CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SURPRISE.
Ben had certainly met with good luck so far. Even his temporarydetention at the station-house he regarded as a piece of good luck,since he was paid handsomely for the confinement, while his bed therewas considerably more comfortable than he often enjoyed. His adventurewith the burglar also brought him in as much as under ordinarycircumstances he would have earned in a week. In two days he was able tolay aside fifteen dollars and a half towards his fund.
But of course such lucky adventures could not be expected every day. Thebulk of his money must be earned slowly, as the reward of persistentlabor and industry. But Ben was willing to work now that he had anobject before him. He kept up his double business of baggage-smasher andvender of weekly papers. After a while the latter began to pay himenough to prove quite a help, besides filling up his idle moments.Another good result of his new business was, that, while waiting forcustomers, he got into the habit of reading the papers he had for sale.Now Ben had done very little reading since he came to New York, and, ifcalled upon to read aloud, would have shown the effects of want ofpractice, in his frequent blunders. But the daily lessons in readingwhich he now took began to remedy this deficiency, and give himincreased fluency and facility. It also had the effect of making himwish that his education had not been interrupted, so that his CousinCharles might not be so far ahead of him.
Ben also gave up smoking,--not so much because he considered itinjurious, but because cigars cost money, and he was economizing inevery possible way. He continued to sleep in the room under the wharf,which thus far the occupants had managed to keep from the knowledge ofthe police. Gradually the number had increased, until from twenty tothirty boys made it a rendezvous nightly. By some means a stove had beenprocured, and what was more difficult, got safely down withoutobservation, so that, as the nights grew cooler, the boys managed tomake themselves comfortable. Here they talked and told stories, and hada good time before going to sleep. One evening it was proposed by one ofthe boys that each should tell his own story; for though they mettogether daily they knew little of each other beyond this, that theywere all engaged in some street avocation. Some of the stories told werereal, some burlesque.
First Jim Bagley told his story.
"I aint got much to tell, boys," he said. "My father kept a cigar storeon Eighth Avenue, and my mother and sister and I lived behind the shop.We got along pretty well, till father got run over by a street-car, andpretty soon after he died. We kept the store along a little while, butwe couldn't make it go and pay the rent; so we sold out to a man whopaid half down, and promised to pay the rest in a year. But before theyear was up he shut up the shop, and went off, and we never got the restof the money. The money we did get did not last long. Mother got somesewin' to do, but she couldn't earn much. I took to sellin' papers; butafter a while I went into the match business, which pays pretty good. Ipay mother five dollars a week, and sometimes more; so she gets alongwell."
"I don't see how you make so much money, Jim," said Phil Cranmer. "I'vetried it, and I didn't get nothin' much out of it."
"Jim knows how," said one of the boys. "He's got enterprise."
"I go off into the country a good deal," said Jim. "There's plenty ofmatch boys in the city. Sometimes I hire another boy to come along andhelp me. If he's smart I make money that way too. Last time I went out Ididn't make so much."
"How was that, Jim?"
"I went up to Albany on the boat. I was doin' pretty well up there, whenall to once they took me up for sellin' without a license; so I had topay ten dollars afore they'd let me off."
"Did you have the money to pay, Jim?"
"Yes, but it cleaned me out, so I didn't have but two dollars left. ButI travelled off into the country towns, and got it back in a week ortwo. I'm glad they didn't get hold of Bill."
"Who was Bill?"
"The feller that sold for me. I couldn't have paid his fine too. That'sabout all I have to tell."[B]
"Captain Jinks!" called out one of the boys; "your turn next."
Attention was directed to a tall, overgrown boy of sixteen, or possiblyseventeen, to whom for some unknown reason the name of the famousCaptain Jinks had been given.
"That aint my name," he said.
"Oh, bother your name! Go ahead."
"I aint got nothing to say."
"Go ahead and say it."
The captain was rather taciturn, but was finally induced to tell hisstory.
[B] The main incidents of Jim Bagley's story are true, having beencommunicated to the writer by Jim himself, a wide-awake boy of fifteen,who appeared to possess decided business ability and energy. The nameonly is fictitious.
"My father and mother are dead," he said. "I used to live with my sisterand her husband. He would get drunk off the money I brought home, and ifI didn't bring home as much as he expected, he'd fling a chair at myhead."
"He was a bully brother-in-law," said Jerry. "Did it hurt the chairmuch?"
"If you want to know bad, I'll try it on you," growled the narrator.
"Good for Captain Jinks!" exclaimed two or three of the boys.
"When did you join the Hoss Marines?" asked Jerry, with apparentinterest.
"Shut up your mouth!" said the captain, who did not fancy the joke.
"Go ahead, Jinks."
"I would not stand that; so I went off, and lived at the Lodge till Igot in here. That's all."
Captain Jinks relapsed into silence, and Tim McQuade was called upon. Hehad a pair of sparkling black eyes, that looked as if he were not averseto fun.
"Maybe you don't know," he said, "that I'm fust cousin to a Markis."
"The Markis of Cork," suggested one of the boys.
"And sometimes I expect to come in for a lot of money, if I don't missof it."
"When you do, just treat a feller, will you?" said Jerry.
"Course I will. I was born in a big castle made of stone, and used to goround dressed in welvet, and had no end of nice things, till one day afeller that had a spite ag'in the Markis carried me off, and brought meto America, where I had to go to work and earn my own livin'."
"Why don't you write the Markis, and get him to send for you?" askedJerry.
"'Cause he can't read, you spalpeen! What 'ud be the use of writin' tohim?"
"Maybe it's the fault of your writin', Tim."
"Maybe it is," said Tim. "When the Markis dies I'm going back, an' I'llinvite you all to come an' pass a week at Castle McQuade."
"Bully for you, Tim! Now, Dutchey, tell us your story."
Dutchey was a boy of ten, with a full face and rotund figure, whoseEnglish, as he had been but two years in the country, was highlyflavored with his native dialect.
"I cannot English sprechen," he said.
"Never mind, Dutchey. Do as well as you can."
"It is mine story you want? He is not very long, but I will tell him sogoot as I can. Mine vater was a shoemaker, what makes boots. He comefrom Sharmany, on der Rhein, mit my moder, and five childer. He take alittle shop, and make some money, till one day a house fall on his headmit a brick, an he die. Then I go out into der street, and black bootsso much as I get him to do, and the money what I get I carry home tomine moder. I cannot much English sprechen, or I could tell mine storymore goot."
"Bully for you, Dutchey! You're a trump."
"What is one trump?" asked the boy, with a puzzled expression.
"It is a good feller."
This explanation seemed to reconcile Dutchey to being called a trump,and he lay back on the bed with an expression of satisfaction.
"Now, Ben, tell us your story."
It was Ben, the luggage boy, who was addressed. The question embarrassedhim, for he preferred to keep his story secret. He hoped ere long toleave his present haunts and associates, and he did not care to give thelatter a clue by which they might trace him in his new character andposition. Yet he had no good reason to assign for silence. He wasconsidering what sort of a story he could manufac
ture, that would passmuster, when he was relieved from further consideration by an unexpectedoccurrence.
It appears that a boy had applied for admission to the rendezvous; but,on account of his unpopular character, had been refused. This naturallyincensed him, and he determined to betray the boys to the policeman onthe beat. The sight that greeted Ben, as he looked towards the entrance,was the face of the policeman, peering into the apartment. He uttered ahalf exclamation, which attracted the general attention. Instantly allwas excitement.
"The copp! the copp!" passed from mouth to mouth.
The officer saw that the odds were against him, and he must summon help.He went up the ladder, therefore, and went in search of assistance. Theboys scrambled up after him. Some were caught, and ultimately sentencedto the Island, on a charge of stealing the articles which were found;but others escaped. Among these was Ben, who was lucky enough to glideoff in the darkness. He took the little German boy under his protection,and managed to get him safely away also. In this case the ends ofjustice were not interfered with, as neither of the two had been guiltyof dishonesty, or anything else rendering them amenable to the law.
"Well, Dutchey, we're safe," said Ben, when they had got some blocksaway from the wharf. "How do you feel?"
"I lose mine breath," said the little boy, panting with the effort hehad made.
"That's better than losin' your liberty," said Ben. "You'll get yourbreath back again. Now we must look about and see where we can sleep. Iwonder if Jim Bagley's took."
Just then a boy came running up.
"Why, it's Ben and Dutchey," he said.
"Jerry, is it you? I'm glad you're safe."
"The copp got a grip of me, but I left my jacket in his hands. He cancarry that to the station-house if he wants to."
Jerry's appearance corresponded to his statement, his jacket being gone,leaving a dilapidated vest and ragged shirt alone to protect the upperpart of his body. He shivered with the cold, for it was now November.
"Here, Jerry," said Ben, "just take my vest an' put over yours. I'llbutton up my coat."
"If I was as fat as Dutchey, I wouldn't mind the cold," said Jerry.
The three boys finally found an old wagon, in which all three huddled uptogether, by this means keeping warmer than they otherwise could. Beingturned out of their beds into the street might have been considered ahardship by boys differently reared, but it was not enough to disturbthe philosophy of our young vagrants.