Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant, Jr. Horatio Alger [drm ebook reader TXT] 📗

family, and naturally sought out what would bring him in most money.

At length he had hit upon selling prize packages, and his first experience in that line are recorded in the previous chapter. Adding only that it was now a year since his father's death, we resume our narrative.

“Do you want to know how much I've made, mother?” asked Paul, looking up at length from his calculation.

“Yes, Paul.”

“A dollar and thirty cents.”

“I did not think it would amount to so much. The prizes came to considerable, didn't they?”

“Listen, and I will tell you how I stand:

One pound of candy . . . . . . . . .20 Two packs of envelopes . . . . . . . .10 Prize. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .90 —— That makes . . . . . . . . . . . . $1.20

I sold the fifty packages at five cents each, and that brought me in two dollars and a half. Taking out the expenses, it leaves me a dollar and thirty cents. Isn't that doing well for one morning's work?”

“It's excellent; but I thought your prizes amounted to more than ninety cents.”

“So they did, but several persons who bought wouldn't take their prizes, and that was so much gain.”

“You have done very well, Paul. I wish you might earn as much every day.”

“I'm going to earn some more this afternoon. I bought a pound of candy on the way home, and some cheap envelopes, and I'll be making up a new stock while I am waiting for dinner.”

Paul took out his candy and envelopes, and set about making up the packages.

“Did any complain of the small amount of candy you put in?”

“A few; but most bought for the sake of the prizes.”

“Perhaps you had better be a little more liberal with your candy, and then there may not be so much dissatisfaction where the prize is only a penny.”

“I don't know but your are right, mother. I believe I'll only make thirty packages with this pound, instead of fifty. Thirty'll be all I can sell this afternoon.”

Just then the door opened, and Paul's brother entered.

Jimmy Hoffman, or lame Jimmy, as he was often called, was a delicate-looking boy of ten, with a fair complexion and sweet face, but incurably lame, a defect which, added to his delicate constitution, was likely to interfere seriously with his success in life. But, as frequently happens, Jimmy was all the more endeared to his mother and brother by his misfortune and bodily weakness, and if either were obliged to suffer from poverty, Jimmy would be spared the suffering.

“Well, Jimmy, have you had a pleasant walk?” asked his mother.

“Yes, mother; I went down to Fulton Market. There's a good deal to see there.”

“A good deal more than in this dull room, Jimmy.”

“It doesn't seem dull to me, mother, while you are here. How did you make out selling your prize packages?”

“They are all sold, Jimmy, every one. I am making some more.”

“Shan't I help you?”

“Yes, I would like to have you. Just take those envelopes, and write prize packages on every one of them.”

“All right, Paul,” and Jimmy, glad to be of use, got the pen and ink, and, gathering up the envelopes, began to inscribe them as he had been instructed.

By the time the packages were made up, dinner was ready. It was not a very luxurious repast. There was a small piece of rump steak—not more than three-quarters of a pound—a few potatoes, a loaf of bread, and a small plate of butter. That was all; but then the cloth that covered the table was neat and clean, and the knives and forks were as bright as new, and what there was tasted good.

“What have you been doing this morning, Jimmy?” asked Paul.

“I have been drawing, Paul. Here's a picture of Friday. I copied it from 'Robinson Crusoe.'”

He showed the picture, which was wonderfully like that in the book, for this—the gift of drawing—was Jimmy's one talent, and he possessed it in no common degree.

“Excellent, Jimmy!” said Paul. “You're a real genius. I shouldn't be surprised if you'd make an artist some day.”

“I wish I might,” said Jimmy, earnestly. “There's nothing I'd like better.”

“I'll tell you what, Jimmy. If I do well this afternoon, I'll buy you a drawing-book and some paper, to work on while mother and I are busy.”

“If you can afford it, Paul, I should like it so much. Some time I might earn something that way.”

“Of course you may,” said Paul, cheerfully. “I won't forget you.”

Dinner over, Paul went out to business, and was again successful, getting rid of his thirty packages, and clearing another dollar. Half of this he invested in a drawing-book, a pencil and some drawing-paper for Jimmy. Even then he had left of his earnings for the day one dollar and eighty cents. But this success in the new business had already excited envy and competition, as he was destined to find out on the morrow.