[Illustration: DAN, THE NEWSBOY.]
DAN,
THE NEWSBOY.
By HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
_Author of "The Train Boy," "The Errand Boy," "Tony the
Hero," "Tom Temple's Career," etc., etc._
[Illustration: Logo]
NEW YORK:
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.
Copyright, 1893, by A. L. BURT.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I.--Introducing Dan 9
II.--Dan at Home 16
III.--Gripp's Clothing Store 24
IV.--An Odd Couple 31
V.--Effecting a Loan 39
VI.--More than a Match 46
VII.--Mr. Gripp is Worsted 54
VIII.--Mike Rafferty's Trick 63
IX.--Mike's Theft is Discovered 69
X.--Dan as a Detective 77
XI.--Dan Has Another Adventure 85
XII.--A Mysterious Lady 93
XIII.--Althea 101
XIV.--A New Home 109
XV.--Dan Becomes a Detective 117
XVI.--Dan Makes a Discovery 125
XVII.--Talbot's Secret 133
XVIII.--Two Knights of the Highway 141
XIX.--Dan as a Good Samaritan 150
XX.--Laying the Train 154
XXI.--Twelve Thousand Dollars 158
XXII.--Talbot's Scheme Fails 166
XXIII.--The Calm Before the Storm 175
XXIV.--Old Jack, the Janitor 179
XXV.--The Burglary 183
XXVI.--Dan Learns to Dance 191
XXVII.--In the Dressing-room 195
XXVIII.--Dan at the Party 199
XXIX.--A Ne'er do Well 207
XXX.--How Hartley Got a Clew 215
XXXI.--Althea's Abduction 222
XXXII.--Donovan's 229
XXXIII.--Althea Becomes Katy Donovan 237
XXXIV.--Another Little Game 245
XXXV.--Dan Disguises Himself 252
XXXVI.--Dan Makes a Discovery 260
XXXVII.--Dan is Discovered 264
XXXVIII.--Unpleasant Quarters 268
XXXIX.--Dan Discomfits the Donovans 272
XL.--Hartley Surprised 279
XLI.--Dan is Adopted 286
XLII.--Conclusion 292
DAN, THE NEWSBOY.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCING DAN.
"_Evening Telegram!_ Only one left. Going for two cents, and worth
double the money. Buy one, sir?"
Attracted by the business-like tone of the newsboy, a gentleman paused
as he was ascending the steps of the Astor House, and said, with a
smile:
"You seem to appreciate the _Telegram_, my boy. Any important news this
afternoon?"
"Buy the paper, and you'll see," said the boy, shrewdly.
"I see--you don't care to part with the news for nothing. Well, here are
your two cents."
"Thank you, sir."
Still the gentleman lingered, his eyes fixed upon the keen, pleasant
face of the boy.
"How many papers have you sold to-day, my boy?" he asked.
"Thirty-six, sir."
"Were they all _Telegrams_?"
"No; I sell all the papers. I ain't partial. I'm just as willing to make
money on the _Mail_, or _Commercial_, or _Evening Post_, as the
_Telegram_."
"I see you have an eye to business. How long have you dealt in papers?"
"Three years, sir."
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"What did you do before you sold papers?"
A shadow rested on the boy's bright face.
"I didn't have to work then, sir," he said. "My father was alive, and he
was well off. We lived in a nice house up town, and I went to a private
school. But all at once father failed, and soon afterward he died, and
then everything was changed. I don't like to think about it, sir."
The gentleman's interest was strongly excited.
"It is a sad story," he said. "Is your mother living?"
"Yes, sir. The worst of it is, that I don't make enough to support us
both, and she has to work, too."
"What does she do?"
"She makes vests for a man on Chatham street."
"I hope she is well paid."
"That she is not. He only allows her twenty cents apiece."
"That is a mere pittance. She can't earn much at that rate."
"No, sir; she has to work hard to make one vest a day."
"The man can't have a conscience," said the gentleman, indignantly. "It
is starvation wages."
"So it is, sir, but he pretends that he pays more than the work is
worth. Oh, he's a mean fellow," pursued the boy, his face expressive of
the scorn and disgust which he felt.
"What is your name, my boy?"
"Dan, sir--Dan Mordaunt."
"I hope, Dan, you make more money than your mother does."
"Oh, yes, sir. Sometimes I make a dollar a day, but I don't average
that. I wish I could make enough so that mother wouldn't have to work."
"I see you are a good son. I like to hear you speak in such terms of
your mother."
"If I didn't," said Dan, impetuously, "I should deserve to be kicked.
She's a good mother, sir."
"I have no doubt of it. It must be hard for her to be so reduced after
once living liberally. How happened it that your father failed?"
The boy's pleasant face assumed a stern expression.
"On account of a rascal, sir. His book-keeper ran off, carrying with him
thirty thousand dollars. Father couldn't meet his bills, and so he
failed. It broke his heart, and he didn't live six months after it."
"Have you ever heard of this book-keeper since?"
"No, sir, not a word. I wish I could. I should like to see him dragged
to prison, for he killed my father, and made my mother work for a
living."
"I can't blame you, Dan, for feeling as you do. Besides, it has altered
your prospects."
"I don't care for myself, sir. I can forget that. But I can't forgive
the injury he has done my poor father and mother."
"Have you any idea what became of the defaulter?"
"We think that he went to Europe, just at first, but probably he
returned when he thought all was safe."
"He may have gone out West."
"I shouldn't wonder, sir."
"I live in the West myself--in Chicago."
"That's a lively city, isn't it, sir?"
"We think so out there. Well, my lad, I must go into the hotel now."
"Excuse me for detaining you, sir," said Dan, politely.
"You haven't detained me; you have interested me. I hope to see you
again."
"Thank you, sir."
"Where do you generally stand?"
"Just here, sir. A good many people pass here, and I find it a good
stand."
"Then I shall see you again, as I propose to remain in New York for a
day or two. Shall you have the morning papers?"
"Yes, sir; all of them."
"Then I will patronize you to-morrow morning. Good-day."
"Good-day, sir."
"He's a gentleman," said Dan to himself, emphatically. "It isn't every
one that feels an interest in a poor newsboy. Well, I may as well be
going home. It's lonely for mother staying by herself all day. Let me
see; what shall I take her? Oh, here are some pears. She's very fond of
pears."
Dan inquired the price of pears at a street stand, and finally selected
one for three cents.
"Better take two for five cents," said the fruit merchant.
"I can't afford it," said Dan. "Times are hard, and I have to look after
the pennies. I wouldn't buy any at all if it wasn't for my mother."
"Better take another for yourself," urged the huckster.
Dan shook his head.
"Can't afford it," he said. "I must get along without the luxuries.
Bread and butter is good enough for me."
Looking up, Dan met the glance of a boy who was passing--a tall,
slender, supercilious-looking boy, who turned his head away scornfully
as he met Dan's glance.
"I know him," said Dan to himself. "I ought to know Tom Carver. We used
to sit together at school. But that was when father was rich. He won't
notice me now. Well, I don't want him to," proceeded Dan, coloring
indignantly. "He thinks himself above me, but he needn't. His father
failed, too, but he went on living just the same. People say he cheated
his creditors. My poor father gave up all he had, and sank into
poverty."
This was what passed through Dan's mind. The other boy--Tom Carver--had
recognized Dan, but did not choose to show it.
"I wonder whether Dan Mordaunt expected me to notice him," he said to
himself. "I used to go to school with him, but now that he is a low
newsboy I can't stoop to speak to him. What would my fashionable friends
say?"
Tom Carver twirled his delicate cane and walked on complacently,
feeling no pity for the schoolfellow with whom he used to be so
intimate. He was intensely selfish--a more exceptional thing with boys
than men. It sometimes happens that a boy who passes for good-hearted
changes into a selfish man; but Tom required no change to become that.
His heart was a very small one, and beat only for himself.
Dan walked on, and finally paused before a large tenement-house. He went
in at the main entrance, and ascended two flights of stairs. He opened a
door, and found himself in the presence of the mother whom he so dearly
loved.