“Don’t you think I can make my fortune in the city?”
“You mean in New York?”
“Yes.”
“No, I don’t—at least, not for many years. You’ll be lucky if you strike any kind of a job. Thousands of boys are looking for work every day without finding it.”
“Can’t I get in Wall Street?”
“Not any quicker than in any other street. Somebody might hire you to clean the office and run errands, for two or three dollars a week.”
“I shouldn’t care to do that.”
“What would you want to do?”
“I should want to be a cashier. That’s what Carl was.”
“My advice to you is, to turn around and go home,” said Frank, severely. “If you get to New York more than likely, unless you have money, you’ll starve to death.”