Harper's Young People, July 27, 1880 Part 1

Harper's Young People, July 27, 1880.

by Various.

PODDIE AND d.i.c.k AT THE FREE BATH.

BY UNCLE FRANK.

"d.i.c.k, Uncle Fritz'll never come!" exclaimed Poddie Monell, with an impatient stamp of his foot, and once more he peered anxiously through the bars of the gate at the South Ferry.

"Hold on; don't be so sure, old fellow; there he comes now," said d.i.c.k; "look just beyond the Elevated. Let's go meet him."

"Keep cool, boys, keep cool; don't rush; there's plenty of time," said the gentleman, kindly, giving a hand to each; and crossing the street, they sauntered leisurely along one of the broad walks of the Battery.

"Which of the free baths are we going to, and what are they like?" asked d.i.c.k, whose mind was always travelling ahead of time in a curious fas.h.i.+on.

"We are going to the Battery bath, because it is nearest. They are all pretty much alike, however," replied his uncle.

"Do tell us all about them," begged Poddie, earnestly, "for I want to know if they're anything like our bath at Central Park--whether they have hanging rings, a flying trapeze, and places to dive off of."

"Well, no, they don't indulge in the first two luxuries, but they have plenty of s.p.a.ce, ropes, diving places, and a fair depth of water. But let me tell you how much good they do.

"There are four free baths stationed on the East River--at One-hundred-and-twelfth Street, Thirty-seventh Street, Fifth Street, and Gouverneur Street; and three on the North River--at the Battery, Bethune Street, and Fifty-first Street; and one floating around without any home at all--that is, it is built, and the authorities have not decided where to anchor it."

"Well?" exclaimed both boys, interestedly.

"Now, boys, in order to understand thoroughly how much these free baths are to the people who use them, you must put yourselves in some other boys' boots, or perhaps I should say jackets, so many of them have no boots at all.

"You and d.i.c.k live in a very lovely home. Just imagine yourselves in a dingy tenement-house, shut up for the night, with three or four other boys, to sleep in a dark room where never sunlight or breeze enters through the whole year; the heat is suffocating; you toss uneasily back and forth, more than likely on the floor. You have heard during the day that to-morrow the Gouverneur Street or some other bath will be open.

What do you do?

"Before the day breaks you leap from your bed, waken your brothers or comrades, fling on your jackets and trousers, rush down the rickety stairways out into the cooler air of the morning, and scud down to the docks.

"When you arrive there you find already quite a line of boys and men ahead of you. You can not go above them--the policemen won't allow it--so you take your places at the foot of the line, glad that it is no longer. Poddie is number fifty-one, d.i.c.k fifty-two. By twos and threes the line grows to be three hundred strong. At five o'clock the doors open, the keepers appear, and one hundred are admitted. But here we are: you shall begin to judge for yourselves."

"Whew!" exclaimed d.i.c.k, looking up and down a long line of ragged, grimy urchins, who were tiptoeing in impatience to enter. "How will all those fellows get in? Shall we have to foot the line?"

"Not while I have my 'open, sesame,' with me," replied Uncle Fritz, pointing to a small silver badge on his coat lapel.

The keeper just glanced at it, and d.i.c.k was greatly surprised to see how politely they were invited to walk in, "all through a bit of s.h.i.+ny silver," as he expressed it afterward.

"What a crowd of boys!" thought Poddie, as his eye roved from one to another of the hundred ducking, diving, splas.h.i.+ng little and big fellows, who were laughing and shouting with delight. "What a jolly time they're having!" said he, turning to his uncle.

"Yes," said that gentleman. "I don't believe you have more fun at the Central Park bath, Poddie."

"Don't know as we do," replied Poddie, dubiously. "But what does that mean?" added he, startled by the brazen clangor of a large bell that rung high above the noises a warning "Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding."

"Time's up!" shouted the keeper, almost as loud as his bell. Silence fell upon the gleeful throng instantly. With downcast faces and slow, reluctant feet the bathers commenced to crawl up the wet steps, tumble over the railings, and trailing little brooks of water behind them, sought the bath-rooms, whence they slowly emerged, some fairly well dressed, but the majority in rags and tatters.

"The boys is putty fair to-day, along o' you visitors, sir," said the keeper; "but we mostly has to hunt 'em out o' the dark corners--where they dart to as soon as the bell rings--with this rattan, or they'd stay in all the day."

"How about the girls--do they enjoy the privileges of these free baths?"

inquired Uncle Fritz?

"Yes, sir, they does, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, an' a lively lot they is, too; the women keepers has their hands full."

No sooner had the first crowd of boys disappeared than pell-mell in rushed a tumultuous throng, pus.h.i.+ng and jostling in spite of the shouting keepers.

Begrimed and perspiring, and panting with impatience to enjoy the blessing of the cooler element, it is the work of but a moment in the bath-rooms; the doors fly open, and down they plunge from steps and railings into the cool green depths.

The water splashes and dashes and foams, lashed by scores of active hands and feet, until the boys are fairly deafened by the roar.

"Gracious! you'd think they hadn't seen water in a year, wouldn't you, d.i.c.k?" said Poddie.

"Half o' them's repeaters," said the keeper, overhearing the remark.

"Beg pardon--did you call them repeaters? what's that?" inquired Poddie, politely.

"Repeaters? Why, repeaters is boys who go from bath to bath, only waiting to get their heads dry; then they rubs mud on their faces to make 'em dirty, so we can't know 'em, consequentially they gets in half a dozen times at different baths. How are we to know them? bless your eyes!"

"Have you any fine swimmers among them?" inquired Uncle Fritz, pleasantly.

"Yes, sir," replied the keeper, "some o' these chaps are reg'lar fishes--nat'ral-born eels, you may say. Here, Patsy Miller, 'Roxy,'

'Spider,' come along and show these young gentlemen some o' your tricks."

The three boys, hearing their names shouted by the keeper and their playmates, come forward, looking sheepishly pleased at their momentary importance.

"Go to the roof and dive," commands the keeper.

In a few seconds they appear on the pebbled roof opposite, thin-limbed, brown, and lithe as Arabs.

"Ready--dive!"

One after another the heads are bowed, hands are clasped palm to palm and pointed forward, and away they go, head-first like frogs. Three splashes mark where they go under; three lines of bubbles across the bath tell where the glossy heads will come up.

"Bravo! bravo! well done!" cries Uncle Fritz.

"Dive backward, and swim oar stroke," directs the keeper.

Nothing loath, the boys mount the railings, the swimmers making way for them. One, two, three. Down they go on their backs, come up like corks, throw their arms high in air, bring them down full length behind their heads, draw back their feet, and with an oar-like sweep of their limbs make long darts through the water.

"How splendid!" observes d.i.c.k, turning to his uncle.

"Turn somersaults," shouts the keeper.

"Goody gracious! that's what they do up at the Central," says d.i.c.k, laughing heartily, as now six heels, then three heads, alternately appear on the surface of the water.

"Make a raft," orders the keeper. Immediately Patsy and "Spider" and "Roxy" are on their backs again; they lock arms, paddle with their feet, and make quite a respectable raft as they cross the bath.