DR. SPIDDERKINS’ POCKETBOOK
Tom tried to keep up a cheerful spirit when he went home that night,
tired and discouraged with his fruitless search for work.
“No luck, Tom?” asked his mother, who, in spite of his efforts at
concealment, could almost read his thoughts.
“No, but I’ll find a place to-morrow, mother. Is there any work I can
take home for you?”
“Yes; here is a skirt I have just finished for Mrs. Wellderly, the
minister’s wife. She is usually good pay, and I have written her a
little note, asking to please send the money by you.”
“I wish I was earning money for you, mother.”
“Never mind, Tom. I have had an unusual lot of sewing to do lately,
and we are making out fairly well. Now here is the skirt. Carry it
carefully.”
She handed the bundle to Tom, who grasped it as if it was a package of
books, placing it under one arm.
“Mercy! Goodness sakes alike! Don’t do that!” cried his aunt.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom innocently. “Am I spilling any of the
fol-de-rols?”
“No; but you’ll crush the ruffle all out of shape!” explained his
mother. “Hold it this way, Tom,” and she showed him how he ought to
carry the parcel.
Tom safely delivered his mother’s work, and received the money from the
minister’s wife.
“Tell your mother to call and see me,” the lady said to the boy. “A
friend of mine wants some fine sewing done, and I think she would like
Mrs. Baldwin’s work.”
“I will,” promised Tom.
Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, though he was awake a little longer
than usual, wondering what the day would bring forth, Tom arose early
the next morning, determined to leave no chance untried to get a place
to work. He looked over the advertisements in the paper, and picked out
several.
He found, to his regret, however, that in most of the places where boys
or young men were wanted, that experience in some line of industry was
necessary. This was particularly true of the shops and stores. In the
offices this was not quite so requisite, but office positions were very
scarce.
“I think I’ll try some of the book stores,” thought Tom, when noon
came, and he had had no success. “I had a little experience there, and
it ought to be worth something. Any way,” he added, as he smiled at the
recollection, “I know there are two Brownings, a poet and a baseball
player.”
He turned into Milk Street, where was located Townsend’s Emporium, but
he knew it was no use to apply there. He recalled that there was a
second-hand book store, further down the street, and he decided to try
his luck there.
It was quite a different place from the neatly-kept shop where he had
formerly worked, and there was a curious, musty smell about it, many
old volumes being ranged about on the shelves.
“Do you want a boy?” asked Tom, of the proprietor.
“Why? Did you see a sign out in front?” inquired the man.
“A sign? No. Why?”
“Well, sometimes the boys of the neighborhood hang a sign out in front
to annoy me. They know I never hire a boy. They do it for a joke, and
several lads, in need of work, have been fooled by it.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good joke,” remarked Tom.
“Neither do I,” agreed the proprietor. “No, I don’t want a boy, but I’m
glad there’s no foolish sign out in front. How did you come to ask in
here?”
“Well, I used to be in Townsend’s store, and as I need work, and every
place seems to be one where experience is needed, I thought I’d try a
book store.”
“I’m sorry,” went on the man more kindly. “I can’t afford to keep a
helper. There’s very little profit in second-hand books, and to hire a
boy would eat it all up. I need a boy quite often to deliver books, but
I can’t afford to hire one regularly.”
“How often do you need one?”
“Well, about once a day. In fact I wish I had one now to take some
books to a man who lives three miles from here. I’ll give you fifty
cents and your car fare if you’ll deliver them.”
“I’ll do it,” said Tom, glad of the chance to earn a half dollar.
“Wait a minute, and I’ll wrap them up.”
Tom was soon ready to start, carrying quite a heavy bundle of books. As
he passed out of the store, in front of which were two big tables, with
bargains in second-hand books on them, he saw a familiar figure reading
a tattered volume.
“How do you do, Dr. Spidderkins!” greeted Tom, as he recognized the
aged physician.
“Eh? What’s that? Oh, it’s--I’ve forgotten--no--I remember now, you’re
William Henderson, aren’t you?”
“No, sir; I’m Thomas Baldwin.”
“Oh, yes. You’re in the Emporium. I remember now. My memory must be
coming back.”
“I used to be there,” replied Tom, “but there was no work for me after
the holidays. I’m doing odd jobs. Just now I’m carrying books for the
man who owns this place.”
“Ah, that’s a fine job, carrying books,” commented the old gentleman.
“You are diffusing knowledge, my young friend. A very noble calling.
Now I can only read books, I can’t carry them about any more. I am
reading a very fine book now. It seems to be quite rare. It tells how
the ancient Greeks had the primitive idea of raising chickens by means
of hot water pipes--something on the order of our modern incubators.
It’s a very valuable book. I don’t recollect when I have found one more
valuable, of its kind. Yes, once; the same day I discovered a copy of
Milton’s Paradise Lost, in an old book store, I came across one worth
almost as much as this. That was--um--er--dear me--I’m afraid I can’t
recall what it was. But I’ll recollect it shortly. I must purchase this
book before I forget it.”
Tom watched the old gentleman start into the store, reading on the way
the book in which he was so interested. Then Tom saw something else.
Dr. Spidderkins’ pocketbook--an old-fashioned wallet--was half-way out
of his pocket, and likely to drop to the sidewalk.
Our hero sprang forward to reach the wallet before it should fall. He
grasped it, and was pulling it from the doctor’s pocket, intending to
restore it to him, when he was startled to hear a voice exclaim:
“Ah! You young rascal, I caught you in the very act!”
Tom turned, with the pocketbook in his hand, to behold Barton Sandow
confronting him.
“What do you mean?” asked the boy.
“What do I mean? You’ll soon see what I mean? Trying to steal the
doctor’s wallet, eh? I’ll have you arrested!”
“I wasn’t trying to steal it!” declared Tom, indignantly. “It was
falling out of his pocket, and I caught it to give it back to him.”
“That’s a likely story! You’re a thief; that’s what you are!”
“What’s that? What’s the matter?” asked the aged physician, suddenly
turning, as he became aware that something unusual had happened.
“This boy from the book store has just stolen your pocketbook!” said
Mr. Sandow. “He’s got it in his hand now.”
“My pocketbook! Bless my soul! So it is; and I have a hundred dollars
in it!”
“I didn’t steal it!” cried Tom again. “It was dropping out, and I
caught it!”
“Hold him, doctor, until I get an officer!” called Mr. Sandow, as he
looked down the street, and saw a policeman approaching. “We’ll soon
have him behind the bars!”