LITMIR.BIZ

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if you was most ninety."

      "You're a sassy boy!" said the owner of the carpet-bag, indignantly. "I don't see how I'm going to get up to Seraphiny's," she continued, complainingly. "They'd ought to have come down to meet me. How much will you charge to carry my carpet-bag, and show me the way to my darter's?"

      "Fifty cents," said Ben.

      "Fifty cents!" repeated the old lady, aghast. "I didn't think you'd charge more'n ten."

      "I have to," said Ben. "Board's high in New York."

      "How much would they charge me in a carriage? Here you, sir," addressing a hackman, "what'll you charge to carry me to my darter's house, Mrs. John Jones, in Bleecker Street?"

      "What's the number?"

      "I think it's a hundred and sixty-three."

      "A dollar and a half."

      "A dollar 'n' a half? Couldn't you do it for less?"

      "Carry your bag, sir?" asked Ben, of a gentleman passing.

      The gentleman shook his head.

      He made one or two other proposals, which being in like manner unsuccessful, he returned to the old lady, who, having by this time got through her negotiations with the hackman, whom she had vainly striven to beat down to seventy-five cents, was in a more favorable mood to accept Ben's services.

      "Can't you take less than fifty cents?" she asked.

      "No," said Ben, decidedly.

      "I'll give you forty."

      "Couldn't do it," said Ben, who felt sure of gaining his point now.

      "Well, I suppose I shall be obleeged to hire you," said the old lady with a sigh. "Seraphiny ought to have sent down to meet me. I didn't tell her I was comin' to-day; but she might have thought I'd come, bein' so pleasant. Here, you boy, you may take the bag, and mind you don't run away with it. There aint nothin' in it but some of my clo'es."

      "I don't want none of your clo'es," said Ben. "My wife's bigger'n you, and they wouldn't fit her."

      "Massy sakes! you aint married, be you?"

      "Why shouldn't I be?"

      "I don't believe it. You're not old enough. But I'm glad you don't want the clo'es. They wouldn't be of no use to you. Just you take the bag, and I'll foller on behind."

      "I want my pay first."

      "I aint got the change. My darter Seraphiny will pay you when we get to her house."

      "That don't go down," said Ben, decidedly. "Payment in advance; that's the way I do business."

      "You'll get your pay; don't you be afraid."

      "I know I shall; but I want it now."

      "You won't run away after I've paid you, will you?"

      "In course not. That aint my style."

      The old lady took out her purse, and drew therefrom forty-seven cents. She protested that she had not a cent more. Ben pardoned the deficiency, feeling that he would, notwithstanding, be well paid for his time.

      "All right," said he, magnanimously. "I don't mind the three cents. It aint any object to a man of my income. Take my hand, old lady, and we'll go across the street."

      "I'm afraid of bein' run over," said she, hesitatingly.

      "What's the odds if you be?" said Ben. "The city'll have to pay you damages."

      "But if I got killed, that wouldn't do me any good," remarked the old lady, sensibly.

      "Then the money'd go to your friends," said Ben, consolingly.

      "Do you think I will be run over?" asked the old lady, anxiously.

      "In course you won't. I'll take care of you. They wouldn't dare to run over me," said Ben, confidently.

      Somewhat reassured by this remark, the old lady submitted to Ben's guidance, and was piloted across the street in safety.

      "I wouldn't live in New York for a heap of money. It would be as much as my life is worth," she remarked. "How far is Bleecker Street?"

      "About two miles."

      "I almost wish I'd rid. But a dollar and a half is a sight to pay."

      "You'd have to pay more than that."

      "That's all the man asked."

      "I know," said Ben; "but when he'd got you there, he'd have charged you five dollars."

      "I wouldn't have paid it."

      "Yes, you would," said Ben.

      "He couldn't make me."

      "If you didn't pay, he'd have locked you in, and driven you off to the river, and dumped you in."

      "Do they ever do such things?" asked the old lady, startled.

      "In course they do. Only last week a beautiful young lady was served that way, 'cause she wouldn't pay what the hackman wanted."

      "And what was done to him?"

      "Nothin'," said Ben. "The police is in league with 'em, and get their share of the money."

      "Why, you don't say so! What a wicked place New York is, to be sure!"

      "Of course it is. It's so wicked I'm goin' to the country myself as soon as I get money enough to buy a farm."

      "Have you got much money saved up?" asked the old lady, interested.

      "Four thousand six hundred and seventy-seven dollars and fifty-five cents. I don't count this money you give me, 'cause I'm goin' to spend it."

      "You didn't make it all carryin' carpet-bags," said the old lady, incredulously.

      "No, I made most of it spekilatin' in real estate," said Ben.

      "You don't say!"

      "Yes, I do."

      "You've got most enough to buy a farm a'ready."

      "I aint goin' to buy till I can buy a good one."

      "What's the name of this street?"

      "West Broadway."

      They were really upon West Broadway by this time, that being as direct a line as any to Bleecker Street.

      "You see that store," said Ben.

      "Yes; what's the matter of it?"

      "I don't own it now," said Ben. "I sold it, cos the tenants didn't pay their rent reg'lar."

      "I should think you'd dress better if you've got so much money," said the old lady, not unnaturally.

      "What's the use of wearin' nice clo'es round among the wharves?" said Ben.

      "There's suthin in that. I tell my darter Jane – she lives in the country – that it's no use dressin' up the children to go to school, – they're sure to get their clo'es tore and dirty afore they get home."

      So Ben beguiled the way with wonderful stories, with which he played upon the old lady's credulity. Of course it was wrong; but a street education is not very likely to inspire its pupils with a reverence for truth; and Ben had been knocking about the streets of New York, most of the time among the wharves, for six years. His street education had commenced at the age of ten. He had adopted it of his own free will. Even now there was a comfortable home waiting for him; there were parents who supposed him dead, and who would have found a difficulty in recognizing him under his present circumstances. In the next chapter a light will be thrown upon his past history, and the reader will learn how his street life began.

      CHAPTER II.

      HOW BEN COMMENCED HIS STREET LIFE

      One pleasant morning, six years before the date at which this story commences, a small coasting-vessel drew up at a North River pier in the lower part of the city. It was loaded with freight, but there was at least one passenger on board. A boy of ten, dressed in a neat jacket and pants of gray-mixed cloth, stood on deck, watching with interest the busy city which they had just reached.

      "Well, bub,

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