ON THE FERRY-BOAT.
Mark had made two applications for charity, and still had but ten
cents. The manner in which Mrs. Crawford met his appeal made the
business seem more disagreeable than ever. Besides, he was getting
tired. It was not more than eight o'clock, but he had been up early,
and had been on his feet all day. He leaned against one of the stalls,
but in so doing he aroused the suspicions of the vigilant old woman who
presided over it.
"Just stand away there," she said. "You're watchin' for a chance to
steal one of them apples."
"No, I'm not," said Mark, indignantly. "I never steal."
"Don't tell me," said the old woman, who had a hearty aversion to boys,
some of whom, it must be confessed, had in times past played mean
tricks on her; "don't tell me! Them that beg will steal, and I see you
beggin' just now."
To this Mark had no reply to make. He saw that he was already classed
with the young street beggars, many of whom, as the old woman implied,
had no particular objection to stealing, if they got a chance.
Altogether he was so disgusted with his new business, that he felt it
impossible for him to beg any more that night. But then came up the
consideration that this would prevent his returning home. He very well
knew what kind of a reception Mother Watson would give him, and he had
a very unpleasant recollection and terror of the leather strap.
But where should he go? He must pass the night somewhere, and he
already felt drowsy. Why should he not follow Ben Gibson's suggestions,
and sleep on the Fulton ferry-boat? It would only cost two cents to get
on board, and he might ride all night. Fortunately he had more than
money enough for that, though he did not like to think how he came by
the ten cents.
When Mark had made up his mind, he passed out of one of the entrances
of the market, and, crossing the street, presented his ten cents at
the wicket, where stood the fare-taker.
Without a look towards him, that functionary took the money, and pushed
back eight cents. These Mark took, and passed round into the large room
of the ferry-house.
The boat was not in, but he already saw it halfway across the river,
speeding towards its pier.
There were a few persons waiting besides himself, but the great rush
of travel was diminished for a short time. It would set in again about
eleven o'clock when those who had passed the evening at some place of
amusement in New York would be on their way home.
Mark with the rest waited till the boat reached its wharf. There was
the usual bump, then the chain rattled, the wheel went round, and the
passengers began to pour out upon the wharf. Mark passed into the boat,
and went at once to the "gentlemen's cabin," situated on the left-hand
side of the boat. Generally, however, gentlemen rather unfairly crowd
into the ladies' cabin, sometimes compelling the ladies, to whom it of
right belongs, to stand, while they complacently monopolize the seats.
The gentlemen's cabin, so called, is occupied by those who have a
little more regard to the rights of ladies, and by the smokers, who are
at liberty to indulge in their favorite comfort here.
When Mark entered, the air was redolent with tobacco-smoke, generally
emitted from clay pipes and cheap cigars, and therefore not so
agreeable as under other circumstances it might have been. But it was
warm and comfortable, and that was a good deal.
In the corner Mark espied a wide seat nearly double the size of an
ordinary seat, and this he decided would make the most comfortable
niche for him.
He settled himself down there as well as he could. The seat was hard,
and not so comfortable as it might have been; but then Mark was not
accustomed to beds of down, and he was so weary that his eyes closed
and he was soon in the land of dreams.
He was dimly conscious of the arrival at the Brooklyn side, and the
ensuing hurried exit of passengers from that part of the cabin in which
he was, but it was only a slight interruption, and when the boat,
having set out on its homeward trip, reached the New York side, he was
fast asleep.
"Poor little fellow!" thought more than one, with a hasty glance at the
sleeping boy. "He is taking his comfort where he can."
But there was no good Samaritan to take him by the hand, and inquire
into his hardships, and provide for his necessities, or rather there
was one, and that one well known to us.
Richard Hunter and his friend Henry Fosdick had been to Brooklyn that
evening to attend an instructive lecture which they had seen announced
in one of the daily papers. The lecture concluded at half-past nine,
and they took the ten o'clock boat over the Fulton ferry.
They seated themselves in the first cabin, towards the Brooklyn side,
and did not, therefore, see Mark until they passed through the other
cabin on the arrival of the boat at New York.
"Look there, Fosdick," said Richard Hunter. "See that poor little chap
asleep in the corner. Doesn't it remind you of the times we used to
have, when we were as badly off as he?"
"Yes, Dick, but I don't think I ever slept on a ferry-boat."
"That's because you were not on the streets long I took care of myself
eight years, and more than once took a cheap bed for two cents on a
boat like this. Most likely I've slept in that very corner."
"It was a hard life, Dick."
"Yes, and a hard bed too; but there's a good many that are no better
off now. I always feel like doing something to help along those like
this little chap here."
"I wonder what he is,--a boot-black?"
"He hasn't got any brush or box with him. Perhaps he's a newsboy. I
think I'll give him a surprise."
"Wake him up, do you mean?"
"No, poor little chap! Let him sleep. I'll put fifty cents in his
pocket, and when he wakes up he won't know where it came from."
"That's a good idea, Dick. I'll do the same. All right."
"Here's the money. Put mine in with yours. Don't wake him up."
Dick walked softly up to the match boy, and gently inserted the
money--one dollar--in one of the pockets of his ragged vest.
Mark was so fast asleep that he was entirely unconscious of the
benevolent act.
"That'll make him open his eyes in the morning," he said.
"Unless somebody relieves him of the money during his sleep."
"Not much chance of that. Pickpockets won't be very apt to meddle with
such a ragged little chap as that, unless it's in a fit of temporary
aberration of mind."
"You're right, Dick. But we must hurry out now, or we shall be carried
back to Brooklyn."
"And so get more than our money's worth. I wouldn't want to cheat the
corporation so extensively as that."
So the two friends passed out of the boat, and left the match boy
asleep in the cabin, quite unconscious that good fortune had hovered
over him, and made him richer by a dollar, while he slept.
While we are waiting for him to awake, we may as well follow Richard
Hunter and his friend home.
Fosdick's good fortune, which we recorded in the earlier chapters
of this volume had made no particular change in their arrangements.
They were already living in better style than was usual among youths
situated as they were. There was this difference, however, that whereas
formerly Dick paid the greater part of the joint expense it was now
divided equally. It will be remembered that Fosdick's interest on the
twenty bank shares purchased in his name amounted to one hundred and
sixty dollars annually, and this just about enabled him to pay his own
way, though not leaving him a large surplus for clothing and incidental
expenses. It could not be long, however, before his pay would be
increased at the store, probably by two dollars a week. Until that time
he could economize a little; for upon one thing he had made up his
mind,--not to trench upon his principal except in case of sickness or
absolute necessity.
The boys had not forgotten or neglected the commission which they had
undertaken for Mr. Hiram Bates. They had visited, on the evening after
he left, the Newsboys' Lodging House, then located at the corner of
Fulton and Nassau Streets, in the upper part of the "Sun" building, and
had consulted Mr. O'Connor, the efficient superintendent, as to the boy
of whom they were in search. But he had no information to supply them
with. He promised to inquire among the boys who frequented the lodge,
as it was possible that there might be some among them who might have
fallen in with a boy named Talbot.
Richard Hunter also sought out some of his old acquaintances, who were
still engaged in blacking boots, or selling newspapers, and offered a
reward of five dollars for the discovery of a boy of ten, named Talbot,
or John Talbot.
As the result of this offer a red-haired boy was brought round to the
counting-room one day, who stoutly asserted that his name was John
Talbot, and his guide in consequence claimed the reward. Dick, however,
had considerable doubt as to the genuineness of this claim, and called
the errand-boy, known to the readers of earlier volumes, as Micky
Maguire.
"Micky," said Richard, "this boy says he is John Talbot. Do you know
him?"
"Know him!" repeated Micky; "I've knowed him ever since he was so high.
He's no more John Talbot than I am. His name is Tim Hogan, and I'll
defy him to say it isn't."
Tim looked guilty, and his companion gave up the attempt to obtain the
promised reward. He had hired Tim by the promise of a dollar to say he
was John Talbot, hoping by the means to clear four dollars for himself.
"That boy'll rise to a seat in the Common Council if he lives long
enough," said Dick. "He's an unusually promising specimen."