“I say, Griswold,” said a gentleman seated at a neighboring table, “is that your son?”

Grant Griswold smiled.

“Hardly,” he said. “Ben, how old are you?”

“Nearly sixteen.”

“And I am only thirty-two, so that hypothesis lacks probability. We are only recent acquaintances, or, let me say, friends, but I hope our friendship will continue.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ben. “I hope so too.”

As the meal progressed Mr. Griswold questioned Ben as to his plans.

“I want to make a living,” said Ben, “but I know so little about the city that I can’t tell yet which will be the best way.”

“I would look out for something for you, but unfortunately I sail for Europe next Saturday, to be gone for three months. Have you any friends in New York?”

“No, sir.”

“You will need a recommendation, and I will write you one before I leave town. I haven’t known you long, but what I have seen of you gives me confidence in your good qualities. By the way, I shall need some one to help me pack, and I will keep you with me till I start for Europe. It will only be three days, but that will give you a chance to look about you, and will enable you to say you have been in my employ.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Griswold,” said Ben gratefully. “I didn’t expect to meet such a friend so soon.”

After breakfast Ben, accompanying Mr. Griswold, went up-town to a large building on lower Fifth Avenue, where Mr. Griswold rented a suite of rooms.

“You will occupy the small bedroom adjoining mine,” said Griswold, “and I will set you to work while I go out and make a few calls.”

During the day Ben was sent on several errands, and though a stranger to the city he managed to acquit himself creditably, making inquiries about locations when he was at fault.

Three days later he went to see his patron off on the Etruria.

Mr. Griswold handed him a ten-dollar bill and bade him good-by. “I wish you good luck, Ben,” he said. “Be sure to call on me when I return.”

Ben waited on the dock till the floating hotel was fairly under way, and then turned away, feeling very lonely. He could hardly realize that the friend whom he so much regretted had been utterly unknown to him four days previous. Now he had no one to lean upon. He must rely wholly upon himself.

Two things must be done at once. He must find a room and employment. He had taken down two or three names of lodging-houses from the New York Herald, which Mr. Griswold took in every morning. One of them was on West Twelfth Street. He took a car and went up there. The door was opened by a woman of ample proportions, who regarded Ben with a critical eye.

“Well, young man?” she said in a tone of business-like inquiry.

“I want to hire a room,” said Ben.

“Will you occupy it alone?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Do you wish a large or a small room?”

“I want a low-priced room.”

“That means a small room.”

“I have no objection to a large room if the price is low,” said Ben, smiling. “No doubt. Well, follow me up-stairs.”

Mrs. Robinson was stout and unwieldy, and seemed to find it difficult to go up-stairs. At the head of the second flight she threw open the door of a small hall bedroom very plainly furnished.

“You can have that room for two dollars a week,” she said.

“It is very small,” remarked Ben doubtfully.

“It is as good as you can expect for two dollars. I can give you a fine square room for five dollars.”

“That is more than I can afford to pay. I think I will take this room for a short time and see how I like it.”

“Are you in any business?”

“I am looking for a place.”

Mrs. Robinson’s face changed slightly.

“I require the first week in advance,” she said significantly.

“Very well.”

Ben took out his pocketbook and tendered her a ten-dollar bill, the one he had just received from Mr. Griswold.

Mrs. Robinson, seeing the denomination of the bill, regarded Ben with increased respect.

“I am afraid I can’t change a ten,” she said. “I believe I have a two here,” returned Ben, exploring his wallet.

“Very well. I will write you a receipt. What is your name?”

“Ben—that is, Benjamin Bruce.”

“I think we shall get along very well, Mr. Bruce,” said the landlady graciously. “I hope you will have success in getting a place.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you wish to sleep here to-night?”

Ben answered in the affirmative, and Mrs. Robinson gave him a latch-key.

“That will let you in at any time, but I hope you are a steady young man and don’t keep very late hours.”

“I don’t expect to,” answered Ben, with a smile.

“I had a young man in this room last spring who annoyed me very much by coming home drunk and disturbing the house in his efforts to get up-stairs.”

“I don’t expect to trouble you in that way,” said Ben. “I don’t know many people in the city” (he didn’t like to say “any,” though he might have done so truthfully), “and shall not be tempted to keep late hours.”

It did not take long for Ben to establish himself in his new room. He went out and took a walk on Broadway.

He thought he would defer looking for a place till the next morning. He stayed out several hours, and then feeling fatigued, went back to the lodging-house.

He lay down on the bed in his clothes, but had hardly been there ten minutes when there was a knock on his door.

Ben was rather surprised at having a caller so soon, but he turned his face to the door and said, “Come in!”

A young man, apparently about twenty-five, entered. He had long black hair, and a broad, high forehead.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but you are a new lodger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me introduce myself then. My name is Sylvanus Snodgrass, and I occupy the small room across the hall.”

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Snodgrass. Won’t you sit down? You will excuse my sitting on the bed as I have but one chair.”

“It is the same in my room. May I ask your name?”

“Ben Bruce.” “Excuse me, but are you literary?”

“Not at all,” answered Ben, rather surprised.

“You have a good name for an author, both names beginning with the same letter.”

“Are you literary, Mr. Snodgrass?”

“Yes,” answered the young man complacently. “Do you ever read the Weekly Bugle, a literary paper?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“I am having a serial story run through it. It is called ‘The Ragpicker’s Curse.’”

Ben was not much of a judge of literature, but it didn’t seem to him that this title suggested a high order of literary merit.

“Did it take you long to write it?” he asked.

“I wrote it in four weeks. It is in forty chapters. I was greatly enthused when I wrote it.”

“Were you?”

“I was so much interested that one day I wrote eight hours on a stretch, and then fainted away.”

Mr. Snodgrass mentioned this little circumstance in a very complacent tone.

“The literary life is a very absorbing one,” he continued. “When I have finished a story I am simply exhausted.”

“I hope it pays well,” said Ben. “Not as it should, Mr. Bruce, not as it should. But money is not everything. I hope to acquire fame, to live in the hearts of future generations,” and the young man’s pale cheeks flushed.

Ben doubted whether such stories as “The Ragpicker’s Curse” would be likely to win enduring fame for the author, but out of consideration for the feelings of Mr. Snodgrass he kept silent on this point.

“I hear that Howells makes a good deal of money by his novels,” he said.

“Howells!” repeated Mr. Snodgrass scornfully. “He couldn’t write a story for the Weekly Bugle. There isn’t excitement enough in his productions.”

“Still, I think I should like to be in his shoes.”

“Oh, no doubt there is some merit in his stories,” said Sylvanus Snodgrass condescendingly, “but I don’t admire them for my part. They lack snap and fire.”

“Probably he couldn’t write a story like ‘The Ragpicker’s Curse.’”

“I won’t express any opinion on that subject,” said Mr. Snodgrass modestly. “If you ever feel inclined to write a story, Mr. Bruce, I shall be glad to introduce you to our editor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Snodgrass, you are very kind.” “Oh, don’t mention it, Mr. Bruce. I know what it is to struggle and I like to help young writers. By the way, have you had supper?”

“Not yet.”

“Suppose we go out together. I like company when I eat.”

Ben accepted the suggestion. Lonely as he felt he welcomed the companionship even of Sylvanus Snodgrass. He put on his hat, and they walked down-stairs together.