Ben, the Luggage Boy: or, Among the Wharves
"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."2
"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.
"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.
