The Young Outlaw; or, Adrift in the Streets
Page 14
CHAPTER XII.
CLARENCE BROWN.
Sam continued to walk about in the neighborhood of the City Hall Park,first in one direction, then in another; but at last he becamefatigued. It had been an unusually exciting day, and he had taken moreexercise than usual, though he had not worked; for his morning walk,added to his rambles about the city streets, probably amounted to notless than twelve miles. Then, too, Sam began to realize what older andmore extensive travellers know well, that nothing is more wearisomethan sight-seeing.
So the problem forced itself upon his attention--where was he tosleep? The bed he slept in the night before was more than a hundredmiles away. It struck Sam as strange, for we must remember howinexperienced he was, that he must pay for the use of a bed. How much,he had no idea, but felt that it was time to make some inquiries.
[Illustration of Sam speaking with the room-clerk,]
He went into a hotel on the European system, and asked a man who wasstanding at the cigar stand, "What do you charge for sleeping here?"
"Ask of that man at the desk," said the cigar-vender.
Sam followed directions, and, approaching the room-clerk, preferredthe same inquiry.
"One dollar," was the answer.
"One dollar, just for sleeping?" inquired Sam, in surprise, for in hisnative village he knew that the school-teacher got boarded for threedollars a week, board and lodging complete for seven days.
"Those are our terms," said the clerk.
"I don't care about a nice room," said Sam, hoping to secure areduction.
"We charge more for our nice rooms," said the clerk.
"Aint there any cheaper hotels?" asked our hero, rather dismayed athis sudden discovery of the great cost of living in New York.
"I suppose so," said the clerk, carelessly; but he did not volunteerany information as to their whereabouts.
Sam walked slowly out of the hotel, quite uncertain where to go, orwhat to do. He had money enough to pay for a night's lodging, even atthis high price, but he judged wisely that he could not afford tospend so large a part of his small stock of money.
"I wonder where the boys sleep that black boots," he thought. "Theycan't pay a dollar a night for sleeping."
He looked around for the boy who had guided him to a restaurant, butcould not find him.
It was now eight o'clock, and he begun to think he should have to goback to the hotel after all, when a shabby-looking man, with wateryeyes and a red nose, accosted him.
"Are you a stranger in the city, my young friend?" he asked.
"Yes," said Sam, rather relieved at the opportunity of speaking tosomebody.
"So I thought. Where are you boarding?"
"Nowhere," said Sam.
"Where do you sleep to-night?"
"I don't know," said Sam, rather helplessly.
"Why don't you go to a hotel?"
"They charge too much," said Sam.
"Haven't you got money enough to pay for a lodging at a hotel?" askedthe stranger, with rather less interest in his manner.
"Oh, yes," said Sam, "a good deal more than that; but then, I want tomake my money last till I can earn something."
"To be sure, to be sure," answered the stranger, his interestreturning. "You are quite right, my dear friend. I am glad to see thatyou are so sensible. Of course you ought not to go to a hotel. Theycharge too high altogether."
"But I must sleep somewhere," said Sam, anxiously. "I only got to NewYork this morning, and I don't know where to go."
"Of course, of course. I thought you might be in trouble, seeing youwere a stranger. It's lucky you met me."
"Can you tell me of any place to spend the night?" asked Sam,encouraged by the stranger's manner.
"Yes; I'll let you stay with me, and it shan't cost you a cent."
"Thank you," said Sam, congratulating himself on his good luck inmeeting so benevolent a man. He could not help admitting to himselfthat the philanthropist looked shabby, even seedy. He was not the sortof man from whom he would have expected such kindness, but that madeno difference. The offer was evidently a desirable one, and Samaccepted it without a moment's hesitation.
"I remember when I came to the city myself," explained the stranger."I was worse off than you, for I had no money at all. A kind man gaveme a night's lodging, just as I offer one to you, and I determinedthat I would do the same by others when I had a chance."
"You are very kind," said Sam.
"Perhaps you won't say so when you see my room," said the other. "I amnot a rich man."
Glancing at the man's attire, Sam found no difficulty in believinghim. Our hero, though not very observing, was not prepossessed infavor of the New York tailors by what he saw, for the stranger's coatwas very long, while his pants were very short, and his vest wasconsiderably too large for him. Instead of a collar and cravat, hewore a ragged silk handkerchief tied round his throat. His hat wascrumpled and greasy, and the best that could be said of it was, thatit corresponded with the rest of his dress.
"I don't live in a very nice place," said the stranger; "but perhapsyou can put up with it for one night."
"Oh, I don't mind," said Sam, hastily. "I aint used to anything verynice."
"Then it's all right," said the stranger. "Such as it is, you arewelcome. Now, I suppose you are tired."
"Yes, I am," said Sam.
"Then I'll take you to my room at once. We'll go up Centre street."
Sam cheerfully followed his conductor. He felt like a storm-tossedmariner, who has just found port.
"What is your name?" asked his guide.
"Sam Barker."
"Mine is Clarence Brown."
"Is it?" asked Sam.
He could not help thinking the name too fine for a man of such shabbyappearance, and yet it would be hard, when names are so cheap, if allthe best ones should be bestowed on the wealthy.
"It's a good name, isn't it?" asked the stranger.
"Tip-top."
"I belong to a good family, though you wouldn't think it to look at menow," continued his guide. "My father was a wealthy merchant."
"Was he?" asked Sam, curiously.
"Yes, we lived in a splendid mansion, and kept plenty of servants. Iwas sent to an expensive school, and I did not dream of coming tothis."
Mr. Brown wiped his eyes with his coat-sleeve, as he thus revived thememories of his early opulence.
"Did your father lose his money?" asked Sam, getting interested.
"He did indeed," said the stranger, with emotion. "It was in the panicof 1837. Did you ever hear of it?"
"I guess not," said Sam, who was not very conversant with thefinancial history of the country.
"My father became a bankrupt, and soon after died of grief," continuedthe stranger. "I was called back from boarding-school, and thrown uponthe cold mercies of the world."
"That was hard on you," said Sam.
"It was, indeed, my young friend. I perceive that you have asympathetic heart. You can feel for the woes of others."
"Yes," said Sam, concluding that such an answer was expected.
"I am glad I befriended you. Have you also seen better days?"
"Well, I don't know," said Sam. "It's been pleasant enough to-day."
"I don't mean that. I mean, were you ever rich?"
"Not that I can remember," said Sam.
"Then you don't know what it is to be reduced from affluence topoverty. It is a bitter experience."
"I should think so," said Sam, who felt a little tired of ClarenceBrown's reminiscences, and wondered how soon they would reach thatgentleman's house.
Meanwhile they had gone up Centre street, and turned into Leonardstreet. It was not an attractive locality, nor were the odors thatreached Sam's nose very savory.
"This is where I live," said Mr. Brown, pausing before a large anddilapidated-looking tenement house of discolored brick.
"You don't live here alone, do you?" inquired Sam, who was not used tocrowded tenement houses.
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sp; "Oh, no, I only occupy an humble room upstairs. Follow me, and I'lllead you to it."
The staircase was dirty, and in keeping with the external appearanceof the house. The wall paper was torn off in places, and contrastedvery unfavorably with the neat house of Deacon Hopkins. Sam noticedthis, but he was tired and sleepy, and was not disposed to beover-critical, as he followed Mr. Brown in silence to the fourthfloor.