Horatio Alger - Mark Manning's Mission

"What is his name?" asked Lyman Taylor.

"Mark Manning."

"Does he live in the village?"

"Yes; his mother is a poor widow."

"Where did you meet him?" asked Tom.

"At a cabin in the woods."

"Old Anthony's?"

"Yes; the hermit is an uncle of mine."

The two boys regarded the speaker with interest. All the villagers had some curiosity about the man who had settled so near them.

"What is his name?" inquired Tom.

"You called him old Anthony," said Lyman, smiling. "That is his name."

"But his other name?"

"His last name is Taylor, I have not seen him before for five years. Does he often come into the village?"

"About twice a week."

"I suppose he comes to buy food?"

"Yes; I suppose so."

"Does he appear to be provided with money?" asked Taylor with some eagerness.

"Yes, I believe so," replied Tom. "He has sometimes come into our place—father is the postmaster—to get a gold piece changed. But I don't suppose he has much money. It doesn't cost him much to live."

"Does he ever get any letters—as your father is postmaster, you can probably tell."

"I don't think so; my father has never mentioned it, and I think he would if any had been received."

"What sort of a boy is this Mark Manning?" asked Taylor abruptly.

"I don't think much of him," answered James. "He is poor and proud. He is only a pegger in our shop, but he puts on airs with the best."

"Do you think he is honest?"

The two boys looked surprised; that question had never occurred to them.

"What makes you ask?" inquired James.

"Only that he has in his possession a sum of money belonging to my uncle."

"Did he tell you so? did you see it?" were the questions quickly asked.

"I met him at my uncle's cabin. My uncle owed me a small sum, and instead of paying me himself, he asked this boy to pay me. The boy took the money from his pocket, and handed it to me."

Both boys were surprised.

"I didn't know he had anything to do with the hermit," said Tom. "Did you, James?"

"No; but then I don't trouble myself about Mark Manning's affairs."

Lyman Taylor regarded James shrewdly, he had no difficulty in detecting the boy's dislike towards Mark.

"Excuse my troubling you with questions, young gentlemen," he said. "My uncle is a simple-minded old man, and it would be easy to rob him, though I fancy he hasn't much money. This boy Mark appeared to me an artful young rogue, who might very probably cheat him out of the small sum he has."

"I never saw the two together," said Tom, musingly. "Old Anthony has generally paid his bills himself."

"He is sick just now, and perhaps that accounts for it. The boy Mark has been making purchases for him in the village. However, I must leave the place, as important business calls me elsewhere. Since you," addressing Tom, "are the postmaster's son, may I ask a favor of you?"

"Certainly."

"If my uncle should die, can I trouble you to send me a note informing me, as I should feel called upon, as his only relative, to see that he was properly buried."

"Yes, sir; I will write you, if you will leave me your address."

Lyman Taylor gave Tom the same address he had already given Mark. He then bade the boys good-bye, and walked on.

"Uncle Anthony may have some money," he soliloquized, "and if he dies, I shall see if I can find it. I am pretty sure to hear through one of the boys."

On their way home the two boys had occasion to cross a pasture belonging to Deacon Miller, an old farmer whose house and barn were about a furlong distant on a rising ground.

They sauntered along in single file. James had a careless way of carrying his gun, which made some of the boys unwilling to accompany him, unless it was unloaded. Tom had two or three times cautioned him on this very afternoon, but James did not receive his remonstrance in good part.

"Don't trouble yourself so much about my gun, Tom Wyman," he said. "I guess I know how to carry my gun as well as you do."

"I don't doubt that in the least, James, but you must admit that you handle it rather carelessly. Some of the boys don't like to go hunting with you."

"Then they are cowards. I never shot any boy yet," answered James, with some heat.

"No, but you might."

"You are making a great deal of fuss about nothing. I didn't think you were so timid."

"I don't know that I am particularly timid, but I shouldn't like to be riddled with shot," returned Tom, good-humoredly.

"Then you'd better get your life insured when you go out with me next," sneered James.

"I don't know but I shall," said Tom, declining to take offense.

For a very brief period James carried his gun more carefully. Then he forgot his caution, and in transferring his gun from one shoulder to the other somehow he touched the hammer, and the gun was discharged.

It was most unfortunate, but when the gun went off it was pointed directly at a white-faced cow belonging to Deacon Miller.

The small shot penetrated both the poor animal's eyes, and with a moan of anguish the cow sank to the ground.

Both boys stared in dismay at the victim of carelessness.

"There, you've gone and done it now, James," said Tom. "You've shot Deacon Miller's cow."

"I don't see how I happened to do it," stammered James, really frightened.

"I told you not to carry your gun so carelessly."

"You told me! Of course you want to get me into trouble about this!" exclaimed James, irritably.

"No, I don't."

"Then," said James, quickly, "don't say a word about it. We'll get home as soon as we can, and won't know anything about it. Mum's the word!"

"Of course I'll be mum, but it will be known that we have been out with guns this afternoon."

"So has Mark Manning."

James looked significantly at Tom, and Tom understood.

Poor Mark was to bear the blame for a deed he didn't do, and all to screen James.

"It's mean!" Tom said to himself, "but I can't go back on James. I want to keep in with him, and I suppose I must consent."

"Well?" demanded James, impatiently.

"It won't come out through me," answered Tom, but not with alacrity.

"And if Mark is accused you won't say anything?"

"N-o!" said Tom, slowly.

"Then let us put for home!"

James suited the action to the word, and the two boys hurried across the pasture, never venturing to look back at the suffering animal.

Fifteen minutes later, when James and Tom were already at home, Mark Manning entered the narrow foot-path that led across the pasture.

He was immersed in thought, the hermit and his strange experience at the cabin being the subject of his reflections, when he heard a pitiful moaning, not far from him.

Looking up he observed that it proceeded from old Whitey, as the deacon was accustomed to call his favorite cow.

"What's the matter with you, old Whitey?" said Mark, who was always moved by distress, whether in man or beast.

Coming nearer, he was not long left in doubt. The nature of the injury which the poor cow had received was evident to him.

"Poor old Whitey!" he said, pitifully. "Who has shot you in this cruel manner?"

The sole answer was a moan of anguish from the stricken animal.

"I am afraid she will have to be killed!" thought Mark, sadly. "It is only torture for her to live with this injury, and of course there is no cure."

He was still standing beside the cow, gun in hand, when a harsh voice became audible.

"What have you done to my cow, Mark Manning?"

Looking up, he saw the deacon but four rods distant.

Deacon Miller was an old man, of giant form, and harsh, irregular features. He was a very unpopular man in the neighborhood, and deservedly so. He had made home so disagreeable that his only son had gone away fifteen years before, and the deacon had never heard from him since.