The next day Frank chanced to meet Mrs. Vivian in the street. She recognized him at once.
"I see you are kept busy," she said, pleasantly.
"Yes," answered Frank. "Our business is pretty good just now. How is your son?"
"He slept well, and woke much refreshed this morning. He is a good boy naturally, but unable to withstand temptation. I have decided to send him to the country for a few weeks, to visit a cousin of about his own age. There he will be secure from temptation, and will have a chance to ride. I would have sent him away before, but that it would leave me alone in the house. You told me last evening that you had no boarding-place."
"My only home is at the lodging-house," said Frank.
"How would you like to occupy a room at my house while my son is away?"
"Very much," said Frank, promptly.
"I shall find it convenient to have you in the house, and shall feel safer."
"I am afraid I shouldn't be a match for an able-bodied burglar," said Frank, smiling.
"Perhaps not; but you could summon a policeman. When can you come and see me about this arrangement?"
"I am off duty to-night."
"Very well; I will expect you. Fred will not go away till to-morrow, and you will have a chance to see him under more favorable circumstances than last evening."
"Thank you very much for your kind invitation," said Frank, politely.
Mrs. Vivian bade him good-morning, very favorably impressed with his manners and deportment.
Frank looked upon the proposal made him by Mrs. Vivian as a piece of great good-fortune. In his new position, excellent as were the beds at the lodging-house, he found it inconvenient to go there to sleep. Once or twice, on account of the late hour at which he was released from duty, he was unable to secure admittance, and had to pay fifty cents for a bed at a hotel on the European system. He had for some time been thinking seriously of hiring a room; but the probable expense deterred him. At Mrs. Vivian's he would have nothing to pay.
In the evening he changed his uniform for the neat suit given him by Mr. Bowen, and about eight o'clock rang the bell of the house in Thirty-eighth street.
He was at once ushered into the presence of Mrs. Vivian and her son.
"I am glad to see you, my young friend," said Mrs. Vivian, glancing with approval at the neat appearance of her young visitor. "Fred, this is the young man who brought you home last night."
"I am much obliged to you," said Fred Vivian, offering his hand to Frank. "I am ashamed of having been found in such a place."
"I don't think the young men with you were very much your friends," said Frank; "I detected one in cheating you."
"You mean at cards?"
"I don't mean that, though I presume they did; but you handed a ten-dollar bill to one of them, and he took it as a five."
"Are you sure of that?" asked Fred, his face flushing with indignation.
"Yes, I saw the number of the bill, though he put it away very quickly."
"And I had been treating that fellow all the afternoon! I gave him a good dinner, too."
"Are you surprised at such treatment from such a person?" asked his mother. "I should have expected it."
"I will never notice the fellow again as long as I live," said Fred, who seemed a good deal impressed by his companion's treachery. "Why, it's nothing better than robbery."
"You have given it the right name, Fred," said his mother, quietly.
"He ought to give the money back," said Fred.
"Let it go, my son. I am willing to lose it, if it severs all acquaintance between you and your unworthy companions."
"Have I ever met you before?" asked Fred, turning to Frank.
"Not before last evening."
"I thought you spoke of yourself as an old acquaintance."
"That was to induce you to come with me," explained Frank. "I hope you will excuse the deception."
"Certainly I will. I had been drinking so much that it was quite necessary to treat me as a child; but I don't mean to be caught in such a scrape again."
"May you keep that resolution, Fred!" said his mother, earnestly.
"I will try to, mother."
"My mother tells me that you are going to take my place while I am in the country," said Fred, turning to Frank.
"I shall be very glad to do so," said our hero. "I never had such a good home before."
"You are a telegraph boy, are you not?" asked Fred.
"Yes," answered Frank.
"Tell me about it. Is it hard work?"
"Not hard, but sometimes when I have been kept pretty busy, I get tired towards night."
"I should think it would be rather good fun," said Fred.
"Do you think you would like it?" asked his mother, with a smile.
"I might like it for about half a day, but all day would be too much for me. However, I am too old for such a position."
Fred had no false pride, and though he knew that Frank was in a social position considerably below his own, he treated him as an equal. Those who are secure of their own position are much more likely to avoid "putting on airs" than those who have recently been elevated in the social scale. Frank was destined that same evening to see the contrast between true and false gentility.
It so happened that Victor Dupont, already mentioned, was an acquaintance and former school-fellow of Fred Vivian. It also chanced that he selected this evening for a call, as the Vivians stood very high socially, being an old family. Victor was rather proud of his acquaintance with them, and took occasion to call frequently.
As he was ushered into the room he did not at first recognize Frank in his new clothes.
"Victor, this is a friend of mine, Frank Kavanagh," said Fred, introducing his two visitors. "Frank, let me introduce my old school-fellow Victor Dupont."
"We are already acquainted," said Frank. "Good-evening, Victor."
Victor stared in amusing astonishment at Frank.
"How do you happen to be here?" asked Victor, brusquely.
"By Mrs. Vivian's kind invitation," said Frank, quite at ease.
"How do you two happen to know each other?" asked Fred.
"We met in the country last summer," said Frank, finding Victor did not answer.
"I suppose you had a very good time together," said Mrs. Vivian.
"Our acquaintance was very slight," said Victor superciliously.
"We must have gone fishing together at least a dozen times," said Frank, quietly.
"How in the world did the fellow thrust himself in here?" said Victor to himself. "They can't know his low position."
In the amiable desire of enlightening the Vivians Victor took an early opportunity to draw Fred aside.
"Have you known Frank Kavanagh long?" he asked.
"Not very long."
"Do you know that he is a telegraph boy?"
"Oh, yes," answered Fred, smiling.
"He used to be a newsboy, and sell papers in the lower part of the city."
"I didn't know that," said Fred indifferently.
"I must say that I am rather surprised to see him here."
"Why?" asked Fred, with provoking calmness.
"Oh, you know, he is much below us in a social point of view."
"I know that he is a poor boy; but some of our most prominent men were once poor boys."
"I don't believe in mixing up different ranks."
"You didn't think so in the country last summer."
"Oh, well, a fellow must have some company, and there was no better to be had."
"You will probably be surprised to hear that your old acquaintance is to live here while I am in the country. I am going away to-morrow to spend a few weeks with my cousin."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Victor, in surprise and annoyance. "Perhaps he is to be here as an errand boy?" he suggested, evidently relieved by the idea.
"Oh, no; he will be treated in all respects as one of the family."
"Hadn't you better tell your mother that he was once a newsboy? She might recall the invitation."
"It would make no difference with her. It seems to me, Victor, you are prejudiced against Frank."
"No, I am not; but I like to see newsboys and telegraph messengers keep their place."
"So do I. I hope Frank will keep his place till he can find a better one."
"That isn't what I meant. How can you associate with such a boy on an equality?"
"Because he seems well-bred and gentlemanly."
"I don't believe he gets more than three or four dollars a week," said Victor, contemptuously.
"Then I really hope his wages will soon be increased."
Victor saw that he could do Frank no harm, and was forced, out of policy, to treat our hero with more politeness than he wished.
When Frank rose to go, Mrs. Vivian desired him to send round his trunk, and take possession of his room the next day.
"She doesn't suspect that I never owned a trunk," thought Frank. "I will buy one to-morrow, though I haven't got much to put in it."
The next day Frank devoted what small leisure he had to the purchase of a trunk, in which he stored his small supply of clothing, leaving out, however, the clothes in which he made his first appearance in the city. These he gave to his friend, Dick Rafferty, to whom they were a welcome gift, being considerably better than those he usually wore. Dick might, out of his earnings, have dressed better, but when he had any extra money it went for some kind of amusement. He was one of the steadiest patrons of the Old Bowery, and was often to be seen in the gallery of other places of amusement. He was surprised to hear of Frank's intended removal from the lodging-house.
"I say, Frank," he said, "you're gettin' on fast. Here you are, goin' to live in a tip-top house up-town. You'll be a reg'lar swell."
"I hope not, Dick. I don't like swells very much."
"You won't notice your old friends bimeby."
"That shows you don't know me, Dick. I shall be glad to notice you whenever we meet."
"I don't see why I can't be in luck too," said Dick. "I wish I could find some rich lady to give me a room in her house."
"You'll have to get some new clothes first, Dick."
"I know I aint got a genteel look," said Dick, surveying his well-worn clothes, soiled and ragged; "but it wouldn't be no use if I was to dress in velvet."
"Unless you kept your face clean," suggested Frank.
"A feller can't be washin' his face all the time," said Dick.
"It's the fashion to have a clean face in good society," said Frank, smiling.
"It must be a good deal of trouble," said Dick. "Is my face very dirty?"
"Not very. There's a black spot on each cheek, and one on the side of your nose, and your chin looks a little shady."
"A feller can't keep very clean in my business."
"I suppose it is rather hard," Frank admitted; "but you won't be a boot-black always, I hope."
"I'd just as lieves give it up for bankin', or cashier of a savings-bank," said Dick. "Them's light, genteel kinds of business, and don't dirty the hands."
"Well, Dick, if I hear of an opening in either line I'll let you know. Now I must go and buy a trunk."
"I never expect to get as far as a trunk," said Dick. "I shall feel like a gentleman when I can set up one. It wouldn't be no use to me now. I'd have to stuff it with rocks to make a show."
"Poor Dick!" thought Frank as he left his friend. "He takes the world too easy. He hasn't any ambition, or he wouldn't be content to keep on blacking boots when there are so many better ways of making a living. If I ever get a chance to give him a lift I will. He aint much to look at, but he's a good-hearted boy, and would put himself to a good deal of trouble to do me a favor."
It was not much trouble to pack his trunk. Indeed, he had scarcely enough clothing to fill it one-third full.
"I may have to adopt Dick's plan, and fill it with rocks," said Frank to himself. "Some day I shall be better supplied. I can't expect to get on too fast."
The room assigned to Frank was a small one; but it was neatly furnished, and provided with a closet. The bed, with its clean white spread, looked very tempting, and Frank enjoyed the prospect of the privacy he would have in a room devoted to his sole use. At the lodging-house, though his bed was comfortable, there were sixty to eighty boys who slept in the same room, and of course he had no more rights than any other.
"I hope you like your room, Frank," said Mrs. Vivian.
"It is the best I ever had," he replied.
"How early are you obliged to be on duty?" she asked.
"At eight o'clock."
"I do not breakfast till that hour; but I will direct the cook to have a cup of coffee and some breakfast ready for you at seven."
"Am I to take my meals here?" asked Frank, in surprise.
"Certainly. Did you think I was going to send you out to a restaurant?" inquired Mrs. Vivian, smiling.
"I am very much obliged to you; but I am afraid it will inconvenience the cook to get me an early breakfast."
"I am glad to see you so considerate of others. I can answer for Mary, however, who is very obliging. You can get lunch outside, as I suppose it will be inconvenient for you to leave your duties to come so far as Thirty-eighth street."
"You are very kind to me, Mrs. Vivian," said Frank, gratefully.
"I shall claim an occasional service of you in return," said Mrs. Vivian.
"I hope you will," said Frank, promptly.
Two days after he had taken up his residence in his new quarters Frank was called upon to render a very agreeable service.
"I have two tickets for Wallack's theatre for this evening," said Mrs. Vivian. "Will it be agreeable for you to accompany me?"
"I should like it very much."
"Then you shall be my escort. When Fred is at home he goes with me; but now I must depend on you. Have you a pair of kid gloves?"
Frank was obliged to confess that he had not. In fact he had never owned a pair in his life.
"I will give you a pair of mine. Probably there is little difference in the size of our hands."
This proved to be true.
Somehow Frank in his new life seemed always running across Victor Dupont. That young gentleman and his sister sat in the row behind Mrs. Vivian and her youthful escort, but did not immediately become aware of it.
"Why, Victor," said his sister, who had been looking about her, "there is Mrs. Vivian in the next row. Who is that nice-looking boy with her? It can't be Fred, for he is larger."
Victor turned his glance in the direction of Mrs. Vivian. His surprise and disgust were about equal when he saw the country-boy he had looked down upon, faultlessly attired, with neat-fitting gloves, and a rose in his button-hole and looking like a gentleman.
"I never saw such cheek!" he exclaimed, in disgust.
"What do you mean, Victor?" asked his sister, looking puzzled.
"Do you want to know who that boy is with Mrs. Vivian?"
"Yes; he is very nice-looking."
"Then you can marry him if you like. That boy is a telegraph messenger. I used to know him in the country. A few weeks ago he was selling papers in front of the Astor House."
"You don't say so!" ejaculated Flora Dupont, "Aren't you mistaken?"
"I guess not. I know him as well as I know you."
"He is a good-looking boy, at any rate," said Flora, who was less snobbish than her brother.
"I can't see it," said Victor, annoyed. "He looks to me very common and vulgar. I don't see how Mrs. Vivian can be willing to appear with him at a fashionable theatre like this."
"It's a pity he is a telegraph boy, he is so nice-looking."
Just then Frank, turning, recognized Victor and bowed. Victor could not afford not to recognize Mrs. Vivian's escort, and bowed in return.
But Victor was not the only one of Frank's acquaintances who recognized him that evening. In the upper gallery sat Dick Rafferty and Micky Shea, late fellow-boarders at the lodging-house. It was not often that these young gentlemen patronized Wallack's, for even a gallery ticket there was high-priced; but both wanted to see the popular play of "Ours," and had managed to scrape together fifty cents each.
"Dick," said Micky, suddenly, "there's Frank Kavanagh down near the stage, in an orchestra seat."
"So he is," said Dick. "Aint he dressed splendid though, wid kid gloves on and a flower in his button-hole, and an elegant lady beside him? See, she's whisperin' to him now. Who'd think he used to kape company wid the likes of us?"
"Frank's up in the world. He's a reg'lar swell now."
"And it's I that am glad of it. He's a good fellow, Frank is, and he won't turn his back on us."
This was proved later in the evening, for, as Frank left the theatre with Mrs. Vivian, he espied his two old friends standing outside, and bowed with a pleasant smile, much to the gratification of the two street boys, who were disposed to look upon their old friend as one of the aristocracy.
Of course Frank's daily duties were far the most part of a commonplace character. They were more varied, to be sure, than those of an errand-boy, or shop-boy, but even a telegraph messenger does not have an adventure every day. Twice in the next three weeks our hero was summoned by Mrs. Leroy to give her pet dog an airing. It was not hard work, but Frank did not fancy it, though he never failed to receive a handsome fee from the mistress of Fido.
One day Frank was summoned to a fashionable boarding-house in a side street above the Fifth-avenue hotel. On presenting himself, the servant said, "It's one of the boarders wants you. Stay here, and I'll let him know you've come."
"All right!" said Frank.
"Come right up," said the girl, directly after, speaking from the upper landing.
Frank ascended the stairs, and entered a room on the second floor. A gentleman, partially bald, with a rim of red hair around the bare central spot, sat in a chair by the window, reading a morning paper.
"So you're the telegraph boy, are you?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"You are honest, eh?"
"I hope so, sir."
"Because I am going to trust you with a considerable sum of money."
"It will be safe, sir."
"I want you to do some shopping for me. Are you ever employed in that way?"
"I was once, sir."
"Let me see,—I want some linen handkerchiefs and some collars. Are you a judge of those articles?"
"Not particularly."
"However, I suppose you know a collar from a pair of cuffs, and a handkerchief from a towel," said the stranger, petulantly.
"I rather think I can tell them apart," said Frank.
"Now let me see how many I want," said the stranger, reflectively. "I think half-a-dozen handkerchiefs will do."
"How high shall I go?" asked Frank.
"You ought to get them for fifty cents apiece, I should think."
"Yes, sir, I can get them for that."
"And the collars—well, half-a-dozen will do. Get them of good quality, size 15, and pay whatever is asked."
"Yes, sir; do you want anything more?"
"I think not, this morning. I have a headache, or I would go out myself," explained the stranger. "I live up the Hudson, and I must go home this afternoon by the boat."
"Do you want me to buy the articles at any particular store?" inquired Frank.
"No; I leave that to your judgment. A large store is likely to have a better assortment, I suppose."
"Very well, sir."
"Come back as soon as you can, that's all."
"You haven't given me the money yet, sir," said Frank.
"Oh, I beg pardon! That is an important omission."
The stranger drew out a pocket-book, which appeared to be well filled, and extracted two bills of twenty dollars each, which he passed to Frank.
"This is too much, sir," said the telegraph boy. "One of these bills will be much more than sufficient."
"Never mind. I should like to have them both changed. You can buy the articles at different places, as this will give you a chance to get change for both."
"I can get them changed at a bank, sir."
"No," said the stranger, hastily, "I would rather you would pay them for goods. Shopkeepers are bound to change bills for a customer."
"I don't see what difference it makes to you as long as they are changed," thought Frank. However it was not his business to question his employer's decision.
Sixth avenue was not far distant, and as Frank was left to his own choice he betook himself hither on his shopping tour. Entering a large retail store, he inquired for gentleman's linen handkerchiefs.
"Large or small?" asked the girl in attendance.
"Large, I should think."
He was shown some of good quality, at fifty cents.
"I think they will do," said Frank, after examination. "I will take half-a-dozen."
So saying he drew out one of the twenty-dollar bills.
"Cash!" called the saleswoman, tapping on the counter with her pencil.
Several small boys were flitting about the store in the service of customers. One of them made his appearance.
"Have you nothing smaller?" asked the girl, noticing the denomination of the bill.
"No," answered Frank.
She put the bill between the leaves of a small blank book, and handed both that and the goods to the boy.
Frank sat down on a stool by the counter to wait.
Presently the cash-boy came back, and the proprietor of the store with him. He was a portly man, with a loud voice and an air of authority. To him the cash-boy pointed out Frank.
"Are you the purchaser of these handkerchiefs?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," answered Frank, rather surprised at the question.
"And did you offer this twenty-dollar bill in payment?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you get it? Think well," said the trader, sternly.
"What is the matter? Isn't the bill a good one?" asked Frank.
"You have not answered my question. However, I will answer yours. The bill is a counterfeit."
Frank looked surprised, and he understood at a flash why he had been trusted with two of these bills when one would answer.
"I have nothing to do with that," said the telegraph boy. "I was sent out to buy some articles, and this money was given me to pay for them."
"Have you got any other money of this description?" asked the trader, suspiciously.
"Yes," answered Frank, readily. "I have another twenty."
"Let me see it."
"Certainly. I should like to know whether that is bad too."
The other twenty proved to be a fac-simile of the first.
"I must know where you got this money," said the merchant. "You may be in the service of counterfeiters."
"You might know, from my uniform, that I am not," said Frank, indignantly. "I once lost a place because I would not pass counterfeit money."
"I have a detective here. You must lead him to the man who supplied you with the money."
"I am quite willing to do it," said our hero. "He wanted to make a tool of me. If I can put him into the hands of the law, I will."
"That boy is all right," said a gentleman standing by. "The rogue was quite ingenious in trying to work off his bad money through a telegraph messenger."
"What is the appearance of this man?" asked the detective as they walked along.
"Rather a reddish face, and partly bald."
"What is the color of the hair he has?"
"Red."
"Very good. It ought to be easy to know him by that description."
"I should know him at once," said Frank, promptly.
"If he has not changed his appearance. It is easy to do that, and these fellows understand it well."
Reaching the house, Frank rang the bell, the detective sauntering along on the opposite side of the street.
"Is Mr. Stanley at home?" asked Frank.
"I will see."
The girl came down directly, with the information that Mr. Stanley had gone out.
"That is queer," said Frank. "He told me to come right back. He said he had a headache, too, and did not want to go out."
As he spoke, his glance rested on a man who was lounging at the corner. This man had black hair, and a full black beard. By chance, Frank's eye fell upon his right hand, and with a start he recognized a large ring with a sparkling diamond, real or imitation. This ring he had last seen on Mr. Stanley's hand. He crossed the street in a quiet, indifferent manner, and imparted his suspicions to the detective.
"Good!" said the latter; "you are a smart boy."
He approached the man alluded to, who, confident in his disguise, did not budge, and, placing his hand on his shoulder, said, "Mr. Stanley, I believe."
"You are mistaken," said the man, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant way, with a foreign accent, "I am M. Lavalette. I do not know your M. Stanley."
"I am afraid you are forgetful, monsieur. I beg pardon, but do you wear a wig?" and with a quick movement he removed the stranger's hat, and, dislodging his black wig, displayed the rim of red hair.
"This is an outrage!" said the rogue, angrily; "I will have you arrested, monsieur."
"I will give you a chance, for here is an officer," said the detective.
"I give this man in charge for passing counterfeit money," said the detective. "The next time, Mr. Stanley, don't select so smart a telegraph boy. He recognized you, in spite of your disguise, by the ring upon your finger."
The rogue angrily drew the ring from his finger, and threw it on the sidewalk.
"Curse the ring!" he said. "It has betrayed me."
It only remains to add that Stanley was convicted through Frank's testimony. He proved to be an old offender, and the chief of a gang of counterfeiters.
Frank was more fortunate than the generality of the telegraph boys in obtaining fees from those who employed him. He was not allowed to solicit gifts, but was at liberty to accept them when offered. In one way or another he found his weekly receipts came to about seven dollars. Out of this sum he would have been able to save money, even if he had been obliged to pay all his expenses, that is by the exercise of strict economy. But, as we know, he was at no expense for room or board, with the exception of a light lunch in the middle of the day. Making a little calculation, he found that he could save about four dollars a week. As it had only been proposed to him to stay at Mrs. Vivian's while Fred was in the country, it seemed prudent to Frank to "make hay while the sun shone," and save up a little fund from which he could hereafter draw, in case it were necessary.
So when he had saved ten dollars he presented himself at the counter of the Dime Savings-Bank, then located in Canal street, and deposited it, receiving a bank-book, which he regarded with great pride.
"I begin to feel like a capitalist," he said to himself. "I am rather better off now than I was when I led round old Mills, the blind man. I wonder how he is getting along."
As Frank entered Broadway from Canal street, by a strange coincidence he caught sight of the man of whom he had been thinking. Mills, with the same querulous, irritable expression he knew well, was making his way up Broadway, led by a boy younger than Frank.
"Pity a poor blind man!" he muttered from time to time in a whining voice.
"Look out, you young rascal, or you will have me off the sidewalk," Frank heard the blind man say; "I'll have a reckoning with you when I get home."
The boy, who was pale and slight, looked frightened.
"I couldn't help it, Mr. Mills," he said. "It was the crowd."
"You are getting careless, that's what's the matter," said Mills, harshly. "You are looking in at the shop windows, and neglect me."
"No, I am not," said the boy, in meek remonstrance.
"Don't you contradict me!" exclaimed the blind man, grasping his stick significantly. "Pity a poor blind man!"
"What an old brute he is!" thought Frank; "I will speak to him."
"How do you do, Mr. Mills?" he said, halting before the blind man.
"Who are you?" demanded Mills, quickly.
"You ought to know me; I am Frank Kavanagh, who used to go round with you."
"I have had so many boys—most of them good for nothing—that I don't remember you."
"I am the boy who wouldn't pass counterfeit money for you."
"Hush!" said the blind man apprehensively, lest some one should hear Frank. "There was some mistake about that. I remember you now. Do you want to come back? This boy doesn't attend to his business."
Frank laughed. Situated as he was now, the proposal seemed to him an excellent joke, and he was disposed to treat it as such.
"Why, the fact is, Mr. Mills, you fed me on such rich food that I shouldn't dare to go back for fear of dyspepsia."
"Or starvation," he added to himself.
"I live better now," said Mills. "I haven't had any boy since, that suited me as well as you."
"Thank you; but I am afraid it would be a long time before I got rich on the wages you would give me."
"I'll give you fifty cents a week," said Mills, "and more if I do well. You can come to-day, if you like."
"You are very kind, but I am doing better than that," said Frank.
"What are you doing,—selling papers?"
"No; I have given that up. I am a telegraph boy."
"How much do you make?"
"Seven dollars last week."
"Why, you will be rich," said the blind man, enviously. "I don't think I get as much as that myself, and I have to pay a boy out of it."
His poor guide did not have the appearance of being very liberally paid.
"Then you won't come back?" said Mills, querulously.
"No, I guess not."
"Come along, boy!" said Mills, roughly, to his little guide. "Are you going to keep me here all day?"
"I thought you wanted to speak to this boy."
"Well, I have got through. He has deserted me. It is the way of the world. There's nobody to pity the poor, blind man."
"Here's five cents for old acquaintance' sake. Mr. Mills," said Frank, dropping a nickel into the hand of the boy who was guiding him.
"Thank you! May you never know what it is to be blind!" said Mills, in his professional tone.
"If I am, I hope I can see as well as you," thought Frank. "What a precious old humbug he is, and how I pity that poor boy! If I had a chance I would give him something to save him from starvation."
Frank walked on, quite elated at the change in his circumstances which allowed him to give money in charity to the person who had once been his employer. He would have given it more cheerfully if in his estimation the man had been more worthy.
Frank's errand took him up Broadway. He had two or three stops to make, which made it inconvenient for him to ride. A little way in front of him he saw a boy of fourteen, whom he recognized as an errand-boy, and a former fellow-lodger at the Newsboy's Lodging-House. He was about to hurry forward and join John Riley,—for this was the boy's name,—when his attention was attracted, and his suspicions aroused, by a man who accosted John. He was a man of about thirty, rather showily dressed, with a gold chain dangling from his vest.
"Johnny," he said, addressing the errand-boy "do you want to earn ten cents?"
"I should like to," answered the boy, "but I am going on an errand, and can't spare the time."
"It won't take five minutes," said the young man. "It is only to take this note up to Mr. Conant's room, on the fourth floor of this building."
They were standing in front of a high building occupied as offices.
The boy hesitated.
"Is there an answer?" he asked.
"No; you can come right down as soon as the letter is delivered."
"I suppose I could spare the time for that," said John Riley.
"Of course you can. It won't take you two minutes. Here is the ten cents. I'll hold your bundle for you while you run up."
"All right!" said the errand-boy, and, suspecting nothing, he surrendered his parcel, and taking the note and the dime, ran upstairs.
No sooner was he out of sight than the young man began to walk off rapidly with the bundle. It was an old trick, that has been many times played upon unsuspecting boys, and will continue to be played as long as there are knavish adventurers who prefer dishonest methods of getting a living to honest industry.
In this case, however, the rogue was destined to disappointment. It may be stated that he had been present in the dry-goods store from which the parcel came, and, knowing that the contents were valuable, had followed the boy.
No sooner did Frank understand the fellow's purpose than he pursued him, and seized him by the arm.
"What do you want of me?" demanded the rogue, roughly. "I am in a hurry and can't be detained."
"I want you to give me that bundle which you are trying to steal from my friend, John Riley."
The rogue's countenance changed.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, to gain time.
"I mean that I heard your conversation with him, and I know your game. Come back, or I will call a policeman."
The young man was sharp enough to see that he must give up his purpose.
"There, take the bundle," he said, tossing it into Frank's arms. "I was only going for a cigar; I should have brought it back."
When John Riley came downstairs, with the letter in his hand,—for he had been unable to find any man named Conant in the building,—he found Frank waiting with the parcel.
"Holloa, Frank! Where's that man that sent me upstairs? I can't find Mr. Conant."
"Of course you can't. There's no such man in the building. That man was a thief; but for me he would have carried off your bundle."
"What a fool I was!" said the errand-boy. "I won't let myself be fooled again."
"Don't give up a bundle to a stranger again," said Frank. "I'm only a country boy, but I don't allow myself to be swindled as easily as you."
"I wish that chap would come here again," said Johnny, indignantly. "But I've come out best, after all," he added, brightening up. "I've made ten cents out of him."
One day Frank was summoned to a handsome residence on Madison avenue.
"Sit down in the parlor," said the servant "and I will call Mrs. Graham."
As Frank looked around him, and noted the evidences of wealth in the elegant furniture and rich ornaments profusely scattered about, he thought, "How rich Mrs. Graham must be! I suppose she is very happy. I should be if I could buy everything I wanted."
It was a boy's thought, and betrayed our hero's inexperience. Even unlimited means are not sure to produce happiness, nor do handsome surroundings prove wealth.
Five minutes later an elderly lady entered the room. She was richly dressed, but her face wore a look of care and sorrow.
As she entered, Frank rose with instinctive politeness, and bowed.
"You are the telegraph boy," said the lady, inquiringly.
"Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Graham looked at him earnestly, as if to read his character.
"I have sent for you," she said, at length, "to help me in a matter of some delicacy, and shall expect you not to speak of it, even to your employers."
"They never question me," said Frank, promptly. "You may rely upon my secrecy."
Frank's statement was correct. The business entrusted to telegraph messengers is understood to be of a confidential nature, and they are instructed to guard the secrets of those who make use of their services.
"I find it necessary to raise some money," continued the lady, apparently satisfied, "and am not at liberty, for special reasons, to call upon my husband for it. I have a diamond ring of considerable value, which I should like to have you carry, either to a jeweller or a pawnbroker, and secure what advance you can upon it."
"And I believed she had plenty of money," thought Frank, wondering.
"I will do the best I can for you, madam," said our hero.
Mrs. Graham drew from her pocket a small box, containing a diamond ring, which sparkled brilliantly in the sunshine.
"It is beautiful," said Frank, admiringly.
"Yes, it cost originally eight hundred dollars," said the lady.
"Eight hundred dollars!" echoed Frank, in wonder. He had heard of diamond rings, and knew they were valuable, but had no idea they were so valuable as that.
"How much do you expect to get on it?" he asked.
"Nothing near its value, of course, nor is that necessary. Two hundred dollars will be as much as I care to use, and at that rate I shall be able the sooner to redeem it. I believe I will tell you why I want the money."
"Not unless you think it best," said Frank.
"It is best, for I shall again require your services in disposing of the money."
The lady sat down on the sofa beside Frank, and told him the story which follows:—
"I have two children," she said, "a daughter and a son. The son has recently graduated from college, and is now travelling in Europe. My daughter is now twenty-six years of age. She was beautiful, and our social position was such that my husband, who is a proud man, confidently anticipated that she would make a brilliant match. But at the age of nineteen Ellen fell in love with a clerk in my husband's employ. He was a young man of good appearance and character, and nothing could be said against him except that he was poor. This, however, was more than enough in Mr. Graham's eyes. When Lawrence Brent asked for the hand of our daughter, my husband drove him from the house with insult, and immediately discharged him from his employ. Ellen was high-spirited, and resented this treatment of the man she loved. He soon obtained a place quite as good as the one he had lost, and one day Ellen left the house and married him. She wrote to us, excusing her action, and I would gladly have forgiven her; but her father was obdurate. He forbade my mentioning her name to him, and from that day to this he has never referred to her.
"I am now coming to the business in which you are to help me. For years my son-in-law was able to support his wife comfortably, and also the two children which in time came to them. But, a year since, he became sick, and his sickness lasted till he had spent all his savings. Now he and his poor family are living in wretched lodgings, and are in need of the common necessaries of life. It is for them I intend the money which I can secure upon this ring."
Frank could not listen without having his sympathies aroused.
"I shall be still more glad to help you," he said, "now that I know how the money is to be used."
"Thank you," said the lady. "You are a good boy, and I see that I can trust you implicitly."
She handed Frank the box, enjoining upon him to be careful not to lose it.
"It is so small that it might easily slip from your pocket," she said.
"I shall take the best care of it," said Frank. "Where would you advise me to go first?"
"I hardly know. If I wished to sell it I would carry it to Tiffany; but it was purchased there, and it might in that case come to my husband's ears. There is a pawnbroker, named Simpson, who, I hear, is one of the best of his class. You may go there first."
"How much shall I say you want on it?" asked Frank.
"Don't mention my name at all," said the lady, hastily.
"I suppose I shall have to give some name," said Frank, "in order that the ticket may be made out."
"What is your own name?"
"Frank Kavanagh."
"Have you a mother living?"
"No," said Frank, gravely.
"Then let the ticket be made out in your name."
"If you wish it."
"Shall I bring the money to you, Mrs. Graham?"
"No; my husband might be at home, and it would arouse his suspicions. At twelve o'clock I will meet you at Madison Park, at the corner opposite the Union League Club House. You can then report to me your success."
"Very well," said Frank.
He went at once to the pawnbroker mentioned by Mrs. Graham. But for his uniform he would have been questioned closely as to how he came by the ring; but telegraph boys are so often employed on similar errands that the pawnbroker showed no surprise. After a careful examination he agreed to advance two hundred dollars, and gave Frank the money and the ticket. When Frank gave his own name, he said, "That is your name, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"But the ring does not belong to you?"
"No; it belongs to a lady who does not wish her name known."
"It is all the same to us."
"That was easily done," thought Frank. "Now I must go and meet Mrs. Graham."
"Have you got the money?" asked Mrs. Graham, anxiously, as Frank made his appearance.
"Yes," replied Frank.
"How much?"
"The amount you asked for."
"That is well. Now I shall be able to relieve my poor daughter. I cannot bear to think of her and her poor children suffering for the lack of bread, while I am living in luxury. I wish Mr. Graham was not so unforgiving."
"Will you take the money now?" asked Frank.
"I wish you to take fifty dollars to my daughter."
"I will do so with pleasure. What is her address?"
Mrs. Graham drew out a card, on which she had pencilled her daughter's address. It proved to be a tenement-house on the east side of the city, not far from Fourteenth street.
"I wish I could go myself," said Mrs. Graham, sadly; "but I do not dare to do so at present. Give Ellen this money, with my best love; and say to her that a month hence I will again send her the same sum. Tell her to keep up good courage. Brighter days may be in store."
"I will be sure to remember," said Frank, in a tone of sympathy.
The errand was to his taste; for he was about to carry help and comfort to those who needed both.
There stands a large tenement-house on East Fourteenth street, five stories in height, and with several entrances. Scores of barefooted and scantily attired children play in the halls or on the sidewalk in front, and the great building is a human hive, holding scores of families. Some of them, unaccustomed to live better, are tolerably content with their squalid and contracted accommodations; but a few, reduced by gradual steps from respectability and comfort, find their positions very hard to bear.
On the third floor three small rooms were occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Robert Morgan, and their two children. She was the daughter of Mrs. Graham, and had been reared in affluence. How she had incurred her father's displeasure has already been told. He had been taken sick some months before, his little stock of money had melted away, and now he was unable even to pay the small expenses of life in a tenement-house.
Just before Frank made his appearance there was sadness in the little household.
"How much money is there left, Ellen?" asked Robert Morgan.
"Seventy-five cents," she answered, in a tone which she tried to make cheerful.
"And our week's rent will become due to-morrow."
"I may hear from mother," suggested Mrs. Morgan.
"If you don't, I don't know what will become of us all. We shall be thrust into the street. Even this squalid home will be taken from us."
"Don't get discouraged, Robert."
"Isn't there enough to make me despondent, Ellen? I can see now that I did very wrong to marry you."
"Do you regret our marriage, then, Robert?" asked his wife.
"Only because it has brought you poverty and discomfort."
"I have not yet regretted it."
"How different a position you would have occupied if I had not dragged you down! You would still be living in luxury."
"I should not have you and these dear children."
"And will they compensate you for what has come upon you?"
"Yes," she answered, emphatically.
"You have more philosophy than I have, Ellen."
"More trust, perhaps. Do you know, Robert, I think we are on the eve of good fortune?"
"I hope so, but I see no prospects of it."
Just then there was a knock at the door.
Thinking that it might be some humble neighbor, on a borrowing expedition, Mrs. Morgan opened the door. Before her stood our hero in his uniform.
"Is this Mrs. Robert Morgan?" asked Frank.
"Yes," she answered.
"I come from your mother."
"From my mother? Robert, do you hear that?" said the poor woman, in a voice of gladness. "Here is a messenger from my mother. Didn't I tell you there was good luck in store for us?"
Mr. Morgan did not answer. He waited anxiously to hear what Frank had to communicate.
"Your mother sends you her love, and fifty dollars," continued Frank. "She hopes to call soon herself."
"Fifty dollars!" exclaimed Ellen Morgan, in delight. "It is a fortune."
"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated her husband, in great relief.
"A month hence you may expect a similar sum," said Frank. "I suppose I shall bring it. Shall I find you here?"
Ellen Morgan looked at her husband.
"No," said he. "Let us get out of this neighborhood as soon as possible. Can't you find a respectable place to-day?"
"Yes," said his wife. "I shall be glad to move. I saw some neat rooms on West Twentieth street on Monday. They will cost us but little more, and will suit us better."
"I will send my mother my new address," she said to Frank.
"Then you may send it under cover to me, and I will see that she gets it privately," said Frank, who had received instructions to that effect from Mrs. Graham.
When Frank had left the room the little household seemed quite transformed. Hope had entered, and all looked more cheerful.
"We are provided for, for two months, Robert," said his wife. "Is not that a piece of good luck?"
"Yes, indeed it is," he answered heartily. "Before that time I can get to work again, and with health and employment I shall not need to ask favors of any one."
"I wish father were as forgiving as mother," said Ellen Morgan.
"Your father is a hard man. He will never forgive you for marrying a poor man. He would punish you by starvation."
"He is very proud," said Mrs. Morgan. "I was an only daughter, you know, and he had set his heart upon my making a brilliant marriage."
"As you might have done."
"As I did not care to do. I preferred to make a happy marriage with the man of my choice."
"You are a good wife, Ellen."
"I hope you will always find me so, Robert."
"I should have sunk utterly if you had been like some women."
In the afternoon Mrs. Morgan went out, taking one of her children with her. She went to the rooms on West Twentieth street, and, finding them still vacant, secured them, paying a month's rent in advance, as her mother's timely gift enabled her to do. Before the next evening they were installed in their new home, and Mrs. Morgan sent a note to her mother, under cover to Frank, apprising her of the removal.
Two days later Frank received a summons to the house on Madison avenue. He obeyed, thinking he should probably be sent with some message to Mrs. Morgan.
He found Mrs. Graham in a state of nervous excitement.
"My husband has been stricken with paralysis," she said. "It is terribly sudden. He went out yesterday, apparently in vigorous health. He was brought home pale and helpless."
"Can I do anything for him or you?" asked Frank.
"Yes; you can go at once to my daughter, and summon her to her father's bedside."
Frank was surprised, remembering how obdurate Mrs. Graham had described her husband to be.
"You look surprised," she said; "but sickness often produces a great change in us. My husband's pride has given way. His affection has returned; and it is at his request that I send for Ellen."
Frank had come to feel a personal interest in the family, and he gladly set out for the modest home in West Twentieth street. He felt that it was pleasant to be a messenger of reconciliation.
Mrs. Morgan recognized him at once, and received him cordially.
"Do you come from my mother?" she asked.
"Yes. She wishes you to come home at once."
"But—my father."
"Your father is very sick; and he joins in the request."
"It has come at last,—the time I have looked forward to for so long," said Ellen Morgan, clasping her hands. "Robert, do you feel equal to looking after the children while I am gone?"
"Yes, Ellen. Go at once. God grant that your father's heart may be softened, for your sake. For myself I am content to live in poverty; but I don't like to see you suffer."
"What is the matter with father? Did my mother tell you?"
Frank explained, and thus gave her fresh cause for anxiety.
On reaching her father's chamber she was shocked by his changed appearance; but her heart was gladdened by the wan smile that lighted up his face, assuring her that she was welcome. From the doctor she received the assurance that her father was in no immediate danger. Indeed, he expressed a confident hope that Mr. Graham would rally from his present attack, and be able to go about his business again, though caution would be required against undue excitement or fatigue.
The doctor's prediction was verified. Mr. Graham recovered; but his old pride and obduracy did not come back. He became reconciled to his son-in-law, and provided him a well-paid position in his own mercantile establishment, and provided rooms in the Madison-avenue mansion for the little family whom Frank had first visited in the squalid tenement-house in Fourteenth street, and the glad voices of children made the house no longer lonely.
"You must call and see us often," said Ellen Morgan to our hero. "I shall always remember you as the messenger who brought us good tidings at the darkest hour in our fortunes. We shall always welcome you as a friend."
One morning an elderly gentleman entered the office in which Frank was employed, and sought an interview with the superintendent.
"I want a smart boy for detective work," he said. "Have you one you can recommend?"
The superintendent cast his eyes over the line of boys, and called Frank. Our hero's recognition of the disguised counterfeiter by his ring had given him a reputation for shrewdness.
"I think this boy will suit you," he said. "Do you wish him to go with you now?"
"Yes; I may want him a week."
"Very well."
Frank accompanied the gentleman into the street.
"Have you no other clothes except this uniform?" asked Mr. Hartley.
"Yes, sir."
"Then go and put them on. Then report to me at No. — Broadway."
"All right, sir."
"It is fortunate I have a good suit," thought Frank.
He was not long in exchanging his uniform for the neat suit given him by Mr. Bowen. Thus attired, he presented himself in Mr. Hartley's counting-room. The merchant surveyed him with approval.