PAUL BECOMES A THIEF.
The next morning after Paul’s father had gone, the lad arose, dressed
himself and waited for breakfast, of course in vain.
“Come, boy,” said the lodging house keeper, “eat with me.”
“Where is my father?” said Paul.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Far away, boy; even over the ocean. He will send for you.”
Paul said nothing. He did not even shed a tear, as many a lad would
have done. There was the blood of the Cossack in his rugged nature.
Even at his small age he did not and would not wear his heart upon his
ragged coat sleeve. But he was full of bitter thought. He became a
miniature stoic. He munched his humble breakfast in silence.
At first he was treated with a fair degree of kindness by his rough,
rude and miserly guardian, but when days, weeks and months came and
with them no remittance from the struggling father in Russia, the
guardian of the lad became sour, morose, vindictive and cruel. One day
he beat the boy, and became greatly enraged because he could not make
Paul cry or show by word or sign that the beating gave him pain. Paul
stood the abuse like a dog, but he grew. One day, feeling within his
loins the strength of a lusty young giant, he arose and whipped his
persecutor like David did Goliath, and fled out into the fathomless
streets of New York.
That night he avoided the police and slept in a dry goods box in an
alley. He awoke cold and shivering. His stomach ached with hunger.
Health, youth and vigor conferred on him a monstrous desire to eat. As
he sat in his alley he heard the growl of a dog. Looking up, he saw a
plate full of meat scraps. The dog growled with satisfaction at his
contemplated feast. Now, it seemed a strange and unjust thing to Paul
that a dog should enjoy plenty, while he, a human being, had nothing.
So with the instinct of the barbarian, he proceeded to dispute the
dog’s right to the whole of the tempting banquet. So the boy and the
dog fought desperately for the food. The boy won. But even then Paul
was too honest to appropriate it all. He fairly and justly divided with
his late foe. So if Paul was a thief, he differed from the common kind.
The banker and stockbroker steal on a large scale, for the excitement
afforded in legalized robbery. The boy stole from necessity. He and
the dog in silent sympathy became friends, and went out in the world
together.
That night they slept in a boat, and in the morning were out at sea,
their craft having been attached to a schooner. They were discovered
and taken on board, where Paul was put to work. He, however, got back
to New York. He never parted with the dog. They had a great time in
starving together. Paul held horses, blacked boots, sold newspapers,
carried satchels, and, in spite of all hardships, privations and
miseries, grew up tall, muscular and of wondrous physical beauty. He
never was a thief but once, and had spent some years of devotion in
paying his victim for the theft.
One day Paul was passing a great brown stone palace. A man was carrying
in huge blocks of marble. He called on the boy to help him. Paul
readily assented.
In one of the rooms stood a majestic woman. When Paul’s eyes fell upon
the vision he dropped his burden, and as it crashed upon the floor he
stood like one transfixed. To his starving, neglected, hungry soul it
seemed as though some goddess had dropped to the earth from the stars,
and the woman looked at him with uncommon interest.
In a voice that thrilled him with unknown, undefinable, undreamed-of
longings, she said, “I want you.”
“Yes,” he said, as in a dream.
Thenceforth Paul Strogoff entered the household of Ouida Angelo, the
sculptress, as a model. For the first time in his life, he felt that he
was human.