and I guess he would if it was so. Now let me go."
"I want dat dollar first."
"You shan't have it."
Nelson had scarcely spoken when Billy Darnley made a sudden clutch for the pocket of his vest.
Much dilapidated, the pocket gave way easily; and in a twinkle the bully was running up the street with five dollars in bills and a bit of cloth clutched tightly in his dirty fist.
"Hi! stop!" cried Nelson, but instead of heeding the demand, the bully only ran the faster. Soon he passed around a corner and down a side street leading to the East River.
Nelson was an excellent runner, and, papers under his arm, he lost no time in making after the thief. Thus block after block was passed, until pursued and pursuer were but a short distance from one of the ferry entrances.
A boat was on the point of leaving, and without waiting to obtain a ferry ticket, Billy Darnley slipped in among the trucks going aboard. A gate-keeper tried in vain to catch him, and then came back and shut the gate, just as Nelson reached it.
"Open the gate!" cried Nelson, so out of breath he could scarcely utter the words. "Open the gate, quick!"
"Go around to the other entrance," replied the gate-keeper, and then added, "Are you after that other newsboy?"
"I am. He stole five dollars from me."
"Five dollars! That's a good one. You never had five dollars in your life. You can't get a free ride on any such fairy tale as that. You go around and buy a ticket, or I'll call a policeman."
In despair Nelson looked through the high, slatted gate and saw that the gates on the ferryboat were already down. A bell jangled, and the big paddle wheels began to revolve. In another moment the boat had left the slip and was on its way to Brooklyn.
"He's gone—and the five dollars is gone, too!" groaned Nelson, and his heart sank. He knew that it would be useless to attempt to follow the bully. Billy would keep out of sight so long as the money lasted. When it was spent he would re-appear in New York and deny everything, and to prove that he was a thief would be next to impossible, for, so far as Nelson knew, nobody had seen the money taken.
He had now but fifty cents left, and a stock of papers worth half a dollar more, if sold. With a heavy heart he walked away from the ferryhouse in the direction from whence he had come.
Nelson had scarcely taken his stand at the corner again when a young lady, very stylishly dressed, came out of a neighboring store, looked at him, and smiled.
"Did you catch him?" she asked sweetly.
"Who, miss; the big boy who stole my money?" questioned Nelson quickly.
"Yes."
"No, ma'am; he got away, on a Brooklyn ferryboat."
"And how much did he steal from you?"
"Five dollars."
"Why, I didn't think—that is, five dollars is a nice sum for a newsboy, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am; but I was saving up for a new suit of clothes."
"And he got away from you? Too bad! I wish I could help you, but unfortunately I have spent all of my money but this." She held out a quarter. "Will you accept it?"
Nelson looked at her, and something compelled him to draw back.
"Excuse me—but I'd rather not," he stammered. "Much obliged, just the same."
"You had better take the money," went on the young lady, whose name was Gertrude Horton. But Nelson would not listen to it, and so she had to place the piece in her purse again. Then she entered the coach standing near and was driven rapidly away. The newsboy gazed after the coach curiously.
"What a lot of money it must take to keep up such style!" he thought. "Those folks spend more in a week, I guess, than some folks on the East Side spend in a year. I don't wonder Sam is always growling about not being rich—after he's been out among the wealthy people he knows. I must say I'd like to be rich myself, just for once, to see how it feels."
Long before noon Nelson's stock of newspapers was exhausted. Without going to Sam Pepper's restaurant for lunch he stopped at a small stand on a side street, where he obtained several crullers and a cup of coffee for five cents. His scanty meal over he purchased a supply of evening papers and set to work to sell these, with the result, by nightfall, that all were gone, and he was thirty-five cents richer.
Sam Pepper's place on the East Side was half a dozen steps below the pavement, in a semi-basement, which was narrow and low and suffering greatly for a thorough cleaning. In the front was a small show window, filled with pies and vegetables, and behind this eight or ten tables for diners. To one side was a lunch counter for those who were in a hurry, and at the back was a small bar. The cooking was done in a shed in the rear, and beside this shed were two rooms which Nelson and Sam Pepper called their home.
The whole place was so uninviting it is a wonder that Sam Pepper had any trade at all. But his prices were low, and this was a large attraction to those whose purses were slim. Besides this Sam never interfered with those who came to patronize him, and it may as well be stated here that many a crime was concocted at those tables, without the police of the metropolis being the wiser. To Sam it made no difference if his customer was the worst criminal on the East Side so long as he paid his way.
"We've all got to live," he would say. "The world owes every man a living, and if he can't git it one way he must git it in another."
The secret of Sam Pepper's looseness of morals was the fact that he had seen better days, and his coming down in the world had caused him to become more and more reckless. At the present time money was tight with him, and he was fast approaching that point when, as we shall soon see, he would be fit for any desperate deed.
CHAPTER III.
SAM PEPPER'S RESORT
"Well, how have you done to-day?" asked Sam Pepper, when Nelson entered the lunch-room and came to the rear, where Pepper stood mixing some liquors.
"Oh, I sold quite a few papers," answered Nelson.
"How many?"
"Over a hundred."
"Then I guess you made over a dollar?"
"I did."
"That's more than I've made to-day," growled Pepper. "Business is growing worse and worse."
Nelson knew that he must have made more than a dollar, but he did not say anything on the point. He saw that Sam Pepper was in an ugly mood.
"It seems to me you ought to begin paying something for your keep," went on the lunch-room keeper, after he had returned from serving the drinks he had been mixing.
"All right, I'm willing," said Nelson readily. "But I don't get much from here now, remember."
"It's not my fault if you are not here at dinner time. Plenty of eating going to waste."
"I am not going to eat other folks' left-overs," said the newsboy, remembering the offer made to him several days before.
"Those left-overs are good enough for the likes of you, Nelson. Don't
