An hour passed, and Clarence Brown did not reappear. He had intended to do so, but reflecting that there was no more to be got out of Sam changed his mind.
Sam lay down on the bench for some time, then raised himself to a sitting posture. He did not feel so sick as at first, but his head ached unpleasantly.
"I won't smoke any more," he said to himself. "I didn't think it would make me feel so bad."
I am sorry to say that Sam did not keep the resolution he then made; but at the time when he is first introduced to the reader, in the first chapter, had become a confirmed smoker.
"Why don't Mr. Brown come back?" he thought, after the lapse of an hour.
He waited half an hour longer, when he was brought to the conviction that Brown had played him false, and was not coming back at all. With this conviction his original suspicion revived, and he made up his mind that Brown had robbed him after all.
"I'd like to punch his head," thought Sam, angrily.
It did not occur to him that the deacon, from whom the money was originally taken, had the same right to punch his head. As I have said, Sam's conscience was not sensitive, and self-interest blinded him to the character of his own conduct.
His experience in smoking had given him a distaste for the Park, for this afternoon at least, and he made his way to the horse-cars determined to return. It did make him feel a little forlorn to reflect that he had no place to return to; no home but the streets. He had not yet contracted that vagabond feeling which makes even them seem homelike to the hundreds of homeless children who wander about in them by day and by night.
He was in due time landed at the Astor House. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he had had nothing to eat since breakfast. But for the cigar, he would have had a hearty appetite. As it was, he felt faint, and thought he should relish some tea and toast. He made his way, therefore, to a restaurant in Fulton street, between Broadway and Nassau streets. It was a very respectable place, but at that time in the afternoon there were few at the tables. Sam had forty cents left. He found that this would allow him to buy a cup of tea, a plate of beefsteak, a plate of toast, and a piece of pie. He disposed of them, and going up to the desk paid his bill. Again he found himself penniless.
"I wonder where I am going to sleep," he thought. "I guess I'll ask some boot-blacks where they live. They can't afford to pay much."
The tea made his head feel better; and, though he was penniless, he began to feel more cheerful than an hour before.
He wandered about till he got tired, leaning against a building sometimes. He began to feel lonely. He knew nobody in the great city except Clarence Brown, whom he did not care to meet again, and the boot-black whose acquaintance he had made the day before.
"I wish I had some other boy with me," thought Sam; "somebody I knew. It's awful lonesome."
Sam was social by temperament, and looked about him to see if he could not make some one's acquaintance. Sitting on the same bench with him—for he was in City Hall Park—was a boy of about his own age apparently. To him Sam determined to make friendly overtures.
"What is your name, boy?" asked Sam.
The other boy looked round at him. He was very much freckled, and had a sharp look which made him appear preternaturally old.
"What do you want to know for?" he asked.
"I don't know anybody here. I'd like to get acquainted."
The street boy regarded him attentively to see if he were in earnest, and answered, after a pause, "My name is Tim Brady. What's yours?"
"Sam Barker."
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere," said Sam. "I haven't got any home, nor any money."
"That's nothing!" said Tim. "No more have I."
"Haven't you?" said Sam, surprised. "Then where are you going to sleep to-night?"
"I know an old wagon, up an alley, where I can sleep like a top."
"Aint you afraid of taking cold, sleeping out of doors?" asked Sam, who, poor as he had always been, had never been without a roof to cover him.
"Take cold!" repeated the boy, scornfully. "I aint a baby. I don't take cold in the summer."
"I shouldn't think you could sleep in a wagon."
"Oh, I can sleep anywhere," said Tim. "It makes no difference to me where I curl up."
"Is there room enough in the wagon for me?" asked Sam.
"Yes, unless some other chap gets ahead of us."
"May I go with you?"
"In course you can."
"Suppose we find somebody else ahead of us."
"Then we'll go somewhere else. There's plenty of places. I say, Johnny, haven't you got no stamps at all?"
"Stamps!"
"Yes, money. Don't you know what stamps is?"
"No. I spent my last cent for supper."
"If you'd got thirty cents we'd go to the theatre."
"What theatre?"
"The Old Bowery."
"Is it good?"
"You bet!"
"Then I wish I had money enough to go. I never went to the theatre in my life."
"You didn't! Where was you raised?" said Tim, contemptuously.
"In the country."
"I thought so."
"They don't have theatres in the country."
"Then I wouldn't live there. It must be awful dull there."
"So it is," said Sam. "That's why I ran away."
"Did you run away?" asked Tim, interested. "Was it from the old man?"
"It was from the man I worked for. He wanted me to work all the time, and I got tired of it."
"What sort of work was it?" asked Tim.
"It was on a farm. I had to hoe potatoes, split wood, and such things."
"I wouldn't like it. It's a good deal more jolly bein' in the city."
"If you've only got money enough to get along," added Sam.
"Oh, you can earn money."
"How?" asked Sam, eagerly.
"Different ways."
"How do you make a livin'?"
"Sometimes I black boots, sometimes I sell papers, then again, I smash baggage."
"What's that?" asked Sam, bewildered.
"Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Tim. "You're from the country. I loaf round the depots and steamboat landin's, and carry carpet-bags and such things for pay."
"Is that smashing baggage?"
"To be sure."
"I could do that," said Sam, thoughtfully. "Can you make much that way?"
"'Pends on how many jobs you get, and whether the cove's liberal. Wimmen's the wust. They'll beat a chap down to nothin', if they can."
"How much do you get anyway for carrying a bundle?"
"I axes fifty cents, and generally gets a quarter. The wimmen don't want to pay more'n ten cents."
"I guess I'll try it to-morrow, if you'll tell me where to go."
"You can go along of me. I'm goin smashin' myself to-morrer."
"Thank you," said Sam. "I'm glad I met you. You see I don't know much about the city."
"Didn't you bring no money with you?"
"Yes, but it was stolen."
"Was your pockets picked?"
"I'll tell you about it. I was robbed in my sleep."
So Sam told the story of his adventures with Clarence Brown. Tim listened attentively.
"He was smart, he was," said Tim, approvingly.
"He's a rascal," said Sam, hotly, who did not relish hearing his spoiler praised.
"Course he is, but he's smart too. You might a knowed he'd do it."
"How should I know? I thought he was a kind man, that wanted to do me a favor."
Tim burst out laughing.
"Aint you green, though?" he remarked. "Oh my eye, but you're jolly green."
"Am I?" said Sam, rather offended. "Is everybody a thief in New York?"
"Most everybody, if they gets a chance," said Tim, coolly. "Didn't you ever steal yourself?"
Sam colored. He had temporarily forgotten the little adventure that preceded his departure from his country home. After all, why should he be so angry with Clarence Brown for doing the very same thing he had done himself? Why, indeed? But Sam had an answer ready. The deacon did not need the money, while he could not get along very well without it. So it was meaner in Clarence Brown to take all he had, than in him to take what the deacon could so well spare.
I hope my readers understand that this was very flimsy and unsatisfactory reasoning. Stealing is stealing, under whatever circumstances. At any rate Sam found it inconvenient to answer Tim's pointed question.
They talked awhile longer, and then his companion rose from the bench.
"Come along, Johnny," he said. "Let's go to roost."
"All right," said Sam, and the two left the Park.
Tim conducted our hero to an alley-way, not far from the North river, in which an old wagon had come to temporary anchor.
"This is my hotel," he said. "I like it cause it's cheap. They don't trouble you with no bills here. Tumble in."
Tim, without further ceremony, laid himself down on the floor of the wagon, and Sam followed his example. There is everything in getting used to things, and that is where Tim had the advantage. He did not mind the hardness of his couch, while Sam, who had always been accustomed to a regular bed, did. He moved from one side to another, and then lay on his back, seeking sleep in vain.
"What's up?" muttered Tim, sleepily. "Why don't you shut your peepers?"
"The boards are awful hard," Sam complained.
"It aint nothin' when you're used to it," said Tim. "You go to sleep, and you won't mind it."
"I wish I could," said Sam, turning again.
Finally he succeeded in getting to sleep, but not till some time after his companion. He slept pretty well, however, and did not awaken till, at six o'clock, he was shaken by his companion.
"What's the matter? Where am I?" asked Sam, feeling bewildered at first.
"Why, here you are, in course," said the matter-of-fact Tim. "Did you think you was in the station-house?"
"No, I hope not," answered Sam. "What time is it?"
"I don't know. A chap stole my watch in the night. I guess it's after six. Have you got any stamps?"
"No."
"Nor I. We've got to stir round, and earn some breakfast."
"How'll we do it?"
"We'll go down to the pier, and wait for the Boston boat. Maybe we'll get a chance to smash some baggage."
"I hope so," said Sam, "for I'm hungry."
"I'm troubled that way myself," said Tim. "Come along."
When they reached the pier, they found a number of boys, men, and hack-drivers already in waiting. They had to wait about half an hour, when they saw the great steamer slowly approaching the wharf.
Instantly Tim was on the alert.
"When they begin to come ashore, you must go in and try your luck. Just do as I do."
This Sam resolved to do.
A tall man emerged from the steamer, bearing a heavy carpet-bag.
"Smash yer baggage?" said Tim.
"No, I think not. I can carry it myself."
"I haven't had any breakfast," said Tim, screwing up his freckled features into an expression of patient suffering.
"Nor I either," said the stranger, smiling.
"You've got money to buy some, and I haven't," said Tim, keeping at his side.
"Well, you may carry it," said the gentleman, good-naturedly.
Tim turned half round, and winked at Sam, as much as to say, "Did you see how I did it?"
Sam was quick enough to take the hint.
"Smash your carpet-bag?" he asked of a middle-aged lady, imitating as closely as possible Tim's professional accent.
"What?" asked the lady, startled.
"She don't understand," thought Sam. "Let me carry it for you, ma'am."
"I do not need it. I am going to take a cab."
"Let me take it to the cab," persisted Sam; but he was forestalled by a hack-driver who had heard the lady's remark.
"Let me take it, ma'am," he said, thrusting Sam aside. "I've got a nice carriage just outside. Take you anywhere you want to go."
So the lady was carried away, and Sam had to make a second application. This time he addressed himself to a gentleman whose little daughter walked by his side.
"No," said the gentleman; "the carpet-bag is small. I don't need help."
The smallness of the bag, by the way, was one reason why Sam, who did not like heavy bundles, wanted to carry it. He felt that it was time to practise on the stranger's feelings.
"I want to earn some money to buy bread for my mother," he whined, in a very creditable manner, considering how inexperienced he was.
This attracted the attention of the little girl, who, like most little girls, had a tender and compassionate heart.
"Is your mother poor?" she asked.
"Very poor," said Sam. "She hasn't got a cent to buy bread for the children."
"Have you got many brothers and sisters?" asked the little girl, her voice full of sympathy.
"Five," answered Sam, piteously.
"O papa," said the little girl, "let him take your carpet-bag. Think of it, his mother hasn't got anything to eat."
"Well, Clara," said her father, indulgently, "I suppose I must gratify you. Here, boy, take the bag, and carry it carefully."
"All right, sir," said Sam, cheerfully.
"I guess I can get along," he thought, complacently. "That's a good dodge."
"When we get to Broadway, we'll take the stage," said the gentleman. "Take hold of my hand, tight, Clara, while we cross the street."
Clara seemed disposed to be sociable, and entered into conversation with the young baggage-smasher.
"Are your brothers and sisters younger than you?" she inquired.
"Yes," said Sam.
"How many of them are boys?"
"There's two boys besides me, and three girls," said Sam, readily.
"What are their names?" asked Clara.
"Why," answered Sam, hesitating a little, "there's Tom and Jim and John, and Sam and Maggie."
"I don't see how that can be," said Clara, puzzled. "Just now; you said there were three girls and only two boys."
"Did I?" said Sam, rather abashed. "I didn't think what I was saying."
"Isn't your father alive?" asked the little girl.
"No; he's dead."
"And do you have to support the family?"
"Yes; except what mother does."
"What does she do?"
"Oh, she goes out washing."
"Poor boy, I suppose you have a hard time."
"Yes," said Sam; "some days we don't get anything to eat."
"O papa, isn't it dreadful?" said Clara, her warm little heart throbbing with sympathy.
Her father was less credulous, and he was struck by Sam's hearty appearance. Certainly he looked very unlike a boy who did not have enough to eat.
"You don't look as if you suffered much from hunger, my boy," said he, with a penetrating look.
"I had a good dinner yesterday," said Sam. "A gentleman gave me some money for showing him the way to the 'Tribune' office."
"One dinner seems to have done you a great deal of good," said the man.
"It always does me good," said Sam, and here he had no occasion to tell a falsehood.
"I hope you carried some of the money home to your mother, and brothers and sisters."
"Yes, I did; I bought some meat, and mother cooked it. We don't often have meat."
"Perhaps I am doing the boy injustice," thought Mr. Glenham, for this was his name.
As for Clara, her childish sympathies were fully aroused.
"Papa," she said, "may I give this poor boy the half dollar Aunt Lucy gave me?"
"I thought you had arranged some way of spending it, Clara."
"So I had, papa; but I'd rather give it to this poor boy,"
"You may do as you like, my darling," said her father, tenderly.
"Here, poor boy, take this home to your mother," said Clara.
My readers have probably inferred already that Sam was not a boy of very high principles, but I must do him the justice to say that he felt ashamed to take the money tendered him by the little girl upon whom he had imposed by his false story.
"I don't like to take your money," he said, hanging back.
"But I want you to," said Clara, eagerly. "I'd a great deal rather your mother would have it."
"You may take it," said Mr. Glenham, who was disposed to regard Sam with greater favor, on account of the reluctance he exhibited to profit by Clara's compassion.
"Thank you," said Sam, no longer withholding his hand. "You are very kind."
By this time they had reached Broadway, and Sam delivered up the bag.
Mr. Glenham handed him a quarter.
"That is for your trouble," he said.
"Thank you, sir," said Sam.
A Broadway stage came up, and they both were lost to view.
Sam was in good spirits over his good fortune.
"Seventy-five cents!" he said to himself. "That's what I call luck. I don't believe Tim's done so well. It aint so hard to make your living in New York, after all. I guess I'll go and get some breakfast."
On the strength of his good luck, Sam provided himself with a good breakfast, which cost him forty cents. He felt pretty sure of earning something more during the day to add to the remaining thirty-five. But Fortune is capricious, and our hero found all his offers of service firmly refused. He tried again to excite compassion by his fictitious story of a starving family at home; but his appeals were made to the flinty-hearted or the incredulous. So, about two o'clock, he went to dinner, and spent the remainder of his money.
Again he spent the night with Tim in the wagon, and again in the morning he set out to earn his breakfast. But luck was against him. People insisted on carrying their own carpet-bags, to the great detriment of the baggage-smashing business. Tim was no luckier than Sam. About ten o'clock they were walking despondently through a side street, discussing ways and means.
"I'm awful hungry, Tim," said Sam, mournfully.
"So am I, you bet!"
"I wouldn't mind if I had a couple of apples," said Sam, fixing his eyes upon an old woman's apple-stand. "Wouldn't she trust?"
"Not much," said Tim. "You try her, if you want to."
"I will," said Sam, desperately.
The two boys approached the apple-stand.
"I say," said Sam to the wrinkled old woman who presided over it, "how do you sell your apples?"
"A penny a piece," she answered, in a cracked voice. "Is that cheap enough for ye?"
"I'll take five," said Sam.
The old woman began eagerly to pick out the required number, but stopped short when he finished the sentence,—"if you'll trust me till afternoon."
"Is it trust ye?" she ejaculated suspiciously. "No farther than I can see yer. I'm up to your tricks, you young spalpeen, thryin' to chate a poor widder out of her money."
"I'll pay you sure," said Sam, "but I haven't earned anything yet to-day."
"Then it's I that can't be supportin' a big, strong boy like you. Go away and come back, whin you've got money."
Here Tim broke in.
"My friend always pays his bills," he said. "You needn't be afraid to trust him."
"And who are you?" asked the old woman. "I don't know you, and I can't take your word. You're tryin' the two of you to swindle a poor widder."
"My father's an alderman," said Tim, giving the wink to Sam.
"Is he now? Thin, let him lind your friend money, and don't ask a poor woman to trust."
"Well, I would, but he's gone to Washington on business."
"Thin, go after him, and lave me alone. I don't want no spalpeens like you round my apple-stand."
"Look here, old woman, I'll have you arrested for callin' me names. Come away, Sam; her apples are rotten anyhow."
The old woman began to berate them soundly, indignant at this attack upon her wares; and in the midst of it the two boys walked off.
"We didn't make much," said Sam. "I'm awful hungry."
"Take that, then," said Tim, pulling an apple out of his pocket,
Sam opened his eyes.
"How did you get it?" he asked in astonishment.
Tim put his tongue in his cheek.
"I took it when you were talkin' to the ould woman," he answered; "and here's another."
So saying he produced a companion apple, and made a vigorous onslaught upon it, Sam following suit.
"I don't see how you could do it," said Sam, admiringly, "and she looking on all the time."
"It's easy enough when you know how," said Tim, complacently.
"She'd catch me, sure."
"Likely she would; you aint used to it."
Sam ought to have felt uneasy at appropriating the result of a theft; but his conscience was an easy one, and he felt hungry. So he made short work of the apple, and wished for more.
"I wish you'd taken two apiece," he said.
"I couldn't," said Tim. "She'd have seen 'em stickin' out of my pocket, and called a copp."
"One's better than none; I feel a little better," said Sam, philosophically. "I 'spose it's stealing, though."
"Oh, what's the odds? She'll never miss 'em. Come along."
In the course of the forenoon Sam managed to earn ten cents, and was forced to content himself with a very economical dinner. There was a place on Ann street, where, for this small sum, a plate of meat and a potato were furnished, but enough only to whet the appetite of a hearty boy like Sam. A suspicion did enter his mind as he rose from the table penniless once more, and his appetite still unsatisfied, that he had bought his liberty dearly, if his affairs did not improve. In the country he had enough to eat, a good bed to sleep in, and no care or anxiety, while he was not overworked. Here there was constant anxiety, and he never knew, when he rose in the morning, where his dinner was to come from, or whether he would be able to buy one. Still there was a fascination in the free, lawless life, and if he could only be sure of making even fifty cents a day he would probably have preferred it.
It is not necessary to describe Sam's life in detail for the next month. He and Tim were constant companions; and under Tim's instruction he was rapidly acquiring the peculiar education of a street vagabond. Of his employments in that brief period it would be difficult to give a complete list. At one time he blacked boots for another boy, to whom he paid half his receipts, in return for the use of the box and blacking. But Sam was detected by his employer in rendering a false account, and was thrown upon his own resources again. It would have been much more to his interest to have a blacking-brush and box of his own; but whenever Sam had capital enough he preferred to spend it for a good dinner, so there did not seem much chance of his getting ahead. He had, before this time, been introduced to the Newsboys' Lodging House, where he was interrogated about his past life by the superintendent. Sam was obliged to have recourse to his imagination in reply, feeling that if he spoke the truth he would be liable to be returned to his country home.
"Are your parents living?" inquired Mr. O'Connor.
"No," said Sam, telling the truth this time.
"When did they die?"
"Two years ago."
"Did they die in New York?"
"Yes, sir. They died of small-pox," volunteered Sam.
"And have you been supporting yourself since then?"
"Yes, sir."
"How does it happen that you have not been round here before?"
"I was living with my uncle," answered Sam, hesitating.
"Why have you left him?"
"He didn't treat me well."
"Perhaps you didn't behave well."
"Oh, yes, I did."
"What is your uncle's name?"
"James Cooper."
"Where does he live,—in what street?"
"He's moved away from the city now," said Sam, feeling that he must put a stop to these inconvenient inquiries.
So Sam was admitted to the privileges of the lodging-house. Now, he found it much easier to get along. For eighteen cents a day he was provided with lodging, breakfast and supper, and it was not often that he could not obtain as much as that. When he could earn enough more to buy a "square meal" in the middle of the day, and a fifteen-cent ticket to the pit of the Old Bowery theatre in the evening, he felt happy. He was fairly adrift in the streets of the great city, and his future prospects did not look very brilliant. It is hardly necessary to say that in a moral point of view he had deteriorated rather than improved. In fact, he was fast developing into a social outlaw, with no particular scruples against lying or stealing. One thing may be said in his favor, he never made use of his strength to oppress a younger boy. On the whole, he was good-natured, and not at all brutal. He had on one occasion interfered successfully to protect a young boy from one of greater strength who was beating him. I like to mention this, because I do not like to have it supposed that Sam was wholly bad.
We will now advance the story some months, and see what they have done for Sam.
To begin with, they have not improved his wardrobe. When he first came to the city he was neatly though coarsely dressed; now his clothes hang in rags about him, and, moreover, they are begrimed with mud and grease. His straw hat and he have some time since parted company, and he now wears a greasy article which he picked up at a second-hand store in Baxter street for twenty-five cents. If Sam were troubled with vanity, he might feel disturbed by his disreputable condition; but as he sees plenty of other boys of his own class no better dressed, he thinks very little about it. Such as they are, his clothes are getting too small for him, for Sam has grown a couple of inches since he came to the city.
Such was our hero's appearance when one day he leaned against a building on Broadway, and looked lazily at the vehicles passing, wishing vaguely that he had enough money to buy a square meal. A Broadway stage was passing at the time. A small man, whose wrinkled face indicated that he was over sixty, attempted to descend from the stage while in motion. In some way he lost his footing, and, falling, managed to sprain his ankle, his hat falling off and rolling along on the pavement.
Sam, who was always on the lookout for chances, here saw an opening. He dashed forward, lifted the old gentleman to his feet, and ran after his hat, and restored it.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"I think I have sprained my ankle. Help me upstairs to my office," said the old man.
He pointed to a staircase leading up from the sidewalk.
"All right," said Sam. "Lean on me."
Sam helped the old man up two flights of stairs.
"Shall we go any farther?" he asked.
"No; that's my office," said his companion, pointing to a door, over which was the number 10. From his pocket he drew a key, and opened the door. Sam entered with him. The room was small. One corner was partitioned off for an inner office. Inside was a chair, something like a barber's chair, and a table covered with instruments. Sam's curiosity was aroused. He wondered what sort of business was carried on here. He also wondered whether he would get anything for his trouble.
"If you don't want me any longer I'll go," he said, by way of a delicate hint.
"Stop a minute," said the old man, who had limped to a sofa in the outer office, and sat down.
"I guess I'll get something," thought Sam, cheerfully complying with the request.
"What do you do for a living?" asked the old man.
"Sometimes I black boots, sometimes I sell papers,—anything that'll pay."
"What are you doing now?"
"Nothing. Business aint good."
"Would you like something to do?"
Sam gave a glance into the office, and answered dubiously, "Yes." He was not at all clear about the nature of the employment likely to be offered.
"Then I may be able to give you a job. Do you know my business?"
"No, sir."
"I'm a corn-doctor—you've heard of Dr. Felix Graham, the celebrated corn-doctor, haven't you?" said the old man, complacently.
"Yes," said Sam, thinking that this was the answer expected.
"I am Dr. Graham," said the old man, proudly.
"Are you?" said Sam in some curiosity.
"Yes. Now I'll tell you what I want you to do. Go and bring me that pile of circulars."
He pointed to a pile of papers on the floor in the corner.
Sam brought them as directed.
"Can you read?" asked the doctor.
"Yes, sir, a little."
"Read that circular."
Sam read as follows:
"DR. FELIX GRAHAM, CHIROPODIST. Corns and bunions cured without pain. Satisfaction guaranteed. BROADWAY, ROOM 10."
Sam bungled over the word chiropodist, but was put right by the doctor.
"I want a boy to stand at the door, and distribute these circulars," said Dr. Graham. "Can you do it?"
"Of course I can," said Sam. "What pay will I get?"
"Ten cents a hundred;" said the doctor, "but you mustn't do as my last boy did."
"How did he do?" asked Sam.
"He was so anxious to get rid of them that he gave half a dozen away at a time. I caught him in it. He wanted to earn money too fast."
"He was smart," said Sam, with a grin.
"I don't like that kind of smartness," said the doctor, sharply. "I want you to serve me faithfully."
"So I will," said Sam.
"You needn't give to everybody. There isn't much use in giving to children."
"Yes, sir."
"But if you see any one walking as if he had corns, be sure to hand him one."
"Yes, sir."
"Now count off a hundred of the circulars, and go downstairs."
"All right, sir."
This was the first regular employment Sam had obtained, and he felt rather important. He resolved to acquit himself to the satisfaction of the doctor. In his zeal he even determined to improve upon his instructions.
He had no sooner taken his stand than he saw a gentleman and lady approaching. They were young, and, being engaged, were indulging in conversation more interesting to themselves than any one else. The gentleman had on a pair of tight boots, and from his style of walking Sam concluded that he was a suitable customer.
"Here, sir," said he, pressing a circular into the young man's gloved hand.
"What's that?" asked the young man. Then, glancing at it, he showed it with a laugh to the young lady.
"Look here, boy," he said turning to Sam, "what made you give me this?"
"You walked as if you'd got corns," said Sam, honestly. "Walk right up, and Dr. Graham will cure 'em in a jiffy."
"Perhaps you'll tell me what is to become of this young lady while I go up, Johnny?"
"Maybe she's got corns too," said Sam. "She can go up too."
Both the lady and gentleman laughed convulsively, considerably to Sam's surprise, for he was not aware that he had said anything unusual or funny.
"Shall we go up, Eliza?" asked the young man.
The only answer was a laugh, and they passed on.
The next one who attracted Sam's attention was an elderly maiden lady.
"Have you got corns, ma'am?" asked Sam, eagerly.
Now it so happened that the lady was a little deaf, and did not understand Sam's question. Unfortunately for herself, she stopped short, and inquired, "What did you say?"
"I guess she's hard of hearing," Sam concluded, and raising his voice loud enough to be heard across the street, he repeated his question: "HAVE YOU GOT CORNS, MA'AM?"
At the same time he thrust a circular into the hand of the astonished and mortified lady.
Two school-girls, just behind, heard the question, and laughed heartily. The offended lady dropped the paper as if it were contamination, and sailed by, her sallow face red with anger.
"That's funny," thought Sam. "I don't know what's got into all the people. Seems to me they're ashamed of havin' corns."
The next half-dozen took circulars, mechanically glanced at them, and dropped them indifferently.
"Guess they aint got corns," thought the observing Sam.
By and by a countryman came along, and into his hand Sam put the circular.
"What's this?" he asked.
"It's corns. Just go upstairs, and the doctor'll cure 'em less'n no time."
"Wal, I have got two," said the countryman. "They hurt like time too. What does this doctor charge?"
Sam did not know, but he was not the boy to allow his ignorance to appear.
"Ten cents apiece," he answered.
"That's cheap enough, anyway," said he. "I've got a good mind to go up. Where is it?"
"Come along. I'll show you," said Sam, promptly.
"I guess I may as well. Are you sure he can cure 'em?"
"I ought to know," said Sam. "I had one about as big as a marble on my big toe. The doctor, he cured it in a minute."
"You don't say! He must be pooty good."
"You bet! He's the great Dr. Graham. Everybody's heard of him."
By such convincing assurances the man's faith was increased. He followed Sam into the doctor's office.
"Here," said Sam, "I've brought you a customer, Dr. Graham. I told him you could cure his corns in a jiffy."
The doctor smiled approvingly.
"You are right there. My friend, sit down in this chair."
"You won't hurt, will you, doctor?" asked the customer, glancing with a little alarm at the table with its instruments.
"Oh, no, you'll scarcely feel it."
Sam returned to his post, and began to distribute handbills once more.
About quarter of an hour later he was assailed by an angry voice. Looking up, he saw the customer he had sent upstairs.
"Look here, boy," he said, angrily; "you told me a lie."
"How did I?" asked Sam.
"You told me the doctor only charged ten cents for each corn. Jerusalem! he made me fork out a dollar."
Sam was rather surprised himself at the price.
"I guess they was tough ones, mister," he said. "He cured 'em, didn't he?"
"Ye—es."
"Then it's worth the money. You don't want 'em back, do you?"
"No," admitted the other; "but it's a thunderin' sight to pay;" and he went off grumbling.
"Don't the doctor make money, though?" thought Sam. "He'd orter give me a commission on them two dollars."