Mark the Match Boy 7

Mark the Match Boy 7

"Is it hard work sellin' them?"

 

"Sometimes I do pretty well, but some days it seems as if nobody wanted

any. To-day I went round to a great many offices, but they all had as

many as they wanted, and I didn't sell but three boxes. I tried to sell

more, indeed I did, but I couldn't."

 

"No doubt you did, Mark, dear. It's cold you must be in that thin

jacket of yours this cold weather. I've got a shawl you may wear if you

like. You'll not lose it, I know."

 

But Mark had a boy's natural dislike to being dressed as a girl,

knowing, moreover, that his appearance in the street with Mrs.

Flanagan's shawl would subject him to the jeers of the street boys. So

he declined the offer with thanks, and, buttoning up his thin jacket,

descended the remaining staircase, and went out again into the chilling

and uninviting street. A chilly, drizzling rain had just set in, and

this made it even more dreary than it had been during the day.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VI.

 

BEN GIBSON.

 

 

But it was not so much the storm or the cold weather that Mark cared

for. He had become used to these, so far as one can become used to

what is very disagreeable. If after a hard day's work he had had a

good home to come back to, or a kind and sympathizing friend, he

would have had that thought to cheer him up. But Mother Watson cared

nothing for him, except for the money he brought her, and Mark found it

impossible either to cherish love or respect for the coarse woman whom

he generally found more or less affected by whiskey.

 

[Illustration: DICK AS A PHILANTHROPIST.]

 

Cold and hungry as he had been oftentimes, he had always shrunk from

begging. It seemed to lower him in his own thoughts to ask charity of

others. Mother Watson had suggested it to him once or twice, but had

never actually commanded it before. Now he was required to bring home

twenty-five cents. He knew very well what would be the result if he

failed to do this. Mother Watson would apply the leather strap with

merciless fury, and he knew that his strength was as nothing compared

to hers. So, for the first time in his life, he felt that he must make

up his mind to beg.

 

He retraced his steps to the head of Frankfort Street, and walked

slowly down Nassau Street. The rain was falling, as I have said, and

those who could remained under shelter. Besides, business hours were

over. The thousands who during the day made the lower part of the city

a busy hive had gone to their homes in the upper portion of the island,

or across the river to Brooklyn or the towns on the Jersey shore. So,

however willing he might be to beg, there did not seem to be much

chance at present.

 

The rain increased, and Mark in his thin clothes was soon drenched to

the skin. He felt damp, cold, and uncomfortable. But there was no rest

for him. The only home he had was shut to him, unless he should bring

home twenty-five cents, and of this there seemed very little prospect.

 

At the corner of Fulton Street he fell in with a boy of twelve, short

and sturdy in frame, dressed in a coat whose tails nearly reached the

sidewalk. Though scarcely in the fashion, it was warmer than Mark's,

and the proprietor troubled himself very little about the looks.

 

This boy, whom Mark recognized as Ben Gibson, had a clay pipe in his

mouth, which he seemed to be smoking with evident enjoyment.

 

"Where you goin'?" he asked, halting in front of Mark.

 

"I don't know," said Mark.

 

"Don't know!" repeated Ben, taking his pipe from his mouth, and

spitting. "Where's your matches?"

 

"I left them at home."

 

"Then what'd did you come out for in this storm?"

 

"The woman I live with won't let me come home till I've brought her

twenty-five cents."

 

"How'd you expect to get it?"

 

"She wants me to beg."

 

"That's a good way," said Ben, approvingly; "when you get hold of a

soft chap, or a lady, them's the ones to shell out."

 

"I don't like it," said Mark. "I don't want people to think me a

beggar."

 

"What's the odds?" said Ben, philosophically. "You're just the chap to

make a good beggar."

 

"What do you mean by that, Ben?" said Mark, who was far from

considering this much of a compliment.

 

"Why you're a thin, pale little chap, that people will pity easy. Now I

aint the right cut for a beggar. I tried it once, but it was no go."

 

"Why not?" asked Mark, who began to be interested in spite of himself.

 

"You see," said Ben, again puffing out a volume of smoke, "I look too

tough, as if I could take care of myself. People don't pity me. I

tried it one night when I was hard up. I hadn't got but six cents, and

I wanted to go to the Old Bowery bad. So I went up to a gent as was

comin' up Wall Street from the Ferry, and said, 'Won't you give a poor

boy a few pennies to save him from starvin'?'"

 

"'So you're almost starvin', are you, my lad?'" says he.

 

"'Yes, sir,' says I, as faint as I could.

 

"'Well, starvin' seems to agree with you,' says he, laughin'. 'You're

the healthiest-lookin' beggar I've seen in a good while.'

 

"I tried it again on another gent, and he told me he guessed I was

lazy; that a good stout boy like me ought to work. So I didn't make

much beggin', and had to give up goin' to the Old Bowery that night,

which I was precious sorry for, for there was a great benefit that

evenin'. Been there often?"

 

"No, I never went."

 

"Never went to the Old Bowery!" ejaculated Ben, whistling in his

amazement. "Where were you raised, I'd like to know? I should think you

was a country greeny, I should."

 

"I never had a chance," said Mark, who began to feel a little ashamed

of the confession.

 

"Won't your old woman let you go?"

 

"I never have any money to go."

 

"If I was flush I'd take you myself. It's only fifteen cents," said

Ben. "But I haven't got money enough only for one ticket. I'm goin'

to-night."

 

"Are you?" asked Mark, a little enviously.

 

"Yes, it's a good way to pass a rainy evenin'. You've got a warm room

to be in, let alone the play, which is splendid. Now, if you could only

beg fifteen cents from some charitable cove, you might go along of me."

 

"If I get any money I've got to carry it home."

 

"Suppose you don't, will the old woman cut up rough?"

 

"She'll beat me with a strap," said Mark, shuddering.

 

"What makes you let her do it?" demanded Ben, rather disdainfully.

 

"I can't help it."

 

"She wouldn't beat me," said Ben, decidedly.

 

"What would you do?" asked Mark, with interest.

 

"What would I do?" retorted Ben. "I'd kick, and bite, and give her one

for herself between the eyes. That's what I'd do. She'd find me a hard

case, I reckon."

 

"It wouldn't be any use for me to try that," said Mark. "She's too

strong."

 

"It don't take much to handle you," said Ben, taking a critical survey

of the physical points of Mark. "You're most light enough to blow away."

 

"I'm only ten years old," said Mark, apologetically. "I shall be bigger

some time."

 

"Maybe," said Ben, dubiously; "but you don't look as if you'd ever be

tough like me."

 

"There," he added, after a pause, "I've smoked all my 'baccy. I wish

I'd got some more."

 

"Do you like to smoke?" asked Mark.

 

"It warms a feller up," said Ben. "It's jest the thing for a cold, wet

day like this. Didn't you ever try it?"

 

"No."

 

"If I'd got some 'baccy here, I'd give you a whiff; but I think it

would make you sick the first time."

 

"I don't think I should like it," said Mark, who had never felt any

desire to smoke, though he knew plenty of boys who indulged in the

habit.

 

"That's because you don't know nothin' about it," remarked Ben. "I

didn't like it at first till I got learned."

 

"Do you smoke often?"

 

"Every day after I get through blackin' boots; that is, when I aint

hard up, and can't raise the stamps to pay for the 'baccy. But I guess

I'll be goin' up to the Old Bowery. It's most time for the doors to

open. Where you goin'?"

 

"I don't know where to go," said Mark, helplessly.