When Jack turned away from the entrance to Central Park, he found much of the Sunday quiet gone.  It was nearly half-past ten o’clock; the sidewalks were covered with people, and the street resounded with the rattle of carriage-wheels.

There was some uneasiness in the mind of the boy from Crofield.  The policeman had impressed upon Jack the idea that he was not at home in the city, and that he did not seem at home there.  He did not know one church from another, and part of his uneasiness was about how city people managed their churches.  Perhaps they sold tickets, he thought; or perhaps you paid at the door; or possibly it didn’t cost anything, as in Crofield.

“I’ll ask,” he decided, as he paused in front of what seemed to him a very imposing church.  He stood still, for a moment, as the steady procession passed him, part of it going by, but much of it turning into the church.

“Mister ,” he said bashfully to four well-dressed men in quick succession; but not one of them paused to answer him.  Two did not so much as look at him, and the glances given him by the other two made his cheeks burn he hardly knew why.

“There’s a man I’ll try,” thought Jack.  “I’m getting mad!” The man of whom Jack spoke came up the street.  He seemed an unlikely subject.  He was so straight he almost leaned backward; he was rather slender than thin; and was uncommonly well dressed.  In fact, Jack said to himself:  “He looks as if he had bought the meeting-house, and was not pleased with his bargain.”

Proud, even haughty, as was the manner of the stranger, Jack stepped boldly forward and again said: 

“Mister?”

“Well, my boy, what is it?”

The response came with a halt and almost a bow.

“If a fellow wished to go to this church, how would he get in?” asked Jack.

“Do you live in the city?” There was a frown of stern inquiry on the broad forehead; but the head was bending farther forward.

“No,” said Jack, “I live in Crofield.”

“Where’s that?”

“Away up on the Cocahutchie River.  I came here early this morning.”

“What’s your name?”

“John Ogden.”

“Come with me, John Ogden.  You may have a seat in my pew.  Come.”

Into the church and up the middle aisle Jack followed his leader, with a sense of awe almost stifling him; then, too, he felt drowned in the thunderous flood of music from the organ.  He saw the man stop, open a pew-door, step back, smile and bow, and then wait until the boy from Crofield had passed in and taken his seat.

“He’s a gentleman,” thought Jack, hardly aware that he himself had bowed low as he went in, and that a smile of grim approval had followed him.

In the pew behind them sat another man, as haughty looking, but just now wearing the same kind of smile as he leaned forward and asked in an audible whisper: 

“General, who’s your friend?”

“Mr. John Ogden, of Crofield, away up on the Cookyhutchie River.  I netted him at the door,” was the reply, in the same tone.

“Good catch?” asked the other.

“Just as good as I was, Judge, forty years ago.  I’ll tell you how that was some day.”

“Decidedly raw material, I should say.”

“Well, so was I. I was no more knowing than he is.  I remember what it is to be far away from home.”

The hoarse, subdued whispers ceased; the two gentle men looked grim and severe again.  Then there was a grand burst of music from the organ, the vast congregation stood up, and Jack rose with them.

He felt solemn enough, there was no doubt of that; but what he said to himself unconsciously took this shape: 

“Jingo!  If this isn’t the greatest going to church I ever did!  Hear that voice!  The organ too what music!  Don’t I wish Molly was here!  I wish all the family were here.”

The service went on and Jack listened attentively, in spite of a strong tendency in his eyes to wander among the pillars to the galleries, up into the lofty vault above him, or around among the pews full of people.  He knew it was a good sermon and that the music was good, singing and all especially when the congregation joined in “Old Hundred” and another old hymn that he knew.  Still he had an increasing sense of being a very small fellow in a very large place.  When he raised his head, after the benediction, he saw the owner of the pew turn toward him, bow low, and hold out his hand.  Jack shook hands, of course.

“Good-morning, Mr. Ogden,” said the gentleman gravely, with almost a frown on his face, but very politely, and then he turned and walked out of the pew.  Jack also bowed as he shook hands, and said, “Good-morning.  Thank you, sir.  I hope you enjoyed the sermon.”

“General,” said the gentleman in the pew behind them, “pretty good for raw material.  Keep an eye on him.”

“No, I won’t,” said the general.  “I’ve spoiled four or five in that very way.”

“Well, I believe you’re right,” said the judge, after a moment.  “It’s best for that kind of boy to fight his own battles.  I had to.”

“So did I,” said the general, “and I was well pounded for a while.”

Jack did not hear all of the conversation, but he had a clear idea that they were talking about him; and as he walked slowly out of the church, packed in among the crowd in the aisle, he had a very rosy face indeed.

Jack had in mind a thought that had often come to him in the church at Crofield, near the end of the sermon: he was conscious that it was dinner-time.

Of course he thought, with a little homesickness, of the home dinner-table.

“I wish I could sit right down with them,” he thought, “and tell them what Sunday is in the city.  Then my dinner wouldn’t cost me a cent there, either.  No matter, I’m here, and now I can begin to make more money right away.  I have five dollars and fifty cents left anyway.”

Then he thought of the bill of fare at the Hotel Dantzic, and many of the prices on it, and remembered Mr. Guilderaufenberg’s instructions about going to some cheaper place for his meals.

“I didn’t tell him that I had only nine dollars,” he said to himself, “but I’ll follow his advice.  He’s a traveler.”

Jack had been too proud to explain how little money he had, but his German friend had really done well by him in making him take the little room at the top of the Hotel Dantzic.  He had said to his wife: 

“Dot poy!  Vell, I see him again some day.  He got a place to shleep, anyhow, vile he looks around und see de ceety.  No oder poy I efer meets know at de same time so moch and so leetle.”

With every step from the church door Jack felt hungrier, but he did not turn his steps toward the Hotel Dantzic.  He walked on down to the lower part of the city, on the lookout for hotels and restaurants.  It was not long before he came to a hotel, and then he passed another and another; and he passed a number of places where the signs told him of dinners to be had within, but all looked too fine.

“They’re for rich people,” he said, shaking his head, “like the people in that church.  What stacks of money they must have?  That organ maybe cost more than all the meeting-houses in Crofield!”

After going a little farther Jack exclaimed;

“I don’t care!  I’ve just got to eat!”

He was getting farther and farther from the Hotel Dantzic, and suddenly his eyes were caught by a very taking sign, at the top of some neat steps leading down into a basement: 

“DINNER.  ROAST BEEF.  TWENTY-FIVE CENTS.”

“That’ll do.” said Jack eagerly.  “I can stand that.  Roost beef alone is forty cents at the Dantzic.”

Down he went and found himself in a wide comfortable room, containing two long dining tables, and a number of small oblong tables, and some round tables, all as neat as wax.  It was a very pleasant place, and a great many other hungry people were there already.

Jack sat down at one of the small tables, and a waiter came to him at once.

“Dinner sir?  Yessir.  Roast beef, sir?  Yessir.  Vegetables?  Potatoes?  Lima-beans?  Sweet corn?”

“Yes, please,” said Jack.  “Beef, potatoes, beans, and corn?” and the waiter was gone.

It seemed to be a long time before the beef and vegetables came, but they were not long in disappearing after they were on the table.

The waiter had other people to serve, but he was an attentive fellow.

“Pie sir?” he said, naming five kinds without a pause.

“Custard-pie,” said Jack.

“Coffee, sir?  Yessir,” and he darted away again.

“This beats the Hotel Dantzic all to pieces,” remarked Jack, as he went on with his pie and coffee; but the waiter was scribbling something upon a slip of paper, and when it was done he put it down by Jack’s plate.

“Jingo!” said Jack in a horrified tone, a moment later.  “What’s this?  ’Roast beef, 25; potatoes, 10; Lima-beans, 10; corn, 10; bread, 5; coffee, 10; pie, 10:  $0.80.’  Eighty cents!  Jingo!  How like smoke it does cost to live in New York!  This can’t be one of the cheap places Mr. Guilderaufenberg meant.”

Jack felt much chagrined, but he finished his pie and coffee bravely.  “It’s a sell,” he said, “ but then it was a good dinner!”

He went to the cashier with an effort to act as if it was an old story to him.  He gave the cashier a dollar, received his change, and turned away, as the man behind the counter remarked to a friend at his elbow: 

“I knew it.  He had the cash.  His face was all right.”

“Clothes will fool anybody,” said the other man.

Jack heard it, and he looked at the men sitting at the tables.

“They’re all wearing Sunday clothes,” he thought, “but some are no better than mine.  But there’s a difference.  I’ve noticed it all along.”

So had others, for Jack had not seen one in that restaurant who had on at all such a suit of clothes as had been made for him by the Crofield tailor.

“Four dollars and seventy cents left,” said Jack thoughtfully, as he went up into the street; and then he turned to go down-town without any reason for choosing that direction.

An hour later, Mr. Gilderaufenberg and his wife and their friends were standing near the front door of the Hotel Dantzic, talking with the proprietor.  Around them lay their baggage, and in front of the door was a carriage.  Evidently they were going away earlier than they had intended.

“Dot poy!” exclaimed the broad and bearded German.  “He find us not here ven he come.  You pe goot to dot poy, Mr. Keifelheimer.”

“So!” said the hotel proprietor, and at once three other voices chimed in with good-bye messages to Jack Ogden.  Mr. Keifelheimer responded: 

“I see to him.  He will come to Vashington to see you.  So!”

Then they entered the carriage, and away they went.

After walking for a few blocks, Jack found that he did not know exactly where he was.  But suddenly he exclaimed: 

“Why, if there isn’t City Hall Square!  I’ve come all the way down Broadway.”

He had stared at building after building for a time without thinking much about them, and then he had begun to read the signs.

“I’ll come down this way again to-morrow,” he said.  “It’s good there are so many places to work in.  I wish I knew exactly what I would like to do, and which of them it is best to go to.  I know!  I can do as I did in Crofield.  I can try one for a while, and then, if I don’t like it, I can try another.  It is lucky that I know how to do ’most anything.”

The confident smile had come back.  He had entirely recovered from the shock of his eighty-cent expenditure.  He had not met many people, all the way down, and the stores were shut; but for that very reason he had bad more time to study the signs.

“Very nearly every kind of business is done on Broadway,” he said, “except groceries and hardware, but they sell more clothing than anything else.  I’ll look round everywhere before I settle down; but I must look out not to spend too much money till I begin to make some.”

“It’s not far now,” he said, a little while after, “to the lower end of the city and to the Battery.  I’ll take a look at the Battery before I go back to the Hotel Dantzic.”

Taller and more majestic grew the buildings as he went on, but he was not now so dazed and confused as he had been in the morning.

“Here is Trinity Church, again,” he said.  “I remember about that.  And that’s Wall Street.  I’ll see that as I come back; but now I’ll go right along and see the Battery.  Of course there isn’t any battery there, but Mr. Guilderaufenberg said that from it I could see the fort on Governor’s Island.”

Jack did not see much of the Battery, for he followed the left-hand sidewalk at the Bowling Green, where Broadway turns into Whitehall Street.  He had so long been staring at great buildings whose very height made him dizzy, that he was glad to see beside them some which looked small and old.

“I’ll find my way without asking,” he remarked to himself.  “I’m pretty near the end now.  There are some gates, and one of them is open.  I’ll walk right in behind that carriage.  That must be the gate to the Battery.”

The place he was really looking for was at some distance to the right, and the carriage he was following so confidently, had a very different destination.

The wide gateway was guarded by watchful men, not to mention two policemen, and they would have caught and stopped any boy who had knowingly tried to do what Jack did so innocently.  Their backs must have been turned, for the carriage passed in, and so did Jack, without any one’s trying to stop him.  He was as bold as a lion about it, because he did not know any better.  A number of people were at the same time crowding through a narrower gateway at one side, and they may have distracted the attention of the gatemen.

“I’d just as lief go in at the wagon-gate,” said Jack, and he did not notice that each one stopped and paid something before going through.  Jack went on behind the carriage.  The carriage crossed what seemed to Jack a kind of bridge housed over.  Nobody but a boy straight from Crofield could have gone so far as that without suspecting something; but the carriage stopped behind a line of other vehicles, and Jack walked unconcernedly past them.

“Jingo!” he suddenly exclaimed.  “What’s this?  I do believe the end of this street is moving!”

He bounded forward, much startled by a thing so strange and unaccountable, and in a moment more he was looking out upon a great expanse of water, dotted here and there with canal-boats, ships, and steamers.

“Mister,” he asked excitedly of a little man leaning against a post, “what’s this?”

“Have ye missed your way and got onto the wrong ferry-boat?” replied the little man gleefully.  “I did it once myself.  All right, my boy.  You’ve got to go to Staten Island this time.  Take it coolly.”

“Ferry-boat?” said Jack.  “Staten Island?  I thought it was the end of the street, going into the Battery!”

“Oh, you’re a greenhorn!” laughed the little man “Well, it won’t hurt ye; only there’s no boat back from the island, on Sunday, till after supper.  I’ll tell ye all about it.  Where’d you come from?”

“From Crofield,” said Jack, “and I got here only this morning.”

The little man eyed him half-suspiciously for a moment, and then led him to the rail of the boat.

“Look back there,” he said.  “Yonder’s the Battery.  You ought to have kept on.  It’s too much for me how you ever got aboard of this ’ere boat without knowing it!” And he went on with a long string of explanations, of which Jack understood about half, with the help of what he recalled from his guide-book.  All the while, however, they were having a sail across the beautiful bay, and little by little Jack made up his mind not to care.

“I’ve made a mistake and slipped right out of the city,” he said to himself, “about as soon as I got in!  But maybe I can slip back again this evening.”

“About the greenest bumpkin I’ve seen for an age,” thought the little man, as he stood and looked at Jack.  “It’ll take all sorts of blunders to teach him.  He is younger than he looks, too.  Anyway, this sail won’t hurt him a bit.”

That was precisely Jack’s conclusion long before the swift voyage ended and he walked off the ferry-boat upon the solid ground of Staten Island.