WHAT BEFELL THE MATCH BOY.
During the next three months Mark made his home at the Lodging House.
He was easily able to meet the small charges of the Lodge for bed and
breakfast, and saved up ten dollars besides in the bank. Ben Gibson
began to look upon him as quite a capitalist.
"I don't see how you save up so much money, Mark," he said. "You don't
earn more'n half as much as I do."
"It's because you spend so much, Ben. It costs you considerable for
cigars and such things, you know, and then you go to the Old Bowery
pretty often."
"A feller must have some fun," said Ben. "They've got a tearin' old
play at the Bowery now. You'd better come to-night."
Mark shook his head.
"I feel pretty tired when it comes night," he said. "I'd rather stay at
home."
"You aint so tough as I am," said Ben.
"No," said Mark, "I don't feel very strong. I think something's the
matter with me."
"Nothin' aint ever the matter with me," said Ben, complacently; "but
you're a puny little chap, that look as if you might blow away some
day."
It was now April, and the weather was of that mild character that saps
the strength and produces a feeling of weakness and debility. Mark had
been exposed during the winter to the severity of stormy weather, and
more than once got thoroughly drenched. It was an exposure that Ben
would only have laughed at, but Mark was slightly built, without much
strength of constitution, and he had been feeling very languid for a
few days, so that it was with an effort that he dragged himself round
during the day with his little bundle of matches.
This conversation with Ben took place in the morning just as both boys
were going to work.
They separated at the City Hall Park, Ben finding a customer in front
of the "Times" building, while Mark, after a little deliberation,
decided to go on to Pearl Street with his matches. He had visited the
offices in most of the lower streets, but this was a new region to him,
and he thought he might meet with better success there. So he kept on
his way.
The warm sun and the sluggish air made his head ache, and he felt
little disposition to offer his wares for sale. He called at one or two
offices, but effected no sales. At length he reached a large warehouse
with these names displayed on the sign over the door:--
"ROCKWELL & COOPER."
This, as the reader will remember, was the establishment in which
Richard Hunter, formerly Ragged Dick, was now book-keeper.
At this point a sudden faintness came over Mark, and he sank to the
ground insensible.
A moment before Richard Hunter handed a couple of letters to the office
boy,--known to the readers of the earlier volumes in this series as
Micky Maguire,--and said, "Michael, I should like to have you carry
these at once to the post-office. On the way you may stop at Trescott
& Wayne's, and get this bill cashed, if possible."
"All right, Mr. Hunter," said Michael, respectfully.
Richard Hunter and Micky Maguire had been boot-blacks together, and
had had more than one contest for the supremacy. They had been sworn
enemies, and Micky had done his utmost to injure Richard, but the
latter, by his magnanimity, had finally wholly overcome the antipathy
of his former foe, and, when opportunity offered, had lifted him to a
position in the office where he was himself employed. In return, Micky
had become an enthusiastic admirer of Richard, and, so far from taking
advantage of their former relations, had voluntarily taken up the habit
of addressing him as Mr. Hunter.
Michael went out on his errand, but just outside the door came near
stepping upon the prostrate form of the little match boy.
"Get up here!" he said, roughly, supposing at first that Mark had
thrown himself down out of laziness and gone to sleep.
Mark didn't answer, and Micky, bending over, saw his fixed expression
and waxen pallor.
"Maybe the little chap's dead," he thought, startled, and, without
more ado, took him up in his strong arms and carried him into the
counting-room.
"Who have you got there, Michael?" asked Richard Hunter, turning round
in surprise.
"A little match boy that was lyin' just outside the door. He looks as
if he might be dead."
Richard jumped at once from his stool, and, approaching the boy, looked
earnestly in his face.
"He has fainted away," he said, after a pause. "Bring some water,
quick!"
Micky brought a glass of water, which was thrown in the face of Mark.
The match boy gave a little shiver, and, opening his eyes, fixed them
upon Richard Hunter.
"Where am I?" he asked, vacantly.
"You are with friends," said Richard, gently. "You were found at our
door faint. Do you feel sick?"
"I feel weak," said Mark.
"Have you been well lately?"
"No, I've felt tired and weak."
"Are you a match boy?"
"Yes."
"Have you parents living?"
"No," said Mark.
"Poor fellow!" said Richard. "I know how to pity you. I have no parents
either."
"But you have got money," said Mark. "You don't have to live in the
street."
"I was once a street boy like you."
"You!" repeated the match boy, in surprise.
"Yes. But where do you sleep?"
"At the Lodging House."
"It is a good place. Michael, you had better go to the post-office now."
Mark looked about him a little anxiously.
"Where are my matches?" he asked.
"Just outside; I'll get them," said Michael, promptly.
He brought them in, and then departed on his errand.
"I guess I'd better be going," said Mark, rising feebly.
"No," said Richard. "You are not able. Come here and sit down. You will
feel stronger by and by. Did you eat any breakfast this morning?"
"A little," said Mark, "but I was not very hungry."
"Do you think you could eat anything now?" Mark shook his head.
"No," he said, "I don't feel hungry. I only feel tired."
"Would you like to rest?"
"Yes. That's all I want."
"Come here then, and I will see what I can do for you."
Mark followed his new friend into the warehouse, where Richard found
a soft bale of cotton, and told Mark he might lie down upon it. This
the poor boy was glad enough to do. In his weakness he was disposed
to sleep, and soon closed his eyes in slumber. Several times Richard
went out to look at him, but found him dozing, and was unwilling to
interrupt him.
The day wore away, and afternoon came.
Mark got up from his cotton bale, and with unsteady steps came to the
door of the counting-room.
"I'm going," he said.
Richard turned round.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to the Lodge. I think I won't sell any more matches to-day."
"I'll take all you've left," said Richard. "Don't trouble yourself
about them. But you are not going to the Lodge."
Mark looked at him in surprise.
"I shall take you home with me to-night," he said. "You are not well,
and I will look after you. At the Lodge there will be a crowd of boys,
and the noise will do you harm."
"You are very kind," said Mark; "but I'm afraid I'll trouble you."
"No," said Richard, "I shan't count it a trouble. I was once a poor boy
like you, and I found friends. I'll be your friend. Go back and lie
down again, and in about an hour I shall be ready to take you with me."
It seemed strange to Mark to think that there was somebody who proposed
to protect and look after him. In many of the offices which he visited
he met with rough treatment, and was ordered out of the way, as if he
were a dog, and without human feelings. Many who treated him in this
way were really kind-hearted men who had at home children whom they
loved, but they appeared to forget that these neglected children of the
street had feelings and wants as well as their own, who were tenderly
nurtured. They did not remember that they were somebody's children,
and that cold, and harshness, and want were as hard for them to bear
as for those in a higher rank of life. But Mark was in that state of
weakness when it seemed sweet to throw off all care or thought for the
future, and to sink back upon the soft bale with the thought that he
had nothing to do but to rest.
"That boy is going to be sick," thought Richard Hunter to himself. "I
think he is going to have a fever."
It was because of this thought that he decided to carry him home. He
had a kind heart, and he knew how terrible a thing sickness is to these
little street waifs, who have no mother or sister to smooth their
pillows, or cheer them with gentle words. The friendless condition of
the little match boy touched his heart, and he resolved that, as he had
the means of taking care of him, he would do so.
"Michael," he said, at the close of business hours, "I wish you would
call a hack."
"What, to come here?" asked Micky, surprised.
"Yes. I am going to take that little boy home with me. I think he is
going to be sick, and I am afraid he would have a hard time of it if I
sent him back into the street."
"Bully for you, Mr. Hunter!" said Micky, who, though rough in his
outward manners, was yet capable of appreciating kindness in others.
There were times indeed in the past when he had treated smaller boys
brutally, but it was under the influence of passion. He had improved
greatly since, and his better nature was beginning to show itself.
Micky went out, and soon returned in state inside a hack. He was
leaning back, thinking it would be a very good thing if he had a
carriage of his own to ride in. But I am afraid that day will never
come. Micky has already turned out much better than was expected, but
he is hardly likely to rise much higher than the subordinate position
he now occupies. In capacity and education he is far inferior to his
old associate, Richard Hunter, who is destined to rise much higher than
at present.
Richard Hunter went to the rear of the warehouse where Mark still lay
on his bale.
"Come," he said; "we'll go home now."
Mark rose from his recumbent position, and walked to the door. He saw
with surprise the carriage, the door of which Micky Maguire held open.
"Are we going to ride in that?" he asked.
"Yes," said Richard Hunter. "Let me help you in."
The little match boy sank back in the soft seat in vague surprise at
his good luck. He could not help wondering what Ben Gibson would say if
he could see him now.
Richard Hunter sat beside him, and supported Mark's head. The driver
whipped up his horse, and they were speedily on their way up the Bowery
to St. Mark's Place.