The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Runaway, by Unknown This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Runaway The Adventures of Rodney Roverton Author: Unknown Release Date: May 25, 2007 [EBook #21611] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RUNAWAY *** Produced by David Edwards, Suzan Flanagan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The University of Florida, The Internet Archive/Children's Library) pp. 29 pp. 29 THE RUNAWAY; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF RODNEY ROVERTON. "He cast his bundle on his back, and went, He knew not whither, nor for what intent; So stole our vagrant from his warm retreat, To rove a prowler, and be deemed a cheat." Crabbe. APPROVED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION. BOSTON: NEW ENGLAND SABBATH SCHOOL UNION. W. HEATH, 79 CORNHILL. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by William Heath, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Stereotyped by HOBART & ROBBINS, Boston. INTRODUCTION. A truthful narrative, not a tale of fiction, is presented in the following chapters to our readers. All that the imagination has contributed to it has been the names of the actors,—true names having been withheld, lest, perhaps, friends might be grieved,—the filling up of the dialogues, in which, while thoughts and sentiments have been remembered, the verbiage that clothed them has been forgotten, and, in a few instances, the grouping together of incidents that actually occurred at wider intervals than here represented, for the sake of the unity of the story. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. RODNEY UNHAPPY IN A GOOD HOME CHAPTER II. PAGE 7 I REVOLVING AND RESOLVING CHAPTER III. RODNEY IN NEW YORK CHAPTER IV. RODNEY FINDS A PATRON CHAPTER V. RODNEY IN PHILADELPHIA CHAPTER VI. THE PUNISHMENT BEGINS CHAPTER VII. THE WATCH-HOUSE CHAPTER VIII. RODNEY IN JAIL CHAPTER IX. THE DUNGEON CHAPTER X. THE HOSPITAL CHAPTER XI. THE TRIAL CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION THE RUNAWAY. CHAPTER I. RODNEY UNHAPPY IN A GOOD HOME. T was a lovely Sabbath morning in May, 1828, when two lads, the elder of whom was about sixteen years old, and the younger about fourteen, were wandering along the banks of a beautiful brook, called the Buttermilk Creek, in the immediate vicinity of the city of Albany, N. Y. Though there is no poetry in the name of this little stream, there is sweet music made by its rippling waters, as they rush rapidly along the shallow channel, fretting at the rocks that obstruct its course, and racing toward a precipice, down which it plunges, some thirty or forty feet, forming a light, feathery cascade; and then, as if exhausted by the leap, creeping sluggishly its little distance toward the broad Hudson. The white spray, churned out by the friction against the air, and flung perpetually upwards, suggested to 18 26 33 44 53 60 73 88 99 118 128 our sires a name for this miniature Niagara; and, without any regard for romance or euphony, they called it Buttermilk Falls. It was a charming spot, notwithstanding its homely name, before the speculative spirit of progress—stern foe of Nature's beauties—had pushed the borders of the city close upon the tiny cataract, hewed down the pines upon its banks, and opened quarries among its rocks. It was before this change had passed over the original wilderness, that the lads whom we have mentioned were strolling, in holy time, upon the banks of the little stream, above the falls. "Rodney," said the elder of the boys, "suppose your mother finds out that you have run away from Sunday-school, this morning; what will she say to you?" "Why, she will be very likely to punish me," said Rodney; "but you know I am used to it; and, though decidedly unpleasant, it does not grate on my nerves as it did a year or two ago. Van Dyke, my teacher, says I am hardened. But I would rather have a stroll here, and a flogging after it, than be shut up in school and church all day to escape it. I wish, Will, that mother was like your grandfather, and would let me do as I please on Sunday." "Now that I am an apprentice," replied Will Manton, "and shut up in the shop all the week, it would be rather hard to prevent my having a little sport on Sunday. I think it is necessary to swallow a little fresh air on Sunday, to blow the sawdust out of my throat; and to have a game of ball occasionally, to keep my joints limber, for they get stiff leaning over the work-bench, shoving the jack-plane, and chiseling out mortices all the week." "Well, Will, I, too, get very sick of work," replied the younger boy. "I do not think I ever shall like it. When I am roused up early in the morning, and go into the shop, and look at the tools, and think that, all day long, I must stand and pull leather strands, while other boys can go free, and take their sport, and swim, or fish, or hunt, or play, just as they please, it makes me feel like running away. Now, here am I, a little more than fourteen years old; and must I spend seven years in a dirty shop, with the prospect of hard work all my life? It makes my heart sick to think of it." The boys threw themselves upon the ground, under the shade of a large pine, and, reclining against its trunk, remained some minutes without uttering a word. At length, William Manton, whose thoughts had evidently been running in the channel opened by the last remarks of Rodney, said, "I have often thought of it." "Thought of what, Will?" "Of running away." "Where could you go? What could you do? How could you live?" were the quick, eager inquiries of Rodney. "Three questions at once is worse than the catechism," was the laughing response; "but, though I never learned the answers out of a book, yet I have them by heart. I will tell you what I have thought about the matter. You know Captain Ryan?—he was in our shop last week, and was telling how he came to be a sailor. He said that his uncle, with whom he lived when he was a boy, promised him a beating, one day, for some mischief he had done; and, as he had often felt before that his lashes were not light, he ran off, went on board a ship as a cabin-boy, learned to handle sails and ropes, and, after five or six voyages, was made mate of a ship; and now he is a captain. I have been thinking about it ever since. Now, if I could get a place in a ship, I would go in a minute. I am sure travelling over the world must be pleasanter than spending a life in one place; and pulling a rope is easier work than pushing a plane." Rodney sprang up from his reclining posture, looked straight in his companion's face for a moment, and exclaimed, "That would be glorious! How I should like to go to London, to Canton, to Holland, where the old folks came from,— to travel all over the world! But,"—and he leaned back against the tree again as he spoke,—"but it is of no use to think about it; mother would not consent, and nobody would help me; no ship would take me. I suppose I must pull away at the leather all my life." He spoke bitterly, and leaned his face upon his hands; and, between his fingers, the tears were seen slowly trickling. In truth, he had no taste or inclination for the trade to which he was forced. If the bias of his own mind had been consulted, he might have been contented in some employment adapted to his nature. "Bah, Rodney, don't be a baby!" was the jeering expostulation of Will Manton, when he saw the tears; "crying never got a fellow out of a scrape. I believe it is easy enough done. If we could only get off to New York, they say that boys are so much wanted on ships, that the captains take them without asking many questions." "Do you think so?" "Don't you think it is worth a trial?" "But I should have to leave my mother, and grandmother, and sister, and all." "Of course; you would not want to take them with you, would you?" "But I could not tell them I was going. I should have to steal away without their knowledge." "You could write to them when you started." "I might never see them again." C "You are as likely to live and come back as Captain Ryan was." "But they would feel so much hurt, if I should run away." Will Manton curled his lip into a sneer, and said, scornfully, "Why, Rodney, I didn't think you was so much of a baby. You are a more faint-hearted chicken than I thought you." "Well, Will, the thought of it frightens me. I have a good mother and a good grandmother; and, though they make me learn a trade I hate, yet I do not think I should dare to run away." "Well, you poor mouse-heart, stay at home, then, and tie yourself to your mamma's apron-strings!" was the reply. "Do as you please; but, I tell you,—and I trust the secret to you, and hope you won't blow it,—I have made up my mind to go to sea." "Will you run away?" "Indeed I will." "When?" "Why should I tell you, if you will not go with me?" "Well, I want to be off with you, but how can I?" "Easy enough. But I will see you to-morrow night, and we will talk it over. It is time to go home." "I must see Dick Vanderpool, and find out where the text was, so that I can tell the old folks." CHAPTER II. REVOLVING AND RESOLVING. ONVERSATIONS similar to those recorded in the last chapter, were frequently held between the two lads, during the next month. Will Manton's determination was fixed, and he was making secret preparations to start upon his wild journey. Rodney, though equally desirous to escape the restraints of home, could not yet make up his mind to risk the adventure. He regarded his comrade as a sort of young hero; and he wished he had the courage to be like him. One Monday morning, in June, as he was returning from his work, he saw Will Manton's old grandfather standing before the door, looking up and down the street; and he noticed that he seemed very uneasy, and much distressed. When he came opposite the house, on the other side of the street, the old gentleman called him over, and asked him, "Rodney, do you know where Will is?" The boy's heart beat wildly, and his cheek turned pale; for he at once surmised that his comrade had carried out his purpose. He stammered out, in reply, "I have not seen him since last Friday night." "It is very strange," said the old man. "He has not been at home since last Sunday, at dinner-time. What has become of him?" Will Manton was gone! To the anxious inquiries that were made, his friends discovered that he had left Albany in the evening boat, on Tuesday, for New York. Though a messenger was immediately sent after him, no trace of him could be discovered. A few months after, they received a letter from him, written from Liverpool, where he had gone in a merchant-ship, as a cabin- boy. His friends were very much grieved and distressed, but hoped that he would soon grow weary of a hard and roving life, and return to his home. There was a romantic interest in all this for young Rodney. In his imagination, Will Manton was a hero. He was scarcely ever out of his thoughts. He would follow him in fancy, bounding over the broad sea, with all the sails of the majestic ship swelling in the favoring breeze, now touching at some island, and looking at the strange dresses and customs of a barbarous people; now meeting a homeward-bound vessel, and exchanging joyful greetings; and now lying to in a calm, and spearing dolphins and harpooning whales. When the storm raged, he almost trembled lest he might be wrecked; but, when it was over, he fancied the noble ship, having weathered the storm, stemming safely the high waves, and careering gracefully on her course. Or, if he was wrecked, he imagined that he must be cast upon some shore where the hospitable inhabitants hurried down to the beach to the relief of the crew, bore them safely through the breakers, and pressed upon them the comforts of their homes. His wild imagination followed him to other lands, and roved with him along the streets of European cities, among the ruins of Grecian temples, over the gardens of Spain and the vineyards of Italy, through the pagodas of India, and the narrow streets of Calcutta and Canton. O "O," thought he, "how delightful must be such a life! How pleasant to be roaming amid scenes that are always new! And how wretched to be tied to such a life as I lead, following the same weary round of miserable drudgery every day!" But it was Rodney's own fancy that painted this enjoyment of a sailor-boy's life. Will Manton did not find it so pleasant in reality. There was more menial drudgery to the poor cabin-boy on ship-board, than he had ever known in the carpenter's shop. He was sworn at, and thumped, and kicked, and driven from one thing to another, by the captain, and mates, and steward, and crew, all day long. And many a night, when, weary and sore, he crept to his hard, narrow bunk, he lay and cried himself to sleep, thinking of his kind and pleasant home. When Fancy pictures before the restless mind distant and unknown scenes, she divests them of all the rough realities which a nearer view and a tried experience find in them. The mountain-side looks smooth and pleasant from a distance, but we find it rugged and wearisome when we attempt to climb it. One idea had now gained almost sole possession of poor Rodney's mind. He must go to sea! He thought of it all day, and dreamed of it at night. He did not dare to speak about it to his mother, for he knew that she would refuse her consent. He must run away! He formed a hundred different plans, and was forced to abandon them. Now Will Manton was gone, there was no one with whom he could consult. He was afraid to speak of it, lest it should reach the ears of his mother. Alone he nursed his resolution, and formed his plans. He was very unhappy, because he knew that he was purposing wrong. He could not be contented with his employment, and he knew how it would grieve the hearts of those who loved him, if he should persist in his design. Yet, when he pictured to himself the freedom from restraint, the pleasure of roaming from place to place over the world, and the thousand exciting scenes and adventures which he should meet by becoming a sailor, he determined, at all hazards, to make the attempt. Unhappy boy! He was sowing, for his own reaping, the seeds of a bitter harvest of wretchedness and remorse. CHAPTER III. RODNEY IN NEW YORK. N a beautiful Sabbath morning in July, Rodney stood in the hall of the old Dutch house in which successive generations of the family had been born, and paused to look the last farewell, he dare not speak, upon those who loved him, and whom, notwithstanding his waywardness, he also loved. There sat his pious and venerable grandmother, with the little round stand before her, upon which lay the old family Bible, over which she was intently bending, reading and commenting to herself, as was her custom, in half-audible tones. He had often stood behind her, and listened, unobserved, as she read verse after verse, and paused after each, to testify of its truth, or piously apply it to herself and others. And now he thought that, in all probability, he would never see her again, and he half repented his determination. But his preparations were all made, and he could not now hesitate, lest his purpose should be discovered. He looked at his mother, as she was arranging the dress of a younger and only brother, for the Sabbath-school. As she leaned over him, and smoothed down the collar she had just fastened round his neck, Rodney, with heart and eye, bade farewell to both. He stood and gazed for a moment upon his only sister, who sat with her baby in her arms, answering the little laughing prattler in a language that sounded like its own, and which certainly none but the two could understand. Some might doubt whether they understood it themselves; but they both seemed highly interested and delighted by the conversation. That dear sister, amiable and loving, is long since dead. She greeted death with a cheerful welcome, for the messenger released her from a life of domestic unhappiness, and introduced her into that blessed heaven "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." And that prattling infant has become, in his turn, a runaway sailor-boy, flying from an unhappy home to a more wretched destiny, of whose wanderings or existence nothing has been heard for many years. It was one hasty, intense glance which Rodney cast over these groups, and each beloved figure, as it then appeared, was fixed in his memory forever. He has never forgotten—he never can forget—that moment, or the emotions that thrilled his heart as he turned away from them. He had hidden a little trunk, containing his clothing, in the stable, and thither he hastened; and, throwing his trunk upon his shoulder, he stole out of the back gate, and took his course through bye streets to the dock, where he went on board a steamboat, and in half an hour was sailing down the Hudson towards New York. He had no money with which to pay his passage. He had left home without a single sixpence. When the captain came to collect the passengers' fare, he told him a wicked, premeditated lie. He said that, in taking his handkerchief from his L pocket, he had accidentally drawn out his pocket-book with it, and that it had fallen overboard. Thus one sin prepares the way to the commission of another. He offered to leave his trunk in pledge for the payment of the passage; and the captain, after finding it full of clothing, ordered it to be locked up until the money was paid. Rodney expected to be able to get a situation in some ship immediately, and to receive a part of his wages in advance, with which he could redeem his clothing. He slept on board the steamboat, and on Monday morning started in search of a ship that would take him. He wandered along the wharves, and at first was afraid to speak to any one, lest he should be questioned and sent home. At last he made up his mind to ask a sailor, whom he saw sauntering on the dock, if he knew where he could get a place on board a ship. The sailor looked at him a moment, turned his huge tobacco quid over in his mouth, hitched up his trowsers, and said: "Why, you young runaway, do you want to go to sea? What can such a chap as you do on a ship? Go home, and stick by your mammy for five years more, and then you'll have no trouble in shipping." Rodney was a good deal frightened at such a reply, and walked on for some time, not venturing to ask again. Toward noon he went on board a large vessel, and seeing a man, whom he took for the captain of the ship, asked him if he could give him a place. "No, my boy," he replied; "we don't sail for three weeks, and we never ship a crew before the time." All day he wandered about the wharves, and to all his questions received repelling replies, mingled oftentimes with oaths, jeers, and insults. No one seemed to feel the least interest for him. CHAPTER IV. RODNEY FINDS A PATRON. ATE in the afternoon Rodney strolled up the East River wharves. He was hungry, for he had eaten nothing all day. He was very sad, and sat down on a cotton bale, and cried. In what a position had a single day placed him! He had no place where he could lay his head for the night, no bread to eat, and he knew nobody whom he dared to ask for a meal; and so, with a sorrowful heart, he sat down and wept. He buried his face in his hands, and for a long time sat there motionless. He did not know that a man was standing before him, watching him, until he was startled by a voice: "Why, my boy, what is the matter with you?" He looked up, and saw a tall man in a sailor's dress standing near him. "I want to get a place on a ship, sir, to go to sea," replied Rodney; "I can't find any place, and I have no money and no friends here." The man sat down beside him, and asked him, "Where are your friends?" "In Albany, sir." "What did you leave them for?" "Because I wanted to go to sea." They talked some time together, and Rodney told him truly all about himself and his friends. The man seemed to pity him, and told him that he was a sailor, and had lately been discharged from a United States vessel, where he had served as a marine,—that he had spent almost all his money, and was looking for another ship. He told Rodney to go with him, and he would try what could be done for him. They went into a sailors' boarding-house, and got something to eat. Then the man,—who said his name was Bill Seegor, and that he must call him Bill, and not Mister, nor sir,—took him with himself into a ball-room. Here he saw a great many sailors and bad women, who danced together, and laughed, and shouted, and cursed, and drank, until long past midnight. Rodney had never witnessed such a scene. He had never heard such filthy and blasphemous language, nor seen such indecent behavior. "Come, my lad," said a bluff sailor to him; "if you mean to be a man, you must learn to toss off your glass. Your white face don't look as if you ever tasted anything stronger than tea. Here is a glass of grog,—down with it!" And Rodney, who wanted to be a man, drank it with a swaggering air, though it scorched his throat; and then another, until he became very sick;—and the last he remembered was, that the sailors and the women all seemed to be swearing and fighting together. The next morning he was awaked by Bill Seegor, and found himself in a garret, on a miserable bed, with all his clothes on. How he had ever got there he could not tell. His head ached, and his limbs were stiff and pained him when he moved. His throat was parched and burning, and he felt so wretchedly, that, if he had dared, he would have begged permission to stay there on the bed. But Bill told him that it was time to start and look up a ship, for he had only money enough to last another day. After breakfast they started, and inquired at every place which Bill knew, but without success; no men or boys were wanted. In the afternoon, Rodney was terribly frightened at seeing his brother-in-law walking along the wharves. He knew in a moment that he had come to New York to search for him; and he darted round a corner into an alley, and hid himself behind some barrels, till he had passed by. He afterwards learned that his brother-in-law had been looking for him all day, and that he had found and taken his trunk, and had been several times at places which he had just left. O! if he had then abandoned his foolish and wicked course, and gone home with his brother, how much misery he would have escaped! But he contrived to keep out of his way. That evening Bill said to him, as they were eating their supper in a cellar— "Rodney, to-morrow morning we must start for Philadelphia." "But how shall we get there?" "We shall have to tramp it." "How far is it?" "About a hundred miles." "How long will it take?" "Four or five days." "But how shall we get anything to eat, or any place to sleep on the road?" "Tell a good story to the farmers, and sleep on the hay-mows." Rodney began to find out that "the way of the transgressor is hard." That night they went to the theatre. Bill had given Rodney a dirk, which he carried in his bosom. They went up into the third tier of boxes, which was filled with the most wicked and debased men and women. While the rest were laughing, and talking, and cursing, Rodney sat down on the front seat to see the play; but they made so much confusion behind him that he could not hear, so he turned round, and said, rather angrily: "I wish you wouldn't make so much noise." "Who are you talking to?" shouted a rough, bully-looking man behind him, with a terrible oath; "I'll pitch you into the pit, if you open your head again." He rushed towards him, but, quick as thought, Rodney snatched the dirk from his breast, drew his arm back over his head, and told the bully to keep off. The man stopped, and in an instant the whole theatre was in confusion. The play on the stage ceased; and there, in full view, leaning over the front of the box, stood the boy, with the weapon in his hand, gleaming in the eyes of the whole audience. Bill Seegor rushed to him, pulled him back toward the lobby, and took the dagger from his hand. The bully then aimed a tremendous blow at the boy's face, which fortunately was warded off by one of the women. Just then a police-officer came up, and, taking Rodney by the collar, led him down stairs. Half a dozen men, who were Bill's friends, followed; and when they got into the street, they dashed against the officer, and broke his hold, when Bill caught Rodney by the arm and told him to run. They turned quickly through several streets, and escaped pursuit. Do you think that Rodney was happy amid such scenes? Ah! no; he was alarmed at himself. He felt degraded and guilty; he felt that he was taking sudden and rapid strides in the path of debasement and vice. He thought of his home and its sweet influences. He knew how deep would be the grief of those who loved him, should they hear of his course. His conscience condemned him, and he thought of what he was becoming with horror. But he seemed to be drawn on by his wild desires, and felt scarcely a disposition to escape the meshes of the net that was winding around him. The sailors praised him, and patted him on the back; told him that he was a brave fellow,—that he was beginning right, and that there was good stuff in him. And Rodney laughed, tickled by such praises, and drank what they offered, and tried to stifle his conscience and harden himself in sin. Yet often, when he was alone, did he shrink from himself, and writhe under the lashings of conscience; and the remembrance of home, and thoughts of his conduct, rendered him very wretched. CHAPTER V. Y RODNEY IN PHILADELPHIA. OUNG Rodney was prepared for an early start on the following morning; and, in company with Bill Seegor, he crossed the ferry to Jersey City just as the sun rose, and together they commenced their journey to Philadelphia. They were soon beyond the pavements of the town, and in the open country. It was a lovely morning, and the bright summer developed its beauties, and dispensed its fragrance along their path. The birds sang sweetly, and darted on swift wing around them. The cattle roamed lazily over the fields, and the busy farmers were everywhere industriously toiling. All nature seemed joyously reflecting the serene smile of a benevolent God. Even the wicked hearts of the wanderers seemed lightened by the influence of the glorious morning, and cheerily, with many a jocund song and homely jest, they pressed on their way. Even guilt can sometimes forget its baseness, and enjoy the bounties of the kind Creator, for which it expresses no thankfulness and feels no gratitude. At noon they stopped at a farmer's house, and Bill told the honest old man that they belonged to a ship which had sailed round to Philadelphia; that it had left New York unexpectedly, without their knowledge, and taken their chests and clothes which had been placed on board; and that, being without money, they were compelled to walk across to Philadelphia to meet it. The farmer believed the falsehood, and charitably gave them a good dinner. They walked on till after sunset, and then crossed over a field, and climbed up into a rack filled with hay, where they slept all night. In the morning they started forward very hungry, for they had eaten nothing, since the noon before, except a few green apples. They stopped at the first farm-house on the road, and, by telling the same falsehood that had procured them a meal the day before, excited the pity of the farmer and obtained a good breakfast. Thus did they go on, lying and begging their way along. On the third day there were heavy showers, accompanied by fierce lightnings and crashing thunders. They were as thoroughly soaked as if they had been thrown into the river, and at night had to sleep on a haystack, in the open field, in their wet clothes. Rodney's feet, too, had become very sore, and he walked in great and constant pain. In the afternoon of the fourth day they stopped on the banks of the Delaware, five or six miles from Philadelphia, to wash their clothes, which had become filthy in travelling through the dust and mud. As they had no clothing but what they wore, there was nothing else to be done but to strip, wash out their soiled garments, and lay them out on the bank to dry, while they swam about the river, or waited on the shore, with what patience they could summon. A little after sunset they reached the suburbs of the great city; and now the sore feet and wearied limbs of the boy could scarcely sustain him over the hard pavements. Yet Bill urged him onward with many an impatient oath, on past the ship- yards of Kensington,—on, past the factories, and markets, and farmers' taverns, and shops of the Northern Liberties, —on, through the crowded thoroughfares, and by the brilliant stores of the city,—on, into the most degraded section of Southwark, in Plumb-street, where Bill said a friend of his lived. This friend was an abandoned woman, who lived in a miserable frame cabin, crowded with wicked and degraded wretches, who seemed the well-known and fitting companions of Rodney's patron. The woman for whom he inquired was at a dance in the neighborhood, and there Bill took the boy in search of her. They went up a dark alley, and were admitted into a large room filled with men and women, black and white, the dregs and outcasts of society. A few dripping candles, placed in tin sconces along the bare walls, threw a dim and sickly glare over the motley throng. A couple of negro men, sitting on barrels at the head of the room, were drawing discordant notes from a pair of cracked, patched, and greasy fiddles. And there were men, whose red and bloated faces gave faithful witness of their habitual intemperance; and men, whose threadbare and ragged garments betokened sloth and poverty; and men, whose vulgar and ostentatious display of showy clothing, and gaudy chains, and rings and breast-pins, which they did not know how to wear, indicated dishonest pursuits; and men, whose blue jackets and bluff, brown faces showed them to be sailors; and men, whose scowling brows and fiendlike countenances marked them as villains of the blackest and lowest type. And there were women, too, some old—at least, they looked so—and haggard; some young, but with wretched- looking faces, and dressed in tawdry garments, yet generally faded, some torn and some patched, and all seeming to be brought from the pawnbroker's dusty shop for the occasion. In a little filthy side-room was a bar covered with bottles and glasses, behind which stood a large, red-faced man, with a big nose, and little ferret, fiery eyes, now grinning like a satyr, now scowling like a demon, dealing out burning liquors to his miserable customers. A man fell beastly drunk from a bench upon the floor. "Take him up stairs," said the man at the bar. Rodney followed the two men who carried him up, and looked into the sleeping apartment. The floor was covered with dirty straw, where lodgers were accommodated for three cents a night. Here the poor wretches were huddled together every night, to get what sleep they could in the only home they had on earth. Thus does vice humble, and degrade, and scourge those who are taken in its toils. From the threshold of the house of B guilty pleasure there may issue the song and laugh of boisterous mirth; but those who enter within shall find disgrace and infamy, woe and death. CHAPTER VI. THE PUNISHMENT BEGINS. ILL Seegor found the woman he sought, and soon they returned to her house. Here the bottle was brought out and passed round; and, after much blasphemous and ribaldrous conversation, a straw bed was made up on the floor, and Rodney laid down. Before he went to sleep, he heard Bill tell the woman that he was entirely out of money, and beg her to lend him five dollars for a few days. After some hesitation she consented, and drew out from under the bed an old trunk, which she unlocked, and from which she took five dollars in silver and gave it to him. Bill, looking over her shoulder, saw that she took it from a little pile of silver that lay in the corner of the trunk. For a long time Rodney could not sleep. The scenes of the last eventful week were vividly recalled to his mind, and, in spite of his fatigue, kept him awake. He tried to make himself believe that it was a glorious life he had begun to lead,— that now he was free from restraint, and entering upon the flowery paths of independence and enjoyment. Though he had met with some difficulties at the start, he thought that they were now nearly passed, and that soon he should be upon the blue water, and in foreign countries, a happy sailor boy. But conscience would interpose its reproaches and warnings, and remind him of the horrible company into which he had been cast,—of the scenes of sin which he had witnessed, and in which he had participated; and he could not but shudder when he thought of the probable termination of such a life. But he felt that, having forsaken his home,—and he was not even yet sorry that he had done so,—he was now in the current, and that there was no way of reaching the shore, even had he been disposed to try; and that he must continue to float along the stream, leaving his destination to be determined by circumstances. It is very easy to find the paths of sin. It is easy, and, for a season, may seem pleasant, to travel in them. The entrance is inviting, the way is broad, companions are numerous and gay. But when the disappointed and alarmed traveller, terrified at the thought of its termination, seeks to escape, and hunts for the narrow path of virtue, he finds obstacles and entanglements which he cannot climb over nor break. It requires an Omnipotent arm to help him then. Rodney fell asleep. How long he had slept he knew not; but he was awakened by a violent shaking and by terrible oaths. The side-door leading into the yard was open, and three or four wretched-looking women were scolding and swearing angrily about him. He was confused, bewildered, but soon perceived that something unusual had happened; and he became very much frightened as he at last learned the truth from the excited women. Bill Seegor was gone. He had got up quietly when all were asleep, and, drawing the woman's trunk from under her bed, had carried it out into the yard, pried open the lock, stolen the money, and escaped. The woman was in a terrible passion, and her raving curses were fearful to hear. Rodney pitied her, though she cursed him. He was indignant at his companion's rascality, and offered to go with her and try to find him. It was two o'clock in the morning. He looked round for his hat, collar, and handkerchief; but they were gone. The thief had taken them with him. Taking Bill's old hat, he went out with the woman, and looked into the oyster-cellars and grog-shops, some of which they found still open; but they could find no trace of Bill Seegor. The woman met a watchman, and made inquiries, and told him of the robbery. "And this boy came with the man last night, did he?" inquired the watchman. "He did," said the woman. "Do you know the boy?" "I never saw him before." "Well, I guess he knows where he is, or where he can be found to-morrow." Rodney protested that he knew nothing about him, that his own hat, collar, and handkerchief had been stolen, and that he had had nothing to do with the robbery. He even told him where he had met with Bill, and how he came to be in his company. "All very fine, my lad," said the watchman; "but you must go with me. This must be examined into to-morrow." And he took Rodney by the arm, and led him to the watch-house. F CHAPTER VII. THE WATCH-HOUSE. OR poor Rodney there was no more sleep that night, even had they placed him on a bed of roses. But they locked him up in a little square room, with an iron-barred window, into which a dim light struggled from a lamp hung outside in the entry, showing a wooden bench, fastened against the wall. There were four men in the room. One, whose clothes looked fine and fashionable, but all covered with dirt, lay on the floor. A hat, that seemed new, but crushed out of all shape, was under his head for a pillow. His face was bruised and bloody. He was entirely stupefied, and Rodney saw at a glance that he was intoxicated. On the bench, stretched out at full length, was a short, stout negro, fast asleep. On another part of the bench lay a white man, who seemed about fifty years old, with a sneering, malicious face, and wrapped up in a shaggy black coat. The remaining occupant of the cell sat in one corner, with his head down on his knees, and his hat slouched over his face. Rodney stood for a few moments in the middle of the cell, and, in sickening dismay, looked round him. Here he was with felons and rioters, locked up in a dungeon! True, he had committed no crime against the law; but yet he felt that he deserved it all; and the hot tears rolled from his eyes as he thought of his mother and his home. Hearing his sobs, the man in the corner raised his head, looked at him for a moment, and said: "Why, you blubbering boy, what have you been about? Are you the pal of these cracksmen, or have you been on a lay on your own hook?" Rodney did not know what he meant, and he said so. "I mean," said the man, in the same low, thieves' jargon, "have you been helping these fellows crack a crib?" "Doing what?" said Rodney. "Breaking into a house, you dumb-head." courtroom scene The boy shuddered at the thought of being taken for an accomplice of house-breakers; and told him he knew nothing about them. He had read that boys are sometimes employed by house-breakers to climb in through windows or broken pannels, to open the door on the inside; and now he was thought to be such a one himself. It was a dismal night for him. Early in the morning the prisoners were all taken before a magistrate. The drunkard, who claimed to be a gentleman, and who had been taken to the watch-house for assaulting the barkeeper of a tavern, was fined five dollars, and dismissed. The negro and the old white man had been caught in the attempt to break into a house, and were sent to prison, to await their trial for burglary; and the other white man was also sent to prison, until he could be tried, for stealing a pocket-book in an auction store. Rodney was then called forward. The watchman told how and why he had taken him; and the boy was asked to give an account of himself. He told his story truthfully and tearfully, while the magistrate looked coldly at him. S "A very good story," said the magistrate; "it seems to be well studied. I suspect you are an artful fellow, notwithstanding your innocent face. I shall bind you over for trial, my lad. I think such boys as you should be stopped in time; and a few years in some penitentiary would do you good." What could Rodney say? What could he do? He was among strangers. He could send for no one to testify of his good character, or to become bail for him. And, if his friends had been near, he felt that he had rather die than that they should know of his disgrace. The magistrate gave an officer a paper—a commitment—and told him to take the boy to the Arch-street jail. The constable took him by the arm, and led him out. As they walked along the street, Rodney looked around him to see if there was no way of escape. If he could only get a chance to run! As they came to the corner of a little alley, he asked the constable to let him tie his shoe, the string of which was loose. The man nodded, and Rodney placed his foot upon a door-step, sheering round beyond the reach of the officer's hand, and towards the alley. Rodney, as he rose, made one spring, and in a moment was gone down the alley. The officer rushed after him, and shouted, "Stop thief! stop thief!" "O, that I should ever be chased for a thief!" groaned Rodney, clenching his teeth together, and running at his best speed. That terrible cry, "Stop thief!" rung after him, and soon seemed to be echoed by a hundred voices, as the boy dashed along Ninth street and down Market street; and, from behind him, and from doors and windows, and from the opposite side of the street, and at length from before him, the very welkin rung with the cries of "Stop thief! stop thief!" A hundred eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the culprit; but Rodney dashed on, the crowd never thinking that he was the hunted fox, but only one of the hounds in pursuit, eager to be "in at the death." At the corner of Fifth and Market-streets, a porter was standing by his wheelbarrow. He saw the chase coming down, and truly scented the victim; and, as Rodney neared the corner, he suddenly pushed out his barrow across the pavement. Rodney could not avoid it; he stumbled, fell across it, and was captured. "You young scoundrel! is this one of your tricks?" said the constable, as he came up; "I'll teach you one of mine;" and he struck him a blow on the side of the head, that knocked the poor boy senseless on the pavement. Those who stood by cried, "Shame! shame!" and the officer glared furiously around him; but, seeing that the numbers were against him, he raised the boy from the ground. Rodney soon recovered; and the constable, grasping him firmly by the wrist of his coat, and, drawing his arm tightly under his own, led him, followed by a crowd of hooting boys, up Fifth, and through Arch-street, toward the old jail. What a walk was that to poor Rodney! The officer, stern and angry, held him with so firm a grip as to convince him of the uselessness of a second attempt. Fatigued, and nearly fainting as he was from the race and the blow, he was compelled almost to run, to keep up with the long strides of the constable. A crowd of boys pressed around, to get a glimpse of his face. "What has he done?" one would ask of another. "Broke open a trunk, and stole money," would be the reply. Rodney pulled Bill Seegor's old hat over his face, and hung his head, in bitter anguish of soul, as he heard himself denounced as a thief at every step; and as he heard doors dashed open, and windows thrown up, similar questions and replies smote his heart. He knew that he was innocent of such a crime; his soul scorned it; he felt that he was incapable of theft; but he felt that he had been too guilty, too disobedient and too ungrateful, to dare to hold up his head, or utter a word in his own defence. It seemed as though that long and terrible walk with the constable would never end, and he felt relieved when he reached the heavy door of the jail, amid two files of staring boys, who had ran before him, and arranged themselves by the gate, to watch him as he entered. He was rudely thrust in, the bolt shot back upon the closed door, and he was delivered over to the keeping of the jailer, with the assurance of the policeman, that "he was a sharp miscreant, and needed to be watched." CHAPTER VIII. RODNEY IN JAIL. UCH are the rewards which sin gives to its votaries; full of soft words and tempting promises in the beginning, they find, in the end, that "it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." Thoughts like these passed through Rodney's mind, as the jailer led him to a room in which were confined three other lads, all older than himself. At that time, the system of solitary confinement had not been adopted in Pennsylvania, and prisoners were allowed to associate together; but it was deemed best to keep the boys from associating with older and more hardened culprits, whose conversation might still more corrupt them, and they were therefore confined together, apart from the mass of the criminals. At first Rodney suffered the most intense anguish. A sense of shame and degradation overwhelmed him. He staggered to a corner of the room, threw himself on the floor, and, for a long time, sobbed and wept as though his very heart would break. For a while the boys seemed to respect his grief, and left him in silence. At last one of them went to him, and said, "Come, there's no use in this; we are all here together, and we may as well make the best of it!" Rodney sat up, and looked at them, as they gathered around him. They were ragged in dress, and pale from their confinement, and Rodney involuntarily shrank from the idea of associating with them, regarding them as criminals in jail. But he soon remembered his own position,—that he was now one of them,—and he thought he would take their advice, and "make the best of it." "Well, what did they squeeze you into this jug for, my covey?" asked the eldest boy. Rodney told them his story, and protested that he was innocent of any crime. The boy put his thumb to the end of his nose, and twirled his fingers, saying, "You can't gammon us, my buck; come, out with it, for we never peach on one another." Rodney was very angry at this mode of treating his story. But, in spite of himself, he gradually became familiar with the companions thus forced upon him, and, in a day or two, began to engage with them in their various sports, to while away the weary hours. Sometimes they sat and told stories, to amuse one another; and thus Rodney heard tales of wickedness and depredation and cunning, that almost led him to doubt whether there was any honesty among men. They talked of celebrated thieves and robbers, burglars and pirates, as if they were the models by which they meant to mould their own lives; and, instead of detesting their crimes, Rodney began to admire the skill and success with which they were perpetrated. The excitement and freedom, and wild, frenzied enjoyment of such a life, as depicted by the young knaves, began to fascinate and charm his mind. Something seemed to whisper in his ear, "As you are now disgraced, without any fault of your own, why not carry it out, and make the most of it? They have put you into jail, this time, for nothing; if they ever do it again, let them have some reason for it." Who knows what might have been the result of such temptations and influences, had these associations been long continued, and not counteracted by the interposition of God? But then the instructions of childhood, the lessons of home and of the Sabbath-school, were brought back to his memory, and he said to himself, "What, be a thief! Make myself despised and hated by all good people! Live a life of wickedness and dread,—perhaps die in the penitentiary, and then, in all probability, lose my soul, and be cast into hell! No, never! I shall never dare to steal, or to break into houses; and as for killing anybody for money, I shudder even at the thought!" So did the bad and the good struggle together in the heart of the poor boy. How many there are who, at the first, feel and think about crime as he did, but who, in the end, become familiar with vice, lose their sense of fear and shame and guilt, become bold and reckless in sin, having their consciences seared as with a hot iron, and violating all laws, human and divine, without compunction, and without a thought save that of impunity and success! All the elements of a life of crime were in the heart of this wayward boy; and had it not been for the instructions of his childhood, which counteracted these evil influences, and the providence and grace of God, which restrained him, he would have become a miserable outcast from society, leading a wretched life of shame and guilt. "I wish we had a pack of cards here," said one of the boys, one weary afternoon. "Can't we make a pack?" inquired another. And then the lads set their wits to work, and soon manufactured a substitute for a pack of cards. They had a couple of old newspapers, which they folded and cut into small, regular pieces, and marked each piece with the spots that are found on playing cards, making rude shapes of faces, and writing "Jack," "King," "Knave," &c., under them. With these, they used to spend hours shuffling and dealing and playing, until Rodney understood the pernicious game as well as the rest. "Joe," said Rodney, one day, to the oldest boy, "what did they put you in here for?" "Well," said he, "I'll tell you. Sam and I run with the Moyamensing Hose Company. Many a jolly time we have had of it, running to fires, and many a good drink of liquor we have had, too; for when the people about the fires treated the firemen, we boys used to come in for our share of the treat. There was a standing quarrel between us and the 'Franklin' boys, and we used to have a fight whenever we could get at them. I heard one of the men say, one day, that if there was only a fire down Twelfth or Thirteenth-street, and the 'Franklin' should come up in that direction, we could get them foul, and give them a good drubbing. Well, there was a fire down Twelfth-street the next night! I don't mean to say who kindled it; but a watchman saw Sam and me about the stable, and then running away from it as fast as we could. The fellow marked us, and as we were going back to the fire with the machine, he nabbed us, and walked us off to the watch-house, and the next day we were stuck into this hole." T "But did you set fire to the stable?" "What would you give to know? I make no confessions; and if you ever tell out of doors what I have said here, I'll knock your teeth down your throat, if I ever catch you." These two boys had actually been guilty of the dreadful crime of setting fire to a stable. It was used by two or three poor men for their horses and carts, which was...