as the time approached for his leaving new york, julius could not help feeling a little regret. the great city had been a harsh stepmother to him. he had suffered often from cold and hunger, during the years that he had been drifting about her streets, an unconsidered waif in the great sea of life. he had received kindness from few, harshness from many. from the age of five he had been forced to earn his own living, with no one to look out for him except a professional thief. he had seen more of the dark than the bright side of life, but he had not been without his enjoyments. youth is hopeful and can find enjoyment under the most unpropitious circumstances.
so julius, as he took his last walk through the streets with which he had for years been familiar, felt sorry that he was to leave them the next day, perhaps, for many years. it is true he hoped to do better at the west, but all his present associations were with broadway, chatham street, and the bowery, and city hall park, and his new life would seem strange at first.
but when all preparations had been made and he found himself seated in the cars, dressed in a new suit, with thirty other boys, under the general charge of mr. o’connor, the superintendent of the newsboys’ lodging house, he forgot the city, and was exhilarated by the rapid motion of the cars, and the varied panorama through which he was swiftly passing.
“ain’t it bully, teddy?” said he to one of his city acquaintances who occupied the adjoining seat.
“that’s so, julius. i never rid in the cars before.”
“didn’t you?” said julius, with complacent superiority. “i have.”
“where’d you go?”
“well, i went to newark, and one summer i went to long branch—that’s a big watering place, you know. both places are in new jersey. i stayed a week at long branch.”
“did you put up at one of the big hotels?”
“yes, i put up at the continental hotel.”
“you’re gassin’!”
“no, i ain’t.”
“how much did you pay?”
“i forgot to ask for the bill,” said julius.
“where’d you sleep?”
“oh, i slept in a bathing house, on the beach. it belonged to the hotel.”
“how’d you like it?”
“pretty good, only the tide came up so high that it poured into the bathing house, and gave me a wetting.”
“did you get anything to do?”
“i made a few stamps by blackin’ boots, but the black-boots in the hotel said he’d bounce me for interferin’ with his business. so i thought i’d come back to the city. i didn’t mind much, for there wasn’t much goin’ on in the daytime.”
“do you know how long we’ll be travelin’?”
“mr. o’connor told me it would take us two days and nights, and perhaps more. he says it’s more’n a thousand miles.”
“suppose’n we don’t like it, and want to come back?”
“we can’t do it without money.”
“i haven’t got but a dollar.”
“i have got forty dollars,” said julius, complacently.
“where’d you get such a pile?” asked teddy, who regarded forty dollars as quite a fortune.
“speculatin’ in real estate,” answered julius, who did not care to mention exactly how he came by the money.
“i don’t believe you’ve got so much,” said teddy, who was under the impression that he was being sold.
“i’ll show you part of it,” said julius.
he drew out a pocketbook, and displayed five one-dollar bills, and a small amount of fractional currency.
“that’s only five dollars.”
“mr. o’connor’s got the rest. he’s goin’ to give it to the man that i’m to live with to take care of for me. i’d rather he’d keep it. i might lose it, or spend it foolish.”
“well, you’re in luck. i jist wish i had half as much.”
“do you remember jim driscoll, that used to sell papers on nassau street?”
“yes, i knew him; where is he?”
“he went west about two years ago. he’s doin’ well. got fifty dollars in the savings bank, and a good home besides.”
“who told you?”
“mr. o’connor. he had a letter from him.”
“jim can’t write, nor read either. when he was sellin’ papers in nassau street, he used to ask what was the news. sometimes i told him wrong. once i told him the president was dead, and he didn’t know no better than to believe it. he sold his papers fast, but the last chap got mad and booted him.”
“well, jim can write now. he’s been to school since he was out there.”
“he can do more’n i can. i can read easy readin’, but i can’t write no more’n a lamp-post.”
“nor i,” said julius, “but i mean to learn. i can’t read much, either.”
“i say, julius; won’t it seem odd if we made money, and come to new york and put up at a big hotel, and get our boots blacked, just like the customers we used to have?”
“that’s what i mean to do, teddy. i’ve got tired of knockin’ round the streets, as i have ever since i was knee high to a toad.”
“so have i, julius. but i expect we’ll have to work hard.”
“i always did have to work. i’ll be willin’ to work when i’ve got a good home, and feel that i’m gettin’ along.”
the time had come to both of these homeless boys when they had become tired of their vagrant life and arab-like condition. they had a vague idea of what is meant by respectability, and they began to appreciate its value. they could see that the street life they had been leading must soon terminate, and that it was time to form plans for the future. in a few years they would be men, and lay aside the street employments by which they had gained a scanty and miserable living. when that time came, would they take a respectable place in the ranks of workingmen, or become social outlaws like jack morgan and his confederate, marlowe? such thoughts had come frequently to julius of late, and his present state of mind was one of the most encouraging signs of his future good conduct. he was dissatisfied with his past life, and anxious to enter upon a better.
the thirty boys were not all in one car. mr. o’connor and the greater part of them were in the car behind. julius and the others could find no room there, and had come into this car.
after his conversation with teddy, julius began to look out of the window. inexperienced as a traveler, and knowing very little of the country, he saw much that excited his interest, as they sped onward at the rate of thirty miles an hour. he also, with his usual habit of observation, regarded his fellow-passengers with interest. directly in front of him sat a stout man, plainly dressed, who had become sleepy, and occasionally indulged in a nod, his newspaper having fallen from his hands upon the floor. he was probably more used to traveling than our hero and cared less for the scenery. julius gave him a casual look, but without much interest, till at a way station a flashily dressed young man entered, and, looking carefully about him, selected the seat beside the stout man though he had his choice of several. julius started when he saw him, and looked puzzled. he was sure he had seen him before, at jack morgan’s room, but there was something unfamiliar in his appearance. jack’s friend had black hair. this man’s hair was red. a closer look, however, explained this discrepancy. underneath the edge of the red he caught sight of a few black hairs, which were not entirely concealed. it was clear that he wore a red wig.
“it is ned sanders,” said julius to himself, “and he’s got a red wig on. what’s he up to, i wonder? i’ll watch him.”
