Mark the Match Boy or Richard Hunter's Ward — Ch. 19-20

CHAPTER XIX. RICHARD HUNTER IS PROMOTED.

It was with eager impatience that Mark awaited the return of Richard Hunter, to communicate to him his good luck in securing a place.

The thought that he had secured it by his own exertions gave him great satisfaction.

"I've got a place," were his first words, as Richard entered the house.

"Already?"

asked Richard Hunter.

"You have been quite smart, Mark.

How did you manage to obtain it?"

Mark gave the particulars, which need not be repeated.

"What kind of a store is it?"

"A bookstore."

"What is the name of your employer?"

"Baker."

"Baker's bookstore!"

repeated Richard, turning to Fosdick.

"That is where our particular friend, Roswell Crawford, is employed."

"Yes," said Mark; "there's a boy there about sixteen or seventeen.

I

believe that is his name."

"I am not sure whether his being there will make it pleasant to you.

Does he know that you are a friend of mine?"

"Yes," said Mark; "he inquired particularly about you, Mr. Hunter."

"He's very fond of me," said Dick; "I suppose he sent me his love."

"No," said Mark, smiling; "he didn't speak as if he loved you very much."

"He doesn't like me very much.

I am afraid when he gets to be president I shan't stand much chance of an office.

He didn't try to bully you,--did he?"

"He said he could get me sent off if I wasn't careful to please him."

"That sounds like Roswell."

"He talked as if he was one of the firm," said Mark; "but when Mr. Baker came in, he began to scold him for not dusting the books.

After that I didn't think so much of what he said."

"It's a way he has," said Fosdick.

"He don't like me much either, as I got a place that he was trying for."

"If he bullies you, just let me know," said Richard.

"Perhaps I can stop it."

"I am not afraid," said Mark.

"Mr. Baker is there most of the time, and he wouldn't dare to bully me before him."

Sunday morning came,--a day when the noisy streets were hushed, and the hum of business was stilled.

Richard Hunter and Fosdick still attended the Sunday school, to which they had now belonged for over two years.

They were still members of Mr. Greyson's class, and were much better informed in religious matters than formerly.

Frequently--for they were favorite scholars with Mr. Greyson--he invited them home to dine at his handsome residence.

Both boys were now perfectly self-possessed on such occasions.

They knew how to behave at the table with perfect decorum, and no one would have judged from their dress, manners, or conversation, that they had not always been accustomed to the same style of living.

Mr. and Mrs. Greyson noticed with pleasure the great improvement in their protegés, and always welcomed them with kind hospitality.

But there was another member of the family who always looked forward with pleasure to seeing them.

This was Ida, now a young lady of thirteen, who had from the first taken an especial fancy to Dick, as she always called him.

"Well, Mark," said Richard Hunter, on Sunday morning, "wouldn't you like to go to Sunday school with me?"

"Yes," said Mark.

"Mother always wanted me to go to Sunday school, but she was so poor that she could not dress me in suitable clothes."

"There is nothing to prevent your going now.

We shall be ready in about half an hour."

At the appointed time the three set out.

The distance was not great, the church being situated four blocks farther up town on Fifth Avenue.

They chanced to meet Mr. Greyson on the church steps.

"Good-morning, Richard.

Good-morning, Henry," he said.

Then, glancing at Mark, "Who is your young friend?"

"His name is Mark Manton," said Richard.

"He is my ward."

"Indeed!

I had not thought of you in the character of a guardian," said Mr. Greyson, smiling.

"I should like to have him enter one of the younger classes," said Richard.

"Certainly, I will gladly find a place for him.

Perhaps you can take him in your class."

"In my class!"

repeated Richard, in surprise.

"Yes, I thought I had mentioned to you that Mr. Benton was about to leave the city, and is obliged to give up his class.

I would like to have you take it."

"But am I qualified to be a teacher?"

asked Richard, who had never before thought of being invited to take a class.

"I think you have excellent qualifications for such a position.

It speaks well for you, however, that you should feel a modest hesitation on the subject."

"I think Fosdick would make a better teacher than I." "Oh, I intend to draft him into the service also.

I shall ask him to take the next vacancy."

The class assigned to our friend Dick (we are sometimes tempted to call him by his old, familiar name) consisted of boys of from ten to eleven years of age.

Among these Mark was placed.

Although he had never before attended a Sunday school, his mother, who was an excellent woman, had given him considerable religious instruction, so that he was about as well advanced as the rest of the class.

Richard easily adapted himself to the new situation in which he was placed.

He illustrated the lesson in a familiar and oftentimes quaint manner, so that he easily commanded the attention of the boys, who were surprised when the time came for the lesson to close.

"I am glad you are my teacher, Mr. Hunter," said one of the boys at the close of the service.

"Thank you," said Richard, who felt gratified at the compliment.

"It's new business to me, but I hope I shall be able to interest you."

"Won't you come and dine with us?"

asked Mr. Greyson, as they were leaving the church.

Richard Hunter hesitated.

"I don't know if Mark can find his way home," he said with hesitation.

"Yes, I can, Mr. Hunter," said Mark.

"Don't trouble yourself about me."

"But I mean to have him come too," said Mr. Greyson.

"Our table is a large one, as you know, and we can accommodate three as well as two."

"Do come, Dick," said Ida Greyson.

Richard was seldom able to resist a request preferred by Ida, and surrendered at discretion.

So, as usual, Fosdick walked on with Mr. Greyson, this time with Mark beside him, while Richard walked with Ida.

"Who is that little boy, Dick?"

asked the young lady.

"That's my ward, Miss Ida," said Richard.

"You don't mean to say you are his guardian, Dick?"

"Yes, I believe I am."

"Why," said the lively young lady, "I always thought guardians were old, and cross, and bald-headed."

"I don't know but that description will suit me after a while," said Dick.

"My hair has been coming out lately."

"Has it, really?"

said Ida, who took this seriously.

"I hope you won't be bald.

I don't think you would look well."

"But I might wear a wig."

"I don't like wigs," said the young lady, decidedly.

"If you were a lady now, you might wear a cap.

How funny you'd look in a cap!"

and she burst out into a peal of merry laughter.

"I think a cap would be more becoming to you," said Richard.

"Do you ever scold your ward?"

asked Ida.

"No, he's a pretty good boy.

He don't need it."

"Where did you get acquainted with him?

Have you known him long?"

"He was taken sick at the door of our office one day.

So I had him carried to my boarding-place, and took care of him till he got well."

"That was very good of you," said Ida, approvingly.

"What did he use to do?"

"He was a match boy."

"Does he sell matches now?"

"No; he has got a place in a bookstore."

"What did you say his name was?"

"Mark."

"That's a pretty good name, but I don't like it so well as Dick."

"Thank you," said Richard.

"I am glad you like my name."

At this moment they were passing the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

Standing on the steps were two acquaintances of ours, Roswell Crawford and Ralph Graham.

They had cigars in their mouths, and there was a swaggering air about them, which was not likely to prepossess any sensible person in their favor.

They had not been to church, but had spent the morning in sauntering about the city, finally bringing up at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where, posting themselves conspicuously on the steps, they watched the people passing by on their way from church.

Richard Hunter bowed to Roswell, as it was his rule never to be found wanting in politeness.

Roswell was ill-mannered enough not to return the salutation.

"Who is that, Roswell?"

asked Ralph Graham.

"It's a boot-black," said Roswell, sneeringly.

"What do you mean?

I am speaking of that nice-looking young fellow that bowed to you just now."

"His name is Hunter.

He used to be a boot-black, as I told you; but he's got up in the world, and now he's putting on airs."

"He seems to have got into good company, at any rate.

He is walking with the daughter of Mr. Greyson, a rich merchant down town."

"He's got impudence enough for anything," said Roswell, with a feeling of bitter envy which he could not conceal.

"It really makes me sick to see him strutting about as if he were a gentleman's son."

"Like you," suggested Ralph, slyly; for he had already been informed by Roswell, on various occasions, that he was "a gentleman's son."

"Yes," said Roswell, "I'm a gentleman's son, if I'm not so lucky as some people.

Did you see that small boy in front?"

"Walking with Mr. Greyson?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"What of him?"

"That's our errand boy."

"Is it?"

asked Ralph, in some surprise.

"He seems to be one of the lucky kind too."

"He sold matches about the streets till a few weeks ago," said Roswell, spitefully.

"He sold them to some purpose, it seems, for he's evidently going home to dine with Mr. Greyson."

"Mr. Greyson seems to be very fond of low company.

That's all I can say."

"When you and I get to be as rich as he is, we can choose our own company."

"I hope I shall choose better than he."

"Well, let's drop them," said Ralph, who was getting tired of the subject.

"I must be getting home to dinner."

"So must I." "Come round to my room, after dinner, and we'll have another smoke."

"Yes, I'll come round.

I suppose mother'll be wanting me to go to church with her, but I've got tired of going to church."

CHAPTER XX. THE MADISON CLUB.

Two days afterwards, when Roswell as usual met his friend Ralph, the latter said, with an air of importance:-- "I've got news for you, Roswell."

"What is it?"

inquired Roswell.

"You've been unanimously elected a member of our club."

"Your club?"

"Yes; didn't I ever mention it to you?"

"No." "Well, I believe I didn't. You see I intended to propose your name as a member, and not feeling certain whether you would be elected, I thought I had better not mention it to you."

"What is the name of the club?"

asked Roswell, eagerly.

"The Madison Club."

"What made you call it that?"

"Why, you see, there's one fellow in the club that lives on Madison Avenue, and we thought that would be an aristocratic name, so we chose it."

Roswell liked whatever was aristocratic, and the name pleased him.

"Did you say I was unanimously elected, Ralph?"

he asked.

"Yes; I proposed your name at our meeting last night.

It was on account of that, that I couldn't meet you as usual.

But hereafter we can go together to the meetings."

"How many fellows belong?"

"Twenty.

We don't mean to have more than twenty-five.

We are quite particular whom we elect."

"Of course," said Roswell, in a tone of importance.

"You wouldn't want a set of low fellows like that Dick Hunter."

"No. By the way, I've got somewhere your notification from the secretary.

Here it is."

He drew from his pocket a note adorned with a large and elaborate seal, which Roswell, opening found read as follows:-- "MADISON CLUB.

"Mr. ROSWELL CRAWFORD.

"Sir:--I have the honor of informing you that at the last regular meeting of the Madison Club you were unanimously elected a member.

"Yours respectfully, "JAMES TRACY."

This document Roswell read with much satisfaction.

It sounded well to say that he was a member of the Madison Club, and his unanimous election could only be regarded as a high compliment.

"I will join," he said, pompously.

"When is the next meeting?"

"Next Tuesday evening."

"Where does the society meet?"

"In a room on Fourth Avenue.

You can come round early, and we will go together."

"All right.

What do you do at the meetings?"

"Well, we smoke, and tell stories, and have a good time.

Generally there are some eatables provided.

However, you'll know all about it, when you join.

Oh, by the way, there's one thing I forgot to tell you," added Ralph.

"There's an initiation fee of five dollars."

"A fee of five dollars!"

repeated Roswell, soberly.

"Yes."

"What is it for?"

"To defray expenses, of course.

There's the rent, and lights, and stationery, and the eatables.

They always, I think, have an initiation fee at clubs."

"Are there any other expenses?"

"Not much.

There's only a dollar a month.

That isn't much."

"I don't know how I'm going to raise the five dollars," said Roswell, soberly.

"I could manage the dollar a month afterwards."

"Oh, you'll think of some way," said Ralph.

"My mother wouldn't give it to me, so there's no use asking her."

"Why can't you pay it out of your extra wages?"

said Ralph, significantly.

"I shouldn't dare to take such a large sum," said Roswell.

"They would find me out."

"Not if you're careful."

"They don't keep but a few dollars in the drawer at one time."

"But didn't you tell me there was another drawer?"

"Yes; but that is always kept locked."

"Open it then."

"I have no key."

"Get one that will fit it then."

"I don't like to do that."

"Well, it's nothing to me," said Ralph, "only I should like to have you belong to the club, and you can't unless you are able to pay the initiation fee."

"I would like very much to belong," said Roswell, irresolutely.

"I know you would enjoy it.

We have splendid times."

"I'll see what I can do to raise the money," said Roswell.

"That's the way to talk.

You'll manage to get it some way."

It was a great temptation to Roswell.

The more he thought of it, the more he thought he should like to say that he was a member of the Madison Club.

He had a weak love of gentility, and he was persuaded that it would improve his social standing.

But he did not wish to adopt the course recommended by Ralph if there was any other way of getting the money.

He determined, therefore, first to make the effort to obtain the money from his mother on some pretext or other.

By the time he reached home, which was at an earlier hour than usual, he had arranged his pretext.

"I am glad you are home early," said Mrs. Crawford.

"Yes, I thought I'd come home early to-night.

Mother, I wish you'd let me have four dollars."

"What for, Roswell?"

"I want to buy a new hat.

This one is getting shabby."

Roswell's plan was, if he could obtain the four dollars from his mother, to make up the extra dollar out of sales unaccounted for.

As to the failure to buy the hat, he could tell his mother that he had lost the money, or make some other excuse.

That thought did not trouble him much.

But he was not destined to succeed.

"I am sorry you are dissatisfied with your hat, Roswell," said Mrs. Crawford, "for I cannot possibly spare you the money now."

"So you always say," grumbled Roswell.

"But it's true," said his mother.

"I'm very short just now.

The rent comes due in a few days, and I am trying hard to get together money enough to pay it."

"I thought you had money coming in from your lodgers."

"There's Mr. Bancroft hasn't paid me for six weeks, and I'm afraid I am going to lose his room-rent.

It's hard work for a woman to get along.

Everybody takes advantage of her," said Mrs. Crawford, sighing.

"Can't you possibly let me have the money by Saturday, mother?"

"No, Roswell.

Perhaps in a few weeks I can.

But I don't think your hat looks bad.

You can go and get it pressed if you wish."

But Roswell declared that wouldn't do, and left the room in an ill-humor.

Instead of feeling for his mother, and wishing to help her, he was intent only upon his own selfish gratifications.

So much, then, was plain,--in his efforts to raise the money for the initiation fee at the club, he could not expect any help from his mother.

He must rely upon other means.

Gradually Roswell came to the determination to follow the dangerous advice which had been proffered him by Ralph Graham.

He could not bear to give up the project of belonging to the club, and was willing to commit a dishonest act rather than forego the opportunity.

He began to think now of the manner in which he could accomplish what he had in view.

The next day when noon came he went round to the locked drawer, and, lighting a piece of sealing-wax which he had taken from one of the cases, he obtained a clear impression of the lock.

"I think that will do," thought Roswell.

At that moment a customer entered the store, and he hurried the stick of sealing-wax into his pocket.

When the store closed, Roswell went round to a locksmith, whose sign he remembered to have seen in Third Avenue.

He entered the shop with a guilty feeling at his heart, though he had a plausible story arranged for the occasion.

"I want a key made," he said, in a business-like manner; "one that will fit this lock."

Here he displayed the wax impression.

"What sort of a lock is it?"

asked the locksmith, looking at it.

"It is a bureau drawer," said Roswell.

"We have lost the key, and can't open it.

So I took the impression in wax.

How soon can you let me have it?"

"Are you in a hurry for it?"

"Yes; didn't I tell you we couldn't open the drawer?"

"Well, I'll try to let you have it by to-morrow night."