“What does he pay you?” inquired Rupert, curiously.
“I am paid fifty cents for three hours’ work. That is what your father paid me for the whole day.”
“It won’t last long,” said Rupert, shortly, comforting himself with this thought, as he walked away.
That was exactly what Tom told himself. It would not last long. He felt that he must be looking out for something else, and, though at present employed, he felt uneasy.
He had the afternoon to himself, and occasionally he got a small job to do, which made a trifling addition to his income. But, of course, this was precarious.
The post-office was located in the village store, and the storekeeper, or one of his clerks, distributed the mail. Tom went there one afternoon to buy a half-pound of tea, and a couple of pounds of sugar for his mother, for their purchases were necessarily of an economical character, when the clerk who was waiting upon him, said:
“I believe there’s a letter for you in the office.”
“Is there?” asked Tom, rather surprised, for the family correspondence was very limited.
“Yes; here it is—a letter from New York; and it’s for you.”
Tom opened the letter and hurriedly glanced at the signature.