The Cash Boy

CHAPTER III

LEFT ALONE

Frank listened to this revelation with wonder.  For the first time in his
life he asked himself, “Who am I?”

“How came I by my name, mother?” he asked.

“I must tell you.  After the sudden departure of the gentleman who
brought you, we happened to think that we had not asked your name.  We
accordingly wrote to the address which had been given us, making the
inquiry.  In return we received a slip of paper containing these words: 
‘The name is immaterial; give him any name you please.  A. M.’”

“You gave me the name of Frank.”

“It was Mr. Fowler’s name.  We should have given it to you had you been
our own boy; as the choice was left to us, we selected that.”

“It suits me as well as any other.  How soon did you leave Brooklyn,
mother?”

“In a week we had made all arrangements, and removed to this place.  It
is a small place, but it furnished as much work as my husband felt able
to do.  With the help of the allowance for your support, we not only got
on comfortably, but saved up a hundred and fifty dollars annually, which
we deposited in a savings bank.  But after five years the money stopped
coming.  It was the year 1857, the year of the great panic, and among
others who failed was Giles Warner’s agent, from whom we received our
payments.  Mr. Fowler went to New York to inquire about it, but only
learned that Mr. Warner, weighed down by his troubles, had committed
suicide, leaving no clew to the name of the man who left you with us.”

“How long ago was that, mother?”

“Seven years ago nearly eight.”

“And you continued to keep me, though the payments stopped.”

“Certainly; you were as dear to us as our own child—­for we now had a
child of our own—­Grace.  We should as soon have thought of casting off
her as you.”

“But you must have been poor, mother.”

“We were economical, and we got along till your father died three years
ago.  Since then it has been hard work.”

“You have had a hard time, mother.”

“No harder on your account.  You have been a great comfort to me, Frank. 
I am only anxious for the future.  I fear you and Grace will suffer after
I am gone.”

“Don’t fear, mother, I am young and strong; I am not afraid to face the
world with God’s help.”

“What are you thinking of, Frank?” asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing the boy’s
fixed look.

“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “I mean to seek for that man you have told
me of.  I want to find out who I am.  Do you think he was my father?”

“He said he was, but I do not believe it.  He spoke with hesitation, and
said this to deceive us, probably.”

“I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father.  From
what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him.”

“He must be nearly fifty now—­dark complexion, with dark hair and
whiskers.  I am afraid that description will not help you any.  There are
many men who look like that.  I should know him by his expression, but I
cannot describe that to you.”

Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and
Frank begged her to say no more.

Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better.  She was rapidly failing,
and no hope was entertained that she would rally.  She herself felt
that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to
believe.

On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village
store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.

“Is your mother very sick, Frank?” he asked.

“Yes, Sam, I’m afraid she won’t live.”

“Is it so bad as that?  I do believe,” he added, with a sudden change of
tone, “Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew.  He is trying to get
your place as captain of the baseball club.  He says that if your mother
doesn’t live, you will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won’t have
any money, and that it will be a disgrace for the club to have a captain
from the poorhouse.”

“Did he say that?” asked Frank, indignantly.

“Yes.”

“When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to the
poorhouse.”

“He says his father is going to put you and your sister there.”

“All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the
poorhouse!” said Frank, resolutely.

“Bully for you, Frank!  I knew you had spunk.”

Frank hurried home.  As he entered the little house a neighbor’s wife,
who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.

“Frank,” she said, gravely, “you must prepare yourself for sad news. 
While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage, and—­and—­”

“Is she dead?” asked the boy, his face very pale.

“She is dead!”