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you, sir,” said Phil, gratified.

      “And you deserve a good place—better than you will probably get.”

      Phil listened attentively. The last clause was not quite so satisfactory.

      “Yes,” said Mr. Carter, evidently talking to himself, “I must get Pitkin to take him.”

      Phil knew that the lady whom he had already met was named Pitkin, and he rightly concluded that it was her husband who was meant.

      “I hope he is more agreeable than his wife,” thought Philip.

      “Yes, Philip,” said Mr. Carter, who had evidently made up his mind, “I will try to find you a place this afternoon.

      “I shall be very much obliged, sir,” said Philip gladly.

      “I have already told you that my nephew and I are in business together, he being the active and I the silent partner. We do a general shipping business. Our store is on Franklin Street. I will give you a letter to my nephew and he will give you a place.”

      “Thank you, sir.”

      “Wait a minute and I will write the note.”

      Five minutes later Phil was on his way down town with his credentials in his pocket.

      CHAPTER X

      Phil CALLS ON MR. PITKIN

      PHIL paused before an imposing business structure, and looked up to see if he could see the sign that would show him he had reached his destination.

      He had not far to look. On the front of the building he saw in large letters the sign:

      ENOCH PITKIN & CO.

      In the door-way there was another sign, from which he learned that the firm occupied the second floor.

      He went up-stairs, and opening a door, entered a spacious apartment which looked like a hive of industry. There were numerous clerks, counters piled with goods, and every indication that a prosperous business was being carried on.

      The nearest person was a young man of eighteen, or perhaps more, with an incipient, straw-colored mustache, and a shock of hair of tow-color. This young man wore a variegated neck-tie, a stiff standing-collar, and a suit of clothes in the extreme of fashion.

      Phil looked at him hesitatingly.

      The young man observed the look, and asked condescendingly:

      “What can I do for you, my son?”

      Such an address from a person less than three years older than himself came near upsetting the gravity of Phil.

      “Is Mr. Pitkin in?” he asked.

      “Yes, I believe so.”

      “Can I see him.”

      “I have no objection,” remarked the young man facetiously.

      “Where shall I find him?”

      The youth indicated a small room partitioned off as a private office in the extreme end of the store.

      “Thank you,” said Phil, and proceeded to find his way to the office in question.

      Arrived at the door, which was partly open, he looked in.

      In an arm-chair sat a small man, with an erect figure and an air of consequence. He was not over forty-five, but looked older, for his cheeks were already seamed and his look was querulous. Cheerful natures do not so soon show signs of age as their opposites.

      “Mr. Pitkin?” said Phil interrogatively.

      “Well?” said the small man, frowning instinctively.

      “I have a note for you, sir.”

      Phil stepped forward and handed the missive to Mr. Pitkin.

      The latter opened it quickly and read as follows:

      The boy who will present this to you did me a service this morning. He is in want of employment. He seems well educated, but if you can’t offer him anything better than the post of errand boy, do so. I will guarantee that he will give satisfaction. You can send him to the post-office, and to other offices on such errands as you may have. Pay him five dollars a week and charge that sum to me. Yours truly, OLIVER CARTER.

      Mr. Pitkin’s frown deepened as he read this note.

      “Pish!” he ejaculated, in a tone which, though low, was audible to Phil. “Uncle Oliver must be crazy. What is your name?” he demanded fiercely, turning suddenly to Phil.

      “Philip Brent.”

      “When did you meet—the gentleman who gave you this letter?”

      Phil told him.

      “Do you know what is in this letter?”

      “I suppose, sir, it is a request that you give me a place.”

      “Did you read it?”

      “No,” answered Phil indignantly.

      “Humph! He wants me to give you the place of errand boy.”

      “I will try to suit you, sir.”

      “When do you want to begin?”

      “As soon as possible, sir.”

      “Come to-morrow morning, and report to me first.”

      “Another freak of Uncle Oliver’s!” he muttered, as he turned his back upon Phil, and so signified that the interview was at an end.

      CHAPTER XI

      PHIL ENTERS UPON HIS DUTIES

      Phil presented himself in good season the next morning at the store in Franklin Street. As he came up in one direction the youth whom he had seen in the store the previous day came up in the opposite direction. The latter was evidently surprised.

      “Halloo, Johnny!” said he. “What’s brought you here again?”

      “Business,” answered Phil.

      “Going to buy out the firm?” inquired the youth jocosely.

      “Not to-day.”

      “Some other day, then,” said the young man, laughing as if he had said a very witty thing.

      As Phil didn’t know that this form of expression, slightly varied, had become a popular phrase of the day, he did not laugh.

      “Do you belong to the church?” asked the youth, stopping short in his own mirth.

      “What makes you ask?”

      “Because you don’t laugh.”

      “I would if I saw anything to laugh at.”

      “Come, that’s hard on me. Honor bright, have you come to do any business with us?”

      It is rather amusing to see how soon the cheapest clerk talks of “us,” quietly identifying himself with the firm that employs him. Not that I object to it. Often it implies a personal interest in the success and prosperity of the firm, which makes a clerk more valuable. This was not, however, the case with G. Washington Wilbur, the young man who was now conversing with Phil, as will presently appear.

      “I am going to work here,” answered Phil simply.

      “Going to work here!” repeated Mr. Wilbur in surprise. “Has old Pitkin engaged you?”

      “Mr. Pitkin engaged me yesterday,” Phil replied.

      “I didn’t know he wanted a boy. What are you to do?”

      “Go to the post-office, bank, and so on.”

      “You’re to be errand boy, then?”

      “Yes.”

      “That’s the way I started,” said Mr. Wilbur patronizingly.

      “What are you now?”

      “A salesman. I wouldn’t like to be back in my old position. What wages are you going to get?”

      “Five

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