DARK DAYS.
It was now midwinter. The streets were filled with snow and ice, and the
cold, frost-laden air was chilling alike to the body and spirits of one
in the unfortunate position in which young Randolph suddenly found
himself.
If one has never been out of a position in a great city at this season
of the year, he can have but little conception of the almost utterly
hopeless prospects before him. After the holiday trade is over, a vast
number of clerks are discharged from our stores, and thousands in the
manufacturing line are thrown out of employment. These are added to
the very large number that at all seasons of the year are hunting for
work. Thousands, too, from the country, thinking to escape the dreary
frost-bound months of rural life, flock to the city and join the
enormous army of the unemployed. All want work, and there is little or
no work to be had. It is the season of the year when few changes are
made by employers other than to dispense with the services of those not
actually needed. To be sure, a few employees die, and leave vacancies to
be filled. Others prove unfaithful, and are discharged. A new business,
too, is started here and there, but all the available positions combined
are as nothing when compared to the tremendous demand for them by the
thousands of applicants.
When Herbert Randolph came to New York in the fall, he was fortunate in
arriving at the time when employers usually carry a larger force of help
than at any other season of the year. There was consequently less demand
for positions, and a greater demand for help. Thus he had a possible
chance of securing employment, and he happened to be fortunate enough to
do so. I say he had a _possible chance_, for surely he had no more than
that even at the most favorable season of the year. He was extremely
fortunate, coming from the country as he did, to find employment at all.
In view of these facts it will not be surprising that young Randolph,
brave boy as he was, looked upon the dreary prospect before him with a
heavy heart.
Bob Hunter realized fully the gravity of his friend's situation, and
this is why he urged the money upon him, wishing to keep up his courage,
and delicately refraining from touching upon the dark outlook ahead.
I wish I had the space to picture carefully all the rebuffs, the cold
treatment, and the discouragement that met our young hero on his daily
wanderings, seeking for some honest labor--anything that would furnish
him with the means to buy bread. But as I should not feel justified in
extending this story to such a length, I must content myself with a few
glimpses that will show the heroic struggle he made to sustain himself
during these dark, chilly, and cheerless days of winter.
"It's pretty tough, ain't it, Herbert?" said Bob, one night when they
were alone together in their room. He sought to lift the burden from his
friend's mind by drawing him into conversation.
"Yes," answered Herbert, mechanically.
This reply, so short, and given with so little expression, gave Bob a
feeling of uneasiness.
"I hope you ain't getting discouraged," he ventured next.
"No, nothing will discourage me now," replied young Randolph doggedly.
"But you hain't got no encouragement yet?"
"No, none whatever," was the gloomy answer.
"And you've been trying for three weeks to strike something?"
"Yes; it's nearer four weeks, and my shoes are worn out with walking."
"But you know I have some money for you, and you better take it and buy
you a new pair."
[Illustration: HERBERT RANDOLPH SHOVELING SNOW.]
"No, Bob, I will never take that except as a last resort. While I have
my health I shall not allow myself to accept charity. I am not afraid
to do any sort of work, and sooner or later I am confident that I shall
find employment. This morning I earned seventy five cents shoveling snow
from the stoops of houses. This sort of employment, however, is very
uncertain, as so little snow falls here; but there are other odd jobs to
be done, and I shall try and get my share of them."
"I didn't know you was doing that kind of work, Herbert," said Bob, with
a deep drawn sigh. "It ain't right for a boy with your learnin' to come
down to that."
"It's right for me to do anything temporarily to earn an honest penny.
One who is above work cannot hope to succeed. I am here, and I am going
to stay, and the best I can do is to do always the best I can, and the
best I can do just at present is to be a porter, an errand boy, a boy of
all work--ready for anything, and willing to do anything, always keeping
my eyes open for a chance to go a step higher.
"The trouble with me now, Bob, is that I started in too elegantly at
first. I commenced in a broker's office, when I should have started at
the bottom, in order to know anything about the first round of the
ladder. I'm at the bottom now, and it looks as if I would have to remain
there long enough to learn a good deal about that position."
"I'm glad you feel that way, Herbert, for I thought you was getting
discouraged," replied Bob, his face brightening up.
"I did feel utterly discouraged for the first two or three weeks;
but you know, Bob, one can get used to anything, and I have become
sufficiently accustomed to this miserable kind of work, and to the
beggarly pennies I earn from time to time, so that it is less cutting to
me than at first. I try to content myself with the belief that it will
be better by and by, though I get heartsick sometimes. It seems almost
useless to try farther for work in any well established business."
The foregoing will give a very slight idea of the struggle young
Randolph made to keep his head above water, and it presents a pretty
true picture of the difficulties a boy will ordinarily encounter in
attempting to make his way unaided in a great city like New York. Of
course difficulties vary in character and severity; but it would not
be safe for the average boy to expect to find less than those that
surrounded our hero. Some would be more fortunate, while others would be
less favored. Herbert Randolph was especially fortunate in meeting Bob
Hunter, whose friendship proved as true as steel. What would have become
of him while in the hands of old Gunwagner, but for Bob's effort to
rescue him? And, again, how could he have fought away despondency during
his enforced idleness had he lived by himself in a cold and cheerless
room? Brave and manly as he was, he owed much to his warm hearted
companion, whose presence and sympathy revived his drooping and almost
crushed spirits.
As the days passed by, Herbert Randolph turned his attention to the
most practical purposes. He almost entirely gave up looking for a steady
situation, and devoted his time to doing whatever odd jobs he could hit
upon that would bring him in a little money. Among the many kinds of
humble employment to which he bent his energies was that of working
the hoist. In New York the tall warehouses, those not supplied with an
elevator, have a windlass at the top, to which is attached a heavy rope,
that passes down through a wide opening to the ground floor. This rope,
with a large iron hook at the end, is attached to heavy cases, or
whatever is to be taken to any of the upper lofts. Another rope, passing
over a big wheel, when pulled turns the windlass. This winds the main
rope around it, and thus draws it up, taking with it its load, whatever
that may be. Perhaps no harder or less poetic work to an educated boy
could be found than this; yet Herbert Randolph did not hesitate to throw
off his coat, and work with an aching back and smarting hands as few
porters would do.
He worked faithfully and honestly, with no hope of reward other than the
money he would earn by his labor. And yet this very employment--this
humble porter work--opened up to him an opportunity of which he had
never dreamed--suggested to him an idea that he never before thought of.
It came about in this way. One day, after he had toiled for two hours or
so on the hoist, and had finished his work, he went up to the cashier to
get his money, as he had done many times before. A man with a satchel
strapped to his shoulder was just ahead of him.
"Good morning, Mr. Smith," said the man with the satchel, addressing the
cashier.
[Illustration: HERBERT RANDOLPH WORKING ON THE HOIST.]
"Good morning," responded the latter. "I am glad you came today, Mr.
Woodman, for we have an unusually large supply of stamps on hand."
"The market is very much overstocked at present," replied Woodman,
unslinging his satchel, and resting it on the desk. "I bought a thousand
dollars' worth of stamps yesterday from one party at five per cent off."
"Five per cent," repeated the cashier, arching his eyebrows.
"Yes, five per cent."
"And you expect to buy from us at that rate?"
"I wish I could pay you more, but my money is all tied up now--the
market is glutted, fairly glutted."
"I should think it would be, when you buy them in thousand dollar lots."
"Well, that does seem like a large amount of stamps, but I know of one
lot--a ten thousand dollar lot--that I could buy within an hour, if I
had the money to put into them."
"You could never get rid of so many, Woodman," said the cashier,
surprised at the broker's statement.
"Oh, yes, I could work them off sooner or later, and would get par for
most of them too."
"How do you do it?"
"I put them up in small lots of fifty cents and a dollar, and upwards,
and sell them to my customers. Of course, when I buy big lots I do a
little wholesaling, but I put away all I cannot sell at the time."
"They are sure to go sooner or later, I suppose," said the cashier.
"Oh, yes, sure to sell. During the summer months very few stamps come
into the market."
"And this gives you an opportunity to work off your surplus stock?"
"Yes."
"I presume you sell as a rule to stores and business offices."
"Yes; I have a regular line of customers who buy all of their stamps off
me--customers that I worked up myself."
"And they prefer buying of you to going to the post office for their
supply?"
"Certainly; for I give them just as good stamps, and by buying of me
they save themselves the trouble of going to the post office for them."
Herbert Randolph was waiting for his money, and overheard this
conversation between the cashier and the stamp broker. He made no effort
to hear it, for it did not relate to him. They spoke so loud, however,
that he caught every word distinctly, and before they had finished
talking the idea flashed across his mind that he would try his hand
at that business. Mr. Woodman, as good fortune willed it for young
Randolph, could take only a portion of the stamps the cashier wished to
dispose of. When the broker had completed his purchase and gone, Herbert
stepped up to the cashier for the money due him for working on the
hoist. Mr. Smith handed it to him cheerfully, with a pleasant remark,
which gave young Randolph an opportunity to talk with him about the
stamp brokerage idea that had set his brain on fire.
"How much capital have you?" asked the cashier, with growing interest.
"With the money you just paid me I have three dollars and seventy five
cents," answered Herbert, his face coloring.
The cashier smiled.
"And you think you could become a broker on that capital?" said he, with
mingled surprise and amusement.
"I think I could try it on that capital if you would sell me the
stamps," replied Herbert, with such intelligent assurance that he
interested the cashier.
"You can certainly have the stamps," answered the latter, "and I will
aid you in every way possible, but----" and there was an ominous pause,
as if thinking how he could best discourage the boy from such an
undertaking.
Herbert divined his thoughts, and said, "I know such an idea must seem
foolish to you, who handle so much money; but to me----"
"Yes, you may be right, young man," interrupted the cashier. "You
certainly interest me. I like ambition and pluck, and you evidently have
both. When would you like the stamps?"
"Thank you," said Herbert, in a tone that lent strength to his words.
"You may give them to me now, if you please--three dollars' worth. I may
need the seventy five cents before I succeed in selling any stamps."
"It is a wise precaution to avoid tying up all your capital in one
thing," laughed the cashier, while counting out the stamps. "They will
cost you two dollars and eighty five cents, at five per cent discount,
the same as I gave Mr. Woodman."
When the transaction had been completed, young Randolph left the office
hurriedly, anxious to learn what the possibilities of his new
undertaking were.
Ten times during that first day did he return to Mr. Smith for stamps,
and ten times was his supply exhausted by customers to whom he sold at
par--resulting in a profit of a dollar and fifty cents--an income that
to him was a small fortune.
That night Herbert Randolph joined Bob Hunter with brighter eyes and
more buoyant spirits than he had known since Mr. Goldwin's failure, now
nearly three months ago.