A KIND-HEARTED WAITRESS
After Bob had found that no one was pursuing him, he decided that the
first thing to do was to get away from New York, and with this purpose
he headed for one of the ferries that would take him to the Jersey
shore.
How far his fifteen dollars would carry him, he did not know, but he
realized that it could not be any great distance, and he was trying to
think of some plan by which he could obtain more funds, when he suddenly
remembered the reporter who had taken such an interest in him.
"I'll go and find him," said Bob to himself. "He'll know about how much
it costs to travel, and all such things, and perhaps he'll help me to
get some work where I can earn more money. Anyway, I will be able to
believe what he tells me, and to depend on his advice."
So simple a solution of his difficulties gave Bob new courage, until all
at once it flashed upon him that he did not know the name of his
benefactor, or where to find him.
As this thought occurred to him, Bob stopped still. However, his having
thrown himself upon his own resources was sharpening his wits, and he
suddenly exclaimed:
"I can find out at the police station. Perhaps he'll be there."
And though the boy was fully three miles away from the place where he
had suffered such outrageous treatment, he turned his steps to retrace
the distance.
When at length he was within sight of the grim building, the same fear
of entering it that had made him refuse his guardian's command to fetch
the basket of groceries, again seized him, and he paused.
"I won't go in," said Bob, shaking his head decidedly, "but I'll wait
over by that pile of boxes on the opposite side of the street. Probably
he'll be coming out before long."
Though this plan of Bob's would ordinarily have been effective, it
happened that Foster had finished his work for the day even before he
had paid his visit to the closed store of Len Dardus, and thus the boy
was doomed to disappointment, although he stayed at his post of
observation until dark began to fall.
With the garish flarings of the street lamps, Bob for the first time
realized the true meaning of the step he had taken. Heretofore he had
always possessed a home to which to go, unpleasant as it was, but now
he had no place, and the contemplation of his loneliness caused him to
grow very sober.
As the pangs of hunger were added to his general feeling of
helplessness, for a moment he thought of returning to his guardian, but
only for a moment. As he left the letter in his pocket and remembered
the awful stigma his guardian had tried to cast upon his dead father,
his pride arose.
"I will never go back there!" he told himself. "I have money in my
pocket, and I can get something to eat. Then I'll go over to one of the
stations in Jersey City and find some place to sleep. Perhaps there'll
even be a train going out West to-night that will carry me part way to
Oklahoma."
Coming forth from the pile of boxes from which he had sought in vain to
catch a glimpse of his friend, the reporter, Bob walked up the street
until he came to a restaurant, brilliantly lighted, and with a sign
standing in the door from which the words: "Pork and Beans, 15 cents a
plate," stared at him invitingly.
Dearly did Bob love pork and beans, but only occasionally had his
guardian provided them, and then in such small quantities that the boy
had never been able to eat all he wanted, and oftentimes had he
promised himself that some day he would have his fill. Consequently, as
he read the sign, he determined to gratify his desire, and timidly
entered the restaurant, where there were stools in front of a high
counter and tables along the wall, upon which stood an array of food
that amazed him, accustomed, as he had been, to living on almost
nothing.
Making his way diffidently to one of the tables, he sat down. In a
moment a waitress, in what seemed to him a dazzlingly white and gorgeous
dress, approached, and, with a smile, asked:
"What will you have?"
"Beans, please, and lots of them."
"And brown bread, too?" asked the waitress.
The thought of this with his beans had never entered Bob's head, and as
it was suggested to him, he felt a great longing for it. Yet as no
mention of it had been made on the sign that had attracted him to the
restaurant, he feared it might be too expensive. But the more he thought
of it, the more he wanted it, and finally he stammered:
"How much does it cost?"
"Five cents a slice."
"Then you may bring me two slices," replied the boy, laying emphasis
upon the word "two."
"Coffee or tea?"
"I don't believe I'll have either," said Bob, feeling that his
expenditure of twenty-five cents was all that he could afford.
Divining the reason of his refusal, the waitress smiled:
"You get either tea or coffee with the order. It doesn't cost any more."
"Then I'll have coffee," replied Bob.
And as the waitress went to bring his order, he again felt in his pocket
to make sure he had the money with which to pay for his meal.
As the heaping plate of beans--for the waitress had not been scrimping
in her measure--was set before Bob, together with the rich brown bread
and coffee, it seemed to him that never had anything smelled quite so
savory, and he began to eat as though he were famished.
Though the plate of beans had been heaping, so good did they taste to
Bob, that he could not resist the temptation of ordering more, and
calling the waitress to him, he asked:
"If I have a second plate, will it cost less?"
For a moment the girl was on the point of laughing at him, but the
wistful seriousness of his face checked the outburst of merriment on her
lips, and instead she replied, in a kindly tone:
"What's the matter, kid? Haven't you any money?"
"Oh, yes," Bob hastened to reassure her.
"Well, if you have money enough, what's to prevent your ordering as much
as you want?"
For a moment Bob contemplated the question from this new viewpoint, but,
unable to decide, observed:
"I don't just know as I ought to spend any more."
"Isn't the money yours?"
"Oh, yes, it's not that," rejoined Bob, and then, after hesitating a
moment, he determined to leave the decision to this girl, whose face
showed that she was kind and sympathetic, and he said:
"You see, it's this way: I'm going out West, and I haven't got much
money, and I'm afraid I'll spend too much, because I don't just know how
much it will take."
"Well, if I was you, I'd eat all I wanted while I had the money. If
you've got to 'hobo' your way, there'll be times when you'll probably be
without both food and money."
This reasoning struck Bob as being eminently practical, and he was on
the point of ordering another plate, when the girl made it unnecessary
by saying:
"I'll stake you to another plate, if you want the beans very much. It's
just about time for me to eat my supper, and I will bring it over to
your table and eat with you, and I'll make them think the beans are for
me."
Bob wasn't quite sure whether such a plan was all right or not, but he
had a healthy boy's appetite for beans, and so he made no objection.
"You are very kind," he said, when the second plate of the savory food
was placed before him. "I suppose I shall be hungry sometimes before I
get to Oklahoma, but I don't expect to 'hobo' it."
"Then how do you expect to get along? You say you haven't much money."
"I guess I don't just understand what it means to 'hobo' it," admitted
Bob.
"No, I guess you don't. It's the name they give out West to travelling
when you don't have money enough to pay your railroad fare, and have to
beat your way, riding on freight trains."
As Bob heard this explanation of the term, his eyes sparkled with
delight, and he said earnestly:
"I'm glad you told me about it. I'd never thought of trying to steal a
ride on a freight train."
"For pity sake! How did you expect to get away out there?"
"Walk, unless I could earn money enough in one town to take me to
another."
Bob's conversation, which showed such a remarkable ignorance of the
world, especially in view of the fact that he was a New York boy,
suggested to the waitress that perhaps he had run away from home.
Determined to find out, she banished the sympathetic smile from her
face, and becoming very severe, leaned across the table and gazing
straight into Bob's eyes, asked:
"Look a here, kid, you haven't run away from a good home, have you?"
The unexpectedness of this question took Bob by surprise. Under the
searching gaze of the girl's eyes, he felt just as he had when the
magistrate had glanced at him, and his voice trembled a little as he
replied:
"No! Oh, no, indeed!"
But his manner was not convincing, and the girl continued her
interrogations, but on a different tack.
"Your folks live in New York?"
"I haven't any."
"Then where have you been living?"
"With my guardian."
"What do you do?"
"I used to deliver groceries for him."
The stress Bob laid upon the word "used," led the girl to inquire:
"Did he fire you? Or what?"
"No. I left him."
"How long ago?"
"Just this afternoon."
The close questioning of the waitress was making Bob very uncomfortable,
and he determined to tell her the real reason he had left, especially
as she was so kind and seemed to know so much about traveling in the
West. Having reached this decision, he told, with many hesitations, the
story of his experiences.
With quick sympathy the girl listened, and, as he concluded, exclaimed
tenderly:
"You poor kid! I'm sure glad you happened to drop in here. I've got a
sister living out in Chicago, whose husband runs as far as Kansas City
on a freight train. I'll give you a note to her, and her man will give
you a lift, and probably he can arrange with some of the men he knows to
carry you west from Kansas City."
"That will be very kind of you," returned Bob. "It seems as though
strangers are kinder to me than people I've known all my life."
"That's often the way," exclaimed the girl, as she rose and went up to
the desk in the front of the restaurant, where she obtained some paper,
an envelope, and pen and ink, which she brought back to Bob's table.
It was evident from the slowness with which her self-imposed task
advanced that the girl was more ready with her kind-hearted sympathy
than with her pen. But at last the missive was finished, and she gave it
to Bob.
"Don't forget that address: 'South 101st Street, on the left-hand
corner, in a big, yellow brick building.' It's on the side of the
street nearest New York, and the name is Mrs. John Cameron."
Gratefully Bob took the letter, which he placed with the one written by
his father, and as he did so he asked:
"I wonder how much it costs to get to Chicago?"
"Depends on how you travel. You can go in a plain car for about ten or
eleven dollars. That is on one of the round-about railways, at cut
rates. Or, you can pay between fifty and seventy-five dollars for a
state-room."
"Oh, goody! If it only costs ten dollars, I can get out there all right,
and still have some money left."
"I'm glad of that. Now, you sit here a few minutes, and I'll put up a
lunch for you, and then you won't have to buy any food while you are on
the train. They always charge a lot more on trains or in station
restaurants than they ought to."
"Hadn't I better pay you now?" inquired Bob.
"No. You wait until I bring the box of lunch. The boss hasn't noticed
how much you had to eat, and he'll think it's all on the check I will
ring in."
"But that isn't exactly right, is it?" protested Bob.
"Well, I'll make it right with the boss."
So well were things working out for him, that it seemed to Bob that he
must be in a dream, but the sight of the people and objects about him
told him that it was indeed a reality.
In due course the kind waitress returned, bringing a sizeable box,
tightly tied, which she placed on the table before him.
"Here, kiddo, I wish you good luck," she said. "I must leave you now,
because I've got some more work to do."
"But you must tell me your name," insisted Bob, looking at her with his
eyes filled with gratitude. "I'm coming back from the West a rich man,
and I shall want to look you up and repay you for your kindness."
"I hope you strike it fine, kid," laughed the girl, "but I am afraid if
you do, you'll never think of looking up Nellie Porter. Oh, by the way,
do you know to which station to go?"
"No, I don't," admitted Bob.
"Well, if you want to get a plain car, you want to go over to Weehawken
and buy your ticket over the West Shore railroad."
And giving Bob a check for his food, the girl smiled upon him
pleasantly, and hurried away to wait upon some other people who had
entered the restaurant.