Victor Horton's Idea, Ch. 1

VICTOR HORTON'S IDEA.

BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER.

CHAPTER I.
GREAT NEWS.

It was indeed great news for the Belmont boys. A real city show, and a double one, too, was to give an exhibition at the town hall.

These wonderful tidings had been circulated by means of the following poster, conspicuously displayed throughout the neighborhood:

COMING! COMING! COMING!

ZWINGO'S WORLD-FAMOUS UNCLE TOM'S CABIN
AND HUMPTY DUMPTY PANTOMIME TROOP.

The strongest combination extant! Two distinct companies in one grand double bill of unapproachable excellence! The savage, untamed Siberian bloodhound Leo! The comical donkey Wisdom! The favorite South Carolina Jubilee Shouters! The greatest of all great Clowns, Tim Dicks! The Royal Gold Cornet Band!

BELMONT HALL, Monday, November 3.

Admission, 25 cents. Reserved seats extra. Doors open at 7 P.M. Performance at 8.
N.B.—Don't fail to hear the open-air concert before the opening of the doors.

No wonder that the feelings of the young folks were stirred to their deepest depths. Outside of the annual school exhibitions during holiday week, no shows had occurred for full three years. And this—this was to be so grand and immense! Oh, but wasn't it just “boss!” Half the boys hugged themselves thinking about it.

Among the number was Victor Horton, the son of a prosperous farmer, whose broad acres lay a mile from the township centre.

Victor was fifteen years old, naturally bright and lively, and if he had not held so high an opinion of himself, he would have been a first-rate lad.

Besides being conceited, Victor was dissatisfied with the quietness of country life. He longed to go forth into the great world and achieve fame and fortune.

Now, though this idea is often a very laudable one, it was not so in the present instance. Victor's idea upon the subject had been gathered wholly from the pages of numerous dime novels and disreputable story-papers loaned him by his particular crony, Sam Wilson, and was, therefore, of a deceptive and unsubstantial nature, and likely to do more harm than good.

But Victor was not aware of this, and it is quite probable that he would not have believed it, had he been told. It is my purpose to relate what his idea led to, and how the complicated affair terminated.

It was early morning of the day upon which the exhibition was to be given. Victor stood in a crowd of boys, waiting for Mr. Walner, the schoolmaster, to arrive and open school.

“Tell you what, boys,” Sam Wilson was saying, as he held up one of the show-bills, “my idea is that it's rattling good, and no mistake.”

“I believe you,” agreed Billy Parsons, “and you can just bet I won't miss it, either.”

These remarks worried Victor. The truth was that though he had set his heart upon going, he was by no means sure of gaining the required permission.

Mr. Horton was a strict man. He had begun life poor, and now, when the fruits of labor were accumulated around him, he did not believe in allowing money to slip away too easily. He was not close-fisted, only economical—a habit which his only son sadly misconstrued as a mere restraint upon personal liberty.

“Of course you will go, Vic?” continued Sam.

His “of course” meant a good deal to Victor. It was taken for granted, then, that he would go, and so it would never do to admit that permission must first be obtained.

“Oh, of course,” he replied, loftily.

“Then stop at my house at half-past six, and we'll go together,” said his crony. “We want to hear the open-air concert, you know.”

Victor began to feel uneasy. He had not yet had the courage to ask his father if he could go, and now, if he was refused, what would the other boys say? Public opinion is often hard to endure.

While Victor was turning this matter over in his mind, and heartily wishing that he could do as he pleased, the tall form of Mr. Walner appeared and school was opened for the day.

It must be confessed that nearly all the lessons that morning progressed slowly. The announcement of the show was too much for the average pupil, and many ridiculous answers were returned to the kind old pedagogue's questions.

The class in arithmetic was soon called.

“Wilson,” said Mr. Walner, thinking to interest Sam, who was unusually dull in figures, “if tickets for that show at the town hall are worth twenty-five cents, and reserves are worth double, which cost the most—nine tickets and five reserves, or seven tickets and eight reserves?”

“Reserves are not worth double,” replied Sam, promptly. “They are only thirty-five cents.”

The schoolmaster bit his lips in vexation.

At this instant a clatter was heard outside, and a second later came a sharp rap on the door.

“Harrison, see who is there,” said Mr. Walner, with an inquiring look upon his face.

The pupil addressed did so, and admitted the railroad station boy.

“A message for you, Mr. Walner,” he said, and delivered it.

The schoolmaster tore open the envelope with a nervous hand. It was the first telegram that he had received in many years.

As he read its contents, his face blanched considerably, and he pressed his hand to his forehead in painful thought, from which he was aroused by the boy asking if any answer was to be sent.

“No,” replied Mr. Walner.

And, after having his receipt-book signed, the boy departed.

The schoolmaster sat thinking for several moments after he was gone, and then arose and addressed his pupils.

“I wish to say to you that I have just received notice to come to New York at once. It is even necessary that I take the next train.” He glanced at the clock. “School is dismissed for the day. I cannot tell how long I shall be gone, but if I am not back by to-morrow, a proper person will take my place. You may go.”

The scholars needed no second bidding. Gathering up their books, they left the building at once.

When all were gone, Mr. Walner locked the door and hurried away as fast as his aged legs would permit.

His sudden departure was the subject of much comment among the boys. It was a most unusual occurrence, for which no one could give an adequate reason.

“Wonder what was in the telegram?” said Sam.

“Must have been important,” replied Victor. “He looked kind of pale when he read it, didn't he?”

“Won't Squire Green be mad when he hears of it?” remarked another boy.

For Squire Green, the head of the school committee men, was very particular in all transactions, and disliked anything out of the ordinary.

“Anyway, it gives us a holiday, and I'm in for making the most of it,” broke in Harrison. “Get your sticks, boys, and let's have a game of shinny.”

This proposal met with instant favor. Nearly all got their sticks, and soon the cry of “Shinny on your own side!” arose on the morning air.

Victor did not stop to take part. He liked the game well enough, but his mind was on a certain paper-covered book, hidden away in the pocket of his jacket, and he started off for some place where he might continue its perusal.

“Hi, Vic, where are you going?” called Sam, running up.

“To the den,” replied Victor. “I want to finish this story.”

“Oh! I thought you were going home. Ain't it just splendid?” he continued, referring to the book.

“You bet! Got any more like it?”

“Yes. Got this last night—‘Dakota Dick, the Red Rifle of the Rockies.’ Oh, but ain't it immense! I'll finish it to-morrow. But, say, let me have that as soon as you can. Butterfield is going to trade me for it.”

“I'll be done with it this afternoon.”

“Then bring it to-night, when you come to the show.”

Victor's face fell.

“I will if I come,” he replied, slowly.

“If you come!” Sam's eyes opened widely. “You don't mean to say you're going to miss it?”

“Not if I can help it,” replied Victor, his face flushing: and to avoid being questioned further he hurried away.

 

(originally published in Golden Days for Boys and Girls, Vol. X, No. 49)