Mark the Match Boy | Horatio Alger

CHAPTER V.

INTRODUCES MARK, THE MATCH BOY.

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It was growing dark, though yet scarcely six o'clock, for the day was one of the shortest in the year, when a small boy, thinly clad, turned down Frankfort Street on the corner opposite French's Hotel. He had come up Nassau Street, passing the "Tribune" Office and the old Tammany Hall, now superseded by the substantial new "Sun" building. 

He had a box of matches under his arm, of which very few seemed to have been sold. He had a weary, spiritless air, and walked as if quite tired. He had been on his feet all day, and was faint with hunger, having eaten nothing but an apple to sustain his strength. The thought that he was near his journey's end did not seem to cheer him much. Why this should be so will speedily appear. 

He crossed William Street, passed Gold Street, and turned down Vandewater Street, loading out of Frankfort's Street on the left. It is in the form of a short curve, connecting with that most crooked of all New York avenues, Pearl Street. He paused in front of a shabby house, and went upstairs. The door of a room on the third floor was standing ajar. He pushed it open, and entered, not without a kind of shrinking. 

A coarse-looking woman was seated before a scanty fire. She had just thrust a bottle into her pocket after taking a copious draught therefrom, and her flushed face showed that this had long been a habit with her. 

"Well, Mark, what luck to-night?" she said, in a husky voice. 

"I didn't sell much," said the boy. 

"Didn't sell much? Come here," said the woman, sharply. 

Mark came up to her side, and she snatched the box from him, angrily. 

"Only three boxes gone?" she repeated. "What have you been doing all day?" 

She added to the question a coarse epithet which I shall not repeat. 

"I tried to sell them, indeed I did, Mother Watson, indeed I did," said the boy, earnestly, "but everybody had bought them already." 

"You didn't try," said the woman addressed as Mother Watson "You're too lazy, that's what's the matter. You don't earn your salt. Now give me the money." 

Mark drew from his pocket a few pennies, and handed to her. 

She counted them over, and then, looking up sharply, said, with a frown, "There's a penny short. Where is it?" 

"I was so hungry," pleaded Mark, " that I bought an apple, — only a little one." 

"You bought an apple, did you?" said the woman, menacingly. "So that's the way you spend my money, you little thief?" 

"I was so faint and hungry," again pleaded the boy. 

"What business had you to be hungry? Didn't you have some breakfast this morning?" 

"I had a piece of bread." 

"That's more than you earned. You'll eat me out of house and home, you little thief! But I'll pay you off. I'll give you something to take away your appetite. You won't be hungry any more I reckon."

She dove her flabby hand into her pocket, and produced a strap, at which the boy gazed with frightened look. 

"Don't beat me, Mother Watson," he said, imploringly. 

"I'll beat the lazinessout of you," said the woman, vindictively. "See if I don't." 

She clutched Mark by the collar, and was about to bring the strap down forcibly upon his back, ill protected by his thin jacket, when a visitor entered the room. 

"What's the matter, Mrs. Watson?" asked the intruder. 

"Oh, it's you, Mrs. Flanagan?" said the woman, holding the strap suspended in the air. "I'll tell you what's the matter. This little thief has come home, after selling only three boxes of matches the whole day, and I find he's stole a penny to buy an apple with. It's for that I'm goin' to beat him." 

"Oh, let him alone, the poor lad," said Mrs. Flanagan, who was a warm-hearted Irish woman. "Maybe he was hungry." 

"Then why didn't ho work? Them that work can eat." 

"Maybe people didn't want to buy." 

"Well, I can't afford to keep him in his idleness," said Mrs. Watson. "He may go to bed without his supper." 

"If he can't sell his matches, maybe people would give him something." 

Mrs. Watson evidently thought favorably of this suggestion, for, turning to Mark, she said, "Go out again, you little thief, and mind you don't come in again till you've got twenty-five cents to bring to me. Do you mind that?" 

Mark listened, but stood irresolute. 

"I don't like to beg," he said. 

"Don't like to beg!" screamed Mrs. Watson. "Do you mind that, now, Mrs. Flanagan? He's too proud to beg." 

"Mother told me never to beg if I could help it," said Mark. 

"Well, you can't help it," said the woman, flourishing the strap in a threatening manner. "Do you see this?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, you'll feel it too, if you don't do as I tell you. Go out now." 

"I'm so hungry," said Mark; " won't you give me a piece of bread?" 

"Not a mouthful till you bring back twenty-five cents. Start now, or you'll feel the strap." 

The boy left the room with a slow step, and wearily descended the stairs. I hope my young readers will never know the hungry craving after food which tormented the poor little boy as he made made his way towards the street. But he had hardly reached the foot of the first staircase when he heard a low voice behind him, and, turning, beheld Mrs. Flanagan, who had hastily followed after him. 

"Are you very hungry?" she asked. 

"Yes, I'm faint with hunger." 

"Poor boy!" she said, compassionately; "come in here a minute." 

She opened the door of her own room which was just at the foot of the staircase, and gently pushed him in. It was a room of the same general appearance as the one above, but was much neater looking. 

"Biddy Flanagan isn't the woman to let a poor motherless child go hungry when she's a bit of bread or meat by her. Here, Mark, lad, sit down, and I'll soon bring you something that'll warm up your poor stomach." 

She opened a cupboard, and brought out a plate containing a small quantity of cold beef, and two slices of bread. 

"There's some better mate than you'll get of Mother Watson. It's cold, but it's good." 

"She never gives me any meat at all," said Mark, gazing with a look of eager anticipation at the plate which to his famished eye looked so inviting. 

"I'll be bound she don't," said Mrs. Flanagan. "Talk of you being lazy! What does she do herself but sit all day doing nothin' except drink whiskey from the black bottle! She might get washin' to do, as I do, if she wanted to, but she won't work. She expects you to get money enough for both of you." 

Meanwhile Mrs. Flanagan had poured out a cup of tea from an old tin teapot that stood on the stove. 

"There, drink that, Mark dear," she said. " It'll warm you up, and you'll need it this cold night, I'm thinkin'." 

The tea was not of the best quality, and the cup was cracked and discolored; but to Mark it was grateful and refreshing, and he eagerly drank it. 

"Is it good?" asked the sympathizing woman, observing with satisfaction the eagerness with which it was drunk. 

"Yes, it makes me feel warm," said Mark. 

"It's better nor the whiskey Mother "Watson drinks," said Mrs. Flanagan. " It won't make your nose red like hers. It would be a sight better for her if she'd throw away the whiskey, and take to the tea." 

"You are very kind, Mrs. Flanagan," said Mark, rising from the table, feeling fifty per cent, better than when he sat down. 

"Oh bother now, don't say a word about it ! Shure you're welcome to the bit you've eaten, and the little sup of tea. Come in again when you feel hungry and Bridget Flanagan won't be the woman to send you off hungry if she's got anything in the cupboard." 

"I wish Mother Watson was as good as you are," said Mark. 

"I aint so good as I might be," said Mrs. Flanagan; "but I wouldn't be guilty of tratin' a poor boy as that woman trates you, more shame to her. How came you with her any way? She aint your mother, is she." 

"No," said Mark, shuddering at the bare idea. "My mother was a good woman, and worked hard. She didn't drink whiskey. Mother was always kind to me. I wish she was alive now." 

"When did she die, Mark dear? " 

"It's going on a year since she died. I didn't know what to do, but Mother Watson told me to come and live with her, and she'd take care of me." 

"Sorra a bit of kindness there was in that," commented Mrs. Flanagan. " She wanted you to take care of her. Well, and what did she make you do?" 

"She sent me out to earn what I could. Sometimes I would run on errands, but lately I have sold matches." 

"Is it hard work sellin' them?" 

"Sometimes I do pretty well, but some days 'it seems as if nobody wanted any. To-day I went round to a great many offices, but they all had as many as they wanted, and I didn't sell but three boxes. I tried to sell more, indeed I did, but I couldn't." 

"No doubt you did, Mark, dear. It's cold you must be in that thin jacket of yours this cold weather. I've got a shawl you may wear if you like. You'll not lose it, I know." 

But Mark had a boy's natural dislike to being dressed as a girl, knowing, moreover, that his appearance in the street with Mrs. Flanagan's shawl would subject him to the jeers of the street boys. So he declined the offer with thanks, and, buttoning up his thin jacket, descended the remaining staircase, and went out again into the chilling and uninviting street. A chilly, drizzling rain had just set in, and this made it even more dreary than it had been during the day.

 

CHAPTER VI. 

BEN GIBSON. 

But it was not so much the storm or the cold weather that Mark cared for. He had become used to these, so far as one can become used to what is very disagreeable. If after a hard day's work he had had a good home to come back to, or a kind and sympathizing friend, he would have had that thought to cheer him up. But Mother Watson cared nothing for him, except for the money he brought her, and Mark found it impossible either to cherish love or respect for the coarse woman whom he generally found more or less affected by whiskey. 

Cold and hungry as he had been oftentimes, he had always shrunk from begging. It seemed to lower him in his own thoughts to ask charity of others. Mother Watson had suggested it to him once or twice, but had never actually commanded it before. Now he was required to bring home twenty-five cents. He knew very well what would be the result if he failed to do this. Mother Watson would apply the leather strap with merciless fury, and he knew that his strength was as nothing compared to hers. So, for the first time in his life, he felt that he must make up his mind to beg. He retraced his steps to the head of Frankfort Street, and walked slowly down Nassau Street. The rain was falling, as I have said, and those who could remained under shelter. Besides, business hours were over. The thousands who during the day made the lower part of the city a busy hive had gone to their homes in the upper portion of the island, or across the river to Brooklyn or the towns on the Jersey shore. So, however willing he might be to bbeg, there did not seem to be much chance at present. 

The rain increased, and Mark in his thin clothes was soon drenched to the skin. He felt damp, cold, and uncomfortable. But there was no rest for him. The only home he had was shut to him, unless he should bring home twenty five-cents, and of this there seemed very little prospect. 

At the corner of Fulton Street he fell in with a ooy of twelve, short and sturdy in frame, dressed in a coat whose tails nearly reached the sidewalk. Though scarcely in the fashion, it was warmer than Mark's, and the proprietor troubled himself very little about the looks. 

This boy, whom Mark recognized as Ben Gibson, had a clay pipe in his mouth, which he seemed to be smoking with evident enjoyment. 

"Where you goin'?" he asked, halting in front of Mark. 

"I don't know," said Mark. 

"Don't know!" repeated Ben, taking his pipe from his mouth, and spitting. "Where's your matches?" 

"I left them at home." 

"Then what'd did you come out for in this storm?" 

"The woman I live with won't let me come home till I've brought her twenty-five cents." 

"How'd you expect to get it?" 

"She wants me to beg." 

"That's a good way," said Ben, approvingly; "when you get hold of a soft chap, or a lady them's the ones to shell out." 

"I don't like it," said Mark. "I don't want people to think me a beggar." 

"What's the odds?" said Ben, philosophically.  "You're just the chap to make a good beggar." 

"What do you mean by that, Ben?" said Mark, who was far from considering this much of a compliment. 

"Why you're a thin, pale little chap, that people will pity easy. Now I aint the right cut for a beggar. I tried it once, but it was no go." 

"Why not?" asked Mark, who began to be interested in spite of himself. 

"You see," said Ben, again puffing out a volume of smoke, "I look too tough, as if I could take care of myself. People don't pity me. I tried it one night when I was hard up. I hadn't got but six cents, and I wanted to go to the Old Bowery bad. So I went up to a gent as was comin' up Wall Street from the Ferry, and said, 'Won't you give a poor boy a few pennies to save him from starvin'?' " 

"So you're almost starvin', are you, my lad?" says he. 

"Yes, sir," says I, as faint as I could. 

"Well, starvin' seems to agree with you," says he, laughin'. "You're the healthiest-lookin' beggar T've seea in a good while." 

"I tried it again on another gent, and he told me hs guessed I was lazy: that a good stout boy like me ought to work. So I didn't make much beggin', and had to give up goin' to the Old Bowery that night, which I was precious sorry for, for there was a great benefit that evenin'. Been there often?" 

"No, I never went." 

"Never went to the Old Bowery!" ejaculated Ben, whistling in his amazement. "Where were you raised, I'd like to know? I should think you was a country greeny, I should." 

"I never had a chance," said Mark, who began to feel a little ashamed of the confession. 

"Won't your old woman let you go?" 

"I never have any money to go." 

"If I was flush I'd take you myself. It's only fifteen cents," said Ben. "But I haven't got money enough only for one ticket. I'm goin' to-night." 

"Are you?" asked Mark, a little enviously. 

"Yes, it's a good way to pass a rainy evenin'. You've got a warm room to be in, let alone the play, which is splendid. Now, if you could only beg fifteen cents from some charitable cove, you might go along of me." 

"If I get any money I've got to carry it home." 

"Suppose you don't, will the old woman cut up rough?"

"She'll beat me with a strap," said Mark, shuddering. 

"What makes you let her do it?" demanded Ben, rather disdainfully. 

" I can't help it." 

"She wouldn't beat me," said Ben, decidedly. 

"What would you do?" asked Mark, with interest. 

"What would I do? " retorted Ben. " I'd kick, and bite, and give her one for herself between the eyes. That's what I'd do. She'd find me a hard case, I reckon." 

"It wouldn't be any use for me to try that," said Mark. "She's too strong." 

"It don't take much to handle you," said Ben, taking a critical survey of the physical points of Mark. "You're most light enough to blow away."

"I'm only ten years old," said Mark, apologetically. "I shall be bigger some time." 

"Maybe," said Ben. dubiously; "but you don't look as if you'd ever be tough like me." 

"There," he added, after a pause, "I've smoked all my 'baccy. I wish I'd got some more." 

"Do you like to smoke? " asked Mark. 

"It warms a feller up," said Ben. " It's jest the thing for a cold, wet day like this. Didn't you ever try it?" 

"No." 

"If I'd got some 'baccy here, I'd give you a whiff; but I think it would make you sick the first time." 

"I don't think I should like it," said Mark, who had never felt any desire to smoke, though he knew plenty of boys who indulged in the habit. 

"That's because you don't know nothin' about it," remarked Ben. " I didn't like it at first till I got learned." 

"Do you smoke often?" 

"Every day after I get through blackin' boots; that is, when I ain't hard up, and can't raise the stamps to pay for the 'baccy. But I guess I'll be goin' up to the Old Bowery. It's most time for the doors to open. Where you goin'?" 

"I don't know where to go," said Mark, helplessly. 

"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'vs 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 tho 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 cast with Ben.