The "Telegraph Boy" completes the series of sketches of street-life in New York inaugurated eleven years since by the publication of "Ragged Dick." The author has reason to feel gratified by the warm reception accorded by the public to these pictures of humble life in the great metropolis. He is even more gratified by the assurance that his labors have awakened a philanthropic interest in the children whose struggles and privations he has endeavored faithfully to describe. He feels it his duty to state that there is no way in which these waifs can more effectually be assisted than by contributing to the funds of "The Children's Aid Society," whose wise and comprehensive plans for the benefit of their young wards have already been crowned with abundant success.
The class of boys described in the present volume was called into existence only a few years since, but they are already so numerous that one can scarcely ride down town by any conveyance without having one for a fellow-passenger. Most of them reside with their parents and have comfortable homes, but a few, like the hero of this story, are wholly dependent on their own exertions for a livelihood. The variety of errands on which they are employed, and their curious experiences, are by no means exaggerated in the present story. In its preparation the author has been assisted by an excellent sketch published perhaps a year since in the "New York Tribune."
"Twenty-five cents to begin the world with!" reflected Frank Kavanagh, drawing from his vest-pocket two ten-cent pieces of currency and a nickel. "That isn't much, but it will have to do."
The speaker, a boy of fifteen, was sitting on a bench in City-Hall Park. He was apparently about fifteen years old, with a face not handsome, but frank and good-humored, and an expression indicating an energetic and hopeful temperament. A small bundle, rolled up in a handkerchief, contained his surplus wardrobe. He had that day arrived in New York by a boat from Hartford, and meant to stay in the city if he could make a living.
Next to him sat a man of thirty-five, shabbily dressed, who clearly was not a member of any temperance society, if an inflamed countenance and red nose may be trusted. Frank Kavanagh's display of money attracted his attention, for, small as was the boy's capital, it was greater than his own.
"Been long in the city, Johnny?" he inquired.
"I only arrived to-day," answered Frank. "My name isn't Johnny, though."
"It's immaterial. Johnny is a generic term," said the stranger. "I suppose you have come here to make your fortune."
"I shall be satisfied with a living to begin with," said Frank.
"Where did you come from?"
"A few miles from Hartford."
"Got any relations there?"
"Yes—an uncle and aunt."
"I suppose you were sorry to leave them."
"Not much. Uncle is a pretty good man, but he's fond of money, and aunt is about as mean as they make 'em. They got tired of supporting me, and gave me money enough to get to New York."
"I suppose you have some left," said the stranger, persuasively.
"Twenty-five cents," answered Frank, laughing. "That isn't a very big capital to start on, is it?"
"Is that all you've got?" asked the shabbily dressed stranger, in a tone of disappointment.
"Every cent."
"I wish I had ten dollars to give you," said the stranger, thoughtfully.
"Thank you, sir; I wish you had," said Frank, his eyes resting on the dilapidated attire of his benevolent companion. Judging from that, he was not surprised that ten dollars exceeded the charitable fund of the philanthropist.
"My operations in Wall street have not been fortunate of late," resumed the stranger; "and I am in consequence hard up."
"Do you do business in Wall street?" asked Frank, rather surprised.
"Sometimes," was the reply. "I have lost heavily of late in Erie and Pacific Mail, but it is only temporary. I shall soon be on my feet again."
"I hope so, sir," said Frank, politely.
"My career has been a chequered one," continued the stranger. "I, too, as a mere boy, came up from the country to make my fortune. I embarked in trade, and was for a time successful. I resigned to get time to write a play—a comedy in five acts."
Frank regarded his companion with heightened respect. He was a boy of good education, and the author of a play in his eyes was a man of genius.
"Was it played?" he inquired.
"No; Wallack said it had too many difficult characters for his company, and the rest of the managers kept putting me off, while they were producing inferior plays. The American public will never know what they have lost. But, enough of this. Sometime I will read you the 'Mother-in-law,' if you like. Have you had dinner?"
"No," answered Frank. "Do you know where I can dine cheap?" he inquired.
"Yes," answered the stranger. "Once I boarded at the Astor House, but now I am forced, by dire necessity, to frequent cheap restaurants. Follow me."
"What is your name, sir?" asked Frank, as he rose from the bench.
"Montagu Percy," was the reply. "Sorry I haven't my card-case with me, or I would hand you my address. I think you said your name was not Johnny."
"My name is Frank Kavanagh."
"A very good name. 'What's in a name?' as Shakespeare says."
As the oddly assorted pair crossed the street, and walked down Nassau street, they attracted the attention of some of the Arabs who were lounging about Printing-House square.
"I say, country, is that your long-lost uncle?" asked a boot-black.
"No, it isn't," answered Frank, shortly.
Though he was willing to avail himself of Mr. Percy's guidance, he was not ambitious of being regarded as his nephew.
"Heed not their ribald scoffs," said Montagu Percy, loftily. "Their words pass by me 'like the idle wind,' which I regard not."
"Who painted your nose, mister?" asked another boy, of course addressing Frank's companion.
"I will hand you over to the next policeman," exclaimed Percy, angrily.
"Look out he don't haul you in, instead," retorted the boy.
Montagu Percy made a motion to pursue his tormentors, but desisted.
"They are beneath contempt," he said. "It is ever the lot of genius to be railed at by the ignorant and ignoble. They referred to my nose being red, but mistook the cause. It is a cutaneous eruption—the result of erysipelas."
"Is it?" asked Frank, rather mystified.
"I am not a drinking man—that is, I indulge myself but rarely. But here we are."
So saying he plunged down some steps into a basement, Frank following him. Our hero found himself in a dirty apartment, provided with a bar, over which was a placard, inscribed:—
"FREE LUNCH."
"How much money have you got, Frank?" inquired Montagu Percy.
"Twenty-five cents."
"Lunch at this establishment is free," said Montagu; "but you are expected to order some drink. What will you have?"
"I don't care for any drink except a glass of water."
"All right; I will order for you, as the rules of the establishment require it; but I will drink your glass myself. Eat whatever you like."
Frank took a sandwich from a plate on the counter and ate it with relish, for he was hungry. Meanwhile his companion emptied the two glasses, and ordered another.
"Can you pay for these drinks?" asked the bar-tender, suspiciously.
"Sir, I never order what I cannot pay for."
"I don't know about that. You've been in here and taken lunch more than once without drinking anything."
"It may be so. I will make up for it now. Another glass, please."
"First pay for what you have already drunk."
"Frank, hand me your money," said Montagu.
Frank incautiously handed him his small stock of money, which he saw instantly transferred to the bar-tender.
"That is right, I believe," said Montagu Percy.
The bar-keeper nodded, and Percy, transferring his attention to the free lunch, stowed away a large amount.
Frank observed with some uneasiness the transfer of his entire cash capital to the bar-tender; but concluded that Mr. Percy would refund a part after they went out. As they reached the street he broached the subject.
"I didn't agree to pay for both dinners," he said, uneasily.
"Of course not. It will be my treat next time. That will be fair, won't it?"
"But I would rather you would give me back a part of my money. I may not see you again."
"I will be in the Park to-morrow at one o'clock."
"Give me back ten cents, then," said Frank, uneasily. "That was all the money I had."
"I am really sorry, but I haven't a penny about me. I'll make it right to-morrow. Good-day, my young friend. Be virtuous and you will be happy."
Frank looked after the shabby figure ruefully. He felt that he had been taken in and done for. His small capital had vanished, and he was adrift in the streets of a strange city without a penny.
"I've been a fool," said Frank to himself, in genuine mortification, as he realized how easily he had permitted himself to be duped. "I ought to have stayed in the country."
Even a small sum of money imparts to its possessor a feeling of independence, but one who is quite penniless feels helpless and apprehensive. Frank was unable even to purchase an apple from the snuffy old apple-woman who presided over the stand near by.
"What am I going to do?" he asked himself, soberly.
"What has become of your uncle?" asked a boot-black.
Looking up, Frank recognized one of those who had saluted Percy and himself on their way to the restaurant.
"He isn't my uncle," he replied, rather resentfully.
"You never saw him before, did you?" continued the boy.
"No, I didn't."
"That's what I thought."
There was something significant in the young Arab's tone, which led Frank to inquire, "Do you know him?"
"Yes, he's a dead-beat."
"A what?"
"A dead-beat. Don't you understand English?"
"He told me that he did business on Wall street."
The boot-black shrieked with laughter.
"He do business on Wall street!" he repeated. "You're jolly green, you are!"
Frank was inclined to be angry, but he had the good sense to see that his new friend was right. So he said good-humoredly, "I suppose I am. You see I am not used to the city."
"It's just such fellows as you he gets hold of," continued the boot-black. "Didn't he make you treat?"
"I may as well confess it," thought Frank. "This boy may help me with advice."
"Yes," he said aloud. "I hadn't but twenty-five cents, and he made me spend it all. I haven't a cent left."
"Whew!" ejaculated the other boy. "You're beginnin' business on a small capital."
"That's so," said Frank. "Do you know any way I can earn money?"
Dick Rafferty was a good-natured boy, although rough, and now that Frank had appealed to him for advice he felt willing to help him, if he could.
"What can you do?" he asked, in a business-like tone. "Have you ever worked?"
"Yes," answered Frank.
"What can you do?"
"I can milk cows, hoe corn and potatoes, ride horse to plough, and—"
"Hold up!" said Dick. "All them things aint goin' to do you no good in New York. People don't keep cows as a reg'lar thing here."
"Of course I know that."
"And there aint much room for plantin' corn and potatoes. Maybe you could get a job over in Jersey."
"I'd rather stay in New York. I can do something here."
"Can you black boots, or sell papers?"
"I can learn."
"You need money to set up in either of them lines," said Dick Rafferty.
"Would twenty-five cents have been enough?" asked Frank.
"You could have bought some evening papers with that."
"I wish somebody would lend me some money," said Frank; "I'd pay it back as soon as I'd sold my papers. I was a fool to let that fellow swindle me."
"That's so," assented Dick; "but it's no good thinkin' of that now. I'd lend you the money myself, if I had it; but I've run out my account at the Park Bank, and can't spare the money just at present."
"How long have you been in business?" asked Frank.
"Ever since I was eight years old; and I'm goin' on fifteen now."
"You went to work early."
"Yes, I had to. Father and mother both died, and I was left to take care of myself."
"You took care of yourself when you were only eight years old?" asked Frank, in surprise.
"Yes."
"Then I ought to make a living, for I am fifteen—a year older than you are now."
"Oh, you'll get along when you get started," said Dick, encouragingly. "There's lots of things to do."
"Is there anything to do that doesn't require any capital?" inquired Frank, anxiously.
"Yes, you can smash baggage."
"Will people pay for that?" asked Frank, with a smile.
"Of course they will. You jest hang round the ferries and steamboat landin's, and when a chap comes by with a valise or carpet-bag, you jest offer to carry it, that's all."
"Is that what you call smashing baggage?"
"Of course. What did you think it was?"
Frank evaded answering, not caring to display his country ignorance.
"Do you think I can get a chance to do that?" he asked.
"You can try it and see."
"I came in by the Hartford boat myself, to-day," said Frank. "If I'd thought of it, I would have begun at once."
"Only you wouldn't have knowed the way anywhere, and if a gentleman asked you to carry his valise to any hotel you'd have had to ask where it was."
"So I should," Frank admitted.
"I'll show you round a little, if you want me to," said Dick. "I shan't have anything to do for an hour or two."
"I wish you would."
So the two boys walked about in the lower part of the city, Dick pointing out hotels, public buildings, and prominent streets. Frank had a retentive memory, and stored away the information carefully. Penniless as he was, he was excited and exhilarated by the scene of activity in which he was moving, and was glad he was going to live in it, or to attempt doing so.
"When I am used to it I shall like it much better than the country," he said to Dick. "Don't you?"
"I don't know about that," was the reply. "Sometimes I think I'll go West;—a lot of boys that I know have gone there."
"Won't it take a good deal of money to go?" asked Frank.
"Oh, there's a society that pays boys' expenses, and finds 'em nice homes with the farmers. Tom Harrison, one of my friends, went out six weeks ago, and he writes me that it's bully. He's gone to some town in Kansas."
"That's a good way off."
"I wouldn't mind that. I'd like ridin' in the cars."
"It would be something new to you; but I've lived in the country all my life, I'd rather stay here awhile."
"It's just the way a feller feels," said Dick philosophically. "I've bummed around so much I'd like a good, stiddy home, with three square meals a day and a good bed to sleep on."
"Can't you get that here?" asked Frank.
"Not stiddy. Sometimes I don't get but one square meal a day."
Frank became thoughtful. Life in the city seemed more precarious and less desirable than he anticipated.
"Well, I must go to work again," said Dick, after a while.
"Where are you going to sleep to-night?" asked Frank.
"I don't know whether I'd better sleep at the Astor House or Fifth avenue," said Dick.
Frank looked perplexed.
"You don't mean that, do you?" he asked.
"Of course I don't. You're too fresh. Don't get mad," he continued good-naturedly, seeing the flush on Frank's cheek. "You'll know as much about the city as I do before long. I shall go to the Newsboys' Lodgin' House, where I can sleep for six cents."
"I wish I had six cents," said Frank. "If I could only get work I'd soon earn it. You can't think of anything for me to do, can you?"
Dick's face lighted up.
"Yes," he said, "I can get you a job, though it aint a very good one. I wonder I didn't think of it before."
"What is it?" asked Frank, anxiously.
"It's to go round with a blind man, solicitin' contributions."
"You mean begging?"
"Yes; you lead him into stores and countin' rooms, and he asks for money."
"I don't like it much," said Frank, slowly, "but I must do something. After all, it'll be he that's begging, not I."
"I'll take you right round where he lives," said Dick. "Maybe he'll go out this evenin'. His other boy give him the slip, and he hasn' got a new one yet."
A stone's throw from Centre street stands a tall tenement-house, sheltering anywhere from forty to fifty families in squalid wretchedness. The rent which each family pays would procure a neat house in a country town, with perhaps a little land beside; but the city has a mysterious fascination for the poorer classes, and year after year many who might make the change herd together in contracted and noisome quarters, when they might have their share of light and space in country neighborhoods.
It was in front of this tenement-house that Dick halted, and plunged into a dark entrance, admonishing Frank to follow. Up creaking and dilapidated staircases to the fourth floor the boys went.
"Here we are," said Dick, panting a little from the rapidity of his ascent, and began a vigorous tattoo on a door to the left.
"Is this where the blind gentleman lives?" asked Frank, looking around him dubiously.
"He isn't much of a gentleman to look at," said Dick, laughing. "Do you hear him?"
Frank heard a hoarse growl from the inside, which might have been "Come in." At any rate, Dick chose so to interpret it, and opened the door.
The boys found themselves in a scantily furnished room, with a close, disagreeable smell pervading the atmosphere. In the corner was a low bedstead, on which lay a tall man, with a long, gray beard, and a disagreeable, almost repulsive, countenance. He turned his eyes, which, contrary to Frank's expectations, were wide open, full upon his visitors.
"What do you want?" he asked querulously. "I was asleep, and you have waked me up."
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mills," said Dick; "but I come on business."
"What business can you have with me?" demanded the blind man. "Who are you?"
"I am Dick Rafferty. I black boots in the Park," replied Dick.
"Well, I haven't got any money to pay for blacking boots."
"I didn't expect you had. I hear your boy has left you."
"Yes, the young rascal! He's given me the slip. I expect he's robbed me too; but I can't tell, for I'm blind."
"Do you want a new boy?"
"Yes; but I can't pay much. I'm very poor. I don't think the place will suit you."
"Nor I either," said Dick, frankly. "I'd rather make a living outside. But I've got a boy with me who has just come to the city, and is out of business. I guess he'll engage with you."
"What's his name? Let him speak for himself."
"My name is Frank Kavanagh," said our hero, in a clear, distinct voice.
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"Do you know what your duties will be?"
"Yes; Dick has told me."
"I told him you'd want him to go round on a collecting tour with you every day," said Dick.
"That isn't all. You'll have to buy my groceries and all I need."
"I can do that," said Frank, cheerfully, reflecting that this would be much more agreeable than accompanying the old man round the streets.
"Are you honest?" queried the blind man, sharply.
Frank answered, with an indignant flush, "I never stole a cent in my life."
"I supposed you'd say that," retorted the blind man, with a sneer. "They all do; but a good many will steal for all that."
"If you're afraid I will, you needn't hire me," said Frank, independently.
"Of course I needn't," said Mills, sharply; "but I am not afraid. If you take any of my money I shall be sure to find it out, if I am blind."
"Don't mind him, Frank," said Dick, in a low voice.
"What's that?" asked the blind man, suspiciously. "What are you two whispering about?"
"I told Frank not to mind the way you spoke," said Dick.
"Your friend will lend you some, then."
"Not much," answered Dick, laughing. "I'm dead-broke. Haven't you got any money, Mr. Mills?"
"I have a little," grumbled the blind man; "but this boy may take it, and never come back."