am alone here.”
“So am I. I used to live in Chicago before all my folks died. I like your appearance. What is your name?”
Matt told him, and also gave Andrew Dilks a brief bit of his history. The auctioneer listened with interest, and then told a number of things concerning himself. He had been with Caleb Gulligan four years. He had been sick several times, but, nevertheless, had managed to save a hundred and thirty-five dollars.
“I’ve got seventy-five dollars saved, part of which I got from other brokers than Mr. Fenton, for running errands, and so forth,” said Matt. “That and your money would make two hundred and ten dollars. Couldn’t we start out on that?”
“We might,” replied Andrew Dilks reflectively. “You are on your way to work now, are you not?”
“Yes, and I ought to be at the office this minute!” cried Matt, with a start. “Mr. Fenton will be tearing mad, I know. But I won’t care – that is, if we come to a deal.”
“Come and see me this evening, then. I am stopping at the Columbus Hotel, on the Bowery.”
“I know the place, and I’ll be up at seven o’clock,” returned Matt; and on this agreement the two separated.
“My, but I would like to become a traveling auctioneer!” said the boy to himself, as he hurried down Broadway. “I wish I had enough money so that we could go in as equal partners. He seems a first-rate chap in every way, and honest, too, or he would not have gotten into that row over the five-dollar counterfeit.”
Matt had lost much time in talking to Andrew Dilks, and now, in order to reach Wall street the quicker, he hopped upon the tail-end of a dray that was moving rapidly toward the Battery.
“Beating the cable cars out of a nickel!” he called to the driver, and that individual smiled grimly, and said nothing.
Less than ten minutes later the boy entered the stock-broker’s main office. He was just about to pass into Randolph Fenton’s private apartment when the figure of a man moving rapidly down the street attracted his attention. It was the red mustached man who had created the trouble at the auction store.
“Please give these books to Mr. Fenton, and tell him I’ll be back shortly,” said Matt to the head clerk, and without waiting for a reply he placed his package on a desk, and hurried out of the door after the man.
CHAPTER V.
MATT IS DISCHARGED
When Matt Lincoln reached the pavement he saw that the man he was after had reached Wall street and was turning down toward Water street. The boy started on a run and caught up to the individual just as he was about to descend into an insurance office which was located several steps below the level of the street.
“Hold on there!” cried Matt, and he caught the man by the arm.
“What is it, boy?” demanded the other, with a slight start at being accosted so unexpectedly.
“I want to see you about that piece of bric-a-brac you broke at the auction store up on Nausau street.”
The man’s face reddened, and he looked confused.
“I don’t – don’t know what you are talking about,” he stammered.
“Oh, yes, you do,” returned Matt coolly. “You tried to let the blame fall on a young lady, but it won’t work. You must go back, explain matters, and settle up.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind!” blustered the red mustached man. He had recovered from his first alarm. “I know nothing of the affair you have in mind. I have not been near an auction store to-day – for a month, in fact.”
“That’s a whopper!” exploded Matt. “You were in the place less than an hour and a half ago!”
“Nonsense, boy, you have got hold of the wrong man. Let me go.”
“Not much I won’t! You are the man, and you can’t fool me.”
“If you don’t let go I’ll call a policeman just as sure as my name is Paul Carden.”
“I don’t care what your name is, you’ve got to go back and set matters straight.”
The man glared at Matt for a moment. Then, without warning, he pushed the boy backward. Matt was standing upon the edge of the steps leading to the insurance office at the time, and he went down with a crash into the wire-netting door, knocking a large hole into it.
Before Matt could recover the man darted down Wall street and around the nearest corner. Matt would have gone after him, but the proprietor of the insurance office came out, and demanded to know what he meant by bursting the wire-netting door in such a rude fashion.
“A man knocked me down the steps,” Matt explained. “I hope the door isn’t ruined.”
“Hardly, but there’s a hole in it.”
“The wire has broken from under the molding, that is all,” said the boy. “Let me see if I can’t fix it.”
He brought out his penknife, and loosened part of the molding. Then drawing the wire back into place, he tacked the molding fast again; and the door was as good as before.
But all this had taken time, and Matt knew it would now be useless to attempt to follow Paul Carden. He looked around the corner, and seeing nothing of the fellow, retraced his steps to Randolph Fenton’s establishment.
“Where in the world have you been so long?” demanded Mr. Fenton, as Matt entered the private apartment. “Here I have been waiting an hour for you to deliver a message to Ulmer & Grant. I hire you to be on hand when wanted, Lincoln; not to loaf your time away.”
“I was not loafing my time away, Mr. Fenton,” returned Matt calmly. “There was a private matter I had to attend to, and – ”
“You have no business to attend to private matters during office hours!” roared Randolph Fenton wrathfully. “You will mind my business and nothing else.”
“But this could not wait. There was a man – ”
“I do not care for your explanations, young man. Too much time has already been wasted. Take this message to Ulmer & Grant’s, and bring a reply inside of ten minutes, or consider yourself discharged.”
And with his face full of wrath and sourness, Randolph Fenton thrust a sealed envelope into Matt’s hand.
An angry reply arose to the boy’s lips. But he checked it, and without a word left the office and hurried away on his errand.
“I trust I make a satisfactory arrangement with Andrew Dilks,” said Matt to himself. “It is growing harder and harder every day to get along with Mr. Fenton. Every time he talks he acts as if he wanted to snap somebody’s head off. Poor Miss Bartlett at her desk looked half-scared to death.”
Arriving at the offices of Ulmer & Grant, Matt found that Mr. Ulmer had gone to Boston. Mr. Grant was busy, but would give him an answer in a few minutes.
Matt sat down, wondering what Mr. Fenton would say about the delay. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed. At last Mr. Grant was at liberty, but it was exactly half an
