The Cash Boy | Page 8

your mother had another hemorrhage, and--and--''
``Is she dead?'' asked the boy, his face very pale.
``She is dead!''

CHAPTER IV
THE TOWN AUTOCRAT

``The Widder Fowler is dead,'' remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the
supper table. ``She died this afternoon.''
``I suppose she won't leave anything,'' said Mrs. Pinkerton.
``No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and that is all she has.''
``What will become of the children?''
``As I observed, day before yesterday, they will be constrained to find a
refuge in the poorhouse.''
``What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me, father?''
``I am not able to conjecture what Samuel would be likely to observe,
my son.''
``He observed that Frank Fowler said he wouldn't go to the poorhouse.''
``Ahem!'' coughed the deacon. ``The boy will not be consulted.''
``That's what I say, father,'' said Tom, who desired to obtain his father's
co-operation. ``You'll make him go to the poorhouse, won't you?''
``I shall undoubtedly exercise my authority, if it should be necessary,
my son.''
``He told Sam Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertons in the world
couldn't make him go to the poorhouse.''
``I will constrain him,'' said the deacon.
``I would if I were you, father,'' said Tom, elated at the effect of his
words. ``Just teach him a lesson.''
``Really, deacon, you mustn't be too hard upon the poor boy,'' said his
better-hearted wife. ``He's got trouble enough on him.''
``I will only constrain him for his good, Jane. In the poorhouse he will

be well provided for.''
Meanwhile another conversation respecting our hero and his fortunes
was held at Sam Pomeroy's home. It was not as handsome as the
deacon's, for Mr. Pomeroy was a poor man, but it was a happy one,
nevertheless, and Mr. Pomeroy, limited as were his means, was far
more liberal than the deacon.
``I pity Frank Fowler,'' said Sam, who was warm- hearted and
sympathetic, and a strong friend of Frank. ``I don't know what he will
do.''
``I suppose his mother left nothing.''
``I understood,'' said Mr. Pomeroy, ``that Deacon Pinkerton holds a
mortgage on her furniture.''
``The deacon wants to send Frank and his sister to the poorhouse.''
``That would be a pity.''
``I should think so; but Frank positively says he won't go.''
``I am afraid there isn't anything else for him. To be sure, he may get a
chance to work in a shop or on a farm, but Grace can't support herself.''
``Father, I want to ask you a favor.''
``What is it, Sam?''
``Won't you invite Frank and his sister to come and stay here a week?''
``Just as your mother says.''
``I say yes. The poor children will be quite welcome. If we were rich
enough they might stay with us all the time.''
``When Frank comes here I will talk over his affairs with him,'' said Mr.
Pomeroy. ``Perhaps we can think of some plan for him.''

``I wish you could, father.''
``In the meantime, you can invite him and Grace to come and stay with
us a week, or a fortnight. Shall we say a fortnight, wife?''
``With all my heart.''
``All right, father. Thank you.''
Sam delivered the invitation in a way that showed how strongly his
own feelings were enlisted in favor of its acceptance. Frank grasped his
hand.
``Thank you, Sam, you are a true friend,'' he said.
``I hadn't begun to think of what we were to do, Grace and I.''
``You'll come, won't you?''
``You are sure that it won't trouble your mother, Sam?''
``She is anxious to have you come.''
``Then I'll come. I haven't formed any plans yet, but I must as soon--as
soon as mother is buried. I think I can earn my living somehow. One
thing I am determined about--I won't go to the poorhouse.''
The funeral was over. Frank and Grace walked back to the little house,
now their home no longer. They were to pack up a little bundle of
clothes and go over to Mr. Pomeroy's in time for supper.
When Frank had made up his bundle, urged by some impulse, he
opened a drawer in his mother's bureau. His mind was full of the story
she had told him, and he thought it just possible that he might find
something to throw additional light upon his past history. While
exploring the contents of the drawer he came to a letter directed to him
in his mother's well-known handwriting. He opened it hastily, and with
a feeling of solemnity, read as follows:

``My Dear Frank: In the lower drawer, wrapped in a piece of brown
paper, you will find two gold eagles, worth twenty dollars. You will
need them when I am gone. Use them for Grace and yourself. I saved
these for my children. Take them, Frank, for