Dave Porter at Oak Hall/Chapter 1
DAVE PORTER AT OAK HALL
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING DAVE PORTER
"Hello, Dave, where are you going?"
"I'm going up the mountainside, to look for huckleberries, Ben. Do you want to go along?"
"How much is there in it?" asked Ben Basswood, with a grin. "I never work unless I get paid for it."
"Well, you can have all the huckleberries you find. Mr. Jackson is paying eight cents a quart for them," answered Dave Porter.
"Eight cents! And how many quarts do you think I can pick in an afternoon?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Ben—six or eight quarts at least."
"That wouldn't pay me," said Ben Basswood, whose parents were well-to-do and who was furnished regularly with spendlng-money. "But I'll go along, just the same, to keep you company," he added. "How is old Potts this morning?"
"Mr. Potts isn't feeling very well. His head seems to bother him a great deal lately," and for a moment a shadow crossed Dave Porter's face. "I really think he ought to have a doctor."
"Won't he have any?"
"No. He says he can't afford it, and besides he would rather doctor himself."
"He's just a bit off, isn't he?" went on Ben, with a curious look at his companion. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Dave," he added, hastily. "But that's true, isn't it? I heard some men downtown talking about it."
"I don't know what you mean by 'off,'" answered Dave. "He is rather peculiar, but so are lots of other folks around here."
"He isn't any relation to you, is he?"
"No."
"How long have you lived with him?"
"About six years."
"Then you ought to know him pretty well, Dave."
"I do—after a fashion. He's a hard man to understand. Sometimes he is cheery and talkative and then again he will say but little all day."
"He hasn't been able to do much on the farm this summer, I suppose?"
"Hardly anything, Ben. I've had to do what was done."
"It's rather rough on you."
"Oh, I haven't minded it," was Dave Porter's cheery answer. "I only wish Mr. Potts would get better."
There was a brief spell of silence, during which time both boys trudged along the road leading to the mountainside. Dave carried a tin kettle and a basket, which he hoped to fill with huckleberries before sundown. It was a warm summer day, with the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing merrily, just the day to make the heart of any boy glad. Yet Dave heaved a long sigh, which his companion could not help but notice.
"I suppose it makes you feel bad to have him sick," said Ben.
"It isn't only that, Ben, it's something else."
"Oh!"
"I don't know that I ought to say anything, but I feel as if I must tell somebody," continued Dave. "You know old Aaron Poole, from Dixonville."
"Of course I do, Diamond Poole they used to call him. He's got a son, Nat, a regular high-flyer, so they tell me."
"Aaron Poole holds a mortgage on our farm. Mr. Potts can't pay the interest this year, and Mr. Poole says he is going to foreclose."
"And sell the place?"
"I suppose so."
"How much is the mortgage?"
"Twelve hundred dollars."
"That's as much as the place is worth."
"I suppose that is true."
"If the place is sold what will you and old Potts do?" went on Ben, with added interest.
"I don't know, and that is what is bothering me. If he was a younger man, and well, we might hire some other farm, but as it is I can't see any way to turn."
"You might get a place on some other farm, Dave. I know you can do a regular man's work."
"Yes, but that wouldn't help Mr. Potts, and I feel that I ought to do all I can for him. He did what he could for me."
"You'll have a job of it, supporting yourself and a sick man, too. Besides, if he gets much worse he'll have to have somebody to take care of him, and you can't do that and work, too."
"I'll have to do it—or do the best I can," and Dave heaved another sigh, for the prospect ahead was certainly a dark one.
"How soon do you expect to hear from Aaron Poole?"
"The interest on the mortgage is due to-morrow, and Mr. Poole says he won't wait for his money."
"He's a hard-hearted wretch, if ever there was one!" burst out Ben, indignantly. "Do you remember the widow Fram? He put her out of her cottage in the dead of winter just because she got behind in her rent. Father said it was the meanest thing he had ever heard of. He got the widow another place."
"Well, we have got to do something, that is certain," said Dave. "For the present I am going to pick all the huckleberries I can for Mr. Jackson. That will give us a little money to fall back on."
"And I'l help you, Dave. I can't pick many, I know; but every little helps, they say." And a moment later the conversation came to an end and each of the lads began to gather the berries, which grew in scattered patches all over the mountain.
Dave Porter was a youth of fifteen, of medium size, with dark eyes and curly dark hair. He was healthy, with muscles hardened by constant work in the open air. His look was both fearless and frank, and there was an expression about his mouth which spoke of a will power bound to assert itself whenever needed.
Dave was a poorhouse boy, and of unknown parentage. About twelve years before this story opens he had been found, one summer evening, wandering near the railroad tracks just outside of the village of Crumville. Some farm hands had discovered him, sitting on a fallen tree, calling for "the bad train to come back!" From the little fellow the farm hands had gathered that the train had stopped, and he had been put off by "a bad, bad man, who wouldn't buy the candy after all!" The waif was tired and hungry, and was taken to a neighboring farmhouse and there fed and put to bed.
For two weeks the little fellow remained at the farmhouse, and during that time every effort was made to find out his identity, and learn why he had been abandoned in such a heartless fashion. Questioned on the point, he said his name was Dave, or Davy, and sometimes he added Porter, and then, again, Dun-Dun, whatever that might mean. Because of this, he was generally spoken of as Dave Porter, and that was the name that eventually clung to him.
All efforts to ascertain who the waif was proved fruitless, and the lost one was thereupon turned over to the matron of the district poorhouse. As fortune would have it, she proved a kind woman, and brought up the little lad as if he were her own. He was given a fair amount of schooling, and likewise religious instruction, and was also taught to work.
Dave remained at the poorhouse farm until he was about nine years old. During those years Crumville grew from a village into a town, and many rich people settled there. Including a Mr. Oliver Wadsworth, who erected a jewelry works employing several hundred hands. Mr. Wadsworth was a liberal and public-spirited citizen, and we shall hear more of him in the near future.
As Crumville grew, the poorhouse with its farm was removed to another locality and placed under an entirely different management. The three boys at the institution were bound out to such persons as desired them, and Dave was sent to live with an elderly man named Caspar Potts, who had, the year before, purchased one of the hillside farms back of Crumville. By many Caspar Potts was considered to be "a bit off," as they expressed it, but as he appeared to be able to support Dave, the poorhouse management did not hesitate to place the waif in his charge. Dave was nothing to them, and all they wished to do was to get rid of him.
The boy had been very skeptical about going to live with old Caspar Potts, but his doubts soon vanished, and inside of a month he was glad the change had come to him. Much to his surprise, he learned that Caspar Potts had once been a college professor, but over-application to work had broken him down mentally, and then the man—who in his younger days had been brought up on a farm—had given up teaching and gone back to the soil.
"Stick by me, Dave," the old man had said. "Stick by me, and I'll feed and clothe you, and give you an education besides." And Caspar Potts had kept his word as far as he was able, and now Dave had more of an education than most lads of his years. More than that, he had learned many things not taught in the lower schools, and of these, in his own quiet way, he was rather proud.
During the past year matters had been going gradually from bad to worse. Through the winter Caspar Potts was very sick, and this illness ate up almost every dollar the man had saved. When spring came he was too weak to work at plowing and planting, and consequently this fell to Dave's lot. The two lived alone, and there were times when Caspar Potts was certainly more than half out of his mind, acting childish, and begging Dave not to desert him.
"I am not going to desert you," had been Dave's answer. "You have done for me as long as you could, and now I am going to do for you."
"But they may put us out of this house, Dave."
"If they do, we'll have to find some other place to live."
"I cannot undertake to develop another farm, lad; I am too old and feeble."
"Oh, you mustn't talk that way, professor." Dave sometimes called him professor just to please him, and it suited the old man very well. "You are not so very old,—and you'll feel better before long."
"Do you think so, my boy?" questioned the old man, wistfully.
"I'm sure of it."
"It does me good to hear you say so, Dave. You must know, for you're a smart lad, and you are bound to be a great man some day—I can see it sticking out all over you. Tell me now, would you like to be a professor, or would you rather be a farmer?"
"I don't know exactly what I'd like to be, just yet. I don't know enough of the outside world."
"Ha!" the old man drew a long breath. "That is true, Davy; that is true. You'll find it a hard world, with many sharp corners and many pitfalls. But you'll get through, you'll get through,—I can see it in your face. You'll get through!"