Julius, The Street Boy

“It is Ned Sanders,” said Julius to himself, “and he’s got a red wig on. What’s he up to, I wonder? I’ll watch him.”

CHAPTER IV.

JULIUS DETECTS A PICKPOCKET

Ned Sanders settled himself into his seat, and looked about him. He did not, however, recognize Julius, for, though he had seen him in calling upon Jack Morgan, he had never taken particular notice of his features, probably regarding him as of little importance. Finally Mr. Sanders devoted special attention to the man at his side. As the latter was sleeping, he was not conscious of the close watch of his companion.

Julius noticed it, however, and, being familiar with the character of Sanders, said to himself: “I know what he’s up to. He wants to pick his pocket.”

From the watch pocket of the stout stranger depended a gold watch chain solid and valuable in appearance, and to it was attached a gold watch.

Sanders took out a newspaper, and held it before him. He appeared to be very much occupied with its contents, but Julius detected a stealthy glance at his companion’s waistcoat.

“This is gettin’ excitin’,” thought Julius. “He won’t wait long.”

Julius was right. Ned Sanders felt that now was the favorable opportunity to carry out his unlawful purpose, while his neighbor was asleep, as when his nap was over he would more readily detect his intentions.

With his paper still before his face, his hand crept softly to the watch chain, which he gently appropriated, dropping it into his coat pocket. But he was not yet satisfied. He was preparing to relieve the other of his pocketbook also, when Julius thought it was about time to interfere. Rising in his seat, he struck the stout man forcibly on the back. The latter started, and opening his eyes said, “What! Eh, what do you want? Is it morning?”

The pickpocket started also, and looked uneasy, but retained his seat, not suspecting that he had been detected. His uneasiness arose from the fear that his neighbor, on awakening, would immediately miss his watch, which would be awkward and perhaps dangerous for him. He was vexed with Julius, whom he did not yet recognize, for this interference with his plans.

“Can’t you let the gentleman alone?” he said angrily. “Why do you disturb him?”

“What’s the matter?” said his victim, in his turn, a little irritated. “What do you mean by thumping my back, boy?”

“I wanted to ask you what time it is,” said Julius, quietly.

“Well, that’s cool,” grumbled the stout man. “You wake me up out of a nap to ask me what time of day it is.”

Sanders turned pale when Julius asked this question, for he saw that discovery was imminent. He half arose from his seat, but it occurred to him that that would only fasten suspicion upon him. Moreover the train was going at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour, and, though he might go into another car, he could not escape from the train. He closed his lips tightly, and tried to look calm and indifferent. He had determined to brazen it out.

Notwithstanding his grumbling rejoinder, the stout man felt for his watch. Now it was his turn to start and look dismayed.

“By jove, it’s gone!” he ejaculated.

“What’s the matter, sir?” asked Julius.

“My watch and chain are gone. Do you know anything about them, boy?”

“I think you had better put that question to the man you’re sittin’ with.”

“What do you mean by that, you young rascal?” demanded Ned Sanders, pale with passion and dismay. “I think, sir, the boy behind you has taken your watch.”

“I don’t see how he could do that,” said the other, regarding him suspiciously. “Can you tell me where my watch is sir?”

“What should I know of your watch? Do you mean to insult me, sir?” blustered the pickpocket.

His manner increased the suspicions of his victim, who recognized, by his appearance and flashy attire, the class to which he belonged. He turned to Julius, and asked, “What made you refer to this gentleman?”

“Because,” said Julius bluntly, “I saw him take it. He held up the paper before him, while he loosened your chain. He’s got it in his pocket now.”

“That is sufficient. Now, sir,” he said sternly, “I command you instantly to return my watch and chain.”

“I haven’t got it. The boy lies,” said Sanders, furiously.

By this time, most of the passengers in the car had gathered around the two. Just at this moment, too, the conductor entered.

“What’s the matter, gentlemen?” he asked.

“This man has stolen my watch,” said the stout man.

“It’s a – lie!” said Sanders.

“Are you willing to show us what you have in your pockets?” said the conductor.

“No, I’m not. I am a New York merchant, and I won’t submit to an impertinence.”

“Where is your place of business?”

“In Pearl Street,” answered Sanders, quite at random.

“Have you one of your business cards with you?”

“I believe so.”

He felt in his pocket, and appeared surprised at finding none.

“I believe I have none with me,” he admitted. “I generally have some.”

“What’s your business?”

“I’m in the clothing business?” said Sanders, with some hesitation.

“What is your name?”

“I won’t answer any more questions,” said the pickpocket, desperately. “You have insulted me enough, all of you. Just make way, will you? I am going to get out.”

The cars had just stopped at a way station.

Sanders attempted to arise, but his victim seized him by the arm.

“You don’t leave this car till you have surrendered my watch,” he said.

“Let go, or I’ll strike you,” said Sanders, losing his prudence in his anger.

“You can’t get out till you have been searched,” said the conductor. “Who is the boy that saw him take the watch?”

“I did,” said Julius.

“Where did he put it? Did you notice?”

“In his left breast pocket.”

“Show us what you have in that pocket.”

Sanders hesitated? and then drew out a handkerchief.

“There, I hope you are satisfied,” he said.

Meantime his neighbor, pressing his hand against the pocket on the outside, exclaimed triumphantly:

“He’s got the watch. I can feel it.”

The thief uttered a profane ejaculation, and made a desperate effort to arise, but three men threw themselves upon him, two holding him down, while the other drew out the watch and chain, and handed them to their owner.

“Now will you let me go?” demanded Sanders, doggedly. He felt that it would do no good to indulge in further protestations of innocence.

“No,” said the conductor. “Gentlemen, will you guard him till we reach the next station? Then I will place him in the hands of an officer.”

“Boy,” said Sanders, turning around, and glaring fiercely at Julius, “I shan’t forget you. Some time I’ll make you repent what you’ve done to-day.”

“Don’t mind him, my lad,” said the stout man, elated by the recovery of his property. “You’ve done exactly right. But how came you to suspect this man?”

“Because I knew him,” said Julius.

Here Sanders turned around, and scanned our hero’s face sharply.

“That’s a lie!” he said.

“It’s not a lie, Mr. Ned Sanders,” said Julius. “I’ve seen you more than once.”

Again Sanders scanned his features sharply. This time a light dawned upon him.

“I know you now,” he said; “you’re Jack Morgan’s boy.”

“I was,” said Julius.

“Have you left him?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out West.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to tell me.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t care about receiving a visit from you.”

“I’ll hunt you up, and pay off old debts. I shouldn’t be in this scrape but for you,” said Sanders, vindictively.

He relapsed into a moody silence, and said nothing more while in the car. At the next station, which was an important place, two officers were summoned, who took him into custody. But he managed to elude their vigilance some hours later and escaped to New York.

CHAPTER V.

JULIUS IS REWARDED

After the pickpocket had been removed from the car, his intended victim turned in his seat, and addressed Julius.

“Come and sit by me,” he said; “I want to speak with you.”

Julius readily accepted the invitation.

“My boy,” said the stout gentleman, “you have done me a great service.”

“I am glad of it,” said Julius.

“You must know that this watch and chain, which but for you I should have lost, were bought for me, in Switzerland, by a son who has since died. They are valuable in themselves, but they are five times as valuable to me because they were a last gift from him.”

“I am glad Ned didn’t get off with ’em,” said Julius.

“You seem to know this man,” said the other, with some curiosity.

“Oh, yes, sir, I know him like a brick.”

The common expression is “like a book”; but that would hardly have implied any close knowledge on the part of Julius, for he knew next to nothing of books. Probably the phrase he did use was suggested by the other.

“Is he a professional pickpocket?”

“Oh, yes, that’s the way he makes a livin’.”

“Then how do you come to know him?”

“Oh, he used to come and see Jack.”

“Who’s Jack?”

“Jack Morgan—the man I used to live with.”

“Jack didn’t have very respectable friends, then, I should judge.”

“Ned and he was pretty thick. They used to do business together.”

“Was Jack a pickpocket, also?”

“He didn’t do much that way; he was too clumsy. He broke into houses.”

“What! was he a burglar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean to say that you lived with a burglar?” asked the stout gentleman, in surprise.

“Yes,” said Julius, unconcerned.

“And did you help him, too?” demanded the other, suspiciously.

“No, I didn’t,” said Julius. “I didn’t like the business. Besides, I didn’t want to be sent over to the island. I blacked boots, and such things.”

“That is a much better way of getting a living,” said his companion, approvingly.

“So I think,” said Julius; “but it ain’t quite so easy.”

“I think you are mistaken. An honest life is the easiest in the end. Where is Jack now?”

“Oh, he’s in the Tombs. He was took up for burglary of a house in Madison Avenue. I guess he’ll be sent up for five or ten years.”

“That won’t be very easy, or pleasant.”

“No,” said Julius. “I’m glad I ain’t in Jack’s shoes.”

“I hope, my lad, you are in no danger of following the example of your evil associates.”

“No,” said Julius. “I’m goin’ to be respectable.”

“An excellent determination. How do you happen to be traveling?”

“Oh, I’m goin’ out West.”

“What made you think of that?”

“Mr. O’Connor—he’s the superintendent of the Newsboys’ Lodging House—was goin’ to take some boys out, and get ’em places; and he offered to take me.”

“Are all these boys I see in the car going out too?”

“Yes, sir, all of ’em, and there’s some more in the car behind.”

“Where in the West do you expect to go?”

“I don’t know,” said Julius. “Is the West a big place?”

“I should say it was,” said the other, with a laugh. “It’s a very large place.”

“Were you ever there?” asked Julius, desiring to hear something about his place of destination.

“I live there—in Wisconsin. Did you ever hear of Wisconsin?”

Julius shook his head.

“I don’t know much about any places, except New York and Jersey,” he added.

“I live in the city of Milwaukee, in Wisconsin. It is quite a flourishing city.”

“Is it as big as New York?”

“Oh, no; we can’t show any cities in the West as big as New York. I doubt if we ever shall, though we’ve some large cities, that are growing fast. Do you think you are likely to come to Milwaukee?”

“I don’t know,” said Julius. “Mr. O’Connor could tell you.”

“Where is he?”

“In the other car. Will I speak to him?”

“Not yet. I’ve got something more to say to you. I am under an obligation to you.”

“What’s that?” asked Julius, puzzled.

“I mean that you have done me a favor.”

“That’s all right,” said Julius. “I’m glad of it.”

“And in doing so, you have probably made an enemy,” added the other.

“You mean Ned Sanders?”

“Yes; I am afraid, if he gets a chance, he will do you an injury.”

“I’ll be out of his way.”

“He might some time see you.”

“If he does, and I’m grown up, I won’t be afraid of him.”

“You seem to be a brave young man.”

“I ain’t a coward,” said Julius, proudly.

“And yet there are some things I hope you will be afraid of.”

“What are them?” asked Julius, somewhat puzzled.

“I hope you will be afraid to lie and steal, and do wrong generally.”

“I shan’t steal,” said Julius; “I don’t know about lyin’, most boys lie sometimes.”

“I hope you will be one of the boys that do not lie at all.”

“Maybe so,” said Julius, dubiously. “A feller can’t always be good.”

“No, I suppose not. But there is no occasion for lying.”

“I’ll try not to, but I ain’t an angel.”

“Angels are scare, as far as my observation goes,” said his companion, smiling, “and you appear to have too much human nature about you to be altogether angelic. But there’s one thing you can do. You can try to do right.”

“I mean to,” said Julius, promptly. “I want to grow up respectable.”

“If you want to, you probably will. You’ll have a better chance at the West than you would in New York.”

“If I stayed there, I’d be a bootblack all my life,” said Julius. “There ain’t no chance for a boy like me to rise. I wouldn’t want to be a bootblack,” he added reflectively, “when I got to be old and gray-headed.”

“No, it wouldn’t be an agreeable business for an old man to follow. But I’ve got off the track.”

“Off the track!” repeated Julius, looking out of the window.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. The cars are all right. But I meant to say, that I had got away from what I meant to say. I think I owe you something for your saving me from losing my watch.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Julius.

“To me it is a great deal, and I want to show my sense of the favor. Is there anything in particular you would like?”

“I don’t know,” said Julius, thoughtfully. “I might like a jack-knife.”

“That isn’t enough. As I said, I have particular reason to value my watch and chain. Did you ever have a watch yourself?”

“I never got so far along. I couldn’t save enough on shines for that.”

“Well, it so happens that, in New York, I took a small silver watch and chain in the way of business from a traveler who owed me money. Here it is.”

He drew from his pocket a neat, but inexpensive silver watch, with a chain of the same metal.

“What do you think of it?” he said.

“It’s tiptop,” said Julius admiringly.

“I am glad you like it, for I am going to give it to you.”

“Goin’ to give me a watch and chain!” repeated Julius, in amazement.

“Yes. Would you like it?”

“It’ll make me feel like a swell,” said Julius, elated. “Ain’t it a beauty, Teddy?” he continued, turning in his seat, and displaying it to his comrade.

“It ain’t yours, is it?” asked Teddy, not without a slight feeling of envy.

“Yes, it is. This gentleman says so.”

And Julius proudly put the watch in his vest pocket, and attached the chain to one of the button-holes. The donor looked on with a benevolent smile, glad that he had been able to make so acceptable a gift to the boy who had done him such a service.

“Now,” he said, smiling, “it will be your turn to look out for pickpockets. They may try to carry off your watch, as they did mine.”

“I d like to see ’em do it,” said Julius, confidently. “It’ll take a smart pickpocket to hook my watch.”

“Well, my young friend,” said the other, “as the time may come when I can do you a service, I will give you my card.”

“I can’t read writin’,” admitted Julius, reluctantly, as he took the card, which was printed in script.

“My name is John Taylor, of Milwaukee. Keep the card, and you will soon be able to read it.”

Here the paper boy passed through the car, and Mr. Taylor, purchasing a copy of Harper’s Weekly, was soon immersed in its contents. Finding that the interview was ended, Julius returned to his former seat, and Teddy and he spent some time in admiring it.

CHAPTER VI.

A NEWSBOY’S LETTER

“I say, Julius, you’re in luck,” said Teddy.

“I won’t be in luck if Marlowe or Ned Sanders gets hold of me.”

“They won’t find you, away out West.”

“Marlowe might. He’s a tough customer, Marlowe is. I mind how he looked when he got hold of me at Staten Island. Jack ain’t so bad, but Marlowe’d go a thousand miles to get hold of me.”

“I wouldn’t think of it, Julius.”

“I shan’t lose no sleep. If he don’t break out of jail, I’ll be a man before he can get at me.”

“Look out of the window, Julius. See them cows harnessed together. What are they doin’?”

“They’re ploughin’, I expect,” said Julius, who, like his companion, took a yoke of oxen for cows.

“They don’t go very fast.”

“They look as if they was lazy. They’re the biggest cows I ever see.”

Here Mr. O’Connor came into the car and passed down the aisle, looking to see that none of the boys were missing.

“Well, boys, how are you getting along?” he asked, pleasantly.

“Bully!” “Tiptop!” were heard from the boys on either side.

“What have you got there, Julius?” asked the superintendent, noticing the watch chain.

Julius drew out his watch.

“Where did you get it?” asked Mr. O’Connor, a little suspiciously. “You haven’t spent any of your money, have you?”

“No; it was given me,” said Julius.

“Given you?”

“By that gentleman.”

Mr. Taylor looked up, finding himself referred to.

“Is this the gentleman who has charge of your party?” he asked, turning to Julius.

“Yes, sir. It is Mr. O’Connor.”

“Mr. O’Connor, the boy’s story is correct. He detected a pickpocket in the act of appropriating my gold watch and chain. As it was of great value, I asked his acceptance of the watch and chain you see.”

“I hope you did not ask any reward, Julius,” said the superintendent.

“It was entirely my own thought,” said Mr. Taylor. “I presume the boy never thought of any compensation.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Julius.

“I am glad you have behaved so well, Julius,” said superintendent, approvingly. “I am sure you will value your present.”

“It’s bully,” said Julius, enthusiastically.

“Where do you intend to take the boys, Mr. O’Connor?” asked Mr. Taylor.

“I have an invitation from the citizens of Brookville, in Wisconsin, to make my headquarters there. I am told that boys and girls are in demand in that town and vicinity, and that I shall probably be able to find homes for all my party in that neighborhood.”

“I think you can. I know Brookville very well. I have a nephew living there. He is a prosperous farmer. By the way, I shouldn’t be surprised if he would like a boy. Suppose I give you a note to my young friend here to deliver to him.”

“I should be glad to have you do so.”

“If Ephraim takes him into his family, he will have an excellent home.”

“That is what we desire for all our party.”

“Do you generally succeed?”

“Very generally. We seldom receive complaints from the children we have placed. They are treated kindly almost without exception.”

“How about the other parties? Do they often prefer complaints of the children?”

“Sometimes, but not often. Considering the training our children have had in the city streets, they conduct themselves remarkably well in their new homes. Removed from the temptations and privations of the city, their better natures assert themselves, and they behave as well as ordinary children. In fact, I may say that most of the complaints that come to us are of a trivial nature. People forget that our boys are no more perfect than their own, and if now and then they pelt the cows, or leave the turkeys out in the rain, that hardly indicates a depraved heart.”

Mr. Taylor smiled.

“I have heard of such things, myself,” he said. “I suspect boys are about the same now that they were fifty years ago.”

“And will be fifty years hence. Of course, they will always need restraint, and, if they do mischief, they must pay the penalty. Still, if a boy is simply mischievous, I don’t think he can be considered a hopeless case.”

“I should say not. I used to do some things myself that were not quite exemplary. Of course I was punished and in time I steadied down.”

“As you seem to take an interest in our mission,” said Mr. O’Connor, “you may feel interested to read a letter1 which I received not long since from one of our boys in Indiana. It is characteristic, and will give a good idea of the improvement which emigration makes in their condition and circumstances.”

“I should like very much to read it,” said Mr. Taylor.

This was the letter:

“M–, Ind., Nov. 24, 1859.

“To My Friend and Benefactor: So I take my pen in hand to let you know how I am, and how I am getting along. As far as I can see, I am well satisfied with my place; but I took a general look around, and, as far as I can see, all the boys left in M– are doing well, especially myself, and I think there is as much fun as in New York, for nuts and apples are all free. I am much obliged to you, Mr. O’Connor, for the paper you sent me. I received it last night, read it last night—something about the Newsboys’ Lodging House.

“All the newsboys in New York have a bad name; but we should show ourselves, and show them, that we are no fools; that we can become as respectable as any of their countrymen; for some of you poor boys can do something for your country; for Franklin, Webster, Clay, were poor boys once, and even Commodore V. C. Perry or Math. C. Perry. But even George Law, and Vanderbilt, and Astor—some of the richest men of New York—and Math. and V. C. Perry, were nothing but printers, and in the navy on Lake Erie. And look at Winfield Scott. So now, boys, stand up, and let them see that you have got the real stuff in you. Come out here, and make respectable and honorable men, so they can say, there, that boy was once a newsboy.

“Now, boys, you all know I have tried everything. I have been a newsboy, and when that got slack, you know I have smashed baggage. I have sold nuts, I have peddled. I have worked on the rolling billows up the canal; I was a bootblack; and you know, when I sold papers I was at the top of the profession. I had a good stand of my own, but I found all would not do. I could not get along, but I am now going ahead. I have a first-rate home, ten dollars a month, and my board; and, I tell you, fellows, that is a great deal more than I could scrape up my best times in New York. We are all on an equality, my boys, out here, so long as we keep ourselves respectable.

“Mr. O’Connor, tell ‘Fatty,’ or F. John Pettibone, to send me a Christmas number of Frank Leslie’s, and Harper’s Weekly, a Weekly News or some other pictorials to read, especially the Newsboys’ Pictorial, if it comes out. No old papers, or else none. If they would get some other boys to get me some books. I want something to read.

“I hope this letter will find you in good health, as it leaves me, Mr. O’Connor. I expect an answer before two weeks—a letter and a paper. Write to me all about the lodging house. With this I close my letter. With much respect to all.

“I remain your truly obedient friend,

“J. K.”

“The writer of this letter is evidently a smart boy,” said Mr. Taylor, as he finished reading it. “I warrant he will make his way in the world.”

“I expected he would do well, when we sent him out,” said the superintendent. “In New York he was a leader in his set, and very successful in his street trades. But, as you see, he admits that he is doing much better out West.”

“His Western life will make a man of him. Do you often hear from those you have sent out?”

“We are in constant correspondence with them. We feel ourselves under an obligation to look after them still, and to show them that we keep up an interest in them.”

“It must have a good effect upon them.”

“We find that it does. They are ashamed to misconduct themselves, knowing that it will come to our ears.”

“Have you sent out many children, in this way?”

“Thousands of our children are located in different parts of the great West. With few exceptions, they are doing well, and bid fair to become—some have already become—respected and useful members of society.”