Ben, the Luggage Boy; Or, Among the Wharves

by Jr. Horatio Alger

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE PASSENGER FROM ALBANY.

  Ben did not confine himself to any particular pier or railway depot, butstationed himself now at one, now at another, according as the whimseized him, or as the prospect of profit appeared more or lesspromising. One afternoon he made his way to the pier at which the Albanyboats 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 hisbusiness.

  He had just finished smoking a cheap cigar when the boat arrived. Thepassengers poured out, and the usual bustle ensued. Now was the time forBen to be on the alert. He scanned the outcoming passengers with anattentive eye, fixing his attention upon those who were encumbered withcarpet-bags, valises, or bundles. These he marked out as his possiblepatrons, 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, andanswered 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," saidBen, who saw the joke, and enjoyed it.

  "Look here, boy," said the puzzled traveller, "what possible good wouldit 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 fordestroying their baggage? You must be crazy, or else you must think Iam."

  "Not destroying it, smashin' it."

  "What's the difference?"

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

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

  "Indeed, that's a very singular expression to use. Well, my lad, I thinkI 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 wayeverywhere?"

  "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 toprecede his patron.

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

  "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 likeyou," 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 itwas,--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 tencents."

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

  "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 leftalone in the world. So I hired myself out to a farmer for a dollar aweek 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 boardfor 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 gothigher pay, as I grew older. Still, at twenty-one I found myself withonly two hundred dollars. I worked a year longer till it became threehundred, and then I went out West,--to Ohio,--where I took up aquarter-section of land, and became a farmer on my own account. Sincethen I've dipped into several things, have bought more land, which hasincreased in value on my hands, till now I am probably worth fiftythousand 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 aboutyourself. 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 alivin', I don't mind."

  "When you see well-dressed gentlemen walking down Broadway, or riding intheir carriages, don't you sometimes think it would be agreeable if youcould 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 thatkind."

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

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

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

  "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'dmiss 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 youdo in the city?"

  "I like it well enough," said Ben. "We're a jolly crowd, and we do as weplease. There aint nobody to order us round 'cept the copps, and theylet 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 willwrite to me at B----, Ohio, I will send for you to come out. Here is mycard."

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

  They had been walking slowly, or they would have reached Broadwaysooner. 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 myhead. I hope I'll meet some more like him."

  Ben's objection to leaving the city is felt in an equal degree by manyboys who are situated like himself. Street life has its privations andactual sufferings; but for all that there is a wild independence andfreedom from restraint about it, which suits those who follow it. To beat 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 youngoutcasts. Then, again, they become accustomed to the street and itsvaried scenes, and the daily excitement of life in a large city becomessuch a matter of necessity to them, that they find the country lonesome.Yet, under the auspices of the Children's Aid Society, companies of boysare continually being sent out to the great West with the happiestresults. After a while the first loneliness wears away, and they becomeinterested in the new scenes and labors to which they are introduced,and a large number have already grown up to hold respectable, and, insome cases, prominent places, in the communities which they havejoined. Others have pined for the city, until they could no longerresist 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 irresponsiblemode of life oftentimes exerts upon the minds of these young Arabs ofthe street.

  When Ben parted from the passenger by the Albany boat, he did notimmediately seek another job. Accustomed as he was to live from "hand tomouth," he had never troubled himself much about accumulating more thanwould answer his immediate needs. Some boys in the Lodging House madedeposits in the bank of that institution; but frugality was not one ofBen's virtues. As long as he came out even at the end of the day, hefelt very well satisfied. Generally he went penniless to bed; hisbusiness not being one that required him to reserve money for capital tocarry it on. In the case of a newsboy it was different. He must keepenough on hand to buy a supply of papers in the morning, even if he werecompelled to go to bed supperless.

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

  Ben had not gone far when he fell in with an acquaintance,--BarneyFlynn.

  "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 awfulhungry."

  "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 NassauStreet, as the reader of "Mark, the Match Boy," will remember. It is, ofcoarse, a cheap restaurant, and is considerably frequented by the streetboys, who here find themselves more welcome guests than at some of themore 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 theservice at Delmonico's; but it is doubtful whether any of the guests atthe famous up-town restaurant enjoyed their meal any better than the twostreet boys, each of whom was blest with a "healthy" appetite. Barneyhad eaten nothing since morning, and Ben's fast had only been broken bythe eating of a two-cent apple, which had not been sufficient to satisfyhis hunger.

  Notwithstanding the liberality of their orders, however, each of theboys found himself, at the end of the meal, the possessor of twenty-fivecents. This was not a very large sum to sleep on, but it was long sinceeither had waked up in the morning with so large a capital to commenceoperations 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 killedon the stage. It's a stunnin' old play."

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

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