CHAPTER XVI.
SAM MEETS BROWN AND IS UNHAPPY,
Never doubting Sam's assurance, the stranger entered the gloomy building, the lower part of which is divided into court-rooms. Out of one of these a man came, to whom he addressed this question: "Where is the counting-room?"
"The counting-room!" repeated the man, staring. "There isn't any here, that I know of."
"I want to subscribe for the weekly edition," explained the man from Illinois.
"It strikes me you're a weakly edition of a man yourself," thought the other. "He must be a lunatic," was the next thought. "I may as well humor him."
"Go in at that door," he said.
The stranger entered as directed, and at once recognized it as a court-room.
"It is very singular that there should be a courtroom in the 'Tribune' office," he thought. He took a seat, and whispered to a man at his side: "Can you tell me where the 'Tribune' office is?"
"Printing-house Square," was the whispered reply.
"Where's that?"
"Not much over a quarter of a mile from here."
"The boy deceived me," thought the stranger indignantly, "and I gave him fifty cents for doing it. He must be a young rascal."
"What building is this?" he asked, still in a whisper.
"The Tombs."
"What, the prison!"
"Yes; didn't you know it?" asked the informant, in surprise.
"I am a stranger in the city," said the Illinois man apologetically.
"Did you want to go to the 'Tribune' office?"
"Yes; I wished to subscribe for the paper."
"I am going that way. I will show you if you desire it."
"Thank you. I shall consider it a favor."
So the two retraced their steps, and this time our Illinois friend found the office of which he was in quest. He came near finding Sam also, for as he stood in front of French's Hotel, he saw his recent acquaintance approaching, and quickly dodged inside the hotel till he had passed. A boot-black to whom he had been speaking followed him in surprise.
"I say, what's up, Johnny?" he asked. "Yer didn't see a copp, did yer?"
"No, it's that man that just went by."
"Who's he?"
"He's the man I ran away from," said Sam, not caring to tell the truth.
"What would he do if he should catch you?" asked the boot-black, with curiosity.
"Lick me," said Sam, laconically.
"Then you did right. Is he going to stay here long?"
"No; he's going away to-day."
"Then you're safe. You'd better go the other way from him."
"So I will," said Sam. "Where's the Park I've heard so much about?"
"Up that way."
"Is it far?"
"Four or five miles."
"It's a long way to walk."
"You can ride for five cents."
"Can I?"
"Yes; just go over to the Astor House, and take the Sixth avenue cars, and they'll take you there."
Sam had intended to spend his entire fifty cents in buying dinner when the time came, but he thought he would like to see Central Park. Besides, he would be safe from pursuit, and the punishment which he felt he deserved. Following the directions of his boy friend, he entered a Sixth avenue car, and in a little less than an hour was set down at one of the gates of the Park. He entered with a number of others, and followed the path that seemed most convenient, coming out at last at the lake. Until now Sam had thought rather slightingly of the Park. Green fields were no novelty to him, but he admired the lake with the boats that plied over its surface filled with lively passengers. He would have invested ten cents in a passage ticket; but he felt that if he did this, he must sacrifice a part of his intended dinner, and Sam was growing prudent. He wandered about the Park two or three hours, sitting down at times on the benches that are to be found here and there for the convenience of visitors. He felt ready to go back; but it was only noon, and he was not sure but he might fall in with the gentleman from Illinois, whom he had left at the entrance of the Tombs.
He was destined to meet an acquaintance, but this time it was some one that had cheated him. Looking up from the bench on which he was seated, he saw his host of the preceding night, Mr. Clarence Brown, lounging along, smoking a cigar, with a look of placid contentment on his face.
"That cigar was bought with my money," thought Sam, bitterly; and in this conclusion he was right.
Sam jumped from his seat, and advanced to meet his enemy.
"Look here, Mr. Brown!"
Clarence Brown started as he saw who addressed him, for he was far from expecting to meet Sam here. He saw from the boy's looks that he was suspected of robbing him, and decided upon his course.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, smiling. "How do you like the Park?"
"Never mind about that," said Sam, impatiently. "I want my money."
Mr. Brown arched his eyes in surprise.
"Really, my young friend, I don't comprehend you," he said, withdrawing his cigar from his mouth. "You speak as if I owed you some money."
"Quit fooling!" said Sam, provoked at the other's coolness. "I want that money you took from me while I was asleep last night."
"It strikes me you have been dreaming," said Brown, composedly. "I don't know anything about your money. How much did you have?"
"Nearly seven dollars."
"Are you sure you had it when you went to bed?"
"Yes. I kept it in my vest-pocket."
"That was careless. You should have concealed it somewhere. I would have kept it for you if you had asked me."
"I dare say you would," said Sam, with withering sarcasm.
"Certainly, I wouldn't refuse so small a favor."
"Are you sure you didn't keep it for me?" said Sam.
"How could I, when you didn't give it to me?" returned the other, innocently.
"If you didn't take it," said Sam, rather staggered by the other's manner, "where did it go to?"
"I don't know, of course; but I shouldn't be surprised if it fell out of your vest-pocket among the bed-clothes. Did you look?"
"Yes."
"You might have overlooked it."
"Perhaps so," said Sam, thoughtfully.
He began to think he had suspected Mr. Brown unjustly. Otherwise, how could he be so cool about it?
"I am really sorry for your loss," said Brown, in a tone of sympathy; "all the more so, because I am hard up myself. I wish I had seven dollars to lend you."
"I wish you had," muttered Sam. "I can't get along without money."
"Did you have any breakfast?"
"Yes."
Sam did not furnish particulars, not liking to acknowledge the treatment he had received.
"Oh, you'll get along," said Brown, cheerfully. "Come and lodge with me again to-night."
"I don't know but what I will," said Sam, reflecting that he had no money to lose now, as he intended to spend all he had for dinner.
"Sit down and let us have a friendly chat," said Clarence Brown.
"Won't you have a cigar? I've got an extra one."
"I never smoked," said Sam.
"Then it's time you learned. Shall I show you how?"
"Yes," said Sam.
The fact is, our very badly behaved hero had long cherished a desire to see how it seemed to smoke a cigar; but in the country he had never had the opportunity. In the city he was master of his own actions, and it occurred to him that he would never have a better opportunity. Hence his affirmative answer.
Clarence Brown smiled slightly to himself, for he anticipated fun. He produced the cigar, lighted it by his own, and gave Sam directions how to smoke. Sam proved an apt pupil, and was soon puffing away with conscious pride. He felt himself several years older. But all at once he turned pale, and drew the cigar from his mouth.
"What's the matter?" asked Brown, demurely.
"I – don't – know," gasped Sam, his eyes rolling; "I – feel – sick."
"Do you? Don't mind it; it'll pass off."
"I think I'm going to die," said Sam, in a hollow voice. "Does smoking ever kill people?"
"Not often," said Brown, soothingly.
"I think it's goin' to kill me," said Sam, mournfully.
"Lie down on the bench. You'll feel better soon."
Sam lay down on his back, and again he wished himself safely back at the deacon's. New York seemed to him a very dreadful place. His head ached; his stomach was out of tune, and he felt very unhappy.
"Lie here a little while, and you'll feel better," said his companion.
"I'll be back soon."
He walked away to indulge in a laugh at his victim's expense, and Sam was left alone.
CHAPTER XVII.
TIM BRADY
An hour passed, and Clarence Brown did not reappear. He had intended to do so, but reflecting that there was no more to be got out of Sam changed his mind.
Sam lay down on the bench for some time, then raised himself to a sitting posture. He did not feel so sick as at first, but his head ached unpleasantly.
"I won't smoke any more," he said to himself. "I didn't think it would make me feel so bad."
I am sorry to say that Sam did not keep the resolution he then made; but at the time when he is first introduced to the reader, in the first chapter, had become a confirmed smoker.
"Why don't Mr. Brown come back?" he thought, after the lapse of an hour.
He waited half an hour longer, when he was brought to the conviction that Brown had played him false, and was not coming back at all. With this conviction his original suspicion revived, and he made up his mind that Brown had robbed him after all.
"I'd like to punch his head," thought Sam, angrily.
It did not occur to him that the deacon, from whom the money was originally taken, had the same right to punch his head. As I have said, Sam's conscience was not sensitive, and self-interest blinded him to the character of his own conduct.
His experience in smoking had given him a distaste for the Park, for this afternoon at least, and he made his way to the horse-cars determined to return. It did make him feel a little forlorn to reflect that he had no place to return to; no home but the streets. He had not yet contracted that vagabond feeling which makes even them seem homelike to the hundreds of homeless children who wander about in them by day and by night.
He was in due time landed at the Astor House. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he had had nothing to eat since breakfast. But for the cigar, he would have had a hearty appetite. As it was, he felt faint, and thought he should relish some tea and toast. He made his way, therefore, to a restaurant in Fulton street, between Broadway and Nassau streets. It was a very respectable place, but at that time in the afternoon there were few at the tables. Sam had forty cents left. He found that this would allow him to buy a cup of tea, a plate of beefsteak, a plate of toast, and a piece of pie. He disposed of them, and going up to the desk paid his bill. Again he found himself penniless.
"I wonder where I am going to sleep," he thought. "I guess I'll ask some boot-blacks where they live. They can't afford to pay much."
The tea made his head feel better; and, though he was penniless, he began to feel more cheerful than an hour before.
He wandered about till he got tired, leaning against a building sometimes. He began to feel lonely. He knew nobody in the great city except Clarence Brown, whom he did not care to meet again, and the boot-black whose acquaintance he had made the day before.
"I wish I had some other boy with me," thought Sam; "somebody I knew.
It's awful lonesome."
Sam was social by temperament, and looked about him to see if he could not make some one's acquaintance. Sitting on the same bench with him – for he was in City Hall Park – was a boy of about his own age apparently. To him Sam determined to make friendly overtures.
"What is your name, boy?" asked Sam.
The other boy looked round at him. He was very much freckled, and had a sharp look which made him appear preternaturally old.
"What do you want to know for?" he asked.
"I don't know anybody here. I'd like to get acquainted."
The street boy regarded him attentively to see if he were in earnest, and answered, after a pause, "My name is Tim Brady. What's yours?"
"Sam Barker."
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere," said Sam. "I haven't got any home, nor any money."
"That's nothing!" said Tim. "No more have I."
"Haven't you?" said Sam, surprised. "Then where are you going to sleep to-night?"
"I know an old wagon, up an alley, where I can sleep like a top."
"Aint you afraid of taking cold, sleeping out of doors?" asked Sam, who, poor as he had always been, had never been without a roof to cover him.
"Take cold!" repeated the boy, scornfully. "I aint a baby. I don't take cold in the summer."
"I shouldn't think you could sleep in a wagon."
"Oh, I can sleep anywhere," said Tim. "It makes no difference to me where I curl up."
"Is there room enough in the wagon for me?" asked Sam.
"Yes, unless some other chap gets ahead of us."
"May I go with you?"
"In course you can."
"Suppose we find somebody else ahead of us."
"Then we'll go somewhere else. There's plenty of places. I say, Johnny, haven't you got no stamps at all?"
"Stamps!"
"Yes, money. Don't you know what stamps is?"
"No. I spent my last cent for supper."
"If you'd got thirty cents we'd go to the theatre."
"What theatre?"
"The Old Bowery."
"Is it good?"
"You bet!"
"Then I wish I had money enough to go. I never went to the theatre in my life."
"You didn't! Where was you raised?" said Tim, contemptuously.
"In the country."
"I thought so."
"They don't have theatres in the country."
"Then I wouldn't live there. It must be awful dull there."
"So it is," said Sam. "That's why I ran away."
"Did you run away?" asked Tim, interested. "Was it from the old man?"
"It was from the man I worked for. He wanted me to work all the time, and I got tired of it."
"What sort of work was it?" asked Tim.
"It was on a farm. I had to hoe potatoes, split wood, and such things."
"I wouldn't like it. It's a good deal more jolly bein' in the city."
"If you've only got money enough to get along," added Sam.
"Oh, you can earn money."
"How?" asked Sam, eagerly.
"Different ways."
"How do you make a livin'?"
"Sometimes I black boots, sometimes I sell papers, then again, I smash baggage."
"What's that?" asked Sam, bewildered.
"Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Tim. "You're from the country. I loaf round the depots and steamboat landin's, and carry carpet-bags and such things for pay."
"Is that smashing baggage?"
"To be sure."
"I could do that," said Sam, thoughtfully. "Can you make much that way?"
"'Pends on how many jobs you get, and whether the cove's liberal.
Wimmen's the wust. They'll beat a chap down to nothin', if they can."
"How much do you get anyway for carrying a bundle?"
"I axes fifty cents, and generally gets a quarter. The wimmen don't want to pay more'n ten cents."
"I guess I'll try it to-morrow, if you'll tell me where to go."
"You can go along of me. I'm goin smashin' myself to-morrer."
"Thank you," said Sam. "I'm glad I met you. You see I don't know much about the city."
"Didn't you bring no money with you?"
"Yes, but it was stolen."
"Was your pockets picked?"
"I'll tell you about it. I was robbed in my sleep."
So Sam told the story of his adventures with Clarence Brown. Tim listened attentively.
"He was smart, he was," said Tim, approvingly.
"He's a rascal," said Sam, hotly, who did not relish hearing his spoiler praised.
"Course he is, but he's smart too. You might a knowed he'd do it."
"How should I know? I thought he was a kind man, that wanted to do me a favor."
Tim burst out laughing.
"Aint you green, though?" he remarked. "Oh my eye, but you're jolly green."
"Am I?" said Sam, rather offended. "Is everybody a thief in New York?"
"Most everybody, if they gets a chance," said Tim, coolly. "Didn't you ever steal yourself?"
Sam colored. He had temporarily forgotten the little adventure that preceded his departure from his country home. After all, why should he be so angry with Clarence Brown for doing the very same thing he had done himself? Why, indeed? But Sam had an answer ready. The deacon did not need the money, while he could not get along very well without it. So it was meaner in Clarence Brown to take all he had, than in him to take what the deacon could so well spare.
I hope my readers understand that this was very flimsy and unsatisfactory reasoning. Stealing is stealing, under whatever circumstances. At any rate Sam found it inconvenient to answer Tim's pointed question.
They talked awhile longer, and then his companion rose from the bench.
"Come along, Johnny," he said. "Let's go to roost."
"All right," said Sam, and the two left the Park.
CHAPTER XVIII.
SAM TURNS IMPOSTOR
Tim conducted our hero to an alley-way, not far from the North river, in which an old wagon had come to temporary anchor.
"This is my hotel," he said. "I like it cause it's cheap. They don't trouble you with no bills here. Tumble in."
Tim, without further ceremony, laid himself down on the floor of the wagon, and Sam followed his example. There is everything in getting used to things, and that is where Tim had the advantage. He did not mind the hardness of his couch, while Sam, who had always been accustomed to a regular bed, did. He moved from one side to another, and then lay on his back, seeking sleep in vain.
"What's up?" muttered Tim, sleepily. "Why don't you shut your peepers?"
"The boards are awful hard," Sam complained.
"It aint nothin' when you're used to it," said Tim. "You go to sleep, and you won't mind it."
"I wish I could," said Sam, turning again.
Finally he succeeded in getting to sleep, but not till some time after his companion. He slept pretty well, however, and did not awaken till, at six o'clock, he was shaken by his companion.
"What's the matter? Where am I?" asked Sam, feeling bewildered at first.
"Why, here you are, in course," said the matter-of-fact Tim. "Did you think you was in the station-house?"
"No, I hope not," answered Sam. "What time is it?"
"I don't know. A chap stole my watch in the night. I guess it's after six. Have you got any stamps?"
"No."
"Nor I. We've got to stir round, and earn some breakfast."
"How'll we do it?"
"We'll go down to the pier, and wait for the Boston boat. Maybe we'll get a chance to smash some baggage."
"I hope so," said Sam, "for I'm hungry."
"I'm troubled that way myself," said Tim. "Come along."
When they reached the pier, they found a number of boys, men, and hack-drivers already in waiting. They had to wait about half an hour, when they saw the great steamer slowly approaching the wharf.
Instantly Tim was on the alert.
"When they begin to come ashore, you must go in and try your luck.
Just do as I do."
This Sam resolved to do.
A tall man emerged from the steamer, bearing a heavy carpet-bag.
"Smash yer baggage?" said Tim.
"No, I think not. I can carry it myself."
"I haven't had any breakfast," said Tim, screwing up his freckled features into an expression of patient suffering.
"Nor I either," said the stranger, smiling.
"You've got money to buy some, and I haven't," said Tim, keeping at his side.
"Well, you may carry it," said the gentleman, good-naturedly.
Tim turned half round, and winked at Sam, as much as to say, "Did you see how I did it?"
Sam was quick enough to take the hint.
"Smash your carpet-bag?" he asked of a middle-aged lady, imitating as closely as possible Tim's professional accent.
"What?" asked the lady, startled.
"She don't understand," thought Sam. "Let me carry it for you, ma'am."
"I do not need it. I am going to take a cab."
"Let me take it to the cab," persisted Sam; but he was forestalled by a hack-driver who had heard the lady's remark.
"Let me take it, ma'am," he said, thrusting Sam aside. "I've got a nice carriage just outside. Take you anywhere you want to go."
So the lady was carried away, and Sam had to make a second application. This time he addressed himself to a gentleman whose little daughter walked by his side.
"No," said the gentleman; "the carpet-bag is small. I don't need help."
The smallness of the bag, by the way, was one reason why Sam, who did not like heavy bundles, wanted to carry it. He felt that it was time to practise on the stranger's feelings.
"I want to earn some money to buy bread for my mother," he whined, in a very creditable manner, considering how inexperienced he was.
This attracted the attention of the little girl, who, like most little girls, had a tender and compassionate heart.
"Is your mother poor?" she asked.
"Very poor," said Sam. "She hasn't got a cent to buy bread for the children."
"Have you got many brothers and sisters?" asked the little girl, her voice full of sympathy.
"Five," answered Sam, piteously.
"O papa," said the little girl, "let him take your carpet-bag. Think of it, his mother hasn't got anything to eat."
"Well, Clara," said her father, indulgently, "I suppose I must gratify you. Here, boy, take the bag, and carry it carefully."
"All right, sir," said Sam, cheerfully.
"I guess I can get along," he thought, complacently. "That's a good dodge."
"When we get to Broadway, we'll take the stage," said the gentleman.
"Take hold of my hand, tight, Clara, while we cross the street."
Clara seemed disposed to be sociable, and entered into conversation with the young baggage-smasher.
"Are your brothers and sisters younger than you?" she inquired.
"Yes," said Sam.
"How many of them are boys?"
"There's two boys besides me, and three girls," said Sam, readily.
"What are their names?" asked Clara.
"Why," answered Sam, hesitating a little, "there's Tom and Jim and John, and Sam and Maggie."
"I don't see how that can be," said Clara, puzzled. "Just now; you said there were three girls and only two boys."
"Did I?" said Sam, rather abashed. "I didn't think what I was saying."
"Isn't your father alive?" asked the little girl.
"No; he's dead."
"And do you have to support the family?"
"Yes; except what mother does."
"What does she do?"
"Oh, she goes out washing."
"Poor boy, I suppose you have a hard time."
"Yes," said Sam; "some days we don't get anything to eat."
"O papa, isn't it dreadful?" said Clara, her warm little heart throbbing with sympathy.
Her father was less credulous, and he was struck by Sam's hearty appearance. Certainly he looked very unlike a boy who did not have enough to eat.
"You don't look as if you suffered much from hunger, my boy," said he, with a penetrating look.
"I had a good dinner yesterday," said Sam. "A gentleman gave me some money for showing him the way to the 'Tribune' office."
"One dinner seems to have done you a great deal of good," said the man.
"It always does me good," said Sam, and here he had no occasion to tell a falsehood.
"I hope you carried some of the money home to your mother, and brothers and sisters."
"Yes, I did; I bought some meat, and mother cooked it. We don't often have meat."
"Perhaps I am doing the boy injustice," thought Mr. Glenham, for this was his name.
As for Clara, her childish sympathies were fully aroused.
"Papa," she said, "may I give this poor boy the half dollar Aunt Lucy gave me?"
"I thought you had arranged some way of spending it, Clara."
"So I had, papa; but I'd rather give it to this poor boy,"
"You may do as you like, my darling," said her father, tenderly.
"Here, poor boy, take this home to your mother," said Clara.
My readers have probably inferred already that Sam was not a boy of very high principles, but I must do him the justice to say that he felt ashamed to take the money tendered him by the little girl upon whom he had imposed by his false story.
"I don't like to take your money," he said, hanging back.
"But I want you to," said Clara, eagerly. "I'd a great deal rather your mother would have it."
"You may take it," said Mr. Glenham, who was disposed to regard Sam with greater favor, on account of the reluctance he exhibited to profit by Clara's compassion.
"Thank you," said Sam, no longer withholding his hand. "You are very kind."
By this time they had reached Broadway, and Sam delivered up the bag.
Mr. Glenham handed him a quarter.
"That is for your trouble," he said.
"Thank you, sir," said Sam.
A Broadway stage came up, and they both were lost to view.
Sam was in good spirits over his good fortune.
"Seventy-five cents!" he said to himself. "That's what I call luck. I don't believe Tim's done so well. It aint so hard to make your living in New York, after all. I guess I'll go and get some breakfast."