MAKING HIS WAY

_or_

Frank Courtney's Struggle Upward

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.


Whitman Publishing Co.
RACINE, WISCONSIN
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




TABLE OF CONTENTS


I.        Two School Friends
II.       The Telegram
III.      Frank's Bereavement
IV.       Mrs. Manning's Will
V.        Disinherited
VI.       An Unsatisfactory Interview
VII.      A School Friend
VIII.     A New Plan
IX.       The New Owner of Ajax
X.        Mark Yields to Temptation
XI.       Mark Gets into Trouble
XII.      Suspended
XIII.     Mr. Manning's New Plan
XIV.      Good-bye
XV.       Erastus Tarbox of Newark
XVI.      An Unpleasant Discovery
XVII.     The Way of the World
XVIII.    Frank Arrives in New York
XIX.      Frank Seeks Employment in Vain
XX.       An Adventure in Wall Street
XXI.      The Capture
XXII.     The Young Tea Merchant
XXIII.    Frank Meets Mr. Manning and Mark
XXIV.     A Discouraging Day
XXV.      Perplexity
XXVI.     Frank Hears Something to His Advantage
XXVII.    An Incident in a Street Car
XXVIII.   Frank Makes an Evening Call
XXIX.     Frank Is Offered a Position
XXX.      Frank as Private Secretary
XXXI.     A Letter from Mr. Tarbox
XXXII.    Mr. Percival's Proposal
XXXIII.   Preparing for a Journey
XXXIV.    Frank Reaches Jackson
XXXV.     Dick Hamlin
XXXVI.    Mr. Fairfield, the Agent
XXXVII.   Frank Receives a Letter from Mr. Percival
XXXVIII.  The Agent Is Notified
XXXIX.    An Important Discovery
XL.       Jonas Barton
XLI.      Conclusion




MAKING HIS WAY


CHAPTER I

TWO SCHOOL FRIENDS


Two boys were walking in the campus of the Bridgeville Academy. They
were apparently of about the same age--somewhere from fifteen to
sixteen--but there was a considerable difference in their attire.

Herbert Grant was neatly but coarsely dressed, and his shoes were of
cowhide, but his face indicated a frank, sincere nature, and was
expressive of intelligence.

His companion was dressed in a suit of fine cloth, his linen was of the
finest, his shoes were calfskin, and he had the indefinable air of a boy
who had been reared in luxury.

He had not the broad, open face of his friend--for the two boys were
close friends--but his features were finely chiseled, indicating a share
of pride, and a bold, self-reliant nature.

He, too, was an attractive boy, and in spite of his pride possessed a
warm, affectionate heart and sterling qualities, likely to endear him to
those who could read and understand him.

His name was Frank Courtney, and he is the hero of my story.

"Have you written your Latin exercises, Frank?" asked Herbert.

"Yes; I finished them an hour ago."

"I was going to ask you to write them with me. It is pleasanter to
study in company."

"Provided you have the right sort of company," rejoined Frank.

"Am I the right sort of company?" inquired Herbert, with a smile.

"You hardly need to ask that, Herbert. Are we not always together? If I
did not like your company, I should not seek it so persistently. I don't
care to boast, but I have plenty of offers of companionship which I
don't care to accept. There is Bob Stickney, for instance, who is always
inviting me to his room; but you know what he is--a lazy fellow, who
cares more to have a good time than to study. Then there is James
Cameron, a conceited, empty-headed fellow, who is very disagreeable to
me."

"You don't mention your stepbrother, Mark Manning."

"For two reasons--he doesn't care for my company, and of all the boys I
dislike him the most."

"I don't like him myself. But why do you dislike him so much?"

"Because he is a sneak--a crafty, deceitful fellow, always scheming for
his own interest. He hates me, but he doesn't dare to show it. His
father is my mother's husband, but the property is hers, and will be
mine. He thinks he may some day be dependent on me, and he conceals his
dislike in order to stand the better chance by and by. Heaven grant that
it may be long before my dear mother is called away!"

"How did she happen to marry again, Frank?"

"I can hardly tell. It was a great grief to me. Mr. Manning was a
penniless lawyer, who ingratiated himself with my mother, and
persecuted her till she consented to marry him. He is very soft-spoken,
and very plausible, and he managed to make mother--who has been an
invalid for years--think that it would be the best thing for her to
delegate her cares to him, and provide me with a second father."

Frank did not like his stepfather, he did not trust him.

"Your stepbrother, Mark Manning, enjoys the same advantages as yourself,
does he not?" inquired Herbert.

"Yes."

"Then his father's marriage proved a good thing for him."

"That is true. When he first came to the house he was poorly dressed,
and had evidently been used to living in a poor way. He was at once
provided with a complete outfit as good as my own, and from that time as
much has been spent on him as on me. Don't think that I am mean enough
to grudge him any part of the money expended upon him. If he were like
you, I could like him, and enjoy his society; but he is just another as
his father."

Here Herbert's attention was drawn to a boy who was approaching with a
yellow envelope in his hand.

"Frank," he said, suddenly, "there's Mark Manning. He looks as if he had
something to say to you. He has either a letter or a telegram in his
hand."




CHAPTER II

THE TELEGRAM


Frank's heart gave a great bound at the suggestion of a telegram. A
telegram could mean but one thing--that his mother had become suddenly
worse.

He hurried to meet his stepbrother.

"Is that a telegram, Mark?" he asked, anxiously.

"Yes."

"Is it anything about mother? Tell me quick!"

"Read it for yourself, Frank."

Frank drew the telegram from the envelope, and read it hastily:

"My wife is very sick. I wish you and Frank to come home at once."

"When does the next train start, Herbert?" asked Frank, pale with
apprehension.

"In an hour."

"I shall go by that train."

"I don't think I can get ready so soon," said Mark, deliberately.

"Then you can come by yourself," replied Frank, impetuously. "I beg your
pardon, Mark," he added. "I cannot expect you to feel as I do. It is not
your mother."

"It is my stepmother," said Mark.

"That is quite different. But I must not linger here. I will go at once
to Dr. Brush, and tell him of my summons home. Good-bye, Herbert, till
we meet again."

"I will go with you to the depot, Frank," said his friend,
sympathizingly. "Don't wait for me. Go ahead, and make your preparation
for the journey. I will be at your room in a quarter of an hour."

"You won't go by the next train, Mark?" said Herbert.

"No. I don't care to rush about as Frank is doing."

"You would if it were your own mother who was so ill."

"I am not sure. It wouldn't do any good, would it?"

"You would naturally feel anxious," said Herbert.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" answered Mark, indifferently.

Mark Manning was slender and dark, with a soft voice and rather
effeminate ways. He didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys
delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but
liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the
campus on a Saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves.

For this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to
draw them off and replace them in his pocket.

As Frank and Herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter
said:

"It seems to me, Frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you,
rather than to Mark Manning. You are the one who is most interested in
the contents."

"I thought of that, Herbert, but I was too much affected by the contents
to speak of it. I am not surprised, however. It is like Mr. Manning. It
jarred upon me to have him speak of mother as his wife. She is so, but I
never could reconcile myself to the fact."

"Do you remember your father--your own father, Frank?"

"You need not have said 'your own father.' I don't recognize Mr.
Manning as a father, at all. Yes, I remember him. I was eight years old
when he died. He was a fine-looking man, always kind--a man to be loved
and respected. There was not a particle of similarity between him and
Mr. Manning. He was strong and manly."

"How did it happen that he died so young?"

"He was the victim of a railway accident. He had gone to New York on
business, and was expected back on a certain day. The train on which he
was a passenger collided with a freight train, and my poor father was
among the passengers who were killed. The news was almost too much for
my poor mother, although she had not yet become an invalid. It brought
on a fit of sickness lasting for three months. She has never been
altogether well since."

"After all, Frank, the gifts of fortune, or rather Providence, are not
so unequally distributed as at first appears. You are rich, but
fatherless. I am poor enough but my father and mother are both spared to
me."

"I would gladly accept poverty if my father could be restored to life,
and my mother be spared to me for twenty years to come."

"I am sure you would, Frank," said Herbert. "Money is valuable, but
there are some things far more so."

They had reached the station by this time, and it was nearly the time
for the train to start. Frank bought his ticket, and the two friends
shook hands and bade each other good-bye.

In an hour Frank was walking up the long avenue leading to the front
door of the mansion.

The door was opened by his stepfather.

"How is mother?" asked Frank, anxiously.

"I am grieved to say that she is very sick," said Mr. Manning, in a soft
voice. "She had a copious hemorrhage this morning, which has weakened
her very much."

"Is she in danger?" asked Frank, anxiously.

"I fear she is," said Mr. Manning.

"I suppose I can see her?"

"Yes; but it will be better not to make her talk much."

"I will be careful, sir."

Frank waited no longer, but hurried to his mother's chamber. As he
entered, and his glance fell on the bed and its occupant, he was shocked
by the pale and ghastly appearance of the mother whom he so dearly
loved. The thought came to him at once:

"She cannot live."

He found it difficult to repress a rising sob, but he did so for his
mother's sake. He thought that it might affect her injuriously if he
should display emotion.

His mother smiled faintly as he approached the bed.

"Mother," said Frank, kneeling by the bedside, "are you very weak?"

"Yes, Frank," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I think I am going to
leave you."

"Oh, don't say that, mother!" burst forth in anguish from Frank's lips.
"Try to live for my sake."

"I should like to live, my dear boy," whispered his mother; "but if it
is God's will that I should die, I must be reconciled. I leave you in
his care."

Here Mr. Manning entered the room.

"You will be kind to my boy?" said the dying mother.

"Can you doubt it, my dear?" replied her husband, in the soft tones
Frank so much disliked. "I will care for him as if he were my own."

"Thank you. Then I shall die easy."

"Don't speak any more, mother. It will tire you, and perhaps bring on
another hemorrhage."

"Frank is right, my dear. You had better not exert yourself any more at
present."

"Didn't Mark come with you?" asked Mr. Manning of Frank.

"No, sir."

"I am surprised that he should not have done so. I sent for him as well
as you."

"I believe he is coming by the next train," said Frank, indifferently.
"He thought he could not get ready in time for my train."

"He should not have left you to come at such a time."

"I didn't wish him to inconvenience himself, Mr. Manning. If it had been
his mother, it would have been different."

Mr. Manning did not reply. He understood very well that there was no
love lost between Mark and his stepson.




CHAPTER III

FRANK'S BEREAVEMENT


Early in the evening Mark made his appearance. Supper had been over for
an hour, and everything was cold. In a house where there is sickness,
the regular course of things is necessarily interrupted, and, because he
could not have his wants attended to immediately, Mark saw fit to
grumble and scold the servants. He was not a favorite with them, and
they did not choose to be bullied.

Deborah, who had been in the house for ten years, and so assumed the
independence of an old servant, sharply reprimanded the spoiled boy.

"You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Mark," she said, "of making such a fuss
when my poor mistress lies upstairs at the point of death."

"Do you know who you are talking to?" demanded Mark, imperiously, for he
could, when speaking with those whom he regarded as inferiors, exchange
his soft tones for a voice of authority.

"I ought to know by this time," answered Deborah, contemptuously. "There
is no other in the house like you, I am glad to say."

"You are very impertinent. You forget that you are nothing but a
servant."

"A servant has the right to be decently treated, Mr. Mark."

"If you don't look out," said Mark, in a blustering tone, "I will report
you to my father, and have you kicked out of the house."

Deborah was naturally incensed at this rude speech, but she was spared
the trouble of replying. Frank entered the room at this moment in time
to hear Mark's last speech.

"What is this about being kicked out of the house?" he asked, looking
from Mark to Deborah, in a tone of unconscious authority, which
displeased his stepbrother.

"That is my business," replied Mark, shortly.

"Mr. Mark has threatened to have me kicked out of the house because he
has to wait for his supper," said Deborah.

"It wasn't for that. It was because you were impertinent. All the same,
I think it is shameful that I can't get anything to eat."

"I regret, Mark," said Frank, with cool sarcasm, "that you should be
inconvenienced about your meals. Perhaps you will excuse it, as my poor
mother is so sick that she requires extra attention from the servants.
Deborah, if possible, don't let Mark wait much longer. It seems to be
very important that he should have his supper."

"He shall have it," assured Deborah, rather enjoying the way in which
Mark was put down; "that is, if he don't get me kicked out of the
house."

"You had better not make any such threats in the future, Mark," said
Frank, significantly.

"Who's to hinder?" blustered Mark.

"I am," answered Frank, pointedly.

"You are nothing but a boy like me," retorted Mark.

"My mother is mistress here, and I represent her."

"Things may change soon," muttered Mark; but Frank had left the room and
did not hear him.

Mark did not trouble himself even to inquire for his stepmother, but
went out to the stable and lounged about until bedtime. He seemed very
much bored, and so expressed himself.

Frank wished to sit up all night with his mother, but, as she had a
professional nurse, it was thought best that he should obtain his
regular rest, the nurse promising to call the family if any change
should be apparent in her patient's condition.

About half-past four in the morning there was a summons.

"Mrs. Manning is worse," said the nurse. "I don't think she can last
long."

One last glance of love--though she could no longer speak--assured Frank
that she knew him and loved him to the last.

The memory of that look often came back to him in the years that
followed, and he would not have parted with it for anything that earth
could give.

Just as the clock struck five, his mother breathed her last. The boy
gazed upon the inanimate form, but he was dazed, and could not realize
that his mother had left him, never to return.

"She is gone," said Mr. Manning, softly.

"Dead!" ejaculated Frank.

"Yes, her sufferings are over. Let us hope she is better off. My boy, I
think you had better return to your bed. You can do nothing for your
mother now."

"I would rather stay here," said Frank, sadly. "I can at least look at
her, and soon I shall lose even that comfort."

The thought was too much for the poor boy, and he burst into tears.

"Do as you please, Frank," assented Mr. Manning. "I feel for you, and I
share in your grief. I will go and tell Mark of our sad loss."

He made his way to Mark's chamber and entered. He touched Mark, who was
in a doze, and he started up.

"What's the matter?" he asked, crossly.

"Your poor mother is dead, Mark."

"Well, there was no need to wake me for that," said the boy, irritably.
"I can't help it, can I?"

"I think, my son, you might speak with more feeling. Death is a solemn
thing."

"There's nobody here but me," said Mark, sneering.

"I don't catch your meaning," said his father, showing some annoyance,
for it is not pleasant to be seen through.

"Why should you care so much?" continued Mark. "I suppose you will be
well provided for. Do you know how she has left the property? How much
of it goes to Frank?"

"I can't say," said Mr. Manning. "I never asked my wife."

"Do you mean to say, father, that you don't know how the property is
left?" asked Mark, with a sharp glance at his father.

"I may have my conjectures," said Mr. Manning, softly. "I don't think my
dear wife would leave me without some evidences of her affection.
Probably the bulk of the estate goes to your brother, and something to
me. Doubtless we shall continue to live here, as I shall naturally be
your brother's guardian."

"Don't call him my brother," said Mark.

"Why not? True, he is only your stepbrother; but you have lived under
the same roof, and been to school together, and this ought to strengthen
the tie between you."

"I don't like Frank," said Mark. "He puts on altogether too many airs."

"I had not observed that," said his father.

"Well, I have. Only this evening he saw fit to speak impudently to me."

"Indeed! I am really amazed to hear it," said Mr. Manning, softly.

"Oh, he thinks he is the master of the house, or will be," said Mark,
"and he presumes on that."

"He is unwise," said Mr. Manning. "Even if the whole property descends
to him, which I can hardly believe possible, I, as his guardian, will
have the right to control him."

"I hope you'll do it, father. At any rate, don't let him boss over me,
for I won't stand it."

"I don't think he will boss over you," answered his father, in a slow,
measured voice, betraying, however, neither anger nor excitement. "Of
course, I should not permit that."

Mark regarded his father fixedly.

"I guess the old man knows what's in the will," he said to himself. "He
knows how to feather his own nest. I hope he's feathered mine, too."

Mr. Manning passed from his son's chamber and went softly upstairs,
looking thoughtful.

Anyone who could read the impassive face would have read trouble in
store for Frank.




CHAPTER IV

MRS. MANNING'S WILL


During the preparations for the funeral Frank was left pretty much to
himself.

Mr. Manning's manner was so soft, and to him had been so deferential,
that he did not understand the man. It didn't occur to him that it was
assumed for a purpose.

That manner was not yet laid aside. His stepfather offered to comfort
him, but Frank listened in silence. Nothing that Mr. Manning could say
had the power to lighten his load of grief. So far as words could
console him, the sympathy of Deborah and the coachman, both old
servants, whom his mother trusted, had more effect, for he knew that it
was sincere, and that they were really attached to his mother.

Of Mr. Manning he felt a profound distrust, which no words of his could
remove.

Meanwhile, Mr. Manning was looking from an upper window down the fine
avenue, and his eye ranged from left to right over the ample estate with
a glance of self-complacent triumph.

"All mine at last!" he said to himself, exultingly. "What I have been
working for has come to pass. Three years ago I was well-nigh penniless,
and now I am a rich man. I shall leave Mark the master of a great
fortune. I have played my cards well. No one will suspect anything
wrong. My wife and I have lived in harmony. There will be little wonder
that she has left all to me. There would be, perhaps, but for the manner
in which I have taken care he shall be mentioned in the will--I mean, of
course, in the will I have made for her."

He paused, and, touching a spring in the wall, a small door flew open,
revealing a shallow recess.

In this recess was a folded paper, tied with a red ribbon.

Mr. Manning opened it, and his eyes glanced rapidly down the page.

"This is the true will," he said to himself. "I wish I could summon
courage to burn it. It would be best out of the way. That, if found
out, would make me amenable to the law, and I must run no risk. In this
secret recess it will never be found. I will replace it, and the
document which I have had prepared will take its place, and no one will
be the wiser."

On the day after the funeral, the family solicitor and a few intimate
friends, who had been invited by Mr. Manning, assembled in the drawing
room of the mansion to hear the will read.

Mr. Manning himself notified Frank of the gathering and its object.