Mark had made two applications for charity, and still had but ten cents. The manner in which Mrs. Crawford met his appeal made the business seem more disagreeable than ever. Besides, he was getting tired. It was not more than eight o'clock, but he had been up early, and had been on his all day. He leaned against one of the stalls, but in so doing he aroused the suspicions of the vigilant old woman who presided over it.
"Just stand away there," she said. "You're watchin' for a chance to steal one of them apples."
"No, I'm not," said Mark, indignantly. "I never steal."
"Don't tell me," said the old woman, who had a hearty aversion to boys, some of whom, it must be confessed, had in times played mean tricks on her; "don't tell me! Them that beg will steal, and I see you beggin' just now."
To this Mark had no reply to make. He saw that he was already classed with the young street beggars, many of whom, as the old woman implied, had no particular objection to stealing, if they got a chance. Altogether he was so discusted with his new business, that he felt it impossible for him to beg anymore that night. But then came up the consideration that this would prevent his returning home. He very well knew what kind of a reception Mother Watson would give him, and he had a very unpleasant recollection and terror of the leather strap.
But where should he go? He must pass the night somewhere, and he already felt drowsy. Why should he not follow Ben Gidson's suggestions, and sleep on the Fulton ferry-boat? It would only cost two cents to get on board, and he might ride all night. Fortunately he had more than money enough for that, though he did not like to think how he came by the ten cents.
When Mark had made up his mind, he passed out of one of the entrances of the market, and crossing the street, presented his ten cents at the wicket, where stood the fare-taker.
Without a look towards him, that functionaty took the money, and pushed back eight cents. These Mark took, and passed round into the large room of the ferry-house.
The boat was not in, but he already saw if halfway across the river, speeding towards its pier.
There were few persons witing besides himself, but the great rush of travel was diminished for a short time. It would set in again about eleven o'clock when those who had passed the evening at some place of amusement in New York would be on their way home.
Mark with the rest waited till the boat reached its warf. There was the usual bump, then the chain rattled, the wheel went round, and the passangers began to pour out onto the wharf. Mark passed into the boat, and went at once to the "gentleman's cabin," situated on the left- hand side of the boat. Generally, however, gentlemen rather unfairly crowd into the ladies' cabin, sometimes compelling the ladies, to whom it of right belongs, to stand, while they complacently monopolize the seats. The gentleman's cabin, so called, is occupied by those who have a little more regard to the rights of ladies, and by the smokers, who are at liberty to indulge in their favorite comfort here.
When Mark entered, the air was redolent with to- bacco-smoke, generally emitted from clay pipes and cheap cigars, and therefore not so agreeable as under other circumstances it might have been. But it was warm and comfortable, and that was a good deal.
In the corner Mark espied a whole seat nearly double the size of an ordinary seat, and this he decided would make the most comfortable niche for him.
He settled himself down there as well as he could. The seat was hard, and not so comfortable as it might have been; but then Mark was not accustomed to beds of down, and he was so weary that his eyes closed and he was soon in the land of dreams.
He was dimly conscious of the arrival at the Brooklyn side, and the ensuing hurried exit of passengers from that part of the cabin in which he was; but it was only a slight interuption, and when the boat, having set out on its homeward trip, reached the New York side, he was fast asleep.
"Poor little fellow!" thought more than one, with a hasty glance at the sleeping boy. "He is taking his com- fort where he can."
But there was no good Samaritan to take him by the hand, and inquire into his hardships, and provide for his necessities, or rather there was one, and that one well known to us.
Richard Hunter and his friend Henry Fosdick had been to Brooklyn that evening to attend an instructive lecture which they had seen announced in one of the daily papers. The lecture concluded at half-past nine, and they took the ten o'clock boat over the Fulton ferry.
They seated themselves in the first cabin, towards the Brooklyn side, and did not, therefore, see Mark until they passed through the other cabin on the arrival of the boat at New York.
"Look there, Fosdick," said Richard Hunter. "See that poor little chap asleep in the corner. Doesn't it remind you of the times we used to have, when we were as badly off as he?"
"Yes, Dick, but I don't think I ever slept on a ferry- boat."
"That's because you were not on the streets long. I took care of myself eight years, and more than once took a cheap bed for two cents on a boat like this. Most likely I've slept in that very corner."
"It was a hard life, Dick."
"Yes, and a hard bed, too; but there's a good many that are no better off now. I always feel like doing some- thing to help along those like this little chap here."
"I wonder what he is,--a boot-black?"
"He hasn't any brush or box with him. Perhaps he's a newsboy. I think I'll give him a surprise."
"Wake him up, do you mean?"
"No, poor little chap! Let him sleep. I'll put fifty cents in his pocket, and when he wakes up he won't know where it came from."
"That's a good idea, Dick. I'll do the same. All right. Here's the money. Put mine in with yours. Don't wake him up."
Dick walked softly up to the match-boy, and gently inserted the money--one dollar--in one of the pockets of his ragged vest.
Mark was so fast asleep that he was entirely uncon- scious of the benevolent act.
"That'll make him open his eyes in the morning," he said.
"Unless somebody releives him of the money during his sleep."
"Not much chance of that. Pickpockets won't be very apt to meddle with such a ragged chap as that, unless its in a fit of temporary aberration of mind."
"You're right, Dick. But we must hurry out now, or we shall be carried back to Brooklyn."
"And so get more than our money's worth. I wouldn't want to cheat the corporation so extensively as that."
So the two friends passed out of the boat, and left the match boy asleep in the cabin, quite unconscious that good fortune had hovered over him, and made him richer by a dollar, while he slept.
While we are waiting for him to awake, we may as well follow Richard Hunter and his friend home.
Fosdick's good fortune, which we recorded in the earlier chapters of this volume, had made no particular change in their arrangements. They were already living in better style than was usual among youths situated as they were. There was this difference, however, that whereas formerly Dick paid the greater part of the joint expense it was now divided equally. It will be remembered that Fosdick's interest on the twenty bank shares purchased in his name amounted to one hundred and sixty dollars annually, and this just about enabled him to pay his own way, though not leaving him a large surplus for clothing and incidental expenses. It could not be long, however, before his pay would be increased at the store, probably by two dollars a week. Until that time he could economize a little; for upon one thing he had made up his mind,--not to trench upon his principal except in case of sickness or absolute necessity.
The boys had not forgotten or neglected the commission which they had undertaken for Mr. Hiram Bates. They had visited, on the evening after he left, the Newsboys' Lodging House, then located at the corner of Fulton and Nassau Streets, in the upper part of the "Sun" building, and had consulted Mr. O'Connor, the efficient superintendent, as to the boy of whom they were in search. But he had no information to supply them with. He promised to inquire among the boys who frequented the lodge, as it was possible that their might be some among them who might have fallen in with a boy named Talbot.
Richard Hunter also sought out some of his old acquaintances, who were still engaged in blacking boots, or selling newspapers, and offered a reward of five dollars for the discovery of a boy of ten, named Talbot, or John Talbot.
As the result of this offer a red-haired boy was brought round to the counting-room one day, who stoutly asserted that his name was John Talbot, and his guide in consequence clamed the reward. Dick, however, had considerable doubt as to the genuineness of his claim, and called the errand-boy, known to the readers of ear- lier volumes, as Mickey Maguire.
"Micky," said Richard, "this boy says he is John Talbot. Do you know him?"
"Know him!" repeated Micky; "I've knowed him ever since he was so high. He's no more John Talbot than I am. His name is Tim Hogan, and I'll defy him to say it isn't."
Tim looked guilty, and his companion gave up the at- tempt to obtain the promsed reward. He had hired Tim by the promise of a dollar to say he was John Talbot, hoping by the means to clear four dollars for himself.
"That boy'll rise to a seat in the Common Council if he lives long enough," said Dick. "He's an unusually prom- ising specimen."