Paul the Peddler: The Fortunes of a Young Street Merchant

THE BARREL THIEF

While Mike Donovan was engaged in his contest with Paul, his companion had quietly walked off with the shirt.  It mattered very little to him which party conquered, as long as he carried off the spoils.  His conduct in the premises was quite as unsatisfactory to Mike as it was to Paul.  When Mike found himself in danger of being overpowered, he appealed to his companion for assistance, and was incensed to see him coolly disregarding the appeal, and selfishly appropriating the booty.

“The mane thafe!” he exclaimed after the fight was over, and he was compelled to retreat.  “He let me be bate, and wouldn’t lift his finger to help me.  I’d like to put a head on him, I would.”

Just at that moment Mike felt quite as angry with his friend, Jerry McGaverty, as with his late opponent.

“The shirt’s mine, fair,” he said to himself, “and I’ll make Jerry give it to me.”

But Jerry had disappeared, and Mike didn’t know where to look for him.  In fact, he had entered a dark alleyway, and, taking the shirt from the paper in which it was wrapped, proceeded to examine his prize.

The unusual size struck him.

“By the powers,” he muttered, “it’s big enough for me great-grandfather and all his children.  I wouldn’t like to pay for the cloth it tuck to make it.  But I’ll wear it, anyway.”

Jerry was not particular as to an exact fit.  His nether garments were several sizes too large for him, and the shirt would complete his costume appropriately.  He certainly did need a new shirt, for the one he had on was the only article of the kind he possessed, and was so far gone that its best days, if it ever had any, appeared to date back to a remote antiquity.  It had been bought cheap in Baxter street, its previous history being unknown.

Jerry decided to make the change at once.  The alley afforded a convenient place for making the transfer.  He accordingly pulled off the ragged shirt he wore and put on the article he had purloined from Paul.  The sleeves were too long, but he turned up the cuffs, and the ample body he tucked inside his pants.

“It fits me too much,” soliloquized Jerry, as he surveyed himself after the exchange.  “I could let out the half of it, and have enough left for meself.  Anyhow, it’s clane, and it came chape enough.”

He came out of the alley, leaving his old shirt behind him.  Even if it had been worth carrying away, Jerry saw no use in possessing more than one shirt.  It was his habit to wear one until it was ready to drop off from him, and then get another if he could.  There is a practical convenience in this arrangement, though there are also objections which will readily occur to the reader.

On the whole, though the shirt fitted him too much, as he expressed it, he regarded himself complacently.

The superabundant material gave the impression of liberal expenditure and easy circumstances, since a large shirt naturally costs more than a small one.  So Jerry, as he walked along the Bowery, assumed a jaunty air, precisely such as some of my readers may when they have a new suit to display.  His new shirt was quite conspicuous, since he was encumbered neither with vest nor coat.

Mike, feeling sore over his defeat, met Jerry the next morning on Chatham street.  His quick eye detected the improved state of his friend’s apparel, and his indignation rose, as he reflected that Jerry had pocketed the profits while the hard knocks had been his.

“Jerry!” he called out.

Jerry did not see fit to heed the call.  He was sensible that Mike had something to complain of, and he was in no hurry to meet his reproaches.

“Jerry McGaverty!” called Mike, coming near.

“Oh, it’s you, Mike, is it?” answered Jerry, unable longer to keep up the pretense of not hearing.

“Yes, it’s me,” said Mike.  “What made you leave me for last night?”

“I didn’t want to interfere betwane two gintlemen,” said Jerry, with a grin.  “Did you mash him, Mike?”

“No,” said Mike, sullenly, “he mashed me.  Why didn’t you help me?”

“I thought you was bating him, so, as I had some business to attind to, I went away.”

“You went away wid the shirt.”

“Yes, I took it by mistake.  Ain’t it an illigant fit?”

“It’s big enough for two of you.”

“Maybe I’ll grow to it in time,” said Jerry.

“And how much are you goin’ to give me for my share?” demanded Mike.

“Say that ag’in,” said Jerry.

Mike repeated it.

“I thought maybe I didn’t hear straight.  It ain’t yours at all.  Didn’t I take it?”

“You wouldn’t have got it if I hadn’t fit with Paul.”

“That ain’t nothin’ to me,” said Jerry.  “The shirt’s mine, and I’ll kape it.”

Mike felt strongly tempted to “put a head on” Jerry, whatever that may mean; but, as Jerry was a head taller already, the attempt did not seem quite prudent.  He indulged in some forcible remarks, which, however, did not disturb Jerry’s equanimity.

“I’ll give you my old shirt, Mike,” he said, “if you can find it.  I left it in an alley near the Old Bowery.”

“I don’t want the dirty rag,” said Mike, contemptuously.

Finally a compromise was effected, Jerry offering to help Mike on the next occasion, and leave the spoils in his hands.

I have to chronicle another adventure of Jerry’s, in which he was less fortunate than he had been in the present case.  He was a genuine vagabond, and lived by his wits, being too lazy to devote himself to any regular street employment, as boot blacking or selling newspapers.  Occasionally he did a little work at each of these, but regular, persistent industry was out of his line.  He was a drone by inclination, and a decided enemy to work.  On the subject of honesty his principles were far from strict.  If he could appropriate what did not belong to him he was ready to do so without scruple.  This propensity had several times brought him into trouble, and he had more than once been sent to reside temporarily on Blackwell’s Island, from which he had returned by no means improved.

Mike was not quite so much of a vagabond as his companion.  He could work at times, though he did not like it, and once pursued the vocation of a bootblack for several months with fair success.

But Jerry’s companionship was doing him no good, and it seemed likely that eventually he would become quite as shiftless as Jerry himself.

Jerry, having no breakfast, strolled down to one of the city markets.  He frequently found an opportunity of stealing here, and was now in search of such a chance.  He was a dexterous and experienced barrel thief, a term which it may be necessary to explain.  Barrels, then, have a commercial value, and coopers will generally pay twenty-five cents for one in good condition.  This is enough, in the eyes of many a young vagabond, to pay for the risk incurred in stealing one.

Jerry prowled round the market for some time, seeking a good opportunity to walk off with an apple or banana, or something eatable.  But the guardians of the stands seemed unusually vigilant, and he was compelled to give up the attempt, as involving too great risk.  Jerry was hungry, and hunger is an uncomfortable feeling.  He began to wish he had remained satisfied with his old shirt, dirty as it was, and carried the new one to some of the Baxter street dealers, from whom he could perhaps have got fifty cents for it.  Now, fifty cents would have paid for a breakfast and a couple of cigars, and those just now would have made Jerry happy.

“What a fool I was not to think of it!” he said.  “The old shirt would do me, and I could buy a bully breakfast wid the money I’d get for this.”

Just at this moment he espied an empty barrel—­a barrel apparently quite new and in an unguarded position.  He resolved to take it, but the affair must be managed slyly.

He lounged up to the barrel, and leaned upon it indolently.  Then, in apparent unconsciousness, he began to turn it, gradually changing its position.  If observed, he could easily deny all felonious intentions.  This he kept up till he got round the corner, when, glancing around to see if he was observed, he quickly lifted it on his shoulder and marched off.

All this happened without his being observed by the owner of the barrel.  But a policeman, who chanced to be going his rounds, had been a witness of Jerry’s little game.  He remained quiet till Jerry’s intentions became evident, then walked quietly up and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Put down that barrel!” he said, authoritatively.

Jerry had been indulging in visions of the breakfast he would get with the twenty-five cents he expected to obtain for the barrel, and the interruption was not an agreeable one.  But he determined to brazen it out if possible.

“What for will I put it down?” he said.

“Because you have stolen it, that’s why.”

“No,” said Jerry, “I’m carrying it round to my boss.  It’s his.”

“Where do you work?”

“In Fourth street,” said Jerry, at random.

“What number?”

“No. 136.”

“Then your boss will have to get some one in your place, for you will have to come with me.”

“What for?”

“I saw you steal the barrel.  You’re a barrel thief, and this isn’t the first time you’ve been caught at it.  Carry back the barrel to the place you took it from and then come with me.”

Jerry tried to beg off, but without avail.

At that moment Mike Donovan lounged up.  When he saw his friend in custody, he felt a degree of satisfaction, remembering the trick Jerry had played on him.

“Where are you goin’, Jerry?” he asked, with a grin, as he passed him.  “Did ye buy that barrel to kape your shirt in?”

Jerry scowled but thought it best not to answer, lest his unlawful possession of the shirt might also be discovered, and lead to a longer sentence.

“He’s goin’ down to the island to show his new shirt,” thought Mike, with a grin.  “Maybe he’ll set the fashion there.”

Mike was right.  Jerry was sent to the island for two months, there introducing Mr. Preston’s shirt to company little dreamed of by its original proprietor.