Way Down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee Life/Chapter XII

Chapter XII Billy Snub

When the biographer has a subject of unusual magnitude and importance to deal with, it becomes him to lay out his work with circumspection, and preserve a careful method in the arrangement. He must dig deep, and lay his foundation firmly, before he attempts to rear his edifice. He must not thrust his hero at once and unceremoniously in the face of his reader, standing alone and erect, like a liberty-pole on the naked common of a country meeting-house. He must keep him for a while in the background, and with a careful and skilful progression drag him slowly up from the dark and misty slough of antiquity, to the full light of day. It is not sufficient to commence with the father, nor even with the grandfather; propriety requires that the ancestral chain should be examined to the very topmost link.

Unfortunately for the cause of letters, the origin and early history of the Snubs are veiled in the deepest obscurity. The most indefatigable researches have been sufficient to trace them back but a few generations. Their family name is not found in the list of the hardy adventurers who came over in the Mayflower, nor yet among the early colony planted by Captain John Smith. But though history retains no record of the precise point of time when they migrated to the Western continent, it is certain they were among the early settlers of the New World, and many respectable traditions are extant of their ancient standing and influence in some of the older towns in New England. There is some doubt as to what nation may rightfully claim the honor of supplying the blood that flows in their veins, and it is probable the question at this late day can never be settled with entire satisfaction. Though the claims of England, France, and Germany, might each and all be urged with so much force as to incline the historian to believe that their blood is of mixed origin, yet the prevailing testimony ought to be considered sufficient to establish the point that John Bull is the father of the Snub family; a conclusion which derives no small support from the general pugnacity of their character. It is much to be lamented that the ancient history of this ancient family is lost to the world; but, alas! they had no poet, no historian.

The ancestors of Billy Snub can be traced in a direct line only to the fourth generation. The great-grandfather was a lawyer of thrift and respectability; a man of talents and influence; and tradition says, if he was not a younger son, he was the nephew of a younger son of an English earl. It cannot, therefore, with any propriety, be thrown in the face of the Snubs, that

"Their ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood."

But this Lawyer Snub, whose first name was William, had not the faculty or the talents to bring up his children to maintain the standing and dignity of their father. His son William was nothing more than a plain, respectable country farmer, who planted his potatoes, and hoed his corn, and mowed his hay, and milked his cows very much as other farmers do, without ever doing anything to become distinguished in the history of his times. He also was destined to see his posterity still in the descendant, for his son William was a village shoemaker, who sat on his bench, and drew his thread, and hammered his lapstone from morning till night, the year in and year out, with the occasional variation of whistling while paring off a shoe, and singing a song of an evening to the loungers in his shop. The tendency in the Snub family, however, was still downwards; even the shoemaker was not at the bottom of the hill, for his son was Billy Snub the newsboy. The direct family line, as far back as authentic history goes, running thus:

First generation, William Snub, Esquire.

Second generation, Mr. William Snub, the farmer.

Third generation, Bill Snub, the shoemaker.

Fourth generation, Billy Snub, the newsboy.

There is a tide in families, as well as "in the affairs of men." They rise and fall, though not as regularly, yet as surely as the spring and neap tides of the ocean. And Billy Snub, after kicking and floundering about upon the flats at low water, has at last caught the flood, and there is no knowing to what height of fortune he may yet be carried. His posterity will undoubtedly be in the ascendant, and it may not be too much to expect that in a few generations ahead, we shall have his Excellency, William Snub, Governor, &c., and perhaps William Snub, the eighteenth President of the United States. But the regular chain of history must not be anticipated; and in order to bring Billy fairly and with sufficient clearness before the public, it is necessary to dwell for a few moments upon the history of Bill Snub, the shoemaker, and Sally Snub, his wife.

For a few years Bill Snub was the leading shoemaker in a quiet New England village. Indeed, he took the lead from necessity, for he had no competitor; the field was all his own, and being allowed to have his own way, and fix his own prices, he managed to get a comfortable living. Being well to do in the world, and much given to whistling and singing, his shop gradually became the favorite resort of all the idlers in the village. Bill's importance was magnified in his own eyes by this gathering around him almost every evening, to say nothing of the rainy afternoons. Unconsciously to himself he encouraged this lounging habit of his neighbors by administering to their little idle comforts. In one corner of his shop was a broken chair for an extra seat, in another a square block of timber left from the frame of the new school-house, and in still another corner was a stout side of sole leather, rolled up and snugly tied, which answered very well for a seat for three. A half-peck of apples, and a mug or two of cider, always at Bill's expense, frequently added to the allurements of the place, and Bill's songs, and Bill's jokes, no matter how little music or wit they contained, were always applauded.

This state of things silently, but gradually, made sad encroachments upon Bill's habits of industry. His customers were put off from day to day, and when Saturday night came, a bushel basket full of boots and shoes remained in his shop waiting repairs, to say nothing of Sunday new ones that had been promised, but not touched. Many of his customers had to stay at home on the Sabbath, or go to meeting barefoot. The result of all this was, that an interloper soon came into the place, and opened a shop directly opposite to that of Bill. The way was already open for him for a good run of business. Bill's customers, exasperated at their numerous disappointments, discarded him at once, and flocked to the new comer. In a week's time, Bill had nothing to do. He might be seen standing in his shop door, or with his head out of the window, hour after hour, watching his old customers as they entered the shop of his rival. He would go home to his meals in ill-humor, and scold his wife for his bad luck. And if little Billy, then six years old, came round him with his accustomed prattle and play, he was pretty sure to be silenced with a smart box on the ear. Things grew worse and worse with him, and in a few months want was not only staring him in the face, but had actually seized him with such a firm gripe as to bring him to a full stand. Something must be done; Bill was uncomfortable. Whistling or singing to the bare walls of his shop, produced an echo that chilled and annoyed him exceedingly. Food and clothing began to be among the missing, and he soon discovered that walking the streets did but little towards replenishing his wardrobe; nor would scolding or even beating his wife supply his table.

At last, throwing the whole blame upon the place and its people where he lived, he resolved at once to pull up stakes and be off.

"And where are you going, Bill?" said his wife, wiping the tears from her eyes, as she saw her husband commence the work of packing up.

"It's none of your business, Sall," said the husband gruffly. "But I'm going where there's work enough for all creation; where there's more folks to mend shoes for than you can shake a stick at."

"Well, where is it Bill? do tell us;" said Sally in an anxious tone. "If it is only where we can get victuals to eat, and clothes to wear, I shall be thankful."

"Well, then," said Bill, "I'm going to the biggest city in the United States, where there's work enough all weathers."

"Well, that's Boston," said Sally.

"No, 'taint Boston," said Bill; "it's a place as big as four Bostons. It's New York; I'm going right into the middle of New York; so pack up your duds about the quickest; for I ain't going to stop for nobody."

And sure enough, a few mornings after this, among the deck passengers of one of the steamers that arrived at New York, was no less a personage than Bill Snub, the shoemaker, with his wife Sally and his son Billy. The group landed, and stared at every object they met, with a wild and wondering expression, that seemed to indicate pretty clearly that they were not accustomed to sights and scenes like those around them. Indeed, they had never before been in a large town, and hardly out of their quiet country village. Each bore a bundle, containing the whole amount of their goods and chattels, which had been reduced to a few articles of wearing apparel, a box or two of eatables, which they had taken for their journey, and a few tools of his trade, which Bill had had the foresight to preserve in order to begin the world anew.

Bewildered by the noise and bustle, and crowds of people on every side, they knew not which way to turn or what to do. They knew not a person nor a street in the city, and had no very definite object in view. Instinctively following the principal current of passengers that landed from the boat, they soon found themselves in Broadway. Here, as a small stream blends with a large one into which it flows, their company was presently merged and lost in the general throng of that great thoroughfare. They gradually lost sight of the familiar faces they had seen on board the boat, and when the last one disappeared, and they could no longer discern in the vast multitude hurrying to and fro, and down the street, a single individual they had ever seen before, a sense of solitude and home-sickness came over them, that was most overpowering. They stopped short on the sidewalk, and Bill looked in his wife's face, and his wife looked in his, and little Billy stood between them, and looked up in the faces of both.

"What are you going to do?" said Sally.

"Going to do?" said Bill; "I'm going to hire out; or else hire a shop and work on my own hook."

Just at that moment a gentleman brushed past his elbow, and Bill hailed him. "I say, mister, you don't know of nobody that wants to hire a shoemaker, do ye?"

The gentleman turned and glanced at him a moment, and then hurried on without saying a word.

"I should think he might have manners enough to answer a civil question," muttered Bill to himself, as he shouldered his bag and moved on up the street. Presently they passed a large shoe store.

"Ah, here's the place!" said Bill; "we've found it at last. O, Sall, did you ever see such an allfired sight of shoes? Lay down your bundle, and stop here to the door, while I go in and make a bargain for work. So in Bill went, and addressed himself to one of the clerks.

"I say, mister, you've got sich an everlastin' lot of shoes here, I guess may be you'd like to hire a good shoemaker; and if you do, I'm the boy for you."

The clerk laughed, and told him he must ask the boss about that.

"Ask the what?" said Bill.

"Ask the boss," said the clerk, who began to relish the conversation.

"I shan't do no sich thing," said Bill; "I did n't come to New York to talk with bossy-calves nor pigs; and if you are a calf I don't want any more to say to you; but if you want to hire a good shoemaker, I tell you I'm the chap for you." Here the proprietor of the store, seeing the clerks gathering round Bill, to the neglect of their customers, came forward and told him he did not wish to hire any workmen, and he had better go along.

"But I'll work cheap," said Bill, "and I'm a first-rate workman. Here's a pair of shoes on my feet I've wore for four months, and they han't ripped a stitch yet."

"But I don't want to hire," said the man of the store, with some impatience; "so you had better go along."

"But maybe we can make a bargain," said Bill; "I tell ye, I'll work cheap."

"I tell you, I don't want to hire," said the man; "so go out of the store."

"You need n't be so touchy," said Bill; "I guess I've seen as good folks as you are, before to-day. Come now, what'll you give me a month?"

"I'll give you what you won't want," said the man, "if you are not out of this store in one minute." As he said this, he approached Bill with such a menacing appearance, that the shoemaker thought it time to retreat, and hastened out of the door. As he reached the sidewalk, he turned round and hailed the man of the store again.

"I say, mister, hav n't you got a shoemaker's shop you'll let to me?"

The man said he had a good room for that purpose.

"Well, what do you ask a year for it?" said Bill.

"Three hundred dollars, with good security," replied the shopman.

"Three hundred dollars! My gracious! Come now, none of your jokes. Tell us how much you ask for it, 'cause I want to hire."

"I tell you I ask three hundred dollars," said the man; "but it's of no use for you to talk about it; you can't give the security."

"Oh, you go to grass," said Bill; "I don't want none of your jokes. I've hired as good a shop as ever a man waxed a thread in, for fifteen dollars a year; and if you are a mind to let me have yourn for the same, I'll go and look at it."

The man laughed in his face, and turned away to wait upon his customers; and a little waggish boy, who had been standing by and listening to the conversation, placed his finger against his nose, and looking up askance at Bill, exclaimed, "Ain't ye green?"

Poor Bill began to think he had got among a strange set of people, and, shouldering his bag, he marched up Broadway with his wife and Billy at his heels, till he came to the Astor House. Here he made a halt, for it looked to him like a sort of place for head-quarters. The building was so imposing in its appearance, and so many people were going in and coming out, and everything around was so brisk and busy, he thought surely it must be just the place to look for business. So laying down their baggage, he and Sally and Billy quietly took a seat on the broad granite steps. He soon began to ply his inquiries to all sorts of people, asking if they could tell him of anybody that wanted to hire a shoemaker, or that had a shoemaker's shop to let. Most of them would hurry by him without any further notice than a hasty glance; others would laugh, and some would stop, and ask a few questions, or crack a few heartless jokes, and then turn away. After a while a throng of boys had gathered around him, and by various annoyances rendered his position so uncomfortable, that he was glad to escape, and shouldering his baggage, he and his group wandered on with heavy hearts up the street.

Most of the day passed in this way without any profitable result, and as night approached they grew weary and desponding. They had no money left to provide themselves with a home for the night, though they had provision enough for a meal or two remaining in their wallets. Bill had found it utterly impossible to make any impression upon any one he had met in the city, except so far as to be laughed at. He could get no one's ear to listen to his story, and he could see no prospect of employment. Sally had several times suggested that this great road which they had been up and down so much---for they had been almost the whole length of Broadway two or three times---was not exactly the best road for them to go in, and she did n't think but what they might be likely to do better to go into one of the smaller roads, where the folks didn't look so grand. And, though Bill had been of different opinion through the day, he now began to think that Sally might be right. Looking down one of the cross streets that seemed to descend into a sort of valley, quite a different country appeared to open to them. They could see old decayed-looking houses, with broken windows and dirty sidewalks; they could see half-naked children, running about and playing in the street; they could see bareheaded women and ragged men lounging about the doors, and numerous swine rooting in the gutters. The prospect was too inviting to be resisted. They felt at once that there they could find sympathy, and hastened down the street. Arriving in the midst of this paradise, they deliberately laid down their luggage on the sidewalk, and seating themselves on the steps of an old wooden house, felt as if they had at last found a place of rest. They opened their bundles and began to partake of a little food. Heads were out of a hundred windows in the neighborhood gazing at them. Children stopped short in the midst of their running, and stood around them; and leisurely, one after another, a stout woman or a sturdy loafer came nigh and entered into conversation. As Bill related his simple story, a universal sympathy was at once awakened in the hearts of all the hearers. They all declared he should have a shop in the neighborhood and they would give him their patronage.

Patrick O'Flannegan, who lived in the basement of the old house on whose steps they were seated, at once invited them to partake of the hospitalities of his mansion, saying he had but nine in his family, and his room was large, and they should be welcome to occupy a corner of it till they could find a better home. Of course the invitation was accepted, and the group followed Patrick down the steep dirty steps that led to his damp apartment. The tops of the low windows were about upon a level with the sidewalk, bringing almost the entire apartment below the surface of the ground. The dim light that struggled down through the little boxed-up dusty windows, showed a strawbed in two several corners of the room, three or four rickety chairs, a rough bench, small table, tea-kettle, frying-pan, and several other articles of household comforts.

"You can lay your things in that corner," said Patrick, pointing to a vacant corner of the room, "and we'll soon get up some good straw for you to sleep on." In short, Bill and his family at once became domesticated in this subterranean tenement, which proved to be not merely a temporary residence, but their home for years. The limits of this history will not allow space to follow the fortunes of Bill through three or four of the first years of his city life. It must be sufficient to state generally, that though he found kindness and sympathy in his new associates, he found little else that was beneficial. The atmosphere around him was not favorable to industry, and his habits in that respect never improved, but rather grew worse. His neighbors did not work, and why should he? His neighbors were fond of listening to his songs, and why should he not sing to them? His neighbors drank beer, and porter, and sling, and gin toddy, and Bill needed but little coaxing to drink with them. And he did drink with them, moderately at first, but deeper and oftener from month to month, and in three years' time he became a perfect sot.

The schooling that little Bill received during these three years was eminently calculated to fit him for his future profession. He had slept on the floor, lying down late and rising up early, till his frame was as hardy and elastic as that of a young panther. He had been flogged so much by a drunken father, and had his ears boxed so often by a fretted and desponding mother, that he had lost all fear of their blows, and even felt a sort of uneasiness, as though matters were not all right, if by any chance the day passed by without receiving them. He had lived on such poor diet, and so little of it, that potato-skins had a fine relish, and a crust of bread was a luxury. He had battled with boys in the street till he had become such an adept at fisticuffs, that boys of nearly twice his size stood in fear of him. And he had so often been harshly driven from the doors of the wealthy, where he had been sent to beg cold victuals, that he had come to regard mankind in general as a set of ferocious animals, against whose fangs it was necessary to be constantly on his guard. In short, Billy had been beaten about from post to pillar, and pillar to post so much, and had rubbed his head against so many sorts of people, that it had become pretty well filled with ideas of the hardest kind.

When Billy was about ten years old, he came running in one day in great glee, with a sixpence in his hand, which he had found in the street. As soon as his father heard the announcement of it, he started up, and took down a junk bottle from a little shelf against the wall, and told Billy to take the sixpence, and go to the grocer's on the corner, and get the worth of it in rum. Sally begged that he would not send for rum, but let little Billy go to the baker's and get a loaf of bread, for she had not had a mouthful of anything to eat for the day, and it was then noon. But Bill insisted upon having the rum, and told Billy to go along and get it, and be quick about it, or he would give him such a licking as he had not had for six months. Billy took the bottle, and started; but as he left the door, his cheek reddened, and his lip curled with an expression of determination which it had not been accustomed to wear. He walked down the street, thinking of the consequences that would result from carrying home a bottle of rum. His father would be drunk all the afternoon, and through the night. His mother and himself would have to go without food, probably be abused and beaten, and when night came, would find no repose.

He arrived at the grocer's, but he could not go in. He passed on a little farther, in anxious, deep thought. At last he stopped suddenly, lifted the bottle above his head, and then dashed it upon the pavement with all his might, breaking it into a thousand pieces.

"There," said Billy to himself, "I'll never carry any more rum home as long as I live. But I s'pose father 'll lick me half to death; but I don't care if he does, I'll never carry any more rum home as long as I live."

He brushed a tear from his eye, and bit his lips, as he stood looking at the fragments of the bottle a moment, and then passed on farther down the street. But now the question of what he should do, came home to him with painful force. If he returned back to the house, and encountered his enraged father, he was sure to be half killed. He wandered on, unconcious where he went, till he reached the Park. Here he met a newsboy crying papers, with great earnestness and tremendous force of lungs. Billy watched him for the space of ten minutes, and saw him sell half-a-dozen papers. They contained important news by a foreign arrival, and people seemed eager to get hold of them. A new idea flashed across Billy's mind. Why could not he sell newspapers, and get money, as well as that boy! His resolution was at once formed, with almost the strength and firmness of manhood. It required capital, to be sure, to start with, but luckily he had the capital in his pocket. The rum bottle had been broken, and he still retained the sixpence. He hastened immediately to the publishing office of the paper he had just seen sold. When he arrived there, he found quite a crowd of newsboys pressing up to the counter, and clamorous for papers; for the publisher could not supply them fast enough to meet the demand. Billy edged his way in among them, and endeavored to approach the counter. But he was suddenly pushed back by two or three boys at once, who exclaimed, "What new-comer is this? Here's boys enough here now, so you better be off."

Another sung out "Go home, you ragbag, your mother don't know you're out!"

At this, one of the boys looked round that happened to know Billy, and he cried out, "Ah, Billy Snub, clear out of this; here's no place for you! No boys comes to this office that don't wear no hats and shoes?"

Billy felt the force of this argument, for he was bareheaded and barefooted, besides being sadly out at knees and elbows; and looking around, he perceived that all the boys in the room had something on their heads, and something on their feet. He began to feel as though he had perhaps got among the aristocracy of the newsboys, and shrank back a little, and stood in a corner of the room. The boys, however, were not disposed to let him rest in peace there. Several of them gathered around him, taunting him with jokes and jeers, and began to crowd against him to hustle him out of the room.

"Now take care," said Billy, "for I won't stand that from none of you."

"You won't, will you?" said the boys, bursting out into a roar of laughter; and one of them took Billy by the nose, and attempted to pull him to the door. Billy sprang like a young catamount; and although he was considerably smaller and younger than his assailant, he gave him such a well-directed blow upon the chest that he laid him sprawling upon the floor. Upon this, two or three more came at him with great fury; but Billy's sleight of hand was exhibited with so much force and skill, that he made his way through them, and kept his coast clear; and when a stronger reinforcement was about to attack him, the publisher interfered, and ordered them to let that boy alone. Still they were disposed to continue their persecutions, till the publisher took up a long whip, and cracked it over their heads, and told them he would horsewhip the first one that dared to meddle with him. And in order to make amends to Billy for the ill-treatment he had received, he said he should now be served with papers before any of the rest. He accordingly took Billy's six cents, and handed him three papers, and told him to sell them at three cents apiece.

Billy eagerly grasped his papers, and ran into the street. He had not been gone more than fifteen minutes, before he returned with nine cents, which he had received for the papers, and one more, which he had found in the street. This enabled him to purchase five papers; and he found the publisher ready to wait upon him in preference to the other boys; so he was soon dispatched on his second cruise. He was not many minutes in turning his five papers into fifteen cents cash. This operation was repeated some half dozen times in the course of the afternoon, and when night came, Billy found his stock of cash had increased to about a dollar.

This was a great overturn in Billy's fortune, sufficient to upset the heads of most boys of his age; but though his head swam a little on first ascertaining the great amount of money in his pocket, his strength and firmness of character sustained him, so that he was enabled to bear it with a good degree of composure. As the shadows of night gathered around him, Billy began to turn his thoughts homeward. But what could he do? He knew his father too well to venture himself in his presence, and had no hesitation in coming to the conclusion that he must now, for the first time in his life, spend the night away from home. Still he instinctively wandered on through the streets that led him towards home, for the thought that his mother had probably been without food the whole day, pressed heavily upon his mind, and he was anxious to contrive some way to afford her relief. As he approached the neighborhood of his home, or rather the place where his parents resided, for it was no longer a home to him, he stopped at a grocer's, and purchased a sixpenny loaf of bread, sixpence worth of gingerbread, and half a dozen herrings, for which he paid another sixpence. With these he turned into the street, and walked thoughtfully and carefully towards the house, hesitating, and looking frequently around him, lest his father might be out, and suddenly seize him. At last he reached the house. He stopped cautiously on the sidewalk, and looked, and listened. There was a dim light in the basement, but he heard no sound. He stepped lightly down the steps as far as the first window, and through the sash, which had lost a pane of glass, he dropped his bundle of provisions, and then ran with all his speed down the street. When he reached the first corner he stopped and looked back, and by the light of the street lamps, he saw his father and mother come out, and stand on the sidewalk two or three minutes, looking earnestly around them in every direction. They then went quietly back to their room, and Billy cautiously returned again to the house. He placed himself as near the window as he could, without being discovered from within, and listened to what was going on. His mother took the little bundle to the table, and opened it. Her eyes filled with tears the moment she saw what it contained, for her first thought rested upon Billy. She could not divine by what means she had received such a timely gift, but somehow or other, she could not help thinking that Billy was in some way connected with it.

"Come, Bill," said Sally to her husband, "we've got a good supper at last; now set down and eat some."

Bill drew up to the table, and ate as one who had been fasting for twenty-four hours. After his appetite began to be satisfied, said he, "Now, Sall, where do you think all this come from?"

"Well, I'm sure I can't tell anything about it," said Sally; "but I should n't be afraid to lay my life on it, that Billy knows something about it."

"So does your granny know something about it, as much as Billy," said Snub, contemptuously. "All Billy cares about is to spend that sixpence, and eat it up; and now he dares n't come home. I wish I had hold of the little rascal, I'd shake his daylights out; I'd lick him till he could n't stand."

"Oh, you're too cruel to that boy," said Sally; "Billy's a good child, and would do anything for me, and for you too, for all you whip him so much. And I believe it's his means that got somebody to give us this good supper to night. I hope the dear child will come home pretty soon, for I feel worried 'most to death about him."

"I hope he'll come, too," said Snub, "and I've a good mind to go and take a look after him, for I want to lick him most awfully."

At this, Billy began to feel as though it would be hazardous for him to remain any longer, so he hastened away down the street to seek a resting-place for the night. This he found at last, in the loft of a livery stable, where he crept away unobserved, and slept quietly till morning. True, he had one or two golden dreams, excited by his remarkable fortune the previous day, and when he woke his first impulse was to put his hand in his pocket, and ascertain whether he was really in possession of the fortune he had been dreaming of, or whether he was the same poor Billy Snub that he was two days before. The three hard silver quarters which he felt in his pocket roused him to the reality of his situation, and he sprang from his hard couch, soon after daylight, resolved to renew the labors he had so successfully followed the day before. He had now a good capital to start with, and could work to a better advantage than the previous day. He accordingly soon supplied himself with an armful of papers, and placed himself on the best routes, and at the best hours. The result was, that though it was not properly a news-day, there being no subject of special interest to give a demand for papers, yet, by his diligence and perseverance, he managed to clear, in the course of the day almost another dollar, leaving in his pocket, when night came on, nearly a dollar and three quarters.

Having completed his work for the day, his thoughts instinctively turned to the home of his parents. He felt an intense desire to go and share with them the joys of his good fortune; but he dared not meet his father, for he knew well that a severe punishment would be inflicted upon him, and that his money would be taken from him to purchase rum. He could not, however, go to rest for the night without getting a sight of his mother, if it were possible, and purchasing something for her comfort. He accordingly went and purchased some articles of provision, to the amount of a quarter of a dollar, rolled them in a paper, and made his way homeward. The evening was rather dark, and gave him a favorable opportunity to approach the house without being discovered. He saw his mother, through the window, sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the room, with her head reclining on her hand, and apparently weeping. He could also hear his father walking in another part of the room, though he could not see him. He crept carefully to the window, dropped his paper of provisions into the room, and turned away down the street as fast as he could run.

He went again to his solitary lodgings, and rested till morning, when he arose with fresh vigor, and resumed the labors of the day. The same exertions and perseverance produced the same successful results he had met with the two previous days; and the evenings saw the table of his parents again spread with a comfortable meal, which was improved this time by the addition of a little fruit.

Thus, day after day, and week after week, Billy successfully followed his new profession of newsboy, working hard and faring hard, in season and out of season, early and late, rain or shine. His lodging was sometimes in a stable, sometimes among the open market stalls, and sometimes under a portico of some public building. His food was of the coarsest and cheapest kind, bread and cheese, and potatoes and fish; and sometimes, when he had done a good day's work, he would treat himself to an apple or two, or some other fruit that happened to be in season.

But Billy never forgot his parents. Regularly every night he contrived to supply them with a quantity of food sufficient for the following day; sometimes carrying it himself, and dropping it in the window, and sometimes, when the evening was light, and he was afraid of being discovered, employing another boy to carry it for him, while he stood at the corner, and watched to see that his errand was faithfully executed. At the end of three months, Billy found himself in possession of thirty dollars in cash, notwithstanding he had in the meantime purchased himself a pretty good second-hand cap, a little too small to be sure, but nevertheless he managed to keep it on the top of his head; also a second-hand frock coat, which was somewhat too large, but whose capacious pockets he found exceedingly convenient for carrying his surplus gingerbread and apples. He had also, in the meantime, sent his mother calico sufficient to make her a gown, besides sundry other little articles of wearing apparel. He had been careful all this time not to come in contact with his father, though he once came very near falling into his hands. His father discovered him at a little distance in the street, and ran to seize him, but Billy saw him in time to flee round a corner, and through an alley way that led to another street, and so escaped.

Bill Snub at last came to the conclusion that his son Billy was doing a pretty fair business in something or other, for he had become satisfied that the food which he and his wife daily received was furnished by Billy, as well as occasional articles of his wife's clothing. And when he ascertained from some of the boys of Billy's acquaintance, that he had probably laid up some thirty or forty dollars in cash, Bill at once conceived the design of getting possession of the money. As he could not catch Billy in the street, he formed a plan to get the aid of police officers; and, in order to do that, he found it necessary to make charges against Billy. He accordingly repaired to the police office, and entered a complaint against his boy for having stolen thirty or forty dollars of his money, which he was spending about the streets. He described the boy to the police officers, who were soon dispatched in search of him, with orders to arrest him, and see if any money could be found upon him. As Billy was flying about in all parts of the city, selling his papers, it was nearly night before the officers came across him. He had just sold his last paper, and was walking leisurely along the street, eating a piece of gingerbread and an apple, when a policeman came suddenly behind him and seized him by the shoulder. Billy looked up with surprise, and asked the man what he wanted.

"I'll let you know what I want, you little rascal!" said the officer, harshly. "Where did you get all that gingerbread and apples, sir?"

"I bought it," said Billy.

"You bought it, did ye? and where did you get the money, sir?"

"I earnt it," said Billy.

"You earnt it did ye? and how did you earn it, sir?"

"By selling newspapers," said Billy.

"Tell me none of your lies, sir?" said the man, giving him an extra shake by the shoulder. "Now, sir, how much money have you got in your pockets?"

"I've got some," said Billy, trembling and trying to pull away from the man.

"Got some, have you?" said the officer, holding him by a still firmer gripe. "How much have you got, sir? Let me see it?"

"I shan't show my money to nobody," said Billy, "so you let me alone."

"We'll see about that, sir, when we get to the police office," said the man, dragging Billy away by the shoulder.

It was so late in the day when they arrived at the office, that the examining magistrates had left, and gone home. The constable, therefore, with one of his fellow-officers, proceeded to search Billy, and found something over thirty dollars of good money in his pockets. Billy persisted that he had earned the money by selling papers; but the officers, with much severity, told him to leave off his lying, for boys that sold papers did n't have so much money as that. They knew all about it; he had stolen the money, and he must be locked up till next morning, when he would have his trial. So they took Billy's money from him, and locked him up in a dark gloomy room for the night. A sad night was this for poor Billy. At first he was so bewildered and shocked at the thought of being locked up alone all night, that he hardly realized where he was, or what was going on. As they pushed him into his solitary apartment, and closed the door upon him, and turned the large grating key, he instinctively clung to the door latch, and tried to pull it open. He called to them as loud as he could scream, to open the door and let him out, and they might have all the money in welcome. He could get no answer, however, to his calls; and when he stopped and listened, the silence around him pressed upon him with such appalling power, that he almost fell to the floor. He reeled across the room two or three times, and returned again to the door; but there was no chance to escape, and the conviction was forced upon him that he was indeed locked up, and all alone, without the power of speaking to any living being. He sank down upon a bench in a corner of the room, and wept a long time most bitterly. When his tears had somewhat subsided, and he roused himself up again so as to look about, the night had closed in and left him in such deep darkness that he could not see across the room. He rose and walked about, feeling his way by the walls, and continued to walk a great part of the night, for there was nothing to rest on but the floor or the little bench, and he could not have slept if he had had the softest bed in the world. He could not imagine the cause of his imprisonment, for he was sure he had injured no one; but what grieved him most, was the thought that his poor father and mother were probably without food, as he had been prevented from carrying anything home that evening. At the thought of his mother, his tears gushed forth again in a copious flood.

Towards morning he sank down exhausted upon the floor, and fell into a short sleep. Still he was awake again by daylight, and up and walking the room. The morning seemed long, very long, to him, for it was ten o'clock before the officers came to take him before the magistrate. He was glad to see the door open again, even though it was to carry him to court, for the idea of being tried for stealing was not so horrible to him as being locked up there alone in that dark room.

The money was given to the magistrate, and Billy was placed at the bar to answer to the charge against him. The officer stated that he had found the boy in the street by the description he had of him, and on searching him, the money was found in his pockets.

"Well, that's a clear case," said the magistrate; "precious rogue---large amount for a boy---thirty dollars---that's worth three months' imprisonment; the boy must be locked up for three months."

Billy shuddered, and began to weep.

"It's too late to cry now," said the magistrate, "you should have thought of that before; but, after committing the crime, there's no way to escape the punishment. What induced you to steal this money?"

"I did n't steal it, sir," said Billy, very earnestly.

"Ah, that is only making a bad matter worse," said the magistrate; "the best way for you is to confess the whole, and resolve to reform and do better in future."

"But I did n't steal it," said Billy with increasing energy; "I earnt it, every cent of it!"

"You earnt it!" said the magistrate, peering over his spectacles at Billy; "and how did you earn it?"

"By selling newspapers," said Billy.

There was something so frank and open in the boy's appearance, that the magistrate began to wake up to the subject a little. He asked the officer if the money had been identified by the loser. The officer replied that the particular money had not been identified, only the amount.

"Well, bring the man forward," said the magistrate; "he must identify his money."

The officer then called up Bill Snub, who was stowed away in a distant corner of the room, apparently desirous of keeping out of sight. This was the first intimation that Billy had that his father was his accuser, and it gave him such a shock that he sank down upon the seat, and almost fainted away. The magistrate asked Snub if that was his money, found on the boy. Snub said it was.

"Well, what sort of money was it that you lost?" said the magistrate. "You must describe it."

"Oh, it was---it was all good money," said Snub, coloring.

"But you must be particular," said the magistrate, "and describe the money. What kind of money was it?"

"Well, some of it was paper money, and some of it was hard money," said Snub; "it's all good money."

"But how much of it was hard money?" said the magistrate.

"Well, considerable of it," said Bill; "I don't know exactly how much."

"What banks were the bills on?" said the magistrate.

"Well, I don't know exactly," said Bill, "but I believe it was some of the banks of this city."

"How large were the bills?" said the magistrate.

"Well, some of 'em was larger, and some smaller," said Bill.

"This business does not look very clear," said the magistrate. "What is your name, sir?"

"Bill Snub," was the answer.

"And what is the boy's name?"

"His name is Billy Snub, Sir."

"Is he any connection of yours?" said the magistrate.

"I'm sorry to own it, sir, but he's my only son, bad as he is."

The magistrate, who had been looking over the top of his spectacles some time, now took them off, and fixed his eyes sternly on Bill.

"This business must be unravelled, sir. There is no evidence as yet on either side; but there is something mysterious about it. It must be unravelled, sir."

At this, a little boy of about Billy's age, came forward, and told the magistrate that he knew something about the matter.

"Let him be sworn," said the magistrate; "and now tell all you know about it."

"Well, I've seen Billy Snub selling newspapers 'most every day this three or four months; and I've known him to make as much as a dollar a-day a good many times. And I've known he's been laying up his money all the time, only a little, jest enough to buy his victuals with, and about a quarter of a dollar a day that he took to buy victuals with for his father and mother. And I've been a good many times in the evening, and put the victuals into the window where his father and mother lived, because Billy did n't dare to go himself, for fear his father would catch him, and lick him 'most to death for breaking the rum-bottle when he sent him to get some rum. And I know Billy had got up to about thirty dollars, for I've seen him count it a good many times. And yesterday his father was asking me what Billy was about all the time; and said Billy was a lazy feller, and never would earn anything in the world. And I told him Billy was n't lazy, for he'd got more than thirty dollars now, that he'd earnt selling papers. And then he said, if Billy had got thirty dollars, he'd have it somehow or other before he was two days older."

"You may stop there," said the magistrate; "the evidence is full and clear enough." Then turning to Bill, he continued, with great severity of manner, "and, as for you, sir, for this inhuman and wicked attempt to ruin your own son, you stand committed to prison, and at hard labor for the term of one year." Then he turned to Billy, and said, "Here, my noble lad, take your money and go home and take care of your mother. Continue to be industrious and honest, and never fear but that you will prosper."

The rest of this history is soon told. Billy was really rejoiced at the opportunity of visiting his mother in peace and safety again, and of once more having a home where he could rest in quietness at night. Bill Snub had to serve out his year in prison, but Billy constantly supplied him with all the comforts and necessaries of life which his situation admitted, and always visited him as often as once a week. And when he came out of prison he was an altered man. He joined the temperance society, and quitted the rum-bottle forever. He became more industrious, worked at his trade, and earned enough to support himself and Sally comfortably.

Billy still pursued his profession with untiring industry and great success. He some time since purchased a small house and lot in the outskirts of the city for a residence for his parents; and at this present writing he has several hundred dollars in the savings bank, besides many loose coins profitably invested in various other ways. He is active, healthy, honest, and persevering, and destined beyond doubt to become a man of wealth and honorable distinction, whose name will shine on the page of history as the illustrious head of an illustrious line of Snubs.