B
ILL Seegor found the woman he sought, and soon they returned to her house. Here the bottle was brought out and passed round; and, after much blasphemous and ribaldrous conversation, a straw bed was made up on the floor, and Rodney laid down. Before he went to sleep, he heard Bill tell the woman that he was entirely out of money, and beg her to lend him five dollars for a few days. After some hesitation she consented, and drew out from under thebed an old trunk, which she unlocked, and from which she took five dollars in silver and gave it to him. Bill, looking over her shoulder, saw that she took it from a little pile of silver that lay in the corner of the trunk.
For a long time Rodney could not sleep. The scenes of the last eventful week were vividly recalled to his mind, and, in spite of his fatigue, kept him awake. He tried to make himself believe that it was a glorious life he had begun to lead,—that now he was free from restraint, and entering upon the flowery paths of independence and enjoyment. Though he had met with some difficulties at the start, he thought that they were now nearly passed, and that soon he should be upon the blue water,and in foreign countries, a happy sailor boy.
But conscience would interpose its reproaches and warnings, and remind him of the horrible company into which he had been cast,—of the scenes of sin which he had witnessed, and in which he had participated; and he could not but shudder when he thought of the probable termination of such a life.
But he felt that, having forsaken his home,—and he was not even yet sorry that he had done so,—he was now in the current, and that there was no way of reaching the shore, even had he been disposed to try; and that he must continue to float along the stream, leaving his destination to be determined by circumstances.
It is very easy to find the paths of sin. It is easy, and, for a season, may seem pleasant, to travel in them. The entrance is inviting, the way is broad, companions are numerous and gay. But when the disappointed and alarmed traveller, terrified at the thought of its termination, seeks to escape, and hunts for the narrow path of virtue, he finds obstacles and entanglements which he cannot climb over nor break. It requires an Omnipotent arm to help him then.
Rodney fell asleep.
How long he had slept he knew not; but he was awakened by a violent shaking and by terrible oaths. The side-door leading into the yard was open, and three or four wretched-looking women were scolding and swearing angrily abouthim. He was confused, bewildered, but soon perceived that something unusual had happened; and he became very much frightened as he at last learned the truth from the excited women.
Bill Seegor was gone. He had got up quietly when all were asleep, and, drawing the woman's trunk from under her bed, had carried it out into the yard, pried open the lock, stolen the money, and escaped.
The woman was in a terrible passion, and her raving curses were fearful to hear. Rodney pitied her, though she cursed him. He was indignant at his companion's rascality, and offered to go with her and try to find him. It was two o'clock in the morning. He looked round for his hat, collar, andhandkerchief; but they were gone. The thief had taken them with him. Taking Bill's old hat, he went out with the woman, and looked into the oyster-cellars and grog-shops, some of which they found still open; but they could find no trace of Bill Seegor.
The woman met a watchman, and made inquiries, and told him of the robbery.
"And this boy came with the man last night, did he?" inquired the watchman.
"He did," said the woman.
"Do you know the boy?"
"I never saw him before."
"Well, I guess he knows where he is, or where he can be found to-morrow."
Rodney protested that he knew nothing about him, that his own hat, collar, and handkerchief had been stolen, and that he had had nothing to do with the robbery. He even told him where he had met with Bill, and how he came to be in his company.
"All very fine, my lad," said the watchman; "but you must go with me. This must be examined into to-morrow."
And he took Rodney by the arm, and led him to the watch-house.
F
OR poor Rodney there was no more sleep that night, even had they placed him on a bed of roses. But they locked him up in a little square room, with an iron-barred window, into which a dim light struggled from a lamp hung outside in the entry, showing a wooden bench, fastened against the wall. There were four men in the room.
One, whose clothes looked fine and fashionable, but all covered with dirt, lay on the floor. A hat, that seemed new, but crushed out of all shape, wasunder his head for a pillow. His face was bruised and bloody. He was entirely stupefied, and Rodney saw at a glance that he was intoxicated.
On the bench, stretched out at full length, was a short, stout negro, fast asleep. On another part of the bench lay a white man, who seemed about fifty years old, with a sneering, malicious face, and wrapped up in a shaggy black coat. The remaining occupant of the cell sat in one corner, with his head down on his knees, and his hat slouched over his face.
Rodney stood for a few moments in the middle of the cell, and, in sickening dismay, looked round him. Here he was with felons and rioters, locked up in a dungeon! True, he had committed nocrime against the law; but yet he felt that he deserved it all; and the hot tears rolled from his eyes as he thought of his mother and his home.
Hearing his sobs, the man in the corner raised his head, looked at him for a moment, and said:
"Why, you blubbering boy, what have you been about? Are you the pal of these cracksmen, or have you been on a lay on your own hook?"
Rodney did not know what he meant, and he said so.
"I mean," said the man, in the same low, thieves' jargon, "have you been helping these fellows crack a crib?"
"Doing what?" said Rodney.
"Breaking into a house, you dumb-head."
courtroom scene
The boy shuddered at the thought of being taken for an accomplice of house-breakers; and told him he knew nothing about them. He had read that boys are sometimes employed by house-breakers to climb in through windows or broken pannels, to open the door on the inside; and now he was thought to be such a one himself.
It was a dismal night for him.
Early in the morning the prisoners were all taken before a magistrate.
The drunkard, who claimed to be a gentleman, and who had been taken to the watch-house for assaulting the barkeeper of a tavern, was fined five dollars, and dismissed.
The negro and the old white man had been caught in the attempt to break intoa house, and were sent to prison, to await their trial for burglary; and the other white man was also sent to prison, until he could be tried, for stealing a pocket-book in an auction store.
Rodney was then called forward. The watchman told how and why he had taken him; and the boy was asked to give an account of himself. He told his story truthfully and tearfully, while the magistrate looked coldly at him.
"A very good story," said the magistrate; "it seems to be well studied. I suspect you are an artful fellow, notwithstanding your innocent face. I shall bind you over for trial, my lad. I think such boys as you should be stopped in time; and a few years in some penitentiary would do you good."
What could Rodney say? What could he do? He was among strangers. He could send for no one to testify of his good character, or to become bail for him. And, if his friends had been near, he felt that he had rather die than that they should know of his disgrace.
The magistrate gave an officer a paper—a commitment—and told him to take the boy to the Arch-street jail. The constable took him by the arm, and led him out.
As they walked along the street, Rodney looked around him to see if there was no way of escape. If he could only get a chance to run! As they came to the corner of a little alley, he asked the constable to let him tie his shoe, the string of which was loose. The mannodded, and Rodney placed his foot upon a door-step, sheering round beyond the reach of the officer's hand, and towards the alley. Rodney, as he rose, made one spring, and in a moment was gone down the alley. The officer rushed after him, and shouted, "Stop thief! stop thief!"
"O, that I should ever be chased for a thief!" groaned Rodney, clenching his teeth together, and running at his best speed.
That terrible cry, "Stop thief!" rung after him, and soon seemed to be echoed by a hundred voices, as the boy dashed along Ninth street and down Market street; and, from behind him, and from doors and windows, and from the opposite side of the street, and at lengthfrom before him, the very welkin rung with the cries of "Stop thief! stop thief!" A hundred eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the culprit; but Rodney dashed on, the crowd never thinking thathewas the hunted fox, but only one of the hounds in pursuit, eager to be "in at the death." At the corner of Fifth and Market-streets, a porter was standing by his wheelbarrow. He saw the chase coming down, and truly scented the victim; and, as Rodney neared the corner, he suddenly pushed out his barrow across the pavement. Rodney could not avoid it; he stumbled, fell across it, and was captured.
"You young scoundrel! is this one of your tricks?" said the constable, ashe came up; "I'll teach you one of mine;" and he struck him a blow on the side of the head, that knocked the poor boy senseless on the pavement.
Those who stood by cried, "Shame! shame!" and the officer glared furiously around him; but, seeing that the numbers were against him, he raised the boy from the ground. Rodney soon recovered; and the constable, grasping him firmly by the wrist of his coat, and, drawing his arm tightly under his own, led him, followed by a crowd of hooting boys, up Fifth, and through Arch-street, toward the old jail.
What a walk was that to poor Rodney! The officer, stern and angry, held him with so firm a grip as to convince him of the uselessness of a second attempt.
Fatigued, and nearly fainting as he was from the race and the blow, he was compelled almost to run, to keep up with the long strides of the constable. A crowd of boys pressed around, to get a glimpse of his face.
"What has he done?" one would ask of another.
"Broke open a trunk, and stole money," would be the reply.
Rodney pulled Bill Seegor's old hat over his face, and hung his head, in bitter anguish of soul, as he heard himself denounced as a thief at every step; and as he heard doors dashed open, and windows thrown up, similar questions and replies smote his heart. He knew that he was innocent of such a crime; his soul scorned it; he felt that he wasincapable of theft; but he felt that he had been too guilty, too disobedient and too ungrateful, to dare to hold up his head, or utter a word in his own defence. It seemed as though that long and terrible walk with the constable would never end, and he felt relieved when he reached the heavy door of the jail, amid two files of staring boys, who had ran before him, and arranged themselves by the gate, to watch him as he entered. He was rudely thrust in, the bolt shot back upon the closed door, and he was delivered over to the keeping of the jailer, with the assurance of the policeman, that "he was a sharp miscreant, and needed to be watched."
S
UCH are the rewards which sin gives to its votaries; full of soft words and tempting promises in the beginning, they find, in the end, that "it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." Thoughts like these passed through Rodney's mind, as the jailer led him to a room in which were confined three other lads, all older than himself. At that time, the system of solitary confinement had not been adopted in Pennsylvania, and prisoners were allowed to associatetogether; but it was deemed best to keep the boys from associating with older and more hardened culprits, whose conversation might still more corrupt them, and they were therefore confined together, apart from the mass of the criminals.
At first Rodney suffered the most intense anguish. A sense of shame and degradation overwhelmed him. He staggered to a corner of the room, threw himself on the floor, and, for a long time, sobbed and wept as though his very heart would break. For a while the boys seemed to respect his grief, and left him in silence. At last one of them went to him, and said,
"Come, there's no use in this; we are all here together, and we may as well make the best of it!"
Rodney sat up, and looked at them, as they gathered around him.
They were ragged in dress, and pale from their confinement, and Rodney involuntarily shrank from the idea of associating with them, regarding them as criminals in jail. But he soon remembered his own position,—that he was now one of them,—and he thought he would take their advice, and "make the best of it."
"Well, what did they squeeze you into this jug for, my covey?" asked the eldest boy.
Rodney told them his story, and protested that he was innocent of any crime.
The boy put his thumb to the end of his nose, and twirled his fingers, saying,"You can't gammon us, my buck; come, out with it, for we neverpeachon one another."
Rodney was very angry at this mode of treating his story. But, in spite of himself, he gradually became familiar with the companions thus forced upon him, and, in a day or two, began to engage with them in their various sports, to while away the weary hours. Sometimes they sat and told stories, to amuse one another; and thus Rodney heard tales of wickedness and depredation and cunning, that almost led him to doubt whether there was any honesty among men. They talked of celebrated thieves and robbers, burglars and pirates, as if they were the models by which they meant to mould their own lives; and,instead of detesting their crimes, Rodney began to admire the skill and success with which they were perpetrated. The excitement and freedom, and wild, frenzied enjoyment of such a life, as depicted by the young knaves, began to fascinate and charm his mind. Something seemed to whisper in his ear, "As you are now disgraced, without any fault of your own, why not carry it out, and make the most of it? They have put you into jail, this time, for nothing; if they ever do it again, let them have some reason for it." Who knows what might have been the result of such temptations and influences, had these associations been long continued, and not counteracted by the interposition of God?
But then the instructions of childhood, the lessons of home and of the Sabbath-school, were brought back to his memory, and he said to himself, "What, be a thief! Make myself despised and hated by all good people! Live a life of wickedness and dread,—perhaps die in the penitentiary, and then, in all probability, lose my soul, and be cast into hell! No, never! I shall never dare to steal, or to break into houses; and as for killing anybody for money, I shudder even at the thought!"
So did the bad and the good struggle together in the heart of the poor boy. How many there are who, at the first, feel and think about crime as he did, but who, in the end, become familiarwith vice, lose their sense of fear and shame and guilt, become bold and reckless in sin, having their consciences seared as with a hot iron, and violating all laws, human and divine, without compunction, and without a thought save that of impunity and success!
All the elements of a life of crime were in the heart of this wayward boy; and had it not been for the instructions of his childhood, which counteracted these evil influences, and the providence and grace of God, which restrained him, he would have become a miserable outcast from society, leading a wretched life of shame and guilt.
"I wish we had a pack of cards here," said one of the boys, one weary afternoon.
"Can't we make a pack?" inquired another.
And then the lads set their wits to work, and soon manufactured a substitute for a pack of cards. They had a couple of old newspapers, which they folded and cut into small, regular pieces, and marked each piece with the spots that are found on playing cards, making rude shapes of faces, and writing "Jack," "King," "Knave," &c., under them. With these, they used to spend hours shuffling and dealing and playing, until Rodney understood the pernicious game as well as the rest.
"Joe," said Rodney, one day, to the oldest boy, "what did they put you in here for?"
"Well," said he, "I'll tell you.Sam and I run with the Moyamensing Hose Company. Many a jolly time we have had of it, running to fires, and many a good drink of liquor we have had, too; for when the people about the fires treated the firemen, we boys used to come in for our share of the treat. There was a standing quarrel between us and the 'Franklin' boys, and we used to have a fight whenever we could get at them. I heard one of the men say, one day, that if there was only a fire down Twelfth or Thirteenth-street, and the 'Franklin' should come up in that direction, we could get them foul, and give them a good drubbing. Well, therewasa fire down Twelfth-street the next night! I don't mean to say who kindled it; but a watchman saw Samand me about the stable, and then running away from it as fast as we could. The fellow marked us, and as we were going back to the fire with the machine, he nabbed us, and walked us off to the watch-house, and the next day we were stuck into this hole."
"Butdidyou set fire to the stable?"
"What would you give to know? I make no confessions; and if you ever tell out of doors what I have said here, I'll knock your teeth down your throat, if I ever catch you."
These two boys had actually been guilty of the dreadful crime of setting fire to a stable. It was used by two or three poor men for their horses and carts, which was the only means they had of making an honest living; andyet these wicked boys had tried to burn it down, just for the fun of going to a fire, and getting up a fight! There are other boys, in large cities, who will commit similar acts; but such young villains are ripe for almost any crime, and must, in all human probability, come to some dreadful end.
"Hank," said Rodney to another boy,—his real name was Henry, but Hank was his prison name,—"tell us now what you have done."
"I'll tell you nothing about it."
"What is your last name, Hank?" inquired Sam, after a few moments' pause.
"Johnson," said Hank.
"Ah! I know now what you did. I read it in the paper, just before I camein, and, somehow, I thought you was one of the larks as soon as I clapped eyes on you.
"You see, Hank and some of his gang, watching about, saw a house in Arch-street, and noticed that it was empty. The family, I suppose, had all gone to the country, and it was shut up. So, one Sunday afternoon, four of them climbed over the back gate into the yard, pried open a window-shutter, got in, and helped themselves to whatever they could lay their hands on. After dark they sneaked out at the back gate with their plunder. One of them was caught, trying to sell some of the things, and he peached, and they jugged them all. Isn't that the fact, Hank?"
"Well, it's no use lying; it was pretty much so."
"What became of the other fellows, Hank?"
"Why, their fathers or friends bailed them out, and I have no father, or anybody who cares for me. But"—and he swore a fearful oath—"if ever I catch that white-livered Jim Hulsey, who was the ringleader in the whole scheme, and got me into the scrape, and then blowed me, to save himself, I'll beat him to a mummy, I will."
Andthesewere the companions with whom Rodney was compelled to associate! Sometimes he shrank from them with loathing; and sometimes he almost envied the hardihood with which they boasted of their crimes. Had he remained in their company much longer, who can tell to what an extent he wouldhave been contaminated, and how rapidly prepared for utter moral degradation and eternal ruin?
What afterwards became of them, Rodney never knew; but they are probably either dead,—God having said, "The wicked shall not live out half their days,"—or else preying upon society by the commission of more dreadful crimes, or perhaps spending long years of life in the penitentiary, confined to hard labor and prison fare.
One day, after he had been about two weeks in jail, Rodney took the basin in which they had washed, and threw the water out of the window. The grated bars prevented his seeing whether there was any one below. He had often done so before. It had not been forbidden. He did not intend to do any wrong.
But it happened that one of the keepers was walking under the window, and the water fell upon his head.
He came to the door, in a great rage, and asked who had thrown that water out. Rodney at once said that he had done it, but that he did not know that he had done any harm.
The man took him roughly by the arm, and, telling him he must come with him, led him through a long corridor to another part of the prison, and thrust him into a small, dark dungeon.
T
HE room was very small,—a mere closet,—lighted only by a narrow window over the door, which admitted just light enough from the corridor to enable Rodney to see the walls. There was some scribbling on the walls, but there was not light enough, even after his eyes became accustomed to the place, to distinguish a letter.
There was neither chair nor bench, not even a blanket, on which to lie. The bare walls and floor were unrelievedby a single article of comfort. Here, for four long days and nights, Rodney was confined. There was nothing by which he could relieve the dreadful wearisome time. He heard no voice save that of the surly jailer, once a day, bringing him a rough jug of water and half a loaf of black bread. He had no books with which to while away the long, tedious hours, nor was there light enough to read, had there been a whole library in the cell.
The first emotions of the boy, when the door was locked upon him, were those of indignation and anger. "Why," said he to himself, "am I treated in this way? They are brutes! I have done nothing to deserve this barbarity. I am no felon or thief, that I should be usedin this way. I have broken no rule that was made known to me, since I have been in this place. The heartless wretch of a jailer thrust me into this hole, to gratify his own spite. He knows that I couldn't have thrown water on him purposely, for I couldn't see down into the yard. He never told me what I was to do with the dirty water, and there was no other place to throw it. He deserves being shut up in this den himself! O, I wish I had him in my power for a week! I would give him a lesson that he would remember as long as he lived.
"Was there ever such an unlucky boy as I am? Everything goes against me. There is no chance for me to do anything, or to enjoy anything, in this world. I wish I was dead!"
A bitter flood of tears burst from him, which seemed, as it were, to quench his anger, and gradually his heart became open to more salutary reflections.
"Do you not deserve all this?" whispered his conscience. "Have you not brought it upon yourself by your own wickedness and disobedience? You had a good home and kind friends; and if you had to work every day, it was no more than all have to do in one form or another. Blame yourself, then, for your own idle, reckless disposition, that would not be satisfied with your lot. You are only finding out the truth of the text you have often repeated,—'The way of the transgressor is hard.'"
He thought of his home, as he lay upon that hard floor. The forms of his piousold grandmother, and of his mother and sister, all seemed to stand before him, and to look down upon him reproachfully. He remembered now their kindness and good counsel. He groaned in bitterness, "O! thiswouldbreak their hearts, if they knew it! I have disgraced myself, and I have disgraced them." He had leisure for reflection, and his mind recalled, most painfully, the scenes of the past. He thought of the Sabbath-school, of his kind teacher, and of the instructions that had been so affectionately imparted. How much better for him would it have been, had he regarded those instructions!
And then he thought of God! He remembered that Hisall-seeing eyehad followed all his wanderings, and notedall his guilt. He had sinned against God, and some of the bitterness of punishment had already overtaken him. The idea that God was angry with him, and thatHewas visiting his sins with the rod of chastisement, took possession of his soul. Now he ceased to blame others for his sufferings, and acknowledged to himself that all was deserved. Again he wept, but it was in terror at the thought of God's anger, and in grief that he had sinned so ungratefully against his Maker.
He tried to pray; but the words of the prayers he had been taught in his childhood did not seem to be appropriate to his present condition. Those prayers were associated with days and scenes of comparative innocence and happiness.He now felt guilty and wretched, and felt deeply that other forms of petition were necessary for him. But he could not frame words into a prayer that would soothe and relieve his soul. "God will not hear me," was his bitter thought. "I do not deserve to be heard. O! if God would have mercy upon me, and deliver me from this trouble, I think I would try to serve and obey Him as long as I lived."
He kneeled down upon the hard floor, and raised his clasped hands and streaming eyes toward heaven; but he could find no utterance for his emotions, save in sobs and tears. Prayer would not come in words. Again and again he tried to pray, but in vain; he felt that he could not pray; and, almost in despair, he paced the narrow cell, and was ready to believe that God's favor was forever withdrawn from his soul,—that there was no ear to listen, and no arm to save, and that nothing was left for him in the future but a life of misery, a death of shame, and an eternity of woe!
On the third morning, he awoke from a troubled sleep, and, as he rose with aching bones from the bare planks, his limbs trembled and tottered beneath him. Finding that he could not stand, he sat down in the corner of the dungeon, and leaned against the wall. His head was hot, and his throat parched, and the blood beat in throbs through his veins. A sort of delirious excitement began to creep over him, and his mind was filled with strange reveries.
He saw, or fancied he saw, great spiders crawling over the wall, and serpents, lizards, and indescribable reptiles, creeping about on the floor; and he shouted at them, and kicked at them, as they seemed to come near him. Soon they were viewed without dread or terror. He laughed at their motions, and thought he should have companions and pets in his loneliness; still he did not wish them to come too near.
Then there seemed to be other shapes in his cell. His old grandmother sat in one corner, reading, through her familiar spectacles, the well-worn family Bible. His sister sat there, playing with her baby, and his mother was singing as she sewed. And he laughed and talked to them, but could get no answer.Occasionally he felt a half-consciousness that it was all a delusion,—a mere vision of the brain; and yet their fancied presence made him happy, and he laughed and talked incessantly, as if they heard him, and were wondering at his own strange emotions.
And then the gruff voice of the jailer scared away his visions, and roused him for a moment from his reveries.
"You are merry, my boy, and you make too much noise," said the keeper.
The interruption made his head swim, and he attempted to rise; but he was very weak and faint, and fell back again. He turned to say, "I believe I am sick;" but before the words found utterance, the man had set down his pitcher and bread, and was gone.
There was an interval of dreary, blank darkness, and then there were other visions, too wild and strange to describe, and soon the darkness of annihilation settled upon his soul. How long a time elapsed while in this state of insensibility, he could not say; but he was at length half-aroused by voices near him, and he was conscious that some hand was feeling for his pulse, and that men were carrying him out of the dungeon. He afterwards learned that it was the jailer and the physician.
U
PON a narrow cot, in the Hospital apartment of the jail, they laid Rodney, and immediately prepared the medicines suited to his case. The medicines were at length administered, and, with a pleasant consciousness of comfort and attention, he fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was evening; he was perfectly conscious, and felt better; but it was a long time before he could recall his thoughts, and understand where he was, and how he had comethither. He looked around him, and saw a line of cots on each side of him. About a dozen of them were occupied by sick men. A large case of medicines, placed on a writing-desk, stood at one end of the room. Two or three men, who acted as nurses, were sitting near it, talking and laughing together. In another part of the room, by a grated window, looking out upon the pleasant sunset, were two of the convalescent prisoners, pale and thin, conversing softly and sadly. There was not a face he knew,—none that seemed to feel the slightest interest for him; and the wicked scenes of the past two months, and the unhappy circumstances of the present hour, flashed through his mind, and he hid his face in his pillow and wept.
He heard steps softly approach his cot, and knew that some one was standing beside him. But he could not stifle his sobs, and he did not dare to look up.
"I am glad to see that you are better, though I am sorry to see you so much troubled, my poor boy," said a soft, kind voice.
It was long since he had been spoken to in a kind tone, and he only wept the more bitterly, and convulsively pressed his face closer to the pillow. Presently he felt an arm passed slowly under the pillow, which wound around his neck, and gently drew his head toward the stranger.
"Come, come," said the same soft voice, "don't give way to such grief; look up, and talk to me. Let me be a friend to you."
Rodney yielded to the encircling arm, and turned his tearful eyes to the man who spoke to him.
He was a tall, slender man, pale from sickness, decently dressed, and with an intelligent, benevolent countenance. He was one of those whom Rodney had observed looking out of the window.
"What is the matter?" said he; "what has brought you into this horrible place?"
The confidence of the boy was easily won. He had felt an inexpressible desire to talk to some one, and now he was ready to lay open his whole heart at the first intimation of sympathy.
"I ran away from home," was the frank and truthful reply.
"But they do not put boys in jail forrunning away; you must have done something else."
"I was charged with something else; but indeed, indeed, I am innocent!"
"That is very possible," said he, with a sigh; "but what did they charge you with doing?"
And Rodney moved closer to him, and leaned his head upon his breast, and told him all. There was such an evident sincerity, such consistency, such tones of truth in the simple narrative, that he saw he was believed, and the sympathizing words and looks of the listener inspired him with trust, as though he was talking to a well-known friend.
For several days, they were constantly together; the stranger waited uponRodney, and gave him his medicine, and helped him from his cot, talked with him, and manifested for him the kindness of a brother. From several conversations, Rodney gleaned from him the following history.
Lewis Warren,—so will we call him—(indeed, Rodney never knew his true name),—was born and had lived most of his life in a New England village. He was the son of a farmer; a pious man, and deacon of a church, by whose help he received a liberal education. Soon after he had graduated at —— College, he came on to Philadelphia, with the expectation of getting into some business. At the hotel where he stopped, he became acquainted with a man of very gentlemanly appearanceand address, who said that he, too, was a stranger in the city, and proposed to accompany him to some places of amusement. Warren went with him to the theatre, and, on succeeding evenings, to various places of amusement. As they were one evening strolling up Chestnut-street, this friend, Mr. Sharpe, stopped at the well-lighted vestibule of a stately building, that had the air of a private house, although it was thrown open, and proposed that they should go in, and see what was going on there. Warren consented, and, after ascending to the second floor, and passing through a hall, they entered a large, brilliantly-lighted billiard saloon. Around several tables were gathered gentlemanly-looking men, knocking about little ivory balls, withlong, slender wands or cues, and seeming, evidently, engrossed in their respective games. After looking around for a while, Sharpe proposed going up stairs into the third story. They ascended to the upper rooms. In the upper passage stood a stout, short negro-man, who glanced at Sharpe, stepped one side, and permitted them to pass unquestioned. They entered another smaller room,—for the third story was divided into several rooms,—and found other games than those exhibited below. After walking through some of the rooms, and observing the different games, most of which were new to Warren, his companion said to him:
"Do you understand anything about cards?"
"Not a great deal; I have occasionally played a game of whist or sledge."
"Well, that is about the sum of my knowledge. Suppose we while away a half-an-hour at one of these vacant tables."
Warren consented, and they sat down. After playing a game or two, Sharpe proposed having a bottle of wine, and, said he, laughingly, "Whoever loses the next game, shall pay for it."
"Agreed," said Warren; and the wine was brought, and he won the game.
"Well, that is your good luck; but I'll bet you the price of another bottle you can't do it again."
Warren won again.
They tried a third, and that Sharpewon; a fourth, and Warren rose the winner.
The next evening found them, somehow, without much talk about it, at the same place. They played with varied success; but when they left, Warren had lost ten dollars.
He wanted to win it back, and himself proposed the visit for the third night. He became excited by the game, and lost seventy dollars.
Still his eyes were not open; he did not dream that he was in the hands of a professed gambler, and, hoping to get back what he had lost, and what he felt he really could not spare from his small amount of funds, he went again.
"There!" said he, after they had been about an hour at the table, "thereis my last fifty-dollar bill; change that, and I'll try once more."
"Well," said Sharpe, "here is the change; but the luck seems against you. We had better stop for to-night."
But Warren insisted upon continuing, and he won thirty dollars in addition to the fifty which Sharpe had changed for him. The gambler then rose, and told him that he would give him a chance to win all back another time, as fortune seemed to be again propitious to him.
Warren never saw him after that night. The next morning he determined to seek a more private boarding house, and economize his remaining funds, and seek more assiduously some business situation. He stepped to the bar to pay his board, handing the clerkone of the notes he had received in change for his last fifty-dollar bill. The clerk examined it a moment, and passed it back, saying, "That is a counterfeit note, sir." He took it back, amazed, and offered another.
"This is worse still," said the clerk. "I think we had better take care of you, sir. You will please go with me before a magistrate."
"But I did not know——!"
"You can tell that to the squire."
"You have no right to take me," said Warren; "you have no warrant."
"No; but I can keep you here till I send for one, which I shall certainly do, unless you consent to go willingly."
And Warren, conscious of his own innocence in this respect, and neverthinking of the difficulty of proving it, went to a magistrate's office with the clerk at once.
The clerk entered his complaint, and, besides swearing to the offer of the notes, swore that he had seen him, for several days past, in the company of a notorious gambler.
Warren was stunned, overwhelmed, by this declaration. No representation that he made was believed. His pockets were searched, and all the money he had, except some small change, was found to be counterfeit. A commitment was at once made out against him, and he was sent to jail, to await his trial on the charge of passing counterfeit money.
This is one of the methods by which professional gamblers "pluck youngpigeons." No young man is safe who allows himself to play with cards, or to handle dice.
Rodney believed that Warren had told him the truth, and fellowship in misfortune drew the hearts of the duped man and the wronged boy towards each other; for though both had been very much to blame, yet duped and wronged they had been by knaves more cunning and wicked than themselves.
They had many serious conversations together, for both had been piously instructed, and Warren, who seemed truly penitent for his wanderings, as he sat by the bed-side of the sick boy, encouraged him in his resolutions to lead a different life,—to seek the forgiveness and grace of God through a mercifulRedeemer. Seldom has a poor prisoner received sweeter sympathy, or more salutary counsel, than was given to Rodney within the walls of that old Arch-street jail, by his fellow-prisoner.