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DRIVEN FROM HOME
OR
CARL CRAWFORD'S EXPERIENCE
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
Author of "Erie Train Boy," "Young Acrobat," "Only an Irish Boy,"
"Bound to Rise," "The Young Outlaw," "Hector's Inheritance," etc.
DRIVEN FROM HOME.
CHAPTER I
DRIVEN FROM HOME.
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
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