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The Telegraph Boy, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 27. Frank Becomes A Good Samaritan |
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_ CHAPTER XXVII. FRANK BECOMES A GOOD SAMARITAN The close of the month came, and Frank laid aside his uniform. He was a telegraph boy no more. The superintendent shook hands with him cordially, and bade him good-by. "Come and see us sometimes," he said. "I wish you all success. Your services have been very satisfactory, and you have gained an excellent reputation." "Thank you, sir," said Frank. "I have tried to do my duty. Good-by, boys!" He shook hands with all his young comrades, with whom he was very popular. They knew of his good fortune, and were disposed to regard him as very rich. Six thousand dollars in a boy's eyes is a fortune. "Now you're rich, Frank, I suppose you won't notice the likes of us," said Johnny O'Connor. "I hope you don't think as badly of me as that, Johnny," said Frank, earnestly. "I am not rich; but, even if I were, I should always be glad to meet any of you. If I am ever able to do a favor to any of you I will." "I believe you, Frank," said Johnny. "You was always a good feller." "Where's Tom Brady?" asked Frank, looking about him. "Is he out on an errand?" "Tom's sick," said the superintendent. "He's got a fever." "It's bad for him," said Johnny, "for his mother and sister depended on Tom's wages. Poor Tom felt bad because he had to give up work." "Where does he live?" asked Frank, with quick sympathy. "No. -- East Fourteenth street," answered Johnny. "I know, because I live in the same block." "I'll go and see him." Frank's heart was not hardened by his own prosperity. He knew what it was to be poor, and could enter into the feelings of the unfortunate telegraph boy. Half an hour found him in front of a large tenement-house, in front of which were playing children of all ages, most of them showing in their faces that unhealthy pallor which so generally marks a tenement-house population. "Do you know where Mrs. Brady lives?" asked Frank of a girl of twelve. "Which Brady is it?" asked the girl. "There's three lives here." "It's Tom Brady's mother," answered our hero. "Is it Tom, the telegraph boy?" "Yes." "I'll show you then. Tom's been sick for some time." "I know it. I have come to see him." "Do you know Tom?" asked the girl, in some surprise; for Frank, having laid aside his uniform, was handsomely dressed, and looked like the son of a rich man. "Yes, Tom is a friend of mine. I am sorry he's sick." Up two flights of rickety stairs Frank followed the girl, who halted before a door. "That's the place," said his young guide, and disappeared down the stairs, sliding down the banisters. Young ladies in the best society do not often indulge in this amusement, but Mary Murphy knew little of etiquette or conventionality. In answer to Frank's knock, the door was opened by Mrs. Brady, a poorly clad and care-worn woman. "What is your wish, young gentleman?" she said. "I've come to see Tom. How is he?" "Do you know my Tom?" asked Mrs. Brady, in surprise. "Yes; is he very sick?" "The poor boy has got a fever." "Can I see him?" "If you'll come into such a poor place, sir. We're very poor, and now that Tom's wages is stopped I don't know how we'll get along at all." "Better than you think, perhaps, Mrs. Brady," said Frank, cheerfully. "Why, Tom, what made you get sick?" He had entered the room, and reached the bed on which the sick boy was lying. Tom looked up in surprise and pleasure. "Is it you, Frank?" he said. "I'm glad you've come to see me. But how did you find me out?" "Johnny O'Connor told me where you lived. How long have you been sick?" "Three days. It's rough on a poor boy like me. I ought to be earning money for my mother." "We'll miss Tom's wages badly," said Mrs. Brady; "I can't earn much myself, and there's three of us to feed, let alone the rint." "How did you get off, Frank?" asked Tom. "I've left the office." "Was this young gentleman a telegraph boy?" asked Mrs. Brady, in surprise. "Yes," said Tom; "but he's come into a fortune, and now he won't have to work." "I'm sure I'm glad of his good luck, and it's a great condescension for a rich young gentleman to come and see my Tom." "I have come into some money, but not a fortune, Mrs. Brady," said Frank; "but it does not make me any better than when I was a poor telegraph boy." Evidently Mrs. Brady was not of this opinion, for she carefully dusted with her apron the best chair in the room, and insisted on Frank's seating himself in it. "Have you had a doctor, Mrs. Brady?" asked Frank. "Yes." "What does he say?" "He says that Tom will be sick for three or four weeks, and I don't know what we'll do without his wages all that time." "That's what troubles me," said Tom. "I wouldn't mind it so much if I'd get my pay reg'lar while I'm sick." "Then you needn't be troubled, Tom," said Frank, promptly, "for you shall get it regularly." "They won't give it to me," said Tom, incredulously. "They won't, but I will." "Do you mean it, Frank?" "Certainly I do. I will give you a week's pay this morning, and I will call every week, and pay you the same." "Do you hear that, mother?" said Tom, joyfully. "God bless you, young gentleman, for your kindness to us!" said Mrs. Brady, gratefully. "Oh, it isn't much," said Frank; "I can spare it well enough. I have had such good luck myself that I ought to do something for those who need it." "You're a good feller, Frank," said Tom, warmly. "I'll get well quick now. If you ever want anybody to fight for you, just call on Tom Brady." "I generally do my own fighting, Tom," said Frank, laughing, "but I'll remember your offer. When you are well, you must come and spend an evening with me." "I'm sure he'll be proud to do the same," said Mrs. Brady. "I must bid you good-by, now, Tom. Keep a 'stiff upper lip,' and don't be down-hearted. We must all be sick sometimes, you know, and you'll soon be well." "I won't be down-hearted now," said Tom, "with my wages comin' in reg'lar. Remember me to the boys, Frank." "I will, Tom." When Frank reached home he found a large, overgrown boy, with big red hands, and clothes of rural cut, who apparently did not know what to do with his legs and arms, waiting to see him. It was his cousin Jonathan. _ |
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