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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ragged Dick, by Horatio Alger
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Ragged Dick
+Or, Street Life in New York with the Boot-Blacks
+
+Author: Horatio Alger
+
+Release Date: July 4, 2002 [eBook #5348]
+[Most recently updated: July 20, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Andrew Sly
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAGGED DICK ***
+
+
+
+
+Ragged Dick
+
+OR,
+STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK WITH THE BOOT-BLACKS.
+
+by Horatio Alger Jr.
+
+
+Contents
+
+ PREFACE
+ CHAPTER I. RAGGED DICK IS INTRODUCED TO THE READER
+ CHAPTER II. JOHNNY NOLAN
+ CHAPTER III. DICK MAKES A PROPOSITION
+ CHAPTER IV. DICK’S NEW SUIT
+ CHAPTER V. CHATHAM STREET AND BROADWAY
+ CHAPTER VI. UP BROADWAY TO MADISON SQUARE
+ CHAPTER VII. THE POCKET-BOOK
+ CHAPTER VIII. DICK’S EARLY HISTORY
+ CHAPTER IX. A SCENE IN A THIRD AVENUE CAR
+ CHAPTER X. INTRODUCES A VICTIM OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE
+ CHAPTER XI. DICK AS A DETECTIVE
+ CHAPTER XII. DICK HIRES A ROOM ON MOTT STREET
+ CHAPTER XIII. MICKY MAGUIRE
+ CHAPTER XIV. A BATTLE AND A VICTORY
+ CHAPTER XV. DICK SECURES A TUTOR
+ CHAPTER XVI. THE FIRST LESSON
+ CHAPTER XVII. DICK’S FIRST APPEARANCE IN SOCIETY
+ CHAPTER XVIII. MICKY MAGUIRE’S SECOND DEFEAT
+ CHAPTER XIX. FOSDICK CHANGES HIS BUSINESS
+ CHAPTER XX. NINE MONTHS LATER
+ CHAPTER XXI. DICK LOSES HIS BANK-BOOK
+ CHAPTER XXII. TRACKING THE THIEF
+ CHAPTER XXIII. TRAVIS IS ARRESTED
+ CHAPTER XXIV. DICK RECEIVES A LETTER
+ CHAPTER XXV. DICK WRITES HIS FIRST LETTER
+ CHAPTER XXVI. AN EXCITING ADVENTURE
+ CHAPTER XXVII. CONCLUSION
+
+
+
+
+To
+Joseph W. Allen,
+at whose suggestion this story
+was undertaken,
+it is
+inscribed with friendly regard.
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+“Ragged Dick” was contributed as a serial story to the pages of the
+Schoolmate, a well-known juvenile magazine, during the year 1867. While
+in course of publication, it was received with so many evidences of
+favor that it has been rewritten and considerably enlarged, and is now
+presented to the public as the first volume of a series intended to
+illustrate the life and experiences of the friendless and vagrant
+children who are now numbered by thousands in New York and other
+cities.
+
+Several characters in the story are sketched from life. The necessary
+information has been gathered mainly from personal observation and
+conversations with the boys themselves. The author is indebted also to
+the excellent Superintendent of the Newsboys’ Lodging House, in Fulton
+Street, for some facts of which he has been able to make use. Some
+anachronisms may be noted. Wherever they occur, they have been
+admitted, as aiding in the development of the story, and will probably
+be considered as of little importance in an unpretending volume, which
+does not aspire to strict historical accuracy.
+
+The author hopes that, while the volumes in this series may prove
+interesting stories, they may also have the effect of enlisting the
+sympathies of his readers in behalf of the unfortunate children whose
+life is described, and of leading them to co-operate with the
+praiseworthy efforts now making by the Children’s Aid Society and other
+organizations to ameliorate their condition.
+
+New York, April, 1868
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+RAGGED DICK IS INTRODUCED TO THE READER
+
+
+“Wake up there, youngster,” said a rough voice.
+
+Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly, and stared stupidly in the face of
+the speaker, but did not offer to get up.
+
+“Wake up, you young vagabond!” said the man a little impatiently; “I
+suppose you’d lay there all day, if I hadn’t called you.”
+
+“What time is it?” asked Dick.
+
+“Seven o’clock.”
+
+“Seven o’clock! I oughter’ve been up an hour ago. I know what ’twas
+made me so precious sleepy. I went to the Old Bowery last night, and
+didn’t turn in till past twelve.”
+
+“You went to the Old Bowery? Where’d you get your money?” asked the
+man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm doing business on Spruce
+Street. “Made it by shines, in course. My guardian don’t allow me no
+money for theatres, so I have to earn it.”
+
+“Some boys get it easier than that,” said the porter significantly.
+
+“You don’t catch me stealin’, if that’s what you mean,” said Dick.
+
+“Don’t you ever steal, then?”
+
+“No, and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I wouldn’t.”
+
+“Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe there’s some good in
+you, Dick, after all.”
+
+“Oh, I’m a rough customer!” said Dick. “But I wouldn’t steal. It’s
+mean.”
+
+“I’m glad you think so, Dick,” and the rough voice sounded gentler than
+at first. “Have you got any money to buy your breakfast?”
+
+“No, but I’ll soon get some.”
+
+While this conversation had been going on, Dick had got up. His
+bedchamber had been a wooden box half full of straw, on which the young
+boot-black had reposed his weary limbs, and slept as soundly as if it
+had been a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw without taking
+the trouble of undressing.
+
+Getting up too was an equally short process. He jumped out of the box,
+shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found their way
+into rents in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his
+uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of the day.
+
+Dick’s appearance as he stood beside the box was rather peculiar. His
+pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the
+first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He wore a vest,
+all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a
+shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his
+costume he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might
+judge from its general appearance, to a remote antiquity.
+
+Washing the face and hands is usually considered proper in commencing
+the day, but Dick was above such refinement. He had no particular
+dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark
+streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of his dirt and rags there
+was something about Dick that was attractive. It was easy to see that
+if he had been clean and well dressed he would have been decidedly
+good-looking. Some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired
+distrust; but Dick had a frank, straight-forward manner that made him a
+favorite.
+
+Dick’s business hours had commenced. He had no office to open. His
+little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the
+faces of all who passed, addressing each with, “Shine yer boots, sir?”
+
+“How much?” asked a gentleman on his way to his office.
+
+“Ten cents,” said Dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees on
+the sidewalk, flourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his
+profession.
+
+“Ten cents! Isn’t that a little steep?”
+
+“Well, you know ’taint all clear profit,” said Dick, who had already
+set to work. “There’s the _blacking_ costs something, and I have to get
+a new brush pretty often.”
+
+“And you have a large rent too,” said the gentleman quizzically, with a
+glance at a large hole in Dick’s coat.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Dick, always ready to joke; “I have to pay such a big
+rent for my manshun up on Fifth Avenoo, that I can’t afford to take
+less than ten cents a shine. I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.”
+
+“Be quick about it, for I am in a hurry. So your house is on Fifth
+Avenue, is it?”
+
+“It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke the truth there.
+
+“What tailor do you patronize?” asked the gentleman, surveying Dick’s
+attire.
+
+“Would you like to go to the same one?” asked Dick, shrewdly.
+
+“Well, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give you a very good fit.”
+
+“This coat once belonged to General Washington,” said Dick, comically.
+“He wore it all through the Revolution, and it got torn some, ’cause he
+fit so hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to some smart
+young feller that hadn’t got none of his own; so she gave it to me. But
+if you’d like it, sir, to remember General Washington by, I’ll let you
+have it reasonable.”
+
+“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of it. And did your
+pants come from General Washington too?”
+
+“No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis had outgrown ’em and
+sent ’em to me,—he’s bigger than me, and that’s why they don’t fit.”
+
+“It seems you have distinguished friends. Now, my lad, I suppose you
+would like your money.”
+
+“I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick.
+
+“I believe,” said the gentleman, examining his pocket-book, “I haven’t
+got anything short of twenty-five cents. Have you got any change?”
+
+“Not a cent,” said Dick. “All my money’s invested in the Erie
+Railroad.”
+
+“That’s unfortunate.”
+
+“Shall I get the money changed, sir?”
+
+“I can’t wait; I’ve got to meet an appointment immediately. I’ll hand
+you twenty-five cents, and you can leave the change at my office any
+time during the day.”
+
+“All right, sir. Where is it?”
+
+“No. 125 Fulton Street. Shall you remember?”
+
+“Yes, sir. What name?”
+
+“Greyson,—office on second floor.”
+
+“All right, sir; I’ll bring it.”
+
+“I wonder whether the little scamp will prove honest,” said Mr. Greyson
+to himself, as he walked away. “If he does, I’ll give him my custom
+regularly. If he don’t as is most likely, I shan’t mind the loss of
+fifteen cents.”
+
+Mr. Greyson didn’t understand Dick. Our ragged hero wasn’t a model boy
+in all respects. I am afraid he swore sometimes, and now and then he
+played tricks upon unsophisticated boys from the country, or gave a
+wrong direction to honest old gentlemen unused to the city. A clergyman
+in search of the Cooper Institute he once directed to the Tombs Prison,
+and, following him unobserved, was highly delighted when the
+unsuspicious stranger walked up the front steps of the great stone
+building on Centre Street, and tried to obtain admission.
+
+“I guess he wouldn’t want to stay long if he did get in,” thought
+Ragged Dick, hitching up his pants. “Leastways I shouldn’t. They’re so
+precious glad to see you that they won’t let you go, but board you
+gratooitous, and never send in no bills.”
+
+Another of Dick’s faults was his extravagance. Being always wide-awake
+and ready for business, he earned enough to have supported him
+comfortably and respectably. There were not a few young clerks who
+employed Dick from time to time in his professional capacity, who
+scarcely earned as much as he, greatly as their style and dress
+exceeded his. But Dick was careless of his earnings. Where they went he
+could hardly have told himself. However much he managed to earn during
+the day, all was generally spent before morning. He was fond of going
+to the Old Bowery Theatre, and to Tony Pastor’s, and if he had any
+money left afterwards, he would invite some of his friends in somewhere
+to have an oyster-stew; so it seldom happened that he commenced the day
+with a penny.
+
+Then I am sorry to add that Dick had formed the habit of smoking. This
+cost him considerable, for Dick was rather fastidious about his cigars,
+and wouldn’t smoke the cheapest. Besides, having a liberal nature, he
+was generally ready to treat his companions. But of course the expense
+was the smallest objection. No boy of fourteen can smoke without being
+affected injuriously. Men are frequently injured by smoking, and boys
+always. But large numbers of the newsboys and boot-blacks form the
+habit. Exposed to the cold and wet they find that it warms them up, and
+the self-indulgence grows upon them. It is not uncommon to see a little
+boy, too young to be out of his mother’s sight, smoking with all the
+apparent satisfaction of a veteran smoker.
+
+There was another way in which Dick sometimes lost money. There was a
+noted gambling-house on Baxter Street, which in the evening was
+sometimes crowded with these juvenile gamesters, who staked their hard
+earnings, generally losing of course, and refreshing themselves from
+time to time with a vile mixture of liquor at two cents a glass.
+Sometimes Dick strayed in here, and played with the rest.
+
+I have mentioned Dick’s faults and defects, because I want it
+understood, to begin with, that I don’t consider him a model boy. But
+there were some good points about him nevertheless. He was above doing
+anything mean or dishonorable. He would not steal, or cheat, or impose
+upon younger boys, but was frank and straight-forward, manly and
+self-reliant. His nature was a noble one, and had saved him from all
+mean faults. I hope my young readers will like him as I do, without
+being blind to his faults. Perhaps, although he was only a boot-black,
+they may find something in him to imitate.
+
+And now, having fairly introduced Ragged Dick to my young readers, I
+must refer them to the next chapter for his further adventures.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+JOHNNY NOLAN
+
+
+After Dick had finished polishing Mr. Greyson’s boots he was fortunate
+enough to secure three other customers, two of them reporters in the
+Tribune establishment, which occupies the corner of Spruce Street and
+Printing House Square.
+
+When Dick had got through with his last customer the City Hall clock
+indicated eight o’clock. He had been up an hour, and hard at work, and
+naturally began to think of breakfast. He went up to the head of Spruce
+Street, and turned into Nassau. Two blocks further, and he reached Ann
+Street. On this street was a small, cheap restaurant, where for five
+cents Dick could get a cup of coffee, and for ten cents more, a plate
+of beefsteak with a plate of bread thrown in. These Dick ordered, and
+sat down at a table.
+
+It was a small apartment with a few plain tables unprovided with
+cloths, for the class of customers who patronized it were not very
+particular. Our hero’s breakfast was soon before him. Neither the
+coffee nor the steak were as good as can be bought at Delmonico’s; but
+then it is very doubtful whether, in the present state of his wardrobe,
+Dick would have been received at that aristocratic restaurant, even if
+his means had admitted of paying the high prices there charged.
+
+Dick had scarcely been served when he espied a boy about his own size
+standing at the door, looking wistfully into the restaurant. This was
+Johnny Nolan, a boy of fourteen, who was engaged in the same profession
+as Ragged Dick. His wardrobe was in very much the same condition as
+Dick’s.
+
+“Had your breakfast, Johnny?” inquired Dick, cutting off a piece of
+steak.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Come in, then. Here’s room for you.”
+
+“I aint got no money,” said Johnny, looking a little enviously at his
+more fortunate friend.
+
+“Haven’t you had any shines?”
+
+“Yes, I had one, but I shan’t get any pay till to-morrow.”
+
+“Are you hungry?”
+
+“Try me, and see.”
+
+“Come in. I’ll stand treat this morning.”
+
+Johnny Nolan was nowise slow to accept this invitation, and was soon
+seated beside Dick.
+
+“What’ll you have, Johnny?”
+
+“Same as you.”
+
+“Cup o’ coffee and beefsteak,” ordered Dick.
+
+These were promptly brought, and Johnny attacked them vigorously.
+
+Now, in the boot-blacking business, as well as in higher avocations,
+the same rule prevails, that energy and industry are rewarded, and
+indolence suffers. Dick was energetic and on the alert for business,
+but Johnny the reverse. The consequence was that Dick earned probably
+three times as much as the other.
+
+“How do you like it?” asked Dick, surveying Johnny’s attacks upon the
+steak with evident complacency.
+
+“It’s hunky.”
+
+I don’t believe “hunky” is to be found in either Webster’s or
+Worcester’s big dictionary; but boys will readily understand what it
+means.
+
+“Do you come here often?” asked Johnny.
+
+“Most every day. You’d better come too.”
+
+“I can’t afford it.”
+
+“Well, you’d ought to, then,” said Dick. “What do you do I’d like to
+know?”
+
+“I don’t get near as much as you, Dick.”
+
+“Well you might if you tried. I keep my eyes open,—that’s the way I get
+jobs. You’re lazy, that’s what’s the matter.”
+
+Johnny did not see fit to reply to this charge. Probably he felt the
+justice of it, and preferred to proceed with the breakfast, which he
+enjoyed the more as it cost him nothing.
+
+Breakfast over, Dick walked up to the desk, and settled the bill. Then,
+followed by Johnny, he went out into the street.
+
+“Where are you going, Johnny?”
+
+“Up to Mr. Taylor’s, on Spruce Street, to see if he don’t want a
+shine.”
+
+“Do you work for him reg’lar?”
+
+“Yes. Him and his partner wants a shine most every day. Where are you
+goin’?”
+
+“Down front of the Astor House. I guess I’ll find some customers
+there.”
+
+At this moment Johnny started, and, dodging into an entry way, hid
+behind the door, considerably to Dick’s surprise.
+
+“What’s the matter now?” asked our hero.
+
+“Has he gone?” asked Johnny, his voice betraying anxiety.
+
+“Who gone, I’d like to know?”
+
+“That man in the brown coat.”
+
+“What of him. You aint scared of him, are you?”
+
+“Yes, he got me a place once.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“Ever so far off.”
+
+“What if he did?”
+
+“I ran away.”
+
+“Didn’t you like it?”
+
+“No, I had to get up too early. It was on a farm, and I had to get up
+at five to take care of the cows. I like New York best.”
+
+“Didn’t they give you enough to eat?”
+
+“Oh, yes, plenty.”
+
+“And you had a good bed?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then you’d better have stayed. You don’t get either of them here.
+Where’d you sleep last night?”
+
+“Up an alley in an old wagon.”
+
+“You had a better bed than that in the country, didn’t you?”
+
+“Yes, it was as soft as—as cotton.”
+
+Johnny had once slept on a bale of cotton, the recollection supplying
+him with a comparison.
+
+“Why didn’t you stay?”
+
+“I felt lonely,” said Johnny.
+
+Johnny could not exactly explain his feelings, but it is often the case
+that the young vagabond of the streets, though his food is uncertain,
+and his bed may be any old wagon or barrel that he is lucky enough to
+find unoccupied when night sets in, gets so attached to his precarious
+but independent mode of life, that he feels discontented in any other.
+He is accustomed to the noise and bustle and ever-varied life of the
+streets, and in the quiet scenes of the country misses the excitement
+in the midst of which he has always dwelt.
+
+Johnny had but one tie to bind him to the city. He had a father living,
+but he might as well have been without one. Mr. Nolan was a confirmed
+drunkard, and spent the greater part of his wages for liquor. His
+potations made him ugly, and inflamed a temper never very sweet,
+working him up sometimes to such a pitch of rage that Johnny’s life was
+in danger. Some months before, he had thrown a flat-iron at his son’s
+head with such terrific force that unless Johnny had dodged he would
+not have lived long enough to obtain a place in our story. He fled the
+house, and from that time had not dared to re-enter it. Somebody had
+given him a brush and box of blacking, and he had set up in business on
+his own account. But he had not energy enough to succeed, as has
+already been stated, and I am afraid the poor boy had met with many
+hardships, and suffered more than once from cold and hunger. Dick had
+befriended him more than once, and often given him a breakfast or
+dinner, as the case might be.
+
+“How’d you get away?” asked Dick, with some curiosity. “Did you walk?”
+
+“No, I rode on the cars.”
+
+“Where’d you get your money? I hope you didn’t steal it.”
+
+“I didn’t have none.”
+
+“What did you do, then?”
+
+“I got up about three o’clock, and walked to Albany.”
+
+“Where’s that?” asked Dick, whose ideas on the subject of geography
+were rather vague.
+
+“Up the river.”
+
+“How far?”
+
+“About a thousand miles,” said Johnny, whose conceptions of distance
+were equally vague.
+
+“Go ahead. What did you do then?”
+
+“I hid on top of a freight car, and came all the way without their
+seeing me.* That man in the brown coat was the man that got me the
+place, and I’m afraid he’d want to send me back.”
+
+* A fact.
+
+
+“Well,” said Dick, reflectively, “I dunno as I’d like to live in the
+country. I couldn’t go to Tony Pastor’s or the Old Bowery. There
+wouldn’t be no place to spend my evenings. But I say, it’s tough in
+winter, Johnny, ’specially when your overcoat’s at the tailor’s, an’
+likely to stay there.”
+
+“That’s so, Dick. But I must be goin’, or Mr. Taylor’ll get somebody
+else to shine his boots.”
+
+Johnny walked back to Nassau Street, while Dick kept on his way to
+Broadway.
+
+“That boy,” soliloquized Dick, as Johnny took his departure, “aint got
+no ambition. I’ll bet he won’t get five shines to-day. I’m glad I aint
+like him. I couldn’t go to the theatre, nor buy no cigars, nor get half
+as much as I wanted to eat.—Shine yer boots, sir?”
+
+Dick always had an eye to business, and this remark was addressed to a
+young man, dressed in a stylish manner, who was swinging a jaunty cane.
+
+“I’ve had my boots blacked once already this morning, but this
+confounded mud has spoiled the shine.”
+
+“I’ll make ’em all right, sir, in a minute.”
+
+“Go ahead, then.”
+
+The boots were soon polished in Dick’s best style, which proved very
+satisfactory, our hero being a proficient in the art.
+
+“I haven’t got any change,” said the young man, fumbling in his pocket,
+“but here’s a bill you may run somewhere and get changed. I’ll pay you
+five cents extra for your trouble.”
+
+He handed Dick a two-dollar bill, which our hero took into a store
+close by.
+
+“Will you please change that, sir?” said Dick, walking up to the
+counter.
+
+The salesman to whom he proffered it took the bill, and, slightly
+glancing at it, exclaimed angrily, “Be off, you young vagabond, or I’ll
+have you arrested.”
+
+“What’s the row?”
+
+“You’ve offered me a counterfeit bill.”
+
+“I didn’t know it,” said Dick.
+
+“Don’t tell me. Be off, or I’ll have you arrested.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+DICK MAKES A PROPOSITION
+
+
+Though Dick was somewhat startled at discovering that the bill he had
+offered was counterfeit, he stood his ground bravely.
+
+“Clear out of this shop, you young vagabond,” repeated the clerk.
+
+“Then give me back my bill.”
+
+“That you may pass it again? No, sir, I shall do no such thing.”
+
+“It doesn’t belong to me,” said Dick. “A gentleman that owes me for a
+shine gave it to me to change.”
+
+“A likely story,” said the clerk; but he seemed a little uneasy.
+
+“I’ll go and call him,” said Dick.
+
+He went out, and found his late customer standing on the Astor House
+steps.
+
+“Well, youngster, have you brought back my change? You were a precious
+long time about it. I began to think you had cleared out with the
+money.”
+
+“That aint my style,” said Dick, proudly.
+
+“Then where’s the change?”
+
+“I haven’t got it.”
+
+“Where’s the bill then?”
+
+“I haven’t got that either.”
+
+“You young rascal!”
+
+“Hold on a minute, mister,” said Dick, “and I’ll tell you all about it.
+The man what took the bill said it wasn’t good, and kept it.”
+
+“The bill was perfectly good. So he kept it, did he? I’ll go with you
+to the store, and see whether he won’t give it back to me.”
+
+Dick led the way, and the gentleman followed him into the store. At the
+reappearance of Dick in such company, the clerk flushed a little, and
+looked nervous. He fancied that he could browbeat a ragged boot-black,
+but with a gentleman he saw that it would be a different matter. He did
+not seem to notice the newcomers, but began to replace some goods on
+the shelves.
+
+“Now,” said the young man, “point out the clerk that has my money.”
+
+“That’s him,” said Dick, pointing out the clerk.
+
+The gentleman walked up to the counter.
+
+“I will trouble you,” he said a little haughtily, “for a bill which
+that boy offered you, and which you still hold in your possession.”
+
+“It was a bad bill,” said the clerk, his cheek flushing, and his manner
+nervous.
+
+“It was no such thing. I require you to produce it, and let the matter
+be decided.”
+
+The clerk fumbled in his vest-pocket, and drew out a bad-looking bill.
+
+“This is a bad bill, but it is not the one I gave the boy.”
+
+“It is the one he gave me.”
+
+The young man looked doubtful.
+
+“Boy,” he said to Dick, “is this the bill you gave to be changed?”
+
+“No, it isn’t.”
+
+“You lie, you young rascal!” exclaimed the clerk, who began to find
+himself in a tight place, and could not see the way out.
+
+This scene naturally attracted the attention of all in the store, and
+the proprietor walked up from the lower end, where he had been busy.
+
+“What’s all this, Mr. Hatch?” he demanded.
+
+“That boy,” said the clerk, “came in and asked change for a bad bill. I
+kept the bill, and told him to clear out. Now he wants it again to pass
+on somebody else.”
+
+“Show the bill.”
+
+The merchant looked at it. “Yes, that’s a bad bill,” he said. “There is
+no doubt about that.”
+
+“But it is not the one the boy offered,” said Dick’s patron. “It is one
+of the same denomination, but on a different bank.”
+
+“Do you remember what bank it was on?”
+
+“It was on the Merchants’ Bank of Boston.”
+
+“Are you sure of it?”
+
+“I am.”
+
+“Perhaps the boy kept it and offered the other.”
+
+“You may search me if you want to,” said Dick, indignantly.
+
+“He doesn’t look as if he was likely to have any extra bills. I suspect
+that your clerk pocketed the good bill, and has substituted the
+counterfeit note. It is a nice little scheme of his for making money.”
+
+“I haven’t seen any bill on the Merchants’ Bank,” said the clerk,
+doggedly.
+
+“You had better feel in your pockets.”
+
+“This matter must be investigated,” said the merchant, firmly. “If you
+have the bill, produce it.”
+
+“I haven’t got it,” said the clerk; but he looked guilty
+notwithstanding.
+
+“I demand that he be searched,” said Dick’s patron.
+
+“I tell you I haven’t got it.”
+
+“Shall I send for a police officer, Mr. Hatch, or will you allow
+yourself to be searched quietly?” said the merchant.
+
+Alarmed at the threat implied in these words, the clerk put his hand
+into his vest-pocket, and drew out a two-dollar bill on the Merchants’
+Bank.
+
+“Is this your note?” asked the shopkeeper, showing it to the young man.
+
+“It is.”
+
+“I must have made a mistake,” faltered the clerk.
+
+“I shall not give you a chance to make such another mistake in my
+employ,” said the merchant sternly. “You may go up to the desk and ask
+for what wages are due you. I shall have no further occasion for your
+services.”
+
+“Now, youngster,” said Dick’s patron, as they went out of the store,
+after he had finally got the bill changed. “I must pay you something
+extra for your trouble. Here’s fifty cents.”
+
+“Thank you, sir,” said Dick. “You’re very kind. Don’t you want some
+more bills changed?”
+
+“Not to-day,” said he with a smile. “It’s too expensive.”
+
+“I’m in luck,” thought our hero complacently. “I guess I’ll go to
+Barnum’s to-night, and see the bearded lady, the eight-foot giant, the
+two-foot dwarf, and the other curiosities, too numerous to mention.”
+
+Dick shouldered his box and walked up as far as the Astor House. He
+took his station on the sidewalk, and began to look about him.
+
+Just behind him were two persons,—one, a gentleman of fifty; the other,
+a boy of thirteen or fourteen. They were speaking together, and Dick
+had no difficulty in hearing what was said.
+
+“I am sorry, Frank, that I can’t go about, and show you some of the
+sights of New York, but I shall be full of business to-day. It is your
+first visit to the city, too.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“There’s a good deal worth seeing here. But I’m afraid you’ll have to
+wait to next time. You can go out and walk by yourself, but don’t
+venture too far, or you will get lost.”
+
+Frank looked disappointed.
+
+“I wish Tom Miles knew I was here,” he said. “He would go around with
+me.”
+
+“Where does he live?”
+
+“Somewhere up town, I believe.”
+
+“Then, unfortunately, he is not available. If you would rather go with
+me than stay here, you can, but as I shall be most of the time in
+merchants’-counting-rooms, I am afraid it would not be very
+interesting.”
+
+“I think,” said Frank, after a little hesitation, “that I will go off
+by myself. I won’t go very far, and if I lose my way, I will inquire
+for the Astor House.”
+
+“Yes, anybody will direct you here. Very well, Frank, I am sorry I
+can’t do better for you.”
+
+“Oh, never mind, uncle, I shall be amused in walking around, and
+looking at the shop-windows. There will be a great deal to see.”
+
+Now Dick had listened to all this conversation. Being an enterprising
+young man, he thought he saw a chance for a speculation, and determined
+to avail himself of it.
+
+Accordingly he stepped up to the two just as Frank’s uncle was about
+leaving, and said, “I know all about the city, sir; I’ll show him
+around, if you want me to.”
+
+The gentleman looked a little curiously at the ragged figure before
+him.
+
+“So you are a city boy, are you?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Dick, “I’ve lived here ever since I was a baby.”
+
+“And you know all about the public buildings, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“And the Central Park?”
+
+“Yes, sir. I know my way all round.”
+
+The gentleman looked thoughtful.
+
+“I don’t know what to say, Frank,” he remarked after a while. “It is
+rather a novel proposal. He isn’t exactly the sort of guide I would
+have picked out for you. Still he looks honest. He has an open face,
+and I think can be depended upon.”
+
+“I wish he wasn’t so ragged and dirty,” said Frank, who felt a little
+shy about being seen with such a companion.
+
+“I’m afraid you haven’t washed your face this morning,” said Mr.
+Whitney, for that was the gentleman’s name.
+
+“They didn’t have no wash-bowls at the hotel where I stopped,” said
+Dick.
+
+“What hotel did you stop at?”
+
+“The Box Hotel.”
+
+“The Box Hotel?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I slept in a box on Spruce Street.”
+
+Frank surveyed Dick curiously.
+
+“How did you like it?” he asked.
+
+“I slept bully.”
+
+“Suppose it had rained.”
+
+“Then I’d have wet my best clothes,” said Dick.
+
+“Are these all the clothes you have?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+Mr. Whitney spoke a few words to Frank, who seemed pleased with the
+suggestion.
+
+“Follow me, my lad,” he said.
+
+Dick in some surprise obeyed orders, following Mr. Whitney and Frank
+into the hotel, past the office, to the foot of the staircase. Here a
+servant of the hotel stopped Dick, but Mr. Whitney explained that he
+had something for him to do, and he was allowed to proceed.
+
+They entered a long entry, and finally paused before a door. This being
+opened a pleasant chamber was disclosed.
+
+“Come in, my lad,” said Mr. Whitney.
+
+Dick and Frank entered.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+DICK’S NEW SUIT
+
+
+“Now,” said Mr. Whitney to Dick, “my nephew here is on his way to a
+boarding-school. He has a suit of clothes in his trunk about half worn.
+He is willing to give them to you. I think they will look better than
+those you have on.”
+
+Dick was so astonished that he hardly knew what to say. Presents were
+something that he knew very little about, never having received any to
+his knowledge. That so large a gift should be made to him by a stranger
+seemed very wonderful.
+
+The clothes were brought out, and turned out to be a neat gray suit.
+
+“Before you put them on, my lad, you must wash yourself. Clean clothes
+and a dirty skin don’t go very well together. Frank, you may attend to
+him. I am obliged to go at once. Have you got as much money as you
+require?”
+
+“Yes, uncle.”
+
+“One more word, my lad,” said Mr. Whitney, addressing Dick; “I may be
+rash in trusting a boy of whom I know nothing, but I like your looks,
+and I think you will prove a proper guide for my nephew.”
+
+“Yes, I will, sir,” said Dick, earnestly. “Honor bright!”
+
+“Very well. A pleasant time to you.”
+
+The process of cleansing commenced. To tell the truth Dick needed it,
+and the sensation of cleanliness he found both new and pleasant. Frank
+added to his gift a shirt, stockings, and an old pair of shoes. “I am
+sorry I haven’t any cap,” said he.
+
+“I’ve got one,” said Dick.
+
+“It isn’t so new as it might be,” said Frank, surveying an old felt
+hat, which had once been black, but was now dingy, with a large hole in
+the top and a portion of the rim torn off.
+
+“No,” said Dick; “my grandfather used to wear it when he was a boy, and
+I’ve kep’ it ever since out of respect for his memory. But I’ll get a
+new one now. I can buy one cheap on Chatham Street.”
+
+“Is that near here?”
+
+“Only five minutes’ walk.”
+
+“Then we can get one on the way.”
+
+When Dick was dressed in his new attire, with his face and hands clean,
+and his hair brushed, it was difficult to imagine that he was the same
+boy.
+
+He now looked quite handsome, and might readily have been taken for a
+young gentleman, except that his hands were red and grimy.
+
+“Look at yourself,” said Frank, leading him before the mirror.
+
+“By gracious!” said Dick, starting back in astonishment, “that isn’t
+me, is it?”
+
+“Don’t you know yourself?” asked Frank, smiling.
+
+“It reminds me of Cinderella,” said Dick, “when she was changed into a
+fairy princess. I see it one night at Barnum’s. What’ll Johnny Nolan
+say when he sees me? He won’t dare to speak to such a young swell as I
+be now. Aint it rich?” and Dick burst into a loud laugh. His fancy was
+tickled by the anticipation of his friend’s surprise. Then the thought
+of the valuable gifts he had received occurred to him, and he looked
+gratefully at Frank.
+
+“You’re a brick,” he said.
+
+“A what?”
+
+“A brick! You’re a jolly good fellow to give me such a present.”
+
+“You’re quite welcome, Dick,” said Frank, kindly. “I’m better off than
+you are, and I can spare the clothes just as well as not. You must have
+a new hat though. But that we can get when we go out. The old clothes
+you can make into a bundle.”
+
+“Wait a minute till I get my handkercher,” and Dick pulled from the
+pocket of the pants a dirty rag, which might have been white once,
+though it did not look like it, and had apparently once formed a part
+of a sheet or shirt.
+
+“You mustn’t carry that,” said Frank.
+
+“But I’ve got a cold,” said Dick.
+
+“Oh, I don’t mean you to go without a handkerchief. I’ll give you one.”
+
+Frank opened his trunk and pulled out two, which he gave to Dick.
+
+“I wonder if I aint dreamin’,” said Dick, once more surveying himself
+doubtfully in the glass. “I’m afraid I’m dreamin’, and shall wake up in
+a barrel, as I did night afore last.”
+
+“Shall I pinch you so you can wake here?” asked Frank, playfully.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, seriously, “I wish you would.”
+
+He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, and Frank pinched him pretty
+hard, so that Dick winced.
+
+“Yes, I guess I’m awake,” said Dick; “you’ve got a pair of nippers, you
+have. But what shall I do with my brush and blacking?” he asked.
+
+“You can leave them here till we come back,” said Frank. “They will be
+safe.”
+
+“Hold on a minute,” said Dick, surveying Frank’s boots with a
+professional eye, “you aint got a good shine on them boots. I’ll make
+’em shine so you can see your face in ’em.”
+
+And he was as good as his word.
+
+“Thank you,” said Frank; “now you had better brush your own shoes.”
+
+This had not occurred to Dick, for in general the professional
+boot-black considers his blacking too valuable to expend on his own
+shoes or boots, if he is fortunate enough to possess a pair.
+
+The two boys now went downstairs together. They met the same servant
+who had spoken to Dick a few minutes before, but there was no
+recognition.
+
+“He don’t know me,” said Dick. “He thinks I’m a young swell like you.”
+
+“What’s a swell?”
+
+“Oh, a feller that wears nobby clothes like you.”
+
+“And you, too, Dick.”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “who’d ever have thought as I should have turned into
+a swell?”
+
+They had now got out on Broadway, and were slowly walking along the
+west side by the Park, when who should Dick see in front of him, but
+Johnny Nolan?
+
+Instantly Dick was seized with a fancy for witnessing Johnny’s
+amazement at his change in appearance. He stole up behind him, and
+struck him on the back.
+
+“Hallo, Johnny, how many shines have you had?”
+
+Johnny turned round expecting to see Dick, whose voice he recognized,
+but his astonished eyes rested on a nicely dressed boy (the hat alone
+excepted) who looked indeed like Dick, but so transformed in dress that
+it was difficult to be sure of his identity.
+
+“What luck, Johnny?” repeated Dick.
+
+Johnny surveyed him from head to foot in great bewilderment.
+
+“Who be you?” he said.
+
+“Well, that’s a good one,” laughed Dick; “so you don’t know Dick?”
+
+“Where’d you get all them clothes?” asked Johnny. “Have you been
+stealin’?”
+
+“Say that again, and I’ll lick you. No, I’ve lent my clothes to a young
+feller as was goin’ to a party, and didn’t have none fit to wear, and
+so I put on my second-best for a change.”
+
+Without deigning any further explanation, Dick went off, followed by
+the astonished gaze of Johnny Nolan, who could not quite make up his
+mind whether the neat-looking boy he had been talking with was really
+Ragged Dick or not.
+
+In order to reach Chatham Street it was necessary to cross Broadway.
+This was easier proposed than done. There is always such a throng of
+omnibuses, drays, carriages, and vehicles of all kinds in the
+neighborhood of the Astor House, that the crossing is formidable to one
+who is not used to it. Dick made nothing of it, dodging in and out
+among the horses and wagons with perfect self-possession. Reaching the
+opposite sidewalk, he looked back, and found that Frank had retreated
+in dismay, and that the width of the street was between them.
+
+“Come across!” called out Dick.
+
+“I don’t see any chance,” said Frank, looking anxiously at the prospect
+before him. “I’m afraid of being run over.”
+
+“If you are, you can sue ’em for damages,” said Dick.
+
+Finally Frank got safely over after several narrow escapes, as he
+considered them.
+
+“Is it always so crowded?” he asked.
+
+“A good deal worse sometimes,” said Dick. “I knowed a young man once
+who waited six hours for a chance to cross, and at last got run over by
+an omnibus, leaving a widder and a large family of orphan children. His
+widder, a beautiful young woman, was obliged to start a peanut and
+apple stand. There she is now.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+Dick pointed to a hideous old woman, of large proportions, wearing a
+bonnet of immense size, who presided over an apple-stand close by.
+
+Frank laughed.
+
+“If that is the case,” he said, “I think I will patronize her.”
+
+“Leave it to me,” said Dick, winking.
+
+He advanced gravely to the apple-stand, and said, “Old lady, have you
+paid your taxes?”
+
+The astonished woman opened her eyes.
+
+“I’m a gov’ment officer,” said Dick, “sent by the mayor to collect your
+taxes. I’ll take it in apples just to oblige. That big red one will
+about pay what you’re owin’ to the gov’ment.”
+
+“I don’t know nothing about no taxes,” said the old woman, in
+bewilderment.
+
+“Then,” said Dick, “I’ll let you off this time. Give us two of your
+best apples, and my friend here, the President of the Common Council,
+will pay you.”
+
+Frank smiling, paid three cents apiece for the apples, and they
+sauntered on, Dick remarking, “If these apples aint good, old lady,
+we’ll return ’em, and get our money back.” This would have been rather
+difficult in his case, as the apple was already half consumed.
+
+Chatham Street, where they wished to go, being on the East side, the
+two boys crossed the Park. This is an enclosure of about ten acres,
+which years ago was covered with a green sward, but is now a great
+thoroughfare for pedestrians and contains several important public
+buildings. Dick pointed out the City Hall, the Hall of Records, and the
+Rotunda. The former is a white building of large size, and surmounted
+by a cupola.
+
+“That’s where the mayor’s office is,” said Dick. “Him and me are very
+good friends. I once blacked his boots by partic’lar appointment.
+That’s the way I pay my city taxes.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+CHATHAM STREET AND BROADWAY
+
+
+They were soon in Chatham Street, walking between rows of ready-made
+clothing shops, many of which had half their stock in trade exposed on
+the sidewalk. The proprietors of these establishments stood at the
+doors, watching attentively the passersby, extending urgent invitations
+to any who even glanced at the goods to enter.
+
+“Walk in, young gentlemen,” said a stout man, at the entrance of one
+shop.
+
+“No, I thank you,” replied Dick, “as the fly said to the spider.”
+
+“We’re selling off at less than cost.”
+
+“Of course you be. That’s where you makes your money,” said Dick.
+“There aint nobody of any enterprise that pretends to make any profit
+on his goods.”
+
+The Chatham Street trader looked after our hero as if he didn’t quite
+comprehend him; but Dick, without waiting for a reply, passed on with
+his companion.
+
+In some of the shops auctions seemed to be going on.
+
+“I am only offered two dollars, gentlemen, for this elegant pair of
+doeskin pants, made of the very best of cloth. It’s a frightful
+sacrifice. Who’ll give an eighth? Thank you, sir. Only seventeen
+shillings! Why the cloth cost more by the yard!”
+
+This speaker was standing on a little platform haranguing to three men,
+holding in his hand meanwhile a pair of pants very loose in the legs,
+and presenting a cheap Bowery look.
+
+Frank and Dick paused before the shop door, and finally saw them
+knocked down to rather a verdant-looking individual at three dollars.
+
+“Clothes seem to be pretty cheap here,” said Frank.
+
+“Yes, but Baxter Street is the cheapest place.”
+
+“Is it?”
+
+“Yes. Johnny Nolan got a whole rig-out there last week, for a
+dollar,—coat, cap, vest, pants, and shoes. They was very good measure,
+too, like my best clothes that I took off to oblige you.”
+
+“I shall know where to come for clothes next time,” said Frank,
+laughing. “I had no idea the city was so much cheaper than the country.
+I suppose the Baxter Street tailors are fashionable?”
+
+“In course they are. Me and Horace Greeley always go there for clothes.
+When Horace gets a new suit, I always have one made just like it; but I
+can’t go the white hat. It aint becomin’ to my style of beauty.”
+
+A little farther on a man was standing out on the sidewalk,
+distributing small printed handbills. One was handed to Frank, which he
+read as follows,—
+
+“GRAND CLOSING-OUT SALE!—A variety of Beautiful and Costly Articles for
+Sale, at a Dollar apiece. Unparalleled Inducements! Walk in,
+Gentlemen!”
+
+“Whereabouts is this sale?” asked Frank.
+
+“In here, young gentlemen,” said a black-whiskered individual, who
+appeared suddenly on the scene. “Walk in.”
+
+“Shall we go in, Dick?”
+
+“It’s a swindlin’ shop,” said Dick, in a low voice. “I’ve been there.
+That man’s a regular cheat. He’s seen me before, but he don’t know me
+coz of my clothes.”
+
+“Step in and see the articles,” said the man, persuasively. “You
+needn’t buy, you know.”
+
+“Are all the articles worth more’n a dollar?” asked Dick.
+
+“Yes,” said the other, “and some worth a great deal more.”
+
+“Such as what?”
+
+“Well, there’s a silver pitcher worth twenty dollars.”
+
+“And you sell it for a dollar. That’s very kind of you,” said Dick,
+innocently.
+
+“Walk in, and you’ll understand it.”
+
+“No, I guess not,” said Dick. “My servants is so dishonest that I
+wouldn’t like to trust ’em with a silver pitcher. Come along, Frank. I
+hope you’ll succeed in your charitable enterprise of supplyin’ the
+public with silver pitchers at nineteen dollars less than they are
+worth.”
+
+“How does he manage, Dick?” asked Frank, as they went on.
+
+“All his articles are numbered, and he makes you pay a dollar, and then
+shakes some dice, and whatever the figgers come to, is the number of
+the article you draw. Most of ’em aint worth sixpence.”
+
+A hat and cap store being close at hand, Dick and Frank went in. For
+seventy-five cents, which Frank insisted on paying, Dick succeeded in
+getting quite a neat-looking cap, which corresponded much better with
+his appearance than the one he had on. The last, not being considered
+worth keeping, Dick dropped on the sidewalk, from which, on looking
+back, he saw it picked up by a brother boot-black who appeared to
+consider it better than his own.
+
+They retraced their steps and went up Chambers Street to Broadway. At
+the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street is a large white marble
+warehouse, which attracted Frank’s attention.
+
+“What building is that?” he asked, with interest.
+
+“That belongs to my friend A. T. Stewart,” said Dick. “It’s the biggest
+store on Broadway.* If I ever retire from boot-blackin’, and go into
+mercantile pursuits, I may buy him out, or build another store that’ll
+take the shine off this one.”
+
+* Mr. Stewart’s Tenth Street store was not open at the time Dick spoke.
+
+
+“Were you ever in the store?” asked Frank.
+
+“No,” said Dick; “but I’m intimate with one of Stewart’s partners. He
+is a cash boy, and does nothing but take money all day.”
+
+“A very agreeable employment,” said Frank, laughing.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “I’d like to be in it.”
+
+The boys crossed to the West side of Broadway, and walked slowly up the
+street. To Frank it was a very interesting spectacle. Accustomed to the
+quiet of the country, there was something fascinating in the crowds of
+people thronging the sidewalks, and the great variety of vehicles
+constantly passing and repassing in the street. Then again the
+shop-windows with their multifarious contents interested and amused
+him, and he was constantly checking Dick to look in at some
+well-stocked window.
+
+“I don’t see how so many shopkeepers can find people enough to buy of
+them,” he said. “We haven’t got but two stores in our village, and
+Broadway seems to be full of them.”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick; “and its pretty much the same in the avenoos,
+’specially the Third, Sixth, and Eighth avenoos. The Bowery, too, is a
+great place for shoppin’. There everybody sells cheaper’n anybody else,
+and nobody pretends to make no profit on their goods.”
+
+“Where’s Barnum’s Museum?” asked Frank.
+
+“Oh, that’s down nearly opposite the Astor House,” said Dick. “Didn’t
+you see a great building with lots of flags?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, that’s Barnum’s.* That’s where the Happy Family live, and the
+lions, and bears, and curiosities generally. It’s a tip-top place.
+Haven’t you ever been there? It’s most as good as the Old Bowery, only
+the plays isn’t quite so excitin’.”
+
+* Since destroyed by fire, and rebuilt farther up Broadway, and again
+burned down in February.
+
+
+“I’ll go if I get time,” said Frank. “There is a boy at home who came
+to New York a month ago, and went to Barnum’s, and has been talking
+about it ever since, so I suppose it must be worth seeing.”
+
+“They’ve got a great play at the Old Bowery now,” pursued Dick. “’Tis
+called the ‘Demon of the Danube.’ The Demon falls in love with a young
+woman, and drags her by the hair up to the top of a steep rock where
+his castle stands.”
+
+“That’s a queer way of showing his love,” said Frank, laughing.
+
+“She didn’t want to go with him, you know, but was in love with another
+chap. When he heard about his girl bein’ carried off, he felt awful,
+and swore an oath not to rest till he had got her free. Well, at last
+he got into the castle by some underground passage, and he and the
+Demon had a fight. Oh, it was bully seein’ ’em roll round on the stage,
+cuttin’ and slashin’ at each other.”
+
+“And which got the best of it?”
+
+“At first the Demon seemed to be ahead, but at last the young Baron got
+him down, and struck a dagger into his heart, sayin’, ‘Die, false and
+perjured villain! The dogs shall feast upon thy carcass!’ and then the
+Demon give an awful howl and died. Then the Baron seized his body, and
+threw it over the precipice.”
+
+“It seems to me the actor who plays the Demon ought to get extra pay,
+if he has to be treated that way.”
+
+“That’s so,” said Dick; “but I guess he’s used to it. It seems to agree
+with his constitution.”
+
+“What building is that?” asked Frank, pointing to a structure several
+rods back from the street, with a large yard in front. It was an
+unusual sight for Broadway, all the other buildings in that
+neighborhood being even with the street.
+
+“That is the New York Hospital,” said Dick. “They’re a rich
+institution, and take care of sick people on very reasonable terms.”
+
+“Did you ever go in there?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick; “there was a friend of mine, Johnny Mullen, he was a
+newsboy, got run over by a omnibus as he was crossin’ Broadway down
+near Park Place. He was carried to the Hospital, and me and some of his
+friends paid his board while he was there. It was only three dollars a
+week, which was very cheap, considerin’ all the care they took of him.
+I got leave to come and see him while he was here. Everything looked so
+nice and comfortable, that I thought a little of coaxin’ a omnibus
+driver to run over me, so I might go there too.”
+
+“Did your friend have to have his leg cut off?” asked Frank,
+interested.
+
+“No,” said Dick; “though there was a young student there that was very
+anxious to have it cut off; but it wasn’t done, and Johnny is around
+the streets as well as ever.”
+
+While this conversation was going on they reached No. 365, at the
+corner of Franklin Street.*
+
+* Now the office of the Merchants’ Union Express Company.
+
+
+“That’s Taylor’s Saloon,” said Dick. “When I come into a fortun’ I
+shall take my meals there reg’lar.”
+
+“I have heard of it very often,” said Frank. “It is said to be very
+elegant. Suppose we go in and take an ice-cream. It will give us a
+chance to see it to better advantage.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Dick; “I think that’s the most agreeable way of
+seein’ the place myself.”
+
+The boys entered, and found themselves in a spacious and elegant
+saloon, resplendent with gilding, and adorned on all sides by costly
+mirrors. They sat down to a small table with a marble top, and Frank
+gave the order.
+
+“It reminds me of Aladdin’s palace,” said Frank, looking about him.
+
+“Does it?” said Dick; “he must have had plenty of money.”
+
+“He had an old lamp, which he had only to rub, when the Slave of the
+Lamp would appear, and do whatever he wanted.”
+
+“That must have been a valooable lamp. I’d be willin’ to give all my
+Erie shares for it.”
+
+There was a tall, gaunt individual at the next table, who apparently
+heard this last remark of Dick’s. Turning towards our hero, he said,
+“May I inquire, young man, whether you are largely interested in this
+Erie Railroad?”
+
+“I haven’t got no property except what’s invested in Erie,” said Dick,
+with a comical side-glance at Frank.
+
+“Indeed! I suppose the investment was made by your guardian.”
+
+“No,” said Dick; “I manage my property myself.”
+
+“And I presume your dividends have not been large?”
+
+“Why, no,” said Dick; “you’re about right there. They haven’t.”
+
+“As I supposed. It’s poor stock. Now, my young friend, I can recommend
+a much better investment, which will yield you a large annual income. I
+am agent of the Excelsior Copper Mining Company, which possesses one of
+the most productive mines in the world. It’s sure to yield fifty per
+cent. on the investment. Now, all you have to do is to sell out your
+Erie shares, and invest in our stock, and I’ll insure you a fortune in
+three years. How many shares did you say you had?”
+
+“I didn’t say, that I remember,” said Dick. “Your offer is very kind
+and obligin’, and as soon as I get time I’ll see about it.”
+
+“I hope you will,” said the stranger. “Permit me to give you my card.
+‘Samuel Snap, No. — Wall Street.’ I shall be most happy to receive a
+call from you, and exhibit the maps of our mine. I should be glad to
+have you mention the matter also to your friends. I am confident you
+could do no greater service than to induce them to embark in our
+enterprise.”
+
+“Very good,” said Dick.
+
+Here the stranger left the table, and walked up to the desk to settle
+his bill.
+
+“You see what it is to be a man of fortun’, Frank,” said Dick, “and
+wear good clothes. I wonder what that chap’ll say when he sees me
+blackin’ boots to-morrow in the street?”
+
+“Perhaps you earn your money more honorably than he does, after all,”
+said Frank. “Some of these mining companies are nothing but swindles,
+got up to cheat people out of their money.”
+
+“He’s welcome to all he gets out of me,” said Dick.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+UP BROADWAY TO MADISON SQUARE
+
+
+As the boys pursued their way up Broadway, Dick pointed out the
+prominent hotels and places of amusement. Frank was particularly struck
+with the imposing fronts of the St. Nicholas and Metropolitan Hotels,
+the former of white marble, the latter of a subdued brown hue, but not
+less elegant in its internal appointments. He was not surprised to be
+informed that each of these splendid structures cost with the
+furnishing not far from a million dollars.
+
+At Eighth Street Dick turned to the right, and pointed out the Clinton
+Hall Building now occupied by the Mercantile Library, comprising at
+that time over fifty thousand volumes.*
+
+* Now not far from one hundred thousand.
+
+
+A little farther on they came to a large building standing by itself
+just at the opening of Third and Fourth Avenues, and with one side on
+each.
+
+“What is that building?” asked Frank.
+
+“That’s the Cooper Institute,” said Dick; “built by Mr. Cooper, a
+particular friend of mine. Me and Peter Cooper used to go to school
+together.”
+
+“What is there inside?” asked Frank.
+
+“There’s a hall for public meetin’s and lectures in the basement, and a
+readin’ room and a picture gallery up above,” said Dick.
+
+Directly opposite Cooper Institute, Frank saw a very large building of
+brick, covering about an acre of ground.
+
+“Is that a hotel?” he asked.
+
+“No,” said Dick; “that’s the Bible House. It’s the place where they
+make Bibles. I was in there once,—saw a big pile of ’em.”
+
+“Did you ever read the Bible?” asked Frank, who had some idea of the
+neglected state of Dick’s education.
+
+“No,” said Dick; “I’ve heard it’s a good book, but I never read one. I
+aint much on readin’. It makes my head ache.”
+
+“I suppose you can’t read very fast.”
+
+“I can read the little words pretty well, but the big ones is what
+stick me.”
+
+“If I lived in the city, you might come every evening to me, and I
+would teach you.”
+
+“Would you take so much trouble about me?” asked Dick, earnestly.
+
+“Certainly; I should like to see you getting on. There isn’t much
+chance of that if you don’t know how to read and write.”
+
+“You’re a good feller,” said Dick, gratefully. “I wish you did live in
+New York. I’d like to know somethin’. Whereabouts do you live?”
+
+“About fifty miles off, in a town on the left bank of the Hudson. I
+wish you’d come up and see me sometime. I would like to have you come
+and stop two or three days.”
+
+“Honor bright?”
+
+“I don’t understand.”
+
+“Do you mean it?” asked Dick, incredulously.
+
+“Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I?”
+
+“What would your folks say if they knowed you asked a boot-black to
+visit you?”
+
+“You are none the worse for being a boot-black, Dick.”
+
+“I aint used to genteel society,” said Dick. “I shouldn’t know how to
+behave.”
+
+“Then I could show you. You won’t be a boot-black all your life, you
+know.”
+
+“No,” said Dick; “I’m goin’ to knock off when I get to be ninety.”
+
+“Before that, I hope,” said Frank, smiling.
+
+“I really wish I could get somethin’ else to do,” said Dick, soberly.
+“I’d like to be a office boy, and learn business, and grow up
+’spectable.”
+
+“Why don’t you try, and see if you can’t get a place, Dick?”
+
+“Who’d take Ragged Dick?”
+
+“But you aint ragged now, Dick.”
+
+“No,” said Dick; “I look a little better than I did in my Washington
+coat and Louis Napoleon pants. But if I got in a office, they wouldn’t
+give me more’n three dollars a week, and I couldn’t live ’spectable on
+that.”
+
+“No, I suppose not,” said Frank, thoughtfully. “But you would get more
+at the end of the first year.”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick; “but by that time I’d be nothin’ but skin and bones.”
+
+Frank laughed. “That reminds me,” he said, “of the story of an
+Irishman, who, out of economy, thought he would teach his horse to feed
+on shavings. So he provided the horse with a pair of green spectacles
+which made the shavings look eatable. But unfortunately, just as the
+horse got learned, he up and died.”
+
+“The hoss must have been a fine specimen of architectur’ by the time he
+got through,” remarked Dick.
+
+“Whereabouts are we now?” asked Frank, as they emerged from Fourth
+Avenue into Union Square.
+
+“That is Union Park,” said Dick, pointing to a beautiful enclosure, in
+the centre of which was a pond, with a fountain playing.
+
+“Is that the statue of General Washington?” asked Frank, pointing to a
+bronze equestrian statue, on a granite pedestal.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick; “he’s growed some since he was President. If he’d
+been as tall as that when he fit in the Revolution, he’d have walloped
+the Britishers some, I reckon.”
+
+Frank looked up at the statue, which is fourteen and a half feet high,
+and acknowledged the justice of Dick’s remark.
+
+“How about the coat, Dick?” he asked. “Would it fit you?”
+
+“Well, it might be rather loose,” said Dick, “I aint much more’n ten
+feet high with my boots off.”
+
+“No, I should think not,” said Frank, smiling. “You’re a queer boy,
+Dick.”
+
+“Well, I’ve been brought up queer. Some boys is born with a silver
+spoon in their mouth. Victoria’s boys is born with a gold spoon, set
+with di’monds; but gold and silver was scarce when I was born, and mine
+was pewter.”
+
+“Perhaps the gold and silver will come by and by, Dick. Did you ever
+hear of Dick Whittington?”
+
+“Never did. Was he a Ragged Dick?”
+
+“I shouldn’t wonder if he was. At any rate he was very poor when he was
+a boy, but he didn’t stay so. Before he died, he became Lord Mayor of
+London.”
+
+“Did he?” asked Dick, looking interested. “How did he do it?”
+
+“Why, you see, a rich merchant took pity on him, and gave him a home in
+his own house, where he used to stay with the servants, being employed
+in little errands. One day the merchant noticed Dick picking up pins
+and needles that had been dropped, and asked him why he did it. Dick
+told him he was going to sell them when he got enough. The merchant was
+pleased with his saving disposition, and when soon after, he was going
+to send a vessel to foreign parts, he told Dick he might send anything
+he pleased in it, and it should be sold to his advantage. Now Dick had
+nothing in the world but a kitten which had been given him a short time
+before.”
+
+“How much taxes did he have to pay on it?” asked Dick.
+
+“Not very high, probably. But having only the kitten, he concluded to
+send it along. After sailing a good many months, during which the
+kitten grew up to be a strong cat, the ship touched at an island never
+before known, which happened to be infested with rats and mice to such
+an extent that they worried everybody’s life out, and even ransacked
+the king’s palace. To make a long story short, the captain, seeing how
+matters stood, brought Dick’s cat ashore, and she soon made the rats
+and mice scatter. The king was highly delighted when he saw what havoc
+she made among the rats and mice, and resolved to have her at any
+price. So he offered a great quantity of gold for her, which, of
+course, the captain was glad to accept. It was faithfully carried back
+to Dick, and laid the foundation of his fortune. He prospered as he
+grew up, and in time became a very rich merchant, respected by all, and
+before he died was elected Lord Mayor of London.”
+
+“That’s a pretty good story,” said Dick; “but I don’t believe all the
+cats in New York will ever make me mayor.”
+
+“No, probably not, but you may rise in some other way. A good many
+distinguished men have once been poor boys. There’s hope for you, Dick,
+if you’ll try.”
+
+“Nobody ever talked to me so before,” said Dick. “They just called me
+Ragged Dick, and told me I’d grow up to be a vagabone (boys who are
+better educated need not be surprised at Dick’s blunders) and come to
+the gallows.”
+
+“Telling you so won’t make it turn out so, Dick. If you’ll try to be
+somebody, and grow up into a respectable member of society, you will.
+You may not become rich,—it isn’t everybody that becomes rich, you
+know—but you can obtain a good position, and be respected.”
+
+“I’ll try,” said Dick, earnestly. “I needn’t have been Ragged Dick so
+long if I hadn’t spent my money in goin’ to the theatre, and treatin’
+boys to oyster-stews, and bettin’ money on cards, and such like.”
+
+“Have you lost money that way?”
+
+“Lots of it. One time I saved up five dollars to buy me a new rig-out,
+cos my best suit was all in rags, when Limpy Jim wanted me to play a
+game with him.”
+
+“Limpy Jim?” said Frank, interrogatively.
+
+“Yes, he’s lame; that’s what makes us call him Limpy Jim.”
+
+“I suppose you lost?”
+
+“Yes, I lost every penny, and had to sleep out, cos I hadn’t a cent to
+pay for lodgin’. ’Twas a awful cold night, and I got most froze.”
+
+“Wouldn’t Jim let you have any of the money he had won to pay for a
+lodging?”
+
+“No; I axed him for five cents, but he wouldn’t let me have it.”
+
+“Can you get lodging for five cents?” asked Frank, in surprise.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “but not at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. That’s it right
+out there.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+THE POCKET-BOOK
+
+
+They had reached the junction of Broadway and of Fifth Avenue. Before
+them was a beautiful park of ten acres. On the left-hand side was a
+large marble building, presenting a fine appearance with its extensive
+white front. This was the building at which Dick pointed.
+
+“Is that the Fifth Avenue Hotel?” asked Frank. “I’ve heard of it often.
+My Uncle William always stops there when he comes to New York.”
+
+“I once slept on the outside of it,” said Dick. “They was very
+reasonable in their charges, and told me I might come again.”
+
+“Perhaps sometime you’ll be able to sleep inside,” said Frank.
+
+“I guess that’ll be when Queen Victoria goes to the Five Points to
+live.”
+
+“It looks like a palace,” said Frank. “The queen needn’t be ashamed to
+live in such a beautiful building as that.”
+
+Though Frank did not know it, one of the queen’s palaces is far from
+being as fine a looking building as the Fifth Avenue Hotel. St. James’
+Palace is a very ugly-looking brick structure, and appears much more
+like a factory than like the home of royalty. There are few hotels in
+the world as fine-looking as this democratic institution.
+
+At that moment a gentleman passed them on the sidewalk, who looked back
+at Dick, as if his face seemed familiar.
+
+“I know that man,” said Dick, after he had passed. “He’s one of my
+customers.”
+
+“What is his name?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“He looked back as if he thought he knew you.”
+
+“He would have knowed me at once if it hadn’t been for my new clothes,”
+said Dick. “I don’t look much like Ragged Dick now.”
+
+“I suppose your face looked familiar.”
+
+“All but the dirt,” said Dick, laughing. “I don’t always have the
+chance of washing my face and hands in the Astor House.”
+
+“You told me,” said Frank, “that there was a place where you could get
+lodging for five cents. Where’s that?”
+
+“It’s the News-boys’ Lodgin’ House, on Fulton Street,” said Dick, “up
+over the ‘Sun’ office. It’s a good place. I don’t know what us boys
+would do without it. They give you supper for six cents, and a bed for
+five cents more.”
+
+“I suppose some boys don’t even have the five cents to pay,—do they?”
+
+“They’ll trust the boys,” said Dick. “But I don’t like to get trusted.
+I’d be ashamed to get trusted for five cents, or ten either. One night
+I was comin’ down Chatham Street, with fifty cents in my pocket. I was
+goin’ to get a good oyster-stew, and then go to the lodgin’ house; but
+somehow it slipped through a hole in my trowses-pocket, and I hadn’t a
+cent left. If it had been summer I shouldn’t have cared, but it’s
+rather tough stayin’ out winter nights.”
+
+Frank, who had always possessed a good home of his own, found it hard
+to realize that the boy who was walking at his side had actually walked
+the streets in the cold without a home, or money to procure the common
+comfort of a bed.
+
+“What did you do?” he asked, his voice full of sympathy.
+
+“I went to the ‘Times’ office. I knowed one of the pressmen, and he let
+me set down in a corner, where I was warm, and I soon got fast asleep.”
+
+“Why don’t you get a room somewhere, and so always have a home to go
+to?”
+
+“I dunno,” said Dick. “I never thought of it. P’rhaps I may hire a
+furnished house on Madison Square.”
+
+“That’s where Flora McFlimsey lived.”
+
+“I don’t know her,” said Dick, who had never read the popular poem of
+which she is the heroine.
+
+While this conversation was going on, they had turned into Twenty-fifth
+Street, and had by this time reached Third Avenue.
+
+Just before entering it, their attention was drawn to the rather
+singular conduct of an individual in front of them. Stopping suddenly,
+he appeared to pick up something from the sidewalk, and then looked
+about him in rather a confused way.
+
+“I know his game,” whispered Dick. “Come along and you’ll see what it
+is.”
+
+He hurried Frank forward until they overtook the man, who had come to a
+stand-still.
+
+“Have you found anything?” asked Dick.
+
+“Yes,” said the man, “I’ve found this.”
+
+He exhibited a wallet which seemed stuffed with bills, to judge from
+its plethoric appearance.
+
+“Whew!” exclaimed Dick; “you’re in luck.”
+
+“I suppose somebody has lost it,” said the man, “and will offer a
+handsome reward.”
+
+“Which you’ll get.”
+
+“Unfortunately I am obliged to take the next train to Boston. That’s
+where I live. I haven’t time to hunt up the owner.”
+
+“Then I suppose you’ll take the pocket-book with you,” said Dick, with
+assumed simplicity.
+
+“I should like to leave it with some honest fellow who would see it
+returned to the owner,” said the man, glancing at the boys.
+
+“I’m honest,” said Dick.
+
+“I’ve no doubt of it,” said the other. “Well, young man, I’ll make you
+an offer. You take the pocket-book—”
+
+“All right. Hand it over, then.”
+
+“Wait a minute. There must be a large sum inside. I shouldn’t wonder if
+there might be a thousand dollars. The owner will probably give you a
+hundred dollars reward.”
+
+“Why don’t you stay and get it?” asked Frank.
+
+“I would, only there is sickness in my family, and I must get home as
+soon as possible. Just give me twenty dollars, and I’ll hand you the
+pocket-book, and let you make whatever you can out of it. Come, that’s
+a good offer. What do you say?”
+
+Dick was well dressed, so that the other did not regard it as at all
+improbable that he might possess that sum. He was prepared, however, to
+let him have it for less, if necessary.
+
+“Twenty dollars is a good deal of money,” said Dick, appearing to
+hesitate.
+
+“You’ll get it back, and a good deal more,” said the stranger,
+persuasively.
+
+“I don’t know but I shall. What would you do, Frank?”
+
+“I don’t know but I would,” said Frank, “if you’ve got the money.” He
+was not a little surprised to think that Dick had so much by him.
+
+“I don’t know but I will,” said Dick, after some irresolution. “I guess
+I won’t lose much.”
+
+“You can’t lose anything,” said the stranger briskly. “Only be quick,
+for I must be on my way to the cars. I am afraid I shall miss them
+now.”
+
+Dick pulled out a bill from his pocket, and handed it to the stranger,
+receiving the pocket-book in return. At that moment a policeman turned
+the corner, and the stranger, hurriedly thrusting the bill into his
+pocket, without looking at it, made off with rapid steps.
+
+“What is there in the pocket-book, Dick?” asked Frank in some
+excitement. “I hope there’s enough to pay you for the money you gave
+him.”
+
+Dick laughed.
+
+“I’ll risk that,” said he.
+
+“But you gave him twenty dollars. That’s a good deal of money.”
+
+“If I had given him as much as that, I should deserve to be cheated out
+of it.”
+
+“But you did,—didn’t you?”
+
+“He thought so.”
+
+“What was it, then?”
+
+“It was nothing but a dry-goods circular got up to imitate a
+bank-bill.”
+
+Frank looked sober.
+
+“You ought not to have cheated him, Dick,” he said, reproachfully.
+
+“Didn’t he want to cheat me?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“What do you s’pose there is in that pocket-book?” asked Dick, holding
+it up.
+
+Frank surveyed its ample proportions, and answered sincerely enough,
+“Money, and a good deal of it.”
+
+“There aint stamps enough in it to buy a oyster-stew,” said Dick. “If
+you don’t believe it, just look while I open it.”
+
+So saying he opened the pocket-book, and showed Frank that it was
+stuffed out with pieces of blank paper, carefully folded up in the
+shape of bills. Frank, who was unused to city life, and had never heard
+anything of the “drop-game” looked amazed at this unexpected
+development.
+
+“I knowed how it was all the time,” said Dick. “I guess I got the best
+of him there. This wallet’s worth somethin’. I shall use it to keep my
+stiffkit’s of Erie stock in, and all my other papers what aint of no
+use to anybody but the owner.”
+
+“That’s the kind of papers it’s got in it now,” said Frank, smiling.
+
+“That’s so!” said Dick.
+
+“By hokey!” he exclaimed suddenly, “if there aint the old chap comin’
+back ag’in. He looks as if he’d heard bad news from his sick family.”
+
+By this time the pocket-book dropper had come up.
+
+Approaching the boys, he said in an undertone to Dick, “Give me back
+that pocket-book, you young rascal!”
+
+“Beg your pardon, mister,” said Dick, “but was you addressin’ me?”
+
+“Yes, I was.”
+
+“’Cause you called me by the wrong name. I’ve knowed some rascals, but
+I aint the honor to belong to the family.”
+
+He looked significantly at the other as he spoke, which didn’t improve
+the man’s temper. Accustomed to swindle others, he did not fancy being
+practised upon in return.
+
+“Give me back that pocket-book,” he repeated in a threatening voice.
+
+“Couldn’t do it,” said Dick, coolly. “I’m go’n’ to restore it to the
+owner. The contents is so valooable that most likely the loss has made
+him sick, and he’ll be likely to come down liberal to the honest
+finder.”
+
+“You gave me a bogus bill,” said the man.
+
+“It’s what I use myself,” said Dick.
+
+“You’ve swindled me.”
+
+“I thought it was the other way.”
+
+“None of your nonsense,” said the man angrily. “If you don’t give up
+that pocket-book, I’ll call a policeman.”
+
+“I wish you would,” said Dick. “They’ll know most likely whether it’s
+Stewart or Astor that’s lost the pocket-book, and I can get ’em to
+return it.”
+
+The “dropper,” whose object it was to recover the pocket-book, in order
+to try the same game on a more satisfactory customer, was irritated by
+Dick’s refusal, and above all by the coolness he displayed. He resolved
+to make one more attempt.
+
+“Do you want to pass the night in the Tombs?” he asked.
+
+“Thank you for your very obligin’ proposal,” said Dick; “but it aint
+convenient to-day. Any other time, when you’d like to have me come and
+stop with you, I’m agreeable; but my two youngest children is down with
+the measles, and I expect I’ll have to set up all night to take care of
+’em. Is the Tombs, in gineral, a pleasant place of residence?”
+
+Dick asked this question with an air of so much earnestness that Frank
+could scarcely forbear laughing, though it is hardly necessary to say
+that the dropper was by no means so inclined.
+
+“You’ll know sometime,” he said, scowling.
+
+“I’ll make you a fair offer,” said Dick. “If I get more’n fifty dollars
+as a reward for my honesty, I’ll divide with you. But I say, aint it
+most time to go back to your sick family in Boston?”
+
+Finding that nothing was to be made out of Dick, the man strode away
+with a muttered curse.
+
+“You were too smart for him, Dick,” said Frank.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “I aint knocked round the city streets all my life
+for nothin’.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+DICK’S EARLY HISTORY
+
+
+“Have you always lived in New York, Dick?” asked Frank, after a pause.
+
+“Ever since I can remember.”
+
+“I wish you’d tell me a little about yourself. Have you got any father
+or mother?”
+
+“I aint got no mother. She died when I wasn’t but three years old. My
+father went to sea; but he went off before mother died, and nothin’ was
+ever heard of him. I expect he got wrecked, or died at sea.”
+
+“And what became of you when your mother died?”
+
+“The folks she boarded with took care of me, but they was poor, and
+they couldn’t do much. When I was seven the woman died, and her husband
+went out West, and then I had to scratch for myself.”
+
+“At seven years old!” exclaimed Frank, in amazement.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “I was a little feller to take care of myself, but,”
+he continued with pardonable pride, “I did it.”
+
+“What could you do?”
+
+“Sometimes one thing, and sometimes another,” said Dick. “I changed my
+business accordin’ as I had to. Sometimes I was a newsboy, and diffused
+intelligence among the masses, as I heard somebody say once in a big
+speech he made in the Park. Them was the times when Horace Greeley and
+James Gordon Bennett made money.”
+
+“Through your enterprise?” suggested Frank.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick; “but I give it up after a while.”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“Well, they didn’t always put news enough in their papers, and people
+wouldn’t buy ’em as fast as I wanted ’em to. So one mornin’ I was stuck
+on a lot of Heralds, and I thought I’d make a sensation. So I called
+out ‘GREAT NEWS! QUEEN VICTORIA ASSASSINATED!’ All my Heralds went off
+like hot cakes, and I went off, too, but one of the gentlemen what got
+sold remembered me, and said he’d have me took up, and that’s what made
+me change my business.”
+
+“That wasn’t right, Dick,” said Frank.
+
+“I know it,” said Dick; “but lots of boys does it.”
+
+“That don’t make it any better.”
+
+“No,” said Dick, “I was sort of ashamed at the time, ’specially about
+one poor old gentleman,—a Englishman he was. He couldn’t help cryin’ to
+think the queen was dead, and his hands shook when he handed me the
+money for the paper.”
+
+“What did you do next?”
+
+“I went into the match business,” said Dick; “but it was small sales
+and small profits. Most of the people I called on had just laid in a
+stock, and didn’t want to buy. So one cold night, when I hadn’t money
+enough to pay for a lodgin’, I burned the last of my matches to keep me
+from freezin’. But it cost too much to get warm that way, and I
+couldn’t keep it up.”
+
+“You’ve seen hard times, Dick,” said Frank, compassionately.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “I’ve knowed what it was to be hungry and cold, with
+nothin’ to eat or to warm me; but there’s one thing I never could do,”
+he added, proudly.
+
+“What’s that?”
+
+“I never stole,” said Dick. “It’s mean and I wouldn’t do it.”
+
+“Were you ever tempted to?”
+
+“Lots of times. Once I had been goin’ round all day, and hadn’t sold
+any matches, except three cents’ worth early in the mornin’. With that
+I bought an apple, thinkin’ I should get some more bimeby. When evenin’
+come I was awful hungry. I went into a baker’s just to look at the
+bread. It made me feel kind o’ good just to look at the bread and
+cakes, and I thought maybe they would give me some. I asked ’em
+wouldn’t they give me a loaf, and take their pay in matches. But they
+said they’d got enough matches to last three months; so there wasn’t
+any chance for a trade. While I was standin’ at the stove warmin’ me,
+the baker went into a back room, and I felt so hungry I thought I would
+take just one loaf, and go off with it. There was such a big pile I
+don’t think he’d have known it.”
+
+“But you didn’t do it?”
+
+“No, I didn’t and I was glad of it, for when the man came in ag’in, he
+said he wanted some one to carry some cake to a lady in St. Mark’s
+Place. His boy was sick, and he hadn’t no one to send; so he told me
+he’d give me ten cents if I would go. My business wasn’t very pressin’
+just then, so I went, and when I come back, I took my pay in bread and
+cakes. Didn’t they taste good, though?”
+
+“So you didn’t stay long in the match business, Dick?”
+
+“No, I couldn’t sell enough to make it pay. Then there was some folks
+that wanted me to sell cheaper to them; so I couldn’t make any profit.
+There was one old lady—she was rich, too, for she lived in a big brick
+house—beat me down so, that I didn’t make no profit at all; but she
+wouldn’t buy without, and I hadn’t sold none that day; so I let her
+have them. I don’t see why rich folks should be so hard upon a poor boy
+that wants to make a livin’.”
+
+“There’s a good deal of meanness in the world, I’m afraid, Dick.”
+
+“If everybody was like you and your uncle,” said Dick, “there would be
+some chance for poor people. If I was rich I’d try to help ’em along.”
+
+“Perhaps you will be rich sometime, Dick.”
+
+Dick shook his head.
+
+“I’m afraid all my wallets will be like this,” said Dick, indicating
+the one he had received from the dropper, “and will be full of papers
+what aint of no use to anybody except the owner.”
+
+“That depends very much on yourself, Dick,” said Frank. “Stewart wasn’t
+always rich, you know.”
+
+“Wasn’t he?”
+
+“When he first came to New York as a young man he was a teacher, and
+teachers are not generally very rich. At last he went into business,
+starting in a small way, and worked his way up by degrees. But there
+was one thing he determined in the beginning: that he would be strictly
+honorable in all his dealings, and never overreach any one for the sake
+of making money. If there was a chance for him, Dick, there is a chance
+for you.”
+
+“He knowed enough to be a teacher, and I’m awful ignorant,” said Dick.
+
+“But you needn’t stay so.”
+
+“How can I help it?”
+
+“Can’t you learn at school?”
+
+“I can’t go to school ’cause I’ve got my livin’ to earn. It wouldn’t do
+me much good if I learned to read and write, and just as I’d got
+learned I starved to death.”
+
+“But are there no night-schools?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Why don’t you go? I suppose you don’t work in the evenings.”
+
+“I never cared much about it,” said Dick, “and that’s the truth. But
+since I’ve got to talkin’ with you, I think more about it. I guess I’ll
+begin to go.”
+
+“I wish you would, Dick. You’ll make a smart man if you only get a
+little education.”
+
+“Do you think so?” asked Dick, doubtfully.
+
+“I know so. A boy who has earned his own living since he was seven
+years old must have something in him. I feel very much interested in
+you, Dick. You’ve had a hard time of it so far in life, but I think
+better times are in store. I want you to do well, and I feel sure you
+can if you only try.”
+
+“You’re a good fellow,” said Dick, gratefully. “I’m afraid I’m a pretty
+rough customer, but I aint as bad as some. I mean to turn over a new
+leaf, and try to grow up ’spectable.”
+
+“There’ve been a great many boys begin as low down as you, Dick, that
+have grown up respectable and honored. But they had to work pretty hard
+for it.”
+
+“I’m willin’ to work hard,” said Dick.
+
+“And you must not only work hard, but work in the right way.”
+
+“What’s the right way?”
+
+“You began in the right way when you determined never to steal, or do
+anything mean or dishonorable, however strongly tempted to do so. That
+will make people have confidence in you when they come to know you.
+But, in order to succeed well, you must manage to get as good an
+education as you can. Until you do, you cannot get a position in an
+office or counting-room, even to run errands.”
+
+“That’s so,” said Dick, soberly. “I never thought how awful ignorant I
+was till now.”
+
+“That can be remedied with perseverance,” said Frank. “A year will do a
+great deal for you.”
+
+“I’ll go to work and see what I can do,” said Dick, energetically.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+A SCENE IN A THIRD AVENUE CAR
+
+
+The boys had turned into Third Avenue, a long street, which, commencing
+just below the Cooper Institute, runs out to Harlem. A man came out of
+a side street, uttering at intervals a monotonous cry which sounded
+like “glass puddin’.”
+
+“Glass pudding!” repeated Frank, looking in surprised wonder at Dick.
+“What does he mean?”
+
+“Perhaps you’d like some,” said Dick.
+
+“I never heard of it before.”
+
+“Suppose you ask him what he charges for his puddin’.”
+
+Frank looked more narrowly at the man, and soon concluded that he was a
+glazier.
+
+“Oh, I understand,” he said. “He means ‘glass put in.’”
+
+Frank’s mistake was not a singular one. The monotonous cry of these men
+certainly sounds more like “glass puddin’,” than the words they intend
+to utter.
+
+“Now,” said Dick, “where shall we go?”
+
+“I should like to see Central Park,” said Frank. “Is it far off?”
+
+“It is about a mile and a half from here,” said Dick. “This is
+Twenty-ninth Street, and the Park begins at Fifty-ninth Street.”
+
+It may be explained, for the benefit of readers who have never visited
+New York, that about a mile from the City Hall the cross-streets begin
+to be numbered in regular order. There is a continuous line of houses
+as far as One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where may be found the
+terminus of the Harlem line of horse-cars. When the entire island is
+laid out and settled, probably the numbers will reach two hundred or
+more. Central Park, which lies between Fifty-ninth Street on the south,
+and One Hundred and Tenth Street on the north, is true to its name,
+occupying about the centre of the island. The distance between two
+parallel streets is called a block, and twenty blocks make a mile. It
+will therefore be seen that Dick was exactly right, when he said they
+were a mile and a half from Central Park.
+
+“That is too far to walk,” said Frank.
+
+“’Twon’t cost but six cents to ride,” said Dick.
+
+“You mean in the horse-cars?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“All right then. We’ll jump aboard the next car.”
+
+The Third Avenue and Harlem line of horse-cars is better patronized
+than any other in New York, though not much can be said for the cars,
+which are usually dirty and overcrowded. Still, when it is considered
+that only seven cents are charged for the entire distance to Harlem,
+about seven miles from the City Hall, the fare can hardly be complained
+of. But of course most of the profit is made from the way-passengers
+who only ride a short distance.
+
+A car was at that moment approaching, but it seemed pretty crowded.
+
+“Shall we take that, or wait for another?” asked Frank.
+
+“The next’ll most likely be as bad,” said Dick.
+
+The boys accordingly signalled to the conductor to stop, and got on the
+front platform. They were obliged to stand up till the car reached
+Fortieth Street, when so many of the passengers had got off that they
+obtained seats.
+
+Frank sat down beside a middle-aged woman, or lady, as she probably
+called herself, whose sharp visage and thin lips did not seem to
+promise a very pleasant disposition. When the two gentlemen who sat
+beside her arose, she spread her skirts in the endeavor to fill two
+seats. Disregarding this, the boys sat down.
+
+“There aint room for two,” she said, looking sourly at Frank.
+
+“There were two here before.”
+
+“Well, there ought not to have been. Some people like to crowd in where
+they’re not wanted.”
+
+“And some like to take up a double allowance of room,” thought Frank;
+but he did not say so. He saw that the woman had a bad temper, and
+thought it wisest to say nothing.
+
+Frank had never ridden up the city as far as this, and it was with much
+interest that he looked out of the car windows at the stores on either
+side. Third Avenue is a broad street, but in the character of its
+houses and stores it is quite inferior to Broadway, though better than
+some of the avenues further east. Fifth Avenue, as most of my readers
+already know, is the finest street in the city, being lined with
+splendid private residences, occupied by the wealthier classes. Many of
+the cross streets also boast houses which may be considered palaces, so
+elegant are they externally and internally. Frank caught glimpses of
+some of these as he was carried towards the Park.
+
+After the first conversation, already mentioned, with the lady at his
+side, he supposed he should have nothing further to do with her. But in
+this he was mistaken. While he was busy looking out of the car window,
+she plunged her hand into her pocket in search of her purse, which she
+was unable to find. Instantly she jumped to the conclusion that it had
+been stolen, and her suspicions fastened upon Frank, with whom she was
+already provoked for “crowding her,” as she termed it.
+
+“Conductor!” she exclaimed in a sharp voice.
+
+“What’s wanted, ma’am?” returned that functionary.
+
+“I want you to come here right off.”
+
+“What’s the matter?”
+
+“My purse has been stolen. There was four dollars and eighty cents in
+it. I know, because I counted it when I paid my fare.”
+
+“Who stole it?”
+
+“That boy,” she said pointing to Frank, who listened to the charge in
+the most intense astonishment. “He crowded in here on purpose to rob
+me, and I want you to search him right off.”
+
+“That’s a lie!” exclaimed Dick, indignantly.
+
+“Oh, you’re in league with him, I dare say,” said the woman spitefully.
+“You’re as bad as he is, I’ll be bound.”
+
+“You’re a nice female, you be!” said Dick, ironically.
+
+“Don’t you dare to call me a female, sir,” said the lady, furiously.
+
+“Why, you aint a man in disguise, be you?” said Dick.
+
+“You are very much mistaken, madam,” said Frank, quietly. “The
+conductor may search me, if you desire it.”
+
+A charge of theft, made in a crowded car, of course made quite a
+sensation. Cautious passengers instinctively put their hands on their
+pockets, to make sure that they, too, had not been robbed. As for
+Frank, his face flushed, and he felt very indignant that he should even
+be suspected of so mean a crime. He had been carefully brought up, and
+been taught to regard stealing as low and wicked.
+
+Dick, on the contrary, thought it a capital joke that such a charge
+should have been made against his companion. Though he had brought
+himself up, and known plenty of boys and men, too, who would steal, he
+had never done so himself. He thought it mean. But he could not be
+expected to regard it as Frank did. He had been too familiar with it in
+others to look upon it with horror.
+
+Meanwhile the passengers rather sided with the boys. Appearances go a
+great ways, and Frank did not look like a thief.
+
+“I think you must be mistaken, madam,” said a gentleman sitting
+opposite. “The lad does not look as if he would steal.”
+
+“You can’t tell by looks,” said the lady, sourly. “They’re deceitful;
+villains are generally well dressed.”
+
+“Be they?” said Dick. “You’d ought to see me with my Washington coat
+on. You’d think I was the biggest villain ever you saw.”
+
+“I’ve no doubt you are,” said the lady, scowling in the direction of
+our hero.
+
+“Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick. “’Tisn’t often I get such fine
+compliments.”
+
+“None of your impudence,” said the lady, wrathfully. “I believe you’re
+the worst of the two.”
+
+Meanwhile the car had been stopped.
+
+“How long are we going to stop here?” demanded a passenger,
+impatiently. “I’m in a hurry, if none of the rest of you are.”
+
+“I want my pocket-book,” said the lady, defiantly.
+
+“Well, ma’am, I haven’t got it, and I don’t see as it’s doing you any
+good detaining us all here.”
+
+“Conductor, will you call a policeman to search that young scamp?”
+continued the aggrieved lady. “You don’t expect I’m going to lose my
+money, and do nothing about it.”
+
+“I’ll turn my pockets inside out if you want me to,” said Frank,
+proudly. “There’s no need of a policeman. The conductor, or any one
+else, may search me.”
+
+“Well, youngster,” said the conductor, “if the lady agrees, I’ll search
+you.”
+
+The lady signified her assent.
+
+Frank accordingly turned his pockets inside out, but nothing was
+revealed except his own porte-monnaie and a penknife.
+
+“Well, ma’am, are you satisfied?” asked the conductor.
+
+“No, I aint,” said she, decidedly.
+
+“You don’t think he’s got it still?”
+
+“No, but he’s passed it over to his confederate, that boy there that’s
+so full of impudence.”
+
+“That’s me,” said Dick, comically.
+
+“He confesses it,” said the lady; “I want him searched.”
+
+“All right,” said Dick, “I’m ready for the operation, only, as I’ve got
+valooable property about me, be careful not to drop any of my Erie
+Bonds.”
+
+The conductor’s hand forthwith dove into Dick’s pocket, and drew out a
+rusty jack-knife, a battered cent, about fifty cents in change, and the
+capacious pocket-book which he had received from the swindler who was
+anxious to get back to his sick family in Boston.
+
+“Is that yours, ma’am?” asked the conductor, holding up the wallet
+which excited some amazement, by its size, among the other passengers.
+
+“It seems to me you carry a large pocket-book for a young man of your
+age,” said the conductor.
+
+“That’s what I carry my cash and valooable papers in,” said Dick.
+
+“I suppose that isn’t yours, ma’am,” said the conductor, turning to the
+lady.
+
+“No,” said she, scornfully. “I wouldn’t carry round such a great wallet
+as that. Most likely he’s stolen it from somebody else.”
+
+“What a prime detective you’d be!” said Dick. “P’rhaps you know who I
+took it from.”
+
+“I don’t know but my money’s in it,” said the lady, sharply.
+“Conductor, will you open that wallet, and see what there is in it?”
+
+“Don’t disturb the valooable papers,” said Dick, in a tone of pretended
+anxiety.
+
+The contents of the wallet excited some amusement among the passengers.
+
+“There don’t seem to be much money here,” said the conductor, taking
+out a roll of tissue paper cut out in the shape of bills, and rolled
+up.
+
+“No,” said Dick. “Didn’t I tell you them were papers of no valoo to
+anybody but the owner? If the lady’d like to borrow, I won’t charge no
+interest.”
+
+“Where is my money, then?” said the lady, in some discomfiture. “I
+shouldn’t wonder if one of the young scamps had thrown it out of the
+window.”
+
+“You’d better search your pocket once more,” said the gentleman
+opposite. “I don’t believe either of the boys is in fault. They don’t
+look to me as if they would steal.”
+
+“Thank you, sir,” said Frank.
+
+The lady followed out the suggestion, and, plunging her hand once more
+into her pocket, drew out a small porte-monnaie. She hardly knew
+whether to be glad or sorry at this discovery. It placed her in rather
+an awkward position after the fuss she had made, and the detention to
+which she had subjected the passengers, now, as it proved, for nothing.
+
+“Is that the pocket-book you thought stolen?” asked the conductor.
+
+“Yes,” said she, rather confusedly.
+
+“Then you’ve been keeping me waiting all this time for nothing,” he
+said, sharply. “I wish you’d take care to be sure next time before you
+make such a disturbance for nothing. I’ve lost five minutes, and shall
+not be on time.”
+
+“I can’t help it,” was the cross reply; “I didn’t know it was in my
+pocket.”
+
+“It seems to me you owe an apology to the boys you accused of a theft
+which they have not committed,” said the gentleman opposite.
+
+“I shan’t apologize to anybody,” said the lady, whose temper was not of
+the best; “least of all to such whipper-snappers as they are.”
+
+“Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick, comically; “your handsome apology is
+accepted. It aint of no consequence, only I didn’t like to expose the
+contents of my valooable pocket-book, for fear it might excite the envy
+of some of my poor neighbors.”
+
+“You’re a character,” said the gentleman who had already spoken, with a
+smile.
+
+“A bad character!” muttered the lady.
+
+But it was quite evident that the sympathies of those present were
+against the lady, and on the side of the boys who had been falsely
+accused, while Dick’s drollery had created considerable amusement.
+
+The cars had now reached Fifty-ninth Street, the southern boundary of
+the Park, and here our hero and his companion got off.
+
+“You’d better look out for pickpockets, my lad,” said the conductor,
+pleasantly. “That big wallet of yours might prove a great temptation.”
+
+“That’s so,” said Dick. “That’s the misfortin’ of being rich. Astor and
+me don’t sleep much for fear of burglars breakin’ in and robbin’ us of
+our valooable treasures. Sometimes I think I’ll give all my money to an
+Orphan Asylum, and take it out in board. I guess I’d make money by the
+operation.”
+
+While Dick was speaking, the car rolled away, and the boys turned up
+Fifty-ninth Street, for two long blocks yet separated them from the
+Park.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+INTRODUCES A VICTIM OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE
+
+
+“What a queer chap you are, Dick!” said Frank, laughing. “You always
+seem to be in good spirits.”
+
+“No, I aint always. Sometimes I have the blues.”
+
+“When?”
+
+“Well, once last winter it was awful cold, and there was big holes in
+my shoes, and my gloves and all my warm clothes was at the tailor’s. I
+felt as if life was sort of tough, and I’d like it if some rich man
+would adopt me, and give me plenty to eat and drink and wear, without
+my havin’ to look so sharp after it. Then agin’ when I’ve seen boys
+with good homes, and fathers, and mothers, I’ve thought I’d like to
+have somebody to care for me.”
+
+Dick’s tone changed as he said this, from his usual levity, and there
+was a touch of sadness in it. Frank, blessed with a good home and
+indulgent parents, could not help pitying the friendless boy who had
+found life such up-hill work.
+
+“Don’t say you have no one to care for you, Dick,” he said, lightly
+laying his hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I will care for you.”
+
+“Will you?”
+
+“If you will let me.”
+
+“I wish you would,” said Dick, earnestly. “I’d like to feel that I have
+one friend who cares for me.”
+
+Central Park was now before them, but it was far from presenting the
+appearance which it now exhibits. It had not been long since work had
+been commenced upon it, and it was still very rough and unfinished. A
+rough tract of land, two miles and a half from north to south, and a
+half a mile broad, very rocky in parts, was the material from which the
+Park Commissioners have made the present beautiful enclosure. There
+were no houses of good appearance near it, buildings being limited
+mainly to rude temporary huts used by the workmen who were employed in
+improving it. The time will undoubtedly come when the Park will be
+surrounded by elegant residences, and compare favorably in this respect
+with the most attractive parts of any city in the world. But at the
+time when Frank and Dick visited it, not much could be said in favor
+either of the Park or its neighborhood.
+
+“If this is Central Park,” said Frank, who naturally felt disappointed,
+“I don’t think much of it. My father’s got a large pasture that is much
+nicer.”
+
+“It’ll look better some time,” said Dick. “There aint much to see now
+but rocks. We will take a walk over it if you want to.”
+
+“No,” said Frank, “I’ve seen as much of it as I want to. Besides, I
+feel tired.”
+
+“Then we’ll go back. We can take the Sixth Avenue cars. They will bring
+us out at Vesey Street just beside the Astor House.”
+
+“All right,” said Frank. “That will be the best course. I hope,” he
+added, laughing, “our agreeable lady friend won’t be there. I don’t
+care about being accused of _stealing_ again.”
+
+“She was a tough one,” said Dick. “Wouldn’t she make a nice wife for a
+man that likes to live in hot water, and didn’t mind bein’ scalded two
+or three times a day?”
+
+“Yes, I think she’d just suit him. Is that the right car, Dick?”
+
+“Yes, jump in, and I’ll follow.”
+
+The Sixth Avenue is lined with stores, many of them of very good
+appearance, and would make a very respectable principal street for a
+good-sized city. But it is only one of several long business streets
+which run up the island, and illustrate the extent and importance of
+the city to which they belong.
+
+No incidents worth mentioning took place during their ride down town.
+In about three-quarters of an hour the boys got out of the car beside
+the Astor House.
+
+“Are you goin’ in now, Frank?” asked Dick.
+
+“That depends upon whether you have anything else to show me.”
+
+“Wouldn’t you like to go to Wall Street?”
+
+“That’s the street where there are so many bankers and brokers,—isn’t
+it?”
+
+“Yes, I s’pose you aint afraid of bulls and bears,—are you?”
+
+“Bulls and bears?” repeated Frank, puzzled.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What are they?”
+
+“The bulls is what tries to make the stocks go up, and the bears is
+what try to growl ’em down.”
+
+“Oh, I see. Yes, I’d like to go.”
+
+Accordingly they walked down on the west side of Broadway as far as
+Trinity Church, and then, crossing, entered a street not very wide or
+very long, but of very great importance. The reader would be astonished
+if he could know the amount of money involved in the transactions which
+take place in a single day in this street. It would be found that
+although Broadway is much greater in length, and lined with stores, it
+stands second to Wall Street in this respect.
+
+“What is that large marble building?” asked Frank, pointing to a
+massive structure on the corner of Wall and Nassau Streets. It was in
+the form of a parallelogram, two hundred feet long by ninety wide, and
+about eighty feet in height, the ascent to the entrance being by
+eighteen granite steps.
+
+“That’s the Custom House,” said Dick.
+
+“It looks like pictures I’ve seen of the Parthenon at Athens,” said
+Frank, meditatively.
+
+“Where’s Athens?” asked Dick. “It aint in York State,—is it?”
+
+“Not the Athens I mean, at any rate. It is in Greece, and was a famous
+city two thousand years ago.”
+
+“That’s longer than I can remember,” said Dick. “I can’t remember
+distinctly more’n about a thousand years.”
+
+“What a chap you are, Dick! Do you know if we can go in?”
+
+The boys ascertained, after a little inquiry, that they would be
+allowed to do so. They accordingly entered the Custom House and made
+their way up to the roof, from which they had a fine view of the
+harbor, the wharves crowded with shipping, and the neighboring shores
+of Long Island and New Jersey. Towards the north they looked down for
+many miles upon continuous lines of streets, and thousands of roofs,
+with here and there a church-spire rising above its neighbors. Dick had
+never before been up there, and he, as well as Frank, was interested in
+the grand view spread before them.
+
+At length they descended, and were going down the granite steps on the
+outside of the building, when they were addressed by a young man, whose
+appearance is worth describing.
+
+He was tall, and rather loosely put together, with small eyes and
+rather a prominent nose. His clothing had evidently not been furnished
+by a city tailor. He wore a blue coat with brass buttons, and
+pantaloons of rather scanty dimensions, which were several inches too
+short to cover his lower limbs. He held in his hand a piece of paper,
+and his countenance wore a look of mingled bewilderment and anxiety.
+
+“Be they a-payin’ out money inside there?” he asked, indicating the
+interior by a motion of his hand.
+
+“I guess so,” said Dick. “Are you a-goin’ in for some?”
+
+“Wal, yes. I’ve got an order here for sixty dollars,—made a kind of
+speculation this morning.”
+
+“How was it?” asked Frank.
+
+“Wal, you see I brought down some money to put in the bank, fifty
+dollars it was, and I hadn’t justly made up my mind what bank to put it
+into, when a chap came up in a terrible hurry, and said it was very
+unfortunate, but the bank wasn’t open, and he must have some money
+right off. He was obliged to go out of the city by the next train. I
+asked him how much he wanted. He said fifty dollars. I told him I’d got
+that, and he offered me a check on the bank for sixty, and I let him
+have it. I thought that was a pretty easy way to earn ten dollars, so I
+counted out the money and he went off. He told me I’d hear a bell ring
+when they began to pay out money. But I’ve waited most two hours, and I
+haint heard it yet. I’d ought to be goin’, for I told dad I’d be home
+to-night. Do you think I can get the money now?”
+
+“Will you show me the check?” asked Frank, who had listened attentively
+to the countryman’s story, and suspected that he had been made the
+victim of a swindler. It was made out upon the “Washington Bank,” in
+the sum of sixty dollars, and was signed “Ephraim Smith.”
+
+“Washington Bank!” repeated Frank. “Dick, is there such a bank in the
+city?”
+
+“Not as I knows on,” said Dick. “Leastways I don’t own any shares in
+it.”
+
+“Aint this the Washington Bank?” asked the countryman, pointing to the
+building on the steps of which the three were now standing.
+
+“No, it’s the Custom House.”
+
+“And won’t they give me any money for this?” asked the young man, the
+perspiration standing on his brow.
+
+“I am afraid the man who gave it to you was a swindler,” said Frank,
+gently.
+
+“And won’t I ever see my fifty dollars again?” asked the youth in
+agony.
+
+“I am afraid not.”
+
+“What’ll dad say?” ejaculated the miserable youth. “It makes me feel
+sick to think of it. I wish I had the feller here. I’d shake him out of
+his boots.”
+
+“What did he look like? I’ll call a policeman and you shall describe
+him. Perhaps in that way you can get track of your money.”
+
+Dick called a policeman, who listened to the description, and
+recognized the operator as an experienced swindler. He assured the
+countryman that there was very little chance of his ever seeing his
+money again. The boys left the miserable youth loudly bewailing his bad
+luck, and proceeded on their way down the street.
+
+“He’s a baby,” said Dick, contemptuously. “He’d ought to know how to
+take care of himself and his money. A feller has to look sharp in this
+city, or he’ll lose his eye-teeth before he knows it.”
+
+“I suppose you never got swindled out of fifty dollars, Dick?”
+
+“No, I don’t carry no such small bills. I wish I did,” he added.
+
+“So do I, Dick. What’s that building there at the end of the street?”
+
+“That’s the Wall-Street Ferry to Brooklyn.”
+
+“How long does it take to go across?”
+
+“Not more’n five minutes.”
+
+“Suppose we just ride over and back.”
+
+“All right!” said Dick. “It’s rather expensive; but if you don’t mind,
+I don’t.”
+
+“Why, how much does it cost?”
+
+“Two cents apiece.”
+
+“I guess I can stand that. Let us go.”
+
+They passed the gate, paying the fare to a man who stood at the
+entrance, and were soon on the ferry-boat, bound for Brooklyn.
+
+They had scarcely entered the boat, when Dick, grasping Frank by the
+arm, pointed to a man just outside of the gentlemen’s cabin.
+
+“Do you see that man, Frank?” he inquired.
+
+“Yes, what of him?”
+
+“He’s the man that cheated the country chap out of his fifty dollars.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+DICK AS A DETECTIVE
+
+
+Dick’s ready identification of the rogue who had cheated the
+countryman, surprised Frank.
+
+“What makes you think it is he?” he asked.
+
+“Because I’ve seen him before, and I know he’s up to them kind of
+tricks. When I heard how he looked, I was sure I knowed him.”
+
+“Our recognizing him won’t be of much use,” said Frank. “It won’t give
+back the countryman his money.”
+
+“I don’t know,” said Dick, thoughtfully. “May be I can get it.”
+
+“How?” asked Frank, incredulously.
+
+“Wait a minute, and you’ll see.”
+
+Dick left his companion, and went up to the man whom he suspected.
+
+“Ephraim Smith,” said Dick, in a low voice.
+
+The man turned suddenly, and looked at Dick uneasily.
+
+“What did you say?” he asked.
+
+“I believe your name is Ephraim Smith,” continued Dick.
+
+“You’re mistaken,” said the man, and was about to move off.
+
+“Stop a minute,” said Dick. “Don’t you keep your money in the
+Washington Bank?”
+
+“I don’t know any such bank. I’m in a hurry, young man, and I can’t
+stop to answer any foolish questions.”
+
+The boat had by this time reached the Brooklyn pier, and Mr. Ephraim
+Smith seemed in a hurry to land.
+
+“Look here,” said Dick, significantly; “you’d better not go on shore
+unless you want to jump into the arms of a policeman.”
+
+“What do you mean?” asked the man, startled.
+
+“That little affair of yours is known to the police,” said Dick; “about
+how you got fifty dollars out of a greenhorn on a false check, and it
+mayn’t be safe for you to go ashore.”
+
+“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the swindler with
+affected boldness, though Dick could see that he was ill at ease.
+
+“Yes you do,” said Dick. “There isn’t but one thing to do. Just give me
+back that money, and I’ll see that you’re not touched. If you don’t,
+I’ll give you up to the first p’liceman we meet.”
+
+Dick looked so determined, and spoke so confidently, that the other,
+overcome by his fears, no longer hesitated, but passed a roll of bills
+to Dick and hastily left the boat.
+
+All this Frank witnessed with great amazement, not understanding what
+influence Dick could have obtained over the swindler sufficient to
+compel restitution.
+
+“How did you do it?” he asked eagerly.
+
+“I told him I’d exert my influence with the president to have him tried
+by _habeas corpus_,” said Dick.
+
+“And of course that frightened him. But tell me, without joking, how
+you managed.”
+
+Dick gave a truthful account of what occurred, and then said, “Now
+we’ll go back and carry the money.”
+
+“Suppose we don’t find the poor countryman?”
+
+“Then the p’lice will take care of it.”
+
+They remained on board the boat, and in five minutes were again in New
+York. Going up Wall Street, they met the countryman a little distance
+from the Custom House. His face was marked with the traces of deep
+anguish; but in his case even grief could not subdue the cravings of
+appetite. He had purchased some cakes of one of the old women who
+spread out for the benefit of passers-by an array of apples and
+seed-cakes, and was munching them with melancholy satisfaction.
+
+“Hilloa!” said Dick. “Have you found your money?”
+
+“No,” ejaculated the young man, with a convulsive gasp. “I shan’t ever
+see it again. The mean skunk’s cheated me out of it. Consarn his
+picter! It took me most six months to save it up. I was workin’ for
+Deacon Pinkham in our place. Oh, I wish I’d never come to New York! The
+deacon, he told me he’d keep it for me; but I wanted to put it in the
+bank, and now it’s all gone, boo hoo!”
+
+And the miserable youth, having despatched his cakes, was so overcome
+by the thought of his loss that he burst into tears.
+
+“I say,” said Dick, “dry up, and see what I’ve got here.”
+
+The youth no sooner saw the roll of bills, and comprehended that it was
+indeed his lost treasure, than from the depths of anguish he was
+exalted to the most ecstatic joy. He seized Dick’s hand, and shook it
+with so much energy that our hero began to feel rather alarmed for its
+safety.
+
+“’Pears to me you take my arm for a pump-handle,” said he. “Couldn’t
+you show your gratitood some other way? It’s just possible I may want
+to use my arm ag’in some time.”
+
+The young man desisted, but invited Dick most cordially to come up and
+stop a week with him at his country home, assuring him that he wouldn’t
+charge him anything for board.
+
+“All right!” said Dick. “If you don’t mind I’ll bring my wife along,
+too. She’s delicate, and the country air might do her good.”
+
+Jonathan stared at him in amazement, uncertain whether to credit the
+fact of his marriage. Dick walked on with Frank, leaving him in an
+apparent state of stupefaction, and it is possible that he has not yet
+settled the affair to his satisfaction.
+
+“Now,” said Frank, “I think I’ll go back to the Astor House. Uncle has
+probably got through his business and returned.”
+
+“All right,” said Dick.
+
+The two boys walked up to Broadway, just where the tall steeple of
+Trinity faces the street of bankers and brokers, and walked leisurely
+to the hotel. When they arrived at the Astor House, Dick said,
+“Good-by, Frank.”
+
+“Not yet,” said Frank; “I want you to come in with me.”
+
+Dick followed his young patron up the steps. Frank went to the
+reading-room, where, as he had thought probable, he found his uncle
+already arrived, and reading a copy of “The Evening Post,” which he had
+just purchased outside.
+
+“Well, boys,” he said, looking up, “have you had a pleasant jaunt?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Frank. “Dick’s a capital guide.”
+
+“So this is Dick,” said Mr. Whitney, surveying him with a smile. “Upon
+my word, I should hardly have known him. I must congratulate him on his
+improved appearance.”
+
+“Frank’s been very kind to me,” said Dick, who, rough street-boy as he
+was, had a heart easily touched by kindness, of which he had never
+experienced much. “He’s a tip-top fellow.”
+
+“I believe he is a good boy,” said Mr. Whitney. “I hope, my lad, you
+will prosper and rise in the world. You know in this free country
+poverty in early life is no bar to a man’s advancement. I haven’t risen
+very high myself,” he added, with a smile, “but have met with moderate
+success in life; yet there was a time when I was as poor as you.”
+
+“Were you, sir,” asked Dick, eagerly.
+
+“Yes, my boy, I have known the time I have been obliged to go without
+my dinner because I didn’t have enough money to pay for it.”
+
+“How did you get up in the world,” asked Dick, anxiously.
+
+“I entered a printing-office as an apprentice, and worked for some
+years. Then my eyes gave out and I was obliged to give that up. Not
+knowing what else to do, I went into the country, and worked on a farm.
+After a while I was lucky enough to invent a machine, which has brought
+me in a great deal of money. But there was one thing I got while I was
+in the printing-office which I value more than money.”
+
+“What was that, sir?”
+
+“A taste for reading and study. During my leisure hours I improved
+myself by study, and acquired a large part of the knowledge which I now
+possess. Indeed, it was one of my books that first put me on the track
+of the invention, which I afterwards made. So you see, my lad, that my
+studious habits paid me in money, as well as in another way.”
+
+“I’m awful ignorant,” said Dick, soberly.
+
+“But you are young, and, I judge, a smart boy. If you try to learn, you
+can, and if you ever expect to do anything in the world, you must know
+something of books.”
+
+“I will,” said Dick, resolutely. “I aint always goin’ to black boots
+for a livin’.”
+
+“All labor is respectable, my lad, and you have no cause to be ashamed
+of any honest business; yet when you can get something to do that
+promises better for your future prospects, I advise you to do so. Till
+then earn your living in the way you are accustomed to, avoid
+extravagance, and save up a little money if you can.”
+
+“Thank you for your advice,” said our hero. “There aint many that takes
+an interest in Ragged Dick.”
+
+“So that’s your name,” said Mr. Whitney. “If I judge you rightly, it
+won’t be long before you change it. Save your money, my lad, buy books,
+and determine to be somebody, and you may yet fill an honorable
+position.”
+
+“I’ll try,” said Dick. “Good-night, sir.”
+
+“Wait a minute, Dick,” said Frank. “Your blacking-box and old clothes
+are upstairs. You may want them.”
+
+“In course,” said Dick. “I couldn’t get along without my best clothes,
+and my stock in trade.”
+
+“You may go up to the room with him, Frank,” said Mr. Whitney. “The
+clerk will give you the key. I want to see you, Dick, before you go.”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Dick.
+
+“Where are you going to sleep to-night, Dick?” asked Frank, as they
+went upstairs together.
+
+“P’r’aps at the Fifth Avenue Hotel—on the outside,” said Dick.
+
+“Haven’t you any place to sleep, then?”
+
+“I slept in a box, last night.”
+
+“In a box?”
+
+“Yes, on Spruce Street.”
+
+“Poor fellow!” said Frank, compassionately.
+
+“Oh, ’twas a bully bed—full of straw! I slept like a top.”
+
+“Don’t you earn enough to pay for a room, Dick?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick; “only I spend my money foolish, goin’ to the Old
+Bowery, and Tony Pastor’s, and sometimes gamblin’ in Baxter Street.”
+
+“You won’t gamble any more,—will you, Dick?” said Frank, laying his
+hand persuasively on his companion’s shoulder.
+
+“No, I won’t,” said Dick.
+
+“You’ll promise?”
+
+“Yes, and I’ll keep it. You’re a good feller. I wish you was goin’ to
+be in New York.”
+
+“I am going to a boarding-school in Connecticut. The name of the town
+is Barnton. Will you write to me, Dick?”
+
+“My writing would look like hens’ tracks,” said our hero.
+
+“Never mind. I want you to write. When you write you can tell me how to
+direct, and I will send you a letter.”
+
+“I wish you would,” said Dick. “I wish I was more like you.”
+
+“I hope you will make a much better boy, Dick. Now we’ll go in to my
+uncle. He wishes to see you before you go.”
+
+They went into the reading-room. Dick had wrapped up his blacking-brush
+in a newspaper with which Frank had supplied him, feeling that a guest
+of the Astor House should hardly be seen coming out of the hotel
+displaying such a professional sign.
+
+“Uncle, Dick’s ready to go,” said Frank.
+
+“Good-by, my lad,” said Mr. Whitney. “I hope to hear good accounts of
+you sometime. Don’t forget what I have told you. Remember that your
+future position depends mainly upon yourself, and that it will be high
+or low as you choose to make it.”
+
+He held out his hand, in which was a five-dollar bill. Dick shrunk
+back.
+
+“I don’t like to take it,” he said. “I haven’t earned it.”
+
+“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Whitney; “but I give it to you because I
+remember my own friendless youth. I hope it may be of service to you.
+Sometime when you are a prosperous man, you can repay it in the form of
+aid to some poor boy, who is struggling upward as you are now.”
+
+“I will, sir,” said Dick, manfully.
+
+He no longer refused the money, but took it gratefully, and, bidding
+Frank and his uncle good-by, went out into the street. A feeling of
+loneliness came over him as he left the presence of Frank, for whom he
+had formed a strong attachment in the few hours he had known him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+DICK HIRES A ROOM ON MOTT STREET
+
+
+Going out into the fresh air Dick felt the pangs of hunger. He
+accordingly went to a restaurant and got a substantial supper. Perhaps
+it was the new clothes he wore, which made him feel a little more
+aristocratic. At all events, instead of patronizing the cheap
+restaurant where he usually procured his meals, he went into the
+refectory attached to Lovejoy’s Hotel, where the prices were higher and
+the company more select. In his ordinary dress, Dick would have been
+excluded, but now he had the appearance of a very respectable,
+gentlemanly boy, whose presence would not discredit any establishment.
+His orders were therefore received with attention by the waiter and in
+due time a good supper was placed before him.
+
+“I wish I could come here every day,” thought Dick. “It seems kind o’
+nice and ’spectable, side of the other place. There’s a gent at that
+other table that I’ve shined boots for more’n once. He don’t know me in
+my new clothes. Guess he don’t know his boot-black patronizes the same
+establishment.”
+
+His supper over, Dick went up to the desk, and, presenting his check,
+tendered in payment his five-dollar bill, as if it were one of a large
+number which he possessed. Receiving back his change he went out into
+the street.
+
+Two questions now arose: How should he spend the evening, and where
+should he pass the night? Yesterday, with such a sum of money in his
+possession, he would have answered both questions readily. For the
+evening, he would have passed it at the Old Bowery, and gone to sleep
+in any out-of-the-way place that offered. But he had turned over a new
+leaf, or resolved to do so. He meant to save his money for some useful
+purpose,—to aid his advancement in the world. So he could not afford
+the theatre. Besides, with his new clothes, he was unwilling to pass
+the night out of doors.
+
+“I should spile ’em,” he thought, “and that wouldn’t pay.”
+
+So he determined to hunt up a room which he could occupy regularly, and
+consider as his own, where he could sleep nights, instead of depending
+on boxes and old wagons for a chance shelter. This would be the first
+step towards respectability, and Dick determined to take it.
+
+He accordingly passed through the City Hall Park, and walked leisurely
+up Centre Street.
+
+He decided that it would hardly be advisable for him to seek lodgings
+in Fifth Avenue, although his present cash capital consisted of nearly
+five dollars in money, besides the valuable papers contained in his
+wallet. Besides, he had reason to doubt whether any in his line of
+business lived on that aristocratic street. He took his way to Mott
+Street, which is considerably less pretentious, and halted in front of
+a shabby brick lodging-house kept by a Mrs. Mooney, with whose son Tom,
+Dick was acquainted.
+
+Dick rang the bell, which sent back a shrill metallic response.
+
+The door was opened by a slatternly servant, who looked at him
+inquiringly, and not without curiosity. It must be remembered that Dick
+was well dressed, and that nothing in his appearance bespoke his
+occupation. Being naturally a good-looking boy, he might readily be
+mistaken for a gentleman’s son.
+
+“Well, Queen Victoria,” said Dick, “is your missus at home?”
+
+“My name’s Bridget,” said the girl.
+
+“Oh, indeed!” said Dick. “You looked so much like the queen’s picter
+what she gave me last Christmas in exchange for mine, that I couldn’t
+help calling you by her name.”
+
+“Oh, go along wid ye!” said Bridget. “It’s makin’ fun ye are.”
+
+“If you don’t believe me,” said Dick, gravely, “all you’ve got to do is
+to ask my partic’lar friend, the Duke of Newcastle.”
+
+“Bridget!” called a shrill voice from the basement.
+
+“The missus is calling me,” said Bridget, hurriedly. “I’ll tell her ye
+want her.”
+
+“All right!” said Dick.
+
+The servant descended into the lower regions, and in a short time a
+stout, red-faced woman appeared on the scene.
+
+“Well, sir, what’s your wish?” she asked.
+
+“Have you got a room to let?” asked Dick.
+
+“Is it for yourself you ask?” questioned the woman, in some surprise.
+
+Dick answered in the affirmative.
+
+“I haven’t got any very good rooms vacant. There’s a small room in the
+third story.”
+
+“I’d like to see it,” said Dick.
+
+“I don’t know as it would be good enough for you,” said the woman, with
+a glance at Dick’s clothes.
+
+“I aint very partic’lar about accommodations,” said our hero. “I guess
+I’ll look at it.”
+
+Dick followed the landlady up two narrow stair-cases, uncarpeted and
+dirty, to the third landing, where he was ushered into a room about ten
+feet square. It could not be considered a very desirable apartment. It
+had once been covered with an oilcloth carpet, but this was now very
+ragged, and looked worse than none. There was a single bed in the
+corner, covered with an indiscriminate heap of bed-clothing, rumpled
+and not over-clean. There was a bureau, with the veneering scratched
+and in some parts stripped off, and a small glass, eight inches by ten,
+cracked across the middle; also two chairs in rather a disjointed
+condition. Judging from Dick’s appearance, Mrs. Mooney thought he would
+turn from it in disdain.
+
+But it must be remembered that Dick’s past experience had not been of a
+character to make him fastidious. In comparison with a box, or an empty
+wagon, even this little room seemed comfortable. He decided to hire it
+if the rent proved reasonable.
+
+“Well, what’s the tax?” asked Dick.
+
+“I ought to have a dollar a week,” said Mrs. Mooney, hesitatingly.
+
+“Say seventy-five cents, and I’ll take it,” said Dick.
+
+“Every week in advance?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, as times is hard, and I can’t afford to keep it empty, you may
+have it. When will you come?”
+
+“To-night,” said Dick.
+
+“It aint lookin’ very neat. I don’t know as I can fix it up to-night.”
+
+“Well, I’ll sleep here to-night, and you can fix it up to-morrow.”
+
+“I hope you’ll excuse the looks. I’m a lone woman, and my help is so
+shiftless, I have to look after everything myself; so I can’t keep
+things as straight as I want to.”
+
+“All right!” said Dick.
+
+“Can you pay me the first week in advance?” asked the landlady,
+cautiously.
+
+Dick responded by drawing seventy-five cents from his pocket, and
+placing it in her hand.
+
+“What’s your business, sir, if I may inquire?” said Mrs. Mooney.
+
+“Oh, I’m professional!” said Dick.
+
+“Indeed!” said the landlady, who did not feel much enlightened by this
+answer.
+
+“How’s Tom?” asked Dick.
+
+“Do you know my Tom?” said Mrs. Mooney in surprise. “He’s gone to
+sea,—to Californy. He went last week.”
+
+“Did he?” said Dick. “Yes, I knew him.”
+
+Mrs. Mooney looked upon her new lodger with increased favor, on finding
+that he was acquainted with her son, who, by the way, was one of the
+worst young scamps in Mott Street, which is saying considerable.
+
+“I’ll bring over my baggage from the Astor House this evening,” said
+Dick in a tone of importance.
+
+“From the Astor House!” repeated Mrs. Mooney, in fresh amazement.
+
+“Yes, I’ve been stoppin’ there a short time with some friends,” said
+Dick.
+
+Mrs. Mooney might be excused for a little amazement at finding that a
+guest from the Astor House was about to become one of her lodgers—such
+transfers not being common.
+
+“Did you say you was purfessional?” she asked.
+
+“Yes, ma’am,” said Dick, politely.
+
+“You aint a—a—” Mrs. Mooney paused, uncertain what conjecture to
+hazard.
+
+“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” said Dick, promptly. “How could you
+think so, Mrs. Mooney?”
+
+“No offence, sir,” said the landlady, more perplexed than ever.
+
+“Certainly not,” said our hero. “But you must excuse me now, Mrs.
+Mooney, as I have business of great importance to attend to.”
+
+“You’ll come round this evening?”
+
+Dick answered in the affirmative, and turned away.
+
+“I wonder what he is!” thought the landlady, following him with her
+eyes as he crossed the street. “He’s got good clothes on, but he don’t
+seem very particular about his room. Well; I’ve got all my rooms full
+now. That’s one comfort.”
+
+Dick felt more comfortable now that he had taken the decisive step of
+hiring a lodging, and paying a week’s rent in advance. For seven nights
+he was sure of a shelter and a bed to sleep in. The thought was a
+pleasant one to our young vagrant, who hitherto had seldom known when
+he rose in the morning where he should find a resting-place at night.
+
+“I must bring my traps round,” said Dick to himself. “I guess I’ll go
+to bed early to-night. It’ll feel kinder good to sleep in a reg’lar
+bed. Boxes is rather hard to the back, and aint comfortable in case of
+rain. I wonder what Johnny Nolan would say if he knew I’d got a room of
+my own.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+MICKY MAGUIRE
+
+
+About nine o’clock Dick sought his new lodgings. In his hands he
+carried his professional wardrobe, namely, the clothes which he had
+worn at the commencement of the day, and the implements of his
+business. These he stowed away in the bureau drawers, and by the light
+of a flickering candle took off his clothes and went to bed. Dick had a
+good digestion and a reasonably good conscience; consequently he was a
+good sleeper. Perhaps, too, the soft feather bed conduced to slumber.
+At any rate his eyes were soon closed, and he did not awake until
+half-past six the next morning.
+
+He lifted himself on his elbow, and stared around him in transient
+bewilderment.
+
+“Blest if I hadn’t forgot where I was,” he said to himself. “So this is
+my room, is it? Well, it seems kind of ’spectable to have a room and a
+bed to sleep in. I’d orter be able to afford seventy-five cents a week.
+I’ve throwed away more money than that in one evenin’. There aint no
+reason why I shouldn’t live ’spectable. I wish I knowed as much as
+Frank. He’s a tip-top feller. Nobody ever cared enough for me before to
+give me good advice. It was kicks, and cuffs, and swearin’ at me all
+the time. I’d like to show him I can do something.”
+
+While Dick was indulging in these reflections, he had risen from bed,
+and, finding an accession to the furniture of his room, in the shape of
+an ancient wash-stand bearing a cracked bowl and broken pitcher,
+indulged himself in the rather unusual ceremony of a good wash. On the
+whole, Dick preferred to be clean, but it was not always easy to
+gratify his desire. Lodging in the street as he had been accustomed to
+do, he had had no opportunity to perform his toilet in the customary
+manner. Even now he found himself unable to arrange his dishevelled
+locks, having neither comb nor brush. He determined to purchase a comb,
+at least, as soon as possible, and a brush too, if he could get one
+cheap. Meanwhile he combed his hair with his fingers as well as he
+could, though the result was not quite so satisfactory as it might have
+been.
+
+A question now came up for consideration. For the first time in his
+life Dick possessed two suits of clothes. Should he put on the clothes
+Frank had given him, or resume his old rags?
+
+Now, twenty-four hours before, at the time Dick was introduced to the
+reader’s notice, no one could have been less fastidious as to his
+clothing than he. Indeed, he had rather a contempt for good clothes, or
+at least he thought so. But now, as he surveyed the ragged and dirty
+coat and the patched pants, Dick felt ashamed of them. He was unwilling
+to appear in the streets with them. Yet, if he went to work in his new
+suit, he was in danger of spoiling it, and he might not have it in his
+power to purchase a new one. Economy dictated a return to the old
+garments. Dick tried them on, and surveyed himself in the cracked
+glass; but the reflection did not please him.
+
+“They don’t look ’spectable,” he decided; and, forthwith taking them
+off again, he put on the new suit of the day before.
+
+“I must try to earn a little more,” he thought, “to pay for my room,
+and to buy some new clo’es when these is wore out.”
+
+He opened the door of his chamber, and went downstairs and into the
+street, carrying his blacking-box with him.
+
+It was Dick’s custom to commence his business before breakfast;
+generally it must be owned, because he began the day penniless, and
+must earn his meal before he ate it. To-day it was different. He had
+four dollars left in his pocket-book; but this he had previously
+determined not to touch. In fact he had formed the ambitious design of
+starting an account at a savings’ bank, in order to have something to
+fall back upon in case of sickness or any other emergency, or at any
+rate as a reserve fund to expend in clothing or other necessary
+articles when he required them. Hitherto he had been content to live on
+from day to day without a penny ahead; but the new vision of
+respectability which now floated before Dick’s mind, owing to his
+recent acquaintance with Frank, was beginning to exercise a powerful
+effect upon him.
+
+In Dick’s profession as in others there are lucky days, when everything
+seems to flow prosperously. As if to encourage him in his new-born
+resolution, our hero obtained no less than six jobs in the course of an
+hour and a half. This gave him sixty cents, quite abundant to purchase
+his breakfast, and a comb besides. His exertions made him hungry, and,
+entering a small eating-house he ordered a cup of coffee and a
+beefsteak. To this he added a couple of rolls. This was quite a
+luxurious breakfast for Dick, and more expensive than he was accustomed
+to indulge himself with. To gratify the curiosity of my young readers,
+I will put down the items with their cost,—
+
+Coffee, . . . . . . . . . . . . .  5 cts.
+Beefsteak, . . . . . . . . . . .  15
+A couple of rolls,  . . . . . . .  5
+—25 cts.
+
+
+It will thus be seen that our hero had expended nearly one-half of his
+morning’s earnings. Some days he had been compelled to breakfast on
+five cents, and then he was forced to content himself with a couple of
+apples, or cakes. But a good breakfast is a good preparation for a busy
+day, and Dick sallied forth from the restaurant lively and alert, ready
+to do a good stroke of business.
+
+Dick’s change of costume was liable to lead to one result of which he
+had not thought. His brother boot-blacks might think he had grown
+aristocratic, and was putting on airs,—that, in fact, he was getting
+above his business, and desirous to outshine his associates. Dick had
+not dreamed of this, because in fact, in spite of his new-born
+ambition, he entertained no such feeling. There was nothing of what
+boys call “big-feeling” about him. He was a borough democrat, using the
+word not politically, but in its proper sense, and was disposed to
+fraternize with all whom he styled “good fellows,” without regard to
+their position. It may seem a little unnecessary to some of my readers
+to make this explanation; but they must remember that pride and
+“big-feeling” are confined to no age or class, but may be found in boys
+as well as men, and in boot-blacks as well as those of a higher rank.
+
+The morning being a busy time with the boot-blacks, Dick’s changed
+appearance had not as yet attracted much attention. But when business
+slackened a little, our hero was destined to be reminded of it.
+
+Among the down-town boot-blacks was one hailing from the Five Points,—a
+stout, red-haired, freckled-faced boy of fourteen, bearing the name of
+Micky Maguire. This boy, by his boldness and recklessness, as well as
+by his personal strength, which was considerable, had acquired an
+ascendancy among his fellow professionals, and had a gang of
+subservient followers, whom he led on to acts of ruffianism, not
+unfrequently terminating in a month or two at Blackwell’s Island. Micky
+himself had served two terms there; but the confinement appeared to
+have had very little effect in amending his conduct, except, perhaps,
+in making him a little more cautious about an encounter with the
+“copps,” as the members of the city police are, for some unknown
+reason, styled among the Five-Point boys.
+
+Now Micky was proud of his strength, and of the position of leader
+which it had secured him. Moreover he was democratic in his tastes, and
+had a jealous hatred of those who wore good clothes and kept their
+faces clean. He called it putting on airs, and resented the implied
+superiority. If he had been fifteen years older, and had a trifle more
+education, he would have interested himself in politics, and been
+prominent at ward meetings, and a terror to respectable voters on
+election day. As it was, he contented himself with being the leader of
+a gang of young ruffians, over whom he wielded a despotic power.
+
+Now it is only justice to Dick to say that, so far as wearing good
+clothes was concerned, he had never hitherto offended the eyes of Micky
+Maguire. Indeed, they generally looked as if they patronized the same
+clothing establishment. On this particular morning it chanced that
+Micky had not been very fortunate in a business way, and, as a natural
+consequence, his temper, never very amiable, was somewhat ruffled by
+the fact. He had had a very frugal breakfast,—not because he felt
+abstemious, but owing to the low state of his finances. He was walking
+along with one of his particular friends, a boy nicknamed Limpy Jim, so
+called from a slight peculiarity in his walk, when all at once he
+espied our friend Dick in his new suit.
+
+“My eyes!” he exclaimed, in astonishment; “Jim, just look at Ragged
+Dick. He’s come into a fortun’, and turned gentleman. See his new
+clothes.”
+
+“So he has,” said Jim. “Where’d he get ’em, I wonder?”
+
+“Hooked ’em, p’raps. Let’s go and stir him up a little. We don’t want
+no gentlemen on our beat. So he’s puttin’ on airs,—is he? I’ll give him
+a lesson.”
+
+So saying the two boys walked up to our hero, who had not observed
+them, his back being turned, and Micky Maguire gave him a smart slap on
+the shoulder.
+
+Dick turned round quickly.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+A BATTLE AND A VICTORY
+
+
+“What’s that for?” demanded Dick, turning round to see who had struck
+him.
+
+“You’re gettin’ mighty fine!” said Micky Maguire, surveying Dick’s new
+clothes with a scornful air.
+
+There was something in his words and tone, which Dick, who was disposed
+to stand up for his dignity, did not at all relish.
+
+“Well, what’s the odds if I am?” he retorted. “Does it hurt you any?”
+
+“See him put on airs, Jim,” said Micky, turning to his companion.
+“Where’d you get them clo’es?”
+
+“Never mind where I got ’em. Maybe the Prince of Wales gave ’em to me.”
+
+“Hear him, now, Jim,” said Micky. “Most likely he stole ’em.”
+
+“Stealin’ aint in _my_ line.”
+
+It might have been unconscious the emphasis which Dick placed on the
+word “my.” At any rate Micky chose to take offence.
+
+“Do you mean to say _I_ steal?” he demanded, doubling up his fist, and
+advancing towards Dick in a threatening manner.
+
+“I don’t say anything about it,” answered Dick, by no means alarmed at
+this hostile demonstration. “I know you’ve been to the Island twice.
+P’r’aps ’twas to make a visit along of the Mayor and Aldermen. Maybe
+you was a innocent victim of oppression. I aint a goin’ to say.”
+
+Micky’s freckled face grew red with wrath, for Dick had only stated the
+truth.
+
+“Do you mean to insult me?” he demanded shaking the fist already
+doubled up in Dick’s face. “Maybe you want a lickin’?”
+
+“I aint partic’larly anxious to get one,” said Dick, coolly. “They
+don’t agree with my constitution which is nat’rally delicate. I’d
+rather have a good dinner than a lickin’ any time.”
+
+“You’re afraid,” sneered Micky. “Isn’t he, Jim?”
+
+“In course he is.”
+
+“P’r’aps I am,” said Dick, composedly, “but it don’t trouble me much.”
+
+“Do you want to fight?” demanded Micky, encouraged by Dick’s quietness,
+fancying he was afraid to encounter him.
+
+“No, I don’t,” said Dick. “I aint fond of fightin’. It’s a very poor
+amusement, and very bad for the complexion, ’specially for the eyes and
+nose, which is apt to turn red, white, and blue.”
+
+Micky misunderstood Dick, and judged from the tenor of his speech that
+he would be an easy victim. As he knew, Dick very seldom was concerned
+in any street fight,—not from cowardice, as he imagined, but because he
+had too much good sense to do so. Being quarrelsome, like all bullies,
+and supposing that he was more than a match for our hero, being about
+two inches taller, he could no longer resist an inclination to assault
+him, and tried to plant a blow in Dick’s face which would have hurt him
+considerably if he had not drawn back just in time.
+
+Now, though Dick was far from quarrelsome, he was ready to defend
+himself on all occasions, and it was too much to expect that he would
+stand quiet and allow himself to be beaten.
+
+He dropped his blacking-box on the instant, and returned Micky’s blow
+with such good effect that the young bully staggered back, and would
+have fallen, if he had not been propped up by his confederate, Limpy
+Jim.
+
+“Go in, Micky!” shouted the latter, who was rather a coward on his own
+account, but liked to see others fight. “Polish him off, that’s a good
+feller.”
+
+Micky was now boiling over with rage and fury, and required no urging.
+He was fully determined to make a terrible example of poor Dick. He
+threw himself upon him, and strove to bear him to the ground; but Dick,
+avoiding a close hug, in which he might possibly have got the worst of
+it, by an adroit movement, tripped up his antagonist, and stretched him
+on the side walk.
+
+“Hit him, Jim!” exclaimed Micky, furiously.
+
+Limpy Jim did not seem inclined to obey orders. There was a quiet
+strength and coolness about Dick, which alarmed him. He preferred that
+Micky should incur all the risks of battle, and accordingly set himself
+to raising his fallen comrade.
+
+“Come, Micky,” said Dick, quietly, “you’d better give it up. I wouldn’t
+have touched you if you hadn’t hit me first. I don’t want to fight.
+It’s low business.”
+
+“You’re afraid of hurtin’ your clo’es,” said Micky, with a sneer.
+
+“Maybe I am,” said Dick. “I hope I haven’t hurt yours.”
+
+Micky’s answer to this was another attack, as violent and impetuous as
+the first. But his fury was in the way. He struck wildly, not measuring
+his blows, and Dick had no difficulty in turning aside, so that his
+antagonist’s blow fell upon the empty air, and his momentum was such
+that he nearly fell forward headlong. Dick might readily have taken
+advantage of his unsteadiness, and knocked him down; but he was not
+vindictive, and chose to act on the defensive, except when he could not
+avoid it.
+
+Recovering himself, Micky saw that Dick was a more formidable
+antagonist than he had supposed, and was meditating another assault,
+better planned, which by its impetuosity might bear our hero to the
+ground. But there was an unlooked-for interference.
+
+“Look out for the ‘copp,’” said Jim, in a low voice.
+
+Micky turned round and saw a tall policeman heading towards him, and
+thought it might be prudent to suspend hostilities. He accordingly
+picked up his black-box, and, hitching up his pants, walked off,
+attended by Limpy Jim.
+
+“What’s that chap been doing?” asked the policeman of Dick.
+
+“He was amoosin’ himself by pitchin’ into me,” replied Dick.
+
+“What for?”
+
+“He didn’t like it ’cause I patronized a different tailor from him.”
+
+“Well, it seems to me you _are_ dressed pretty smart for a boot-black,”
+said the policeman.
+
+“I wish I wasn’t a boot-black,” said Dick.
+
+“Never mind, my lad. It’s an honest business,” said the policeman, who
+was a sensible man and a worthy citizen. “It’s an honest business.
+Stick to it till you get something better.”
+
+“I mean to,” said Dick. “It aint easy to get out of it, as the prisoner
+remarked, when he was asked how he liked his residence.”
+
+“I hope you don’t speak from experience.”
+
+“No,” said Dick; “I don’t mean to get into prison if I can help it.”
+
+“Do you see that gentleman over there?” asked the officer, pointing to
+a well-dressed man who was walking on the other side of the street.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, he was once a newsboy.”
+
+“And what is he now?”
+
+“He keeps a bookstore, and is quite prosperous.”
+
+Dick looked at the gentleman with interest, wondering if he should look
+as respectable when he was a grown man.
+
+It will be seen that Dick was getting ambitious. Hitherto he had
+thought very little of the future, but was content to get along as he
+could, dining as well as his means would allow, and spending the
+evenings in the pit of the Old Bowery, eating peanuts between the acts
+if he was prosperous, and if unlucky supping on dry bread or an apple,
+and sleeping in an old box or a wagon. Now, for the first time, he
+began to reflect that he could not black boots all his life. In seven
+years he would be a man, and, since his meeting with Frank, he felt
+that he would like to be a respectable man. He could see and appreciate
+the difference between Frank and such a boy as Micky Maguire, and it
+was not strange that he preferred the society of the former.
+
+In the course of the next morning, in pursuance of his new resolutions
+for the future, he called at a savings bank, and held out four dollars
+in bills besides another dollar in change. There was a high railing,
+and a number of clerks busily writing at desks behind it. Dick, never
+having been in a bank before, did not know where to go. He went, by
+mistake, to the desk where money was paid out.
+
+“Where’s your book?” asked the clerk.
+
+“I haven’t got any.”
+
+“Have you any money deposited here?”
+
+“No, sir, I want to leave some here.”
+
+“Then go to the next desk.”
+
+Dick followed directions, and presented himself before an elderly man
+with gray hair, who looked at him over the rims of his spectacles.
+
+“I want you to keep that for me,” said Dick, awkwardly emptying his
+money out on the desk.
+
+“How much is there?”
+
+“Five dollars.”
+
+“Have you got an account here?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Of course you can write?”
+
+The “of course” was said on account of Dick’s neat dress.
+
+“Have I got to do any writing?” asked our hero, a little embarrassed.
+
+“We want you to sign your name in this book,” and the old gentleman
+shoved round a large folio volume containing the names of depositors.
+
+Dick surveyed the book with some awe.
+
+“I aint much on writin’,” he said.
+
+“Very well; write as well as you can.”
+
+The pen was put into Dick’s hand, and, after dipping it in the
+inkstand, he succeeded after a hard effort, accompanied by many
+contortions of the face, in inscribing upon the book of the bank the
+name
+
+DICK HUNTER.
+
+
+“Dick!—that means Richard, I suppose,” said the bank officer, who had
+some difficulty in making out the signature.
+
+“No; Ragged Dick is what folks call me.”
+
+“You don’t look very ragged.”
+
+“No, I’ve left my rags to home. They might get wore out if I used ’em
+too common.”
+
+“Well, my lad, I’ll make out a book in the name of Dick Hunter, since
+you seem to prefer Dick to Richard. I hope you will save up your money
+and deposit more with us.”
+
+Our hero took his bank-book, and gazed on the entry “Five Dollars” with
+a new sense of importance. He had been accustomed to joke about Erie
+shares, but now, for the first time, he felt himself a capitalist; on a
+small scale, to be sure, but still it was no small thing for Dick to
+have five dollars which he could call his own. He firmly determined
+that he would lay by every cent he could spare from his earnings
+towards the fund he hoped to accumulate.
+
+But Dick was too sensible not to know that there was something more
+than money needed to win a respectable position in the world. He felt
+that he was very ignorant. Of reading and writing he only knew the
+rudiments, and that, with a slight acquaintance with arithmetic, was
+all he did know of books. Dick knew he must study hard, and he dreaded
+it. He looked upon learning as attended with greater difficulties than
+it really possesses. But Dick had good pluck. He meant to learn,
+nevertheless, and resolved to buy a book with his first spare earnings.
+
+When Dick went home at night he locked up his bank-book in one of the
+drawers of the bureau. It was wonderful how much more independent he
+felt whenever he reflected upon the contents of that drawer, and with
+what an important air of joint ownership he regarded the bank building
+in which his small savings were deposited.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+DICK SECURES A TUTOR
+
+
+The next morning Dick was unusually successful, having plenty to do,
+and receiving for one job twenty-five cents,—the gentleman refusing to
+take change. Then flashed upon Dick’s mind the thought that he had not
+yet returned the change due to the gentleman whose boots he had blacked
+on the morning of his introduction to the reader.
+
+“What’ll he think of me?” said Dick to himself. “I hope he won’t think
+I’m mean enough to keep the money.”
+
+Now Dick was scrupulously honest, and though the temptation to be
+otherwise had often been strong, he had always resisted it. He was not
+willing on any account to keep money which did not belong to him, and
+he immediately started for 125 Fulton Street (the address which had
+been given him) where he found Mr. Greyson’s name on the door of an
+office on the first floor.
+
+The door being open, Dick walked in.
+
+“Is Mr. Greyson in?” he asked of a clerk who sat on a high stool before
+a desk.
+
+“Not just now. He’ll be in soon. Will you wait?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick.
+
+“Very well; take a seat then.”
+
+Dick sat down and took up the morning “Tribune,” but presently came to
+a word of four syllables, which he pronounced to himself a “sticker,”
+and laid it down. But he had not long to wait, for five minutes later
+Mr. Greyson entered.
+
+“Did you wish to speak to me, my lad?” said he to Dick, whom in his new
+clothes he did not recognize.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Dick. “I owe you some money.”
+
+“Indeed!” said Mr. Greyson, pleasantly; “that’s an agreeable surprise.
+I didn’t know but you had come for some. So you are a debtor of mine,
+and not a creditor?”
+
+“I b’lieve that’s right,” said Dick, drawing fifteen cents from his
+pocket, and placing in Mr. Greyson’s hand.
+
+“Fifteen cents!” repeated he, in some surprise. “How do you happen to
+be indebted to me in that amount?”
+
+“You gave me a quarter for a-shinin’ your boots, yesterday mornin’, and
+couldn’t wait for the change. I meant to have brought it before, but I
+forgot all about it till this mornin’.”
+
+“It had quite slipped my mind also. But you don’t look like the boy I
+employed. If I remember rightly he wasn’t as well dressed as you.”
+
+“No,” said Dick. “I was dressed for a party, then, but the clo’es was
+too well ventilated to be comfortable in cold weather.”
+
+“You’re an honest boy,” said Mr. Greyson. “Who taught you to be
+honest?”
+
+“Nobody,” said Dick. “But it’s mean to cheat and steal. I’ve always
+knowed that.”
+
+“Then you’ve got ahead of some of our business men. Do you read the
+Bible?”
+
+“No,” said Dick. “I’ve heard it’s a good book, but I don’t know much
+about it.”
+
+“You ought to go to some Sunday School. Would you be willing?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, promptly. “I want to grow up ’spectable. But I don’t
+know where to go.”
+
+“Then I’ll tell you. The church I attend is at the corner of Fifth
+Avenue and Twenty-first Street.”
+
+“I’ve seen it,” said Dick.
+
+“I have a class in the Sunday School there. If you’ll come next Sunday,
+I’ll take you into my class, and do what I can to help you.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Dick, “but p’r’aps you’ll get tired of teaching me.
+I’m awful ignorant.”
+
+“No, my lad,” said Mr. Greyson, kindly. “You evidently have some good
+principles to start with, as you have shown by your scorn of
+dishonesty. I shall hope good things of you in the future.”
+
+“Well, Dick,” said our hero, apostrophizing himself, as he left the
+office; “you’re gettin’ up in the world. You’ve got money invested, and
+are goin’ to attend church, by partic’lar invitation, on Fifth Avenue.
+I shouldn’t wonder much if you should find cards, when you get home,
+from the Mayor, requestin’ the honor of your company to dinner, along
+with other distinguished guests.”
+
+Dick felt in very good spirits. He seemed to be emerging from the world
+in which he had hitherto lived, into a new atmosphere of
+respectability, and the change seemed very pleasant to him.
+
+At six o’clock Dick went into a restaurant on Chatham Street, and got a
+comfortable supper. He had been so successful during the day that,
+after paying for this, he still had ninety cents left. While he was
+despatching his supper, another boy came in, smaller and slighter than
+Dick, and sat down beside him. Dick recognized him as a boy who three
+months before had entered the ranks of the boot-blacks, but who, from a
+natural timidity, had not been able to earn much. He was ill-fitted for
+the coarse companionship of the street boys, and shrank from the rude
+jokes of his present associates. Dick had never troubled him; for our
+hero had a certain chivalrous feeling which would not allow him to
+bully or disturb a younger and weaker boy than himself.
+
+“How are you, Fosdick?” said Dick, as the other seated himself.
+
+“Pretty well,” said Fosdick. “I suppose you’re all right.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I’m right side up with care. I’ve been havin’ a bully supper.
+What are you goin’ to have?”
+
+“Some bread and butter.”
+
+“Why don’t you get a cup o’ coffee?”
+
+“Why,” said Fosdick, reluctantly, “I haven’t got money enough
+to-night.”
+
+“Never mind,” said Dick; “I’m in luck to-day, I’ll stand treat.”
+
+“That’s kind in you,” said Fosdick, gratefully.
+
+“Oh, never mind that,” said Dick.
+
+Accordingly he ordered a cup of coffee, and a plate of beefsteak, and
+was gratified to see that his young companion partook of both with
+evident relish. When the repast was over, the boys went out into the
+street together, Dick pausing at the desk to settle for both suppers.
+
+“Where are you going to sleep to-night, Fosdick?” asked Dick, as they
+stood on the sidewalk.
+
+“I don’t know,” said Fosdick, a little sadly. “In some doorway, I
+expect. But I’m afraid the police will find me out, and make me move
+on.”
+
+“I’ll tell you what,” said Dick, “you must go home with me. I guess my
+bed will hold two.”
+
+“Have you got a room?” asked the other, in surprise.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, rather proudly, and with a little excusable
+exultation. “I’ve got a room over in Mott Street; there I can receive
+my friends. That’ll be better than sleepin’ in a door-way,—won’t it?”
+
+“Yes, indeed it will,” said Fosdick. “How lucky I was to come across
+you! It comes hard to me living as I do. When my father was alive I had
+every comfort.”
+
+“That’s more’n I ever had,” said Dick. “But I’m goin’ to try to live
+comfortable now. Is your father dead?”
+
+“Yes,” said Fosdick, sadly. “He was a printer; but he was drowned one
+dark night from a Fulton ferry-boat, and, as I had no relations in the
+city, and no money, I was obliged to go to work as quick as I could.
+But I don’t get on very well.”
+
+“Didn’t you have no brothers nor sisters?” asked Dick.
+
+“No,” said Fosdick; “father and I used to live alone. He was always so
+much company to me that I feel very lonesome without him. There’s a man
+out West somewhere that owes him two thousand dollars. He used to live
+in the city, and father lent him all his money to help him go into
+business; but he failed, or pretended to, and went off. If father
+hadn’t lost that money he would have left me well off; but no money
+would have made up his loss to me.”
+
+“What’s the man’s name that went off with your father’s money?”
+
+“His name is Hiram Bates.”
+
+“P’r’aps you’ll get the money again, sometime.”
+
+“There isn’t much chance of it,” said Fosdick. “I’d sell out my chances
+of that for five dollars.”
+
+“Maybe I’ll buy you out sometime,” said Dick. “Now, come round and see
+what sort of a room I’ve got. I used to go to the theatre evenings,
+when I had money; but now I’d rather go to bed early, and have a good
+sleep.”
+
+“I don’t care much about theatres,” said Fosdick. “Father didn’t use to
+let me go very often. He said it wasn’t good for boys.”
+
+“I like to go to the Old Bowery sometimes. They have tip-top plays
+there. Can you read and write well?” he asked, as a sudden thought came
+to him.
+
+“Yes,” said Fosdick. “Father always kept me at school when he was
+alive, and I stood pretty well in my classes. I was expecting to enter
+at the Free Academy* next year.”
+
+* Now the college of the city of New York.
+
+
+“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Dick; “I’ll make a bargain with you. I
+can’t read much more’n a pig; and my writin’ looks like hens’ tracks. I
+don’t want to grow up knowin’ no more’n a four-year-old boy. If you’ll
+teach me readin’ and writin’ evenin’s, you shall sleep in my room every
+night. That’ll be better’n door-steps or old boxes, where I’ve slept
+many a time.”
+
+“Are you in earnest?” said Fosdick, his face lighting up hopefully.
+
+“In course I am,” said Dick. “It’s fashionable for young gentlemen to
+have private tootors to introduct ’em into the flower-beds of
+literatoor and science, and why shouldn’t I foller the fashion? You
+shall be my perfessor; only you must promise not to be very hard if my
+writin’ looks like a rail-fence on a bender.”
+
+“I’ll try not to be too severe,” said Fosdick, laughing. “I shall be
+thankful for such a chance to get a place to sleep. Have you got
+anything to read out of?”
+
+“No,” said Dick. “My extensive and well-selected library was lost
+overboard in a storm, when I was sailin’ from the Sandwich Islands to
+the desert of Sahara. But I’ll buy a paper. That’ll do me a long time.”
+
+Accordingly Dick stopped at a paper-stand, and bought a copy of a
+weekly paper, filled with the usual variety of reading matter,—stories,
+sketches, poems, etc.
+
+They soon arrived at Dick’s lodging-house. Our hero, procuring a lamp
+from the landlady, led the way into his apartment, which he entered
+with the proud air of a proprietor.
+
+“Well, how do you like it, Fosdick?” he asked, complacently.
+
+The time was when Fosdick would have thought it untidy and not
+particularly attractive. But he had served a severe apprenticeship in
+the streets, and it was pleasant to feel himself under shelter, and he
+was not disposed to be critical.
+
+“It looks very comfortable, Dick,” he said.
+
+“The bed aint very large,” said Dick; “but I guess we can get along.”
+
+“Oh, yes,” said Fosdick, cheerfully. “I don’t take up much room.”
+
+“Then that’s all right. There’s two chairs, you see, one for you and
+one for me. In case the mayor comes in to spend the evenin’ socially,
+he can sit on the bed.”
+
+The boys seated themselves, and five minutes later, under the guidance
+of his young tutor, Dick had commenced his studies.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+THE FIRST LESSON
+
+
+Fortunately for Dick, his young tutor was well qualified to instruct
+him. Henry Fosdick, though only twelve years old, knew as much as many
+boys of fourteen. He had always been studious and ambitious to excel.
+His father, being a printer, employed in an office where books were
+printed, often brought home new books in sheets, which Henry was always
+glad to read. Mr. Fosdick had been, besides, a subscriber to the
+Mechanics’ Apprentices’ Library, which contains many thousands of
+well-selected and instructive books. Thus Henry had acquired an amount
+of general information, unusual in a boy of his age. Perhaps he had
+devoted too much time to study, for he was not naturally robust. All
+this, however, fitted him admirably for the office to which Dick had
+appointed him,—that of his private instructor.
+
+The two boys drew up their chairs to the rickety table, and spread out
+the paper before them.
+
+“The exercises generally Commence with ringin’ the bell,” said Dick;
+“but as I aint got none, we’ll have to do without.”
+
+“And the teacher is generally provided with a rod,” said Fosdick.
+“Isn’t there a poker handy, that I can use in case my scholar doesn’t
+behave well?”
+
+“’Taint lawful to use fire-arms,” said Dick.
+
+“Now, Dick,” said Fosdick, “before we begin, I must find out how much
+you already know. Can you read any?”
+
+“Not enough to hurt me,” said Dick. “All I know about readin’ you could
+put in a nutshell, and there’d be room left for a small family.”
+
+“I suppose you know your letters?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “I know ’em all, but not intimately. I guess I can
+call ’em all by name.”
+
+“Where did you learn them? Did you ever go to school?”
+
+“Yes; I went two days.”
+
+“Why did you stop?”
+
+“It didn’t agree with my constitution.”
+
+“You don’t look very delicate,” said Fosdick.
+
+“No,” said Dick, “I aint troubled much that way; but I found lickins
+didn’t agree with me.”
+
+“Did you get punished?”
+
+“Awful,” said Dick.
+
+“What for?”
+
+“For indulgin’ in a little harmless amoosement,” said Dick. “You see
+the boy that was sittin’ next to me fell asleep, which I considered
+improper in school-time; so I thought I’d help the teacher a little by
+wakin’ him up. So I took a pin and stuck into him; but I guess it went
+a little too far, for he screeched awful. The teacher found out what it
+was that made him holler, and whipped me with a ruler till I was black
+and blue. I thought ’twas about time to take a vacation; so that’s the
+last time I went to school.”
+
+“You didn’t learn to read in that time, of course?”
+
+“No,” said Dick; “but I was a newsboy a little while; so I learned a
+little, just so’s to find out what the news was. Sometimes I didn’t
+read straight and called the wrong news. One mornin’ I asked another
+boy what the paper said, and he told me the King of Africa was dead. I
+thought it was all right till folks began to laugh.”
+
+“Well, Dick, if you’ll only study well, you won’t be liable to make
+such mistakes.”
+
+“I hope so,” said Dick. “My friend Horace Greeley told me the other day
+that he’d get me to take his place now and then when he was off makin’
+speeches if my edication hadn’t been neglected.”
+
+“I must find a good piece for you to begin on,” said Fosdick, looking
+over the paper.
+
+“Find an easy one,” said Dick, “with words of one story.”
+
+Fosdick at length found a piece which he thought would answer. He
+discovered on trial that Dick had not exaggerated his deficiencies.
+Words of two syllables he seldom pronounced right, and was much
+surprised when he was told how “through” was sounded.
+
+“Seems to me it’s throwin’ away letters to use all them,” he said.
+
+“How would you spell it?” asked his young teacher.
+
+“T-h-r-u,” said Dick.
+
+“Well,” said Fosdick, “there’s a good many other words that are spelt
+with more letters than they need to have. But it’s the fashion, and we
+must follow it.”
+
+But if Dick was ignorant, he was quick, and had an excellent capacity.
+Moreover he had perseverance, and was not easily discouraged. He had
+made up his mind he must know more, and was not disposed to complain of
+the difficulty of his task. Fosdick had occasion to laugh more than
+once at his ludicrous mistakes; but Dick laughed too, and on the whole
+both were quite interested in the lesson.
+
+At the end of an hour and a half the boys stopped for the evening.
+
+“You’re learning fast, Dick,” said Fosdick. “At this rate you will soon
+learn to read well.”
+
+“Will I?” asked Dick with an expression of satisfaction. “I’m glad of
+that. I don’t want to be ignorant. I didn’t use to care, but I do now.
+I want to grow up ’spectable.”
+
+“So do I, Dick. We will both help each other, and I am sure we can
+accomplish something. But I am beginning to feel sleepy.”
+
+“So am I,” said Dick. “Them hard words make my head ache. I wonder who
+made ’em all?”
+
+“That’s more than I can tell. I suppose you’ve seen a dictionary.”
+
+“That’s another of ’em. No, I can’t say I have, though I may have seen
+him in the street without knowin’ him.”
+
+“A dictionary is a book containing all the words in the language.”
+
+“How many are there?”
+
+“I don’t rightly know; but I think there are about fifty thousand.”
+
+“It’s a pretty large family,” said Dick. “Have I got to learn ’em all?”
+
+“That will not be necessary. There are a large number which you would
+never find occasion to use.”
+
+“I’m glad of that,” said Dick; “for I don’t expect to live to be more’n
+a hundred, and by that time I wouldn’t be more’n half through.”
+
+By this time the flickering lamp gave a decided hint to the boys that
+unless they made haste they would have to undress in the dark. They
+accordingly drew off their clothes, and Dick jumped into bed. But
+Fosdick, before doing so, knelt down by the side of the bed, and said a
+short prayer.
+
+“What’s that for?” asked Dick, curiously.
+
+“I was saying my prayers,” said Fosdick, as he rose from his knees.
+“Don’t you ever do it?”
+
+“No,” said Dick. “Nobody ever taught me.”
+
+“Then I’ll teach you. Shall I?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said Dick, dubiously. “What’s the good?”
+
+Fosdick explained as well as he could, and perhaps his simple
+explanation was better adapted to Dick’s comprehension than one from an
+older person would have been. Dick felt more free to ask questions, and
+the example of his new friend, for whom he was beginning to feel a warm
+attachment, had considerable effect upon him. When, therefore, Fosdick
+asked again if he should teach him a prayer, Dick consented, and his
+young bedfellow did so. Dick was not naturally irreligious. If he had
+lived without a knowledge of God and of religious things, it was
+scarcely to be wondered at in a lad who, from an early age, had been
+thrown upon his own exertions for the means of living, with no one to
+care for him or give him good advice. But he was so far good that he
+could appreciate goodness in others, and this it was that had drawn him
+to Frank in the first place, and now to Henry Fosdick. He did not,
+therefore, attempt to ridicule his companion, as some boys better
+brought up might have done, but was willing to follow his example in
+what something told him was right. Our young hero had taken an
+important step toward securing that genuine respectability which he was
+ambitious to attain.
+
+Weary with the day’s work, and Dick perhaps still more fatigued by the
+unusual mental effort he had made, the boys soon sank into a deep and
+peaceful slumber, from which they did not awaken till six o’clock the
+next morning. Before going out Dick sought Mrs. Mooney, and spoke to
+her on the subject of taking Fosdick as a room-mate. He found that she
+had no objection, provided he would allow her twenty-five cents a week
+extra, in consideration of the extra trouble which his companion might
+be expected to make. To this Dick assented, and the arrangement was
+definitely concluded.
+
+This over, the two boys went out and took stations near each other.
+Dick had more of a business turn than Henry, and less shrinking from
+publicity, so that his earnings were greater. But he had undertaken to
+pay the entire expenses of the room, and needed to earn more.
+Sometimes, when two customers presented themselves at the same time, he
+was able to direct one to his friend. So at the end of the week both
+boys found themselves with surplus earnings. Dick had the satisfaction
+of adding two dollars and a half to his deposits in the Savings Bank,
+and Fosdick commenced an account by depositing seventy-five cents.
+
+On Sunday morning Dick bethought himself of his promise to Mr. Greyson
+to come to the church on Fifth Avenue. To tell the truth, Dick recalled
+it with some regret. He had never been inside a church since he could
+remember, and he was not much attracted by the invitation he had
+received. But Henry, finding him wavering, urged him to go, and offered
+to go with him. Dick gladly accepted the offer, feeling that he
+required someone to lend him countenance under such unusual
+circumstances.
+
+Dick dressed himself with scrupulous care, giving his shoes a “shine”
+so brilliant that it did him great credit in a professional point of
+view, and endeavored to clean his hands thoroughly; but, in spite of
+all he could do, they were not so white as if his business had been of
+a different character.
+
+Having fully completed his preparations, he descended into the street,
+and, with Henry by his side, crossed over to Broadway.
+
+The boys pursued their way up Broadway, which on Sunday presents a
+striking contrast in its quietness to the noise and confusion of
+ordinary week-days, as far as Union Square, then turned down Fourteenth
+Street, which brought them to Fifth Avenue.
+
+“Suppose we dine at Delmonico’s,” said Fosdick, looking towards that
+famous restaurant.
+
+“I’d have to sell some of my Erie shares,” said Dick.
+
+A short walk now brought them to the church of which mention has
+already been made. They stood outside, a little abashed, watching the
+fashionably attired people who were entering, and were feeling a little
+undecided as to whether they had better enter also, when Dick felt a
+light touch upon his shoulder.
+
+Turning round, he met the smiling glance of Mr. Greyson.
+
+“So, my young friend, you have kept your promise,” he said. “And whom
+have you brought with you?”
+
+“A friend of mine,” said Dick. “His name is Henry Fosdick.”
+
+“I am glad you have brought him. Now follow me, and I will give you
+seats.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+DICK’S FIRST APPEARANCE IN SOCIETY
+
+
+It was the hour for morning service. The boys followed Mr. Greyson into
+the handsome church, and were assigned seats in his own pew.
+
+There were two persons already seated in it,—a good-looking lady of
+middle age, and a pretty little girl of nine. They were Mrs. Greyson
+and her only daughter Ida. They looked pleasantly at the boys as they
+entered, smiling a welcome to them.
+
+The morning service commenced. It must be acknowledged that Dick felt
+rather awkward. It was an unusual place for him, and it need not be
+wondered at that he felt like a cat in a strange garret. He would not
+have known when to rise if he had not taken notice of what the rest of
+the audience did, and followed their example. He was sitting next to
+Ida, and as it was the first time he had ever been near so well-dressed
+a young lady, he naturally felt bashful. When the hymns were announced,
+Ida found the place, and offered a hymn-book to our hero. Dick took it
+awkwardly, but his studies had not yet been pursued far enough for him
+to read the words readily. However, he resolved to keep up appearances,
+and kept his eyes fixed steadily on the hymn-book.
+
+At length the service was over. The people began to file slowly out of
+church, and among them, of course, Mr. Greyson’s family and the two
+boys. It seemed very strange to Dick to find himself in such different
+companionship from what he had been accustomed, and he could not help
+thinking, “Wonder what Johnny Nolan ’ould say if he could see me now!”
+
+But Johnny’s business engagements did not often summon him to Fifth
+Avenue, and Dick was not likely to be seen by any of his friends in the
+lower part of the city.
+
+“We have our Sunday school in the afternoon,” said Mr. Greyson. “I
+suppose you live at some distance from here?”
+
+“In Mott Street, sir,” answered Dick.
+
+“That is too far to go and return. Suppose you and your friend come and
+dine with us, and then we can come here together in the afternoon.”
+
+Dick was as much astonished at this invitation as if he had really been
+invited by the Mayor to dine with him and the Board of Aldermen. Mr.
+Greyson was evidently a rich man, and yet he had actually invited two
+boot-blacks to dine with him.
+
+“I guess we’d better go home, sir,” said Dick, hesitating.
+
+“I don’t think you can have any very pressing engagements to interfere
+with your accepting my invitation,” said Mr. Greyson, good-humoredly,
+for he understood the reason of Dick’s hesitation. “So I take it for
+granted that you both accept.”
+
+Before Dick fairly knew what he intended to do, he was walking down
+Fifth Avenue with his new friends.
+
+Now, our young hero was not naturally bashful; but he certainly felt so
+now, especially as Miss Ida Greyson chose to walk by his side, leaving
+Henry Fosdick to walk with her father and mother.
+
+“What is your name?” asked Ida, pleasantly.
+
+Our hero was about to answer “Ragged Dick,” when it occurred to him
+that in the present company he had better forget his old nickname.
+
+“Dick Hunter,” he answered.
+
+“Dick!” repeated Ida. “That means Richard, doesn’t it?”
+
+“Everybody calls me Dick.”
+
+“I have a cousin Dick,” said the young lady, sociably. “His name is
+Dick Wilson. I suppose you don’t know him?”
+
+“No,” said Dick.
+
+“I like the name of Dick,” said the young lady, with charming
+frankness.
+
+Without being able to tell why, Dick felt rather glad she did. He
+plucked up courage to ask her name.
+
+“My name is Ida,” answered the young lady. “Do you like it?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick. “It’s a bully name.”
+
+Dick turned red as soon as he had said it, for he felt that he had not
+used the right expression.
+
+The little girl broke into a silvery laugh.
+
+“What a funny boy you are!” she said.
+
+“I didn’t mean it,” said Dick, stammering. “I meant it’s a tip-top
+name.”
+
+Here Ida laughed again, and Dick wished himself back in Mott Street.
+
+“How old are you?” inquired Ida, continuing her examination.
+
+“I’m fourteen,—goin’ on fifteen,” said Dick.
+
+“You’re a big boy of your age,” said Ida. “My cousin Dick is a year
+older than you, but he isn’t as large.”
+
+Dick looked pleased. Boys generally like to be told that they are large
+of their age.
+
+“How old be you?” asked Dick, beginning to feel more at his ease.
+
+“I’m nine years old,” said Ida. “I go to Miss Jarvis’s school. I’ve
+just begun to learn French. Do you know French?”
+
+“Not enough to hurt me,” said Dick.
+
+Ida laughed again, and told him that he was a droll boy.
+
+“Do you like it?” asked Dick.
+
+“I like it pretty well, except the verbs. I can’t remember them well.
+Do you go to school?”
+
+“I’m studying with a private tutor,” said Dick.
+
+“Are you? So is my cousin Dick. He’s going to college this year. Are
+you going to college?”
+
+“Not this year.”
+
+“Because, if you did, you know you’d be in the same class with my
+cousin. It would be funny to have two Dicks in one class.”
+
+They turned down Twenty-fourth Street, passing the Fifth Avenue Hotel
+on the left, and stopped before an elegant house with a brown stone
+front. The bell was rung, and the door being opened, the boys, somewhat
+abashed, followed Mr. Greyson into a handsome hall. They were told
+where to hang their hats, and a moment afterwards were ushered into a
+comfortable dining-room, where a table was spread for dinner.
+
+Dick took his seat on the edge of a sofa, and was tempted to rub his
+eyes to make sure that he was really awake. He could hardly believe
+that he was a guest in so fine a mansion.
+
+Ida helped to put the boys at their ease.
+
+“Do you like pictures?” she asked.
+
+“Very much,” answered Henry.
+
+The little girl brought a book of handsome engravings, and, seating
+herself beside Dick, to whom she seemed to have taken a decided fancy,
+commenced showing them to him.
+
+“There are the Pyramids of Egypt,” she said, pointing to one engraving.
+
+“What are they for?” asked Dick, puzzled. “I don’t see any winders.”
+
+“No,” said Ida, “I don’t believe anybody lives there. Do they, papa?”
+
+“No, my dear. They were used for the burial of the dead. The largest of
+them is said to be the loftiest building in the world with one
+exception. The spire of the Cathedral of Strasburg is twenty-four feet
+higher, if I remember rightly.”
+
+“Is Egypt near here?” asked Dick.
+
+“Oh, no, it’s ever so many miles off; about four or five hundred.
+Didn’t you know?”
+
+“No,” said Dick. “I never heard.”
+
+“You don’t appear to be very accurate in your information, Ida,” said
+her mother. “Four or five thousand miles would be considerably nearer
+the truth.”
+
+After a little more conversation they sat down to dinner. Dick seated
+himself in an embarrassed way. He was very much afraid of doing or
+saying something which would be considered an impropriety, and had the
+uncomfortable feeling that everybody was looking at him, and watching
+his behavior.
+
+“Where do you live, Dick?” asked Ida, familiarly.
+
+“In Mott Street.”
+
+“Where is that?”
+
+“More than a mile off.”
+
+“Is it a nice street?”
+
+“Not very,” said Dick. “Only poor folks live there.”
+
+“Are you poor?”
+
+“Little girls should be seen and not heard,” said her mother, gently.
+
+“If you are,” said Ida, “I’ll give you the five-dollar gold-piece aunt
+gave me for a birthday present.”
+
+“Dick cannot be called poor, my child,” said Mrs. Greyson, “since he
+earns his living by his own exertions.”
+
+“Do you earn your living?” asked Ida, who was a very inquisitive young
+lady, and not easily silenced. “What do you do?”
+
+Dick blushed violently. At such a table, and in presence of the servant
+who was standing at that moment behind his chair, he did not like to
+say that he was a shoe-black, although he well knew that there was
+nothing dishonorable in the occupation.
+
+Mr. Greyson perceived his feelings, and to spare them, said, “You are
+too inquisitive, Ida. Sometime Dick may tell you, but you know we don’t
+talk of business on Sundays.”
+
+Dick in his embarrassment had swallowed a large spoonful of hot soup,
+which made him turn red in the face. For the second time, in spite of
+the prospect of the best dinner he had ever eaten, he wished himself
+back in Mott Street. Henry Fosdick was more easy and unembarrassed than
+Dick, not having led such a vagabond and neglected life. But it was to
+Dick that Ida chiefly directed her conversation, having apparently
+taken a fancy to his frank and handsome face. I believe I have already
+said that Dick was a very good-looking boy, especially now since he
+kept his face clean. He had a frank, honest expression, which generally
+won its way to the favor of those with whom he came in contact.
+
+Dick got along pretty well at the table by dint of noticing how the
+rest acted, but there was one thing he could not manage, eating with
+his fork, which, by the way, he thought a very singular arrangement.
+
+At length they arose from the table, somewhat to Dick’s relief. Again
+Ida devoted herself to the boys, and exhibited a profusely illustrated
+Bible for their entertainment. Dick was interested in looking at the
+pictures, though he knew very little of their subjects. Henry Fosdick
+was much better informed, as might have been expected.
+
+When the boys were about to leave the house with Mr. Greyson for the
+Sunday school, Ida placed her hand in Dick’s, and said persuasively,
+“You’ll come again, Dick, won’t you?”
+
+“Thank you,” said Dick, “I’d like to,” and he could not help thinking
+Ida the nicest girl he had ever seen.
+
+“Yes,” said Mrs. Greyson, hospitably, “we shall be glad to see you both
+here again.”
+
+“Thank you very much,” said Henry Fosdick, gratefully. “We shall like
+very much to come.”
+
+I will not dwell upon the hour spent in Sunday school, nor upon the
+remarks of Mr. Greyson to his class. He found Dick’s ignorance of
+religious subjects so great that he was obliged to begin at the
+beginning with him. Dick was interested in hearing the children sing,
+and readily promised to come again the next Sunday.
+
+When the service was over Dick and Henry walked homewards. Dick could
+not help letting his thoughts rest on the sweet little girl who had
+given him so cordial a welcome, and hoping that he might meet her
+again.
+
+“Mr. Greyson is a nice man,—isn’t he, Dick?” asked Henry, as they were
+turning into Mott Street, and were already in sight of their
+lodging-house.
+
+“Aint he, though?” said Dick. “He treated us just as if we were young
+gentlemen.”
+
+“Ida seemed to take a great fancy to you.”
+
+“She’s a tip-top girl,” said Dick, “but she asked so many questions
+that I didn’t know what to say.”
+
+He had scarcely finished speaking, when a stone whizzed by his head,
+and, turning quickly, he saw Micky Maguire running round the corner of
+the street which they had just passed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+MICKY MAGUIRE’S SECOND DEFEAT
+
+
+Dick was no coward. Nor was he in the habit of submitting passively to
+an insult. When, therefore, he recognized Micky as his assailant, he
+instantly turned and gave chase. Micky anticipated pursuit, and ran at
+his utmost speed. It is doubtful if Dick would have overtaken him, but
+Micky had the ill luck to trip just as he had entered a narrow alley,
+and, falling with some violence, received a sharp blow from the hard
+stones, which made him scream with pain.
+
+“Ow!” he whined. “Don’t you hit a feller when he’s down.”
+
+“What made you fire that stone at me?” demanded our hero, looking down
+at the fallen bully.
+
+“Just for fun,” said Micky.
+
+“It would have been a very agreeable s’prise if it had hit me,” said
+Dick. “S’posin’ I fire a rock at you jest for fun.”
+
+“Don’t!” exclaimed Micky, in alarm.
+
+“It seems you don’t like agreeable s’prises,” said Dick, “any more’n
+the man did what got hooked by a cow one mornin’, before breakfast. It
+didn’t improve his appetite much.”
+
+“I’ve most broke my arm,” said Micky, ruefully, rubbing the affected
+limb.
+
+“If it’s broke you can’t fire no more stones, which is a very cheerin’
+reflection,” said Dick. “Ef you haven’t money enough to buy a wooden
+one I’ll lend you a quarter. There’s one good thing about wooden ones,
+they aint liable to get cold in winter, which is another cheerin’
+reflection.”
+
+“I don’t want none of yer cheerin’ reflections,” said Micky, sullenly.
+“Yer company aint wanted here.”
+
+“Thank you for your polite invitation to leave,” said Dick, bowing
+ceremoniously. “I’m willin’ to go, but ef you throw any more stones at
+me, Micky Maguire, I’ll hurt you worse than the stones did.”
+
+The only answer made to this warning was a scowl from his fallen
+opponent. It was quite evident that Dick had the best of it, and he
+thought it prudent to say nothing.
+
+“As I’ve got a friend waitin’ outside, I shall have to tear myself
+away,” said Dick. “You’d better not throw any more stones, Micky
+Maguire, for it don’t seem to agree with your constitution.”
+
+Micky muttered something which Dick did not stay to hear. He backed out
+of the alley, keeping a watchful eye on his fallen foe, and rejoined
+Henry Fosdick, who was awaiting his return.
+
+“Who was it, Dick?” he asked.
+
+“A partic’lar friend of mine, Micky Maguire,” said Dick. “He playfully
+fired a rock at my head as a mark of his ’fection. He loves me like a
+brother, Micky does.”
+
+“Rather a dangerous kind of a friend, I should think,” said Fosdick.
+“He might have killed you.”
+
+“I’ve warned him not to be so ’fectionate another time,” said Dick.
+
+“I know him,” said Henry Fosdick. “He’s at the head of a gang of boys
+living at the Five-Points. He threatened to whip me once because a
+gentleman employed me to black his boots instead of him.”
+
+“He’s been at the Island two or three times for stealing,” said Dick.
+“I guess he won’t touch me again. He’d rather get hold of small boys.
+If he ever does anything to you, Fosdick, just let me know, and I’ll
+give him a thrashing.”
+
+Dick was right. Micky Maguire was a bully, and like most bullies did
+not fancy tackling boys whose strength was equal or superior to his
+own. Although he hated Dick more than ever, because he thought our hero
+was putting on airs, he had too lively a remembrance of his strength
+and courage to venture upon another open attack. He contented himself,
+therefore, whenever he met Dick, with scowling at him. Dick took this
+very philosophically, remarking that, “if it was soothin’ to Micky’s
+feelings, he might go ahead, as it didn’t hurt him much.”
+
+It will not be necessary to chronicle the events of the next few weeks.
+A new life had commenced for Dick. He no longer haunted the gallery of
+the Old Bowery; and even Tony Pastor’s hospitable doors had lost their
+old attractions. He spent two hours every evening in study. His
+progress was astonishingly rapid. He was gifted with a natural
+quickness; and he was stimulated by the desire to acquire a fair
+education as a means of “growin’ up ’spectable,” as he termed it. Much
+was due also to the patience and perseverance of Henry Fosdick, who
+made a capital teacher.
+
+“You’re improving wonderfully, Dick,” said his friend, one evening,
+when Dick had read an entire paragraph without a mistake.
+
+“Am I?” said Dick, with satisfaction.
+
+“Yes. If you’ll buy a writing-book to-morrow, we can begin writing
+to-morrow evening.”
+
+“What else do you know, Henry?” asked Dick.
+
+“Arithmetic, and geography, and grammar.”
+
+“What a lot you know!” said Dick, admiringly.
+
+“I don’t _know_ any of them,” said Fosdick. “I’ve only studied them. I
+wish I knew a great deal more.”
+
+“I’ll be satisfied when I know as much as you,” said Dick.
+
+“It seems a great deal to you now, Dick, but in a few months you’ll
+think differently. The more you know, the more you’ll want to know.”
+
+“Then there aint any end to learnin’?” said Dick.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Well,” said Dick, “I guess I’ll be as much as sixty before I know
+everything.”
+
+“Yes; as old as that, probably,” said Fosdick, laughing.
+
+“Anyway, you know too much to be blackin’ boots. Leave that to ignorant
+chaps like me.”
+
+“You won’t be ignorant long, Dick.”
+
+“You’d ought to get into some office or countin’-room.”
+
+“I wish I could,” said Fosdick, earnestly. “I don’t succeed very well
+at blacking boots. You make a great deal more than I do.”
+
+“That’s cause I aint troubled with bashfulness,” said Dick.
+“Bashfulness aint as natural to me as it is to you. I’m always on hand,
+as the cat said to the milk. You’d better give up shines, Fosdick, and
+give your ’tention to mercantile pursuits.”
+
+“I’ve thought of trying to get a place,” said Fosdick; “but no one
+would take me with these clothes;” and he directed his glance to his
+well-worn suit, which he kept as neat as he could, but which, in spite
+of all his care, began to show decided marks of use. There was also
+here and there a stain of blacking upon it, which, though an
+advertisement of his profession, scarcely added to its good appearance.
+
+“I almost wanted to stay at home from Sunday school last Sunday,” he
+continued, “because I thought everybody would notice how dirty and worn
+my clothes had got to be.”
+
+“If my clothes wasn’t two sizes too big for you,” said Dick,
+generously, “I’d change. You’d look as if you’d got into your
+great-uncle’s suit by mistake.”
+
+“You’re very kind, Dick, to think of changing,” said Fosdick, “for your
+suit is much better than mine; but I don’t think that mine would suit
+you very well. The pants would show a little more of your ankles than
+is the fashion, and you couldn’t eat a very hearty dinner without
+bursting the buttons off the vest.”
+
+“That wouldn’t be very convenient,” said Dick. “I aint fond of lacin’
+to show my elegant figger. But I say,” he added with a sudden thought,
+“how much money have we got in the savings’ bank?”
+
+Fosdick took a key from his pocket, and went to the drawer in which the
+bank-books were kept, and, opening it, brought them out for inspection.
+
+It was found that Dick had the sum of eighteen dollars and ninety cents
+placed to his credit, while Fosdick had six dollars and forty-five
+cents. To explain the large difference, it must be remembered that Dick
+had deposited five dollars before Henry deposited anything, being the
+amount he had received as a gift from Mr. Whitney.
+
+“How much does that make, the lot of it?” asked Dick. “I aint much on
+figgers yet, you know.”
+
+“It makes twenty-five dollars and thirty-five cents, Dick,” said his
+companion, who did not understand the thought which suggested the
+question.
+
+“Take it, and buy some clothes, Henry,” said Dick, shortly.
+
+“What, your money too?”
+
+“In course.”
+
+“No, Dick, you are too generous. I couldn’t think of it. Almost
+three-quarters of the money is yours. You must spend it on yourself.”
+
+“I don’t need it,” said Dick.
+
+“You may not need it now, but you will some time.”
+
+“I shall have some more then.”
+
+“That may be; but it wouldn’t be fair for me to use your money, Dick. I
+thank you all the same for your kindness.”
+
+“Well, I’ll lend it to you, then,” persisted Dick, “and you can pay me
+when you get to be a rich merchant.”
+
+“But it isn’t likely I ever shall be one.”
+
+“How d’you know? I went to a fortun’ teller once, and she told me I was
+born under a lucky star with a hard name, and I should have a rich man
+for my particular friend, who would make my fortun’. I guess you are
+going to be the rich man.”
+
+Fosdick laughed, and steadily refused for some time to avail himself of
+Dick’s generous proposal; but at length, perceiving that our hero
+seemed much disappointed, and would be really glad if his offer were
+accepted, he agreed to use as much as might be needful.
+
+This at once brought back Dick’s good-humor, and he entered with great
+enthusiasm into his friend’s plans.
+
+The next day they withdrew the money from the bank, and, when business
+got a little slack, in the afternoon set out in search of a clothing
+store. Dick knew enough of the city to be able to find a place where a
+good bargain could be obtained. He was determined that Fosdick should
+have a good serviceable suit, even if it took all the money they had.
+The result of their search was that for twenty-three dollars Fosdick
+obtained a very neat outfit, including a couple of shirts, a hat, and a
+pair of shoes, besides a dark mixed suit, which appeared stout and of
+good quality.
+
+“Shall I send the bundle home?” asked the salesman, impressed by the
+off-hand manner in which Dick drew out the money in payment for the
+clothes.
+
+“Thank you,” said Dick, “you’re very kind, but I’ll take it home
+myself, and you can allow me something for my trouble.”
+
+“All right,” said the clerk, laughing; “I’ll allow it on your next
+purchase.”
+
+Proceeding to their apartment in Mott Street, Fosdick at once tried on
+his new suit, and it was found to be an excellent fit. Dick surveyed
+his new friend with much satisfaction.
+
+“You look like a young gentleman of fortun’,” he said, “and do credit
+to your governor.”
+
+“I suppose that means you, Dick,” said Fosdick, laughing.
+
+“In course it does.”
+
+“You should say _of_ course,” said Fosdick, who, in virtue of his
+position as Dick’s tutor, ventured to correct his language from time to
+time.
+
+“How dare you correct your gov’nor?” said Dick, with comic indignation.
+“‘I’ll cut you off with a shillin’, you young dog,’ as the Markis says
+to his nephew in the play at the Old Bowery.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+FOSDICK CHANGES HIS BUSINESS
+
+
+Fosdick did not venture to wear his new clothes while engaged in his
+business. This he felt would have been wasteful extravagance. About ten
+o’clock in the morning, when business slackened, he went home, and
+dressing himself went to a hotel where he could see copies of the
+“Morning Herald” and “Sun,” and, noting down the places where a boy was
+wanted, went on a round of applications. But he found it no easy thing
+to obtain a place. Swarms of boys seemed to be out of employment, and
+it was not unusual to find from fifty to a hundred applicants for a
+single place.
+
+There was another difficulty. It was generally desired that the boy
+wanted should reside with his parents. When Fosdick, on being
+questioned, revealed the fact of his having no parents, and being a boy
+of the street, this was generally sufficient of itself to insure a
+refusal. Merchants were afraid to trust one who had led such a vagabond
+life. Dick, who was always ready for an emergency, suggested borrowing
+a white wig, and passing himself off for Fosdick’s father or
+grandfather. But Henry thought this might be rather a difficult
+character for our hero to sustain. After fifty applications and as many
+failures, Fosdick began to get discouraged. There seemed to be no way
+out of his present business, for which he felt unfitted.
+
+“I don’t know but I shall have to black boots all my life,” he said,
+one day, despondently, to Dick.
+
+“Keep a stiff upper lip,” said Dick. “By the time you get to be a
+gray-headed veteran, you may get a chance to run errands for some big
+firm on the Bowery, which is a very cheerin’ reflection.”
+
+So Dick by his drollery and perpetual good spirits kept up Fosdick’s
+courage.
+
+“As for me,” said Dick, “I expect by that time to lay up a colossal
+fortun’ out of shines, and live in princely style on the Avenoo.”
+
+But one morning, Fosdick, straying into French’s Hotel, discovered the
+following advertisement in the columns of “The Herald,”—
+
+“WANTED—A smart, capable boy to run errands, and make himself generally
+useful in a hat and cap store. Salary three dollars a week at first.
+Inquire at No. — Broadway, after ten o’clock, A.M.”
+
+He determined to make application, and, as the City Hall clock just
+then struck the hour indicated, lost no time in proceeding to the
+store, which was only a few blocks distant from the Astor House. It was
+easy to find the store, as from a dozen to twenty boys were already
+assembled in front of it. They surveyed each other askance, feeling
+that they were rivals, and mentally calculating each other’s chances.
+
+“There isn’t much chance for me,” said Fosdick to Dick, who had
+accompanied him. “Look at all these boys. Most of them have good homes,
+I suppose, and good recommendations, while I have nobody to refer to.”
+
+“Go ahead,” said Dick. “Your chance is as good as anybody’s.”
+
+While this was passing between Dick and his companion, one of the boys,
+a rather supercilious-looking young gentleman, genteelly dressed, and
+evidently having a very high opinion of his dress and himself turned
+suddenly to Dick, and remarked,—
+
+“I’ve seen you before.”
+
+“Oh, have you?” said Dick, whirling round; “then p’r’aps you’d like to
+see me behind.”
+
+At this unexpected answer all the boys burst into a laugh with the
+exception of the questioner, who, evidently, considered that Dick had
+been disrespectful.
+
+“I’ve seen you somewhere,” he said, in a surly tone, correcting
+himself.
+
+“Most likely you have,” said Dick. “That’s where I generally keep
+myself.”
+
+There was another laugh at the expense of Roswell Crawford, for that
+was the name of the young aristocrat. But he had his revenge ready. No
+boy relishes being an object of ridicule, and it was with a feeling of
+satisfaction that he retorted,—
+
+“I know you for all your impudence. You’re nothing but a boot-black.”
+
+This information took the boys who were standing around by surprise,
+for Dick was well-dressed, and had none of the implements of his
+profession with him.
+
+“S’pose I be,” said Dick. “Have you got any objection?”
+
+“Not at all,” said Roswell, curling his lip; “only you’d better stick
+to blacking boots, and not try to get into a store.”
+
+“Thank you for your kind advice,” said Dick. “Is it gratooitous, or do
+you expect to be paid for it?”
+
+“You’re an impudent fellow.”
+
+“That’s a very cheerin’ reflection,” said Dick, good-naturedly.
+
+“Do you expect to get this place when there’s gentlemen’s sons applying
+for it? A boot-black in a store! That would be a good joke.”
+
+Boys as well as men are selfish, and, looking upon Dick as a possible
+rival, the boys who listened seemed disposed to take the same view of
+the situation.
+
+“That’s what I say,” said one of them, taking sides with Roswell.
+
+“Don’t trouble yourselves,” said Dick. “I aint agoin’ to cut you out. I
+can’t afford to give up a independent and loocrative purfession for a
+salary of three dollars a week.”
+
+“Hear him talk!” said Roswell Crawford, with an unpleasant sneer. “If
+you are not trying to get the place, what are you here for?”
+
+“I came with a friend of mine,” said Dick, indicating Fosdick, “who’s
+goin’ in for the situation.”
+
+“Is he a boot-black, too?” demanded Roswell, superciliously.
+
+“He!” retorted Dick, loftily. “Didn’t you know his father was a member
+of Congress, and intimately acquainted with all the biggest men in the
+State?”
+
+The boys surveyed Fosdick as if they did not quite know whether to
+credit this statement, which, for the credit of Dick’s veracity, it
+will be observed he did not assert, but only propounded in the form of
+a question. There was no time for comment, however, as just then the
+proprietor of the store came to the door, and, casting his eyes over
+the waiting group, singled out Roswell Crawford, and asked him to
+enter.
+
+“Well, my lad, how old are you?”
+
+“Fourteen years old,” said Roswell, consequentially.
+
+“Are your parents living?”
+
+“Only my mother. My father is dead. He was a gentleman,” he added,
+complacently.
+
+“Oh, was he?” said the shop-keeper. “Do you live in the city?”
+
+“Yes, sir. In Clinton Place.”
+
+“Have you ever been in a situation before?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Roswell, a little reluctantly.
+
+“Where was it?”
+
+“In an office on Dey Street.”
+
+“How long were you there?”
+
+“A week.”
+
+“It seems to me that was a short time. Why did you not stay longer?”
+
+“Because,” said Roswell, loftily, “the man wanted me to get to the
+office at eight o’clock, and make the fire. I’m a gentleman’s son, and
+am not used to such dirty work.”
+
+“Indeed!” said the shop-keeper. “Well, young gentleman, you may step
+aside a few minutes. I will speak with some of the other boys before
+making my selection.”
+
+Several other boys were called in and questioned. Roswell stood by and
+listened with an air of complacency. He could not help thinking his
+chances the best. “The man can see I’m a gentleman, and will do credit
+to his store,” he thought.
+
+At length it came to Fosdick’s turn. He entered with no very sanguine
+anticipations of success. Unlike Roswell, he set a very low estimate
+upon his qualifications when compared with those of other applicants.
+But his modest bearing, and quiet, gentlemanly manner, entirely free
+from pretension, prepossessed the shop-keeper, who was a sensible man,
+in his favor.
+
+“Do you reside in the city?” he asked.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Henry.
+
+“What is your age?”
+
+“Twelve.”
+
+“Have you ever been in any situation?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“I should like to see a specimen of your handwriting. Here, take the
+pen and write your name.”
+
+Henry Fosdick had a very handsome handwriting for a boy of his age,
+while Roswell, who had submitted to the same test, could do little more
+than scrawl.
+
+“Do you reside with your parents?”
+
+“No, sir, they are dead.”
+
+“Where do you live, then?”
+
+“In Mott Street.”
+
+Roswell curled his lip when this name was pronounced, for Mott Street,
+as my New York readers know, is in the immediate neighborhood of the
+Five-Points, and very far from a fashionable locality.
+
+“Have you any testimonials to present?” asked Mr. Henderson, for that
+was his name.
+
+Fosdick hesitated. This was the question which he had foreseen would
+give him trouble.
+
+But at this moment it happened most opportunely that Mr. Greyson
+entered the shop with the intention of buying a hat.
+
+“Yes,” said Fosdick, promptly; “I will refer to this gentleman.”
+
+“How do you do, Fosdick?” asked Mr. Greyson, noticing him for the first
+time. “How do you happen to be here?”
+
+“I am applying for a place, sir,” said Fosdick. “May I refer the
+gentleman to you?”
+
+“Certainly, I shall be glad to speak a good word for you. Mr.
+Henderson, this is a member of my Sunday-school class, of whose good
+qualities and good abilities I can speak confidently.”
+
+“That will be sufficient,” said the shop-keeper, who knew Mr. Greyson’s
+high character and position. “He could have no better recommendation.
+You may come to the store to-morrow morning at half past seven o’clock.
+The pay will be three dollars a week for the first six months. If I am
+satisfied with you, I shall then raise it to five dollars.”
+
+The other boys looked disappointed, but none more so than Roswell
+Crawford. He would have cared less if any one else had obtained the
+situation; but for a boy who lived in Mott Street to be preferred to
+him, a gentleman’s son, he considered indeed humiliating. In a spirit
+of petty spite, he was tempted to say,
+
+“He’s a boot-black. Ask him if he isn’t.”
+
+“He’s an honest and intelligent lad,” said Mr. Greyson. “As for you,
+young man, I only hope you have one-half his good qualities.”
+
+Roswell Crawford left the store in disgust, and the other unsuccessful
+applicants with him.
+
+“What luck, Fosdick?” asked Dick, eagerly, as his friend came out of
+the store.
+
+“I’ve got the place,” said Fosdick, in accents of satisfaction; “but it
+was only because Mr. Greyson spoke up for me.”
+
+“He’s a trump,” said Dick, enthusiastically.
+
+The gentleman, so denominated, came out before the boys went away, and
+spoke with them kindly.
+
+Both Dick and Henry were highly pleased at the success of the
+application. The pay would indeed be small, but, expended economically,
+Fosdick thought he could get along on it, receiving his room rent, as
+before, in return for his services as Dick’s private tutor. Dick
+determined, as soon as his education would permit, to follow his
+companion’s example.
+
+“I don’t know as you’ll be willin’ to room with a boot-black,” he said,
+to Henry, “now you’re goin’ into business.”
+
+“I couldn’t room with a better friend, Dick,” said Fosdick,
+affectionately, throwing his arm round our hero. “When we part, it’ll
+be because you wish it.”
+
+So Fosdick entered upon a new career.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+NINE MONTHS LATER
+
+
+The next morning Fosdick rose early, put on his new suit, and, after
+getting breakfast, set out for the Broadway store in which he had
+obtained a position. He left his little blacking-box in the room.
+
+“It’ll do to brush my own shoes,” he said. “Who knows but I may have to
+come back to it again?”
+
+“No danger,” said Dick; “I’ll take care of the feet, and you’ll have to
+look after the heads, now you’re in a hat-store.”
+
+“I wish you had a place too,” said Fosdick.
+
+“I don’t know enough yet,” said Dick. “Wait till I’ve gradooated.”
+
+“And can put A.B. after your name.”
+
+“What’s that?”
+
+“It stands for Bachelor of Arts. It’s a degree that students get when
+they graduate from college.”
+
+“Oh,” said Dick, “I didn’t know but it meant A Boot-black. I can put
+that after my name now. Wouldn’t Dick Hunter, A.B., sound tip-top?”
+
+“I must be going,” said Fosdick. “It won’t do for me to be late the
+very first morning.”
+
+“That’s the difference between you and me,” said Dick. “I’m my own
+boss, and there aint no one to find fault with me if I’m late. But I
+might as well be goin’ too. There’s a gent as comes down to his store
+pretty early that generally wants a shine.”
+
+The two boys parted at the Park. Fosdick crossed it, and proceeded to
+the hat-store, while Dick, hitching up his pants, began to look about
+him for a customer. It was seldom that Dick had to wait long. He was
+always on the alert, and if there was any business to do he was always
+sure to get his share of it. He had now a stronger inducement than ever
+to attend strictly to business; his little stock of money in the
+savings bank having been nearly exhausted by his liberality to his
+room-mate. He determined to be as economical as possible, and moreover
+to study as hard as he could, that he might be able to follow Fosdick’s
+example, and obtain a place in a store or counting-room. As there were
+no striking incidents occurring in our hero’s history within the next
+nine months, I propose to pass over that period, and recount the
+progress he made in that time.
+
+Fosdick was still at the hat-store, having succeeded in giving perfect
+satisfaction to Mr. Henderson. His wages had just been raised to five
+dollars a week. He and Dick still kept house together at Mrs. Mooney’s
+lodging-house, and lived very frugally, so that both were able to save
+up money. Dick had been unusually successful in business. He had
+several regular patrons, who had been drawn to him by his ready wit,
+and quick humor, and from two of them he had received presents of
+clothing, which had saved him any expense on that score. His income had
+averaged quite seven dollars a week in addition to this. Of this amount
+he was now obliged to pay one dollar weekly for the room which he and
+Fosdick occupied, but he was still able to save one half the remainder.
+At the end of nine months therefore, or thirty-nine weeks, it will be
+seen that he had accumulated no less a sum than one hundred and
+seventeen dollars. Dick may be excused for feeling like a capitalist
+when he looked at the long row of deposits in his little bank-book.
+There were other boys in the same business who had earned as much
+money, but they had had little care for the future, and spent as they
+went along, so that few could boast a bank-account, however small.
+
+“You’ll be a rich man some time, Dick,” said Henry Fosdick, one
+evening.
+
+“And live on Fifth Avenoo,” said Dick.
+
+“Perhaps so. Stranger things have happened.”
+
+“Well,” said Dick, “if such a misfortin’ should come upon me I should
+bear it like a man. When you see a Fifth Avenoo manshun for sale for a
+hundred and seventeen dollars, just let me know and I’ll buy it as an
+investment.”
+
+“Two hundred and fifty years ago you might have bought one for that
+price, probably. Real estate wasn’t very high among the Indians.”
+
+“Just my luck,” said Dick; “I was born too late. I’d orter have been an
+Indian, and lived in splendor on my present capital.”
+
+“I’m afraid you’d have found your present business rather unprofitable
+at that time.”
+
+But Dick had gained something more valuable than money. He had studied
+regularly every evening, and his improvement had been marvellous. He
+could now read well, write a fair hand, and had studied arithmetic as
+far as Interest. Besides this he had obtained some knowledge of grammar
+and geography. If some of my boy readers, who have been studying for
+years, and got no farther than this, should think it incredible that
+Dick, in less than a year, and studying evenings only, should have
+accomplished it, they must remember that our hero was very much in
+earnest in his desire to improve. He knew that, in order to grow up
+respectable, he must be well advanced, and he was willing to work. But
+then the reader must not forget that Dick was naturally a smart boy.
+His street education had sharpened his faculties, and taught him to
+rely upon himself. He knew that it would take him a long time to reach
+the goal which he had set before him, and he had patience to keep on
+trying. He knew that he had only himself to depend upon, and he
+determined to make the most of himself,—a resolution which is the
+secret of success in nine cases out of ten.
+
+“Dick,” said Fosdick, one evening, after they had completed their
+studies, “I think you’ll have to get another teacher soon.”
+
+“Why?” asked Dick, in some surprise. “Have you been offered a more
+loocrative position?”
+
+“No,” said Fosdick, “but I find I have taught you all I know myself.
+You are now as good a scholar as I am.”
+
+“Is that true?” said Dick, eagerly, a flush of gratification coloring
+his brown cheek.
+
+“Yes,” said Fosdick. “You’ve made wonderful progress. I propose, now
+that evening schools have begun, that we join one, and study together
+through the winter.”
+
+“All right,” said Dick. “I’d be willin’ to go now; but when I first
+began to study I was ashamed to have anybody know that I was so
+ignorant. Do you really mean, Fosdick, that I know as much as you?”
+
+“Yes, Dick, it’s true.”
+
+“Then I’ve got you to thank for it,” said Dick, earnestly. “You’ve made
+me what I am.”
+
+“And haven’t you paid me, Dick?”
+
+“By payin’ the room-rent,” said Dick, impulsively. “What’s that? It
+isn’t half enough. I wish you’d take half my money; you deserve it.”
+
+“Thank you, Dick, but you’re too generous. You’ve more than paid me.
+Who was it took my part when all the other boys imposed upon me? And
+who gave me money to buy clothes, and so got me my situation?”
+
+“Oh, that’s nothing!” said Dick.
+
+“It’s a great deal, Dick. I shall never forget it. But now it seems to
+me you might try to get a situation yourself.”
+
+“Do I know enough?”
+
+“You know as much as I do.”
+
+“Then I’ll try,” said Dick, decidedly.
+
+“I wish there was a place in our store,” said Fosdick. “It would be
+pleasant for us to be together.”
+
+“Never mind,” said Dick; “there’ll be plenty of other chances. P’r’aps
+A. T. Stewart might like a partner. I wouldn’t ask more’n a quarter of
+the profits.”
+
+“Which would be a very liberal proposal on your part,” said Fosdick,
+smiling. “But perhaps Mr. Stewart might object to a partner living on
+Mott Street.”
+
+“I’d just as lieves move to Fifth Avenoo,” said Dick. “I aint got no
+prejudices in favor of Mott Street.”
+
+“Nor I,” said Fosdick, “and in fact I have been thinking it might be a
+good plan for us to move as soon as we could afford. Mrs. Mooney
+doesn’t keep the room quite so neat as she might.”
+
+“No,” said Dick. “She aint got no prejudices against dirt. Look at that
+towel.”
+
+Dick held up the article indicated, which had now seen service nearly a
+week, and hard service at that,—Dick’s avocation causing him to be
+rather hard on towels.
+
+“Yes,” said Fosdick, “I’ve got about tired of it. I guess we can find
+some better place without having to pay much more. When we move, you
+must let me pay my share of the rent.”
+
+“We’ll see about that,” said Dick. “Do you propose to move to Fifth
+Avenoo?”
+
+“Not just at present, but to some more agreeable neighborhood than
+this. We’ll wait till you get a situation, and then we can decide.”
+
+A few days later, as Dick was looking about for customers in the
+neighborhood of the Park, his attention was drawn to a fellow
+boot-black, a boy about a year younger than himself, who appeared to
+have been crying.
+
+“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked Dick. “Haven’t you had luck to-day?”
+
+“Pretty good,” said the boy; “but we’re havin’ hard times at home.
+Mother fell last week and broke her arm, and to-morrow we’ve got to pay
+the rent, and if we don’t the landlord says he’ll turn us out.”
+
+“Haven’t you got anything except what you earn?” asked Dick.
+
+“No,” said Tom, “not now. Mother used to earn three or four dollars a
+week; but she can’t do nothin’ now, and my little sister and brother
+are too young.”
+
+Dick had quick sympathies. He had been so poor himself, and obliged to
+submit to so many privations that he knew from personal experience how
+hard it was. Tom Wilkins he knew as an excellent boy who never
+squandered his money, but faithfully carried it home to his mother. In
+the days of his own extravagance and shiftlessness he had once or twice
+asked Tom to accompany him to the Old Bowery or Tony Pastor’s, but Tom
+had always steadily refused.
+
+“I’m sorry for you, Tom,” he said. “How much do you owe for rent?”
+
+“Two weeks now,” said Tom.
+
+“How much is it a week?”
+
+“Two dollars a week—that makes four.”
+
+“Have you got anything towards it?”
+
+“No; I’ve had to spend all my money for food for mother and the rest of
+us. I’ve had pretty hard work to do that. I don’t know what we’ll do. I
+haven’t any place to go to, and I’m afraid mother’ll get cold in her
+arm.”
+
+“Can’t you borrow the money somewhere?” asked Dick.
+
+Tom shook his head despondingly.
+
+“All the people I know are as poor as I am,” said he. “They’d help me
+if they could, but it’s hard work for them to get along themselves.”
+
+“I’ll tell you what, Tom,” said Dick, impulsively, “I’ll stand your
+friend.”
+
+“Have you got any money?” asked Tom, doubtfully.
+
+“Got any money!” repeated Dick. “Don’t you know that I run a bank on my
+own account? How much is it you need?”
+
+“Four dollars,” said Tom. “If we don’t pay that before to-morrow night,
+out we go. You haven’t got as much as that, have you?”
+
+“Here are three dollars,” said Dick, drawing out his pocket-book. “I’ll
+let you have the rest to-morrow, and maybe a little more.”
+
+“You’re a right down good fellow, Dick,” said Tom; “but won’t you want
+it yourself?”
+
+“Oh, I’ve got some more,” said Dick.
+
+“Maybe I’ll never be able to pay you.”
+
+“S’pose you don’t,” said Dick; “I guess I won’t fail.”
+
+“I won’t forget it, Dick. I hope I’ll be able to do somethin’ for you
+sometime.”
+
+“All right,” said Dick. “I’d ought to help you. I haven’t got no mother
+to look out for. I wish I had.”
+
+There was a tinge of sadness in his tone, as he pronounced the last
+four words; but Dick’s temperament was sanguine, and he never gave way
+to unavailing sadness. Accordingly he began to whistle as he turned
+away, only adding, “I’ll see you to-morrow, Tom.”
+
+The three dollars which Dick had handed to Tom Wilkins were his savings
+for the present week. It was now Thursday afternoon. His rent, which
+amounted to a dollar, he expected to save out of the earnings of Friday
+and Saturday. In order to give Tom the additional assistance he had
+promised, Dick would be obliged to have recourse to his bank-savings.
+He would not have ventured to trench upon it for any other reason but
+this. But he felt that it would be selfish to allow Tom and his mother
+to suffer when he had it in his power to relieve them. But Dick was
+destined to be surprised, and that in a disagreeable manner, when he
+reached home.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+DICK LOSES HIS BANK-BOOK
+
+
+It was hinted at the close of the last chapter that Dick was destined
+to be disagreeably surprised on reaching home.
+
+Having agreed to give further assistance to Tom Wilkins, he was
+naturally led to go to the drawer where he and Fosdick kept their
+bank-books. To his surprise and uneasiness _the drawer proved to be
+empty!_
+
+“Come here a minute, Fosdick,” he said.
+
+“What’s the matter, Dick?”
+
+“I can’t find my bank-book, nor yours either. What’s ’come of them?”
+
+“I took mine with me this morning, thinking I might want to put in a
+little more money. I’ve got it in my pocket, now.”
+
+“But where’s mine?” asked Dick, perplexed.
+
+“I don’t know. I saw it in the drawer when I took mine this morning.”
+
+“Are you sure?”
+
+“Yes, positive, for I looked into it to see how much you had got.”
+
+“Did you lock it again?” asked Dick.
+
+“Yes; didn’t you have to unlock it just now?”
+
+“So I did,” said Dick. “But it’s gone now. Somebody opened it with a
+key that fitted the lock, and then locked it ag’in.”
+
+“That must have been the way.”
+
+“It’s rather hard on a feller,” said Dick, who, for the first time
+since we became acquainted with him, began to feel down-hearted.
+
+“Don’t give it up, Dick. You haven’t lost the money, only the
+bank-book.”
+
+“Aint that the same thing?”
+
+“No. You can go to the bank to-morrow morning, as soon as it opens, and
+tell them you have lost the book, and ask them not to pay the money to
+any one except yourself.”
+
+“So I can,” said Dick, brightening up. “That is, if the thief hasn’t
+been to the bank to-day.”
+
+“If he has, they might detect him by his handwriting.”
+
+“I’d like to get hold of the one that stole it,” said Dick,
+indignantly. “I’d give him a good lickin’.”
+
+“It must have been somebody in the house. Suppose we go and see Mrs.
+Mooney. She may know whether anybody came into our room to-day.”
+
+The two boys went downstairs, and knocked at the door of a little back
+sitting-room where Mrs. Mooney generally spent her evenings. It was a
+shabby little room, with a threadbare carpet on the floor, the walls
+covered with a certain large-figured paper, patches of which had been
+stripped off here and there, exposing the plaster, the remainder being
+defaced by dirt and grease. But Mrs. Mooney had one of those
+comfortable temperaments which are tolerant of dirt, and didn’t mind it
+in the least. She was seated beside a small pine work-table,
+industriously engaged in mending stockings.
+
+“Good-evening, Mrs. Mooney,” said Fosdick, politely.
+
+“Good-evening,” said the landlady. “Sit down, if you can find chairs.
+I’m hard at work as you see, but a poor lone widder can’t afford to be
+idle.”
+
+“We can’t stop long, Mrs. Mooney, but my friend here has had something
+taken from his room to-day, and we thought we’d come and see you about
+it.”
+
+“What is it?” asked the landlady. “You don’t think I’d take anything?
+If I am poor, it’s an honest name I’ve always had, as all my lodgers
+can testify.”
+
+“Certainly not, Mrs. Mooney; but there are others in the house that may
+not be honest. My friend has lost his bank-book. It was safe in the
+drawer this morning, but to-night it is not to be found.”
+
+“How much money was there in it?” asked Mrs. Mooney.
+
+“Over a hundred dollars,” said Fosdick.
+
+“It was my whole fortun’,” said Dick. “I was goin’ to buy a house next
+year.”
+
+Mrs. Mooney was evidently surprised to learn the extent of Dick’s
+wealth, and was disposed to regard him with increased respect.
+
+“Was the drawer locked?” she asked.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then it couldn’t have been Bridget. I don’t think she has any keys.”
+
+“She wouldn’t know what a bank-book was,” said Fosdick. “You didn’t see
+any of the lodgers go into our room to-day, did you?”
+
+“I shouldn’t wonder if it was Jim Travis,” said Mrs. Mooney, suddenly.
+
+This James Travis was a bar-tender in a low groggery in Mulberry
+Street, and had been for a few weeks an inmate of Mrs. Mooney’s
+lodging-house. He was a coarse-looking fellow who, from his appearance,
+evidently patronized liberally the liquor he dealt out to others. He
+occupied a room opposite Dick’s, and was often heard by the two boys
+reeling upstairs in a state of intoxication, uttering shocking oaths.
+
+This Travis had made several friendly overtures to Dick and his
+room-mate, and had invited them to call round at the bar-room where he
+tended, and take something. But this invitation had never been
+accepted, partly because the boys were better engaged in the evening,
+and partly because neither of them had taken a fancy to Mr. Travis;
+which certainly was not strange, for nature had not gifted him with
+many charms, either of personal appearance or manners. The rejection of
+his friendly proffers had caused him to take a dislike to Dick and
+Henry, whom he considered stiff and unsocial.
+
+“What makes you think it was Travis?” asked Fosdick. “He isn’t at home
+in the daytime.”
+
+“But he was to-day. He said he had got a bad cold, and had to come home
+for a clean handkerchief.”
+
+“Did you see him?” asked Dick.
+
+“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney. “Bridget was hanging out clothes, and I went
+to the door to let him in.”
+
+“I wonder if he had a key that would fit our drawer,” said Fosdick.
+
+“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney. “The bureaus in the two rooms are just alike.
+I got ’em at auction, and most likely the locks is the same.”
+
+“It must have been he,” said Dick, looking towards Fosdick.
+
+“Yes,” said Fosdick, “it looks like it.”
+
+“What’s to be done? That’s what I’d like to know,” said Dick. “Of
+course he’ll say he hasn’t got it; and he won’t be such a fool as to
+leave it in his room.”
+
+“If he hasn’t been to the bank, it’s all right,” said Fosdick. “You can
+go there the first thing to-morrow morning, and stop their paying any
+money on it.”
+
+“But I can’t get any money on it myself,” said Dick. “I told Tom
+Wilkins I’d let him have some more money to-morrow, or his sick
+mother’ll have to turn out of their lodgin’s.”
+
+“How much money were you going to give him?”
+
+“I gave him three dollars to-day, and was goin’ to give him two dollars
+to-morrow.”
+
+“I’ve got the money, Dick. I didn’t go to the bank this morning.”
+
+“All right. I’ll take it, and pay you back next week.”
+
+“No, Dick; if you’ve given three dollars, you must let me give two.”
+
+“No, Fosdick, I’d rather give the whole. You know I’ve got more money
+than you. No, I haven’t, either,” said Dick, the memory of his loss
+flashing upon him. “I thought I was rich this morning, but now I’m in
+destitoot circumstances.”
+
+“Cheer up, Dick; you’ll get your money back.”
+
+“I hope so,” said our hero, rather ruefully.
+
+The fact was, that our friend Dick was beginning to feel what is so
+often experienced by men who do business of a more important character
+and on a larger scale than he, the bitterness of a reverse of
+circumstances. With one hundred dollars and over carefully laid away in
+the savings bank, he had felt quite independent. Wealth is comparative,
+and Dick probably felt as rich as many men who are worth a hundred
+thousand dollars. He was beginning to feel the advantages of his steady
+self-denial, and to experience the pleasures of property. Not that Dick
+was likely to be unduly attached to money. Let it be said to his credit
+that it had never given him so much satisfaction as when it enabled him
+to help Tom Wilkins in his trouble.
+
+Besides this, there was another thought that troubled him. When he
+obtained a place he could not expect to receive as much as he was now
+making from blacking boots,—probably not more than three dollars a
+week,—while his expenses without clothing would amount to four dollars.
+To make up the deficiency he had confidently relied upon his savings,
+which would be sufficient to carry him along for a year, if necessary.
+If he should not recover his money, he would be compelled to continue a
+boot-black for at least six months longer; and this was rather a
+discouraging reflection. On the whole it is not to be wondered at that
+Dick felt unusually sober this evening, and that neither of the boys
+felt much like studying.
+
+The two boys consulted as to whether it would be best to speak to
+Travis about it. It was not altogether easy to decide. Fosdick was
+opposed to it.
+
+“It will only put him on his guard,” said he, “and I don’t see as it
+will do any good. Of course he will deny it. We’d better keep quiet,
+and watch him, and, by giving notice at the bank, we can make sure that
+he doesn’t get any money on it. If he does present himself at the bank,
+they will know at once that he is a thief, and he can be arrested.”
+
+This view seemed reasonable, and Dick resolved to adopt it. On the
+whole, he began to think prospects were brighter than he had at first
+supposed, and his spirits rose a little.
+
+“How’d he know I had any bank-book? That’s what I can’t make out,” he
+said.
+
+“Don’t you remember?” said Fosdick, after a moment’s thought, “we were
+speaking of our savings, two or three evenings since?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick.
+
+“Our door was a little open at the time, and I heard somebody come
+upstairs, and stop a minute in front of it. It must have been Jim
+Travis. In that way he probably found out about your money, and took
+the opportunity to-day to get hold of it.”
+
+This might or might not be the correct explanation. At all events it
+seemed probable.
+
+The boys were just on the point of going to bed, later in the evening,
+when a knock was heard at the door, and, to their no little surprise,
+their neighbor, Jim Travis, proved to be the caller. He was a
+sallow-complexioned young man, with dark hair and bloodshot eyes.
+
+He darted a quick glance from one to the other as he entered, which did
+not escape the boys’ notice.
+
+“How are ye, to-night?” he said, sinking into one of the two chairs
+with which the room was scantily furnished.
+
+“Jolly,” said Dick. “How are you?”
+
+“Tired as a dog,” was the reply. “Hard work and poor pay; that’s the
+way with me. I wanted to go to the theater, to-night, but I was hard
+up, and couldn’t raise the cash.”
+
+Here he darted another quick glance at the boys; but neither betrayed
+anything.
+
+“You don’t go out much, do you?” he said
+
+“Not much,” said Fosdick. “We spend our evenings in study.”
+
+“That’s precious slow,” said Travis, rather contemptuously. “What’s the
+use of studying so much? You don’t expect to be a lawyer, do you, or
+anything of that sort?”
+
+“Maybe,” said Dick. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. If my
+feller-citizens should want me to go to Congress some time, I shouldn’t
+want to disapp’int ’em; and then readin’ and writin’ might come handy.”
+
+“Well,” said Travis, rather abruptly, “I’m tired and I guess I’ll turn
+in.”
+
+“Good-night,” said Fosdick.
+
+The boys looked at each other as their visitor left the room.
+
+“He came in to see if we’d missed the bank-book,” said Dick.
+
+“And to turn off suspicion from himself, by letting us know he had no
+money,” added Fosdick.
+
+“That’s so,” said Dick. “I’d like to have searched them pockets of
+his.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+TRACKING THE THIEF
+
+
+Fosdick was right in supposing that Jim Travis had stolen the
+bank-book. He was also right in supposing that that worthy young man
+had come to the knowledge of Dick’s savings by what he had accidentally
+overheard. Now, Travis, like a very large number of young men of his
+class, was able to dispose of a larger amount of money than he was able
+to earn. Moreover, he had no great fancy for work at all, and would
+have been glad to find some other way of obtaining money enough to pay
+his expenses. He had recently received a letter from an old companion,
+who had strayed out to California, and going at once to the mines had
+been lucky enough to get possession of a very remunerative claim. He
+wrote to Travis that he had already realized two thousand dollars from
+it, and expected to make his fortune within six months.
+
+Two thousand dollars! This seemed to Travis a very large sum, and quite
+dazzled his imagination. He was at once inflamed with the desire to go
+out to California and try his luck. In his present situation he only
+received thirty dollars a month, which was probably all that his
+services were worth, but went a very little way towards gratifying his
+expensive tastes. Accordingly he determined to take the next steamer to
+the land of gold, if he could possibly manage to get money enough to
+pay the passage.
+
+The price of a steerage passage at that time was seventy-five
+dollars,—not a large sum, certainly,—but it might as well have been
+seventy-five hundred for any chance James Travis had of raising the
+amount at present. His available funds consisted of precisely two
+dollars and a quarter; of which sum, one dollar and a half was due to
+his washerwoman. This, however, would not have troubled Travis much,
+and he would conveniently have forgotten all about it; but, even
+leaving this debt unpaid, the sum at his command would not help him
+materially towards paying his passage money.
+
+Travis applied for help to two or three of his companions; but they
+were all of that kind who never keep an account with savings banks, but
+carry all their spare cash about with them. One of these friends
+offered to lend him thirty-seven cents, and another a dollar; but
+neither of these offers seemed to encourage him much. He was about
+giving up his project in despair, when he learned, accidentally, as we
+have already said, the extent of Dick’s savings.
+
+One hundred and seventeen dollars! Why, that would not only pay his
+passage, but carry him up to the mines, after he had arrived in San
+Francisco. He could not help thinking it over, and the result of this
+thinking was that he determined to borrow it of Dick without leave.
+Knowing that neither of the boys were in their room in the daytime, he
+came back in the course of the morning, and, being admitted by Mrs.
+Mooney herself, said, by way of accounting for his presence, that he
+had a cold, and had come back for a handkerchief. The landlady
+suspected nothing, and, returning at once to her work in the kitchen,
+left the coast clear.
+
+Travis at once entered Dick’s room, and, as there seemed to be no other
+place for depositing money, tried the bureau-drawers. They were all
+readily opened, except one, which proved to be locked. This he
+naturally concluded must contain the money, and going back to his own
+chamber for the key of the bureau, tried it on his return, and found to
+his satisfaction that it would fit. When he discovered the bank-book,
+his joy was mingled with disappointment. He had expected to find
+bank-bills instead. This would have saved all further trouble, and
+would have been immediately available. Obtaining money at the savings
+bank would involve fresh risk. Travis hesitated whether to take it or
+not; but finally decided that it would be worth the trouble and hazard.
+
+He accordingly slipped the book into his pocket, locked the drawer
+again, and, forgetting all about the handkerchief for which he had come
+home went downstairs, and into the street.
+
+There would have been time to go to the savings bank that day, but
+Travis had already been absent from his place of business some time,
+and did not venture to take the additional time required. Besides, not
+being very much used to savings banks, never having had occasion to use
+them, he thought it would be more prudent to look over the rules and
+regulations, and see if he could not get some information as to the way
+he ought to proceed. So the day passed, and Dick’s money was left in
+safety at the bank.
+
+In the evening, it occurred to Travis that it might be well to find out
+whether Dick had discovered his loss. This reflection it was that
+induced the visit which is recorded at the close of the last chapter.
+The result was that he was misled by the boys’ silence on the subject,
+and concluded that nothing had yet been discovered.
+
+“Good!” thought Travis, with satisfaction. “If they don’t find out for
+twenty-four hours, it’ll be too late, then, and I shall be all right.”
+
+There being a possibility of the loss being discovered before the boys
+went out in the morning, Travis determined to see them at that time,
+and judge whether such was the case. He waited, therefore, until he
+heard the boys come out, and then opened his own door.
+
+“Morning, gents,” said he, sociably. “Going to business?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick. “I’m afraid my clerks’ll be lazy if I aint on hand.”
+
+“Good joke!” said Travis. “If you pay good wages, I’d like to speak for
+a place.”
+
+“I pay all I get myself,” said Dick. “How’s business with you?”
+
+“So so. Why don’t you call round, some time?”
+
+“All my evenin’s is devoted to literatoor and science,” said Dick.
+“Thank you all the same.”
+
+“Where do you hang out?” inquired Travis, in choice language,
+addressing Fosdick.
+
+“At Henderson’s hat and cap store, on Broadway.”
+
+“I’ll look in upon you some time when I want a tile,” said Travis. “I
+suppose you sell cheaper to your friends.”
+
+“I’ll be as reasonable as I can,” said Fosdick, not very cordially; for
+he did not much fancy having it supposed by his employer that such a
+disreputable-looking person as Travis was a friend of his.
+
+However, Travis had no idea of showing himself at the Broadway store,
+and only said this by way of making conversation, and encouraging the
+boys to be social.
+
+“You haven’t any of you gents seen a pearl-handled knife, have you?” he
+asked.
+
+“No,” said Fosdick; “have you lost one?”
+
+“Yes,” said Travis, with unblushing falsehood. “I left it on my bureau
+a day or two since. I’ve missed one or two other little matters.
+Bridget don’t look to me any too honest. Likely she’s got ’em.”
+
+“What are you goin’ to do about it?” said Dick.
+
+“I’ll keep mum unless I lose something more, and then I’ll kick up a
+row, and haul her over the coals. Have you missed anything?”
+
+“No,” said Fosdick, answering for himself, as he could do without
+violating the truth.
+
+There was a gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of Travis, as he heard
+this.
+
+“They haven’t found it out yet,” he thought. “I’ll bag the money
+to-day, and then they may whistle for it.”
+
+Having no further object to serve in accompanying the boys, he bade
+them good-morning, and turned down another street.
+
+“He’s mighty friendly all of a sudden,” said Dick.
+
+“Yes,” said Fosdick; “it’s very evident what it all means. He wants to
+find out whether you have discovered your loss or not.”
+
+“But he didn’t find out.”
+
+“No; we’ve put him on the wrong track. He means to get his money
+to-day, no doubt.”
+
+“My money,” suggested Dick.
+
+“I accept the correction,” said Fosdick.
+
+“Of course, Dick, you’ll be on hand as soon as the bank opens.”
+
+“In course I shall. Jim Travis’ll find he’s walked into the wrong
+shop.”
+
+“The bank opens at ten o’clock, you know.”
+
+“I’ll be there on time.”
+
+The two boys separated.
+
+“Good luck, Dick,” said Fosdick, as he parted from him. “It’ll all come
+out right, I think.”
+
+“I hope ’twill,” said Dick.
+
+He had recovered from his temporary depression, and made up his mind
+that the money would be recovered. He had no idea of allowing himself
+to be outwitted by Jim Travis, and enjoyed already, in anticipation,
+the pleasure of defeating his rascality.
+
+It wanted two hours and a half yet to ten o’clock, and this time to
+Dick was too precious to be wasted. It was the time of his greatest
+harvest. He accordingly repaired to his usual place of business,
+succeeded in obtaining six customers, which yielded him sixty cents. He
+then went to a restaurant, and got some breakfast. It was now half-past
+nine, and Dick, feeling that it wouldn’t do to be late, left his box in
+charge of Johnny Nolan, and made his way to the bank.
+
+The officers had not yet arrived, and Dick lingered on the outside,
+waiting till they should come. He was not without a little uneasiness,
+fearing that Travis might be as prompt as himself, and finding him
+there, might suspect something, and so escape the snare. But, though
+looking cautiously up and down the street, he could discover no traces
+of the supposed thief. In due time ten o’clock struck, and immediately
+afterwards the doors of the bank were thrown open, and our hero
+entered.
+
+As Dick had been in the habit of making a weekly visit for the last
+nine months, the cashier had come to know him by sight.
+
+“You’re early, this morning, my lad,” he said, pleasantly. “Have you
+got some more money to deposit? You’ll be getting rich, soon.”
+
+“I don’t know about that,” said Dick. “My bank-book’s been stole.”
+
+“Stolen!” echoed the cashier. “That’s unfortunate. Not so bad as it
+might be, though. The thief can’t collect the money.”
+
+“That’s what I came to see about,” said Dick. “I was afraid he might
+have got it already.”
+
+“He hasn’t been here yet. Even if he had, I remember you, and should
+have detected him. When was it taken?”
+
+“Yesterday,” said Dick. “I missed it in the evenin’ when I got home.”
+
+“Have you any suspicion as to the person who took it?” asked the
+cashier.
+
+Dick thereupon told all he knew as to the general character and
+suspicious conduct of Jim Travis, and the cashier agreed with him that
+he was probably the thief. Dick also gave his reason for thinking that
+he would visit the bank that morning, to withdraw the funds.
+
+“Very good,” said the cashier. “We’ll be ready for him. What is the
+number of your book?”
+
+“No. 5,678,” said Dick.
+
+“Now give me a little description of this Travis whom you suspect.”
+
+Dick accordingly furnished a brief outline sketch of Travis, not
+particularly complimentary to the latter.
+
+“That will answer. I think I shall know him,” said the cashier. “You
+may depend upon it that he shall receive no money on your account.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Dick.
+
+Considerably relieved in mind, our hero turned towards the door,
+thinking that there would be nothing gained by his remaining longer,
+while he would of course lose time.
+
+He had just reached the doors, which were of glass, when through them
+he perceived James Travis himself just crossing the street, and
+apparently coming towards the bank. It would not do, of course, for him
+to be seen.
+
+“Here he is,” he exclaimed, hurrying back. “Can’t you hide me
+somewhere? I don’t want to be seen.”
+
+The cashier understood at once how the land lay. He quickly opened a
+little door, and admitted Dick behind the counter.
+
+“Stoop down,” he said, “so as not to be seen.”
+
+Dick had hardly done so when Jim Travis opened the outer door, and,
+looking about him in a little uncertainty, walked up to the cashier’s
+desk.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+TRAVIS IS ARRESTED
+
+
+Jim Travis advanced into the bank with a doubtful step, knowing well
+that he was on a dishonest errand, and heartily wishing that he were
+well out of it. After a little hesitation, he approached the
+paying-teller, and, exhibiting the bank-book, said, “I want to get my
+money out.”
+
+The bank-officer took the book, and, after looking at it a moment,
+said, “How much do you want?”
+
+“The whole of it,” said Travis.
+
+“You can draw out any part of it, but to draw out the whole requires a
+week’s notice.”
+
+“Then I’ll take a hundred dollars.”
+
+“Are you the person to whom the book belongs?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Travis, without hesitation.
+
+“Your name is—”
+
+“Hunter.”
+
+The bank-clerk went to a large folio volume, containing the names of
+depositors, and began to turn over the leaves. While he was doing this,
+he managed to send out a young man connected with the bank for a
+policeman. Travis did not perceive this, or did not suspect that it had
+anything to do with himself. Not being used to savings banks, he
+supposed the delay only what was usual. After a search, which was only
+intended to gain time that a policeman might be summoned, the cashier
+came back, and, sliding out a piece of paper to Travis, said, “It will
+be necessary for you to write an order for the money.”
+
+Travis took a pen, which he found on the ledge outside, and wrote the
+order, signing his name “Dick Hunter,” having observed that name on the
+outside of the book.
+
+“Your name is Dick Hunter, then?” said the cashier, taking the paper,
+and looking at the thief over his spectacles.
+
+“Yes,” said Travis, promptly.
+
+“But,” continued the cashier, “I find Hunter’s age is put down on the
+bank-book as fourteen. Surely you must be more than that.”
+
+Travis would gladly have declared that he was only fourteen; but, being
+in reality twenty-three, and possessing a luxuriant pair of whiskers,
+this was not to be thought of. He began to feel uneasy.
+
+“Dick Hunter’s my younger brother,” he said. “I’m getting out the money
+for him.”
+
+“I thought you said your own name was Dick Hunter,” said the cashier.
+
+“I said my name was Hunter,” said Travis, ingeniously. “I didn’t
+understand you.”
+
+“But you’ve signed the name of Dick Hunter to this order. How is that?”
+questioned the troublesome cashier.
+
+Travis saw that he was getting himself into a tight place; but his
+self-possession did not desert him.
+
+“I thought I must give my brother’s name,” he answered.
+
+“What is your own name?”
+
+“Henry Hunter.”
+
+“Can you bring any one to testify that the statement you are making is
+correct?”
+
+“Yes, a dozen if you like,” said Travis, boldly. “Give me the book, and
+I’ll come back this afternoon. I didn’t think there’d be such a fuss
+about getting out a little money.”
+
+“Wait a moment. Why don’t your brother come himself?”
+
+“Because he’s sick. He’s down with the measles,” said Travis.
+
+Here the cashier signed to Dick to rise and show himself. Our hero
+accordingly did so.
+
+“You will be glad to find that he has recovered,” said the cashier,
+pointing to Dick.
+
+With an exclamation of anger and dismay, Travis, who saw the game was
+up, started for the door, feeling that safety made such a course
+prudent. But he was too late. He found himself confronted by a burly
+policeman, who seized him by the arm, saying, “Not so fast, my man. I
+want you.”
+
+“Let me go,” exclaimed Travis, struggling to free himself.
+
+“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” said the officer. “You’d better not
+make a fuss, or I may have to hurt you a little.”
+
+Travis sullenly resigned himself to his fate, darting a look of rage at
+Dick, whom he considered the author of his present misfortune.
+
+“This is your book,” said the cashier, handing back his rightful
+property to our hero. “Do you wish to draw out any money?”
+
+“Two dollars,” said Dick.
+
+“Very well. Write an order for the amount.”
+
+Before doing so, Dick, who now that he saw Travis in the power of the
+law began to pity him, went up to the officer, and said,—
+
+“Won’t you let him go? I’ve got my bank-book back, and I don’t want
+anything done to him.”
+
+“Sorry I can’t oblige you,” said the officer; “but I’m not allowed to
+do it. He’ll have to stand his trial.”
+
+“I’m sorry for you, Travis,” said Dick. “I didn’t want you arrested. I
+only wanted my bank-book back.”
+
+“Curse you!” said Travis, scowling vindictively. “Wait till I get free.
+See if I don’t fix you.”
+
+“You needn’t pity him too much,” said the officer. “I know him now.
+He’s been to the Island before.”
+
+“It’s a lie,” said Travis, violently.
+
+“Don’t be too noisy, my friend,” said the officer. “If you’ve got no
+more business here, we’ll be going.”
+
+He withdrew with the prisoner in charge, and Dick, having drawn his two
+dollars, left the bank. Notwithstanding the violent words the prisoner
+had used towards himself, and his attempted robbery, he could not help
+feeling sorry that he had been instrumental in causing his arrest.
+
+“I’ll keep my book a little safer hereafter,” thought Dick. “Now I must
+go and see Tom Wilkins.”
+
+Before dismissing the subject of Travis and his theft, it may be
+remarked that he was duly tried, and, his guilt being clear, was sent
+to Blackwell’s Island for nine months. At the end of that time, on his
+release, he got a chance to work his passage on a ship to San
+Francisco, where he probably arrived in due time. At any rate, nothing
+more has been heard of him, and probably his threat of vengence against
+Dick will never be carried into effect.
+
+Returning to the City Hall Park, Dick soon fell in with Tom Wilkins.
+
+“How are you, Tom?” he said. “How’s your mother?”
+
+“She’s better, Dick, thank you. She felt worried about bein’ turned out
+into the street; but I gave her that money from you, and now she feels
+a good deal easier.”
+
+“I’ve got some more for you, Tom,” said Dick, producing a two-dollar
+bill from his pocket.
+
+“I ought not to take it from you, Dick.”
+
+“Oh, it’s all right, Tom. Don’t be afraid.”
+
+“But you may need it yourself.”
+
+“There’s plenty more where that came from.”
+
+“Any way, one dollar will be enough. With that we can pay the rent.”
+
+“You’ll want the other to buy something to eat.”
+
+“You’re very kind, Dick.”
+
+“I’d ought to be. I’ve only got myself to take care of.”
+
+“Well, I’ll take it for my mother’s sake. When you want anything done
+just call on Tom Wilkins.”
+
+“All right. Next week, if your mother doesn’t get better, I’ll give you
+some more.”
+
+Tom thanked our hero very gratefully, and Dick walked away, feeling the
+self-approval which always accompanies a generous and disinterested
+action. He was generous by nature, and, before the period at which he
+is introduced to the reader’s notice, he frequently treated his friends
+to cigars and oyster-stews. Sometimes he invited them to accompany him
+to the theatre at his expense. But he never derived from these acts of
+liberality the same degree of satisfaction as from this timely gift to
+Tom Wilkins. He felt that his money was well bestowed, and would save
+an entire family from privation and discomfort. Five dollars would, to
+be sure, make something of a difference in the amount of his savings.
+It was more than he was able to save up in a week. But Dick felt fully
+repaid for what he had done, and he felt prepared to give as much more,
+if Tom’s mother should continue to be sick, and should appear to him to
+need it.
+
+Besides all this, Dick felt a justifiable pride in his financial
+ability to afford so handsome a gift. A year before, however much he
+might have desired to give, it would have been quite out of his power
+to give five dollars. His cash balance never reached that amount. It
+was seldom, indeed, that it equalled one dollar. In more ways than one
+Dick was beginning to reap the advantage of his self-denial and
+judicious economy.
+
+It will be remembered that when Mr. Whitney at parting with Dick
+presented him with five dollars, he told him that he might repay it to
+some other boy who was struggling upward. Dick thought of this, and it
+occurred to him that after all he was only paying up an old debt.
+
+When Fosdick came home in the evening, Dick announced his success in
+recovering his lost money, and described the manner it had been brought
+about.
+
+“You’re in luck,” said Fosdick. “I guess we’d better not trust the
+bureau-drawer again.”
+
+“I mean to carry my book round with me,” said Dick.
+
+“So shall I, as long as we stay at Mrs. Mooney’s. I wish we were in a
+better place.”
+
+“I must go down and tell her she needn’t expect Travis back. Poor chap,
+I pity him!”
+
+Travis was never more seen in Mrs. Mooney’s establishment. He was owing
+that lady for a fortnight’s rent of his room, which prevented her
+feeling much compassion for him. The room was soon after let to a more
+creditable tenant who proved a less troublesome neighbor than his
+predecessor.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+DICK RECEIVES A LETTER
+
+
+It was about a week after Dick’s recovery of his bank-book, that
+Fosdick brought home with him in the evening a copy of the “Daily Sun.”
+
+“Would you like to see your name in print, Dick?” he asked.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, who was busy at the wash-stand, endeavoring to efface
+the marks which his day’s work had left upon his hands. “They haven’t
+put me up for mayor, have they? ’Cause if they have, I shan’t accept.
+It would interfere too much with my private business.”
+
+“No,” said Fosdick, “they haven’t put you up for office yet, though
+that may happen sometime. But if you want to see your name in print,
+here it is.”
+
+Dick was rather incredulous, but, having dried his hands on the towel,
+took the paper, and following the directions of Fosdick’s finger,
+observed in the list of advertised letters the name of “RAGGED DICK.”
+
+“By gracious, so it is,” said he. “Do you s’pose it means me?”
+
+“I don’t know of any other Ragged Dick,—do you?”
+
+“No,” said Dick, reflectively; “it must be me. But I don’t know of
+anybody that would be likely to write to me.”
+
+“Perhaps it is Frank Whitney,” suggested Fosdick, after a little
+reflection. “Didn’t he promise to write to you?”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, “and he wanted me to write to him.”
+
+“Where is he now?”
+
+“He was going to a boarding-school in Connecticut, he said. The name of
+the town was Barnton.”
+
+“Very likely the letter is from him.”
+
+“I hope it is. Frank was a tip-top boy, and he was the first that made
+me ashamed of bein’ so ignorant and dirty.”
+
+“You had better go to the post-office to-morrow morning, and ask for
+the letter.”
+
+“P’r’aps they won’t give it to me.”
+
+“Suppose you wear the old clothes you used to a year ago, when Frank
+first saw you? They won’t have any doubt of your being Ragged Dick
+then.”
+
+“I guess I will. I’ll be sort of ashamed to be seen in ’em though,”
+said Dick, who had considerable more pride in a neat personal
+appearance than when we were first introduced to him.
+
+“It will be only for one day, or one morning,” said Fosdick.
+
+“I’d do more’n that for the sake of gettin’ a letter from Frank. I’d
+like to see him.”
+
+The next morning, in accordance with the suggestion of Fosdick, Dick
+arrayed himself in the long disused Washington coat and Napoleon pants,
+which he had carefully preserved, for what reason he could hardly
+explain.
+
+When fairly equipped, Dick surveyed himself in the mirror,—if the
+little seven-by-nine-inch looking-glass, with which the room was
+furnished, deserved the name. The result of the survey was not on the
+whole a pleasing one. To tell the truth, Dick was quite ashamed of his
+appearance, and, on opening the chamber-door, looked around to see that
+the coast was clear, not being willing to have any of his
+fellow-boarders see him in his present attire.
+
+He managed to slip out into the street unobserved, and, after attending
+to two or three regular customers who came down-town early in the
+morning, he made his way down Nassau Street to the post-office. He
+passed along until he came to a compartment on which he read ADVERTISED
+LETTERS, and, stepping up to the little window, said,—
+
+“There’s a letter for me. I saw it advertised in the ‘Sun’ yesterday.”
+
+“What name?” demanded the clerk.
+
+“Ragged Dick,” answered our hero.
+
+“That’s a queer name,” said the clerk, surveying him a little
+curiously. “Are you Ragged Dick?”
+
+“If you don’t believe me, look at my clo’es,” said Dick.
+
+“That’s pretty good proof, certainly,” said the clerk, laughing. “If
+that isn’t your name, it deserves to be.”
+
+“I believe in dressin’ up to your name,” said Dick.
+
+“Do you know any one in Barnton, Connecticut?” asked the clerk, who had
+by this time found the letter.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick. “I know a chap that’s at boardin’-school there.”
+
+“It appears to be in a boy’s hand. I think it must be yours.”
+
+The letter was handed to Dick through the window. He received it
+eagerly, and drawing back so as not to be in the way of the throng who
+were constantly applying for letters, or slipping them into the boxes
+provided for them, hastily opened it, and began to read. As the reader
+may be interested in the contents of the letter as well as Dick, we
+transcribe it below.
+
+It was dated Barnton, Conn., and commenced thus,—
+
+“DEAR DICK,—You must excuse my addressing this letter to ‘Ragged Dick’;
+but the fact is, I don’t know what your last name is, nor where you
+live. I am afraid there is not much chance of your getting this letter;
+but I hope you will. I have thought of you very often, and wondered how
+you were getting along, and I should have written to you before if I
+had known where to direct.
+
+“Let me tell you a little about myself. Barnton is a very pretty
+country town, only about six miles from Hartford. The boarding-school
+which I attend is under the charge of Ezekiel Munroe, A.M. He is a man
+of about fifty, a graduate of Yale College, and has always been a
+teacher. It is a large two-story house, with an addition containing a
+good many small bed-chambers for the boys. There are about twenty of
+us, and there is one assistant teacher who teaches the English
+branches. Mr. Munroe, or Old Zeke, as we call him behind his back,
+teaches Latin and Greek. I am studying both these languages, because
+father wants me to go to college.
+
+“But you won’t be interested in hearing about our studies. I will tell
+you how we amuse ourselves. There are about fifty acres of land
+belonging to Mr. Munroe; so that we have plenty of room for play. About
+a quarter of a mile from the house there is a good-sized pond. There is
+a large, round-bottomed boat, which is stout and strong. Every
+Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, when the weather is good, we go out
+rowing on the pond. Mr. Barton, the assistant teacher, goes with us, to
+look after us. In the summer we are allowed to go in bathing. In the
+winter there is splendid skating on the pond.
+
+“Besides this, we play ball a good deal, and we have various other
+plays. So we have a pretty good time, although we study pretty hard
+too. I am getting on very well in my studies. Father has not decided
+yet where he will send me to college.
+
+“I wish you were here, Dick. I should enjoy your company, and besides I
+should like to feel that you were getting an education. I think you are
+naturally a pretty smart boy; but I suppose, as you have to earn your
+own living, you don’t get much chance to learn. I only wish I had a few
+hundred dollars of my own. I would have you come up here, and attend
+school with us. If I ever have a chance to help you in any way, you may
+be sure that I will.
+
+“I shall have to wind up my letter now, as I have to hand in a
+composition to-morrow, on the life and character of Washington. I might
+say that I have a friend who wears a coat that once belonged to the
+general. But I suppose that coat must be worn out by this time. I don’t
+much like writing compositions. I would a good deal rather write
+letters.
+
+“I have written a longer letter than I meant to. I hope you will get
+it, though I am afraid not. If you do, you must be sure to answer it,
+as soon as possible. You needn’t mind if your writing does look like
+‘hens-tracks,’ as you told me once.
+
+“Good-by, Dick. You must always think of me, as your very true friend,
+
+“FRANK WHITNEY.”
+
+
+Dick read this letter with much satisfaction. It is always pleasant to
+be remembered, and Dick had so few friends that it was more to him than
+to boys who are better provided. Again, he felt a new sense of
+importance in having a letter addressed to him. It was the first letter
+he had ever received. If it had been sent to him a year before, he
+would not have been able to read it. But now, thanks to Fosdick’s
+instructions, he could not only read writing, but he could write a very
+good hand himself.
+
+There was one passage in the letter which pleased Dick. It was where
+Frank said that if he had the money he would pay for his education
+himself.
+
+“He’s a tip-top feller,” said Dick. “I wish I could see him ag’in.”
+
+There were two reasons why Dick would like to have seen Frank. One was,
+the natural pleasure he would have in meeting a friend; but he felt
+also that he would like to have Frank witness the improvement he had
+made in his studies and mode of life.
+
+“He’d find me a little more ’spectable than when he first saw me,”
+thought Dick.
+
+Dick had by this time got up to Printing House Square. Standing on
+Spruce Street, near the “Tribune” office, was his old enemy, Micky
+Maguire.
+
+It has already been said that Micky felt a natural enmity towards those
+in his own condition in life who wore better clothes than himself. For
+the last nine months, Dick’s neat appearance had excited the ire of the
+young Philistine. To appear in neat attire and with a clean face Micky
+felt was a piece of presumption, and an assumption of superiority on
+the part of our hero, and he termed it “tryin’ to be a swell.”
+
+Now his astonished eyes rested on Dick in his ancient attire, which was
+very similar to his own. It was a moment of triumph to him. He felt
+that “pride had had a fall,” and he could not forbear reminding Dick of
+it.
+
+“Them’s nice clo’es you’ve got on,” said he, sarcastically, as Dick
+came up.
+
+“Yes,” said Dick, promptly. “I’ve been employin’ your tailor. If my
+face was only dirty we’d be taken for twin brothers.”
+
+“So you’ve give up tryin’ to be a swell?”
+
+“Only for this partic’lar occasion,” said Dick. “I wanted to make a
+fashionable call, so I put on my regimentals.”
+
+“I don’t b’lieve you’ve got any better clo’es,” said Micky.
+
+“All right,” said Dick, “I won’t charge you nothin’ for what you
+believe.”
+
+Here a customer presented himself for Micky, and Dick went back to his
+room to change his clothes, before resuming business.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+DICK WRITES HIS FIRST LETTER
+
+
+When Fosdick reached home in the evening, Dick displayed his letter
+with some pride.
+
+“It’s a nice letter,” said Fosdick, after reading it. “I should like to
+know Frank.”
+
+“I’ll bet you would,” said Dick. “He’s a trump.”
+
+“When are you going to answer it?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said Dick, dubiously. “I never writ a letter.”
+
+“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t. There’s always a first time, you
+know.”
+
+“I don’t know what to say,” said Dick.
+
+“Get some paper and sit down to it, and you’ll find enough to say. You
+can do that this evening instead of studying.”
+
+“If you’ll look it over afterwards, and shine it up a little.”
+
+“Yes, if it needs it; but I rather think Frank would like it best just
+as you wrote it.”
+
+Dick decided to adopt Fosdick’s suggestion. He had very serious doubts
+as to his ability to write a letter. Like a good many other boys, he
+looked upon it as a very serious job, not reflecting that, after all,
+letter-writing is nothing but talking upon paper. Still, in spite of
+his misgivings, he felt that the letter ought to be answered, and he
+wished Frank to hear from him. After various preparations, he at last
+got settled down to his task, and, before the evening was over, a
+letter was written. As the first letter which Dick had ever produced,
+and because it was characteristic of him, my readers may like to read
+it.
+
+Here it is,—
+
+“DEAR FRANK,—I got your letter this mornin’, and was very glad to hear
+you hadn’t forgotten Ragged Dick. I aint so ragged as I was. Openwork
+coats and trowsers has gone out of fashion. I put on the Washington
+coat and Napoleon pants to go to the post-office, for fear they
+wouldn’t think I was the boy that was meant. On my way back I received
+the congratulations of my intimate friend, Micky Maguire, on my
+improved appearance.
+
+“I’ve give up sleepin’ in boxes, and old wagons, findin’ it didn’t
+agree with my constitution. I’ve hired a room in Mott Street, and have
+got a private tooter, who rooms with me and looks after my studies in
+the evenin’. Mott Street aint very fashionable; but my manshun on Fifth
+Avenoo isn’t finished yet, and I’m afraid it won’t be till I’m a
+gray-haired veteran. I’ve got a hundred dollars towards it, which I’ve
+saved up from my earnin’s. I haven’t forgot what you and your uncle
+said to me, and I’m tryin’ to grow up ’spectable. I haven’t been to
+Tony Pastor’s, or the Old Bowery, for ever so long. I’d rather save up
+my money to support me in my old age. When my hair gets gray, I’m goin’
+to knock off blackin’ boots, and go into some light, genteel
+employment, such as keepin’ an apple-stand, or disseminatin’ pea-nuts
+among the people.
+
+“I’ve got so as to read pretty well, so my tooter says. I’ve been
+studyin’ geography and grammar also. I’ve made such astonishin’
+progress that I can tell a noun from a conjunction as far away as I can
+see ’em. Tell Mr. Munroe that if he wants an accomplished teacher in
+his school, he can send for me, and I’ll come on by the very next
+train. Or, if he wants to sell out for a hundred dollars, I’ll buy the
+whole concern, and agree to teach the scholars all I know myself in
+less than six months. Is teachin’ as good business, generally speakin’,
+as blackin’ boots? My private tooter combines both, and is makin’ a
+fortun’ with great rapidity. He’ll be as rich as Astor some time, _if
+he only lives long enough._
+
+“I should think you’d have a bully time at your school. I should like
+to go out in the boat, or play ball with you. When are you comin’ to
+the city? I wish you’d write and let me know when you do, and I’ll call
+and see you. I’ll leave my business in the hands of my numerous clerks,
+and go round with you. There’s lots of things you didn’t see when you
+was here before. They’re getting on fast at the Central Park. It looks
+better than it did a year ago.
+
+“I aint much used to writin’ letters. As this is the first one I ever
+wrote, I hope you’ll excuse the mistakes. I hope you’ll write to me
+again soon. I can’t write so good a letter as you; but, I’ll do my
+best, as the man said when he was asked if he could swim over to
+Brooklyn backwards. Good-by, Frank. Thank you for all your kindness.
+Direct your next letter to No. — Mott Street.
+
+“Your true friend,
+“DICK HUNTER.”
+
+
+When Dick had written the last word, he leaned back in his chair, and
+surveyed the letter with much satisfaction.
+
+“I didn’t think I could have wrote such a long letter, Fosdick,” said
+he.
+
+“Written would be more grammatical, Dick,” suggested his friend.
+
+“I guess there’s plenty of mistakes in it,” said Dick. “Just look at
+it, and see.”
+
+Fosdick took the letter, and read it over carefully.
+
+“Yes, there are some mistakes,” he said; “but it sounds so much like
+you that I think it would be better to let it go just as it is. It will
+be more likely to remind Frank of what you were when he first saw you.”
+
+“Is it good enough to send?” asked Dick, anxiously.
+
+“Yes; it seems to me to be quite a good letter. It is written just as
+you talk. Nobody but you could have written such a letter, Dick. I
+think Frank will be amused at your proposal to come up there as
+teacher.”
+
+“P’r’aps it would be a good idea for us to open a seleck school here in
+Mott Street,” said Dick, humorously. “We could call it ‘Professor
+Fosdick and Hunter’s Mott Street Seminary.’ Boot-blackin’ taught by
+Professor Hunter.”
+
+The evening was so far advanced that Dick decided to postpone copying
+his letter till the next evening. By this time he had come to have a
+very fair handwriting, so that when the letter was complete it really
+looked quite creditable, and no one would have suspected that it was
+Dick’s first attempt in this line. Our hero surveyed it with no little
+complacency. In fact, he felt rather proud of it, since it reminded him
+of the great progress he had made. He carried it down to the
+post-office, and deposited it with his own hands in the proper box.
+Just on the steps of the building, as he was coming out, he met Johnny
+Nolan, who had been sent on an errand to Wall Street by some gentleman,
+and was just returning.
+
+“What are you doin’ down here, Dick?” asked Johnny.
+
+“I’ve been mailin’ a letter.”
+
+“Who sent you?”
+
+“Nobody.”
+
+“I mean, who writ the letter?”
+
+“I wrote it myself.”
+
+“Can you write letters?” asked Johnny, in amazement.
+
+“Why shouldn’t I?”
+
+“I didn’t know you could write. I can’t.”
+
+“Then you ought to learn.”
+
+“I went to school once; but it was too hard work, so I give it up.”
+
+“You’re lazy, Johnny,—that’s what’s the matter. How’d you ever expect
+to know anything, if you don’t try?”
+
+“I can’t learn.”
+
+“You can, if you want to.”
+
+Johnny Nolan was evidently of a different opinion. He was a
+good-natured boy, large of his age, with nothing particularly bad about
+him, but utterly lacking in that energy, ambition, and natural
+sharpness, for which Dick was distinguished. He was not adapted to
+succeed in the life which circumstances had forced upon him; for in the
+street-life of the metropolis a boy needs to be on the alert, and have
+all his wits about him, or he will find himself wholly distanced by his
+more enterprising competitors for popular favor. To succeed in his
+profession, humble as it is, a boot-black must depend upon the same
+qualities which gain success in higher walks in life. It was easy to
+see that Johnny, unless very much favored by circumstances, would never
+rise much above his present level. For Dick, we cannot help hoping much
+better things.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+AN EXCITING ADVENTURE
+
+
+Dick now began to look about for a position in a store or
+counting-room. Until he should obtain one he determined to devote half
+the day to blacking boots, not being willing to break in upon his small
+capital. He found that he could earn enough in half a day to pay all
+his necessary expenses, including the entire rent of the room. Fosdick
+desired to pay his half; but Dick steadily refused, insisting upon
+paying so much as compensation for his friend’s services as instructor.
+
+It should be added that Dick’s peculiar way of speaking and use of
+slang terms had been somewhat modified by his education and his
+intimacy with Henry Fosdick. Still he continued to indulge in them to
+some extent, especially when he felt like joking, and it was natural to
+Dick to joke, as my readers have probably found out by this time. Still
+his manners were considerably improved, so that he was more likely to
+obtain a situation than when first introduced to our notice.
+
+Just now, however, business was very dull, and merchants, instead of
+hiring new assistants, were disposed to part with those already in
+their employ. After making several ineffectual applications, Dick began
+to think he should be obliged to stick to his profession until the next
+season. But about this time something occurred which considerably
+improved his chances of preferment.
+
+This is the way it happened.
+
+As Dick, with a balance of more than a hundred dollars in the savings
+bank, might fairly consider himself a young man of property, he thought
+himself justified in occasionally taking a half holiday from business,
+and going on an excursion. On Wednesday afternoon Henry Fosdick was
+sent by his employer on an errand to that part of Brooklyn near
+Greenwood Cemetery. Dick hastily dressed himself in his best, and
+determined to accompany him.
+
+The two boys walked down to the South Ferry, and, paying their two
+cents each, entered the ferry boat. They remained at the stern, and
+stood by the railing, watching the great city, with its crowded
+wharves, receding from view. Beside them was a gentleman with two
+children,—a girl of eight and a little boy of six. The children were
+talking gayly to their father. While he was pointing out some object of
+interest to the little girl, the boy managed to creep, unobserved,
+beneath the chain that extends across the boat, for the protection of
+passengers, and, stepping incautiously to the edge of the boat, fell
+over into the foaming water.
+
+At the child’s scream, the father looked up, and, with a cry of horror,
+sprang to the edge of the boat. He would have plunged in, but, being
+unable to swim, would only have endangered his own life, without being
+able to save his child.
+
+“My child!” he exclaimed in anguish,—“who will save my child? A
+thousand—ten thousand dollars to any one who will save him!”
+
+There chanced to be but few passengers on board at the time, and nearly
+all these were either in the cabins or standing forward. Among the few
+who saw the child fall was our hero.
+
+Now Dick was an expert swimmer. It was an accomplishment which he had
+possessed for years, and he no sooner saw the boy fall than he resolved
+to rescue him. His determination was formed before he heard the liberal
+offer made by the boy’s father. Indeed, I must do Dick the justice to
+say that, in the excitement of the moment, he did not hear it at all,
+nor would it have stimulated the alacrity with which he sprang to the
+rescue of the little boy.
+
+Little Johnny had already risen once, and gone under for the second
+time, when our hero plunged in. He was obliged to strike out for the
+boy, and this took time. He reached him none too soon. Just as he was
+sinking for the third and last time, he caught him by the jacket. Dick
+was stout and strong, but Johnny clung to him so tightly, that it was
+with great difficulty he was able to sustain himself.
+
+“Put your arms round my neck,” said Dick.
+
+The little boy mechanically obeyed, and clung with a grasp strengthened
+by his terror. In this position Dick could bear his weight better. But
+the ferry-boat was receding fast. It was quite impossible to reach it.
+The father, his face pale with terror and anguish, and his hands
+clasped in suspense, saw the brave boy’s struggles, and prayed with
+agonizing fervor that he might be successful. But it is probable, for
+they were now midway of the river, that both Dick and the little boy
+whom he had bravely undertaken to rescue would have been drowned, had
+not a row-boat been fortunately near. The two men who were in it
+witnessed the accident, and hastened to the rescue of our hero.
+
+“Keep up a little longer,” they shouted, bending to their oars, “and we
+will save you.”
+
+Dick heard the shout, and it put fresh strength into him. He battled
+manfully with the treacherous sea, his eyes fixed longingly upon the
+approaching boat.
+
+“Hold on tight, little boy,” he said. “There’s a boat coming.”
+
+The little boy did not see the boat. His eyes were closed to shut out
+the fearful water, but he clung the closer to his young preserver. Six
+long, steady strokes, and the boat dashed along side. Strong hands
+seized Dick and his youthful burden, and drew them into the boat, both
+dripping with water.
+
+“God be thanked!” exclaimed the father, as from the steamer he saw the
+child’s rescue. “That brave boy shall be rewarded, if I sacrifice my
+whole fortune to compass it.”
+
+“You’ve had a pretty narrow escape, young chap,” said one of the
+boatmen to Dick. “It was a pretty tough job you undertook.”
+
+“Yes,” said Dick. “That’s what I thought when I was in the water. If it
+hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what would have ’come of us.”
+
+“Anyhow you’re a plucky boy, or you wouldn’t have dared to jump into
+the water after this little chap. It was a risky thing to do.”
+
+“I’m used to the water,” said Dick, modestly. “I didn’t stop to think
+of the danger, but I wasn’t going to see that little fellow drown
+without tryin’ to save him.”
+
+The boat at once headed for the ferry wharf on the Brooklyn side. The
+captain of the ferry-boat, seeing the rescue, did not think it
+necessary to stop his boat, but kept on his way. The whole occurrence
+took place in less time than I have occupied in telling it.
+
+The father was waiting on the wharf to receive his little boy, with
+what feelings of gratitude and joy can be easily understood. With a
+burst of happy tears he clasped him to his arms. Dick was about to
+withdraw modestly, but the gentleman perceived the movement, and,
+putting down the child, came forward, and, clasping his hand, said with
+emotion, “My brave boy, I owe you a debt I can never repay. But for
+your timely service I should now be plunged into an anguish which I
+cannot think of without a shudder.”
+
+Our hero was ready enough to speak on most occasions, but always felt
+awkward when he was praised.
+
+“It wasn’t any trouble,” he said, modestly. “I can swim like a top.”
+
+“But not many boys would have risked their lives for a stranger,” said
+the gentleman. “But,” he added with a sudden thought, as his glance
+rested on Dick’s dripping garments, “both you and my little boy will
+take cold in wet clothes. Fortunately I have a friend living close at
+hand, at whose house you will have an opportunity of taking off your
+clothes, and having them dried.”
+
+Dick protested that he never took cold; but Fosdick, who had now joined
+them, and who, it is needless to say, had been greatly alarmed at
+Dick’s danger, joined in urging compliance with the gentleman’s
+proposal, and in the end our hero had to yield. His new friend secured
+a hack, the driver of which agreed for extra recompense to receive the
+dripping boys into his carriage, and they were whirled rapidly to a
+pleasant house in a side street, where matters were quickly explained,
+and both boys were put to bed.
+
+“I aint used to goin’ to bed quite so early,” thought Dick. “This is
+the queerest excursion I ever took.”
+
+Like most active boys Dick did not enjoy the prospect of spending half
+a day in bed; but his confinement did not last as long as he
+anticipated.
+
+In about an hour the door of his chamber was opened, and a servant
+appeared, bringing a new and handsome suit of clothes throughout.
+
+“You are to put on these,” said the servant to Dick; “but you needn’t
+get up till you feel like it.”
+
+“Whose clothes are they?” asked Dick.
+
+“They are yours.”
+
+“Mine! Where did they come from?”
+
+“Mr. Rockwell sent out and bought them for you. They are the same size
+as your wet ones.”
+
+“Is he here now?”
+
+“No. He bought another suit for the little boy, and has gone back to
+New York. Here’s a note he asked me to give you.”
+
+Dick opened the paper, and read as follows,—
+
+“Please accept this outfit of clothes as the first instalment of a debt
+which I can never repay. I have asked to have your wet suit dried, when
+you can reclaim it. Will you oblige me by calling to-morrow at my
+counting room, No. —, Pearl Street.
+
+“Your friend,
+“JAMES ROCKWELL.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+CONCLUSION
+
+
+When Dick was dressed in his new suit, he surveyed his figure with
+pardonable complacency. It was the best he had ever worn, and fitted
+him as well as if it had been made expressly for him.
+
+“He’s done the handsome thing,” said Dick to himself; “but there wasn’t
+no ’casion for his givin’ me these clothes. My lucky stars are shinin’
+pretty bright now. Jumpin’ into the water pays better than shinin’
+boots; but I don’t think I’d like to try it more’n once a week.”
+
+About eleven o’clock the next morning Dick repaired to Mr. Rockwell’s
+counting-room on Pearl Street. He found himself in front of a large and
+handsome warehouse. The counting-room was on the lower floor. Our hero
+entered, and found Mr. Rockwell sitting at a desk. No sooner did that
+gentleman see him than he arose, and, advancing, shook Dick by the hand
+in the most friendly manner.
+
+“My young friend,” he said, “you have done me so great service that I
+wish to be of some service to you in return. Tell me about yourself,
+and what plans or wishes you have formed for the future.”
+
+Dick frankly related his past history, and told Mr. Rockwell of his
+desire to get into a store or counting-room, and of the failure of all
+his applications thus far. The merchant listened attentively to Dick’s
+statement, and, when he had finished, placed a sheet of paper before
+him, and, handing him a pen, said, “Will you write your name on this
+piece of paper?”
+
+Dick wrote in a free, bold hand, the name Richard Hunter. He had very
+much improved in his penmanship, as has already been mentioned, and now
+had no cause to be ashamed of it.
+
+Mr. Rockwell surveyed it approvingly.
+
+“How would you like to enter my counting-room as clerk, Richard?” he
+asked.
+
+Dick was about to say “Bully,” when he recollected himself, and
+answered, “Very much.”
+
+“I suppose you know something of arithmetic, do you not?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Then you may consider yourself engaged at a salary of ten dollars a
+week. You may come next Monday morning.”
+
+“Ten dollars!” repeated Dick, thinking he must have misunderstood.
+
+“Yes; will that be sufficient?”
+
+“It’s more than I can earn,” said Dick, honestly.
+
+“Perhaps it is at first,” said Mr. Rockwell, smiling; “but I am willing
+to pay you that. I will besides advance you as fast as your progress
+will justify it.”
+
+Dick was so elated that he hardly restrained himself from some
+demonstration which would have astonished the merchant; but he
+exercised self-control, and only said, “I’ll try to serve you so
+faithfully, sir, that you won’t repent having taken me into your
+service.”
+
+“And I think you will succeed,” said Mr. Rockwell, encouragingly. “I
+will not detain you any longer, for I have some important business to
+attend to. I shall expect to see you on Monday morning.”
+
+Dick left the counting-room, hardly knowing whether he stood on his
+head or his heels, so overjoyed was he at the sudden change in his
+fortunes. Ten dollars a week was to him a fortune, and three times as
+much as he had expected to obtain at first. Indeed he would have been
+glad, only the day before, to get a place at three dollars a week. He
+reflected that with the stock of clothes which he had now on hand, he
+could save up at least half of it, and even then live better than he
+had been accustomed to do; so that his little fund in the savings bank,
+instead of being diminished, would be steadily increasing. Then he was
+to be advanced if he deserved it. It was indeed a bright prospect for a
+boy who, only a year before, could neither read nor write, and depended
+for a night’s lodging upon the chance hospitality of an alley-way or
+old wagon. Dick’s great ambition to “grow up ’spectable” seemed likely
+to be accomplished after all.
+
+“I wish Fosdick was as well off as I am,” he thought generously. But he
+determined to help his less fortunate friend, and assist him up the
+ladder as he advanced himself.
+
+When Dick entered his room on Mott Street, he discovered that some one
+else had been there before him, and two articles of wearing apparel had
+disappeared.
+
+“By gracious!” he exclaimed; “somebody’s stole my Washington coat and
+Napoleon pants. Maybe it’s an agent of Barnum’s, who expects to make a
+fortun’ by exhibitin’ the valooable wardrobe of a gentleman of
+fashion.”
+
+Dick did not shed many tears over his loss, as, in his present
+circumstances, he never expected to have any further use for the
+well-worn garments. It may be stated that he afterwards saw them
+adorning the figure of Micky Maguire; but whether that estimable young
+man stole them himself, he never ascertained. As to the loss, Dick was
+rather pleased that it had occurred. It seemed to cut him off from the
+old vagabond life which he hoped never to resume. Henceforward he meant
+to press onward, and rise as high as possible.
+
+Although it was yet only noon, Dick did not go out again with his
+brush. He felt that it was time to retire from business. He would leave
+his share of the public patronage to other boys less fortunate than
+himself. That evening Dick and Fosdick had a long conversation. Fosdick
+rejoiced heartily in his friend’s success, and on his side had the
+pleasant news to communicate that his pay had been advanced to six
+dollars a week.
+
+“I think we can afford to leave Mott Street now,” he continued. “This
+house isn’t as neat as it might be, and I shall like to live in a nicer
+quarter of the city.”
+
+“All right,” said Dick. “We’ll hunt up a new room to-morrow. I shall
+have plenty of time, having retired from business. I’ll try to get my
+reg’lar customers to take Johnny Nolan in my place. That boy hasn’t any
+enterprise. He needs some body to look out for him.”
+
+“You might give him your box and brush, too, Dick.”
+
+“No,” said Dick; “I’ll give him some new ones, but mine I want to keep,
+to remind me of the hard times I’ve had, when I was an ignorant
+boot-black, and never expected to be anything better.”
+
+“When, in short, you were ‘Ragged Dick.’ You must drop that name, and
+think of yourself now as”—
+
+“Richard Hunter, Esq.,” said our hero, smiling.
+
+“A young gentleman on the way to fame and fortune,” added Fosdick.
+
+
+Here ends the story of Ragged Dick. As Fosdick said, he is Ragged Dick
+no longer. He has taken a step upward, and is determined to mount still
+higher. There are fresh adventures in store for him, and for others who
+have been introduced in these pages. Those who have felt interested in
+his early life will find his history continued in a new volume, forming
+the second of the series, to be called,—
+
+FAME AND FORTUNE;
+OR,
+THE PROGRESS OF RICHARD HUNTER.
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAGGED DICK ***
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