The Errand Boy / Alger, Horatio, Jr.

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The Errand Boy

by Horatio Alger

March, 1996  [Etext #462]

The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Errand Boy, by Horatio Alger
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THE ERRAND BOY;
OR,
HOW PHIL BRENT WON SUCCESS.

BY HORATIO ALGER, Jr.,

Author of

"Joe's Luck," "Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy,"
"Tom Temple's Career," "Tom Thatcher's Fortune," 
"Ragged Dick," "Tattered Tom," "Luck and Pluck,"
etc., etc.

THE ERRAND BOY.

CHAPTER I.

PHIL HAS A LITTLE DIFFICULTY.

Phil Brent was plodding through the snow
in the direction of the house where he lived
with his step-mother and her son, when a snow-ball,
moist and hard, struck him just below his ear with
stinging emphasis.  The pain was considerable, and
Phil's anger rose.

He turned suddenly, his eyes flashing fiercely,
intent upon discovering who had committed this outrage,
for he had no doubt that it was intentional.

He looked in all directions, but saw no one except
a mild old gentleman in spectacles, who appeared to
have some difficulty in making his way through the
obstructed street.

Phil did not need to be told that it was not the
old gentleman who had taken such an unwarrantable
liberty with him.  So he looked farther, but
his ears gave him the first clew.

He heard a chuckling laugh, which seemed to
proceed from behind the stone wall that ran along the
roadside.

"I will see who it is," he decided, and plunging
through the snow he surmounted the wall, in time
to see a boy of about his own age running away
across the fields as fast as the deep snow would
allow.

"So it's you, Jonas!" he shouted wrathfully.  "I
thought it was some sneaking fellow like you."

Jonas Webb, his step-brother, his freckled face
showing a degree of dismay, for he had not calculated
on discovery, ran the faster, but while fear
winged his steps, anger proved the more effectual
spur, and Phil overtook him after a brief run, from
the effects of which both boys panted.

"What made you throw that snow-ball?" demanded
Phil angrily, as he seized Jonas by the collar
and shook him.

"You let me alone!" said Jonas, struggling
ineffectually in his grasp.

"Answer me!  What made you throw that snow-
ball?" demanded Phil, in a tone that showed he did
not intend to be trifled with.

"Because I chose to," answered Jonas, his spite
getting the better of his prudence.  "Did it hurt
you?" he continued, his eyes gleaming with malice.

"I should think it might.  It was about as hard
as a cannon-ball," returned Phil grimly.  "Is that
all you've got to say about it?"

"I did it in fun," said Jonas, beginning to see that
he had need to be prudent.

"Very well!  I don't like your idea of fun.  Perhaps
you won't like mine," said Phil, as he forcibly
drew Jonas back till he lay upon the snow, and then
kneeling by his side, rubbed his face briskly with
snow.

"What are you doin'?  Goin' to murder me?"
shrieked Jonas, in anger and dismay.

"I am going to wash your face," said Phil,
continuing the operation vigorously.

"I say, you quit that!  I'll tell my mother,"
ejaculated Jonas, struggling furiously.

"If you do, tell her why I did it," said Phil.

Jonas shrieked and struggled, but in vain.  Phil
gave his face an effectual scrubbing, and did not
desist until he thought he had avenged the bad
treatment he had suffered.

"There, get up!" said he at length.

Jonas scrambled to his feet, his mean features
working convulsively with anger.

"You'll suffer for this!" he shouted.

"You won't make me!" said Phil contemptuously.

"You're the meanest boy in the village."

"I am willing to leave that to the opinion of all
who know me."

"I'll tell my mother!"

"Go home and tell her!"

Jonas started for home, and Phil did not attempt
to stop him.

As he saw Jonas reach the street and plod angrily
homeward, he said to himself:

"I suppose I shall be in hot water for this; but I
can't help it.  Mrs. Brent always stands up for her
precious son, who is as like her as can be.  Well, it
won't make matters much worse than they have
been."

Phil concluded not to go home at once, but to
allow a little time for the storm to spend its force
after Jonas had told his story.  So he delayed half
an hour and then walked slowly up to the side door. 
He opened the door, brushed off the snow from his
boots with the broom that stood behind the
door, and opening the inner door, stepped into the
kitchen.

No one was there, as Phil's first glance satisfied
him, and he was disposed to hope that Mrs. Brent--
he never called her mother--was out, but a thin,
acid, measured voice from the sitting-room adjoining
soon satisfied him that there was to be no reprieve.

"Philip Brent, come here!"

Phil entered the sitting-room.

In a rocking-chair by the fire sat a thin woman,
with a sharp visage, cold eyes and firmly compressed
lips, to whom no child would voluntarily
draw near.

On a sofa lay outstretched the hulking form of
Jonas, with whom he had had his little difficulty.

"I am here, Mrs. Brent," said Philip manfully.

"Philip Brent," said Mrs. Brent acidly, "are you
not ashamed to look me in the face?"

"I don't know why I should be," said Philip,
bracing himself up for the attack.

"You see on the sofa the victim of your brutality,"
continued Mrs. Brent, pointing to the recumbent
figure of her son Jonas.

Jonas, as if to emphasize these words, uttered a
half groan.

Philip could not help smiling, for to him it seemed
ridiculous.

"You laugh," said his step-mother sharply.  "I
am not surprised at it.  You delight in your brutality."

"I suppose you mean that I have treated Jonas
brutally."

"I see you confess it."

"No, Mrs. Brent, I do not confess it.  The brutality
you speak of was all on the side of Jonas."

"No doubt," retorted Mrs. Brent, with sarcasm.

"It's the case of the wolf and the lamb over again."

"I don't think Jonas has represented the matter
to you as it happened," said Phil.  "Did he tell you
that he flung a snow-ball at my head as hard as a
lump of ice?"

"He said he threw a little snow at you playfully
and you sprang upon him like a tiger."

"There's a little mistake in that," said Phil.  "The 
snow-ball was hard enough to stun me if it had hit
me a little higher.  I wouldn't be hit like that again
for ten dollars."

"That ain't so!  Don't believe him, mother!" said
Jonas from the sofa.

"And what did you do?" demanded Mrs. Brent
with a frown.

"I laid him down on the snow and washed his face
with soft snow."

"You might have given him his death of cold,"
said Mrs. Brent, with evident hostility.  "I am not
sure but the poor boy will have pneumonia now, in
consequence of your brutal treatment."

"And you have nothing to say as to his attack
upon me?" said Phil indignantly.

"I have no doubt you have very much exaggerated it."

"Yes, he has," chimed in Jonas from the sofa.

Phil regarded his step-brother with scorn.

"Can't you tell the truth now and then, Jonas?"
he asked contemptuously.

"You shall not insult my boy in my presence!"
said Mrs. Brent, with a little spot of color mantling
her high cheek-bones.  "Philip Brent, I have too
long endured your insolence.  You think because I
am a woman you can be insolent with impunity, but
you will find yourself mistaken.  It is time that you
understood something that may lead you to lower
your tone.  Learn, then, that you have not a cent of
your own.  You are wholly dependent upon my
bounty."

"What!  Did my father leave you all his money?"
asked Philip.

"He was NOT your father!" answered Mrs. Brent
coldly.

CHAPTER II.

A STRANGE REVELATION.

Philip started in irrepressible astonishment as
these words fell from the lips of his step-mother. 
It seemed to him as if the earth were crumbling
beneath his feet, for he had felt no more certain of the
existence of the universe than of his being the son
of Gerald Brent.

He was not the only person amazed at this
declaration.  Jonas, forgetting for the moment the part
he was playing, sat bolt upright on the sofa, with his
large mouth wide open, staring by turns at Philip
and his mother.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed in a tone indicating utter
surprise and bewilderment.

"Will you repeat that, Mrs. Brent?" asked Philip,
after a brief pause, not certain that he had heard
aright.

"I spoke plain English, I believe," said Mrs. Brent
coldly, enjoying the effect of her communication.

"I said that Mr. Brent, my late husband, was not
your father."

"I don't believe you!" burst forth Philip impetuously.

"You don't wish to believe me, you mean,"
answered his step-mother, unmoved.

"No, I don't wish to believe you," said the boy,
looking her in the eye.

"You are very polite to doubt a lady's word," said
Mrs. Brent with sarcasm.

"In such a matter as that I believe no one's
word," said Phil.  "I ask for proof."

"Well, I am prepared to satisfy you.  Sit down
and I will tell you the story."

Philip sat down on the nearest chair and regarded
his step-mother fixedly.

"Whose son am I," he demanded, "if not Mr.
Brent's?"

"You are getting on too fast.  Jonas," continued
his mother, suddenly turning to her hulking son, on
whose not very intelligent countenance there was
an expression of greedy curiosity, "do you understand
that what I am going to say is to be a secret,
not to be spoken of to any one?"

"Yes'm," answered Jonas readily.

"Very well.  Now to proceed.  Philip, you have
heard probably that when you were very small your
father--I mean Mr. Brent--lived in a small town in
Ohio, called Fultonville?"

"Yes, I have heard him say so."

"Do you remember in what business he was then
engaged?"

"He kept a hotel."

"Yes; a small hotel, but as large as the place
required.  He was not troubled by many guests.  The
few who stopped at his house were business men
from towns near by, or drummers from the great
cities, who had occasion to stay over a night.  One
evening, however, a gentleman arrived with an
unusual companion--in other words, a boy of about
three years of age.  The boy had a bad cold, and
seemed to need womanly care.  Mr. Brent's
wife----"

"My mother?"

"The woman you were taught to call mother,"
corrected the second Mrs. Brent, "felt compassion
for the child, and volunteered to take care of it for
the night.  The offer was gladly accepted, and you--
for, of course, you were the child--were taken into
Mrs. Brent's own room, treated with simple remedies,
and in the morning seemed much better.  Your
father--your real father--seemed quite gratified,
and preferred a request.  It was that your new
friend would take care of you for a week while he
traveled to Cincinnati on business.  After dispatching
this, he promised to return and resume the care
of you, paying well for the favor done him.  Mrs.
Brent, my predecessor, being naturally fond of
children, readily agreed to this proposal, and the child
was left behind, while the father started for Cincinnati."

Here Mrs. Brent paused, and Philip regarded her
with doubt and suspense

"Well?" he said.

"Oh, you want to know the rest?" said Mrs. Brent
with an ironical smile.  "You are interested in the
story?"

"Yes, madam, whether it is true or not."

"There isn't much more to tell," said Mrs. Brent.

"A week passed.  You recovered from your cold,
and became as lively as ever.  In fact, you seemed
to feel quite at home among your new surroundings,
which was rather unfortunate, FOR YOUR FATHER NEVER
CAME BACK!"

"Never came back!" repeated Philip.

"No; nor was anything heard from him. Mr.
and Mrs. Brent came to the conclusion that the
whole thing was prearranged to get rid of you. 
Luckily for you, they had become attached to you,
and, having no children of their own, decided to
retain you.  Of course, some story had to be told to
satisfy the villagers.  You were represented to be
the son of a friend, and this was readily believed. 
When, however, my late husband left Ohio, and
traveled some hundreds of miles eastward to this
place, he dropped this explanation and represented
you as his own son.  Romantic, wasn't it?"

Philip looked searchingly at the face of his step-
mother, or the woman whom he had regarded as
such, but he could read nothing to contradict the
story in her calm, impassive countenance.  A great
fear fell upon him that she might be telling the
truth.  His features showed his contending
emotions.  But he had a profound distrust as well as
dislike of his step-mother, and he could not bring
himself to put confidence in what she told him.

"What proof is there of this?" he asked, after a
while.

"Your father's word.  I mean, of course, Mr.
Brent's word.  He told me this story before I married
him, feeling that I had a right to know."

"Why didn't he tell me?" asked Philip incredulously.

"He thought it would make you unhappy."

"You didn't mind that," said Philip, his lips curling.

"No," answered Mrs. Brent, with a curious smile. 
"Why should I?  I never pretended to like you, and
now I have less cause than ever, after your brutal
treatment of my boy."

Jonas endeavored to look injured, but could not at
once change the expression of his countenance.

"Your explanation is quite satisfactory, Mrs.
Brent," returned Philip.  "I don't think I stood
much higher in your estimation yesterday than today,
so that I haven't lost much.  But you haven't
given me any proof yet."

"Wait a minute."

Mrs. Brent left the room, went up-stairs, and
speedily returned, bringing with her a small
daguerreotype, representing a boy of three years.

"Did you ever see this before?" she asked.

"No," answered Philip, taking it from her hand
and eying it curiously.

"When Mr. and Mrs. Brent decided that you were
to be left on their hands," she proceeded, "they had
this picture of you taken in the same dress in which
you came to them, with a view to establish your
identity if at any time afterward inquiry should be
made for you."

The daguerreotype represented a bright, handsome
child, dressed tastefully, and more as would be
expected of a city child than of one born in the
country.  There was enough resemblance to Philip
as he looked now to convince him that it was really
his picture.

"I have something more to show you," said Mrs.
Brent.

She produced a piece of white paper in which the
daguerreotype had been folded.  Upon it was some
writing, and Philip readily recognized the hand of
the man whom he had regarded as his father.

He read these lines:

"This is the picture of the boy who was
mysteriously left in the charge of Mr. Brent, April, 1863,
and never reclaimed.  l have reared him as my own
son, but think it best to enter this record of the way
in which he came into my hands, and to preserve by
the help of art his appearance at the time he first
came to us.              GERALD BRENT."

"Do you recognize this handwriting?" asked Mrs.
Brent.

"Yes," answered Philip in a dazed tone.

"Perhaps," she said triumphantly, "you will
doubt my word now."

"May I have this picture?" asked Philip, without
answering her.

"Yes; you have as good a claim to it as any one."

"And the paper?"

"The paper I prefer to keep myself," said Mrs.
Brent, nodding her head suspiciously.  "I don't
care to have my only proof destroyed."

Philip did not seem to take her meaning, but with
the daguerreotype in his hand, he left the room.

"I say, mother," chuckled Jonas, his freckled face
showing his enjoyment, "it's a good joke on Phil,
isn't it?" I guess he won't be quite so uppish after
this."

CHAPTER III.

PHIL'S SUDDEN RESOLUTION.

When Phil left the presence of Mrs. Brent, he
felt as if he had been suddenly transported
to a new world.  He was no longer Philip Brent,
and the worst of it was that he did not know who he
was.  In his tumultuous state of feeling, however,
one thing seemed clear--his prospects were wholly
changed, and his plans for the future also.  Mrs. Brent
had told him that he was wholly dependent upon
her.  Well, he did not intend to remain so.  His home
had not been pleasant at the best.  As a dependent
upon the bounty of such a woman it would be worse. 
He resolved to leave home and strike out for himself,
not from any such foolish idea of independence as
sometimes leads boys to desert a good home for an
uncertain skirmish with the world, but simply be
cause he felt now that he had no real home.

To begin with he would need money, and on opening
his pocket-book he ascertained that his available
funds consisted of only a dollar and thirty-seven
cents.  That wasn't quite enough to begin the world
with.  But he had other resources.  He owned a gun,
which a friend of his would be ready to take off his
hands.  He had a boat, also, which he could
probably sell.

On the village street he met Reuben Gordon, a
young journeyman carpenter, who was earning good
wages, and had money to spare.

"How are you, Phil," said Reuben in a friendly
way.

"You are just the one I want to meet," said Phil
earnestly.  "Didn't you tell me once you would like
to buy my gun?"

"Yes.  Want to sell it?"

"No, I don't; but I want the money it will bring. 
So I'll sell it if you'll buy."

"What d'ye want for it?" asked Reuben cautiously.

"Six dollars."

"Too much.  I'll give five."

"You can have it," said Phil after a pause.  "How
soon can you let me have the money?"

"Bring the gun round to-night, and I'll pay you
for it."

"All right.  Do you know of any one who wants
to buy a boat?"

"What?  Going to sell that, too?"

"Yes."

"Seems to me you're closin' up business?" said
Reuben shrewdly.

"So I am.  I'm going to leave Planktown."

"You don't say?  Well, I declare!  Where are
you goin'?"

"To New York, I guess."

"Got any prospect there?"

"Yes."

This was not, perhaps, strictly true--that is, Phil
had no definite prospect, but he felt that there must
be a chance in a large city like New York for any
one who was willing to work, and so felt measurably
justified in saying what he did.

"I hadn't thought of buyin' a boat," said Reuben
thoughtfully.

Phil pricked up his ears at the hint of a possible
customer.

"You'd better buy mine," he said quickly; "I'll
sell it cheap."

"How cheap?"

"Ten dollars."

"That's too much."

"It cost me fifteen."

"But it's second-hand now, you know," said Reuben.

"It's just as good as new.  I'm taking off five
dollars, though, you see."

"I don't think I want it enough to pay ten dollars."

"What will you give?"

Reuben finally agreed to pay seven dollars and
seventy-five cents, after more or less bargaining, and
to pay the money that evening upon delivery of the
goods.

"I don't think I've got anything more to sell," said
Phil thoughtfully.  "There's my skates, but they
are not very good.  I'll give them to Tommy Kavanagh. 
He can't afford to buy a pair."

Tommy was the son of a poor widow, and was very
much pleased with the gift, which Phil conveyed to
him just before supper.

Just after supper he took his gun and the key of
his boat over to Reuben Gordon, who thereupon
gave him the money agreed upon.

"Shall I tell Mrs. Brent I am going away?" Phil
said to himself, "or shall I leave a note for her?"

He decided to announce his resolve in person.  To
do otherwise would seem too much like running
away, and that he had too much self-respect to do.

So in the evening, after his return from Reuben
Gordon's, he said to Mrs. Brent:

"I think I ought to tell you that I'm going away
to-morrow."

Mrs. Brent looked up from her work, and her cold
gray eyes surveyed Phil with curious scrutiny.

"You are going away!" she replied.  "Where are
you going?"

"I think I shall go to New York."

"What for?"

"Seek my fortune, as so many have done before
me."

"They didn't always find it!" said Mrs. Brent
with a cold sneer.  "Is there any other reason?"

"Yes; it's chiefly on account of what you told me
yesterday.  You said that I was dependent upon
you."

"So you are."

"And that I wasn't even entitled to the name of
Brent."

"Yes, I said it, and it's true."

"Well," said Phil, "I don't want to be dependent
upon you.  I prefer to earn my own living."

"I am not prepared to say but that you are right. 
But do you know what the neighbors will say?"

"What will they say?"

"That I drove you from home."

"It won't be true.  I don't pretend to enjoy my
home, but I suppose I can stay on here if I like?"

"Yes, you can stay."

"You don't object to my going?"

"No, if it is understood that you go of your own
accord."

"I am willing enough to take the blame of it, if
there is any blame."

"Very well; get a sheet of note-paper, and write
at my direction."

Phil took a sheet of note-paper from his father's
desk, and sat down to comply with Mrs. Brent's request.

She dictated as follows:

"I leave home at my own wish, but with the consent
of Mrs. Brent, to seek my fortune.  It is wholly
my own idea, and I hold no one else responsible.
                         "PHILIP BRENT."

"You may as well keep the name of Brent," said
his step-mother, "as you have no other that you know
of."

Phil winced at those cold words.  It was not
pleasant to reflect that this was so, and that he was
wholly ignorant of his parentage.

"One thing more," said Mrs. Brent.  "It is only
eight o'clock.  I should like to have you go out and
call upon some of those with whom you are most
intimate, and tell them that you are leaving home
voluntarily."

"I will," answered Phil.

"Perhaps you would prefer to do so to-morrow."

"No; I am going away to-morrow morning."

"Very well."

"Going away to-morrow morning?" repeated
Jonas, who entered the room at that moment.

Phil's plan was briefly disclosed.

"Then give me your skates," said Jonas.

"I can't.  I've given them to Tommy Kavanagh."

"That's mean.  You might have thought of me
first," grumbled Jonas.

"I don't know why.  Tommy Kavanagh is my
friend and you are not."

"Anyway, you can let me have your boat and
gun."

"I have sold them."

"That's too bad."

"I don't know why you should expect them.  I
needed the money they brought me to pay my expenses
till I get work."

"I will pay your expenses to New York if you
wish," said Mrs. Brent.

"Thank you; but I shall have money enough,"
answered Phil, who shrank from receiving any favor
at the hands of Mrs. Brent.

"As you please, but you will do me the justice to
remember that I offered it."

"Thank you.  I shall not forget it."

That evening, just before going to bed, Mrs.
Brent opened a trunk and drew from it a folded
paper.

She read as follows--for it was her husband's
will:

"To the boy generally known as Philip Brent,
and supposed, though incorrectly, to be my son, I
bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars, and direct
the same to be paid over to any one whom he may
select as guardian, to hold in trust for him till he
attains the age of twenty-one."

"He need never know of this," said Mrs. Brent to
herself in a low tone.  "I will save it for Jonas."

She held the paper a moment, as if undecided
whether to destroy it, but finally put it carefully
back in the secret hiding-place from which she had
taken it.

"He is leaving home of his own accord," she
whispered.  "Henceforth he will probably keep
away.  That suits me well.  but no one can say I
drove him to it."

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.

CHAPTER VII.

BOWERMAN'S VARIETIES.

The restaurant to which he was taken by
Signor Orlando was thronged with patrons, for
it was one o'clock.  On the whole, they did not
appear to belong to the highest social rank, though
they were doubtless respectable.  The table-cloths
were generally soiled, and the waiters had a greasy
look.  Phil said nothing, but he did not feel quite so
hungry as before he entered.

The signor found two places at one of the tables,
and they sat down.  Phil examined a greasy bill of
fare and found that he could obtain a plate of meat
for ten cents.  This included bread and butter, and
a dish of mashed potato.  A cup of tea would be
five cents additional.

"I can afford fifteen cents for a meal," he thought,
and called for a plate of roast beef.

"Corn beef and cabbage for me," said the signor.

"It's very filling," he remarked aside to Phil.

"They won't give you but a mouthful of beef."

So it proved, but the quality was such that Phil
did not care for more.  He ordered a piece of apple
pie afterward feeling still hungry.

"I see you're bound to have a square meal," said
the signor.

After Phil had had it, he was bound to confess
that he did not feel uncomfortably full.  Yet he had
spent twice as much as the signor, who dispensed
with the tea and pie as superfluous luxuries.

In the evening Signor Orlando bent his steps
toward Bowerman's Varieties.

"I hope in a day or two to get a complimentary
ticket for you, Mr. Brent," he said.

"How much is the ticket?" asked Phil.

"Fifteen cents.  Best reserved seats twenty-five
cents.'

"I believe I will be extravagant for once," said
Phil, "and go at my own expense."

"Good!" said the signor huskily.  "You'll feel
repaid I'll be bound.  Bowerman always gives the
public their money's worth.  The performance
begins at eight o'clock and won't be out until half-
past eleven."

"Less than five cents an hour," commented Phil.

"What a splendid head you've got!" said Signor
Orlando admiringly.  "I couldn't have worked that
up.  Figures ain't my province."

It seemed to Phil rather a slender cause for
compliment, but he said nothing, since it seemed clear
that the computation was beyond his companion's
ability.

As to the performance, it was not refined, nor was
the talent employed first-class.  Still Phil enjoyed
himself after a fashion.  He had never had it in his
power to attend many amusements, and this was
new to him.  He naturally looked with interest for
the appearance of his new friend and fellow-lodger.

Signor Orlando appeared, dressed in gorgeous
array, sang a song which did credit to the loudness
of his voice rather than its quality, and ended by a
noisy clog-dance which elicited much applause from
the boys in the gallery, who shared the evening's
entertainment for the moderate sum of ten cents.

The signor was called back to the stage.  He
bowed his thanks and gave another dance.  Then he
was permitted to retire.  As this finished his part of
the entertainment he afterward came around in
citizen's dress, and took a seat in the auditorium
beside Phil.

"How did you like me, Mr. Brent?" he asked
complacently.

"I thought you did well, Signor Orlando.  You
were much applauded."

"Yes, the audience is very loyal," said the proud
performer.

Two half-grown boys heard Phil pronounce the
name of his companion, and they gazed awe-stricken
at the famous man.

"That's Signor Orlando!" whispered one of the
others.

"I know it," was the reply.

"Such is fame," said the Signor, in a pleased tone
to Phil.  "People point me out on the streets."

"Very gratifying, no doubt," said our hero, but it
occurred to him that he would not care to be pointed
out as a performer at Bowerman's.  Signor Orlando,
however, well-pleased with himself, didn't doubt
that Phil was impressed by his popularity, and
perhaps even envied it.

They didn't stay till the entertainment was over. 
It was, of course, familiar to the signor, and Phil
felt tired and sleepy, for he had passed a part of the
afternoon in exploring the city, and had walked in
all several miles.

He went back to his lodging-house, opened the
door with a pass-key which Mrs. Schlessinger had
given him, and climbing to his room in the third story,
undressed and deposited himself in bed.

The bed was far from luxurious.  A thin pallet
rested on slats, so thin that he could feel the slats
through it, and the covering was insufficient.  The
latter deficiency he made up by throwing his overcoat
over the quilt, and despite the hardness of his
bed, he was soon sleeping soundly.

"To-morrow I must look for a place," he said to
Signor Orlando.  "Can you give me any advise?"

"Yes, my dear boy.  Buy a daily paper, the Sun
or Herald, and look at the advertisements.  There
may be some prominent business man who is looking
out for a boy of your size."

Phil knew of no better way, and he followed Signor
Orlando's advice.

After a frugal breakfast at the Bowery restaurant,
he invested a few pennies in the two papers
mentioned, and began to go the rounds.

The first place was in Pearl Street.

He entered, and was directed to a desk in the
front part of the store.

"You advertised for a boy," he said.

"We've got one," was the brusque reply.

Of course no more was to be said, and Phil walked
out, a little dashed at his first rebuff.

At the next place he found some half a dozen boys
waiting, and joined the line, but the vacancy was
filled before his turn came.

At the next place his appearance seemed to make
a good impression, and he was asked several questions.

"What is your name?"

"Philip Brent."

"How old are you?"

"Just sixteen."

"How is your education?"

"I have been to school since I was six."

"Then you ought to know something.  Have you
ever been in a place?"

"No, sir."

"Do you live with your parents?"

"No, sir; I have just come to the city, and am
lodging in Fifth Street."

"Then you won't do.  We wish our boys to live
with their parents."

Poor Phil!  He had allowed himself to hope that
at length he was likely to get a place.  The abrupt
termination of the conversation dispirited him.

He made three more applications.  In one of them
he again came near succeeding, but once more the
fact that he did not live with his parents defeated
his application.

"It seems to be very hard getting a place,"
thought Phil, and it must be confessed he felt a little
homesick.

"I won't make any more applications to-day," he
decided, and being on Broadway, walked up that
busy thoroughfare, wondering what the morrow
would bring forth.

It was winter, and there was ice on the sidewalk. 
Directly in front of Phil walked an elderly gentleman,
whose suit of fine broadcloth and gold spectacles,
seemed to indicate a person of some prominence
and social importance.

Suddenly he set foot on a treacherous piece of ice. 
Vainly he strove to keep his equilibrium, his arms
waving wildly, and his gold-headed cane falling to
the sidewalk.  He would have fallen backward, had
not Phil, observing his danger in time, rushed to his
assistance.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE HOUSE IN TWELFTH STREET.

With some difficulty the gentleman righted
himself, and then Phil picked up his cane.

"I hope you are not hurt, sir?" he said.

"I should have been but for you, my good boy,"
said the gentleman.  "I am a little shaken by the
suddenness of my slipping."

"Would you wish me to go with you, sir?"

"Yes, if you please.  I do not perhaps require
you, but I shall be glad of your company."

"Thank you, sir."

"Do you live in the city?"

"Yes, sir; that is, I propose to do so.  I have
come here in search of employment."

Phil said this, thinking it possible that the old
gentleman might exert his influence in his favor.

"Are you dependent on what you may earn?"
asked the gentleman, regarding him attentively.

"I have a little money, sir, but when that is gone
I shall need to earn something."

"That is no misfortune.  It is a good thing for a
boy to be employed.  Otherwise he is liable to get
into mischief."

"At any rate, I shall be glad to find work, sir."

"Have you applied anywhere yet?"

Phil gave a little account of his unsuccessful
applications, and the objections that had been made to
him.

"Yes, yes," said the old gentleman thoughtfully,
"more confidence is placed in a boy who lives with
his parents."

The two walked on together until they reached
Twelfth Street.  It was a considerable walk, and
Phil was surprised that his companion should walk,
when he could easily have taken a Broadway stage,
but the old gentleman explained this himself.

"I find it does me good," he said, "to spend some
time in the open air, and even if walking tires me it
does me good."

At Twelfth Street they turned off.

"I am living with a married niece," he said, "just
on the other side of Fifth Avenue."

At the door of a handsome four-story house, with
a brown-stone front, the old gentleman paused, and
told Phil that this was his residence.

"Then, sir, I will bid you good-morning," said
Phil.

"No, no; come in and lunch with me," said Mr.
Carter hospitably.

He had, by the way, mentioned that his name was
Oliver Carter, and that he was no longer actively
engaged in business, but was a silent partner in the
firm of which his nephew by marriage was the
nominal head.

"Thank you, sir," answered Phil.

He was sure that the invitation was intended to
be accepted, and he saw no reason why he should
not accept it.

"Hannah," said the old gentleman to the servant
who opened the door, "tell your mistress that I
have brought a boy home to dinner with me."

"Yes, sir," answered Hannah, surveying Phil in
some surprise.

"Come up to my room, my young friend," said
Mr. Carter.  "You may want to prepare for
lunch."

Mr. Carter had two connecting rooms on the
second floor, one of which he used as a bed-chamber. 
The furniture was handsome and costly, and
Phil, who was not used to city houses, thought it
luxurious.

Phil washed his face and hands, and brushed his
hair.  Then a bell rang, and following his new
friend, he went down to lunch.

Lunch was set out in the front basement.  When
Phil and Mr. Carter entered the room a lady was
standing by the fire, and beside her was a boy of
about Phil's age.  The lady was tall and slender,
with light-brown hair and cold gray eyes.

"Lavinia," said Mr. Carter, "I have brought a
young friend with me to lunch."

"So I see," answered the lady.  "Has he been
here before?"

"No; he is a new acquaintance."

"I would speak to him if I knew his name."

"His name is----"

Here the old gentleman hesitated, for in truth he
had forgotten.

"Philip Brent."

"You may sit down here, Mr. Brent," said Mrs.
Pitkin, for this was the lady's name.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"And so you made my uncle's acquaintance this
morning?" she continued, herself taking a seat at
the head of the table.

"Yes; he was of service to me," answered Mr.
Carter for him.  "I had lost my balance, and should
have had a heavy fall if Philip had not come to my
assistance."

"He was very kind, I am sure," said Mrs. Pitkin,
but her tone was very cold.

"Philip," said Mr. Carter, "this is my grand-
nephew, Alonzo Pitkin."

He indicated the boy already referred to.

"How do you do?" said Alonzo, staring at Philip
not very cordially.

"Very well, thank you," answered Philip politely.

"Where do you live?" asked Alonzo, after a
moment's hesitation.

"In Fifth Street."

"That's near the Bowery, isn't it?"

"Yes."

The boy shrugged his shoulders and exchanged a
significant look with his mother.

Fifth Street was not a fashionable street--indeed
quite the reverse, and Phil's answer showed that he
was a nobody.  Phil himself had begun to suspect
that he was unfashionably located, but he felt that
until his circumstances improved he might as well
remain where he was.

But, though he lived in an unfashionable street, it
could not be said that Phil, in his table manners,
showed any lack of good breeding.  He seemed
quite at home at Mrs. Pitkin's table, and in fact
acted with greater propriety than Alonzo, who was
addicted to fast eating and greediness.

"Couldn't you walk home alone, Uncle Oliver?"
asked Mrs. Pitkin presently.

"Yes."

"Then it was a pity to trouble Mr. Brent to come
with you."

"It was no trouble," responded Philip promptly,
though he suspected that it was not consideration
for him that prompted the remark.

"Yes, I admit that I was a little selfish in taking
up my young friend's time," said the old gentleman
cheerfully; "but I infer, from what he tells me,
that it is not particularly valuable just now."

"Are you in a business position, Mr. Brent?"
asked Mrs. Pitkin.

"No, madam.  I was looking for a place this
morning."

"Have you lived for some time in the city?"

"No; I came here only yesterday from the country."

"I think country boys are very foolish to leave
good homes in the country to seek places in the
city," said Mrs. Pitkin sharply.

"There may be circumstances, Lavinia, that make
it advisable," suggested Mr. Carter, who, however,
did not know Phil's reason for coming.

"No doubt; I understand that," answered Mrs.
Pitkin, in a tone so significant that Phil wondered
whether she thought he had got into any trouble at
home.

"And besides, we can't judge for every one.  So I
hope Master Philip may find some good and satisfactory
opening, now that he has reached the city."

After a short time, lunch, which in New York is
generally a plain meal, was over, and Mr. Carter
invited Philip to come up-stairs again.

"I want to talk over your prospects, Philip," he
said.

There was silence till after the two had left the
room.  Then Mrs. Pitkin said:

"Alonzo, I don't like this."

"What don't you like, ma?"

"Uncle bringing this boy home.  It is very
extraordinary, this sudden interest in a perfect
stranger."

"Do you think he'll leave him any money?" asked
Alonzo, betraying interest.

"I don't know what it may lead to, Lonny, but it
don't look right.  Such things have been known."

"I'd like to punch the boy's head," remarked
Alonzo, with sudden hostility.  "All uncle's money
ought to come to us."

"So it ought, by rights," observed his mother.

"We must see that this boy doesn't get any
ascendency over him."

Phil would have been very much amazed if he
had overheard this conversation.

CHAPTER IX.

THE OLD GENTLEMAN PROVES A FRIEND.

The old gentleman sat down in an arm-chair
and waved his hand toward a small rocking-
chair, in which Phil seated himself.

"I conclude that you had a good reason for
leaving home, Philip," said Mr. Carter, eying our hero
with a keen, but friendly look.

"Yes, sir; since my father's death it has not been
a home to me."

"Is there a step-mother in the case?" asked the
old gentleman shrewdly.

"Yes, sir."

"Any one else?"

"She has a son."

"And you two don't agree?"

"You seem to know all about it, sir," said Phil,
surprised.

"I know something of the world--that is all."

Phil began to think that Mr. Carter's knowledge
of the world was very remarkable.  He began to wonder
whether he could know anything more--could
suspect the secret which Mrs. Brent had communicated
to him.  Should he speak of it?  He decided
at any rate to wait, for Mr. Carter, though kind, was
a comparative stranger.

"Well," continued the old gentleman, "I won't
inquire too minutely into the circumstances.  You
don't look like a boy that would take such an important
step as leaving home without a satisfactory reason. 
The next thing is to help you."

Phil's courage rose as he heard these words.  Mr.
Carter was evidently a rich man, and he could help
him if he was willing.  So he kept silence, and let
his new friend do the talking.

"You want a place," continued Mr. Carter.  "Now,
what are you fit for?"

"That is a hard question for me to answer, sir.  I
don't know."

"Have you a good education?"

"Yes, sir; and I know something of Latin and
French besides."

"You can write a good hand?"

"Shall I show you, sir?"

"Yes; write a few lines at my private desk."

Phil did so, and handed the paper to Mr. Carter.

"Very good," said the old gentleman approvingly.

"That is in your favor.  Are you good at accounts?"

"Yes, sir."

"Better still."

"Sit down there again," he continued.  "I will
give you a sum in interest."

Phil resumed his seat.

"What is the interest of eight hundred and forty-
five dollars and sixty cents for four years, three
months and twelve days, at eight and one-half per
cent?"

Phil's pen moved fast in perfect silence for five
minutes.  Then he announced the result.

"Let me look at the paper.  I will soon tell you
whether it is correct."

After a brief examination, for the old gentleman
was himself an adept at figures, he said, with a
beaming smile:

"It is entirely correct.  You are a smart boy."

"Thank you, sir," said Phil, gratified.

"And you deserve a good place--better than you
will probably get."

Phil listened attentively.  The last clause was not
quite so satisfactory.

"Yes," said Mr. Carter, evidently talking to
himself, "I must get Pitkin to take him."

Phil knew that the lady whom he had already
met was named Pitkin, and he rightly concluded
that it was her husband who was meant.

"I hope he is more agreeable than his wife,"
thought Philip.

"Yes, Philip," said Mr. Carter, who had evidently
made up his mind, "I will try to find you a place
this afternoon.

"I shall be very much obliged, sir," said Philip
gladly.

"I have already told you that my nephew and I
are in business together, he being the active and I
the silent partner.  We do a general shipping
business.  Our store is on Franklin Street.  I will give
you a letter to my nephew and he will give you a
place."

"Thank you, sir."

"Wait a minute and I will write the note."

Five minutes later Phil was on his way down town
with his credentials in his pocket.

CHAPTER X.

Phil CALLS ON MR. PITKIN.

PHIL paused before an imposing business structure,
and looked up to see if he could see the
sign that would show him he had reached his destination.

He had not far to look.  On the front of the
building he saw in large letters the sign:

          ENOCH PITKIN & CO.

In the door-way there was another sign, from
which he learned that the firm occupied the second
floor.

He went up-stairs, and opening a door, entered a
spacious apartment which looked like a hive of
industry.  There were numerous clerks, counters
piled with goods, and every indication that a prosperous
business was being carried on.

The nearest person was a young man of eighteen,
or perhaps more, with an incipient, straw-colored
mustache, and a shock of hair of tow-color.  This
young man wore a variegated neck-tie, a stiff
standing-collar, and a suit of clothes in the extreme of
fashion.

Phil looked at him hesitatingly.

The young man observed the look, and asked
condescendingly:

"What can I do for you, my son?"

Such an address from a person less than three
years older than himself came near upsetting the
gravity of Phil.

"Is Mr. Pitkin in?" he asked.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Can I see him."

"I have no objection," remarked the young man
facetiously.

"Where shall I find him?"

The youth indicated a small room partitioned off
as a private office in the extreme end of the store.

"Thank you," said Phil, and proceeded to find
his way to the office in question.

Arrived at the door, which was partly open, he
looked in.

In an arm-chair sat a small man, with an erect
figure and an air of consequence.  He was not over
forty-five, but looked older, for his cheeks were
already seamed and his look was querulous.  Cheerful
natures do not so soon show signs of age as their
opposites.

"Mr. Pitkin?" said Phil interrogatively.

"Well?" said the small man, frowning instinctively.

"I have a note for you, sir."

Phil stepped forward and handed the missive to
Mr. Pitkin.

The latter opened it quickly and read as follows:

The boy who will present this to you did me a
service this morning.  He is in want of employment. 
He seems well educated, but if you can't offer him
anything better than the post of errand boy, do so. 
I will guarantee that he will give satisfaction.  You
can send him to the post-office, and to other offices
on such errands as you may have.  Pay him five
dollars a week and charge that sum to me.
                    Yours truly,
                         OLIVER CARTER.

Mr. Pitkin's frown deepened as he read this note.

"Pish!" he ejaculated, in a tone which, though
low, was audible to Phil.  "Uncle Oliver must be
crazy.  What is your name?" he demanded fiercely,
turning suddenly to Phil.

"Philip Brent."

"When did you meet--the gentleman who gave
you this letter?"

Phil told him.

"Do you know what is in this letter?"

"I suppose, sir, it is a request that you give me a
place."

"Did you read it?"

"No," answered Phil indignantly.

"Humph!  He wants me to give you the place of
errand boy."

"I will try to suit you, sir,"

"When do you want to begin?"

"As soon as possible, sir."

"Come to-morrow morning, and report to me
first."

"Another freak of Uncle Oliver's!" he muttered,
as he turned his back upon Phil, and so signified that
the interview was at an end.

CHAPTER XI.

PHIL ENTERS UPON HIS DUTIES.

Phil presented himself in good season the next
morning at the store in Franklin Street.  As he
came up in one direction the youth whom he had
seen in the store the previous day came up in the
opposite direction.  The latter was evidently surprised.

"Halloo, Johnny!" said he.  "What's brought
you here again?"

"Business," answered Phil.

"Going to buy out the firm?" inquired the youth
jocosely.

"Not to-day."

"Some other day, then," said the young man,
laughing as if he had said a very witty thing.

As Phil didn't know that this form of expression,
slightly varied, had become a popular phrase of the
day, he did not laugh.

"Do you belong to the church?" asked the youth,
stopping short in his own mirth.

"What makes you ask?"

"Because you don't laugh."

"I would if I saw anything to laugh at."

"Come, that's hard on me.  Honor bright, have
you come to do any business with us?"

It is rather amusing to see how soon the cheapest
clerk talks of "us," quietly identifying himself with
the firm that employs him.  Not that I object to it. 
Often it implies a personal interest in the success
and prosperity of the firm, which makes a clerk more
valuable.  This was not, however, the case with G.
Washington Wilbur, the young man who was now
conversing with Phil, as will presently appear.

"I am going to work here," answered Phil simply.

"Going to work here!" repeated Mr. Wilbur in
surprise.  "Has old Pitkin engaged you?"

"Mr. Pitkin engaged me yesterday," Phil replied.

"I didn't know he wanted a boy.  What are you
to do?"

"Go to the post-office, bank, and so on."

"You're to be errand boy, then?"

"Yes."

"That's the way I started," said Mr. Wilbur patronizingly.

"What are you now?"

"A salesman.  I wouldn't like to be back in my
old position.  What wages are you going to get?"

"Five dollars."

"Five dollars a week!" ejaculated Mr. G.
Washington Wilbur, in amazement.  "Come, you're chaffing."

"Why should I do that?  Is that anything remarkable?"

"I should say it was," answered Mr. Wilbur
slowly.

"Didn't you get as much when you were errand
boy?"

"I only got two dollars and a half.  Did Pitkin
tell you he would pay you five dollars a week."

"No; Mr Carter told me so."

"The old gentleman--Mr. Pitkin's uncle?"

"Yes.  It was at his request that Mr. Pitkin took
me on."

Mr. Wilbur looked grave.

"It's a shame!" he commenced.

"What is a shame; that I should get five dollars
a week?"

"No, but that I should only get a dollar a week
more than an errand boy.  I'm worth every cent of
ten dollars a week, but the old man only gives me
six.  It hardly keeps me in gloves and cigars."

"Won't he give you any more?"

"No; only last month I asked him for a raise, and
he told me if I wasn't satisfied I might go elsewhere."

"You didn't?"

"No, but I mean to soon.  I will show old Pitkin
that he can't keep a man of my experience for such
a paltry salary.  I dare say that Denning or Claflin
would be glad to have me, and pay me what I am
worth."

Phil did not want to laugh, but when Mr. Wilbur,
who looked scarcely older than himself, and was in
appearance but a callow youth, referred to himself
as a man of experience he found it hard to resist.

"Hadn't we better be going up stairs?" asked Phil.

"All right.  Follow me," said Mr. Wilbur, "and
I'll take you to the superintendent of the room."

"I am to report to Mr. Pitkin himself, I believe."

"He won't be here yet awhile," said Wilbur.

But just then up came Mr. Wilbur himself, fully
half an hour earlier than usual.

Phil touched his hat politely, and said:

"Good-morning."

"Good-morning!" returned his employer, regarding
him sharply.  "Are you the boy I hired yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come up-stairs, then."

Phil followed Mr. Pitkin up-stairs, and they
walked together through the sales-room.

"I hope you understand," said Mr. Pitkin
brusquely, "that I have engaged you at the request
of Mr. Carter and to oblige him."

"I feel grateful to Mr. Carter," said Phil, not quite
knowing what was coming next.

"I shouldn't myself have engaged a boy of whom
I knew nothing, and who could give me no city references."

"I hope you won't be disappointed in me," said
Phil.

"I hope not," answered Mr. Pitkin, in a tone
which seemed to imply that he rather expected to
be.

Phil began to feel uncomfortable.  It seemed evident
that whatever he did would be closely scrutinized,
and that in an unfavorable spirit.

Mr. Pitkin paused before a desk at which was
standing a stout man with grayish hair.

"Mr. Sanderson," he said, "this is the new errand
boy.  His name is--what is it, boy?"

"Philip Brent."

"You will give him something to do.  Has the
mail come in?"

"No; we haven't sent to the post-office yet."

"You may send this boy at once."

Mr. Sanderson took from the desk a key and
handed it to Philip.

"That is the key to our box," he said.  "Notice
the number--534.  Open it and bring the mail. 
Don't loiter on the way."

"Yes, sir."

Philip took the key and left the warehouse. 
When he reached the street he said to himself:

"I wonder where the post-office is?"

He did not like to confess to Mr. Sanderson that
he did not know, for it would probably have been
considered a disqualification for the post which he
was filling.

"I had better walk to Broadway," he said to
himself.  "I suppose the post-office must be on the
principal street."

In this Phil was mistaken.  At that time the post-
office was on Nassau Street, in an old church which
had been utilized for a purpose very different from
the one to which it had originally been devoted.

Reaching Broadway, Phil was saluted by a bootblack,
with a grimy but honest-looking face.

"Shine your boots, mister?" said the boy, with a
grin.

"Not this morning."

"Some other morning, then?"

"Yes," answered Phil.

"Sorry you won't give me a job," said the bootblack. 
"My taxes comes due to-day, and I ain't got
enough to pay 'em."

Phil was amused, for his new acquaintance scarcely
looked like a heavy taxpayer.

"Do you pay a big tax?" he asked.

"A thousand dollars or less," answered the knight
of the brush.

"I guess it's less," said Phil.

"That's where your head's level, young chap."

"Is the post-office far from here?"

"Over half a mile, I reckon."

"Is it on this street?"

"No, it's on Nassau Street."

"If you will show me the way there I'll give you
ten cents."

"All right!  The walk'll do me good.  Come on!"

"What's your name?" asked Phil, who had become
interested in his new acquaintance.

"The boys call me Ragged Dick."

It was indeed the lively young bootblack whose
history was afterward given in a volume which is
probably familiar to many of my readers.  At this
time he was only a bootblack, and had not yet begun
to feel the spur of that ambition which led to his
subsequent prosperity.

"That's a queer name," said Phil.

"I try to live up to it," said Dick, with a comical
glance at his ragged coat, which had originally been
worn by a man six feet in height.

He swung his box over his shoulder, and led the
way to the old post-office.

CHAPTER XII.

MR. LIONEL LAKE AGAIN.

Phil continued his conversation with Ragged
Dick, and was much amused by his quaint way
of expressing himself.

When they reached Murray Street, Dick said:

"Follow me.  We'll cut across the City Hall Park. 
It is the shortest way."

Soon they reached the shabby old building with
which New Yorkers were then obliged to be content
with as a post-office.

Phil secured the mail matter for Pitkin & Co.,
and was just about leaving the office, when he noticed
just ahead of him a figure which looked very
familiar.

It flashed upon him of a sudden that it was his
old train acquaintance, Lionel Lake.  He immediately
hurried forward and touched his arm.

Mr. Lake, who had several letters in his hand,
started nervously, and turned at the touch.  He
recognized Phil, but appeared not to do so.

"What do you wish, boy?" he asked, loftily.

"I want to speak a word with you, Mr. Lake."

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

"You are mistaken in the person," he said.  "My
name is not Lake."

"Very likely not," said Phil significantly, "but
that's what you called yourself when we met on the
train."

"I repeat, boy, that you are strangely mistaken. 
My name is"--he paused slightly--"John Montgomery."

"Just as you please.  Whatever your name is, I
have a little business with you."

"I can't stop.  My business is urgent," said Lake.

"Then I will be brief.  I lent you five dollars on
a ring which I afterward discovered to be stolen.  I
want you to return that money."

Mr. Lake looked about him apprehensively, for
he did not wish any one to hear what Phil was saying.

"You must be crazy!" he said.  "I never saw you
before in the whole course of my life."

He shook off Phil's detaining hand, and was about
to hurry away, but Phil said resolutely:

"You can't deceive me, Mr. Lake.  Give me that
money, or I will call a policeman."

Now, it happened that a policeman was passing
just outside, and Lake could see him.

"This is an infamous outrage!" he said, "but I
have an important appointment, and can't be detained. 
Take the money.  I give it to you in
charity."

Phil gladly received and pocketed the bank-note,
and relinquishing his hold of Mr. Lake, rejoined
Dick, who had been an interested eye-witness of the
interview.

"I see you've got pluck," said Dick.  "What's it
all about?"

Phil told him.

"I ain't a bit s'prised," said Dick.  "I could tell
by his looks that the man was a skin."

"Well, I'm even with him, at any rate," said Phil.

"Now I'll be getting back to the office.  Thank you
for your guidance.  Here's a quarter."

"You only promised me ten cents."

"It's worth a quarter.  I hope to meet you
again."

"We'll meet at Astor's next party," said Dick,
with a grin.  "My invite came yesterday."

"Mine hasn't come yet," said Phil, smiling.

"Maybe it'll come to-morrow."

"He's a queer chap," thought Phil.  "He's fit for
something better than blacking boots.  I hope he'll
have the luck to get it."

Phil had been detained by his interview with Mr.
Lake, but he made up for it by extra speed, and
reached the warehouse in fair time.  After delivering
the letters he was sent out on another errand,
and during the entire day he was kept busy.

Leaving him for the moment we go back to the
Pitkin mansion, and listen to & conversation between
Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin.

"Uncle Oliver is getting more and more eccentric
every day," said the lady.  "He brought home a boy
to lunch to-day--some one whom he had picked up
in the street."

"Was the boy's name Philip Brent?" asked her
husband.

"Yes, I believe so.  What do you know about
him?" asked the lady in surprise.

"I have engaged him as errand boy."

"You have!  What for?" exclaimed Mrs. Pitkin.

"I couldn't help it.  He brought a letter from
your uncle, requesting me to do so, and offering to
pay his wages out of his own pocket."

"This is really getting very serious," said Mrs.
Pitkin, annoyed.  "Suppose he should take a fancy to
this boy?"

"He appears to have done so already," said her
husband dryly.

"I mean, suppose he should adopt him?"

"You are getting on pretty fast, Lavinia, are you
not?"

"Such things happen sometimes," said the lady,
nodding.  "If it should happen it would be bad for
poor Lonny."

"Even in that case Lonny won't have to go to the
poor-house."

"Mr. Pitkin, you don't realize the danger.  Here's
Uncle Oliver worth a quarter of a million dollars,
and it ought to be left to us."

"Probably it will be."

"He may leave it all to this boy.  This must be
prevented."

"How?"

"You must say the boy doesn't suit you, and
discharge him."

"Well, well, give me time.  I have no objection;
but I suspect it will be hard to find any fault with
him.  He looks like a reliable boy."

"To me he looks like an artful young adventurer,"
said Mrs. Pitkin vehemently.  "Depend upon it,
Mr. Pitkin, he will spare no pains to ingratiate
himself into Uncle Oliver's favor."

It will be seen that Mrs. Pitkin was gifted--if it
can be called a gift--with a very suspicious temperament. 
She was mean and grasping, and could not
bear the idea of even a small part of her uncle's
money going to any one except her own family. 
There was, indeed, another whose relationship to
Uncle Oliver was as close--a cousin, who had
estranged her relatives by marrying a poor
bookkeeper, with whom she had gone to Milwaukee. 
Her name was never mentioned in the Pitkin household,
and Mrs. Pitkin, trusting to the distance between
them, did not apprehend any danger from this
source.  Had she known Rebecca Forbush was even
now in New York, a widow with one child, struggling
to make a living by sewing and taking lodgers,
she would have felt less tranquil.  But she knew
nothing of all this, nor did she dream that the boy
whom she dreaded was the very next day to make
the acquaintance of this despised relation.

This was the way that it happened:

Phil soon tired of the room he had taken in Fifth
Street.  It was not neatly kept, and was far from
comfortable.  Then again, he found that the restaurants,
cheap as they were, were likely to absorb
about all his salary, though the bill-of-fare was far
from attractive.

Chance took him through a side-street, between
Second and Third Avenues, in the neighborhood of
Thirteenth Street.

Among the three and four-story buildings that
lined the block was one frame-house, two-story-and-
basement, on which he saw a sign, "Board for
Gentlemen."  He had seen other similar signs, but his
attention was specially drawn to this by seeing a
pleasant-looking woman enter the house with the
air of proprietor.  This woman recalled to Philip his
own mother, to whom she bore a striking resemblance.

"I would like to board with one whose face
recalled that of my dear dead mother," thought Phil,
and on the impulse of the moment, just after the
woman had entered, he rang the door-bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by the
woman he had just seen enter.

It seemed to Phil almost as if he were looking into
his mother's face, and he inquired in an unsteady
voice:

"Do you take boarders?"

"Yes," was the answer.  "Won't you step in?"

CHAPTER XIII.

PHIL'S NEW HOME.

The house was poorly furnished with cheap
furniture, but there was an unexpected air of
neatness about it.  There is a great difference
between respectable and squalid poverty.  It was the
first of these that was apparent in the small house in
which our hero found himself.

"I am looking for a boarding-place," said Philip. 
"I cannot afford to pay a high price."

"And I should not think of asking a high price
for such plain accommodations as I can offer," said
Mrs. Forbush.  "What sort of a room do you desire?"

"A small room will answer."

"I have a hall-bedroom at the head of the stairs. 
Will you go up and look at it?"

"I should like to do so."

Mrs. Forbush led the way up a narrow staircase,
and Philip followed her.

Opening the door of the small room referred to,
she showed a neat bed, a chair, a wash-stand, and a
few hooks from which clothing might be hung.  It
was plain enough, but there was an air of neatness
which did not characterize his present room.

"I like the room," he said, brightening up.  "How
much do you charge for this room and board?"

"Four dollars.  That includes breakfast and
supper," answered Mrs. Forbush.  "Lunch you provide
for yourself."

"That will be satisfactory," said Phil.  "I am in
a place down town, and I could not come to lunch,
at any rate."

"When would you like to come, Mr.----?" said
the widow interrogatively."

"My name is Philip Brent."

"Mr. Brent."

"I will come some time to-morrow."

"Generally I ask a small payment in advance, as
a guarantee that an applicant will really come, but
I am sure I can trust you."

"Thank you, but I am quite willing to conform to
your usual rule," said Phil, as he drew a two-dollar
bill from his pocket and handed it to the widow.

So they parted, mutually pleased.  Phil's week at
his present lodging would not be up for several
days, but he was tired of it, and felt that he would
be much more comfortable with Mrs. Forbush.  So
he was ready to make the small pecuniary sacrifice
needful.

The conversation which has been recorded took
but five minutes, and did not materially delay Phil,
who, as I have already said, was absent from the
store on an errand.

The next day Phil became installed at his new
boarding-place, and presented himself at supper.

There were three other boarders, two being a
young salesman at a Third Avenue store and his
wife.  They occupied a square room on the same
floor with Phil.  The other was a female teacher,
employed in one of the city public schools.  The
only remaining room was occupied by a drummer,
who was often called away for several days together. 
This comprised the list of boarders, but Phil's attention
was called to a young girl of fourteen, of sweet
and attractive appearance, whom he ascertained to
be a daughter of Mrs. Forbush.  The young lady
herself, Julia Forbush, cast frequent glances at Phil,
who, being an unusually good-looking boy, would
naturally excite the notice of a young girl.

On the whole, it seemed a pleasant and social
circle, and Phil felt that he had found a home.

The next day, as he was occupied in the store,
next to G. Washington Wilbur, he heard that young
man say:

"Why, there's Mr. Carter coming into the store!"

Mr. Oliver Carter, instead of making his way
directly to the office where Mr. Pitkin was sitting,
came up to where Phil was at work.

"How are you getting along, my young friend?"
he asked familiarly.

"Very well, thank you, sir."

"Do you find your duties very fatiguing?"

"Oh, no, sir.  I have a comfortable time."

"That's right.  Work cheerfully and you will win
the good opinion of your employer.  Don't forget to
come up and see me soon."

"Thank you, sir."

"You seem to be pretty solid with the old man,"
remarked Mr. Wilbur.

"We are on very good terms," answered Phil,
smiling.

"I wish you had introduced him to me," said Wilbur.

"Don't you know him?" asked Phil, in surprise.

"He doesn't often come to the store, and when he
does he generally goes at once to the office, and the
clerks don't have a chance to get acquainted."

"I should hardly like to take the liberty, then,"
said Phil.

"Oh, keep him to yourself, then, if you want to,"
said Mr. Wilbur, evidently annoyed.

"I don't care to do that.  I shall be entirely
willing to introduce you when there is a good chance."

This seemed to appease Mr. Wilbur, who became
once more gracious.

"Philip," he said, as the hour of closing
approached, "why can't you come around and call upon
me this evening?"

"So I will," answered Phil readily.

Indeed, he found it rather hard to fill up his
evenings, and was glad to have a way suggested.

"Do.  I want to tell you a secret."

"Where do you live?" asked Phil.

"No.---- East Twenty-second Street."

"All right.  I will come round about half-past
seven."

Though Wilbur lived in a larger house than he,
Phil did not like his room as well.  There being only
one chair in the room, Mr. Wilbur put his visitor in
it, and himself sat on the bed.

There was something of a mystery in the young
man's manner as, after clearing his throat, he said
to Phil: 

"I am going to tell you a secret."

Phil's curiosity was somewhat stirred, and he
signified that he would like to hear it.

"I have for some time wanted a confidant," said
Mr. Wilbur.  "I did not wish to trust a mere acquaintance,
for--ahem!--the matter is quite a delicate one.

Phil regarded him with increased interest.

"I am flattered by your selecting me," said he. 
"I will keep your secret."

"Phil," said Mr. Wilbur, in a tragic tone, "you
may be surprised to hear that I am in LOVE!"

Phil started and wanted to laugh, but Mr. Wilbur's
serious, earnest look restrained him.

"Ain't you rather young?" he ventured to say.

"No; I am nineteen," answered Mr. Wilbur.

"The heart makes no account of years."

Whether this was original or borrowed, Phil could
not tell.

"Have you been in love long?" asked Phil.

"Three weeks."

"Does the lady know it?"

"Not yet," returned Mr. Wilbur.  "I have
worshiped her from afar.  I have never even spoken to
her."

"Then the matter hasn't gone very far?"

"No, not yet."

"Where did you meet her first?"

"In a Broadway stage."

"What is her name?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know much about her, then?"

"Yes; I know where she lives."

"Where?"

"On Lexington Avenue."

"Whereabouts?"

"Between Twenty-ninth and Thirtieth Streets. 
Would you like to see her house?"

"Yes," answered Phil, who saw that Mr. Wilbur
wished him so to answer.

"Then come out.  We might see her."

The two boys--for Mr. Wilbur, though he considered
himself a young man of large experience, was
really scarcely more than a boy--bent their steps to
Lexington Avenue, and walked in a northerly direction.

They had reached Twenty-eighth Street, when the
door of house farther up on the avenue was opened
and a lady came out.

"That's she!" ejaculated Mr. Wilbur, clutching
Phil by the arm.

Phil looked, and saw a tall young lady, three or
four inches taller than his friend and as many years
older.  He looked at his companion with surprise.

"Is that the young lady you are in love with?"
he asked.

"Yes; isn't she a daisy?" asked the lover fervently.

"I am not much of a judge of daisies,' answered
Phil, a little embarrassed, for the young lady had
large features, and was, in his eyes, very far from
pretty.

CHAPTER XIV.

CONSULTING THE ORACLE.

Phil did not like to hurt the feelings of his
companion, and refrained from laughing, though
with difficulty.

"She doesn't appear to know you," he said.

"No," said Wilbur; "I haven't had a chance to
make myself known to her."

"Do you think you can make a favorable
impression upon--the daisy?" asked Phil, outwardly sober,
but inwardly amused.

"I always had a taking way with girls," replied
Mr. Wilbur complacently.

Phil coughed.  It was all that saved him from
laughing.

While he was struggling with the inclination, the
lady inadvertently dropped a small parcel which she
had been carrying in her hand.  The two boys were
close behind.  Like an arrow from the bow Mr. Wilbur
sprang forward, picked up the parcel, and while
his heart beat wildly, said, as he tendered it to the
owner, with a graceful bow and captivating smile:

"Miss, I believe you dropped this."

"Thank you, my good boy," answered the daisy
pleasantly.

Mr. Wilbur staggered back as if he had been
struck.  He fell back in discomfiture, and his face
showed the mortification and anguish he felt.

"Did you hear what she said?" he asked, in a
hollow voice.

"She called you a boy, didn't she?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Wilbur sadly.

"Perhaps she may be near-sighted," said Phil consolingly.

"Do you think so?" asked Mr. Wilbur hopefully.

"It is quite possible.  Then you are short, you
know."

"Yes, it must be so," said G. Washington Wilbur,
his face more serene.  "If she hadn't been she would
have noticed my mustache."

"True."

"She spoke kindly.  If--if she had seen how old I
was, it would have been different, don't you think so?"

"Yes, no doubt."

"There is only one thing to do," said Mr. Wilbur,
in a tone of calm resolve.

"What is that?" inquired Phil, in some curiosity.

"I must wear a stove-pipe hat!  As you say, I am
small, and a near-sighted person might easily suppose
me to be younger than I am.  Now, with a
stove-pipe hat I shall look much older."

"Yes, I presume so."

"Then I can make her acquaintance again, and
she will not mistake me.  Phil, why don't you wear
a stove-pipe?"

"Because I don't want to look any older than I
am.  Besides, an errand-boy wouldn't look well in a
tall hat."

"No, perhaps not."

"And Mr. Pitkin would hardly like it."

"Of course.  When you are a salesman like me it
will be different."

Mr. Wilbur was beginning to recover his
complacency, which had been so rudely disturbed.

"I suppose you wouldn't think of marrying on
your present salary?" said Phil.  "Six dollars a
week wouldn't support a married pair very well."

"The firm would raise my salary.  They always
do when a man marries.  Besides, I have other resources."

"Indeed?"

"Yes; I am worth two thousand dollars.  It was
left me by an aunt, and is kept in trust for me until
I am twenty-one.  I receive the interest now."

"I congratulate you," said Phil, who was really
pleased to hear of his companion's good fortune.

"That money will come in handy."

"Besides, I expect SHE'S got money," continued
Mr. Wilbur.  "Of course, I love her for herself
alone--I am not mercenary--still, it will be a help
when we are married."

"So it will," said Phil, amused at the confident
manner in which Mr. Wilbur spoke of marriage with
a lady of whom he knew absolutely nothing.

"Philip," said Mr. Wilbur, "when I marry, I want
you to stand up with me--to be my groomsman."

"If I am in the city, and can afford to buy a
dress-suit, I might consent."

"Thank you.  You are a true friend!" said Mr.
Wilbur, squeezing his hand fervently.

The two returned to Mr. Wilbur's room and had a
chat.  At an early hour Phil returned to his own
boarding-place.

As time passed on, Phil and Wilbur spent considerable
time together out of the store.  Mr. G. Washington
Wilbur, apart from his amusing traits, was a
youth of good principles and good disposition, and
Phil was glad of his company.  Sometimes they
went to cheap amusements, but not often, for neither
had money to spare for such purposes.

Some weeks after Phil's entrance upon his duties
Mr. Wilbur made a proposal to Phil of a startling
nature.

"Suppose we have our fortunes told, Phil?" he said.

"If it would help my fortune, or hurry it up, I
shouldn't object," said Phil, smiling.

"I want to know what fate has in store for me,"
said Wilbur.

"Do you think the fortune-tellers know any better
than you do?" asked Phil incredulously.

"They tell some strange things," said Wilbur.

"What, for instance?"

"An aunt of mine went to a fortune-teller and
asked if she would ever be married, and when?  She
was told that she would be married before she was
twenty-two, to a tall, light-complexioned man."

"Did it come true?"

"Yes, every word," said Mr. Wilbur solemnly. 
"She was married three months before her twenty-
second birthday, and her husband was just the
kind of man that was predicted.  Wasn't that
strange?"

"The fortune-teller might easily have guessed all
that.  Most girls are married as young as that."

"But not to tall, light-complexioned men!" said
Wilbur triumphantly.

"Is there anything you wish particularly to
know?" asked Phil.

"I should like to know if I am going to marry--
you know who."

"The daisy?"

"Yes."

Phil was not much in favor of the scheme, but
finally agreed to it.

There was a certain "Veiled Lady," who
advertised her qualifications in the Herald, as the seventh
daughter of a seventh daughter, and therefore
gifted with the power to read the future.  Mr.
Wilbur made choice of her, and together they went to
call upon her one evening.

They were shown into an anteroom, and in due
time Mr. Wilbur was called into the dread presence. 
He was somewhat nervous and agitated, but "braced
up," as he afterward expressed it, and went in.  He
wanted Phil to go in with him, but the attendant
said that madam would not allow it, and he went
forward alone.

Fifteen minutes afterward he re-entered the room
with a radiant face.

"Have you heard good news?" asked Phil.

Mr. Wilbur nodded emphatically and whispered,
for there were two others in waiting:

"It's all right.  I am to marry her."

"Did the fortune-teller say so?"

"Yes."

"Did she give her name?"

"No, but she described her so that I knew her at
once."

"Will it be soon?" asked Phil slyly.

"Not till I am twenty-four," answered Mr.
Wilbur soberly.  "But perhaps she may be mistaken
about that.  Perhaps she thought I was older than
I am."

"Do you doubt her knowledge, then?"

"No; at any rate, I can wait, since she is to be
mine at last.  Besides, I am to be rich.  When I am
thirty years old I am to be worth twenty thousand
dollars."

"I congratulate you, Wilbur," said Phil, smiling. 
"You are all right, at least,"

"The next gentleman!" said the attendant.

Phil entered the inner room, and looked about
him in curiosity.

A tall woman sat upon a sort of throne, with one
hand resting on a table beside her.  A tall wax-
taper supplied the place of the light of day, which
was studiously excluded from the room by thick,
dark curtains.  Over the woman's face was a black
veil, which gave her an air of mystery.

"Come hither, boy!" she said, in a clear,
commanding voice.

Phil advanced, not wholly unimpressed, though he
felt skeptical.

The woman bent forward, starting slightly and
scanned his face eagerly.

CHAPTER XV.

PHIL AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Do you wish to hear of the past or the future?"
asked the fortune-teller.

"Tell me something of the past," said Phil, with
a view of testing the knowledge of the seeress.

"You have left an uncongenial home to seek your
fortune in New York.  You left without regret, and
those whom you have left behind do not miss you."

Phil started in amazement.  This was certainly
true.

"Shall I find the fortune I seek?" asked our hero
earnestly.

"Yes, but not in the way you expect.  You think
yourself alone in the world!"

The fortune-teller paused, and looked searchingly
at the boy.

"So I am," returned Phil.

"No boy who has a father living can consider
himself alone."

"My father is dead!" returned Phil, growing
skeptical.

"You are mistaken."

"I am not likely to be mistaken in such a matter. 
My father died a few months since."

"Your father still lives!" said the fortune-teller
sharply.  "Do not contradict me!"

"I don't see how you can say that.  I attended
his funeral."

"You attended the funeral of the man whose
name you bear.  He was not your father."

Phil was much excited by this confirmation of his
step-mother's story.  He had entertained serious
doubts of its being true, thinking it might have been
trumped up by Mrs. Brent to drive him from home,
and interfere with his succession to any part of Mr.
Brent's property.

"Is my step-mother's story true, then?" he asked
breathlessly.  "She told me I was not the son of
Mr. Brent."

"Her story was true," said the veiled lady.

"Who is my real father, then?"

The lady did not immediately reply.  She
seemed to be peering into distant space, as she said
slowly:

"I see a man of middle size, dark-complexioned,
leading a small child by the hand.  He pauses before
a house--it looks like an inn.  A lady comes out
from the inn.  She is kindly of aspect.  She takes
the child by the hand and leads him into the inn. 
Now I see the man go away--alone.  The little
child remains behind.  I see him growing up.  He
has become a large boy, but the scene has changed. 
The inn has disappeared.  I see a pleasant village
and a comfortable house.  The boy stands at the
door.  He is well-grown now.  A lady stands on the
threshold as his steps turn away.  She is thin and
sharp-faced.  She is not like the lady who welcomed
the little child.  Can you tell me who this boy is?"
asked the fortune-teller, fixing her eyes upon Phil.

"It is myself!" he answers, his flushed face
showing the excitement he felt.

"You have said!"

"I don't know how you have learned all this,"
said Phil, "but it is wonderfully exact.  Will you
answer a question?"

"Ask!"

"You say my father--my real father--is living?"

The veiled lady bowed her head.

"Where is he?"

"That I cannot say, but he is looking for you."

"He is in search of me?"

"Yes."

"Why has he delayed it so long?"

"There are circumstances which I cannot explain
which have prevented his seeking and claiming
you."

"Will he do so?"

"I have told you that he is now seeking for you. 
I think he will find you at last."

"What can I do to bring this about?"

"Do nothing!  Stay where you are.  Circumstances
are working favorably, but you must wait.  
There are some drawbacks."

"What are they?"

"You have two enemies, or rather one, for the
other does not count."

"Is that enemy a man?"

"No, it is a woman."

"My step-mother!" ejaculated Phil, with immediate
conviction.

"You have guessed aright."

"And who is the other?"

"A boy."

"Jonas?"

"It is the son of the woman whom you call your
step-mother."

"What harm can they do me?  I am not afraid
of them," said Phil, raising his head proudly.

"Do not be too confident!  The meanest are
capable of harm.  Mrs. Brent does not like you
because she is a mother."

"She fears that I will interfere with her son."

"You are all right."

"Is there anything more you can tell me?" asked
Phil.  "Have I any other enemies?"

"Yes; there are two more--also a woman and her
son."

"That puzzles me.  I can think of no one."

"They live in the city."

"I know.  It is Mrs. Pitkin, my employer's wife. 
Why should she dislike me?"

"There is an old man who likes you.  That is the
cause."

"I see.  She doesn't want him to be kind to any
one out of the family."

"That is all I have to tell you," said the fortune-
teller abruptly.  "You can go."

"You have told me strange things," said Phil.
"Will you tell me how it is you know so much about
a stranger?"

"I have nothing more to tell you.  You can go!"
said the veiled lady impatiently.

"At least tell me how much I am to pay you."

"Nothing."

"But I thought you received fees."

"Not from you."

"Did you not take something from my friend who
was in here before me?"

"Yes."

"You told him a good fortune."

"He is a fool!" said the fortune-teller
contemptuously.  "I saw what he wanted and predicted
it."

She waved her hand, and Phil felt that he had no
excuse for remaining longer.

He left the room slowly, and found Mr. Wilbur
anxiously awaiting him.

"What did she tell you, Phil?" he asked eagerly.
"Did she tell you what sort of a wife you would
have?"

"No.  I didn't ask her," answered Phil, smiling.

"I should think you'd want to know.  What did
she tell you, then?"

"She told me quite a number of things about my
past life and the events of my childhood."

"I shouldn't have cared about that," said Wilbur,
shrugging his shoulders.  "Why, I know all about
that myself.  What I want to know about is,
whether I am to marry the girl I adore."

"But you see, Wilbur, I don't adore anybody.  I
am not in love as you are."

"Of course that makes a difference," said Wilbur. 
"I'm glad I came, Phil.  Ain't you?"

"Yes," answered Phil slowly.

"You see, it's such a satisfaction to know that all
is coming right at last.  I am to marry HER, you
know, and although it isn't till I am twenty-
four----"

"She will be nearly thirty by that time," said Phil
slyly.

"She won't look it!" said Mr. Wilbur, wincing a
little.  "When I am thirty I shall be worth twenty
thousand dollars."

"You can't save it very soon out of six dollars a
week."

"That is true.  I feel sure I shall be raised soon. 
Did the fortune-teller say anything about your getting rich?"

"No.  I can't remember that she did.  Oh, yes!
she said I would make my fortune, but not in the
way I expected."

"That is queer!" said Mr. Wilbur, interested. 
"What could she mean?"

"I suppose she meant that I would not save a
competence out of five dollars a week."

"Maybe so."

"I have been thinking, Wilbur, you have an
advantage over the young lady you are to marry.  You
know that you are to marry her, but she doesn't
know who is to be her husband."

"That is true," said Wilbur seriously.  "If I can
find out her name, I will write her an anonymous
letter, asking her to call on the veiled Lady."

CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. BRENT'S STRANGE TEMPTATION.

Now that Phil is fairly established in the
city, circumstances require us to go back to
the country town which he had once called home.

Mrs. Brent is sitting, engaged with her needle, in
the same room where she had made the important
revelation to Phil.

Jonas entered the house, stamping the snow from
his boots.

"Is supper most ready, mother?" he asked.

"No, Jonas; it is only four o'clock," replied Mrs.
Brent.

"I'm as hungry as a bear.  I guess it's the skating."

"I wish you would go to the post-office before
supper, Jonas.  There might be a letter."

"Do you expect to hear from Phil?"

"He said nothing about writing," said Mrs. Brent
indifferently.  "He will do as he pleases about it."

"I did'nt know but he would be writing for
money," chuckled Jonas.

"If he did, I would send him some," said Mrs.
Brent.

"You would!" repeated Jonas, looking at his
mother in surprise.

"Yes, I would send him a dollar or two, so that
people needn't talk.  It is always best to avoid
gossip."

"Are you expecting a letter from anybody,
mother?" asked Jonas, after a pause.

"I dreamed last night I should receive an
important letter," said Mrs. Brent.

"With money in it?" asked Jonas eagerly.

"I don't know."

"If any such letter comes, will you give me some
of the money?"

"If you bring me a letter containing money," said
Mrs. Brent, "I will give you a dollar."

"Enough said!" exclaimed Jonas, who was fond
of money; "I'm off to the post-office at once."

Mrs. Brent let the work fall into her lap and
looked intently before her.  A flush appeared on
her pale face, and she showed signs of restlessness.

"It is strange," she said to herself, "how I have
allowed myself to be affected by that dream.  I am
not superstitious, but I cannot get over the idea that
a letter will reach me to-night, and that it will have
an important bearing upon my life.  I have a feeling,
too, that it will relate to the boy Philip."

She rose from her seat and began to move about
the room.  It was a, relief to her in the restless state
of her mind.  She went to the window to look for
Jonas, and her excitement rose as she saw him
approaching.  When he saw his mother looking from
the window, he held aloft a letter.

"The letter has come," she said, her heart beating
faster than its wont.  "It is an important letter. 
How slow Jonas is."

And she was inclined to be vexed at the deliberation
with which her son was advancing toward the
house.

But he came at last.

"Well, mother, I've got a letter--a letter from
Philadelphia," he said.  "It isn't from Phil, for I
know his writing."

"Give it to me, Jonas," said his mother, outwardly
calm, but inwar