No matter how honest a boy may be, a sudden charge of theft is likely to make him look confused and guilty.
Such was the case with Phil.
“I assure you,” he said earnestly, “that I did not steal this ring.”
“Where did you get it, then?” demanded the conductor roughly.
He was one of those men who, in any position, will make themselves disagreeable. Moreover, he was a man who always thought ill of others, when there was any chance of doing so. In fact, he preferred to credit his fellows with bad qualities rather than with good.
“It was handed me by a young man who just left the car,” said Phil.
“That's a likely story,” sneered the conductor.
“Young men are not in the habit of giving valuable rings to strangers.”
“He did not give it to me, I advanced him five dollars on it.”
“What was the young man's name?” asked the conductor incredulously.
“There's his name and address,” answered Phil, drawing from his pocket the paper handed him by Mr. Lake.
“Lionel Lake, 237 Broadway,” repeated the conductor. “If there is any such person, which I very much doubt, you are probably a confederate of his.”
“You have no right to say this,” returned Phil indignantly.
“I haven't, haven't I?” snapped the conductor.
“Do you know what I am going to do with you?”
“If you wish me to return the ring to this young lady, I will do so, if she is positive it is hers.”
“Yes, you must do that, but it won't get you out of trouble. I shall hand you over to a policeman as soon as we reach New York.”
Phil was certainly dismayed, for he felt that it might be difficult for him to prove that he came honestly in possession of the ring.
“The fact is,” added the conductor, “your story is too thin.”
“Conductor,” said a new voice, “you are doing the boy an injustice.”
The speaker was an old man with gray hair, but of form still robust, though he was at least sixty five. He sat in the seat just behind Phil.
“Thank you, sir,” said Phil gratefully.
“I understand my business,” said the conductor impertinently, “and don't need any instructions from you.”
“Young man,” said the old gentleman, in a very dignified tone, “I have usually found officials of your class polite and gentlemanly, but you are an exception.”
“Who are you?” asked the conductor rudely. “What right have you to put in your oar?”
“As to who I am, I will answer you by and by. In reference to the boy, I have to say that his story is correct. I heard the whole conversation between him and the young man from whom he received the ring, and I can testify that he has told the truth.”
“At any rate he has received stolen property.”
“Not knowing it to be stolen. The young man was an entire stranger to him, and though I suspected that he was an unscrupulous adventurer, the boy has not had experience enough to judge men.”
“Very well. If he's innocent he can prove it when he's brought to trial,” said the conductor. “As for you, sir, it's none of your business.”
“Young man, you asked me a short time since who I am. Do you want to know?”
“I am not very particular.”
“Then, sir, I have to inform you that I am Richard Grant, the president of this road.”
The conductor's face was a curious and interesting study when he heard this announcement. He knew that the old man whom he had insulted had a right to discharge him from his position, and bully as he had shown himself, he was now inclined to humble himself to save his place.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a composed tone. “If I had known who you were I wouldn't have spoken as I did.”
“I had a claim to be treated like a gentleman, even if I had no connection with the road,” he said.
“If you say the boy's all right, I won't interfere with him,” continued the conductor.
“My testimony would clear him from any charge that might be brought against him,” said the president. “I saw him enter the car, and know he has had no opportunity to take the ring.”
“If he'll give me back the ring, that's all I want,” said the young lady.
“That I am willing to do, though I lose five dollars by it,” said Philip.
“Do so, my boy,” said the president. “I take it for granted that the young lady's claim is a just one.”
Upon this Philip drew the ring from his finger and handed it to the young lady, who went back to the car where her friends were sitting.
“I hope, sir,” said the conductor anxiously, “that you won't be prejudiced against me on account of this affair.”
“I am sorry to say that I can't help feeling prejudiced against you,” returned the president dryly; “but I won't allow this feeling to injure you if, upon inquiring, I find that you are otherwise an efficient officer.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I am glad that my presence has saved this boy from being the victim of an injustice. Let this be a lesson to you in future.”
The conductor walked away, looking quite chop-fallen, and Philip turned to his new friend.
“I am very much indebted to you, sir,” he said. “But for you I should have found myself in serious trouble.”
“I am glad to have prevented an injustice, my lad. I am sorry I could not save you from loss also. That enterprising rogue has gone off with five dollars belonging to you. I hope the loss will not be a serious one to you.”
“It was more than a third part of my capital, sir,” said Phil, rather ruefully.
“I am sorry for that. I suppose, however, you are not dependent upon your own resources?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Have you no parents, then?” asked Mr. Grant, with interest.
“No, sir; that is, I have a step-mother.”
“And what are your plans, if you are willing to tell me?”
“I am going to New York to try to make a living.”
“I cannot commend your plan, my young friend, unless there is a good reason for it.”
“I think there is a good reason for it, sir.”
“I hope you have not run away from home?”
“No, sir; I left home with my step-mother's knowledge and consent.”
“That is well. I don't want wholly to discourage you, and so I will tell you that I, too, came to New York at your age with the same object in view, with less money in my pocket than you possess.”
“And now you are the president of a railroad!” said Phil hopefully.
“Yes; but I had a hard struggle before I reached that position.”
“I am not afraid of hard work, sir.”
“That is in your favor. Perhaps you may be as lucky as I have been. You may call at my office in the city, if you feel inclined.”
As Mr. Grant spoke he put in Phil's hand a card bearing his name and address, in Wall Street.
“Thank you, sir,” said Phil gratefully. “I shall be glad to call. I may need advice.”
“If you seek advice and follow it you will be an exception to the general rule,” said the president, smiling. “One thing more—you have met with a loss which, to you, is a serious one. Allow me to bear it, and accept this bill.”
“But, sir, it is not right that you should bear it,” commenced Phil. Then, looking at the bill, he said: “Haven't you made a mistake? This is a TEN-dollar bill.”
“I know it. Accept the other five as an evidence of my interest in you. By the way, I go to Philadelphia and Washington before my return to New York, and shall not return for three or four days. After that time you will find me at my office.
“I am in luck after all,” thought Phil cheerfully, “in spite of the mean trick of Mr. Lionel Lake.”
So Phil reached New York in very fair spirits. He found himself, thanks to the liberality of Mr. Grant, in a better financial position than when he left home.
As he left the depot and found himself in the streets of New York, he felt like a stranger upon the threshold of a new life. He knew almost nothing about the great city he had entered, and was at a loss where to seek for lodgings.
“It's a cold day,” said a sociable voice at his elbow.
Looking around, Phil saw that the speaker was a sallow-complexioned young man, with black hair and mustache, a loose black felt hat, crushed at the crown, giving him rather a rakish look.
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil politely.
“Stranger in the city, I expect?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Never mind the sir. I ain't used to ceremony. I am Signor Orlando.”
“Signor Orlando!” repeated Phil, rather puzzled.
“Are you an Italian?”
“Well, yes,” returned Signor Orlando, with a wink, “that's what I am, or what people think me; but I was born in Vermont, and am half Irish and half Yankee.”
“How did you come by your name, then?”
“I took it,” answered his companion. “You see, dear boy, I'm a professional.”
“A what?”
“A professional—singer and clog-dancer. I believe I am pretty well known to the public,” continued Signor Orlando complacently. “Last summer I traveled with Jenks & Brown's circus. Of course you've heard of THEM. Through the winter I am employed at Bowerman's Varieties, in the Bowery. I appear every night, and at two matinees weekly.”
It must be confessed that Phil was considerably impressed by the professional character of Signor Orlando. He had never met an actor, or public performer of any description, and was disposed to have a high respect for a man who filled such a conspicuous position. There was not, to be sure, anything very impressive about Signor Orlando's appearance. His face did not indicate talent, and his dress was shabby. But for all that he was a man familiar with the public—a man of gifts.
“I should like to see you on the stage,” said Phil respectfully.
“So you shall, my dear boy—so you shall. I'll get you a pass from Mr. Bowerman. Which way are you going?”
“I don't know,” answered Phil, puzzled. “I should like to find a cheap boarding-house, but I don't know the city.”
“I do,” answered Signor Orlando promptly. “Why not come to my house?”
“Have you a house?”
“I mean my boarding-house. It's some distance away. Suppose we take a horse-car?”
“All right!” answered Phil, relieved to find a guide in the labyrinth of the great city.
“I live on Fifth Street, near the Bowery—a very convenient location,” said Orlando, if we may take the liberty to call him thus.
“Fifth Avenue?” asked Phil, who did not know the difference.
“Oh, no; that's a peg above my style. I am not a Vanderbilt, nor yet an Astor.”
“Is the price moderate?” asked Phil anxiously. “I must make my money last as long as I can, for I don't know when I shall get a place.”
“To be sure. You might room with me, only I've got a hall bedroom. Perhaps we might manage it, though.”
“I think I should prefer a room by myself,” said Phil, who reflected that Signor Orlando was a stranger as yet.
“Oh, well, I'll speak to the old lady, and I guess she can accommodate you with a hall bedroom like mine on the third floor.”
“What should I have to pay?”
“A dollar and a quarter a week, and you can get your meals where you please.”
“I think that will suit me,” said Phil thoughtfully.
After leaving the car, a minute's walk brought them to a shabby three-story house of brick. There was a stable opposite, and a group of dirty children were playing in front of it.
“This is where I hang out,” said Signor Orlando cheerfully. “As the poet says, there is no place like home.”
If this had been true it was not much to be regretted, since the home in question was far from attractive.
Signor Orlando rang the bell, and a stout woman of German aspect answered the call.
“So you haf come back, Herr Orlando,” said this lady. “I hope you haf brought them two weeks' rent you owe me.”
“All in good time, Mrs. Schlessinger,” said Orlando. “But you see I have brought some one with me.”
“Is he your bruder now?” asked the lady.
“No, he is not, unfortunately for me. His name is——”
Orlando coughed.
“Philip Brent,” suggested our hero.
“Just so—Philip Brent.”
“I am glad to see Mr. Prent,” said the landlady.
“And is he an actor like you, Signor Orlando?”
“Not yet. We don't know what may happen. But he comes on business, Mrs. Schlessinger. He wants a room.”
The landlady brightened up. She had two rooms vacant, and a new lodger was a godsend.
“I vill show Mr. Prent what rooms I haf,” she said. “Come up-stairs, Mr. Prent.”
The good woman toiled up the staircase panting, for she was asthmatic, and Phil followed. The interior of the house was as dingy as the exterior, and it was quite dark on the second landing.
She threw open the door of a back room, which, being lower than the hall, was reached by a step.
“There!” said she, pointing to the faded carpet, rumpled bed, and cheap pine bureau, with the little six-by-ten looking-glass surmounting it. “This is a peautiful room for a single gentleman, or even for a man and his wife.”
“My friend, Mr. Brent, is not married,” said Signor Orlando waggishly.
Phil laughed.
“You will have your shoke, Signor Orlando,” said Mrs. Schlessinger.
“What is the price of this room?” asked Phil.
“Three dollars a week, Mr. Prent, I ought to have four, but since you are a steady young gentleman——”
“How does she know that?” Phil wondered.
“Since you are a steady young gentleman, and a friend of Signor Orlando, I will not ask you full price.”
“That is more than I can afford to pay,” said Phil, shaking his head.
“I think you had better show Mr. Brent the hall bedroom over mine,” suggested the signor.
Mrs. Schlessinger toiled up another staircase, the two new acquaintances following her. She threw open the door of one of those depressing cells known in New York as a hall bedroom. It was about five feet wide and eight feet long, and was nearly filled up by a cheap bedstead, covered by a bed about two inches thick, and surmounted at the head by a consumptive-looking pillow. The paper was torn from the walls in places. There was one rickety chair, and a wash-stand which bore marks of extreme antiquity.
“This is a very neat room for a single gentleman,” remarked Mrs. Schlessinger.
Phil's spirits fell as he surveyed what was to be his future home. It was a sad contrast to his neat, comfortable room at home.
“Is this room like yours, Signor Orlando?” he asked faintly.
“As like as two peas,” answered Orlando.
“Would you recommend me to take it?”
“You couldn't do better.”
How could the signor answer otherwise in presence of a landlady to whom he owed two weeks' rent?
“Then,” said Phil, with a secret shudder, “I'll take it if the rent is satisfactory.”
“A dollar and a quarter a week,” said Mrs. Schlessinger promptly.
“I'll take it for a week.”
“You won't mind paying in advance?” suggested the landlady. “I pay my own rent in advance.”
Phil's answer was to draw a dollar and a quarter from his purse and pass it to his landlady.
“I'll take possession now,” said our hero. “Can I have some water to wash my face?”
Mrs. Schlessinger was evidently surprised that any one should want to wash in the middle of the day, but made no objections.
When Phil had washed his face and hands, he went out with Signor Orlando to dine at a restaurant on the Bowery.
The restaurant to which he was taken by Signor Orlando was thronged with patrons, for it was one o'clock. On the whole, they did not appear to belong to the highest social rank, though they were doubtless respectable. The table-cloths were generally soiled, and the waiters had a greasy look. Phil said nothing, but he did not feel quite so hungry as before he entered.
The signor found two places at one of the tables, and they sat down. Phil examined a greasy bill of fare and found that he could obtain a plate of meat for ten cents. This included bread and butter, and a dish of mashed potato. A cup of tea would be five cents additional.
“I can afford fifteen cents for a meal,” he thought, and called for a plate of roast beef.
“Corn beef and cabbage for me,” said the signor.
“It's very filling,” he remarked aside to Phil.
“They won't give you but a mouthful of beef.”
So it proved, but the quality was such that Phil did not care for more. He ordered a piece of apple pie afterward feeling still hungry.
“I see you're bound to have a square meal,” said the signor.
After Phil had had it, he was bound to confess that he did not feel uncomfortably full. Yet he had spent twice as much as the signor, who dispensed with the tea and pie as superfluous luxuries.
In the evening Signor Orlando bent his steps toward Bowerman's Varieties.
“I hope in a day or two to get a complimentary ticket for you, Mr. Brent,” he said.
“How much is the ticket?” asked Phil.
“Fifteen cents. Best reserved seats twenty-five cents.'
“I believe I will be extravagant for once,” said Phil, “and go at my own expense.”
“Good!” said the signor huskily. “You'll feel repaid I'll be bound. Bowerman always gives the public their money's worth. The performance begins at eight o'clock and won't be out until half-past eleven.”
“Less than five cents an hour,” commented Phil.
“What a splendid head you've got!” said Signor Orlando admiringly. “I couldn't have worked that up. Figures ain't my province.”
It seemed to Phil rather a slender cause for compliment, but he said nothing, since it seemed clear that the computation was beyond his companion's ability.
As to the performance, it was not refined, nor was the talent employed first-class. Still Phil enjoyed himself after a fashion. He had never had it in his power to attend many amusements, and this was new to him. He naturally looked with interest for the appearance of his new friend and fellow-lodger.
Signor Orlando appeared, dressed in gorgeous array, sang a song which did credit to the loudness of his voice rather than its quality, and ended by a noisy clog-dance which elicited much applause from the boys in the gallery, who shared the evening's entertainment for the moderate sum of ten cents.
The signor was called back to the stage. He bowed his thanks and gave another dance. Then he was permitted to retire. As this finished his part of the entertainment he afterward came around in citizen's dress, and took a seat in the auditorium beside Phil.
“How did you like me, Mr. Brent?” he asked complacently.
“I thought you did well, Signor Orlando. You were much applauded.”
“Yes, the audience is very loyal,” said the proud performer.
Two half-grown boys heard Phil pronounce the name of his companion, and they gazed awe-stricken at the famous man.
“That's Signor Orlando!” whispered one of the others.
“I know it,” was the reply.
“Such is fame,” said the Signor, in a pleased tone to Phil. “People point me out on the streets.”
“Very gratifying, no doubt,” said our hero, but it occurred to him that he would not care to be pointed out as a performer at Bowerman's. Signor Orlando, however, well-pleased with himself, didn't doubt that Phil was impressed by his popularity, and perhaps even envied it.
They didn't stay till the entertainment was over. It was, of course, familiar to the signor, and Phil felt tired and sleepy, for he had passed a part of the afternoon in exploring the city, and had walked in all several miles.
He went back to his lodging-house, opened the door with a pass-key which Mrs. Schlessinger had given him, and climbing to his room in the third story, undressed and deposited himself in bed.
The bed was far from luxurious. A thin pallet rested on slats, so thin that he could feel the slats through it, and the covering was insufficient. The latter deficiency he made up by throwing his overcoat over the quilt, and despite the hardness of his bed, he was soon sleeping soundly.
“To-morrow I must look for a place,” he said to Signor Orlando. “Can you give me any advise?”
“Yes, my dear boy. Buy a daily paper, the Sun or Herald, and look at the advertisements. There may be some prominent business man who is looking out for a boy of your size.”
Phil knew of no better way, and he followed Signor Orlando's advice.
After a frugal breakfast at the Bowery restaurant, he invested a few pennies in the two papers mentioned, and began to go the rounds.
The first place was in Pearl Street.
He entered, and was directed to a desk in the front part of the store.
“You advertised for a boy,” he said.
“We've got one,” was the brusque reply.
Of course no more was to be said, and Phil walked out, a little dashed at his first rebuff.
At the next place he found some half a dozen boys waiting, and joined the line, but the vacancy was filled before his turn came.
At the next place his appearance seemed to make a good impression, and he was asked several questions.
“What is your name?”
“Philip Brent.”
“How old are you?”
“Just sixteen.”
“How is your education?”
“I have been to school since I was six.”
“Then you ought to know something. Have you ever been in a place?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you live with your parents?”
“No, sir; I have just come to the city, and am lodging in Fifth Street.”
“Then you won't do. We wish our boys to live with their parents.”
Poor Phil! He had allowed himself to hope that at length he was likely to get a place. The abrupt termination of the conversation dispirited him.
He made three more applications. In one of them he again came near succeeding, but once more the fact that he did not live with his parents defeated his application.
“It seems to be very hard getting a place,” thought Phil, and it must be confessed he felt a little homesick.
“I won't make any more applications to-day,” he decided, and being on Broadway, walked up that busy thoroughfare, wondering what the morrow would bring forth.
It was winter, and there was ice on the sidewalk. Directly in front of Phil walked an elderly gentleman, whose suit of fine broadcloth and gold spectacles, seemed to indicate a person of some prominence and social importance.
Suddenly he set foot on a treacherous piece of ice. Vainly he strove to keep his equilibrium, his arms waving wildly, and his gold-headed cane falling to the sidewalk. He would have fallen backward, had not Phil, observing his danger in time, rushed to his assistance.
With some difficulty the gentleman righted himself, and then Phil picked up his cane.
“I hope you are not hurt, sir?” he said.
“I should have been but for you, my good boy,” said the gentleman. “I am a little shaken by the suddenness of my slipping.”
“Would you wish me to go with you, sir?”
“Yes, if you please. I do not perhaps require you, but I shall be glad of your company.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you live in the city?”
“Yes, sir; that is, I propose to do so. I have come here in search of employment.”
Phil said this, thinking it possible that the old gentleman might exert his influence in his favor.
“Are you dependent on what you may earn?” asked the gentleman, regarding him attentively.
“I have a little money, sir, but when that is gone I shall need to earn something.”
“That is no misfortune. It is a good thing for a boy to be employed. Otherwise he is liable to get into mischief.”
“At any rate, I shall be glad to find work, sir.”
“Have you applied anywhere yet?”
Phil gave a little account of his unsuccessful applications, and the objections that had been made to him.
“Yes, yes,” said the old gentleman thoughtfully, “more confidence is placed in a boy who lives with his parents.”
The two walked on together until they reached Twelfth Street. It was a considerable walk, and Phil was surprised that his companion should walk, when he could easily have taken a Broadway stage, but the old gentleman explained this himself.
“I find it does me good,” he said, “to spend some time in the open air, and even if walking tires me it does me good.”
At Twelfth Street they turned off.
“I am living with a married niece,” he said, “just on the other side of Fifth Avenue.”
At the door of a handsome four-story house, with a brown-stone front, the old gentleman paused, and told Phil that this was his residence.
“Then, sir, I will bid you good-morning,” said Phil.
“No, no; come in and lunch with me,” said Mr. Carter hospitably.
He had, by the way, mentioned that his name was Oliver Carter, and that he was no longer actively engaged in business, but was a silent partner in the firm of which his nephew by marriage was the nominal head.
“Thank you, sir,” answered Phil.
He was sure that the invitation was intended to be accepted, and he saw no reason why he should not accept it.
“Hannah,” said the old gentleman to the servant who opened the door, “tell your mistress that I have brought a boy home to dinner with me.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Hannah, surveying Phil in some surprise.
“Come up to my room, my young friend,” said Mr. Carter. “You may want to prepare for lunch.”
Mr. Carter had two connecting rooms on the second floor, one of which he used as a bed-chamber. The furniture was handsome and costly, and Phil, who was not used to city houses, thought it luxurious.
Phil washed his face and hands, and brushed his hair. Then a bell rang, and following his new friend, he went down to lunch.
Lunch was set out in the front basement. When Phil and Mr. Carter entered the room a lady was standing by the fire, and beside her was a boy of about Phil's age. The lady was tall and slender, with light-brown hair and cold gray eyes.
“Lavinia,” said Mr. Carter, “I have brought a young friend with me to lunch.”
“So I see,” answered the lady. “Has he been here before?”
“No; he is a new acquaintance.”
“I would speak to him if I knew his name.”
“His name is——”
Here the old gentleman hesitated, for in truth he had forgotten.
“Philip Brent.”
“You may sit down here, Mr. Brent,” said Mrs. Pitkin, for this was the lady's name.
“Thank you, ma'am.”
“And so you made my uncle's acquaintance this morning?” she continued, herself taking a seat at the head of the table.
“Yes; he was of service to me,” answered Mr. Carter for him. “I had lost my balance, and should have had a heavy fall if Philip had not come to my assistance.”
“He was very kind, I am sure,” said Mrs. Pitkin, but her tone was very cold.
“Philip,” said Mr. Carter, “this is my grand-nephew, Alonzo Pitkin.”
He indicated the boy already referred to.
“How do you do?” said Alonzo, staring at Philip not very cordially.
“Very well, thank you,” answered Philip politely.
“Where do you live?” asked Alonzo, after a moment's hesitation.
“In Fifth Street.”
“That's near the Bowery, isn't it?”
“Yes.”
The boy shrugged his shoulders and exchanged a significant look with his mother.
Fifth Street was not a fashionable street—indeed quite the reverse, and Phil's answer showed that he was a nobody. Phil himself had begun to suspect that he was unfashionably located, but he felt that until his circumstances improved he might as well remain where he was.
But, though he lived in an unfashionable street, it could not be said that Phil, in his table manners, showed any lack of good breeding. He seemed quite at home at Mrs. Pitkin's table, and in fact acted with greater propriety than Alonzo, who was addicted to fast eating and greediness.
“Couldn't you walk home alone, Uncle Oliver?” asked Mrs. Pitkin presently.
“Yes.”
“Then it was a pity to trouble Mr. Brent to come with you.”
“It was no trouble,” responded Philip promptly, though he suspected that it was not consideration for him that prompted the remark.
“Yes, I admit that I was a little selfish in taking up my young friend's time,” said the old gentleman cheerfully; “but I infer, from what he tells me, that it is not particularly valuable just now.”
“Are you in a business position, Mr. Brent?” asked Mrs. Pitkin.
“No, madam. I was looking for a place this morning.”
“Have you lived for some time in the city?”
“No; I came here only yesterday from the country.”
“I think country boys are very foolish to leave good homes in the country to seek places in the city,” said Mrs. Pitkin sharply.
“There may be circumstances, Lavinia, that make it advisable,” suggested Mr. Carter, who, however, did not know Phil's reason for coming.
“No doubt; I understand that,” answered Mrs. Pitkin, in a tone so significant that Phil wondered whether she thought he had got into any trouble at home.
“And besides, we can't judge for every one. So I hope Master Philip may find some good and satisfactory opening, now that he has reached the city.”
After a short time, lunch, which in New York is generally a plain meal, was over, and Mr. Carter invited Philip to come up-stairs again.
“I want to talk over your prospects, Philip,” he said.
There was silence till after the two had left the room. Then Mrs. Pitkin said:
“Alonzo, I don't like this.”
“What don't you like, ma?”
“Uncle bringing this boy home. It is very extraordinary, this sudden interest in a perfect stranger.”
“Do you think he'll leave him any money?” asked Alonzo, betraying interest.
“I don't know what it may lead to, Lonny, but it don't look right. Such things have been known.”
“I'd like to punch the boy's head,” remarked Alonzo, with sudden hostility. “All uncle's money ought to come to us.”
“So it ought, by rights,” observed his mother.
“We must see that this boy doesn't get any ascendency over him.”
Phil would have been very much amazed if he had overheard this conversation.
The old gentleman sat down in an arm-chair and waved his hand toward a small rocking-chair, in which Phil seated himself.
“I conclude that you had a good reason for leaving home, Philip,” said Mr. Carter, eying our hero with a keen, but friendly look.
“Yes, sir; since my father's death it has not been a home to me.”
“Is there a step-mother in the case?” asked the old gentleman shrewdly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Any one else?”
“She has a son.”
“And you two don't agree?”
“You seem to know all about it, sir,” said Phil, surprised.
“I know something of the world—that is all.”
Phil began to think that Mr. Carter's knowledge of the world was very remarkable. He began to wonder whether he could know anything more—could suspect the secret which Mrs. Brent had communicated to him. Should he speak of it? He decided at any rate to wait, for Mr. Carter, though kind, was a comparative stranger.
“Well,” continued the old gentleman, “I won't inquire too minutely into the circumstances. You don't look like a boy that would take such an important step as leaving home without a satisfactory reason. The next thing is to help you.”
Phil's courage rose as he heard these words. Mr. Carter was evidently a rich man, and he could help him if he was willing. So he kept silence, and let his new friend do the talking.
“You want a place,” continued Mr. Carter. “Now, what are you fit for?”
“That is a hard question for me to answer, sir. I don't know.”
“Have you a good education?”
“Yes, sir; and I know something of Latin and French besides.”
“You can write a good hand?”
“Shall I show you, sir?”
“Yes; write a few lines at my private desk.”
Phil did so, and handed the paper to Mr. Carter.
“Very good,” said the old gentleman approvingly.
“That is in your favor. Are you good at accounts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better still.”
“Sit down there again,” he continued. “I will give you a sum in interest.”
Phil resumed his seat.
“What is the interest of eight hundred and forty-five dollars and sixty cents for four years, three months and twelve days, at eight and one-half per cent?”
Phil's pen moved fast in perfect silence for five minutes. Then he announced the result.
“Let me look at the paper. I will soon tell you whether it is correct.”
After a brief examination, for the old gentleman was himself an adept at figures, he said, with a beaming smile:
“It is entirely correct. You are a smart boy.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Phil, gratified.
“And you deserve a good place—better than you will probably get.”
Phil listened attentively. The last clause was not quite so satisfactory.
“Yes,” said Mr. Carter, evidently talking to himself, “I must get Pitkin to take him.”
Phil knew that the lady whom he had already met was named Pitkin, and he rightly concluded that it was her husband who was meant.
“I hope he is more agreeable than his wife,” thought Philip.
“Yes, Philip,” said Mr. Carter, who had evidently made up his mind, “I will try to find you a place this afternoon.
“I shall be very much obliged, sir,” said Philip gladly.
“I have already told you that my nephew and I are in business together, he being the active and I the silent partner. We do a general shipping business. Our store is on Franklin Street. I will give you a letter to my nephew and he will give you a place.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Wait a minute and I will write the note.”
Five minutes later Phil was on his way down town with his credentials in his pocket.