It was late in the afternoon before John Lane had unloaded his merchandise and picked up his return freight. Thus far Harry had been unsuccessful; no one wanted a boy; or if they did, they did not want such a boy as Harry appeared to be. His country garb, with the five broad patches, seemed to interfere with the working out of his manifest destiny. Yet he was not disheartened. Spruce clerks and ill-mannered boys laughed at him; but he did not despond.

"Try again," exclaimed he, as often as he was told that his services were not required.

When the wagon reached Washington Street, Harry wanted to walk, for the better prosecution of his object; and John gave him directions so that he could find Major Phillips's stable, where he intended to put up for the night.

Harry trotted along among the gay and genteel people that thronged the sidewalk; but he was so earnest about his mission, that he could not stop to look at their fine clothes, nor even at the pictures, the gewgaws, and gimcracks that tempted him from the windows.

"'Boy wanted'" Harry read on a paper in the window of a jeweler's shop. "Now's my time;" and, without pausing to consider the chances that were against him, he entered the store.

"You want a boy--don't you?" asked he of a young man behind the counter.

"We do," replied the person addressed, looking at the applicant with a broad grin on his face.

"I should like to hire out," continued Harry, with an earnestness that would have secured the attention of any man but an idiot.

"Do you? Your name is Joseph--isn't it?"

"No, sir; my name is Harry West."

"O, I thought it was Joseph. The Book says he had a coat of many colors, though I believe it don't say anything about the trousers,"

sneered the shopkeeper.

"Never mind the coat or the trousers. If you want to hire a boy, I will do the best I can for you," replied Harry, willing to appreciate the joke of the other, if he could get a place.

"You won't answer for us; you come from the country."

"I did."

"What did you come to Boston for?"

"After work."

"You had better go back, and let yourself to some farmer. You will make a good scarecrow to hang up in the field. No crow would ever come near you, I'll warrant."

Harry's blood boiled with indignation at this gratuitous insult. His cheeks reddened, and he looked about him for the means of inflicting summary vengeance upon the poltroon who so wantonly trifled with his glowing aspirations.

"Move on, boy; we don't want you," added the man.

"You are a ----"

I will not write what Harry said. It was a vulgar epithet, coupled with a monstrous oath for so small a boy to utter. The shopkeeper sprang out from his counter; but Harry retreated, and escaped him, though not till he had repeated the vulgar and profane expression.

But he was sorry for what he had said before he had gone ten paces.

"What would the little angel say, if she had heard that?" Harry asked himself. "'Twon't do; I must try again."

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH HARRY SUDDENLY GETS RICH AND HAS A CONVERSATION WITH ANOTHER HARRY

By the time he reached the stable, Harry would have given almost anything to have recalled the hasty expressions he had used. He had acquired the low and vulgar habit of using profane language at the poorhouse. He was conscious that it was not only wicked to do so, but that it was very offensive to many persons who did not make much pretension to piety, or even morality; and, in summing up his faults in the woods, he had included this habit as one of the worst.

She hoped he was a good boy--Julia Bryant, the little angel, hoped so.

Her blood would have frozen in her veins if she had listened to the irreverent words he had uttered in the shop. He had broken his resolution, broken his promise to the little angel, on the first day he had been in the city. It was a bad beginning; but instead of permitting this first failure to do right to discourage him, he determined to persevere--to try again.

A good life, a lofty character, with all the trials and sacrifices which it demands, is worth working for; and those who mean to grow better than they are will often be obliged to "try again." The spirit may be willing to do well, but the flesh is weak, and we are all exposed to temptation. We may make our good resolutions--and it is very easy to make them, but when we fail to keep them--it is sometimes very hard to keep them--we must not be discouraged, but do as Harry did--TRY AGAIN. The strong Spirit may conquer the weak Flesh.

"Well, Harry, how did you make out?" asked John Lane, when Harry joined him at the stable.

"I didn't make out at all. n.o.body seems to want a boy like me."

"O, well, you will find a place. Don't be discouraged."

"I am not. To-morrow I shall try again."

"I don't know what I shall do with you to-night. Every bed in the tavern up the street, where I stop, is full. I shall sleep with another teamster."

"Never mind me! I can sleep in the wagon. I have slept in worse places than that."

"I will fix a place for you, then."

After they had prepared his bed, Harry drew out his basket, and proceeded to eat his supper. He then took a walk down Washington Street, with John, went to an auction, and otherwise amused himself till after nine o'clock, when he returned to the stable.

After John had left him, as he was walking towards the wagon, with the intention of retiring for the night, his foot struck against something which attracted his attention. He kicked it once or twice, to determine what it was, and then picked it up.

"By gracious!" he exclaimed; "it is a pocketbook. My fortune is made;"

and without stopping to consider the matter any further, he scrambled into the wagon.

His heart jumped with excitement, for his vivid imagination had already led him to the conclusion that it was stuffed full of money.

It might contain a hundred dollars, perhaps five hundred; and these sums were about as far as his ideas could reach.

He could buy a suit of new clothes, a new cap, new shoes, and be as spruce as any of the boys he had seen about the city. Then he could go to a boarding house, and live like a prince, till he could get a place that suited him; for Harry, however rich he might be, did not think of living without labor of some kind. He could dress himself up in fine broadcloth, present himself at the jeweler's shop where they wanted a boy, and then see whether he would make a good scarecrow.

Then his thoughts reverted to the cabin, where he had slept two nights, and, of course, to the little angel, who had supplied the commissary department during his sojourn in the woods. He could dress himself up with the money in the pocketbook, and, after a while, when he got a place, take the stage for Rockville. Wouldn't she be astonished to see him then, in fine broadcloth! Wouldn't she walk with him over to the spot where he had killed the black snake! Wouldn't she be proud to tell her father that this was the boy she had fed in the woods!

What would she say to him? He had promised to write to her when he got settled, and tell her how he got along, and whether he was good or not. What should he say? How glad she would be to hear that he was getting along so finely!

"Stop!" said he to himself. "What have I been thinking about? This pocketbook isn't mine."

I am sorry to say it, but Harry really felt sad when the thought occurred to him. He had been building very pretty air castles on this money, and this reflection suddenly tumbled them all down--new clothes, new cap, boarding house, visit to Rockville--all in a heap.

"But I found it," Harry reasoned with himself.

Something within him spoke out, saying: