Though Ben was well dressed and had a watch, his stock of money was small. Every day diminished this, and matters began to look serious.

He made application at various places for employment, but generally found some one ahead of him. He was, however, offered one place at two dollars and a half a week, and another at three dollars, but neither of these sums would pay his expenses, and if he accepted he would be prevented from securing a more remunerative post.

After paying in advance the third week’s rent for his room, Ben found that he had but a dollar and thirty-seven cents left.

“Haven’t you found a place yet?” asked the landlady.

“Not yet,” answered Ben soberly, “but I hope to obtain one this week.”

“I hope you will, I’m sure, for I am a poor widow, and though I should hate to send you away I must look out for my own interest.” “I can’t blame you for that, Mrs. Robinson.”

“There’s Mr. Snodgrass don’t pay me regular. He’s owing me for two weeks, and it’s inconvenient. Still he has work, and I’ll be paid some time. Couldn’t he get you something to do where he works?”

“I am afraid I couldn’t write stories,” said Ben, smiling.

“Is that what he does? I thought it was copying.”

Sylvanus Snodgrass would have felt deeply hurt had he supposed that any one took him—a famous author—for a copyist.

“I will try to get something to do this week,” went on Ben. “At any rate I don’t want to keep the room longer than I can pay for it.”

Two days later the dollar was gone and but thirty-seven cents remained. Though cheerful and sanguine naturally, poor Ben felt despondent.

“I will take any employment that offers,” he said to himself, as he left the house at an early hour.

He directed his steps eastward, and soon found himself on the Bowery.

He had not yet eaten breakfast. He was in search of a restaurant where the prices would not be too great for his limited means. At last he found one, where plates of meat were advertised for ten cents, baked beans five cents, and coffee or tea three cents.

He entered and seating himself at a table ordered a cup of coffee and some beans. With the latter were brought two triangular slices of bread and a small pat of butter that was probably oleomargarine. This made his meal ticket eight cents, which certainly could not be regarded as extravagant.

When he was paying for his breakfast something led him to inquire of the proprietor, who acted as his own cashier, if he knew of any place he could get.

“Do you want work?” asked the restaurant keeper, eying Ben with some surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

“How is that? You’ve got good clothes, and have a watch.”

“That is true, but I have only a very little money.”

“Do you mind what you do?”

“No,” answered Ben desperately, “I am willing to do anything.”

“Then maybe I can offer you a job.”

Ben wondered what it could be. Perhaps he was to be offered the position of waiter. He did not think he should like this, and doubted whether he could safely carry a pile of dishes without endangering their safety and soiling his clothes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You can stand at the door and distribute some of my bills.”

This was distinctly better than waiting in the restaurant.

“What will you pay?”

“Well, I’ll give you three meals a day.”

Considering the character of the meals Ben felt that this would not be quite satisfactory. He could probably live better on three dollars a week.

“I think I ought to have more than that,” he said.

“It’s easy work,” rejoined the proprietor persuasively.

“But I shall need a little money.”

Finally Ben succeeded in making a bargain for his meals and twenty-five cents a day, payable at seven o’clock when his duties would close. This was not much, and he could not tell where he could get enough to pay his weekly rent, but in the low state of his finances he did not feel justified in refusing the offer. “All right,” he said, “I’ll try it for a while.”

“Don’t give to everybody—only to those who are likely to come in and eat. I had a boy working for me last week who gave circulars to five-year old kids, and I had to run up a big printing bill to keep him supplied. I only gave him his meals, but he was a ragged boy, and you are so well dressed that it will give tone to my establishment.”

Ben felt glad that his good clothes were likely to increase his earnings. He took his stand outside the restaurant and began to distribute circulars.

Evidently he created a favorable impression, for several persons of a grade higher than the ordinary frequenters of the restaurant took the bills and entered, considerably to the satisfaction of the watchful landlord. But they were not all satisfied.

“I say, Johnny,” said a florid-looking man, as he left the eating house, “I don’t think much of your hotel. I thought from your looks it was something away up. Do you eat there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I don’t admire your taste. Are you the landlord’s son?”

“No, sir.” “You needn’t expect me to go in again.”

“No, sir, I won’t. I am sorry you were not pleased.”

“I shall have to go somewhere else and get a decent meal.”

“I wish I could,” thought Ben.

At twelve o’clock Ben felt hungry. His breakfast had been scanty and did not seem to have staying power.

“Can I have my dinner now?” he asked as he entered the restaurant.

“Yes.”

Ben sat down at a table and looked over the bill of fare. Among the items was “Roast Chicken—25 cents.”

“You may bring me roast chicken and a cup of coffee,” he told the waiter.

The latter went up to the proprietor and spoke to him in a low voice. Then he returned.

“The boss says you can have any ten cent plate of meat,” he said. “He never gives roast chicken to his help.”

“Don’t you get it?”

“No.”

Ben felt disappointed. Hungry as he was he felt the need of a good dinner.

“You can bring me the chicken,” he said, “and I will pay ten cents extra. Will that do?”

“Yes; that will be satisfactory.”

The chicken was hardly as good as would have been given at a high-priced restaurant. In fact it was rather tough, but then Ben’s teeth were good, and hungry as he was he enjoyed it.

He found that he was entitled to a piece of pudding or pie, and accordingly ordered a plate of apple pudding.

After finishing his meal he felt better. He resumed his place at the door, and half an hour later was greeted by a familiar voice. Looking up he met the astonished gaze of Sylvanus Snodgrass.

“What does this mean, Bruce?” he asked.

Ben felt rather embarrassed, for it was not a business that he was proud of.

“It means that I have found work,” he said.

“Distributing bills for a beanery,” said the romancer.

“That’s about it.”

“Well, let me see one of the bills.”

Ben handed him one.

“Seems cheap,” said Sylvanus, “and suits my purse, for I’m pretty short to-day. Can you recommend it?” “I can recommend the prices,” said Ben.

“Well, I’ll risk it. I would rather eat at Delmonico’s, but I have no credit there, and I must e’en take up with a restaurant of a lower grade.”

Mr. Snodgrass entered the place and emerged therefrom in twenty minutes.

“How did you like it?” asked Ben.

“I have eaten at worse places, but not much worse,” answered the “novelist.” “I say, Bruce, if you have any influence with the boss, ask him to supply a better article of butter, I’m not stuck on oleo.”

“I am afraid I haven’t much influence with the ‘boss,’ as you call him.”

“You might hint to him that I am the great Sylvanus Snodgrass—perhaps he reads the Bugle—and he may treat me better than the rest of his customers.”

“I am afraid he is not literary, Mr. Snodgrass.”

“Very likely. He doesn’t look intellectual. But Bruce, I am surprised that you should take such a place.”

“You wouldn’t be su’prised if you knew how little money there is in my purse.”

“I was about to strike you for half a dollar. I suppose it wouldn’t be any use.” “No, it wouldn’t. I haven’t as much money as that. Perhaps Mr. Clyde would oblige you.”

“I owe him fifty already. I hate to speak ill of Cornelius, but he is close. He doesn’t understand the obligations of friendship. Well, ta, ta! I will see you to-night.”