“Thank you.”
Oliver left the desk, and walked slowly from the hotel. He was in no humor for eating his breakfast, and strolled up Broadway for a considerable distance, and up and down a number of the side streets.
“He will reach the West long before I do,” he reflected. “Perhaps before I get to San Francisco he will be at the mines. Still, he may stop over to buy that machinery he spoke of. Heigh-ho! it’s a chance lost anyway.”
Oliver was not naturally of a desponding disposition, and in an hour his spirits had brightened, and he was once more himself. He walked into a modest looking restaurant and procured a light breakfast, and then, in lieu of something more important to do, started out to see the sights.
The morning passed quickly enough. At noon Oliver found himself far over by the East River. He walked down the Bowery until he came to the Brooklyn Bridge, and taking a walk over this magnificent structure, procured his dinner in Brooklyn. By the time it was finished, and he had recrossed the bridge, it was nearly three o’clock.
“I’ll wait until six, and then see if there are any letters for me,” he said to himself, as he passed the post-office building. “Father may write to me at once, or get some one to write for him.”
For a long time Oliver stood on Park Row, watching the newsboys folding their papers and disposing of them. One little mite of a chap, who was certainly not over five years of age, interested him greatly.
The boy was so small he could hardly carry his bundle of papers, and yet he seemed to drive a brisk trade, often selling a paper where some one larger than he had met with a rebuff. Crimpsey, he heard some of the other boys call him; and finally Oliver patronized him to the extent of buying an afternoon paper for a cent.
“How’s trade?” he said, as he waited for his change.
“Nuthin’ extra,” was the little chap’s reply. “There ain’t no extra news in ter day.” And away he went shouting, “Extra! Last ’dition!”