The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success. Alger Horatio Jr.

only got two dollars and a half. Did Pitkin tell you he would pay you five dollars a week.”

      “No; Mr Carter told me so.”

      “The old gentleman—Mr. Pitkin’s uncle?”

      “Yes. It was at his request that Mr. Pitkin took me on.”

      Mr. Wilbur looked grave.

      “It’s a shame!” he commenced.

      “What is a shame; that I should get five dollars a week?”

      “No, but that I should only get a dollar a week more than an errand boy. I’m worth every cent of ten dollars a week, but the old man only gives me six. It hardly keeps me in gloves and cigars.”

      “Won’t he give you any more?”

      “No; only last month I asked him for a raise, and he told me if I wasn’t satisfied I might go elsewhere.”

      “You didn’t?”

      “No, but I mean to soon. I will show old Pitkin that he can’t keep a man of my experience for such a paltry salary. I dare say that Denning or Claflin would be glad to have me, and pay me what I am worth.”

      Phil did not want to laugh, but when Mr. Wilbur, who looked scarcely older than himself, and was in appearance but a callow youth, referred to himself as a man of experience he found it hard to resist.

      “Hadn’t we better be going up stairs?” asked Phil.

      “All right. Follow me,” said Mr. Wilbur, “and I’ll take you to the superintendent of the room.”

      “I am to report to Mr. Pitkin himself, I believe.”

      “He won’t be here yet awhile,” said Wilbur.

      But just then up came Mr. Wilbur himself, fully half an hour earlier than usual.

      Phil touched his hat politely, and said:

      “Good-morning.”

      “Good-morning!” returned his employer, regarding him sharply. “Are you the boy I hired yesterday?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Come up-stairs, then.”

      Phil followed Mr. Pitkin up-stairs, and they walked together through the sales-room.

      “I hope you understand,” said Mr. Pitkin brusquely, “that I have engaged you at the request of Mr. Carter and to oblige him.”

      “I feel grateful to Mr. Carter,” said Phil, not quite knowing what was coming next.

      “I shouldn’t myself have engaged a boy of whom I knew nothing, and who could give me no city references.”

      “I hope you won’t be disappointed in me,” said Phil.

      “I hope not,” answered Mr. Pitkin, in a tone which seemed to imply that he rather expected to be.

      Phil began to feel uncomfortable. It seemed evident that whatever he did would be closely scrutinized, and that in an unfavorable spirit.

      Mr. Pitkin paused before a desk at which was standing a stout man with grayish hair.

      “Mr. Sanderson,” he said, “this is the new errand boy. His name is—what is it, boy?”

      “Philip Brent.”

      “You will give him something to do. Has the mail come in?”

      “No; we haven’t sent to the post-office yet.”

      “You may send this boy at once.”

      Mr. Sanderson took from the desk a key and handed it to Philip.

      “That is the key to our box,” he said. “Notice the number—534. Open it and bring the mail. Don’t loiter on the way.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Philip took the key and left the warehouse. When he reached the street he said to himself:

      “I wonder where the post-office is?”

      He did not like to confess to Mr. Sanderson that he did not know, for it would probably have been considered a disqualification for the post which he was filling.

      “I had better walk to Broadway,” he said to himself. “I suppose the post-office must be on the principal street.”

      In this Phil was mistaken. At that time the post-office was on Nassau Street, in an old church which had been utilized for a purpose very different from the one to which it had originally been devoted.

      Reaching Broadway, Phil was saluted by a bootblack, with a grimy but honest-looking face.

      “Shine your boots, mister?” said the boy, with a grin.

      “Not this morning.”

      “Some other morning, then?”

      “Yes,” answered Phil.

      “Sorry you won’t give me a job,” said the bootblack. “My taxes comes due to-day, and I ain’t got enough to pay ‘em.”

      Phil was amused, for his new acquaintance scarcely looked like a heavy taxpayer.

      “Do you pay a big tax?” he asked.