“I will do all I can to deserve your kindness.”
XXI.
SMITH AND THOMPSON'S YOUNG MAN.
At seven o'clock the next morning Paul stood before Smith & Thompson's
store.
As he came up on one side, another boy came down on the other, and
crossed the street.
“Are you the new boy?” he asked, surveying Paul attentively.
“I suppose so,” said Paul. “I've engaged to work for Smith & Thompson.”
“All right. I'm glad to see you,” said the other.
This looked kind, and Paul thanked him for his welcome.
“O.” said the other, bursting into a laugh, “you needn't trouble
yourself about thanking me. I'm glad you've come, because now I shan't
have to open the store and sweep out. Just lend a hand there; I'll help
you about taking down the shutters this morning, and to-morrow you'll
have to get along alone.”
The two boys opened the store.
“What's your name?” asked Paul's new acquaintance.
“Paul Prescott. What is yours?”
“Nicholas Benton. You may call me MR. Benton.”
“Mr. Benton?” repeated Paul in some astonishment.
“Yes; I'm a young man now. I've been Smith & Thompson's boy till now.
Now I'm promoted.”
Paul looked at MR. Benton with some amusement. That young man was
somewhat shorter than himself, and sole proprietor of a stock of pale
yellow hair which required an abundant stock of bear's grease to keep
it in order. His face was freckled and expressionless. His eyebrows and
eyelashes were of the same faded color. He was dressed, however,
with some pretensions to smartness. He wore a blue necktie, of large
dimensions, fastened by an enormous breast-pin, which, in its already
tarnished splendor, suggested strong doubts as to the apparent gold
being genuine.
“There's the broom, Paul,” said Mr. Benton, assuming a graceful position
on the counter.
“You'll have to sweep out; only look sharp about raising a dust, or
Smith'll be into your wool.”
“What sort of a man is Mr. Smith?” asked Paul, with some curiosity.
“O, he's an out and outer. Sharp as a steel trap. He'll make you toe the
mark.”
“Do you like him?” asked Paul, not quite sure whether he understood his
employer's character from the description.
“I don't like him well enough to advise any of my folks to trade with
him,” said Mr. Benton.
“Why not?”
“He'd cheat 'em out of their eye teeth if they happened to have any,”
said the young man coolly, beginning to pick his teeth with a knife.
Paul began to doubt whether he should like Mr. Smith.
“I say,” said Mr. Benton after a pause, “have you begun to shave yet?”
Paul looked up to see if his companion were in earnest.
“No,” said he; “I haven't got along as far as that. Have you?”
“I,” repeated the young man, a little contemptuously, “of course I have.
I've shaved for a year and a half.”
“Do you find it hard shaving?” asked Paul, a little slyly.
“Well, my beard is rather stiff,” said the late BOY, with an important
air, “but I've got used to it.”
“Ain't you rather young to shave, Nicholas?” asked Paul.
“Mr. Benton, if you please.”
“I mean, Mr. Benton.”
“Perhaps I was when I begun. But now I am nineteen.”
“Nineteen?”
“Yes, that is to say, I'm within a few months of being nineteen. What do
you think of my moustache?”
“I hadn't noticed it.”
“The store's rather dark,” muttered Mr. Benton, who seemed a little
annoyed by this answer. “If you'll come a little nearer you can see it.”
Drawing near, Paul, after some trouble, descried a few scattering hairs.
“Yes,” said he, wanting to laugh, “I see it.”
“Coming on finely, isn't it?” asked Mr. Nicholas Benton, complacently.
“Yes,” said Paul, rather doubtfully.
“I don't mind letting you into a secret,” said Benton, affably, “if you
won't mention it. I've been using some of the six weeks' stuff.”
“The what?” asked Paul, opening his eyes.
“Haven't you heard of it?” inquired Benton, a little contemptuously.
“Where have you been living all your life? Haven't you seen it
advertised,--warranted to produce a full set of whiskers or moustaches
upon the smoothest face, etc. I got some a week ago, only a dollar. Five
weeks from now you'll see something that'll astonish you.”
Paul was not a little amused by his new companion, and would have
laughed, but that he feared to offend him.
“You'd better get some,” said Mr. Benton. “I'll let you just try mine
once, if you want to.”
“Thank you,” said Paul; “I don't think I want to have a moustache just
yet.”
“Well, perhaps you're right. Being a boy, perhaps it wouldn't be
advisable.”
“When does Mr. Smith come in?”
“Not till nine.”
“And the other clerks?”
“About eight o'clock. I shan't come till eight, to-morrow morning.”
“There's one thing I should like to ask you,” said Paul. “Of course you
won't answer unless you like.”
“Out with it.”
“How much does Mr. Smith pay you?”
“Ahem!” said Benton, “what does he pay you?”
“A dollar and a quarter a week.”
“He paid me a dollar and a half to begin with.”
“Did he? He wanted me to come first at a dollar.”
“Just like him. Didn't I tell you he was an out and outer? He'll be sure
to take you in if you will let him.”
“But,” said Paul, anxiously, “he said he'd raise it in a month or two.”
“He won't offer to; you'll have to tease him. And then how much'll he
raise it? Not more than a quarter. How much do you think I get now?”
“How long have you been here?”
“A year and a half.”
“Five dollars a week,” guessed Paul.
“Five! he only gives me two and a half. That is, he hasn't been paying
me but that. Now, of course, he'll raise, as I've been promoted.”
“How much do you expect to get now?”
“Maybe four dollars, and I'm worth ten any day. He's a mean old
skinflint, Smith is.”
This glimpse at his own prospects did not tend to make Paul feel very
comfortable. He could not repress a sigh of disappointment when he
thought of this mortifying termination of all his brilliant prospects.
He had long nourished the hope of being able to repay the good sexton
for his outlay in his behalf, besides discharging the debt which his
father had left behind him. Now there seemed to be little prospect of
either. He had half a mind to resign his place immediately upon the
entrance of Mr. Smith, but two considerations dissuaded him; one, that
the sum which he was to receive, though small, would at least buy his
clothes, and besides, he was not at all certain of obtaining another
situation.
With a sigh, therefore, he went about his duties.
He had scarcely got the store ready when some of the clerks entered, and
the business of the day commenced. At nine Mr. Smith appeared.
“So you're here, Peter,” remarked he, as he caught sight of our hero.
“Paul,” corrected the owner of that name.
“Well, well, Peter or Paul, don't make much difference. Both were
apostles, if I remember right. All ready for work, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul, neither very briskly nor cheerfully.
“Well,” said Mr. Smith, after a pause, “I guess I'll put you into the
calico department. Williams, you may take him under your wing. And now
Peter,--all the same, Paul,--I've got a word or two to say to you, as I
always do to every boy who comes into my store. Don't forget what you're
here for? It's to sell goods. Take care to sell something to every man,
woman, and child, that comes in your way. That's the way to do business.
Follow it up, and you'll be a rich man some day.”
“But suppose they don't want anything?” said Paul.
“Make 'em want something,” returned Smith, “Don't let 'em off without
buying. That's my motto. However, you'll learn.”
Smith bustled off, and began in his nervous way to exercise a general
supervision over all that was going on in the store. He seemed to be all
eyes. While apparently entirely occupied in waiting upon a customer, he
took notice of all the customers in the store, and could tell what they
bought, and how much they paid.
Paul listened attentively to the clerk under whom he was placed for
instruction.
“What's the price of this calico?” inquired a common-looking woman.
“A shilling a yard, ma'am,” (this was not in war times.)
“It looks rather coarse.”
“Coarse, ma'am! What can you be thinking of? It is a superfine piece of
goods. We sell more of it than of any other figure. The mayor's wife was
in here yesterday, and bought two dress patterns off of it.”
“Did she?” asked the woman, who appeared favorably impressed by this
circumstance.
“Yes, and she promised to send her friends here after some of it. You'd
better take it while you can get it.”
“Will it wash?”
“To be sure it will.”
“Then I guess you may cut me off ten yards.”
This was quickly done, and the woman departed with her purchase.
Five minutes later, another woman entered with a bundle of the same
figured calico.
Seeing her coming, Williams hastily slipped the remnant of the piece out
of sight.
“I got this calico here,” said the newcomer, “one day last week. You
warranted it to wash, but I find it won't. Here's a piece I've tried.”
She showed a pattern, which had a faded look.
“You've come to the wrong store,” said Williams, coolly. “You must have
got the calico somewhere else.”
“No, I'm sure I got it here. I remember particularly buying it of you.”
“You've got a better memory than I have, then. We haven't got a piece of
calico like that in the store.”
Paul listened to this assertion with unutterable surprise.
“I am quite certain I bought it here,” said the woman, perplexed.
“Must have been the next store,--Blake & Hastings. Better go over
there.”
The woman went out.
“That's the way to do business,” said Williams, winking at Paul.
Paul said nothing, but he felt more than ever doubtful about retaining
his place.
XXII.
MR. BENTON'S ADVENTURE.
One evening, about a fortnight after his entrance into Smith &
Thompson's employment, Paul was putting up the shutters, the business
of the day being over. It devolved upon him to open and close the store,
and usually he was the last one to go home.
This evening, however, Mr. Nicholas Benton graciously remained behind
and assisted Paul in closing the store. This was unusual, and surprised
Paul a little. It was soon explained, however.
“Good-night, Nicholas,--I mean, Mr. Benton,” said Paul.
“Not quite yet. I want you to walk a little way with me this evening.”
Paul hesitated.
“Come, no backing out. I want to confide to you a very important
secret.”
He looked so mysterious that Paul's curiosity was aroused, and
reflecting that it was yet early, he took his companion's proffered arm,
and sauntered along by his side.
“What's the secret?” he asked at length, perceiving that Nicholas was
silent.
“Wait till we get to a more retired place.”
He turned out of Broadway into a side street, where the passers were
less numerous.
“I don't think you could guess,” said the young man, turning towards our
hero.
“I don't think I could.”
“And yet,” continued Benton, meditatively, “it is possible that you may
have noticed something in my appearance just a little unusual, within
the last week. Haven't you, now?”
Paul could not say that he had.
Mr. Benton looked a little disappointed.
“Nobody can tell what has been the state of my feelings,” he resumed
after a pause.
“You ain't sick?” questioned Paul, hastily.
“Nothing of the sort, only my appetite has been a good deal affected.
I don't think I have eaten as much in a week as you would in a day,” he
added, complacently.
“If I felt that way I should think I was going to be sick,” said Paul.
“I'll let you into the secret,” said Mr. Benton, lowering his voice, and
looking carefully about him, to make sure that no one was within hearing
distance--“I'M IN LOVE.”
This seemed so utterly ludicrous to Paul, that he came very near losing
Mr. Benton's friendship forever by bursting into a hearty laugh.
“I didn't think of that,” he said.
“It's taken away my appetite, and I haven't been able to sleep nights,”
continued Mr. Benton, in a cheerful tone. “I feel just as Howard
Courtenay did in the great story that's coming out in the Weekly Budget.
You've read it, haven't you?”
“I don't think I have,” said Paul.
“Then you ought to. It's tiptop. It's rather curious too that the lady
looks just as Miranda does, in the same story.”
“How is that?”
“Wait a minute, and I'll read the description.”
Mr. Benton pulled a paper from his pocket,--the last copy of the Weekly
Budget,--and by the light of a street lamp read the following extract to
his amused auditor.
“Miranda was just eighteen. Her form was queenly and majestic. Tall and
stately, she moved among her handmaidens with a dignity which
revealed her superior rank. Her eyes were dark as night. Her luxuriant
tresses,--there, the rest is torn off,” said Mr. Benton, in a tone of
vexation.
“She is tall, then?” said Paul.
“Yes, just like Miranda.”
“Then,” said our hero, in some hesitation, “I should think she would not
be very well suited to you.”
“Why not?” asked Mr. Benton, quickly.
“Because,” said Paul, “you're rather short, you know.”
“I'm about the medium height,” said Mr. Benton, raising himself upon his
toes as he spoke.
“Not quite,” said Paul, trying not to laugh.
“I'm as tall as Mr. Smith,” resumed Mr. Benton, in a tone which warned
Paul that this was a forbidden subject. “But you don't ask me who she
is.”
“I didn't know as you would be willing to tell.”
“I shan't tell any one but you. It's Miss Hawkins,--firm of Hawkins &
Brewer. That is, her father belongs to the firm, not she. And Paul,”
here he clutched our hero's arm convulsively, “I've made a declaration
of my love, and--and----”
“Well?”
“She has answered my letter.”
“Has she?” asked Paul with some curiosity, “What did she say?”
“She has written me to be under her window this evening.”
“Why under her window? why didn't she write you to call?”
“Probably she will, but it's more romantic to say, 'be under my
window.'”
“Well, perhaps it is; only you know I don't know much about such
things.”
“Of course not, Paul,” said Mr. Benton; “you're only a boy, you know.”
“Are you going to be under her window, Nich,--I mean Mr. Benton?”
“Of course. Do you think I would miss the appointment? No earthly power
could prevent my doing it.”
“Then I had better leave you,” said Paul, making a movement to go.
“No, I want you to accompany me as far as the door. I feel--a little
agitated. I suppose everybody does when they are in love,” added Mr.
Benton, complacently.
“Well,” said Paul, “I will see you to the door, but I can't stay, for
they will wonder at home what has become of me.”
“All right.”
“Are we anywhere near the house?”
“Yes, it's only in the next street,” said Mr. Benton, “O, Paul, how my
heart beats! You can't imagine how I feel!”
Mr. Benton gasped for breath, and looked as if he had swallowed a fish
bone, which he had some difficulty in getting down.
“You'll know how to understand my feelings sometime, Paul,” said Mr.
Benton; “when your time comes, I will remember your service of to-night,
and I will stand by you.”
Paul inwardly hoped that he should never fall in love, if it was likely
to affect him in the same way as his companion, but he thought it best
not to say so.
By this time they had come in sight of a three-story brick house, with
Benjamin Hawkins on the door-plate.
“That's the house,” said Mr. Benton, in an agitated whisper.
“Is it?”
“Yes, and that window on the left-hand side is the window of her
chamber.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me in the letter.”
“And where are you to stand?”
“Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time.”
At that moment the city clock struck nine.
Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position
beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping
voice, as preconcerted between them--
“Ever of thee,
I'm fo-o-ondly dreaming.”
The song was destined never to be finished.
From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He
could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself.
She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with
well-directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.
The falling column struck upon his beaver, thence spreading on all
sides. His carefully starched collar became instantly as limp as a rag,
while his coat suffered severely from the shower.
His tuneful accents died away in dismay.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, jumping at least a yard, and involuntarily shaking
himself like a dog, “who did that?”
There was no answer save a low, musical laugh from the window above,
which was involuntarily echoed by Paul.
“What do you mean by laughing at me?” demanded Mr. Benton, smarting with
mortification, as he strode across the street, trying to dry his hat
with the help of his handkerchief, “Is this what you call friendship?”
“Excuse me,” gasped Paul, “but I really couldn't help it.”
“I don't see anything to laugh at,” continued Mr. Benton, in a resentful
tone; “because I have been subjected to unmanly persecution, you must
laugh at me, instead of extending to me the sympathy of a friend.”
“I suppose you won't think of her any more,” said Paul, recovering
himself.
“Think of her!” exclaimed Mr. Benton, “would you have me tear her from
my heart, because her mercenary parent chooses to frown upon our love,
and follow me with base persecution.”
“Her parent!”
“Yes, it was he who threw the water upon me. But it shall not avail,”
the young man continued, folding his arms, and speaking in a tone of
resolution, “bolts and bars shall not keep two loving hearts asunder.”
“But it wasn't her father,” urged Paul, perceiving that Mr. Benton was
under a mistake.
“Who was it, then?”
“It was the young lady herself.”
“Who threw the water upon me? It is a base slander.”
“But I saw her.”
“Saw who?”
“A tall young lady with black hair.”
“And was it she who threw the water?” asked Mr. Benton, aghast at this
unexpected revelation.
“Yes.”
“Then she did it at the command of her proud parent.”
Paul did not dispute this, since it seemed to comfort Mr. Benton. It is
doubtful, however, whether the young man believed it himself, since he
straightway fell into a fit of gloomy abstraction, and made no response
when Paul bade him “good-night.”
XXIII.
PAUL LOSES HIS SITUATION AND GAINS A FRIEND.
Paul had a presentiment that he should not long remain in the employ
of Smith & Thompson; it was not many weeks before this presentiment was
verified.
After having received such instruction as was necessary, the calico
department was left in Paul's charge. One day a customer in turning over
the patterns shown her took up a piece which Paul knew from complaints
made by purchasers would not wash.
“This is pretty,” said she, “it is just what I have been looking for.
You may cut me off twelve yards.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Wait a minute, though,” interposed the lady, “will it wash?”
“I don't think it will,” said Paul, frankly, “there have been some
complaints made about that.”
“Then I shall not want it. Let me see what else you have got.”
The customer finally departed, having found nothing to suit her.
No sooner had she left the store than Mr. Smith called Paul.
“Well, did you sell that lady anything?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not?” demanded Smith, harshly.
“Because she did not like any of the pieces.”
“Wouldn't she have ordered a dress pattern if you had not told her the
calico would not wash?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” said Paul, preparing for a storm.
“Then why did you tell her?” demanded his employer, angrily.
“Because she asked me.”
“Couldn't you have told her that it would wash?”
“That would not have been the truth,” said Paul, sturdily.
“You're a mighty conscientious young man,” sneered Smith, “You're
altogether too pious to succeed in business. I discharge you from my
employment.”
“Very well, sir,” said Paul, his heart sinking, but keeping up a brave
exterior, “then I have only to bid you good-morning.”
“Good-morning, sir,” said his employer with mock deference, “I advise
you to study for the ministry, and no longer waste your talents in
selling calico.”
Paul made no reply, but putting on his cap walked out of the store. It
was the middle of the week, and Mr. Smith was, of course, owing him a
small sum for his services; but Paul was too proud to ask for his money,
which that gentleman did not see fit to volunteer.
“I am sure I have done right,” thought Paul. “I had no right to
misrepresent the goods to that lady. I wonder what Uncle Hugh will say.”
“You did perfectly right,” said the sexton, after Paul had related the
circumstances of his dismissal. “I wouldn't have had you act differently
for twenty situations. I have no doubt you will get a better position
elsewhere.”
“I hope so,” said Paul. “Now that I have lost the situation, Uncle Hugh,
I don't mind saying that I never liked it.”
Now commenced a search for another place. Day after day Paul went out,
and day after day he returned with the same want of success.
“Never mind, Paul,” said the sexton encouragingly. “When you do succeed,
perhaps you'll get something worth waiting for.”
One morning Paul went out feeling that something was going to
happen,--he didn't exactly know what,--but he felt somehow that there
was to be a change in his luck. He went out, therefore, with more
hopefulness than usual; yet, when four o'clock came, and nothing had
occurred except failure and disappointment, which unhappily were not
at all out of the ordinary course, Paul began to think that he was very
foolish to have expected anything.
He was walking listlessly along a narrow street, when, on a sudden, he
heard an exclamation of terror, of which, on turning round, he easily
discovered the cause.
Two spirited horses, attached to an elegant carriage, had been terrified
in some way, and were now running at the top of their speed.
There was no coachman on the box; he had dismounted in order to ring
at some door, when the horses started. He was now doing his best to
overtake the horses, but in a race between man and horse, it is easy to
predict which will have the advantage.
There seemed to be but one person in the carriage. It was a lady,--whose
face, pale with terror, could be seen from the carriage window. Her
loud cries of alarm no doubt terrified the horses still more, and, by
accelerating their speed, tended to make matters worse.
Paul was roused from a train of despondent reflections by seeing the
horses coming up the street. He instantly comprehended the whole danger
of the lady's situation.
Most boys would have thought of nothing but getting out of the way, and
leaving the carriage and its inmate to their fate. What, indeed, could a
boy do against a pair of powerful horses, almost beside themselves with
fright?
But our hero, as we have already had occasion to see, was brave and
self-possessed, and felt an instant desire to rescue the lady, whose
glance of helpless terror, as she leaned her head from the window, he
could see. Naturally quickwitted, it flashed upon him that the only way
to relieve a horse from one terror, was to bring another to bear upon
him.
With scarcely a moment's premeditation, he rushed out into the middle of
the street, full in the path of the furious horses, and with his cheeks
pale, for he knew his danger, but with determined air, he waved his arms
aloft, and cried “Whoa!” at the top of his voice.
The horses saw the sudden movement. They saw the boy standing directly
in front of them. They heard the word of command to which they had been
used, and by a sudden impulse, relieved from the blind terror which had
urged them on, they stopped suddenly, and stood still in the middle of
the street, still showing in their quivering limbs the agitation through
which they had passed.
Just then the coachman, panting with his hurried running, came up and
seized them by the head.
“Youngster,” said he, “you're a brave fellow. You've done us a good
service to-day. You're a pretty cool hand, you are. I don't know what
these foolish horses would have done with the carriage if it had not
been for you.”
“Let me get out,” exclaimed the lady, not yet recovered from her fright.
“I will open the door,” said Paul, observing that the coachman was fully
occupied in soothing the horses.
He sprang forward, and opening the door of the carriage assisted the
lady to descend.
She breathed quickly.
“I have been very much frightened,” she said; “and I believe I have been
in very great danger. Are you the brave boy who stopped the horses?”
Paul modestly answered in the affirmative.
“And how did you do it? I was so terrified that I was hardly conscious
of what was passing, till the horses stopped.”