Mark the Match Boy 19

Mark the Match Boy 19

"I s'pose you'll come and see a feller now and then."

 

"Yes, Ben, when I get time. But I hope to get a place soon."

 

Mark walked leisurely up Broadway. Having been confined to the house

for three weeks, he enjoyed the excitement of being out in the street

once more. The shop windows looked brighter and gayer than before, and

the little match boy felt that the world was a very pleasant place

after all.

 

He had passed Eighth Street before he was fairly aware of the distance

he had traversed. He found himself looking into the window of a

bookstore. While examining the articles in the window his eye suddenly

caught the notice pasted in the middle of the glass on a piece of white

paper:--

 

"BOY WANTED."

 

"Perhaps they'll take me," thought Mark, suddenly. "At any rate I'll go

in and see."

 

Accordingly he entered the store, and looked about him a little

undecidedly.

 

"Well, sonny, what do you want?" asked a clerk.

 

"I see that you want a boy," said Mark.

 

"Yes. Do you want a place?"

 

"I am trying to get one."

 

"Well, go and see that gentleman about it."

 

He pointed to a gentleman who was seated at a desk in the corner of the

store.

 

"Please, sir, do you want a boy?" he asked.

 

"Yes," said the gentleman. "How old are you?"

 

"Ten years old."

 

"You are rather young. Have you been in any place before?"

 

"No, sir."

 

"Do you know your way about the city pretty well?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"I want a boy to deliver papers and magazines, and carry small parcels

of books. Do you think you could do that?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Without stopping to play on the way?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"I have just discharged one boy, because he was gone an hour and a

half on an errand to Twentieth Street. You are the first boy that has

answered my advertisement. I'll try you on a salary of three dollars a

week, if you can go to work at once. What is your name?"

 

"Mark Manton."

 

"Very well, Mark. Go to Mr. Jones, behind the counter there, and he

will give you a parcel to carry to West Twenty-First Street."

 

"I'm in luck," thought Mark. "I didn't expect to get a place so

easily."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI.

 

MARK'S FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

 

 

Probably my readers already understand that the bookstore in which Mark

has secured a place is the same in which Roswell Crawford is employed.

This circumstance, if Mark had only known it, was likely to make his

position considerably less desirable than it would otherwise have been.

Mr. Baker, the proprietor of the store, was very considerate in his

treatment of those in his employ, and Mr. Jones, his chief clerk, was

good-natured and pleasant. But Roswell was very apt to be insolent and

disagreeable to those who were, or whom he considered to be, in an

inferior position to himself, while his lofty ideas of his own dignity

and social position as the "son of a gentleman," made him not very

desirable as a clerk. Still he had learned something from his bad luck

thus far. He had been so long in getting his present place, that he

felt it prudent to sacrifice his pride in some extent for the sake of

retaining it. But if he could neglect his duties without attracting

attention, he resolved to do it, feeling that six dollars was a

beggarly salary for a young gentleman of his position and capacity. It

was unfortunate for him, and a source of considerable annoyance, that

he could get no one except his mother to assent to his own estimate

of his abilities. Even his Cousin Gilbert, who had been Rockwell &

Cooper's book-keeper before Richard Hunter succeeded to the position,

did not conceal his poor opinion of Roswell; but this the latter

attributed to prejudice, being persuaded in his own mind that his

cousin was somewhat inclined to be envious of his superior abilities.

 

At the time that Mark was so suddenly engaged by Mr. Baker, Roswell had

gone out to dinner. When he returned, Mark had gone out with the parcel

to West Twenty-first Street. So they missed each other just at first.

 

"Well, Crawford," said Mr. Jones, as Roswell re-entered the store, "Mr.

Baker has engaged a new boy."

 

"Has he? What sort of a fellow is he?"

 

"A little fellow. He doesn't look as if he was more than ten years old."

 

"Where is he?"

 

"Mr. Baker sent him on an errand to Twenty-first Street."

 

"Humph!" said Roswell, a little discontented, "I was going to recommend

a friend of mine."

 

"There may be a chance yet. This boy may not suit."

 

In about five minutes Mr. Baker and Mr. Jones both went out to dinner.

It was the middle of the day, when there is very little business, and

it would not be difficult for Roswell to attend to any customers who

might call.

 

As soon as he was left alone, Roswell got an interesting book from the

shelves, and, sitting down in his employer's chair, began to read,

though this was against the rules in business hours. To see the pompous

air with which Roswell threw himself back in his chair, it might have

been supposed that he was the proprietor of the establishment, though

I believe it is true, as a general rule, that employers are not in the

habit of putting on so many airs, unless the position is a new one, and

they have not yet got over the new feeling of importance which it is

apt to inspire at first.

 

While Roswell was thus engaged Mark returned from his errand.

 

He looked about him in some uncertainty on entering the store, not

seeing either Mr. Baker or the chief clerk.

 

"Come here," said Roswell, in a tone of authority.

 

Mark walked up to the desk.

 

"So you are the new boy?" said Roswell, after a close scrutiny.

 

"Yes."

 

"It would be a little more polite to say 'Yes sir.'"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"What is your age?"

 

"Ten years."

 

"Humph! You are rather young. If I had been consulted I should have

said 'Get a boy of twelve years old.'"

 

"I hope I shall suit," said Mark.

 

"I hope so," said Roswell, patronizingly. "You will find us very easy

to get along with if you do your duty. We were obliged to send away a

boy this morning because he played instead of going on his errands at

once."

 

Mark could not help wondering what was Roswell's position in the

establishment. He talked as if he were one of the proprietors; but his

youthful appearance made it difficult to suppose that.

 

"What is your name?" continued Roswell.

 

"Mark Manton."

 

"Have you been in any place before?"

 

"No, sir."

 

"Do you live with your parents?"

 

"My parents are dead."

 

"Then whom do you live with?"

 

"With my guardian."

 

"So you have a guardian?" said Roswell, a little surprised. "What is

his name?"

 

"Mr. Hunter."

 

"Hunter!" repeated Roswell, hastily. "What is his first name?"

 

"Richard I believe."