Alger Horatio Jr.
Slow and Sure: The Story of Paul Hoffman the Young Street-Merchant
CHAPTER XXII.
MARLOWE OVERTAKES HIS VICTIM
On emerging into the street the two boys parted company. It was time for Paul to go back to his business. Julius was more indifferent to employment. He had five dollars in his pocket, and forty-five dollars deposited with Paul. Accustomed to live from hand to mouth, this made him feel very rich. It was a bright, pleasant day, and it occurred to him that it would be very pleasant to make an excursion somewhere, it made little difference to him where. The first place that occurred to him was Staten Island. It is six miles from the city or half an hour by water. The boats start from a pier near the Battery.
"Where's he going, I wonder?" thought Marlowe, following at a little distance.
As no conversation had passed between the boys about the excursion, he was quite in the dark; but he was determined to follow where-ever it might be. He soon ascertained. Julius met a street acquaintance—Tom Barker, a newsboy—and accosted him.
"Tom, come with me."
"Where you goin'?"
"To Staten Island."
"What's up?"
"Nothin'. I'm goin' for the benefit of my health. Come along."
"I can't come."
"Haven't you got the stamps? I'll pay."
"I've got to go to Twenty-seventh street on an errand. I'll go with you to-morrow."
"Can't wait," said Julius. "I must go alone."
"Goin' to Staten Island," thought Marlowe, in exultation. "I'll get a chance at him there."
Marlowe had not much money with him, but he had enough to pay the fare to Staten Island—ten cents. So he kept on the track of Julius, and passed the wicket just behind him. The boat was approaching the pier, and they had not long to wait. Julius went to the forward part of the boat, and took a seat just in front of the boiler. Marlowe took a position near, but not too near. He had considerable confidence in his disguise, but did not want to run any unnecessary risk of recognition. It so happened that a few steps from him was a genuine specimen of the profession he was counterfeiting. With the sociability characteristic of a sailor, he undertook to open a conversation with Marlowe.
"Hollo, shipmate!" he said.
"Hollo, yourself!" said the counterfeit, not over pleased with the salutation.
"I thought I'd hail you, seein' we both foller the sea. Have you been long ashore?"
"Not long," answered Marlowe.
"Where was your last v'y'ge?"
"To Californy," answered Marlowe, hesitating.
"What craft?"
Here was an embarrassing question. Marlowe wished his questioner at the North Pole, but felt compelled to answer.
"The—Sally Ann," he answered.
"You don't say!" said the other, with animation. "I was aboard the Sally Ann myself, one v'y'ge."
"Confound you, I'm sorry to hear it!" thought the impostor.
"There's more than one Sally Ann, it's likely," he said. "Who was your captain?"
"Captain Rice."
"Mine was Captain Talbot."
"How long was your v'y'ge, shipmate?"
Now Marlowe had no knowledge of the number of days such a voyage ought to take. He knew that the California steamers came in in three or four weeks, and the difference of speed did not occur to him, not to speak of the vastly greater distance round Cape Horn.
"Thirty days," he answered, at random.
"Thirty days!" exclaimed the sailor, in amazement. "Did you go round the Horn in thirty days?"
"Yes, we had favorable winds," explained Marlowe.
"He must be crazy, or he's no sailor," thought the true son of Neptune.
He was about to ask another question, when Marlowe, who suspected that he had made a blunder, turned abruptly, and walked away.
"He ain't no sailor," said the questioner to himself. "He never lived in the forecastle, I know by his walk."
Marlowe had not the rolling gait of a seaman, and the other detected it at once.
"Went round the Horn in thirty days!" soliloquized the sailor. "That yarn's too tough for me to swallow. What's he got on that rig for?"
Meanwhile, Julius looked around him with enjoyment. Cheap as the excursion was, he had but once made it before. It had been seldom that he had even twenty cents to spare, and when he had money, he had preferred to go to the Old Bowery or Tony Pastor's for an evening's entertainment. Now he felt the refreshing influence of the sea breeze. He was safe from Marlowe, so he thought. He had left danger behind him in the great, dusty city. Before him was a vision of green fields, and the delight of an afternoon without work and without care. He was sure of a good supper and a comfortable bed; for had he not five dollars in his pocket? Julius felt as rich as Stewart or Vanderbilt, and so he was for the time being. But he would have felt anxious, could he have seen the baleful glance of the disguised sailor; for Marlowe, though he had changed his seat, still managed to keep Julius in sight. But there was another who in turn watched him, and that was the genuine sailor. The latter was bent on finding out the meaning of the disguise, for disguise he knew it to be. He was not long in discovering that Marlowe was watching Julius with a malignant glance.
"He hates the lad," thought the sailor. "Does he mean him harm?"
He was making an excursion of pleasure, but he had another object in view. He had a cousin living on Staten Island, and he was intending to make him a call; but this business was not imperative, and he resolved to follow out the present adventure.
"If he tries to harm the lad," said the kindhearted sailor, "he'll have to take me too."
So while Marlowe watched Julius, he was watched in turn.
The boat reached the first landing, and some of the passengers got off. But Julius made no motion to disembark, and of course Marlowe did not. Shortly afterward the second landing was reached; but it was not until the boat touched the third that Julius rose from his seat and descended the stairs to the lower deck. The two sailors followed.
Julius walked up the road that leads to the pier. He had no particular destination. He cared little where he went, his main object being to get back into the country. The sailor soon perceived that Marlowe had no object except to follow Julius. All his movements depended upon the boy's. When Julius turned, he turned also.
"What has he got ag'in the boy?" thought the sailor. "He shan't harm him if Jack Halyard can prevent it."
Marlowe was tall and strong, and a formidable opponent. The sailor was three inches shorter, but he was broad-shouldered, and had an immense chest. It was clear that he was very powerful. He was thoroughly brave also. Fear was a stranger to him, and he did not hesitate for a moment to encounter Marlowe in the boy's defense.
Julius kept on. At one place he stopped to watch two boys who were pitching ball to each other. He asked them if he might join in the game; but the boys looked contemptuously at his shabby clothes, and one of them said, rudely:
"We don't play with ragamuffins."
"I ain't a ragamuffin!" said Julius.
"Perhaps you're a gentleman in disguise," said one, with a sneer.
"I'm as much of a gentleman as you are," retorted Julius, angrily.
"Clear out, you beggar! We don't want you here," said the second boy, arrogantly.
Julius walked on indignantly.
"They insult me because I am poor," he said to himself. "I'll be rich some time, perhaps."
The possibility of becoming rich had never occurred to him before to-day; but Mr. O'Connor's words, and the fifty dollars which had been given him, made him hopeful and ambitious. He had heard that some of the rich men who owned warehouses in the great city had once been poor boys like himself. Might he not rise like them? For the first time in his life he seemed to be having a chance.
Marlowe saw him leave the boys with satisfaction. Had Julius stopped to play with them his scheme of vengeance would have been delayed, perhaps frustrated. It would not do for him to attack the boy in the presence of others. But Julius w r as walking away from the village into the interior. If he only went far enough he would be at his mercy.
What should he do to him? He might kill him, but killing is rather a dangerous game to play at in a civilized community.
"I'll take his money," thought Marlowe, "and beat him within an inch of his life. I'll teach him to betray me!"
At length Julius wandered to a spot solitary enough to suit his purpose. Strange to say, the boy had not turned, or noticed his pursuer. Marlowe was quite out of his thoughts. Who would think of finding him in this quiet scene? But he was destined to be rudely awakened from his dream of security. All at once he felt a hand upon his shoulder. Turning quickly, he saw one whom he supposed to be a sailor.
"What's wanted?" he asked.
"You're wanted."
"What for?" asked Julius, not yet recognizing his enemy.
"Don't you know me?" asked Marlowe.
"No."
"But I know you, you young villain!" exclaimed Marlowe, unable longer to repress his fury. "I'm the man you sold along with Jack Morgan. I've got a reckoning with you, my lad, and it's goin' to be a heavy one. I haven't followed you all the way from New York for nothing."
CHAPTER XXIII.
A TIMELY RESCUE
Julius was filled with a terrible fear, when in the man who stood over him menacingly he recognized Tom Marlowe. He knew the man's brutal disposition, and that he was very much incensed against him. He looked wildly around him for help, but he could see no one. The sailor had hidden behind a large tree, and was not visible.
"You're looking for help, are you?" sneered Marlowe. "Look all you want to. You're in my power. Now tell me, you treacherous young dog, why shouldn't I kill you?"
Julius regarded him in silent terror.
"You didn't think I'd get away from the cops you set on my track, did you? You thought you'd get rid of me, did you? Where's that money you got for selling us, eh?"
"I didn't sell you," said Julius, trembling.
"Don't lie to me. I know all about it. I followed you when you went with that boy that keeps the necktie stand. I know how much you got. It was fifty dollars."
Julius was bewildered. He did not understand how Marlowe could have gained this information.
"Do you deny this?" demanded Marlowe.
"I didn't know I was to get any money," stammered Julius. "I wouldn't have told of you, but Paul had been kind to me."
"So you forgot all about Jack Morgan and me. You were ready to sell your best friends. But you didn't count the cost, my chicken! We generally pay up for such favors. I promised Jack I'd settle our account, and I'm goin' to do it."
"Is Jack took?" asked Julius, shrinking under the man's fierce glance.
"Yes, he is, curse you! If it hadn't been for your blabbing tongue we'd both have got off with the swag. Now hand over that money, and be quick about it."
"What money?" faltered Julius.
"You know well enough—the fifty dollars."
Julius felt thankful now that he had deposited the greater part with Paul.
"I haven't got it."
"You lie!" exclaimed Marlowe, brutally.
"I gave it to Paul, all except five dollars." "I don't believe you. Empty your pockets."
Julius did so, but only five dollars were found. Marlowe was badly disappointed. Fifty dollars would have been of essential service to him, and they had dwindled to five.
"What business had you to give the money to him?" he demanded, harshly.
"I was afraid I might lose it."
"Give me the five dollars."
Julius reluctantly handed the bill to his enemy, who thrust it into his pocket.
"Now," said he, seizing Julius by the shoulder with a dark and menacing look, "I'll give you a lesson you'll remember to the last day of your life."
He threw Julius upon the ground, and was about savagely to kick the helpless boy, who would in all probability have died from the brutal treatment he was likely to receive, when he was seized by the collar, and sent whirling backward by a powerful hand.
"Avast there, you lubber!" said the sailor, who had felt it time to interfere. "What are you about?"
Marlowe turned furiously upon his unexpected assailant.
"I'll soon let you know, if you don't leave here pretty sudden. What business is it of yours?" he said, furiously.
"It's always my business," said the sailor, manfully, "when I see a big brute pitching into a youngster like that. I ain't the man to stand by and see it done."
"He wants to kill me. Don't let him," implored Julius.
"That I won't, my lad. He'll have to kill me, too, if that's what he's after. He'll find me a tough customer, I reckon."
"This is my boy. I shall beat him as I please," said Marlowe, angrily.
"I am not his boy," said Julius, fearing the sailor would credit the statement.
"Don't you be afraid, my lad. If you were his boy ten times over, he shouldn't beat you while I am by."
Marlowe was terribly enraged. He saw his victim slipping from his grasp just as he was about to glut his vengeance upon him. He was a man of violent passions, and they got the better of his prudence.
"Stand back!" he shouted, advancing toward the intrepid sailor, "or I will serve you and the boy alike."
"I'm ready," said the other, coolly, squaring off scientifically.
Marlowe aimed a heavy blow at his head, which, had it taken effect, would have prostrated and perhaps stunned him. But it was warded off, and a counter blow returned, which took better effect. Marlowe staggered under it, but it only maddened him. Half-blinded, he rushed once more upon his opponent, but received a well-directed blow full in the chest, which stretched him at the sailor's feet. The latter forbore to take an unmanly advantage of his foe's position, but calmly waited for him to rise.
"Do you want more?" he asked, coolly.
Marlowe, had he been wise, would have desisted, but he was filled with a blind, unreasoning rage, and advanced again to the attack. But he was no match for the stout sailor. He fared this time no better than before, but again was stretched at the sailor's feet.
By this time the conflict had attracted attention. Several men came running up, among them a member of the local police.
"What's the meaning of all this?" demanded the latter.
"Ask the boy," said the sailor.
Julius, thus appealed to, answered:
"That man wanted to kill me, but the sailor stopped him."
"It's a lie!" growled Marlowe. "He's my boy, and I was punishing him."
"Are you his boy?" asked the policeman, turning to Julius.
"No."
"Where do you live?"
"In New York."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
Marlowe saw that it was getting dangerous for him, and was anxious to get away.
"The boy may shift for himself," he said. "If you take so much interest in him you can take care of him."
These last words were addressed to the sailor.
He turned on his heel, and hoped to get away without further trouble.
"Stop, there!" said the officer. "We haven't done with you yet."
"What do you want?" demanded Marlowe, endeavoring to conceal his alarm under an air of surly bravado.
"I want to know who you are."
"I'm a sailor."
"Then you're a land sailor," retorted the true son of Neptune.
"Is he a sailor?" asked the officer of Julius.
"No, sir."
"What is his name?"
"His name is Marlowe," answered Julius, in spite of the black and menacing looks of his enemy, intended to intimidate him.
"Marlowe? The man implicated in the burglary in Madison avenue?"
Julius was not required to answer this, for at the question, showing that he was known, Marlowe with an oath took to flight, closely pursued by all present. He had run half a mile before he was secured. But his pursuers at length caught up with him, and after a sharp struggle, in which they were materially assisted by the powerful sailor, he was taken and bound.
"If I ever get free, I'll kill you!" he muttered, between his teeth, to Julius. "You'll rue this day's work."
Julius, secure as he was at present, could not help shuddering as he heard these threatening words. But he felt thankful that he had escaped the present danger. The peril was over for the time; but Julius could not help feeling that he was not wholly safe as long as Marlowe was at large. I may as well add here that the burglar was delivered to the New York authorities, and in due time had his trial, was convicted and sentenced to ten years' imprisonment in the prison at Sing Sing.
This adventure, and the excitement attending it, spoiled the enjoyment of Julius for the afternoon. He returned to the pier and took passage on the boat bound for the city. He called on Paul at his stand, and surprised him with the news of Marlowe's capture, and his own narrow escape.
"I am glad to hear it, Julius," said Paul. "So that sailor that followed you was Marlowe."
"Yes. Did you see him?"
"I noticed him two or three times, but had no idea he was following us."
"I never should have known him, he looked so different." "He might have got away if he hadn't been so anxious to revenge himself on you."
"He's got my five dollars," said Julius, regretfully.
"It might have been much worse. You've got forty-five dollars left yet. Do you want any of it?"
"You may give me five more."
Paul drew a five-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Julius.
"By the way, Julius," he said "where do you expect to sleep to-night?"
"In the lodgin' house."
"Come up and stop with me. We can find room for you. Besides, my mother will give you a good supper."
"You are very kind to me, Paul," said Julius, gratefully.
"I ought to be. You did us all a great service. You must stay with us till it is time for you to go out West."
Julius made some faint objections, out of bashfulness; but he was so pleasantly received by Mrs. Hoffman, and treated with so much kindness, that he came to feel quite at home, and needed no urging after the first night. Jimmy asked him a multitude of questions about the burglars, how they looked and how they lived, to which Julius answered patiently.
"When you are out West, you must write to us how you are getting along, Julius," said Mrs. Hoffman, kindly.
Julius blushed, and did not answer. He seemed much embarrassed.
"Won't you?" asked Jimmy.
"I don't know how to write!" said Julius at last, feeling suddenly ashamed of his ignorance.
"Such a big boy as you can't write?" said Jimmy, in amazement.
"There is plenty of time to learn," said Paul, cheerfully. "Julius has had no chance to learn yet, but after he gets to the West he will make it up."
The mortification which Julius felt at his ignorance made him determine to study hard whenever he could. He felt that if he wanted to occupy a respectable position in society, he must, at least, know how to read and write.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE POOR ARTIST
A week later Julius started for the West with a company of boys who went out under the auspices of the Children's Aid Society. His adventures out West will make the subject of another volume.
On the day succeeding his departure Paul was at his stand, when his attention was drawn to a man of respectable appearance, but poorly clad, and thin and emaciated, who, after a little hesitation, accosted a gentleman who was passing, in these words: "Sir, I hope you will excuse my liberty in addressing you, but I have been sick, and am without money. Can you spare me a trifle?"
"I never give to street beggars," said the gentleman, coldly.
The applicant shrank back abashed, and a look of pain and mortification overspread his features. Paul noticed it, and his heart was filled with compassion. He saw that the man was not a common street beggar; that, except under the pressure of necessity, he would not have asked help. Stepping up to him as he was slowly moving away, Paul said, gently: "Can I assist you in any way, sir?"
The other turned at the words.
"I am in great need of help," he said. "I am without money, and I have a little daughter at home who wants bread."
As he said this he came near breaking down.
"Let me help you," said Paul; and he drew a dollar from his pocket and passed it to the applicant.
"A thousand thanks for your generous kindness!" said the stranger, gratefully; "but"—and here he glanced at Paul's humble place of business—"can you spare this money?"
"Easily," said Paul. "I am doing very well, and saving up money every week."
"Then I will accept it. There are some kind hearts in the world. I felt very much depressed by the refusal I just received. It was a great sacrifice of pride for me to ask help of any one, but the thought of my little daughter removed all my scruples. I could bear privation and hunger myself, but I could not bear to see her suffer."
"Where do you live?" asked Paul.
"In Centre street. It is a miserable place, but all I can afford."
"May I ask your business?"
"I am an artist. I came from England, my native country, some months since, hoping to better my fortune here. But I fell sick in a short time, and continued so until a week since."
"You are not looking well."
"I have overcome my disease, but I need nourishing food, and I have not been able to buy it."
"How did you pay your expenses while you were sick?"
"I brought over with me a small sum of money, and by great economy I made it last till a week since. I am unknown, and, though I have two pictures finished, I cannot sell them. I was told that America was a good country for the poor; but I do not find it so for me."
"It may be, after you are known."
"But what shall I do in the meantime?"
Here an idea came to Paul. He had long intended to obtain a teacher of drawing for Jimmy. It would be a charity to employ this poor artist if he were competent.
"Did you ever give lessons in drawing?" he asked.
"Yes; I gave lessons in England. I would gladly find scholars here, but I am not known."
"I have a little brother who has a great taste for drawing," said Paul. "You may begin with him."
"Thank you," said the stranger, warmly. "You give me new hope. I will teach him gladly, and leave the price of the lessons to you."
"If you will tell me where you live I will call there at noon. You will want to buy some food for your little girl."
"Yes, poor little Mary, I must not leave her waiting any longer. I shall be very glad to see you at my poor room. It is No. – Centre street, back room, third floor. Ask for Mr. Henderson."
"I will be sure to call."
The artist made his way to a baker's where he bought a loaf of bread. Also at a shop near by he obtained a pint of milk, and, provided with these, he hastened home to his hungry child.
At noon, after taking lunch, Paul found his way to the address given him by the artist. The room was dark and scantily furnished. Mr. Henderson sat before an easel, trying to work. He got up hastily as Paul entered.
"I am glad to see you, my good young friend," he said. "Take a seat."
"Is this your little daughter?" asked Paul.
"Come here, Mary, and speak to the gentleman," said her father.
Mary Henderson was a delicate looking little girl of eight years, with dark hair and eyes. She would have been pretty if she had been stronger and more healthy. A few weeks of good food and country air would bring back the roses to her cheeks, and fill out her emaciated form.
"Have you any pictures finished?" asked Paul.
"I have two small ones. Would you like to see them?"
"Very much."
The artist went to a closet, and produced two small pictures unframed. One was an English country landscape, pretty in design, and executed, as Paul thought, with taste.
"I like that," he said.
"The other is better," said Mr. Henderson.
He exhibited the other canvas. It was a simple sketch of a brother and sister on their way to school. The faces were bright and pretty, the attitudes natural and graceful, and all the details were well carried out.
"You are right," said Paul. "This is the best picture. The girl's face looks familiar. It is your own little girl, is it not?"
"Then you see the resemblance?"
"Yes, it is very like, but–"
"But it represents a blooming, healthful child, while my poor Mary is thin and pale. Yet when the picture was painted, before I left England, it was an exact likeness. You see what privation and the bad air of the city have done for her."
"She will look like it again. A few weeks will bring her back."
"I hope so."
"You ought to get a good price for these pictures, Mr. Henderson."
"If I had a name, I could."
"If you are willing to trust me with them, I will see what I can do for you."
"Thank you a thousand times."
"I may not be able to sell them, but I will try. Have you set a price on them?"
"No; I will sell them for anything they will fetch—for five dollars even, if no more can be obtained."
"I hope to get more."
"Mary, wrap up the pictures for the gentleman," said her father.
The little girl did so.
"If you can call on me this evening at half-past seven, Mr. Henderson," said Paul, "I will make arrangements about your giving lessons to my little brother."
"I will certainly do so."
"You will not be afraid to leave your little girl alone?"
"She can stay with a neighbor."
"Then I will expect you."
Paul wrote down his address, and took his leave, with the pictures under his arm.
He had thought of a customer. He knew that Mr. Preston was not only rich, but kindhearted and charitable. Even if he did not want the pictures, he thought he would be willing to give a small sum for them; and even a little would be of great service to the poverty-stricken artist.
He therefore made his way to Mr. Preston's counting-room, and was admitted to his presence.
"Are you busy, Mr. Preston?" asked our hero.
"Not particularly. I can spare you a few minutes."
He looked inquiringly at the parcel Paul carried under his arm.
"I have come to sell you some pictures, Mr. Preston."
"You haven't turned artist?" said the merchant, surprised.
"No; but I am acting as agent for a poor artist, who is in great need of money."
"A poor artist in both senses of the word, eh, Paul?"
"No, I think not. I am not a judge of pictures, but these seem to me very good."
"Let me see them."
Paul unrolled the bundle and displayed them. Mr. Preston took them in his hands, and examined them with interest.
"They are good pictures," he said, after a pause. "Who is the artist?"
"An Englishman named Henderson. I will tell you all I know of his story. He has been very unfortunate, and is now in pressing need of assistance."
Mr. Preston listened to the story with which the reader is already familiar. When it was concluded he said, "We must help him."
"I am going to take him as teacher for my little brother Jimmy."
"I will purchase the picture of the children for fifty dollars."
"It will be a fortune to the poor man," said Paul, joyfully.
"When shall you see him?"
"To-night."
"Then I will give you the money to hand to him. Besides, I will give him a note to Goupil, who will allow him to exhibit the other picture in his store. That may secure its sale."
"Thank you, Mr. Preston. You will do him a great kindness."
Paul left the picture of which he had disposed, and, taking the other under his arm, went back to the necktie stand. He felt an honest pleasure in the thought of the happiness he was about to confer upon the poor artist. "It will set him on his feet," he thought.
