 | CHAPTER XII.
BILLY SNUB. 'Way down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee life |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
BILLY SNUB.
When the biographer has a subject of unusual
magnitude and importance to deal with, it becomes
him to lay out his work with circumspection, and
preserve a careful method in the arrangement. He
must dig deep, and lay his foundation firmly, before
he attempts to rear his edifice. He must not thrust
his hero at once and unceremoniously in the face of
his reader, standing alone and erect, like a liberty-pole
on the naked common of a country meeting-house.
He must keep him for a while in the background,
and with a careful and skilful progression drag him
slowly up from the dark and misty slough of antiquity,
to the full light of day. It is not sufficient to commence
with the father, nor even with the grandfather;
propriety requires that the ancestral chain should be
examined to the very topmost link.
Unfortunately for the cause of letters, the origin
and early history of the Snubs are veiled in the deepest
have been sufficient to trace them back but a few
generations. Their family name is not found in the
list of the hardy adventurers who came over in the
Mayflower, nor yet among the early colony planted
by Captain John Smith. But though history retains
no record of the precise point of time when they
migrated to the Western continent, it is certain they
were among the early settlers of the New World,
and many respectable traditions are extant of their
ancient standing and influence in some of the older
towns in New England. There is some doubt as to
what nation may rightfully claim the honor of supplying
the blood that flows in their veins, and it is
probable the question at this late day can never be
settled with entire satisfaction. Though the claims
of England, France, and Germany, might each and
all be urged with so much force as to incline the historian
to believe that their blood is of mixed origin,
yet the prevailing testimony ought to be considered
sufficient to establish the point that John Bull is the
father of the Snub family; a conclusion which
derives no small support from the general pugnacity
of their character. It is much to be lamented that
the ancient history of this ancient family is lost
The ancestors of Billy Snub can be traced in a
direct line only to the fourth generation. The great-grandfather
was a lawyer of thrift and respectability;
a man of talents and influence; and tradition says, if
he was not a younger son, he was the nephew of a
younger son of an English earl. It cannot, therefore,
with any propriety, be thrown in the face of the
Snubs, that
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood.”
had not the faculty or the talents to bring up his
children to maintain the standing and dignity of their
father. His son William was nothing more than a
plain, respectable country farmer, who planted his
potatoes, and hoed his corn, and mowed his hay, and
milked his cows very much as other farmers do, without
ever doing anything to become distinguished in
the history of his times. He also was destined to see
his posterity still in the descendant, for his son William
was a village shoemaker, who sat on his bench,
and drew his thread, and hammered his lapstone
with the occasional variation of whistling while
paring off a shoe, and singing a song of an evening
to the loungers in his shop. The tendency in the
Snub family, however, was still downwards; even
the shoemaker was not at the bottom of the hill, for
his son was Billy Snub the newsboy. The direct
family line, as far back as authentic history goes,
running thus:
First generation, William Snub, Esquire.
Second generation, Mr. William Snub, the farmer.
Third generation, Bill Snub, the shoemaker.
Fourth generation, Billy Snub, the newsboy.
There is a tide in families, as well as “in the affairs
of men.” They rise and fall, though not as regularly,
yet as surely as the spring and neap tides of the
ocean. And Billy Snub, after kicking and floundering
about upon the flats at low water, has at last
caught the flood, and there is no knowing to what
height of fortune he may yet be carried. His posterity
will undoubtedly be in the ascendant, and it
may not be too much to expect that in a few generations
ahead, we shall have his Excellency, William
Snub, Governor, &c., and perhaps William Snub, the
eighteenth President of the United States. But the
in order to bring Billy fairly and with sufficient clearness
before the public, it is necessary to dwell for a
few moments upon the history of Bill Snub, the shoemaker,
and Sally Snub, his wife.
For a few years Bill Snub was the leading shoemaker
in a quiet New England village. Indeed, he
took the lead from necessity, for he had no competitor;
the field was all his own, and being allowed to have
his own way, and fix his own prices, he managed to
get a comfortable living. Being well to do in the
world, and much given to whistling and singing, his
shop gradually became the favorite resort of all the
idlers in the village. Bill's importance was magnified
in his own eyes by this gathering around him almost
every evening, to say nothing of the rainy afternoons.
Unconsciously to himself he encouraged this lounging
habit of his neighbors by administering to their little
idle comforts. In one corner of his shop was a broken
chair for an extra seat, in another a square block of
timber left from the frame of the new school-house,
and in still another corner was a stout side of sole
leather, rolled up and snugly tied, which answered
very well for a seat for three. A half-peck of apples,
and a mug or two of cider, always at Bill's expense,
Bill's songs, and Bill's jokes, no matter how little
music or wit they contained, were always applauded.
This state of things silently, but gradually, made sad
encroachments upon Bill's habits of industry. His
customers were put off from day to day, and when
Saturday night came, a bushel basket full of boots
and shoes remained in his shop waiting repairs, to say
nothing of Sunday new ones that had been promised,
but not touched. Many of his customers had to stay
at home on the Sabbath, or go to meeting barefoot.
The result of all this was, that an interloper soon
came into the place, and opened a shop directly
opposite to that of Bill. The way was already open
for him for a good run of business. Bill's customers,
exasperated at their numerous disappointments, discarded
him at once, and flocked to the new comer.
In a week's time, Bill had nothing to do. He might
be seen standing in his shop door, or with his head
out of the window, hour after hour, watching his old
customers as they entered the shop of his rival. He
would go home to his meals in ill-humor, and scold
his wife for his bad luck. And if little Billy, then
six years old, came round him with his accustomed
prattle and play, he was pretty sure to be silenced
worse with him, and in a few months want was not
only staring him in the face, but had actually seized
him with such a firm gripe as to bring him to a full
stand. Something must be done; Bill was uncomfortable.
Whistling or singing to the bare walls of
his shop, produced an echo that chilled and annoyed
him exceedingly. Food and clothing began to be
among the missing, and he soon discovered that walking
the streets did but little towards replenishing his
wardrobe; nor would scolding or even beating his
wife supply his table.
At last, throwing the whole blame upon the place
and its people where he lived, he resolved at once to
pull up stakes and be off.
“And where are you going, Bill?” said his wife,
wiping the tears from her eyes, as she saw her husband
commence the work of packing up.
“It's none of your business, Sall,” said the husband
gruffly. “But I'm going where there's work enough
for all creation; where there's more folks to mend
shoes for than you can shake a stick at.”
“Well, where is it Bill? do tell us;” said Sally in
an anxious tone. “If it is only where we can get victuals
to eat, and clothes to wear, I shall be thankful.”
“Well, then,” said Bill, “I'm going to the biggest
city in the United States, where there's work enough
all weathers.”
“Well, that's Boston,” said Sally.
“No, 'taint Boston,” said Bill; “it's a place as big
as four Bostons. It's New York; I'm going right
into the middle of New York; so pack up your duds
about the quickest; for I ain't going to stop for
nobody.”
And sure enough, a few mornings after this, among
the deck passengers of one of the steamers that arrived
at New York, was no less a personage than Bill Snub,
the shoemaker, with his wife Sally and his son Billy.
The group landed, and stared at every object they
met, with a wild and wondering expression, that
seemed to indicate pretty clearly that they were not
accustomed to sights and scenes like those around
them. Indeed, they had never before been in a large
town, and hardly out of their quiet country village.
Each bore a bundle, containing the whole amount of
their goods and chattels, which had been reduced to
a few articles of wearing apparel, a box or two of
eatables, which they had taken for their journey, and
a few tools of his trade, which Bill had had the foresight
to preserve in order to begin the world anew.
people on every side, they knew not which way to
turn or what to do. They knew not a person nor a
street in the city, and had no very definite object in
view. Instinctively following the principal current
of passengers that landed from the boat, they soon
found themselves in Broadway. Here, as a small stream
blends with a large one into which it flows, their company
was presently merged and lost in the general
throng of that great thoroughfare. They gradually
lost sight of the familiar faces they had seen on board
the boat, and when the last one disappeared, and
they could no longer discern in the vast multitude hurrying
to and fro, and down the street, a single individual
they had ever seen before, a sense of solitude
and home-sickness came over them, that was most
overpowering. They stopped short on the sidewalk,
and Bill looked in his wife's face, and his wife looked
in his, and little Billy stood between them, and looked
up in the faces of both.
“What are you going to do?” said Sally.
“Going to do?” said Bill; “I'm going to hire out;
or else hire a shop and work on my own hook.”
Just at that moment a gentleman brushed past his
elbow, and Bill hailed him.
“I say, mister, you don't know of nobody that
wants to hire a shoemaker, do ye?”
The gentleman turned and glanced at him a
moment, and then hurried on without saying a word.
“I should think he might have manners enough to
answer a civil question,” muttered Bill to himself, as
he shouldered his bag and moved on up the street.
Presently they passed a large shoe store.
“Ah, here's the place!” said Bill; “we've found
it at last. O, Sall, did you ever see such an allfired
sight of shoes? Lay down your bundle, and stop
here to the door, while I go in and make a bargain
for work. So in Bill went, and addressed himself to
one of the clerks.
“I say, mister, you've got sich an everlastin' lot of
shoes here, I guess may be you'd like to hire a good
shoemaker; and if you do, I'm the boy for you.”
The clerk laughed, and told him he must ask the
boss about that.
“Ask the what?” said Bill.
“Ask the boss,” said the clerk, who began to relish
the conversation.
“I shan't do no sich thing,” said Bill; “I did n't
come to New York to talk with bossy-calves nor pigs;
and if you are a calf I don't want any more to say to
you I'm the chap for you.” Here the proprietor of
the store, seeing the clerks gathering round Bill, to
the neglect of their customers, came forward and told
him he did not wish to hire any workmen, and he
had better go along.
“But I'll work cheap,” said Bill, “and I'm a first-rate
workman. Here's a pair of shoes on my feet
I've wore for four months, and they han't ripped a
stitch yet.”
“But I don't want to hire,” said the man of the
store, with some impatience; “so you had better go
along.”
“But maybe we can make a bargain,” said Bill;
“I tell ye, I'll work cheap.”
“I tell you, I don't want to hire,” said the man;
“so go out of the store.”
“You need n't be so touchy,” said Bill; “I guess
I've seen as good folks as you are, before to-day.
Come now, what'll you give me a month?”
“I'll give you what you won't want,” said the man,
“if you are not out of this store in one minute.” As
he said this, he approached Bill with such a menacing
appearance, that the shoemaker thought it time to
retreat, and hastened out of the door. As he reached
the store again.
“I say, mister, hav n't you got a shoemaker's shop
you'll let to me?”
The man said he had a good room for that purpose.
“Well, what do you ask a year for it?” said Bill.
“Three hundred dollars, with good security,” replied
the shopman.
“Three hundred dollars! My gracious! Come
now, none of your jokes. Tell us how much you ask
for it, 'cause I want to hire.”
“I tell you I ask three hundred dollars,” said the
man; “but it's of no use for you to talk about it;
you can't give the security.”
“Oh, you go to grass,” said Bill; “I don't want
none of your jokes. I've hired as good a shop as
ever a man waxed a thread in, for fifteen dollars a
year; and if you are a mind to let me have yourn for
the same, I'll go and look at it.”
The man laughed in his face, and turned away to
wait upon his customers; and a little waggish boy,
who had been standing by and listening to the conversation,
placed his finger against his nose, and looking
up askance at Bill, exclaimed, “Ain't ye green?”
Poor Bill began to think he had got among a
marched up Broadway with his wife and Billy at his
heels, till he came to the Astor House. Here he
made a halt, for it looked to him like a sort of place
for head-quarters. The building was so imposing in
its appearance, and so many people were going in
and coming out, and everything around was so brisk
and busy, he thought surely it must be just the place
to look for business. So laying down their baggage,
he and Sally and Billy quietly took a seat on the
broad granite steps. He soon began to ply his
inquiries to all sorts of people, asking if they could
tell him of anybody that wanted to hire a shoemaker,
or that had a shoemaker's shop to let. Most of them
would hurry by him without any further notice than
a hasty glance; others would laugh, and some would
stop, and ask a few questions, or crack a few heartless
jokes, and then turn away. After a while a throng
of boys had gathered around him, and by various
annoyances rendered his position so uncomfortable,
that he was glad to escape, and shouldering his baggage,
he and his group wandered on with heavy
hearts up the street.
Most of the day passed in this way without any
profitable result, and as night approached they grew
provide themselves with a home for the night, though
they had provision enough for a meal or two remaining
in their wallets. Bill had found it utterly impossible
to make any impression upon any one he had
met in the city, except so far as to be laughed at.
He could get no one's ear to listen to his story, and
he could see no prospect of employment. Sally had
several times suggested that this great road which
they had been up and down so much—for they had
been almost the whole length of Broadway two or
three times—was not exactly the best road for them
to go in, and she did n't think but what they might be
likely to do better to go into one of the smaller roads,
where the folks didn't look so grand. And, though
Bill had been of different opinion through the day,
he now began to think that Sally might be right.
Looking down one of the cross streets that seemed to
descend into a sort of valley, quite a different country
appeared to open to them. They could see old
decayed-looking houses, with broken windows and
dirty sidewalks; they could see half-naked children,
running about and playing in the street; they could
see bareheaded women and ragged men lounging
about the doors, and numerous swine rooting in the
They felt at once that there they could find sympathy,
and hastened down the street. Arriving in the midst
of this paradise, they deliberately laid down their
luggage on the sidewalk, and seating themselves on
the steps of an old wooden house, felt as if they had
at last found a place of rest. They opened their bundles
and began to partake of a little food. Heads
were out of a hundred windows in the neighborhood
gazing at them. Children stopped short in the midst
of their running, and stood around them; and leisurely,
one after another, a stout woman or a sturdy
loafer came nigh and entered into conversation. As
Bill related his simple story, a universal sympathy
was at once awakened in the hearts of all the hearers.
They all declared he should have a shop in the neighborhood
and they would give him their patronage.
Patrick O'Flannegan, who lived in the basement of
the old house on whose steps they were seated, at
once invited them to partake of the hospitalities of
his mansion, saying he had but nine in his family, and
his room was large, and they should be welcome to
occupy a corner of it till they could find a better home.
Of course the invitation was accepted, and the group
followed Patrick down the steep dirty steps that led
were about upon a level with the sidewalk, bringing
almost the entire apartment below the surface of the
ground. The dim light that struggled down through
the little boxed-up dusty windows, showed a straw-bed
in two several corners of the room, three or four
rickety chairs, a rough bench, small table, tea-kettle,
frying-pan, and several other articles of household
comforts.
“You can lay your things in that corner,” said
Patrick, pointing to a vacant corner of the room,
“and we'll soon get up some good straw for you to
sleep on.” In short, Bill and his family at once
became domesticated in this subterranean tenement,
which proved to be not merely a temporary residence,
but their home for years. The limits of this history
will not allow space to follow the fortunes of Bill
through three or four of the first years of his city life.
It must be sufficient to state generally, that though he
found kindness and sympathy in his new associates,
he found little else that was beneficial. The atmosphere
around him was not favorable to industry, and
his habits in that respect never improved, but rather
grew worse. His neighbors did not work, and why
should he? His neighbors were fond of listening to
neighbors drank beer, and porter, and sling, and gin
toddy, and Bill needed but little coaxing to drink
with them. And he did drink with them, moderately
at first, but deeper and oftener from month to month,
and in three years' time he became a perfect sot.
The schooling that little Bill received during these
three years was eminently calculated to fit him for
his future profession. He had slept on the floor, lying
down late and rising up early, till his frame was as
hardy and elastic as that of a young panther. He
had been flogged so much by a drunken father, and
had his ears boxed so often by a fretted and desponding
mother, that he had lost all fear of their blows,
and even felt a sort of uneasiness, as though matters
were not all right, if by any chance the day passed
by without receiving them. He had lived on such
poor diet, and so little of it, that potato-skins had a
fine relish, and a crust of bread was a luxury. He
had battled with boys in the street till he had become
such an adept at fisticuffs, that boys of nearly twice
his size stood in fear of him. And he had so often
been harshly driven from the doors of the wealthy,
where he had been sent to beg cold victuals, that he
had come to regard mankind in general as a set of
to be constantly on his guard. In short, Billy
had been beaten about from post to pillar, and pillar
to post so much, and had rubbed his head against so
many sorts of people, that it had become pretty well
filled with ideas of the hardest kind.
When Billy was about ten years old, he came running
in one day in great glee, with a sixpence in his
hand, which he had found in the street. As soon as
his father heard the announcement of it, he started
up, and took down a junk bottle from a little shelf
against the wall, and told Billy to take the sixpence,
and go to the grocer's on the corner, and get the
worth of it in rum. Sally begged that he would not
send for rum, but let little Billy go to the baker's and
get a loaf of bread, for she had not had a mouthful of
anything to eat for the day, and it was then noon.
But Bill insisted upon having the rum, and told Billy
to go along and get it, and be quick about it, or he
would give him such a licking as he had not had for
six months. Billy took the bottle, and started; but
as he left the door, his cheek reddened, and his lip
curled with an expression of determination which it
had not been accustomed to wear. He walked down
the street, thinking of the consequences that would
father would be drunk all the afternoon, and through
the night. His mother and himself would have to go
without food, probably be abused and beaten, and
when night came, would find no repose.
He arrived at the grocer's, but he could not go in.
He passed on a little farther, in anxious, deep thought.
At last he stopped suddenly, lifted the bottle above
his head, and then dashed it upon the pavement with
all his might, breaking it into a thousand pieces.
“There,” said Billy to himself, “I'll never carry
any more rum home as long as I live. But I s'pose
father 'll lick me half to death; but I don't care if
he does, I'll never carry any more rum home as long
as I live.”
He brushed a tear from his eye, and bit his lips, as
he stood looking at the fragments of the bottle a
moment, and then passed on farther down the street.
But now the question of what he should do, came
home to him with painful force. If he returned back
to the house, and encountered his enraged father, he
was sure to be half killed. He wandered on, unconcious
where he went, till he reached the Park. Here
he met a newsboy crying papers, with great earnestness
and tremendous force of lungs. Billy watched
half-a-dozen papers. They contained important news
by a foreign arrival, and people seemed eager to get
hold of them. A new idea flashed across Billy's
mind. Why could not he sell newspapers, and get
money, as well as that boy! His resolution was at
once formed, with almost the strength and firmness
of manhood. It required capital, to be sure, to start
with, but luckily he had the capital in his pocket.
The rum bottle had been broken, and he still retained
the sixpence. He hastened immediately to the
publishing office of the paper he had just seen sold.
When he arrived there, he found quite a crowd of
newsboys pressing up to the counter, and clamorous
for papers; for the publisher could not supply them
fast enough to meet the demand. Billy edged his
way in among them, and endeavored to approach the
counter. But he was suddenly pushed back by two
or three boys at once, who exclaimed, “What new-comer
is this? Here's boys enough here now, so you
better be off.”
Another sung out “Go home, you ragbag, your
mother don't know you're out!”
At this, one of the boys looked round that happened
to know Billy, and he cried out, “Ah, Billy Snub,
comes to this office that don't wear no hats and shoes?”
Billy felt the force of this argument, for he was bareheaded
and barefooted, besides being sadly out at
knees and elbows; and looking around, he perceived
that all the boys in the room had something on their
heads, and something on their feet. He began to feel
as though he had perhaps got among the aristocracy
of the newsboys, and shrank back a little, and stood
in a corner of the room. The boys, however, were
not disposed to let him rest in peace there. Several
of them gathered around him, taunting him with
jokes and jeers, and began to crowd against him to
hustle him out of the room.
“Now take care,” said Billy, “for I won't stand
that from none of you.”
“You won't, will you?” said the boys, bursting out
into a roar of laughter; and one of them took Billy
by the nose, and attempted to pull him to the door.
Billy sprang like a young catamount; and although
he was considerably smaller and younger than his
assailant, he gave him such a well-directed blow upon
the chest that he laid him sprawling upon the floor.
Upon this, two or three more came at him with great
fury; but Billy's sleight of hand was exhibited with
them, and kept his coast clear; and when a stronger
reinforcement was about to attack him, the publisher
interfered, and ordered them to let that boy alone.
Still they were disposed to continue their persecutions,
till the publisher took up a long whip, and
cracked it over their heads, and told them he would
horsewhip the first one that dared to meddle with
him. And in order to make amends to Billy for the
ill-treatment he had received, he said he should now
be served with papers before any of the rest. He
accordingly took Billy's six cents, and handed him
three papers, and told him to sell them at three cents
apiece.
Billy eagerly grasped his papers, and ran into the
street. He had not been gone more than fifteen
minutes, before he returned with nine cents, which
he had received for the papers, and one more, which
he had found in the street. This enabled him to purchase
five papers; and he found the publisher ready
to wait upon him in preference to the other boys; so
he was soon dispatched on his second cruise. He
was not many minutes in turning his five papers into
fifteen cents cash. This operation was repeated some
half dozen times in the course of the afternoon, and
increased to about a dollar.
This was a great overturn in Billy's fortune, sufficient
to upset the heads of most boys of his age; but
though his head swam a little on first ascertaining the
great amount of money in his pocket, his strength
and firmness of character sustained him, so that he
was enabled to bear it with a good degree of composure.
As the shadows of night gathered around him,
Billy began to turn his thoughts homeward. But
what could he do? He knew his father too well to
venture himself in his presence, and had no hesitation
in coming to the conclusion that he must now,
for the first time in his life, spend the night away
from home. Still he instinctively wandered on
through the streets that led him towards home, for
the thought that his mother had probably been without
food the whole day, pressed heavily upon his
mind, and he was anxious to contrive some way to
afford her relief. As he approached the neighborhood
of his home, or rather the place where his
parents resided, for it was no longer a home to him,
he stopped at a grocer's, and purchased a sixpenny
loaf of bread, sixpence worth of gingerbread, and
half a dozen herrings, for which he paid another sixpence.
walked thoughtfully and carefully towards the house,
hesitating, and looking frequently around him, lest
his father might be out, and suddenly seize him. At
last he reached the house. He stopped cautiously on
the sidewalk, and looked, and listened. There was a
dim light in the basement, but he heard no sound.
He stepped lightly down the steps as far as the first
window, and through the sash, which had lost a pane
of glass, he dropped his bundle of provisions, and
then ran with all his speed down the street. When
he reached the first corner he stopped and looked
back, and by the light of the street lamps, he saw
his father and mother come out, and stand on the
sidewalk two or three minutes, looking earnestly
around them in every direction. They then went
quietly back to their room, and Billy cautiously
returned again to the house. He placed himself as
near the window as he could, without being discovered
from within, and listened to what was going on.
His mother took the little bundle to the table, and
opened it. Her eyes filled with tears the moment
she saw what it contained, for her first thought rested
upon Billy. She could not divine by what means
she had received such a timely gift, but somehow or
some way connected with it.
“Come, Bill,” said Sally to her husband, “we've
got a good supper at last; now set down and eat some.”
Bill drew up to the table, and ate as one who had
been fasting for twenty-four hours. After his appetite
began to be satisfied, said he, “Now, Sall, where do
you think all this come from?”
“Well, I'm sure I can't tell anything about it,” said
Sally; “but I should n't be afraid to lay my life on
it, that Billy knows something about it.”
“So does your granny know something about it, as
much as Billy,” said Snub, contemptuously. “All
Billy cares about is to spend that sixpence, and eat it
up; and now he dares n't come home. I wish I had
hold of the little rascal, I'd shake his daylights out;
I'd lick him till he could n't stand.”
“Oh, you're too cruel to that boy,” said Sally;
“Billy's a good child, and would do anything for me,
and for you too, for all you whip him so much. And
I believe it's his means that got somebody to give us
this good supper to night. I hope the dear child will
come home pretty soon, for I feel worried 'most to
death about him.”
“I hope he'll come, too,” said Snub, “and I've a
to lick him most awfully.”
At this, Billy began to feel as though it would be
hazardous for him to remain any longer, so he hastened
away down the street to seek a resting-place for the
night. This he found at last, in the loft of a livery
stable, where he crept away unobserved, and slept
quietly till morning. True, he had one or two golden
dreams, excited by his remarkable fortune the previous
day, and when he woke his first impulse was to
put his hand in his pocket, and ascertain whether he
was really in possession of the fortune he had been
dreaming of, or whether he was the same poor Billy
Snub that he was two days before. The three hard
silver quarters which he felt in his pocket roused him
to the reality of his situation, and he sprang from his
hard couch, soon after daylight, resolved to renew the
labors he had so successfully followed the day before.
He had now a good capital to start with, and could
work to a better advantage than the previous day.
He accordingly soon supplied himself with an armful
of papers, and placed himself on the best routes, and
at the best hours. The result was, that though it was
not properly a news-day, there being no subject of
special interest to give a demand for papers, yet, by
in the course of the day almost another dollar, leaving
in his pocket, when night came on, nearly a dollar
and three quarters.
Having completed his work for the day, his
thoughts instinctively turned to the home of his
parents. He felt an intense desire to go and share
with them the joys of his good fortune; but he dared
not meet his father, for he knew well that a severe
punishment would be inflicted upon him, and that his
money would be taken from him to purchase rum.
He could not, however, go to rest for the night without
getting a sight of his mother, if it were possible,
and purchasing something for her comfort. He
accordingly went and purchased some articles of provision,
to the amount of a quarter of a dollar, rolled
them in a paper, and made his way homeward. The
evening was rather dark, and gave him a favorable
opportunity to approach the house without being discovered.
He saw his mother, through the window,
sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the room,
with her head reclining on her hand, and apparently
weeping. He could also hear his father walking in
another part of the room, though he could not see
him. He crept carefully to the window, dropped his
down the street as fast as he could run.
He went again to his solitary lodgings, and rested
till morning, when he arose with fresh vigor, and
resumed the labors of the day. The same exertions
and perseverance produced the same successful results
he had met with the two previous days; and the evenings
saw the table of his parents again spread with a
comfortable meal, which was improved this time by
the addition of a little fruit.
Thus, day after day, and week after week, Billy
successfully followed his new profession of newsboy,
working hard and faring hard, in season and out of
season, early and late, rain or shine. His lodging
was sometimes in a stable, sometimes among the open
market stalls, and sometimes under a portico of some
public building. His food was of the coarsest and
cheapest kind, bread and cheese, and potatoes and
fish; and sometimes, when he had done a good day's
work, he would treat himself to an apple or two, or
some other fruit that happened to be in season.
But Billy never forgot his parents. Regularly
every night he contrived to supply them with a quantity
of food sufficient for the following day; sometimes
carrying it himself, and dropping it in the
and he was afraid of being discovered, employing
another boy to carry it for him, while he stood at the
corner, and watched to see that his errand was faithfully
executed. At the end of three months, Billy
found himself in possession of thirty dollars in cash,
notwithstanding he had in the meantime purchased
himself a pretty good second-hand cap, a little too
small to be sure, but nevertheless he managed to keep
it on the top of his head; also a second-hand frock
coat, which was somewhat too large, but whose capacious
pockets he found exceedingly convenient for carrying
his surplus gingerbread and apples. He had
also, in the meantime, sent his mother calico sufficient
to make her a gown, besides sundry other little articles
of wearing apparel. He had been careful all this
time not to come in contact with his father, though he
once came very near falling into his hands. His
father discovered him at a little distance in the street,
and ran to seize him, but Billy saw him in time to flee
round a corner, and through an alley way that led to
another street, and so escaped.
Bill Snub at last came to the conclusion that his
son Billy was doing a pretty fair business in something
or other, for he had become satisfied that the
furnished by Billy, as well as occasional articles of his
wife's clothing. And when he ascertained from some
of the boys of Billy's acquaintance, that he had probably
laid up some thirty or forty dollars in cash,
Bill at once conceived the design of getting possession
of the money. As he could not catch Billy in the
street, he formed a plan to get the aid of police officers;
and, in order to do that, he found it necessary to make
charges against Billy. He accordingly repaired to
the police office, and entered a complaint against his
boy for having stolen thirty or forty dollars of his
money, which he was spending about the streets. He
described the boy to the police officers, who were soon
dispatched in search of him, with orders to arrest him,
and see if any money could be found upon him. As
Billy was flying about in all parts of the city, selling
his papers, it was nearly night before the officers came
across him. He had just sold his last paper, and was
walking leisurely along the street, eating a piece of
gingerbread and an apple, when a policeman came
suddenly behind him and seized him by the shoulder.
Billy looked up with surprise, and asked the man
what he wanted.
“I'll let you know what I want, you little rascal!”
that gingerbread and apples, sir?”
“I bought it,” said Billy.
“You bought it, did ye? and where did you get
the money, sir?”
“I earnt it,” said Billy.
“You earnt it did ye? and how did you earn it,
sir?”
“By selling newspapers,” said Billy.
“Tell me none of your lies, sir?” said the man,
giving him an extra shake by the shoulder. “Now,
sir, how much money have you got in your pockets?”
“I've got some,” said Billy, trembling and trying
to pull away from the man.
“Got some, have you?” said the officer, holding
him by a still firmer gripe. “How much have you
got, sir? Let me see it?”
“I shan't show my money to nobody,” said Billy,
“so you let me alone.”
“We'll see about that, sir, when we get to the
police office,” said the man, dragging Billy away by
the shoulder.
It was so late in the day when they arrived at the
office, that the examining magistrates had left, and
gone home. The constable, therefore, with one of his
something over thirty dollars of good money in his
pockets. Billy persisted that he had earned the
money by selling papers; but the officers, with much
severity, told him to leave off his lying, for boys that
sold papers did n't have so much money as that.
They knew all about it; he had stolen the money,
and he must be locked up till next morning, when he
would have his trial. So they took Billy's money
from him, and locked him up in a dark gloomy room
for the night. A sad night was this for poor Billy.
At first he was so bewildered and shocked at the
thought of being locked up alone all night, that he
hardly realized where he was, or what was going on.
As they pushed him into his solitary apartment, and
closed the door upon him, and turned the large
grating key, he instinctively clung to the door latch,
and tried to pull it open. He called to them as loud
as he could scream, to open the door and let him out,
and they might have all the money in welcome. He
could get no answer, however, to his calls; and when
he stopped and listened, the silence around him
pressed upon him with such appalling power, that he
almost fell to the floor. He reeled across the room
two or three times, and returned again to the door;
was forced upon him that he was indeed locked up,
and all alone, without the power of speaking to any
living being. He sank down upon a bench in a
corner of the room, and wept a long time most
bitterly. When his tears had somewhat subsided,
and he roused himself up again so as to look about,
the night had closed in and left him in such deep
darkness that he could not see across the room. He
rose and walked about, feeling his way by the walls,
and continued to walk a great part of the night, for
there was nothing to rest on but the floor or the little
bench, and he could not have slept if he had had the
softest bed in the world. He could not imagine the
cause of his imprisonment, for he was sure he had
injured no one; but what grieved him most, was the
thought that his poor father and mother were probably
without food, as he had been prevented from
carrying anything home that evening. At the
thought of his mother, his tears gushed forth again in
a copious flood.
Towards morning he sank down exhausted upon
the floor, and fell into a short sleep. Still he was
awake again by daylight, and up and walking the
room. The morning seemed long, very long, to him,
him before the magistrate. He was glad to see the
door open again, even though it was to carry him to
court, for the idea of being tried for stealing was not
so horrible to him as being locked up there alone in
that dark room.
The money was given to the magistrate, and Billy
was placed at the bar to answer to the charge against
him. The officer stated that he had found the boy in
the street by the description he had of him, and on
searching him, the money was found in his pockets.
“Well, that's a clear case,” said the magistrate;
“precious rogue—large amount for a boy—thirty
dollars—that's worth three months' imprisonment;
the boy must be locked up for three months.”
Billy shuddered, and began to weep.
“It's too late to cry now,” said the magistrate,
“you should have thought of that before; but, after
committing the crime, there's no way to escape the
punishment. What induced you to steal this money?”
“I did n't steal it, sir,” said Billy, very earnestly.
“Ah, that is only making a bad matter worse,”
said the magistrate; “the best way for you is to confess
the whole, and resolve to reform and do better in
future.”
“But I did n't steal it,” said Billy with increasing
energy; “I earnt it, every cent of it!”
“You earnt it!” said the magistrate, peering over
his spectacles at Billy; “and how did you earn it?”
“By selling newspapers,” said Billy.
There was something so frank and open in the
boy's appearance, that the magistrate began to wake
up to the subject a little. He asked the officer if the
money had been identified by the loser. The officer
replied that the particular money had not been identified,
only the amount.
“Well, bring the man forward,” said the magistrate;
“he must identify his money.”
The officer then called up Bill Snub, who was
stowed away in a distant corner of the room, apparently
desirous of keeping out of sight. This was the
first intimation that Billy had that his father was his
accuser, and it gave him such a shock that he sank
down upon the seat, and almost fainted away. The
magistrate asked Snub if that was his money, found
on the boy. Snub said it was.
“Well, what sort of money was it that you lost?”
said the magistrate. “You must describe it.”
“Oh, it was—it was all good money,” said Snub,
coloring.
“But you must be particular,” said the magistrate,
“and describe the money. What kind of money
was it?”
“Well, some of it was paper money, and some of it
was hard money,” said Snub; “it's all good money.”
“But how much of it was hard money?” said the
magistrate.
“Well, considerable of it,” said Bill; “I don't
know exactly how much.”
“What banks were the bills on?” said the magistrate.
“Well, I don't know exactly,” said Bill, “but I
believe it was some of the banks of this city.”
“How large were the bills?” said the magistrate.
“Well, some of 'em was larger, and some smaller,”
said Bill.
“This business does not look very clear,” said the
magistrate. “What is your name, sir?”
“Bill Snub,” was the answer.
“And what is the boy's name?”
“His name is Billy Snub, Sir.”
“Is he any connection of yours?” said the magistrate.
“I'm sorry to own it, sir, but he's my only son,
bad as he is.”
The magistrate, who had been looking over the
top of his spectacles some time, now took them off,
and fixed his eyes sternly on Bill.
“This business must be unravelled, sir. There is
no evidence as yet on either side; but there is something
mysterious about it. It must be unravelled,
sir.”
At this, a little boy of about Billy's age, came forward,
and told the magistrate that he knew something
about the matter.
“Let him be sworn,” said the magistrate; “and
now tell all you know about it.”
“Well, I've seen Billy Snub selling newspapers
'most every day this three or four months; and I've
known him to make as much as a dollar a-day a good
many times. And I've known he's been laying up
his money all the time, only a little, jest enough to
buy his victuals with, and about a quarter of a dollar
a day that he took to buy victuals with for his father
and mother. And I've been a good many times in
the evening, and put the victuals into the window
where his father and mother lived, because Billy
did n't dare to go himself, for fear his father would
catch him, and lick him 'most to death for breaking
the rum-bottle when he sent him to get some rum.
for I've seen him count it a good many times. And
yesterday his father was asking me what Billy was
about all the time; and said Billy was a lazy feller,
and never would earn anything in the world. And
I told him Billy was n't lazy, for he'd got more than
thirty dollars now, that he'd earnt selling papers.
And then he said, if Billy had got thirty dollars, he'd
have it somehow or other before he was two days
older.”
“You may stop there,” said the magistrate; “the
evidence is full and clear enough.” Then turning to
Bill, he continued, with great severity of manner,
“and, as for you, sir, for this inhuman and wicked
attempt to ruin your own son, you stand committed to
prison, and at hard labor for the term of one year.”
Then he turned to Billy, and said, “Here, my noble
lad, take your money and go home and take care of
your mother. Continue to be industrious and honest,
and never fear but that you will prosper.”
The rest of this history is soon told. Billy was
really rejoiced at the opportunity of visiting his
mother in peace and safety again, and of once more
having a home where he could rest in quietness at
night. Bill Snub had to serve out his year in prison,
and necessaries of life which his situation admitted,
and always visited him as often as once a week.
And when he came out of prison he was an altered
man. He joined the temperance society, and quitted
the rum-bottle forever. He became more industrious,
worked at his trade, and earned enough to support
himself and Sally comfortably.
Billy still pursued his profession with untiring
industry and great success. He some time since
purchased a small house and lot in the outskirts of
the city for a residence for his parents; and at this
present writing he has several hundred dollars in the
savings bank, besides many loose coins profitably
invested in various other ways. He is active,
healthy, honest, and persevering, and destined beyond
doubt to become a man of wealth and honorable distinction,
whose name will shine on the page of history
as the illustrious head of an illustrious line of Snubs.
| CHAPTER XII.
BILLY SNUB. 'Way down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee life | |