Joe the Hotel Boy

OFF FOR THE CITY.

“Joe, our season ends next Saturday.”

“I know it, Mr. Mallison.”

“We are going to close the house on Tuesday.  It won’t pay to keep open after our summer boarders leave.”

“I know that, too.”

“Have you any idea what you intend to do?” went on the hotel proprietor.  He was standing down by the dock watching Joe clean out one of the boats.

“I’m thinking of going to Philadelphia.”

“On a visit?”

“No, sir, to try my luck.”

“Oh, I see.  It’s a big city, my lad.”

“I know it, but, somehow, I feel I might do better there than in such a town as this,—­and I am getting tired of hanging around the lake.”

“There is more money in Philadelphia than there is here, that is certain, Joe.  But you can’t always get hold of it.  The big cities are crowded with people trying to obtain situations.”

“I’m sure I can find something to do, Mr. Mallison.  And, by the way, when I leave, will you give me a written recommendation?”

“Certainly.  You have done well since you came here.  But you had better think twice before going to Philadelphia.”

“I’ve thought it over more than twice.  I don’t expect the earth, but I feel that I can get something to do before my money runs out.”

“How much money have you saved up?”

“I’ve got fifty-six dollars, and I’m going to sell my boat for four dollars.”

“Well, sixty dollars isn’t such a bad capital.  I have known men to start out with a good deal less.  When I left home I had but twenty dollars and an extra suit of clothes.”

“Did you come from a country place?”

“No, I came from New York.  Times were hard and I couldn’t get a single thing to do.  I went to Paterson, New Jersey, and got work in a silk mill.  From there I went to Camden, and then to Philadelphia.  From Philadelphia I came here and have been here ever since.”

“You have been prosperous.”

“Fairly so, although I don’t make as much money as some of the hotel men in the big cities.  But then they take larger risks.  A few years ago a hotel friend of mine opened a big hotel in Atlantic City.  He hoped to make a small fortune, but he was not located in the right part of the town and at the end of the season he found himself just fifteen thousand dollars out of pocket.  Now he has sold out and is running a country hotel fifty miles west of here.  He doesn’t hope to make so much, but his business is much safer.”

“I’m afraid it will be a long time before I get money enough to run a hotel,” laughed our hero.

“Would you like to run one?”

“I don’t know.  I’d like to educate myself first.”

“Don’t you study some now?  I have seen you with some arithmetics and histories.”

“Yes, sir, I study a little every day.  You see, I never had much schooling, and I don’t want to grow up ignorant, if I can help it.”

“That is the proper spirit, lad,” answered Andrew Mallison, warmly.  “Learn all you possibly can.  It will always be the means of doing you good.”

The conversation took place on Thursday and two days later the season at the summer hotel came to an end and the last of the boarders took their departure.  Monday was spent in putting things in order, and by Tuesday afternoon work around the place came to an end, and all the help was paid off.

In the meantime Joe had sold his boat.  With all of his money in his pocket he called at the Talmadge house to see if Ned had returned from the trip to the west.

“Just got back yesterday,” said Ned, who came to greet him.  “Had a glorious trip.  I wish you had been along.  I like traveling better than staying at home all the time.”

“I am going to do a bit of traveling myself, Ned.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Philadelphia—­to try my luck in that city.”

“Going to leave Mr. Mallison?”

“Yes,—­the season is at an end.”

“Oh, I see.  So you are going to the Quaker City, as pa calls it.  I wish you luck.  You’ll have to write to me, Joe, and let me know how you are getting along.”

“I will,—­and you must write to me.”

“Of course.”

On the following day Joe rowed along the lake to where his old home dock had been located and made a trip to what was left of the cabin.  He spent another hour in hunting for the blue box, but without success.

“I suppose I’ll never find that box,” he sighed.  “I may as well give up thinking about it.”

From Andrew Mallison our hero had obtained his letter of recommendation and also a good pocket map of Philadelphia.  The hotel man had also made him a present of a neat suit case, in which he packed his few belongings.

Ned Talmadge came to see him off at the depot.  The day was cool and clear, and Joe felt in excellent spirits.

Soon the train came along and our hero got aboard, along with a dozen or fifteen others.  He waved a hand to Ned and his friend shouted out a good-bye.  Then the train moved on, and the town was soon left in the distance.

The car that Joe had entered was not more than quarter filled and he easily found a seat for himself by a window.  He placed his suit case at his feet and then gave himself up to looking at the scenery as it rushed past.

Joe had never spent much of his time on the railroad, so the long ride had much of novelty in it.  The scenery was grand, as they wound in and out among the hills and mountains, or crossed brooks and rivers and well-kept farms.  Numerous stops were made, and long before Philadelphia was gained the train became crowded.

“Nice day for riding,” said a man who sat down beside our hero.  He looked to be what he was, a prosperous farmer.

“It is,” answered Joe.

“Goin’ to Philadelphy, I reckon,” went on the farmer.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s where I’m going, too.  Got a little business to attend to.”

“I am going there to try my luck,” said Joe, he felt he could talk to the old man with confidence.

“Goin’ to look fer a job, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wot kin ye do, if I might ask?”

“Oh, I’m willing to do most anything.  I’ve been taking care of rowboats and working around a summer hotel, at Lake Tandy.”

“Well, ye won’t git many boats to look at down to Philadelphy!” and the old farmer chuckled.

“I suppose not.  Maybe I’ll strike a job at one of the hotels.”

“Perhaps.  They tell me some hotels down there is monsterous—­ten an’ twelve stories high.  Ye don’t catch me goin’ to no sech place.  In case o’ fire, it’s all up with ye, if you’re on the twelfth story.”

“Are you going to Philadelphia to stay, Mr.——­”

“Bean is my name—­Josiah Bean.  I’m from Haydown Center, I am.  Got a farm there o’ a hundred acres.”

“Oh, is that so!”

“Wot’s your handle, young man?”

“My name is Joe Bodley.  I came from Riverside.”

“Proud to know you.”  And Josiah Bean shook hands.  “No, I ain’t going to stay in Philadelphy.  I’m a-going on business fer my wife.  A relative left her some property an’ I’m a-goin’ to collect on it.”

“That’s a pleasant trip to be on,” was our hero’s comment.

“I’ll feel better when I have the six hundred dollars in my fist.  I’m afraid it ain’t goin’ to be no easy matter to git it.”

“What’s the trouble!”

“I ain’t known in Philadelphy an’ they tell me a feller has got to be identified or somethin’ like thet—­somebody has got to speak for ye wot knows ye.”

“I see.  Perhaps you’ll meet some friend.”

“Thet’s wot I’m hopin’ fer.”

The train rolled on and presently Joe got out his map and began to study it, so that he might know something of the great city when he arrived there.

“Guess I’ll git a drink o’ water,” said Josiah Bean, and walked to the end of the car to do so.  Immediately a slick looking man who had been seated behind the farmer arose and followed him.