At noon on a dreary November day, a lonesome little fellow stood at the
door of a cheap eating house, in Boston, and offered a solitary copy of
a morning paper for sale to the people passing.
But there were really not many people passing, for it was Thanksgiving
day, and the shops were shut, and everybody who had a home to go to, and
a dinner to eat, seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner.
Bert Hampton, the newsboy, stood trying in vain to sell the last _Extra_
left on his hands by the dull business of the morning.
An old man, with a face that looked pinched, and who was dressed in a
seedy black coat, stopped at the same doorway, and, with one hand on the
latch, he appeared to hesitate between hunger and a sense of poverty,
before going in.
It was possible, however, that he was considering whether he could
afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper, seeing it was
Thanksgiving day; so at least Bert thought, and addressed him
accordingly:--
"Buy a paper, sir? All about the fire in East Boston, and arrest of
safe-burglars in Springfield. Only two cents."
The little old man looked at the boy, with keen gray eyes which seemed
to light up the pinched look of his face, and answered in a shrill
voice:--
"You ought to come down in your price, this time of day. You can't
expect to sell a morning paper at 12 o'clock for full price."
"Well, give me a cent, then," said Bert. "That's less than cost; but
never mind. I'm bound to sell out, anyhow."
[Illustration: "_Buy a paper, sir_?"]
"You look cold," said the old man.
"Cold," replied Bert, "I'm nearly froze. And I want my dinner. And I'm
going to have a big dinner, too, seeing it's Thanksgiving day."
"Ah! lucky for you, my boy!" said the old man. "You've a home to go to,
and friends, too I hope."
"No, sir; no home, and no friend--only my mother." Bert hesitated and
grew serious, then suddenly changed his tone--"and Hop Houghton. I told
him to meet me here, and we'd have a first-rate Thanksgiving dinner
together, for it's no fun to be eating alone Thanksgiving day! It sets a
fellow thinking,--if he ever had a home, and then hasn't got a home any
more."
"It's more lonesome not to eat at all," said the old man, his gray eyes
twinkling. "And what can a boy like you have to think of? Here, I guess
I can find one cent for you--though there's nothing in the paper, I
know."
The old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow
he dropped two cents instead of one into Bert's hand.
"Here! you've made a mistake!" cried Bert. "A bargain's a bargain.
You've given me a cent too much!"
"No, I didn't,--I never give anybody a cent too much!"
"But--see here!" And Bert showed the two cents, offering to return one.
"No matter," said the old man. "It will be so much less for _my_
dinner--that's all."
Bert had instinctively pocketed the pennies, but his sympathies were
excited.
"Poor old man!" he thought; "he's seen better days, I guess. Perhaps
he's no home. A boy like me can stand it, but I guess it must be hard
for him. He meant to give me the odd cent, all the while; and I don't
believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day."
All this, which I have been obliged to write out slowly in words, went
through Bert's mind like a flash. He was a generous little fellow, and
any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart overflow.
"Look here," he cried; "where are _you_ going to get your dinner,
to-day?"
"I can get a bite here as well as anywhere--it don't matter much to me,"
replied the old man.
"Come; eat dinner with me," said Bert, "I'd like to have you."
"I'm afraid I couldn't afford to dine as you are going to," said the
man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again.
"I'll pay for your dinner!" Bert exclaimed. "Come! we don't have a
Thanksgiving but once a year, and a fellow wants a good time then."
"But you are waiting for another boy."
"Oh! Hop Houghton. He won't come now, it's too late. He's gone to a
place down in North street, I guess,--a place I don't like, there's so
much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there." Bert cast a final
glance up the street, but could see nothing of his friend.
"No, he won't come now. So much the worse for him! He likes the men down
there; I don't."
"Ah!" said the man, taking off his hat and giving it a brush with his
elbow as they entered the restaurant, as if trying to appear as
respectable as he could in the eyes of a newsboy of such fastidious
tastes.
To make him feel quite comfortable in his mind on that point, Bert
hastened to say:--
"I mean rowdies, and such. Poor people, if they behave themselves, are
just as respectable to me as rich folks. I ain't at all aristocratic!"
"Ah, indeed!" And the old man smiled again, and seemed to look relieved.
"I'm very glad to hear it."
He placed his hat on the floor, and took a seat opposite Bert at a
little table which they had all to themselves. Bert offered him the bill
of fare.
"I must ask you to choose for me; nothing very extravagant, you know I
am used to plain fare."
"So am I. But I'm going to have a dinner, for once in my life, and so
are you," cried Bert, generously. "What do you say to chicken soup--and
wind up with a big piece of squash pie! How's that for a Thanksgiving
dinner?"
"Sumptuous!" said the old man, appearing to glow with the warmth of the
room and the prospect of a good dinner. "But won't it cost you too
much?"
"Too much? No, sir!" said Bert. "Chicken soup, fifteen cents; pie--they
give tremendous big pieces here, thick, I tell you--ten cents. That's
twenty-five cents; half a dollar for two. Of course, I don't do this way
every day in the year! But mother's glad to have me, once in a while.
Here! waiter!" And Bert gave his princely order as if it were no very
great thing for a liberal young fellow like him, after all.
"Where is your mother? Why don't you take dinner with her?" the little
man asked.
Bert's face grew sober in a moment.
"That's the question! Why don't I? I'll tell you why I don't. I've got
the best mother in the world! What I'm trying to do is to make a home
for her, so we can live together, and eat our Thanksgiving dinners
together, sometime. Some boys want one thing, some another; there's one
goes in for good times, another's in such a hurry to get rich, he don't
care much how he does it; but what I want most of anything is to be with
my mother and my two sisters again, and I am not ashamed to say so."
Bert's eyes grew very tender, and he went on; while his companion across
the table watched him with a very gentle, searching look.
"I haven't been with her now for two years--hardly at all since father
died. When his business was settled up,--he kept a little hosiery store
on Hanover street,--it was found he hadn't left us anything. We had
lived pretty well, up to that time, and I and my two sisters had been to
school; but then mother had to do something, and her friends got her
places to go out nursing; she's a nurse now. Everybody likes her, and
she has enough to do. We couldn't be with her, of course. She got us
boarded at a good place, but I saw how hard it was going to be for her
to support us, so I said, I'm a boy; I can do something for myself; you
just pay the board for the girls and keep them to school, and I'll go
to work, and maybe help you a little, besides taking care of myself."
"What could you do?" said the little old man.
"That's it; I was only eleven years old; and what could I do? What I
should have liked would have been some nice place where I could do light
work, and stand a chance of learning a good business. But beggars
mustn't be choosers. I couldn't find such a place; and I wasn't going to
be loafing about the streets, so I went to selling newspapers. I've sold
newspapers ever since, and I shall be twelve years old next month."
"You like it?" said the old man.
"I like to get my own living," replied Bert, proudly. "But what I want
is, to learn some trade, or regular business, and settle down and make a
home for my mother. But there's no use talking about that.
"Well I've told you about myself," added Bert; "now suppose _you_ tell
_me_ something?"
"About myself?"
"Yes. I think that would go pretty well with the pie."
But the man shook his head. "I could go back and tell you about many of
my plans and high hopes when I was a lad of your age; but it would be
too much like your own story over again. Life isn't what we think it
will be, when we are young. You'll find that out soon enough. I am all
alone in the world now; and I am nearly seventy years old."
"It must be so lonely, at your age! What do you do for a living?"
"I have a little place in Devonshire street. My name is Crooker. You'll
find me up two nights of stairs, back room at the right. Come and see
me, and I'll tell you all about my business and perhaps help you to such
a place as you want, for I know several business men. Now don't fail."
And Mr. Crooker wrote his address, with a little stub of a pencil, on a
corner of the newspaper which had led to their acquaintance, tore it off
carefully, and gave it to Bert.
Thereupon the latter took a card from his pocket, and handed it across
the table to his new friend.
[Illustration: HERBERT HAMPTON Dealer in Newspapers]
The old man read the card, with his sharp gray eyes, which glowed up
funnily at Bert, seeming to say, "Isn't this rather aristocratic for a
twelve-year-old news-boy?"