BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY.


"How much yer made this mornin', Ben?"

"Nary red," answered Ben, composedly.

"Had yer breakfast?"

"Only an apple. That's all I've eaten since yesterday. It's most time
for the train to be in from Philadelphy. I'm layin' round for a job."

The first speaker was a short, freckled-faced boy, whose box strapped to
his back identified him at once as a street boot-black. His hair was
red, his fingers defaced by stains of blacking, and his clothing
constructed on the most approved system of ventilation. He appeared to
be about twelve years old.

The boy whom he addressed as Ben was taller, and looked older. He was
probably not far from sixteen. His face and hands, though browned by
exposure to wind and weather, were several shades cleaner than those of
his companion. His face, too, was of a less common type. It was easy to
see that, if he had been well dressed, he might readily have been taken
for a gentleman's son. But in his present attire there was little chance
of this mistake being made. His pants, marked by a green stripe, small
around the waist and very broad at the hips, had evidently once belonged
to a Bowery swell; for the Bowery has its swells 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 his virtues, for I can
assure my readers that street boys do have virtues sometimes, and when
they are thoroughly convinced that a questioner feels an interest in
them will drop the "chaff" in which they commonly indulge, and talk
seriously and feelingly of their faults and hardships. Some do this for
a purpose, no doubt, and the verdant stranger is liable to be taken in
by assumed virtue, and waste sympathy on those who do not deserve it.
But there are also many boys who have good tendencies and aspirations,
and only need to be encouraged and placed under right influences to
develop into worthy and respectable men.

The conversation recorded above took place at the foot of Cortlandt
Street, opposite the ferry wharf. It was nearly time for the train, and
there was the usual scene of confusion. Express wagons, hacks, boys,
laborers, were gathering, presenting a confusing medley to the eye of
one unaccustomed to the spectacle.

Ben was a luggage boy, his occupation being to wait at the piers for the
arrival of steamboats, or at the railway stations, on the chance of
getting a carpet-bag or valise to carry. His 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 Old Bowery, where from his seat in the pit he indulged
in independent criticism of the acting, as he leaned back in his seat
and munched peanuts, throwing the shells about carelessly.