By the clock on St. Paul's he saw that it was long after
noon.
Rather disheartened at his non-success after spending a whole morning
in the search for work, he rounded the Astor House corner and crossed
Broadway.
"Newspaper Row," as Doc Linyard had appropriately called it, was just
across the opposite street, and the boy made up his mind to visit the
office where the advertisement had been left, and see if there were
any letters as yet for the old sailor.
The doors of the post-office were open on both sides, and, curious to
see how the building looked inside, Richard started to go through
instead of going around.
The many departments upon the ground floor were a study to him, and
the signs--Domestic Mails, Foreign Mails, Letters for New York City,
Letters for Outgoing Mails--all this was in strong contrast to the
little three by four box that held all the mail of the village at home.
And the many private boxes! He guessed there must be ten thousand of
them. Every second a new-comer walked up to open one.
Presently a familiar figure stepped up to one directly in front of
Richard, and taking out a handful of letters, closed the box and turned
to go away.
It was Mr. Timothy Joyce.
CHAPTER XI.
ROBBED.
Richard was highly delighted to see his fellow passenger once again,
and running up he grasped the gentleman by the shoulder.
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