Bennet?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
Lawrence Newt was apparently satisfied with this answer. He only said:
“Well, my son, you do wisely to say at once you don’t know, instead of going back to somebody a few centuries ago, of whose father you have to make the same answer. The Newts, however, you must be aware, are a very old family.” The merchant smiled. “They came into England with the Normans; but who they came into Normandy with I don’t know. Do you?”
Gabriel laughed, with a pleasant feeling of confidence in his companion.
“Have you been at school in the city?” asked the merchant.
Gabriel told him that he had been at Mr. Gray’s.
“Oh ho! then you know my nephew Abel?”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Gabriel, coloring.
“Abel is a smart boy,” said Mr. Newt.
Gabriel made no reply.
“Do you like Abel?”
Gabriel paused a moment; then said,
“No, Sir.”
The merchant looked at the boy for a few moments.
“Who did you like at school?”
“Oh, I liked Jim Greenidge and Little Malacca best,”, replied Gabriel, as if the whole world must be familiar with those names.
At the mention of the latter Lawrence Newt looked interested, and, after talking a little more, said,
“Gabriel, I take you into my office.”
He called Mr. Tray.
“Thomas Tray, this is the youngest clerk, Gabriel Bennet. Gabriel, this is the head of the outer office, Mr. Thomas Tray. Thomas, ask Venables to step this way.”
That young man appeared immediately.
“Mr. Venables, you are promoted. You have seven hundred dollars a year, and are no longer youngest clerk. Gabriel Bennet, this is Frank Venables. Be friends. Now go to work.”
There was a general bowing, and Thomas Tray and the two young men retired.
As they went out Mr. Newt opened a letter which had been brought in from the Post during the interview.
“DEAR SIR—I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a long time since I have had the honor of writing to you; but I thought you would wish to know that Miss Wayne will be in New York, for the first time, within a day or two after you receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who will stay at Bunker’s.
“Respectfully yours,
“JANE SIMCOE.”
Lawrence Newt’s head drooped as he sat. Presently he arose and walked up and down the office.
Meanwhile Gabriel was installed. That ceremony consisted of offering him a high stool with a leathern seat. Mr. Tray remarked that he should have a drawer in the high desk, on both sides of which the clerks were seated. The installation was completed by Mr. Tray’s formally introducing the new-comer to the older clerks.
The scratching began again. Gabriel looked curiously upon the work in which he was now to share. The young men had no words for him. Mr. Newt was engaged within. The boy had a vague feeling that he must shift for himself—that every body was busy—that play in this life had ended and work begun. The thought tasted to him much more like smelts than cake. And while he was wisely left by Thomas Tray to familiarize himself with the entire novelty of the situation his mind flashed back to Delafield with an aching longing, and the boy would willingly have put his face in his hands and wept. But he sat quietly looking at his companions—until Mr. Tray said,
“Gabriel, I want you to copy this invoice.”
And Gabriel was a school-boy no longer.
CHAPTER XVI. — PHILOSOPHY.
Abel Newt believed in his lucky star. He had managed Uncle Savory—couldn’t he manage the world?
“My son,” said Mr. Boniface Newt, “you are now about to begin the world.” (Begin? thought Abel.) “You are now coming into my house as a merchant. In this world we must do the best we can. It is a great pity that men are not considerate, and all that. But they are not. They are selfish. You must take them as you find them. You, my son, think they are all honest and good.”—Do I? quoth son, in his soul.—“It is the bitter task of experience to undeceive youth from its romantic dreams. As a rule, Abel, men are rascals; that is to say, they pursue their own interests. How sad! True; how sad! Where was I? Oh! men are scamps—with some exceptions; but you must go by the rule. Life is a scrub-race—melancholy, Abel, but true. I talk plainly to you, but I do it for your good. If we were all angels, things would be different. If this were the Millennium, every thing would doubtless be agreeable to every body. But it is not—how very sad! True, how very sad! Where was I? Oh! it’s all devil take the hindmost. And because your neighbors are dishonest, why should you starve? You see, Abel?”
It was in Mr. Boniface Newt’s counting-room that he preached this gospel. A boy entered and announced that Mr. Hadley was outside looking at some cases of dry goods.
“Now, Abel,” said his father, “I’ll return in a moment.”
He stepped out, smiling and rubbing his hands. Mr. Hadley was stooping over a case of calicoes; Blackstone, Hadley, & Merrimack—no safer purchasers in the world. The countenance of Boniface Newt beamed upon the customer as if he saw good notes at six months exuding from every part of his person.
“Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir—beautiful day, Sir. What’s the word this morning, Sir?”
“Nothing, nothing,” returned the customer. “Pretty print that. Just what I’ve been looking for” (renewed rubbing of hands on the part of Mr. Newt)—“very pretty. If it’s the right width, it’s just the thing. Let me see—that’s about seven-eighths.” He shook his head negatively. “No, not wide enough. If that print were a yard wide, I should take all you have.”
“Oh, that’s a yard,” replied Mr. Newt; “certainly a full yard.” He looked around inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick.
“Where is the yard-stick?” asked Mr. Hadley.
“Timothy!” said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look.
The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while Mr. Newt’s face underwent a series
