style="font-size:15px;"> “Mother,” he said, earnestly, “I mean to seek for that man you have told me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?”
“He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and said this to deceive us, probably.”
“I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father. From what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him.”
“He must be nearly fifty now—dark complexion, with dark hair and whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any. There are many men who look like that. I should know him by his expression, but I cannot describe that to you.”
Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and Frank begged her to say no more.
Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing, and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She herself felt that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to believe.
On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.
“Is your mother very sick, Frank?” he asked.
“Yes, Sam, I’m afraid she won’t live.”
“Is it so bad as that? I do believe,” he added, with a sudden change of tone, “Tom Pinkerton is the meanest boy I ever knew. He is trying to get your place as captain of the baseball club. He says that if your mother doesn’t live, you will have to go to the poorhouse, for you won’t have any money, and that it will be a disgrace for the club to have a captain from the poorhouse.”
“Did he say that?” asked Frank, indignantly.
“Yes.”
“When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to the poorhouse.”
“He says his father is going to put you and your sister there.”
“All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the poorhouse!” said Frank, resolutely.
“Bully for you, Frank! I knew you had spunk.”
Frank hurried home. As he entered the little house a neighbor’s wife, who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.
“Frank,” she said, gravely, “you must prepare yourself for sad news. While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage, and—and—”
“Is she dead?” asked the boy, his face very pale.
“She is dead!”
CHAPTER IV
THE TOWN AUTOCRAT
“The Widder Fowler is dead,” remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the supper table. “She died this afternoon.”
“I suppose she won’t leave anything,” said Mrs. Pinkerton.
“No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and that is all she has.”
“What will become of the children?”
“As I observed, day before yesterday, they will be constrained to find a refuge in the poorhouse.”
“What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me, father?”
“I am not able to conjecture what Samuel would be likely to observe, my son.”
“He observed that Frank Fowler said he wouldn’t go to the poorhouse.”
“Ahem!” coughed the deacon. “The boy will not be consulted.”
“That’s what I say, father,” said Tom, who desired to obtain his father’s co-operation. “You’ll make him go to the poorhouse, won’t you?”
“I shall undoubtedly exercise my authority, if it should be necessary, my son.”
“He told Sam Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertons in the world couldn’t make him go to the poorhouse.”
“I will constrain him,” said the deacon.
“I would if I were you, father,” said Tom, elated at the effect of his words. “Just teach him a lesson.”
“Really, deacon, you mustn’t be too hard upon the poor boy,” said his better-hearted wife. “He’s got trouble enough on him.”
“I will only constrain him for his good, Jane. In the poorhouse he will be well provided for.”
Meanwhile another conversation respecting our hero and his fortunes was held at Sam Pomeroy’s home. It was not as handsome as the deacon’s, for Mr. Pomeroy was a poor man, but it was a happy one, nevertheless, and Mr. Pomeroy, limited as were his means, was far more liberal than the deacon.
“I pity Frank Fowler,” said Sam, who was warm-hearted and sympathetic, and a strong friend of Frank. “I don’t know what he will do.”
“I suppose his mother left nothing.”
“I understood,” said Mr. Pomeroy, “that Deacon Pinkerton holds a mortgage on her furniture.”
“The deacon wants to send Frank and his sister to the poorhouse.”
“That would be a pity.”
“I should think so; but Frank positively says he won’t go.”
“I am afraid there isn’t anything else for him. To be sure, he may get a chance to work in a shop or on a farm, but Grace can’t support herself.”
“Father, I want to ask you a favor.”
“What is it, Sam?”
“Won’t you invite Frank and his sister to come and stay here a week?”
“Just as your mother says.”
“I say yes. The poor children will be quite welcome. If we were rich enough they might stay with us all the time.”
“When Frank comes here I will talk over his affairs with him,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “Perhaps we can think of some plan for him.”
“I wish you could, father.”
“In the meantime, you can invite him and Grace to come and stay with us a week, or a fortnight. Shall we say a fortnight, wife?”
“With all my heart.”
“All right, father. Thank you.”
Sam delivered the invitation in a way that showed how strongly his own feelings were enlisted in favor of its acceptance. Frank grasped his hand.
“Thank you, Sam, you are a true friend,” he said.
“I hadn’t begun to think of what we were to do, Grace and I.”
“You’ll come, won’t you?”
“You
