Desk and Debit or, The Catastrophes of a Clerk

Oliver Optic

Description

DESK AND DEBIT is the third of THE UPWARD AND ONWARD SERIES, in which Phil Farringford appears as a clerk. The principal events of the story are located in Chicago and on Lake Michigan - the latter, perhaps, because the author finds it quite impossible to write a story without a boat, which also involves the necessity of a broad sheet of water, or a long river. In this, as in its predecessors, evil-minded characters are introduced, to show the contrast between vice and virtue; but the hero, in whom the sympathies of the reader are supposed to be centred, is still faithful to his Christian duties, still reads his Bible, and prays without ceasing.

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 23 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819903567
• Langue: English

Extrait

PREFACE.
"DESK AND DEBIT" is the third of "THE UPWARD ANDONWARD SERIES," in which Phil Farringford appears as a clerk. Theprincipal events of the story are located in Chicago and on LakeMichigan – the latter, perhaps, because the author finds it quiteimpossible to write a story without a boat, which also involves thenecessity of a broad sheet of water, or a long river. In this, asin its predecessors, evil-minded characters are introduced, to showthe contrast between vice and virtue; but the hero, in whom thesympathies of the reader are supposed to be centred, is stillfaithful to his Christian duties, still reads his Bible, and "prayswithout ceasing."
Young and old are injured only by the precept andexample of those whom they love, respect, or admire; and the writerhas no fear that his readers will love, respect, or admire CharlesWhippleton or Ben Waterford, or that they will fail to condemntheir errors and their vices. The author hopes and expects that hisyoung friends, while they follow Phil in his exciting experience inthe counting-room, and in the "Marian" on Lake Michigan, will loveand respect his virtues as well as his courage and resolution.
HARRISON SQUARE, BOSTON,
June 7, 1870.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH PHIL HAS A TALK WITH HIS FATHER, ANDREVIEWS HIS PAST HISTORY. "I must go to Chicago, father," said I,one evening, after we had been discussing our domestic relationswith more than usual earnestness. "Why go to Chicago, Philip? Whatput that idea into your head?" replied my father, with a kind ofdeprecatory smile. "I don't feel as though I could live any longerin this state of doubt and uncertainty." "Really, Philip, I don'tthink you need worry yourself to that extent." "I can't help it. Iwant to know whether my mother is alive or dead. She may have beenin her grave for a year for aught we know." "Not so bad as that,Philip. I am sure if anything had happened to her, we should haveheard of it," added my father, mildly; but I saw that he had morefeeling on the subject than he chose to manifest. "It seems to meinhuman and unnatural to live in this way," I persisted, perhaps alittle more impatiently than I ought to have spoken. "It is all myfault, my son," said my father, meekly. "I don't think so." "Don'tcompel me to review the bitter experience of the past. You know itall." "I don't mean to blame you, father." "Certainly it is notyour mother's fault that an ocean rolls between her and me." "I amwilling to allow that it is your fault, and mine too, in a sensedifferent from what you meant, that our family is stillseparated."
I perceived that my father was considerably affectedby what I had said; and as he relapsed into silence, apparently togive vent to the emotions which disturbed him, I did not press thesubject any further at that moment. But I felt all that I had said,and I thought something ought to be done. I was thoroughly inearnest, and I felt that it would be my fault if our little familycontinued to be separated for a much longer period.
I was nearly sixteen years old; and into that briefspace had been crowded a strange and varied experience. In orderthat my readers may know precisely my relations to the rest of theworld, and understand why I was so deeply moved, I must brieflyreview the events of my life. I was born in the city of St. Louis,though this was a fact which had been patent to me only a couple ofyears. I had attained unto that worldly wisdom which enabled me toknow who my father was; but I was less fortunate in regard to mymother, whom I could not remember that I had ever seen, though itwas a comfort for me to know that my baby eyes had gazed into herloving face.
In the burning of the steamer Farringford, on theupper Missouri, in which my father and mother and myself – then achild two years old – were passengers, I had been committed to araft formed of a state-room door, and bolstered with pillows tokeep me from rolling off. By an accident this frail craft wascarried away from the burning steamer, then aground, and I wasseparated from my father, who, I grieve to say, was intoxicated atthe time, and unable to do all that he would have accomplished inhis sober senses. At this moment the steamer broke from the shore,and was carried swiftly down the mighty river. Parents were thusseparated from the helpless child.
But it was not ordered that this little one shouldperish in the cold waters of the great river in the night and thegloom. An old pioneer, trapper, and hunter, Matt Rockwood, hadpicked me up, and for years had nursed me and cared for me in hisrude log cabin, loving me devotedly, and watching over me with awoman's tenderness. For eleven years I remained in the field andforest, hardened by the rude life of the pioneer, working hard, andwinning a large experience in dealing with the elements around me.A well-educated and refined gentleman, driven from the haunts ofcivilization by a fancied wrong, became our neighbor, and was myinstructor, so that I obtained more than a common school educationfrom him. By the seeming guidings of Providence, his wife anddaughter were sent to him in the wilderness, and remained therethrough the season.
My foster-father was killed in an affray with theIndians. Boy as I was, I went through a brief campaign with thesavages, and my own rifle had more than once brought down thetreacherous foe. I had faced danger and death, and I had rescuedthe daughter of my excellent friend and instructor, Mr. Gracewood,from the Indians. Ella was then, and is now, one of my bestfriends. In the autumn, leaving the farm and stock to Kit Cruncher,an old hunter who had been our friend and neighbor for years, Istarted for the realms of civilization with Mr. Gracewood and hisfamily, taking with me the articles found upon me by the oldpioneer when I was rescued from the river.
I had fifteen hundred dollars in cash, after I hadpaid my fare to St. Louis – the worldly wealth of my deceasedfoster-father. On the way down I was separated from my friends byan accident, and did not see them again for several weeks. But Ifound a place in the city to learn the carpenter's trade, in whichI had already made considerable proficiency. I received six dollarsa week for my work when it was found that I was both able andwilling to do nearly as much as an ordinary journeyman.
By a succession of rather singular incidents, Idiscovered that a dissolute, drunken man about town was my father –which I regarded at the time as the greatest mishap that couldpossibly befall me. But I took him to my boarding-house, where good– I might even say blessed – Mrs. Greenough took care of him,giving to his body the nursing he needed, and to his spiritualwants the gospel of Jesus Christ. What my poor father, who hadbecome the moral and physical wreck of what he had been before,could not do of his own strength, he did with the grace and by thehelp of God – he abandoned his cups, and became a sober, moral, andreligious man. He attended every service at the Methodist church,into whose fold Mrs. Greenough had led him, and where, for twoyears, he had been a faithful, consistent, and useful member.
He was employed as the agent of a very wealthysouthern planter, who had large possessions in St. Louis. He hadthe care of property worth hundreds of thousands, and received anddisbursed large sums in rents, repairs, and building. He had asalary of twenty-four hundred dollars a year, more than half ofwhich he saved, for we continued to live at the humble abode ofMrs. Greenough after the dawn of our prosperity. I had saved nearlyall my wages, and at the opening of my story I was worth, in my ownright, about two thousand dollars, with which, however, I did notpurpose to meddle.
Through all my mishaps I had reached the flood tideof prosperity. There was only one thing in the wide world thatdisturbed me; and that, at last, almost became a burden to me. Ihad a mother whom I had never seen within my remembrance. She was abeautiful woman, as her miniature in my possession fully testified,as well as those who had known her. Mr. Collingsby, her father, hadthree children, of whom my mother was the youngest. He was awealthy man, and formerly a resident of St. Louis, from which hehad removed, partly on account of his business, and partly it wassaid, to avoid the importunities of my father, who made himselfvery disagreeable in his inebriation. He was largely engaged inrailroad and other business enterprises. My mother was travellingin Europe, with her brother, and was not expected to return forseveral years.
That which had become a burden to me was the desireto see my mother, with the added longing to have our little familyreunited. There was no good reason why we should longer beseparated. My father was a steady, industrious, Christian man, whohad repented in sackcloth and ashes the errors of his lifetime. Hehad written to Mr. Collingsby several times, but no notice had everbeen taken of his appeals. In vain he assured the father of hisinjured wife that he was an altered man; that he drank no liquor oranything that could intoxicate; that he was a member in goodstanding of the Methodist church, and that he was receiving ahandsome salary. Equally vain was the appeal for his son, whoseexistence seemed to be doubted, and was practically denied.
My mother, being beyond the ocean, could not be aparty to this cold and inhuman silence, as it seemed to me. We wereassured by those who had seen my grandfather that he was aware ofthe facts that were known to our friends in St. Louis. Mr. Lamar,whose acquaintance I had made in the midst of my mishaps, had seenMr. Collingsby, and told him the whole story. The rich man laughedat it, and declared that it was a trick; that, if he was a poorman, Farringford would not trouble him. After this revelation myfather refused to write again. He was sorely grieved and troubled,but he still had a sense of self-respect which would not permit himto grovel in the dust before any man.
I had worked a