“You can certainly have the stamps,” answered the latter, “and I will aid you in every way possible, but——” and there was an ominous pause, as if thinking how he could best discourage the boy from such an undertaking.
Herbert divined his thoughts, and said, “I know such an idea must seem foolish to you, who handle so much money; but to me——”
“Yes, you may be right, young man,” interrupted the cashier. “You certainly interest me. I like ambition and pluck, and you evidently have both. When would you like the stamps?”
“Thank you,” said Herbert, in a tone that lent strength to his words. “You may give them to me now, if you please—three dollars’ worth. I may need the seventy five cents before I succeed in selling any stamps.”
“It is a wise precaution to avoid tying up all your capital in one thing,” laughed the cashier, while counting out the stamps. “They will cost you two dollars and eighty five cents, at five per cent discount, the same as I gave Mr. Woodman.”
When the transaction had been completed, young Randolph left the office hurriedly, anxious to learn what the possibilities of his new undertaking were.
Ten times during that first day did he return to Mr. Smith for stamps, and ten times was his supply exhausted by customers to whom he sold at par—resulting in a profit of a dollar and fifty cents—an income that to him was a small fortune.
That night Herbert Randolph joined Bob Hunter with brighter eyes and more buoyant spirits than he had known since Mr. Goldwin’s failure, now nearly three months ago.