Of course Phil was utterly ignorant of the audacious attempt to deprive him of his rights and keep him apart from the father who longed once more to meet him. There was nothing before him so far as he knew except to continue the up-hill struggle for a living.
He gave very little thought to the prediction of the fortune-teller whom he had consulted, and didn't dream of any short-cut to fortune.
Do all he could, he found he could not live on his wages.
His board cost him four dollars a week, and washing and lunch two dollars more, thus compelling him to exceed his salary by a dollar each week.
He had, as we know, a reserve fund, on which he could draw, but it was small, and grew constantly smaller. Then, again, his clothes were wearing out, and he saw no way of obtaining money to buy new.
Phil became uneasy, and the question came up to his mind, “Should he write to his step-mother and ask her for a trifling loan?” If the money had been hers, he would not have done so on any condition; but she had had nothing of her own, and all the property in her hands came through Mr. Brent, who, as he knew, was attached to him, even though no tie of blood united them. He certainly meant that Phil should be cared for out of the estate, and at length Phil brought himself to write the following letter:
“NEW YORK, March 10, 18—.
“DEAR MRS. BRENT: I suppose I ought to have written you before, and have no good excuse to offer. I hope you and Jonas are well, and will continue so. Let me tell you how I have succeeded thus far.
“I have been fortunate enough to obtain a place in a large mercantile establishment, and for my services I am paid five dollars a week. This is more than boys generally get in the first place, and I am indebted to the partiality of an old gentleman, the senior member of the firm, whom I had the chance to oblige, for faring so well. Still I find it hard to get along on this sum, though I am as economical as possible. My board and washing cost me six dollars a week, and I have, besides, to buy clothing from time to time. I have nearly spent the extra money I had with me, and do not know how to keep myself looking respectable in the way of clothing. Under the circumstances, I shall have to apply to you for a loan, say of twenty-five dollars. In a year or two I hope to earn enough to be entirely independent. At present I cannot expect it. As my father—Mr. Brent—undoubtedly intended to provide for me, I don't think I need to apologize for making this request. Still I do it reluctantly, for I would prefer to depend entirely upon myself.
“With regards to you and Jonas, I am yours truly, PHILIP BRENT.”
Phil put this letter in the post-office, and patiently waited for an answer.
“Mrs. Brent surely cannot refuse me,” he said to himself, “since I have almost wholly relieved her of the expense of taking care of me.”
Phil felt so sure that money would be sent to him that he began to look round a little among ready-made clothing stores to see at what price he could obtain a suit that would do for every-day use. He found a store in the Bowery where he could secure a suit, which looked as if it would answer, for thirteen dollars. If Mrs. Brent sent him twenty-five, that would leave him twelve for underclothing, and for a reserve fund to meet the weekly deficit which he could not avoid.
Three—four days passed, and no letter came in answer to his.
“It can't be that Mrs. Brent won't at least answer my letter,” he thought uneasily. “Even if she didn't send me twenty-five dollars, she couldn't help sending me something.”
Still he felt uneasy, in view of the position in which he would find himself in case no letter or remittance should come at all.
It was during this period of anxiety that his heart leaped for joy when on Broadway he saw the familiar form of Reuben Gordon, a young man already mentioned, to whom Phil had sold his gun before leaving Gresham.
“Why, Reuben, how are you?” exclaimed Phil joyfully. “When did you come to town?”
“Phil Brent!” exclaimed Reuben, shaking hands heartily. “I'm thunderin' glad to see you. I was thinkin' of you only five minutes ago, and wonderin' where you hung out.”
“But you haven't told me when you came to New York.”
“Only this morning! I'm goin' to stay with a cousin of my father's, that lives in Brooklyn, over night.”
“I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Brent and Jonas. I was afraid they might be sick, for I wrote four days ago and haven't got any answer yet.”
“Where did you write to?”
“To Gresham, of course,” answered Phil, in surprise.
“You don't mean to say you hain't heard of their leavin' Gresham?” said Reuben, in evident astonishment.
“Who has left Gresham?”
“Your mother—leastwise, Mrs. Brent—and Jonas. They cleared out three weeks ago, and nobody's heard a word of them since—that is, nobody in the village.”
“Don't you know where they've gone?” asked Phil, in amazement.
“No. I was goin' to ask you. I s'posed, of course, they'd write and let you know.”
“I didn't even know they had left Gresham.”
“Well, that's what I call cur'us. It ain't treatin' you right accordin' to my ideas.”
“Is the house shut up?”
“It was till two days ago. Then a brother of Mrs. Brent came and opened it. He has brought his wife and one child with him, and it seems they're goin' to live there. Somebody asked him where his sister and Jonas were, but they didn't get no satisfaction. He said he didn't rightly know himself. He believed they was travelin'; thought they might be in Canada.”
Phil looked and felt decidedly sober at this information. He understood, of course, now, why his letter had not been answered. It looked as if he were an outcast from the home that had been his so long. When he came to New York to earn a living he felt that he was doing so voluntarily, and was not obliged to do so. Now he was absolutely thrown upon his own resources, and must either work or starve.
“They've treated you real mean,” said Reuben.
“I never did like Mrs. Brent, or Jonas either, for that matter.
“Where are you working?”
Phil answered this question and several others which his honest country friend asked, but his mind was preoccupied, and he answered some of the questions at random. Finally he excused himself on the ground that he must be getting back to the store.
That evening Phil thought seriously of his position. Something must be done, that was very evident. His expenses exceeded his income, and he needed some clothing. There was no chance of getting his wages raised under a year, for he already received more pay than it was customary to give to a boy. What should he do?
Phil decided to lay his position frankly before the only friend he had in the city likely to help him—Mr. Oliver Carter. The old gentleman had been so friendly and kind that he felt that he would not at any rate repulse him. After he had come to this decision he felt better. He determined to lose no time in calling upon Mr. Carter.
After supper he brushed his hair carefully, and made himself look as well as circumstances would admit. Then he bent his steps toward Twelfth Street, where, as the reader will remember, Mr. Carter lived with his niece.
He ascended the steps and rang the bell. It was opened by Hannah, who recognized him, having admitted him on the former occasion of his calling.
“Good-evening,” said Phil pleasantly. “Is Mr. Carter at home?”
“No, sir,” answered Hannah. “Didn't you know he had gone to Florida?”
“Gone to Florida!” repeated Phil, his heart sinking. “When did he start?”
“He started this afternoon.”
“Who's asking after Uncle Oliver?” asked a boy's voice.
Looking behind Hannah, Phil recognized the speaker as Alonzo Pitkin.
“Who was asking after Uncle Oliver?” demanded Alonzo superciliously.
“I was,” answered Philip.
“Oh! it's you, is it?” said Alonzo, rather disdainfully.
“Yes,” answered Phil calmly, though he felt provoked at Alonzo's tone, which was meant to be offensive. “You remember me, don't you?”
“You are the boy that got round Uncle Oliver, and got him to give you a place in pa's store.”
“I deny that I got round him,” returned Phil warmly. “I had the good luck to do him a favor.”
“I suppose you have come after money?” said Alonzo coarsely.
“I sha'n't ask you for any, at any rate,” said Phil angrily.
“No; it wouldn't do any good,” said Alonzo; “and it's no use asking ma, either. She says you are an adventurer, and have designs on Uncle Oliver because he is rich.”
“I shall not ask your mother for any favor,” said Phil, provoked. “I am sorry not to meet your uncle.”
“I dare say!” sneered Alonzo.
Just then a woman, poorly but neatly dressed, came down stairs. Her face was troubled. Just behind her came Mrs. Pitkin, whose face wore a chilly and proud look.
“Mr. Carter has left the city, and I really don't know when he will return,” Phil heard her say. “If he had been at home, it would not have benefited you. He is violently prejudiced against you, and would not have listened to a word you had to say.”
“I did not think he would have harbored resentment so long,” murmured the poor woman. “He never seemed to me to be a hard man.”
Phil gazed at the poorly dressed woman with a surprise which he did not attempt to conceal, for in her he recognized the familiar figure of his landlady. What could she have to do in this house? he asked himself.
“Mrs. Forbush!” he exclaimed.
“Philip!” exclaimed Mrs. Forbush, in a surprise as great as his own, for she had never asked where her young lodger worked, and was not aware that he was in the employ of her cousin's husband and well acquainted with the rich uncle whom she had not seen for years.
“Do you know each other?” demanded Mrs. Pitkin, whose turn it was to be surprised.
“This young gentleman lodges in my house,” answered Mrs. Forbush.
“Young gentleman!” repeated Alonzo, with a mocking laugh.
Philip looked at him sternly. He had his share of human nature, and it would have given him satisfaction to thrash the insolent young patrician, as Alonzo chose to consider himself.
“And what do you want here, young man?” asked Mrs. Pitkin in a frosty tone, addressing Phil of course.
“I wished to see Mr. Carter,” answered Phil.
“Really, Mr. Carter seems to be very much in request!” sneered Mrs. Pitkin. “No doubt he will be very much disappointed when he hears what he has lost. You will have to go to Florida to see him, I think, however.” She added, after a pause: “It will not be well for either of you to call again. Mr. Carter will understand the motive of your calls.”
“How cruel you are, Lavinia!” said Mrs. Forbush sadly.
“My name is Mrs. Pitkin!” said that lady frigidly.
“You have not forgotten that we are cousins, surely?”
“I do not care to remember it, Mrs. Forbush. Good-day.”
There was no alternative but for Mrs. Forbush to say “good-day” also, and to descend the steps.
Philip joined her in the street.
“Are you really the cousin of Mrs. Pitkin?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Forbush. “I bear the same relationship to Mr. Carter that she does. We were much together as girls, and were both educated at the same expensive schools. I offended my relatives by marrying Mr. Forbush, whose fault was that he was poor, and chiefly, I think, through the efforts of Lavinia Pitkin I was cast out by the family. But where did you meet Uncle Oliver?”
Philip explained the circumstances already known to the reader.
“Mr. Carter seems to me to be a kind-hearted man,” he said. “I don't believe he would have cast you off if he had not been influenced by other parties.”
“So I think,” said Mrs. Forbush. “I will tell you,” she continued, after a pause, “what drew me here this afternoon. I am struggling hard to keep my head above water, Mr. Brent, but I find it hard to meet my expenses. I cannot meet my rent due to-morrow within fifteen dollars, and I dared to hope that if I could meet Uncle Oliver face to face and explain matters to him, he would let me have the money.”
“I am sure he would,” said Phil warmly.
“But he is in Florida, and will probably remain there for a month or two at least,” said Mrs. Forbush, sighing. “But even if he were in the city I suppose Lavinia would do all in her power to keep us apart.”
“I have no doubt she would, Mrs. Forbush. Though she is your cousin, I dislike her very much.”
“I suppose the boy with whom you were talking was her son Alonzo?”
“Yes; he is about the most disagreeable boy I ever met. Both he and his mother seem very much opposed to my having an interview with your uncle.”
“Lavinia was always of a jealous and suspicious disposition,” said Mrs. Forbush. “I have not seen Alonzo since he was a baby. He is two years older than my Julia. He was born before I estranged my relatives by marrying a poor man.”
“What are you going to do, Mrs. Forbush, about the rent?” asked Phil, in a tone of sympathy.
“I don't know. I shall try to get the landlord to wait, but I don't know how he will feel about it.”
“I wish I had plenty of money. I would gladly lend you all you need.”
“I am sure you would, Philip,” said Mrs. Forbush. “The offer does me good, though it is not accompanied by the ability to do what your good heart dictates. I feel that I am not without friends.”
“I am a very poor one,” said Phil. “The fact is, I am in trouble myself. My income is only five dollars a week, and my expenses are beyond that. I don't know how I am going to keep up.”
“You may stay with me for three dollars a week, if you cannot pay four,” said Mrs. Forbush, forgetting her own troubles in her sympathy with our hero.
“No, Mrs. Forbush, you can't afford it. You need money as much as I do, and perhaps more; for you have more than yourself to support.”
“Yes, poor Julia!” sighed the mother. “She is born to a heritage of poverty. Heaven only knows how we are going to get along.”
“God will provide for us, Mrs. Forbush,” said Philip. “I don't know how it is, but in spite of my troubles I feel cheerful. I have a confidence that things will come out well, though I cannot possibly imagine how.”
“You are young, and youth is more inclined to be hopeful than maturer years. However, I do not wish to dampen your cheerfulness. Keep it, and let it comfort you.”
If Phil could have heard the conversation that took place between Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo after their departure, he might have felt less hopeful.
“It is dreadfully annoying that that woman should turn up after all these years!” said Mrs. Pitkin, in a tone of disgust.
“Is she really your cousin, ma?” asked Alonzo.
“Yes, but she disgraced herself by a low marriage, and was cast off.”
“That disposes of her, then?”
“I don't know. If she could meet Uncle Oliver, I am afraid she would worm herself into his confidence and get him to do something for her. Then it is unfortunate that she and that boy have fallen in with each other. She may get him to speak to Uncle Oliver in her behalf.”
“Isn't he working for pa?”
“Yes.”
“Why don't you get pa to discharge him while Uncle Oliver is away?”
“Well thought of, Alonzo! I will speak to your father this very evening.”
Saturday, as is usual in such establishments, was pay-day at the store of Phil's employers. The week's wages were put up in small envelopes and handed to the various clerks.
When Phil went up to the cashier to get his money he put it quietly into his vest-pocket.
Daniel Dickson, the cashier, observing this, said:
“Brent, you had better open your envelope.”
Rather surprised, Phil nevertheless did as requested.
In the envelope, besides the five-dollar bill representing his week's salary, he found a small slip of paper, on which was written these ominous words:
“Your services will not be required after this week.” Appended to this notice was the name of the firm.
Phil turned pale, for to him, embarrassed as he was, the loss of his place was a very serious matter.
“What does this mean, Mr. Dickson?” he asked quickly.
“I can't inform you,” answered the cashier, smiling unpleasantly, for he was a selfish man who sympathized with no one, and cared for no one as long as he himself remained prosperous.
“Who handed you this paper?” asked Phil.
“The boss.”
“Mr. Pitkin?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Pitkin was still in his little office, and Phil made his way directly to him.
“May I speak to you, sir?” asked our hero.
“Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry,” answered Pitkin, in a very forbidding tone.
“Why am I discharged, sir?”
“I can't go into details. We don't need you any longer.”
“Are you not satisfied with me?”
“No!” said Pitkin brusquely.
“In what respect have I failed to satisfy you, sir?”
“Don't put on any airs, boy!” returned Pitkin. “We don't want you, that's all.”
“You might have given me a little notice,” said Phil indignantly.
“We made no stipulation of that kind, I believe.”
“It would only be fair, sir.”
“No impertinence, young man! I won't stand it! I don't need any instructions as to the manner of conducting my business.”
Phil by this time perceived that his discharge was decided upon without any reference to the way in which he had performed his duties, and that any discussion or remonstrance would be unavailing.
“I see, sir, that you have no regard for justice, and will leave you,” he said.
“You'd better, and without delay!” said Pitkin irascibly.
Phil emerged upon the street with a sinking heart. His available funds consisted only of the money he had just received and seventy-five cents in change, and what he was to do he did not know. He walked home with slow steps, looking sad in spite of his usually hopeful temperament.
When he entered the house he met Mrs. Forbush in the hall. She at once noticed his gravity.
“Have you had any bad luck, Philip?” she asked.
“Yes,” answered Phil. “I have lost my situation.”
“Indeed!” returned the landlady, with quick sympathy. “Have you had any difficulty with your employer?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Did he assign any reason for your discharge?”
“No; I asked him for an explanation, but he merely said I was not wanted any longer.”
“Isn't there any chance of his taking you back?”
“I am sure there is not.”
“Don't be discouraged, Philip. A smart boy like you won't be long out of a place. Meanwhile you are welcome to stay here as long as I have a roof to cover me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Forbush,” said Phil warmly, “you are a true friend. You are in trouble yourself, yet you stand by me!”
“I have had a stroke of good luck to-day,” said Mrs. Forbush cheerfully. “A former boarder, whom I allowed to remain here for five or six weeks when he was out of employment, has sent me thirty dollars in payment of his bill, from Boston, where he found a position. So I shall be able to pay my rent and have something over. I have been lucky, and so may you.”
Phil was cheered by the ready sympathy of his landlady, and began to take a more cheerful view of matters.
“I will go out bright and early on Monday and see if I can't find another place,” he said. “Perhaps it may be all for the best.”
Yet on the day succeeding he had some sober hours. How differently he had been situated only three months before. Then he had a home and relatives. Now he was practically alone in the world, with no home in which he could claim a share, and he did not even know where his step-mother and Jonas were. Sunday forenoon he attended church, and while he sat within its sacred precincts his mind was tranquilized, and his faith and cheerfulness increased.
On Monday he bought the Herald, and made a tour of inquiry wherever he saw that a boy was wanted. But in each place he was asked if he could produce a recommendation from his last employer. He decided to go back to his old place and ask for one, though he was very reluctant to ask a favor of any kind from a man who had treated him so shabbily as Mr. Pitkin. It seemed necessary, however, and he crushed down his pride and made his way to Mr. Pitkin's private office.
“Mr. Pitkin!” he said.
“You here!” exclaimed Pitkin, scowling. “You needn't ask to be taken back. It's no use.”
“I don't ask it,” answered Phil.
“Then what are you here for?”
“I would like a letter of recommendation, that I may obtain another place.”
“Well, well!” said Pitkin, wagging his head. “If that isn't impudence.”
“What is impudence?” asked Phil. “I did as well as I could, and that I am ready to do for another employer. But all ask me for a letter from you.”
“You won't get any!” said Pitkin abruptly.
“Where is your home?”
“I have none except in this city.”
“Where did you come from?”
“From the country.”
“Then I advise you to go back there. You may do for the country. You are out of place in the city.”
Poor Phil! Things did indeed look dark for him. Without a letter of recommendation from Mr. Pitkin it would be almost impossible for him to secure another place, and how could he maintain himself in the city? He didn't wish to sell papers or black boots, and those were about the only paths now open to him.
“I am having a rough time!” he thought, “but I will try not to get discouraged.”
He turned upon his heel and walked out of the store.
As he passed the counter where Wilbur was standing, the young man said:
“I am awfully sorry, Philip. It's a shame! If I wasn't broke I'd offer to lend you a fiver.”
“Thank you all the same for your kind offer, Wilbur,” said Phil.
“Come round and see me.”
“So I will—soon.”
He left the store and wandered aimlessly about the streets.
Four days later, sick with hope deferred, he made his way down to the wharf of the Charleston and Savannah boats, with a vague idea that he might get a job of carrying baggage, for he felt that he must not let his pride interfere with doing anything by which he could earn an honest penny.
It so happened that the Charleston boat was just in, and the passengers were just landing.
Phil stood on the pier and gazed listlessly at them as they disembarked.
All at once he started in surprise, and his heart beat joyfully.
There, just descending the gang-plank, was his tried friend, Mr. Oliver Carter, whom he supposed over a thousand miles away in Florida.
“Mr. Carter!” exclaimed Phil, dashing forward.
“Philip!” exclaimed the old gentleman, much surprised. “How came you here? Did Mr. Pitkin send you?”
It would be hard to tell which of the two was the more surprised at the meeting, Philip or Mr. Carter.
“I don't understand how Mr. Pitkin came to hear of my return. I didn't telegraph,” said the old gentleman.
“I don't think he knows anything about it,” said Phil.
“Didn't he send you to the pier?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how is it that you are not in the store at this time?” asked Mr. Carter, puzzled.
“Because I am no longer in Mr. Pitkin's employ. I was discharged last Saturday.”
“Discharged! What for?”
“Mr. Pitkin gave no reason. He said my services were no longer required. He spoke roughly to me, and has since declined to give me a recommendation, though I told him that without it I should be unable to secure employment elsewhere.”
Mr. Carter frowned. He was evidently annoyed and indignant.
“This must be inquired into,” he said. “Philip, call a carriage, and I will at once go to the Astor House and take a room. I had intended to go at once to Mr. Pitkin's, but I shall not do so until I have had an explanation of this outrageous piece of business.”
Phil was rejoiced to hear this, for he was at the end of his resources, and the outlook for him was decidedly gloomy. He had about made up his mind to sink his pride and go into business as a newsboy the next day, but the very unexpected arrival of Mr. Carter put quite a new face on matters.
He called a carriage, and both he and Mr. Carter entered it.
“How do you happen to be back so soon, sir?” asked Phil, when they were seated. “I thought you were going to Florida for a couple of months.”
“I started with that intention, but on reaching Charleston I changed my mind. I expected to find some friends at St. Augustine, but I learned that they were already returning to the North, and I felt that I should be lonely and decided to return. I am very glad I did, now. Did you receive my letter?”
“Your letter?” queried Philip, looking at Mr. Carter in surprise.
“Certainly. I gave Alonzo a letter for you, which I had directed to your boarding-house, and requested him to mail it. It contained a ten-dollar bill.”
“I never received any such letter, sir. It would have been of great service to me—the money, I mean; for I have found it hard to live on five dollars a week. Now I have not even that.”
“Is it possible that Alonzo could have suppressed the letter?” said Mr. Carter to himself.
“At any rate I never received it.”
“Here is something else to inquire into,” said Mr. Carter. “If Alonzo has tampered with my letter, perhaps appropriated the money, it will be the worse for him.”
“I hardly think he would do that, sir; though I don't like him.”
“You are generous; but I know the boy better than you do. He is fond of money, not for the sake of spending it, but for the sake of hoarding it. Tell me, then, how did you learn that I had gone to Florida?”
“I learned it at the house in Twelfth Street.”
“Then you called there?”
“Yes, sir; I called to see you. I found it hard to get along on my salary, and I did not want Mrs. Forbush to lose by me, so I——”
“Mrs. Forbush?” repeated the old gentleman quickly. “That name sounds familiar to me.”
“Mrs. Forbush is your niece,” said Phil, a hope rising in his heart that he might be able to do his kind landlady a good turn.
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, sir; that is, I was ignorant of it until I met her just as I was going away from Mrs. Pitkin's.”
“Did she call there, too—to see me?” asked the old gentleman.
“Yes, sir; but she got a very cold reception. Mrs. Pitkin was very rude to her, and said that you were so much prejudiced against her that she had better not call again.”
“That's like her cold selfishness. I understand her motives very well. I had no idea that Mrs. Forbush was in the city. Is she—poor?”
“Yes, sir; she is having a hard struggle to maintain herself and her daughter.”
“And you board at her house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How strangely things come about! She is as nearly related to me as Lavinia—Mrs. Pitkin.”
“She told me so.”
“She married against the wishes of her family, but I can see now that we were all unreasonably prejudiced against her. Lavinia, however, trumped up stories against her husband, which I am now led to believe were quite destitute of foundation, and did all she could to keep alive the feud. I feel now that I was very foolish to lend myself to her selfish ends. Of course her object was to get my whole fortune for herself and her boy.”
Phil had no doubt of this, but he did not like to say so, for it would seem that he, too, was influenced by selfish motives.
“Then you are not so much prejudiced against Mrs. Forbush as she was told?” he allowed himself to say.
“No, no!” said Mr. Carter earnestly. “Poor Rebecca! She has a much better nature and disposition than Mrs. Pitkin. And you say she is poor?”
“She had great difficulty in paying her last month's rent,” said Philip.
“Where does she live?”
Phil told him.
“What sort of a house is it?”
“It isn't a brown-stone front,” answered Phil, smiling. “It is a poor, cheap house; but it is as good as she can afford to hire.”
“And you like her?”
“Very much, Mr. Carter. She has been very kind to me, and though she finds it so hard to get along, she has told me she will keep me as long as she has a roof over her head, though just now I cannot pay my board, because my income is gone.”
“It will come back again, Philip,” said the old gentleman.
Phil understood by this that he would be restored to his place in Mr. Pitkin's establishment. This did not yield him unalloyed satisfaction, for he was sure that it would be made unpleasant for him by Mr. Pitkin. Still he would accept it, and meet disagreeable things as well as he could.
By this time they had reached the Astor House.
Phil jumped out first, and assisted Mr. Carter to descend.
He took Mr. Carter's hand-bag, and followed him into the hotel.
Mr. Carter entered his name in the register.
“What is your name?” he asked—“Philip Brent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will enter your name, too.”
“Am I to stay here?” asked Phil, in surprise.
“Yes; I shall need a confidential clerk, and for the present you will fill that position. I will take two adjoining rooms—one for you.”
Phil listened in surprise.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
Mr. Carter gave orders to have his trunk sent for from the steamer, and took possession of the room. Philip's room was smaller, but considerably more luxurious than the one he occupied at the house of Mrs. Forbush.
“Have you any money, Philip?” asked the old gentleman.
“I have twenty-five cents,” answered Philip.
“That isn't a very large sum,” said Mr. Carter, smiling. “Here, let me replenish your pocketbook.”
He drew four five-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to Phil.
“How can I thank you, sir?” asked Phil gratefully.
“Wait till you have more to thank me for. Let me tell you this, that in trying to harm you, Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin have done you a great service.”
“I should like to see Mrs. Forbush this evening, if you can spare me, to let her know that she needn't be anxious about me.”
“By all means. You can go.”
“Am I at liberty to mention that I have seen you, sir?”
“Yes. Tell her that I will call to-morrow. And you may take her this.”
Mr. Carter drew a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and passed it to Phil.
“Get it changed at the office as you go out,” he said. “Come back as soon as you can.”
With a joyful heart Phil jumped on a Fourth Avenue car in front of the hotel, and started on his way up town.
Leaving Phil, we will precede him to the house of Mrs. Forbush.
She had managed to pay the rent due, but she was not out of trouble. The time had come when it was necessary to decide whether she would retain the house for the following year. In New York, as many of my young readers may know, the first of May is moving-day, and leases generally begin at that date. Engagements are made generally by or before March 1st.
Mr. Stone, the landlord, called upon the widow to ascertain whether she proposed to remain in the house.
“I suppose I may as well do so,” said Mrs. Forbush.
She had had difficulty in making her monthly payments, but to move would involve expense, and it might be some time before she could secure boarders in a new location.
“You can't do better,” said the landlord. “At fifty dollars a month this is a very cheap house.”
“You mean forty-five? Mr. Stone?” said Mrs. Forbush.
“No, I don't,” said the landlord.
“But that is what I have been paying this last year.”
“That is true, but I ought to get fifty dollars, and if you won't pay it somebody else will.”
“Mr. Stone,” said the widow, in a troubled voice, “I hope you will be considerate. It has been as much as I could do to get together forty-five dollars each month to pay you. Indeed, I can pay no more.”
“Pardon me for saying that that is no affair of mine,” said the landlord brusquely. “If you can't pay the rent, by all means move into a smaller house. If you stay here you must be prepared to pay fifty dollars a month.”
“I don't see how I can,” answered the widow in dejection.
“I'll give you three days to consider it,” said the landlord indifferently. “You'll make a mistake if you give the house up. However, that is your affair.”
The landlord left the house, and Mrs. Forbush sat down depressed.
“Julia,” she said to her daughter, “I wish you were old enough to advise me. I dislike to move, but I don't dare to engage to pay such a rent. Fifty dollars a month will amount to——”
“Six hundred dollars a year!” said Julia, who was good at figures.
“And that seems a great sum to us.”
“It would be little enough to Mrs. Pitkin,” said Julia, who felt that lady's prosperity unjust, while her poor, patient mother had to struggle so hard for a scanty livelihood.
“Oh, yes; Lavinia is rolling in wealth,” sighed Mrs. Forbush. “I can't understand how Uncle Oliver can bestow his favors on so selfish a woman.”
“Why don't you ask Philip's advice about keeping the house?” said Julia.
It must be explained that Philip and Julia were already excellent friends, and it may be said that each was mutually attracted by the other.
“Poor Philip has his own troubles,” said Mrs. Forbush. “He has lost his place through the malice and jealousy of Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin, for I am sure that Lavinia is the cause of his dismissal, and I don't know when he will be able to get another.”
“You won't send him away, mother, if he can't pay his board?”
“No,” answered her mother warmly. “Philip is welcome to stay with us as long as we have a roof over our heads, whether he can pay his board or not.”
This answer seemed very satisfactory to Julia, who rose impulsively and kissed her mother.
“That's a good mother,” she said. “It would be a pity to send poor Philip into the street.”
“You seem to like Philip,” said Mrs. Forbush, smiling faintly.
“Yes, mother. You know I haven't any brother, and Phil seems just like a brother to me.”
Just then the door opened, and Philip himself entered the room.
Generally he came home looking depressed, after a long and ineffectual search for employment. Now he was fairly radiant with joy.
“Phil, you've got a place; I know you have!” exclaimed Julia, noticing his glad expression. “Where is it? Is it a good one?”
“Have you really got a place, Philip?” asked Mrs. Forbush.
“Yes, for the present.”
“Do you think you shall like your employer?”
“He is certainly treating me very well,” said Phil, smiling. “He has paid me twenty dollars in advance.”
“Then the age of wonders has not passed,” said the widow. “Of course I believe you, Philip, but it seems extraordinary.”
“There is something more extraordinary to come,” said Phil. “He has sent you some money, too.”
“Me!” exclaimed Mrs. Forbush, in great surprise.
“What can he know about me?”
“I told him about you.”
“But we are strangers.”
“He used to know you, and still feels an interest in you, Mrs. Forbush.”
“Who can it be?” said the widow, looking bewildered.
“I don't want to keep you in suspense any longer, so I may as well say that it is your Uncle Oliver.”
“Uncle Oliver! Why, he is in Florida.”
“No; he came home from Charleston. I happened to be at the pier—I went down to see if I could get a job at smashing baggage—when I saw him walking down the gang-plank.”
“Has he gone to his old quarters at Mr. Pitkin's?”
“No; what I told about the way they treated you and me made him angry, and he drove to the Astor House. I have a room there, too, and am to act as his private secretary.”
“So that is your new situation, Phil?” said Julia.
“Yes, and it is a good one.”
“And he really feels kindly to me?” said Mrs. Forbush hopefully.
“He sends you this and will call to-morrow,” said Phil. “Actions speak louder than words. There are a hundred dollars in this roll of bills.”
“He sent all this to me?” she said.
“Yes, and of his own accord. It was no suggestion of mine.
“Julia,” said Mrs. Forbush, turning to her daughter, “I believe God has heard my prayer, and that better days are in store for all of us.”
“Philip included,” added Phil, smiling.
“Yes. I want you to share in our good fortune.”
“Mother, you had better consult Phil about keeping the house.”
“Oh, yes.”
Mrs. Forbush thereupon told Philip of the landlord's visit and his proposal to ask a higher rent.
“I hesitated about taking the house,” she said; “but with this handsome gift from Uncle Oliver, I don't know but I may venture. What do you think?”
“I think, Mrs. Forbush, you had better not decide till you have seen your uncle. He may have some plan of his own for you. At any rate, you had better consult him. He will call to-morrow. And now, let me pay you for my week's board.”
“No, Philip. I shall not want it with all this money, which I should not have received but for you.”
“A debt is a debt, Mrs. Forbush, and I prefer to pay it. I shall not be here to supper, as Mr. Carter is expecting me back to the Astor House. I shall probably come with him when he calls upon you to-morrow.”
On his return to the hotel, as he was walking on Broadway, Phil came face to face with Alonzo Pitkin.
“I think I'll ask him about that letter his uncle gave him to post to me,” thought Phil, and he waited until Alonzo was close at hand.