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The Ben, The Luggage Boy; or, Among the Wharves, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 14. The Passenger From Albany |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. THE PASSENGER FROM ALBANY Ben did not confine himself to any particular pier or railway depot, but stationed himself now at one, now at another, according as the whim seized him, or as the prospect of profit appeared more or less promising. One afternoon he made his way to the pier at which the Albany boats landed. He knew the hour of arrival, not only for the river-boats, but for most of the inward trains, for this was required by his business. He had just finished smoking a cheap cigar when the boat arrived. The passengers poured out, and the usual bustle ensued. Now was the time for Ben to be on the alert. He scanned the outcoming passengers with an attentive eye, fixing his attention upon those who were encumbered with carpet-bags, valises, or bundles. These he marked out as his possible patrons, and accosted them professionally. "Smash yer baggage, sir?" he said to a gentleman carrying a valise. The latter stared hard at Ben, evidently misunderstanding him, and answered irascibly, "Confound your impudence, boy; what do you mean?" "Smash yer baggage, sir?" "If you smash my baggage, I'll smash your head." "Thank you, sir, for your kind offer; but my head aint insured," said Ben, who saw the joke, and enjoyed it. "Look here, boy," said the puzzled traveller, "what possible good would it do you to smash my baggage?" "That's the way I make a livin'," said Ben. "Do you mean to say any persons are foolish enough to pay you for destroying their baggage? You must be crazy, or else you must think I am." "Not destroying it, smashin' it." "What's the difference?" Here a person who had listened to the conversation with some amusement interposed. "If you will allow me to explain, sir, the boy only proposes to carry your valise. He is what we call a 'baggage-smasher,' and carrying it is called 'smashing.'" "Indeed, that's a very singular expression to use. Well, my lad, I think I understand you now. You have no hostile intentions, then?" "Nary a one," answered Ben. "Then I may see fit to employ you. Of course you know the way everywhere?" "Yes, sir." "You may take my valise as far as Broadway. There I shall take a stage." Ben took the valise, and raising it to his shoulders was about to precede his patron. "You can walk along by my side," said the gentleman; "I want to talk to you." "All right, governor," said Ben. "I'm ready for an interview." "How do you like 'baggage-smashing,' as you call it?" "I like it pretty well when I'm workin' for a liberal gentleman like you," said Ben, shrewdly. "What makes you think I am liberal?" asked the gentleman, smiling. "I can tell by your face," answered our hero. "But you get disappointed sometimes, don't you?" "Yes, sometimes," Ben admitted. "Tell me some of your experiences that way." "Last week," said Ben, "I carried a bag, and a thunderin' heavy one, from the Norwich boat to French's Hotel,--a mile and a half I guess it was,--and how much do you think the man paid me?" "Twenty-five cents." "Yes, he did, but he didn't want to. All he offered me first was ten cents." "That's rather poor pay. I don't think I should want to work for that myself." "You couldn't live very high on such pay," said Ben. "I have worked as cheap, though." "You have!" said Ben, surprised. "Yes, my lad, I was a poor boy once,--as poor as you are." "Where did you live?" asked Ben, interested. "In a country town in New England. My father died early, and I was left alone in the world. So I hired myself out to a farmer for a dollar a week and board. I had to be up at five every morning, and work all day. My wages, you see, amounted to only about sixteen cents a day and board for twelve hours' work." "Why didn't you run away?" inquired Ben. "I didn't know where to run to." "I s'pose you aint workin' for that now?" said our hero. "No, I've been promoted," said the gentleman, smiling. "Of course I got higher pay, as I grew older. Still, at twenty-one I found myself with only two hundred dollars. I worked a year longer till it became three hundred, and then I went out West,--to Ohio,--where I took up a quarter-section of land, and became a farmer on my own account. Since then I've dipped into several things, have bought more land, which has increased in value on my hands, till now I am probably worth fifty thousand dollars." "I'm glad of it," said Ben. "Why?" "Because you can afford to pay me liberal for smashin' your baggage." "What do you call liberal?" inquired his patron, smiling. "Fifty cents," answered Ben, promptly. "Then I will be liberal. Now, suppose you tell me something about yourself. How long have you been a 'baggage-smasher,' as you call it?" "Six years," said Ben. "You must have begun young. How old are you now?" "Sixteen." "You'll soon be a man. What do you intend to do then?" "I haven't thought much about it," said Ben, with truth. "You don't mean to carry baggage all your life, do you?" "I guess not," answered Ben. "When I get to be old and infirm, I'm goin' into some light, genteel employment, such as keepin' a street stand." "So that is your highest ambition, is it?" asked the stranger. "I don't think I've got any ambition," said Ben. "As long as I make a livin', I don't mind." "When you see well-dressed gentlemen walking down Broadway, or riding in their carriages, don't you sometimes think it would be agreeable if you could be in their place?" "I should like to have a lot of money," said Ben. "I wouldn't mind bein' the president of a bank, or a railway-director, or somethin' of that kind." "I am afraid you have never thought seriously upon the subject of your future," said Ben's companion, "or you wouldn't be satisfied with your present business." "What else can I do? I'd rather smash baggage than sell papers or black boots." "I would not advise either. I'll tell you what you ought to do, my young friend. You should leave the city, and come out West. I'll give you something to do on one of my farms, and promote you as you are fit for it." "You're very kind," said Ben, more seriously; "but I shouldn't like it." "Why not?" "I don't want to leave the city. Here there's somethin' goin' on. I'd miss the streets and the crowds. I'd get awful lonesome in the country." "Isn't it better to have a good home in the country than to live as you do in the city?" "I like it well enough," said Ben. "We're a jolly crowd, and we do as we please. There aint nobody to order us round 'cept the copps, and they let us alone unless we steal, or something of that kind." "So you are wedded to your city life?" "Yes, I guess so; though I don't remember when the weddin' took place." "And you prefer to live on in your old way?" "Yes, sir; thank you all the same." "You may change your mind some time, my lad. If you ever do, and will write to me at B----, Ohio, I will send for you to come out. Here is my card." "Thank you, sir," said Ben. "I'll keep the card, and if ever I change my mind, I'll let you know." They had been walking slowly, or they would have reached Broadway sooner. They had now arrived there, and the stranger bade Ben good-by, handing him at the same time the fifty cents agreed upon. "He's a brick," Ben soliloquized, "even if he did say he'd smash my head. I hope I'll meet some more like him." Ben's objection to leaving the city is felt in an equal degree by many boys who are situated like himself. Street life has its privations and actual sufferings; but for all that there is a wild independence and freedom from restraint about it, which suits those who follow it. To be at the beck and call of no one; to be responsible only to themselves, provided they keep from violating the law, has a charm to these young outcasts. Then, again, they become accustomed to the street and its varied scenes, and the daily excitement of life in a large city becomes such a matter of necessity to them, that they find the country lonesome. Yet, under the auspices of the Children's Aid Society, companies of boys are continually being sent out to the great West with the happiest results. After a while the first loneliness wears away, and they become interested in the new scenes and labors to which they are introduced, and a large number have already grown up to hold respectable, and, in some cases, prominent places, in the communities which they have joined. Others have pined for the city, until they could no longer resist their yearning for it, and have found their way back to the old, familiar scenes, to resume the former life of suffering and privation. Such is the strange fascination which their lawless and irresponsible mode of life oftentimes exerts upon the minds of these young Arabs of the street. When Ben parted from the passenger by the Albany boat, he did not immediately seek another job. Accustomed as he was to live from "hand to mouth," he had never troubled himself much about accumulating more than would answer his immediate needs. Some boys in the Lodging House made deposits in the bank of that institution; but frugality was not one of Ben's virtues. As long as he came out even at the end of the day, he felt very well satisfied. Generally he went penniless to bed; his business not being one that required him to reserve money for capital to carry it on. In the case of a newsboy it was different. He must keep enough on hand to buy a supply of papers in the morning, even if he were compelled to go to bed supperless. With fifty cents in his pocket, Ben felt rich. It would buy him a good supper, besides paying for his lodging at the Newsboys' Home, and a ticket for the Old Bowery besides,--that is, a fifteen-cent ticket, which, according to the arrangement of that day, would admit him to one of the best-located seats in the house, that is, in the pit, corresponding to what is known as the parquette in other theatres. This arrangement has now been changed, so that the street boys find themselves banished to the upper gallery of their favorite theatre. But in the days of which I am speaking they made themselves conspicuous in the front rows, and were by no means bashful in indicating their approbation or disapprobation of the different actors who appeared on the boards before them. Ben had not gone far when he fell in with an acquaintance,--Barney Flynn. "Where you goin', Ben?" inquired Barney. "Goin' to get some grub," answered Ben. "I'm with you, then. I haven't eat anything since mornin', and I'm awful hungry." "Have you got any stamps?" "I've got a fifty." "So have I." "Where are you goin' for supper?" "To Pat's, I guess." "All right; I'll go with you." The establishment known as "Pat's" is located in a basement in Nassau Street, as the reader of "Mark, the Match Boy," will remember. It is, of coarse, a cheap restaurant, and is considerably frequented by the street boys, who here find themselves more welcome guests than at some of the more pretentious eating-houses. Ben and Barney entered, and gave their orders for a substantial repast. The style in which the meal was served differed considerably from the service at Delmonico's; but it is doubtful whether any of the guests at the famous up-town restaurant enjoyed their meal any better than the two street boys, each of whom was blest with a "healthy" appetite. Barney had eaten nothing since morning, and Ben's fast had only been broken by the eating of a two-cent apple, which had not been sufficient to satisfy his hunger. Notwithstanding the liberality of their orders, however, each of the boys found himself, at the end of the meal, the possessor of twenty-five cents. This was not a very large sum to sleep on, but it was long since either had waked up in the morning with so large a capital to commence operations upon. "What shall we do?" asked Ben. "Suppose we go to the Old Bowery," suggested Barney. "Or Tony Pastor's," amended Ben. "I like the Bowery best. There's a great fight, and a feller gets killed on the stage. It's a stunnin' old play." "Then let us go," said Ben, who, as well as his companion, liked the idea of witnessing a stage fight, which was all the more attractive on account of having a fatal termination. As the theatre tickets would cost but fifteen cents each, the boys felt justified in purchasing each a cheap cigar, which they smoked as they walked leisurely up Chatham Street. _ |
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