Produced by Al Haines [Frontispiece: _The Sorrel Mare was tugging hard at the Rein_.] CROWDED OUT O' CROFIELD OR THE BOY WHO MADE HIS WAY BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD _SIXTH EDITION_ NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1897 COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. PREFACE. Only a few of the kindly reviewers of the earlier editions of Crowded Out o' Crofield have suggested that it has at all exaggerated the possible career of its boy and girl actors. If any others have silently agreed with them, it may be worth while to say that the pictures of places and the doings of older and younger people are pretty accurately historical. The story and the writing of it were suggested in a conversation with an energetic American boy who was crowded out of his own village into a career which led to something much more surprising than a profitable junior partnership. W. O. S. NEW YORK, 1893. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--THE BLACKSMITH'S BOY II.--THE FISH WERE THERE III.--I AM ONLY A GIRL IV.--CAPTAIN MARY V.--JACK OGDEN'S RIDE VI.--OUT INTO THE WORLD VII.--MARY AND THE _EAGLE_ VIII.--CAUGHT FOR A BURGLAR IX.--NEARER THE CITY X.--THE STATE-HOUSE AND THE STEAMBOAT XI.--DOWN THE HUDSON XII.--IN A NEW WORLD XIII.--A WONDERFUL SUNDAY XIV.--FRIENDS AND ENEMIES XV.--NO BOY WANTED XVI.--JACK'S FAMINE XVII.--JACK-AT-ALL-TRADES XVIII.--THE DRUMMER BOY XIX.--COMPLETE SUCCESS LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. The Sorrel Mare was tugging hard at the Rein . . . _Frontispiece_ The Runaway Along the Water's Edge Fighting the Fire "Run for Home" He listened in silence "There won't be any _Eagle_ this week" Just out "I'm the Editor, sir" "There," said Mr. Murdoch, "jump right in" "Your map's all wrong," said Jack The hotel clerk looked at Jack His traveler friend was sound asleep On Broadway, at last! "How would he get in?" Coffee and clams Jack is homesick "I've lost my pocket-book" "Ten cents left" Jack dines with Mr. Keifelheimer Buying a new hat Jack speaks to the General The return home CROWDED OUT O' CROFIELD. CHAPTER I. THE BLACKSMITH'S BOY. "I'm going to the city!" He stood in the wide door of the blacksmith-shop, with his hands in his pockets, looking down the street, toward the rickety old bridge over the Cocahutchie. He was a sandy-haired, freckled-faced boy, and if he was really only about fifteen, he was tall for his age. Across the top of the door, over his head, stretched a cracked and faded sign, with a horseshoe painted on one end and a hammer on the other, and the name "John Ogden," almost faded out, between them. The blacksmith-shop was a great, rusty, grimy clutter of work-benches, vises, tools, iron in bars and rods, and all sorts of old iron scraps and things that looked as if they needed making over.