Horatio Alger - Andy Gordon

Andy went up to the front door, and used the old brass knocker vigorously, but there was no response.

“I suppose Mr. Starr is somewhere about the place,” he said to himself, and bent his steps toward the barn.

There he found the man of whom he was in search.

Joshua Starr was attired in a much-patched suit, which might have been new thirty years before. Certainly he did not set the rising generation a wasteful example in the matter of dress.

The old man espied Andy just before he got within hearing distance, and guessed his errand.

“Howdy do, Andy Gordon?” he said, in a quavering voice.

“All right!” answered Andy, coolly.

If it had been anyone else, he would have added, “thank you,” but he did not feel like being ordinarily polite to the man who was conspiring to defraud his mother.

“I’m tollable myself,” said Joshua, though Andy had not inquired. “The rheumatiz catches me sometimes and hurts me a sight.”

“You ought to expect it at your age,” said Andy.

“I ain’t so very old,” said Mr. Starr, uneasily.

“How old are you?”

“Sixty-nine.”

“That seems pretty old to me.”

“My father lived to be nigh on to eighty,” said Joshua. “He wa’n’t no healthier than I be, as I know of.”

“You might live to be as old, if you would eat nourishing food.”

“So I do! Who says I don’t?”

“Nancy Gray, the girl that worked for you, says you didn’t allow yourself enough to eat.”

“That girl!” groaned the old man. “It’s well I got red on her, or she’d have eaten me out of house and home. She eat three times as much as I did, and I’m a hardworking man and need more than she does.”

“I suppose you know what I’ve come to speak to you about, Mr. Starr,” said Andy, thinking it time to come to business.

“Have you come to pay that note I hold agin’ your mother?” asked the old man, with suppressed eagerness.

“My mother owes you nothing,” said Andy, firmly.

“You’re mistaken, Andy. She owes me a hundred dollars and interest, and I’ve got the dockyment to prove it.”

“You know very well, Mr. Starr, that my father paid you that money long ago.”

“When did he pay it?”

“Just before he started for the war. You needn’t ask, for you know better than I do.”

“Yes, I do know better’n you do,” said the old man. “Ef he paid it, why didn’t he get the note? I’d like to know that, Andy Gordon.”

“That’s easily answered. It was because you pretended you had mislaid it, and you asked him to take a receipt instead.”

“That ain’t a very likely story, Andy. Still, ef you’ve got the receipt to show, it may make a difference.”

“We haven’t been able to find the receipt,” said Andy.

“Of course you ain’t, and a good reason why. There never was any receipt. You don’t expect I’d give a receipt when the note wasn’t paid.”

“No, I don’t; but we both know the note was paid.”

“Then, all I can say is you was mighty shif’less to lose it,” said the old man, chuckling.

“An honorable man wouldn’t take advantage of such a loss, Mr. Starr. He wouldn’t be willing to defraud a poor widow, even if he had the power to do it.”

“You’re wandering from the p’int, Andrew. Ef the money was paid, you can show the receipt, and then I won’t have another word to say.”

“I am afraid my father must have taken the receipt with him when he went to the war.”

“Jes’ so – jes’ so!” chuckled Mr. Starr, his chuckle bringing on a fit of coughing.

“What do you mean to do?” asked Andy, a little anxiously.

“Waal, I want to collect my money. A hundred dollars is a good deal of money. I can’t afford to lose it.”

“We don’t owe it.”

“The law says you do.”

“At any rate, we can’t pay it. We have no money.”

“Ain’t your mother got her pension, Andrew?”

“Yes, she has, and she will keep it! Not a cent will you get out of it!”

“Then I’ll have to take your furniture,” said Mr. Starr, placidly.

“I believe you are the meanest man in town!” said Andy, indignantly.

“I want my own property,” said the old man, doggedly, “and you may tell your mother so.”

While the two had been conversing, the old man, shovel in hand, had led the way into the barnyard, where there were three cows.

One of them, unseen by Mr. Starr, being out of humor, probably, lowered her head and, approaching the old man from behind, fairly lifted him up to a sitting position on her head. Mechanically he grasped her horns, and in this position was carried rapidly round the yard, much to his own dismay and Andy’s amusement.

“Take her off, Andy!” exclaimed the frightened and bewildered old man. “She’ll kill me!”

“If I touch her, she’ll throw you on the ground,” said Andy, between paroxysms of laughter.

“Do somethin’ to help me, or I’m a dead man!” shrieked Joshua, clinging tighter to the cow’s horns. “If you’ll help me, I’ll take off a dollar from the note.”

Andy knew that the old man was in no real danger, and stood still, while the triumphant cow ran about the yard with her terrified master between her horns.

“Oh, dear! Will nobody help me?” howled Joshua. “Is the cow crazy?”

“I think she must be, Mr. Starr,” said Andy, gravely.

“I shall be killed, and I’m only sixty-nine!” wailed the old man, who by this time had lost his hat.

“Shall I shoot her?” asked Andy, displaying a toy pistol, which was quite harmless.

“No, don’t!” exclaimed the old man, turning pale. “You might hit me! Besides, I gave thirty dollars for her. Oh, I never expected to die this way,” he added, dismally.

But the cow was by this time tired of her burden, and, with a jerk of her head, dislodged her proprietor, who fell prostrate in a pile of manure.

Andy ran to pick him up, and helped him into the house.

“Do you think any of my bones is broken?” asked Joshua, anxiously.

“I don’t see how they can be. You fell in a soft place,” said Andy, wanting to laugh.

“I’ll sell that cow as quick as I get a chance,” said Joshua. “Don’t you tell anybody what’s happened, or you may spile the sale.”

Andy tried to introduce the subject of the note again, but Joshua was too full of the accident to talk about it. Finally, discouraged by his poor success, he went home.

On the way he met Louis Schick, a schoolfellow, of German extraction, who hailed him.

“You’d better go to the post office, Andy. There’s a big parcel there for your mother.”

“A parcel?”

“Yes; it’s too big for a letter.”

Wondering what it could be, Andy went to the post office.

The parcel he found there was of great importance.

The village post office was located in a drug store, and the druggist had plenty of time to attend to the duties of the office, as well as the calls of his regular customers.

Hamilton was so healthy a village that it hardly furnished a sufficient demand for drugs and medicines to support a man of the most moderate tastes. But, with the addition of his salary as postmaster, Mr. Bolus was able to maintain a small family in comfort.

“I suppose you want some pills, Andy?” said Mr. Bolus, as our hero entered the office.

“No, sir,” answered Andy. “I hope I shan’t want any of them for a long time to come. Louis Schick told me there was something in the office for mother.”

“So there is – and a large parcel, too.”

He went into the post-office corner and produced a large, thick parcel, wrapped in a long, yellow envelope.