success.

Sam found himself penniless in a great city, and with no way open,
that he could think of, to earn money. Even the business of the
boot-black, humble as it is, required a small capital to buy a brush
and box of blacking. So, too, a newsboy must pay for his papers when
he gets them, unless he is well known. So Sam, sitting on the
door-step, felt that he was in a tight place. Where was he to get his
dinner from? He did not care to repeat his operation of the morning,
for it was not pleasant to be "bounced."

"I wonder if I couldn't get a chance in a store," he thought. "That
wouldn't need any money. There seems to be a lot of stores in the
city. I guess there must be a place for me somewhere."

This thought encouraged Sam. He rose from his lowly seat, and
determined to look about for a place. Presently he came to a
real-estate office. Sam did not understand very well what kind of a
business that was, but on the window a piece of paper was pasted, on
which was written, "A Boy Wanted."

"I guess I'll go in," thought Sam. "Maybe they'll take me."

There were three boys ahead of him; but they were not very
eligible-looking specimens. So they were dismissed with small
ceremony, and Sam was beckoned to the desk.

"I suppose you have come about the place," said a man with black
whiskers, and a pen behind his ear.

"Yes," answered Sam.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Rather young. Still you are large of your age."

"I am pretty strong," said Sam, anxious to succeed in his
application.

"There isn't any work to be done that requires strength," said the
black-whiskered man. "How is your education?"

"Pretty good," said Sam, with hesitation.

"Do you live in the city?"

"Yes, sir."

"With your parents?"

"No, sir. They are dead."

"That is an objection. Perhaps, however, you live with an aunt or
uncle. That will answer as well."

"Yes," said Sam, determined to obviate this objection. "I live with my
uncle."

"Where does he live?"

"In New York," answered Sam.

"Don't you understand me? I mean to ask the street and number."

Sam was posed. He could not at the moment think of the name of any
street except Broadway. But it would not do to hesitate. So he said
promptly, "He lives at No. 656 Broadway."

"What is his business?" inquired the black-whiskered man.

"He keeps a store," answered Sam, feeling that he was getting deeper
and deeper into the mire.

"What sort of a store?"

"A gro