



Produced by Mike Lough and David Widger





THE ERRAND BOY;

OR, HOW PHIL BRENT WON SUCCESS.

By Horatio Alger, Jr.,



Author of:

"Joe's Luck," "Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy," "Tom Temple's Career," "Tom
Thatcher's Fortune," "Ragged Dick," "Tattered Tom," "Luck and Pluck,"
etc., etc.




Contents:

     The Errand Boy.

     Fred Sargent's Revenge.

     The Smuggler's Trap.





THE ERRAND BOY.





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 snowball?" 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,