CHAPTER III.
PROFESSIONAL ADVICE.
While Ben reflected upon the majesty and power of two cents, seated on a check post, he was approached by a seedy individual, who had been hovering in this vicinity eyeing him stealthily, for some time.
"Mister," said the stranger, "would you be kind enough to help a man a little. I'm broke, and I'm sick. I have a wife and four children in Philadelphia. I'm a shoemaker by trade, and if I could once get back home, I'd get work; and, on my word and honor I'll send you any money you let me have."
Ben thought of his own utter financial emptiness and smiled. The man thought he doubted his integrity, and hastily promised:
"I'll do it, so help me! I had all my money stolen from me by a man that I befriended, who said he had no place to stop. I've been trying for work for two weeks and a starving to death a doing of it. I'll—"
"Hold on," interrupted Ben, "I am sorry for you but I have not a single cent myself."
The man looked incredulous.
"It is a fact," continued Cleveland. "I want to go to New Orleans, and here I am stopped for want of two cents with which to cross this ferry."
"What, you broke with all them good clothes on!" exclaimed the shoemaker in astonishment.
Ben thought he was dressed very shabbily, having donned the oldest and coarsest suit he owned, but in the eyes of the dilapidated shoemaker he was, undoubtedly, arrayed like unto a lily of the field. He answered however:
"I tell you the actual truth, my friend. I have not one cent myself."
"Have you had any thing to eat? Are you hungry?" asked the shoemaker, thrusting his hand into a breast pocket and producing a package of cold victuals wrapped up in a dirty piece of old newspaper.
Ben looked surprised at this generosity on the part of one who a moment before had confessed himself as starving to death, but refrained from expressing his thoughts as he declined the proffered food.
"You've got along well for chuck, then," remarked the shoemaker, returning the package to his pocket.
Ben had a dim comprehension that "chuck" referred to food, and replied that he was not hungry, adding the information that he was only recently become "broke" and that it was the first time in his life such a predicament had overtaken him; whereupon the shoemaker looked at him with commiseration. Indeed he appeared so to sympathize with Ben that that young gentleman was touched, and said:
"I'm very sorry I have not something to give you, for I know how a man in your position must feel, having a wife and four children at a distance and no money to reach them with." But this was not received graciously by the knight of St. Crispin, who looked at Ben suspiciously and gruffly said:
"What are you giving us;—lumps?"
Ben was at a loss for the meaning of "lumps" but answered pleasantly:
"I was speaking of your family; your wife and four children in Philadelphia." This was said so honestly that the man's face cleared up in a moment, and he broke into a coarse laugh.
"Philadelphia be blowed! This town's too fat to leave. Big free lunches. Five cent hang ups. Best town to codge in you ever struck! Give you a reg'lar sit down here. Philadelphia you only get a back door hand-out. Down there they allus think you're after the spoons and cutlery. Don't care a durn what you are after here. All of 'em after sumthin' themselves. All politicians here. Tell 'em you belongs to the Ward. Find out what ward you're in first. Give you big squares. Sometimes wealth—and clo'es. Give you a copper cent in Philadelphia, and make you go before a justice of the peace and swear you won't spend it for drink.Here, don't care a cuss what you spend it for. Philadelphia the lady of the house comes down to see you and ask questions.Here, the servant girl's boss! If she's Irish, say you're a Fenian. If she's Dutch, tell her you've got a sauerkraut wife. If she's a nigger, just tell her you're hungry. Go striking in Philadelphia and they'll hand you over to the police. Strike a man here and he'swhite! Give him a stiff on some good trade. But look out you don't get caught up. I struck a man this mornin' and give him that I was a blacksmith. Thunder! What you suppose! He took me about six blocks, up to where he lived over his own shop, and give me a big sit down. Then he took me down to the shop and told me he'd give me work for the next three months, and wanted me to go right to business! I pulled off my coat and let on that I'd struck oil at last, an' then, of a sudden, told him I'd a keyster down at a hang up with a leather apron in it, an' I'd have to go after it. He wanted to lend me an apron, but I told him I was so used to this one that I could not work without it nohow.
"You see you must be careful who you strike. But I s'pects you're a fresh one. Now take my advice: unless there's big inducements taking you to New Orleans, don't you leave this town. You're well dressed, an' you look well. Why, with those togs on, and that light over-Benny you can beat the restaurants and lunches for the next twelve months! Tramping aint what it used to be. It's overdone. There's too many working at the business. There's no money in it. You stay here."
Though Ben did not more than half understand what the whilom shoemaker had been saying, he nevertheless realized that he was conversing with a professional parasite,—one of those social excrescences, so many of which are to be found in all large cities. He thanked him, however, for the kind interest He took in his welfare, but reiterated his determination to go to New Orleans.
"Then go by boat. Beat your way on a steamer. Stow away, and when they're off once they can't land you except they run into Havana."
"But I want to go to St. Louis first," said Ben.
"St. Louis is a good town. You hearme! The soup season aint commenced yet. But they set boss free lunches!" And the professional rolled his eyes as he mentioned the delights of the Future Great City.
"I'm much obliged to you for the information, I'm sure," replied Ben. "But what troubles me just at present is to cross this ferry."
"To cross the ferry?"
"Yes."
"Poh! That's the easiest thing in the world. Go give 'em a racket. Go to the wagon gate, I would. The box man's too busy to attend to you. Tell the man there you just had your pocket picked and must get over in time to catch the Elizabeth train. Tell him you'll pay him when you come back in the morning. Your clothes will carry you through." And the shoemaker smiled on Ben's wardrobe approvingly.
"Thanks for your advice; but to be frank, I had rather not tell what is not so."
The eyes of the professional opened to their widest extent.
"Gosh! Where'd you say you were a going? New Orleans! Well, mebbe you'll get there—mebbe not. See here, was that a stiff you was givin' me?"
Ben replied that he did not fully comprehend what a "stiff" might be, but he assured his interlocutor that he was sincere relative to a due regard for the truth.
The shoemaker was evidently puzzled. He could not understand the moral that could prevent a man from attaining a convenience within the reach of a lie. But his astonishment was tinctured with a respect for a virtue he could not comprehend.
"It's all right, I s'pose," he remarked, "but it'stoofunny for me. You're the first man I ever met that wouldn't tell whatever suited him to get along easy. Why, look-a-here; you go up and tell that gate keeper you're bust, and want to go over. He'll laugh at you. Look on you with contempt. Go tell him you live in Newark, and have just had your pocket picked. He'll respect you, and treat you civilly, whether he believes you or not; ten to one he'll let you over. Lemme tell you somethin' as may be useful to you on your way. There's no premiums for truth, but there's an everlasting lot of chromos goes with good lies. Now if it's agin your conscience to gin the gate keeper a racket, the only other way I know for you to get over is to go up the street a piece and jump a wagon. Gin the driver a good talk, and get him to take you. So long, my friend. I wish you luck. The band's about to play over in the Bowery, an' if I aint on hand in time, some unprincipled vagabond will have my dress-circle seat with a lamppost back. So long!" And shaking Ben by the hand, the shoemaker turned and disappeared up a neighboring thoroughfare.
Ignoring the professional's moral advice, our friend proceeded a short distance from the ferry, and meeting a jovial, round-faced Hibernian, driving a dray, told his desire to go over, and the impecunious position in which he was placed. The driver kindly gave him a lift, and the gate was safely passed. On the ferry, Ben answered the driver's numerous inquiries as explicitly as he thought proper, and quite an acquaintance was struck between them. When the boat had deposited them on the Jersey City side he dismounted, and after thanking the driver was about proceeding on his way, when the latter thrust out a dirty, toil soiled hand, and forced a quarter of a dollar on him. "It aint much, but it'll help yez get a mouthful to eat," and without waiting either protestations or thanks, the man put whip to his team and drove off.