“Has Mr. Hubbard come down yet?” he asked at the desk.
“Yes; he took an early breakfast, and went off by the first train.”
“That is strange. I was to pay his bill.”
“He paid it himself.”
Carl did not know what to make of this. Had Hubbard forgotten that he had five dollars belonging to him? Fortunately, Carl had his city address, and could refund the money in New York.
“Very well! I will pay my own bill. How much is it?”
“A dollar and a quarter.”
Carl took the ten-dollar bill from his wallet and tendered it to the clerk.
Instead of changing it at once, the clerk held it up to the light and examined it critically.
“I can't take that bill,” he said, abruptly.
“Why not?”
“Because it is counterfeit.”
Carl turned pale, and the room seemed to whirl round. It was all the money he had.
CHAPTER X.
THE COUNTERFEIT BILL.
“ARE you sure it is counterfeit?” asked Carl, very much disturbed.
“I am certain of it. I haven't been handling bank bills for ten years without being able to tell good money from bad. I'll trouble you for another bill.”
“That's all the money I have,” faltered Carl.
“Look here, young man,” said the clerk, sternly, “you are trying a bold game, but it won't succeed.”
“I am trying no game at all,” said Carl, plucking up spirit. “I thought the bill was good.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From the man who came with me last evening-- Mr. Hubbard.”
“The money he gave me was good.”
“What did he give you?”
“A five-dollar bill.”
“It was my five-dollar bill,” said Carl, bitterly.
“Your story doesn't seem very probable,” said the clerk, suspiciously. “How did he happen to get your money, and you his?”
“He told me that he would get to gambling, and wished me to take money enough to pay his bill here. He handed me the ten-dollar bill which you say is bad, and I gave him five in return. I think now he only wanted to get good money for bad.”
“Your story may be true, or it may not,” said the clerk, whose manner indicated incredulity. “That is nothing to me. All you have to do is to pay your hotel bill, and you can settle with Mr. Hubbard when you see him.”
“But I have no other money,” said Carl, desperately.
“Then I shall feel justified in ordering your arrest on a charge of passing, or trying to pass, counterfeit money.”
“Don't do that, sir! I will see that you are paid out of the first money I earn.”
“You must think I am soft,” said the clerk, contemptuously. “I have seen persons of your stripe before. I dare say, if you were searched, more counterfeit money would be found in your pockets.”
“Search me, then!” cried Carl, indignantly. “I am perfectly willing that you should.”
“Haven't you any relations who will pay your bill?”
“I have no one to call upon,” answered Carl, soberly. “Couldn't you let me work it out? I am ready to do any kind of work.”
“Our list of workers is full,” said the clerk, coldly.
Poor Carl! he felt that he was decidedly in a tight place. He had never before found himself unable to meet his bills. nor would he have been so placed now but for Hubbard's rascality. A dollar and a quarter seems a small sum, but if you are absolutely penniless it might as well be a thousand. Suppose he should be arrested and the story get into the papers? How his stepmother would exult in the record of his disgrace! He could anticipate what she would say. Peter, too, would rejoice, and between them both his father would be persuaded that he was thoroughly unprincipled.
“What have you got in your valise?” asked the clerk.
“Only some underclothing. If there were anything of any value I would cheerfully leave it as security. Wait a minute, though,” he said, with a sudden thought. “Here is a gold pencil! It is worth five dollars; at any rate, it cost more than that. I can place that in your hands.”
“Let me see it.”
Carl handed the clerk a neat gold pencil, on which his name was inscribed. It was evidently of good quality, and found favor with the clerk.
“I'll give you a dollar and a quarter for the pencil,” he said, “and call it square.”
“I wouldn't like to sell it,” said Carl.
“You won't get any more for it.”
“I wasn't thinking of that; but it was given me by my mother, who is now dead. I would not like to part with anything that she gave me.”
“You would prefer to get off scot-free, I suppose?” retorted the clerk, with a sneer.
“No; I am willing to leave it in your hands, but I should like the privilege of redeeming it when I have the money.”
“Very well,” said the clerk, who reflected that in all probability Carl would never come back for it. “I'll take it on those conditions.”
Carl passed over the pencil with a sigh. He didn't like to part with it, even for a short time, but there seemed no help for it.
“All right. I will mark you paid.”
Carl left the hotel, satchel in hand, and as he passed out into the street, reflected with a sinking heart that he was now quite penniless. Where was he to get his dinner, and how was he to provide himself with a lodging that night? At present he was not hungry, having eaten a hearty breakfast at the hotel, but by one o'clock he would feel the need of food. He began to ask himself if, after all, he had not been unwise in leaving home, no matter how badly he had been treated by his stepmother. There, at least, he was certain of living comfortably. Now he was in danger of starvation, and on two occasions already he had incurred suspicion, once of being concerned in a murder, and just now of passing counterfeit money. Ought he to have submitted, and so avoided all these perils?
“No!” he finally decided; “I won't give up the ship yet. I am about as badly off as I can be; I am without a cent, and don't know where my next meal is to come from. But my luck may turn--it must turn--it has turned!” he exclaimed with energy, as his wandering glance suddenly fell upon a silver quarter of a dollar, nearly covered up with the dust of the street. “That shall prove a good omen!”
He stooped over and picked up the coin, which he put in his vest pocket.
It was wonderful how the possession of this small sum of money restored his courage and raised his spirits. He was sure of a dinner now, at all events. It looked as if Providence was smiling on him.
Two miles farther on Carl overtook a boy of about his own age trudging along the road with a rake over his shoulder. He wore overalls, and was evidently a farmer's boy.
“Good-day!” said Carl, pleasantly, noticing that the boy regarded him with interest.
“Good-day!” returned the country lad, rather bashfully.
“Can you tell me if there is any place near where I can buy some dinner?”
“There ain't no tavern, if that's what you mean. I'm goin' home to dinner myself.”
“Where do you live?”
“Over yonder.”
He pointed to a farmhouse about a dozen rods away.
“Do you think your mother would give me some dinner?”
“I guess she would. Mam's real accommodatin'.”
“Will you ask her?”
“Yes; just come along of me.”
He turned into the yard, and followed a narrow path to the back door.
“I'll stay here while you ask,” said Carl.
The boy entered the house, and came out after a brief absence.
“Mam says you're to come in,” he said.
Carl, glad at heart, and feeling quite prepared to eat fifty cents' worth of dinner, followed the boy inside.
A pleasant-looking, matronly woman, plainly but neatly attired, came forward to greet him.
“Nat says you would like to get some d
inner,” she said.
“Yes,” answered Carl. “I hope you'll excuse my applying to you, but your son tells me there is no hotel near by.”
“The nearest one is three miles away from here.”
“I don't think I can hold out so long,” said Carl, smiling.
“Sit right down with Nat,” said the farmer's wife, hospitably. “Mr. Sweetser won't be home for half an hour. We've got enough, such as it is.”
Evidently Mrs. Sweetser was a good cook. The dinner consisted of boiled mutton, with several kinds of vegetables. A cup of tea and two kinds of pie followed.
It was hard to tell which of the two boys did fuller justice to the meal. Nat had the usual appetite of a healthy farm boy, and Carl, in spite of his recent anxieties, and narrow escape from serious peril, did not allow himself to fall behind.
“Your mother's a fine cook!” said Carl, between two mouthfuls.
“Ain't she, though?” answered Nat, his mouth full of pie.
When Carl rose from the table he feared that he had eaten more than his little stock of money would pay for.
“How much will it be, Mrs. Sweetser?” he asked.
“Oh, you're quite welcome to all you've had,” said the good woman, cheerily. “It's plain farmer's fare.”
“I never tasted a better dinner,” said Carl.
Mrs. Sweetser seemed pleased with the compliment to her cooking.
“Come again when you are passing this way,” she said. “You will always be welcome to a dinner.”
Carl thanked her heartily, and pressed on his way. Two hours later, at a lonely point of the road, an ill-looking tramp, who had been reclining by the wayside, jumped up, and addressed him in a menacing tone:
“Young feller, shell over all the money you have got, or I'll hurt you! I'm hard up, and I won't stand no nonsense.”
Carl started and looked into the face of the tramp. It seemed to him that he had never seen a man more ill-favored, or villainous-looking.
CHAPTER XI.
THE ARCHERY PRIZE.
SITUATED as he was, it seemed, on second thought, rather a joke to Carl to be attacked by a robber. He had but twenty-five cents in good money about him, and that he had just picked up by the merest chance.
“Do I look like a banker?” he asked, humorously. “Why do you want to rob a boy?”
“The way you're togged out, you must have something,” growled the tramp, “and I haven't got a penny.”
“Your business doesn't seem to pay, then?”
“Don't you make fun of me, or I'll wring your neck! Just hand over your money and be quick about it! I haven't time to stand fooling here all day.”
A bright idea came to Carl. He couldn't spare the silver coin, which constituted all his available wealth, but he still had the counterfeit note.
“You won't take all my money, will you?” he said, earnestly.
“How much have you got?” asked the tramp, pricking up his ears.
Carl, with apparent reluctance, drew out the ten-dollar bill.
The tramp's face lighted up.
“Is your name Vanderbilt?” he asked. “I didn't expect to make such a haul.”
“Can't you give me back a dollar out of it? I don't want to lose all I have.”
“I haven't got a cent. You'll have to wait till we meet again. So long, boy! You've helped me out of a scrape.”
“Or into one,” thought Carl.
The tramp straightened up, buttoned his dilapidated coat, and walked off with the consciousness of being a capitalist.
Carl watched him with a smile.
“I hope I won't meet him after he has discovered that the bill is a counterfeit,” he said to himself.
He congratulated himself upon being still the possessor of twenty-five cents in silver. It was not much, but it seemed a great deal better than being penniless. A week before he would have thought it impossible that such a paltry sum would have made him feel comfortable, but he had passed through a great deal since then.
About the middle of the afternoon he came to a field, in which something appeared to be going on. Some forty or fifty young persons, boys and girls, were walking about the grass, and seemed to be preparing for some interesting event.
Carl stopped to rest and look on.
“What's going on here?” he asked of a boy who was sitting on the fence.
“It's a meeting of the athletic association,” said the boy.
“What are they doing?”
“They try for prizes in jumping, vaulting, archery and so on.”
This interested Carl, who excelled in all manly exercises.
“I suppose I may stay and look on?” he said, inquiringly.
“Why, of course. Jump over the fence and I'll go round with you.”
It seemed pleasant to Carl to associate once more with boys of his own age. Thrown unexpectedly upon his own resources, he had almost forgotten that he was a boy. Face to face with a cold and unsympathizing world, he seemed to himself twenty-five at least.
“Those who wish to compete for the archery prize will come forward,” announced Robert Gardiner, a young man of nineteen, who, as Carl learned, was the president of the association. “You all understand the conditions. The entry fee to competitors is ten cents. The prize to the most successful archer is one dollar.”
Several boys came forward and paid the entrance fee.
“Would you like to compete?” asked Edward Downie, the boy whose acquaintance Carl had made.
“I am an outsider,” said Carl. “I don't belong to the association.”
“I'll speak to the president, if you like.”
“I don't want to intrude.”
“It won't be considered an intrusion. You pay the entrance fee and take your chances.”
Edward went to the president and spoke to him in a low voice. The result was that he advanced to Carl, and said, courteously:
“If you would like to enter into our games, you are quite at liberty to do so.”
“Thank you,” responded Carl. “I have had a little practice in archery, and will enter my name for that prize.”
He paid over his quarter and received back fifteen cents in change. It seemed rather an imprudent outlay, considering his small capital; but he had good hopes of carrying off the prize, and that would be a great lift for him. Seven boys entered besides Carl. The first was Victor Russell, a lad of fourteen, whose arrow went three feet above the mark.
“The prize is mine if none of you do better than that,” laughed Victor, good-naturedly.
“I hope not, for the credit of the club,” said the president. “Mr. Crawford, will you shoot next?”
“I would prefer to be the last,” said Carl, modestly.
“John Livermore, your turn now.”
John came a little nearer than his predecessor, but did not distinguish himself.
“If that is a specimen of the skill of the clubmen,” thought Carl, “my chance is a good one.”
Next came Frank Stockton, whose arrow stuck only three inches from the center of the target.
“Good for Fred!” cried Edward Downie. “Just wait till you see me shoot!”
“Are you a dangerous rival?” asked Carl, smiling.
“I can hit a barn door if I am only near enough,” replied Edward.
“Edward Downie!” called the president.
Edward took his bow and advanced to the proper place, bent it, and the arrow sped on its way.
There was a murmur of surprise when his arrow struck only an inch to the right of the centre. No one was more amazed than Edward himself, for he was accounted far from skillful. It was indeed a lucky accident.
“What do you say to that?” asked Edward, triumphantly.
“I think the prize is yours. I had no idea you could shoot like that,” said Carl.
“Nor I,” rejoined Edward, laughing.
“Carl Crawford!” called the president.
Carl took his position, and bent his bow with the grea
test care. He exercised unusual deliberation, for success meant more to him than to any of the others. A dollar to him in his present circumstances would be a small fortune, while the loss of even ten cents would be sensibly felt. His heart throbbed with excitement as he let the arrow speed on its mission.
His unusual deliberation, and the fact that he was a stranger, excited strong interest, and all eyes followed the arrow with eager attentiveness.
There was a sudden shout of irrepressible excitement.
Carl's arrow had struck the bull's-eye and the prize was his.
“Christopher!” exclaimed Edward Downie, “you've beaten me, after all!”
“I'm almost sorry,” said Carl, apologetically, but the light in his eyes hardly bore out the statement.
“Never mind. Everybody would have called it a fluke if I had won,” said Edward. “I expect to get the prize for the long jump. I am good at that.”
“So am I, but I won't compete; I will leave it to you.”
“No, no. I want to win fair.”
Carl accordingly entered his name. He made the second best jump, but Edward's exceeded his by a couple of inches, and the prize was adjudged to him.
“I have my revenge,” he said, smiling. “I am glad I won, for it wouldn't have been to the credit of the club to have an outsider carry off two prizes.”
“I am perfectly satisfied,” said Carl; “I ought to be, for I did not expect to carry off any.”
Carl decided not to compete for any other prize. He had invested twenty cents and got back a dollar, which left him a profit of eighty cents. This, with his original quarter, made him the possessor of a dollar and five cents.
“My luck seems to have turned,” he said to himself, and the thought gave him fresh courage.
It was five o'clock when the games were over, and Carl prepared to start again on his journey.
“Where are you going to take supper?” asked Downie.
“I--don't--know.”
“Come home with me. If you are in no hurry, you may as well stay overnight, and go on in the morning.”
“Are you sure it won't inconvenience you?”
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