“O.” said the other, bursting into a laugh, “you needn't trouble yourself about thanking me. I'm glad you've come, because now I shan't have to open the store and sweep out. Just lend a hand there; I'll help you about taking down the shutters this morning, and to-morrow you'll have to get along alone.” The two boys opened the store. “What's your name?” asked Paul's new acquaintance. “Paul Prescott. What is yours?” “Nicholas Benton. You may call me MR. Benton.” “Mr. Benton?” repeated Paul in some astonishment. “Yes; I'm a young man now. I've been Smith & Thompson's boy till now. Now I'm promoted.” Paul looked at MR. Benton with some amusement. That young man was somewhat shorter than himself, and sole proprietor of a stock of pale yellow hair which required an abundant stock of bear's grease to keep it in order. His face was freckled and expressionless. His eyebrows and eyelashes were of the same faded color. He was dressed, however, with some pretensions to smartness. He wore a blue necktie, of large dimensions, fastened by an enormous breast-pin, which, in its already tarnished splendor, suggested strong doubts as to the apparent gold being genuine. “There's the broom, Paul,” said Mr. Benton, assuming a graceful position on the counter. “You'll have to sweep out; only look sharp about raising a dust, or Smith'll be into your wool.” “What sort of a man is Mr. Smith?” asked Paul, with some curiosity. “O, he's an out and outer. Sharp as a steel trap. He'll make you toe the mark.” “Do you like him?” asked Paul, not quite sure whether he understood his employer's character from the description. “I don't like him well enough to advise any of my folks to trade with him,” said Mr. Benton. “Why not?” “He'd cheat 'em out of their eye teeth if they happened to have any,” said the young man coolly, beginning to pick his teeth with a knife. Paul began to doubt whether he should like Mr. Smith. “I say,” said Mr. Benton after a pause, “have you begun to shave yet?” Paul looked up to see if his companion were in earnest. “No,” said he; “I haven't got along as far as that. Have you?” “I,” repeated the young man, a little contemptuously, “of course I have. I've shaved for a year and a half.” “Do you find it hard shaving?” asked Paul, a little slyly. “Well, my beard is rather stiff,” said the late BOY, with an important air, “but I've got used to it.” “Ain't you rather young to shave, Nicholas?” asked Paul. “Mr. Benton, if you please.” “I mean, Mr. Benton.” “Perhaps I was when I begun. But now I am nineteen.” “Nineteen?” “Yes, that is to say, I'm within a few months of being nineteen. What do you think of my moustache?” “I hadn't noticed it.” “The store's rather dark,” muttered Mr. Benton, who seemed a little annoyed by this answer. “If you'll come a little nearer you can see it.” Drawing near, Paul, after some trouble, descried a few scattering hairs. “Yes,” said he, wanting to laugh, “I see it.”