CHAPTER XIX.
HOW SAM FARED.
On the strength of his good luck, Sam provided himself with a goodbreakfast, which cost him forty cents. He felt pretty sure of earningsomething more during the day to add to the remaining thirty-five. ButFortune is capricious, and our hero found all his offers of servicefirmly refused. He tried again to excite compassion by his fictitiousstory of a starving family at home; but his appeals were made to theflinty-hearted or the incredulous. So, about two o'clock, he went todinner, and spent the remainder of his money.
Again he spent the night with Tim in the wagon, and again in themorning he set out to earn his breakfast. But luck was against him.People insisted on carrying their own carpet-bags, to the greatdetriment of the baggage-smashing business. Tim was no luckier thanSam. About ten o'clock they were walking despondently through a sidestreet, discussing ways and means.
"I'm awful hungry, Tim," said Sam, mournfully.
"So am I, you bet!"
"I wouldn't mind if I had a couple of apples," said Sam, fixing hiseyes upon an old woman's apple-stand. "Wouldn't she trust?"
"Not much," said Tim. "You try her, if you want to."
"I will," said Sam, desperately.
The two boys approached the apple-stand.
"I say," said Sam to the wrinkled old woman who presided over it, "howdo you sell your apples?"
"A penny a piece," she answered, in a cracked voice. "Is that cheapenough for ye?"
"I'll take five," said Sam.
The old woman began eagerly to pick out the required number, butstopped short when he finished the sentence,--"if you'll trust me tillafternoon."
"Is it trust ye?" she ejaculated suspiciously. "No farther than I cansee yer. I'm up to your tricks, you young spalpeen, thryin' to chate apoor widder out of her money."
"I'll pay you sure," said Sam, "but I haven't earned anything yetto-day."
"Then it's I that can't be supportin' a big, strong boy like you. Goaway and come back, whin you've got money."
Here Tim broke in.
"My friend always pays his bills," he said. "You needn't be afraid totrust him."
"And who are you?" asked the old woman. "I don't know you, and I can'ttake your word. You're tryin' the two of you to swindle a poorwidder."
"My father's an alderman," said Tim, giving the wink to Sam.
"Is he now? Thin, let him lind your friend money, and don't ask a poorwoman to trust."
"Well, I would, but he's gone to Washington on business."
"Thin, go after him, and lave me alone. I don't want no spalpeens likeyou round my apple-stand."
"Look here, old woman, I'll have you arrested for callin' me names.Come away, Sam; her apples are rotten anyhow."
The old woman began to berate them soundly, indignant at this attackupon her wares; and in the midst of it the two boys walked off.
"We didn't make much," said Sam. "I'm awful hungry."
"Take that, then," said Tim, pulling an apple out of his pocket,
Sam opened his eyes.
"How did you get it?" he asked in astonishment.
Tim put his tongue in his cheek.
"I took it when you were talkin' to the ould woman," he answered; "andhere's another."
So saying he produced a companion apple, and made a vigorous onslaughtupon it, Sam following suit.
"I don't see how you could do it," said Sam, admiringly, "and shelooking on all the time."
"It's easy enough when you know how," said Tim, complacently.
"She'd catch me, sure."
"Likely she would; you aint used to it."
Sam ought to have felt uneasy at appropriating the result of a theft;but his conscience was an easy one, and he felt hungry. So he madeshort work of the apple, and wished for more.
"I wish you'd taken two apiece," he said.
"I couldn't," said Tim. "She'd have seen 'em stickin' out of mypocket, and called a copp."
"One's better than none; I feel a little better," said Sam,philosophically. "I 'spose it's stealing, though."
"Oh, what's the odds? She'll never miss 'em. Come along."
In the course of the forenoon Sam managed to earn ten cents, and wasforced to content himself with a very economical dinner. There was aplace on Ann street, where, for this small sum, a plate of meat and apotato were furnished, but enough only to whet the appetite of ahearty boy like Sam. A suspicion did enter his mind as he rose fromthe table penniless once more, and his appetite still unsatisfied,that he had bought his liberty dearly, if his affairs did not improve.In the country he had enough to eat, a good bed to sleep in, and nocare or anxiety, while he was not overworked. Here there was constantanxiety, and he never knew, when he rose in the morning, where hisdinner was to come from, or whether he would be able to buy one. Stillthere was a fascination in the free, lawless life, and if he couldonly be sure of making even fifty cents a day he would probably havepreferred it.
It is not necessary to describe Sam's life in detail for the nextmonth. He and Tim were constant companions; and under Tim'sinstruction he was rapidly acquiring the peculiar education of astreet vagabond. Of his employments in that brief period it would bedifficult to give a complete list. At one time he blacked boots foranother boy, to whom he paid half his receipts, in return for the useof the box and blacking. But Sam was detected by his employer inrendering a false account, and was thrown upon his own resourcesagain. It would have been much more to his interest to have ablacking-brush and box of his own; but whenever Sam had capital enoughhe preferred to spend it for a good dinner, so there did not seem muchchance of his getting ahead. He had, before this time, been introducedto the Newsboys' Lodging House, where he was interrogated about hispast life by the superintendent. Sam was obliged to have recourse tohis imagination in reply, feeling that if he spoke the truth he wouldbe liable to be returned to his country home.
"Are your parents living?" inquired Mr. O'Connor.
"No," said Sam, telling the truth this time.
"When did they die?"
"Two years ago."
"Did they die in New York?"
"Yes, sir. They died of small-pox," volunteered Sam.
"And have you been supporting yourself since then?"
"Yes, sir."
"How does it happen that you have not been round here before?"
"I was living with my uncle," answered Sam, hesitating.
"Why have you left him?"
"He didn't treat me well."
"Perhaps you didn't behave well."
"Oh, yes, I did."
"What is your uncle's name?"
"James Cooper."
"Where does he live,--in what street?"
"He's moved away from the city now," said Sam, feeling that he mustput a stop to these inconvenient inquiries.
So Sam was admitted to the privileges of the lodging-house. Now, hefound it much easier to get along. For eighteen cents a day he wasprovided with lodging, breakfast and supper, and it was not often thathe could not obtain as much as that. When he could earn enough more tobuy a "square meal" in the middle of the day, and a fifteen-centticket to the pit of the Old Bowery theatre in the evening, he felthappy. He was fairly adrift in the streets of the great city, and hisfuture prospects did not look very brilliant. It is hardly necessaryto say that in a moral point of view he had deteriorated rather thanimproved. In fact, he was fast developing into a social outlaw, withno particular scruples against lying or stealing. One thing may besaid in his favor, he never made use of his strength to oppress ayounger boy. On the whole, he was good-natured, and not at all brutal.He had on one occasion interfered successfully to protect a young boyfrom one of greater strength who was beating him. I like to mentionthis, because I do not like to have it supposed that Sam was whollybad.
We will now advance the story some months, and see what they have donefor Sam.
To begin with, they have not improved his wardrobe. When he first cameto the city he was neatly though coarsely dressed; now his
clotheshang in rags about him, and, moreover, they are begrimed with mud andgrease. His straw hat and he have some time since parted company, andhe now wears a greasy article which he picked up at a second-handstore in Baxter street for twenty-five cents. If Sam were troubledwith vanity, he might feel disturbed by his disreputable condition;but as he sees plenty of other boys of his own class no betterdressed, he thinks very little about it. Such as they are, his clothesare getting too small for him, for Sam has grown a couple of inchessince he came to the city.
Such was our hero's appearance when one day he leaned against abuilding on Broadway, and looked lazily at the vehicles passing,wishing vaguely that he had enough money to buy a square meal. ABroadway stage was passing at the time. A small man, whose wrinkledface indicated that he was over sixty, attempted to descend from thestage while in motion. In some way he lost his footing, and, falling,managed to sprain his ankle, his hat falling off and rolling along onthe pavement.
Sam, who was always on the lookout for chances, here saw an opening.He dashed forward, lifted the old gentleman to his feet, and ran afterhis hat, and restored it.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"I think I have sprained my ankle. Help me upstairs to my office,"said the old man.
He pointed to a staircase leading up from the sidewalk.
"All right," said Sam. "Lean on me."
The Young Outlaw; or, Adrift in the Streets Page 21