The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success by Jr. Horatio Alger (bearly read books .txt) 📕

“All right!” answered Phil, relieved to find a guide in the labyrinth of the great city.

“I live on Fifth Street, near the Bowery—a very convenient location,” said Orlando, if we may take the liberty to call him thus.

“Fifth Avenue?” asked Phil, who did not know the difference.

“Oh, no; that's a peg above my style. I am not a Vanderbilt, nor yet an Astor.”

“Is the price moderate?” asked Phil anxiously. “I must make my money last as long as I can, for I don't know when I shall get a place.”

“To be sure. You might room with me, only I've got a hall bedroom. Perhaps we might manage it, though.”

“I think I should prefer a room by myself,” said Phil, who reflected that Signor Orlando was a stranger as yet.

“Oh, well, I'll speak to the old lady, and I guess she can accommodate you with a hall bedroom like mine on the third floor.”

“What should I have to pay?”

“A dollar and a quarter a week, and you can get your meals where you please.”

“I think that will suit me,” said Phil thoughtfully.

After leaving the car, a minute's walk brought them to a shabby three-story house of brick. There was a stable opposite, and a group of dirty children were playing in front of it.

“This is where I hang out,” said Signor Orlando cheerfully. “As the poet says, there is no place like home.”

If this had been true it was not much to be regretted, since the home in question was far from attractive.

Signor Orlando rang the bell, and a stout woman of German aspect answered the call.

“So you haf come back, Herr Orlando,” said this lady. “I hope you haf brought them two weeks' rent you owe me.”

“All in good time, Mrs. Schlessinger,” said Orlando. “But you see I have brought some one with me.”

“Is he your bruder now?” asked the lady.

“No, he is not, unfortunately for me. His name is——”

Orlando coughed.

“Philip Brent,” suggested our hero.

“Just so—Philip Brent.”

“I am glad to see Mr. Prent,” said the landlady.

“And is he an actor like you, Signor Orlando?”

“Not yet. We don't know what may happen. But he comes on business, Mrs. Schlessinger. He wants a room.”

The landlady brightened up. She had two rooms vacant, and a new lodger was a godsend.

“I vill show Mr. Prent what rooms I haf,” she said. “Come up-stairs, Mr. Prent.”

The good woman toiled up the staircase panting, for she was asthmatic, and Phil followed. The interior of the house was as dingy as the exterior, and it was quite dark on the second landing.

She threw open the door of a back room, which, being lower than the hall, was reached by a step.

“There!” said she, pointing to the faded carpet, rumpled bed, and cheap pine bureau, with the little six-by-ten looking-glass surmounting it. “This is a peautiful room for a single gentleman, or even for a man and his wife.”

“My friend, Mr. Brent, is not married,” said Signor Orlando waggishly.

Phil laughed.

“You will have your shoke, Signor Orlando,” said Mrs. Schlessinger.

“What is the price of this room?” asked Phil.

“Three dollars a week, Mr. Prent, I ought to have four, but since you are a steady young gentleman——”

“How does she know that?” Phil wondered.

“Since you are a steady young gentleman, and a friend of Signor Orlando, I will not ask you full price.”

“That is more than I can afford to pay,” said Phil, shaking his head.

“I think you had better show Mr. Brent the hall bedroom over mine,” suggested the signor.

Mrs. Schlessinger toiled up another staircase, the two new acquaintances following her. She threw open the door of one of those depressing cells known in New York as a hall bedroom. It was about five feet wide and eight feet long, and was nearly filled up by a cheap bedstead, covered by a bed about two inches thick, and surmounted at the head by a consumptive-looking pillow. The paper was torn from the walls in places. There was one rickety chair, and a wash-stand which bore marks of extreme antiquity.

“This is a very neat room for a single gentleman,” remarked Mrs. Schlessinger.

Phil's spirits fell as he surveyed what was to be his future home. It was a sad contrast to his neat, comfortable room at home.

“Is this room like yours, Signor Orlando?” he asked faintly.

“As like as two peas,” answered Orlando.

“Would you recommend me to take it?”

“You couldn't do better.”

How could the signor answer otherwise in presence of a landlady to whom he owed two weeks' rent?

“Then,” said Phil, with a secret shudder, “I'll take it if the rent is satisfactory.”

“A dollar and a quarter a week,” said Mrs. Schlessinger promptly.

“I'll take it for a week.”

“You won't mind paying in advance?” suggested the landlady. “I pay my own rent in advance.”

Phil's answer was to draw a dollar and a quarter from his purse and pass it to his landlady.

“I'll take possession now,” said our hero. “Can I have some water to wash my face?”

Mrs. Schlessinger was evidently surprised that any one should want to wash in the middle of the day, but made no objections.

When Phil had washed his face and hands, he went out with Signor Orlando to dine at a restaurant on the Bowery.