Helping Himself

GRANT MAKES A FRIEND

“What do you think of your first day in Wall Street?” asked Mr. Reynolds, kindly.

“I have found it very interesting,” answered Grant.

“Do you think you shall like the business?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Better than if you had been able to carry out your original plan, and go to college?”

“Yes, sir, under the circumstances, for I have a better prospect of helping the family.”

“That feeling does you credit.  Have you any brothers and sisters?”

“One of each, sir.”

“I have but one boy, now nine years old.  I am sorry to say he is not strong in body, though very bright and quick, mentally.  I wish he were more fond of play and would spend less time in reading and study.”

“I don’t think that is a common complaint among boys, sir.”

“No, I judge not from my own remembrance and observation.  My wife is dead, and I am such a busy man that I am not able to give my boy as much attention as I wish I could.  My boy’s health is the more important to me because I have no other child.”

Grant’s interest was excited, and he looked forward to meeting his employer’s son, not without eagerness.  He had not long to wait.

The little fellow was in the street in front of the house when his father reached home.  He was a slender, old-fashioned boy in appearance, who looked as if he had been in the habit of keeping company with grown people.  His frame was small, but his head was large.  He was pale, and would have been plain, but for a pair of large, dark eyes, lighting up his face.

“Welcome home, papa,” he said, running up to meet Mr. Reynolds.

The broker stooped over and kissed his son.  Then he said:  “I have brought you some company, Herbert.  This is Grant Thornton, the boy I spoke to you about.”

“I am glad to make your acquaintance,” said the boy, with old-fashioned courtesy, offering his hand.

“And I am glad to meet you, Herbert,” responded Grant, pleasantly.

The little boy looked up earnestly in the face of his father’s office boy.

“I think I shall like you,” he said.

Mr. Reynolds looked pleased, and so did Grant.

“I am sure we shall be very good friends,” said our hero.

“Herbert,” said his father, “will you show Grant the room he is to occupy?”

“It is next to mine, isn’t it, papa?”

“Yes, my son.”

“Come with me,” said Herbert, putting his hand in Grant’s.  “I will show you the way.”

Grant, who was only accustomed to the plain homes in his native village, was impressed by the evidence of wealth and luxury observable in the house of the stock broker.  The room assigned to him was small, but it was very handsomely furnished, and he almost felt out of place in it.  But it was not many days, to anticipate matters a little, before he felt at home.

Herbert took Grant afterward into his own room.

“See my books,” he said, leading the way to a bookcase, containing perhaps a hundred volumes, the majority of a juvenile character, but some suited to more mature tastes.  “Do you like reading?” asked Grant.

“I have read all the books you see here,” answered Herbert, “and some of papa’s besides.  I like to read better than to play.”

“But you ought to spend some of your time in play, or you will not grow up healthy.”

“That is what papa says.  I try to play some, but I don’t care much about it.”

Grant was no longer surprised at the little boy’s delicacy.  It was clear that he needed more amusement and more exercise.  “Perhaps,” he thought, “I can induce Herbert to exercise more.”

“When do you take dinner?” he asked.

“At half-past six.  There is plenty of time.”

“Then suppose we take a little walk together.  We shall both have a better appetite.”

“I should like to,” replied Herbert; “that is, with you.  I don’t like to walk alone.”

“How far is Central Park from here?”

“A little over a mile.”

“I have never seen it.  Would you mind walking as far as that?”

“Oh, no.”

So the two boys walked out together.  They were soon engaged in an animated conversation, consisting, for the most part, of questions proposed by Grant, and answers given by Herbert.

Not far from the park they came to a vacant lot where some boys were playing ball.

“Now, if we only had a ball, Herbert,” said Grant, “we might have a little amusement.”

“I’ve got a ball in my pocket, but I don’t use it much.”

“Let me see it.”

Herbert produced the ball, which proved to be an expensive one, better than any Grant had ever owned.

“There, Herbert, stand here, and I will place myself about fifty feet away.  Now, throw it to me, no matter how swiftly.”

They were soon engaged in throwing the ball to each other.  Grant was a good ball player, and he soon interested the little boy in the sport.  Our hero was pleased to see Herbert’s quiet, listless manner exchanged for the animation which seemed better suited to a boy.

“You are improving, Herbert,” he said, after a while.  “You would make a good player in time.”

“I never liked it before,” said the little boy.  “I never knew there was so much fun in playing ball.”

“We shall have to try it every day.  I suppose it is about time to go home to supper.”

“And we haven’t been to Central Park, after all.”

“That will do for another day.  Are boys allowed to play ball in the park?”

“Two afternoons in the week, I believe, but I never played there.”

“We shall have to try it some day.”

“I should like to play—­with you.”

They reached home in full time for dinner.  At the dinner table Mr. Reynolds was struck by the unusually bright and animated face of his son, and his good appetite.

“What have you been doing to make you so hungry, Herbert?” he asked.

“I took a walk with Grant, and we had a fine game of ball.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the broker, much pleased.  “If you want to become stout and strong like Grant, that is the best thing for you to do.”

“I never liked playing ball before, papa.”

“That is a compliment to you, Grant,” said the broker, smiling.

“I think,” he said to the prim, elderly lady who presided over the household, acting as housekeeper, “Herbert will be the better for having a boy in the house.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Estabrook, stiffly.  “When he came into the house he had mud on his clothes.  He never did that till this boy came.”

“I won’t complain of that, if his health is improved.”

Mrs. Estabrook, who was a poor relation of Herbert’s mother, pursed up her mouth, but did not reply.  In her eyes, it was more important that a boy should keep his clothes whole and clean than to have color in his cheeks, and health in his frame.

“I hope that boy won’t stay here long,” she thought, referring, of course, to Grant.  “He’ll quite spoil Herbert by making him rough and careless of his appearance.”

“Well, Herbert, and how do you like Grant?” asked Mr. Reynolds, as his son was bidding him good-night before going to bed.

“I am so glad you brought him here, papa.  I shall have good times now.  You’ll let him stay all the time, won’t you?”

“I’ll see about it, Herbert,” answered his father, smiling.