"I can offer you a nine-year apprenticeship," Benjamin Franklin informs a freckle- faced boy one Saturday morning in late December. "You’ll work 14 to 16 hours a day, six days a week in my print shop," he continues. He balances his considerable girth on a red banquet chair. "You won’t get paid anything, of course," Ben says. "But you’ll learn a valuable trade."

Ben’s throat is scratchy, but at least he has his voice. It vanished completely a week ago after he stood outside in the snow for two hours doing an appearance on "The Early Show" in New York. This plus the strain of working — and talking — nonstop from Thanksgiving through this morning has done a hatchet job on his vocal chords. His doctor advised him to stop talking, but this isn’t an option for Ralph Archbold, Philadelphia’s foremost Ben Franklin impersonator, definitely not this year, the 300th anniversary of Ben’s birthday. Especially considering the growing number of Franklin impersonators who are eager and willing to take his place. No, Archbold will persist with the help of a steady supply of throat lozenges.

Luckily, this morning’s event — Breakfast with Ben at the National Constitution Center — is low-key. And when it’s over, Archbold, 64, has a day and a half to rest. He rides the elevator to the main floor of the Visitors’ Center and walks into the men’s room. A few minutes later, a pair of tourists exiting the restroom report to their friends, "Ben Franklin’s in the bathroom!"

If they were Philadelphians, they might have said, "Ralph Archbold’s in the bathroom!" Over the years, Archbold has created a market for an "official" Benjamin Franklin in Philadelphia and along the way, he’s become a local celebrity. His photo is affixed to the seat dividers in Philadelphia taxis. He pops up every now and then on the cover of Philadelphia magazine, where a caption once identified him as "Benjamin Franklin, who occasionally plays Ralph Archbold." He’s the History Channel’s Ben Franklin. He’s rubbed elbows with Bill Cosby, Colin Powell, and Arlen Specter. When locals see him walking through Old City or Rittenhouse Square, they say, "Yo, Ralph."

Other, lesser-known Bens are more likely to hear, "Thanks for the bifocals, Ben!" That’s true even for Dean Bennett, 72, a longtime actor and the city’s other senior Franklin. Bennett, who’s been portraying the founding father since 1981, works mostly with the American Historical Theatre, a Philadelphia-based acting troupe that regularly performs at Mt. Vernon. He has also pulled in higher-profile gigs, like flying to Paris on US Airways’ inaugural Philly-to-Paris flight, and acting in the Discovery Channel’s biopic.

It used to be that Archbold and Bennett were the only Bens in town. Now the headcount is eleven. For some of these newer Bens, living history is a side business. They are actors, a musician, and a magician, and for others, the alias is a second career. They are a former physician’s assistant, U.S. postal worker, and advertising production manager for TV Guide. All are self- described history geeks with a passing resemblance to Franklin.

Archbold is puzzled by inclinations to hold him up to the rest. "There really aren’t any other Franklins when it comes down to it," he says later that Saturday, scooping up the lozenges scattered across the front seat of his Subaru so we can sit and talk. "It kind of cheapens what I do when people try to compare us." He’s won awards for his professional speaking and earns up to $10,000 per speech, delivered to groups of lawyers, dentists, and businessmen. "The others don’t have the message that I have and that I’ve spent 30 years developing," Archbold says. "Anyone can do a five-minute ‘Hello and welcome to Philadelphia.’"

Bennett also differentiates himself from the throng. "Most of the other fellas are just nice fellas," he tells me. "They’re knowledgeable, but they’re not actors. I think there’s a difference between putting a guy in a suit and putting an actor in a suit. It’s why Meryl Streep is so much better than someone off the street." Plus, Bennett claims, "I look more like Ben Franklin than any of the other Ben Franklins."
Of course, it’s hard to know exactly what Franklin looked like, as photography was one of the few things he did not invent. His features differ from one portrait to the next. "We don’t really know how anybody looked in the eighteeth century," points out Rob Carroll, one of the newer Bens in town. "That’s great," he adds, "considering what I do for a living."

Carroll, 43, a fife player and historic tour guide for student groups, hatched a plan a few years ago to position himself as the heir apparent to Archbold and Bennett. "I knew at some point these two gentlemen would retire, and it would be a nice career move later in life," he explains. Figuring three Bens would saturate the market, he decided to shelve the idea for a while. But when he became friends with Bennett, the elder faux-statesman encouraged him to implement the plan in time for the 300th. Turns out he’s got company.

The sudden glut of Franklins has meant some sniping, a familiar pattern in Philadelphia, where best friends have been known to part ways over cannoli disputes (Termini Brothers vs. Isgro’s) and cheese-steak rivalries (Pat’s vs. Geno’s). There’s been talk of diva-like behavior, of one Ben shutting other Bens out of a press event and of one Ben refusing to sit for a group photo.

Carroll’s careful not to step on anyone’s toes. For now, he’s paying his dues and sticking to school programs, something the more experienced Franklins moved on from years ago. He plans to grow his business slowly. "Dean and Ralph have proven you can do this as long as you choose," he says, looking forward to future boom years, such as 2023, the 300th anniversary of Ben’s arrival in Philadelphia. "By that time, I’ll be the gray-haired, balding Franklin and somebody else can be the 43 year old."

The real Ben would no doubt be tickled to find that his legacy is strong enough to have created a cottage industry. He’d surely have advice for his acolytes. He was no stranger to self-promotion — and he had plenty to promote. "This man is so multifaceted, it’s incredible," Archbold explains, still sitting in the driver’s seat of his Subaru. "Today, you’d have to take 15 people and their accomplishments and put them in one person to make Franklin." As he talks, a young guy in a hooded sweatshirt knocks on his window. He rolls it down.

"I’m sorry to bother you," the man says, gesturing to two women standing about 15 feet away. "My friends are from California. They were wondering if they could get a picture with you. I told them Ben Franklin was in the car, and they didn’t believe me."

Archbold squeezes himself out the door, and stands between the two women as their friend snaps a picture. "Did you come to Philadelphia to get out of the cold?" Archbold jokes.

As he starts up the car, he continues to explain why Franklin is still held in such esteem. "When he invented things," he says, "he didn’t patent them. [Ben] said, ‘I hope people will benefit from my ideas like I’ve benefited from others.’" Of course, Franklin didn’t need to profit from his inventions. When he retired at the age of 42, he already had more than enough money to live well for the rest of his life. Archbold pulls out of his parking spot and eases past the Liberty Bell Pavilion. He’s headed uptown to Trader Joe’s to pick up hors d’oeuvres for a party — just one more stop before he can return home and briefly retire his alter ego.