The Store Boy

CHAPTER X BEN GOES TO NEW YORK

Pen­tonville was thir­ty-​five miles dis­tant from New York, and the fare was a dol­lar, but an ex­cur­sion tick­et, car­ry­ing a pas­sen­ger both ways, was on­ly a dol­lar and a half. Ben cal­cu­lat­ed that his ex­tra ex­pens­es, in­clud­ing din­ner, might amount to fifty cents, thus mak­ing the cost of the trip two dol­lars. This sum, small as it was, ap­peared large both to Ben and his moth­er. Some doubts about the ex­pe­di­en­cy of the jour­ney sug­gest­ed them­selves to Mrs. Bar­clay.

“Do you think you had bet­ter go, Ben?” she said doubt­ful­ly. “Two dol­lars would buy you some new stock­ings and hand­ker­chiefs.”

“I will do with­out them, moth­er. Some­thing has got to be done, or we shall be turned in­to the street when three months are up. Squire Dav­en­port is a very self­ish man, and he will care noth­ing for our com­fort or con­ve­nience.”

“That is true,” said the wid­ow, with a sigh. “If I thought your go­ing to New York would do any good, I would not grudge you the mon­ey--”

“Some­thing will turn up, or I will turn up some­thing,” said Ben con­fi­dent­ly.

When he asked Mr. Craw­ford for a day off, the lat­ter re­spond­ed: “Yes, Ben, I think I can spare you, as Mon­day is not a very busy day. Would you be will­ing to do an er­rand for me?”

“Cer­tain­ly Mr. Craw­ford, with plea­sure.”

“I need a new sup­ply of prints. Go to Stack­pole & Rogers, No. ---- White Street, and se­lect me some at­trac­tive pat­terns. I shall re­ly up­on your taste.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ben, grat­ified by the com­pli­ment.

He re­ceived in­struc­tions as to price and quan­ti­ty, which he care­ful­ly not­ed down.

“As it will save me a jour­ney, not to speak of my time, I am will­ing to pay your fare one way.”

“Thank you, sir; you are very kind.”

Mr. Craw­ford took from the mon­ey draw­er a dol­lar, and hand­ed it to Ben.

“But I buy an ex­cur­sion tick­et, so that my fare each way will be but sev­en­ty-​five cents.”

“Nev­er mind, the bal­ance will go to­ward your din­ner.”

“There, moth­er, what do you say now?” said Ben, on Sat­ur­day night. “Mr. Craw­ford is go­ing to pay half my ex­pens­es, and I am go­ing to buy some goods for him.”

“I am glad he re­pos­es so much con­fi­dence in you, Ben. I hope you won't lose his mon­ey.”

“Oh, I don't car­ry any. He buys on thir­ty days. All I have to do is to se­lect the goods.”

“Per­haps it is for the best that you go, af­ter all,” said Mrs. Bar­clay. “At any rate, I hope so.”

At half-​past sev­en o'clock on Mon­day morn­ing Ben stood on the plat­form of the Pen­tonville sta­tion, await­ing the ar­rival of the train.

“Where are you go­ing?” said a voice.

Ben, turn­ing, saw that it was Tom Dav­en­port who had spo­ken.

“I am go­ing to New York,” he an­swered briefly.

“Has Craw­ford dis­charged you?”

“Why do you ask? Would you like to ap­ply for the po­si­tion?” asked Ben cool­ly.

“Do you think I would con­de­scend to be a gro­cer's boy?” re­turned Tom dis­dain­ful­ly.

“I don't know.”

“If I go in­to busi­ness it will be as a mer­chant.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“You didn't say what you were go­ing to New York for?”

“I have no ob­jec­tion to tell you, as you are anx­ious to know; I am go­ing to the city to buy goods.”

Tom looked not on­ly amazed, but in­cred­ulous.

“That's a like­ly sto­ry,” said he, af­ter a pause.

“It is a true sto­ry.”

“Do you mean to say Craw­ford trusts you buy goods for him?”

“So it seems.”

“He must be get­ting weak-​head­ed.”

“Sup­pose you call and give him that grat­ify­ing piece of in­for­ma­tion.”

Just then the train came thun­der­ing up, and Ben jumped aboard. Tom Dav­en­port looked af­ter him with a puz­zled glance.

“I won­der whether that boy tells the truth,” he said to him­self. “He thinks too much of him­self, con­sid­er­ing what he is.”

It nev­er oc­curred to Tom that the re­mark would ap­ply even bet­ter to him than the boy he was crit­icis­ing. As a rule we are the last to rec­og­nize our own faults, how­ev­er quick we may be to see the faults of oth­ers.

Two hours lat­er Ben stood in front of the large dry-​goods job­bing house of Stack­pole & Rogers, in White Street.

He as­cend­ed the stair­case to the sec­ond floor, which was very spa­cious and filled with goods in great va­ri­ety.

“Where is the de­part­ment of prints?” he in­quired of a young man near the door.

He was speed­ily di­rect­ed and went over at once. He showed the sales­man in charge a let­ter from Mr. Craw­ford, au­tho­riz­ing him to se­lect a cer­tain amount of goods.

“You are rather a young buy­er,” said the sales­man, smil­ing.

“It is the first time I have served in that way,” said Ben mod­est­ly; “but I know pret­ty well what Mr. Craw­ford wants.”

Half an hour was con­sumed in mak­ing his se­lec­tions.

“You have good taste,” said the sales­man, “judg­ing from your se­lec­tions.”

“Thank you.”

“If you ev­er come to the city to look for work, come here, and I will in­tro­duce you to the firm.”

“Thank you. How soon can you ship the goods?”

“I am afraid not to-​day, as we are very busy. Ear­ly next week we will send them.”

His busi­ness con­clud­ed, Ben left the store and walked up to Broad­way. The crowd­ed thor­ough­fare had much to in­ter­est him. He was look­ing at a win­dow when some­one tapped him on the shoul­der.

It was a young man fop­pish­ly at­tired, who was smil­ing gra­cious­ly up­on him.

“Why, Gus An­dre,” he said, “when did you come to town, and how did you leave all the folks in Bridge­port?”

“You have made a mis­take,” said Ben.

“Isn't your name Gus An­dre?”

“No, it is Ben Bar­clay, from Pen­tonville.”

“I re­al­ly beg your par­don. You look sur­pris­ing­ly like my friend Gussie.”

Five min­utes lat­er there was an­oth­er tap on our hero's shoul­der, as he was look­ing in­to an­oth­er win­dow, and an­oth­er nice­ly dressed young man said hearti­ly: “Why, Ben, my boy, when did you come to town?”

“This morn­ing,” an­swered Ben. “You seem to know me, but I can't re­mem­ber you.”

“Are you not Ben Bar­clay, of Pen­tonville.”

“Yes, but----”

“Don't you re­mem­ber Jim Fish­er, who passed part of the sum­mer, two years since, in your vil­lage?”

“Where were you stay­ing?” asked Ben.

It was the oth­er's turn to looked con­fused.

“At--the Smiths',” he an­swered, at ran­dom.

“At Mrs. Rox­ana Smith's?” sug­gest­ed Ben.

“Yes, yes,” said the oth­er ea­ger­ly, “she is my aunt.”

“Is she?” asked Ben, with a smile of amuse­ment, for he had by this time made up his mind as to the char­ac­ter of his new friend. “She must be proud of her stylish nephew. Mrs. Smith is a poor wid­ow, and takes in wash­ing.”

“It's some oth­er Smith,” said the young man, dis­com­fit­ed.

“She is the on­ly one by that name in Pen­tonville.”

Jim Fish­er, as he called him­self, turned up­on his heel and left Ben with­out a word. It was clear that noth­ing could be made out of him.

Ben walked all the way up Broad­way, as far as Twen­ty-​first Street, in­to which he turned, and walked east­ward un­til he reached Gramer­cy Park, op­po­site which Lex­ing­ton Av­enue starts. In due time he reached the house of Mr. Ab­sa­lom Pe­ters, and, as­cend­ing the steps, he rang the bell.

“Is Mr. Pe­ters in?” he asked of the ser­vant who an­swered the bell.

“No.”

“Will he be in soon?”

“I guess not. He sailed for Eu­rope last week.”

Ben's heart sank with­in him. He had hoped much from Mr. Pe­ters, be­fore whom he meant to lay all the facts of his moth­er's sit­ua­tion. Now that hope was crushed.

He turned and slow­ly de­scend­ed the steps.

“There goes our last chance of sav­ing the house,” he said to him­self sad­ly.