There was no time for comment, however, as just then
the proprietor of the store came to the door, and, casting his eyes
over the waiting group, singled out Roswell Crawford, and asked him
to enter.
"Well, my lad, how old are you?"
"Fourteen years old," said Roswell, consequentially.
"Are your parents living?"
"Only my mother. My father is dead. He was a gentleman," he added,
complacently.
"Oh, was he?" said the shop-keeper. "Do you live in the city?"
"Yes, sir. In Clinton Place."
"Have you ever been in a situation before?"
"Yes, sir," said Roswell, a little reluctantly.
"Where was it?"
"In an office on Dey Street."
"How long were you there?"
"A week."
"It seems to me that was a short time. Why did you not stay longer?"
"Because," said Roswell, loftily, "the man wanted me to get to the
office at eight o'clock, and make the fire. I'm a gentleman's son,
and am not used to such dirty work."
"Indeed!" said the shop-keeper. "Well, young gentleman, you may step
aside a few minutes. I will speak with some of the other boys before
making my selection."
Several other boys were called in and questioned. Roswell stood by
and listened with an air of complacency. He could not help thinking
his chances the best. "The man can see I'm a gentleman, and will do
credit to his store," he thought.
At length it came to Fosdick's turn. He entered with no very
sanguine anticipations of success.
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