At another place he found he would have to work on Sunday every other week, and, this being against his principles, he moved on.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to strike that Brooklyn place, after all,” he said as he stepped out of a Water Street ship chandlery that had advertised for a bright boy and had taken a youth on trial an hour before.
A fleet of canal-boats was banked up against the wharves opposite, and Jack felt a strong temptation to hang around a little while and watch them take aboard and discharge their cargoes.
But, realizing that this wasn’t business, he turned away and hurried up the street.
“I might as well cross by Fulton Ferry,” he mused; “it’ll save time, and time is money with me just now.”
Although the three cents made a hole in the dime he had brought with him to pay for his lunch, Jack received his change with his customary cheerfulness and walked on board the boat.
It was half-past nine, and the boy noticed that quite a number of passengers were on board as the boat pulled out from the dock and headed across the river.
He leaned on the rail alongside a fine-looking old gentleman who held a little girl of five years by the hand while he pointed out various landmarks along the receding shore to a stylishly-dressed lady who looked enough like him to be his daughter.
“Gran’pa! gran’pa!” cried the child, tugging at the gentleman’s hand.
“Yes, my dear,” he answered, smiling down on her.