you have made the exchange. Get something suitable for a boy of your age, and not too large."
Sam left the counting-room, and made his way to the second-hand shop where he had made the purchase. He succeeded in effecting an exchange for a coat which was less noticeable, and that without paying any bonus.
"If the boss don't say anything about the two dollars," he thought, "I'll be so much in."
Much to his joy no questions were asked as to the terms on which he made the exchange, and he felt that he could afford to go to the Old Bowery that evening.
When he came back he was called into the counting-room.
"Now, my boy, what is your name?" asked the merchant.
"Sam Barker."
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"Are your parents living?"
"No, sir."
"Where do you live?"
Sam hesitated.
"I ain't got no regular place," he answered, at length.
"Where have you generally slept?"
"At the 'Newsboys' Lodge.'"
"I suppose you were a newsboy?"
"Some of the time."
"Well, it makes no difference what you have been. You are now my errand boy. I have engaged you without knowing very much about you, because you have been of service to my little boy. I hope you will serve me faithfully."
"Oh, yes, I will," said Sam, looking particularly virtuous.
"If you do your duty, I shall take an interest in you, and promote you as you deserve."
"And give me more pay?" suggested Sam.
"Yes, if I find you deserve it. I would rather pay high wages to a boy who suits me than small wages to an inefficient boy."
"Them's my sentiments," said Sam, promptly; but whether his sentiments referred to the service or the pay he did not make quite clear.
Mr. Dalton smiled.
"I am glad you agree with me," he said. "There is one other point I wish to speak of. As you are in my employment, I want you to have a regular boarding-place. I think it much better for a boy or young man. You ought to be able to get board and a decent room for four dollars a week."
"I guess I can," said Sam.
"I will let you go at three o'clock this afternoon – two hours before our usual hour of closing. That will give you time to secure a place. Now go out, and Mr. Budd will set you to work."
The clerk whom Sam had first encountered was named William Budd, and to him he went for orders.
"You may go to the post office for letters first," said Budd. "Our box is 936."
"All right," said Sam.
He rather liked this part of his duty. It seemed more like play than work to walk through the streets, and it was comfortable to think he was going to be paid for it, too.
As he turned into Nassau Street he met an old acquaintance, Pat Riley by name, with a blacking box over his shoulders.
"Hello, Sam!" said Pat.
"Hello, yourself! How's business?"
"Times is dull with me. What are you doin'?"
"I'm in an office," said Sam, with conscious pride.
"Are you? What do you get?"
"Five dollars a week."
"How did you get it?" asked Pat, enviously.
"They came to me and asked me if I would go to work," said Sam.
"Where are you goin' now?"
"To the post office, to get the letters."
"You're in luck, Sam, and no mistake. Got some new clo'es, ain't you?"
"Yes," said Sam. "How do you like 'em?"
"Bully."
"I had a tiptop coat – blue with brass buttons – but the boss made me change it. He ain't got no taste in dress."
"That's so."
"When I get money enough I'll buy it for best, to wear Sundays, he can't say nothing to that."
"In course not. Well, Sam, when you get rich you can let me black your boots."
"All right, Pat," said Sam, complacently.
"Who knows but I'll be a rich merchant some time?"
Here Pat spied a customer, and the two had to part company.
Sam continued on his way till he reached the old brick church which used to serve as the New York post office. He entered, and met with his first perplexity. He could not remember the number of the box.
"Here's a go!" thought Sam. "What's that number, I wonder? There was a thirty-six to it, I know. I guess it was 836. Anyhow I'll ask for it."
"Is there any letters in 836?" he asked.
Four letters were handed him.
Sam looked at the address. They were all directed to Ferguson & Co.
"That ain't the name," thought Sam. "I guess I'm in a scrape, but anyhow I'll carry 'em to Mr. Dalton, so he'll know I went to the office."
CHAPTER III.
SAM FINDS A ROOM
"Here's the letters," said Sam, as he entered the office on his return.
"You may carry them in to Mr. Dalton," said William Budd.
"Now for it!" thought Sam, as he entered the counting-room with reluctant step.
"Here's the letters, Mr. Dalton," said our hero, looking embarrassed.
Mr. Dalton took them, and glanced at the superscription.
"What's all this?" he demanded. "This letter is for Ferguson & Co. And so are the rest. What does it mean?"
"I guess there's some mistake," said Sam, uncomfortably.
"Why did you take these letters? Did you think my name was Ferguson?" demanded Mr. Dalton.
"No, sir."
"Didn't you know they were not for me, then?"
"They gave them to me at the post office," stammered Sam.
"Did you give the number of my box?"
"Yes, sir."
"What
