eaded."

"Suppose you call and give him that gratifying piece of information."

Just then the train came thundering up, and Ben jumped aboard. Tom
Davenport looked after him with a puzzled glance.

"I wonder whether that boy tells the truth," he said to himself. "He
thinks too much of himself, considering what he is."

It never occurred to Tom that the remark would apply even better to
him than the boy he was criticising. As a rule we are the last to
recognize our own faults, however quick we may be to see the faults of
others.

Two hours later Ben stood in front of the large dry-goods jobbing
house of Stackpole & Rogers, in White Street.

He ascended the staircase to the second floor, which was very spacious
and filled with goods in great variety.

"Where is the department of prints?" he inquired of a young man near
the door.

He was speedily directed and went over at once. He showed the
salesman in charge a letter from Mr. Crawford, authorizing him to
select a certain amount of goods.

"You are rather a young buyer," said the salesman, smiling.

"It is the first time I have served in that way," said Ben modestly;
"but I know pretty well what Mr. Crawford wants."

Half an hour was consumed in making his selections.

"You have good taste," said the salesman, "judging from your
selections."

"Thank you."

"If you ever come to the city to look for work, come here, and I will
introduce you to the firm."

"Thank you. How soon can you ship the goods?"

"I am afraid not to-day, as we are very busy. Early next week we will
send them."

His business concluded, Ben left the store and walked up to Broadway.
The crowded thoroughfare had much to interest him. He was looking at
a window when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

It was a young man foppishly attired, who was smiling graciously upon
him.

"Why, Gus Andre," he said, "when did you come to town, and how did you
leave all the folks in Bridgeport?"

"You have made a mistake," said Ben.

"Isn't your name Gus Andre?"

"No, it is Ben Barclay, from Pentonville."

"I really beg your pardon. You look surprisingly like my friend
Gussie."

Five minutes later there was another tap on our hero's shoulder, as he
was looking into another window, and another nicely dressed young man
said heartily: "Why, Ben, my boy, when did you come to town?"

"This morning," answered Ben. "You seem to know me, but I can't
remember you."

"Are you not Ben B