Jr. Horatio Alger

The room into which Harry entered was possibly twenty feet square, and had rather a desolate look. It was poorly lighted, having but one window, looking upon a court-yard. At one end was an elevated desk, with a large ledger lying upon it. There were two arm-chairs in the office, on one of which a man of forty-five sat smoking a cigar. He was rather a hard-featured man, with stiff, wiry, black hair, and rather a seedy look.

“Is Mr. Fairchild in?” asked our hero, dubiously.

“I am Mr. Fairchild,” was the unexpected reply. “Are you young Raymond?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harry, feeling considerably disappointed with the appearance of his employer as well as the office in which he was to work.

“Is Mr. Fairchild in?”

The fact was, he had formed a very different idea of both from the present reality. He supposed Mr. Fairchild would be a portly man, handsomely dressed, and his place of business a large warehouse several times as large as Mr. Porter’s store, which he had just left. But here was a miserable little twenty-foot room, at which, he felt very confident, John Gaylord would turn up his nose. He fervently hoped that none of his country friends would come and see him. After all the glowing anticipations he had formed, this was certainly something of a come-down. Then, he was disappointed in Mr. Fairchild himself. He certainly did not look by any means like a prosperous city merchant, doing an extensive business.

“Have you just reached New York, Raymond?” asked the merchant, picking his teeth with the small blade of his pocket-knife.

“Yes, sir,” said Harry. “I came right here.”

“All right. I was expecting you. So you want me to make a business man of you, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, wondering if he should dress as shabbily when he became a commission merchant.

“Well, I’ll do my best for you.”

“How is business, sir?” asked Harry, a little anxiously under the circumstances.

“Pretty good,” answered Mr. Fairchild.

Harry involuntarily looked round the empty room with a puzzled air. He wondered what Mr. Fairchild had to sell, and where he kept it. He could not help wondering, also, where his salary of twelve dollars a week was to come from.

“Yesterday I sold a cargo of sugar,” resumed Mr. Fairchild,—“ten thousand dollars’ worth. I must have you make out the bill presently.”

Harry looked and felt astonished. He began to suspect that, in spite of appearances, considerable business might be done even in this little room. Probably Mr. Porter’s sales for an entire year would not amount to more than twenty thousand dollars, yet here was a sale of half that amount in a single day.

“Do you often make such large sales?” he asked, with a new feeling of respect.

“Do you call that a large sale?” said the merchant, indifferently.

“I should think it was, sir.”

“Ah, yes, your being from the country explains that. I sell large quantities of merchandise on commission. I never take any consignment worth less than a thousand dollars. It wouldn’t pay.”

“Indeed!” said our hero, becoming more cheerful. The office was small and dull. Still the amount of business done there redeemed its significance.

“Day before yesterday I sold a cargo of cotton, amounting to—let me see—”

Mr. Fairchild went to the desk, and, opening it, took out a small blank book.

“Twenty-seven thousand five hundred and thirty three dollars, and seventy-five cents,” he read, from the book. “What would my commission on this sale be, at two per cent.? I want to see whether you are quick and correct at figures.”

“About five hundred and fifty dollars,” answered our hero, making a rapid calculation in his head. “If I had a pencil and some paper, I would give you the exact figures.”

“Quite right. I see you understand the principle. That’s doing very fairly for one day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, considerably impressed.

At this moment a man entered, and, with a hasty glance at Harry, addressed Mr. Fairchild.

“Ah, Miller, how are you?” said the merchant.

“Very well, but in a great hurry. Have you sold that cargo of silks yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you thought over my offer of this morning?”

“Seventeen thousand dollars? Yes, I have thought of it, and I can’t accept it. My price is eighteen thousand.”

“Too much; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll split the difference, and say five hundred.”

This offer, after a little chaffering, was finally agreed to.

“Raymond,” said Mr. Fairchild, “make out a bill against Mr. Miller, Thomas Miller, of seventeen thousand five hundred dollars for the cargo of silks, at present on the ship Argo. You will find pen and paper on the desk.”

Harry stepped to the desk, and with some tribulation made out the bill, as he would have done for a supply of groceries. He feared that it would not answer; but on handing it to Mr. Fairchild that gentleman made no criticism. He just glanced at it, and handed it to Mr. Miller.

“Very well, I’ll send round a check for the amount in the morning.”

“All right.”

“Good-morning. I am in a hurry;” and the silk purchaser went out.

“What do you think of that specimen of doing business, Raymond?” asked Mr. Fairchild, complacently.

“It didn’t take long.”

“No, that’s the city style. And it pays too. Just calculate the commission on that sale at two per cent.”

“Three hundred and fifty dollars,” said our hero, promptly.

“I dare say you are not used to such transactions in the country.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it’s a very comfortable way of doing business. Probably I may have no other sale to-day—possibly not to-morrow; but two or three large sales a week count up.”

Harry began to think he should not have to work very hard, and his doubt as to Mr. Fairchild’s making money enough to pay him his wages disappeared.

“Do you want me to go to work at once?” he asked.

“Yes, I have some copying for you to do. Open that ledger.”

Harry did so.

“You may commence at page 51, and copy down the entries upon these sheets of paper. You are used to copying, aren’t you?”

“No, sir, but I can do it well enough.”

“Very well. You may go to work at once. I must make a business call. I will be back in an hour or two, and take you to dinner.”

He took his hat and went out. Harry began to copy industriously. The transactions entered appeared to date several years back, and Harry did not exactly understand what connection they had with Mr. Lemuel Fairchild’s business. But then, as he reflected, he was not competent to judge of that. All he had to do was to obey instructions, and after a while he would know more. It was certainly very astonishing the way in which business was done in the city. The prospect of being cooped up in a small, dark room was not very pleasant. Still Harry recalled the pleasant circumstance that he was earning two dollars a day, and was at the same time learning business. So far as he could see, the commission business was not very difficult to learn. Perhaps Mr. Fairchild might eventually admit him as a partner in the firm. If so, he would soon realize a fortune.

Harry kept on copying steadily while these thoughts were passing through his mind. After an hour or more the door opened, and Mr. Fairchild entered.

“How much have you copied?” he asked, advancing to the desk.

“About two pages and a half,” said Harry. “Is it done right?”

His employer glanced at the writing carelessly.

“Yes,” he said, “it will do very well. You have a good business-hand.”

“I shall improve as I go on, I hope,” said Harry, modestly.

“Oh, of course. I’ve no doubt I shall be able to make a business-man of you. But I suppose you are getting hungry.”

Harry admitted that he was a little hungry.

“Well, we will go out as soon as a friend arrives whom I have invited to accompany us.”

Fifteen minutes after, the friend referred to arrived. It was Hartley Brandon,—the same man who had visited Squire Turner in Vernon the week before.

He glanced sharply at our hero, and said something in a low tone to Mr. Fairchild which Harry did not understand. He little dreamed that the new-comer was to be intimately connected with his fortunes. Still less did he dream that he was an agent of Squire Turner, and that all the profitable business transactions of Mr. Lemuel Fairchild were merely fictitious, and got up solely to deceive him. Harry was a smart boy, but even smart boys are likely to be taken in, in matters of which they have no previous experience. But Harry’s eyes were to be opened very soon.