Rupert's Ambition

"Yes, very good—enough to support me."

"It isn't much of a position, though."

"If you will find me a better one I will give this up," said Rupert, smiling.

"I am expecting to go into a wholesale house soon."

"I hope you will succeed in getting such a place. It is rather hard getting business positions now."

"Oh, my father is well known in the city. He can find me one."

"That will be in your favor."

Here Rupert was called off by a summons from the office, and the interview terminated. He had not told Julian of the handsome gift received from the proprietor, as he knew that his old schoolfellow had no real interest in his welfare.

One who is employed in an American hotel has an excellent opportunity to study human nature. It is free to all comers, and among those who sit in the lobby or use the reading room there are always some who are not guests. The larger proportion of these are respectable persons, but some are adventurers who may be on the lookout for victims.

One young man, stylishly dressed and sporting an eyeglass and a cane, Rupert had more than once noticed. He came in from time to time, bought a sheet of paper and an envelope at the news stand, and wrote a letter at one of the tables in the reading room. Rupert, whose acquaintance with the city was limited, decided from his dress that he belonged to some prominent family. It was noteworthy, however, that he always entered alone. He sometimes, however, entered into conversation with one of the guests of the hotel. Those from the country seemed to have his preference.

This surprised Rupert, who wondered what attraction rural visitors could have for a young man of his elegant appearance.

One day an old man of sixty registered from a town in Orange County. His face was weather-beaten, and he looked like a farmer. His clothing was rusty, and appeared to have been worn for several years.

He might have been taken for a poor man, but Rupert had seen him draw out a large wallet full of bills, and judged that, if not rich, he was in comfortable circumstances.

It so happened that the young man already referred to had also seen the wallet, and he at once began to pay attention to the rural visitor. Watching his opportunity, he sat down beside him in the reading room one afternoon.

"It is a pleasant day, sir," he said, sociably.

"So 'tis, so 'tis," said the old man, feeling flattered by attention from a young man of such distinguished appearance.

"I suppose you live in the country?"

"Yes, I am from Orange County."

"The finest part of the State. If my business did not keep me in the city I should like very much to make my residence there."

"What might your business be?" asked the old man, with natural curiosity.

"I am a broker, sir, in Wall Street. Of course you have heard of Wall Street."

"Oh, yes," answered the old man, proud of his familiarity with the name of this famous street. "Is it a pooty good business?"

"Well, that depends on circumstances. Sometimes I make money hand over hand, but for the last month I give you my word I probably haven't made over two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred dollars in a month!" repeated the farmer. "Why, that's doing first rate, I call it."

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

"Not for a broker," he said. "Why if I make less than five hundred I don't call it much."

"Five hundred dollars a month?" asked the farmer, much impressed.

"Yes."

"Why, that's six thousand dollars a year."

"Exactly. You are good in arithmetic," said the young man, languidly.

"Is—is there any chance to go into that business?" asked the Orange County man, eagerly.

"My friend, I would hardly advise you to go into it. You are rather old to begin a new business."

"That's so, but I don't ask for myself. I've got a son—he's my youngest son—a young man of twenty-five, who's anxious to get something to do in the city. He ain't much good on a farm—don't seem to like it. He's read a good many books and stories about New York city, and he wants to come here. I wish I could get him a chance to learn the broker business. You haven't a place in your office now, have you?"

The young swell laughed in his sleeve.

"I've hooked the old man," he said to himself. "Now if I work my cards right, I shall be able to make something out of him."

"My friend," he said, "I can't tell you at once, but I will think it over, and—see you to-morrow morning."

He had not intended to finish his sentence thus, but just then he espied at the door of the reading room a small, quiet-looking man whose glance rested for a moment upon him. He knew—he had reason to know—that this was Richard Darke, a well-known detective.

He rose from his seat and sauntered to the door, and in two minutes he was one of the motley crowd that throng Broadway.

CHAPTER XI.

RUPERT RECEIVES A COMMISSION

The detective, as he left the reading room, passed Rupert, who was just entering.

"Let me see," he said, tapping Rupert on the shoulder, "you are the bell-boy who came near being murdered by a crank?"

"Yes, sir."

"You escaped very cleverly. You are evidently a sharp boy. Keep your eyes open, don't you?"

"Yes, sir; except when I'm asleep."

"We detectives have to keep our eyes open all the time, but we can't be everywhere at once. Now I feel a little inclined to make you my deputy—not permanently, but for a time."

"All right, sir."

"Have you noticed rather a flashy young man, looking like a dude, with an eyeglass and cane?"

"Yes, sir; he is frequently in the hotel."

"You know, of course, that he isn't a guest?"