Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant

CHAPTER X
ANOTHER LOSS

After supper Paul brushed his clothes carefully and prepared to go to the address given him by Mr. Preston. He decided to walk one way, not wishing to incur the expenses of two railroad fares.

The distance was considerable, and it was nearly eight o’clock when he arrived at his destination.

Paul found himself standing before a handsome house of brown stone. He ascended the steps, and inquired, on the door being opened, if Mr. Preston was at home.

“I’ll see,” said the servant.

She returned in a short time, and said: “He says you may come upstairs.”

Paul followed the servant, who pointed out a door at the head of the first staircase.

Paul knocked, and, hearing “Come in” from within, he opened the door and entered.

He found himself in a spacious chamber, handsomely furnished. Mr. Preston, in dressing-gown and slippers, sat before a cheerful, open fire.

“Come and sit down by the fire,” he said, sociably.

“Thank you, sir, I am warm with walking,” and Paul took a seat near the door.

“I am one of the cold kind,” said Mr. Preston, “and have a fire earlier than most people. You come about the shirts, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will your mother undertake them?”

“With pleasure, sir. She can no longer get work from the shop.”

“Business dull, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I am glad I thought of giving her the commission. How’s business with you to-day, eh?”

“Pretty good, sir.”

“How many neckties did you sell?”

“Nineteen, sir.”

“And how much do you get for that?”

“Nine shillings and a half—a dollar and eighteen cents.”

“That’s pretty good for a boy like you. When I was of your age I was working on a farm for my board and clothes.”

“Were you, sir?” asked Paul, interested.

“Yes, I was bound out till I was twenty-one. At the end of that time I was to receive a hundred dollars and a freedom suit to begin the world with. That wasn’t a very large capital, eh?”

“No, sir.”

“But the death of my employer put an end to my apprenticeship at the age of eighteen. I hadn’t a penny of money and was thrown upon my own resources. However, I had a pair of good strong arms, and a good stock of courage. I knew considerable about farming, but I didn’t like it. I thought I should like trade better. So I went to the village merchant, who kept a small dry-goods store, and arranged with him to supply me with a small stock of goods, which I undertook to sell on commission for him. His business was limited, and having confidence in my honesty, he was quite willing to intrust me with what I wanted. So I set out with my pack on my back and made a tour of the neighboring villages.”

Paul listened with eager interest. He had his own way to make, and it was very encouraging to find that Mr. Preston, who was evidently rich and prosperous, was no better off at eighteen than he was now.

“You will want to know how I succeeded. Well, at first only moderately; but I think I had some tact in adapting myself to the different classes of persons with whom I came in contact; at any rate, I was always polite, and that helped me. So my sales increased, and I did a good thing for my employer as well as myself. He would have been glad to employ me for a series of years, but I happened to meet a traveling salesman of a New York wholesale house, who offered to obtain me a position similar to his own. As this would give me a larger field and larger profits, I accepted gladly, and so changed the nature of my employment. I became very successful. My salary was raised from time to time, till it reached five thousand dollars. I lived frugally and saved money, and at length bought an interest in the house by which I had been so long employed. I am now senior partner, and, as you may suppose, very comfortably provided for.

“Do you know why I have told you this?” asked Mr. Preston, noticing the eagerness with which Paul had listened.

“I don’t know, sir; but I have been very much interested.”

“It is because I like to give encouragement to boys and young men who are now situated as I used to be. I think you are a smart boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And, though you are poor, you can lift yourself to prosperity, if you are willing to work hard enough and long enough.”

“I am not afraid of work,” said Paul, promptly.

“No, I do not believe you are. I can tell by a boy’s face, and you have the appearance of one who is willing to work hard. How long have you been a street peddler?”

“About a year, sir. Before that time my father was living, and I was kept at school.”

“You will find the street a school, though of a different kind, in which you can learn valuable lessons. If you can get time in the evening, however, it will be best to keep up your school studies.”

“I am doing that now, sir.”

“That is well. And now, about the shirts. Did your mother say how long it would take her to make them?”

“About three weeks, I think, sir. Will that be soon enough?”

“That will do. Perhaps it will be well, however, to bring half the number whenever they are finished.”

“All right, sir.”

“I suppose your mother can cut them out if I send a shirt as a pattern?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Preston rose, and, going to a bureau, took therefrom a shirt which he handed to Paul. He then wrote a few lines on a slip of paper, which he also handed our hero.

“That is an order on Barclay & Co.,” he explained, “for the requisite materials. If either you or your mother presents it, they will be given you.”

“Very good, sir,” said Paul.

He took his cap, and prepared to go.

“Good-evening, Mr. Preston,” he said.

“Good-evening. I shall expect you with the shirts when they are ready.”

Paul went downstairs and into the street, thinking that Mr. Preston was very sociable and agreeable. He had fancied that rich men were generally “stuck up,” but about Mr. Preston there seemed an absence of all pretense. Paul’s ambition was aroused when he thought of the story he had heard, and he wondered whether it would be possible for him to raise himself to wealth and live in as handsome a house as Mr. Preston. He thought what a satisfaction it would be if the time should ever come when he could free his mother from the necessity of work, and give little Jimmy a chance to develop his talent for drawing. However, such success must be a long way off, if it ever came.

He had intended to ride home, but his mind was so preoccupied that he forgot all about it, and had got some distance on his way before it occurred to him. Then, not feeling particularly tired, he concluded to keep on walking, as he had commenced.

“It will save me six cents,” he reflected, “and that is something. If I am ever going to be a prosperous merchant, I must begin to save now.”

So he kept on walking. Passing the Cooper Institute, he came into the Bowery, a broad and busy street, the humble neighbor of Broadway, to which it is nearly parallel.

He was still engaged in earnest thought, when he felt a rude slap on the back. Looking round, he met the malicious glance of Mike Donovan, who probably would not have ventured on such a liberty if he had not been accompanied by a boy a head taller than himself, and, to judge from appearances, of about the same character.

“What did you do that for, Mike?” demanded Paul.

“None of your business. I didn’t hurt you, did I?” returned Mike, roughly.

“No, but I don’t care to be hit that way by you.”

“So you’re putting on airs, are you?”

“No, I don’t do that,” returned Paul; “but I don’t care about having anything to do with you.”

“That’s because you’ve got a new shirt, is it?” sneered Mike.

“It isn’t mine.”

“That’s what I thought. Who did you steal it from?”

“Do you mean to insult me, Mike Donovan?” demanded Paul, angrily.

“Just as you like,” said Mike, independently.

“If you want to know why I don’t want to have anything to do with you, I will tell you.”

“Tell ahead.”

“Because you’re a thief.”

“If you say that again, I’ll lick you,” said Mike, reddening with anger.

“It’s true. You stole my basket of candy the other day, and that isn’t the only time you’ve been caught stealing.”

“I’ll give you the worst licking you ever had. Do you want to fight?” said Mike, flourishing his fist.

“No, I don’t,” said Paul. “Some time when I haven’t a bundle, I’ll accommodate you.”

“You’re a coward!” sneered Mike, gaining courage as he saw Paul was not disposed for an encounter.

“I don’t think I am,” said Paul, coolly.

“I’ll hold your shirt,” said Mike’s companion, with a grin, “if you want to fight.”

Paul, however, did not care to intrust the shirt to a stranger of so unprepossessing an appearance.

He, therefore, attempted to pass on. But Mike, encouraged by his reluctance, stepped up and shook his fist within an inch of Paul’s nose, calling him at the same time a coward. This was too much for Paul’s self-restraint. He dropped the shirt and pitched into Mike in so scientific a manner that the latter was compelled to retreat, and finally to flee at the top of his speed, not without having first received several pretty hard blows.

“I don’t think he will meddle with me again,” said Paul to himself, as he pulled down the sleeves of his jacket.

He walked back, and looked for the shirt which he had laid down before commencing the combat. But he looked in vain. Nothing was to be seen of the shirt or of Mike’s companion. Probably both had disappeared together.

CHAPTER XI
BARCLAY & CO

The loss of the shirt was very vexatious. It was not so much the value of it that Paul cared for, although this was a consideration by no means to be despised by one in his circumstances; but it had been lent as a pattern, and without it his mother would be unable to make Mr. Preston’s shirts. As to recovering it, he felt that there was little chance of this. Besides, it would involve delay, and his mother could not afford to remain idle. Paul felt decidedly uncomfortable. Again Mike Donovan had done him an injury, and this time of a more serious nature than before.

What should he do?

There seemed but one answer to this question. He must go back to Mr. Preston, explain the manner in which he had lost his shirt, and ask him for another, promising, of course, to supply the place of the one lost. He was not sure whether Mr. Preston would accept this explanation. He might think it was only an attempt to defraud him. But, at any rate, it seemed the only thing to do, and it must be done at once. He entered a passing car, for it was too late to walk.

“I wish I had taken the car down,” thought Paul. “Then I shouldn’t have lost the shirt.”

But it was too late for regrets now. He must do the best that remained to him.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Paul once more stood before the door of Mr. Preston’s boarding-place. He rang the bell and asked to see him.

“You have been here before this evening?” said the servant.

“Yes.”

“Then you know the room. You can walk right up.”

Paul went upstairs and knocked at Mr. Preston’s room. He was bidden to come in, and did so.

Mr. Preston looked up with surprise.

“I suppose you are surprised to see me,” said Paul, rather awkwardly.

“Why, yes. I did not anticipate that pleasure quite so soon,” said Mr. Preston, smiling.

“I am afraid it won’t be a pleasure, for I bring bad news.”

“Bad news?” repeated the gentleman, rather startled.

“Yes; I have lost the shirt you gave me.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Mr. Preston, looking relieved. “But how did you lose it?”

“I was walking home down the Bowery, when two fellows met me. One of them, Mike Donovan, forced me into a fight. I gave him a licking,” added Paul, with satisfaction; “but when it was all over, I found the other fellow had run off with the shirt.”

“I don’t believe it will fit him,” said Mr. Preston, laughing.

As the speaker probably weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, it was, indeed, rather doubtful. Paul couldn’t help laughing himself at the thought.

“You were certainly unlucky,” said Mr. Preston. “Did you know the boy you fought with?”

“Yes, sir; he once before stole my stock of candy, when I was in the prize-package business.”

“That was the day we got acquainted,” remarked Mr. Preston.

“Yes, sir.”

“He doesn’t seem to be a very particular friend of yours.”

“No; he hates me, Mike does, though I don’t know why. But I hope you won’t be angry with me for losing the shirt?”

“No; it doesn’t seem to be your fault, only your misfortune.”

“I was afraid you might think I had made up the story, and only wanted to get an extra shirt from you.”

“No, my young friend; I have some faith in physiognomy, and you have an honest face. I don’t believe you would deceive me.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Paul, promptly. “If you will trust me with another shirt, mother will make you an extra one to make up for the one I have lost.”

“Certainly you shall have the extra shirt, but you needn’t supply the place of the one lost.”

“It is only fair that I should.”

“That may be, and I am glad you made the offer, but the loss is of little importance to me. It was no fault of yours that you lost it, and you shall not suffer for it.”

“You are very kind, sir,” said Paul, gratefully.

“Only just, Paul.”

Mr. Preston went to the bureau, and drew out another shirt, which he handed to Paul.

“Let me suggest, my young friend,” he said, “that you ride home this time. It is late, and you might have another encounter with your friend. I should like to see him with the shirt on,” and Mr. Preston laughed heartily at the thought.

Paul decided to follow his patron’s advice. He had no idea of running any more risk in the matter. He accordingly walked to Fourth avenue and got on board the car.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when he reached home. As it was never his habit to stay out late, his mother had become alarmed at his long absence.

“What kept you so late, Paul?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you, pretty soon, mother. Here’s the shirt that is to serve as a pattern. Can you cut out the new shirts by it?”

Mrs. Hoffman examined it attentively.

“Yes,” she said; “there will be no difficulty about that. Mr. Preston must be a pretty large man.”

“Yes, he is big enough for an alderman; but he is very kind and considerate, and I like him. You shall judge for yourself when I tell you what happened this evening.”

It will not be necessary to tell Paul’s adventure over again. His mother listened with pardonable indignation against Mike Donovan and his companion.

“I hope you won’t have anything to do with that bad boy, Paul,” she said.

“I shan’t, if I can help it,” said Paul. “I didn’t want to speak to him to-night, but I couldn’t help myself. Oh, I forgot to say, when half the shirts are ready, I am to take them to Mr. Preston.”

“I think I can make one a day.”

“There is no need of working so steadily, mother. You will be well paid, you know.”

“That is true; and for that reason I shall work more cheerfully. I wish I could get paid as well for all my work.”

“Perhaps Mr. Preston will recommend you to his friends, and you can get more work that way.”

“I wish I could.”

“I will mention it to him, when I carry back the last half dozen.”

“Is he going to send the cloth?”

“I nearly forgot that, too. I have an order on Barclay & Co. for the necessary amount of cloth. I can go up there to-morrow morning and get it.”

“That will take you from your work, Paul.”

“Well, I can close up for a couple of hours.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. I will go up myself and present the order, and get them to send it home for me.”

“Will they do that?”

“It is their custom. Or, if the bundle isn’t too large. I can bring it home myself in the car.”

“That’s all right, then. And now, mother, as it’s past eleven o’clock, I think we may as well both go to bed.”

The next day Paul went as usual to his business, and Mrs. Hoffman, after clearing away the breakfast, put on her bonnet and shawl, and prepared to go for the materials for the shirts.

The retail store of Barclay & Co. is of great size, and ranks among the most important in New York. It was not so well filled when Mrs. Hoffman entered as it would be later. She was directed to the proper counter, where she presented the order, signed by Mr. Preston. As he was a customer of long standing, there was no difficulty about filling the order. A bundle was made up, which, as it contained the materials for twelve shirts, necessarily was of considerable size.

“Here is your bundle, ma’am,” said the clerk.

Mrs. Hoffman’s strength was slender, and she did not feel able to carry the heavy bundle offered her. Even if she took the car, she would be obliged to carry it a portion of the way, and she felt that it would overtask her strength.

“Don’t you send bundles?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” said the clerk, looking superciliously at the modest attire of the poor widow, and mentally deciding that she was not entitled to much consideration. Had she been richly dressed, he would have been very obsequious, and insisted on sending home the smallest parcel. But there are many who have two rules of conduct, one for the rich, and quite a different one for the poor, and among these was the clerk who was attending upon Mrs. Hoffman.

“Then,” said Mrs. Hoffman, “I should like to have you send this.”

“It’s a great deal of trouble to send everything,” said the clerk, impertinently.

“This bundle is too heavy for me to carry,” said the widow, deprecatingly.

“I suppose we can send it,” said the clerk, ill-naturedly, “if you insist upon it.”

Meanwhile, though he had not observed it, his employer had approached, and heard the last part of the colloquy. He was considered by some as a hard man, but there was one thing he always required of those in his employ; that was to treat all purchasers with uniform courtesy, whatever their circumstances.

“Are you objecting to sending this lady’s bundle?” said Mr. Barclay, sternly.

The clerk looked up in confusion.

“I told her we would send it,” he stammered.

“I have heard what passed. You have been deficient in politeness. If this happens again, you leave my employ.”

“I will take your address,” said the clerk, in a subdued tone.

Mrs. Hoffman gave it, and left the store, thankful for the interference of the great merchant who had given his clerk a lesson which the latter, as he valued his situation, found it advisable to bear in mind.

CHAPTER XII
THE BARREL THIEF

While Mike Donovan was engaged in his contest with Paul, his companion had quietly walked off with the shirt. It mattered very little to him which party conquered, as long as he carried off the spoils. His conduct in the premises was quite as unsatisfactory to Mike as it was to Paul. When Mike found himself in danger of being overpowered, he appealed to his companion for assistance, and was incensed to see him coolly disregarding the appeal, and selfishly appropriating the booty.

“The mane thafe!” he exclaimed after the fight was over, and he was compelled to retreat. “He let me be bate, and wouldn’t lift his finger to help me. I’d like to put a head on him, I would.”

Just at that moment Mike felt quite as angry with his friend, Jerry McGaverty, as with his late opponent.

“The shirt’s mine, fair,” he said to himself, “and I’ll make Jerry give it to me.”

But Jerry had disappeared, and Mike didn’t know where to look for him. In fact, he had entered a dark alleyway, and, taking the shirt from the paper in which it was wrapped, proceeded to examine his prize.

The unusual size struck him.

“By the powers,” he muttered, “it’s big enough for me great-grandfather and all his children. I wouldn’t like to pay for the cloth it tuck to make it. But I’ll wear it, anyway.”

Jerry was not particular as to an exact fit. His nether garments were several sizes too large for him, and the shirt would complete his costume appropriately. He certainly did need a new shirt, for the one he had on was the only article of the kind he possessed, and was so far gone that its best days, if it ever had any, appeared to date back to a remote antiquity. It had been bought cheap in Baxter street, its previous history being unknown.

Jerry decided to make the change at once. The alley afforded a convenient place for making the transfer. He accordingly pulled off the ragged shirt he wore and put on the article he had purloined from Paul. The sleeves were too long, but he turned up the cuffs, and the ample body he tucked inside his pants.

“It fits me too much,” soliloquized Jerry, as he surveyed himself after the exchange. “I could let out the half of it, and have enough left for meself. Anyhow, it’s clane, and it came chape enough.”

He came out of the alley, leaving his old shirt behind him. Even if it had been worth carrying away, Jerry saw no use in possessing more than one shirt. It was his habit to wear one until it was ready to drop off from him, and then get another if he could. There is a practical convenience in this arrangement, though there are also objections which will readily occur to the reader.

On the whole, though the shirt fitted him too much, as he expressed it, he regarded himself complacently.

The superabundant material gave the impression of liberal expenditure and easy circumstances, since a large shirt naturally costs more than a small one. So Jerry, as he walked along the Bowery, assumed a jaunty air, precisely such as some of my readers may when they have a new suit to display. His new shirt was quite conspicuous, since he was encumbered neither with vest nor coat.

Mike, feeling sore over his defeat, met Jerry the next morning on Chatham street. His quick eye detected the improved state of his friend’s apparel, and his indignation rose, as he reflected that Jerry had pocketed the profits while the hard knocks had been his.

“Jerry!” he called out.

Jerry did not see fit to heed the call. He was sensible that Mike had something to complain of, and he was in no hurry to meet his reproaches.

“Jerry McGaverty!” called Mike, coming near.

“Oh, it’s you, Mike, is it?” answered Jerry, unable longer to keep up the pretense of not hearing.

“Yes, it’s me,” said Mike. “What made you leave me for last night?”

“I didn’t want to interfere betwane two gintlemen,” said Jerry, with a grin. “Did you mash him, Mike?”

“No,” said Mike, sullenly, “he mashed me. Why didn’t you help me?”

“I thought you was bating him, so, as I had some business to attind to, I went away.”

“You went away wid the shirt.”

“Yes, I took it by mistake. Ain’t it an illigant fit?”

“It’s big enough for two of you.”

“Maybe I’ll grow to it in time,” said Jerry.

“And how much are you goin’ to give me for my share?” demanded Mike.

“Say that ag’in,” said Jerry.

Mike repeated it.

“I thought maybe I didn’t hear straight. It ain’t yours at all. Didn’t I take it?”

“You wouldn’t have got it if I hadn’t fit with Paul.”

“That ain’t nothin’ to me,” said Jerry. “The shirt’s mine, and I’ll kape it.”

Mike felt strongly tempted to “put a head on” Jerry, whatever that may mean; but, as Jerry was a head taller already, the attempt did not seem quite prudent. He indulged in some forcible remarks, which, however, did not disturb Jerry’s equanimity.

“I’ll give you my old shirt, Mike,” he said, “if you can find it. I left it in an alley near the Old Bowery.”

“I don’t want the dirty rag,” said Mike, contemptuously.

Finally a compromise was effected, Jerry offering to help Mike on the next occasion, and leave the spoils in his hands.

I have to chronicle another adventure of Jerry’s, in which he was less fortunate than he had been in the present case. He was a genuine vagabond, and lived by his wits, being too lazy to devote himself to any regular street employment, as boot blacking or selling newspapers. Occasionally he did a little work at each of these, but regular, persistent industry was out of his line. He was a drone by inclination, and a decided enemy to work. On the subject of honesty his principles were far from strict. If he could appropriate what did not belong to him he was ready to do so without scruple. This propensity had several times brought him into trouble, and he had more than once been sent to reside temporarily on Blackwell’s Island, from which he had returned by no means improved.

Mike was not quite so much of a vagabond as his companion. He could work at times, though he did not like it, and once pursued the vocation of a bootblack for several months with fair success.

But Jerry’s companionship was doing him no good, and it seemed likely that eventually he would become quite as shiftless as Jerry himself.

Jerry, having no breakfast, strolled down to one of the city markets. He frequently found an opportunity of stealing here, and was now in search of such a chance. He was a dexterous and experienced barrel thief, a term which it may be necessary to explain. Barrels, then, have a commercial value, and coopers will generally pay twenty-five cents for one in good condition. This is enough, in the eyes of many a young vagabond, to pay for the risk incurred in stealing one.

Jerry prowled round the market for some time, seeking a good opportunity to walk off with an apple or banana, or something eatable. But the guardians of the stands seemed unusually vigilant, and he was compelled to give up the attempt, as involving too great risk. Jerry was hungry, and hunger is an uncomfortable feeling. He began to wish he had remained satisfied with his old shirt, dirty as it was, and carried the new one to some of the Baxter street dealers, from whom he could perhaps have got fifty cents for it. Now, fifty cents would have paid for a breakfast and a couple of cigars, and those just now would have made Jerry happy.

“What a fool I was not to think of it!” he said. “The old shirt would do me, and I could buy a bully breakfast wid the money I’d get for this.”

Just at this moment he espied an empty barrel—a barrel apparently quite new and in an unguarded position. He resolved to take it, but the affair must be managed slyly.

He lounged up to the barrel, and leaned upon it indolently. Then, in apparent unconsciousness, he began to turn it, gradually changing its position. If observed, he could easily deny all felonious intentions. This he kept up till he got round the corner, when, glancing around to see if he was observed, he quickly lifted it on his shoulder and marched off.

All this happened without his being observed by the owner of the barrel. But a policeman, who chanced to be going his rounds, had been a witness of Jerry’s little game. He remained quiet till Jerry’s intentions became evident, then walked quietly up and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Put down that barrel!” he said, authoritatively.

Jerry had been indulging in visions of the breakfast he would get with the twenty-five cents he expected to obtain for the barrel, and the interruption was not an agreeable one. But he determined to brazen it out if possible.

“What for will I put it down?” he said.

“Because you have stolen it, that’s why.”

“No,” said Jerry, “I’m carrying it round to my boss. It’s his.”

“Where do you work?”

“In Fourth street,” said Jerry, at random.

“What number?”

“No. 136.”

“Then your boss will have to get some one in your place, for you will have to come with me.”

“What for?”

“I saw you steal the barrel. You’re a barrel thief, and this isn’t the first time you’ve been caught at it. Carry back the barrel to the place you took it from and then come with me.”

Jerry tried to beg off, but without avail.

At that moment Mike Donovan lounged up. When he saw his friend in custody, he felt a degree of satisfaction, remembering the trick Jerry had played on him.

“Where are you goin’, Jerry?” he asked, with a grin, as he passed him. “Did ye buy that barrel to kape your shirt in?”

Jerry scowled but thought it best not to answer, lest his unlawful possession of the shirt might also be discovered, and lead to a longer sentence.

“He’s goin’ down to the island to show his new shirt,” thought Mike, with a grin. “Maybe he’ll set the fashion there.”

Mike was right. Jerry was sent to the island for two months, there introducing Mr. Preston’s shirt to company little dreamed of by its original proprietor.