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Ragged Dick

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<h2>CHAPTER V. CHATHAM STREET AND BROADWAY</h2> They were soon in Chatham Street, walking between rows of ready-made clothing shops, many of which had half their stock in trade exposed on the sidewalk. The proprietors of these establishments stood at the doors, watching attentively the passersby, extending urgent invitations to any who even glanced at the goods to enter. “Walk in, young gentlemen,” said a stout man, at the entrance of one shop. “No, I thank you,” replied Dick, “as the fly said to the spider.” “We’re selling off at less than cost.” “Of course you be. That’s where you makes your money,” said Dick. “There aint nobody of any enterprise that pretends to make any profit on his goods.” The Chatham Street trader looked after our hero as if he didn’t quite comprehend him; but Dick, without waiting for a reply, passed on with his companion. In some of the shops auctions seemed to be going on. “I am only offered two dollars, gentlemen, for this elegant pair of doeskin pants, made of the very best of cloth. It’s a frightful sacrifice. Who’ll give an eighth? Thank you, sir. Only seventeen shillings! Why the cloth cost more by the yard!” This speaker was standing on a little platform haranguing to three men, holding in his hand meanwhile a pair of pants very loose in the legs, and presenting a cheap Bowery look. Frank and Dick paused before the shop door, and finally saw them knocked down to rather a verdant-looking individual at three dollars. “Clothes seem to be pretty cheap here,” said Frank. “Yes, but Baxter Street is the cheapest place.” “Is it?” “Yes. Johnny Nolan got a whole rig-out there last week, for a dollar,—coat, cap, vest, pants, and shoes. They was very good measure, too, like my best clothes that I took off to oblige you.” “I shall know where to come for clothes next time,” said Frank, laughing. “I had no idea the city was so much cheaper than the country. I suppose the Baxter Street tailors are fashionable?” “In course they are. Me and Horace Greeley always go there for clothes. When Horace gets a new suit, I always have one made just like it; but I can’t go the white hat. It aint becomin’ to my style of beauty.” A little farther on a man was standing out on the sidewalk, distributing small printed handbills. One was handed to Frank, which he read as follows,— “GRAND CLOSING-OUT SALE!—A variety of Beautiful and Costly Articles for Sale, at a Dollar apiece. Unparalleled Inducements! Walk in, Gentlemen!” “Whereabouts is this sale?” asked Frank. “In here, young gentlemen,” said a black-whiskered individual, who appeared suddenly on the scene. “Walk in.” “Shall we go in, Dick?” “It’s a swindlin’ shop,” said Dick, in a low voice. “I’ve been there. That man’s a regular cheat. He’s seen me before, but he don’t know me coz of my clothes.” “Step in and see the articles,” said the man, persuasively. “You needn’t buy, you know.” “Are all the articles worth more’n a dollar?” asked Dick. “Yes,” said the other, “and some worth a great deal more.” “Such as what?” “Well, there’s a silver pitcher worth twenty dollars.” “And you sell it for a dollar. That’s very kind of you,” said Dick, innocently. “Walk in, and you’ll understand it.” “No, I guess not,” said Dick. “My servants is so dishonest that I wouldn’t like to trust ’em with a silver pitcher. Come along, Frank. I hope you’ll succeed in your charitable enterprise of supplyin’ the public with silver pitchers at nineteen dollars less than they are worth.” “How does he manage, Dick?” asked Frank, as they went on. “All his articles are numbered, and he makes you pay a dollar, and then shakes some dice, and whatever the figgers come to, is the number of the article you draw. Most of ’em aint worth sixpence.” A hat and cap store being close at hand, Dick and Frank went in. For seventy-five cents, which Frank insisted on paying, Dick succeeded in getting quite a neat-looking cap, which corresponded much better with his appearance than the one he had on. The last, not being considered worth keeping, Dick dropped on the sidewalk, from which, on looking back, he saw it picked up by a brother boot-black who appeared to consider it better than his own. They retraced their steps and went up Chambers Street to Broadway. At the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street is a large white marble warehouse, which attracted Frank’s attention. “What building is that?” he asked, with interest. “That belongs to my friend A. T. Stewart,” said Dick. “It’s the biggest store on Broadway.* If I ever retire from boot-blackin’, and go into mercantile pursuits, I may buy him out, or build another store that’ll take the shine off this one.” * Mr. Stewart’s Tenth Street store was not open at the time Dick spoke. “Were you ever in the store?” asked Frank. “No,” said Dick; “but I’m intimate with one of Stewart’s partners. He is a cash boy, and does nothing but take money all day.” “A very agreeable employment,” said Frank, laughing. “Yes,” said Dick, “I’d like to be in it.” The boys crossed to the West side of Broadway, and walked slowly up the street. To Frank it was a very interesting spectacle. Accustomed to the quiet of the country, there was something fascinating in the crowds of people thronging the sidewalks, and the great variety of vehicles constantly passing and repassing in the street. Then again the shop-windows with their multifarious contents interested and amused him, and he was constantly checking Dick to look in at some well-stocked window. “I don’t see how so many shopkeepers can find people enough to buy of them,” he said. “We haven’t got but two stores in our village, and Broadway seems to be full of them.” “Yes,” said Dick; “and its pretty much the same in the avenoos, ’specially the Third, Sixth, and Eighth avenoos. The Bowery, too, is a great place for shoppin’. There everybody sells cheaper’n anybody else, and nobody pretends to make no profit on their goods.” “Where’s Barnum’s Museum?” asked Frank. “Oh, that’s down nearly opposite the Astor House,” said Dick. “Didn’t you see a great building with lots of flags?” “Yes.” “Well, that’s Barnum’s.* That’s where the Happy Family live, and the lions, and bears, and curiosities generally. It’s a tip-top place. Haven’t you ever been there? It’s most as good as the Old Bowery, only the plays isn’t quite so excitin’.” * Since destroyed by fire, and rebuilt farther up Broadway, and again burned down in February. “I’ll go if I get time,” said Frank. “There is a boy at home who came to New York a month ago, and went to Barnum’s, and has been talking about it ever since, so I suppose it must be worth seeing.” “They’ve got a great play at the Old Bowery now,” pursued Dick. “’Tis called the ‘Demon of the Danube.’ The Demon falls in love with a young woman, and drags her by the hair up to the top of a steep rock where his castle stands.” “That’s a queer way of showing his love,” said Frank, laughing. “She didn’t want to go with him, you know, but was in love with another chap. When he heard about his girl bein’ carried off, he felt awful, and swore an oath not to rest till he had got her free. Well, at last he got into the castle by some underground passage, and he and the Demon had a fight. Oh, it was bully seein’ ’em roll round on the stage, cuttin’ and slashin’ at each other.” “And which got the best of it?” “At first the Demon seemed to be ahead, but at last the young Baron got him down, and struck a dagger into his heart, sayin’, ‘Die, false and perjured villain! The dogs shall feast upon thy carcass!’ and then the Demon give an awful howl and died. Then the Baron seized his body, and threw it over the precipice.” “It seems to me the actor who plays the Demon ought to get extra pay, if he has to be treated that way.” “That’s so,” said Dick; “but I guess he’s used to it. It seems to agree with his constitution.” “What building is that?” asked Frank, pointing to a structure several rods back from the street, with a large yard in front. It was an unusual sight for Broadway, all the other buildings in that neighborhood being even with the street. “That is the New York Hospital,” said Dick. “They’re a rich institution, and take care of sick people on very reasonable terms.” “Did you ever go in there?” “Yes,” said Dick; “there was a friend of mine, Johnny Mullen, he was a newsboy, got run over by a omnibus as he was crossin’ Broadway down near Park Place. He was carried to the Hospital, and me and some of his friends paid his board while he was there. It was only three dollars a week, which was very cheap, considerin’ all the care they took of him. I got leave to come and see him while he was here. Everything looked so nice and comfortable, that I thought a little of coaxin’ a omnibus driver to run over me, so I might go there too.” “Did your friend have to have his leg cut off?” asked Frank, interested. “No,” said Dick; “though there was a young student there that was very anxious to have it cut off; but it wasn’t done, and Johnny is around the streets as well as ever.” While this conversation was going on they reached No. 365, at the corner of Franklin Street.* * Now the office of the Merchants’ Union Express Company. “That’s Taylor’s Saloon,” said Dick. “When I come into a fortun’ I shall take my meals there reg’lar.” “I have heard of it very often,” said Frank. “It is said to be very elegant. Suppose we go in and take an ice-cream. It will give us a chance to see it to better advantage.” “Thank you,” said Dick; “I think that’s the most agreeable way of seein’ the place myself.” The boys entered, and found themselves in a spacious and elegant saloon, resplendent with gilding, and adorned on all sides by costly mirrors. They sat down to a small table with a marble top, and Frank gave the order. “It reminds me of Aladdin’s palace,” said Frank, looking about him. “Does it?” said Dick; “he must have had plenty of money.” “He had an old lamp, which he had only to rub, when the Slave of the Lamp would appear, and do whatever he wanted.” “That must have been a valooable lamp. I’d be willin’ to give all my Erie shares for it.” There was a tall, gaunt individual at the next table, who apparently heard this last remark of Dick’s. Turning towards our hero, he said, “May I inquire, young man, whether you are largely interested in this Erie Railroad?” “I haven’t got no property except what’s invested in Erie,” said Dick, with a comical side-glance at Frank. “Indeed! I suppose the investment was made by your guardian.” “No,” said Dick; “I manage my property myself.” “And I presume your dividends have not been large?” “Why, no,” said Dick; “you’re about right there. They haven’t.” “As I supposed. It’s poor stock. Now, my young friend, I can recommend a much better investment, which will yield you a large annual income. I am agent of the Excelsior Copper Mining Company, which possesses one of the most productive mines in the world. It’s sure to yield fifty per cent. on the investment. Now, all you have to do is to sell out your Erie shares, and invest in our stock, and I’ll insure you a fortune in three years. How many shares did you say you had?” “I didn’t say, that I remember,” said Dick. “Your offer is very kind and obligin’, and as soon as I get time I’ll see about it.” “I hope you will,” said the stranger. “Permit me to give you my card. ‘Samuel Snap, No. — Wall Street.’ I shall be most happy to receive a call from you, and exhibit the maps of our mine. I should be glad to have you mention the matter also to your friends. I am confident you could do no greater service than to induce them to embark in our enterprise.” “Very good,” said Dick. Here the stranger left the table, and walked up to the desk to settle his bill. “You see what it is to be a man of fortun’, Frank,” said Dick, “and wear good clothes. I wonder what that chap’ll say when he sees me blackin’ boots to-morrow in the street?” “Perhaps you earn your money more honorably than he does, after all,” said Frank. “Some of these mining companies are nothing but swindles, got up to cheat people out of their money.” “He’s welcome to all he gets out of me,” said Dick. <h2>CHAPTER VI. UP BROADWAY TO MADISON SQUARE</h2> As the boys pursued their way up Broadway, Dick pointed out the prominent hotels and places of amusement. Frank was particularly struck with the imposing fronts of the St. Nicholas and Metropolitan Hotels, the former of white marble, the latter of a subdued brown hue, but not less elegant in its internal appointments. He was not surprised to be informed that each of these splendid structures cost with the furnishing not far from a million dollars. At Eighth Street Dick turned to the right, and pointed out the Clinton Hall Building now occupied by the Mercantile Library, comprising at that time over fifty thousand volumes.* * Now not far from one hundred thousand. A little farther on they came to a large building standing by itself just at the opening of Third and Fourth Avenues, and with one side on each. “What is that building?” asked Frank. “That’s the Cooper Institute,” said Dick; “built by Mr. Cooper, a particular friend of mine. Me and Peter Cooper used to go to school together.” “What is there inside?” asked Frank. “There’s a hall for public meetin’s and lectures in the basement, and a readin’ room and a picture gallery up above,” said Dick. Directly opposite Cooper Institute, Frank saw a very large building of brick, covering about an acre of ground. “Is that a hotel?” he asked. “No,” said Dick; “that’s the Bible House. It’s the place where they make Bibles. I was in there once,—saw a big pile of ’em.” “Did you ever read the Bible?” asked Frank, who had some idea of the neglected state of Dick’s education. “No,” said Dick; “I’ve heard it’s a good book, but I never read one. I aint much on readin’. It makes my head ache.” “I suppose you can’t read very fast.” “I can read the little words pretty well, but the big ones is what stick me.” “If I lived in the city, you might come every evening to me, and I would teach you.” “Would you take so much trouble about me?” asked Dick, earnestly. “Certainly; I should like to see you getting on. There isn’t much chance of that if you don’t know how to read and write.” “You’re a good feller,” said Dick, gratefully. “I wish you did live in New York. I’d like to know somethin’. Whereabouts do you live?” “About fifty miles off, in a town on the left bank of the Hudson. I wish you’d come up and see me sometime. I would like to have you come and stop two or three days.” “Honor bright?” “I don’t understand.” “Do you mean it?” asked Dick, incredulously. “Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?” “What would your folks say if they knowed you asked a boot-black to visit you?” “You are none the worse for being a boot-black, Dick.” “I aint used to genteel society,” said Dick. “I shouldn’t know how to behave.” “Then I could show you. You won’t be a boot-black all your life, you know.” “No,” said Dick; “I’m goin’ to knock off when I get to be ninety.” “Before that, I hope,” said Frank, smiling. “I really wish I could get somethin’ else to do,” said Dick, soberly. “I’d like to be a office boy, and learn business, and grow up ’spectable.” “Why don’t you try, and see if you can’t get a place, Dick?” “Who’d take Ragged Dick?” “But you aint ragged now, Dick.” “No,” said Dick; “I look a little better than I did in my Washington coat and Louis Napoleon pants. But if I got in a office, they wouldn’t give me more’n three dollars a week, and I couldn’t live ’spectable on that.” “No, I suppose not,” said Frank, thoughtfully. “But you would get more at the end of the first year.” “Yes,” said Dick; “but by that time I’d be nothin’ but skin and bones.” Frank laughed. “That reminds me,” he said, “of the story of an Irishman, who, out of economy, thought he would teach his horse to feed on shavings. So he provided the horse with a pair of green spectacles which made the shavings look eatable. But unfortunately, just as the horse got learned, he up and died.” “The hoss must have been a fine specimen of architectur’ by the time he got through,” remarked Dick. “Whereabouts are we now?” asked Frank, as they emerged from Fourth Avenue into Union Square. “That is Union Park,” said Dick, pointing to a beautiful enclosure, in the centre of which was a pond, with a fountain playing. “Is that the statue of General Washington?” asked Frank, pointing to a bronze equestrian statue, on a granite pedestal. “Yes,” said Dick; “he’s growed some since he was President. If he’d been as tall as that when he fit in the Revolution, he’d have walloped the Britishers some, I reckon.” Frank looked up at the statue, which is fourteen and a half feet high, and acknowledged the justice of Dick’s remark. “How about the coat, Dick?” he asked. “Would it fit you?” “Well, it might be rather loose,” said Dick, “I aint much more’n ten feet high with my boots off.” “No, I should think not,” said Frank, smiling. “You’re a queer boy, Dick.” “Well, I’ve been brought up queer. Some boys is born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Victoria’s boys is born with a gold spoon, set with di’monds; but gold and silver was scarce when I was born, and mine was pewter.” “Perhaps the gold and silver will come by and by, Dick. Did you ever hear of Dick Whittington?” “Never did. Was he a Ragged Dick?” “I shouldn’t wonder if he was. At any rate he was very poor when he was a boy, but he didn’t stay so. Before he died, he became Lord Mayor of London.” “Did he?” asked Dick, looking interested. “How did he do it?” “Why, you see, a rich merchant took pity on him, and gave him a home in his own house, where he used to stay with the servants, being employed in little errands. One day the merchant noticed Dick picking up pins and needles that had been dropped, and asked him why he did it. Dick told him he was going to sell them when he got enough. The merchant was pleased with his saving disposition, and when soon after, he was going to send a vessel to foreign parts, he told Dick he might send anything he pleased in it, and it should be sold to his advantage. Now Dick had nothing in the world but a kitten which had been given him a short time before.” “How much taxes did he have to pay on it?” asked Dick. “Not very high, probably. But having only the kitten, he concluded to send it along. After sailing a good many months, during which the kitten grew up to be a strong cat, the ship touched at an island never before known, which happened to be infested with rats and mice to such an extent that they worried everybody’s life out, and even ransacked the king’s palace. To make a long story short, the captain, seeing how matters stood, brought Dick’s cat ashore, and she soon made the rats and mice scatter. The king was highly delighted when he saw what havoc she made among the rats and mice, and resolved to have her at any price. So he offered a great quantity of gold for her, which, of course, the captain was glad to accept. It was faithfully carried back to Dick, and laid the foundation of his fortune. He prospered as he grew up, and in time became a very rich merchant, respected by all, and before he died was elected Lord Mayor of London.” “That’s a pretty good story,” said Dick; “but I don’t believe all the cats in New York will ever make me mayor.” “No, probably not, but you may rise in some other way. A good many distinguished men have once been poor boys. There’s hope for you, Dick, if you’ll try.” “Nobody ever talked to me so before,” said Dick. “They just called me Ragged Dick, and told me I’d grow up to be a vagabone (boys who are better educated need not be surprised at Dick’s blunders) and come to the gallows.” “Telling you so won’t make it turn out so, Dick. If you’ll try to be somebody, and grow up into a respectable member of society, you will. You may not become rich,—it isn’t everybody that becomes rich, you know—but you can obtain a good position, and be respected.” “I’ll try,” said Dick, earnestly. “I needn’t have been Ragged Dick so long if I hadn’t spent my money in goin’ to the theatre, and treatin’ boys to oyster-stews, and bettin’ money on cards, and such like.” “Have you lost money that way?” “Lots of it. One time I saved up five dollars to buy me a new rig-out, cos my best suit was all in rags, when Limpy Jim wanted me to play a game with him.” “Limpy Jim?” said Frank, interrogatively. “Yes, he’s lame; that’s what makes us call him Limpy Jim.” “I suppose you lost?” “Yes, I lost every penny, and had to sleep out, cos I hadn’t a cent to pay for lodgin’. ’Twas a awful cold night, and I got most froze.” “Wouldn’t Jim let you have any of the money he had won to pay for a lodging?” “No; I axed him for five cents, but he wouldn’t let me have it.” “Can you get lodging for five cents?” asked Frank, in surprise. “Yes,” said Dick, “but not at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. That’s it right out there.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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