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Transcriber's notes:
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for the convenience of some readers. These have been
indicated by an asterisk.
A list of some of the author's other books has been moved from the front
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[Illustration: Front cover]*
[Illustration: Title page:
RAGGED DICK SERIES BY HORATIO ALGER JR.
BEN THE LUGGAGE BOY]
BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;
OR,
AMONG THE WHARVES.
BY
HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK," "FAME AND FORTUNE," "MARK, THE MATCH
BOY," "ROUGH AND READY," "CAMPAIGN SERIES,"
"LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," ETC.
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,
PHILADELPHIA,
CHICAGO, TORONTO.
TO
ANNIE,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED
In Tender Remembrance,
BY HER
_AFFECTIONATE BROTHER_
PREFACE.
In presenting "Ben, the Luggage Boy," to the public, as the fifth of the
Ragged Dick Series, the author desires to say that it is in all
essential points a true history; the particulars of the story having
been communicated to him, by Ben himself, nearly two years since. In
particular, the circumstances attending the boy's running away from
home, and adopting the life of a street boy, are in strict accordance
with Ben's own statement. While some of the street incidents are
borrowed from the writer's own observation, those who are really
familiar with the different phases which street life assumes in New
York, will readily recognize their fidelity. The chapter entitled "The
Room under the Wharf" will recall to many readers of the daily journals
a paragraph which made its appearance within two years. The writer
cannot close without expressing anew his thanks for the large share of
favor which has been accorded to the volumes of the present series, and
takes this opportunity of saying that, in their preparation, invention
has played but a subordinate part. For his delineations of character and
choice of incidents, he has been mainly indebted to his own observation,
aided by valuable communications and suggestions from those who have
been brought into familiar acquaintance with the class whose mode of
life he has sought to describe.
NEW YORK, April 5, 1876.
BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;
OR,
AMONG THE WHARVES.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCES BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY.
"How much yer made this mornin', Ben?"
"Nary red," answered Ben, composedly.
"Had yer breakfast?"
"Only an apple. That's all I've eaten since yesterday. It's most time
for the train to be in from Philadelphy. I'm layin' round for a job."
The first speaker was a short, freckled-faced boy, whose box strapped to
his back identified him at once as a street boot-black. His hair was
red, his fingers defaced by stains of blacking, and his clothing
constructed on the most approved system of ventilation. He appeared to
be about twelve years old.
The boy whom he addressed as Ben was taller, and looked older. He was
probably not far from sixteen. His face and hands, though browned by
exposure to wind and weather, were several shades cleaner than those of
his companion. His face, too, was of a less common type. It was easy to
see that, if he had been well dressed, he might readily have been taken
for a gentleman's son. But in his present attire there was little chance
of this mistake being made. His pants, marked by a green stripe, small
around the waist and very broad at the hips, had evidently once belonged
to a Bowery swell; for the Bowery has its swells as well as Broadway,
its more aristocratic neighbor. The vest had been discarded as a
needless luxury, its place being partially supplied by a shirt of thick
red flannel. This was covered by a frock-coat, which might once have
belonged to a member of the Fat Men's Association, being aldermanic in
its proportions. Now it was fallen from its high estate, its nap and
original gloss had long departed, and it was frayed and torn in many
places. But among the street-boys dress is not much regarded, and Ben
never thought of apologizing for the defects of his wardrobe. We shall
learn in time what were his faults and what his virtues, for I can
assure my readers that street boys do have virtues sometimes, and when
they are thoroughly convinced that a questioner feels an interest in
them will drop the "chaff" in which they commonly indulge, and talk
seriously and feelingly of their faults and hardships. Some do this for
a purpose, no doubt, and the verdant stranger is liable to be taken in
by assumed virtue, and waste sympathy on those who do not deserve it.
But there are also many boys who have good tendencies and aspirations,
and only need to be encouraged and placed under right influences to
develop into worthy and respectable men.
The conversation recorded above took place at the foot of Cortlandt
Street, opposite the ferry wharf. It was nearly time for the train, and
there was the usual scene of confusion. Express wagons, hacks, boys,
laborers, were gathering, presenting a confusing medley to the eye of
one unaccustomed to the spectacle.
Ben was a luggage boy, his occupation being to wait at the piers for the
arrival of steamboats, or at the railway stations, on the chance of
getting a carpet-bag or valise to carry. His business was a precarious
one. Sometimes he was lucky, sometimes unlucky. When he was flush, he
treated himself to a "square meal," and finished up the day at Tony
Pastor's, or the Old Bowery, where from his seat in the pit he indulged
in independent criticism of the acting, as he leaned back in his seat
and munched peanuts, throwing the shells about carelessly.
It is not surprising that the street-boys like the Old Bowery, and are
willing to stint their stomachs, or run the risk of a night in the
streets, for the sake of the warm room and the glittering illusions of
the stage, introducing them for the time being to the society of nobles
and ladies of high birth, and enabling them to forget for a time the
hardships of their own lot, while they follow with rapt interest the
fortunes of Lord Frederic Montressor or the Lady Imogene Delacour.
Strange as it may seem, the street Arab has a decided fancy for these
pictures of aristocracy, and never suspects their want of fidelity. When
the play ends, and Lord Frederic comes to his own, having foiled all the
schemes of his crafty and unprincipled enemies, no one rejoices more
than the ragged boy who has sat through the evening an interested
spectator of the play, and in his pleasure at the successful denouement,
he almost forgets that he will probably find the Newsboys' Lodging House
closed for the night, and be compelled to take up with such sleeping
accommodations as the street may provide.
Ben crossed the street, taking a straight course, without paying
especial attention to the mud, which caused other pedestrians to pick
their way. To the condition of his shoes he was supremely indifferent.
Stockings he did not wear. They are luxuries in which few street boys
indulge.
He had not long to wait. The boat bumped against the wharf, and directly
a crowd of passengers poured through the open gates in a continuous
stream.
Ben looked sharply around him to judge who would be likely to employ
him. His attention was drawn to an elderly lady, with a large carpet-bag
swelled almost to bursting. She was looking about her in a bewildered
manner.
"Carry your bag, ma'am?" he said, at the same time motioning towards it.
"Who be you?" asked the old lady, suspiciously.
"I'm a baggage-smasher," said Ben.
"Then I don't want you," answered the old lady, clinging to her bag as
if she feared it would be wrested from her. "I'm surprised that the law
allows sich things. You might be in a better business, young man, than
smashing baggage."
"That's where you're right, old lady," said Ben.
"Bankin' would pay better, if I only had the money to start on."
"Are you much acquainted in New York?" asked the old lady.
"Yes," said Ben; "I know the mayor 'n' aldermen, 'n' all the principal
men. A. T. Stooart's my intimate friend, and I dine with Vanderbilt
every Sunday when I aint engaged at Astor's."
"Do you wear them clo'es when you visit your fine friends?" asked the
old lady, shrewdly.
"No," said Ben. "Them are my every-day clo'es. I've got some velvet
clo'es to home, embroidered with gold."
"I believe you are telling fibs," said the old lady. "What I want to
know is, if you know my darter, Mrs. John Jones; her first name is
Seraphiny. She lives on Bleecker Street, and her husband, who is a nice
man, though his head is bald on top, keeps a grocery store."
"Of course I do," said Ben. "It was only yesterday that she told me her
mother was comin' to see her. I might have knowed you was she."
"How would you have knowed?"
"Cause she told me just how you looked."
"Did she? How did she say I looked?"
"She said you was most ninety, and--"
"It isn't true," said the old lady, indignantly. "I'm only
seventy-three, and everybody says I'm wonderful young-lookin' for my
years. I don't believe Seraphiny told you so."
"She might have said you looked as if you was most ninety."
"You're a sassy boy!" said the owner of the carpet-bag, indignantly. "I
don't see how I'm going to get up to Seraphiny's," she continued,
complainingly. "They'd ought to have come down to meet me. How much will
you charge to carry my carpet-bag, and show me the way to my darter's?"
"Fifty cents," said Ben.
"Fifty cents!" repeated the old lady, aghast. "I didn't think you'd
charge more'n ten."
"I have to," said Ben. "Board's high in New York."
"How much would they charge me in a carriage? Here you, sir," addressing
a hackman, "what'll you charge to carry me to my darter's house, Mrs.
John Jones, in Bleecker Street?"
"What's the number?"
"I think it's a hundred and sixty-three."
"A dollar and a half."
"A dollar 'n' a half? Couldn't you do it for less?"
"Carry your bag, sir?" asked Ben, of a gentleman passing.
The gentleman shook his head.
He made one or two other proposals, which being in like manner
unsuccessful, he returned to the old lady, who, having by this time got
through her negotiations with the hackman, whom she had vainly striven
to beat down to seventy-five cents, was in a more favorable mood to
accept Ben's services.
"Can't you take less than fifty cents?" she asked.
"No," said Ben, decidedly.
"I'll give you forty."
"Couldn't do it," said Ben, who felt sure of gaining his point now.
"Well, I suppose I shall be obleeged to hire you," said the old lady
with a sigh. "Seraphiny ought to have sent down to meet me. I didn't
tell her I was comin' to-day; but she might have thought I'd come, bein'
so pleasant. Here, you boy, you may take the bag, and mind you don't run
away with it. There aint nothin' in it but some of my clo'es."
"I don't want none of your clo'es," said Ben. "My wife's bigger'n you,
and they wouldn't fit her."
"Massy sakes! you aint married, be you?"
"Why shouldn't I be?"
"I don't believe it. You're not old enough. But I'm glad you don't want
the clo'es. They wouldn't be of no use to you. Just you take the bag,
and I'll foller on behind."
"I want my pay first."
"I aint got the change. My darter Seraphiny will pay you when we get to
her house."
"That don't go down," said Ben, decidedly. "Payment in advance; that's
the way I do business."
"You'll get your pay; don't you be afraid."
"I know I shall; but I want it now."
"You won't run away after I've paid you, will you?"
"In course not. That aint my style."
The old lady took out her purse, and drew therefrom forty-seven cents.
She protested that she had not a cent more. Ben pardoned the deficiency,
feeling that he would, notwithstanding, be well paid for his time.
"All right," said he, magnanimously. "I don't mind the three cents. It
aint any object to a man of my income. Take my hand, old lady, and we'll
go across the street."
"I'm afraid of bein' run over," said she, hesitatingly.
"What's the odds if you be?" said Ben. "The city'll have to pay you
damages."
"But if I got killed, that wouldn't do me any good," remarked the old
lady, sensibly.
"Then the money'd go to your friends," said Ben, consolingly.
"Do you think I will be run over?" asked the old lady, anxiously.
"In course you won't. I'll take care of you. They wouldn't dare to run
over me," said Ben, confidently.
Somewhat reassured by this remark, the old lady submitted to Ben's
guidance, and was piloted across the street in safety.
"I wouldn't live in New York for a heap of money. It would be as much as
my life is worth," she remarked. "How far is Bleecker Street?"
"About two miles."
"I almost wish I'd rid. But a dollar and a half is a sight to pay."
"You'd have to pay more than that."
"That's all the man asked."
"I know," said Ben; "but when he'd got you there, he'd have charged you
five dollars."
"I wouldn't have paid it."
"Yes, you would," said Ben.
"He couldn't make me."
"If you didn't pay, he'd have locked you in, and driven you off to the
river, and dumped you in."
"Do they ever do such things?" asked the old lady, startled.
"In course they do. Only last week a beautiful young lady was served
that way, 'cause she wouldn't pay what the hackman wanted."
"And what was done to him?"
"Nothin'," said Ben. "The police is in league with 'em, and get their
share of the money."
"Why, you don't say so! What a wicked place New York is, to be sure!"
"Of course it is. It's so wicked I'm goin' to the country myself as soon
as I get money enough to buy a farm."
"Have you got much money saved up?" asked the old lady, interested.
"Four thousand six hundred and seventy-seven dollars and fifty-five
cents. I don't count this money you give me, 'cause I'm goin' to spend
it."
"You didn't make it all carryin' carpet-bags," said the old lady,
incredulously.
"No, I made most of it spekilatin' in real estate," said Ben.
"You don't say!"
"Yes, I do."
"You've got most enough to buy a farm a'ready."
"I aint goin' to buy till I can buy a good one."
"What's the name of this street?"
"West Broadway."
They were really upon West Broadway by this time, that being as direct a
line as any to Bleecker Street.
"You see that store," said Ben.
"Yes; what's the matter of it?"
"I don't own it _now_," said Ben. "I sold it, cos the tenants didn't pay
their rent reg'lar."
"I should think you'd dress better if you've got so much money," said
the old lady, not unnaturally.
"What's the use of wearin' nice clo'es round among the wharves?" said
Ben.
"There's suthin in that. I tell my darter Jane--she lives in the
country--that it's no use dressin' up the children to go to
school,--they're sure to get their clo'es tore and dirty afore they get
home."
So Ben beguiled the way with wonderful stories, with which he played
upon the old lady's credulity. Of course it was wrong; but a street
education is not very likely to inspire its pupils with a reverence for
truth; and Ben had been knocking about the streets of New York, most of
the time among the wharves, for six years. His street education had
commenced at the age of ten. He had adopted it of his own free will.
Even now there was a comfortable home waiting for him; there were
parents who supposed him dead, and who would have found a difficulty in
recognizing him under his present circumstances. In the next chapter a
light will be thrown upon his past history, and the reader will learn
how his street life began.