sam continued to walk about in the neighborhood of the city hall park, first in one direction, then in another; but at last he became fatigued. it had been an unusually exciting day, and he had taken more exercise than usual, though he had not worked; for his morning walk, added to his rambles about the city streets, probably amounted to not less than twelve miles. then, too, sam began to realize what older and more extensive travellers know well, that nothing is more wearisome than sight-seeing.
so the problem forced itself upon his attention—where was he to sleep? the bed he slept in the night before was more than a hundred miles away. it struck sam as strange, for we must remember how inexperienced he was, that he must pay for the use of a bed. how much, he had no idea, but felt that it was time to make some inquiries.
he went into a hotel on the european system, and asked a man who was standing at the cigar stand, "what do you charge for sleeping here?"
"ask of that man at the desk," said the cigar-vender.
sam followed directions, and, approaching the room-clerk, preferred the same inquiry.
"one dollar," was the answer.
"one dollar, just for sleeping?" inquired sam, in surprise, for in his native village he knew that the school-teacher got boarded for three dollars a week, board and lodging complete for seven days.
"those are our terms," said the clerk.
"i don't care about a nice room," said sam, hoping to secure a reduction.
"we charge more for our nice rooms," said the clerk.
"aint there any cheaper hotels?" asked our hero, rather dismayed at his sudden discovery of the great cost of living in new york.
"i suppose so," said the clerk, carelessly; but he did not volunteer any information as to their whereabouts.
sam walked slowly out of the hotel, quite uncertain where to go, or what to do. he had money enough to pay for a night's lodging, even at this high price, but he judged wisely that he could not afford to spend so large a part of his small stock of money.
"i wonder where the boys sleep that black boots," he thought. "they can't pay a dollar a night for sleeping."
he looked around for the boy who had guided him to a restaurant, but could not find him.
it was now eight o'clock, and he begun to think he should have to go back to the hotel after all, when a shabby-looking man, with watery eyes and a red nose, accosted him.
"are you a stranger in the city, my young friend?" he asked.
"yes," said sam, rather relieved at the opportunity of speaking to somebody.
"so i thought. where are you boarding?"
"nowhere," said sam.
"where do you sleep to-night?"
"i don't know," said sam, rather helplessly.
"why don't you go to a hotel?"
"they charge too much," said sam.
"haven't you got money enough to pay for a lodging at a hotel?" asked the stranger, with rather less interest in his manner.
"oh, yes," said sam, "a good deal more than that; but then, i want to make my money last till i can earn something."
"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.
