"To be sure, to be sure," answered the stranger, his interest returning. "You are quite right, my dear friend. I am glad to see that you are so sensible. Of course you ought not to go to a hotel. They charge too high altogether."

"But I must sleep somewhere," said Sam, anxiously. "I only got to New York this morning, and I don't know where to go."

"Of course, of course. I thought you might be in trouble, seeing you were a stranger. It's lucky you met me."

"Can you tell me of any place to spend the night?" asked Sam, encouraged by the stranger's manner.

"Yes; I'll let you stay with me, and it shan't cost you a cent."

"Thank you," said Sam, congratulating himself on his good luck in meeting so benevolent a man. He could not help admitting to himself that the philanthropist looked shabby, even seedy. He was not the sort of man from whom he would have expected such kindness, but that made no difference. The offer was evidently a desirable one, and Sam accepted it without a moment's hesitation.

"I remember when I came to the city myself," explained the stranger. "I was worse off than you, for I had no money at all. A kind man gave me a night's lodging, just as I offer one to you, and I determined that I would do the same by others when I had a chance."

"You are very kind," said Sam.

"Perhaps you won't say so when you see my room," said the other. "I am not a rich man."

Glancing at the man's attire, Sam found no difficulty in believing him. Our hero, though not very observing, was not prepossessed in favor of the New York tailors by what he saw, for the stranger's coat was very long, while his pants were very short, and his vest was considerably too large for him. Instead of a collar and cravat, he wore a ragged silk handkerchief tied round his throat. His hat was crumpled and greasy, and the best that could be said of it was, that it corresponded with the rest of his dress.

"I don't live in a very nice place," said the stranger; "but perhaps you can put up with it for one night."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Sam, hastily. "I aint used to anything very nice."

"Then it's all right," said the stranger. "Such as it is, you are welcome. Now, I suppose you are tired."

"Yes, I am," said Sam.

"Then I'll take you to my room at once. We'll go up Centre street."

Sam cheerfully followed his conductor. He felt like a storm-tossed mariner, who has just found port.

"What is your name?" asked his guide.

"Sam Barker."

"Mine is Clarence Brown."

"Is it?" asked Sam.

He could not help thinking the name too fine for a man of such shabby appearance, and yet it would be hard, when names are so cheap, if all the best ones should be bestowed on the wealthy.

"It's a good name, isn't it?" asked the stranger.

"Tip-top."

"I belong to a good family, though you wouldn't think it to look at me now," continued his guide. "My father was a wealthy merchant."

"Was he?" asked Sam, curiously.

"Yes, we lived in a splendid mansion, and kept plenty of servants. I was sent to an expensive school, and I did not dream of coming to this."

Mr. Brown wiped his eyes with his coat-sleeve, as he thus revived the memories of his early opulence.

"Did your father lose his money?" asked Sam, getting interested.

"He did indeed," said the stranger, with emotion. "It was in the panic of 1837. Did you ever hear of it?"

"I guess not," said Sam, who was not very conversant with the financial history of the country.

"My father became a bankrupt, and soon after died of grief," continued the stranger. "I was called back from boarding-school, and thrown upon the cold mercies of the world."

"That was hard on you," said Sam.

"It was, indeed, my young friend. I perceive that you have a sympathetic heart. You can feel for the woes of others."

"Yes," said Sam, concluding that such an answer was expected.

"I am glad I befriended you. Have you also seen better days?"

"Well, I don't know," said Sam. "It's been pleasant enough to-day."

"I don't mean that. I mean, were you ever rich?"

"Not that I can remember," said Sam.

"Then you don't know what it is to be reduced from affluence to poverty. It is a bitter experience."

"I should think so," said Sam, who felt a little tired of Clarence Brown's reminiscences, and wondered how soon they would reach that gentleman's house.

Meanwhile they had gone up Centre street, and turned into Leonard street. It was not an attractive locality, nor were the odors that reached Sam's nose very savory.

"This is where I live," said Mr. Brown, pausing before a large and dilapidated-looking tenement house of discolored brick.

"You don't live here alone, do you?" inquired Sam, who was not used to crowded tenement houses.

"Oh, no, I only occupy an humble room upstairs. Follow me, and I'll lead you to it."

The staircase was dirty, and in keeping with the external appearance of the house. The wall paper was torn off in places, and contrasted very unfavorably with the neat house of Deacon Hopkins. Sam noticed this, but he was tired and sleepy, and was not disposed to be over-critical, as he followed Mr. Brown in silence to the fourth floor.



CHAPTER XIII.

ROBBED IN HIS SLEEP.

Arrived at his destination Mr. Brown opened a door, and bade Sam enter. It was rather dark, and it was not until his host lighted a candle, that Sam could obtain an idea of the appearance of the room. The ceiling was low, and the furniture scanty. A couple of chairs, a small table, of which the paint was worn off in spots, and a bed in the corner, were the complete outfit of Mr. Brown's home. He set the candle on the table, and remarked apologetically: "I don't live in much style, as you see. The fact is, I am at present in straitened circumstances. When my uncle dies I shall inherit a fortune. Then, when you come to see me, I will entertain you handsomely."

"Is your uncle rich?" asked Sam.

"I should say he was. He's a millionnaire."

"Why don't he do something for you now?"

Mr. Clarence Brown shrugged his shoulders.

"He's a very peculiar man—wants to keep every cent as long as he lives. When he's dead it's got to go to his heirs. That's why he lives in a palatial mansion on Madison Avenue, while I, his nephew, occupy a shabby apartment like this."

Sam looked about him, and mentally admitted the justice of the term. It was a shabby apartment, without question. Still, he was to lodge there gratis, and it was not for him to complain.

"By the way," said Mr. Brown, casually, after exploring his pockets apparently without success, "you haven't got a quarter, have you?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"All right; I'll borrow it till to-morrow, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," said Sam, handing over the sum desired.

"I'll go out and get some whiskey. My system requires it. You won't mind being left alone for five minutes."

"Oh, no."

"Very good. I won't stay long."

Mr. Brown went out, and our hero sat down on the bed to wait for him.

"So this is my first night in the city," he thought. "I expected they had better houses. This room isn't half so nice as I had at the deacon's. But then I haven't got to hoe potatoes. I guess I'll like it when I get used to it. There isn't anybody to order me round here."

Presently Mr. Brown came back. He had a bottle partially full of whiskey with him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "Were you lonely?"

"Oh, no."

"I've got a couple of glasses here somewhere. Oh, here they are. Now we'll see how it tastes."

"Not much for me," said Sam. "I don't think I'll like it."

"It'll be good for your stomach. However, I won't give you much."

He poured out a little in one tumbler for Sam and a considerably larger amount for himself.

"Your health," he said, nodding.

"Thank you," said Sam,

Sam tasted the whiskey, but the taste did not please him. He set down the glass, but his host drained his at a draught.

"Don't you like it?" asked Brown.

"Not very much."

"Don't you care to drink it?"

"I guess not."

"It's a pity it should be wasted."

To prevent this, Mr. Brown emptied Sam's glass also.

"Now, if you are not sleepy, we might have a game of cards," suggested Brown.

"I think I'd rather go to bed," said Sam, yawning.

"All right! Go to bed any time. I dare say you are tired. Do you go to sleep easily?"

"In a jiffy."

"Then you won't mind my absence. I've got to make a call on a sick friend, but I shan't be out late. Just make yourself at home, go to sleep, and you'll see me in the morning."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't bolt the door, as I don't want to wake you up when I come in."

"All right."

Again Mr. Brown went out, and Sam undressed and got into bed. It was not very comfortable, and the solitary sheet looked as if it had not been changed for three months or more. However, Sam was not fastidious, and he was sleepy. So he closed his eyes, and was soon in the land of dreams.

It was about two hours afterward that Clarence Brown entered the room. He walked on tiptoe to the bed, and looked at Sam.

"He's fast asleep," he said to himself. "Did he undress? Oh, yes, here are his clothes. I'll take the liberty of examining his pockets, to see whether my trouble is likely to be rewarded."

Brown explored one pocket after the other. He found no pocket-book, for Sam did not possess any. In fact he had never felt the need of one until he appropriated the deacon's money. The balance of this was tucked away in his vest-pocket.

"Six dollars and ten cents," said Brown, after counting it. "It isn't much of a haul, that's a fact. I thought he had twice as much, at the least. Still," he added philosophically, "it's better than nothing. I shall find a use for it without doubt."

He tucked the money away in his own pocket, and sat on the edge of the bedstead in meditation.

"I may as well go to bed," he reflected. "He won't find out his loss in the night, and in the morning I can be off before he is up. Even if I oversleep myself, I can brazen it out. He's only a green country boy. Probably he won't suspect me, and if he does he can prove nothing."

He did not undress, but lay down on the bed dressed as he was. He, too, was soon asleep, and Sam, unconscious of his loss, slept on. So the money was doubly stolen, and the first thief suffered at the hands of a more experienced thief.

The sun had been up nearly three hours the next morning before Clarence Brown awoke. As he opened his eyes, his glance fell on Sam still asleep, and the events of the evening previous came to his mind.

"I must be up, and out of this," he thought, "before the young greenhorn wakes up."

Being already dressed, with the exception of his coat, he had little to do beyond rising. He crept out of the room on tiptoe, and, making his way to a restaurant at a safe distance, sat down and ordered a good breakfast at Sam's expense.

Meanwhile Sam slept on for half an hour more.

Finally he opened his eyes, and, oblivious of his changed circumstances, was surprised that he had not been called earlier. But a single glance about the shabby room recalled to his memory that he was now beyond the deacon's jurisdiction.

"I am in New York," he reflected, with a thrill of joy. "But where is Mr. Brown?"

He looked in vain for his companion, but no suspicion was excited in his mind.

"He didn't want to wake me up," he thought. "I suppose he has gone to his business."

He stretched himself, and lay a little longer. It was a pleasant thought that there was no stern taskmaster to force him up. He might lie as long as he wanted to, till noon, if he chose. Perhaps he might have chosen, but the claims of a healthy appetite asserted themselves, and Sam sprang out of bed.

"I'll have a good breakfast," he said to himself, "and then I must look around and see if I can't find something to do; my money will soon be out."

It was natural that he should have felt for his money, at that moment, but he did not. No suspicion of Mr. Brown's integrity had entered his mind. You see Sam was very unsophisticated at that time, and, though he had himself committed a theft, he did not suspect the honesty of others.

"I suppose I shall have to go without thanking Mr. Brown, as he don't seem to be here," he reflected. "Perhaps I shall see him somewhere about the streets. I've saved a dollar anyway, or at least seventy-five cents," he added, thinking of the quarter he had lent his hospitable entertainer the evening before. "Perhaps he'll let me sleep here again to-night. It'll be a help to me, as long as I haven't got anything to do yet."

Still Sam did not feel for his money, and was happily unconscious of his loss.

He opened his door, and found his way downstairs into the street without difficulty. The halls and staircases looked even more dingy and shabby in the daytime than they had done in the evening. "It isn't a very nice place to live," thought Sam. "However, I suppose Mr. Brown will be rich when his uncle dies. I wish he was rich now; he might give me a place."

"Shine yer boots?" asked a small knight of the brush.

"No," said Sam, who had grown economical; "they don't need it."

He walked on for five minutes or more. Presently he came to an eating-house. He knew it by the printed bills of fare which were placarded outside.

"Now, I'll have some breakfast," he thought, with satisfaction, and he entered confidently.



CHAPTER XIV.

BOUNCED!

Sam sat down at a table, and took up the bill of fare. A colored waiter stood by, and awaited his orders.

"Bring me a plate of beefsteak, a cup of coffee, and some tea-biscuit," said Sam, with the air of a man of fortune.

"All right, sir," said the waiter.

"After all, it's pleasant living in New York," thought Sam, as he leaned back in his chair, and awaited in pleasant anticipation the fulfilment of his order. "It's different from livin' at the deacon's. Here a feller can be independent."

"As long as he has money," Sam should have added; but, like some business men, he was not aware of his present insolvency. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes; and it is doubtful whether our hero would have eaten his breakfast with as good a relish when it came, if he had known that he had not a cent in his pocket.

Sam was soon served, and he soon made way with the articles he had ordered. You can't get a very liberal supply of beefsteak for fifteen cents, which was what Sam was charged for his meat. He felt hungry still, after he had eaten what was set before him. So he took the bill of fare once more, and pored over its well-filled columns.

"They must have a tremendous big kitchen to cook so many things," he thought. "Why, there are as many as a hundred. Let me see—here's buckwheat cakes, ten cents. I guess I'll have some."

"Anything more, sir?" asked the waiter, approaching to clear away the dirty dishes.

"Buckwheat cakes, and another cup of coffee," ordered Sam.

"All right, sir."

"They treat me respectful, here," thought Sam. "What would the deacon say to hear me called sir? I like it. Folks have better manners in the city than in the country."

This was rather a hasty conclusion on the part of Sam, and it was not long before he had occasion enough to change his mind.

He ate the buckwheat cakes with a relish, and felt tolerably satisfied.

"Anything more, sir?" asked the waiter.

Sam was about to say no, when his eye rested on that portion of the bill devoted to pastry, and he changed his mind.

"Bring me a piece of mince-pie," he said.

Sam was sensible that he was ordering breakfast beyond his means, but he vaguely resolved that he would content himself with a small dinner. He really could not resist the temptation of the pie.

At last it was eaten, and the waiter brought him a ticket, bearing the price of his breakfast, fifty cents. Now, for the first time, he felt in his vest-pocket for his money. He felt in vain. Still he did not suspect his loss.

"I thought I put it in my vest-pocket," he said to himself. "I guess I made a mistake, and put it in some other."

He felt in another pocket, and still another, till he had explored every pocket he possessed, and still no money.

Sam turned pale, and his heart gave a sudden thump, as the extent of his misfortune dawned upon him. It was not alone that he was without money in a strange city, but he had eaten rather a hearty breakfast, which he was unable to pay for. What would they think of him? What would they do to him? He saw it all now. That specious stranger, Clarence Brown, had robbed him in his sleep. That was why he had invited him to spend the night in his room without charge. That was why he had got up so early and stolen out without his knowledge, after he had purloined all his money.

Sam was not particularly bashful; but he certainly felt something like it, as he walked up to the cashier's desk. A man stood behind it, rather stout, and on the whole not benevolent in his looks. There was no softness about his keen business face. Sam inferred with a sinking heart that he was not a man likely to sympathize with him in his misfortunes, or seem to give credence to them.

Sam stood at the counter waiting while the proprietor was making change for another customer. He was considering what he could best say to propitiate his creditor.

"Now, then," said the man behind the counter, a little impatiently, for another had come up behind Sam, "where's your ticket?"

"Here, sir," said Sam, laying it on the counter.

"Fifty cents. Pay quick, and don't keep me waiting."

"I am very sorry, sir," Sam began, faltering, "but—"

"But what!" exclaimed the proprietor, with an ominous scowl.

"I can't pay you now."

"Can't pay me now!" repeated the other, angrily; "what do you mean?"

"I've lost my money," said Sam, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

By this time the patience of the restaurant-keeper was quite gone.

"What business had you to come in here and order an expensive breakfast when you had no money?" he demanded, furiously.

"I thought I had some money," said Sam, fervently wishing himself back at the deacon's for the first time since his arrival in the city.

"How could you think you had some when you hadn't any?"

"I had some last night," said Sam, eagerly; "but I slept in Mr. Brown's room, and he must have robbed me in the night."

"That's a likely story!" sneered the proprietor. "What do you think of it, Mr. Jones?" he asked, turning to a customer, whom he knew by name.

Mr. Jones shrugged his shoulders.

"Too thin!" he replied, briefly.

"Of course it is," said the proprietor, angrily. "This boy's evidently a beat."

"A what?" inquired Sam, who had not been in the city long enough to understand the meaning of the term.

"A dead beat; but you don't play any of your games on me, young man. I've cut my eye-teeth, I have. You don't swindle me out of a fifty-cent breakfast quite so easily. Here, John, call a policeman."

"Oh, don't call a policeman!" exclaimed Sam, terror-stricken. "It's true, every word I've told you. I'm from the country. I only got to the city yesterday, and I've been robbed of all my money, over six dollars. I hope you'll believe me."

"I don't believe a word you say," said the restaurant-keeper, harshly. "You are trying to come it over me. I dare say you've been round the streets half your life."

"I think you are wrong, Mr. Chucks," said another customer, who was waiting to pay his bill. "He's got a country look about him. He don't look like one of the regular street boys. Better let him go. I wouldn't call a policeman."

"I ought to," grumbled the proprietor. "Fancy his impudence in ordering a fifty-cent breakfast, when he hadn't a cent to pay his bill."

"I wouldn't have come in, if I had known," said Sam.

"Don't tell me," said the man, sharply, "for I don't believe it. Do you think I can afford to give you breakfast for nothing?"

"I'll pay you as soon as I get some money," said Sam. "Only don't send me to prison."

"I won't give you in charge this time, though I ought to; but I'll give you something to settle your breakfast. Here, Peter, you waited on this young man, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"He hasn't paid for his breakfast, and pretends he hasn't got any money. Bounce him!"

If Sam was ignorant of the meaning of the word "bounce," he was soon enlightened. The waiter seized him by the collar, before he knew what was going to happen, pushed him to the door, and then, lifting his foot by a well-directed kick, landed him across the sidewalk into the street.

This proceeding was followed by derisive laughter from the other waiters who had gathered near the door, and it was echoed by two street urchins outside, who witnessed Sam's ignominious exit from the restaurant.

Sam staggered from the force of the bouncing, and felt disgraced and humiliated to think that the waiter who had been so respectful and attentive should have inflicted upon him such an indignity, which he had no power to resent.

"I wish I was back at the deacon's," he thought bitterly.

"How do you feel?" asked one of the boys who had witnessed Sam's humiliation, not sympathetically, but in a tone of mockery.

"None of your business!" retorted Sam, savagely.

"He feels bad, Mickey," said the other. "He's heard bad news, and that's what made him in such a hurry."

Here both the boys laughed, and Sam retorted angrily, "I'll make you feel bad, if you aint careful."

"Hear him talk, Mickey,—aint he smart?"

"I'll make you both smart," said Sam, beginning to roll up his sleeves; for he was no coward, and the boys were only about his own size.

"He wants to bounce us, like he was bounced himself," said Pat Riley. "How did it feel, Johnny?"

Sam gave chase, but his tormentors were better acquainted with the city than he, and he did not succeed in catching them. Finally he gave it up, and, sitting down on a convenient door-step, gave himself up to melancholy reflections.



CHAPTER XV.

ANY WAY TO MAKE A LIVING.

Boys who have a good home are apt to undervalue it. They do not realize the comfort of having their daily wants provided for without any anxiety on their part. They are apt to fancy that they would like to go out into the great world to seek their fortunes. Sometimes it may be necessary and expedient to leave the safe anchorage of home, and brave the dangers of the unknown sea; but no boy should do this without his parents' consent, nor then, without making up his mind that he will need all his courage and all his resolution to obtain success.

Sam found himself penniless in a great city, and with no way open, that he could think of, to earn money. Even the business of the boot-black, humble as it is, required a small capital to buy a brush and box of blacking. So, too, a newsboy must pay for his papers when he gets them, unless he is well known. So Sam, sitting on the door-step, felt that he was in a tight place. Where was he to get his dinner from? He did not care to repeat his operation of the morning, for it was not pleasant to be "bounced."

"I wonder if I couldn't get a chance in a store," he thought. "That wouldn't need any money. There seems to be a lot of stores in the city. I guess there must be a place for me somewhere."

This thought encouraged Sam. He rose from his lowly seat, and determined to look about for a place. Presently he came to a real-estate office. Sam did not understand very well what kind of a business that was, but on the window a piece of paper was pasted, on which was written, "A Boy Wanted."

"I guess I'll go in," thought Sam. "Maybe they'll take me."

There were three boys ahead of him; but they were not very eligible-looking specimens. So they were dismissed with small ceremony, and Sam was beckoned to the desk.

"I suppose you have come about the place," said a man with black whiskers, and a pen behind his ear.

"Yes," answered Sam.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Rather young. Still you are large of your age."

"I am pretty strong," said Sam, anxious to succeed in his application.

"There isn't any work to be done that requires strength," said the black-whiskered man. "How is your education?"

"Pretty good," said Sam, with hesitation.

"Do you live in the city?"

"Yes, sir."

"With your parents?"

"No, sir. They are dead."

"That is an objection. Perhaps, however, you live with an aunt or uncle. That will answer as well."

"Yes," said Sam, determined to obviate this objection. "I live with my uncle."

"Where does he live?"

"In New York," answered Sam.

"Don't you understand me? I mean to ask the street and number."

Sam was posed. He could not at the moment think of the name of any street except Broadway. But it would not do to hesitate. So he said promptly, "He lives at No. 656 Broadway."

"What is his business?" inquired the black-whiskered man.

"He keeps a store," answered Sam, feeling that he was getting deeper and deeper into the mire.

"What sort of a store?"

"A grocery store."

"What, at 656 Broadway?" demanded the other, in surprise. "I didn't know there was a grocery store in that neighborhood."

"Oh, murder!" thought Sam. "I'm found out."

He made no answer, because he could not think of any.

"Why don't your father give you a place in his own store?" asked the real-estate agent, with some suspicion in his tone.

"He's got all the help he wants," said Sam, quickly.

Here another boy entered the office, a boy neatly dressed, and intelligent in appearance.

"Sit down a moment," said the agent to Sam, "while I speak with this other lad."

Sam took a seat, and listened to the conversation with the other boy. The conclusion of the matter was, that the other boy was engaged and Sam was obliged to go out to offer his services in some other quarter.

"What a lot of lies I had to tell!" he reflected. "What's the use of their asking so many questions? I don't see. I'll have to try somewhere else."

As Sam was sauntering along he was accosted by a tall man, evidently from the country.

"Boy, can you direct me to the 'Tribune' office?"

"Yes, sir," said Sam, "but it's some ways from here. It'll be worth ten cents to lead you there."

The gentleman hesitated.

"Well," he said after a pause, "I'll give it to you."

"Will you give it to me now?" asked Sam.

"I will pay you when you have done your work."

"The reason I asked was, because I showed a man the other day, and then he wouldn't pay me."

"That was mean," said the stranger. "I hope you don't think I would serve you so."

"Oh, no, sir. You're a gentleman," said Sam. "You wouldn't cheat a poor boy that hasn't had any breakfast this mornin'."

"Dear me! you don't say so?" ejaculated the compassionate stranger, shocked at Sam's fiction. "Here, take this twenty-five cents. Do you often have to go without your breakfast?"

"Often, sir," said Sam, unblushingly. "It's hard times for poor boys like me."

"There's another quarter," said the stranger, his compassion still more deeply moved.

Sam did feel some compunction now, for he was about to make a very poor return for the kindness of his new acquaintance. The fact was, he had not the slightest idea where the "Tribune" office was, and he had therefore undertaken what he was unable to perform. But he had gone too far to recede. Besides, he did not feel prepared to give up the money which he had obtained through false pretences. So counterfeiting a confidence which he did not feel he led the way up Centre street, saying, "This way, sir. I'll lead you right to the office."

"I never was at the office," said the stranger, "though I've been a subscriber to the weekly 'Tribune' for ten years."

"That's a good while," said Sam.

"It is indeed, my boy. I live in Illinois, more than a thousand miles from this city. Indeed, I have never been in New York before."

"Haven't you?"

"No; now you, I suppose, my young friend, know your way all about the city."

"Of course I do," said Sam, in an off-hand manner.

"If I had more time, I would get you to guide me round the city," said the stranger.

"Wouldn't I lead you a wild-goose chase, old gentleman?" thought Sam. "You'd be pretty well taken in, I guess."

"I am obliged to go away to-night," continued the old gentleman, "but I thought I would renew my subscription to the 'Tribune' before I went."

"All right, sir; it's a nice paper," said Sam, who had never read a line in the "Tribune."

"So I think. Are we almost at the office?"

"Almost," said Sam. "If you don't mind waiting I'll run over and speak to my cousin a minute."

There was a boot-black on the opposite side of the street. It struck Sam, who did not like to deceive so generous a patron, that he could obtain the information he needed of this boy.

"Can you tell me where the 'Tribune' office is?" he asked hurriedly.

The boot-black had no more scruples about lying than Sam, and answered, glibly, pointing to the Tombs prison, a little farther on, "Do you see that big stone buildin'?"

"Yes," said Sam.

"That's it."

"Thank you," said Sam, feeling relieved, and never doubting the correctness of this statement.

He returned to the stranger, and said, cheerfully, "We're almost there."

"Is that boy your cousin?" asked his acquaintance.

"Yes," said Sam.

"He blacks boots for a living."

"Yes, sir."

"Does he do well at it?"

"Pretty well."

"Did you ever black boots?"

"No, sir," answered Sam, telling the truth by way of variety.

"That's the Tribune office," said Sam, a moment later, pointing to the gloomy-looking prison.

"Is it?" echoed the stranger, in surprise. "Really, it's a very massive structure."

"Yes," said Sam, mistaking the word employed, "it's very massy."

"It doesn't look much like a newspaper office."

For the first time Sam began to suspect that he had been deceived, and he naturally felt in a hurry to get away.

"You go right in," he said, confidently, "and they'll attend to you inside. Now I'll go and get some breakfast."

"To be sure. You must be hungry."

The stranger walked up the massive steps, and Sam hurried away.

"I wonder what place that is, anyhow," he said to himself. "Now I've got money enough for dinner."

For a country boy Sam was getting along fast.



CHAPTER XVI.

SAM MEETS BROWN AND IS UNHAPPY,

Never doubting Sam's assurance, the stranger entered the gloomy building, the lower part of which is divided into court-rooms. Out of one of these a man came, to whom he addressed this question: "Where is the counting-room?"

"The counting-room!" repeated the man, staring. "There isn't any here, that I know of."

"I want to subscribe for the weekly edition," explained the man from Illinois.

"It strikes me you're a weakly edition of a man yourself," thought the other. "He must be a lunatic," was the next thought. "I may as well humor him."

"Go in at that door," he said.

The stranger entered as directed, and at once recognized it as a court-room.

"It is very singular that there should be a courtroom in the 'Tribune' office," he thought. He took a seat, and whispered to a man at his side: "Can you tell me where the 'Tribune' office is?"

"Printing-house Square," was the whispered reply.

"Where's that?"

"Not much over a quarter of a mile from here."

"The boy deceived me," thought the stranger indignantly, "and I gave him fifty cents for doing it. He must be a young rascal."

"What building is this?" he asked, still in a whisper.

"The Tombs."

"What, the prison!"

"Yes; didn't you know it?" asked the informant, in surprise.

"I am a stranger in the city," said the Illinois man apologetically.

"Did you want to go to the 'Tribune' office?"

"Yes; I wished to subscribe for the paper."

"I am going that way. I will show you if you desire it."

"Thank you. I shall consider it a favor."

So the two retraced their steps, and this time our Illinois friend found the office of which he was in quest. He came near finding Sam also, for as he stood in front of French's Hotel, he saw his recent acquaintance approaching, and quickly dodged inside the hotel till he had passed. A boot-black to whom he had been speaking followed him in surprise.

"I say, what's up, Johnny?" he asked. "Yer didn't see a copp, did yer?"

"No, it's that man that just went by."

"Who's he?"

"He's the man I ran away from," said Sam, not caring to tell the truth.

"What would he do if he should catch you?" asked the boot-black, with curiosity.

"Lick me," said Sam, laconically.

"Then you did right. Is he going to stay here long?"

"No; he's going away to-day."

"Then you're safe. You'd better go the other way from him."

"So I will," said Sam. "Where's the Park I've heard so much about?"

"Up that way."

"Is it far?"

"Four or five miles."

"It's a long way to walk."

"You can ride for five cents."

"Can I?"

"Yes; just go over to the Astor House, and take the Sixth avenue cars, and they'll take you there."

Sam had intended to spend his entire fifty cents in buying dinner when the time came, but he thought he would like to see Central Park. Besides, he would be safe from pursuit, and the punishment which he felt he deserved. Following the directions of his boy friend, he entered a Sixth avenue car, and in a little less than an hour was set down at one of the gates of the Park. He entered with a number of others, and followed the path that seemed most convenient, coming out at last at the lake. Until now Sam had thought rather slightingly of the Park. Green fields were no novelty to him, but he admired the lake with the boats that plied over its surface filled with lively passengers. He would have invested ten cents in a passage ticket; but he felt that if he did this, he must sacrifice a part of his intended dinner, and Sam was growing prudent. He wandered about the Park two or three hours, sitting down at times on the benches that are to be found here and there for the convenience of visitors. He felt ready to go back; but it was only noon, and he was not sure but he might fall in with the gentleman from Illinois, whom he had left at the entrance of the Tombs.

He was destined to meet an acquaintance, but this time it was some one that had cheated him. Looking up from the bench on which he was seated, he saw his host of the preceding night, Mr. Clarence Brown, lounging along, smoking a cigar, with a look of placid contentment on his face.

"That cigar was bought with my money," thought Sam, bitterly; and in this conclusion he was right.

Sam jumped from his seat, and advanced to meet his enemy.

"Look here, Mr. Brown!"

Clarence Brown started as he saw who addressed him, for he was far from expecting to meet Sam here. He saw from the boy's looks that he was suspected of robbing him, and decided upon his course.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, smiling. "How do you like the Park?"

"Never mind about that," said Sam, impatiently. "I want my money."

Mr. Brown arched his eyes in surprise.

"Really, my young friend, I don't comprehend you," he said, withdrawing his cigar from his mouth. "You speak as if I owed you some money."

"Quit fooling!" said Sam, provoked at the other's coolness. "I want that money you took from me while I was asleep last night."

"It strikes me you have been dreaming," said Brown, composedly. "I don't know anything about your money. How much did you have?"

"Nearly seven dollars."

"Are you sure you had it when you went to bed?"

"Yes. I kept it in my vest-pocket."

"That was careless. You should have concealed it somewhere. I would have kept it for you if you had asked me."

"I dare say you would," said Sam, with withering sarcasm.

"Certainly, I wouldn't refuse so small a favor."

"Are you sure you didn't keep it for me?" said Sam.

"How could I, when you didn't give it to me?" returned the other, innocently.

"If you didn't take it," said Sam, rather staggered by the other's manner, "where did it go to?"

"I don't know, of course; but I shouldn't be surprised if it fell out of your vest-pocket among the bed-clothes. Did you look?"

"Yes."

"You might have overlooked it."

"Perhaps so," said Sam, thoughtfully.

He began to think he had suspected Mr. Brown unjustly. Otherwise, how could he be so cool about it?

"I am really sorry for your loss," said Brown, in a tone of sympathy; "all the more so, because I am hard up myself. I wish I had seven dollars to lend you."

"I wish you had," muttered Sam. "I can't get along without money."

"Did you have any breakfast?"

"Yes."

Sam did not furnish particulars, not liking to acknowledge the treatment he had received.

"Oh, you'll get along," said Brown, cheerfully. "Come and lodge with me again to-night."

"I don't know but what I will," said Sam, reflecting that he had no money to lose now, as he intended to spend all he had for dinner.

"Sit down and let us have a friendly chat," said Clarence Brown. "Won't you have a cigar? I've got an extra one."

"I never smoked," said Sam.

"Then it's time you learned. Shall I show you how?"

"Yes," said Sam.

The fact is, our very badly behaved hero had long cherished a desire to see how it seemed to smoke a cigar; but in the country he had never had the opportunity. In the city he was master of his own actions, and it occurred to him that he would never have a better opportunity. Hence his affirmative answer.

Clarence Brown smiled slightly to himself, for he anticipated fun. He produced the cigar, lighted it by his own, and gave Sam directions how to smoke. Sam proved an apt pupil, and was soon puffing away with conscious pride. He felt himself several years older. But all at once he turned pale, and drew the cigar from his mouth.

"What's the matter?" asked Brown, demurely.

"I—don't—know," gasped Sam, his eyes rolling; "I—feel—sick."

"Do you? Don't mind it; it'll pass off."

"I think I'm going to die," said Sam, in a hollow voice. "Does smoking ever kill people?"

"Not often," said Brown, soothingly.

"I think it's goin' to kill me," said Sam, mournfully.

"Lie down on the bench. You'll feel better soon."

Sam lay down on his back, and again he wished himself safely back at the deacon's. New York seemed to him a very dreadful place. His head ached; his stomach was out of tune, and he felt very unhappy.

"Lie here a little while, and you'll feel better," said his companion. "I'll be back soon."

He walked away to indulge in a laugh at his victim's expense, and Sam was left alone.



CHAPTER XVII.

TIM BRADY.

An hour passed, and Clarence Brown did not reappear. He had intended to do so, but reflecting that there was no more to be got out of Sam changed his mind.

Sam lay down on the bench for some time, then raised himself to a sitting posture. He did not feel so sick as at first, but his head ached unpleasantly.

"I won't smoke any more," he said to himself. "I didn't think it would make me feel so bad."

I am sorry to say that Sam did not keep the resolution he then made; but at the time when he is first introduced to the reader, in the first chapter, had become a confirmed smoker.

"Why don't Mr. Brown come back?" he thought, after the lapse of an hour.

He waited half an hour longer, when he was brought to the conviction that Brown had played him false, and was not coming back at all. With this conviction his original suspicion revived, and he made up his mind that Brown had robbed him after all.

"I'd like to punch his head," thought Sam, angrily.

It did not occur to him that the deacon, from whom the money was originally taken, had the same right to punch his head. As I have said, Sam's conscience was not sensitive, and self-interest blinded him to the character of his own conduct.

His experience in smoking had given him a distaste for the Park, for this afternoon at least, and he made his way to the horse-cars determined to return. It did make him feel a little forlorn to reflect that he had no place to return to; no home but the streets. He had not yet contracted that vagabond feeling which makes even them seem homelike to the hundreds of homeless children who wander about in them by day and by night.

He was in due time landed at the Astor House. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he had had nothing to eat since breakfast. But for the cigar, he would have had a hearty appetite. As it was, he felt faint, and thought he should relish some tea and toast. He made his way, therefore, to a restaurant in Fulton street, between Broadway and Nassau streets. It was a very respectable place, but at that time in the afternoon there were few at the tables. Sam had forty cents left. He found that this would allow him to buy a cup of tea, a plate of beefsteak, a plate of toast, and a piece of pie. He disposed of them, and going up to the desk paid his bill. Again he found himself penniless.

"I wonder where I am going to sleep," he thought. "I guess I'll ask some boot-blacks where they live. They can't afford to pay much."

The tea made his head feel better; and, though he was penniless, he began to feel more cheerful than an hour before.

He wandered about till he got tired, leaning against a building sometimes. He began to feel lonely. He knew nobody in the great city except Clarence Brown, whom he did not care to meet again, and the boot-black whose acquaintance he had made the day before.

"I wish I had some other boy with me," thought Sam; "somebody I knew. It's awful lonesome."

Sam was social by temperament, and looked about him to see if he could not make some one's acquaintance. Sitting on the same bench with him—for he was in City Hall Park—was a boy of about his own age apparently. To him Sam determined to make friendly overtures.

"What is your name, boy?" asked Sam.

The other boy looked round at him. He was very much freckled, and had a sharp look which made him appear preternaturally old.

"What do you want to know for?" he asked.

"I don't know anybody here. I'd like to get acquainted."

The street boy regarded him attentively to see if he were in earnest, and answered, after a pause, "My name is Tim Brady. What's yours?"

"Sam Barker."

"Where do you live?"

"Nowhere," said Sam. "I haven't got any home, nor any money."

"That's nothing!" said Tim. "No more have I."

"Haven't you?" said Sam, surprised. "Then where are you going to sleep to-night?"

"I know an old wagon, up an alley, where I can sleep like a top."

"Aint you afraid of taking cold, sleeping out of doors?" asked Sam, who, poor as he had always been, had never been without a roof to cover him.

"Take cold!" repeated the boy, scornfully. "I aint a baby. I don't take cold in the summer."

"I shouldn't think you could sleep in a wagon."

"Oh, I can sleep anywhere," said Tim. "It makes no difference to me where I curl up."

"Is there room enough in the wagon for me?" asked Sam.

"Yes, unless some other chap gets ahead of us."

"May I go with you?"

"In course you can."

"Suppose we find somebody else ahead of us."

"Then we'll go somewhere else. There's plenty of places. I say, Johnny, haven't you got no stamps at all?"

"Stamps!"

"Yes, money. Don't you know what stamps is?"

"No. I spent my last cent for supper."

"If you'd got thirty cents we'd go to the theatre."

"What theatre?"

"The Old Bowery."

"Is it good?"

"You bet!"

"Then I wish I had money enough to go. I never went to the theatre in my life."

"You didn't! Where was you raised?" said Tim, contemptuously.

"In the country."

"I thought so."

"They don't have theatres in the country."

"Then I wouldn't live there. It must be awful dull there."

"So it is," said Sam. "That's why I ran away."

"Did you run away?" asked Tim, interested. "Was it from the old man?"

"It was from the man I worked for. He wanted me to work all the time, and I got tired of it."

"What sort of work was it?" asked Tim.

"It was on a farm. I had to hoe potatoes, split wood, and such things."

"I wouldn't like it. It's a good deal more jolly bein' in the city."

"If you've only got money enough to get along," added Sam.

"Oh, you can earn money."

"How?" asked Sam, eagerly.

"Different ways."

"How do you make a livin'?"

"Sometimes I black boots, sometimes I sell papers, then again, I smash baggage."

"What's that?" asked Sam, bewildered.

"Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Tim. "You're from the country. I loaf round the depots and steamboat landin's, and carry carpet-bags and such things for pay."

"Is that smashing baggage?"

"To be sure."

"I could do that," said Sam, thoughtfully. "Can you make much that way?"

"'Pends on how many jobs you get, and whether the cove's liberal. Wimmen's the wust. They'll beat a chap down to nothin', if they can."

"How much do you get anyway for carrying a bundle?"

"I axes fifty cents, and generally gets a quarter. The wimmen don't want to pay more'n ten cents."

"I guess I'll try it to-morrow, if you'll tell me where to go."

"You can go along of me. I'm goin smashin' myself to-morrer."

"Thank you," said Sam. "I'm glad I met you. You see I don't know much about the city."

"Didn't you bring no money with you?"

"Yes, but it was stolen."

"Was your pockets picked?"

"I'll tell you about it. I was robbed in my sleep."

So Sam told the story of his adventures with Clarence Brown. Tim listened attentively.

"He was smart, he was," said Tim, approvingly.

"He's a rascal," said Sam, hotly, who did not relish hearing his spoiler praised.

"Course he is, but he's smart too. You might a knowed he'd do it."

"How should I know? I thought he was a kind man, that wanted to do me a favor."

Tim burst out laughing.

"Aint you green, though?" he remarked. "Oh my eye, but you're jolly green."

"Am I?" said Sam, rather offended. "Is everybody a thief in New York?"

"Most everybody, if they gets a chance," said Tim, coolly. "Didn't you ever steal yourself?"

Sam colored. He had temporarily forgotten the little adventure that preceded his departure from his country home. After all, why should he be so angry with Clarence Brown for doing the very same thing he had done himself? Why, indeed? But Sam had an answer ready. The deacon did not need the money, while he could not get along very well without it. So it was meaner in Clarence Brown to take all he had, than in him to take what the deacon could so well spare.

I hope my readers understand that this was very flimsy and unsatisfactory reasoning. Stealing is stealing, under whatever circumstances. At any rate Sam found it inconvenient to answer Tim's pointed question.

They talked awhile longer, and then his companion rose from the bench.

"Come along, Johnny," he said. "Let's go to roost."

"All right," said Sam, and the two left the Park.



CHAPTER XVIII.

SAM TURNS IMPOSTOR.

Tim conducted our hero to an alley-way, not far from the North river, in which an old wagon had come to temporary anchor.

"This is my hotel," he said. "I like it cause it's cheap. They don't trouble you with no bills here. Tumble in."

Tim, without further ceremony, laid himself down on the floor of the wagon, and Sam followed his example. There is everything in getting used to things, and that is where Tim had the advantage. He did not mind the hardness of his couch, while Sam, who had always been accustomed to a regular bed, did. He moved from one side to another, and then lay on his back, seeking sleep in vain.

"What's up?" muttered Tim, sleepily. "Why don't you shut your peepers?"

"The boards are awful hard," Sam complained.

"It aint nothin' when you're used to it," said Tim. "You go to sleep, and you won't mind it."

"I wish I could," said Sam, turning again.

Finally he succeeded in getting to sleep, but not till some time after his companion. He slept pretty well, however, and did not awaken till, at six o'clock, he was shaken by his companion.

"What's the matter? Where am I?" asked Sam, feeling bewildered at first.

"Why, here you are, in course," said the matter-of-fact Tim. "Did you think you was in the station-house?"

"No, I hope not," answered Sam. "What time is it?"

"I don't know. A chap stole my watch in the night. I guess it's after six. Have you got any stamps?"

"No."

"Nor I. We've got to stir round, and earn some breakfast."

"How'll we do it?"

"We'll go down to the pier, and wait for the Boston boat. Maybe we'll get a chance to smash some baggage."

"I hope so," said Sam, "for I'm hungry."

"I'm troubled that way myself," said Tim. "Come along."

When they reached the pier, they found a number of boys, men, and hack-drivers already in waiting. They had to wait about half an hour, when they saw the great steamer slowly approaching the wharf.

Instantly Tim was on the alert.

"When they begin to come ashore, you must go in and try your luck. Just do as I do."

This Sam resolved to do.

A tall man emerged from the steamer, bearing a heavy carpet-bag.

"Smash yer baggage?" said Tim.

"No, I think not. I can carry it myself."

"I haven't had any breakfast," said Tim, screwing up his freckled features into an expression of patient suffering.

"Nor I either," said the stranger, smiling.

"You've got money to buy some, and I haven't," said Tim, keeping at his side.

"Well, you may carry it," said the gentleman, good-naturedly.

Tim turned half round, and winked at Sam, as much as to say, "Did you see how I did it?"

Sam was quick enough to take the hint.

"Smash your carpet-bag?" he asked of a middle-aged lady, imitating as closely as possible Tim's professional accent.

"What?" asked the lady, startled.

"She don't understand," thought Sam. "Let me carry it for you, ma'am."

"I do not need it. I am going to take a cab."

"Let me take it to the cab," persisted Sam; but he was forestalled by a hack-driver who had heard the lady's remark.

"Let me take it, ma'am," he said, thrusting Sam aside. "I've got a nice carriage just outside. Take you anywhere you want to go."

So the lady was carried away, and Sam had to make a second application. This time he addressed himself to a gentleman whose little daughter walked by his side.

"No," said the gentleman; "the carpet-bag is small. I don't need help."

The smallness of the bag, by the way, was one reason why Sam, who did not like heavy bundles, wanted to carry it. He felt that it was time to practise on the stranger's feelings.

"I want to earn some money to buy bread for my mother," he whined, in a very creditable manner, considering how inexperienced he was.

This attracted the attention of the little girl, who, like most little girls, had a tender and compassionate heart.

"Is your mother poor?" she asked.

"Very poor," said Sam. "She hasn't got a cent to buy bread for the children."

"Have you got many brothers and sisters?" asked the little girl, her voice full of sympathy.

"Five," answered Sam, piteously.

"O papa," said the little girl, "let him take your carpet-bag. Think of it, his mother hasn't got anything to eat."

"Well, Clara," said her father, indulgently, "I suppose I must gratify you. Here, boy, take the bag, and carry it carefully."

"All right, sir," said Sam, cheerfully.

"I guess I can get along," he thought, complacently. "That's a good dodge."

"When we get to Broadway, we'll take the stage," said the gentleman. "Take hold of my hand, tight, Clara, while we cross the street."

Clara seemed disposed to be sociable, and entered into conversation with the young baggage-smasher.

"Are your brothers and sisters younger than you?" she inquired.

"Yes," said Sam.

"How many of them are boys?"

"There's two boys besides me, and three girls," said Sam, readily.

"What are their names?" asked Clara.

"Why," answered Sam, hesitating a little, "there's Tom and Jim and John, and Sam and Maggie."

"I don't see how that can be," said Clara, puzzled. "Just now; you said there were three girls and only two boys."

"Did I?" said Sam, rather abashed. "I didn't think what I was saying."

"Isn't your father alive?" asked the little girl.

"No; he's dead."

"And do you have to support the family?"

"Yes; except what mother does."

"What does she do?"

"Oh, she goes out washing."

"Poor boy, I suppose you have a hard time."

"Yes," said Sam; "some days we don't get anything to eat."

"O papa, isn't it dreadful?" said Clara, her warm little heart throbbing with sympathy.

Her father was less credulous, and he was struck by Sam's hearty appearance. Certainly he looked very unlike a boy who did not have enough to eat.

"You don't look as if you suffered much from hunger, my boy," said he, with a penetrating look.

"I had a good dinner yesterday," said Sam. "A gentleman gave me some money for showing him the way to the 'Tribune' office."

"One dinner seems to have done you a great deal of good," said the man.

"It always does me good," said Sam, and here he had no occasion to tell a falsehood.

"I hope you carried some of the money home to your mother, and brothers and sisters."

"Yes, I did; I bought some meat, and mother cooked it. We don't often have meat."

"Perhaps I am doing the boy injustice," thought Mr. Glenham, for this was his name.

As for Clara, her childish sympathies were fully aroused.

"Papa," she said, "may I give this poor boy the half dollar Aunt Lucy gave me?"

"I thought you had arranged some way of spending it, Clara."

"So I had, papa; but I'd rather give it to this poor boy,"

"You may do as you like, my darling," said her father, tenderly.

"Here, poor boy, take this home to your mother," said Clara.

My readers have probably inferred already that Sam was not a boy of very high principles, but I must do him the justice to say that he felt ashamed to take the money tendered him by the little girl upon whom he had imposed by his false story.

"I don't like to take your money," he said, hanging back.

"But I want you to," said Clara, eagerly. "I'd a great deal rather your mother would have it."

"You may take it," said Mr. Glenham, who was disposed to regard Sam with greater favor, on account of the reluctance he exhibited to profit by Clara's compassion.

"Thank you," said Sam, no longer withholding his hand. "You are very kind."

By this time they had reached Broadway, and Sam delivered up the bag.

Mr. Glenham handed him a quarter.

"That is for your trouble," he said.

"Thank you, sir," said Sam.

A Broadway stage came up, and they both were lost to view.

Sam was in good spirits over his good fortune.

"Seventy-five cents!" he said to himself. "That's what I call luck. I don't believe Tim's done so well. It aint so hard to make your living in New York, after all. I guess I'll go and get some breakfast."



CHAPTER XIX.

HOW SAM FARED.

On the strength of his good luck, Sam provided himself with a good breakfast, which cost him forty cents. He felt pretty sure of earning something more during the day to add to the remaining thirty-five. But Fortune is capricious, and our hero found all his offers of service firmly refused. He tried again to excite compassion by his fictitious story of a starving family at home; but his appeals were made to the flinty-hearted or the incredulous. So, about two o'clock, he went to dinner, and spent the remainder of his money.

Again he spent the night with Tim in the wagon, and again in the morning he set out to earn his breakfast. But luck was against him. People insisted on carrying their own carpet-bags, to the great detriment of the baggage-smashing business. Tim was no luckier than Sam. About ten o'clock they were walking despondently through a side street, discussing ways and means.

"I'm awful hungry, Tim," said Sam, mournfully.

"So am I, you bet!"

"I wouldn't mind if I had a couple of apples," said Sam, fixing his eyes upon an old woman's apple-stand. "Wouldn't she trust?"

"Not much," said Tim. "You try her, if you want to."

"I will," said Sam, desperately.

The two boys approached the apple-stand.

"I say," said Sam to the wrinkled old woman who presided over it, "how do you sell your apples?"

"A penny a piece," she answered, in a cracked voice. "Is that cheap enough for ye?"

"I'll take five," said Sam.

The old woman began eagerly to pick out the required number, but stopped short when he finished the sentence,—"if you'll trust me till afternoon."

"Is it trust ye?" she ejaculated suspiciously. "No farther than I can see yer. I'm up to your tricks, you young spalpeen, thryin' to chate a poor widder out of her money."

"I'll pay you sure," said Sam, "but I haven't earned anything yet to-day."

"Then it's I that can't be supportin' a big, strong boy like you. Go away and come back, whin you've got money."

Here Tim broke in.

"My friend always pays his bills," he said. "You needn't be afraid to trust him."

"And who are you?" asked the old woman. "I don't know you, and I can't take your word. You're tryin' the two of you to swindle a poor widder."

"My father's an alderman," said Tim, giving the wink to Sam.

"Is he now? Thin, let him lind your friend money, and don't ask a poor woman to trust."

"Well, I would, but he's gone to Washington on business."

"Thin, go after him, and lave me alone. I don't want no spalpeens like you round my apple-stand."

"Look here, old woman, I'll have you arrested for callin' me names. Come away, Sam; her apples are rotten anyhow."

The old woman began to berate them soundly, indignant at this attack upon her wares; and in the midst of it the two boys walked off.

"We didn't make much," said Sam. "I'm awful hungry."

"Take that, then," said Tim, pulling an apple out of his pocket,

Sam opened his eyes.

"How did you get it?" he asked in astonishment.

Tim put his tongue in his cheek.

"I took it when you were talkin' to the ould woman," he answered; "and here's another."

So saying he produced a companion apple, and made a vigorous onslaught upon it, Sam following suit.

"I don't see how you could do it," said Sam, admiringly, "and she looking on all the time."

"It's easy enough when you know how," said Tim, complacently.

"She'd catch me, sure."

"Likely she would; you aint used to it."

Sam ought to have felt uneasy at appropriating the result of a theft; but his conscience was an easy one, and he felt hungry. So he made short work of the apple, and wished for more.

"I wish you'd taken two apiece," he said.

"I couldn't," said Tim. "She'd have seen 'em stickin' out of my pocket, and called a copp."

"One's better than none; I feel a little better," said Sam, philosophically. "I 'spose it's stealing, though."

"Oh, what's the odds? She'll never miss 'em. Come along."

In the course of the forenoon Sam managed to earn ten cents, and was forced to content himself with a very economical dinner. There was a place on Ann street, where, for this small sum, a plate of meat and a potato were furnished, but enough only to whet the appetite of a hearty boy like Sam. A suspicion did enter his mind as he rose from the table penniless once more, and his appetite still unsatisfied, that he had bought his liberty dearly, if his affairs did not improve. In the country he had enough to eat, a good bed to sleep in, and no care or anxiety, while he was not overworked. Here there was constant anxiety, and he never knew, when he rose in the morning, where his dinner was to come from, or whether he would be able to buy one. Still there was a fascination in the free, lawless life, and if he could only be sure of making even fifty cents a day he would probably have preferred it.

It is not necessary to describe Sam's life in detail for the next month. He and Tim were constant companions; and under Tim's instruction he was rapidly acquiring the peculiar education of a street vagabond. Of his employments in that brief period it would be difficult to give a complete list. At one time he blacked boots for another boy, to whom he paid half his receipts, in return for the use of the box and blacking. But Sam was detected by his employer in rendering a false account, and was thrown upon his own resources again. It would have been much more to his interest to have a blacking-brush and box of his own; but whenever Sam had capital enough he preferred to spend it for a good dinner, so there did not seem much chance of his getting ahead. He had, before this time, been introduced to the Newsboys' Lodging House, where he was interrogated about his past life by the superintendent. Sam was obliged to have recourse to his imagination in reply, feeling that if he spoke the truth he would be liable to be returned to his country home.

"Are your parents living?" inquired Mr. O'Connor.

"No," said Sam, telling the truth this time.

"When did they die?"

"Two years ago."

"Did they die in New York?"

"Yes, sir. They died of small-pox," volunteered Sam.

"And have you been supporting yourself since then?"

"Yes, sir."

"How does it happen that you have not been round here before?"

"I was living with my uncle," answered Sam, hesitating.

"Why have you left him?"

"He didn't treat me well."

"Perhaps you didn't behave well."

"Oh, yes, I did."

"What is your uncle's name?"

"James Cooper."

"Where does he live,—in what street?"

"He's moved away from the city now," said Sam, feeling that he must put a stop to these inconvenient inquiries.

So Sam was admitted to the privileges of the lodging-house. Now, he found it much easier to get along. For eighteen cents a day he was provided with lodging, breakfast and supper, and it was not often that he could not obtain as much as that. When he could earn enough more to buy a "square meal" in the middle of the day, and a fifteen-cent ticket to the pit of the Old Bowery theatre in the evening, he felt happy. He was fairly adrift in the streets of the great city, and his future prospects did not look very brilliant. It is hardly necessary to say that in a moral point of view he had deteriorated rather than improved. In fact, he was fast developing into a social outlaw, with no particular scruples against lying or stealing. One thing may be said in his favor, he never made use of his strength to oppress a younger boy. On the whole, he was good-natured, and not at all brutal. He had on one occasion interfered successfully to protect a young boy from one of greater strength who was beating him. I like to mention this, because I do not like to have it supposed that Sam was wholly bad.

We will now advance the story some months, and see what they have done for Sam.

To begin with, they have not improved his wardrobe. When he first came to the city he was neatly though coarsely dressed; now his clothes hang in rags about him, and, moreover, they are begrimed with mud and grease. His straw hat and he have some time since parted company, and he now wears a greasy article which he picked up at a second-hand store in Baxter street for twenty-five cents. If Sam were troubled with vanity, he might feel disturbed by his disreputable condition; but as he sees plenty of other boys of his own class no better dressed, he thinks very little about it. Such as they are, his clothes are getting too small for him, for Sam has grown a couple of inches since he came to the city.

Such was our hero's appearance when one day he leaned against a building on Broadway, and looked lazily at the vehicles passing, wishing vaguely that he had enough money to buy a square meal. A Broadway stage was passing at the time. A small man, whose wrinkled face indicated that he was over sixty, attempted to descend from the stage while in motion. In some way he lost his footing, and, falling, managed to sprain his ankle, his hat falling off and rolling along on the pavement.

Sam, who was always on the lookout for chances, here saw an opening. He dashed forward, lifted the old gentleman to his feet, and ran after his hat, and restored it.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I think I have sprained my ankle. Help me upstairs to my office," said the old man.

He pointed to a staircase leading up from the sidewalk.

"All right," said Sam. "Lean on me."



CHAPTER XX.

SAM GETS INTO A NEW BUSINESS.

Sam helped the old man up two flights of stairs.

"Shall we go any farther?" he asked.

"No; that's my office," said his companion, pointing to a door, over which was the number 10. From his pocket he drew a key, and opened the door. Sam entered with him. The room was small. One corner was partitioned off for an inner office. Inside was a chair, something like a barber's chair, and a table covered with instruments. Sam's curiosity was aroused. He wondered what sort of business was carried on here. He also wondered whether he would get anything for his trouble.

"If you don't want me any longer I'll go," he said, by way of a delicate hint.

"Stop a minute," said the old man, who had limped to a sofa in the outer office, and sat down.

"I guess I'll get something," thought Sam, cheerfully complying with the request.

"What do you do for a living?" asked the old man.

"Sometimes I black boots, sometimes I sell papers,—anything that'll pay."

"What are you doing now?"

"Nothing. Business aint good."

"Would you like something to do?"

Sam gave a glance into the office, and answered dubiously, "Yes." He was not at all clear about the nature of the employment likely to be offered.

"Then I may be able to give you a job. Do you know my business?"

"No, sir."

"I'm a corn-doctor—you've heard of Dr. Felix Graham, the celebrated corn-doctor, haven't you?" said the old man, complacently.

"Yes," said Sam, thinking that this was the answer expected.

"I am Dr. Graham," said the old man, proudly.

"Are you?" said Sam in some curiosity.

"Yes. Now I'll tell you what I want you to do. Go and bring me that pile of circulars."

He pointed to a pile of papers on the floor in the corner.

Sam brought them as directed.

"Can you read?" asked the doctor.

"Yes, sir, a little."

"Read that circular."

Sam read as follows:

"DR. FELIX GRAHAM, CHIROPODIST. Corns and bunions cured without pain. Satisfaction guaranteed. BROADWAY, ROOM 10."

Sam bungled over the word chiropodist, but was put right by the doctor.

"I want a boy to stand at the door, and distribute these circulars," said Dr. Graham. "Can you do it?"

"Of course I can," said Sam. "What pay will I get?"

"Ten cents a hundred;" said the doctor, "but you mustn't do as my last boy did."

"How did he do?" asked Sam.

"He was so anxious to get rid of them that he gave half a dozen away at a time. I caught him in it. He wanted to earn money too fast."

"He was smart," said Sam, with a grin.

"I don't like that kind of smartness," said the doctor, sharply. "I want you to serve me faithfully."

"So I will," said Sam.

"You needn't give to everybody. There isn't much use in giving to children."

"Yes, sir."

"But if you see any one walking as if he had corns, be sure to hand him one."

"Yes, sir."

"Now count off a hundred of the circulars, and go downstairs."

"All right, sir."

This was the first regular employment Sam had obtained, and he felt rather important. He resolved to acquit himself to the satisfaction of the doctor. In his zeal he even determined to improve upon his instructions.

He had no sooner taken his stand than he saw a gentleman and lady approaching. They were young, and, being engaged, were indulging in conversation more interesting to themselves than any one else. The gentleman had on a pair of tight boots, and from his style of walking Sam concluded that he was a suitable customer.

"Here, sir," said he, pressing a circular into the young man's gloved hand.

"What's that?" asked the young man. Then, glancing at it, he showed it with a laugh to the young lady.

"Look here, boy," he said turning to Sam, "what made you give me this?"

"You walked as if you'd got corns," said Sam, honestly. "Walk right up, and Dr. Graham will cure 'em in a jiffy."

"Perhaps you'll tell me what is to become of this young lady while I go up, Johnny?"

"Maybe she's got corns too," said Sam. "She can go up too."

Both the lady and gentleman laughed convulsively, considerably to Sam's surprise, for he was not aware that he had said anything unusual or funny.

"Shall we go up, Eliza?" asked the young man.

The only answer was a laugh, and they passed on.

The next one who attracted Sam's attention was an elderly maiden lady.

"Have you got corns, ma'am?" asked Sam, eagerly.

Now it so happened that the lady was a little deaf, and did not understand Sam's question. Unfortunately for herself, she stopped short, and inquired, "What did you say?"

"I guess she's hard of hearing," Sam concluded, and raising his voice loud enough to be heard across the street, he repeated his question: "HAVE YOU GOT CORNS, MA'AM?"

At the same time he thrust a circular into the hand of the astonished and mortified lady.

Two school-girls, just behind, heard the question, and laughed heartily. The offended lady dropped the paper as if it were contamination, and sailed by, her sallow face red with anger.

"That's funny," thought Sam. "I don't know what's got into all the people. Seems to me they're ashamed of havin' corns."

The next half-dozen took circulars, mechanically glanced at them, and dropped them indifferently.

"Guess they aint got corns," thought the observing Sam.

By and by a countryman came along, and into his hand Sam put the circular.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's corns. Just go upstairs, and the doctor'll cure 'em less'n no time."

"Wal, I have got two," said the countryman. "They hurt like time too. What does this doctor charge?"

Sam did not know, but he was not the boy to allow his ignorance to appear.

"Ten cents apiece," he answered.

"That's cheap enough, anyway," said he. "I've got a good mind to go up. Where is it?"

"Come along. I'll show you," said Sam, promptly.

"I guess I may as well. Are you sure he can cure 'em?"

"I ought to know," said Sam. "I had one about as big as a marble on my big toe. The doctor, he cured it in a minute."

"You don't say! He must be pooty good."

"You bet! He's the great Dr. Graham. Everybody's heard of him."

By such convincing assurances the man's faith was increased. He followed Sam into the doctor's office.

"Here," said Sam, "I've brought you a customer, Dr. Graham. I told him you could cure his corns in a jiffy."

The doctor smiled approvingly.

"You are right there. My friend, sit down in this chair."

"You won't hurt, will you, doctor?" asked the customer, glancing with a little alarm at the table with its instruments.

"Oh, no, you'll scarcely feel it."

Sam returned to his post, and began to distribute handbills once more.

About quarter of an hour later he was assailed by an angry voice. Looking up, he saw the customer he had sent upstairs.

"Look here, boy," he said, angrily; "you told me a lie."

"How did I?" asked Sam.

"You told me the doctor only charged ten cents for each corn. Jerusalem! he made me fork out a dollar."

Sam was rather surprised himself at the price.

"I guess they was tough ones, mister," he said. "He cured 'em, didn't he?"

"Ye—es."

"Then it's worth the money. You don't want 'em back, do you?"

"No," admitted the other; "but it's a thunderin' sight to pay;" and he went off grumbling.

"Don't the doctor make money, though?" thought Sam. "He'd orter give me a commission on them two dollars."



CHAPTER XXI.

SAM OBTAINS A PLACE.

Having disposed of his circulars, Sam went up to the office.

"Have you distributed all the circulars?" asked the doctor.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, here's the ten cents I promised you."

Sam took it, but stood his ground.

"I sent you up a customer," he said.

"A patient; yes."

"And you made two dollars out of him."

"Who told you?"

"He did."

"I charged him my regular price. What of that?" asked the doctor, not comprehending Sam's meaning.

"He wouldn't have come up if it hadn't been for me. I think I'd ought to have a commission."

"Oh, that's it," said the doctor. "That doesn't follow. He came up because of the circular."

"No, he didn't," said Sam. "He came up because I told him what a great doctor you was."

The doctor thought over Sam's proposal, and, being a sharp man, he decided that it was for his advantage to secure an alliance with him.

"You are right," he said. "You are entitled to something."

Sam brightened up.

"Here is a quarter in addition to the ten cents I just gave you."

"Thank you, sir," said Sam, gratified.

"Shall I go down, and give away some more circulars?" he asked.

"Yes; I'll give you another hundred. Don't give them away too fast. It's of no use to give to children."

"All right, sir."

So Sam went down into the street. The first passer-by was a boy of twelve.

"Give me one of them papers," he said.

Rather to his surprise Sam did not immediately comply. He first asked a question.

"Have you got a dollar?"

"A dollar! You don't want a dollar for that paper, do you?"

"No; but I aint goin to waste it on you unless you've got a dollar."

"What do I want of a dollar?" asked the boy, surprised.

"To pay for havin' your corn cured."

The boy burst into a laugh.

"I aint got no corns," he said.

"Then go along, and don't bother me. You're no good."

A young dandy advanced, dressed in the height of fashion, swinging a light cane in his lavender-gloved hand. A rose was in his button-hole, and he was just in the act of saluting a young lady, when Sam thrust a circular into his hand.

"Go right upstairs," he said, "and get your corns cured. Only a dollar."

The young lady burst into a ringing laugh, and the mortified dandy reddened with mortification.

"Keep your dirty paper to yourself, boy," he said. "I am not troubled with those—ah, excrescences."

"I never heard of them things," said Sam. "I said corns."

"Stand out of my way, boy, or I'll cane you," exclaimed the incensed fop.

"Your cane wouldn't hurt," said Sam, regarding the slight stick with disdain. "Never mind; you needn't go up. I don't believe you've got a dollar."

This was rather impudent in Sam, I acknowledge; and the dandy would have been glad to chastise him.

"Miss Winslow," he said, "I hope you won't mind the rudeness of this—ah, ragamuffin."

"Oh, I don't," said the young lady, merrily; "he amuses me."

"So he does me; ha, ha! very good joke," said the dandy, laughing too, but not very merrily. "I hope you are quite well to-day."

"Thank you, quite so. But don't let me detain you, if you have an engagement upstairs."

"I assure you," protested the young man, hurriedly, "that I have no intention of going up at all."

"Then I must say good-morning, at any rate, as I am out shopping;" and the young lady passed on.

"I've a great mind to flog you," said the dandy, frowning at Sam. "I would if you wasn't so dirty. I wouldn't like to soil my hands by taking hold of you."

"That's lucky for you," said Sam, coolly.

The answer was a withering frown, but Sam was tough, and not easily withered.

"Aint he stuck up, though?" thought he, as the young man left him. "He don't seem to like me much."

"Have you got any corns, sir?" he asked, thrusting a paper into the hands of a portly gentleman with a merry face.

The gentleman laughed.

"Really, my boy," he said, "that is a very singular question."

"Is it?" said Sam. "I don't know why."

"Why do you ask?"

"Because Dr. Graham upstairs will cure you before you know it. It's only a dollar."

"You are sure you are not Dr. Graham, yourself?" said the stout man, regarding Sam with an amused expression.

"If I was, I'd wear better clothes," said Sam. "He makes lots of money, the doctor does."

"You'd better learn the business, my young friend."

"I guess I will, if he'll learn me," said Sam. "It'll pay better than standin' here, givin' away papers."

"Don't that pay?"

"Not very well," said Sam. "I only get ten cents a hundred."

"Can you pay your board out of that?"

"No, but I make commissions, besides," said Sam.

"How is that?" asked the stout gentleman, in some curiosity.

"If you'd gone upstairs, and had two corns cured, the doctor,—he'd have given me a quarter."

"Would he really?"

"Yes, he would. Hadn't you better go?"

"I have no occasion for Dr. Graham's services, at present," said the gentleman, laughing, "but still I don't want you to lose by me. Here's a quarter," producing the same from his vest-pocket, and giving it to Sam. "Isn't that just as well as if I had gone up?"

"Thank you, sir. You're a gentleman," said Sam. "Do you come by here often?"

His new acquaintance laughed. "Every day," he answered, "but I don't give away quarters every day. If you expect that, I am afraid I shall have to walk on the other side of the street. Good-morning, and success to you."

"Good-mornin'," said Sam.

"Well, here's luck," thought Sam. "I like this business pretty well. I've made sixty cents already, and the doctor's goin to pay me ten cents more. That'll buy me a good, square dinner, and take me to the Old Bowery besides."

So Sam continued distributing his circulars. Some into whose hands they were thrust did not appear to be suitably grateful; and, though on the lookout for a customer, he did not succeed in finding any, till by good luck the last circular was placed in the hands of a man who was in search of just the relief which it promised.

"Where is Dr. Graham's office?" he inquired.

"Right upstairs, No. 10," said Sam, eagerly. "You just follow me, I'll show you."

"I think I can find it without you," said the other.

"Oh, I can go up just as well as not," said Sam, who had a special object, as we know, in serving as guide.

"Very well. Go ahead, and I will follow you."

Upstairs went Sam, the new patient following him.

"I've brought another," said Sam, as he burst into the office.

The doctor, though glad of another patient, was rather vexed at the style of Sam's announcement.

"Very well," he said. "Sit down there, till I have leisure to attend to you."

"All right, sir," said Sam, sitting down on the sofa in the outer office, and taking up the morning "Herald."

In twenty minutes the patient departed, relieved.

"Now," said Dr. Graham, addressing Sam, "I have something to say to you. When you bring in a patient again, don't break out as you did just now: 'I've brought another.' I was very much mortified."

"What shall I say, then?" asked Sam.

"You needn't say anything, except 'This is Dr. Graham, sir.'"

"Very well," said Sam, "I'll remember. How much did you make out of him?"

"Don't speak in that way. My charges were three dollars."

"How much are you going to give me?"

"There's thirty cents."

"I think I'll go and get some dinner, now," said Sam. "Will you want me to-morrow?"

"I've been thinking," said the doctor, "that I would engage you as my office-boy."

"What would I have to do?"

"Stay in the office when I am away, and distribute circulars when I want you to."

"How much will you pay me?"

"Three dollars a week."

"And commissions too?"

"No; we'll say four days without commissions."

"All right, sir. I'll be on hand to-morrow mornin'."

"I've got a place, at last," thought Sam, in exultation. "Now, I'll go to dinner."



CHAPTER XXII.

THE YOUNG DOCTOR.

The fact that he had obtained a place gave Sam a new sense of importance. Having drifted about the city streets for six months, never knowing in the morning where his meals were to come from during the day, or whether he was to have any, it was pleasant to think that he was to have regular wages. He presented himself in good season the next morning.

He was waiting outside when the doctor arrived.

"So you are on hand," said Dr. Graham.

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, what is your name?"

"Sam Barker."

"Very well, Sam, come upstairs with me."

Sam followed the doctor to his office.

The doctor surveyed his young assistant with critical eyes.

"Where do you buy your clothes?" he asked.

"I haven't bought any," said Sam. "I brought these from the country."

"They seem to be considerably the worse for wear. In fact, your appearance doesn't do credit to my establishment."

"I do look rather ragged," said Sam; "but I haven't got enough money to buy any new clothes."

"I have a son two years older than you. He may have some old clothes that would suit you. I'll have a bundle made up, and brought down to the office to-morrow."

"Thank you, sir," said Sam.

The doctor kept his promise, and the next day our hero was enabled to throw aside his rags, and attire himself in a neat gray suit, which considerably improved his outward appearance.

"Now," said the doctor, "I would suggest that a little more attention to washing would be of advantage to you."

"All right, sir; I'll remember."

Sam scrubbed himself to a considerable degree of cleanness, and combed his hair. The ultimate result was a very creditable-looking office boy.

"Now," said the doctor, "I expect you to be faithful to my interests."

Sam readily promised this. Already he formed glowing anticipations of learning the business, and succeeding the doctor; or, at any rate, being admitted to partnership at some future day.

Several weeks passed by. Considering his previous course of life, Sam acquitted himself very well. He opened the office in the morning, swept it out, and got it in order before the doctor arrived. During the day he ran on errands, distributed circulars, in fact made himself generally useful. The doctor was rather irregular in coming in the morning, so that Sam was sometimes obliged to wait for him two or three hours. One morning, when sitting at his ease reading the morning paper, he was aroused by a knock at the door.

He rose and opened it.

"Is the doctor in?" asked a young man of Irish extraction.

"Hasn't come yet," said Sam. "Would you like to see him?"

"I would thin. He's the man that cures corns, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Sam. "He's the best corn-doctor in the city."

"Thin I've come to the right place, sure."

"Have you got one?"

"I've got a murtherin' big one. It almost kills me."

"Step in and wait for the doctor. He'll be in soon."

"I'm in a great hurry," said the young man. "It's porter I am in a store down town, and I can't stay long. How much does the doctor charge?"

"A dollar for each corn."

"O murder! does he now?"

"Isn't it worth that?"

"It's a mighty big price to pay."

"You see," said Sam, "he's a famous doctor; that's why he charges so much."

"I don't care for that at all. I'm a poor man, and it's hard on me payin' that much."

Here an idea struck Sam. He had often witnessed the doctor's operations, and to his inexperienced mind they seemed easy enough to perform. Why couldn't he operate a little on his own account before the doctor came? By so doing he would make a little money, and if successful he would have a future source of revenue, as patients often came when he was alone.

"I'm the doctor's assistant," he commenced.

"Are you now? So you're the young doctor?"

"Yes," said Sam.

"Then it's a mighty young doctor ye are."

"I know it," said Sam. "I've learnt the trade of Dr. Graham."

"Do you work at it much?" asked the patient.

"Yes," said Sam, "when the doctor's away. I aint as good as he is," he admitted candidly, "and that is why I work cheaper."

"You work cheaper, do yer?"

"Yes," said Sam. "I only charge half price."

"That's fifty cents."

"Yes."

"And do you think you could cure me?"

"Of course I could," said Sam, confidently.

"Then go ahead," said the Irishman, in a fit of reckless confidence which he was destined to repent.

"Sit down there," said Sam, pointing out the patient's chair.

The patient obeyed.

"Now take off your boots. You don't think I can cut through the boot, do you?"

He was obeyed.

Sam began to fumble among the sharp instruments.

"What are you goin to do?" asked the patient, rather alarmed.

"Oh, don't be afraid," said Sam. "You won't feel it."

"Won't feel the knife?"

"No, I'm goin to put on some liquid that'll take away the feeling."

"Shure you ought to know," said the patient, his confidence returning.

"Of course I do," said Sam.

"Now sit still."



Thus far Sam was perfectly self-possessed. He went about his preparations with an air that imposed upon the patient. But the difficulty was to come.

Things which look easy often are found difficult when attempted. When Sam began to wield the doctor's instruments he did so awkwardly. He lacked that delicacy of touch which can only be acquired by practice, and the result was tragical. The knife slipped, inflicting a deep gash, and causing a quick flow of blood.

"Oh, murder, I'm kilt!" exclaimed the terrified patient, bounding to his feet, and rushing frantically round the room. "I'm bladin' to death."

Sam was almost equally frightened. He stood, with the knife in his hand, panic-stricken.

"I'll have you up for murder, I will!" shouted Mr. Dennis O'Brien, clutching the wounded member. "Oh, why did I ever come to a boy doctor? Oh, whirra, whirra!"

"I didn't mean to do it," said Sam, frightened.

"You'll be hanged for killin' me, bad 'cess to you. Go for a doctor, quick."

Almost out of his wits Sam was about to obey, when as he opened the door he confronted his employer. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been sorry to have him come in so soon. Now he was glad.

"What's the meaning of all this?" asked Dr. Graham, surveying with astonishment the Irishman prancing around the office, and Sam's scared face.

"He's kilt me, doctor," said Dennis, groaning.

"He? Who?"

"The young doctor, shure."

"Who's he?"

"That's the one," said Mr. O'Brien, pointing to Sam. "He's cut my toe off, and I'm bladin' to death."

"What does this mean, Sam?" said the doctor, sternly.

"He was in a hurry," stammered Sam, "and I didn't want him to go away, so I thought I'd try to cure him, but the knife slipped, and—"

"I'll attend to your case afterwards. Sit down, sir."

"Will I die?" asked Dennis, lugubriously.

"No danger, now. You might, if I hadn't come just as I did."

Matters were soon remedied, and Dennis went away relieved, well satisfied because the doctor declined, under the circumstances, to receive any fee.

"Now, Sam," said the doctor, after he had gone, "what do you mean by such work as this?"

"I thought I could do it," said Sam, abashed.

"I ought to turn you away for this."

"It was only a mistake," said Sam.

"It came near being a very serious mistake. What would you have done if I had not come just as I did?"

"I don't know," said Sam.

"Never touch my instruments again. If you do I shall discharge you at once; that is, after giving you a sound flogging."

Sam felt that he had got off easily, and determined not to set up again as doctor on his own account.



CHAPTER XXIII.

SAM FALLS INTO BAD COMPANY.

For a time matters went on smoothly. Sam was abashed by the result of his experiment, and discouraged from making another. He felt that he had a good place. Living chiefly at the lodging-house his expenses were small, and four dollars a week were ample to meet them. There was one thing he missed, however,—the freedom to roam about the streets at will. He felt this the more when the pleasant spring weather came on. There were times when he got sick of the confinement, and longed to leave the office.

It was a bright morning in May when Dr. Graham called from the inner office:—

"Sam."

"What, sir?"

"Do you know the way to Brooklyn?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to go over there for me."

"All right, sir."

It may be explained that Dr. Graham, on the first of May, had moved over to Brooklyn, and was occupying a house about a mile from Fulton Ferry.

"I want you to go to my house," said the doctor, "No. — H—— street, and carry this letter to my wife."

"Yes, sir."

"I forgot entirely to leave her some money to meet a bill; but if you go at once it will reach her in time. Stay, I will give you the address on a card."

"All right, sir."

"Here is a quarter. It will pay your car-fare, and over the ferry both ways. Now, mind you come back as quick as you can."

This Sam readily promised. He was glad to get away for the morning, as he calculated that the expedition would take him nearly, or quite, three hours. He took a car and got out at the Astor House. On his way down to the ferry he met an old street acquaintance,—Jim Nolan.

"How are you, Sam?" said Jim.

"Tip-top!" answered Sam.

"Where do you keep yourself? Are you blackin' boots, now?"

"No," answered Sam, with rather an important air. "I'm in an office."

"How much do you get?"

"Four dollars a week."

"That's good. How'd you get it?"

"Oh, the doctor took a fancy to me, and asked me to come."

"You're in luck. So you're with a doctor?"

"Yes,—Dr. Graham. He's a corn-doctor."

"Where does he hang out?"

"No.—, Broadway."

"Do you have much to do?"

"Not very much."

"How do you come down here, then?"

"I'm takin' a letter to Brooklyn for the doctor."

"Are you?"

"Yes," said Sam; adding unluckily, "There's money in it."

"Is there?" said Jim, pricking up his ears. "How do you know? Let's see the letter."

Sam took the letter from his inside coat-pocket, and passed it to Jim.

The latter held it up to the light, and tried to look inside. Fortune favored his efforts. The envelope was imperfectly fastened, and came open.

"There, Jim," said Sam, "now see what you've done."

"Let's look inside, and see how much money there is," suggested Jim.

Sam hesitated.

"It won't do any harm to look at it," said the tempter.

"That's so," said Sam.

He accordingly drew out the enclosure, and disclosed two ten-dollar bills.

Jim's eyes sparkled with greed.

"Twenty dollars!" he exclaimed. "What a lot of good that would do us!"

Sam's principles were not firm, but he had a good place, and the temptation was not as strong as in Jim's case; so he answered, "Maybe it would, but it aint ours."

Jim fastened his little black eyes on Sam cunningly.

"It might be," he answered.

"How could it be?"

"You could keep it."

"The doctor'd find it out."

"Tell him somebody hooked it out of your pocket. He wouldn't know."

Sam shook his head.

"I aint goin to lose a good place just for that," he said.

"Think what a lot of things you could do for ten dollars," urged Jim.

"Twenty, you mean."

"That's ten apiece, isn't it?"

"Oh, you want some, do you?" inquired Sam.

"Yes; I'll take it from you, and then give you back half. So, it'll be me that stole it. They can't do nothin' to you. Come, I'll go over to Brooklyn with you, and then you can make up your mind."

On board the boat Jim renewed his persuasions, and finally Sam yielded.

"I'm afraid the doctor'll think I took it," he said.

"No matter! He can't prove nothin'."

"We'll find it hard to change the bills."

"No we won't. I'll tell you where to go. Can you play billiards?"

"No; but I'd like to learn."

"I know, and I'll learn you. There's a saloon over in Brooklyn where we can go and have a game. We'll pay out of one of the bills."

Now Sam had long wanted to learn the game of billiards, and this seemed a good opportunity. Perhaps this consideration as much as any determined him to close with his friend's proposal. When, therefore, they had reached the Brooklyn side, instead of taking the horse-cars to Dr. Graham's house, Sam followed his companion to a low billiard saloon not far away.

There were four tables, one of which only was occupied, for it was too early. On one side of the room was a bar, behind which stood a man in his shirt-sleeves.

"Well, boys, what do you want?" he asked.

"We want a table," said Jim. "We're goin to play a game."

The man in the shirt-sleeves produced, from underneath the counter, a green pasteboard box containing four ivory billiard balls.

"What table will you have?" he asked.

"This one here," said Jim, leading the way to one farthest from the door.

"Now take a cue, Sam," he said. "We'll have a jolly game."

"You must tell me how to play."

"Oh, I'll learn you."

Jim was not a very skilful player, but he knew something about the game, and under his instruction Sam made some progress, being able to make a shot now and then. He was very much pleased with the game, and determined to devote his spare earnings to this form of recreation hereafter. When the game was ended, a full hour had passed.

"I didn't think it was so late," said Sam, starting. "I shall have to go."

"Go and pay for the game first."

"You ought to pay half."

"No; I beat. The one that loses the game has to pay."

"Of course you beat. It was my first game."

"Never mind. You'll soon play as well as I, and then I shall have to pay half the time."

"Do you think I'll improve?"

"Of course you will. We'll play again to-night."

"Here?"

"No, in New York. I'll show you a good saloon in Chatham street."

Sam stepped up to the counter.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

"Sixty cents."

"It's only twenty-five cents a game," said Jim Nolan.

"Your game was longer than two ordinary ones. I'll call it fifty cents."

Sam produced the ten-dollar bill, and received in return nine dollars and a half. The clerk was rather surprised at a boy presenting so large a bill. He suspected that it was not come by honestly; but, as he argued, that was none of his business. What he cared for most was to get paid for the billiards. So Sam, who had felt a little uneasy about offering the money, was more at his ease.

"We had a good game, didn't we?" said Jim.

"Yes," said Sam.

"And you did bully for the first time. I couldn't play so well my first game."

Sam felt flattered by this compliment from his companion.

"Now I must go back," he said.

"I'll go along back with you. But we'll take a drink first. I want to change my bill too."

"Why didn't you do it in the billiard-saloon? They had a bar there."

"They might suspect something if both of us offered tens. Here's a place close by. Come in here."

Jim led the way into a drinking-saloon, and Sam followed.

"It's my treat," said Jim. "What'll you have?"

"What are you goin' to take?"

"A whiskey-punch."

"I'll take one too."

"Two whiskey-punches, and mind you make 'em stiff," said Jim.

He tossed down his glass, but Sam drank more slowly.

Jim paid for the drinks, and they went out into the street.



CHAPTER XXIV.

SAM'S EXCUSES.

Sam was not used to liquor, and was more easily affected than most. When he got out into the street his head spun round, and he staggered. His companion observed it.

"Why, you don't mean ter say yer tight, Sam?" he said, pausing and looking at him.

"I don't know what it is," said Sam, "but I feel queer."

"Kinder light in the head, and shaky in the legs?"

"Yes, that's the way I feel."

"Then you're drunk."

"Drunk!" ejaculated Sam, rather frightened, for he was still unsophisticated compared with his companion.

"Just so. I say, you must be a chicken to get tight on one whiskey-punch," added Jim, rather contemptuously.

"It was strong," said Sam, by way of apology, leaning against a lamp-post for support.

"It was stiffish," said Jim. "I always take 'em so."

"And don't you feel it at all?" queried Sam.

"Not a bit," said Jim, decidedly. "I aint a baby."

"Nor I either," said Sam, with a spark of his accustomed spirit. "Only I aint used to it."

"Why, I could take three glasses, one after the other, without gettin' tight," said Jim, proudly. "I tell you, I've got a strong stomach."

"I wish I hadn't taken the drink," said Sam. "When will I feel better?"

"In an hour or two."

"I can't go back to the doctor this way. He'll know I've been drinkin'. I wish I could lie down somewhere."

"I'll tell you what. Come round to the ferry-room. You can sit down there till you feel better."

"Give me your arm, Jim. I'm light-headed."

With Jim's assistance Sam made his way to Fulton Ferry, but instead of going over in the next boat he leaned back in his seat in the waiting-room, and rested. Jim walked about on the pier, his hands in his pocket, with an independent air. He felt happy and prosperous. Never before in his life, probably, had he had so much money in his possession. Some men with a hundred thousand dollars would have felt poorer than Jim with nine dollars and a half.

By and by Sam felt enough better to start on his homeward journey. Jim agreed to accompany him as far as the New York side.

"I don't know what the doctor will say when he finds out the money is gone," said Sam, soberly.

"You just tell him it was stolen from you by a pickpocket."

"Suppose he don't believe it?"

"He can't prove nothin'."

"He might search me."

"So he might," said Jim. "I'll tell you what you'd better do."

"What?"

"Just give me the money to keep for you. Then if he searches you, he won't find it."

If Jim expected this suggestion to be adopted, he undervalued Sam's shrewdness. That young man had not knocked about the streets eight months for nothing.

"I guess not," said Sam, significantly. "Maybe I wouldn't find it any easier if you took it."

"You don't call me a thief, do you?" demanded Jim, offended.

"It looks as if we was both thieves," said Sam, candidly.

"You needn't talk so loud," said Jim, hurriedly. "There's no use in tellin' everybody that I see. I don't want the money, only, if the old man finds it, don't blame me."

"You needn't be mad, Jim," said Sam. "I'll need the money myself. I guess I'll have to hide it."

"Do you wear stockin's?" asked Jim.

"Yes; don't you?"

"Not in warm weather. They aint no good. They only get dirty. But if you wear 'em, that's the place to hide the money."

"I guess you're right," said Sam. "I wouldn't have thought of it. Where can I do it?"

"Wait till we're on the New York side. You can sit down on one of the piers and do it. Nobody'll see you."

Sam thought this good advice, and decided to follow it.

"There is some use in stockin's," said Jim, reflectively. "If I was in your place, I wouldn't know where to stow away the money. Where are you goin' now?"

"I'll have to go back," said Sam. "I've been a long time already."

"I'm goin to get some dinner," said Jim.

"I haven't got time," said Sam. "Besides, I don't feel so hungry as usual. I guess it's the drink I took."

"It don't take away my appetite," said his companion, with an air of superiority.

Sam took the cars home. Knowing what he did, it was with an uncomfortable feeling that he ascended the stairs and entered the presence of Dr. Graham.

The doctor looked angry.

"What made you so long?" he demanded abruptly. "Did you find the house?"

"No," answered Sam, wishing that his embarrassing explanations were fully over. "No, I didn't."

"You didn't find the house!" exclaimed the doctor, in angry surprise. "Why didn't you?"

"I thought it wasn't any use," stammered Sam.

"Wasn't any use!" repeated the chiropodist. "Explain yourself, sir, at once."

"As long as I hadn't got the letter," proceeded Sam.

Now the secret was out.

"What did you do with the letter?" demanded Dr. Graham, suspiciously.

"I lost it."

"Lost it! How could you lose it? Did you know there was money in it?" said his employer, looking angry and disturbed.