Phil touched his hat politely, and said:
"Good-morning."
"Good-morning!" returned his employer, regarding him sharply. "Are you the boy I hired yesterday?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come up-stairs, then."
Phil followed Mr. Pitkin up-stairs, and they walked together through the sales-room.
"I hope you understand," said Mr. Pitkin brusquely, "that I have engaged you at the request of Mr. Carter and to oblige him."
"I feel grateful to Mr. Carter," said Phil, not quite knowing what was coming next.
"I shouldn't myself have engaged a boy of whom I knew nothing, and who could give me no city references."
"I hope you won't be disappointed in me," said Phil.
"I hope not," answered Mr. Pitkin, in a tone which seemed to imply that he rather expected to be.
Phil began to feel uncomfortable. It seemed evident that whatever he did would be closely scrutinized, and that in an unfavorable spirit.
Mr. Pitkin paused before a desk at which was standing a stout man with grayish hair.
"Mr. Sanderson," he said, "this is the new errand boy. His name is--what is it, boy?"
"Philip Brent."
"You will give him something to do. Has the mail come in?"
"No; we haven't sent to the post-office yet."
"You may send this boy at once."
Mr. Sanderson took from the desk a key and handed it to Philip.
"That is the key to our box," he said. "Notice the number--534. Open it and bring the mail.
Don't loiter on the way."
"Yes, sir."
Philip took the key and left the warehouse.
When he reached the street he said to himself:
"I wonder where the post-office is?"
He did not like to confess to Mr. Sanderson that he did not know, for it would probably have been considered a disqualification for the post which he was filling.
"I had better walk to Broadway," he said to himself. "I suppose the post-office must be on the principal street."
In this Phil was mistaken. At that time the post-office was on Nassau Street, in an old church which had been utilized for a purpose very different from the one to which it had originally been devoted.
Reaching Broadway, Phil was saluted by a bootblack, with a grimy but honest-looking face.
"Shine your boots, mister?" said the boy, with a grin.
"Not this morning."
"Some other morning, then?"
"Yes," answered Phil.
"Sorry you won't give me a job," said the bootblack.
"My taxes comes due to-day, and I ain't got enough to pay 'em."
Phil was amused, for his new acquaintance scarcely looked like a heavy taxpayer.
"Do you pay a big tax?" he asked.
"A thousand dollars or less," answered the knight of the brush.
"I guess it's less," said Phil.
"That's where your head's level, young chap."
"Is the post-office far from here?"
"Over half a mile, I reckon."
"Is it on this street?"
"No, it's on Nassau Street."
"If you will show me the way there I'll give you ten cents."
"All right! The walk'll do me good. Come on!"
"What's your name?" asked Phil, who had become interested in his new acquaintance.
"The boys call me Ragged ****."
It was indeed the lively young bootblack whose history was afterward given in a volume which is probably familiar to many of my readers. At this time he was only a bootblack, and had not yet begun to feel the spur of that ambition which led to his subsequent prosperity.
"That's a queer name," said Phil.
"I try to live up to it," said ****, with a comical glance at his ragged coat, which had originally been worn by a man six feet in height.
He swung his box over his shoulder, and led the way to the old post-office.
