It was in the month of February, but the weather was mild for that season, and there had been a plentiful fall of rain. Ben was on duty until ten, and he was in the very act of rising from his seat when he called out:
“Helloa! here comes the message for Mr. Burkhill.”
It was quite brief and Ben wrote it out rapidly, took a hasty impression, thrust it into the damp yellow envelope, and whistled for a messenger boy. There was only one present, and he was a pale, delicate lad, who had gone on duty that day after a week’s illness.
“Helloa, Tim; do you want to earn a half dollar extra?” asked Ben, as the boy stood expectantly before him.
“I would like to, if it isn’t too hard for me.”
Ben looked sharply at him and saw that the boy was in too weak a state to undertake the task. There was no other messenger within call, and Mr. Burkhill was doubtless impatient for the message whose delivery I had guaranteed.
“It won’t do for you to cross the river to-night,” said Ben decisively; “the air is damp and raw, and I think it is going to rain again. I’ll do it for you, and whatever extra I collect from Mr. Burkhill you shall have, Tim; now go home and go to bed.”
And waving me a good-night, Ben hurried out of the door and vanished down the street.
“It’s just like him,” I muttered, as I prepared to go home; for except on special occasions we closed our office at ten, or shortly after. “That isn’t the first kindness he has done that boy, and everyone in the office is bound by gratitude to him.”
As I stepped out on the street I observed that the fine mist was turning into rain, and another of those dismal nights, which are often experienced in the Middle States during the latter part of winter, was upon the city.