Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Harry at once showed Ferguson the letter he had received.

“What are you going to do about it?” asked his friend.

“I should like to buy the paper, but I don’t see how I can.  Mr.
Anderson wants two thousand dollars cash.”

“How much have you got?”

“Only five hundred.”

“I have seven hundred and fifty,” said Ferguson, thoughtfully.

Harry’s face brightened.

“Why can’t we go into partnership?” he asked.

“That is what we spoke of once,” said Ferguson, “and it would suit me perfectly; but there is a difficulty.  Your money and mine added together will not be enough.”

“Perhaps Mr. Anderson would take a mortgage on the establishment for the balance.”

“I don’t think so.  He says expressly that he wants cash.”

Harry looked disturbed.

“Do you think any one would lend us the money on the same terms?” he asked, after a while.

“Squire Trevor is the only man in the village likely to have money to lend.  There he is in the street now.  Run down, Harry, and ask him to step in a minute.”

Our hero seized his hat, and did as requested.  He returned immediately, followed by Squire Trevor, a stout, puffy little man, reputed shrewd and a capitalist.

“Excuse our calling you in, Squire Trevor,” said Ferguson, “but we want to consult you on a matter of business.  Harry, just show the squire Mr. Anderson’s letter.”

The squire read it deliberately.

“Do you want my advice?” he said, looking up from the perusal.  “Buy the paper.  It is worth what Anderson asks for it.”

“So I think, but there is a difficulty.  Harry and I can only raise twelve hundred dollars or so between us.”

“Give a note for the balance.  You’ll be able to pay it off in two years, if you prosper.”

“I am afraid that won’t do.  Mr. Anderson wants cash.  Can’t you lend us the money, Squire Trevor?” continued Ferguson, bluntly.

The village capitalist shook his head.

“If you had asked me last week I could have obliged you,” he said; “but I was in Boston day before yesterday, and bought some railway stock which is likely to enhance in value.  That leaves me short.”

“Then you couldn’t manage it?” said Ferguson, soberly.

“Not at present,” said the squire, decidedly.

“Then we must write to Mr. Anderson, offering what we have, and a mortgage to secure the rest.”

“That will be your best course.”

“He may agree to our terms,” said Harry, hopefully, after their visitor had left the office.

“We will hope so, at all events.”

A letter was at once despatched, and in a week the answer was received.

“I am sorry,” Mr. Anderson wrote, “to decline your proposals, but, I have immediate need of the whole sum which I ask for the paper.  If I cannot obtain it, I shall come back to Centreville, though I would prefer to remain here.”

Upon the receipt of this letter, Ferguson gave up his work for the forenoon, and made a tour of the Village, calling upon all who he thought were likely to have money to lend.  He had small expectation of success, but felt that he ought to try everywhere before giving up so good a chance.

While he was absent, Harry had a welcome visitor.  It was no other than Professor Henderson, the magician, in whose employ he had spent three months some years before, as related in “Bound to Rise.”

“Take a seat, professor,” said Harry, cordially.  “I am delighted to see you.”

“How you have grown, Harry!” said the professor.  “Why, I should hardly have known you!”

“We haven’t met since I left you to enter this office.”

“No; it is nearly three years.  How do you like the business?”

“Very much indeed.”

“Are you doing well?”

“I receive fifteen dollars a week.”

“That is good.  What are your prospects for the future?”

“They would be excellent if I had a little more capital.”

“I don’t see how you need capital, as a journeyman printer.”

“I have a chance to buy out the paper.”

“But who would edit it?”

“I would.”

“You!” said the magician, rather incredulously.

“I have been the editor for the last two months.”

“You—­a boy!”

“I am nineteen, professor.”

“I shouldn’t have dreamed of editing a paper at nineteen; or, indeed, as old as I am now.”

Harry laughed.

“You are too modest, professor.  Let me show you our last two issues.”

The professor took out his glasses, and sat down, not without considerable curiosity, to read a paper edited by one who only three years before had been his assistant.

“Did you write this article?” he asked, after a pause, pointing to the leader in the last issue of the “Gazette.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, by Jove, you can write.  Why, it’s worthy of a man of twice your age!”

“Thank you, professor,” said Harry, gratified.

“Where did you learn to write?”

Harry gave his old employer some account of his literary experiences, mentioning his connection with the two Boston weekly papers.

“You ought to be an editor,” said the professor.  “If you can do as much at nineteen, you have a bright future before you.”

“That depends a little on circumstances.  If I only could buy this paper, I would try to win reputation as well as money.”

“What is your difficulty?”

“The want of money.”

“How much do you need?”

“Eight hundred dollars.”

“Is that all the price such a paper commands?”

“No.  The price is two thousand dollars; but Ferguson and I can raise twelve hundred between us.”

“Do you consider it good property?”

“Mr. Anderson made a comfortable living out of it, besides paying for office work.  We should have this advantage, that we should be our own compositors.”

“That would give you considerable to do, if you were editor also.”

“I shouldn’t mind,” said Harry, “if I only had a paper of my own.  I think I should be willing to work night and day.”

“What are your chances of raising the sum you need?”

“Very small.  Ferguson has gone out at this moment to see if he can find any one willing to lend; but we don’t expect success.”

“Why don’t you apply to me?” asked the professor.

“I didn’t know if you had the money to spare.”

“I might conjure up some.  Presto—­you know.  We professors of magic can find money anywhere.”

“But you need some to work with.  I have been behind the scenes,” said Harry, smiling.

“But you don’t know all my secrets, for all that.  In sober earnest, I haven’t been practising magic these twenty-five years for nothing.  I can lend you the money you want, and I will.”

Harry seized his hand, and shook it with delight.

“How can I express my gratitude?” he said.

“By sending me your paper gratis, and paying me seven per cent. interest on my money.”

“Agreed.  Anything more?”

“Yes.  I am to give an exhibition in the village to-morrow night.  You must give me a good puff.”

“With the greatest pleasure.  I’ll write it now.”

“Before it takes place?  I see you are following the example of some of the city dailies.”

“And I’ll print you some handbills for nothing.”

“Good.  When do you want the money?  Will next week do?”

“Yes.  Mr. Anderson won’t expect the money before.”

Here Ferguson entered the efface.  Harry made a signal of silence to the professor, whom he introduced.  Then he said:—­

“Well, Ferguson, what luck?”

“None at all,” answered his fellow-compositor, evidently dispirited.  “Nobody seems to have any money.  We shall have to give up our plan.”

“I don’t mean to give it up.”

“Then perhaps you’ll tell me where to find the money.”

“I will.”

“You don’t mean to say—­” began Ferguson, eagerly.

“Yes, I do.  I mean to say that the money is found.”

“Where?”

“Prof.  Henderson has agreed to let us have it.”

“Is that true?” said Ferguson, bewildered.

“I believe so,” said the professor, smiling.  “Harry has juggled the money out of me,—­you know he used to be in the business,—­and you can make your bargain as soon as you like.”

It is hardly necessary to say that Prof.  Henderson got an excellent notice in the next number of the Centreville “Gazette;” and it is my opinion that he deserved it.