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The Ben, The Luggage Boy; or, Among the Wharves, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 5. A Beer-Garden In The Bowery |
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_ CHAPTER V. A BEER-GARDEN IN THE BOWERY Ben sat down again in his old seat, and occupied himself once more in looking about him. After a while he became sleepy. Besides having taken a considerable walk, he had not slept much the night before. As no one occupied the bench but himself, he thought he might as well make himself comfortable. Accordingly he laid his bundle crosswise at one end, and laid back, using it for a pillow. The visor of his cap he brought down over his eyes, so as to shield them from the afternoon sun. The seat was hard, to be sure, but his recumbent position rested him. He did not mean to go to sleep, but gradually the sounds around him became an indistinct hum; even the noise and bustle of busy Broadway, but a few feet distant, failed to ward off sleep, and in a short time he was sleeping soundly. Of course he could not sleep in so public a place without attracting attention. Two ragged boys espied him, and held a low conference together. "What's he got in that bundle, Jim, do you think?" asked one. "We'd better look and see." They went up to the bench, and touched him, to make sure that he was fast asleep. The touch did not rouse him to consciousness. "Just lift up his head, Mike, and I'll take the bundle," said the larger of the two boys. This was done. "Now, let him down softly." So the bundle was removed, and poor Ben, wandering somewhere in the land of dreams, was none the wiser. His head, deprived of its former support, now rested on the hard bench. It was not so comfortable, but he was too tired to awake. So he slept on. Meanwhile Jim and Mike opened the bundle. "It's a couple of shirts," said Jim. "Is that all?" asked Mike, disappointed. "Well, that's better than nothin'." "Give me one of 'em." "It's just about your size. 'Taint big enough for me." "Then give me the two of 'em." "What'll you give?" "I aint got no stamps. I'll pay you a quarter when I get it." "That don't go down," said Jim, whose confidence in his confederate's honesty was not very great. Considering the transaction in which they were now engaged, it is not surprising that there should have been a mutual distrust. Being unable to make any bargain, Jim decided to take his share of the booty round to a second-hand clothes-dealer in Chatham Street. Here, after considerable higgling, he succeeded in selling the shirt for sixteen cents, which was less than his companion had offered. However, it was cash down, and so was immediately available,--an important consideration in the present state of Jim's finances. "A bird in the hand," as he considered, "was worth two in the bush." Jim immediately purchased a cigar with a portion of his dishonest gains, and, procuring a light, walked about in a state of high enjoyment, puffing away as coolly as a man of twice his years. Meanwhile Ben continued to sleep, happily unconscious of the loss of his entire personal possessions. In his dreams he was at home once more, playing with his school companions. Let him sleep! He will waken soon enough to the hard realities of a street life, voluntarily undertaken, it is true, but none the less likely to bear heavily upon him. He slept a long time. When he awoke it was six o'clock. He sat upon his seat, and rubbed his eyes in momentary bewilderment. In his dreams he had been back again to his native village, and he could not at once recall his change of circumstances. But it all came back to him soon enough. He realized with a slight pang that he had a home no longer; that he was a penniless vagrant, for whom the hospitality of the streets alone was open. He did wish that he could sit down at the plentiful home table, and eat the well-cooked supper which was always provided; that is, if he could blot out one remembrance: when he thought of the unjust punishment that had driven him forth, his pride rose, and his determination became as stubborn as ever. I do not defend Ben in this. He was clearly wrong. The best of parents may be unintentionally unjust at times, and this is far from affording an adequate excuse for a boy to leave home. But Ben had a great deal of pride, and I am only telling you how he felt. Our young adventurer did not at first realize the loss which he had sustained. It was at least five minutes before he thought of his bundle at all. At length, chancing to look at the seat beside him, he missed it. "Where can it be, I wonder?" he thought, perplexed. He looked under the bench, thinking that perhaps it had rolled off. But it need not be said that it was not to be seen. Ben was rather disturbed. It was all he had brought from home, and constituted his entire earthly possessions. "It must have rolled off, and been picked up by somebody," he thought; but the explanation was not calculated to bring any satisfaction. "I did not think I should fall asleep." It occurred to him that some of the boys near by might have seen it. So he went up to a group of boot-blacks near by, one of whom was Jim, who had actually been concerned in the robbery. The other boys knew nothing of the affair. "I say, boys," said Ben, "have you seen anything of my bundle?" "What bundle, Johnny?" said Jim, who was now smoking his second cigar. "I had a small bundle tied up in a newspaper," said Ben. "I put it under my head, and then fell asleep. Now I can't find it." "Do you think we stole it?" said Jim, defiantly. "Of course I don't," said Ben; "but I thought it might have slipped out, and you might have seen somebody pick it up." "Haven't seen it, Johnny," said one of the other boys; "most likely it's stole." "Do you think so?" asked Ben, anxiously. "In course, you might expect it would be." "I didn't mean to go to sleep." "What was there in it?" "There was two shirts." "You've got a shirt on, aint you?" "Yes," said Ben. "That's all right, then. What does a feller want of a thousand shirts?" "There's some difference between two shirts and a thousand," said Ben. "What's the odds? I haven't got but one shirt. That's all I want. When it is wore out I'll buy a new one." "What do you do when it gets dirty?" asked Ben, in some curiosity. "Oh, I wash it once in two or three weeks," was the reply. This was not exactly in accordance with Ben's ideas of neatness; but he saw that no satisfaction was likely to be obtained in this quarter, so he walked away rather depressed. It certainly hadn't been a lucky day,--this first day in the city. He had been rejected in half-a-dozen stores in his applications for employment, had spent nearly all his money, and been robbed of all his clothing except what he wore. Again Ben began to feel an appetite. He had eaten his dinner late, but it had consisted of a plate of meat only. His funds being now reduced to two cents, he was obliged to content himself with an apple, which did something towards appeasing his appetite. Next Ben began to consider anxiously how he was to pass the night. Having no money to spend for lodging, there seemed nothing to do but to sleep out of doors. It was warm weather, and plenty of street boys did it. But to Ben it would be a new experience, and he regarded it with some dread. He wished he could meet with Jerry Collins, his acquaintance of the morning. From him he might obtain some information that would be of service in his present strait. Three or four hours must elapse before it would be time to go to bed. Ben hardly knew how or where to pass them. He had become tired of the park; besides, he had got over a part of his fatigue, and felt able to walk about and explore the city. He turned at a venture up Chatham Street, and was soon interested in the sights of this peculiar thoroughfare,--the shops open to the street, with half their stock in trade exposed on the sidewalk, the importunities of the traders, and the appearance of the people whom he met. It seemed very lively and picturesque to Ben, and drew away his attention from his own awkward position. He was asked to buy by some of the traders, being promised wonderful bargains; but his penniless condition put him out of the reach of temptation. So he wandered on until he came to the Bowery, a broad avenue, wider than Broadway, and lined by shops of a great variety, but of a grade inferior to those of its more aristocratic neighbor. Here, also, the goods are liberally displayed on the sidewalk, and are generally labelled with low prices, which tempts many purchasers. The purchaser, however, must look carefully to the quality of the goods which he buys, or he will in many cases find the low price merely a snare and a delusion, and regret that he had not paid more liberally and bought a better article. Later in the evening, on his return walk, Ben came to an establishment brilliant with light, from which proceeded strains of music. Looking in, he saw that it was filled with small tables, around which were seated men, women, and children. They had glasses before them from which they drank. This was a Lager Beer Hall or Garden,--an institution transplanted from Germany, and chiefly patronized by those of German birth or extraction. It seemed bright and cheerful, and our young adventurer thought it would be pleasant to go in, and spend an hour or two, listening to the music; but he was prevented by the consciousness that he had no money to spend, and might be considered an intruder. While he was looking in wistfully, he was struck on the back; and turning, saw, to his surprise, the face of his only acquaintance in New York, Jerry Collins, the boot-black. "I am glad to see you," he said, eagerly offering his hand, without considering that Jerry's hand, unwashed during the day, was stained with blacking. He felt so glad to meet an acquaintance, however, that he would not have minded this, even if it had occurred to him. "The same to you," said Jerry. "Are you going in?" "I haven't got any money," said Ben, a little ashamed of the confession. "Well, I have, and that'll do just as well." He took Ben by the arm, and they passed through a vestibule, and entered the main apartment, which was of large size. On one side, about half way down, was a large instrument some like an organ, from which the music proceeded. The tables were very well filled, Germans largely predominating among the guests. "Sit down here," said Jerry. They took seats at one of the tables. Opposite was a stout German and his wife, the latter holding a baby. Both had glasses of lager before them, and the baby was also offered a share by its mother; but, from the contortions of its face, did not appear to relish it. "_Zwei Glass Lager_," said Jerry, to a passing attendant. "Can you speak German?" asked Ben, surprised. "Yaw," said Jerry; "my father was an Irishman, and my mother was a Dutchman." Jerry's German, however, seemed to be limited, as he made no further attempts to converse in that language. The glasses were brought. Jerry drank his down at a draught, but Ben, who had never before tasted lager, could not at once become reconciled to its bitter taste. "Don't you like it?" asked Jerry. "Not very much," said Ben. "Then I'll finish it for you;" and he suited the action to the word. Besides the lager a few plain cakes were sold, but nothing more substantial. Evidently the beer was the great attraction. Ben could not help observing, with some surprise, that, though everybody was drinking, there was not the slightest disturbance, or want of decorum, or drunkenness. The music, which was furnished at intervals, was of very good quality, and was listened to with attention. "I was goin' to Tony Pastor's to-night," said Jerry, "if I hadn't met you." "What sort of a place is that?" asked Ben. "Oh, it's a bully place--lots of fun. You must go there some time." "I think I will," answered Ben, mentally adding, "if I ever have money enough." Here the music struck up, and they stopped to listen to it. When this was over, Jerry proposed to go out. Ben would have been willing to stay longer; but he saw that his companion did not care so much for the music as himself, and he did not wish to lose sight of him. To be alone in a great city, particularly under Ben's circumstances, is not very pleasant, and our young adventurer determined to stick to his new acquaintance, who, though rough in his manners, had yet seemed inclined to be friendly, and Ben felt sadly in need of a friend. _ |
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