That was what he did; but Tuesday's work was "meaner" than Monday's.
There did not seem to be even so much as a variation. It was all one
dull, monotonous, miserable hunt for something he could not find. It
was just so on Wednesday, and all the while, as he said, "Money will
just melt away; and somehow you can't help it."

When he counted up, on Wednesday evening, however, he still had four
dollars and one cent; and he had found a place where they sold bread
and milk, or bread and coffee, for ten cents.

"I can get along on that," he said; "and it's only thirty-cents a day,
if I eat three times. I wish I'd known about it when I first came
here. I'm learning something new all the time."

Thursday morning came, and with it a long, gossipy letter from Mary,
and an envelope from Crofield, containing a letter from his mother and
a message from his father written by her, saying how he had talked a
little--only a little--with Mr. Magruder. There was a postscript from
Aunt Melinda, and a separate sheet written by his younger sisters, with
scrawly postscripts from the little boys to tell Jack how the workmen
had dug down and found the old church bell, and that there was a crack
in it, and the clapper was broken off.

Jack felt queer over those letters.

"I won't answer them right away," he said. "Not till I get into some
business. I'll go farther down town today, and try there."

At ten o'clock that morning, a solemn party of seven men met in the
back room of the Mertonville Bank.

"Gentlemen of the Board of Trustees, please come to order. I suppose
we all agree? We need a teacher of experience. The academy's not
doing well. The lady principal can't do everything. She must have a
good assistant."

"Who's your candidate, Squire Crowninshield?" asked Judge Edwards.
"I'm trustee as Judge of the County Court. I've had thirty-one
applications for my vote."

"I've had more than that," said the Squire good humoredly. "I won't
name my choice till after the first ballot. I want to know who are the
other candidates first."

"So do I," said Judge Edwards. "I won't name mine at once, either.
Who is yours, Elder Holloway?"

"We'd better have a nominating ballot," remarked the Elder, handing a
folded slip of paper to Mr. Murdoch, the editor of the _Eagle_. "Who
is yours, Mr. Jeroliman?"

"I haven't any candidate," replied the bank-president, with a worried
look. "I won't name any, but I'll put a ballot in.