The Store Boy

CHAPTER XVI BEN FINDS TEMPORARY EMPLOYMENT

“Oh, Ben, what shall we do?” ex­claimed Mrs. Bar­clay, when she heard Mr. Craw­ford had sold out his busi­ness.

“We'll get along some­how, moth­er. Some­thing will be sure to turn up.”

Ben spoke more cheer­ful­ly than he felt. He knew very well that Pen­tonville pre­sent­ed scarce­ly any field for a boy, un­less he was will­ing to work on a farm. Now, Ben had no ob­jec­tions to farm la­bor, pro­vid­ed he had a farm of his own, but at the rate such la­bor was paid in Pen­tonville, there was very lit­tle chance of ev­er ris­ing above the po­si­tion of a “hired man,” if he once adopt­ed the busi­ness. Our young hero felt that this would not sat­is­fy him. He was en­ter­pris­ing and am­bi­tious, and want­ed to be a rich man some day.

Mon­ey is said, by cer­tain moral­ists, to be the root of all evil. The love of mon­ey, if car­ried too far, may in­deed lead to evil, but it is a nat­ural am­bi­tion in any boy or man to wish to raise him­self above pover­ty. The wealth of Amos Lawrence and Pe­ter Coop­er was a source of bless­ing to mankind, yet each start­ed as a poor boy, and nei­ther would have be­come rich if he had not striv­en hard to be­come so.

When Ben made this cheer­ful an­swer his moth­er shook her head sad­ly. She was not so hope­ful as Ben, and vi­sions of pover­ty pre­sent­ed them­selves be­fore her mind.

“I don't see what you can find to do in Pen­tonville, Ben,” she said.

“I can live a while with­out work while I am look­ing around, moth­er,” Ben an­swered. “We have got all that mon­ey I brought from New York yet.”

“It won't last long,” said his moth­er de­spon­dent­ly.

“It will last till I can earn some more,” an­swered Ben hope­ful­ly.

Ben was about to leave the house when a man in a farmer's frock, driv­ing a yoke of ox­en, stopped his team in the road, and turned in at the wid­ow's gate.

It was Silas Greyson, the own­er of a farm just out of the vil­lage.

“Did you want to see moth­er?” asked Ben.

“No, I want­ed to see you, Ben­jamin,” an­swered Greyson. “I hear you've left the store.”

“The store has changed hands, and the new store­keep­er don't want me.”

“Do you want a job?”

“What is it, Mr. Greyson?” Ben replied, an­swer­ing one ques­tion with an­oth­er.

“I'm goin' to get in wood for the win­ter from my wood lot for about a week,” said the farmer, “and I want help. Are you will­in' to hire out for a week?”

“What'll you pay me?” asked Ben.

“I'll keep you, and give you a cord of wood. Your moth­er'll find it handy. I'm short of mon­ey, and calc'late wood'll be just as good pay.”

Ben thought over the pro­pos­al, and an­swered: “I'd rather take my meals at home, Mr. Greyson, and if you'll make it two cords with that un­der­stand­ing, I'll agree to hire out to you.”

“Ain't that rather high?” asked the farmer, hes­itat­ing.

“I don't think so.”

Fi­nal­ly Silas Greyson agreed, and Ben promised to be on hand bright and ear­ly the next day. It may be stat­ed here that wood was very cheap at Pen­tonville, so that Ben would not be over­paid.

There were some few things about the house which Ben wished to do for his moth­er be­fore he went to work any­where, and he thought this a good op­por­tu­ni­ty to do them. While in the store his time had been so tak­en up that he was un­able to at­tend to them. He passed a busy day, there­fore, and hard­ly went in­to the street.

Just at night­fall, as he was in the front yard, he was rather sur­prised to see Tom Dav­en­port open the gate and en­ter.

“What does he want, I won­der?” he thought, but he said, in a civ­il tone: “Good-​evening, Tom.”

“You're out of busi­ness, ain't you?” asked Tom abrupt­ly.

“I'm not out of work at any rate!” an­swered Ben.

“Why, what work are you do­ing?” in­ter­ro­gat­ed Tom, in ev­ident dis­ap­point­ment.

“I've been do­ing some jobs about the house, for moth­er.”

“That won't give you a liv­ing,” said Tom dis­dain­ful­ly.

“Very true.”

“Did you ex­pect to stay in the store?” asked Tom.

“Not af­ter I heard that your fa­ther had bought it,” an­swered Ben qui­et­ly.

“My fa­ther's will­ing to give you work,” said Tom.

“Is he?” asked Ben, very much sur­prised.

It oc­curred to him that per­haps he would have a chance to re­main in the store af­ter all, and for the present that would have suit­ed him. Though he didn't like the squire, or Mr. Kirk, he felt that he had no right, in his present cir­cum­stances, to refuse any way to earn an hon­est liv­ing.

“Yes,” an­swered Tom. “I told him he'd bet­ter hire you.”

“You did!” ex­claimed Ben, more and more amazed. “I didn't ex­pect that. How­ev­er, go on, if you please.”

“He's got three cords of wood that he wants sawed and split,” said Tom, “and as I knew how poor you were I thought it would be a good chance for you.”

You might have thought from Tom's man­ner that he was a young lord, and Ben a peas­ant. Ben was not an­gry, but amused.

“It is true,” he said. “I am not rich; still, I am not as poor as you think.”

He hap­pened to have in his pock­et­book the mon­ey he had brought from New York, and this he took from his pock­et and dis­played to the as­ton­ished Tom.

“Where did you get that mon­ey?” asked Tom, sur­prised and cha­grined.

“I got it hon­est­ly. You see we can hold out a few days. How­ev­er, I may be will­ing to ac­cept the job you of­fer me. How much is your fa­ther will­ing to pay me?”

“He is will­ing to give you forty cents a day.”

“How long does he ex­pect me to work for that?”

“Ten hours.”

“That is four cents an hour, and hard work at that. I am much obliged to you and him, Tom, for your lib­er­al of­fer, but I can't ac­cept it.”

“You'll see the time when you'll be glad to take such a job,” said Tom, who was per­son­al­ly dis­ap­point­ed that he would not be able to ex­hib­it Ben as his fa­ther's hired de­pen­dent.

“You seem to know all about it, Tom,” an­swered Ben. “I shall be at work all next week, at much high­er pay, for Silas Greyson.”

“How much does he pay you?”

“That is my pri­vate busi­ness, and wouldn't in­ter­est you.”

“You're mighty in­de­pen­dent for a boy in your po­si­tion.”

“Very like­ly. Won't you come in?”

“No,” an­swered Tom un­gra­cious­ly; “I've wast­ed too much time here al­ready.”

“I un­der­stand Tom's ob­ject in want­ing to hire me,” thought Ben. “He wants to or­der me around. Still, if the squire had been will­ing to pay a de­cent price, I would have ac­cept­ed the job. I won't let pride stand in the way of my sup­port­ing moth­er and my­self.”

This was a sen­si­ble and praise­wor­thy res­olu­tion, as I hope my young read­ers will ad­mit. I don't think much of the pride that is will­ing to let oth­ers suf­fer in or­der that it may be grat­ified.

Ben worked a full week for Farmer Greyson, and helped un­load the two cords of wood, which were his wages, in his moth­er's yard. Then there were two days of idle­ness, which made him anx­ious. On the sec­ond day, just af­ter sup­per, he met Rose Gar­diner com­ing from the post of­fice.

“Have you any cor­re­spon­dents in New York, Ben?” she asked.

“What makes you ask, Rose?”

Be­cause the post­mas­ter told me there was a let­ter for you by this evening's mail. It was mailed in New York, and was di­rect­ed in a la­dy's hand. I hope you haven't been flirt­ing with any New York ladies, Mr. Bar­clay."

“The on­ly la­dy I know in New York is at least fifty years old,” an­swered Ben, smil­ing.

“That is sat­is­fac­to­ry,” an­swered Rose solemn­ly. “Then I won't be jeal­ous.”

“What can the let­ter be?” thought Ben. “I hope it con­tains good news.”

He hur­ried to the post of­fice in a fever of ex­cite­ment.