This Sam resolved to do.

A tall man emerged from the steamer, bearing a heavy carpet-bag.

"Smash yer baggage?" said Tim.

"No, I think not. I can carry it myself."

"I haven't had any breakfast," said Tim, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his freckled features into an expression of patient suffering.

"Nor I either," said the stranger, smiling.

"You've got money to buy some, and I haven't," said Tim, keeping at his side.

"Well, you may carry it," said the gentleman, good-naturedly.

Tim turned half round, and winked at Sam, as much as to say, "Did you see how I did it?"

Sam was quick enough to take the hint.

"Smash your carpet-bag?" he asked of a middle-aged lady, imitating as closely as possible Tim's professional accent.

"What?" asked the lady, startled.

"She don't understand," thought Sam. "Let me carry it for you, ma'am."

"I do not need it. I am going to take a cab."

"Let me take it to the cab," persisted Sam; but he was forestalled by a hack-driver who had heard the lady's remark.

"Let me take it, ma'am," he said, thrusting Sam aside. "I've got a nice carriage just outside. Take you anywhere you want to go."

So the lady was carried away, and Sam had to make a second application. This time he addressed himself to a gentleman whose little daughter walked by his side.

"No," said the gentleman; "the carpet-bag is small. I don't need help."

The smallness of the bag, by the way, was one reason why Sam, who did not like heavy bundles, wanted to carry it. He felt that it was time to practise on the stranger's feelings.

"I want to earn some money to buy bread for my mother," he whined, in a very creditable manner, considering how inexperienced he was.

This attracted the attention of the little girl, who, like most little girls, had a tender and compa.s.sionate heart.

"Is your mother poor?" she asked.

"Very poor," said Sam. "She hasn't got a cent to buy bread for the children."

"Have you got many brothers and sisters?" asked the little girl, her voice full of sympathy.

"Five," answered Sam, piteously.

"O papa," said the little girl, "let him take your carpet-bag. Think of it, his mother hasn't got anything to eat."

"Well, Clara," said her father, indulgently, "I suppose I must gratify you. Here, boy, take the bag, and carry it carefully."

"All right, sir," said Sam, cheerfully.

"I guess I can get along," he thought, complacently. "That's a good dodge."

"When we get to Broadway, we'll take the stage," said the gentleman.

"Take hold of my hand, tight, Clara, while we cross the street."

Clara seemed disposed to be sociable, and entered into conversation with the young baggage-smasher.

"Are your brothers and sisters younger than you?" she inquired.

"Yes," said Sam.

"How many of them are boys?"

"There's two boys besides me, and three girls," said Sam, readily.

"What are their names?" asked Clara.

"Why," answered Sam, hesitating a little, "there's Tom and Jim and John, and Sam and Maggie."

"I don't see how that can be," said Clara, puzzled. "Just now; you said there were three girls and only two boys."

"Did I?" said Sam, rather abashed. "I didn't think what I was saying."

"Isn't your father alive?" asked the little girl.

"No; he's dead."

"And do you have to support the family?"

"Yes; except what mother does."

"What does she do?"

"Oh, she goes out washing."

"Poor boy, I suppose you have a hard time."

"Yes," said Sam; "some days we don't get anything to eat."

"O papa, isn't it dreadful?" said Clara, her warm little heart throbbing with sympathy.

Her father was less credulous, and he was struck by Sam's hearty appearance. Certainly he looked very unlike a boy who did not have enough to eat.

"You don't look as if you suffered much from hunger, my boy," said he, with a penetrating look.