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
after the wedding she threw off the mask, and
made it clear that she disliked me.  One reason
is that she has a son of her own about
my age, a mean, sneaking fellow, who is the
apple of her eye.  She has been jealous of me,
and tried to supplant me in the affection of
my father, wishing Peter to be the favored son."

"How has she succeeded?"

"I don't think my father feels any love for
Peter, but through my stepmother's influence
he generally fares better than I do."

"Why wasn't he sent to school with you?"

"Because he is lazy and doesn't like study.
Besides, his mother prefers to have him at
home.  During my absence she worked upon
my father, by telling all sorts of malicious
stories about me, till he became estranged from
me, and little by little Peter has usurped my
place as the favorite."

"Why didn't you deny the stories?" asked Gilbert.

"I did, but no credit was given to my
denials.  My stepmother was continually poisoning
my father's mind against me."

"Did you give her cause?  Did you behave
disrespectfully to her?"

"No," answered Carl, warmly.  "I was
prepared to give her a warm welcome, and treat
her as a friend, but my advances were so coldly
received that my heart was chilled."

"Poor Carl!  How long has this been so?"

"From the beginning--ever since Mrs. Crawford
came into the house."

"What are your relations with your step-
brother--what's his name?"

"Peter Cook.  I despise the boy, for he is
mean, and tyrannical where he dares to be."

"I don't think it would be safe for him to
bully you, Carl."

"He tried it, and got a good thrashing.  You
can imagine what followed.  He ran, crying
to his mother, and his version of the story was
believed.  I was confined to my room for a
week, and forced to live on bread and water."