”Is old Pitkin going to take you back?“ he inquired.
”No,“ answered Phil promptly. ”He couldn’t have me if he wanted me.“
”Have you got another place?“
”Yes.“
”What’s the firm?“
”It isn’t in business. I am private secretary to Mr. Carter.“
Mr. Wilbur regarded him with surprise and respect.
”Is it a soft place?“ he inquired.
”It’s a very pleasant place.“
”What wages do you get?“
”Twelve dollars a week and board.“
”You don’t mean it?“
”Yes, I do.“
”Say, doesn’t he want another secretary?“ asked Mr. Wilbur.
”No, I think not.“
”I’d like a place of that sort. You’re a lucky fellow, Phil.“
”I begin to think I am.“
”Of course you don’t live at the old place.“
”No; I live on Madison Avenue. By the way, Wilbur, how is your lady-love?“
Mr. Wilbur looked radiant.
”I think I’m getting on,“ he said. ”I met her the other evening, and she smiled.“
”That is encouraging,“ said Phil, as soberly as possible. ”All things come to him who waits! That’s what I had to write in my copy-book once.“
Phil was received by Mr. Pitkin with more graciousness than he expected. He felt that he must do what he could to placate Uncle Oliver, but he was more dangerous when friendly in his manner than when he was rude and impolite. He was even now plotting to get Phil into a scrape which should lose him the confidence of Uncle Oliver.
Generally Phil was paid in a check payable to the order of Mr. Carter. But one Saturday two hundred dollars in bills were placed in his hands instead.
”You see how much confidence I place in your honesty,“ said Mr. Pitkin. ”You couldn’t use the check. This money you could make off with.“
”It would be very foolish, to say the least,“ responded Phil.
”Of course, of course. I know you are trustworthy, or I would have given you a check instead.“
When Phil left the building he was followed, though he did not know it, by a man looking like a clerk.
Ah, Phil, you are in danger, though you don’t suspect it.
CHAPTER XXXI.
PHIL IS SHADOWED.
PHIL felt that he must be more than usually careful, because the money he had received was in the form of bills, which, unlike the check, would be of use to any thief appropriating it. That he was in any unusual danger, however, he was far from suspecting.
He reached Broadway, and instead of taking an omnibus, started to walk up-town. He knew there was no haste, and a walk up the great busy thoroughfare had its attractions for him, as it has for many others.
Behind him, preserving a distance of from fifteen to twenty feet, walked a dark-complexioned man of not far from forty years of age. Of course Phil was not likely to notice him.
Whatever the man’s designs might be, he satisfied himself at first with simply keeping our hero in view. But as they both reached Bleecker Street, he suddenly increased his pace and caught up with Phil. He touched the boy on the shoulder, breathing quickly, as if he had been running.
Phil turned quickly.
”Do you want me, sir?“ he asked, eying the stranger in surprise.
”I don’t know. Perhaps I am mistaken. Are you in the employ of Mr. Oliver Carter?“
”Yes, sir.“
”Ah I then you are the boy I want. I have bad news for you.“
”Bad news!“ repeated Phil, alarmed. ”What is it?“
”Mr. Carter was seized with a fit in the street half an hour since.“
”Is he–dead?“ asked Phil, in dismay.
”No, no! I think he will come out ail right.“
”Where is he?“
”In my house. I didn’t of course know who he was, but I found in his pocket a letter directed to Oliver Carter, Madison Avenue. There was also a business card. He is connected in business with Mr. Pitkin, is he not?“
”Yes, sir,“ answered Phil; ”where is your house?“
”In Bleecker Street, near by. Mr. Carter is lying on the bed. He is unconscious, but my wife heard him say: `Call Philip.’ I suppose that is you?“
”Yes, sir; my name is Philip.“