“Have you carried Frank Fowler to the poorhouse?” asked Tom Pinkerton, eagerly, on his father’s return.
“No,” said the deacon, “he is going to make a visit at Mr. Pomeroy’s first.”
“I shouldn’t think you would have let him make a visit,” said Tom, discontentedly. “I should think you would have taken him to the poorhouse right off.”
“I feel it my duty to save the town unnecessary expense,” said Deacon Pinkerton.
So Tom was compelled to rest satisfied with his father’s assurance that the removal was only deferred.
Meanwhile Frank and Grace received a cordial welcome at the house of Mr. Pomeroy. Sam and Frank were intimate friends, and our hero had been in the habit of calling frequently, and it seemed homelike.
“I wish you could stay with us all the time, Frank—you and Grace,” said Sam one evening.
“We should all like it,” said Mr. Pomeroy, “but we cannot always have what we want. If I had it in my power to offer Frank any employment which it would be worth his while to follow, it might do. But he has got his way to make in the world. Have you formed any plans yet, Frank?”
“That is what I want to consult you about, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“I will give you the best advice I can, Frank. I suppose you do not mean to stay in the village.”
“No, sir. There is nothing for me to do here. I must go somewhere where I can make a living for Grace and myself.”
“You’ve got a hard row to hoe, Frank,” said Mr. Pomeroy, thoughtfully. “Have you decided where to go?”
“Yes, sir. I shall go to New York.”
“What! To the city?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get something to do, no matter what it is.”
“But how are you going to live in the meantime?”
“I’ve got a little money.”
“That won’t last long.”
“I know it, but I shall soon get work, if it is only to black boots in the streets.”
“With that spirit, Frank, you will stand a fair chance to succeed. What do you mean to do with Grace?”
“I will take her with me.”
“I can think of a better plan. Leave her here till you have found something to do. Then send for her.”
“But if I leave her here Deacon Pinkerton will want to put her in the poorhouse. I can’t bear to have Grace go there.”
“She need not. She can stay here with me for three months.”
“Will you let me pay her board?”
“I can afford to give her board for three months.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Pomeroy, but it wouldn’t be right for me to accept your kindness. It is my duty to take care of Grace.”
“I honor your independence, Frank. It shall be as you say. When you are able—mind, not till then—you may pay me at the rate of two dollars a week for Grace’s board.”
“Then,” said Frank, “if you are willing to board Grace for a while, I think I had better go to the city at once.”
“I will look over your clothes to-morrow, Frank,” said Mrs. Pomeroy, “and see if they need mending.”
“Then I will start Thursday morning—the day after.”
About four o’clock the next afternoon he was walking up the main street, when just in front of Deacon Pinkerton’s house he saw Tom leaning against a tree.
“How are you Tom?” he said, and was about to pass on.
“Where are you going?” Tom asked abruptly.
“To Mr. Pomeroy’s.”
“How soon are you going to the poorhouse to live?”
“Who told you I was going?”
“My father.”
“Then your father’s mistaken.”
“Ain’t you a pauper?” said Tom, insolently. “You haven’t got any money.”
“I have got hands to earn money, and I am going to try.”
“Anyway, I advise you to resign as captain of the baseball club.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t you’ll be kicked out. Do you think the fellows will be willing to have a pauper for their captain?”
“That’s the second time you have called me a pauper. Don’t call me so again.”
“You are a pauper and you know it.”
Frank was not a quarrelsome boy, but this repeated insult was too much for him. He seized Tom by the collar, and tripping him up left him on the ground howling with rage. As valor was not his strong point, he resolved to be revenged upon Frank vicariously. He was unable to report the case to his father till the next morning, as the deacon did not return from a neighboring village, whither he had gone on business, till late, but the result of his communication was a call at Mr. Pomeroy’s from the deacon at nine o’clock the next morning. Had he found Frank, it was his intention, at Tom’s request, to take him at once to the poorhouse. But he was too late. Our hero was already on his way to New York.
“So this is New York,” said Frank to himself, as he emerged from the railway station and looked about him with interest and curiosity.
“Black yer boots? Shine?” asked a bootblack, seeing our hero standing still.
Frank looked at his shoes. They were dirty, without doubt, but he would not have felt disposed to be so extravagant, considering his limited resources, had he not felt it necessary to obtain some information about the city.
“Yes,” he said, “you may black them.”
The boy was on his knees instantly and at work.
“How much do you make in a day?” asked Frank.
“When it’s a good day I make a dollar.”
“That’s pretty good,” said Frank.
“Can you show me the way to Broadway?”
“Go straight ahead.”
Our hero paid for his shine and started in the direction indicated.
Frank’s plans, so far as he had any, were to get into a store. He knew that Broadway was the principal business street in the city, and this was about all he did know about it.
He reached the great thoroughfare in a few minutes, and was fortunate enough to find on the window of the corner store the sign:
“A Boy Wanted.”
He entered at once, and going up to the counter, addressed a young man, who was putting up goods.
“Do you want a boy?”
“I believe the boss wants one; I don’t. Go out to that desk.”
Frank found the desk, and propounded the same question to a sandy-whiskered man, who looked up from his writing.
“You’re prompt,” he said. “That notice was only put out two minutes ago.”
“I only saw it one minute ago.”
“So you want the place, do you?”
“I should like it.”
“Do you know your way about the city?”
“No, sir, but I could soon find out.”
“That won’t do. I shall have plenty of applications from boys who live in the city and are familiar with the streets.”
Frank left the store rather discomfited.
He soon came to another store where there was a similar notice of “A Boy Wanted.” It was a dry goods store.
“Do you live with your parents?” was asked.
“My parents are dead,” said Frank, sadly.
“Very sorry, but we can’t take you.”
“Why not, sir?”
“In case you took anything we should make your parents responsible.”
“I shouldn’t take anything,” said Frank, indignantly.
“You might; I can’t take you.”
Our hero left this store a little disheartened by his second rebuff.
He made several more fruitless applications, but did not lose courage wholly. He was gaining an appetite, however. It is not surprising therefore, that his attention was drawn to the bills of a restaurant on the opposite side of the street. He crossed over, and standing outside, began to examine them to see what was the scale of prices. While in this position he was suddenly aroused by a slap on the back.
Turning he met the gaze of a young man of about thirty, who was smiling quite cordially.
“Why, Frank, my boy, how are you?” he said, offering his hand.
“Pretty well, thank you,” said our hero bewildered, for he had no recollection of the man who had called him by name.
The other smiled a little more broadly, and thought:
“It was a lucky guess; his name is Frank.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” he continued. “When did you reach the city?”
“This morning,” said the unsuspecting Frank.
“Well, it’s queer I happened to meet you so soon, isn’t it? Going to stay long?”
“I shall, if I can get a place.”
“Perhaps I can help you.”
“I suppose I ought to remember you,” ventured our hero, “but I can’t think of your name.”
“Jasper Wheelock. You don’t mean to say you don’t remember me? Perhaps it isn’t strange, as we only met once or twice in your country home. But that doesn’t matter. I’m just as ready to help you. By the way, have you dined?”
“No.”
“No more have I. Come in and dine with me.”
“What’ll you take?” asked Jasper Wheelock, passing the bill of fare to Frank.
“I think I should like to have some roast beef,” said Frank.
“That will suit me. Here, waiter, two plates of roast beef, and two cups of coffee.”
“How are they all at home?” asked Jasper.
“My mother has just died.”
“You don’t say so,” said Jasper, sympathetically.
“My sister is well.”
“I forgot your sister’s name.”
“Grace.”
“Of course—Grace. I find it hard to remember names. The fact is, I have been trying to recall your last name, but it’s gone from me.”
“Fowler.”
“To be sure Frank Fowler. How could I be so forgetful.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the coffee and roast beet, which both he and his new friend attacked with vigor.
“What kind of pudding will you have?” asked the stranger.
“Apple dumpling,” said Frank.
“That suits me. Apple dumpling for two.”
In due time the apple dumpling was disposed of, and two checks were brought, amounting to seventy cents.
“I’ll pay for both,” said Jasper. “No thanks. We are old acquaintances, you know.”
He put his hand into his pocket, and quickly withdrew it with an exclamation of surprise:
“Well, if that isn’t a good joke,” he said. “I’ve left my money at home. I remember now, I left it in the pocket of my other coat. I shall have to borrow the money of you. You may as well hand me a dollar!”
Frank was not disposed to be suspicious, but the request for money made him uneasy. Still there seemed no way of refusing, and he reluctantly drew out the money.
His companion settled the bill and then led the way into the street.
Jasper Wheelock was not very scrupulous; he was quite capable of borrowing money, without intending to return it; but he had his good side.
“Frank,” said he, as they found themselves in the street, “you have done me a favor, and I am going to help you in return. Have you got very much money?”
“No. I had twenty dollars when I left home, but I had to pay my fare in the cars and the dinner, I have seventeen dollars and a half left.”
“Then it is necessary for you to get a place as soon as possible.”
“Yes; I have a sister to support; Grace, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. The fact is, Frank, I have been imposing upon you. I never saw you before in the whole course of my life.”
“What made you say you knew me?”
“I wanted to get a dinner out of you. Don’t be troubled, though; I’ll pay back the money. I’ve been out of a place for three or four weeks, but I enter upon one the first of next week. For the rest of the week I’ve got nothing to do, and I will try to get you a place.
“The first thing is to get a room somewhere. I’ll tell you what, you may have part of my room.”
“Is it expensive?”
“No; I pay a dollar and a half a week. I think the old lady won’t charge more than fifty cents extra for you.”
“Then my share would be a dollar.”
“You may pay only fifty cents. I’ll keep on paying what I do now. My room is on Sixth Avenue.” They had some distance to walk. Finally Jasper halted before a baker’s shop.
“It’s over this,” he said.
He drew out a latch-key and entered.
“This is my den,” he said. “It isn’t large you can’t get any better for the money.”
“I shall have to be satisfied,” said Frank. “I want to get along as cheap as I can.”
“I’ve got to economize myself for a short time. After this week I shall earn fifteen dollars a week.”
“What business are you in, Mr. Wheelock?”
“I am a journeyman printer. It is a very good business, and I generally have steady work. I expect to have after I get started again. Now, shall I give you some advice?”
“I wish you would.”
“You don’t know your way around New York. I believe I have a map somewhere. I’ll just show you on it the position of the principal streets, and that will give you a clearer idea of where we go.”
The map was found and Jasper explained to Frank the leading topographical features of the Island City.
One thing only was wanting now to make him contented, and this was employment. But it was too late to make any further inquiries.
“I’ve been thinking, Frank,” said Jasper, the next morning, “that you might get the position as a cash-boy.”
“What does a cash-boy do?”
“In large retail establishments every salesman keeps a book in which his sales are entered. He does not himself make change, for it would not do to have so many having access to the money-drawer. The money is carried to the cashier’s desk by boys employed for the purpose, who return with the change.”
“Do you think I can get a situation as cash-boy?”
“I will try at Gilbert & Mack’s. I know one of the principal salesmen. If there is a vacancy he will get it for you to oblige me.”
They entered a large retail store on Broadway. It was broad and spacious. Twenty salesmen stood behind the counter, and boys were running this way and that with small books in their hands.
“How are you, Duncan?” said Jasper.
The person addressed was about Jasper Wheelock’s age. He had a keen, energetic look and manner, and would be readily singled out as one of the leading clerks.
“All right, Wheelock. How are you?” he responded. “Do you want anything in our line?”
“No goods; I want a place for this youngster. He’s a friend of mine. I’ll answer for his good character.”
“That will be satisfactory. But what sort of a place does he want?”
“He is ready to begin as cash-boy.”
“Then we can oblige you, as one of our boys has fallen sick, and we have not supplied his place. I’ll speak to Mr. Gilbert.”
He went up to Mr. Gilbert, a portly man in the back part of the store. Mr. Gilbert seemed to be asking two or three questions. Frank waited the result in suspense, dreading another disappointment, but this time he was fortunate.
“The boy can stay,” reported Duncan. “His wages are three dollars a week.”
It was not much, but Frank was well pleased to feel that at last he had a place in the city.
He wrote a letter to Grace in the evening, announcing his success, and expressing the hope that he would soon be able to send for her.
Four weeks passed. The duties of a cash-boy are simple enough, and Frank had no difficulty in discharging them satisfactorily. At first he found it tiresome, being on his feet all day, for the cash-boys were not allowed to sit down, but he got used to this, being young and strong.
All this was very satisfactory, but one thing gave Frank uneasiness. His income was very inadequate to his wants.
“What makes you so glum, Frank?” asked Jasper Wheelock one evening.
“Do I look glum?” said Frank. “I was only thinking how I could earn more money. You know how little I get. I can hardly take care of myself, much less take care of Grace.”
“I can lend you some money, Frank. Thanks to your good advice, I have got some laid up.”
“Thank you, Jasper, but that wouldn’t help matters. I should owe you the money, and I don’t know how I could pay you.”
“About increasing your income, I really don’t know,” said Jasper. “I am afraid Gilbert & Mack wouldn’t raise your wages.”
“I don’t expect it. All the rest of the cash-boys would ask the same thing.”
“True; still I know they are very well pleased with you. Duncan told me you did more work than any of the rest of the boys.”
“I try to do all I can.”
“He said you would make a good salesman, he thought. Of course you are too young for that yet.”
“I suppose I am.”
“Frank, I am earning fifteen dollars a week, you know, and I can get along on ten, but of the five I save let me give you two. I shall never feel it, and by and by when you are promoted it won’t be necessary.”
“Jasper, you are a true friend,” said Frank, warmly; “but it wouldn’t be right for me to accept your kind offer, though I shan’t forget it. You have been a good friend to me.”
“And you to me, Frank. I’ll look out for you. Perhaps I may hear of something for you.”
Small as Frank’s income was, he had managed to live within it. It will be remembered that he had paid but fifty cents a week for a room. By great economy he had made his meals cost but two dollars a week, so that out of his three dollars he saved fifty cents. But this saving would not be sufficient to pay for his clothes. However, he had had no occasion to buy any as yet, and his little fund altogether amounted to twenty dollars. Of this sum he inclosed {sic} eight dollars to Mr. Pomeroy to pay for four weeks’ board for Grace.
“I hope I shall be able to keep it up,” he said to himself, thoughtfully. “At any rate, I’ve got enough to pay for six weeks more. Before that time something may turn up.”
Several days passed without showing Frank any way by which he could increase his income. Jasper again offered to give him two dollars a week out of his own wages, but this our hero steadily refused.
One Friday evening, just as the store was about to close, the head salesman called Frank to him.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“In Sixth avenue, near Twenty-fifth street.”
“There’s a bundle to go to Forty-sixth street. I’ll pay your fare upon the stage if you’ll carry it. I promised to send it to-night, and I don’t like to disappoint the lady.”
“I can carry it just as well as not.”
Frank took the bundle, and got on board a passing omnibus. There was just one seat vacant beside an old gentleman of seventy, who appeared to be quite feeble.
At Forty-fifth street he pulled the strap and prepared to descend, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. By some mischance the horses started a little too soon and the old man, losing his footing, fell in the street. Frank observed the accident and sprang out instantly to his help.
“I hope you are not much hurt, sir?” he said, hastily.
“I have hurt my knee,” said the old gentleman.
“Let me assist you, sir,” said Frank, helping him up.
“Thank you, my boy. I live at number forty-five, close by. If you will lead me to the door and into the house I shall be much indebted to you.”
“Certainly, sir. It is no trouble to me.”
With slow step, supported by our hero, the old gentleman walked to his own door.
It was opened by a maid servant, who looked with some surprise at Frank.
“I fell, Mary,” explained her master, “and this young gentleman has kindly helped me home.”
“Did you hurt yourself much, sir?”
“Not seriously.”
“Can I do anything more for you, sir?” asked Frank.
“Come in a moment.”
Our hero followed his new acquaintance into a handsomely furnished parlor.
“Now, my young friend tell me if you have been taken out of your way by your attention to me?”
“Oh, no, sir; I intended to get out at the next street.”
“My dinner is just ready. Won’t you stop and dine with me?”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “but I promised to carry this bundle. I believe it is wanted at once.”
“So you shall. You say the house is in the next street. You can go and return in five minutes. You have done me a service, and I may have it in my power to do something for you in return.”
“Perhaps,” thought Frank, “he can help me to some employment for my evenings.” Then, aloud:
“Thank you, sir; I will come.”
Five minutes later Frank was ushered into a handsome dining-room. The dinner was already on the table, but chairs were only set for three. The one at the head of the table was of course occupied by the old gentleman, the one opposite by Mrs. Bradley, his housekeeper, and one at the side was placed for Frank.
“Mrs. Bradley,” said the old gentleman, “this is a young gentleman who was kind enough to help me home after the accident of which I just spoke to you. I would mention his name, but I must leave that to him.”
“Frank Fowler, sir.”
“And my name is Wharton. Now that we are all introduced, we can talk more freely.”
“Will you have some soup, Mr. Fowler?” asked the housekeeper.
She was a tall thin woman, with a reserved manner that was somewhat repellant. She had only nodded slightly at the introduction, fixing her eyes coldly and searchingly on the face of our hero. It was evident that whatever impression the service rendered might have made upon the mind of Mr. Wharton, it was not calculated to warm the housekeeper to cordiality.
“Thank you,” he answered, but he could not help feeling at the same time that Mrs. Bradley was not a very agreeable woman.
“You ought to have a good appetite,” said Mr. Wharton. “You have to work hard during the day. Our young friend is a cash-boy at Gilbert & Mack’s, Mrs. Bradley.
“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Bradley, arching her brows as much as to say: “You have invited strange company to dinner.”
“Do your parents live in the city, Frank—I believe your name is Frank?”
“No, sir; they are dead. My mother died only a few weeks since.”
“And have you no brothers and sisters?”
“I have one sister—Grace.”
“I suppose she is in the city here with you?”
“No, sir. I left her in the country. I am here alone.”
“I will ask you more about yourself after dinner. If you have no engagement, I should like to have you stay with me a part of the evening.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Frank accepted the invitation, though he knew Jasper would wonder what had become of him. He saw that the old gentleman was kindly disposed toward him, and in his present circumstances he needed such a friend.
But in proportion as Mr. Wharton became more cordial, Mrs. Bradley became more frosty, until at last the old gentleman noticed her manner.
“Don’t you feel well this evening, Mrs Bradley?” he asked.
“I have a little headache,” said the housekeeper, coldly.
“You had better do something for it.”
“It will pass away of itself, sir.”
They arose from the dinner table, and Mr. Wharton, followed by Frank, ascended the staircase to the front room on the second floor, which was handsomely fitted up as a library.
“What makes him take such notice of a mere cash-boy?” said Mrs. Bradley to herself. “That boy reminds me of somebody. Who is it?”
“Take a seat, Frank,” said Mr. Wharton, pointing to a luxurious armchair on one side of the cheerful grate fire; “I will take the other, and you shall tell me all about yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” said our hero.
His confidence was won by Mr. Wharton’s kind tone, and he briefly recounted his story.
At the conclusion, Mr. Wharton said:
“How old are you, Frank?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“You are a brave boy, and a good boy, and you deserve success.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I am bound to say that you have a hard task before you.”
“I know it, sir.”
“Why not let your sister go to the poorhouse for a few years, till you are older, and better able to provide for her?”
“I should be ashamed to do it, sir,” he said. “I promised my mother to take care of Grace, and I will.”
“How much do you earn as a cash-boy?”
“Three dollars a week.”
“Only three dollars a week! Why, that won’t pay your own expenses!” said the old gentleman in surprise.
“Yes, sir, it does. I pay fifty cents a week for my room, and my meals don’t cost me much.”
“But you will want clothes.”
“I have enough for the present, and I am laying up fifty cents a week to buy more when I need them.”
“You can’t buy many for twenty-six dollars a year. But that doesn’t allow anything for your sister’s expenses.”
“That is what puzzles me, sir,” said Frank, fixing a troubled glance upon the fire. “I shall have to work in the evenings for Grace.”
“What can you do?”
“I could copy, but I suppose there isn’t much chance of getting copying to do.”
“Then you have a good handwriting?”
“Pretty fair, sir.”
“Let me see a specimen. There are pen and ink on the table, and here is a sheet of paper.”
Frank seated himself at the table, and wrote his name on the paper.
“Very good,” said his host, approvingly. “Your hand is good enough for a copyist, but you are correct in supposing that work of that kind is hard to get. Are you a good reader?”
“Do you mean in reading aloud, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I will try, if you wish.”
“Take a book from the table—any book—and let me hear you read.”
Frank opened the first book that came to hand—one of Irving’s and read in a clear, unembarrassed voice about half a page.
“Very good indeed!” said Mr. Wharton. “You have been well taught. Where did you attend school?”
“Only in the town school, sir.”
“You have, at any rate, made good use of your advantages.”
“But will it do me any good, sir?” asked Frank.
“People are not paid for reading, are they?”
“Not in general, but we will suppose the case of a person whose eyes are weak, and likely to be badly affected by evening use. Then suppose such a person could secure the services of a good, clear, distinct reader, don’t you think he would be willing to pay something?”
“I suppose so. Do you know of any such person?” asked Frank.
“I am describing myself, Frank. A year since I strained my eyes very severely, and have never dared to use them much since by gaslight. Mrs. Bradley, my housekeeper, has read to me some, but she has other duties, and I don’t think she enjoys it very much. Now, why shouldn’t I get you to read to me in the evening when you are not otherwise employed?”
“I wish you would, Mr. Wharton,” said Frank, eagerly. “I would do my best.”
“I have no doubt of that, but there is another question—perhaps you might ask a higher salary than I could afford to pay.”
“Would a dollar a week be too much?” asked Frank.
“I don’t think I could complain of that,” said Mr. Wharton, gravely. “Very well, I will engage you as my reader.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But about the pay; I have made up my mind to pay you five dollars a week.”
“Five dollars a week!” Frank repeated. “It is much more than my services will be worth sir.”
“Let me judge of that, Frank.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” said Frank, gratefully. “I never expected to be so rich. I shall have no trouble in paying for Grace’s board and clothes now. When do you want me to begin reading to you?”
“You may as well begin to-night—that is, unless you have some other engagement.”
“Oh, no, sir, I have nothing else to do.”
“Take the Evening Post, then, and read me the leading editorial. Afterward, I will tell you what to read.”
Frank had been reading about half an hour, when a knock was heard at the door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Wharton.
Mrs. Bradley entered, with a soft, quiet step.
“I thought, sir,” she began, “you might like me to read to you, as usual.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bradley, but I am going to relieve you of that portion of your labors. My young friend here is to come every evening and read to me.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated the housekeeper in a tone of chilly displeasure, and a sharp glance at Frank, which indicated no great amount of cordiality. “Then, as I am intruding, I will take my leave.”
There was something in her tone that made Frank feel uncomfortable.
“By no means,” said Mr. Wharton, as the housekeeper was about to withdraw; “don’t imagine you are intruding. Come in and sit down.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Bradley, in a measured tone. “You are very considerate, I am sure, but if you’ll excuse me, I won’t come in this evening.”
“Mrs. Bradley has been with me a good many years,” explained Mr. Wharton, “and I dare say she feels a little disturbed at seeing another occupy her place, even in a duty like this.”
“I am afraid she will be offended with me, sir,” said Frank.
“Oh, no; I will explain matters to her. Go on with your reading, Frank.”
At half-past nine, Mr. Wharton took out his watch.
“It is getting late,” he said. “I have no doubt you are tired and need rest.”
“I am not tired, sir.”
“I believe in going to bed early. I shall seldom keep you later than this. Do you think you can find your way out?”
“Yes, sir. When shall I come to-morrow evening?”
“A little before eight.”
“I will be punctual.”
Jasper was waiting for him, not wholly without anxiety, for it was very unusual for Frank to be late.
“Well, Frank!” he exclaimed; “this is a pretty time for you to come home. I began to think you had got into trouble. I was just going around to the nearest station house in search of you.”
“I was in quite a different place, Jasper.”
Frank told his story, including an account of his engagement.
“So it seems I am to lose your company in the evening. I am sorry for that, but I am glad you are so lucky.”
“It was better than I expected,” said Frank, with satisfaction.
“What sort of a man is this Mr. Wharton?” said Jasper.
“He is very kind and generous. I am lucky to have so good a friend. There’s only one thing that is likely to be disagreeable.”
“What’s that?”
“The housekeeper—her name is Mrs. Bradley—for some reason or other she doesn’t want me there.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Her manner, and the way she speaks. She came in to read to Mr. Wharton last evening, and didn’t seem to like it because I had been taken in her place.”
“She is evidently jealous. You must take care not to offend her. She might endeavor to have you dismissed.”
“I shall always treat her politely, but I don’t think I can ever like her.”
Meanwhile, the housekeeper, on leaving the library, had gone to her own room in dudgeon.
“Mr. Wharton’s a fool!” she muttered to herself.
“What possessed him to take this cash-boy from the streets, invite him to dinner, and treat him as an honored guest, and finally to engage him as a reader? I never heard of anything so ridiculous! Is this little vagabond to take my place in the old man’s good graces? I’ve been slaving and slaving for twenty years, and what have I got by it? I’ve laid up two thousand dollars; and what is that to provide for my old age? If the old man would die, and remember me handsomely in his will, it would be worth while; but this new favorite may stand in my way. If he does I’ll be revenged on him as sure as my name is Ulrica Bradley.”
Here the area bell rang, and in a moment one of the housemaids entered Mrs. Bradley’s room.
“There’s your nephew outside, ma’am, and wanting to see you.”
“Tell him to come in,” and the housekeeper’s cold face became softer and pleasanter in aspect as a young man of twenty entered and greeted her carelessly.
“How are you, aunt?”
“Pretty well, Thomas,” she answered. “You haven’t been here for some time.”
“No. I’ve had a lot of work to do. Nothing but work, work, all the time,” he grumbled. “I wish I was rich.”
“You get through at six o’clock, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you spend your evenings profitably, Thomas?”
“I ain’t likely to go on any sprees, aunt, if that’s what you mean. I only get twelve dollars a week.”
“I should think you might live on it.”
“Starve, you mean. What’s twelve dollars to a young fellow like me when he’s got his board to pay, and has to dress like a gentleman?”
“You are not in debt, I hope, Thomas?” said Mrs. Bradley, uneasily.
“I owe for the suit I have on, and I don’t know where I’m going to get the money to pay for it.”
He was dressed in a flashy style, not unlike what is popularly denominated a swell. His coarse features were disfigured with unhealthy blotches, and his outward appearance was hardly such as to recommend him. But to him alone the cold heart of the housekeeper was warm. He was her sister’s son and her nearest relative. Her savings were destined for him, and in her attachment she was not conscious of his disagreeable characteristics. She had occasionally given him a five-dollar bill to eke out what he termed his miserable pay, and now whenever he called he didn’t spare hints that he was out of pocket, and that a further gift would be acceptable. Indeed, the only tie that bound him to his aunt was a mercenary one.
But the housekeeper, sharp-sighted as she ordinarily was, did not detect the secret motive of such attention she received from her nephew. She flattered herself that he really loved her, not suspecting that he was too selfish to love anybody but himself.
“Thomas,” she said, with a sudden thought, “I may be able to help you to an increase of your income. Mr. Wharton needs somebody to read to him evenings. On my recommendation he might take you.”
“Thank you, aunt, but I don’t see it. I don’t want to be worked to death.”
“But, think, Thomas,” said his aunt, earnestly. “He is very rich. He might take a fancy to you and remember you in his will.”
“I wish somebody would remember me in his will. Do you really think there’s any chance of the old boy’s doing something handsome for me?”
“That depends on yourself. You must try to please him.”
“Well, I must do something. What’ll he give?”
“I don’t know yet. In fact, there’s another reading to him just now.”
“Then there’s no chance for me.”
“Listen to me. It’s a boy he’s picked up in the streets, quite unsuited for the place. He’s a cash-boy at Gilbert & Mack’s. Why, that’s where you are,” she added, with sudden recollection.
“A cash-boy from my own place? What’s his name?”
“Fowler, I believe.”
“I know him—he’s lately come. How did he get in with the old man?”
“Mr. Wharton fell in the street, and he happened to be near, and helped him home.”
“You’ll have to manage it, aunt.”
“I’ll see what I can do to-morrow. He ought to prefer my nephew to a strange boy, seeing I have been twenty years in his service. I’ll let you know as soon as I have accomplished anything.”
“I don’t half like the idea of giving up my evenings. I don’t believe I can stand it.”
“It is only for a little while, to get him interested in you.”
“Maybe I might try it a week, and then tell him my health was failing, and get him to do something else for me.”
“At any rate, the first thing must be to become acquainted.”
Thomas now withdrew, for he did not enjoy spending an evening with his aunt, the richer by five dollars, half of which was spent before the evening closed at a neighboring billiard saloon.