Julius, The Street Boy
Horatio Alger
Jr. Horatio Alger
Julius, The Street Boy / or Out West
CHAPTER I.
RETIRED FROM BUSINESS
“Where are you goin’, Julius? Where’s yer blackin’ box?” asked Patrick Riley.
“I’ve retired from business,” said Julius.
“Did yer rich uncle die, and leave yer a fortune?”
“No, but he’s goin’ up the river to Sing Sing, for the benefit of his constitushun, and I’m goin’ West fer my health.”
“Goin’ West? You’re gassin’.”
“No, I ain’t, I’m goin’ in a few days, along of Mr. O’Connor, and a lot of other chaps.”
“Is it far out there?” asked Pat.
“More’n a hundred miles,” said Julius, whose ideas of geography and distances were rather vague.
“Yer don’t mean ter live out there?”
“Yes, I do, I’m goin’ on to a farm, or into a store, and grow up respectable.”
“Won’t yer miss the city, Julius?”
“Likely I will.”
“I don’t think I’d like the country,” said Pat, reflectively. “New York’s a bully place. There’s always something goin’ on. I say, did you hear of that murder in Center Street last night?”
“No; what was it?”
“A feller stabbed a cop that was trottin’ him round to the station house for bein’ tight. There’s always something to make it lively here. In the country there ain’t no murders, nor burglaries, nor nothin’,” concluded Pat, rather contemptuously.
“I hope there’s theayters,” said Julius, thoughtfully. “I like to go when there’s a good lively piece.”
“Have you been to our theayter yet, Julius?”
“Your theayter?”
“Yes, me and some of the boys have got up a theayter. We do the pieces and actin’ ourselves.”
“Where is it?” asked Julius, with lively curiosity.
“It’s No. 17 Baxter Street, down in the basement. We call it �The Grand Duke’s Oprea House.’ We don’t have to pay no rent. It’s Jim Campara’s place, an’ he’s treasurer, so his father don’t charge nothin’.”
“How long have you been goin’, Pat?”
“Most a month. We play every night.”
“Are you doin’ well? Do you make money?”
“Tiptop. I say, Julius, yer must come to-night. It’s my benefit.”
“Do you get all the money that’s took in?”
“No, half goes for expenses. I get the rest.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, I play nigger parts, and dance the jigs.”
“What do you charge for a ticket?”
“Five cents admission, and eight cents reserved seats.”
“That’s cheaper’n Tony Pastor’s.”
“Yes; we can’t expect to get so much as Tony, ’cause yer know we ain’t purfessional. We’re amatoors.”
“How much do you get for your valuable services, Pat?” asked Julius, laughing.
“I’ll tell yer the way we do. Jim Campara—he’s the treasurer—keeps all the stamps till the end of the week, and then it is divided between us. Last week I got three dollars.”
“You did! Well, that’s pretty good pay.”
“Well,” said Pat, “there’s some expenses. I have to pay for my wardrobe.”
“What’s that?”
“My stage clo’es. Besides I have to practice dancin’ in the daytime. I ain’t Pat Riley on the stage.”
“What are you, then?”
“My actin’ name is �Miles O’Reilly.’”
“What made you change?”
“Yer see it sounds grander than Pat Riley.”
“Who acts besides you?”
“Oh, there’s Dan Conroy, Pete Connors, Teddy Sullivan, Jim McGrath, Dick Burke, Jim Gillispie and Campara.”
“If I was goin’ to stay in the city I’d like to play too,” said Julius.
“Maybe you ain’t got a genius for it,” responded the eminent negro comedian. “Lots of boys wants to come in, but we don’t take none if they can’t act. There was Billy Burke wanted to come; but we tried him, an’ he couldn’t play no more’n a stick. We want fellers that’ll draw. You come round to-night, an’ you’ll see what we can do.”
“I guess I will. What number did yo