that there could be so many houses in the whole State as now rose up
before him. He got into Broadway, and walked on and on thinking that
the street must end somewhere. But the farther he walked the thicker the
houses seemed crowded together. Every few rods, too, he came to a cross
street, which seemed quite as densely peopled as the one on which he was
walking. One part of the city was the same as another to Paul, since
he was equally a stranger to all. He wandered listlessly along, whither
fancy led. His mind was constantly excited by the new and strange
objects which met him at every step.
As he was looking in at a shop window, a boy of about his own age,
stopped and inquired confidentially, “when did you come from the
country?”
“This morning,” said Paul, wondering how a stranger should know that he
was a country boy.
“Could you tell me what is the price of potatoes up your way?” asked the
other boy, with perfect gravity.
“I don't know,” said Paul, innocently.
“I'm sorry for that,” said the other, “as I have got to buy some for my
wife and family.”
Paul stared in surprise for a moment, and then realizing that he was
being made game of, began to grow angry.
“You'd better go home to your wife and family,” he said with spirit, “or
you may get hurt.”
“Bully for you, country!” answered the other with a laugh. “You're not
as green as you look.”
“Thank you,” said Paul, “I wish I could say as much for you.”
Tired with walking, Paul at length sat down in a doorway, and watched
with interest the hurrying crowds that passed before him. Everybody
seemed to be in a hurry, pressing forward as if life and death depended
on his haste. There were lawyers with their sharp, keen glances;
merchants with calculating faces; speculators pondering on the chances
of a rise or fall in stocks; errand boys with bundles under their arms;
business men hurrying to the slip to take the boat for Brooklyn or
Jersey City,--all seemed intent on business of some kind, even to the
ragged newsboys who had just obtained their supply of evening papers,
and were now crying them at the top of their voices,--and very
discordant ones at that, so Paul thought. Of the hundreds passing and
repassing before him, every one had something to do. Every one had a
home to go to. Perhaps it was not altogether strange that a feeling of
desolation should come over Paul as he recollected that he stood alone,
homeless, friendless, and, it might be, shelterless for the coming
night.
“Yet,” thought he with something of hopefulness, “there must be
something for me to do as well as the rest.”
Just then a boy some two years older than Paul paced slowly by, and
in passing, chanced to fix his eyes upon our hero. He probably saw
something in Paul which attracted him, for he stepped up and extending
his hand, said, “why, Tom, how came you here?”
“My name isn't Tom,” said Paul, feeling a little puzzled by this
address.
“Why, so it isn't. But you look just like my friend, Tom Crocker.”
To this succeeded a few inquiries, which Paul unsuspiciously answered.
“Do you like oysters?” inquired the new-comer, after a while.
“Very much.”
“Because I know of a tip top place to get some, just round the corner.
Wouldn't you like some?”
Paul thanked his new acquaintance, and said he would.
Without more ado, his companion ushered him into a basement room near
by. He led the way into a curtained recess, and both boys took seats one
on each side of a small table.
“Just pull the bell, will you, and tell the waiter we'll have two
stews.”
Paul did so.
“I suppose,” continued the other, “the governor wouldn't like it much if
he knew where I was.”
“The governor!” repeated Paul. “Why, it isn't against the laws, is it?”
“No,” laughed the other. “I mean my father. How jolly queer you are!” He
meant to say green, but had a purpose in not offending Paul.
“Are you the Governor's son?” asked Paul in amazement.
“To be sure,” carelessly replied the other.
Paul's wonder had been excited many times in the course of the day, but
this was more surprising than anything which had yet befallen him. That
he should have the luck to fall in with the son of the Governor, on his
first arrival in the city, and that the latter should prove so affable
and condescending, was indeed surprising. Paul inwardly determined
to mention it in his first letter to Aunt Lucy. He could imagine her
astonishment.
While he was busy with these thoughts, his companion had finished his
oysters.
“Most through?” he inquired nonchalantly.
“I've got to step out a minute; wait till I come back.”
Paul unsuspectingly assented.
He heard his companion say a word to the barkeeper, and then go out.
He waited patiently for fifteen minutes and he did not return; another
quarter of an hour, and he was still absent. Thinking he might have
been unexpectedly detained, he rose to go, but was called back by the
barkeeper.
“Hallo, youngster! are you going off without paying?”
“For what?” inquired Paul, in surprise.
“For the oysters, of course. You don't suppose I give 'em away, do you?”
“I thought,” hesitated Paul, “that the one who was with me paid,--the
Governor's son,” he added, conscious of a certain pride in his intimacy
with one so nearly related to the chief magistrate of the Commonwealth.
“The Governor's son,” laughed the barkeeper. “Why the Governor lives a
hundred miles off and more. That wasn't the Governor's son any more than
I am.”
“He called his father governor,” said Paul, beginning to be afraid that
he had made some ridiculous blunder.
“Well, I wouldn't advise you to trust him again, even if he's the
President's son. He only got you in here to pay for his oysters. He told
me when he went out that you would pay for them.”
“And didn't he say he was coming back?” asked Paul, quite dumbfounded.
“He said you hadn't quite finished, but would pay for both when you came
out. It's two shillings.”
Paul rather ruefully took out the half dollar which constituted his
entire stock of money, and tendered it to the barkeeper who returned him
the change.
So Paul went out into the streets, with his confidence in human nature
somewhat lessened.
Here, then, is our hero with twenty-five cents in his pocket, and his
fortune to make.
XIV.
A STRANGE BED-CHAMBER.
Although Paul could not help being vexed at having been so cleverly
taken in by his late companion, he felt the better for having eaten the
oysters. Carefully depositing his only remaining coin in his pocket, he
resumed his wanderings. It is said that a hearty meal is a good promoter
of cheerfulness. It was so in Paul's case, and although he had as yet
had no idea where he should find shelter for the night he did not allow
that consideration to trouble him.
So the day passed, and the evening came on. Paul's appetite returned to
him once more. He invested one-half of his money at an old woman's stall
for cakes and apples, and then he ate leisurely while leaning against
the iron railing which encircles the park.
He began to watch with interest the movements of those about him.
Already the lamplighter had started on his accustomed round, and with
ladder in hand was making his way from one lamp-post to another. Paul
quite marvelled at the celerity with which the lamps were lighted, never
before having witnessed the use of gas. He was so much interested in the
process that he sauntered along behind the lamplighter for some time. At
length his eye fell upon a group common enough in our cities, but new to
him.
An Italian, short and dark-featured, with a velvet cap, was grinding out
music from a hand-organ, while a woman with a complexion equally
dark, and black sorrowful-looking eyes, accompanied her husband on the
tambourine. They were playing a lively tune as Paul came up, but quickly
glided into “Home, Sweet Home.”
Paul listened with pleased, yet sad interest, for him “home” was only a
sad remembrance.
He wandered on, pausing now and then to look into one of the brilliantly
illuminated shop windows, or catching a glimpse through the open doors
of the gay scene within, and as one after another of these lively scenes
passed before him, he began to think that all the strange and wonderful
things in the world must be collected in these rich stores.
Next, he came to a place of public amusement. Crowds were entering
constantly, and Paul, from curiosity, entered too. He passed on to a
little wicket, when a man stopped him.
“Where's your ticket?” he asked.
“I haven't got any,” said Paul.
“Then what business have you here?” said the man, roughly.
“Isn't this a meeting-house?” asked Paul.
This remark seemed to amuse two boys who were standing by. Looking up
with some indignation, Paul recognized in one of them the boy who had
cheated him out of the oysters.
“Look here,” said Paul, “what made you go off and leave me to pay for
the oysters this morning?”
“Which of us do you mean?” inquired the 'governor's son,' carelessly.
“I mean you.”
“Really, I don't understand your meaning. Perhaps you mistake me for
somebody else.”
“What?” said Paul, in great astonishment. “Don't you remember me, and
how you told me you were the Governor's son?”
Both boys laughed.
“You must be mistaken. I haven't the honor of being related to the
distinguished gentleman you name.”
The speaker made a mocking bow to Paul.
“I know that,” said Paul, with spirit, “but you said you were, for all
that.”
“It must have been some other good-looking boy, that you are mistaking
me for. What are you going to do about it? I hope, by the way, that the
oysters agreed with you.”
“Yes, they did,” said Paul, “for I came honestly by them.”
“He's got you there, Gerald,” said the other boy.
Paul made his way out of the theater. As his funds were reduced to
twelve cents, he could not have purchased a ticket if he had desired it.
Still he moved on.
Soon he came to another building, which was in like manner lighted up,
but not so brilliantly as the theater. This time, from the appearance
of the building, and from the tall steeple,--so tall that his eye could
scarcely reach the tapering spire,--he knew that it must be a church.
There was not such a crowd gathered about the door as at the place he
had just left, but he saw a few persons entering, and he joined them.
The interior of the church was far more gorgeous than the plain village
meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend with his mother. He
gazed about him with a feeling of awe, and sank quietly into a back
pew. As it was a week-day evening, and nothing of unusual interest was
anticipated, there were but few present, here and there one, scattered
through the capacious edifice.
By-and-by the organist commenced playing, and a flood of music, grander
and more solemn than he had ever heard, filled the whole edifice. He
listened with rapt attention and suspended breath till the last note
died away, and then sank back upon the richly cushioned seat with a
feeling of enjoyment.
In the services which followed he was not so much interested. The
officiating clergyman delivered a long homily in a dull unimpassioned
manner, which failed to awaken his interest. Already disposed to be
drowsy, it acted upon him like a gentle soporific. He tried to pay
attention as he had always been used to do, but owing to his occupying a
back seat, and the low voice of the preacher, but few words reached him,
and those for the most part were above his comprehension.
Gradually the feeling of fatigue--for he had been walking the streets
all day--became so powerful that his struggles to keep awake became
harder and harder. In vain he sat erect, resolved not to yield. The
moment afterwards his head inclined to one side; the lights began to
swim before his eyes; the voice of the preacher subsided into a low and
undistinguishable hum. Paul's head sank upon the cushion, his bundle,
which had been his constant companion during the day, fell softly to the
floor, and he fell into a deep sleep.
Meanwhile the sermon came to a close, and another hymn was sung, but
even the music was insufficient to wake our hero now. So the benediction
was pronounced, and the people opened the doors of their pews and left
the church.
Last of all the sexton walked up and down the aisles, closing such of
the pew doors as were open. Then he shut off the gas, and after
looking around to see that nothing was forgotten, went out, apparently
satisfied, and locked the outer door behind him.
Paul, meanwhile, wholly unconscious of his situation, slept on as
tranquilly as if there were nothing unusual in the circumstances in
which he was placed. Through the stained windows the softened light fell
upon his tranquil countenance, on which a smile played, as if his dreams
were pleasant. What would Aunt Lucy have thought if she could have seen
her young friend at this moment?
XV.
A TURN OF FORTUNE.
Notwithstanding his singular bedchamber, Paul had a refreshing night's
sleep from which he did not awake till the sun had fairly risen, and its
rays colored by the medium through which they were reflected, streamed
in at the windows and rested in many fantastic lines on the richly
carved pulpit and luxurious pews.
Paul sprang to his feet and looked around him in bewilderment.
“Where am I?” he exclaimed in astonishment.
In the momentary confusion of ideas which is apt to follow a sudden
awakening, he could not remember where he was, or how he chanced to
be there. But in a moment memory came to his aid, and he recalled the
events of the preceding day, and saw that he must have been locked up in
the church.
“How am I going to get out?” Paul asked himself in dismay.
This was the important question just now. He remembered that the village
meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend was rarely opened
except on Sundays. What if this should be the case here? It was Thursday
morning, and three days must elapse before his release. This would never
do. He must seek some earlier mode of deliverance.
He went first to the windows, but found them so secured that it was
impossible for him to get them open. He tried the doors, but found, as
he had anticipated, that they were fast. His last resource failing, he
was at liberty to follow the dictates of his curiosity.
Finding a small door partly open, he peeped within, and found a flight
of steep stairs rising before him. They wound round and round, and
seemed almost interminable. At length, after he had become almost weary
of ascending, he came to a small window, out of which he looked. At his
feet lay the numberless roofs of the city, while not far away his eye
rested on thousands of masts. The river sparkled in the sun, and Paul,
in spite of his concern, could not help enjoying the scene. The sound
of horses and carriages moving along the great thoroughfare below came
confusedly to his ears. He leaned forward to look down, but the distance
was so much greater than he had thought, that he drew back in alarm.
“What shall I do?” Paul asked himself, rather frightened. “I wonder if I
can stand going without food for three days? I suppose nobody would hear
me if I should scream as loud as I could.”
Paul shouted, but there was so much noise in the streets that nobody
probably heard him.
He descended the staircase, and once more found himself in the body
of the church. He went up into the pulpit, but there seemed no hope of
escape in that direction. There was a door leading out on one side, but
this only led to a little room into which the minister retired before
service.
It seemed rather odd to Paul to find himself the sole occupant of so
large a building. He began to wonder whether it would not have been
better for him to stay in the poorhouse, than come to New York to die of
starvation.
Just at this moment Paul heard a key rattle in the outer door. Filled
with new hope, he ran down the pulpit stairs and out into the porch,
just in time to see the entrance of the sexton.
The sexton started in surprise as his eye fell upon Paul standing before
him, with his bundle under his arm.
“Where did you come from, and how came you here?” he asked with some
suspicion.
“I came in last night, and fell asleep.”
“So you passed the night here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What made you come in at all?” inquired the sexton, who knew enough of
boys to be curious upon this point.
“I didn't know where else to go,” said Paul.
“Where do you live?”
Paul answered with perfect truth, “I don't live anywhere.”
“What! Have you no home?” asked the sexton in surprise.
Paul shook his head.
“Where should you have slept if you hadn't come in here?”
“I don't know, I'm sure.”
“And I suppose you don't know where you shall sleep to-night?”
Paul signified that he did not.
“I knew there were plenty of such cases,” said the sexton, meditatively;
“but I never seemed to realize it before.”
“How long have you been in New York?” was his next inquiry.
“Not very long,” said Paul. “I only got here yesterday.”
“Then you don't know anybody in the city?”
“No.”
“Why did you come here, then?”
“Because I wanted to go somewhere where I could earn a living, and I
thought I might find something to do here.”
“But suppose you shouldn't find anything to do?”
“I don't know,” said Paul, slowly. “I haven't thought much about that.”
“Well, my lad,” said the sexton, not unkindly, “I can't say your
prospects look very bright. You should have good reasons for entering on
such an undertaking. I--I don't think you are a bad boy. You don't look
like a bad one,” he added, half to himself.
“I hope not, sir,” said Paul.
“I hope not, too. I was going to say that I wish I could help you to
some kind of work. If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome
to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you.”
Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.
“What is your name?” inquired the sexton.
“Paul Prescott.”
“That sounds like a good name. I suppose you haven't got much money?”
“Only twelve cents.”
“Bless me! only twelve cents. Poor boy! you are indeed poor.”
“But I can work,” said Paul, spiritedly. “I ought to be able to earn my
living.”
“Yes, yes, that's the way to feel. Heaven helps those who help
themselves.”
When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of
observing his companion's external appearance. He was an elderly man,
with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain
air of benevolence which softened their expression.
As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which
is already known to the reader. The sexton said little except in the
way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the
conclusion he said, “Must tell Hester.”
At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not
fashionable quarter of the city. One-half of this was occupied by the
sexton. He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room. It
was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two
engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece. They were
by no means gems of art, but then, the sexton did not claim to be a
connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the
word.
“Sit here a moment,” said the sexton, pointing to a chair, “I'll go and
speak to Hester.”
Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of “The
Pilgrim's Progress,” which lay on the table.
In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting. It
was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable
gift of beauty. Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written
PLAIN, in unmistakable characters. Yet if the outward features had been
a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive
than that of Hester Cameron. At the feet of the sexton's wife, for such
she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her
contentment. Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied. In default of
children, puss had become a privileged pet, being well fed and carefully
shielded from all the perils that beset cat-hood.
“Home so soon?” said Hester inquiringly, as her husband opened the door.
“Yes, Hester, and I have brought company with me,” said the sexton.
“Company!” repeated his wife. “Who is it?”
“It is a poor boy, who was accidentally locked up in the church last
night.”
“And he had to stay there all night?”
“Yes; but perhaps it was lucky for him, for he had no other place to
sleep, and not money enough to pay for one.”
“Poor child!” said Hester, compassionately. “Is it not terrible to think
that any human creature should be without the comforts of a home which
even our tabby possesses. It ought to make you thankful that you are so
well cared for, Tab.”
The cat opened her eyes and winked drowsily at her mistress.
“So you brought the poor boy home, Hugh?”
“Yes, Hester,--I thought we ought not to begrudge a meal to one less
favored by fortune than ourselves. You know we should consider ourselves
the almoners of God's bounties.”
“Surely, Hugh.”
“I knew you would feel so, Hester. And suppose we have the chicken for
dinner that I sent in the morning. I begin to have a famous appetite. I
think I should enjoy it.”
Hester knew perfectly well that it was for Paul's sake, and not for his
own, that her husband spoke. But she so far entered into his feelings,
that she determined to expend her utmost skill as cook upon the dinner,
that Paul might have at least one good meal.
“Now I will bring the boy in,” said he. “I am obliged to go to work, but
you will find some way to entertain him, I dare say.”
“If you will come out (this he said to Paul), I will introduce you to a
new friend.”
Paul was kindly welcomed by the sexton's wife, who questioned him in
a sympathizing tone about his enforced stay in the church. To all her
questions Paul answered in a modest yet manly fashion, so as to produce
a decidedly favorable impression upon his entertainer.
Our hero was a handsome boy. Just at present he was somewhat thin, not
having entirely recovered from the effects of his sickness and poor fare
while a member of Mr. Mudge's family; but he was well made, and bade
fair to become a stout boy. His manner was free and unembarrassed, and
he carried a letter of recommendation in his face. It must be admitted,
however that there were two points in which his appearance might have
been improved. Both his hands and face had suffered from the dust of
travel. His clothes, too, were full of dust.
A single glance told Hester all this, and she resolved to remedy it.
She quietly got some water and a towel, and requested Paul to pull off
his jacket, which she dusted while he was performing his ablutions.
Then, with the help of a comb to arrange his disordered hair, he seemed
quite like a new boy, and felt quite refreshed by the operation.
“Really, it improves him very much,” said Hester to herself.
She couldn't help recalling a boy of her own,--the only child she ever
had,--who had been accidentally drowned when about the age of Paul.
“If he had only lived,” she thought, “how different might have been our
lives.”
A thought came into her mind, and she looked earnestly at Paul.
“I--yes I will speak to Hugh about it,” she said, speaking aloud,
unconsciously.
“Did you speak to me?” asked Paul.
“No,--I was thinking of something.”
She observed that Paul was looking rather wistfully at a loaf of bread
on the table.
“Don't you feel hungry?” she asked, kindly.
“I dare say you have had no breakfast.”
“I have eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon.”
“Bless my soul! How hungry you must be!” said the good woman, as she
bustled about to get a plate of butter and a knife.
She must have been convinced of it by the rapid manner in which the
slices of bread and butter disappeared.
At one o'clock the sexton came home. Dinner was laid, and Paul partook
of it with an appetite little affected by his lunch of the morning. As
he rose from the table, he took his cap, and saying, “Good-by, I thank
you very much for your kindness!” he was about to depart.
“Where are you going?” asked the sexton, in surprise.
“I don't know,” answered Paul.
“Stop a minute. Hester, I want to speak to you.”
They went into the sitting-room together.
“This boy, Hester,” he commenced with hesitation.
“Well, Hugh?”
“He has no home.”
“It is a hard lot.”
“Do you think we should be the worse off if we offered to share our home
with him?”
“It is like your kind heart, Hugh. Let us go and tell him.”
“We have been talking of you, Paul,” said the sexton. “We have thought,
Hester and myself, that as you had no home and we no child, we should
all be the gainers by your staying with us. Do you consent?”
“Consent!” echoed Paul in joyful surprise. “How can I ever repay your
kindness?”