Ben had a dim comprehension that "chuck" referred to food, and replied that he was not hungry, adding the information that he was only recently become "broke" and that it was the first time in his life such a predicament had overtaken him; whereupon the shoemaker looked at him with commiseration. Indeed he appeared so to sympathize with Ben that that young gentleman was touched, and said:
"I'm very sorry I have not something to give you, for I know how a man in your position must feel, having a wife and four children at a distance and no money to reach them with." But this was not received graciously by the knight of St. Crispin, who looked at Ben suspiciously and gruffly said:
"What are you giving us;—lumps?"
Ben was at a loss for the meaning of "lumps" but answered pleasantly:
"I was speaking of your family; your wife and four children in Philadelphia." This was said so honestly that the man's face cleared up in a moment, and he broke into a coarse laugh.
"Philadelphia be blowed! This town's too fat to leave. Big free lunches. Five cent hang ups. Best town to codge in you ever struck! Give you a reg'lar sit down here. Philadelphia you only get a back door hand-out. Down there they allus think you're after the spoons and cutlery. Don't care a durn what you are after here. All of 'em after sumthin' themselves. All politicians here. Tell 'em you belongs to the Ward. Find out what ward you're in first. Give you big squares. Sometimes wealth—and clo'es. Give you a copper cent in Philadelphia, and make you go before a justice of the peace and swear you won't spend it for drink. Here, don't care a cuss what you spend it for. Philadelphia the lady of the house comes down to see you and ask questions. Here, the servant girl's boss! If she's Irish, say you're a Fenian. If she's Dutch, tell her you've got a sauerkraut wife. If she's a nigger, just tell her you're hungry. Go striking in Philadelphia and they'll hand you over to the police. Strike a man here and he's white! Give him a stiff on some good trade. But look out you don't get caught up. I struck a man this mornin' and give him that I was a blacksmith. Thunder! What you suppose! He took me about six blocks, up to where he lived over his own shop, and give me a big sit down. Then he took me down to the shop and told me he'd give me work for the next three months, and wanted me to go right to business! I pulled off my coat and let on that I'd struck oil at last, an' then, of a sudden, told him I'd a keyster down at a hang up with a leather apron in it, an' I'd have to go after it. He wanted to lend me an apron, but I told him I was so used to this one that I could not work without it nohow.
"You see you must be careful who you strike. But I s'pects you're a fresh one. Now take my advice: unless there's big inducements taking you to New Orleans, don't you leave this town. You're well dressed, an' you look well. Why, with those togs on, and that light over-Benny you can beat the restaurants and lunches for the next twelve months! Tramping aint what it used to be. It's overdone. There's too many working at the business. There's no money in it. You stay here."
Though Ben did not more than half understand what the whilom shoemaker had been saying, he nevertheless realized that he was conversing with a professional parasite,—one of those social excrescences, so many of which are to be found in all large cities. He thanked him, however, for the kind interest He took in his welfare, but reiterated his determination to go to New Orleans.
"Then go by boat. Beat your way on a steamer. Stow away, and when they're off once they can't land you except they run into Havana."
"But I want to go to St. Louis first," said Ben.