For a moment there was silence, and then Horace Sumner stopped short before Hal.

"There is another matter I might mention," he said. "Caleb Allen is going, or rather, has gone, into business for himself."

"What kind of business?" asked the youth, in surprise.

"A brokerage and loan office."

"Near here?"

"Yes, right around the corner of Broad Street, not five minutes, walk.

He hired the place from the first, and I understand he and another man are already doing business there."

"Who is the other man?"

"A fellow named Parsons."

"Has he a good reputation?"

"Far from it. He was arrested for forgery five years ago, but his friends hushed the matter up."

"Have you the number of the place?"

"Yes, here it is. What do you intend to do?"

"I don't know. I'll take a look at the place. That will do no harm.

Perhaps Hardwick will call on Mr. Allen."

After a few words more Hal left the private office, and pa.s.sed out on Wall Street.

He soon turned the corner into Broad Street, the second great money center of New York, and presently came to the building in which was situated the offices now occupied by the firm of Allen & Parsons.

The offices were down three steps, and as Hal pa.s.sed on the pavement above, a small sign pasted in the corner of the window attracted his attention:

YOUNG MAN WANTED. RAPID WRITER.

Stopping short, Hal descended the steps, and peered into the window. A middle-aged man stood at the front desk, smoking a cigar and writing.

"That must be either Mr. Parsons or a book-keeper," thought Hal.

Then a sudden determination sprang up in his mind. Without a second thought he entered the office and walked up to the desk.

The man looked up, and laid down his cigar.

"Well, sir, what is it?" he asked, in a pleasant voice.

"Is this one of the proprietors?"

"Yes, I am Mr. Parsons."

"I see you want a young man, sir."

"We do." Most of the pleasantness vanished, and a sharp look came to the man's face. "You are looking for a situation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you a good writer?"

"I will show you my hand, sir?"

"All right. Here is paper and ink. Write a sheetful as rapidly as you can do so in good style."

Hal took up the pen. He was really a rapid writer, and in five minutes the job was done. Parsons looked at the work.

"That might do. Have you any recommendations?"

"No, sir. I am a stranger in New York."

"Ah, a stranger." A certain pleased look came into the broker's eyes.

"What's your idea of salary?"

"I hardly know. I must support myself."

"All alone?"

"Yes, sir."

Parsons appeared better pleased than ever.

"Just the kind of a fellow Allen and I want," he muttered to himself.

"I will give you a trial on seven dollars a week, and, if you suit, I will raise you to eight."

"Thank you, sir."

"What is your name?"

"Frank Hallen," replied Hal, using the cognomen of one of his poor-house a.s.sociates.

"Very well, Hallen. Are you ready to go to work at once?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then come inside."

Hal walked behind the railing, and Parsons showed him where to place his coat and hat.

"Here is a copy of a letter I wish duplicated ten times. You can go to work at this second desk. At one o'clock you can take half an hour for lunch."