The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  There is no form of practical joking more to be condemned than that of taking a chair from under a person when he is about to sit down. Lasting injury has resulted in more than one instance, and no person should ever do it himself or permit it to be done by another. Possibly, however, the case now in hand was an exception; for it was evident that the principal performer was so soft that no harm could come to him from the fall. No spectator felt any misgiving on that score.

  Finding his companion did not rise as he had requested, the young man began slowly to sit down. He continued doing so, until he struck the deck with a bump which caused his hat to fly off, the cane to drop from his hand, and his eyeglasses to fall from his nose. He gradually picked himself up, and, amid the laughter of every one near, made his way to the salon below, and busied himself reading a copy of an English paper.

  This incident would not be worth the telling but for that which followed. The dudish young man who caused so much entertainment on board the steamer that afternoon was destined to cross the path of Tom Gordon in a way of which neither dreamed.

  Tom gave no more thought to him until, when waiting to walk ashore at the landing, he saw, to his surprise, the young man was about to do the same. It looked as if he intended to make a call at Bellemore. Greater astonishment came when Tom saw the handsome carriage of Mr. Warmore at the landing. The driver was perched on the high seat in front, while Mrs. Warmore and her daughter Jennie occupied the rear seat, facing the vacant one.

  The carriage was waiting for this young man, who simpered forward with uplifted hat and greeted them effusively. Mrs. Warmore noticed Tom, and bowed to him, inviting him to enter the carriage and ride with them,—an invitation which, as he expressed to himself, he would not have accepted for seventeen thousand million dollars. The dude stepped into the carriage, dropped into the seat facing the ladies, and devoted himself to gnawing the head of his cane and making bright remarks to them.

  “Well, who in the name of the seven wonders can he be?” mused Tom, walking briskly homeward. “He must be some relative of the Warmores; but they ought to be ashamed of such a specimen as that. He was the laughing-stock of the boat. I was forming quite an exalted opinion of Miss Jennie; but if she fancies that sort of thing, my respect for her has gone down to zero.”

  When Tom stepped upon the porch of Farmer Pitcairn’s home, and shook hands with him, and received a motherly kiss from his good wife, he went inside, and, sitting down to their evening meal, asked Mr. Pitcairn whether he had noticed the young man riding in the Warmore carriage with the mother and daughter.

  “Yes; I’ve seen him before. He is a son of an old friend of the family. I’ve an idee that he and Miss Warmore are intended for each other.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Yes—let me see. Ah, it is Catherwood—G. Field Catherwood. He parts his name, like his hair, in the middle. He is quite a dude in his dress, but when you come to know him pretty well he isn’t such a bad sort of fellow.”

  “How is it you know so much about him?” asked Tom in surprise.

  “He has stopped here a good many times when out riding with the ladies. He’s fond of mother’s buttermilk.”

  “I thought his kind preferred sweet milk,” Tom could not help remarking, with a laugh; “but I must not judge him too harshly. We all have our peculiarities, and he is not likely to fancy me any more than I do him.”

  Tom returned to his work refreshed and renewed in strength and spirits. The year passed pleasantly. That which followed saw him promoted another step, so that when the fourth year opened it saw him in a situation where the salary of but a single employee exceeded his; that was the bookkeeper.

  He had every reason to expect that place when the vacancy should occur. Mr. Warmore had given so many evidences of his regard that it was conceded by all that he was his favorite clerk. He had never violated his principles of honesty, truthfulness, and consideration for every one with whom he came in contact. A young man who lives up to that rule of conduct is as sure to succeed, if his life is spared, as the sun is to rise.

  The bookkeeper was an elderly gentleman, so well-to-do that, at the beginning of the fifth year, he resigned and gave up all active work. His son was engaged in successful business in New York, and urged his father to join him, where he would be a partner. So he left. His successor in the establishment of Mr. Warmore, instead of being Tom Gordon, was G. Field Catherwood.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  It was a surprise to every employee of Mr. Warmore. To Tom Gordon it was also a keen disappointment. He had never doubted that the plum would fall to him. He did not dream that the dudish young man would ever demean himself by manual labor; but Mr. Warmore departed from his usual reticence, to the extent of taking Tom aside and explaining matters.

  “Mr. Catherwood is the son of an old college friend of mine. His father was wealthy, and, at his death some years ago, left everything to him. Mr. Catherwood has traveled a good deal, but is disposed now to settle down in life and become a business man. He has made an offer to put a large sum of money in our business, and I have accepted it—that is, conditionally,” added the merchant with a slight hesitation.

  Tom bowed.

  “I presume he has some thought of marriage, and has awakened to the fact that the life of an idler is a worthless one. So he contemplates becoming a merchant. With his help we shall be able to expand our business and thus benefit both. I said I accepted his offer conditionally.”

  Noticing the hesitation of his employer, Tom interposed:—

  “Mr. Warmore, there is no call for you to make this explanation. No man could have been kinder to me than you have been. I will not deny that I was disappointed, when I found myself checked on the next to the highest round of the ladder, but not a word of complaint can ever be heard from me. I should be an ingrate to utter it. I shall give you the best service of which I am capable, as I have done in the past. My gratitude you shall have always.”

  “Those manly word have decided me to say two things: From the beginning of the year your salary shall be the same as that of Mr. Martin who has left. The condition upon which I have agreed to accept Mr. Catherwood as a partner is that he shall devote one year’s hard work to the business. He thinks he can acquire the necessary knowledge best by becoming a bookkeeper, since he could hardly be expected to begin where you and the rest did.”

  Repeating his thanks to his employer for the goodness he had always shown toward him, Tom Gordon bowed himself out.

  Sure enough, the next day Mr. Catherwood took his place at the bookkeeper’s desk. Mr. Martin agreed to stay a week in order to explain everything necessary to him; and none could have applied himself more assidiously than the young man, whose whole thoughts seemed to have been centered on that of dress and the other sex.

  Tom Gordon soon discovered the cause of Mr. Pitcairn’s remark to the effect that Catherwood was not such a bad fellow when you came to know him. He wrote an excellent hand, understood the theory of bookkeeping, and mastered that branch of the business so quickly that Mr. Martin was dismissed with thanks at the end of three days.

  True, he wore eyeglasses, parted his hair in the middle, and was an exquisite in his dress. When he chose he could be courteous to those around him. Most of the clerks were pleasantly disappointed by his manner.

  Tom Gordon, as in duty bound, yielded full respect to the one who was not only his superior in position, but who was likely, in the course of time, to become his sole employer. But the young man was sensitive, and soon became convinced that Mr. Catherwood did not feel especially friendly toward him. It was not in anything he said or did, but rather in his manner. It made Tom uncomfortable; but he resolved to make the best of it, and, if he could not force Mr. Catherwood to like him, he could at least compel his respect.

  “He must have seen me laughing at him on the steamboat, when he missed his chair; possibly he suspects I had something to do with his mishap. It is natural that he should feel resentful toward me, but I
hope it will wear off.”

  In the dusk of early evening, some months later, Tom was sauntering homeward, musing over the past, with an uncomfortable feeling that despite the long service he had given Mr. Warmore, and the many times he had expressed his satisfaction with him, the association was not likely to continue much longer.

  There could be no mistaking the hearty dislike which Catherwood felt for the young man. Tom would have cared little for that had not the discouraging conviction forced itself upon him that Mr. Warmore was beginning to share his future partner’s distrust. It seemed to be an unconscious absorption on his part of the views of another.

  This was hard to bear; but it rasped the young man’s sense of manhood, for it was an injustice which he did not expect.

  “If Mr. Warmore is weak enough to let that fellow turn him against me, he is a different man from what I suspected. His store is not the only one in the world, and at the first unfair act on his part, I shall leave—hello!”

  Coming down the road, on a swift gallop, with the reins flying, was a spirited horse, dragging a fashionable dog-cart, which, as it swayed from side to side, showed that it contained a single person,—a lady, who had lost control of the animal.

  “That looks bad,” muttered Tom, his heart leaping with natural excitement. “She is likely to be killed.”

  It looked as if the young man was to be given one of the stereotyped opportunities to prove his heroism,—that of rescuing a beautiful young lady whose horse was running away. He did not think of that, however, for it would have been the same had a bitter enemy been in peril.

  The steed was coming like the whirlwind. The clamp of his hoofs, his snorting nostrils, his flying mane, and dangling reins, the frail vehicle bounding from side to side and often on the point of overturning, the glimpses of the lady bravely holding on and uttering no scream,—all these made up the most startling picture on which Tom Gordon had looked for many a day.

  Stationing himself in the middle of the road, he swung his hat and arms, and shouted to the mad animal in the hope of making him slacken his speed sufficiently to allow the occupant to leap out. The horse saw him, shied a little, moderated his pace a trifle, and then plunged forward on a run.

  Clearly he was not to be checked by that means. Tom Gordon braced himself for the shock of the supreme effort he had formed.

  In a twinkling his strong grip had closed about the strap of the bit, and he threw his whole weight against the brute, who reared, plunged, struggled, struck with his fore feet, and strove to shake the incubus loose, but in vain. Tom held on like grim death, though in imminent danger of being struck down and trampled upon. No animal is quicker to recognize the hand of a master than a horse, and in less time than would be supposed possible the mad runaway was under control.

  Then a gentle patting, a few soothing words, and he became more quiet, though still trembling in every nerve.

  “I hope, Miss Warmore, you have not been injured.”

  “Not in the least, thanks to your bravery,” replied the young lady, displaying wonderful coolness. “I have had a pretty rapid ride and a bad shock, but that is all.”

  Tom had caught up the reins and held them in hand, while he stood at the side of the vehicle near the daughter of his employer.

  “Perhaps, Miss Warmore, it will be safer for me to drive home with you. The horse is nervous and liable to take fright again.”

  “I can never thank you sufficiently for what you have already done,” she said with emotion, moving to one side to make room for him.

  “It was not difficult,” he remarked lightly, stepping in beside her, and speaking gently to the animal, as he carefully turned him around to drive back. “I had time to prepare myself, and he was easily controlled. May I ask how it happened?”

  He was sure he never saw one so beautiful as she. The excitement had brought a glow to her lustrous eyes, and there was deepening of the pink tinge on the cheeks which made her complexion perfection itself. She was still agitated, though striving hard to bring her feelings under control.

  “We were driving at a brisk pace,” she replied, “when a piece of paper blew across the road in front of Jack, and he was off like a shot.”

  Tom noticed her use of the word “we,” and knew whom she meant.

  “Could not Mr. Catherwood control him?”

  He glanced sideways at her when he asked the question, and noticed the scornful expression that came upon her face.

  “He might have done so had he a spark of your courage; but the instant Jack made his leap, Mr. Catherwood flung the lines over his back, and with a call to me to jump, he sprang out of the cart and left me alone. If he had given me the lines, I could have managed Jack myself; but he wouldn’t allow me even that poor privilege.”

  “He must have lost his head.”

  “Small loss to lose such a head,” exclaimed Miss Jennie, who evidently held a small opinion of her escort; “it’s the last time I shall ever go riding with him.”

  A queer thrill passed through Tom Gordon. He was a fervent admirer of the young lady at his side; but he had worshiped her, as may be said, as we worship a fair and brilliant star. It is something so far beyond our reach that we keep our admiration to ourself, and strive to drive the foolish feeling from our heart.

  “I have no wish to injure Catherwood,” was his thought; “but if he is such a coward as to desert a lady in peril, it is well she should know it before it is too late.”

  When Mr. Warmore referred to the young man as not only contemplating a partnership in his business, but as intending marriage, Tom Gordon held not the slightest doubt of his full meaning. He was paying court to the merchant’s only daughter; and, if they were not already engaged, they expected soon to become so.

  The situation of our young friend, therefore, became a most peculiar one. He had been given an important preliminary advantage, if he chose to aspire to the love of the sweet one at his side; but he thought hard, and did not lose his self-poise or sense of honor.

  “It is natural that she should despise his poltroonery and feel grateful to me,” was his thought; “but, after all, it isn’t likely she holds any emotion other than simple gratitude. It would be base in me to presume upon it. I will not do so.”

  The drive was comparatively a short one to the handsome residence of the Warmores. As Tom guided the mettlesome pony through the open gate and up the winding roadway to the front of the porch, Mrs. Warmore came out pale with fright. She had just learned of the accident from G. Field Catherwood, who had limped up the steps with a rambling tale of how he had been flung headlong from the vehicle at the moment he was about to seize Jennie and lift her free.

  “Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the mother, when she saw her daughter unharmed; “I was sure you were killed.”

  Catherwood hobbled forward from behind the lady, leaning on his cane.

  “I say ‘amen’ to those sentiments,” he added, too much flustered just then to use his affected style of speech. “O Jennie, my heart was broken when I was hurled out before I could save you. Allow me.”

  “You had better look after your own safety,” she said, refusing his help, as she stepped lightly from the cart. “Jack might start again. Mother, Mr. Gordon here saved my life.”

  At this moment the groom appeared, and the blushing Tom turned the horse over to him, and, pretending he had not heard the words of Jennie, lifted his hat.

  “It has come out all right; I bid you good-evening.”

  Catherwood quickly rallied from the snub of the lady. He slipped his fingers in his vest-pocket and drew out a bill, which he handed to Tom.

  “What’s that for?” asked the wondering youth, taking the crumpled paper.

  “Aw—that’s all right, my deah fellow—you earned it—dooced clevah in you—”

  Tom Gordon compressed the paper into a small wad, and placing it between his thumb and forefinger, as though it were a marble, shot it against the eyeglasses of the amazed dude.

  “That�
��s my opinion of you,” he said, turning about and walking off, before the agitated Mrs. Warmore could thank him.

  “I suppose I’ve done it,” he mused, when in the highway and walking toward Farmer Pitcairn’s. “Catherwood never did like me and now he hates me. If Miss Jennie keeps up her course toward him, he will hate me more than ever. He will not rest till he gets me out of the store. Well, let him go ahead. I am not an old man yet, and the world is broad and big.”

  He was about to sit down to the evening meal, when a servant of Mr. Warmore arrived with a note, requesting the pleasure of Mr. Gordon’s company to dinner that evening. It was not a simple formal invitation, but was so urgent that the young man could not refuse. He returned word through the servant that he accepted with pleasure the invitation and would be soon there.

  Can the youth be censured, if, with a fluttering heart, he took extra pains with his personal appearance before leaving the good farmer’s home that evening? When at last he stepped forth, in full dress, swinging his light cane, you would have had to hunt a long way to find a handsomer fellow than he.

  And yet, with all his delightful anticipation, was mingled a feeling of dread. He disliked meeting Catherwood, for between them a great gulf yawned and something unpleasant was certain to occur. Jennie had witnessed his insulting offer of a reward to him for what he had done, and must have appreciated the style in which it was repulsed. She would show her feelings most decisively before the evening was over.

  Besides that, he dreaded hearing the family renew their expressions of thankfulness. Tom had unquestionably performed a brave act, but no more so than hundreds of others that were continually being done every day—some of them entitled to far more credit than was his.