"Certainly, madam. Where shall it be sent?" asked the clerk.

 

"No. 47 West Fortieth Street," was the reply.

 

"Very well, it shall be sent up immediately. Here, Roswell."

 

Roswell Crawford came forward not very willingly. He had no great liking¹ for the task which he saw would be required of him. Fortieth Street was at least a mile and a half distant, and he had already just returned from a walk in a different direction. Besides, the bundle was a large one, containing three dress patterns. He did not think it very suitable for a gentleman's son to be seen carrying such a large bundle through the streets.

 

"Why don't you send Edward?" he said, complainingly. "He doesn't do half as much as I."

 

"I shall send whom I please," said the clerk, sharply. "You wouldn't do anything if you could help it."

 

"I won't carry bundles much longer," said Roswell. "You put all the heaviest bundles off upon me."

 

Roswell's back being turned, he did not observe Mr. Turner, who had come up as he was speaking.

 

"What are you complaining about?" asked that gentleman.

 

Roswell turned, and colored a little when he saw his employer.

 

"What is the matter?" repeated Mr. Turner.

 

"Mr. Evans always gives me the largest bundles to carry," said Roswell.

 

"He is always complaining of having to carry bundles," said the clerk. "He says it isn't suitable work for a gentleman's son."

 

"I have noticed it," said Mr. Turner. "On the whole, I think, Mr. Crawford," he said, with mock deference², "I think you have mistaken your vocation³ in entering a dry-goods store. I advise you to seek some more gentlemanly employment. At the end of the week, you are at liberty to leave my employment for one better suited to you."

 

"I'm ready to go now," said Roswell, sulkily.

 

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