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Fame and Fortune Weekly No. 2: Born to Good Luck; or The Boy Who Succeeded

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<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i_cover" style="max-width: 30em;"> <ANTIMG class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" /></div> <h1>Fame and Fortune Weekly</h1> STORIES OF BOYS WHO MAKE MONEY Issued Weekly—By Subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1905, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by Frank Tousey, Publisher, 24 Union Square, New York. <table class="bt bb" summary="Volume, Location, Price"> <tr> <td class="tdl">No. 2&emsp;</td> <td class="tdc">&emsp;NEW YORK, OCTOBER 13, 1905.&emsp;</td> <td class="tdr">&emsp;Price 5 Cents</td> </tr> </table> <h2 class="nobreak">BORN TO GOOD LUCK; OR The Boy Who Succeeded.</h2> <hr class="r15" /> By A SELF-MADE MAN. <hr class="r15" /> <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</h2></div> THE SCRAP AT COBHAM’S CORNER. “See here, Dick Armstrong; when you’ve taken that water into the house, I want you to clean these. Do you understand?” The speaker, a sallow-complexioned, overgrown boy of seventeen, threw a pair of mud-bespattered boots at the feet of a sun-burned, healthy-looking lad about a year his junior, while a grin of satisfied malice wrinkled his not over-pleasant features as he thrust his hands into his pockets and started to walk away. “Who are you talking to, Luke Maslin?” answered Dick, hotly, not relishing the contemptuous manner in which he had been addressed. “Why, you, of course,” replied Luke, with a sneer, pausing about a yard away. “You’re dad’s boy-of-all-work, aren’t you?” Unfortunately for Dick this remark expressed the exact truth. He was Silas Maslin’s boy-of-all-work, and his lot was not an enviable one. His clothes were bad, his food scarce, his education neglected, and having arrived at the age of sixteen years he eagerly longed to cut loose from his uncongenial surroundings and make his own way in the world. If Dick felt obliged to submit to Mr. Maslin’s tyrannical treatment, that was no reason, he contended, why he should allow his son Luke to bully him also. Although he had never done anything to deserve Luke Maslin’s ill will and often went out of his way to do him a good turn, Luke never lost a chance to make life miserable for Dick. In fact, all friendly advances on Armstrong’s part, instead of winning his favor, seemed rather to impress him with the idea that Dick was afraid of him, which was far from the truth. On this particular occasion Dick was not in the best of humor, for Mr. Maslin had just been savagely abusing him because he had taken a longer time than the old man had considered necessary to fetch certain supplies for the store from Slocum, a large town about ten miles distant. So when Luke flung the last remark at him he angrily retorted: “Well, I’m not yours, at any rate.” “What do you mean by that?” demanded Luke, in a disagreeable tone. “Just what I said!” answered Dick, defiantly. “Do you mean to say that you don’t intend to do anything I ask you to do?” “That depends.” “Depends on what?” Luke advanced a step nearer the other, looking decidedly ugly. “How you ask me,” replied Dick, setting down the pail to relieve his arm. “I s’pose you’d like me to take my hat off to you, Dick Armstrong, and say please, and all that,” Luke returned, scowling darkly. “It strikes me you’re putting on too many frills for a charity boy.” Charity boy! This slur, which Dick felt to be utterly undeserved, stung him more than anything Luke could have said. He turned pale with sudden rage, and his temper burst forth with a violence all the more terrible because held so long in check. Snatching up the pail of water as though it were a feather, he dashed its contents over his tormentor, drenching him from head to foot. If the heavens had fallen, Luke Maslin couldn’t have been more astonished. That Dick Armstrong, the despised factotum of the establishment, would dare to resent any aggression on his part was something Luke had not dreamed of. Heretofore when he chose to bully his father’s drudge the boy had submitted with the best grace he could. Now Dick actually had the temerity not only to resist, but to assume the offensive. After the first sputtering gasp of surprise, Luke recovered himself and sprang at Dick with a howl of the fury that fairly blazed from his eyes. Realizing that he was in for trouble, Armstrong prepared to defend himself to the best of his ability. Although his opponent had the advantage of him in height and was furious enough to be dangerous, Dick was not troubled with any misgivings as to the result of a clash between them. He had every confidence in his own powers, for he was compactly built, was unusually strong for his years, and moreover, being very angry, was reckless of the consequences. Whether it was that Maslin was naturally clever with his fists or Dick was awkward or slow in putting himself into a posture of defence, certain it is Luke’s right arm went through his opponent’s guard and Dick received a stinging blow on the side of his head that staggered him for a moment. A second whack, this time on the chest, thoroughly aroused Dick and, seeing his chance, he struck out with all the force he was capable of and caught Luke full on the nose. His head went back with a jerk, he slipped on the grass, and was down in a moment, the blood flowing freely from his injured organ. Contrary to Dick’s expectations, Luke made no effort to get up and resume the battle. It began to look as though that one blow had knocked all the fight out of him. Whatever satisfaction his opponent felt at such a decisive result was dissipated in a moment by an unexpected whack on the ear from behind, and turning to confront this new danger he found himself face to face with Silas Maslin, who was in a towering rage. “You young rascal, how dare you strike my son!” he exclaimed, furiously. “He struck me first,” Dick answered doggedly, rubbing his ear, for the slap had been no gentle one. “What’s that? Didn’t I see you fling that bucket of water over him, you little villain?” “I did that because he insulted me,” replied the boy, with spirit. “Don’t you dare talk back to me in that fashion, or I’ll flay you within an inch of your life! Go into the store at once!” Silas Maslin raised his foot as though it was his intention to boot the boy. He did not do so, however, and it was well for him that he did not. That was an indignity Dick would not have submitted to from any person, not even from Silas Maslin, much as he held him in awe. The boy was glad to avail himself of the chance of getting beyond his tyrant’s reach, and was presently drawing a quart of molasses for one of the customers of the establishment. Mr. Maslin kept a small general store at Cobham’s Corner, on the outskirts of the village of Walkhill, in the State of New York. The building stood within a few yards of the Erie Canal, facing the country road, which at this point crossed the narrow waterway by means of a stout wooden bridge. The houses that constituted the village were much scattered, and owing to the heavy growth of trees not one of them could be seen from the store; but by standing on the centre of the bridge the short, stumpy steeple of the small, wooden church could just be made out looming up through the topmost branches in the near distance. The post-office was located at the store, and the farmers for miles around came here for their mail and to replenish their supplies from Mr. Maslin’s stock of goods, which consisted of about everything needed by the little community, from a needle to a cultivator. Mr. Maslin’s household consisted of his wife, a sour-faced woman on the shady side of forty; his son Luke; John Huskins, a hired man, who attended to the main part of the work in the fields—for Silas Maslin had some forty acres under cultivation—and Dick Armstrong, who helped in the store when necessary, did the chores, and assisted Huskins. Between the two boys, Luke had all the advantages of the situation. He went to school as long as school kept, took part in all the village sports, visited his schoolmates, attended all the social gatherings he felt disposed to join, and carried his head pretty high generally. But for all that he wasn’t at all popular. Dick, on the other hand, came in for the short end of everything. He attended school when Silas Maslin chose to let him do so, under which circumstances his attendance was decidedly irregular. For the larger part of his time from daylight to dark he was kept on the hustle, as Mr. Maslin was never at a loss to find something for him to do. Everybody knew Dick Armstrong, of course. He was a good-looking boy, naturally bright, was obliging and polite to everybody with whom he came in contact, and consequently was well liked by everybody in the district, and was an especial favorite with the girls, who when they came to the store for mail or to purchase something preferred to have him wait upon them. As Luke was ambitious to shine with the fair sex himself, he resented their partiality for Dick, and as he couldn’t very well get square with the young ladies, he vented his ill humor and spite on the object of their attention. <hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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