HOW SAM FARED.
On the strength of his good luck, Sam provided himself with a good
breakfast, which cost him forty cents. He felt pretty sure of earning
something more during the day to add to the remaining thirty-five. But
Fortune is capricious, and our hero found all his offers of service
firmly refused. He tried again to excite compassion by his fictitious
story of a starving family at home; but his appeals were made to the
flinty-hearted or the incredulous. So, about two o'clock, he went to
dinner, and spent the remainder of his money.
Again he spent the night with Tim in the wagon, and again in the
morning he set out to earn his breakfast. But luck was against him.
People insisted on carrying their own carpet-bags, to the great
detriment of the baggage-smashing business. Tim was no luckier than
Sam. About ten o'clock they were walking despondently through a side
street, discussing ways and means.
"I'm awful hungry, Tim," said Sam, mournfully.
"So am I, you bet!"
"I wouldn't mind if I had a couple of apples," said Sam, fixing his
eyes upon an old woman's apple-stand. "Wouldn't she trust?"
"Not much," said Tim. "You try her, if you want to."
"I will," said Sam, desperately.
The two boys approached the apple-stand.
"I say," said Sam to the wrinkled old woman who presided over it, "how
do you sell your apples?"
"A penny a piece," she answered, in a cracked voice. "Is that cheap
enough for ye?"
"I'll take five," said Sam.
The old woman began eagerly to pick out the required number, but
stopped short when he finished the sentence,--"if you'll trust me till
afternoon."
"Is it trust ye?" she ejaculated suspiciously. "No farther than I can
see yer. I'm up to your tricks, you young spalpeen, thryin' to chate a
poor widder out of her money."
"I'll pay you sure," said Sam, "but I haven't earned anything yet
to-day."
"Then it's I that can't be supportin' a big, strong boy like you. Go
away and come back, whin you've got money."
Here Tim broke in.
"My friend always pays his bills," he said. "You needn't be afraid to
trust him."
"And who are you?" asked the old woman. "I don't know you, and I can't
take your word. You're tryin' the two of you to swindle a poor
widder."
"My father's an alderman," said Tim, giving the wink to Sam.
"Is he now? Thin, let him lind your friend money, and don't ask a poor
woman to trust."
"Well, I would, but he's gone to Washington on business."
"Thin, go after him, and lave me alone. I don't want no spalpeens like
you round my apple-stand."
"Look here, old woman, I'll have you arrested for callin' me names.
Come away, Sam; her apples are rotten anyhow."
The old woman began to berate them soundly, indignant at this attack
upon her wares; and in the midst of it the two boys walked off.
"We didn't make much," said Sam. "I'm awful hungry."
"Take that, then," said Tim, pulling an apple out of his pocket,
Sam opened his eyes.
"How did you get it?" he asked in astonishment.
Tim put his tongue in his cheek.
"I took it when you were talkin' to the ould woman," he answered; "and
here's another."
So saying he produced a companion apple, and made a vigorous onslaught
upon it, Sam following suit.
"I don't see how you could do it," said Sam, admiringly, "and she
looking on all the time."
"It's easy enough when you know how," said Tim, complacently.
"She'd catch me, sure."
"Likely she would; you aint used to it."
Sam ought to have felt uneasy at appropriating the result of a theft;
but his conscience was an easy one, and he felt hungry. So he made
short work of the apple, and wished for more.
"I wish you'd taken two apiece," he said.
"I couldn't," said Tim. "She'd have seen 'em stickin' out of my
pocket, and called a copp."
"One's better than none; I feel a little better," said Sam,
philosophically. "I 'spose it's stealing, though."
"Oh, what's the odds? She'll never miss 'em. Come along."
In the course of the forenoon Sam managed to earn ten cents, and was
forced to content himself with a very economical dinner. There was a
place on Ann street, where, for this small sum, a plate of meat and a
potato were furnished, but enough only to whet the appetite of a
hearty boy like Sam. A suspicion did enter his mind as he rose from
the table penniless once more, and his appetite still unsatisfied,
that he had bought his liberty dearly, if his affairs did not improve.
In the country he had enough to eat, a good bed to sleep in, and no
care or anxiety, while he was not overworked. Here there was constant
anxiety, and he never knew, when he rose in the morning, where his
dinner was to come from, or whether he would be able to buy one. Still
there was a fascination in the free, lawless life, and if he could
only be sure of making even fifty cents a day he would probably have
preferred it.
It is not necessary to describe Sam's life in detail for the next
month. He and Tim were constant companions; and under Tim's
instruction he was rapidly acquiring the peculiar education of a
street vagabond. Of his employments in that brief period it would be
difficult to give a complete list. At one time he blacked boots for
another boy, to whom he paid half his receipts, in return for the use
of the box and blacking. But Sam was detected by his employer in
rendering a false account, and was thrown upon his own resources
again. It would have been much more to his interest to have a
blacking-brush and box of his own; but whenever Sam had capital enough
he preferred to spend it for a good dinner, so there did not seem much
chance of his getting ahead. He had, before this time, been introduced
to the Newsboys' Lodging House, where he was interrogated about his
past life by the superintendent. Sam was obliged to have recourse to
his imagination in reply, feeling that if he spoke the truth he would
be liable to be returned to his country home.
"Are your parents living?" inquired Mr. O'Connor.
"No," said Sam, telling the truth this time.
"When did they die?"
"Two years ago."
"Did they die in New York?"
"Yes, sir. They died of small-pox," volunteered Sam.
"And have you been supporting yourself since then?"
"Yes, sir."
"How does it happen that you have not been round here before?"
"I was living with my uncle," answered Sam, hesitating.
"Why have you left him?"
"He didn't treat me well."
"Perhaps you didn't behave well."
"Oh, yes, I did."
"What is your uncle's name?"
"James Cooper."
"Where does he live,--in what street?"
"He's moved away from the city now," said Sam, feeling that he must
put a stop to these inconvenient inquiries.
So Sam was admitted to the privileges of the lodging-house. Now, he
found it much easier to get along. For eighteen cents a day he was
provided with lodging, breakfast and supper, and it was not often that
he could not obtain as much as that. When he could earn enough more to
buy a "square meal" in the middle of the day, and a fifteen-cent
ticket to the pit of the Old Bowery theatre in the evening, he felt
happy. He was fairly adrift in the streets of the great city, and his
future prospects did not look very brilliant. It is hardly necessary
to say that in a moral point of view he had deteriorated rather than
improved. In fact, he was fast developing into a social outlaw, with
no particular scruples against lying or stealing. One thing may be
said in his favor, he never made use of his strength to oppress a
younger boy. On the whole, he was good-natured, and not at all brutal.
He had on one occasion interfered successfully to protect a young boy
from one of greater strength who was beating him. I like to mention
this, because I do not like to have it supposed that Sam was wholly
bad.
We will now advance the story some months, and see what they have done
for Sam.
To begin with, they have not improved his wardrobe. When he first came
to the city he was neatly though coarsely dressed; now his clothes
hang in rags about him, and, moreover, they are begrimed with mud and
grease. His straw hat and he have some time since parted company, and
he now wears a greasy article which he picked up at a second-hand
store in Baxter street for twenty-five cents. If Sam were troubled
with vanity, he might feel disturbed by his disreputable condition;
but as he sees plenty of other boys of his own class no better
dressed, he thinks very little about it. Such as they are, his clothes
are getting too small for him, for Sam has grown a couple of inches
since he came to the city.
Such was our hero's appearance when one day he leaned against a
building on Broadway, and looked lazily at the vehicles passing,
wishing vaguely that he had enough money to buy a square meal. A
Broadway stage was passing at the time. A small man, whose wrinkled
face indicated that he was over sixty, attempted to descend from the
stage while in motion. In some way he lost his footing, and, falling,
managed to sprain his ankle, his hat falling off and rolling along on
the pavement.
Sam, who was always on the lookout for chances, here saw an opening.
He dashed forward, lifted the old gentleman to his feet, and ran after
his hat, and restored it.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"I think I have sprained my ankle. Help me upstairs to my office,"
said the old man.
He pointed to a staircase leading up from the sidewalk.
"All right," said Sam. "Lean on me."