change the subject," said the street boy. "You're gittin' personal, and I don't like personal remarks. What'll you bet I can't tell your name?"
"Bet!" ejaculated the deacon, horrified.
"Yes, gov'nor. I'll bet you a quarter I kin tell your name."
"I never bet. It's wicked," said the old man, with emphasis.
"Well, we won't bet, then," said the boy. "Only, if I tell your name right, you give me ten cents. If I don't get it right, I'll give back this dime you gave me. Aint that fair?"
The deacon might have been led to suspect that there was not much difference between the boy's proposal, and the iniquity of a bet, but his mind was rather possessed by the thought that here was a good chance to recover the money out of which he had been so adroitly cheated. Surely there was no wrong in recovering that, as of course he would do, for how could a ragged street boy tell the name of one who lived a hundred and fifty miles distant, in a small country town?
"I'll do it," said the deacon.
"You'll give me ten cents if I tell your name?"
"Yes, and you'll give me back the money I give you if you can't tell."
"That's it, gov'nor."
"Then what's my name, my boy?" and the deacon extended his hand in readiness to receive the forfeit of a wrong answer.
"Deacon John Hopkins," answered the boy, confidently.
The effect on the old man was startling. He was never more surprised in his life. He stared at the boy open-mouthed, in bewilderment and wonder.
"Well, I declare!" he ejaculated. "I never heard of such a thing."
"Aint I right, gov'nor?"
"Yes, my boy, you're right; but how on earth did you find out?"
"Give me the money, and I'll tell you;" and the boy extended his hand.
The deacon drew the money from his vest-pocket, and handed it to the young Arab, without remonstrance.
"Now tell me, my boy, how you know'd me."
The boy edged off a few feet, then lifted his venerable hat so as to display the whole of his face.
"I'd ought to know you, deacon," he said; "I'm Sam Barker."
"By gracious, if it aint Sam!" ejaculated the old man. "Hallo! stop, I say!"
But Sam was half-way across the street. The deacon hesitated an instant, and then dashed after him, his long cloak floating in the wind, and his hat unconsciously pushed back on the top of his head.
"Stop, you Sam!" he shouted.
But Sam, with his head over his shoulder, already three rods in advance, grinned provokingly, but appeared to have no intention of stopping. The deacon was not used to running, nor did he make due allowance for the difficulty of navigating the crowded streets of the metropolis. He dashed headlong into an apple-stand, and suffered disastrous shipwreck. The apple-stand was overturned, the deacon's hat flew off, and he found himself sprawling on the sidewalk, with apples rolling in all directions around him, and an angry dame showering maledictions upon him, and demanding compensation for damages.
The deacon picked himself up, bruised and ashamed, recovered his hat, which had rolled into a mud-puddle, and was forced to pay the woman a dollar before he could get away. When this matter was settled, he looked for Sam, but the boy was out of sight. In fact, he was just around the corner, laughing as if he would split. He had seen his pursuer's discomfiture, and regarded it as a huge practical joke.
"I never had such fun in all my life," he ejaculated, with difficulty, and he went off into a fresh convulsion. "The old feller won't forget me in a hurry."
CHAPTER II. — SAM'S EARLY LIFE.
Three years before the meeting described in the previous chapter Sam Barker became an orphan, by the death of his father. The father was an intemperate man, and no one grieved much for his death. Sam felt rather relieved than otherwise. He had received many a beating from his father, in his fits of drunken fury, and had been obliged to forage for himself for the most part, getting a meal from one neighbor, a basket of provision from another, and so managed to eke out a precarious subsistence in the tumble-down shanty which he and his father occupied.
Mr. Barker left no will, for the good and sufficient reason that he had no property to dispose of. So, on the day after the funeral, Sam found himself a candidate for the poorhouse. He was a stout boy of twelve, strong and sturdy in spite of insufficient food, and certainly had suffered nothing from luxurious living.
It was a country town in Connecticut, near the Rhode Island border. We will call it Dudley. The selectmen deliberated what should be done with Sam.
"There isn't much for a lad like him to do at the poorhouse," said Major Stebbins. "He'd ought to be set to work. Why don't you take him, Deacon Hopkins?"
"I do need a boy," said the deacon, "but I'm most afeard to take Sam. He's a dreadful mischievous boy, I've heerd."
"He's had a bad example in his father," said the major. "You could train him up the way he'd ought to go."
"Mebbe I could," said the deacon, flattered by this tribute, and reflecting, moreover, that he could get a good deal of work out of Sam without being obliged to pay him wages.
"You could train him up to be a respectable man," said the major. "They wouldn't know what to do with him at the poorhouse."
So the deacon was prevailed upon to take Sam to bring up.
"You're goin to live with me, Samuel," said the deacon, calling the boy to his side.
"Am I?" asked Sam, surveying the old man attentively.
"Yes; I shall try to make a man of you."
"I'll get to be a man anyway, if I live long enough," said Sam.
"I mean I will make a man of you in a moral sense," explained the deacon.
This, however, was above Sam's comprehension.
"What would you like to do when you're a man?" asked the deacon.
"Smoke a pipe," answered Sam, after some reflection.
The deacon held up his hands in horror.
"What a misguided youth!" he exclaimed. "Can you think of nothing better than to smoke a pipe?"
"Dad liked it," said Sam; "but I guess he liked rum better."
"Your father was a misguided man," said the deacon. "He wasted his substance in riotous living."
"You'd ought
