Alger Horatio Jr.
Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune
CHAPTER X.
A RAILROAD ACQUAINTANCE
The distance by rail from Wyncombe to New York is fifty miles. When about eight years of age Chester had made the journey, but not since then. Everything was new to him, and, of course, interesting. His attention was drawn from the scenery by the passage of a train boy through the cars with a bundle of new magazines and papers.
"Here is all the magazines, Puck and Judge."
"How much do you charge for Puck?" asked Chester, with interest, for it was Puck that had accepted his first sketch.
"Ten cents."
"Give me one."
Chester took the paper and handed the train boy a dime.
Then he began to look over the pages. All at once he gave a start, his face flushed, his heart beat with excitement. There was his sketch looking much more attractive on the fair pages of the periodical than it had done in his pencil drawing. He kept looking at it. It seemed to have a fascination for him. It was his first appearance in a paper, and it was a proud moment for him.
"What are you looking at so intently, my son?" asked the gentleman who sat at his side. He was a man of perhaps middle age, and he wore spectacles, which gave him a literary aspect.
"I—I am looking at this sketch," answered Chester, in slight confusion.
"Let me see it."
Chester handed over the paper and regarded his seat mate with some anxiety. He wanted to see what impression this, his maiden effort, would have on a staid man of middle age.
"Ha! very good!" said his companion, "but I don't see anything very remarkable about it. Yet you were looking at it for as much as five minutes."
"Because it is mine," said Chester, half proudly, half in embarrassment.
"Ah! that is different. Did you really design it?"
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose you got pay for it. I understand Puck pays for everything it publishes."
"Yes, sir; I got ten dollars."
"Ten dollars!" repeated the gentleman, in surprise. "Really that is very handsome. Do you often produce such sketches?"
"I have just begun, sir. That is the first I have had published."
"You are beginning young. How old are you?"
"I am almost sixteen."
"That is young for an artist. Why, I am forty-five, and I haven't a particle of talent in that direction. My youngest son asked me the other day to draw a cow on the slate. I did as well as I could, and what do you think he said?"
"What did he say?" asked Chester, interested.
"He said, 'Papa, if it wasn't for the horns I should think it was a horse.'"
Chester laughed. It was a joke he could appreciate.
"I suppose all cannot draw," he said.
"It seems not. May I ask you if you live in New York—the city, I mean?"
"No, sir."
"But you are going there?"
"Yes, sir."
"To live?"
"I hope so. A friend has written advising me to come. He says I will be better placed to do art work, and dispose of my sketches."
"Are you expecting to earn your living that way?"
"I hope to some time, but not at first."
"I am glad to hear it. I should think you would find it very precarious."
"I expect to work in a real estate office at five dollars a week, and only to spend my leisure hours in art work."
"That seems sensible. Have you been living in the country?"
"Yes, sir, in Wyncombe."
"I have heard of the place, but was never there. So you are just beginning the battle of life?"
"Yes, sir."
"It has just occurred to me that I may be able to throw some work in your way. I am writing an ethnological work, and it will need to be illustrated. I can't afford to pay such prices as you receive from Puck and other periodicals of the same class, but then the work will not be original. It will consist chiefly of copies. I should think I might need a hundred illustrations, and I am afraid I could not pay more than two dollars each."
A hundred illustrations at two dollars each! Why, that would amount to two hundred dollars, and there would be no racking his brains for original ideas.
"If you think I can do the work, sir, I shall be glad to undertake it," said Chester, eagerly.
"I have no doubt you can do it, for it will not require an expert. Suppose you call upon me some evening within a week."
"I will do so gladly, sir, if you will tell me where you live."
"Here is my card," said his companion, drawing out his case, and handing a card to Chester.
This was what Chester read:
"Prof. Edgar Hazlitt."
"Do you know where Lexington Avenue is?" asked the professor.
"I know very little about New York. In fact, nothing at all," Chester was obliged to confess.
"You will soon find your way about. I have no doubt you will find me," and the professor mentioned the number. "Shall we say next Wednesday evening, at eight o'clock sharp? That's if you have no engagement for that evening," he added, with a smile.
Chester laughed at the idea of his having any evening engagements in a city which he had not seen for eight years.
"If you are engaged to dine with William Vanderbilt or Jay Gould on that evening," continued the professor, with a merry look, "I will say Thursday."
"If I find I am engaged in either place, I think I can get off," said Chester.
"Then Wednesday evening let it be!"
As the train neared New York Chester began to be solicitous about finding Mr. Conrad in waiting for him. He knew nothing about the city, and would feel quite helpless should the artist not be present to meet him. He left the car and walked slowly along the platform, looking eagerly on all sides for the expected friendly face.
But nowhere could he see Herbert Conrad.
In some agitation he took from his pocket the card containing his friend's address, and he could hardly help inwardly reproaching him for leaving an inexperienced boy in the lurch. He was already beginning to feel homesick and forlorn, when a bright-looking lad of twelve, with light-brown hair, came up and asked: "Is this Chester Rand?"
"Yes," answered Chester, in surprise. "How do you know my name?"
"I was sent here by Mr. Conrad to meet you."
Chester brightened up at once. So his friend had not forgotten him after all.
"Mr. Conrad couldn't come to meet you, as he had an important engagement, so he sent me to bring you to his room. I am Rob Fisher."
"I suppose that means Robert Fisher?"
"Yes, but everybody calls me Rob."
"Are you a relation of Mr. Conrad?"
"Yes, I am his cousin. I live just outside of the city, but I am visiting my cousin for the day. I suppose you don't know much about New York?"
"I know nothing at all."
"I am pretty well posted, and I come into the city pretty often. Just follow me. Shall I carry your valise?"
"Oh, no; I am older than you and better able to carry it. What street is this?"
"Forty-second Street. We will go to Fifth Avenue, and then walk down to Thirty-fourth Street."
"That is where Mr. Conrad lives, isn't it?"
"Yes; it is one of the wide streets, like Fourteenth and Twenty-third, and this street."
"There are some fine houses here."
"I should think so. You live in Wyncombe, don't you?"
"Yes; the houses are all of wood there."
"I suppose so. Mr. Conrad tells me you are an artist," said Rob, eying his new friend with curiosity.
"In a small way."
"I should like to see some of your pictures."
"I can show you one," and Chester opened his copy of Puck and pointed to the sketch already referred to.
"Did you really draw this yourself?"
"Yes."
"And did you get any money for it?"
"Ten dollars," answered Chester, with natural pride.
"My! I wish I could get money for drawing."
"Perhaps you can some time."
Bob shook his head.
"I haven't any talent that way."
"What house is that?" asked Chester, pointing to the marble mansion at the corner of Thirty-fourth Street.
"That used to belong to A. T. Stewart, the great merchant. I suppose you haven't any houses like that in Wyncombe?"
"Oh, no."
"We will turn down here. This is Thirty-fourth Street."
They kept on, crossing Sixth and Seventh Avenues, and presently stood in front of a neat, brownstone house between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.
"That is where Mr. Conrad lives," said Rob.
CHAPTER XI.
CHESTER'S FIRST EXPERIENCES IN NEW YORK
The bell was rung, and a servant opened the door.
"I will go up to Mr. Conrad's room," said Rob.
The servant knew him, and no objection was made. They went up two flights to the front room on the third floor. Rob opened the door without ceremony and entered, followed by Chester.
He found himself in a spacious room, neatly furnished and hung around with engravings, with here and there an oil painting. There was a table near the window with a portfolio on it. Here, no doubt, Mr. Conrad did some of his work. There was no bed in the room, but through an open door Chester saw a connecting bedroom.
"This is a nice room," he said.
"Yes, cousin Herbert likes to be comfortable. Here, give me your valise, and make yourself at home."
Chester sat down by the window and gazed out on the broad street. It was a pleasant, sunny day, and everything looked bright and attractive.
"You are going to live in New York, aren't you?" asked Rob.
"Yes, if I can make a living here."
"I guess cousin Herbert will help you."
"He has already. He has obtained a place for me in a real estate office at five dollars a week."
"I think I could live on five dollars a week."
"I suppose it costs considerable to live in New York."
Chester felt no apprehension, however. He was sure he should succeed, and, indeed, he had reason to feel encouraged, for had he not already engaged two hundred dollars' worth of work?—and this sum seemed as much to him as two thousand would have done to Mr. Conrad.
An hour glided by rapidly, and then a step was heard on the stairs.
"That's cousin Herbert," said Rob, and he ran to open the door.
"Hello, Rob. Did you find Chester?"
"Yes, here he is!"
"Glad to see you, Chester," said the artist, shaking his hand cordially; "you must excuse my not going to meet you, but I was busily engaged on a large drawing for Harper's Weekly, and, feeling in a favorable mood, I didn't want to lose the benefit of my inspiration. You will find when you have more experience that an artist can accomplish three times as much when in the mood.
"I am glad you didn't leave off for me. Rob has taken good care of me."
"Yes, Rob is used to the city; I thought you would be in safe hands. And how do you like my quarters?"
"They are very pleasant. And the street is so wide, too."
"Yes, I like Thirty-fourth street. I lodge, but I don't board here."
Chester was surprised to hear this. In Wyncombe everyone took his meals in the same house in which he lodged.
"And that reminds me, don't you feel hungry? I don't ask Rob, for he always has an appetite. How is it with you, Chester?"
"I took a very early breakfast."
"So I thought," laughed Conrad. "Well, put on our coats, and we'll go to Trainor's."
They walked over to Sixth Avenue and entered a restaurant adjoining the Standard Theater. It was handsomely decorated, and seemed to Chester quite the finest room he was ever in. Ranged in three rows were small tables, each designed for four persons. One of these was vacant, and Conrad took a seat on one side, placing the two boys opposite.
"Now," he said, "I had better do the ordering. We will each order a different dish, and by sharing them we will have a variety."
There is no need to mention of what the dinner consisted. All three enjoyed it, particularly the two boys. It was the first meal Chester had taken in a restaurant, and he could not get rid of a feeling of embarrassment at the thought that the waiters, who were better dressed than many of the prominent citizens of Wyncombe, were watching him. He did not, however, allow this feeling to interfere with his appetite.
"Do you always eat here, Mr. Conrad?" asked Chester.
"No; sometimes it is more convenient to go elsewhere. Now and then I take a table d'hote dinner."
"I don't think I can afford to come here often," Chester remarked, after consulting the bill of fare and the prices set down opposite the different dishes.
"No; it will be better for you to secure a boarding place. You want to be economical for the present. How did you leave your mother?"
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Conrad. We have been very fortunate in securing a boarder who pays eight dollars a week, so that mother thinks she can get along for the present without help from me."
"That is famous. Where did you get such a boarder in Wyncombe?"
"It is a lady, the cousin of Mr. Gardener, the lawyer. She will be company for mother."
"It is an excellent arrangement. Now, boys, if you have finished, I will go up and settle the bill."
As they left the restaurant, Mr. Conrad said:
"In honor of your arrival, I shall not work any more to-day. Now, shall we go back to my room, or would you like to take a walk and see something of the city?"
The unanimous decision was for the stroll.
Mr. Conrad walked down Broadway with the boys, pointing out any notable buildings on the way. Chester was dazzled. The great city exceeded his anticipations. Everything seemed on so grand a scale to the country boy, and with his joyous excitement there mingled the thought: "And I, too, am going to live here. I shall have a share in the great city, and mingle in its scenes every day."
Rob was used to the city, and took matters quietly. He was not particularly impressed. Yet he could not help enjoying the walk, so perfect was the weather. As they passed Lord & Taylor's, a lady came out of the store.
"Why, mother," said Rob, "is that you?"
"Yes, Rob. I came in on a shopping excursion, and I want you to go with me and take care of me."
Rob grumbled a little, but, of course, acceded to his mother's request. So Chester was left alone with Mr. Conrad.
"How do you feel about coming to New York, Chester?" asked his friend. "You are not afraid of failure, are you?"
"No, Mr. Conrad, I feel very hopeful. Something has happened to me to-day that encourages me very much."
"What is it?"
Chester told the story of his meeting with Prof. Hazlitt, and the proposition which had been made to him.
"Why, this is famous," exclaimed Conrad, looking pleased. "I know of Prof. Hazlitt, though I never met him. He was once professor in a Western college, but inheriting a fortune from his uncle, came to New York to pursue his favorite studies. He does not teach now, but, I believe, delivers an annual course of lectures before the students of Columbia College. He is a shrewd man, and the offer of employment from him is indeed a compliment. I am very glad you met him. He may throw other work in your way."
"I hope I can give him satisfaction," said Chester. "It makes me feel rich whenever I think of the sum I am to receive. Two hundred dollars is a good deal of money."
"To a boy like you, yes. It doesn't go very far with me now. It costs a good deal for me to live. How much do you think I have to pay for my room—without board?"
"Three dollars a week," guessed Chester.
Mr. Conrad smiled.
"I pay ten dollars a week," he said.
Chester's breath was quite taken away.
"Why, I did not think the whole house would cost as much—for rent."
"You will get a more correct idea of New York expenses after a while. Now, let me come back to your plans. You had better stay with me for a few days."
"But I am afraid I shall be putting you to inconvenience, Mr. Conrad."
"No; it will be pleasant for me to have your company. On Monday morning I will go with you to the office of the real estate broker who is to employ you."
Chester passed Sunday pleasantly, going to church in the forenoon, and taking a walk with Mr. Conrad in the afternoon. He wrote a short letter to his mother, informing her of his safe arrival in the city, but not mentioning his engagement by Prof. Hazlitt. He preferred to wait till he had an interview with the professor, and decided whether he could do the work satisfactorily.
"Your future employer is Clement Fairchild," said the artist. "His office is on West Fourteenth Street, between Seventh and Eight Avenues."
"What sort of a man is he?" asked Chester.
"I don't know him very well, but I believe he does a very good business. You will know more about him in a week than I can tell you. There is one comfort, and that is that you are not wholly dependent upon him. I advise you, however, to say nothing in the office about your art work. Business men sometimes have a prejudice against outside workers. They feel that an employee ought to be solely occupied with their interests."
"I will remember what you say, Mr. Conrad."
Chester looked forward with considerable curiosity and some anxiety to his coming interview with Mr. Fairchild.
CHAPTER XII.
A REAL ESTATE OFFICE
About eight o'clock on Monday morning Chester, accompanied by his friend Conrad, turned down Fourteenth Street from Sixth Avenue and kept on till they reached an office over which was the sign:
"Clement Fairchild, Real Estate."
"This is the place, Chester," said the artist. "I will go in and introduce you."
They entered the office. It was of fair size, and contained a high desk, an office table covered with papers, and several chairs. There was but one person in the office, a young man with black whiskers and mustache and an unamiable expression. He sat on a high stool, but he was only reading the morning paper. He turned lazily as he heard the door open, and let his glance rest on Mr. Conrad.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, in a careless tone.
"Is Mr. Fairchild in?" asked the artist.
"No."
"When will he be in?"
"Can't say, I am sure. If you have any business, I will attend to it."
"I have no special business, except to introduce my young friend here."
"Indeed!" said the clerk, impudently. "Who is he?"
"He is going to work here," returned Mr. Conrad, sharply.
"What?" queried the bookkeeper, evidently taken by surprise. "Who says he is going to work here?"
"Mr. Fairchild."
"He didn't say anything to me about it."
"Very remarkable, certainly," rejoined Conrad. "I presume you have no objection."
"Look here," said the bookkeeper, "I think there is some mistake about this. The place was all but promised to my cousin."
"You'll have to settle that matter with your employer. Apparently he doesn't tell you everything, Mr. –"
"My name is Mullins—David Mullins," said the bookkeeper, with dignity.
"Then, Mr. Mullins, I have the pleasure of introducing to you Chester Rand, late of Wyncombe, now of New York, who will be associated with you in the real estate business."
"Perhaps so," sneered Mullins.
"He will stay here till Mr. Fairchild makes his appearance."
"Oh, he can sit down if he wants to."
"I shall have to leave you, Chester, as I must get to work. When Mr. Fairchild comes in, show him this note from me."
"All right, sir."
Chester was rather chilled by his reception. He saw instinctively that his relations with Mr. Mullins were not likely to be cordial, and he suspected that if the bookkeeper could get him into trouble he would.
After the artist had left the office, Mr. David Mullins leisurely picked his teeth with his pen-knife, and fixed a scrutinizing glance on Chester, of whom he was evidently taking the measure.
"Do you knew Mr. Fairchild?" he at length asked, abruptly.
"No, sir."
"It's queer he should have engaged you as office boy."
Chester did not think it necessary to make any reply to this remark.
"How much salary do you expect to get?"
"Five dollars a week."
"Who told you so?"
"The gentleman who came in with me."
"Who is he?"
"Mr. Herbert Conrad, an artist and draughtsman."
"Never heard of him."
Mr. Mullins spoke as if this was enough to settle the status of Mr. Conrad. A man whom he did not know must be obscure.
"So, Mr. Fairchild engaged you through Mr. Conrad, did he?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know anything about the city?"
"Not much."
"Then I can't imagine why Mr. Fairchild should have hired you. You can't be of much use here."
Chester began to feel discouraged. All this was certainly very depressing.
"I shall try to make myself useful," he said.
"Oh, yes," sneered Mr. Mullins, "new boys always say that."
There was a railing stretching across the office about midway, dividing it into two parts. The table and desk were inside. The remaining space was left for the outside public.
A poor woman entered the office, her face bearing the impress of sorrow.
"Is Mr. Fairchild in?" she asked.
"No, he isn't."
"I've come in about the month's rent."
"Very well! You can pay it to me. What name?"
"Mrs. Carlin, sir."
"Ha! yes. Your rent is six dollars. Pass it over, and I will give you a receipt."
"But I came to say that I had only three dollars and a half toward it."
"And why have you only three dollars and a half, I'd like to know?" said Mullins, rudely.
"Because my Jimmy has been sick three days. He's a telegraph boy, and I'm a widow, wid only me bye to help me."
"I have nothing to do with the sickness of your son. When you hired your rooms, you agreed to pay the rent, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir; but–"
"And you didn't say anything about Jimmy being sick or well."
"True for you, sir; but–"
"I think, Mrs. Carlin, you'll have to get hold of the other two dollars and a half some how, or out you'll go. See?"
"Shure, sir, you are very hard with a poor widow," said Mrs. Carlin, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.
"Business is business, Mrs. Carlin."
"If Mr. Fairchild were in, he'd trate me better than you. Will he be in soon?"
"Perhaps he will, and perhaps he won't. You can pay the money to me."
"I won't, sir, beggin' your pardon. I'd rather wait and see him."
"Very well! you can take the consequences," and Mr. Mullins eyed the widow with an unpleasant and threatening glance.
She looked very sad, and Chester felt that he should like to give the bookkeeper a good shaking. He could not help despising a man who appeared to enjoy distressing an unfortunate woman whose only crime was poverty.
At this moment the office door opened, and a gentleman of perhaps forty entered. He was a man with a kindly face, and looked far less important than the bookkeeper. Mr. Mullins, on seeing him, laid aside his unpleasant manner, and said, in a matter-of-fact tone:
"This is Mrs. Carlin. She owes six dollars rent, and only brings three dollars and a half."
"How is this, Mrs. Carlin?" inquired Mr. Fairchild, for this was he.
Mrs. Carlin repeated her story of Jimmy's illness and her consequent inability to pay the whole rent.
"When do you think Jimmy will get well?" asked the agent, kindly.
"He's gettin' better fast, sir. I think he'll be able to go to work by Wednesday. If you'll only wait a little while, sir–"
"How long have you been paying rent here?" asked Mr. Fairchild.
"This is the third year, sir."
"And have you ever been in arrears before?"
"No, sir."
"Then you deserve consideration. Mr. Mullins, give Mrs. Carlin a receipt on account, and she will pay the balance as soon as she can."
"Thank you, sir. May the saints reward you, sir! Shure, I told this gentleman that you'd make it all right with me. He was very hard with me."
"Mr. Mullins," said the agent, sternly, "I have before now told you that our customers are to be treated with consideration and kindness."
David Mullins did not reply, but he dug his pen viciously into the paper on which he was writing a receipt, and scowled, but as his back was turned to his employer, the latter did not see it.
When Mrs. Carlin had left the office, Chester thought it best to introduce himself.
"I am Chester Rand, from Wyncombe," he said. "Mr. Conrad came round to introduce me, but you were not in."
"Ah, yes, you have come to be my office boy. I am glad to see you and hope you will like the city. Mr. Mullins, you will set this boy to work."
"He told me he was to work here, but as you had not mentioned it I thought there must be some mistake. He says he doesn't know much about the city."
"Neither did I when I first came here from a country town."
"It will be rather inconvenient, sir. Now, my cousin whom I mentioned to you is quite at home all over the city."
"I am glad to hear it. He will find this knowledge of service—in some other situation," added Mr. Fairchild, significantly.
David Mullins bit his lip and was silent. He could not understand why Felix Gordon, his cousin, had failed to impress Mr. Fairchild favorably. He had not noticed that Felix entered the office with a cigarette in his mouth, which he only threw away when he was introduced to the real estate agent.
"I'll have that boy out of this place within a month, or my name isn't David Mullins," he said to himself.
Chester could not read what was passing through his mind, but he felt instinctively that the bookkeeper was his enemy.
