Rupert's Ambition

"Ho, ho!" laughed the farmer.

"Shall you invite him to visit you in Orange County, Mr. Onthank?"

"I guess he wouldn't accept. We live plain, and he's a rich Wall Street broker. But we'll be glad to see you at any time."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE YOUNG NEWSBOY

Rupert had engaged a room on Bleecker Street. It is not a fashionable locality, but the time was when A. T. Stewart and other men of social standing lived upon it.

Rupert's room, a small hall bedroom, cost him two dollars per week. It was rather large for a hall room, and was clean and well furnished, beyond the average of such rooms in that locality. The house was kept by a widow, a Mrs. Stetson, a good, hard-working woman, who deserved a better fate than the position of a lodging-house keeper.

Usually Rupert reached his room about eight o'clock in the evening. He left the hotel at seven, and stopped for supper on the way. Arrived at his room he generally spent an hour in reading or studying (he had undertaken to review his arithmetic, thinking that some time he might obtain a situation where a good knowledge of that science might be needed).

He had nearly reached the house where he lodged on the evening after the departure of Mr. Onthank from the Somerset Hotel, when his attention was drawn to a boy of ten with a bundle of the "Evening News" under his arm. He was shedding tears quietly. Rupert had a warm heart and was always kind to younger boys.

He was touched by the little fellow's evident distress and spoke to him.

"What is the matter, Johnny?" he asked.

"I can't sell my papers," answered the boy.

"How many have you got left?"

"Twelve copies."

"How many did you have in the first place?"

"Twenty."

"Then you have only sold eight?"

"Yes, sir."

"So that you are behindhand unless you sell more. Have you a father and mother living?"

The boy answered in the affirmative.

"I shouldn't think they would let you go out selling papers so late."

"They are very poor," answered the boy, in a sorrowful tone.

"Doesn't your father work?"

"Yes, he works for Mr. Lorimer, on Third Avenue."

Rupert's attention was aroused. This Lorimer, as the reader has already been told, was his father's former partner, and, as Rupert believed, the cause of his failure.

"If your father has a position I should think he would be able to support his family."

"Mr. Lorimer only pays him five dollars a week," explained the boy.

"Only five dollars a week!" repeated Rupert, in amazement. "Doesn't he pay more to his other salesmen?"

"Yes, but he knew father was poor, so he told him he must work for that or leave the store."

Rupert was not altogether surprised to hear this, as he knew that Lorimer was a mean man who had no consideration for the poor.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"In that big house," answered the boy, pointing to a tall tenement, one of the shabbiest on the street. "We live on the fifth floor, but I guess well have to move out to-morrow."

"Why?"

"Father hasn't been able to save enough to pay the rent."

"What rent do you pay?"

"Six dollars. Father has only got three dollars toward it."

"What is your name?"

"Harry Benton."

"Well, Harry, I am not very rich, but I can help you a little. I will take all your papers, to begin with."

The little boy's face brightened.

"You are very kind," he said.

"And now you may take me to your home. Perhaps I can think of some way to relieve your father."

"Come this way, then," said Harry.

Rupert followed him to the entrance of the tenement house.

"I don't know but you'll be tired going up so many stairs," he said. "We live on the top floor."

"I'm not a very old man yet," laughed Rupert. "I guess I can stand it if you can."

The halls were dark and dingy, and there was an unwholesome tenement-house odor. Through one open door Rupert caught sight of a drunken man lying prone on the floor. Evidently the occupants of the house were for the most part of a low class. But when Rupert followed his little guide into the home of his parents on the upper floor, he found respectable, and not squalid, poverty. There was an air of neatness pervading the room, while Harry's parents looked thoroughly honest. Mr. Benton gazed inquiringly at Rupert.

"I hope you'll excuse my intrusion," said Rupert, politely, "but your little boy seemed in trouble and I ventured to come upstairs with him."

"I couldn't sell my papers," explained Harry. "He took all I had left," indicating Rupert.

"You were very kind to my little boy," said Mrs. Benton, gratefully. "Won't you sit down? This is my husband."