PATSY TRIB: A TRUE STORY.

Waikato Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2116, 30 January 1886, Page 2 (Supplement)

PATSY TRIB: A TRUE STORY.

' Sat, muter, you gave me fire dollars,' I heard in a panting voice brtrind me, as I was hurrying up Park -row, New York, Into one orening. I turned, and thero was the ragged hoy from whom I had just bought a paper, rushing after me with his bundle of papers under his arm and a five dollar gold pieoo clasped tight in his dirty hand. ' You gave me this instead of tuppence,' he panted, as bo came up to mo holding out, the coin. 1 Why didn't you keep it V I asked, as I took it, and felt in my pocket for some loose change. The boy hesitated, seemed puzzled for a moment, then answered in a hesitating fashion, ' I dunno, sir.' His manner showed plahly that the thought of keeping the coin had flashed through his mind and had been dismissed —why ho ovidently could not explain. My impulse was to follow the example of the rich man in his story and say — ' Here, my noble boy, keep the money, and here is another five as a reward for your honesty. Always remember that honesty is the best policy.' But no matter how willing I might have been to let the boy have the money as a reward of virtue, my raoagro salary as c reporter compelled me to think twice before I gave five dollar* lightly, so, as I felt sort of lazy curiosity to talk further with him I compromised with myself by saying—' Do you want to come down to Hitchcock's, and get something to eat ?' He accepted with alacrity, and we went down the steps side by side, the news gatherer and the news-seller, down into that Delmonico's of the newspaper man where the reporter, pressman, newsboy, and editor sit side by side eating such baked beans and drinking such coffee as can be found nowhere else in the city. Wo seated ourselves at one of the wooden tables, and as the waiter approached, the boy glanced at me enquiringly — ' What can I have Vhe asked. 1 Anything you warm, was my careless reply, as I ordered a cup of coffee and a plato of cakes for myself. ' Plate of beef nbeans'n cup of coffee, was his order in response to an enquiring look from the waiter, then in an apologetic tone as he turned to me, ' I'm sort o' sharp set, I didn't have nothin' for dinner, 'cept a napple.' 'Eat all you can; I'll pay for it,' I said, rapidly becoming interested in the boy. 'What is your name?' I enquired, while we were waiting for the arrival of our order. 1 Patsy.' 'Patsy what! What is your last name ?' I pursued. 'I dunno. I guess I didn't have no last name. The boys used to call me Patsy Trib, 'cause I used ter sell "The Tribune." Now I sell all the papers. I guess if they called me that way, my name would be too long to say it all in one day.' Our supperj came, and for a few minutes he was too busy making away with the beans to answer my questions. As soon as there was » lull in the knife and fork exercise I acked— 'How long have you been a newsboy ?' ' Ever since I can remember,' was the laconic reply. ' Do you live with your father and your mother ?' I continued. Patsy gave a short laugh. 'I used ter think I never had any father and mother ; anyhow I never remember 'em. The first thine I remember was a livid' in a cellar down iv Cherry street, and a sellin' papers for old Mag, what kept a stand over in front of the ".Staat Zeitung." Pretty soon I found the other fellers was makin' money, and I was givin' all mine to Mag, so I skipped.' ' You nave been working for yourself since ?' 'Yes, sellin' papers, blackin' boots, and runnin' errands. I have got ten dollars saved np in the Newsboys's Home. I live there now. I'm savin' up so as to go off and work on a farm.' ' Do you think you would like that ?' ' I know I would. I like horses and cows, and they like me. I worked in the car-stables one time when a feller was sick.' I was rapidly becoming interested in the boy. He could not have been over fourteen. He had the sharp features, the quick look, and the nonchalant | manner of speech which characterises the street Arab, but with it he had something more ; a clear eye and an honest way of looking one straight in the face when he spoke, and a frankness of manner which had not yet been lost by the adverse circumwith which he was surrounded. But I was on duty, and had already spent too much time with him. So giving him a dollar, with injunctions to add it to hit savings, I left him. For perhaps six months I saw him every day on Parkrow and Nassau street, and occasionally stopped to ask him how his bank account was getting on, or to luy » paper. He always answered me very respectfully, and evidently regarded me with much awe, for I overheard him telling one of his companions one day — 'That's a reporter, he is ; he took me down to Hitchcock's one night and treated me to coffee and beaus, just as if I was an editor.' I passed on with a smile at the boy's idea of reportorial and editorial courtesy, and as time wore on I must confess that the interest I had felt in the boy was gradually crowded out of my mind in that sharp struggle for existence which is the lot of the average journalist. Late one night I was sitting in the city room of the paper on which I was employed, just thinking of going home, when the sharp ring of the telephone bell aroused my attention. The night city editor sprang to the instrument, and after a few moments' conversation he turned to me and said — ' Mr Dcming, run up to the Chambers street Hospital and find out about the woman who jumped into the river. I hear from police headquarters that a woman and a boy were rescued by the police boat and taken to the hospital. See what there is In it.' It was a bitter night, and my temper was by no means improved by the occasional flurry of sleet which dashed into my face, or the guests of wind which caught the long tails of my ulster and twisted them around my legs, making looomotion difficult. When I reached the hospital I found out briefly that an unknown woman had jumped from the pier at the foot of Maiden lane, that a newsboy had jumped after her and endeavoured to save her, but that had it not been for the opportune arrival of the police boat both would have perished. As it was the woman was insensible, and probably would not live. The boy was getting on very well. * ' What is the woman's name ?' I enquired, looking up from my notes. 1 She's insensible, and jwe can't tell,' was the answer. ' What is the boy's name ?' I punned. ' He calls himself Patey Trib.' ' Patsy Trib !' I exclaimed ; ' can I see him?' I was taken into the ward, and there, on a clean white cot, lay my young friend. He was cleaner than I had ever seen him before, for it must be admitted that cleanliness was not one of Patsy's virtues. I went to his bedside. ' Well, Patsy, how do you like swimming in January ?" I said. He turned his head and leoked up at me. The boy seemed really handsome now that his face was washed and his hnir had been combed. ' Tell me about it,' I continued. ' Well, you see, I was down on the dock, and the first thing I see there was the woman a-walkin' to the end. When she got there she looked into the water, and I couldn't rightly say whether she fell in or jumped; anyhow, over she went, and I soused in after her. She grabbed me round the neck, and if it hadn't been for the oops we'd both a' been goners. Say, are you goin' to interview me ?' he added. < I smiled assent.

1 And will my name be in the paper ?' 1 Yea.' ' Oh, Jimminy !' ho exclaimed, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes ; " our reporter called upon Mr Patsy Trib in tbo Chambors street hospital, and after a hearty welcomo from that well- known chap, the following conversation ensued.' Ih that the kind ?*' he added laughingly ; " I didn't think I'd ever git my name in the paper I'm a«selling.' " A few minutes' more conversation and I was obliged to return to the office. I took good care to send a papor to Patsy the next day, and he had the pleasure of seeing his name in print. I called to see tho boy several timos, and just a day or two before the doctors said he was well enough to leave, an old undo of mine camo into the office to see me. After tho usual greetings, ho said doubtfully — 'Id»n't 'sposo you know of any good boy I can get to work on tho farm ? I'm about sick of hired men, and I reckon if I could got a good boy, I'd give him a homo and treat him right.' ' I know of just the one,' I replied in* j «tantly; ' he's a newsboy—' ! 'I don't want him. Deacon Smith had one from the Newsboys' Home, and such a rogue you never see.' * But mine is different,' and I briefly related what I knew of Patsy. An I concluded I saw my undo was touched, and I added a few words of recommendation of my own. ' I'll take him if he'll come,' explained the old gentleman ; and wo started up to the hospital to see Patsy. When I propostd the scheme he was delighted, and so pleased my uncle with his enthusiasm that the next day they both left for tho farm down on Long Island. For the next two yeara I lost sight of Patsy, and it was not until when three years of hard work at the city desk entitled me to a two weeks' vacation that I saw him. When I decided to go to my uncle's to enjoy my holiday on the farm, T felt a slight curiosity as to how Patsy was getting on, and at I left the train at the little wayside station, and was looking around for my uncle, 1 was somewhat surprised when a young man stepped toward me with outstretched hand, saying — "You don't remember me, Mr Doming ?' For a moment I did net, but a second look convinced me ; the clear grey eyes and frank expression of the face were tho same ; but in the till stalwart figure and the muioular hand there was indeed a change. When we reached the house my uncle told me that he never had a better boy. ' He's a good farmer and a good boy, and he's going to marry a good girl, ef I ain't mistaken. He's been sort o' settin' up to one of Spragne's gals, and ef he marries her 111 let him have the other house and the north end of the farm to work until he can pay for it. I'm gettfn' too old to work the whole place anyhow.' The rest of the story can be told in a few words. Pafay married the " Sprague gal," and the next time I visited the old place, I stopped at his own house with him. As we were walking around his well-tilled fields one Sunday afternoon, he tnrned to me with a quiet smile and , said — • A pretty nice place, isn't it ?' I assented. 'And it all came from a five-dollar piece. That night yon gave me that coin I held it in my hand, and thought I'd keep it and go to the theatre, but I could not. So I ran and gave it back to you ; and this,' he added, glancing proudly round his farm, 'is the investment.' I don't believe in drawing a moral from every true story. But one can't help noticing how small and insignificant was the action which formed the turning* point in the boy's life, and transformed the street gamin, Petsy Trib, into Mr Trib, the man, successful, and respected.