Dick Hamilton's Fortune Part 3

"I'm d.i.c.k. Are you Uncle Ezra?"

"d.i.c.k!" fairly snorted the elderly man. "You're Richard, that's what you were christened and that's what you must be called! I can't abide nicknames and I won't have 'em. You're Richard, do you hear?"

"Yes, sir," answered d.i.c.k, meekly enough, though there was an angry light in his eyes.

"Now, then, Richard, you've come to visit us for a certain purpose,"

went on his uncle. "What it is we needn't discuss now. The train was a little ahead of time or I'd been here sooner." Mr. Larabee did not seem to think that he might be a little late. "I always make it a point to be on time," he added. "Now, jump in. Your aunt has a meal ready and she musn't be kept waiting. I want you to understand from the start that everything is done on time in my house. We rise at a certain hour, and we have our meals at certain hours. Folks that come to see us have to do as we do or they don't get any meals. I hope you understand that."

"Yes, sir," replied d.i.c.k, his heart sinking down deeper than ever. It was worse than he had thought. Still the idea of a meal, after his long ride, seemed good.

Mr. Larabee's fine country home was considered one of the best places in that part of the state. There was not a crooked fence on it, the gravel walks were as trim as though no one had ever stepped on their surface, and the gra.s.s was always cut to a certain length. The house was always painted at a certain time of the year, as were also the barns, and the place looked almost like a picture in a book.

In fact, Mr. Larabee's neighbors used to say he never took any pleasure in it, as he was always so busy looking to see if a stick or a stone had not become misplaced, or if the paint on the house or barn was not chipping off.

"So this is Nephew Richard, is it?" asked a small, prim, rather thin-faced woman, as she came to the door when the carriage containing d.i.c.k and his uncle drove up the path. "I'm glad to see you, Nephew Richard," she went on, extending a cold and clammy hand, and giving d.i.c.k a little peck that seemed more like a nip from a bird than a kiss.

"Is dinner ready?" asked Mr. Larabee.

"You know it is, Ezra," replied his wife. "I'll serve it as soon as you put the horse up. Come in, Nephew Richard, but be sure and wipe your feet."

She watched d.i.c.k while he sc.r.a.ped off an invisible quant.i.ty of dust from his shoes that had scarcely touched the ground that morning. After giving them what he thought was a good polishing on the mat, he started to enter the front hall.

"Wait!" almost screamed his aunt. "There's a little mud on that left heel!"

d.i.c.k obligingly gave it another sc.r.a.pe on the mat and started in.

"One moment, Nephew Richard," said Mrs. Larabee, in almost imploring accents. "Let me wipe your satchel off before you go in. I'm afraid it's dusty from the drive, and I can't bear dust in my house."

She kept d.i.c.k waiting on the front steps while she went in and got a cloth, with which she carefully wiped off the dress-suit case, though d.i.c.k did not see how there could be any dust on it, as it had been covered with the lap robe all the way.

"Now you may come in," Aunt Samantha said, as graciously as was possible. "Welcome to The Firs. We call our place The Firs," she went on, "because there are so many fir trees around it. It makes it dark and keeps the flies out."

It certainly made it dark, for as d.i.c.k entered the hall he could hardly see, and had to proceed by the sense of feeling.

"We never open this part of the house, except for company," Mrs. Larabee went on. "Ezra and I use the back door, as it saves wear and tear. Now, if you'll come with me, I'll show you to your room and you can take off your good clothes and put on a rough suit."

"I haven't any rougher suit than this," said d.i.c.k, looking at the garments he wore. "I've got another suit in the case, but it's newer than this."

"Mercy, child!" exclaimed his aunt. "Would you wear such clothes around every day?"

"I always have," replied d.i.c.k simply.

"Well, I never heard tell the like of that! What does your father--but, there, I forgot. I know Mortimer Hamilton. He doesn't care how he throws money away!"

"My father never throws money away!" exclaimed d.i.c.k, always ready to champion his parent. "He thinks it pays to buy good clothes, as they wear better than cheap ones."

"Such wastefulness," sighed the aunt, as she led the way upstairs. "But it's no use talking. However, if you come to live here----"

She did not finish the sentence, but d.i.c.k registered a mental vow that it would be a long day before he would voluntarily come to live at The Firs.

He was shown into a small room, plainly furnished, containing a small cot bed.

"As you are only to stay a week, I thought it would make less work for me if you had this room," said Mrs. Larabee. "It used to be the servant's, but I don't keep any now. They are too expensive. Now be very careful. Always take your shoes off when you come upstairs, as I can't be always cleaning and dusting. Don't throw your things around, and keep the shutters closed so the flies won't get in. When you are ready come down to dinner."

"Well, if this doesn't get me!" exclaimed d.i.c.k, when his aunt had left him alone and he had dropped down on the edge of the cot. "This certainly is the limit. If I didn't know differently I'd say Uncle Ezra had lost all his money. I guess he's got it salted down and hates to take it out of the brine. Well, I'll see what they have for dinner before I make up my mind any further."

The meal, though plain, was good, and to a boy with d.i.c.k's appet.i.te, nothing came amiss. But it was small pleasure to dine when two pair of eyes were almost constantly watching him.

"Don't get any of the gravy on the table cloth," cautioned Mrs. Larabee.

"It was clean this week, and I don't want to have to put another one on before Sunday."

d.i.c.k felt a guilty flush come over his face as he saw that he had dropped a small piece of b.u.t.ter on the cloth. But he thought it wisest to say nothing.

"Aren't you going to eat that crust of bread?" asked his uncle, as d.i.c.k laid aside a portion that was burned black.

"It's a little too--too brown," replied the boy, who did not fancy burned bread.

"That makes it all the better," said Mr. Larabee. "Bread should be well cooked to be digestible. Always eat your crusts. 'Sinful waste makes woeful want,' as the proverb says. I had to eat my crusts when I was young."

d.i.c.k managed to get it down, and the meal finally came to a close. He felt considerably better after it, and when his uncle proposed a walk around the place, he was ready to accompany Mr. Larabee.

d.i.c.k found much to admire in the well-kept grounds. Several men were at work, and the manner in which they hastened with their tasks when their employer approached spoke volumes for the way in which they regarded him.

d.i.c.k paused in the stable to admire the horses, of which his uncle kept several. Without thinking he pulled a wisp of hay from a bale and offered it to one of the animals.

"Don't do that!" exclaimed his uncle sharply. "You'll scatter it all over the barn. The man has just swept the place up, and I don't like a litter of dirt around."

He stopped to pick up some pieces of hay d.i.c.k had inadvertently dropped, and looked so cross that the boy wished he had kept out of the stable.

However, Mr. Larabee seemed a bit ashamed of himself a little later, for he showed d.i.c.k where he could find some withered apples to feed to the pigs.

"Only don't scatter 'em on the ground," he cautioned. "I hate to see apples thrown about. I keep a man to look after the orchard, and I like it nice and tidy."

Now d.i.c.k was not a careless youth, but he thought this was carrying things a little too far. However, he brightened up a bit when his uncle announced that he had to leave his nephew to his own devices for a time, as he had some duties to attend to.

d.i.c.k managed to while away the afternoon looking at the sights around the place, for his uncle had a large farm, though he was wealthy enough not to need the income from it. Still he was the kind of a man who can not own the smallest bit of land without putting it to some use.

d.i.c.k looked about for a sight of some lads of his own age with whom he might become acquainted and enjoy his enforced visit to Dankville, but boys seemed a scarce article around The Firs.

He strolled back to the house, and, not seeing his aunt about, and being desirous of exploring the rather stately mansion, he started on a tour of it. Through the darkened hall he went until he came to what he thought would be the parlor. He opened the door, though it creaked on rusty hinges.

The room was so dark he could see nothing, and, having heard his father say that there were some choice oil paintings at The Firs, he opened a window to get light enough to view them. He had a hard task, as it seemed the sash and shutters had not been moved since they were built, but finally a stream of light entered the gloomy apartment, with the horse-hair furniture arranged stiffly against the wall.

d.i.c.k caught sight of a large painting and was going closer to examine it when he heard a shriek in the open doorway.

"Mercy sakes, Richard! Whatever have you done?" he heard his aunt call.

"Why, I just opened a window to let some light in, so I could see the pictures," he answered.