“When does Mr. Smith come in?”

“Not till nine.”

“And the other clerks?”

“About eight o’clock.  I shan’t come till eight, to-morrow morning.”

“There’s one thing I should like to ask you,” said Paul.  “Of course you won’t answer unless you like.”

“Out with it.”

“How much does Mr. Smith pay you?”

“Ahem!” said Benton, “what does he pay you?”

“A dollar and a quarter a week.”

“He paid me a dollar and a half to begin with.”

“Did he?  He wanted me to come first at a dollar.”

“Just like him.  Didn’t I tell you he was an out and outer?  He’ll be sure to take you in if you will let him.”

“But,” said Paul, anxiously, “he said he’d raise it in a month or two.”

“He won’t offer to; you’ll have to tease him.  And then how much’ll he raise it?  Not more than a quarter.  How much do you think I get now?”

“How long have you been here?”

“A year and a half.”

“Five dollars a week,” guessed Paul.

“Five! he only gives me two and a half.  That is, he hasn’t been paying me but that.  Now, of course, he’ll raise, as I’ve been promoted.”

“How much do you expect to get now?”

“Maybe four dollars, and I’m worth ten any day.  He’s a mean old skinflint, Smith is.”

This glimpse at his own prospects did not tend to make Paul feel very comfortable.  He could not repress a sigh of disappointment when he thought of this mortifying termination of all his brilliant prospects.  He had long nourished the hope of being able to repay the good sexton for his outlay in his behalf, besides discharging the debt which his father had left behind him.  Now there seemed to be little prospect of either.  He had half a mind to resign his place immediately upon the entrance of Mr. Smith, but two considerations dissuaded him; one, that the sum which he was to receive, though small, would at least buy his clothes, and besides, he was not at all certain of obtaining another situation.

With a sigh, therefore, he went about his duties.

He had scarcely got the store ready when some of the clerks entered, and the business of the day commenced.  At nine Mr. Smith appeared.

“So you’re here, Peter,” remarked he, as he caught sight of our hero.

“Paul,” corrected the owner of that name.

“Well, well, Peter or Paul, don’t make much difference.  Both were apostles, if I remember right.  All ready for work, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Paul, neither very briskly nor cheerfully.

“Well,” said Mr. Smith, after a pause, “I guess I’ll put you into the calico department.  Williams, you may take him under your wing.  And now Peter,—­all the same, Paul,—­I’ve got a word or two to say to you, as I always do to every boy who comes into my store.  Don’t forget what you’re here for?  It’s to sell goods.  Take care to sell something to every man, woman, and child, that comes in your way.  That’s the way to do business.  Follow it up, and you’ll be a rich man some day.”