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CHAPTER XIV.
THE PASSENGER FROM ALBANY

Ben did not confine himself to any particular pier or railway depot, but stationed himself now at one, now at another, according as the whim seized him, or as the prospect of profit appeared more or less promising. One afternoon he made his way to the pier at which the Albany boats landed. He knew the hour of arrival, not only for the river-boats, but for most of the inward trains, for this was required by his business.

He had just finished smoking a cheap cigar when the boat arrived. The passengers poured out, and the usual bustle ensued. Now was the time for Ben to be on the alert. He scanned the outcoming passengers with an attentive eye, fixing his attention upon those who were encumbered with carpet-bags, valises, or bundles. These he marked out as his possible patrons, and accosted them professionally.

"Smash yer baggage, sir?" he said to a gentleman carrying a valise.

The latter stared hard at Ben, evidently misunderstanding him, and answered irascibly, "Confound your impudence, boy; what do you mean?"

"Smash yer baggage, sir?"

"If you smash my baggage, I'll smash your head."

"Thank you, sir, for your kind offer; but my head aint insured," said Ben, who saw the joke, and enjoyed it.

"Look here, boy," said the puzzled traveller, "what possible good would it do you to smash my baggage?"

"That's the way I make a livin'," said Ben.

"Do you mean to say any persons are foolish enough to pay you for destroying their baggage? You must be crazy, or else you must think I am."

"Not destroying it, smashin' it."

"What's the difference?"

Here a person who had listened to the conversation with some amusement interposed.

"If you will allow me to explain, sir, the boy only proposes to carry your valise. He is what we call a 'baggage-smasher,' and carrying it is called 'smashing.'"

"Indeed, that's a very singular expression to use. Well, my lad, I think I understand you now. You have no hostile intentions, then?"

"Nary a one," answered Ben.

"Then I may see fit to employ you. Of course you know the way everywhere?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may take my valise as far as Broadway. There I shall take a stage."

Ben took the valise, and raising it to his shoulders was about to precede his patron.

"You can walk along by my side," said the gentleman; "I want to talk to you."

"All right, governor," said Ben. "I'm ready for an interview."

"How do you like 'baggage-smashing,' as you call it?"

"I like it pretty well when I'm workin' for a liberal gentleman like you," said Ben, shrewdly.

"What makes you think I am liberal?" asked the gentleman, smiling.

"I can tell by your face," answered our hero.

"But you get disappointed sometimes, don't you?"

"Yes, sometimes," Ben admitted.

"Tell me some of your experiences that way."

"Last week," said Ben, "I carried a bag, and a thunderin' heavy one, from the Norwich boat to French's Hotel, – a mile and a half I guess it was, – and how much do you think the man paid me?"

"Twenty-five cents."

"Yes, he did, but he didn't want to. All he offered me first was ten cents."

"That's rather poor pay. I don't think I should want to work for that myself."

"You couldn't live very high on such pay," said Ben.

"I have worked as cheap, though."

"You have!" said Ben, surprised.

"Yes, my lad, I was a poor boy once, – as poor as you are."

"Where did you live?" asked Ben, interested.

"In a country town in New England. My father died early, and I was left alone in the world. So I hired myself out to a farmer for a dollar a week and board. I had to be up at five every morning, and work all day. My wages, you see, amounted to only about sixteen cents a day and board for twelve hours' work."

"Why didn't you run away?" inquired Ben.

"I didn't know where to run to."

"I s'pose you aint workin' for that now?" said our hero.

"No, I've been promoted," said the gentleman, smiling. "Of course I got higher pay, as I grew older. Still, at twenty-one I found myself with only two hundred dollars. I worked a year longer till it became three hundred, and then I went out West, – to Ohio, – where I took up a quarter-section of land, and became a farmer on my own account. Since then I've dipped into several things, have bought more land, which has increased in value on my hands, till now I am probably worth fifty thousand dollars."

"I'm glad of it," said Ben.

"Why?"

"Because you can afford to pay me liberal for smashin' your baggage."

"What do you call liberal?" inquired his patron, smiling.

"Fifty cents," answered Ben, promptly.

"Then I will be liberal. Now, suppose you tell me something about yourself. How long have you been a 'baggage-smasher,' as you call it?"

"Six years," said Ben.

"You must have begun young. How old are you now?"

"Sixteen."

"You'll soon be a man. What do you intend to do then?"

"I haven't thought much about it," said Ben, with truth.

"You don't mean to carry baggage all your life, do you?"

"I guess not," answered Ben. "When I get to be old and infirm, I'm goin' into some light, genteel employment, such as keepin' a street stand."

"So that is your highest ambition, is it?" asked the stranger.

"I don't think I've got any ambition," said Ben. "As long as I make a livin', I don't mind."

"When you see well-dressed gentlemen walking down Broadway, or riding in their carriages, don't you sometimes think it would be agreeable if you could be in their place?"

"I should like to have a lot of money," said Ben. "I wouldn't mind bein' the president of a bank, or a railway-director, or somethin' of that kind."

"I am afraid you have never thought seriously upon the subject of your future," said Ben's companion, "or you wouldn't be satisfied with your present business."

"What else can I do? I'd rather smash baggage than sell papers or black boots."

"I would not advise either. I'll tell you what you ought to do, my young friend. You should leave the city, and come out West. I'll give you something to do on one of my farms, and promote you as you are fit for it."

"You're very kind," said Ben, more seriously; "but I shouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to leave the city. Here there's somethin' goin' on. I'd miss the streets and the crowds. I'd get awful lonesome in the country."

"Isn't it better to have a good home in the country than to live as you do in the city?"

"I like it well enough," said Ben. "We're a jolly crowd, and we do as we please. There aint nobody to order us round 'cept the copps, and they let us alone unless we steal, or something of that kind."

"So you are wedded to your city life?"

"Yes, I guess so; though I don't remember when the weddin' took place."

"And you prefer to live on in your old way?"

"Yes, sir; thank you all the same."

"You may change your mind some time, my lad. If you ever do, and will write to me at B – , Ohio, I will send for you to come out. Here is my card."

"Thank you, sir," said Ben. "I'll keep the card, and if ever I change my mind, I'll let you know."

They had been walking slowly, or they would have reached Broadway sooner. They had now arrived there, and the stranger bade Ben good-by, handing him at the same time the fifty cents agreed upon.

"He's a brick," Ben soliloquized, "even if he did say he'd smash my head. I hope I'll meet some more like him."

Ben's objection to leaving the city is felt in an equal degree by many boys who are situated like himself. Street life has its privations and actual sufferings; but for all that there is a wild independence and freedom from restraint about it, which suits those who follow it. To be at the beck and call of no one; to be responsible only to themselves, provided they keep from violating the law, has a charm to these young outcasts. Then, again, they become accustomed to the street and its varied scenes, and the daily excitement of life in a large city becomes such a matter of necessity to them, that they find the country lonesome. Yet, under the auspices of the Children's Aid Society, companies of boys are continually being sent out to the great West with the happiest results. After a while the first loneliness wears away, and they become interested in the new scenes and labors to which they are introduced, and a large number have already grown up to hold respectable, and, in some cases, prominent places, in the communities which they have joined. Others have pined for the city, until they could no longer resist their yearning for it, and have found their way back to the old, familiar scenes, to resume the former life of suffering and privation. Such is the strange fascination which their lawless and irresponsible mode of life oftentimes exerts upon the minds of these young Arabs of the street.

When Ben parted from the passenger by the Albany boat, he did not immediately seek another job. Accustomed as he was to live from "hand to mouth," he had never troubled himself much about accumulating more than would answer his immediate needs. Some boys in the Lodging House made deposits in the bank of that institution; but frugality was not one of Ben's virtues. As long as he came out even at the end of the day, he felt very well satisfied. Generally he went penniless to bed; his business not being one that required him to reserve money for capital to carry it on. In the case of a newsboy it was different. He must keep enough on hand to buy a supply of papers in the morning, even if he were compelled to go to bed supperless.

With fifty cents in his pocket, Ben felt rich. It would buy him a good supper, besides paying for his lodging at the Newsboys' Home, and a ticket for the Old Bowery besides, – that is, a fifteen-cent ticket, which, according to the arrangement of that day, would admit him to one of the best-located seats in the house, that is, in the pit, corresponding to what is known as the parquette in other theatres. This arrangement has now been changed, so that the street boys find themselves banished to the upper gallery of their favorite theatre. But in the days of which I am speaking they made themselves conspicuous in the front rows, and were by no means bashful in indicating their approbation or disapprobation of the different actors who appeared on the boards before them.

Ben had not gone far when he fell in with an acquaintance, – Barney Flynn.

"Where you goin', Ben?" inquired Barney.

"Goin' to get some grub," answered Ben.

"I'm with you, then. I haven't eat anything since mornin', and I'm awful hungry."

"Have you got any stamps?"

"I've got a fifty."

"So have I."

"Where are you goin' for supper?"

"To Pat's, I guess."

"All right; I'll go with you."

The establishment known as "Pat's" is located in a basement in Nassau Street, as the reader of "Mark, the Match Boy," will remember. It is, of coarse, a cheap restaurant, and is considerably frequented by the street boys, who here find themselves more welcome guests than at some of the more pretentious eating-houses.

Ben and Barney entered, and gave their orders for a substantial repast. The style in which the meal was served differed considerably from the service at Delmonico's; but it is doubtful whether any of the guests at the famous up-town restaurant enjoyed their meal any better than the two street boys, each of whom was blest with a "healthy" appetite. Barney had eaten nothing since morning, and Ben's fast had only been broken by the eating of a two-cent apple, which had not been sufficient to satisfy his hunger.

Notwithstanding the liberality of their orders, however, each of the boys found himself, at the end of the meal, the possessor of twenty-five cents. This was not a very large sum to sleep on, but it was long since either had waked up in the morning with so large a capital to commence operations upon.

"What shall we do?" asked Ben.

"Suppose we go to the Old Bowery," suggested Barney.

"Or Tony Pastor's," amended Ben.

"I like the Bowery best. There's a great fight, and a feller gets killed on the stage. It's a stunnin' old play."

"Then let us go," said Ben, who, as well as his companion, liked the idea of witnessing a stage fight, which was all the more attractive on account of having a fatal termination.

As the theatre tickets would cost but fifteen cents each, the boys felt justified in purchasing each a cheap cigar, which they smoked as they walked leisurely up Chatham Street.

CHAPTER XV.
THE ROOM UNDER THE WHARF

It was at a late hour when the boys left the theatre. The play had been of a highly sensational character, and had been greeted with enthusiastic applause on the part of the audience, particularly the occupants of the "pit." Now, as they emerged from the portals of the theatre, various characteristic remarks of a commendatory character were interchanged.

"How'd you like it, Ben?" asked Barney.

"Bully," said Ben.

"I liked the fight best," said Barney. "Jones give it to him just about right."

"Yes, that was good," said Ben; "but I liked it best where Alphonso says to Montmorency, 'Caitiff, beware, or, by the heavens above, my trusty sword shall drink thy foul heart's blood!'"

Ben gave this with the stage emphasis, so far as he could imitate it. Barney listened admiringly.

"I say, Ben," he replied, "you did that bully. You'd make a tip-top actor."

"Would I?" said Ben, complacently. "I think I'd like to try it if I knew enough. How much money have you got, Barney?"

"Nary a red. I spent the last on peanuts."

"Just my case. We'll have to find some place to turn in for the night."

"I know a place," said Barney, "if they'll let us in."

"Whereabouts is it?"

"Down to Dover Street wharf."

"What sort of a place is it? There aint any boxes or old wagons, are there?"

"No, it's under the wharf, – a bully place."

"Under the wharf! It's wet, isn't it?"

"No, you just come along. I'll show you."

Having no other place to suggest, Ben accepted his companion's guidance, and the two made their way by the shortest route to the wharf named. It is situated not far from Fulton Ferry on the east side. It may be called a double wharf. As originally built, it was found too low for the class of vessels that used it, and another flooring was built over the first, leaving a considerable space between the two. Its capabilities for a private rendezvous occurred to a few boys, who forthwith proceeded to avail themselves of it. It was necessary to carry on their proceedings secretly; otherwise there was danger of interference from the city police. What steps they took to make their quarters comfortable will shortly be described.

When they reached the wharf, Barney looked about him with an air of caution, which Ben observed.

"What are you scared of?" asked Ben.

"We mustn't let the 'copp' see us," said Barney, "Don't make no noise."

Thus admonished, Ben followed his companion with as little noise as possible.

"How do you get down there?" he asked.

"I'll show you," said Barney.

He went to the end of the wharf, and, motioning Ben to look over, showed him a kind of ladder formed by nailing strips of wood, at regular intervals, from the outer edge down to the water's edge. This was not an arrangement of the boys, but was for the accommodation of river-boats landing at the wharf.

"I'll go down first," whispered Barney. "If the 'copp' comes along, move off, so he won't notice nothin'."

"All right!" said Ben.

Barney got part way down the ladder, when a head was protruded from below, and a voice demanded, "Who's there?"

"It's I, – Barney Flynn."

"Come along, then."

"I've got a fellow with me," continued Barney.

"Who is it?"

"It's Ben, the baggage-smasher. He wants to stop here to-night."

"All right; we can trust him."

"Come along, Ben," Barney called up the ladder.

Ben quickly commenced the descent. Barney was waiting for him, and held out his hand to help him off. Our hero stepped from the ladder upon the lower flooring of the wharf, and looked about him with some curiosity. It was certainly a singular spectacle that met his view. About a dozen boys were congregated in the room under the wharf, and had evidently taken some pains to make themselves comfortable. A carpet of good size was spread over a portion of the flooring. Upon this three beds were spread, each occupied by three boys. Those who could not be accommodated in this way laid on the carpet. Some of the boys were already asleep; two were smoking, and conversing in a low voice. Looking about him Ben recognized acquaintances in several of them.¹

"Is that you, Mike Sweeny?" he asked of a boy stretched out on the nearest bed.

"Yes," said Mike; "come and lay alongside of me."

There was no room on the bed, but Ben found space beside it on the carpet, and accordingly stretched himself out.

"How do you like it?" asked Mike.

"Tip-top," said Ben. "How'd you get the carpet and beds? Did you buy 'em?"

"Yes," said Mike, with a wink; "but the man wasn't in, and we didn't pay for 'em."

"You stole them, then?"

"We took 'em," said Mike, who had an objection to the word stole.

"How did you get them down here without the copp seein' you?"

"We hid 'em away in the daytime, and didn't bring 'em here till night. We came near gettin' caught."

"How long have you been down here?"

"Most a month."

"It's a good place."

"Yes," said Mike, "and the rent is very reasonable. We don't have to pay nothin' for lodgin'. It's cheaper'n the Lodge."

"That's so," said Ben. "I'm sleepy," he said, gaping. "I've been to the Old Bowery to-night. Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

In five minutes Ben was fast asleep. Half an hour later, and not a sound was heard in the room under the wharf except the occasional deep breathing of some of the boys. The policeman who trod his beat near by little suspected that just at hand, and almost under his feet, was a rendezvous of street vagrants and juvenile thieves, for such I am sorry to say was the character of some of the boys who frequented these cheap lodgings.

In addition to the articles already described there were two or three chairs, which had been contributed by different members of the organization.

Ben slept soundly through the night. When he woke up, the gray morning light entering from the open front towards the sea had already lighted up indistinctly the space between the floors. Two or three of the boys were already sitting up, yawning and stretching themselves after their night's slumber. Among these was Mike Sweeny.

"Are you awake, Ben?" he asked.

"Yes," said Ben; "I didn't hardly know where I was at first."

"It's a bully place, isn't it?"

"That's so. How'd you come across it?"

"Oh, some of us boys found it out. We've been sleepin' here a month."

"Won't you let a feller in?"

"We might let you in. I'll speak to the boys."

"I'd like to sleep here," said Ben. "It's a good deal better than sleepin' out round. Who runs the hotel?"

"Well, I'm one of 'em."

"You might call it Sweeny's Hotel," suggested Ben, laughing.

"I aint the boss; Jim Bagley's got most to do with it."

"Which is he?"

"That's he, over on the next bed."

"What does he do?"

"He's a travellin' match merchant."

"That sounds big."

"Jim's smart, – he is. He makes more money'n any of us."

"Where does he travel?"

"Once he went to Californy in the steamer. He got a steerage ticket for seventy-five dollars; but he made more'n that blackin' boots for the other passengers afore they got there. He stayed there three months, and then came home."

"Does he travel now?"

"Yes, he buys a lot of matches, and goes up the river or down into Jersey, and is gone a week. A little while ago he went to Buffalo."

"Oh, yes; I know where that is."

"Blest if I do."

"It's in the western part of York State, just across from Canada."

"Who told you?"

"I learned it in school."

"I didn't know you was a scholar, Ben."

"I aint now. I've forgot most all I ever knew. I haven't been to school since I was ten years old."

"Where was that?"

"In the country."

"Well, I never went to school more'n a few weeks. I can read a little, but not much."

"It costs a good deal to go to Buffalo. How did Jim make it while he was gone?"

"Oh, he came home with ten dollars in his pocket besides payin' his expenses."

"What does Jim do with all his money?"

"He's got a mother and sister up in Bleecker Street, or somewheres round there. He pays his mother five dollars a week, besides takin' care of himself."

"Why don't he live with his mother?"

"He'd rather be round with the boys."

I may remark here that Jim Bagley is a real character, and all that has been said about him is derived from information given by himself, in a conversation held with him at the Newsboys' Lodging House. He figures here, however, under an assumed name, partly because the record in which his real name is preserved has been mislaid. The impression made upon the mind of the writer was, that Jim had unusual business ability and self-reliance, and might possibly develop into a successful and prosperous man of business.

Jim by this time was awake.

"Jim Bagley," said Mike, "here's a feller would like to put up at our hotel."

"Who is he?" asked Jim.

The travelling match merchant, as Mike had described him, was a boy of fifteen, rather small of his age, with a keen black eye, and a quick, decided, business-like way.

"It's this feller, – he's a baggage-smasher," explained Mike.

"All right," said Jim; "he can come if he'll pay his share."

"How much is it?" asked Ben.

Mike explained that it was expected of each guest to bring something that would add to the comforts of the rendezvous. Two boys had contributed the carpet, for which probably they had paid nothing; Jim had supplied a bed, for which he did pay, as "taking things without leave" was not in his line. Three boys had each contributed a chair. Thus all the articles which had been accumulated were individual contributions. Ben promised to pay his admission fee in the same way, but expressed a doubt whether he might not have to wait a few days, in order to save money enough to make a purchase. He never stole himself, though his association with street boys, whose principles are not always very strict on this point, had accustomed him to regard theft as a venial fault, provided it was not found out. For his own part, however, he did not care to run the risk of detection. Though he had cut himself off from his old home, he still felt that he should not like to have the report reach home that he had been convicted of dishonesty.

At an early hour the boys shook off their slumbers, and one by one left the wharf to enter upon their daily work. The newsboys were the first to go, as they must be on hand at the newspaper offices early to get their supply of papers, and fold them in readiness for early customers. The boot-blacks soon followed, as most of them were under the necessity of earning their breakfast before they ate it. Ben also got up early, and made his way to the pier of the Stonington line of steamers from Boston. These usually arrived at an early hour, and there was a good chance of a job in Ben's line when the passengers landed.