Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.
A Table of Contents has been added.

THE
YOUNG SALESMAN

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

Author of "The Errand Boy," "Mark Mason's Victory,"
"Tom Temple's Career," "Tony, the Hero," "The
Train Boy," etc., etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK

CONTENTS

THE YOUNG SALESMAN.

CHAPTER I. ON BOARD THE "ARCTURUS."

Halfway across the Atlantic the good ship Arcturus was making her way from Liverpool to New York. She was a sailing vessel, and her speed by no means equaled that of the mighty steamships, more than one of which passed her, leaving her far behind.

While she was used chiefly for freight, she carried a few passengers, less than twenty in all.

I wish to call the reader's attention to the occupants of one of the small staterooms, a man and a boy. There was a great contrast between them. The man was thin and hollow-cheeked, and as he lay in his berth he looked to be, as he was, in the last stages of consumption.

The boy, who must have been nearly sixteen, was the picture of health. He was inclined to be dark, with black hair, bright eyes, and with considerable color in his cheeks.

He bent over the reclining figure, and asked, with anxious solicitude: "How do you feel, father?"

"No better, Scott," and the father began to cough.

"Does it hurt you to cough?"

"Yes, but it won't trouble me long."

"You will be better?" said the boy, half inquiringly.

"No, Scott, I shall never be better. I am very near the end."

"You don't mean that?" exclaimed the boy, in pained surprise.

"Yes, I do, Scott, and you may as well know it. I doubt whether I shall live to see New York."

Scott Walton looked dismayed, for till now he had not suspected that his father's life was in danger. Yet, as he gazed at the fragile form, he was forced to believe that his father spoke truly.

"What will become of me," he said, with emotion, "alone in a strange land?"

"That is what I want to speak to you about." Here the man began to cough again.

"Don't talk, father. It makes you cough."

"I must, my son. Perhaps I may have no other chance. I am sorry that I must leave you almost penniless."

"I don't mind that, father. If you could only live——"

"Don't interrupt me, for there are some things I must tell you. You will find in my wallet twenty pounds in English bank notes, worth in America about one hundred dollars. This sum will support you while you are looking for a situation, for you will need to find work."

"I am strong and willing to work, father."

"Yes, you are strong. You don't take after me, but after your mother's family."

"Have you any relatives in America?"

"There is a cousin of your mother's in New York, Ezra Little. I believe he is well-to-do. I can't tell you what he is doing or where he lives, but you can look up his name in the New York directory."

"Is he the only relative we have in America?

"No, there is a cousin of my own, Philo Walton, who went out to one of the Western States. He was a good-hearted fellow, and likely to make his way, but I have heard nothing of him, and I don't know whether he is still living or not.

"There seems a very small chance of your finding him, in so large a country, but you can probably find Ezra Little. Take down these names, Scott. They may be of importance to you."

Scott drew out a small memorandum book, and did as directed.

"I would not have started from England, had I supposed I should have become worse so rapidly," continued Mr. Walton. "I think the sea air has aggravated my disease. There seemed nothing for us at home though, and no friends on whom we could call. I built my hopes on Ezra Little. I thought for your mother's sake he would help her boy. If I could live to see him, and commend him to you in person, I could die in peace."

He had hardly completed these words when he had a terrible fit of coughing, which seemed to rack his feeble frame.

"Don't talk any more, father!" said Scott, in alarm. "Can't I get you something to relieve you? I will go to the steward and ask for a cup of hot tea."

Without waiting for an answer he left the stateroom and sought the steward.

He was gone but ten minutes, but when he returned the bedclothes were stained with blood.

His father had had a hemorrhage, and was lying with closed eyes, breathing faintly.

The ship doctor was summoned, and applied restoratives, but without effect. Before the morning dawned, Scott was fatherless.

It was a great trial to the lonely boy to see his father's body consigned to the deep. He wished he might carry it to the land which was to be his future home, and have it buried in some quiet cemetery; but it would be a week at least before the slow-going ship would reach New York, and the sailors would have rebelled at having a corpse on board for that length of time.

Scott secured the money of which his father had spoken, and a sealed packet inscribed:

For My Son.
To be opened a year from my death.

The boy's grief was so sincere that his curiosity was not aroused by this inscription. He put the packet in his traveling bag, and tried to prepare himself for the solitary life he must now lead.

There was a good deal of sympathy felt for the lonely boy on the ship, and more than one of the passengers proffered sympathy and companionship.

Scott received their advances politely, but showed by his manner that he preferred to be alone.

A week later, however, when the vessel was within a few hours of reaching her destination, he felt that it would be well to obtain some information about the new country that awaited him.

Among the passengers was a young man who looked to be about twenty-five. His name was Crawford Lane. He wore a light overcoat, a showy necktie, a low-cut vest, and was in appearance a very good specimen of the Bowery swell.

He joined Scott as he was standing on deck, trying to catch the first glimpse of land.

"Well, my young friend," he said, affably, "I suppose that you, like the rest of us, are glad to be near port."

"I don't know," replied Scott, listlessly.

"Of course you miss your father."

"Oh, so much!" said the boy, the tears coming into his eyes. "For years we have lived together and been constant companions."

"Just so! My father died five years ago, and I often miss him."

"But you doubtless have other relatives, while he was all I had," explained Scott.

"Yes, I have other relatives. An uncle of mine is the present mayor of Chicago. Of course, you have heard of Chicago."

"Yes; it is one of your largest cities, is it not?"

"Yes, it's a smart place, Chicago is."

"Do you live there?"

"Not at present. I have relations in New York also. They are rich; live on Fifth Avenue, or near by."

"You are fortunate in having so many relations," said Scott, with a touch of envy.

"I don't know. One of my uncles tried to cheat me out of part of my inheritance. Relations are not always the best friends."

"I hope he did not succeed," said Scott, politely, though he felt very little interest in the fortunes of his fellow voyager.

"No. That is, he defrauded me of ten thousand dollars, but there was a good deal more, so that I was not inconvenienced."

Lane spoke carelessly, and gave Scott the impression that he was a rich man.

"Then you have a home to go to," said Scott, sadly.

"No," answered Lane. "You see my father and mother are dead, and I live at the hotels or in apartments of my own. I don't care to live with relations. Have you any relations in New York?"

"None that I have seen. There is a cousin of my mother, Ezra Little, who I am told is well-to-do. But I never saw him, and I don't know how he will receive me."

"Then you will probably go to a hotel?"

"I suppose so, but I know nothing of New York."

"I hope," said Lane, in an insinuating tone, "that your father left you in easy circumstances?"

"No, I shall have to make my own way."

"Surely you have some money."

"Yes, I have twenty pounds. I am told that amounts to a hundred dollars in American currency."

"Yes," answered Lane, brightening up. "Well, that will tide you over till you get something to do. But probably your relative will provide for you."

"No," said Scott; "I shall not ask him to do so. I prefer to earn my own living."

"Just so. Well, I can be of some service to you. I will find you a reasonable place to stop, and when you get ready you can call on this Mr. Little."

"Thank you!"

Scott was disposed to accept the offer of his new acquaintance, as, of course, he himself knew absolutely nothing about New York.

CHAPTER II. THE FIRST DAY IN NEW YORK.

When the Arcturus arrived in port, Scott placed himself in charge of Mr. Lane, and accompanied that gentleman on shore. He congratulated himself on having a competent guide.

He was struck by the bright and bustling appearance of the great American metropolis, and, English though he was, he was fain to admit that it was more attractive than London.

Scott had but one gripsack, but in this respect Crawford Lane was no better off.

"I just took a brief trip across the water," he explained, "and I don't believe in being hampered with baggage."

"Then you were not gone long?" said Scott.

"No; I just ran across in company with an old college friend. He will be absent several months, but I could not spare the time from my business."

"Have you anything which a boy of my age could do in your office?" asked Scott, who felt that he must now be on the search for a place.

"Not at present. My business is of a peculiar nature. I travel for a large house. But I will keep my eyes open, and if I should hear of anything I will most certainly let you know."

"Do you expect anyone to meet you at the pier?"

"No, I never say much about my movements. My friends can wait till I get fairly established in a hotel."

Scott was somewhat amazed when his new acquaintance conducted him to a very plain house on the Bowery.

"I don't care for style," remarked Lane, observing Scott's surprise, "and though I could afford to go to the most expensive hotel in the city, I know that your means are limited, and I wish to select one in which you can afford to remain with me."

"Thank you, Mr. Lane; you are very considerate. I haven't much money, and I must be economical."

"I will step up to the desk and arrange about rooms," added Lane.

"Thank you."

Crawford Lane left Scott sitting in the reading room, but he returned in five minutes.

"I find," he said, "that the hotel is crowded. I have engaged a single room with two beds. Will that be agreeable?"

Scott felt that he would have preferred to room alone, but he did not know how to make objection, and acquiesced in the arrangement.

"I would like to go upstairs at once," he said, "so that I may wash and change my underclothing."

"Very well."

They were shown up by a bell boy. The room on the third floor was rather small, but contained two single beds.

The place and its furnishings looked dingy, and even dirty, but Scott was not disposed to make any unnecessary complaint.

"I will take the bed near the door, if you don't object," said Lane.

"It is immaterial to me."

"Very well. By the way, didn't you say you had some Bank of England notes to exchange for American money?"

"Yes."

"While you are making your toilet, I might slip down to a broker's in Wall Street, and make the exchange. What do you say?"

Scott had his share of caution, and he remembered that his knowledge of Mr. Lane was very limited. Indeed, on reflection, it occurred to him that his sole knowledge of his acquaintance was derived from that gentleman himself.

"I think," he said, "that I will wait till to-morrow. I have a little silver with me that will do me till then."

"Oh, very well!" said Lane, in an indifferent tone, though his face expressed some disappointment. "I only thought that I might save you some trouble."

"Thank you, but I don't mind the trouble. I shall be interested to see Wall Street myself."

"All right, I will go there with you to-morrow, or whenever you choose."

"I should not like to take up your time. Probably you have business of your own to occupy you."

"Oh, I can get through a good deal of business in a short time. When you are ready, come downstairs. You will find me in the office."

Left to himself, Scott took a good wash and put on some clean linen, which he found refreshing. He divided his bank notes into two parcels, one of which he put in his inside coat pocket, the other in an inside pocket in his vest.

He took the hint from his father's custom.

In twenty minutes he was ready to go downstairs. He found Crawford Lane awaiting him in the office.

"Shall we go in to dinner now, Scott?" said his new friend, familiarly.

"Yes," answered Scott, for, grieving though he did over his father's loss, he had the appetite of a healthy boy.

The dinner was plain, and the table neither neat nor attractive, but Scott felt that he had no right to be fastidious, and upon the whole ate heartily.

"Now, shall we go for a walk?" suggested Lane.

"If you like."

Lane led the way to Broadway, pointing out various buildings and objects of interest.

"What do you think of New York?" he asked.

"This seems a very lively street."

"Yes, there is but one Broadway in the world."

"But London is larger."

"Yes, but less attractive."

"I hope I can find something to do. Then I shall be contented."

"Don't borrow any trouble about that. I have influence, and will see that you find employment," said Lane, patronizingly.

"You are very kind, Mr. Lane."

"I mean to be. I hope you will look upon me as a friend—and a brother."

These words were kind, but Scott hesitated to respond. He had seen no occasion to distrust his companion, but for some reason, unaccountable to himself, he could not give him his confidence.

They sauntered up Broadway till they reached Waverly Place. Just at the corner they attracted the attention of a boy of perhaps fifteen, who seemed to recognize Scott's companion.

He was a dark-haired, pleasant-looking boy, whose face seemed to indicate German descent.

"Mr. Lane," he said, touching Scott's companion on the arm.

Crawford Lane wheeled round and eyed the boy as if disconcerted.

"What do you want, boy?" he demanded, haughtily. "I don't know you."

"Oh, yes, you do. My name is John Schickling."

"I haven't the honor of knowing you, Mr. John Schickling," said Lane, in a tone of sarcasm.

"You know me well enough," said the boy, persistently.

"Just as you like, but I have no time to spend with you to-day. Pass on and let me alone," said Lane, impatiently.

"I will as soon as you pay me what you owe me."

"Why, you impudent young rascal, how should I owe you anything?"

"You hired a room from my mother at three dollars a week, and you went off owing three weeks' lodging, if you will give me nine dollars I will give you a receipt."

"This is ridiculous nonsense. I never lived in three-dollar rooms."

"All the same you had a room at our house for several weeks at the price. I have been looking for you every day since you left us."

"Boy," said Crawford Lane, "I have just returned from Europe, and therefore cannot have roomed in your house. If you have any doubt on the subject, my young friend here will tell you that we arrived in New York this morning on the ship Arcturus."

"That may be," rejoined John; "but it is two months since you left our house. You have had time to go to Europe and back."

"I can't be troubled with you to-day, boy. Get out of my way!"

"Where can I find you? Where are you stopping?"

Crawford Lane drew a card from his pocket, and scribbling an address on it, passed it to the boy. While John Schickling was trying to make it out, Lane hurried on with Scott.

"Fifth Avenue Hotel!" repeated Johnny. "Why, that's a very dear place. If Mr. Lane can afford to stay there, he can afford to pay mother's bill."

Later in the day John entered the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and went up to the desk.

He showed the card to the clerk.

"Is any gentleman of that name staying here?" he asked.

"No," answered the clerk, shaking his head.

"Has he ever stopped here?"

"No; I should remember the name if he had."

"Sold again!" said Johnny. "If I ever meet Mr. Lane now, he won't get off so easily."

"That is a very impudent boy!" said Lane, as he resumed his walk with Scott.

"I thought him a pleasant-looking fellow. Didn't you know him?"

"Never saw him before in the whole course of my life!"

"It is strange," mused Scott. "He called you by your name."

"Did he? I didn't observe."

"Yes."

"Then he must have overheard you addressing me."

"But he met us. He was not walking behind us."

"I can't undertake to explain it," said Lane, shrugging his shoulders. "The boy is evidently very artful. It is a put-up job."

Scott made no comment, but he had been favorably impressed by John Schickling's open, frank face, and he felt some doubts about relying on Lane's explanation.

CHAPTER III. SCOTT LEARNS A LESSON.

Soon after supper Crawford Lane said: "Suppose we go to some theater this evening. It will pass away the time pleasantly."

Scott looked pained.

"Mr. Lane," he said, "you seem to forget that it is scarcely more than a week since my poor father died."

"Excuse me, Scott. I ought to have remembered it. Shall you miss me if I leave you to spend the evening alone?"

"No, Mr. Lane. On some accounts I should prefer to be alone."

"Very well. You need not sit up for me, as I shall return late. Go to bed when you feel inclined, and we shall meet in the morning. So long!"

Scott remained in the office of the hotel. He did not object to being left alone, for he was forced to acknowledge that he did not care much for the company of Crawford Lane.

Circumstances had thrown them together, and Lane had been of some service to him in his absolute ignorance of the city, but Scott resolved to break away from him as soon as possible.

Looking toward the desk, he espied a copy of the New York directory.

That gave him an idea. He would look up the name of Ezra Little, and find out where he lived and what his business was.

Turning over the pages of the bulky volume, he came to the letter L. There was a long list of Littles. Finally, he found Ezra Little, dry goods, No. 849 Eighth Avenue; house, 392 West Forty-seventh Street.

"I will go to see him to-morrow," thought Scott, hopefully. "Since he has a store, he may find a place for me."

Just off the ship, he found that walking about the streets had fatigued him, and he went to bed about nine o'clock.

Lane had requested him to leave the door unlocked, so that he might get in without difficulty on his return from the theater. Indeed, Scott was obliged to do this, as Lane had carried off the key, intentionally or otherwise.

It has already been mentioned that Scott had divided his small capital into two equal parts, one of which he placed in the original envelope in his coat pocket, the other in an inside pocket in his vest.

The coat he hung over a chair, but the vest he thought it prudent to place under his pillow.

It was not long before Scott was sound asleep. He found himself more fatigued than he had supposed.

Crawford Lane had gone to Niblo's Theater, where there was a showy spectacular play which suited his fancy. On his way home, he stepped into a hotel, where he picked up a copy of the New York Herald.

He looked it over listlessly, but all at once he started in surprise, not unmixed with dismay. In the list of passengers on the Etruria, which had arrived very early the previous evening, he saw the name of Justin Wood.

There was nothing remarkable about the name, but it so happened that it had peculiar associations for Crawford Lane.

Seven weeks before, he had gone abroad with Justin Wood, a wealthy young man, as his companion. Wood was liberal, and he had taken a fancy to Lane to such an extent that he offered to defray his expenses on a short European trip.

In London, Crawford Lane managed to rob his companion of a considerable sum of money, and, of course, disappeared directly afterward.

For three weeks he spent money profusely. At the end of that time, he had barely enough left to buy a ticket for New York by the ship Arcturus.

When he landed, his funds had dwindled to three dollars, but he expected to increase them by appropriating the Bank of England notes which he learned were in the possession of Scott Walton.

But the arrival of Justin Wood complicated matters. He must keep out of the way of the man he had robbed, and this would not be easy while both were in the same city.

"Suppose he had been at the theater this evening!" he said to himself, nervously.

As Justin Wood was an athlete, an encounter would probably have been far from pleasant for his faithless friend.

Crawford Lane pursued his way homeward in a very serious frame of mind.

"It is lucky," he thought, "that fate has thrown in my way this green boy. With his hundred dollars I will start to-morrow for Chicago, and stay there for the present. That will keep me out of the way of Justin Wood."

It was about midnight when Lane reached the hotel on the Bowery. He went upstairs at once.

As he lit the gas he turned his gaze on the bed near the window. Scott was fast asleep, with one arm thrown carelessly over the quilt.

"Sleeping like a top!" murmured Lane. "These young boys always sleep sound. I used to when I was a boy. I had an easy conscience then," he continued, with a half laugh. "I'm not quite so innocent as I was, but I know a lot more. Well, I must get to bed, for I must be up bright and early to-morrow morning."

He carefully locked the door, for he did not want anyone else to anticipate him in his dishonest plans.

Crawford Lane slept rather later than he intended. When, upon opening his eyes, he consulted his watch he found that it was half-past seven o'clock.

"I ought to have been up an hour ago," he said to himself. "Suppose the boy is awake, all my plans would be upset."

He dressed in great haste, and then, with one eye upon the sleeping boy, tiptoed to the chair over which Scott's coat was hanging, and drew out the envelope from the inside pocket.

He would have examined the contents, but Scott stirred slightly, and Lane felt that it would be the part of prudence to leave the room at once.

He went downstairs and reported at the desk, valise in hand.

"I am obliged to take an early train for the West," he said, "and will settle my part of the bill."

"Will the boy remain?"

"Yes; his uncle will call for him during the day."

"Very well, sir. Breakfast is on the table."

"I shall not be able to stop, as I am already late. I left the boy asleep. If he inquires for me you may tell him I will write him from—Buffalo."

"Very well, sir."

Lane went out and got breakfast on Fulton Street.

"I hope I have seen the youngster for the last time," he said to himself.

There was one awkward thing in his way. He would have preferred to leave the city at once, but outside of the English notes, he had scarcely any money, and it would be necessary to wait till ten o'clock, when he could call at some broker's and exchange them for American bills.

Lane went into the Astor House and entered one of the small reading rooms on the second floor.

Then, for the first time, he opened the envelope and examined his booty.

To his great disappointment, he found but half the sum he expected to find—but ten pounds in place of twenty.

"Confusion!" he muttered. "Was the boy deceiving me? He certainly said that he had twenty pounds."

The explanation of the discrepancy readily suggested itself. The boy had placed the balance of the notes somewhere else.

"I wish I had had the sense to examine the envelope before I left the room."

But the boy might have waked up, and though he regretted not having taken all his money, Lane felt that he must make the ten pounds do.

Meanwhile Scott slept on till eight o'clock.

When he opened his eyes he looked over to the other bed. Evidently it had been slept in, but it seemed now to be unoccupied.

It occurred to Scott as singular that his companion, who must have got to bed late, should have risen so early, but no suspicion of wrong-doing entered his mind till he put on his coat. Then he discovered at once the disappearance of the envelope.

Scott was startled.

"He has stolen my money," he instantly decided.

He felt in the pocket of his vest. The other ten notes were there, fortunately, but Scott was by no means satisfied to give up the ten he had lost. He hurried down the stairs, and in some excitement went up to the hotel clerk.

CHAPTER IV. TRACKING THE THIEF.

With some agitation Scott addressed the clerk. "Has the gentleman who came with me left the hotel?" he asked.

"Yes," was the answer, "about an hour since."

"Isn't he coming back?"

"No. He told me to tell you that he was called suddenly to the West. He will write to you from Buffalo."

Scott felt limp and helpless. He turned pale and clung to the counter for support.

He was only a boy, and he realized that with his companion went half his scanty means.

"Didn't Mr. Lane take breakfast here?" he asked. "Perhaps he is still here."

"No; he said he could not wait. He wanted to catch the early train. It is strange he didn't tell you he was going. You are young to be left alone."

"I don't mind that," said Scott, bitterly, "but he has robbed me."

"Eh?" returned the clerk, briskly. "What's that?"

"He stole ten pounds in English notes from my pocket while I slept."

The clerk whistled.

"Is he a relation of yours?" he asked.

"No; he was only a fellow passenger on the ship Arcturus, which arrived in this port yesterday morning."

"Then you haven't know him long?"

"No."

"I am very much surprised. He seemed like a gentleman."

"What shall I do?" asked Scott, feeling that he needed advice from some one who knew the world better than he did.

"You might inform the police."

"But if he has already left the city, I am afraid it wouldn't do much good."

"Did he take all you had?" inquired the clerk, with the sudden thought that in that case Scott would be unable to pay his hotel bill.

"No; I divided my money into two parts. He only took half."

"That was lucky," said the clerk, relieved. "Perhaps he hasn't left the city yet," he added, after a pause.

"But he was going for an early train, you told me."

"That is what he said. He might wait till after ten o'clock to change the notes. Have you the number of them?"

"No, or—yes, I can tell what they would be from those I have left. Probably they would come directly before or directly after those."

"Then you stand a chance to recover them, or at any rate to have him arrested. It is too early to do anything yet. You had better eat breakfast, and then go down to Wall Street. That is where the brokers have their offices, and you may meet him there."

"Thank you."

"Do you mean to remain here?"

"Yes, for the present. I shall probably stay till to-morrow, at any rate."

Scott went in to breakfast, and notwithstanding his loss he ate heartily. He was of a sanguine temperament and disposed to make the best of circumstances. So he congratulated himself on having retained a part of his money.

"When do the brokers' offices open?" he asked, when he again saw the clerk.

"At ten o'clock."

"I will walk leisurely toward Wall Street, then. If Mr. Lane comes back——"

"If he does, we will keep him. But I don't think there is any chance of it."

Scott walked down to the City Hall Park, and then proceeded down Broadway in the direction of Trinity Church, which, he was told, faced the head of Wall Street.