“Yes, sir.”
“Since when?”
“Since I came to New York,” answered Jerry.
“You are about as bad off as I was some forty years ago,” said the man, with a broad smile. “At that time I found myself in this city, with just twenty-five cents in my pocket. But I struck employment, and rose from one place to another until now I am my own master, with a bookbinding-shop where I employ nearly fifty hands.”
As he spoke he gazed at Jerry curiously.
“You were going to ask me for a job, weren’t you?” he went on, and Jerry nodded. “What can you do?”
“I’m not used to any such work, sir. But you’ll find me willing and strong—and honest. I would like to earn a little before I went back to my home.”
“Well, those three qualities you mention are sure to win, my boy. Perhaps I can find an opening for you. Here comes a friend I have been waiting for. I am going out of town with him. Call at my shop to-morrow morning, if you don’t strike anything in the meantime.”
And, handing out his card, Mr. Islen walked rapidly away.
Fifteen minutes later found Jerry on the way to Alexander Slocum’s office. In an inner pocket he carried the papers his father had unearthed from the trunk in the garret at home.