Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant by Jr. Horatio Alger (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📖

Mrs. Hoffman went out in the afternoon, and visited several large establishments in the hope of obtaining work. But everywhere she was met with the stereotyped reply, “Business is so dull that we are obliged to turn off some who are accustomed to work for us. We have no room for new hands.”

Finally she decided that it would be of no use to make any further applications, and went home, feeling considerably disheartened.

“I must find something to do,” she said to herself. “I cannot throw upon Paul the entire burden of supporting the family.”

But it was not easy to decide what to do. There are so few paths open to a woman like Mrs. Hoffman. She was not strong enough to take in washing, nor, if she had been, would Paul, who was proud for his mother, though not for himself, have consented to her doing it. She determined to think it over during the evening, and make another attempt to get work of some kind the next day.

“I won't tell Paul till to-morrow night,” she decided. “Perhaps by that time I shall have found something to do.”

All that day, the first full day in his new business, Paul sold eighteen ties. He was not as successful proportionately as the previous afternoon. Still his share of the profits amounted to a dollar and twelve cents, and he felt quite satisfied. His sales had been fifty per cent. more than George Barry's average sales, and that was doing remarkably well, considering that the business was a new one to him.

The next morning about ten o'clock, as he stood behind his stand, he saw a stout gentleman approaching from the direction of the Astor House. He remembered him as the one with whom he had accidentally come in collision when he was in pursuit of Mike Donovan. Having been invited to speak to him, he determined to do so.

“Good-morning, sir,” said Paul, politely.

“Eh? Did you speak to me?” inquired the stout gentleman.

“Yes, sir; I bade you good-morning.”

“Good-morning. I don't remember you, though. What's your name?”

“Paul Hoffman. Don't you remember my running against you a day or two since?”

“Oho! you're the boy, then. You nearly knocked the breath out of me.”

“I am very sorry, sir.”

“Of course you didn't mean to. Is this your stand?”

“No, sir; I am tending for the owner, who is sick.”

“Does he pay you well?”

“He gives me half the profits.”

“And does that pay you for your labor?”

“I can earn about a dollar a day.”

“That is good. It is more than I earned when I was of your age.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Yes; I was a poor boy, but I kept steadily at work, and now I am rich.”

“I hope I shall be rich some time,” said Paul.

“You have the same chance that I had.”

“I don't care so much for myself as for my mother and my little brother. I should like to become rich for their sake.”

“So you have a mother and a brother. Where do they live?”

Paul told him.

“And you help support them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's a good boy,” said the gentleman, approvingly. “Is your mother able to earn anything?”

“Not much, sir. She makes shirts for a Broadway store, but they only pay her twenty-five cents apiece.”

“That's very small. She can sew well, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, sir; no fault is ever found with her work.”

“Do you think she would make me a dozen shirts?”

“She would be glad to do so,” said Paul, quickly, for he knew that his new acquaintance would pay far more liberally than the Broadway firm.

“I will give the price I usually pay—ten shillings apiece.”

Ten shillings in New York currency amount to a dollar and a quarter,