"Are you sure you wasn't smoking?"

"Look here," said Jerry, contemptuously, "you must think I'm a fool, to go and set my own bed on fire."

"That's true," said a bystander. "It wouldn't be very likely."

"Who did it, then?" asked the stout man, suspiciously.

"It's the watchman. I seed him smokin' when I turned in."

"Where is he now?"

Search was made for the watchman, but he had disappeared. Awaking to a consciousness of what mischief he had caused through his carelessness, he had slipped away in the confusion, and was not likely to return.

"The boy tells the truth," said one of the crowd. "I saw the watchman smoking myself. No doubt the fire caught from his pipe. The boys are innocent. Better let them go."

The two custodians of Jerry and Ben released their hold, and they gladly availed themselves of the opportunity to remove themselves to a safer distance from their late bedchamber.

Two fire-engines came thundering up, and streams of water were directed effectively at the burning bales. The flames were extinguished, but not till considerable damage had been done.

As the two boys watched the contest between the flames and the engines, from a safe distance, they heard the sonorous clang of the bell in the church-tower, ringing out twelve o'clock.

CHAPTER VII.

BEN'S TEMPTATION.

"Jest my luck!" complained Jerry. "Why couldn't the fire have waited till mornin'?"

"We might have burned up," said Ben, who was considerably impressed by his narrow escape.

"Only we didn't," said Jerry. "We'll have to try another hotel for the rest of the night."

"Where shall we go?"

"We may find a hay-barge down to the pier at the foot of Franklin Street."

"Is it far?"

"Not very."

"Let us go then."

So the boys walked along the street until they came to the pier referred to. There was a barge loaded with hay, lying alongside the wharf. Jerry speedily provided himself with a resting-place upon it, and Ben followed his example. It proved to be quite as comfortable, if not more so, than their former bed, and both boys were soon asleep. How long he slept Ben did not know, but he was roused to consciousness by a rude shake.

"Wake up there!" said a voice.

Ben opened his eyes, and saw a laboring man bending over him.

"Is it time to get up?" he inquired, hardly conscious where he was.

"I should think it was, particularly as you haven't paid for your lodging."

"Where's Jerry?" asked Ben, missing the boot-black.

The fact was, that Jerry, whose business required him to be astir early, had been gone over an hour. He had not felt it necessary to wake up Ben, knowing that the latter had nothing in particular to call him up.

"I don't know anything about Jerry. You'd better be going home, young 'un. Take my advice, and don't stay out another night."

He evidently thought that Ben was a truant from home, as his dress would hardly cla.s.s him among the homeless boys who slept out from necessity.

Ben scrambled upon the pier, and took a cross street up towards Broadway. He had slept off his fatigue, and the natural appet.i.te of a healthy boy began to a.s.sert itself. It was rather uncomfortable to reflect that he was penniless, and had no means of buying a breakfast.

He had meant to ask Jerry's advice, as to some occupation by which he could earn a little money, and felt disappointed that his companion had gone away before he waked up. His appet.i.te was the greater because he had been limited to a single apple for supper.

Where to go he did not know. One place was as good as another. It was a strange sensation to Ben to feel the cravings of appet.i.te, with nothing to satisfy it. All his life he had been accustomed to a good home, where his wants were plentifully provided for. He had never had any anxiety about the supply of his daily wants. In the city there were hundreds of boys younger than he, who, rising in the morning, knew not where their meals were to come from, or whether they were to have any; but this had never been his case.

"I am young and strong," thought Ben. "Why can't I find something to do?"

His greatest anxiety was to work, and earn his living somehow; but how did not seem clear. Even if he were willing to turn boot-black, he had no box nor brush, and had some doubts whether he should at first possess the requisite skill. Selling papers struck him more favorably; but here again the want of capital would be an objection.

So, in a very perplexed frame of mind, our young adventurer went on his way, and after a while caught sight of the upper end of the City Hall Park. Here he felt himself at home, and, entering, looked among the dozens of boys who were plying their work to see if he could not find his acquaintance Jerry. But here he was unsuccessful. Jerry's business stand was near the Cortlandt Street pier.

Hour after hour pa.s.sed, and Ben became more and more hungry and dispirited. He felt thoroughly helpless. There seemed to be nothing that he could do. He began to be faint, and his head ached. One o'clock found him on Na.s.sau Street, near the corner of Fulton. There was a stand for the sale of cakes and pies located here, presided over by an old woman, of somewhat ample dimensions. This stall had a fascination for poor Ben. He had such a craving for food that he could not take his eyes off the tempting pile of cakes which were heaped up before him. It seemed to him that he should be perfectly happy if he could be permitted to eat all he wanted of them.

Ben knew that it was wrong to steal. He had never in his life taken what did not belong to him, which is more than many boys can say, who have been brought up even more comfortably than he. But the temptation now was very strong. He knew it was not right; but he was not without excuse. Watching his opportunity, he put his hand out quickly, and, seizing a couple of pies, stowed them away hastily in his pocket, and was about moving off to eat them in some place where he would not be observed. But though the owner of the stolen articles had not observed the theft, there was a boy hanging about the stall, possibly with the same object in view, who did see it.

"He's got some of your pies, old lady," said the young detective.

The old woman looked round, and though the pies were in Ben's pocket there was a telltale in his face which betrayed him.

"Put back them pies, you young thafe!" said the angry pie-merchant.

"Aint you ashamed of yerself to rob a poor widdy, that has hard work to support herself and her childers,--you that's dressed like a gentleman, and ought to know better?"

"Give it to him, old lady," said the hard-hearted young vagabond, who had exposed Ben's iniquity.

As for Ben, he had not a word to say. In spite of his hunger, he was overwhelmed with confusion at having actually attempted to steal, and been caught in the act. He was by no means a model boy; but apart from anything which he had been taught in the Sunday school, he considered stealing mean and discreditable, and yet he had been led into it. What would his friends at home think of it, if they should ever hear of it?

So, as I said, he stood without a word to say in his defence, mechanically replacing the pies on the stall.

"I say, old lady, you'd orter give me a pie for tellin' you," said the informer.

"You'd have done the same, you young imp, if you'd had the chance,"

answered the pie-vender, with more truth than grat.i.tude. "Clear out, the whole on ye. I've had trouble enough with ye."

Ben moved off, thankful to get off so well. He had feared that he might be handed over to the police, and this would have been the crowning disgrace.

But the old woman seemed satisfied with the restoration of her property, and the expression of her indignation. The attempt upon her stock she regarded with very little surprise, having suffered more than once before in a similar way.