Julius, The Street Boy. Alger Horatio Jr.
not increase his popularity. Nor would he have taken the part he did but for the gratitude he felt to Paul, and the fear that he would suffer harm.
Later in the evening the beneficiary, the great Miles O’Reilly, appeared in a jig, which was very creditably danced. His appearance was the signal for a noisy ovation; due partly to his general popularity, and partly to his position as the beneficiary of the evening.
“Good for yer, Miles!” expressed the general appreciation of his efforts. Space will not permit us to enlarge on the other features in the programme of the evening. Evidently “The Mulligan Guards” was most popular, being received with tremendous applause. To gratify the curiosity of such of my readers as are not familiar with this celebrated local song, the first verse is here introduced:
“We crave your condescension,
We’ll tell you what we know
Of marching in the Mulligan Guard,
From Sligoward below.
Our captain’s name was Hussey,
A Tipperary man,
He carried his sword like a Russian duke,
Whenever he took command.
“We shouldered guns, and marched and marched away,
From Baxter Street we marched to Avenue A;
With drums and fifes how sweetly they did play,
As we marched, marched, marched in the Mulligan Guard.”
The effect of the song is heightened by the marching of the Guards, the roll of the drum, and presenting arms, which the young actors went through very creditably.
At the close, Miles was summoned before the curtain, and a speech was called for. As the recipient of the benefit the eminent actor could not very well decline. He presented himself with a low bow, and said:
“Boys, I’m glad to welcome yez here this evening. I don’t care so much for the stamps.” (“Oh, no! course yer don’t!” came in ironical accents from some one in the audience.) “That’s so, Jim Blin, and you know it. I’m glad yez like my dancin’! I won’t say no more, ’cause I ain’t used to makin’ speeches, but, with the kind permission of the manager, I’ll give yez anuther jig, and wish you good-night!”
Here the speaker bowed, the music struck up, and, to the satisfaction of all, the beneficiary repeated his performance. Then there was a rush for the door and in five minutes the “Grand Duke’s Oprea House” was silent and deserted.
CHAPTER III.
ON THE RAILWAY
As the time approached for his leaving New York, Julius could not help feeling a little regret. The great city had been a harsh stepmother to him. He had suffered often from cold and hunger, during the years that he had been drifting about her streets, an unconsidered waif in the great sea of life. He had received kindness from few, harshness from many. From the age of five he had been forced to earn his own living, with no one to look out for him except a professional thief. He had seen more of the dark than the bright side of life, but he had not been without his enjoyments. Youth is hopeful and can find enjoyment under the most unpropitious circumstances.
So Julius, as he took his last walk through the streets with which he had for years been familiar, felt sorry that he was to leave them the next day, perhaps, for many years. It is true he hoped to do better at the West, but all his present associations were with Broadway, Chatham Street, and the Bowery, and City Hall Park, and his new life would seem strange at first.
But when all preparations had been made and he found himself seated in the cars, dressed in a new suit, with thirty other boys, under the general charge of Mr. O’Connor, the superintendent of the Newsboys’ Lodging House, he forgot the city, and was exhilarated by the rapid motion of the cars, and the varied panorama through which he was swiftly passing.
“Ain’t it bully, Teddy?” said he to one of his city acquaintances who occupied the adjoining seat.
“That’s so, Julius. I never rid in the cars before.”
“Didn’t you?” said Julius, with complacent superiority. “I have.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Well, I went to Newark, and one summer I went to Long Branch—that’s a big watering place, you know. Both places are in New Jersey. I stayed a week at Long Branch.”
“Did you put up at one of the big hotels?”
“Yes, I put up at the Continental Hotel.”
“You’re gassin’!”
“No, I ain’t.”
“How much did you pay?”
“I forgot to ask for the bill,” said Julius.
“Where’d you sleep?”
“Oh, I slept in a bathing house, on the beach. It belonged to the hotel.”
“How’d you like it?”
“Pretty good, only the tide came up so high that it poured into the bathing house, and gave me a wetting.”
“Did you get anything to do?”
“I made a few stamps by blackin’ boots, but the black-boots in the hotel said he’d bounce me for interferin’ with his business. So I thought I’d come back to the city. I didn’t mind much, for there wasn’t much goin’ on in the daytime.”
“Do you know how long we’ll be travelin’?”
“Mr. O’Connor told me it would take us two days and nights, and perhaps more. He says it’s more’n a thousand miles.”
“Suppose’n we don’t like it, and want to come back?”
“We can’t do it without money.”
“I haven’t got but a dollar.”
“I have got forty dollars,” said Julius, complacently.
“Where’d you get such a pile?” asked Teddy, who regarded forty dollars as quite a fortune.
“Speculatin’ in real estate,” answered Julius, who did not care to mention exactly how he came by the money.
“I don’t believe you’ve got so much,” said Teddy, who was under the impression that he was being sold.
“I’ll show you part of it,” said Julius.
He drew out a pocketbook, and displayed five one-dollar bills, and a small amount of fractional currency.
“That’s only five dollars.”
“Mr. O’Connor’s got the rest. He’s goin’ to give it to the man that I’m to live with to take care of for me. I’d rather he’d keep it. I might lose it, or spend it foolish.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I jist wish I had half as much.”
“Do you remember Jim Driscoll, that used to sell papers on Nassau Street?”
“Yes, I knew him; where is he?”
“He went West about two years ago. He’s doin’ well. Got fifty dollars in the savings bank, and a good home besides.”
“Who told you?”
“Mr. O’Connor. He had a letter from him.”
“Jim can’t write, nor read either. When he was sellin’ papers in Nassau Street, he used to ask what was the news. Sometimes I told him wrong. Once I told him the President was dead, and he didn’t know no better than to believe it. He sold his papers fast, but the last chap got mad and booted him.”
“Well, Jim can write now. He’s been to school since he was out there.”
“He can do more’n I can. I can read easy readin’, but I can’t write no more’n a lamp-post.”
“Nor