lger
Driven from Home; Or, Carl Crawford's Experience
CHAPTER I
DRIVEN FROM HOME
A boy of sixteen, with a small gripsack in his hand, trudged along the country road. He was of good height for his age, strongly built, and had a frank, attractive face. He was naturally of a cheerful temperament, but at present his face was grave, and not without a shade of anxiety. This can hardly be a matter of surprise when we consider that he was thrown upon his own resources, and that his available capital consisted of thirty-seven cents in money, in addition to a good education and a rather unusual amount of physical strength. These last two items were certainly valuable, but they cannot always be exchanged for the necessaries and comforts of life.
For some time his steps had been lagging, and from time to time he had to wipe the moisture from his brow with a fine linen handkerchief, which latter seemed hardly compatible with his almost destitute condition.
I hasten to introduce my hero, for such he is to be, as Carl Crawford, son of Dr. Paul Crawford, of Edgewood Center. Why he had set out to conquer fortune single-handed will soon appear.
A few rods ahead Carl’s attention was drawn to a wide-spreading oak tree, with a carpet of verdure under its sturdy boughs.
“I will rest here for a little while,” he said to himself, and suiting the action to the word, threw down his gripsack and flung himself on the turf.
“This is refreshing,” he murmured, as, lying upon his back, he looked up through the leafy rifts to the sky above. “I don’t know when I have ever been so tired. It’s no joke walking a dozen miles under a hot sun, with a heavy gripsack in your hand. It’s a good introduction to a life of labor, which I have reason to believe is before me. I wonder how I am coming out—at the big or the little end of the horn?”
He paused, and his face grew grave, for he understood well that for him life had become a serious matter. In his absorption he did not observe the rapid approach of a boy somewhat younger than himself, mounted on a bicycle.
The boy stopped short in surprise, and leaped from his iron steed.
“Why, Carl Crawford, is this you? Where in the world are you going with that gripsack?”
Carl looked up quickly.
“Going to seek my fortune,” he answered, soberly.
“Well, I hope you’ll find it. Don’t chaff, though, but tell the honest truth.”
“I have told you the truth, Gilbert.”
With a puzzled look, Gilbert, first leaning his bicycle against the tree, seated himself on the ground by Carl’s side.
“Has your father lost his property?” he asked, abruptly.
“No.”
“Has he disinherited you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Have you left home for good?”
“I have left home—I hope for good.”
“Have you quarreled with the governor?”
“I hardly know what to say to that. There is a difference between us.”
“He doesn’t seem like a Roman father—one who rules his family with a rod of iron.”
“No; he is quite the reverse. He hasn’t backbone enough.”
“So it seemed to me when I saw him at the exhibition of the academy. You ought to be able to get along with a father like that, Carl.”
“So I could but for one thing.”
“What is that?”
“I have a stepmother!” said Carl, with a significant glance at his companion.
“So have I, but she is the soul of kindness, and makes our home the dearest place in the world.”
“Are there such stepmothers? I shouldn’t have judged so from my own experience.”
“I think I love her as much as if she were my own mother.”
“You are lucky,” said Carl, sighing.
“Tell me about yours.”
“She was married to my father five years ago. Up to the time of her marriage I thought her amiable and sweet-tempered. But soon after the wedding she threw off the mask, and made it clear that she disliked me. One reason is that she has a son of her own about my age, a mean, sneaking fellow, who is the apple of her eye. She has been jealous of me, and tried to supplant me in the affection of my father, wishing Peter to be the favored son.”
“How has she succeeded?”
“I don’t think my father feels any love for Peter, but through my stepmother’s influence he generally fares better than I do.”
“Why wasn’t he sent to school with you?”
“Because he is lazy and doesn’t like study. Besides, his mother prefers to have him at home. During my absence she worked upon my father, by telling all sorts of malicious stories about me, till he became estranged from me, and little by little Peter has usurped my place as the favorite.”
“Why didn’t you deny the stories?” asked Gilbert.
“I did, but no credit was given to my denials. My stepmother was continually poisoning my father’s mind against me.”
“Did you give her cause? Did you behave disrespectfully to her?”
“No,” answered Carl, warmly. “I was prepared to give her a warm welcome, and treat her as a friend, but my advances were so coldly received that my heart was chilled.”
“Poor Carl! How long has this been so?”
“From the beginning—ever since Mrs. Crawford came into the house.”
“What are your relations with your step-brother—what’s his name?”
“Peter Cook. I despise the boy, for he is mean, and tyrannical where he dares to be.”
“I don’t think it would be safe for him to bully you, Carl.”
“He tried it, and got a good thrashing. You can imagine what followed. He ran, crying to his mother, and his version of the story was believed. I was confined to my room for a week, and forced to live on bread and water.”
“I shouldn’t think your father was a man to inflict such a punishment.”
“It wasn’t he—it was my stepmother. She insisted upon it, and he yielded. I heard afterwards from one of the servants that he wanted me released at the end of twenty-four hours, but she would not consent.”
“How long ago was this?”
“It happened when I was twelve.”
“Was it ever repeated?”
“Yes, a month later; but the punishment lasted only for two days.”
“And you submitted to it?”
“I had to, but as soon as I was released I gave Peter such a flogging, with the promise to repeat it, if I was ever punished in that manner again, that the boy himself was panic-stricken, and objected to my being imprisoned again.”
“He must be a charming fellow!”
“You would think so if you should see him. He has small, insignificant features, a turn-up nose, and an ugly scowl that appears whenever he is out of humor.”
“And yet your father likes him?”
“I don’t think he does, though Peter, by his mother’s orders, pays all sorts of small attentions—bringing him his slippers, running on errands, and so on, not because he likes it, but because he wants to supplant me, as he has succeeded in doing.”
“You have finally broken away, then?”
“Yes; I couldn’t stand it any longer. Home had become intolerable.”
“Pardon the question, but hasn’t your father got considerable property?”
“I have every reason to think so.”
“Won’t your