XX
PAUL OBTAINS A SITUATION
The month after Paul Prescott succeeded in reaching the head of his class, George Dawkins exerted himself to rise above him. He studied better than usual, and proved in truth a formidable rival. But Paul’s spirit was roused. He resolved to maintain his position if possible. He had now become accustomed to study, and it cost him less effort. When the end of the month came, there was considerable speculation in the minds of the boys as to the result of the rivalry. The majority had faith in Paul, but there were some who, remembering how long Dawkins had been at the head of the class, thought he would easily regain his lost rank.
The eventful day, the first of the month, at length came, and the class-list was read.
Paul Prescott ranked first.
George Dawkins ranked second.
A flush spread over the pale face of Dawkins, and he darted a malignant glance at Paul, who was naturally pleased at having retained his rank.
Dawkins had his satellites. One of these came to him at recess, and expressed his regret that Dawkins had failed of success.
Dawkins repelled the sympathy with cold disdain.
“What do you suppose I care for the head of the class?” he demanded, haughtily.
“I thought you had been studying for it.”
“Then you thought wrong. Let the sexton’s son have it, if he wants it. It would be of no use to me, as I leave this school at the end of the week.”
“Leave school!”
The boys gathered about Dawkins, curiously.
“Is it really so, Dawkins?” they inquired.
“Yes,” said Dawkins, with an air of importance; “I shall go to a private school, where the advantages are greater than here. My father does not wish me to attend a public school any longer.”
This statement was made on the spur of the moment, to cover the mortification which his defeat had occasioned him. It proved true, however. On his return home, Dawkins succeeded in persuading his father to transfer him to a private school, and he took away his books at the end of the week. Had he recovered his lost rank there is no doubt that he would have remained.
Truth to tell, there were few who mourned much for the departure of George Dawkins. He had never been a favorite. His imperious temper and arrogance rendered this impossible.
After he left school, Paul saw little of him for two or three years. At their first encounter Paul bowed and spoke pleasantly, but Dawkins looked superciliously at him without appearing to know him.
Paul’s face flushed proudly, and afterwards he abstained from making advances which were likely to be repulsed. He had too much self-respect to submit voluntarily to such slights.
Meanwhile Paul’s school life fled rapidly. It was a happy time,—happy in its freedom from care, and happy for him, though all school boys do not appreciate that consideration, in the opportunities for improvement which it afforded. These opportunities, it is only just to Paul to say, were fully improved. He left school with an enviable reputation, and with the good wishes of his schoolmates and teachers.
Paul was now sixteen years old, a stout, handsome boy, with a frank, open countenance, and a general air of health which formed quite a contrast to the appearance he presented when he left the hospitable mansion which Mr. Nicholas Mudge kept open at the public expense.
Paul was now very desirous of procuring a situation. He felt that it was time he was doing something for himself. He was ambitious to relieve the kind sexton and his wife of some portion, at least, of the burden of his support.
Besides, there was the legacy of debt which his father had bequeathed him. Never for a moment had Paul forgotten it. Never for a moment had he faltered in his determination to liquidate it at whatever sacrifice to himself.
“My father’s name shall be cleared,” he said to himself, proudly. “Neither Squire Conant nor any one else shall have it in his power to cast reproach upon his memory.”
The sexton applauded his purpose.
“You are quite right, Paul,” he said. “But you need not feel in haste. Obtain your education first, and the money will come by-and-by. As long as you repay the amount, principal and interest, you will have done all that you are in honor bound to do. Squire Conant, as I understand from you, is a rich man, so that he will experience no hardship in waiting.”
Paul was now solicitous about a place. The sexton had little influence, so that he must depend mainly upon his own inquiries.
He went into the reading-room of the Astor House every day to look over the advertised wants in the daily papers. Every day he noted down some addresses, and presented himself as an applicant for a position. Generally, however, he found that some one else had been before him.
One day his attention was drawn to the following advertisement.
“WANTED. A smart, active, wide-awake boy, of sixteen or seventeen, in a retail dry-goods store. Apply immediately at—Broadway.”
Paul walked up to the address mentioned. Over the door he read, “Smith & Thompson.” This, then, was the firm that had advertised.
The store ran back some distance. There appeared to be six or eight clerks in attendance upon quite a respectable number of customers.
“Is Mr. Smith in?” inquired Paul, of the nearest clerk.
“You’ll find him at the lower end of the store. How many yards, ma’am?”
This last was of course addressed to a customer.
Paul made his way, as directed, to the lower end of the store.
A short, wiry, nervous man was writing at a desk.
“Is Mr. Smith in?” asked Paul.
“My name; what can I do for you?” said the short man, crisply.
“I saw an advertisement in the Tribune for a boy.”
“And you have applied for the situation?” said Mr. Smith.
“Yes, sir.”
“How old are you?” with a rapid glance at our hero.
“Sixteen—nearly seventeen.”
“I suppose that means that you will be seventeen in eleven months and a half.”
“No, sir,” said Paul, “I shall be seventeen in three months.”
“All right. Most boys call themselves a year older. What’s your name?”
“Paul Prescott.”
“P. P. Any relation to Fanny Fern?”
“No, sir,” said Paul, rather astonished.
“Didn’t know but you might be. P. P. and F. F. Where do you live?”
Paul mentioned the street and number.
“That’s well, you are near by,” said Mr. Smith. “Now, are you afraid of work?”
“No sir,” said Paul, smiling, “not much.”
“Well, that’s important; how much wages do you expect?”
“I suppose,” said Paul, hesitating, “I couldn’t expect very much at first.”
“Of course not; green, you know. What do you say to a dollar a week?”
“A dollar a week!” exclaimed Paul, in dismay, “I hoped to get enough to pay for my board.”
“Nonsense. There are plenty of boys glad enough to come for a dollar a week. At first, you know. But I’ll stretch a point with you, and offer you a dollar and a quarter. What do you say?”
“How soon could I expect to have my wages advanced?” inquired our hero, with considerable anxiety.
“Well,” said Smith, “at the end of a month or two.”
“I’ll go home and speak to my uncle about it,” said Paul, feeling undecided.
“Can’t keep the place open for you. Ah, there’s another boy at the door.”
“I’ll accept,” said Paul, jumping to a decision. He had applied in so many different quarters without success, that he could not make up his mind to throw away this chance, poor as it seemed.
“When shall I come?”
“Come to-morrow.”
“At what time, sir?”
“At seven o’clock.”
This seemed rather early. However, Paul was prepared to expect some discomforts, and signified that he would come.
As he turned to go away, another boy passed him, probably bent on the same errand with himself.
Paul hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. He had expected at least three dollars a week, and the descent to a dollar and a quarter was rather disheartening. Still, he was encouraged by the promise of a rise at the end of a month or two,—so on the whole he went home cheerful.
“Well, Paul, what luck to-day?” asked Mr. Cameron, who had just got home as Paul entered.
“I’ve got a place, Uncle Hugh.”
“You have,—where?”
“With Smith & Thompson, No.—Broadway.”
“What sort of a store? I don’t remember the name.”
“It is a retail dry-goods store.”
“Did you like the looks of your future employer?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul, hesitating, “He looked as if he might be a pretty sharp man in business, but I have seen others that I would rather work for. However, beggars mustn’t be choosers. But there was one thing I was disappointed about.”
“What was that, Paul?”
“About the wages.”
“How much will they give you?”
“Only a dollar and a quarter a week, at first.”
“That is small, to be sure.”
“The most I think of, Uncle Hugh, is, that I shall still be an expense to you. I hoped to get enough to be able to pay my board from the first.”
“My dear boy,” said the sexton, kindly, “don’t trouble yourself on that score. It costs little more for three than for two, and the little I expend on your account is richly made up by the satisfaction we feel in your society, and your good conduct.”
“You say that to encourage me, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul. “You have done all for me. I have done nothing for you.”
“No, Paul, I spoke the truth. Hester and I have both been happier since you came to us. We hope you will long remain with us. You are already as dear to us as the son that we lost.”
“Thank you, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, in a voice tremulous with feeling. “I will do all I can to deserve your kindness.”
XXI
SMITH AND THOMPSON’S YOUNG MAN
At seven o’clock the next morning Paul stood before Smith & Thompson’s store.
As he came up on one side, another boy came down on the other, and crossed the street.
“Are you the new boy?” he asked, surveying Paul attentively.
“I suppose so,” said Paul. “I’ve engaged to work for Smith & Thompson.”
“All right. I’m glad to see you,” said the other.
This looked kind, and Paul thanked him for his welcome.
“O.” said the other, bursting into a laugh, “you needn’t trouble yourself about thanking me. I’m glad you’ve come, because now I shan’t have to open the store and sweep out. Just lend a hand there; I’ll help you about taking down the shutters this morning, and to-morrow you’ll have to get along alone.”
The two boys opened the store.
“What’s your name?” asked Paul’s new acquaintance.
“Paul Prescott. What is yours?”
“Nicholas Benton. You may call me MR. Benton.”
“Mr. Benton?” repeated Paul in some astonishment.
“Yes; I’m a young man now. I’ve been Smith & Thompson’s boy till now. Now I’m promoted.”
Paul looked at MR. Benton with some amusement. That young man was somewhat shorter than himself, and sole proprietor of a stock of pale yellow hair which required an abundant stock of bear’s grease to keep it in order. His face was freckled and expressionless. His eyebrows and eyelashes were of the same faded color. He was dressed, however, with some pretensions to smartness. He wore a blue necktie, of large dimensions, fastened by an enormous breast-pin, which, in its already tarnished splendor, suggested strong doubts as to the apparent gold being genuine.
“There’s the broom, Paul,” said Mr. Benton, assuming a graceful position on the counter.
“You’ll have to sweep out; only look sharp about raising a dust, or Smith’ll be into your wool.”
“What sort of a man is Mr. Smith?” asked Paul, with some curiosity.
“O, he’s an out and outer. Sharp as a steel trap. He’ll make you toe the mark.”
“Do you like him?” asked Paul, not quite sure whether he understood his employer’s character from the description.
“I don’t like him well enough to advise any of my folks to trade with him,” said Mr. Benton.
“Why not?”
“He’d cheat ‘em out of their eye teeth if they happened to have any,” said the young man coolly, beginning to pick his teeth with a knife.
Paul began to doubt whether he should like Mr. Smith.
“I say,” said Mr. Benton after a pause, “have you begun to shave yet?”
Paul looked up to see if his companion were in earnest.
“No,” said he; “I haven’t got along as far as that. Have you?”
“I,” repeated the young man, a little contemptuously, “of course I have. I’ve shaved for a year and a half.”
“Do you find it hard shaving?” asked Paul, a little slyly.
“Well, my beard is rather stiff,” said the late BOY, with an important air, “but I’ve got used to it.”
“Ain’t you rather young to shave, Nicholas?” asked Paul.
“Mr. Benton, if you please.”
“I mean, Mr. Benton.”
“Perhaps I was when I begun. But now I am nineteen.”
“Nineteen?”
“Yes, that is to say, I’m within a few months of being nineteen. What do you think of my moustache?”
“I hadn’t noticed it.”
“The store’s rather dark,” muttered Mr. Benton, who seemed a little annoyed by this answer. “If you’ll come a little nearer you can see it.”
Drawing near, Paul, after some trouble, descried a few scattering hairs.
“Yes,” said he, wanting to laugh, “I see it.”
“Coming on finely, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Nicholas Benton, complacently.
“Yes,” said Paul, rather doubtfully.
“I don’t mind letting you into a secret,” said Benton, affably, “if you won’t mention it. I’ve been using some of the six weeks’ stuff.”
“The what?” asked Paul, opening his eyes.
“Haven’t you heard of it?” inquired Benton, a little contemptuously. “Where have you been living all your life? Haven’t you seen it advertised,—warranted to produce a full set of whiskers or moustaches upon the smoothest face, etc. I got some a week ago, only a dollar. Five weeks from now you’ll see something that’ll astonish you.”
Paul was not a little amused by his new companion, and would have laughed, but that he feared to offend him.
“You’d better get some,” said Mr. Benton. “I’ll let you just try mine once, if you want to.”
“Thank you,” said Paul; “I don’t think I want to have a moustache just yet.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Being a boy, perhaps it wouldn’t be advisable.”
“When does Mr. Smith come in?”
“Not till nine.”
“And the other clerks?”
“About eight o’clock. I shan’t come till eight, to-morrow morning.”
“There’s one thing I should like to ask you,” said Paul. “Of course you won’t answer unless you like.”
“Out with it.”
“How much does Mr. Smith pay you?”
“Ahem!” said Benton, “what does he pay you?”
“A dollar and a quarter a week.”
“He paid me a dollar and a half to begin with.”
“Did he? He wanted me to come first at a dollar.”
“Just like him. Didn’t I tell you he was an out and outer? He’ll be sure to take you in if you will let him.”
“But,” said Paul, anxiously, “he said he’d raise it in a month or two.”
“He won’t offer to; you’ll have to tease him. And then how much’ll he raise it? Not more than a quarter. How much do you think I get now?”
“How long have you been here?”
“A year and a half.”
“Five dollars a week,” guessed Paul.
“Five! he only gives me two and a half. That is, he hasn’t been paying me but that. Now, of course, he’ll raise, as I’ve been promoted.”
“How much do you expect to get now?”
“Maybe four dollars, and I’m worth ten any day. He’s a mean old skinflint, Smith is.”
This glimpse at his own prospects did not tend to make Paul feel very comfortable. He could not repress a sigh of disappointment when he thought of this mortifying termination of all his brilliant prospects. He had long nourished the hope of being able to repay the good sexton for his outlay in his behalf, besides discharging the debt which his father had left behind him. Now there seemed to be little prospect of either. He had half a mind to resign his place immediately upon the entrance of Mr. Smith, but two considerations dissuaded him; one, that the sum which he was to receive, though small, would at least buy his clothes, and besides, he was not at all certain of obtaining another situation.
With a sigh, therefore, he went about his duties.
He had scarcely got the store ready when some of the clerks entered, and the business of the day commenced. At nine Mr. Smith appeared.
“So you’re here, Peter,” remarked he, as he caught sight of our hero.
“Paul,” corrected the owner of that name.
“Well, well, Peter or Paul, don’t make much difference. Both were apostles, if I remember right. All ready for work, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul, neither very briskly nor cheerfully.
“Well,” said Mr. Smith, after a pause, “I guess I’ll put you into the calico department. Williams, you may take him under your wing. And now Peter,—all the same, Paul,—I’ve got a word or two to say to you, as I always do to every boy who comes into my store. Don’t forget what you’re here for? It’s to sell goods. Take care to sell something to every man, woman, and child, that comes in your way. That’s the way to do business. Follow it up, and you’ll be a rich man some day.”
“But suppose they don’t want anything?” said Paul.
“Make ‘em want something,” returned Smith, “Don’t let ‘em off without buying. That’s my motto. However, you’ll learn.”
Smith bustled off, and began in his nervous way to exercise a general supervision over all that was going on in the store. He seemed to be all eyes. While apparently entirely occupied in waiting upon a customer, he took notice of all the customers in the store, and could tell what they bought, and how much they paid.
Paul listened attentively to the clerk under whom he was placed for instruction.
“What’s the price of this calico?” inquired a common-looking woman.
“A shilling a yard, ma’am,” (this was not in war times.)
“It looks rather coarse.”
“Coarse, ma’am! What can you be thinking of? It is a superfine piece of goods. We sell more of it than of any other figure. The mayor’s wife was in here yesterday, and bought two dress patterns off of it.”
“Did she?” asked the woman, who appeared favorably impressed by this circumstance.
“Yes, and she promised to send her friends here after some of it. You’d better take it while you can get it.”
“Will it wash?”
“To be sure it will.”
“Then I guess you may cut me off ten yards.”
This was quickly done, and the woman departed with her purchase.
Five minutes later, another woman entered with a bundle of the same figured calico.
Seeing her coming, Williams hastily slipped the remnant of the piece out of sight.
“I got this calico here,” said the newcomer, “one day last week. You warranted it to wash, but I find it won’t. Here’s a piece I’ve tried.”
She showed a pattern, which had a faded look.
“You’ve come to the wrong store,” said Williams, coolly. “You must have got the calico somewhere else.”
“No, I’m sure I got it here. I remember particularly buying it of you.”
“You’ve got a better memory than I have, then. We haven’t got a piece of calico like that in the store.”
Paul listened to this assertion with unutterable surprise.
“I am quite certain I bought it here,” said the woman, perplexed.
“Must have been the next store,—Blake & Hastings. Better go over there.”
The woman went out.
“That’s the way to do business,” said Williams, winking at Paul.
Paul said nothing, but he felt more than ever doubtful about retaining his place.
XXII
MR. BENTON’S ADVENTURE
One evening, about a fortnight after his entrance into Smith & Thompson’s employment, Paul was putting up the shutters, the business of the day being over. It devolved upon him to open and close the store, and usually he was the last one to go home.
This evening, however, Mr. Nicholas Benton graciously remained behind and assisted Paul in closing the store. This was unusual, and surprised Paul a little. It was soon explained, however.
“Good-night, Nicholas,—I mean, Mr. Benton,” said Paul.
“Not quite yet. I want you to walk a little way with me this evening.”
Paul hesitated.
“Come, no backing out. I want to confide to you a very important secret.”
He looked so mysterious that Paul’s curiosity was aroused, and reflecting that it was yet early, he took his companion’s proffered arm, and sauntered along by his side.
“What’s the secret?” he asked at length, perceiving that Nicholas was silent.
“Wait till we get to a more retired place.”
He turned out of Broadway into a side street, where the passers were less numerous.
“I don’t think you could guess,” said the young man, turning towards our hero.
“I don’t think I could.”
“And yet,” continued Benton, meditatively, “it is possible that you may have noticed something in my appearance just a little unusual, within the last week. Haven’t you, now?”
Paul could not say that he had.
Mr. Benton looked a little disappointed.
“Nobody can tell what has been the state of my feelings,” he resumed after a pause.
“You ain’t sick?” questioned Paul, hastily.
“Nothing of the sort, only my appetite has been a good deal affected. I don’t think I have eaten as much in a week as you would in a day,” he added, complacently.
“If I felt that way I should think I was going to be sick,” said Paul.
“I’ll let you into the secret,” said Mr. Benton, lowering his voice, and looking carefully about him, to make sure that no one was within hearing distance—“I’M IN LOVE.”
This seemed so utterly ludicrous to Paul, that he came very near losing Mr. Benton’s friendship forever by bursting into a hearty laugh.
“I didn’t think of that,” he said.
“It’s taken away my appetite, and I haven’t been able to sleep nights,” continued Mr. Benton, in a cheerful tone. “I feel just as Howard Courtenay did in the great story that’s coming out in the Weekly Budget. You’ve read it, haven’t you?”
“I don’t think I have,” said Paul.
“Then you ought to. It’s tiptop. It’s rather curious too that the lady looks just as Miranda does, in the same story.”
“How is that?”
“Wait a minute, and I’ll read the description.”
Mr. Benton pulled a paper from his pocket,—the last copy of the Weekly Budget,—and by the light of a street lamp read the following extract to his amused auditor.
“Miranda was just eighteen. Her form was queenly and majestic. Tall and stately, she moved among her handmaidens with a dignity which revealed her superior rank. Her eyes were dark as night. Her luxuriant tresses,—there, the rest is torn off,” said Mr. Benton, in a tone of vexation.
“She is tall, then?” said Paul.
“Yes, just like Miranda.”
“Then,” said our hero, in some hesitation, “I should think she would not be very well suited to you.”
“Why not?” asked Mr. Benton, quickly.
“Because,” said Paul, “you’re rather short, you know.”
“I’m about the medium height,” said Mr. Benton, raising himself upon his toes as he spoke.
“Not quite,” said Paul, trying not to laugh.
“I’m as tall as Mr. Smith,” resumed Mr. Benton, in a tone which warned Paul that this was a forbidden subject. “But you don’t ask me who she is.”
“I didn’t know as you would be willing to tell.”
“I shan’t tell any one but you. It’s Miss Hawkins,—firm of Hawkins & Brewer. That is, her father belongs to the firm, not she. And Paul,” here he clutched our hero’s arm convulsively, “I’ve made a declaration of my love, and—and–”
“Well?”
“She has answered my letter.”
“Has she?” asked Paul with some curiosity, “What did she say?”
“She has written me to be under her window this evening.”
“Why under her window? why didn’t she write you to call?”
“Probably she will, but it’s more romantic to say, ‘be under my window.’”
“Well, perhaps it is; only you know I don’t know much about such things.”
“Of course not, Paul,” said Mr. Benton; “you’re only a boy, you know.”
“Are you going to be under her window, Nich,—I mean Mr. Benton?”
“Of course. Do you think I would miss the appointment? No earthly power could prevent my doing it.”
“Then I had better leave you,” said Paul, making a movement to go.
“No, I want you to accompany me as far as the door. I feel—a little agitated. I suppose everybody does when they are in love,” added Mr. Benton, complacently.
“Well,” said Paul, “I will see you to the door, but I can’t stay, for they will wonder at home what has become of me.”
“All right.”
“Are we anywhere near the house?”
“Yes, it’s only in the next street,” said Mr. Benton, “O, Paul, how my heart beats! You can’t imagine how I feel!”
Mr. Benton gasped for breath, and looked as if he had swallowed a fish bone, which he had some difficulty in getting down.
“You’ll know how to understand my feelings sometime, Paul,” said Mr. Benton; “when your time comes, I will remember your service of to-night, and I will stand by you.”
Paul inwardly hoped that he should never fall in love, if it was likely to affect him in the same way as his companion, but he thought it best not to say so.
By this time they had come in sight of a three-story brick house, with Benjamin Hawkins on the door-plate.
“That’s the house,” said Mr. Benton, in an agitated whisper.
“Is it?”
“Yes, and that window on the left-hand side is the window of her chamber.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me in the letter.”
“And where are you to stand?”
“Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time.”
At that moment the city clock struck nine.
Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping voice, as preconcerted between them—
“Ever of thee,
I’m fo-o-ondly dreaming.”
The song was destined never to be finished.
From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself. She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with well-directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.
The falling column struck upon his beaver, thence spreading on all sides. His carefully starched collar became instantly as limp as a rag, while his coat suffered severely from the shower.
His tuneful accents died away in dismay.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, jumping at least a yard, and involuntarily shaking himself like a dog, “who did that?”
There was no answer save a low, musical laugh from the window above, which was involuntarily echoed by Paul.
“What do you mean by laughing at me?” demanded Mr. Benton, smarting with mortification, as he strode across the street, trying to dry his hat with the help of his handkerchief, “Is this what you call friendship?”
“Excuse me,” gasped Paul, “but I really couldn’t help it.”
“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” continued Mr. Benton, in a resentful tone; “because I have been subjected to unmanly persecution, you must laugh at me, instead of extending to me the sympathy of a friend.”
“I suppose you won’t think of her any more,” said Paul, recovering himself.
“Think of her!” exclaimed Mr. Benton, “would you have me tear her from my heart, because her mercenary parent chooses to frown upon our love, and follow me with base persecution.”
“Her parent!”
“Yes, it was he who threw the water upon me. But it shall not avail,” the young man continued, folding his arms, and speaking in a tone of resolution, “bolts and bars shall not keep two loving hearts asunder.”
“But it wasn’t her father,” urged Paul, perceiving that Mr. Benton was under a mistake.
“Who was it, then?”
“It was the young lady herself.”
“Who threw the water upon me? It is a base slander.”
“But I saw her.”
“Saw who?”
“A tall young lady with black hair.”
“And was it she who threw the water?” asked Mr. Benton, aghast at this unexpected revelation.
“Yes.”
“Then she did it at the command of her proud parent.”
Paul did not dispute this, since it seemed to comfort Mr. Benton. It is doubtful, however, whether the young man believed it himself, since he straightway fell into a fit of gloomy abstraction, and made no response when Paul bade him “good-night.”