STREET SCENES.
"Here's Broadway," said Jerry, suddenly.
They emerged from the side street on which they had been walking, and,
turning the corner, found themselves in the great thoroughfare, a block
or two above Trinity Church.
Ben surveyed the busy scenes that opened before him, with the eager
interest of a country boy who saw them for the first time.
"What church is that?" he asked, pointing to the tall spire of the
imposing church that faces Wall Street.
"That's Trinity Church."
"Do you go to church there?"
"I don't go anywhere else," said Jerry, equivocally. "What's the use of
going to church?"
"I thought everybody went to church," said Ben, speaking from his
experience in a country village "that is, most everybody," he corrected
himself, as several persons occurred to his mind who were more punctual
in their attendance at the liquor saloon than the church.
"If I'd got good clothes like you have I'd go once just to see what it's
like; but I'd a good sight rather go to the old Bowery Theatre."
"But you ought not to say that," said Ben, a little startled.
"Why not?"
"Because it's better to go to church than to the theatre."
"Is it?" said Jerry. "Well, you can go if you want to. I'd give more for
a stunnin' old play at the Bowery than fifty churches."
Ben began to suspect that Jerry was rather loose in his ideas on the
subject of religion, but did not think it best to say so, for fear of
giving offence, though in all probability Jerry's sensitiveness would
not have been at all disturbed by such a charge.
During the last portion of the conversation they had been standing still
at the street corner.
"I'm goin' to Nassau Street," said Jerry. "If you want to go up
Broadway, that's the way."
Without waiting for an answer he darted across the street, threading his
way among the numerous vehicles with a coolness and a success which
amazed Ben, who momentarily expected to see him run over. He drew a long
breath when he saw him safe on the other side, and bethought himself
that he would not like to take a similar risk. He felt sorry to have
Jerry leave him so abruptly. The boot-black had already imparted to him
considerable information about New York, which he saw was likely to be
of benefit to him. Besides, he felt that any society was better than
solitude, and a sudden feeling of loneliness overpowered him, as he felt
that among the crowd of persons that jostled him as he stood at the
corner, there was not one who felt an interest in him, or even knew his
name. It was very different in his native village, where he knew
everybody, and everybody had a friendly word for him. The thought did
occur to him for a moment whether he had been wise in running away from
home; but the thought of the unjust punishment came with it, and his
expression became firmer and more resolute.
"I won't go home if I starve," he said proudly to himself; and armed
with this new resolution he proceeded up Broadway.
His attention was soon drawn to the street merchants doing business on
the sidewalk. Here was a vender of neckties, displaying a varied
assortment of different colors, for "only twenty-five cents each." Next
came a candy merchant with his stock in trade, divided up into irregular
lumps, and labelled a penny apiece. They looked rather tempting, and Ben
would have purchased, but he knew very well that his cash capital
amounted to only twenty-five cents, which, considering that he was as
yet without an income, was likely to be wanted for other purposes.
Next came a man with an assortment of knives, all of them open, and
sticking into a large board, which was the only shop required by their
proprietor. Ben stopped a moment to look at them. He had always had a
fancy for knives, but was now without one. In fact he had sold a
handsome knife, which he had received as a birthday present, for
seventy-five cents, to raise money for his present expedition. Of this
sum but twenty-five cents remained.
"Will you buy a knife to-day, young gentleman?" asked the vender, who
was on the alert for customers.
"No, I guess not," said Ben.
"Here's a very nice one for only one dollar," said the street merchant,
taking up a showy-looking knife with three blades. "Its the best of
steel, warranted. You won't get another such knife for the price in the
city."
It did look cheap certainly. Ben could not but allow that. He would like
to have owned it, but circumstances forbade.
"No, I won't buy to-day," he said.
"Here, you shall have it for ninety-four cents," and the vender began to
roll it up in a piece of paper. "You can't say it isn't cheap."
"Yes, it's cheap enough," said Ben, moving away, "but I haven't got the
money with me."
This settled the matter, and the dealer reluctantly unrolled it, and
replaced it among his stock.
"If you'll call round to-morrow, I'll save it for you till then," he
said.
"All right," said Ben.
"I wonder," he thought, "whether he would be so anxious to sell, if he
knew that I had run away from home, and had but twenty-five cents in the
world?"
Ben's neat dress deceived the man, who naturally supposed him to belong
to a city family well to do.
Our young hero walked on till he came to the Astor House. He stood on
the steps a few minutes taking a view of what may be considered the
liveliest and most animated part of New York. Nearly opposite was
Barnum's American Museum, the site being now occupied by the costly and
elegant Herald Building and Park Bank. He looked across to the lower end
of the City Hall Park, not yet diverted from its original purpose for
the new Post Office building. He saw a procession of horse-cars in
constant motion up and down Park Row. Everything seemed lively and
animated; and again the thought came to Ben, "If there is employment for
all these people, there must be something for me to do."
He crossed to the foot of the Park, and walked up on the Park Row side.
Here again he saw a line of street merchants. Most conspicuous were the
dealers in penny ballads, whose wares lined the railings, and were
various enough to suit every taste. Here was an old woman, who might
have gained a first prize for ugliness, presiding over an apple-stand.
"Take one, honey; it's only two cints," she said, observing that Ben's
attention was drawn to a rosy-cheeked apple.
Ben was rather hungry, and reflecting that probably apples were as cheap
as any other article of diet, he responded to the appeal by purchasing.
It proved to be palatable, and he ate it with a good relish.
"Ice-cream, only a penny a glass," was the next announcement. The
glasses, to be sure, were of very small size. Still ice-cream in any
quantity for a penny seemed so ridiculously cheap that Ben, poor as he
was, could not resist the temptation.
"I'll take a glass," he said.
A dab of ice-cream was deposited in a glass, and with a pewter spoon
handed to Ben. He raised the spoon to his mouth, but alas! the mixture
was not quite so tempting to the taste as to the eye and the pocket. It
might be ice-cream, but there was an indescribable flavor about it, only
to be explained on the supposition that the ice had been frozen
dish-water. Ben's taste had not been educated up to that point which
would enable him to relish it. He laid it down with an involuntary
contortion of the face.
"Give it to me, Johnny," he heard at his elbow.
Turning, he saw a small, dirty-faced boy of six, with bare feet and
tattered attire, who was gazing with a look of greedy desire at the
delicious mixture.
Ben handed him the glass and spoon, and stood by, looking at him with
some curiosity as he disposed of the contents with a look of evident
enjoyment.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"It's bully," said the young epicure.
If Ben had not been restricted by his narrow means, he would have
purchased another glass for the urchin. It would have been a very cheap
"treat." But our young adventurer reflected that he had but twenty-two
cents left, and prudence forbade.
"I don't see how he can like the nasty stuff," he thought.
But the time was to come when Ben himself, grown less fastidious, would
be able to relish food quite as uninviting.
Ben made his way across the Park to Broadway again. He felt that it was
high time for him to be seeking employment. His ideas on this subject
were not very well defined, but when he left home he made up his mind
that he would try to get a place in a store on Broadway. He supposed
that, among the great number of stores, there would be a chance for him
to get into some one. He expected to make enough to live in a
comfortable boarding-house, and buy his clothes, though he supposed that
would be about all. He expected to have to economize on spending money
the first year, but the second year his wages would be raised, and then
it would come easier. All this shows how very verdant and unpractical
our young adventurer was, and what disappointment he was preparing for
himself.
However, Ben's knowledge was to come by experience, and that before
long.
Reaching Broadway, he walked up slowly on the west side, looking in at
the shop-windows. In the lower part of this busy street are many
wholesale houses, while the upper part is devoted principally to retail
shops. Coming to a large warehouse for the sale of ready-made clothing,
Ben thought he might as well begin there. In such a large place there
must be a good deal to do.
He passed in and looked about him rather doubtfully. The counters, which
were numerous, were filled high with ready-made garments. Ben saw no one
as small as himself, and that led him to doubt whether his size might
not be an objection.
"Well, sonny, what do you want?" asked a clerk.
"Don't you want to hire a boy?" asked our young adventurer, plunging
into his business.
"I suppose you have had considerable experience in the business?" said
the clerk inclined to banter him a little.
"No, I haven't," said Ben, frankly.
"Indeed, I judged from your looks that you were a man of experience."
"If you don't want to hire me, I'll go," said Ben, independently.
"Well, young man, I'm afraid you'll have to go. The fact is, we should
have to _higher_ you before we could _hire_ you;" and the clerk laughed
at his witticism.
Ben naturally saw nothing to laugh at, but felt rather indignant. He
stepped into the street, a little depressed at the result of his first
application. But then, as he reflected, there were a great many other
stores besides this, and he might have better luck next time. He walked
on some distance, however, before trying again. Indeed, he had got above
Bleecker Street, when his attention was arrested by a paper pasted
inside of a shop-window, bearing the inscription:--
"CASH-BOYS WANTED."
Ben did not clearly understand what were the duties of a cash-boy,
though he supposed they must have something to do with receiving money.
Looking in through the glass door he saw boys as small as himself
flitting about, and this gave him courage to enter and make an
application for a place.
He entered, therefore, and walked up boldly to the first clerk he saw.
"Do you want a cash-boy?" he asked.
"Go up to that desk, Johnny," said the clerk, pointing to a desk about
midway of the store. A stout gentleman stood behind it, writing
something in a large book.
Ben went up, and repeated his inquiry. "Do you want a cash-boy?"
"How old are you?" asked the gentleman looking down at him.
"Ten years old."
"Have you ever been in a store?"
"No, sir."
"Do you live in the city?"
"Yes, sir."
"With your parents?"
"No, sir," said Ben, with hesitation.
"Who do you live with, then?"
"With nobody. I take care of myself."
"Humph!" The gentleman looked a little surprised, not at the idea of a
boy of ten looking out for himself, for such cases are common enough in
New York, but at the idea of such a well-dressed lad as Ben being in
that situation.
"How long have you been your own man?" he inquired.
"I've only just begun," Ben admitted.
"Are your parents dead?"
"No, sir; they're alive."
"Then I advise you to go back to them. We don't receive any boys into
our employment, who do not live with their parents."
The gentleman returned to his writing, and Ben saw that his case was
hopeless. His disappointment was greater than before, for he liked the
looks of the proprietor, if, as he judged, this was he. Besides, boys
were wanted, and his size would be no objection, judging from the
appearance of the other boys in the store. So he had been sanguine of
success. Now he saw that there was an objection which he could not
remove, and which would be very likely to stand in his way in other
places.