CHAPTER VIII
DR. SPIDDERKINS’ POCKETBOOK
TOM tried to keep up a cheerful spirit when he went home that night, tired and discouraged with his fruitless search for work.
“No luck, Tom?” asked his mother, who, in spite of his efforts at concealment, could almost read his thoughts.
“No, but I’ll find a place to-morrow, mother. Is there any work I can take home for you?”
“Yes; here is a skirt I have just finished for Mrs. Wellderly, the minister’s wife. She is usually good pay, and I have written her a little note, asking to please send the money by you.”
“I wish I was earning money for you, mother.”
“Never mind, Tom. I have had an unusual lot of sewing to do lately, and we are making out fairly well. Now here is the skirt. Carry it carefully.”
She handed the bundle to Tom, who grasped it as if it was a package of books, placing it under one arm.
“Mercy! Goodness sakes alike! Don’t do that!” cried his aunt.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom innocently. “Am I spilling any of the fol-de-rols?”
“No; but you’ll crush the ruffle all out of shape!” explained his mother. “Hold it this way, Tom,” and she showed him how he ought to carry the parcel.
Tom safely delivered his mother’s work, and received the money from the minister’s wife.
“Tell your mother to call and see me,” the lady said to the boy. “A friend of mine wants some fine sewing done, and I think she would like Mrs. Baldwin’s work.”
“I will,” promised Tom.
Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, though he was awake a little longer than usual, wondering what the day would bring forth, Tom arose early the next morning, determined to leave no chance untried to get a place to work. He looked over the advertisements in the paper, and picked out several.
He found, to his regret, however, that in most of the places where boys or young men were wanted, that experience in some line of industry was necessary. This was particularly true of the shops and stores. In the offices this was not quite so requisite, but office positions were very scarce.
“I think I’ll try some of the book stores,” thought Tom, when noon came, and he had had no success. “I had a little experience there, and it ought to be worth something. Any way,” he added, as he smiled at the recollection, “I know there are two Brownings, a poet and a baseball player.”
He turned into Milk Street, where was located Townsend’s Emporium, but he knew it was no use to apply there. He recalled that there was a second-hand book store, further down the street, and he decided to try his luck there.
It was quite a different place from the neatly-kept shop where he had formerly worked, and there was a curious, musty smell about it, many old volumes being ranged about on the shelves.
“Do you want a boy?” asked Tom, of the proprietor.
“Why? Did you see a sign out in front?” inquired the man.
“A sign? No. Why?”
“Well, sometimes the boys of the neighborhood hang a sign out in front to annoy me. They know I never hire a boy. They do it for a joke, and several lads, in need of work, have been fooled by it.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good joke,” remarked Tom.
“Neither do I,” agreed the proprietor. “No, I don’t want a boy, but I’m glad there’s no foolish sign out in front. How did you come to ask in here?”
“Well, I used to be in Townsend’s store, and as I need work, and every place seems to be one where experience is needed, I thought I’d try a book store.”
“I’m sorry,” went on the man more kindly. “I can’t afford to keep a helper. There’s very little profit in second-hand books, and to hire a boy would eat it all up. I need a boy quite often to deliver books, but I can’t afford to hire one regularly.”
“How often do you need one?”
“Well, about once a day. In fact I wish I had one now to take some books to a man who lives three miles from here. I’ll give you fifty cents and your car fare if you’ll deliver them.”
“I’ll do it,” said Tom, glad of the chance to earn a half dollar.
“Wait a minute, and I’ll wrap them up.”
Tom was soon ready to start, carrying quite a heavy bundle of books. As he passed out of the store, in front of which were two big tables, with bargains in second-hand books on them, he saw a familiar figure reading a tattered volume.
“How do you do, Dr. Spidderkins!” greeted Tom, as he recognized the aged physician.
“Eh? What’s that? Oh, it’s—I’ve forgotten—no—I remember now, you’re William Henderson, aren’t you?”
“No, sir; I’m Thomas Baldwin.”
“Oh, yes. You’re in the Emporium. I remember now. My memory must be coming back.”
“I used to be there,” replied Tom, “but there was no work for me after the holidays. I’m doing odd jobs. Just now I’m carrying books for the man who owns this place.”
“Ah, that’s a fine job, carrying books,” commented the old gentleman. “You are diffusing knowledge, my young friend. A very noble calling. Now I can only read books, I can’t carry them about any more. I am reading a very fine book now. It seems to be quite rare. It tells how the ancient Greeks had the primitive idea of raising chickens by means of hot water pipes—something on the order of our modern incubators. It’s a very valuable book. I don’t recollect when I have found one more valuable, of its kind. Yes, once; the same day I discovered a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost, in an old book store, I came across one worth almost as much as this. That was—um—er—dear me—I’m afraid I can’t recall what it was. But I’ll recollect it shortly. I must purchase this book before I forget it.”
Tom watched the old gentleman start into the store, reading on the way the book in which he was so interested. Then Tom saw something else. Dr. Spidderkins’ pocketbook—an old-fashioned wallet—was half-way out of his pocket, and likely to drop to the sidewalk.
Our hero sprang forward to reach the wallet before it should fall. He grasped it, and was pulling it from the doctor’s pocket, intending to restore it to him, when he was startled to hear a voice exclaim:
“Ah! You young rascal, I caught you in the very act!”
Tom turned, with the pocketbook in his hand, to behold Barton Sandow confronting him.
“What do you mean?” asked the boy.
“What do I mean? You’ll soon see what I mean? Trying to steal the doctor’s wallet, eh? I’ll have you arrested!”
“I wasn’t trying to steal it!” declared Tom, indignantly. “It was falling out of his pocket, and I caught it to give it back to him.”
“That’s a likely story! You’re a thief; that’s what you are!”
“What’s that? What’s the matter?” asked the aged physician, suddenly turning, as he became aware that something unusual had happened.
“This boy from the book store has just stolen your pocketbook!” said Mr. Sandow. “He’s got it in his hand now.”
“My pocketbook! Bless my soul! So it is; and I have a hundred dollars in it!”
“I didn’t steal it!” cried Tom again. “It was dropping out, and I caught it!”
“Hold him, doctor, until I get an officer!” called Mr. Sandow, as he looked down the street, and saw a policeman approaching. “We’ll soon have him behind the bars!”