PROFESSIONAL ADVICE.
While Ben reflected upon the majesty and power of two cents, seated on
a check post, he was approached by a seedy individual, who had been
hovering in this vicinity eyeing him stealthily, for some time.
"Mister," said the stranger, "would you be kind enough to help a man
a little. I'm broke, and I'm sick. I have a wife and four children in
Philadelphia. I'm a shoemaker by trade, and if I could once get back
home, I'd get work; and, on my word and honor I'll send you any money
you let me have."
Ben thought of his own utter financial emptiness and smiled. The man
thought he doubted his integrity, and hastily promised:
"I'll do it, so help me! I had all my money stolen from me by a man
that I befriended, who said he had no place to stop. I've been trying
for work for two weeks and a starving to death a doing of it. I'll--"
"Hold on," interrupted Ben, "I am sorry for you but I have not a single
cent myself."
The man looked incredulous.
"It is a fact," continued Cleveland. "I want to go to New Orleans, and
here I am stopped for want of two cents with which to cross this ferry."
"What, you broke with all them good clothes on!" exclaimed the
shoemaker in astonishment.
Ben thought he was dressed very shabbily, having donned the oldest and
coarsest suit he owned, but in the eyes of the dilapidated shoemaker he
was, undoubtedly, arrayed like unto a lily of the field. He answered
however:
"I tell you the actual truth, my friend. I have not one cent myself."
"Have you had any thing to eat? Are you hungry?" asked the shoemaker,
thrusting his hand into a breast pocket and producing a package of cold
victuals wrapped up in a dirty piece of old newspaper.
Ben looked surprised at this generosity on the part of one who a moment
before had confessed himself as starving to death, but refrained from
expressing his thoughts as he declined the proffered food.
"You've got along well for chuck, then," remarked the shoemaker,
returning the package to his pocket.
Ben had a dim comprehension that "chuck" referred to food, and replied
that he was not hungry, adding the information that he was only
recently become "broke" and that it was the first time in his life such
a predicament had overtaken him; whereupon the shoemaker looked at him
with commiseration. Indeed he appeared so to sympathize with Ben that
that young gentleman was touched, and said:
"I'm very sorry I have not something to give you, for I know how a
man in your position must feel, having a wife and four children at a
distance and no money to reach them with." But this was not received
graciously by the knight of St. Crispin, who looked at Ben suspiciously
and gruffly said:
"What are you giving us;--lumps?"
Ben was at a loss for the meaning of "lumps" but answered pleasantly:
"I was speaking of your family; your wife and four children in
Philadelphia." This was said so honestly that the man's face cleared up
in a moment, and he broke into a coarse laugh.
"Philadelphia be blowed! This town's too fat to leave. Big free
lunches. Five cent hang ups. Best town to codge in you ever struck!
Give you a reg'lar sit down here. Philadelphia you only get a back
door hand-out. Down there they allus think you're after the spoons and
cutlery. Don't care a durn what you are after here. All of 'em after
sumthin' themselves. All politicians here. Tell 'em you belongs to
the Ward. Find out what ward you're in first. Give you big squares.
Sometimes wealth--and clo'es. Give you a copper cent in Philadelphia,
and make you go before a justice of the peace and swear you won't
spend it for drink. _Here_, don't care a cuss what you spend it
for. Philadelphia the lady of the house comes down to see you and
ask questions. _Here_, the servant girl's boss! If she's Irish, say
you're a Fenian. If she's Dutch, tell her you've got a sauerkraut
wife. If she's a nigger, just tell her you're hungry. Go striking in
Philadelphia and they'll hand you over to the police. Strike a man here
and he's _white_! Give him a stiff on some good trade. But look out
you don't get caught up. I struck a man this mornin' and give him that
I was a blacksmith. Thunder! What you suppose! He took me about six
blocks, up to where he lived over his own shop, and give me a big sit
down. Then he took me down to the shop and told me he'd give me work
for the next three months, and wanted me to go right to business! I
pulled off my coat and let on that I'd struck oil at last, an' then, of
a sudden, told him I'd a keyster down at a hang up with a leather apron
in it, an' I'd have to go after it. He wanted to lend me an apron, but
I told him I was so used to this one that I could not work without it
nohow.
"You see you must be careful who you strike. But I s'pects you're a
fresh one. Now take my advice: unless there's big inducements taking
you to New Orleans, don't you leave this town. You're well dressed,
an' you look well. Why, with those togs on, and that light over-Benny
you can beat the restaurants and lunches for the next twelve months!
Tramping aint what it used to be. It's overdone. There's too many
working at the business. There's no money in it. You stay here."
Though Ben did not more than half understand what the whilom shoemaker
had been saying, he nevertheless realized that he was conversing with
a professional parasite,--one of those social excrescences, so many of
which are to be found in all large cities. He thanked him, however,
for the kind interest He took in his welfare, but reiterated his
determination to go to New Orleans.
"Then go by boat. Beat your way on a steamer. Stow away, and when
they're off once they can't land you except they run into Havana."
"But I want to go to St. Louis first," said Ben.
"St. Louis is a good town. You hear _me_! The soup season aint
commenced yet. But they set boss free lunches!" And the professional
rolled his eyes as he mentioned the delights of the Future Great City.
"I'm much obliged to you for the information, I'm sure," replied Ben.
"But what troubles me just at present is to cross this ferry."
"To cross the ferry?"
"Yes."
"Poh! That's the easiest thing in the world. Go give 'em a racket. Go
to the wagon gate, I would. The box man's too busy to attend to you.
Tell the man there you just had your pocket picked and must get over
in time to catch the Elizabeth train. Tell him you'll pay him when you
come back in the morning. Your clothes will carry you through." And the
shoemaker smiled on Ben's wardrobe approvingly.
"Thanks for your advice; but to be frank, I had rather not tell what is
not so."
The eyes of the professional opened to their widest extent.
"Gosh! Where'd you say you were a going? New Orleans! Well, mebbe
you'll get there--mebbe not. See here, was that a stiff you was givin'
me?"
Ben replied that he did not fully comprehend what a "stiff" might be,
but he assured his interlocutor that he was sincere relative to a due
regard for the truth.
The shoemaker was evidently puzzled. He could not understand the moral
that could prevent a man from attaining a convenience within the reach
of a lie. But his astonishment was tinctured with a respect for a
virtue he could not comprehend.
"It's all right, I s'pose," he remarked, "but it's _too_ funny for me.
You're the first man I ever met that wouldn't tell whatever suited
him to get along easy. Why, look-a-here; you go up and tell that gate
keeper you're bust, and want to go over. He'll laugh at you. Look on
you with contempt. Go tell him you live in Newark, and have just had
your pocket picked. He'll respect you, and treat you civilly, whether
he believes you or not; ten to one he'll let you over. Lemme tell you
somethin' as may be useful to you on your way. There's no premiums for
truth, but there's an everlasting lot of chromos goes with good lies.
Now if it's agin your conscience to gin the gate keeper a racket, the
only other way I know for you to get over is to go up the street a
piece and jump a wagon. Gin the driver a good talk, and get him to take
you. So long, my friend. I wish you luck. The band's about to play
over in the Bowery, an' if I aint on hand in time, some unprincipled
vagabond will have my dress-circle seat with a lamppost back. So long!"
And shaking Ben by the hand, the shoemaker turned and disappeared up a
neighboring thoroughfare.
Ignoring the professional's moral advice, our friend proceeded a short
distance from the ferry, and meeting a jovial, round-faced Hibernian,
driving a dray, told his desire to go over, and the impecunious
position in which he was placed. The driver kindly gave him a lift,
and the gate was safely passed. On the ferry, Ben answered the driver's
numerous inquiries as explicitly as he thought proper, and quite an
acquaintance was struck between them. When the boat had deposited them
on the Jersey City side he dismounted, and after thanking the driver
was about proceeding on his way, when the latter thrust out a dirty,
toil soiled hand, and forced a quarter of a dollar on him. "It aint
much, but it'll help yez get a mouthful to eat," and without waiting
either protestations or thanks, the man put whip to his team and drove
off.