Paul the Peddler; Or, The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Paul, who, in spite of his desire to overtake Mike, felt it incumbent upon him to stop and offer an apology.

“What do you mean, sir,” exploded the fat man, at last, “by tearing through the streets like a locomotive? You’ve nearly killed me.”

“I am very sorry, sir.”

“You ought to be. Don’t you know better than to run at such speed? You ought to be indicted as a public nuisance.

“I was trying to catch a thief,” said Paul.

“Trying to catch a thief? How’s that?” asked the stout gentleman, his indignation giving way to curiosity.

“I was selling packages in front of the post office when he and another boy came up and stole my basket.”

“Indeed! What were you selling?”

“Prize packages, sir.”

“What was in them?”

“Candy.”

“Could you make much that way?”

“About a dollar a day.”

“I’d rather have given you a dollar than had you run against me with such violence. I feel it yet.”

“Indeed, sir, I’m very sorry.”

“Well, I’ll forgive you, under the circumstances. What’s your name?”

“Paul Hoffman.”

“Well, I hope you’ll get back your basket. Some time, if you see me in the street, come up and let me know. Would you know me again?”

“I think I should, sir.”

“Well, good-morning. I hope you’ll catch the thief.”

“I thank you, sir.”

They parted company, but Paul did not continue the pursuit. The conversation in which he had taken part had lasted so long that Mike had had plenty of time to find a refuge, and there would be no use in following him.

So Paul went home.

“You are home early, Paul,” said his mother. “Surely you haven’t sold out by this time.”

“No, but all my packages are gone.”

“How is that?”

“They were stolen.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Paul told the story.

“That Mike was awful mean,” said Jimmy, indignantly. “I’d like to hit him.”

“I don’t think you would hurt him much, Jimmy,” said Paul, amused at his little brother’s vehemence.

“Then I wish I was a big, strong boy,” said Jimmy.

“I hope you will be, some time.”

“How much was your loss, Paul?” asked his mother.

“There were nearly forty packages. They cost me about a dollar, but if I had sold them all they would have brought me in twice as much. I had only sold ten packages.”

“Shall you make some more?”

“No, I think not,” said Paul. “I’ve got tired of the business. It’s getting poorer every day. I’ll go out after dinner, and see if I can’t find something else to do.”

“You ain’t going out now, Paul?” said Jimmy.

“No, I’ll stop and see you draw a little while.”

“That’s bully. I’m going to try these oxen.”

“That’s a hard picture. I don’t think you can draw it, Jimmy.”

“Yes, I can,” said the little boy, confidently. “Just see if I don’t.”

“Jimmy has improved a good deal,” said his mother.

“You’ll be a great artist one of these days, Jimmy,” said Paul.

“I’m going to try, Paul,” said the little boy. “I like it so much.”

Little Jimmy had indeed made surprising progress in drawing. With no instruction whatever, he had succeeded in a very close and accurate imitation of the sketches in the drawing books Paul had purchased for him. It was a great delight to the little boy to draw, and hour after hour, as his mother sat at her work, he sat up to the table, and worked at his drawing, scarcely speaking a word unless spoken to, so absorbed was he in his fascinating employment.

Paul watched him attentively.

“You’ll make a bully artist, Jimmy,” he said, at length, really surprised at his little brother’s proficiency. “If you keep on a little longer, you’ll beat me.”

“I wish you’d draw something, Paul,” said Jimmy. “I never saw any of your drawings.”

“I am afraid, if you saw mine, it would discourage you,” said Paul. “You know, I’m older and ought to draw better.”