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    The Telegraph Boy
    The Telegraph Boy
    The Telegraph Boy
    Ebook167 pages1 hour

    The Telegraph Boy

    By Horatio, Jr. Alger

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    The class of boys described in the present volume was called into existence only a few years since, but they are already so numerous that one can scarcely ride down town by any conveyance without having one for a fellow-passenger. Most of them reside with their parents and have comfortable homes, but a few, like the hero of this story, are wholly dependent on their own exertions for a livelihood.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOtbebookpublishing
    Release dateJun 20, 2017
    ISBN9783958641167
    Author

    Horatio, Jr. Alger

    Horatio Alger Jr. ; January 13, 1832 – July 18, 1899) was a prolific 19th-century American writer, best known for his many young adult novels about impoverished boys and their rise from humble backgrounds to lives of middle-class security and comfort through hard work, determination, courage, and honesty. (Excerpt from Wikipedia)

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      Book preview

      The Telegraph Boy - Horatio, Jr. Alger

      1879.

      CHAPTER I.

      A YOUNG CARPET-BAGGER.

      Twenty-five cents to begin the world with! reflected Frank Kavanagh, drawing from his vest-pocket two ten-cent pieces of currency and a nickel. That isn't much, but it will have to do.

      The speaker, a boy of fifteen, was sitting on a bench in City-Hall Park. He was apparently about fifteen years old, with a face not handsome, but frank and good-humored, and an expression indicating an energetic and hopeful temperament. A small bundle, rolled up in a handkerchief, contained his surplus wardrobe. He had that day arrived in New York by a boat from Hartford, and meant to stay in the city if he could make a living.

      Next to him sat a man of thirty-five, shabbily dressed, who clearly was not a member of any temperance society, if an inflamed countenance and red nose may be trusted. Frank Kavanagh's display of money attracted his attention, for, small as was the boy's capital, it was greater than his own.

      Been long in the city, Johnny? he inquired.

      I only arrived to-day, answered Frank. My name isn't Johnny, though.

      It's immaterial. Johnny is a generic term, said the stranger. I suppose you have come here to make your fortune.

      I shall be satisfied with a living to begin with, said Frank.

      Where did you come from?

      A few miles from Hartford.

      Got any relations there?

      Yes,—an uncle and aunt.

      I suppose you were sorry to leave them.

      Not much. Uncle is a pretty good man, but he's fond of money, and aunt is about as mean as they make 'em. They got tired of supporting me, and gave me money enough to get to New York.

      I suppose you have some left, said the stranger, persuasively.

      Twenty-five cents, answered Frank, laughing. That isn't a very big capital to start on, is it?

      Is that all you've got? asked the shabbily dressed stranger, in a tone of disappointment.

      Every cent.

      I wish I had ten dollars to give you, said the stranger, thoughtfully.

      Thank you, sir; I wish you had, said Frank, his eyes resting on the dilapidated attire of his benevolent companion. Judging from that, he was not surprised that ten dollars exceeded the charitable fund of the philanthropist.

      My operations in Wall street have not been fortunate of late, resumed the stranger; and I am in consequence hard up.

      Do you do business in Wall street? asked Frank, rather surprised.

      Sometimes, was the reply. I have lost heavily of late in Erie and Pacific Mail, but it is only temporary. I shall soon be on my feet again.

      I hope so, sir, said Frank, politely.

      My career has been a chequered one, continued the stranger. I, too, as a mere boy, came up from the country to make my fortune. I embarked in trade, and was for a time successful. I resigned to get time to write a play,—a comedy in five acts.

      Frank regarded his companion with heightened respect. He was a boy of good education, and the author of a play in his eyes was a man of genius.

      Was it played? he inquired.

      No; Wallack said it had too many difficult characters for his company, and the rest of the managers kept putting me off, while they were producing inferior plays. The American public will never know what they have lost. But, enough of this. Sometime I will read you the 'Mother-in-law,' if you like. Have you had dinner?

      No, answered Frank. Do you know where I can dine cheap? he inquired.

      Yes, answered the stranger. Once I boarded at the Astor House, but now I am forced, by dire necessity, to frequent cheap restaurants. Follow me.

      What is your name, sir? asked Frank, as he rose from the bench.

      Montagu Percy, was the reply. Sorry I haven't my card-case with me, or I would hand you my address. I think you said your name was not Johnny.

      My name is Frank Kavanagh.

      A very good name. 'What's in a name?' as Shakespeare says.

      As the oddly assorted pair crossed the street, and walked down Nassau street, they attracted the attention of some of the Arabs who were lounging about Printing-House square.

      I say, country, is that your long-lost uncle? asked a boot-black.

      No, it isn't, answered Frank, shortly.

      Though he was willing to avail himself of Mr. Percy's guidance, he was not ambitious of being regarded as his nephew.

      Heed not their ribald scoffs, said Montagu Percy, loftily. Their words pass by me 'like the idle wind,' which I regard not.

      Who painted your nose, mister? asked another boy, of course addressing Frank's companion.

      I will hand you over to the next policeman, exclaimed Percy, angrily.

      Look out he don't haul you in, instead, retorted the boy.

      Montagu Percy made a motion to pursue his tormentors, but desisted.

      They are beneath contempt, he said. It is ever the lot of genius to be railed at by the ignorant and ignoble. They referred to my nose being red, but mistook the cause. It is a cutaneous eruption,—the result of erysipelas.

      Is it? asked Frank, rather mystified.

      I am not a drinking man—that is, I indulge myself but rarely. But here we are.

      So saying he plunged down some steps into a basement, Frank following him. Our hero found himself in a dirty apartment, provided with a bar, over which was a placard, inscribed:—

      FREE LUNCH.

      How much money have you got, Frank? inquired Montagu Percy.

      Twenty-five cents.

      Lunch at this establishment is free, said Montagu; but you are expected to order some drink. What will you have?

      I don't care for any drink except a glass of water.

      All right; I will order for you, as the rules of the establishment require it; but I will drink your glass myself. Eat whatever you like.

      Frank took a sandwich from a plate on the counter and ate it with relish, for he was hungry. Meanwhile his companion emptied the two glasses, and ordered another.

      Can you pay for these drinks? asked the bar-tender, suspiciously.

      Sir, I never order what I cannot pay for.

      I don't know about that. You've been in here and taken lunch more than once without drinking anything.

      It may be so. I will make up for it now. Another glass, please.

      First pay for what you have already drunk.

      Frank, hand me your money, said Montagu.

      Frank incautiously handed him his small stock of money, which he saw instantly transferred to the bar-tender.

      That is right, I believe, said Montagu Percy.

      The bar-keeper nodded, and Percy, transferring his attention to the free lunch, stowed away a large amount.

      Frank observed with some uneasiness the transfer of his entire cash capital to the bar-tender; but concluded that Mr. Percy would refund a part after they went out. As they reached the street he broached the subject.

      I didn't agree to pay for both dinners, he said, uneasily.

      Of course not. It will be my treat next time. That will be fair, won't it?

      But I would rather you would give me back a part of my money. I may not see you again.

      I will be in the Park to-morrow at one o'clock.

      Give me back ten cents, then, said Frank, uneasily. That was all the money I had.

      I am really sorry, but I haven't a penny about me. I'll make it right to-morrow. Good-day, my young friend. Be virtuous and you will be happy.

      Frank looked after the shabby figure ruefully. He felt that he had been taken in and done for. His small capital had vanished, and he was adrift in the streets of a strange city without a penny.

      CHAPTER II.

      DICK RAFFERTY.

      I've been a fool, said Frank to himself, in genuine mortification, as he realized how easily he had permitted himself to be duped. I ought to have stayed in the country.

      Even a small sum of money imparts to its possessor a feeling of independence, but one who is quite penniless feels helpless and apprehensive. Frank was unable even to purchase an apple from the snuffy old apple-woman who presided over the stand near by.

      What am I going to do? he asked himself, soberly.

      What has become of your uncle? asked a boot-black.

      Looking up, Frank recognized one of those who had saluted Percy and himself on their way to the restaurant.

      He isn't my uncle, he replied, rather resentfully.

      You never saw him before, did you? continued the boy.

      No, I didn't.

      That's what I thought.

      There was something significant in the young Arab's tone, which led Frank to inquire, Do you know him?

      Yes, he's a dead-beat.

      A what?

      A dead-beat. Don't you understand English?

      He told me that he did business on Wall street.

      The boot-black shrieked with laughter.

      He do business on Wall street! he repeated. You're jolly green, you are!

      Frank was inclined to be angry, but he had the good sense to see that his new friend was right. So he said good-humoredly, I suppose I am. You see I am not used to the city.

      It's just such fellows as you he gets hold of, continued the boot-black. Didn't he make you treat?

      I may as well confess it, thought Frank. This boy may help me with advice.

      Yes, he said aloud. I hadn't but twenty-five cents, and he made me spend it all. I haven't a cent left.

      Whew! ejaculated the other boy. You're beginnin' business on a small capital.

      That's so, said Frank. Do you know any way I can earn money?

      Dick Rafferty was a good-natured boy, although rough, and now that Frank had appealed to him for advice he felt willing to help him, if he could.

      What can you do? he asked, in a business-like tone. Have you ever worked?

      Yes, answered Frank.

      What can you do?

      I can milk cows, hoe corn and potatoes, ride horse to plough, and—

      Hold up! said Dick. All them things aint goin' to do you no good in New York. People don't keep cows as a reg'lar thing here.

      Of course I know that.

      And there aint much room for plantin' corn and potatoes. Maybe you could get a job over in Jersey.

      I'd rather stay in New York. I can do something here.

      Can you black boots, or sell papers?

      I can learn.

      You need money to set up in either of them lines, said Dick Rafferty.

      Would twenty-five cents have been enough? asked Frank.

      You could have bought some evening papers with that.

      I wish somebody would lend me some money, said Frank; I'd pay it back as soon as I'd sold my papers. I was a fool to let that fellow swindle me.

      That's so, assented Dick; but it's no good thinkin' of that now. I'd lend you the money myself, if I had it; but I've run out my account at the Park Bank, and can't spare the money just at present.

      How long have you been in business? asked Frank.

      Ever since I was eight years old; and I'm goin' on fifteen now.

      You went to work early.

      Yes, I had to. Father and mother both died, and I was left to take care of myself.

      You took care of yourself when you were only eight years old? asked Frank, in surprise.

      Yes.

      Then I ought to make a living, for I am fifteen,—a year older than you are now.

      "Oh, you'll get along when you

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