CHAPTER X.
SAM'S ADVENTURES AT THE DEPOT
It was six miles to the station at Wendell, where Sam proposed to take the cars for New York. He had to travel on an empty stomach, and naturally got ravenously hungry before he reached his destination. About half a mile this side of the depot he passed a grocery-store, and it occurred to him that he might get something to eat there.
Entering he saw a young man in his shirt-sleeves engaged in sweeping.
"Have you got anything good to eat?" asked Sam.
"This aint a hotel," said the young man, taking Sam for a penniless adventurer.
"I knew that before," said Sam, "but haven't you got some crackers or something, to stay a feller's stomach?"
"Haven't you had any breakfast?" asked the clerk, curiously.
"No."
"Don't they give you breakfast where you live?"
"Not so early in the morning. You see I had to take an early start, 'cause I'm goin' to attend my grandmother's funeral."
This of course was a story trumped up for the occasion.
"We've got some raw potatoes," said the clerk, grinning.
"I've had enough to do with potatoes," said Sam. "Haven't you got some crackers?"
"Come to think of it, we have. How many will you have?"
"About a dozen."
While they were being put up in a paper bag, the clerk inquired, "How far off does your grandmother live?"
"About twenty miles from here, on the railroad," answered Sam, who didn't care to mention that he was bound for New York.
"Warwick, I suppose."
"Yes," said Sam, at a venture. "How soon does the train start?"
"In about half an hour. Hold on, though; that's the New York train, and don't stop at Warwick."
"I guess I'll be goin," said Sam, hurriedly. "Where's the depot?"
"Half a mile straight ahead, but you needn't hurry. The train for Warwick don't go till ten."
"Never mind. I want to see the New York train start;" and Sam hurried off eating crackers as he walked.
"I'm glad the train starts so quick," thought Sam. "I don't want to wait round here long. I might meet somebody that knows me."
He had no difficulty in finding the depot. It was a plain building, about twenty by thirty feet, with a piazza on the side towards the track. He entered, and going up to the ticket-office asked for a ticket to New York.
"For yourself?" asked the station-master.
"Yes," said Sam.
"How old are you?"
"Twelve."
"Then you'll have to pay for a whole ticket. Three dollars."
"All right," said Sam, promptly, and he drew out a five-dollar bill, receiving in return two dollars and a ticket.
"Do you live in New York, sonny?" asked the station-master.
"No, I'm only goin to see my aunt," answered Sam, with another impromptu falsehood.
"I know something about New York. In what street does your aunt live?"
Sam was posed, for he did not know the name of even one street in the city he was going to.
"I don't exactly remember," he was forced to admit.
"Then how do you expect to find her if you don't know where she lives?"
"Oh, she'll meet me at the depot," said Sam, readily.
"Suppose she don't?"
"I'll find her somehow. But she's sure to meet me."
"Going to stay long in the city?"
"I hope so. Perhaps my aunt'll adopt me. How soon will the train be along?"
"In about fifteen minutes."
Here an old lady came up, and asked for a ticket to New York.
"Three dollars, ma'am."
"Three dollars! Can't you take less?" asked the old lady, fumbling in her pocket for her purse.
"No ma'am, the price is fixed."
"It's a sight of money. Seems throwed away, too, jest for travellin'. You haint got anything to show for it. I never was to York in my life."
"Please hurry, ma'am, there are others waiting."
"Massy sakes, don't be so hasty! There's the money."
"And there's your ticket."
"I wish I know'd somebody goin to New York. I'm afeared to travel alone."
"There's a boy going," said the station-master, pointing to Sam.
"Are you goin to York?" asked the old lady, peering over her spectacles at Sam.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Was you ever there afore?"
"No, ma'am."
"Aint your folks afeared to have you go alone?"
"Oh, no, they don't mind."
"I wish you was older, so's you could look after me."
Sam was rather flattered by the idea of having a lady under his charge, and said, "I'll take care of you, if you want me to."
"Will you? That's a good boy. What's your name?"
"Sam Barker," answered our hero, with some hesitation, not feeling sure whether it was politic to mention his real name.
"Do you live in New York?"
"No, ma'am; but I'm goin to."
"When will the cars git along?"
"In about ten minutes."
"You'll help me get in, won't you? I've got two bandboxes, and I don't know how to manage."
"Yes, ma'am, I'll help you. I'm goin out on the platform, but I'll come in when the cars come along."
Sam went out on the platform, and watched eagerly for the approach of the cars. Up they came, thundering along the track, and Sam rushed into the depot in excitement.
"Come along, ma'am," he said. "The cars are here."
The old lady was in a flutter of excitement also. She seized one bandbox, and Sam the other, and they hurried out on the platform. They were just climbing up the steps, when the conductor asked, "Where are you going?"
"To York, of course."
"Then this isn't the train. It is going in the opposite direction."
"Lawful suz!" ejaculated the old lady in dismay. "What made you tell me wrong, you bad boy?" and she glared at him reproachfully over her glasses.
"How should I know?" said Sam, rather abashed. "I didn't know about no other train."
"You come near makin' me go wrong."
"I can't help it. It would be just as bad for me."
"When does the train go to York, somebody?" asked the old lady, looking about her in a general way.
"Next train; comes round in about five minutes."
Sam helped the old lady back into the depot, rather ashamed of the mistake he had made. He saw that she had lost some of her confidence in him, and it mortified him somewhat.
It was nearly ten minutes afterwards, – for the train was late, before the right cars came up.
Sam dashed into the depot again, and seized a bandbox.
"Here's the cars. Come along," he said.
"I won't stir a step till I know if it's the right cars," said the old lady firmly.
"Then you may stay here," said Sam. "I'm goin'."
"Don't leave your grandmother," said a gentleman, standing by.
"She isn't my grandmother. Isn't this the train to New York?"
"Yes."
Sam seized the bandbox once more, and this time the old lady followed him.
They got into the cars without difficulty, and the old lady breathed a sigh of relief.
Sam took a seat at the window just behind her, and his heart bounded with exultation as he reflected that in a few hours he would be in the great city, of which he had such vague and wonderful ideas. The only drawback to his enjoyment was the loss of his usual morning meal. The crackers helped to fill him up, but they were a poor substitute for the warm breakfast to which he had been accustomed at the deacon's. Still Sam did not wish himself back. Indeed, as he thought of the deacon's bewilderment on discovering his disappearance, he broke into an involuntary laugh.
"What are you laffin' at?" asked the old lady, suspiciously.
Sam answered, "I was thinkin' how near we came to bein' carried off to the wrong place."
"That aint anything to laff at," said the old lady, grimly.
CHAPTER XI.
FIRST EXPERIENCES IN THE CITY
There are few boys who do not enjoy a trip on the railroad, especially for the first time. The five hours which Sam spent on his journey gave him unqualified delight. Occasionally his attention was called off from the scenery by an exclamation from the old lady, who at every jolt thought the cars were off the track.
Sam liberally patronized the apple and peanut merchant, who about once an hour walked through the cars. The crackers which he had purchased at the grocery store had not spoiled his appetite, but rather appeared to sharpen it. The old lady apparently became hungry also, for she called the apple vender to her.
"What do you ask for them apples?" she inquired.
"The largest are three cents apiece, the smallest, two cents."
"That's an awful price. They aint worth half that."
"We can't sell 'em for less, and make any profit."
"I'll give you a cent for that one," she continued, pointing to the largest in the basket.
"That! Why, that's a three-center. Can't take it nohow."
"I'll give you three cents for them two."
"No, ma'am, you may have 'em for five cents."
"Then I won't buy 'em. My darter will give me plenty for nothin'."
"She may, but I can't."
So the old lady heroically put away the temptation, and refused to purchase.
All things must have an end, and Sam's journey was at length over. The cars entered the great depot. Sam hurried out of the cars, never giving a thought to the old lady, who expected his help in carrying out her bandboxes. He was eager to make his first acquaintance with the streets of New York. There was a crowd of hackmen in waiting, all of whom appeared to Sam to be seeing which could talk fastest.
"Have a carriage, sir? Take you to any hotel."
One of them got hold of Sam by the arms, and attempted to lead him to his carriage.
"Hold on a minute, mister," said Sam, drawing back. "Where are you goin' to take me?"
"Anywhere you say. Astor House, St. Nicholas, or any other."
"Is it far?"
"About five miles," said the hackman, glibly.
"How much are you goin to charge?"
"Only three dollars."
"Three dollars!" repeated Sam, in amazement.
He had less than seven dollars now, and, though he was not particularly provident, he knew that it would never do to spend almost half his slender stock of money for cab-hire.
"Never mind," said he. "I'll walk."
"You can't; it's too far," said the hackman, eager for a fare.
"I'll try."
So Sam walked out of the depot, and walked away. He didn't know exactly where to go, and thought he would follow a man with a carpet-bag who appeared to know his way. This man unconsciously guided him to Broadway. Sam realized, from the stately character of the buildings, that he was in an important street, and, cutting loose from his guide, walked down towards the City Hall Park. It seemed to him like a dream; these beautiful warehouses, showy stores, and the moving throng, which never seemed to grow less, surprised him also. Though he knew in advance that New York must be very different from the little country town which, until now, had been his home, he was not prepared for so great a difference, and wandered on, his mouth and eyes wide open.
At last he reached the City Hall Park, and, catching sight of a bench on which one or two persons were already sitting, Sam, feeling tired with his walk, entered the Park, and sat down too.
"Black yer boots?" inquired a dirty-faced boy, with a box slung over his shoulders.
Sam looked at his shoes, begrimed with a long country walk, and hesitated.
"What do you ask?" he said.
"It's worth a quarter to black them shoes," said the boy, swinging them critically.
"Then I can't afford it,"
"Twenty cents."
"No," said Sam. "I've got to earn my own living, and I can't afford it. Is blackin' boots a good business?"
"Some days it is, but if it comes rainy, it isn't. I'll give you a bully shine for ten cents."
"Will you show me afterwards where I can get some dinner cheap?" asked Sam, who was still hungry.
"Yes," said the boot-black. "I know a tip-top place."
"Is it far off?"
"Right round in Chatham street – only a minute's walk."
"All right. Go ahead. I'll give you ten cents."
Sam felt that he was paying his money not only for the actual service done, but for valuable information besides. On the whole, though he knew he must be economical, it seemed to him a paying investment.
"Did you come from the country?" asked the young knight of the blacking-brush, while he was vigorously brushing the first shoe.
"Yes," said Sam. "I only got here just now."
"That's what I thought."
"Why?"
"Because you look like a greenhorn."
"Do you mean to insult me?" asked Sam, nettled.
"No," said the other; "only if you've never been here before of course you're green."
"I won't be long," said Sam, hastily.
"Course you won't, 'specially if you have me to show you round."
"Have you lived long in New York?" inquired Sam.
"I was born here," said the boy.
"Have you been long blackin' boots?"
"Ever since I was knee-high to a door-step."
"Then you make a living at it?"
"I don't starve. What made you leave the country?"
"I got tired of working on a farm."
"Did you have enough to eat?"
"Yes."
"And a good bed to sleep in?"
"Yes."
"Then you'd ought to have stayed there," said the boot-black.
"I think I shall like the city better," said Sam. "There's a good deal more goin' on."
"I'd like to try the country. You don't live at the West, do you?"
"No."
"Lots of boys goes West. Maybe I'll go there, some time."
"Is it a good place?"
"That's what they say. The boys gets good homes out there on farms."
"Then I don't want to go," said Sam. "I'm tired of farmin'."
By this time the shoes were polished.
"Aint that a bully shine?" asked the boot-black, surveying his work with satisfaction.
"Yes," said Sam. "You know how to do it."
"Course I do. Now where's the stamps?"
Sam drew out ten cents, and handed to the boy.
"Now show me where I can get some dinner."
"All right. Come along!" and the boy, slinging his box over his shoulder, led the way to a small place on Chatham street. It was in a basement, and did not look over-neat; but Sam was too hungry to be particular, and the odor of the cooking was very grateful to him.
"I guess I'll get a plate o' meat, too," said the boot-black. "I aint had anything since breakfast."
They sat down side by side at a table, and Sam looked over the bill of fare. He finally ordered a plate of roast beef, for ten cents, and his companion followed his example. The plates were brought, accompanied by a triangular wedge of bread, and a small amount of mashed potato. It was not a feast for an epicure, but both Sam and his companion appeared to enjoy it.
Sam was still hungry.
"They didn't bring much," he said. "I guess I'll have another plate."
"I aint got stamps enough," said his companion.
"If you want another plate, I'll pay for it," said Sam, with a sudden impulse of generosity.
"Will you? You're a brick!" said the boot-black heartily. "Then I don't mind. I'll have another."
"Do they have any pie?" asked Sam.
"Course they do."
"Then I'll have a piece afterwards."
He did not offer to treat his companion to pie, for he realized that his stock of money was not inexhaustible. This did not appear to be expected, however, and the two parted on very good terms, when the dinner was over.
CHAPTER XII.
CLARENCE BROWN
Sam continued to walk about in the neighborhood of the City Hall Park, first in one direction, then in another; but at last he became fatigued. It had been an unusually exciting day, and he had taken more exercise than usual, though he had not worked; for his morning walk, added to his rambles about the city streets, probably amounted to not less than twelve miles. Then, too, Sam began to realize what older and more extensive travellers know well, that nothing is more wearisome than sight-seeing.
So the problem forced itself upon his attention – where was he to sleep? The bed he slept in the night before was more than a hundred miles away. It struck Sam as strange, for we must remember how inexperienced he was, that he must pay for the use of a bed. How much, he had no idea, but felt that it was time to make some inquiries.
[Illustration of Sam speaking with the room-clerk,]
He went into a hotel on the European system, and asked a man who was standing at the cigar stand, "What do you charge for sleeping here?"
"Ask of that man at the desk," said the cigar-vender.
Sam followed directions, and, approaching the room-clerk, preferred the same inquiry.
"One dollar," was the answer.
"One dollar, just for sleeping?" inquired Sam, in surprise, for in his native village he knew that the school-teacher got boarded for three dollars a week, board and lodging complete for seven days.
"Those are our terms," said the clerk.
"I don't care about a nice room," said Sam, hoping to secure a reduction.
"We charge more for our nice rooms," said the clerk.
"Aint there any cheaper hotels?" asked our hero, rather dismayed at his sudden discovery of the great cost of living in New York.
"I suppose so," said the clerk, carelessly; but he did not volunteer any information as to their whereabouts.
Sam walked slowly out of the hotel, quite uncertain where to go, or what to do. He had money enough to pay for a night's lodging, even at this high price, but he judged wisely that he could not afford to spend so large a part of his small stock of money.
"I wonder where the boys sleep that black boots," he thought. "They can't pay a dollar a night for sleeping."
He looked around for the boy who had guided him to a restaurant, but could not find him.
It was now eight o'clock, and he begun to think he should have to go back to the hotel after all, when a shabby-looking man, with watery eyes and a red nose, accosted him.
"Are you a stranger in the city, my young friend?" he asked.
"Yes," said Sam, rather relieved at the opportunity of speaking to somebody.
"So I thought. Where are you boarding?"
"Nowhere," said Sam.
"Where do you sleep to-night?"
"I don't know," said Sam, rather helplessly.
"Why don't you go to a hotel?"
"They charge too much," said Sam.
"Haven't you got money enough to pay for a lodging at a hotel?" asked the stranger, with rather less interest in his manner.
"Oh, yes," said Sam, "a good deal more than that; but then, I want to make my money last till I can earn something."
"To be sure, to be sure," answered the stranger, his interest returning. "You are quite right, my dear friend. I am glad to see that you are so sensible. Of course you ought not to go to a hotel. They charge too high altogether."
"But I must sleep somewhere," said Sam, anxiously. "I only got to New York this morning, and I don't know where to go."
"Of course, of course. I thought you might be in trouble, seeing you were a stranger. It's lucky you met me."
"Can you tell me of any place to spend the night?" asked Sam, encouraged by the stranger's manner.
"Yes; I'll let you stay with me, and it shan't cost you a cent."
"Thank you," said Sam, congratulating himself on his good luck in meeting so benevolent a man. He could not help admitting to himself that the philanthropist looked shabby, even seedy. He was not the sort of man from whom he would have expected such kindness, but that made no difference. The offer was evidently a desirable one, and Sam accepted it without a moment's hesitation.
"I remember when I came to the city myself," explained the stranger. "I was worse off than you, for I had no money at all. A kind man gave me a night's lodging, just as I offer one to you, and I determined that I would do the same by others when I had a chance."
"You are very kind," said Sam.
"Perhaps you won't say so when you see my room," said the other. "I am not a rich man."
Glancing at the man's attire, Sam found no difficulty in believing him. Our hero, though not very observing, was not prepossessed in favor of the New York tailors by what he saw, for the stranger's coat was very long, while his pants were very short, and his vest was considerably too large for him. Instead of a collar and cravat, he wore a ragged silk handkerchief tied round his throat. His hat was crumpled and greasy, and the best that could be said of it was, that it corresponded with the rest of his dress.
"I don't live in a very nice place," said the stranger; "but perhaps you can put up with it for one night."
"Oh, I don't mind," said Sam, hastily. "I aint used to anything very nice."
"Then it's all right," said the stranger. "Such as it is, you are welcome. Now, I suppose you are tired."
"Yes, I am," said Sam.
"Then I'll take you to my room at once. We'll go up Centre street."
Sam cheerfully followed his conductor. He felt like a storm-tossed mariner, who has just found port.
"What is your name?" asked his guide.
"Sam Barker."
"Mine is Clarence Brown."
"Is it?" asked Sam.
He could not help thinking the name too fine for a man of such shabby appearance, and yet it would be hard, when names are so cheap, if all the best ones should be bestowed on the wealthy.
"It's a good name, isn't it?" asked the stranger.
"Tip-top."
"I belong to a good family, though you wouldn't think it to look at me now," continued his guide. "My father was a wealthy merchant."
"Was he?" asked Sam, curiously.
"Yes, we lived in a splendid mansion, and kept plenty of servants. I was sent to an expensive school, and I did not dream of coming to this."
Mr. Brown wiped his eyes with his coat-sleeve, as he thus revived the memories of his early opulence.
"Did your father lose his money?" asked Sam, getting interested.
"He did indeed," said the stranger, with emotion. "It was in the panic of 1837. Did you ever hear of it?"
"I guess not," said Sam, who was not very conversant with the financial history of the country.
"My father became a bankrupt, and soon after died of grief," continued the stranger. "I was called back from boarding-school, and thrown upon the cold mercies of the world."
"That was hard on you," said Sam.
"It was, indeed, my young friend. I perceive that you have a sympathetic heart. You can feel for the woes of others."
"Yes," said Sam, concluding that such an answer was expected.
"I am glad I befriended you. Have you also seen better days?"
"Well, I don't know," said Sam. "It's been pleasant enough to-day."
"I don't mean that. I mean, were you ever rich?"
"Not that I can remember," said Sam.
"Then you don't know what it is to be reduced from affluence to poverty. It is a bitter experience."
"I should think so," said Sam, who felt a little tired of Clarence Brown's reminiscences, and wondered how soon they would reach that gentleman's house.
Meanwhile they had gone up Centre street, and turned into Leonard street. It was not an attractive locality, nor were the odors that reached Sam's nose very savory.
"This is where I live," said Mr. Brown, pausing before a large and dilapidated-looking tenement house of discolored brick.
"You don't live here alone, do you?" inquired Sam, who was not used to crowded tenement houses.
"Oh, no, I only occupy an humble room upstairs. Follow me, and I'll lead you to it."
The staircase was dirty, and in keeping with the external appearance of the house. The wall paper was torn off in places, and contrasted very unfavorably with the neat house of Deacon Hopkins. Sam noticed this, but he was tired and sleepy, and was not disposed to be over-critical, as he followed Mr. Brown in silence to the fourth floor.