CHAPTER XIII
WHAT BEFELL THE MATCH BOY
During the next three months Mark made his home at the Lodging House. He was easily able to meet the small charges of the Lodge for bed and breakfast, and saved up ten dollars besides in the bank. Ben Gibson began to look upon him as quite a capitalist.
"I don't see how you save up so much money, Mark," he said. "You don't earn more'n half as much as I do."
"It's because you spend so much, Ben. It costs you considerable for cigars and such things, you know, and then you go to the Old Bowery pretty often."
"A feller must have some fun," said Ben. "They've got a tearin' old play at the Bowery now. You'd better come to-night."
Mark shook his head.
"I feel pretty tired when it comes night," he said. "I'd rather stay at home."
"You aint so tough as I am," said Ben.
"No," said Mark, "I don't feel very strong. I think something's the matter with me."
"Nothin' aint ever the matter with me," said Ben, complacently; "but you're a puny little chap, that look as if you might blow away some day."
It was now April, and the weather was of that mild character that saps the strength and produces a feeling of weakness and debility. Mark had been exposed during the winter to the severity of stormy weather, and more than once got thoroughly drenched. It was an exposure that Ben would only have laughed at, but Mark was slightly built, without much strength of constitution, and he had been feeling very languid for a few days, so that it was with an effort that he dragged himself round during the day with his little bundle of matches.
This conversation with Ben took place in the morning just as both boys were going to work.
They separated at the City Hall Park, Ben finding a customer in front of the "Times" building, while Mark, after a little deliberation, decided to go on to Pearl Street with his matches. He had visited the offices in most of the lower streets, but this was a new region to him, and he thought he might meet with better success there. So he kept on his way.
The warm sun and the sluggish air made his head ache, and he felt little disposition to offer his wares for sale. He called at one or two offices, but effected no sales. At length he reached a large warehouse with these names displayed on the sign over the door: —
"ROCKWELL & COOPER."
This, as the reader will remember, was the establishment in which Richard Hunter, formerly Ragged Dick, was now book-keeper.
At this point a sudden faintness came over Mark, and he sank to the ground insensible.
A moment before Richard Hunter handed a couple of letters to the office boy, – known to the readers of the earlier volumes in this series as Micky Maguire, – and said, "Michael, I should like to have you carry these at once to the post-office. On the way you may stop at Trescott & Wayne's, and get this bill cashed, if possible."
"All right, Mr. Hunter," said Michael, respectfully.
Richard Hunter and Micky Maguire had been boot-blacks together, and had had more than one contest for the supremacy. They had been sworn enemies, and Micky had done his utmost to injure Richard, but the latter, by his magnanimity, had finally wholly overcome the antipathy of his former foe, and, when opportunity offered, had lifted him to a position in the office where he was himself employed. In return, Micky had become an enthusiastic admirer of Richard, and, so far from taking advantage of their former relations, had voluntarily taken up the habit of addressing him as Mr. Hunter.
Michael went out on his errand, but just outside the door came near stepping upon the prostrate form of the little match boy.
"Get up here!" he said, roughly, supposing at first that Mark had thrown himself down out of laziness and gone to sleep.
Mark didn't answer, and Micky, bending over, saw his fixed expression and waxen pallor.
"Maybe the little chap's dead," he thought, startled, and, without more ado, took him up in his strong arms and carried him into the counting-room.
"Who have you got there, Michael?" asked Richard Hunter, turning round in surprise.
"A little match boy that was lyin' just outside the door. He looks as if he might be dead."
Richard jumped at once from his stool, and, approaching the boy, looked earnestly in his face.
"He has fainted away," he said, after a pause. "Bring some water, quick!"
Micky brought a glass of water, which was thrown in the face of Mark. The match boy gave a little shiver, and, opening his eyes, fixed them upon Richard Hunter.
"Where am I?" he asked, vacantly.
"You are with friends," said Richard, gently. "You were found at our door faint. Do you feel sick?"
"I feel weak," said Mark.
"Have you been well lately?"
"No, I've felt tired and weak."
"Are you a match boy?"
"Yes."
"Have you parents living?"
"No," said Mark.
"Poor fellow!" said Richard. "I know how to pity you. I have no parents either."
"But you have got money," said Mark. "You don't have to live in the street."
"I was once a street boy like you."
"You!" repeated the match boy, in surprise.
"Yes. But where do you sleep?"
"At the Lodging House."
"It is a good place. Michael, you had better go to the post-office now."
Mark looked about him a little anxiously.
"Where are my matches?" he asked.
"Just outside; I'll get them," said Michael, promptly.
He brought them in, and then departed on his errand.
"I guess I'd better be going," said Mark, rising feebly.
"No," said Richard. "You are not able. Come here and sit down. You will feel stronger by and by. Did you eat any breakfast this morning?"
"A little," said Mark, "but I was not very hungry."
"Do you think you could eat anything now?" Mark shook his head.
"No," he said, "I don't feel hungry. I only feel tired."
"Would you like to rest?"
"Yes. That's all I want."
"Come here then, and I will see what I can do for you."
Mark followed his new friend into the warehouse, where Richard found a soft bale of cotton, and told Mark he might lie down upon it. This the poor boy was glad enough to do. In his weakness he was disposed to sleep, and soon closed his eyes in slumber. Several times Richard went out to look at him, but found him dozing, and was unwilling to interrupt him.
The day wore away, and afternoon came.
Mark got up from his cotton bale, and with unsteady steps came to the door of the counting-room.
"I'm going," he said.
Richard turned round.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to the Lodge. I think I won't sell any more matches to-day."
"I'll take all you've left," said Richard. "Don't trouble yourself about them. But you are not going to the Lodge."
Mark looked at him in surprise.
"I shall take you home with me to-night," he said. "You are not well, and I will look after you. At the Lodge there will be a crowd of boys, and the noise will do you harm."
"You are very kind," said Mark; "but I'm afraid I'll trouble you."
"No," said Richard, "I shan't count it a trouble. I was once a poor boy like you, and I found friends. I'll be your friend. Go back and lie down again, and in about an hour I shall be ready to take you with me."
It seemed strange to Mark to think that there was somebody who proposed to protect and look after him. In many of the offices which he visited he met with rough treatment, and was ordered out of the way, as if he were a dog, and without human feelings. Many who treated him in this way were really kind-hearted men who had at home children whom they loved, but they appeared to forget that these neglected children of the street had feelings and wants as well as their own, who were tenderly nurtured. They did not remember that they were somebody's children, and that cold, and harshness, and want were as hard for them to bear as for those in a higher rank of life. But Mark was in that state of weakness when it seemed sweet to throw off all care or thought for the future, and to sink back upon the soft bale with the thought that he had nothing to do but to rest.
"That boy is going to be sick," thought Richard Hunter to himself. "I think he is going to have a fever."
It was because of this thought that he decided to carry him home. He had a kind heart, and he knew how terrible a thing sickness is to these little street waifs, who have no mother or sister to smooth their pillows, or cheer them with gentle words. The friendless condition of the little match boy touched his heart, and he resolved that, as he had the means of taking care of him, he would do so.
"Michael," he said, at the close of business hours, "I wish you would call a hack."
"What, to come here?" asked Micky, surprised.
"Yes. I am going to take that little boy home with me. I think he is going to be sick, and I am afraid he would have a hard time of it if I sent him back into the street."
"Bully for you, Mr. Hunter!" said Micky, who, though rough in his outward manners, was yet capable of appreciating kindness in others. There were times indeed in the past when he had treated smaller boys brutally, but it was under the influence of passion. He had improved greatly since, and his better nature was beginning to show itself.
Micky went out, and soon returned in state inside a hack. He was leaning back, thinking it would be a very good thing if he had a carriage of his own to ride in. But I am afraid that day will never come. Micky has already turned out much better than was expected, but he is hardly likely to rise much higher than the subordinate position he now occupies. In capacity and education he is far inferior to his old associate, Richard Hunter, who is destined to rise much higher than at present.
Richard Hunter went to the rear of the warehouse where Mark still lay on his bale.
"Come," he said; "we'll go home now."
Mark rose from his recumbent position, and walked to the door. He saw with surprise the carriage, the door of which Micky Maguire held open.
"Are we going to ride in that?" he asked.
"Yes," said Richard Hunter. "Let me help you in."
The little match boy sank back in the soft seat in vague surprise at his good luck. He could not help wondering what Ben Gibson would say if he could see him now.
Richard Hunter sat beside him, and supported Mark's head. The driver whipped up his horse, and they were speedily on their way up the Bowery to St. Mark's Place.
CHAPTER XIV
RICHARD HUNTER'S WARD
It was about half-past five o'clock in the afternoon when the carriage containing Richard Hunter and the match boy stopped in front of his boarding-place in St. Mark's Place. Richard helped the little boy out, saying, cheerfully, "Well, we've got home."
"Is this where you live?" asked Mark, faintly.
"Yes. How do you like it?"
"It's a nice place. I am afraid you are taking too much trouble about me."
"Don't think of that. Come in."
Richard had ascended the front steps, after paying the hackman, and taking out his night-key opened the outside door.
"Come upstairs," he said.
They ascended two flights of stairs, and Richard threw open the door of his room. A fire was already burning in the grate, and it looked bright and cheerful.
"Do you feel tired?" asked Richard.
"Yes, a little."
"Then lie right down on the bed. You are hungry too, – are you not?"
"A little."
"I will have something sent up to you."
Just then Fosdick, who, it will be remembered, was Richard Hunter's room-mate, entered the room. He looked with surprise at Mark, and then inquiringly at Richard.
"It is a little match boy," explained the latter, "who fell in a fainting-fit in front of our office. I think the poor fellow is going to be sick, so I brought him home, and mean to take care of him till he is well."
"You must let me share the expense, Dick," said Fosdick.
"No, but I'll let you share the care of him. That will do just as well."
"But I would rather share the expense. He reminds me of the way I was situated when I fell in with you. What is your name?"
"Mark Manton," said the match boy.
"I've certainly seen him somewhere before," said Fosdick, reflectively. "His face looks familiar to me."
"So it does to me. Perhaps I've seen him about the streets somewhere."
"I have it," said Fosdick, suddenly; "don't you remember the boy we saw sleeping in the cabin of the Fulton Ferry-boat?"
"Yes."
"I think he is the one. Mark," he continued, turning to the match boy, "didn't you sleep one night on a Brooklyn ferry-boat about three months ago?"
"Yes," said Mark.
"And did you find anything in your vest-pocket in the morning?"
"Yes," said the match boy with interest. "I found a dollar, and didn't know where it came from. Was it you that put it in?"
"He had a hand in it," said Fosdick, pointing with a smile to his room-mate.
"I was very glad to get it," said Mark. "I only had eight cents besides, and that gave me enough to buy some matches. That was at the time I ran away."
"Who did you run away from?"
"From Mother Watson."
"Mother Watson?" repeated Dick. "I wonder if I don't know her. She is a very handsome old lady, with a fine red complexion, particularly about the nose."
"Yes," said Mark, with a smile.
"And she takes whiskey when she can get it?"
"Yes."
"How did you fall in with her?"
"She promised to take care of me when my mother died, but instead of that she wanted me to earn money for her."
"Yes, she was always a very disinterested old lady. So it appears you didn't like her as a guardian?"
"No."
"Then suppose you take me. Would you like to be my ward?"
"I think I would, but I don't know what it means," said Mark.
"It means that I'm to look after you," said Dick, "just as if I was your uncle or grandfather. You may call me grandfather if you want to."
"Oh, you're too young," said Mark, amused in spite of his weakness.
"Then we won't decide just at present about the name. But I forgot all about your being hungry."
"I'm not very hungry."
"At any rate you haven't had anything to eat since morning, and need something. I'll go down and see Mrs. Wilson about it."
Richard Hunter soon explained matters to Mrs. Wilson, to whom he offered to pay an extra weekly sum for Mark, and arranged that a small single bed should be placed in one corner of the room temporarily in which the match boy should sleep. He speedily reappeared with a bowl of broth, a cup of tea, and some dry toast. The sight of these caused the match boy's eyes to brighten, and he was able to do very good justice to all.
"Now," said Richard Hunter, "I will call in a doctor, and find out what is the matter with my little ward."
In the course of the evening Dr. Pemberton, a young dispensary physician, whose acquaintance Richard had casually made, called at his request and looked at the patient.
"He is not seriously sick," he pronounced. "It is chiefly debility that troubles him, brought on probably by exposure, and over-exertion in this languid spring weather."
"Then you don't think he is going to have a fever?" said Dick.
"No, not if he remains under your care. Had he continued in the street, I think he would not have escaped one."
"What shall we do for him?"
"Rest is most important of all. That, with nourishing food and freedom from exposure, will soon bring him round again."
"He shall have all these."
"I suppose you know him, as you take so much interest in him?"
"No, I never saw him but once before to-day, but I am able to befriend him, and he has no other friends."
"There are not many young men who would take all this trouble about a poor match boy," said the doctor.
"It's because they don't know how hard it is to be friendless and neglected," said Dick. "I've known that feeling, and it makes me pity those who are in the same condition I once was."
"I wish there were more like you, Mr. Hunter," said Dr. Pemberton. "There would be less suffering in the world. As to our little patient here, I have no doubt he will do well, and soon be on his legs again."
Indeed Mark was already looking better and feeling better. The rest which he had obtained during the day, and the refreshment he had just taken, were precisely what he needed. He soon fell asleep, and Richard and Fosdick, lighting the gas lamp on the centre-table, sat down to their evening studies.
In a few days Mark was decidedly better, but it was thought best that he should still keep the room. He liked it very well in the evening when Dick and Fosdick were at home, but he felt rather lonesome in the daytime. Richard Hunter thought of this one day, and said, "Can you read, Mark?"
"Yes," said the match boy.
"Who taught you? Not Mother Watson, surely."
"No, she couldn't read herself. It was my mother who taught me."
"I think I must get you two or three books of stories to read while we are away in the daytime."
"You are spending too much money for me, Mr Hunter."
"Remember I am your guardian, and it is my duty to take care of you."
The next morning on his way down town, Richard Hunter stepped into a retail bookstore on Broadway. As he entered, a boy, if indeed it be allowable to apply such a term to a personage so consequential in his manners, came forward.
"What, Roswell Crawford, are you here?" asked Richard Hunter, in surprise.
Roswell, who has already been mentioned in this story, and who figured considerably in previous volumes of this series, answered rather stiffly to this salutation.
"Yes," he said. "I am here for a short time. I came in to oblige Mr. Baker."
"You were always very obliging, Roswell," said Richard, good-humoredly.
Roswell did not appear to appreciate this compliment. He probably thought it savored of irony.
"Do you want to buy anything this morning?" he said, shortly.
"Yes; I would like to look at some books of fairy stories."
"For your own reading, I suppose," said Roswell.
"I may read them, but I am getting them for my ward."
"Is he a boot-black?" sneered Roswell, who knew all about Dick's early career.
"No," said Richard, "he's a match boy; so if you've got any books that you can warrant to be just the thing for match boys, I should like to see them."
"We don't have many customers of that class," said Roswell, unpleasantly. "They generally go to cheaper establishments, when they are able to read."
"Do they?" said Dick. "I'm glad you've got into a place where you only meet the cream of society," and Dick glanced significantly at a red-nosed man who came in to buy a couple of sheets of notepaper.
Roswell colored.
"There are some exceptions," he said, and glanced pointedly at Richard Hunter himself.
"Well," said Dick, after looking over a collection of juvenile books, "I'll take these two."
He drew out his pocket-book, and handed Roswell a ten-dollar bill. Roswell changed it with a feeling of jealousy and envy. He was the "son of a gentleman," as he often boasted, but he never had a ten-dollar bill in his pocket. Indeed, he was now working for six dollars a week, and glad to get that, after having been out of a situation for several months.
Just then Mr. Gladden, of the large down-town firm of Gladden & Co., came into the store, and, seeing Richard, saluted him cordially.
"How are you this morning, Mr. Hunter?" he said. "Are you on your way down town?"
"Yes, sir," said Richard.
"Come with me. We will take an omnibus together;" and the two walked out of the store in familiar conversation.
"I shouldn't think such a man as Mr. Gladden would notice a low boot-black," said Roswell, bitterly.
The rest of the day he was made unhappy by the thought of Dick's prosperity, and his own hard fate, in being merely a clerk in a bookstore with a salary of six dollars a week.
CHAPTER XV
MARK GETS A PLACE
In a week from the purchase of the books, Mark felt that he was fully recovered. He never had much color, but the unhealthy pallor had left his cheeks, and he had an excellent appetite.
"Well, Mark, how do you feel to-night?" asked Richard, on his return from the store one evening.
"I'm all right, now, Mr. Hunter. I think I will go to work to-morrow morning."
"What sort of work?"
"Selling matches."
"Do you like to sell matches?"
"I like it better than selling papers, or blacking boots."
"But wouldn't you like better to be in a store?"
"I couldn't get a place," said Mark.
"Why not?"
"My clothes are ragged," said the match boy with some hesitation. "Besides I haven't got anybody to refer to."
"Can't you refer to your guardian?" asked Richard Hunter, smiling.
"Do you think I had better try to get a place in a store, Mr. Hunter?" asked Mark.
"Yes, I think it would be much better for you than to sell matches on the street. You are not a strong boy, and the exposure is not good for you. As to your clothes, we'll see if we cannot supply you with something better than you have on."
"But," said Mark, "I want to pay for my clothes myself. I have got ten dollars in the bank at the Newsboys' Lodge."
"Very well. You can go down to-morrow morning and get it. But we needn't wait for that. I will go and get you some clothes before I go to business."
In the morning Richard Hunter went out with the match boy, and for twenty dollars obtained for him a very neat gray suit, besides a supply of under-clothing. Mark put them on at once, and felt not a little pleased with the improvement in his appearance.
"You can carry your old clothes to Mr. O'Connor," said Richard. "They are not very good, but they are better than none, and he may have an opportunity of giving them away."
"You have been very kind to me, Mr. Hunter," said Mark, gratefully. "Good-by."
"Good-by? What makes you say that?"
"Because I am going now to the Newsboys' Lodge."
"Yes, but you are coming back again."
"But I think I had better go there to live now. It will be much cheaper, and I ought not to put you to so much expense."
"You're a good boy, Mark, but you must remember that I am your guardian, and am to be obeyed as such. You're not going back to the Lodge to live. I have arranged to have you stay with me at my boarding-place. As soon as you have got a place you will work in the daytime, and every Saturday night you will bring me your money. In the evening I shall have you study a little, for I don't want you to grow up as ignorant as I was at your age."
"Were you ignorant, Mr. Hunter?" asked Mark, with interest.
"Yes, I was," said Richard. "When I was fourteen, I couldn't read nor write."
"I can hardly believe that, Mr. Hunter," said Mark. "You're such a fine scholar."
"Am I?" asked Richard, smiling, yet well pleased with the compliment.
"Why, you can read French as fast as I can read English, and write beautifully."
"Well, I had to work hard to do it," said Richard Hunter. "But I feel paid for all the time I've spent in trying to improve myself. Sometimes I've thought I should like to spend the evening at some place of amusement rather than in study; but if I had, there'd be nothing to show for it now. Take my advice, Mark, and study all you can, and you'll grow up respectable and respected."
"Now," he added, after a pause, "I'll tell you what you may do. You may look in my 'Herald' every morning, and whenever you see a boy advertised for you can call, or whenever, in going along the street, you see a notice 'Boy wanted,' you may call in, and sooner or later you'll get something. If they ask for references, you may refer to Richard Hunter, book-keeper for Rockwell & Cooper."
"Thank you, Mr. Hunter," said Mark. "I will do so."
On parting with his guardian the match boy went down town to the Lodging House. The superintendent received him kindly.
"I didn't know what had become of you, Mark," he said. "If it had been some of the boys, I should have been afraid they had got into a scrape, and gone to the Island. But I didn't think that of you."
"I hope you'll never hear that of me, Mr. O'Connor," said Mark.
"I hope not. I'm always sorry to hear of any boy's going astray. But you seem to have been doing well since I saw you;" and the superintendent glanced at Mark's new clothes.
"I've met with some kind friends," said the match boy. "I have been sick, and they took care of me."
"And now you have come back to the Lodge."
"Yes, but not to stay. I came for the money that I have saved up in the bank. It is going for these clothes."
"Very well. You shall have it. What is the name of the friend who has taken care of you?"
"Richard Hunter."
"I know him," said the superintendent. "He is an excellent young man. You could not be in better hands."
On leaving the Lodge Mark felt a desire to find his old ally, Ben Gibson, who, though rather a rough character, had been kind to him.
Ben was not difficult to find. During business hours he was generally posted on Nassau Street, somewhere between Fulton Street and Spruce Street.
He was just polishing off a customer's boots when Mark came up, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Ben looked up, but did not at first recognize the match boy in the neatly dressed figure before him.
"Shine yer boots!" he asked, in a professional tone.
"Why, Ben, don't you know me?" asked Mark, laughing.
"My eyes, if it aint Mark, the match boy!" exclaimed Ben, in surprise. "Where've you been all this while, Mark?"
"I've been sick, Ben."
"I'd like to be sick too, if that's the way you got them clo'es. I didn't know what had 'come of you."
"I found some good friends," said Mark.
"If your friends have got any more good clo'es they want to get rid of," said Ben, "tell 'em you know a chap that can take care of a few. Are you in the match business now?"
"I haven't been doing anything for three weeks," said Mark.
"Goin' to sell matches again?"
"No."
"Sellin' papers?"
"No, I'm trying to find a place in a store."
"I don't think I'd like to be in a store," said Ben, reflectively. "I'm afraid my delicate constitution couldn't stand the confinement. Besides, I'm my own boss now, and don't have nobody to order me round."
"But you don't expect to black boots all your life, Ben, do you?"
"I dunno," said Ben. "Maybe when I'm married, I'll choose some other business. It would be rather hard to support a family at five cents a shine. Are you comin' to the Lodge to-night?"
"No," said Mark, "I'm boarding up at St. Mark's Place."
"Mother Watson hasn't opened a fashionable boardin'-house up there, has she?"
"I guess not," said Mark, smiling. "I can't think what has become of her. I haven't seen her since the day she tried to carry me off."
"I've heard of her," said Ben. "She's stoppin' with some friends at the Island. They won't let her come away on account of likin' her company so much."
"I hope I shall never see her again," said Mark, with a shudder. "She is a wicked old woman. But I must be going, Ben."
"I s'pose you'll come and see a feller now and then."
"Yes, Ben, when I get time. But I hope to get a place soon."
Mark walked leisurely up Broadway. Having been confined to the house for three weeks, he enjoyed the excitement of being out in the street once more. The shop windows looked brighter and gayer than before, and the little match boy felt that the world was a very pleasant place after all.
He had passed Eighth Street before he was fairly aware of the distance he had traversed. He found himself looking into the window of a bookstore. While examining the articles in the window his eye suddenly caught the notice pasted in the middle of the glass on a piece of white paper: —
"BOY WANTED."
"Perhaps they'll take me," thought Mark, suddenly. "At any rate I'll go in and see."
Accordingly he entered the store, and looked about him a little undecidedly.
"Well, sonny, what do you want?" asked a clerk.
"I see that you want a boy," said Mark.
"Yes. Do you want a place?"
"I am trying to get one."
"Well, go and see that gentleman about it."
He pointed to a gentleman who was seated at a desk in the corner of the store.
"Please, sir, do you want a boy?" he asked.
"Yes," said the gentleman. "How old are you?"
"Ten years old."
"You are rather young. Have you been in any place before?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know your way about the city pretty well?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want a boy to deliver papers and magazines, and carry small parcels of books. Do you think you could do that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Without stopping to play on the way?"
"Yes, sir."
"I have just discharged one boy, because he was gone an hour and a half on an errand to Twentieth Street. You are the first boy that has answered my advertisement. I'll try you on a salary of three dollars a week, if you can go to work at once. What is your name?"
"Mark Manton."
"Very well, Mark. Go to Mr. Jones, behind the counter there, and he will give you a parcel to carry to West Twenty-First Street."
"I'm in luck," thought Mark. "I didn't expect to get a place so easily."