“There’s something wrong with Mr. Sandow,” he said, for the needlessly cruel words rankled in his mind. “There was no occasion for him to speak like that. I pity Dr. Spidderkins, living with that man. There’s something queer about it. I wonder what it is?” CHAPTER VIII DR. SPIDDERKINS’ POCKETBOOK Tom tried to keep up a cheerful spirit when he went home that night, tired and discouraged with his fruitless search for work. “No luck, Tom?” asked his mother, who, in spite of his efforts at concealment, could almost read his thoughts. “No, but I’ll find a place to-morrow, mother. Is there any work I can take home for you?” “Yes; here is a skirt I have just finished for Mrs. Wellderly, the minister’s wife. She is usually good pay, and I have written her a little note, asking to please send the money by you.” “I wish I was earning money for you, mother.” “Never mind, Tom. I have had an unusual lot of sewing to do lately, and we are making out fairly well. Now here is the skirt. Carry it carefully.” She handed the bundle to Tom, who grasped it as if it was a package of books, placing it under one arm. “Mercy! Goodness sakes alike! Don’t do that!” cried his aunt. “What’s the matter?” asked Tom innocently. “Am I spilling any of the fol-de-rols?” “No; but you’ll crush the ruffle all out of shape!” explained his mother. “Hold it this way, Tom,” and she showed him how he ought to carry the parcel. Tom safely delivered his mother’s work, and received the money from the minister’s wife. “Tell your mother to call and see me,” the lady said to the boy. “A friend of mine wants some fine sewing done, and I think she would like Mrs. Baldwin’s work.” “I will,” promised Tom. Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, though he was awake a little longer than usual, wondering what the day would bring forth, Tom arose early the next morning, determined to leave no chance untried to get a place to work. He looked over the advertisements in the paper, and picked out several. He found, to his regret, however, that in most of the places where boys or young men were wanted, that experience in some line of industry was necessary. This was particularly true of the shops and stores. In the offices this was not quite so requisite, but office positions were very scarce. “I think I’ll try some of the book stores,” thought Tom, when noon came, and he had had no success. “I had a little experience there, and it ought to be worth something. Any way,” he added, as he smiled at the recollection, “I know there are two Brownings, a poet and a baseball player.” He turned into Milk Street, where was located Townsend’s Emporium, but he knew it was no use to apply there. He recalled that there was a second-hand book store, further down the street, and he decided to try his luck there. It was quite a different place from the neatly-kept shop where he had formerly worked, and there was a curious, musty smell about it, many old volumes being ranged about on the shelves.