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Fame and Fortune Weekly No. 2: Born to Good Luck; or The Boy Who Succeeded

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<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</h2></div> DICK’S FIRST SPECULATION. Dick spent the entire morning gathering apples, making selection of the best that he shook down or knocked from the limbs. “It’s like picking up money,” he mused as he gathered them into one of the bushel baskets and then carried them to the wagon, which he had drawn out into the yard, and dumped them inside. “I wonder how many bushels I can get away with,” he figured, after a careful estimate of the load he had already secured. “I believe this wagon will hold close on to forty bushels, but it’ll be an all-day job to gather that many. I’m afraid I’ll have to be satisfied with twenty, if we’re going to leave here early this afternoon. That ought to give me fifty dollars out of the spec. Gee! That’s better than working like a slave for Silas Maslin at nothing a week and skimpy board.” Dick looked in on Hiram Bond every little while, but the man appeared to be sleeping right along. Noon came, and the boy began to feel decidedly hungry. “I guess I might as well clean up Mr. Bond’s basket,” he argued. “It isn’t likely he’ll care for any solid food to-day. I’ll get him some milk at the first house I see along the road.” So Dick ate the sandwich, the piece of gingerbread, and the remains of the apple pie, topping off with a big drink of spring water. After that he felt very much better and resumed his work with fresh energy. At two o’clock he found Hiram Bond awake, but as weak as a cat, to use his own expression. Clearly the man was in no condition to leave the place that day. “I fear this will finish me,” said Bond, in a weak voice. “I’ll take one of the horses and start on down the road for help,” said Dick, regarding the man with an anxious eye. “You’ll die at this rate, for you haven’t had any nourishment but that small cup of milk all day.” “Perhaps you had better do so,” acquiesced Bond, feebly. “I think there’s a farmhouse about five or six miles below here.” “Then I’m off,” said Dick. “I’ll get them to send a vehicle to remove you from this place—you can’t stay here another night.” Dick mounted one of the animals and started off down the road, the horse being accustomed to nothing faster than a gentle trot. It was something over an hour before the boy reached a house. Here he told his story, which aroused the practical sympathy of the farmer, who hitched up a light wagon, collected such things, including a bag of feed for the horses, as the occasion seemed to demand, and in company with Dick started for the deserted homestead. The farmer, after talking to Hiram Bond, decided to convey him to his house. Wrapping him up in the blankets, he and Dick started him to the wagon and made him as comfortable as possible for the ride. “I’ll bring the team on later,” said the boy. Farmer Haywood nodded and then drove off, Dick returning to the work of gathering more apples. By dark he had turned into the wagon thirty bushels by actual count. “I can carry another ten bushels just as well as not,” he said to himself. “I will stay here all night and finish the job in the morning. I’ll be twenty-five dollars more to the good by hanging on. I guess I can stand a diet of apples and water for a few hours, at that rate. It won’t be the first time I’ve gone to sleep or to work half fed. If a fellow expects to get along in the world he’s got to take things as they come, and say nothing.” Next morning about eleven o’clock Dick walked his team, with his load of some forty bushels of harvest apples, into Farmer Haywood’s yard. “How is Mr. Bond?” was his first question of Mrs. Haywood, who greeted him at the door. “Very poorly, indeed. We had to send for a doctor. I’m afraid he isn’t going to recover.” Dick was very sorry to learn this news. After he had hauled the wagon into a corner of the yard, and put the horses into the barn, the lad had something to eat and was then taken up to see Hiram Bond, who had been accommodated with a spare room and was the object of considerate attention. “I’m glad to see you again, my lad,” said Mr. Bond, in a very weak voice, regarding Dick with an earnest expression. “I should like you to stay with me while I last; I will make it all right with you.” “I shall be glad to stay with you till I can get you back to your home in Albany,” replied Dick, cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll be all right in a day or two.” Hiram Bond shook his head. “I shall never be all right again. This isn’t the first attack of heart failure I’ve had, but I feel it will be the last. I’ve lost all my strength. My insides seem to have collapsed entirely. It is a strange, indescribable sensation that warns me to prepare for my last journey. Boy, it is useless to disguise the truth—I am going to die. The doctor didn’t say so, but I read the fact in his face. He saw that he could do nothing for me. Well, it matters little whether I die now or a little later on. I have no kith or kin to whom my death would be a blow. I am entirely alone in the world. At one time it was different, and I was well off; but now my team and the few dollars in my pocket-book represent all my earthly possessions. My boy, I have been thinking of you while I have been stretched on my back. You are beginning life quite as friendless, I might say, as I am leaving it. But you appear to have energy and the capacity for hard work. I have little doubt but you will succeed. You have been kind to me and I wish I was in a position to return the favor substantially. What little I can do for you to help you along I will do. You shall have my team to use or dispose of as you may think best. The money I possess will scarcely more than recompense Farmer Haywood for his trouble and pay the expenses of my funeral. I should like to be buried in some quiet spot—the nearest village burying-ground. If you will see that this is done, it is all I ask of you.” Dick was exceedingly shocked as he listened to the words of the dying man—for that Hiram Bond really was passing away, slowly but surely, there didn’t seem to be any doubt. When he finished, he asked the boy to fetch Farmer Haywood. He requested the farmer to execute a bill of sale, which he signed with difficulty, transferring his wagon and team of horses to Dick. After that was done he seemed to feel better. There was little change in his condition until after midnight, when he gradually grew weaker and weaker, and finally died just before daylight. Although Dick had met him so strangely only a couple of days before, his death affected the boy greatly for the time being. He felt as though he had lost a good friend that he had known for many years. A simple funeral from Farmer Haywood’s to the nearby churchyard wound up the life history of Hiram Bond, and the day following Dick Armstrong drove his suddenly acquired property into the streets of Albany. He had an idea that by visiting the various hotels in the city he might dispose of his apples to good advantage and with more profit than if he did business with a commission merchant. His plan was successful, largely because the stewards of the places he visited happened to be running out of the fruit and because his apples were uncommonly fine and quite scarce in the market. As a consequence he obtained an average of about $2.60 a bushel for them, and when he put his team up at the place where Hiram Bond had been accustomed to keep it he was in possession of bills and silver to the amount of $120, which included the money he had brought away from his former home at Cobham’s Corner. <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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