The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1897-10-14

Nv friends in the hot
dry months. Stories of adventure, OF
personal disasters, of land, of sea, had
filled the evening; but it was still toe
early to retire, when Elsie, putting hel
pretty golden head down on my shout
der. said:
Tell the story, father, of the day
you were just in time"
The only romance of my hum-drum
life! I was willing enough and this
is the story: Ten years before, while
l was still in business as carriage
builder in the small town of Bolton, I
had in my employ young man named
Hartley, who was more to me, having
no son of my own, than merely one
of the ''hands."
He was the son of John Hartley, who
was ore Of the meanest, close-fisted
men in the world, and thoroughly dis
liked by the entire population OF Boil
ton. A dealer in real estate, he was
known as one who insisted upon the
payment Of his rents, even if it took
the food from the mouths of his ten
to pay him.
When young George Hartley first
came to me to seek employment he
was a handsome lad of sixteen, with
bright, frank face. Swallowed at that
time by the recent death of his moth
George being minor, were to be paid
to John Hartley, and he was punctu-
ally at the desk on payday.
Knowing that the lad had been a
good scholar, his mothers influence
having kept him at the Bolton school
during her life, I lent him books and
invited him often to my house, where
Elsie would play and sing for him,
or read with him. He studied in every
leisure moment, but was a good work.
man, never shrinking manual labor
that was really too much drudgery for
boy of his ability. With my knowl-
edge he went through a course Of
bookkeeping under my own head clerk,
and here begins my story.
I had had in my employ young man
as assistant bookkeeper, who had left
me for what he thought better posi-
ton, and entered into an engagement
with George Hartley, who was to do
his work, after hours, receiving from
me five dollars week in addition to
his regular wages, which sum I paid
to him, unknown to his father. If it
was defrauding that worthy man of
his right to his sons brains and in
dustry, why, I so defrauded him.
By my advice the money was de-
posted in the Bolton Bank, and for
nearly four years it had accumulated
there, until there was more than six
hundred dollars. some of the money
having been spent in keeping the lad
decently clothed.
He was twenty years old when John
Hartley married his second wife, an
old maid, who was one of his tenants,
and who had property of her own.
From the day when she entered
the house Mrs. Hartley COM
menced series of petty per-
secutions of her stepson, pin
thrusts to make his life miserable, but
seemingly too trifling for a man to
notice. She hated him because he had
tried to prevent the marriage, solely
for love of his dead mother.
1t was in April, when my physicians
ordered me to take a sea trip for
chronic complaint that was troubling
me and l made my preparations to go
in a schooner from Keyport, the near
est seaport town to Bolton, and some
thirty miles east of it. There was
train from Boston that passed through
Bolton at ten o'clock in the evening.
and connected with the stage to Key
port. 1t was New York train, but
not express, stopping at many of the
way stations; but it was the only one
by which connection could be made
with Keyport, the New York express
passing Bolton at midnight.
I had sent my baggage to the STA
ton, had made all my arrangements.
and was sitting in my study waiting
for the hour to leave home when the
door-bell rang. Elsie was in Boston
visiting an aunt until my return. and
che servants had all gone away, as
the house was to be closed, so opened
the door myself. It was George Hart
ley who was on my steps, a small
Batchel in his hand, and his face white
with excitement.
I had still an hour of time at nv
disposal and 1 drew him into the
house, certain before he spoke that
there had come a crisis in his hard
life. I will not try to tell the story in
his own words, broken as they were
by anger and excitement, but this was
the substance of it:
He had been out at tea time, avoid
ing the family meals as often as he
could, and on coming home had gone
directly to his own room, which was
over the one occupied by his father
The day had been warm, oppressiyely
so for April, and all the windows were
open. Seated by the one in his own
room, George Hartley could hear dis
tinctly what was said in the room be-
meath. He was reading, scarcely heed
ing the voices at first, but presently
reused to keen listening and burning
indignation. His stepmother had been