The Store Boy

CHAPTER XXII A MYSTERIOUS LETTER

From time to time, Mrs. Hamil­ton sent Ben on er­rands to dif­fer­ent parts of the city, chiefly to those who had been start­ed in busi­ness with cap­ital which she had sup­plied. One af­ter­noon, he was sent to a tai­lor on Sixth Av­enue with a note, the con­tents of which were un­known to him.

“You may wait for an an­swer,” said Mrs. Hamil­ton.

He read­ily found the tai­lor's shop, and called for Charles Roberts, the pro­pri­etor.

The lat­ter read the note, and said, in a busi­ness like tone:

“Come to the back part of the shop, and I will show you some goods.”

Ben re­gard­ed him in sur­prise.

“Isn't there some mis­take?” he said. “I didn't know I was to look at any goods.”

“As we are to make a suit for you, I sup­posed you would have some choice in the mat­ter,” re­turned the tai­lor, equal­ly sur­prised.

“May I look at the let­ter?” asked Ben.

The tai­lor put it in­to his hands.

It ran thus:

“Mr. Roberts: You will make a suit for the bear­er, from any goods he may se­lect, and charge to the ac­count of He­len Hamil­ton.”

“Mrs. Hamil­ton did not tell me what was in the note,” said Ben, smil­ing. “She is very kind.”

Ben al­lowed him­self to be guid­ed by the tai­lor, and the re­sult was a hand­some suit, which was sent home in due time, and im­me­di­ate­ly at­tract­ed the at­ten­tion of Con­rad. Ben had pri­vate­ly thanked his pa­troness, but had felt un­der no obli­ga­tion to tell Con­rad.

“Seems to me you are get­ting ex­trav­agant!” said Con­rad en­vi­ous­ly.

“I don't know but I am,” an­swered Ben good-​na­tured­ly.

“How much did you pay for it?”

“The price was thir­ty-​five dol­lars.”

“That's too much for a boy in your cir­cum­stances to pay.”

“I think so my­self, but I shall make it last a long time.”

“I mean to make Aunt Hamil­ton buy me a new suit,” grum­bled Con­rad.

“I have no ob­jec­tion, I am sure,” said Ben.

“I didn't ask your per­mis­sion,” said Con­rad rude­ly.

“I won­der what he would say if he knew that Mrs. Hamil­ton paid for my suit?” Ben said to him­self. He wise­ly de­cid­ed to keep the mat­ter se­cret, as he knew that Con­rad would be pro­voked to hear of this new proof of his rel­ative's par­tial­ity for the boy whom he re­gard­ed as a ri­val.

Con­rad lost no time in pre­fer­ring his re­quest to Mrs. Hamil­ton for a new suit.

“I bought you a suit two months since,” said Mrs. Hamil­ton qui­et­ly. “Why do you come to me for an­oth­er so soon?”

“Ben has a new suit,” an­swered Con­rad, a lit­tle con­fused.

“I don't know that that has any­thing to do with you. How­ev­er, I will ask Ben when he had his last new suit.”

Ben, who was present, replied:

“It was last Novem­ber.”

“Near­ly a year since. I will take care that you are sup­plied with new suits as of­ten as Ben.”

Con­rad re­tired from the pres­ence of his rel­ative much dis­gust­ed. He did not know, but sus­pect­ed that Ben was in­debt­ed to Mrs. Hamil­ton for his new suit, and al­though this did not in­ter­fere with a lib­er­al pro­vi­sion for him, he felt un­will­ing that any­one be­side him­self should bask in the fa­vor of his rich rel­ative. He made a dis­cov­ery that trou­bled him about this time.

“Let me see your watch, Ben,” he said one day.

Ben took out the watch and placed it in his hand.

“It's just like mine,” said Con­rad, af­ter a crit­ical ex­am­ina­tion.

“Is it?”

“Yes; don't you see? Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift,” an­swered Ben.

“From my aunt?”

“It was giv­en me by Mrs. Hamil­ton.”

“She seems to be very kind to you,” sneered Con­rad, with a scowl.

“She is in­deed!” an­swered Ben earnest­ly.

“You've played your cards well,” said Con­rad coarse­ly.

“I don't un­der­stand you,” re­turned Ben cold­ly.

“I mean that, know­ing her to be rich, you have done well to get on the blind side of her.”

“I can't ac­cept the com­pli­ment, if you mean it as such. I don't think Mrs. Hamil­ton has any blind side, and the on­ly way in which I in­tend to com­mend my­self to her fa­vor is to be faith­ful to her in­ter­ests.”

“Oh, you're mighty in­no­cent; but all the same, you know how to feath­er your own nest.”

“In a good sense, I hope I do. I don't sup­pose any­one else will take the trou­ble to feath­er it for me. I think hon­esty and fi­deli­ty are good pol­icy, don't you?”

“I don't pre­tend to be an an­gel,” an­swered Con­rad sul­len­ly.

“Nor I,” said Ben, laugh­ing.

Some days lat­er, Con­rad came to Ben one day, look­ing more cor­dial than usu­al.

“Ben,” he said, “I have a fa­vor to ask of you.”

“What is it?”

“Will you grant it?”

“I want to know first what it is.”

“Lend me five dol­lars?”

Ben stared at Con­rad in sur­prise. He had just that amount, af­ter send­ing home mon­ey to his moth­er, but he in­tend­ed that af­ter­noon to de­posit three dol­lars of it in the sav­ings bank, feel­ing that he ought to be lay­ing up mon­ey while he was so fa­vor­ably sit­uat­ed.

“How do you hap­pen to be short of mon­ey?” he asked.

“That doesn't need telling. I have on­ly four dol­lars a week pock­et mon­ey, and I am pinched all the time.”

“Then, sup­pos­ing I lent you the mon­ey, how could you man­age to pay me back out of this small al­lowance?”

“Oh, I ex­pect to get some mon­ey in an­oth­er way, but I can­not un­less you lend me the mon­ey.”

“Would you mind telling me how?”

“Why, the fact is, a fel­low I know--that is, I have heard of him--has just drawn a prize of a thou­sand dol­lars in a Ha­vana lot­tery. All he paid for his tick­et was five dol­lars.”

“And is this the way you ex­pect to make some mon­ey?”

“Yes; I am al­most sure of win­ning.”

“Sup­pose you don't?”

“Oh, what's the use of look­ing at the dark side?”

“You are not so sen­si­ble as I thought, Con­rad,” said Ben. “At least a hun­dred draw a blank to one who draws a small prize, and the chances are a hun­dred to one against you.”

“Then you won't lend me the mon­ey?” said Con­rad an­gri­ly.

“I would rather not.”

“Then you're a mean fel­low!”

“Thank you for your good opin­ion, but I won't change my de­ter­mi­na­tion.”

“You get ten dol­lars a week?”

“I shall not spend two dol­lars a week on my own amuse­ment, or for my own pur­pos­es.”

“What are you go­ing to do with the rest, then?”

“Part I shall send to my moth­er; part I mean to put in some sav­ings bank.”

“You mean to be a miser, then?”

“If to save mon­ey makes one a miser, then I shall be one.”

Con­rad left the room in an an­gry mood. He was one with whom pros­per­ity didn't agree. What­ev­er his al­lowance might be, he wished to spend more. Look­ing up­on him­self as Mrs. Hamil­ton's heir, he could not un­der­stand the need or ex­pe­di­en­cy of sav­ing mon­ey. He was not whol­ly to blame for this, as his moth­er en­cour­aged him in hopes which had no ba­sis ex­cept in his own and her wish­es.

Not quite three weeks af­ter Ben had be­come es­tab­lished his new home he re­ceived a let­ter which mys­ti­fied and ex­cit­ed him.

It ran thus:

“If you will come at nine o'clock this evening to No. ---- West Thir­ty-​first Street, and call for me, you will hear some­thing to your ad­van­tage. James Barnes.”

“It may be some­thing re­lat­ing to my fa­ther's af­fairs,” thought Ben. “I will go.”