



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, 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 chair and regarded his step-mother
fixedly.

"Whose son am I," he demanded, "if not Mr. Brent's?"

"You are getting on too fast. Jonas," continued his mother, suddenly
turning to her hulking son, on whose not very intelligent countenance
there was an expression of greedy curiosity, "do you understand that
what I am going to say is to be a secret, not to be spoken of to any
one?"

"Yes'm," answered Jonas readily.

"Very well. Now to proceed. Philip, you have heard probably that when
you were very small your father--I mean Mr. Brent--lived in a small town
in Ohio, called Fultonville?"

"Yes, I have heard him say so."

"Do you remember in what business he was then engaged?"

"He kept a hotel."

"Yes; a small hotel, but as large as the place required. He was not
troubled by many guests. The few who stopped at his house were business
men from towns near by, or drummers from the great cities, who had
occasion to stay over a night. One evening, however, a gentleman arrived
with an unusual companion--in other words, a boy of about three years
of age. The boy had a bad cold, and seemed to need womanly care. Mr.
Brent's wife----"

"My mother?"

"The woman you were taught to call mother," corrected the second Mrs.
Brent, "felt compassion for the child, and volunteered to take care
of it for the night. The offer was gladly accepted, and you--for, of
course, you were the child--were taken into Mrs. Brent's own room,
treated with simple remedies, and in the morning seemed much better.
Your father--your real father--seemed quite gratified, and preferred a
request. It was that your new friend would take care of you for a week
while he traveled to Cincinnati on business. After dispatching this, he
promised to return and resume the care of you, paying well for the favor
done him. Mrs. Brent, my predecessor, being naturally fond of children,
readily agreed to this proposal, and the child was left behind, while
the father started for Cincinnati."

Here Mrs. Brent paused, and Philip regarded her with doubt and suspense

"Well?" he said.

"Oh, you want to know the rest?" said Mrs. Brent with an ironical smile.
"You are interested in the story?"

"Yes, madam, whether it is true or not."

"There isn't much more to tell," said Mrs. Brent.

"A week passed. You recovered from your cold, and became as lively
as ever. In fact, you seemed to feel quite at home among your new
surroundings, which was rather unfortunate, FOR YOUR FATHER NEVER CAME
BACK!"

"Never came back!" repeated Philip.

"No; nor was anything heard from him. Mr. and Mrs. Brent came to the
conclusion that the whole thing was prearranged to get rid of you.
Luckily for you, they had become attached to you, and, having no
children of their own, decided to retain you. Of course, some story had
to be told to satisfy the villagers. You were represented to be the
son of a friend, and this was readily believed. When, however, my late
husband left Ohio, and traveled some hundreds of miles eastward to this
place, he dropped this explanation and represented you as his own son.
Romantic, wasn't it?"

Philip looked searchingly at the face of his step-mother, or the woman
whom he had regarded as such, but he could read nothing to contradict
the story in her calm, impassive countenance. A great fear fell upon him
that she might be telling the truth. His features showed his contending
emotions. But he had a profound distrust as well as dislike of his
step-mother, and he could not bring himself to put confidence in what
she told him.

"What proof is there of this?" he asked, after a while.

"Your father's word. I mean, of course, Mr. Brent's word. He told me
this story before I married him, feeling that I had a right to know."

"Why didn't he tell me?" asked Philip incredulously.

"He thought it would make you unhappy."

"You didn't mind that," said Philip, his lips curling.

"No," answered Mrs. Brent, with a curious smile. "Why should I? I never
pretended to like you, and now I have less cause than ever, after your
brutal treatment of my boy."

Jonas endeavored to look injured, but could not at once change the
expression of his countenance.

"Your explanation is quite satisfactory, Mrs. Brent," returned Philip.
"I don't think I stood much higher in your estimation yesterday than
today, so that I haven't lost much. But you haven't given me any proof
yet."

"Wait a minute."

Mrs. Brent left the room, went up-stairs, and speedily returned,
bringing with her a small daguerreotype, representing a boy of three
years.

"Did you ever see this before?" she asked.

"No," answered Philip, taking it from her hand and eying it curiously.

"When Mr. and Mrs. Brent decided that you were to be left on their
hands," she proceeded, "they had this picture of you taken in the same
dress in which you came to them, with a view to establish your identity
if at any time afterward inquiry should be made for you."

The daguerreotype represented a bright, handsome child, dressed
tastefully, and more as would be expected of a city child than of one
born in the country. There was enough resemblance to Philip as he looked
now to convince him that it was really his picture.

"I have something more to show you," said Mrs. Brent.

She produced a piece of white paper in which the daguerreotype had been
folded. Upon it was some writing, and Philip readily recognized the hand
of the man whom he had regarded as his father.

He read these lines:


"This is the picture of the boy who was mysteriously left in the charge
of Mr. Brent, April, 1863, and never reclaimed. I have reared him as my
own son, but think it best to enter this record of the way in which he
came into my hands, and to preserve by the help of art his appearance at
the time he first came to us. GERALD BRENT."


"Do you recognize this handwriting?" asked Mrs. Brent.

"Yes," answered Philip in a dazed tone.

"Perhaps," she said triumphantly, "you will doubt my word now."

"May I have this picture?" asked Philip, without answering her.

"Yes; you have as good a claim to it as any one."

"And the paper?"

"The paper I prefer to keep myself," said Mrs. Brent, nodding her head
suspiciously. "I don't care to have my only proof destroyed."

Philip did not seem to take her meaning, but with the daguerreotype in
his hand, he left the room.

"I say, mother," chuckled Jonas, his freckled face showing his
enjoyment, "it's a good joke on Phil, isn't it? I guess he won't be
quite so uppish after this."




CHAPTER III.

PHIL'S SUDDEN RESOLUTION.

When Phil left the presence of Mrs. Brent, he felt as if he had been
suddenly transported to a new world. He was no longer Philip Brent, and
the worst of it was that he did not know who he was. In his tumultuous
state of feeling, however, one thing seemed clear--his prospects were
wholly changed, and his plans for the future also. Mrs. Brent had told
him that he was wholly dependent upon her. Well, he did not intend to
remain so. His home had not been pleasant at the best. As a dependent
upon the bounty of such a woman it would be worse. He resolved to leave
home and strike out for himself, not from any such foolish idea of
independence as sometimes leads boys to desert a good home for an
uncertain skirmish with the world, but simply be cause he felt now that
he had no real home.

To begin with he would need money, and on opening his pocket-book he
ascertained that his available funds consisted of only a dollar and
thirty-seven cents. That wasn't quite enough to begin the world with.
But he had other resources. He owned a gun, which a friend of his would
be ready to take off his hands. He had a boat, also, which he could
probably sell.

On the village street he met Reuben Gordon, a young journeyman
carpenter, who was earning good wages, and had money to spare.

"How are you, Phil," said Reuben in a friendly way.

"You are just the one I want to meet," said Phil earnestly. "Didn't you
tell me once you would like to buy my gun?"

"Yes. Want to sell it?"

"No, I don't; but I want the money it will bring. So I'll sell it if
you'll