lger
Andy Grant's Pluck
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY
Horatio Alger, Jr., the author of about seventy books, was born January 13th, 1834, at Revere, Massachusetts, and died July 18th, 1899, at Natick, Massachusetts.
He was the son of a clergyman; was graduated at Harvard College, now
Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1852, and from its
Divinity School in 1860, and was pastor of the Unitarian Church at
Brewster, Massachusetts, from 1862 to 1866.
He removed to New York City in 1866, where he wrote his first book for boys, Ragged Dick, which had a wonderful sale. This was followed by Fame and Fortune, and many others, of which the best-known titles are: Andy Grant's Pluck, Adrift in New York, Ben's Nugget, Charlie Codman's Cruise, Chester Rand, Five Hundred Dollars, Grit, Helping Himself, The Young Adventurer, The Young Explorer, The Young Miner, The Young Musician, The Store Boy, The Tin Box, Walter Sherwood's Probation, and Work and Win.
Mr. Alger's stories are pure in tone, inspiring in influence, and are as popular now as when they were first published, because they were written about real boys who did honest things successfully. Millions of his books have been sold since they were first published. The World's Work of June, 1910, said they were then selling at the rate of over one million copies a year. This estimate is low; it is a fact that they are now selling at the rate of over two million copies a year.
ANDY GRANT'S PLUCK
CHAPTER I.
THE TELEGRAM
"A telegram for you, Andy!" said Arthur Bacon, as he entered the room of
Andy Grant in Penhurst Academy.
"A telegram!" repeated Andy, in vague alarm, for the word suggested something urgent—probably bad news of some kind.
He tore open the envelope and read the few words of the message:
"Come home at once. Something has happened.
"MOTHER."
"What can it be?" thought Andy, perplexed. "At any rate, mother is well, for she sent the telegram."
"What is it?" asked Arthur.
"I don't know. You can read the telegram for yourself."
"Must you go home?" asked Arthur, in a tone of regret.
"Yes. When is there a train?"
"At three this afternoon."
"I will take it. I must go and see Dr. Crabb."
"But won't you come back again?"
"I don't know. I am all in the dark. I think something must have happened to my father."
Dr. Crabb was at his desk in his library—it was Saturday afternoon, and school was not in session—when Andy knocked at the door.
"Come in!" said the doctor, in a deep voice.
Andy opened the door and entered. Dr. Crabb smiled, for Andy was his favorite pupil.
"Come in, Grant!" he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Give me permission to go home. I have just had a telegram. I will show it to you."
The doctor was a man of fifty-five, with a high forehead and an intellectual face. He wore glasses, and had done so for ten years. They gave him the appearance of a learned scholar, as he was.
"Dear me!" he said. "How unfortunate! Only two weeks to the end of the term, and you are our primus!"
"I am very sorry, sir; but perhaps I may be able to come back."
"Do so, by all means, if you can. There is hardly a pupil I could not better spare."
"Thank you, sir," said Andy gratefully. "There is a train at three o'clock. I would like to take it."
"By all means. And let me hear from you, even if you can't come back."
"I will certainly write, doctor. Thank you for all your kindness."
Penhurst Academy was an endowed school. On account of the endowments, the annual rate to boarding scholars was very reasonable—only three hundred dollars, including everything.
The academy had a fine reputation, which it owed in large part to the high character and gifts of Dr. Crabb, who had been the principal for twenty-five years. He had connected himself with the school soon after he left Dartmouth, and had been identified with it for the greater part of his active life.
Andy had been a pupil for over two years, and was an excellent Latin and
Greek scholar. In a few months he would be ready for college.
Dr. Crabb was anxious to have him go to Dartmouth, his own alma mater, being convinced that he would do him credit and make a brilliant record for scholarship. Indeed, it was settled that he would go, his parents being ready to be guided by the doctor's advice.
From Penhurst to Arden, where Andy's parents lived, was fifty miles.
Starting at three o'clock, the train reached Arden station at five.
As Andy stepped on the platform he saw Roland Hunter, the son of a neighbor.
"How are you, Andy?" said Roland, with a cheerful greeting. "How do you happen to be coming home? Is it vacation?"
"No; I was summoned home by a telegram. Is—are they all well at home?"
"Yes, so far as I know."
Andy breathed a sigh of relief.
"I am glad of that," he said. "I was afraid some one in the family might be sick."
"I don't think so. I would have heard, living so near."
"Father is well, then?"
"Come to think of it, I heard he had a bad headache."
"At any rate, it isn't anything serious. Are you going home? If you are,
I'll walk along with you."
"We can do better than that; I've got uncle's buggy on the other side of the depot. I'll take you, bag and baggage."
"Thank you, Roland. My bag is rather heavy, and as it is a mile to the house, I shall be glad to accept your offer."
"Bundle in, then," said Roland, merrily. "I don't know but I ought to charge you a quarter. That's the regular fare by stage."
"All right! charge it if you like," rejoined Andy, smiling. "Are your folks all well?"
"Oh, yes, especially Lily. You and she are great friends, I believe."
"Oh, yes," answered Andy, with a smile.
"She
