The Cash Boy. Alger Horatio Jr.

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      “‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, in some surprise

      “‘Then may I beg permission to enter your house for a few minutes? I have something to say to you.’

      “Still wondering, I led the way into the sitting-room, where your father—where Mr. Fowler–”

      “Call him my father—I know no other,” said Frank.

      “Where your father was seated.

      “‘You have answered an advertisement,’ said the stranger.

      “‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

      “‘I am A. M.,’ was his next announcement. ‘Of course I have received many letters, but on the whole I was led to consider yours most favorably. I have made inquiries about you in the neighborhood, and the answers have been satisfactory. You have no children of your own?’

      “‘No, sir.’

      “‘All the better. You would be able to give more attention to this child.’

      “‘Is it yours, sir?’ I asked

      “‘Ye-es,’ he answered, with hesitation. ‘Circumstances,’ he continued, ‘circumstances which I need not state, compel me to separate from it. Five hundred dollars a year will be paid for its maintenance.’

      “Five hundred dollars! I heard this with joy, for it was considerably more than my husband was able to earn since his accident. It would make us comfortable at once, and your father might work when he pleased, without feeling any anxiety about our coming to want.

      “‘Will that sum be satisfactory?’ asked the stranger.

      “‘It is very liberal,’ I answered.

      “‘I intended it to be so,’ he said. ‘Since there is no difficulty on this score, I am inclined to trust you with the care of the child. But I must make two conditions.’

      “‘What are they, sir?’

      “‘In the first place, you must not try to find out the friends of the child. They do not desire to be known. Another thing, you must move from Brooklyn.’

      “‘Move from Brooklyn?’ I repeated.

      “‘Yes,’ he answered, firmly. ‘I do not think it necessary to give you a reason for this condition. Enough that it is imperative. If you decline, our negotiations are at an end.’

      “I looked at my husband. He seemed as much surprised as I was.

      “‘Perhaps you will wish to consult together,’ suggested our visitor. ‘If so, I can give you twenty minutes. I will remain in this room while you go out and talk it over.’

      “We acted on this hint, and went into the kitchen. We decided that though we should prefer to live in Brooklyn, it would be worth our while to make the sacrifice for the sake of the addition to our income. We came in at the end of ten minutes, and announced our decision. Our visitor seemed to be very much pleased.

      “‘Where would you wish us to move?’ asked your father.

      “‘I do not care to designate any particular place. I should prefer some small country town, from fifty to a hundred miles distant. I suppose you will be able to move soon?’

      “‘Yes, sir; we will make it a point to do so. How soon will the child be placed in our hands? Shall we send for it?’

      “‘No, no,’ he said, hastily. ‘I cannot tell you exactly when, but it will be brought here probably in the course of a day or two. I myself shall bring it, and if at that time you wish to say anything additional you can do so.’

      “He went away, leaving us surprised and somewhat excited at the change that was to take place in our lives. The next evening the sound of wheels was heard, and a hack stopped at our gate. The same gentleman descended hurriedly with a child in his arms—you were the child, Frank—and entered the house.

      “‘This is the child,’ he said, placing it in my arms, ‘and here is the first quarterly installment of your pay. Three months hence you will receive the same sum from my agent in New York. Here is his address,’ and he placed a card in my hands. ‘Have you anything to ask?’

      “‘Suppose I wish to communicate with you respecting the child? Suppose he is sick?’

      “‘Then write to A. M., care of Giles Warner, No. – Nassau Street. By the way, it will be necessary for you to send him your postoffice address after your removal in order that he may send you your quarterly dues.’

      “With this he left us, entered the hack, and drove off. I have never seen him since.”

      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.”

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