“Take a seat, Frank,” said Mr. Wharton, pointing to a luxurious armchair on one side of the cheerful grate fire; “I will take the other, and you shall tell me all about yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” said our hero.
His confidence was won by Mr. Wharton’s kind tone, and he briefly recounted his story.
At the conclusion, Mr. Wharton said:
“How old are you, Frank?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“You are a brave boy, and a good boy, and you deserve success.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I am bound to say that you have a hard task before you.”
“I know it, sir.”
“Why not let your sister go to the poorhouse for a few years, till you are older, and better able to provide for her?”
“I should be ashamed to do it, sir,” he said. “I promised my mother to take care of Grace, and I will.”
“How much do you earn as a cash-boy?”
“Three dollars a week.”
“Only three dollars a week! Why, that won’t pay your own expenses!” said the old gentleman in surprise.
“Yes, sir, it does. I pay fifty cents a week for my room, and my meals don’t cost me much.”
“But you will want clothes.”
“I have enough for the present, and I am laying up fifty cents a week to buy more when I need them.”
“You can’t buy many for twenty-six dollars a year. But that doesn’t allow anything for your sister’s expenses.”
“That is what puzzles me, sir,” said Frank, fixing a troubled glance upon the fire. “I shall have to work in the evenings for Grace.”
“What can you do?”
“I could copy, but I suppose there isn’t much chance of getting copying to do.”
“Then you have a good handwriting?”
“Pretty fair, sir.”
“Let me see a specimen. There are pen and ink on the table, and here is a sheet of paper.”
Frank seated himself at the table, and wrote his name on the paper.
“Very good,” said his host, approvingly. “Your hand is good enough for a copyist, but you are correct in supposing that work of that kind is hard to get. Are you a good reader?”
“Do you mean in reading aloud, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I will try, if you wish.”
“Take a book from the table—any book—and let me hear you read.”
Frank opened the first book that came to hand—one of Irving’s and read in a clear, unembarrassed voice about half a page.
“Very good indeed!” said Mr. Wharton. “You have been well taught. Where did you attend school?”
“Only in the town school, sir.”
“You have, at any rate, made good use of your advantages.”
“But will it do me any good, sir?” asked Frank.
“People are not paid for reading, are they?”
“Not in general, but we will suppose the case of a person whose eyes are weak, and likely to be badly affected by evening use. Then suppose such a person could secure the services of a good, clear, distinct reader, don’t you think he would be willing to pay something?”
“I suppose so. Do you know of any such person?” asked Frank.
“I am describing myself, Frank. A year since I strained my eyes very severely, and have never dared to use them much since by gaslight. Mrs. Bradley, my housekeeper, has read to me some, but she has other duties, and I don’t think she enjoys it very much. Now, why shouldn’t I get you to read to me in the evening when you are not otherwise employed?”
“I wish you would, Mr. Wharton,” said Frank, eagerly. “I would do my best.”
“I have no doubt of that, but there is another question—perhaps you might ask a higher salary than I could afford to pay.”
“Would a dollar a week be too much?” asked Frank.
“I don’t think I could complain of that,” said Mr. Wharton, gravely. “Very well, I will engage you as my reader.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But about the pay; I have made up my mind to pay you five dollars a week.”
“Five dollars a week!” Frank repeated. “It is much more than my services will be worth sir.”
“Let me judge of that, Frank.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” said Frank, gratefully. “I never expected to be so rich. I shall have no trouble in paying for Grace’s board and clothes now. When do you want me to begin reading to you?”
“You may as well begin to-night—that is, unless you have some other engagement.”
“Oh, no, sir, I have nothing else to do.”
“Take the Evening Post, then, and read me the leading editorial. Afterward, I will tell you what to read.”
Frank had been reading about half an hour, when a knock was heard at the door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Wharton.
Mrs. Bradley entered, with a soft, quiet step.
“I thought, sir,” she began, “you might like me to read to you, as usual.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bradley, but I am going to relieve you of that portion of your labors. My young friend here is to come every evening and read to me.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated the housekeeper in a tone of chilly displeasure, and a sharp glance at Frank, which indicated no great amount of cordiality. “Then, as I am intruding, I will take my leave.”
There was something in her tone that made Frank feel uncomfortable.
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