“I have a plan,” said Eben, with cheerful confidence.

“What is it?”

“I would like to go to California.  If I can’t get any situation in San Francisco, I can go to the mines.”

“Very fine, upon my word!” said his father, sarcastically.  “And how do you propose to get to California?”

“I can go either by steamer, across the isthmus, or over the Union Pacific road.”

“That isn’t what I mean.  Where are you to get the money to pay your fare with?”

“I suppose you will supply that,” said Eben.

“You do?  Well, it strikes me you have some assurance,” ejaculated Mr. Graham.  “You expect me to advance hundreds of dollars, made by working early and late, to support a spendthrift son!”

“I’ll pay you back as soon as I am able,” said Eben, a little abashed.

“No doubt!  You’d pay me in the same way you pay your board bills,” said Ebenezer, who may be excused for the sneer.  “I can invest my money to better advantage than upon you.”

“Then, if you will not do that,” said Eben, sullenly, “I will leave you to suggest a plan.”

“There is only one plan I can think of, Eben.  Go back to your old place in the store.  I will dismiss the Carr boy, and you can attend to the post office, and do the store work.”

“What, go back to tending a country grocery, after being a salesman in a city store!” exclaimed Eben, disdainfully.

“Yes, it seems the only thing you have left.  It’s your own fault that you are not still a salesman in the city.”

Eben took the cigar from his mouth, and thought rapidly.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “if I agree to do this, what will you pay me?”

“What will I pay you?”

“Yes, will you pay me ten dollars a week—­the same as I got at Hanbury & Deane’s?”

“Ten dollars a week!” ejaculated Ebenezer, “I don’t get any more than that myself.”

“I guess there’s a little mistake in your calculations, father,” said Eben, significantly.  “If you don’t make at least forty dollars a week, including the post office, then I am mistaken.”

“So you are—­ridiculously mistaken!” said his father, sharply.  “What you presume is entirely out of the question.  You forget that you will be getting your board, and Tom Tripp only received a dollar and a half a week without board.”

“Is that all you pay to Herbert Carr?”

“I pay him a leetle more,” admitted Ebenezer.

“What will you give me?”

“I’ll give you your board and clothes,” said Ebenezer, “and that seems to be more than you made in Boston.”

“Are you in earnest?” asked Eben, in genuine dismay.

“Certainly.  It isn’t a bad offer, either.”

“Do you suppose a young man like me can get along without money?”

“You ought to get along without money for the next two years, after the sums you’ve wasted in Boston.  It will cripple me to pay your bills,” and the storekeeper groaned at the thought of the inroads the payment would make on his bank account.