He turned into a little cigar store while he was communing with himself, and when he came out, with a freshly-lighted Havana between his fingers, he saw a sight that enraged him.
An elegant top-buggy, drawn by a pair of stylish, high-stepping horses, which moved as if they were proud of the gold-mounted harness they wore, dashed along the street.
The reins were held by an exquisitely-dressed young gentleman who managed them adroitly with one hand, while with the other he saluted the friends and acquaintances he saw on the sidewalk. But there was no salute for Mr. Howard—only a barely perceptible nod of the head, which the latter pretended he did not see.
“I declare, it’s enough to make one do something desperate,” thought he, as he threw his cigar spitefully into the gutter and resumed his walk. “Look at me, and then look at Coal Oil Tom! I have just seventy dollars in my pocket, less what I paid for that cigar, and no prospect of getting any more. Five years ago Tom was a hostler in a hotel stable, somewhere in Pennsylvania—a low, ignorant hostler—and all he had in the world was a little, rocky farm that he couldn’t give away. But oil was discovered on that farm, and to-day Tom is worth half a million dollars. He doesn’t know enough to keep him over night, but his money takes him into the best society, while I—I wish those horses would run away, and throw him out and break his neck!”
Mr. Howard stopped, and looked back at the carriage that contained the object of his envy, as if he fully expected that his amiable wish would be gratified. But the rapidly-moving trotters were kept under perfect control, and in a short time took their driver safely out of Mr. Howard’s sight.
A quarter of an hour’s walk brought the clerk to his home—a little cottage in an obscure street, whose surroundings bore testimony to the poverty or shiftlessness of its occupants.
The house, as well as the fence in front of it, was sadly in need of paint; some of the blinds hung by one hinge, disclosing to the public gaze windows with broken panes and sashes heavily festooned with cobwebs; and the flower garden, once the pride of Arthur’s mother, now dead and gone, had been given up to weeds, which also covered the walk that led from the gate through a narrow alley to the back door.
“This is a pretty place for a white man to call home, I must say!” said the clerk to himself, while bitterness rankled in his heart. “When I come here, after passing the fine houses on Crosby Street, where those happy young people spend every afternoon in playing croquet on the finely-kept lawns, I tell you it makes me feel wicked when I contrast their circumstances with my own. No one ever thinks of inviting me to make one of such a party, and yet I am just as good as the best of them. It’s the ready cash that determines one’s position in this world. I wonder what the governor will have to say to me? Of course I shall not tell him why I was discharged.”
Passing through the kitchen, where a slovenly servant girl was moving leisurely about making preparations for supper, Arthur entered the sitting-room, and found there a shabby-genteel old man, who was slowly pacing the floor. This was Arthur’s father—the “Uncle Bob” after whom our hero had been named.
He was not a man to inspire confidence at the first glance, and the longer you looked at him, the less you would like him. He had an insinuating—or rather, a sneaking—air that he could not shake off, and his movements, as he trod the thread-bare carpet with his well-worn gaiters, reminded you of the stealthy actions of a fox.