Jed, the Poorhouse Boy

"No; I took the place of the regular actor for a few weeks while he was sick. Now he is well, and I am not needed."

"Say, does actin' pay well?" asked the boy curiously.

"I was paid pretty well."

"Do you think you could get me a chance?"

"I am afraid I can't get another chance myself."

The newsboy had no more questions to ask, and Jed, following directions, crossed the park and the street beyond to the Tribune building.

He entered the office, and walked up to a window, beyond which stood a young man who was handing out papers to a purchaser who wanted some back numbers.

Jed presented himself next, and the clerk looked at him inquiringly.

"Do you wish to subscribe?" asked the clerk, as Jed remained silent.

"No; I want to ask whether you have an editor named Hamilton Barry?"

"I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"He borrowed some money of me, and said he would pay me when he collected some money due him from the Tribune."

The clerk smiled.

"I am sure none of our editors borrow money from boys," he said. "You have been imposed upon, young man."

"I guess you are right," responded Jed, coloring.

"If you like, I will send up to the city editor to inquire if there is a man named Barry in his department."

"I guess I won't trouble you."

Jed turned away quite satisfied in his own mind that he had been cleverly swindled and would never see his two dollars again. He reflected that it might have been more, and stoutly resolved not to let any designing persons wheedle him out of any more money.

He had never visited New York before, and the streets were all new to him. So he strolled about for a couple of hours, gazing curiously at shops, buildings, streets, and street scenes.

This naturally led to a feeling of hunger, and at twelve o'clock he began to look around for a restaurant. He found one on Fulton Street, and went in.

He took a seat on the right-hand side, about midway up the room, and consulted the bill of fare. He found that roast meats were fifteen and twenty-five cents, the latter being for large plates. Tea and coffee were five cents each, and pie or pudding was ten cents.

He ordered a large plate of roast beef, feeling quite hungry, and a cup of coffee.

Jed had about half finished his dinner when his attention was drawn by a familiar voice at the next table. Looking up, he saw that two men had entered the restaurant since he had been served and were sitting with their backs to him. One of them he recognized, with a thrill of excitement, as his acquaintance of the morning, Hamilton Barry.

"I say, Barry," said his companion, "you've had a streak of luck. How do you happen to be in funds?"

"I negotiated a loan, my boy."

"That is interesting. Would the party accommodate me, do you think?"

"Depends upon your invention, my boy. I told him a plausible story, and did him a favor."

"Explain."

"He was looking for a position, and I gave him a letter of introduction to H. B. Claflin."

The friend burst into a fit of laughter.

"I admire your cheek," he said. "What do you know of Claflin?"

"I told him that Claflin and I went to school together."

"A lie, of course?"

"Yes; I never set eyes on the man in my life."

"And on the strength of that you negotiated a loan."

"Precisely."

"How much?"

"I struck him for a five, but he only let me have two."

"Which, of course, you promised to repay."

"I told him I would repay him next Monday when the Tribune paid me for two editorial articles I wrote for them."

This tickled the fancy of both, and they burst into uproarious laughter.

It may be imagined with what feelings of indignation poor Jed listened to these rascals, and understood how adroitly he had been swindled. He felt tempted to get up and address the man who had swindled him in fitting terms, but concluded to wait until he had finished his dinner.

He felt particularly angry when Barry ordered a high-priced dish—a plate of roast turkey—to be paid for with his money.

At last his dinner was over, and taking the check in his hand, Jed made his way to the table in front.

"Mr. Barry," he said as calmly as he could, "I believe you owe me two dollars. I shall be glad if you will pay me now."

Barry looked up quickly, and actually seemed embarrassed when he recognized Jed.

"Confusion!" he ejaculated. "The kid!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

JED'S BAD LUCK

"Yes," answered Jed coolly, "it is the kid. I have called upon Mr. Claflin, and also at the office of the Tribune. Probably you can guess what I was told at both places."

Mr. Barry felt that he was in a tight place, but reflecting that Jed was only a boy, he determined to bluff him off.

"I don't know what you are talking about, boy," he said. "I know nothing of Mr. Claflin, and have nothing to do with the Tribune office."

"I am aware of that, but you gave me a letter of introduction to H. B. Claflin, and borrowed two dollars of me, promising to pay me when you settled with the Tribune for editorial contributions."

"There is not a word of truth in this," said Barry, fidgeting in his chair.

"I have been listening to your conversation for fifteen minutes," continued Jed, "and I heard you give an account of the matter to your friend here."

Barry hesitated a moment. Even his brazen hardihood was scarcely adequate to the emergency. He was the more uneasy because a policeman was sitting at the next table but one.

"It was only a practical joke, boy," he said hurriedly. "I'll pay you back the two dollars."

"That will be satisfactory," returned Jed.

"But I can't do it to-day. I'll meet you on Monday afternoon, as I said. I am in rather a hurry now and must be going."

He rose from the table precipitately, and went up to the desk followed by his friend.

"Shall I stop him?" thought Jed.

He decided not to do so, as he felt sure Barry could not pay him. The loss was not a serious one, but it would not do to make a second mistake. He paid his check and left the restaurant.

Jed knew very little of New York, even for a country boy. Some Scranton people doubtless had visited the great city, but, as an inmate of a poorhouse, he had not been thrown in their way. Accordingly he was like a mariner without a compass. He could only follow where impulse led.

He turned into Broadway, and with his gripsack in his hand walked up the great thoroughfare, looking in at shop windows as he strolled along. Travelling in this leisurely manner, it was perhaps four o'clock when he reached Union Square.

He was by this time fatigued and ready to rest on one of the benches which he found in the park. One person was sitting there already. It was a slender young man with a diamond ring on one of the fingers of his right hand. At least it looked to be a diamond.

He was dressed in rather a showy manner. He was perhaps twenty-two, but so slender that he must have weighed a dozen or fifteen pounds less than Jed, who was only sixteen. He looked casually at the country boy as the latter sat down, and presently turned and addressed him.

"It is a warm day," he said.

"Yes," answered Jed, who felt lonely and was glad to be social with some one.

"I judge from your bag," he glanced at the gripsack, "that you are a visitor to New York."

"Yes," answered Jed frankly. "I have never been in New York before."

"That was my case two years ago. Now I feel quite like an old resident. Are you staying at a hotel?"

"No; that is what I should like to ask about. I must spend the night somewhere. Can you recommend a cheap hotel?"

"Why do you go to a hotel? No hotel is cheap in the long run. It is much better to hire a room in a lodging-house and take your meals at restaurants."

"Yes, I suppose it would be. But I don't know where to find such a lodging-house."

"Come, I'll make you an offer. I have a room on Twenty-Seventh Street. You shall pay for my supper, and I will let you stay in my room without charge till to-morrow. Then if you like it well enough to room with me, I shall be glad to have you."

"Thank you; how much do you pay for your room?"

"Four dollars a week. That will be two dollars a piece. That is cheap for the city. You can't get a room at a hotel for less than a dollar a night."

"Is that so?" asked Jed. "That would be seven dollars a week."

"Precisely."

"I couldn't afford to pay that."

"There is no reason why you should. I couldn't afford it myself. Well, do you accept my offer? Do just as you please. Of course I have no motive except to give a helping hand to a stranger in the city."

"You are very kind," said Jed gratefully. "I know so little of New York that I feel quite helpless."

"Quite natural. I've been through it all."

"Are you—in business?" rather wondering how his companion should be free at that hour.

"Yes, I am in a broker's office down town. We have easy hours. I am off for the day at three o'clock."

"Are you well paid? But perhaps you don't care to tell."

"Oh, yes, I don't mind. I get twenty dollars a week."

"I wish I could get twelve," said Jed wistfully. "I shall have to get work soon."

"You have some money to keep you while you are waiting for work?" said the other quickly.

"Yes. I have about thirty-five dollars."

The young man's face brightened up.

"I am glad for you," he said. "You can make that last a good while, if you are guided by me, and keep down your expenses."

"That is exactly what I want to do," responded Jed earnestly.

"Oh well, I will put my experience at your service. I hope you will conclude to room with me. I feel rather lonesome at times. Of course I could easily get a roommate, but I am rather particular."

"You might not like me," said Jed.

"I am sure I shall. I can tell in five minutes whether I am going to like a person or not. How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Indeed! You look older. That's going to help you, you know, about a situation. You can pass for a young man, and they won't think of offering you boy's pay."

"Perhaps you will be able to advise me about the kind of place I had better apply for."

"Of course I will. I already begin to take a great interest in you. What kind of work have you done?"

"Well, I have acted a little."

"You don't say so!" ejaculated his new friend in genuine surprise, for he had looked upon Jed as an unsophisticated country boy who probably had never seen the inside of a theatre. "I suppose you mean," he suggested as an afterthought, "in some village entertainment."

"No; I played in 'The Gold King' for some time."

"You don't say so! What part did you take?"

"The boy's part."

The young man regarded Jed with more respect.

"I shouldn't have thought it," he said. "How did you happen to get such a fine chance as that?"

"I knew one of the actors—Harry Bertram—and the one who played the boy's part regularly was taken sick. I only played about four or five weeks all together."

"Still that makes you a regular actor. Do you think of trying to get a place at Daly's or Palmer's?"

"Oh, no. I don't suppose I should stand any show. I could only take a boy's part."

"Well, we can talk over our plans later. I don't mind confessing that I am hungry. How about yourself?"

"I think I could eat some supper."

"Come along, then. I'll take you to a good restaurant. It's some way off, but it is near my room."

"All right."

The two rose, and leaving the park, walked up Broadway, past the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the Hoffman House, and the St. James, till they reached a well-known eating-house known as Smith & Green's, situated on the east side of Broadway, between Twenty-Seventh and Twenty-Eighth Streets.

"Come in here. I won't take you to Delmonico's, a little further down, as you haven't a private bank to draw from. This is a nice restaurant and moderate in its charges."

They entered, sat down at a round table and studied the bill of fare. The prices seemed to be moderate. Jed's dinner cost thirty-five cents, but his companion was more lavish in his orders, and ran up a bill of sixty-five cents.

"That makes just a dollar," he remarked.

It seemed considerable to Jed, who decided that he would rather order and pay for his own meals separately hereafter.

During the repast Jed learned that his new friend's name was Maurice Graham.

"Now we'll go around to my room, and you can dispose of your gripsack."

"I shall be glad to do so. I am tired of carrying it about."

Graham led the way to a three-story brick house near Seventh Avenue, and mounted to a small square room on the upper story. It was plainly furnished with a three-quarters bed, a bureau, and the usual chamber furniture.

"You can leave your bag anywhere, and then we will go out for a walk."

"I think I would rather stay here and lie down."

"All right! Make yourself at home. I will go out. Shall probably be back by ten."

When Graham returned at a little past ten he found Jed in bed and fast asleep. His eyes sparkled with pleasure.

He raised Jed's clothes from the chair on which he had thrown them and went through the pockets expeditiously. Poor Jed's small stock of money was quickly transferred to his own pockets.

"He hasn't any watch," soliloquized Graham. "That's a pity."

When his search was completed he put on his hat again.

"I shall sleep in Jersey City to-night," he said to himself. "That will be safer."

He went out softly, leaving Jed alone, the victim of a cruel trick.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

Jed slept on, unconscious of his loss, till the sun flooded the room with golden light. Then he opened his eyes and wondered for a moment where he was. But recollection came to his aid, and he recalled the incidents of his meeting with Graham and sharing the latter's room.

He looked over to the other side of the bed, but his roommate was not to be seen.

"I suppose it is late and he has gone to his business," thought Jed tranquilly. "Probably he didn't want to wake me up."

This explanation seemed natural enough till he noticed that the pillow on the right-hand side of the bed did not seem to have been used. Lifting the quilt, he discovered that the sheet was smooth. Clearly Graham had not slept there at all.

"What does it mean?" thought Jed, perplexed. "Why didn't he come back last evening?"

This was a question which he could not answer. No suspicion, however, had yet dawned upon him that anything was wrong.

"Well," he said, jumping out of bed, "I must get up and try for a place. I guess I can find that eating-house where we took supper. Let me see, what was the name? Oh, Smith & Green. Well, I feel as if I could dispose of a good breakfast."

He washed his face and hands and proceeded to dress. Mechanically, but not from any feeling of uneasiness, he thrust his hand into his pocket in search of his wallet. The pocket was empty!

His heart gave a jump, and he hurriedly examined his other pockets, but it was of no avail. Then he looked about the room and on the floor, but there was no trace of the lost wallet.

Jed felt faint, and his legs trembled under him, as he thought of the terrible situation in which he was placed. He began to connect Graham's absence with his loss, and understood that his new acquaintance had played him false.

It was a shock to him, for his nature was trustful, and he hated to believe that a young man who had seemed so friendly should prove so treacherous.

"What shall I do?" thought poor Jed. "I haven't enough money for my breakfast, and I am very hungry."

At this point, just as he was ready to go out, there came a knock at the door.

Jed rose and opened it. He confronted a stout woman of middle age with a very serious expression of countenance that seemed to indicate that she meant business. She regarded Jed with surprise.

"I expected to see Mr. Graham," she said. "Are you a friend of his?"

"I only met him yesterday. He invited me to come and spend the night in his room."

"Is he here, or has he gone out?"

"I don't think he slept here at all last night. He left early in the evening, and said he would come back, but the bed doesn't seem to have been slept in except by myself."

"He is very liberal in offering the use of a room that he has not paid for," said the lady sarcastically.

"I don't know anything about that," faltered Jed.

"No, I suppose not. But it's true. He only came here two weeks and a half ago, and paid one week's rent in advance—four dollars. When the next week's rent became due he said that his employer was on a visit to Chicago, and he could not get his pay till he came back. Do you know whether that is true?"

"No, I don't. I never saw him before yesterday afternoon about four o'clock in a park about half a mile from here."

"So he wasn't at work at that time?"

"No; he said he worked for a broker and got through at three o'clock."

"A broker? Why he told me he was working in a wholesale house down town. At any rate, I wish he'd pay me the eight dollars he owes me."

"I wish he'd pay me the thirty-five dollars he owes me," said Jed despondently.

"You don't mean to say that you were goose enough to lend him thirty-five dollars?" exclaimed Mrs. Gately in a crescendo voice.

"No; I didn't lend it to him," returned Jed bitterly. "He must have taken it out of my pocket when I was asleep."

"Well, I declare! So he's a thief, too."

She looked around the room, and opening a bureau examined the drawers.

"He's gone off and taken all of his things," she reported. "That settles it. We shall not see our money again."

"I—I don't know what to do," said Jed sorrowfully.

"Did he take all your money?" asked Mrs. Gately, drawn from a consideration of her own misfortune to that of her fellow-sufferer.

"Yes, he took every cent," answered Jed mournfully. "And the worst of it is that I am a stranger in New York."

"Well, that is too bad!" said the landlady, an expression of sympathy relieving the severity of her face. "Your case is worse than mine. You actually haven't anything left?"

"Except my gripsack."

"And of course you haven't had any breakfast?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, I do pity you. I suppose you are hungry?"

"I don't know when I have ever felt so hungry," answered Jed.

"I will see that you don't leave the house in that condition at any rate. I'm a poor woman, as any one must be who has to depend on lodgers for an income, but I'm not penniless. Come down stairs, Mr.—Mr.—"

"Gilman," suggested Jed.

"And I will skirmish round and scare you up something to eat."

"You are very kind," said Jed gratefully.

"Wait and see what you get," returned Mrs. Gately with a laugh and a softer expression, for Jed's case appealed to her heart.

She led the way to the front basement. A table was set in the centre of the room. Evidently it had not yet been cleared off.

"I'm a little behindhand this morning," remarked Mrs. Gately, beginning to bustle round. "I don't take boarders in a general way, but I have a young girl in the house that works at Macy's. I suppose you've heard of Macy's?"

"No, ma'am."

"Never heard of Macy's? I thought everybody had heard of Macy's, Fo'teenth Street and Sixth Avenue. Luella Dickinson works there, and I give her breakfast in the house as a favor. Let me see, there's a little coffee left—I'll warm it over—and there's bread and butter, and—I can cook you a sausage, and boil a couple of eggs."

"I hope you won't take too much trouble," said Jed.

"I guess I can afford to take a little trouble, especially as there's no knowing when you will have any dinner."

Jed owned to himself with a sigh that there was a good deal of doubt on that point. However, it isn't wise to borrow trouble too far in advance, and the odor of the sausage as it was frying was very grateful to his nostrils. He was sure of one meal at any rate, and that was something, though the day before he thought he had enough money to last a month.

"I don't think the coffee will do," said Mrs. Gately, as she bustled round the stove in the next room. "I'll make some fresh. I don't think coffee amounts to much when it is warmed over."

Jed was of the same opinion, and did not utter a protest. He was very fond of coffee, and felt that with a fresh pot of it the breakfast would be fit for a king.

"Haven't you got any folks, Mr. Gilman?" asked the landlady, as she brought the pot of coffee and sat it on the table.

"No, ma'am," answered Jed. "I am alone in the world."

"Dear me, that's sad! And so young as you are, too!"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm only sixteen."

"What did you calc'late to do, if you could get a chance?"

"Anything. I'm not particular."

"You haven't any trade, have you?"

"No. I've been living in the country most of the time, and did chores on a farm."

"Well, we haven't many farms in New York," said the landlady with a laugh.

"No. I suppose not. Even if there were, I don't like that kind of work."

"Have you never done anything else?"

"I acted for a few weeks."

"Gracious! You don't mean to say you've been a play actor?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How Luella Dickinson would like to see you! She dotes on play actors, but I don't think she ever met one."

"I am afraid she would be disappointed in me.

"Oh, I guess not. If you've played on the stage that's enough. Why can't you call round some evening? Luella would so like to see you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Gately. If I can get anything to do, I will call."

Jed finished his breakfast. He ate heartily, for he had no idea where he should get another meal.

"I guess I'll be going," he said, as he rose from the table. "You have been very kind."

"Oh, that's nothing. I hope you'll meet that rascally Graham and make him give up your money."

"I am afraid there is little hope of that. Good morning, and thank you!"

And so Jed passed out of the hospitable house into the inhospitable street, without a cent of money or a prospect of earning any.

CHAPTER XXV.

WITHOUT A PENNY

There is nothing that makes one feel so helpless as to be without a penny in a strange city. If Jed had had even a dollar he would have felt better.

The fact of his poverty was emphasized when a boy came up to him and asked him to buy a morning paper. Jed instinctively felt in his pocket for a penny, but not even a cent was forthcoming.

"I have no change," he said, by way of excuse.

"I can change a dollar," responded the newsboy, who was more than usually enterprising.

"I wish I could," thought Jed, but he only said, "No, it is no matter."

So he walked along Broadway, fairly well dressed, but, so far as money went, a pauper. Yes, though no longer an inmate of the Scranton poorhouse, he was even poorer than when he was there, for then he had a home, and now he had none.

"I wonder when it is all going to end?" reflected poor Jed despondently. Then his anger was excited when he thought of the unprincipled rascal who had brought him to this pass.

"If I could only get hold of him," muttered Jed vengefully, "I would give him something to remember me by."

All the while Jed walked on, though his walk was aimless. He was as well off in one part of the city as another, and only walked to fill up time.

He found himself passing a drug store. Just outside the door he saw the sign "Boy wanted," and with a little kindling of hope he entered the store.

Just behind the counter stood a man with a sandy beard, who appeared to be the proprietor. To him Jed addressed himself.

"I see you want a boy," he said.

"Yes; do you want a place?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hardly think you would be satisfied with the wages we pay, unless you particularly wish to learn our business."

"What do you pay, sir?"

"Three dollars a week."

Three dollars a week! It was certainly better than no income at all, but Jed knew well that it would be impossible to live on this sum, and he had no reserve fund to draw upon.

"No," he said, "I am afraid I couldn't get along on that salary."