A Cousin's Conspiracy: or, A Boy's Struggle for an Inheritance. Horatio Alger Jr.
twenty-four hours, and his neglected stomach rebelled. He tightened a girdle about his waist and walked on. He had perhaps gone two miles when he came to a cabin. A woman stood in the doorway.
“My good lady,” said Tom, putting on a pitiful expression, “I am a very unfortunate man.”
“Are you?” said the woman, scanning him critically. “You look like a tramp.”
“I do, madam, yet I was once a thriving merchant.”
“You don’t look like it.”
“I don’t; I acknowledge it.”
“How did you lose your property, if you ever had any?”
“By signin’ notes for my brother. It swept off all my possessions.”
“Then I pity you. That’s the way my man lost five hundred dollars, nearly all he had. What can I do for you?”
“Madam, I am hungry – very hungry.”
“Set right down on the settee, and I’ll give you what’s left of our breakfast.”
Tom Burns obeyed with alacrity.
A plate of cold bacon, a cold potato and some corn bread were placed before him, and he ate them voraciously. There had been times in his life when he would have turned up his nose at such fare, but not now.
“My good lady,” he said, “you have saved my life.”
“Well, you must ’a’ been hungry,” said the woman. “A man that’ll eat cold vittles, especially cold potato, ain’t shammin’.”
“I wish I had money to offer you – ”
“Oh, never mind that; you’re welcome. Can I do anything more for you?”
“I feel sick, and sometimes, though I am a temperance man, I take whisky for my health, if you had just a sup – ”
“Well, we haven’t any, and if we had I wouldn’t give you any.”
“You misjudge me, madam. You must not think I am a drinker.”
“It’s no matter what I think. You can’t get any whisky here.”
At Daneboro Tom fared better. He changed his gold piece, drank a pint of whisky, and the next day retraced his steps to old Peter’s cabin. He felt satisfied that somewhere near the cabin there was treasure concealed.
CHAPTER V
BURNS RETURNS
When Peter Brant was laid away under a tree not far from the cabin where he had ended his days Ernest felt that he was at liberty to begin the new life that lay before him. Despite the natural sadness which he felt at parting with his old friend, he looked forward not without pleasant anticipations to the future and what it might have in store for him.
Oak Forks had few attractions for him. He had a literary taste, but could not get books. Peter Brant had about a dozen volumes, none of which he had read himself, but Ernest had read them over and over again. None of the neighbors owned any books. Occasionally a newspaper found its way into the settlement, and this, when it came into Ernest’s hands, was read, advertisements and all.
How, then, was his time passed? Partly in hunting, partly in fishing – for there was a small river two miles away – but one could not fish or hunt all the time. He had often felt a vague yearning to go to Chicago or New York, or anywhere where there would be a broader field and large opportunities, and he had broached the subject to Peter.
“I can’t afford to go, Ernest,” the old man would reply. “I must live on the little I have, for I am too old to work.”
“But I am young. I can work,” the boy would answer.
“A boy like you couldn’t earn much. Wait till I am dead, and then you can go where you like.”
This would always close the discussion, for Ernest did not like to consider such a possibility. Peter represented his world, for he had no one to cling to except the man whom he supposed to be his uncle.
Now, however, the time had come when he could go forth and enter upon a career. Accordingly he declined Joe Marks’ offer to take him into the store. He understood very well that it was only meant in kindness, and that he was not really needed.
“You don’t need me, Joe,” he said. “You are very kind, but there must be real work for me somewhere.”
“Well, my lad, I won’t stand in your way, but I’ve known you a long time, and I shall hate to lose sight of you.”
“I’ll came back some day, Joe – that is if I am prosperous and can.”
“If you are not prosperous, if you fall sick and need a home and a friend, come back then. Don’t forget your old friend Joe Marks.”
“I won’t, Joe,” said Ernest heartily.
“You’ve got another friend here, Ernest,” added Luke Robbins. “I’m a poor man, and my friendship isn’t worth much, but you have it, all the same.”
Ernest grasped the hands of both. He felt that each was a friend worth having.
“You may be sure that I won’t forget either of you,” he said.
“When do you expect to go, Ernest, and where?” asked Joe Marks.
“I shall get away to-morrow, I think, but where I shall go I can’t tell yet.”
“Do you need any money?”
“No; my uncle left me some.”
Ernest had not yet secured the gold, but he knew exactly where it was, and now that all his business was ended he felt that it was time to possess himself of it. Accordingly, he took a spade from the house, and bent his steps in the direction of the old oak tree.
He went alone, for he thought it best not to take anyone into his confidence.
Arrived at the tree, Ernest measured off five feet in the direction mentioned by Peter and began to dig. It did not take him long to reach the box, for it was only a foot beneath the surface of the ground.
It proved to be a cigar box, for Peter was fond of smoking, though he usually smoked a pipe. Ernest lifted the lid, and saw a small roll inclosed in brown wrapping paper, which on being removed revealed twenty five-dollar gold pieces. He regarded them with satisfaction, for they afforded him the means of leaving Oak Forks and going into the great world which he had such a curiosity to enter.
Hidden behind a tree only a few feet away was Tom Burns, the tramp and vagabond.
He had come from Daneboro, and was prowling round the neighborhood searching for old Peter’s hidden treasure. He had deliberated as to whether the cabin or the fields was the more likely place to have been selected. He had nothing in particular to guide him. He did not, however, venture to approach the house just yet, as it would probably be occupied by Ernest.
“I wish I knowed where the old man hid his boodle,” muttered Tom. “I can’t dig all over.”
In fact, digging was not in Tom’s line. It was too much like work, and if there was anything to which Tom was bitterly opposed it was work of any kind.
“The boy must know. Likely the old man told him,” he finally concluded. “I’ll watch the boy.”
He therefore lost no time in prowling around the cabin, with the especial object of watching Ernest’s movements. He was especially favored, as he thought, when from a distance he saw Ernest leaving the cabin with the spade in his hand.
The tramp’s heart was filled with joy.
“He is going to dig for the treasure,” he said. “I’ll keep him in sight.”
Tom Burns had no difficulty in doing this, for Ernest bent his steps in his direction.
“I hope he won’t discover me,” thought Burns; “at any rate not till I find out where he’s going to dig.”
All things seemed to favor the tramp.