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

Stuffed behind the counter, and on the shelves of the pawnbroker's shop, were articles in almost endless variety. All was fish that came to his net. He was willing to advance on anything that had a marketable value, and which promised to yield him, I was about to say, a fair profit. But a fair profit was far from satisfying the old man. He demanded an extortionate profit from those whom ill-fortune drove to his door for relief.

Eliakim Henderson, for that was his name, was a small man, with a bald head, scattering yellow whiskers, and foxlike eyes. Spiderlike he waited for the flies who flew of their own accord into his clutches, and took care not to let them go until he had levied a large tribute. When Paul entered the shop, there were three customers ahead of him. One was a young woman, whose pale face and sunken cheeks showed that she was waging an unequal conflict with disease. She was a seamstress by occupation, and had to work fifteen hours a day to earn the little that was barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Confined in her close little room on the fourth floor, she scarcely dared to snatch time to look out of the window into the street beneath, lest she should not be able to complete her allotted task. A two days' sickness had compelled her to have recourse to Eliakim Henderson. She had under her arm a small bundle covered with an old copy of the Sun.

“What have you got there?” asked the old man, roughly. “Show it quick, for there's others waiting.”

Meekly she unfolded a small shawl, somewhat faded from long use.

“What will you give me on that?” she asked, timidly.

“It isn't worth much.”

“It cost five dollars.”

“Then you got cheated. It never was worth half the money. What do you want on it?”

The seamstress intended to ask a dollar and a half, but after this depreciation she did not venture to name so high a figure.

“A dollar and a quarter,” she said.

“A dollar and a quarter!” repeated the old man, shrilly. “Take it home with you. I don't want it.”

“What will you give?” asked the poor girl, faintly.

“Fifty cents. Not a penny more.”

“Fifty cents!” she repeated, in dismay, and was about to refold it. But the thought of her rent in arrears changed her half-formed intention.

“I'll take it, sir.”

The money and ticket were handed her, and she went back to her miserable attic-room, coughing as she went.

“Now, ma'am,” said Eliakim.

His new customer was an Irish woman, by no means consumptive in appearance, red of face and portly of figure.

“And what'll ye be givin' me for this?” she asked, displaying a pair of pantaloons.

“Are they yours, ma'am?” asked Eliakim, with a chuckle.

“It's not Bridget McCarty that wears the breeches,” said that lady. “It's me husband's, and a dacent, respectable man he is, barrin' the drink, which turns his head. What'll ye give for 'em?”

“Name your price,” said Eliakim, whose principle it was to insist upon his customers making the first offer.

“Twelve shillin's,” said Bridget.

“Twelve shillings!” exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands. “That's all they cost when they were new.”

“They cost every cint of five dollars,” said Bridget. “They was made at one of the most fashionable shops in the city. Oh, they was an illigant pair when they was new.”

“How many years ago was that?” asked the pawnbroker.

“Only six months, and they ain't been worn more'n a month.”

“I'll give you fifty cents.”

“Fifty cints!” repeated Mrs. McCarty, turning to the other customers, as if to call their attention to an offer so out of proportion to the valuable article she held in her hand. “Only fifty cints for these illigant breeches! Oh, it's you that's a hard man, that lives on the poor and the nady.”

“You needn't take it. I should lose money on it, if you didn't redeem it.”

“He says he'd lose money on it,” said Mrs. McCarty. “And suppose he did, isn't he a-rollin' in gold?”

“I'm poor,” said Eliakim; “almost as poor as you, because I'm too liberal to my customers.”

“Hear till him!” said Mrs. McCarty. “He says he's liberal and only offers fifty cints for these illigant breeches.”

“Will you take them or leave them?” demanded the pawnbroker, impatiently.

“You may give me the money,” said Bridget; “and it's I that wonder how you can slape in your bed, when you are so hard on poor folks.”

Mrs. McCarty departed with her money, and Eliakim fixed his sharp eyes on the next customer. It was a tall man, shabbily dressed, with a thin, melancholy-looking face, and the expression of one who had struggled with the world, and failed in the struggle.

“How much for this?” he asked, pointing to the violin, and speaking in a slow, deliberate tone, as if he did not feel at home in the language.

“What do you want for it?”

“Ten dollar,” he answered.

“Ten dollars! You're crazy!” was the contemptuous comment of the pawnbroker.

“He is a very good violin,” said the man. “If you would like to hear him,” and he made a movement as if to play upon it.

“Never mind!” said Eliakim. “I haven't any time to hear it. If it were new it would be worth something; but it's old, and——”

“But you do not understand,” interrupted the customer, eagerly. “It is worth much more than new. Do you see, it is by a famous maker? I would not sell him, but I am poor, and my Bettina needs bread. It hurts me very much to let him go. I will buy him back as soon as I can.”

“I will give you two dollars, but I shall lose on it, unless you