The result of the inquiries of Mr. Dobbs, the grocer in question, was that he not only advanced me the money to purchase the whole stock, but allowed me to store the corn in his own establishment. At the time it did not strike me as being so, but was doubtless the result of a sagacious forethought, as, should I fail in keeping my daily accounts square, he could easily foreclose on my stock-in-trade. Be this as it may, Mr. Dobbs did more for me. All well-regulated communities indulge in the licensing business—to a greater or less extent. So did, and probably does, Chicago. The unlicensed sale of pop-corn would have been a risky affair. When he told me this, my face fell. How was I to get a license.
Mr. Dobbs was equal to the emergency on this occasion, also.
"Come along with me to the Mayor."
It was the first occasion on which I had ever stood in the actual presence of such a high civic dignitary. The introduction was an era in my life. It would have been in that of any boy. The reader may therefore imagine that my equanimity, which my new friend had thought proper to denominate "cheek," felt somewhat abashed, as the magistrate looked up from his desk, and gazing, as I fancied, sternly at me, said:
"What is the matter now, Mr. Dobbs?"
"Mr. Mayor," responded Mr. Dobbs, "I wish to introduce to you a young friend of mine, who wishes to take out a license to sell pop-corn."
"It will be a hundred and fifty dollars."
I looked from the Mayor to my new friend. One hundred and fifty dollars! Where was the money to come from? I never before felt so near whimpering. Very certainly, I have never since. My boyhood must be remembered, as an apology for this tendency on my part. I was unable, in the extremity of my trouble, to utter a word of entreaty.
"He has no money, Mr. Mayor!" answered Mr. Dobbs. "So you must deal as kindly as possible with him."
The magistrate laughed, not at what my friend had said, but at my painful look of dismay. Mr. Dobbs also chuckled slightly. Then the Mayor observed: