The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success

CHAPTER IV
MR. LIONEL LAKE

Six months before it might have cost Philip a pang to leave home. Then his father was living, and from him the boy had never received aught but kindness. Even his step-mother, though she secretly disliked him, did not venture to show it, and secure in the affections of his supposed father, he did not trouble himself as to whether Mrs. Brent liked him or not. As for Jonas, he was cautioned by his mother not to get himself into trouble by treating Phil badly, and the boy, who knew on which side his interests lay, faithfully obeyed. It was only after the death of Mr. Brent that both Jonas and his mother changed their course, and thought it safe to snub Philip.

Planktown was seventy-five miles distant from New York, and the fare was two dollars and a quarter.

This was rather a large sum to pay, considering Phil’s scanty fund, but he wished to get to the great city as soon as possible, and he decided that it would be actually cheaper to ride than to walk, considering that he would have to buy his meals on the way.

He took his seat in the cars, placing a valise full of underclothes on the seat next him. The train was not very full, and the seat beside him did not appear to be required.

Mile after mile they sped on the way, and Phil looked from the window with interest at the towns through which they passed. There are very few boys of his age—sixteen—who do not like to travel in the cars. Limited as were his means, and uncertain as were his prospects, Phil felt not only cheerful, but actually buoyant, as every minute took him farther away from Planktown, and so nearer the city where he hoped to make a living at the outset, and perhaps his fortune in the end.

Presently—perhaps half way on—a young man, rather stylishly dressed, came into the car. It was not at a station, and therefore it seemed clear that he came from another car.

He halted when he reached the seat which Phil occupied.

Our hero, observing that his glance rested on his valise, politely removed it, saying:

“Would you like to sit down here, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” answered the young man, and sank into the seat beside Phil.

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” he said, with a glance at the bag.

“Oh, not at all,” returned Phil. “I only put the valise on the seat till it was wanted by some passenger.”

“You are more considerate than some passengers,” observed the young man. “In the next car is a woman, an elderly party, who is taking up three extra seats to accommodate her bags and boxes.”

“That seems rather selfish,” remarked Phil.

“Selfish! I should say so. I paused a minute at her seat as I passed along, and she was terribly afraid I wanted to sit down. She didn’t offer to move anything, though, as you have. I stopped long enough to make her feel uncomfortable, and then passed on. I don’t think I have fared any the worse for doing so. I would rather sit beside you than her.”

“Am I to consider that a compliment?” asked Phil, smiling.

“Well, yes, if you choose. Not that it is saying much to call you more agreeable company than the old party alluded to. Are you going to New York?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Live there?”

“I expect to live there.”

“Brought up in the country, perhaps?”

“Yes, in Planktown.”

“Oh, Planktown! I’ve heard it’s a nice place, but never visited it. Got any folks?”

Phil hesitated. In the light of the revelation that had been made to him by Mrs. Brent, he did not know how to answer. However, there was no call to answer definitely.

“Not many,” he said.

“Goin’ to school in New York?”

“No.”

“To college, perhaps. I’ve got a cousin in Columbia College.”

“I wish I knew enough to go to college,” said Phil; “but I only know a little Latin, and no Greek at all.”

“Well, I never cared much about Latin or Greek, myself. I presume you are thinking about a business position?”

“Yes, I shall try to get a place.”

“You may find a little time necessary to find one. However, you are, no doubt, able to pay your board for awhile.”

“For a short time,” said Phil.

“Well, I may be able to help you to a place. I know a good many prominent business men.”

“I should be grateful to you for any help of that kind,” said Phil, deciding that he was in luck to meet with such a friend.

“Don’t mention it. I have had to struggle myself—in earlier days—though at present I am well fixed. What is your name?”

“Philip Brent.”

“Good! My name is Lionel Lake. Sorry I haven’t got any cards. Perhaps I may have one in my pocket-book. Let me see!”

Mr. Lake opened his porte-monnaie and uttered a exclamation of surprise.

“By Jove!” he said, “I am in a fix.”

Phil looked at him inquiringly.

“I took out a roll of bills at the house of my aunt, where I stayed last night,” explained Mr. Lake, “and must have neglected to replace them.”

“I hope you have not lost them,” said Phil politely.

“Oh, no; my aunt will find them and take care of them for me, so that I shall get them back. The trouble is that I am left temporarily without funds.”

“But you can get money in the city,” suggested Phil.

“No doubt; only it is necessary for me to stay over a train ten miles short of the city.”

Mr. Lionel Lake seemed very much perplexed.

“If I knew some one in the cars,” he said reflectively.

It did occur to Phil to offer to loan him something, but the scantiness of his own resources warned him that it would not be prudent, so he remained silent.

Finally Mr. Lake appeared to have an idea.

“Have you got five dollars, Philip?” he said familiarly.

“Yes, sir,” answered Philip slowly.

“Then I’ll make a proposal. Lend it to me and I will give you this ring as security. It is worth twenty-five dollars easily.”

He drew from his vest-pocket a neat gold ring, with some sort of a stone in the setting.

“There!” said Mr. Lake, “I’ll give you this ring and my address, and you can bring it to my office to-morrow morning. I’ll give you back the five dollars and one dollar for the accommodation. That’s good interest, isn’t it?”

“But I might keep the ring and sell it,” suggested Phil.

“Oh, I am not afraid. You look honest. I will trust you,” said the young man, in a careless, off-hand manner. “Say, is it a bargain?”

“Yes,” answered Phil.

It occurred to him that he could not earn a dollar more easily. Besides, he would be doing a favor to this very polite young man.

“All right, then!”

Five dollars of Phil’s scanty hoard was handed to Mr. Lake, who, in return, gave Phil the ring, which he put on his finger.

He also handed Phil a scrap of paper, on which he penciled:

“LIONEL LAKE, No. 237 Broadway.”

“I’m ever so much obliged,” he said. “Good-by. I get out at the next station.”

Phil was congratulating himself on his good stroke of business, when the conductor entered the car, followed by a young lady. When they came to where Phil was seated, the young lady said:

“That is my ring on that boy’s finger?”

“Aha! we’ve found the thief, then!” said the conductor. “Boy, give up the ring you stole from this young lady!”

As he spoke he placed his hand on Phil’s shoulder.

“Stole!” repeated Phil, gasping. “I don’t understand you.”

“Oh, yes, you do!” said the conductor roughly.

CHAPTER V
AN OVERBEARING CONDUCTOR

No matter how honest a boy may be, a sudden charge of theft is likely to make him look confused and guilty.

Such was the case with Phil.

“I assure you,” he said earnestly, “that I did not steal this ring.”

“Where did you get it, then?” demanded the conductor roughly.

He was one of those men who, in any position, will make themselves disagreeable. Moreover, he was a man who always thought ill of others, when there was any chance of doing so. In fact, he preferred to credit his fellows with bad qualities rather than with good.

“It was handed me by a young man who just left the car,” said Phil.

“That’s a likely story,” sneered the conductor.

“Young men are not in the habit of giving valuable rings to strangers.”

“He did not give it to me, I advanced him five dollars on it.”

“What was the young man’s name?” asked the conductor incredulously.

“There’s his name and address,” answered Phil, drawing from his pocket the paper handed him by Mr. Lake.

“Lionel Lake, 237 Broadway,” repeated the conductor. “If there is any such person, which I very much doubt, you are probably a confederate of his.”

“You have no right to say this,” returned Phil indignantly.

“I haven’t, haven’t I?” snapped the conductor.

“Do you know what I am going to do with you?”

“If you wish me to return the ring to this young lady, I will do so, if she is positive it is hers.”

“Yes, you must do that, but it won’t get you out of trouble. I shall hand you over to a policeman as soon as we reach New York.”

Phil was certainly dismayed, for he felt that it might be difficult for him to prove that he came honestly in possession of the ring.

“The fact is,” added the conductor, “your story is too thin.”

“Conductor,” said a new voice, “you are doing the boy an injustice.”

The speaker was an old man with gray hair, but of form still robust, though he was at least sixty five. He sat in the seat just behind Phil.

“Thank you, sir,” said Phil gratefully.

“I understand my business,” said the conductor impertinently, “and don’t need any instructions from you.”

“Young man,” said the old gentleman, in a very dignified tone, “I have usually found officials of your class polite and gentlemanly, but you are an exception.”

“Who are you?” asked the conductor rudely. “What right have you to put in your oar?”

“As to who I am, I will answer you by and by. In reference to the boy, I have to say that his story is correct. I heard the whole conversation between him and the young man from whom he received the ring, and I can testify that he has told the truth.”

“At any rate he has received stolen property.”

“Not knowing it to be stolen. The young man was an entire stranger to him, and though I suspected that he was an unscrupulous adventurer, the boy has not had experience enough to judge men.”

“Very well. If he’s innocent he can prove it when he’s brought to trial,” said the conductor. “As for you, sir, it’s none of your business.”

“Young man, you asked me a short time since who I am. Do you want to know?”

“I am not very particular.”

“Then, sir, I have to inform you that I am Richard Grant, the president of this road.”

The conductor’s face was a curious and interesting study when he heard this announcement. He knew that the old man whom he had insulted had a right to discharge him from his position, and bully as he had shown himself, he was now inclined to humble himself to save his place.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a composed tone. “If I had known who you were I wouldn’t have spoken as I did.”

“I had a claim to be treated like a gentleman, even if I had no connection with the road,” he said.

“If you say the boy’s all right, I won’t interfere with him,” continued the conductor.

“My testimony would clear him from any charge that might be brought against him,” said the president. “I saw him enter the car, and know he has had no opportunity to take the ring.”

“If he’ll give me back the ring, that’s all I want,” said the young lady.

“That I am willing to do, though I lose five dollars by it,” said Philip.

“Do so, my boy,” said the president. “I take it for granted that the young lady’s claim is a just one.”

Upon this Philip drew the ring from his finger and handed it to the young lady, who went back to the car where her friends were sitting.

“I hope, sir,” said the conductor anxiously, “that you won’t be prejudiced against me on account of this affair.”

“I am sorry to say that I can’t help feeling prejudiced against you,” returned the president dryly; “but I won’t allow this feeling to injure you if, upon inquiring, I find that you are otherwise an efficient officer.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I am glad that my presence has saved this boy from being the victim of an injustice. Let this be a lesson to you in future.”

The conductor walked away, looking quite chop-fallen, and Philip turned to his new friend.

“I am very much indebted to you, sir,” he said. “But for you I should have found myself in serious trouble.”

“I am glad to have prevented an injustice, my lad. I am sorry I could not save you from loss also. That enterprising rogue has gone off with five dollars belonging to you. I hope the loss will not be a serious one to you.”

“It was more than a third part of my capital, sir,” said Phil, rather ruefully.

“I am sorry for that. I suppose, however, you are not dependent upon your own resources?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Have you no parents, then?” asked Mr. Grant, with interest.

“No, sir; that is, I have a step-mother.”

“And what are your plans, if you are willing to tell me?”

“I am going to New York to try to make a living.”

“I cannot commend your plan, my young friend, unless there is a good reason for it.”

“I think there is a good reason for it, sir.”

“I hope you have not run away from home?”

“No, sir; I left home with my step-mother’s knowledge and consent.”

“That is well. I don’t want wholly to discourage you, and so I will tell you that I, too, came to New York at your age with the same object in view, with less money in my pocket than you possess.”

“And now you are the president of a railroad!” said Phil hopefully.

“Yes; but I had a hard struggle before I reached that position.”

“I am not afraid of hard work, sir.”

“That is in your favor. Perhaps you may be as lucky as I have been. You may call at my office in the city, if you feel inclined.”

As Mr. Grant spoke he put in Phil’s hand a card bearing his name and address, in Wall Street.

“Thank you, sir,” said Phil gratefully. “I shall be glad to call. I may need advice.”

“If you seek advice and follow it you will be an exception to the general rule,” said the president, smiling. “One thing more—you have met with a loss which, to you, is a serious one. Allow me to bear it, and accept this bill.”

“But, sir, it is not right that you should bear it,” commenced Phil. Then, looking at the bill, he said: “Haven’t you made a mistake? This is a TEN-dollar bill.”

“I know it. Accept the other five as an evidence of my interest in you. By the way, I go to Philadelphia and Washington before my return to New York, and shall not return for three or four days. After that time you will find me at my office.

“I am in luck after all,” thought Phil cheerfully, “in spite of the mean trick of Mr. Lionel Lake.”

CHAPTER VI
SIGNOR ORLANDO

So Phil reached New York in very fair spirits. He found himself, thanks to the liberality of Mr. Grant, in a better financial position than when he left home.

As he left the depot and found himself in the streets of New York, he felt like a stranger upon the threshold of a new life. He knew almost nothing about the great city he had entered, and was at a loss where to seek for lodgings.

“It’s a cold day,” said a sociable voice at his elbow.

Looking around, Phil saw that the speaker was a sallow-complexioned young man, with black hair and mustache, a loose black felt hat, crushed at the crown, giving him rather a rakish look.

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil politely.

“Stranger in the city, I expect?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never mind the sir. I ain’t used to ceremony. I am Signor Orlando.”

“Signor Orlando!” repeated Phil, rather puzzled.

“Are you an Italian?”

“Well, yes,” returned Signor Orlando, with a wink, “that’s what I am, or what people think me; but I was born in Vermont, and am half Irish and half Yankee.”

“How did you come by your name, then?”

“I took it,” answered his companion. “You see, dear boy, I’m a professional.”

“A what?”

“A professional—singer and clog-dancer. I believe I am pretty well known to the public,” continued Signor Orlando complacently. “Last summer I traveled with Jenks & Brown’s circus. Of course you’ve heard of THEM. Through the winter I am employed at Bowerman’s Varieties, in the Bowery. I appear every night, and at two matinees weekly.”

It must be confessed that Phil was considerably impressed by the professional character of Signor Orlando. He had never met an actor, or public performer of any description, and was disposed to have a high respect for a man who filled such a conspicuous position. There was not, to be sure, anything very impressive about Signor Orlando’s appearance. His face did not indicate talent, and his dress was shabby. But for all that he was a man familiar with the public—a man of gifts.

“I should like to see you on the stage,” said Phil respectfully.

“So you shall, my dear boy—so you shall. I’ll get you a pass from Mr. Bowerman. Which way are you going?”

“I don’t know,” answered Phil, puzzled. “I should like to find a cheap boarding-house, but I don’t know the city.”

“I do,” answered Signor Orlando promptly. “Why not come to my house?”

“Have you a house?”

“I mean my boarding-house. It’s some distance away. Suppose we take a horse-car?”

“All right!” answered Phil, relieved to find a guide in the labyrinth of the great city.

“I live on Fifth Street, near the Bowery—a very convenient location,” said Orlando, if we may take the liberty to call him thus.

“Fifth Avenue?” asked Phil, who did not know the difference.

“Oh, no; that’s a peg above my style. I am not a Vanderbilt, nor yet an Astor.”

“Is the price moderate?” asked Phil anxiously. “I must make my money last as long as I can, for I don’t know when I shall get a place.”

“To be sure. You might room with me, only I’ve got a hall bedroom. Perhaps we might manage it, though.”

“I think I should prefer a room by myself,” said Phil, who reflected that Signor Orlando was a stranger as yet.

“Oh, well, I’ll speak to the old lady, and I guess she can accommodate you with a hall bedroom like mine on the third floor.”

“What should I have to pay?”

“A dollar and a quarter a week, and you can get your meals where you please.”

“I think that will suit me,” said Phil thoughtfully.

After leaving the car, a minute’s walk brought them to a shabby three-story house of brick. There was a stable opposite, and a group of dirty children were playing in front of it.

“This is where I hang out,” said Signor Orlando cheerfully. “As the poet says, there is no place like home.”

If this had been true it was not much to be regretted, since the home in question was far from attractive.

Signor Orlando rang the bell, and a stout woman of German aspect answered the call.

“So you haf come back, Herr Orlando,” said this lady. “I hope you haf brought them two weeks’ rent you owe me.”

“All in good time, Mrs. Schlessinger,” said Orlando. “But you see I have brought some one with me.”

“Is he your bruder now?” asked the lady.

“No, he is not, unfortunately for me. His name is–”

Orlando coughed.

“Philip Brent,” suggested our hero.

“Just so—Philip Brent.”

“I am glad to see Mr. Prent,” said the landlady.

“And is he an actor like you, Signor Orlando?”

“Not yet. We don’t know what may happen. But he comes on business, Mrs. Schlessinger. He wants a room.”

The landlady brightened up. She had two rooms vacant, and a new lodger was a godsend.

“I vill show Mr. Prent what rooms I haf,” she said. “Come up-stairs, Mr. Prent.”

The good woman toiled up the staircase panting, for she was asthmatic, and Phil followed. The interior of the house was as dingy as the exterior, and it was quite dark on the second landing.

She threw open the door of a back room, which, being lower than the hall, was reached by a step.

“There!” said she, pointing to the faded carpet, rumpled bed, and cheap pine bureau, with the little six-by-ten looking-glass surmounting it. “This is a peautiful room for a single gentleman, or even for a man and his wife.”

“My friend, Mr. Brent, is not married,” said Signor Orlando waggishly.

Phil laughed.

“You will have your shoke, Signor Orlando,” said Mrs. Schlessinger.

“What is the price of this room?” asked Phil.

“Three dollars a week, Mr. Prent, I ought to have four, but since you are a steady young gentleman–”

“How does she know that?” Phil wondered.

“Since you are a steady young gentleman, and a friend of Signor Orlando, I will not ask you full price.”

“That is more than I can afford to pay,” said Phil, shaking his head.

“I think you had better show Mr. Brent the hall bedroom over mine,” suggested the signor.

Mrs. Schlessinger toiled up another staircase, the two new acquaintances following her. She threw open the door of one of those depressing cells known in New York as a hall bedroom. It was about five feet wide and eight feet long, and was nearly filled up by a cheap bedstead, covered by a bed about two inches thick, and surmounted at the head by a consumptive-looking pillow. The paper was torn from the walls in places. There was one rickety chair, and a wash-stand which bore marks of extreme antiquity.

“This is a very neat room for a single gentleman,” remarked Mrs. Schlessinger.

Phil’s spirits fell as he surveyed what was to be his future home. It was a sad contrast to his neat, comfortable room at home.

“Is this room like yours, Signor Orlando?” he asked faintly.

“As like as two peas,” answered Orlando.

“Would you recommend me to take it?”

“You couldn’t do better.”

How could the signor answer otherwise in presence of a landlady to whom he owed two weeks’ rent?

“Then,” said Phil, with a secret shudder, “I’ll take it if the rent is satisfactory.”

“A dollar and a quarter a week,” said Mrs. Schlessinger promptly.

“I’ll take it for a week.”

“You won’t mind paying in advance?” suggested the landlady. “I pay my own rent in advance.”

Phil’s answer was to draw a dollar and a quarter from his purse and pass it to his landlady.

“I’ll take possession now,” said our hero. “Can I have some water to wash my face?”

Mrs. Schlessinger was evidently surprised that any one should want to wash in the middle of the day, but made no objections.

When Phil had washed his face and hands, he went out with Signor Orlando to dine at a restaurant on the Bowery.