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"I did as well as I could, and that I am ready to do for another employer. But all ask me for a letter from you." "You won't get any!" said Pitkin abruptly. "Where is your home?" "I have none except in this city." "Where did you come from?" "From the country." "Then I advise you to go back there. You may do for the country. You are out of place in the city." Poor Phil!
"The year before I was out of work five months." "Well, Uncle Job, I want to work at something that'll give me employment all the year round." "So do I, Ben, but I don't see what you can find, unless you go to work on a farm. You're used to that, and I guess you could find a chance before long. There's Deacon Pitkin wants a boy, and would be glad of the chance of gettin' you."
"He appears to have done so already," said her husband dryly. "I mean, suppose he should adopt him?" "You are getting on pretty fast, Lavinia, are you not?" "Such things happen sometimes," said the lady, nodding. "If it should happen it would be bad for poor Lonny." "Even in that case Lonny won't have to go to the poor-house." "Mr. Pitkin, you don't realize the danger.
Things did indeed look dark for him. Without a letter of recommendation from Mr. Pitkin it would be almost impossible for him to secure another place, and how could he maintain himself in the city? He didn't wish to sell papers or black boots, and those were about the only paths now open to him. "I am having a rough time!" he thought, "but I will try not to get discouraged."
"Young gentleman!" repeated Alonzo, with a mocking laugh. Philip looked at him sternly. He had his share of human nature, and it would have given him satisfaction to thrash the insolent young patrician, as Alonzo chose to consider himself. "And what do you want here, young man?" asked Mrs. Pitkin in a frosty tone, addressing Phil of course. "I wished to see Mr. Carter," answered Phil.
"We've all made a mistake, and the sooner we remedy it the better." Mrs. Pitkin thought it over. The advice was unpalatable, but it was evidently sound. Uncle Oliver was rich, and they must not let his money slip through their fingers. So, after duly instructing Alonzo in his part, Mrs. Pitkin, a day or two later, ordered her carriage and drove in state to the house of her once poor relative.
For a boy of sixteen, you certainly have a vivid imagination." "I quite agree with my husband," said Mrs. Pitkin. "The boy's story is ridiculously improbable. I can't understand how he has the face to stand there and expect Uncle Oliver to swallow such rubbish." "I don't expect you to believe it, either of you," said Philip manfully, "for you have never treated me fairly."
Deacon Silas Pitkin was a fair specimen of a class of men not uncommon in New England men too sensitive for the severe physical conditions of New England life, and therefore both suffering and inflicting suffering. He was a man of the finest moral traits, of incorruptible probity, of scrupulous honor, of an exacting conscientiousness, and of a sincere piety.
"Don't be too sure of that," returned Mr. Carter, with a significant glance, that made his niece feel uncomfortable. "I suspect you will have to admit it," said Mr. Pitkin. "If, contrary to my anticipation, the boy returns, and brings the money with him, I will own myself mistaken."
"Here I come for Thanksgiving," she said, in a rich, clear tone, "and here," she added, drawing a roll of bills from her bosom, and putting it into the deacon's hand, "here's the interest money for this year. I got it all myself, because I wanted to show you I could be good for something." "Thank you, dear daughter," said Mrs. Pitkin. "I felt sure some way would be found and now I see what."
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