THE FIRST CIGAR.
It was a week or more after Ben started in business as a
baggage-smasher, that, in returning from carrying a carpet-bag to
Lovejoy's Hotel, on Broadway, he fell in with his first city
acquaintance, Jerry Collins. Jerry had just "polished up" a gentleman's
boots, and, having been unusually lucky this morning in securing shines,
felt disposed to be lavish.
"How are you, Ben?" asked Jerry. "What are you up to now?"
"I'm a baggage-smasher," answered Ben, who was beginning to adopt the
language of the streets.
"How does it pay?"
"Well," said Ben, "sometimes it pays first rate, when I'm lucky. Other
days I don't get much to do. I didn't make but fifteen cents this
morning. I carried a bag up to Lovejoy's, and that's all the man would
pay me."
"I've made fifty cents this mornin'. Look here, Johnny."
The Johnny addressed was a boy who sold cigars, four for ten cents.
"I'll take two," said Jerry, producing five cents.
"Six cents for two," said the cigar boy.
"All right, I'll owe you the other cent," said Jerry, coolly.
"Do you smoke?" inquired Ben.
"In course I do. Don't you?"
"No."
"Why don't you?"
"I don't know," said Ben. "Do you like it?"
"It's bully. Here, take this cigar. I bought it for you."
Ben hesitated; but finally, induced mainly by a curiosity to see how it
seemed, accepted the cigar, and lighted it by Jerry's. The two boys sat
down on an empty box, and Jerry instructed Ben how to puff. Ben did not
particularly enjoy it; but thought he might as well learn now as any
other time. His companion puffed away like a veteran smoker; but after
a while Ben's head began to swim, and he felt sick at his stomach.
"I don't feel well," he said. "I guess I'll stop smoking."
"Oh, go ahead," said Jerry. "It's only because it's the first time.
You'll like it after a while."
Thus encouraged, Ben continued to smoke, though his head and his stomach
got continually worse.
"I don't like it," gasped Ben, throwing down the cigar. "I'm going to
stop."
"You've got a healthy color," said Jerry, slyly.
"I'm afraid I'm going to be awful sick," said Ben, whose sensations were
very far from comfortable. Just at this moment, ignorant of the brief
character of his present feelings, he heartily wished himself at home,
for the first time since his arrival in the city.
"You do look rather green," said Jerry. "Maybe you're going to have the
cholera. I've heard that there's some cases round."
This suggestion alarmed Ben, who laid his head down between his knees,
and began to feel worse than ever.
"Don't be scared," said Jerry, thinking it time to relieve Ben's mind.
"It's only the cigar. You'll feel all right in a jiffy."
While Ben was experiencing the disagreeable effects of his first cigar,
he resolved never to smoke another. But, as might have been expected, he
felt differently on recovering. It was not long before he could puff
away with as much enjoyment and unconcern as any of his street
companions, and a part of his earnings were consumed in this way. It may
be remarked here that the street boy does not always indulge in the
luxury of a whole cigar. Sometimes he picks up a fragment which has been
discarded by the original smoker. There are some small dealers, who make
it a business to collect these "stubs," or employ others to do so, and
then sell them to the street boys, at a penny apiece, or less, according
to size. Sometimes these stubs are bought in preference to a cheap
cigar, because they are apt to be of a superior quality. Ben, however,
never smoked "stubs." In course of time he became very much like other
street boys; but in some respects his taste was more fastidious, and he
preferred to indulge himself in a cheap cigar, which was not
second-hand.
We must now pass rapidly over the six years which elapsed from the date
of Ben's first being set adrift in the streets to the period at which
our story properly begins. These years have been fruitful of change to
our young adventurer. They have changed him from a country boy of ten,
to a self-reliant and independent street boy of sixteen. The impressions
left by his early and careful home-training have been mostly effaced.
Nothing in his garb now distinguishes him from the class of which he is
a type. He has long since ceased to care for neat or whole attire, or
carefully brushed hair. His straggling locks, usually long, protrude
from an aperture in his hat. His shoes would make a very poor
advertisement for the shoemaker by whom they were originally
manufactured. His face is not always free from stains, and his street
companions have long since ceased to charge him with putting on airs, on
account of the superior neatness of his personal appearance. Indeed, he
has become rather a favorite among them, in consequence of his
frankness, and his willingness at all times to lend a helping hand to a
comrade temporarily "hard up." He has adopted to a great extent the
tastes and habits of the class to which he belongs, and bears with
acquired philosophy the hardships and privations which fall to their
lot. Like "Ragged Dick," he has a sense of humor, which is apt to reveal
itself in grotesque phrases, or amusing exaggerations.
Of course his education, so far as education is obtained from books, has
not advanced at all. He has not forgotten how to read, having occasion
to read the daily papers. Occasionally, too, he indulges himself in a
dime novel, the more sensational the better, and is sometimes induced to
read therefrom to a group of companions whose attainments are even less
than his own.
It may be asked whether he ever thinks of his Pennsylvania home, of his
parents and his sister. At first he thought of them frequently; but by
degrees he became so accustomed to the freedom and independence of his
street life, with its constant variety, that he would have been
unwilling to return, even if the original cause of his leaving home were
removed. Life in a Pennsylvania village seemed "slow" compared with the
excitement of his present life.
In the winter, when the weather was inclement, and the lodging
accommodations afforded by the street were not particularly
satisfactory, Ben found it convenient to avail himself of the cheap
lodgings furnished by the Newsboys' Lodging House; but at other times,
particularly in the warm summer nights, he saved his six cents, and
found a lodging for himself among the wharves, or in some lane or alley.
Of the future he did not think much. Like street boys in general, his
horizon was limited by the present. Sometimes, indeed, it did occur to
him that he could not be a luggage boy all his lifetime. Some time or
other he must take up something else. However, Ben carelessly concluded
that he could make a living somehow or other, and as to old age that was
too far ahead to disquiet himself about.