Chapter XX In New York City - Dave Porter and his Double by Edward Stratemeyer
“Dave Porter!”
“Buster Beggs!” cried our hero, his face lighting up. “Where in the world did you come from?”
“Just got off the accommodation coming the other way,” announced Joseph Beggs, otherwise known as Buster, a fat youth who had long been one of Dave’s Oak Hall classmates.
“Are you alone?” questioned our hero. He had just stepped from the local train to change to the express for New York City; and he had fairly run into Buster, who was standing on the platform flanked by several suitcases.
“No, I’m not alone,” answered the fat youth. “Shadow Hamilton and Luke Watson are with me.”
“You don’t say so!” and our hero’s face showed his pleasure. “Are you bound for New York?” he questioned quickly.
“Yes, we are going to take the express.”
“Fine! I am going there myself.”
“Got a seat in the parlor car?”
“Yes. Number twelve, car two.”
“Isn’t that wonderful! We have eleven, thirteen and fourteen!” answered Buster Beggs.
“Hello there, Dave Porter!” shouted another youth, as he stepped out of the waiting-room of the depot. “How are you anyway?” and he came up, swinging a banjo-case from his right hand to his left so that he might shake hands. Luke Watson had always been one of the favorite musicians at Oak Hall, playing the banjo and the guitar very nicely, and singing well.
“Mighty glad to see you, Luke!” cried Dave, and wrung the extended hand with such vigor that the former musician of Oak Hall winced. Then Dave looked over the other’s shoulder and saw a third lad approaching–a youth who was as thin as he was tall. “How is our little boy, Shadow, to-day?” he continued, as Maurice Hamilton came closer.
“Great Scott! Am I blind or is it really Dave Porter?” burst out Shadow Hamilton.
“No, you’re not blind, Shadow, and it’s really yours truly,” laughed Dave. And then as another handshake followed he continued: “What are you going down to New York City for? To pick up some new stories?”
“Pick up stories?” queried the former story teller of Oak Hall, in perplexity. “I don’t have to pick them up. I have–”
“About fourteen million stories in pickle,” broke in Buster Beggs.
“Fourteen million!” snorted Luke Watson. “You had better say about fourteen! Shadow tells the same stories over and over again.”
“Say, that puts me in mind of a story!” cried the youth mentioned, his face lighting up. “Once on a time there was a–”
“Oh, my, Shadow! are you going to start right away?” demanded Dave, with a broad grin on his face. “Can’t you give a fellow a chance to catch his breath? This is a great surprise–meeting you three on my way to the city. And to think we are going to be together in one of the parlor cars, too!”
“Oh, you can’t lose the Oak Hall boys!” cried Buster. “Say, let me tell you something,” he went on. “Luke has written a song about Oak Hall that is about the finest thing I ever heard.”
“It ought to be if it mentions us,” answered Dave, with a boldness that took away much of the conceit.
“Say, you haven’t let me tell that story!” interrupted Shadow, with a disconcerted look on his thin face. “Now, as I was saying, there was once a–”
“Not now, Shadow!”
“You can tell it on the way to New York!”
“Provided the conductor will give you written permission.”
“Not much!” returned the would-be story-teller. “If I can’t tell that story now, I’m going to be mum forever.” He suddenly looked at Dave. “What is taking you to New York?” he inquired.
“I’m on my way to Texas,” answered Dave, and then told his former classmates of how he and Roger had passed the preliminary examination as civil engineers and of how they were now going to take up field work in the Lone Star State.
“Say, that’s great!” exclaimed Buster, in admiration. “I wish I was going to do something like that.”
“So do I,” added Luke, while Shadow nodded in assent.
The other lads had many questions to ask, and in return told Dave much about themselves. In the midst of the conversation the express train for the metropolis rolled in and the four youths lost no time in clambering aboard. They found their seats with ease, and quickly settled themselves.
“That’s a fierce loss that the Basswoods sustained,” remarked Luke. “I read all about it in the newspapers. That fellow, Ward Porton, must be a peach.”
“I should say he was a lemon so far as Dave was concerned,” said Buster, with a slow wink of his eye.
“Speaking of peaches puts me in mind of another story,” cried Shadow. “A man had a tree in his garden and–”
“Oh, Shadow, why this infliction!”
“Have we really got to listen?”
“How much will you pay us if we keep still until you have finished?”
“Yes, you’ve got to listen, and I won’t pay you a cent for it, either,” retorted the would-be story-teller. “This is a short one. A man had a fruit-tree in his garden, and he told a friend of his that he got three kinds of fruit from it. His friend didn’t believe it, so he told his friend: ‘Why, it was dead easy. I went out in the garden to pick an apple. I picked one, and then I picked a pair. One was no good, but another was a peach.’”
“Wow! listen to that!”
“Shadow must have had a peach of a time getting up that story,” commented Luke, evidently feeling himself justified.
“Good thing there are not a pair of them,” came from Dave.
“Such stories are the fruits of idleness,” was added by Buster, solemnly.
“Oh, don’t you poke fun at that joke,” retorted Shadow. “It’s a good deal better than any you could get up.”
Dave learned that Luke Watson’s folks were now living in New York City, and that Luke had invited Buster and Shadow to spend a week with him.
“It’s too bad you can’t stop off, at least for a day or two,” said Luke to Dave. “It would suit me down to the ground to have you join us.”
“And I’d like first-rate to do it, Luke,” answered our hero. “But I promised to be in Washington by to-morrow, and that means that I’ve got to take the midnight train from New York City.”
“Well, we’ll get down to New York by three o’clock this afternoon. That will give us nine hours in which to have a good time. You’ve got to come up to our house for dinner,” continued Luke; and so it was arranged.
“I was wondering what I would do with myself this evening,” said our hero. “I don’t mind going around the city in the daylight, but after it is dark it is rather hard for a stranger to put in his time, unless he wants to go to some kind of show.”
“We might all go to a moving-picture show after dinner,” suggested Buster. “I’ll blow you to front seats,” he added generously.
“You’ll have to make it a seat farther back than that for me,” put in Shadow. “A front seat at a moving-picture show is no good,” and at this there was a general snicker.
“We’ll see about the show after we have had dinner,” said Luke.
The time on the train was spent in talk about Oak Hall and their numerous classmates, many of them now well scattered throughout the States.
“Polly Vane has gone into business, so I hear,” announced Luke. “He’s in real estate, and in spite of the fact that he’s a regular dude they tell me he is doing very well.”
“Well, Polly ought to do well,” answered Dave, who had not forgotten that the student who acted so very girlishly had at graduation stood as high in his percentage as our hero himself had done.
“And they say Chip Macklin is doing pretty well, too,” put in Buster, referring to a small lad who had once been a toady to Gus Plum, the Hall bully.
“Well, Plum is doing well,” returned Dave. “I’m glad he reformed. Evidently there was much better stuff in him than there was in Jasniff and Merwell.”
“Oh, Jasniff and Merwell were thoroughly bad eggs,” announced Luke. “I’ll never forget, Dave, how Jasniff once tried to brain you with an Indian club.”
“Say, speaking about bad eggs, puts me in mind of another story,” cried Shadow. “A lady went into a store and asked the store-keeper’s clerk how much the eggs were. The clerk–Now don’t interrupt me, because this isn’t a very long story,” pleaded the would-be story teller. “The clerk was only a small boy, and he hadn’t been in the business very long, so he told the lady, ‘The really fresh eggs are fifty cents, and the almost fresh eggs are forty cents, and those that ain’t so fresh are thirty-five cents, and the rotten eggs are thirty cents.’”
“Oh, Shadow! what a story!”
“Haven’t you got any fresher than that?”
“You can’t make anybody believe any such yarn as that.”
“That story is absolutely true,” returned the story teller, soberly. “If you don’t believe it, you come down to the town of Necopopec, Maine, and on the principal street of the town I’ll show you the town pump where that boy used to get a drink three times a day,” and at this sally there was a general laugh.
At last the train rolled into the Grand Central Terminal at Forty-Second Street, New York City, and, alighting, the lads made their way through the spacious depot to the crowded thoroughfare beyond. Here taxicabs were numerous, and the youths piled into one, leaving the driver to look after their suit-cases. Dave’s trunk had been checked through to Washington.
Luke’s family lived in the vicinity of Central Park, and it did not take the chums long to reach the home. Here they were greeted by Mrs. Watson, Luke’s father being away on business. Then Luke took the lads up to his own room, where all proceeded to make themselves at home.
At a little after five Mr. Watson came in to greet them, and about an hour later all sat down to a sumptuous dinner, to which it is needless to say each of the boys applied himself diligently.
“I see by the papers that they are showing a very fine war spectacle at one of the photo-play houses,” announced Luke. “How would you fellows like to go and see it?”
This was agreeable to all, and a little later the chums left the Watson house to go to the theater, which was about ten blocks farther downtown.
“If we get there by half-past seven, we can take in the first show of the evening,” announced Luke. “That will give us a chance to do some other things before it is time for Dave to catch his train.”
The war spectacle proved very entertaining to all the youths, and they were rather sorry when it came to an end. Then Buster proposed that they walk down the Great White Way, as a certain portion of Broadway has been designated.
The boys had been walking for the best part of half an hour, taking in various sights, including the wonderfully illuminated signs, when suddenly, as they passed through a rather dense crowd, Shadow plucked Dave by the arm.
“What is it?” questioned our hero, quickly, for he saw that the former story-teller of Oak Hall was much excited.
“That fellow we just passed, Dave!” cried Shadow.
“What of him?”
“Why, he looked just like you!”
“You don’t mean it!” gasped Dave, and came to a sudden halt. “If he looked like me it must have been Ward Porton!”