Chester Rand | Page 6

small sum of three dollars. For the first time Chester began to understand the difference between manual and intelligent labor.
It was ten o'clock when Chester left the minister's house--a late hour in Wyncombe--and he had nearly reached his own modest home before he met anyone. Then he overtook a man of perhaps thirty, thinly clad and shivering in the bitter, wintry wind. He was a stranger, evidently, for Chester knew everyone in the village, and he was tempted to look back. The young man, encouraged perhaps by this evidence of interest, spoke, hurriedly:
"Do you know," he asked, "where I can get a bed for the night?"
"Mr. Tripp has a few rooms that he lets to strangers. He is the storekeeper."
The young man laughed, but there was no merriment in the laugh.
"Oh, yes. I know Silas Tripp," he said.
"Then you have been in Wyncombe before?"
"I never lived here, but I know Silas Tripp better than I want to. He is my uncle."
"Your uncle!" exclaimed Chester, in surprise.
"Yes, I am his sister's son. My name is Walter Bruce."
"Then I should think your uncle's house was the place for you."
"I have no money to pay for a bed."
"But, if you are a relation----"
"That makes no difference to Silas Tripp. He has no love for poor relations. You don't know him very well."
"I ought to, for I have worked for him in the store for a year."
"I didn't see you in there this evening."
"I left him last Saturday evening. There is another boy there now."
"Why did you leave him?"
"Because he wanted to cut down my wages from three dollars to two dollars and a quarter."
"Just like uncle Silas. I see you know him."
"Have you seen him since you came to Wyncombe?"
"I was in the store this evening."
"Did you make yourself known to him?"
"Yes."
"Didn't he invite you to spend the night in the house?"
"Not he. He saw by my dress that I was poor, and gave me a lecture on my shiftless ways."
"Still he might have taken care of you for one night."
"He wouldn't. He told me he washed his hands of me."
Chester looked sober. He was shocked by Silas Tripp's want of humanity.
"You asked me where you could find a bed," he said. "Come home with me, and I can promise you shelter for one night, at least."
"Thank you, boy," said Bruce, grasping Chester's hand. "You have a heart. But--perhaps your parents might object."
"I have no father. My mother is always ready to do a kind act."
"Then I will accept your kind offer. I feared I should have to stay out all night."
"And without an overcoat," said Chester, compassionately.
"Yes, I had to part with my overcoat long since. I could not afford such a luxury. I suppose you understand!"
"You sold it?"
"No, I pawned it. I didn't get much for it--only three dollars, but it would be as easy for me to take the church and move it across the street as to redeem it."
"You appear to have been unfortunate."
"Yes. Fortune and I are at odds. Yet I ought to have some money."
"How's that?"
"When my mother died uncle Silas acted as executor of her estate. It was always supposed that she had some money--probably from two to three thousand dollars--but when uncle Silas rendered in his account it had dwindled to one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Of course that didn't last me long."
"Do you think that he acted wrongfully?" asked Chester, startled.
"Do I think so? I have no doubt of it. You know money is his god."
"Yet to cheat his own nephew would be so base."
"Is there anything too base for such a man to do to get money?"
The young man spoke bitterly.
By this time they had reached Chester's home. His mother was still up. She looked up in surprise at her son's companion.
"Mother," said Chester, "this is Mr. Bruce. Do you think we can give him a bed?"
"Why, certainly," replied Mrs. Rand, cordially. "Have you had supper, sir?"
"I wouldn't like to trouble you, ma'am."
"It will be no trouble. I can make some tea in five minutes. Chester, take out the bread and butter and cold meat from the closet."
So before he went to bed the homeless wayfarer was provided with a warm meal, and the world seemed brighter and more cheerful to him.
CHAPTER IV.
A DYING GIFT.
In the morning Walter Bruce came down to breakfast looking pale and sick. He had taken a severe cold from scanty clothing and exposure to the winter weather.
"You have a hard cough, Mr. Bruce," said Mrs. Rand, in a tone of sympathy.
"Yes, madam; my lungs were always sensitive."
When breakfast was over he took his hat and prepared to go.
"I thank you very much for your kind hospitality," he began. Then he was attacked by a fit of coughing.
"Where are you going. Mr. Bruce?" asked Chester.
"I don't know," he answered,