“I trust so too,” said the man. “He writes legibly, and if you have nothing better to do with him, he may have his food and clothing for the few errands he can do.” “And Patrick, dear,” said O’Brien, “will you be liking this employment, sure my son it’s a good berth, though a mean one, to what I meant to give you; but you’ll be industrious and mind what’s told you, and I’ll still be looking after you, and you’ll have plenty of books, dear, for they are not scarce here.” “The boy will have but little chance of meddling with books,” said the printer, “it will be time enough when he is older. Is he to stay now, or do you wish him to come next week? he must be apprenticed to me, you recollect.” Smothering and choking was the poor fellow for a minute or two; he knew that the hundred dollars was all gone, and that my last quarter had just ended. He knew it was entirely out of his power to assist me any further, so with a mighty effort he made the sacrifice—he transferred me to another. It was but the work of half an hour, and I became this man’s property; for twelve years he was to rule my destiny. I looked up in his face whilst he was speaking, and I saw nothing to cheer me; his countenance was only expressive of care and deep thought. I cast another glance at him when my indentures were signed, and there was no change. Poor Patrick never thought of his looks; he was only alive to the misery of having consigned me to another; of having no longer any power or control over my comforts and enjoyments. When all was over, and the printer had left us together, the poor man burst into tears, bewailing his cruel fate that would not let him alone, as he said, that he might perform his promise of giving me a good education. “I wanted to be industrious,” said he, “but something always pulled me back and pointed to a toy or a hobby-horse, or a fine suit of clothes, or a ride, or a pleasant walk, and so all these things being more agreeable to my nature, I left my garden for the pleasure of pleasing you, my poor boy; and now you must work for this nigger, who won’t let you touch one of his books even. But remember your mother, Patrick, whatever becomes of you; be honest, and she will be looking down upon you, my jewel; and that will encourage you; and I shall be looking after you too, dear, for all I am—for all I am—in the poor-house. Don’t cry, poor fellow, I did not mean to tell you; but where’s the use of being proud now, when you can’t even get a book to read, but must just be an errand boy and be pushed about any how, and it all comes of my laziness.” “Oh no, Patrick, you have done every thing for me,” said I, “and only keep a good heart for twelve years, and then I shall have a trade, and I can make you happy and comfortable; but you must come and see me every day, for I shall miss you so much; and there is such a difference between Mr. Bartlett and you. It will kill me if you don’t come every day.”