Dave Porter at Oak Hall

Front matter

DAVE PORTER AT OAK HALL

OR

THE SCHOOLDAYS OF AN AMERICAN BOY

Chapter I

DAVE PORTER AT OAK HALL

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING DAVE PORTER

"Hello, Dave, where are you going?"

"I'm going up the mountainside, to look for huckleberries, Ben. Do you want to go along?"

"How much is there in it?" asked Ben Basswood, with a grin. "I never work unless I get paid for it."

"Well, you can have all the huckleberries you find. Mr. Jackson is paying eight cents a quart for them," answered Dave Porter.

"Eight cents! And how many quarts do you think I can pick in an afternoon?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Ben—six or eight quarts at least."

"That wouldn't pay me," said Ben Basswood, whose parents were well-to-do and who was furnished regularly with spendlng-money. "But I'll go along, just the same, to keep you company," he added. "How is old Potts this morning?"

"Mr. Potts isn't feeling very well. His head seems to bother him a great deal lately," and for a moment a shadow crossed Dave Porter's face. "I really think he ought to have a doctor."

"Won't he have any?"

"No. He says he can't afford it, and besides he would rather doctor himself."

"He's just a bit off, isn't he?" went on Ben, with a curious look at his companion. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Dave," he added, hastily. "But that's true, isn't it? I heard some men downtown talking about it."

"I don't know what you mean by 'off,'" answered Dave. "He is rather peculiar, but so are lots of other folks around here."

"He isn't any relation to you, is he?"

"No."

"How long have you lived with him?"

"About six years."

"Then you ought to know him pretty well, Dave."

"I do—after a fashion. He's a hard man to understand. Sometimes he is cheery and talkative and then again he will say but little all day."

"He hasn't been able to do much on the farm this summer, I suppose?"

"Hardly anything, Ben. I've had to do what was done."

"It's rather rough on you."

"Oh, I haven't minded it," was Dave Porter's cheery answer. "I only wish Mr. Potts would get better."

There was a brief spell of silence, during which time both boys trudged along the road leading to the mountainside. Dave carried a tin kettle and a basket, which he hoped to fill with huckleberries before sundown. It was a warm summer day, with the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing merrily, just the day to make the heart of any boy glad. Yet Dave heaved a long sigh, which his companion could not help but notice.

"I suppose it makes you feel bad to have him sick," said Ben.

"It isn't only that, Ben, it's something else."

"Oh!"

"I don't know that I ought to say anything, but I feel as if I must tell somebody," continued Dave. "You know old Aaron Poole, from Dixonville."

"Of course I do, Diamond Poole they used to call him. He's got a son, Nat, a regular high-flyer, so they tell me."

"Aaron Poole holds a mortgage on our farm. Mr. Potts can't pay the interest this year, and Mr. Poole says he is going to foreclose."

"And sell the place?"

"I suppose so."

"How much is the mortgage?"

"Twelve hundred dollars."

"That's as much as the place is worth."

"I suppose that is true."

"If the place is sold what will you and old Potts do?" went on Ben, with added interest.

"I don't know, and that is what is bothering me. If he was a younger man, and well, we might hire some other farm, but as it is I can't see any way to turn."

"You might get a place on some other farm, Dave. I know you can do a regular man's work."

"Yes, but that wouldn't help Mr. Potts, and I feel that I ought to do all I can for him. He did what he could for me."

"You'll have a job of it, supporting yourself and a sick man, too. Besides, if he gets much worse he'll have to have somebody to take care of him, and you can't do that and work, too."

"I'll have to do it—or do the best I can," and Dave heaved another sigh, for the prospect ahead was certainly a dark one.

"How soon do you expect to hear from Aaron Poole?"

"The interest on the mortgage is due to-morrow, and Mr. Poole says he won't wait for his money."

"He's a hard-hearted wretch, if ever there was one!" burst out Ben, indignantly. "Do you remember the widow Fram? He put her out of her cottage in the dead of winter just because she got behind in her rent. Father said it was the meanest thing he had ever heard of. He got the widow another place."

"Well, we have got to do something, that is certain," said Dave. "For the present I am going to pick all the huckleberries I can for Mr. Jackson. That will give us a little money to fall back on."

"And I'l help you, Dave. I can't pick many, I know; but every little helps, they say." And a moment later the conversation came to an end and each of the lads began to gather the berries, which grew in scattered patches all over the mountain.

Dave Porter was a youth of fifteen, of medium size, with dark eyes and curly dark hair. He was healthy, with muscles hardened by constant work in the open air. His look was both fearless and frank, and there was an expression about his mouth which spoke of a will power bound to assert itself whenever needed.

Dave was a poorhouse boy, and of unknown parentage. About twelve years before this story opens he had been found, one summer evening, wandering near the railroad tracks just outside of the village of Crumville. Some farm hands had discovered him, sitting on a fallen tree, calling for "the bad train to come back!" From the little fellow the farm hands had gathered that the train had stopped, and he had been put off by "a bad, bad man, who wouldn't buy the candy after all!" The waif was tired and hungry, and was taken to a neighboring farmhouse and there fed and put to bed.

For two weeks the little fellow remained at the farmhouse, and during that time every effort was made to find out his identity, and learn why he had been abandoned in such a heartless fashion. Questioned on the point, he said his name was Dave, or Davy, and sometimes he added Porter, and then, again, Dun-Dun, whatever that might mean. Because of this, he was generally spoken of as Dave Porter, and that was the name that eventually clung to him.

All efforts to ascertain who the waif was proved fruitless, and the lost one was thereupon turned over to the matron of the district poorhouse. As fortune would have it, she proved a kind woman, and brought up the little lad as if he were her own. He was given a fair amount of schooling, and likewise religious instruction, and was also taught to work.

Dave remained at the poorhouse farm until he was about nine years old. During those years Crumville grew from a village into a town, and many rich people settled there. Including a Mr. Oliver Wadsworth, who erected a jewelry works employing several hundred hands. Mr. Wadsworth was a liberal and public-spirited citizen, and we shall hear more of him in the near future.

As Crumville grew, the poorhouse with its farm was removed to another locality and placed under an entirely different management. The three boys at the institution were bound out to such persons as desired them, and Dave was sent to live with an elderly man named Caspar Potts, who had, the year before, purchased one of the hillside farms back of Crumville. By many Caspar Potts was considered to be "a bit off," as they expressed it, but as he appeared to be able to support Dave, the poorhouse management did not hesitate to place the waif in his charge. Dave was nothing to them, and all they wished to do was to get rid of him.

The boy had been very skeptical about going to live with old Caspar Potts, but his doubts soon vanished, and inside of a month he was glad the change had come to him. Much to his surprise, he learned that Caspar Potts had once been a college professor, but over-application to work had broken him down mentally, and then the man—who in his younger days had been brought up on a farm—had given up teaching and gone back to the soil.

"Stick by me, Dave," the old man had said. "Stick by me, and I'll feed and clothe you, and give you an education besides." And Caspar Potts had kept his word as far as he was able, and now Dave had more of an education than most lads of his years. More than that, he had learned many things not taught in the lower schools, and of these, in his own quiet way, he was rather proud.

During the past year matters had been going gradually from bad to worse. Through the winter Caspar Potts was very sick, and this illness ate up almost every dollar the man had saved. When spring came he was too weak to work at plowing and planting, and consequently this fell to Dave's lot. The two lived alone, and there were times when Caspar Potts was certainly more than half out of his mind, acting childish, and begging Dave not to desert him.

"I am not going to desert you," had been Dave's answer. "You have done for me as long as you could, and now I am going to do for you."

"But they may put us out of this house, Dave."

"If they do, we'll have to find some other place to live."

"I cannot undertake to develop another farm, lad; I am too old and feeble."

"Oh, you mustn't talk that way, professor." Dave sometimes called him professor just to please him, and it suited the old man very well. "You are not so very old,—and you'll feel better before long."

"Do you think so, my boy?" questioned the old man, wistfully.

"I'm sure of it."

"It does me good to hear you say so, Dave. You must know, for you're a smart lad, and you are bound to be a great man some day—I can see it sticking out all over you. Tell me now, would you like to be a professor, or would you rather be a farmer?"

"I don't know exactly what I'd like to be, just yet. I don't know enough of the outside world."

"Ha!" the old man drew a long breath. "That is true, Davy; that is true. You'll find it a hard world, with many sharp corners and many pitfalls. But you'll get through, you'll get through,—I can see it in your face. You'll get through!"

Chapter II

CHAPTER II

AN UNACCEPTED OFFER

When Dave returned home that night he was eighty-four cents richer than when he started out, directly after dinner. Ben Basswood had helped him to pick huckleberries until sundown and insisted that Dave should keep the entire proceeds.

"I like to help you, Dave," said Ben, on parting. "If you ever get in a hole let me know." He would have offered Dave some of his spending money, but felt that the lad would not accept it.

When Dave reached the cottage in which Caspar Potts and himself resided he found the old man walking up and down on the porch and wringing his hands.

"Oh, so you are back at last, Dave! I was afraid you had—had left me!"

"You know better than that, professor."

"But it is so late."

"Yes, I stayed up on the mountain longer than I intended."

"Did you get any huckleberries?"

"Over ten quarts, and sold them to Mr. Jackson for eighty-four cents."

"That's fine!" The old man's face brightened. "I could do that work—it's not hard. But I don't see how I'm to get up the mountain," and his face fell again.

"Has anybody been here since I went away?"

"Yes; Aaron Poole's son,—a very high-toned young man. He drove up in a fancy cart to tell me that his father would be here to-morrow morning for the interest on the mortgage."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I—I told him I couldn't pay up just yet—that he must wait a little."

"And what did he say to that?"

"His nose went up into the air and he said I must pay. That if I didn't his father was going to have the place sold. He was very lordly and—and somewhat abusive."

"Abusive? What do you mean by that?"

"He—he said his father was foolish to trust his money to such a—a—crazy, good-for-nothing fellow as myself. Caspar Potts' lips quivered as he spoke. "He said I was a—a lunatic, and ought to be in an asylum."

"I wish Nat Poole would mind his own business," cried Dave. "If I ever meet him I'll give him a piece of my mind."

"I am not crazy, am I, Dave?" asked the old professor, anxiously. "Tell me truly, lad?"

"No, you are not crazy, and I don't think you will ever be," was the ready answer. "You've been sick, that's all."

"Sometimes I feel very weak here." Caspar Potts tapped his forehead. "But it doesn't last long."

"What you need is a good long rest, professor."

"Yes, yes; but how can I rest when these troubles——"

"These troubles will all solve themselves somehow." Dave spoke as bravely as possible, solely for the old man's benefit, and not because he saw any solution himself. "Don't let's meet them halfway."

"Very well, lad; I'll do as you say," and then Caspar Potts shuffled into the cottage, much comforted.

The conversation did not comfort Dave, and his heart was heavy within him as he hurried around, preparing a scanty supper for the old man and himself. Caspar Potts had not thought of eating, and only did so after repeated urgings by the boy.

"You've got to eat to get strong again," said Dave. "Here, let me give you some more fried potatoes and another egg."

"Eat the potatoes yourself, Dave; I'll take the egg. That's enough for me."

In the morning Dave was up at five o'clock and working around the truck garden. After breakfast, he went out to hoe corn, but kept his eye on the road which ran past the house, from Crumville to Dixonville. Caspar Potts came out to aid him, but soon had to give up through sheer weakness.

"I—I can't do it," he panted. "It takes all the breath out of me."

"Sit down in the shade and rest," said Dave. "I can easily hoe the corn alone."

It was approaching noon when a buggy hove into sight on the road. It was drawn by a fine-looking horse and came forward at a spanking gait. In the buggy was a portly man of fifty, with a dark face and heavy black mustache, Mr. Aaron Poole.

"Mr. Poole!" murmured Caspar Potts, "I—I wish I was stronger to-day!"

"Let me help you to the house," answered Dave, and caught him by the arm. They had barely reached the porch when Aaron Poole strode up the dooryard path and confronted them.

"Good-morning, Mr. Poole," said Caspar Potts, politely. "Will you walk in and have a chair?"

"No, I just as soon stay out here," was the brusque answer. "I suppose you know what I am here for?" went on the newcomer, with a sharp look at first the old man and then at Dave.

"Yes, I know," answered Caspar Potts, feebly.

"I believe you told my son you couldn't pay that interest money."

"Not just yet, Mr. Poole. In a short while—perhaps a few weeks—when I am well again——"

"I don't intend to wait, Mr. Potts. The mortgage will be due in three months, and then the whole amount will have to be paid."

"The whole amount!" cried Caspar Potts, aghast.

"That is what I said, sir."

"Won't you renew——"

"No, I want the money; and I want that interest now."

"As I said before, I can't pay it. I've been sick all winter, and——"

"It seems to me you might wait a little, Mr. Poole," said Dave, interrupting him. "We'll pay you as soon as we can."

"Humph! Who are you, Mr. Potts' son?"

"No, sir; I work for him and live with him."

"Oh, yes, I remember now; you're the boy he took from the poorhouse. Well, I don't want any poorhouse urchin to advise me, do you understand? I am here for my money."

Dave's face flushed, and some angry words rushed to his lips, but he suppressed them.

"You—you have no right to insult the boy!" came from Caspar Potts. "He is a fine lad, even if he did come from the poorhouse."

"Insult him? Bosh! But we won't talk about that. Are you going to pay or not?"

"I cannot pay."

"Then I am going to let the law take its course." Aaron Poole paused. "That is, unless you want to make a deal with me."

"What kind of a deal?"

"I don't believe the property is worth a cent more than the mortgage, but to save trouble I am willing to give you a hundred dollars and take the place just as it stands."

"I think it is worth more than the mortgage," came quickly from Dave.

"Boy, you hold your tongue. I am dealing with Mr. Potts."

"Don't you take the offer, Mr. Potts."

At these words from the youth, Aaron Poole strode forward and shook his fist in Dave's face.

"I want you to be quiet!" he roared, passionately. "This is none of your business."

"But it is my business," responded the boy, with spirit. "Do you know what your son did yesterday? He came here and told Mr. Potts he was a lunatic. If Mr. Potts is that, then I am going to see to it that you don't cheat him."

"Cheat him!" Aaron Poole grew white. "Boy, if you talk like that to me, I'll—I'll wring your neck for you!"

"I've got as much right to talk that way as your son has a right to call Mr. Potts crazy and a lunatic."

"I am not going to stand here and let you insult me. I want you to keep still, otherwise I'll have the law on you."

"Dave, don't you think it would be best to take up with Mr. Poole's offer?" asked Caspar Potts, tremblingly.

"No, sir—at least not until you have asked some folks around Crumville what the land is worth."

"But—but——"

"Ben Basswood said there was some talk of running a trolley line from Haverfield through Crumville to Dixonville. If it went past here——"

"The boy is crazy," interrupted Aaron Poole. "The farm isn't worth a cent over what I am offering for it."

"I believe he is right, Dave."

"Then you'll take me up?" came quickly from Aaron Poole. He could scarcely suppress a smile of satisfaction.

"Don't do it," said Dave. "Wait at least until we can ask some folks in town about it. I can see Mr. Basswood to-morrow, and Mr. Jackson, and perhaps Mr. Gay, the lawyer."

"Boy, you have no right to interfere in this fashion," stormed Aaron Poole. "This is a piece of business between Mr. Potts and myself alone. Mr. Potts, you had better send the lad away. He doesn't know what he is talking about."

Caspar Potts gazed at the rich man, and then at Dave, in bewilderment.

"I—I don't know——" he began, hesitatingly.

"If everything is fair and square there will be no harm in waiting a few days," continued Dave. "The farm isn't going to run away."

"Surely that is true, Mr. Poole."

"I've got to go away to-morrow—down to New York on business," answered Aaron Poole. "I must close up this business without delay."

"Dave, what shall it be?" questioned Caspar Potts, pleadingly.

"I say, wait," came firmly from the youth.

"Then I'll wait," said the old man, and nothing would shake him from that determination. Aaron Poole argued for half an hour, and then strode from the cottage, shaking his head, angrily.

"I'll have the law on you," he cried, shrilly. "It's pay up or take the consequences. You might have had a hundred dollars extra; now you won't get a cent!" And then he jumped into his buggy and drove off.

As soon as his visitor was gone, Caspar Potts sank back in his chair in a state of collapse.

"Oh, Dave, I trust we have done what is best!" he groaned. "Perhaps—perhaps it would have been better to have sold out to him. A hundred dollars in cash is a good deal of money to us these days!"

"I'm satisfied of one thing," returned the boy. "He wouldn't offer that money unless the place was worth it. Aaron Poole isn't giving away a cent. His face shows how grasping he is."

"Yes. But what shall we do next?"

"I'll go down to town after dinner and ask those men I mentioned what is best to do. I am sure Mr. Basswood will tell me the truth about the value of the land, and so will Mr. Jackson and Mr. Gay."

Chapter III

CHAPTER III

dave's presence of mind

Dave was as good as his word, and by one o'clock he entered Mr. Jackson's store. The proprietor, a portly man, greeted him pleasantly.

"More huckleberries, Dave?"

"Not to-day, Mr. Jackson. I came to ask you for a little information."

"Oh! What is it?"

"I guess you know our farm pretty well, don't you?"

"Why, yes; I've known that place for a good number of years. When I was a boy I used to go fishing in the brook back of the woods up there."

"What would you think the farm would bring if put up for sale?"

"Hum! That's a serious question to answer off-hand. How many acres?"

"Eighty-six, and fifty cleared."

"How big is the house?"

"Four good rooms. Then we have a small barn, a cowshed, a poultry house, besides two cows, a horse, and all the tools."

"Are you trying to sell out?"

"Not exactly, but perhaps we'll have to. Now, how much ought the place to bring?"

"Two thousand dollars at least, I should say. Of course at a forced sale places don't bring so much."

"Well, don't you think it would bring more than thirteen hundred dollars?"

"It ought to. But once in a while a place goes for a song. Have you a purchaser?"

"Aaron Poole holds a mortgage for twelve hundred dollars, and he wants Mr. Potts to let him have it for the mortgage and a hundred dollars."

"Aaron Poole always was a close one for a bargain. You're not going to take him up?"

"I don't think so."

"Neither would I. Better risk an auction sale," answered Mr. Jackson, and turned away to wait on a customer that had entered.

From the store, Dave turned his footsteps toward Mr. Basswood's office, which was several blocks away. Ben's father had charge of several estates.

"Yes, Ben told me about your trouble," said Mr. Basswood, after greeting Dave. "I am sorry to hear of this. So Aaron Poole wants the place for the mortgage and a hundred, eh? I think I'd risk a sale first."

"That is just what Mr. Jackson said."

"Property around Crumville is constantly in in value, and if that new trolley deal should go through it would certainly enhance the value of your farm very greatly. I am sorry I am not just now in a position to take up that mortgage for Mr. Potts. But I can tell you of somebody who might do so, and that is Mr. Wadsworth."

"You mean the gentleman who owns the jewelry works?"

"Exactly. He has plenty of cash and is constantly looking for good investments."

"I'd like to ask him, only I don't know him."

"I'll give you a note of introduction, Dave. You'll find him a nice man to meet," answered Mr. Basswood.

The note was written, and with the paper in his pocket the boy went on his way.

Having expected to call upon Mr. Basswood, and also Mr. Gay, the lawyer, Dave had dressed himself in his best suit of clothes, and polished his shoes. His outfit was far from a fine one, but it was clean, and there were no rents and no buttons missing.

Mr. Oliver Wadsworth lived in an elegant mansion standing at the head of one of the best side streets of Crumville. The grounds were tastefully laid out, with trees, shrubs, and flowers. In the rear was a fine stable, where the jewelry manufacturer kept his horses. Close by was an building in which was kept the fine thirty horse-power automobile which had recently been purchased.

The Wadsworth family consisted of the gentleman and his wife and one child, a daughter named Jessie, aged about twelve. They had had a son, but the boy had been drowned in the river when ten years old. This loss grieved Mrs. Wadsworth very much, and she went out into society but rarely.

As Dave entered the wide-open gateway leading to the grounds he heard a peculiar chug-chug coming from in front of the building where the automobile was kept. The man in charge, who was also the Wadsworth coachman, was getting the machine in order for use on the road. He had promised to take Jessie out for a ride of fifteen or twenty miles, and the little miss was standing by, wraps in hand, waiting impatiently for the start.

"John, what makes you so long?" she asked, with a little pout. "You've been working now nearly half an hour."

"Can't help it, Miss Jessie," returned the hired man. "There seems to be something the matter with the flow of gasoline, or else this electric spark don't act right. I reckon I've got to tighten those screws a bit more."

"I thought automobiles ran easily," went on Jessie, shaking back her golden curls. "We might be miles away by this time."

Dave stripped himself of his jacket, and in another instant he had the garment around the suffering girl.—Page 23.

"The machine will run well enough when once we get started," said the man, and then he walked to the rear of the building for a wrench.

How it happened nobody could exactly tell, but scarcely had the man left the side of the automobile when there came a small explosion, and a spout of flame shot from the side of the machine. This touched Jessie's dress, and caused her to give a wild and piercing scream of terror.

"Oh! oh! I'm on fire! Help me!"

"Fire! Fire!" yelled the hired man, and rushed off to get a pail of water.

The path from the gateway to the front piazza of the mansion ran in a quarter circle and in view of the automobile house. Thus Dave, coming along this path, saw the accident and saw Jessie in danger of being fatally burned.

For the moment the heart of the lad seemed to stop beating. Then he made a wild dash across the lawn.

"Oh, save me! Save me!" shrieked Jessie. "I am burning up!"

As he came forward Dave stripped himself of his jacket and in another instant he had the garment around the suffering girl. Then he threw her on the grass and rolled her over and over.

"Jessie! My Jessie!" came from a side porch of the mansion, and Mrs. Wadsworth appeared. "Save her!"

Dave did not reply, but continued to roll the girl over and over, at the same time beating out the flames as best he could with his hands. Then the hired man put in an appearance with a bucket of water.

"Use this," he said, and Dave dashed some in the girl's face and on her breast and arms. But the flames were out and the danger was over.

"Is she—is she——" began Mrs. Wadsworth, but could say no more.

"I don't think she is hurt very much," answered Dave.

He helped Jessie to a sitting position and then to her feet. She stared around wildly and rushed into her mother's arms.

"Oh, mamma!" she moaned, and then fainted.

"Shall we carry her into the house, mum?" asked the hired man.

"Yes," was the reply, and between the man and Dave they took Jessie into a sitting room, where she was placed on a sofa. It was seen that her left arm was slightly burned, near the elbow, but otherwise she was unharmed. Oil was applied, and then flour, and the hired man was rushed away to get a doctor. In the meantime the fire had died out, leaving the automobile but slightly damaged.

Before the doctor arrived Jessie came out of her swoon. She said the arm smarted greatly, but the physician soon made this feel fairly comfortable. In the meantime Mr. Wadsworth, who had gone to the jewelry works, was also summoned.

"Thank God, she is safe!" murmured the gentleman, after seeing his daughter. "Had she been——" He could not finish, but had to turn away.

"It was this young man who saved her, Oliver," came from Mrs. Wadsworth. "At the risk of being burnt himself, he covered her with his jacket, rolled her on the damp grass, and put water on her."

"It was a brave thing to do," was Mr. Wadsworth's ready reply, and he shook Dave's hand warmly.

"Oh, I didn't do much," answered the boy, honestly. "You see, it was only last week I was reading an article on what to do in case a person's clothing took fire. It came in handy, didn't it?"