The Errand Boy.txt

THE ERRAND BOY;



OR,



HOW PHIL BRENT WON SUCCESS.







BY HORATIO ALGER, Jr.,























CHAPTER I.







PHIL HAS A LITTLE DIFFICULTY.







Phil Brent was plodding through the snow



in the direction of the house where he lived



with his step-mother and her son, when a snow-ball,



moist and hard, struck him just below his ear with



stinging emphasis.  The pain was considerable, and



Phil's anger rose.







He turned suddenly, his eyes flashing fiercely,



intent upon discovering who had committed this outrage,



for he had no doubt that it was intentional.







He looked in all directions, but saw no one except



a mild old gentleman in spectacles, who appeared to



have some difficulty in making his way through the



obstructed street.







Phil did not need to be told that it was not the



old gentleman who had taken such an unwarrantable



liberty with him.  So he looked farther, but



his ears gave him the first clew.







He heard a chuckling laugh, which seemed to



proceed from behind the stone wall that ran along the



roadside.







"I will see who it is," he decided, and plunging



through the snow he surmounted the wall, in time



to see a boy of about his own age running away



across the fields as fast as the deep snow would



allow.







"So it's you, Jonas!" he shouted wrathfully.  "I



thought it was some sneaking fellow like you."







Jonas Webb, his step-brother, his freckled face



showing a degree of dismay, for he had not calculated



on discovery, ran the faster, but while fear



winged his steps, anger proved the more effectual



spur, and Phil overtook him after a brief run, from



the effects of which both boys panted.







"What made you throw that snow-ball?" demanded



Phil angrily, as he seized Jonas by the collar



and shook him.







"You let me alone!" said Jonas, struggling



ineffectually in his grasp.







"Answer me!  What made you throw that snow-



ball?" demanded Phil, in a tone that showed he did



not intend to be trifled with.







"Because I chose to," answered Jonas, his spite



getting the better of his prudence.  "Did it hurt



you?" he continued, his eyes gleaming with malice.







"I should think it might.  It was about as hard



as a cannon-ball," returned Phil grimly.  "Is that



all you've got to say about it?"







"I did it in fun," said Jonas, beginning to see that



he had need to be prudent.







"Very well!  I don't like your idea of fun.  Perhaps



you won't like mine," said Phil, as he forcibly



drew Jonas back till he lay upon the snow, and then



kneeling by his side, rubbed his face briskly with



snow.







"What are you doin'?  Goin' to murder me?"



shrieked Jonas, in anger and dismay.







"I am going to wash your face," said Phil,



continuing the operation vigorously.







"I say, you quit that!  I'll tell my mother,"



ejaculated Jonas, struggling furiously.







"If you do, tell her why I did it," said Phil.







Jonas shrieked and struggled, but in vain.  Phil



gave his face an effectual scrubbing, and did not



desist until he thought he had avenged the bad



treatment he had suffered.







"There, get up!" said he at length.







Jonas scrambled to his feet, his mean features



working convulsively with anger.







"You'll suffer for this!" he shouted.







"You won't make me!" said Phil contemptuously.







"You're the meanest boy in the village."







"I am willing to leave that to the opinion of all



who know me."







"I'll tell my mother!"







"Go home and tell her!"







Jonas started for home, and Phil did not attempt



to stop him.







As he saw Jonas reach the street and plod angrily



homeward, he said to himself:







"I suppose I shall be in hot water for this; but I



can't help it.  Mrs. Brent always stands up for her



precious son, who is as like her as can be.  Well, it



won't make matters much worse than they have



been."







Phil concluded not to go home at once, but to



allow a little time for the storm to spend its force



after Jonas had told his story.  So he delayed half



an hour and then walked slowly up to the side door. 



He opened the door, brushed off the snow from his



boots with the broom that stood behind the



door, and opening the inner door, stepped into the



kitchen.







No one was there, as Phil's first glance satisfied



him, and he was disposed to hope that Mrs. Brent--



he never called her mother--was out, but a thin,



acid, measured voice from the sitting-room adjoining



soon satisfied him that there was to be no reprieve.







"Philip Brent, come here!"







Phil entered the sitting-room.







In a rocking-chair by the fire sat a thin woman,



with a sharp visage, cold eyes and firmly compressed



lips, to whom no child would voluntarily



draw near.







On a sofa lay outstretched the hulking form of



Jonas, with whom he had had his little difficulty.







"I am here, Mrs. Brent," said Philip manfully.







"Philip Brent," said Mrs. Brent acidly, "are you



not ashamed to look me in the face?"







"I don't know why I should be," said Philip,



bracing himself up for the attack.







"You see on the sofa the victim of your brutality,"



continued Mrs. Brent, pointing to the recumbent



figure of her son Jonas.







Jonas, as if to emphasize these words, uttered a



half groan.







Philip could not help smiling, for to him it seemed



ridiculous.







"You laugh," said his step-mother sharply.  "I



am not surprised at it.  You delight in your brutality."







"I suppose you mean that I have treated Jonas



brutally."







"I see you confess it."







"No, Mrs. Brent, I do not confess it.  The brutality



you speak of was all on the side of Jonas."







"No doubt," retorted Mrs. Brent, with sarcasm.







"It's the case of the wolf and the lamb over again."







"I don't think Jonas has represented the matter



to you as it happened," said Phil.  "Did he tell you



that he flung a snow-ball at my head as hard as a



lump of ice?"







"He said he threw a little snow at you playfully



and you sprang upon him like a tiger."







"There's a little mistake in that," said Phil.  "The 



snow-ball was hard enough to stun me if it had hit



me a little higher.  I wouldn't be hit like that again



for ten dollars."







"That ain't so!  Don't believe him, mother!" said



Jonas from the sofa.







"And what did you do?" demanded Mrs. Brent



with a frown.







"I laid him down on the snow and washed his face



with soft snow."







"You might have given him his death of cold,"



said Mrs. Brent, with evident hostility.  "I am not



sure but the poor boy will have pneumonia now, in



consequence of your brutal treatment."







"And you have nothing to say as to his attack



upon me?" said Phil indignantly.







"I have no doubt you have very much exaggerated it."







"Yes, he has," chimed in Jonas from the sofa.







Phil regarded his step-brother with scorn.







"Can't you tell the truth now and then, Jonas?"



he asked contemptuously.







"You shall not insult my boy in my presence!"



said Mrs. Brent, with a little spot of color mantling



her high cheek-bones.  "Philip Brent, I have too



long endured your insolence.  You think because I



am a woman you can be insolent with impunity, but



you will find yourself mistaken.  It is time that you



understood something that may lead you to lower



your tone.  Learn, then, that you have not a cent of



your own.  You are wholly dependent upon my



bounty."







"What!  Did my father leave you all his money?"



asked Philip.







"He was NOT your father!" answered Mrs. Brent



coldly.















CHAPTER II.







A STRANGE REVELATION.







Philip started in irrepressible astonishment as



these words fell from the lips of his step-mother. 



It seemed to him as if the earth were crumbling



beneath his feet, for he had felt no more certain of the



existence of the universe than of his being the son



of Gerald Brent.







He was not the only person amazed at this



declaration.  Jonas, forgetting for the moment the part



he was playing, sat bolt upright on the sofa, with his



large mouth wide open, staring by turns at Philip



and his mother.







"Gosh!" he exclaimed in a tone indicating utter



surprise and bewilderment.







"Will you repeat that, Mrs. Brent?" asked Philip,



after a brief pause, not certain that he had heard



aright.







"I spoke plain English, I believe," said Mrs. Brent



coldly, enjoying the effect of her communication.







"I said that Mr. Brent, my late husband, was not



your father."







"I don't believe you!" burst forth Philip impetuously.







"You don't wish to believe me, you mean,"



answered his step-mother, unmoved.







"No, I don't wish to believe you," said the boy,



looking her in the eye.







"You are very polite to doubt a lady's word," said



Mrs. Brent with sarcasm.







"In such a matter as that I believe no one's



word," said Phil.  "I ask for proof."







"Well, I am prepared to satisfy you.  Sit down



and I will tell you the story."







Philip sat down on the nearest cha...