Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

Ferdinand B. Kensington.

It has already been mentioned that John Clapp and Luke Harrison were intimate.  Though their occupations differed, one being a printer and the other a shoemaker, they had similar tastes, and took similar views of life.  Both were discontented with the lot which Fortune had assigned them.  To work at the case, or the shoe-bench, seemed equally irksome, and they often lamented to each other the hard necessity which compelled them to it.  Suppose we listen to their conversation, as they walked up the village street, one evening about this time, smoking cigars.

“I say, Luke,” said John Clapp, “I’ve got tired of this kind of life.  Here I’ve been in the office a year, and I’m not a cent richer than when I entered it, besides working like a dog all the while.”

“Just my case,” said Luke.  “I’ve been shoe-makin’ ever since I was fourteen, and I’ll be blest if I can show five dollars, to save my life.”

“What’s worse,” said Clapp, “there isn’t any prospect of anything better in my case.  What’s a feller to do on fifteen dollars a week?”

“Won’t old Anderson raise your wages?”

“Not he!  He thinks I ought to get rich on what he pays me now,” and Clapp laughed scornfully.  “If I were like Ferguson, I might.  He never spends a cent without taking twenty-four hours to think it over beforehand.”

My readers, who are familiar with Mr. Ferguson’s views and ways of life, will at once see that this was unjust, but justice cannot be expected from an angry and discontented man.

“Just so,” said Luke.  “If a feller was to live on bread and water, and get along with one suit of clothes a year, he might save something, but that aint my style.”

“Nor mine.”

“It’s strange how lucky some men are,” said Luke.  “They get rich without tryin’.  I never was lucky.  I bought a ticket in a lottery once, but of course I didn’t draw anything.  Just my luck!”

“So did I,” said Clapp, “but I fared no better.  It seemed as if Fortune had a spite against me.  Here I am twenty-five years old, and all I’m worth is two dollars and a half, and I owe more than that to the tailor.”

“You’re as rich as I am,” said Luke.  “I only get fourteen dollars a week.  That’s less than you do.”

“A dollar more or less don’t amount to much,” said Clapp.  “I’ll tell you what it is, Luke,” he resumed after a pause, “I’m getting sick of Centreville.”

“So am I,” said Luke, “but it don’t make much difference.  If I had fifty dollars, I’d go off and try my luck somewhere else, but I’ll have to wait till I’m gray-headed before I get as much as that.”

“Can’t you borrow it?”

“Who’d lend it to me?”

“I don’t know.  If I did, I’d go in for borrowing myself.  I wish there was some way of my getting to California.”

“California!” repeated Luke with interest.  “What would you do there?”

“I’d go to the mines.”

“Do you think there’s money to be made there?”

“I know there is,” said Clapp, emphatically.

“How do you know it?”

“There’s an old school-mate of mine—­Ralph Smith—­went out there two years ago.  Last week he returned home—­I heard it in a letter—­and how much do you think he brought with him?”

“How much?”

“Eight thousand dollars!”

“Eight thousand dollars!  He didn’t make it all at the mines, did he?”

“Yes, he did.  When he went out there, he had just money enough to pay his passage.  Now, after only two years, he can lay off and live like a gentleman.”

“He’s been lucky, and no mistake.”

“You bet he has.  But we might be as lucky if we were only out there.”

“Ay, there’s the rub.  A fellow can’t travel for nothing.”

At this point in their conversation, a well-dressed young man, evidently a stranger in the village, met them, and stopping, asked politely for a light.

This Clapp afforded him.

“You are a stranger in the village?” he said, with some curiosity.

“Yes, I was never here before.  I come from New York.”

“Indeed!  If I lived in New York I’d stay there, and not come to such a beastly place as Centreville.”

“Do you live here?” asked the stranger.

“Yes.”

“I wonder you live in such a beastly place,” he said, with a smile.

“You wouldn’t, if you knew the reason.”

“What is the reason?”

“I can’t get away.”

The stranger laughed.

“Cruel parents?” he asked.

“Not much,” said Clapp.  “The plain reason is, that I haven’t got money enough to get me out of town.”

“It’s the same with me,” said Luke Harrison.

“Gentlemen, we are well met,” said the stranger.  “I’m hard up myself.”

“You don’t look like it,” said Luke, glancing at his rather flashy attire.

“These clothes are not paid for,” said the stranger, laughing; “and what’s more, I don’t think they are likely to be.  But, I take it, you gentlemen are better off than I in one respect.  You’ve got situations—­something to do.”

“Yes, but on starvation pay,” said Clapp.  “I’m in the office of the ‘Centreville Gazette.’”

“And I’m in a shoemaker’s shop.  It’s a beastly business for a young man of spirit,” said Luke.

“Well, I’m a gentleman at large, living on my wits, and pretty poor living it is sometimes,” said the stranger.  “As I think we’ll agree together pretty well, I’m glad I’ve met you.  We ought to know each other better.  There’s my card.”

He drew from his pocket a highly glazed piece of pasteboard, bearing the name,

    FREDERICK B. Kensington.

“I haven’t any cards with me,” said Clapp, “but my name is John Clapp.”

“And mine is Luke Harrison,” said the bearer of that appellation.

“I’m proud to know you, gentlemen.  If you have no objection, we’ll walk on together.”

To this Clapp and Luke acceded readily.  Indeed, they were rather proud of being seen in company with a young man so dashing in manner, and fashionably dressed, though in a pecuniary way their new acquaintance, by his own confession, was scarcely as well off as themselves.

“Where are you staying, Mr. Kensington?” said Clapp.

“At the hotel.  It’s a poor place.  No style.”

“Of course not.  I can’t help wondering, Mr. Kensington, what can bring you to such a one-horse place as this.”

“I don’t mind telling you, then.  The fact is, I’ve got an old aunt living about two miles from here.  She’s alone in the world—­got neither chick nor child—­and is worth at least ten thousand dollars.  Do you see?”

“I think I do,” said Clapp.  “You want to come in for a share of the stamps.”

“Yes; I want to see if I can’t get something out of the old girl,” said Kensington, carelessly.

“Do you think the chance is good?”

“I don’t know.  I hear she’s pretty tight-fisted.  But I’ve run on here on the chance of doing something.  If she will only make me her heir, and give me five hundred dollars in hand, I’ll go to California, and see what’ll turn up.”

“California!” repeated John Clapp and Luke in unison.

“Yes; were you ever there?”

“No; but we were talking of going there just as you came up,” said John.  “An old school-mate of mine has just returned from there with eight thousand dollars in gold.”

“Lucky fellow!  That’s the kind of haul I’d like to make.”

“Do you know how much it costs to go out there?”

“The prices are down just at present.  You can go for a hundred dollars—­second cabin.”

“It might as well be a thousand!” said Luke.  “Clapp and I can’t raise a hundred dollars apiece to save our lives.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Kensington.  “You two fellows are just the company I’d like.  If I can raise five hundred dollars out of the old girl, I’ll take you along with me, and you can pay me after you get out there.”

John Clapp and Luke Harrison were astounded at this liberal offer from a perfect stranger, but they had no motives of delicacy about accepting it.  They grasped the hand of their new friend, and assured him that nothing would suit them so well.

“All right!” said Kensington.  “Then it’s agreed.  Now, boys, suppose we go round to the tavern, and ratify our compact by a drink.”

“I say amen to that,” answered Clapp, “but I insist on standing treat.”

“Just as you say,” said Kensington.  “Come along.”

It was late when the three parted company.  Luke and John Clapp were delighted with their new friend, and, as they staggered home with uncertain steps, they indulged in bright visions of future prosperity.