"Pray, tell me who Governor Keith may be."
"The letter will inform you, no doubt," replied Benjamin, giving him
the letter.
The stationer opened it; but read scarcely three lines before he
exclaimed, to Benjamin's consternation:
"Oh, this is from Riddlesden! I have lately found him to be a complete
rascal, and I will have nothing to do with him, nor receive any
letters from him," and he handed the letter back to Benjamin without
reading all of it, turned upon his heel and went back to his work.
Benjamin's feelings can be imagined better than described. He was
well-nigh dumbfounded to learn that the letter was not from Governor
Keith. And then it was that the first flash of suspicion that he had
been deceived entered his mind. He was still more surprised to learn,
on examination, that not one of the letters he had taken from the bag
was written by Governor Keith. There he was without one letter of
introduction to any person in London, the scheme of establishing a
printing house in Philadelphia discovered to be a myth, a mere boy,
friendless and without work, in a great city, three thousand miles
from home. If another American youth was ever lured into a baser trap,
by a baser official, his name has never been recorded. Benjamin was at
his wits' end--he knew not what to do. His feelings bordered upon
despair. Had he not been a wonderful youth to rise superior to
difficulties, he must have yielded to overwhelming discouragement.
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