Dan The Newsboy 2

Dan The Newsboy 2

"On account of a rascal, sir. His book-keeper ran off, carrying with him

thirty thousand dollars. Father couldn't meet his bills, and so he

failed. It broke his heart, and he didn't live six months after it."

 

"Have you ever heard of this book-keeper since?"

 

"No, sir, not a word. I wish I could. I should like to see him dragged

to prison, for he killed my father, and made my mother work for a

living."

 

"I can't blame you, Dan, for feeling as you do. Besides, it has altered

your prospects."

 

"I don't care for myself, sir. I can forget that. But I can't forgive

the injury he has done my poor father and mother."

 

"Have you any idea what became of the defaulter?"

 

"We think that he went to Europe, just at first, but probably he

returned when he thought all was safe."

 

"He may have gone out West."

 

"I shouldn't wonder, sir."

 

"I live in the West myself--in Chicago."

 

"That's a lively city, isn't it, sir?"

 

"We think so out there. Well, my lad, I must go into the hotel now."

 

"Excuse me for detaining you, sir," said Dan, politely.

 

"You haven't detained me; you have interested me. I hope to see you

again."

 

"Thank you, sir."

 

"Where do you generally stand?"

 

"Just here, sir. A good many people pass here, and I find it a good

stand."

 

"Then I shall see you again, as I propose to remain in New York for a

day or two. Shall you have the morning papers?"

 

"Yes, sir; all of them."

 

"Then I will patronize you to-morrow morning. Good-day."

 

"Good-day, sir."

 

"He's a gentleman," said Dan to himself, emphatically. "It isn't every

one that feels an interest in a poor newsboy. Well, I may as well be

going home. It's lonely for mother staying by herself all day. Let me

see; what shall I take her? Oh, here are some pears. She's very fond of

pears."

 

Dan inquired the price of pears at a street stand, and finally selected

one for three cents.

 

"Better take two for five cents," said the fruit merchant.

 

"I can't afford it," said Dan. "Times are hard, and I have to look after

the pennies. I wouldn't buy any at all if it wasn't for my mother."

 

"Better take another for yourself," urged the huckster.

 

Dan shook his head.

 

"Can't afford it," he said. "I must get along without the luxuries.

Bread and butter is good enough for me."

 

Looking up, Dan met the glance of a boy who was passing--a tall,

slender, supercilious-looking boy, who turned his head away scornfully

as he met Dan's glance.

 

"I know him," said Dan to himself. "I ought to know Tom Carver. We used

to sit together at school. But that was when father was rich. He won't

notice me now. Well, I don't want him to," proceeded Dan, coloring

indignantly. "He thinks himself above me, but he needn't. His father

failed, too, but he went on living just the same. People say he cheated

his creditors. My poor father gave up all he had, and sank into

poverty."

 

This was what passed through Dan's mind. The other boy--Tom Carver--had

recognized Dan, but did not choose to show it.

 

"I wonder whether Dan Mordaunt expected me to notice him," he said to

himself. "I used to go to school with him, but now that he is a low

newsboy I can't stoop to speak to him. What would my fashionable friends

say?"

 

Tom Carver twirled his delicate cane and walked on complacently,

feeling no pity for the schoolfellow with whom he used to be so

intimate. He was intensely selfish--a more exceptional thing with boys

than men. It sometimes happens that a boy who passes for good-hearted

changes into a selfish man; but Tom required no change to become that.

His heart was a very small one, and beat only for himself.

 

Dan walked on, and finally paused before a large tenement-house. He went

in at the main entrance, and ascended two flights of stairs. He opened a

door, and found himself in the presence of the mother whom he so dearly

loved.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER II.

 

DAN AT HOME.

 

 

While Dan was strong, sturdy, and the picture of health, his mother was

evidently an invalid. She was pale, thin, and of delicate appearance.

She was sitting in a cane-seated rocking-chair, which Dan had bought

second-hand on one of his flush days at a small place on the Bowery. She

looked up with a glad smile when Dan entered.

 

"I am so glad to see you, my dear boy," she said.

 

"Have you been lonely, mother?" asked Dan, kissing her affectionately.

 

"Yes, Dan, it is lonely sitting here hour after hour without you, but I

have my work to think of."

 

"I wish you didn't have to work, mother," said Dan. "You are not strong

enough. I ought to earn enough to support us both."

 

"Don't trouble yourself about that, my dear boy. I should feel more

lonely if I had nothing to do."

 

"But you work all the time. I don't like to have you do that."

 

In truth the mother was very tired, and her feeble fingers were cramped

with the stitch, stitch, stitch in endless repetition, but she put on a

cheerful countenance.

 

"Well, Dan, I'll stop now that you are at home. You want some supper."

 

"Let me get it, mother."

 

"No, Dan, it will be a relief to me to stir around a little, as I have

been sitting so long."

 

"Oh, I nearly forgot, mother--here's a nice pear I bought for you."

 

"It does look nice," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "I don't feel hungry, but I can

eat that. But where is yours, Dan?"

 

"Oh, I've eaten mine," answered Dan, hastily.

 

It was not true, but God will forgive such falsehoods.

 

"You'd better eat half of this."

 

"No; I'll be----flummuxed if I do," said Dan, pausing a little for an

unobjectionable word.

 

Mrs. Mordaunt set the little table for two. On it she spread a neat

cloth, and laid the plain supper--a plate of bread, ditto of butter, and

a few slices of cold meat. Soon the tea was steeped, and mother and son

sat down for the evening meal.

 

"I say, mother, this is a jolly supper," said Dan. "I get awfully hungry

by supper-time."

 

"You are a growing boy, Dan. I am glad you have an appetite."

 

"But you eat next to nothing, mother," said Dan, uneasily.

 

"I am _not_ a growing boy," said Mrs. Mordaunt, smiling. "I shall relish

my supper to-night on account of the pear you brought me."

 

"Well, I'm glad I thought of it," said Dan, heartily. "Pears ain't solid

enough for me; I want something hearty to give me strength."

 

"Of course you do, Dan. You have to work hard."

 

"I work hard, mother! Why, I have the easiest time going. All I do is to

walk about the streets, or stand in front of the Astor House and ask

people to buy my papers. Oh, by the way, who do you think I saw to-day?"

 

"Any of our old friends?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt.

 

"Any of our old friends! I should say not," answered Dan, disdainfully.

"It was Tom Carver."

 

"Was it he? He used to sit next you in school, didn't he?"

 

"Yes, for six months. Tom and I were chums."

 

"Did he say whether his family was well?"