Shifting for Himself E-Book

Horatio Alger Jr.

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 240

Beschreibung

Horatio Alger Jr. (1832 - 1899) was an American 19th-century writer, known for his many young adult novels about impoverished boys and their rise from humble backgrounds to lives of middle-class security and comfort. His novel "Shifting for Himself" was published in 1875.

Leseprobe

Shifting for Himself

Shifting for HimselfPREFACETWO SCHOOL-FELLOWSTHE GUARDIAN’S LETTERRICHARD BRIGGSGILBERT MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCEAT THE DINNER-TABLEHOW GILBERT GOT ONA SPITEFUL WOMANGILBERT GETS A PLACETHE FIRST DAY IN BUSINESSTHE NEW BOARDING-HOUSEA NEW ARRANGEMENTRANDOLPH’S CALLGILBERT CALLS ON THE VIVIANSA PLEASANT EVENINGAT STEINWAY HALLA PLOT AGAINST GILBERTTHE PLOT SUCCEEDSA HUMBLE FRIENDA DOMESTIC DISCUSSIONA FEMALE FOEALPHONSO JONESCOUNT ERNEST DE MONTMORENCYTHE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRLEMMA’S FATHERGILBERT IN A TIGHT PLACETHE COUNT’S SECRETHARD UPAN UNSATISFACTORY CALLGILBERT’S PLANSGILBERT BECOMES A NEWSBOYGILBERT’S SECOND DAYA NOVEL PROPOSITIONTHE NEW PROFESSORTHE BROKER’S RETURNGILBERT’S TRIUMPHMR. BRIGGS RETURNS FROM EUROPEAN IMPORTANT REVELATIONGILBERT’S SHIP COMES INCONCLUSIONCopyright

Shifting for Himself

To

JOSEPH T. PRESTON,

OF NEW YORK,

WHO HONORABLY REPRESENTS THE “ART PRESERVATIVE OF

ALL ARTS,” WITHOUT WHOSE AID AUTHORS WOULD

WRITE TO LITTLE PURPOSE,

This Volume is Dedicated

WITH FRIENDLY REGARD.

PREFACE

“Shifting for Himself” records the experiences of a boy who, in the course of a preparation for college, suddenly finds himself reduced to poverty. He is obliged to leave his books, and give up his cherished plans. How cheerfully Gilbert Greyson accepted the situation, and settled down to regular work, what obstacles he encountered and overcame, and what degree of success he met with in the end, the reader of this story will learn.

Though it must be admitted that Gilbert was more fortunate than the majority of boys in his position, it is claimed that he displayed qualities which may wisely be imitated by all boys who are called upon tovishift for themselves. In the last three years many thousand American boys have been compelled, like Gilbert, to give up their cherished hopes, and exchange school-life for narrow means and hard work. Nothing is more uncertain than riches; and such cases are liable to occur at all times. I shall be glad if the story of Gilbert Greyson and his fortunes gives heart or hope to any of my young readers who are similarly placed. The loss of wealth often develops a manly self-reliance, and in such cases it may prove a blessing in disguise.

New York, Oct. 20, 1876.

TWO SCHOOL-FELLOWS

Dr. Burton’s boarding-school was in a ferment of hope and expectation. To-morrow was the end of the term, and vacation, so dear to the heart of every school-boy, was close at hand.

The school was not a large one. There were twenty-four boarding pupils, and an equal number of day-scholars from the village of Westville, in which the school had been established twenty years before. It was favorably situated, being only forty miles from New York. Half the boarding-scholars were from the city, and half from more distant places. Generally two or three pupils were sent to college each year, and, as the principal was a thorough scholar, maintained a creditable, often a high rank.

The school-session was over, and the boys separated into little knots. The day-scholars mostly went home, carrying their books under their arms.

Among the little knots we must direct particular attention to two boys, one a boarding-scholar, the other a day-scholar. The first was Gilbert Greyson, a handsome, spirited boy of sixteen; the other, John Munford, of about the same age, and much more plainly dressed. John was the son of a carpenter, of limited means, and had already begun to learn his father’s business. But the father was sensible of the advantages of education, and had permitted his son to spend six months of each year at school, on condition that he would work the balance of the time. This arrangement seemed fair to John, and he took care, whether he studied or worked, to do both in earnest.

“How do you feel about vacation, John?” asked Gilbert.

“I was in no hurry to have it come, Gilbert. It is likely to be a very long vacation to me.”

“How so?”

“I have got through my school-life.”

“What! Are you not coming back next term?” asked Gilbert, with evident disappointment, for John was his most intimate friend.

“Neither next term, nor any other term, Gilbert, I am sorry to say.”

“Have you finished your education, then?”

“So far as school goes.”

“I am sorry for that. I shall miss you more than any one else.”

“We shall still meet, I hope. I shall be at work; but there will be times—in the evening—when we can see each other.”

“No doubt; but that won’t be like sitting at the same desk, and studying together. You had better let me ask your father to send you one more year.”

John shook his head.

“No, Gilbert, it ought not to be. My father is poor you know, and it has been a sacrifice to him to spare me half the year thus far. Now I must go to work in earnest, and perfect myself in my trade, that I may relieve him of all expense on my account.”

“I suppose you are right, John; but I shall miss you none the less. Somehow I never could be reconciled to your becoming a carpenter. You are not cut out for it.”

“Don’t you think I will make a good one?” asked John, smiling.

“I am sure you will; but that isn’t the question. Do you think you are better fitted for that than for anything else?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you prefer that trade to any other business?”

“No; but I can’t choose for myself. I should rather be a teacher, or a lawyer; but there is small chance for either. For either I should be obliged to study years, and I can’t afford to do that. A carpenter I am to be, and I will try to make a good one. Now, your case is different. You are going to school next year, I suppose?”

“Yes, I suppose so. That is as my guardian determines, and no letter has been received from him yet. I believe Dr. Burton is expecting one to-day or to-morrow.”

“You won’t spend the summer here, I suppose, Gilbert?”

“I am hoping to make a little tour, as I did last year.”

“You went to the White Mountains then.”

“Yes, and had a jolly good time.”

“Where will you go this year?”

“I want to go to Niagara, stopping on the way at Saratoga. I have estimated that I can do it for a hundred dollars,—the same that my last summer’s trip cost me.”

“It must be splendid to travel,” said John, enthusiastically. “I mean to see something of the world some day, though I suspect that I shall be a pretty old boy before I am able to. I have no guardian to send me money. I must earn my money before I spend it.”

“I never earned a dollar in my life,” said Gilbert. “I wonder how it would seem if I had to support myself, and make my own way in the world.”

“It would seem hard at first. It comes natural to me; but then I have been differently brought up from you.”

“I rather envy you, John,” said Gilbert, thoughtfully. “You are so much more self-reliant, so much better able to take care of yourself.”

“It’s the difference in the training, Gilbert. I’ve no doubt it’s in you; but circumstances have never brought it out. You expect to go to Yale College a year hence, don’t you?”

“I expect to; at least that has been Dr. Burton’s plan; but my guardian has never expressed his opinion. He has simply given his consent to my pursuing the course preparatory to entrance. I presume I shall go, however.”

“What sort of a man is your guardian?”

“I have never seen much of him. He lives in the city, you know; but he never seemed to care to have me in his home much. He is a merchant, and appears to be wealthy. At any rate, he lives in a fine house up-town, and keeps up a good style of living.”

“Who appointed him your guardian?”

“I don’t know. I suppose my father.”

“Is your father living?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know!” exclaimed John, opening his eyes.

“It seems strange to you; but I cannot give any explanation. My guardian tells me I shall know some time; meanwhile I am to ask no questions.”

“Did that satisfy you?”

“No; but when I pressed my question I was silenced. I was told that I must be satisfied with being so well provided for, without trying to penetrate into matters that did not concern me.”

“I should think it did concern you.”

“So I do think; but there is no use in thinking about it. It would only perplex me to no purpose.”

“I can’t put myself in your place at all. To me it seems so natural to have a father and mother, and sister. How lonely you must feel!”

“I have never been used to them. And that makes a difference. Sometimes, to be sure, I begin to think over the matter and wish that I had ties like other boys; but it doesn’t last long. But here we are at your home.”

“Come in a minute, Gilbert.”

“I don’t know if I ought. I shall be late to supper, and the doctor wouldn’t like that.”

“Take supper with us.”

“Yes, take supper with us,” echoed John’s mother, a pleasant, motherly-looking woman, who heard her son’s words of invitation as he opened the door.

Gilbert hesitated.

The little table spread for tea looked so much more comfortable and home-like than the long table at the doctor’s, that he was strongly tempted.

“We may not have as nice a supper as the doctor,” continued Mrs. Munford, “but you may not mind that for once.”

“You give the doctor’s table too much credit,” said Gilbert, smiling. “He doesn’t mean to pamper any of us, or make us gluttons. I would a great deal rather take supper here.”

“Then stay, Gilbert.”

“I will,” said Gilbert, in a tone of quick decision. “If the doctor scolds, why let him.”

“He won’t feel anxious about your not being back, will he?” asked Mrs. Munford.

“No; he knows I can take pretty good care of myself. Besides, it will be a saving to him, all the more because I have a very good appetite.”

All laughed, for Dr. Burton, though on the whole a very worthy man, had the reputation of being what New Englanders call close. It was thought that he was more economical than he needed to be. At any rate he had made his school profitable, and was assessed for a very considerable sum in the list of village property-holders.

“How do you do, Mary?” said Gilbert, offering his hand to a girl of ten, John’s sister, who just then entered the room.

“Pretty well,” said Mary, shyly.

“Don’t blush so, Mary,” said John, teasing her as brothers are apt to do.

“I wasn’t blushing,” said Mary, indignantly.

“Just because Gilbert spoke to you.”

“You are too bad, John,” said his mother.

“How soon will supper be ready, mother?” asked John.

“In half an hour. Why; are you very impatient?”

“No; but I thought there might be time for Gilbert and me to have a catch in the yard.”

“I’ll tell you of a better way of filling up your time.”

“What is that?”

“I am almost out of wood. Can’t you saw me up a little?”

“I am afraid it will be dull to Gilbert to look on,” said John.

“I don’t propose to look on. You shall saw, and I will split.”

“I don’t like to set a visitor to work,” said Mrs. Munford. “I didn’t expect you to work for your supper.”

“I shall enjoy it all the more. Come along, John. You’ll see what execution I will make with your wood-pile.”

As the two boys passed out into the woodshed, Mrs. Munford said, “I like Gilbert. Though he is rich, he doesn’t put on any airs, but makes himself at home even among such plain people as we are.”

THE GUARDIAN’S LETTER

When supper was over, the boys took a walk, bringing round by the large square house occupied by Dr. Burton for his boarding-school. They had got within a few rods when John observed one of the younger boys running towards them.

“There’s little Evans,” he said. “He looks as if he had a message for you, Gilbert.”

“From the doctor, I suppose. I’m in for a scolding, probably.”

By this time Evans had reached them.

“You’re wanted, Greyson,” he said. “Why weren’t you home to supper?”

“Is the doctor mad?”

“I don’t know. He seems anxious to see you.”

“All right. Then I’ll go in. I must bid you good-night, John. Business before pleasure, you know, or rather business after pleasure.”

“I hope the business won’t be serious.”

“I hope not. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Gilbert.”

There was a small room about twelve feet square, which was known as Dr. Burton’s study. There was a desk beside the window, and book-shelves occupying the sides of the room. Hither it was that refractory or disobedient pupils were summoned, to receive admonition from the principal. In his early experience as teacher he had employed a sterner sort of discipline, but later he had substituted words for blows—very wisely, as I think.

Gilbert went at once to the doctor’s study.

Dr. Burton was a tall, spare man, with strongly marked features, and on the whole rather a stern face. He looked toward the door as Gilbert opened it.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Gilbert.

“You were absent from supper without notice or permission, Greyson,” the doctor began.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you?”

“I walked home with John Munford, and was invited to take supper there.”

“I should have had no objection, if you had asked me. John Munford is one of my most reliable pupils, both in study and deportment.”

Gilbert was pleased at this commendation of his friend.

“I hope you will excuse me for absence without permission,” he said, apologizing with a good grace.

“You are excused, Greyson.”

Supposing that the interview was over, Gilbert bowed, and was about to leave the room, but was stopped by the doctor.

“Stay,” he said; “I have something more to say to you.”

“What else have I done?” thought Gilbert, in surprise.

“Sit down,” said the teacher.

Gilbert seated himself.

“How long have you been here, Greyson?”

“Six years, sir.”

“In a year more you would be ready for college,” said the doctor, musing.

“Why does he say ‘would’? Why not ‘will’?” thought Greyson.

“Am I to go to college?” asked Gilbert.

“I thought it probable; but I have just learned that your guardian has other views for you.”

“Have you a letter from my guardian?” asked Gilbert, eagerly.

“Yes; it only reached me this afternoon. Would you like to read it?”

“Very much, sir.”

“Here it is,” said Dr. Burton, opening his desk, and drawing therefrom a letter enclosed in a buff envelope.

Gilbert quickly reached out for it.

This was the material portion of the letter, which Gilbert read with hurried interest:—

“Circumstances will not permit my ward remaining with you another year. I may say plainly that, should he do so, I should be compelled to defray the expense out of my own pocket, and consideration for my own family will not justify me in doing that. I have never, as you know, promised positively that he should go to college. It was barely possible that funds would be forthcoming which would admit of such a course; but it is now quite certain that there is no chance of it.

“He has already, as I should judge from your letters, considerably more than an average education,—more, indeed, than I had when I began my career,—and he ought to be satisfied with that. He has led an easy life hitherto. Now it is time that he did something for himself. Upon receipt of this letter, will you, as soon as may be, send him to me in New York? I will then confer with him as to his future plans.”

This letter was signed Richard Briggs.

Gilbert read it with a mixture of feelings. He was making an unpleasant discovery. Though he knew little about his own affairs, he had always cherished the idea that he had considerable property, and that his path in life would be smoothed as only money can smooth it. He was not especially fond of money, nor did he ever presume on its supposed possession, but it was certainly comfortable to think that he was not poor.

Now it appeared that he had been all his life under a mistake. He was not a favored child of fortune after all, but a poor boy,—as poor, very likely, as his friend John Munford, from whom he had just parted. No wonder he looked with some bewilderment in the doctor’s face when he had completed reading the letter.

The doctor, though a stern man, felt for the boy’s disappointment. He, too, had been under the impression that Gilbert was at least comfortably provided for.

“Well, Greyson,” he said, “I suppose this letter surprises you.”

“Yes, sir, it does,” answered Gilbert, slowly. “I always supposed that I had money to depend upon.”

“I don’t like to reflect upon your guardian, but it seems to me he ought to have apprised you beforehand of what you had to expect.”

“I wish he had.”

“Do you feel very much disappointed?” asked the doctor, eying his pupil with interest.

“Considerably, sir. It is hard to fancy myself a poor boy, with my own way to make in the world.”

“It might have been worse. You have, as your guardian suggests, more than an average education.”

“Thanks to you, sir.”

“And to your own application,” added the doctor, gratified by this tribute.

“I am glad you think so, sir. I hope it will help me in life.”

“Undoubtedly it will. Besides, you will have the influence of your guardian to assist you. He will probably procure you a good place in some counting-room.”

“I wish he had told me something about myself; where the money came from which had paid my bills hitherto.”

Gilbert looked inquiringly at the doctor, as if to ask whether he could throw any light upon these points. But he was destined to be disappointed, for the doctor said, “He has not seen fit to take me into his confidence. I know no more than you do on this subject. Perhaps, in your approaching interview with him, he may give you information on the subject.”

“I will ask him, at all events,” said Gilbert. “When do you think it best that I should leave, Dr. Burton?”

“He wishes you to be sent ‘as soon as may be,’” said the doctor, consulting the letter. “I should think you had better go to-morrow, or the next day.”

“I will go to-morrow,” said Gilbert, promptly.

“Can you get ready so soon?”

“I will pack to-night, sir.”

“That shall be as you wish. If you would prefer to wait till another day, you can of course do so.”

“Thank you, sir; but I want to see my guardian as soon as possible. Will you permit me, as the cars start early to-morrow, to go to-night, and bid good-by to John Munford?”

Under ordinary circumstances Dr. Burton would have declined this application, but he felt that it was only natural, and he gave the required permission without hesitation.

John Munford was astonished when, on opening the front door, he saw the school-fellow from whom he had so recently parted.

“What’s the matter, Gilbert?” he asked; “has anything happened?”

“Yes,” answered Gilbert. “Get your hat and take a walk with me. I’ll tell you on the way.”

RICHARD BRIGGS

Gilbert told his story briefly.

“So you see,” he said in conclusion, “my position is like yours, after all. I am thrown upon my own exertions, and must face the world, without the help of money.”

“I’m truly sorry,” said John, in a tone of sympathy.

“Thank you, John; I knew you would be; but do you know, I am not sure whether I am so very sorry myself.”

“But it must be hard for you to give up the hope of wealth.”

“I needn’t give up the hope,” said Gilbert, “only if the hope is to be realized I shall have to make it for myself. As far as that goes I am no worse off than you; but there is one advantage you have over me.”

“You are a better scholar than I am.”

“I don’t mean that. You have a father and mother and sister to encourage you, while I have no one.”

“You have a friend, Gilbert; but he can’t help you much.”

“I know that, old fellow. You have been my most intimate friend for the last three years, and I hope and believe that our friendship is going to last. But I can’t help feeling alone in the world.”

“Why don’t you ask your guardian about your father?”

“I mean to; but I don’t believe he will tell me.”

“Have you any idea what views he has for you?”

“Not the slightest. I suppose he will provide me with a place somewhere.”

“Then you are entirely in the dark as to your prospects?”

“Entirely so.”

“I wish you would write to me, Gilbert, after you are settled. I shall want to know all about it.”

“I will certainly write. In fact, you will be my only correspondent. You must write me about yourself, too.”

“There won’t be much to write. My life will be uneventful. But you may like to hear news of the village and the school, that is, after vacation is over. I’ll write all that I think will interest you.”

“Thank you. You may be sure I shall want to hear. And now, John, I must bid you good-night, and good-by, for I am to start early in the morning, and have not yet packed my trunk.”

“Good-night, then. Take care of yourself, Gilbert.”

“The same to you, John.”

So the two boys parted, but they saw each other once more. As Gilbert was about to get into the cars, John came up hurriedly and gave him a farewell shake of the hand.

“He’s a capital fellow,” thought Gilbert. “I hope he’ll have good luck, and that we shall meet again soon.”

An hour and a half brought our hero to the city. He stepped upon the platform, and getting upon a horse-car rode down-town to his guardian’s office. He had a check for his trunk, but did not claim it at once, not feeling certain what would be his destination.

In a busy street, not five minutes’ walk from Wall Street, was the office of Richard Briggs. Gilbert had no trouble in finding it, for he had been there before. Now, however, he had a new feeling as he entered the handsomely fitted-up room. He was no longer the wealthy ward, but as it appeared the humble dependent of the rich merchant whom he was to meet. The change was not an agreeable one, but he had made up his mind that he must face whatever was disagreeable in his position in a manly way.

“Is Mr. Briggs in?” he inquired, of a clerk who was writing at a desk.

“Yes; but I don’t know if he will see you.”

“He sent for me.”

“Oh, did he? Well, he’s in there.”

The clerk pointed to an inner room, partitioned off from the main office.

Gilbert approached it, and as the door was partially open entered, and, removing his hat, said, “Good-morning, Mr. Briggs.”

Mr. Briggs was a short man, inclined to be corpulent, with marked features.

He turned as he heard Gilbert’s salutation.

“So you received my letter,” he said.

“Dr. Burton did.”

“Yes, I wrote to him. It’s all the same.”

“I thought I had better come up at once, sir.”

“You did right.”

“I was rather surprised at what your letter contained. Dr. Burton let me read it.”

“You fancied yourself rich?” said the merchant, coldly.

“Yes, sir; I had always been led to suppose so.”

“I never told you so.”

“You did not tell me I was poor, and would have to make my own way.”

“You complain of that, do you?” demanded Mr. Briggs, frowning.

“I wish I had known it before.”

“It wasn’t necessary to tell you. As to that, my judgment is of course superior to yours. You understand, do you, that you must now go to work?”

“I am ready, sir.”

“Have you improved your time while at school?”

“Dr. Burton could tell you better than I as to that.”

“He would be more reliable, of course. Still you must have some idea. Give me your own impressions. If you misrepresent, I shall find you out.”

“I shall not misrepresent, sir.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Briggs, ironically. “I suppose you were a model scholar.”

“No; I was not; but I think I did pretty well.”

“What do you know?”

“I can tell you how far I have been in my studies. I have been so far in Latin and Greek that in another year—perhaps less—I should be prepared for Yale College.”

“You won’t go there. You can’t expect me to pay your expenses.”

“I don’t,” said Gilbert, promptly. “I was only trying to give you an idea of what I knew.”

“Very well. Are you good in arithmetic?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far have you been?”

“Through the book.”

“That is well. How do you write?”

“Shall I give you a specimen of my writing, sir?”

“Yes. Here is a pen. Write anything you like. You may copy the first three lines of this newspaper article.”

Gilbert did so.

“That will do very well. You don’t write rapidly enough, but you will in time. I shall get you a place as soon as possible. Where is your trunk?”

“At the depot.”

“You can have it sent to my house. You will stay there till I can get you a boarding-place or make some other arrangement for you. Do you know where I live?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give your check to an expressman, and tell him to bring it round. Stay, here is my son. I will put you in his charge.”

A boy, about Gilbert’s age, had just entered the office. He was the counterpart of his father, and no one could be likely to mistake the relationship. He glanced at Gilbert, but did not speak.

“Randolph, this is Gilbert Greyson,” said his father.

“Good-morning,” said Randolph, curtly. “Father, I want five dollars.”

“What for? It seems to me you are always wanting money.”

“Everybody needs money,” said the son, pertly. “I want to go to a matinée this afternoon.”

“I want you to go with Gilbert; he is going to stop with us a short time.”

“He’s old enough to take care of himself,” said Randolph, unpleasantly.

“I can get along by myself,” said Gilbert, quickly. “I don’t want to trouble your son.”

There was no great self-denial in this. It did not seem to our hero that he should particularly enjoy Randolph’s companionship.

“At any rate you can go with him to the office of Adams’ Express. He wants to send for his trunk.”

“Will you give me the five dollars, then?”

“Here it is. Don’t come again for a week.”

“All right. Come along, whatever your name is.”

This last polite invitation was addressed to our hero, who answered, shortly, “My name is Gilbert Greyson.”

“Well, come along. I’m in a hurry.”

When they had reached the street, Randolph’s curiosity led him to say, “I thought you were at school.”

“So I was; but your father sent for me.”

“He’s your guardian, isn’t he?”

“So I thought; but he tells me I have no money, and must work for my living.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Randolph, superciliously. “That’s quite a different matter.”

Gilbert didn’t like his tone, but did not want to quarrel without cause.

They walked on without further conversation.

Presently Randolph said, “There’s the express office. Now you can look after yourself.”

He darted off, and Gilbert entered the office, not sorry to be rid of his uncongenial companion.

GILBERT MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

Having arranged about his trunk, Gilbert took one of the University-Place cars at the Astor House, and rode up-town. Mrs. Briggs might not know of his coming, and the trunk might be refused.

The house was a four-story brown-stone front, with English basement, differing in no wise from the thousands of fashionable mansions to be seen in the upper part of the city.

Gilbert rang the bell.

“Is Mrs. Briggs at home?” he inquired of the servant, who answered the bell.

“I don’t know, sir. I’ll see. Will you send your name?”

Gilbert drew out a neat visiting-card bearing his name. The servant took it, and carried it to her mistress.

“Take a seat in the parlor, sir,” she said, on her return. “Mrs. Briggs will be down directly.”

The large parlor was showily furnished, in the regulation style. There was a chilly splendor about it that carried with it no idea of comfort or home feeling. Gilbert’s attention was drawn to a family portrait near the front windows. There were three figures,—Mr. Briggs, Randolph, and a lady, who was probably Mrs. Briggs. She had a high forehead, a thin face, cold blue eyes, and pinched lips. Gilbert privately decided that he should not like the original of that portrait.

While he was examining it Mrs. Briggs entered.

“Mr. Greyson?” she asked, in a chilly way.

“Yes, madam.”

“I believe I have not met you before. You are Mr. Briggs’ ward or protégé?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I thought you were at a boarding-school somewhere in the country.”

“So I have been, madam; but the term is at an end, and Mr. Briggs sent for me to come to the city.”