sunday is a dull day with the street-boys, whatever their business may be. the boot-blacks lose least, but if the day be unpropitious their earnings are small. on such a day the newsboys lodge is a great resource. it supplies all that a boy actually needs—lodging and two meals—for the small sum of eighteen cents, and in cases of need will trust boys to that amount.

sam naturally had recourse to this hold on finding himself out of a situation. he had enough to pay his expenses, and did not feel compelled to go to work till monday. monday morning, however, the reduced state of his finances compelled him to look for employment. if he had had a little capital he might have set up as a newsboy or boot-black, but five cents can hardly be considered sufficient capital for either of these lines of business. credit is the next best thing to capital, but sam had no credit. he found that out, after an ineffectual attempt to borrow money of a boot-black, who, having ten dollars in a savings-bank, was regarded in his own class with high respect as a wealthy capitalist. the name of this exceptional young man was william clark, better known among the boys as ready money bill.

when twelve o'clock came, and sam had earned nothing, he bethought himself of bill, the capitalist.

"bill," he said, "i want to borrer a dollar."

"you do!" said bill, sharply. "what for?"

"to set me up in business."

"what business?"

"evenin' papers."

"haven't you got no stamps?"

"no."

"what have you been doin'?"

"i've been in an office."

"why didn't you stay?"

"the boss thought he wouldn't need me no longer."

"i see," said bill, nodding. "you got sacked."

"not exactly."

"same thing."

"will you lend me the money?"

"i'd never get it back ag'in."

"yes, you would."

"i dunno about that. where'd you get money to pay me back?"

"the boss owes me two dollars."

"why don't he pay you?"

"one of my friends cheated him out of it, and he won't pay me till it's paid back."

"may be he won't pay it back."

"yes, he will. will you lend me the money?"

"no, i won't. you'd ought to have saved money like i have."

"i'd have had two dollars, if jim hadn't stolen money."

"that aint my fault. i aint goin' to lose my money for you. you can save like i do."

bill was right, no doubt. he was a bee, and sam was a drone, and the drones are always ready to avail themselves of the accumulations of their more industrious brothers.

sam began to feel hungry. however irregular he might be in other ways, his appetite was surprisingly regular. he paused in front of a restaurant, and looked wistfully in at the windows.

"i wish i was a waiter," he thought. "they have all they want to eat every day."

it will be seen that sam's ambition was not a lofty one. but then he was practical enough to see that three square meals a day are more to be desired than empty fame.

as he was standing at the window a man from within came to the door. being without a hat, sam supposed him to be connected with the restaurant, as, indeed, he was. sam drew back, supposing that he was to be sent off. but here he was mistaken.

"come here, johnny," said the proprietor, for it was the owner of the restaurant who addressed our hero.

sam approached wondering.

"have you had dinner?"

"no," said sam, promptly.

"would you like some?"

sam's answer, in the affirmative, was equally prompt.

"but you haven't any money, eh?"

"that's so," said sam. "wonder how he found out?" he thought.

"we don't give away dinners, but you can earn one," said mr. pipkin, for it was pipkin's restaurant.

"do you want me for a waiter?" asked sam, hopefully.

"no; you wouldn't do. you haven't had experience. i want a boy to distribute handbills in front of the saloon. can you do that?"

"yes, i can," said sam, eagerly. "i've done that before."

"all right. come in."

sam entered. he hoped that a preliminary dinner would be offered him, but mr. pipkin was not in the habit of paying in advance, and, perhaps, he was right. he brought forward a pile of circulars about the same size as dr. graham's, and handed them to sam.

"i've just opened a new saloon," he said, "and i want to invite the patronage of the public. stand here, and distribute these to the passers-by."

"all right," said sam. "when will you give me some dinner?"

"in about an hour. this is the time when people generally dine, and i want to catch as many as i can."

sam read one of the circulars rapidly.

this is the way it read:

"pipkin's dining-rooms. unsurpassed for the excellence of cookery, and the cheapness of prices. call once, and you will be sure to come again."

"i'm goin' to come once, and i'll call again if they'll let me," said sam to himself.

in about an hour he was called in. the customers had thinned out, but there were a few at the tables. sam was directed to sit down at a table in the back part of the room.

"now, then," said the waiter, "hurry up, young 'un, and tell us what you want."

"roast turkey and cranberry sauce," ordered sam.

"all out. try again," was the laconic reply.

"roast chicken."

"that's all out too."

sam looked disappointed.

"oyster stew."

"all out."

"is everything out?"

"no; there's some roast veal, unless you prefer hash."

"i don't like hash," said sam, decidedly. "bring on your veal, and don't forget the potatoes, and some bread and butter."

"you've got a healthy appetite," said the waiter.

"you bet i have, and i've a right to it. i've earned my dinner, and i want it."

the articles he had ordered were brought, and he attacked them with vigor. then he called for a second course.

"a piece of mince-pie."

"all out," said the waiter.

"apple-pie."

"that's out."

"i guess your customers all had healthy appetites to-day," said sam. "bring on something or other, and mind you bring enough of it."

a plate of rice-pudding was set before him, and speedily appropriated. he tried to get a second plate, but his application was unsuccessful. he was given to understand that he was entitled to only one plate, and was forced to rise from the table not wholly satisfied.