Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune, Jr. Horatio Alger [good books for high schoolers .txt] 📗

“Mr. Chester Rand.

“Dear Sir: We are about to establish a new comic weekly, which we shall call The Phœnix. It is backed by sufficient capital to insure its success. Our attention has been called to some illustrations which you have furnished to some of our successful contemporaries, and we shall be glad to secure your services. We may be able to throw considerable work in your way. Please call at our office as soon as possible.

“Editors of the Phœnix.”

Chester was quite exhilarated by this letter. He felt that it was a proof of his growing popularity as an artist, and this was particularly gratifying. Besides, his income would be largely, at any rate considerably, increased. He lost no time in presenting himself at the office of The Phœnix.

It was located in a large office building on Nassau Street. He took the elevator and went upstairs to the sixth floor. On the door of a room a little way from the elevator he saw the name, and knocked.

“Come in!” was the response.

Chester opened the door and found himself in the presence of a man of about forty, with a profusion of brown hair shading a pleasant countenance. He looked up inquiringly as Chester entered.

“Is this the editor of The Phœnix?” inquired Chester, respectfully.

“The Phœnix will have no existence till next week,” answered the other, pleasantly. “I expect to be its editor.”

“I came in answer to your letter.”

“To my letter?” repeated the editor, puzzled.

“Yes; my name is Chester Rand.”

“What!” exclaimed the brown-haired man, almost incredulously. “You—a boy? How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you are a contributor to Puck and other papers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must be a smart boy. Shake hands.”

Chester shook hands with a smile.

“Will my being a boy make any difference?” he asked.

“Not if your work is satisfactory. Are you willing to work exclusively for The Phœnix?”

“Yes, sir; that is, if I may be allowed to complete a contract I have made.”

“What sort of a contract?”

“I am illustrating Prof. Hazlitt’s ethnological work. I think it may take me some months more, working evenings.”

“That won’t interfere with us. I was afraid you might be under an engagement with a rival publication.”

“No, sir. So far as that goes I will confine myself to The Phœnix if——”

“Terms are satisfactory, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will agree to pay you twenty-five dollars a week for the first six months. I may be able to do better afterward.”

Chester was dazzled. Twenty-five dollars a week! What would Silas Tripp say to that or his enemy, the bookkeeper.

“I accept,” he answered, promptly.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHESTER MEETS ANOTHER ARTIST.

“Where do you wish me to work?” asked Chester, after a pause.

“You can work at home, but you can call at the office every day to leave your work and receive instructions.”

“All right, sir. When do you wish me to commence?”

“At once. Have you any work ready? I asked because we want to get out the first number as soon as possible.”

“I have one sketch and have several ideas jotted down.”

“Good! Deliver as much as possible to-morrow.”

Chester returned home in a high state of exultation. He would be paid less for individual sketches, but, on the other hand, he would have a steady income and an assured market for all he might produce. It seemed a wonderful promotion from five dollars a week to twenty-five. To be sure, when in the real estate office he had picked up extra compensation for outside work, but this was precarious and could not be depended on. With twenty-five dollars a week he would feel rich. This set him to considering that he must have a better room if he was to do work at home. In the same house where he now occupied a hall bedroom was a large, square room well lighted with two windows, well furnished and having a good writing desk, left by some previous tenant in part payment of arrears of rent, which he could have for five dollars a week. He had often thought he would like to occupy it, and wished he might find an agreeable roommate who would share the expense with him. Now he felt that he could bear the expense alone. He lost no time in securing it and moving his few belongings in.

Mrs. Crosby, his landlady, was rather surprised.

“You must be doing well,” she said.

Chester smiled.

“I have been discharged from my position in the real estate office,” he said.

“Then,” said the landlady, in some dismay, “isn’t it imprudent to take a more expensive room?”

“I have secured a much better place.”

“Oh! that alters the case. Is it likely to be permanent?”

“If I lose it I will go back to my old room.”

“I am sure I am glad to hear of your good luck, Mr. Rand. It is very seldom that a young man of your age——”

“Call me a boy. I am not a young man yet.”

“You seem to be getting on as well as a young man. I think you are real smart.”

“You mustn’t flatter me, Mrs. Crosby. You will make me vain. I forgot to say that I shall be a considerable part of the time in my room. That is why I want a larger one.”

“But when will you work?” asked the landlady, puzzled.

“I shall work in my room.”

“But what work can you do there?”

“I am an artist; that is, I am to make drawings for a new magazine.”

“You don’t say so? Will that pay?”

“Very handsomely.”

“I hope you will show me some of them. I never met an artist before.”

“I am afraid I am not much of an artist. I can show you one of my pictures now.”

Chester took from the table a number of Puck and pointed out a sketch.

“That’s pretty good,” said the landlady. “You wouldn’t get more than thirty-five cents for such a picture, would you?”

“I was paid five dollars for that.”

“Do tell!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosby, who was brought up in a country town and still used some of the expressions which were familiar to her in early days. “I can’t hardly believe it. It seems foolish to pay so much for such a little thing.”

“I don’t think it foolish, Mrs. Crosby. It must pay them, or they wouldn’t keep on doing it.”

Chester moved into his new room and enjoyed his ample accommodations very much. The next day he went to the office of The Phœnix and carried in two sketches. They were fortunate enough to win the approval of the editor.

“I see you are practical and understand what we want, Mr. Rand,” he said. Just behind Chester was a man of fifty, rather shabby and neglectful in his personal appearance. He might be described as an artist going to seed. Whatever talent he might have had originally had been dulled and obscured by chronic intemperance.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, deferentially, “but I would like to submit a couple of sketches. I am Guy Radcliff.”

“Glad to see you, Mr. Radcliff. Let me examine them.”

“I am afraid,” said the editor, after a brief examination, “that these are not quite what we want.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mr. Radcliff, indignantly. “You scorn my work, yet accept the sketches of that boy!” pointing at Chester with withering contempt.

“Because he has given me what I want.”

“I was a famous artist before he was born.”

“Very likely, and had done good work. But this is not good work.”

“Sir!”

“My dear sir, don’t be offended. I don’t care for the age of any of my contributors. I know something of your famous successes, and I hope next time to approve and buy what you bring me.”

Mr. Radcliff seemed only half propitiated. He and Chester went out together.

“What is your name, boy?” asked the artist.

“Chester Rand.”

“I never heard of you.”

“I am only a beginner,” said Chester, modestly.

“You seem to have got in with Fleming.”

“I may not keep in with him.”

“Are you doing pretty well?”

“Yes, for a boy.”

“Have you got a loose quarter about you? I haven’t done much work lately, and am hard up.”

Chester took half a dollar from his pocket and handed it to the elder man. His compassion was stirred as he felt for Radcliff’s humiliation in being obliged to make such an appeal to a boy like himself.

“Thank you. You’re a gentleman. I’ll return it soon,” said Radcliff, looking relieved. “Good luck to you! You’re a good fellow, after all.”

“I wish you good luck, too, Mr. Radcliff.”

Chester did not need to be told what had brought the elder artist into such an impecunious condition. His face with its unnatural flush showed that his habits had been far from creditable.

“If I needed anything to keep me from drinking, Mr. Radcliff’s example would be sufficient,” thought Chester. He had before now been invited to take a drink at some convenient saloon, but he had never been tempted to do so.

Two days later Chester was walking through Union Square when he came face to face with Felix Gordon.

Felix espied him first.

“Hello! Chester,” said his successor.

“Hello! I didn’t see you.”

“I envy you.”

“Why?”

“You have nothing to do but to enjoy yourself,” answered Felix, significantly.

“Oh, that’s it!” said Chester, smiling. He saw that Felix thought him to be out of employment.

“That was the case with you before you succeeded me in the real estate office. How do you like it?”

“Pretty well, but I think I ought to get more salary. You got five dollars, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I will try and get six when Mr. Fairchild gets back.”

“I wish you success.”

“You don’t feel any grudge against me for taking your place?”

“No; it wasn’t you who got me discharged.”

“I thought you’d be in to get a letter of recommendation from cousin David.”

“Would he give me one?”

“I don’t know. Are you trying to get a place?”

“No.”

Felix looked surprised.

“You ain’t rich, are you?” he asked.

“No; what makes you ask?”

“I don’t see how you can live without any salary.”

“I couldn’t. I ought to tell you that I have got a place.”

“You have?” exclaimed Felix, in surprise, and it must be confessed, disappointment.

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“In the office of a new paper.”

“What is it?”

“The Phœnix, a comic paper just started.”

“Where is the office?”

“In Nassau Street.”

“Then why are you not there?”

“I don’t have to be there all the time.”

“Do you get good pay?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“I get more than I did at the real estate office.”

“You don’t say!”

“Yes. I was in luck.”

“Do you get six dollars?”

“More. I don’t care to tell you just how much I get.”

“By the way, there was an old man in the office yesterday inquiring after you.”

“Did he give his name?”

“Yes. He said his name was Silas Tripp.”

“What on earth brought Mr. Tripp to New York?” Chester asked himself.

This question will be answered in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A STRANGER IN NEW YORK.

It was not often that Silas Tripp went to New York. The expense was a consideration, and again he found it difficult to leave his business. But he had received a circular from an investment company in Wall Street, offering ten per cent. interest for any money he might have to invest. High interest always attracts men who love money, and it so happened that Silas had five hundred dollars invested. The difference between six and ten per cent. interest on this sum would make twenty dollars annually, besides a contingent share in extra profits promised in the circular, and on the whole he thought it would pay him to make the journey.

He