Ben, the Luggage Boy: or, Among the Wharves

If he expected to frighten our hero away thus easily, he was very much mistaken. Ben had too much at stake to give up the attempt to recover the letter. He ran forward, and, seizing the man by the arm, he reiterated, in a tone of firm determination, "Give me my money, or I'll call a copp."

"Take that, you young villain!" exclaimed the badgered thief, bringing his fist in contact with Ben's face in such a manner as to cause the blood to flow.

In a physical contest it was clear that Ben would get the worst of it. He was but a boy of sixteen, strong, indeed, of his age; but still what could he expect to accomplish against a tall man of mature age? He saw that he needed help, and he called out at the top of his lungs, "Help! Police!"

His antagonist was adroit, and a life spent in eluding the law had made him quick-witted. He turned the tables upon Ben by turning round, grasping him firmly by the arm, and repeating in a voice louder than Ben's, "Help! Police!"

Contrary to the usual custom in such cases, a policeman happened to be near, and hurried to the spot where he was apparently wanted.

"What's the row?" he asked.

Before Ben had time to prefer his charge, the pickpocket said glibly: —

"Policeman, I give this boy in charge."

"What's he been doing?"

"I caught him with his hand in my pocket," said the man. "He's a thieving young vagabond."

"That's a lie!" exclaimed Ben, rather startled at the unexpected turn which affairs had taken. "He's a pickpocket."

The real culprit shrugged his shoulders. "You aint quite smart enough, boy," he said.

"Has he taken anything of yours?" asked the policeman, who supposed Ben to be what he was represented.

"No," said the pickpocket; "but he came near taking a money letter which I have in my pocket."

Here, with astonishing effrontery, he displayed the letter which he had stolen from Ben.

"That's my letter," said Ben. "He took it from my pocket."

"A likely story," smiled the pickpocket, in serene superiority. "The letter is for Mrs. Abercrombie, a friend of mine, and contains fifty dollars. I incautiously wrote upon the envelope 'Money enclosed,' which attracted the attention of this young vagabond, as I held it in my hand. On replacing it in my pocket, he tried to get possession of it."

"That's a lie from beginning to end," exclaimed Ben, impetuously. "He's tryin' to make me out a thief, when he's one himself."

"Well, what is your story?" asked the policeman, who, however, had already decided in his own mind that Ben was the guilty party.

"I was ridin' in the Fourth Avenue cars along side of this man," said Ben, "when he put his hand in my pocket, and took out the letter that he's just showed you. I jumped out after him, and asked him to give it back, when he fetched me a lick in the face."

"Do you mean to say that a ragamuffin like you had fifty dollars?" demanded the thief.

"No," said Ben, "the money wasn't mine. I was carryin' it up to Mrs. Abercrombie, who lives on Madison Avenue."

"It's a likely story that a ragamuffin like you would be trusted with so much money."

"If you don't believe it," said Ben, "go to Mr. Abercrombie's office in Wall Street. Mr. Sampson gave it to me only a few minutes ago. If he says he didn't, just carry me to the station-house as quick as you want to."

This confident assertion of Ben's put matters in rather a different light. It seemed straightforward, and the reference might easily prove which was the real culprit. The pickpocket saw that the officer wavered, and rejoined hastily, "You must expect the officer's a fool to believe your ridiculous story."

"It's not so ridiculous," answered the policeman, scrutinizing the speaker with sudden suspicion. "I am not sure but the boy is right."

"I'm willing to let the matter drop," said the pickpocket, magnanimously; "as he didn't succeed in getting my money, I will not prosecute. You may let him go, Mr. Officer."

"Not so fast," said the policeman, his suspicions of the other party getting stronger and more clearly defined. "I haven't any authority to do as you say."

"Very well, take him along then. I suppose the law must take its course."

"Yes, it must."

"Very well, boy, I'm sorry you've got into such a scrape; but it's your own fault. Good morning, officer."

"You're in too much of a hurry," said the policeman, coolly; "you must go along with me too."

"Really," said the thief, nervously, "I hope you'll excuse me. I've got an important engagement this morning, and – I – in fact it will be excessively inconvenient."

"I'm sorry to put you to inconvenience, but it can't be helped."

"Really, Mr. Officer – "

"It's no use. I shall need you. Oblige me by handing me that letter."

"Here it is," said the thief, unwillingly surrendering it. "Really, it's excessively provoking. I'd rather lose the money than break my engagement. I'll promise to be on hand at the trial, whenever it comes off; if you keep the money it will be a guaranty of my appearance."

"I don't know about that," answered the officer "As to being present at the trial, I mean that you shall be."

"Of course, I promised that."

"There's one little matter you seem to forget, said the officer; "your appearance may be quite as necessary as the boy's. It may be your trial and not his."

"Do you mean to insult me?" demanded the pickpocket, haughtily.

"Not by no manner of means. I aint the judge, you know. If your story is all right, it'll appear so."

"Of course; but I shall have to break my engagement."

"Well, that can't be helped as I see. Come along, if you please."

He tucked one arm in that of the man, and the other in Ben's, and moved towards the station-house. Of the two Ben seemed to be much the more unconcerned. He was confident that his innocence would be proclaimed, while the other was equally convinced that trouble awaited him.

"Well, boy, how do you like going to the station-house?" asked the policeman.

"I don't mind as long as he goes with me," answered Ben. "What I was most afraid of was that I'd lose the money, and then Mr. Sampson would have taken me for a thief."

Meanwhile the other party was rapidly getting more and more nervous. He felt that he was marching to his fate, and that the only way of escape was by flight, and that immediate; for they were very near the station-house. Just as Ben pronounced the last words, the thief gathered all his strength, and broke from the grasp of the officer, whose hold was momentarily relaxed. Once free he showed an astonishing rapidity.

The officer hesitated for an instant, for he had another prisoner to guard.

"Go after him," exclaimed Ben, eagerly. "Don't let him escape. I'll stay where I am."

The conviction that the escaped party was the real thief determined the policeman to follow Ben's advice. He let him go, and started in rapid pursuit of the fugitive.

Ben sat down on a doorstep, and awaited anxiously the result of the chase.

CHAPTER XX.

HOW ALL CAME RIGHT IN THE MORNING

It is quite possible that the pickpocket would have made good his escape, if he had not, unluckily for himself, run into another policeman.

"Beg your pardon," he said, hurriedly.

"Stop a minute," said the officer, detaining him by the arm, for his appearance and haste inspired suspicion. He was bare-headed, for his hat had fallen off, and he had not deemed it prudent to stop long enough to pick it up.

"I'm in a great hurry," panted the thief. "My youngest child is in a fit, and I am running for a physician."

This explanation seemed plausible, and the policeman, who was himself the father of a family, was on the point of releasing him, when the first officer came up.

"Hold on to him," he said; "he's just broken away from me."

"That's it, is it?" said the second policeman. "He told me he was after a doctor for his youngest child."

"I think he'll need a doctor himself," said the first, "if he tries another of his games. You didn't stop to say good-by, my man."

"I told you I had an important engagement," said the pickpocket, sulkily, – "one that I cared more about than the money. Where's the boy?"

"I had to leave him to go after you."

"That's a pretty way to manage; you let the thief go in order to chase his victim."

"You're an able-bodied victim," said the policeman, laughing.

"Where are you taking me?"

"I'm going back for the boy. He said he'd wait till I returned."

"Are you green enough to think you'll find him?" sneered the man in charge.

"Perhaps not; but I shouldn't be surprised if I did. If I guess right, he'll find it worth his while to keep his promise."

When they returned to the place where the thief had first effected his escape, our hero was found quietly sitting on a wooden step.

"So you've got him," said Ben, advancing to meet the officer with evident satisfaction.

"He's got you too," growled the pickpocket. "Why didn't you run away, you little fool?"

"I didn't have anything to run for," answered Ben. "Besides, I want my money back."

"Then you'll have to go with me to the station-house," said the officer.

"I wish I could go to Mr. Abercrombie's office first to tell Mr. Sampson what's happened."

"I can't let you do that; but you may write a letter from the station-house."

"All right," said Ben, cheerfully; and he voluntarily placed himself on the other side of the officer, and accompanied him to the station-house.

"I thought you was guilty at first," said the officer; "but I guess your story is correct. If it isn't, you're about the coolest chap I ever saw, and I've seen some cool ones in my day."

"It's just as I said," said Ben. "It'll all come right in the morning."

They soon reached the station-house. Ben obtained the privilege of writing a letter to Mr. Sampson, for which the officer undertook to procure a messenger. In fact he began to feel quite interested for our hero, feeling fully convinced that the other party was the real offender.

Ben found some difficulty in writing his letter. When he first came to the city, he could have written one with considerable ease, but he had scarcely touched a pen, or formed a letter, for six years, and of course this made an important difference. However he finally managed to write these few lines with a lead-pencil: —

"Mr. Sampson: I am sory I can't cary that leter til to-morrow; but it was took from my pokit by a thefe wen I was ridin' in the cars, and as he sed I took it from him, the 'copp' has brort us both to the stashun-house, whare I hope you wil come and tel them how it was, and that you give me the leter to cary, for the other man says it is his The 'copp' took the leter

"Ben Hooper."

It will be observed that Ben's spelling had suffered; but this will not excite surprise, considering how long it was since he had attended school. It will also be noticed that he did not sign his real name, but used the same which he had communicated to Charles Marston. More than ever, till he was out of his present difficulty, he desired to conceal his identity from his relations.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sampson was busily engaged in his office in Wall Street. It may as well be explained here that he was the junior partner of Mr. Abercrombie. Occasionally he paused in his business to wonder whether he had done well to expose a ragged street boy to such a temptation; but he was a large-hearted man, inclined to think well of his fellow-men, and though in his business life he had seen a good deal that was mean and selfish in the conduct of others, he had never lost his confidence in human nature, and never would. It is better to have such a disposition, even if it does expose the possessor to being imposed upon at times, than to regard everybody with distrust and suspicion. At any rate it promotes happiness, and conciliates good-will, and these will offset an occasional deception.

An hour had passed, when a boy presented himself at Mr. Abercrombie's office. It was a newsboy, who had been intrusted with Ben's letter.

"This is for Mr. Sampson," he said, looking around him on entering.

"Another of Mr. Sampson's friends," sneered Granby, in a tone which he took care should be too low to come to that gentleman's ears.

"My name is Sampson," said the owner of that name. "Who is your letter from?"

"It's from Ben."

"And who is Ben?" asked Mr. Sampson, not much enlightened.

"It's Ben, the baggage-smasher."

"Give it to me," said the gentleman, conjecturing rightly that it was his messenger who was meant.

He ran his eye rapidly over the paper, or, I should say, as rapidly as the character of Ben's writing would permit.

"Do you come from the station-house?" he asked, looking up.

"Yes, sir."

"Which station-house is it?"

"In Leonard Street."

"Very well. Go back and tell the boy that I will call this afternoon. I will also give you a line to a house on Madison Avenue. Can you go right up there, calling at the station-house on the way?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Here is something for your trouble."

The boy pocketed with satisfaction the money proffered him, and took the letter which Mr. Sampson hastily wrote. It was to this effect: —

"My dear Mrs. Abercrombie: I received your note, and despatched the money which you desired by a messenger; but I have just learned that his pocket was picked on the horse-cars. I cannot spare one of my clerks just now, but at one o'clock will send one up with the money, hoping that he may have better fortune than the first messenger, and that you will not be seriously inconvenienced by the delay.

"Yours truly,"Henry Sampson".

Then he dismissed the matter from his mind until afternoon, when, the office having closed, he made his way to the Leonard Street station-house, where he was speedily admitted to see Ben.

"I'm glad you've come, Mr. Sampson," said our hero, eagerly. "I hope you don't think I was to blame about the letter."

"Tell me how it was, my lad," said Mr. Sampson, kindly. "I dare say you can give me a satisfactory explanation."

Ben felt grateful for the kindness of his tone. He saw that he was not condemned unheard, but had a chance of clearing himself.

He explained, briefly, how it occurred. Of course it is unnecessary to give his account, for we know all about it already.

"I believe you," said Mr. Sampson, in a friendly tone. "The only fault I have to find with you is that you might have been more careful in guarding your pockets."

"That's so," said Ben; "but I don't often carry anything that's worth stealing."

"No, I suppose not," said Mr. Sampson, smiling. "Well, it appears that no serious loss has occurred. The money will be recovered, as it is in the hands of the authorities. As to the delay, that is merely an inconvenience; but the most serious inconvenience falls upon you, in your being brought here."

"I don't mind that as long as the money is safe," said Ben. "It'll all be right in the morning."

"I see you are a philosopher. I see your face is swelled. You must have got a blow."

"Yes," said Ben; "the chap that took my letter left me something to remember him by."

"I shall try to make it up to you," said Mr. Sampson. "I can't stop any longer, but I will be present at your trial, and my testimony will undoubtedly clear you."

He took his leave, leaving Ben considerably more cheerful than before. A station-house is not a very agreeable place of detention; but then Ben was not accustomed to luxury, and the absence of comfort did not trouble him much. He cared more for the loss of his liberty, finding the narrow cell somewhat too restricted for enjoyment. However, he consoled himself by reflecting, to use his favorite phrase, that it would "all be right in the morning."

It will not be necessary to give a circumstantial account of Ben's trial. Mr. Sampson was faithful to his promise, and presented himself, somewhat to his personal inconvenience, at the early hour assigned for trial. His testimony was brief and explicit, and cleared Ben. The real pickpocket, however, being recognized by the judge as one who had been up before him some months before, charged with a similar offence, was sentenced to a term of imprisonment, considerably to his dissatisfaction.

Ben left the court-room well pleased with the result. His innocence had been established, and he had proved that he could be trusted, or rather, he had not proved faithless to his trust, and he felt that with his present plans and hopes he could not afford to lose his character for honesty. He knew that he had plenty of faults, but at any rate he was not a thief.

While he stood on the steps of the Tombs, in which the trial had taken place, Mr. Sampson advanced towards him, and touched him on the shoulder.

"Well, my lad," he said, in a friendly manner, "so you're all right once more?"

"Yes," said Ben; "I knew it would all be right in the morning."

"I owe you something for the inconvenience you have suffered while in my employ. Here is a ten-dollar bill. I hope you will save it till you need it, and won't spend it foolishly."

"Thank you," said Ben, joyfully. "I'll put it in the bank."

"That will be a good plan. Good-morning; when you need a friend, you will know where to find me."

He shook Ben's hand in a friendly way and left him.

"He's a trump," thought Ben. "If my father'd treated me like that, I'd never have wanted to run away from home."

CHAPTER XXI.

IN A NEW LINE

"Ten dollars!" said Ben to himself, with exultation. "That's pretty good pay for a few hours in the station-house. I'd like to board there a week on the same terms."

Ben's capital now amounted to eleven dollars; but of this sum he decided to retain one dollar as a reserve to fall back upon in case of need. The ten dollars he determined to deposit at once in a savings-bank. He accordingly bent his steps towards one in the course of the forenoon. The business was quickly transacted, and Ben left the building with a bank-book containing an entry of his first deposit.

This was a very good beginning, so Ben thought. Fifty dollars, as he had estimated, would enable him to carry out the plan which he proposed, and he had already one-fifth of the sum. But the accumulation of the other forty dollars would no doubt take him a considerable time. The business of a "baggage-smasher," as Ben knew from experience, is precarious, the amount of gains depending partly upon luck. He had sometimes haunted the steamboat landings for hours without obtaining a single job. Now that he was anxious to get on, he felt this to be an objection. He began to consider whether there was any way of adding to his income.

After considerable thought he decided to buy a supply of weekly papers, which he could sell while waiting for a job. One advantage in selecting weekly papers rather than daily was this, that the latter must be sold within a few hours, or they prove a dead loss. A daily paper of yesterday is as unsalable as a last year's almanac. As Ben was liable to be interrupted in his paper business at any time by a chance to carry luggage, it was an important consideration to have a stock which would remain fresh for a few days.

This idea impressed Ben so favorably that he determined to act upon it at once. In considering where he should go for his supply of papers, he thought of a Broadway news-stand, which he frequently had occasion to pass. On reaching it, he said to the proprietor, "Where do you buy your papers?"

"What do you want to know for?"

"I thought maybe I'd go into the business."

"You don't think of setting up a stand, do you?" asked the man, with a significant glance at Ben's ragged attire.

"No," said Ben. "I haven't got capital enough for that, unless you'll sell out for fifty cents."

"I suppose you want a few to carry round and sell?"

"Yes."

"Where do you think of going with them?"

"Down to the wharves. I'm a baggage-smasher, and I thought I might make somethin' by sellin' papers, when I hadn't any baggage to carry."

"I get my papers from the 'American News Company' on Nassau Street."

"I know the place well enough."

"What papers do you think I could sell best?" asked Ben.

"The picture papers go off as fast as any," said the street dealer. "But I'll tell you what, my lad, maybe I can make an arrangement for you to sell papers for me."

"I don't think I'd like to stand here all day," said Ben, supposing the other to mean to engage him to tend the stand.

"I don't mean that."

"Well, said Ben, "I'm open to an offer, as the old maid of sixty told a feller that called to see her."

"I'll tell you what I mean. I'll give you a bundle of papers every morning to take with you. You will sell what you can, and bring back the rest at night."

"I like that," said Ben, with satisfaction. "But how much will I get?"

"It will depend on the price of the papers. 'Harper's Weekly' and 'Frank Leslie' sell for ten cents. I will allow you two cents on each of these. On the 'Ledger' and 'Weekly,' and other papers of that price, I will allow one cent. You'd make rather more if you bought them yourself; but you might have them left on your hands."

"That's so," said Ben.

"Did you ever sell papers?"

"I used to sell the mornin' and evenin' papers before I went to baggage-smashin'."

"Then you know something about the business. When do you want to begin?"

"Right off."

"Very well; I will make you up a bundle of a dozen papers to begin on. I'll put in three each of the illustrated papers, and fill up with the story papers."

"All right, mister, you know better than I what people will buy."

The dealer began to collect the papers, but paused in the middle of his task, and looked doubtfully at our hero.

"Well, what's up?" asked Ben, observing his hesitation.

"How do I know but you'll sell the papers, and keep the money yourself?" said the dealer.

"That's so," said Ben. "I never thought of that."

"That wouldn't be very profitable for me, you see."

"I'll bring back the money or the papers," said Ben. "You needn't be afraid."

"Very likely you would; but how am I to know that?"

"So you don't want to trust me," said Ben, rather disappointed.

"Have you got any money?"

"Yes."

"Very well, you can leave enough with me to secure me against loss, and I will give you the papers."

"How much will that be?"

After a little thought, the dealer answered, "Seventy-five cents." He had some doubt whether Ben had so much; but our hero quickly set his doubts at rest by drawing out his two half-dollars, and demanding a quarter in change.

The sight of this money reassured the dealer. Ben's ragged clothes had led him to doubt his financial soundness; but the discovery that he was a capitalist to the extent of a dollar gave him considerable more respect for him. A dollar may not be a very large sum; I hope that to you, my young reader, it is a very small one, and that you have never been embarrassed for the want of it; but it is enough to lift a ragged street boy from the position of a penniless vagabond to that of a thrifty capitalist. After seeing it, the dealer would almost have felt safe in trusting Ben with the papers without demanding a deposit of their value. Still it was better and safer to require a deposit, and he therefore took the dollar from Ben, returning twenty-five cents in change.

This preliminary matter settled, he made up the parcel of papers.

"There they are," he said. "If you're smart, you can sell 'em all before night."

"I hope so," said Ben.

With the papers under his arm, Ben made his way westward to the Cortlandt Street ferry, which was a favorite place of resort with him.

He did not have long to wait for his first customer. As he was walking down Cortlandt Street, he met a gentleman, whose attention seemed attracted by the papers he carried.

"What papers have you got there, my lad?" he inquired.

"'Harper's Weekly,' 'Frank Leslie,' 'Ledger,' 'Weekly,'" repeated Ben, glibly, adding the names of the other papers in his parcel.

"Give me the two picture papers," said the gentleman. "Twenty cents, I suppose."

"Yes," said Ben, "and as much more as you want to pay. I don't set no limit to the generosity of my customers."

"You're sharp," said the gentleman, laughing. "That's worth something. Here's twenty-five cents. You may keep the change."