Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy. Horatio Alger Jr.

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      “It’s your fault, you young booby!” he exclaimed furiously, and springing for Septimus he lashed him across the legs.

      “Ouch!” yelled Septimus. “Are you crazy, pa? I ain’t Bernard.”

      “I’d like to flog that boy within an inch of his life!” exclaimed Ezekiel Snowdon, excited to fury by the sound of Bernard’s name.

      “Then you’d better try to catch him instead of licking me.”

      “Come into the house, Septimus,” said his father more calmly. “Look down the road and see if you can see him.”

      Septimus shaded his eyes, and looked down the road, but no runaway boy was visible.

      “I can’t see him, pa. He may be hiding somewhere.”

      “Go and ask Mr. Sweetland if he will lend me his horse. I’ll go after him.”

      “There’s Leslie Sweetland now. I’ll ask him.” Leslie Sweetland, a boy of sixteen, well and strongly built, was walking by.

      “I say, Leslie,” called out Septimus, “do you think your father will lend us his horse?”

      Leslie stopped short. He had very little friendship for Septimus, and disliked the elder Snowdon.

      “What do you want him for?” he asked.

      “Bernard Brooks has run away, and pa and I want to catch him.”

      “Has Bernard run away?” asked Leslie, immediately interested.

      “Yes.”

      “What did he run away for?”

      “Pa went to the barn to horsewhip him for his owdacious conduct. He carried off the ladder and left pa in the hay loft, and now he’s run away.”

      Leslie burst into a fit of laughter.

      “Well, that’s a good joke!” he said.

      “I don’t see where the joke comes in,” growled Ezekiel.

      “I don’t blame him for running away,” said Leslie, with spirit.

      “I’ve a great mind to horsewhip you,” cried the amiable Snowdon.

      “You’d find you’d tackled the wrong boy,”retorted Leslie. “You can’t have our horse.”

      “That’s for your father to say.”

      “He won’t help you to catch Bernard. I’ll tell him not to.”

      “The impudence of the boys in this village is positively terrible,” said Mr. Snowdon. “Septimus, go over to Mr. Bacon, and see if he will lend us his horse.”

      Septimus did as ordered, but he found Mr. Bacon’s horse in use, and upon his return Mr. Snowdon felt that it was too late to make other arrangements.

      “I’ll write to the boy’s guardian,” he said, “and probably he will send him back without expense to me. If he does I’ll make the boy howl.”

      Meanwhile Bernard was making the best of his time. He ran half a mile without stopping. He passed a covered buggy, and as he did so turned back to look at it.

      It was occupied by a man of perhaps forty, who seemed to be in trouble. He held the reins loose in his hands, his eyes were partly closed, and his body swayed from side to side of the carriage.

      “He needs help,” thought Bernard.

      He ran to the horse, seized him by the bridle, and stopped him.

      The driver did not seem to be aware of his interference.

      Bernard, after a moment’s hesitation, climbed into the carriage, and seating himself beside the gentleman, took the reins from his unresisting fingers.

      “Are you sick, sir?” he said.

      The gentleman opened his eyes and looked at Bernard.

      “Yes,” he said. “I came near fainting away.”

      “Shan’t I drive for you?”

      “Yes, I wish you would. Who are you?”

      “My name is Bernard Brooks.”

      “All right! I don’t know you, but you seem like a good boy.”

      “Where shall I drive you?”

      “To the next town.”

      “Poplar Plains?”

      “Yes.”

      This suited Bernard very well. Poplar Plains was five miles away, and here there was a station on the nearest railroad.

      He drove on, while his companion leaned back in the carriage and closed his eyes. Bernard took a side glance and noted his appearance.

      He was a man with dark hair and eyes, and his complexion was also dark. He looked to be in good health but for the pallor occasioned by his present attack.

      He roused up when they came within a mile of Poplar Plains.

      “Are you feeling better?” asked Bernard.

      “Yes; a little. You haven’t any hartshorn about you?”

      “No, sir; but there is a drug store at the Plains. I can get some for you.”

      “Do so.”

      “Shall I drive you to any particular place?”

      “Yes. Drive to the hotel. Do you know where it is?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      In a very few minutes Bernard halted in front of the Poplar Plains Hotel. A servant came out to receive the expected guest.

      “Is your father going to stop with us?” he asked. “He isn’t my father, but he will stop. He is feeling unwell, and I will get you to help him out.” Assisted by Bernard and the hotel porter, the gentleman descended from the buggy and went into the hotel.

      “Sit down here a moment, sir, and I will get you the ammonia,” Bernard said. “The drug store is close by.”

      “Wait a moment. You will want some money. Here is a dollar.”

      He drew a dollar bill from his vest pocket and handed it to Bernard, who returned in five minutes with a small bottle.

      The gentleman, removing the cork, applied the bottle to his nose. He sneezed, but seemed revived.

      “I feel better,” he said. “Go and take a room for me and help me up to it.”

      “What name shall I put down on the register?”

      “William Penrose.”

      “Where from?”

      “Buffalo.”

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