"I feel grateful to Mr. Carter," said Phil, not quite knowing what was
coming next.

"I shouldn't myself have engaged a boy of whom I knew nothing, and who
could give me no city references."

"I hope you won't be disappointed in me," said Phil.

"I hope not," answered Mr. Pitkin, in a tone which seemed to imply that
he rather expected to be.

Phil began to feel uncomfortable. It seemed evident that whatever he did
would be closely scrutinized, and that in an unfavorable spirit.

Mr. Pitkin paused before a desk at which was standing a stout man with
grayish hair.

"Mr. Sanderson," he said, "this is the new errand boy. His name is--what
is it, boy?"

"Philip Brent."

"You will give him something to do. Has the mail come in?"

"No; we haven't sent to the post-office yet."

"You may send this boy at once."

Mr. Sanderson took from the desk a key and handed it to Philip.

"That is the key to our box," he said. "Notice the number--534. Open it
and bring the mail. Don't loiter on the way."

"Yes, sir."

Philip took the key and left the warehouse. When he reached the street
he said to himself:

"I wonder where the post-office is?"

He did not like to confess to Mr. Sanderson that he did not know, for
it would probably have been considered a disqualification for the post
which he was filling.

"I had better walk to Broadway," he said to himself. "I suppose the
post-office must be on the principal street."

In this Phil was mistaken. At that time the post-office was on Nassau
Street, in an old church which had been utilized for a purpose very
different from the one to which it had originally been devoted.

Reaching Broadway, Phil was saluted by a bootblack, with a grimy but
honest-looking face.

"Shine your boots, mister?" said the boy, with a grin.

"Not this morning."

"Some other morning, then?"

"Yes," answered Phil.

"Sorry you won't give me a job," said the bootblack. "My taxes comes due
to-day, and I ain't got enough to pay 'em."

Phil was amused, for his new acquaintance scarcely looked like a heavy
taxpayer.

"Do you pay a big tax?" he asked.

"A thousand dollars or less," answered the knight of the brush.

"I guess it's less," said Phil.

"That's where your head's level, young chap."

"Is the post-office far from here?"

"Over half a mile, I reckon."

"Is it on this street?"

"No, it's on Nassau Street."

"If you will show me the way there I'll give you ten cents."

"