CHAPTER XVI
MARK'S FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Probably my readers already understand that the bookstore in which Mark has secured a place is the same in which Roswell Crawford is employed. This circumstance, if Mark had only known it, was likely to make his position considerably less desirable than it would otherwise have been. Mr. Baker, the proprietor of the store, was very considerate in his treatment of those in his employ, and Mr. Jones, his chief clerk, was good-natured and pleasant. But Roswell was very apt to be insolent and disagreeable to those who were, or whom he considered to be, in an inferior position to himself, while his lofty ideas of his own dignity and social position as the "son of a gentleman," made him not very desirable as a clerk. Still he had learned something from his bad luck thus far. He had been so long in getting his present place, that he felt it prudent to sacrifice his pride in some extent for the sake of retaining it. But if he could neglect his duties without attracting attention, he resolved to do it, feeling that six dollars was a beggarly salary for a young gentleman of his position and capacity. It was unfortunate for him, and a source of considerable annoyance, that he could get no one except his mother to assent to his own estimate of his abilities. Even his Cousin Gilbert, who had been Rockwell & Cooper's book-keeper before Richard Hunter succeeded to the position, did not conceal his poor opinion of Roswell; but this the latter attributed to prejudice, being persuaded in his own mind that his cousin was somewhat inclined to be envious of his superior abilities.
At the time that Mark was so suddenly engaged by Mr. Baker, Roswell had gone out to dinner. When he returned, Mark had gone out with the parcel to West Twenty-first Street. So they missed each other just at first.
"Well, Crawford," said Mr. Jones, as Roswell re-entered the store, "Mr. Baker has engaged a new boy."
"Has he? What sort of a fellow is he?"
"A little fellow. He doesn't look as if he was more than ten years old."
"Where is he?"
"Mr. Baker sent him on an errand to Twenty-first Street."
"Humph!" said Roswell, a little discontented, "I was going to recommend a friend of mine."
"There may be a chance yet. This boy may not suit."
In about five minutes Mr. Baker and Mr. Jones both went out to dinner. It was the middle of the day, when there is very little business, and it would not be difficult for Roswell to attend to any customers who might call.
As soon as he was left alone, Roswell got an interesting book from the shelves, and, sitting down in his employer's chair, began to read, though this was against the rules in business hours. To see the pompous air with which Roswell threw himself back in his chair, it might have been supposed that he was the proprietor of the establishment, though I believe it is true, as a general rule, that employers are not in the habit of putting on so many airs, unless the position is a new one, and they have not yet got over the new feeling of importance which it is apt to inspire at first.
While Roswell was thus engaged Mark returned from his errand.
He looked about him in some uncertainty on entering the store, not seeing either Mr. Baker or the chief clerk.
"Come here," said Roswell, in a tone of authority.
Mark walked up to the desk.
"So you are the new boy?" said Roswell, after a close scrutiny.
"Yes."
"It would be a little more polite to say 'Yes sir.'"
"Yes, sir."
"What is your age?"
"Ten years."
"Humph! You are rather young. If I had been consulted I should have said 'Get a boy of twelve years old.'"
"I hope I shall suit," said Mark.
"I hope so," said Roswell, patronizingly. "You will find us very easy to get along with if you do your duty. We were obliged to send away a boy this morning because he played instead of going on his errands at once."
Mark could not help wondering what was Roswell's position in the establishment. He talked as if he were one of the proprietors; but his youthful appearance made it difficult to suppose that.
"What is your name?" continued Roswell.
"Mark Manton."
"Have you been in any place before?"
"No, sir."
"Do you live with your parents?"
"My parents are dead."
"Then whom do you live with?"
"With my guardian."
"So you have a guardian?" said Roswell, a little surprised. "What is his name?"
"Mr. Hunter."
"Hunter!" repeated Roswell, hastily. "What is his first name?"
"Richard I believe."
"Dick Hunter!" exclaimed Roswell, scornfully, "Do you mean to say that he has charge of you?"
"Yes," said Mark, firmly, for he perceived the tone in which his friend was referred to, and resented it. Moreover the new expression which came over Roswell's face brought back to his recollection the evening when, for the first time in his life, he had begged in Fulton Market, and been scornfully repulsed by Roswell and his mother. Roswell's face had at first seemed familiar to him, but it was only now that he recognized him. Roswell, on the other hand, was not likely to identify the neatly dressed boy before him with the shivering little beggar of the market. But it recurred to him all at once that Dick had referred to his ward as a match boy.
"You were a match boy?" he said, in the manner of one making a grave accusation.
"Yes, sir."
"Then why didn't you keep on selling matches, and not try to get a place in a respectable store?"
"Because Mr. Hunter thought it better for me to go into a store."
"Mr. Hunter! Perhaps you don't know that your guardian, as you call him, used to be a boot-black."
"Yes, he told me so."
"They called him 'Ragged Dick' then," said Roswell, turning up his nose. "He couldn't read or write, I believe."
"He's a good scholar now," said Mark.
"Humph! I suppose he told you so. But you mustn't believe all he tells you."
"He wouldn't tell anything but the truth," said Mark, who was bolder in behalf of his friend than he would have been for himself.
"So he did tell you he was a good scholar? I thought so."
"No, he told me nothing about it; but since I have lived with him I've heard him read French as well as English."
"Perhaps that isn't saying much," said Roswell, with a sneer. "Can you read yourself?"
"Yes."
"That is more than I expected. What induced Mr. Baker to take a boy from the street is more than I can tell."
"I suppose I can run errands just as well, if I was once a match boy," said Mark, who did not fancy the tone which Roswell assumed towards him, and began to doubt whether he was a person of as much importance as he at first supposed.
"We shall see," said Roswell, loftily. "But there's one thing I'll advise you, young man, and that is, to treat me with proper respect. You'll find it best to keep friends with me. I can get you turned away any time."
Mark hardly knew whether to believe this or not. He already began to suspect that Roswell was something of a humbug, and though it was not in his nature to form a causeless dislike, he certainly did not feel disposed to like Roswell. He did not care as much for any slighting remarks upon himself, as for the scorn with which Roswell saw fit to speak of his friend, Richard Hunter, who by his good offices had won the little boy's lasting gratitude. Mark did not reply to the threat contained in these last words of Roswell.
"Is there anything for me to do?" he asked.
"Yes, you may dust off those books on the counter. There's the duster hanging up."
This was really Roswell's business, and he ought to have been at work in this way instead of reading; but it was characteristic of him to shift his duties upon others. He was not aware of how much time had passed, and supposed that Mark would be through before Mr. Barker returned. But that gentleman came in while Roswell was busily engaged in reading.
"Is that the way you do your work, Roswell?" asked his employer.
Roswell jumped to his feet in some confusion.
"I thought I had better set the new boy to work," he said.
"Dusting the books is your work, not his."
"He was doing nothing, sir."
"He will have plenty to do in carrying out parcels. Besides, I don't know that it is any worse for him to be idle than you. You were reading also, which you know is against the rules of the store." Roswell made no reply, but it hurt his pride considerably to be censured thus in presence of Mark, to whom he had spoken with such an assumption of power and patronage.
"I wish I had a store of my own," he thought, discontentedly. "Then I could do as I pleased without having anybody to interfere with me."
But Roswell did not understand, and there are plenty of boys in the same state of ignorance, that those who fill subordinate positions acceptably are most likely to rise to stations where they will themselves have control over others.
"I suppose you have not been to dinner," said Mr. Baker, turning to Mark.
"No, sir."
"You board in St. Mark's Place, I think you said?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, here is a parcel to go to East Ninth Street. You may call and leave that at the address marked upon it, and may stay out long enough for dinner. But don't be gone more than an hour in all."
"No, sir."
"I am glad that boy isn't my employer," thought Mark, referring of course to Roswell Crawford, who, by the way, would have been indignant at such an appellation. "I like Mr. Baker a great deal better."
Mark was punctual to his appointment, and in a little less than an hour reported himself at the store again for duty.
CHAPTER XVII
BAD ADVICE
Roswell pursued his way home with a general sense of discontent. Why should he be so much worse off than Richard Hunter, who had only been a ragged boot-black three years before? The whole world seemed to be in a conspiracy to advance Richard, and to keep him down. To think he should be only earning six dollars a week, while Dick, whom he considered so far beneath him, was receiving twenty, was really outrageous. And now he had pushed a low dependent of his into Baker's store where Roswell was obliged to associate with him!
Certainly Roswell's grievances were numerous. But there was one thing he did not understand, that the greatest obstacle to his advancement was himself. If he had entered any situation with the determination to make his services valuable, and discharge his duties, whatever they might be, with conscientious fidelity, he would have found his relations with his employer much more agreeable and satisfactory.
Mrs. Crawford still kept the house in Clinton Place, letting nearly all the rooms to lodgers. In this way she succeeded in making both ends meet, though with considerable difficulty, so that she had not the means to supply Roswell with the spending money he desired. Her nephew, James Gilbert, Richard Huntley's predecessor as book-keeper, still boarded with her. It will be remembered by the readers of "Fame and Fortune," that this Gilbert, on being questioned by Mr. Rockwell as to his share in the plot against Dick, had angrily resigned his position, thinking, probably, that he should lose it at any rate.
It so happened that business was generally depressed at this time, and it was three months before he succeeded in obtaining another place, and then he was compelled to work for eight hundred dollars, or two hundred less than he had formerly received. This was a great disappointment to him, and did not help his temper much, which had never been very sweet. He felt quite exasperated against Dick, whom, very much against his wishes, he had seen the means of promoting to his own place. Indeed, on this point, he sympathized heartily with Roswell, whose dislike to Richard Hunter has already been shown.
"Well, mother," said Roswell, as he entered Mrs. Crawford's presence, "I'm getting tired of Baker's store."
"Don't say so, Roswell," said his mother, in alarm. "Remember how long it took you to get the place."
"I have to work like a dog for six dollars a week," said Roswell.
"Yes," said his cousin, with a sneer, "that's precisely the way you work. Dogs spend their time running round the street doing nothing."
"Well, I have to work hard enough," said Roswell, "but I wouldn't mind that so much, if I didn't have to associate with low match boys."
"What do you mean, Roswell?" asked his mother, who did not understand the allusion.
"Baker hired a new boy to-day, and who do you think he turns out to be?"
"Not that boy, Ragged Dick?"
"No, you don't think he would give up Cousin James' place, where he gets a thousand dollars a year, to go into Baker's as boy?"
"Who was it, then?"
"He used to be a ragged match boy about the streets. Dick Hunter picked him up somewhere, and got him a situation in our store, on purpose to spite me, I expect."
As the reader is aware, Roswell was mistaken in his supposition, as Mark obtained the place on his own responsibility.
"The boot-black seems to be putting on airs," said Mrs. Crawford.
"Yes, he pretends to be the guardian of this match boy."
"What's the boy's name?"
"Mark Manton."
"If I were Mr. Baker," said Mrs. Crawford, "I should be afraid to take a street boy into my employ. Very likely he isn't honest."
"I wish he would steal something," said Roswell, not very charitably. "Then we could get rid of him, and the boot-black would be pretty well mortified about it."
"He'll be found out sooner or later," said Mrs. Crawford. "You may depend on that. You'd better keep a sharp lookout for him, Roswell. If you catch him in stealing, it will help you with Mr. Baker, or ought to."
This would have comforted Roswell more, but that he was privately of opinion that Mark was honest, and would not be likely to give him any chance of detecting him in stealing. Still, by a little management on his part, he might cause him to fall under suspicion. It would of course be miserably mean on his part to implicate a little boy in a false charge; but Roswell was a mean boy, and he was not scrupulous where his dislike was concerned. He privately decided to think over this new plan for getting Mark into trouble.
"Isn't dinner ready, mother?" he asked, rather impatiently.
"It will be in about ten minutes."
"I'm as hungry as a bear."
"You can always do your part at the table," said his cousin unpleasantly.
"I don't know why I shouldn't. I have to work hard enough."
"You are always talking about your hard work. My belief is that you don't earn your wages."
"I should think it was a pity if I didn't earn six dollars a week," said Roswell.
"Come, James, you're always hard on Roswell," said Mrs. Crawford. "I am sure he has hard times enough without his own relations turning against him."
James Gilbert did not reply. He was naturally of a sarcastic turn, and, seeing Roswell's faults, was not inclined to spare them. He might have pointed them out, however, in a kindly manner, and then his young cousin might possibly been benefited; but Gilbert felt very little interest in Roswell.
Immediately after dinner Roswell took up his cap. His mother observed this, and inquired, "Where are you going, Roswell?"
"I'm going out to walk."
"Why don't you go with your cousin?"
James Gilbert had also taken his hat.
"He don't want to be bothered with me," said Roswell, and this statement Gilbert did not take the trouble to contradict.
"Why can't you stay in and read?"
"I haven't got anything to read. Besides I've been cooped up in the store all day, and I want to breathe a little fresh air."
There was reason in this, and his mother did not gainsay it, but still she felt that it was not quite safe for a boy to spend his evenings out in a large city, without any one to look after him.
Roswell crossed Broadway, and, proceeding down Eighth Street, met a boy of about his own age in front of the Cooper Institute.
"How long have you been waiting, Ralph?" he asked.
"Not long. I only just came up."
"I couldn't get away as soon as I expected. Dinner was rather late."
"Have a cigar, Roswell?" asked Ralph.
"Yes," said Roswell, "I don't mind."
"You'll find these cigars pretty good. I paid ten cents apiece."
"I don't see how you can afford it," said Roswell. "Your cigars must cost you considerable."
"I don't always buy ten-centers. Generally I pay only five cents."
"Well, that mounts up when you smoke three or four in a day. Let me see, what wages do you get?"
"Seven dollars a week."
"That's only a dollar more than I get," said Roswell.
"I know one thing, it's miserably small," said Ralph. "We ought to get twice what we do."
"These shop-keepers are awfully mean," said Roswell, beginning to puff away at his cigar.
"That's so."
"But still you always seem to have plenty of money. That's what puzzles me," said Roswell. "I'm always pinched. I have to pay my mother all my wages but a dollar a week. And what's a dollar?" he repeated, scornfully.
"Well," said Ralph, "my board costs me all but a dollar. So we are about even there."
"Do you pay your board out of your earnings?"
"I have to. My governor won't foot the bills, so I have to."
"Still you seem to have plenty of money," persisted Roswell.
"Yes, I look out for that," said Ralph Graham, significantly.
"But I don't see how you manage. I might look out all day, and I wouldn't be any the better off."
"Perhaps you don't go the right way to work," said his companion, taking the cigar from his mouth, and knocking off the ashes.
"Then I wish you'd tell me the right way."
"Why, the fact is," said Ralph, slowly, "I make my employer pay me higher wages than he thinks he does."
"I don't see how you can do that," said Roswell, who didn't yet understand.
Ralph took the cigar, now nearly smoked out, from his mouth, and threw it on the pavement. He bent towards Roswell, and whispered something in his ear. Roswell started and turned pale.
"But," he said, "that's dishonest."
"Hush!" said Ralph, "don't speak so loud. Oughtn't employers to pay fair wages, – tell me that?"
"Certainly."
"But if they don't and won't, what then?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I do. We must help ourselves, that is all."
"But," said Roswell, "what would be thought of you if it were found out?"
"There's plenty of clerks that do it. Bless you, it's expected. I heard a man say once that he expected to lose about so much by his clerks."
"But I think it would be better to pay good wages."
"So do I, only you see they won't do it."
"How much do you – do you make outside of your salary?" asked Roswell.
"From three to five dollars a week."
"I should think they'd find you out."
"I don't let them. I'm pretty careful. Well, what shall we do this evening? There's a pretty good play at Niblo's. Suppose we go there."
"I haven't got money enough," said Roswell.
"Well, I'll pay for both to-night. You can pay another time."
"All right!" said Roswell, though he did not know when he should have money enough to return the favor. They crossed to Broadway, and walked leisurely to Niblo's Garden. The performance lasted till late, and it was after eleven when Roswell Crawford got into bed.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE FIRST STEP
To do Roswell Crawford justice, the idea of taking money from his employer had never occurred to him until the day when it was suggested to him by Ralph Graham. The suggestion came to him at an unfortunate time. He had always felt with a sense of bitter injustice that his services were poorly compensated, and that his employer was making money out of him. Yet he knew very well that there was no chance of an advance. Besides, he really felt the need of more money to keep up appearances equal to Ralph Graham, and some other not very creditable acquaintances that he had managed to pick up. So Roswell allowed Ralph's suggestion to recur to his mind with dangerous frequency. He was getting familiar with what had at first startled and shocked him.
But it was not at once that he brought his mind to the point. He was not possessed of much courage, and could not help fearing that he would get himself into a scrape. It needed a little more urging on the part of Ralph.
"Well, Roswell," said Ralph, a few evenings after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, "when are you going to take me to the theatre?"
"I didn't know I was going to take you at all," said Roswell.
"Come, there's no use in crawling off that way. Didn't I take you to Niblo's last week?"
"Yes."
"And didn't you promise to take me some night in return?"
"I should like to do it well enough," said Roswell, "but I never have any money."
"You might have some if you chose."
"The way you mentioned?"
"Yes."
"I don't like to try it."
"Then you are foolish. It's what half the clerks do. They have to."
"Do you think many do it?" said Roswell, irresolutely.
"To be sure they do," said Ralph, confidently.
"But I am sure it would be found out."
"Not if you're careful."
"I shouldn't know how to go about it."
"Then I'll tell you. You're in the store alone some of the time, I suppose."
"Yes, when Mr. Baker and Mr. Jones are gone to dinner."
"Where is the money kept?"
"There are two drawers. The one that has the most money in it is kept locked, and Mr. Baker carries away the key with him. He leaves a few dollars in another drawer, but nothing could be taken from that drawer without being missed."
"Does he keep much money in the first drawer?"
"I expect so."
"Then," said Ralph, promptly, "you must manage to get into that."
"But how am I to do it?" asked Roswell. "Didn't I tell you that it was kept locked, and that Mr. Baker took the key?"
"I can't say you are very smart. Roswell," said Ralph, a little contemptuously.
"Tell me what you mean, then."
"What is easier than to get a key made that will fit the drawer? All you'll have to do is to take an impression of the lock with sealing-wax, and carry it to a locksmith. He'll make you a key for two shillings."
"I don't know," said Roswell, undecidedly. "I don't quite like to do it."
"Do just as you please," said Ralph; "only if I carry you to the theatre I expect you to return the compliment."
"Well, I'll think of it," said Roswell.
"There is another way you can do," suggested Ralph, who was full of evil suggestions, and was perhaps the most dangerous counsellor that Roswell could have had at this time.
"What is it?"
"If you make any sales while you are alone you might forget to put the money into the drawer."
"Yes, I might do that."
"And ten to one Baker would never suspect. Of course he doesn't know every book he has in his store or the exact amount of stationery he keeps on hand."
"No, I suppose not."
"You might begin that way. There couldn't be any danger of detection."
This suggestion struck Roswell more favorably than the first, as it seemed safer. Without giving any decided answer, he suffered the thought to sink into his mind, and occupy his thoughts.
The next day when about the middle of the day Roswell found himself alone, a customer came in and bought a package of envelopes, paying twenty-five cents.
With a half-guilty feeling Roswell put this sum into his pocket.
"Mr. Baker will never miss a package of envelopes," he thought.
He sold two or three other articles, but the money received for these he put into the drawer. He did not dare to take too much at first. Indeed, he took a little credit to himself, so strangely had his ideas of honesty got warped, for not taking more when he might have done so as well as not.
Mr. Baker returned, and nothing was said. As might have been expected, he did not miss the small sum which Roswell had appropriated.
That evening Roswell bought a couple of cigars with the money he had stolen (we might as well call things by their right names), and treated Ralph to one.
"There's a splendid play on at Wallack's," said he, suggestively.
"Perhaps we'll go to-morrow evening," said Roswell.
"That's the way to talk," said Ralph, looking keenly at Roswell. "Is there anything new with you?"
"Not particularly," said Roswell, coloring a little, for he did not care to own what he had done to his companion, though it was from him that he had received the advice.
The next day when Roswell was again alone, a lady entered the shop.
"Have you got La Fontaine's Fables in English?" she asked. "I have asked at half a dozen stores, but I can't find it. I am afraid it is out of print."
"Yes, I believe we have it," said Roswell.
He remembered one day when he was looking for a book he wanted to read, that he had come across a shop-worn copy of La Fontaine's Fables. It was on a back shelf, in an out of-the-way place. He looked for it, and found his memory had served him correctly.
"Here it is," he said, handing it down.
"I am very glad to get it," said the lady. "How much will it be?"
"The regular price is a dollar and a quarter, but as this is a little shop-worn you may have it for a dollar."
"Very well."
The lady drew out a dollar bill from her purse, and handed it to Roswell.
He held it in his hand till she was fairly out of the door. Then the thought came into his mind, "Why should I not keep this money? Mr. Baker would never know. Probably he has quite forgotten that such a book was in his stock."
Besides, as the price of a ticket to the family circle at Wallack's was only thirty cents, this sum would carry in him and his friend, and there would be enough left for an ice-cream after they had got through.
The temptation was too much for poor Roswell I call him poor, because I pity any boy who foolishly yields to such a temptation for the sake of a temporary gratification.
Roswell put the money into his vest-pocket, and shortly afterwards Mr. Baker returned to the store.
"Have you sold anything, Roswell?" he inquired, on entering.
"Yes, sir. I have sold a slate, a quire of notepaper, and one of Oliver Optic's books."
Roswell showed Mr. Baker the slate, on which, as required by his employer, he had kept a record of sales.
Mr. Baker made no remark, but appeared to think all was right.
So the afternoon passed away without any incident worthy of mention.
In the evening Roswell met Ralph Graham, as he had got into the habit of doing.
"Well, Roswell, I feel just like going to the theatre to-night," were his first words of salutation.
"Well, we'll go," said Roswell.
"Good! You've got money to buy the tickets, then?"
"Yes," said Roswell, with an air of importance. "What's the play?"
"It's a London play that's had a great run. Tom Hastings tells me it is splendid. You take me there to night, and I'll take you to the New York Circus some evening next week."
This arrangement was very satisfactory to Roswell, who had never visited the circus, and had a great desire to do so. At an early hour the boys went to the theatre, and succeeded in obtaining front seats in the family circle. Roswell managed to enjoy the play, although unpleasant thoughts of how the money was obtained by which the tickets were procured, would occasionally intrude upon him. But the fascination of the stage kept them from troubling him much.
When the performance was over, he suggested an ice-cream.
"With all my heart," said Ralph. "I feel warm and thirsty, and an ice-cream will cool my throat."
So they adjourned to a confectionery establishment nearly opposite, and Roswell, with an air of importance, called for the creams. They sat leisurely over them, and it was nearly half past eleven when Roswell got home.
"What keeps you out so late, Roswell?" asked his mother, anxiously, for she was still up.
"I was at the theatre," said Roswell.
"Where did you get the money?"
"It's only thirty cents to the family circle," said Roswell, carelessly. "I'm tired, and will go right up to bed."
So he closed the discussion, not caring to answer many inquiries as to his evening's amusement. His outlay for tickets and for the ice-cream afterwards had just used up the money he had stolen, and all that he had to compensate for the loss of his integrity was a headache, occasioned by late hours, and the warm and confined atmosphere at the theatre.