Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World by Jr. Horatio Alger (top 100 novels of all time .TXT) 📖

well mention that my uncle is displeased with me, and has practically disowned me.”

“Then, Miss Florence,” said Mr. de Brabazon, eagerly, “won’t you accept—aw—my heart and hand? My mother will be charmed to receive you, and I—aw—will strive to make you happy.”

“I appreciate your devotion, I do, indeed, Mr. de Brabazon,” said Florence, earnestly; “but I must decline your offer. I will not marry without love.”

“I don’t mind that,” said Percy, “if you’ll agree to take a feller; you’ll learn in time to like him a little. I am wich—I know you don’t care for that—but I can give you as good a home as your uncle. If you would give me hope—aw——”

“I am afraid I cannot, Mr. de Brabazon, but if you will allow me to look upon you as a friend, I will call upon you if I have need of a friend’s services.”

“Will you, weally?”

“Yes, there is my hand on it. I ought to tell you that I must now earn my own living, and am to give lessons to a young pupil in West —— Street, three hours daily.”

“You don’t mean to say you are actually poor?” said Mr. de Brabazon, horrified.

“Yes, indeed, I am.”

“Then, won’t you let me lend you some money? I’ve got more than I need, I have, ’pon my honor.”

“Thank you, I promise to call upon you if I need it.”

Mr. de Brabazon looked pleased.

“Would you mind telling me where you are going to teach, Miss Florence?”

Florence hesitated, but there was something so sincere and friendly in the young man’s manner—dude though he was—that she consented to grant his request.

“I am to teach the daughter of Mr. Robert Leighton.”

“Why, Miss Leighton is my cousin,” said Percy, in joyous excitement.

“Indeed! Had I known that I would hardly have told you.”

“Don’t be afwaid! I will be vewy discreet,” said Mr. de Brabazon.

“Thank you, and good-morning.”

Florence went on her way, cheered and encouraged in spite of herself, by her success in obtaining employment, and by the friendly offers of Mr. de Brabazon.

“It is wrong to get discouraged,” she said to herself. “After all, there are warm hearts in the world.”

When she entered her humble home, she found Dodger already there. There was an eagerness in his manner, and a light in his eye, that seemed to indicate good news.

“Well, Dodger, what is it?”

“I’ve been waitin’ half an hour to see you, Florence,” he said. “I’ve got some work for you.”

“What is it—sewing on a button, or mending a coat?”

“No, I mean workin’ for money. You can play on the pianner, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“They want a young lady to play the pianner at a dime museum, for nine dollars a week. It’s a bully chance. I just told the manager—he’s a friend of mine—that I had a young lady friend that was a stunnin’ player, and he wants you to come around and see him.”

It was a preposterous idea—so Florence thought—that she should consent to play at such a place; but she couldn’t expect Dodger to look at the matter in the same light, so she answered, very gently and pleasantly:

“You are very kind, Dodger, to look out for me, but I shall not need to accept your friend’s offer. I have secured a chance to teach uptown.”

“You have? What’ll you get?”

“I am to be employed three hours daily, at fifty cents an hour.”

“Geewhillikens! that’s good! You’d have to work as much as twelve hours at the museum for the same pay.”

“You see, therefore, that I am provided for—that is, if I suit.”

Dodger was a little disappointed. Still, he could not help admitting that it would be better for Florence to teach three hours, than to work ten or twelve. As to her having any objection to appearing at a dime museum, that never occurred to him.

Florence had sent for her trunk, and it was now in her room.

Dodger accompanied an expressman to the house, and luckily saw Jane, who arranged everything for him.

“How’s the old gentleman?” asked Dodger. “Florence wanted me to ask.”

“He’s feeble,” said Jane, shaking her head.

“Does he miss Florence?”

“That he do.”

“Why don’t he send for her, then, to come back?” asked Dodger, bluntly.

“Because Curtis Waring makes him believe she’ll come around and ask forgiveness, if he only holds out. I tell you, Dodger, that Curtis is a viper.”

“So he is,” answered Dodger, who was not quite clear in his mind as to what a viper was. “I’d like to step on his necktie.”

“If it wasn’t for him, my dear young mistress would be back in the house within twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t see how the old gentleman can let him turn Florence out of the house.”

“He’s a snake in the grass, Dodger. It may be wicked, but I just wish something would happen to him. And how is Miss Florence lookin’, poor dear?”

“She’s lookin’ like a daisy.”

“Does she worry much?”

“She did at first, but now she’s workin’ every day, and she looks more cheerful-like.”

“Miss Florence workin’! She that was always brought up like a lady!”

“She’s teachin’ a little girl three hours a day.”

“Well, that isn’t so bad!” said Jane, relieved. “Teachin’ is genteel. I wish I could see her some day. Will you tell her, Dodger, that next Sunday is my day out, and I’ll be in Central Park up by the menagerie at three o’clock, if she’ll only take the trouble to be up there?”

“I’ll tell her, Jane, and I’m sure she’ll be there.”

A day or two afterward Curtis Waring asked: “Have you heard from my Cousin Florence since she went away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Indeed! Where is she staying?”

“She didn’t send me word.”

“How, then, did you hear from her?”

“Dodger came with an expressman for her trunk.”

Curtis Waring frowned.

“And you let him have it?” he demanded, sternly.

“Of course I did. Why shouldn’t I?”

“You should have asked me.”

“And what business have you with Miss Florence’s trunk, I’d like to know?” said Jane, independently.

“Never mind; you ought to have asked my permission.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to wear any of Miss Florence’s things, Mr. Waring.”

“You are silly and impertinent,” said Curtis, biting his lips. “Did that boy tell you anything about her?”

“Only that she wasn’t worryin’ any for you, Mr. Curtis.”

Curtis glanced angrily at his cousin’s devoted friend, and then, turning on his heel, left the room.

“I’ll bring her to terms yet,” he muttered. “No girl of seventeen shall defy me!”

Chapter XIII. Tim Bolton’s Saloon.

Not far from Houston Street, on the west side of the Bowery, is an underground saloon, with whose proprietor we are already acquainted.

It was kept by Tim Bolton, whose peculiar tastes and shady characteristics well fitted him for such a business.

It was early evening, and the gas jets lighted up a characteristic scene.

On the sanded floor were set several tables, around which were seated a motley company, all of them with glasses of beer or whiskey before them.

Tim, with a white apron on, was moving about behind the bar, ministering to the wants of his patrons. There was a scowl upon his face, for he was not fond of work, and he missed Dodger’s assistance.

The boy understood the business of mixing drinks as well as he, and often officiated for hours at a time, thus giving his guardian and reputed father a chance to leave the place and meet outside engagements.

A tall, erect gentleman entered the saloon, and walked up to the bar.

“Good-evening, colonel,” said Tim.

“Good-evening, sir,” said the newcomer, with a stately inclination of the head.

He was really a colonel, having served in the Civil War at the head of a Georgia regiment.

He had all the stately courtesy of a Southern gentleman, though not above the weakness of a frequent indulgence in the strongest fluids dispensed by Tim Bolton.

“What’ll you have, colonel?”

“Whiskey straight, sir. It’s the only drink fit for a gentleman. Will you join me, Mr. Bolton?”

“Of course, I will,” said Tim, as, pouring out a glass for himself, he handed the bottle to the colonel.

“Your health, sir,” said the colonel, bowing.

“Same to you, colonel,” responded Tim, with a nod.

“Where’s the boy?”

Col. Martin had always taken considerable notice of Dodger, being naturally fond of boys, and having once had a son of his own, who was killed in a railroad accident when about Dodger’s age.

“Danged if I know!” answered Tim, crossly.

“He hasn’t left you, has he?”

“Yes; he’s cleared out, the ungrateful young imp! I’d like to lay my hands on the young rascal.”

“Was he your son?”

“He was my—stepson,” answered Tim, hesitating.

“I see, you married his mother.”

“Yes,” said Tim, considering the explanation satisfactory, and resolved to adopt it. “I’ve always treated him as if he was my own flesh and blood, and I’ve raised him from a young kid. Now he’s gone and left me.”

“Can you think of any reason for his leaving you?”

“Not one. I always treated him well. He’s been a great expense to me, and now he’s got old enough to help me he must clear out. He’s the most ungrateful cub I ever seen.”

“I am sorry he has gone—I used to like to have him serve me.”

“And now what’s the consequence? Here I am tied down to the bar day and night.”

“Can’t you get some one in his place?”

“Yes, but I’d likely be robbed; I had a bartender once who robbed me of two or three dollars a day.”

“But you trusted the boy?”

“Yes, Dodger wouldn’t steal—I can say that much for him.”

“There’s one thing I noticed about the boy,” said the colonel, reflectively. “He wouldn’t drink. More than once I have asked him to drink with me, but he would always say, ‘Thank you, colonel, but I don’t like whiskey.’ I never asked him to take anything else, for whiskey’s the only drink fit for a gentleman. Do you expect to get the boy back?”

“If I could only get out for a day I’d hunt him up; but I’m tied down here.”

“I seed him yesterday, Tim,” said a red-nosed man who had just entered the saloon, in company with a friend of the same general appearance. Both wore silk hats, dented and soiled with stains of dirt, coats long since superannuated, and wore the general look of barroom loafers.

They seldom had any money, but lay in wait for any liberal stranger, in the hope of securing a free drink.

“Where did you see him, Hooker?” asked Tim Bolton, with sudden interest.

“Selling papers down by the Astor House.”

“Think of that, colonel!” said Tim, disgusted. “Becomin’ a common newsboy, when he might be in a genteel employment! Did you speak to him, Hooker?”

“Yes, I asked him if he had left you.”

“What did he say?”

“That he had left you for good—that he was going to grow up respectable!”

“Think of that!” said Tim, with renewed disgust. “Did he say where he lived?”

“No.”

“Did he ask after me?”

“No, except he said that you were no relation of his. He said he expected you stole him when he was a kid, and he hoped some time to find his relations.”

Tim Bolton’s face changed color, and he was evidently disturbed. Could the boy have heard anything? he wondered, for his suspicions were very near the truth.

“It’s all nonsense!” he said, roughly. “Next time you see him, Hooker, foller him home, and find out where he lives.”

“All right, Tim. It ought to be worth something,” he insinuated, with a husky cough.

“That’s so. What’ll you take?”

“Whiskey,” answered Hooker, with a look of pleased anticipation.

“You’re a gentleman, Tim,” he said, as he gulped down the contents of a glass without winking.

Briggs, his dilapidated companion, had been looking on in thirsty envy.

“I’ll help Hooker to look for Dodger,” he said.

“Very well, Briggs.”

“Couldn’t you stand a glass for me, too, Tim?” asked Briggs, eagerly.

“No,” answered Bolton, irritably. “I’ve been at enough expense for that young rascal already.”

But the colonel noticed the pathetic look of disappointment on the face of Briggs, and he was stirred to compassion.

“Drink with me, sir,” he said, turning to the overjoyed Briggs.

“Thank you, colonel. You’re a gentleman!”

“Two glasses, Tim.”

So the colonel drained a second glass, and Briggs, pouring out with trembling fingers as much as he dared, followed suit.

When the last drop was drunk, he breathed a deep sigh of measureless enjoyment.

“If either of you bring that boy in here,” said Tim, “I’ll stand a couple of glasses for both.”

“We’re your men, Tim,” said Hooker. “Ain’t we, Briggs?”

“That’s so, Hooker. Shake!”

And the poor victims of drink shook hands energetically. Long since they had sunk their manhood in the intoxicating cup, and henceforth lived only to gratify their unnatural craving for what would sooner or later bring them to a drunkard’s grave.

As they left the saloon, the colonel turned to Tim, and said:

“I like whiskey, sir; but I’ll be hanged if I can respect such men as those.”

“They’re bums, colonel, that’s what they are!”

“How do they live?”

“Don’t know. They’re in here about every day.”

“If it’s drink that’s brought them where they are, I’m half inclined to give it up; but, after