"How much is he worth?"
"About a hundred thousand dollars; I don't know but more."
"Do you think he will set you up?" asked Sam, rather impressed.
"I don't know."
"If he does, you might take me in with you."
"So I will, if your rich uncle will give you a lot of money, too."
"I haven't got no rich uncle," said Sam. "I only wish I had."
"Mine is more ornamental than useful, so far," said Henry. "Well, here we are at my place."
They stood before a shabby, brick dwelling, which bore unmistakable marks of being a cheap lodging-house.
"It isn't very stylish," said Henry, apologetically.
"I ain't used to style," said Sam, with perfect truth. "It'll do for me."
"I'll call Mrs. Brownly," said Henry, after opening the front door with a latchkey. "We'll ask her about your coming in."
Mrs. Brownly, being summoned, made her appearance. She was a tall, angular female, with the worn look of a woman who has a hard struggle to get along.
"Mrs. Brownly," said Henry Martin, "here's a boy who wants to room with me. You said you'd let the room to two for two dollars and a half a week."
"Yes," said she, cheered by the prospect of even a small addition to her income. "I have no objection. What is his name?"
"Same Barker," answered our hero.
"Have you got a place?" asked Mrs. Brownly, cautiously.
"Yes, he's got a place near me," answered Henry Martin for him.
"I expect to be paid regularly," said Mrs. Brownly. "I'm a widow, dependent on what I get from my lodgers."
"I settle all my bills reg'lar," said Sam. "I ain't owin' anything except for the rent of a pianner, last quarter."
Mrs. Brownly looked surprised, and so did Henry Martin.
"The room you will have here isn't large enough for a piano," she said.
"I ain't got no time to play now," said Sam; "my business is too pressing."
"Will you pay the first week in advance?" asked the landlady.
"I don't think it would be convenient," said Sam.
"Then can you give me anything on account?" asked Mrs. Brownly. "Half a dollar will do."
Sam reluctantly drew out fifty cents and handed to her.
"Now, we'll go up and look at the room," said Henry.
It was a hall bedroom on the second floor back which was to be Sam's future home. It appeared to be about six feet wide by eight feet long. There was a pine bedstead, one chair, and a washstand, which would have been improved by a fresh coat of paint. Over the bed hung a cheap print of Gen. Washington, in an equally cheap frame. A row of pegs on the side opposite the bed furnished conveniences for hanging up clothes.
"How do you like it?" asked Henry Martin.
"Tiptop," answered Sam, with satisfaction.
"Well, I'm glad you like it," said his companion. "There's six pegs; you can use half of them."
"What for?" asked Sam.
"To hang up your extra clothes, of course."
"I haven't got any except what I've got on," said Sam.
"You haven't?"
"No."
"I suppose you've got some extra shirts and stockings?"
"No, I haven't. I've been unfortunate, and had to sell my wardrobe to pay my debts."
Henry Martin looked perplexed.
"You don't expect to wear one shirt all the time, do you?" he asked.
"I'll buy some more when I've got money enough."
"You'd better. Now let's go out, and get some supper."
Sam needed no second invitation.
CHAPTER IV.
FIRST LESSONS
When supper was over Sam inquired, "What shall we do?"
"Suppose we take a walk?" suggested his companion.
"I'd rather go to the Old Bowery."
"I should like to go, but I can't afford it."
"You get five dollars a week, don't you?"
"Yes; but I need all of it for board, lodging and washing. So will you, too. I advise you to be careful about spending."
"What's the use of living if a fellow can't have a little fun?" grumbled Sam.
"There won't be much fun in going a day or two without anything to eat, Sam."
"We won't have to."
"Let me see about that. It costs a dollar and a quarter for the room, to begin with. Then our meals will cost us as much as forty or fifty cents a day, say three dollars a week. That will leave seventy-five cents for clothes and washing."
"It isn't much," Sam admitted.
"I should think not."
"I don't see how I am going to get any clothes."
"You certainly can't if you go to the theater."
"I used to go sometimes when I was a newsboy, and I didn't earn so much money then."
"Probably you didn't have a regular room then."
"No, I didn't; and sometimes I only had one meal a day."
"That isn't a very nice way to live. You're so old now you ought to be considering what you'll do when you are a man."
"I mean to earn more than five dollars a week then."
"So do I; but if I were a street boy, picking up my living by blacking boots or selling papers, I shouldn't expect to. Now we have a chance to learn business, and improve."
"Were you ever a street boy?" asked Sam, becoming interested in his companion's history.
"No, that is, not over a month. I was born in the country."
"So was I," said Sam.
"My father and mother both died, leaving nothing, and the people wanted to send me to the poorhouse; but I didn't like that, so I borrowed five dollars and came to New York. When I got here I began to think I should have to go back again. I tried to get a place and couldn't. Finally, I bought some papers and earned a little money selling them. It was better than nothing; but all the while I was hoping to get a place. One day, as I was passing the store where I am now, I saw some boys round the door. I asked them what was going on. They told me that Hamilton & Co. had advertised for an errand boy, and they were going to try for the place. I thought I might as well try, too, so I went in and applied. I don't know how it was, but out of about forty boys they took me."
"Did they give you five dollars a week right off?"
"No; I only got three dollars the first year," answered Henry.
"You couldn't live on that, could you?"
"I had to."
"You didn't have the room you have now, did you?"
"I couldn't afford it. I lived at the 'Newsboys Lodge,' and took my breakfast and suppers there. That cost me eighteen cents a day, or about a dollar and a quarter a week. Out of the rest I bought my dinners and clothes. So I got along till the second year, when my wages were raised to four dollars. At the beginning of the third year I got a dollar more."
"I suppose you'll get six dollars next year?"
"I hope so. Mr. Hamilton has promised to put me in the counting-room then."
"It seems a long time to wait," said Sam.
"Yes, if you look ahead; but, after all, time goes fast. Next year I expect to lay up some money."
"Do