youngest of the crew, was made spokesman, and threatened that unless the chief came to terms, he would put him where he would care very little what became of the booty. At this, the captain dealt him a blow with his fist, but he found that he had tackled a bad customer. The Sailor Boy sailed into his black-whiskered antagonist, and gave him such a thrashing as he had never had before. This at once made a hero of Ben, and the crew placed their former chief in irons, and kept him there until the end of the cruise.

From that time forward Ben was the real commander of the ship; space prevents a fuller description of his exploits; nor, indeed would it be wise to give in detail all that happened during his voyage. Suffice it to say that at the end of six months the young pirate abandoned his wild life, and drifted back to New York with fifty thousand dollars in his pockets.

Other men of his class would have spent this money, if they had spent it at all, in the low groggeries on Water street. Not so Ben Hogan. The pirate of yesterday was changed into an elaborately dressed gentleman to-day. His quiet manner and respectful bearing carried him into circles which his former companions could never have entered. In the costliest of broadcloth, with a magnificent diamond upon his immaculate shirt-front, Ben moved among the “bloods” of New York, a brilliant but unknown star.

And a jolly life he led of it while his “boodle” lasted. A good deal has been written about the extravagance of Jim Fisk during his palmy days; but Fisk never spent money half as recklessly as did Ben Hogan when he struck New York at that time. In a single day he went through with seven hundred dollars, simply for wine and cigars. In company with a very beautiful, but not over-virtuous woman, he drove through Fifth avenue in an open coach drawn by four white horses, drinking champagne as he went. He stepped into a small saloon on Cortlandt street one day and asked the proprietor what he considered the establishment worth.

“Five hundred dollars,” was the answer.

Ben pulled out an immense roll of bank-notes, laid a five-hundred-dollar bill upon the bar, and told the man to “clear out.” The astonished bar keeper took the money, and did as directed. Then Hogan invited the “setters” about the place to help themselves to whatever they wanted, and wound up by presenting the establishment, with all its fixtures, to an old man whom he had never seen before.

It goes without saying that this sort of career soon made a serious hole in his pile. Living in elegant up-town apartments; supporting half a dozen women in princely style; drinking nothing but the choicest wines, and scattering his money on every side, it did not take very long to go through the entire fifty thousand dollars. It should be remembered that he was still a mere boy, but he showed himself quite a man in recklessness and extravagance.

When his last dollar had been parted with, Ben again became a vagabond in search of work. He was glad to take up with anything that offered itself, and that anything was a job on a tow-boat. He made two trips, during which he found time to thrash the mate—for which little service the captain of the boat thanked him sincerely. His reputation as a boxer began to spread, and under the belief that he had learned all there was to learn of the manly art, he once more returned to Syracuse, intending to remain there permanently.

In the building known as Malcolm Hall, at the corner of Railroad and Salina streets, he opened a gymnasium, in company with a teacher of elocution. He made all his own apparatus, spring-boards, bars, etc., and even turned his own Indian clubs. It was his ambition, at this time, to become the strongest man in the world. He put himself upon a diet of raw beef, rye or Graham bread, and drank nothing but milk, with an occasional glass of ale. With the beef he ate large quantities of onions, which probably helped to prevent any bad effects which the meat might have produced.

It was during his sojourn in Syracuse at this time that he engaged in a glove contest with Anthony Kelly, a boxer of considerable local reputation. Kelly was a most expert representative of the manly art, and the contest excited a good deal of attention. It was won by Hogan, after a very spirited and lively set-to.

Under the training and diet already described, Ben gained rapidly in strength, and became a model of muscular development. He lifted, at that time, fifteen hundred pounds, and he could hold out ninety-five pounds with any one of his fingers. He continued the diet of raw beef for four years, and would probably have gone on eating it indefinitely had he not been warned by physicians that it was injurious for him.

An amusing incident occured in his life at this period. He happened to visit Oswego (the scene of his early housekeeping) and while there attended the “Naiad Queen,” brought out under Capt. Smith’s management. The show was one that would hardly have passed muster in a New York theatre, but it drew a big house in Oswego, and it gave Ben an idea. Returning to Syracuse he got a lot of posters printed, setting forth, in glowing terms, the attractions of “a monster combination,” in which would appear Ben Hogan, “the strongest man in the world,” and a host of other stars. With these bills and some other traps he made his way again to Oswego. Not having any agent and not being flush enough to call upon a regular bill-poster, he donned an old suit of clothes, smeared his face with dirt, and set out to post himself.

Wherever he put up one of the bills, a crowd would naturally gather around and pass comments upon the “monster combination.”

“Who is this Ben Hogan, anyway?” was the general inquiry.

“Why, didn’t you ever hear of him?” Ben would reply. “He’s a bad man, I tell you—the strongest man in the world. I know him myself, and if you don’t want to miss the biggest show ever seen, you won’t stay away!”

In this way, the talkative bill-poster set the town on the qui vive to see the “monster combination.” Meantime, laying aside the old clothes, Ben appeared in a striking costume, which he had prepared expressly for the occasion. It consisted of a low-crowned, broad-brimmed silk hat, a short cut-away coat, a pair of very tight trowsers, and a flaming neckerchief. Thus arrayed, he made his appearance at the hotel and in the streets. Wherever he went somebody was sure to turn around and ask:

“Who is that?”

A friend of Ben’s, who professed not to know him, was on hand every time to answer.

“That,” he would say, “that is Ben Hogan. Greatest boxer in the country—strongest man in the world. If you want a big thing you’ll go to his show to-night!”

The result of all this was that when evening came the house was packed. It is perhaps unnecessary to say that the “monster combination” was composed entirely of Hogan. The bills announced first a “daring act upon the trapeze,” which Ben, dressed in tights, and with enough chalk and paint upon his face to disguise him, undertook to perform. The undertaking was not altogether a success. In the midst of one of his most thrilling feats, he lost his balance and fell to the stage. If there had been any walnuts or things under him, he would have certainly cracked them into fine pieces, for he came down with force enough to shake the building. The audience was stricken with horror, but the trapeze performer managed to get off of the stage and the show went on. The next feature, according to the programme, was a tumbling act by one of the “Whitney Brothers.” Ben again appeared, with more chalk and paint on his face, and did the act to the entire