HOW BEN SUCCEEDED.
Ben Gibson was very willing to suspend blacking boots and follow in the
track of James Martin, partly because he considered it easier work, but
partly also, because he was glad to be of service to the newsboy. The
fact was that Rough and Ready was popular among the street boys. He was
brave and manly, rough with those who tried to impose upon him, but
always ready to do a favor to a boy who needed it. Ben had not forgotten
how two winters before, when he had been laid up with a sickness brought
on by exposure, Rufus had himself contributed liberally to help him, and
led other boys to follow his example, thus defraying his expenses until
he got about again. A kind heart will make its possessor popular sooner
than anything else, and it was this, together with his well-known
prowess, which made Rough and Ready not only popular, but admired in the
circle to which he belonged.
Ben followed James Martin down Spruce Street, keeping sufficiently in
the background, so as not to excite the suspicions of the latter.
"I wonder where he's goin'," thought Ben; "I don't think I could follow
him more'n a hundred miles without wantin' to rest. Anyhow I guess I can
stand it as well as he can."
Martin walked along in a leisurely manner. The fact was that he had made
up his mind not to work that day, and therefore he felt in no particular
hurry. This was rather improvident on his part, since he had voluntarily
assumed the extra expense of supporting Rose; but then prudence and
foresight were not his distinguishing traits. He had a vague idea that
the world owed him a living, and that he would rub along somehow or
other. This is a mischievous doctrine, and men who deserve to succeed
never hold it. It is true, however, that the world is pretty sure to
provide a living for those who are willing to work for it, but makes no
promises to those who expect to be taken care of without any exertions
of their own. The difference between the rich merchant and the ragged
fellow who solicits his charity as he is stepping into his carriage,
consists, frequently, not in natural ability, but in the fact that the
one has used his ability as a stepping-stone to success, and the other
has suffered his to become stagnant, through indolence, or dissipation.
But we must come back to Mr. Martin.
He walked down towards the East River till he reached Water Street, then
turning to the left, he brought up at a drinking-saloon, which he had
visited more than once on a similar errand. He found an old acquaintance
who invited him to drink,—an invitation which he accepted promptly.
Ben remained outside.
"I thought he did business at some such place by the looks of his nose,"
soliloquized Ben. "What shall I do while I'm waitin' for him?"
Looking around him, Ben saw two boys of about his own age pitching
pennies. As this was a game with which long practice had made him
familiar, he made overtures towards joining them.
"Let a feller in, will you?" he said.
"How much you got?" asked one of the boys, in a business-like way.
"Ten cents," said Ben. "I lent old Vanderbilt most of my money day afore
yesterday, to buy up a new railroad, and he haint forked over."
Ben need not have apologized for his comparative poverty, as he proved
to be the richest of the three. The game commenced, and continued for
some time with various mutations of fortune; but at the end of half an
hour Ben found himself richer by two cents than when he had commenced.
From time to time he cast a watchful glance at the saloon opposite, for
he had no intention of suffering the interest of the game to divert him
from the object of his expedition. At length he saw James Martin issue
from the saloon, and prepared to follow him.
"Are you going?" asked one of the boys with whom he had been playing.
"Yes, I've got some important business on hand. Here's your money;" and
he threw down the two cents he had won.
"You won it?"
"What if I did? I only played for amoosement. What's two cents to a
gentleman of fortune, with a big manshun up town?"
"It's the Tombs, he manes," said one of his late opponents, laughing.
"He can blow, he can," remarked the other.
But Ben couldn't stop to continue the conversation, as James Martin had
already turned the corner of the street. It was observable that his gait
already showed a slight unsteadiness, which he tried to remedy by
walking with unusual erectness. The consequence of this was that he
didn't keep fairly in view the occupants of the sidewalk, which led to
his deliberately walking into rather a stout female, who was approaching
in the opposite direction.
"Is it goin' to murther me ye are, you spalpeen?" she exclaimed,
wrathfully, as soon as she could collect her breath. "Don't you know
better than to run into a dacent woman in that way?"
"It was you run into me," said Martin, steadying himself with some
difficulty after the collision.
"Hear him now," said the woman, looking about her to call attention to
the calumny.
"I see how it is," said Martin; "you're drunk, ma'am, you can't walk
straight."
This led to a voluble outburst from the irate woman, to which Ben
listened with evident enjoyment.
"Am I drunk, boy?" asked Martin, appealing to Ben, whom he for the first
time noticed.
"Of course you aint, gov'nor," said Ben. "You never did sich a thing in
your life."
"What do you know about it?" demanded the woman. "It's my belief you're
drunk yourself."
"Do you know who this gentleman is?" asked Ben, passing over the
personal charge.
"No, I don't."
"He's President of the Fifth Avenue Temperance Society," said Ben,
impressively. "He's just been drinking the health of his feller-officers
in a glass of something stiff, round in Water Street, that's all."
The woman sniffed contemptuously, but, not deigning a reply, passed on.
"Who are you?" asked Martin, turning to Ben. "You're a good feller."
"That's so," said Ben. "That's what everybody says."
"So'm I a good feller," said Martin, whose recent potations must have
been of considerable strength, to judge from their effects. "You know
me."
"Of course I do," said Ben. "I've knowed you from infancy."
"Take a drink?" said Martin.
"Not at present," said Ben. "My health don't require it this mornin'."
"Where are you going?"
"Well," said Ben, "I aint very particular. I'm a wealthy orphan, with
nothin' to do. I'll walk along with you, if it's agreeable."
"I wish you would," said Martin; "I aint feeling quite well this
morning. I've got the headache."
"I don't wonder at that," thought Ben. "I'll accompany you to your
residence, if it aint too far off."
"I live in Brooklyn," said Martin.
"Oho!" thought Ben. "Well, that information is worth something. Shall we
go over Fulton Ferry?" he asked, aloud.
"Yes," said Martin.
"Take hold of my arm, and I'll support your totterin' steps," said Ben.
Mr. Martin, who found locomotion in a straight line rather difficult on
account of his headache, willingly availed himself of this obliging
offer, and the two proceeded on their way to Fulton Ferry.
"Have you got much of a family?" inquired Ben, by way of being sociable.
"I've got a little girl," said Martin, "and a boy, but he's an impudent
young rascal."
"What's his name?"
"Rufus. He sells newspapers in front of the 'Times' office."
"The boys call him Rough and Ready, don't they?"
"Yes. Do you know him?" asked Martin, a little suspiciously. "He aint a
friend of yours, is he?"
"I owe him a lickin'," said Ben, with a show of indignation.
"So do I," said Martin. "He's an impudent young rascal."
"So he is," chimed in Ben. "I'll tell you what I'd do, if I were you."
"What?"
"I'd disinherit him. Cut him off with a shilling'."
"I mean to," said Martin, pleased to find sympathy in his dislike to his
stepson.
Probably the newsboy would not have suffered acute anguish, had he
learned his stepfather's intention to disinherit him, as the well-known
lines, "Who steals my purse, steals trash," might at almost any time
have been appropriately applied to Mr. Martin's purse, when he happened
to carry one.
Ben paid the toll at the ferry, and the two entered the boat together.
He conducted Mr. Martin to the Gentleman's Cabin, where he found him a
seat in the corner. James Martin sank down, and closed his eyes in a
drowsy fit, produced by the liquor he had drunk.
Ben took a seat opposite him.
"You're an interestin' object," soliloquized Ben, as he looked across
the cabin at his companion "It's a great blessin' to be an orphan, if a
feller can't own a better father than that. However, I'll stick to him
till I get him home. I wonder what he'd say if he knowed what I was
goin' with him for. If things don't go contrary, I guess I'll get the
little girl away from him afore long."
When the boat struck the Brooklyn pier, James Martin was asleep.
"There aint no hurry," thought Ben; "I'll let him sleep a little while."
After the boat had made three or four trips, Ben went across and shook
Martin gently.
The latter opened his eyes, and looked at him vacantly.
"What's the matter?" he said, thickly.
"We've got to Brooklyn," said Ben. "If you want to go home, we'll have
to go off the boat."
James Martin rose mechanically, and, walking through the cabin, passed
out upon the pier, and then through the gates.
"Where'll we go now?" asked Ben. "Is it far off?"
"Yes," said Martin. "We'll take a horse-car."
"All right, gov'nor; just tell us what one we want, and we'll jump
aboard."
Martin was sufficiently in his senses to be able to impart this
information correctly. He made no objection to Ben's paying the fare for
both, which the latter did, as a matter of policy, thinking that in his
present friendly relations with Mr. Martin he was likely to obtain the
information he desired, with considerably less difficulty than he
anticipated. On the whole, Ben plumed himself on his success, and felt
that as a detective he had done very well.
Martin got out at the proper place, and Ben of course got out with him.
"That's where I live," said Martin, pointing to the house. "Won't you go
in?"
"Thank you for the compliment," said Ben; "but I've got some important
business to attend to, and shall have to be goin'. How's your headache?"
"It's better," said Martin.
"Glad to hear it," said Ben.
Martin, on entering the house, was informed of the ill-conduct of Rose,
as Mrs. Waters chose to represent it, and that in consequence she had
been shut up in the cellar.
"Keep her there as long as you like," said Martin. "She's a bad girl,
and it won't do her any harm."
If Rose had known that an agent of her brother's was just outside the
house, and was about to carry back to Rufus tidings of her whereabouts,
she would have felt considerably better. There is an old saying that the
hour which is darkest is just before day.