CHAPTER II.

HOW BEN COMMENCED HIS STREET LIFE.

One pleasant morning, six years before the date at which this story
commences, a small coasting-vessel drew up at a North River pier in the
lower part of the city. It was loaded with freight, but there was at
least one passenger on board. A boy of ten, dressed in a neat jacket and
pants of gray-mixed cloth, stood on deck, watching with interest the
busy city which they had just reached.

“Well, bub, here we are,” said the captain as he passed. “I suppose you
know your way home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you going on shore now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, good luck to you, my lad. If you are ever down this way, when I’m
in port, I shall be glad to see you.”

“Thank you, sir; good-by.”

“Good-by.”

Ben clambered over the side, and stepped upon the wharf. In the great
city he knew no one, and he was an utter stranger to the streets, never
before having visited it. He was about to begin life for himself at the
age of ten. He had voluntarily undertaken to support himself, leaving
behind him a comfortable home, where he had been well cared for. I must
explain how this came about.

Ben had a pleasant face, and would be considered good-looking. But there
was a flash in his eye, when aroused, which showed that he had a quick
temper, and there was an expression of firmness, unusual to one so
young, which might have been read by an experienced physiognomist. He
was quick-tempered, proud, and probably obstinate. Yet with these
qualities he was pleasant in his manners, and had a sense of humor,
which made him a favorite among his companions.

His father was a coal-dealer in a town a few miles distant from
Philadelphia, of a hasty temper like Ben himself. A week before he had
punished Ben severely for a fault which he had not committed. The boy’s
pride revolted at the injustice, and, young as he was, he resolved to
run away. I suppose there are few boys who do not form this resolution
at some time or other in their lives; but as a general thing it amounts
to nothing. With Ben it was different. His was a strong nature, whether
for good or for evil, and when he decided to do anything he was not
easily moved from his resolve. He forgot, in the present case, that,
though he had been unjustly punished, the injustice was not intentional
on the part of his father, who had been under a wrong impression
respecting him. But right or wrong, Ben made up his mind to run away;
and he did so. It was two or three days before a good opportunity
presented itself. Then, with a couple of shirts and collars rolled up in
a small bundle, he made his escape to Philadelphia, and after roaming
about the streets for several hours he made his way to the wharves,
where he found a vessel bound for New York. Representing to the captain
that he lived in New York, and had no money to pay his passage home,
that officer, who was a good-natured man, agreed to carry him for
nothing.

The voyage was now over, and Ben landed, as we have said, an utter
stranger, with very indefinite ideas as to how he was to make his
living. He had told the captain that he knew his way home, for having
falsely represented that he lived in New York, he was in a manner
compelled to this additional falsehood. Still, in spite of his
friendless condition, his spirits were very good. The sun shone
brightly; all looked animated and cheerful. Ben saw numbers of men at
work about him, and he thought, “It will be a pity if I cannot make a
living.”

He did not care to linger about the wharf, for the captain might be led
to doubt his story. Accordingly he crossed the street, and at a venture
turned up a street facing the wharf.

Ben did not know much about New York, even by report. But he had heard
of Broadway,–as who has not?–and this was about all he did know. When,
therefore, he had gone a short distance, he ventured to ask a
boot-black, whom he encountered at the corner of the next block, “Can
you tell me the shortest way to Broadway?”

“Follow your nose, Johnny,” was the reply.

“My name isn’t Johnny,” replied Ben, rather indignant at the
familiarity. He had not learned that, in New York, Johnny is the generic
name for boy, where the specific name is unknown.

“Aint it though?” returned the boot-black “What’s the price of turnips
out where you live?”

“I’ll make your nose turn up if you aint careful,” retorted Ben,
wrathfully.

“You’ll do,” said the boot-black, favorably impressed by Ben’s pluck.
“Just go straight ahead, and you’ll come to Broadway. I’m going that
way, and you can come along with me if you want to.”

“Thank you,” said Ben, appeased by the boy’s changed manner.

“Are you going to stay here?” inquired his new acquaintance.

“Yes,” said Ben; “I’m going to live here.”

“Where do your friends live?”

“I haven’t got any friends in New York,” said Ben, with a little
hesitation.

“Over in Brooklyn, or Jersey, maybe?”

“No, I don’t know anybody this way.”

“Whew!” whistled the other. “How you goin’ to live?”

“I expect to earn my living,” said Ben, in a tone of importance.

“Father and mother dead?”

“No, they’re alive.”

“I s’pose they’re poor?”

“No, they’re not; they’re well off.”

The boot-black looked puzzled.

“Why didn’t you stay at home then? Wouldn’t they let you?”

“Of course they would. The fact is, I’ve run away.”

“Maybe they’d adopt me instead of you.”

“I don’t think they would,” said Ben, laughing.

“I wish somebody with lots of cash would adopt me, and make a gentleman
of me. It would be a good sight better’n blackin’ boots.”

“Do you make much money that way?” inquired Ben.

“Pleasant days like this, sometimes I make a dollar, but when it rains
there aint much doin’.”

“How much have you made this morning?” asked Ben, with interest.

“Sixty cents.”

“Sixty cents, and it isn’t more than ten o’clock. That’s doing pretty
well.”

“‘Taint so good in the afternoon. Most every body gets their boots
blacked in the mornin’. What are you goin’ to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Ben.

“Goin’ to black boots? I’ll show you how,” said the other, generously
overlooking all considerations of possible rivalry.

“I don’t think I should like that very well,” said Ben, slowly.

Having been brought up in a comfortable home, he had a prejudice in
favor of clean hands and unsoiled clothes,–a prejudice of which his
street life speedily cured him.

“I think I should rather sell papers, or go into a store,” said Ben.

“You can’t make so much money sellin’ papers,” said his new
acquaintance. “Then you might get ‘stuck'”.

“What’s that?” inquired Ben, innocently.

“Don’t you know?” asked the boot-black, wonderingly. “Why, it’s when
you’ve got more papers than you can sell. That’s what takes off the
profits. I was a newsboy once; but it’s too hard work for the money.
There aint no chance of gettin’ stuck on my business.”

“It’s rather a dirty business,” said Ben, venturing to state his main
objection, at the risk of offending. But Jerry Collins, for that was his
name, was not very sensitive on this score.

“What’s the odds?” he said, indifferently. “A feller gets used to it.”

Ben looked at Jerry’s begrimed hands, and clothes liberally marked with
spots of blacking, and he felt that he was not quite ready to get used
to appearing in public in this way. He was yet young in his street life.
The time came when he ceased to be so particular.

“Where do you board?” asked Ben, after a little pause.

Jerry Collins stared at the questioner as if he suspected that a joke
was intended. But Ben’s serious face assured him that he was in earnest.

“You’re jolly green,” he remarked, sententiously.

“Look here,” said Ben, with spirit, “I’ll give you a licking if you say
that again.”

It may be considered rather singular that Jerry, Instead of resenting
this threat, was led by it to regard Ben with favor.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he said, by way of apology. “You’re a trump,
and you’ll get over it when you’ve been in the city a week.”

“What made you call me green?” asked Ben.

“Did you think I boarded up to the Fifth Avenue?” asked Jerry.

“What’s that,–a hotel?”

“Yes, it’s one of the big hotels, where they eat off gold plates.”

“No, I don’t suppose you board there,” said Ben, laughing; “but I
suppose there are cheaper boarding-places. Where do you sleep?”

“Sometimes in wagons, or in door-ways, on the docks, or anywhere where I
get a chance.”

“Don’t you get cold sleeping out-doors?” asked Ben.

“Oh, I’m used to it,” said Jerry. “When it’s cold I go to the Lodging
House.”

“What’s that?”

Jerry explained that there was a Newsboys’ Lodging House, where a bed
could be obtained for six cents a night.

“That’s cheap,” said Ben.

“‘Taint so cheap as sleepin’ out-doors,” returned the boot-black.

This was true; but Ben thought he would rather pay the six cents than
sleep out, if it were only for the damage likely to come to his clothes,
which were yet clean and neat. Looking at Jerry’s suit, however, he saw
that this consideration would be likely to have less weight with him. He
began to understand that he had entered upon a very different life from
the one he had hitherto led. He was not easily daunted, however.

“If he can stand it, I can,” he said to himself.