CHAPTER XVI.
BEN MEETS AN OLD FRIEND
Ben had about half an hour to wait for the arrival of the steamer. Among the passengers who crossed the plank from the steamer to the pier was a gentleman of middle age, and a boy about a year younger than Ben. The boy had a carpet-bag in his hand; the father, for such appeared to be the relationship, carried a heavy valise, besides a small bundle.
"Want your baggage carried?" asked Ben, varying his usual address.
The gentleman hesitated a moment.
"You'd better let him take it, father," said the boy.
"Very well, you may take this;" and the valise was passed over to Ben.
"Give me the bag too," said Ben, addressing the boy.
"No, I'll take that. You'll have all you want to do, in carrying the valise."
They crossed the street, and here the gentleman stood still, evidently undecided about something.
"What are you thinking about, father?"
"I was thinking," the gentleman said, after a slight pause, "what I had better do."
"About what?"
"I have two or three errands in the lower part of the city, which, as my time is limited, I should like to attend to at once."
"You had better do it, then."
"What I was thinking was, that it would not be worth while for you to go round with me, carrying the baggage."
"Couldn't I go right up to Cousin Mary's?" asked his son.
"I am afraid you might lose the way."
"This boy will go with me. I suppose he knows the way all about the city. Don't you?" he asked, turning to Ben.
"Where do you want to go?" asked Ben.
"To No. – Madison Avenue."
"Yes, I can show you the way there well enough, but it's a good way off."
"You can both take the cars or stage when you get up to the Astor House."
"How will that do?" asked Charles, for this was his name.
"I think that will be the best plan. This boy can go with you, and you can settle with him for his services. Have you got money enough?"
"Yes, plenty."
"I will leave you here, then."
Left to themselves, it was natural that the two boys should grow social. So far as clothing went, there was certainly a wide difference between them. Ben was attired as described in the first chapter. Charles, on the other hand, wore a short sack of dark cloth, a white vest, and gray pants. A gold chain, depending from his watch-pocket, showed that he was the possessor of a watch. His whole appearance was marked by neatness and good taste. But, leaving out this difference, a keen observer might detect a considerable resemblance in the features of the two boys. Both had dark hair, black eyes, and the contour of the face was the same. I regret to add, however, that Ben's face was not so clean as it ought to have been. Among the articles contributed by the boys who lived in the room under the wharf, a washstand had not been considered necessary, and it had been long since Ben had regarded washing the face and hands as the first preparation for the labors of the day.
Charles Marston looked at his companion with some interest and curiosity. He had never lived in New York, and there was a freshness and novelty about life in the metropolis that was attractive to him.
"Is this your business?" he asked.
"What, – smashin' baggage?" inquired Ben.
"Is that what you call it?"
"Yes."
"Well, is that what you do for a living?"
"Yes," said Ben. "It's my profession, when I aint attendin' to my duties as a member of the Common Council."
"So you're a member of the city government?" asked Charles, amused.
"Yes."
"Do you have much to do that way?"
"I'm one of the Committee on Wharves," said Ben. "It's my business to see that they're right side up with care; likewise that nobody runs away with them in the night."
"How do you get paid?"
"Well, I earn my lodgin' that way just now," said Ben.
"Have you always been in this business?"
"No. Sometimes I've sold papers."
"How did you like that?"
"I like baggage-smashin' best, when I get enough to do. You don't live in the city, do you?"
"No, I live just out of Boston, – a few miles."
"Ever been in New York before?"
"Once. That was four years ago. I passed through on the way from Pennsylvania, where I used to live."
"Pennsylvania," repeated Ben, beginning to be interested. "Whereabouts did you live there, – in Philadelphy?"
"No, a little way from there, in a small town named Cedarville."
Ben started, and he nearly let fall the valise from his hand.
"What's the matter?" asked Charles.
"I came near fallin'," said Ben, a little confused. "What's your name?" he asked, rather abruptly.
"Charles Marston."
Ben scanned intently the face of his companion. He had good reason to do so, for though Charles little suspected that there was any relationship between himself and the ragged and dirty boy who carried his valise, the two were own cousins. They had been school-mates in Cedarville, and passed many a merry hour together in boyish sport. In fact Charles had been Ben's favorite playmate, as well as cousin, and many a time, when he lay awake in such chance lodgings as the street provided, he had thought of his cousin, and wished that he might meet him again. Now they had met most strangely; no longer on terms of equality, but one with all the outward appearance of a young gentleman, the other, a ragged and ignorant street boy. Ben's heart throbbed painfully when he saw that his cousin regarded him as a stranger, and for the first time in a long while he felt ashamed of his position. He would not for the world have revealed himself to Charles in his present situation; yet he felt a strong desire to learn whether he was still remembered. How to effect this without betraying his identity he hardly knew; at length he thought of a way that might lead to it.
"My name's shorter'n yours," he said.
"What is it?" asked Charles.
"It's Ben."
"That stands for Benjamin; so yours is the longest after all."
"That's so, I never thought of that. Everybody calls me Ben."
"What's your other name?"
Ben hesitated. If he said "Brandon" he would be discovered, and his pride stood in the way of that. Finally he determined to give a false name; so he answered after a slight pause, which Charles did not notice, "My other name is Hooper, – Ben Hooper. Didn't you ever know anybody of my name?"
"What, – Ben Hooper?"
"No, Ben."
"Yes. I had a cousin named Ben."
"Is he as old as you?" asked Ben, striving to speak carelessly.
"He is older if he is living; but I don't think he is living."
"Why, don't you know?"
"He ran away from home when he was ten years old, and we have never seen him since."
"Didn't he write where he had gone?"
"He wrote one letter to his mother, but he didn't say where he was. That is the last any of us heard from him."
"What sort of a chap was he?" inquired Ben. "He was a bad un, wasn't he?"
"No, Ben wasn't a bad boy. He had a quick temper though; but whenever he was angry he soon got over it."
"What made him run away from home?"
"His father punished him for something he didn't do. He found it out afterwards; but he is a stern man, and he never says anything about him. But I guess he feels bad sometimes. Father says he has grown old very fast since my cousin ran away."
"Is his mother living, – your aunt?" Ben inquired, drawn on by an impulse he could not resist.
"Yes, but she is always sad; she has never stopped mourning for Ben."
"Did you like your cousin?" Ben asked, looking wistfully in the face of his companion.
"Yes, he was my favorite cousin. Poor Ben and I were always together. I wish I knew whether he were alive or not."
"Perhaps you will see him again some time."
"I don't know. I used to think so; but I have about given up hopes of it. It is six years now since he ran away."
"Maybe he's turned bad," said Ben. "S'posin' he was a ragged baggage-smasher like me, you wouldn't care about seein' him, would you?"
"Yes, I would," said Charles, warmly. "I'd be glad to see Ben again, no matter how he looked, or how poor he might be."
Ben looked at his cousin with a glance of wistful affection. Street boy as he was, old memories had been awakened, and his heart had been touched by the sight of the cousin whom he had most loved when a young boy.
"And I might be like him," thought Ben, looking askance at the rags in which he was dressed, "instead of a walkin' rag-bag. I wish I was;" and he suppressed a sigh.
It has been said that street boys are not accessible to the softer emotions; but Ben did long to throw his arm round his cousin's neck in the old, affectionate way of six years since. It touched him to think that Charlie held him in affectionate remembrance. But his thoughts were diverted by noticing that they had reached the Astor House.
"I guess we'd better cross the street, and take the Fourth Avenue cars," he said. "There's one over there."
"All right!" said Charles. "I suppose you know best."
There was a car just starting; they succeeded in getting aboard, and were speedily on their up town.
CHAPTER XVII.
BEN FORMS A RESOLUTION
"Does this car go up Madison Avenue?" asked Charles, after they had taken their seats.
"No," said Ben, "it goes up Fourth Avenue; but that's only one block away from Madison. We'll get out at Thirtieth Street."
"I'm glad you're with me; I might have a hard time finding the place if I were alone."
"Are you going to stay in the city long?" asked Ben.
"Yes, I am going to school here. Father is going to move here soon. Until he comes I shall stay with my Cousin Mary."
Ben felt quite sure that this must be his older sister, but did not like to ask.
"Is she married?"
"Yes, it is the sister of my Cousin Ben. About two years ago she married a New York gentleman. He is a broker, and has an office in Wall Street. I suppose he's rich."
"What's his name?" asked Ben. "Maybe I've seen his office."
"It is Abercrombie, – James Abercrombie. Did you ever hear that name?"
"No," answered Ben, "I can't say as I have. He aint the broker that does my business."
"Have you much business for a broker?" asked Charles, laughing.
"I do a smashin' business in Erie and New York Central," answered Ben.
"You are in the same business as the railroads," said Charles.
"How is that?"
"You are both baggage-smashers."
"That's so; only I don't charge so much for smashin' baggage as they do."
They were on Centre Street now, and a stone building with massive stone columns came in view on the west side of the street.
"What building is that?" asked Charles.
"That's a hotel, where they lodge people free gratis."
Charles looked at his companion for information.
"It's the Tombs," said Ben. "It aint so popular, though, as the hotels where they charge higher."
"No, I suppose not. It looks gloomy enough."
"It aint very cheerful," said Ben. "I never put up there, but that's what people say that have enjoyed that privilege."
"Where is the Bowery?"
"We'll soon be in it. We turn off Centre Street a little farther up."
Charles was interested in all that he saw. The broad avenue which is known as the Bowery, with its long line of shops on either side, and the liberal display of goods on the sidewalk, attracted his attention, and he had numerous questions to ask, most of which Ben was able to answer. He had not knocked about the streets of New York six years for nothing. His business had carried him to all parts of the city, and he had acquired a large amount of local information, a part of which he retailed now to his cousin as they rode side by side in the horse-cars.
At length they reached Thirtieth Street, and here they got out. At the distance of one block they found Madison Avenue. Examining the numbers, they readily found the house of which they were in search. It was a handsome four-story house, with a brown-stone front.
"This must be Mr. Abercrombie's house," said Charles. "I didn't think Cousin Mary lived in such a nice place."
Ben surveyed the house with mingled emotions. He could not help contrasting his own forlorn, neglected condition with the position of his sister. She lived in an elegant home, enjoying, no doubt, all the advantages which money could procure; while he, her only brother, walked about the streets in rags, sleeping in any out-of-the-way corner. But he could blame no one for it. It had been his own choice, and until this morning he had been well enough contented with it. But all at once a glimpse had been given him of what might have been his lot had he been less influenced by pride and waywardness, and by the light of this new prospect he saw how little hope there was of achieving any decent position in society if he remained in his present occupation. But what could he do? Should he declare himself at once to his cousin, and his sister? Pride would not permit him to do it. He was not willing to let them see him in his ragged and dirty state. He determined to work and save up money, until he could purchase a suit as handsome as that which his cousin wore. Then he would not be ashamed to present himself, so far as his outward appearance went. He knew very well that he was ignorant; but he must trust to the future to remedy that deficiency. It would be a work of time, as he well knew. Meanwhile he had his cousin's assurance that he would be glad to meet him again, and renew the old, affectionate intimacy which formerly existed between them.
While these thoughts were passing through Ben's mind, as I have said, they reached the house.
"Have you had any breakfast?" asked Charles as they ascended the steps.
"Not yet," answered Ben. "It isn't fashionable to take breakfast early."
"Then you must come in. My cousin will give you some breakfast."
Ben hesitated; but finally decided to accept the invitation. He had two reasons for this. Partly because it would give him an opportunity to see his sister; and, secondly, because it would save him the expense of buying his breakfast elsewhere, and that was a consideration, now that he had a special object for saving money.
"Is Mrs. Abercrombie at home?" asked Charles of the servant who answered his summons.
"Yes, sir; who shall I say is here?"
"Her cousin, Charles Montrose."
"Will you walk into the parlor?" said the servant, opening a door at the side of the hall. She looked doubtfully at Ben, who had also entered the house.
"Sit down here, Ben," said Charles, indicating a chair on one side of the hat-stand. "I'll stop here till Mrs. Abercrombie comes down," he said.
Soon a light step was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Abercrombie descended the staircase. She is the same that we last saw in the modest house in the Pennsylvania village; but the lapse of time has softened her manners, and the influence of a husband and a home have improved her. But otherwise she has not greatly changed in her looks.
Ben, who examined her face eagerly, recognized her at once. Yes, it was his sister Mary that stood before him. He would have known her anywhere. But there was a special mark by which he remembered her. There was a dent in her cheek just below the temple, the existence of which he could account for. In a fit of boyish passion, occasioned by her teasing him, he had flung a stick of wood at her head, and this had led to the mark.
"Where did you come from, Charles?" she said, giving her hand cordially to her young cousin.
"From Boston, Cousin Mary."
"Have you just arrived, and where is your father? You did not come on alone, did you?"
"No, father is with me, or rather he came on with me, but he had some errands down town, and stopped to attend to them. He will be here soon."
"How did you find the way alone?"
"I was not alone. There is my guide. By the way, I told him to stay, and you would give him some breakfast."
"Certainly, he can go down in the basement, and the servants will give him something."
Mrs. Abercrombie looked at Ben as she spoke; but on her part there was no sign of recognition. This was not strange. A boy changes greatly between ten and sixteen years of age, and when to this natural change is added the great change in Ben's dress, it will not be wondered at that his sister saw in him only an ordinary street boy.
Ben was relieved to find that he was not known. He had felt afraid that something in his looks might remind his sister of her lost brother; but the indifferent look which she turned upon him proved that he had no ground for this fear.
"You have not breakfasted, I suppose, Charles." said his cousin.
"You wouldn't think so, if you knew what an appetite I have," he answered, laughing.
"We will do our best to spoil it," said Mrs. Abercrombie.
She rang the bell, and ordered breakfast to be served.
"We are a little late this morning," she said.
"Mr. Abercrombie is in Philadelphia on business; so you won't see him till to-morrow."
When the servant appeared, Mrs. Abercrombie directed her to take Ben downstairs, and give him something to eat.
"Don't go away till I see you, Ben," said Charles, lingering a little.
"All right," said Ben.
He followed the servant down the stairs leading to the basement. On the way, he had a glimpse through the half-open door of the breakfast-table, at which his sister and his cousin were shortly to sit down.
"Some time, perhaps, I shall be invited in there," he said to himself.
But at present he had no such wish. He knew that in his ragged garb he would be out of place in the handsome breakfast-room, and he preferred to wait until his appearance was improved. He had no fault to find with the servants, who brought him a bountiful supply of beefsteak and bread and butter, and a cup of excellent coffee. Ben had been up long enough to have quite an appetite. Besides, the quality of the breakfast was considerably superior to those which he was accustomed to take in the cheap restaurants which he frequented, and he did full justice to the food that was spread before him.
When he had satisfied his appetite, he had a few minutes to wait before Charles came down to speak to him.
"Well, Ben, I hope you had a good breakfast," he said.
"Tip-top," answered Ben.
"And I hope also that you had an appetite equal to mine."
"My appetite don't often give out," said Ben; "but it aint so good now as it was when I came in."
"Now we have a little business to attend to. How much shall I pay you for smashing my baggage?" Charles asked, with a laugh.
"Whatever you like."
"Well, here's fifty cents for your services, and six cents for your car-fare back."
"Thank you," said Ben.
"Besides this, Mrs. Abercrombie has a note, which she wants carried down town to her husband's office in Wall Street. She will give you fifty cents more, if you will agree to deliver it there at once, as it is of importance."
"All right," said Ben. "I'll do it."
"Here is the note. I suppose you had better start with it at once. Good-morning."
"Good-morning," said Ben, as he held his cousin's proffered hand a moment in his own. "Maybe I'll see you again some time."
"I hope so," said Charles, kindly.
A minute later Ben was on his way to take a Fourth Avenue car down town.
CHAPTER XVIII.
LUCK AND ILL LUCK
"That will do very well for a beginning," thought Ben, as he surveyed, with satisfaction, the two half dollars which he had received for his morning's services. He determined to save one of them towards the fund which he hoped to accumulate for the object which he had in view. How much he would need he could not decide; but thought that it would be safe to set the amount at fifty dollars. This would doubtless require a considerable time to obtain. He could not expect to be so fortunate every day as he had been this morning. Some days, no doubt, he would barely earn enough to pay expenses. Still he had made a beginning, and this was something gained. It was still more encouraging that he had determined to save money, and had an inducement to do so.
As Ben rode down town in the horse-cars, he thought of the six years which he had spent as a New York street boy; and he could not help feeling that the time had been wasted, so far as any progress or improvement was concerned. Of books he knew less than when he first came to the city. He knew more of life, indeed, but not the best side of life. He had formed some bad habits, from which he would probably have been saved if he had remained at home. Ben realized all at once how much he had lost by his hasty action in leaving home. He regarded his street life with different eyes, and felt ready to give it up, as soon as he could present himself to his parents without too great a sacrifice of his pride.
At the end of half an hour, Ben found himself at the termination of the car route, opposite the lower end of the City Hall Park.
As the letter which he had to deliver was to be carried to Wall Street, he kept on down Broadway till he reached Trinity Church, and then turned into the street opposite. He quickly found the number indicated, and entered Mr. Abercrombie's office. It was a handsome office on the lower floor. Two or three clerks were at work at their desks.
"So this is my brother-in-law's office," thought Ben. "It's rather better than mine."
"Well, young man, what can I do for you to-day?" inquired a clerk, in a tone which indicated that he thought Ben had got into the wrong shop.
"You can tell me whether your name is Sampson," answered Ben, coolly.
"No, it isn't."
"That's what I thought."
"Suppose I am not; what then?"
"Then the letter I've got isn't for you, that's all."
"So you've got a letter, have you?"
"That's what I said."
"It seems to me you're mighty independent," sneered the clerk, who felt aggrieved that Ben did not show him the respect which he conceived to be his due.
"Thank you for the compliment," said Ben, bowing.
"You can hand me the letter."
"I thought your name wasn't Sampson."
"I'll hand it to Mr. Sampson. He's gone out a moment. He'll be in directly."
"Much obliged," said Ben; "but I'd rather hand it to Mr. Sampson myself. Business aint particularly pressin' this mornin', so, if you'll hand me the mornin' paper, I'll read till he comes."
"Well, you've got cheek," ejaculated the clerk.
"I've got two of 'em if I counted right when I got up," said Ben.
Here there was a laugh from the other two clerks.
"He's too smart for you, Granby," said one.
"He's impudent enough," muttered the first, as he withdrew discomfited to his desk.
The enemy having retreated, Ben sat down in an arm-chair, and, picking up a paper, began to read.
He had not long to wait. Five minutes had scarcely passed when a man of middle age entered the office. His manner showed that he belonged there.
"If you're Mr. Sampson," said Ben, approaching him, "here is a letter for you."
"That is my name," said the gentleman, opening the note at once.
"You come from Mrs. Abercrombie," he said, glancing at Ben, as he finished reading it.
"Yes, sir," said Ben.
"How did she happen to select you as her messenger?"
"I went up there this morning to carry a valise."
"I have a great mind to send you back to her with an answer; but I hesitate on one account."
"What is that?" asked Ben.
"I don't know whether you can be trusted."
"Nor I," said Ben; "but I'm willin' to run the risk."
"No doubt," said Mr. Sampson, smiling; "but it seems to me that I should run a greater risk than you."
"I don't know about that," answered Ben. "If it's money, and I keep it, you can send the copps after me, and I'll be sent to the Island. That would be worse than losing money."
"That's true; but some of you boys don't mind that. However, I am inclined to trust you. Mrs. Abercrombie asks for a sum of money, and wishes me to send it up by one of the clerks. That I cannot very well do, as we are particularly busy this morning. I will put the money in an envelope, and give it to you to deliver. I will tell you beforehand that it is fifty dollars."
"Very good," said Ben; "I'll give it to her."
"Wait a moment."
Mr. Sampson went behind the desk, and reappeared almost directly.
"Mrs. Abercrombie will give you a line to me, stating that she has received the money. When you return with this, I will pay you for your trouble."
"All right," said Ben.
As he left the office the young clerk first mentioned said, "I am afraid, Mr. Sampson, Mrs. Abercrombie will never see that money."
"Why not?"
"The boy will keep it."
"What makes you think so?"
"He's one of the most impudent young rascals I ever saw."
"I didn't form that opinion. He was respectful enough to me."
"He wasn't to me."
Mr. Sampson smiled a little. He had observed young Granby's assumption of importance, and partly guessed how matters stood.
"It's too late to recall him," he said. "I must run the risk. My own opinion is that he will prove faithful."
Ben had accepted the commission gladly, not alone because he would get extra pay for the additional errand, but because he saw that there was some hesitation in the mind of Mr. Sampson about trusting him, and he meant to show himself worthy of confidence. There were fifty dollars in the envelope. He had never before been trusted with that amount of money, and now it was rather because no other messenger could be conveniently sent that he found himself so trusted. Not a thought of appropriating the money came to Ben. True, it occurred to him that this was precisely the sum which he needed to fit him out respectably. But there would be greater cause for shame if he appeared well dressed on stolen money, than if he should present himself in rags to his sister. However, it is only just to Ben to say that had the party to whom he was sent been different, he would have discharged his commission honorably. Not that he was a model boy, but his pride, which was in some respects a fault with him, here served him in good stead, as it made him ashamed to do a dishonest act.
Ben rightly judged that the money would be needed as soon as possible, and, as the distance was great, he resolved to ride, trusting to Mr. Sampson's liberality to pay him for the expense which he would thus incur in addition to the compensation allowed for his services.
He once more made his way to the station of the Fourth Avenue cars, and jumped aboard one just ready to start.
The car gradually filled, and they commenced their progress up town.
Ben took a seat in the corner next to the door. Next to him was a man with black hair and black whiskers. He wore a tall felt hat with a bell crown, and a long cloak. Ben took no particular notice of him, being too much in the habit of seeing strange faces to observe them minutely. The letter he put in the side pocket of his coat, on the side nearest the stranger. He took it out once to look at it. It was addressed to Mrs. Abercrombie, at her residence, and in one corner Mr. Sampson had written "Money enclosed."
Now it chanced, though Ben did not suspect it, that the man at his side was a member of the swell mob, and his main business was picking pockets. He observed the two words, already quoted, on the envelope when Ben took it in his hand, and he made up his mind to get possession of it. This was comparatively easy, for Ben's pocket was on the side towards him. Our hero was rather careless, it must be owned, but it happened that the inside pocket of his coat had been torn away, which left him no other receptacle for the letter. Besides, Ben had never been in a situation to have much fear of pick pockets, and under ordinary circumstances he would hardly have been selected as worth plundering. But the discovery that the letter contained money altered the case.
While Ben was looking out from the opposite window across the street, the stranger dexterously inserted his hand in his pocket, and withdrew the letter. They were at that moment just opposite the Tombs.
Having gained possession of the letter, of course it was his interest to get out of the car as soon as possible, since Ben was liable at any moment to discover his loss.
He touched the conductor, who was just returning from the other end of the car, after collecting the fares.
"I'll get out here," he said.
The conductor accordingly pulled the strap, and the car stopped.
The stranger gathered his cloak about him, and, stepping out on the platform, jumped from the car. Just at that moment Ben put his hand into his pocket, and instantly discovered the loss of the letter. He immediately connected it with the departure of his fellow-passenger, and, with a hasty ejaculation, sprang from the car, and started in pursuit of him.