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."