HOW JAMES MARTIN CAME TO GRIEF.
After parting with Ben Gibson, James Martin crossed the street to the
City Hall Park, and sat down on one of the wooden benches placed there
for the public accommodation. Neither his present circumstances nor his
future prospects were very brilliant. He was trying to solve the great
problem which has troubled so many lazy people, of how best to live
without work. There are plenty of men, not only in our cities, but in
country villages, who are at work upon this same problem, but few solve
it to their satisfaction. Martin was a good carpenter, and might have
earned a respectable and comfortable livelihood, instead of wandering
about the streets in ragged attire, without a roof to shelter him, or
money to pay for a decent meal.
As he sat on the bench, a cigar-boy passed him, with a box of cigars
under his arm.
"Cigars," he cried, "four for ten cents!"
"Come here, boy," said Martin. The boy approached.
"I want a cigar."
"I don't sell one. Four for ten cents."
Martin would willingly have bought four, but as his available funds
amounted only to four cents, this was impossible.
"I don't want but one; I've only got four cents in change, unless you
can change a ten-dollar bill."
"I can't do that."
"Here, take three cents, and give me a prime cigar."
"I'll sell you one for four cents."
"Hand over, then."
So Martin found himself penniless, but the possessor of a cigar, which
he proceeded to smoke with as much apparent enjoyment as if he had a
large balance to his credit at the bank.
He remained in the Park till his cigar was entirely smoked, and then
sauntered out with no definite object in view. It occurred to him,
however, that he might as well call on the keeper of a liquor saloon on
Baxter Street, which he had frequently patronized.
"How are you, Martin?" asked "Jim," that being the name by which the
proprietor was generally known.
"Dry as a fish," was the suggestive reply.
"Then you've come to the right shop. What'll you have?"
Martin expressed his desire for a glass of whiskey, which was poured
out, and hastily gulped down.
"I'm out of stamps," said Martin, coolly. "I s'pose you'll trust me till
to-morrow."
"Why didn't you say you hadn't any money?" demanded Jim, angrily.
"Come," said Martin, "don't be hard on an old friend. I'll pay you
to-morrow."
"Where'll the money come from?" demanded Jim, suspiciously.
This was a question which Martin was quite unable to answer
satisfactorily to himself.
"I'll get it some way," he answered.
"You'd better, or else you needn't come into this shop again."
Martin left the saloon rather disappointed. He had had a little idea of
asking a small loan from his friend "Jim;" but he judged that such an
application would hardly be successful under present circumstances.
"Jim's" friendship evidently was not strong enough to justify such a
draft upon it.
Martin began to think that it might have been as well, on the whole, to
seek employment at his trade in Brooklyn, for a time at least, until he
could have accumulated a few dollars. It was rather uncomfortable being
entirely without money, and that was precisely his present condition.
Even if he had wanted to go back to Brooklyn, he had not even the two
cents needed to pay the boat fare. Matters had come to a crisis with
Martin financially, and a suspension of specie payments was forced upon
him.
He continued to walk about the streets in that aimless way which results
from absence of occupation, and found it, on the whole, rather cheerless
work. Besides, he was beginning to get hungry. He had eaten a hearty
breakfast at his boarding-house in Brooklyn, but it was now one o'clock,
and the stomach began to assert its claims once more. He had no money.
Still there were places where food, at least, could be had for nothing.
He descended into a subterranean apartment, over the door of which was a
sign bearing the words FREE LUNCH.
As many of my readers know, these establishments are to be found in most
of our cities. A supply of sandwiches, or similar food, is provided free
for the use of those who enter, but visitors are expected to call and
pay for one or more glasses of liquor, which are sold at such prices
that the proprietor may, on the whole, realize a profit.
It was into one of those places that James Martin entered. He went up to
the counter, and was about to help himself to the food supplied. After
partaking of this, he intended to slip out without the drink, having no
money to pay for it. But, unfortunately for the success of his plans,
the keeper at the saloon had been taken in two or three times already
that day by similar impostors. Still, had James Martin been
well-dressed, he could have helped himself unquestioned to the
provisions he desired. But his appearance was suspicious. His ragged and
dirty attire betokened extreme poverty, and the man in charge saw, at a
glance, that his patronage was not likely to be desirable.
"Look here, my friend," he said, abruptly, as Martin was about to help
himself, "what'll you take to drink?"
"A glass of ale," said Martin, hesitatingly.
"All right! Pass over the money."
"The fact is," said Martin, "I left my pocket-book at home this morning,
and that's why I'm obliged to come in here."
"Very good! Then you needn't trouble yourself to take anything. We don't
care about visitors that leave their pocket-books at home."
"I'll pay you double to-morrow," said Martin, who had no hesitation in
making promises he hadn't the least intention of fulfilling.
"That won't go down," said the other. "I don't care about seeing such
fellows as you at any time. There's the door."
"Do you want to fight?" demanded Martin, angrily.
"No, I don't; but I may kick you out if you don't go peaceably. We
don't want customers of your sort."
"I'll smash your head!" said Martin, becoming pugnacious.
"Here, Mike, run up and see if you can't find a policeman."
This hint was not lost upon Martin. He had no great love for the
Metropolitan police, and kept out of their way as much as possible. He
felt that it would be prudent to evacuate the premises, and did so,
muttering threats meanwhile, and not without a lingering glance at the
lunch which was not free to him.
This last failure rather disgusted Martin. According to his theory, the
world owed him a living; but it seemed as if the world were disposed to
repudiate the debt. Fasting is apt to lead to serious reflection, and by
this time he was decidedly hungry. How to provide himself with a dinner
was a subject that required immediate attention.
He walked about for an hour or two without finding himself at the end of
that time any nearer the solution of the question than before. To work
all day may be hard; but to do nothing all day on an empty stomach is
still harder.
About four o'clock, Martin found himself at the junction of Wall Street
and Nassau. I hardly know what drew this penniless man to the street
through which flows daily a mighty tide of wealth, but I suspect that he
was hoping to meet Rufus, who, as he had learned from Ben Gibson, was
employed somewhere on the street. Rufus might, in spite of the manner in
which he had treated him, prove a truer friend in need than the
worthless companions of his hours of dissipation.
All at once a sharp cry of pain was heard.
A passing vehicle had run over the leg of a boy who had imprudently
tried to cross the street just in front of it. The wheels passed over
the poor boy's legs, both of which appeared to be broken. Of course, as
is always the case under such circumstances, there was a rush to the
spot where the casualty took place, and a throng of men and boys
gathered about the persons who were lifting the boy from the ground.
"The boy seems to be poor," said a humane by-stander; "let us raise a
little fund for his benefit."
A humane suggestion like this is pretty sure to be acted upon by those
whose hearts are made tender by the sight of suffering. So most of those
present drew out their pocket-books, and quite a little sum was placed
in the hands of the original proposer of the contribution.
Among those who had wedged themselves into the crowd was James Martin.
Having nothing to do, he had been eager to have his share in the
excitement. He saw the collection taken up with an envious wish that it
was for his own benefit. Beside him was a banker, who, from a plethoric
pocket-book, had drawn a five-dollar bill, which he had contributed to
the fund. Closing the pocket-book, he carelessly placed it in an outside
pocket. James Martin stood in such a position that the contents of the
pocket-book were revealed to him, and the demon of cupidity entered his
heart. How much good this money would do him! There were probably
several hundred dollars in all, perhaps more. He saw the banker put the
money in his pocket,--the one nearest to him. He might easily take it
without observation,--so he thought.
In an evil moment he obeyed the impulse which had come to him. He
plunged his hand into the pocket; but at this moment the banker turned,
and detected him.
"I've caught you, you rascal!" he exclaimed, seizing Martin with a
vigorous grip. "Police!"
Martin made a desperate effort to get free, but another man seized him
on the other side, and he was held, despite his resistance, till a
policeman, who by a singular chance happened to be near when wanted,
came up.
Martin's ragged coat was rent asunder from the violence of his efforts,
his hat fell off, and he might well have been taken for a desperate
character, as in this condition he was marched off by the guardian of
the city's peace.
There was another humiliation in store for him. He had gone but a few
steps when he met Rufus, who gazed in astonishment at his step-father's
plight. Martin naturally supposed that Rufus would exult in his
humiliation; but he did him injustice.
"I'm sorry for him," thought our hero, compassionately; "he's done me
harm enough, but I'm sorry."
He learned from one of the crowd for what Martin had been arrested, and
started for Franklin Street to carry the news to Miss Manning and Rose.