Horatio Alger - Andy Gordon

“I don’t see that. The proposal was perfectly regular.”

“He thought, in case my husband lost the receipt, he would have the note and could demand payment over again. Oh, it was a rascally plot!”

“But,” said the lawyer, “I suppose you have the receipt, and, in that case, you have only to show it.”

“I am sorry to say that I have not been able to find it anywhere. I have hunted high and low, and I am afraid my poor husband must have carried it away in his wallet when he went South with his regiment. The note was paid only the day before he left, out of the bounty money he received from the State.”

“That would certainly be unfortunate,” said Lawyer Ross, veiling the satisfaction he felt, “for you will, in that case, have to pay the money over again.”

“Can the law be so unjust?” asked Mrs. Gordon, in dismay.

“You cannot call it unjust. As you cannot prove the payment of the money, you will have to bear the consequences.”

“But I have no money. I cannot pay!”

“You have your pension,” said the lawyer. “You can pay out of that. My client may be willing to accept quarterly installments.”

“I need all I have for the support of Andy and myself.”

“Then I am afraid – I am really afraid – my client will levy upon your furniture.”

“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed the poor woman, in agitation. “Can such things be allowed in a civilized country?”

“I don’t think you look upon the affair in the right light, Mrs. Gordon,” said Lawyer Ross, rising from the rocking-chair in which he had been seated. “It is a common thing, and quite regular, I can assure you. I will venture to give you a week to find the receipt, though not authorized by my client to do so. Good-afternoon!”

As he was going out he met, on the threshold, Andy, excited and out of breath.

The boy just caught a glimpse of his mother in tears, through the open door of the sitting room, and said to Mr. Ross, whom he judged to be responsible for his mother’s grief:

“What have you been saying to my mother, to make her cry?”

“Stand aside, boy! It’s none of your business,” said the lawyer, who lost all his blandness when he saw the boy who had assaulted his son.

“My mother’s business is mine,” said Andy, firmly.

“You will have enough to do to attend to your own affairs,” said the lawyer, with a sneer. “You made a great mistake when you made a brutal assault upon my son.”

“And you have come to revenge yourself upon my mother?” demanded Andy, in a tone indicating so much scorn that the lawyer, case-hardened as he was, couldn’t help winding.

“You are mistaken,” he said, remembering his determination to appear only as agent. “I came on business of my client, Mr. Starr. I shall take a future opportunity to settle with you.”

He walked away, and Andy entered the cottage to learn from his mother what had passed between her and the lawyer.

This was soon communicated, and gave our hero considerable anxiety, for he felt that Mr. Starr, though his claim was a dishonest one, might nevertheless be able to enforce it.

“How did Mr. Ross treat you, mother?” he asked, fearing that the lawyer might have made his errand unnecessarily unpleasant.

“Mr. Ross was very polite, Andy,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“Then he didn’t say anything rude or insulting?”

“No; far from it. He was very pleasant. He is acting only as the agent of Mr. Starr.”

Andy was puzzled.

“Did he say anything about a quarrel between his son Herbert and myself?” he inquired.

“Not a word. I didn’t know there had been one.”

Thereupon Andy told the story with which we are already familiar.

“I thought he had come about that,” he said.

“I wish he had. It wouldn’t give us as much trouble as this note. He says we will have to pay it if we can’t find the receipt.”

“I wish old Starr was choked with one of his own turnips,” said Andy, indignantly.

“Don’t speak so, Andy!”

“I mean it, mother. Why, the old swindler knows that the note has been paid, but he means to get a second payment because we can’t prove that it has been paid once.”

“It is very dishonorable, Andy, I admit.”

“Dishonorable! I should say it was. He knows that we are poor, and have nothing except your pension, while he is rich. He was too mean to marry, and has no one to leave his money to, and he can’t live many years.”

“That is all true, Andy.”

“I would like to disappoint the old skinflint.”

“The only way is to find the receipt, and I am afraid we can’t do that.”

“I’ll hunt all the evening,” said Andy, resolutely. “It may come to light somewhere.”

“I have hunted everywhere that I could think of, and I am afraid it must be as I have long thought, that your poor father carried it away with him when he left for the army.”

“If that is the case,” said Andy, seriously, “we can never find it.”

“No; in that case Mr. Starr has us at his mercy.”

“What can we do?”

“Mr. Ross says he may agree to receive payment by installments from my pension.”

“He shan’t get a cent of your pension, mother!” said Andy, indignantly.

“Or else,” continued the widow, “he may levy on our furniture.”

“Did Mr. Ross say that?” asked Andy.

“Yes.”

“I begin to think,” thought Andy, “that Mr. Ross himself is interested in this matter. In spite of what he says, I believe he means to punish us for what passed between Herbert and myself.”

If this was the case, Andy felt that matters were getting serious. All the more diligently he hunted for the lost receipt, leaving not a nook or cranny of the little cottage unexplored, but his search was in vain. The receipt could not be found.

“Mother,” said he, as he took the candle to go to bed, “there’s only one thing left to do. To-morrow is Saturday, and I shan’t need to go to school. I’ll call on Mr. Starr, and see if I can’t shame him into giving up his claim on us.”

“There’s no hope of that,” said Mrs. Gordon. “You don’t know the man.”

“Yes, I do! I know he is a mean skinflint, but I can’t do any worse than fail. I will try it.”

The farmhouse of Mr. Joshua Starr was situated about a mile from the village. It was a dilapidated old building, standing very much in need of paint and repairs, but the owner felt too poor to provide either.

Mr. Starr had never married. From early manhood to the age of sixty-nine he had lived in the same old house, using the same furniture, part of the time cooking for himself.

At one time he employed a young girl of fourteen, whom he had taken from the poorhouse to do his household work. She was not an accomplished cook, but that was unnecessary, for Mr. Starr had never desired a liberal table. She could cook well enough to suit him, but he finally dismissed her for two reasons. First, he begrudged paying her seventy-five cents a week, which he had agreed with the selectmen to do, in order to give the girl the means of supplying herself with decent clothes; and, secondly, he was appalled by her appetite, which, though no greater than might be expected of a growing girl, seemed to him enormous.

At the time of which we speak, Mr. Starr was living alone. He had to employ some help outside, but in the house he took care of himself.

It was certainly a miserable way of living for a man who, besides his farm, had accumulated, by dint of meanness, not far from ten thousand dollars, in money and securities, and owned his farm clear, in addition.