The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success, Jr. Horatio Alger [beach read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
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“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
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