CHAPTER XXV.

herbert’s first visit to the banker’s house.Before Herbert had time to reply, dinner was announced. The question touching the reliability of Breakwell & Co. was immediately dropped, and in its place arose the unexpected problem whether or not he should accept the banker’s invitation to dine with him and his family. He would have quite as soon thought of receiving an invitation to dinner from the mayor himself. It was quite natural, therefore, that he should offer some ridiculous reason why he should be excused, when, as a matter of fact, he would have much ratherserved another term of imprisonment at old Gunwagner’s than lose this opportunity.“Come right along” commanded Mr. Goldwin, himself leading the way.Herbert followed the banker into the parlor, where he was introduced to his employer’s wife and daughter.He found himself blushing even more profusely than when he had handed Ray Goldwin into her carriage, at the close of his first day’s service for her father. This heightened color, too, seemed to be reflected upon her cheeks, and her manner indicated a slight but not unnatural embarrassment.Herbert had thought that the dinner given by Bob Hunter was about as good as could well be served, but this one proved in every respect much the better; and notwithstanding his nervousness and lack of ease, under circumstances so unfamiliar, he enjoyed the meal greatly.While Herbert Randolph could laugh at the drollery and peculiar street language of Bob Hunter and Tom Flannery, he nevertheless found a higher degree of pleasure in the conversation of this intelligent and refined family.“Papa told us about your imprisonment, Mr. Randolph,” said Ray, looking wonderfully pretty, as Herbert thought. “It must have been dreadful.”“It was an unpleasant experience,” replied young Randolph, lightly; “but I came out all right.”“Ah, that reminds me,” said Mr. Goldwin, “that one of the letters you brought me was from my attorney. In it he expressed the opinion that you can recover damages from the old fence for false imprisonment. I would therefore advise you to place the matter in his hands at once, and have him push it.”“You mean put it into the hands of your lawyer?”“you embarrass me,” said herbert, blushing.“Yes.”“I appreciate very highly your interest in my behalf, Mr. Goldwin, and I will do as you say,” replied Herbert.“Wouldn’t it be splendid if you could get damages from that dreadful old man?” said Ray, with enthusiasm.Thus the conversation ran on, and before the dinner had been finished, Herbert felt himself quite well acquainted with both Mrs. Goldwin and Ray. He had tried to convince himself that he did not care for girls, and he thought he had succeeded well in doing so. But for some inexplicable reason, his imaginary objections to the sex in general did not stand long against Ray Goldwin in particular.Her bright blue eyes, brimful of spirit and laughter, seemed to detect his aversion, and she aimed, he thought, to show him that he had deceived himself.After the meal had been finished all repaired to the library, where, after a half hour of social converse, Herbert wrote several letters for Mr. Goldwin at his dictation. Ray sat opposite him with the purpose of reading, but as a matter of fact she did not progress very fast with the story.“Would you be willing to write in my autograph album, Mr. Randolph?” said she, somewhat timidly, when he had finished her father’s letters.“Yes, I will do so with pleasure,” he answered.“I shall be proud of such pretty writing,” returned Ray, handing him the book.“You embarrass me,” said he, blushing.“I don’t see why,” laughed Ray, enjoying young Randolph’s modesty.“Well, I am not accustomed to compliments, especially from—er——”“From young girls,” suggested Mrs. Goldwin, smiling.“Thank you,” returned Herbert; “I was hesitating whether to say ‘girls’ or ‘young ladies.’”“Oh, say girls, by all means,” replied Mrs. Goldwin. “We don’t want Ray to become a young lady too soon.”“I don’t blame you,” responded our hero, half seriously.“Why, Mr. Randolph,” said Ray, shaking her dainty finger at him, “I believe I would not have asked you to write in my album if I had supposed you would say that.”“Well, it is not too late yet, for you see I have not touched the book with the pen,” laughed Herbert.“Oh, but I would not want to disappoint you. You know you said it would give you pleasure to do so.”“So it would, but I would rather sacrifice this pleasure than feel that you would be sorry you had given me the invitation.”Without further parley Herbert wrote in the album—wrote so prettily that he was roundly complimented by all.Mrs. Goldwin and Ray were now summoned into the drawing room to receive a caller, and presently young Randolph took his leave, and started for his room with a very light and happy heart.CHAPTER XXV.TOM FLANNERY’S SICKNESS.Bob Hunter was too much surprised by the fact that Herbert was going to Mr. Goldwin’s house to tell him of his own anxiety about Tom Flannery. The latter had not, as Bob learned, been seen for two days at his accustomed place. That he should be away one day was not particularly strange, for he not infrequently got odd jobs to do that took him to another part of the city, or possibly to some of the near by suburbs. Two days’ absence, however, was so unusual for him that Bob Hunter became anxious, fearing that possibly the vengeance of old Gunwagner and his companion in crime had fallen upon poor, unsuspecting Tom. This thought having suggested itself to him, his previous anxiety speedily turned to a feeling of alarm.He therefore left his place of business as early as possible, and after a hurried supper went quickly to Tom Flannery’s home, which was in a large office building on Broadway, very near Bowling Green. The latter’s mother was janitress of the building. Her duties were to keep it clean, and to look after the interests of the owner. For these services she received a trifling money reward, and was allowed to occupy two small rooms at the top of the building. Here Mrs. Flannery and Tom made their home, which, though humble, was very neat.Bob knocked softly at the door, out of breath from climbing so many flights of stairs, and with sore misgivings for the safety of his young companion. The door was opened presently by a woman of middle age, who, as Bob saw at a glance from her extraordinary resemblance to Tom, was the newsboy’s mother. He had never seen her before, but the honest, trustful look so characteristic of his young friend shone prominently in Mrs. Flannery’s face.“They have got him, poor Tom,” said Bob to himself with beating heart, as he saw Mrs. Flannery’s grief.“Are you not Master Bob Hunter?” said the woman, speaking first—after an awkward pause; for the visitor, who had been so bold a detective, was now so distressed that he knew not what to say.“Yes, I am Bob Hunter,” was the soft reply.“And you are come to see my boy—my poor Tom?” said the woman, pressing Bob’s hand warmly, and struggling vainly to keep back the tears.“Is he here?” asked Bob, dumfounded by the contradictory state of things; for it was apparent from the woman’s question that Tom was at home, and, he being at home, why such grief?“I’m so glad you came to see him, for he thought so much of you, Master Bob,” said Mrs. Flannery, now giving way entirely to her feelings.“I would have come before if I had known——”“I know you would, I know you would,” interrupted the woman between sobs, “and he asked so many times for you, and now to think that you are here and he won’t know you. Oh, my poor Tom!”“I don’t blame you for being proud, Bob. I wish I hadsuch a case too, but then I couldn’t handle it not the way you could, Bob. None of the fellers could, not one of ’em, Bob, for you do everything in such a grand way, you know.”These words, so familiar yet so ominously strange, fell upon Bob Hunter like a messenger of death.“Oh, what is it, Mrs. Flannery? What has happened to Tom?” cried he, pale with fright.“It’s his head, Master Bob—gone since morning—rambling on just like this—detectives, and I don’t know what all.”“Have you had a doctor to see him?” asked Bob, his mind turning quickly to practical measures.“Yes, and he says it’s pneumonia, and a very bad case,” answered the mother, with almost a hopeless expression.Bob learned that Tom came home two days before thoroughly wet from a cold northeast rain; that he had a chill soon after going to bed; that he grew rapidly worse throughout the night, and that in the morning he had a high fever. Mrs. Flannery called in a doctor, who, after a careful examination, pronounced the case pneumonia. He left medicine which seemed to afford temporary relief. In the night, however, Tom grew worse, and during the following forenoon became delirious.“Don’t you know me, Tom?” said Bob feelingly, as he stood by the bedside, and held the sufferer’s hand in his own.“All the evening papers—Sun,Mail and Express,Telegram—big accident—tremendous loss of life! Which will you have, sir?”And this was Tom’s wild reply, poor boy. Now that his companion, whom he wanted to see so much, and for whom he had such admiration, had at last come to him, the sick boy did not know him; but supposing he had a customer for his papers, he rattled on in true newsboy fashion. Bob tried again andagain to rouse his mind by referring to Herbert Randolph, and to scenes familiar and interesting, but his efforts were unsuccessful. At length his stout young heart gave way, and with an expression of the keenest grief he dropped into a chair beside the bed, burying his face in the pure white spread that covered his young companion, and wept tears of sincere sorrow.tom flannery in delirium.Presently he withdrew from the sick room, and after a brief discussion with Mrs. Flannery hurried away to the doctor whom she had previously called in to see Tom. The physician promised to visit the sick boy again within an hour. Having this assurance from the doctor, Bob then turned his steps towards his own room to acquaint Herbert Randolph with Tom’s illness. But to Bob’s surprise he found on arriving there that the young Vermonter had not yet reached home.“’Twas nine o’clock when I passed theTribunebuilding,” said Bob to himself rather anxiously, “and he hain’t come yet.I hope nothing’s gone bad with him, though, for we’ve got trouble enough on our hands already, with Tom sick, and goin’ to die, I’m afraid. I wish I could do something for him; he would do anything in the world for me, Tom would.”But Bob’s fears regarding Herbert proved groundless, for in a little time the latter joined him with a light heart, made happy by the very kind reception given him at Mr. Goldwin’s.On his way home his mind was filled with the vision of a sweet young face, which to him was an inspiration. And as he hurried along the avenue, thinking faster and faster, what charming pictures his imagination brought before him—pictures that for him possessed a strange and peculiar attraction. But these beautiful creations of his mind were quickly lost to him when he saw the troubled look on young Bob Hunter’s face.“Why, Bob,” said he, “what makes you look so wretched? What has happened?”The latter quickly related the story of Tom’s sickness, and stated his own fears.“I cannot realize it, Bob,” said Herbert, deeply touched. “Poor Tom! let us go at once and do whatever we can for him.”“That’s right, Herbert; that’s what I think we ought to do, and I shouldn’t come home at all only I knew you would not know what had become of me,” replied Bob, as they put on their overcoats and started for Mrs. Flannery’s humble home.CHAPTER XXVI.A CRASH IN WALL STREET.At the end of two weeks Tom was again up and dressed. His struggle with the pneumonia had been a frightful one. It was turned in his favor largely by the aid of the best medical skill, and the untiring care given him by his mother and his two faithful friends, Herbert and Bob. The latter took turns in watching with him at night, while Mrs. Flannery slept, that she might renew her strength for the day watch.But the disease, as is not infrequently the case, left Tom with a hard, dry cough, which threatened serious results. His lungs were weak, and his body was much emaciated. He was not the Tom Flannery of old, the Tom so full of boyish spirits and desire to push his paper trade. This change in their young companion caused Herbert and Bob keen anxiety. They had watched beside his bed through delirium and helplessness, when there seemed no hope of his recovery. How glad their young hearts were when he began to rally, and they could see him in imagination back with them again in their old pleasures and pastimes! His failure, therefore, to throw off the racking cough and regain his strength was a sore disappointment to them, but this was not their only source of apprehension.How full these two weeks had been of bitter trouble—troublethat drew deeply upon their sympathy; that destroyed splendid prospects and forced one of them from a position of independence to one little better than beggary.Disturbing elements had been gathering for days in Wall Street, which to a few wise old heads seemed ominous. They predicted danger, but their warnings were laughed at by the less cautious speculators, who operated with a reckless daring. At length, however, the storm struck almost without a moment’s notice. Wild reports filled the air, and men, strong, bold men, crushed by the tremendous force of the panic, fell prostrate here and there, and everywhere. Terror spread to all, and painted its sickly hue upon their faces. When the storm had subsided the street was full of wrecks. Among them was the daring firm of Breakwell & Co., who had failed for a million and a quarter of dollars.Young Randolph was stunned at the exhibition he witnessed on that fatal day. House after house with whom his firm had done business, and who were supposed to be almost beyond the possibility of failure, had closed their doors. Breakwell & Co. were among the last to go under. They had been kept up by the splendid loyalty of Richard Goldwin, who put his bank account at their command, relying upon their assurance that they were all right, and would come out of the storm stronger than ever, if they could only receive temporary help. Mr. Goldwin, anxious to save them, stood heroically by them, and went down with them—a victim of noble generosity, of misplaced confidence. Yes, he had failed—Richard Goldwin, the banker and broker, yesterday a millionaire, today perhaps a pauper.Herbert Randolph could not at first realize the awful fact, but the pain he saw in Mr. Goldwin’s face appealed so strongly tohis sympathy that the tears forced themselves from his eyes, try however bravely he would to restrain them. The doors were closed, and all business with the house of Richard Goldwin was at an end.Mr. Goldwin bore the misfortune like a hero. His face was white and firm as marble. Certain lines, however, told his distress, but never a word of complaint at the miserable treachery of Breakwell & Co. escaped his lips.Herbert could not help thinking how severe the shock would be to Mrs. Goldwin and Ray, who could not bridle their emotions with an iron will like that of the ruined banker. The latter was accustomed, in his long career in Wall Street, to seeing others meet the disaster that had now overtaken him; but his wife and daughter—ah, how little they were prepared for such a shock.The panic that ruined so many men added quite largely to the fortunes of young Bob Hunter. He had never before had such a trade. Papers sold beyond all imagination, and at double their usual price. The result was a profit of seven dollars and forty seven cents for his day’s work. He felt richer than ever before in his life, and so happy that he could hardly wait till the usual time for Herbert to join him, he wanted so much to make known his grand success. But when young Randolph came to him with the sad story of that day in Wall Street, his happiness gave place to a feeling of unusual sadness, and the sadness deepened on learning that his friend was now out of a position.“But you can get another place, Herbert,” said he, reassuringly; “perhaps a better one than you have lost.”“I hope so,” was all the reply the young bank clerk made, but there was a world of expression in the way he said it. His face, too, looked the disappointment and sorrow he felt, andBob rightly divined that the sorrow was more for Mr. Goldwin and his family than for himself.It is safe to presume that Herbert thought long and regretfully of the probability of Mr. Goldwin being reduced to a state of poverty—of his being turned out of his luxurious home—of Ray, his daughter, being obliged to work for her living—of her young, sweet life being embittered by want and miserable surroundings, so out of keeping with her beauty and genial, sunny nature. And if he did think in this wise, what resolutions he formed for relieving her of such a life, and of restoring her to her proper place we can only imagine, for on this matter he said never a word, not even to Bob Hunter.On the following morning, Bob Hunter handed Herbert a small roll of bills.“What is this for?” said the latter.“It’s for you,” replied Bob. “There’s only eight dollars in it, but you’ll perhaps need it, and then you’ll feel better with it in your pocket while looking for work.”“But I cannot accept your money, Bob,” protested Herbert, with feelings of deep gratitude.“Yes, you must, for you are out in the cold, and my business is good; and then, you know, I made most all of it yesterday out of the failures in Wall Street—out of your firm’s failure as much as any, probably, and that meant your failure to keep your place; so in a way I kinder made it out of you, and now I want you to have it again.”Herbert’s eyes were now moist.“Bob, you are very good and generous,” said he, rather huskily; “but you are not logical. I have no claim on your money, neither has any one. You made it in legitimate trade, and should not feel that it does not belong to you.”“Well, I know I did; but I feel in a kind of way that it was made off of the misfortunes of others, you see.”young randolph again in theranks of the unemployed.“But the misfortunes were not caused by you. They had occurred, and people wanted to know about them, and were willing and glad to pay for their information. This gave you an opportunity to make some money, and you made it.”“Well, of course you will beat me at arguing, Herbert, for you always do; but all the same I wish you would take the money, for I think you will need it.”“If I do need any money, when mine is gone, I will then borrow this of you, but until then you must keep it.”After this discussion, and after a very frugal breakfast, Herbert once more joined the ranks of the vast army who go from place to place, hungry and thinly clothed many times, in search of employment—anything to keep the wolf from the door.CHAPTER XXVII.DARK DAYS.It was now midwinter. The streets were filled with snow and ice, and the cold, frost-laden air was chilling alike to the body and spirits of one in the unfortunate position in which young Randolph suddenly found himself.If one has never been out of a position in a great city at this season of the year, he can have but little conception of the almost utterly hopeless prospects before him. After the holiday trade is over, a vast number of clerks are discharged from our stores, and thousands in the manufacturing line are thrown out of employment. These are added to the very large number that at all seasons of the year are hunting for work. Thousands, too, from the country, thinking to escape the dreary frost-bound months of rural life, flock to the city and join the enormous army of the unemployed. All want work, and there is little or no work to be had. It is the season of the year when few changes are made by employers other than to dispense with the services of those not actually needed. To be sure, a few employees die, and leave vacancies to be filled. Others prove unfaithful, and are discharged. A new business, too, is started here and there, but all the available positions combined are as nothing when compared to the tremendous demand for them by the thousands of applicants.When Herbert Randolph came to New York in the fall,he was fortunate in arriving at the time when employers usually carry a larger force of help than at any other season of the year. There was consequently less demand for positions, and a greater demand for help. Thus he had a possible chance of securing employment, and he happened to be fortunate enough to do so. I say he had apossible chance, for surely he had no more than that even at the most favorable season of the year. He was extremely fortunate, coming from the country as he did, to find employment at all.In view of these facts it will not be surprising that young Randolph, brave boy as he was, looked upon the dreary prospect before him with a heavy heart.Bob Hunter realized fully the gravity of his friend’s situation, and this is why he urged the money upon him, wishing to keep up his courage, and delicately refraining from touching upon the dark outlook ahead.I wish I had the space to picture carefully all the rebuffs, the cold treatment, and the discouragement that met our young hero on his daily wanderings, seeking for some honest labor—anything that would furnish him with the means to buy bread. But as I should not feel justified in extending this story to such a length, I must content myself with a few glimpses that will show the heroic struggle he made to sustain himself during these dark, chilly, and cheerless days of winter.“It’s pretty tough, ain’t it, Herbert?” said Bob, one night when they were alone together in their room. He sought to lift the burden from his friend’s mind by drawing him into conversation.“Yes,” answered Herbert, mechanically.This reply, so short, and given with so little expression, gave Bob a feeling of uneasiness.“I hope you ain’t getting discouraged,” he ventured next.“No, nothing will discourage me now,” replied young Randolph doggedly.“But you hain’t got no encouragement yet?”“No, none whatever,” was the gloomy answer.“And you’ve been trying for three weeks to strike something?”“Yes; it’s nearer four weeks, and my shoes are worn out with walking.”“But you know I have some money for you, and you better take it and buy you a new pair.”herbert randolph shoveling snow.“No, Bob, I will never take that except as a last resort. While I have my health I shall not allow myself to accept charity. I am not afraid to do any sort of work, and sooner or later I am confident thatI shall find employment. This morning I earned seventy five cents shoveling snow from the stoops of houses. This sort of employment, however, is very uncertain, as so little snow falls here; but there are other odd jobs to be done, and I shall try and get my share of them.”“I didn’t know you was doing that kind of work, Herbert,” said Bob, with a deep drawn sigh. “It ain’t right for a boy with your learnin’ to come down to that.”“It’s right for me to do anything temporarily to earn an honest penny. One who is above work cannot hope to succeed. I am here, and I am going to stay, and the best I can do is to do always the best I can, and the best I can do just at present is to be a porter, an errand boy, a boy of all work—ready for anything, and willing to do anything, always keeping my eyes open for a chance to go a step higher.“The trouble with me now, Bob, is that I started in too elegantly at first. I commenced in a broker’s office, when I should have started at the bottom, in order to know anything about the first round of the ladder. I’m at the bottom now, and it looks as if I would have to remain there long enough to learn a good deal about that position.”“I’m glad you feel that way, Herbert, for I thought you was getting discouraged,” replied Bob, his face brightening up.“I did feel utterly discouraged for the first two or three weeks; but you know, Bob, one can get used to anything, and I have become sufficiently accustomed to this miserable kind of work, and to the beggarly pennies I earn from time to time, so that it is less cutting to me than at first. I try to content myself with the belief that it will be better by and by, though I get heartsick sometimes. It seems almost useless to try farther for work in any well established business.”The foregoing will give a very slight idea of the struggle young Randolph made to keep his head above water, and it presents a pretty true picture of the difficulties a boy will ordinarily encounter in attempting to make his way unaided in a great city like New York. Of course difficulties vary in character and severity; but it would not be safe for the average boy to expect to find less than those that surrounded our hero. Some would be more fortunate, while others would be less favored. Herbert Randolph was especially fortunate in meeting Bob Hunter, whose friendship proved as true as steel. What would have become of him while in the hands of old Gunwagner, but for Bob’s effort to rescue him? And, again, how could he have fought away despondency during his enforced idleness had he lived by himself in a cold and cheerless room? Brave and manly as he was, he owed much to his warm hearted companion, whose presence and sympathy revived his drooping and almost crushed spirits.As the days passed by, Herbert Randolph turned his attention to the most practical purposes. He almost entirely gave up looking for a steady situation, and devoted his time to doing whatever odd jobs he could hit upon that would bring him in a little money. Among the many kinds of humble employment to which he bent his energies was that of working the hoist. In New York the tall warehouses, those not supplied with an elevator, have a windlass at the top, to which is attached a heavy rope, that passes down through a wide opening to the ground floor. This rope, with a large iron hook at the end, is attached to heavy cases, or whatever is to be taken to any of the upper lofts. Another rope, passing over a big wheel, when pulled turns the windlass. This winds the main rope around it, and thus draws it up, taking with it its load, whatever that may be.Perhaps no harder or less poetic work to an educated boy could be found than this; yet Herbert Randolph did not hesitate to throw off his coat, and work with an aching back and smarting hands as few porters would do.He worked faithfully and honestly, with no hope of reward other than the money he would earn by his labor. And yet this very employment—this humble porter work—opened up to him an opportunity of which he had never dreamed—suggested to him an idea that he never before thought of.It came about in this way. One day, after he had toiled for two hours or so on the hoist, and had finished his work, he went up to the cashier to get his money, as he had done many times before. A man with a satchel strapped to his shoulder was just ahead of him.“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” said the man with the satchel, addressing the cashier.herbert randolph working on the hoist.“Good morning,” responded the latter. “I am gladyou came today, Mr. Woodman, for we have an unusually large supply of stamps on hand.”“The market is very much overstocked at present,” replied Woodman, unslinging his satchel, and resting it on the desk. “I bought a thousand dollars’ worth of stamps yesterday from one party at five per cent off.”“Five per cent,” repeated the cashier, arching his eyebrows.“Yes, five per cent.”“And you expect to buy from us at that rate?”“I wish I could pay you more, but my money is all tied up now—the market is glutted, fairly glutted.”“I should think it would be, when you buy them in thousand dollar lots.”“Well, that does seem like a large amount of stamps, but I know of one lot—a ten thousand dollar lot—that I could buy within an hour, if I had the money to put into them.”“You could never get rid of so many, Woodman,” said the cashier, surprised at the broker’s statement.“Oh, yes, I could work them off sooner or later, and would get par for most of them too.”“How do you do it?”“I put them up in small lots of fifty cents and a dollar, and upwards, and sell them to my customers. Of course, when I buy big lots I do a little wholesaling, but I put away all I cannot sell at the time.”“They are sure to go sooner or later, I suppose,” said the cashier.“Oh, yes, sure to sell. During the summer months very few stamps come into the market.”“And this gives you an opportunity to work off your surplus stock?”“Yes.”“I presume you sell as a rule to stores and business offices.”“Yes; I have a regular line of customers who buy all of their stamps off me—customers that I worked up myself.”“And they prefer buying of you to going to the post office for their supply?”“Certainly; for I give them just as good stamps, and by buying of me they save themselves the trouble of going to the post office for them.”Herbert Randolph was waiting for his money, and overheard this conversation between the cashier and the stamp broker. He made no effort to hear it, for it did not relate to him. They spoke so loud, however, that he caught every word distinctly, and before they had finished talking the idea flashed across his mind that he would try his hand at that business. Mr. Woodman, as good fortune willed it for young Randolph, could take only a portion of the stamps the cashier wished to dispose of. When the broker had completed his purchase and gone, Herbert stepped up to the cashier for the money due him for working on the hoist. Mr. Smith handed it to him cheerfully, with a pleasant remark, which gave young Randolph an opportunity to talk with him about the stamp brokerage idea that had set his brain on fire.“How much capital have you?” asked the cashier, with growing interest.“With the money you just paid me I have three dollars and seventy five cents,” answered Herbert, his face coloring.The cashier smiled.“And you think you could become a broker on that capital?” said he, with mingled surprise and amusement.“I think I could try it on that capital if you would sell methe stamps,” replied Herbert, with such intelligent assurance that he interested the cashier.“You can certainly have the stamps,” answered the latter, “and I will aid you in every way possible, but——” and there was an ominous pause, as if thinking how he could best discourage the boy from such an undertaking.Herbert divined his thoughts, and said, “I know such an idea must seem foolish to you, who handle so much money; but to me——”“Yes, you may be right, young man,” interrupted the cashier. “You certainly interest me. I like ambition and pluck, and you evidently have both. When would you like the stamps?”“Thank you,” said Herbert, in a tone that lent strength to his words. “You may give them to me now, if you please—three dollars’ worth. I may need the seventy five cents before I succeed in selling any stamps.”“It is a wise precaution to avoid tying up all your capital in one thing,” laughed the cashier, while counting out the stamps. “They will cost you two dollars and eighty five cents, at five per cent discount, the same as I gave Mr. Woodman.”When the transaction had been completed, young Randolph left the office hurriedly, anxious to learn what the possibilities of his new undertaking were.Ten times during that first day did he return to Mr. Smith for stamps, and ten times was his supply exhausted by customers to whom he sold at par—resulting in a profit of a dollar and fifty cents—an income that to him was a small fortune.That night Herbert Randolph joined Bob Hunter with brighter eyes and more buoyant spirits than he had known since Mr. Goldwin’s failure, now nearly three months ago.CHAPTER XXVIII.IN BUSINESS FOR HIMSELF.Only strong characters are able to lift themselves out of poverty and adversity by sheer force of will, unaided by any one. Such a character Herbert Randolph proved himself to be. For nearly three months he had faced the most discouraging prospects. With education, with a knowledge of accounts, with splendid intelligence, with manly pride and noble ambition, he went from luxurious banking apartments to the cold wintry streets, down, down the cheerless and grim descent, till he reached the bottom, where he found himself in competition with the dregs of humanity—one of them, as far as his employment went. Imagine this proud spirited boy humbled to the degree of bidding side by side for work with a ragged Italian, a broken down and blear eyed drunkard, a cruel faced refugee from the penitentiary, or a wretched, unkempt tramp. How his young, brave heart must have ached as he found himself working on the hoist or in the street with loathsome characters of this sort—characters that purity and self respect could only shun as a pestilence.But this he was forced to do—either this, or to acknowledge his city career a failure, and return home with crushed spirits and shattered pride, a disappointment to his father and mother and the butt of rude rural jokes for his more or less envious neighbors.The latter is just what most boys would have done, but not so young Randolph. His eyes were closed to any such escape from his present wretched condition. Herein he showed his superior strength. But how little he realized, as he worked with dogged determination at these cheerless tasks, that this very employment would lead him into the light, as it ultimately did. Boys see nothing but drudgery in such employment, or in any humble position. They want to commence work at something genteel. An easy clerical position like the one young Randolph had with Mr. Goldwin appeals strongly to their taste. Fine clothes, white hands, little work and short hours—these are in great demand among boys. Young Randolph, indeed, was no exception to the rule. He sought a position in a bank and got it. Fortunately for him, however, the bank failed, and he was thrown into the streets. But for this he would have been a clerk still—a little three dollar machine, which bears no patent, and possesses no especial value over the ten thousand other machines capable of performing similar work. His dream of wealth and position would in all probability never have materialized. He would doubtless have in time become a head clerk at a respectable salary. But how little this would have satisfied his ambition! His desire to be at the head of the firm could never have been realized, for he would not have had the money to place himself there. The result would have been clerking, clerking, miserable, aimless clerking, and nothing more. But now, through what seemed to him his misfortune had come good fortune—through the drudgery of the hoist had come a business of his own—a growing, paying, business—a business of great possibilities. The suffering he had undergone did him no permanent harm. On the contrary it enabled him to appreciate more keenly the opportunityhe now had for making money and supplying himself with the necessaries, and some of the luxuries, of life.Young Randolph’s brokerage business grew day by day as he added new customers and learned how to manage it more successfully. In a little time he saw the necessity of having a place where his customers could reach him by mail or messenger. He therefore arranged with a party on Nassau Street to allow him desk room. Then followed this card:Herbert Randolph,111 NASSAU STREET,buys and sellsnew york.all kinds of foreign coin and paper.UnitedStates Silver and PostageStampsa Specialty.It was with much pleasure that he studied these neatly printed cards. The first thing he did after receiving them from the printer was to inclose one in a letter to his mother. He had already written her glowing accounts of his growing business, and he felt that this card would give a realism to his pen pictures that he had been unable to impart. He thought long and with pride how sacredly that little bit of pasteboard would be treasured by his parents—how proudly they would show it to their neighbors, and the comments that it would bring forth.Then he took one over to Bob Hunter, who exhibited no little surprise as he read it admiringly.Later in the evening he and the newsboy went as usual to visit Tom Flannery, who now, poor boy, seemed to be yielding to that dread disease—consumption. How his face brightened up as he looked at the card with scarcely less pride than if it had been his own!“I wish I could get into that business, Herbert, when I get well,” said he, turning the card languidly in his thin, emaciated fingers; “you’n’ me’n’ Bob. Yes, I would like that, for we always had such good times together, didn’t we, Bob?”“Yes, we did, Tom,” answered Bob, tenderly. “I guess as good times as anybody ever had, even if we didn’t have much money.”“So I think, Bob. I’ve thought of it a good many times while I’ve been sick here—of the detective business and all, and how grand you managed the whole thing. But then you always done everything grand, Bob. None er the boys could do it like you.”“You do some things much better than I could, Tom,” said Bob.“No, Bob. I never could do nothing like you.”“You bear your sickness more patiently than I could, and that is harder to do than anything I ever did,” replied Bob.“Well, I have to do it, you know, Bob. There ain’t no other way, is there, Herb——”The last part of the word was lost in violent coughing that racked the boy’s feeble frame terribly.“I am afraid you are talking too much, Tom,” said Herbert. “We must not allow you to say any more at present.”Ten days later, and Tom had grown too weak to be dressed. Part of the time he lay bolstered up in bed, but even this taxed his strength too heavily. He had become very muchwasted, and was little more than a skeleton. All hope of his recovery had been given up, and it was now simply a question of how long he could be kept alive. Bob and Herbert brought him choice fruits, and drew liberally from their slender purses, to buy for him whatever would tend to make him more comfortable or would gratify his fancy.Poor Mrs. Flannery was almost overcome with sorrow as she saw her boy wasting away and sinking lower and lower as each day passed by. He was her only child, and she loved him with all the force of her great mother’s heart.At length the end came. Bob and Herbert were present with the grief-stricken mother, trying to comfort her and struggling to repress the sorrow each felt at the close approach of death.For several hours the sick boy had been in a sort of stupor from which it seemed probable that he would never rally. He lay like one dead, scarcely breathing. Towards midnight, however, he opened his eyes and looked upon the three tear stained faces beside his bed. An expression of deepest pity settled upon his countenance, and he spoke with much effort, saying:“Don’t cry, mother; don’t feel so bad for me. You have Bob and Herbert left. They will look out for you when I am gone,” whispered the dying boy faintly, and he turned his eyes for confirmation to the friend who had never failed him.“Yes,” answered Bob, pressing the sufferer’s hand warmly. “We will do everything you could wish us to for your mother—you would have done it for either of us, Tom.”The latter’s eyes moistened and grew bright with a feeling of joy at this assurance from Bob—this last proof of his true friendship.“I knew it before, mother,” he said, nerving himself for the effort, “but it makes me happy to hear him say it before you—to hear him say it before I go.”“And you may rely upon me also, Tom, to join Bob in doing for your mother whatever would please you most,” said Herbert, unable to keep back the hot tears.“Yes, I am sure of that, Herbert. You and Bob are just alike, and can do more than I could if I had lived. I am so glad I knew you, Herbert,” continued the dying boy, his face flushing with momentary animation as he recalled the past. “What good times we have had, you and me and Bob! I thought they would last always, but—but—well I wish I might have lived to go into business with you. I would have tried my best to please you, and——”“What is it?” asked Herbert, noticing the sufferer’s hesitation.“I was going to ask you if the business, your new business, wouldn’t get big enough to take Bob in with you—to make him a partner, so he can make a lot of money, too. I was almost afraid to ask you, but——”“That is already fixed,” said Bob hoarsely, almost overcome by the solicitude of his dying friend. “Herbert gave me an interest in the business today, and I shall commence working with him as soon as I am needed.”“I am so glad, so glad,” responded the sufferer faintly, and with a smile that told plainly the joy this knowledge gave him. “It’s all right now,” he continued slowly, and with greater effort, for the little strength he had left was fast leaving him. “You will be taken care of, mother, and Bob will be taken care of by Herbert,” he went on, sinking into a half unconscious state. “I know they will do well and will make rich men andhave everything in the world that they want. I wish I could see them then with a big banking house and clerks and private offices and errand boys and electric bells and fine carriages and horses and a brown stone house in the avenue, may be.”

herbert’s first visit to the banker’s house.

Before Herbert had time to reply, dinner was announced. The question touching the reliability of Breakwell & Co. was immediately dropped, and in its place arose the unexpected problem whether or not he should accept the banker’s invitation to dine with him and his family. He would have quite as soon thought of receiving an invitation to dinner from the mayor himself. It was quite natural, therefore, that he should offer some ridiculous reason why he should be excused, when, as a matter of fact, he would have much ratherserved another term of imprisonment at old Gunwagner’s than lose this opportunity.

“Come right along” commanded Mr. Goldwin, himself leading the way.

Herbert followed the banker into the parlor, where he was introduced to his employer’s wife and daughter.

He found himself blushing even more profusely than when he had handed Ray Goldwin into her carriage, at the close of his first day’s service for her father. This heightened color, too, seemed to be reflected upon her cheeks, and her manner indicated a slight but not unnatural embarrassment.

Herbert had thought that the dinner given by Bob Hunter was about as good as could well be served, but this one proved in every respect much the better; and notwithstanding his nervousness and lack of ease, under circumstances so unfamiliar, he enjoyed the meal greatly.

While Herbert Randolph could laugh at the drollery and peculiar street language of Bob Hunter and Tom Flannery, he nevertheless found a higher degree of pleasure in the conversation of this intelligent and refined family.

“Papa told us about your imprisonment, Mr. Randolph,” said Ray, looking wonderfully pretty, as Herbert thought. “It must have been dreadful.”

“It was an unpleasant experience,” replied young Randolph, lightly; “but I came out all right.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” said Mr. Goldwin, “that one of the letters you brought me was from my attorney. In it he expressed the opinion that you can recover damages from the old fence for false imprisonment. I would therefore advise you to place the matter in his hands at once, and have him push it.”

“You mean put it into the hands of your lawyer?”

“you embarrass me,” said herbert, blushing.

“Yes.”

“I appreciate very highly your interest in my behalf, Mr. Goldwin, and I will do as you say,” replied Herbert.

“Wouldn’t it be splendid if you could get damages from that dreadful old man?” said Ray, with enthusiasm.

Thus the conversation ran on, and before the dinner had been finished, Herbert felt himself quite well acquainted with both Mrs. Goldwin and Ray. He had tried to convince himself that he did not care for girls, and he thought he had succeeded well in doing so. But for some inexplicable reason, his imaginary objections to the sex in general did not stand long against Ray Goldwin in particular.

Her bright blue eyes, brimful of spirit and laughter, seemed to detect his aversion, and she aimed, he thought, to show him that he had deceived himself.

After the meal had been finished all repaired to the library, where, after a half hour of social converse, Herbert wrote several letters for Mr. Goldwin at his dictation. Ray sat opposite him with the purpose of reading, but as a matter of fact she did not progress very fast with the story.

“Would you be willing to write in my autograph album, Mr. Randolph?” said she, somewhat timidly, when he had finished her father’s letters.

“Yes, I will do so with pleasure,” he answered.

“I shall be proud of such pretty writing,” returned Ray, handing him the book.

“You embarrass me,” said he, blushing.

“I don’t see why,” laughed Ray, enjoying young Randolph’s modesty.

“Well, I am not accustomed to compliments, especially from—er——”

“From young girls,” suggested Mrs. Goldwin, smiling.

“Thank you,” returned Herbert; “I was hesitating whether to say ‘girls’ or ‘young ladies.’”

“Oh, say girls, by all means,” replied Mrs. Goldwin. “We don’t want Ray to become a young lady too soon.”

“I don’t blame you,” responded our hero, half seriously.

“Why, Mr. Randolph,” said Ray, shaking her dainty finger at him, “I believe I would not have asked you to write in my album if I had supposed you would say that.”

“Well, it is not too late yet, for you see I have not touched the book with the pen,” laughed Herbert.

“Oh, but I would not want to disappoint you. You know you said it would give you pleasure to do so.”

“So it would, but I would rather sacrifice this pleasure than feel that you would be sorry you had given me the invitation.”

Without further parley Herbert wrote in the album—wrote so prettily that he was roundly complimented by all.

Mrs. Goldwin and Ray were now summoned into the drawing room to receive a caller, and presently young Randolph took his leave, and started for his room with a very light and happy heart.

TOM FLANNERY’S SICKNESS.

Bob Hunter was too much surprised by the fact that Herbert was going to Mr. Goldwin’s house to tell him of his own anxiety about Tom Flannery. The latter had not, as Bob learned, been seen for two days at his accustomed place. That he should be away one day was not particularly strange, for he not infrequently got odd jobs to do that took him to another part of the city, or possibly to some of the near by suburbs. Two days’ absence, however, was so unusual for him that Bob Hunter became anxious, fearing that possibly the vengeance of old Gunwagner and his companion in crime had fallen upon poor, unsuspecting Tom. This thought having suggested itself to him, his previous anxiety speedily turned to a feeling of alarm.

He therefore left his place of business as early as possible, and after a hurried supper went quickly to Tom Flannery’s home, which was in a large office building on Broadway, very near Bowling Green. The latter’s mother was janitress of the building. Her duties were to keep it clean, and to look after the interests of the owner. For these services she received a trifling money reward, and was allowed to occupy two small rooms at the top of the building. Here Mrs. Flannery and Tom made their home, which, though humble, was very neat.

Bob knocked softly at the door, out of breath from climbing so many flights of stairs, and with sore misgivings for the safety of his young companion. The door was opened presently by a woman of middle age, who, as Bob saw at a glance from her extraordinary resemblance to Tom, was the newsboy’s mother. He had never seen her before, but the honest, trustful look so characteristic of his young friend shone prominently in Mrs. Flannery’s face.

“They have got him, poor Tom,” said Bob to himself with beating heart, as he saw Mrs. Flannery’s grief.

“Are you not Master Bob Hunter?” said the woman, speaking first—after an awkward pause; for the visitor, who had been so bold a detective, was now so distressed that he knew not what to say.

“Yes, I am Bob Hunter,” was the soft reply.

“And you are come to see my boy—my poor Tom?” said the woman, pressing Bob’s hand warmly, and struggling vainly to keep back the tears.

“Is he here?” asked Bob, dumfounded by the contradictory state of things; for it was apparent from the woman’s question that Tom was at home, and, he being at home, why such grief?

“I’m so glad you came to see him, for he thought so much of you, Master Bob,” said Mrs. Flannery, now giving way entirely to her feelings.

“I would have come before if I had known——”

“I know you would, I know you would,” interrupted the woman between sobs, “and he asked so many times for you, and now to think that you are here and he won’t know you. Oh, my poor Tom!”

“I don’t blame you for being proud, Bob. I wish I hadsuch a case too, but then I couldn’t handle it not the way you could, Bob. None of the fellers could, not one of ’em, Bob, for you do everything in such a grand way, you know.”

These words, so familiar yet so ominously strange, fell upon Bob Hunter like a messenger of death.

“Oh, what is it, Mrs. Flannery? What has happened to Tom?” cried he, pale with fright.

“It’s his head, Master Bob—gone since morning—rambling on just like this—detectives, and I don’t know what all.”

“Have you had a doctor to see him?” asked Bob, his mind turning quickly to practical measures.

“Yes, and he says it’s pneumonia, and a very bad case,” answered the mother, with almost a hopeless expression.

Bob learned that Tom came home two days before thoroughly wet from a cold northeast rain; that he had a chill soon after going to bed; that he grew rapidly worse throughout the night, and that in the morning he had a high fever. Mrs. Flannery called in a doctor, who, after a careful examination, pronounced the case pneumonia. He left medicine which seemed to afford temporary relief. In the night, however, Tom grew worse, and during the following forenoon became delirious.

“Don’t you know me, Tom?” said Bob feelingly, as he stood by the bedside, and held the sufferer’s hand in his own.

“All the evening papers—Sun,Mail and Express,Telegram—big accident—tremendous loss of life! Which will you have, sir?”

And this was Tom’s wild reply, poor boy. Now that his companion, whom he wanted to see so much, and for whom he had such admiration, had at last come to him, the sick boy did not know him; but supposing he had a customer for his papers, he rattled on in true newsboy fashion. Bob tried again andagain to rouse his mind by referring to Herbert Randolph, and to scenes familiar and interesting, but his efforts were unsuccessful. At length his stout young heart gave way, and with an expression of the keenest grief he dropped into a chair beside the bed, burying his face in the pure white spread that covered his young companion, and wept tears of sincere sorrow.

tom flannery in delirium.

Presently he withdrew from the sick room, and after a brief discussion with Mrs. Flannery hurried away to the doctor whom she had previously called in to see Tom. The physician promised to visit the sick boy again within an hour. Having this assurance from the doctor, Bob then turned his steps towards his own room to acquaint Herbert Randolph with Tom’s illness. But to Bob’s surprise he found on arriving there that the young Vermonter had not yet reached home.

“’Twas nine o’clock when I passed theTribunebuilding,” said Bob to himself rather anxiously, “and he hain’t come yet.I hope nothing’s gone bad with him, though, for we’ve got trouble enough on our hands already, with Tom sick, and goin’ to die, I’m afraid. I wish I could do something for him; he would do anything in the world for me, Tom would.”

But Bob’s fears regarding Herbert proved groundless, for in a little time the latter joined him with a light heart, made happy by the very kind reception given him at Mr. Goldwin’s.

On his way home his mind was filled with the vision of a sweet young face, which to him was an inspiration. And as he hurried along the avenue, thinking faster and faster, what charming pictures his imagination brought before him—pictures that for him possessed a strange and peculiar attraction. But these beautiful creations of his mind were quickly lost to him when he saw the troubled look on young Bob Hunter’s face.

“Why, Bob,” said he, “what makes you look so wretched? What has happened?”

The latter quickly related the story of Tom’s sickness, and stated his own fears.

“I cannot realize it, Bob,” said Herbert, deeply touched. “Poor Tom! let us go at once and do whatever we can for him.”

“That’s right, Herbert; that’s what I think we ought to do, and I shouldn’t come home at all only I knew you would not know what had become of me,” replied Bob, as they put on their overcoats and started for Mrs. Flannery’s humble home.

A CRASH IN WALL STREET.

At the end of two weeks Tom was again up and dressed. His struggle with the pneumonia had been a frightful one. It was turned in his favor largely by the aid of the best medical skill, and the untiring care given him by his mother and his two faithful friends, Herbert and Bob. The latter took turns in watching with him at night, while Mrs. Flannery slept, that she might renew her strength for the day watch.

But the disease, as is not infrequently the case, left Tom with a hard, dry cough, which threatened serious results. His lungs were weak, and his body was much emaciated. He was not the Tom Flannery of old, the Tom so full of boyish spirits and desire to push his paper trade. This change in their young companion caused Herbert and Bob keen anxiety. They had watched beside his bed through delirium and helplessness, when there seemed no hope of his recovery. How glad their young hearts were when he began to rally, and they could see him in imagination back with them again in their old pleasures and pastimes! His failure, therefore, to throw off the racking cough and regain his strength was a sore disappointment to them, but this was not their only source of apprehension.

How full these two weeks had been of bitter trouble—troublethat drew deeply upon their sympathy; that destroyed splendid prospects and forced one of them from a position of independence to one little better than beggary.

Disturbing elements had been gathering for days in Wall Street, which to a few wise old heads seemed ominous. They predicted danger, but their warnings were laughed at by the less cautious speculators, who operated with a reckless daring. At length, however, the storm struck almost without a moment’s notice. Wild reports filled the air, and men, strong, bold men, crushed by the tremendous force of the panic, fell prostrate here and there, and everywhere. Terror spread to all, and painted its sickly hue upon their faces. When the storm had subsided the street was full of wrecks. Among them was the daring firm of Breakwell & Co., who had failed for a million and a quarter of dollars.

Young Randolph was stunned at the exhibition he witnessed on that fatal day. House after house with whom his firm had done business, and who were supposed to be almost beyond the possibility of failure, had closed their doors. Breakwell & Co. were among the last to go under. They had been kept up by the splendid loyalty of Richard Goldwin, who put his bank account at their command, relying upon their assurance that they were all right, and would come out of the storm stronger than ever, if they could only receive temporary help. Mr. Goldwin, anxious to save them, stood heroically by them, and went down with them—a victim of noble generosity, of misplaced confidence. Yes, he had failed—Richard Goldwin, the banker and broker, yesterday a millionaire, today perhaps a pauper.

Herbert Randolph could not at first realize the awful fact, but the pain he saw in Mr. Goldwin’s face appealed so strongly tohis sympathy that the tears forced themselves from his eyes, try however bravely he would to restrain them. The doors were closed, and all business with the house of Richard Goldwin was at an end.

Mr. Goldwin bore the misfortune like a hero. His face was white and firm as marble. Certain lines, however, told his distress, but never a word of complaint at the miserable treachery of Breakwell & Co. escaped his lips.

Herbert could not help thinking how severe the shock would be to Mrs. Goldwin and Ray, who could not bridle their emotions with an iron will like that of the ruined banker. The latter was accustomed, in his long career in Wall Street, to seeing others meet the disaster that had now overtaken him; but his wife and daughter—ah, how little they were prepared for such a shock.

The panic that ruined so many men added quite largely to the fortunes of young Bob Hunter. He had never before had such a trade. Papers sold beyond all imagination, and at double their usual price. The result was a profit of seven dollars and forty seven cents for his day’s work. He felt richer than ever before in his life, and so happy that he could hardly wait till the usual time for Herbert to join him, he wanted so much to make known his grand success. But when young Randolph came to him with the sad story of that day in Wall Street, his happiness gave place to a feeling of unusual sadness, and the sadness deepened on learning that his friend was now out of a position.

“But you can get another place, Herbert,” said he, reassuringly; “perhaps a better one than you have lost.”

“I hope so,” was all the reply the young bank clerk made, but there was a world of expression in the way he said it. His face, too, looked the disappointment and sorrow he felt, andBob rightly divined that the sorrow was more for Mr. Goldwin and his family than for himself.

It is safe to presume that Herbert thought long and regretfully of the probability of Mr. Goldwin being reduced to a state of poverty—of his being turned out of his luxurious home—of Ray, his daughter, being obliged to work for her living—of her young, sweet life being embittered by want and miserable surroundings, so out of keeping with her beauty and genial, sunny nature. And if he did think in this wise, what resolutions he formed for relieving her of such a life, and of restoring her to her proper place we can only imagine, for on this matter he said never a word, not even to Bob Hunter.

On the following morning, Bob Hunter handed Herbert a small roll of bills.

“What is this for?” said the latter.

“It’s for you,” replied Bob. “There’s only eight dollars in it, but you’ll perhaps need it, and then you’ll feel better with it in your pocket while looking for work.”

“But I cannot accept your money, Bob,” protested Herbert, with feelings of deep gratitude.

“Yes, you must, for you are out in the cold, and my business is good; and then, you know, I made most all of it yesterday out of the failures in Wall Street—out of your firm’s failure as much as any, probably, and that meant your failure to keep your place; so in a way I kinder made it out of you, and now I want you to have it again.”

Herbert’s eyes were now moist.

“Bob, you are very good and generous,” said he, rather huskily; “but you are not logical. I have no claim on your money, neither has any one. You made it in legitimate trade, and should not feel that it does not belong to you.”

“Well, I know I did; but I feel in a kind of way that it was made off of the misfortunes of others, you see.”

young randolph again in theranks of the unemployed.

“But the misfortunes were not caused by you. They had occurred, and people wanted to know about them, and were willing and glad to pay for their information. This gave you an opportunity to make some money, and you made it.”

“Well, of course you will beat me at arguing, Herbert, for you always do; but all the same I wish you would take the money, for I think you will need it.”

“If I do need any money, when mine is gone, I will then borrow this of you, but until then you must keep it.”

After this discussion, and after a very frugal breakfast, Herbert once more joined the ranks of the vast army who go from place to place, hungry and thinly clothed many times, in search of employment—anything to keep the wolf from the door.

DARK DAYS.

It was now midwinter. The streets were filled with snow and ice, and the cold, frost-laden air was chilling alike to the body and spirits of one in the unfortunate position in which young Randolph suddenly found himself.

If one has never been out of a position in a great city at this season of the year, he can have but little conception of the almost utterly hopeless prospects before him. After the holiday trade is over, a vast number of clerks are discharged from our stores, and thousands in the manufacturing line are thrown out of employment. These are added to the very large number that at all seasons of the year are hunting for work. Thousands, too, from the country, thinking to escape the dreary frost-bound months of rural life, flock to the city and join the enormous army of the unemployed. All want work, and there is little or no work to be had. It is the season of the year when few changes are made by employers other than to dispense with the services of those not actually needed. To be sure, a few employees die, and leave vacancies to be filled. Others prove unfaithful, and are discharged. A new business, too, is started here and there, but all the available positions combined are as nothing when compared to the tremendous demand for them by the thousands of applicants.

When Herbert Randolph came to New York in the fall,he was fortunate in arriving at the time when employers usually carry a larger force of help than at any other season of the year. There was consequently less demand for positions, and a greater demand for help. Thus he had a possible chance of securing employment, and he happened to be fortunate enough to do so. I say he had apossible chance, for surely he had no more than that even at the most favorable season of the year. He was extremely fortunate, coming from the country as he did, to find employment at all.

In view of these facts it will not be surprising that young Randolph, brave boy as he was, looked upon the dreary prospect before him with a heavy heart.

Bob Hunter realized fully the gravity of his friend’s situation, and this is why he urged the money upon him, wishing to keep up his courage, and delicately refraining from touching upon the dark outlook ahead.

I wish I had the space to picture carefully all the rebuffs, the cold treatment, and the discouragement that met our young hero on his daily wanderings, seeking for some honest labor—anything that would furnish him with the means to buy bread. But as I should not feel justified in extending this story to such a length, I must content myself with a few glimpses that will show the heroic struggle he made to sustain himself during these dark, chilly, and cheerless days of winter.

“It’s pretty tough, ain’t it, Herbert?” said Bob, one night when they were alone together in their room. He sought to lift the burden from his friend’s mind by drawing him into conversation.

“Yes,” answered Herbert, mechanically.

This reply, so short, and given with so little expression, gave Bob a feeling of uneasiness.

“I hope you ain’t getting discouraged,” he ventured next.

“No, nothing will discourage me now,” replied young Randolph doggedly.

“But you hain’t got no encouragement yet?”

“No, none whatever,” was the gloomy answer.

“And you’ve been trying for three weeks to strike something?”

“Yes; it’s nearer four weeks, and my shoes are worn out with walking.”

“But you know I have some money for you, and you better take it and buy you a new pair.”

herbert randolph shoveling snow.

“No, Bob, I will never take that except as a last resort. While I have my health I shall not allow myself to accept charity. I am not afraid to do any sort of work, and sooner or later I am confident thatI shall find employment. This morning I earned seventy five cents shoveling snow from the stoops of houses. This sort of employment, however, is very uncertain, as so little snow falls here; but there are other odd jobs to be done, and I shall try and get my share of them.”

“I didn’t know you was doing that kind of work, Herbert,” said Bob, with a deep drawn sigh. “It ain’t right for a boy with your learnin’ to come down to that.”

“It’s right for me to do anything temporarily to earn an honest penny. One who is above work cannot hope to succeed. I am here, and I am going to stay, and the best I can do is to do always the best I can, and the best I can do just at present is to be a porter, an errand boy, a boy of all work—ready for anything, and willing to do anything, always keeping my eyes open for a chance to go a step higher.

“The trouble with me now, Bob, is that I started in too elegantly at first. I commenced in a broker’s office, when I should have started at the bottom, in order to know anything about the first round of the ladder. I’m at the bottom now, and it looks as if I would have to remain there long enough to learn a good deal about that position.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Herbert, for I thought you was getting discouraged,” replied Bob, his face brightening up.

“I did feel utterly discouraged for the first two or three weeks; but you know, Bob, one can get used to anything, and I have become sufficiently accustomed to this miserable kind of work, and to the beggarly pennies I earn from time to time, so that it is less cutting to me than at first. I try to content myself with the belief that it will be better by and by, though I get heartsick sometimes. It seems almost useless to try farther for work in any well established business.”

The foregoing will give a very slight idea of the struggle young Randolph made to keep his head above water, and it presents a pretty true picture of the difficulties a boy will ordinarily encounter in attempting to make his way unaided in a great city like New York. Of course difficulties vary in character and severity; but it would not be safe for the average boy to expect to find less than those that surrounded our hero. Some would be more fortunate, while others would be less favored. Herbert Randolph was especially fortunate in meeting Bob Hunter, whose friendship proved as true as steel. What would have become of him while in the hands of old Gunwagner, but for Bob’s effort to rescue him? And, again, how could he have fought away despondency during his enforced idleness had he lived by himself in a cold and cheerless room? Brave and manly as he was, he owed much to his warm hearted companion, whose presence and sympathy revived his drooping and almost crushed spirits.

As the days passed by, Herbert Randolph turned his attention to the most practical purposes. He almost entirely gave up looking for a steady situation, and devoted his time to doing whatever odd jobs he could hit upon that would bring him in a little money. Among the many kinds of humble employment to which he bent his energies was that of working the hoist. In New York the tall warehouses, those not supplied with an elevator, have a windlass at the top, to which is attached a heavy rope, that passes down through a wide opening to the ground floor. This rope, with a large iron hook at the end, is attached to heavy cases, or whatever is to be taken to any of the upper lofts. Another rope, passing over a big wheel, when pulled turns the windlass. This winds the main rope around it, and thus draws it up, taking with it its load, whatever that may be.Perhaps no harder or less poetic work to an educated boy could be found than this; yet Herbert Randolph did not hesitate to throw off his coat, and work with an aching back and smarting hands as few porters would do.

He worked faithfully and honestly, with no hope of reward other than the money he would earn by his labor. And yet this very employment—this humble porter work—opened up to him an opportunity of which he had never dreamed—suggested to him an idea that he never before thought of.

It came about in this way. One day, after he had toiled for two hours or so on the hoist, and had finished his work, he went up to the cashier to get his money, as he had done many times before. A man with a satchel strapped to his shoulder was just ahead of him.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” said the man with the satchel, addressing the cashier.

herbert randolph working on the hoist.

“Good morning,” responded the latter. “I am gladyou came today, Mr. Woodman, for we have an unusually large supply of stamps on hand.”

“The market is very much overstocked at present,” replied Woodman, unslinging his satchel, and resting it on the desk. “I bought a thousand dollars’ worth of stamps yesterday from one party at five per cent off.”

“Five per cent,” repeated the cashier, arching his eyebrows.

“Yes, five per cent.”

“And you expect to buy from us at that rate?”

“I wish I could pay you more, but my money is all tied up now—the market is glutted, fairly glutted.”

“I should think it would be, when you buy them in thousand dollar lots.”

“Well, that does seem like a large amount of stamps, but I know of one lot—a ten thousand dollar lot—that I could buy within an hour, if I had the money to put into them.”

“You could never get rid of so many, Woodman,” said the cashier, surprised at the broker’s statement.

“Oh, yes, I could work them off sooner or later, and would get par for most of them too.”

“How do you do it?”

“I put them up in small lots of fifty cents and a dollar, and upwards, and sell them to my customers. Of course, when I buy big lots I do a little wholesaling, but I put away all I cannot sell at the time.”

“They are sure to go sooner or later, I suppose,” said the cashier.

“Oh, yes, sure to sell. During the summer months very few stamps come into the market.”

“And this gives you an opportunity to work off your surplus stock?”

“Yes.”

“I presume you sell as a rule to stores and business offices.”

“Yes; I have a regular line of customers who buy all of their stamps off me—customers that I worked up myself.”

“And they prefer buying of you to going to the post office for their supply?”

“Certainly; for I give them just as good stamps, and by buying of me they save themselves the trouble of going to the post office for them.”

Herbert Randolph was waiting for his money, and overheard this conversation between the cashier and the stamp broker. He made no effort to hear it, for it did not relate to him. They spoke so loud, however, that he caught every word distinctly, and before they had finished talking the idea flashed across his mind that he would try his hand at that business. Mr. Woodman, as good fortune willed it for young Randolph, could take only a portion of the stamps the cashier wished to dispose of. When the broker had completed his purchase and gone, Herbert stepped up to the cashier for the money due him for working on the hoist. Mr. Smith handed it to him cheerfully, with a pleasant remark, which gave young Randolph an opportunity to talk with him about the stamp brokerage idea that had set his brain on fire.

“How much capital have you?” asked the cashier, with growing interest.

“With the money you just paid me I have three dollars and seventy five cents,” answered Herbert, his face coloring.

The cashier smiled.

“And you think you could become a broker on that capital?” said he, with mingled surprise and amusement.

“I think I could try it on that capital if you would sell methe stamps,” replied Herbert, with such intelligent assurance that he interested the cashier.

“You can certainly have the stamps,” answered the latter, “and I will aid you in every way possible, but——” and there was an ominous pause, as if thinking how he could best discourage the boy from such an undertaking.

Herbert divined his thoughts, and said, “I know such an idea must seem foolish to you, who handle so much money; but to me——”

“Yes, you may be right, young man,” interrupted the cashier. “You certainly interest me. I like ambition and pluck, and you evidently have both. When would you like the stamps?”

“Thank you,” said Herbert, in a tone that lent strength to his words. “You may give them to me now, if you please—three dollars’ worth. I may need the seventy five cents before I succeed in selling any stamps.”

“It is a wise precaution to avoid tying up all your capital in one thing,” laughed the cashier, while counting out the stamps. “They will cost you two dollars and eighty five cents, at five per cent discount, the same as I gave Mr. Woodman.”

When the transaction had been completed, young Randolph left the office hurriedly, anxious to learn what the possibilities of his new undertaking were.

Ten times during that first day did he return to Mr. Smith for stamps, and ten times was his supply exhausted by customers to whom he sold at par—resulting in a profit of a dollar and fifty cents—an income that to him was a small fortune.

That night Herbert Randolph joined Bob Hunter with brighter eyes and more buoyant spirits than he had known since Mr. Goldwin’s failure, now nearly three months ago.

IN BUSINESS FOR HIMSELF.

Only strong characters are able to lift themselves out of poverty and adversity by sheer force of will, unaided by any one. Such a character Herbert Randolph proved himself to be. For nearly three months he had faced the most discouraging prospects. With education, with a knowledge of accounts, with splendid intelligence, with manly pride and noble ambition, he went from luxurious banking apartments to the cold wintry streets, down, down the cheerless and grim descent, till he reached the bottom, where he found himself in competition with the dregs of humanity—one of them, as far as his employment went. Imagine this proud spirited boy humbled to the degree of bidding side by side for work with a ragged Italian, a broken down and blear eyed drunkard, a cruel faced refugee from the penitentiary, or a wretched, unkempt tramp. How his young, brave heart must have ached as he found himself working on the hoist or in the street with loathsome characters of this sort—characters that purity and self respect could only shun as a pestilence.

But this he was forced to do—either this, or to acknowledge his city career a failure, and return home with crushed spirits and shattered pride, a disappointment to his father and mother and the butt of rude rural jokes for his more or less envious neighbors.

The latter is just what most boys would have done, but not so young Randolph. His eyes were closed to any such escape from his present wretched condition. Herein he showed his superior strength. But how little he realized, as he worked with dogged determination at these cheerless tasks, that this very employment would lead him into the light, as it ultimately did. Boys see nothing but drudgery in such employment, or in any humble position. They want to commence work at something genteel. An easy clerical position like the one young Randolph had with Mr. Goldwin appeals strongly to their taste. Fine clothes, white hands, little work and short hours—these are in great demand among boys. Young Randolph, indeed, was no exception to the rule. He sought a position in a bank and got it. Fortunately for him, however, the bank failed, and he was thrown into the streets. But for this he would have been a clerk still—a little three dollar machine, which bears no patent, and possesses no especial value over the ten thousand other machines capable of performing similar work. His dream of wealth and position would in all probability never have materialized. He would doubtless have in time become a head clerk at a respectable salary. But how little this would have satisfied his ambition! His desire to be at the head of the firm could never have been realized, for he would not have had the money to place himself there. The result would have been clerking, clerking, miserable, aimless clerking, and nothing more. But now, through what seemed to him his misfortune had come good fortune—through the drudgery of the hoist had come a business of his own—a growing, paying, business—a business of great possibilities. The suffering he had undergone did him no permanent harm. On the contrary it enabled him to appreciate more keenly the opportunityhe now had for making money and supplying himself with the necessaries, and some of the luxuries, of life.

Young Randolph’s brokerage business grew day by day as he added new customers and learned how to manage it more successfully. In a little time he saw the necessity of having a place where his customers could reach him by mail or messenger. He therefore arranged with a party on Nassau Street to allow him desk room. Then followed this card:

Herbert Randolph,111 NASSAU STREET,buys and sellsnew york.all kinds of foreign coin and paper.UnitedStates Silver and PostageStampsa Specialty.

111 NASSAU STREET,

buys and sellsnew york.all kinds of foreign coin and paper.

UnitedStates Silver and PostageStampsa Specialty.

It was with much pleasure that he studied these neatly printed cards. The first thing he did after receiving them from the printer was to inclose one in a letter to his mother. He had already written her glowing accounts of his growing business, and he felt that this card would give a realism to his pen pictures that he had been unable to impart. He thought long and with pride how sacredly that little bit of pasteboard would be treasured by his parents—how proudly they would show it to their neighbors, and the comments that it would bring forth.

Then he took one over to Bob Hunter, who exhibited no little surprise as he read it admiringly.

Later in the evening he and the newsboy went as usual to visit Tom Flannery, who now, poor boy, seemed to be yielding to that dread disease—consumption. How his face brightened up as he looked at the card with scarcely less pride than if it had been his own!

“I wish I could get into that business, Herbert, when I get well,” said he, turning the card languidly in his thin, emaciated fingers; “you’n’ me’n’ Bob. Yes, I would like that, for we always had such good times together, didn’t we, Bob?”

“Yes, we did, Tom,” answered Bob, tenderly. “I guess as good times as anybody ever had, even if we didn’t have much money.”

“So I think, Bob. I’ve thought of it a good many times while I’ve been sick here—of the detective business and all, and how grand you managed the whole thing. But then you always done everything grand, Bob. None er the boys could do it like you.”

“You do some things much better than I could, Tom,” said Bob.

“No, Bob. I never could do nothing like you.”

“You bear your sickness more patiently than I could, and that is harder to do than anything I ever did,” replied Bob.

“Well, I have to do it, you know, Bob. There ain’t no other way, is there, Herb——”

The last part of the word was lost in violent coughing that racked the boy’s feeble frame terribly.

“I am afraid you are talking too much, Tom,” said Herbert. “We must not allow you to say any more at present.”

Ten days later, and Tom had grown too weak to be dressed. Part of the time he lay bolstered up in bed, but even this taxed his strength too heavily. He had become very muchwasted, and was little more than a skeleton. All hope of his recovery had been given up, and it was now simply a question of how long he could be kept alive. Bob and Herbert brought him choice fruits, and drew liberally from their slender purses, to buy for him whatever would tend to make him more comfortable or would gratify his fancy.

Poor Mrs. Flannery was almost overcome with sorrow as she saw her boy wasting away and sinking lower and lower as each day passed by. He was her only child, and she loved him with all the force of her great mother’s heart.

At length the end came. Bob and Herbert were present with the grief-stricken mother, trying to comfort her and struggling to repress the sorrow each felt at the close approach of death.

For several hours the sick boy had been in a sort of stupor from which it seemed probable that he would never rally. He lay like one dead, scarcely breathing. Towards midnight, however, he opened his eyes and looked upon the three tear stained faces beside his bed. An expression of deepest pity settled upon his countenance, and he spoke with much effort, saying:

“Don’t cry, mother; don’t feel so bad for me. You have Bob and Herbert left. They will look out for you when I am gone,” whispered the dying boy faintly, and he turned his eyes for confirmation to the friend who had never failed him.

“Yes,” answered Bob, pressing the sufferer’s hand warmly. “We will do everything you could wish us to for your mother—you would have done it for either of us, Tom.”

The latter’s eyes moistened and grew bright with a feeling of joy at this assurance from Bob—this last proof of his true friendship.

“I knew it before, mother,” he said, nerving himself for the effort, “but it makes me happy to hear him say it before you—to hear him say it before I go.”

“And you may rely upon me also, Tom, to join Bob in doing for your mother whatever would please you most,” said Herbert, unable to keep back the hot tears.

“Yes, I am sure of that, Herbert. You and Bob are just alike, and can do more than I could if I had lived. I am so glad I knew you, Herbert,” continued the dying boy, his face flushing with momentary animation as he recalled the past. “What good times we have had, you and me and Bob! I thought they would last always, but—but—well I wish I might have lived to go into business with you. I would have tried my best to please you, and——”

“What is it?” asked Herbert, noticing the sufferer’s hesitation.

“I was going to ask you if the business, your new business, wouldn’t get big enough to take Bob in with you—to make him a partner, so he can make a lot of money, too. I was almost afraid to ask you, but——”

“That is already fixed,” said Bob hoarsely, almost overcome by the solicitude of his dying friend. “Herbert gave me an interest in the business today, and I shall commence working with him as soon as I am needed.”

“I am so glad, so glad,” responded the sufferer faintly, and with a smile that told plainly the joy this knowledge gave him. “It’s all right now,” he continued slowly, and with greater effort, for the little strength he had left was fast leaving him. “You will be taken care of, mother, and Bob will be taken care of by Herbert,” he went on, sinking into a half unconscious state. “I know they will do well and will make rich men andhave everything in the world that they want. I wish I could see them then with a big banking house and clerks and private offices and errand boys and electric bells and fine carriages and horses and a brown stone house in the avenue, may be.”


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