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

“And now what have you been doin', Jimmy darlint?” said Mrs. Donovan, turning her broad, good-humored face toward the younger boy.

“I've been drawing a picture,” said Jimmy. “Would you like to see it?”

“Now, isn't that illigant?” exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, admiringly, taking the picture and gazing at it with rapt admiration. “Who showed you how to do it?”

“Paul bought me a book, and I copied it out of that.”

“You're a rale genius. Maybe you'll make pictures some time like them we have in the church, of the Blessed Virgin and the Saints. Do you think you could draw me, now?” she asked, with curiosity.

“I haven't got a piece of paper big enough,” said Jimmy, slyly.

“Ah, it's pokin' fun at me, ye are,” said Mrs. Donovan, good-humoredly. “Just like my Pat; he run into the room yesterday sayin', 'Mother, there's great news. Barnum's fat woman is dead, and he's comin' afther you this afternoon. He'll pay you ten dollars a week and board.' 'Whist, ye spalpeen!' said I; 'is it makin' fun of your poor mother, ye are?' but I couldn't help laughing at the impertinence of the boy. But I must be goin'.”

“Thank you for your kind offer, Mrs. Donovan. Jimmy shall go to your room for the sewing.”

“There's no hurry about that,” said Mrs. Donovan. “I'll jist bring it in meself when it's ready.”

“She is very kind,” said Mrs. Hoffman, when Bridget Donovan had gone. “I shall be glad to have her wash. I am apt to feel weak after it. What are you going to do this afternoon, Paul?”

“I'll try to sell out the rest of my stock of packages. Perhaps I shan't succeed, but I'll do my best. Shall you have another picture to show me when I come back tonight, Jimmy?”

“Yes, Paul; I love to draw. I'm going to try this castle.”

“It's rather hard, isn't it?”

“I can do it,” said Jimmy, confidently.

Paul left the room with his basket on his arm.

He was drawn by curiosity to the spot where he had met with his first success, as well as his first failure—the front of the post office. Here he became witness to an unexpectedly lively scene; in other words, a fight, in which Teddy O'Brien and his confederate, Mike, were the contestants. To explain the cause of the quarrel, it must be stated that it related to a division of the spoils.

Teddy had sold out his last package, seventy-five in number. For these he had received five cents apiece, making in all three dollars and seventy-five cents, of which all but a dollar and seventy-five cents, representing the value of the prizes and the original cost of the packages and their contents, was profit. Now, according to the arrangement entered into between him and Mike, the latter, for his services, was to receive one cent on every package sold. This, however, seemed to Teddy too much to pay, so, when the time of reckoning came, he stoutly asseverated that there were but sixty packages.

“That don't go down,” said Mike, indignantly; “it's nearer a hundred.”

“No, it isn't. It's only sixty. You've got the fifty cents, and I'll give you ten more.”

“You must give me the whole sixty, then,” said Mike, changing his ground. “I drawed the fifty as a prize.”

Teddy was struck with astonishment at the impudence of this assumption.

“It wasn't no prize,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” said Mike. “You said so yourself. Didn't he, Jim?”

Jim, who was also a confederate, but had agreed to accept twenty-five cents in full for services rendered, promptly answered:

“Shure, Mike's right. It was a prize he drew.”

“You want to chate me!” said Teddy, angrily.

“What have you been doin' all the mornin'?” demanded Mike. “You're the chap to talk about chatin', ain't you?”

“I'll give you twenty-five cents,” said Teddy, “and that's all I will give you.”

“Then you've got to fight,” said Mike, squaring off.

“Yes, you've got to fight!” chimed in Jim, who thought he saw a chance for more money.

Teddy looked at his two enemies, each of whom was probably more than a match for himself, and was not long in deciding that his best course was to avoid a fight by running. Accordingly, he tucked all the money into his pocket, and, turning incontinently, fled down Liberty street, closely pursued by his late confederates. Paul came up just in time to hear the termination of the dispute and watch the flight of his late business rival.

“I guess Teddy won't go into the business again,” he reflected. “I may as well take my old stand.”

Accordingly he once more installed himself on the post office steps, and began to cry, “Prize packages. Only five cents!”

Having no competitor now to interfere with his trade, he met with fair success, and by four o'clock was able to start for home with his empty basket, having disposed of all his stock in trade.

His profits, though not so great as the day before, amounted to a dollar.

“If I could only make a dollar every day,” thought Paul, “I would be satisfied.”