^^ UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL V 00029633914 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://www.archive.org/details/youngoutlaworadrOalge 'HE YOUNG OUTLAW OR ADRIFT IN THE STREETS HORATIO ALGER, Jr. AOTHOR OE "ERIE TRAIN BOY," "YOUNG ACROBAT,' #, ONI,Y AN IRISH BOY," "BOUND TO WIN," "STRONG AND STEADY," "JULIUS, THE STREET BOY," ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS ALGER SERIES FOR BOYS. UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. By HORATIO ALGER, Jr. Adrift in New York. A Cousin's Conspiracy. Andy Gordon. Andy Grant's Pluck. Bob Burton. Bound to Rise. Brave and Bold. Cash Boy. Chester Rand Do and Dare. Driven from Home. Erie Train Boy. Facing the World. Five Hundred Dollars. Frank's Campaign. Grit. Hector's Inheritance. Helping Himself. Herbert Carter's Legacy. In a New World. Jack's Ward. Jed, the Poor House Boy. Joe's Luck. Julius, the Street Boy. Luke Walton. Making His Way. Mark Mason. Only an Irish Boy. Paul, the Peddler. Phil, the Fiddler. Ralph Raymond's Heir. Risen from the Ranks. Sam's Chance. Shifting for Himself. Sink or Swim. flow and Sure, tore Boy. Strive and Succeed. Strong and Steady. Struggling Upward. Tin Box. Tom, the Bootblack. Tony, the Tramp. Try and Trust. Wait and Hope. Walter Sherwood's Pro- bation. Young Acrobat. Young Adventurer. Young Outlaw. Young Salesman. Price, Post-Paid, jjc. each, or any three books for $ i.oo. HURST & COMPANY Publishers, New York. The Young Outlaw, CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG OUTLAW. "Boy, is this Canal Street?" The speaker was evidently from the country. He was a tall man, with prominent features, and a face seamed and wrinkled by the passage ef nearly seventy years. He wore a rusty cloak, in the style of thirty years gone by, and his clothing generally was of a fashion seldom seen on Broadway. The boy addressed was leaning against a lamppost, with both hands in his pockets. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and a soft hat, which looked as if it had served in its varied career as a football, was thrust carelessly on 2 The Young Outlaw. his head. He looked like a genuine representa- tive of the 'street Arab," with no thought for tomorrow and its needs, and contented if he !ould only make sure of a square meal to-day. 3is face was dirty, and marked by a mingled expression of fun and impudence; but the fea- tures were not unpleasing, and, had he been clean and neatly dressed, he would un- doubtedly have been considered good-looking. He turned quickly on being addressed, and started perceptibly, as his glance met the in- quiring look of the tall stranger. He seemed at first disposed to run away, but this intention was succeeded by a desire to have some fun with the old man. "Canal Street's about a mile off. I'll show yer the way for ten cents." "A mile off? That's strange," said the old man, puzzled. "They told me at the Astor House it was only about ten minutes' walk, (straight up." "That's where you got sold, gov'nor. Give me ten cents, and you won't have no more trouble." "Are you sure you know Canal Street your- The Young Outlaw. 3 self?" said the old man, perplexed. "They'** ^ught to know at the hotel." "I'd ought to know, too. That's where mj store is." "Your store !" ejaculated the old man, fixing his eyes upon his ragged companion, who cer- tainly looked very little like a New York mer- chant. "In course. Don't I keep a cigar store at No. 95!" "I hope you don't smoke yourself," said the deacon— -for he was a deacon — solemnly. "Yes, I do. My constitution requires it." "My boy, you are doing a lasting injury to your health," said the old man, impressively. "Oh, I'm tough. I kin stand it. Better give a dime, and let me show yer the way." The deacon was in a hurry to get to Canal Street, and after some hesitation, for he was fond of money, he drew out ten cents and banded it to his ragged companion. "There, my boy, show me the way. I shouh think you might have done it for nothing." "That ain't the way we do business in the tity, gov'nor." 4 The Young Outlaw. "Well, go ahead; I'm in a hurry." "You needn't be, for this is Canal Street," said the boy, edging off a little. "Then you've swindled me," said the deacon, wrathfully. "Give me back that ten cents." "Not if I know it," said the boy, mockingly. "That ain't the way we do business in the city. I'm goin' to buy two five-cent cigars with that money." "You said you kept a cigar store yourself," said the deacon, with sudden recollection. "You mustn't believe all you hear, gov'nor," said the boy, laughing saucily. "Well, now, if you ain't a bad boy," said the old man. "What's the odds as long as you're happy?" said the young Arab, carelessly. Here was a good chance for a moral lesson, and the deacon felt that it was his duty to point out to the young reprobate the error of his ways. "My young friend," he said, "how can you expect to be happy when you lie and cheat? Such men are never happy." "Ain't they, though? You bet 111 be happy The Young Outlaw. t when I'm smokin' the two cigars I'm going t( buy." "Keep the money, but don't buy the cigars," said the deacon, religion getting the better of his love of money. "Buy yourself some clothes You appear to need them." "Buy clo'es with ten cents!" repeated the boy, humorously. "At any rate, devote the money to a useful purpose, and I shall not mind being cheated out of it. If you keep on this way, you'll end on the gallows." "That's comin' it rather strong, gov'nor. Hanging's played out in New York. I guess I'm all right." "I'm afraid you're all wrong, my boy. You're travelin' to destruction." "Let's change the subject," said the street boy. "You're gittin' personal, and I don't like personal remarks. What'll you bet I can't tell your name?" "Bet !" ejaculated the deacon, horrified. "Yes, gov'nor, I'll bet you a quarter I kii tell your name." 6 The Young Outlaw. "I never bet. It's wicked," said the old man, with emphasis. "Well, we won't bet, then," said the boy. "Only if I tell your name right, you give me ten cents. If I don't get it right, I'll give back this dime you gave me. Ain't that fair?" The deacon might have been led to suspect that there was not much difference between the boy's proposal and the iniquity of a bet, but his mind was rather possessed by the thought that here was a good chance to recover the money out of which he had been so adroit- ly cheated. Surely there' was no wrong in re- covering that, as of course he would do, for how could a ragged street boy tell the name of one who lived a hundred and fifty miles dis- tant, in a small country town? "I'll do it," said the deacon. "You'll give me ten cents if I tell y 44 The Young Outlaw. "Where'd you get that hoe?" "I'm to work for Deacon Hopkins. He's took me. Where are you goin'?" "A-fishing." "I wish I could go, too." "So do I. I'd like company." "Where are you goin' to fish?" "In a brook close by, down at the bottom of this field." "I'll go and look on a minute or two. I guess there isn't any hurry about them potatoes." The minute or two lengthened to an hour and a half, when Sam roused himself from his idle mood, and, shouldering his hoe, started for the field where he had been set to work. It was full time. The deacon was there be- fore him, surveying with angry look the half- dozen hills, which were all that his young assistant had thus far hoed. "Now there'll be a fuss," thought Sam, and he was not far out in that calculation. The Young Outlaw, 45 CHAPTER VI. sam's sudden sickness. "Where have you been, you young scamp?" demanded the deacon, wrathfully. "I just went away a minute or two," said Sam, abashed. "A minute or two !" ejaculated the deacon. "It may have been more," said Sam. "You see I ain't got no watch to tell time by." "How comes it that you have only got through six hills all the morning?" said the deacon, sternly. "Well, you see, a cat came along " Sam began to explain. "What if she did?" interrupted the deacon. "She didn't stop your work, did she?" "Why, I thought I'd chase her out of the field." "What for?" 46 The Young Outlaw. "I thought she might scratch up some of the potatoes," said Sam, a brilliant excuse dawn- ing upon him. 'How long did it take you to chase her out of the field, where she wasn't doing any harm?" "I was afraid she'd come back, so I chased her a good ways." "Did you catch her?" "No, but I drove her away. I guess she won't come round here again," said Sam, in the tone of one who had performed a virtuous action. "Did you come right back?" "I sat down to rest. You see, I was pretty tired with running so fast." "If you didn't run any faster than you have worked, a snail would catch you in a half a minute," said the old man, with justifiable sar- casm. "Samuel, your excuse is good for noth- ing. I must punish you." Sam stood on his guard, prepared to run if the deacon should make hostile demonstration. But his guardian was not a man of violence, and did not propose to inflict blows. He had another punishment in view suited to Sam's particular case. The Young Outlaw. 47 "I'll go right to work," said Sam, seeing that no violence was intended, and hoping to escape the punishment threatened, whatever it might be. "You'd better," said the deacon. Our hero — I am afraid he has not manifested any heroic qualities as yet — went to work with remarkable energy, to the imminent danger of the potato tops, which he came near uprooting in several instances. "Is this fast enough?" he asked. "It'll do. I'll take the next row, and we'll work along together. Take care — I don't want the potatoes dug up." They kept it up for an hour or so, Sam work- ing more steadily, probably, than he had ever done before in his life. He began to think it was no joke, as he walked from hill to hill, keeping up with the deacon's steady progress. "There ain't much fun in this," he thought, "I don't like workin' on a farm. It's awful tire- some." "What's the use of hoein' potatoes?" he asked, after a while. "Won't they grow just as well without it?" 48 The Young Outlaw. "No," said the deacon. U I don't see why not." "They need to have the earth loosened around them, and heaped up where it's fallen away." "It's lots of trouble," said Sam. "We must all work," said the deacon, sen- tentiously. "I wish potatoes growed on trees like apples," said Sam. "They wouldn't be no trouble then." "You mustn't question the Almighty's doin's, Samuel," said the deacon, seriously. "Whatever he does is right." "I was only wonderin', that was all," said Sam. "Human wisdom is prone to err," said the old man, indulging in a scrap of proverbial philosophy. "What does that mean?" thought Sam, carelessly hitting the deacon's foot with his descending hoe. Unfortunately, the deacon had corns on that foot, and the blow cost him a sharp twinge. "You careless blockhead !" he shrieked, rai» The Young Outlaw. 49 ing the injured foot from the ground, while a spasm of anguish contracted his features. "Did you take my foot for a potato hill?" "Did I hurt you?" asked Sam, innocently. "You hurt me like thunder!" gasped the deacon, using, in his excitement, words which in calmer moments he would have avoided. "I didn't think it was your foot," said Sam. "I hope you'll be more careful next time; you most killed me." "I will," said Sam. "I wonder if it isn't time for dinner," he began to think presently, but, under the cir- cumstances, thought it best not to refer to the matter. But, at last, the welcome sound of the dinner bell was heard, as it was vigor- ously rung at the back door by Mrs. Hopkins. "That's for dinner, Samuel," said the dea- con. "We will go to the house." "All right !" said Sam, with alacrity, throw- ing down the hoe in the furrow. "Pick up that hoe and carry it with you," said the deacon. "Then we won't work here any more to* day !" said Sam, brightening up. 50 The Young Outlaw. "Yes, we will; but it's no way to leave the hoe in the fields. Some cat might come along and steal it," he added, with unwonted sar- casm. Sam laughed, as he thought of the idea of a cat stealing a hoe, and the deacon smiled at his own joke. Dinner was on the table. It was the fashion there to put all on at once, and Sam, to his great satisfaction, saw on one side a pie like that which had tempted him the night before. The deacon saw his look, and it suggested a fitting punishment. But the time was not yet. Sam did ample justice to the first course of meat and potatoes. When that was dispatched Mrs. Hopkins began to cut the pie. The deacon cleared his throat. "Samuel is to have no pie, Martha," he said. His wife thought it was for his misdeeds of the night before, and so did Sam. "I couldn't help walkin' in my sleep," he said, with a blank look of disappointment, "It ain't that," said the deacon. The Young Outlaw. 51 "What is it, then?" asked his wife. "Samuel ran away from his work this mornin', and was gone nigh on to two hours," said her husband. "You are quite right, Deacon Hopkins," said his wife, emphatically. "He don't deserve any dinner at all." "Can't I have some pie?" asked Sam, who could not bear to lose so tempting a portion of the repast. "No, Samuel. What I say I mean. He that will not work shall not eat." "I worked hard enough afterward," mut- tered Sam. "After I came back — yes, I know that. You worked well part of the time, so I gave you part of your dinner. Next time let the cats alone." "Can I have some more meat, then?" asked Sam. "Ye-es," said the deacon, hesitating. "You need strength to work this afternoon." "S'pose I get that catechism this afternoon instead of goin' to work," suggested Sam. "That will do after supper, Samuel. All 52 The Young Outlaw. things in their place. The afternoon is for work; the evening for reading and study, and improvin' the mind." Sam reflected that the deacon was a very obstinate man, and decided that his arrange- ments were very foolish. What was the use of living if you'd got to work all the time? A good many people, older than Sam, are of the same opinion, and it is not wholly without reason; but then, it should be borne in mind that Sam was opposed to all work. He be- lieved in enjoying himself, and the work might take care of itself. But how could it be avoided? As Sam was reflecting, a way opened itself. He placed his hand on his stomach, and be- gan to roll his eyes, groaning meanwhile. "What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Hopkins. "I feel sick," said Sam, screwing up his face into strange contortions. "It's very sudden," said Mrs. Hopkins, sus- piciously. "So 'tis," said Sam. "I'm afraid I'm going to be very sick. Can I lay down?" The Young Outlaw. 53 "What do you think it is, Martha?" asked the deacon, looking disturbed. "I know what it is," said his wife, calmly. "I've treated such attacks before. Yes, you may lie down in your room, and I'll bring you some tea, as soon as I can make it" "All right," said Sam, elated at the success of his little trick. It was very much pleas- anter to lie down than to hoe potatoes on a hot day. "How easy I took in the old woman!" he thought. It was not long before he changed his mind. as we shall see in the next chapter. 54 The Young Outlaw* CHAPTER VII. SAM MEETS HIS MATCH. Sam went upstairs with alacrity, and lay down on the bed — not that he was particu- larly tired, but because he found it more agreeable to lie down than to work in the field. "I wish I had something to read," he thought; "some nice dime novel like 'The De- mon of the Danube.' That was splendid. I like it a good deal better than Dickens. It's more excitin'." But there was no library in Sam's room, and it was very doubtful whether there were any dime novels in the house. The deacon be- longed to the old school of moralists, and looked with suspicion upon all works of fic- tion, with a very few exceptions, such as "Pil- grim's Progress" and "Robinson Crusoe," which, however, he supposed to be true stories. The Young Outlaw. 55 Soon Sam heard the step of Mrs. Hopkins en the stairs. He immediately began to twist his features in such a way as to express pain* Mrs. Hopkins entered the room with a cup of hot liquid in her hand. "How do you feel?" she asked. "I feel bad," said Sam. "Are you in pain?" "Yes, I've got a good deal of pain !" "Whereabouts?" Sam placed his hand on his stomach, and looked sad. "Yes, I know exactly what is the matter with you," said the deacon's wife. "Then you know a good deal," thought Sam, "for I don't know of anything at all my- self." This was what he thought, but he said, "Do you?" "Oh, yes; I've had a good deal of experi- ence. I know what is good for you." Sam looked curiously at the cup. "What is it?" he asked. "It's hot tea; it's very healin'." Sam supposed it to be ordinary tea, and 56 The Young Outlaw. he had no objection to take it. But when he put it to his lips there was something about the odor that did not please him. "It doesn't smell good," he said, looking up in the face of Mrs. Hopkins. "Medicine generally doesn't," she said, quietly. "I thought it was tea," said Sam. "So it is; it is wormwood tea." "I don't think I shall like it," hesitated Sam. "No matter if you don't, it will do you good," said Mrs. Hopkins. Sam tasted it, and his face assumed an ex- pression of disgust. "I can't drink it," he said. "You must," said Mrs. Hopkins, firmly. "I guess I'll get well without," said our hero, feeling that he was in a scrape. "No, you won't. You're quite unwell. I can see it by your face." "Can you?" said Sam, beginning to be alarmed about his health. "You must take this tea," said the lady, firmly. The Young Outlaw. 57 "I'd rather not." "That's neither here nor there. The deacon needs you well, so you can go to work, and this will cure you as quick as anything." "Suppose it doesn't?" said Sam. "Then I shall bring you up some castor oil in two hours." Castor oil! This was even worse than wormwood tea, and Sam's heart sank within him. "The old woman's too much for me," he thought, with a sigh. "Come, take the tea," said Mrs. Hopkins. "I can't wait here all day." Thus adjured, Sam made a virtue of neces- sity, and, shutting his eyes, gulped down the wormwood. He shuddered slightly when it was all gone, and his face was a study. "Well done!" said Mrs. Hopkins. "It's sure to do you good." "I think I'd have got well without," said Sam. "I'm afraid it won't agree with me." "If it don't," said Mrs. Hopkins, cheerfully, "I'll try some castor oil." "I guess I won't need it," said Sam, hastily* S$ The Young Outlaw. "It was awful," said Sam to himself, as his nurse left him alone. "I'd rather hoe pota- toes than take it again. I never see such a terrible old woman. She would make me do it, when I wasn't no more sick than she is." Mrs. Hopkins smiled to herself as she went downstairs. "Served him right," she said to herself. "I'll 1'arn him to be sick. Guess he won't try it again very soon." Two hours later Mrs. Hopkins presented herself at Sam's door. He had been looking out of the window; but he bundled into bed as soon as he heard her. Appearances must be kept up. "How do you feel now, Sam?" asked Mrs. Hopkins. "A good deal better," said Sam, surveying in alarm a cup of some awful decoction in her hand. "Do you feel ready to go*to work again?" "Almost," said Sam, hesitating. "The wormwood tea did you good, it seems ; tat you're not quite well yet." "I'll soon be well," said Sam, hastily. The Young Outlaw. 59 "I mean you shall be," said his visitor. "Fve brought you some more medicine." "Is it tea?" "No, castor oil." "I don't need it," said Sam, getting up quickly. "I'm well." "If you are not well enough to go to work, you must take some oil." "Yes, I am," said Sam. "I'll go right out into the field." "I don't want you to go unless you are quite recovered. I'm sure the oil will bring you round." "I'm all right, now," said Sam, hastily. "Very well; if you think so, you can go to work." Bather ruefully, Sam made his way to the potato field, with his hoe on his shoulder. "Tea and castor oil are worse than work," he thought. "The old woman's got the best of me, after all. I wonder whether she knew I was makin' believe." On this point Sam could not make up his mind. She certainly seemed in earnest, and never expressed a doubt about his being really 6o The Young Outlaw. sick. But all the same, she made sickness very disagreeable to him, and he felt that in future he should not pretend sickness when she was at home. It made him almost sick to think of the bitter tea he had already drunk, and the oil would have been even worse. The deacon looked up as he caught sight of Sam. "Have you got well?" he asked, innocently, for he had not been as clear-sighted as his wife in regard to the character of Sam's malady. "Yes," said Sam, "I'm a good deal better, but I don't feel quite as strong as I did." "Mebbe it would be well for you to fast a little," said the deacon, in all sincerity, for fasting was one of his specifics in case of sick- ness. "No, I don't think it would,"' said Sam, quickly. "I'll feel better by supper time." "I hope you will," said the deacon. "I wish I had a piece of pie or somethin' to take the awful taste out of my mouth," thought Sam. "I can taste that wormwood The Young Outlaw. 61 jist as plain! I wonder why such things are allowed to grow.'* For the rest of the afternoon Sam worked unusually well. He was under the deacon's eye, and unable to get away, though he tried at least once. After they had been at work for about an hour, Sam said, suddenly: "Don't you feel thirsty, Deacon Hopkins?" "What makes you ask?" said the deacon. "Because I'd jist as lieve go to the house and get some water," said Sam, with a very obliging air. "You're very considerate, Samuel; but I don't think it's healthy to drink between meals." "Supposin' you're thirsty?'' suggested Sam- uel, disappointed. "It's only fancy. You don't need drink really. You only think you do," said the dea- con, and he made some further remarks on the subject, to which Sam listened discon- tentedly. He began to think his situation a very hard one. "It's work — work all the time," he said to himself. "What's the good of workin' your- 62 The Young Outlaw. self to death? When I'm a man I'll work only when I want to." Sam did not consider that there might he some difficulties in earning a living unless he were willing to work for it. The present discomfort was all he thought of. At last, much to Sam's joy, the deacon gave the sign to return to the house. "If you hadn't been sick, we'd have got through more," he said; "but to-morrow we must make up for lost time." "I hope it'll rain to-morrow," thought Sam. "We can't work in the rain." At supper the wormwood seemed to give him additional appetite. "I'm afraid you'll make yourself sick again, Samuel," said the deacon. "There ain't no danger," said Sam, looking alarmed at the suggestion. "I feel all right now." "The wormwood did you good," said Mrs. Hopkins, dryly. "T wonder if she means anything/' thought Sam. The Yo ng Outlaw. 63 CHAPTEE VIII. SAM'S temptation. A month passed, a month which it is safe to bay was neither satisfactory to Sam nor his employer. The deacon discovered that the boy needed constant watching. When he was left to himself he was sure to shirk his work, and indulge his natural love of living at ease. His appetite showed no signs of decrease, and the deacon was led to remark that "Samuel had the stiddyest appetite of any boy he ever knew. He never seemed to know when he had eaten enough." As for Mrs. Hopkins, Sam failed to produce a favorable impression upon her. He was by no means her ideal of a boy, though it must be added that this ideal was so high that few living boys could expect to attain it. He must have an old head on young shoulders, 64 The Young Outlaw. and, in fact, be an angel in all respects ex- cept the wings. On these, Mrs. Hopkins probably would not insist. Being only a boy, and considerably lazier and more mischievous than the average, there was not much pros- pect of Sam's satisfying her requirements. "You'd better send him to the poorhouse, deacon," she said more than once. "He's the most shif'less boy I ever see, and it's awful the amount he eats." "I guess I'll try him a little longer," said the deacon. "He ain't had no sort of bring- in' up, you know." So, at the end of four weeks, Sam still con- tinued a member of the deacon's household. As for Sam, things were not wholly satis- factory to him. In spite of all his adroit eva- sions of duty, he found himself obliged t "What would he do if he should catch you?" asked the bootblack, with curiosity. "Lick me," said Sam, laconically. "Then you did right. Is he going to stay here long?" "No; he's going away to-day." "Then you're safe. You'd better go the other way from him." "So I will," said Sam. "Where's the park I've heard so much about?" The Young Outlaw. 139 "Up that way." "Is it far?" "Four or five miles." "It's a long way to walk." "You can ride for five cents." "Can I?" "Yes; just go over to the Astor House, and take the Sixth Avenue cars, and they'll take you there." Sam had intended to spend his entire fifty cents in buying dinner when the time came, but he thought he would like to see Central Park. Besides, he would be safe from pursuit, and the punishment which he felt he deserved. Following the directions of his boy friend, he entered a Sixth Avenue car, and in a little less than an hour was set down at one of the gates of the park. He entered with a number of others, and followed the path that seemed most convenient, coming out at last at the lake. Until now Sam had thought rather slightingly of the park. Green fields were no novelty to him, but he admired the lake, with the boats that plied over its surface filled with lively passengers. He would have invested ten 140 The Young Outlaw. cents in a passage ticket; but he felt that if he did this, he must sacrifice a part of his in- tended dinner, and Sam was growing prudent. He wandered about the park two or three hours, sitting down at times on the benches that are to be found here and there for the convenience of visitors. He felt ready to go back; but it was only noon, and he was not sure but he might fall in with the gentleman from Illinois, whom he had left at the entrance of the Tombs. He was destined to meet an acquaintance, but this time it was some one that had cheated him. Looking up from the bench on which he was seated, he saw his host of the preced- ing night, Mr. Clarence Brown, lounging along, smoking a cigar, with a look of placid contentment on his face. "That cigar was bought with my money," thought Sam, bitterly; and in this conclusion be was right. Sam jumped from his seat, and advanced to meet his enemy. 'Took here, Mr. Brown !" Clarence Brown started as he saw who a& The Young Outlaw. 141 Iressed him, for he was far from expecting to meet Sam here. He saw from the boy's looks that he was suspected of robbing him, and decided upon his course. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, smiling. "How do you like the park?" "Never mind about that," said Sam, impa« fciently. "I want my money." Mr. Brown arched his eyes in surprise. "Eeally, my young friend, I don't compre- hend you," he said, withdrawing his cigar from his mouth. "You speak as if I owed you some money." "Quit fooling!" said Sam, provoked at the other's coolness. "I want that money you took from me while I was asleep last night." "It strikes me you have been dreaming," said Brown, composedly. "I don't know any- thing about your money. How much did you Uave?" ^Nearly seven dollars." *&re you sure you had it when you went t& ded?" "Yes. I kepi \i in my vest Docket." 142 The Young Outlaw. "That was careless. You should have con- cealed it somewhere. I would have kept it for you if you had asked me." "I dare say you would," said Sam, with with- ering sarcasm. "Certainly, I wouldn't refuse so small a fa- vor." "Are you sure you didn't keep it for me?" said Sam. "How could I, when you didn't give it to me?" returned the other, innocently. "If you didn't take it," said Sam, rather stag- gered by the other's manner, "where did it go to?" "I don't know, of course; but I shouldn't be surprised if it fell out of your vest pocket among the bed clothes. Did you look?" "Yes." "You might have overlooked it." "Perhaps so," said Sam, thoughtfully. He began to think he had suspected Mr. Brown unjustly. Otherwise, how could he be so cool about it? "I am really sorry for your loss," said Brown, in a tone Gf sympathy; "all the more The Young Outlaw. 143 so, because I am hard up myself. I wish I had seven dollars to lend you." "I wish you had," muttered Sam. "I can't get along without money." "Did you have any breakfast?" "Yes." Sam did not furnish particulars, not liking to acknowledge the treatment he had received. "Oh, you'll get along," said Brown, cheer- fully. "Come and lodge with me again to- night." "I don't know but what I will," said Sam, reflecting that he had no money to lose now, as he intended to spend all he had for dinner. "Sit down and let us have a friendly chat," said Clarence Brown. "Won't you have a cigar? I've got an extra one." "I never smoked," said Sam. "Then it's time you learned. Shall I show you how?" "Yes," said Sam. The fact is, our badly behaved hero had long cherished a desire to see how it seemed to smoke a cigar ; but in the country he had never had the opportunity. In the city he was mas- 144 The Young Outlaw. ter of his own actions, and it occurred to him that he would never have a better opportunity. Hence his affirmative answer. Clarence Brown smiled slightly to himself, for he anticipated fun. He produced the cigar, lighted it by his own, and gave Sam di- rections how to smoke. Sam proved an apt pupil, and was soon puffing away with con- scious pride. He felt himself several years older. But all at once he turned pale, and drew the cigar from his mouth. "What's the matter?" asked Brown, de- murely. "I — don't — know," gasped Sam, his eyes rolling; "I — feel — sick." "Do you? Don't mind it; it'll pass off." "I think I'm going to die," said Sam, in a hollow voice. "Does smoking ever kill peo- ple?" "Not often," said Brown, soothingly. "I think it's goin' to kill me," said Sam, mournfully. "Lie down on the bench. You'll feel better soon." Sam lay down on his back, and again he The Young Outlaw. 145. wished himself safely back at the deacon's. New York seemed to him a very dreadful place. His head ached; his stomach was out of tune, and he felt very unhappy. "Lie here a little while, and you'll feel bet- ter," said his companion. "I'll be back soon." He walked away to indulge in a laugh at his victim's expense, and Sam was left alone 146 The Young Outlaw, CHAPTER XVII. TIM BRADY. An hour passed, and Clarence Brown did not reappear. He had intended to do so, but reflecting that there was no more to be got out of Sam, changed his mind. Sam lay down on the bench for some time, then raised himself to a sitting posture. He did not feel so sick as at first, but his head ached unpleasantly. "I won't smoke any more," he said to him- self. "I didn't think it would make me feel so bad." I am sorry to say that Sam did not keep the resolution he then made; but at the time when he is first introduced to the reader, in the first chapter, had become a confirmed smoker. "Why don't Mr. Brown come back?" he thought, after the lapse of an hour. The Young Outlaw. 147 He waited half an hour longer, when he was brought to the conviction that Brown had played him false, and was not coming back at all. With this conviction his original suspi- cion revived, and he made up his mind that Brown had robbed him after all. "I'd like to punch his head," thought Sam, angrily. It did not occur to him that the deacon, from whom the money was originally taken, had the same right to punch his head. As I have said, Sam's conscience was not sensitive, and self-interest blinded him to the character of his own conduct. His experience in smoking had given him a distaste for the park, for this afternoon at least, and he made his way to the horse cars determined to return. It did make him feel a little forlorn to reflect that he had no place to return to; no home but the streets. He had not yet contracted that vagabond feeling that makes even them seem homelike to the hundreds of homeless children who wander about in them by day and by night. He was in due time landed at the Astor 148 The Young Outlaw. House. It was about four o'clock in the after- noon, and he had had nothing to eat since breakfast. But for the cigar, he would have had a hearty appetite. As it was, he felt faint, and thought he should relish some tea and toast. He made his way, therefore, to a res- taurant in Fulton Street, between Broadway and Nassau Street. It was a very respectable place, but at that time in the afternoon there were few at the tables. Sam had forty cents left. He found that this would allow him to buy a cup of tea, a plate of beefsteak, a plate of toast, and a piece of pie. He disposed of them, and going up to the desk paid his bill. Again he found himself penniless. "I wonder where I am going to sleep," he thought. "I guess I'll ask some bootblacks where they live. They can't afford to pay much." The tea made his head feel better; and, though he was penniless, he began to feel more cheerful than an hour before. He wandered about till he got tired, lean- ing against a building sometimes. He began to feel lonely. He knew nobody in the great The Young Outlaw. 149 city except Clarence Brown, whom he did not care to meet again, and the bootblack whose acquaintance he had made the day before. "I wish I had some other boy with me," thought Sam; "somebody I knew. It's awful lonesome." Sam was social by temperament and looked about him to see if he could not make some one's acquaintance. Sitting on the same bench with him — for he was in City Hall Park — was a boy of about his own age, apparently. To him Sam determined to make friendly overtures. "What is your name, boy?" asked Sam. The other boy looked around at him. He was very much freckled, and had a sharp look which made him appear preternaturally old. "What do you want to know for?" he asked. "I don't know anybody here. I'd like to get acquainted." The street boy regarded him attentively to see if he were in earnest, and answered, after a pause, "My name is Tim Brady. What's yours?" "Sam Barker." 150 The Young Outlaw. "Where do you live?" "Nowhere," said Sam. "I haven't got any home, nor any money." "That's nothing!" said Tim. "No more have I." "Haven't you?" said Sam, surprised. "Then where are you going to sleep to-night?" "I know an old wagon, up an alley, where I can sleep like a top." "Ain't you afraid of taking cold, sleeping out of doors?" asked Sam, who, poor as he had always been, had never been without a roof to cover him. "Take cold!" repeated the boy, scornfully. "I ain't a baby. I don't take cold in the sum- mer." "I shouldn't think you could sleep in a wagon." "Oh, I can sleep anywhere," said Tim. "It makes no difference to me where I curl up." "Is there room enough in the wagon for me?" asked Sam. "Yes, unless some other chap gets ahead of us." "May I go with you?" The Young Outlaw. 151 "la course you can/' "Suppose we find somebody else ahead of as?" "Theu we'll go somewhere else. There's plenty of places. I say, Johnny, haven't you got no stamps at all?" "Stamps?" "Yes, money. Don't you know what stamps is?" "No. I spent my last cent for supper." "If you'd got thirty cents we'd go to the the- atre." "Is it good?" "You bet!" "Then I wish I had money enough to go. I never went to the theatre in my life." "You didn't ! Where was you raised?" said Tim, contemptuously. "In the country." "I thought so." "They don't have theatres in the country. " "Then I wouldn't live there. It must be awful dull there." "So it is," said Sam. "That's why I raa away." 152 The Young Outlaw. "Did you run away?" asked Tim, interested. "Was it from the old man?" "It was from the man I worked for. He wanted me to work all the time, and I got tired of it." "What sort of work was it?" asked Tim. "It was on a farm. I had to hoe potatoes, split wood, and such things." "I wouldn't like it. It's a good deal more jolly bein' in the city." "If you've only got money enough to get along," added Sam. "Oh, you can earn money." "How?" asked Sam, eagerly. "Different ways." "How do you make a livin'?" "Sometimes I black boots, sometimes I sell papers, then again, I smash baggage." "What's that?" asked Sam, bewildered. "Oh, I forgot," exclaimed Tim. "You're from the country. I loaf around the depots and steamboat landin's, and carry carpetbags and such things for pay." "Is that smashing baggage?" "To be sure," The Young Outlaw. 153 "I could do that," said Sam, thoughtfully. "Can you make much that way?" " Tends on how many jobs you get, and whether the cove's liberal. Wimmen's the wust. They'll beat a chap down to nothin', if they can." "How much do you get, anyway, for carry- ing a bundle?" "I axes fifty cents, and generally gets a quar- ter. The wimmen don't want to pay more'n ten cents." "I guess I'll try it to-morrow, if you'll tell me where to go." "You can go along of me. I'm goin' smash- in' myself to-morrer." "Thank you," said Sam. "I'm glad I met you. You see I don't know much about the city." "Didn't you bring no money with you?" "Yes, but it was stolen." "Was your pockets picked?" "I'll tell you about it. I was robbed in my sleep." So Sam told the story of his adventure with Clarence Brown. Tim listened attentively. 154 The Young Outlaw. "He was smart, he was," said Tim, approv* ingly. "He's a rascal," said Sam, hotly, who did not relish having his spoiler praised. "Course he is, but he's smart, too. You might a knowed he'd do it." "How should I know? I thought he was a kind man, that wanted to do me a favor." Tim burst out laughing. "Ain't you green, though?" he remarked. "Oh, my eye, but you're jolly green." "Am I?" said Sam, rather offended. "Is everybody a thief in New York?" "Most everybody, if they gets a chance," said Tim, coolly. "Didn't you ever steal your- self?" Sam colored. He had temporarily forgot- ten the little adventure that preceded his de- parture from his country home. After all, why should he be so angry with Clarence Brown for doing the very same thing he had done him- self? Why, indeed? But Sam had an an- swer ready. The deacon did not need the money, while he could not get along very well without it. So it was meaner in Clarence The Young Outlaw. 155 Brown to take all he had than in him to take what the deacon could so well spare. I hope my readers understand that this was very flimsy and unsatisfactory reasoning. Stealing is stealing, under whatever circum- stances. At any rate Sam found it inconven- ient to answer Tim's pointed question. They talked a while longer, and then his companion arose from the bench. "Come along, Johnny," he said. "Let's go to roost." "All right," said Sam, and the two left the; park. 156 The Young Outlaw. CHAPTER XVIII. SAM TURNS IMPOSTOR. Tim conducted our hero to an alleyway, not far from the North River, in which an Did wagon had come to temporary anchor. "This is my hotel," he said. "I like it 'cause it's cheap. They don't trouble you with no bills here. Tumble in." Tim, without further ceremony, laid him- self down on the floor of the wagon, and Sam followed his example. There is everything in getting used to things, and that is where Tim had the advantage. He did not mind the hard- ness of his couch, while Sam, who had always been accustomed to a regular bed, did. He moved from one side to another, and then lay on his back, seeking sleep in vain. "What's up?'" muttered Tim, sleepily. **Why don't you shut your peepers?" The Young Outlaw. 157 "The boards are awful hard," Sam com' plained. "It ain't nothin' when you're used to it,** said Tim. "You go to sleep, and you won't mind it." "I wish I could," said Sam, turning again. Finally he succeeded in getting to sleep, but not till some time after his companion. He slept pretty well, however, and did not awaken till, at six o'clock, he was shaken by his com- panion. "What's the matter? Where am I?" asked Sam, feeling bewildered at first. "Why, here you are, in course," said the matter-of-fact Tim. "Did you think you was in the station-house?" "No, I hope not," answered Sam. "What time is it?" "I don't know. A chap stole my watch in the night. I guess it's after six. Have yon $ot any stamps?" "No." "Nor I. We've got to stir around, and earn some breakfast." "How'll we do it?" 158 The Young Outlaw. "We'll go down to the pier, and wait for the Boston boat. Maybe we'll get a chance to smash some baggage." "I hope so," said Sam, "for I'm hungry." "I'm troubled that way myself," said Tim. "Come along." When they reached the pier, they found a number of boys, men, and hack-drivers already in waiting. They had to wait about half an hour, when they saw the great steamer slowly approaching the wharf. Instantly Tim was on the alert. "When they begin to come ashore, you must go in and try your luck. Just do as I do." This Sam resolved to do. A tall man emerged from the steamer, bear- ing a carpetbag. "Smash your baggage?" said Tim. "No, I think not. I can carry it myself." "I haven't had any breakfast," said Tim, screwing up his freckled features into an ex- pression of patient suffering. "Nor I either," said the stranger, smiling. "You've got money to buy some, and I haven't," said Tim, keeping at his side. The Young Outlaw. 159 "Well, you may carry it," said the gentle- man, good-naturedly. Tim turned half around, and winked at Sam, as much as to say, "Did you see how 1 did it?" Sam was quick enough to take the hint "Smash your carpetbag?" he asked, of a mid- dle-aged lady, imitating as closely as possible Tim's professional accent. "What?" asked the lady, startled. "She don't understand," thought Sam. "Let me carry it for you, ma'am." "I do not need it. I am going to take a cab." "Let me take it to the cab," persisted Sam ; but he was forestalled by a hack-driver, who had heard the lady's remark. "Let me take it, ma'am," he said, thrusting Sam aside. "I've got a nice carriage just outside. Take you anywhere you want to go." So the lady was carried away, and Sam had to make a second application. This time he addressed himself to a gentleman whose little daughter walked by his side. 160 The Young Outlaw. "No," said the gentleman ; "the carpetbag ia small. I don't need help." The smallness of the bag, by the way, was one reason why Sam, who did not like heavy bundles, wanted to carry it. He felt that it was time to practice on the stranger's feelings. "I want to earn some money to buy bread ior my mother," he whined, in a very credit- able manner, considering how inexperienced he was. This attracted the attention of the little girl, who, like most little girls, had a tender and compassionate heart. "Is your mother poor?" she asked. "Very poor," said Sam. "She hasn't got a bent to buy bread for the children." "Have you got many brothers and sisters?" a^ked the little girl, her voice full of sym- pathy. "Five," answered Sam, piteously. a Oh, papa," said the little girl, "let him take your carpetbag. Think of it, his mother %aan't got anything to eat." * < Well, Clara," said her father, indulgently, The Young Outlaw. "I suppose I must gratify you. Here, take the bag, and carry it carefully." "All right, sir," said Sam, cheerfully. "I guess I can get along," he thought, com- placently. "That's a good dodge." "When we get to Broadway we'll take the car," said the gentleman. "Take hold of my hand, tight, Clara, while we cross the street." Clara seemed disposed to be sociable, and entered into conversation with the young bag- gage-smasher. "Are your brothers and sisters younger than you are?" she inquired. "Yes," said Sam. "How many of them are boys?" "There's two boys besides me, and three girls," said Sam, readily. "What are their names?" asked Clara. "Why," answered Sam, hesitating a little, "there's Tom, and Jim, and John, and Sarah and Maggie." "I don't see how that can be," said Clara* puzzled. "Just now you said there were three girls and only two boys." 1 62 The Young Outlaw. "Did I?" said Sam, rather abashed. "] didn't think what I was saying." "Isn't your father alive?" asked the little girl. "No; he's dead." "And do you have to support the family?" "Yes ; except what mother does." "What does she do?" "Oh, she goes out washing." "Poor boy, I suppose you have a hard time?" "Yes," said Sam; "some days we don't get anything to eat." "Oh, papa, isn't it dreadful?" said Clara, her warm little heart throbbing with sympathy. Her father was less credulous, and he was struck by Sam's hearty appearance. Cer- tainly he looked very unlike a boy who did not have enough to eat. "You don't look as if you suffered much from hunger, my boy," said he, with a pene- trating look. "I had a good dinner yesterday," said Sam. "A gentleman gave me some money for showing him the way to the Tribune office." The Young Outlaw. 163 "On© dinner seems to have done you a great deal of good/' said the man. "It alw&ys does me good," said Sam, and here he had no occasion to tell a falsehood. "I hope yon carried some of the money home to your mother, and brothers and sisters." "Yes, I did \ I bought some meat, and mother cooked it. "W