CHAPTER XIII.
THE FIRST CIGAR.
It was a week or more after Ben started in business as abaggage-smasher, that, in returning from carrying a carpet-bag toLovejoy's Hotel, on Broadway, he fell in with his first cityacquaintance, Jerry Collins. Jerry had just "polished up" a gentleman'sboots, and, having been unusually lucky this morning in securing shines,felt disposed to be lavish.
"How are you, Ben?" asked Jerry. "What are you up to now?"
"I'm a baggage-smasher," answered Ben, who was beginning to adopt thelanguage of the streets.
"How does it pay?"
"Well," said Ben, "sometimes it pays first rate, when I'm lucky. Otherdays I don't get much to do. I didn't make but fifteen cents thismorning. I carried a bag up to Lovejoy's, and that's all the man wouldpay me."
"I've made fifty cents this mornin'. Look here, Johnny."
The Johnny addressed was a boy who sold cigars, four for ten cents.
"I'll take two," said Jerry, producing five cents.
"Six cents for two," said the cigar boy.
"All right, I'll owe you the other cent," said Jerry, coolly.
"Do you smoke?" inquired Ben.
"In course I do. Don't you?"
"No."
"Why don't you?"
"I don't know," said Ben. "Do you like it?"
"It's bully. Here, take this cigar. I bought it for you."
Ben hesitated; but finally, induced mainly by a curiosity to see how itseemed, accepted the cigar, and lighted it by Jerry's. The two boys satdown on an empty box, and Jerry instructed Ben how to puff. Ben did notparticularly enjoy it; but thought he might as well learn now as anyother time. His companion puffed away like a veteran smoker; but aftera while Ben's head began to swim, and he felt sick at his stomach.
"I don't feel well," he said. "I guess I'll stop smoking."
"Oh, go ahead," said Jerry. "It's only because it's the first time.You'll like it after a while."
Thus encouraged, Ben continued to smoke, though his head and his stomachgot continually worse.
"I don't like it," gasped Ben, throwing down the cigar. "I'm going tostop."
"You've got a healthy color," said Jerry, slyly.
"I'm afraid I'm going to be awful sick," said Ben, whose sensations werevery far from comfortable. Just at this moment, ignorant of the briefcharacter of his present feelings, he heartily wished himself at home,for the first time since his arrival in the city.
"You do look rather green," said Jerry. "Maybe you're going to have thecholera. I've heard that there's some cases round."
This suggestion alarmed Ben, who laid his head down between his knees,and began to feel worse than ever.
"Don't be scared," said Jerry, thinking it time to relieve Ben's mind."It's only the cigar. You'll feel all right in a jiffy."
While Ben was experiencing the disagreeable effects of his first cigar,he resolved never to smoke another. But, as might have been expected, hefelt differently on recovering. It was not long before he could puffaway with as much enjoyment and unconcern as any of his streetcompanions, and a part of his earnings were consumed in this way. It maybe remarked here that the street boy does not always indulge in theluxury of a whole cigar. Sometimes he picks up a fragment which has beendiscarded by the original smoker. There are some small dealers, who makeit a business to collect these "stubs," or employ others to do so, andthen sell them to the street boys, at a penny apiece, or less, accordingto size. Sometimes these stubs are bought in preference to a cheapcigar, because they are apt to be of a superior quality. Ben, however,never smoked "stubs." In course of time he became very much like otherstreet boys; but in some respects his taste was more fastidious, and hepreferred to indulge himself in a cheap cigar, which was notsecond-hand.
We must now pass rapidly over the six years which elapsed from the dateof Ben's first being set adrift in the streets to the period at whichour story properly begins. These years have been fruitful of change toour young adventurer. They have changed him from a country boy of ten,to a self-reliant and independent street boy of sixteen. The impressionsleft by his early and careful home-training have been mostly effaced.Nothing in his garb now distinguishes him from the class of which he isa type. He has long since ceased to care for neat or whole attire, orcarefully brushed hair. His straggling locks, usually long, protrudefrom an aperture in his hat. His shoes would make a very pooradvertisement for the shoemaker by whom they were originallymanufactured. His face is not always free from stains, and his streetcompanions have long since ceased to charge him with putting on airs, onaccount of the superior neatness of his personal appearance. Indeed, hehas become rather a favorite among them, in consequence of hisfrankness, and his willingness at all times to lend a helping hand to acomrade temporarily "hard up." He has adopted to a great extent thetastes and habits of the class to which he belongs, and bears withacquired philosophy the hardships and privations which fall to theirlot. Like "Ragged Dick," he has a sense of humor, which is apt to revealitself in grotesque phrases, or amusing exaggerations.
Of course his education, so far as education is obtained from books, hasnot advanced at all. He has not forgotten how to read, having occasionto read the daily papers. Occasionally, too, he indulges himself in adime novel, the more sensational the better, and is sometimes induced toread therefrom to a group of companions whose attainments are even lessthan his own.
It may be asked whether he ever thinks of his Pennsylvania home, of hisparents and his sister. At first he thought of them frequently; but bydegrees he became so accustomed to the freedom and independence of hisstreet life, with its constant variety, that he would have beenunwilling to return, even if the original cause of his leaving home wereremoved. Life in a Pennsylvania village seemed "slow" compared with theexcitement of his present life.
In the winter, when the weather was inclement, and the lodgingaccommodations afforded by the street were not particularlysatisfactory, Ben found it convenient to avail himself of the cheaplodgings furnished by the Newsboys' Lodging House; but at other times,particularly in the warm summer nights, he saved his six cents, andfound a lodging for himself among the wharves, or in some lane or alley.Of the future he did not think much. Like street boys in general, hishorizon was limited by the present. Sometimes, indeed, it did occur tohim that he could not be a luggage boy all his lifetime. Some time orother he must take up something else. However, Ben carelessly concludedthat he could make a living somehow or other, and as to old age that wastoo far ahead to disquiet himself about.