”I had a claim to be treated like a gentleman, even if I had no connection with the road,“ he said.
”If you say the boy's all right, I won't interfere with him,“ continued the conductor.
”My testimony would clear him from any charge that might be brought against him,“ said the president. ”I saw him enter the car, and know he has had no opportunity to take the ring.“
”If he'll give me back the ring, that's all I want,“ said the young lady.
”That I am willing to do, though I lose five dollars by it,“ said Philip.
”Do so, my boy,“ said the president. ”I take it for granted that the young lady's claim is a just one.“
Upon this Philip drew the ring from his finger and handed it to the young lady, who went back to the car where her friends were sitting.
”I hope, sir,“ said the conductor anxiously, ”that you won't be prejudiced against me on account of this affair.“
”I am sorry to say that I can't help feeling prejudiced against you,“ returned the president dryly; ”but I won't allow this feeling to injure you if, upon inquiring, I find that you are otherwise an efficient officer.“
”Thank you, sir.“
”I am glad that my presence has saved this boy from being the victim of an injustice. Let this be a lesson to you in future.“
The conductor walked away, looking quite chop- fallen, and Philip turned to his new friend.
”I am very much indebted to you, sir,“ he said.
”But for you I should have found myself in serious trouble.“
”I am glad to have prevented an injustice, my lad. I am sorry I could not save you from loss also. That enterprising rogue has gone off with five dollars belonging to you. I hope the loss will not be a serious one to you.“
”It was more than a third part of my capital, sir,“ said Phil, rather ruefully.
”I am sorry for that. I suppose, however, you are not dependent upon your own resources?“
”Yes, sir, I am.“
”Have you no parents, then?“ asked Mr. Grant, with interest.
”No, sir; that is, I have a step-mother.“
”And what are your plans, if you are willing to tell me?“
”I am going to New York to try to make a living.“
”I cannot commend your plan, my young friend, unless there is a good reason for it.“
”I think there is a good reason for it, sir.“
”I hope you have not run away from home?“
”No, sir; I left home with my step-mother's knowledge and consent.“
”That is well. I don't want wholly to discourage you, and so I will tell you that I, too, came to New York at your age with the same object in view, with less money in my pocket than you possess.“
”And now you are the president of a railroad!“ said Phil hopefully.
”Yes; but I had a hard struggle before I reached that position.“
”I am not afraid of hard work, sir.“
”That is in your favor. Perhaps you may be as lucky as I have been. You may call at my office in the city, if you feel inclined.“
As Mr. Grant spoke he put in Phil's hand a card bearing his name and address, in Wall Street.
”Thank you, sir,“ said Phil gratefully. ”I shall be glad to call. I may need advice.“
”If you seek advice and follow it you will be an exception to the general rule,“ said the president, smiling. ”One thing more--you have met with a loss which, to you, is a serious one. Allow me to bear it, and accept this bill.“
”But, sir, it is not right that you should bear it,“ commenced Phil. Then, looking at the bill, he said:
”Haven't you made a mistake? This is a ten-dollar bill.“
”I know it. Accept the other five as an evidence of my interest in you. By the way, I go to Philadelphia and Washington before my return to New York, and shall not return for three or four days. After that time you will find me at my office.
”I am in luck after all,“ thought Phil cheerfully, ”in spite of the mean trick of Mr. Lionel Lake.“
CHAPTER VI.
SIGNOR ORLANDO.
SO PHIL reached New York in very fair spirits. He found himself, thanks to the liberality of Mr. Grant, in a better financial position than when he left home.
As he left the depot and found himself in the streets of New York, he felt like a stranger upon the threshold of a new life. He knew almost nothing about the great city he had entered, and was at a loss where to seek for lodgings.
”It's a cold day,“ said a sociable voice at his elbow.
Looking around, Phil saw that the speaker was a sallow-complexioned young man, with black hair and mustache, a loose black felt hat, crushed at the crown, giving him rather a rakish look.
”Yes, sir,“ answered Phil politely.
”Stranger in the city, I expect?“
”Yes, sir.“
”Never mind the sir. I ain't used to ceremony. I am Signor Orlando.“
”Signor Orlando!“ repeated Phil, rather puzzled.
”Are you an Italian?“
”Well, yes,“ returned Signor Orlando, with a wink, ”that's what I am, or what people think me; but I was born in Vermont, and am half Irish and half Yankee.“
”How did you come by your name, then?“
”I took it,“ answered his companion. ”You see, dear boy, I'm a professional.“
”A what?“
”A professional--singer and clog-dancer. I believe I am pretty well known to the public,“ continued Signor Orlando complacently. ”Last summer I traveled with Jenks & Brown's circus. Of course you've heard of them. Through the winter I am employed at Bowerman's Varieties, in the Bowery. I appear every night, and at two matinees weekly.“
It must be confessed that Phil was considerably impressed by the professional character of Signor Orlando. He had never met an actor, or public performer of any description, and was disposed to have a high respect for a man who filled such a conspicuous position. There was not, to be sure, anything very impressive about Signor Orlando's appearance. His face did not indicate talent, and his dress was shabby. But for all that he was a man familiar with the public--a man of gifts.
”I should like to see you on the stage,“ said Phil respectfully.
”So you shall, my dear boy--so you shall. I'll get you a pass from Mr. Bowerman. Which way are you going?“
”I don't know,“ answered Phil, puzzled. ”I should like to find a cheap boarding-house, but I don't know the city.“
”I do,“ answered Signor Orlando promptly. ”Why not come to my house?“
”Have you a house?“
”I mean my boarding-house. It's some distance away. Suppose we take a horse-car?“
”All right!“ answered Phil, relieved to find a guide in the labyrinth of the great city.
”I live on Fifth Street, near the Bowery--a very convenient location,“ said Orlando, if we may take the liberty to call him thus.
”Fifth Avenue?“ asked Phil, who did not know the difference.
”Oh, no; that's a peg above my style. I am not a Vanderbilt, nor yet an Astor.“
”Is the price moderate?“ asked Phil anxiously. ”I must make my money last as long as I can, for I don't know when I shall get a place.“
”To be sure. You might room with me, only I've got a hall bedroom. Perhaps we might manage it, though.“
”I think I should prefer a room by myself,“ said Phil, who reflected that Signor Orlando was a stranger as yet.
”Oh, well, I'll speak to the old lady, and I guess she can accommodate you with a hall bedroom like mine on the third floor.“
”What should I have to pay?“
”A dollar and a quarter a week, and you can get your meals where you please.“
”I think that will suit me,“ said Phil thoughtfully.
After leaving the car, a minute's walk brought them to a shabby three-story house of brick. There was a stable opposite, and a group
of dirty children were playing in front of it.
”This is where I hang out,“ said Signor Orlando cheerfully. ”As the poet says, there is no place like home.“
If this had been true it was not much to be regretted, since the home in question was far from attractive.
Signor Orlando rang the bell, and a stout woman of German aspect answered the call.
”So you haf come back, Herr Orlando,“ said this lady. ”I hope you haf brought them two weeks' rent you owe me.“
”All in good time, Mrs. Schlessinger,“ said Orlando. ”But you see I have brought some one with me.“
”Is he your bruder now?“ asked the lady.
”No, he is not, unfortunately for me. His name is----“
Orlando coughed.
”Philip Brent,“ suggested our hero.
”Just so--Philip Brent.“
”I am glad to see Mr. Prent,“ said the landlady.
”And is he an actor like you, Signor Orlando?“
”Not yet. We don't know what may happen. But he comes on business, Mrs. Schlessinger. He wants a room.“
The landlady brightened up. She had two rooms vacant, and a new lodger was a godsend.
”I vill show Mr. Prent what rooms I haf,“ she said. ”Come up-stairs, Mr. Prent.“
The good woman toiled up the staircase panting, for she was asthmatic, and Phil followed. The interior of the house was as dingy as the exterior, and it was quite dark on the second landing.
She threw open the door of a back room, which, being lower than the hall, was reached by a step.
”There!“ said she, pointing to the faded carpet, rumpled bed, and cheap pine bureau, with the little six-by-ten looking-glass surmounting it. ”This is a peautiful room for a single gentleman, or even for a man and his wife.“
”My friend, Mr. Brent, is not married,“ said Signor Orlando waggishly.
Phil laughed.
”You will have your shoke, Signor Orlando,“ said Mrs. Schlessinger.
”What is the price of this room?“ asked Phil.
”Three dollars a week, Mr. Prent, I ought to have four, but since you are a steady young gentleman----“
”How does she know that?“ Phil wondered.
”Since you are a steady young gentleman, and a friend of Signor Orlando, I will not ask you full price.“
”That is more than I can afford to pay,“ said Phil, shaking his head.
”I think you had better show Mr. Brent the hall bedroom over mine,“ suggested the signor.
Mrs. Schlessinger toiled up another staircase, the two new acquaintances following her. She threw open the door of one of those depressing cells known in New York as a hall bedroom. It was about five feet wide and eight feet long, and was nearly filled up by a cheap bedstead, covered by a bed about two inches thick, and surmounted at the head by a consumptive-looking pillow. The paper was torn from the walls in places. There was one rickety chair, and a wash-stand which bore marks of extreme antiquity.
”This is a very neat room for a single gentleman,“ remarked Mrs. Schlessinger.
Phil's spirits fell as he surveyed what was to be his future home. It was a sad contrast to his neat, comfortable room at home.
”Is this room like yours, Signor Orlando?“ he asked faintly.
”As like as two peas,“ answered Orlando.
”Would you recommend me to take it?“
”You couldn't do better.“
How could the signor answer otherwise in presence of a landlady to whom he owed two weeks' rent?“
”Then,“ said Phil, with a secret shudder, ”I'll take it if the rent is satisfactory.“
”A dollar and a quarter a week,“ said Mrs. Schlessinger promptly.
”I'll take it for a week.“
”You won't mind paying in advance?“ suggested the landlady. ”I pay my own rent in advance.“
Phil's answer was to draw a dollar and a quarter from his purse and pass it to his landlady.
”I'll take possession now,“ said our hero. ”Can I have some water to wash my face?“
Mrs. Schlessinger was evidently surprised that any one should want to wash in the middle of the day, but made no objections.
When Phil had washed his face and hands, he went out with Signor Orlando to dine at a restaurant on the Bowery.
CHAPTER VII.
BOWERMAN'S VARIETIES.
THE RESTAURANT to which he was taken by Signor Orlando was thronged with patrons, for it was one o'clock. On the whole, they did not appear to belong to the highest social rank, though they were doubtless respectable. The table-cloths were generally soiled, and the waiters had a greasy look. Phil said nothing, but he did not feel quite so hungry as before he entered.
The signor found two places at one of the tables, and they sat down. Phil examined a greasy bill of fare and found that he could obtain a plate of meat for ten cents. This included bread and butter, and a dish of mashed potato. A cup of tea would be five cents additional.
”I can afford fifteen cents for a meal,“ he thought, and called for a plate of roast beef.
”Corn beef and cabbage for me,“ said the signor.
”It's very filling,“ he remarked aside to Phil.
”They won't give you but a mouthful of beef.“
So it proved, but the quality was such that Phil did not care for more. He ordered a piece of apple pie afterward feeling still hungry.
”I see you're bound to have a square meal,“ said the signor.
After Phil had had it, he was bound to confess that he did not feel uncomfortably full. Yet he had spent twice as much as the signor, who dispensed with the tea and pie as superfluous luxuries.
In the evening Signor Orlando bent his steps toward Bowerman's Varieties.
”I hope in a day or two to get a complimentary ticket for you, Mr. Brent,“ he said.
”How much is the ticket?“ asked Phil.
”Fifteen cents. Best reserved seats twenty-five cents.'
”I believe I will be extravagant for once,“ said Phil, ”and go at my own expense.“
”Good!“ said the signor huskily. ”You'll feel repaid I'll be bound. Bowerman always gives the public their money's worth. The performance begins at eight o'clock and won't be out until half- past eleven.“
”Less than five cents an hour,“ commented Phil.
”What a splendid head you've got!“ said Signor Orlando admiringly. ”I couldn't have worked that up. Figures ain't my province.“
It seemed to Phil rather a slender cause for compliment, but he said nothing, since it seemed clear that the computation was beyond his companion's ability.
As to the performance, it was not refilled, nor was the talent employed first-class. Still Phil enjoyed himself after a fashion. He had never had it in his power to attend many amusements, and this was new to him. He naturally looked with interest for the appearance of his new friend and fellow-lodger.
Signor Orlando appeared, dressed in gorgeous array, sang a song which did credit to the loudness of his voice rather than its quality, and ended by a noisy clog-dance which elicited much applause from the boys in the gallery, who shared the evening's entertainment for the moderate sum of ten cents.
The signor was called back to the stage. He bowed his thanks and gave another dance. Then he was permitted to retire. As this finished his part of the entertainment he afterward came around in citizen's dress, and took a seat in the auditorium beside Phil.
”How did you like me, Mr. Brent?“ he asked complacently.
”I thought you did well, Signor Orlando. You were much applauded.“
”Yes, the audience is very loyal,“ said the proud performer.
Two half-grown boys heard Phil pronounce the name of his companion, and they gazed awe-stricken at the famous man.
”That's Signor Orlando!“ whispered one of the others.
”I know it,“ was the reply.
”Such is fame,“ said the Signor, in a pleased tone to Phil. ”People po
int me out on the streets.“
”Very gratifying, no doubt,“ said our hero, but it occurred to him that he would not care to be pointed out as a performer at Bowerman's. Signor Orlando, however, well-pleased with himself, didn't doubt that Phil was impressed by his popularity, and perhaps even envied it.
They didn't stay till the entertainment was over. It was, of course, familiar to the signor, and Phil felt tired and sleepy, for he had passed a part of the afternoon in exploring the city, and had walked in all several miles.
He went back to his lodging-house, opened the door with a pass-key which Mrs. Schlessinger had given him, and climbing to his room in the third story, undressed and deposited himself in bed.
The bed was far from luxurious. A thin pallet rested on slats, so thin that he could feel the slats through it, and the covering was insufficient. The latter deficiency he made up by throwing his overcoat over the quilt, and despite the hardness of his bed, he was soon sleeping soundly.
”To-morrow I must look for a place,“ he said to Signor Orlando. ”Can you give me any advise?“
”Yes, my dear boy. Buy a daily paper, the Sun or Herald, and look at the advertisements. There may be some prominent business man who is looking out for a boy of your size.“
Phil knew of no better way, and he followed Signor Orlando's advice.
After a frugal breakfast at the Bowery restaurant, he invested a few pennies in the two papers mentioned, and began to go the rounds.
The first place was in Pearl Street.
He entered, and was directed to a desk in the front part of the store.
”You advertised for a boy,“ he said.
”We've got one,“ was the brusque reply.
Of course no more was to be said, and Phil walked out, a little dashed at his first rebuff.
At the next place he found some half a dozen boys waiting, and joined the line, but the vacancy was filled before his turn came.
At the next place his appearance seemed to make a good impression, and he was asked several questions.
”What is your name?“
”Philip Brent.“
”How old are you?“
”Just sixteen.“
”How is your education?“
”I have been to school since I was six.“
The Errand Boy; or, How Phil Brent Won Success Page 3