Horatio Alger - Cast Upon the Breakers

“I would rather pay you the whole amount of your bill,” said Rodney.

“Ahem! Well perhaps that would be more business-like. So you don’t wish to part with any of the jewelry, Ropes?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought, perhaps, by way of helping you, I would take the earrings, and perhaps the necklace, off your hands and present them to Mrs. Sampson.”

Rodney shuddered with aversion at the idea of these precious articles, which had once belonged to his mother, being transferred to the stout and coarse featured consort of the principal.

“I think I would rather keep them,” he replied.

“Oh well, just as you please,” said Dr. Sampson with a shade of disappointment for he had no idea of paying more than half what the articles were worth. “If the time comes when you wish to dispose of them let me know.”

Rodney nodded, but did not answer in words.

“Of course, Ropes,” went on the doctor in a perfunctory way, “I am very sorry for you. I shall miss you, and, if I could afford it, I would tell you to stay without charge. But I am a poor man.”

“Yes,” said Rodney hastily, “I understand. I thank you for your words but would not under any circumstances accept such a favor at your hands.”

“I am afraid you are proud, Ropes. Pride is—ahem—a wrong feeling.”

“Perhaps so, Dr. Sampson, but I wish to earn my own living without being indebted to any one.”

“Perhaps you are right, Ropes. I dare say I should feel so myself. When do you propose leaving us?”

“Some time tomorrow, sir.”

“I shall feel sad to have you go. You have been here so long that you seem to me like a son. But we must submit to the dispensations of Providence—” and Dr. Sampson blew a vigorous blast upon his red silk handkerchief. “I will give you the balance due in the morning.”

“Very well, sir.”

Rodney was glad to be left alone. He had no faith in Dr. Sampson’s sympathy. The doctor had the reputation of being worth from thirty to forty thousand dollars, and his assumption of being a poor man Rodney knew to be a sham.

He went to bed early, for tomorrow was to be the beginning of a new life for him.

When it was generally known in the school that Rodney was to leave because he had lost his property much sympathy was felt and expressed for him.

Though he had received more than ordinary attention from the principal on account of his pecuniary position and expectations, this had not impaired his popularity. He never put on any airs and was on as cordial relations with the poorest student as with the richest.

“I’m awfully sorry you’re going, Rodney,” said more than one. “Is it really true that you have lost your property?”

“Yes, it is true.”

“Do you feel bad about it?”

“I feel sorry, but not discouraged.”

“I say, Rodney,” said Ernest Rayner, in a low voice, calling Rodney aside, “are you very short of money?”

“I haven’t much left, Ernest.”

“Because I received five dollars last week as a birthday present. I haven’t spent any of it. You can have it as well as not.”

Rodney was much moved. “My dear Ernest,” he said, putting his arm caressingly around the neck of the smaller boy, “you are a true friend. I won’t forget your generous offer, though I don’t need to accept it.”

“But are you sure you have money enough?” asked Ernest.

“Yes, I have enough for the present. By the time I need more I shall have earned it.”

There was one boy, already introduced, John Bundy, who did not share in the general feeling of sympathy for Rodney. This was John Bundy.

He felt that Rodney’s departure would leave him the star pupil and give him the chief social position in school. As to scholarship he was not ambitious to stand high in that.

“I say, Ropes,” he said complacently, “I’m to have your room after you’re gone.”

“I congratulate you,” returned Rodney. “It is an excellent room.”

“Yes, I s’pose it’ll make you feel bad. Where are you going?”

“I hope you will enjoy it as much as I have done.”

“Oh yes, I guess there’s no doubt of that. I’m going to get pa to send me some nice pictures to hang on the wall. When you come back here on a visit you’ll see how nice it looks.”

“I think it will be a good while before I come here on a visit.”

“Yes. I s’pose it’ll make you feel bad. Where are you going?”

“To the City of New York.”

“You’ll have to live in a small hall bedroom there.”

“Why will I?”

“Because you are poor, and it costs a good deal of money to live in New York. It’ll be a great come down.”

“It will indeed, but if I can earn enough to support me in plain style I won’t complain. I suppose you’ll call and see me when you come to New York?”

“Perhaps so, if you don’t live in a tenement house. Pa objects to my going to tenement houses. There’s no knowing what disease there may be in them.”

“It is well to be prudent,” said Rodney, smiling.

It did not trouble him much to think he was not likely to receive a call from his quondan schoolmate.

“Here is the balance of your money, Ropes,” said Dr. Sampson, drawing a small roll of bills from his pocket, later in the day. “I am quite willing to give you the odd thirty seven cents.”

“Thank you, doctor, but I shan’t need it.”

“You are poorly provided. Now I would pay you a good sum for some of your mother’s jewelry, as I told you last evening.”

“Thank you,” said Rodney hastily, “but I don’t care to sell at present.”

“Let me know when you are ready to dispose of the necklace.”

Here the depot carriage appeared in the street outside and Rodney with his gripsack in one hand and the precious casket in the other, climbed to a seat beside the driver.

His trunk he left behind, promising to send for it when he had found a new boarding place.

There was a chorus of good byes. Rodney waved his handkerchief in general farewell, and the carriage started for the depot.

“Be you goin’ for good?” asked Joel, the driver, who knew Rodney well and felt friendly to him.

“Yes, Joel.”

“It’s kind of sudden, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you go?”

“Bad news, Joel.”

“Be any of your folks dead?”

“It is not death. I haven’t any ‘folks.’ I’m alone in the world. It’s because I’ve lost my property and am too poor to remain in school.”

“That’s too bad,” said the driver in a tone of sympathy. “Where are you goin’?”

“To the city.”

“Are you goin’ to work?”

“Yes, I shall have to.”

“If you was a little older you might get a chance to drive a street car, but I s’pose you’re too young.”

“Yes, I don’t think they would take me.”

“I’ve thought sometimes I should like such a chance myself,” said Joel. “I’ve got tired of the country. I should like to live in the city where there’s theaters, and shows, and such like. Do you know what the drivers on street cars get?”

“No, I never heard.”

“I wish you’d find out and let me know. You can send the letter to Joel Phipps, Groveton. Then find out if it’s easy to get such a chance.”

“I will. I shall be glad to oblige you.”

“You always was obligin’, Rodney. I’ve asked Jack Bundy to do it—you know his folks live in the city—but he never would. He’s a mighty disagreeable boy. He never liked you.”

“Didn’t he?”

“No, I surmise he was jealous of you. He used to say you put on so many airs it made him sick.”