Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant

“What kept you so late, Paul?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you, pretty soon, mother. Here’s the shirt that is to serve as a pattern. Can you cut out the new shirts by it?”

Mrs. Hoffman examined it attentively.

“Yes,” she said; “there will be no difficulty about that. Mr. Preston must be a pretty large man.”

“Yes, he is big enough for an alderman; but he is very kind and considerate, and I like him. You shall judge for yourself when I tell you what happened this evening.”

It will not be necessary to tell Paul’s adventure over again. His mother listened with pardonable indignation against Mike Donovan and his companion.

“I hope you won’t have anything to do with that bad boy, Paul,” she said.

“I shan’t, if I can help it,” said Paul. “I didn’t want to speak to him to-night, but I couldn’t help myself. Oh, I forgot to say, when half the shirts are ready, I am to take them to Mr. Preston.”

“I think I can make one a day.”

“There is no need of working so steadily, mother. You will be well paid, you know.”

“That is true; and for that reason I shall work more cheerfully. I wish I could get paid as well for all my work.”

“Perhaps Mr. Preston will recommend you to his friends, and you can get more work that way.”

“I wish I could.”

“I will mention it to him, when I carry back the last half dozen.”

“Is he going to send the cloth?”

“I nearly forgot that, too. I have an order on Barclay & Co. for the necessary amount of cloth. I can go up there to-morrow morning and get it.”

“That will take you from your work, Paul.”

“Well, I can close up for a couple of hours.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. I will go up myself and present the order, and get them to send it home for me.”

“Will they do that?”

“It is their custom. Or, if the bundle isn’t too large. I can bring it home myself in the car.”

“That’s all right, then. And now, mother, as it’s past eleven o’clock, I think we may as well both go to bed.”

The next day Paul went as usual to his business, and Mrs. Hoffman, after clearing away the breakfast, put on her bonnet and shawl, and prepared to go for the materials for the shirts.

The retail store of Barclay & Co. is of great size, and ranks among the most important in New York. It was not so well filled when Mrs. Hoffman entered as it would be later. She was directed to the proper counter, where she presented the order, signed by Mr. Preston. As he was a customer of long standing, there was no difficulty about filling the order. A bundle was made up, which, as it contained the materials for twelve shirts, necessarily was of considerable size.

“Here is your bundle, ma’am,” said the clerk.

Mrs. Hoffman’s strength was slender, and she did not feel able to carry the heavy bundle offered her. Even if she took the car, she would be obliged to carry it a portion of the way, and she felt that it would overtask her strength.

“Don’t you send bundles?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” said the clerk, looking superciliously at the modest attire of the poor widow, and mentally deciding that she was not entitled to much consideration. Had she been richly dressed, he would have been very obsequious, and insisted on sending home the smallest parcel. But there are many who have two rules of conduct, one for the rich, and quite a different one for the poor, and among these was the clerk who was attending upon Mrs. Hoffman.

“Then,” said Mrs. Hoffman, “I should like to have you send this.”

“It’s a great deal of trouble to send everything,” said the clerk, impertinently.

“This bundle is too heavy for me to carry,” said the widow, deprecatingly.

“I suppose we can send it,” said the clerk, ill-naturedly, “if you insist upon it.”

Meanwhile, though he had not observed it, his employer had approached, and heard the last part of the colloquy. He was considered by some as a hard man, but there was one thing he always required of those in his employ; that was to treat all purchasers with uniform courtesy, whatever their circumstances.

“Are you objecting to sending this lady’s bundle?” said Mr. Barclay, sternly.

The clerk looked up in confusion.

“I told her we would send it,” he stammered.

“I have heard what passed. You have been deficient in politeness. If this happens again, you leave my employ.”

“I will take your address,” said the clerk, in a subdued tone.

Mrs. Hoffman gave it, and left the store, thankful for the interference of the great merchant who had given his clerk a lesson which the latter, as he valued his situation, found it advisable to bear in mind.

CHAPTER XII

THE BARREL THIEF

While Mike Donovan was engaged in his contest with Paul, his companion had quietly walked off with the shirt. It mattered very little to him which party conquered, as long as he carried off the spoils. His conduct in the premises was quite as unsatisfactory to Mike as it was to Paul. When Mike found himself in danger of being overpowered, he appealed to his companion for assistance, and was incensed to see him coolly disregarding the appeal, and selfishly appropriating the booty.

“The mane thafe!” he exclaimed after the fight was over, and he was compelled to retreat. “He let me be bate, and wouldn’t lift his finger to help me. I’d like to put a head on him, I would.”

Just at that moment Mike felt quite as angry with his friend, Jerry McGaverty, as with his late opponent.

“The shirt’s mine, fair,” he said to himself, “and I’ll make Jerry give it to me.”

But Jerry had disappeared, and Mike didn’t know where to look for him. In fact, he had entered a dark alleyway, and, taking the shirt from the paper in which it was wrapped, proceeded to examine his prize.

The unusual size struck him.

“By the powers,” he muttered, “it’s big enough for me great-grandfather and all his children. I wouldn’t like to pay for the cloth it tuck to make it. But I’ll wear it, anyway.”

Jerry was not particular as to an exact fit. His nether garments were several sizes too large for him, and the shirt would complete his costume appropriately. He certainly did need a new shirt, for the one he had on was the only article of the kind he possessed, and was so far gone that its best days, if it ever had any, appeared to date back to a remote antiquity. It had been bought cheap in Baxter street, its previous history being unknown.

Jerry decided to make the change at once. The alley afforded a convenient place for making the transfer. He accordingly pulled off the ragged shirt he wore and put on the article he had purloined from Paul. The sleeves were too long, but he turned up the cuffs, and the ample body he tucked inside his pants.

“It fits me too much,” soliloquized Jerry, as he surveyed himself after the exchange. “I could let out the half of it, and have enough left for meself. Anyhow, it’s clane, and it came chape enough.”

He came out of the alley, leaving his old shirt behind him. Even if it had been worth carrying away, Jerry saw no use in possessing more than one shirt. It was his habit to wear one until it was ready to drop off from him, and then get another if he could. There is a practical convenience in this arrangement, though there are also objections which will readily occur to the reader.

On the whole, though the shirt fitted him too much, as he expressed it, he regarded himself complacently.

The superabundant material gave the impression of liberal expenditure and easy circumstances, since a large shirt naturally costs more than a small one. So Jerry, as he walked along the Bowery, assumed a jaunty air, precisely such as some of my readers may when they have a new suit to display. His new shirt was quite conspicuous, since he was encumbered neither with vest nor coat.

Mike, feeling sore over his defeat, met Jerry the next morning on Chatham street. His quick eye detected the improved state of his friend’s apparel, and his indignation rose, as he reflected that Jerry had pocketed the profits while the hard knocks had been his.

“Jerry!” he called out.

Jerry did not see fit to heed the call. He was sensible that Mike had something to complain of, and he was in no hurry to meet his reproaches.

“Jerry McGaverty!” called Mike, coming near.

“Oh, it’s you, Mike, is it?” answered Jerry, unable longer to keep up the pretense of not hearing.

“Yes, it’s me,” said Mike. “What made you leave me for last night?”

“I didn’t want to interfere betwane two gintlemen,” said Jerry, with a grin. “Did you mash him, Mike?”

“No,” said Mike, sullenly, “he mashed me. Why didn’t you help me?”

“I thought you was bating him, so, as I had some business to attind to, I went away.”

“You went away wid the shirt.”

“Yes, I took it by mistake. Ain’t it an illigant fit?”

“It’s big enough for two of you.”

“Maybe I’ll grow to it in time,” said Jerry.

“And how much are you goin’ to give me for my share?” demanded Mike.

“Say that ag’in,” said Jerry.

Mike repeated it.

“I thought maybe I didn’t hear straight. It ain’t yours at all. Didn’t I take it?”

“You wouldn’t have got it if I hadn’t fit with Paul.”

“That ain’t nothin’ to me,” said Jerry. “The shirt’s mine, and I’ll kape it.”

Mike felt strongly tempted to “put a head on” Jerry, whatever that may mean; but, as Jerry was a head taller already, the attempt did not seem quite prudent. He indulged in some forcible remarks, which, however, did not disturb Jerry’s equanimity.

“I’ll give you my old shirt, Mike,” he said, “if you can find it. I left it in an alley near the Old Bowery.”

“I don’t want the dirty rag,” said Mike, contemptuously.

Finally a compromise was effected, Jerry offering to help Mike on the next occasion, and leave the spoils in his hands.

I have to chronicle another adventure of Jerry’s, in which he was less fortunate than he had been in the present case. He was a genuine vagabond, and lived by his wits, being too lazy to devote himself to any regular street employment, as boot blacking or selling newspapers. Occasionally he did a little work at each of these, but regular, persistent industry was out of his line. He was a drone by inclination, and a decided enemy to work. On the subject of honesty his principles were far from strict. If he could appropriate what did not belong to him he was ready to do so without scruple. This propensity had several times brought him into trouble, and he had more than once been sent to reside temporarily on Blackwell’s Island, from which he had returned by no means improved.

Mike was not quite so much of a vagabond as his companion. He could work at times, though he did not like it, and once pursued the vocation of a bootblack for several months with fair success.

But Jerry’s companionship was doing him no good, and it seemed likely that eventually he would become quite as shiftless as Jerry himself.

Jerry, having no breakfast, strolled down to one of the city markets. He frequently found an opportunity of stealing here, and was now in search of such a chance. He was a dexterous and experienced barrel thief, a term which it may be necessary to explain. Barrels, then, have a commercial value, and coopers will generally pay twenty-five cents for one in good condition. This is enough, in the eyes of many a young vagabond, to pay for the risk incurred in stealing one.

Jerry prowled round the market for some time, seeking a good opportunity to walk off with an apple or banana, or something eatable. But the guardians of the stands seemed unusually vigilant, and he was compelled to give up the attempt, as involving too great risk. Jerry was hungry, and hunger is an uncomfortable feeling. He began to wish he had remained satisfied with his old shirt, dirty as it was, and carried the new one to some of the Baxter street dealers, from whom he could perhaps have got fifty cents for it. Now, fifty cents would have paid for a breakfast and a couple of cigars, and those just now would have made Jerry happy.

“What a fool I was not to think of it!” he said. “The old shirt would do me, and I could buy a bully breakfast wid the money I’d get for this.”

Just at this moment he espied an empty barrel—a barrel apparently quite new and in an unguarded position. He resolved to take it, but the affair must be managed slyly.

He lounged up to the barrel, and leaned upon it indolently. Then, in apparent unconsciousness, he began to turn it, gradually changing its position. If observed, he could easily deny all felonious intentions. This he kept up till he got round the corner, when, glancing around to see if he was observed, he quickly lifted it on his shoulder and marched off.

All this happened without his being observed by the owner of the barrel. But a policeman, who chanced to be going his rounds, had been a witness of Jerry’s little game. He remained quiet till Jerry’s intentions became evident, then walked quietly up and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Put down that barrel!” he said, authoritatively.

Jerry had been indulging in visions of the breakfast he would get with the twenty-five cents he expected to obtain for the barrel, and the interruption was not an agreeable one. But he determined to brazen it out if possible.

“What for will I put it down?” he said.

“Because you have stolen it, that’s why.”

“No,” said Jerry, “I’m carrying it round to my boss. It’s his.”

“Where do you work?”

“In Fourth street,” said Jerry, at random.

“What number?”

“No. 136.”

“Then your boss will have to get some one in your place, for you will have to come with me.”

“What for?”

“I saw you steal the barrel. You’re a barrel thief, and this isn’t the first time you’ve been caught at it. Carry back the barrel to the place you took it from and then come with me.”

Jerry tried to beg off, but without avail.

At that moment Mike Donovan lounged up. When he saw his friend in custody, he felt a degree of satisfaction, remembering the trick Jerry had played on him.

“Where are you goin’, Jerry?” he asked, with a grin, as he passed him. “Did ye buy that barrel to kape your shirt in?”

Jerry scowled but thought it best not to answer, lest his unlawful possession of the shirt might also be discovered, and lead to a longer sentence.

“He’s goin’ down to the island to show his new shirt,” thought Mike, with a grin. “Maybe he’ll set the fashion there.”

Mike was right. Jerry was sent to the island for two months, there introducing Mr. Preston’s shirt to company little dreamed of by its original proprietor.

CHAPTER XIII

OUT OF BUSINESS

The next day Mrs. Hoffman commenced work upon Mr. Preston’s shirts. She worked with much more cheerfulness now that she was sure of obtaining a liberal price for her labor. As the shirts were of extra size, she found herself unable to finish one in a day, as she had formerly done, but had no difficulty in making four in a week. This, however, gave her five dollars weekly, instead of a dollar and a half as formerly. Now, five dollars may not seem a very large sum to some of my young readers, but to Mrs. Hoffman it seemed excellent compensation for a week’s work.

“If I could only earn as much every week,” she said to Paul on Saturday evening, “I should feel quite rich.”

“Your work will last three weeks, mother, and perhaps at the end of that time some of Mr. Preston’s friends may wish to employ you.”

“I hope they will.”

“How much do you think I have made?” continued Paul.

“Six dollars.”

“Seven dollars and a half.”

“So between us we have earned over twelve dollars.”

“I wish I could earn something,” said little Jimmy, looking up from his drawing.

“There’s time enough for that, Jimmy. You are going to be a great artist one of these days.”

“Do you really think I shall?” asked the little boy, wistfully.

“I think there is a good chance of it. Let me see what you are drawing.”

The picture upon which Jimmy was at work represented a farmer standing upright in a cart, drawn by a sturdy, large-framed horse. The copy bore a close resemblance to the original, even in the most difficult portions—the face and expression, both in the man and the horse, being carefully reproduced.

“This is wonderful, Jimmy,” exclaimed Paul, in real surprise. “Didn’t you find it hard to get the man’s face just right?”

“Rather hard,” said Jimmy; “I had to be careful, but I like best the parts where I have to take the most pains.”

“I wish I could afford to hire a teacher for you,” said Paul. “Perhaps, if mother and I keep on earning so much money, we shall be able to some time.”

By the middle of the next week six of the shirts were finished, and Paul, as had been agreed upon, carried them up to Mr. Preston. He was fortunate enough to find him at home.

“I hope they will suit you,” said Paul.

“I can see that the sewing is excellent,” said Mr. Preston, examining them. “As to the fit, I can tell better after I have tried one on.”

“Mother made them just like the one you sent; but if there is anything wrong, she will, of course, be ready to alter them.”

“If they are just like the pattern, they will be sure to suit me.”

“And now, my young friend,” he added, “let me know how you are getting on in your own business.”

“I am making a dollar a day, sometimes a little more.”

“That is very good.”

“Yes, sir; but it won’t last long.”

“I believe you told me that the stand belonged to some one else.”

“Yes, sir; I am only tending it in his sickness; but he is getting better, and when he gets about again, I shall be thrown out of business.”

“But you don’t look like one who would remain idle long.”

“No, sir; I shall be certain to find something to do, if it is only blacking boots.”

“Have you ever been in that business?”

“I’ve tried about everything,” said Paul, laughing.

“I suppose you wouldn’t enjoy boot-blacking much?”

“No, sir; but I would rather do that than be earning nothing.”

“You are quite right there, and I am glad you have no false shame in the matter. There are plenty who have. For instance, a stout, broad-shouldered young fellow applied to me thus morning for a clerkship. He said he had come to the city in search of employment, and had nearly expended all his money without finding anything to do. I told him I couldn’t give him a clerkship, but was in want of a porter. I offered him the place at two dollars per day. He drew back, and said he should not be willing to accept a porter’s place.”

“He was very foolish,” said Paul.

“So I thought. I told him that if such were his feelings, I could not help him. Perhaps he may regret his refusal, when he is reduced to his last penny. By the way, whenever you have to give up your stand, you may come to me, and I will see what I can do for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And now, about these shirts; I believe I agreed to pay a dollar and a quarter each.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As they are of extra size, I think I ought to pay twelve shillings, instead of ten.”

“My mother thinks herself well paid at ten shillings.”

“There must be a great deal of work about one. Twelve shillings are none too much,” and Mr. Preston placed nine dollars in Paul’s hand.

“Thank you,” said Paul, gratefully. “My mother will consider herself very lucky.”

When Mrs. Hoffman received from Paul a dollar and a half more than she anticipated, she felt in unusually good spirits. She had regretted the loss of her former poorly paid work, but it appeared that her seeming misfortune had only prepared the way for greater prosperity. The trouble was that it would not last. Still, it would tide over the dull time, and when this job was over, she might be able to resume her old employment. At any rate, while the future seemed uncertain, she did not feel like increasing her expenditures on account of her increased earnings, but laid carefully away three-quarters of her receipts to use hereafter in case of need.

Meanwhile, Paul continued to take care of George Barry’s business. He had been obliged to renew the stock, his large sales having materially reduced it. Twice a week he went up to see his principal to report sales. George Barry could not conceal the surprise he felt at Paul’s success.

“I never thought you would do so well,” he said. “You beat me.”

“I suppose it’s because I like it,” said Paul. “Then, as I get only half the profits, I have to work the harder to make fair wages.”

“It is fortunate for my son that he found you to take his place,” said Mrs. Barry. “He could not afford to lose all the income from his business.”

“It is a good thing for both of us,” said Paul. “I was looking for a job just when he fell sick.”

“What had you been doing before?”

“I was in the prize-package business, but that got played out, and I was a gentleman at large, seeking for a light, genteel business that wouldn’t require much capital.”

“I shall be able to take my place pretty soon now,” said the young man. “I might go to-morrow, but mother thinks it imprudent.”

“Better get back your strength first, George,” said his mother, “or you may fall sick again.”

But her son was impatient of confinement and anxious to get to work again. So, two days afterward, about the middle of the forenoon, Paul was surprised by seeing George Barry get out of a Broadway omnibus, just in front of the stand.

“Can I sell you a necktie, Mr. Barry?” he asked, in a joke.

“I almost feel like a stranger,” said Barry, “it’s so long since I have been here.”

“Do you feel strong enough to take charge now?” asked Paul.

“I am not so strong as I was, and the walk from our rooms would tire me; but I think if I rode both ways for the present I shall be able to get along.”

“Then you won’t need me any longer?”

“I would like to have you stay with me to-day. I don’t know how I shall hold out.”

“All right! I’ll stop.”

George Barry remained in attendance the rest of the day. He found that his strength had so far returned that he should be able to manage alone hereafter, and he told Paul so.

“I am glad you are well again, George,” said Paul. “It must have been dull work staying at home sick.”

“Yes, it was dull; but I felt more comfortable from knowing that you were taking my place. If I get sick again I will send for you.”

“I hope you won’t get sick; but if you do, I will do what I can to help you.”

So the two parted on the best of terms. Each had been of service to the other, and neither had cause to complain.

“Well,” said Paul to himself, “I am out of work again. What shall I go at next?”

It was six o’clock, and there was nothing to be done till the morrow. He went slowly homeward, revolving this subject in his mind. He knew that he need not remain idle. He could black boots, or sell newspapers, if nothing better offered, and he thought it quite possible that he might adopt the latter business, for a few days at least. He had not forgotten Mr. Preston’s injunction to let him know when he got out of business; but, as the second half dozen shirts would be ready in three or four days, he preferred to wait till then, and not make a special call on Mr Preston. He had considerable independence of feeling, and didn’t like to put himself in the position of one asking a favor, though he had no objection to accept one voluntarily offered.

“Well, mother,” he said, entering his humble home, “I am out of business.”

“Has George recovered, then?”

“Yes, he was at the stand to-day, but wanted me to stay with him till this evening.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Jimmy.

“Sorry that George has got well? For shame, Jimmy!”

“No, I don’t mean that, Paul. I am sorry you are out of work.”

“I shall find plenty to do, Jimmy. Perhaps Mr. Stewart will take me in as senior partner, if I ask him.”

“I don’t think he will,” said Jimmy, laughing.

“Then perhaps I can get a few scholars in drawing. Can’t you recommend me?”

“I am afraid not, Paul, unless you have improved a good deal.”

CHAPTER XIV

THE DIAMOND RING

Paul was up betimes the next morning. He had made up his mind for a few days, at least, to sell newspapers, and it was necessary in this business to begin the day early. He tool a dollar with him and invested a part of it in a stock of dailies. He posted himself in Printing House square, and began to look out for customers. Being an enterprising boy, he was sure to meet with fair success in any business which he undertook. So it happened that at ten o’clock he had sold out his stock of papers, and realized a profit of fifty cents.