Bennett—I fear you are too conscientious to be my associate in the reckless and unscrupulous career of journalism before me, and therefore I shall advertise for another boy to-morrow.
John—Very well, sir. (John takes his hat to go.)
Bennett—Don’t go until I get another boy.
John—I must go now, because you have proclaimed yourself a dishonest man, and I should be unhappy if I remained longer in your presence.
Bennett—How much do I owe you?
John—Nothing.
Bennett—Yes I do.
John—You can have it, because I fear you did not get it honestly, and I do not want it. (John goes.)
Bennett (soliloquises)—This boy’s rebuke is terrible. And now I am alone. O God! if I only had his integrity, I would make any sacrifice. That boy has got the principles of Washington in his breast, and the world will hear of him. No earthly power can crush the love of truth in the heart of that dear little boy. And now what shall I do? His merited castigation has unnerved and unmanned me. I know not which way to turn. I have but little money. I cannot get another boy so faithful as Johnny. I must strive to sell my papers in the stores alone, now that Johnny is gone, and, if I fail, I am forever ruined. But this won’t do. I must not despair. I must rally. (He arises, and paces his office rapidly, with compressed jaws and lips, and distended nostrils, and clenched fingers, and ferocious gesticulation.) I must not whine now. I must cut and smash, and detract and terrify the innocent, and levy thousands on the affluent, or I am forever lost. I have no associate, nor friend, nor kindred in all this land, and I can only degrade myself, as my aged parents are in the deep mountain glades of Scotland, and can never hear of my degradation. So I will be a devil. I will advertise for another boy, and if I get one who will conspire with me in my contemplated villainy, my fortunes will yet be vast. (He writes an advertisement, and puts it in the New York Sun.)
(To be continued.)