The boy was not yet ten years old, and he was small for his age. But there was something in his speech or manner that held the man’s attention. “Do some work for me, eh?” said the man. “What kind of work could you do? You can hardly look over the counter.” “Oh, yes; I can,” said the little fellow, as he stood on tiptoe and peeped over the counter. Out of sheer curiosity the merchant came from behind the counter, so as to get a good look at the boy. “Oh,” he said, “I see you’ve got copper taps on your shoes; I suppose your mother couldn’t keep you in shoes if they didn’t have taps on them!” “She can’t keep me in shoes anyway, sir,” and the little boy’s voice hesitated. “How old are you?” asked the merchant. “I’m older than I look; folks say that I’m small for my age.” “Well, what is your age?” “I’m going on ten,” said Davie, with a look of great importance. “You see,” he continued, “my mother hasn’t anybody but me, and this morning I saw her crying because she could not find five cents in her pocketbook, and she thinks she must have lost it--and it was--the--last cent--that she had--in the world; and--I--have--not--had--any--breakfast, sir.” The voice again hesitated, and tears came into the little boy’s eyes. “Oh, don’t cry, my little man; I guess I can help you to a breakfast. Here, take this quarter!” He pulled a quarter from his vest pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy shook his head. “Mother wouldn’t let me beg,” was his simple answer. “Humph!” said the merchant. “Where is your father?” “We never heard of him, sir, after he went away. He was lost in the steamer City of New York.” “That’s too bad. But you’re a plucky little fellow, anyhow. Let me see,” and he looked straight down into the boy’s eyes, and the boy looked straight up at him. Turning to the head man, after awhile, the merchant said: “Palmer, is cash boy No. 5 still sick?” “Dead, sir; died last night,” was the reply. “I’m sorry; but here’s a boy you might use. Put him down in No. 5’s place. We’ll try him for awhile, anyhow. What’s is your name, my little man?” he asked, turning again to the boy. [Illustration: THE BOY MARCHED STRAIGHT UP TO THE COUNTER!] “Davie Thomas.” “Well, Davie, we’ll give you three dollars a week to start with; you come tomorrow morning and I’ll tell you what to do. Here’s a dollar of your wages in advance. I’ll take it out of your first week’s pay. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir; I understand, and I thank you, too. I’ll be back in the morning.” Davie shot out of the store, and lost no time in getting home. The old creaky steps in the old ram-shackle house fairly sang with delight as the weight of the little boy hurried up them. “I’ve got it, mother;” exclaimed Davie. “I’m a cash boy! The man’s going to give me three dollars a week, and he says I’ve got pluck, too; and here’s a dollar to get some breakfast with, and don’t you cry any more, for I’m going to be the man of this house now.”