home and showed it to his mother.
"How kind Uncle Jacob is!" she murmured. "But I am afraid he is too generous. He is a poor man. He cannot afford to be giving us money all the time."
"He is earning a good salary, you know, mother."
"Only twelve dollars a week, Bert."
"But that is a good deal. If I were earning twelve dollars a week I should feel rich."
"It doesn't go very far in a large and expensive city like New York."
"I could save half of it, if I had it. Would you mind much, mother, if I should take a place in New York?"
"It would be terribly lonely for me, Bert," sighed Mrs. Barton.
"But you would not oppose it?"
"Not if your Uncle Jacob thought it best. He seems to be our only friend just now."
"Yes; I don't know what we should have done without him."
On Monday morning, considerably to his surprise, Bert received an offer of employment.
About a mile from his mother's cottage lived Silas Wilson, an old farmer about sixty years of age, who had the reputation of being one of the meanest men in Lakeville. Even his horses and cows had a hungry look, and it was easy to see that they were not pampered or injured by over-feeding. This was the man who stopped his farm wagon in front of Mrs. Barton's dwelling, and spoke to Bert, who was just coming out of the front door.
"Here, you, Bert Barton!"
"Good-morning, Mr. Wilson," replied Bert.
"Squire Marlowe tells me you are out of a job."
"Yes, sir."
"And I've been thinkin' I could give you work on my farm."
Bert was not overjoyed at this announcement, but he felt that he ought to take into consideration any offer that might be made to him.
"Would you expect me to board at your house?" he asked.
"Sartin! All my boys board with me."
"How much wages would you be willing to pay?"
"Fifty cents a week and board. I calculate that would be about right."
"Fifty cents a week and board?" repeated Bert, by no means dazzled by the tempting offer.
"Yes. What do you say?"
"I shouldn't be willing to work for that."
"You wouldn't, hey? What did you get in the shoe shop?"
"Four dollars a week."
"Board's worth that, so I give you what's equal to four dollars and a half."
Bert had heard something of the kind of board supplied by the farmer, and he was hardly prepared to rate it so high.
"It wouldn't be worth that to me," he said. "I would rather work for three dollars and a half in cash, and board at home."
"I've got to have my boy in the house," said Silas Wilson decidedly. "Come, now, what do you say?"
He regarded Bert with some anxiety, for he had been suddenly left in the lurch by a hired man who had received a better offer elsewhere, and hardly knew where to turn for assistance.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Bert. "I've got to go to New York on Thursday on business, but I'll come and work for you till Wednesday night for half a dollar and my board."
"I'll give you thirty-five cents," replied the farmer cautiously.
Bert shook his head.
"Forty, then, and that's high pay for a half grown boy."
"I'm more than half grown," returned Bert. "It's no use, Mr. Wilson, I won't take less than fifty cents."
"Then jump on the wagon. It's a big price to pay, but I'm in a hole, and won't stop to dicker."
"I will go and tell my mother first."
"Well, hurry up, for part of the day is gone already."
"I don't believe you'll like it, Bert," said Mrs. Barton.
"Nor I, but I made up my mind to accept the first offer I got, and I shall feel better satisfied if I keep my word. I'll come round this evening, after work, and tell you how I like it as far as I've got."
Bert seated himself in the wagon next to the farmer.
"Be you the boy that Jones charged with stealin'?" asked Silas.
"Yes, sir."
"You didn't do it?" asked Silas, in some apprehension.
"No, of course not!" answered Bert, indignantly. "Didn't you know I was acquitted, and that it was shown that there were two twenty-dollar bills?"
"It's wicked to steal," observed the farmer, apparently a little anxious still.
"Of course it is."
"One of the boys that worked for me stole some money from a chest-of-drawers in my chamber. You see Mis' Wilson and me sleep in a bedroom on the first floor openin' out of the settin' room."
"Did the boy take much?" asked Bert, in some curiosity.
"Yes; he took a twenty-five cent piece," answered Silas Wilson, soberly.
Bert wanted to laugh, but controlled his facial muscles, though he eyed his companion with a queer look.
"That was a good deal of money," he said, soberly.
"Yes, it was."
"How did you find him out—the boy, I mean?"
"He spent the money at Jones's store."
"What did he buy with it?"
"He bought some doughnuts."
"Did he board with you?" asked Bert significantly.
"Yes, he did."
"Then," thought Bert, "I don't wonder much that he was tempted."
"I've got fifty cents in my pocket," he said aloud, producing the coin. "I show it to you, so that if you hear of my spending money you needn't think I took it from you."
Silas Wilson eyed the half-dollar with a covetous look, which the sight of money always brought to his face.
"Hadn't you better give it to me to keep for you?"
"No, thank you; I am very careful. I shall not lose it."
"Boys ginerally are keerless. They are apt to lose money."
"I don't believe you ever lose money, Mr. Wilson."
"Not since I was a boy. I lost two cents once, but it was a lesson to me, and I've never lost a copper since."
By this time they had reached the farm-house. The farmer drove into the barn and put up the horse.
"Now we'll go to work," he said.
The work which awaited Bert was in the cornfield. He was set to hoeing, and kept it up for three hours, along with the farmer in the adjoining row. Noon came, and Silas, pausing in his work, said: "I calculate Mis' Wilson will have dinner ready. We'll go to the house."
CHAPTER XIX.
BERT'S EXPERIENCE AS A FARMER'S BOY
Bert followed the farmer into the kitchen, in the center of which a table was set. A bony and angular woman was just placing on it a large pitcher of water.
"Mis' Wilson," said the farmer, "this is Bert Barton, who is helping me about the farm work."
Bert was no stranger to Mrs. Wilson, whose pew in church was near the one he occupied.
"How's your ma?" she inquired jerkily.
"Pretty well, thank you, Mrs. Wilson."
"I'm glad to hear it. She looks like a friend of mine, Mrs. Dusenberry, who died of heart disease."
"I don't think her heart is affected," said Bert, not without anxiety.
"Maybe not, but you can't tell. Folks lives along for years with their hearts out of kilter, who never find it out till some day they drop dead."
Mrs. Wilson decidedly was not a cheerful converser. She prided herself on detecting signs of unsuspected diseases.
"Mebbe you've got heart disease yourself, Sophia," remarked the farmer jocosely.
"Just as likely as not," answered Mrs. Wilson calmly. "I'm sure my liver's affected, for I feel it squirm sometimes."
"Mebbe I'd better look out for a second Mis' Wilson," suggested the farmer smiling.
"You ain't over healthy yourself, Silas," responded his better half, surveying her husband in a business-like manner. "It looks to me as if your kidneys was out of order, and you're the very image of Jed Pettibone, who died of apoplexy. He lived next door to my mother. One day he was alive and well, and to-morrow he was as the grass of the field."
The farmer's face wore a very uncomfortable look, and he was evidently by no means pleased with his wife's prognostications.
"Nonsense!" he said testily. "I'm as well as any man of my age in Lakeville."
"'Boast not thyself of to-morrow'!" quoted Mrs. Wilson solemnly.
"Come, Bert, let us set down to dinner," said Silas hastily. "What have you got for us, Sophia?"
"I've warmed over them beans we had yesterday," answered his helpmeet, "and there's two sausages besides. I don't want any. You'd ought to make a dinner off of that."
"Why, to be sure! Beans and sausages is hearty, and will stand by us in the field. The laborer is worthy of his meat."
"Where's the meat," thought Bert.
Silas Wilson put a moderate portion of beans on a large plate, flanking it with a thin, consumptive-looking sausage.
"Help yourself to potatoes," he said, as he handed the plate to Bert.
Bert availed himself of the invitation, and helped himself to a potato in that condition known as soggy. He tried to eat it, but, though fond of potatoes, he left it almost entire on his plate. This, however, was not all. There was a plate of rye-bread on the table, from which Bert helped himself to a slice. It was apparently two or three days old, and needed something to make it palatable.
"Please give me some butter," asked Bert, not having observed that this was a prohibited article on the Wilsons' dinner table.
"There ain't none," answered Mrs. Wilson promptly.
"I beg pardon. I hadn't noticed," said Bert, blushing.
"We never have butter at dinner," explained Silas Wilson. "It's apt to lead to humors, particularly in boys, isn't it, Mis' Wilson?"
"So I've always heard, Silas. Besides, as we have it at breakfast and supper, that's enough. It goes fast enough, even then. Why, we used most a pound last week."
"And butter twenty-seven cents a pound!" chimed in the farmer. "Why, it's extravagant!"
"Do you know, Silas, how much butter is used in Squire Marlowe's family?"
"No," answered the farmer, with interest.
"Hannah—Mrs. Marlowe's girl—told me they used six pounds and a half last week, and there's only four of them, including the girl. What do you think of that?"
"What do I think? I think it's sinful—positively sinful! Six pounds and a half at twenty-seven cents–"
"They pay thirty-two, and get the best in the market," amended his wife.
"Worse and worse! That comes to what—Bert?"
"Two dollars and eight cents," answered Bert promptly.
"Sho! Did you ever?"
"Well, I s'pose the squire can stand it. No doubt they live on the fat of the land. I just wish they'd invite me to tea, so I could judge for myself. I could tell within five cents how much the supper cost."
It must be confessed that Bert did not enjoy his dinner. The sausage was far from rich or juicy, and the beans were almost cold. The potatoes and bread have already been referred to. However, there was to be a second course, and to that Bert looked forward anxiously, for he had by no means satisfied his appetite. It was a plain rice pudding, and partially satisfactory, for it takes very little skill to boil rice, and there is little variety in the quality. By way of sauce Mrs. Wilson provided cheap grade of molasses. Still Bert enjoyed it better than any other article on the table.
"There's nothing like a good dinner to strengthen us for the labors of the field," said Silas Wilson complacently, as he rose from the table. "Come, Bert, now let us get to work to make up for lost time."
"So Mr. Wilson considers the time spent in eating as lost time," thought Bert. "I'd rather have one of mother's dinners than half a dozen like this. Ugh! how nasty those potatoes were."
Bert returned to the field, and resumed his work. He found it hard to keep up with Silas Wilson, whose energies seemed to be quickened by his midday meal.
About four o'clock a man came along who wanted to see Silas on business, and he went back to the house, leaving Bert to continue his work alone.
"This is about the longest day I ever passed," thought Bert, pausing to wipe his moistened forehead. "I am afraid I shall never want to be a farmer. I mustn't forget, though, that I am to receive sixteen cents and a little over per day, besides board—and such board! Yet this is the way Silas Wilson has lived all his life, and he must be sixty-five at least. How much more enjoyment Uncle Jacob has out of life, though he is a poor man compared to the farmer."
At this moment he heard wheels passing on the road hard by, and looking up he recognized Percy Marlowe, neat and trim in his attire, driving a light buggy.
"Hallo!" called out Percy, checking his horse.
"Hallo, Percy!"
"Are you working for Silas Wilson?"
"Yes, for a few days."
"I guess you'll make a fortune in that time?" said Percy laughing.
"It seems like it," responded Bert.
"How much does he pay you?"
"Fifty cents for three days and board."
Percy laughed.
"I should want fifty cents an hour, and then I wouldn't do it."
"I'd work all the year round at that price," said Bert.
"I never expect to work—with my hands," went on Percy.
"Have you decided what to do?" asked Bert curiously.
"My father wants me to be a manufacturer, but I think I shall be a lawyer."
"I am afraid I shan't have much choice. I must take what I can get."
"You might stay with Mr. Wilson and be a farmer."
"I don't think that will suit me at any rate, unless I can work for a different man."
"Perhaps father can take you back into the shop when you are older."
"I wish he would take me back now. I like it a great deal better than working out in the field here."
"You mustn't get too high notions into your head, Bert. You know you are a working boy and mustn't expect to have things all your own way."
"I am not likely to forget that I am a working boy, especially with kind friends to remind me of it. But we live in the best country in the world, and there is many a working boy who grows up to be a distinguished man."
Percy laughed ironically.
"I wouldn't get such silly ideas into your head," he said.
"Why are they silly?"
"You talk as if you expected to be a distinguished man. Ha, ha!"
"I hope to be a successful man," answered Bert stoutly.
Percy laughed again and drove on. Five minutes later Bert saw the farmer running from the house in a state of great apparent excitement.
"Have you seen anything of my wallet?" he gasped, as he came within hearing distance.