CHAPTER XIV. A STORE IN THE BOWERY.

T HE store was crowded with a miscellaneous collection of cheap articles. That such a business should yield such large profits struck Oliver with surprise, but he reflected that it was possible, and that he was not qualified to judge of the extent of trade in a city store.

A tall man, pock-marked, and with reddish hair, stood behind the counter, and, with the exception of a young clerk of nineteen, appeared to be the only salesman. This was Ezekiel Bond.

"How are you, Ezekiel?" said Mr. Kenyon affably, advancing to the counter.

"Pretty well, thank you, uncle," said the other, twisting his features into the semblance of a smile. "When did you come into town?"

"This morning only."

"That isn't Roland, is it?"

"Oh, no; it is my step-son, Oliver Conrad. Oliver, this is my nephew, Ezekiel Bond."

"Glad to see you, Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel, putting out his hand as if he were a pump-handle. "Do you like New York?"

"I haven't seen much of it yet. I think I shall."

"Ezekiel," said Mr. Kenyon, "can I see you a few minutes in private?"

"Oh, certainly. We'll go into the back room. Will Mr. Conrad come, too?"

"No; he can remain with your clerk while we converse."

"John, take care of Mr. Conrad," said Ezekiel.

"All right, sir."

John Meadows was a Bowery boy, and better adapted for the store he was in than for one in a more fashionable thoroughfare.

"The boss wants me to entertain you," he remarked, when they were alone. "How shall I do it?"

"Don't trouble yourself," said Oliver, smiling.

"I'd offer you a cigarette, only the boss don't allow smoking in the store."

"I don't smoke," said Oliver.

"You don't! Where was you brung up?" asked John.

"In the country."

"Oh, that accounts for it. Mean ter say you've never puffed a weed?"

"I never have."

"Then you don't know what 'tis to enjoy yourself. Who's that man you came in with?"

"My step-father."

"I've seen him here before. He's related to my boss. I don't think any more of him for that."

"Why not?" asked Oliver, rather amused. "Don't you like Mr. Bond?"

"Come here," said John.

Oliver approached the counter, and leaning over, John whispered mysteriously:

"He's a file!"

"A what?"

"A file, and an awful rasping one at that. He's as mean as dirt."

"I am sorry to hear that, for Mr. Kenyon wants me to begin business in this store."

John whistled.

"That's a go," he said. "Are you going to do it?"

"I suppose I shall try it. If I don't like it I can give it up at any time."

"Then I wish I was you. I don't like it, but I can't give it up, or I might have to live on nothing a week. I don't see what the boss wants an extra hand for. There aint enough trade to keep us busy."

"Mr. Kenyon tells me Mr. Bond has made money."

"Well, I am glad to hear it. The boss is always a-complainin' that trade is dull, and he must cut me down. If he does I'll sink into a hungry grave, that's all."

"How much do you get?" asked Oliver, amused by his companion's tone.

"Eight dollars a week; and what's that to support a gentleman on? I tell you what, I haven't had a new necktie for three months."

"That is hard."

"Hard! I should say it was hard. Look at them shoes!"

And John, bounding over the counter, displayed a foot which had successfully struggled out of its encasement on one side. "Isn't it disgraceful that a gentleman should have to wear such foot-cases as them?"

"Won't Mr. Bond pay you more?" asked Oliver.

"I guess not. I asked him last week, and he lectured me on the dulness of trade. Then he went on for to show that eight dollars was a fortune, and I'd orter keep my carriage on it. He's a regular old file, he is."

"From what you say, I don't think I shall get very high pay," said Oliver.

"It's different with you. You're a relation. You'll be took care of."

"I'm not related to Mr. Bond," said Oliver, sensible of a feeling of repugnance. "If it depends on that, I shall expect no favors."

"You'll get 'em, all the same. His uncle's your step-father."

"Where do you live?"

"Oh, I've got a room round on Bleecker Street. It's about big enough for a good-sized cat to live in. I have to double myself up nights so as not to overflow into the entry."

"Why don't you get a better room?"

"Why don't I live on Fifth Avenue, and set up my carriage? 'Cause it can't be done on eight dollars a week. I have to live accordin' to my income."

"That's where you are right. How much do you have to pay for your room?"

"A dollar and a half a week."

"I don't ask from curiosity. I suppose I shall have to get a place somewhere."

"When you get ready, come to me. I'll find you a place."

Here an old lady entered—an old lady from the country evidently, in a bombazine dress and a bonnet which might have been in fashion twenty years before. She was short-sighted, and peered inquisitively at Oliver and John.

"Which of you youngsters keeps this store?" she enquired.

"I am the gentleman, ma'am," said John, with a flourish.

"Oh, you be! Well, I'm from the country."

"Never should have thought it, ma'am. You look like an uptown lady I know—Mrs. General Buster."

"You don't say," returned the old lady, evidently feeling complimented. "I'm Mrs. Deacon Grimes of Pottsville."

"Is the deacon well?" asked John, with a ludicrous assumption of interest.

"He's pooty smart," answered Mrs. Grimes, "though he's troubled sometimes with a pain in the back."

"So am I," said John; "but I know what to do for it."

"What do you do?"

"Have somebody rub me down with a brick-bat."

"The deacon wouldn't allow no one to do that," said the old lady, accepting the remedy in good faith.

"Can I sell you a silk necktie this morning, ma'am?" asked John.

"No; I want some handkerchers for the deacon; red silk ones he wants."

"We haven't any of that kind. Here's some nice cotton ones, a good deal cheaper."

"Will they wash?" asked Mrs. Grimes cautiously.

"Of course they will. We import 'em ourselves."

"Well, I don't know. If you'll sell 'em real cheap I'll take two."

Then ensued a discussion of the price, which Oliver found very amusing. Finally the old lady took two handkerchiefs and retired.

"Is that the way you do business?" asked Oliver.

"Yes. We have all sorts of customers, and have to please 'em all. The old woman wanted to know if they would wash. The color'll all wash out in one washing."

"I am afraid you cheated her, then."

"What's the odds? She wasn't willing to pay for a good article."

"I don't believe I can do business that way," thought Oliver.

Just then Mr. Kenyon returned with Ezekiel Bond from the back room in which they had been conferring.

"It's all settled, Oliver," he said. "Mr. Bond has agreed to take you, and you are to begin work next Monday morning."

Oliver bowed. The place did not seem quite so desirable to him now.

"I will be on hand," he answered.

When Mr. Kenyon and he had left the store, the former said:

"Every Saturday evening Mr. Bond will hand you twelve dollars, out of which you will be expected to defray all your expenses."

"The other clerk told me he only got eight."

"Part of this sum comes from me. I don't want you to be pinched. You have been brought up differently from him. I hope you'll like my nephew."

"I hope I shall," said Oliver, but his tone implied doubt.