[A] This letter is a genuine production. It is taken from an extremely interesting work, by Charles L. Brace, on “The Dangerous Classes of New York, and Twenty Years’ Work Among Them.”
“I should like very much to read it,” said Mr. Taylor.
This was the letter:
“M——, Ind., Nov. 24, 1859.
“To My Friend and Benefactor: So I take my pen in hand to let you know how I am, and how I am getting along. As far as I can see, I am well satisfied with my place; but I took a general look around, and, as far as I can see, all the boys left in M—— are doing well, especially myself, and I think there is as much fun as in New York, for nuts and apples are all free. I am much obliged to you, Mr. O’Connor, for the paper you sent me. I received it last night, read it last night—something about the Newsboys’ Lodging House.
“All the newsboys in New York have a bad name; but we should show ourselves, and show them, that we are no fools; that we can become as respectable as any of their countrymen; for some of you poor boys can do something for your country; for Franklin, Webster, Clay, were poor boys once, and even Commodore V. C. Perry or Math. C. Perry. But even George Law, and Vanderbilt, and Astor—some of the richest men of New York—and Math. and V. C. Perry, were nothing but printers, and in the navy on Lake Erie. And look at Winfield Scott. So now, boys, stand up, and let them see that you have got the real stuff in you. Come out here, and make respectable and honorable men, so they can say, there, that boy was once a newsboy.
“Now, boys, you all know I have tried everything. I have been a newsboy, and when that got slack, you know I have smashed baggage. I have sold nuts, I have peddled. I have worked on the rolling billows up the canal; I was a bootblack; and you know, when I sold{46} papers I was at the top of the profession. I had a good stand of my own, but I found all would not do. I could not get along, but I am now going ahead. I have a first-rate home, ten dollars a month, and my board; and, I tell you, fellows, that is a great deal more than I could scrape up my best times in New York. We are all on an equality, my boys, out here, so long as we keep ourselves respectable.
“Mr. O’Connor, tell ‘Fatty,’ or F. John Pettibone, to send me a Christmas number of Frank Leslie’s, and Harper’s Weekly, a Weekly News or some other pictorials to read, especially the Newsboys’ Pictorial, if it comes out. No old papers, or else none. If they would get some other boys to get me some books. I want something to read.
“I hope this letter will find you in good health, as it leaves me, Mr. O’Connor. I expect an answer before two weeks—a letter and a paper. Write to me all about the lodging house. With this I close my letter. With much respect to all.
“I remain your truly obedient friend,
“J. K.”
“The writer of this letter is evidently a smart boy,” said Mr. Taylor, as he finished reading it. “I warrant he will make his way in the world.”
“I expected he would do well, when we sent him out,” said the superintendent. “In New York he was a leader in his set, and very successful in his street trades. But, as you see, he admits that he is doing much better out West.”
“His Western life will make a man of him. Do you often hear from those you have sent out?”{47}
“We are in constant correspondence with them. We feel ourselves under an obligation to look after them still, and to show them that we keep up an interest in them.”
“It must have a good effect upon them.”
“We find that it does. They are ashamed to misconduct themselves, knowing that it will come to our ears.”
“Have you sent out many children, in this way?”
“Thousands of our children are located in different parts of the great West. With few exceptions, they are doing well, and bid fair to become—some have already become—respected and useful members of society.”
“What would have been their fate, had they remained in the city?”
“Many would be vagrants, many, doubtless, tenants of prison cells; very few would have turned out well.”
“It is a great work,” said Mr. Taylor warmly. “I hope you will be encouraged to persevere. I feel like helping you. Accept this contribution to the funds of your society,” and he drew two fifty-dollar bills from his pocketbook and handed to the superintendent.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. O’Connor, “I am sure you will not regret your gift. Every addition to our means enables us to extend our operations. This gift, for instance, will enable us to bring out six children to the West and place them in good homes.”{48}
“Will it, indeed!” said Mr. Taylor, gratified. “That assurance alone abundantly repays me. But I must write the note of introduction which I promised to my young friend.”{49}
CHAPTER VII.
BROOKVILLE.
Though there was plenty of excitement and novelty attending the journey, Julius and his companions looked forward with eager interest to the hour when they would reach their destination. Where were they to live, and what sort of homes would they obtain? These were questions which naturally arose in the minds of all.
Hour after hour the train sped onward with its living freight. The boys looked out upon the broad fields, smiling in the sunlight, and bright-looking villages scattered along the route, and wondered if their future homes would look anything like them.
At last the moment approached when their curiosity was to be gratified.
“Boys, the next town is Brookville,” said Mr. O’Connor, passing through the cars.
“Are we goin’ to stop there?” asked Teddy.
“Yes; that is where we get out of the cars.”
Soon a large village came in sight. It was quite thickly settled, and the streets were broad and regular. The boys could see various public buildings, besides a large number of dwelling houses. The place looked quite attractive, and the boys’ faces lighted up with pleasure.{50}
“I say, Teddy,” said Julius, “Brookville’s a nice place.”
“Don’t look much like New York,” said Teddy, dubiously.
“Of course it don’t. The country ain’t like the city, stupid.”
“I guess it’s a pretty good place,” said Teddy. “I hope we’ll live near each other.”
“I hope so, too; but maybe not. You may live somewhere else.”
“Shan’t we all live here?”
“No; I heard Mr. O’Connor say we’d be scattered around among the towns, but I’m goin’ to live here.”
“How do you know you are?”
“‘Cause I’ve got a letter to Mr. Taylor’s nephew. He lives in Brookville.”
“P’rhaps he’ll want two boys.”
“Maybe he will.”
“What’s that?” asked Teddy, as the sound of music was heard.
“It’s a band—don’t you see it?—on the platform. What a crowd of people!”
“Boys,” said Mr. O’Connor, “that music is for you. The citizens have come out to welcome you. Now I will tell you what you must do. You will follow me out of the cars as soon as the train stops, form two by two on{51} the platform, and then you may swing your hats, and shout, ‘Three cheers for Brookville!’ Will you do it?”
“All right, sir,” said the boys, eagerly.
They were already within a few rods of the station. Speed was already slackened, and in a moment the cars had stopped.
“Now, boys, form in line after the other passengers have left the car,” said the superintendent. “Then follow me.”
His directions were carefully followed, and in five minutes the little company were drawn up on the platform. Many curious eyes were fixed upon them by those who had come to meet them, and some were already selecting those whom they desired to adopt.
“Now, boys,” said the superintendent, when order was obtained, “what have you to say to the ladies and gentlemen who have been kind enough to come here to meet you?”
“Three cheers for Brookville!” shouted Tim Shanter, who, it had been agreed, should act as leader.
The cheers were given with a will, and with such emphasis that it was clear none of the boys as yet was troubled with weak lungs.
Then the band struck up again, and after they had concluded, one of the citizens came forward and addressed Mr. O’Connor.
“Mr. O’Connor, I presume?” he said.{52}
“That is my name, sir. You were expecting us?”
“Yes; we received your telegram, and have made arrangements to receive you. First, however, let me introduce myself. My name is Taylor.”
“Ephraim Taylor?”
“Yes,” said the other, in some surprise.
“You wonder that I know your name,” said Mr. O’Connor. “I met an uncle of yours while traveling in the State of New York, and he gave one of our boys a letter to you.”
“Indeed!”
“It was a boy,” exclaimed the superintendent, “who had an opportunity of being of service to him.”
“In what way, may I ask?”
“He detected a pickpocket in the act of taking your uncle’s gold watch, and warned him of it. Julius, come here!”
Julius stepped out of the ranks. Mr. Taylor looked at him earnestly.
“I hear that you fell in with my uncle,” he said.
“Yes, sir. He give me a letter for you.”
“Let me see it.”
Julius drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Taylor.
The letter read as follows:
“My Dear Nephew: This will be handed to you by a boy who has done me a service, the nature of which{53} the superintendent will explain to you. I do not know how you are situated, or whether you require the services of a boy. If you do, I think you can’t do better than to take this one. He is bright, sharp, and, as I have reason to believe, honest. I shall be glad if he can secure a good home.
Your uncle,
“John Taylor.”
Julius had already examined critically the personal appearance of Mr. Taylor, whom he regarded as his future employer and guardian. His past life had made him a good and quick observer of character. Street boys, obliged to fight their way, and struggle for a livelihood, are by their circumstances made preternaturally sharp. They acquire a judgment and self-reliance beyond their years, however defective they may be in the knowledge to be gained from books. Engaged in reading his uncle’s letter, Mr. Taylor did not notice the keen glance with which Julius regarded him. But the result was favorable.
“I guess I’ll like him,” said our hero to himself. “He looks like he might be kind. I hope he’ll take me.”
Mr. Taylor looked up with a smile.
“My uncle wants me to take you, my lad,” he said.
“Will you?” asked Julius.
“What do you say, Mr. O’Connor?” said Mr. Taylor. “Will you intrust this young man to me?”
“I shall be glad to do so,” said the superintendent. “I will ask you to leave him with us till to-morrow, however,{54} as applications will not generally be accepted till then.”
“I have no objection to that. Now let me tell you what arrangements we have made for your reception. How many children have you in your company?”
“Fifty-two.”
“It is as I supposed. There are more than can be lodged at our hotel, which is small. They could receive but twenty there, and the remainder can be accommodated in a hall we have in the village.”
“I should prefer that they would not be separated. I would rather have them all under my own eye for to-night,” said the superintendent.
“Very well; then perhaps it will be best for all to be accommodated in the hall. There are two halls, in fact; and bedding can be placed on the floor. It won’t be quite so comfortable as it would be at the hotel.”
“Our boys are used to roughing it,” said Mr. O’Connor. “Many a night in the city they have slept out in old wagons or alleyways. It won’t hurt them to sleep on the floor.”
“The hall is about half a mile distant. I will lead the way, and you may get settled at once.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Tim Shanter, see that the boys walk in line,” said the superintendent. “I appoint you captain, Mr. Taylor, and I will go on ahead, and you will follow us.”{55}
So the procession moved through the village, attracting curious glances from the inhabitants as it passed along. The boys on their side used their eyes to advantage. They were delighted with the fields of grass, the trees now in full leaf, the flower-plots in front of some of the houses, and the singing of the birds. There was not one of them who did not hope that he would find a home in Brookville.{56}
CHAPTER VIII.
JULIUS HAS AN ADVENTURE.
About midway in the principal street of Brookville is the town hall. It is a neat building, of considerable size, and two stories in height.
Here the procession halted, and after a pause filed in.
The boys found themselves in a large hall, with a platform and desk at one end, the body of the hall being filled with settees.
“Looks like a schoolroom,” said Teddy.
“Only there ain’t no desks,” said Julius.
“We’re to stay here all night, boys,” said Tim Shanter.
“It’s only three o’clock. What will we do till then?” said Tom Burke.
“Boys,” said Mr. O’Connor, “would you like to see something of the village?”
“Yes!” “Yes!” was heard from all quarters.
“Then for the next two hours you may go where you please, but you must be back before six.”
“All right, sir!” shouted half a dozen, and there was a rush for the door.
“Come back,” shouted the superintendent. “You haven’t heard all I have to say.”
The boys turned back reluctantly.{57}
“You must be careful to do no mischief, and commit no trespass upon any person’s property. I want you to show our friends here that, if you have been brought up in the streets of New York, you know how to behave yourselves.”
“We will!” “We will!” shouted the boys, and in less than a minute the hall was emptied.
They separated into groups, and walked off in different directions. Julius, Teddy and Tom formed one of the parties.
“Where will we go?” said Tom.
“Come down here,” said Julius, pointing down a side street. “There’s some nice fields off there.”
“Ain’t it jolly?” said Teddy. “It’s a big sight better than New York.”
“Ain’t that a nice field for baseball?” said Julius, pointing to a large pasture some distance ahead.
“There’s lots of fields, but no ball.”
“Look there, fellers! Do you see that little pond down there?”
“Let us go there.”
“All right.”
The boys jumped over the fence, and walked in the direction of the pond. It was a small circular sheet of water, covering about two acres. On it was a small, unpainted boat, which the boys no sooner saw than they jumped into. There was but one paddle inside, which{58} the boys used by turns. They had never before been in a boat, and were not scientific navigators; still they managed to paddle around the little pond, greatly to their satisfaction.
“I wonder if there’s any fish in this pond,” said Julius.
“I don’t see none,” said Teddy.
“If there was, it would be good fun to catch some,” said Tom.
“We could use Teddy for bait,” suggested Julius.
“I wouldn’t advise a small fish to swaller me,” said Teddy. “I’d dance a double shuffle in his stomach, and he’d soon want ter let me go.”
The boys enjoyed floating about, and time passed quickly.
“What time is it?” asked Tom.
Julius drew out his watch with an air.
“It’s five o’clock,” he said.
“We ought ter be goin’ back; Mr. O’Connor told us we must be back in time.”
They turned the boat toward shore, when all at once Tom, who was looking toward the shore, exclaimed, “What’s that, boys?”
Following the direction in which he pointed, the boys were startled by seeing a large, clumsy animal walking deliberately down toward the place where they were about to land.
They paused in their progress, and Julius, after a{59} careful examination of the stranger, announced, “I’ll tell you what it is, boys; it’s a bear!”
“A bear!” exclaimed Tom and Teddy, simultaneously.
“Yes; I’ve seed a picture of one in Frank Leslie’s. It’s a bear, sure.”
“What will we do?” said Teddy, alarmed. “They’ll bite, won’t they?”
“I guess they will,” said Julius. “They’d kill you just as easy as winkin’.”
“I didn’t know there was any wild animals around here,” said Teddy, nervously.
“Yes,” said Tom; “there’s bears, and wolves, and panthers. I’ve read about ’em in a dime novel called ‘Pathfinder Pete; or, The Wild Hunter of the West.’ You know we are in the West now.”
“How will we get back?” asked Teddy, rather anxiously. “He’s squattin’ down, waitin’ for us.”
The bear had come to a pause, and, squatting on its hind quarters, was steadily and seriously regarding the boys with an expression which, to their excited imaginations, seemed particularly savage and bloodthirsty.
“I wish’t I had a rifle like the one ‘Pathfinder Pete’ had,” ejaculated Tom.
“You wouldn’t dare to fire it if you had one,” said Julius.
“Yes, I would. I’d fire a bullet into his right eye and{60} then I’d fire another right into his left eye, and then he couldn’t see to chase us.”
“That would be good enough if we had a rifle,” said Julius; “but we haven’t. S’pose we land on the other side of the pond, and run for the fence.”
“Don’t yer do it!” exclaimed Teddy, in terror. “He’d catch us before we got halfway there.”
“Do bears run fast, Tom?” asked Julius, deferring to the superior knowledge of his comrade, who had had the great privilege of reading the instructive story of “Pathfinder Pete.”
“Don’t they? They can go twenty miles an hour without hurtin’ ’em.”
“They don’t look like it,” said Julius, surveying the clumsy form of the bear. “I’ll bet that bear can’t keep up with me.”
“Maybe he don’t look it, but he can run like lightnin’. ‘Pathfinder Pete’ was chased by a bear, when his rifle wasn’t loaded, an’ the only way he got off was to hide behind a tree till he’d loaded his gun, an’ then he blazed away, and keeled him over on his back.”
“Then I wish ‘Pathfinder Pete’ would happen around this afternoon. Teddy, jist sing a bit. Maybe that’ll frighten him.”
“I don’t feel like singin’,” said Teddy. “Oh, boys, how will we get home?”
“I move,” said Julius, who was least disturbed of the{61} three, “that we pitch out Teddy. While the bear’s eatin’ him, we’ll run away.”
“Don’t yer do it,” entreated Teddy, his teeth chattering with fright.
“We won’t jest yet. Wait an’ see if he won’t go away himself.”
“He’s goin’ to swim out to us,” screamed Teddy, in fright, as the bear arose to his feet, and put one foot in the water. But he quickly withdrew it, apparently not liking the feeling.
“Do you think we’ll have to stay here all night?” asked Tom, soberly.
“If the bear don’t get tired, and go away.”
“I wish I was back at the Lodgin’ House,” said Teddy, gloomily.
The bear arose to his feet, and walked slowly around the pond, looking from time to time at the boat and the three young navigators.
“What time is it now, Julius,” asked Tom, after a while.
“Wants five minutes ter six,” said Julius.
“What’ll Mr. O’Connor think?”
“He can’t blame us for not comin’. I say, boys, I’m gettin’ hungry,” said Tom.
“So is the bear,” said Julius, significantly.
At this suggestion, Teddy turned a shade paler.
So the boys watched and waited in vain for their{62} unwelcome visitor to depart, keeping the little boat as near the middle of the pond as possible.
“I guess we’ll have to stay all night,” said Tom.
Just at that moment the attention of the three boys was drawn to a boy of about their own age, who was walking across the field toward the pond.
“Does he see the bear, I wonder?” said Teddy.
“The bear sees him,” said Tom. “He’s goin’ for him.”{63}
CHAPTER IX.
THE BEAR AND HIS MASTER.
“Hadn’t we better holler to him to look out for the bear?” suggested Teddy.
“He sees him, and is callin’ to him,” said Julius, directly afterward.
The three boys looked on in eager excitement, to see what would come of the meeting. Teddy fully expected that the bear would appropriate the newcomer for his supper, and was very much surprised at seeing him rubbing his head against the boy’s legs, as if they were fast friends.
“Look at that,” he cried. “I don’t believe he’s a bear.”
“Yes, he is,” said Tom, confidently. “Don’t you think I know a bear when I see him?”
“I’ll ask him,” said Julius.
“Hello, there, Johnny!” he called out from the boat.
The boy looked up, and for the first time noticed the three boys.
“How did you know my name?” he asked, in surprise, for it so happened that his name was really John.
“I guessed at it,” said Julius.
“We’re New York aldermen,” said Julius, “travelin’ for our health.”
“How came you in my boat?”
“Is the boat yours?”
“Yes.”
“We thought we’d give it a little exercise, seein’ it had nothin’ to do.”
“I know who you are. You came with the agent of the Children’s Aid Society.”
“That’s so; I’m the president of the society, and these gentlemen are directors.”
“You look like it,” said the other boy, smiling.
“Is that a bear?” asked Tom, who was anxious to have the question settled.
“Yes, it is.”
“Won’t he bite?”
“Oh, no; he’s a tame bear. Ain’t you, old Bruin?”
The bear rubbed his head against his legs as before.
“Won’t he do anything to us if we come on shore?” asked Teddy, nervously.
“Oh, no; he’s as good-natured as an old dog.”
“Then we’ll land,” said Julius. “We’ve been stayin’ out here an hour, ’cause Teddy here was afraid of him.”
“You were just as much afraid as I was,” said Teddy, indignantly.{65}
“That’s a lie. Me and Tom ain’t afraid of anything; but we wouldn’t leave you here alone.”
“Don’t you believe him,” said Teddy.
“I don’t,” said the boy on shore, laughing.
“You see,” said Julius, “that my life is valuable to my country, and I couldn’t bear to lose it. Step out, Teddy. Now tie the boat. We’d better make tracks, or Mr. O’Connor’ll scold us.”
They joined the other boy and the bear, though Teddy took care to keep as far away from the latter as he could.
“Where did you get the bear?” asked Julius. “Do they live around here?”
“No; this was taken when a cub by an uncle of mine, and when it was half-grown he gave it to me.”
“How long have you had him?”
“About five years; ever since I was nine years old.”
“Is he quite tame?”
“Oh, yes; he’s as tame as a cat.”
“Do you let him go around loose?”
“Part of the time. In the night we tie him, and keep him in the barn.”
The bear, with the desire probably of getting acquainted with different members of the party, here walked around to the further side, where Teddy was walking.{66}
“Oh, take him away!” said the frightened boy. “He’s goin’ for me.”
“Shut up, you fool!” said Julius; “do you think he’d touch such skinny meat as you, when he could have Tom or me? He ain’t fond of pigs.”
“I wouldn’t care if he ate you or Tom,” said Teddy.
“Pat him,” said the stranger. “You’ll see how he won’t hurt you.”
Teddy did so in fear and trembling, and was at last convinced that there was nothing to fear.
“Are you going to live in Brookville?” asked the young owner of the bear.
“I am,” said Julius.
“Who are you going to live with?”
“With Mr. Taylor.”
“Mr. Ephraim Taylor?”
“Yes; what kind of a man is he?”
“He’s a good man; he’s rich, too. Did he say he’d take you?”
“Yes; I brought him a letter from his uncle. His uncle gave me this watch and chain;” and Julius displayed, not without pride, his valued treasure.
“It’s a nice one,” said the other, after examining it.
“Have you got one?”
“Not yet; my father’s going to give me one on my next birthday.”
“On the Fourth of July.”
“Was you born then?”
“Yes,” said John smiling. “They celebrate my birthday around here.”
“We do in New York, too.”
“You see I am a great man.”
“What’s your name—your whole name?”
“John Sandford.”
“Do you live near Mr. Taylor’s?”
“About half a mile.”
“Then we’ll see each other sometimes.”
“Yes; you can tell me about New York.”
“Wasn’t you ever there?”
“No; but I should like to go. It’s a very big place, isn’t it?”
“You bet it is.”
“What is the population?”
“What?”
“How many people are there in the city?”
“About ten million, I guess,” said Julius, pausing to think, and then guessing.
“There can’t be so many as that. Why, London has only a little over three millions.”
“London ain’t New York.”
“No; but it’s a good deal bigger.”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. I never counted,” said Julius.{68}
“Are those other boys going to live in Brookville?”
“I hope I will,” said Teddy.
“So do I,” said Tom.
“Mr. O’Connor is goin’ to get places for us to-morrow,” said Julius. “I’ll tell you what, Johnny, you’d better take Teddy yourself. You could let him sleep with the bear. Only, if the bear got hungry in his sleep, maybe he’d make hash out of him.”
“That would be hash treatment,” said John, laughing. “What is your name? I’ve told you mine.”
“My name is Julius.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else.”
“Haven’t you got but one name?” asked John, surprised.
“No; what’s the use of two names?”
“Everybody has two.”
“Then, if I go to live with Mr. Taylor, I’ll call myself Julius Taylor.”
“What’s your name?” turning to Teddy.
“I’ll tell you,” said Julius. “That is the Hon. Teddy Bates, professor of boot blackin’, and this other bummer is Tom Burke, Esq., one of the most distinguished baggage-smashers in all New York.”
“I don’t often get into such good company,” said John, laughing. “Are all the rest of your company as celebrated?”{69}
“Oh, no; they’re common loafers. Me and Tom and Teddy are——”
“Uncommon loafers, I suppose.”
“You guessed right the first time,” said Julius.
“Hello, fellers!” interrupted Tom; “there’s Pat Maloney comin’ up the road; I guess he’s comin’ for us.”
“Where’ve you fellers been?” said Pat, on meeting them. “Mr. O’Connor sent me to find you.”
“Was he mad?”
“No; he thought you’d lost your way. What’s that?” he exclaimed, suddenly, for the first time espying the bear.
“It’s a bear,” said John Sandford. “But don’t be frightened. He is tame. He won’t hurt you.”
“You’d better come quick, or you’ll lose your grub,” said Pat.
This was enough. The three boys were very hungry, and, quickening their pace, soon rejoined their companions, whom they found partaking of a substantial supper, which had been liberally supplied by the citizens of Brookville, with characteristic Western hospitality.{70}
CHAPTER X.
A BOOTBLACK’S SPEECH.
Julius and his companions were readily excused by the superintendent, on explaining the cause of their delay.
After supper was over, Mr. O’Connor said: “Boys, this is the last time you will be all together. To-morrow probably many of you will set out for new homes. Now, how shall we pass the time?”
“A speech from Corny Donovan!” cried one boy.
“Speech from Corny!” was heard from all parts of the hall.
“Corny, have you anything to say to the boys?” asked the superintendent, smiling.
Corny was a short, wiry little fellow, apparently twelve, but in reality two years older. He was noted among the boys for his drollery, and frequently amused them with his oratory. He came forward with a twinkle of merriment in his eye.
“The Honorable Corny Donovan will speak to the meetin’,” said Julius, acting as temporary chairman.
Corny took his place on the platform, and with perfect gravity took out a small, red handkerchief, and blew his nose explosively, in imitation of a gentleman who{71} once addressed the boys at the Lodging House. The boys greeted this commencement with vociferous applause.
“Go in, Corny!” “Spit it out!” were heard from different parts of the hall.
“Boys,” said Corny, extending his right arm horizontally, “I’ve come here from my manshun in Fifth Avenoo to give you some good advice. You’re poor miserable bummers, ivery mother’s son of you. You don’t know much anyhow. Once’t I was as poor as you.” (“Hi; hi!” shouted his auditors.) “You wouldn’t think to look at my good clo’es that I was once a poor bummer like the rest of yez.” (“Yes we would. Where’s your gold watch?”) “Where’s my gold watch? I left it at home on the planner. Maybe you’d like to grow up gentlemen like me. But you can’t do it. It ain’t in you.” (“Oh, dry up!”) “Boys, where’s your manners? Don’t you know no more’n to interrupt me in my speech? Me and Mr. O’Connor have brought you out here to make men of you. We want you to grow up ‘spectable. Blackin’ boots won’t make men of you.” (“You’re only a bootblack yourself!”) “I only blacked boots for amoosement, boys. I’d have you know I used to leave my Fifth Avenoo manshun in disguise, and pass the day round Printin’ House Square, blackin’ boots, ’cause my doctor told me I must have exercise, or I’d die eatin’ too much rich food.” (“Rich hash, you mean!”) “No,{72} I don’t. I never allow my cook to put hash on the table, ’cause you can’t tell what it’s made of, no more’n sassidges. There’s lots of dogs and cats disappear in New York, and it’s pop’larly supposed that they commits suicide; but the eatin’-house keepers know what ’comes of ’em.” (“You bet! That’s so, Corny!”)
“Now I want you boys to leave off bummin’, and try to be ’spectable members of s’ciety. I don’t want yer to spend yer money for cigars, an’ chew cheap tobaccer, just as ef you was men. Once’t I saw a four-year-old bummer sittin’ on a doorstep, smokin’ a cigar that was half as big as he was. All at once’t his rags took fire, and he went up in a balloon.” (“Hi! hi!”)
“I tell you, boys, the West is the place for you. Who knows but what you’ll git to be Congressmen, or even President?” (“Hear the boy talk!”) “I didn’t mean you, Jim Malone, so you needn’t say nothin’. They don’t make Congressmen out’n sich crooked sticks as you be. Maybe you’ll keep a corner grocery some time, or a whiskey shop, an’ lay on the floor drunk half the time.” (“Pitch into him, Corny!”) “But that ain’t what I was a goin’ to say. You’ll be great men, ef you don’t miss of it; and if you’re good and honest and industrious like I am,” (“Dry up! Simmer down!”), “you’ll come to live in fine houses, and have lots of servants to wait on you, and black yer boots, instead of blackin’ ’em yourself.” (“I’ll take you for my bootblack, Corny,”{73} interrupted Julius.) “No, you won’t. I expect to be governor before that time, and maybe you’ll be swallered by the bear that scared you so this afternoon.” (Laughter from the boys.) “But I’ve most got through.” (“Oh, drive ahead, Corny!”) “If you want to be great men all you’ve got to do is to imertate me. Me and Mr. O’Connor are goin’ to watch you, to see that you behave the way you ought to. When you’re rich you can come back to New York, and go to the Lodgin’ House and make a speech to the boys, and tell ’em you was once a poor bummer like they be, and advise ’em to go West, if they want to be somebody.
“Now, boys, I won’t say no more. I’m afeared you won’t remember what I’ve said already. I won’t charge you nothin’ for my advice.”
Corny descended from the platform amid the laughter and applause of his comrades.
Mr. O’Connor said: “Boys, Corny’s advice is very good, and I advise you to follow it, especially as to avoiding cigars and tobacco, which can only do boys harm. I am not sure that any of you stand a chance of becoming a Congressman or President, as he suggests, but there is one thing pretty certain—you can, if you are honest, industrious, and improve your opportunities at the schools which you will have a chance to attend, obtain a respectable position in society. Some of the boys who in former years have gone to the West have become prosperous,{74} having farms or shops of their own. I don’t see why you can’t be just as successful as they. I hope you will be, and if, some years hence, you come to New York, I hope you will visit the Lodging House. If I am still there, I shall be glad to see you, and have you speak to the boys, and encourage them, by the sight of your prosperity, to work as you have done. Now I would suggest that you sing one or two of the songs we used to sing on Sunday evenings at the Lodging House. After that you may go out for an hour, but you must keep near this hall, as the evening is coming on.”{75}
CHAPTER XI.
NEW HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS.
The next day was to witness the dispersion of the little company which had come out to try their fortunes in the great West. Notices had been circulated in the neighboring villages that a company of boys had arrived, and farmers and mechanics who needed a boy on the farm or in the shop came to Brookville; and at eleven in the forenoon the hall presented a busy and animated sight. While the newcomers scanned attentively the faces of the boys, or opened conversations with them, to guide them in the selections, the boys again were naturally anxious to obtain desirable guardians and homes. Julius, being already provided for, had no anxiety, but wandered about, surveying the scene with comparative indifference. As he had a bright and intelligent look, he was more than once addressed by visitors.
“What is your name, my lad?” asked a middle-aged farmer from the next town.
“Julius.”
“How old are you?”
“How would you like to come with me, and help me on my farm?”
“I’m engaged,” said Julius, with an air of importance; for as young ladies are often emulous of getting married before their companions, so the boy who first succeeds in obtaining a place plumes himself accordingly.
“Indeed!” said the farmer, somewhat disappointed. “Where are you going to live?”
“With Mr. Ephraim Taylor.”
“In Brookville?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall have to look somewhere else, I suppose.”
“Maybe you’d like Corny Donovan?” suggested Julius.
“Where is he? Point him out.”
Our hero pointed out the speaker of the evening before.
“He’s small,” said the farmer, after a critical survey. “How old is he?”
“He’s fourteen.”
“He doesn’t look more than twelve.”
“He’s strong, Corny is, and he’s smart. He used to earn twice as much money as some of the boys.”
“What did he do?”
“He blacked boots.”
“Do you think he would like to work on a farm?”{77}
“I’ll axe him. Come here, Corny.”
Corny Donovan came up.
“Here’s a gentleman wants to talk to you,” said Julius.
“I was asking if you would like to work on a farm.”
“Yes,” said Corny, promptly, “if I was treated well, and could go to school. I want to learn somethin’, so’s I can grow up to be somebody.”
“You ain’t afraid of work, are you?”
“No, nor nothin’ else. Julius here is afraid of bears.”
“You won’t find any bears where I live,” said the farmer, smiling. “How would you like to go home with me?”
“I’d like it. You’ll have to speak to Mr. O’Connor.”
“He is the man who brought you to the West?”
“Yes. He stands there.”
Mr. O’Connor was the center of a group of farmers and others, who were making inquiries about particular boys.
“Mr. O’Connor,” said the farmer just introduced, “I want to ask you about a boy who calls himself Corny Donovan.”
“He is a smart boy; there is no smarter in our company.”
“Can you recommend him?”
“My dear sir, it depends on what you mean by the word.”{78}
“Well, is he to be depended upon?”
“I think so; but we cannot guarantee it. You know what has been the past life of our boys; how they have been brought up in neglect and privation in the city streets, subject to little restraint, and without careful instruction. You can’t expect them to be models of all the virtues.”
“No, I suppose not!”
“But I can tell you this—that among the thousands whom we place in Western homes, there are few who do us discredit by being guilty of criminal offenses. They may at times be mischievous, as most boys in all conditions are, and with whatever advantages. There are few who show themselves really bad.”
“That is all I want to know, Mr. O’Connor. I will take this boy, Corny, and try him, with your consent.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“Yes; he thinks he shall like being on a farm.”
“Then, sir, you have only to give us good references, and the matter shall be arranged. We always insist upon them, as we feel under obligations to place our boys in good families, where they will be likely to receive good treatment.”
“That is quite fair, sir. I can satisfy you on that point.”
The matter was soon arranged, and Corny Donovan’s suspense was at an end. He had found a home. His{79} new guardian was Mr. Darius Fogg, who owned and cultivated a large farm in the adjoining township of Claremont.
“How far do you live from Brookville?” asked Julius.
“About six miles.”
“Can Corny come over some time? I should like to see him sometimes.”
“Oh, yes; he will have occasion to come often. We send our farm produce here, to go East by rail, and we do our shopping here. Mrs. Fogg will want Cornelius to drive her over of an afternoon.”
“Shall I drive the horses?” asked Corny, his eyes lighting up with eager anticipation.
“Certainly; you will have to do it every day.”
“That’ll be stavin’. I say, Julius, won’t I put her over the road two-forty?”
This remark Mr. Fogg did not hear, or he might have been alarmed at the prospect of either of his staid farm horses being put over the road at racing speed. It is doubtful, however, whether Corny, or any other driver, could have got any very surprising speed out of them.
Teddy Bates was attached to Julius, and, though he was but a year younger than our hero, looked up to him as a weak nature looks up to a stronger. He was very anxious to find a home near our hero. Fortune favored him at last, as a Mr. Johnson, a shoemaker, living only{80} half a mile distant from Mr. Taylor, agreed to take him into his shop, and teach him the shoemaker’s trade.
“So you’re goin’ to learn to make shoes, Teddy,” said Julius. “Do you think you’ll like it?”
“I don’t know,” said Teddy, “but I’m glad I’m goin’ to be near you.”
“We’ll have bully times, but I’d rather be on a farm. I want to drive horses.”
“I never drove a horse,” said Teddy.
“Nor I; but I can.”
“S’pose he runs away.”
“I won’t let him. You ain’t afraid of a horse as well as a bear, are you, Teddy?”
“I ain’t used to ’em, you see.”
“Nor I; but I will be soon.”
Teddy did not reply; but congratulated himself that he should have no horse to take care of. In this, however, he was mistaken, as his new guardian kept a horse also, though he did not have as much use for him as if he had been a farmer.
Teddy, I may here remark, was an exception to his class. Street boys are rarely deficient in courage or enterprise, and most would be delighted at the opportunity to control or drive a horse. But Teddy inherited a timid temperament, and differed widely from such boys as Julius or Corny Donovan.
“Well, my boy, are you ready? I’ve got to be getting{81} home,” said Mr. Johnson, walking up to the place where Teddy stood talking with Julius.
“Yes, sir, I’m ready. I’ll just bid good-by to Mr. O’Connor.”
“Good-by, my boy,” said the superintendent. “I hope you will behave well in your new home, and satisfy the gentleman who has agreed to take you. Write home sometimes, and let me know how you are getting along.”
“I can’t write, sir,” said Teddy, rather ashamed of his ignorance.
“You will soon learn. Good-by!”
Next Julius came up, as Mr. Taylor was also ready to start.
“Good-by, Julius,” said Mr. O’Connor. “Now you’ve got a chance to make a man of yourself, I hope you’ll do it.”
“I will,” said Julius, confidently. “If Jack Morgan or Marlowe come round to ask where I am, don’t tell them.”
“I don’t think they’ll trouble me with any inquiries. They are probably in Sing Sing by this time.”{82}
CHAPTER XII.
JULIUS IN LUCK.
A light wagon was standing outside for Julius and his new guardian.
“Jump in, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor.
Our hero did not need a second command. He was quickly in his seat, and looked wistfully at his companion, who held the reins.
“May I drive?” he asked.
“Are you accustomed to driving?”
“No, sir.”
“I suppose you never got a chance in the city?”
“No, sir. Jack didn’t keep a horse,” said Julius, with a smile.
“Who was Jack?”
“He was the man I lived with.”
“Was he in any business?”
“Yes, sir; but it wasn’t a very good kind of business. Jack used to break into houses, and take anything he could find. He tried pickin’ pockets one while, but he was too clumsy, and got caught too often. Marlowe could do that better.”
“Were those the two men you spoke of to Mr. O’Connor, as you were coming away?”{83}
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you happen to be in charge of such a man?”
“That’s more than I knows of. When I was a little chap, four or five years old, I lived with Jack; but he never told me where he got me from.”
“Do you think you are his son?”
“No; I know I’m not. When Jack got drunk he used to tell me I wa’n’t no child of his, and he’d send me out to shift for myself if I didn’t do jest as he told me.”
“Did he often get drunk?”
“He used to drink when he got a chance, but he’d only get reg’lar drunk about once a week.”
“Did he ever offer you anything to drink?”
“No,” answered Julius, laughing; “he wanted it all himself. But I wouldn’t have took it.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t like it. Besides, I didn’t want to lay round drunk like Jack. I didn’t see that there was any fun in it.”
“You are right there. There is very little fun, as you call it, in getting drunk. It appears to me you were brought up under bad influences.”
“Yes, I was,” said Julius, in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Many would be afraid to take into their houses a boy who had been reared by a thief.”
“Maybe they would,” said Julius.{84}
“They might be afraid that he had been trained to steal.”
“Yes,” said Julius; “but what’s the good of stealin’ when you got a good home?”
“Quite right; but that isn’t the highest view to take of stealing. It is wrong in the sight of God.”
“That’s what they told us at the Lodgin’ House.”
“I hope you believe it.”
“Yes, sir, I believe it.”
“And if ever you are tempted to take anything that doesn’t belong to you, think first that it will be displeasing to God. After that, you may consider that it is bad policy also.”
“It was bad for Jack and Marlowe. They was in prison half the time. They’re in Sing Sing now, hammerin’ stone, I expect.”
“You may be thankful that you are out of their reach. But you said you wanted to drive.”
“Yes, sir,” said Julius, eagerly.
“Take the reins, and I’ll show you how to do it. You will have to learn to harness and unharness the horse also.”
“That’ll be bully,” said our hero, in a tone of satisfaction.
“I am glad you like the idea. I am going to make a Western farmer of you.”
Mr. Taylor gave Julius some practical directions about driving, and had an illustration of the boy’s quickness in his immediate comprehension and acting upon them. They soon came in sight of a gate, on the other side of which was a lane.
“Jump out and open the gate,” said Mr. Taylor. “That lane leads to my house.”
They soon came in sight of a substantial farm-house of good appearance. A man in overalls, and without a coat, came up to meet the carriage.
“Abner,” said Mr. Taylor, “you may take out the horse, and put him in the barn.”
“Shall I go with him?” asked Julius.
“Not now. I will take you into the house, and introduce you to Mrs. Taylor, who will show you where you are to sleep.”
He entered the house, followed by Julius.
“Come in here,” said Mr. Taylor, throwing open the door of a comfortable sitting-room. It was furnished in ordinary, yet tasteful, style; and to Julius, bred in the street and never having known anything better than a bare and cheerless apartment in a shabby tenement house, it seemed like a palace. In front of a fire sat a pleasant and comely woman of thirty-five, sewing. She looked up as Mr. Taylor entered, and her eyes rested with interest on the boy who followed him.{86}
“Emma,” said her husband, “this is the boy I spoke to you about.”
“I am glad to see you,” said Mrs. Taylor, with a cordial smile, extending her hand, which Julius took bashfully. He was not diffident in the presence of men, but he was not accustomed to ladies, and felt awkward in their presence. “You have come a long journey,” said Mrs. Taylor.
“Yes, sir—I mean ma’am,” stammered Julius.
“You come from New York?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hope you will like Brookville. It isn’t much like the great city you have left.”
“I like it a great deal better.”
“What is your name?”
“Julius.”
“You are the first Julius that I ever met. And your other name?”
“I haven’t got none.”
The lady looked surprised.
“What was your father’s name. Surely he had one.”
“Maybe he did, but I never had the pleasure of his acquaintance.”
“This is really singular, Ephraim,” said his wife. “How can he get along with but one name?”
“How would you like to take the name of Taylor?” he asked.
“Tiptop,” said Julius.
“Then you can call yourself Julius Taylor. I suppose that will be all the formality required. Emma, where are you going to put him?”
“I will show him his room,” said Mrs. Taylor. “Is his trunk outside?”
“I haven’t got no trunk,” said Julius.
“Then where do you keep your clothes?” asked Mrs. Taylor, in some surprise.
“I suspect,” said her husband, “Julius carries his clothes on his back.”
“I’ve got some in this bundle,” said our hero, displaying a paper parcel.
“You will have to buy him some, Ephraim,” said his wife. “He will need a supply of underclothes.”
“I leave that matter in your hands, my dear. You will know more about his needs than I.”
Julius followed Mrs. Taylor upstairs to a small back chamber on the second floor, which was neatly furnished, with a bedstead, table, bureau, washstand, two chairs, and adorned, moreover, by three prints cheaply framed, and hung upon the walls.
“This will be your room Julius,” said Mrs. Taylor.
To the boy, with the recollections of his street life fresh{88} in his memory, it seemed hardly credible that this sumptuous chamber, as it seemed to him, could really be his.
“Do you like it?” asked Mrs. Taylor, noticing that he remained silent.
“Don’t I?” he answered, drawing a long breath. “Is this goin’ to be my room?”
“Yes, you are to sleep here regularly. That bureau is for your clothes. You can put your bundle inside now, and in a few days you shall have some more to put in.”
“It’s stavin’,” ejaculated Julius, rapturously.
“I am not familiar with that word,” Mrs. Taylor said, “but I suppose it means that the room suits you. You will find some water in the pitcher, if you want to wash. When you have got through, you may come downstairs. We shall have dinner directly.”
Left to himself, Julius sat down on the bed, and tried to realize the situation.
“What would Jack say if he should see me now?” he said to himself. “I didn’t expect I was goin’ to set up as a gentleman so quick. Ain’t this a jolly bed? I’ll sleep like a top on it. It’s a blamed sight better than lyin’ on the floor in Jack’s room, or sleepin’ in old wagons, or on the piers. I feel as if one of them magician chaps had shaken his stick at me and changed me from a bootblack into a prince, like he did in that play at the Old Bowery. So I’m Julius Taylor now.”{89}
Julius arose from the bed, and proceeded to wash his face and hands, though, under ordinary circumstances, he would scarcely have thought it necessary. But he reflected that he had ascended in the social scale, and it was only proper to adapt himself to his new position. When he had completed his ablutions, to use an expression which he would not yet have understood, he heard a bell ring below.
“That’s for grub!” he said to himself. “I guess I can do my share.”{90}