Chapter I. Driven from Home.

Driven From Home

by Horatio Alger

A boy of sixteen, with a small gripsack in his hand, trudged
along the country road. He was of good height for his age, strongly
built, and had a frank, attractive face. He was naturally of a
cheerful temperament, but at present his face was grave, and not
without a shade of anxiety. This can hardly be a matter of surprise
when we consider that he was thrown upon his own resources, and that
his available capital consisted of thirty-seven cents in money, in
addition to a good education and a rather unusual amount of physical
strength. These last two items were certainly valuable, but they
cannot always be exchanged for the necessaries and comforts of
life.

For some time his steps had been lagging, and from time to time
he had to wipe the moisture from his brow with a fine linen
handkerchief, which latter seemed hardly compatible with his almost
destitute condition.

I hasten to introduce my hero, for such he is to be, as Carl
Crawford, son of Dr. Paul Crawford, of Edgewood Center. Why he had
set out to conquer fortune single-handed will soon appear.

A few rods ahead Carl's attention was drawn to a wide-spreading
oak tree, with a carpet of verdure under its sturdy boughs.

"I will rest here for a little while," he said to himself, and
suiting the action to the word, threw down his gripsack and flung
himself on the turf.

"This is refreshing," he murmured, as, lying upon his back, he
looked up through the leafy rifts to the sky above. "I don't know
when I have ever been so tired. It's no joke walking a dozen miles
under a hot sun, with a heavy gripsack in your hand. It's a good
introduction to a life of labor, which I have reason to believe is
before me. I wonder how I am coming out--at the big or the little
end of the horn?"

He paused, and his face grew grave, for he understood well that
for him life had become a serious matter. In his absorption he did
not observe the rapid approach of a boy some- what younger than
himself, mounted on a bicycle.

The boy stopped short in surprise, and leaped from his iron
steed.

"Why, Carl Crawford, is this you? Where in the world are you
going with that gripsack?"

Carl looked up quickly.

"Going to seek my fortune," he answered, soberly.

"Well, I hope you'll find it. Don't chaff, though, but tell the
honest truth."

"I have told you the truth, Gilbert."

With a puzzled look, Gilbert, first leaning his bicycle against
the tree, seated himself on the ground by Carl's side.

"Has your father lost his property?" he asked, abruptly.

"No."

"Has he disinherited you?"

"Not exactly."

"Have you left home for good?"

"I have left home--I hope for good."

"Have you quarreled with the governor?"

"I hardly know what to say to that. There is a difference
between us."

"He doesn't seem like a Roman father--one who rules his family
with a rod of iron."

"No; he is quite the reverse. He hasn't backbone enough."

"So it seemed to me when I saw him at the exhibition of the
academy. You ought to be able to get along with a father like that,
Carl."

"So I could but for one thing."

"What is that?"

"I have a stepmother!" said Carl, with a significant glance at
his companion.

"So have I, but she is the soul of kindness, and makes our home
the dearest place in the world."

"Are there such stepmothers? I shouldn't have judged so from my
own experience."

"I think I love her as much as if she were my own mother."

"You are lucky," said Carl, sighing.

"Tell me about yours."

"She was married to my father five years ago. Up to the time of
her marriage I thought her amiable and sweet-tempered. But soon
after the wedding she threw off the mask, and made it clear that she
disliked me. One reason is that she has a son of her own about my
age, a mean, sneaking fellow, who is the apple of her eye. She has
been jealous of me, and tried to supplant me in the affection of my
father, wishing Peter to be the favored son."

"How has she succeeded?"

"I don't think my father feels any love for Peter, but through
my stepmother's influence he generally fares better than I do."

"Why wasn't he sent to school with you?"

"Because he is lazy and doesn't like study. Besides, his mother
prefers to have him at home. During my absence she worked upon my
father, by telling all sorts of malicious stories about me, till he
became estranged from me, and little by little Peter has usurped my
place as the favorite."

"Why didn't you deny the stories?" asked Gilbert.

"I did, but no credit was given to my denials. My stepmother
was continually poisoning my father's mind against me."

"Did you give her cause? Did you behave disrespectfully to
her?"

"No," answered Carl, warmly. "I was prepared to give her a warm
welcome, and treat her as a friend, but my advances were so coldly
received that my heart was chilled."

"Poor Carl! How long has this been so?"

"From the beginning--ever since Mrs. Crawford came into the
house."

"What are your relations with your step- brother--what's his
name?"

"Peter Cook. I despise the boy, for he is mean, and tyrannical
where he dares to be."

"I don't think it would be safe for him to bully you, Carl."

"He tried it, and got a good thrashing. You can imagine what
followed. He ran, crying to his mother, and his version of the story
was believed. I was confined to my room for a week, and forced to
live on bread and water."

"I shouldn't think your father was a man to inflict such a
punishment."

"It wasn't he--it was my stepmother. She insisted upon it, and
he yielded. I heard afterwards from one of the servants that he
wanted me released at the end of twenty-four hours, but she would not
consent."

"How long ago was this?"

"It happened when I was twelve."

"Was it ever repeated?"

"Yes, a month later; but the punishment lasted only for two
days."

"And you submitted to it?"

"I had to, but as soon as I was released I gave Peter such a
flogging, with the promise to repeat it, if I was ever punished in
that manner again, that the boy himself was panic- stricken, and
objected to my being imprisoned again."

"He must be a charming fellow!"

"You would think so if you should see him. He has small,
insignificant features, a turn- up nose, and an ugly scowl that
appears whenever he is out of humor."

"And yet your father likes him?"

"I don't think he does, though Peter, by his mother's orders,
pays all sorts of small attentions-- bringing him his slippers,
running on errands, and so on, not because he likes it, but because
he wants to supplant me, as he has succeeded in doing."

"You have finally broken away, then?"

"Yes; I couldn't stand it any longer. Home had become
intolerable."

"Pardon the question, but hasn't your father got considerable
property?"

"I have every reason to think so."

"Won't your leaving home give your step- mother and Peter the
inside track, and lead, perhaps, to your disinheritance?"

"I suppose so," answered Carl, wearily; "but no matter what
happens, I can't bear to stay at home any longer."

"You're badly fixed--that's a fact!" said Gilbert, in a tone of
sympathy. "What are your plans?"

"I don't know. I haven't had time to think."