LOOKING FOR A SITUATION
“Merry Christmas!” called Mrs. Baldwin, as she knocked on Tom’s door
that morning. “Merry Christmas, Tom!”
“Merry Christmas, mother!” he answered. He hurriedly dressed, trying to
keep up a cheerful spirit, but it was hard work. He went downstairs,
and handed to his mother and aunt each a pretty little booklet, which
he had purchased at the Emporium at reduced prices.
“Oh, Tom!” exclaimed his mother, “why didn’t you save your money? I
haven’t been able to get anything for you except some new socks. You
needed them very much.”
“Indeed I did, mother, and I couldn’t have anything better,” answered
the boy, giving his mother a hug and a kiss.
“Here is a pair of woolen gloves I knitted for you,” put in his aunt.
“I’m sure they’re not as nice as this Christmas book.”
“They’re a good deal more useful,” replied Tom. “Why, this is a pretty
good Christmas, after all, even if I have lost my job,” he said,
deciding this was a good time to break the unpleasant news.
“Lost your job, Tom!” exclaimed Mrs. Baldwin.
“Mercy sakes! Lost--your--job!” added his aunt.
“Well, I sort of expected it,” the youth answered ruefully, and he told
how it had come about.
“I rather hoped he might keep you on after the holidays,” remarked Mrs.
Baldwin.
“So did I,” said her son, “but, never mind, I’ll get a place somewhere.
Things are sure to be lively after the first of the year, and that’s
only a week off.”
“Oh, we’ll manage to get along, somehow,” declared Mrs. Baldwin slowly.
She did not want Tom to know how little money she had, nor what a
little sewing there was in prospect for her and her sister.
But in spite of these drawbacks it was quite a merry little Christmas
for Tom and his relatives, even though they had beef instead of turkey,
and no dessert at all.
Tom started off, early the next morning, to look for work, but he found
the Christmas spirit rather a detriment than otherwise, for many places
took advantage of the holidays and paid little attention to business.
The lad tramped the streets in vain, and came home that night, tired
and discouraged.
He awoke in the morning to find a foot of snow on the ground, and more
coming down.
“Here’s my work all cut out for me,” he said gleefully. “Mother’s socks
and Aunt Sallie’s gloves will just come in handy to-day. I’ll turn
snow-shoveler.”
After he had cleaned the sidewalk in front of his own house, he
shouldered the shovel and broom, and joined the army of men and boys
that had begun to gather to clear away the frozen crystals that were
still lazily floating down.
Whether the Christmas spirit induced householders to be more liberal
than usual, or whether Tom worked extra hard he did not stop to
consider, but the fact was he earned three dollars that day.
“This is better than working in a book store,” he said gleefully, as he
gave his mother a handful of change that night. “I’d like this regular,
I would.”
“But being in a book store is so educational and refining, Tom,”
remarked his aunt.
“Shoveling snow buys more bread and butter,” answered the
matter-of-fact boy with a laugh.
He resumed his search for work the next day, as there was no more snow
to shovel, but everywhere he applied he met with the reply that there
was nothing for him to do. All business seemed to have taken a sudden
drop after Christmas.
“It will be better after New Year’s,” decided Tom. “I’ll sure get a job
then.”
Anxiously he waited for January the second. He started off early that
morning, taking some lunch with him, as he found he could get scarcely
anything to eat in a restaurant for the money he could afford to pay.
He bought a paper, and turned to the column “Help Wanted.”
“Let’s see what firm offers boys the highest wages,” he said. “That’s
what I’m looking for.”
He saw several advertisements that seemed to offer a good chance, but
Tom was at this disadvantage--he had to walk to the places, for he
could not afford car fare. In this way he arrived too late in a number
of cases, the positions having been filled just before he presented
himself.
“I must pick out the places that are nearest by,” he decided, and he
went over the list again. He selected an advertisement of a firm on
Tremont Street, that wanted a boy to assist in packing. Tom found it
was a big crockery store.
“Have you had any experience in packing?” asked the manager, to whom,
after inquiring of several clerks, he was referred.
“We moved once, and I helped them,” said Tom, wondering what sort of
packing was done in the place.
“No, I’m afraid that would hardly do,” was the answer. “We want a boy
who has had experience in packing dishes.”
“I think I could learn,” spoke the boy eagerly.
“I’m afraid we couldn’t risk it. Our dishes are very valuable, and if a
boy broke one or two it would amount to more than his wages. We require
experienced help.”
“Couldn’t I learn by beginning to pack heavy dishes, that wouldn’t
break so easily, if I happened to drop one?” asked Tom.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Tom wondered how a boy was ever going to get experience packing fine
dishes, if he never had any practice on heavy ones, but he did not
think it would do any good to ask the manager, so he left.
At the next place a boy was wanted to run errands, but as the wages
were only two dollars a week, Tom knew he could not afford to take it,
for he would hardly make his expenses. Then he saw an advertisement of
a boy wanted in a machine shop.
“That might do,” he mused. “I’m fond of machinery, and I often used to
go to the shop where father worked.”
“We want a boy to learn the trade,” said the foreman of the shop where
Tom applied, and where the machinery made so much noise that every one
had to shout to be heard. “It’s a good trade, and you can earn good
wages at it.”
“How much do you pay?” asked Tom.
“Pay? We don’t pay anything the first year,” answered the foreman, in
apparent surprise at the question. “I thought you wanted to learn the
trade.”
“I’d like to,” said Tom, “but I want to live while I’m learning it. A
trade wouldn’t do me much good if I starved to death, and I’d do that
if I didn’t get some money.”
“I guess you won’t suit,” was the comment, as the foreman turned back
to the lathe which he had stopped while he talked to Tom.
“No, I guess not,” was our hero’s comment.
He had exhausted the possibilities of the advertising list, so he
strolled around in the streets where there were many office buildings,
hoping he might see some boys he knew, who could tell him where he
might apply for work, or where he might see that magical sign “Boy
Wanted” hanging in front of a store or office.
He did see two signs, but the places were meant for smaller lads than
Tom--boys who had parents to support them--and who would be content
with two or three dollars a week.
“I guess this is going to be a poor year for boys,” thought Tom, as
he went over to a little park, where, sitting on a bench, he ate his
lunch. He spent five cents for a cup of coffee and a bun at a street
stand, and felt somewhat better after it, for the day was cold.
“There’s a big building,” mused the boy, as he looked at one just
across from the little park. “There must be a couple of hundred offices
in it. Now they need boys in an office, and out of the two hundred
there ought to be a place for me. I’m going to ask in every office in
that building.”
Tom did not know how much of a task he had set for himself, but he
started bravely in, beginning on the ground floor, and working his way
up.
In some places he was politely told that there was no opening for him.
In others he was gruffly given the same information, though, by this
time, he was getting hardened to rebuffs.
“Well, I’ve asked in twenty-five places,” he mused. “Here goes for the
twenty-sixth.”
He entered an office marked “Real Estate and Insurance.” A rather
pretty girl was pounding away at a typewriter.
“Do you want a boy?” asked Tom, smiling, in spite of his weariness.
“Do I want a boy?” she asked wonderingly. “Why, no. Are you a messenger
boy? I didn’t ring for any.”
“I’m looking for work,” explained Tom.
“Oh, I see,” she answered kindly. “I don’t know. I’ll ask----”
At that moment a man came from an inner office. Tom started at the
sight of him, for he was Barton Sandow, the brother-in-law of Dr.
Spidderkins.
“Well,” fairly growled Mr. Sandow, “what do you want here? I don’t want
any books, even if Dr. Spidderkins does waste his money on them.”
“I haven’t any books,” replied Tom. “I called to see if you wanted a
boy. I’m looking for work.”
The lad’s answer seemed to enrage the man. He started toward our hero,
his face flaming red with passion.
“Who told you to come here?” he cried.
“No one; I just happened to come. I’m inquiring in all the offices in
the building.”
“Well, you clear out of here, you young gutter-pup!” fairly shouted
Barton Sandow. “I don’t want a boy, and if I did I shouldn’t hire you!
Get out of here! Do you understand! Clear out, and don’t you dare come
in again!”
The pretty typewriter girl shrank back afrightened, and Tom, not
knowing what to make of the outburst, opened the door and went out.
“There’s something wrong with Mr. Sandow,” he said, for the needlessly
cruel words rankled in his mind. “There was no occasion for him to
speak like that. I pity Dr. Spidderkins, living with that man. There’s
something queer about it. I wonder what it is?”