CHAPTER I.
Oliver Hitchcok's Lunch-Room

"Wake up there! This is no place to sleep."

The speaker was a policeman, the scene was City Hall Park, and the person addressed was a boy of perhaps sixteen, who was reclining on one of the park benches, with a bundle at his side.

The officer accompanied his admonition with a shaking which served to arouse the young sleeper.

"Is it morning?" asked the boy, drowsily, not yet realizing his situation.

"No, it isn't. Don't you know where you are?"

"I know now," said the boy, looking about him.

"Come, get up, Johnny! This is no place for you," said the officer, not unkindly, for he was a family man, and had a boy of his own not far from the age of the young wayfarer.

The boy got up, and looked about him undecidedly. Clearly he did not know where to go.

"Are you a stranger in the city?" asked the policeman.

"Yes, sir. I only got here this afternoon."

"Then you have no place to sleep?"

"No."

"Haven't you got money enough to go to a hotel? There is Leggett's Hotel, just down Park Row," pointing eastward.

"I have a little money, but I can't afford to go to a hotel."

"You can go to the Newsboys' Lodging House for six cents."

"Where is it?"

The officer told him.

"I feel hungry. I suppose there isn't any place where I can get supper so late as this?"

"Oh, yes! There's one close by. Do you see a light over there?"

The officer pointed to a basement opposite the post-office, at the corner of Beekman street and Park Row.

"Yes, I see it," answered the boy. "Is it a good place?"

"I should say so. Why, that's Oll Hitchcock's. You can't get a better cup of coffee or sandwich anywhere in New York. I often get lunch there myself, when I don't have time to go home."

"Thank you for telling me. I'll go over."

Ben Baker, for that is the name of our young hero, walked across the street, and descended the steps into the well-known restaurant or lunch-room of Oliver Hitchcock. Open by night as well as by day, there is hardly an hour of the twenty-four in which it is not fairly well patronized, while at times it is thronged. It is a favorite resort for men of all classes – printers, journalists, newsmen – who drop in in the early morning on their way to or from the offices of the great morning papers for their regular supplies – politicians and business men of all kinds.

More than once in Oliver Hitchcock's old saloon, farther up the same street, Horace Greeley, the elder Bennett, and Raymond, of the Times, could be found at the plain tables, unprovided with cloths, but bearing appetizing dishes.

When Ben entered the restaurant at half-past eleven he was surprised to find most of the tables occupied.

Coming from the country, where ten o'clock found nearly every one in bed, he was much surprised to find so many persons up and engaged in supping.

"People in New York seem to sit up all night," he thought.

He took a vacant seat, and the waiter soon coming up to him, stood in silent expectation of an order.

"Give me a cup of coffee and a sandwich," said Ben.

"What kind?"

"Ham."

The waiter sped on his errand, and soon set before our hero a cup of fragrant coffee, steaming hot, and a sandwich made of tender meat and fresh bread, which tasted delicious to the hungry boy – so delicious that he resolved to forego the intended piece of pie and ordered another.

While he was eating the second sandwich, he observed that a young man, sitting just opposite, was eyeing him attentively.

He was tall, dark-complexioned, slender, and had a kindly face.

"You seem to relish your supper, Johnny," he said.

"Yes, I do, but my name isn't Johnny."

The young man smiled.

"Excuse me," he said, "but in New York we call boys by that name, if we don't know their real names. I suppose you have not been here long?"

"No; I only arrived this afternoon."

"Come to make your fortune, eh?"

"Well, I don't know. I should like to, but if I can make a living it is all I expect. Besides, I have another object," added the boy, slowly.

"Were you ever here before?"

"No, sir."

"You are up rather late. You don't sit up so late in the country, do you?"

"Oh, no, I am in bed by nine o'clock generally."

"We don't go to bed early here. I myself haven't been in bed before midnight for three years."

"Do you like to sit up so late?" asked Ben.

"I didn't at first. Now I am used to it. My business keeps me up late."

Seeing that Ben looked curious, he added:

"I am a reporter on a morning paper."

"Do you like it?" asked Ben, doubtfully.

"Oh, yes. It isn't a bad business."

"What paper do you write for?" asked Ben, with considerable respect for a man who wrote for the papers.

"I used to work on the Sun. Now I'm on the Herald. It suits me very well while I am a young man, but I should like a different position when I am older."

"Is it hard work?"

"Sometimes. I am liable to be sent off at five minutes' notice to any part of the city. Then I am expected to keep my eyes open, and make note of anything that comes in my way. There was a big fire last night about one o'clock, up town. I heard of it as I was going up in the horse-cars, so I hurried to the spot, and instead of going to bed I got all the information I could, hurried back to the office and wrote it up. I got extra pay for it. Besides, it shows interest, and may help me to promotion."

"Have you got through for to-night?" asked Ben.

"Yes; I feel tired, being up so late last night. When I leave here I shall go home and to bed. By the way, where are you staying?"

"Nowhere," answered Ben, in some embarrassment.

"You are not going to sit up all night, are you?"

"No. I suppose I must go somewhere."

"There is a hotel close by – Leggett's."

"So a policeman told me, but I haven't much money, and I had better not go to a hotel. He said there was a Newsboys' Lodging House, where I could get lodging for six cents."

"I am afraid you couldn't get in at this late hour."

Ben looked perplexed. He felt sleepy, and needed rest.

"Then I suppose I shall have to go to the hotel," he answered. "Do you know how much they charge?"

"Not exactly. It depends on the room. I can direct you to a cheaper lodging even than you could get at the Newsboys' Lodging House."

"I wish you would," said Ben, looking up hopefully.

"Then come home with me. My room-mate is away for a few days, and I have room for you."

"Thank you, sir, if it won't inconvenience you."

"Not at all."

Ben had read of adventurers that lie in wait for unsuspecting travellers and "rope them in," but he entertained no suspicion of the young man who had so kindly offered him a bed. The mere fact that he was a newspaper man seemed to Ben a guarantee of respectability.

As Hugh Manton (the reporter) and he went up to the counter to pay the amount of their checks, a stout, handsomely-dressed man, of portly form and medium stature, entered the restaurant. As his eye fell upon Ben he started and muttered to himself:

"That boy in New York! What does he want here?"

CHAPTER II.
A Lodging in St. Mark's Place

Hugh Manton, whose calling had trained him to quick observation, did not fail to notice that the stout gentleman was in some way moved by the sight of his young companion. This surprised him not a little, for in the portly gentleman he recognized a wealthy retail merchant whose store was located on the upper part of Broadway.

"Can there be any connection between this country boy and the rich Mr. Walton?" he asked himself, curiously.

He resolved to take an early opportunity to question Ben.

When their bills were paid they went out of the restaurant. It was twelve o'clock by the clock on the City Hall when they emerged from the lunch-room. A Third Avenue horse-car was just passing.

"Follow me!" said the reporter, as he jumped aboard.

Ben did so.

"My room is on St. Mark's place," he said. "I suppose you don't know where that is?"

"No; I have never been in New York before."

"It must be nearly two miles from the City Hall Park. It is the eastern part of Eighth street."

"Fare!" said the conductor.

Ben put his hand into his pocket.

"No," said his companion, "I have the change."

"Thank you!" said Ben, "but you ought not to pay for me."

"Oh, you shall take your turn some time."

They sat down in the car, and, both being tired, sat silent.

After riding fifteen to twenty minutes they came in sight of a large brown-colored building, set between Third and Fourth avenues, just beyond the termination of the Bowery.

"We will get out here," said Hugh Manton. "That building is the Cooper Institute. Of course you have heard of it? We turn to the right, and will soon reach my den."

Time was when St. Mark's place had some pretension to gentility, but now it is given up to lodging and boarding-houses. In front of a brick house, between Second and First avenues, the reporter paused.

"This is where I live," he said.

He opened the door with a latch-key, and they entered a dark hall, for at eleven o'clock the light was extinguished.

"Follow me," he said to Ben. "Take hold of the banister, and feel your way. I am generally the last in," he said, "unless some one of my fellow-lodgers is out having a good time. One more flight of stairs. So, here we are."

The rear room on the third floor was his. Opening a door, he quickly lighted a gas-jet on one side of the room.

"There, my young friend," said the reporter, "you can undress as soon as you please, and jump into that bed nearest the window. It isn't luxurious, but will serve your turn."

"Thank you," said Ben. "I feel very tired. I shan't lie awake long to consider what kind of a bed I am in. Do you get up early?"

"Sometimes I get up as early as nine o'clock."

Ben laughed.

"Do you call that early?" he said. "Six o'clock isn't extra early in the country."

"My young friend – by the way, what's your name?"

"Ben Baker."

"Well, Ben, let me tell you that nine o'clock is a very early hour for a reporter. We'll rise at nine, and go out to breakfast together."

"I think I can sleep till then," said Ben, "for I am as tired as I ever was after a hard day's work on the farm."

"Wake up, Ben."

It was the next morning and the words were spoken by Hugh Manton, as he gave a gentle shake to the still sleeping boy.

Ben opened his eyes and looked about him in a confused way. Finally recollection came to him.

"I thought I was in that park down town," he said, with a smile.

"Do you know where you are now?"

"Yes."

"Have you slept well, youngster?"

"I have had a bully sleep."

"And you feel ready for breakfast?"

"I think I can eat some."

The two new acquaintances dressed and went down stairs. Ben was about to take his bundle, but the reporter stopped him.

"Leave it here," he said, "for the present. Blodgett won't be back for three or four days, and you can stay here till he returns. You won't want to be lugging that bundle all over town."

"You are very kind," said Ben, gratefully.

"Why shouldn't I be? I came to the city myself a poor country youth, and I had a hard struggle as first till I reached my present pinnacle of wealth," he concluded, with a smile.

"Are reporters well paid?" asked Ben, innocently.

"That depends! Whatever they earn, it is seldom that one gets fifty dollars ahead. That is because, as a rule, they are improvident, and sometimes dissipated. I am not as well paid as some, but I make a little writing sketches for the weekly story papers. I pick up two or three hundred a year that way. Then I take better care of my money than some. I laid up five hundred dollars last year, and nearly as much the year before."

"You will soon be rich," said Ben, to whom five hundred dollars seemed a large sum of money.

The reporter smiled.

"It takes considerable money to make a man rich in New York," he said. "However, I know it makes me feel very comfortable to think I have a thousand dollars in the bank."

"I should think it would," said Ben, seriously.

"Here we are!" said the reporter, pausing in front of a restaurant on Ninth street, facing the side of the great retail store established by the late A. T. Stewart. "We can get a comfortable breakfast inside for a low price."

They entered, and sat down at one of the small tables. Hugh Manton ordered a beefsteak and a cup of coffee. This, with bread and butter, cost twenty cents. Ben duplicated the order. The meat was not of the best quality, but it was as good as could be afforded at the price, and Ben ate with the zest of a healthy boy of his age.

"By the way, Ben," said the reporter, with apparent carelessness, though he scanned the face of his young companion attentively as he spoke, "are you acquainted with a clothing merchant of this city named Nicholas Walton?"

Ben started in irrepressible astonishment.

"What makes you ask?" he said. "Did you know he was my uncle?"

It was Hugh Manton's turn to be astonished.

"Your uncle!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean to say Nicholas Walton is your uncle?"

"Yes, I do. My mother is his sister."

"Is it possible? He has the reputation of being very rich, while you – "

"While I am very poor. Yes, that is true."

"Are you going to call upon him?"

"Yes. I thought, being my uncle, he might give me a place in his store."

"Did you write him that you were coming?"

"No – that is, not lately. I wrote three months ago, and he wrote back that I had better stay where I was."

"What were you doing?"

"I was working on a farm. I was paid three dollars a week."

"Did you live on the farm?"

"No; I lived with my mother."

"She is living, then?"

"Yes," said Ben, and his face lighted up with love for his absent mother.

"I should think Mr. Walton would do something for his own sister."

"So he does. He sends her twenty-five dollars a month. She lives in a small house belonging to my grandfather. My uncle is part owner, but he lets mother live in it."

"I suppose you don't like the country, or you wouldn't have come to the city."

"I have a taste for business, and no taste for farming. My uncle came to New York a poor boy, and he has succeeded. I don't see why I can't."

"It doesn't always follow," said the reporter, thoughtfully. "Still I think you have it in you to succeed. You look bold, persevering and resolute."

"I mean to succeed!" said Ben, firmly. "I am not afraid of work."

"Shall you call on your uncle this morning?"

"Yes; I want to find out as soon as I can what I am to depend upon."

"Very well! Just make my room your home. I shall not be back myself till midnight, or later, but here is a latch-key which will admit you to my room whenever you like. I have Blodgett's with me, which I can use myself."