Rough and Ready

"Let's go after him," said Fanny.

"Shall you know the way back?" said Rose.

"Yes, I know well enough," said Fanny, carelessly.

Rose accordingly followed her without hesitation, and when the Italian again stopped, the two little girls made a part of his audience. After going through his series of tunes, and gathering a small stock of pennies, the organ-grinder again started on his travels. Rose and Fanny, having no better amusement before them, still kept his company, and this continued for an hour or two.

By this time they had unconsciously got a considerable distance from home. There is no knowing how far they would have gone, had not the tambourine player detected Fanny in picking up a penny which had been thrown for the musicians. Fanny, supposing that she was not observed, slipped it into her pocket slily, intending to spend it for candy on her way home. But she was considerably alarmed when the girl, her dark face full of indignation, ran forward, and, seizing her by the arm, shook her, uttering the while an incoherent medley of Italian and English.

"What's the row? What has the little girl done?" asked a man in the group.

"She one tief. She took penny, and put in her pocket," said the Italian girl, continuing to shake her.

Fanny protested with tears that she had not done it, but a boy near by testified that he had seen her do it. With shame and mortification, Fanny was obliged to produce the purloined penny, and give it to the monkey, who, in spite of her intended dishonesty, had the politeness to remove his hat, and make her a very ceremonious bow.

"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourselves," said a stout woman, addressing both little girls.

"I didn't take the penny," said Rose, resenting the imputation; "I wouldn't steal for anything."

"She wanted me to take it," said Fanny, maliciously, "so that I could buy some candy for her."

"That's a story," said Rose, indignantly; "I didn't know you meant to do it, till I saw you slip it into your pocket."

"I've no doubt one's as bad as the other," said the woman, with commendable impartiality.

"Go 'way," said the tambourine girl; "you steal some more penny."

"Come away, Fanny," said Rose; "I'm ashamed to stay here any longer, and I should think you would be."

As circumstances made the neighborhood of the musicians rather unpleasant, Fanny condescended to adopt the suggestion of her companion.

"I guess I'll go home," she said. "I'm hungry, and ma'll give me some gingerbread. She won't give you any, for you're a bad girl."

"What are you?" retorted Rose.

"I'm a good girl."

"I never heard of a good girl's stealing," said Rose.

"If you say that again, I'll strike you," said Fanny, who was rather sensitive about the charge, particularly as it happened to be true.

Rose was not fond of disputing, and made no reply, but waited for Fanny to show her the way home. But this Fanny was unable to do. She had followed the organ-grinder round so many corners that she had quite lost her reckoning, and had no idea where she was. She stood undecided and looked helplessly around her.

"I don't know where to go," she said.

"Don't you know the way home?" asked Rose.

"No," answered Fanny, almost ready to cry.

Rose hardly knew whether to be glad or to be sorry. If she should be lost, and not find her way back to the boarding-house, there would be this comfort at least, that she would be separated from Mr. Martin. Still she was not quite prepared to live in the streets, and didn't know how to go to work to find her brother. Besides, Mr. Martin had threatened to harm him in case she ran away. So, on the whole, she was rather in hopes that Fanny would remember the way.

"We'd better go straight along," suggested Rose, "and perhaps we shall find your house."

As Fanny had no better plan to propose, they determined to adopt this plan. Neither had taken any particular notice of the way by which they had come, and were therefore unable to recognize any land marks. So, instead of nearing home, they were actually getting farther and farther away from it, and there is no knowing where they would finally have brought up, if in turning a corner they had not found themselves all at once face to face with Mrs. Waters herself. It may be explained that the latter, after an hour, not hearing the voices of the children outside, had become alarmed, and started in pursuit. She had already had a long and weary walk, and it was only by the merest chance that she caught sight of them. This long walk, with the anxiety which she had felt, had not improved her temper, but made her angry, so that she was eager to vent her indignation upon the two children.

"What do you mean, you little plagues, by running away?" she asked, seizing each child roughly by the arm. "Here I've been rushing round the streets after you, neglecting my work, for a good hour."

"She wanted to go," said Fanny, pointing to Rose.

"So she led you away, did she?" asked Mrs. Waters, giving Rose a rough shake.

"Yes, she wanted me to go after an organ," said Fanny, seeing a way to screen herself at the expense of her companion, and like a mean little coward availing herself of it.

"So this is another one of your tricks, miss, is it?" demanded Mrs. Waters, angrily.

"It isn't true," said Rose. "She asked me to go."

"Oh, no doubt; you can lie as fast as you can talk," said Mrs. Waters. "I thought all the while that Fanny was too good a girl to give her mother so much trouble. It was only to oblige you that she went off. That comes of having such a bad girl in the family. I shan't keep you long, for you'll be sure to spoil my Fanny, who was one of the best little girls in the neighborhood till you came to lead her into mischief. But I'll come up with you, miss, you may depend upon that. Your father told me I might punish you, and I mean to do it; just wait till we get home, that's all."

Here Mrs. Waters paused more from lack of breath, than because she had given full expression to her feelings. She relaxed her hold upon Fanny, but continued to grasp Rose roughly by the shoulder, dragging her rapidly along.

Rose saw that it was of no use to defend herself. Mrs. Waters was determined to find her guilty, and would not believe any statement she might make. So she ran along to adapt herself to the pace of the angry woman beside her.

They soon reached the house, and entered, Mrs. Waters pushing Rose before.

"Now for your punishment," said Mrs. Waters, grimly, "I'm going to lock you up down cellar."

"Oh, don't," said Rose, terrified. "I don't want to go down in the dark cellar;" for, like most children, she had a dread of darkness.

But Mrs. Waters was inexorable. She opened the door of the cellar, and compelled the little girl to descend the dark staircase. Then she slammed the door, and left her sobbing on the lowest step.

Poor Rose! She felt that she had indeed fallen among enemies.

CHAPTER XX.

HOW BEN SUCCEEDED

Ben Gibson was very willing to suspend blacking boots and follow in the track of James Martin, partly because he considered it easier work, but partly also, because he was glad to be of service to the newsboy. The fact was that Rough and Ready was popular among the street boys. He was brave and manly, rough with those who tried to impose upon him, but always ready to do a favor to a boy who needed it. Ben had not forgotten how two winters before, when he had been laid up with a sickness brought on by exposure, Rufus had himself contributed liberally to help him, and led other boys to follow his example, thus defraying his expenses until he got about again. A kind heart will make its possessor popular sooner than anything else, and it was this, together with his well-known prowess, which made Rough and Ready not only popular, but admired in the circle to which he belonged.

Ben followed James Martin down Spruce Street, keeping sufficiently in the background, so as not to excite the suspicions of the latter.

"I wonder where he's goin'," thought Ben; "I don't think I could follow him more'n a hundred miles without wantin' to rest. Anyhow I guess I can stand it as well as he can."

Martin walked along in a leisurely manner. The fact was that he had made up his mind not to work that day, and therefore he felt in no particular hurry. This was rather improvident on his part, since he had voluntarily assumed the extra expense of supporting Rose; but then prudence and foresight were not his distinguishing traits. He had a vague idea that the world owed him a living, and that he would rub along somehow or other. This is a mischievous doctrine, and men who deserve to succeed never hold it. It is true, however, that the world is pretty sure to provide a living for those who are willing to work for it, but makes no promises to those who expect to be taken care of without any exertions of their own. The difference between the rich merchant and the ragged fellow who solicits his charity as he is stepping into his carriage, consists, frequently, not in natural ability, but in the fact that the one has used his ability as a stepping-stone to success, and the other has suffered his to become stagnant, through indolence, or dissipation.

But we must come back to Mr. Martin.

He walked down towards the East River till he reached Water Street, then turning to the left, he brought up at a drinking-saloon, which he had visited more than once on a similar errand. He found an old acquaintance who invited him to drink,—an invitation which he accepted promptly.

Ben remained outside.

"I thought he did business at some such place by the looks of his nose," soliloquized Ben. "What shall I do while I'm waitin' for him?"

Looking around him, Ben saw two boys of about his own age pitching pennies. As this was a game with which long practice had made him familiar, he made overtures towards joining them.

"Let a feller in, will you?" he said.

"How much you got?" asked one of the boys, in a business-like way.

"Ten cents," said Ben. "I lent old Vanderbilt most of my money day afore yesterday, to buy up a new railroad, and he haint forked over."

Ben need not have apologized for his comparative poverty, as he proved to be the richest of the three. The game commenced, and continued for some time with various mutations of fortune; but at the end of half an hour Ben found himself richer by two cents than when he had commenced. From time to time he cast a watchful glance at the saloon opposite, for he had no intention of suffering the interest of the game to divert him from the object of his expedition. At length he saw James Martin issue from the saloon, and prepared to follow him.

"Are you going?" asked one of the boys with whom he had been playing.

"Yes, I've got some important business on hand. Here's your money;" and he threw down the two cents he had won.

"You won it?"

"What if I did? I only played for amoosement. What's two cents to a gentleman of fortune, with a big manshun up town?"

"It's the Tombs, he manes," said one of his late opponents, laughing.

"He can blow, he can," remarked the other.

But Ben couldn't stop to continue the conversation, as James Martin had already turned the corner of the street. It was observable that his gait already showed a slight unsteadiness, which he tried to remedy by walking with unusual erectness. The consequence of this was that he didn't keep fairly in view the occupants of the sidewalk, which led to his deliberately walking into rather a stout female, who was approaching in the opposite direction.

"Is it goin' to murther me ye are, you spalpeen?" she exclaimed, wrathfully, as soon as she could collect her breath. "Don't you know better than to run into a dacent woman in that way?"

"It was you run into me," said Martin, steadying himself with some difficulty after the collision.

"Hear him now," said the woman, looking about her to call attention to the calumny.

"I see how it is," said Martin; "you're drunk, ma'am, you can't walk straight."

This led to a voluble outburst from the irate woman, to which Ben listened with evident enjoyment.

"Am I drunk, boy?" asked Martin, appealing to Ben, whom he for the first time noticed.

"Of course you aint, gov'nor," said Ben. "You never did sich a thing in your life."

"What do you know about it?" demanded the woman. "It's my belief you're drunk yourself."

"Do you know who this gentleman is?" asked Ben, passing over the personal charge.

"No, I don't."

"He's President of the Fifth Avenue Temperance Society," said Ben, impressively. "He's just been drinking the health of his feller-officers in a glass of something stiff, round in Water Street, that's all."

The woman sniffed contemptuously, but, not deigning a reply, passed on.

"Who are you?" asked Martin, turning to Ben. "You're a good feller."

"That's so," said Ben. "That's what everybody says."

"So'm I a good feller," said Martin, whose recent potations must have been of considerable strength, to judge from their effects. "You know me."

"Of course I do," said Ben. "I've knowed you from infancy."

"Take a drink?" said Martin.

"Not at present," said Ben. "My health don't require it this mornin'."

"Where are you going?"

"Well," said Ben, "I aint very particular. I'm a wealthy orphan, with nothin' to do. I'll walk along with you, if it's agreeable."

"I wish you would," said Martin; "I aint feeling quite well this morning. I've got the headache."

"I don't wonder at that," thought Ben. "I'll accompany you to your residence, if it aint too far off."

"I live in Brooklyn," said Martin.

"Oho!" thought Ben. "Well, that information is worth something. Shall we go over Fulton Ferry?" he asked, aloud.

"Yes," said Martin.

"Take hold of my arm, and I'll support your totterin' steps," said Ben.

Mr. Martin, who found locomotion in a straight line rather difficult on account of his headache, willingly availed himself of this obliging offer, and the two proceeded on their way to Fulton Ferry.

"Have you got much of a family?" inquired Ben, by way of being sociable.

"I've got a little girl," said Martin, "and a boy, but he's an impudent young rascal."

"What's his name?"

"Rufus. He sells newspapers in front of the 'Times' office."

"The boys call him Rough and Ready, don't they?"

"Yes. Do you know him?" asked Martin, a little suspiciously. "He aint a friend of yours, is he?"

"I owe him a lickin'," said Ben, with a show of indignation.

"So do I," said Martin. "He's an impudent young rascal."

"So he is," chimed in Ben. "I'll tell you what I'd do, if I were you."

"What?"

"I'd disinherit him. Cut him off with a shilling'."

"I mean to," said Martin, pleased to find sympathy in his dislike to his stepson.

Probably the newsboy would not have suffered acute anguish, had he learned his stepfather's intention to disinherit him, as the well-known lines, "Who steals my purse, steals trash," might at almost any time have been appropriately applied to Mr. Martin's purse, when he happened to carry one.

Ben paid the toll at the ferry, and the two entered the boat together. He conducted Mr. Martin to the Gentleman's Cabin, where he found him a seat in the corner. James Martin sank down, and closed his eyes in a drowsy fit, produced by the liquor he had drunk.

Ben took a seat opposite him.

"You're an interestin' object," soliloquized Ben, as he looked across the cabin at his companion "It's a great blessin' to be an orphan, if a feller can't own a better father than that. However, I'll stick to him till I get him home. I wonder what he'd say if he knowed what I was goin' with him for. If things don't go contrary, I guess I'll get the little girl away from him afore long."

When the boat struck the Brooklyn pier, James Martin was asleep.

"There aint no hurry," thought Ben; "I'll let him sleep a little while."

After the boat had made three or four trips, Ben went across and shook Martin gently.

The latter opened his eyes, and looked at him vacantly.

"What's the matter?" he said, thickly.

"We've got to Brooklyn," said Ben. "If you want to go home, we'll have to go off the boat."

James Martin rose mechanically, and, walking through the cabin, passed out upon the pier, and then through the gates.

"Where'll we go now?" asked Ben. "Is it far off?"

"Yes," said Martin. "We'll take a horse-car."

"All right, gov'nor; just tell us what one we want, and we'll jump aboard."

Martin was sufficiently in his senses to be able to impart this information correctly. He made no objection to Ben's paying the fare for both, which the latter did, as a matter of policy, thinking that in his present friendly relations with Mr. Martin he was likely to obtain the information he desired, with considerably less difficulty than he anticipated. On the whole, Ben plumed himself on his success, and felt that as a detective he had done very well.

Martin got out at the proper place, and Ben of course got out with him.

"That's where I live," said Martin, pointing to the house. "Won't you go in?"

"Thank you for the compliment," said Ben; "but I've got some important business to attend to, and shall have to be goin'. How's your headache?"

"It's better," said Martin.

"Glad to hear it," said Ben.

Martin, on entering the house, was informed of the ill-conduct of Rose, as Mrs. Waters chose to represent it, and that in consequence she had been shut up in the cellar.

"Keep her there as long as you like," said Martin. "She's a bad girl, and it won't do her any harm."

If Rose had known that an agent of her brother's was just outside the house, and was about to carry back to Rufus tidings of her whereabouts, she would have felt considerably better. There is an old saying that the hour which is darkest is just before day.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN AN OYSTER SALOON

Rough and Ready had just laid in a supply of afternoon papers, and resumed his usual position in front of the "Times" office, when Ben Gibson came round the corner, just returned from his expedition to Brooklyn, the particulars of which are given in the last chapter.

"What luck, Ben?" asked the newsboy, anxiously.

"Tip-top," said Ben.

"You don't mean to say you've found her?" said Rough and Ready, eagerly.

"Yes, I have,—leastways I've found where she's kept."

"Tell me about it. How did you manage?"

"I followed your respected father down Spruce Street," said Ben. "He stopped to take a little something strong in Water Street, which made him rather top-heavy. I offered him my protection, which he thankfully accepted; so we went home together as intimate as brothers."

"Did he suspect anything?"

"Not a bit; I told him I know'd you, and owed you a lickin', which impressed his affectionate heart very favorably. When'll you take it?"

"What?"

"The lickin'."

"Not at present," said Rough and Ready, laughing. "I guess it'll keep."

"All right. Any time you want it, just let me know."

"Go ahead. Where does he live?"

"In Brooklyn. We went over Fulton Ferry, and then took the horse-cars a couple of miles. I paid the old chap's fare."

"I'll make it right with you. Did you see Rose?"

"No; but I'll remember the house."

"Ben, you're a trump. I was afraid you wouldn't succeed. Now tell me when I had better go for her? Shall it be to-night?"

"No," said Ben; "he'll be at home to-night. Besides, she won't be allowed to come out. If we go over to-morrow, we may meet her walkin' out somewhere. Then we can carry her off without any fuss."

"I don't know but you're right," said the newsboy, thoughtfully; "but it is hard to wait. I'm afraid she won't be treated well, poor little Rose!"

Rufus proposed to go over in the evening and reconnoitre, but it occurred to him that if he were seen and recognized by Mr. Martin, the latter would be on his guard, and perhaps remove her elsewhere, or keep her so strictly guarded that there would be no opportunity of reclaiming her. He was forced, therefore, to wait with what patience he might till the next morning. He went round to tell Miss Manning of his success. She sympathized heartily with him, for she had felt an anxiety nearly as great as his own as to the fate of the little girl whose presence had lighted up her now lonely room with sunshine.

After spending a portion of the evening with her, he came out again into the streets. It was his usual time for going to the Lodging House; but he felt restless and wakeful, and preferred instead to wander about the streets.

At ten o'clock he felt the promptings of appetite, and, passing an oyster saloon, determined to go in and order a stew.

It was not a very fashionable place. There was a general air of dinginess and lack of neatness pervading the place. The apartment was small, and low-studded. On one side was a bar, on the other, two or three small compartments provided with tables, with curtains screening them from the main room.

It was not a very inviting place, but the newsboy, though more particular than most of his class, reflected that the oysters might nevertheless be good.

"Give us a stew," he said to a young man behind the counter, whose countenance was ornamented with pimples.

"All right. Anything to drink?"

"No sir," said our hero.

Rufus entered the only one of the alcoves which was unoccupied. The curtains of the other two were drawn. The one which he selected was the middle one of three, so that what was going on in both was audible to him. The one in front appeared to have a solitary occupant, and nothing was heard from it but the clatter of a knife and fork.

But there were evidently two persons in the other, for Rufus was able to make out a low conversation which was going on between them. The first words were heard with difficulty, but afterwards, either because they spoke louder or because his ear got more accustomed to the sounds, he made out everything.

"You are sure about the money, Jim," said one.

"Yes."

"How do you know it?"

"Never mind how I know it. It makes no odds as long as he's got it, and we are going to take it."

"That's the main thing. Now tell me your plans."

"He'll be going home about half-past eleven, somewhere from there to twelve, and we must lie in wait for him. It's a cool thousand, that'll be five hundred apiece."

"I need it bad enough, for I'm dead broke."

"So am I. Got down to my last dollar, and no chance of another, unless this little plan of ours works."

"It's dangerous."

"Of course there's a risk. There won't be any time to lose. The policeman's got a long beat. We must make the attack when he's out of the way. There'll be no time to parley."

"If he resist—"

"Knock him on the head. A minute'll be enough."

There was some further conversation carried on in a low voice, from which the newsboy, who listened with attention, gathered full particulars of the meditated attack. It appears that the intended victim of the plot was a Wall Street broker, who was likely to be out late in the evening with a considerable sum of money about him. How the two desperadoes concerned in the plot had obtained this information did not appear. This, however, is not necessary to the comprehension of the story. Enough that they had intended to make criminal use of that knowledge.

"What shall I do?" thought the newsboy, when by careful listening he arrived at a full comprehension of the plot in all its details. "There'll be robbery, and perhaps murder done unless I interfere."

It required some courage to do anything. The men were not only his superiors in physical strength, but they were doubtless armed, and ready, if interfered with, to proceed to extremities. But the newsboy had one of those strong and hardy natures to which fear is a stranger,—at least so far as his own safety was concerned. This proceeded from his strength and physical vigor, and entire freedom from that nervousness which often accompanies a more fragile organization.

"I'll stop it if I can," he decided, promptly, without a thought of the risk he might incur.

One circumstance might interfere: they might leave the saloon before he was ready to do so, and thus he would lose track of them. Unfortunately, the place where the attack was to be made had not yet been mentioned. But he was relieved of this apprehension when he heard the curtain drawn aside, and a fresh order given to the waiter. At that moment his own stew was brought, and placed on the table before him.