tim conducted our hero to an alley-way, not far from the north river, in which an old wagon had come to temporary anchor.

"this is my hotel," he said. "i like it cause it's cheap. they don't trouble you with no bills here. tumble in."

tim, without further ceremony, laid himself down on the floor of the wagon, and sam followed his example. there is everything in getting used to things, and that is where tim had the advantage. he did not mind the hardness of his couch, while sam, who had always been accustomed to a regular bed, did. he moved from one side to another, and then lay on his back, seeking sleep in vain.

"what's up?" muttered tim, sleepily. "why don't you shut your peepers?"

"the boards are awful hard," sam complained.

"it aint nothin' when you're used to it," said tim. "you go to sleep, and you won't mind it."

"i wish i could," said sam, turning again.

finally he succeeded in getting to sleep, but not till some time after his companion. he slept pretty well, however, and did not awaken till, at six o'clock, he was shaken by his companion.

"what's the matter? where am i?" asked sam, feeling bewildered at first.

"why, here you are, in course," said the matter-of-fact tim. "did you think you was in the station-house?"

"no, i hope not," answered sam. "what time is it?"

"i don't know. a chap stole my watch in the night. i guess it's after six. have you got any stamps?"

"no."

"nor i. we've got to stir round, and earn some breakfast."

"how'll we do it?"

"we'll go down to the pier, and wait for the boston boat. maybe we'll get a chance to smash some baggage."

"i hope so," said sam, "for i'm hungry."

"i'm troubled that way myself," said tim. "come along."

when they reached the pier, they found a number of boys, men, and hack-drivers already in waiting. they had to wait about half an hour, when they saw the great steamer slowly approaching the wharf.

instantly tim was on the alert.

"when they begin to come ashore, you must go in and try your luck. just do as i do."

this sam resolved to do.

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

"smash yer baggage?" said tim.

"no, i think not. i can carry it myself."

"i haven't had any breakfast," said tim, screwing up his freckled features into an expression of patient suffering.

"nor i either," said the stranger, smiling.

"you've got money to buy some, and i haven't," said tim, keeping at his side.

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

tim turned half round, and winked at sam, as much as to say, "did you see how i did it?"

sam was quick enough to take the hint.

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

"what?" asked the lady, startled.

"she don't understand," thought sam. "let me carry it for you, ma'am."

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

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

"let me take it, ma'am," he said, thrusting sam aside. "i've got a nice carriage just outside. take you anywhere you want to go."

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

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

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

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

this attracted the attention of the little girl, who, like most little girls, had a tender and compassionate heart.

"is your mother poor?" she asked.

"very poor," said sam. "she hasn't got a cent to buy bread for the children."

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

"five," answered sam, piteously.

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

"well, clara," said her father, indulgently, "i suppose i must gratify you. here, boy, take the bag, and carry it carefully."

"all right, sir," said sam, cheerfully.

"i guess i can get along," he thought, complacently. "that's a good dodge."

"when we get to broadway, we'll take the stage," said the gentleman. "take hold of my hand, tight, clara, while we cross the street."

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

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

"yes," said sam.

"how many of them are boys?"

"there's two boys besides me, and three girls," said sam, readily.

"what are their names?" asked clara.

"why," answered sam, hesitating a little, "there's tom and jim and john, and sam and maggie."

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

"did i?" said sam, rather abashed. "i didn't think what i was saying."

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

"no; he's dead."

"and do you have to support the family?"

"yes; except what mother does."

"what does she do?"

"oh, she goes out washing."

"poor boy, i suppose you have a hard time."

"yes," said sam; "some days we don't get anything to eat."

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

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

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

"i had a good dinner yesterday," said sam. "a gentleman gave me some money for showing him the way to the 'tribune' office."

"one dinner seems to have done you a great deal of good," said the man.

"it always does me good," said sam, and here he had no occasion to tell a falsehood.

"i hope you carried some of the money home to your mother, and brothers and sisters."

"yes, i did; i bought some meat, and mother cooked it. we don't often have meat."

"perhaps i am doing the boy injustice," thought mr. glenham, for this was his name.

as for clara, her childish sympathies were fully aroused.

"papa," she said, "may i give this poor boy the half dollar aunt lucy gave me?"

"i thought you had arranged some way of spending it, clara."

"so i had, papa; but i'd rather give it to this poor boy,"

"you may do as you like, my darling," said her father, tenderly.

"here, poor boy, take this home to your mother," said clara.

my readers have probably inferred already that sam was not a boy of very high principles, but i must do him the justice to say that he felt ashamed to take the money tendered him by the little girl upon whom he had imposed by his false story.

"i don't like to take your money," he said, hanging back.

"but i want you to," said clara, eagerly. "i'd a great deal rather your mother would have it."

"you may take it," said mr. glenham, who was disposed to regard sam with greater favor, on account of the reluctance he exhibited to profit by clara's compassion.

"thank you," said sam, no longer withholding his hand. "you are very kind."

by this time they had reached broadway, and sam delivered up the bag.

mr. glenham handed him a quarter.

"that is for your trouble," he said.

"thank you, sir," said sam.

a broadway stage came up, and they both were lost to view.

sam was in good spirits over his good fortune.

"seventy-five cents!" he said to himself. "that's what i call luck. i don't believe tim's done so well. it aint so hard to make your living in new york, after all. i guess i'll go and get some breakfast."