ANOTHER LOSS
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.