Mr. Nelson hesitated.

"We'll give you two dollars a week to begin," he said. "When you can do as much as the rest we'll raise you to three or four."

Richard's hopes fell. Even four dollars a week would barely keep him, much less allow of money being sent home.

"I'm afraid I can't accept it," he said. "I must support myself and I can't do it on two dollars a week."

"It's all we can allow," replied Mr. Nelson, and he turned away to his work.

In a moment Richard was on the street again. The setback chilled his ardor, but only for an instant, and then he hurried on to the next place.

It was a confectionery store, and entering, he purchased five cents'

worth of chewing gum, such as he knew his little sister would like.

"I understand you want a boy," he said to the proprietor, who happened to be the one to wait on him.

"I hired one about an hour ago," was the reply. "Are you looking for a place?"

"Yes, sir."

The man gave Richard a sharp glance.

"You look like a bright sort of a chap," he said. "Suppose you leave me your address? The other boy may not suit."

So Richard put down his name and the address of the Watch Below.

"I'm only stopping there temporarily," he explained, "and may leave, but I'll drop around again in a day or two if I don't strike anything else."

"Do; I don't like the other boy much. I only took him because a friend asked me to."

"What do you pay?"

"Four dollars a week, and I might make it five if you would be willing to help on the wagon as well as in the store."

"I certainly would," replied Richard promptly. "I'm willing to work real hard at anything, providing it's honest."

"That's the way I like to hear a lad talk," said the confectioner approvingly.

"Five dollars a week is certainly better than two," was Richard's mental comment, as he hurried along. "Perhaps the next place will offer something better still."

But the next place was already filled; and so were the three that followed.

The seventh was on Vesey Street, the neighborhood that supplies half the metropolis with tea and coffee. A boy was wanted to help fill orders and deliver--a man's work--though Richard did not know it.

"We'll pay you seven dollars," was the merchant's reply, after the boy had inquired after the place. "You will have to deliver princ.i.p.ally, and collect, of course."

"And when can I go to work?" asked Richard, overjoyed at an opening that promised so well.

"Anytime. Right away if you like. But you'll have to furnish twenty-five dollars security." This news put a damper on the boy's hopes.

"Twenty-five dollars security?" he repeated.

"Yes. You'll have more than that to collect"--which was not true--"and of course you will be responsible, and must turn in the money for every order taken out."

"I'd be sure to do that, or else return the goods."

"We don't take the goods back," was the firm reply. "Everything that goes out has been ordered and is charged to the account of the one taking the goods out."

"Who takes the orders?"

"Our canva.s.sers."

"But the orders may not be good," suggested the boy. "People sometimes change their minds, especially when they've been talked into buying."

"The orders are always good. Besides, if a person refuses to honor his order all you've got to do is to turn round and sell the packages to some one else. Come, what do you say? You'd better try it. It's a good offer."

"I haven't got the money," was Richard's reply.

And for some reason he was glad of the fact.

"Better get it then and go to work," urged the merchant. "You can't make seven dollars a week easier."

"I'll think it over," replied the boy.

There was something in the offer that did not strike him favorably, and indeed it was a good thing that he was not in a position to accept it.

The whole proposition was hardly above a common swindle, enough bogus orders being put among the honest ones either to make the one undertaking the job do a lot of peddling on his own account, or else cause him to pay away half his salary on the goods left over.

Walking up Vesey Street, Richard found himself directly opposite the post-office. By the clock on St. Paul's he saw that it was long after noon.

Rather disheartened at his non-success after spending a whole morning in the search for work, he rounded the Astor House corner and crossed Broadway.

"Newspaper Row," as Doc Linyard had appropriately called it, was just across the opposite street, and the boy made up his mind to visit the office where the advertis.e.m.e.nt had been left, and see if there were any letters as yet for the old sailor.

The doors of the post-office were open on both sides, and, curious to see how the building looked inside, Richard started to go through instead of going around.

The many departments upon the ground floor were a study to him, and the signs--Domestic Mails, Foreign Mails, Letters for New York City, Letters for Outgoing Mails--all this was in strong contrast to the little three by four box that held all the mail of the village at home.

And the many private boxes! He guessed there must be ten thousand of them. Every second a new-comer walked up to open one.

Presently a familiar figure stepped up to one directly in front of Richard, and taking out a handful of letters, closed the box and turned to go away.

It was Mr. Timothy Joyce.

CHAPTER XI.