LUKE didn’t shrink from the long trip before him. He enjoyed the prospect of it, having always longed to travel and see distant places. He felt flattered by Mr. Armstrong’s confidence in him, and stoutly resolved to deserve it. He would have been glad if he could have had the company of his friend Linton, but he knew that this was impossible. He must travel alone.
“You have a difficult and perplexing task, Luke,” said the capitalist. “You may not succeed.”
“I will do my best, Mr. Armstrong.”
“That is all I have a right to expect. If you succeed, you will do me a great service, of which I shall show proper appreciation.”
He gave Luke some instructions, and it was arranged that our hero should write twice a week, and, if occasion required, oftener, so that his employer might be kept apprised of his movements.
Luke was not to stop short of Chicago. There his search was to begin; and there, if possible, he was to obtain information that might guide his subsequent steps.
It is a long ride to Chicago, as Luke found. He spent a part of the time in reading, and a part in looking out of the window at the scenery, but still, at times, he felt lonely.
“I wish Linton Tomkins were with me,” he reflected. “What a jolly time we would have!”
But Linton didn’t even know what had become of his friend. Luke’s absence was an occasion for wonder at Groveton, and many questions were asked of his mother.
“He was sent for by Mr. Reed,” answered the widow. “He is at work for him.”
“Mr. Reed is in New York, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
It was concluded, therefore, that Luke was in New York, and one or two persons proposed to call upon him there, but his mother professed ignorance of his exact residence. She knew that he was traveling, but even she was kept in the dark as to where he was, nor did she know that Mr. Armstrong, and not Mr. Reed, was his employer.
Some half dozen hours before reaching Chicago, a young man of twenty-five, or thereabouts, sauntered along the aisle, and sat down in the vacant seat beside Luke.
“Nice day,” he said, affably.
“Very nice,” responded Luke.
“I suppose you are bound to Chicago?”
“Yes, I expect to stay there awhile.”
“Going farther?”
“I can’t tell yet.”
“Going to school out there?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you are traveling for some business firm, though you look pretty young for that.”
“No, I’m not a drummer, if that’s what you mean. Still, I have a commission from a New York business man.”
“A commission — of what kind?” drawled the newcomer.
“It is of a confidential character,” said Luke.
“Ha! close-mouthed,” thought the young man. “Well, I’ll get it out of him after awhile.”
He didn’t press the question, not wishing to arouse suspicion or mistrust.
“Just so,” he replied. “You are right to keep it to yourself, though you wouldn’t mind trusting me if you knew me better. Is this your first visit to Chicago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Suppose we exchange cards. This is mine.”
He handed Luke a card, bearing this name:
J. MADISON COLEMAN
At the bottom of the card he wrote in pencil, “representing H. B. Claflin & Co.”
“Of course you’ve heard of our firm,” he said.
“Certainly.”
“I don’t have the firm name printed on my card, for Claflin won’t allow it. You will notice that I am called for old President Madison. He was an old friend of my grandfather. In fact, grandfather held a prominent office under his administration — collector of the port of New York.”
“I have no card with me,” responded Luke. “But my name is Luke Larkin.”
“Good name. Do you live in New York?”
“No; a few miles in the country.”
“And whom do you represent?”
“Myself for the most part,” answered Luke, with a smile.
“Good! No one has a better right to. I see there’s something in you, Luke.”
“You’ve found it out pretty quick,” thought Luke.
“And I hope we will get better acquainted. If you’re not permanently employed by this party, whose name you don’t give, I will get you into the employ of Claflin & Co., if you would like it.”
“Thank you,” answered Luke, who thought it quite possible that he might like to obtain a position with so eminent a firm. “How long have you been with them?”
“Ten years — ever since I was of your age,” promptly answered Mr. Coleman.
“Is promotion rapid?” Luke asked, with interest.
“Well, that depends on a man’s capacity. I have been pushed right along. I went there as a boy, on four dollars a week; now I’m a traveling salesman — drummer as it is called — and I make about four thousand a year.”
“That’s a fine salary,” said Luke, feeling that his new acquaintance must be possessed of extra ability to occupy so desirable a position.
“Yes, but I expect next year to get five thousand — Claflin knows I am worth it, and as he is a liberal man, I guess he will give it sooner than let me go.”
“I suppose many do not get on so well, Mr. Coleman.”
“I should say so! Now, there is a young fellow went there the same time that I did — his name is Frank Bolton. We were schoolfellows together, and just the same age, that is, nearly — he was born in April, and I in May. Well, we began at the same time on the same salary. Now I get sixty dollars a week and he only twelve — and he is glad to get that, too.”
“I suppose he hasn’t much business capacity.”
“That’s where you’ve struck it, Luke. He knows about enough to be clerk in a country store — and I suppose he’ll fetch up there some day. You know what that means — selling sugar, and tea, and dried apples to old ladies, and occasionally measuring off a yard of calico, or selling a spool of cotton. If I couldn’t do better than that I’d hire out as a farm laborer.”
Luke smiled at the enumeration of the duties of a country salesman. It was clear that Mr. Coleman, though he looked citybred, must at some time in the past have lived in the country.
“Perhaps that is the way I should turn out,” he said. “I might not rise any higher than your friend Mr. Bolton.”
“Oh, yes, you would. You’re smart enough, I’ll guarantee. You might not get on so fast as I have, for it isn’t every young man of twenty-six that can command four thousand dollars a year, but you would rise to a handsome income, I am sure.”
“I should be satisfied with two thousand a year at your age.”
“I would be willing to guarantee you that,” asserted Mr. Coleman, confidently. “By the way, where do you propose to put up in Chicago?”
“I have not decided yet.”
“You’d better go with me to the Ottawa House.”
“Is it a good house?”
“They’ll feed you well there, and only charge two dollars a day.”
“Is it centrally located?”
“It isn’t as central as the Palmer, or Sherman, or Tremont, but it is convenient to everything.”
I ought to say here that I have chosen to give a fictitious name to the hotel designated by Mr. Coleman.
“Come, what do you say?”
“I have no objection,” answered Luke, after a slight pause for reflection.
Indeed, it was rather pleasant to him to think that he would have a companion on his first visit to Chicago who was well acquainted with the city, and could serve as his guide. Though he should not feel justified in imparting to Mr. Coleman his special business, he meant to see something of the city, and would find his new friend a pleasant companion.
“That’s good,” said Coleman, well pleased. “I shall be glad to have your company. I expected to meet a friend on the train, but something must have delayed him, and so I should have been left alone.”
“I suppose a part of your time will be given to business?” suggested Luke.
“Yes, but I take things easy; when I work, I work. I can accomplish as much in a couple of hours as many would do in a whole day. You see, I understand my customers. When soft sawder is wanted, I am soft sawder. When I am dealing with a plain, businesslike man, I talk in a plain, businesslike way. I study my man, and generally I succeed in striking him for an order, even if times are hard and he is already well stocked.”
“He certainly knows how to talk,” thought Luke. In fact, he was rather disposed to accept Mr. Coleman at his own valuation, though that was a very high one.
“Do you smoke?”
“Not at all.”
“Not even a cigarette?”
“Not even a cigarette.”
“I was intending to ask you to go with me into the smoking-car for a short time. I smoke a good deal; it is my only vice. You know we must all have some vices.”
Luke didn’t see the necessity, but he assented, because it seemed to be expected.
“I won’t be gone long. You’d better come along, too, and smoke a cigarette. It is time you began to smoke. Most boys begin much earlier.”
Luke shook his head.
“I don’t care to learn,” he said.
“Oh, you’re a good boy — one of the Sunday-school kind,” said Coleman, with a slight sneer. “You’ll get over that after a while. You’ll be here when I come back?”
Luke promised that he would, and for the next half hour he was left alone. As his friend Mr. Coleman left the car, he followed him with his glance, and surveyed him more attentively than he had hitherto done. The commercial traveler was attired in a suit of fashionable plaid, wore a showy necktie, from the center of which blazed a diamond scarf pin. A showy chain crossed his vest, and to it was appended a large and showy watch, which looked valuable, though appearances are sometimes deceitful.
“He must spend a good deal of money,” thought Luke. “I wonder that he should be willing to go to a two-dollar-a-day hotel.”
Luke, for his own part, was quite willing to go to the Ottawa House. He had never fared luxuriously, and he had no doubt that even at the Ottawa House he should live better than at home.
It was nearer an hour than half an hour before Coleman came back.
“I stayed away longer than I intended,” he said. “I smoked three cigars, instead of one, seeing you wasn’t with me to keep me company. I found some social fellows, and we had a chat.”
Mr. Coleman absented himself once or twice more. Finally, the train ran into the depot, and the conductor called out, “Chicago!”
“Come along, Luke!” said Coleman.
The two left the car in company. Coleman hailed a cab — gave the order, Ottawa House — and in less than five minutes they were rattling over the pavements toward their hotel.