Paul Prescott's Charge : a story for boys

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

  "There's the broom, Paul," said Mr. Benton, assuming a graceful position on the counter.

  "You'll have to sweep out; only look sharp about raising a dust, or Smith'll be into your wool."

  "What sort of a man is Mr. Smith?" asked Paul, with some curiosity.

  "O, he's an out and outer. Sharp as a steel trap. He'll make you toe the mark."

  "Do you like him?" asked Paul, not quite sure whether he understood his employer's character from the description.

  "I don't like him well enough to advise any of my folks to trade with him," said Mr. Benton.

  "Why not?"

  "He'd cheat 'em out of their eye teeth if they happened to have any," said the young man coolly, beginning to pick his teeth with a knife.

  Paul began to doubt whether he should like Mr. Smith.

  "I say," said Mr. Benton after a pause, "have you begun to shave yet?"

  Paul looked up to see if his companion were in earnest.

  "No," said he; "I haven't got along as far as that. Have you?"

  "I," repeated the young man, a little contemptuously, "of course I have. I've shaved for a year and a half."

  "Do you find it hard shaving?" asked Paul, a little slily.

  "Well, my beard is rather stiff," said the late boy, with an important air, "but I've got used to it."

  "Ain't you rather young to shave, Nicholas?" asked Paul.

  "Mr. Benton, if you please."

  "I mean, Mr. Benton."

  "Perhaps I was when I begun. But now I am nineteen."

  "Nineteen?"

  "Yes, that is to say, I'm within a few months of being nineteen. What do you think of my moustache?"

  "I hadn't noticed it."

  "The store's rather dark," muttered Mr. Benton, who seemed a little annoyed by this answer. "If you'll come a little nearer you can see it."

  Drawing near, Paul, after some trouble, descried a few scattering hairs.

  "Yes," said he, wanting to laugh, "I see it."

  "Coming on finely, isn't it?" asked Mr. Nicholas Benton, complacently.

  "Yes," said Paul, rather doubtfully.

  "I don't mind letting you into a secret," said Benton, affably, "if you won't mention it. I've been using some of the six weeks' stuff."

  "The what?" asked Paul, opening his eyes.

  "Haven't you heard of it?" inquired Ben a little contemptuously. "Where have you been living all your life? Haven't you seen it advertised,--warranted to produce a full set of whiskers or moustaches upon the smoothest face, etc. I got some a week ago, only a dollar. Five weeks from now you'll see something that'll astonish you."

  Paul was not a little amused by his new companion, and would have laughed, but that he feared to offend him.

  "You'd better get some," said Mr. Benton.

  "I'll let you just try mine once, if you want to."

  "Thank you," said Paul; "I don't think I want to have a moustache just yet."

  "Well, perhaps you're right. Being a boy, perhaps it wouldn't be advisable."

  "When does Mr. Smith come in?"

  "Not till nine."

  "And the other clerks?"

  "About eight o'clock. I shan't come till eight, to-morrow morning."

  "There's one thing I should like to ask you," said Paul. "Of course you won't answer unless you like."

  "Out with it."

  "How much does Mr. Smith pay you?"

  "Ahem!" said Benton, "what does he pay you?"

  "A dollar and a quarter a week."

  "He paid me a dollar and a half to begin with."

  "Did he? He wanted me to come first at a dollar."

  "Just like him. Didn't I tell you he was an out and outer? He'll be sure to take you in if you will let him."

  "But," said Paul, anxiously, "he said he'd raise it in a month or two."

  "He won't offer to; you'll have to tease him. And then how much'll he raise it? Not more than a quarter. How much do you think I get now?"

  "How long have you been here?"

  "A year and a half."

  "Five dollars a week," guessed Paul.

  "Five! he only gives me two and a half. That is, he hasn't been paying me but that. Now, of course, he'll raise, as I've been promoted."

  "How much do you expect to get now?"

  "Maybe four dollars, and I'm worth ten any day. He's a mean old skinflint, Smith is."

  This glimpse at his own prospects did not tend to make Paul feel very comfortable. He could not repress a sigh of disappointment when he thought of this mortifying termination of all his brilliant prospects. He had long nourished the hope of being able to repay the good sexton for his outlay in his behalf, besides discharging the debt which his father had left behind him. Now there seemed to be little prospect of either. He had half a mind to resign his place immediately upon the entrance of Mr. Smith, but two considerations dissuaded him; one, that the sum which he was to receive, though small, would at least buy his clothes, and besides, he was not at all certain of obtaining another situation.

  With a sigh, therefore, he went about his duties.

  He had scarcely got the store ready when some of the clerks entered, and the business of the day commenced. At nine Mr. Smith appeared.

  "So you're here, Peter," remarked he, as he caught sight of our hero.

  "Paul," corrected the owner of that name.

  "Well, well, Peter or Paul, don't make much difference. Both were apostles, if I remember right. All ready for work, eh?"

  "Yes, sir," said Paul, neither very briskly nor cheerfully.

  "Well," said Mr. Smith, after a pause, "I guess I'll put you into the calico department. Williams, you may take him under your wing. And now Peter,--all the same, Paul,--I've got a word or two to say to you, as I always do to every boy who comes into my store. Don't forget what you're here for? It's to sell goods. Take care to sell something to every man, woman, and child, that comes in your way. That's the way to do business. Follow it up, and you'll be a rich man some day."

  "But suppose they don't want anything?" said Paul.

  "Make 'em want something," returned Smith, "Don't let 'em off without buying. That's my motto. However, you'll learn."

  Smith bustled off, and began in his nervous way to exercise a general supervision over all that was going on in the store. He seemed to be all eyes. While apparently entirely occupied in waiting upon a customer, he took notice of all the customers in the store, and could tell what they bought, and how much they paid.

  Paul listened attentively to the clerk under whom he was placed for instruction.

  "What's the price of this calico?" inquired a common-looking woman.

  "A shilling a yard, ma'am," (this was not in war times.)

  "It looks rather coarse."

  "Coarse, ma'am! What can you be thinking of? It is a superfine piece of goods. We sell more of it than of any other figure. The mayor's wife was in here yesterday, and bought two dress patterns off of it."

  "Did she?" asked the woman, who appeared favorably impressed by this circumstance.

  "Yes, and she promised to send her friends here after some of it. You'd better take it while you can get it."

  "Will it wash?"

  "To be sure it will."

  "Then I guess you may cut me off ten yards."

  This was quickly done, and the woman departed with her purchase.

  Five minutes later, another woman entered with a bundle of the same figured calico.

  Seeing her coming, Williams hastily slipped the remnant of the piece out of sight.

  "I got this calico here," said the newcomer, "one day last week. You warranted it to wash, but I find it won't. Here's a piece I've tried."

  She showed a pattern, which had a faded look.

  "You've come to the wrong store," said Williams, coolly. "You must have got the calico somewhere else."

  "No, I'm sure I got it here. I remember particularly buying it of you."

  "You've got a better memory than I have, then. We haven't got
a piece of calico like that in the store."

  Paul listened to this assertion with unutterable surprise.

  "I am quite certain I bought it here," said the woman, perplexed.

  "Must have been the next store,--Blake & Hastings. Better go over there."

  The woman went out.

  "That's the way to do business," said Williams, winking at Paul.

  Paul said nothing, but he felt more than ever doubtful about retaining his place.

  XXII.

  MR. BENTON'S ADVENTURE.

  ONE evening, about a fortnight after his entrance into Smith & Thompson's employment, Paul was putting up the shutters, the business of the day being over. It devolved upon him to open and close the store, and usually he was the last one to go home.

  This evening, however, Mr. Nicholas Benton graciously remained behind and assisted Paul in closing the store. This was unusual, and surprised Paul a little. It was soon explained, however.

  "Good-night, Nicholas,--I mean, Mr. Benton," said Paul.

  "Not quite yet. I want you to walk a little way with me this evening."

  Paul hesitated.

  "Come, no backing out. I want to confide to you a very important secret."

  He looked so mysterious that Paul's curiosity was aroused, and reflecting that it was yet early, he took his companion's proffered arm, and sauntered along by his side.

  "What's the secret?" he asked at length, perceiving that Nicholas was silent.

  "Wait till we get to a more retired place."

  He turned out of Broadway into a side street, where the passers were less numerous.

  "I don't think you could guess," said the young man, turning towards our hero.

  "I don't think I could."

  "And yet," continued Benton, meditatively, "it is possible that you may have noticed something in my appearance just a little unusual, within the last week. Haven't you, now?"

  Paul could not say that he had.

  Mr. Benton looked a little disappointed.

  "Nobody can tell what has been the state of my feelings," he resumed after a pause.

  "You ain't sick?" questioned Paul, hastily.

  "Nothing of the sort, only my appetite has been a good deal affected. I don't think I have eaten as much in a week as you would in a day," he added, complacently.

  "If I felt that way I should think I was going to be sick," said Paul.

  "I'll let you into the secret," said Mr. Benton, lowering his voice, and looking carefully about him, to make sure that no one was within hearing distance--"I'm in love."

  This seemed so utterly ludicrous to Paul, that he came very near losing Mr. Benton's friendship forever by bursting into a hearty laugh.

  "I didn't think of that," he said.

  "It's taken away my appetite, and I haven't been able to sleep nights," continued Mr. Benton, in a cheerful tone. "I feel just as Howard Courtenay did in the great story that's coming out in the Weekly Budget. You've read it, haven't you?"

  "I don't think I have," said Paul.

  "Then you ought to. It's tiptop. It's rather curious too that the lady looks just as Miranda does, in the same story."

  "How is that?"

  "Wait a minute, and I'll read the description."

  Mr. Benton pulled a paper from his pocket, --the last copy of the Weekly Budget,--and by the light of a street lamp read the following extract to his amused auditor.

  "Miranda was just eighteen. Her form was queenly and majestic. Tall and stately, she moved among her handmaidens with a dignity which revealed her superior rank. Her eyes were dark as night. Her luxuriant tresses,-- there, the rest is torn off," said Mr. Benton, in a tone of vexation.

  "She is tall, then?" said Paul.

  "Yes, just like Miranda."

  "Then," said our hero, in some hesitation, "I should think she would not be very well suited to you."

  "Why not?" asked Mr. Benton, quickly.

  "Because," said Paul, "you're rather short, you know."

  "I'm about the medium height," said Mr. Benton, raising himself upon his toes as he spoke.

  "Not quite," said Paul, trying not to laugh.

  "I'm as tall as Mr. Smith," resumed Mr. Benton, in a tone which warned Paul that this was a forbidden subject. "But you don't ask me who she is."

  "I didn't know as you would be willing to tell."

  "I shan't tell any one but you. It's Miss Hawkins,--firm of Hawkins & Brewer. That is, her father belongs to the firm, not she. And Paul," here he clutched our hero's arm convulsively, "I've made a declaration of my love, and--and----"

  "Well?"

  "She has answered my letter."

  "Has she?" asked Paul with some curiosity, "What did she say?"

  "She has written me to be under her window this evening."

  "Why under her window? why didn't she write you to call?"

  "Probably she will, but it's more romantic to say, `be under my window.' "

  "Well, perhaps it is; only you know I don't know much about such things."

  "Of course not, Paul," said Mr. Benton; "you're only a boy, you know."

  "Are you going to be under her window, Nich,--I mean Mr. Benton?"

  "Of course. Do you think I would miss the appointment? No earthly power could prevent my doing it."

  "Then I had better leave you," said Paul, making a movement to go.

  "No, I want you to acompany me as far as the door. I feel--a little agitated. I suppose everybody does when they are in love," added Mr. Benton, complacently.

  "Well," said Paul, "I will see you to the door, but I can't stay, for they will wonder at home what has become of me."

  "All right."

  "Are we anywhere near the house?"

  "Yes, it's only in the next street," said Mr. Benton, "O, Paul, how my heart beats! You can't imagine how I feel!"

  Mr. Benton gasped for breath, and looked as if he had swallowed a fish bone, which he had some difficulty in getting down.

  "You'll know how to understand my feelings sometime, Paul," said Mr. Benton; "when your time comes, I will remember your service of to-night, and I will stand by you."

  Paul inwardly hoped that he should never fall in love, if it was likely to affect him in the same way as his companion, but he thought it best not to say so.

  By this time they had come in sight of a three-story brick house, with Benjamin Hawkins on the door-plate.

  "That's the house," said Mr. Benton, in an agitated whisper.

  "Is it?"

  "Yes, and that window on the left-hand side is the window of her chamber."

  "How do you know?"

  "She told me in the letter."

  "And where are you to stand?"

  "Just underneath, as the clock strikes nine. It must be about the time."

  At that moment the city clock struck nine.

  Mr. Benton left Paul, and crossing the street, took up his position beneath the window of his charmer, beginning to sing, in a thin, piping voice, as preconcerted between them--

  "Ever of thee, I'm fo-o-ondly dreaming." The song was destined never to be finished.

  From his post in a doorway opposite, Paul saw the window softly open. He could distinguish a tall female figure, doubtless Miss Hawkins herself. She held in her hand a pitcher of water, which she emptied with well- directed aim full upon the small person of her luckless admirer.

  The falling column struck upon his beaver, thence spreading on all sides. His carefully starched collar became instantly as limp as a rag, while his coat suffered severely from the shower.

  His tuneful accents died away in dismay.

  "Ow!" he exclaimed, jumping at least a yard, and involuntarily shaking himself like a dog, "who did that?"

  There was no answer save a low, musical laugh from the window above, which was involuntarily echoed by Paul.

  "What do you mean by laughing at me?" demanded Mr. Benton, smarting with mortification, as he strode across the street, trying to dry his hat with the help of his handkerch
ief, "Is this what you call friendship?"

  "Excuse me," gasped Paul, "but I really couldn't help it."

  "I don't see anything to laugh at," continued Mr. Benton, in a resentful tone; "because I have been subjected to unmanly persecution, you must laugh at me, instead of extending to me the sympathy of a friend."

  "I suppose you won't think of her any more," said Paul, recovering himself.

  "Think of her!" exclaimed Mr. Benton, "would you have me tear her from my heart, because her mercenary parent chooses to frown upon our love, and follow me with base persecution."

  "Her parent!"

  "Yes, it was he who threw the water upon me. But it shall not avail," the young man continued, folding his arms, and speaking in a tone of resolution, "bolts and bars shall not keep two loving hearts asunder."

  "But it wasn't her father," urged Paul, perceiving that Mr. Benton was under a mistake.

  "Who was it, then?"

  "It was the young lady herself."

  "Who threw the water upon me? It is a base slander."

  "But I saw her."

  "Saw who?"

  "A tall young lady with black hair."

  "And was it she who threw the water?" asked Mr. Benton, aghast at this unexpected revelation.

  "Yes."

  "Then she did it at the command of her proud parent."

  Paul did not dispute this, since it seemed to comfort Mr. Benton. It is doubtful, however, whether the young man believed it himself, since he straightway fell into a fit of gloomy abstraction, and made no response when Paul bade him "good-night."

  XXIII.

  PAUL LOSES HIS SITUATION AND GAINS A FRIEND.

  PAUL had a presentiment that he should not long remain in the employ of Smith & Thompson; it was not many weeks before this presentiment was verified.

  After having received such instruction as was necessary, the calico department was left in Paul's charge. One day a customer in turning over the patterns shown her took up a piece which Paul knew from complaints made by purchasers would not wash.

  "This is pretty," said she, "it is just what I have been looking for. You may cut me off twelve yards."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Wait a minute, though," interposed the lady, "will it wash?"