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Robert Coverdale's Struggle; or, On The Wave Of Success, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 33. The Landlord's Defeat |
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_ CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LANDLORD'S DEFEAT About ten o'clock the next morning Mr. Nahum Jones approached the Trafton cottage. Sitting on a bench outside was Robert Coverdale, whittling. He had put on his old clothes, intending it to be for the last time. He wanted to surprise Mr. Jones. "There's Bob Coverdale," said Mr. Jones to himself. "He don't look much as if he was able to pay the mortgage. I guess I've got the place fast enough." "Is your aunt at home, young man?" he asked pompously. "Yes," answered Robert, continuing to whittle. "You might say 'yes, sir.'" "All right. I'll remember next time." "You'd better. Tell your aunt I want to see her--on business," emphasizing the last two words. "Come right in, sir." Mr. Jones, with a patronizing air, entered the house of which he already considered himself the proprietor. Mrs. Trafton was engaged in making a pudding, for she had two boarders now, Julian and his father, who were to take their meals in the fisherman's cottage till they got ready to leave Cook's Harbor. "Good mornin', ma'am," said Mr. Jones. "Good morning. Will you take a seat?" she said quietly. "I can't stay long, Mrs. Trafton. I called on a little matter of business." "Very well, sir." "I suppose you understand what it is?" "Perhaps I do, but you had better explain." "I have made up my mind to foreclose the mortgage I hold on this place, and I should like to have you move out within three days, as I am going to let it." "Indeed! To whom do you intend to let it?" "To Frank Shelton. He's goin' to be married, and this house will suit him." "And what am I to do, Mr. Jones? You surely do not mean to deprive Robert and me of our home?" "It isn't yours any longer, or won't be. Of course, you can't expect to stay here. I haven't forgotten how you talked to me when I was here before nor how impudent your boy was." "Meaning me?" asked Robert with a grave face. "Of course I mean you!" said Mr. Jones sharply. "I haven't said anything impudent to you to-day, have I?" "No, but you'd ought to have thought of that before. It's too late now!" "You won't turn us out on the street, will you, Mr. Jones?" "Haven't I given you three days to stay? If you want my advice, I should say that you'd find a good, comfortable home in the poorhouse. Your boy there might be bound out to a farmer." "I don't know any farmer that wants a boy," said Robert meekly. "I'd take you myself," said Nahum Jones, "if you wasn't so impudent. I'm afraid you're a little too airy for me." "Wouldn't you let the house to me, Mr. Jones?" asked the widow. "It's worth a good deal more than the face of the mortgage." "You couldn't get a dollar more, in my opinion," said the landlord. "As to takin' you for a tenant, I haven't any assurance that you could pay the rent." "What rent do you want for it, Mr. Jones?" "Five dollars a month." "Five dollars a month, when you say it's only worth two hundred dollars!" "I'm goin' to fix it up a little," said Mr. Jones, rather nonplussed. "I think, Mr. Jones, we won't move," said Robert. "Won't move?" ejaculated the landlord, getting red in the face. "You've got to move." "Who says so?" "I say so, you young whelp!" "No hard names, if you please, Mr. Jones. The fact is, my aunt doesn't fancy going to the poorhouse. To be sure, if she could have your society there it might make a difference." "You'll repent this impudence, Bob Coverdale!" "How am I impudent?" "To talk of my being in the poorhouse!" "You spoke of Aunt Jane going to the poorhouse." "That's a different matter." "At any rate, she won't go!" said Robert decidedly. "Won't? We'll see about that. How are you going to help it?" "By paying the mortgage," answered Robert quietly. "You can't do it," said Mr. Jones, his jaw drooping. "You are mistaken, Mr. Jones. If you'll write a receipt, I am ready to pay it now--principal and interest." Robert drew out a roll of bills from the pocket of his ragged vest and began to count them. "Where did you get this money?" ejaculated the landlord. "I must decline telling you, Mr. Jones. It's good money, as you can see. I think you'll have to tell Frank Shelton he can't have the house unless he wants to hire of my aunt." Nahum Jones hated to take the money that was offered him, but there was no loophole to escape. The good bargain was slipping from his grasp. The triumphant look faded from his face, and he looked exceedingly ill at ease. "I'll come up with you for this, Bob Coverdale!" he muttered angrily. "For what? Paying you money, Mr. Jones?" "You know what I mean." "Yes, I do know what you mean," returned the boy gravely. "This money is in payment for liquor furnished to my poor uncle--liquor which broke up the happiness of his home and finally led to his death. You laid a plot to deprive my aunt, whom you had so much injured, of her home, but you have been defeated. We don't care to have anything more to do with you." There is no need of recording the landlord's ill-natured answer. He was angry and humiliated, and, when he got home, snapped up Mrs. Jones when she began to make inquiries about the new property. He felt the worse because he had been defeated by a boy. _ |
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