Ben, the Luggage Boy; Or, Among the Wharves

r made this

answered Ben

er bre

sterday. It's most time for the train to be in

nce as a street boot-black. His hair was red, his fingers defaced by stains of blacking, and his clot

as well as Broadway, its more aristocratic neighbor. The vest had been discarded as a needless luxury, its place being partially supplied by a shirt of thick red flannel. This was covered by a frock-coat, which might once have belonged to a member of the Fat Men's Association, being aldermanic in its proportions. Now it was fallen from its high estate, its nap and original gloss had long departed, and it was frayed and torn in many places. But among the street-boys dress is not much regarded, and Ben never thought of apologizing for the defects of his wardrobe. We shall learn in time what were his faults and what

was nearly time for the train, and there was the usual scene of confusion. Express wagons, hacks, boys,

is business was a precarious one. Sometimes he was lucky, sometimes unlucky. When he was flush, he treated himself to a "square meal," and finished up the day at Tony Pastor's, or the

heir own lot, while they follow with rapt interest the fortunes of Lord Frederic Montressor or the Lady Imogene Delacour. Strange as it may seem, the street Arab has a decided fancy for these pictures of aristocracy, and never suspects their want of fidelity. When the play ends, and Lord Frederic comes to his own, having foiled all the schemes of his crafty and

, which caused other pedestrians to pick their way. To the condition of his shoes he was supre

the wharf, and directly a crowd of passengers pou

His attention was drawn to an elderly lady, with a large carpet-bag swel

he said, at the same ti

sked the old la

age-smasher

feared it would be wrested from her. "I'm surprised that the law allows sich

u're right, old

tter, if I only had t

inted in New York?"

principal men. A. T. Stooart's my intimate friend, and I dine

you visit your fine friends?

day clo'es. I've got some velvet cl

my darter, Mrs. John Jones; her first name is Seraphiny. She lives on Bleecker Street, a

erday that she told me her mother was comin'

d you hav

ld me just ho

w did she sa

u was most n

seventy-three, and everybody says I'm wonderful young-loo

d you looked as if

g to get up to Seraphiny's," she continued, complainingly. "They'd ought to have come down to

ents," s

ld lady, aghast. "I didn't th

d Ben. "Board's

r," addressing a hackman, "what'll you charge to carry me

s the

a hundred an

ar and

alf? Couldn't you

r?" asked Ben, of a

eman shoo

d lady, who, having by this time got through her negotiations with the hackman, whom she had vainl

less than fifty

id Ben,

ive you

Ben, who felt sure of

n to meet me. I didn't tell her I was comin' to-day; but she might have thought I'd come, bein' so pleasant. Here,

s," said Ben. "My wife's bigger'

you aint mar

ouldn't

you don't want the clo'es. They wouldn't be of no use t

my pay

darter Seraphiny will pay y

decidedly. "Payment in advance

ur pay; don't

all; but I w

ay after I've pai

ot. That ain

She protested that she had not a cent more. Ben pardoned the deficien

three cents. It aint any object to a man of my income.

n' run over," said

e?" said Ben. "The city'l

ouldn't do me any good," rem

to your friends," s

be run over?" asked t

re of you. They wouldn't dare to r

ld lady submitted to Ben's guidance, and

ney. It would be as much as my life is worth,

two m

. But a dollar and a h

to pay mor

ll the ma

n he'd got you there, he'd h

n't have

would,"

ldn't m

cked you in, and driven you off

h things?" asked the

iful young lady was served that way, 'caus

was done

ce is in league with 'em, and

What a wicked place Ne

goin' to the country myself as soon

ey saved up?" asked th

llars and fifty-five cents. I don't count this

rryin' carpet-bags," said

it spekilatin' in re

don't

, I

t enough to buy

buy till I can

name of th

Broa

y by this time, that being as dire

hat store,

's the mat

. "I sold it, cos the tenants

r if you've got so much money," s

n' nice clo'es round amo

untry-that it's no use dressin' up the children to go to school,-t

about the streets of New York, most of the time among the wharves, for six years. His street education had commenced at the age of ten. He had adopted it of his own free will. Even now there was a comfortable home waiting for him; there wer