IN A NEW LINE.
"Ten dollars!" said Ben to himself, with exultation. "That's pretty good
pay for a few hours in the station-house. I'd like to board there a week
on the same terms."
Ben's capital now amounted to eleven dollars; but of this sum he decided
to retain one dollar as a reserve to fall back upon in case of need. The
ten dollars he determined to deposit at once in a savings-bank. He
accordingly bent his steps towards one in the course of the forenoon.
The business was quickly transacted, and Ben left the building with a
bank-book containing an entry of his first deposit.
This was a very good beginning, so Ben thought. Fifty dollars, as he had
estimated, would enable him to carry out the plan which he proposed, and
he had already one-fifth of the sum. But the accumulation of the other
forty dollars would no doubt take him a considerable time. The business
of a "baggage-smasher," as Ben knew from experience, is precarious, the
amount of gains depending partly upon luck. He had sometimes haunted the
steamboat landings for hours without obtaining a single job. Now that he
was anxious to get on, he felt this to be an objection. He began to
consider whether there was any way of adding to his income.
After considerable thought he decided to buy a supply of weekly papers,
which he could sell while waiting for a job. One advantage in selecting
weekly papers rather than daily was this, that the latter must be sold
within a few hours, or they prove a dead loss. A daily paper of
yesterday is as unsalable as a last year's almanac. As Ben was liable to
be interrupted in his paper business at any time by a chance to carry
luggage, it was an important consideration to have a stock which would
remain fresh for a few days.
This idea impressed Ben so favorably that he determined to act upon it
at once. In considering where he should go for his supply of papers, he
thought of a Broadway news-stand, which he frequently had occasion to
pass. On reaching it, he said to the proprietor, "Where do you buy your
papers?"
"What do you want to know for?"
"I thought maybe I'd go into the business."
"You don't think of setting up a stand, do you?" asked the man, with a
significant glance at Ben's ragged attire.
"No," said Ben. "I haven't got capital enough for that, unless you'll
sell out for fifty cents."
"I suppose you want a few to carry round and sell?"
"Yes."
"Where do you think of going with them?"
"Down to the wharves. I'm a baggage-smasher, and I thought I might make
somethin' by sellin' papers, when I hadn't any baggage to carry."
"I get my papers from the 'American News Company' on Nassau Street."
"I know the place well enough."
"What papers do you think I could sell best?" asked Ben.
"The picture papers go off as fast as any," said the street dealer.
"But I'll tell you what, my lad, maybe I can make an arrangement for you
to sell papers for me."
"I don't think I'd like to stand here all day," said Ben, supposing the
other to mean to engage him to tend the stand.
"I don't mean that."
"Well," said Ben, "I'm open to an offer, as the old maid of sixty told a
feller that called to see her."
"I'll tell you what I mean. I'll give you a bundle of papers every
morning to take with you. You will sell what you can, and bring back the
rest at night."
"I like that," said Ben, with satisfaction. "But how much will I get?"
"It will depend on the price of the papers. 'Harper's Weekly' and 'Frank
Leslie' sell for ten cents. I will allow you two cents on each of these.
On the 'Ledger' and 'Weekly,' and other papers of that price, I will
allow one cent. You'd make rather more if you bought them yourself; but
you might have them left on your hands."
"That's so," said Ben.
"Did you ever sell papers?"
"I used to sell the mornin' and evenin' papers before I went to
baggage-smashin'."
"Then you know something about the business. When do you want to begin?"
"Right off."
"Very well; I will make you up a bundle of a dozen papers to begin on.
I'll put in three each of the illustrated papers, and fill up with the
story papers."
"All right, mister, you know better than I what people will buy."
The dealer began to collect the papers, but paused in the middle of his
task, and looked doubtfully at our hero.
"Well, what's up?" asked Ben, observing his hesitation.
"How do I know but you'll sell the papers, and keep the money yourself?"
said the dealer.
"That's so," said Ben. "I never thought of that."
"That wouldn't be very profitable for me, you see."
"I'll bring back the money or the papers," said Ben. "You needn't be
afraid."
"Very likely you would; but how am I to know that?"
"So you don't want to trust me," said Ben, rather disappointed.
"Have you got any money?"
"Yes."
"Very well, you can leave enough with me to secure me against loss, and
I will give you the papers."
"How much will that be?"
After a little thought, the dealer answered, "Seventy-five cents." He
had some doubt whether Ben had so much; but our hero quickly set his
doubts at rest by drawing out his two half-dollars, and demanding a
quarter in change.
The sight of this money reassured the dealer. Ben's ragged clothes had
led him to doubt his financial soundness; but the discovery that he was
a capitalist to the extent of a dollar gave him considerable more
respect for him. A dollar may not be a very large sum; I hope that to
you, my young reader, it is a very small one, and that you have never
been embarrassed for the want of it; but it is enough to lift a ragged
street boy from the position of a penniless vagabond to that of a
thrifty capitalist. After seeing it, the dealer would almost have felt
safe in trusting Ben with the papers without demanding a deposit of
their value. Still it was better and safer to require a deposit, and he
therefore took the dollar from Ben, returning twenty-five cents in
change.
This preliminary matter settled, he made up the parcel of papers.
"There they are," he said. "If you're smart, you can sell 'em all before
night."
"I hope so," said Ben.
With the papers under his arm, Ben made his way westward to the
Cortlandt Street ferry, which was a favorite place of resort with him.
He did not have long to wait for his first customer. As he was walking
down Cortlandt Street, he met a gentleman, whose attention seemed
attracted by the papers he carried.
"What papers have you got there, my lad?" he inquired.
"'Harper's Weekly,' 'Frank Leslie,' 'Ledger,' 'Weekly,'" repeated Ben,
glibly, adding the names of the other papers in his parcel.
"Give me the two picture papers," said the gentleman. "Twenty cents, I
suppose."
"Yes," said Ben, "and as much more as you want to pay. I don't set no
limit to the generosity of my customers."
"You're sharp," said the gentleman, laughing. "That's worth something.
Here's twenty-five cents. You may keep the change."
"I'll do it cheerfully," said Ben. "Thank you, sir. I hope you'll buy
all your papers of me."
"I won't promise always to pay you more than the regular price, but you
may leave 'Harper's' and 'Leslie' at my office every week. Here is my
card."
Ben took the card, and put it in his pocket. He found the office to be
located in Trinity Building, Broadway.
"I'll call every week reg'lar," he said.
"That's right, my lad. Good-morning."
"Good-mornin'."
Ben felt that he had started well. He had cleared nine cents by his
sale, four representing his regular commission, while the other five
cents might be regarded as a donation. Nine cents was something. But for
his idea about the papers, he would have made nothing so far. It is a
very good thing to have two strings to your bow, so Ben thought, though
the thought did not take that precise form in his mind. He kept on his
way till he reached the ferry. There was no train in on the other side,
and would not be for some time, but passengers came over the ferry, and
Ben placed himself where he could be seen. It was some time before he
sold another paper however, although Ben, who improved some of his spare
time by looking over the pictures, was prepared to recommend them.
"What papers have you got, boy?" asked a tall, lank man, whose thin
lips and pinched expression gave him an outward appearance of meanness,
which, by the way, did not belie his real character.
Ben recited the list.
"What's the price of 'Harper's Weekly'?"
"Ten cents."
"Ten cents is too much to pay for any paper. I don't see how they have
the face to ask it."
"Nor I," said Ben; "but they don't consult me,"
"I'll give you eight cents."
"No you won't, not if I know it. I'd rather keep the paper for my
private readin'," answered Ben.
"Then you are at liberty to do so," said the gentleman, snappishly.
"You'd make profit enough, if you sold at eight cents."
"All the profit I'd make wouldn't pay for a fly's breakfast," said Ben.
The gentleman deigned no response, but walked across the street in a
dignified manner. Here he was accosted by a boot-black, who proposed to
shine his boots.
"He'll get 'em done at the wholesale price, see if he don't," thought
Ben. He kept an eye on the boot-black and his patron until the job was
finished. Then he witnessed what appeared to be an angry dispute between
the two parties. It terminated by the gentleman lifting his cane in a
menacing manner. Ben afterwards gained from the boy particulars of the
transaction, which may be given here in the third person.
"Shine yer boots?" asked the boot-black, as the gentleman reached his
side of the street, just after his unsuccessful negotiations with Ben.
"What do you charge?" he inquired.
"Ten cents."
"That's too much."
"It's the reg'lar price."
"I can get my boots blacked for five cents anywhere. If you'll do it for
that, you can go to work."
The boy hesitated. It was half price, but he had not yet obtained a job,
and he yielded. When the task was finished, his generous patron drew
four cents from his pocket.
"I haven't got but four cents," he observed. "I guess that'll do."
The boy was indignant, as was natural. To work for half price, and then
lose one-fifth of his reduced pay, was aggravating. What made it worse
was, that his customer was carefully dressed, and bore every appearance
of being a man of substance.
"I want another cent," he demanded.
"You're well enough paid," said the other, drawing on a kid glove. "Four
cents I consider very handsome pay for ten minutes' work. Many men do
not make as much."
This reasoning did not strike the little boot-black as sound. He was no
logician; but he felt that he had been defrauded, and that in a very
mean manner.
"Give me my money," he screamed, angrily.
"I'll hand you over to the authorities," said the gentleman,--though I
hardly feel justified in calling him such,--lifting his cane menacingly.
What could the boy do? Might was evidently on the side of the man who
had cheated him. But he was quick-witted, and a characteristic mode of
revenge suggested itself. The street was muddy (New York streets are
occasionally in that condition). The boot-black stooped down and
clutched a handful of mire in his hand, fortunately having no kid gloves
to soil, and, before his late customer fathomed his intention,
plentifully besprinkled one of the boots which he had just carefully
polished.
"That's worth a cent," he remarked, with satisfaction, escaping from the
wrath of the injured party.
His victim, almost speechless with rage, seemed disposed to pursue him;
but the boy, regardless of the mire, had run across the street, and to
follow would only be to make matters worse.
"If I ever catch you, I'll break every bone in your body, you little
vagabond," he said, in a voice almost choked by passion, shaking his
cane energetically.
Ben, who had witnessed the whole, burst into a hearty laugh, which drew
upon his head a portion of wrath. After a pause, the victim of his own
meanness turned up a side street. The reader will be glad to learn that
he had to employ a second boot black; so that he was not so much better
off for his economical management after all. It may be added that he was
actuated in all his dealings by the same frugality, if we may dignify it
by that name. He was a large dealer in ready-made under-clothing, for
the making of which he paid starvation prices; but, unfortunately, the
poor sewing-girls, whom he employed for a pittance, were not so well
able to defend themselves against imposition as the smart little
boot-black, who "knew his rights, and knowing, dared maintain."