Fame and Fortune; or, The Progress of Richard Hunter
"Why don't you send Edward?" he said, complainingly. "He doesn't do half as much as I."
"I shall send whom I please," said the clerk, sharply. "You wouldn't do anything if you could help it."
"I won't carry bundles much longer," said Roswell. "You put all the heaviest bundles off upon me."
Roswell's back being turned, he did not observe Mr. Turner, who had come up as he was speaking.
"What are you complaining about?" asked that gentleman.
Roswell turned, and colored a little when he saw his employer.
"What is the matter?" repeated Mr. Turner.
"Mr. Evans always gives me the largest bundles to carry," said Roswell.
"He is always complaining of having to carry bundles," said the clerk. "He says it isn't suitable work for a gentleman's son."
"I have noticed it," said Mr. Turner. "On the whole, I think, Mr. Crawford," he said, with mock deference, "I think you have mistaken your vocation in entering a dry-goods store. I advise you to seek some more gentlemanly employment. At the end of the week, you are at liberty to leave my employment for one better suited to you."
"I'm ready to go now," said Roswell, sulkily.
"Very well; if you desire it, I will not insist upon your remaining. If you will come up to the desk, you shall receive what is due you."
It was somewhat humiliating to Roswell to feel that his services were so readily dispensed with. Still he had never liked the place, and heartily disliked carrying bundles. By going at once, he would get rid of the large bundle to be carried to West Fortieth Street. Congratulating himself, therefore, on the whole, on escaping from what he regarded as a degrading servitude, he walked up to the desk in a dignified manner, and received the wages due him.
"I hope you will find some more congenial employment," said Mr. Turner, who paid him the amount of his wages.
"I have no doubt I shall," said Roswell, loftily. "My father was a gentleman, and our family has considerable influence."
"Well, I wish you success. Good-by."
"Good-by," said Roswell, and walked out of the shop with head erect.
He did not quite like going home at once, as explanation would be rather awkward under the circumstances. He accordingly crossed over to Fifth Avenue, considering that the most suitable promenade for a gentleman's son. He could not help regarding with some envy the happy possessors of the elegant buildings which he passed. Why had partial Fate denied him that fortune which would have enabled him to live in this favored locality?
"Plenty of snobs have got money," he thought. "How much better I could use it than they! I wish I were rich! You wouldn't catch me slaving my life out in a dry-goods store, or any other."
This was undoubtedly true. Work of any kind had no charms for Roswell. To walk up the avenue swinging a dandy cane, dressed in the height of the fashion, or, what was better yet, sitting back luxuriously in an elegant carriage drawn by a dashing span; such was what he regarded himself most fit for. But, unfortunately, he was not very likely to realize his wishes. The desire to enjoy wealth doesn't bring it, and the tastes of a gentleman are not a very good stock to begin life with. So Roswell sauntered along in rather a discontented frame of mind until he reached Madison Park, where he sat down on a bench, and listlessly watched some boys who were playing there.
"Hallo, Roswell!" said one of his acquaintances, coming up by chance. "How do you happen to be here?"
"Why shouldn't I be here?"
"I thought you were in a store somewhere on Sixth Avenue."
"Well, I was, but I have left it."
"When did you leave it?"
"To-day."
"Got sacked, hey?"
"Sacked," in the New York vernacular, means discharged from a place. The idea of having it supposed that he had been "sacked" was not pleasing to Roswell's pride. He accordingly answered, "I never was 'sacked' in my life. Besides, it's a low word, and I never use it."
"Well, you know what I mean. Did they turn you off?"
"No, they didn't. They would have been glad to have me stay."
"Why didn't you then?"
"I didn't like the business."
"Dry goods,—wasn't it?"
"Yes, a retail dry-goods store. If I ever go into that line again, it'll be in a wholesale store. There's a chance there for a man to rise."
"You don't call yourself a man yet,—do you?"
"I call myself a gentleman," said Roswell, shortly.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I'm in no hurry about a new place. I shall look round a little."
"Well, success to you. I must be getting back to the shop."
"What are you doing?"
"I'm learning a trade."
"Oh!" said Roswell, turning up his nose slightly, which was quite easy for him to do, as nature had given that organ an upward turn. He thought all trades low, and resolved hereafter to hold as little communication as possible with the boy who had so far demeaned himself as to be learning one. That was worse than being in a dry-goods store, and carrying around bundles.
Towards six o'clock Roswell rose from his seat, and sauntered towards Clinton Place, which was nearly a mile distant. He entered the house a little before dinner.
"Are you not earlier than usual, Roswell?" asked his mother.
"I've left the store," he said, abruptly.
"Left the store!" echoed his mother, in some dismay. "Why?"
"Because they don't know how to treat me. It's no fit place for a gentleman's son."
"I am sorry, Roswell," said Mrs. Crawford, who, like her son, was "poor and proud," and found the four dollars he earned weekly of advantage. "I'm afraid you have been foolish."
"Listen, mother, and I'll tell you all about it," he said.
Roswell gave his explanation, which, it need hardly be said, was very favorable to himself, and Mrs. Crawford was finally brought to believe that Hall & Turner were low people, with whom it was not suitable for one of her son's gentlemanly tastes to be placed. His vindication was scarcely over, when the bell rang, and his Cousin Gilbert was admitted.
Mr. Gilbert entered briskly, and with a smiling face. He felt unusually complaisant, having succeeded in his designs against our hero.
"Well, James," said Mrs. Crawford, "you look in better spirits than I feel."
"What's happened amiss?"
"Roswell has given up his place."
"Been discharged, you mean."
"No," said Roswell, "I left the place of my own accord."
"What for?"
"I don't like the firm, nor the business. I wish I were in Mr. Rockwell's."
"Well," said Gilbert, "perhaps I can get you in there."
"Has the boot-black left?"
"He's found another place," said Gilbert, smiling at what he regarded as a good joke.
"You don't mean to say he has left a place where he was earning ten dollars a week?" said Mrs. Crawford, in surprise. "Where is this new place that you speak of?"
"In the station-house."
"Is he in the station-house?" asked Roswell, eagerly.
"That is what I hear."
"What's he been doing?"
"Charged with picking a pocket."
"Well, I do hope Mr. Rockwell will now see his folly in engaging a boy from the streets," said Mrs. Crawford, charitably concluding that there was no doubt of our hero's guilt.
"What'll be done with him, Cousin James?" asked Roswell.
"He'll be sent to the Island, I suppose."
"He may get clear."
"I think not. Circumstances are very much against him, I hear."
"And will you try to get me in, Cousin James?"
"I'll do what I can. Perhaps it may be well for you to drop in to-morrow about ten o'clock."
"All right,—I'll do it."
Both Mrs. Crawford's and Roswell's spirits revived wonderfully, and Mr. Gilbert, too, seemed unusually lively. And all because poor Dick had got into difficulties, and seemed in danger of losing both his place and his good name.
"It's lucky I left Hall & Turner's just as I did!" thought Roswell, complacently. "May be they'd like to engage the boot-black when he gets out of prison. But I guess he'll have to go back to blacking boots. That's what he's most fit for."
CHAPTER XVII.
DICK'S ACQUITTAL
After his interview with Mr. Murdock and Henry Fosdick, Dick felt considerably relieved. He not only saw that his friends were convinced of his innocence, but, through Tim Ryan's testimony, he saw that there was a reasonable chance of getting clear. He had begun to set a high value on respectability, and he felt that now he had a character to sustain.
The night wore away at last. The pallet on which he lay was rather hard; but Dick had so often slept in places less comfortable that he cared little for that. When he woke up, he did not at first remember where he was, but he very soon recalled the circumstances, and that his trial was close at hand.
"I hope Mr. Murdock won't oversleep himself," thought our hero. "If he does, it'll be a gone case with me."
At an early hour the attendant of the police station went the rounds, and Dick was informed that he was wanted. Brief space was given for the arrangement of the toilet. In fact, those who avail themselves of the free lodgings provided at the station-house rarely pay very great attention to their dress or personal appearance. Dick, however, had a comb in his pocket, and carefully combed his hair. He also brushed off his coat as well as he could; he also critically inspected his shoes, not forgetting his old professional habits.
"I wish I had a brush and some blackin'," he said to himself. "My shoes would look all the better for a good shine."
But time was up, and, under the escort of a policeman, Dick was conveyed to the Tombs. Probably all my readers have heard of this building. It is a large stone building, with massive columns, broad on the ground, but low. It is not only used for a prison, but there are two rooms on the first floor used for the holding of courts. Into the larger one of these Dick was carried. He looked around him anxiously, and to his great joy perceived that not only Mr. Murdock was on hand, but honest Tim Ryan, whose testimony was so important to his defence. Dick was taken forward to the place provided for those awaiting trial, and was obliged to await his turn. One or two cases, about which there was no doubt, including the colored woman arrested for drunkenness, were summarily disposed of, and the next case was called. The policeman who had arrested Dick presented himself with our hero.
Dick was so neatly dressed, and looked so modest and self-possessed, that the judge surveyed him with some surprise.
"What is this lad charged with?" he demanded.
"With taking a wallet from a gentleman's pocket," said the policeman.
"Did you arrest him?"
"I did."
"Did you take him in the act?"
"No; I did not see him take it."
"What have you to say, prisoner? Are you guilty or not guilty?" said the judge, turning to Dick.
"Not guilty," said Dick, quietly.
"State why you made the arrest," said the judge.
"I saw him with the wallet in his hand."
"Is the gentleman who had his pocket picked, present?"
"He is."
"Summon him."
The red-faced man came forward, and gave his testimony. He stated that he was standing on the sidewalk, when he felt a hand thrust into his pocket, and forcibly withdrawn. He immediately felt for his wallet, and found it gone. Turning, he saw a boy running, and immediately gave chase.
"Was the boy you saw running the prisoner?"
"I suppose it was."
"You suppose? Don't you know?"
"Of course it was, or he would not have been found with the wallet in his hand."
"But you cannot identify him from personal observation?"
The red-faced man admitted with some reluctance that his eyesight was very poor, and he did not catch sight of the boy till he was too far off to be identified.
"This is not so clear as it might be," said the judge. "Still, appearances are against the prisoner, and as the wallet was found in his possession, he must be found guilty, unless that fact can be satisfactorily explained."
"I have a witness who can explain it," said Dick.
"Where is he?"
Tim Ryan, who understood that his evidence was now wanted, came forward.
After being sworn, the judge asked, "What is your name?"
"Tim Ryan, sir."
"Where do you live?"
"In Mulberry Street."
"Tell what you know of this case."
"I was standing in Chatham Street, when I saw the ould gintleman with the red face (here the prosecutor scowled at Tim, not relishing the description which was given of him) standing at the corner of Pearl Street. A boy came up, and put his hand into his pocket, and then run away as fast as his legs could carry him, wid the wallet in his hand."
"Who was this boy? Do you know him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell his name."
"It was Micky Maguire," said Tim, reluctantly.
"And who is Micky Maguire?"
"He blacks boots."
"Then if this Micky Maguire took the wallet, how happened it that it was found in this boy's possession?"
"I can tell that," said Tim. "I ran after Micky to see if he'd get off wid the wallet. He hadn't gone but a little way when I saw him slip it into Dick's pocket."
"I suppose you mean by Dick, the prisoner at the bar?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what became of this Micky?"
"He stopped runnin' after he'd got rid of the pocket-book, and a minute after, up came the 'copp,' and took Dick."
"Why didn't you come forward, and explain the mistake?"
"I was afraid Micky'd beat me."
"Do you know this Micky Maguire?" said the judge, turning to the officer.
"I do."
"What is his reputation?"
"Bad. He's been at the Island three or four times already."
"Did you see him anywhere about when you made the arrest?"
"I did."
"Do you know this boy who has just testified?"
"Yes. He is a good boy."
"The case seems a clear one. The prisoner is discharged from custody. Arrest Micky Maguire on the same charge as early as possible."
The next case was called, and Dick was free.
Mr. Murdock came forward, and took him by the hand, which he shook heartily.
"I congratulate you on your acquittal," he said.
"I feel a little better than I did," said Dick. "Tim, you're a good fellow," he said, clasping Tim's hand. "I wouldn't have got off, if it hadn't been for you."
"I ought to do that much for you, Dick, when you've been so kind to me."
"How are you getting along now, Tim?"
"Pretty well. Mother's got so she can work and we're doin' well. When she was sick, it was pretty hard."
"Here's something to help you along," said Dick, and he drew a bill from his pocket.
"Five dollars!" said Tim, in surprise.
"You can buy some new clothes, Tim."
"I ought not to take so much as that, Dick."
"It's all right, Tim. There's some more where that comes from."
They were in Centre Street by this time. Fosdick came up hurriedly.
"Have you got off, Dick?" he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, Fosdick. There's no chance of my being entertained at the expense of the city."
"I didn't expect the trial was coming off so early. Tell me all about it."
"What did they say at the house at my being away?" asked Dick.
"Miss Peyton inquired particularly after you. I said, as you directed me, that you were detained by important business."
"What did she say then?"
Dick was so particular in his inquiries, fearing lest any suspicion should have been formed of the real cause which had detained him. There was no reason for it; but it had always been a matter of pride with him in his vagabond days that he had never been arrested on any charge, and it troubled him that he should even have been suspected of theft.
"You are fishing for compliments, Dick," said Fosdick.
"How do you make that out?"
"You want to know what Miss Peyton said. I believe you are getting interested in her."
"When I am, just send me to a lunatic asylum," said Dick.
"I am afraid you are getting sarcastic, Dick. However, not to keep you in suspense, Miss Peyton said that you were one of the wittiest young men she knew of, and you were quite the life of the house."
"I suppose I ought to blush," said Dick; "but I'm a prey to hunger just now, and it's too much of an effort."
"I'll excuse you this time," said Fosdick. "As to the hunger, that's easily remedied. We shall get home to breakfast, and be in good time too."
Fosdick was right. They were the first to seat themselves at the table. Mr. Clifton came in directly afterwards. Dick felt a momentary embarrassment.
"What would he say," thought our hero, "if he knew where I passed the night?"
"Good-morning, Hunter," said Clifton. "You didn't favor us with your presence at dinner last evening."
"No," said Dick. "I was absent on very important business."
"Dining with your friend, the mayor, probably?"
"Well, no, not exactly," said Dick, "but I had some business with the city government."
"It seems to me that you're getting to be quite an important character."
"Thank you," said Dick. "I am glad to find that genius is sometimes appreciated."
Here Miss Peyton entered.
"Welcome, Mr. Hunter," she said. "We missed you last evening."
"I hope it didn't affect your appetite much," said Dick.
"But it did. I appeal to Mr. Fosdick whether I ate anything to speak of."
"I thought Miss Peyton had a better appetite than usual," said Fosdick.
"That is too bad of you, Mr. Fosdick," said Miss Peyton. "I'm sure I didn't eat more than my canary bird."
"Just the way it affected me," said Dick. "It always improves my appetite to see you eat, Miss Peyton."
Miss Peyton looked as if she hardly knew whether to understand this remark as complimentary or otherwise.
That evening, at the dinner-table, Clifton drew a copy of the "Express" from his pocket, and said, "By Jove, Hunter, here's a capital joke on you! I'll read it. 'A boy, named Richard Hunter, was charged with picking a pocket on Chatham Street; but it appearing that the theft was committed by another party, he was released from custody.'"
Dick's heart beat a little quicker while this was being read, but he maintained his self-possession.
"Of course," said he, "that was the important business that detained me. But I hope you won't mention it, for the sake of my family."
"I'd make the young rascal change his name, if I were you," said Clifton, "if he's going to get into the Police record."
"I think I shall," said Dick, "or maybe I'll change my own. You couldn't mention a highly respectable name that I could take,—could you?"
"Clifton is the most respectable name I know of," said the young gentleman owning that name.
"If you'll make me your heir, perhaps I'll adopt it."
"I'll divide my debts with you, and give you the biggest half," said Clifton.
It is unnecessary to pursue the conversation. Dick found to his satisfaction that no one at the table suspected that he was the Richard Hunter referred to in the "Express."
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CUP AND THE LIP
While Dick's night preceding the trial was an anxious one, Gilbert and Roswell Crawford passed a pleasant evening, and slept soundly.
"Do you think Mr. Rockwell would be willing to give me the same wages he has paid to the boot-black?" he inquired with interest.
"Perhaps he won't take you at all."
"I think he ought to pay some attention to your recommendation," said Mrs. Crawford. "You ought to have some influence with him."
"Of course," said Gilbert, "I shall do what I can in the matter; but it's a pity Roswell can't give better references."
"He's never been with a decent employer yet. He's been very unlucky about his places," said Mrs. Crawford.
She might have added that his employers had considered themselves unfortunate in their engagement of her son; but, even if she had known it, she would have considered that they were prejudiced against him, and that they were in fault entirely.
"I will do what I can for him," continued Gilbert; "but I am very sure he won't get as much as ten dollars a week."
"I can earn as much as the boot-black, I should hope," said Roswell.
"He didn't earn ten dollars a week."
"He got it."
"That's a very different thing."
"Well, if I get it, I don't care if I don't earn it."
"That's true enough," said Gilbert, who did not in his heart set a very high estimate upon the services of his young cousin, and who, had the business been his own, would certainly not have engaged him at any price.
Roswell thought it best not to say any more, having on some previous occasions been greeted with remarks from his cousin which could not by any means be regarded as complimentary.
"Do you think I had better come in at ten o'clock, Cousin James?" inquired Roswell, as breakfast was over, and Gilbert prepared to go to the counting-room.
"Well, perhaps you may come a little earlier, say about half-past nine," said the book-keeper.
"All right," said Roswell.
Being rather sanguine, he made up his mind that he was going to have the place, and felt it difficult to keep his good fortune secret. Now, in the next house there lived a boy named Edward McLean, who was in a broker's office in Wall Street, at a salary of six dollars a week. Now, though Edward had never boasted of his good fortune, it used to disturb Roswell to think that his place and salary were so much superior to his own. He felt that it was much more respectable to be in a broker's office, independent of the salary, than to run around the city with heavy bundles. But if he could enter such an establishment as Rockwell & Cooper's, at a salary of ten dollars, he felt that he could look down with conscious superiority upon Edward McLean, with his six dollars a week.
He went over to his neighbor's, and found Edward just starting for Wall Street.
"How are you, Roswell?" said Edward.
"Pretty well. Are you going down to the office?"
"Yes."
"You've got a pretty good place,—haven't you?"
"Yes, I like it."
"How much do you get?"
"Six dollars a week."
"That's very fair," said Roswell, patronizingly.
"How do you like your place?" asked Edward. "I believe you're in a dry-goods store on Sixth Avenue."
"Oh, no," said Roswell.
"You were?"
"Yes, I went in temporarily to oblige them," said Roswell, loftily; "but, of course, I wouldn't engage to remain any length of time in such a place, however large the inducements they might offer."
Considering Roswell's tone, it would hardly have been supposed that the large inducements were four dollars a week, and that, even at that compensation, his services were not desired.
"Then it wasn't a good place?" said Edward.
"Well enough for such as liked it," said Roswell. "I have no complaint of Hall & Turner. I told them that it was not dissatisfaction with them that led me to leave the place, but I preferred a different kind of business."
"Have you got another place?"
"I have an offer under consideration," said Roswell, consequentially; "one of the most solid firms in the city. They offer me ten dollars a week."
"Ten dollars a week!" repeated Edward, somewhat staggered by the statement. "That's big pay."
"Yes," said Roswell; "but I think I ought to get as much as that."
"Why, I thought myself lucky to get six dollars," said Edward.
"Yes, that's very fair," said Roswell, condescendingly. "In fact, I've worked at that figure myself; but, of course, one expects more as he grows older."
"I suppose you'll accept your offer," said Edward.
"I haven't quite made up my mind," said Roswell, carelessly. "I think I shall."
"You'd better. Such places don't grow on every bush."
Though Edward did not more than half believe Roswell's statement, he kept his disbelief to himself, feeling that it was a matter of indifference to him whether Roswell received a large or small salary.
"I must be going down to the office," he said. "Good-morning."
"Good-morning," said Roswell, and he re-entered the house, feeling that he had impressed Edward with a conviction of his superiority, and the value set upon his services by the business men of New York. He went upstairs, and picked out a flashy necktie from his drawer, tied it carefully before the glass, and about nine set out for Rockwell & Cooper's warehouse.
