The whole proposition was hardly above a common swindle, enough bogus orders being put among the honest ones either to make the one undertaking the job do a lot of peddling on his own account, or else cause him to pay away half his salary on the goods left over.
Walking up Vesey Street, Richard found himself directly opposite the post-office. By the clock on St. Paul's he saw that it was long after noon.
Rather disheartened at his non-success after spending a whole morning in the search for work, he rounded the Astor House corner and crossed Broadway.
"Newspaper Row," as Doc Linyard had appropriately called it, was just across the opposite street, and the boy made up his mind to visit the office where the advertisement had been left, and see if there were any letters as yet for the old sailor.
The doors of the post-office were open on both sides, and, curious to see how the building looked inside, Richard started to go through instead of going around.
The many departments upon the ground floor were a study to him, and the signs—Domestic Mails, Foreign Mails, Letters for New York City, Letters for Outgoing Mails—all this was in strong contrast to the little three by four box that held all the mail of the village at home.
And the many private boxes! He guessed there must be ten thousand of them. Every second a new-comer walked up to open one.
Presently a familiar figure stepped up to one directly in front of Richard, and taking out a handful of letters, closed the box and turned to go away.
It was Mr. Timothy Joyce.