The Young Musician ; Or, Fighting His Way

CHAPTER I. A CANDIDATE FOR THE POORHOUSE.
"As for the boy," said Squire Pope, with his usual autocratic air, "I
shall place him in the poorhouse."
"But, Benjamin," said gentle Mrs. Pope, who had a kindly and
sympathetic
heart, "isn't that a little hard?"
"Hard, Almira?" said the squire, arching his eyebrows. "I fail to
comprehend your meaning."
"You know Philip has been tenderly reared, and has always had a
comfortable home--"
"He will have a comfortable home now, Mrs. Pope. Probably you are not
aware that it cost the town two thousand dollars last year to maintain
the almshouse. I can show you the item in the town report."
"I don't doubt it at all, husband," said Mrs. Pope gently. "Of course
you know all about it, being a public man."
Squire Pope smiled complacently. It pleased him to be spoken of as a
public man.
"Ahem! Well, yes, I believe I have no inconsiderable influence in town
affairs," he responded. "I am on the board of selectmen, and am
chairman
of the overseers of the poor, and in that capacity I shall convey
Philip
Gray to the comfortable and well-ordered institution which the town
has
set apart for the relief of paupers."
"I don't like to think of Philip as a pauper," said Mrs. Pope, in a
deprecating tone.
"What else is he?" urged her husband. "His father hasn't left a cent.
He
never was a good manager."
"Won't the furniture sell for something, Benjamin?"
"It will sell for about enough to pay the funeral expenses and
outstanding debts-that is all."
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The Young Musician ; Or, Fighting His Way
"But it seems so hard for a boy well brought up to go to the
poorhouse."
"You mean well, Almira, but you let your feelings run away with you.
You
may depend upon it, it is the best thing for the boy. But I must write
a
letter in time for the mail."
Squire Pope rose from the breakfast-table and walked out of the room
with his usual air of importance. Not even in the privacy of the
domestic circle did he forget his social and official importance.
Who was Squire Pope?
We already know that he held two important offices in the town of
Norton. He was a portly man, and especially cultivated dignity of
deportment. Being in easy circumstances, and even rich for the
resident
of a village, he was naturally looked up to and credited with a
worldly
sagacity far beyond what he actually possessed.
At any rate, he may be considered the magnate of Norton. Occasionally
he
visited New York, and had been very much annoyed to find that his
rural
importance did not avail him there, and that he was treated with no
sort of deference by those whom he had occasion to meet. Somehow, the
citizens of the commercial metropolis never suspected for a single
moment that he was a great man.
When Squire Pope had finished his letter, he took his hat, and with
measured dignity, walked to the village post-office.
He met several of his neighbors there, and greeted them with affable
condescension. He was polite to those of all rank, as that was
essential
to his retaining the town offices, which he would have been unwilling
to
resign.
From the post-office the squire, as he remembered the conversation
which
had taken place at the breakfast-table, went to make an official call
on
the boy whose fate he had so summarily decided.
Before the call, it may be well to say a word about Philip Gray, our
hero, and the circumstances which had led to his present destitution.
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The Young Musician ; Or, Fighting His Way
His father had once been engaged in mercantile business, but his
health failed, his business suffered, and he found it best-indeed,
necessary--to settle up his affairs altogether and live in quiet
retirement in Norton.
The expenses of living there were small, but his resources were small,
also, and he lived just long enough to exhaust them.
It was this thought that gave him solicitude on his death-bed, for he
left a boy of fifteen wholly unprovided for.
Let us go back a week and record what passed at the last interview
between Philip and his father before the latter passed into the state
of
unconsciousness which preceded death.
"Are you in pain, father?" asked Philip, with earnest sympathy, as his
father lay outstretched on the bed, his face overspread by the deathly
pallor which was the harbinger of dissolution.
"Not of the body, Philip," said Mr. Gray. "That is spared me, but I
own
that my mind is ill at ease."
"Do you mind telling me why, father!"
"No; for it relates to you, my son, or, rather, to your future. When
my
affairs are settled, I fear there will be nothing left for your
support.
I shall leave you penniless."
"If that is...