True to Himself | Page 2

beg your pardon, Duncan. I'll speak to the
widow about it."
I began to move off toward the house. Duncan hurried after me and
caught me by the arm.
"You fool you, what do you mean?" he demanded.

"I'm going to find out if you are telling the truth."
"Isn't my word enough?"
"It will do no harm to ask," I replied evasively, not caring to pick a
quarrel, and yet morally sure that he was prevaricating.
"So you think I'm telling you a falsehood? I've a good mind to give you
a sound drubbing," he cried angrily.
Duncan Woodward had many of the traits of a bully about him. He was
the only son of a widower who nearly idolized him, and, lacking a
mother's guiding influence, he had grown up wayward in the extreme.
He was a tall, well-built fellow, strong from constant athletic exercise,
and given, on this account, to having his way among his associates.
Yet I was not afraid of him. Indeed, to tell the truth, I was not afraid of
any one. For eight years I had been shoved in life from pillar to post,
until now threats had no terrors for me.
Both of my parents were dead to me. My mother died when I was but
five years old. She was of a delicate nature, and, strange as it may seem,
I am inclined to believe that it was for the best that her death occurred
when it did. The reason I believe this is, because she was thus spared
the disgrace that came upon our family several years later.
At her death my father was employed as head clerk by the firm of
Holland & Mack, wholesale provision merchants of Newville, a
thriving city which was but a few miles from Darbyville, a pretty
village located on the Pass River.
We occupied a handsome house in the centre of the village. Our family,
besides my parents and myself, contained but one other member-- my
sister Kate, who was several years my senior.
When our beloved mother died, Kate took the management of our
home upon her shoulders, and as she had learned, during my mother's

long illness, how everything should be done, our domestic affairs ran
smoothly. All this time I attended the Darbyville school, and was
laying the foundation for a commercial education, intending at some
later day to follow in the footsteps of my father.
Two years passed, and then my father's manner changed. From being
bright and cheerful toward us he became moody and silent. What the
cause was I could not guess, and it did not help matters to be told by
Duncan Woodward, whose father was also employed by Holland &
Mack, that "some folks would soon learn what was what, and no
mistake."
At length the thunderbolt fell. Returning from school one day, I found
Kate in tears.
"Oh, Roger!" she burst out. "They say father has stolen money from
Holland & Mack, and they have just arrested him for a thief!"
The blow was a terrible one. I was but a boy of fourteen, and the news
completely bewildered me. I put on my cap, and together with Kate,
took the first horse car to Newville to find out what it all meant.
We found my father in jail, where he had been placed to await the
action of the grand jury. It was with difficulty that we obtained
permission to see him, and ascertained the facts of the case.
The charge against him was for raising money upon forged cheeks,
eight in number, the total amount being nearly twelve thousand dollars.
The name of the firm had been forged, and the money collected in New
York and Brooklyn. I was not old enough to understand the particulars.
My father protested his innocence, but it was of no avail. The forgery
was declared to be his work, and, though it was said that he must have
had an accomplice to obtain the money, he was adjudged the guilty
party.
"Ten years in the State's prison." That was the penalty. My father grew
deadly white, while as for me, my very heart seemed to stop beating.

Kate fainted, and two days later the doctor announced that she had an
attack of brain fever.
Two months dragged slowly by. Then my sister was declared to be out
of danger. Next the house was sold over our heads, and we were turned
out upon the world, branded as the children of a thief, to get a living as
best we could.
Both of us would willingly have left Darbyville, but where should we
go? The only relation we had was an uncle,-- Captain Enos Moss,-- and
he was on an extended trip to South America, and when he would
return