Ben, the Luggage Boy: or, Among the Wharves

"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.