Mark the Match Boy 8

Mark the Match Boy 8

"I'll tell you where you'd better go. You won' find nobody round here.

Besides it aint comfortable lettin' the rain fall on you and wet you

through." (While this conversation was going on, the boys had sheltered

themselves in a doorway.) "Just you go down to Fulton Market. There

you'll be out of the wet, and you'll see plenty of people passin'

through when the boats come in. Maybe some of 'em will give you

somethin'. Then ag'in, there's the boats. Some nights I sleep aboard

the boats."

 

"You do? Will they let you?"

 

"They don't notice. I just pay my two cents, and go aboard, and snuggle

up in a corner and go to sleep. So I ride to Brooklyn and back all

night. That's cheaper'n the Newsboys' Lodgin' House, for it only costs

two cents. One night a gentleman came to me, and woke me up, and said,

'We've got to Brooklyn, my lad. If you don't get up they'll carry you

back again.'

 

"I jumped up and told him I was much obliged, as I didn't know what my

family would say if I didn't get home by eleven o'clock. Then, just

as soon as his back was turned, I sat down again and went to sleep.

It aint so bad sleepin' aboard the boat, 'specially in a cold night.

They keep the cabin warm, and though the seat isn't partic'larly soft

its better'n bein' out in the street. If you don't get your twenty-five

cents, and are afraid of a lickin', you'd better sleep aboard the boat."

 

"Perhaps I will," said Mark, to whom the idea was not unwelcome, for

it would at all events save him for that night from the beating which

would be his portion if he came home without the required sum.

 

"Well, good-night," said Ben; "I'll be goin' along."

 

"Good-night, Ben," said Mark, "I guess I'll go to Fulton Market."

 

Accordingly Mark turned down Fulton Street, while Ben steered in the

direction of Chatham Street, through which it was necessary to pass in

order to reach the theatre, which is situated on the Bowery, not far

from its junction with Chatham Street.

 

Ben Gibson is a type of a numerous class of improvident boys, who live

on from day to day, careless of appearances, spending their evenings

where they can, at the theatre when their means admit, and sometimes

at gambling saloons. Not naturally bad, they drift into bad habits from

the force of outward circumstances. They early learn to smoke or chew,

finding in tobacco some comfort during the cold and wet days, either

ignorant of or indifferent to the harm which the insidious weed will do

to their constitutions. So their growth is checked, or their blood is

impoverished, as is shown by their pale faces.

 

As for Ben, he was gifted with a sturdy frame and an excellent

constitution, and appeared as yet to exhibit none of the baneful

effects of this habit. But no growing boy can smoke without ultimately

being affected by it, and such will no doubt be the case with Ben.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

FULTON MARKET.

 

 

Just across from Fulton Ferry stands Fulton Market. It is nearly fifty

years old, having been built in 1821, on ground formerly occupied by

unsightly wooden buildings, which were, perhaps fortunately, swept away

by fire. It covers the block bounded by Fulton, South, Beekman, and

Front Streets, and was erected at a cost of about quarter of a million

of dollars.

 

This is the chief of the great city markets, and an immense business is

done here. There is hardly an hour in the twenty-four in which there is

an entire lull in the business of the place. Some of the outside shops

and booths are kept open all night, while the supplies of fish, meats,

and vegetables for the market proper are brought at a very early hour,

almost before it can be called morning.

 

Besides the market proper the surrounding sidewalks are roofed over,

and lined with shops and booths of the most diverse character, at which

almost every conceivable article can be purchased. Most numerous,

perhaps, are the chief restaurants, the counters loaded with cakes and

pies, with a steaming vessel of coffee smoking at one end. The floors

are sanded, and the accommodations are far from elegant or luxurious;

but it is said that the viands are by no means to be despised. Then

there are fruit-stalls with tempting heaps of oranges, apples, and in

their season the fruits of summer, presided over for the most part by

old women, who scan shrewdly the faces of passers-by, and are ready on

the smallest provocation to vaunt the merits of their wares. There are

candy and cocoanut cakes for those who have a sweet tooth, and many a

shop-boy invests in these on his way to or from Brooklyn to the New

York store where he is employed; or the father of a family, on his

way to his Brooklyn home, thinks of the little ones awaiting him, and

indulges in a purchase of what he knows will be sure to be acceptable

to them.

 

But it is not only the wants of the body that are provided for at

Fulton Market. On the Fulton Street side may be found extensive booths,

at which are displayed for sale a tempting array of papers, magazines,

and books, as well as stationery, photograph albums, etc., generally at

prices twenty or thirty per cent. lower than is demanded for them in

the more pretentious Broadway or Fulton Avenue stores.

 

Even at night, therefore, the outer portion of the market presents a

bright and cheerful shelter from the inclement weather, being securely

roofed over, and well lighted, while some of the booths are kept open,

however late the hour.

 

Ben Gibson, therefore, was right in directing Mark to Fulton Market,

as probably the most comfortable place to be found in the pouring rain

which made the thoroughfares dismal and dreary. Mark, of course, had

been in Fulton Market often, and saw at once the wisdom of the advice.

He ran down Fulton Street as fast as he could, and arrived there

panting and wet to the skin. Uncomfortable as he was, the change from

the wet streets to the bright and comparatively warm shelter of the

market made him at once more cheerful. In fact, it compared favorably

with the cold and uninviting room which he shared with Mother Watson.

 

As Mark looked around him, he could not help wishing that he tended

in one of the little restaurants that looked so bright and inviting to

him. Those who are accustomed to lunch at Delmonico's, or at some of

the large and stylish hotels, or have their meals served by attentive

servants in brown stone dwellings in the more fashionable quarters of

the city, would be likely to turn up their noses at his humble taste,

and would feel it an infliction to take a meal amid such plebeian

surroundings. But then Mark knew nothing about the fare at Delmonico's,

and was far enough from living in a brown stone front, and so his ideas

of happiness and luxury were not very exalted, or he would scarcely

have envied a stout butcher boy whom he saw sitting at an unpainted

wooden table, partaking of a repast which was more abundant than choice.

 

But from the surrounding comfort Mark's thoughts were brought back to

the disagreeable business which brought him here. He was to solicit

charity from some one of the passers-by, and with a sigh he began to

look about him to select some compassionate face.

 

"If there was only somebody here that wanted an errand done," he

thought, "and would pay me twenty-five cents for doing it, I wouldn't

have to beg I'd rather work two hours for the money than beg it."

 

But there seemed little chance of this. In the busy portion of the day

there might have been some chance, though this would be uncertain; but

now it was very improbable. If he wanted to get twenty-five cents that

night he must get it from charity.

 

A beginning must be made, however disagreeable. So Mark went up to

a young man who was passing along on his way to the boat, and in a

shamefaced manner said, "Will you give me a few pennies, please?"

 

The young man looked good-natured, and it was that which gave Mark

confidence to address him.

 

"You want some pennies, do you?" he said, with a smile, pausing in his

walk.

 

"If you please, sir."

 

"I suppose your wife and family are starving, eh?"

 

"I haven't got any wife or family, sir," said Mark.

 

"But you've got a sick mother, or some brothers or sisters that are

starving, haven't you?"

 

"No, sir."

 

"Then I'm afraid you're not up to your business. How long have you been

round begging?"

 

"Never before," said Mark, rather indignantly.

 

"Ah, that accounts for it. You haven't learned the business yet. After

a few weeks you'll have a sick mother starving at home. They all do,

you know."

 

"My mother is dead," said Mark; "I shan't tell a lie to get money."

 

"Come, you're rather a remarkable boy," said the young man, who was a

reporter on a daily paper, going over to attend a meeting in Brooklyn,

to write an account of it to appear in one of the city dailies in the

morning. "I don't generally give money in such cases, but I must make

an exception in your case."

 

He drew a dime from his vest-pocket and handed it to Mark.

 

Mark took it with a blush of mortification at the necessity.

 

"I wouldn't beg if I could help it," he said, desiring to justify

himself in the eyes of the good-natured young man.

 

"I'm glad to hear that. Johnny." (Johnny is a common name applied to

boys whose names are unknown.) "It isn't a very creditable business.

What makes you beg, then?"

 

"I shall be beaten if I don't," said Mark.