Charlie Codman turned out of Washington into Bedford Street just as the clock in the Old South steeple struck two. He was about fourteen, a handsome, well-made boy, with a bright eye and a manly expression. But he was poor. That was evident enough from his clothes, which, though neat and free from dust, were patched in several places. He had a small roll of daily papers under his arm, the remains of his stock in trade, which he had been unable wholly to dispose of.

Some of my readers may know that the Latin School and English High School are kept in the same building. At two o'clock[6] both are dismissed. Charlie had scarcely passed the school-house when a crowd of boys issued from the school-yard, and he heard his name called from behind. Looking back he recognized a boy somewhat smaller than himself, with whom he had formed an acquaintance some time before.

"Where are you bound, Charlie?" asked Edwin Banks.

"I'm going home now."

"What luck have you had this morning?"

"Not much. I've got four papers left over, and that will take away about all my profits."

"What a pity you are poor, Charlie. I wish you could come to school with us."

"So do I, Eddie. I'd give a good deal to get an education, but I feel that I ought to help mother."

"Why won't you come some time, and see us, Charlie? Clare and myself would be very glad to see you at any time."

"I should like to go," said Charlie, "but I don't look fit."

"Oh, never mind about your clothes. I[7] like you just as well as if you were dressed in style."

"Perhaps I'll come some time," said Charlie. "I'd invite you to come and see me, but we live in a poor place."

"Just as if I should care for that. I will come whenever I get an invitation."

"Then come next Saturday afternoon. I will be waiting for you as you come out of school."

Charlie little thought where he would be when Saturday came.

Shortly after the boys separated, and Charlie's attention was arrested by the sight of an old man with a shambling gait, who was bending over and anxiously searching for something on the sidewalk. Charlie recognized him at once as "old Manson, the miser," for this was the name by which he generally went.

Old Peter Manson was not more than fifty-five, but he looked from fifteen to twenty years older. If his body had been properly cared for, it would have been different; but, one by one, its functions had been blunted[8] and destroyed, and it had become old and out of repair. Peter's face was ploughed with wrinkles. His cheeks were thin, and the skin was yellow and hung in folds. His beard appeared to have received little or no attention for a week, at least, and was now stiff and bristling.

The miser's dress was not very well fitted to his form. It was in the fashion of twenty years before. Grayish pantaloons, patched in divers places with dark cloth by an unskilful hand; a vest from which the buttons had long since departed, and which was looped together by pieces of string, but not closely enough to conceal a dirty and tattered shirt beneath; a coat in the last stages of shabbiness; while over all hung a faded blue cloak, which Peter wore in all weathers. In the sultriest days of August he might have been seen trudging along in this old mantle, which did him the good service of hiding a multitude of holes and patches, while in January he went no warmer clad. There were some who wondered how he could stand the bitter cold of winter with no more adequate covering;[9] but if Peter's body was as tough as his conscience, there was no fear of his suffering.

Charlie paused a moment to see what it was that the old man was hunting for.

"Have you lost anything?" he asked.

"Yes," said Peter, in quavering accents. "See if you can't find it, that's a good boy. Your eyes are better than mine."

"What is it?"

"It is some money, and I—I'm so poor, I can't afford to lose it."

"How much was it?"

"It wasn't much, but I'm so poor I need it."

Charlie espied a cent, lying partially concealed by mud, just beside the curb-stone. He picked it up.

"This isn't what you lost, is it?"

"Yes," said Peter, seizing it eagerly. "You're a good boy to find it. A good boy!"

"Well," thought Charlie, wondering, as the old man hobbled off with his recovered treasure, "I'd rather be poor than care so much for money as that. People say old[10] Peter's worth his thousands. I wonder whether it is so."

Charlie little dreamed how much old Peter was likely to influence his destiny, and how, at his instigation, before a week had passed over his head, he would find himself in a very disagreeable situation.

We must follow Peter.

With his eyes fixed on the ground he shuffled along, making more rapid progress than could have been expected. Occasionally he would stoop down and pick up any little stray object which arrested his attention, even to a crooked pin, which he thrust into his cloak, muttering as he did so, "Save my buying any. I haven't had to buy any pins for more'n ten years, and I don't mean to buy any more while I live. Ha! ha! Folks are so extravagant! They buy things they don't need, or that they might pick up, if they'd only take the trouble to keep their eyes open. 'Tisn't so with old Peter. He's too cunning for that. There goes a young fellow dressed up in the fashion. What he's got on must have cost nigh on to a hundred[11] dollars. What dreadful extravagance! Ha! ha! It hasn't cost old Peter twenty dollars for the last ten years. If he had spent money as some do, he might have been in the poor-house by this time. Ugh! ugh! it costs a dreadful sum to live. If we could only come into the world with natural clothes, like cats, what a deal better it would be. But it costs the most for food. Oh dear! what a dreadful appetite I've got, and I must eat. All the money spent for victuals seem thrown away. I've a good mind, sometimes, to go to the poor-house, where it wouldn't cost me anything. What a blessing it would be to eat, if you could only get food for nothing!"

It is very clear that Peter would have been far better off, as far as the comforts of life are concerned, in the city almshouse; but there were some little obstacles in the way of his entering. For instance, it would scarcely have been allowed a public pensioner to go round quarterly to collect his rents,—a thing which Peter would hardly have relinquished.

Reflections upon the cost of living brought to Peter's recollection that he had nothing at[12] home for supper. He accordingly stepped into a baker's shop close at hand.

"Have you got any bread cheap?" he inquired of the baker.

"We intend to sell at moderate prices."

"What do you ask for those loaves?" said the old man, looking wistfully at some fresh loaves piled upon the counter, which had been but a short time out of the oven.

"Five cents apiece," said the baker. "I'll warrant you will find them good. They are made of the best of flour."

"Isn't five cents rather dear?" queried Peter, his natural appetite struggling with his avarice.

"Dear!" retorted the baker, opening his eyes in astonishment; "why, my good sir, at what price do you expect to buy bread?"

"I've no doubt they're very good," said Peter, hastily; "but have you any stale loaves? I guess they'll be better for me."

"Yes," said the baker, "I believe I have, but they're not as good as the fresh bread."

"How do you sell your stale loaves?" inquired[13] Peter, fumbling in his pocket for some change.

"I sell them for about half price—three cents apiece."

"You may give me one, then; I guess it'll be better for me."

Even Peter was a little ashamed to acknowledge that it was the price alone which influenced his choice.

The baker observed that, notwithstanding his decision, he continued to look wistfully towards the fresh bread. Never having seen old Peter before, he was unacquainted with his character, and judging from his dilapidated appearance that he might be prevented, by actual poverty, from buying the fresh bread, exclaimed with a sudden impulse: "You seem to be poor. If you only want one loaf, I will for this once give you a fresh loaf for three cents—the same price I ask for the stale bread."

"Will you?"

Old Peter's eyes sparkled with eagerness as he said this.

"Poor man!" thought the baker with mistaken[14] compassion; "he must indeed be needy, to be so pleased."

"Yes," he continued, "you shall have a loaf this once for three cents. Shall I put it in a paper for you?"

Peter nodded.

Meanwhile he was busy fumbling in his pockets for the coins requisite to purchase the loaf. He drew out three battered cents, and deposited them with reluctant hand on the counter. He gazed at them wistfully while the baker carelessly swept them with his hand into the till behind the counter; and then with a sigh of resignation, at parting with the coins, seized the loaf and shambled out into the street.

He put the bundle under his arm, and hastened up the street, his mouth watering in anticipation of the feast which awaited him. Do not laugh, reader,—little as you may regard a fresh loaf of bread, it was indeed a treat to Peter, who was accustomed, from motives of economy, to regale himself upon stale bread.

The baker was congratulating himself upon[15] having done a charitable action, when Peter came back in haste, pale with affright.

"I—I—," he stammered, "must have dropped some money. You haven't picked up any, have you?"

"Not I!" said the baker, carelessly. "If you dropped it here you will find it somewhere on the floor. Stay, I will assist you."

Peter seemed rather disconcerted than otherwise by this offer of assistance, but could not reasonably interpose any objection.

After a very brief search Peter and the baker simultaneously discovered the missing coin. The former pounced upon it, but not before the latter had recognized it as a gold piece.

"Ho, ho!" thought he, in surprise, "my charity is not so well bestowed as I thought. Do you have many such coins?" he asked, meaningly.

"I?" said Peter, hastily, "Oh no! I am very poor. This is all I have, and I expect it will be gone soon,—it costs so much to live!"

"It'll never cost you much," thought the baker, watching the shabby figure of the miser as he receded from the shop.