Horatio Alger - Dan, The Newsboy

" Evening Telegram! Only one left. Going for two cents, and worth double the money. Buy one, sir?"

Attracted by the business-like tone of the newsboy, a gentleman paused as he was ascending the steps of the Astor House, and said, with a smile:

"You seem to appreciate the Telegram , my boy. Any important news this afternoon?"

"Buy the paper, and you'll see," said the boy, shrewdly.

"I see—you don't care to part with the news for nothing. Well, here are your two cents."

"Thank you, sir."

Still the gentleman lingered, his eyes fixed upon the keen, pleasant face of the boy.

"How many papers have you sold to-day, my boy?" he asked.

"Thirty-six, sir."

"Were they all Telegrams ?"

"No; I sell all the papers. I ain't partial. I'm just as willing to make money on the Mail , or Commercial , or Evening Post , as the Telegram ."

"I see you have an eye to business. How long have you dealt in papers?"

"Three years, sir."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"What did you do before you sold papers?"

A shadow rested on the boy's bright face.

"I didn't have to work then, sir," he said. "My father was alive, and he was well off. We lived in a nice house up town, and I went to a private school. But all at once father failed, and soon afterward he died, and then everything was changed. I don't like to think about it, sir."

The gentleman's interest was strongly excited.

"It is a sad story," he said. "Is your mother living?"

"Yes, sir. The worst of it is, that I don't make enough to support us both, and she has to work, too."

"What does she do?"

"She makes vests for a man on Chatham street."

"I hope she is well paid."

"That she is not. He only allows her twenty cents apiece."

"That is a mere pittance. She can't earn much at that rate."

"No, sir; she has to work hard to make one vest a day."

"The man can't have a conscience," said the gentleman, indignantly. "It is starvation wages."

"So it is, sir, but he pretends that he pays more than the work is worth. Oh, he's a mean fellow," pursued the boy, his face expressive of the scorn and disgust which he felt.

"What is your name, my boy?"

"Dan, sir—Dan Mordaunt."

"I hope, Dan, you make more money than your mother does."

"Oh, yes, sir. Sometimes I make a dollar a day, but I don't average that. I wish I could make enough so that mother wouldn't have to work."

"I see you are a good son. I like to hear you speak in such terms of your mother."

"If I didn't," said Dan, impetuously, "I should deserve to be kicked. She's a good mother, sir."

"I have no doubt of it. It must be hard for her to be so reduced after once living liberally. How happened it that your father failed?"

The boy's pleasant face assumed a stern expression.

"On account of a rascal, sir. His book-keeper ran off, carrying with him thirty thousand dollars. Father couldn't meet his bills, and so he failed. It broke his heart, and he didn't live six months after it."

"Have you ever heard of this book-keeper since?"

"No, sir, not a word. I wish I could. I should like to see him dragged to prison, for he killed my father, and made my mother work for a living."

"I can't blame you, Dan, for feeling as you do. Besides, it has altered your prospects."

"I don't care for myself, sir. I can forget that. But I can't forgive the injury he has done my poor father and mother."

"Have you any idea what became of the defaulter?"

"We think that he went to Europe, just at first, but probably he returned when he thought all was safe."

"He may have gone out West."

"I shouldn't wonder, sir."

"I live in the West myself—in Chicago."

"That's a lively city, isn't it, sir?"

"We think so out there. Well, my lad, I must go into the hotel now."

"Excuse me for detaining you, sir," said Dan, politely.

"You haven't detained me; you have interested me. I hope to see you again."

"Thank you, sir."

"Where do you generally stand?"

"Just here, sir. A good many people pass here, and I find it a good stand."

"Then I shall see you again, as I propose to remain in New York for a day or two. Shall you have the morning papers?"

"Yes, sir; all of them."

"Then I will patronize you to-morrow morning. Good-day."

"Good-day, sir."

"He's a gentleman," said Dan to himself, emphatically. "It isn't every one that feels an interest in a poor newsboy. Well, I may as well be going home. It's lonely for mother staying by herself all day. Let me see; what shall I take her? Oh, here are some pears. She's very fond of pears."

Dan inquired the price of pears at a street stand, and finally selected one for three cents.

"Better take two for five cents," said the fruit merchant.

"I can't afford it," said Dan. "Times are hard, and I have to look after the pennies. I wouldn't buy any at all if it wasn't for my mother."

"Better take another for yourself," urged the huckster.

Dan shook his head.

"Can't afford it," he said. "I must get along without the luxuries. Bread and butter is good enough for me."

Looking up, Dan met the glance of a boy who was passing—a tall, slender, supercilious-looking boy, who turned his head away scornfully as he met Dan's glance.

"I know him," said Dan to himself. "I ought to know Tom Carver. We used to sit together at school. But that was when father was rich. He won't notice me now. Well, I don't want him to," proceeded Dan, coloring indignantly. "He thinks himself above me, but he needn't. His father failed, too, but he went on living just the same. People say he cheated his creditors. My poor father gave up all he had, and sank into poverty."

This was what passed through Dan's mind. The other boy—Tom Carver—had recognized Dan, but did not choose to show it.

"I wonder whether Dan Mordaunt expected me to notice him," he said to himself. "I used to go to school with him, but now that he is a low newsboy I can't stoop to speak to him. What would my fashionable friends say?"

Tom Carver twirled his delicate cane and walked on complacently, feeling no pity for the schoolfellow with whom he used to be so intimate. He was intensely selfish—a more exceptional thing with boys than men. It sometimes happens that a boy who passes for good-hearted changes into a selfish man; but Tom required no change to become that. His heart was a very small one, and beat only for himself.

Dan walked on, and finally paused before a large tenement-house. He went in at the main entrance, and ascended two flights of stairs. He opened a door, and found himself in the presence of the mother whom he so dearly loved.

While Dan was strong, sturdy, and the picture of health, his mother was evidently an invalid. She was pale, thin, and of delicate appearance. She was sitting in a cane-seated rocking-chair, which Dan had bought second-hand on one of his flush days at a small place on the Bowery. She looked up with a glad smile when Dan entered.

"I am so glad to see you, my dear boy," she said.

"Have you been lonely, mother?" asked Dan, kissing her affectionately.

"Yes, Dan, it is lonely sitting here hour after hour without you, but I have my work to think of."

"I wish you didn't have to work, mother," said Dan. "You are not strong enough. I ought to earn enough to support us both."

"Don't trouble yourself about that, my dear boy. I should feel more lonely if I had nothing to do."

"But you work all the time. I don't like to have you do that."