In front of him walked an elderly man with a large placard strapped to
his back, on which was the advertisement of a "Great Clothing Emporium."

"I don't think I should fancy that kind of employment," thought our
hero.

As he was looking in at a shop window, a boy about his own age hailed
him.

"I say, Johnny, what's the price of turnips?"

"Do you want to buy any?" asked Frank quietly.

"Well, I might. Have you got any with you?"

"I am sorry I can't supply you," said Frank, coolly. "Up our way we keep
our cattle on turnips."

"You ain't so green, after all," said the boy, laughing good-naturedly.

"Thank you for the compliment!"

"I suppose I look countrylike," thought Frank, "but it won't last long.
I shall get used to city ways."

Close by he saw in a window the sign:

"CASH BOY WANTED."

Frank as not altogether certain about the duties of cash boys nor their
rate of compensation, but he made up his mind not to lose sight of any
chances, and accordingly stepped into the store.

It proved to be a large dry-goods store.

Near the entrance he met a tall man, with black whiskers.

"Do you want any cash boys?" inquired Frank.

"Are you inquiring for yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are too large. Besides, you would not be satisfied with the wages?"

"How much do you pay, sir?"

"Two dollars a week."

"No; I don't think I should like to work for that," said Frank. "Are
those cash boys?" he asked, pointing out some boys of apparently ten to
twelve years, old, who were flitting about from desk to counter.

"Yes."

"I see they are much younger than I. Excuse the trouble I have given
you!"

"None whatever," said the man, politely.

Frank left the store, and continued his walk down Broadway.

He began to feel a little serious. It was evident that the boys did not
receive as large compensation for their services as he had supposed.

The problem promised to be a perplexing one, but Frank was by no means
discouraged. In fact, if he had been, he would hardly have deserved to
be the hero of my story.

Though Clinton Place is not very far uptown, it is a considerable walk
from this point to the Astor House.

There was so much to see, however, that Frank did not become tired, nor
was he sensible of the distance. He walked a little beyond the Astor
House, and, crossing Broadway, turned down Fulton Street.

On the left side of the street his attention was drawn to a restaurant,
and he was led by t