lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound respect for the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, that Thomas Tray looked up at last, and said,
“Well, Sir?”
“May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?”
“In the other room,” said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in his mouth, nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning over with both hands a solid mass of leaves in his great, odoriferous red Russia book, and letting them gently down—proud of being the author of that clearly-written, massive work, containing an accurate biography of Lawrence Newt’s business.
The youth tapped at the glass door. Mr. Newt said, “Come in,” and, when the door opened, looked up, and still holding his pen with the ink in it poised above the paper, he said, kindly, “Well, Sir? Be short. It’s packet-day.”
“I want a place, Sir.”
“What kind of a place?”
“In a store, Sir.”
“I’m sorry I’m all full. But sit down while I finish these letters; then we’ll talk about it.”
CHAPTER XV. — A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER.
The lad seated himself by the window. Scratch—scratch—scratch. The sun sparkled in the river. The sails, after yesterday’s rain, were loosened to dry, and were white as if it had rained milk upon them instead of water. Every thing looked cheerful and bright from Lawrence Newt’s window. The lad saw with delight how much sunshine there was in the office.
“I don’t believe it would hurt my health to work here,” thought he. Mr. Lawrence Newt rang a little bell. Venables entered quietly.
“Most ready out there?” asked Mr. Newt.
“Most ready, Sir.”
“Brisk’s the word this morning, you know. Please to copy these letters.”
Venables said nothing, took the letters, and went out.
“Now, young man,” said the merchant, “tell me what you want.”
The lad’s heart turned toward him like a fallow-field to the May sun.
“My father’s been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do something for myself. He advised me to come to you.”
“Why?”
“Because he said you would give me good advice if you couldn’t give me employment.”
“Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad. Have you ever been in a store?”
“No, Sir. I left school last week.”
Mr. Newt looked out of the window.
“Your father’s been unfortunate?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How’s that? Has he told a lie, or lost his eyes, or his health, or has his daughter married a drunkard?” asked Mr. Lawrence Newt, looking at the lad with a kindly humor in his eyes.
“Oh no, Sir,” replied the boy, surprised. “He’s lost his money.”
“Oh ho! his money! And it is the loss of money which you call 'unfortunate.’ Now, my boy, think a moment. Is there any thing belonging to your father which he could so well spare? Has he any superfluous boy or girl? any useless arm or leg? any unnecessary good temper or honesty? any taste for books, or pictures, or the country, that he would part with? Is there any thing which he owns that it would not be a greater misfortune to him to lose than his money? Honor bright, my boy. If you think there is, say so!”
The youth smiled.
“Well, Sir, I suppose worse things could happen to us than poverty,” said he.
Mr. Lawrence Newt interrupted him by remarks which were belied by his beaming face.
“Worse things than poverty! Why, my boy, what are you thinking of? Do you not know that it is written in the largest efforts upon the hearts of all Americans, ‘Resist poverty, and it will flee from you?’ If you do not begin by considering poverty the root of all evil, where on earth do you expect to end? Cease to be poor, learn to be rich. I’m afraid you don’t read the good book. So your father has health”—the boy nodded—“and a whole body, a good temper, an affectionate family, generous and refined tastes, pleasant relations with others, a warm heart, a clear conscience”—the boy nodded with an increasing enthusiasm of assent—“and yet you call him unfortunate—ruined! Why, look here, my son; there’s an old apple-woman at the corner of Burling Slip, where I stop every day and buy apples; she’s sixty years old, and through thick and thin, under a dripping wreck of an umbrella when it rains, under the sky when it shines—warming herself by a foot-stove in winter, by the sun in summer—there the old creature sits. She has an old, sick, querulous husband at home, who tries to beat her. Her daughters are all out at service—let us hope, in kind families—her sons are dull, ignorant men; her home is solitary and forlorn; she can not read much, nor does she want to; she is coughing her life away, and succeeds in selling apples enough to pay her rent and buy food for her old man and herself. She told me yesterday that she was a most fortunate woman. What does the word mean? I give it up.”
The lad looked around the spacious office, on every table and desk and chair of which was written Prosperity as plainly as the name of Lawrence Newt upon the little tin sign by the door. Except for the singular magnetism of the merchant’s presence, which dissipated such a suggestion as rapidly as it rose, the youth would have said aloud what was in his heart.
“How easy ’tis for a rich man to smile at poverty!”
The man watched the boy, and knew exactly what he was thinking. As the eyes of the younger involuntarily glanced about the office and presently returned to the merchant, they found the merchant’s gazing so keenly that they seemed to be mere windows through which his soul was looking. But the keen earnestness melted imperceptibly into the usual sweetness as Lawrence Newt said,
“You think I can talk prettily about misfortune because I know nothing about it. You make a great mistake. No man, even in jest, can talk well of what he doesn’t understand. So don’t misunderstand me. I am rich, but I am not fortunate.”
He said it in the same tone as before.
“If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should you think yourself fortunate?” asked Mr. Newt.
“Why, yes, Sir. A man can’t expect to have every thing precisely as he wants it,” replied the boy.
“My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is better than no bread. True—so am I. But never make the mistake of supposing a half to be the whole. Content is a good thing. When the man sent for cake, and said, ‘John, if you can’t get cake, get smelts,’ he did wisely. But smelts are not cake for all that. What’s your name?” asked
