The Project Gutenberg EBook of Richard Dare's Venture, by Edward Stratemeyer
#7 in our series by Edward Stratemeyer

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: Richard Dare's Venture

Author: Edward Stratemeyer

Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6365]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on December 2, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RICHARD DARE'S VENTURE ***




Produced by Laura Stewart, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





RICHARD DARE'S VENTURE

 OR

STRIKING OUT FOR HIMSELF


BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER
Author of Oliver Bright's Search, To Alaska For Gold,
The Last Cruise Of The Spitfire, Shorthand Tom, Etc.





PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.


"Richard Dare's Venture," although a complete story in itself, forms
the initial volume of the "Bound to Succeed" Series, a line of books
written primarily for boys, but which it would seem not only girls but
also persons of mature age have taken up with more or less interest.

The story relates the adventures of a country youth who comes to New
York to seek his fortune, just as many country lads have done in the
past and many are likely to do in the future. Richard feels that there
is nothing for him to do in the sleepy village in which he resides,
and that he must "strike out for himself," and he does so, with no
cash capital to speak of, but with plenty of true American backbone,
and with the firm conviction that if he does his duty as he finds it,
and watches his chances, he will be sure to make a place for himself.

Richard finds life in the metropolis no bed of roses, and when he at
length gains a footing he is confronted by many a snare and pitfall.
But, thanks to the Christian teachings of the best of mothers, and his
natural uprightness of character, he escapes these evils, and gives
a practical teaching of the Biblical admonition of "returning evil
with good."

When the first edition of this work was placed on the market several
years ago, the author had hoped that it would receive some notice; but
he was hardly prepared for the warm reception which readers and critics
alike all over the country accorded it. For this enthusiasm he is
profoundly grateful. The street scenes in New York have been
particularly commended; the author would add that these are not
fictitious, but are taken from life.

EDWARD STRATEMEYER.

NEWARK, N.J., March 1, 1899.




CONTENTS

I. A Serious Accident

II. Bitter Moments

III. Preparing to Start

IV. On the Train

V. The Smash-up

VI. Under Suspicion

VII. The End of the Journey

VIII. The "Watch Below"

IX. Locked Out

X. The First Night in New York

XI. Robbed

XII. On the Search

XIII. Richard Calls on Mr. Joyce

XIV. Work Obtained

XV. New Quarters

XVI. Pep

XVII. Getting Acquainted

XVIII. A Strange Situation

XIX. The Laurel Club

XX. Trouble Brewing

XXI. Richard in Trouble

XXII. Richard Visits Mr. Joyce Again

XXIII. Strange Discoveries

XXIV. Pep's Home

XXV. Tom Clover

XXVI. A Scene in the Stock-room

XXVII. A Fire and its Result

XXVIII. A Lucky Resolve

XXIX. Frank's Idea

XXX. Mr. Martin's Clerks

XXXI. Tom Clover's Statement

XXXII. The Firm of Massanet and Dare




CHAPTER I.

A SERIOUS ACCIDENT.


"It is high time, mother, that I found something to do. Father seems
to be worse, and I'm afraid before long he won't be able to go to work
every day. Ever since I finished schooling I've felt like a fish out
of water."

And stowing away the remainder of the slice of bread he was eating,
Richard Dare leaned back in his chair and gazed inquiringly across the
breakfast-table to where his mother stood, ready to clear away the
dishes when he had finished his meal.

"I'm sure you have been busy enough, Richard," responded Mrs. Dare
fondly. "I am well satisfied with the way you have planted the garden;
and no carpenter could have made a neater job of the front fence. You
haven't wasted your time."

"Oh, I don't mean that. Fixing up around the house is well enough. But
I mean some regular work--some position where I could bring home my
weekly wages. I know it would be a big help all around. It takes a
heap of money to run a family of three girls and a growing boy."

Mrs. Dare smiled sadly.

"What do you know about that?" she asked. "We all have enough to eat
and drink, and our own roof over our heads."

"Yes, but I know that my dear mother sits up sewing sometimes long
after we have gone to bed, so that our clothing may be cared for, and
I know that she hasn't had a new dress in a year, though she deserves
a dozen," added Richard heartily.

"I haven't much use for a new dress--I go out so little," said his
mother. "But what kind of work do you wish to get?"

"Oh, anything that pays. I'm not particular, so long as it's honest.

"I'm afraid you will find but few chances in Mossvale. Times are dull
here--ever since the hat factory moved away. I guess the stores have
all the help they want. You might get a place on one of the farms."

"I don't think any farmer would pay much besides my board," replied
the boy. "I've got another plan," he continued, with some hesitation.

"And what is that?"

"To try my luck in New York. There ought to be room enough for me in
such a big city."

"New York!" exclaimed Mrs. Dare, in astonishment. "Why, you have never
been there in your whole life!"

"I know it, but I've read the papers pretty well, and I wouldn't be
afraid but what I could get along first rate."

Mrs. Dare shook her head doubtfully.

"It is almost impossible to get a footing there," she declared. "When
we were first married your father struggled hard enough, both there
and in Brooklyn, but somehow, he didn't seem to make it go, and so we
moved here. Everything rushes in the city, and unless you have some
one to speak for you no one will give you a chance."

"I would take the first thing that came to hand, no matter what it
paid, and then watch for something better."

"It might be that you would have luck," said Mrs. Dare reflectively.
"I don't like to discourage you. Still--"

"You wouldn't like to see me go away and then fail, is that it?"

"Yes. Failures at the start of life often influence all the after
years. Suppose you have a talk with your father about this."

"I thought I'd speak to you first, mother. I wanted to know if you
would be willing to let me go."

"If your father thinks it best, I shall be satisfied, Richard. Of
course, I will miss you."

"I know that, mother," returned Richard rising. "But then I could come
home once in a while. The city is not so very far away."

The plan of "striking out" had been in Richard Dare's mind for several
months. The country school at Mossvale had closed for the season early
in the spring--so as to allow the farmer boys to do their work, and
Richard was satisfied that he had about learned all that Mr. Parsons,
the pedagogue, was able or willing to teach, and saw no good reason
for his returning in the fall. He would have liked to continue his
studies, but there was only one other institute of learning in the
neighborhood--a boarding academy, where the rates for tuition were
high, and to this he well knew his parents could not afford to send
him.

Mr. Dare was by trade a house painter and decorator. When a young man
he had served three years in the army, during the great rebellion,
from which he had come away with a bullet in his shoulder, and a strong
tendency towards chronic rheumatism. Shortly after he had married, and
now, twenty years later, his family included four children, of which
Richard, age sixteen, was next to the oldest.

Mr. Dare was a steady, sober man, who disliked excitement, and the
quiet plodding along in Mossvale just suited him. He was only a
journeyman, and it is doubtful if his ambition had ever risen beyond
his present station. By frugality he and his wife had saved enough to
buy a half acre of land in this pretty New Jersey village, on which
they had erected a neat cottage, and here apparently John Dare was
content to spend the remainder of his life.

But Richard Dare partook of but little of his father's retiring
disposition. He was a bright, active boy, with a clear heart and brain,
and he longed to get at some work where energy would be the road to
success. His comprehension was rapid, and beneath an outwardly calm
spirit, lurked the fire of a youth well trained to grapple with noble
purposes and bring them to a successful issue.

Richard's desire to go to the metropolis was a natural one. There was
nothing in quiet Mossvale to entice any one with push to remain there.
The entire population of the district did not number three hundred
people, and the only business places were three general stores, a
blacksmith shop and a cross-roads hotel.

A number of years previous, Mr. Dixon Maillard, a rich man from Newark,
had endeavored to boom the village by starting a hat factory there,
then trying to make his employees buy houses and lots from him on the
installment plan, but this scheme had fallen flat, and the factory
plant was removed to a more promising locality.

The Dare cottage stood some little distance from the village center.
As Mrs. Dare had said, Richard had the garden in excellent condition,
not only the larger portion devoted to the vegetables and small fruits,
but also the front part, in which were planted a great variety of
flowers in which his mother took keen delight.

"Is father coming home to dinner to-day?" asked Richard, a little later
on, as he entered the kitchen with a pail of water which Nancy, the
oldest of his three sisters, had asked him to draw from the well.

"I guess not," replied the girl. "His rheumatism hurt him so much he
said he might not be able to walk from Dr. Melvin's new house."

"Ma put up his dinner," put in Grace, the second oldest.

"Then he won't be back," returned Richard, somewhat disappointed, for
he had been calculating on broaching the subject of going to New York
to his father after the midday meal.

"He said his shoulder hurt him awfully last night," added Grace. "I
heard him tell ma he could almost feel the bullet worrying him in the
flesh."

"It's mighty queer he doesn't get a pension," said Nancy. "I'm sure
he deserves one. Didn't he ever apply, Dick? I read in a Philadelphia
paper the other day about a man getting sixteen dollars a month allowed,
and a whole lot of back pay--more than two or three thousand dollars!"

"Two or three thousand dollars!" cried Grace. "Oh, Nancy, it's a
fortune!"

"But it's true, every word."

"I believe father has tried," replied Richard. "But it seems that he
must have witnesses to prove his identity, and all that--"

"And can't he get them?" asked Grace, eagerly.

"I believe not. All his old comrades are either dead or scattered, and
he hasn't a single address."

"Did he ever hunt for any of them?"

"I think he wrote two or three letters, but that's all. You know how
father is."

"I just guess I wouldn't let it rest there!" declared Grace, diving
into the bread batter with a vim. "I'd advertise in the papers, and
turn the whole country upside down before I'd give up!"

"Well, father looks at it as a kind of charity, anyway," explained
Richard. "And he doesn't care much to accept it so long as he is able
to work."

"Yes, but, Dick, if he's entitled to it by law, don't you think he
ought to take it?"

"He has certainly lost many a day's work on account of his failing,
Nancy. He ought to get something for that."

"Then why don't you speak to him about it?" asked Grace. "He'll listen
to you quicker than he will to any of us."

"Perhaps I will. Maybe he will give me a list of those who knew him
in the army, and then I can start a grand search, as you suggested.
But I've got a little plan of my own to carry out first, and I want
you girls to help me."

"What plan?" asked Nancy; and Grace ceased her bread-making to listen
to what her brother might have to say.

"I'm thinking of going to New York, and I--"

"New York!" both girls ejaculated. They would have been no more
astonished had he said Paris or Pekin. "Why, Dick, what put that idea
into your head?" continued Nancy.

"Take me along if you go," added Grace.

"Nobody but myself put it into my head, Nan," replied Richard, "and
I won't be able to take anybody along, Grace."

"Going to make your fortune?" queried the younger girl.

"You'll get lost," put in the other.

"Nonsense! catch Dick getting lost!" cried Grace indignantly. "Didn't
he bring us all safe through Baker's woods last fall, when we were
nutting?"

"Baker's woods isn't New York city," replied her elder sister. "Hundreds
of streets and millions of people! He'd have to keep his eyes wide
open and his wits about him."

"And that is just what I would do!" broke in Richard. "You don't suppose
I'd stand around like a gawk, staring at people!"

"But is it for fortune?" repeated Grace, freeing her hands from the
dough and coming up close.

"Yes, it's for fortune, if that's what you call it," said Richard
bluntly. "I'm tired of Mossvale, and I'm going to strike out, that is
if I can get consent. I've spoken to mother about it already, and if--"

A heavy knock on the back stoop caused Richard to stop speaking. Going
to the door, he was confronted by Nicholas Boswell, a young farmer who
lived a short distance down the road.

"Hello, Nick!" exclaimed Richard. "That you? Come in!"

Nicholas Boswell was pale, and his face showed a troubled expression.
For several seconds ho seemed hardly able to speak.

"No, thank'ee, Dick," he said at last. "I come to tell you that--" and
here his eyes roved over to Nancy and Grace, and he stopped short.

"What?" asked the boy. "You ain't sick, are you?" he continued, noticing
the unusual pallor on the other's countenance.

"Oh, no, _I_ ain't sick," replied Boswell. "I never get sick. I
was never sick in my life--'cepting when I was a babby. But I--that
is--there's a man--some men wants to see you," he faltered.

"To see me! Where?"

"They are down the road aways. I'll show you."

"What do they want?"

"Come on--never mind asking questions," closing one eye and bobbing
his head, as if he did not wish the girls to hear more.

"All right," returned Richard, and closing the door he followed Boswell
up the lane to the road.

"Accidents is bad things, Dick," began the young farmer, as they drew
away from the house. "But they will happen, you know--they will happen."

"What do you mean?" asked the boy quickly. "Who's had an accident?"

"Well, you see a man with the rheumatism ain't so sure of his footing
as is one who ain't got no such affliction."

"And my father?" began Richard, his heart jumping suddenly into his
throat.

"Your father as a painter often climbed long, limbery ladders as he
hadn't oughter," continued Boswell soberly.

"Is he--is he _dead_?" gasped the boy, standing stock-still.

"No, oh, _no_!" exclaimed the young farmer. "But he had an awful
fall, and he's pretty bad. I thought I'd tell you first, 'cause it
might shock your mother."

"Where is he?"

"The men is bringing him up the road. Here they come now. You'd better
go back, and kinder break the news to the folks. I'm terribly gritty--as
gritty as any man--but I can't do that!"

Richard did not hear the last words. Trembling from head to foot, he
sped up the road to meet four men, carrying a rude stretcher between
them and slowly approaching.




CHAPTER II.

BITTER MOMENTS.


The serious accident that had befallen Mr. Dare was in reality a very
simple one. The ladder that he had been ascending was covered with
early morning dew, and when near the top his foot had slipped, and,
being unable, on account of his rheumatism, to catch a quick hold, he
had fallen on his side to the ground. No one had seen his fall, and
he lay unconscious for full ten minutes before a fellow workman, who
had been busy on the other side of the building, discovered him and
summoned assistance.

The five or six men that were soon gathered did what they could to
bring him to consciousness, but without success. One of them ran off
to hunt up the doctor, and then the others took a door that had not
yet been hung in the new house, and, fastening a heavy strip at either
end for handles, covered it with their coats, and placed the wounded
man upon it.

None of the men cared to face Mrs. Dare with such painful news, and
it was only after repeated urging that Nicholas Boswell had been induced
to go on ahead.

"My father, my poor father!" was all Richard could say, as he gazed
at the motionless form upon the litter.

[Illustration: "My father, my poor father!"]

"Reckon he's hurt pretty bad," said Sandy Stone, a mason, who had been
the first to be called to the scene of the accident. "'Tain't outside
so much as it's in. Wait till we get him home."

For Richard was bending over his father, and trying his best to do
something that would help the unconscious sufferer.

"Did you send for the doctor?"

"Yes; sent for Dr. Melvin first thing," replied one of the others,
"But we don't know where he is."

"I think he is over at old Mrs. Brown's," returned the boy. "I saw him
walking that way a while ago."

"I'll go and see," put in Nicholas Boswell. "Meanwhile you'd better
go and tell your mother."

"My mother! what will she say? And Nancy and Grace and baby Madge! Oh,
it's dreadful!" broke out Richard. "I'm sure none of them can stand
it."

"I'll send my wife over soon as I can," said Sandy Stone. "She's as
good as a doctor, and can quiet your mother, too. Be a brave boy, Dick,
and go and tell her. It will be easier, coming from you, than it would
from any of us."

So Richard returned to the house. His mother was dusting in the parlor,
and going straight to her he said:

"Mother, the men are bringing father home. He slipped on the ladder
and got hurt pretty badly. You had better get a bed ready for him, and
some bandages, because he's got a cut or two on his head," and then,
as the mother's breast began to heave: "Don't worry, mother; it may
not be near as bad as we believe it is."

It was over in a moment, and when the men arrived Mrs. Dare was as
calm as any of them.

In the cottage one of the bedrooms was situated upon the lower floor,
and to this Mr. Dare was carried, and laid down as tenderly as these
men were able to do such an unaccustomed task. He drew a deep breath
when his head touched the pillow, and an instant later opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" were his first words.

"Home, John," replied his wife. "You had a fail, and--"

"Yes, I remember. Oh, how my side hurts!"

"Lie still. The doctor will soon be here. Would you like a drink?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Dare gave him some water, but he only drank a little, and then
began to cough.

"It's inside!" he gasped. "My ribs are broken, I think."

Richard comforted his sisters as best he could. It was not long before
Dr. Melvin arrived, and his coming inspired the little household with
hope.

"Is it very serious?" asked Richard, after an examination into his
father's condition had been made.

"I cannot tell yet. Two of his ribs are dislocated, but I dare not
touch them until I find out the extent of his other internal injuries,"
replied the doctor. "He must keep quiet, and every ten minutes give
him a tablespoonful of this mixture."

But, though Dr. Melvin gave these directions, it was fully an hour
before he left, and then he promised to return late in the afternoon.

The whole family were gathered in the sick chamber, baby Madge, three
years old, sitting on Richard's knee. Nancy and Grace had been
frightened into almost absolute silence, and Mrs. Dare addressed herself
to her husband, with an occasional remark to the boy as to what might
further help the sufferer.

"Don't trouble yourself, Jane," said Mr. Dare feebly. "You've done
enough already," and then the pain caused him to faint away.

When Dr. Melvin came back they all left the room but Mrs. Dare. A
thorough examination was made that lasted nearly an hour. By the grave
look on his face when the doctor called him, Richard knew that he was
to receive no encouraging news.

"Your father is worse than I expected," were the doctor's words. "He
has ruptured a blood vessel, and that is bad."

"Will he die, do you think?" faltered the boy.

"'While there is life there is hope,'" he responded evasively, after
Richard had repeated his question.

"Then you are afraid it will be fatal?" cried the boy, terror-stricken.
"Oh, Dr. Melvin, can't we do something?"

The doctor shook his head.

"I have done all I can. Such things are beyond our reach, and mere
medicine does no good."

"Have you told my mother and my sisters?"

"I have told your mother. She expected it from the start," replied the
doctor. "You had better go in now. Your father wishes to speak to you,"
he added.

Richard entered the front chamber at once. As he did so, his mother
passed out, her eyes filled with tears.

"Did he tell you?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, without being able to utter another word.

"Oh, Richard, I never, never thought that such a thing would happen!
Where are Nan and the rest?"

"In the kitchen."

"I must tell them. It is hard on the poor girls."

"And hard on you," said Dick. "And me, too," he added, with a sigh.

The curtains of the windows had been drawn, and it was quite dark in
the room. Richard approached the bed and grasped his father's hand.

"Is it you, Richard?" questioned the sufferer.

"Yes, father."

"I'm glad you've come. I want to talk to you."

"But it may hurt you to talk too much," said the boy feelingly.

"Never mind. It will all be over soon," replied Mr. Dare with a heavy
cough. "I suppose the doctor has told you. He said he would."

The boy nodded his head.

"It is God's will, and we must bow to His judgment," continued the
injured man. "But I want to talk to you about what to do when I am
gone."

"Oh, father!"

"Hush! I feel that I am sinking, even faster than Dr. Melvin thinks.
Listen then to what I have to say."

"I am listening."

"When I'm gone, Richard, you will have to take my place. Your mother
is strong, and can do much; but she is a woman, and she, as well as
your sisters, will need your help."

"They shall have all that I can possibly give them. I will work, and
do all I can."

"I know you will, Richard. You have always been a good boy. I am sorry
that I cannot leave you all better off than I'm doing."

"Never mind, father; we will get along."

"I suppose I might have done so if I'd had the courage to strike out,"
continued Mr. Dare, with a sigh. "I always calculated to do something
for myself, but that's all over now. But you take after your mother,
the same as your sister Grace, and if you make the right start I feel
you will succeed."

"I shall remember what you say."

"Do so. But remember also to be always sober, industrious, and
considerate of those around you. Be true to yourself, and to every one
with whom you have dealings. You may not get along so fast, but people
will respect you more, and your success will be ten times sweeter than
it would have been had you risen by pushing others down."

"I shall try to deserve success, even if I don't rise very high,
father."

"That's right." Mr. Dare paused for a moment. "I'm sorry that I cannot
leave you more of a capital upon which to start in life."

"Never mind; I have a common school education and my health. What more
can a boy wish?"

"It is as much as I had upon which to start. But I might have left you
more. I deserve a pension as a soldier."

"You never pushed your claim, did you?"

"Yes, once. But I never told any of you, for fear of raising false
hopes. I did apply, and it was all straight, but at the last moment
the Department decided that I must have another witness to prove my
identity, and this I could not get."

"You had one witness, then?"

"Yes. A man named Crawford, who was in our regiment. He was appointed
an officer on the same day I was shot; but, as he was appointed
_after_ the occurrence they held that his single witnessing was
not enough, and so I had to hunt for another."

"And you never found the other?"

"No, though I hunted high and low. Some who saw the affair must be
still living, but I have not their addresses, nor do I know how to
find them."

"Did you ever advertise in the papers?"

"Yes; I spent fifty dollars in the columns of the leading dailies, but
without success."

"You have all the papers in the case?"

"They are in the trunk upstairs. If you can ever push the claim do
so--for the others' sake as well as your own."

"I will, father."

"How much it will be worth I do not know, but it may be several
thousands of dollars, and that, along with this house, which is free
and clear, may suffice to keep the family many a year."

At this juncture a violent fit of coughing seized Mr. Dare, and by the
time he had recovered, his wife and the three girls entered.




CHAPTER III.

PREPARING TO START.


Two days later the blinds of the little cottage were closed, and crape
hung in solemn black upon the front door. The neighbors, and indeed
the whole population of the village, came and went continually--some
few with genuine grief and sympathy, and the many others to satisfy
a morbid curiosity regarding the man whose life had so suddenly ended.

It was a dismal enough time for the inmates. Richard did all a brave
boy can do to comfort his mother and sisters, but he himself needed
consolation fully as much as any of them. He had thought much of his
father, and the cold form lying in the draped coffin in the parlor
sent a chill through his heart that would have an effect in all after
life.

At last the funeral was over, and the last of the neighbors had gone
away. It was nearly sunset, and the entire family had gathered in the
little kitchen to partake of a cup of tea, and to talk over the
situation. Mrs. Dare sat in a rocking-chair beside the table, her face
plainly showing her intense grief, and near her, on a low stool, sat
Richard.

"Well, mother, I suppose I will have to do something very soon now,"
began the boy. "It won't do for me to remain idle when there is no
money coming in."

Mrs. Dare sighed.

"I can't think of money matters yet, Richard," she replied, shaking
her head sadly. "It is all so sudden, so unexpected, I cannot realize
our terrible loss."

"There isn't a chance for any one in Mossvale," put in Nancy. She
herself had been secretly wondering what they were going to do for
support.

"So I told mother some time ago," responded Richard. "The few places
here are all filled."

"Thought you were going to try New York?" said Grace, who was serving
the tea.

"So I was. But--" The boy did not finish, but glanced over to where
his mother sat.

"I could hardly bear to have you go away," said Mrs. Dare. "It would
be so lonely--your father and you both out of the house. I would rather
have you home, even if we had a good deal less to live upon."

"To-morrow I will go out and see what Mossvale has to offer," returned
Richard. "In our circumstances it would not be right for me to waste
any time."

"Do as you think best," was Mrs. Dare's reply. "You are old enough to
think and act for yourself."

But Richard did not wait for the next day before he began his hunt.
That evening he called upon Dr. Melvin to obtain some medicine for his
mother, and after this portion of his errand was over he broached the
subject of securing a position.

"You will find it a hard matter," said the doctor kindly, "unless you
wish to go on one of the farms. But they are poor pay, even if you can
stand the labor, which I doubt."

"I would not go on a farm unless I could find nothing else," replied
the boy. "Could _you_ give me a place?" he asked.

Dr. Melvin nodded his head reflectively.

"I might take you in as an office assistant," he replied. "It would
be a good chance to learn medicine. But there would not be much to do,
and the pay would be necessarily small."

"Then I couldn't afford to accept it," was Richard's prompt reply. "It
is kind in you to make the offer, but I have got to earn enough to
support the family."

"I suppose so. Well, I wish you success. I have known you for a number
of years, and if you need a recommendation I will give it to you
gladly."

"Thank you, doctor. I'll remember that," replied the boy, and after
a few more words of conversation he left.

On the following morning he called upon Mr. Barrows, the master painter
for whom his father had worked. He found the old workman busy in his
shed, mixing up colors for his journeymen to use.

"I suppose you've come down for the money due your father," remarked
Mr. Barrows after he had expressed numerous regrets over the sad
accident. "Well, here it is, the week in full, and I'm mighty sorry
he isn't here to receive it himself, and many another besides," and
he held out the amount.

"No, I didn't come for this exactly," replied the boy. "Besides there
is too much here," he added, as he counted the bills. "Father did not
finish out the week."

"Never mind, you take it anyhow," returned Mr. Barrows briefly. "What
was it you wanted?"

"Work. I want to earn something to support my mother and sisters on.
We can't live on nothing, and what we have saved up won't last long."

"It's hard luck, Dick, so it is!" exclaimed the old painter. "Tell you
what I'll do, though. I'll teach you the trade--teach you it just as
good as your father knew it, and pay you a little in the bargain."

"How much I don't care about the money for myself, but--"

"Yes, I understand," broke in Mr. Barrows. "Well, I'll tell you. I'll
take you to learn the trade for three years, and start you at two
dollars a week. I wouldn't give any other boy half of that, but I know
you're smart, and I feel it my duty to help you along."

Richard bit his lip in disappointment. He knew that what Mr. Barrows
said about the amount was true, but still he needed more, and for that
reason, he had, somehow, expected a larger sum to be offered.

"I'm much obliged, but I'll have to think it over before I decide,"
he said. "Three years is a long time to bind one's self."

"Oh, they'll slip by before you know it. Besides, I'll raise your wages
just as soon as you are worth it," said Mr. Barrows.

"I'll see about it," was all the boy could answer.

"Two dollars a week would not go far towards supporting a family of
five," sighed Richard, as he walked away. "And then to be a house
painter all one's life! I must strike something else."

But "striking something else" was no easy matter, as the boy soon
learned. A visit to the two stores, the blacksmith shop and to several
people whom he thought might give him employment, brought forth no
results of value. Either they had nothing for him to do, or else the
pay offered was altogether too small.

Richard returned home late in the afternoon. Grace met him at the end
of the lane.

"Any luck, Dick?" she asked eagerly.

"No," he replied, and related his experience.

"Never mind," returned his sister. "Maybe it isn't so bad after all.
The minister is here."

"Mr. Cook?"

"Yes, he's in the parlor talking to mamma, and I heard them mention
your name, and say something about New York."

Richard's heart gave a bound. He knew that Mr. Cook, who was their old
family pastor, had great influence with his mother, and that she would
probably go to him for advice.

"Guess I'll go in and hear what he has to say," said Richard, and a
moment later he knocked on the parlor door and entered.

Mr. Cook shook him cordially by the hand.

"We have just been speaking about you," he said. "How have you fared
in your search for employment?"

The boy told him.

"Mossvale is so small, there is hardly any chance," he added.

"Your mother tells me that you have an idea you could do better in New
York," went on the minister. "It is a big place, and nearly every one
is almost too busy to notice a new-comer."

"I know that. But I should watch my chances."

"And there are many temptations there that never arise in such a place
as this," continued Mr. Cook earnestly; "and it very often takes all
the will power a person possesses to keep in the straight and narrow
path."

"I wouldn't do what wasn't right!" burst out Richard. "I'd starve
first!"

Mr. Cook looked down into the clear, outspoken face before him.

"I believe it," he declared. "You have had a good training, thanks to
your mother and father. Well, I have advised her to let you try your
luck in the great metropolis."

"Oh, Mr. Cook!"

"Yes. Now don't get excited. She has thought it over, and agrees to
let you go for two weeks, at least. The fare is only four dollars and
a half, and board for that length of time will not be much. Of course
you can't put up at an expensive hotel."

"I won't put up anywhere until I find a job," declared Richard. "I
only want my railroad ticket, and a dollar or two extra."

"Indeed not!" put in Mrs. Dare. "I would not have you stay out doors
all night, like a tramp. There are plenty of cheap lodging-houses."

"And when can I go?" asked Richard eagerly.

His mother gave a sad little smile.

"Do you want to leave your mother so very soon?" she asked.

"Oh, no, only I want to be doing something--helping you and the rest,"
he replied quickly.

"Then you shall go bright and early next Monday morning," returned
Mrs. Dare, and she turned away to hide the tears that sprang up at the
thought of her only boy leaving the shelter of the quiet country home,
to mingle with strangers in the great city more than a hundred miles
away.

As for Richard he was delighted with the prospects. At last the dream
of many months was to be realized. He was to go to New York, to tread
the streets of the great metropolis, to find a place for himself, and
make a fortune!

Little did he know or care for the many trials and disappointments in
store for him. He was striking out for himself, and intended to do his
level best.

Would he succeed or fail?

We shall see.




CHAPTER IV.

ON THE TRAIN.


Of course there was a good deal of talking about Richard's proposed
venture. The girls seemed never to tire of it, and the amount of advice
that they gave their brother was enough, as the boy declared, "to help
him along until eternity, and two days afterwards."

"You'll want your best clothes, city folks are so particular," declared
Grace. "And your shirts and collars will have to be as stiff as old
Deacon Moore's, I expect."

"I only want things clean and neat," replied Richard. "I'm not going
there to be a dude. I'm going there to work--if I can get anything to
do."

Nevertheless, Grace was bound that he should look his best, and spent
an extra hour over the washtub and ironing-board.

It was decided that he should not be hampered with a trunk, but should
take a valise instead.

This Mrs. Dare packed herself, and placed in the hallway late on
Saturday afternoon.

Meanwhile Richard was not idle. He did not wish to leave any work
around the place unfinished, and early and late he spent many hours
in the house and in the garden, doing the things that were most needed.

Sunday morning the whole family, including little Madge, attended the
pretty white church that was the one pride of Mossvale. Richard
suspected that Mr. Cook had expected him to be there, for the sermon
was on the text, "Be thou strong in the faith," and advised all,
especially the young, to stick to their Christian principles, despite
the alluring, but harmful, enticements of the great world around them.

It was a sober little crowd that gathered in the kitchen in the dusk
after supper. Richard was a trifle louder in his manner than usual,
but this was only an effort to cover up the evidence of his real
seriousness.

"You must not forget to write as soon as you arrive and find a stopping
place," cautioned Mrs. Dare for at least the fifth time.

"Yes, and don't forget to tell us all about what happened on the train,"
put in Grace. "I'm sure that in such a long ride as that you ought to
have some kind of an adventure."

"I trust that he does not," returned the mother. "An adventure would
probably mean an accident, and we have had enough already;" and she
gave a long sigh.

"Don't fear but what I'll write," replied Richard. "And if anything
unusual happens I'll put it down."

But all evenings must come to an end, and finally, as the clock struck
ten, the good-night word went its round, and they separated.

No need to call Richard on the following morning. He was up and dressed
at five, and impatient for the start. Every one turned in towards
serving him a hot breakfast, and in addition Mrs. Dare put him up a
tidy lunch in a box.

There was one thing, though, that the boy was obstinate about. He would
not accept all of the money that Mrs. Dare thought it her duty to make
him take. The price of his ticket and five dollars was Richard's limit,
and to this he stuck.

"If I get real hard up I'll write for more," was his declaration. "You
will need what you have saved, and I am sure I can get along without
it."

Mrs. Dare shook her head. But it was all to no purpose. Richard was
firm, and doubly so when Grace gave him a pert look of approval.

The news of the departure had spread, and at the depot the boy met
several who had come to see him off--Mr. Cook and two or three boy
friends, including Charley Wood, the son of a neighbor, who was not
slow in giving the lion's share of his attention to Grace.

"Here comes the train!" exclaimed Nancy, after a rather long wait, and
a moment later, with ringing bell, the locomotive rounded the curve
below, and the cars rolled into the depot.

"All aboard for Rockvale, Beverly, and New York! Way train for Hurley,
Allendale, Hobb's Dam, and all stations south of Bakersville Junction!"
shouted the conductor. "Lively, please."

There was a hurried hand-shaking, and several warm kisses.

"Good-by, Richard," said Mrs. Dare. "God be with you!" And then she
added in a whisper: "Don't be afraid to come home as soon as you don't
like it any more."

"I'll remember, mother," he replied. "Don't worry about me. It's all
right. Good-by, each and everybody!"

Valise in hand, he climbed up the steps and entered one of the cars.
He had hardly time to reach a window seat, and wave a parting adieu,
when the train moved off.

He looked back as long as he could. Mother and sister were waving their
handkerchiefs, Grace having brought her largest for this special
occasion.

But the train went swiftly on its way, and soon Mossvale and its people
were left behind.

"Off at last!" was Richard's mental comment. "It's sink or swim now.
Good-by to Mossvale and the old life!"

Yet it must in truth be confessed that there was just the suspicion
of a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat as he settled back in
his seat, but he hastily brushed away the one and swallowed the other,
and put on as bold a front as he could.

The car was only partially filled, and he had a double seat all to
himself. He placed his valise beside him, and then gazed at the
ever-varying panorama that rushed past.

But his mind was not given to the scenes that were thus presenting
themselves. His thoughts were far ahead, speculating upon what it would
be best to do when his destination was reached.

He knew New York was a big place, and felt tolerably certain that few,
if indeed any, would care to give him the information that he knew he
needed.

Presently the train began to stop at various stations, and the car
commenced to fill up.

"This seat taken?" said a gentleman, as he stopped beside Richard.

"No, sir," replied the boy, and made room for the other.

"Thank you," returned the gentleman. "Rather crowded," he continued,
as he sat down, and deposited a huge valise beside Richard's, which
had been placed upon the floor.

"I might have checked my satchel," remarked Richard, noting that the
two valises rather crowded things.

"So might I," was the new-comer's reply, "but I thought it would be
too much trouble in New York getting it."

"I'm not used to travelling," explained Richard, "and so I thought it
best to have my baggage where I could lay my hands on it."

The gentleman looked at him curiously.

"Going to the city?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"First trip?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll see a good many strange sights. Going to stay several days,
I presume."

"Longer than that, sir. I'm going there to try my luck."

The gentleman looked surprised.

"I hope you'll succeed," he said. "You will find it rather uphill work,
I'm afraid. Where are you from, if I may ask?"

"I come from Mossvale. My name is Richard Dare. My father died from
an accident a short while ago, and, as there didn't seem to be anything
in our village for me to work at, I made up my mind to try New York."

The boy's open manner evidently pleased his listener.

"I am glad to know you," he returned. "My name is Joyce--Timothy Joyce.
I am a leather dealer--down in the Swamp. Here is my card."

"The Swamp?" queried Richard, puzzled by the appellation.

"Yes--at least that's what us oldtime folks call it. There used to be
a swamp there years ago. I'm on Jacob Street. Maybe I can help you
around a bit."

"Thank you, Mr. Joyce; I'm glad to know you," replied Richard
gratefully. "I'm a perfect stranger, as I said, and it will be right
handy to have some one to give me a few points."

Mr. Joyce smiled. He was quite taken by the boy's frank manner.

"I'll give you all the points I can," he said. "You must keep your
eyes and ears open, though, for there are many pitfalls for the unwary."

Mr. Joyce felt in his coat pocket. "Here is a map of the city. I am
going out in the smoker presently, to enjoy a cigar. I would advise
you to study it while I am gone, and when I come back I'll explain
anything that you can't understand."

"Thank you, I will."

"Just look to my bag while I am gone, will you?" continued Mr. Joyce,
as he arose. When alone, Richard became absorbed in the map at once.

On and on sped the train, now running faster than ever. But Richard
took no notice. He was deep in the little volume, trying his best to
memorize the names of the streets and their locations.

"It's not a very regular city," he sighed. "Streets run in all
directions, and some of them are as crooked as a ram's horn. If I
ever--"

A sudden jar at this instant caused Richard to pitch forward from his
seat. Then, before he realized what had happened, the car tilted, and
then turned completely over on its side.




CHAPTER V.

THE SMASH-UP.


Richard was bewildered and alarmed by what had happened. As the car
went over upon the side nearest to which he was sitting, he fell down
between the windows, with his head resting upon the bundle-holder,
that a moment before had been over him.

His own valise and that belonging to Mr. Joyce came down on top of
him, and as both were heavy, they knocked the breath completely out
of him.

As soon as the boy had somewhat regained this and his scattered senses,
he scrambled to his feet, and tried to look around him.

Daylight shone into the car from the windows above, but all was dust
and confusion, mingled with the cries of women and the loud exclamations
of men.

Luckily Richard was not far from the rear door, and having somewhat
recovered from the shock, he resolved to get out as speedily as
possible.

The car had now stopped moving, and as there seemed to be no immediate
danger of anything more happening, the boy stopped to get the two
valises.

With such a load it was no easy matter climbing over the seats to the
door. Yet the feat was accomplished, and two minutes later, with an
exclamation of relief, Richard pitched his baggage to the bank beside
the track, and sprang to the solid ground.

His foot had been slightly sprained when the shock came, but in the
excitement he hardly noticed the pain. He could readily see that
assistance was needed on all sides, and he was not slow to render all
that lay in his power.

The cause of the accident could be seen at a glance. A heavy freight
train had backed down from a side track, smashing the locomotive
attached to the passenger cars, and throwing three of the latter off
the track.

One of the cars--the first--had been turned completely over, and to
this every one was hurrying.

"It's the smoking car," replied a man, to Richard's eager question.
"It's full of men, too."

Setting down the two valises within easy reach, the boy hurried forward.

"Mr. Joyce is in there," was his thought. "Oh, I hope he isn't hurt!"

Though Richard had known the man but a short hour, yet the city
merchant's cordial manner had completely captivated the boy.

It was no easy matter for the men in the smoker to free themselves.
In turning over, a number of the seats in the car had become loosened,
falling on many, and blocking up both doors as well.

But presently several windows were smashed out, and the occupants began
to pour from these, some with their clothing badly torn, others hatless,
and several severely injured.

"There are two men in there stuck fast!" exclaimed a short, stout man,
as puffing and blowing he reached the ground. "I tried to help 'em
both, but it was no use,--the seats all piled up atop of 'em. Beckon
they'll have to be cut away, they're jammed in so tight."

Instantly Richard thought of Mr. Joyce. Nowhere in the crowd could he
catch sight of the gentleman. It was possible that one of the two might
be his newly-made friend.

"There's a tool-house down the road a ways," continued the stout man.
"I noticed it as we rode past, a moment before we went over."

"Where?" asked Richard eagerly.

"On the other side, up the embankment," was the reply.

"I'll see if I can get something to work with," returned the boy. "Just
watch my baggage while I'm gone."

In an instant he was off, running as fast as possible. He found the
building just as it had been described. The door was open, and rushing
in, he confronted an Irish laborer, who was cleaning up some tools.

"The train has been wrecked, just below," he exclaimed hurriedly. "We
want some tools--an axe or a crowbar--something--quick!"

"Train wrecked?" repeated the man in astonishment.

"Yes,--just below." Richard picked up an axe and an iron bar.

"Bring some more tools with you!" he cried as he started to go. "It
may mean life or death!" Richard's earnest manner made an impression
upon the laborer, and in a few seconds the man was following the boy,
with his arms full of such implements as were handy.

Down at the wreck Richard found that one of the two men, a lean, sallow-
complexioned individual, had already been liberated, but the other was
still a prisoner.

"Just what we want!" cried one of the workers, as he took the axe from
the boy's hand. "Can you use the bar?"

"I guess so."

"Follow me, then."

Richard crawled into the car after the man. Inside it was full of dust,
and the thick tobacco smoke nearly stifled the boy.

Near the center of the car they found the unfortunate passenger. It
was not Mr. Timothy Joyce.

The man was on his back, and a seat, fastened in some strange manner,
pinned him down.

"Help me! help me!" he gasped. "That thing is staving in all my ribs!"

It did not take Richard long to insert the iron bar under one end of
the slat and thus pry it up. This done the man with the axe gave the
side of the seat a couple of blows, and then the prisoner was free.

"Thank God!" exclaimed the man, as he sprang to his feet, and followed
the others out of the car. "And thank you, too, my hearties," he
continued to the other man and to Richard. "I thought as how I was
strangled sure. But Doc Linyard allers was a lucky tar. Thanky,
messmates, thanky."

He was a nautical-looking fellow of perhaps forty. He wore a blue pea-
jacket and trousers, and under the rolling collar of his gray flannel
shirt was tied a black bandanna in true sailor style.

"Is your chest hurt much?" asked Richard, as he thought he noticed a
look of pain cross the man's countenance.

"No bones broken," was the reply, after a deep breath.

The two were soon standing side by side on the bank near the track.

"Wish I could reward you," went on the man. "But I ain't got a dollar
all told."

And diving into his capacious pocket he brought to light only a
miscellaneous collection of small coins.

"Oh, never mind that," said the boy, coloring a trifle. "I'm glad
you're all right."

"So am I--downright glad, and no mistake. As I said afore, my name is
Linyard, Doc Linyard, general manager, along with my wife, of the Watch
Below, the neatest sailors' lunch-room on West Street, New York. I say
neatest acause my wife keeps it. She's a worker, Betty is. Come and
see me some time. I won't forget to treat you well."

"Thank you, Mr. Lin--"

"Avast there! Don't tackle no mister to my name," interposed the old
sailor. "What's _your_ name?" he continued suddenly.

Richard told him.

"All right, Mr. Dare. I'll remember it, and you too. But don't go for
to put a figure-head to my name. Plain Doc Linyard is good enough for
such a tough customer as me."

"I'll remember it, Mr--"

"Avast, I say--"

"I mean Doc Linyard."

And shaking hands the two separated.

Picking up the two valises, Richard made his way through the crowd,
looking for Mr. Joyce. It seemed rather queer that the gentleman who
had left his baggage in the boy's care was nowhere to be found.

Richard made quite a number of inquiries, especially among the men who
had occupied the smoking-car, but to no avail.

The smash-up was no small affair, and it took fully an hour before the
railroad officials that were present could get assistance to the spot.
In the meantime, the injured were laid out on the grass and made as
comfortable as circumstances would permit. Luckily, several doctors
had been passengers on the train, and as they were uninjured they took
charge of all who needed their aid.

Finally a train backed down to take the passengers to Rockvale, the
next town of importance.

Richard hardly knew what to do. If Mr. Joyce was hurt it was certainly
his duty to remain. But perhaps the gentleman had gone off, to render
assistance, or, it was possible, on a search for his satchel.

"Guess I'll take the train and risk it," was Richard's conclusion. "He
is bound to follow to Rockvale sooner or later, and we will probably
meet in the depot."

Nevertheless, as the boy entered the car he felt rather uncomfortable,
carrying off the property of another, who was comparatively a stranger
to him.




CHAPTER VI.

UNDER SUSPICION.


"Well, I've had an adventure on the road just as Grace hoped I would,"
was Richard's mental comment, as he lay back in the car seat. "So I'll
have something to write home after all. But I don't care particularly
to have any more such happenings."

For though Richard had taken the whole affair rather coolly he now
found that it had been more the excitement than aught else that had
kept him up, and he was beginning to feel the full force of a most
uncomfortable shaking up.

But this feeling, bordering upon nervous prostration, was not confined
to the boy alone. Every one of the passengers, most of whom had escaped
without a scratch, were decidedly ill at ease.

It was not long ere Richard thought to take a look through the train
for Mr. Joyce.

"He may have got aboard without my seeing him," he said to himself.

And leaving his baggage piled up in the seat, he made the tour from
one end to the other and back.

He was unsuccessful. It was as if the leather merchant had disappeared
for good.

"Hope he turns up," thought the boy. "If he doesn't what am I to do
with his baggage? I don't know where he lives and--Hold up."

He suddenly thought of Mr. Joyce's card, which that gentleman had given
him, but a hasty and then a thorough search convinced him that the bit
of pasteboard was no longer in his possession.

"Must have slipped out of my pocket in the smash-up," he thought.
"Well, I'll have to make the best of it, only I don't want to carry
off another person's property."

Richard did not know enough to leave the valise with the baggage master
or some of the other railroad officials. This was his first journey
of importance, and everything was new and strange to him. The next
station was quite a distance, and after thinking the matter over the
boy concluded to let the matter rest until they reached that point.

He still retained the guide-book the merchant had loaned him, and
presently he took it out and began to study it more carefully than
ever.

"Father used to live up in that neighborhood," he said to himself, as
certain familiar names of streets arose in his mind. "Sometime, after
I'm settled, I'll visit that district and learn if there are still any
people there who knew him. Who knows but what I might run across some
one who knew him during the war, and could witness his application?"

The idea was a rather pleasant one, and gave the boy a wide field for
meditation and hope. He determined not only to take a "run up," as he
had said, but also, when the opportunity offered, to make a thorough
canvass of the locality and get every bit of information obtainable.

"Ahoy, there! Mr. Dare. On board, too, eh?" exclaimed a voice, and
looking up Richard saw Doc Linyard's beaming face.

"Sit down," returned the boy.

The seat in front was vacant, and in a trice the old sailor had it
turned over and himself ensconced in the soft cushions, opposite
Richard.

"Might I ask where you're bound?" asked Doc Linyard, after another
long string of thanks for the services that had been rendered.

"I can't say any more than that I'm going to New York. I'm looking for
work, and I don't know where I'll settle. Perhaps I'll strike nothing
and have to go back home."

"What! A strong, healthy young fellow like you? Nonsense! Not if you
care to lend a willing hand."

"Oh, I'm anxious enough to do that."

"Then you'll pull through. Them as is anxious and willing always do.
I didn't have much to start on when I settled in the city. Only six
months' pay at sixteen dollars a month."

"How came you to leave the sea?" asked the boy, with considerable
curiosity, for Doc Linyard was the first regular sailor he had ever
known.

"Oh, you see I was wrecked a couple of times, and lost one leg; this,"
he tapped his left knee, "is only a cork one, you know, and then the
wife grew afeared, and said as how she wanted me ashore. But a tar
used to the rigging and sech don't take kindly to labor on land, so
instead of working for other people, I up and started the Watch Below."

"What is it--a boarding-house?"

"Not exactly, though we do occasionally take a fellow in. It's a
temperance lunch-room for sailors, with regular first-class ship grub;
lobscouse, plum-duff and sech. Most of the fellows know me, and hardly
a soul comes ashore but what drops in afore he leaves port."

"It must pay."

"I don't get fancy prices and only make a living. I'd like to ask you
down, only maybe it wouldn't be fine enough."

Doc Linyard had noticed Richard's neat appearance, and saw that the
boy was accustomed to having everything "nice."

"Oh, I should like to come very much," replied Richard, "that is if
I get the chance."

On and on rolled the train, and finally the town for which it was bound
was reached, and the passengers alighted and crowded the station.

It was announced that owing to the disaster no train would leave for
New York for two hours. This left a long time on Richard's hands, and
he hardly knew what to do.

Immediately on the arrival Doc Linyard had gone off to hunt up a friend
he fancied lived in the place. Not far from the station was a little
park containing a number of benches, and walking over to it Richard
sat down.

The lunch his mother had given him came in handy now, and he did full
justice to it.

He wished the old sailor was with him to share the repast. He had taken
a fancy to the tar, and loved to listen to his hearty voice and open
speech.

After the lunch was disposed of, Richard took a short stroll through
the town. He did not go far, for he had the two valises with him, and
they were heavy.

Presently he returned to the station, and it was not long before the
train could be seen approaching in the distance. Along with a number
of others, Richard started to walk over to the right track.

As he did so two men, who looked like railroad officials, approached
him.

"Say, young fellow," sang out one of the men. "Hold up; we want to
speak to you."

"What is it?" asked Richard.

"Whose baggage have you got there?"

"My own and another man's."

"What man?" asked the other official.

"A gentleman I met on the train."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to find him."

By this time the train had rolled into the station. Not wishing to
miss it, Richard began to move on.

Both officials made a dive for him, and one of them caught him by the
shoulder.

"Not so fast, my fine fellow?" he exclaimed.

"Why, what--what do you want?" asked Richard, with a rising color.

"We want you to give an account of yourself," was the reply. "Where
did you get that valise?"




CHAPTER VII.

THE END OF THE JOURNEY.


Despite the knowledge that he was doing no wrong, Richard's heart sank
when he heard the railroad official call him back.

He did not think how easy it might be to prove himself innocent of all
wrong-doing. It was bad enough to be suspected. Besides, he had not
been the only one to hear the harsh words that had been spoken, and
in a moment a crowd had collected.

"I was in the wreck, and this valise belongs to a friend of mine,"
replied Richard, as soon as he could collect his thoughts.

"What is your name?" asked the official who still held him by the arm.

Richard told him.

"And who was your friend?"

"His name is--is--"

And here, being greatly confused, Richard could not remember the leather
merchant's name.

"Come, answer me," continued the man sharply.

"His name is--is--I've forgotten it!" stammered the boy in confusion.

"Humph! A very plausible excuse I _must_ say," sneered the man.

"It's the truth. I met the gentleman on the train. He introduced
himself, and we had quite a chat. Then he asked me to look after his
baggage while he went into the smoking-car, and while he was gone the
accident happened."

"Where is the man now?" asked the first official.

"I don't know. I've been trying to find him."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" exclaimed the other. "There isn't
a soul missing from that wreck!"

"I can't help it," replied Richard stoutly, for he was recovering from
the shock he had received. "What I'm telling you is a fact."

"What's the matter here?" broke in a hearty voice; and Doc Linyard
elbowed his way through the crowd. "What's wrong with the young
gentleman?"

"What business is that of yours?" returned the man sharply.

"Not much may be, but if there's trouble for him I want to know it.
He saved my life down in the smash-up, and I intend to stand by him,"
returned the old tar decidedly.

"They think I'm trying to steal this valise," explained Richard.

"_What!_" roared Doc Linyard. "Confound you for a pair of landlubbers!
Don't you know an honest figurehead when you see it? Look at him! 'Pears
to me he looks more straightforward than those as accuses him."

Both officials were taken back by the tar's aggressive manner.

"Better be careful," continued the sailor. "You don't know who this
young gentleman is, and before long you'll be laying up a heap of
trouble for yourselves."

"We have to be on our guard," said the first official in a milder tone.

"The young man will have to leave the valise here, at least," added
the other.

"I'm willing to do that," said Richard. "But I'm no thief," he continued
as they walked over to the baggage-room.

"Yes, but that man's name--" began one of the men.

"Was Joyce--Timothy Joyce!" cried the boy. "I knew I would remember
it sooner or later."

The official took a piece of chalk and scratched the name upon the
bottom of the valise.

"That one is yours?"

"Yes; here is my name on the bottom," and Richard showed it.

"All right. You can go. If Mr. Joyce calls he can get his property,
otherwise it will be forwarded to the main baggage office in New York."

"Hold up! Not so fast," put in Doc Linyard. "Just give him a receipt
for that valise."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the man, turning red.

"Maybe so. But I don't see as how he ought to trust you any more than
you trusted him," went on the tar bluntly.

"That's fair," put in an old man, who had stood watching the
proceedings. "'What's sauce for the goose is the sauce for the gander.'"

With very bad grace the official wrote down something on a pad, tore
the page off and thrust it at Richard.

"I hope you're satisfied," he snapped to Doc Linyard; and taking up
Mr. Joyce's valise he entered an inner room, slamming the door behind
him.

"Good riddance to him," muttered the old tar. "A few brass buttons on
his coat has turned his head."

The train had fortunately been delayed, but it was now moving from the
station. Richard and Doc Linyard made a rush for it, and succeeded in
boarding the last car.

"Hope we're done with adventures," remarked the old tar, when they
were seated. "I'd rather have things quiet and easy."

"I must thank you," said Richard heartily. "I don't know what I would
have done if you hadn't come up just when you did."

"Shoo--'tain't nothing, Mr. Dare, alongside of what you did for me,"
replied the sailor. "But I've had a run of bad luck since I left New
York two days ago," he added meditatively.

"Yes?" questioned the boy with some curiosity. "How so?"

"Well, it's this way," began Doc Linyard, crossing his good leg over
the cork one: "My wife got a letter from England last week, saying as
how an uncle had died, leaving his property to her and her brother,
Tom Clover. In the letter she was asked to see her brother and fix the
matter up with him. They wrote they didn't have his address, and so
left it to her."

"I should think that would be all right," remarked Richard, as the old
tar paused.

"It would be, only for one thing--we don't know where Tom is. He used
to live in New York, but moved away, we don't know where. A party told
me he thought he had got work in a place called Fairwood, but I've
just come from there."

"And you didn't find him?"

"No; he had never been in the place. I have an idea he is again
somewhere in New York."

"Didn't he used to call on you?"

"Sometimes; but he was a bit queer, and there was times he didn't show
up for months and months. He's pretty old, and couldn't get around
very well."

"Is the property valuable?"

"It's worth over eight hundred pounds--four thousand dollars."

"It's a fortune!" exclaimed Richard.

"'Twould be to Betty and me," returned the sailor. "We never had over
a hundred dollars in cash in our lives."

"It's a pity you can't find him," said the boy. "What are you going
to do? Get your wife's share, and let the other rest?"

"No; that's the worst of it. By the provisions of the will the property
can't be divided very well except by the consent of both heirs."

"In that case I think I'd commence a pretty good search for Mr.--your
wife's brother. It's worth spending quite a few dollars to find him."

"Just my reckoning. But New York is a big place to find any one in."

"Perhaps your brother-in-law will drop in on you when you least expect
him."

"Hope he does."

The two continued the conversation for a long time. The more Richard
saw of Doc Linyard, the better he liked the bluff old tar, and, to
tell the truth, the latter was fully as much taken by Richard's open
manner.

It was not long before Richard poured out his own tale in all its
details. He found a strong sympathizer in the sailor, who expressed
a sincere wish that the pension due the Dare family might be speedily
forthcoming.

"Somewhat of a like claim to mine," he remarked. "We are both looking
for other people to help us out."

"And I trust we both succeed," added Richard earnestly. "In fact we
_must_ succeed," he continued, with sudden energy.

"Right you are!" was the reply. "We're bound to get the proper bearings
some time."

Before they reached their journey's end they were fast friends.

"Jersey City!"

It was the brakeman's cry, and an instant later the train rolled into
the vast and gloomy depot, and every one was scrambling up and making
for the door.

In a moment they were upon the platform, amid a surging, pushing mass
of people.

"Which way?" asked Richard, somewhat confused by the unusual bustle.

"This way," replied the sailor. "Just follow me."

"West Shore this side! Checks for baggage! Brooklyn Annex to the right!"
and several similar calls filled the boy's ears. 

He kept close to the tar, who led the way to the slip where a Cortlandt
Street boat was in waiting, and, dodging several trucks and express
wagons, they hurried down the bridge and went on board.

The gentlemen's cabin was so full of tobacco smoke that it nearly
stifled Richard, and he was not sorry when Doc Linyard led the way
straight through to the forward deck.

It was a pleasant day, and the lowering sun cast long shadows over the
water, and lit up the spires and stone piles of the great metropolis
that lay beyond, tipped with gold, typical of Richard's high hopes.

Swiftly the ferryboat crossed the North River, crowded with boats.
Then it ran into the slip--there was the rattle of the ratchets as the
line wheels spun around, and finally the gates were opened.

Richard had reached New York at last.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE "WATCH BELOW."


"Gracious, what a busy place!"

This was the thought that ran through Richard's mind as he stepped
from the ferryhouse to West Street, in New York City.

Doc Linyard had managed to get the boy off the boat as soon as the
landing was made, but now, as they waited for a chance to cross the
slippery thoroughfare that runs parallel to the water's edge, the crowd
surged around them until to Richard there seemed to be a perfect jam.

"Hack, sir? Astor House? Coupe, madam? This way for a cab!"

In a moment they were safe upon the other side of the street.

"Made up your mind which way to steer?" asked Doc Linyard.

"Not exactly," replied Richard. "This is the way to Broadway, I
suppose," he went on, pointing up Cortlandt Street.

"Yes; but what do you intend to do up there?"

"I thought I'd take a look around. I imagine I can't do much in the
way of finding work at this time in the evening."

"No; you'd best wait till morning. Then get a _World_ and a _Herald_,
and look over the want advertisements. I reckon that's the best way of
striking a position."

"Thank you, I'll try that plan. Good-by." And Richard held out his
hand.

"Won't you come down to my place afore we part?" interposed Doc Linyard.
"It's only a few steps from here."

Richard demurred. From the description he had been given of the place
he knew money was to be spent there, and he had no cash to spare.

"I--I--guess not," he faltered.

"Why not?"

"I--well, to tell the truth, I haven't much to spend."

The old tar slapped the boy heartily on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about that!" he cried. "I'm no land-shark. This trip
shan't cost you a cent. Come on."

And Richard followed. To a new-comer West Street is certainly a curious
sight. Saloons predominate, but between them are located tiny eating
houses, cheap clothing shops, meat stalls, bargain "counters," and
lodging-places, only about one in ten of the latter being fit for
occupancy.

"Here we are!" exclaimed the sailor presently.

They stepped up to a small restaurant, considerably neater than its
neighbors. Its exterior was painted light blue, and over the door in
big, black letters, hung the sign:

  THE WATCH BELOW, DOC LINYARD, _Boatswain_.

And to the right of the door, near a figurehead representing a gorgeous
mermaid, were added the words:

  _Messmates Always Welcome_.

The doors were wide open, and the two entered.

Several men sat at various tables, eating and drinking, and behind a
counter that did the double duty of a pie-stand and a cashier's desk
sat a tall, old man with grizzled white hair.

"Well, pop!" exclaimed Doc Linyard, as he stepped up.

"Hello, my boy! Back again," returned the older man. "Did you find
'em?" he added, in an anxious tone.

"No."

The old man shook his head ominously.

"Too bad, too bad," he murmured.

But he was evidently too old to take a very strong interest in the
matter.

"Never mind, it will all come outright in the end," was the son's
reassuring reply. "Where is Betty?"

"In the kitchen."

"This is my father," went on Doc Linyard to Richard. "Pop, here is a
chum as I picked up on the road. His name is Mr. Dare, and he saved
my life."

"Saved your life?" queried the old man doubtfully.

As he spoke a door in the rear opened, and a buxom woman of thirty
tripped out. She came straight up to the sailor and gave him a hearty
kiss.

"No luck, Betty," said Linyard soberly.

"No?"

"Not a bit. Couldn't locate 'em nohow."

"It's too bad, Doc."

"And he says his life was saved by this chap," put in the old man, who
had been gazing at Richard ever since the assertion had been made.

"Yes; we've both had strange adventures in the last twelve hours."

This bold praise made Richard blush.

"Oh, I didn't do as much as all that," he exclaimed. "I only helped
him out of the car, just as I would have helped any one."

"No sech thing, he did lots."

And sitting down near the counter, Doc Linyard gave a graphic account
of all that had transpired.

"I thank you very much," said Mrs. Linyard, when her husband had
finished. "I know Doc won't forget what you did, and neither will I."
She gave the boy's hand a tight squeeze. "Won't you have some supper
with us?"

Richard hesitated. He always was backward in accepting favors.

"Come don't say no," urged Doc Linyard. "By the anchor, it's little
enough."

Mrs. Linyard led the way to a cozy nook near the end of the restaurant,
and gave them two seats at a small table covered with a snowy white
cloth,--a table that was generally reserved for officers, or "upper
class" patrons.

"So you've had no luck?" she said to her husband, as she began to
bustle around with the tableware. "It's queer. What can have become
of Tom?"

"Blessed if I know."

"We may lose that money, all through him," sighed Mrs. Linyard.

"It would be a shame," put in Richard. "Your husband has told me of
the matter. I wish I could help you."

The sailor laughed good-naturedly. His disposition was too easy to
worry much over the situation.

"Reckon as how you'll have your hands full on your own account, finding
work and all that," he returned.

"I suppose I will. Still I would like to help you."

Mrs. Linyard provided a warm and bountiful supper, and both enjoyed
every dish that was set before them.

"I mustn't lose too much time," went on the boy, as he was finishing.
"I must at least find a boarding-house. I don't want to spend the night
in the streets."

"No fear of that," said the old tar hastily. "Betty, another cup of
that good coffee, please. Tell you what I'll do if you're willing.
This place isn't as grand as a hotel, but Betty's beds are as clean
as any of 'em, and if you will you're welcome to stay all night."

"Thank you, I'll do so gladly," replied Richard quickly, for the
proposition took a load from his mind. "I'll pay you whatever--"

"Avast there! What do you think I am, to take money from you for that?
No, thanky, I'm no land shark."

"I know you're not," replied Richard quickly, for he saw that the
sailor's feelings had been hurt, "but I would like to do something in
return."

"No need of that. Tell you what you can do though," continued Doc
Linyard, after a moment's reflection.

"Well?"

"Write me out an advertisement for the newspapers. My eddication ain't
none of the best, and my hand's more used to a marline spike than it
is to a pen."

"Willingly. What do you want to advertise?"

"I want to put a notice in for my brother-in-law. I'll give you all
the particulars."

"Very well. Have you pen, ink and paper?"

"Yes; Betty, will you bring 'em?"

Mrs. Linyard nodded.

A few minutes later the dishes were cleared away, and Richard prepared
to write out the advertisement.




CHAPTER IX.

LOCKED OUT.


During Richard's and Doc Linyard's meal the Watch Below had been
gradually filling up, principally with sailors, the majority of whom
were short, heavy-set men, who clapped each other on the back and
carried on their conversation in a sea lingo that was nearly
unintelligible to Richard.

One thing, however, impressed the boy. All the patrons seemed of a
better class than most sailors are, and he was glad to notice that
drunkenness and profanity were entirely absent. Once in a while some
one would let fall some coarse remark, but he was quickly choked off
by the others out of respect for "Doc's Betty," who hurried around
with a shining face, waiting on one and exchanging a pleasant word
with another.

Every one was on familar terms with the proprietor. They were glad to
see him back to the "fo'castle," but those who knew were sorry his
mission had been unsuccessful.

"They all know me and wishes me well," remarked the sailor to Richard.
"It's something to be proud of--around on this here globe forty-five
years and not an enemy in the world."

"How long were you a sailor?"

"Almost thirty years. I shipped as cabin boy on a South America brig
when I was fifteen. I'd be at it yet if, as I told you, Betty hadn't
anchored me ashore."

"It's long time. Some time I'd like to hear of some of the places you
visited. But I'd better get at that advertisement."

"No hurry--the newspaper office is only a few blocks from here."

"But you want this advertisement to go in tomorrow, don't you?"

"They take 'em up to ten o'clock, and maybe later."

Presently the crowd began to thin out, and by nine o'clock only half-a-
dozen customers remained. Mrs. Linyard and the old man waited upon
these, and Doc Linyard drew up to the table and motioned Richard to
go ahead.

"Here is the paper I'm going to put the notice in," he said. "Guess
you better follow the style of the other advertisements."

"I will," replied Richard. "What is your brother-in-law's full name?"

"Thomas Clover. He has no middle name."

"And his address?"

"He came from Brighton, England, and lived here, in a number of places
on the east side."

"The east side?"

"Yes; he lived somewhere on Cherry Hill last."

"And what is your wife's name?"

"Only Betty. That stands for Elizabeth, I suppose, but she was never
anything else to me or anybody else."

"Better let it go at that, then," returned Richard. "Now what is the
name of the estate to be divided?"

The old sailor told him.

"And say we want to hear from them at once," he added.

Richard went to work earnestly. Several attempts to get the
advertisement into proper shape were failures. Finally he produced the
following:

INFORMATION WANTED IMMEDIATELY of THOMAS CLOVER or his heirs, formerly
of Brighton, England, but when last heard of lived in Cherry Street,
this city. He is an heir of the PELEG SABINE estate which awaits
settlement. Address DOC LINYARD, THE WATCH BELOW, West Street, New
York.

"How will that do?" asked the boy.

"First-rate?" cried Linyard. "Only don't put my address on it. I want
the answer to come through a box in the newspaper office. I don't want
to be bothered by lawyers and detectives looking for a job on the
case."

"I see," said Richard, and crossing out the address he substituted the
words:

"Doc, box ---, this office."

"Guess I'll take a walk over to the newspaper office at once," said
the old tar, when the boy had finished. "Reckon as how pop and the
mistress can get along for a while. I suppose you'd like to come along."

"Indeed I would. I'd like to see as much of the city as I can before
I get to work."

"There's lots of strange sights, no doubt, to new eyes like yours.
You'll find lots that's bright and a heap more that's dark and dismal
enough."

A moment later they set out. Passing up Liberty Street, they turned
into Greenwich and walked along to Fulton.

The Elevated Road, with its noise, was a surprise to the boy, but he
was not allowed time to notice it long, for the sailor hurried him up
Fulton Street, to St. Paul's Church, and then they stood on Broadway.
"What a busy--an awfully busy--street!" was Richard's comment.

"It's rather dull now," said Doc Linyard. "Just wait till day-time.
The wagons and people are enough to drive a man wild. That's the
postoffice over there," he continued, as he pointed to the stone
structure that stands as a wedge, separating Broadway from Park Row
and the Bowery.

"Come ahead. Here we are on Newspaper Row, as lots call it. This was
the _Herald_ building before that paper moved uptown. It used to
be Barnum's Museum years ago. Way down at the head of Frankfort Street
is the _World_, and nearly all the rest of the great dailies are
strung along between the two. Here we are."

As Doc Linyard finished he led the way into the outer office of a
newspaper about midway down the Row.

It was a lively place, a constant stream of people coming in and going
out, and the hum of many voices--the whole putting Richard in mind of
some huge machine, grinding out its stipulated work.

Along one side of the counting room was a row of small windows, each
labeled with its department name.

Stepping up to that marked "Advertisements," the old sailor handed in
the one Richard had written out.

The clerk examined it. Then he wrote in the number of a box, and put
down several private marks in the corner.

"Pay at the next desk," he said, handing the paper back.

"How much will it be?" asked Linyard.

"Ninety cents."

At the next window the man in charge put the advertisement on file
along with numerous others. Then he took the money the tar handed over,
and in return filled out a printed order entitling the bearer to receive
all letters bearing the address advertised, for ten days.

"It will go in to-morrow?" asked the tar.

"Certainly."

"Suppose we take a walk up the Bowery," suggested the sailor, when
they were once more outside. "It's early yet."

Richard readily consented. He had often heard his father speak of the
street--how beautiful it had been years ago, and how trade had taken
hold of it, and the boy was curious to see what it was like.

The thoroughfare was a revelation to him, just as it is to every one
seeing it for the first time. The shops huddled together, their
show-windows littered with articles of every description, the
second-hand establishments, the pawnbrokers, the peddlers and
street-stand merchants, who offered everything from shoelaces to
collars, books and trick novelties, were all decidedly new to him.

One stand in particular attracted his attention. It was laden with
choice books, at remarkably low prices. There was a well-bound history
of the United States for forty-five cents, and a beautiful edition of
Shakspere, with steel engravings, for the small price of one dollar.

"Selling 'em off cheap," cried the vender, putting several volumes in
Richard's hands. "Take 'em right along. You'll miss the opportunity
of a lifetime if you don't."

"They are very nice," replied the boy. "But I guess I won't take any
to-night."

"You'd better. They may be all gone by to-morrow. This is only a job
lot, and dirt cheap."

"No, I guess not," and Richard put the books reluctantly back on the
stand.

"Give you a special discount of ten per cent," persisted the dealer.

"No; I haven't the money."

"Oh! Well, come around to-morrow. I'll lay the books aside for you."

"No, don't do that. I may not be back," and without waiting for further
words, Richard hurried off.

Meanwhile Doc Linyard, all unconscious of what was transpiring, had
gone on ahead, and when Richard looked around for him, the old sailor
was nowhere to be seen.

Rather startled, the boy hurried along to catch up. But under the
Elevated Railroad and down by the Brooklyn Bridge all was confusion
and jam, and in a moment Richard realized that he had lost his friend.

He hurried along several blocks, and then just as rapidly retraced his
steps. But it was useless. Doc Linyard had disappeared in the crowd
and was not to be found.

"Now I'm in a pretty pickle," thought Richard. "I suppose there is
nothing to do but get back to the Watch Below."

But that was easier said than done. The boy did not like to make too
many inquiries, and so started off on his own account.

He paid dearly for the experiment. A wrong turn or two, and lo! it
took Richard an hour to get back to West Street and to the restaurant.

And arrived here, an awkward state of affairs confronted the boy. The
Watch Below was closed for the night. All was dark, and not a soul was
in sight!




CHAPTER X.

THE FIRST NIGHT IN NEW YORK.


For an instant a feeling of intense loneliness swept over Richard's
heart as he stood on the dark and silent pavement. He had firmly counted
upon spending the night at the Watch Below, and now to find that place
closed up caused his heart to sink within him. He reproached himself
bitterly for having allowed his curiosity and love of books to make
him forgetful of his situation.

"How am I ever to get along in this world unless I watch out?" he said
to himself dismally. "I suppose it will do no good to knock on the
door. By the way the place is located, the sleeping-room must be
upstairs in the rear, and I might pound till doomsday without any one
hearing me."

Nevertheless, he rapped loudly upon the door, not once, but several
times, and so hard that he drew the attention of the policeman on that
beat.

"Phat are you trying to do?" asked the officer as he came up.

"I want to get in;" and Richard related the particulars of his plight.

"You'll have a job, me b'y," was the reply. "Mrs. Betty slapes like
a log."

They waited for several minutes in silence. But nobody appeared and
no sound came from within.

"Phat are you going to do?" asked the policeman finally.

"I don't know, I'm sure. My valise is inside with my money. I've only
got twenty cents in change in my pocket."

"There's a lodging-house in Washington Street where you can get a bed
for that," went on the officer. "But it's not over clean."

"I don't want to go where it's dirty," replied the boy, shuddering.

And for a brief instant a vision of his own neat and tidy cot at home
floated through his mind.

"Well, oi dunno; you can't stay out here."

While trying to plan what to do a man turned the corner and came toward
them. By the walk Richard recognized Doc Linyard, and with a cry of
joy he ran up to the old tar.

"Ahoy! so here you are?" exclaimed the sailor, his face beaming with
satisfaction. "A nice chase you've led me! Where did you go to?"

"Nowhere. I stopped to look at some books and then I couldn't find you
again," replied Richard. "I'm so glad you've come. They've gone to
bed."

"All below decks, eh? Well, it's time. I've spent an hour looking for
you over on the Bowery. How are you, Mulligan?" the last to the
policeman, who nodded pleasantly.

Producing a key, Doc Linyard opened the restaurant door. Then he handed
the policeman a cigar as a reward for the trouble the officer had
taken, and he and Richard entered.

The old sailor locked the door carefully behind them and lit a hand
lamp that his thoughtful wife had placed upon the front counter.

"I thought such places as this kept lights all night," observed Richard,
as they walked back.

"Most of 'em do,--them as has gas. But the insurance companies think
oil dangerous, so we do without."

Doc Linyard preceded the boy up a narrow stairway to a small room on
the third floor.

"Here you are," he exclaimed, as he set the lamp down on a table.
"Betty got it all fixed for you. There's your valise and the bed's
waiting for you. Take my advice and don't get up too early, not afore
seven o'clock any way,--and pleasant dreams to you."

"Thank you; the same to you," replied Richard sincerely.

It was a cozy apartment, and the boy had not been in it over five
minutes before he felt perfectly at home. Before retiring he sat down
to write the promised letter home.

He had no ink; but paper and envelopes had been brought along, and in
half an hour his lead pencil had filled several sheets with a very
creditable account of what had transpired.

This done he undressed and retired, not, however, before thanking God
for his kind care, and asking for His help and guidance during whatever
was to follow.

Despite the varied fortunes of his trip, the boy's sleep was a sound
one, and it lacked but a few minutes to seven when he awoke in the
morning.

A basin of clean water stood on a stand at the foot of the bed, and
after a plunge into this, he dressed, combed his hair, and went below.

Of course the restaurant was already comfortably filled, and as a
matter of fact, had been for over an hour.

"Hello, my hearty! on deck I see," called out Doc Linyard. "I hope you
slept well in your strange bunk." "First rate," was Richard's reply.
"And longer than I expected, too. Guess I'll start right out to look
for work.

"Not afore you've had some breakfast. Sit down, and I'll fetch you
some coffee and biscuits. Here's the morning papers; you can look 'em
over--the Male Help Wanted column. Reckon you'll find something worth
trying for."

Finding remonstrances of no avail, Richard sat down and allowed himself
to be helped to a morning repast.

While eating he looked over the paper, and found quite a number of
places worth hunting up. By the aid of the map Mr. Joyce had loaned
him he sorted out the addresses in regular order, and put them down
in his note-book.

"Here is that newspaper office order," said the sailor, as Richard was
about to leave. "If you're around in that neighborhood in the afternoon
just see if there are any answers. One might have come already."

"I will," replied Richard. "Can I leave my valise here?"

"Certainly; I want you to make yourself at home here until you find
a better place."

"Thank you. But I must pay you--"

"Not a cent. You helped me, and I'm going to do my duty by you. I'm
no land shark."

And the old sailor shook his head in a way that showed he meant every
word he said.

BOY WANTED, bright and active; to help feed. Norris Printing Co., Water
St., near Wall.

Such was the wording of the first advertisement on Richard's list.

He knew Wall Street ran from Broadway opposite Trinity Church, towards
the East River, and he was not long in reaching that famous money mart,
where millions of dollars change hands each day between the hours of
10 A.M. and 3 P.M. The grand approaches to many of the buildings made
him feel timid, and he could not help but wonder if the place to which
he was going was also so magnificent.

But Water Street, crooked, ill paved and dirty, was a decided contrast
to its neighbor. Storage and warehouses abounded; and the numerous
trucks backed up to receive or deliver goods necessitated walking more
in the street than on the sidewalk.

The building occupied by the Norris Printing Co. was at length reached.
The office was on the second floor, and climbing up a flight of worn
and grimy steps, Richard knocked at the door.

"Come in," said a voice from inside, and he entered.

"I understand you want a boy to help feed," he began, addressing a man
who sat at a desk piled with books and printed sheets.

"Apply to Mr. Nelson, in the basement," was the brief reply.

"Yes, sir."

The stairs to the lowest floor were even narrower than the others had
been. It led to a pressroom that seemed to be one mass of motion and
noise.

Mr. Nelson proved to be a pleasant man of perhaps fifty.

"Had any experience?" he asked, after Richard had announced his errand.

"No, sir; but I think I can learn as quickly as anybody."

"Perhaps; but we couldn't pay you so much while you were learning."

"How much would you start me at--if I worked real hard?"

Mr. Nelson hesitated.

"We'll give you two dollars a week to begin," he said. "When you can
do as much as the rest we'll raise you to three or four."

Richard's hopes fell. Even four dollars a week would barely keep him,
much less allow of money being sent home.

"I'm afraid I can't accept it," he said. "I must support myself and
I can't do it on two dollars a week."

"It's all we can allow," replied Mr. Nelson, and he turned away to his
work.

In a moment Richard was on the street again. The setback chilled his
ardor, but only for an instant, and then he hurried on to the next
place.

It was a confectionery store, and entering, he purchased five cents'
worth of chewing gum, such as he knew his little sister would like.

"I understand you want a boy," he said to the proprietor, who happened
to be the one to wait on him.

"I hired one about an hour ago," was the reply. "Are you looking for
a place?"

"Yes, sir."

The man gave Richard a sharp glance.

"You look like a bright sort of a chap," he said. "Suppose you leave
me your address? The other boy may not suit."

So Richard put down his name and the address of the Watch Below.

"I'm only stopping there temporarily," he explained, "and may leave,
but I'll drop around again in a day or two if I don't strike anything
else."

"Do; I don't like the other boy much. I only took him because a friend
asked me to."

"What do you pay?"

"Four dollars a week, and I might make it five if you would be willing
to help on the wagon as well as in the store."

"I certainly would," replied Richard promptly. "I'm willing to work
real hard at anything, providing it's honest."

"That's the way I like to hear a lad talk," said the confectioner
approvingly.

"Five dollars a week is certainly better than two," was Richard's
mental comment, as he hurried along. "Perhaps the next place will offer
something better still."

But the next place was already filled; and so were the three that
followed.

The seventh was on Vesey Street, the neighborhood that supplies half
the metropolis with tea and coffee. A boy was wanted to help fill
orders and deliver--a man's work--though Richard did not know it.

"We'll pay you seven dollars," was the merchant's reply, after the boy
had inquired after the place. "You will have to deliver principally,
and collect, of course."

"And when can I go to work?" asked Richard, overjoyed at an opening
that promised so well.

"Anytime. Right away if you like. But you'll have to furnish twenty-five
dollars security." This news put a damper on the boy's hopes.

"Twenty-five dollars security?" he repeated.

"Yes. You'll have more than that to collect"--which was not true--"and
of course you will be responsible, and must turn in the money for every
order taken out."

"I'd be sure to do that, or else return the goods."

"We don't take the goods back," was the firm reply. "Everything that
goes out has been ordered and is charged to the account of the one
taking the goods out."

"Who takes the orders?"

"Our canvassers."

"But the orders may not be good," suggested the boy. "People sometimes
change their minds, especially when they've been talked into buying."

"The orders are always good. Besides, if a person refuses to honor his
order all you've got to do is to turn round and sell the packages to
some one else. Come, what do you say? You'd better try it. It's a good
offer."

"I haven't got the money," was Richard's reply.

And for some reason he was glad of the fact.

"Better get it then and go to work," urged the merchant. "You can't
make seven dollars a week easier."

"I'll think it over," replied the boy.

There was something in the offer that did not strike him favorably,
and indeed it was a good thing that he was not in a position to accept
it.

The whole proposition was hardly above a common swindle, enough bogus
orders being put among the honest ones either to make the one
undertaking the job do a lot of peddling on his own account, or else
cause him to pay away half his salary on the goods left over.

Walking up Vesey Street, Richard found himself directly opposite the
post-office. By the clock on St. Paul's he saw that it was long after
noon.

Rather disheartened at his non-success after spending a whole morning
in the search for work, he rounded the Astor House corner and crossed
Broadway.

"Newspaper Row," as Doc Linyard had appropriately called it, was just
across the opposite street, and the boy made up his mind to visit the
office where the advertisement had been left, and see if there were
any letters as yet for the old sailor.

The doors of the post-office were open on both sides, and, curious to
see how the building looked inside, Richard started to go through
instead of going around.

The many departments upon the ground floor were a study to him, and
the signs--Domestic Mails, Foreign Mails, Letters for New York City,
Letters for Outgoing Mails--all this was in strong contrast to the
little three by four box that held all the mail of the village at home.

And the many private boxes! He guessed there must be ten thousand of
them. Every second a new-comer walked up to open one.

Presently a familiar figure stepped up to one directly in front of
Richard, and taking out a handful of letters, closed the box and turned
to go away.

It was Mr. Timothy Joyce.




CHAPTER XI.

ROBBED.


Richard was highly delighted to see his fellow passenger once again,
and running up he grasped the gentleman by the shoulder.

"Mr. Joyce!"

"Why, hello! Where did you come from?" exclaimed the leather merchant,
thrusting the letters into his pocket and taking hold of the boy's
extended hand, "I hope you weren't hurt."

"No, sir," replied Richard, "only shaken up. I trust you were as
fortunate."

"Not quite. My foot was caught under the seat and was wrenched pretty
badly, so much so that I had a man take me half a mile in a wheelbarrow
to a doctor's."

"I looked all over for you," continued the boy. "I saved your valise
and wanted to return it."

And Richard related the particulars of his adventures.

"Humph! those railroad chaps are too particular in some cases and not
half enough so in others," declared Mr. Joyce. "What is in the bag
doesn't amount to much, but I'm much obliged to you for taking the
trouble to save it. I'll send for it this afternoon."

"And here is your guide-book," went on Richard, handing out the volume.
"I'm thankful for the use of it. It's been a real help to me."

"Better keep it then," replied the merchant. "I'll make you a present
of it." He laughed, presumably at the smallness of the gift.

"Thank you."

"Have you had any luck yet in your search for work?"

"No, sir. I could have had a job at several places, but the pay was
so small I couldn't afford to accept any of them."

"Yes, that's the trouble. Good openings are scarce, and very often one
must be known to get a place."

"And some want security," added the boy, relating his interview with
the tea-merchant.

"Don't have anything to do with that class of men," exclaimed Mr. Joyce
emphatically. "They won't give you a cent more than they are forced
to, and advancement in their service is out of the question."

"It didn't strike me very favorably."

"I am sorry that you are not better acquainted with city ways. You may
have to pay dearly for your experience, though I hope not."

"I'm going to keep my eyes open as widely as I can, sir."

"You'll have to." Mr. Joyce paused for a moment. "Can you come over
to my office this afternoon, about three o'clock?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Maybe I'll be able to place you. I won't promise, but I'll do what
I can."

Richard's heart gave a bound. He had taken a strong liking to the
leather merchant, and the hearty manner of the latter, somewhat like
that of Doc Linyard, was certainly taking.

"Thank you, I'll be on hand," he replied quickly.

"Do; but remember I make no promises," returned Mr. Joyce. "I'm off
now. I must answer this mail and a pile of other letters that have
accumulated during my absence."

In a moment the merchant was lost to sight in the crowd.

"I'm glad that I met him," thought the boy. "It may be the luckiest
thing yet. I'm sure if he finds an opening for me it will be the right
thing to take hold of."

Under the turn of affairs Richard decided to get the sailor's letters,
if there were any, and return to the Watch Below at once. It was after
one o'clock, leaving him about an hour and a half before going to the
merchant's place of business.

"I must be prompt," he said to himself. "It will count, I'm sure."

Watching his chance among the score of street cars which pass the post-
office corner every minute, the boy dived through the crowd and reached
the opposite side of Park Bow.

The newspaper office was but a few steps away, and in a second he was
inside.

Quite a number of people were in the counting-room. They were mostly
of the poorer class, and were either looking over the want columns of
the papers on file or else waiting for answers to advertisements which
they had inserted.

Richard joined the line of the latter, and in due turn found himself
at the window, slip in hand.

The clerk glanced at the slip and then looked over some letters in a
certain box.

"Here you are," he said, and handed back the slip, accompanied by two
letters.

"Two answers!" exclaimed Richard as he moved away. "Doc Linyard is
certainly in luck. I must hurry back. He will be anxious, I know."

Richard put the slip in his vest-pocket. In doing so he pulled out two
one dollar bills which he had taken from his valise in the morning,
and folded the paper and money together.

As he shoved the roll into his pocket he did not notice that a hungry
pair of eyes, just outside of the swinging glass doors, were watching
his every action.

The hungry pair of eyes belonged to a boy of twelve, though he looked
older--a street urchin--dirty, ragged, with a pinched face and a
starved, ill-clad form. A look of sheer desperation came into these
eyes when their owner saw the money, and he trembled with excitement
as a certain bold and wicked thought came into his mind--a thought
born, not of a bad heart, but of--an empty stomach.

As Richard came out of the door the street boy shoved against him. The
doors were heavy, and for an instant Richard found his way blocked.
He pushed back the opposite door, and attempted to pass.

"Say, mister, dere's a big bug on your collar!" exclaimed the urchin,
pointing to Richard's neck.

Now, as I'm sure every one knows, to merely have such a thing mentioned
is to feel the insect in question. Such was the case with Richard, and
still holding the door with one hand he put the other up to his neck.

This was the would-be thief's chance. With a dexterity worthy of a
better cause the urchin transferred the slip, money and letters to his
own pocket. It was done in less than three seconds, and then he darted
back into the crowd upon the street.

Of course Richard found no bug, and he was considerably perplexed by
the urchin's actions, never dreaming of what had really occurred.

"I suppose that boy was fooling me," he thought. "Maybe it's one of
those silly jokes that become all the rage every now and then."

Richard walked to the corner of Ann Street. St. Paul's clock now pointed
to ten minutes to two, and he had no time to waste.

"Watch protectors, gents, only ten cents each! May some day save you
the loss of a valuable timepiece! Step right up now; only a dime!
Regular price fifty cents!"

It was a street vender who made this announcement. He stood upon the
curbstone, a small tray of his wares suspended from his shoulders.

"Here's just what you want, sir," he said, addressing Richard.

"Thank you; but I don't carry a watch," was the boy's polite reply.

"You will one of these days. Better have one."

"If I need one I'll call around," replied Richard briefly.

The idea of a safeguard caused him to feel in his pockets to see that
his belongings were still in his possession, first in
one--another--every one.

Then he realized what had happened. He had been robbed.




CHAPTER XII.

ON THE SEARCH.


Richard was dismayed and disheartened by the discovery which he had
just made. He went through his clothing a dozen times to convince
himself that he was not mistaken--that the slip, money and letters
were really gone. But it was assuredly a fact, and groaning in spirit,
he leaned up against a post, utterly overcome.

To tell the truth, however, much as he needed money, he did not think
of the bills that had been taken. His mind ran altogether on Doc
Linyard's property.

"What will he say when I tell him of it?" was Richard's mental comment.
"He won't want to trust me any more. Perhaps those letters were worth
hundreds of dollars. What a fool I've been! I ought to be sent back
to Mossvale at once. I'm not fit to stay in New York."

Then came the thought that possibly he had dropped the things, and he
hastily retraced his steps, scrutinizing every inch of the way as he
went.

But, as we know, such an effort was fruitless, and by the time he had
reached the newspaper-office Richard was convinced that it was a plain
case of robbery and nothing else.

"But when did it happen? I had the letters when I reached the
street--hold up; that boy. I'm sure he's the one!" he exclaimed to
himself. "I remember now feeling something at my pocket when I put my
hand up to my collar. That bug business was only a ruse! Well, I
_am_ a fool! And after all Mr. Joyce and Doc Linyard told me, too!"

The thought of how he had been taken in made Richard fairly sick, and
the tears of vexation sprang into his eyes as he stood deliberating
upon what to do next.

Just then a burly policeman came lounging along. Richard touched him
on the arm.

"I have been robbed," he said.

"Robbed? Where? When?" exclaimed the officer, all attention.

Richard told him all he knew of his case.

"I think I know the chap," said the officer. "But I can do nothing
now. He is likely a mile away by this time."

"Will you watch out for him?" asked Richard.

"I don't care so much for the money as I do for the letters."

"Better come over to the station and make a complaint."

"Is it far? I've got an engagement at three o'clock that I don't want
to miss."

"Won't take ten minutes. Come on."

At the station Richard was required to leave his full name and address,
describe what had been stolen, and give a full description of the
person he suspected was the thief.

"I can't give you much hopes of recovery," said the officer in charge.
"Dollar bills are very much alike, and if the thief finds that he
cannot put the letters to account he will probably destroy them. As
to his getting other letters on the strength of the stolen slip, you
had better go to the office and have the delivery stopped."

"Thank you, I will," replied Richard.

He was soon on his way back to Park Row.

"Do you remember me?" he asked of the clerk who had previously waited
on him.

"Yes; what is it? Anything wrong with your letters?"

Richard told his story.

"Will you hold the letters?" he added.

"Certainly. And if there is a call for them, I'll send out for an
officer and have the party detained."

When Richard was again on the street he hardly knew what to do. He had
no appetite for dinner, and there seemed now no use of returning to
the Watch Below.

He had a fancy that the urchin who had robbed him had run across into
the post-office. True, it was only a fancy, but Richard had some time
to spare yet before he was due at Mr. Joyce's office, and he determined
to take a walk in that direction.

Going through the post-office he walked over to Warren Street and
thence down to College Place. There was a coffee-stand upon the corner,
and here he bought two doughnuts for a cent each, and began munching
them, noticing at the same time that they were not of the best, being
dry, and that the flavor wasn't to be compared to that of those Grace
was in the habit of turning out at home.

Under the Elevated Road it was not as light as could be wished, and
Richard could not see very well. But presently he beheld a figure at
the end of the block--a figure that looked familiar.

Richard quickened his pace and soon reached the spot, yet only in time
to see the figure turn the next corner. But this time his view had
been better, and Richard was tolerably certain that it was the thief
he was pursuing.

He broke into a run instantly, and being light of foot, gained rapidly
upon the boy.

A glance around the next corner, and Richard just caught a glimpse of
the urchin's head as it disappeared down a cellar way. Rushing to the
spot, he was compelled to pause. He was far down on a side street that
was little better than an alley-way. The building before him was dirty
and old, evidently a storehouse, and the open stone steps led down to
a steep cellar from which not a ray of light came up.

Should he enter? For an instant Richard paused, and then slowly
descended.

"They shall not say that I was a coward," he said to himself. "And I
can easily handle that chap if it comes to a hand to hand affair."

The moldy smell of the cellar was nearly unbearable, and in several
spots upon the brick floor the scum lay an inch deep. Presently the
boy's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and then he saw it was
not so gloomy, after all.

At the back there appeared to be several windows, and, though covered
with dust and cobwebs, they still admitted some light. The place was
packed with wooden cases and barrels, and Richard had not a little
difficulty in picking his way among them.

Evidently the street Arab had not calculated upon being followed into
such a place, for Richard heard him boldly making his way to the rear.

He hurried after the urchin, making as little noise as possible. But
unfortunately his foot at that moment struck against an empty case,
and made known his presence.

Instantly the street boy realized the situation, and diving behind a
pile of barrels, remained perfectly quiet.

Richard's blood was now up, and he did not intend to be outwitted. He
hurried to the spot, in his eagerness nearly stumbling over the boy.

But the latter was alert. Visions of the Tombs probably floated through
his mind; and tripping Richard over he sprang away.

Richard was on his feet in a second, but it was too late. In that
second, the street Arab had sprung to the top of a pile of cases that
stood directly under an opening in the floor above.

The next instant he had disappeared through the hole, and was gone.

But in mounting the stack of cases he had dislodged several and these
now tumbled down, making a lively racket. The noise was followed by
several exclamations, and the sound of hasty feet upon a stairway.

"Hey, you, vat you do here?" cried a voice; and Richard felt his arm
grasped by a tall and savage looking German workman.




CHAPTER XIII.

RICHARD CALLS ON MR. JOYCE.


As the hand of the German workman grasped Richard's arm the boy realized
that he was in an awkward fix. Appearances were all against him, and
as the man glared at him Richard knew not what to say.

"Come now, vat vas you doing here, hey?" demanded the German.

"I--I was after a boy who stole something from me," stammered Richard.

"After a poy?"

"Yes. He ran down here, and I came after him."

"Ton't believe it. Vere ist der poy now?"

"He jumped up there and got through that hole," replied Richard,
pointing to the place.

The German uttered an exclamation.

"Dat's nonsense!"

"It's true. He stole two dollars and some letters, and I chased him
in here."

The man eyed Richard suspiciously.

"Maype dot vas only a make-believe sthory; I don't know," he declared.
"Come, ve go upstairs und see."

But, as Richard surmised, the boy had, by some means, already made his
escape. But the marks of his muddy feet, as he had crawled from the
hatchway, were still to be seen, and these Richard pointed out.

"Vell, if your sthory is straight dat lafer ain't here now; so you go
about your beesness." And with a wave of his arm the stalwart workman
motioned for Richard to clear out.

The boy was not loth to leave the place. Nothing was to be gained by
remaining, and the German's company was certainly not desirable.

"I suppose I might as well give up the search now," said Richard to
himself when outside. "That fellow will know enough to keep out of my
sight for a while; and, besides, it must be time to go to Mr. Joyce's.
Gracious, how starved that chap did look! If he wants that money to
get something to eat with I'm sure he's welcome to it, only I want the
letters."

Richard brushed off his clothes as best he could and started off. By
the use of the guide-book he had no difficulty in finding the Swamp,
as the leather district in New York is called.

Presently he came to a big warehouse, with an office at one side, over
which hung the sign:

  TIMOTHY JOYCE,
  Successor to
  JOYCE BROTHERS.
  LEATHER AND HIDES.
  Established 1837.

"It's certainly an old firm," thought Richard, as he read the words.
"I guess Mr. Joyce is a pretty substantial business man."

The boy found the leather merchant at his desk, deep in his letters.

"Ah! on hand I see," said Mr. Joyce. "I'm not quite ready yet; will
be in a quarter of an hour."

"I won't mind waiting," returned Richard.

"Suppose you take a look around the place? I guess you've never seen
anything like this before."

"No, sir: and I'll look around gladly."

Richard stepped from the office to the lower floor of the warehouse.
The quantity of leather and hides on all sides filled him with wonder.

The place was several stories high, and was filled to overflowing with
material soon to be worked up into shoes, pocketbooks, belting, gloves,
baseball covers, and a thousand other articles for which this staple
material of trade is needed. Several heavy trucks were loading and
unloading at the doors, and the boy heard the workmen speak of a
consignment to Buffalo, and another to Boston, and of a shipload that
had just arrived from South America.

"It's a big business and no mistake," was Richard's conclusion. "I
guess a person would have to be here half a lifetime to learn all the
ins and outs of it."

When Richard returned to the office he found that Mr. Joyce had just
cleared his desk, and was leaning back in his chair.

The leather merchant motioned him to a seat.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked abruptly.

"You seem to be doing a big business," returned Richard. "I think you
must have enough leather to supply all New York."

"So I have--for a short time. But only a small part stays in the city.
It comes and goes all the while. Have you found a place yet?"

"No, sir; I haven't had a chance yet." And Richard related the
particulars of his recent misfortune.

"Humph! Well, after all, experience _is_ the only school we all
learn in. I don't doubt but what you've seen the last of both money
and letters. Keep your eyes open in the future."

"I'll try to. I shall not forget this lesson in a hurry."

"But at the same time don't be too suspicious of everybody with whom
you may chance to come in contact."

"I'll remember what you say, sir."

"Now about finding you a situation. I wish I had an opening here for
you. I'd make a business chap of you."

"I should like to work for you, Mr. Joyce."

"Unfortunately, there is no room at present--that is, there is nothing
I can offer you."

"I'll take anything you'll give me," exclaimed Richard earnestly.

"Yes; but you can't do _any_thing. You can't drive a truck--here
in the city--and you don't know a thing about packing hides. Besides,
such work would be altogether too heavy for you, and it never pays the
wages that lighter but more intelligent labor receives."

"I suppose you are right, sir."

"I am. I don't want to gloss things over for you. It's the worst thing
in the world for a young fellow just starting out to have a rosy view
of the business world, which is composed of steady work and hard knocks,
about equally mixed. You've got too much brains to work altogether
with your hands; and one must find out what he is best suited to. How
would you like to get into the book and stationery line?"

"Very much indeed."

"Do you think you could make anything out of it? Make it _the_ business
of your life, so that you would stand some show of advancement on the
strength of the interest you took in it?"

"I think I could," replied Richard slowly, somehow deeply moved by Mr.
Joyce's earnestness. "I always liked books--not only to read them, but
to handle and to arrange them as well. At home I was the librarian of
our Sunday-school, and I got out the catalogue and all that. Of course
it was not a great work, but I enjoyed it, and often wished I might
have charge of a big library or something like that."

Mr. Joyce eyed the boy thoughtfully.

"Reckon I was right. Thought you'd take to books. Persons with your
kind of a forehead always do. Well, come along. I'll see what I can
do toward getting you a place with a friend of mine."

Locking up his desk, Mr. Joyce put on his hat and led the way out on
the street.

"We'll have to hurry," he said, "or we'll find my friend has gone
home."

Richard needed no urging. With a strangely light heart he kept close
behind the leather merchant.

They passed along several blocks, and at length turned into Beekman
Street.

"Here we are," said Mr. Joyce, finally. "This is my friend's place of
business."




CHAPTER XIV.

WORK OBTAINED.


The establishment to which the leather merchant had brought Richard
was an imposing one, situated in a massive stone building, and having
large and heavy plate glass doors and windows. A formidable array of
blank-books and sets of well-known authors' works were piled up in the
window which bore the firm's name:

  WILLIAMS & MANN.

Directly to the left of the entrance inside, stood a great safe, and
further on appeared an almost interminable row of shelves and drawers,
all apparently crammed with articles pertaining to the stationery and
book trade.

Stepping up to a salesman Mr. Joyce inquired:

"Is Mr. Williams in?"

"Mr. Williams has gone to Chicago," was the polite reply.

"Chicago, eh? When will he be back?"

"We expect him back day after to-morrow; possibly to-morrow afternoon."

"Humph!" Mr. Joyce rubbed his chin. "Is Mr. Mann about?"

"Yes, sir; just gone up to the stock-room."

"Tell him I'd like to see him for a few minutes."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Joyce, I believe."

"That's the name."

"I'll send word at once. Won't you sit down?"

"Thanks."

Mr. Joyce sank into an office chair.

Going to a speaking tube behind one of the broad counters, the salesman
sent his message up to one of the floors above.

"Mr. Mann will be down directly," he said, after a moment.

In five minutes a stout, bald-headed gentleman of fifty came down by
the elevator at one side, and stepped forward.

"How are you, Tim?" he exclaimed, thrusting out a chubby hand.

"First rate, Mel," returned Mr. Joyce. "This is a young friend of mine,
Richard Dare," he continued.

Mr. Mann shook hands cordially.

"He has come to the city to try his luck," went on the leather merchant.
"He has a taste for your line, so I brought him around to see if you
hadn't an opening for him."

Now an application made in this way, and coming from an ordinary source,
would have met with a courteous negative. But the firm of Williams &
Mann were under obligations to Mr. Joyce, who had on several occasions
indorsed their notes for many thousands of dollars. Besides, all three
men were old friends; so Mr. Mann gave the request every attention.

"We are rather full of hands," he said slowly; "but still I might find
room for him. Have you had any business training?" he continued, turning
to Richard.

"Very little, sir," replied the boy promptly, though it came hard to
make such a confession.

"He hasn't had a bit," interposed Mr. Joyce. "He's as jolly green as
we were when we came here," he added in a whisper. "But he's bright,
honest and level-headed, and I've taken a fancy to him and want you
to give him a chance."

"Do you like to handle books?" asked Mr. Mann.

"Yes, sir; very much."

"Yes, it's just what he does like," put in the leather merchant. "Place
him among the books if you can."

"Perhaps I can do that; but I won't be able to pay you much until you
are experienced."

"I must earn my living, sir," said Richard respectfully, but in a firm
manner.

"Of course he must," added Mr. Joyce. "He has just lost his father,"
he continued in a low tone, "and I suppose it's hard times at home."

"Have you known him long?" asked Mr. Mann, as the two walked to one
side.

"Only two days."

"Two days!"

"Yes."

"Is he--that is, suppose I put him in a place of trust? It will be a
risk that--"

"I'll go security for him."

"And you have only known him two days, Tim! Seems to me you're not as
cautious as you used to be."

"Never mind. I know some honest faces when I see them, and his is one.
Let me tell you how we became acquainted."

The two men continued their conversation for several minutes.

"I'll take you on at once," said Mr. Mann, presently to Richard. "I
suppose you would like that best."

"Yes, sir."

"You can have the hour remaining to-day to get broken in. I will give
you six dollars a week at the start, and if you learn as rapidly as
Mr. Joyce thinks you will I'll raise you in a few weeks to seven or
eight."

"Thank you, sir; I'll try to make myself worth it."

"It's hard work, and you will have to pitch right in," Mr. Mann went
on. "We have no use for laggards."

"Well, I'm going," broke in Mr. Joyce. "Now I've placed you I hope you
will make something of yourself," he added.

"I'll try to," replied the boy. "Many thanks to you for your kindness."

"If you come down in my neighborhood drop in and see me."

"Thank you, I will with pleasure," was Richard's reply.

"We will go right upstairs to the stock-room," said Mr. Mann, after
Mr. Joyce had departed. "We have a large pile of pamphlets and books
which the clerk we discharged left all mixed up. I was just assisting
the stock-clerk in making out a new division of the department."

Entering the elevator, they were soon taken to a floor three stories
above. The stock-room was in the rear, the large windows overlooking
an alley.

The place was piled high with books of all descriptions, some in sets
and others separate, from cheap reprints to costly volumes filled with
etchings and engravings.

"Here, Mr. Massanet, I've brought a young man to help you," said Mr.
Mann, addressing the clerk in charge, a pleasant-looking fellow
apparently not many years older than Richard.

He came forward and gave the boy a kindly look of welcome.

"We need help here," he said. "There is plenty to do."

"His name is Dare--Richard Dare," continued Mr. Mann. "I do not know
him, but a friend recommended him."

"We'll soon see what he can do," replied Frank Massanet, with a smile.
"Are you going to work now?" he asked of Richard.

"Yes; break him in at once," said Mr. Mann. "I'll leave him in your
charge. Mr. Massanet will tell you anything you want to know," he went
on to the boy. "He is the head here."

Left alone with Frank Massanet it did not take long for Richard to
become well acquainted with the stock-clerk, who gave him a few brief
directions and then set him to work filling up broken sets of books,
dusting them, and placing them in a case for shipment.

"We must get this whole batch away by next Tuesday," said Massanet.
"Because on Wednesday another large consignment will arrive, and we
must have room to handle it."

The work delighted Richard, and he pitched in with a will. It was new
and novel, as well as agreeable, and, besides, doing it for pay made
it no task at all.

Talking did not interfere with the progress of either of the workers,
and attracted by Frank Massanet's cordial manner, Richard gradually
revealed to the stock-clerk why he had come to the city, and what his
ambitions were.

In return Frank related much concerning himself. His father, who had
been a Frenchman, was dead, and his mother, sister Martha and himself
kept house up-town on the east side. It was apparent that the young
man was the main support of the family, for he said that just previous
to his death his father had been unfortunate in business and had lost
nearly every dollar he possessed. His mother did the work at home,
while his sister earned six dollars a week at typewriting.

"It is pleasant to have a home to go to," said Richard, after a bit.
"You don't know how queer I felt to be away from the others."

"Homesick?" asked Frank kindly; and then impelled by a sudden warm
feeling he placed his hand on Richard's shoulder. The action, small
as it was, brought a little lump to the boy's throat.

"No--not exactly," he replied, "only--"

"I know what you mean. Before I got this place I went to Boston for
two months to try my luck, and _I_ was among strangers."

"Some day, when I can afford it, I intend to bring my folks to the
city," Richard went on.

"Where are you stopping now?" asked Frank.

"With a sailor friend of mine down on West Street."

"West Street! It is not a very nice locality."

"No; but he is very kind, and so is his wife. They keep a restaurant.
He was in a railroad accident with me, and that's the reason he takes
to me."

"Yes, accidents often make strange people friends."

"But I must hunt up a regular boarding-house," went on Richard. "I
suppose a good one that is cheap is hard to find."

"You are right. How much do you expect to pay, if I may ask?"

"Not over four dollars. I'm to get six here, and I can't afford any
more. When my salary is raised I'll be willing to go a little more,
but not much, because I want to send home all the money I can."

Frank Massanet was silent for a moment. Richard's way pleased him, and
he felt drawn towards the new-comer.

"My mother has been thinking of taking a boarder," he said slowly. "We
have a spare hall bedroom. It is not very large, but it has good
ventilation, and is neatly furnished. I used it when--when my father
was alive."

"Would your mother take me?" asked Richard. "That is, could she afford
to at four dollars a week?"

"I can't say."

"When I get an increase in wages I'll pay four and a half," went on
the boy. "I would like to live with you," he continued open-heartedly.

Frank smiled.

"I'll speak to my mother to-night," said he, "and I'll let you know
to-morrow morning."




CHAPTER XV.

NEW QUARTERS.


At six o'clock Frank Massanet announced the day's work ended, and,
bidding his friend goodnight, Richard hurried off to West Street. His
heart was light over his own good fortune, but heavy when he thought
of the losses he had sustained earlier in the day.

The Watch Below was crowded, and Doc Linyard presided at the pie-stand
and the desk. He noticed Richard's grave face, and surmised that all
was not right.

"You're late!" he exclaimed. "Come sit down to supper. I'll bet you
haven't eaten a mouthful."

"I've had bad luck," replied Richard. "Bad luck for you and good luck
for myself."

And, sitting down beside the desk, he made a clean breast of what had
transpired earlier in the day.

"I know I have been careless," he added, "and I don't deserve to be
trusted any more."

"Never mind," returned the old sailor cheerily. "It's too bad, but,
as Betty often says, it's no use crying over spilt milk, so we'll make
the best of it."

"I'll have the advertisement put in to-morrow," said the boy, "and
I'll add that former letters have been lost."

"That's a good idea. And don't tell Betty; it would only worry her.
Who knows but what those letters didn't amount to much after all?"

"At all events, I'm going to get them back if I can."

"And your two dollars, too. The little rascal! But you said you had
good news?"

"So I have. Mr. Joyce got me a place."

And Richard told of the meeting in the post-office, and his subsequent
engagement by Williams & Mann.

"Well, I'm downright glad to hear that!" cried Doc Linyard heartily.
"Reckon you are on the right tack at last."

The walking and working had made Richard hungry, and he was not backward
about sitting down and eating a hearty supper. But he insisted upon
paying for all he had, and, seeing that the boy really meant it, Doc
Linyard took the money, though not without reluctance.

As soon as he had finished eating, Richard went to Park Row and handed
in the advertisement. The clerk informed him that no other letters had
been received, nor had any applications for them been made.

Returning to the Watch Below, Richard sat down and wrote a second
letter home, which he shortly after posted, along with the precious
packet of chewing gum for Madge. The old sailor offered him a ticket
to the theater, which had been left in the restaurant for the privilege
of hanging a lithograph in the window, but this the boy declined with
thanks, and retired early, so as to be on hand promptly in the morning.

Seven o'clock was the hour for opening at Williams & Mann's, and five
minutes before that time Richard presented himself, and was let in by
the sleepy porter. The elevator was not running at this time in the
day, so Richard took the narrow iron stairs, and was soon in the
stock-room, where he went to work at what he had been doing the previous
day until Frank Massanet arrived.

"My mother would like you to take dinner with us," said Frank, when
he had given directions concerning how the work should go on. "She
would like to know you before she takes you as a regular boarder."

"Can she take me at four dollars?" asked Richard.

"She thinks she can. You can talk it over together when you see
her--that is, if you will come."

"Certainly I will."

"It's the best way. Perhaps our board might not suit you."

"I'll risk it," laughed Richard.

They were allowed an hour at noon, and at exactly twelve o'clock the
two hurried off. Frank led the way up to the Third Avenue Elevated
Station, and a five minutes' ride brought them to their destination.

"I generally bring my lunch with me," explained the stock-clerk on the
way, "and I have dinner when I get home in the evening. By that means
I save my car fare, and have plenty of time to eat the best meal of
the day."

"It's the better way," said Richard. "Do you ride morning and night?"

"Only when the weather is bad. When it is clear I save the ten cents."

"So would I. Besides, it's healthy exercise," returned the boy.

The Massanets occupied the second floor of a modest little flat of six
rooms. It was a cheerful home, and Mrs. Massanet, a pleasant,
middle-aged Frenchwoman, greeted Richard cordially.

"You are indeed welcome, Mistair Dare," she said, with a beaming face.
"Francois have tole me everythin