"I wish I was sure of that for my entire income," thought Jed.
They parted at the entrance to the hotel. It was clear from his manner and speech that Howell Foster thought Jed in easy circumstances.
It made the boy feel almost like an impostor, but he reflected that he had done nothing to give Mr. Foster a false impression.
It was about half-past one when he left the hotel. The dinner had occupied an hour. The world was still before him, but he had eaten a hearty meal and felt that he could get along, if necessary, till the next morning, so far as eating was concerned.
Where to sleep presented a perplexing problem, but it would be some time before it required to be solved. How to spend the afternoon puzzled Jed. He went back to City Hall Park, and on the seat he had formerly occupied he found a copy of the New York Herald which somebody had left there. He took it up and looked over the advertisements for Help Wanted.
He found the following:
Wanted.—Smart, enterprising agents to sell packages of stationery. Fifteen dollars a week can easily be made. Call at No. 182 Nassau Street, Room 22.
This struck Jed as just the thing. It could not be very hard to sell stationery, and fifteen dollars a week would support him comfortably.
"Where is Nassau Street?" he inquired of a bootblack who took a temporary seat beside him.
"There 'tis," said the street boy, pointing in the direction of the Tribune building. "You just go down in front of the Tribune."