Ben, the Luggage Boy; Or, Among the Wharves

by Jr. Horatio Alger

  Produced by Taavi Kalju, Woodie4, Joseph Cooper and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net(This file was produced from images generously madeavailable by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

  Transcriber's notes:

  Captions have been added to the illustration markersfor the convenience of some readers. These have beenindicated by an asterisk.

  A list of some of the author's other books has been moved from the frontpapers to the end of the book.

  Front cover]*

  Title page: RAGGED DICK SERIES BY HORATIO ALGER JR. BEN THE LUGGAGE BOY]

  BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;

  OR,

  AMONG THE WHARVES.

  BY

  HORATIO ALGER, JR.,

  AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK," "FAME AND FORTUNE," "MARK, THE MATCH BOY," "ROUGH AND READY," "CAMPAIGN SERIES," "LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," ETC.

  THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,

  PHILADELPHIA, CHICAGO, TORONTO.

  TO

  ANNIE,

  THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

  In Tender Remembrance,

  BY HER

  _AFFECTIONATE BROTHER_

  PREFACE.

  In presenting "Ben, the Luggage Boy," to the public, as the fifth of theRagged Dick Series, the author desires to say that it is in allessential points a true history; the particulars of the story havingbeen communicated to him, by Ben himself, nearly two years since. Inparticular, the circumstances attending the boy's running away fromhome, and adopting the life of a street boy, are in strict accordancewith Ben's own statement. While some of the street incidents areborrowed from the writer's own observation, those who are reallyfamiliar with the different phases which street life assumes in NewYork, will readily recognize their fidelity. The chapter entitled "TheRoom under the Wharf" will recall to many readers of the daily journalsa paragraph which made its appearance within two years. The writercannot close without expressing anew his thanks for the large share offavor which has been accorded to the volumes of the present series, andtakes this opportunity of saying that, in their preparation, inventionhas played but a subordinate part. For his delineations of character andchoice of incidents, he has been mainly indebted to his own observation,aided by valuable communications and suggestions from those who havebeen brought into familiar acquaintance with the class whose mode oflife he has sought to describe.

  NEW YORK, April 5, 1876.

  BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY;

  OR,

  AMONG THE WHARVES.

  CHAPTER I.

  INTRODUCES BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY.

  "How much yer made this mornin', Ben?"

  "Nary red," answered Ben, composedly.

  "Had yer breakfast?"

  "Only an apple. That's all I've eaten since yesterday. It's most timefor the train to be in from Philadelphy. I'm layin' round for a job."

  The first speaker was a short, freckled-faced boy, whose box strapped tohis back identified him at once as a street boot-black. His hair wasred, his fingers defaced by stains of blacking, and his clothingconstructed on the most approved system of ventilation. He appeared tobe about twelve years old.

  The boy whom he addressed as Ben was taller, and looked older. He wasprobably not far from sixteen. His face and hands, though browned byexposure to wind and weather, were several shades cleaner than those ofhis companion. His face, too, was of a less common type. It was easy tosee that, if he had been well dressed, he might readily have been takenfor a gentleman's son. But in his present attire there was little chanceof this mistake being made. His pants, marked by a green stripe, smallaround the waist and very broad at the hips, had evidently once belongedto a Bowery swell; for the Bowery has its swells as well as Broadway,its more aristocratic neighbor. The vest had been discarded as aneedless luxury, its place being partially supplied by a shirt of thickred flannel. This was covered by a frock-coat, which might once havebelonged to a member of the Fat Men's Association, being aldermanic inits proportions. Now it was fallen from its high estate, its nap andoriginal gloss had long departed, and it was frayed and torn in manyplaces. But among the street-boys dress is not much regarded, and Bennever thought of apologizing for the defects of his wardrobe. We shalllearn in time what were his faults and what his virtues, for I canassure my readers that street boys do have virtues sometimes, and whenthey are thoroughly convinced that a questioner feels an interest inthem will drop the "chaff" in which they commonly indulge, and talkseriously and feelingly of their faults and hardships. Some do this fora purpose, no doubt, and the verdant stranger is liable to be taken inby assumed virtue, and waste sympathy on those who do not deserve it.But there are also many boys who have good tendencies and aspirations,and only need to be encouraged and placed under right influences todevelop into worthy and respectable men.

  The conversation recorded above took place at the foot of CortlandtStreet, opposite the ferry wharf. It was nearly time for the train, andthere was the usual scene of confusion. Express wagons, hacks, boys,laborers, were gathering, presenting a confusing medley to the eye ofone unaccustomed to the spectacle.

  Ben was a luggage boy, his occupation being to wait at the piers for thearrival of steamboats, or at the railway stations, on the chance ofgetting a carpet-bag or valise to carry. His business was a precariousone. Sometimes he was lucky, sometimes unlucky. When he was flush, hetreated himself to a "square meal," and finished up the day at TonyPastor's, or the Old Bowery, where from his seat in the pit he indulgedin independent criticism of the acting, as he leaned back in his seatand munched peanuts, throwing the shells about carelessly.

  It is not surprising that the street-boys like the Old Bowery, and arewilling to stint their stomachs, or run the risk of a night in thestreets, for the sake of the warm room and the glittering illusions ofthe stage, introducing them for the time being to the society of noblesand ladies of high birth, and enabling them to forget for a time thehardships of their own lot, while they follow with rapt interest thefortunes of Lord Frederic Montressor or the Lady Imogene Delacour.Strange as it may seem, the street Arab has a decided fancy for thesepictures of aristocracy, and never suspects their want of fidelity. Whenthe play ends, and Lord Frederic comes to his own, having foiled all theschemes of his crafty and unprincipled enemies, no one rejoices morethan the ragged boy who has sat through the evening an interestedspectator of the play, and in his pleasure at the successful denouement,he almost forgets that he will probably find the Newsboys' Lodging Houseclosed for the night, and be compelled to take up with such sleepingaccommodations as the street may provide.

  Ben crossed the street, taking a straight course, without payingespecial attention to the mud, which caused other pedestrians to picktheir way. To the condition of his shoes he was supremely indifferent.Stockings he did not wear. They are luxuries in which few street boysindulge.

  He had not long to wait. The boat bumped against the wharf, and directlya crowd of passengers poured through the open gates in a continuousstream.

  Ben looked sharply around him to judge who would be likely to employhim. His attention was drawn to an elderly lady, with a large carpet-bagswelled almost to bursting. She was looking about her in a bewilderedmanner.

  "Carry your bag, ma'am?" he said, at the same time motioning towards it.

  "Who be you?" asked the old lady, suspiciously.

  "I'm a baggage-smasher," said Ben.

  "Then I don't want you," answered the old lady, clinging to her bag asif she feared it would be wrested from her. "I'm surprised that the lawallows sich things. You might be in a better business, young man, thansmashing baggage."

  "That's where you're right, ol
d lady," said Ben.

  "Bankin' would pay better, if I only had the money to start on."

  "Are you much acquainted in New York?" asked the old lady.

  "Yes," said Ben; "I know the mayor 'n' aldermen, 'n' all the principalmen. A. T. Stooart's my intimate friend, and I dine with Vanderbiltevery Sunday when I aint engaged at Astor's."

  "Do you wear them clo'es when you visit your fine friends?" asked theold lady, shrewdly.

  "No," said Ben. "Them are my every-day clo'es. I've got some velvetclo'es to home, embroidered with gold."

  "I believe you are telling fibs," said the old lady. "What I want toknow is, if you know my darter, Mrs. John Jones; her first name isSeraphiny. She lives on Bleecker Street, and her husband, who is a niceman, though his head is bald on top, keeps a grocery store."

  "Of course I do," said Ben. "It was only yesterday that she told me hermother was comin' to see her. I might have knowed you was she."

  "How would you have knowed?"

  "Cause she told me just how you looked."

  "Did she? How did she say I looked?"

  "She said you was most ninety, and--"

  "It isn't true," said the old lady, indignantly. "I'm onlyseventy-three, and everybody says I'm wonderful young-lookin' for myyears. I don't believe Seraphiny told you so."

  "She might have said you looked as if you was most ninety."

  "You're a sassy boy!" said the owner of the carpet-bag, indignantly. "Idon't see how I'm going to get up to Seraphiny's," she continued,complainingly. "They'd ought to have come down to meet me. How much willyou charge to carry my carpet-bag, and show me the way to my darter's?"

  "Fifty cents," said Ben.

  "Fifty cents!" repeated the old lady, aghast. "I didn't think you'dcharge more'n ten."

  "I have to," said Ben. "Board's high in New York."

  "How much would they charge me in a carriage? Here you, sir," addressinga hackman, "what'll you charge to carry me to my darter's house, Mrs.John Jones, in Bleecker Street?"

  "What's the number?"

  "I think it's a hundred and sixty-three."

  "A dollar and a half."

  "A dollar 'n' a half? Couldn't you do it for less?"

  "Carry your bag, sir?" asked Ben, of a gentleman passing.

  The gentleman shook his head.

  He made one or two other proposals, which being in like mannerunsuccessful, he returned to the old lady, who, having by this time gotthrough her negotiations with the hackman, whom she had vainly strivento beat down to seventy-five cents, was in a more favorable mood toaccept Ben's services.

  "Can't you take less than fifty cents?" she asked.

  "No," said Ben, decidedly.

  "I'll give you forty."

  "Couldn't do it," said Ben, who felt sure of gaining his point now.

  "Well, I suppose I shall be obleeged to hire you," said the old ladywith a sigh. "Seraphiny ought to have sent down to meet me. I didn'ttell her I was comin' to-day; but she might have thought I'd come, bein'so pleasant. Here, you boy, you may take the bag, and mind you don't runaway with it. There aint nothin' in it but some of my clo'es."

  "I don't want none of your clo'es," said Ben. "My wife's bigger'n you,and they wouldn't fit her."

  "Massy sakes! you aint married, be you?"

  "Why shouldn't I be?"

  "I don't believe it. You're not old enough. But I'm glad you don't wantthe clo'es. They wouldn't be of no use to you. Just you take the bag,and I'll foller on behind."

  "I want my pay first."

  "I aint got the change. My darter Seraphiny will pay you when we get toher house."

  "That don't go down," said Ben, decidedly. "Payment in advance; that'sthe way I do business."

  "You'll get your pay; don't you be afraid."

  "I know I shall; but I want it now."

  "You won't run away after I've paid you, will you?"

  "In course not. That aint my style."

  The old lady took out her purse, and drew therefrom forty-seven cents.She protested that she had not a cent more. Ben pardoned the deficiency,feeling that he would, notwithstanding, be well paid for his time.

  "All right," said he, magnanimously. "I don't mind the three cents. Itaint any object to a man of my income. Take my hand, old lady, and we'llgo across the street."

  "I'm afraid of bein' run over," said she, hesitatingly.

  "What's the odds if you be?" said Ben. "The city'll have to pay youdamages."

  "But if I got killed, that wouldn't do me any good," remarked the oldlady, sensibly.

  "Then the money'd go to your friends," said Ben, consolingly.

  "Do you think I will be run over?" asked the old lady, anxiously.

  "In course you won't. I'll take care of you. They wouldn't dare to runover me," said Ben, confidently.

  Somewhat reassured by this remark, the old lady submitted to Ben'sguidance, and was piloted across the street in safety.

  "I wouldn't live in New York for a heap of money. It would be as much asmy life is worth," she remarked. "How far is Bleecker Street?"

  "About two miles."

  "I almost wish I'd rid. But a dollar and a half is a sight to pay."

  "You'd have to pay more than that."

  "That's all the man asked."

  "I know," said Ben; "but when he'd got you there, he'd have charged youfive dollars."

  "I wouldn't have paid it."

  "Yes, you would," said Ben.

  "He couldn't make me."

  "If you didn't pay, he'd have locked you in, and driven you off to theriver, and dumped you in."

  "Do they ever do such things?" asked the old lady, startled.

  "In course they do. Only last week a beautiful young lady was servedthat way, 'cause she wouldn't pay what the hackman wanted."

  "And what was done to him?"

  "Nothin'," said Ben. "The police is in league with 'em, and get theirshare of the money."

  "Why, you don't say so! What a wicked place New York is, to be sure!"

  "Of course it is. It's so wicked I'm goin' to the country myself as soonas I get money enough to buy a farm."

  "Have you got much money saved up?" asked the old lady, interested.

  "Four thousand six hundred and seventy-seven dollars and fifty-fivecents. I don't count this money you give me, 'cause I'm goin' to spendit."

  "You didn't make it all carryin' carpet-bags," said the old lady,incredulously.

  "No, I made most of it spekilatin' in real estate," said Ben.

  "You don't say!"

  "Yes, I do."

  "You've got most enough to buy a farm a'ready."

  "I aint goin' to buy till I can buy a good one."

  "What's the name of this street?"

  "West Broadway."

  They were really upon West Broadway by this time, that being as direct aline as any to Bleecker Street.

  "You see that store," said Ben.

  "Yes; what's the matter of it?"

  "I don't own it _now_," said Ben. "I sold it, cos the tenants didn't paytheir rent reg'lar."

  "I should think you'd dress better if you've got so much money," saidthe old lady, not unnaturally.

  "What's the use of wearin' nice clo'es round among the wharves?" saidBen.

  "There's suthin in that. I tell my darter Jane--she lives in thecountry--that it's no use dressin' up the children to go toschool,--they're sure to get their clo'es tore and dirty afore they gethome."

  So Ben beguiled the way with wonderful stories, with which he playedupon the old lady's credulity. Of course it was wrong; but a streeteducation is not very likely to inspire its pupils with a reverence fortruth; and Ben had been knocking about the streets of New York, most ofthe time among the wharves, for six years. His street education hadcommenced at the age of ten. He had adopted it of his own free will.Even now there was a comfortable home waiting for him; there wereparents who supposed him dead, and who would have found a difficulty inrecognizing him under his present circumstances. In the next cha
pter alight will be thrown upon his past history, and the reader will learnhow his street life began.