Paul the Peddler Part 22

"I don't think you could get enough from a p.a.w.n-broker."

"I can try, at any rate; but first I will see George Barry, and find out whether he will take twenty dollars down, and the rest at the end of a month."

Paul wrapped up the ring in a piece of paper, and deposited it in his vest pocket. He waited till after dinner, and then went at once to the necktie stand, where he made the proposal to George Barry.

The young man shook his head.

"I'd like to oblige you, Paul," he said, "but I must have the money.

I have an offer of thirty-two dollars, cash, from another party, and I must take up with it if I can't do any better. I'd rather sell out to you, but you know I have to consult my own interest."

"Of course, George, I can't complain of that."

"I think you will be able to borrow the money somewhere."

"Most of my friends are as poor as myself," said Paul. "Still, I think I shall be able to raise the money. Only wait for me two days."

"Yes, Paul, I'll wait that long. I'd like to sell out to you, if only because you have helped me when I was sick. But for you all that would have been lost time."

"Where there's a will there's a way, George," said Paul. "I'm bound to buy your stand and I will raise the money somehow."

Paul bought a few papers, for he did not like to lose the afternoon trade, and in an hour had sold them all off, realizing a profit of twenty cents. This made his profits for the day seventy cents.

"That isn't as well as I used to do," said Paul to himself, "but perhaps I can make something more by and by. I will go now and see what I can get for the ring."

As he had determined, he proceeded to a p.a.w.nbroker's shop which he had often pa.s.sed. It was on Chatham street, and was kept by an old man, an Englishman by birth, who, though he lived meanly in a room behind his shop, was popularly supposed to have acc.u.mulated a considerable fortune.

CHAPTER XV

THE p.a.w.nBROKER'S SHOP

Stuffed behind the counter, and on the shelves of the p.a.w.nbroker's shop, were articles in almost endless variety. All was fish that came to his net. He was willing to advance on anything that had a marketable value, and which promised to yield him, I was about to say, a fair profit.

But a fair profit was far from satisfying the old man. He demanded an extortionate profit from those whom ill-fortune drove to his door for relief.

Eliakim Henderson, for that was his name, was a small man, with a bald head, scattering yellow whiskers, and foxlike eyes. Spiderlike he waited for the flies who flew of their own accord into his clutches, and took care not to let them go until he had levied a large tribute. When Paul entered the shop, there were three customers ahead of him. One was a young woman, whose pale face and sunken cheeks showed that she was waging an unequal conflict with disease. She was a seamstress by occupation, and had to work fifteen hours a day to earn the little that was barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Confined in her close little room on the fourth floor, she scarcely dared to s.n.a.t.c.h time to look out of the window into the street beneath, lest she should not be able to complete her allotted task. A two days' sickness had compelled her to have recourse to Eliakim Henderson. She had under her arm a small bundle covered with an old copy of the Sun.

"What have you got there?" asked the old man, roughly. "Show it quick, for there's others waiting."

Meekly she unfolded a small shawl, somewhat faded from long use.

"What will you give me on that?" she asked, timidly.

"It isn't worth much."

"It cost five dollars."

"Then you got cheated. It never was worth half the money. What do you want on it?"

The seamstress intended to ask a dollar and a half, but after this depreciation she did not venture to name so high a figure.

"A dollar and a quarter," she said.

"A dollar and a quarter!" repeated the old man, shrilly. "Take it home with you. I don't want it."

"What will you give?" asked the poor girl, faintly.

"Fifty cents. Not a penny more."

"Fifty cents!" she repeated, in dismay, and was about to refold it. But the thought of her rent in arrears changed her half-formed intention.

"I'll take it, sir."

The money and ticket were handed her, and she went back to her miserable attic-room, coughing as she went.

"Now, ma'am," said Eliakim.

His new customer was an Irish woman, by no means consumptive in appearance, red of face and portly of figure.

"And what'll ye be givin' me for this?" she asked, displaying a pair of pantaloons.

"Are they yours, ma'am?" asked Eliakim, with a chuckle.

"It's not Bridget McCarty that wears the breeches," said that lady.

"It's me husband's, and a dacent, respectable man he is, barrin' the drink, which turns his head. What'll ye give for 'em?"

"Name your price," said Eliakim, whose principle it was to insist upon his customers making the first offer.

"Twelve s.h.i.+llin's," said Bridget.

"Twelve s.h.i.+llings!" exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands. "That's all they cost when they were new."

"They cost every cint of five dollars," said Bridget. "They was made at one of the most fas.h.i.+onable shops in the city. Oh, they was an illigant pair when they was new."

"How many years ago was that?" asked the p.a.w.nbroker.

"Only six months, and they ain't been worn more'n a month."

"I'll give you fifty cents."

"Fifty cints!" repeated Mrs. McCarty, turning to the other customers, as if to call their attention to an offer so out of proportion to the valuable article she held in her hand. "Only fifty cints for these illigant breeches! Oh, it's you that's a hard man, that lives on the poor and the nady."

"You needn't take it. I should lose money on it, if you didn't redeem it."

"He says he'd lose money on it," said Mrs. McCarty. "And suppose he did, isn't he a-rollin' in gold?"

"I'm poor," said Eliakim; "almost as poor as you, because I'm too liberal to my customers."

"Hear till him!" said Mrs. McCarty. "He says he's liberal and only offers fifty cints for these illigant breeches."