I will tell him how much you offered to give."
"That's a queer boy," said Mr. Tripp, as Chester left the store. "Seems to want me to pay all Walter Bruce's expenses. What made him come to Wyncombe to get sick? He'd better have stayed where he lived, and then he'd have had a claim to go to the poorhouse. He can't live on me, I tell him that. Them Rands are foolish to take him in. They're as poor as poverty themselves, and now they've taken in a man who ain't no claim on them. I expect they thought they'd get a good sum out of me for boardin' him. There's a great many onrasonable people in the world."
"I will go and see Mr. Morris, the minister," decided the perplexed Chester. "He will tell me what to do."
Accordingly he called on the minister and unfolded the story to sympathetic ears.
"You did right, Chester," said Mr. Morris. "The poor fellow was fortunate to fall into your hands. But won't it be too much for your mother?"
"It's the expense I am thinking of, Mr. Morris. You know I have lost my situation, and mother has no shoes to bind."
"I can help you, Chester. A rich lady of my acquaintance sends me a hundred dollars every year to bestow in charity. I will devote a part of this to the young man whom you have so kindly taken in, say at the rate of eight dollars a week."
"That will make us feel easy," said Chester gratefully. "How much do you think his uncle offered me?"
"I am surprised that he should have offered anything."
"He handed me twenty-five cents, but I told him I thought we could get along without it."
"And you will. Silas Tripp has a small soul, hardly worth saving. He has made money his god, and serves his chosen deity faithfully."
"I wouldn't change places with him for all his wealth."
"Some day you may be as rich as he, but I hope, if you are, you will use your wealth better."
At the beginning of the third week Walter Bruce became suddenly worse. His constitution was fragile, and the disease had undermined his strength. The doctor looked grave.
"Do you think I shall pull through, doctor?" asked the young man.
"While there is life there is hope, Mr. Bruce."
"That means that the odds are against me?"
"Yes, I am sorry to say that you are right."
Walter Bruce looked thoughtful.
"I don't think I care much for life," he said. "I have had many disappointments, and I know that at the best I could never be strong and enjoy life as most of my age do—I am resigned."
"How old are you, Walter?" asked Chester.
"Twenty-nine. It is a short life."
"Is there anyone you would wish me to notify if the worst comes?"
"No, I have scarcely a relative—except Silas Tripp," he added, with a bitter smile.
"You have no property to dispose of by will?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," was the unexpected answer, "but I shall not make a will. A will may be contested. I will give it away during my life."
Chester and the doctor looked surprised. They thought the other might refer to a ring or some small article.
"I want everything to be legal," resumed Bruce. "Is there a lawyer in the village?"
"Yes, Lawyer Gardener."
"Send for him. I shall feel easier when I have attended to this last duty."
Within half an hour the lawyer was at his bedside.
"In the inside pocket of my coat," said Walter Bruce, "you will find a document. It is the deed of five lots in the town of Tacoma, in Washington Territory. I was out there last year, and having a little money, bought the lots for a song. They are worth very little now, but some time they may be of value."
"To whom do you wish to give them?" asked Mr. Gardner.
"To this boy," answered Bruce, looking affectionately toward Chester. "He and his have been my best friends."
"But your uncle—he is a relative!" suggested Chester.
"He has no claim upon me. Lawyer, make out a deed of gift of these lots to Chester Rand, and I will sign it."
The writing was completed, Bruce found strength to sign it, and then sank back exhausted. Two days later he died. Of course the eight dollars a week from the minister's fund ceased to be paid to the Rands. Chester had not succeeded in obtaining work. To be sure he had the five lots in Tacoma, but he who had formerly owned them had died a pauper. The outlook was very dark.
CHAPTER V.
CHESTER'S FIRST SUCCESS
Chester and his mother and a few friends attended the funeral of Walter Bruce. Silas Tripp was too busy at the store to pay this parting compliment to his nephew. He expressed himself plainly about the folly of the Rands in "runnin' into debt for a shif'less fellow" who had no claim upon them. "If they expect me to pay the funeral expenses they're mistaken," he added, positively. "I ain't no call to do it, and I won't do it."
But he was not asked to defray the expenses of the simple funeral. It was paid for out of the minister's charitable fund.
"Some time I will pay you back the money, Mr. Morris," said Chester. "I am Mr. Bruce's heir, and it is right that I should pay."
"Very well, Chester. If your bequest amounts to anything I will not object. I hope for your sake that the lots may become valuable."
"I don't expect it, Mr. Morris. Will you be kind enough to take care of the papers for me?"
"Certainly, Chester. I will keep them with my own papers."
At this time Tacoma contained only four hundred inhabitants. The Northern Pacific Railroad had not been completed, and there was no certainty when it would be. So Chester did not pay much attention or give much thought to his Western property, but began to look round anxiously for something to do.
During the sickness of Walter Bruce he had given up his time to helping his mother and the care of the sick man. The money received from the minister enabled him to do this. Now the weekly income had ceased, and it became a serious question what he should do to bring in an income.
He had almost forgotten his meeting with Herbert Conrad, the young artist, when the day after the funeral he received a letter in an unknown hand, addressed to "Master Chester Rand, Wyncombe, New York."
As he opened it, his eyes opened wide with surprise and joy, when two five-dollar bills fluttered to the ground, for he had broken the seal in front of the post office.
He read the letter eagerly. It ran thus:
"Dear Chester:—I am glad to say that I have sold your sketch for ten dollars to one of the papers I showed you at Wyncombe. If you have any others ready, send them along. Try to think up some bright, original idea, and illustrate it in your best style. Then send to me.
"Your sincere friend, Herbert."
