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Ragged Dick

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<h2>CHAPTER IX. A SCENE IN A THIRD AVENUE CAR</h2> The boys had turned into Third Avenue, a long street, which, commencing just below the Cooper Institute, runs out to Harlem. A man came out of a side street, uttering at intervals a monotonous cry which sounded like “glass puddin’.” “Glass pudding!” repeated Frank, looking in surprised wonder at Dick. “What does he mean?” “Perhaps you’d like some,” said Dick. “I never heard of it before.” “Suppose you ask him what he charges for his puddin’.” Frank looked more narrowly at the man, and soon concluded that he was a glazier. “Oh, I understand,” he said. “He means ‘glass put in.’” Frank’s mistake was not a singular one. The monotonous cry of these men certainly sounds more like “glass puddin’,” than the words they intend to utter. “Now,” said Dick, “where shall we go?” “I should like to see Central Park,” said Frank. “Is it far off?” “It is about a mile and a half from here,” said Dick. “This is Twenty-ninth Street, and the Park begins at Fifty-ninth Street.” It may be explained, for the benefit of readers who have never visited New York, that about a mile from the City Hall the cross-streets begin to be numbered in regular order. There is a continuous line of houses as far as One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where may be found the terminus of the Harlem line of horse-cars. When the entire island is laid out and settled, probably the numbers will reach two hundred or more. Central Park, which lies between Fifty-ninth Street on the south, and One Hundred and Tenth Street on the north, is true to its name, occupying about the centre of the island. The distance between two parallel streets is called a block, and twenty blocks make a mile. It will therefore be seen that Dick was exactly right, when he said they were a mile and a half from Central Park. “That is too far to walk,” said Frank. “’Twon’t cost but six cents to ride,” said Dick. “You mean in the horse-cars?” “Yes.” “All right then. We’ll jump aboard the next car.” The Third Avenue and Harlem line of horse-cars is better patronized than any other in New York, though not much can be said for the cars, which are usually dirty and overcrowded. Still, when it is considered that only seven cents are charged for the entire distance to Harlem, about seven miles from the City Hall, the fare can hardly be complained of. But of course most of the profit is made from the way-passengers who only ride a short distance. A car was at that moment approaching, but it seemed pretty crowded. “Shall we take that, or wait for another?” asked Frank. “The next’ll most likely be as bad,” said Dick. The boys accordingly signalled to the conductor to stop, and got on the front platform. They were obliged to stand up till the car reached Fortieth Street, when so many of the passengers had got off that they obtained seats. Frank sat down beside a middle-aged woman, or lady, as she probably called herself, whose sharp visage and thin lips did not seem to promise a very pleasant disposition. When the two gentlemen who sat beside her arose, she spread her skirts in the endeavor to fill two seats. Disregarding this, the boys sat down. “There aint room for two,” she said, looking sourly at Frank. “There were two here before.” “Well, there ought not to have been. Some people like to crowd in where they’re not wanted.” “And some like to take up a double allowance of room,” thought Frank; but he did not say so. He saw that the woman had a bad temper, and thought it wisest to say nothing. Frank had never ridden up the city as far as this, and it was with much interest that he looked out of the car windows at the stores on either side. Third Avenue is a broad street, but in the character of its houses and stores it is quite inferior to Broadway, though better than some of the avenues further east. Fifth Avenue, as most of my readers already know, is the finest street in the city, being lined with splendid private residences, occupied by the wealthier classes. Many of the cross streets also boast houses which may be considered palaces, so elegant are they externally and internally. Frank caught glimpses of some of these as he was carried towards the Park. After the first conversation, already mentioned, with the lady at his side, he supposed he should have nothing further to do with her. But in this he was mistaken. While he was busy looking out of the car window, she plunged her hand into her pocket in search of her purse, which she was unable to find. Instantly she jumped to the conclusion that it had been stolen, and her suspicions fastened upon Frank, with whom she was already provoked for “crowding her,” as she termed it. “Conductor!” she exclaimed in a sharp voice. “What’s wanted, ma’am?” returned that functionary. “I want you to come here right off.” “What’s the matter?” “My purse has been stolen. There was four dollars and eighty cents in it. I know, because I counted it when I paid my fare.” “Who stole it?” “That boy,” she said pointing to Frank, who listened to the charge in the most intense astonishment. “He crowded in here on purpose to rob me, and I want you to search him right off.” “That’s a lie!” exclaimed Dick, indignantly. “Oh, you’re in league with him, I dare say,” said the woman spitefully. “You’re as bad as he is, I’ll be bound.” “You’re a nice female, you be!” said Dick, ironically. “Don’t you dare to call me a female, sir,” said the lady, furiously. “Why, you aint a man in disguise, be you?” said Dick. “You are very much mistaken, madam,” said Frank, quietly. “The conductor may search me, if you desire it.” A charge of theft, made in a crowded car, of course made quite a sensation. Cautious passengers instinctively put their hands on their pockets, to make sure that they, too, had not been robbed. As for Frank, his face flushed, and he felt very indignant that he should even be suspected of so mean a crime. He had been carefully brought up, and been taught to regard stealing as low and wicked. Dick, on the contrary, thought it a capital joke that such a charge should have been made against his companion. Though he had brought himself up, and known plenty of boys and men, too, who would steal, he had never done so himself. He thought it mean. But he could not be expected to regard it as Frank did. He had been too familiar with it in others to look upon it with horror. Meanwhile the passengers rather sided with the boys. Appearances go a great ways, and Frank did not look like a thief. “I think you must be mistaken, madam,” said a gentleman sitting opposite. “The lad does not look as if he would steal.” “You can’t tell by looks,” said the lady, sourly. “They’re deceitful; villains are generally well dressed.” “Be they?” said Dick. “You’d ought to see me with my Washington coat on. You’d think I was the biggest villain ever you saw.” “I’ve no doubt you are,” said the lady, scowling in the direction of our hero. “Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick. “’Tisn’t often I get such fine compliments.” “None of your impudence,” said the lady, wrathfully. “I believe you’re the worst of the two.” Meanwhile the car had been stopped. “How long are we going to stop here?” demanded a passenger, impatiently. “I’m in a hurry, if none of the rest of you are.” “I want my pocket-book,” said the lady, defiantly. “Well, ma’am, I haven’t got it, and I don’t see as it’s doing you any good detaining us all here.” “Conductor, will you call a policeman to search that young scamp?” continued the aggrieved lady. “You don’t expect I’m going to lose my money, and do nothing about it.” “I’ll turn my pockets inside out if you want me to,” said Frank, proudly. “There’s no need of a policeman. The conductor, or any one else, may search me.” “Well, youngster,” said the conductor, “if the lady agrees, I’ll search you.” The lady signified her assent. Frank accordingly turned his pockets inside out, but nothing was revealed except his own porte-monnaie and a penknife. “Well, ma’am, are you satisfied?” asked the conductor. “No, I aint,” said she, decidedly. “You don’t think he’s got it still?” “No, but he’s passed it over to his confederate, that boy there that’s so full of impudence.” “That’s me,” said Dick, comically. “He confesses it,” said the lady; “I want him searched.” “All right,” said Dick, “I’m ready for the operation, only, as I’ve got valooable property about me, be careful not to drop any of my Erie Bonds.” The conductor’s hand forthwith dove into Dick’s pocket, and drew out a rusty jack-knife, a battered cent, about fifty cents in change, and the capacious pocket-book which he had received from the swindler who was anxious to get back to his sick family in Boston. “Is that yours, ma’am?” asked the conductor, holding up the wallet which excited some amazement, by its size, among the other passengers. “It seems to me you carry a large pocket-book for a young man of your age,” said the conductor. “That’s what I carry my cash and valooable papers in,” said Dick. “I suppose that isn’t yours, ma’am,” said the conductor, turning to the lady. “No,” said she, scornfully. “I wouldn’t carry round such a great wallet as that. Most likely he’s stolen it from somebody else.” “What a prime detective you’d be!” said Dick. “P’rhaps you know who I took it from.” “I don’t know but my money’s in it,” said the lady, sharply. “Conductor, will you open that wallet, and see what there is in it?” “Don’t disturb the valooable papers,” said Dick, in a tone of pretended anxiety. The contents of the wallet excited some amusement among the passengers. “There don’t seem to be much money here,” said the conductor, taking out a roll of tissue paper cut out in the shape of bills, and rolled up. “No,” said Dick. “Didn’t I tell you them were papers of no valoo to anybody but the owner? If the lady’d like to borrow, I won’t charge no interest.” “Where is my money, then?” said the lady, in some discomfiture. “I shouldn’t wonder if one of the young scamps had thrown it out of the window.” “You’d better search your pocket once more,” said the gentleman opposite. “I don’t believe either of the boys is in fault. They don’t look to me as if they would steal.” “Thank you, sir,” said Frank. The lady followed out the suggestion, and, plunging her hand once more into her pocket, drew out a small porte-monnaie. She hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry at this discovery. It placed her in rather an awkward position after the fuss she had made, and the detention to which she had subjected the passengers, now, as it proved, for nothing. “Is that the pocket-book you thought stolen?” asked the conductor. “Yes,” said she, rather confusedly. “Then you’ve been keeping me waiting all this time for nothing,” he said, sharply. “I wish you’d take care to be sure next time before you make such a disturbance for nothing. I’ve lost five minutes, and shall not be on time.” “I can’t help it,” was the cross reply; “I didn’t know it was in my pocket.” “It seems to me you owe an apology to the boys you accused of a theft which they have not committed,” said the gentleman opposite. “I shan’t apologize to anybody,” said the lady, whose temper was not of the best; “least of all to such whipper-snappers as they are.” “Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick, comically; “your handsome apology is accepted. It aint of no consequence, only I didn’t like to expose the contents of my valooable pocket-book, for fear it might excite the envy of some of my poor neighbors.” “You’re a character,” said the gentleman who had already spoken, with a smile. “A bad character!” muttered the lady. But it was quite evident that the sympathies of those present were against the lady, and on the side of the boys who had been falsely accused, while Dick’s drollery had created considerable amusement. The cars had now reached Fifty-ninth Street, the southern boundary of the Park, and here our hero and his companion got off. “You’d better look out for pickpockets, my lad,” said the conductor, pleasantly. “That big wallet of yours might prove a great temptation.” “That’s so,” said Dick. “That’s the misfortin’ of being rich. Astor and me don’t sleep much for fear of burglars breakin’ in and robbin’ us of our valooable treasures. Sometimes I think I’ll give all my money to an Orphan Asylum, and take it out in board. I guess I’d make money by the operation.” While Dick was speaking, the car rolled away, and the boys turned up Fifty-ninth Street, for two long blocks yet separated them from the Park. <h2>CHAPTER X. INTRODUCES A VICTIM OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE</h2> “What a queer chap you are, Dick!” said Frank, laughing. “You always seem to be in good spirits.” “No, I aint always. Sometimes I have the blues.” “When?” “Well, once last winter it was awful cold, and there was big holes in my shoes, and my gloves and all my warm clothes was at the tailor’s. I felt as if life was sort of tough, and I’d like it if some rich man would adopt me, and give me plenty to eat and drink and wear, without my havin’ to look so sharp after it. Then agin’ when I’ve seen boys with good homes, and fathers, and mothers, I’ve thought I’d like to have somebody to care for me.” Dick’s tone changed as he said this, from his usual levity, and there was a touch of sadness in it. Frank, blessed with a good home and indulgent parents, could not help pitying the friendless boy who had found life such up-hill work. “Don’t say you have no one to care for you, Dick,” he said, lightly laying his hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I will care for you.” “Will you?” “If you will let me.” “I wish you would,” said Dick, earnestly. “I’d like to feel that I have one friend who cares for me.” Central Park was now before them, but it was far from presenting the appearance which it now exhibits. It had not been long since work had been commenced upon it, and it was still very rough and unfinished. A rough tract of land, two miles and a half from north to south, and a half a mile broad, very rocky in parts, was the material from which the Park Commissioners have made the present beautiful enclosure. There were no houses of good appearance near it, buildings being limited mainly to rude temporary huts used by the workmen who were employed in improving it. The time will undoubtedly come when the Park will be surrounded by elegant residences, and compare favorably in this respect with the most attractive parts of any city in the world. But at the time when Frank and Dick visited it, not much could be said in favor either of the Park or its neighborhood. “If this is Central Park,” said Frank, who naturally felt disappointed, “I don’t think much of it. My father’s got a large pasture that is much nicer.” “It’ll look better some time,” said Dick. “There aint much to see now but rocks. We will take a walk over it if you want to.” “No,” said Frank, “I’ve seen as much of it as I want to. Besides, I feel tired.” “Then we’ll go back. We can take the Sixth Avenue cars. They will bring us out at Vesey Street just beside the Astor House.” “All right,” said Frank. “That will be the best course. I hope,” he added, laughing, “our agreeable lady friend won’t be there. I don’t care about being accused of stealing again.” “She was a tough one,” said Dick. “Wouldn’t she make a nice wife for a man that likes to live in hot water, and didn’t mind bein’ scalded two or three times a day?” “Yes, I think she’d just suit him. Is that the right car, Dick?” “Yes, jump in, and I’ll follow.” The Sixth Avenue is lined with stores, many of them of very good appearance, and would make a very respectable principal street for a good-sized city. But it is only one of several long business streets which run up the island, and illustrate the extent and importance of the city to which they belong. No incidents worth mentioning took place during their ride down town. In about three-quarters of an hour the boys got out of the car beside the Astor House. “Are you goin’ in now, Frank?” asked Dick. “That depends upon whether you have anything else to show me.” “Wouldn’t you like to go to Wall Street?” “That’s the street where there are so many bankers and brokers,—isn’t it?” “Yes, I s’pose you aint afraid of bulls and bears,—are you?” “Bulls and bears?” repeated Frank, puzzled. “Yes.” “What are they?” “The bulls is what tries to make the stocks go up, and the bears is what try to growl ’em down.” “Oh, I see. Yes, I’d like to go.” Accordingly they walked down on the west side of Broadway as far as Trinity Church, and then, crossing, entered a street not very wide or very long, but of very great importance. The reader would be astonished if he could know the amount of money involved in the transactions which take place in a single day in this street. It would be found that although Broadway is much greater in length, and lined with stores, it stands second to Wall Street in this respect. “What is that large marble building?” asked Frank, pointing to a massive structure on the corner of Wall and Nassau Streets. It was in the form of a parallelogram, two hundred feet long by ninety wide, and about eighty feet in height, the ascent to the entrance being by eighteen granite steps. “That’s the Custom House,” said Dick. “It looks like pictures I’ve seen of the Parthenon at Athens,” said Frank, meditatively. “Where’s Athens?” asked Dick. “It aint in York State,—is it?” “Not the Athens I mean, at any rate. It is in Greece, and was a famous city two thousand years ago.” “That’s longer than I can remember,” said Dick. “I can’t remember distinctly more’n about a thousand years.” “What a chap you are, Dick! Do you know if we can go in?” The boys ascertained, after a little inquiry, that they would be allowed to do so. They accordingly entered the Custom House and made their way up to the roof, from which they had a fine view of the harbor, the wharves crowded with shipping, and the neighboring shores of Long Island and New Jersey. Towards the north they looked down for many miles upon continuous lines of streets, and thousands of roofs, with here and there a church-spire rising above its neighbors. Dick had never before been up there, and he, as well as Frank, was interested in the grand view spread before them. At length they descended, and were going down the granite steps on the outside of the building, when they were addressed by a young man, whose appearance is worth describing. He was tall, and rather loosely put together, with small eyes and rather a prominent nose. His clothing had evidently not been furnished by a city tailor. He wore a blue coat with brass buttons, and pantaloons of rather scanty dimensions, which were several inches too short to cover his lower limbs. He held in his hand a piece of paper, and his countenance wore a look of mingled bewilderment and anxiety. “Be they a-payin’ out money inside there?” he asked, indicating the interior by a motion of his hand. “I guess so,” said Dick. “Are you a-goin’ in for some?” “Wal, yes. I’ve got an order here for sixty dollars,—made a kind of speculation this morning.” “How was it?” asked Frank. “Wal, you see I brought down some money to put in the bank, fifty dollars it was, and I hadn’t justly made up my mind what bank to put it into, when a chap came up in a terrible hurry, and said it was very unfortunate, but the bank wasn’t open, and he must have some money right off. He was obliged to go out of the city by the next train. I asked him how much he wanted. He said fifty dollars. I told him I’d got that, and he offered me a check on the bank for sixty, and I let him have it. I thought that was a pretty easy way to earn ten dollars, so I counted out the money and he went off. He told me I’d hear a bell ring when they began to pay out money. But I’ve waited most two hours, and I haint heard it yet. I’d ought to be goin’, for I told dad I’d be home to-night. Do you think I can get the money now?” “Will you show me the check?” asked Frank, who had listened attentively to the countryman’s story, and suspected that he had been made the victim of a swindler. It was made out upon the “Washington Bank,” in the sum of sixty dollars, and was signed “Ephraim Smith.” “Washington Bank!” repeated Frank. “Dick, is there such a bank in the city?” “Not as I knows on,” said Dick. “Leastways I don’t own any shares in it.” “Aint this the Washington Bank?” asked the countryman, pointing to the building on the steps of which the three were now standing. “No, it’s the Custom House.” “And won’t they give me any money for this?” asked the young man, the perspiration standing on his brow. “I am afraid the man who gave it to you was a swindler,” said Frank, gently. “And won’t I ever see my fifty dollars again?” asked the youth in agony. “I am afraid not.” “What’ll dad say?” ejaculated the miserable youth. “It makes me feel sick to think of it. I wish I had the feller here. I’d shake him out of his boots.” “What did he look like? I’ll call a policeman and you shall describe him. Perhaps in that way you can get track of your money.” Dick called a policeman, who listened to the description, and recognized the operator as an experienced swindler. He assured the countryman that there was very little chance of his ever seeing his money again. The boys left the miserable youth loudly bewailing his bad luck, and proceeded on their way down the street. “He’s a baby,” said Dick, contemptuously. “He’d ought to know how to take care of himself and his money. A feller has to look sharp in this city, or he’ll lose his eye-teeth before he knows it.” “I suppose you never got swindled out of fifty dollars, Dick?” “No, I don’t carry no such small bills. I wish I did,” he added. “So do I, Dick. What’s that building there at the end of the street?” “That’s the Wall-Street Ferry to Brooklyn.” “How long does it take to go across?” “Not more’n five minutes.” “Suppose we just ride over and back.” “All right!” said Dick. “It’s rather expensive; but if you don’t mind, I don’t.” “Why, how much does it cost?” “Two cents apiece.” “I guess I can stand that. Let us go.” They passed the gate, paying the fare to a man who stood at the entrance, and were soon on the ferry-boat, bound for Brooklyn. They had scarcely entered the boat, when Dick, grasping Frank by the arm, pointed to a man just outside of the gentlemen’s cabin. “Do you see that man, Frank?” he inquired. “Yes, what of him?” “He’s the man that cheated the country chap out of his fifty dollars.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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