Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant

CHAPTER XIII
OUT OF BUSINESS

The next day Mrs. Hoffman commenced work upon Mr. Preston’s shirts. She worked with much more cheerfulness now that she was sure of obtaining a liberal price for her labor. As the shirts were of extra size, she found herself unable to finish one in a day, as she had formerly done, but had no difficulty in making four in a week. This, however, gave her five dollars weekly, instead of a dollar and a half as formerly. Now, five dollars may not seem a very large sum to some of my young readers, but to Mrs. Hoffman it seemed excellent compensation for a week’s work.

“If I could only earn as much every week,” she said to Paul on Saturday evening, “I should feel quite rich.”

“Your work will last three weeks, mother, and perhaps at the end of that time some of Mr. Preston’s friends may wish to employ you.”

“I hope they will.”

“How much do you think I have made?” continued Paul.

“Six dollars.”

“Seven dollars and a half.”

“So between us we have earned over twelve dollars.”

“I wish I could earn something,” said little Jimmy, looking up from his drawing.

“There’s time enough for that, Jimmy. You are going to be a great artist one of these days.”

“Do you really think I shall?” asked the little boy, wistfully.

“I think there is a good chance of it. Let me see what you are drawing.”

The picture upon which Jimmy was at work represented a farmer standing upright in a cart, drawn by a sturdy, large-framed horse. The copy bore a close resemblance to the original, even in the most difficult portions—the face and expression, both in the man and the horse, being carefully reproduced.

“This is wonderful, Jimmy,” exclaimed Paul, in real surprise. “Didn’t you find it hard to get the man’s face just right?”

“Rather hard,” said Jimmy; “I had to be careful, but I like best the parts where I have to take the most pains.”

“I wish I could afford to hire a teacher for you,” said Paul. “Perhaps, if mother and I keep on earning so much money, we shall be able to some time.”

By the middle of the next week six of the shirts were finished, and Paul, as had been agreed upon, carried them up to Mr. Preston. He was fortunate enough to find him at home.

“I hope they will suit you,” said Paul.

“I can see that the sewing is excellent,” said Mr. Preston, examining them. “As to the fit, I can tell better after I have tried one on.”

“Mother made them just like the one you sent; but if there is anything wrong, she will, of course, be ready to alter them.”

“If they are just like the pattern, they will be sure to suit me.”

“And now, my young friend,” he added, “let me know how you are getting on in your own business.”

“I am making a dollar a day, sometimes a little more.”

“That is very good.”

“Yes, sir; but it won’t last long.”

“I believe you told me that the stand belonged to some one else.”

“Yes, sir; I am only tending it in his sickness; but he is getting better, and when he gets about again, I shall be thrown out of business.”

“But you don’t look like one who would remain idle long.”

“No, sir; I shall be certain to find something to do, if it is only blacking boots.”

“Have you ever been in that business?”

“I’ve tried about everything,” said Paul, laughing.

“I suppose you wouldn’t enjoy boot-blacking much?”

“No, sir; but I would rather do that than be earning nothing.”

“You are quite right there, and I am glad you have no false shame in the matter. There are plenty who have. For instance, a stout, broad-shouldered young fellow applied to me thus morning for a clerkship. He said he had come to the city in search of employment, and had nearly expended all his money without finding anything to do. I told him I couldn’t give him a clerkship, but was in want of a porter. I offered him the place at two dollars per day. He drew back, and said he should not be willing to accept a porter’s place.”

“He was very foolish,” said Paul.

“So I thought. I told him that if such were his feelings, I could not help him. Perhaps he may regret his refusal, when he is reduced to his last penny. By the way, whenever you have to give up your stand, you may come to me, and I will see what I can do for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And now, about these shirts; I believe I agreed to pay a dollar and a quarter each.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As they are of extra size, I think I ought to pay twelve shillings, instead of ten.”

“My mother thinks herself well paid at ten shillings.”

“There must be a great deal of work about one. Twelve shillings are none too much,” and Mr. Preston placed nine dollars in Paul’s hand.

“Thank you,” said Paul, gratefully. “My mother will consider herself very lucky.”

When Mrs. Hoffman received from Paul a dollar and a half more than she anticipated, she felt in unusually good spirits. She had regretted the loss of her former poorly paid work, but it appeared that her seeming misfortune had only prepared the way for greater prosperity. The trouble was that it would not last. Still, it would tide over the dull time, and when this job was over, she might be able to resume her old employment. At any rate, while the future seemed uncertain, she did not feel like increasing her expenditures on account of her increased earnings, but laid carefully away three-quarters of her receipts to use hereafter in case of need.

Meanwhile, Paul continued to take care of George Barry’s business. He had been obliged to renew the stock, his large sales having materially reduced it. Twice a week he went up to see his principal to report sales. George Barry could not conceal the surprise he felt at Paul’s success.

“I never thought you would do so well,” he said. “You beat me.”

“I suppose it’s because I like it,” said Paul. “Then, as I get only half the profits, I have to work the harder to make fair wages.”

“It is fortunate for my son that he found you to take his place,” said Mrs. Barry. “He could not afford to lose all the income from his business.”

“It is a good thing for both of us,” said Paul. “I was looking for a job just when he fell sick.”

“What had you been doing before?”

“I was in the prize-package business, but that got played out, and I was a gentleman at large, seeking for a light, genteel business that wouldn’t require much capital.”

“I shall be able to take my place pretty soon now,” said the young man. “I might go to-morrow, but mother thinks it imprudent.”

“Better get back your strength first, George,” said his mother, “or you may fall sick again.”

But her son was impatient of confinement and anxious to get to work again. So, two days afterward, about the middle of the forenoon, Paul was surprised by seeing George Barry get out of a Broadway omnibus, just in front of the stand.

“Can I sell you a necktie, Mr. Barry?” he asked, in a joke.

“I almost feel like a stranger,” said Barry, “it’s so long since I have been here.”

“Do you feel strong enough to take charge now?” asked Paul.

“I am not so strong as I was, and the walk from our rooms would tire me; but I think if I rode both ways for the present I shall be able to get along.”

“Then you won’t need me any longer?”

“I would like to have you stay with me to-day. I don’t know how I shall hold out.”

“All right! I’ll stop.”

George Barry remained in attendance the rest of the day. He found that his strength had so far returned that he should be able to manage alone hereafter, and he told Paul so.

“I am glad you are well again, George,” said Paul. “It must have been dull work staying at home sick.”

“Yes, it was dull; but I felt more comfortable from knowing that you were taking my place. If I get sick again I will send for you.”

“I hope you won’t get sick; but if you do, I will do what I can to help you.”

So the two parted on the best of terms. Each had been of service to the other, and neither had cause to complain.

“Well,” said Paul to himself, “I am out of work again. What shall I go at next?”

It was six o’clock, and there was nothing to be done till the morrow. He went slowly homeward, revolving this subject in his mind. He knew that he need not remain idle. He could black boots, or sell newspapers, if nothing better offered, and he thought it quite possible that he might adopt the latter business, for a few days at least. He had not forgotten Mr. Preston’s injunction to let him know when he got out of business; but, as the second half dozen shirts would be ready in three or four days, he preferred to wait till then, and not make a special call on Mr Preston. He had considerable independence of feeling, and didn’t like to put himself in the position of one asking a favor, though he had no objection to accept one voluntarily offered.

“Well, mother,” he said, entering his humble home, “I am out of business.”

“Has George recovered, then?”

“Yes, he was at the stand to-day, but wanted me to stay with him till this evening.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Jimmy.

“Sorry that George has got well? For shame, Jimmy!”

“No, I don’t mean that, Paul. I am sorry you are out of work.”

“I shall find plenty to do, Jimmy. Perhaps Mr. Stewart will take me in as senior partner, if I ask him.”

“I don’t think he will,” said Jimmy, laughing.

“Then perhaps I can get a few scholars in drawing. Can’t you recommend me?”

“I am afraid not, Paul, unless you have improved a good deal.”

CHAPTER XIV
THE DIAMOND RING

Paul was up betimes the next morning. He had made up his mind for a few days, at least, to sell newspapers, and it was necessary in this business to begin the day early. He tool a dollar with him and invested a part of it in a stock of dailies. He posted himself in Printing House square, and began to look out for customers. Being an enterprising boy, he was sure to meet with fair success in any business which he undertook. So it happened that at ten o’clock he had sold out his stock of papers, and realized a profit of fifty cents.

It was getting late for morning papers, and there was nothing left to do till the issue of the first edition of the afternoon papers.

“I’ll go down and see how George Barry is getting along,” thought Paul.

He crossed Broadway and soon reached the familiar stand.

“How’s business, George?” he inquired.

“Fair,” said Barry. “I’ve sold four ties.”

“How do you feel?”

“I’m not so strong as I was, yet. I get tired more easily. I don’t think I shall stay in this business long.”

“You don’t? What will you do then?”

“I’ve got a chance in Philadelphia, or I shall have by the first of the month.”

“What sort of a chance?”

“Mother got a letter yesterday from a cousin of hers who has a store on Chestnut street. He offers to take me as a clerk, and give me ten dollars a week at first, and more after a while.”

“That’s a good offer. I should like to get one like it.”

“I’ll tell you what, Paul, you’d better buy out my stand. You know how to sell ties, and can make money.”

“There’s only one objection, George.”

“What’s that?”

“I haven’t got any capital.”

“It don’t need much.”

“How much?”

“I’ll sell out all my stock at cost price.”

“How much do you think there is?”

“About twenty-five dollars’ worth. Then there is the frame, which is worth, say ten dollars, making thirty-five in all. That isn’t much.”

“It’s more than I’ve got. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take it, and pay you five dollars down and the rest in one month.”

“I would take your offer, Paul, but I need all the money how. It will be expensive moving to Philadelphia and I shall want all I can get.”

“I wish I could buy you out,” said Paul, thoughtfully.

“Can’t you borrow the money?”

“How soon do you want to give up?”

“It’s the seventeenth now. I should like to get rid of it by the twenty-second.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Just keep it for me till to-morrow.”

“All right.”

Paul walked home revolving in his mind this unexpected opportunity. He had made, as George Barry’s agent, a dollar a day, though he received only half the profits. If he were himself the proprietor, and did equally well, he could make twelve dollars a week. The calculation almost took away his breath. Twelve dollars a week would make about fifty dollars a month. It would enable him to contribute more to the support of the family, and save up money besides. But the great problem was, how to raise the necessary money. If Paul had been a railroad corporation, he might have issued first mortgage bonds at a high rate of interest, payable in gold, and negotiated them through some leading banker. But he was not much versed in financial schemes, and therefore was at a loss. The only wealthy friend he had was Mr. Preston, and he did not like to apply to him till he had exhausted other ways and means.

“What makes you so sober, Paul?” asked his mother, as he entered the room. “You are home early.”

“Yes, I sold all my papers, and thought I would take an early dinner, so as to be on hand in time for the first afternoon papers.”

“Don’t you feel well?”

“Tiptop; but I’ve had a good offer, and I’m thinking whether I can accept it.”

“What sort of an offer?”

“George Barry wants to sell out his stand.”

“How much does he ask?”

“Thirty-five dollars.”

“Is it worth that?”

“Yes, it’s worth all that, and more, too. If I had it I could make two dollars a day. But I haven’t got thirty-five dollars.”

“I can let you have nine, Paul. I had a little saved up, and I haven’t touched the money Mr. Preston paid me for the shirts.”

“I’ve got five myself, but that will only make fourteen.”

“Won’t he wait for the rest?”

“No, he’s going to Philadelphia early next week, and wants the whole in cash.”

“It would be a pity to lose such a good chance,” said Mrs. Hoffman.

“That’s what I think.”

“You could soon save up the money on two dollars a day.”

“I could pay for it in a month—I mean, all above the fourteen dollars we have.”

“In a day or two I shall have finished the second half-dozen shirts, and then I suppose Mr. Preston will pay me nine dollars more. I could let you have six dollars of that.”

“That would make twenty. Perhaps George Barry will take that. If he won’t I don’t know but I will venture to apply to Mr. Preston.”

“He seems to take an interest in you. Perhaps he would trust you with the money.”

“I could offer him a mortgage on the stock,” said Paul.

“If he has occasion to foreclose, he will be well provided with neckties,” said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling.

“None of which he could wear. I’ll tell you what, mother, I should like to pick up a pocketbook in the street, containing, say, twenty or twenty-five dollars.”

“That would be very convenient,” said his mother; “but I think it will hardly do to depend on such good luck happening to you. By the way,” she said, suddenly, “perhaps I can help you, after all. Don’t you remember that gold ring I picked up in Central Park two years ago?”

“The one you advertised?”

“Yes. I advertised, or, rather, your father did; but we never found an owner for it.”

“I remember it now, mother. Have you got the ring still?”

“I will get it.”

Mrs. Hoffman went to her trunk, and, opening it, produced the ring referred to. It was a gold ring with a single stone of considerable size.

“I don’t know how much it is worth,” said Mrs. Hoffman; “but if the ring is a diamond, as I think it is, it must be worth as much as twenty dollars.”

“Did you ever price it?”

“No, Paul; I have kept it, thinking that it would be something to fall back upon if we should ever be hard pressed. As long as we were able to get along without suffering, I thought I would keep it. Besides, I had another feeling. It might belong to some person who prized it very much, and the time might come when we could find the owner. However, that is not likely after so long a time. So, if you cannot raise the money in any other way, you may sell the ring.”

“I might pawn it for thirty days, mother. By that time I should be able to redeem it with the profits of my business.”

“I don’t think you could get enough from a pawn-broker.”

“I can try, at any rate; but first I will see George Barry, and find out whether he will take twenty dollars down, and the rest at the end of a month.”

Paul wrapped up the ring in a piece of paper, and deposited it in his vest pocket. He waited till after dinner, and then went at once to the necktie stand, where he made the proposal to George Barry.

The young man shook his head.

“I’d like to oblige you, Paul,” he said, “but I must have the money. I have an offer of thirty-two dollars, cash, from another party, and I must take up with it if I can’t do any better. I’d rather sell out to you, but you know I have to consult my own interest.”

“Of course, George, I can’t complain of that.”

“I think you will be able to borrow the money somewhere.”

“Most of my friends are as poor as myself,” said Paul. “Still, I think I shall be able to raise the money. Only wait for me two days.”

“Yes, Paul, I’ll wait that long. I’d like to sell out to you, if only because you have helped me when I was sick. But for you all that would have been lost time.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way, George,” said Paul. “I’m bound to buy your stand and I will raise the money somehow.”

Paul bought a few papers, for he did not like to lose the afternoon trade, and in an hour had sold them all off, realizing a profit of twenty cents. This made his profits for the day seventy cents.

“That isn’t as well as I used to do,” said Paul to himself, “but perhaps I can make something more by and by. I will go now and see what I can get for the ring.”

As he had determined, he proceeded to a pawnbroker’s shop which he had often passed. It was on Chatham street, and was kept by an old man, an Englishman by birth, who, though he lived meanly in a room behind his shop, was popularly supposed to have accumulated a considerable fortune.

CHAPTER XV
THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP

Stuffed behind the counter, and on the shelves of the pawnbroker’s shop, were articles in almost endless variety. All was fish that came to his net. He was willing to advance on anything that had a marketable value, and which promised to yield him, I was about to say, a fair profit. But a fair profit was far from satisfying the old man. He demanded an extortionate profit from those whom ill-fortune drove to his door for relief.

Eliakim Henderson, for that was his name, was a small man, with a bald head, scattering yellow whiskers, and foxlike eyes. Spiderlike he waited for the flies who flew of their own accord into his clutches, and took care not to let them go until he had levied a large tribute. When Paul entered the shop, there were three customers ahead of him. One was a young woman, whose pale face and sunken cheeks showed that she was waging an unequal conflict with disease. She was a seamstress by occupation, and had to work fifteen hours a day to earn the little that was barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Confined in her close little room on the fourth floor, she scarcely dared to snatch time to look out of the window into the street beneath, lest she should not be able to complete her allotted task. A two days’ sickness had compelled her to have recourse to Eliakim Henderson. She had under her arm a small bundle covered with an old copy of the Sun.

“What have you got there?” asked the old man, roughly. “Show it quick, for there’s others waiting.”

Meekly she unfolded a small shawl, somewhat faded from long use.

“What will you give me on that?” she asked, timidly.

“It isn’t worth much.”

“It cost five dollars.”

“Then you got cheated. It never was worth half the money. What do you want on it?”

The seamstress intended to ask a dollar and a half, but after this depreciation she did not venture to name so high a figure.

“A dollar and a quarter,” she said.

“A dollar and a quarter!” repeated the old man, shrilly. “Take it home with you. I don’t want it.”

“What will you give?” asked the poor girl, faintly.

“Fifty cents. Not a penny more.”

“Fifty cents!” she repeated, in dismay, and was about to refold it. But the thought of her rent in arrears changed her half-formed intention.

“I’ll take it, sir.”

The money and ticket were handed her, and she went back to her miserable attic-room, coughing as she went.

“Now, ma’am,” said Eliakim.

His new customer was an Irish woman, by no means consumptive in appearance, red of face and portly of figure.

“And what’ll ye be givin’ me for this?” she asked, displaying a pair of pantaloons.

“Are they yours, ma’am?” asked Eliakim, with a chuckle.

“It’s not Bridget McCarty that wears the breeches,” said that lady. “It’s me husband’s, and a dacent, respectable man he is, barrin’ the drink, which turns his head. What’ll ye give for ‘em?”

“Name your price,” said Eliakim, whose principle it was to insist upon his customers making the first offer.

“Twelve shillin’s,” said Bridget.

“Twelve shillings!” exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands. “That’s all they cost when they were new.”

“They cost every cint of five dollars,” said Bridget. “They was made at one of the most fashionable shops in the city. Oh, they was an illigant pair when they was new.”

“How many years ago was that?” asked the pawnbroker.

“Only six months, and they ain’t been worn more’n a month.”

“I’ll give you fifty cents.”

“Fifty cints!” repeated Mrs. McCarty, turning to the other customers, as if to call their attention to an offer so out of proportion to the valuable article she held in her hand. “Only fifty cints for these illigant breeches! Oh, it’s you that’s a hard man, that lives on the poor and the nady.”

“You needn’t take it. I should lose money on it, if you didn’t redeem it.”

“He says he’d lose money on it,” said Mrs. McCarty. “And suppose he did, isn’t he a-rollin’ in gold?”

“I’m poor,” said Eliakim; “almost as poor as you, because I’m too liberal to my customers.”

“Hear till him!” said Mrs. McCarty. “He says he’s liberal and only offers fifty cints for these illigant breeches.”

“Will you take them or leave them?” demanded the pawnbroker, impatiently.

“You may give me the money,” said Bridget; “and it’s I that wonder how you can slape in your bed, when you are so hard on poor folks.”

Mrs. McCarty departed with her money, and Eliakim fixed his sharp eyes on the next customer. It was a tall man, shabbily dressed, with a thin, melancholy-looking face, and the expression of one who had struggled with the world, and failed in the struggle.

“How much for this?” he asked, pointing to the violin, and speaking in a slow, deliberate tone, as if he did not feel at home in the language.

“What do you want for it?”

“Ten dollar,” he answered.

“Ten dollars! You’re crazy!” was the contemptuous comment of the pawnbroker.

“He is a very good violin,” said the man. “If you would like to hear him,” and he made a movement as if to play upon it.

“Never mind!” said Eliakim. “I haven’t any time to hear it. If it were new it would be worth something; but it’s old, and–”

“But you do not understand,” interrupted the customer, eagerly. “It is worth much more than new. Do you see, it is by a famous maker? I would not sell him, but I am poor, and my Bettina needs bread. It hurts me very much to let him go. I will buy him back as soon as I can.”

“I will give you two dollars, but I shall lose on it, unless you redeem it.”

“Two dollar!” repeated the Italian. “Ocielo! it is nothing. But Bettina is at home without bread, poor little one! Will you not give three dollar?”

“Not a cent more.”

“I will take it.”

“There’s your money and ticket.”

And with these the poor Italian departed, giving one last lingering glance at his precious violin, as Eliakim took it roughly and deposited it upon a shelf behind him. But he thought of his little daughter at home, and the means of relief which he held in his hand, and a smile of joy lightened his melancholy features. The future might be dark and unpromising, but for three days, at any rate, she should not want bread.

Paul’s turn came next.

“What have you got?” asked the pawnbroker.

Paul showed the ring.

Eliakim took it, and his small, beadlike eyes sparkled avariciously as he recognized the diamond, for his experience was such that he could form a tolerably correct estimate of its value. But he quickly suppressed all outward manifestations of interest, and said, indifferently, “What do you want for it?”

“I want twenty dollars,” said Paul, boldly.

“Twenty dollars!” returned the pawnbroker. “That’s a joke.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Paul. “I want twenty dollars, and you can’t have the ring for less.”

“If you said twenty shillings, I might give it to you,” said Eliakim; “but you must think I am a fool to give twenty dollars.”

“That’s cheap for a diamond ring,” said Paul. “It’s worth a good deal more.”

The pawnbroker eyed Paul sharply. Did the boy know that it was a diamond ring? What chance was there of deceiving him as to its value? The old man, whose business made him a good judge, decided that the ring was not worth less than two hundred and fifty dollars, and if he could get it into his possession for a trifle, it would be a paying operation.

“You’re mistaken, boy,” he said. “It’s not a diamond.”

“What is it?”

“A very good imitation.”

“How much is it worth?”

“I’ll give you three dollars.”

“That won’t do. I want to raise twenty dollars, and if I can’t get that, I’ll keep the ring.”

The pawnbroker saw that he had made a mistake. Paul was not as much in need of money as the majority of his customers. He would rather pay twenty dollars than lose the bargain, though it went against the grain to pay so much money. But after pronouncing the stone an imitation, how could he rise much above the offer he had already made? He resolved to approach it gradually. Surveying it more closely, he said:

“It is an excellent imitation. I will give you five dollars.”

Paul was not without natural shrewdness, and this sudden advance convinced him that it was, after all, a real stone. He determined to get twenty dollars or carry the ring home.

“Five dollars won’t do me any good,” he said. “Give me back the ring.”

“Five dollars is a good deal of money,” said Eliakim.

“I’d rather have the ring.”

“What is your lowest price?”

“Twenty dollars.”

“I’ll give you eight.”

“Just now you said it was worth only three,” said Paul, sharply.

“It is very fine gold. It is better than I thought. Here is the money.”

“You’re a little too fast,” said Paul, coolly. “I haven’t agreed to part with the ring for eight dollars, and I don’t mean to. Twenty dollars is my lowest price.”

“I’ll give you ten,” said the old man, whose eagerness increased with Paul’s indifference.

“No, you won’t. Give me back the ring.”

“I might give eleven, but I should lose money.”

“I don’t want you to lose money, and I’ve concluded to keep the ring,” said Paul, rightly inferring from the old man’s eagerness that the ring was much more valuable than he had at first supposed.

But the old pawnbroker was fascinated by the sparkling bauble. He could not make up his mind to give it up. By fair means or foul he must possess it. He advanced his bid to twelve, fourteen, fifteen dollars, but Paul shook his head resolutely. He had made up his mind to carry it to Ball & Black’s, or some other first-class jewelers, and ascertain whether it was a real diamond or not, and if so to obtain an estimate of its value.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I’ll keep the ring. Just give it back to me.”