Chapter I: Front Matter

Copyright, 1897, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1897. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVIII.--NO. 901. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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CRYING TOMMY.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.

Jenks, the master-at-arms, otherwise known as Jimmylegs, was the best Jimmylegs in the naval service of the United States. His countenance was usually as stolid as a mummy's, and his voice as steady as the Sphinx's might have been. He would have announced "The magazine is on fire, sir," in precisely the same tone as "John Smith has broken his liberty, sir." Therefore when Mr. Belton, First Lieutenant of the training-ship _Spitfire_, in his first interview after coming aboard, detected a rudimentary grin upon Jimmylegs's usually impassive face, he stopped short in the perilous operation of shaving while the ship had a sharp roll on, and asked:

"What is it, master-at-arms? Out with it!"

"Just this, sir," replied old Jenks, crossing his arms and tugging at his left whisker with his right hand. "Along o' that 'prentice boy, Hopkins--the other boys call him Crying Tommy, because he's always blubbering about something or 'nother. That boy'd be worth good money to a undertaker, he's got such a distressful countenance. Well, sir, I brought him down, with a batch o' other boys from the training-station, and he didn't half seem to like going aboard ship. Howsomedever, I never misdoubted as how he'd jump the ship. But after them boys was landed at the dock, I looked around, and there wasn't no Crying Tommy. I brought the rest of 'em along, and reported on board ship, and then I started out on a quiet hunt for that there boy. I didn't have no luck, though; but about dark that evening there come over the for'ard gangway a great strappin' red-headed girl about fifteen, holdin' on to Crying Tommy like grim death, and he scared half out of his wits. She marches him up to me, and she says, 'Here's that dratted boy'--dratted was the very word she used, sir--and she kep' on, 'He won't run away no more, I think--not if my name is Mary Jane Griggs.' And I says to her, bowin' and tryin' to keep from grinnin', for the girl had as honest a face, sir, as I ever clapped eyes on, 'Miss Griggs, may I ask what relation you are to Mr. Hopkins here?' And she snapped out: 'Not a bit; only after his mother died we took him in our house, and he paid his way--when he could. Then one day I read in the paper about naval apprentices, and I said to Tommy, "That's the place for you." So he went and signed the articles. That was six months ago. And this afternoon, when I come home from the box factory where I works, there was this great lummux.' Well! how her eyes did flash! Mr. Belton, I'm afraid o' red-headed women and girls, sir--that I am--and Crying Tommy, I saw, was in mortal fear of Mary Jane Griggs. And she says, 'I marched him straight back; he bellowed like a calf--he's the greatest crier I ever see; but I want you to take him and make him behave himself.' 'I will endeavor to do so, Miss Griggs,' says I, and then she gave her flipper to the boy, and went off home, I suppose, and we sailed that night."

"Well, what sort of a boy is he?" asked the Lieutenant.

Jimmylegs tugged at his whiskers harder than ever.

"Well, sir," he said, presently, "the boy ain't no shirk. He's a foretopman, and the captain of the foretop says he's the smartest boy he's got aloft. But he keeps on crying, and I'm mightily afraid he'll start some of the other boys to crying, and they'll think the ship is a penitentiary. Low spirits is ketchin','specially in the foc's'l', and I wish that blessed brat would stop his bawling. I'd like you to speak to him, sir; you've got such a fine way with boys, sir." Which was true enough.

"Send him here," said the Lieutenant, wiping his face after his shave.

Presently there came a timid knock at the door, and Crying Tommy appeared. He was a sandy-haired boy of sixteen, ill-grown for his age, and of a most doleful countenance.

"Well, my lad," said the Lieutenant, cheerily, "I hear that you are always piping your eye. What's that for?"

Crying Tommy shook his head helplessly, but said nothing.

"Do the men run you?"

"Yes, sir; but--'taint that."

"Do you get enough to eat?"

"Yes, sir--never had such good grub in my life before."

"Then what in the name of sense are you always howling for?"

Crying Tommy looked about him more helplessly than ever, and then burst out suddenly and desperately:

"I don't know, sir, except that I've always had--somebody to look out for me. Mary Jane Griggs done that--she's a corker, sir--and she made me go and be a 'prentice--and I didn't want to; she made me go--that she did, sir!"

"I'm not surprised that Mary Jane wanted to get rid of you if this is the way you acted. Now mind; do you stop this boo-hooing, and do your duty _cheerfully_. Do you understand me? For I hear that you do your duty. And if you don't, why"--here the Lieutenant quickly assumed his "quarter-deck" voice and roared out, "_I'll give you something to cry for!_"

Crying Tommy fled down the gangway. Half an hour afterwards the Lieutenant was on the bridge, the anchor was picked up, the _Spitfire_ was spreading her white wings to the freshening breeze. Mr. Belton, watch in hand, was keenly observing the young bluejackets, and when he saw that all plain sail was made within ten minutes, he put his watch back with a feeling of satisfaction. He had sailor-boys to count on, not farmers and haymakers, aloft. Especially had he noticed one boy, who, laying out with cat-like swiftness on the very end of the topsail-yard, did his work with a quickness and steadiness that many an old man-o'-war's man might have envied. When this smart youngster landed on deck Mr. Belton was surprised to see that it was Crying Tommy, looking, as usual when he was not crying, as if he were just ready to begin.

But Mr. Belton had something else to study besides the boys, and this was the ship. The _Spitfire_ was a fine old-fashioned, tall-masted, big-sparred frigate, which could leg it considerably faster under her great sails than under her small engines. She had the spacious quarters for officers and the roomy airy spaces between decks for the men of the ships of her class, and was altogether a much more comfortable ship for cruising than the modern floating forts that could have blown her out of the water with a single round. Stanch and weatherly, Mr. Belton had but one fault to find with her, and that was her powder-magazine was exactly where it ought not to have been; the breech of one of her guns was directly over the chute by which the ammunition was handed up. Whenever that gun was fired, Mr. Belton would go up to the gun captain and give him a look of warning, and the man would respond to this silent caution by touching his cap. Nevertheless, the Lieutenant said to himself sometimes, "If we finish this cruise without some trouble with the magazine, the _Spitfire_ will deserve her name of a lucky ship."

They had sailed in April, and six very satisfactory weeks had been passed at sea. Homesickness and seasickness had disappeared after the first week, and the whole ship's company from the Captain down--who rejoiced in such a First Lieutenant as Mr. Belton--was happy and satisfied, with the possible exception of Crying Tommy. The master-at-arms never had so little disagreeable work to do, and so he told Mr. Belton one Sunday morning after inspection.

"By-the-way," asked the Lieutenant, "I see that Hopkins boy is doing well. He has never had a report against him. Has he stopped that habit of howling for nothing?"

"Well, sir," replied old Jimmylegs, "he has, partly. The other boys laughed at him, and that done him good. They've caught on to Mary Jane, and they asks him if he has to report to Mary Jane twicet a day when he is ashore, and such like pullin' of his legs as boys delights in. The other day, sir, he got to cryin' about something or 'nother, and they run him too hard. I saw 'em and heard 'em, but they didn't know it. Fust thing Crying Tommy lights out from the shoulder, and laid the biggest of 'em sprawlin', and they shoved off pretty quick, sir. I didn't think as 'twas my duty to report him for fightin', and I 'ain't never had occasion to report him for nothin' else. A better boy nor a smarter at his duty I 'ain't never seen, sir."

One lovely May morning a few days after this found the _Spitfire_ off the glorious bay of Naples. The sun shone from a sapphire sky upon a sapphire sea, while in the distance rose the darker blue cone of Vesuvius, crowned with fire and flame. Across the rippling water swept innumerable sail-boats, while tall-masted merchantmen and steamships with inky smoke pouring out of their black funnels ploughed their way in and out the harbor. Near a huge government mole half a dozen majestic war-ships, strung out in a semicircle, rode at anchor. A great British battle-ship, all black and yellow, towered over the smart little cruiser near by, which also flew a British ensign from her peak. Not far away lay a French ship with remarkably handsome masts and spars and a wicked-looking ram as sharp as a knife, that could cut an armored ship in half like a cheese if ever she got the chance. Farther off still lay three Italian men-of-war, from one of which flew the blue flag of an Admiral. The Captain of the _Spitfire_ was with Mr. Belton on the bridge as they came in, with a fair wind, and a mountain of canvas piled on the ship. The Captain, knowing that no man could handle a sailing-ship more beautifully than his First Lieutenant, was quite willing that he should show his expertness before the thousands of sailors watching the _Spitfire_. On she rushed, the water bellowing against her sides as her keen bows cut her way through the blue waves. Mr. Belton, with a seaman's eye, selected an admirable anchorage, and just as the on-lookers were wondering where the _Spitfire_ meant to bring up, she made a beautiful flying move. Her yards were squared like magic, and her sails furled with almost incredible swiftness. With a gleam like lightning and a rattle like thunder her cable rushed out of the hawse-hole, and scarcely had the splash of her anchor resounded when the Italian colors were broken at the mast-head and the first gun of the salute boomed over the bright water.

"Well done, _Spitfire_!" cried the Captain; and well done it was.

Twenty guns roared out, with scarcely a second's difference in their steady boom!--boom!--boom!--and then there was a sudden break before the twenty-first gun was fired. Mr. Belton turned, and his eye instinctively flashed upon the starboard gun over the magazine. Yes, there it was--that accident he had been looking for ever since he set foot on the ship. The shreds of a blazing cartridge-bag dropped under the breech, and a faint puff of wind blew them over the edge of the open chute, and down they went into the powder-magazine.

The Lieutenant hardly knew how he reached the deck and sped along it, but in a moment he had leaped down the ladder toward the open door of the magazine, where an ominous crackling was heard. And instead of half a dozen men at work flooding the magazine, there were half a dozen pale, wild-eyed, and panic-stricken creatures, as the bravest will be sometimes, crowding out into the passage, and quite dazed with fear.

"Return to your duty!" shouted Mr. Belton, feeling for his pistol, and not finding it, seizing a bucket of water that was handy and dashing it in the men's faces. The shock brought them to their senses; they stopped in their mad flight and turned toward the magazine. Mr. Belton rushed like a catapult among them, wedged together in the narrow passage, and right behind was old Jimmylegs with a bucket of water. They could see a boyish figure on hands and knees in the magazine with a wet swab, crawling about and putting out the sparks that flashed from all over the floor. The next moment the whole floor was awash; the danger was over, and Mr. Belton and the master-at-arms had time to observe that the boy who had stood to his post when men fled was Crying Tommy, and he was crying vigorously. When he saw that the fire was out, he sat down on the wet floor and began to howl louder than ever. Old Jimmylegs seized him by the shoulder, and giving him a shake that made his teeth rattle in his head, bawled,

"Choke a luff, and tell the orficer about the fire!"

Crying Tommy was so scared at this that he actually stopped weeping, and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.

"I see the loose powder on the floor burning, and the men saw it, and then one of em called out, 'Oh Lord! we're dead men!' and they all ran away." Here Crying Tommy piped up again.

"And you didn't run away. Go on," said Mr. Belton.

"And I reached out for the swab and the water-bucket, and I swabbed the floor the best I could."

"A-cryin' all the time, no doubt," put in old Jimmylegs.

"I couldn't help it, sir," whimpered Crying Tommy.

"Well," said Mr. Belton, "you had something to cry for this time. Now get out of here. You've saved the ship."

Not long after this, one Sunday morning, the boatswain was directed to pipe all hands up and aft. And when all the officers and men were assembled, the Captain read out the appointment of Thomas Hopkins, apprentice boy, as acting gunner's mate for his gallantry in putting out the fire in the magazine on that May morning. Then Mr. Belton handed Tommy a handsome watch as a gift from the officers, at which the men cheered, and Tommy bowed and bowed again, and presently put up his ever-ready jacket sleeve to his eye; and the officers roared with laughing and the men grinned, and Tommy went below, weeping but very happy.

One day, some years after this, Mr. Belton and old Jimmylegs, who were then on different ships, met at the navy-yard gate, and, being old shipmates, they exchanged very warm greetings. Presently there passed them a smart-looking young gunner, and holding his arm was a tall fine-looking young woman in a red gown, with a red feather in her hat, red cheeks, and a brilliant red head, and she looked very proud and smiling. Her companion, on the contrary, seemed overcome with bashfulness on seeing the Lieutenant and the old master-at-arms, and hurriedly saluting, made off in the opposite direction, looking uncommonly sheepish.

"That, sir," said Jimmylegs, with a sly grin, "is Gunner Hopkins, and that is Mrs. Hopkins. They're just married. He used to be called Crying Tommy, and she was Mary Jane Griggs, sir."

"I remember," answered the Lieutenant, smiling.

A BOY'S APPEAL.

I wonder if grown people who have all their growing done
Remember, as they sit at ease, that growing isn't fun.
One's legs and arms have separate aches, one's head feels half asleep,
But every day, let come what may, at school one has to keep.

And there the teachers never say, "Just study as you please,"
When shooting pains are flying round about a fellow's knees.
Reports say, "Tommy's progress is not what is desired,"
And fathers call you lazy when you're only deadly tired.

You have to learn the things you hate; it almost makes you sick,
There's such a lot of grammar, there's so much arithmetic,
The maps and boundaries to draw, the text to get by heart,
And all the while those growing pains to pull your joints apart!

Now skating, and snowballing, and managing a wheel,
Are very, very different things; though tired you may feel,
You manage not to mind it; the time goes rushing so
That you are interested and forget you have to grow.

Dear mothers and grandmothers, they seem to understand;
All boys should always meet them, bowing deeply, cap in hand,
For _they_ have sense, and don't expect what fellows cannot do,
Though other people laugh and say, it's all the point of view.

But, oh! if grown-up gentlemen with growing safely done,
Would just remember now and then that growing isn't fun,
Perhaps they'd make it easier for boys who'd like to be
A trifle brighter, if they could, but are growing just like me.

TOMMY TRADDLES.

GOLF ON SHIPBOARD.

Marine golf is the very latest aberration of golfing genius, and though the new game is but a distant relative of the "Royal and Ancient," its novelty may commend it to those who want amusement on long sea-voyages, and who have wearied of "shuffleboard" and "deck quoits."

It is evident that a ball is out of the question, and in its place is employed a disk of wood about four and a half inches in diameter. A rather heavy walking-stick, with a right-angled, flat-crooked head, is the "club," and serves every purpose from driving to holing out. The holes are circles about six inches in diameter chalked upon the deck, and the links are only bounded by the available deck space, the good nature of the Captain, and the rights of the non-golfing passengers.

Hatches, companionways, and the deck furniture in general serve as bunkers, and the ship's roll is an omnipresent and all-pervading hazard.

As the disk is propelled over the deck and not sent into the air, hitting is useless, and the proper stroke is something between a push and a drag, with the club laid close behind the disk. The player, in driving, stands with both feet slightly in advance of the disk, the shuffleboard push from behind being barred. As the club is virtually in contact with the disk, or "puck," keeping one's "e'e on the ba'" is not necessary--in fact, the best results will be obtained by aiming as in billiards and kindred games. A good drive will propel the disk for forty yards along the deck--that is, if the wind does not interfere by getting under the disk and sending it wildly gyrating into the scuppers. The carrom is permissible, and furnishes occasion for scientific play, but the great sport of the game lies in the skilful utilization of the pitching and rolling of the ship. The disk takes a bias from the angle of the deck, and some impossible shots may be triumphantly brought off--round the corner, for instance. Even in putting, marine golf may lay just claim to the variety which is the spice of (sporting) life. On a gray day the boards will be half as slow again as when the sun is shining, while with any spray coming aboard it is impossible to tell whether the disk will drag or slide.

BOYS IN WALL STREET.

BY COL. THOMAS W. KNOX,

AUTHOR OF THE "BOY TRAVELLERS" SERIES.

The visitor to Wall Street in business hours will see many active, bright, pleasant-looking boys moving more or less rapidly in all directions, and evidently absorbed in work. Some are in blue or gray uniforms, but the majority are in plain clothes, and almost invariably neatly dressed. The uniformed are employed by telegraph and messenger companies, the others by bankers, brokers, and other men of affairs.

Their chances of rising are about as many as boys ever have--the really able, honest, and pushing boys go up as they grow older. As a dignified-looking gentleman passes along the sidewalk we are told: "That is the president of the ---- Bank. He knows Wall Street and all its ins and outs. Been here all his life. Began as an office-boy in a brokerage house; became partner; got elected a member of the Stock Exchange; now he is near the top of the heap. I could name several bank presidents who began as brokers' boys at two or three dollars a week."

Our informant went on, "Yes, and there are lots of cashiers of banks and other banking officials who began life in the same way. The partners in a great many banking and brokerage firms began as Wall Street boys."

Boys have begun in Wall Street at one dollar a week. Employers can generally tell in a week or two whether the boy is likely to "amount to anything." If the boy is faithful and energetic his wages are advanced so that he gets three dollars a week in two or three months from the start. Boys usually get not far from one hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars for the first year, and from three hundred upwards the second year. A prominent banker of New York once told me:

"My father died when I was sixteen years old, and that threw my mother and myself on our own resources. We had so little money or property that it was necessary for me to leave school and go to work. As the late Thurlow Weed had been a warm friend of my father, I came to New York to ask for his influence in getting a clerkship in the Custom-house, or something of the sort. I knew Mr. Weed as a boy of my age would know a man of his, and he greeted me cordially. When I had told him my story he said:

"'Now, Charley, find a cheap boarding-place and send your address to me. Don't come to me again, but as soon as I have anything for you I will write to you. Meantime look around and see what you can find for yourself.'

"I did as he told me, and a week went by without my hearing from him. One day I found a place in a broker's office where they would pay me two hundred dollars a year, and that very day I received a letter from Mr. Weed saying he had a place for me in the Custom-house at seven hundred dollars a year. I went to him, thanked him for his kindness, and declined his offer, telling him I preferred the broker's office, although the salary was much smaller. He patted me on the shoulder and said,

"'Charley, you have decided rightly, and you'll never regret it.'

"And I never have. I think it was pretty smart for a boy of sixteen."

Many Wall Street boys lose their places by loitering on errands. Employers know perfectly well how long it takes on the average to reach a certain point, transact the necessary business, and return. There _are_ delays now and then, but if a boy returns late to the office several times in a day with excuses for delay his employers understand the situation perfectly, and he is soon "bounced."

A Wall Street boy is expected to be at the office at nine o'clock in the morning, and remain there as long as his services are needed, though he usually gets away about four o'clock. He has an allowance of half an hour at noon for luncheon, but the rest of the time belongs to his employer. He is expected to be neat in appearance, clean as to hands and face, well mannered, truthful at all times, prompt in obedience, and faithful in guarding the secrets of his employers.

The duties first assigned to him are to carry messages, deliver stocks at other brokerage offices, and obtain checks for them. After a while he is advanced to making comparisons of sales of stocks and taking the checks received from other brokers to be certified at the banks.

Of late years the Stock Exchange Clearing-house has done away with so much of the stock delivery by boys that the number of them on the Street is not more than half what it used to be. Formerly it was not uncommon to see from twenty-five to one hundred boys waiting in line at each of the prominent banks to get checks certified, and nearly every bank employed a private policeman to keep the boys in line and in order.

A story is told of a new boy on the Street who once went to make a delivery of stock. When the bookkeeper made up the accounts at the close of the day he found himself eighty thousand dollars short, and an examination of the books showed that one of the boys had failed to bring back a check in return for some stock he had delivered.

He was perfectly innocent about the matter, and said that he had handed the papers in at the office where he was sent to make the delivery, and as they gave him nothing he supposed there was nothing for him to get. His employer treated him kindly, and told him to be careful not to make the same mistake again. He never did. That boy is now at the head of one of the largest brokerage houses on Broad Street.

As the Wall Street boy advances in proficiency he is put upon the purchase and sale books. Then he takes charge of the comparison tickets, and then of the stock ledgers. Then he becomes a bookkeeper or cashier, and if he shows himself valuable enough he receives a junior partnership, and later on rises to a higher one.

It is proper to say, however, that only a small proportion of the boys who begin life in Wall Street work their way upward to positions of consequence. Fully fifty per cent. of them go wrong, or, at all events, leave the Street, and are not heard of afterward. Not less than half of the others remain in subordinate places. Either they lack the intelligence, energy, and fidelity necessary to secure advancement, or they have vicious tendencies which lead them into trouble.

There is a class of speculating establishments in the neighborhood of Wall Street which are known among the brokers as "bucket-shops," where any one can go and risk one dollar, or as much more as he likes in speculation in stocks. Suppose he has but one dollar; he places it upon a certain stock, and watches the indicator till it goes up or down. If it rises a point, he makes a dollar, but if it goes down he loses, and the dollar he risked is wiped out.

Men with very limited capital are the chief patrons of these bucket-shops, but a good many of the boys slip around to them, and risk anywhere from one dollar to five dollars in speculation. Sooner or later they come to grief. A knowledge of their conduct reaches the ears of their employers, they lose their situations, and have great difficulty in getting others.

Boys are taken into brokerage offices only upon good recommendations, and it is almost invariably required that a boy shall live with his parents and not by himself. Employers well know that a boy not living at home is far more likely to fall into evil ways than one who has a home and is under the eyes of father and mother.

In addition to their regular wages the boys in Wall Street offices receive presents in money at Christmas-time, the amount depending partly upon the good conduct of the boy himself, and partly on the condition of business in the year just closing. If times have been hard, speculation light, and incomes small, the broker's gratuities to his employees are much smaller than if the reverse is the case. In the one instance, he feels poor and forced to economize; in the other, he feels prosperous and is liberal.

There are other kinds of boys on Wall Street than the ones just described. In the Stock Exchange about one hundred and fifty boys are employed as pages to run with messages for members in the Board Room, not outside. They receive from three to five dollars a week, with a gratuity at Christmas.

There is no prospect of these pages rising to higher positions while in the employ of the Exchange, and when they grow too large for employment there they drift away to other places. Many are the applicants for these positions, and in order to secure one there a boy must be well recommended. The pages wear gray uniforms with brass buttons, and are generally bright little fellows who soon learn to know every member of the Stock Exchange by name.

Perhaps two hundred members of the Stock Exchange have private telephones in the building, and there is a squad of some fifty or more boys in blue uniforms who look after these telephones. The Stock Exchange has its own messenger service, each boy wearing a gray uniform with a military cap. The duties of these messengers is to run from the Exchange to the offices of the members.

All these boys are remembered at Christmas-time. The members of the Exchange subscribe from five to twenty-five dollars each to make up the gratuity fund, which is divided among the boys according to their time of service. Those who have been there two or three years obtain quite a handsome little present during the holiday season.

Then there are boys connected with the American District Messenger service; there are Western Union Telegraph boys; Cable Telegraph boys; boys in the offices of lawyers, corporations, and the like. But the principal and most important boy of all is the one who starts in an office at a small salary, determined to win his way to fame and fortune, and possessing the ability and intelligence to do so.

THE MIDDLETON BOWL.[1]

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 898.

BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.