Young Auctioneers: or, The Polishing of a Rolling Stone

“It’s no use,” went on Matt in a whisper. “I’m not going to stand it any longer,” and then he added, as the stock-broker’s attention was arrested by the reply Mr. Grant had sent. “I am ready to leave anyway, if he discharges me, and you will only get into trouble if you mention that auction-store affair.”

“But it was all my fault – ”

“No, it wasn’t, and please keep quiet.”

“But if you are discharged, Matt – ”

“I’ve got something else in view.”

“Oh!”

“Well, what have you to say, Miss Bartlett?” asked Randolph Fenton, tearing up the message and throwing the pieces into the waste basket.

“I – I was going to say that I was partly to blame for his being behind time this noon. I was – ”

“Do not try to shield him, Miss Bartlett. I know him better than you do. He is a very lazy and heedless boy, and I have already made up my mind what I am going to do in the matter.”

“And what’s that?” asked Matt, although he felt pretty certain of what was coming.

“This shall be your last day of service in these offices. This afternoon I will pay you what is due you, and to-morrow I will endeavor to get a boy who is willing to attend to business and not fritter away his time on the streets.”

“I have not frittered away my time,” replied Matt warmly. “And I feel certain you will not get any one to do more than I have done. You expect a boy to do two men’s work for a boy’s pay – ”

“Stop!”

“Not until I have finished, sir. I am perfectly willing to leave, even though times are dull, and have been contemplating such a step on my own account for some time. I was getting tired of being a slave.”

“You outrageous imp! Not another word from you. I will not have you in this place another minute! Go to Mr. Gaston and draw your pay and leave, and never let me see your face again!”

And white with passion, Randolph Fenton sprang to his feet and threw open the door for Matt to pass out.

CHAPTER VI.

A BUSINESS PARTNERSHIP

Mr. Randolph Fenton’s voice had been raised to its highest pitch, and thus the attention of every one in the offices had been attracted to what was going on.

Ida Bartlett again came forward to speak in Matt’s behalf, but ere she could say a word the boy put up his hand warningly, and turned to the book-keeper.

“I will take what is due me, Mr. Gaston,” he said.

Mr. Gaston, a somewhat elderly man, nodded, and without a word, turned to his desk and passed over to Matt two new one-dollar bills.

“I’m sorry, my boy, it isn’t more,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” returned Matt. “Good-by,” he went on, turning to the other office workers. And with a smile and a bow to Ida Bartlett, he passed out of the place.

Not until he was some distance away did he draw a deep breath. Somehow he felt as if he had just emerged from a prison cell.

“It’s a wonder to me that I stood it so long,” he muttered to himself. “Mr. Fenton is a regular tyrant, and ought to move to Russia. How poor father ever came to invest in those mining shares through him is a mystery to me.” Matt gave a sigh, and for an instant an unusually sober look crossed his handsome face. “If only I could learn what became of poor father – if I could make sure whether he was alive or dead – I wouldn’t care how other matters went. I must continue my searching as soon as I can afford to do so.”

Matt boarded with a private family on Third avenue, and having nothing else to do, he walked slowly to the place. He wished he might meet the man with the red mustache or Andrew Dilks, but he saw nothing of either. When he arrived at the boarding-house it was still an hour to supper-time. He ascended to his roam and spent the time in looking over his wardrobe, for Matt was handy with a needle, and disliked to have buttons off or rent seams in his garments.

At length the bell for supper rang, and washing up and combing his hair, he went below. He ate his portion leisurely, and was just finishing when the landlady said there was a young lady to see him in the parlor.

Matt at once thought of Ida Bartlett, who lived but a few blocks away, with her two sisters and her mother. He was right; it was the young lady stenographer.

“I could not wait, Matt, and so came over just as soon as we had tea,” she explained. “I want you to tell me what you are going to do, now you are out of Mr. Fenton’s offices. You spoke of having something else in view. I trust it is something better.”

“I can’t tell as to that yet,” returned the boy, and then sitting down beside her on the tête-à-tête, he told her of Andrew Dilks and the auctioneer’s proposition.

“That sounds as if it might be quite a good thing,” said Ida Bartlett, when he had finished. “You are sure this Dilks is no sharper? There are lots of sharpers in the auction business, you know.”

“Like the one who tried to make you pay?” laughed Matt.

“Exactly.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I thought of that. But Dilks doesn’t look like a sharper; quite the contrary. Of course, I’ll have to keep my eyes open. We will have a written agreement, and I will not let the outfit go out of my sight, at least not until I know him thoroughly.”

“In that case I think you will be safe.”

“It is possible that we may not come to any agreement. He has more money than I. He may want somebody who can put up an equal amount.”

“How much has he?”

“A hundred and thirty-five dollars.”

“And that is a good deal more than you have, I suppose?”

“I have saved seventy-five dollars,” returned Matt, and not without some pride.

“Is it possible! And on a salary of four dollars a week!”

“Not much! That salary only paid my way. I saved the money out of extras I earned from other brokers – running errands for them and doing writing at home in the evenings.”

“I see. It is very creditable to you.”

“Yet Mr. Fenton said I was lazy,” replied Matt bitterly.

“Don’t you care what he said. He is a very mean man – I am finding that out more and more every day. I myself intend to leave just as soon as I can find another place. I have been there three months, and can hardly bear it longer.”

“The last stenographer only stayed two months, and the one before that, a man, didn’t stay the week out,” grinned Matt. “They soon find out what kind of a man he is.”

“I would leave to-morrow, only I cannot afford to be out of work, and times are somewhat dull. But, about your proposed venture. You will need sixty dollars more to hold an equal share if you go in, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

Ida Bartlett meditated for a moment.