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Transcriber's notes:

Captions have been added to the illustration markers
for the convenience of some readers. These have been
indicated by an asterisk.

A list of some of the author's other books has been moved from the front
papers to the end of the book.


 [Illustration: Front cover]*

 [Illustration: Title page:
 RAGGED DICK SERIES BY HORATIO ALGER JR.
 BEN THE LUGGAGE BOY]


  BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;

  OR,

  AMONG THE WHARVES.

  BY

  HORATIO ALGER, JR.,

  AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK," "FAME AND FORTUNE," "MARK, THE MATCH
  BOY," "ROUGH AND READY," "CAMPAIGN SERIES,"
  "LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," ETC.

  THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,

  PHILADELPHIA,
  CHICAGO, TORONTO.


  TO

  ANNIE,

  THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

  In Tender Remembrance,

  BY HER

 _AFFECTIONATE BROTHER_




PREFACE.


In presenting "Ben, the Luggage Boy," to the public, as the fifth of the
Ragged Dick Series, the author desires to say that it is in all
essential points a true history; the particulars of the story having
been communicated to him, by Ben himself, nearly two years since. In
particular, the circumstances attending the boy's running away from
home, and adopting the life of a street boy, are in strict accordance
with Ben's own statement. While some of the street incidents are
borrowed from the writer's own observation, those who are really
familiar with the different phases which street life assumes in New
York, will readily recognize their fidelity. The chapter entitled "The
Room under the Wharf" will recall to many readers of the daily journals
a paragraph which made its appearance within two years. The writer
cannot close without expressing anew his thanks for the large share of
favor which has been accorded to the volumes of the present series, and
takes this opportunity of saying that, in their preparation, invention
has played but a subordinate part. For his delineations of character and
choice of incidents, he has been mainly indebted to his own observation,
aided by valuable communications and suggestions from those who have
been brought into familiar acquaintance with the class whose mode of
life he has sought to describe.

NEW YORK, April 5, 1876.


BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;

OR,

AMONG THE WHARVES.




CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY.


"How much yer made this mornin', Ben?"

"Nary red," answered Ben, composedly.

"Had yer breakfast?"

"Only an apple. That's all I've eaten since yesterday. It's most time
for the train to be in from Philadelphy. I'm layin' round for a job."

The first speaker was a short, freckled-faced boy, whose box strapped to
his back identified him at once as a street boot-black. His hair was
red, his fingers defaced by stains of blacking, and his clothing
constructed on the most approved system of ventilation. He appeared to
be about twelve years old.

The boy whom he addressed as Ben was taller, and looked older. He was
probably not far from sixteen. His face and hands, though browned by
exposure to wind and weather, were several shades cleaner than those of
his companion. His face, too, was of a less common type. It was easy to
see that, if he had been well dressed, he might readily have been taken
for a gentleman's son. But in his present attire there was little chance
of this mistake being made. His pants, marked by a green stripe, small
around the waist and very broad at the hips, had evidently once belonged
to a Bowery swell; for the Bowery has its swells as well as Broadway,
its more aristocratic neighbor. The vest had been discarded as a
needless luxury, its place being partially supplied by a shirt of thick
red flannel. This was covered by a frock-coat, which might once have
belonged to a member of the Fat Men's Association, being aldermanic in
its proportions. Now it was fallen from its high estate, its nap and
original gloss had long departed, and it was frayed and torn in many
places. But among the street-boys dress is not much regarded, and Ben
never thought of apologizing for the defects of his wardrobe. We shall
learn in time what were his faults and what his virtues, for I can
assure my readers that street boys do have virtues sometimes, and when
they are thoroughly convinced that a questioner feels an interest in
them will drop the "chaff" in which they commonly indulge, and talk
seriously and feelingly of their faults and hardships. Some do this for
a purpose, no doubt, and the verdant stranger is liable to be taken in
by assumed virtue, and waste sympathy on those who do not deserve it.
But there are also many boys who have good tendencies and aspirations,
and only need to be encouraged and placed under right influences to
develop into worthy and respectable men.

The conversation recorded above took place at the foot of Cortlandt
Street, opposite the ferry wharf. It was nearly time for the train, and
there was the usual scene of confusion. Express wagons, hacks, boys,
laborers, were gathering, presenting a confusing medley to the eye of
one unaccustomed to the spectacle.

Ben was a luggage boy, his occupation being to wait at the piers for the
arrival of steamboats, or at the railway stations, on the chance of
getting a carpet-bag or valise to carry. His business was a precarious
one. Sometimes he was lucky, sometimes unlucky. When he was flush, he
treated himself to a "square meal," and finished up the day at Tony
Pastor's, or the Old Bowery, where from his seat in the pit he indulged
in independent criticism of the acting, as he leaned back in his seat
and munched peanuts, throwing the shells about carelessly.

It is not surprising that the street-boys like the Old Bowery, and are
willing to stint their stomachs, or run the risk of a night in the
streets, for the sake of the warm room and the glittering illusions of
the stage, introducing them for the time being to the society of nobles
and ladies of high birth, and enabling them to forget for a time the
hardships of their own lot, while they follow with rapt interest the
fortunes of Lord Frederic Montressor or the Lady Imogene Delacour.
Strange as it may seem, the street Arab has a decided fancy for these
pictures of aristocracy, and never suspects their want of fidelity. When
the play ends, and Lord Frederic comes to his own, having foiled all the
schemes of his crafty and unprincipled enemies, no one rejoices more
than the ragged boy who has sat through the evening an interested
spectator of the play, and in his pleasure at the successful denouement,
he almost forgets that he will probably find the Newsboys' Lodging House
closed for the night, and be compelled to take up with such sleeping
accommodations as the street may provide.

Ben crossed the street, taking a straight course, without paying
especial attention to the mud, which caused other pedestrians to pick
their way. To the condition of his shoes he was supremely indifferent.
Stockings he did not wear. They are luxuries in which few street boys
indulge.

He had not long to wait. The boat bumped against the wharf, and directly
a crowd of passengers poured through the open gates in a continuous
stream.

Ben looked sharply around him to judge who would be likely to employ
him. His attention was drawn to an elderly lady, with a large carpet-bag
swelled almost to bursting. She was looking about her in a bewildered
manner.

"Carry your bag, ma'am?" he said, at the same time motioning towards it.

"Who be you?" asked the old lady, suspiciously.

"I'm a baggage-smasher," said Ben.

"Then I don't want you," answered the old lady, clinging to her bag as
if she feared it would be wrested from her. "I'm surprised that the law
allows sich things. You might be in a better business, young man, than
smashing baggage."

"That's where you're right, old lady," said Ben.

"Bankin' would pay better, if I only had the money to start on."

"Are you much acquainted in New York?" asked the old lady.

"Yes," said Ben; "I know the mayor 'n' aldermen, 'n' all the principal
men. A. T. Stooart's my intimate friend, and I dine with Vanderbilt
every Sunday when I aint engaged at Astor's."

"Do you wear them clo'es when you visit your fine friends?" asked the
old lady, shrewdly.

"No," said Ben. "Them are my every-day clo'es. I've got some velvet
clo'es to home, embroidered with gold."

"I believe you are telling fibs," said the old lady. "What I want to
know is, if you know my darter, Mrs. John Jones; her first name is
Seraphiny. She lives on Bleecker Street, and her husband, who is a nice
man, though his head is bald on top, keeps a grocery store."

"Of course I do," said Ben. "It was only yesterday that she told me her
mother was comin' to see her. I might have knowed you was she."

"How would you have knowed?"

"Cause she told me just how you looked."

"Did she? How did she say I looked?"

"She said you was most ninety, and--"

"It isn't true," said the old lady, indignantly. "I'm only
seventy-three, and everybody says I'm wonderful young-lookin' for my
years. I don't believe Seraphiny told you so."

"She might have said you looked as if you was most ninety."

"You're a sassy boy!" said the owner of the carpet-bag, indignantly. "I
don't see how I'm going to get up to Seraphiny's," she continued,
complainingly. "They'd ought to have come down to meet me. How much will
you charge to carry my carpet-bag, and show me the way to my darter's?"

"Fifty cents," said Ben.

"Fifty cents!" repeated the old lady, aghast. "I didn't think you'd
charge more'n ten."

"I have to," said Ben. "Board's high in New York."

"How much would they charge me in a carriage? Here you, sir," addressing
a hackman, "what'll you charge to carry me to my darter's house, Mrs.
John Jones, in Bleecker Street?"

"What's the number?"

"I think it's a hundred and sixty-three."

"A dollar and a half."

"A dollar 'n' a half? Couldn't you do it for less?"

"Carry your bag, sir?" asked Ben, of a gentleman passing.

The gentleman shook his head.

He made one or two other proposals, which being in like manner
unsuccessful, he returned to the old lady, who, having by this time got
through her negotiations with the hackman, whom she had vainly striven
to beat down to seventy-five cents, was in a more favorable mood to
accept Ben's services.

"Can't you take less than fifty cents?" she asked.

"No," said Ben, decidedly.

"I'll give you forty."

"Couldn't do it," said Ben, who felt sure of gaining his point now.

"Well, I suppose I shall be obleeged to hire you," said the old lady
with a sigh. "Seraphiny ought to have sent down to meet me. I didn't
tell her I was comin' to-day; but she might have thought I'd come, bein'
so pleasant. Here, you boy, you may take the bag, and mind you don't run
away with it. There aint nothin' in it but some of my clo'es."

"I don't want none of your clo'es," said Ben. "My wife's bigger'n you,
and they wouldn't fit her."

"Massy sakes! you aint married, be you?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"I don't believe it. You're not old enough. But I'm glad you don't want
the clo'es. They wouldn't be of no use to you. Just you take the bag,
and I'll foller on behind."

"I want my pay first."

"I aint got the change. My darter Seraphiny will pay you when we get to
her house."

"That don't go down," said Ben, decidedly. "Payment in advance; that's
the way I do business."

"You'll get your pay; don't you be afraid."

"I know I shall; but I want it now."

"You won't run away after I've paid you, will you?"

"In course not. That aint my style."

The old lady took out her purse, and drew therefrom forty-seven cents.
She protested that she had not a cent more. Ben pardoned the deficiency,
feeling that he would, notwithstanding, be well paid for his time.

"All right," said he, magnanimously. "I don't mind the three cents. It
aint any object to a man of my income. Take my hand, old lady, and we'll
go across the street."

"I'm afraid of bein' run over," said she, hesitatingly.

"What's the odds if you be?" said Ben. "The city'll have to pay you
damages."

"But if I got killed, that wouldn't do me any good," remarked the old
lady, sensibly.

"Then the money'd go to your friends," said Ben, consolingly.

"Do you think I will be run over?" asked the old lady, anxiously.

"In course you won't. I'll take care of you. They wouldn't dare to run
over me," said Ben, confidently.

Somewhat reassured by this remark, the old lady submitted to Ben's
guidance, and was piloted across the street in safety.

"I wouldn't live in New York for a heap of money. It would be as much as
my life is worth," she remarked. "How far is Bleecker Street?"

"About two miles."

"I almost wish I'd rid. But a dollar and a half is a sight to pay."

"You'd have to pay more than that."

"That's all the man asked."

"I know," said Ben; "but when he'd got you there, he'd have charged you
five dollars."

"I wouldn't have paid it."

"Yes, you would," said Ben.

"He couldn't make me."

"If you didn't pay, he'd have locked you in, and driven you off to the
river, and dumped you in."

"Do they ever do such things?" asked the old lady, startled.

"In course they do. Only last week a beautiful young lady was served
that way, 'cause she wouldn't pay what the hackman wanted."

"And what was done to him?"

"Nothin'," said Ben. "The police is in league with 'em, and get their
share of the money."

"Why, you don't say so! What a wicked place New York is, to be sure!"

"Of course it is. It's so wicked I'm goin' to the country myself as soon
as I get money enough to buy a farm."

"Have you got much money saved up?" asked the old lady, interested.

"Four thousand six hundred and seventy-seven dollars and fifty-five
cents. I don't count this money you give me, 'cause I'm goin' to spend
it."

"You didn't make it all carryin' carpet-bags," said the old lady,
incredulously.

"No, I made most of it spekilatin' in real estate," said Ben.

"You don't say!"

"Yes, I do."

"You've got most enough to buy a farm a'ready."

"I aint goin' to buy till I can buy a good one."

"What's the name of this street?"

"West Broadway."

They were really upon West Broadway by this time, that being as direct a
line as any to Bleecker Street.

"You see that store," said Ben.

"Yes; what's the matter of it?"

"I don't own it _now_," said Ben. "I sold it, cos the tenants didn't pay
their rent reg'lar."

"I should think you'd dress better if you've got so much money," said
the old lady, not unnaturally.

"What's the use of wearin' nice clo'es round among the wharves?" said
Ben.

"There's suthin in that. I tell my darter Jane--she lives in the
country--that it's no use dressin' up the children to go to
school,--they're sure to get their clo'es tore and dirty afore they get
home."

So Ben beguiled the way with wonderful stories, with which he played
upon the old lady's credulity. Of course it was wrong; but a street
education is not very likely to inspire its pupils with a reverence for
truth; and Ben had been knocking about the streets of New York, most of
the time among the wharves, for six years. His street education had
commenced at the age of ten. He had adopted it of his own free will.
Even now there was a comfortable home waiting for him; there were
parents who supposed him dead, and who would have found a difficulty in
recognizing him under his present circumstances. In the next chapter a
light will be thrown upon his past history, and the reader will learn
how his street life began.




CHAPTER II.

HOW BEN COMMENCED HIS STREET LIFE.


One pleasant morning, six years before the date at which this story
commences, a small coasting-vessel drew up at a North River pier in the
lower part of the city. It was loaded with freight, but there was at
least one passenger on board. A boy of ten, dressed in a neat jacket and
pants of gray-mixed cloth, stood on deck, watching with interest the
busy city which they had just reached.

"Well, bub, here we are," said the captain as he passed. "I suppose you
know your way home."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you going on shore now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, good luck to you, my lad. If you are ever down this way, when I'm
in port, I shall be glad to see you."

"Thank you, sir; good-by."

"Good-by."

Ben clambered over the side, and stepped upon the wharf. In the great
city he knew no one, and he was an utter stranger to the streets, never
before having visited it. He was about to begin life for himself at the
age of ten. He had voluntarily undertaken to support himself, leaving
behind him a comfortable home, where he had been well cared for. I must
explain how this came about.

Ben had a pleasant face, and would be considered good-looking. But there
was a flash in his eye, when aroused, which showed that he had a quick
temper, and there was an expression of firmness, unusual to one so
young, which might have been read by an experienced physiognomist. He
was quick-tempered, proud, and probably obstinate. Yet with these
qualities he was pleasant in his manners, and had a sense of humor,
which made him a favorite among his companions.

His father was a coal-dealer in a town a few miles distant from
Philadelphia, of a hasty temper like Ben himself. A week before he had
punished Ben severely for a fault which he had not committed. The boy's
pride revolted at the injustice, and, young as he was, he resolved to
run away. I suppose there are few boys who do not form this resolution
at some time or other in their lives; but as a general thing it amounts
to nothing. With Ben it was different. His was a strong nature, whether
for good or for evil, and when he decided to do anything he was not
easily moved from his resolve. He forgot, in the present case, that,
though he had been unjustly punished, the injustice was not intentional
on the part of his father, who had been under a wrong impression
respecting him. But right or wrong, Ben made up his mind to run away;
and he did so. It was two or three days before a good opportunity
presented itself. Then, with a couple of shirts and collars rolled up in
a small bundle, he made his escape to Philadelphia, and after roaming
about the streets for several hours he made his way to the wharves,
where he found a vessel bound for New York. Representing to the captain
that he lived in New York, and had no money to pay his passage home,
that officer, who was a good-natured man, agreed to carry him for
nothing.

The voyage was now over, and Ben landed, as we have said, an utter
stranger, with very indefinite ideas as to how he was to make his
living. He had told the captain that he knew his way home, for having
falsely represented that he lived in New York, he was in a manner
compelled to this additional falsehood. Still, in spite of his
friendless condition, his spirits were very good. The sun shone
brightly; all looked animated and cheerful. Ben saw numbers of men at
work about him, and he thought, "It will be a pity if I cannot make a
living."

He did not care to linger about the wharf, for the captain might be led
to doubt his story. Accordingly he crossed the street, and at a venture
turned up a street facing the wharf.

Ben did not know much about New York, even by report. But he had heard
of Broadway,--as who has not?--and this was about all he did know. When,
therefore, he had gone a short distance, he ventured to ask a
boot-black, whom he encountered at the corner of the next block, "Can
you tell me the shortest way to Broadway?"

"Follow your nose, Johnny," was the reply.

"My name isn't Johnny," replied Ben, rather indignant at the
familiarity. He had not learned that, in New York, Johnny is the generic
name for boy, where the specific name is unknown.

"Aint it though?" returned the boot-black "What's the price of turnips
out where you live?"

"I'll make your nose turn up if you aint careful," retorted Ben,
wrathfully.

"You'll do," said the boot-black, favorably impressed by Ben's pluck.
"Just go straight ahead, and you'll come to Broadway. I'm going that
way, and you can come along with me if you want to."

"Thank you," said Ben, appeased by the boy's changed manner.

"Are you going to stay here?" inquired his new acquaintance.

"Yes," said Ben; "I'm going to live here."

"Where do your friends live?"

"I haven't got any friends in New York," said Ben, with a little
hesitation.

"Over in Brooklyn, or Jersey, maybe?"

"No, I don't know anybody this way."

"Whew!" whistled the other. "How you goin' to live?"

"I expect to earn my living," said Ben, in a tone of importance.

"Father and mother dead?"

"No, they're alive."

"I s'pose they're poor?"

"No, they're not; they're well off."

The boot-black looked puzzled.

"Why didn't you stay at home then? Wouldn't they let you?"

"Of course they would. The fact is, I've run away."

"Maybe they'd adopt me instead of you."

"I don't think they would," said Ben, laughing.

"I wish somebody with lots of cash would adopt me, and make a gentleman
of me. It would be a good sight better'n blackin' boots."

"Do you make much money that way?" inquired Ben.

"Pleasant days like this, sometimes I make a dollar, but when it rains
there aint much doin'."

"How much have you made this morning?" asked Ben, with interest.

"Sixty cents."

"Sixty cents, and it isn't more than ten o'clock. That's doing pretty
well."

"'Taint so good in the afternoon. Most every body gets their boots
blacked in the mornin'. What are you goin' to do?"

"I don't know," said Ben.

"Goin' to black boots? I'll show you how," said the other, generously
overlooking all considerations of possible rivalry.

"I don't think I should like that very well," said Ben, slowly.

Having been brought up in a comfortable home, he had a prejudice in
favor of clean hands and unsoiled clothes,--a prejudice of which his
street life speedily cured him.

"I think I should rather sell papers, or go into a store," said Ben.

"You can't make so much money sellin' papers," said his new
acquaintance. "Then you might get 'stuck'".

"What's that?" inquired Ben, innocently.

"Don't you know?" asked the boot-black, wonderingly. "Why, it's when
you've got more papers than you can sell. That's what takes off the
profits. I was a newsboy once; but it's too hard work for the money.
There aint no chance of gettin' stuck on my business."

"It's rather a dirty business," said Ben, venturing to state his main
objection, at the risk of offending. But Jerry Collins, for that was his
name, was not very sensitive on this score.

"What's the odds?" he said, indifferently. "A feller gets used to it."

Ben looked at Jerry's begrimed hands, and clothes liberally marked with
spots of blacking, and he felt that he was not quite ready to get used
to appearing in public in this way. He was yet young in his street life.
The time came when he ceased to be so particular.

"Where do you board?" asked Ben, after a little pause.

Jerry Collins stared at the questioner as if he suspected that a joke
was intended. But Ben's serious face assured him that he was in earnest.

"You're jolly green," he remarked, sententiously.

"Look here," said Ben, with spirit, "I'll give you a licking if you say
that again."

It may be considered rather singular that Jerry, Instead of resenting
this threat, was led by it to regard Ben with favor.

"I didn't mean anything," he said, by way of apology. "You're a trump,
and you'll get over it when you've been in the city a week."

"What made you call me green?" asked Ben.

"Did you think I boarded up to the Fifth Avenue?" asked Jerry.

"What's that,--a hotel?"

"Yes, it's one of the big hotels, where they eat off gold plates."

"No, I don't suppose you board there," said Ben, laughing; "but I
suppose there are cheaper boarding-places. Where do you sleep?"

"Sometimes in wagons, or in door-ways, on the docks, or anywhere where I
get a chance."

"Don't you get cold sleeping out-doors?" asked Ben.

"Oh, I'm used to it," said Jerry. "When it's cold I go to the Lodging
House."

"What's that?"

Jerry explained that there was a Newsboys' Lodging House, where a bed
could be obtained for six cents a night.

"That's cheap," said Ben.

"'Taint so cheap as sleepin' out-doors," returned the boot-black.

This was true; but Ben thought he would rather pay the six cents than
sleep out, if it were only for the damage likely to come to his clothes,
which were yet clean and neat. Looking at Jerry's suit, however, he saw
that this consideration would be likely to have less weight with him. He
began to understand that he had entered upon a very different life from
the one he had hitherto led. He was not easily daunted, however.

"If he can stand it, I can," he said to himself.




CHAPTER III.

STREET SCENES.


"Here's Broadway," said Jerry, suddenly.

They emerged from the side street on which they had been walking, and,
turning the corner, found themselves in the great thoroughfare, a block
or two above Trinity Church.

Ben surveyed the busy scenes that opened before him, with the eager
interest of a country boy who saw them for the first time.

"What church is that?" he asked, pointing to the tall spire of the
imposing church that faces Wall Street.

"That's Trinity Church."

"Do you go to church there?"

"I don't go anywhere else," said Jerry, equivocally. "What's the use of
going to church?"

"I thought everybody went to church," said Ben, speaking from his
experience in a country village "that is, most everybody," he corrected
himself, as several persons occurred to his mind who were more punctual
in their attendance at the liquor saloon than the church.

"If I'd got good clothes like you have I'd go once just to see what it's
like; but I'd a good sight rather go to the old Bowery Theatre."

"But you ought not to say that," said Ben, a little startled.

"Why not?"

"Because it's better to go to church than to the theatre."

"Is it?" said Jerry. "Well, you can go if you want to. I'd give more for
a stunnin' old play at the Bowery than fifty churches."

Ben began to suspect that Jerry was rather loose in his ideas on the
subject of religion, but did not think it best to say so, for fear of
giving offence, though in all probability Jerry's sensitiveness would
not have been at all disturbed by such a charge.

During the last portion of the conversation they had been standing still
at the street corner.

"I'm goin' to Nassau Street," said Jerry. "If you want to go up
Broadway, that's the way."

Without waiting for an answer he darted across the street, threading his
way among the numerous vehicles with a coolness and a success which
amazed Ben, who momentarily expected to see him run over. He drew a long
breath when he saw him safe on the other side, and bethought himself
that he would not like to take a similar risk. He felt sorry to have
Jerry leave him so abruptly. The boot-black had already imparted to him
considerable information about New York, which he saw was likely to be
of benefit to him. Besides, he felt that any society was better than
solitude, and a sudden feeling of loneliness overpowered him, as he felt
that among the crowd of persons that jostled him as he stood at the
corner, there was not one who felt an interest in him, or even knew his
name. It was very different in his native village, where he knew
everybody, and everybody had a friendly word for him. The thought did
occur to him for a moment whether he had been wise in running away from
home; but the thought of the unjust punishment came with it, and his
expression became firmer and more resolute.

"I won't go home if I starve," he said proudly to himself; and armed
with this new resolution he proceeded up Broadway.

His attention was soon drawn to the street merchants doing business on
the sidewalk. Here was a vender of neckties, displaying a varied
assortment of different colors, for "only twenty-five cents each." Next
came a candy merchant with his stock in trade, divided up into irregular
lumps, and labelled a penny apiece. They looked rather tempting, and Ben
would have purchased, but he knew very well that his cash capital
amounted to only twenty-five cents, which, considering that he was as
yet without an income, was likely to be wanted for other purposes.

Next came a man with an assortment of knives, all of them open, and
sticking into a large board, which was the only shop required by their
proprietor. Ben stopped a moment to look at them. He had always had a
fancy for knives, but was now without one. In fact he had sold a
handsome knife, which he had received as a birthday present, for
seventy-five cents, to raise money for his present expedition. Of this
sum but twenty-five cents remained.

"Will you buy a knife to-day, young gentleman?" asked the vender, who
was on the alert for customers.

"No, I guess not," said Ben.

"Here's a very nice one for only one dollar," said the street merchant,
taking up a showy-looking knife with three blades. "Its the best of
steel, warranted. You won't get another such knife for the price in the
city."

It did look cheap certainly. Ben could not but allow that. He would like
to have owned it, but circumstances forbade.

"No, I won't buy to-day," he said.

"Here, you shall have it for ninety-four cents," and the vender began to
roll it up in a piece of paper. "You can't say it isn't cheap."

"Yes, it's cheap enough," said Ben, moving away, "but I haven't got the
money with me."

This settled the matter, and the dealer reluctantly unrolled it, and
replaced it among his stock.

"If you'll call round to-morrow, I'll save it for you till then," he
said.

"All right," said Ben.

"I wonder," he thought, "whether he would be so anxious to sell, if he
knew that I had run away from home, and had but twenty-five cents in the
world?"

Ben's neat dress deceived the man, who naturally supposed him to belong
to a city family well to do.

Our young hero walked on till he came to the Astor House. He stood on
the steps a few minutes taking a view of what may be considered the
liveliest and most animated part of New York. Nearly opposite was
Barnum's American Museum, the site being now occupied by the costly and
elegant Herald Building and Park Bank. He looked across to the lower end
of the City Hall Park, not yet diverted from its original purpose for
the new Post Office building. He saw a procession of horse-cars in
constant motion up and down Park Row. Everything seemed lively and
animated; and again the thought came to Ben, "If there is employment for
all these people, there must be something for me to do."

He crossed to the foot of the Park, and walked up on the Park Row side.
Here again he saw a line of street merchants. Most conspicuous were the
dealers in penny ballads, whose wares lined the railings, and were
various enough to suit every taste. Here was an old woman, who might
have gained a first prize for ugliness, presiding over an apple-stand.

"Take one, honey; it's only two cints," she said, observing that Ben's
attention was drawn to a rosy-cheeked apple.

Ben was rather hungry, and reflecting that probably apples were as cheap
as any other article of diet, he responded to the appeal by purchasing.
It proved to be palatable, and he ate it with a good relish.

"Ice-cream, only a penny a glass," was the next announcement. The
glasses, to be sure, were of very small size. Still ice-cream in any
quantity for a penny seemed so ridiculously cheap that Ben, poor as he
was, could not resist the temptation.

"I'll take a glass," he said.

A dab of ice-cream was deposited in a glass, and with a pewter spoon
handed to Ben. He raised the spoon to his mouth, but alas! the mixture
was not quite so tempting to the taste as to the eye and the pocket. It
might be ice-cream, but there was an indescribable flavor about it, only
to be explained on the supposition that the ice had been frozen
dish-water. Ben's taste had not been educated up to that point which
would enable him to relish it. He laid it down with an involuntary
contortion of the face.

"Give it to me, Johnny," he heard at his elbow.

Turning, he saw a small, dirty-faced boy of six, with bare feet and
tattered attire, who was gazing with a look of greedy desire at the
delicious mixture.

Ben handed him the glass and spoon, and stood by, looking at him with
some curiosity as he disposed of the contents with a look of evident
enjoyment.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"It's bully," said the young epicure.

If Ben had not been restricted by his narrow means, he would have
purchased another glass for the urchin. It would have been a very cheap
"treat." But our young adventurer reflected that he had but twenty-two
cents left, and prudence forbade.

"I don't see how he can like the nasty stuff," he thought.

But the time was to come when Ben himself, grown less fastidious, would
be able to relish food quite as uninviting.

Ben made his way across the Park to Broadway again. He felt that it was
high time for him to be seeking employment. His ideas on this subject
were not very well defined, but when he left home he made up his mind
that he would try to get a place in a store on Broadway. He supposed
that, among the great number of stores, there would be a chance for him
to get into some one. He expected to make enough to live in a
comfortable boarding-house, and buy his clothes, though he supposed that
would be about all. He expected to have to economize on spending money
the first year, but the second year his wages would be raised, and then
it would come easier. All this shows how very verdant and unpractical
our young adventurer was, and what disappointment he was preparing for
himself.

However, Ben's knowledge was to come by experience, and that before
long.

Reaching Broadway, he walked up slowly on the west side, looking in at
the shop-windows. In the lower part of this busy street are many
wholesale houses, while the upper part is devoted principally to retail
shops. Coming to a large warehouse for the sale of ready-made clothing,
Ben thought he might as well begin there. In such a large place there
must be a good deal to do.

He passed in and looked about him rather doubtfully. The counters, which
were numerous, were filled high with ready-made garments. Ben saw no one
as small as himself, and that led him to doubt whether his size might
not be an objection.

"Well, sonny, what do you want?" asked a clerk.

"Don't you want to hire a boy?" asked our young adventurer, plunging
into his business.

"I suppose you have had considerable experience in the business?" said
the clerk inclined to banter him a little.

"No, I haven't," said Ben, frankly.

"Indeed, I judged from your looks that you were a man of experience."

"If you don't want to hire me, I'll go," said Ben, independently.

"Well, young man, I'm afraid you'll have to go. The fact is, we should
have to _higher_ you before we could _hire_ you;" and the clerk laughed
at his witticism.

Ben naturally saw nothing to laugh at, but felt rather indignant. He
stepped into the street, a little depressed at the result of his first
application. But then, as he reflected, there were a great many other
stores besides this, and he might have better luck next time. He walked
on some distance, however, before trying again. Indeed, he had got above
Bleecker Street, when his attention was arrested by a paper pasted
inside of a shop-window, bearing the inscription:--

  "CASH-BOYS WANTED."

Ben did not clearly understand what were the duties of a cash-boy,
though he supposed they must have something to do with receiving money.
Looking in through the glass door he saw boys as small as himself
flitting about, and this gave him courage to enter and make an
application for a place.

He entered, therefore, and walked up boldly to the first clerk he saw.

"Do you want a cash-boy?" he asked.

"Go up to that desk, Johnny," said the clerk, pointing to a desk about
midway of the store. A stout gentleman stood behind it, writing
something in a large book.

Ben went up, and repeated his inquiry. "Do you want a cash-boy?"

"How old are you?" asked the gentleman looking down at him.

"Ten years old."

"Have you ever been in a store?"

"No, sir."

"Do you live in the city?"

"Yes, sir."

"With your parents?"

"No, sir," said Ben, with hesitation.

"Who do you live with, then?"

"With nobody. I take care of myself."

"Humph!" The gentleman looked a little surprised, not at the idea of a
boy of ten looking out for himself, for such cases are common enough in
New York, but at the idea of such a well-dressed lad as Ben being in
that situation.

"How long have you been your own man?" he inquired.

"I've only just begun," Ben admitted.

"Are your parents dead?"

"No, sir; they're alive."

"Then I advise you to go back to them. We don't receive any boys into
our employment, who do not live with their parents."

The gentleman returned to his writing, and Ben saw that his case was
hopeless. His disappointment was greater than before, for he liked the
looks of the proprietor, if, as he judged, this was he. Besides, boys
were wanted, and his size would be no objection, judging from the
appearance of the other boys in the store. So he had been sanguine of
success. Now he saw that there was an objection which he could not
remove, and which would be very likely to stand in his way in other
places.




CHAPTER IV.

A RESTAURANT ON FULTON STREET.


Ben kept on his way, looking in at the shop windows as before. He had
not yet given up the idea of getting a place in a store, though he began
to see that his chances of success were rather small.

The next pause he came to was before a bookstore. Here, too, there was
posted on the window:--

  "BOY WANTED."

Ben entered. There were two or three persons behind the counter. The
oldest, a man of forty, Ben decided to be the proprietor. He walked up
to him, and said, "Do you want a boy?"

"Yes," said the gentleman. "We want a boy to run of errands, and deliver
papers to customers. How old are you?"

"Ten years old."

"That is rather young."

"I'm pretty strong of my age," said Ben, speaking the truth here, for
he was rather larger and stouter than most boys of ten.

"That is not important, as you will not have very heavy parcels to
carry. Are you well acquainted with the streets in this part of the
city?"

This question was a poser, Ben thought. He was at first tempted to say
yes, but decided to answer truthfully.

"No, sir," he answered.

"Do you live in the lower part of the city?"

"Yes, sir; that is, I'm going to live there."

"How long have you lived in the city?"

"I only arrived this morning," Ben confessed, reluctantly.

"Then I'm afraid you will not answer my purpose. We need a boy who is
well acquainted with the city streets."

He was another disqualification. Ben left the store a little
discouraged. He began to think that it would be harder work making a
living than he had supposed. He would apply in two or three more stores,
and, if unsuccessful, he must sell papers or black boots. Of the two he
preferred selling papers. Blacking boots would soil his hands and his
clothes, and, as it was possible that he might some day encounter some
one from his native village, he did not like to have the report carried
home that he had become a New York boot-black. He felt that his
education and bringing up fitted him for something better than that.
However, it was not necessary to decide this question until he had got
through applying for a situation in a store.

He tried his luck again, and once was on the point of being engaged at
three dollars per week, when a question as to his parents revealed the
fact that he was without a guardian, and this decided the question
against him.

"It's of no use," said Ben, despondently. "I might as well go back."

So he turned, and retraced his steps down Broadway. By the time he got
to the City Hall Park he was quite tired. Seeing some vacant seats
inside, he went in and sat down, resting his bundle on the seat beside
him. He saw quite a number of street boys within the inclosure, most of
them boot-blacks. As a rule, they bore the marks of their occupation
not only on their clothes, but on their faces and hands as well. Some,
who were a little more careful than the rest, were provided with a small
square strip of carpeting, on which they kneeled when engaged in
"shining up" a customer's boots. This formed a very good protection for
the knees of their pantaloons. Two were even more luxurious, having
chairs in which they seated their customers. Where this extra
accommodation was supplied, however, a fee of ten cents was demanded,
while the boot-blacks in general asked but five.

"Black your boots?" asked one boy of Ben, observing that our young
adventurer's shoes were soiled.

"Yes," said Ben, "if you'll do it for nothing."

"I'll black your eye for nothing," said the other.

"Thank you," said Ben, "I won't trouble you."

Ben was rather interested in a scene which he witnessed shortly
afterwards. A young man, whose appearance indicated that he was from the
country, was waylaid by the boys, and finally submitted his boots to an
operator.

"How much do you want?"

"Twenty-five cents," was the reply.

"Twenty-five cents!" exclaimed the customer, aghast. "You're jokin',
aint you?"

"Reg'lar price, mister," was the reply.

"Why, I saw a boy blackin' boots down by the museum for ten cents."

"Maybe you did; but this is the City Hall Park. We're employed by the
city, and we have to charge the reg'lar price."

"I wish I'd got my boots blacked down to the museum," said the victim,
in a tone of disappointment, producing twenty-five cents, which was
eagerly appropriated by the young extortioner.

"I say, Tommy, give us a treat, or we'll peach," said one of the boys.

Tom led the way to the ice-cream vender's establishment, where with
reckless extravagance he ordered a penny ice-cream all round for the
half-dozen boys in his company, even then making a handsome thing out of
the extra pay he had obtained from his rustic patron.

By this time it was half-past two o'clock. So Ben learned from the City
Hall clock. He was getting decidedly hungry. There were apple and cake
stands just outside the railings, on which he could have regaled
himself cheaply, but his appetite craved something more solid. There was
a faint feeling, which nothing but meat could satisfy.

Ben had no idea how much a plate of meat would cost at a restaurant. He
had but twenty-two cents, and whatever he got must come within that
limit. Still he hoped that something could be obtained for this sum.

Where to go,--that was the question.

"Can you tell me a good place to get some dinner?" he asked of a boy,
standing near him.

"Down on Nassau Street or Fulton Street," was the reply.

"Where is Fulton Street?" asked Ben, catching the last name.

"I'm goin' that way. You can go with me if you want to."

Ben readily accepted the companionship proffered, and was led past the
museum, the site of which, as I have said, is now occupied by the Herald
Building.

Turning down Fulton Street, Ben soon saw a restaurant, with bills of
fare displayed outside.

"That's a good place," said his guide.

"Thank you," said Ben.

He scanned the bill in advance, ascertaining to his satisfaction that he
could obtain a plate of roast beef for fifteen cents, and a cup of
coffee for five. This would make but twenty cents, leaving him a balance
of two cents.

He opened the door and entered.

There was a long table running through the centre of the apartment, from
the door to the rear. On each side, against the sides of the room, were
small tables intended for four persons each. There were but few eating,
as the busy time at down-town restaurants usually extends from twelve to
half-past one, or two o'clock, and it was now nearly three.

Ben entered and took a seat at one of the side tables, laying his bundle
on a chair beside him.

A colored waiter came up, and stood awaiting his orders.

"Give me a plate of roast beef," said Ben.

"Yes, sir. Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee."

The waiter went to the lower end of the dining-room, and called out,
"Roast beef."

After a brief delay, he returned with the article ordered, and a cup of
coffee.

There were two potatoes with the meat, and a small piece of bread on the
side of the plate. The coffee looked muddy, and not particularly
inviting.

Ben was not accustomed to the ways of restaurants, and supposed that, as
in shops, immediate payment was expected.

"Here's the money--twenty cents," he said, producing the sum named.

"Pay at the desk as you go out," said the waiter.

Ben looked up, and then for the first time noticed a man behind a
counter in the front part of the room.

At the same time the waiter produced a green ticket, bearing "20 cents"
printed upon it.

Ben now addressed himself with a hearty appetite to the dinner. The
plate was dingy, and the meat neither very abundant nor very tender.
Still it can hardly be expected that for fifteen cents a large plate of
sirloin can be furnished. Ben was not in a mood to be critical. At home
he would have turned up his nose at such a repast, but hunger is very
well adapted to cure one of fastidiousness. He ate rapidly, and felt
that he had seldom eaten anything so good. He was sorry there was no
more bread, the supply being exceedingly limited. As for the coffee he
was able to drink it, though he did not enjoy it so well. It tasted as
if there was not more than a teaspoonful of milk in the infusion, while
the flavor of the beverage differed strangely from the coffee he had
been accustomed to get at home.

"It isn't very good," thought Ben; and he could not help wishing he had
a cup of the good coffee his mother used to make at home.

"Have anything more?" asked the waiter, coming up to the table.

Ben looked over the bill of fare, not that he expected to get anything
for the two cents that still remained to him, but because he wanted to
notice the prices of different articles. His eye rested rather longingly
on "Apple Dumplings." He was very fond of this dish, and his appetite
was so far from being satisfied that he felt that he could have easily
disposed of a plate. But the price was ten cents, and of course it was
entirely beyond his means.

"Nothing more," said he, and rose from his seat.

He went up to the counter and settled his bill, and went out again into
the street. He felt more comfortable than he had done, as one is very
apt to feel after a good dinner, and Ben's dinner had been a good one,
his appetite making up for any deficiency in the quality.

Where should he go now?

He was still tired, and did not care to wander about the streets.
Besides, he had no particular place to go to. He therefore decided to
walk back to the City Hall Park, and sit down on one of the benches.
There would be something to see, and he was interested in watching the
street boys, whose ranks he felt that he should very soon be compelled
to join. His prospects did not look particularly bright, as he was not
provided with means sufficient to pay for another meal. But the time had
not yet come to trouble himself about that. When he got hungry again, he
would probably realize his position a little more keenly.




CHAPTER V.

A BEER-GARDEN IN THE BOWERY.


Ben sat down again in his old seat, and occupied himself once more in
looking about him. After a while he became sleepy. Besides having taken
a considerable walk, he had not slept much the night before. As no one
occupied the bench but himself, he thought he might as well make himself
comfortable. Accordingly he laid his bundle crosswise at one end, and
laid back, using it for a pillow. The visor of his cap he brought down
over his eyes, so as to shield them from the afternoon sun. The seat was
hard, to be sure, but his recumbent position rested him. He did not mean
to go to sleep, but gradually the sounds around him became an indistinct
hum; even the noise and bustle of busy Broadway, but a few feet distant,
failed to ward off sleep, and in a short time he was sleeping soundly.

Of course he could not sleep in so public a place without attracting
attention. Two ragged boys espied him, and held a low conference
together.

"What's he got in that bundle, Jim, do you think?" asked one.

"We'd better look and see."

They went up to the bench, and touched him, to make sure that he was
fast asleep. The touch did not rouse him to consciousness.

"Just lift up his head, Mike, and I'll take the bundle," said the larger
of the two boys.

This was done.

"Now, let him down softly."

So the bundle was removed, and poor Ben, wandering somewhere in the land
of dreams, was none the wiser. His head, deprived of its former support,
now rested on the hard bench. It was not so comfortable, but he was too
tired to awake. So he slept on.

Meanwhile Jim and Mike opened the bundle.

"It's a couple of shirts," said Jim.

"Is that all?" asked Mike, disappointed.

"Well, that's better than nothin'."

"Give me one of 'em."

"It's just about your size. 'Taint big enough for me."

"Then give me the two of 'em."

"What'll you give?"

"I aint got no stamps. I'll pay you a quarter when I get it."

"That don't go down," said Jim, whose confidence in his confederate's
honesty was not very great. Considering the transaction in which they
were now engaged, it is not surprising that there should have been a
mutual distrust. Being unable to make any bargain, Jim decided to take
his share of the booty round to a second-hand clothes-dealer in Chatham
Street. Here, after considerable higgling, he succeeded in selling the
shirt for sixteen cents, which was less than his companion had offered.
However, it was cash down, and so was immediately available,--an
important consideration in the present state of Jim's finances. "A bird
in the hand," as he considered, "was worth two in the bush."

Jim immediately purchased a cigar with a portion of his dishonest gains,
and, procuring a light, walked about in a state of high enjoyment,
puffing away as coolly as a man of twice his years.

Meanwhile Ben continued to sleep, happily unconscious of the loss of his
entire personal possessions. In his dreams he was at home once more,
playing with his school companions. Let him sleep! He will waken soon
enough to the hard realities of a street life, voluntarily undertaken,
it is true, but none the less likely to bear heavily upon him.

He slept a long time. When he awoke it was six o'clock.

He sat upon his seat, and rubbed his eyes in momentary bewilderment. In
his dreams he had been back again to his native village, and he could
not at once recall his change of circumstances. But it all came back to
him soon enough. He realized with a slight pang that he had a home no
longer; that he was a penniless vagrant, for whom the hospitality of the
streets alone was open. He did wish that he could sit down at the
plentiful home table, and eat the well-cooked supper which was always
provided; that is, if he could blot out one remembrance: when he thought
of the unjust punishment that had driven him forth, his pride rose, and
his determination became as stubborn as ever. I do not defend Ben in
this. He was clearly wrong. The best of parents may be unintentionally
unjust at times, and this is far from affording an adequate excuse for a
boy to leave home. But Ben had a great deal of pride, and I am only
telling you how he felt.

Our young adventurer did not at first realize the loss which he had
sustained. It was at least five minutes before he thought of his bundle
at all. At length, chancing to look at the seat beside him, he missed
it.

"Where can it be, I wonder?" he thought, perplexed.

He looked under the bench, thinking that perhaps it had rolled off. But
it need not be said that it was not to be seen.

Ben was rather disturbed. It was all he had brought from home, and
constituted his entire earthly possessions.

"It must have rolled off, and been picked up by somebody," he thought;
but the explanation was not calculated to bring any satisfaction. "I
did not think I should fall asleep."

It occurred to him that some of the boys near by might have seen it. So
he went up to a group of boot-blacks near by, one of whom was Jim, who
had actually been concerned in the robbery. The other boys knew nothing
of the affair.

"I say, boys," said Ben, "have you seen anything of my bundle?"

"What bundle, Johnny?" said Jim, who was now smoking his second cigar.

"I had a small bundle tied up in a newspaper," said Ben. "I put it under
my head, and then fell asleep. Now I can't find it."

"Do you think we stole it?" said Jim, defiantly.

"Of course I don't," said Ben; "but I thought it might have slipped out,
and you might have seen somebody pick it up."

"Haven't seen it, Johnny," said one of the other boys; "most likely it's
stole."

"Do you think so?" asked Ben, anxiously.

"In course, you might expect it would be."

"I didn't mean to go to sleep."

"What was there in it?"

"There was two shirts."

"You've got a shirt on, aint you?"

"Yes," said Ben.

"That's all right, then. What does a feller want of a thousand shirts?"

"There's some difference between two shirts and a thousand," said Ben.

"What's the odds? I haven't got but one shirt. That's all I want. When
it is wore out I'll buy a new one."

"What do you do when it gets dirty?" asked Ben, in some curiosity.

"Oh, I wash it once in two or three weeks," was the reply.

This was not exactly in accordance with Ben's ideas of neatness; but he
saw that no satisfaction was likely to be obtained in this quarter, so
he walked away rather depressed. It certainly hadn't been a lucky
day,--this first day in the city. He had been rejected in half-a-dozen
stores in his applications for employment, had spent nearly all his
money, and been robbed of all his clothing except what he wore.

Again Ben began to feel an appetite. He had eaten his dinner late, but
it had consisted of a plate of meat only. His funds being now reduced to
two cents, he was obliged to content himself with an apple, which did
something towards appeasing his appetite.

Next Ben began to consider anxiously how he was to pass the night.
Having no money to spend for lodging, there seemed nothing to do but to
sleep out of doors. It was warm weather, and plenty of street boys did
it. But to Ben it would be a new experience, and he regarded it with
some dread. He wished he could meet with Jerry Collins, his acquaintance
of the morning. From him he might obtain some information that would be
of service in his present strait.

Three or four hours must elapse before it would be time to go to bed.
Ben hardly knew how or where to pass them. He had become tired of the
park; besides, he had got over a part of his fatigue, and felt able to
walk about and explore the city. He turned at a venture up Chatham
Street, and was soon interested in the sights of this peculiar
thoroughfare,--the shops open to the street, with half their stock in
trade exposed on the sidewalk, the importunities of the traders, and the
appearance of the people whom he met. It seemed very lively and
picturesque to Ben, and drew away his attention from his own awkward
position.

He was asked to buy by some of the traders, being promised wonderful
bargains; but his penniless condition put him out of the reach of
temptation.

So he wandered on until he came to the Bowery, a broad avenue, wider
than Broadway, and lined by shops of a great variety, but of a grade
inferior to those of its more aristocratic neighbor.

Here, also, the goods are liberally displayed on the sidewalk, and are
generally labelled with low prices, which tempts many purchasers. The
purchaser, however, must look carefully to the quality of the goods
which he buys, or he will in many cases find the low price merely a
snare and a delusion, and regret that he had not paid more liberally and
bought a better article.

Later in the evening, on his return walk, Ben came to an establishment
brilliant with light, from which proceeded strains of music. Looking
in, he saw that it was filled with small tables, around which were
seated men, women, and children. They had glasses before them from which
they drank. This was a Lager Beer Hall or Garden,--an institution
transplanted from Germany, and chiefly patronized by those of German
birth or extraction. It seemed bright and cheerful, and our young
adventurer thought it would be pleasant to go in, and spend an hour or
two, listening to the music; but he was prevented by the consciousness
that he had no money to spend, and might be considered an intruder.

While he was looking in wistfully, he was struck on the back; and
turning, saw, to his surprise, the face of his only acquaintance in New
York, Jerry Collins, the boot-black.

"I am glad to see you," he said, eagerly offering his hand, without
considering that Jerry's hand, unwashed during the day, was stained with
blacking. He felt so glad to meet an acquaintance, however, that he
would not have minded this, even if it had occurred to him.

"The same to you," said Jerry. "Are you going in?"

"I haven't got any money," said Ben, a little ashamed of the confession.

"Well, I have, and that'll do just as well."

He took Ben by the arm, and they passed through a vestibule, and entered
the main apartment, which was of large size. On one side, about half way
down, was a large instrument some like an organ, from which the music
proceeded. The tables were very well filled, Germans largely
predominating among the guests.

"Sit down here," said Jerry.

They took seats at one of the tables. Opposite was a stout German and
his wife, the latter holding a baby. Both had glasses of lager before
them, and the baby was also offered a share by its mother; but, from the
contortions of its face, did not appear to relish it.

"_Zwei Glass Lager_," said Jerry, to a passing attendant.

"Can you speak German?" asked Ben, surprised.

"Yaw," said Jerry; "my father was an Irishman, and my mother was a
Dutchman."

Jerry's German, however, seemed to be limited, as he made no further
attempts to converse in that language.

The glasses were brought. Jerry drank his down at a draught, but Ben,
who had never before tasted lager, could not at once become reconciled
to its bitter taste.

"Don't you like it?" asked Jerry.

"Not very much," said Ben.

"Then I'll finish it for you;" and he suited the action to the word.

Besides the lager a few plain cakes were sold, but nothing more
substantial. Evidently the beer was the great attraction. Ben could not
help observing, with some surprise, that, though everybody was drinking,
there was not the slightest disturbance, or want of decorum, or
drunkenness. The music, which was furnished at intervals, was of very
good quality, and was listened to with attention.

"I was goin' to Tony Pastor's to-night," said Jerry, "if I hadn't met
you."

"What sort of a place is that?" asked Ben.

"Oh, it's a bully place--lots of fun. You must go there some time."

"I think I will," answered Ben, mentally adding, "if I ever have money
enough."

Here the music struck up, and they stopped to listen to it. When this
was over, Jerry proposed to go out. Ben would have been willing to stay
longer; but he saw that his companion did not care so much for the music
as himself, and he did not wish to lose sight of him. To be alone in a
great city, particularly under Ben's circumstances, is not very
pleasant, and our young adventurer determined to stick to his new
acquaintance, who, though rough in his manners, had yet seemed inclined
to be friendly, and Ben felt sadly in need of a friend.




CHAPTER VI.

THE BURNING BALES.


"Where are you going to sleep to-night?" asked Ben, introducing a
subject which had given him some anxiety.

"I don't know," said Jerry, carelessly. "I'll find a place somewhere."

"I'll go with you, if you'll let me," said Ben.

"In course I will."

"I haven't got any money."

"What's the odds? They don't charge nothin' at the hotel where I stop."

"What time do you go to bed?"

"Most any time. Do you feel sleepy?"

"Rather. I didn't sleep much last night."

"Well, we'll go and find a place now. How'd you like sleepin' on
cotton-bales?"

"I think that would be comfortable."

"There's a pile of bales down on the pier, where the New Orleans
steamers come in. Maybe we could get a chance there."

"All right. Where is it?"

"Pier 8, North River. It'll take us twenty minutes, or maybe half an
hour, to go there."

"Let us go," said Ben.

He felt relieved at the idea of so comfortable a bed as a cotton-bale,
and was anxious to get stowed away for the night.

The two boys struck across to Broadway, and followed that street down
past Trinity Church, turning down the first street beyond. Rector
Street, notwithstanding its clerical name, is far from an attractive
street. Just in the rear of the great church, and extending down to the
wharves, is a collection of miserable dwellings, occupied by tenants
upon whom the near presence of the sanctuary appears to produce little
impression of a salutary character. Ben looked about him in
ill-concealed disgust. He neither fancied the neighborhood, nor the
people whom he met. But the Island is very narrow just here, and he had
not far to walk to West Street, which runs along the edge of Manhattan
Island, and is lined with wharves. Jerry, of course, did not mind the
surroundings. He was too well used to them to care.

They brought out opposite the pier.

"There it is," said Jerry.

Ben saw a pile of cotton-bales heaped up on the wharf in front. Just
behind them was a gate, and over it the sign of the New Orleans Company.

"I should think somebody would steal the bales," said Ben. "Are they
left out here all night?"

"There's a watchman round here somewhere," said Jerry. "He stays here
all night to guard the bales."

"Will he let us sleep here?"

"I don't know," said Jerry. "We'll creep in, when he isn't looking."

The watchman was sitting down, leaning his back against one of the
bales. A short pipe was in his mouth, and he seemed to be enjoying his
smoke. This was contrary to orders, for the cotton being combustible
might easily catch fire; but this man, supposing that he would not be
detected, indulged himself in the forbidden luxury.

"Now creep along softly," said Jerry.

The latter, being barefooted, had an advantage over Ben, but our young
adventurer crept after him as softly as he could. Jerry found a bale
screened from observation by the higher piles on each side, where he
thought they could sleep unobserved. Following his lead, Ben stretched
himself out upon it.

The watchman was too busily occupied with his pipe to detect any noise.

"Aint it comfortable?" whispered Jerry.

"Yes," said Ben, in the same low tone.

"I wouldn't ask for nothin' better," said Jerry.

Ben was not so sure about that; but then he had not slept out hundreds
of nights, like Jerry, in old wagons, or on door-steps, or wherever else
he could; so he had a different standard of comparison.

He could not immediately go to sleep. He was tired, it was true, but his
mind was busy. It was only twelve hours since he had landed in the city,
but it had been an eventful twelve hours. He understood his position a
little better now, and how much he had undertaken, in boldly leaving
home at ten years of age, and taking upon himself the task of earning
his living.

If he had known what was before him, would he have left home at all?

Ben was not sure about this. He did own to himself, however, that he was
disappointed. The city had not proved the paradise he had expected.
Instead of finding shopkeepers eager to secure his services, he had
found himself uniformly rejected. He began to suspect that it was rather
early to begin the world at ten years of age. Then again, though he was
angry with his father, he had no cause of complaint against his mother.
She had been uniformly kind and gentle, and he found it hard to keep
back the tears when he thought how she would be distressed at his
running away. He had not thought of that in the heat of his first anger,
but he thought of it now. How would she feel if she knew where he was at
this moment, resting on a cotton-bale, on a city wharf, penniless and
without a friend in the great city, except the ragged boy who was
already asleep at his side? She would feel badly, Ben knew that, and he
half regretted having been so precipitate in his action. He could remedy
it all, and relieve his mother's heart by going back. But here Ben's
pride came in. To go back would be to acknowledge himself wrong; it
would be a virtual confession of failure, and, moreover, knowing his
father's sternness, he knew that he would be severely punished.
Unfortunately for Ben, his father had a stern, unforgiving disposition,
that never made allowances for the impulses of boyhood. He had never
condescended to study his own son, and the method of training he had
adopted with him was in some respects very pernicious. His system
hardened, instead of softening, and prejudiced Ben against what was
right, maddening him with a sense of injustice, and so preventing his
being influenced towards good. Of course, all this did not justify Ben
in running away from home. The thought of his mother ought to have been
sufficient to have kept him from any such step. But it was necessary to
be stated, in order that my readers might better understand what sort of
a boy Ben was.

So, in spite of his half relenting, Ben determined that he would not go
home at all events. Whatever hardships lay before him in the new life
which he had adopted, he resolved to stand them as well as he could.
Indeed, however much he might desire to retrace his steps, he had no
money to carry him back, nor could he obtain any unless he should write
home for it, and this again would be humiliating. Ben's last thought,
then, as he sank to sleep, was, that he would stick to New York, and get
his living somehow, even if he had to black boots for a living.

At the end of an hour, both boys were fast asleep. The watchman, after
smoking his pipe, got up, and paced up and down the wharf drowsily. He
did not happen to observe the young sleepers. If he had done so, he
would undoubtedly have shaken them roughly, and ordered them off. It was
rather fortunate that neither Ben nor his companion were in the habit of
snoring, as this would at once have betrayed their presence, even to the
negligent watchman.

After a while the watchman bethought himself again of his pipe, and,
filling the bowl with tobacco, lighted it. Then, with the most culpable
carelessness, he half reclined on one of the bales and "took comfort."
Not having prepared himself for the vigils of the night by repose during
the day, he began to feel uncommonly drowsy. The whiffs came less and
less frequently, until at last the pipe fell from his lips, and he fell
back fast asleep. The burning contents of the pipe fell on the bale, and
gradually worked their way down into the interior. Here the mischief
soon spread. What followed may easily be imagined.

Ben was aroused from his sleep by a confused outcry. He rubbed his eyes
to see what was the matter. There was something stifling and suffocating
in the atmosphere, which caused him to choke as he breathed. As he
became more awake, he realized that the cotton-bales, among which he had
taken refuge, were on fire. He became alarmed, and shook Jerry
energetically.

"What's up?" said Jerry, drowsily. "I aint done nothin'. You can't take
me up."

"Jerry, wake up; the bales are on fire," said Ben.

"I thought 'twas a copp," said Jerry, rousing, and at a glance
understanding the position of affairs. "Let's get out of this."

That was not quite so easy. There was fire on all sides, and they must
rush through it at some risk. However, it was every moment getting
worse, and there was no chance for delay.

"Foller me," said Jerry, and he dashed through, closely pursued by Ben.

By this time quite a crowd of men and boys had gathered around the
burning bales.

When the two boys rushed out, there was a general exclamation of
surprise. Then one burly man caught Jerry by the arm, and said, "Here's
the young villain that set the bales on fire."

"Let me alone, will you?" said Jerry. "Yer grandmother set it on fire,
more likely."

No sooner was Jerry seized, than another man caught hold of Ben, and
forcibly detained him.

"I've got the other," he said.

"Now, you young rascal, tell me how you did it," said the first. "Was
you smokin'?"

"No, I wasn't," said Jerry, shortly. "I was sleepin' along of this other
boy."

"What made you come here to sleep?"

"'Cause we hadn't no other bed."

"Are you sure you wasn't smoking?"

"Look here," said Jerry, contemptuously, "you must think I'm a fool, to
go and set my own bed on fire."

"That's true," said a bystander. "It wouldn't be very likely."

"Who did it, then?" asked the stout man, suspiciously.

"It's the watchman. I seed him smokin' when I turned in."

"Where is he now?"

Search was made for the watchman, but he had disappeared. Awaking to a
consciousness of what mischief he had caused through his carelessness,
he had slipped away in the confusion, and was not likely to return.

"The boy tells the truth," said one of the crowd. "I saw the watchman
smoking myself. No doubt the fire caught from his pipe. The boys are
innocent. Better let them go."

The two custodians of Jerry and Ben released their hold, and they gladly
availed themselves of the opportunity to remove themselves to a safer
distance from their late bedchamber.

Two fire-engines came thundering up, and streams of water were directed
effectively at the burning bales. The flames were extinguished, but not
till considerable damage had been done.

As the two boys watched the contest between the flames and the engines,
from a safe distance, they heard the sonorous clang of the bell in the
church-tower, ringing out twelve o'clock.




CHAPTER VII.

BEN'S TEMPTATION.


"Jest my luck!" complained Jerry. "Why couldn't the fire have waited
till mornin'?"

"We might have burned up," said Ben, who was considerably impressed by
his narrow escape.

"Only we didn't," said Jerry. "We'll have to try another hotel for the
rest of the night."

"Where shall we go?"

"We may find a hay-barge down to the pier at the foot of Franklin
Street."

"Is it far?"

"Not very."

"Let us go then."

So the boys walked along the street until they came to the pier referred
to. There was a barge loaded with hay, lying alongside the wharf. Jerry
speedily provided himself with a resting-place upon it, and Ben followed
his example. It proved to be quite as comfortable, if not more so, than
their former bed, and both boys were soon asleep. How long he slept Ben
did not know, but he was roused to consciousness by a rude shake.

"Wake up there!" said a voice.

Ben opened his eyes, and saw a laboring man bending over him.

"Is it time to get up?" he inquired, hardly conscious where he was.

"I should think it was, particularly as you haven't paid for your
lodging."

"Where's Jerry?" asked Ben, missing the boot-black.

The fact was, that Jerry, whose business required him to be astir early,
had been gone over an hour. He had not felt it necessary to wake up Ben,
knowing that the latter had nothing in particular to call him up.

"I don't know anything about Jerry. You'd better be going home, young
'un. Take my advice, and don't stay out another night."

He evidently thought that Ben was a truant from home, as his dress
would hardly class him among the homeless boys who slept out from
necessity.

Ben scrambled upon the pier, and took a cross street up towards
Broadway. He had slept off his fatigue, and the natural appetite of a
healthy boy began to assert itself. It was rather uncomfortable to
reflect that he was penniless, and had no means of buying a breakfast.
He had meant to ask Jerry's advice, as to some occupation by which he
could earn a little money, and felt disappointed that his companion had
gone away before he waked up. His appetite was the greater because he
had been limited to a single apple for supper.

Where to go he did not know. One place was as good as another. It was a
strange sensation to Ben to feel the cravings of appetite, with nothing
to satisfy it. All his life he had been accustomed to a good home, where
his wants were plentifully provided for. He had never had any anxiety
about the supply of his daily wants. In the city there were hundreds of
boys younger than he, who, rising in the morning, knew not where their
meals were to come from, or whether they were to have any; but this had
never been his case.

"I am young and strong," thought Ben. "Why can't I find something to
do?"

His greatest anxiety was to work, and earn his living somehow; but how
did not seem clear. Even if he were willing to turn boot-black, he had
no box nor brush, and had some doubts whether he should at first possess
the requisite skill. Selling papers struck him more favorably; but here
again the want of capital would be an objection.

So, in a very perplexed frame of mind, our young adventurer went on his
way, and after a while caught sight of the upper end of the City Hall
Park. Here he felt himself at home, and, entering, looked among the
dozens of boys who were plying their work to see if he could not find
his acquaintance Jerry. But here he was unsuccessful. Jerry's business
stand was near the Cortlandt Street pier.

Hour after hour passed, and Ben became more and more hungry and
dispirited. He felt thoroughly helpless. There seemed to be nothing that
he could do. He began to be faint, and his head ached. One o'clock
found him on Nassau Street, near the corner of Fulton. There was a stand
for the sale of cakes and pies located here, presided over by an old
woman, of somewhat ample dimensions. This stall had a fascination for
poor Ben. He had such a craving for food that he could not take his eyes
off the tempting pile of cakes which were heaped up before him. It
seemed to him that he should be perfectly happy if he could be permitted
to eat all he wanted of them.

Ben knew that it was wrong to steal. He had never in his life taken what
did not belong to him, which is more than many boys can say, who have
been brought up even more comfortably than he. But the temptation now
was very strong. He knew it was not right; but he was not without
excuse. Watching his opportunity, he put his hand out quickly, and,
seizing a couple of pies, stowed them away hastily in his pocket, and
was about moving off to eat them in some place where he would not be
observed. But though the owner of the stolen articles had not observed
the theft, there was a boy hanging about the stall, possibly with the
same object in view, who did see it.

"He's got some of your pies, old lady," said the young detective.

The old woman looked round, and though the pies were in Ben's pocket
there was a telltale in his face which betrayed him.

"Put back them pies, you young thafe!" said the angry pie-merchant.
"Aint you ashamed of yerself to rob a poor widdy, that has hard work to
support herself and her childers,--you that's dressed like a gentleman,
and ought to know better?"

"Give it to him, old lady," said the hard-hearted young vagabond, who
had exposed Ben's iniquity.

As for Ben, he had not a word to say. In spite of his hunger, he was
overwhelmed with confusion at having actually attempted to steal, and
been caught in the act. He was by no means a model boy; but apart from
anything which he had been taught in the Sunday school, he considered
stealing mean and discreditable, and yet he had been led into it. What
would his friends at home think of it, if they should ever hear of it?
So, as I said, he stood without a word to say in his defence,
mechanically replacing the pies on the stall.

"I say, old lady, you'd orter give me a pie for tellin' you," said the
informer.

"You'd have done the same, you young imp, if you'd had the chance,"
answered the pie-vender, with more truth than gratitude. "Clear out, the
whole on ye. I've had trouble enough with ye."

Ben moved off, thankful to get off so well. He had feared that he might
be handed over to the police, and this would have been the crowning
disgrace.

But the old woman seemed satisfied with the restoration of her property,
and the expression of her indignation. The attempt upon her stock she
regarded with very little surprise, having suffered more than once
before in a similar way.

But there was another spectator of the scene, whose attention had been
drawn to the neat attire and respectable appearance of Ben. He saw that
he differed considerably from the ordinary run of street boys. He
noticed also the flush on the boy's cheek when he was detected, and
judged that this was his first offence. Something out of the common way
must have driven him to the act. He felt impelled to follow Ben, and
learn what that something was. I may as well state here that he was a
young man of twenty-five or thereabouts, a reporter on one or more of
the great morning papers. He, like Ben, had come to the city in search
of employment, and before he secured it had suffered more hardships and
privations than he liked to remember. He was now earning a modest
income, sufficient to provide for his wants, and leave a surplus over.
He had seen much of suffering and much of crime in his daily walks about
the city, but his heart had not become hardened, nor his sympathies
blunted. He gave more in proportion to his means than many rich men who
have a reputation for benevolence.

Ben had walked but a few steps, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

Looking round hastily, he met the gaze of the young man. He had thought
at first it might be a policeman, and he felt relieved when he saw his
mistake.

"You are the boy who just now took a couple of pies from a stall?" said
the reporter.

"Yes," said Ben, hesitatingly, his face crimsoning as he spoke.

"Do you mind telling me why you did so?"

There was something in his tone which reassured Ben, and he determined
to tell the truth frankly.

"I have eaten nothing to-day," he said.

"You never took anything before?"

"No," said Ben, quickly.

"I suppose you had no money to buy with?"

"No, I had not."

"How does it happen that a boy as well dressed as you are, are in such a
position?"

"I would rather not tell," said Ben.

"Have you run away from home?"

"Yes; I had a good reason," he added, quickly.

"What do you propose to do? You must earn your living in some way, or
starve."

"I thought I might get a place in a store; but I have tried half a
dozen, and they won't take me."

"No, your chance will be small, unless you can bring good references.
But you must be hungry."

"I am," Ben admitted.

"That can be remedied, at all events. I am just going to get some
dinner; will you go with me?"

"I have no money."

"I have, and that will answer the purpose for this time. We will go back
to Fulton Street."

Ben turned back thankfully, and with his companion entered the very
restaurant in which he had dined the day before.

"If you are faint, soup will be the best thing for you to begin on,"
said the young man; and he gave an order to the waiter.

Nothing had ever seemed more delicious to Ben than that soup. When he
had done justice to it, a plate of beefsteak awaited him, which also
received his attention. Then he was asked to select some dessert.

"I am afraid you are spending too much for me," he said.

"Don't be afraid of that; I am glad that you have a good appetite."

At length the dinner was over. Ben felt decidedly better. His
despondency had vanished, and the world again seemed bright to him. It
is hard to be cheerful, or take bright views of life on an empty
stomach, as many have learned beside our young adventurer.

"Now," said his new-found friend, "I have a few minutes to spare.
Suppose we talk over your plans and prospects, and see if we can find
anything for you to do."

"Thank you," said Ben; "I wish you would give me your advice."

"My advice is that you return to your home, if you have one," said the
reporter.

Ben shook his head.

"I don't want to do that," he answered.

"I don't, of course, know what is your objection to this, which seems to
me the best course. Putting it aside, however, we will consider what you
can do here to earn your living."

"That is what I want to do."

"How would you like selling papers?"

"I think I should like it," said Ben; "but I have no money to buy any."

"It doesn't require a very large capital. I will lend you, or give you,
the small amount which will be necessary. However, you mustn't expect
to make a very large income."

"If I can make enough to live on, I won't care," said Ben.

He had at first aimed higher; but his short residence in the city taught
him that he would be fortunate to meet his expenses. There are a good
many besides Ben who have found their early expectations of success
considerably modified by experience.

"Let me see. It is half-past one o'clock," said the reporter, drawing
out his watch. "You had better lay in a supply of 'Expresses' and
'Evening Posts,' and take a good stand somewhere, and do your best with
them. As you are inexperienced in the business it will be well to take a
small supply at first, or you might get 'stuck.'"

"That's so."

"You must not lay in more than you can sell."

"Where can I get the papers?"

"I will go with you to the newspaper offices, and buy you half a dozen
of each. If you succeed in selling them, you can buy more. To-morrow you
can lay in some of the morning papers, the 'Herald,' 'World,'
'Tribune,' or 'Times.' It will be well also to have a few 'Suns' for
those who do not care to pay for the higher-priced papers."

"Thank you," said Ben, who was eager to begin his business career.

They rose from the table, and set out for the offices of the two evening
papers whose names have been mentioned.




CHAPTER VIII.

BEN COMMENCES HIS BUSINESS CAREER.


Ben soon took his stand in the street, with a roll of papers under his
arm, supplied by the generosity of his new acquaintance. It was rather a
trying ordeal for a country boy, new to the city and its ways. But Ben
was not bashful. He was not a timid boy, but was fully able to push his
way. So, glancing at the telegraphic headings, he began to call out the
news in a business-like way. He had already taken notice of how the
other newsboys acted, and therefore was at no loss how to proceed.

He met with very fair success, selling out the twelve papers which had
been bought for him, in a comparatively short time. It might have been
that the fact that he was neater and better dressed operated in his
favor. At any rate, though a new hand, he succeeded better than those
who were older in the business.

But his neat dress operated to his disadvantage in another quarter. His
business rivals, who were, with scarcely an exception, dressed with no
great pretensions to style or neatness, looked upon the interloper with
a jealous eye. They regarded him as "stuck up," in virtue of his
superior dress, and were indignant to find their sales affected by his
competition.

"Who's he? Ever seen him afore?" asked Tim Banks of a newsboy at his
side.

"No; he's a new chap."

"What business has he got to come here and steal away our trade, I'd
like to know?" continued Tim, eying Ben with no friendly glance.

At that moment a gentleman, passing Tim, bought an "Evening Post" of
Ben. It was the third paper that Ben had sold since Tim had effected a
sale. This naturally increased his indignation.

"He's puttin' on airs just because he's got good clo'es," said the other
newsboy, who shared Tim's feelings on the subject.

"Let's shove him out," suggested Tim.

"All right."

Tim, who was a boy of twelve, with a shock head, which looked as if it
had never been combed, and a suit of clothes which bore the marks of
severe usage, advanced to Ben, closely followed by his confederate, who
had agreed to back him.

Ben had just sold his last paper when the two approached him. He did not
understand their object until Tim, swaggering up to him, said
offensively, "You'd better clear out; you aint wanted here."

Ben turned and faced his ragged opponent with intrepidity.

"Why aint I wanted here?" he inquired, without manifesting the least
symptom of alarm.

Tim rather anticipated that Ben would show the white feather, and was a
little surprised at his calmness.

"Cause yer aint, that's why," he answered.

"If you don't like my company, you can go somewhere else," said Ben.

"This is _my_ place," said Tim. "You aint got no right to push in."

"If it's your place, how much did you pay for it?" asked Ben. "I thought
that the sidewalk was free to all."

"You aint got no right to interfere with my business."

"I didn't know that I had interfered with it."

"Well, you have. I aint sold more'n half as many papers since you've
been here."

"You've got the same chance as I have," said Ben. "I didn't tell them
not to buy of you."

"Well, you aint wanted here, and you'd better make tracks," said Tim,
who considered this the best argument of all.

"Suppose I don't," said Ben.

"Then I'll give you a lickin'."

Ben surveyed the boy who uttered this threat, in the same manner that a
general would examine an opposing force, with a view to ascertain his
strength and ability to cope with him. It was clear that Tim was taller
than himself, and doubtless older. As to being stronger, Ben did not
feel so positive. He was himself well and compactly made, and strong of
his age. He did not relish the idea of being imposed upon, and prepared
to resist any encroachment upon his rights. He did not believe that Tim
had any right to order him off. He felt that the sidewalk was just as
free to him as to any other boy, and he made up his mind to assert and
maintain his right.

"If you want to give me a licking, just try it," he said. "I've got just
as much right to stand here and sell papers as you have, and I'm going
to do it."

"You needn't be so stuck up jest because you've got good clo'es on."

"If they are good, I can't help it," said Ben. "They're all I have, and
they won't be good long."

"Maybe I could get good clo'es if I'd steal em," said Tim.

"Do you mean to say I stole these?" retorted Ben, angrily. He had no
sooner said it, however, than he thought of the pies which he should
have stolen if he had not been detected, and his face flushed. Luckily
Tim did not know why his words produced an effect upon Ben, or he would
have followed up his attack.

"Yes, I do," said Tim.

"Then you judge me by yourself," said Ben, "that's all I've got to say."

"Say that ag'in," said Tim, menacingly.

"So I will, if you want to hear it. You judge me by yourself."

"I'll give you a lickin'."

"You've said that before."

Tim was not particularly brave. Still Ben was a smaller boy, and besides
he had a friend at hand to back him, so he concluded that it would be
safe to venture. Doubling up a dirty fist, he struck out, intending to
hit Ben in the face; but our young adventurer was on his guard, and
fended off the blow with his arms.

"Will yer go now?" demanded Tim, pausing after his attack.

"Why should I?"

"If you don't I'll give you another lick."

"I can stand it, if it isn't any worse than that."

Tim was spurred by this to renew the assault. He tried to throw his arms
around Ben, and lift him from the ground, which would enable him to
throw him with greater ease. But Ben was wary, and experienced in this
mode of warfare, having often had scuffles in fun with his
school-fellows. He evaded Tim's grasp, therefore, and dealt him a blow
in the breast, which made Tim stagger back. He began to realize that
Ben, though a smaller boy, was a formidable opponent, and regretted that
he had undertaken a contest with him. He was constrained to appeal to
his companion for assistance.

"Just lend a hand, Jack, and we'll give it to him."

"So you have to ask help," said Ben, scornfully, "though you're bigger
than I am."

"I could lick yer well enough alone," said Tim, "but you've been
interferin' with Jack's business, as well as mine."

Jack responded to his friend's appeal, and the two advanced to the
assault of Ben. Of course all this took place much more quickly than it
has taken to describe it. The contest commenced, and our young
adventurer would have got the worst of it, if help had not arrived.
Though a match for either of the boys singly, he could not be expected
to cope with both at a time, especially as he was smaller than either.

Tim found himself seized forcibly by the arm, just as he was about to
level a blow at Ben. Looking up, he met the glance of another newsboy, a
boy of fourteen, who was known among his comrades as "Rough and Ready."
This boy was stout and strong, and was generally liked by those of his
class for his generous qualities, as well as respected for his physical
strength, which he was always ready to exert in defence of a weaker boy.

"What's all this, Tim?" he demanded. "Aint you ashamed, the two of you,
to pitch into a smaller boy?"

"He aint got no business here," said Tim, doggedly.

"Why not?"

"He's takin' away all our trade."

"Hasn't he just as much right to sell papers as you?"

"He can go somewhere else."

"So can you."

"He's a new boy. This is the first day he's sold papers."

"Then you ought to be able to keep up with him. What's your name, young
un?"

This question was, of course, addressed to Ben.

"Ben," answered our young hero. He did not think it necessary to mention
his other name, especially as, having run away from home, he had a
vague idea that it might lead to his discovery.

"Well, Ben, go ahead and sell your papers. I'll see that you have fair
play."

"Thank you," said Ben. "I'm not afraid of either of them."

"Both of them might be too much for you."

"I don't want to interfere with their business. They've got just as good
a chance to sell as I have."

"Of course they have. Is this your first day?"

"Yes."

"How many papers have you sold?"

"Six 'Posts' and six 'Expresses.'"

"That's pretty good for a beginning. Are you going to get some more?"

"Yes, I was just going into the office when that boy," pointing to Tim,
"tried to drive me off."

"He won't do it again. Come in with me. I'm going to buy some papers
too."

"What's your name?" asked Ben. "I like you; you're not mean, like those
fellows."

"My name is Rufus, but the boys call me Rough and Ready."

"Where do you live,--at the Newsboys' Lodging House?"

"No, I live in Leonard Street. I've got a mother and a little sister. I
live with them."

"Have you got a father?"

"No, that is, not a real father. I've got a step-father; but he's worse
than none, for he is loafing round most of the time, and spends all the
money he can get on drink. If it wasn't for me, he'd treat mother worse
than he does. How long have you been in New York?"

"Only a day or two," said Ben.

"Where are you living?"

"Anywhere I can. I haven't got any place."

"Where did you sleep last night?"

"In a hay-barge, at one of the piers, along with a boot-black named
Jerry. That was the first night I ever slept out."

"How did you like it?"

"I think I'd prefer a bed," said Ben.

"You can get one at the Lodge for six cents."

"I didn't have six cents last night."

"They'll trust you there, and you can pay next time."

"Where is the Lodging House?"

"It's on the corner of this street and Fulton," said Rough and Ready.
"I'll show it to you, if you want me to."

"I'd like to have you. I'd rather pay six cents than sleep out again."

By this time they reached the office of the "Express," and, entering,
purchased a supply of papers. He was about to invest his whole capital,
but, by the advice of his companion, bought only eight copies, as by the
time these were disposed of a later edition would be out, which of
course would be more salable.




CHAPTER IX.

SCENES AT THE NEWSBOYS' LODGING HOUSE.


It will be unnecessary to give in detail the record of Ben's sales. He
succeeded, because he was in earnest, and he was in earnest, because his
own experience in the early part of the day had revealed to him how
uncomfortable it was to be without money or friends in a large city. At
seven o'clock, on counting over his money, he found that he had a dollar
and twelve cents. Of this sum he had received half a dollar from the
friendly reporter, to start him in business. This left sixty-two cents
as his net profits for the afternoon's work. Ben felt proud of it, for
it was the first money he had ever earned. His confidence came back to
him, and he thought he saw his way clear to earning his own living.

Although the reporter had not exacted repayment, Ben determined to lay
aside fifty cents for that purpose. Of the remaining sixty-two, a part
must be saved as a fund for the purchase of papers the next morning.
Probably thirty cents would be sufficient for this, as, after selling
out those first purchased, he would have money for a new supply. This
would leave him thirty-two cents to pay for his supper, lodging, and
breakfast. Ben would not have seen his way to accomplish all this for so
small a sum, if he had not been told that at the Newsboys' Lodge the
regular charge was six cents for each meal, and the same for lodging.
This would make but eighteen cents, leaving him a surplus of fourteen.
On inquiry, however, he ascertained that it was already past the hour
for supper at the Lodge, and therefore went into the restaurant, on
Fulton Street, where he ordered a cup of coffee, and a plate of
tea-biscuit. These cost ten cents. Finding his appetite still
unsatisfied, he ordered another plate of biscuit, which carried up the
expense of his supper to fifteen cents. This left seventeen cents for
lodging and breakfast.

After supper, he went out into the street once more, and walked about
for some time, until he began to feel tired, when he turned his steps
towards the Newsboys' Lodge. This institution occupied at that time the
two upper stories of the building at the corner of Nassau and Fulton
Streets. On the first floor was the office of the "Daily Sun." The
entrance to the Lodge was on Fulton Street. Ben went up a steep and
narrow staircase, and kept mounting up until he reached the sixth floor.
Here to the left he saw a door partially opened, through which he could
see a considerable number of boys, whose appearance indicated that they
belonged to the class known as street boys. He pushed the door open and
entered. He found himself in a spacious, but low-studded apartment,
abundantly lighted by rows of windows on two sides. At the end nearest
the door was a raised platform, on which stood a small melodeon, which
was used at the Sunday-evening meetings. There were rows of benches in
the centre of the apartment for the boys.

A stout, pleasant-looking man, who proved to be Mr. O'Connor, the
superintendent, advanced to meet Ben, whom he at once recognized as a
new-comer.

"Is this the Newsboys' Lodge?" asked Ben.

"Yes," said the superintendent; "do you wish to stop with us?"

"I should like to sleep here to-night," said Ben.

"You are quite welcome."

"How much do you charge?"

"Our charge is six cents."

"Here is the money," said Ben, drawing it from his vest-pocket.

"What is your name?"

"Benjamin."

"And your other name?"

"Brandon," answered Ben, with some hesitation.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I am selling papers."

"Well, we will assign you a bed."

"Where are the beds?" asked Ben, looking about him.

"They are on the floor below. Any of the boys will go down and show you
when you get ready to retire."

"Can I get breakfast here in the morning?" inquired Ben.

"Certainly. We charge the same as for lodging."

Ben handed over six cents additional, and congratulated himself that he
was not as badly off as the night before, being sure of a comfortable
bed, and a breakfast in the morning.

"What are those for?" he asked, pointing to a row of drawers or lockers
on the sides of the apartment near the floor.

"Boys who have any extra clothing, or any articles which they value, are
allowed to use them. Here they are safe, as they can be locked. We will
assign you one if you wish."

"I have nothing to put away," said Ben. "I had a little bundle of
clothes; but they were stolen from me while I was lying asleep on a
bench in the City Hall Park."

"I suppose you don't know who took them?"

"No," said Ben; "but I think it was some of the boys that were blacking
boots near me.--That boy's got one of them on," he said, suddenly, in an
excited tone, pointing out Mike, the younger of the two boys who had
appropriated his bundle. Mike had locked up his own shirt, which was
considerably the worse for wear, and put on Ben's, which gave him a
decidedly neater appearance than before. He had thought himself
perfectly safe in doing so, not dreaming that he would be brought face
to face with the true owner in the Lodge.

"What makes you think it is yours?" asked Mr. O'Connor.

"It is cut like mine," said Ben. "Besides I remember getting a large
spot of ink on one of the sleeves, which would not wash out. There it
is, on the left arm."

As Ben had said, there was a faint bluish spot on the sleeve of the
shirt. This made Ben's story a plausible one, though not conclusive. The
superintendent decided to inquire of Mike about the matter, and see what
explanation he could give.

"Mike Rafferty," he said, in a tone of authority, "come here; I want
you."

Mike came forward, but when he saw Ben, whom he recognized, he felt a
little taken aback. But he had not been brought up in the streets for
nothing. His embarrassment was only momentary. He determined to brazen
it out, and swear, if anything was said about the shirt, that it was his
own lawful property.

"I see you've got a new shirt on, Mike," said Mr. O'Connor.

"Yes, sir," said Mike.

"Where did you get it?"

"Where would I get it?" said Mike. "I bought it yesterday."

"Where did you buy it?"

"Round in Baxter Street," said Mike, confidently.

"It is a pretty good shirt for Baxter Street," remarked Mr. O'Connor.
"How much did you pay for it?"

"Fifty cents," answered Mike, glibly.

"This may all be true, Mike," said the superintendent; "but I am not
certain about it. This boy here says it is his shirt, and he thinks that
you stole it from him while he was lying asleep in City Hall Park
yesterday."

"It's a lie he's tellin', sir," said Mike. "I never seed him afore."

Here seemed to be a conflict of evidence. Of the two Ben seemed the more
likely to tell the truth. Still it was possible that he might be
mistaken, and Mike might be right after all.

"Have you any other proof that the shirt is yours?" asked Mr. O'Connor,
turning to Ben.

"Yes," said Ben, "my name is marked on the shirt, just below the waist."

"We can settle the matter quickly then. Mike, pull out the shirt, so
that we can see it."

Mike made some objection, which was quickly overruled. The shirt, being
examined, bore the name of "Benj. Brandon," just as Ben had said.

"The shirt is yours," said the superintendent to Ben.

"Now, Mike, what did you mean by telling me that lie? It was bad enough
to steal, without adding a lie besides."

"I bought the shirt in Baxter Street," persisted Mike, unblushingly.

"Then how do you account for his name on it?"

"Maybe he sold it to the man I bought it of."

"I didn't sell it at all," said Ben.

"Was that all you had taken?"

"No," said Ben. "There was another shirt besides."

"Do you know anything about it, Mike?"

"No, I don't," said Mike.

"I don't know whether you are telling the truth or not," said the
superintendent; "but at any rate you must take this off, and give it to
the right owner."

"And will he pay me the fifty cents?" asked Mike.

"I don't think you bought it at all; but if you did, you can prove it by
the man you bought it of. If you can do that, I will see that the money
is refunded to you."

There was one strong reason for discrediting Mike's story. These
Baxter-Street shops are often the receptacles of stolen goods. As their
identification might bring the dealers into trouble, they are very
careful, as soon as an article comes into their possession, to
obliterate all the marks of former ownership. It was hardly likely that
they would suffer a shirt to go out of their hands so plainly marked as
was the case in the present instance. Mr. O'Connor, of course, knew
this, and accordingly had very little fear that he was doing injustice
to Mike in ordering him to make restitution to Ben.

Mike was forced, considerably against his will, to take off the new
shirt, and put on his old ragged one. But the former was no longer as
clean as formerly.

"Where can I get it washed?" asked Ben.

"You can wash it yourself, in the wash-room, or you can carry it to a
laundry, as some of the boys do, if you are willing to pay for it."

"I think I would rather carry it to a laundry," said Ben, who doubted
strongly his ability to wash the shirt so as to improve its appearance.
The superintendent accordingly gave him the direction to one of these
establishments.

Opposite the room which he had entered was a smaller room used by the
boys as a gymnasium. Ben looked into it, and determined to use it on
some future occasion. He next went into the wash-room. Here he saw two
or three boys, stripped to the waist, engaged in washing out their
shirts. Being provided with but a single one each, they left them to dry
over night while they were in bed, and could dispense with them. Ben
wondered how they managed about ironing them; but he soon found that
with these amateur laundresses ironing was not considered necessary.
They are put on rough-dry in the morning, and so worn until they are
considered dirty enough for another purification.

Ben looked about him with interest. The boys were chatting in an
animated manner, detailing their experiences during the day, or
"chaffing" each other in a style peculiar to themselves.

"Say, Jim," said one, "didn't I see you at the Grand Opera last night?"

"Yes, of course you did," said Jim. "I was in a private box along with
the mayor. I had a di'mond pin in the bosom of my shirt."

"Yes, I seed you through my opera-glass. What have you done with your
di'mond pin?"

"Do you think I'd bring it here to be stole? No, I keep it in my safe,
along of my other valooables."

Ben listened in amusement, and thought that Jim would have cut rather a
singular figure in the mayor's box.

Several boys, who had gone barefoot, were washing their feet, that being
required previous to going to bed. This is necessary; otherwise the
clean bed-clothes would be so soiled as to require daily washing.

The boys seemed to be having a good time, and then, though he was
unacquainted with any of them, felt that it was much pleasanter to be
here, in a social atmosphere, than wandering around by himself in the
dark and lonely streets. He observed one thing with surprise, that the
boys refrained from profane or vulgar speech, though they were by no
means so particular in the street during the day. This is, however, a
rule strictly enforced by the superintendent, and, if not complied with,
the offender is denied the privilege of the Lodging House.

After a while Ben expressed a desire to go to bed, and in company with
one of the boys descended to a room equally large, in the story below,
where over a hundred single beds were arranged in tiers, in a manner
very similar to the berths of a steamboat. Ben was agreeably surprised
by the neat and comfortable appearance of these beds. He felt that he
should be nearly as well provided for as at home. Quickly undressing
himself, he jumped into the bed assigned him, and in a few minutes was
fast asleep.




CHAPTER X.

FURTHER EXPERIENCES.


Ben had a comfortable night's rest, and when he awoke in the morning he
felt that a bed at the Newsboys' Lodge was considerably better than a
bale of cotton, or a hay-barge. At an early hour in the morning the boys
were called, and began to tumble out in all directions, interchanging,
as they performed their hasty toilet, a running fire of "chaff" and
good-humored jesting, some of which consisted of personal allusions the
reverse of complimentary.

Many of the boys stopped to breakfast, but not all. Some wanted to get
to work earlier, and took breakfast at a later hour at some cheap
restaurant, earning it before they ate it. Ben, however, had paid for
his breakfast in advance, knowing that he could not get it so cheap
elsewhere, and so waited to partake of it. He took his place at a long
table with his companions, and found himself served with a bowl of
coffee and a generous slice of bread. Sometimes, but not always, a
little cold meat is supplied in addition. But even when there is bread
only, the coffee warms the stomach, and so strengthens the boys for
their labors outside. The breakfast was not as varied, of course, as Ben
had been accustomed to at home, nor as tempting as my young readers have
spread before them every morning; but it was good of its kind, and Ben
ate it with unusual relish.

When he had finished his meal, he prepared to go out to work; not,
however, till the superintendent, whose recollection of individual boys
is surprising, considering the large number who frequent the Lodging
House in the course of a year, had invited him to come again. The
Lodging House, though it cannot supply the place of a private home,
steps between hundreds of boys and complete vagabondage, into which, but
for its existence, they would quickly lapse. Probably no money is more
wisely expended than that which enables the Children's Aid Society of
New York to maintain this and kindred institutions.

Ben had, after breakfast, eighty-five cents to commence the day on. But
of this sum, it will be remembered, he had reserved fifty cents to pay
the friendly reporter for his loan. This left him a working capital of
thirty-five cents. It was not a large sum to do business on, but it was
enough, and with it Ben felt quite independent.

In front of the 'Times' office, Ben met Rough and Ready,--the newsboy
who had taken his part the day before. He had got the start of Ben, and
was just disposing of his only remaining paper.

"How are you?" asked Ben.

"So's to be around," answered the other. "What are you up to?"

"I'm going to buy some papers."

"I have sold eight already. Where did you sleep last night?"

"At the Lodging House."

"How do you like it?"

"It's a good place, and very cheap."

"Yes, it's a bully place. I'd go there myself, if it wasn't for mother
and Rose. It's enough sight better than our room on Leonard Street. But
I can't leave my mother and sister."

"If you're going to buy some more papers, I'd like to go with you."

"All right. Come ahead."

Ben invested his money under the direction of his companion. By his
advice, he purchased nearly to the amount of his entire capital, knowing
that it would come back to him again, so that his plan for paying the
reporter could still be carried out.

"You can stand near me, if you want to, Ben," said Rough and Ready.

"I am afraid I shall interfere with your trade," answered Ben.

"Don't be afraid of that. I don't ask no favors. I can get my share of
business."

Ben, while engaged in selling papers himself, had an opportunity to
watch the ready tact with which Rough and Ready adapted himself to the
different persons whom he encountered. He succeeded in effecting a sale
in many cases where others would have failed. He had sold all his papers
before Ben had disposed of two-thirds of his, though both began with an
equal number.

"Here, Ben," he said, generously, "give me three of your papers, I'll
sell 'em for you."

By this friendly help, Ben found himself shortly empty-handed.

"Shall I buy any more?" he inquired of his companion.

"It's gettin' late for mornin' papers," said Rough and Ready. "You'd
better wait till the evenin' papers come out. How much money have you
made?"

Ben counted over his money, and answered, "I've made thirty-five cents."

"Well, that'll be more'n enough to buy your dinner."

"How much do you make in a day?" asked Ben.

"Sometimes over a dollar."

"You ought to lay up money, then."

Rough and Ready shook his head.

"I have to pay everything over to my mother," he said. "It's little
enough to support a family."

"Doesn't your father earn anything?"

"My _step_-father," repeated the other, emphasizing the first syllable.
"No, he doesn't earn much, and what he does earn, he spends for rum. We
could do a great deal better without him," he continued.

Ben began to see that he had a much easier task before him in supporting
himself, than his new friend in supplying the wants of a family of four;
for Mr. Martin, his step-father, did not scruple to live partially on
the earnings of his step-son, whose industry should have put him to
shame.

"I guess I'll go home a little while," said Rough and Ready. "I'll see
you again this afternoon."

Left to himself, Ben began to walk around with an entirely different
feeling from that which he experienced the day before. He had one dollar
and twenty cents in his pocket; not all of it his own, but the greater
part of it his own earnings. Only twenty-four hours before his prospects
seemed very dark. Now he had found friends, and he had also learned how
to help himself.

As he was walking down Nassau Street, he suddenly espied, a little
distance ahead, the reporter who had done him such an important service
the day before.

He quickened his pace, and speedily came up with him.

"Good-morning," said he, by way of calling the reporter's attention.

"Good-morning," responded the reporter, not at first recognizing him.

"I'm ready to pay the money you lent me yesterday," said Ben.

"Oh, you're the boy I set up in business yesterday. Well, how have you
made out?"

"Pretty well," said Ben, with satisfaction. "Here's the money you lent
me;" and he drew out fifty cents, and offered it to the young man.

"But have you got any money left?" inquired the reporter.

Ben displayed the remainder of his money, mentioning the amount.

"You've succeeded capitally. Where did you sleep last night?"

"At the Newsboys' Lodge."

"That's better than sleeping out. I begin to think, my young friend, you
must have a decided business talent. It isn't often a new boy succeeds
so well."

Ben was pleased with this compliment, and made a new offer of the money,
which the young man had not yet taken.

"I don't know as I had better take this money," said the reporter; "you
may need it."

"No," said Ben, "I've got enough to keep me along."

"You've got to get dinner."

"That won't cost me more than twenty-five cents; then I shall have
forty-five to buy papers this afternoon."

"Well," said the young man, "if you don't need it, I will take it; but
on one condition."

"What is that?" asked Ben.

"That if you get hard up at any time, you will come to me, and I will
help you out."

"Thank you," said Ben, gratefully. "You are very kind."

"I know that you boys are apt to have hard times; but if you work
faithfully and don't form any bad habits, I think you will get along.
Here is my card, and directions for finding me, if you need any
assistance at any time."

Ben took the card, and went on his way, feeling more glad that he had
paid his debt than if the money were still in his possession. He felt
that it was a partial atonement for the theft which he had nearly
committed the day before.

As he walked along, thinking of what he had just done, he suddenly found
himself shoved violently off the sidewalk. Looking angrily to see who
was the aggressor, he recognized Mike Rafferty, who had been detected
the night before in wearing his stolen shirt.

"What's that for?" demanded Ben, angrily.

"It's to tache you better manners, ye spalpeen!" said Mike.

Ben returned the blow with spirit.

"That's to teach you not to steal my shirt again," he said.

"It's a lie," said Mike. "I bought it of the man you sold it to."

"You know better," retorted Ben. "You took it while I was asleep in the
Park."

Mike was about to retaliate with another blow, when the sight of an
approaching policeman warned him of peril, and he retreated in good
order, sending back looks of defiance at our hero, whom he could not
forgive for having proved him guilty of theft.

Ben's exploration of the city had thus far been very limited. He had
heard of the Battery, and he determined to go down there. The distance
was not great, and in a few minutes he found himself at the lower end of
the Manhattan Island, looking with interest at the shores across the
river. Here was Castle Garden, a large structure, now used for recently
arrived emigrants, but once the scene of one of Jenny Lind's triumphs.
Now it would seem very strange to have a grand concert given in such a
building and in such a locality. However, Ben knew nothing of the
purposes of the building, and looked at it ignorantly. The Battery he
thought might once have been pretty; but now the grass has been worn off
by pedestrians, and the once fashionable houses in the neighborhood have
long ago been deserted by their original proprietors, and been turned
into warehouses, or cheap boarding-houses.

After looking about a little, Ben turned to go back. He began to feel
hungry, and thought he might as well get some dinner. After that was
eaten it would be time for the evening papers. He was intending to go
back to Fulton Street; but his attention was drawn to a restaurant by
the bills of fare exposed outside. A brief examination satisfied him
that the prices were quite as moderate as in Fulton Street, and he
decided to enter, and take his dinner here.




CHAPTER XI.

BEN BECOMES A BAGGAGE-SMASHER.


The restaurant was a small one, and not fashionable in appearance,
having a shabby look. The floor was sanded, and the tables were covered
with soiled cloths. However, Ben had learned already not to be
fastidious, and he sat down and gave his order. A plate of roast beef
and a cup of coffee were brought, according to his directions. Seated
opposite him at the table was a man who had nearly completed his dinner
as Ben commenced. He held in his hand a Philadelphia paper, which he
left behind when he rose to go.

"You have left your paper," said Ben.

"I have read it through," was the reply. "I don't care to take it."

Ben took it up, and found it to be a daily paper which his father had
been accustomed to take for years. It gave him a start, as he saw the
familiar page, and he felt a qualm of homesickness. The neat house in
which he had lived since he was born, his mother's gentle face, rose up
before him, compared with his present friendless condition, and the
tears rose to his eyes. But he was in a public restaurant, and his pride
came to the rescue. He pressed back the tears, and resumed his knife and
fork.

When he had finished his dinner, he took up the paper once more, reading
here and there. At last his eye rested on the following advertisement:--

  "My son, Benjamin Brandon, having run away from home without any good
  reason, I hereby caution the public against trusting him on my
  account; but will pay the sum of one dollar and necessary expenses to
  any person who will return him to me. He is ten years old, well grown
  for his age, has dark eyes and a dark complexion. He was dressed in a
  gray-mixed suit, and had on a blue cap when he left home.

  "JAMES BRANDON."

Ben's face flushed when he read this advertisement. It was written by
his father, he knew well enough, and he judged from the language that it
was written in anger. _One dollar_ was offered for his restoration.

Ben felt somehow humiliated at the smallness of the sum, and at the
thought that this advertisement would be read by his friends and
school-companions. The softer thoughts, which but just now came to him,
were banished, and he determined, whatever hardships awaited him, to
remain in New York, and support himself as he had begun to do. But,
embittered as he felt against his father, he felt a pang when he thought
of his mother. He knew how anxious she would feel about him, and he
wished he might be able to write her privately that he was well, and
doing well. But he was afraid the letter would get into his father's
hands, and reveal his whereabouts; then the police might be set on his
track, and he might be forced home to endure the humiliation of a severe
punishment, and the jeers of his companions, who would never let him
hear the last of his abortive attempt.

At last a way occurred to him. He would write a letter, and place it in
the hands of some one going to Philadelphia, to be posted in the latter
city. This would give no clue to his present home, and would answer the
purpose of relieving his mother's anxiety.

Late in the afternoon, Ben went into a stationery store on Nassau
Street.

"Will you give me a sheet of paper, and an envelope?" he asked,
depositing two cents on the counter.

The articles called for were handed him.

"Can I write a letter here?" inquired Ben.

"You can go round to that desk," said the clerk; "you will find pen and
ink there."

Ben, with some difficulty, composed and wrote the following letter, for
it was the first he had ever had occasion to write:--

  "DEAR MOTHER,--I hope you will not feel very bad because I have left
  home. Father punished me for what I did not do, and after that I was
  not willing to stay; but I wish I could see you. Don't feel anxious
  about me, for I am getting along very well, and earning my own living.
  I cannot tell you where I am, for father might find out, and I do not
  want to come back, especially after that advertisement. I don't think
  my going will make much difference to father, as he has only offered
  one dollar reward for me. You need not show this letter to him. I
  send you my love, and I also send my love to Mary, though she used to
  tease me sometimes. And now I must bid you good-by.

                                            "From your affectionate son,

                                                                 "BEN."

After completing this letter Ben put it in the envelope, and directed it
to

                                  "MRS. RUTH BRANDON,

                                           "_Cedarville,_

                                                   "_Pennsylvania._"

It may be explained that the Mary referred to was an elder sister, ten
years older than Ben, against whom he felt somewhat aggrieved, on
account of his sister's having interfered with him more than he thought
she had any right to do. She and Ben were the only children.

If I were to express my opinion of this letter of Ben's, I should say
that it was wanting in proper feeling for the mother who had always been
kind and gentle to him, and whose heart, he must have known, would be
deeply grieved by his running away from home. But Ben's besetting sin
was pride, mingled with obstinacy, and pride prevailed over his love
for his mother. If he could have known of the bitter tears which his
mother was even now shedding over her lost boy, I think he would have
found it difficult to maintain his resolution.

When the letter was written, Ben went across to the post-office, and
bought a three-cent stamp, which he placed on the envelope. Then,
learning that there was an evening train for Philadelphia, he went down
to the Cortlandt Street Ferry, and watched till he saw a gentleman, who
had the air of a traveller. Ben stepped up to him and inquired, "Are you
going to Philadelphia, sir?"

"Yes, my lad," was the answer; "are you going there also?"

"No, sir."

"I thought you might want somebody to take charge of you. Is there
anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, sir. If you would be so kind as to post this letter in
Philadelphia."

"I will do so; but why don't you post it in New York? It will go just as
well."

"The person who wrote it," said Ben, "doesn't want to have it known
where it came from."

"Very well, give it to me, and I will see that it is properly mailed."

The gentleman took the letter, and Ben felt glad that it was written. He
thought it would relieve his mother's anxiety.

As he was standing on the pier, a gentleman having a carpet-bag in one
hand, and a bundle of books in the other, accosted him.

"Can you direct me to the Astor House, boy?"

"Yes, sir," said Ben.

Then, with a sudden thought, he added, "Shall I carry your carpet-bag,
sir?"

"On the whole I think you may," said the gentleman. "Or stay, I think
you may take this parcel of books."

"I can carry both, sir."

"No matter about that. I will carry the bag, and you shall be my guide."

Ben had not yet had time to get very well acquainted with the city; but
the Astor House, which is situated nearly opposite the lower end of the
City Hall Park, he had passed a dozen times, and knew the way to it
very well. He was glad that the gentleman wished to go there, and not to
one of the up-town hotels, of which he knew nothing. He went straight up
Cortlandt Street to Broadway, and then turning north, soon arrived at
the massive structure, which, for over thirty years, has welcomed
travellers from all parts of the world.

"This is the Astor House, sir," said Ben.

"I remember it now," said the gentleman; "but it is ten years since I
have been in New York, and I did not feel quite certain of finding my
way. Do you live in New York?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may give me the package now. How much shall I pay you for your
services?"

"Whatever you please, sir," said Ben.

"Will that answer?" and the traveller placed twenty-five cents in the
hands of our young hero.

"Yes, sir," said Ben, in a tone of satisfaction. "Thank you."

The traveller entered the hotel, and Ben remained outside,
congratulating himself upon his good luck.

"That's an easy way to earn twenty five cents," he thought. "It didn't
take me more than fifteen minutes to come up from the ferry, and I
should have to sell twenty-five papers to make so much."

This sum, added to what he had made during the day by selling papers,
and including what he had on hand originally, made one dollar and thirty
cents. But out of this he had spent twenty-five cents for dinner, and
for his letter, including postage, five cents. Thus his expenses had
been thirty cents, which, being deducted, left him just one dollar. Out
of this, however, it would be necessary to buy some supper, and pay for
his lodging and breakfast at the Newsboys' Home. Fifteen cents, however,
would do for the first, while the regular charge for the second would be
but twelve cents. Ben estimated, therefore, that he would have
seventy-three cents to start on next day. He felt that this was a
satisfactory state of finances, and considered whether he could not
afford to spend a little more for supper. However, not feeling very
hungry, he concluded not to do so.

The next morning he bought papers as usual and sold them. But it seemed
considerably harder work, for the money, than carrying bundles.
However, Ben foresaw that in order to become a "baggage-smasher" (for
this is the technical term by which the boys and men are known, who wait
around the ferries and railway depots for a chance to carry baggage,
though I have preferred to use the term luggage boy), it would be
necessary to know more about localities in the city than he did at
present. Accordingly he devoted the intervals of time between the
selling of papers, to seeking out and ascertaining the locality of the
principal hotels and streets in the city.

In the course of a fortnight he had obtained a very fair knowledge of
the city. He now commenced waiting at the ferries and depots, though he
did not immediately give up entirely the newspaper trade. But at length
he gave it up altogether, and became a "baggage-smasher," by profession,
or, as he is styled in the title of this book, a luggage boy.

Thus commences a new page in his history.




CHAPTER XII.

BEN'S HOME IN PHILADELPHIA.


Though the story of "Ben, the Luggage Boy," professes to treat of life
in the city streets, I must devote a single chapter to a very different
place. I must carry the reader to Ben's home in Pennsylvania, and show
what effect his running away had upon the family circle.

There was a neat two-story house standing on the principal street in
Cedarville, with a pleasant lawn in front, through which, from the gate,
a gravelled walk ran to the front door. Mr. Brandon, as I have already
said, was a coal-dealer, and in very comfortable circumstances; so that
Ben had never known what it was to want anything which he really needed.
He was a man of great firmness, and at times severity, and more than
once Ben had felt aggrieved by his treatment of him. Mrs. Brandon was
quite different from her husband, being gentle and kind, and it was to
her that Ben always went for sympathy, in any trouble or difficulty,
whether at home or at school.

Mrs. Brandon was sitting at the window with her work in her hand; but it
had fallen listlessly in her lap, and on her face was a look of painful
preoccupation. Opposite her sat her daughter Mary, Ben's only sister,
already referred to.

"Don't worry so, mother," said Mary; "you will make yourself sick."

"I cannot help it, Mary," said Mrs. Brandon. "I can't help worrying
about Ben. He has been gone a week now, and Heaven knows what he has
suffered. He may be dead."

"No, mother," said Mary, who had more of her father's strength than her
mother's gentleness. "He is not dead, you may depend upon that."

"But he had no money, that I know of. How could he live?"

"Ben can take care of himself better than most boys of his age."

"But think of a boy of ten going out in the world by himself!"

"There are many boys of ten who have to do it, mother."

"What could the poor boy do?"

"He might suffer a little; but if he does, he will the sooner come
home."

"I wish he might," said Mrs. Brandon, with a sigh. "I think your father
does very wrong not to go after him."

"He wouldn't know where to go. Besides, he has advertised."

"I hope Ben will not see the advertisement. Poor boy! he would feel hurt
to think that we cared so little for him as to offer only one dollar for
his return."

"He will know you had nothing to do with the advertisement, mother; you
may be sure of that."

"Yes, he knows me too well for that. I would give all I have to have him
back."

"I want him back too," said Mary. "He is my only brother, and of course
I love him; but I don't think it will do him any harm to suffer a little
as a punishment for going away."

"You were always hard upon the poor boy, Mary," said Mrs. Brandon.

"No, I am not hard; but I see his faults, and I want him to correct
them. It is you who have been too indulgent."

"If I have been, it is because you and your father have been too much
the other way."

There was a brief pause, then Mrs. Brandon said, "Can you think of any
place, Mary, where Ben would be likely to go?"

"Yes, I suppose he went to Philadelphia. When a boy runs away from home,
he naturally goes to the nearest city."

"I have a great mind to go up to-morrow."

"What good would it do, mother?"

"I might meet him in the street."

"There is not much chance of that. I shouldn't wonder if by this time he
had gone to sea."

"Gone to sea!" repeated Mrs. Brandon, turning pale. "What makes you
think so? Did he ever speak of such a thing to you?"

"Yes, he once threatened to run away to sea, when I did something that
did not suit him."

"Oh, I hope not. I have heard that boys are treated very badly on board
ship. Besides, he might get drowned."

"I am not sure whether a good sea-voyage might not be the best thing for
him," said strong-minded Mary.

"But suppose he should be ill-treated?"

"It might take the pride out of him, and make him a better boy."

"I never get much satisfaction from you, Mary. I don't see how you can
be so harsh."

"I see we are not likely to agree, mother. But there is a boy coming up
the walk with a letter in his hand."

"It may be from Ben," said his mother, rising hastily, and going to the
door.

The boy was William Gordon, a school-mate of Ben's, whose disappearance,
long before this time, had been reported throughout the village.

"I was passing the post-office, Mrs. Brandon," he said, "when the
postmaster called from the window, and asked me to bring you this
letter. I think it is from Ben. The handwriting looks like his."

"Oh, thank you, William," said Mrs. Brandon, joyfully. "Give it to me
quick."

She tore it open and read the letter, which is given at length in the
last chapter.

"Is it from Ben?" asked William.

"Yes."

"Is he in Philadelphia? I noticed it was mailed there."

"Yes--no--he says he cannot tell us where he is."

"I think he must be in Philadelphia, or the letter would not be mailed
there."

"Come in, William. I must go and tell Mary."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Brandon. I am on an errand for my mother. I hope
Ben is well?"

"Yes, he says so."

Mrs. Brandon went in, and showed the letter to her daughter.

"There, I told you, mother, you need not be alarmed. He says he is
earning his living."

"But it seems so hard for a boy of ten to have to work for his living.
What can he do?"

"Oh, there are various things he can do. He might sell papers, for
instance."

"I think I shall go to Philadelphia to-morrow, Mary."

"It won't be of any use, you may depend, mother. He is not in
Philadelphia."

"But this letter is posted there."

"That is a proof to me that he is not there. He says he don't want to
come back."

Shortly after, Mr. Brandon entered the house.

"We have had a letter from Ben, father," said Mary.

"Show it to me," he said, briefly.

He read the letter, and handed it back without a word.

"What are you going to do about it, Mr. Brandon?" asked his wife.

"What is there to be done?" he asked.

"I think I had better go up to Philadelphia to-morrow."

"What for?"

"I might see him."

"You would be going on a wild-goose chase."

"Then why won't you go?"

"It isn't worth while. If the boy doesn't want to come home, he may
take care of himself if he likes it so well. I shan't run round after
him."

"He says he did not do what you punished him for," said Mrs. Brandon,
rather deprecatingly, for she was somewhat in awe of her husband.

"Of course he would say that. I have heard that before."

"But I don't think he really did."

"I know you have always been foolishly indulgent to him."

"At any rate that cannot be said of you," said his wife, with some
spirit.

"No," he answered, rather surprised at such an unusual manifestation
from his usually acquiescent wife; "you are right there, and you might
add that I don't mean to be, if he should return."

"I think he would have come home but for that advertisement. You see
what he says about it in his letter."

"If I were to write it again, I should write it in the same manner,
though perhaps I might not offer so large a sum."

Mrs. Brandon sighed, and ceased speaking. She knew her husband well
enough to see that there was little chance of changing his
determination, or softening his anger towards Ben.

The next day, when Mr. Brandon returned home to dinner from his
coal-wharf, he found Mary seated at the head of the table.

"Where is your mother?" he asked.

"She went to Philadelphia by the middle train," was the answer.

"She has gone on a fool's errand."

"I advised her not to go; but she thought she might meet Ben, and I
could not dissuade her."

"Well, she will be better satisfied after she has been up--and failed to
find him."

"Do you think he will ever come back, father?"

"Yes; he will turn up again some day, like a bad penny. He will find
that earning his own living is not quite so agreeable as being taken
care of at home."

"Suppose he shouldn't come back?"

"So much the worse for him," said Mr. Brandon.

Mr. Brandon spoke after his way of speaking, for he was not an
affectionate man, nor given to the softer emotions. He had never given
Ben any reason to think he loved him, at least since he was a baby, but
appearances are sometimes deceptive, and he thought more of his son's
absence than any one would have supposed. He thought, too, of that
sentence in Ben's letter, in which he spoke of being punished for what
he did not do, and he admitted to himself, though he would not have done
so to his wife, that perhaps he had been unjust to the boy after all.
Every day when he turned from his office to go home, it was with the
unacknowledged hope that he might find the prodigal returned. But in
this hope they were all doomed to be disappointed. Year after year
passed away, and still no tidings from Ben beyond that single letter
which we have mentioned.

Mrs. Brandon returned from Philadelphia, as might have been anticipated,
disappointed and despondent. She was very tired, for she had wandered
about the streets, looking everywhere, during the four or five hours she
was in the city. Once or twice her heart beat high, as she saw in front
of her a boy of Ben's size, and dressed as he had been dressed when he
left home. But when, with hurrying steps she came up with him, she was
doomed, in every case, to disappointment.

"I told you it would be no use, mother," said Mary.

"I couldn't stay at home contented, if I did nothing to find him, Mary."

"He'll turn up yet some day, mother,--return in rags most likely."

"Come when he may, or how he may, Mary, my arms shall be open to receive
him."

But the years passed, and Ben did not come.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE FIRST CIGAR.


It was a week or more after Ben started in business as a
baggage-smasher, that, in returning from carrying a carpet-bag to
Lovejoy's Hotel, on Broadway, he fell in with his first city
acquaintance, Jerry Collins. Jerry had just "polished up" a gentleman's
boots, and, having been unusually lucky this morning in securing shines,
felt disposed to be lavish.

"How are you, Ben?" asked Jerry. "What are you up to now?"

"I'm a baggage-smasher," answered Ben, who was beginning to adopt the
language of the streets.

"How does it pay?"

"Well," said Ben, "sometimes it pays first rate, when I'm lucky. Other
days I don't get much to do. I didn't make but fifteen cents this
morning. I carried a bag up to Lovejoy's, and that's all the man would
pay me."

"I've made fifty cents this mornin'. Look here, Johnny."

The Johnny addressed was a boy who sold cigars, four for ten cents.

"I'll take two," said Jerry, producing five cents.

"Six cents for two," said the cigar boy.

"All right, I'll owe you the other cent," said Jerry, coolly.

"Do you smoke?" inquired Ben.

"In course I do. Don't you?"

"No."

"Why don't you?"

"I don't know," said Ben. "Do you like it?"

"It's bully. Here, take this cigar. I bought it for you."

Ben hesitated; but finally, induced mainly by a curiosity to see how it
seemed, accepted the cigar, and lighted it by Jerry's. The two boys sat
down on an empty box, and Jerry instructed Ben how to puff. Ben did not
particularly enjoy it; but thought he might as well learn now as any
other time. His companion puffed away like a veteran smoker; but after
a while Ben's head began to swim, and he felt sick at his stomach.

"I don't feel well," he said. "I guess I'll stop smoking."

"Oh, go ahead," said Jerry. "It's only because it's the first time.
You'll like it after a while."

Thus encouraged, Ben continued to smoke, though his head and his stomach
got continually worse.

"I don't like it," gasped Ben, throwing down the cigar. "I'm going to
stop."

"You've got a healthy color," said Jerry, slyly.

"I'm afraid I'm going to be awful sick," said Ben, whose sensations were
very far from comfortable. Just at this moment, ignorant of the brief
character of his present feelings, he heartily wished himself at home,
for the first time since his arrival in the city.

"You do look rather green," said Jerry. "Maybe you're going to have the
cholera. I've heard that there's some cases round."

This suggestion alarmed Ben, who laid his head down between his knees,
and began to feel worse than ever.

"Don't be scared," said Jerry, thinking it time to relieve Ben's mind.
"It's only the cigar. You'll feel all right in a jiffy."

While Ben was experiencing the disagreeable effects of his first cigar,
he resolved never to smoke another. But, as might have been expected, he
felt differently on recovering. It was not long before he could puff
away with as much enjoyment and unconcern as any of his street
companions, and a part of his earnings were consumed in this way. It may
be remarked here that the street boy does not always indulge in the
luxury of a whole cigar. Sometimes he picks up a fragment which has been
discarded by the original smoker. There are some small dealers, who make
it a business to collect these "stubs," or employ others to do so, and
then sell them to the street boys, at a penny apiece, or less, according
to size. Sometimes these stubs are bought in preference to a cheap
cigar, because they are apt to be of a superior quality. Ben, however,
never smoked "stubs." In course of time he became very much like other
street boys; but in some respects his taste was more fastidious, and he
preferred to indulge himself in a cheap cigar, which was not
second-hand.

We must now pass rapidly over the six years which elapsed from the date
of Ben's first being set adrift in the streets to the period at which
our story properly begins. These years have been fruitful of change to
our young adventurer. They have changed him from a country boy of ten,
to a self-reliant and independent street boy of sixteen. The impressions
left by his early and careful home-training have been mostly effaced.
Nothing in his garb now distinguishes him from the class of which he is
a type. He has long since ceased to care for neat or whole attire, or
carefully brushed hair. His straggling locks, usually long, protrude
from an aperture in his hat. His shoes would make a very poor
advertisement for the shoemaker by whom they were originally
manufactured. His face is not always free from stains, and his street
companions have long since ceased to charge him with putting on airs, on
account of the superior neatness of his personal appearance. Indeed, he
has become rather a favorite among them, in consequence of his
frankness, and his willingness at all times to lend a helping hand to a
comrade temporarily "hard up." He has adopted to a great extent the
tastes and habits of the class to which he belongs, and bears with
acquired philosophy the hardships and privations which fall to their
lot. Like "Ragged Dick," he has a sense of humor, which is apt to reveal
itself in grotesque phrases, or amusing exaggerations.

Of course his education, so far as education is obtained from books, has
not advanced at all. He has not forgotten how to read, having occasion
to read the daily papers. Occasionally, too, he indulges himself in a
dime novel, the more sensational the better, and is sometimes induced to
read therefrom to a group of companions whose attainments are even less
than his own.

It may be asked whether he ever thinks of his Pennsylvania home, of his
parents and his sister. At first he thought of them frequently; but by
degrees he became so accustomed to the freedom and independence of his
street life, with its constant variety, that he would have been
unwilling to return, even if the original cause of his leaving home were
removed. Life in a Pennsylvania village seemed "slow" compared with the
excitement of his present life.

In the winter, when the weather was inclement, and the lodging
accommodations afforded by the street were not particularly
satisfactory, Ben found it convenient to avail himself of the cheap
lodgings furnished by the Newsboys' Lodging House; but at other times,
particularly in the warm summer nights, he saved his six cents, and
found a lodging for himself among the wharves, or in some lane or alley.
Of the future he did not think much. Like street boys in general, his
horizon was limited by the present. Sometimes, indeed, it did occur to
him that he could not be a luggage boy all his lifetime. Some time or
other he must take up something else. However, Ben carelessly concluded
that he could make a living somehow or other, and as to old age that was
too far ahead to disquiet himself about.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE PASSENGER FROM ALBANY.


Ben did not confine himself to any particular pier or railway depot, but
stationed himself now at one, now at another, according as the whim
seized him, or as the prospect of profit appeared more or less
promising. One afternoon he made his way to the pier at which the Albany
boats landed. He knew the hour of arrival, not only for the river-boats,
but for most of the inward trains, for this was required by his
business.

He had just finished smoking a cheap cigar when the boat arrived. The
passengers poured out, and the usual bustle ensued. Now was the time for
Ben to be on the alert. He scanned the outcoming passengers with an
attentive eye, fixing his attention upon those who were encumbered with
carpet-bags, valises, or bundles. These he marked out as his possible
patrons, and accosted them professionally.

"Smash yer baggage, sir?" he said to a gentleman carrying a valise.

The latter stared hard at Ben, evidently misunderstanding him, and
answered irascibly, "Confound your impudence, boy; what do you mean?"

"Smash yer baggage, sir?"

"If you smash my baggage, I'll smash your head."

"Thank you, sir, for your kind offer; but my head aint insured," said
Ben, who saw the joke, and enjoyed it.

"Look here, boy," said the puzzled traveller, "what possible good would
it do you to smash my baggage?"

"That's the way I make a livin'," said Ben.

"Do you mean to say any persons are foolish enough to pay you for
destroying their baggage? You must be crazy, or else you must think I
am."

"Not destroying it, smashin' it."

"What's the difference?"

Here a person who had listened to the conversation with some amusement
interposed.

"If you will allow me to explain, sir, the boy only proposes to carry
your valise. He is what we call a 'baggage-smasher,' and carrying it is
called 'smashing.'"

"Indeed, that's a very singular expression to use. Well, my lad, I think
I understand you now. You have no hostile intentions, then?"

"Nary a one," answered Ben.

"Then I may see fit to employ you. Of course you know the way
everywhere?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may take my valise as far as Broadway. There I shall take a stage."

Ben took the valise, and raising it to his shoulders was about to
precede his patron.

"You can walk along by my side," said the gentleman; "I want to talk to
you."

"All right, governor," said Ben. "I'm ready for an interview."

"How do you like 'baggage-smashing,' as you call it?"

"I like it pretty well when I'm workin' for a liberal gentleman like
you," said Ben, shrewdly.

"What makes you think I am liberal?" asked the gentleman, smiling.

"I can tell by your face," answered our hero.

"But you get disappointed sometimes, don't you?"

"Yes, sometimes," Ben admitted.

"Tell me some of your experiences that way."

"Last week," said Ben, "I carried a bag, and a thunderin' heavy one,
from the Norwich boat to French's Hotel,--a mile and a half I guess it
was,--and how much do you think the man paid me?"

"Twenty-five cents."

"Yes, he did, but he didn't want to. All he offered me first was ten
cents."

"That's rather poor pay. I don't think I should want to work for that
myself."

"You couldn't live very high on such pay," said Ben.

"I have worked as cheap, though."

"You have!" said Ben, surprised.

"Yes, my lad, I was a poor boy once,--as poor as you are."

"Where did you live?" asked Ben, interested.

"In a country town in New England. My father died early, and I was left
alone in the world. So I hired myself out to a farmer for a dollar a
week and board. I had to be up at five every morning, and work all day.
My wages, you see, amounted to only about sixteen cents a day and board
for twelve hours' work."

"Why didn't you run away?" inquired Ben.

"I didn't know where to run to."

"I s'pose you aint workin' for that now?" said our hero.

"No, I've been promoted," said the gentleman, smiling. "Of course I got
higher pay, as I grew older. Still, at twenty-one I found myself with
only two hundred dollars. I worked a year longer till it became three
hundred, and then I went out West,--to Ohio,--where I took up a
quarter-section of land, and became a farmer on my own account. Since
then I've dipped into several things, have bought more land, which has
increased in value on my hands, till now I am probably worth fifty
thousand dollars."

"I'm glad of it," said Ben.

"Why?"

"Because you can afford to pay me liberal for smashin' your baggage."

"What do you call liberal?" inquired his patron, smiling.

"Fifty cents," answered Ben, promptly.

"Then I will be liberal. Now, suppose you tell me something about
yourself. How long have you been a 'baggage-smasher,' as you call it?"

"Six years," said Ben.

"You must have begun young. How old are you now?"

"Sixteen."

"You'll soon be a man. What do you intend to do then?"

"I haven't thought much about it," said Ben, with truth.

"You don't mean to carry baggage all your life, do you?"

"I guess not," answered Ben. "When I get to be old and infirm, I'm goin'
into some light, genteel employment, such as keepin' a street stand."

"So that is your highest ambition, is it?" asked the stranger.

"I don't think I've got any ambition," said Ben. "As long as I make a
livin', I don't mind."

"When you see well-dressed gentlemen walking down Broadway, or riding in
their carriages, don't you sometimes think it would be agreeable if you
could be in their place?"

"I should like to have a lot of money," said Ben. "I wouldn't mind bein'
the president of a bank, or a railway-director, or somethin' of that
kind."

"I am afraid you have never thought seriously upon the subject of your
future," said Ben's companion, "or you wouldn't be satisfied with your
present business."

"What else can I do? I'd rather smash baggage than sell papers or black
boots."

"I would not advise either. I'll tell you what you ought to do, my young
friend. You should leave the city, and come out West. I'll give you
something to do on one of my farms, and promote you as you are fit for
it."

"You're very kind," said Ben, more seriously; "but I shouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to leave the city. Here there's somethin' goin' on. I'd
miss the streets and the crowds. I'd get awful lonesome in the country."

"Isn't it better to have a good home in the country than to live as you
do in the city?"

"I like it well enough," said Ben. "We're a jolly crowd, and we do as we
please. There aint nobody to order us round 'cept the copps, and they
let us alone unless we steal, or something of that kind."

"So you are wedded to your city life?"

"Yes, I guess so; though I don't remember when the weddin' took place."

"And you prefer to live on in your old way?"

"Yes, sir; thank you all the same."

"You may change your mind some time, my lad. If you ever do, and will
write to me at B----, Ohio, I will send for you to come out. Here is my
card."

"Thank you, sir," said Ben. "I'll keep the card, and if ever I change my
mind, I'll let you know."

They had been walking slowly, or they would have reached Broadway
sooner. They had now arrived there, and the stranger bade Ben good-by,
handing him at the same time the fifty cents agreed upon.

"He's a brick," Ben soliloquized, "even if he did say he'd smash my
head. I hope I'll meet some more like him."

Ben's objection to leaving the city is felt in an equal degree by many
boys who are situated like himself. Street life has its privations and
actual sufferings; but for all that there is a wild independence and
freedom from restraint about it, which suits those who follow it. To be
at the beck and call of no one; to be responsible only to themselves,
provided they keep from violating the law, has a charm to these young
outcasts. Then, again, they become accustomed to the street and its
varied scenes, and the daily excitement of life in a large city becomes
such a matter of necessity to them, that they find the country lonesome.
Yet, under the auspices of the Children's Aid Society, companies of boys
are continually being sent out to the great West with the happiest
results. After a while the first loneliness wears away, and they become
interested in the new scenes and labors to which they are introduced,
and a large number have already grown up to hold respectable, and, in
some cases, prominent places, in the communities which they have
joined. Others have pined for the city, until they could no longer
resist their yearning for it, and have found their way back to the old,
familiar scenes, to resume the former life of suffering and privation.
Such is the strange fascination which their lawless and irresponsible
mode of life oftentimes exerts upon the minds of these young Arabs of
the street.

When Ben parted from the passenger by the Albany boat, he did not
immediately seek another job. Accustomed as he was to live from "hand to
mouth," he had never troubled himself much about accumulating more than
would answer his immediate needs. Some boys in the Lodging House made
deposits in the bank of that institution; but frugality was not one of
Ben's virtues. As long as he came out even at the end of the day, he
felt very well satisfied. Generally he went penniless to bed; his
business not being one that required him to reserve money for capital to
carry it on. In the case of a newsboy it was different. He must keep
enough on hand to buy a supply of papers in the morning, even if he were
compelled to go to bed supperless.

With fifty cents in his pocket, Ben felt rich. It would buy him a good
supper, besides paying for his lodging at the Newsboys' Home, and a
ticket for the Old Bowery besides,--that is, a fifteen-cent ticket,
which, according to the arrangement of that day, would admit him to one
of the best-located seats in the house, that is, in the pit,
corresponding to what is known as the parquette in other theatres. This
arrangement has now been changed, so that the street boys find
themselves banished to the upper gallery of their favorite theatre. But
in the days of which I am speaking they made themselves conspicuous in
the front rows, and were by no means bashful in indicating their
approbation or disapprobation of the different actors who appeared on
the boards before them.

Ben had not gone far when he fell in with an acquaintance,--Barney
Flynn.

"Where you goin', Ben?" inquired Barney.

"Goin' to get some grub," answered Ben.

"I'm with you, then. I haven't eat anything since mornin', and I'm awful
hungry."

"Have you got any stamps?"

"I've got a fifty."

"So have I."

"Where are you goin' for supper?"

"To Pat's, I guess."

"All right; I'll go with you."

The establishment known as "Pat's" is located in a basement in Nassau
Street, as the reader of "Mark, the Match Boy," will remember. It is, of
coarse, a cheap restaurant, and is considerably frequented by the street
boys, who here find themselves more welcome guests than at some of the
more pretentious eating-houses.

Ben and Barney entered, and gave their orders for a substantial repast.
The style in which the meal was served differed considerably from the
service at Delmonico's; but it is doubtful whether any of the guests at
the famous up-town restaurant enjoyed their meal any better than the two
street boys, each of whom was blest with a "healthy" appetite. Barney
had eaten nothing since morning, and Ben's fast had only been broken by
the eating of a two-cent apple, which had not been sufficient to satisfy
his hunger.

Notwithstanding the liberality of their orders, however, each of the
boys found himself, at the end of the meal, the possessor of twenty-five
cents. This was not a very large sum to sleep on, but it was long since
either had waked up in the morning with so large a capital to commence
operations upon.

"What shall we do?" asked Ben.

"Suppose we go to the Old Bowery," suggested Barney.

"Or Tony Pastor's," amended Ben.

"I like the Bowery best. There's a great fight, and a feller gets killed
on the stage. It's a stunnin' old play."

"Then let us go," said Ben, who, as well as his companion, liked the
idea of witnessing a stage fight, which was all the more attractive on
account of having a fatal termination.

As the theatre tickets would cost but fifteen cents each, the boys felt
justified in purchasing each a cheap cigar, which they smoked as they
walked leisurely up Chatham Street.




CHAPTER XV.

THE ROOM UNDER THE WHARF.


It was at a late hour when the boys left the theatre. The play had been
of a highly sensational character, and had been greeted with
enthusiastic applause on the part of the audience, particularly the
occupants of the "pit." Now, as they emerged from the portals of the
theatre, various characteristic remarks of a commendatory character were
interchanged.

"How'd you like it, Ben?" asked Barney.

"Bully," said Ben.

"I liked the fight best," said Barney. "Jones give it to him just about
right."

"Yes, that was good," said Ben; "but I liked it best where Alphonso says
to Montmorency, 'Caitiff, beware, or, by the heavens above, my trusty
sword shall drink thy foul heart's blood!'"

Ben gave this with the stage emphasis, so far as he could imitate it.
Barney listened admiringly.

"I say, Ben," he replied, "you did that bully. You'd make a tip-top
actor."

"Would I?" said Ben, complacently. "I think I'd like to try it if I knew
enough. How much money have you got, Barney?"

"Nary a red. I spent the last on peanuts."

"Just my case. We'll have to find some place to turn in for the night."

"I know a place," said Barney, "if they'll let us in."

"Whereabouts is it?"

"Down to Dover Street wharf."

"What sort of a place is it? There aint any boxes or old wagons, are
there?"

"No, it's under the wharf,--a bully place."

"Under the wharf! It's wet, isn't it?"

"No, you just come along. I'll show you."

Having no other place to suggest, Ben accepted his companion's guidance,
and the two made their way by the shortest route to the wharf named. It
is situated not far from Fulton Ferry on the east side. It may be called
a double wharf. As originally built, it was found too low for the class
of vessels that used it, and another flooring was built over the first,
leaving a considerable space between the two. Its capabilities for a
private rendezvous occurred to a few boys, who forthwith proceeded to
avail themselves of it. It was necessary to carry on their proceedings
secretly; otherwise there was danger of interference from the city
police. What steps they took to make their quarters comfortable will
shortly be described.

When they reached the wharf, Barney looked about him with an air of
caution, which Ben observed.

"What are you scared of?" asked Ben.

"We mustn't let the 'copp' see us," said Barney, "Don't make no noise."

Thus admonished, Ben followed his companion with as little noise as
possible.

"How do you get down there?" he asked.

"I'll show you," said Barney.

He went to the end of the wharf, and, motioning Ben to look over, showed
him a kind of ladder formed by nailing strips of wood, at regular
intervals, from the outer edge down to the water's edge. This was not
an arrangement of the boys, but was for the accommodation of river-boats
landing at the wharf.

"I'll go down first," whispered Barney. "If the 'copp' comes along, move
off, so he won't notice nothin'."

"All right!" said Ben.

Barney got part way down the ladder, when a head was protruded from
below, and a voice demanded, "Who's there?"

"It's I,--Barney Flynn."

"Come along, then."

"I've got a fellow with me," continued Barney.

"Who is it?"

"It's Ben, the baggage-smasher. He wants to stop here to-night."

"All right; we can trust him."

"Come along, Ben," Barney called up the ladder.

Ben quickly commenced the descent. Barney was waiting for him, and held
out his hand to help him off. Our hero stepped from the ladder upon the
lower flooring of the wharf, and looked about him with some curiosity.
It was certainly a singular spectacle that met his view. About a dozen
boys were congregated in the room under the wharf, and had evidently
taken some pains to make themselves comfortable. A carpet of good size
was spread over a portion of the flooring. Upon this three beds were
spread, each occupied by three boys. Those who could not be accommodated
in this way laid on the carpet. Some of the boys were already asleep;
two were smoking, and conversing in a low voice. Looking about him Ben
recognized acquaintances in several of them.[A]

"Is that you, Mike Sweeny?" he asked of a boy stretched out on the
nearest bed.

"Yes," said Mike; "come and lay alongside of me."

There was no room on the bed, but Ben found space beside it on the
carpet, and accordingly stretched himself out.

[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.




CHAPTER XVI.

BEN MEETS AN OLD FRIEND.


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.

"To No.--Madison Avenue."

"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.

"Yes."

"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?"

"What,--Ben Hooper?"

"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.




CHAPTER XVII.

BEN FORMS A RESOLUTION.


"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.




CHAPTER XVIII.

LUCK AND ILL LUCK.


"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.

"You can hand me the letter."

"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.




CHAPTER XIX.

WHICH IS THE GUILTY PARTY?


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 want my money," said Ben.

"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.




CHAPTER XX.

HOW ALL CAME RIGHT IN THE MORNING.


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.

"Well, my lad," he said, in a friendly manner, "so you're all right once
more?"

"Yes," said Ben; "I knew it would all be right in the morning."

"I owe you something for the inconvenience you have suffered while in my
employ. Here is a ten-dollar bill. I hope you will save it till you need
it, and won't spend it foolishly."

"Thank you," said Ben, joyfully. "I'll put it in the bank."

"That will be a good plan. Good-morning; when you need a friend, you
will know where to find me."

He shook Ben's hand in a friendly way and left him.

"He's a trump," thought Ben. "If my father'd treated me like that, I'd
never have wanted to run away from home."




CHAPTER XXI.

IN A NEW LINE.


"Ten dollars!" said Ben to himself, with exultation. "That's pretty good
pay for a few hours in the station-house. I'd like to board there a week
on the same terms."

Ben's capital now amounted to eleven dollars; but of this sum he decided
to retain one dollar as a reserve to fall back upon in case of need. The
ten dollars he determined to deposit at once in a savings-bank. He
accordingly bent his steps towards one in the course of the forenoon.
The business was quickly transacted, and Ben left the building with a
bank-book containing an entry of his first deposit.

This was a very good beginning, so Ben thought. Fifty dollars, as he had
estimated, would enable him to carry out the plan which he proposed, and
he had already one-fifth of the sum. But the accumulation of the other
forty dollars would no doubt take him a considerable time. The business
of a "baggage-smasher," as Ben knew from experience, is precarious, the
amount of gains depending partly upon luck. He had sometimes haunted the
steamboat landings for hours without obtaining a single job. Now that he
was anxious to get on, he felt this to be an objection. He began to
consider whether there was any way of adding to his income.

After considerable thought he decided to buy a supply of weekly papers,
which he could sell while waiting for a job. One advantage in selecting
weekly papers rather than daily was this, that the latter must be sold
within a few hours, or they prove a dead loss. A daily paper of
yesterday is as unsalable as a last year's almanac. As Ben was liable to
be interrupted in his paper business at any time by a chance to carry
luggage, it was an important consideration to have a stock which would
remain fresh for a few days.

This idea impressed Ben so favorably that he determined to act upon it
at once. In considering where he should go for his supply of papers, he
thought of a Broadway news-stand, which he frequently had occasion to
pass. On reaching it, he said to the proprietor, "Where do you buy your
papers?"

"What do you want to know for?"

"I thought maybe I'd go into the business."

"You don't think of setting up a stand, do you?" asked the man, with a
significant glance at Ben's ragged attire.

"No," said Ben. "I haven't got capital enough for that, unless you'll
sell out for fifty cents."

"I suppose you want a few to carry round and sell?"

"Yes."

"Where do you think of going with them?"

"Down to the wharves. I'm a baggage-smasher, and I thought I might make
somethin' by sellin' papers, when I hadn't any baggage to carry."

"I get my papers from the 'American News Company' on Nassau Street."

"I know the place well enough."

"What papers do you think I could sell best?" asked Ben.

"The picture papers go off as fast as any," said the street dealer.
"But I'll tell you what, my lad, maybe I can make an arrangement for you
to sell papers for me."

"I don't think I'd like to stand here all day," said Ben, supposing the
other to mean to engage him to tend the stand.

"I don't mean that."

"Well," said Ben, "I'm open to an offer, as the old maid of sixty told a
feller that called to see her."

"I'll tell you what I mean. I'll give you a bundle of papers every
morning to take with you. You will sell what you can, and bring back the
rest at night."

"I like that," said Ben, with satisfaction. "But how much will I get?"

"It will depend on the price of the papers. 'Harper's Weekly' and 'Frank
Leslie' sell for ten cents. I will allow you two cents on each of these.
On the 'Ledger' and 'Weekly,' and other papers of that price, I will
allow one cent. You'd make rather more if you bought them yourself; but
you might have them left on your hands."

"That's so," said Ben.

"Did you ever sell papers?"

"I used to sell the mornin' and evenin' papers before I went to
baggage-smashin'."

"Then you know something about the business. When do you want to begin?"

"Right off."

"Very well; I will make you up a bundle of a dozen papers to begin on.
I'll put in three each of the illustrated papers, and fill up with the
story papers."

"All right, mister, you know better than I what people will buy."

The dealer began to collect the papers, but paused in the middle of his
task, and looked doubtfully at our hero.

"Well, what's up?" asked Ben, observing his hesitation.

"How do I know but you'll sell the papers, and keep the money yourself?"
said the dealer.

"That's so," said Ben. "I never thought of that."

"That wouldn't be very profitable for me, you see."

"I'll bring back the money or the papers," said Ben. "You needn't be
afraid."

"Very likely you would; but how am I to know that?"

"So you don't want to trust me," said Ben, rather disappointed.

"Have you got any money?"

"Yes."

"Very well, you can leave enough with me to secure me against loss, and
I will give you the papers."

"How much will that be?"

After a little thought, the dealer answered, "Seventy-five cents." He
had some doubt whether Ben had so much; but our hero quickly set his
doubts at rest by drawing out his two half-dollars, and demanding a
quarter in change.

The sight of this money reassured the dealer. Ben's ragged clothes had
led him to doubt his financial soundness; but the discovery that he was
a capitalist to the extent of a dollar gave him considerable more
respect for him. A dollar may not be a very large sum; I hope that to
you, my young reader, it is a very small one, and that you have never
been embarrassed for the want of it; but it is enough to lift a ragged
street boy from the position of a penniless vagabond to that of a
thrifty capitalist. After seeing it, the dealer would almost have felt
safe in trusting Ben with the papers without demanding a deposit of
their value. Still it was better and safer to require a deposit, and he
therefore took the dollar from Ben, returning twenty-five cents in
change.

This preliminary matter settled, he made up the parcel of papers.

"There they are," he said. "If you're smart, you can sell 'em all before
night."

"I hope so," said Ben.

With the papers under his arm, Ben made his way westward to the
Cortlandt Street ferry, which was a favorite place of resort with him.

He did not have long to wait for his first customer. As he was walking
down Cortlandt Street, he met a gentleman, whose attention seemed
attracted by the papers he carried.

"What papers have you got there, my lad?" he inquired.

"'Harper's Weekly,' 'Frank Leslie,' 'Ledger,' 'Weekly,'" repeated Ben,
glibly, adding the names of the other papers in his parcel.

"Give me the two picture papers," said the gentleman. "Twenty cents, I
suppose."

"Yes," said Ben, "and as much more as you want to pay. I don't set no
limit to the generosity of my customers."

"You're sharp," said the gentleman, laughing. "That's worth something.
Here's twenty-five cents. You may keep the change."

"I'll do it cheerfully," said Ben. "Thank you, sir. I hope you'll buy
all your papers of me."

"I won't promise always to pay you more than the regular price, but you
may leave 'Harper's' and 'Leslie' at my office every week. Here is my
card."

Ben took the card, and put it in his pocket. He found the office to be
located in Trinity Building, Broadway.

"I'll call every week reg'lar," he said.

"That's right, my lad. Good-morning."

"Good-mornin'."

Ben felt that he had started well. He had cleared nine cents by his
sale, four representing his regular commission, while the other five
cents might be regarded as a donation. Nine cents was something. But for
his idea about the papers, he would have made nothing so far. It is a
very good thing to have two strings to your bow, so Ben thought, though
the thought did not take that precise form in his mind. He kept on his
way till he reached the ferry. There was no train in on the other side,
and would not be for some time, but passengers came over the ferry, and
Ben placed himself where he could be seen. It was some time before he
sold another paper however, although Ben, who improved some of his spare
time by looking over the pictures, was prepared to recommend them.

"What papers have you got, boy?" asked a tall, lank man, whose thin
lips and pinched expression gave him an outward appearance of meanness,
which, by the way, did not belie his real character.

Ben recited the list.

"What's the price of 'Harper's Weekly'?"

"Ten cents."

"Ten cents is too much to pay for any paper. I don't see how they have
the face to ask it."

"Nor I," said Ben; "but they don't consult me,"

"I'll give you eight cents."

"No you won't, not if I know it. I'd rather keep the paper for my
private readin'," answered Ben.

"Then you are at liberty to do so," said the gentleman, snappishly.
"You'd make profit enough, if you sold at eight cents."

"All the profit I'd make wouldn't pay for a fly's breakfast," said Ben.

The gentleman deigned no response, but walked across the street in a
dignified manner. Here he was accosted by a boot-black, who proposed to
shine his boots.

"He'll get 'em done at the wholesale price, see if he don't," thought
Ben. He kept an eye on the boot-black and his patron until the job was
finished. Then he witnessed what appeared to be an angry dispute between
the two parties. It terminated by the gentleman lifting his cane in a
menacing manner. Ben afterwards gained from the boy particulars of the
transaction, which may be given here in the third person.

"Shine yer boots?" asked the boot-black, as the gentleman reached his
side of the street, just after his unsuccessful negotiations with Ben.

"What do you charge?" he inquired.

"Ten cents."

"That's too much."

"It's the reg'lar price."

"I can get my boots blacked for five cents anywhere. If you'll do it for
that, you can go to work."

The boy hesitated. It was half price, but he had not yet obtained a job,
and he yielded. When the task was finished, his generous patron drew
four cents from his pocket.

"I haven't got but four cents," he observed. "I guess that'll do."

The boy was indignant, as was natural. To work for half price, and then
lose one-fifth of his reduced pay, was aggravating. What made it worse
was, that his customer was carefully dressed, and bore every appearance
of being a man of substance.

"I want another cent," he demanded.

"You're well enough paid," said the other, drawing on a kid glove. "Four
cents I consider very handsome pay for ten minutes' work. Many men do
not make as much."

This reasoning did not strike the little boot-black as sound. He was no
logician; but he felt that he had been defrauded, and that in a very
mean manner.

"Give me my money," he screamed, angrily.

"I'll hand you over to the authorities," said the gentleman,--though I
hardly feel justified in calling him such,--lifting his cane menacingly.

What could the boy do? Might was evidently on the side of the man who
had cheated him. But he was quick-witted, and a characteristic mode of
revenge suggested itself. The street was muddy (New York streets are
occasionally in that condition). The boot-black stooped down and
clutched a handful of mire in his hand, fortunately having no kid gloves
to soil, and, before his late customer fathomed his intention,
plentifully besprinkled one of the boots which he had just carefully
polished.

"That's worth a cent," he remarked, with satisfaction, escaping from the
wrath of the injured party.

His victim, almost speechless with rage, seemed disposed to pursue him;
but the boy, regardless of the mire, had run across the street, and to
follow would only be to make matters worse.

"If I ever catch you, I'll break every bone in your body, you little
vagabond," he said, in a voice almost choked by passion, shaking his
cane energetically.

Ben, who had witnessed the whole, burst into a hearty laugh, which drew
upon his head a portion of wrath. After a pause, the victim of his own
meanness turned up a side street. The reader will be glad to learn that
he had to employ a second boot black; so that he was not so much better
off for his economical management after all. It may be added that he was
actuated in all his dealings by the same frugality, if we may dignify it
by that name. He was a large dealer in ready-made under-clothing, for
the making of which he paid starvation prices; but, unfortunately, the
poor sewing-girls, whom he employed for a pittance, were not so well
able to defend themselves against imposition as the smart little
boot-black, who "knew his rights, and knowing, dared maintain."




CHAPTER XXII.

THE HEAVY VALISE.


Ben had sold half his papers when the arrival of the train from
Philadelphia gave him an opportunity to return to his legitimate
calling.

"Smash your baggage, sir?" asked Ben of a dark-complexioned man of
thirty-five, who carried a moderate-sized valise.

"Yes," said the other.

"Where shall I carry it?"

"To----" Here the man hesitated, and finally answered, "There is no need
of telling you. I will take it from you when we have got along far
enough."

Ben was about to walk beside the owner of the valise; but the latter
objected to this.

"You needn't walk beside me," he said. "Keep about a block ahead."

"But how will I know where to go?" asked Ben, naturally.

"You know where Broome Street runs into the Bowery?"

"Of course I do."

"Go there by the shortest route. Don't trouble yourself about me. I'll
follow along behind, and take the valise from you there. If you get
there before I do, wait for me."

"I suppose I'm too ragged to walk alongside of him," thought Ben.

He could think of no other reason for the direction given by the other.
However, Ben's pride was not very much hurt. Although he was ragged now,
he did not mean to be long. The time would come, he was confident, when
he could lay aside his rags, and appear in a respectable dress.

The valise which he carried proved to be considerably heavier than would
have been imagined from its size.

"I wonder what's in it," thought Ben, who found it tugging away at his
arms. "If it's shirts they're cast-iron. Maybe they're just comin' in
fashion."

However, he did not perplex himself much about this point. Beyond a
momentary curiosity, he felt no particular interest in the contents of
the valise. The way in which it affected him principally was, to make
him inwardly resolve to ask an extra price, on account of the extra
weight.

After walking a while he looked back for the owner of the valise. But he
was not in sight.

"I might carry off his baggage," thought Ben, "without his knowin' it."

He kept on, however, never doubting that the owner would sooner or later
overtake him. If he did not care enough for the valise to do this, Ben
would not be responsible.

He had just shifted the heavy burden from one hand to the other, when he
felt himself tapped on the shoulder. Looking round, he saw that the one
who had done this was a quiet-looking man, of middle size, but with a
keen, sharp eye.

"What's wanted?" asked Ben.

"Where did you get that valise, my lad?" asked the new-comer.

"I don't know as that's any of your business," answered Ben, who didn't
perceive the other's right to ask the question.

"Is it yours?"

"Maybe it is."

"Let me lift it a moment."

"Hands off!" said Ben, suspiciously. "Don't try none of your tricks on
me."

The other did not appear to notice this.

"I take it for granted that the valise is not yours," he said. "Now tell
me where you got it from."

There was something of authority in his manner, which led Ben to think
that he had a warrant for asking the question, though he could not guess
his object in doing so.

"I'm a baggage-smasher," answered Ben. "I got this from a man that came
by the Philadelphia train."

"Where is he?"

"I guess he's behind somewheres."

"Where are you carrying the valise?"

"Seems to me you want to know a good deal," said Ben, undecided as to
the right of the other to ask so many questions.

"I'll let you into a secret, my lad; but you must keep the secret. That
valise is pretty heavy, isn't it?"

"I'll bet it is."

"To the best of my information, the man who employed you is a noted
burglar, and this valise contains his tools. I am a detective, and am on
his track. I received a telegram an hour ago from Philadelphia,
informing me that he was on his way. I got down to the wharf a little
too late. Now tell me where you are to carry this;" and the detective
pointed to the valise.

"I am to meet the gentleman at the corner of Broome Street and the
Bowery," said Ben.

"Very well. Go ahead and meet him."

"Shall you be there?" asked Ben.

"Never mind. Go on just as if I had not met you, and deliver up the
valise."

"If you're goin' to nab him, just wait till I've got my pay. I don't
want to smash such heavy baggage for nothin'."

"I agree to that. Moreover, if I succeed in getting hold of the fellow
through your information, I don't mind paying you five dollars out of
my own pocket."

"Very good," said Ben. "I shan't mind takin' it, not by no means."

"Go on, and don't be in too much of a hurry. I want time to lay my
trap."

Ben walked along leisurely, in accordance with his instructions. At
length he reached the rendezvous. He found the owner of the valise
already in waiting.

"Well, boy," he said, impatiently, "you took your time."

"I generally do," said Ben. "It aint dishonest to take my own time, is
it?"

"I've been waiting here for a quarter of an hour. I didn't know but
you'd gone to sleep somewhere on the way."

"I don't sleep much in the daytime. It don't agree with my constitution.
Well, mister, I hope you'll give me something handsome. Your baggage
here is thunderin' heavy."

"There's twenty-five cents," said the other.

"Twenty-five cents!" exclaimed Ben, indignantly.

"Twenty-five cents for walkin' two miles with such a heavy load. It's
worth fifty."

"Well, you won't get fifty," said the other, roughly.

"Just get somebody else to carry your baggage next time," said Ben,
angrily.

He looked round, and saw the quiet-looking man, before referred to,
approaching. He felt some satisfaction in knowing that his recent
employer would meet with a check which he was far from anticipating.

Without answering Ben, the latter took the valise, and was about moving
away, when the quiet-looking man suddenly quickened his pace, and laid
his hand on his arm.

The burglar, for he was really one, started, and turned pale.

"What do you want?"

"You know what I want," said the detective, quietly. "I want you."

"What do you want me for?" demanded the other; but it was easy to see
that he was nervous and alarmed.

"You know that also," said the detective; "but I don't mind telling
you. You came from Philadelphia this morning, and your name is 'Sly
Bill.' You are a noted burglar, and I shall take you into immediate
custody."

"You're mistaken," said Bill. "You've got hold of the wrong man."

"That will soon be seen. Have the kindness to accompany me to the
station-house, and I'll take a look into that valise of yours."

Bill was physically a stronger man than the detective, but he succumbed
at once to the tone of quiet authority with which he spoke, and prepared
to follow, though by no means with alacrity.

"Here, my lad," said the detective, beckoning Ben, who came up. "Come
and see me at this place, to-morrow," he continued, producing a card,
"and I won't forget the promise I made you."

"All right," said Ben.

"I'm in luck ag'in," he said to himself. "At this rate it won't take me
long to make fifty dollars. Smashin' baggage for burglars pays pretty
well."

He bethought himself of his papers, of which half remained unsold. He
sold some on the way back to the wharf, where, after a while, he got
another job, for which, being at some distance, he was paid fifty cents.

At five in the afternoon he reported himself at the news-stand.

"I've sold all the papers you gave me," he said, "and here's the money.
I guess I can sell more to-morrow."

The news-dealer paid him the commission agreed upon, amounting to
eighteen cents, Ben, of course, retaining besides the five cents which
had been paid him extra in the morning. This made his earnings for the
day ninety-eight cents, besides the dollars promised by the detective.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SURPRISE.


Ben had certainly met with good luck so far. Even his temporary
detention at the station-house he regarded as a piece of good luck,
since he was paid handsomely for the confinement, while his bed there
was considerably more comfortable than he often enjoyed. His adventure
with the burglar also brought him in as much as under ordinary
circumstances he would have earned in a week. In two days he was able to
lay aside fifteen dollars and a half towards his fund.

But of course such lucky adventures could not be expected every day. The
bulk of his money must be earned slowly, as the reward of persistent
labor and industry. But Ben was willing to work now that he had an
object before him. He kept up his double business of baggage-smasher and
vender of weekly papers. After a while the latter began to pay him
enough to prove quite a help, besides filling up his idle moments.
Another good result of his new business was, that, while waiting for
customers, he got into the habit of reading the papers he had for sale.
Now Ben had done very little reading since he came to New York, and, if
called upon to read aloud, would have shown the effects of want of
practice, in his frequent blunders. But the daily lessons in reading
which he now took began to remedy this deficiency, and give him
increased fluency and facility. It also had the effect of making him
wish that his education had not been interrupted, so that his Cousin
Charles might not be so far ahead of him.

Ben also gave up smoking,--not so much because he considered it
injurious, but because cigars cost money, and he was economizing in
every possible way. He continued to sleep in the room under the wharf,
which thus far the occupants had managed to keep from the knowledge of
the police. Gradually the number had increased, until from twenty to
thirty boys made it a rendezvous nightly. By some means a stove had been
procured, and what was more difficult, got safely down without
observation, so that, as the nights grew cooler, the boys managed to
make themselves comfortable. Here they talked and told stories, and had
a good time before going to sleep. One evening it was proposed by one of
the boys that each should tell his own story; for though they met
together daily they knew little of each other beyond this, that they
were all engaged in some street avocation. Some of the stories told were
real, some burlesque.

First Jim Bagley told his story.

"I aint got much to tell, boys," he said. "My father kept a cigar store
on Eighth Avenue, and my mother and sister and I lived behind the shop.
We got along pretty well, till father got run over by a street-car, and
pretty soon after he died. We kept the store along a little while, but
we couldn't make it go and pay the rent; so we sold out to a man who
paid half down, and promised to pay the rest in a year. But before the
year was up he shut up the shop, and went off, and we never got the rest
of the money. The money we did get did not last long. Mother got some
sewin' to do, but she couldn't earn much. I took to sellin' papers; but
after a while I went into the match business, which pays pretty good. I
pay mother five dollars a week, and sometimes more; so she gets along
well."

"I don't see how you make so much money, Jim," said Phil Cranmer. "I've
tried it, and I didn't get nothin' much out of it."

"Jim knows how," said one of the boys. "He's got enterprise."

"I go off into the country a good deal," said Jim. "There's plenty of
match boys in the city. Sometimes I hire another boy to come along and
help me. If he's smart I make money that way too. Last time I went out I
didn't make so much."

"How was that, Jim?"

"I went up to Albany on the boat. I was doin' pretty well up there, when
all to once they took me up for sellin' without a license; so I had to
pay ten dollars afore they'd let me off."

"Did you have the money to pay, Jim?"

"Yes, but it cleaned me out, so I didn't have but two dollars left. But
I travelled off into the country towns, and got it back in a week or
two. I'm glad they didn't get hold of Bill."

"Who was Bill?"

"The feller that sold for me. I couldn't have paid his fine too. That's
about all I have to tell."[B]

"Captain Jinks!" called out one of the boys; "your turn next."

Attention was directed to a tall, overgrown boy of sixteen, or possibly
seventeen, to whom for some unknown reason the name of the famous
Captain Jinks had been given.

"That aint my name," he said.

"Oh, bother your name! Go ahead."

"I aint got nothing to say."

"Go ahead and say it."

The captain was rather taciturn, but was finally induced to tell his
story.

[B] The main incidents of Jim Bagley's story are true, having been
communicated to the writer by Jim himself, a wide-awake boy of fifteen,
who appeared to possess decided business ability and energy. The name
only is fictitious.

"My father and mother are dead," he said. "I used to live with my sister
and her husband. He would get drunk off the money I brought home, and if
I didn't bring home as much as he expected, he'd fling a chair at my
head."

"He was a bully brother-in-law," said Jerry. "Did it hurt the chair
much?"

"If you want to know bad, I'll try it on you," growled the narrator.

"Good for Captain Jinks!" exclaimed two or three of the boys.

"When did you join the Hoss Marines?" asked Jerry, with apparent
interest.

"Shut up your mouth!" said the captain, who did not fancy the joke.

"Go ahead, Jinks."

"I would not stand that; so I went off, and lived at the Lodge till I
got in here. That's all."

Captain Jinks relapsed into silence, and Tim McQuade was called upon. He
had a pair of sparkling black eyes, that looked as if he were not averse
to fun.

"Maybe you don't know," he said, "that I'm fust cousin to a Markis."

"The Markis of Cork," suggested one of the boys.

"And sometimes I expect to come in for a lot of money, if I don't miss
of it."

"When you do, just treat a feller, will you?" said Jerry.

"Course I will. I was born in a big castle made of stone, and used to go
round dressed in welvet, and had no end of nice things, till one day a
feller that had a spite ag'in the Markis carried me off, and brought me
to America, where I had to go to work and earn my own livin'."

"Why don't you write the Markis, and get him to send for you?" asked
Jerry.

"'Cause he can't read, you spalpeen! What 'ud be the use of writin' to
him?"

"Maybe it's the fault of your writin', Tim."

"Maybe it is," said Tim. "When the Markis dies I'm going back, an' I'll
invite you all to come an' pass a week at Castle McQuade."

"Bully for you, Tim! Now, Dutchey, tell us your story."

Dutchey was a boy of ten, with a full face and rotund figure, whose
English, as he had been but two years in the country, was highly
flavored with his native dialect.

"I cannot English sprechen," he said.

"Never mind, Dutchey. Do as well as you can."

"It is mine story you want? He is not very long, but I will tell him so
goot as I can. Mine vater was a shoemaker, what makes boots. He come
from Sharmany, on der Rhein, mit my moder, and five childer. He take a
little shop, and make some money, till one day a house fall on his head
mit a brick, an he die. Then I go out into der street, and black boots
so much as I get him to do, and the money what I get I carry home to
mine moder. I cannot much English sprechen, or I could tell mine story
more goot."

"Bully for you, Dutchey! You're a trump."

"What is one trump?" asked the boy, with a puzzled expression.

"It is a good feller."

This explanation seemed to reconcile Dutchey to being called a trump,
and he lay back on the bed with an expression of satisfaction.

"Now, Ben, tell us your story."

It was Ben, the luggage boy, who was addressed. The question embarrassed
him, for he preferred to keep his story secret. He hoped ere long to
leave his present haunts and associates, and he did not care to give the
latter a clue by which they might trace him in his new character and
position. Yet he had no good reason to assign for silence. He was
considering what sort of a story he could manufacture, that would pass
muster, when he was relieved from further consideration by an unexpected
occurrence.

It appears that a boy had applied for admission to the rendezvous; but,
on account of his unpopular character, had been refused. This naturally
incensed him, and he determined to betray the boys to the policeman on
the beat. The sight that greeted Ben, as he looked towards the entrance,
was the face of the policeman, peering into the apartment. He uttered a
half exclamation, which attracted the general attention. Instantly all
was excitement.

"The copp! the copp!" passed from mouth to mouth.

The officer saw that the odds were against him, and he must summon help.
He went up the ladder, therefore, and went in search of assistance. The
boys scrambled up after him. Some were caught, and ultimately sentenced
to the Island, on a charge of stealing the articles which were found;
but others escaped. Among these was Ben, who was lucky enough to glide
off in the darkness. He took the little German boy under his protection,
and managed to get him safely away also. In this case the ends of
justice were not interfered with, as neither of the two had been guilty
of dishonesty, or anything else rendering them amenable to the law.

"Well, Dutchey, we're safe," said Ben, when they had got some blocks
away from the wharf. "How do you feel?"

"I lose mine breath," said the little boy, panting with the effort he
had made.

"That's better than losin' your liberty," said Ben. "You'll get your
breath back again. Now we must look about and see where we can sleep. I
wonder if Jim Bagley's took."

Just then a boy came running up.

"Why, it's Ben and Dutchey," he said.

"Jerry, is it you? I'm glad you're safe."

"The copp got a grip of me, but I left my jacket in his hands. He can
carry that to the station-house if he wants to."

Jerry's appearance corresponded to his statement, his jacket being gone,
leaving a dilapidated vest and ragged shirt alone to protect the upper
part of his body. He shivered with the cold, for it was now November.

"Here, Jerry," said Ben, "just take my vest an' put over yours. I'll
button up my coat."

"If I was as fat as Dutchey, I wouldn't mind the cold," said Jerry.

The three boys finally found an old wagon, in which all three huddled up
together, by this means keeping warmer than they otherwise could. Being
turned out of their beds into the street might have been considered a
hardship by boys differently reared, but it was not enough to disturb
the philosophy of our young vagrants.




CHAPTER XXIV.

BEN TRANSFORMED.


Ben worked away steadily at his double occupation, saving money as well
as he could; but he met with no more profitable adventures. His earnings
were gradual. Some weeks he laid by as much as a dollar and a half, or
even two dollars, but other weeks he barely reached a dollar. So the end
of March came before he was able to carry out the object which he had in
view.

One morning about this time Ben carefully counted up his deposits, and
found they amounted to fifty dollars and thirty-seven cents. It was a
joyful moment, which he had long looked forward to. He had been tempted
to rest satisfied with forty when he had reached that sum, but he
resisted the temptation.

"I aint goin' to do things by halves," he said to himself. "I can't do
it for less'n fifty dollars. I must wait awhile."

But the moment had arrived when he could accomplish his purpose. As Ben
looked down at his ragged attire, which was in a considerably worse
condition then when he was first presented to the reader, he felt that
it was high time he got a new suit.

The first thing to be done was to get his money. He made his way to the
savings-bank, and presented himself at the counter.

"I want all of my money," he said.

"I hope you're not going to spend it all," said the bank officer, who by
this time had come to feel acquainted with Ben, from his frequent calls
to make deposits.

"I'm goin' to buy some new clothes," said Ben. "Don't I look as if I
needed some?"

"Yes, you are rather out at elbows, I must admit. But new clothes won't
cost all the money you have in the bank."

"I'm goin' home to my friends," said Ben, "after I've got dressed
decently."

"That's a good resolution, my boy; I hope you'll stick to it."

"It's what I've been workin' for, for a long time," said Ben.

He filled out the order for the money, and it was delivered to him.

The next thing was to buy a new suit of clothes. Usually Ben had
procured his outfit in Chatham Street, but he soared higher now. He made
his way to a large ready-made clothing warehouse on Broadway, and
entered. The main apartment was spacious, the counters were heaped with
articles of dress, and numerous clerks were ready to wait upon
customers.

"Well, what's wanted?" asked one, glancing superciliously at the ragged
boy entering.

"Have you got any clothes that will fit me?" asked Ben.

"I guess you've lost your way, Johnny, haven't you?"

"What makes you think so?" asked Ben.

"This isn't Chatham Street."

"Thank you for the information," said Ben. "I thought it was when I saw
you here."

There was a laugh, at the clerk's expense, among those who heard the
retort.

"What are you here for, any way?" demanded the clerk, with an air of
insulted majesty.

"To buy some clothes," said Ben; "but you needn't show 'em to me. I'll
go to somebody else."

"Have you got any money?"

"You'll know soon enough."

He went to another part of the store, and applied to a salesman whose
appearance he liked better. After some hesitation, Ben made choice of a
suit of substantial warm cloth, a dark mixed sack-coat, vest of the same
material, and a pair of pants of neat pattern.

"I won't trouble you to send 'em," said Ben, "as my house is closed for
the season."

The bundle was made up, and handed to him. The price of the entire suit
was twenty dollars, which was a good price for those days. Ben took the
bundle under his arm and went out.

His purchases were not yet all made. He went next to a furnishing store,
and bought three shirts, three pairs of stockings, some collars, and a
necktie, finishing up with a pair of gloves. These cost him eight
dollars. A neat felt hat and a pair of shoes, which he procured
elsewhere, completed his outfit. On counting up, Ben found that he had
expended thirty-six dollars, leaving in his hands a balance of fourteen
dollars and thirty-seven cents.

Before putting on his new purchases, Ben felt that he must go through a
process of purification. He went, therefore, to a barber's basement
shop, with which baths were connected, and, going down the steps, said
to the barber's assistant, who happened to be alone at the time, "I want
a warm bath."

"Pay in advance," said the young man, surveying the ragged figure before
him with some hesitation.

"All right," said Ben. "How much is it?"

"Twenty-five cents."

"Here it is," said Ben, producing the exact amount from his vest-pocket.

Such ragged customers were not usual; but there seemed to be no good
excuse for refusing Ben, as he had the money to pay. In five minutes the
bath was declared to be ready, and Ben, entering the small room assigned
to him, joyfully divested himself of the ragged garments which he was
never again to put on, and got into the tub. It probably will not excite
surprise when I say that Ben stood in need of a bath. His street life
had not been particularly favorable to cleanliness, nor had he been
provided with such facilities for attending to his toilet as are usual
in well-regulated families. However, he was quite aware of his
deficiencies in this way, and spared neither pains nor soap to remedy
them. It was a work of time; but finally he felt satisfied with the
result of his efforts, and, after drying himself, proceeded to put on
his new clothes. They proved to fit excellently. Indeed, they wrought
such a change in our hero's appearance that he could hardly believe in
his own identity when he stood before the glass, and saw reflected the
form of a well-dressed boy, in place of the ragged figure which he saw
on entering. The only thing which marred his good appearance was his
hair, which had grown to undue length. He determined to have it cut
before he left the barber's shop.

He tied up the clothes he had taken off in the paper which had contained
his new suit, and, opening the door, went out into the main room with
the bundle under his arm.

Meanwhile the proprietor of the shop had returned.

"Who is taking a bath?" he asked of his assistant.

"A ragged street boy," said the latter.

"What did you let him in for?"

"He paid in advance."

"I don't care about such customers any way," said the barber. "Remember
next time."

"All right."

At this moment Ben made his appearance; but that appearance was so much
altered that the young man looked at him in astonishment. He looked
thoroughly well dressed, and might have passed readily for the scion of
a wealthy family.

"Were two bath-rooms occupied?" asked the proprietor.

"No."

"I thought you said--"

"I was never so surprised in my life," said the assistant. "Did you get
changed in the bath?" he asked of Ben.

"Yes," said Ben.

"What made you wear such a ragged suit?"

"I was in disguise," said Ben; "but I've got tired of it, and thrown it
off. I think I'll have my hair cut."

"Take a seat," said the proprietor. "I'll cut your hair myself. How will
you have it cut?"

"I want to be in the fashion," said Ben. "Make it look as well as you
can."

He took his seat, and the task commenced. The barber was skilful in his
art, and he saw at once what style would become Ben best. He exerted
himself to the utmost, and when at the end of half an hour he withdrew
the cloth from around our hero's neck, he had effected a change almost
marvellous in Ben's appearance.

I have already said that Ben was naturally good-looking. But even good
looks need fair play, and rags and neglect are apt to obscure the gifts
of nature. So Ben had never looked his best till now. But when his hair
was cut and arranged, and he looked in the mirror to observe the
effect, he was himself surprised. It was some like the change that
transformed Cinderella into a princess.

"I shan't be ashamed to tell my cousin who I am now," he said.




CHAPTER XXV.

BEN MAKES HIMSELF KNOWN.


Ben went out into the street with two bundles under his arm. One
contained the ragged clothes which he had just taken off. The other,
which was much smaller, contained his extra shirts and stockings. The
first he did not care to keep. He therefore lost no time in throwing it
into an alley-way.

"It'll be a lucky chap that finds it," thought Ben.

He next put on his gloves, and considered what he should do next. It was
half-past twelve o'clock already, for he had not been able to get his
money from the bank till ten, and the purchases and bath, as well as the
hair-cutting, had taken up considerable time. He began to feel hungry,
and appetite suggested that he should first of all go to a restaurant
and get some dinner.

On the way thither he met two of his street acquaintances, who passed
him without the slightest mark of recognition. This pleased Ben, for it
assured him that the change which he had effected in his appearance was
a considerable one.

While eating dinner, he deliberated what he should do. It was Saturday,
and it would be almost too late to start for his Pennsylvania home. He
decided to go to his sister's house on Madison Avenue, and make himself
known there first of all. He was influenced to this partly by the desire
he had to meet his cousin, who, as he knew, was making his home, while
attending school, at the house of Mr. Abercrombie. He had more than once
been up to that part of the city in the hope of catching a glimpse of
the cousin for whom he retained his old, boyish love; but he had always
shrunk, even when seeing him, from attracting his observation. He did
not wish to be remembered in his rags, and so denied himself the
pleasure for which he yearned. But now he was satisfied with his
appearance. He felt that he was as well dressed as Charles himself, and
would do no discredit to him if they were seen in the street together.

He got on board an omnibus, and took his seat. A lady soon after
entered, and sat down beside him She drew out some money from her
purse, and, passing it to Ben, said, "Will you have the kindness to pass
up my fare, sir?"

"Certainly," said Ben, politely.

It was a small incident, but he felt, from the young lady's manner of
addressing him, that she looked upon him as her equal socially, and this
afforded him not a little pleasure. He wondered how he could have been
content to drift about the streets so long, clothed in rags. New hopes
and a new ambition had been awakened within him, and he felt that a new
life lay before him, much better worth living than the old life.

These thoughts occupied him as he rode up Broadway.

At length he left the omnibus, and took the shortest route to his
sister's house. When he ascended the steps, and rang the bell, he felt
rather a queer sensation come over him. He remembered very well the last
time he had ascended those same steps, carrying his cousin's valise. His
heart beat quick with excitement, in the midst of which the door was
opened by the servant.

He had already decided to ask for his cousin, preferring to make himself
known to him first.

"Is Charles Marston in?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," said the servant. "Won't you come in?"

She threw open the door of the parlor, and Ben, entering, seated himself
in an arm-chair, holding his hat in his hand.

"I wonder if she'd asked me in here if I'd come in my rags?" he asked
himself, with a smile.

The servant went upstairs, where she found Charles in his own room,
writing a French exercise.

"Master Charles," she said, "one of your school-mates is in the parlor.
He wants to see you."

"All right. I'll go right down."

The mistake was quite a natural one, as boys who attended the same
private school frequently called for Charles.

Charles went downstairs, and entered the parlor. Ben rose as he entered.

"How are you, Charlie?" said Ben, rising, and offering his hand.

Charles looked in his face with a puzzled expression. It was not one of
his school-mates, as he had supposed; but it must be some one that knew
him intimately, or he would not have addressed him so familiarly.

"I ought to know you," he said, apologetically; "but I can't think who
it is."

"Don't you remember your Cousin Ben, Charlie?" asked our hero.

"Ben!" exclaimed Charles, in the greatest astonishment. He looked
eagerly in our hero's face for a moment, then impulsively threw his arms
around Ben's neck, and kissed him.

"I am so glad to see you, Ben," he said. "Where have you been all the
time?"

"Then you didn't forget me, Charlie?" said Ben, returning the embrace.

"No, Ben. I've thought of you many and many a time. We used to be such
good friends, you know. We will be again,--will we not?"

"I hope so, Charlie. That was one of my reasons for coming back."

"How did you know I was here?"

"I will tell you some time, Charlie; but not now. Is my sister at home?"

"Yes. I will call her. She will be very much surprised. We all thought
you--"

"Dead, I suppose."

"Yes; but I always hoped you would come back again."

"Don't tell Mary who it is. See if she recognizes me."

Summoned by Charles, Mrs. Abercrombie came down to the parlor. She was
merely told that a gentleman desired to see her.

When she entered the parlor, Ben rose from his seat.

She looked at him for a moment, and her face lighted up.

"It's Ben," she said. "O Ben, how could you stay away so long?"

"What, do you remember me, Mary?" asked our hero, in surprise.

"Yes. I knew you by your resemblance to Charles. We always remarked it
when you were young boys together."

As the two boys were standing side by side, the resemblance of which she
spoke was quite striking. Ben was the larger of the two; but their
features were similar, as well as the color of the hair and eyes, and
the similarity of their dress completed the illusion. Mrs. Abercrombie
surveyed her brother with satisfaction. She had been afraid he would be
coarse and vulgar after so many years of neglect, if he should ever
return; but here he was, to all appearance, a young gentleman of whom
she need not feel ashamed.

"Ben must share my room, Cousin Mary," said Charles. "We've got so much
to say to each other."

"I didn't know I was to stay," said Ben, smiling.

"You mustn't leave us again, Ben," said his sister. "Monday you must
start for home. Poor mother has mourned for you so long. She will be
overjoyed to see you again."

When Mr. Abercrombie came home, his new brother-in-law was introduced to
him. He received Ben cordially, and in a way to make him feel at home.
In the course of the morning Mr. Sampson called, and Ben was introduced
to him.

"There's something in your brother's voice that sounds familiar," he
said to Mrs. Abercrombie. "I think I must have met him before."

"He has not been with us for some years," said Mrs. Abercrombie, who did
not care to reveal that Ben was a returned prodigal.

"Probably I am deceived," said Mr. Sampson.

Ben, however, knew that Mr. Sampson had good cause to remember him. He
was afraid the servant who had brought him his breakfast some months
before in the basement might remember him; but there was no danger of
that. She never dreamed of associating the young gentleman, her
mistress's brother, with the ragged and dirty boy who had brought the
valise for Master Charles.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.


On Sunday evening, Ben, in company with his sister, her husband, and
Charles, attended a sacred concert in Steinway Hall. As he stepped
within the vestibule, he saw two street boys outside, whom he knew well.
Their attire was very similar to that which he had himself worn until
the day before. They looked at Ben, but never thought of identifying him
with the baggage-smasher with whom they had often bunked together.

"See what it is," thought Ben, "to be well dressed and have fashionable
friends."

As he sat in a reserved seat but a little distance from the platform,
surrounded by well-dressed people, he was sometimes tempted to doubt
whether he was the same boy who a few days before was wandering about
the streets, a friendless outcast. The change was so complete and
wonderful that he seemed to himself a new boy. But he enjoyed the
change. It seemed a good deal pleasanter resting in the luxurious
bedchamber, which he shared with Charles at his sister's house, than the
chance accommodations to which he had been accustomed.

On Monday he started for Philadelphia, on his journey home.

We will precede him.

Mrs. Brandon sat in an arm-chair before the fire, knitting. She was not
old, but care and sorrow had threaded her dark hair with silver, and on
her brow there were traces of a sorrow patiently borne, but none the
less deeply felt. She had never recovered from the loss of her son. Her
daughter Mary had inherited something of her father's self-contained,
undemonstrative manner; but Ben had been impulsive and affectionate, and
had always been very near his mother's heart. To feel that he had passed
from her sight was a great sorrow; but it was a greater still not to
know where he was. He might be suffering pain or privation; he might
have fallen into bad and vicious habits for aught she knew. It would
have been a relief, though a sad one, to know that he was dead. But
nothing whatever had been heard of him since the letter of which the
reader is already aware.

Since Mary's marriage Mrs. Brandon had been very much alone. Her husband
was so taciturn and reserved that he was not much company for her; so
she was left very much to her own thoughts, and these dwelt often upon
Ben, though six years had elapsed since he left home.

"If I could see him once more," she often said to herself, "I could die
in peace."

So Mrs. Brandon was busily thinking of Ben on that Monday afternoon, as
she sat knitting before the fire; little thinking that God had heard her
prayer, and that the son whom she so longed to see was close at hand. He
was even then coming up the gravelled walk that led to the house.

It may be imagined that Ben's heart beat with unwonted excitement, as
the scenes of his early boyhood once more appeared before him. A
thousand boyish memories returned to him, as he trod the familiar
street. He met persons whom he knew, but they showed no recognition of
him. Six years had wrought too great a change in him.

He rang the bell.

The summons was answered by the servant, the only one employed in Mrs.
Brandon's modest establishment.

"Is Mrs. Brandon at home?" asked Ben.

"Yes," answered the girl. "Will you walk in?"

Ben stepped into the entry, and the girl opened the door of the room in
which Mrs. Brandon was seated.

Mrs. Brandon looked up.

She saw standing at the door a well-grown lad of sixteen, with a face
browned by long exposure to the sun and air. It was six years since she
had seen Ben; but in spite of the changes which time may have wrought, a
mother's heart is not easily deceived. A wild hope sprang up in her
heart. She tried to rise from her chair, but her excite was so great
that her limbs refused their office.

"Mother!" exclaimed Ben, and, hurrying forward he threw his arms around
his mother's neck.

"God be thanked!" she exclaimed, with heartfelt gratitude. "I have
missed you so much, Ben."

Ben's heart reproached him as he saw the traces of sorrow upon his
mother's face, and felt that he had been the cause.

"Forgive me, mother!" he said.

"It is all forgotten now. I am so happy!" she answered, her eyes filled
with joyful tears.

They sat down together, and Ben began to tell his story. In the midst of
it his father entered. He stopped short when he saw Ben sitting beside
his mother.

"It is Ben come back," said his mother, joyfully.

Mr. Brandon did not fall on his son's neck and kiss him. That was not
his way. He held out his hand, and said, "Benjamin, I am very glad to
see you."

In the evening they talked together over the new plans which Ben's
return suggested.

"You must stay with us, Ben," said his mother. "I cannot part with you
now."

"I am getting old, Benjamin," said his father. "I need help in my
business. You must stay and help me, and by and by you shall have the
whole charge of it."

"I am afraid I don't know enough," said Ben. "I haven't studied any
since I left home. I don't know as much as I did when I was ten."

"You shall study at home for a year," said his father. "The teacher of
the academy shall give you private lessons. You can learn a great deal
in a year if you set about it."

To this arrangement Ben acceded. He is now studying at home, and his
abilities being excellent, and his ambition excited, is making
remarkable progress. Next year he will assist his father. Mr. Brandon
seems to have changed greatly. He is no longer stern and hard, but
gentle and forbearing, and is evidently proud of Ben, who would run a
chance of being spoiled by over-indulgence, if his hard discipline as a
street boy had not given him a manliness and self-reliance above his
years. He is gradually laying aside the injurious habits which he
acquired in his street life, and I confidently hope for him a worthy and
useful manhood.

From time to time Ben visits New York, and renews his intimacy with his
Cousin Charles, who returns his warm affection. Charles, in turn,
spends the summer at Cedarville, where they are inseparable.

So we bid farewell to Ben, the Luggage Boy, hoping that he may be able
to repay his mother in part for the sorrow which his long absence
occasioned her, and that she may live long to enjoy his society. To my
young readers, who have received my stories of street life with so much
indulgence, I bid a brief farewell, hoping to present them ere long the
sixth volume of the Ragged Dick Series, under the title of


  RUFUS AND ROSE;

  Or,

  THE FORTUNES OF ROUGH AND READY.

       *       *       *       *       *




 FAMOUS ALGER BOOKS.

  RAGGED DICK SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 6 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

  RAGGED DICK.
  ROUGH AND READY.
  FAME AND FORTUNE.
  BEN THE LUGGAGE BOY.
  MARK THE MATCH BOY.
  RUFUS AND ROSE.

  TATTERED TOM SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
  FIRST SERIES.

  TATTERED TOM.
  PHIL THE FIDDLER.
  PAUL THE PEDDLER.
  SLOW AND SURE.

  TATTERED TOM SERIES. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. SECOND SERIES.

  JULIUS.
  SAM'S CHANCE.
  THE YOUNG OUTLAW.
  THE TELEGRAPH BOY.

  CAMPAIGN SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 3 vols.

  FRANK'S CAMPAIGN.
  CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE.
  PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE.

  LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo.
  Cloth. FIRST SERIES.

  LUCK AND PLUCK.
  STRONG AND STEADY.
  SINK OR SWIM.
  STRIVE AND SUCCEED.

  LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth. SECOND SERIES.

  TRY AND TRUST.
  RISEN FROM THE RANKS.
  BOUND TO RISE.
  HERBERT CARTER'S LEGACY.

  BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

  BRAVE AND BOLD.
  SHIFTING FOR HIMSELF.
  JACK'S WARD.
  WAIT AND HOPE.

  PACIFIC SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo.

  THE YOUNG ADVENTURER.
  THE YOUNG EXPLORERS.
  THE YOUNG MINER.
  BEN'S NUGGET.

  ATLANTIC SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols.

  THE YOUNG CIRCUS RIDER.
  HECTOR'S INHERITANCE.
  DO AND DARE.
  HELPING HIMSELF.

  WAY TO SUCCESS SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 4 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

  BOB BURTON.
  LUKE WALTON.
  THE STORE BOY.
  STRUGGLING UPWARD.

  NEW WORLD SERIES. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.
  DIGGING FOR GOLD. FACING THE WORLD. IN A NEW WORLD.

  Other Volumes in Preparation.

         *       *       *       *       *

  COPYRIGHT BY A. K. LORING, 1870.

  COPYRIGHT BY HORATIO ALGER, JR., 1898.




  =The Roundabout Library=

  For

  =Young People=

  THIS WELL-KNOWN SERIES OF BOOKS
  is recognized as the best library of Copyright Books
  for young people, sold at popular prices.

  THE AUTHORS represented in the Roundabout
  Library are not only the best well-known writers of
  juvenile literature, but the titles listed comprise the
  best writings of these authors.

  OVER 100 TITLES are now in this Library and
  all new titles will be selected with the same care as
  in the past, for stories that are not only entertaining
  but equally _instructive_ and _elevating_. This respect
  for wholesome juvenile literature is what has made
  and kept the _Roundabout Library better than any
  other library of books for Boys and Girls._

  OUR AIM is to maintain the supremacy of these
  books over all others _from every viewpoint_, and to
  make the superior features so apparent that those who
  have once read one, will always return to the
  Roundabout Library for more.

  =_Bound In Extra Cloth, with gold title and appropriate
  cover designs stamped in colors,
  attractive and durable, printed on the best
  paper from large clear type. Illustrated,
  12mo._=

  PRICE PER VOLUME, $.75

  Catalogue mailed on application to the Publishers.

  THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., Publishers
  PHILADELPHIA




  ROUNDABOUT LIBRARY

  FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

  Selected from the works of Alger, Castlemon, Ellis,
  Stephens, Henty, Mrs. Lillie and other writers.

  Price, per volume, $0.75

  =Across Texas.= =Adventures in Canada; or, Life in the Woods.= By John
  C. Geikie.

  =Alison's Adventures.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =American Family Robinson, The; or, The Adventures
  of a Family Lost in the Great Desert of the West.=
  By W. D. Belisle.

  =Bear Hunters of the Rocky Mountains, The.= By Anne
  Bowman.

  =Ben's Nugget; or, A Boy's Search for a Fortune.= By
  Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Bob Burton; or, the Young Ranchman of the Missouri.=
  By Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Bonnie Prince Charlie; A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden.=
  By G. A. Henty.

  =Brave Billy.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Brave Tom; or, The Battle that Won.= By Edward S.
  Ellis.

  =By England's Aid; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands
  (1585-1604).= By G. A. Henty.

  =By Pike and Dyke; A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch
  Republic.= By G. A. Henty.

  =By Right of Conquest; or, With Cortez in Mexico.= By
  G. A. Henty.

  =By Love's Sweet Rule.= By Gabrielle Emelie Jackson.

  =Cabin in the Clearing, The.= A Tale of the Frontier.
  By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Camping Out, As Recorded by "Kit."= By C. A. Stephens.

  =Camp in the Foothills, The.= By Harry Castlemon.




  ROUNDABOUT LIBRARY (Continued)

  Price, per volume,$0.75

  =Cornet of Horse, The.= A Tale of Marlborough's Wars.
  By G. A. Henty.

  =Cruise of the Firefly.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Dear Days, A Story of Washington School Life.= By
  Ada Mickle.

  =Diccon the Bold.= A Story of the Days of Columbus.
  By John Russell Coryell.

  =Do and Dare; or, A Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune.= By
  Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Dog Crusoe, The.= A Tale of the Western Prairies. By
  R. M. Ballantyne.

  =Dog of Cotopaxi, The.= By Hezekiah Butterworth.

  =Doris and Theodora.= By Margaret Vandegrift.

  =Dr. Gilbert's Daughters.= By Margaret H. Matthews.

  =Dragon and the Raven, The; or, The Days of King
  Alfred.= By G. A. Henty.

  =Elam Storm, the Wolfer; or, The Lost Nugget.= By
  Harry Castlemon.

  =Elinor Belden; or, The Step Brothers.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =Esther's Fortune.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =Floating Treasure.= By Harry Castlemon.

  =Four Little Indians.= By Ella Mary Coates.

  =Family Dilemma.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands, The.= By R. M.
  Ballantyne.

  =For Honor's Sake.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =Four Boys; or, The Story of the Forest Fire.= By Edward
  S. Ellis.

  =Fox Hunting, As Recorded by "Raed."= By C. A.
  Stephens.

  =Freaks on the Fells.= By R. M. Ballantyne.

  =Gascoyne, the Sandalwood Trader.= By R. M. Ballantyne.

  =Girl's Ordeal, A.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =Gorilla Hunters, The.= By R. M. Ballantyne.

  =Great Cattle Trail, The.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Hunt on Snow Shoes, A.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Hartwell Farm, The.= By Elizabeth B. Comins.

  =Hector's Inheritance; or, The Boys of Smith Institute.=
  By Horatio Alger, Jr.




  ROUNDABOUT LIBRARY (Continued)

  Price, per volume,$0.75

  =Helen Glenn; or, My Mother's Enemy.= By Lucy C.
  Lillie.

  =Helping Himself; or, Grant Thornton's Ambition.= By
  Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Honest Ned.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Haunted Mine, The.= By Harry Castlemon.

  =In Freedom's Cause.= A Story of Wallace and Bruce.
  By G. A. Henty.

  =In the Reign of Terror; The Adventures of a Westminster
  Boy.= By G. A. Henty.

  =Jack Midwood; or, Bread Cast Upon the Waters.= By
  Edward S. Ellis.

  =Joe Wayring at Home; or, The Adventures of a Fly
  Rod.= By Harry Castlemon.

  =Kangaroo Hunters, The; or, Adventures in the Bush.=
  By Anne Bowman.

  =King's Rubies, The.= By Adelaide Fulaer Bell.

  =Lady Green Satin.= By Baroness Deschesnez.

  =Left on Labrador; or, The Cruise of the Yacht "Curlew."=
  By C. A. Stephens.

  =Lena Wingo, the Mohawk.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Lenny, the Orphan.= By Margaret Hosmer.

  =Lion of the North, The. A Tale of the Times of Gustavus
  Adolphus.= By G. A. Henty.

  =Luke Walton; or, The Chicago Newsboy.= By Horatio
  Alger, Jr.

  =Lynx Hunting.= By C. A. Stephens.

  =Limber Lew, the Circus King.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Marion Berkley.= By Elizabeth B. Comins.

  =Missing Pocket-Book, The.= By Harry Castlemon.

  =Mysterious Andes, The.= By Hezekiah Butterworth.

  =Northern Lights.= Stories from Swedish and Finnish
  Authors.

  =Off to the Geysers; or, The Young Yachters in Iceland.=
  By C. A. Stephens.

  =On the Amazon; or, The Cruise of the "Rambler."= By
  C. A. Stephens.

  =On the Trail of the Moose.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Orange and Green; A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick.=
  By G. A. Henty.




  ROUNDABOUT LIBRARY (Continued)

  Price, per volume,$0.75

  =Oscar In Africa.= By Harry Castlemon.

  =Our Boys in Panama.= By Hezekiah Butterworth.

  =Our Fellows; or, Skirmishes with the Swamp Dragoons.=
  By Harry Castlemon.

  =Path in the Ravine, The.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Plucky Dick; or, Sowing and Reaping.= By Edward S.
  Ellis.

  =Queen's Body Guard, The.= By Margaret Vandegrift.

  =Question of Honor.= By Lynde Palmer.

  =Righting the Wrong.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =River Fugitives, The.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Romain Kalbris.= His Adventures by Sea and Shore.
  Translated from the French of Hector Malot.

  =Rose Raymond's Wards.= By Margaret Vandegrift.

  =Ruth Endicott's Way.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =Shifting Winds; A Story of the Sea.= By R. M. Ballantyne.

  =Snagged and Sunk; or, The Adventures of a Canvas
  Canoe.= By Harry Castlemon.

  =Squire's Daughter, The.= By Lucy C. Lillie.

  =Steel Horse, The; or, The Rambles of a Bicycle.= By
  Harry Castlemon.

  =Store Boy, The; or, The Fortunes of Ben Barclay.= By
  Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Storm Mountain.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Struggling Upward; or, Luke Larkin's Luck.= By Horatio
  Alger, Jr.

  =Tam; or, Holding the Fort.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Through Forest and Fire.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =True to the Old Flag; A Tale of the American War of
  Independence.= By G. A. Henty.

  =Two Bequests, The; or, Heavenward Led.= By Jane R.
  Sommers.

  =Two Ways of Becoming a Hunter.= By Harry Castlemon.

  =Under Drake's Flag. A Tale of the Spanish Main.= By
  G. A. Henty.

  =Under the Holly.= By Margaret Hosmer.

  =Under the Red Flag; or, The Adventures of Two American
  Boys in the Days of the Commune.= By Edward
  King.




  ROUNDABOUT LIBRARY (Continued)

  Price, per volume,$0.75

  =Ways and Means.= By Margaret Vandegrift.

  =Where Honor Leads.= By Lynde Palmer.

  =Wilderness Fugitives, The.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Wild Man of the West, The.= By R. M. Ballantyne.

  =With Clive in India; or, The Beginning of an Empire.=
  By G. A. Henty.

  =With Wolfe in Canada; or, The Winning of a Continent.=
  By G. A. Henty.

  =Wyoming.= By Edward S. Ellis.

  =Young Adventurer, The; Tom's Trip Across the Plains.=
  By Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Young Circus Rider, The.= By Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Young Conductor, The; or, Winning His Way.= By Edward
  S. Ellis.

  =Young Explorer, The; or, Among the Sierras.= By Horatio
  Alger, Jr.

  =Young Miner, The; or, Tom Nelson in California.= By
  Horatio Alger, Jr.

  =Young Ranchers, The; or, Fighting the Sioux.= By
  Edward S. Ellis.

  =Young Wrecker, The.= By Richard Meade Bache.




THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES.

HARRY CASTLEMON.

HOW I CAME TO WRITE MY FIRST BOOK.

When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was
our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and
we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the
teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out "What a Man
Would See if He Went to Greenland." My heart was in the matter, and
before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled. The
teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were
all over he simply said: "Some of you will make your living by writing
one of these days." That gave me something to ponder upon. I did not say
so out loud, but I knew that my composition was as good as the best of
them. By the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then.
I was reading at that time one of Mayne Reid's works which I had drawn
from the library, and I pondered upon it as much as I did upon what the
teacher said to me. In introducing Swartboy to his readers he made use
of this expression: "No visible change was observable in Swartboy's
countenance." Now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education
could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, I ought to be
able to do it, too. I went home that very day and began a story, "The
Old Guide's Narrative," which was sent to the _New York Weekly_, and
came back, respectfully declined. It was written on both sides of the
sheets but I didn't know that this was against the rules. Nothing
abashed, I began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend
of mine who was a clerk in a book store, I wrote it on only one side of
the paper. But mind you, he didn't know what I was doing. Nobody knew
it; but one day, after a hard Saturday's work--the other boys had been
out skating on the brick-pond--I shyly broached the subject to my
mother. I felt the need of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and
then said: "Why, do you think you could write a book like that?" That
settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what I was up to until
I sent the first four volumes of Gunboat Series to my father. Was it
work? Well, yes; it was hard work, but each week I had the satisfaction
of seeing the manuscript grow until the "Young Naturalist" was all
complete.

                                   --_Harry Castlemon in the Writer._

       *       *       *       *       *




  GUNBOAT SERIES.

  6 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $6.00

  Frank the Young Naturalist.
  Frank on a Gunboat.
  Frank in the Woods.
  Frank before Vicksburg.
  Frank on the Lower Mississippi.
  Frank on the Prairie.


  ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.00

  Frank Among the Rancheros.
  Frank at Don Carlos' Rancho.
  Frank in the Mountains.


  SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.75

  The Sportsman's Club in the Saddle.
  The Sportsman's Club Afloat.
  The Sportsman's Club.
  Among the Trappers.


  FRANK NELSON SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.75

  Snowed up.
  Frank in the Forecastle.
  The Boy Traders.

  =COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
  MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS=

  =THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA=




  THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES

  ROUGHING IT SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.00

  George in Camp.
  George at the Fort.
  George at the Wheel.


  ROD AND GUN SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.00

  Don Gordon's Shooting Box.
  The Young Wild Fowlers.
  Rod and Gun Club.


  GO-AHEAD SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.00

  Tom Newcombe.
  Go-Ahead.
  No Moss.


  WAR SERIES.

  6 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $6.00

  True to His Colors.
  Rodney the Partisan.
  Rodney the Overseer.
  Marcy the Blockade-Runner.
  Marcy the Refugee.
  Sailor Jack the Trader.


  HOUSEBOAT SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.00

  The Houseboat Boys.
  The Mystery of Lost River Cañon.
  The Young Game Warden.

  AFLOAT AND ASHORE SERIES.

  3 vols.    BY HARRY CASTLEMON.    $3.00

  Rebellion in Dixie.
  A Sailor in Spite of Himself.
  The Ten-Ton Cutter.

  =COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
  MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS=

  =THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA=




=HORATIO ALGER, JR.=

       *       *       *       *       *

The enormous sales of the books of Horatio Alger, Jr., show the
greatness of his popularity among the boys, and prove that he is one of
their most favored writers. I am told that more than half a million
copies altogether have been sold, and that all the large circulating
libraries in the country have several complete sets, of which only two
or three volumes are ever on the shelves at one time. If this is true,
what thousands and thousands of boys have read and are reading Mr.
Alger's books! His peculiar style of stories, often imitated but never
equaled, have taken a hold upon the young people, and, despite their
similarity, are eagerly read as soon as they appear.

Mr. Alger became famous with the publication of that undying book,
"Ragged Dick, or Street Life in New York." It was his first book for
young people, and its success was so great that he immediately devoted
himself to that kind of writing. It was a new and fertile field for a
writer then, and Mr. Alger's treatment of it at once caught the fancy of
the boys. "Ragged Dick" first appeared in 1868, and ever since then it
has been selling steadily, until now it is estimated that about 200,000
copies of the series have been sold.

                                 --"Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls."

       *       *       *       *       *

A writer for boys should have an abundant sympathy with them. He should
be able to enter into their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He should
learn to look upon life as they do. Boys object to be written down to. A
boy's heart opens to the man or writer who understands him.

                --From "Writing Stories for Boys," by Horatio Alger, Jr.




  RAGGED DICK SERIES.

  6 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $6.00

  Ragged Dick.
  Fame and Fortune.
  Mark the Match Boy.
  Rough and Ready.
  Ben the Luggage Boy.
  Rufus and Rose.


  TATTERED TOM SERIES--First Series.

  4 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $4.00

  Tattered Tom.
  Paul the Peddler.
  Phil the Fiddler.
  Slow and Sure.


  TATTERED TOM SERIES--Second Series.

  4 vols.                               $4.00

  Julius.
  The Young Outlaw.
  Sam's Chance.
  The Telegraph Boy.


  CAMPAIGN SERIES.

  3 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $3.00

  Frank's Campaign.
  Charlie Codman's Cruise.
  Paul Prescott's Charge.


  LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--First Series.

  4 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $4.00

  Luck and Pluck.
  Sink or Swim.
  Strong and Steady.
  Strive and Succeed.


  LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES--Second Series.

  4 vols.                               $4.00

  Try and Trust.
  Bound to Rise.
  Risen from the Ranks.
  Herbert Carter's Legacy.


  BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES.

  4 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $4.00

  Brave and Bold.
  Jack's Ward.
  Shifting for Himself.
  Wait and Hope.

  =COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
  MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS=

  =THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA=




  VICTORY SERIES.

  3 Vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $3.00

  Only an Irish Boy.
  Victor Vane, or the Young Secretary.
  Adrift in the City.


  FRANK AND FEARLESS SERIES.

  3 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $3.00

  Frank Hunter's Peril.
  The Young Salesman.
  Frank and Fearless.


  GOOD FORTUNE LIBRARY.

  3 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $3.00

  Walter Sherwood's Probation.
  The Young Bank Messenger.
  A Boy's Fortune.


  HOW TO RISE LIBRARY.

  3 vols.    =By Horatio Alger, Jr.=    $3.00

  Jed, the Poorhouse Boy.
  Lester's Luck.
  Rupert's Ambition.

  =COMPLETE CATALOG OF BEST BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
  MAILED ON APPLICATION TO THE PUBLISHERS=

  =THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., PHILADELPHIA=




THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES

=J. T. TROWBRIDGE.=

Neither as a writer does he stand apart from the great currents of life
and select some exceptional phase or odd combination of circumstances.
He stands on the common level and appeals to the universal heart, and
all that he suggests or achieves is on the plane and in the line of
march of the great body of humanity.

The Jack Hazard series of stories, published in the late _Our Young
Folks_, and continued in the first volume of _St. Nicholas_, under the
title of "Fast Friends," is no doubt destined to hold a high place in
this class of literature. The delight of the boys in them (and of their
seniors, too) is well founded. They go to the right spot every time.
Trowbridge knows the heart of a boy like a book, and the heart of a man,
too, and he has laid them both open in these books in a most successful
manner. Apart from the qualities that render the series so attractive to
all young readers, they have great value on account of their
portraitures of American country life and character. The drawing is
wonderfully accurate, and as spirited as it is true. The constable,
Sellick, is an original character, and as minor figures where will we
find anything better than Miss Wansey, and Mr. P. Pipkin, Esq. The
picture of Mr. Dink's school, too, is capital, and where else in fiction
is there a better nick-name than that the boys gave to poor little
Stephen Treadwell, "Step Hen," as he himself pronounced his name in an
unfortunate moment when he saw it in print for the first time in his
lesson in school.

On the whole, these books are very satisfactory, and afford the critical
reader the rare pleasure of the works that are just adequate, that
easily fulfill themselves and accomplish all they set out to
do.--_Scribner's Monthly._




THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.'S POPULAR JUVENILES

  =JACK HAZARD SERIES.=

  6 vols.    BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE       $7.25

  Jack Hazard and His Fortunes.
  Doing His Best.
  The Young Surveyor.
  A Chance for Himself.
  Fast Friends.
  Lawrence's Adventures.

         *       *       *       *       *

  =CHARLES ASBURY STEPHENS.=

  "This author wrote his "Camping Out Series" at the very height of his
  mental and physical powers.

  "We do not wonder at the popularity of these books; there is a
  freshness and variety about them, and an enthusiasm in the description
  of sport and adventure, which even the older folk can hardly fail to
  share."--_Worcester Spy._

  "The author of the Camping Out Series is entitled to rank as decidedly
  at the head of what may be called boys' literature."--_Buffalo
  Courier._

  =CAMPING OUT SERIES.=

  By C. A. STEPHENS.

  =All books in this series are 12mo. with eight full page illustrations.
  Cloth, extra, 75 cents.=

  CAMPING OUT. As Recorded by "Kit."

  "This book is bright, breezy, wholesome, instructive, and stands above
  the ordinary boys' books of the day by a whole head and
  shoulders."--_The Christian Register_, Boston.

  LEFT ON LABRADOR; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE SCHOONER YACHT "CURLEW." As
  Recorded by "Wash."

  "The perils of the voyagers, the narrow escapes, their strange
  expedients, and the fun and jollity when danger had passed, will make
  boys even unconscious of hunger."--_New Bedford Mercury._

  OFF TO THE GEYSERS; OR THE YOUNG YACHTERS IN ICELAND. As Recorded by
  "Wade."

  "It is difficult to believe that Wade and Read and Kit and Wash were
  not live boys, sailing up Hudson Straits, and reigning temporarily
  over an Esquimaux tribe."--_The Independent_, New York.

  LYNX HUNTING: From Notes by the Author of "Camping Out."

  "Of first quality as a boys' book, and fit to take its place beside
  the best."--_Richmond Enquirer._

  FOX HUNTING. As Recorded by "Raed."

  "The most spirited and entertaining book that has as yet appeared. It
  overflows with incident, and is characterized by dash and brilliancy
  throughout."--_Boston Gazette._

  ON THE AMAZON; OR, THE CRUISE OF THE "RAMBLER." As Recorded by "Wash."

  "Gives vivid pictures of Brazilian adventure and scenery."--_Buffalo
  Courier._