Paul the Peddler: The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant

TEDDY GIVES UP BUSINESS

“Have you sold all your packages, Paul?” asked Jimmy, as our hero entered the humble room, where the table was already spread with a simple dinner.

“No,” said Paul, “I only sold twenty.  I begin to think that the prize-package business will soon be played out.”

“Why?”

“There’s too many that’ll go into it.”

Here Paul related his experience of the morning, explaining how it was that Teddy had managed to distance him in the competition.

“Can’t you do the same, Paul?” asked Jimmy.  “Mother’s got a gold dollar she could lend you.”

“That might do,” said Paul; “but I don’t know any boy I could trust to draw it except you, and some of them would know we were brothers.”

“I think, Paul, that would be dishonest,” said Mrs. Hoffman.  “I would rather make less, if I were you, and do it honestly.”

“Maybe you’re right, mother.  I’ll try it again this afternoon, keeping as far away from Teddy as I can.  If I find I can’t make it go, I’ll try some other business.”

“Jimmy, have you shown Paul your drawing?” said his mother.

“Here it is, Paul,” said Jimmy, producing his drawing-book, from which he had copied a simple design of a rustic cottage.

“Why, that’s capital, Jimmy,” said Paul, in real surprise.  “I had no idea you would succeed so well.”

“Do you really think so, Paul?” asked the little boy, much pleased.

“I really do.  How long did it take you?”

“Only a short time—­not more than half an hour, I should think,” said Mrs. Hoffman.  “I think Jimmy succeeded very well.”

“You’ll make a great artist some time, Jimmy,” said Paul.

“I wish I could,” said the little boy.  “I should like to earn some money, so that you and mother need not work so hard.”

“Hard work agrees with me.  I’m tough,” said Paul.  “But when we get to be men, Jimmy, we’ll make so much money that mother needn’t work at all.  She shall sit in the parlor all day, dressed in silk, with nothing to do.”

“I don’t think I would enjoy that,” said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling.

“Will you be in the candy business, then, Paul?” said Jimmy.

“No, Jimmy.  It would never do for the brother of a great artist to be selling candy round the streets.  I hope I shall have something better to do than that.”

“Sit down to dinner, Paul,” said his mother.  “It’s all ready.”

The dinner was not a luxurious one.  There was a small plate of cold meat, some potatoes, and bread and butter; but Mrs. Hoffman felt glad to be able to provide even that, and Paul, who had the hearty appetite of a growing boy, did full justice to the fare.  They had scarcely finished, when a knock was heard at the door.  Paul, answering the summons, admitted a stout, pleasant-looking Irishwoman.

“The top of the mornin’ to ye, Mrs. Donovan,” said Paul, bowing ceremoniously.

“Ah, ye’ll be afther havin’ your joke, Paul,” said Mrs. Donovan, good-naturedly.  “And how is your health, mum, the day?”

“I am well, thank you, Mrs. Donovan,” said Mrs. Hoffman.  “Sit down to the table, won’t you?  We’re just through dinner, but there’s something left.”

“Thank you, mum, I’ve jist taken dinner.  I was goin’ to wash this afternoon, and I thought maybe you’d have some little pieces I could wash jist as well as not.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Donovan, you are very kind; but you must have enough work of your own to do.”

“I’m stout and strong, mum, and hard work agrees with me; but you’re a rale lady, and ain’t used to it.  It’s only a thrifle, but if you want to pay me, you could do a bit of sewin’ for me.  I ain’t very good with the needle.  My fingers is too coarse, belike.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Donovan; on those terms I will agree to your kind offer.  Washing is a little hard for me.”

Mrs. Hoffman collected a few pieces, and, wrapping them up in a handkerchief, handed them to her guest.

“And now what have you been doin’, Jimmy darlint?” said Mrs. Donovan, turning her broad, good-humored face toward the younger boy.

“I’ve been drawing a picture,” said Jimmy.  “Would you like to see it?”

“Now, isn’t that illigant?” exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, admiringly, taking the picture and gazing at it with rapt admiration.  “Who showed you how to do it?”

“Paul bought me a book, and I copied it out of that.”

“You’re a rale genius.  Maybe you’ll make pictures some time like them we have in the church, of the Blessed Virgin and the Saints.  Do you think you could draw me, now?” she asked, with curiosity.

“I haven’t got a piece of paper big enough,” said Jimmy, slyly.

“Ah, it’s pokin’ fun at me, ye are,” said Mrs. Donovan, good-humoredly.  “Just like my Pat; he run into the room yesterday sayin’, ’Mother, there’s great news.  Barnum’s fat woman is dead, and he’s comin’ afther you this afternoon.  He’ll pay you ten dollars a week and board.’  ’Whist, ye spalpeen!’ said I; ‘is it makin’ fun of your poor mother, ye are?’ but I couldn’t help laughing at the impertinence of the boy.  But I must be goin’.”

“Thank you for your kind offer, Mrs. Donovan.  Jimmy shall go to your room for the sewing.”

“There’s no hurry about that,” said Mrs. Donovan.  “I’ll jist bring it in meself when it’s ready.”

“She is very kind,” said Mrs. Hoffman, when Bridget Donovan had gone.  “I shall be glad to have her wash.  I am apt to feel weak after it.  What are you going to do this afternoon, Paul?”

“I’ll try to sell out the rest of my stock of packages.  Perhaps I shan’t succeed, but I’ll do my best.  Shall you have another picture to show me when I come back tonight, Jimmy?”

“Yes, Paul; I love to draw.  I’m going to try this castle.”

“It’s rather hard, isn’t it?”

“I can do it,” said Jimmy, confidently.

Paul left the room with his basket on his arm.

He was drawn by curiosity to the spot where he had met with his first success, as well as his first failure—­the front of the post office.  Here he became witness to an unexpectedly lively scene; in other words, a fight, in which Teddy O’Brien and his confederate, Mike, were the contestants.  To explain the cause of the quarrel, it must be stated that it related to a division of the spoils.

Teddy had sold out his last package, seventy-five in number.  For these he had received five cents apiece, making in all three dollars and seventy-five cents, of which all but a dollar and seventy-five cents, representing the value of the prizes and the original cost of the packages and their contents, was profit.  Now, according to the arrangement entered into between him and Mike, the latter, for his services, was to receive one cent on every package sold.  This, however, seemed to Teddy too much to pay, so, when the time of reckoning came, he stoutly asseverated that there were but sixty packages.

“That don’t go down,” said Mike, indignantly; “it’s nearer a hundred.”

“No, it isn’t.  It’s only sixty.  You’ve got the fifty cents, and I’ll give you ten more.”

“You must give me the whole sixty, then,” said Mike, changing his ground.  “I drawed the fifty as a prize.”

Teddy was struck with astonishment at the impudence of this assumption.

“It wasn’t no prize,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” said Mike.  “You said so yourself.  Didn’t he, Jim?”

Jim, who was also a confederate, but had agreed to accept twenty-five cents in full for services rendered, promptly answered: 

“Shure, Mike’s right.  It was a prize he drew.”

“You want to chate me!” said Teddy, angrily.

“What have you been doin’ all the mornin’?” demanded Mike.  “You’re the chap to talk about chatin’, ain’t you?”

“I’ll give you twenty-five cents,” said Teddy, “and that’s all I will give you.”

“Then you’ve got to fight,” said Mike, squaring off.

“Yes, you’ve got to fight!” chimed in Jim, who thought he saw a chance for more money.

Teddy looked at his two enemies, each of whom was probably more than a match for himself, and was not long in deciding that his best course was to avoid a fight by running.  Accordingly, he tucked all the money into his pocket, and, turning incontinently, fled down Liberty street, closely pursued by his late confederates.  Paul came up just in time to hear the termination of the dispute and watch the flight of his late business rival.

“I guess Teddy won’t go into the business again,” he reflected.  “I may as well take my old stand.”

Accordingly he once more installed himself on the post office steps, and began to cry, “Prize packages.  Only five cents!”

Having no competitor now to interfere with his trade, he met with fair success, and by four o’clock was able to start for home with his empty basket, having disposed of all his stock in trade.

His profits, though not so great as the day before, amounted to a dollar.

“If I could only make a dollar every day,” thought Paul, “I would be satisfied.”