Ben kept at work for the remainder of the week, but felt far from satisfied with his position and pay. He found that his three meals a day included only the cheapest and least desirable dishes, and having the hearty appetite of a healthy boy he felt obliged to supplement them by ordering extra food at his own expense.

So it happened that at the week’s end he had but forty cents coming to him. Another week’s rent was due, and this was all he had to meet it.

“What shall I do?” he asked Mr. Snodgrass, in perplexity.

“Haven’t you got something to hock?” asked the writer.

“What do you mean by ‘hock?’” asked Ben.

“Pawn, of course. Where were you educated?”

“I never heard the word ‘hock’ before. I know the meaning of pawn.”

“There’s your watch, now. You might hock that.” “I wouldn’t like to part with it. It was a present.”

“Bless your soul, nobody likes to pawn his valuables, but everybody has to do it some time. Did you ever notice that I don’t carry a watch?”

“You have a chain.”

“Yes, but that is all. Sometimes people ask me what time it is, and I answer that my watch isn’t going. So I keep up the illusion. The funniest thing is that a pickpocket tried one day to relieve me of my watch. When he pulled out the chain and found nothing attached to it he looked foolish, I tell you.”

“I should think he would,” said Ben, laughing. “But where is your watch?”

“It’s reposing in Simpson’s safe, my dear boy.”

“But who is Simpson?”

“Never heard of Simpson?” ejaculated Sylvanus, arching his eyebrows. “Why, he’s the poor man’s friend; that is, they are, for there’s more than one of them. The particular Simpson I mean has an office half way down the Bowery.”

“Would he lend me something on my watch?”

“Of course he would. Let me look at it.”

Ben submitted the watch to Mr. Snodgrass for examination. “That’s a good watch,” said the author. “It probably cost eighteen or twenty dollars. You could possibly get five dollars on it.”

“No more?”

“Yes, if you want to sell it; but you are only hocking it.”

“How long can I have to redeem it?”

“A year. The first six months you pay three per cent. a month interest.”

“Three per cent. a month!” ejaculated Ben in dismay.

“Of course. You don’t suppose pawnbrokers carry on business for fun, do you?”

“But that seems a good deal to pay.”

“The second six months you only pay two per cent. monthly.”

“That is a good deal, too.”

“Well, you don’t have to hock it, you know.”

“Yes, I must,” said Ben with a sigh. “I must pay my rent.”

“Then I’ll go down to Simpson’s with you,” said Snodgrass briskly. “I know the ropes.”

“Thank you. I shouldn’t like to go alone.”

“No; you wouldn’t know how to manage. Come along.”

The two friends walked to Simpson’s, neither having any spare money to pay car fare. They entered the loan office and waited their turn, for several were ahead of them.

An old Irish woman was haggling for a larger loan on a worn and dirty shawl.

“Sure it’s very little you’re givin’ me,” she protested. “What will I do with a quarter?”

“We don’t want it, any way. You’d better take it somewhere else.”

“Give me the money, then.”

The next person was a slender dude, who had a silk umbrella to offer.

“A dollar,” said the clerk.

“Aw, that’s vewry little, don’t you know,” drawled the young man. “It was bought at Tiffany’s, it was, ’pon me honah.”

“That is all we can give.”

“Then I must wesign myself to the sacrifice. Pass over the spondulicks.”

The next person was a young lady with spectacles and wearing a look of Bostonian culture. She had a broad flat parcel in her hand.

“What will you loan me on this?” she asked.

“What is it?”

“It is a novel in manuscript. I should like a hundred dollars, please.”

The clerk looked at her sharply as if questioning her sanity. “A hundred dollars!” he repeated.

“Yes; I expect to get five hundred for it. Surely a fifth of that sum is not too much to ask.”

“We have no use for such articles.”

“If you would kindly read the first few chapters, sir, I think you would see that it had a marked value. Probably I shall redeem it in a few days.”

“Better take it to a publisher and obtain an advance on it. It is out of our line.”

“I wouldn’t mind paying a little extra interest on the loan,” said the young lady, persuasively.

“Couldn’t think of it. Next!”

“I only wish I could hock some of my old manuscript stories,” whispered Mr. Snodgrass to Ben. “I’d write some expressly for the purpose.”

“What can I do for you, young man?” asked the clerk, turning to Ben.

“What will you give me on this watch?” said Ben.

The clerk scanned it briefly and asked in return, “How much do you want?”

“Eight dollars,” answered Ben, following the advice of his companion.

“I will give you five.”

“All right,” said Ben.

A ticket was quickly made out, and Ben left the office with that and a five-dollar bill in his hand.

“You are in luck,” said Sylvanus, when they reached the street. “I wasn’t sure they would give you five on it.”

“I shall miss it,” returned Ben seriously. “I don’t know when I can redeem it.”

“Oh, don’t borrow trouble! Mine is in for two fifty, and has been in for ten months. I should have to pay about three and a half to get it out.”

“It’s an expensive way of getting money.”

“So it is, but money is money when you want it. Now I have a proposition to make.”

“What is it?”

“Let us go the theater. There’s a good play on at the People’s. A dollar will buy two seats.”

“Then you expect me to pay for both tickets?” asked Ben.

“Yes; I’ll treat another evening.”

“I can’t afford it. I have only five dollars and am not earning a living. I must hoard every penny.”

“Oh, trust to luck!” said Mr. Snodgrass easily. “Something will turn up before that money is spent.”

“It may, but there is no certainty.” “At any rate let us go in and get an ice cream.”

“No, Mr. Snodgrass, I must be very economical.”

“You ought to have a little amusement now and then,” urged the author, not concealing his disappointment.

“So I will when I can afford it.”

Mr. Snodgrass endeavored to shake Ben’s determination, but without success, for Ben was prudent and felt that he had no money to spare.

On his return he paid a week’s room rent to Mrs. Robinson. This left him three dollars for a reserve fund.

“I wish I knew how I was coming out,” he reflected anxiously. “I should hate awfully to fail. What would Mr. Winter say? He would gloat over it. Any way I can never go back to him. I would rather black boots.”

Once or twice that employment had suggested itself to Ben, but he had never looked upon it with favor. It was an honest business, though a lowly one, but he felt it was unsuited to one of his education and advantages.

Selling papers seemed a shade higher and more respectable, and he decided to inquire into the pay.

One afternoon, as he bought a paper of a newsboy, he asked, “How does selling papers pay?”

Tommy Hooper, the boy addressed, answered, “I make about seventy-five cents a day, but I have to hustle.”

Seventy-five cents a day! That would be four dollars and a half a week, or deducting two dollars for rent he would have two dollars and a half for his work, and he felt that on that sum he could live as well as he did now, since he knew of a place where he could buy a ticket good for three dollars’ worth of meals for two dollars and a half.

“Was you goin’ into the business?” asked Tom.

“I don’t know but I may.”

“I don’t b’lieve you’d like it.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve got too good clothes on.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I don’t know of no newsboy dressed like you.”

“It wouldn’t prevent my selling papers, would it?”

“No.”

“Then I wish you’d give me a few points. I think I will try it.”

“Ain’t you workin’ now?” “Yes.”

“What are you doin’?”

Ben explained.

“Are you goin’ to give up your place?”

“Yes, if I find that I can sell papers.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll change work with you. You give me a recommend to your boss, and you can take my business. I’ve got a small route. I serve about half a dozen families with papers.”

After some negotiation this plan was carried out, and Tom Hooper was accepted at the restaurant as Ben’s successor.