Ben, the Luggage Boy: or, Among the Wharves

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."