Paul transferred his frame of goods to a neighboring office at the end of the afternoon, the arrangement having been made by George Barry, on first entering into business as a street merchant. This saved a good deal of trouble, as otherwise he would have been compelled to carry them home every night and bring them back in the morning.
“Well, Paul,” asked his mother, when he returned to supper, “have you found anything to do yet?”
“I have got employment for a few days,” said Paul, “to tend a necktie stand. The man that keeps it is sick.”
“How much does he pay you, Paul?” asked Jimmy.
“Half the profits. How much do you think I have made this afternoon?”
“Forty cents.”
“What do you say to ninety-three cents? Just look at this,” and Paul displayed his earnings.
“That is excellent.”
“I had good luck. Generally, I shan't make more in a whole day than this.”
“That will be doing very well.”
“But I shall make more, if I can. One fellow bought six neckties of me this afternoon. I wish everybody would do that. Now, mother, I hope supper is most ready, for selling neckties has made me hungry.”
“Almost ready, Paul.”
It was a humble meal, but a good one. There were fresh rolls and butter, tea and some cold meat. That was all; but the cloth was clean, and everything looked neat. All did justice to the plain meal, and never thought of envying the thousands who, in their rich uptown mansions, were sitting down at the same hour to elaborate dinners costing more than their entire week's board.
“Are you going out, Paul?” asked Mrs. Hoffman, noticing that he took his hat.
“Yes, I must go and see George Barry, and carry the money I have received for sales.”
“Where does he live?”
“In Bleecker street. I shan't be gone long.”
Paul reached the number which had been given him. It was a large, four-story house, with the appearance of a barracks.
“Mr. Barry,” said the servant, in answer to his question—“he lives upstairs on the fourth floor. Room on the right.”
Paul plodded his way upstairs, and found the room without difficulty.
On knocking, the door was opened by Mrs. Barry, who looked at him inquiringly.
“Does George Barry live here?” asked Paul.
“Yes. Are you the one he left in charge of his business?”
Paul answered in the affirmative, adding, “How is he?”
“He seems quite feverish. I am afraid he is going to have a fever. It's fortunate he came home. He was not able to attend to his business.”
“Can I see him?”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Barry.
The room was covered with a worn carpet, but looked neat and comfortable. There was a cheap sewing-machine in one corner, and some plain furniture. There was a bedroom opening out of this room, and here it was that George Barry lay upon the bed.
“Is that Paul Hoffman, mother?” was heard from the bedroom.
“Yes,” said Paul, answering for himself.
“Go in, if you like,” said Mrs. Barry. “My son wishes to see you.
“How do you feel now, George?” asked Paul.
“Not very well, Paul. I didn't give up a minute too soon. I think I am going to have a fever.”
“That is not comfortable,” said Paul. “Still, you have your mother to take care of you.”
“I don't know how I should get along without her. Can you look after my business as long as I am sick?”
“Yes; I have nothing else to do.”
“Then that is off my mind. By the way, how many ties did you sell this afternoon?”
“Fifteen.”
“What!” demanded Barry, in surprise. “You sold fifteen?”
“Yes.”
“Why, I never sold so many as that in an afternoon.”
“Didn't you?” said Paul, gratified. “Then you think I did well?”
“Splendidly. How did you do it?”
“You see, there was a young man from the country that I persuaded to buy six, as he could not get them so cheap at home. That was my first sale, and it encouraged me.”
“I didn't think you'd sell more than six in the whole afternoon.”
“Nor did I, when I started; but I determined to do my best. I don't expect to do as well every day.”
“No, of course not. I've been in the business more than a year; and I know what it is. Some days are very dull.”
“I've got the money for you. The fifteen ties came to three dollars and seventy-five cents. I keep one-fourth of this as my commission. That leaves two dollars and eighty-two cents.”
“Quite correct. However, you needn't give me the money. You may need to change a bill, or else lose a sale. It will do if you settle with me at the end of the week.”
“I see you have confidence in me, George. Suppose I should take a fancy to run away with the money?”
“I am not afraid.”
“If I do, I will give you warning a week beforehand.”
After a little more conversation, Paul withdrew, thinking he might worry the sick man. He offered to come up the next evening, but George Barry said, “It would be too much to expect you to come up every evening. I shall be satisfied if you come up every other evening.”
“Very well,” said Paul. “Then you may expect me Saturday. I hope I shall have some good sales to report, and that I shall find you better.”
Paul descended to the street, and walked slowly homeward. He couldn't help wishing that the stand was his own, and the entire profits his. This would double his income, and enable him to save up money. At present this was hardly possible. His own earnings had been, and were likely to continue, very fluctuating.
Still, they constituted the main support of the family. His mother made shirts for an establishment on Broadway at twenty-five cents each, which was more than some establishments paid. She could hardly average more than one shirt a day, in addition to her household work, and in order to accomplish this, even, she was obliged to work very steadily all day. Jimmy, of course, earned nothing. Not that he was too young. There were plenty of little newsboys who were as small as he—perhaps smaller. I have seen boys, who did not appear to be more than four years old, standing at the corners, crying the news in their childish treble. But Paul was not willing to have Jimmy sent out into the streets to undergo the rough discipline of street life. He was himself of a strong, robust nature, and did not shrink from the rough and tumble of life. He felt sure he could make his way, and give as well as receive blows. But Jimmy was shy and retiring, of a timid, shrinking nature, who would suffer from what would only exhilarate Paul, and brace him for the contest. So it was understood that Jimmy was to get an education, studying at present at home with his mother, who had received a good education, and that Mrs. Hoffman and Paul were to be the breadwinners. “I wish mother didn't have to sit so steadily at her work,” thought Paul, many a time. He resolved some time to relieve her from the necessity; but at present it was impossible.
To maintain their small family in comfort required all that both could earn.
The next morning Paul started out after breakfast for the street stand, wondering what success he was destined to meet with.
About the middle of the forenoon Mrs. Hoffman prepared to go out.
“Do you think you can stay alone for an hour or two, Jimmy?” she asked.
“Yes, mother,” answered Jimmy, who was deep in a picture which he was copying from one of the drawing-books Paul had bought him. “Where are you going mother?”
“To carry back some work, Jimmy. I have got half-a-dozen shirts done, and must return them, and ask for more.”
“They ought to pay you more than twenty-five cents apiece, mother. How long has it taken you to make them?”
“Nearly a week.”
“That is only a dollar and a half for a week's work.”
“I know it, Jimmy; but they can get plenty to work at that price, so it won't do for me to complain. I shall be very glad if I can get steady work, even at that price.”
Jimmy said no more, and Mrs. Hoffman, gathering up her bundle, went out.
She had a little more than half a mile to go. This did not require long. She entered the large door, and advanced to the counter behind which stood a clerk with a pen behind his ear.
“How many?” he said, as she laid the bundle upon the counter.
“Six.”
“Name?”
“Hoffman.”
“Correct. I will look at them.”
He opened the bundle hastily, and surveyed the work critically. Luckily there was no fault to find, for Mrs. Hoffman was a skillful seamstress.
“They will do,” he said, and, taking from a drawer the stipulated sum, paid for them.
“Can I have some more?” asked Mrs. Hoffman, anxiously.
“Not to-day. We're overstocked with goods made up. We must contract our manufacture.”
This was unexpected, and carried dismay to the heart of the poor woman. What she could earn was very little but it was important to her.
“When do you think you can give me some more work?” she asked.
“It may be a month or six weeks,” he answered, carelessly.
A month or six weeks! To have her supply of work cut off for so long a time would, indeed, be a dire misfortune. But there was nothing to say. Mrs. Hoffman knew very well that no one in the establishment cared for her necessities. So, with a heavy heart, she started for home, making up her mind to look elsewhere for work in the afternoon. She could not help recalling, with sorrow, the time when her husband was living, and they lived in a pleasant little home, before the shadow of bereavement and pecuniary anxiety had come to cloud their happiness. Still, she was not utterly cast down. Paul had proved himself a manly and a helpful boy, self-reliant and courageous, and, though they might be pinched, she knew that as long as he was able to work they would not actually suffer.
Mrs. Hoffman went out in the afternoon, and visited several large establishments in the hope of obtaining work. But everywhere she was met with the stereotyped reply, “Business is so dull that we are obliged to turn off some who are accustomed to work for us. We have no room for new hands.”
Finally she decided that it would be of no use to make any further applications, and went home, feeling considerably disheartened.
“I must find something to do,” she said to herself. “I cannot throw upon Paul the entire burden of supporting the family.”
But it was not easy to decide what to do. There are so few paths open to a woman like Mrs. Hoffman. She was not strong enough to take in washing, nor, if she had been, would Paul, who was proud for his mother, though not for himself, have consented to her doing it. She determined to think it over during the evening, and make another attempt to get work of some kind the next day.
“I won't tell Paul till to-morrow night,” she decided. “Perhaps by that time I shall have found something to do.”
All that day, the first full day in his new business, Paul sold eighteen ties. He was not as successful proportionately as the previous afternoon. Still his share of the profits amounted to a dollar and twelve cents, and he felt quite satisfied. His sales had been fifty per cent. more than George Barry's average sales, and that was doing remarkably well, considering that the business was a new one to him.
The next morning about ten o'clock, as he stood behind his stand, he saw a stout gentleman approaching from the direction of the Astor House. He remembered him as the one with whom he had accidentally come in collision when he was in pursuit of Mike Donovan. Having been invited to speak to him, he determined to do so.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Paul, politely.
“Eh? Did you speak to me?” inquired the stout gentleman.
“Yes, sir; I bade you good-morning.”
“Good-morning. I don't remember you, though. What's your name?”
“Paul Hoffman. Don't you remember my running against you a day or two since?”
“Oho! you're the boy, then. You nearly knocked the breath out of me.”
“I am very sorry, sir.”
“Of course you didn't mean to. Is this your stand?”
“No, sir; I am tending for the owner, who is sick.”
“Does he pay you well?”
“He gives me half the profits.”
“And does that pay you for your labor?”
“I can earn about a dollar a day.”
“That is good. It is more than I earned when I was of your age.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes; I was a poor boy, but I kept steadily at work, and now I am rich.”
“I hope I shall be rich some time,” said Paul.
“You have the same chance that I had.”
“I don't care so much for myself as for my mother and my little brother. I should like to become rich for their sake.”
“So you have a mother and a brother. Where do they live?”
Paul told him.
“And you help support them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That's a good boy,” said the gentleman, approvingly. “Is your mother able to earn anything?”
“Not much, sir. She makes shirts for a Broadway store, but they only pay her twenty-five cents apiece.”
“That's very small. She can sew well, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, sir; no fault is ever found with her work.”
“Do you think she would make me a dozen shirts?”
“She would be glad to do so,” said Paul, quickly, for he knew that his new acquaintance would pay far more liberally than the Broadway firm.
“I will give the price I usually pay—ten shillings apiece.”
Ten shillings in New York currency amount to a dollar and a quarter, which would be five times the price Mrs Hoffman had been accustomed to receive. A dozen shirts would come to fifteen dollars, which to a family in their circumstances would be a great help.
“Thank you, sir,” said Paul. “My mother will accept the work thankfully, and will try to suit you. When shall I come for the cloth?”
“You may come to my house this evening, and I will give you a pattern, and an order for the materials on a dry goods dealer in Broadway.”
“Where do you live, sir?”
“No. —— Madison avenue, between Thirty-fourth and Thirty-fifth streets. My name is Preston. Can you remember it?”
“Yes, sir; but I will put it down to make sure.”
“Well, good-morning.”
“Good-morning, sir. I suppose you don't want a tie this morning?”
“I don't think you keep the kind I am accustomed to wear,” said Mr. Preston, smiling. “I stick to the old fashions, and wear a stock.”
The old gentleman had scarcely gone, when two boys of twelve or thirteen paused before the stand.
“That's a bully tie, Jeff!” said George, the elder of the two. “I have a good mind to buy it.”
“It won't cost much,” said Jeff. “Only twenty-five cents. But I like that one better.”
“If you buy one, I will.”
“All right,” said Jeff, whose full name was Jefferson. “We can wear them to dancing-school this afternoon.”
So the two boys bought a necktie, and this, in addition to previous sales, made six sold during the morning.
“I hope I shall do as well as I did yesterday,” thought Paul. “If I can make nine shillings every day I won't complain. It is better than selling prize-packages.”
Paul seemed likely to obtain his wish, since at twelve o'clock, when he returned home to dinner, he had sold ten ties, making rather more than half of the previous day's sales.
Mrs. Hoffman had been out once more, but met with no better success than before. There seemed to be no room anywhere for a new hand. At several places she had seen others, out of employment like herself, who were also in quest of work. The only encouragement she received was that probably in a month or six weeks business might so far improve that she could obtain work. But to Mrs. Hoffman it was a serious matter to remain idle even four weeks. She reflected that Paul's present employment was only temporary, and that he would be forced to give up his post as soon as George Barry should recover his health, which probably would be within a week or two. She tried in vain to think of some temporary employment, and determined, in case she should be unsuccessful in the afternoon, which she hardly anticipated, to consult Paul what she had better do.
Paul noticed when he came in that his mother looked more sober and thoughtful than usual.
“Have you a headache, mother?” he inquired.
“No, Paul,” she said, smiling faintly.
“Something troubles you, I am sure,” continued Paul.
“You are right, Paul,” said Mrs. Hoffman, “though I didn't mean to tell you till evening.”
“What is it?” asked Paul, anxiously.
“When I carried back the last shirts I made for Duncan & Co., they told me I couldn't have any more for a month or six weeks.”
“That will give you some time to rest, mother,” said Paul, who wanted to keep back his good news for a while.
“But I can't afford to rest, Paul.”
“You forget that I am earning money, mother. I am sure I can earn a dollar a day.”
“I know you are a good, industrious boy, Paul, and I don't know how we should get along without you. But it is necessary for me to do my part, though it is small.”
“Don't be anxious, mother; I am sure we can get along.”
“But I am not willing that the whole burden of supporting the family should come upon you. Besides, you are not sure how long you can retain your present employment.”
“I know that, mother; but something else will be sure to turn up. If I can't do anything else, I can turn bootblack, though I would prefer something else. There is no chance of my being out of work long.”
“There are fewer things for me to do,” said his mother, “but perhaps you can think of something. I shall go out this afternoon, and try my luck once more. If I do not succeed, I will consult with you this evening.”
“Suppose I tell you that I have work for you, enough to last for two or three weeks, that will pay five times as well as the work you have been doing; what would you say to that?” asked Paul, smiling.
“Are you in earnest, Paul?” asked his mother, very much surprised.
“Quite in earnest, mother. There's a gentleman up-town that wants a dozen shirts made, and is willing to pay ten shillings apiece.”
“Ten shillings! Why, that's a dollar and a quarter.”
“Of course it is. I told him I thought you would accommodate him.”
“You are sure I can get the work to do?”
“Certainly. I am to go up to his house this evening and get the pattern and an order for the materials.”
“It seems too good to be true,” said his mother. “Why, I can earn at least a dollar a day.”
“Then you will be doing as well as I am.”
“Tell me how you heard of it, Paul,” said Mrs. Hoffman.
Paul told the story of the manner in which he formed Mr. Preston's acquaintance.
“It's lucky you ran into him, Paul,” said Jimmy.
“He didn't think so at the time,” said Paul, laughing. “He said I nearly knocked the breath out of him.”
“You won't go out this afternoon, mother, will you?” asked Jimmy.
“No, it will not be necessary now; I didn't think this morning that such a piece of good luck was in store for, me.”
After supper Paul brushed his clothes carefully and prepared to go to the address given him by Mr. Preston. He decided to walk one way, not wishing to incur the expenses of two railroad fares.
The distance was considerable, and it was nearly eight o'clock when he arrived at his destination.
Paul found himself standing before a handsome house of brown stone. He ascended the steps, and inquired, on the door being opened, if Mr. Preston was at home.
“I'll see,” said the servant.
She returned in a short time, and said: “He says you may come upstairs.”
Paul followed the servant, who pointed out a door at the head of the first staircase.
Paul knocked, and, hearing “Come in” from within, he opened the door and entered.
He found himself in a spacious chamber, handsomely furnished. Mr. Preston, in dressing-gown and slippers, sat before a cheerful, open fire.
“Come and sit down by the fire,” he said, sociably.
“Thank you, sir, I am warm with walking,” and Paul took a seat near the door.
“I am one of the cold kind,” said Mr. Preston, “and have a fire earlier than most people. You come about the shirts, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will your mother undertake them?”
“With pleasure, sir. She can no longer get work from the shop.”
“Business dull, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I am glad I thought of giving her the commission. How's business with you to-day, eh?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
“How many neckties did you sell?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
“And how much do you get for that?”
“Nine shillings and a half—a dollar and eighteen cents.”
“That's pretty good for a boy like you. When I was of your age I was working on a farm for my board and clothes.”
“Were you, sir?” asked Paul, interested.
“Yes, I was bound out till I was twenty-one. At the end of that time I was to receive a hundred dollars and a freedom suit to begin the world with. That wasn't a very large capital, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“But the death of my employer put an end to my apprenticeship at the age of eighteen. I hadn't a penny of money and was thrown upon my own resources. However, I had a pair of good strong arms, and a good stock of courage. I knew considerable about farming, but I didn't like it. I thought I should like trade better. So I went to the village merchant, who kept a small dry-goods store, and arranged with him to supply me with a small stock of goods, which I undertook to sell on commission for him. His business was limited, and having confidence in my honesty, he was quite willing to intrust me with what I wanted. So I set out with my pack on my back and made a tour of the neighboring villages.”
Paul listened with eager interest. He had his own way to make, and it was very encouraging to find that Mr. Preston, who was evidently rich and prosperous, was no better off at eighteen than he was now.
“You will want to know how I succeeded. Well, at first only moderately; but I think I had some tact in adapting myself to the different classes of persons with whom I came in contact; at any rate, I was always polite, and that helped me. So my sales increased, and I did a good thing for my employer as well as myself. He would have been glad to employ me for a series of years, but I happened to meet a traveling salesman of a New York wholesale house, who offered to obtain me a position similar to his own. As this would give me a larger field and larger profits, I accepted gladly, and so changed the nature of my employment. I became very successful. My salary was raised from time to time, till it reached five thousand dollars. I lived frugally and saved money, and at length bought an interest in the house by which I had been so long employed. I am now senior partner, and, as you may suppose, very comfortably provided for.
“Do you know why I have told you this?” asked Mr. Preston, noticing the eagerness with which Paul had listened.
“I don't know, sir; but I have been very much interested.”
“It is because I like to give encouragement to boys and young men who are now situated as I used to be. I think you are a smart boy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And, though you are poor, you can lift yourself to prosperity, if you are willing to work hard enough and long enough.”
“I am not afraid of work,” said Paul, promptly.
“No, I do not believe you are. I can tell by a boy's face, and you have the appearance of one who is willing to work hard. How long have you been a street peddler?”
“About a year, sir. Before that time my father was living, and I was kept at school.”
“You will find the street a school, though of a different kind, in which you can learn valuable lessons. If you can get time in the evening, however, it will be best to keep up your school studies.”
“I am doing that now, sir.”
“That is well. And now, about the shirts. Did your mother say how long it would take her to make them?”
“About three weeks, I think, sir. Will that be soon enough?”
“That will do. Perhaps it will be well, however, to bring half the number whenever they are finished.”
“All right, sir.”
“I suppose your mother can cut them out if I send a shirt as a pattern?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Preston rose, and, going to a bureau, took therefrom a shirt which he handed to Paul. He then wrote a few lines on a slip of paper, which he also handed our hero.
“That is an order on Barclay & Co.,” he explained, “for the requisite materials. If either you or your mother presents it, they will be given you.”
“Very good, sir,” said Paul.
He took his cap, and prepared to go.
“Good-evening, Mr. Preston,” he said.
“Good-evening. I shall expect you with the shirts when they are ready.”
Paul went downstairs and into the street, thinking that Mr. Preston was very sociable and agreeable. He had fancied that rich men were generally “stuck up,” but about Mr. Preston there seemed an absence of all pretense. Paul's ambition was aroused when he thought of the story he had heard, and he wondered whether it would be possible for him to raise himself to wealth and live in as handsome a house as Mr. Preston. He thought what a satisfaction it would be if the time should ever come when he could free his mother from the necessity of work, and give little Jimmy a chance to develop his talent for drawing. However, such success must be a long way off, if it ever came.
He had intended to ride home, but his mind was so preoccupied that he forgot all about it, and had got some distance on his way before it occurred to him. Then, not feeling particularly tired, he concluded to keep on walking, as he had commenced.
“It will save me six cents,” he reflected, “and that is something. If I am ever going to be a prosperous merchant, I must begin to save now.”
So he kept on walking. Passing the Cooper Institute, he came into the Bowery, a broad and busy street, the humble neighbor of Broadway, to which it is nearly parallel.
He was still engaged in earnest thought, when he felt a rude slap on the back. Looking round, he met the malicious glance of Mike Donovan, who probably would not have ventured on such a liberty if he had not been accompanied by a boy a head taller than himself, and, to judge from appearances, of about the same character.
“What did you do that for, Mike?” demanded Paul.
“None of your business. I didn't hurt you, did I?” returned Mike, roughly.
“No, but I don't care to be hit that way by you.”
“So you're putting on airs, are you?”
“No, I don't do that,” returned Paul; “but I don't care about having anything to do with you.”
“That's because you've got a new shirt, is it?” sneered Mike.
“It isn't mine.”
“That's what I thought. Who did you steal it from?”
“Do you mean to insult me, Mike Donovan?” demanded Paul, angrily.
“Just as you like,” said Mike, independently.
“If you want to know why I don't want to have anything to do with you, I will tell you.”
“Tell ahead.”
“Because you're a thief.”
“If you say that again, I'll lick you,” said Mike, reddening with anger.
“It's true. You stole my basket of candy the other day, and that isn't the only time you've been caught stealing.”
“I'll give you the worst licking you ever had. Do you want to fight?” said Mike, flourishing his fist.
“No, I don't,” said Paul. “Some time when I haven't a bundle, I'll accommodate you.”
“You're a coward!” sneered Mike, gaining courage as he saw Paul was not disposed for an encounter.
“I don't think I am,” said Paul, coolly.
“I'll hold your shirt,” said Mike's companion, with a grin, “if you want to fight.”
Paul, however, did not care to intrust the shirt to a stranger of so unprepossessing an appearance.
He, therefore, attempted to pass on. But Mike, encouraged by his reluctance, stepped up and shook his fist within an inch of Paul's nose, calling him at the same time a coward. This was too much for Paul's self-restraint. He dropped the shirt and pitched into Mike in so scientific a manner that the latter was compelled to retreat, and finally to flee at the top of his speed, not without having first received several pretty hard blows.
“I don't think he will meddle with me again,” said Paul to himself, as he pulled down the sleeves of his jacket.
He walked back, and looked for the shirt which he had laid down before commencing the combat. But he looked in vain. Nothing was to be seen of the shirt or of Mike's companion. Probably both had disappeared together.
The loss of the shirt was very vexatious. It was not so much the value of it that Paul cared for, although this was a consideration by no means to be despised by one in his circumstances; but it had been lent as a pattern, and without it his mother would be unable to make Mr. Preston's shirts. As to recovering it, he felt that there was little chance of this. Besides, it would involve delay, and his mother could not afford to remain idle. Paul felt decidedly uncomfortable. Again Mike Donovan had done him an injury, and this time of a more serious nature than before.
What should he do?
There seemed but one answer to this question. He must go back to Mr. Preston, explain the manner in which he had lost his shirt, and ask him for another, promising, of course, to supply the place of the one lost. He was not sure whether Mr. Preston would accept this explanation. He might think it was only an attempt to defraud him. But, at any rate, it seemed the only thing to do, and it must be done at once. He entered a passing car, for it was too late to walk.
“I wish I had taken the car down,” thought Paul. “Then I shouldn't have lost the shirt.”
But it was too late for regrets now. He must do the best that remained to him.
It was nearly ten o'clock when Paul once more stood before the door of Mr. Preston's boarding-place. He rang the bell and asked to see him.
“You have been here before this evening?” said the servant.
“Yes.”
“Then you know the room. You can walk right up.”
Paul went upstairs and knocked at Mr. Preston's room. He was bidden to come in, and did so.
Mr. Preston looked up with surprise.
“I suppose you are surprised to see me,” said Paul, rather awkwardly.
“Why, yes. I did not anticipate that pleasure quite so soon,” said Mr. Preston, smiling.
“I am afraid it won't be a pleasure, for I bring bad news.”
“Bad news?” repeated the gentleman, rather startled.
“Yes; I have lost the shirt you gave me.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Mr. Preston, looking relieved. “But how did you lose it?”
“I was walking home down the Bowery, when two fellows met me. One of them, Mike Donovan, forced me into a fight. I gave him a licking,” added Paul, with satisfaction; “but when it was all over, I found the other fellow had run off with the shirt.”
“I don't believe it will fit him,” said Mr. Preston, laughing.
As the speaker probably weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, it was, indeed, rather doubtful. Paul couldn't help laughing himself at the thought.
“You were certainly unlucky,” said Mr. Preston. “Did you know the boy you fought with?”
“Yes, sir; he once before stole my stock of candy, when I was in the prize-package business.”
“That was the day we got acquainted,” remarked Mr. Preston.
“Yes, sir.”
“He doesn't seem to be a very particular friend of yours.”
“No; he hates me, Mike does, though I don't know why. But I hope you won't be angry with me for losing the shirt?”
“No; it doesn't seem to be your fault, only your misfortune.”
“I was afraid you might think I had made up the story, and only wanted to get an extra shirt from you.”
“No, my young friend; I have some faith in physiognomy, and you have an honest face. I don't believe you would deceive me.”
“No, I wouldn't,” said Paul, promptly. “If you will trust me with another shirt, mother will make you an extra one to make up for the one I have lost.”
“Certainly you shall have the extra shirt, but you needn't supply the place of the one lost.”
“It is only fair that I should.”
“That may be, and I am glad you made the offer, but the loss is of little importance to me. It was no fault of yours that you lost it, and you shall not suffer for it.”
“You are very kind, sir,” said Paul, gratefully.
“Only just, Paul.”
Mr. Preston went to the bureau, and drew out another shirt, which he handed to Paul.
“Let me suggest, my young friend,” he said, “that you ride home this time. It is late, and you might have another encounter with your friend. I should like to see him with the shirt on,” and Mr. Preston laughed heartily at the thought.
Paul decided to follow his patron's advice. He had no idea of running any more risk in the matter. He accordingly walked to Fourth avenue and got on board the car.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when he reached home. As it was never his habit to stay out late, his mother had become alarmed at his long absence.
“What kept you so late, Paul?” she asked.
“I'll tell you, pretty soon, mother. Here's the shirt that is to serve as a pattern. Can you cut out the new shirts by it?”
Mrs. Hoffman examined it attentively.
“Yes,” she said; “there will be no difficulty about that. Mr. Preston must be a pretty large man.”
“Yes, he is big enough for an alderman; but he is very kind and considerate, and I like him. You shall judge for yourself when I tell you what happened this evening.”
It will not be necessary to tell Paul's adventure over again. His mother listened with pardonable indignation against Mike Donovan and his companion.
“I hope you won't have anything to do with that bad boy, Paul,” she said.
“I shan't, if I can help it,” said Paul. “I didn't want to speak to him to-night, but I couldn't help myself. Oh, I forgot to say, when half the shirts are ready, I am to take them to Mr. Preston.”
“I think I can make one a day.”
“There is no need of working so steadily, mother. You will be well paid, you know.”
“That is true; and for that reason I shall work more cheerfully. I wish I could get paid as well for all my work.”
“Perhaps Mr. Preston will recommend you to his friends, and you can get more work that way.”
“I wish I could.”
“I will mention it to him, when I carry back the last half dozen.”
“Is he going to send the cloth?”
“I nearly forgot that, too. I have an order on Barclay & Co. for the necessary amount of cloth. I can go up there to-morrow morning and get it.”
“That will take you from your work, Paul.”
“Well, I can close up for a couple of hours.”
“I don't think that will be necessary. I will go up myself and present the order, and get them to send it home for me.”
“Will they do that?”
“It is their custom. Or, if the bundle isn't too large. I can bring it home myself in the car.”
“That's all right, then. And now, mother, as it's past eleven o'clock, I think we may as well both go to bed.”
The next day Paul went as usual to his business, and Mrs. Hoffman, after clearing away the breakfast, put on her bonnet and shawl, and prepared to go for the materials for the shirts.
The retail store of Barclay & Co. is of great size, and ranks among the most important in New York. It was not so well filled when Mrs. Hoffman entered as it would be later. She was directed to the proper counter, where she presented the order, signed by Mr. Preston. As he was a customer of long standing, there was no difficulty about filling the order. A bundle was made up, which, as it contained the materials for twelve shirts, necessarily was of considerable size.
“Here is your bundle, ma'am,” said the clerk.
Mrs. Hoffman's strength was slender, and she did not feel able to carry the heavy bundle offered her. Even if she took the car, she would be obliged to carry it a portion of the way, and she felt that it would overtask her strength.
“Don't you send bundles?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” said the clerk, looking superciliously at the modest attire of the poor widow, and mentally deciding that she was not entitled to much consideration. Had she been richly dressed, he would have been very obsequious, and insisted on sending home the smallest parcel. But there are many who have two rules of conduct, one for the rich, and quite a different one for the poor, and among these was the clerk who was attending upon Mrs. Hoffman.
“Then,” said Mrs. Hoffman, “I should like to have you send this.”
“It's a great deal of trouble to send everything,” said the clerk, impertinently.
“This bundle is too heavy for me to carry,” said the widow, deprecatingly.
“I suppose we can send it,” said the clerk, ill-naturedly, “if you insist upon it.”
Meanwhile, though he had not observed it, his employer had approached, and heard the last part of the colloquy. He was considered by some as a hard man, but there was one thing he always required of those in his employ; that was to treat all purchasers with uniform courtesy, whatever their circumstances.
“Are you objecting to sending this lady's bundle?” said Mr. Barclay, sternly.
The clerk looked up in confusion.
“I told her we would send it,” he stammered.
“I have heard what passed. You have been deficient in politeness. If this happens again, you leave my employ.”
“I will take your address,” said the clerk, in a subdued tone.
Mrs. Hoffman gave it, and left the store, thankful for the interference of the great merchant who had given his clerk a lesson which the latter, as he valued his situation, found it advisable to bear in mind.