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THE TELEGRAPH BOY.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK SERIES," "LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," "BRAVE AND BOLD
SERIES," ETC., ETC.
HORATIO ALGER'S BOOKS
FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
PHILADELPHIA
CHICAGO TORONTO
To
THREE YOUNG FRIENDS,
LORIN AND BEATRICE BERNHEIMER,
AND
FLORINE ARNOLD,
This Story
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
PREFACE.
The "Telegraph Boy" completes the series of sketches of street-life in
New York inaugurated eleven years since by the publication of "Ragged
Dick." The author has reason to feel gratified by the warm reception
accorded by the public to these pictures of humble life in the great
metropolis. He is even more gratified by the assurance that his labors
have awakened a philanthropic interest in the children whose struggles
and privations he has endeavored faithfully to describe. He feels it his
duty to state that there is no way in which these waifs can more
effectually be assisted than by contributing to the funds of "The
Children's Aid Society," whose wise and comprehensive plans for the
benefit of their young wards have already been crowned with abundant
success.
The class of boys described in the present volume was called into
existence only a few years since, but they are already so numerous that
one can scarcely ride down town by any conveyance without having one for
a fellow-passenger. Most of them reside with their parents and have
comfortable homes, but a few, like the hero of this story, are wholly
dependent on their own exertions for a livelihood. The variety of
errands on which they are employed, and their curious experiences, are
by no means exaggerated in the present story. In its preparation the
author has been assisted by an excellent sketch published perhaps a year
since in the "New York Tribune."
HORATIO ALGER, JR.
NEW YORK, Sept. 1, 1879.
THE TELEGRAPH BOY.
CHAPTER I.
A YOUNG CARPET-BAGGER.
"Twenty-five cents to begin the world with!" reflected Frank Kavanagh,
drawing from his vest-pocket two ten-cent pieces of currency and a
nickel. "That isn't much, but it will have to do."
The speaker, a boy of fifteen, was sitting on a bench in City-Hall Park.
He was apparently about fifteen years old, with a face not handsome, but
frank and good-humored, and an expression indicating an energetic and
hopeful temperament. A small bundle, rolled up in a handkerchief,
contained his surplus wardrobe. He had that day arrived in New York by a
boat from Hartford, and meant to stay in the city if he could make a
living.
Next to him sat a man of thirty-five, shabbily dressed, who clearly was
not a member of any temperance society, if an inflamed countenance and
red nose may be trusted. Frank Kavanagh's display of money attracted his
attention, for, small as was the boy's capital, it was greater than his
own.
"Been long in the city, Johnny?" he inquired.
"I only arrived to-day," answered Frank. "My name isn't Johnny, though."
"It's immaterial. Johnny is a generic term," said the stranger. "I
suppose you have come here to make your fortune."
"I shall be satisfied with a living to begin with," said Frank.
"Where did you come from?"
"A few miles from Hartford."
"Got any relations there?"
"Yes,--an uncle and aunt."
"I suppose you were sorry to leave them."
"Not much. Uncle is a pretty good man, but he's fond of money, and aunt
is about as mean as they make 'em. They got tired of supporting me, and
gave me money enough to get to New York."
"I suppose you have some left," said the stranger, persuasively.
"Twenty-five cents," answered Frank, laughing. "That isn't a very big
capital to start on, is it?"
"Is that all you've got?" asked the shabbily dressed stranger, in a tone
of disappointment.
"Every cent."
"I wish I had ten dollars to give you," said the stranger, thoughtfully.
"Thank you, sir; I wish you had," said Frank, his eyes resting on the
dilapidated attire of his benevolent companion. Judging from that, he
was not surprised that ten dollars exceeded the charitable fund of the
philanthropist.
"My operations in Wall street have not been fortunate of late," resumed
the stranger; "and I am in consequence hard up."
"Do you do business in Wall street?" asked Frank, rather surprised.
"Sometimes," was the reply. "I have lost heavily of late in Erie and
Pacific Mail, but it is only temporary. I shall soon be on my feet
again."
"I hope so, sir," said Frank, politely.
"My career has been a chequered one," continued the stranger. "I, too,
as a mere boy, came up from the country to make my fortune. I embarked
in trade, and was for a time successful. I resigned to get time to write
a play,--a comedy in five acts."
Frank regarded his companion with heightened respect. He was a boy of
good education, and the author of a play in his eyes was a man of
genius.
"Was it played?" he inquired.
"No; Wallack said it had too many difficult characters for his company,
and the rest of the managers kept putting me off, while they were
producing inferior plays. The American public will never know what they
have lost. But, enough of this. Sometime I will read you the
'Mother-in-law,' if you like. Have you had dinner?"
"No," answered Frank. "Do you know where I can dine cheap?" he
inquired.
"Yes," answered the stranger. "Once I boarded at the Astor House, but
now I am forced, by dire necessity, to frequent cheap restaurants.
Follow me."
"What is your name, sir?" asked Frank, as he rose from the bench.
"Montagu Percy," was the reply. "Sorry I haven't my card-case with me,
or I would hand you my address. I think you said your name was not
Johnny."
"My name is Frank Kavanagh."
"A very good name. 'What's in a name?' as Shakespeare says."
As the oddly assorted pair crossed the street, and walked down Nassau
street, they attracted the attention of some of the Arabs who were
lounging about Printing-House square.
"I say, country, is that your long-lost uncle?" asked a boot-black.
"No, it isn't," answered Frank, shortly.
Though he was willing to avail himself of Mr. Percy's guidance, he was
not ambitious of being regarded as his nephew.
"Heed not their ribald scoffs," said Montagu Percy, loftily. "Their
words pass by me 'like the idle wind,' which I regard not."
"Who painted your nose, mister?" asked another boy, of course addressing
Frank's companion.
"I will hand you over to the next policeman," exclaimed Percy, angrily.
"Look out he don't haul you in, instead," retorted the boy.
Montagu Percy made a motion to pursue his tormentors, but desisted.
"They are beneath contempt," he said. "It is ever the lot of genius to
be railed at by the ignorant and ignoble. They referred to my nose being
red, but mistook the cause. It is a cutaneous eruption,--the result of
erysipelas."
"Is it?" asked Frank, rather mystified.
"I am not a drinking man--that is, I indulge myself but rarely. But here
we are."
So saying he plunged down some steps into a basement, Frank following
him. Our hero found himself in a dirty apartment, provided with a bar,
over which was a placard, inscribed:--
"FREE LUNCH."
"How much money have you got, Frank?" inquired Montagu Percy.
"Twenty-five cents."
"Lunch at this establishment is free," said Montagu; "but you are
expected to order some drink. What will you have?"
"I don't care for any drink except a glass of water."
"All right; I will order for you, as the rules of the establishment
require it; but I will drink your glass myself. Eat whatever you like."
Frank took a sandwich from a plate on the counter and ate it with
relish, for he was hungry. Meanwhile his companion emptied the two
glasses, and ordered another.
"Can you pay for these drinks?" asked the bar-tender, suspiciously.
"Sir, I never order what I cannot pay for."
"I don't know about that. You've been in here and taken lunch more than
once without drinking anything."
"It may be so. I will make up for it now. Another glass, please."
"First pay for what you have already drunk."
"Frank, hand me your money," said Montagu.
Frank incautiously handed him his small stock of money, which he saw
instantly transferred to the bar-tender.
"That is right, I believe," said Montagu Percy.
The bar-keeper nodded, and Percy, transferring his attention to the free
lunch, stowed away a large amount.
Frank observed with some uneasiness the transfer of his entire cash
capital to the bar-tender; but concluded that Mr. Percy would refund a
part after they went out. As they reached the street he broached the
subject.
"I didn't agree to pay for both dinners," he said, uneasily.
"Of course not. It will be my treat next time. That will be fair, won't
it?"
"But I would rather you would give me back a part of my money. I may not
see you again."
"I will be in the Park to-morrow at one o'clock."
"Give me back ten cents, then," said Frank, uneasily. "That was all the
money I had."
"I am really sorry, but I haven't a penny about me. I'll make it right
to-morrow. Good-day, my young friend. Be virtuous and you will be
happy."
Frank looked after the shabby figure ruefully. He felt that he had been
taken in and done for. His small capital had vanished, and he was adrift
in the streets of a strange city without a penny.