Kitobni o'qish: «The Newsboy Partners: or, Who Was Dick Box?»

CHAPTER I
JIMMY IS IN LUCK

"Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Full account of de big f-i-r-e! Here ye are! Wuxtry! Woild, Joinal, Sun, Telegram! Here ye are, mister! Git de latest wuxtry! Wuxtry! Wuxtry!"

Jimmy Small was only one of a dozen newsboys crying the same thing in City Hall Park, New York. The lads, ragged little chaps, were rushing at all in whom they saw possible customers, thrusting the papers in their very faces, a fierce rivalry taking place whenever two of the boys reached the same man at the same time. But of all who cried none shouted louder than this same Jimmy Small, and none was more active in rushing here and there with papers.

"Wuxtry! Wuxtry!" yelled Jimmy, for that was how he and the other boys pronounced the word "Extra."

"What's the extra about?" asked a well-dressed man, stopping Jimmy.

"Wuxtry! Big fire! Dozen people burned to death! Here ye are! Wuxtry! Full account of de big f-i-r-e!"

Jimmy could not stop long to talk. He must sell papers. He snatched one from the bundle under his arm, thrust it into the man's hand, took the nickel the customer gave him, handed the man four pennies in change, and all the while was yelling at the top of his voice his war-cry:

"Wuxtry! Wuxtry!"

Jimmy had secured his bunch of papers from one of the delivery wagons on Park Row – Newspaper Row, as it is sometimes called. He had dashed across the park toward Broadway, selling as he ran. He wanted to reach a certain corner at Broadway and Barclay Street, where he could be sure of finding many customers who would buy papers on their way to take the ferry over to New Jersey. Jimmy usually made that corner his headquarters.

As he hurried on he was stopped several times by men who, attracted by his loud shouts, wanted to buy papers to see what the extra was about. As it happened, there had been a disastrous fire in New York that day in which a number of per-

"Well, I ain't yer son. Ner I ain't no signpost either. D'ye want a pape?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I might take one," was the answer in drawling tones. "Are you selling papers?"

"Naw, I'm here fer me health. De doctor said I had t' stand here t' git fresh air," replied Jimmy with contempt in his tones, for he saw that the young man was from the country, unused to city ways, and, as a boy who had lived in New York all his life, Jimmy had not much use for country folks.

"You're something of a joker, aren't you?" asked the young man, good humor showing in his blue eyes. He did not seem to be offended at Jimmy's answer.

"Naw, I'm a newsie. Want a pape? Sun, Woild, Joinal? Wuxtry! All about de big fire!"

"Which is the best paper?" asked the young man with a smile.

"Aw, g'wan! T'ink I'm going t' play favorites? Dey is all alike t' me. One's de same as de udder. I ain't goin' t' knock any of 'em. I makes me livin' by sellin' 'em all, dat's what!"

"Then I guess I'll take a Sun. But could you tell me the way to the Brooklyn Bridge? I'm a stranger in New York."

"Oh, I kin see dat all right enough," replied Jimmy with a little kindlier feeling toward the man, now that he had proved to be a customer. "Youse from de country all right."

"How can you tell that?"

"'Cause youse talks so slow. Folks here ain't got time t' waste so much talk over deir woids. Ye got t' hustle in N'York."

"I believe you, from what little I have seen. You are right, I am from the country, and I'm on my way to visit an aunt in Brooklyn. I thought I'd walk over the bridge, for I've read a lot about it."

"Well, go up one block," said Jimmy, pointing toward Park Place, "den cut t'rough City Hall Park by de side of de post-office here an' foller de crowd. Youse can't miss it. But youse wants t' look out."

"What for?"

"If ye gits in de push youse'll be squeezed t' death. It's an awful mob dat goes t' Brooklyn dis time o' day."

"Well, I'll be careful. Do you live around here?"

"Who, me? Oh, yes, I lives around here," and Jimmy, with a wave of his hand, included nearly the whole of New York.

"What's your name?"

"Say, who are youse, anyhow?" inquired the newsboy, suddenly suspicious.

"My name is Joshua Crosscrab, and I'm from Newton, Vermont," replied the young man, still good-natured.

"Aw, I mean who be ye? Be youse a detective, er from some society what takes up kids fer sellin' papes on de street?"

"No, I'm not a detective. What makes you think so?"

"'Cause youse asks so many questions."

"I am interested. I never was in New York before, and I see so many things that are strange that I want to know about them. Up our way we believe in getting acquainted, so I thought I'd try it here. Every one I talked to, though, seemed to think I was a swindler, I guess."

"Dat's right. Youse has t' be careful who youse talk to in N'York," said Jimmy with a comical air of wisdom.

"But you haven't told me your name yet," persisted Mr. Crosscrab.

"Sure youse ain't none of them children sasiety detectives?" asked the newsboy.

"Sure. I'll give you my promise."

"Well, me name is Jimmy Small. Here ye are, sir! Paper! Wuxtry! All about de big fire! Thirteen killed!"

Jimmy had interrupted his information to dispose of a paper to a man.

"Jimmy Small," repeated the man. "Where do you live?"

"Oh, I've got a swell joint on upper Fifth Avenoo," replied the boy, with a wink, "but it's rented fer de season, an' I ain't livin' in it."

"No, I am serious," said Mr. Crosscrab. "I would really like to know."

"Honest? No kiddin'?" inquired Jimmy.

"No what?"

"No kiddin'. Is it de real goods? Youse ain't tryin' t' run up an alley on me, is yer?"

"I don't exactly understand you, but I am really asking because I am interested in you. I have a brother about your age, and I was wondering how he would make out if he had to sell papers for a living."

"Say, take it from me, mister," spoke Jimmy earnestly. "Don't let him do it. Dere's too many in de business now. Don't let him come t' N'York an' sell papers!"

"Oh, he's not very likely to. But you haven't told me where you live."

"Aw, most anywheres. Wherever I kin. If I'm flush wid de coin I takes a bed at de lodgin'-house. When I'm busted – on me uppers – cleaned out – nuthin' doin' – why, I takes a chance at a bench in de park when it's warm. If de cop don't see youse it's all right. Sometimes I hits up an empty box, an' I've done me turn in a hallway. Under a dock ain't so bad, only dere's too many rats t' suit me."

"You lead quite a varied sort of life, don't you?" inquired Mr. Crosscrab.

"Youse kin search me. I ain't got it," replied Jimmy with more good humor than he had previously shown. The man's talk was a little above him.

"I suppose you know your way around New York pretty well, don't you?" the countryman went on.

"Dat's right. Ye can't lose me."

"Are you here almost every day?"

"When I ain't in Wall Street investin' me millions I am."

"Still inclined to jokes, I see," murmured the man. "Well, I'd like to know more about you. You seem like a bright lad, and I may want to ask you some directions about getting around New York. I may see you to-morrow. Does your father allow you to work all day?"

"I ain't got no fader," said Jimmy. He did not speak sadly. He took it as a matter of course, for he had been so long without either father, mother or other relatives to care for him that parents were only a dim recollection to him. "I ain't got nobody," he went on. "I'm in business fer meself."

"Haven't you a mother or a sister or a brother?" asked Mr. Crosscrab, feeling a strong sympathy for the boy.

"Nixy. Not a one."

"How long have you been selling papers?"

"About two years. But say, mister, I don't want to be short wid youse, only I've got t' go an' git some more papes. I'm sold out, an' dis is me busy time. Stop around t'-morrer an' I'll tell ye all I know about N'York."

"That's all right," said Mr. Crosscrab, understanding the situation. "I didn't mean to keep you from your work. If I pass this way to-morrow I shall look for you. Here is something to pay you for your trouble."

He held out a coin to Jimmy, who promptly took it. It was a silver quarter.

"Crimps!" exclaimed Jimmy as he saw the money. "Say, youse is all right, that's what youse is! Ye kin ast me questions all day at dat rate."

Mr. Crosscrab, with a smile and a wave of his hand for good-by, passed on toward the Brooklyn Bridge, while Jimmy, hardly able to believe his good fortune, hurried after some more papers.

"I certainly am in luck t'-day," he murmured. "I wonder what ails dat guy? Maybe he's crazy an' believes in givin' all his money away. I wish he'd come by t'-morrer. Crimps! But dis is fine! I'll go see a show t'-night sure!"

CHAPTER II
JIMMY IS OUT OF LUCK

Jimmy bought another supply of papers and hurried back to his corner. But no sooner had he come in sight of it than he saw it was occupied by a large newsboy. The newcomer was a lad much bigger and stronger than our young hero, but in spite of that Jimmy was not going to be deprived of his place without a protest.

"Hey, Bulldog!" he exclaimed, giving the other newsboy the nickname by which he was known, "what ye doin' on my corner?"

"Your corner?" inquired the other, with an ugly grin on his big face, thereby showing two sharp teeth which gave him his name.

"Yep, my corner, Bulldog. I was here all de afternoon sellin' papes an' went t' git some more."

"An' I got it now," added Bulldog Smouder with a leer. "Here ye are, paper! Wuxtry!" he added as a man came up and bought a World. It made Jimmy angry to see profits that he thought should be his going into the pockets of his enemy, for Bulldog Smouder was an enemy to all the newsboys excepting those he could not whip. He was a fighter and a bully, and he lost no chance to impose on those weaker or younger than himself. Still, he had no particular grudge against Jimmy, and he would just as quickly have taken the place some other boy regarded as his own as he had preëmpted that recently occupied by our hero.

"Git on off there!" cried Jimmy. "Dat's me place, an' youse knows it."

"I don't know nuttin' but what I sees. I seen this corner an' nobody holdin' it down an' I took it. If youse wants t' keep a good place, what makes youse leave it?"

"I had t' git more papes."

"Den youse ought t' have a partner in business wid ye. He could go after papes while youse held de corner. I'll go in whacks wid ye if ye likes. But youse got t' give me half what youse made t'-day."

"I will like pie!"

It had been a good day for Jimmy, and with the quarter Mr. Crosscrab had given him he had more than he had possessed in a long time before. He was not going to divide with Bulldog, even if the latter, from a physical standpoint, was a desirable partner. For Bulldog was lazy. Jimmy knew if there was a union formed he would have to do all the work, while Bulldog would take half the profits and do nothing.

"Ain't ye goin' t' git off me corner?" demanded Jimmy again.

"Naw, I ain't. Now chase yerself. I want t' sell me papes an' go home. Skiddoo fer yours!"

"I'd like t' punch yer face in," muttered Jimmy.

"Try it," advised Bulldog with a grin. "I'll tie youse up in a knot if ye do."

"What's de matter, Bulldog?" asked another newsboy, coming up at that juncture. He had no papers.

"Aw, de kid says I swiped his corner."

"An' so ye did!" cried Jimmy.

"Why didn't ye stay here den?" asked Bulldog.

"I told youse. 'Cause I had 't go after papes."

"Well, youse know what I said. Git a partner."

"Don't youse give him de corner, Bulldog! Youse got as good a right t' it as he has."

"Sure I have, Mike, an' I'm goin' t' stay here, too."

All this time Bulldog was busy selling papers, while the new stock Jimmy had obtained was still undiminished.

"What ye buttin' in fer, Mike Conroy?" asked Jimmy of the newcomer. "It's none of your funeral."

"Aw, g'wan! Guess I kin speak t' Bulldog if I want t'. I'll punch yer nose fer ye if youse gits too fresh."

"I'd like t' see ye do it!" cried Jimmy, but at the same time he took good care not to get too near Mike, who was a worse bully than Bulldog. The latter would not attack smaller boys than himself without some provocation, but Mike Conroy used to beat and kick them every chance he got. He had often hit Jimmy.

"Wuxtry! Wuxtry!" cried Bulldog as the crowd of men hurrying to the ferry came past. He was kept busy selling papers. Poor Jimmy was out of it. His luck had turned, but it was destined to do so even more before the night was over. Still, he had sold a large number of papers. The trouble was he had bought another big supply, and unless he could quickly dispose of them the crowds would soon be gone, and he would have them left on his hands, to return to the offices, thus making no profit.

He sold a few on the outskirts of the throng about Bulldog, but as soon as the latter saw what was going on he made a rush at Jimmy. The latter fled, for he knew that in a fight he was no match for the larger lad.

"Where's your papes?" Bulldog asked Mike during a lull in the business of selling.

"I'm cleaned out. Sold 'em down in Wall Street. Guess I'll take in a theater t'-night. I kin afford it."

"Wish I could. Maybe I'll go wid ye."

"All right. Goin' t' de lodgin'-house?"

"Sure."

"Keep de kid away from here den till I gits sold out an' I'll go wid ye," said Bulldog.

Thus he and Mike formed an alliance against Jimmy. While Bulldog attended to his customers Mike saw to it that Jimmy did not approach the corner; thus the small lad lost what little chance he had of making sales. As he was thinking over the unfairness of it, and wondering where he had better go to dispose of his stock, he was hailed by another lad about his own size.

"Hello, Jim!" cried the newcomer. "What's the matter?"

"Hello, Frank. Aw, Bulldog Smouder run me off me corner. Dat's what he done."

"That's too bad," exclaimed Frank Merton, who, though a newsboy like Jimmy, was better educated. In fact, Frank had not been long in the business. Left an orphan at an early age, an aged aunt had tried to take care of him, but when she was taken ill he found it necessary to go on the streets selling papers, while his aunt was taken to an institution. During the lifetime of his parents he had been sent to school, and so he used better language than did his fellows. He was a bright-faced, pleasant lad, and often did errands, in addition to selling papers, so he could afford to have a regular room at the Newsboys' Lodging House. At night Frank went to evening school.

"Yep, it's tough luck," went on Jimmy. "I went an' bought a new stock, an' I ain't sold five yet."

"I'll help you," generously offered Frank. "I sold out some time ago. That big fire seemed to make every one want a paper. Suppose you give me half your stock, and we'll go over by the bridge entrance and see if we can't sell them. There's a big crowd there yet."

"Dat's a good idea. T'anks. Bulldog was sayin' I ought t' have a partner, an' now I've got one."

"Yes," remarked Frank musingly, "I suppose if two boys did go into partnership they could make more at it than two could working alone. I must think about that."

"Maybe you an' I'll go snooks," proposed Jimmy.

"We'll see," went on Frank. "Anyhow, we'll be partners to-night. Now come on before the crowd gets away."

The two boys hurried back across City Hall Park, and, mingling with the crowd that was hurrying toward Brooklyn, they soon disposed of their papers.

"Here's your money," said Frank, coming up to Jimmy and handing him the change.

"Keep ten cents fer yerself," proposed Jimmy generously, for he was a good-hearted youth in spite of his rather rough ways.

"Oh, no. I made a good profit to-day. I offered to help you, and I didn't expect any pay."

"Ah, g'wan! Take ten cents."

"If you have so much money to give away, why don't you start an account in the Dime Savings Bank?" proposed Frank.

"What's de use?" asked Jimmy. "I'd draw it all out ag'in when I was broke. Youse had better take de ten cents."

"No. I'd rather you'd keep it."

"Den come on an' take in a movin' picture show," proposed Jimmy. "Dere's a dandy on de Bowery. It's a prize-fight, an' ye kin see de knock-out blow as plain as anyt'ing, Sam Schmidt was tellin' me. Come on. I'll pay yer way in. It's only a nickel."

"No. I can't go to-night."

"Why not?"

"I have to go to evening school. The term closes this week."

"Aw, cut it out," advised Jimmy. "Come wid me. We'll have a bully time."

"No, I don't believe I will."

"Den I am. I'm in luck t'-day. Feller give me a quarter fer showin' him where de Brooklyn Bridge was. He was from de country. Guess he was bug-house."

"Bug-house? That's a new one on me."

"Sure, nutty – crazy, ye know, dippy in de lid – off his noodle."

"You certainly have a choice lot of slang," remarked Frank with a smile as he left Jimmy.

"Well, den, I'll have t' go t' de show alone," thought the lad. "Let's see how much I've got."

He counted over his change and found he had more than he expected.

"Dollar an' seventy-seven cents. Crimps! But I'll buy a pack of cigarettes an' have a swell time. Guess I'll git a bit of grub now, an' den I'll be ready fer de show."

"Grub" for Jimmy meant supper. He made a substantial meal on some beans, coffee and bread and what passed for butter in one of the cheapest of the Bowery eating-places. This cost him ten cents. He spent five cents for cigarettes, for Jimmy had learned to smoke them at an early age, and did not consider it wrong, as most of his companions indulged in the same habit.

Puffing on the cigarette, with his hands in his pockets and a comfortable feeling under his belt, Jimmy strolled up the Bowery toward the moving-picture show of the prize-fight. He found a number of persons, including some of his newsboy acquaintances, going in.

"Hello, Bricks," greeted a lad, giving Jimmy the nickname that had been bestowed on him because of his sandy hair.

"Hello yerself, Nosey," replied Jimmy, for the other boy had a very big nose which had earned him this title.

"Goin' in?"

"Sure."

"Take me; I'm broke."

"Come on," invited Jimmy generously, feeling like a small edition of a millionaire. "Have a cigarette?"

"T'anks. Say, youse must be flush wid de coin."

"Oh, I made a little t'-day."

The boys and many grown persons entered the amusement place. They were soon deeply interested in the moving pictures of the prize-fight, yelling and shouting as the photographs of the pugilists were thrown on the white screen.

There were many other moving pictures, the performance lasting over an hour. During a lull, when there was no picture on the screen, Jimmy looked around him. On a seat behind he saw Mike Conroy and Bulldog Smouder, his two enemies of that afternoon.

"Goin' t' punch me after de show?" asked Mike with a leer.

"Aw, cheese it," advised Jimmy. "I'll git square wid youse somehow."

There was no time for further talk, as another picture was shown and the boys were absorbed in that. Jimmy could hear Bulldog and Mike whispering back of him, but he paid no attention to them.

When the show was over and Jimmy was out in the street, Nosey having left him, he began to think of where he should spend the night. This was something he usually left until the last moment.

"Guess I'll treat meself t' a good ten-cent bed t'-night," he said, lighting another cigarette. "What's de use of havin' money if youse can't spend it?"

He put his hand in the pocket where he kept his change. To his surprise his fingers met with no jingling coins.

"Dat's queer," he remarked. "Where's me dough?"

He felt in another pocket. Then in all of them in turn.

"Stung!" he exclaimed. "Some guy has pinched all me coin an' I'm dead broke. I had a dollar an' fifty-two cents left an' now I ain't got a red. Me luck certainly has shook me. What's t' be done?"

CHAPTER III
A BOX FOR A BED

For some time Jimmy stood still in the street. The brilliantly-lighted Bowery stretched away in either direction; a throng of persons, mostly bent on such pleasure as the place afforded, were traveling up and down. No one paid any attention to the friendless newsboy.

"Well, dis is certainly tough luck!" exclaimed Jimmy. "An hour ago I had enough t' live on fer a week, an' now I ain't got enough t' git a cup of coffee. I'm hungry, too, an' I was goin' t' have a feed after de show. I wonder what happened t' me money, anyway?"

Once more he went carefully through his pockets. Some had holes in them, but the one where he had put the change was untorn.

"It couldn't 'a' fell out," mused Jimmy. "Dere ain't no hole, an' I didn't stand on me head. Say, I'll bet some one picked me pocket – dat's what dey did!"

Struck with this idea, he paused in his walk downtown, for he had started toward the lower end of the Bowery.

"Dat's it!" he went on. "Some one swiped me coin, an' I bet I know who done it. Dat Mike Conroy was settin' right back of me. I'll bet he reached over in de dark when I was lookin' at dem pictures an' he swiped it. I t'ought I felt some one pluckin' at me coat, but I didn't have no suspicion it was him. Wait till I see him in de mornin'. I'll go fer him!"

Then another thought came to the luckless lad. He knew he could not hope to force Mike into giving up the money even if he had stolen it. Nor would an appeal to a policeman do any good. In the first place, a bluecoat would not pay much attention to the complaint of a newsboy, as the lads were always fighting more or less among themselves. And, again, Jimmy had no proof against Mike.

"Hold on a minute!" exclaimed our hero in his process of thinking out matters. "I had a cent wid a big hole in it. Dat was me lucky pocket piece, and dat's gone, too. Now if I could find out if Mike's got dat, I'd know if he picked me pocket. I wish I was a detective. I'd find out. He's a mean feller, t' take every cent I had. Now what am I goin' t' do fer a place t' sleep? I guess it's de docks or a box fer mine t'-night," he added with a sigh. "Dere ain't no tick at de bunk house, an' dere ain't no use askin' fer it. I've got t' do de best I kin."

It was not the first time Jimmy had been in such a fix. In fact, it was more frequently this way than any other. In the summer time, which is when this story opens, he often slept out in the open air from choice, and because it saved him the money he would have to spend on a bed. But to-night it was quite cool from the effects of a thundershower that day, and Jimmy thought a place in the lodging-house would be very acceptable.

He would not have cared so much, but he had set his mind on getting a ten-cent bed out of the money he had so unexpectedly received that day, and now it was a keen disappointment to him.

Jimmy frequently made quite a little sum by selling papers, particularly when there was a big accident, but he never thought of saving anything against hard luck or the proverbial "rainy day." He spent his money almost as fast as he earned it, and on several occasions, when in the evening he would have enough to get a bed, he would go to some show, buy cigarettes or play pool until he had nothing left, and would be forced to sleep wherever he could find a place.

He was in exactly this situation now, but through no fault of his own. Still the effect was the same.

"It's up t' me t' look fer a bed now, I s'pose," he went on. "If I saw some of de fellers dey might lend me enough t' git a bed – but what's de use? I ain't goin' t' ask 'em an' git de frozen face. Besides, I'll need somethin' t' stake me t' papes in de mornin', an' I can't afford t' borrow any fer a bed. Me credit ain't any too good."

This was a new thought. Jimmy knew he must have some capital to start him in business the next day or he would fare badly indeed. However, this did not worry him, as the newsboys were frequently in the habit of borrowing from each other enough to "stake" them, or enable them to buy a supply of papers from the publication office. But though nearly any newsboy would lend a companion money for this cause, lending it for a bed was another matter.

"I'll find a bunk some place," thought Jimmy as he plodded on. "It ain't so cold, an' it'll be warmer by mornin'. I know what I'll do, I'll go down t' dat alley where all de big empty boxes is. One of dem'll make a fine bed, an' it'll be warm. Crimps! I'm glad dat entered my head. It's almost as good as de bunk house. Well, anyway, I had a swell time, an' I kin go widout eatin' till I make somethin' in de mornin'. But it's tough luck; it sure is tough luck."

Having thus made the best of his ill-fortune, Jimmy started off toward the alley of which he had spoken. It was in the factory district, on what is known as the "East Side," among the tenements of New York, where the poor lived. Jimmy knew his way about the big city, and he was soon at the place.

It was an alley at the side of a big clothing factory, and piled up in it along the driveway were tiers of big packing boxes from which the contents had been taken and stored in the factory.

Jimmy first took a careful survey of the street before entering the alley, for he had two enemies for whom he must look out – the policeman on the beat and the night watchman of the factory. Both of these individuals objected to boys staying in the packing boxes, and Jimmy more than once had been detected and driven out just as he was ready to go to sleep.

But to-night neither the policeman nor the watchman was in sight. Still Jimmy proceeded cautiously. With a cat-like tread he entered the alley, peering about for a possible sight of the watchman.

"Guess he's inside," thought the boy. "Now if I kin find de box wid de old sacks in it I'll be all to de merry."

The box he referred to was one he had slept in on several other occasions when his funds were gone. He had discovered some old bags, and had piled them up in the packing case, making a rude bed. This box was near an angle of the alley, and the open side of it was up against the building, so that by moving it out a short distance, just wide enough to allow himself to crawl in, Jimmy would have quite a sheltered place.

He stole along, pausing every now and then in the dark alley to discover if the watchman was anywhere about. But all was still save for the whistles of the boats on the East River, for the factory ran down to the edge of the docks on the water front.

"All serene, I t'ink," mused the boy. "Now fer a good snooze."

He found the box he was looking for, and to his delight the pile of bags was not disturbed. Jimmy crawled in, shook up the "bed-clothes," stretched out on them and was soon sound asleep, all his troubles for the time being forgotten.