The Young Salesman

Halfway across the Atlantic the good ship Arcturus was making her way from Liverpool to New York. She was a sailing vessel, and her speed by no means equaled that of the mighty steamships, more than one of which passed her, leaving her far behind.

While she was used chiefly for freight, she carried a few passengers, less than twenty in all.

I wish to call the reader's attention to the occupants of one of the small staterooms, a man and a boy. There was a great contrast between them. The man was thin and hollow-cheeked, and as he lay in his berth he looked to be, as he was, in the last stages of consumption.

The boy, who must have been nearly sixteen, was the picture of health. He was inclined to be dark, with black hair, bright eyes, and with considerable color in his cheeks.

He bent over the reclining figure, and asked, with anxious solicitude: "How do you feel, father?"

"No better, Scott," and the father began to cough.

"Does it hurt you to cough?"

"Yes, but it won't trouble me long."

"You will be better?" said the boy, half inquiringly.

"No, Scott, I shall never be better. I am very near the end."

"You don't mean that?" exclaimed the boy, in pained surprise.

"Yes, I do, Scott, and you may as well know it. I doubt whether I shall live to see New York."

Scott Walton looked dismayed, for till now he had not suspected that his father's life was in danger. Yet, as he gazed at the fragile form, he was forced to believe that his father spoke truly.

"What will become of me," he said, with emotion, "alone in a strange land?"

"That is what I want to speak to you about." Here the man began to cough again.

"Don't talk, father. It makes you cough."

"I must, my son. Perhaps I may have no other chance. I am sorry that I must leave you almost penniless."

"I don't mind that, father. If you could only live----"

"Don't interrupt me, for there are some things I must tell you. You will find in my wallet twenty pounds in English bank notes, worth in America about one hundred dollars. This sum will support you while you are looking for a situation, for you will need to find work."

"I am strong and willing to work, father."

"Yes, you are strong. You don't take after me, but after your mother's family."

"Have you any relatives in America?"

"There is a cousin of your mother's in New York, Ezra Little. I believe he is well-to-do. I can't tell you what he is doing or where he lives, but you can look up his name in the New York directory."

"Is he the only relative we have in America?

"No, there is a cousin of my own, Philo Walton, who went out to one of the Western States. He was a good-hearted fellow, and likely to make his way, but I have heard nothing of him, and I don't know whether he is still living or not.

"There seems a very small chance of your finding him, in so large a country, but you can probably find Ezra Little. Take down these names, Scott. They may be of importance to you."

Scott drew out a small memorandum book, and did as directed.

"I would not have started from England, had I supposed I should have become worse so rapidly," continued Mr. Walton. "I think the sea air has aggravated my disease. There seemed nothing for us at home though, and no friends on whom we could call. I built my hopes on Ezra Little. I thought for your mother's sake he would help her boy. If I could live to see him, and commend him to you in person, I could die in peace."

He had hardly completed these words when he had a terrible fit of coughing, which seemed to rack his feeble frame.

"Don't talk any more, father!" said Scott, in alarm. "Can't I get you something to relieve you? I will go to the steward and ask for a cup of hot tea."

Without waiting for an answer he left the stateroom and sought the steward.

He was gone but ten minutes, but when he returned the bedclothes were stained with blood.

His father had had a hemorrhage, and was lying with closed eyes, breathing faintly.

The ship doctor was summoned, and applied restoratives, but without effect. Before the morning dawned, Scott was fatherless.

It was a great trial to the lonely boy to see his father's body consigned to the deep. He wished he might carry it to the land which was to be his future home, and have it buried in some quiet cemetery; but it would be a week at least before the slow-going ship would reach New York, and the sailors would have rebelled at having a corpse on board for that length of time.

Scott secured the money of which his father had spoken, and a sealed packet inscribed:

For My Son.

To be opened a year from my death.

The boy's grief was so sincere that his curiosity was not aroused by this inscription. He put the packet in his traveling bag, and tried to prepare himself for the solitary life he must now lead.

There was a good deal of sympathy felt for the lonely boy on the ship, and more than one of the passengers proffered sympathy and companionship.