The Telegraph Boy. Alger Horatio Jr.

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      The Telegraph Boy

      PREFACE

      The "Telegraph Boy" completes the series of sketches of street-life in New York inaugurated eleven years since by the publication of "Ragged Dick." The author has reason to feel gratified by the warm reception accorded by the public to these pictures of humble life in the great metropolis. He is even more gratified by the assurance that his labors have awakened a philanthropic interest in the children whose struggles and privations he has endeavored faithfully to describe. He feels it his duty to state that there is no way in which these waifs can more effectually be assisted than by contributing to the funds of "The Children's Aid Society," whose wise and comprehensive plans for the benefit of their young wards have already been crowned with abundant success.

      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. The variety of errands on which they are employed, and their curious experiences, are by no means exaggerated in the present story. In its preparation the author has been assisted by an excellent sketch published perhaps a year since in the "New York Tribune."

      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.

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