[A] The description of the room under the wharf, and the circumstances of its occupation by a company of street boys, are not imaginary. It was finally discovered, and broken up by the police, the details being given, at the time, in the daily papers, as some of my New York readers will remember. Discovery did not take place, however, until it had been occupied some time.
"How do you like it?" asked Mike.
"Tip-top," said Ben. "How'd you get the carpet and beds? Did you buy 'em?"
"Yes," said Mike, with a wink; "but the man wasn't in, and we didn't pay for 'em."
"You stole them, then?"
"We took 'em," said Mike, who had an objection to the word stole.
"How did you get them down here without the copp seein' you?"
"We hid 'em away in the daytime, and didn't bring 'em here till night. We came near gettin' caught."
"How long have you been down here?"
"Most a month."
"It's a good place."
"Yes," said Mike, "and the rent is very reasonable. We don't have to pay nothin' for lodgin'. It's cheaper'n the Lodge."
"That's so," said Ben. "I'm sleepy," he said, gaping. "I've been to the Old Bowery to-night. Good-night!"
"Good-night!"
In five minutes Ben was fast asleep. Half an hour later, and not a sound was heard in the room under the wharf except the occasional deep breathing of some of the boys. The policeman who trod his beat near by little suspected that just at hand, and almost under his feet, was a rendezvous of street vagrants and juvenile thieves, for such I am sorry to say was the character of some of the boys who frequented these cheap lodgings.
In addition to the articles already described there were two or three chairs, which had been contributed by different members of the organization.
Ben slept soundly through the night. When he woke up, the gray morning light entering from the open front towards the sea had already lighted up indistinctly the space between the floors. Two or three of the boys were already sitting up, yawning and stretching themselves after their night's slumber. Among these was Mike Sweeny.
"Are you awake, Ben?" he asked.
"Yes," said Ben; "I didn't hardly know where I was at first."
"It's a bully place, isn't it?"
"That's so. How'd you come across it?"
"Oh, some of us boys found it out. We've been sleepin' here a month."
"Won't you let a feller in?"
"We might let you in. I'll speak to the boys."
"I'd like to sleep here," said Ben. "It's a good deal better than sleepin' out round. Who runs the hotel?"
"Well, I'm one of 'em."
"You might call it Sweeny's Hotel," suggested Ben, laughing.
"I aint the boss; Jim Bagley's got most to do with it."
"Which is he?"
"That's he, over on the next bed."
"What does he do?"
"He's a travellin' match merchant."
"That sounds big."
"Jim's smart,—he is. He makes more money'n any of us."
"Where does he travel?"
"Once he went to Californy in the steamer. He got a steerage ticket for seventy-five dollars; but he made more'n that blackin' boots for the other passengers afore they got there. He stayed there three months, and then came home."
"Does he travel now?"
"Yes, he buys a lot of matches, and goes up the river or down into Jersey, and is gone a week. A little while ago he went to Buffalo."
"Oh, yes; I know where that is."
"Blest if I do."
"It's in the western part of York State, just across from Canada."
"Who told you?"
"I learned it in school."
"I didn't know you was a scholar, Ben."
"I aint now. I've forgot most all I ever knew. I haven't been to school since I was ten years old."
"Where was that?"
"In the country."
"Well, I never went to school more'n a few weeks. I can read a little, but not much."
"It costs a good deal to go to Buffalo. How did Jim make it while he was gone?"
"Oh, he came home with ten dollars in his pocket besides payin' his expenses."
"What does Jim do with all his money?"
"He's got a mother and sister up in Bleecker Street, or somewheres round there. He pays his mother five dollars a week, besides takin' care of himself."
"Why don't he live with his mother?"
"He'd rather be round with the boys."
I may remark here that Jim Bagley is a real character, and all that has been said about him is derived from information given by himself, in a conversation held with him at the Newsboys' Lodging House. He figures here, however, under an assumed name, partly because the record in which his real name is preserved has been mislaid. The impression made upon the mind of the writer was, that Jim had unusual business ability and self-reliance, and might possibly develop into a successful and prosperous man of business.
Jim by this time was awake.
"Jim Bagley," said Mike, "here's a feller would like to put up at our hotel."
"Who is he?" asked Jim.
The travelling match merchant, as Mike had described him, was a boy of fifteen, rather small of his age, with a keen black eye, and a quick, decided, business-like way.
"It's this feller,—he's a baggage-smasher," explained Mike.
"All right," said Jim; "he can come if he'll pay his share."
"How much is it?" asked Ben.
Mike explained that it was expected of each guest to bring something that would add to the comforts of the rendezvous. Two boys had contributed the carpet, for which probably they had paid nothing; Jim had supplied a bed, for which he did pay, as "taking things without leave" was not in his line. Three boys had each contributed a chair. Thus all the articles which had been accumulated were individual contributions. Ben promised to pay his admission fee in the same way, but expressed a doubt whether he might not have to wait a few days, in order to save money enough to make a purchase. He never stole himself, though his association with street boys, whose principles are not always very strict on this point, had accustomed him to regard theft as a venial fault, provided it was not found out. For his own part, however, he did not care to run the risk of detection. Though he had cut himself off from his old home, he still felt that he should not like to have the report reach home that he had been convicted of dishonesty.
At an early hour the boys shook off their slumbers, and one by one left the wharf to enter upon their daily work. The newsboys were the first to go, as they must be on hand at the newspaper offices early to get their supply of papers, and fold them in readiness for early customers. The boot-blacks soon followed, as most of them were under the necessity of earning their breakfast before they ate it. Ben also got up early, and made his way to the pier of the Stonington line of steamers from Boston. These usually arrived at an early hour, and there was a good chance of a job in Ben's line when the passengers landed.
Ben had about half an hour to wait for the arrival of the steamer. Among the passengers who crossed the plank from the steamer to the pier was a gentleman of middle age, and a boy about a year younger than Ben. The boy had a carpet-bag in his hand; the father, for such appeared to be the relationship, carried a heavy valise, besides a small bundle.
"Want your baggage carried?" asked Ben, varying his usual address.
The gentleman hesitated a moment.
"You'd better let him take it, father," said the boy.
"Very well, you may take this;" and the valise was passed over to Ben.
"Give me the bag too," said Ben, addressing the boy.
"No, I'll take that. You'll have all you want to do, in carrying the valise."
They crossed the street, and here the gentleman stood still, evidently undecided about something.
"What are you thinking about, father?"
"I was thinking," the gentleman said, after a slight pause, "what I had better do."
"About what?"
"I have two or three errands in the lower part of the city, which, as my time is limited, I should like to attend to at once."
"You had better do it, then."
"What I was thinking was, that it would not be worth while for you to go round with me, carrying the baggage."
"Couldn't I go right up to Cousin Mary's?" asked his son.
"I am afraid you might lose the way."
"This boy will go with me. I suppose he knows the way all about the city. Don't you?" he asked, turning to Ben.
"Where do you want to go?" asked Ben.
"Yes, I can show you the way there well enough, but it's a good way off."
"You can both take the cars or stage when you get up to the Astor House."
"How will that do?" asked Charles, for this was his name.
"I think that will be the best plan. This boy can go with you, and you can settle with him for his services. Have you got money enough?"
"Yes, plenty."
"I will leave you here, then."
Left to themselves, it was natural that the two boys should grow social. So far as clothing went, there was certainly a wide difference between them. Ben was attired as described in the first chapter. Charles, on the other hand, wore a short sack of dark cloth, a white vest, and gray pants. A gold chain, depending from his watch-pocket, showed that he was the possessor of a watch. His whole appearance was marked by neatness and good taste. But, leaving out this difference, a keen observer might detect a considerable resemblance in the features of the two boys. Both had dark hair, black eyes, and the contour of the face was the same. I regret to add, however, that Ben's face was not so clean as it ought to have been. Among the articles contributed by the boys who lived in the room under the wharf, a washstand had not been considered necessary, and it had been long since Ben had regarded washing the face and hands as the first preparation for the labors of the day.
Charles Marston looked at his companion with some interest and curiosity. He had never lived in New York, and there was a freshness and novelty about life in the metropolis that was attractive to him.
"Is this your business?" he asked.
"What,—smashin' baggage?" inquired Ben.
"Is that what you call it?"
"Yes."
"Well, is that what you do for a living?"
"Yes," said Ben. "It's my profession, when I aint attendin' to my duties as a member of the Common Council."
"So you're a member of the city government?" asked Charles, amused.
"Do you have much to do that way?"
"I'm one of the Committee on Wharves," said Ben. "It's my business to see that they're right side up with care; likewise that nobody runs away with them in the night."
"How do you get paid?"
"Well, I earn my lodgin' that way just now," said Ben.
"Have you always been in this business?"
"No. Sometimes I've sold papers."
"How did you like that?"
"I like baggage-smashin' best, when I get enough to do. You don't live in the city, do you?"
"No, I live just out of Boston,—a few miles."
"Ever been in New York before?"
"Once. That was four years ago. I passed through on the way from Pennsylvania, where I used to live."
"Pennsylvania," repeated Ben, beginning to be interested. "Whereabouts did you live there,—in Philadelphy?"
"No, a little way from there, in a small town named Cedarville."
Ben started, and he nearly let fall the valise from his hand.
"What's the matter?" asked Charles.
"I came near fallin'," said Ben, a little confused. "What's your name?" he asked, rather abruptly.
"Charles Marston."
Ben scanned intently the face of his companion. He had good reason to do so, for though Charles little suspected that there was any relationship between himself and the ragged and dirty boy who carried his valise, the two were own cousins. They had been school-mates in Cedarville, and passed many a merry hour together in boyish sport. In fact Charles had been Ben's favorite playmate, as well as cousin, and many a time, when he lay awake in such chance lodgings as the street provided, he had thought of his cousin, and wished that he might meet him again. Now they had met most strangely; no longer on terms of equality, but one with all the outward appearance of a young gentleman, the other, a ragged and ignorant street boy. Ben's heart throbbed painfully when he saw that his cousin regarded him as a stranger, and for the first time in a long while he felt ashamed of his position. He would not for the world have revealed himself to Charles in his present situation; yet he felt a strong desire to learn whether he was still remembered. How to effect this without betraying his identity he hardly knew; at length he thought of a way that might lead to it.
"My name's shorter'n yours," he said.
"What is it?" asked Charles.
"It's Ben."
"That stands for Benjamin; so yours is the longest after all."
"That's so, I never thought of that. Everybody calls me Ben."
"What's your other name?"
Ben hesitated. If he said "Brandon" he would be discovered, and his pride stood in the way of that. Finally he determined to give a false name; so he answered after a slight pause, which Charles did not notice, "My other name is Hooper,—Ben Hooper. Didn't you ever know anybody of my name?"
"No, Ben."
"Yes. I had a cousin named Ben."
"Is he as old as you?" asked Ben, striving to speak carelessly.
"He is older if he is living; but I don't think he is living."
"Why, don't you know?"
"He ran away from home when he was ten years old, and we have never seen him since."
"Didn't he write where he had gone?"
"He wrote one letter to his mother, but he didn't say where he was. That is the last any of us heard from him."
"What sort of a chap was he?" inquired Ben. "He was a bad un, wasn't he?"
"No, Ben wasn't a bad boy. He had a quick temper though; but whenever he was angry he soon got over it."
"What made him run away from home?"
"His father punished him for something he didn't do. He found it out afterwards; but he is a stern man, and he never says anything about him. But I guess he feels bad sometimes. Father says he has grown old very fast since my cousin ran away."
"Is his mother living,—your aunt?" Ben inquired, drawn on by an impulse he could not resist.
"Yes, but she is always sad; she has never stopped mourning for Ben."
"Did you like your cousin?" Ben asked, looking wistfully in the face of his companion.
"Yes, he was my favorite cousin. Poor Ben and I were always together. I wish I knew whether he were alive or not."
"Perhaps you will see him again some time."
"I don't know. I used to think so; but I have about given up hopes of it. It is six years now since he ran away."
"Maybe he's turned bad," said Ben. "S'posin' he was a ragged baggage-smasher like me, you wouldn't care about seein' him, would you?"
"Yes, I would," said Charles, warmly. "I'd be glad to see Ben again, no matter how he looked, or how poor he might be."
Ben looked at his cousin with a glance of wistful affection. Street boy as he was, old memories had been awakened, and his heart had been touched by the sight of the cousin whom he had most loved when a young boy.
"And I might be like him," thought Ben, looking askance at the rags in which he was dressed, "instead of a walkin' rag-bag. I wish I was;" and he suppressed a sigh.
It has been said that street boys are not accessible to the softer emotions; but Ben did long to throw his arm round his cousin's neck in the old, affectionate way of six years since. It touched him to think that Charlie held him in affectionate remembrance. But his thoughts were diverted by noticing that they had reached the Astor House.
"I guess we'd better cross the street, and take the Fourth Avenue cars," he said. "There's one over there."
"All right!" said Charles. "I suppose you know best."
There was a car just starting; they succeeded in getting aboard, and were speedily on their up town.
"Does this car go up Madison Avenue?" asked Charles, after they had taken their seats.
"No," said Ben, "it goes up Fourth Avenue; but that's only one block away from Madison. We'll get out at Thirtieth Street."
"I'm glad you're with me; I might have a hard time finding the place if I were alone."
"Are you going to stay in the city long?" asked Ben.
"Yes, I am going to school here. Father is going to move here soon. Until he comes I shall stay with my Cousin Mary."
Ben felt quite sure that this must be his older sister, but did not like to ask.
"Is she married?"
"Yes, it is the sister of my Cousin Ben. About two years ago she married a New York gentleman. He is a broker, and has an office in Wall Street. I suppose he's rich."
"What's his name?" asked Ben. "Maybe I've seen his office."
"It is Abercrombie,—James Abercrombie. Did you ever hear that name?"
"No," answered Ben, "I can't say as I have. He aint the broker that does my business."
"Have you much business for a broker?" asked Charles, laughing.
"I do a smashin' business in Erie and New York Central," answered Ben.
"You are in the same business as the railroads," said Charles.
"How is that?"
"You are both baggage-smashers."
"That's so; only I don't charge so much for smashin' baggage as they do."
They were on Centre Street now, and a stone building with massive stone columns came in view on the west side of the street.
"What building is that?" asked Charles.
"That's a hotel, where they lodge people free gratis."
Charles looked at his companion for information.
"It's the Tombs," said Ben. "It aint so popular, though, as the hotels where they charge higher."
"No, I suppose not. It looks gloomy enough."
"It aint very cheerful," said Ben. "I never put up there, but that's what people say that have enjoyed that privilege."
"Where is the Bowery?"
"We'll soon be in it. We turn off Centre Street a little farther up."
Charles was interested in all that he saw. The broad avenue which is known as the Bowery, with its long line of shops on either side, and the liberal display of goods on the sidewalk, attracted his attention, and he had numerous questions to ask, most of which Ben was able to answer. He had not knocked about the streets of New York six years for nothing. His business had carried him to all parts of the city, and he had acquired a large amount of local information, a part of which he retailed now to his cousin as they rode side by side in the horse-cars.
At length they reached Thirtieth Street, and here they got out. At the distance of one block they found Madison Avenue. Examining the numbers, they readily found the house of which they were in search. It was a handsome four-story house, with a brown-stone front.
"This must be Mr. Abercrombie's house," said Charles. "I didn't think Cousin Mary lived in such a nice place."
Ben surveyed the house with mingled emotions. He could not help contrasting his own forlorn, neglected condition with the position of his sister. She lived in an elegant home, enjoying, no doubt, all the advantages which money could procure; while he, her only brother, walked about the streets in rags, sleeping in any out-of-the-way corner. But he could blame no one for it. It had been his own choice, and until this morning he had been well enough contented with it. But all at once a glimpse had been given him of what might have been his lot had he been less influenced by pride and waywardness, and by the light of this new prospect he saw how little hope there was of achieving any decent position in society if he remained in his present occupation. But what could he do? Should he declare himself at once to his cousin, and his sister? Pride would not permit him to do it. He was not willing to let them see him in his ragged and dirty state. He determined to work and save up money, until he could purchase a suit as handsome as that which his cousin wore. Then he would not be ashamed to present himself, so far as his outward appearance went. He knew very well that he was ignorant; but he must trust to the future to remedy that deficiency. It would be a work of time, as he well knew. Meanwhile he had his cousin's assurance that he would be glad to meet him again, and renew the old, affectionate intimacy which formerly existed between them.
While these thoughts were passing through Ben's mind, as I have said, they reached the house.
"Have you had any breakfast?" asked Charles as they ascended the steps.
"Not yet," answered Ben. "It isn't fashionable to take breakfast early."
"Then you must come in. My cousin will give you some breakfast."
Ben hesitated; but finally decided to accept the invitation. He had two reasons for this. Partly because it would give him an opportunity to see his sister; and, secondly, because it would save him the expense of buying his breakfast elsewhere, and that was a consideration, now that he had a special object for saving money.
"Is Mrs. Abercrombie at home?" asked Charles of the servant who answered his summons.
"Yes, sir; who shall I say is here?"
"Her cousin, Charles Montrose."
"Will you walk into the parlor?" said the servant, opening a door at the side of the hall. She looked doubtfully at Ben, who had also entered the house.
"Sit down here, Ben," said Charles, indicating a chair on one side of the hat-stand. "I'll stop here till Mrs. Abercrombie comes down," he said.
Soon a light step was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Abercrombie descended the staircase. She is the same that we last saw in the modest house in the Pennsylvania village; but the lapse of time has softened her manners, and the influence of a husband and a home have improved her. But otherwise she has not greatly changed in her looks.
Ben, who examined her face eagerly, recognized her at once. Yes, it was his sister Mary that stood before him. He would have known her anywhere. But there was a special mark by which he remembered her. There was a dent in her cheek just below the temple, the existence of which he could account for. In a fit of boyish passion, occasioned by her teasing him, he had flung a stick of wood at her head, and this had led to the mark.
"Where did you come from, Charles?" she said, giving her hand cordially to her young cousin.
"From Boston, Cousin Mary."
"Have you just arrived, and where is your father? You did not come on alone, did you?"
"No, father is with me, or rather he came on with me, but he had some errands down town, and stopped to attend to them. He will be here soon."
"How did you find the way alone?"
"I was not alone. There is my guide. By the way, I told him to stay, and you would give him some breakfast."
"Certainly, he can go down in the basement, and the servants will give him something."
Mrs. Abercrombie looked at Ben as she spoke; but on her part there was no sign of recognition. This was not strange. A boy changes greatly between ten and sixteen years of age, and when to this natural change is added the great change in Ben's dress, it will not be wondered at that his sister saw in him only an ordinary street boy.
Ben was relieved to find that he was not known. He had felt afraid that something in his looks might remind his sister of her lost brother; but the indifferent look which she turned upon him proved that he had no ground for this fear.
"You have not breakfasted, I suppose, Charles." said his cousin.
"You wouldn't think so, if you knew what an appetite I have," he answered, laughing.
"We will do our best to spoil it," said Mrs. Abercrombie.
She rang the bell, and ordered breakfast to be served.
"We are a little late this morning," she said.
"Mr. Abercrombie is in Philadelphia on business; so you won't see him till to-morrow."
When the servant appeared, Mrs. Abercrombie directed her to take Ben downstairs, and give him something to eat.
"Don't go away till I see you, Ben," said Charles, lingering a little.
"All right," said Ben.
He followed the servant down the stairs leading to the basement. On the way, he had a glimpse through the half-open door of the breakfast-table, at which his sister and his cousin were shortly to sit down.
"Some time, perhaps, I shall be invited in there," he said to himself.
But at present he had no such wish. He knew that in his ragged garb he would be out of place in the handsome breakfast-room, and he preferred to wait until his appearance was improved. He had no fault to find with the servants, who brought him a bountiful supply of beefsteak and bread and butter, and a cup of excellent coffee. Ben had been up long enough to have quite an appetite. Besides, the quality of the breakfast was considerably superior to those which he was accustomed to take in the cheap restaurants which he frequented, and he did full justice to the food that was spread before him.
When he had satisfied his appetite, he had a few minutes to wait before Charles came down to speak to him.
"Well, Ben, I hope you had a good breakfast," he said.
"Tip-top," answered Ben.
"And I hope also that you had an appetite equal to mine."
"My appetite don't often give out," said Ben; "but it aint so good now as it was when I came in."
"Now we have a little business to attend to. How much shall I pay you for smashing my baggage?" Charles asked, with a laugh.
"Whatever you like."
"Well, here's fifty cents for your services, and six cents for your car-fare back."
"Thank you," said Ben.
"Besides this, Mrs. Abercrombie has a note, which she wants carried down town to her husband's office in Wall Street. She will give you fifty cents more, if you will agree to deliver it there at once, as it is of importance."
"All right," said Ben. "I'll do it."
"Here is the note. I suppose you had better start with it at once. Good-morning."
"Good-morning," said Ben, as he held his cousin's proffered hand a moment in his own. "Maybe I'll see you again some time."
"I hope so," said Charles, kindly.
A minute later Ben was on his way to take a Fourth Avenue car down town.
"That will do very well for a beginning," thought Ben, as he surveyed, with satisfaction, the two half dollars which he had received for his morning's services. He determined to save one of them towards the fund which he hoped to accumulate for the object which he had in view. How much he would need he could not decide; but thought that it would be safe to set the amount at fifty dollars. This would doubtless require a considerable time to obtain. He could not expect to be so fortunate every day as he had been this morning. Some days, no doubt, he would barely earn enough to pay expenses. Still he had made a beginning, and this was something gained. It was still more encouraging that he had determined to save money, and had an inducement to do so.
As Ben rode down town in the horse-cars, he thought of the six years which he had spent as a New York street boy; and he could not help feeling that the time had been wasted, so far as any progress or improvement was concerned. Of books he knew less than when he first came to the city. He knew more of life, indeed, but not the best side of life. He had formed some bad habits, from which he would probably have been saved if he had remained at home. Ben realized all at once how much he had lost by his hasty action in leaving home. He regarded his street life with different eyes, and felt ready to give it up, as soon as he could present himself to his parents without too great a sacrifice of his pride.
At the end of half an hour, Ben found himself at the termination of the car route, opposite the lower end of the City Hall Park.
As the letter which he had to deliver was to be carried to Wall Street, he kept on down Broadway till he reached Trinity Church, and then turned into the street opposite. He quickly found the number indicated, and entered Mr. Abercrombie's office. It was a handsome office on the lower floor. Two or three clerks were at work at their desks.
"So this is my brother-in-law's office," thought Ben. "It's rather better than mine."
"Well, young man, what can I do for you to-day?" inquired a clerk, in a tone which indicated that he thought Ben had got into the wrong shop.
"You can tell me whether your name is Sampson," answered Ben, coolly.
"No, it isn't."
"That's what I thought."
"Suppose I am not; what then?"
"Then the letter I've got isn't for you, that's all."
"So you've got a letter, have you?"
"That's what I said."
"It seems to me you're mighty independent," sneered the clerk, who felt aggrieved that Ben did not show him the respect which he conceived to be his due.
"Thank you for the compliment," said Ben, bowing.
"I thought your name wasn't Sampson."
"I'll hand it to Mr. Sampson. He's gone out a moment. He'll be in directly."
"Much obliged," said Ben; "but I'd rather hand it to Mr. Sampson myself. Business aint particularly pressin' this mornin', so, if you'll hand me the mornin' paper, I'll read till he comes."
"Well, you've got cheek," ejaculated the clerk.
"I've got two of 'em if I counted right when I got up," said Ben.
Here there was a laugh from the other two clerks.
"He's too smart for you, Granby," said one.
"He's impudent enough," muttered the first, as he withdrew discomfited to his desk.
The enemy having retreated, Ben sat down in an arm-chair, and, picking up a paper, began to read.
He had not long to wait. Five minutes had scarcely passed when a man of middle age entered the office. His manner showed that he belonged there.
"If you're Mr. Sampson," said Ben, approaching him, "here is a letter for you."
"That is my name," said the gentleman, opening the note at once.
"You come from Mrs. Abercrombie," he said, glancing at Ben, as he finished reading it.
"Yes, sir," said Ben.
"How did she happen to select you as her messenger?"
"I went up there this morning to carry a valise."
"I have a great mind to send you back to her with an answer; but I hesitate on one account."
"What is that?" asked Ben.
"I don't know whether you can be trusted."
"Nor I," said Ben; "but I'm willin' to run the risk."
"No doubt," said Mr. Sampson, smiling; "but it seems to me that I should run a greater risk than you."
"I don't know about that," answered Ben. "If it's money, and I keep it, you can send the copps after me, and I'll be sent to the Island. That would be worse than losing money."
"That's true; but some of you boys don't mind that. However, I am inclined to trust you. Mrs. Abercrombie asks for a sum of money, and wishes me to send it up by one of the clerks. That I cannot very well do, as we are particularly busy this morning. I will put the money in an envelope, and give it to you to deliver. I will tell you beforehand that it is fifty dollars."
"Very good," said Ben; "I'll give it to her."
"Wait a moment."
Mr. Sampson went behind the desk, and reappeared almost directly.
"Mrs. Abercrombie will give you a line to me, stating that she has received the money. When you return with this, I will pay you for your trouble."
"All right," said Ben.
As he left the office the young clerk first mentioned said, "I am afraid, Mr. Sampson, Mrs. Abercrombie will never see that money."
"Why not?"
"The boy will keep it."
"What makes you think so?"
"He's one of the most impudent young rascals I ever saw."
"I didn't form that opinion. He was respectful enough to me."
"He wasn't to me."
Mr. Sampson smiled a little. He had observed young Granby's assumption of importance, and partly guessed how matters stood.
"It's too late to recall him," he said. "I must run the risk. My own opinion is that he will prove faithful."
Ben had accepted the commission gladly, not alone because he would get extra pay for the additional errand, but because he saw that there was some hesitation in the mind of Mr. Sampson about trusting him, and he meant to show himself worthy of confidence. There were fifty dollars in the envelope. He had never before been trusted with that amount of money, and now it was rather because no other messenger could be conveniently sent that he found himself so trusted. Not a thought of appropriating the money came to Ben. True, it occurred to him that this was precisely the sum which he needed to fit him out respectably. But there would be greater cause for shame if he appeared well dressed on stolen money, than if he should present himself in rags to his sister. However, it is only just to Ben to say that had the party to whom he was sent been different, he would have discharged his commission honorably. Not that he was a model boy, but his pride, which was in some respects a fault with him, here served him in good stead, as it made him ashamed to do a dishonest act.
Ben rightly judged that the money would be needed as soon as possible, and, as the distance was great, he resolved to ride, trusting to Mr. Sampson's liberality to pay him for the expense which he would thus incur in addition to the compensation allowed for his services.
He once more made his way to the station of the Fourth Avenue cars, and jumped aboard one just ready to start.
The car gradually filled, and they commenced their progress up town.
Ben took a seat in the corner next to the door. Next to him was a man with black hair and black whiskers. He wore a tall felt hat with a bell crown, and a long cloak. Ben took no particular notice of him, being too much in the habit of seeing strange faces to observe them minutely. The letter he put in the side pocket of his coat, on the side nearest the stranger. He took it out once to look at it. It was addressed to Mrs. Abercrombie, at her residence, and in one corner Mr. Sampson had written "Money enclosed."
Now it chanced, though Ben did not suspect it, that the man at his side was a member of the swell mob, and his main business was picking pockets. He observed the two words, already quoted, on the envelope when Ben took it in his hand, and he made up his mind to get possession of it. This was comparatively easy, for Ben's pocket was on the side towards him. Our hero was rather careless, it must be owned, but it happened that the inside pocket of his coat had been torn away, which left him no other receptacle for the letter. Besides, Ben had never been in a situation to have much fear of pick pockets, and under ordinary circumstances he would hardly have been selected as worth plundering. But the discovery that the letter contained money altered the case.
While Ben was looking out from the opposite window across the street, the stranger dexterously inserted his hand in his pocket, and withdrew the letter. They were at that moment just opposite the Tombs.
Having gained possession of the letter, of course it was his interest to get out of the car as soon as possible, since Ben was liable at any moment to discover his loss.
He touched the conductor, who was just returning from the other end of the car, after collecting the fares.
"I'll get out here," he said.
The conductor accordingly pulled the strap, and the car stopped.
The stranger gathered his cloak about him, and, stepping out on the platform, jumped from the car. Just at that moment Ben put his hand into his pocket, and instantly discovered the loss of the letter. He immediately connected it with the departure of his fellow-passenger, and, with a hasty ejaculation, sprang from the car, and started in pursuit of him.
It was an exciting moment for Ben. He felt that his character for honesty was at stake. In case the pickpocket succeeded in getting off with the letter and money, Mr. Sampson would no doubt come to the conclusion that he had appropriated the fifty dollars to his own use, while his story of the robbery would be regarded as an impudent fabrication. He might even be arrested, and sentenced to the Island for theft. If this should happen, though he were innocent, Ben felt that he should not be willing to make himself known to his sister or his parents. But there was a chance of getting back the money, and he resolved to do his best.
The pickpocket turned down a side street, his object being to get out of the range of observation as soon as possible. But one thing he did not anticipate, and this was Ben's immediate discovery of his loss. On this subject he was soon enlightened. He saw Ben jump from the horse-car, and his first impulse was to run. He made a quick movement in advance, and then paused. It occurred to him that he occupied a position of advantage with regard to his accuser, being respectably dressed, while Ben was merely a ragged street boy, whose word probably would not inspire much confidence. This vantage ground he would give up by having recourse to flight, as this would be a virtual acknowledgment of guilt. He resolved instantaneously to assume an attitude of conscious integrity, and frown down upon Ben from the heights of assumed respectability. There was one danger, however, that he was known to some of the police force in his true character. But he must take the risk of recognition.
On landing in the middle of the street, Ben lost no time; but, running up to the pickpocket, caught him by the arm.
"What do you want, boy?" he demanded, in a tone of indifference.
"I don't understand you," said the pickpocket loftily.
"Look here, mister," said Ben, impatiently; "you know well enough what I mean. You took a letter with money in it out of my pocket. Just hand it back, and I won't say anything about it."
"You're an impudent young rascal," returned the "gentleman," affecting to be outraged by such a charge. "Do you dare to accuse a gentleman like me of robbing a ragmuffin like you?"
"Yes, I do," said Ben, boldly.
"Then you're either crazy or impudent, I don't know which."
"Call me what you please; but give me back my money."
"I don't believe you ever had five dollars in your possession. How much do you mean to say there was in this letter?"
"Fifty dollars," answered Ben.
The pickpocket had an object in asking this question. He wanted to learn whether the sum of money was sufficient to make it worth his while to keep it. Had it been three or four dollars, he might have given it up, to avoid risk and trouble. But on finding that it was fifty dollars he determined to hold on to it at all hazards.
"Clear out, boy," he said, fiercely. "I shan't stand any of your impudence."
"Give me my money, then."
"If you don't stop that, I'll knock you down," repeated the pickpocket, shaking off Ben's grasp, and moving forward rapidly.
If he expected to frighten our hero away thus easily, he was very much mistaken. Ben had too much at stake to give up the attempt to recover the letter. He ran forward, and, seizing the man by the arm, he reiterated, in a tone of firm determination, "Give me my money, or I'll call a copp."
"Take that, you young villain!" exclaimed the badgered thief, bringing his fist in contact with Ben's face in such a manner as to cause the blood to flow.
In a physical contest it was clear that Ben would get the worst of it. He was but a boy of sixteen, strong, indeed, of his age; but still what could he expect to accomplish against a tall man of mature age? He saw that he needed help, and he called out at the top of his lungs, "Help! Police!"
His antagonist was adroit, and a life spent in eluding the law had made him quick-witted. He turned the tables upon Ben by turning round, grasping him firmly by the arm, and repeating in a voice louder than Ben's, "Help! Police!"
Contrary to the usual custom in such cases, a policeman happened to be near, and hurried to the spot where he was apparently wanted.
"What's the row?" he asked.
Before Ben had time to prefer his charge, the pickpocket said glibly:—
"Policeman, I give this boy in charge."
"What's he been doing?"
"I caught him with his hand in my pocket," said the man. "He's a thieving young vagabond."
"That's a lie!" exclaimed Ben, rather startled at the unexpected turn which affairs had taken. "He's a pickpocket."
The real culprit shrugged his shoulders. "You aint quite smart enough, boy," he said.
"Has he taken anything of yours?" asked the policeman, who supposed Ben to be what he was represented.
"No," said the pickpocket; "but he came near taking a money letter which I have in my pocket."
Here, with astonishing effrontery, he displayed the letter which he had stolen from Ben.
"That's my letter," said Ben. "He took it from my pocket."
"A likely story," smiled the pickpocket, in serene superiority. "The letter is for Mrs. Abercrombie, a friend of mine, and contains fifty dollars. I incautiously wrote upon the envelope 'Money enclosed,' which attracted the attention of this young vagabond, as I held it in my hand. On replacing it in my pocket, he tried to get possession of it."
"That's a lie from beginning to end," exclaimed Ben, impetuously. "He's tryin' to make me out a thief, when he's one himself."
"Well, what is your story?" asked the policeman, who, however, had already decided in his own mind that Ben was the guilty party.
"I was ridin' in the Fourth Avenue cars along side of this man," said Ben, "when he put his hand in my pocket, and took out the letter that he's just showed you. I jumped out after him, and asked him to give it back, when he fetched me a lick in the face."
"Do you mean to say that a ragamuffin like you had fifty dollars?" demanded the thief.
"No," said Ben, "the money wasn't mine. I was carryin' it up to Mrs. Abercrombie, who lives on Madison Avenue."
"It's a likely story that a ragamuffin like you would be trusted with so much money."
"If you don't believe it," said Ben, "go to Mr. Abercrombie's office in Wall Street. Mr. Sampson gave it to me only a few minutes ago. If he says he didn't, just carry me to the station-house as quick as you want to."
This confident assertion of Ben's put matters in rather a different light. It seemed straightforward, and the reference might easily prove which was the real culprit. The pickpocket saw that the officer wavered, and rejoined hastily, "You must expect the officer's a fool to believe your ridiculous story."
"It's not so ridiculous," answered the policeman, scrutinizing the speaker with sudden suspicion. "I am not sure but the boy is right."
"I'm willing to let the matter drop," said the pickpocket, magnanimously; "as he didn't succeed in getting my money, I will not prosecute. You may let him go, Mr. Officer."
"Not so fast," said the policeman, his suspicions of the other party getting stronger and more clearly defined. "I haven't any authority to do as you say."
"Very well, take him along then. I suppose the law must take its course."
"Yes, it must."
"Very well, boy, I'm sorry you've got into such a scrape; but it's your own fault. Good morning, officer."
"You're in too much of a hurry," said the policeman, coolly; "you must go along with me too."
"Really," said the thief, nervously, "I hope you'll excuse me. I've got an important engagement this morning, and—I—in fact it will be excessively inconvenient."
"I'm sorry to put you to inconvenience, but it can't be helped."
"Really, Mr. Officer—"
"It's no use. I shall need you. Oblige me by handing me that letter."
"Here it is," said the thief, unwillingly surrendering it. "Really, it's excessively provoking. I'd rather lose the money than break my engagement. I'll promise to be on hand at the trial, whenever it comes off; if you keep the money it will be a guaranty of my appearance."
"I don't know about that," answered the officer "As to being present at the trial, I mean that you shall be."
"Of course, I promised that."
"There's one little matter you seem to forget, said the officer; "your appearance may be quite as necessary as the boy's. It may be your trial and not his."
"Do you mean to insult me?" demanded the pickpocket, haughtily.
"Not by no manner of means. I aint the judge, you know. If your story is all right, it'll appear so."
"Of course; but I shall have to break my engagement."
"Well, that can't be helped as I see. Come along, if you please."
He tucked one arm in that of the man, and the other in Ben's, and moved towards the station-house. Of the two Ben seemed to be much the more unconcerned. He was confident that his innocence would be proclaimed, while the other was equally convinced that trouble awaited him.
"Well, boy, how do you like going to the station-house?" asked the policeman.
"I don't mind as long as he goes with me," answered Ben. "What I was most afraid of was that I'd lose the money, and then Mr. Sampson would have taken me for a thief."
Meanwhile the other party was rapidly getting more and more nervous. He felt that he was marching to his fate, and that the only way of escape was by flight, and that immediate; for they were very near the station-house. Just as Ben pronounced the last words, the thief gathered all his strength, and broke from the grasp of the officer, whose hold was momentarily relaxed. Once free he showed an astonishing rapidity.
The officer hesitated for an instant, for he had another prisoner to guard.
"Go after him," exclaimed Ben, eagerly. "Don't let him escape. I'll stay where I am."
The conviction that the escaped party was the real thief determined the policeman to follow Ben's advice. He let him go, and started in rapid pursuit of the fugitive.
Ben sat down on a doorstep, and awaited anxiously the result of the chase.
It is quite possible that the pickpocket would have made good his escape, if he had not, unluckily for himself, run into another policeman.
"Beg your pardon," he said, hurriedly.
"Stop a minute," said the officer, detaining him by the arm, for his appearance and haste inspired suspicion. He was bare-headed, for his hat had fallen off, and he had not deemed it prudent to stop long enough to pick it up.
"I'm in a great hurry," panted the thief. "My youngest child is in a fit, and I am running for a physician."
This explanation seemed plausible, and the policeman, who was himself the father of a family, was on the point of releasing him, when the first officer came up.
"Hold on to him," he said; "he's just broken away from me."
"That's it, is it?" said the second policeman. "He told me he was after a doctor for his youngest child."
"I think he'll need a doctor himself," said the first, "if he tries another of his games. You didn't stop to say good-by, my man."
"I told you I had an important engagement," said the pickpocket, sulkily,—"one that I cared more about than the money. Where's the boy?"
"I had to leave him to go after you."
"That's a pretty way to manage; you let the thief go in order to chase his victim."
"You're an able-bodied victim," said the policeman, laughing.
"Where are you taking me?"
"I'm going back for the boy. He said he'd wait till I returned."
"Are you green enough to think you'll find him?" sneered the man in charge.
"Perhaps not; but I shouldn't be surprised if I did. If I guess right, he'll find it worth his while to keep his promise."
When they returned to the place where the thief had first effected his escape, our hero was found quietly sitting on a wooden step.
"So you've got him," said Ben, advancing to meet the officer with evident satisfaction.
"He's got you too," growled the pickpocket. "Why didn't you run away, you little fool?"
"I didn't have anything to run for," answered Ben. "Besides, I want my money back."
"Then you'll have to go with me to the station-house," said the officer.
"I wish I could go to Mr. Abercrombie's office first to tell Mr. Sampson what's happened."
"I can't let you do that; but you may write a letter from the station-house."
"All right," said Ben, cheerfully; and he voluntarily placed himself on the other side of the officer, and accompanied him to the station-house.
"I thought you was guilty at first," said the officer; "but I guess your story is correct. If it isn't, you're about the coolest chap I ever saw, and I've seen some cool ones in my day."
"It's just as I said," said Ben. "It'll all come right in the morning."
They soon reached the station-house. Ben obtained the privilege of writing a letter to Mr. Sampson, for which the officer undertook to procure a messenger. In fact he began to feel quite interested for our hero, feeling fully convinced that the other party was the real offender.
Ben found some difficulty in writing his letter. When he first came to the city, he could have written one with considerable ease, but he had scarcely touched a pen, or formed a letter, for six years, and of course this made an important difference. However he finally managed to write these few lines with a lead-pencil:—
"Mr. Sampson: I am sory I can't cary that leter til to-morrow; but it was took from my pokit by a thefe wen I was ridin' in the cars, and as he sed I took it from him, the 'copp' has brort us both to the stashun-house, whare I hope you wil come and tel them how it was, and that you give me the leter to cary, for the other man says it is his The 'copp' took the leter
"Ben Hooper."
It will be observed that Ben's spelling had suffered; but this will not excite surprise, considering how long it was since he had attended school. It will also be noticed that he did not sign his real name, but used the same which he had communicated to Charles Marston. More than ever, till he was out of his present difficulty, he desired to conceal his identity from his relations.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sampson was busily engaged in his office in Wall Street. It may as well be explained here that he was the junior partner of Mr. Abercrombie. Occasionally he paused in his business to wonder whether he had done well to expose a ragged street boy to such a temptation; but he was a large-hearted man, inclined to think well of his fellow-men, and though in his business life he had seen a good deal that was mean and selfish in the conduct of others, he had never lost his confidence in human nature, and never would. It is better to have such a disposition, even if it does expose the possessor to being imposed upon at times, than to regard everybody with distrust and suspicion. At any rate it promotes happiness, and conciliates good-will, and these will offset an occasional deception.
An hour had passed, when a boy presented himself at Mr. Abercrombie's office. It was a newsboy, who had been intrusted with Ben's letter.
"This is for Mr. Sampson," he said, looking around him on entering.
"Another of Mr. Sampson's friends," sneered Granby, in a tone which he took care should be too low to come to that gentleman's ears.
"My name is Sampson," said the owner of that name. "Who is your letter from?"
"It's from Ben."
"And who is Ben?" asked Mr. Sampson, not much enlightened.
"It's Ben, the baggage-smasher."
"Give it to me," said the gentleman, conjecturing rightly that it was his messenger who was meant.
He ran his eye rapidly over the paper, or, I should say, as rapidly as the character of Ben's writing would permit.
"Do you come from the station-house?" he asked, looking up.
"Yes, sir."
"Which station-house is it?"
"In Leonard Street."
"Very well. Go back and tell the boy that I will call this afternoon. I will also give you a line to a house on Madison Avenue. Can you go right up there, calling at the station-house on the way?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Here is something for your trouble."
The boy pocketed with satisfaction the money proffered him, and took the letter which Mr. Sampson hastily wrote. It was to this effect:—
"My dear Mrs. Abercrombie: I received your note, and despatched the money which you desired by a messenger; but I have just learned that his pocket was picked on the horse-cars. I cannot spare one of my clerks just now, but at one o'clock will send one up with the money, hoping that he may have better fortune than the first messenger, and that you will not be seriously inconvenienced by the delay.
"Yours truly,
"Henry Sampson".
Then he dismissed the matter from his mind until afternoon, when, the office having closed, he made his way to the Leonard Street station-house, where he was speedily admitted to see Ben.
"I'm glad you've come, Mr. Sampson," said our hero, eagerly. "I hope you don't think I was to blame about the letter."
"Tell me how it was, my lad," said Mr. Sampson, kindly. "I dare say you can give me a satisfactory explanation."
Ben felt grateful for the kindness of his tone. He saw that he was not condemned unheard, but had a chance of clearing himself.
He explained, briefly, how it occurred. Of course it is unnecessary to give his account, for we know all about it already.
"I believe you," said Mr. Sampson, in a friendly tone. "The only fault I have to find with you is that you might have been more careful in guarding your pockets."
"That's so," said Ben; "but I don't often carry anything that's worth stealing."
"No, I suppose not," said Mr. Sampson, smiling. "Well, it appears that no serious loss has occurred. The money will be recovered, as it is in the hands of the authorities. As to the delay, that is merely an inconvenience; but the most serious inconvenience falls upon you, in your being brought here."
"I don't mind that as long as the money is safe," said Ben. "It'll all be right in the morning."
"I see you are a philosopher. I see your face is swelled. You must have got a blow."
"Yes," said Ben; "the chap that took my letter left me something to remember him by."
"I shall try to make it up to you," said Mr. Sampson. "I can't stop any longer, but I will be present at your trial, and my testimony will undoubtedly clear you."
He took his leave, leaving Ben considerably more cheerful than before. A station-house is not a very agreeable place of detention; but then Ben was not accustomed to luxury, and the absence of comfort did not trouble him much. He cared more for the loss of his liberty, finding the narrow cell somewhat too restricted for enjoyment. However, he consoled himself by reflecting, to use his favorite phrase, that it would "all be right in the morning."
It will not be necessary to give a circumstantial account of Ben's trial. Mr. Sampson was faithful to his promise, and presented himself, somewhat to his personal inconvenience, at the early hour assigned for trial. His testimony was brief and explicit, and cleared Ben. The real pickpocket, however, being recognized by the judge as one who had been up before him some months before, charged with a similar offence, was sentenced to a term of imprisonment, considerably to his dissatisfaction.
Ben left the court-room well pleased with the result. His innocence had been established, and he had proved that he could be trusted, or rather, he had not proved faithless to his trust, and he felt that with his present plans and hopes he could not afford to lose his character for honesty. He knew that he had plenty of faults, but at any rate he was not a thief.
While he stood on the steps of the Tombs, in which the trial had taken place, Mr. Sampson advanced towards him, and touched him on the shoulder.