Jack North's Treasure Hunt

A Chance for a Position

"Where are you going, Jack?"

"To the shops of John Fowler & Company."

"To look for a job?"

"Yes."

"Then you are in luck, for I heard this morning that they want another striker in the lower shop at once."

"Then I'll strike for the opening at once, and my name is not Jack North if I don't land it."

"It will be John Slowshanks when you do get it, mind me!" cried out another voice, from an alley-way near at hand, and before Jack North or his companion could recover from their surprise the speaker, a tall, awkward youth of twenty, sped up the street at the top of his speed.

The scene was in Bauton, a large manufacturing city of New England. The first speaker was a workman at the shops that had been mentioned, but beyond the fact that he placed the youth before him in the way of getting work, he needs no special introduction.

The other person was a lad of eighteen, with brown, curly hair, blue eyes, and a round, robust figure. His name was John North, and he was the son of a couple in humble circumstances.

"Take care!" cried the man, "that sneak will get in ahead of you, and then a snap of your little finger for your chance of getting the job at Fowler's."

Jack North did not stop to hear his friend through. He was very much in need of a situation, and he knew the young man who had rushed in ahead of him as a bitter enemy. That fact, coupled with his desire to get work, caused him to dash up the street as fast as he could run.

Naturally the appearance of the two running at such a headlong pace aroused the attention of the passers-by, all of whom stopped to see what it meant. Others rushed out of their houses, offices or workshops to ascertain the meaning of the race, until the street was lined with excited, anxious men, women and children.

"Is it fire?" asked an old, gray-headed man, and another, catching only the sound of the last word, repeated it and thus a wild alarm was quickly spread.

Meanwhile Jack North had found that he could not overtake his rival. He was not a fleet runner, while the other had gotten a start of him, which he could not hope to make up.

But he was too fertile in his resources to despair. In fact he was never known to give up a contest which he had once fairly entered. This persistence in whatever he undertook was the secret of Jack North's wonderful success amid environments which must have discouraged less courageous hearts.

Still it looked to his enemy, as the latter glanced back to see him leisurely turn into a side street leading away from their destination, that he had nothing further to fear from him.

"Thought you would be glad to give in," cried out the delighted seeker of the situation at the engine shops, and believing that he had nothing further to fear, the awkward youth slackened his gait to a walk.

Though Jack turned into the alley at a moderate pace, as soon as he had gone a short distance, he started again into a smart run.

"I shall have farther to go," he thought, "but Fret Offut will think I have given up, and thus he will let me get in ahead of him."

This seemed the truth, when, at last, Jack came in sight of the low-walled and scattering buildings belonging to John Fowler & Co., engine builders.

Fret Offut was nowhere in sight, as Jack entered the dark, dingy office at the lower end of the buildings.

A small sized man, with mutton chop side whiskers, engaged in overhauling a pile of musty papers, looked up at the entrance of our hero.

"Want a job as striker, eh?" he asked, as Jack stated his errand. "I believe Henshaw does want another man. I will call him. What is your name?"

"Alfret Offut, sir. It's me that wants the job, and it's me it belongs to."

It was Jack North's enemy who spoke, as he paused on the threshold panting for breath, while glaring at our hero with a baleful look.

"How come you here?" he demanded of Jack, a second later.

"My feet brought me here, and with less slowness than yours, judging by your appearance," replied young North.

With the arrival of the second person on the scene, the clerk had turned away to find Henshaw, and while he was gone the rival youths stood glaring upon each other.

After a short time a big, red-faced, soot-be-grimed man appeared, saying as he reached them:

"If Offut will come this way I will talk with him."

"Henshaw," said the clerk simply, returning to his work, leaving the newcomer to attend to the visitors as he thought best.

"Ha--ha!" laughed young Offut, softly, as he followed the foreman, "where are you now, Jack North?"

Though Jack gave slight token of his feelings, he was more vexed at this usurpation of his rights than he cared to show. He lost no time in starting after the others in the direction of the shop. "I'm going on twenty-one," Offut said, as they stopped at the door, "and there ain't a chap as can outlift me."

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Henshaw," said Jack, brushing up, "but it's I who am after the job and to whom it belongs. Mr. Jacobs--"

"Is your name Alfret Offut?" interrupted the other youth sharply in the midst of Jack's speech. "I reckon Henshaw knows who he is talking to." "It was me Mr. Jacobs recommended the place to, and you are trying to steal it from me," cried Jack. "You are telling a likely story, Jack North, and if you say another word I'll hit you. Henshaw called for me, and it's me he's going to give work."

Mr. Henshaw, who for the first time seemed to realize the situation, looked surprised, as he gazed from one to the other.

Disliking to raise a fuss Jack remained silent at first, but he felt bound to say:

"I was first at the office, and I claim--" "You'd claim the earth, as far as that is concerned, you miserable chick of nobody!" broke in Offut.

The last was more than Jack could stand, and stepping quickly forward, he cried: "Stop, Fret Offut! you have said enough. I don't want any quarrel with you, but I am as good as you."

"Are yer?" demanded the fiery Offut, whose greatest delight seemed to be in provoking a quarrel. "I can lick you out of your boots, and I will do it before I will let you get in here." By this time Mr. Henshaw, a rather rough man, as slow as he was of comprehension, was interested in the dispute, and not averse to encouraging sport of the kind, he said:

"That's it, boys; fight it out. I'll hire the lad that downs the other."

"Then the job is as good as mine!" cried Fret Offut, rushing at Jack with great bluster and no regard to fairness.