Chapter III. Left Alone

The Cash Boy

by Horatio Alger

Frank listened to this revelation with wonder. For the first
time in his life he asked himself, "Who am I?"

"How came I by my name, mother?" he asked.

"I must tell you. After the sudden departure of the gentleman
who brought you, we happened to think that we had not asked your
name. We accordingly wrote to the address which had been given us,
making the inquiry. In return we received a slip of paper containing
these words: `The name is immaterial; give him any name you please.
A. M.' "

"You gave me the name of Frank."

"It was Mr. Fowler's name. We should have given it to you had
you been our own boy; as the choice was left to us, we selected
that."

"It suits me as well as any other. How soon did you leave
Brooklyn, mother?"

"In a week we had made all arrangements, and removed to this
place. It is a small place, but it furnished as much work as my
husband felt able to do. With the help of the allowance for your
support, we not only got on comfortably, but saved up a hundred and
fifty dollars annually, which we deposited in a savings bank. But
after five years the money stopped coming. It was the year 1857, the
year of the great panic, and among others who failed was Giles
Warner's agent, from whom we received our payments. Mr. Fowler went
to New York to inquire about it, but only learned that Mr. Warner,
weighed down by his troubles, had committed suicide, leaving no clew
to the name of the man who left you with us."

"How long ago was that, mother?"

"Seven years ago nearly eight."

"And you continued to keep me, though the payments stopped."

"Certainly; you were as dear to us as our own child--for we now
had a child of our own--Grace. We should as soon have thought of
casting off her as you."

"But you must have been poor, mother."

"We were economical, and we got along till your father died
three years ago. Since then it has been hard work."

"You have had a hard time, mother."

"No harder on your account. You have been a great comfort to
me, Frank. I am only anxious for the future. I fear you and Grace
will suffer after I am gone."

"Don't fear, mother, I am young and strong; I am not afraid to
face the world with God's help."

"What are you thinking of, Frank?" asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing
the boy's fixed look.

"Mother," he said, earnestly, "I mean to seek for that man you
have told me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was
my father?"

"He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with
hesitation, and said this to deceive us, probably."

"I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my
father. From what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like
him."

"He must be nearly fifty now--dark complexion, with dark hair
and whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any.
There are many men who look like that. I should know him by his
expression, but I cannot describe that to you."

Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing,
and Frank begged her to say no more.

Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly
failing, and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She
herself felt that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he
found it hard to believe.

On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the
village store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam
Pomeroy.

"Is your mother very sick, Frank?" he asked.

"Yes, Sam, I'm afraid she won't live."

"Is it so bad as that? I do believe," he added, with a sudden
change of tone, "Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is
trying to get your place as captain of the baseball club. He says
that if your mother doesn't live, you will have to go to the
poorhouse, for you won't have any money, and that it will be a
disgrace for the club to have a captain from the poorhouse."

"Did he say that?" asked Frank, indignantly.

"Yes."

"When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to
the poorhouse."

"He says his father is going to put you and your sister
there."

"All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to
the poorhouse!" said Frank, resolutely.

"Bully for you, Frank! I knew you had spunk."

Frank hurried home. As he entered the little house a neighbor's
wife, who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.

"Frank," she said, gravely, "you must prepare yourself for sad
news. While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage,
and--and--"

"Is she dead?" asked the boy, his face very pale.

"She is dead!"