University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE TRAVELLER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF, OR A NEWS-BOY'S
MISHAP.

The mysterious noise upon the stairs was
occasioned by the return of no less important
a character than Master Frank Loveday.

“Hurrah for our side!” exclaimed he, dashing
into the room where the melancholy party
were assembled.

An exclamation of astonishment—of gratitude
to Heaven, was the first salutation with which
he was received. Then Ruth threw her arms
about his neck, kissed him over and over again,
looked in his face after every embrace, to assure
herself that it was really he, and wept and
laughed by turns. After a general welcome
had been given to him, questions were poured
in so fast, that, had he had fifty tongues, he could
not have answered them all. So he wisely concluded
to defer explanations for the present,
replying, with an air of profound mystery, that
he had had important business to attend to
which required him to leave the city.

“Do not tantalize us, Frank, but tell us at
once what you have been about,” said Ruth.

“How do you like my toggery?” observed
he, strutting around the room, and displaying
an entirely new suit of clothes, new shoes and
stockings.

“Where have you been these two days?”
asked Arthur.

“Ahem! Who wants money?” exclaimed
Frank, pulling a little leathern bag from his
pocket, jingling it, and tossing it in the air. In
his left hand he held a bundle strung upon a
stick, to which he also seemed to attach no
small importance.

“You are like a house all new but the roof,
Frank,” said Arthur. “I wonder you didn't
get another hat while you were in the way of
good luck. The one you have on looks bigger
and uglier than ever.”

“I love it,” replied Frank, taking it off, and affectionately
smoothing what once might have
been a nap. “It is made of first-rate beaver.
I don't believe such a piece of beaver can be
found in New-York. It has seen service since
I left you. But don't suppose I couldn't sport
something of a newer fashion if I wanted to.
Look here!”

Frank untied the bundle with his teeth, and,
tossing out his old clothes, took from under
them a new patent-leather cap.

“Water-proof!” ejaculated he, gazing at it,
and shaking his head with the air of a man who
is a good judge of a prime article when he sees
it.

“Oh, Frank! your left eye is all purple, and
green, and yellow, and red, and every sort of
colour,” exclaimed little May, looking wonderingly
up in his face.

“To be sure it is, May!” he replied. “And
here is a tooth that was knocked out of my

mouth the same time I got this dig in my
peeper.”

“Let me beg you not to use such language,
Frank,” said Ruth. “I fear you have been
among bad boys. You have been fighting—have
you not?”

“Yes; and I guess you would have had to
fight too, if you had been plagued as I was.”

“What has happened? Do tell us all about
it.”

As Frank's narrative was somewhat prolix
and discursive, I will take the liberty of condensing
it into the briefest space compatible
with fidelity.

The mighty project which he had in his head
when he left home on Saturday morning, was
that of entering into the newspaper business, in
emulation of the individual to whom he had
formerly alluded as Sam Stuggs. In pursuance
of this momentous enterprise, he had, early in
the morning, visited the publication offices of
the large morning newspapers, and expended
forty-eight cents of his capital in copies of the
Courier and Enquirer, Journal of Commerce,
and Morning Express. The retail price of these
was six cents apiece; but Frank, being a wholesale
customer, had to give only four cents.
Should he succeed, therefore, in disposing of
his twelve copies at retail, his profit would be
twenty-four cents, or, more probably, a quarter
of a dollar. He was deeply impressed with the
magnitude of his investment, and, folding his
stock in trade carefully under his arm, he started
up Wall-street, crying at the top of his

lungs, “Here's the Courier and Enquirer,
Journal of Commerce, and Express! Here they
go! Have a morning paper, sir?”

But, before he became regularly settled in
business as a news-boy, there was an ordeal to
pass through, of which poor Frank had not
dreamed. At the corner of Nassau-street he
encountered a knot of ragged urchins, who had
long preoccupied the ground upon which he
had ventured. They were of various ages and
heights. Some had on long loose coats, that
had originally been made for their grandfathers,
and the tails of which dragged upon the ground
as they walked; some were accoutred in jackets,
which, like a botanical garden, were laid
out in patches; others had on enormous boots
incrusted with mud, imbedded in rigid wrinkles;
while with others, who had been fast of
growth, the pantaloons hardly reached the knee.

Notwithstanding the eccentricities in dress
by which they were all more or less distinguished,
Frank's hat was a phenomenon for which
they were not at all prepared. He was, moreover,
a “new man”—an intruder. How could
he be suffered to pass unpersecuted?

“Hullo! Who is this?” exclaimed one of
the big urchins, who was known as the Major,
and who wore an overcoat made of an old carpet,
while his head was encased in a sailor's
Scotch cap of many colours.

Frank remembered Ruth's warning to avoid
getting into quarrels, and he hurried on, hoping
to escape annoyance; but the Major placed
himself directly in his way, and compassionately

inquired “if his anxious mother knew that he
was out.”

“I have no mother,” replied Frank.

“You have a hat, at any rate,” said the Major,
laconically, at the same time knocking it
off his head.

Frank stooped to pick it up; but, before he
could do so, a boy who went by the appellation
of Bully Hyde gave it a kick, which sent it
across the street. A shout was instantly set up
by the rest of the little crowd of tormentors,
who now rushed towards the dishonoured hat
to play with it at football. Frank ran to recover
it; but, as he again stooped, a lad about
his own size, who had been named by his associates
“Barking Billy,” from his remarkable talent
at imitating the yelping of a dog, pushed
him into the mud, scattering and soiling his
newspapers, and eliciting from Bully Hyde and
the rest very decided marks of approbation and
amusement at the success of the feat.

Burning with indignation, Frank grasped his
hat, placed it, “with all its imperfections,” on
his head, and, abandoning his newspapers,
which had now been rendered valueless by
having been trampled in the dirt, he flew at
“Barking Billy,” and with a single blow laid
him prostrate.

The effect of this sudden punishment upon
the accomplished imitator of the canine species
partook somewhat of the ludicrous. At first he
uttered a blubbering cry, such as might proceed
from a child on being soundly whipped;
then, apparently forgetting himself, he gave

expression to his pain in the yelping, doglike
sounds which he had practised so often that it
was like a second nature to give them utterance;
and in this way he fluctuated from human
to brutal noises. Had you heard without
seeing him, you might have supposed that a dog
and a cat were fighting, and that each, in turn,
got the advantage.

The news-boys seemed awed for a moment
by Frank's display of pugnacity. But soon one
of them, who was called Dick, and who considerably
excelled him in size, came up, and, taking
him by the collar, asked, “What did you do
that for?”

“What did he push me into the mud for, and
spoil my papers?” reinterrogated Frank.

“Take that—and that!” replied Master Dick,
slapping him violently in the face.

For a second Frank was blinded by the unexpected
blows; but, soon recovering himself, he
gave back Master Dick's cuffs with interest.

“A ring! a ring!” shouted the rest of the
hopeful gang; and a ring was at once formed.

Frank's blood was up, and he resolved to
stand by his rights to the last. Master Dick
took off his jacket and gave it to one of his
friends, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and moistened
his hands, with the evident desire of frightening
his antagonist by his deliberate and business-like
preparations. But Frank was not
cowed.

“Why don't you go at it?” cried the Major,
who was impatient of delay.

“I won't fight unless I am forced to,” replied
Frank.

Attributing this remark to faint-heartedness,
Master Dick commenced the combat by hitting
Frank a blow in the eye. After this provocation,
Frank had no compunction in giving himself up,
heart and hand, to the defence of his person from
farther abuse. He repelled the clumsy blows
aimed at him by others more effective, and suffered
from but one more wound, that in his
mouth. It soon became evident that Master
Dick was getting the worst of the encounter,
or, as the Major expressed it, that “he had
waked up the wrong passenger.” Fainter and
more timid grew his movements; and finally, as
Frank put all his will into a parting blow at his
left shoulder, he gave way and uttered a yell
which rivalled the recent efforts of “Barking
Billy” himself. With this vocal performance
the contest ended.

“Does anybody else want to be served in the
same way?” asked Frank, who, now that his
hand was in, seemed disposed to “do up” all
his fighting. “There is a plenty more steam
in this boiler!”

The boys laughed and flocked around him,
but no one seemed disposed to plague him any
more. The Major clapped him on the shoulder,
and declared that he had proved himself worthy
of being a news-boy, and that he should thenceforth
be known by the honourable appellation of
“Little Tuffy.”

Frank replied that “he didn't like nicknames.”

Then a boy, whose principal article of dress
appeared to be a long black surtout, and who

was known to his fellows as the Deacon, came up
to Frank, and begged his acceptance of a handful
of peanuts—an overture of kindness which
was not declined.

As soon as he could rid himself of his new
friends, to whom, by-the-way, he might sincerely
have said, with Jacques in the play, “I do
desire we may be better—strangers,” Frank
went to the pump at the head of Pearl-street,
and spent nearly an hour in cleaning himself.
He then examined into the state of his finances,
and found that he had just fifty-two cents in his
pocket, and with this sum, as the morning papers
were now almost out of date, he concluded
that he would buy thirteen of the evening prints.
Could he sell these, he should be left with seventy-eight
cents, thus making his loss produced
by the onslaught of “Barking Billy” just
twenty-two cents. Had he been able to dispose
of his entire stock, his profits would have
amounted to half a dollar.

After indulging in these calculations, Frank
went to the office of the New-York American,
and asked when it would be published.

“The evening papers go to press at one
o'clock,” replied the clerk.

It was then just eleven, and Frank had two
hours to pass before he could resume his business.
Not knowing how to employ himself, he
walked up Broadway, and looked in at Colman's
shop-windows, where some very beautiful engravings
were exhibited. Having a taste for
pictures, he entertained himself very well for
an hour in examining them. Then, continuing

his walk, he passed the Astor House, and made
a reconnoitring tour as far as Chambers-street.
Here he spied a doctor's wagon standing at the
door of a private house. The horse attached to
it, becoming restiff, soon began to walk away.
Frank, seeing no one by to check him, went up,
seized him by the bridle, and stopped him. At
that instant the doctor came forth from the
house, and saw what had happened. He looked
up the street, and then down, and appeared
quite vexed at the absence of some one who
should have attended to the horse. Finally, he
came up, thanked Frank for what he had done,
and offered him a shilling; but the latter declined
it, feeling that he had not earned it.
The doctor looked surprised, and was about
to ask his name, when a big, clumsy boy came
running up, and, pushing Frank away, held the
horse himself.

“So you have come just when you are not
wanted, Master Thomas!” said the doctor.
“Don't you know that the horse might have
run away had he not been stopped by this good
lad?”

“I was only a rod or two off,” muttered the
boy.

“You should have a rod or two on—your
back,” replied the doctor. “Now you may
just let go that bridle, and leave my service.
Here is a dollar, which is all that will be due
you a week hence. I shall not want you any
more.”

The boy began to whimper, and beg to be
retained.

“If this were the first time, Thomas, or the
second, that I had found you disobeying me
and neglecting my interests, I would not mind
it; but your promises of amendment are no
sooner made than broken. You need not plead
any more. I have made my mind up. You
may go.”

Thomas, finding that the doctor was serious
and determined, grew insolent, and declared
that he had long wished to go, and that no
money would induce him to stay. Saying thus,
he shook his fist menacingly at poor Frank, and
went his way.

Frank, with that spirit of investigation which
usually characterized him, had listened attentively
to this dialogue, and after it was over
he said,

“Doctor, I can tell you of a first-rate boy.”

“Is he a boy that fights, and gets black
eyes?” asked the doctor, with a smile.

“Oh, no, I don't mean myself, but a much
better boy than I am—my brother, Arthur Loveday.”

The doctor seemed amused at Frank's forwardness,
and made inquiries, with which he
was so well satisfied that he consented to give
Arthur a trial, remarking that he should wish
him to be present at his house early on Monday
morning; and with this he drove off.

Highly delighted with the arrangement he
had made for his brother, Frank hurried down
Broadway towards the offices of the evening papers.
Making the purchases he had contemplated,
he now started, with renewed spirits, to
cry his wares through the streets.

“Here's the Evening Post, Evening Star,
Commercial Advertiser, and New-York American!
Here they go!” screamed Frank, running
up Wall-street at the top of his speed.

By four o'clock he had sold eight newspapers.
He then went down to the pier near the
Battery from which the large steamboats for
Providence were accustomed to start. Here,
as the passengers collected, he disposed of
four more copies. As he stood upon the wharf,
an old gentleman on board the boat asked him
for the Evening Star. It chanced to be the last
paper of his stock, and, crossing the plank that
led to the lower deck, Frank ran to dispose of
it. He had heard a bell a minute before, accompanied
with the noise of the letting-off of steam,
and, as he rushed towards the boat, he noticed
that the rest of the news-boys were scampering
out of it. Still he did not apprehend anything;
and, as the old gentleman quite composedly
drew out his purse, and slowly searched for a
sixpence, Frank supposed that all must be right.
He was soon undeceived by feeling the planks
beneath him in motion, and hearing a news-boy
on the pier, with a yell and a laugh of ecstasy,
which were re-echoed by the rest of the fraternity,
exclaim, “See! see! Little Tuffy is on
board! He has stayed too long! He will have
to go to Providence! Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
Whoop!”

Frank, in desperation, left the old gentleman
fumbling for the sixpence, and rushed towards
the plank. It had been withdrawn. He retreated
a step, with the intention of making a leap to

the land; but a sailor held him back, saying,
“Would you break your neck, you young scapegrace?”

At this crisis, the delight of the little tatterdemalions
on the wharf appeared to reach absolute
delirium. They whooped, they shouted,
they laughed, they roared, till you might have
thought that a whole caravan of young hyænas
had broken loose: some of them jumped Jim
Crow; others threw up their legs and walked
on their hands. The promising youth known
as “Barking Billy” yelped as if a whole pack
of hounds were undergoing a scourging. The
“Deacon,” in direct violation of those habits
of decorum and sobriety which are supposed to
distinguish deacons, turned a somerset; and
the “Major” gave vent to his superflux of spirits
by knocking down some of the smaller news-boys.

Bewildered and confounded, Frank gazed
upon them with a sort of stupid consternation.
The distance between him and the land grew
greater and greater. The boat rounded the
Battery, and he was relieved of the sight of the
exulting spectators of his mischance. He now
began to realize the nature of his situation; and
as he thought of Ruth, and the painful anxiety
to which those at home would be subjected by
his absence, the big tears started to his eyes.
He ran to the captain's office to beg him to turn
back the boat and let him get out; but there
was such a crowd of men about it paying their
passage-money that he could not make himself
heard.

As he was bitterly deploring this unlooked-for
accident, the old gentleman, at whose beck
he had come on board, encountered him, and
asked, “Are you not the lad who sold me this
paper, and didn't take your pay?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Frank, manfully checking
his tears. “The boat started before I could
reach the plank.”

“Bless me! it was all my fault, my little man.
I should have known better than to ask you to
come to me at such a moment.”

“I should have known better than to have
minded you,” replied Frank, wiping a lingering
tear from his cheek with his sleeve.

“Never fret about it, my little man,” said the
old gentleman, whose name was Lawrence, and
who carried in his hand a big cane with an
ivory head. “Never mind! You shall be taken
care of.”

“I am not afraid for myself,” replied Frank;
“but—” and the thoughts of those at home
again started a tear.

“But what, little man?”

“I know that my sisters and brother will be
terribly anxious about me, and I can't get back
to them again till Tuesday—so I heard one of
the sailors say. Besides, I had found such a
nice place for Arthur! And if he isn't there on
Monday morning at six o'clock, I am afraid he
will lose it.”

The old gentleman seemed interested by
Frank's earnestness of manner, and made many
inquiries about him and his family, to which
very satisfactory answers were rendered. The

account of his adventures that morning with
the news-boys, and the manner in which he
came by his black eye, made Mr. Lawrence
laugh very heartily, whereupon Frank laughed
too, and entirely forgot that he had been shedding
tears.

“Well, Frank,” said the old gentleman, “as I
got you into this scrape, I must get you out of
it. Ruth and Arthur will undoubtedly be much
troubled by your absence, but I don't see as you
can do them any good by worrying about it
yourself; if you could, there might be some
sense in your grief. The best way is to endure
with cheerfulness what we cannot prevent: is
it not so?”

“Yes, sir, I am sure it is; and I don't mean to
fret about it any more.”

“That is right. It's an ill wind indeed that
doesn't blow us good of some kind. After all,
you may not be the loser by this little accident.
I will see the captain, who is a nephew of mine,
and settle for your passage. You shall visit
Providence, where I live. In the morning, we
will borrow a suit of clothes from a grandson
of mine about your size, and you shall attend
church with me and my family. On Monday, we
will go to a tailor's, and procure a full new suit
for you; and in the afternoon, you shall return
to this boat, which will land you early the next
morning at the spot you last quitted.”

“That's good! Thank you, sir—thank you!”
exclaimed Frank, as these brilliant prospects
were opened to his imagination.

On the East River, Mr. Lawrence pointed out

to his young companion all the buildings and
objects of note calculated to strike his attention,
and seemed much amused by the boy's
eager and intelligent questions. When the bell
that summoned the passengers to the tea-table
sounded, he gave Frank a seat at his side, and
was pleased to see him eat a hearty meal. Well
might it have been hearty, for the little fellow
had not tasted a morsel since breakfast.

All Mr. Lawrence's promises were faithfully
fulfilled. Frank passed the night on a cot in
the gentlemen's cabin, and rose early on Sunday
morning much refreshed. Arriving in
Providence, he was neatly accoutred, and taken
to church, as had been proposed; and the next
day was presented with the promised new suit,
including the “patent-leather cap” already commemorated.
In the afternoon Mr. Lawrence
took him on board the steamboat, gave him five
bright half-dollar pieces, and arranged for him
a free conveyance back to New-York, where,
in due season, the young wanderer arrived safe
and sound, as has before been narrated.

I have done but partial justice to Frank's animated
description of his adventures, omitting
entirely his account of the marvels of his voyage—the
light-houses he had seen at night—
the big waves they had encountered off Point
Judith—the sight of another steamboat at sea—
the wonders of the machinery—and, finally, the
agreeable visit to Mr. Lawrence's house at
Providence. All these details I must leave to
the imagination of my readers.

Having finished his story, Frank gave all his

money, amounting to five dollars and twenty-eight
cents, into the hands of Ruth. Then, resuming
his old clothes and hat, he announced
his intention of continuing his occupation of
news-vender, and asked for another dollar with
which to make a new purchase of stock. Ruth
gave it to him, with the earnest entreaty that
he would not get into any more fights.

“There is no danger of their troubling me
again,” replied Frank. “If I hadn't given them
that specimen of spunk, I couldn't have gone
into the street without being plagued by them.”

“But, Frank,” said Arthur, “where does this
Doctor Remington live that you talk about?”

“Oh, come with me, and I will show you. I
don't believe he has engaged a boy yet.”

Frank was right in his surmise. Doctor Remington,
on learning the reason why Arthur had
not called at the time fixed upon, seemed perfectly
satisfied. He liked Arthur's appearance
and intelligent replies, and offered to pay him
a dollar and a half a week for his services, at
which Frank and Arthur exchanged congratulations,
and the bargain was at once closed.