Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant by Jr. Horatio Alger (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

Paul had an errand farther uptown, and, on leaving Tiffany's walked up as far as Twenty-third street. Feeling rather tired, he got on board a University place car to return. They had accomplished, perhaps, half the distance, when, to his surprise, George Barry entered the car.

“How do you happen to be here, at this time, Barry?” he asked. “I thought you were attending to business.”

“I closed up for a couple of hours, having an errand at home. Where have you been?”

“To Tiffany's.”

“What, the jewelers?”

“Yes.”

“To buy a diamond ring, I suppose,” said Barry, jocosely.

“No—not to buy, but to sell one.”

“You are joking,” said his companion, incredulously.

“No, I am not. The ring belongs to my mother. I am trying to raise money enough on it to buy you out.”

“I didn't know your mother was rich enough to indulge in such expensive jewelry.”

“She isn't, and that's the reason I am trying to sell it.”

“I mean, I didn't think she was ever rich enough.”

“I'll explain it,” said Paul. “The ring was found some time since in Central Park. As no owner has ever appeared, though we advertised it, we consider that it belongs to us.”

“How much is it worth?”

“Mr. Tiffany offered two hundred and fifty dollars for it.”

Barry uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Well, that is what I call luck. Of course, you accepted it.”

“I intend to do so; but I must bring some gentleman who will guarantee that I am all right and have the right to sell it.”

“Can you do that?”

“I think so! I am going to ask Mr. Preston. I think he will do me that favor.”

“Then there's a fair chance of your buying me out.”

“Yes. I guess I can settle the whole thing up to-morrow.”

“Have you got the ring with you?”

“Yes.”

“I should like to see it, if you have no objection.”

Paul drew it from his pocket, and passed it over to Barry.

“It's a handsome one, but who would think such a little thing could be worth two hundred and fifty dollars?”

“I'd rather have the money than the ring.”

“So would I.”

On the right of Paul sat a man of about forty, well-dressed and respectable in appearance, with a heavy gold chain ostentatiously depending from his watch pocket, and with the air of a substantial citizen. He listened to the conversation between Barry and Paul with evident interest, and when Barry had returned the ring, he said:

“Young gentleman, would you be kind enough to let me look at your ring? I am myself in business as a jeweler in Syracuse, and so feel an interest in examining it.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Paul, the stranger's explanation of his motives inspiring him with perfect confidence.

The jeweler from Syracuse took the ring in his hands and appeared to examine it carefully.

“This is a handsome ring,” he said, “and one of great value. How much were you offered for it at Tiffany's?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“It is worth more.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Paul; “but he has to sell it, and make a profit.”

“He could do that, and yet make a profit. I will pay you two hundred and seventy-five dollars, myself—that is, on one condition.”