"How many papers have you sold to-day, my boy?" he asked. "Thirty-six, sir." "Were they all _Telegrams_?" "No; I sell all the papers. I ain't partial. I'm just as willing to make money on the _Mail_, or _Commercial_, or _Evening Post_, as the _Telegram_." "I see you have an eye to business. How long have you dealt in papers?" "Three years, sir." "How old are you?" "Fifteen." "What did you do before you sold papers?" A shadow rested on the boy's bright face. "I didn't have to work then, sir," he said. "My father was alive, and he was well off. We lived in a nice house up town, and I went to a private school. But all at once father failed, and soon afterward he died, and then everything was changed. I don't like to think about it, sir." The gentleman's interest was strongly excited. "It is a sad story," he said. "Is your mother living?" "Yes, sir. The worst of it is, that I don't make enough to support us both, and she has to work, too." "What does she do?" "She makes vests for a man on Chatham street." "I hope she is well paid." "That she is not. He only allows her twenty cents apiece." "That is a mere pittance. She can't earn much at that rate." "No, sir; she has to work hard to make one vest a day." "The man can't have a conscience," said the gentleman, indignantly. "It is starvation wages." "So it is, sir, but he pretends that he pays more than the work is worth. Oh, he's a mean fellow," pursued the boy, his face expressive of the scorn and disgust which he felt. "What is your name, my boy?" "Dan, sir--Dan Mordaunt." "I hope, Dan, you make more money than your mother does." "Oh, yes, sir. Sometimes I make a dollar a day, but I don't average that. I wish I could make enough so that mother wouldn't have to work." "I see you are a good son. I like to hear you speak in such terms of your mother." "If I didn't," said Dan, impetuously, "I should deserve to be kicked. She's a good mother, sir." "I have no doubt of it. It must be hard for her to be so reduced after once living liberally. How happened it that your father failed?" The boy's pleasant face assumed a stern expression. "On account of a rascal, sir. His book-keeper ran off, carrying with him thirty thousand dollars. Father couldn't meet his bills, and so he failed. It broke his heart, and he didn't live six months after it." "Have you ever heard of this book-keeper since?" "No, sir, not a word. I wish I could. I should like to see him dragged to prison, for he killed my father, and made my mother work for a living." "I can't blame you, Dan, for feeling as you do. Besides, it has altered your prospects." "I don't care for myself, sir. I can forget that. But I can't forgive the injury he has done my poor father and mother." "Have you any idea what became of the defaulter?" "We think that he went to Europe, just at first, but probably he returned when he thought all was safe." "He may have gone out West." "I shouldn't wonder, sir."