The bed was far from luxurious.  A thin pallet rested on slats, so thin that he could feel the slats through it, and the covering was insufficient.  The latter deficiency he made up by throwing his overcoat over the quilt, and despite the hardness of his bed, he was soon sleeping soundly.

“To-morrow I must look for a place,” he said to Signor Orlando.  “Can you give me any advise?”

“Yes, my dear boy.  Buy a daily paper, the Sun or Herald, and look at the advertisements.  There may be some prominent business man who is looking out for a boy of your size.”

Phil knew of no better way, and he followed Signor Orlando’s advice.

After a frugal breakfast at the Bowery restaurant, he invested a few pennies in the two papers mentioned, and began to go the rounds.

The first place was in Pearl Street.

He entered, and was directed to a desk in the front part of the store.

“You advertised for a boy,” he said.

“We’ve got one,” was the brusque reply.

Of course no more was to be said, and Phil walked out, a little dashed at his first rebuff.

At the next place he found some half a dozen boys waiting, and joined the line, but the vacancy was filled before his turn came.

At the next place his appearance seemed to make a good impression, and he was asked several questions.

“What is your name?”

“Philip Brent.”

“How old are you?”

“Just sixteen.”

“How is your education?”

“I have been to school since I was six.”

“Then you ought to know something.  Have you ever been in a place?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you live with your parents?”

“No, sir; I have just come to the city, and am lodging in Fifth Street.”

“Then you won’t do.  We wish our boys to live with their parents.”

Poor Phil!  He had allowed himself to hope that at length he was likely to get a place.  The abrupt termination of the conversation dispirited him.

He made three more applications.  In one of them he again came near succeeding, but once more the fact that he did not live with his parents defeated his application.

“It seems to be very hard getting a place,” thought Phil, and it must be confessed he felt a little homesick.

“I won’t make any more applications to-day,” he decided, and being on Broadway, walked up that busy thoroughfare, wondering what the morrow would bring forth.

It was winter, and there was ice on the sidewalk.  Directly in front of Phil walked an elderly gentleman, whose suit of fine broadcloth and gold spectacles, seemed to indicate a person of some prominence and social importance.

Suddenly he set foot on a treacherous piece of ice.  Vainly he strove to keep his equilibrium, his arms waving wildly, and his gold-headed cane falling to the sidewalk.  He would have fallen backward, had not Phil, observing his danger in time, rushed to his assistance.