CHAPTER VII
FULTON MARKET
Just across from Fulton Ferry stands Fulton Market. It is nearly fifty years old, having been built in 1821, on ground formerly occupied by unsightly wooden buildings, which were, perhaps fortunately, swept away by fire. It covers the block bounded by Fulton, South, Beekman, and Front Streets, and was erected at a cost of about quarter of a million of dollars.
This is the chief of the great city markets, and an immense business is done here. There is hardly an hour in the twenty-four in which there is an entire lull in the business of the place. Some of the outside shops and booths are kept open all night, while the supplies of fish, meats, and vegetables for the market proper are brought at a very early hour, almost before it can be called morning.
Besides the market proper the surrounding sidewalks are roofed over, and lined with shops and booths of the most diverse character, at which almost every conceivable article can be purchased. Most numerous, perhaps, are the chief restaurants, the counters loaded with cakes and pies, with a steaming vessel of coffee smoking at one end. The floors are sanded, and the accommodations are far from elegant or luxurious; but it is said that the viands are by no means to be despised. Then there are fruit-stalls with tempting heaps of oranges, apples, and in their season the fruits of summer, presided over for the most part by old women, who scan shrewdly the faces of passers-by, and are ready on the smallest provocation to vaunt the merits of their wares. There are candy and cocoanut cakes for those who have a sweet tooth, and many a shop-boy invests in these on his way to or from Brooklyn to the New York store where he is employed; or the father of a family, on his way to his Brooklyn home, thinks of the little ones awaiting him, and indulges in a purchase of what he knows will be sure to be acceptable to them.
But it is not only the wants of the body that are provided for at Fulton Market. On the Fulton Street side may be found extensive booths, at which are displayed for sale a tempting array of papers, magazines, and books, as well as stationery, photograph albums, etc., generally at prices twenty or thirty per cent. lower than is demanded for them in the more pretentious Broadway or Fulton Avenue stores.
Even at night, therefore, the outer portion of the market presents a bright and cheerful shelter from the inclement weather, being securely roofed over, and well lighted, while some of the booths are kept open, however late the hour.
Ben Gibson, therefore, was right in directing Mark to Fulton Market, as probably the most comfortable place to be found in the pouring rain which made the thoroughfares dismal and dreary. Mark, of course, had been in Fulton Market often, and saw at once the wisdom of the advice. He ran down Fulton Street as fast as he could, and arrived there panting and wet to the skin. Uncomfortable as he was, the change from the wet streets to the bright and comparatively warm shelter of the market made him at once more cheerful. In fact, it compared favorably with the cold and uninviting room which he shared with Mother Watson.
As Mark looked around him, he could not help wishing that he tended in one of the little restaurants that looked so bright and inviting to him. Those who are accustomed to lunch at Delmonico's, or at some of the large and stylish hotels, or have their meals served by attentive servants in brown stone dwellings in the more fashionable quarters of the city, would be likely to turn up their noses at his humble taste, and would feel it an infliction to take a meal amid such plebeian surroundings. But then Mark knew nothing about the fare at Delmonico's, and was far enough from living in a brown stone front, and so his ideas of happiness and luxury were not very exalted, or he would scarcely have envied a stout butcher boy whom he saw sitting at an unpainted wooden table, partaking of a repast which was more abundant than choice.
But from the surrounding comfort Mark's thoughts were brought back to the disagreeable business which brought him here. He was to solicit charity from some one of the passers-by, and with a sigh he began to look about him to select some compassionate face.
"If there was only somebody here that wanted an errand done," he thought, "and would pay me twenty-five cents for doing it, I wouldn't have to beg I'd rather work two hours for the money than beg it."
But there seemed little chance of this. In the busy portion of the day there might have been some chance, though this would be uncertain; but now it was very improbable. If he wanted to get twenty-five cents that night he must get it from charity.
A beginning must be made, however disagreeable. So Mark went up to a young man who was passing along on his way to the boat, and in a shamefaced manner said, "Will you give me a few pennies, please?"
The young man looked good-natured, and it was that which gave Mark confidence to address him.
"You want some pennies, do you?" he said, with a smile, pausing in his walk.
"If you please, sir."
"I suppose your wife and family are starving, eh?"
"I haven't got any wife or family, sir," said Mark.
"But you've got a sick mother, or some brothers or sisters that are starving, haven't you?"
"No, sir."
"Then I'm afraid you're not up to your business. How long have you been round begging?"
"Never before," said Mark, rather indignantly.
"Ah, that accounts for it. You haven't learned the business yet. After a few weeks you'll have a sick mother starving at home. They all do, you know."
"My mother is dead," said Mark; "I shan't tell a lie to get money."
"Come, you're rather a remarkable boy," said the young man, who was a reporter on a daily paper, going over to attend a meeting in Brooklyn, to write an account of it to appear in one of the city dailies in the morning. "I don't generally give money in such cases, but I must make an exception in your case."
He drew a dime from his vest-pocket and handed it to Mark.
Mark took it with a blush of mortification at the necessity.
"I wouldn't beg if I could help it," he said, desiring to justify himself in the eyes of the good-natured young man.
"I'm glad to hear that. Johnny." (Johnny is a common name applied to boys whose names are unknown.) "It isn't a very creditable business. What makes you beg, then?"
"I shall be beaten if I don't," said Mark.
"That's bad. Who will beat you?"
"Mother Watson."
"Tell Mother Watson, with my compliments, that she's a wicked old tyrant. I'll tell you what, my lad, you must grow as fast as you can, and by and by you'll get too large for that motherly old woman to whip. But there goes the bell. I must be getting aboard."
This was the result of Mark's first begging appeal. He looked at the money, and wished he had got it in any other way. If it had been the reward of an hour's work he would have gazed at it with much greater satisfaction.
Well, he had made a beginning. He had got ten cents. But there still remained fifteen cents to obtain, and without that he did not feel safe in going back.
So he looked about him for another person to address. This time he thought he would ask a lady. Accordingly he went up to one, who was walking with her son, a boy of sixteen, to judge from appearance, and asked for a few pennies.
"Get out of my way, you little beggar!" she said, in a disagreeable tone. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself, going round begging, instead of earning money like honest people?"
"I've been trying to earn money all day," said Mark, rather indignant at this attack.
"Oh no doubt," sneered the woman. "I don't think you'll hurt yourself with work."
"I was round the streets all day trying to sell matches," said Mark.
"You mustn't believe what he says, mother," said the boy. "They're all a set of humbugs, and will lie as fast as they can talk."
"I've no doubt of it, Roswell," said Mrs. Crawford. "Such little impostors never get anything out of me. I've got other uses for my money."
Mark was a gentle, peaceful boy, but such attacks naturally made him indignant.
"I am not an impostor, and I neither lie nor steal," he said, looking alternately from the mother to the son.
"Oh, you're a fine young man. I've no doubt," said Roswell, with a sneer. "But we'd better be getting on, mother, unless you mean to stop in Fulton Market all night."
So mother and son passed on, leaving Mark with a sense of mortification and injury. He would have given the ten cents he had, not to have asked charity of this woman who had answered him so unpleasantly.
Those of my readers who have read the two preceding volumes of this series will recognize in Roswell Crawford and his mother old acquaintances who played an important part in the former stories. As, however, I may have some new readers, it may be as well to explain that Roswell was a self-conceited boy, who prided himself on being "the son of a gentleman," and whose great desire was to find a place where the pay would be large and the duties very small. Unfortunately for his pride, his father had failed in business shortly before he died, and his mother had been compelled to keep a boarding-house. She, too, was troubled with a pride very similar to that of her son, and chafed inwardly at her position, instead of reconciling herself to it, as many better persons have done.
Roswell was not very fortunate in retaining the positions he obtained, being generally averse to doing anything except what he was absolutely obliged to do. He had lost a situation in a dry-goods store in Sixth Avenue, because he objected to carrying bundles, considering it beneath the dignity of a gentleman's son. Some months before he had tried to get Richard Hunter discharged from his situation in the hope of succeeding him in it; but this plot proved utterly unsuccessful, as is fully described in "Fame and Fortune."
We shall have more to do with Roswell Crawford in the course of the present story. At present he was employed in a retail bookstore up town, on a salary of six dollars a week.
CHAPTER VIII
ON THE FERRY-BOAT
Mark had made two applications for charity, and still had but ten cents. The manner in which Mrs. Crawford met his appeal made the business seem more disagreeable than ever. Besides, he was getting tired. It was not more than eight o'clock, but he had been up early, and had been on his feet all day. He leaned against one of the stalls, but in so doing he aroused the suspicions of the vigilant old woman who presided over it.
"Just stand away there," she said. "You're watchin' for a chance to steal one of them apples."
"No, I'm not," said Mark, indignantly. "I never steal."
"Don't tell me," said the old woman, who had a hearty aversion to boys, some of whom, it must be confessed, had in times past played mean tricks on her; "don't tell me! Them that beg will steal, and I see you beggin' just now."
To this Mark had no reply to make. He saw that he was already classed with the young street beggars, many of whom, as the old woman implied, had no particular objection to stealing, if they got a chance. Altogether he was so disgusted with his new business, that he felt it impossible for him to beg any more that night. But then came up the consideration that this would prevent his returning home. He very well knew what kind of a reception Mother Watson would give him, and he had a very unpleasant recollection and terror of the leather strap.
But where should he go? He must pass the night somewhere, and he already felt drowsy. Why should he not follow Ben Gibson's suggestions, and sleep on the Fulton ferry-boat? It would only cost two cents to get on board, and he might ride all night. Fortunately he had more than money enough for that, though he did not like to think how he came by the ten cents.
When Mark had made up his mind, he passed out of one of the entrances of the market, and, crossing the street, presented his ten cents at the wicket, where stood the fare-taker.
Without a look towards him, that functionary took the money, and pushed back eight cents. These Mark took, and passed round into the large room of the ferry-house.
The boat was not in, but he already saw it halfway across the river, speeding towards its pier.
There were a few persons waiting besides himself, but the great rush of travel was diminished for a short time. It would set in again about eleven o'clock when those who had passed the evening at some place of amusement in New York would be on their way home.
Mark with the rest waited till the boat reached its wharf. There was the usual bump, then the chain rattled, the wheel went round, and the passengers began to pour out upon the wharf. Mark passed into the boat, and went at once to the "gentlemen's cabin," situated on the left-hand side of the boat. Generally, however, gentlemen rather unfairly crowd into the ladies' cabin, sometimes compelling the ladies, to whom it of right belongs, to stand, while they complacently monopolize the seats. The gentlemen's cabin, so called, is occupied by those who have a little more regard to the rights of ladies, and by the smokers, who are at liberty to indulge in their favorite comfort here.
When Mark entered, the air was redolent with tobacco-smoke, generally emitted from clay pipes and cheap cigars, and therefore not so agreeable as under other circumstances it might have been. But it was warm and comfortable, and that was a good deal.
In the corner Mark espied a wide seat nearly double the size of an ordinary seat, and this he decided would make the most comfortable niche for him.
He settled himself down there as well as he could. The seat was hard, and not so comfortable as it might have been; but then Mark was not accustomed to beds of down, and he was so weary that his eyes closed and he was soon in the land of dreams.
He was dimly conscious of the arrival at the Brooklyn side, and the ensuing hurried exit of passengers from that part of the cabin in which he was, but it was only a slight interruption, and when the boat, having set out on its homeward trip, reached the New York side, he was fast asleep.
"Poor little fellow!" thought more than one, with a hasty glance at the sleeping boy. "He is taking his comfort where he can."
But there was no good Samaritan to take him by the hand, and inquire into his hardships, and provide for his necessities, or rather there was one, and that one well known to us.
Richard Hunter and his friend Henry Fosdick had been to Brooklyn that evening to attend an instructive lecture which they had seen announced in one of the daily papers. The lecture concluded at half-past nine, and they took the ten o'clock boat over the Fulton ferry.
They seated themselves in the first cabin, towards the Brooklyn side, and did not, therefore, see Mark until they passed through the other cabin on the arrival of the boat at New York.
"Look there, Fosdick," said Richard Hunter. "See that poor little chap asleep in the corner. Doesn't it remind you of the times we used to have, when we were as badly off as he?"
"Yes, Dick, but I don't think I ever slept on a ferry-boat."
"That's because you were not on the streets long I took care of myself eight years, and more than once took a cheap bed for two cents on a boat like this. Most likely I've slept in that very corner."
"It was a hard life, Dick."
"Yes, and a hard bed too; but there's a good many that are no better off now. I always feel like doing something to help along those like this little chap here."
"I wonder what he is, – a boot-black?"
"He hasn't got any brush or box with him. Perhaps he's a newsboy. I think I'll give him a surprise."
"Wake him up, do you mean?"
"No, poor little chap! Let him sleep. I'll put fifty cents in his pocket, and when he wakes up he won't know where it came from."
"That's a good idea, Dick. I'll do the same. All right."
"Here's the money. Put mine in with yours. Don't wake him up."
Dick walked softly up to the match boy, and gently inserted the money – one dollar – in one of the pockets of his ragged vest.
Mark was so fast asleep that he was entirely unconscious of the benevolent act.
"That'll make him open his eyes in the morning," he said.
"Unless somebody relieves him of the money during his sleep."
"Not much chance of that. Pickpockets won't be very apt to meddle with such a ragged little chap as that, unless it's in a fit of temporary aberration of mind."
"You're right, Dick. But we must hurry out now, or we shall be carried back to Brooklyn."
"And so get more than our money's worth. I wouldn't want to cheat the corporation so extensively as that."
So the two friends passed out of the boat, and left the match boy asleep in the cabin, quite unconscious that good fortune had hovered over him, and made him richer by a dollar, while he slept.
While we are waiting for him to awake, we may as well follow Richard Hunter and his friend home.
Fosdick's good fortune, which we recorded in the earlier chapters of this volume had made no particular change in their arrangements. They were already living in better style than was usual among youths situated as they were. There was this difference, however, that whereas formerly Dick paid the greater part of the joint expense it was now divided equally. It will be remembered that Fosdick's interest on the twenty bank shares purchased in his name amounted to one hundred and sixty dollars annually, and this just about enabled him to pay his own way, though not leaving him a large surplus for clothing and incidental expenses. It could not be long, however, before his pay would be increased at the store, probably by two dollars a week. Until that time he could economize a little; for upon one thing he had made up his mind, – not to trench upon his principal except in case of sickness or absolute necessity.
The boys had not forgotten or neglected the commission which they had undertaken for Mr. Hiram Bates. They had visited, on the evening after he left, the Newsboys' Lodging House, then located at the corner of Fulton and Nassau Streets, in the upper part of the "Sun" building, and had consulted Mr. O'Connor, the efficient superintendent, as to the boy of whom they were in search. But he had no information to supply them with. He promised to inquire among the boys who frequented the lodge, as it was possible that there might be some among them who might have fallen in with a boy named Talbot.
Richard Hunter also sought out some of his old acquaintances, who were still engaged in blacking boots, or selling newspapers, and offered a reward of five dollars for the discovery of a boy of ten, named Talbot, or John Talbot.
As the result of this offer a red-haired boy was brought round to the counting-room one day, who stoutly asserted that his name was John Talbot, and his guide in consequence claimed the reward. Dick, however, had considerable doubt as to the genuineness of this claim, and called the errand-boy, known to the readers of earlier volumes, as Micky Maguire.
"Micky," said Richard, "this boy says he is John Talbot. Do you know him?"
"Know him!" repeated Micky; "I've knowed him ever since he was so high. He's no more John Talbot than I am. His name is Tim Hogan, and I'll defy him to say it isn't."
Tim looked guilty, and his companion gave up the attempt to obtain the promised reward. He had hired Tim by the promise of a dollar to say he was John Talbot, hoping by the means to clear four dollars for himself.
"That boy'll rise to a seat in the Common Council if he lives long enough," said Dick. "He's an unusually promising specimen."
CHAPTER IX
A PLEASANT DISCOVERY
The night wore away, and still Mark, the match boy, continued to sleep soundly in the corner of the cabin where he had established himself. One of the boat hands passing through noticed him, and was on the point of waking him, but, observing his weary look and thin attire, refrained from an impulse of compassion. He had a boy of about the same age, and the thought came to him that some time his boy might be placed in the same situation, and this warmed his heart towards the little vagrant.
"I suppose I ought to wake him up," he reflected, "but he isn't doing any harm there, and he may as well have his sleep out."
So Mark slept on, – a merciful sleep, in which he forgot his poverty and friendless condition; a sleep which brought new strength and refreshment to his limbs.
When he woke up it was six o'clock in the morning. But it was quite dark still, for it was in December, and, so far as appearances went, it might have been midnight. But already sleepy men and boys were on their way to the great city to their daily work. Some were employed a considerable distance up town, and must be at their posts at seven. Others were employed in the markets and must be stirring at an early hour. There were keepers of street-stands, who liked to be ready for the first wave in the tide of daily travel that was to sweep without interruption through the city streets until late at night. So, altogether, even at this early hour there was quite a number of passengers.
Mark rubbed his eyes, not quite sure where he was, or how he got there. He half expected to hear the harsh voice of Mother Watson, which usually aroused him to his daily toil. But there was no Mother Watson to be seen, only sleepy, gaping men and boys, clad in working dresses.
Mark sat up and looked around him.
"Well, young chap, you've had a nap, haven't you?" said a man at his side, who appeared, from a strong smell of paint about his clothes, to be a journeyman painter.
"Yes," said Mark. "Is it morning?"
"To be sure it is. What did you expect it was?"
"Then I've been sleeping all night," said the match boy, in surprise.
"Where?"
"Here."
"In that corner?" asked the painter.
"Yes," said Mark; "I came aboard last night, and fell asleep, and that's the last I remember."
"It must be rather hard to the bones," said the painter. "I think that I should prefer a regular bed."
"I do feel rather sore," said the match boy; "but I slept bully."
"A little chap like you can curl up anywhere. I don't think I could sleep very well on these seats. Haven't you got any home?"
"Yes," said Mark, "a sort of a home."
"Then why didn't you sleep at home?"
"I knew I should get a beating if I went home without twenty-five cents."
"Well, that's hard luck. I wonder how I should feel," he continued, laughing, "if my wife gave me a beating when I came home short of funds."
But here the usual bump indicated the arrival of the boat at the slip, and all the passengers, the painter included, rose, and hurried to the edge of the boat.
With the rest went Mark. He had no particular object in going thus early; but his sleep was over, and there was no inducement to remain longer in the boat.
The rain was over also. The streets were still wet from the effects of the quantity that had fallen, but there was no prospect of any more. Mark's wet clothes had dried in the warm, dry atmosphere of the cabin, and he felt considerably better than on the evening previous.
Now, however, he could not help wondering what Mother Watson had thought of his absence.
"She'll be mad, I know," he thought. "I suppose she'll whip me when I get back."
This certainly was not a pleasant thought. The leather strap was an old enemy of his, which he dreaded, and with good reason. He was afraid that he would get a more severe beating, for not having returned the night before, at the hands of the angry old woman.
"I wish I didn't live with Mother Watson," he thought.
Straight upon this thought came another." Why should he?"
Mother Watson had no claim upon him. Upon his mother's death she had assumed the charge of him, but, as it turned out, rather for her own advantage than his. She had taken all his earnings, and given him in return a share of her miserable apartment, a crust of bread or two, daily seasoned with occasional assaults with the leather strap. It had never occurred to Mark before, but now for the first time it dawned upon him that he had the worst of the bargain. He could live more comfortably by retaining his earnings, and spending them upon himself.
Mark was rather a timid, mild-mannered boy, or he would sooner have rebelled against the tyranny and abuse of Mother Watson. But he had had little confidence in himself, and wanted somebody to lean on. In selecting the old woman, who had acted thus far as his guardian, he had leaned upon a broken reed. The last night's experience gave him a little courage. He reflected that he could sleep in the Newsboys' Lodging House for five cents, or on the ferry-boat again for two, while the fare at his old home was hardly so sumptuous but that he could obtain the same without very large expense.
So Mark thought seriously of breaking his yoke and declaring himself free and independent. A discovery which he made confirmed him in his half-formed resolution.
He remembered that after paying his toll he had eight cents left, which he had placed in his vest-pocket. He thought that these would enable him to get some breakfast, and drew them out. To his astonishment there were two silver half-dollars mingled with the coppers. Mark opened his eyes wide in astonishment. Where could they have come from? Was it possible that the tollman had given him them by mistake for pennies? That could not be, for two reasons: First, he remembered looking at the change as it was handed him, and he knew that there were no half-dollars among them. Again, the eight pennies were all there, the silver coins making the number ten.
It was certainly very strange and surprising, and puzzled Mark not a little. We, who know all about it, find the explanation very easy, but to the little match boy it was an unfathomable mystery.
The surprise, however, was of an agreeable character. With so much money in his possession, Mark felt like a man with a handsome balance at his banker's, and with the usual elasticity of youth he did not look forward to the time when this supply would be exhausted.
"I won't go back to Mother Watson," he determined. "She's beaten me times enough. I'll take care of myself."
While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he had walked up Fulton Street, and reached the corner of Nassau. Here he met his friend of the night before, Ben Gibson.
Ben looked rather sleepy. He had been at the Old Bowery Theatre the night before until twelve o'clock, and, having no money left to invest in a night's lodging, he had crept into a corner of the "Times" printing office, and slept, but had not quite slept off his fatigue.
"Hallo, young 'un!" said he. "Where did you come from?"
"From Fulton Ferry," said Mark. "I slept on the boat."
"Did you? How'd you like it?"
"Pretty good," said Mark. "It was rather hard."
"How'd you make out begging?"
"Not very well. I got ten cents."
"So you didn't dare to go home to the old woman?"
"I shan't go home there any more," said the match boy.
"Do you mean it?"
"Yes, I do."
"Bully for you! I like your pluck. I wouldn't go back and get a licking, if I were you. What'll Mother Watson say?"
"She'll be mad, I expect," said Mark.
"Keep a sharp lookout for her. I'll tell you what you can do: stay near me, and if she comes prowlin' round I'll manage her."
"Could you?" said Mark, quickly, who, from certain recollections, had considerable fear of his stout tyrant.
"You may just bet on that. What you goin' to do?"
"I think I shall go and get some breakfast," said Mark.
"So would I, if I had any tin; but I'm dead broke, – spent my last cent goin' to the Old Bowery. I'll have to wait till I've had one or two shines before I can eat breakfast."
"Are you hungry?"
"I'll bet I am."
"Because," said Mark, hesitating, "I'll lend you money enough for breakfast, and you can pay me when you earn it."
"You lend me money!" exclaimed Ben, in astonishment. "Why, you haven't got but eight cents."
"Yes, I have," said Mark, producing the two half-dollars.
"Where'd you get them?" asked the boot-black, in unfeigned surprise, looking at Mark as if he had all at once developed into an Astor or a Stewart. "You haven't been begging this morning, have you?"
"No," said the match boy, "and I don't mean to beg again if I can help it."
"Then where'd you get the money?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know! You haven't been stealin', have you?"
Mark disclaimed the imputation indignantly.
"Then you found a pocket-book?"
"No, I didn't."
"Then where did you get the money?"
"I don't know any more than you do. When I went to sleep on the boat I didn't have it, but this morning when I felt in my pocket it was there."
"That's mighty queer," said Ben, whistling.
"So I think."
"It's good money, aint it?"
"Try it and see."
Ben tossed up one of the coins. It fell with a clear, ringing sound on the sidewalk.
"Yes, that's good," he said. "I just wish somebody'd treat me that way. Maybe it's the vest? If 'tis I'd like to buy it."
"I don't think it's that," said Mark, laughing.
"Anyway you've got the money. I'll borrow twenty cents of you, and we'll go and get some breakfast."