Fame and Fortune; or, The Progress of Richard Hunter by Jr. Horatio Alger (little readers .txt) 📕

a week."

Certainly Roswell must have spoken inadvertently, or he would hardly have referred to Dick as his friend; but his main idea at present was to produce an impression upon the mind of Mr. Turner.

"Is your friend in a dry goods store?" asked Mr. Turner.

"No, sir."

"Then I don't see that his wages have any bearing upon your case. There may be some special circumstances that affect his compensation. How long has he been in the service of his present employer?"

"Only a week or two."

"Is this his first place?"

"Yes, sir."

"It may be that he is some relative of his employer."

"That isn't very likely," said Roswell, his lip curling. "He used to be a boot-black about the streets."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Turner, keenly. "I think you said he was a friend of yours."

"No, sir," said Roswell, proudly; "I haven't the honor."

"You certainly said 'There's a friend of mine, no older than I am, who gets ten dollars a week.'"

"I didn't mean to speak of him as my friend," said Roswell; "I'm a gentleman's son."

"If you are, his friendship might do you no harm. If he receives the wages you state, he must be a smart fellow. If he didn't earn as much, probably he would not receive it."

"I don't believe he'll keep his place long," muttered Roswell, his wish being father to the thought.

"If he doesn't, you may be able to succeed him," said Mr. Turner. "I shall be compelled to refuse your request. Indeed, so far from increasing your compensation, I have been considering during the last week whether it would not be for my interest to get another boy in your place."

"Sir!" exclaimed Roswell, in dismay.

"I will give you my reasons. You appear to think yourself of too great consequence to discharge properly the duties of your position."

"I don't understand you, sir," stammered Roswell.

"I believe you claim to be a gentleman's son."

"Yes, sir," said Roswell. "My father used to keep a store on Broadway."

"And I am led to suppose you think it incompatible with your dignity to carry bundles to different parts of the city."

"I would rather stand behind the counter and sell goods," said Roswell.

"Of course you will be a salesman in time, if you stick to business faithfully. But it so happens that we didn't hire you as a salesman, but as a boy, whose chief business it should be to carry bundles. But we don't want to impose a disagreeable duty upon you. Therefore, if you think upon reflection that you would prefer not to continue in your situation, we will hire somebody else."

"That won't be necessary, sir," said Roswell, considerably crest-fallen.

"You are content, then, to remain?"

"Yes, sir."

"And upon four dollars a week?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose I may hope to have my wages increased some time?"

"When we find your services worth more, you shall receive more," said Mr. Turner. "That is fair,—isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then here is your money. I didn't mean to talk so long; but it's as well to come to an understanding."

Roswell left the store considerably crest-fallen. He found that, instead of regarding him worth an advance of wages, Mr. Turner had had it in his mind to discharge him; and that hurt his pride. It was certainly very singular that people shouldn't be more impressed with the fact that he was a gentleman's son. He could not have received less deference if he had been an ex-boot-black, like Dick himself. He certainly was no more contented than before, nor was his self-appreciation materially diminished. If the world did not recognize his claims, there was one comfort, his mother appreciated him, and he appreciated himself. As to his cousin, he did not feel quite so certain.

"Why are you so late, Roswell?" asked his mother, looking up from her work as he entered. "It seems to me they kept you later than usual at the store, even for Saturday evening."

"I'm sick of the store," said Roswell, impatiently.

"What's the matter?"

"I asked old Turner to-night if he wouldn't raise my wages," said Roswell.

"Well, what did he say?"

"He said he wouldn't do it."

"Did he give any reason?"

"He said I didn't earn any more. He's a stingy old hunks, any way, and I wish I was in another place."

"So do I; but it isn't so easy to get a new position. You had better stay in this till another offers."

"I hate carrying bundles through the streets. It isn't fit work for a gentleman's son."

"Ah, if your poor father had lived, things would have been very different with us all!" said Mrs. Crawford, with a sigh. She chose to forget that previous to his death her late husband's habits had been such that he contributed very little to the comfort or support of the family.

"I wouldn't care if I were a salesman," continued Roswell; "but I don't like being an errand boy. I'd just as lives go to the post-office for letters, or to the bank with money, but, as for carrying big bundles of calico under my arm, I don't like it. I was walking on Madison Avenue the other day with a ten-pound bundle, when the boot-black came up, dressed handsomely, with a gold watch and chain, and exulted over me for carrying such a big bundle."

There was a little exaggeration about this, for Dick was very far from exulting over Roswell, otherwise he certainly would not have volunteered to carry the bundle himself. But it often happens that older persons than Roswell are not above a little misrepresentation now and then.

"He's an impudent fellow, then!" said Mrs. Crawford, indignantly. "Then Mr. Hall won't raise your wages?"

"It wasn't Mr. Hall I asked. It was Mr. Turner," said Roswell.

"Didn't he hold out any hopes of raising your wages hereafter?"

"He said he would raise them when I deserve it. He don't amount to much. He's no gentleman," said Roswell, scornfully.

"Who's no gentleman?" inquired James Gilbert, who chanced just then to enter the room.

"Mr. Turner."

"Who's Mr. Turner?"

"My employer,—Hall & Turner, you know."

"What's amiss with him?"

"I asked him to raise my wages to-night, and he wouldn't."

"Umph! How much did you ask for?"

"Two dollars more a week."

"You're a fool!"

"What!" said Roswell, astonished.

"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawford, angrily.

"I say the lad's a fool to ask for so large an advance so soon. Of course his employers refused it. I would, in their place."

"You're very hard upon the poor boy!" said Mrs. Crawford. "I thought you were his friend."

"So I am; but he's acted foolishly for all that. He should have known better."

"I ought to be worth six dollars, if your boot-black is worth ten," responded Roswell.

"He isn't worth ten."

"Why do you pay him that, then?"

"It's Mr. Rockwell who pays him, not I. Why he does it, I can't say. It isn't because he earns it. No boy of his age, or yours either, can earn ten dollars a week."

"At any rate he gets ten, and I get only four. I certainly earn more than that," said Roswell.

"I am not so sure about that," said his cousin. "But if it will afford you any comfort, I'll venture to make the prediction that he won't remain in Rockwell & Cooper's employment a week longer."

"Has anything happened?" asked Roswell, eagerly.

"Not yet," said James Gilbert, significantly.

"Then something is going to happen?"

"You need not trouble yourself to ask questions. Wait patiently, and when anything happens I'll let you know."

Here James Gilbert left the room, and went up to his own chamber. His words had excited hope in both Roswell and his mother. The former felt that it would be a satisfaction to him to learn that Dick had lost his situation, even if he failed to get it himself.

CHAPTER XI. A NEW ALLIANCE.

The name of Micky Maguire is already familiar to the readers of "Ragged Dick." He had acquired a prominent position among the down-town boot-blacks by his strength, which he used oftentimes to impose upon boys weaker than himself. He was a young ruffian, indeed, with few redeeming qualities. When Dick was in the same business, he tried on two or three occasions to make him acknowledge his superiority; but it was not in Dick's nature to be subservient to any one whom he did not respect. Moreover, Dick had two good stout arms of his own, and knew how to use them in self-defence. The consequence was that Micky Maguire signally failed in the attempts which he made on different occasions to humble our hero, and was obliged to slink off in discomfiture with his satellite, Limpy Jim.

The last glimpse we had of Micky was in Dick's cast-off clothes, of which by some means, probably not honest, he had become possessed. He did not wear them long, however. The famous Washington coat and Napoleon pants were only mortal, and, being already of venerable antiquity, became at length too fragmentary even for Micky's not very fastidious taste. One morning, accordingly, having levied an unwilling contribution from a weaker but more industrious boot-black, Micky went to Baxter Street, and invested it in a blue coat with brass buttons, which, by some strange chain of circumstances, had found its way thither from some country town, where it may at one time have figured at trainings and on town-meeting days. A pair of overalls completed Micky's costume. He dispensed with a vest, his money not having been sufficient to buy that also.

Certainly Micky presented a noticeable figure as he stood in the City Hall Park, clad in the above-mentioned garments. He was rather proud of the brass buttons, and may even have fancied, in his uncultivated taste, that his new costume became him.

While he was swaggering about he espied part of a cigar, which some one had thrown aside. Micky, who was fond of smoking, picked it up, and looked about him for a light, not being provided with a match. A young man was slowly crossing the park with a cigar in his mouth. But he was evidently plunged in thought, and hardly conscious of the scene about him. Micky observed this, and a cunning scheme suggested itself.

He walked up to the young man, and said, cavalierly, "Give us a light, mister, will yer?"

The young man mechanically took the cigar from his mouth, and passed it to the questioner without observing who he was. Had he done so, it is doubtful whether the request would have been complied with.

Rapidly calculating that he would not notice the substitution, Micky, after lighting the "stub," handed it to the young man, retaining the good cigar himself, and placing it straightway in his mouth.

This trick would probably have passed off undetected, if it had not been observed by some of Micky's fellow-professionals.

A jeering laugh from these called the young man's attention to the substitution, and, with a look of indignation, he said, "You young rascal, you shall pay for this!"