Paul Palmer

THE TRAIN BOY.

By HORATIO ALGER, JR.

Author of "The Errand Boy," "Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy," "Tom Thatcher's Fortune," "Joe's Luck," "Tony, the Hero," etc.

ILLUSTRATED.

NEW YORK
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883,
By Street & Smith,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

CONTENTS

THE TRAIN BOY.

CHAPTER I.
THE TRAIN FOR CHICAGO.

The four o'clock afternoon train from Milwaukee, bound for Chicago, had just passed Truesdell, when the train boy passed through the cars with a pile of magazines under his arm.

He handed them to the right and left for passengers to examine, and after an interval passed back again, to receive pay for any that might be selected, and gather up the rest.

"Here's the latest magazines!" he cried, in a pleasant voice. "Harpers, Scribner's, Lippincott's!"

As he is to be our hero, I will pause a moment to sketch Paul Palmer.

He was a boy of sixteen, of medium height for a boy of that age, with dark brown hair, bright, sparkling eyes, not without a suggestion of mirthfulness, and round cheeks, with a healthful color. It would be hard to find a more attractive-looking boy than Paul.

The first passenger he came to on his return round was an old lady, bordering upon seventy, who was quite unaccustomed to traveling, and knew very little of railways and their customs.

When the magazine had been put in her hands she received it with glad complacency, supposing it to be a gift from the railroad corporation.

She hunted up her spectacles, and was looking at the pictures with considerable interest when Paul touched her on the arm.

"Want my ticket a'ready?" she asked, thinking it to be the conductor.

"No, ma'am," answered Paul, smiling. "Please give me the magazine."

"Why, you give it to me yourself," said the old lady in surprise.

"No, I only handed it to you to examine," said Paul.

"I thought, to be sure, you give it to me, and I was goin' to carry it to my darter Sarah Ann as a present. I'm goin' to spend a week with Sarah Ann."

Paul smiled.

He had met before unsophisticated travelers ready to impart their family affairs to any one sufficiently interested to listen to them.

"You can do it now," he said, "if you will buy the magazine. Every body likes to read Harper's."

"How much do you ax for it?" asked the old lady, cautiously.

"Thirty-five cents."

"Lands sake!" exclaimed the old lady, in dismay. "Thirty-five cents for a picture-book!"

"There's some very nice reading in it, ma'am," said Paul, patiently.

"Maybe there is, but there ain't any covers."

"If there were I should ask a good deal more."

"I'll pay you ten cents," said the old lady, with the air of one who was making a very liberal offer.

"Couldn't take it, ma'am. I should fail if I did business that way," said Paul.

"Well, I guess you'd better take it, then. I can't afford to pay thirty-five cents for a picture-book."

Paul took the magazine, and passed on.

The next passenger was a young lady. She, too, had Harper's magazine in her hand.

"Won't you take fifteen cents for it?" she asked, with a smile, for she had heard the colloquy between Paul and the old lady.

"I am afraid not," said Paul, smiling back, for he understood her.

"Then I must pay your price."

She drew out a purse, through the meshes of which gleamed not only silver but gold, and put half a dollar into Paul's hand.

He was about to return her fifteen cents in change, when she said, pleasantly:

"Never mind. Keep the change for yourself."

"Thank you," answered Paul, politely. "I should be glad of many customers like yourself."

"Have you parents living?" asked the young lady.

"My mother is living, but my father died two years since."

"And I suppose you help your mother with your earnings?"

"Yes, miss, I give them all to her."

"I was sure you were a good boy," said the young lady, with a charming smile. "Tell me, now, do you earn good wages by selling papers and magazines on the train?"

"Yes, miss, more than I could get in a store or office. Last week I made eight dollars. Some lucky weeks I have made as much as eleven."

"Have you no brother or sister?"

"Yes, I have a little sister, ten years old."

"And a brother?"

"I have a half-brother—ten years older than myself," answered Paul, with evident hesitation.

"And does he help your mother also?" inquired the young lady.

Paul shook his head.

"We don't see much of him," he answered. "He isn't very steady, and is more likely to ask help of us than to give it."

"And he is a strong, young man!" exclaimed the young lady, indignantly. "Why, he can't have any sense of pride or honor."

"Not much. We can do better without him than with him."

"It is lucky for your mother and sister that you are different from him."

"That is true enough, miss. I should be ashamed to act like him."

"What is your little sister's name?"

"Grace."

"Why, that is my name. She is a namesake of mine."

"Then I hope she will be like her namesake," said Paul, gallantly.

"I see you are old enough to pay compliments," said the young lady, smiling. "Do you know what I feel like doing?"

"No."

"I am going to send a gift to my namesake. Here;" and, opening her purse once more, she drew from it a two dollar and a half gold piece, and put it into Paul's hand.

"Do you really mean this for Grace?" asked the boy, almost incredulous.

"Certainly."

"Though you never saw her?"

"I have seen her brother," said the young lady, "and I have a very good opinion of him."

"Thank you very much. Grace will be delighted."

"Do you live in Chicago?"

"Yes, miss."

"Some time bring your little sister to call on me. I live with my aunt, Mrs. Sheldon, in Ashland avenue."

She handed Paul her card. Glancing at it, he ascertained that the name of his liberal friend was Grace Dearborn.

"Grace shall certainly come, if only to thank you for her present," said Paul.

After the boy passed on, Mrs. Sheldon, who sat in the seat just behind, said:

"Upon my word, Grace, you are extremely liberal to a perfect stranger."

"No doubt, aunt; but I took a fancy to the boy."

"How do you know he told you the truth?"

"I would stake my life upon his truth," said Grace, warmly.

"Did you ever see him before?"

"Never."

Mrs. Sheldon shrugged her shoulders.

"You must have great confidence in your knowledge of human nature, then," she said.

"I have, aunt," said the young lady, smiling.

"Well, my dear, you are rich, and are quite able to indulge your quixotic liberality."

"Thanks to Providence, aunt."

"And to your father."

The two would have taken seats beside each other had there been an opportunity, but when they entered the car the best they could do was to take outside seats, one directly behind the other.

Miss Dearborn's seat companion was a young man of about thirty, with a complexion preternaturally pale, the pallor being heightened by his intensely black hair and mustache.

He was well dressed, and on the middle finger of his right hand he wore a cameo ring, which was apparently of considerable value.

When Grace Dearborn was holding her colloquy with Paul, the young man glanced from behind the paper he was reading, and took notice of the well-filled purse which she displayed.

There was a covetous glitter in his eyes, which could hardly have been expected from one whose appearance seemed to indicate that he was in easy circumstances.

He noticed also that Grace replaced the purse in a pocket on the side nearest to him.

"I must have that purse," said Luke Denton to himself.

I may as well say that Denton, originally of good family, had so given himself up to evil courses that he had been disowned by his relatives, and was reduced to making a living by preying upon the community.

In fact, he was an unscrupulous adventurer, and not above being a thief.

CHAPTER II.
A LEAP FROM THE TRAIN.

Luke Denton still held the paper before him, and appeared to be reading it; but it had ceased to have an interest for him. He cast furtive glances from behind it at the young lady by his side, and watched for an opportunity to transfer to his own pocket the coveted purse.

This was likely to be more easily effected because Grace Dearborn, though she had taken but slight notice of him, had made up her mind from a casual glance that he was what is technically called a gentleman. That her purse was in danger from a man so well dressed never occurred to her.

It so happened that Grace was an interested observer of nature, and so as the train sped over the road she looked, now out of the windows at one side, now out of them at the other.

To a novice, theft under such circumstances would have been difficult, but it was not the first time Luke Denton had practiced the art of a pickpocket.

He seized the opportunity when Grace was looking across the car, stealthily to insert his hand into her pocket and draw therefrom the well-filled purse, the young lady meanwhile being quite unconscious that she was suffering a loss.

Her aunt, too, had her attention otherwise bestowed, for she was reading the magazine which her niece had just bought of the train boy.

It looked as if Luke would easily be able to escape with his booty before his theft could be discovered. Indeed he had made up his mind to leave the train at Libertyville, a small station close at hand, so as to be out of the way when Grace realized her loss; but, unfortunately for him, there had been an unsuspected witness of his adroit act.

Paul was just entering the car at the moment, and his first glance, not unnaturally, was directed toward the pretty young lady who had shown herself so generous to his little sister.

He was startled when he saw her pocket being picked, and was rather surprised that the gentlemanly looking person at her side should be the thief.

"What shall I do?" he asked himself.

His first impulse was to go forward, apprise Miss Dearborn of her loss, and denounce her seat companion. But this might enable Luke to drop the purse and assume the airs of an innocent man. Perhaps Denton in his rage might even attack him.

Paul therefore framed a different plan.

He passed through the car into the next, where he met the conductor. To him he briefly communicated what he had seen.

"You have done right, Paul," said the conductor, who personally knew him. "Ten to one the gentleman will be for getting out at Libertyville, unless we are beforehand with him. There is no time to be lost, as we are only about a mile from the station. Come back with me."

The conductor entered the car where Grace was seated, with Paul close at his heels.

Luke Denton was looking out of the window, having folded his newspaper.

"In five minutes I shall be safe," thought he, as not far ahead he caught a distant view of the few houses which constituted Libertyville.

The purse he had slipped into the pocket of his pantaloons.

Meanwhile the conductor and Paul had approached, and stood beside the seat.

"Miss Dearborn," said Paul, as the young lady looked up with a smile of recognition, "will you feel for your purse?"

The young lady looked surprised, and Luke Denton startled. He was not ready to commit himself, however, not yet being sure that his agency was suspected.

Grace felt in her pocket, and said, in surprise:

"It is gone!"

"Is it possible?" ejaculated Denton, affecting surprise. "Perhaps it dropped on the floor."

He was trying slyly to get at his pocket to see that the purse was found on the floor, when Paul said:

"It is in that man's pocket!"

All eyes were turned upon Denton, who, with a fierce oath, exclaimed:

"Boy, take care how you insult me!"

"I am only telling the truth," said Paul, steadily.

With a glance of alarm and distrust Grace ran precipitately from her seat, and Luke Denton was not slow in seizing the opportunity to escape.

He jumped up, nearly overturned the conductor, as he dashed down the aisle, flung open the door of the car, and with the recklessness born of desperation and the fear of arrest, with only an instant's hesitation, jumped from the platform!

The train was not going at full speed. As it approached Libertyville if was moving slowly, and probably the rate of speed did not exceed fifteen miles per hour.

"Good heavens, the man will be killed!" said Grace, alarmed.

The conductor sprang to the platform, and so did Paul.

They saw Denton roll over once or twice, and then pick himself up, apparently not seriously injured.

"The fellow is safe!" he said, turning to Miss Dearborn.

"Thank Heaven!"

"But he has carried off your purse."

"I don't care for that. That is, I don't care for it in comparison with the man's life."

"You are more good-natured than many would be who had suffered such a loss."

"There wasn't a large sum of money in the purse," said Grace.

"Do you remember how much?" asked Paul.

"I had fifty dollars when I left Milwaukee."

"And you gave me two dollars and a half for my little sister."

"And bought a Harper's Magazine of you," added Grace, smiling.

"Then there should be forty-seven dollars left," continued the train boy.

"I suppose so. I wish now I had given you the whole of it for your little sister."

"You were very generous as it was, Miss Dearborn."

"Still I think it would have done her more good than the gentleman who so unceremoniously borrowed it."

"Miss Dearborn," said Paul, with a sudden reflection, "now that you have lost all your money, let me hand you back this gold piece."

And he offered her the quarter-eagle which she had given him for his little sister.

"Oh, no, there is no need that I should recall my gift," she said, shaking her head. "To be sure I am temporarily penniless, but my aunt will see that I don't want. Aunt Caroline, is my credit good with you?"

"To be sure, Grace," said the matronly lady whom she addressed.

"And you can certify that the loss of my purse won't embarrass me seriously?"

"I think not," said Mrs. Sheldon, "considering that you have an income of——"

Here she stepped discreetly, just as she was about to reveal an important secret.

"Say six hundred dollars a year," chimed in Grace, laughing. "You see, Paul," she continued, addressing our hero, "you need have no compunctions about keeping my gift to your sister. It won't entail any distressing economy."

They had reached Libertyville, and Paul went out on the platform with his papers.

Of course nothing was to be seen or heard of Denton, who had jumped off the train fully three-quarters of a mile back.

To the station master the conductor hurriedly communicated what had passed, and enjoined him to detain Denton if he should appear at the station, and try to purchase a ticket for the seven o'clock train, which would start a little over an hour later.

Again the train moved on.

"There is no loss without some little gain, Aunt Caroline," said Grace. "As my seat companion has taken French leave, there will be room for you to sit beside me the rest of the journey."

"Rather dearly purchased, Grace," said the elder lady, "since it costs you forty-seven dollars."

"Oh, I consider your company worth that sum," said the young lady, playfully.

"Really, Grace, you have taken your loss very coolly."

"Would it do any good to make a lament over it, aunt?"

"No, perhaps not, but you seem in just as good spirits as if you had lost nothing."

"So I am, but I should not be if I were a poor seamstress, or a milliner's apprentice, for instance. Then it would be a serious thing for me."

"Well, Grace, all I can say is that it would annoy me very much if I had met with such a loss. I dare say I shouldn't sleep to-night."

"That would be foolish, aunt, to lose sleep as well as money."

At seven o'clock the train ran into the depot, and Miss Dearborn and her aunt rose from their seats.

"Can I call a carriage, Miss Dearborn?" asked Paul, politely.

"If you please, Paul."

"My dear, you are too familiar with that boy," said Mrs. Sheldon, while Paul was gone in search of a hack.

"He seems very well bred, aunt, and he is certainly polite and obliging."

"Come and see me, and bring your little sister," said Grace, smiling, as Paul handed her into the hack and closed the door after her.

Paul touched his hat, and then, leaving the depot, bent his steps toward his humble home, where supper and a warm welcome awaited him.

CHAPTER III.
PAUL PALMER AT HOME.

In a small two-story house, not far from the junction of a side street with Lake street, lived Mrs. Palmer, Paul's mother.

It was rather shabby-looking externally, being sadly in want of paint, but Mrs. Palmer's rooms on the second floor were neatly, though plainly furnished, and scrupulously clean.

There was an outside staircase, so that the second floor was independent of the first.

Paul ran up stairs, and opened the door, entering at once into the sitting-room, where his mother and sister were seated.

Mrs. Palmer's face brightened at the sight of Paul. He was always full of life and gayety, and his coming never failed to cheer her.

"So you are back again, Paul," she said, smiling a welcome.

"Yes, mother, and I am hungry, I can tell you. Is supper most ready?"

"It will be in five minutes," said his mother, folding up her work and going into the adjoining room. "I have got some dipped toast for you to-night."

"Just what I like."

"But I delayed putting the toast into the dip till you came. There is some minced meat."

"In other words, hash," said Paul, laughing.

"I think you will find it good, in spite of the name."

"Oh, I am sure to like it, since it is home-made. At the restaurants I am a little afraid; I don't know but it may be made of dogs or cats."

"Do they make it of dogs or cats, Paul?" asked his little sister, curiously.

"I don't know," said Paul; "I won't swear to it. All I know is that there's a lot of dogs and cats that disappear mysteriously every year in Chicago."

Meanwhile Mrs. Palmer had been busily completing her arrangements for supper, and it was ready within the five minutes mentioned.

"Supper's ready, Paul. I haven't made you wait long," she said.

"No, mother; you're always on time, like an express train."

"What sort of a day have you had, Paul? Did you sell much?"

"Yes, more than usual. How much do you think I made?"

"A dollar and a quarter?"

"More than that. A dollar and seventy-five cents."

"That is very good indeed. It would take me a week to make as much as that by sewing."

"They pay mean wages for sewing, mother. I wouldn't slave at that kind of work."

"I shouldn't like to depend upon that kind of work altogether, but I can just as well earn something that way. I don't want you to support Grace and me in idleness."

"No danger of your being idle, mother. That doesn't come natural to you. Some time or other I hope to support you as a lady."

"I hope you will be prospered, Paul; but I shall never be willing to fold my hands and do nothing."

"Then again I don't want always to live in this poor place," pursued Paul.

"It is comfortable. I feel fortunate in having so good a home."

"It would be easier to find a better one if we could afford to pay more rent. Of course this will do for the present. What have you been doing to-day, Grace?"

"I went to school this morning, and I have been studying arithmetic and geography at home since school was over."

"You will become a famous scholar in time, Grace."

"I never expect to know as much as mother," said Grace.

"I hope you will know a good deal more," said Mrs. Palmer.

"You know ever so much, mother."

"You think so now, because I know more than you; but the time will come when you will understand better how little your mother knows."

"Didn't you use to keep school, mother?"

"Yes, but school-teachers don't know everything. Well, Paul, what have you seen to-day? To go to Milwaukee and back would be a great event to Grace and myself in our quiet course of life."

"I've got used to it, mother. It's all in the day's work. Oh, I mustn't forget to tell you a lady had her pocket picked on our train to-day."

"Tell me about it, Paul," said Grace, with eager interest.

So Paul told the story, very much as it has already been told in the last chapter.

"Did the pickpocket really jump off the train when it was going?" asked Grace, her eyes wide open.

"Yes, Grace."

"Did he get hurt?"

"No; the conductor and I watched from the platform, and saw him turn two or three somersets, but he got up quickly and made off."

"It was taking a dangerous risk," said Mrs. Palmer.

"Yes; it is more of a risk than I would take for forty-seven dollars."

"Was that the sum taken?"

"Yes."

"Poor young lady! What a loss it will be to her!"

"She happens to be a rich young lady, mother. She didn't mind it any more than I would if I should lose ten cents, and perhaps not as much."

"Do you think the man will be caught, Paul?"

"I don't know. I suppose he will keep in hiding for awhile. Anyhow, he got off with the money. I suppose he doesn't feel very friendly to me, as I was the one who detected him in the theft."

"Does he know that?"

"Oh, yes."

Mrs. Palmer looked rather alarmed.

"Be on your guard against him, Paul. He may do you a mischief sometime."

"I don't doubt he would like to; but I don't believe he will ride on that railroad again very soon, and I would not recommend him to go about much in Chicago."

"How do you know the lady was rich, Paul?" asked Grace.

"I know more than that. I know what her name is," said Paul.

"What is it?"

"Grace Dearborn."

"Why, her first name is the same as mine."

"So it is. Don't you think she might send a present to her namesake?"

"She doesn't know anything about me," said the little girl.

"Don't be too sure of that."

"How should she?"

"Because I told her. I can tell you something more. She sent you a present."

"Really and truly?" asked Grace, in a flutter of excitement.

"Yes, really and truly. Now what do you hope it is?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. I should like a nice doll. I've got a rag baby, but that isn't as good."

"She didn't send you a doll."

"No; I didn't expect she would; she wouldn't have any with her."

"No; young ladies do not generally carry dolls round with them. Still, you can buy a doll with what she did give you."

Paul drew from his vest-pocket the small gold piece, and handed it to his little sister.

"How much is it, Paul?" asked Grace, who wasn't in the habit of seeing gold coin.

"Two dollars and a half, Gracie."

"Why, that's ever so much money. I can get a nice doll on State street for half a dollar."

"So you can, and keep the rest of the money for something useful."

"Miss Dearborn was very kind," said Mrs. Palmer. "I suppose she made the present before she lost her purse."

"Yes. She invited me to bring Grace to call upon her some day. She lives on Ashland avenue."

"I should like to go, Paul."

"So you shall, Gracie."

Meanwhile all the family had done justice to the supper, which, though certainly very plain, was palatable.

As they rose from the supper-table, Paul took his hat from a peg, and said:

"I'll take a little walk, mother."

"In what direction, Paul?"

"I shall go to Randolph street, and perhaps stroll down as far as State street. It is rather lively that way."

"Very well, Paul. I suppose you won't be out late?"

"Oh, no. I always tell you beforehand when I stay out."

Paul had hardly been gone twenty minutes when an unsteady step was heard on the staircase outside, and there was a loud knock on the outer door.

"I'm afraid it's Stephen," said Mrs. Palmer, nervously. "I wish Paul were at home!"

CHAPTER IV.
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.

Mrs. Palmer herself went to the door and opened it. There entered a thickset young man, of very dark complexion, with an unhealthy color on his bloated cheeks. His dress was disarranged, his hat sat on his head with a rakish slant downward, revealing coarse, unkempt black hair.

"Good-evening, mother," said the new-comer, staggering forward and sinking into the rocking-chair usually occupied by the widow herself.

"Good-evening, Stephen," said Mrs. Palmer, gravely.

"Evenin', sister Grace," said the intruder, looking about for a glimpse of the little girl, who was staring at him uneasily.

The little girl responded reluctantly.

"Where's Paul?" he asked next.

"He's gone out for a short walk."

"No matter. I don't like Paul; he puts on airs. He doesn't treat me with the respect due to a—hic—older brother."

"Paul's a good boy," said Grace, rather indignantly; for, though timid, she was always ready to rush to the defense of her favorite brother.

"Hey! what's that? No impudence, little chicken. Don't you know I'm your brother, and more than twice as old as you?"

Grace was about to reply, but her mother gave her a warning glance.