Chapter XVIII. "Over the Hill to the Poorhouse"

The Cash Boy

by Horatio Alger

We are compelled for a time to leave our hero in the hands of his
enemies, and return to the town of Crawford, where an event has
occurred which influences seriously the happiness and position of his
sister, Grace.

Ever since Frank left the town, Grace had been a welcome member
of Mr. Pomeroy's family, receiving the kindest treatment from all, so
that she had come to feel very much at home.

So they lived happily together, till one disastrous night a fire
broke out, which consumed the house, and they were forced to snatch
their clothes and escape, saving nothing else.

Mr. Pomeroy's house was insured for two-thirds of its value, and
he proposed to rebuild immediately, but it would be three months at
least before the new house would be completed. In the interim, he
succeeded in hiring a couple of rooms for his family, but their
narrow accommodations would oblige them to dispense with their
boarder. Sorry as Mr. and Mrs. Pomeroy were to part with her, it was
obvious that Grace must find another home.

"We must let Frank know," said Mr. Pomeroy, and having occasion
to go up to the city at once to see about insurance, he went to the
store of Gilbert & Mack, and inquired for Prank.

"Fowler? What was he?" was asked.

"A cash-boy."

"Oh, he is no longer here. Mr. Gilbert discharged him."

"Do you know why he was discharged?" asked Mr. Pomeroy, pained
and startled.

"No; but there stands Mr. Gilbert. He can tell you."

Mr. Pomeroy introduced himself to the head of the firm and
repeated his inquiry.

"If you are a friend of the lad," said Mr. Gilbert, "you will be
sorry to learn that he was charged with dishonesty. It was a very
respectable lady who made the charge. It is only fair to say that
the boy denied it, and that, personally, we found him faithful and
trusty. But as the dullness of trade compelled us to discharge some
of our cash-boys, we naturally discharged him among the number,
without, however, judging his case."

"Then, sir, you have treated the boy very unfairly. On the
strength of a charge not proved, you have dismissed him, though
personally you had noticed nothing out of the way in him, and
rendered it impossible for him to obtain another place."

"There is something in what you say, I admit. Perhaps I was too
hasty. If you will send the boy to me, I will take him back on
probation."

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Pomeroy, gratefully "I will send him
here."

But this Mr. Pomeroy was unable to do. He did not know of
Frank's new address, and though he was still in the city, he failed
to find him.

He returned to Crawford and communicated the unsatisfactory
intelligence. He tried to obtain a new boarding place for Grace, but
no one was willing to take her at two dollars a week, especially when
Mr. Pomeroy was compelled to admit that Frank was now out of
employment, and it was doubtful if he would be able to keep up the
payment.

Tom Pinkerton managed to learn that Grace was now without a
home, and mentioned it to his father.

"Won't she have to go to the poorhouse now, father?" he asked
eagerly.

"Yes," said Deacon Pinkerton. "There is no other place for her
that I can see."

"Ah, I'm glad," said Tom, maliciously. "Won't that upstart's
pride be taken down? He was too proud to go to the poorhouse, where
he belonged, but he can't help his sister's going there. If he isn't
a pauper himself, he'll be the brother of a pauper, and that's the
next thing to it."

"That is true," said the deacon. "He was very impudent in
return for my kindness. Still, I am sorry for him."

I am afraid the deacon's sorrow was not very deep, for he
certainly looked unusually cheerful when he harnessed up his horse
and drove around to the temporary home of the Pomeroys.

"Good-morning, Mr. Pomeroy," he said, seeing the latter in the
yard. "You've met with a severe loss."

"Yes, deacon; it is a severe loss to a poor man like me."

"To be sure. Well, I've called around to relieve you of a part
of your cares. I am going to take Grace Fowler to the poorhouse."

"Couldn't you get her a place with a private family to help
about the house in return for her board, while she goes to
school?"

"There's nobody wants a young girl like her," said the
deacon.

"Her brother would pay part of her board--that is, when he has a
place."

"Hasn't he got a place?" asked the deacon, pricking up his ears.
"I heard he was in a store in New York."

"He lost his place," said Mr. Pomeroy, reluctantly, "partly
because of the dullness of general trade."

"Then he can't maintain his sister. She will have to go to the
poorhouse. Will you ask her to get ready, and I'll take her right
over to the poorhouse."

There was no alternative. Mr. Pomeroy went into the house, and
broke the sad news to his wife and Grace.

"Never mind," she said, with attempted cheerfulness, though her
lips quivered, "I shan't have to stay there long. Frank will be sure
to send for me very shortly."

"It's too bad, Grace," said Sam, looking red about the eyes;
"it's too bad that you should have to go to the poorhouse."

"Come and see me, Sam," said Grace.

"Yes, I will, Grace. I'll come often, too. You shan't stay
there long."

"Good-by," said Grace, faltering. "You have all been very kind
to me."

"Good-by, my dear child," said Mrs. Pomeroy.

"Who knows but you can return to us when the new house is
done?"

So poor Grace went out from her pleasant home to find the
deacon, grim-faced and stern, waiting for her.

"Jump in, little girl," he said. "You've kept me waiting for
you a long time, and my time is valuable."

The distance to the poorhouse was about a mile and a half. For
the first half mile Deacon Pinkerton kept silence. Then he began to
speak, in a tone of cold condescension, as if it were a favor for
such a superior being to address an insignificant child, about to
become a pauper.

"Little girl, have you heard from your brother lately?"

"Not very lately, sir."

"What is he doing?"

"He is in a store."

"I apprehend you are mistaken. He has lost his place. He has
been turned away," said the deacon, with satisfaction."

"Frank turned away! Oh, sir, you must be mistaken."

"Mr. Pomeroy told me. He found out yesterday when he went to
the city."

Poor Grace! she could not longer doubt now, and her brother's
misfortune saddened her even more than her own.

"Probably you will soon see your brother."

"Oh, do you think so, sir?" asked Grace, joyfully.

"Yes," answered the deacon, grimly. "He will find himself in
danger of starvation in the city, and he'll creep back, only too glad
to obtain a nice, comfortable home in the poorhouse."

But Grace knew her brother better than that. She knew his
courage, his self-reliance and his independent spirit, and she was
sure the deacon was mistaken.

The home for which Grace was expected to be so grateful was now
in sight. It was a dark, neglected looking house, situated in the
midst of barren fields, and had a lonely and desolate aspect. It was
superintended by Mr. and Mrs. Chase, distant relations of Deacon
Pinkerton.

Mr. Chase was an inoffensive man, but Mrs. Chase had a violent
temper. She was at work in the kitchen when Deacon Pinkerton drove
up. Hearing the sound of wheels, she came to the door.

"Mrs. Chase," said the deacon, "I've brought you a little girl,
to be placed under your care."

"What's her name?" inquired the lady.

"Grace Fowler."

"Grace, humph! Why didn't she have a decent name?"

"You can call her anything you like," said the deacon.

"Little girl, you must behave well," said Deacon Pinkerton, by
way of parting admonition. "The town expects it. I expect it. You
must never cease to be grateful for the good home which it provides
you free of expense."

Grace did not reply. Looking in the face of her future
task-mistress was scarcely calculated to awaken a very deep feeling
of gratitude.

"Now," said Mrs. Chase, addressing her new boarder, "just take
off your things, Betsy, and make yourself useful."

"My name isn't Betsy, ma'am."

"It isn't, isn't it?"

"No; it is Grace."

"You don't say so! I'll tell you one thing, I shan't allow
anybody to contradict me here, and your name's got to be Betsy while
you're in this house. Now take off your things and hang them up on
that peg. I'm going to set you right to work."

"Yes, ma'am," said Grace, alarmed.

"There's some dishes I want washed, Betsy, and I won't have you
loitering over your work, neither."

"Very well, ma'am."

Such was the new home for which poor Grace was expected to be
grateful.