The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1881-03-30
MY FIRST PARTNER.
BY STEPHEN FIsKE.

It had been warm night at Pfaf's. and
afterward at the Jones House. Willie
Winter had propounded his favorite theory
that this life is not worth living. Harry
Clapp, our private Socrates, had replied
that the enjoyment of life depended en-
tirely upon the liver. There had been an
argument and beer; more argument and
more beer; en- adjournment to Clapps room,
and whisky to settle the beer and the argu-
ment. At last I started to walk down
Broadway to the Star Hotel. kept by the
dear old Widow Hodgson, in Leonard street,
where then resided, and some blocks be-
low Canal street was accosted by a little
boy, who said, feebly but clearly:
%Plesse, sir, will yer give me some work
to do for yer2'
looked down at the boy. All the en-
ployes necessary to my comfort az that time
were provided by the Widow Hodgson, at
the hotel, and AIR. Bennett, at the Herald
Office. The idea of my employing anybody
was absurd. So / shook my head CURLY,
and walked on.
81 can turn a hand to most anything"
persisted the boy, keeping step with ME.
"Why do you want workT
"Becos Pm busted-and hungry" said the
boy.
Hungry That stopped me. / leaned
against a lamP-post, and began to question
this little beggsr for work.
whats your manner"
paddy from Cork, they calls mo-"
"Are you from Cork2"
"Dunne, SIR"
"Are you Paddy"
Dunno"
"Who calls you sol"
"T'other boys"
allow old are your"
"Dunno."
where's your father2"
dunno"
Your mother?"
Dunno"
"What do you do for living2"
''Sells papers when i kin git 'em-run
rrrands-anythink."
Where do you sleep2"
wherever 1 kin git chance-any-
where"
"No homer"
"No, goes wild de boys down town."
"Don't remember where you were born,
whether YOU ever had father or mother,
how you grew up-don't know anything
about it7"
"No more'n tell yer"
"You say you are busted What does
that mean7"
''Got stuck wild me papers-dead broke"
Haven't been bling-heads and tails
-eh?"
"Got nothink to gamble wild"
''Some big boy hasn't robbed you-the
usual story-of your last hard-earned cent?"
"Not much" cried the boy, with flash of
spirit, as if he meant 81 should like to see
him try it,"
'And you say you are hungry. Well,
come along, and I'll get you something to
eat"
We wheeled about and walked up Broad
way until we came to one of those cellar
restaurants open all night, whose coffee and
cakes are still dear to the memories of old
New Workers. Paddy from Cork mounted
stool at my invitation, and politely in
quired:
"Well. what will you haveY An oyster
stew2"
NO." replied the boy, much to my sur
prise, for / had always found an oyster stew
the highest luxury to which beggar as
pired. mo; stew's good, but they don't
stay wild yer. Kin have somethink solid
plate of pork and beans7"
SGiye the boy whatever he wants" / said
N the landlord, and my guest was soon eat
ing Ike famished wolf.
HIS reply had struck me like blow. He
was not, apparently, more than nine or ten
years cid. Think of an experience of hun
ger at that age, so shrewd and mssterful
that he estimated the value of food by the
length OS time it would "stay with" him,
and that he had learned 10 decline the lux
try ofoysters in favor of coarser but more
s1bstantial farel / no longer smiled supe-
riOr upon Paddy from Cork. He had taught
Inc a lesson which L have never forgotten
viii you have cup of eofee2' asked.
alike coffee, but waters good 'nuff," he
answered, with his mouth full.
''Give him some coffee and piece Of pie,
landlord. When you've eaten down that
hunger, Paddy, L want to talk with you"
He was little boy, and dressed in rough
clothes, several sizes too big for him;
frock coat that dragged about his heels; one
boot and one shoe, both too large; an old
felt hat, slouched over his freckled face.
His hands were dirty, and so, suppose was
his face, but 1 couldn't see that for the food
be was hesping before IT, His only pre-